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self-deprecating-possum · 7 months

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Wounds

Commission for @self-deprecating-possum

Wordcount: 3,370 words Pairing: AK!Jason Todd x GN!reader Warnings: Physical assault, kidnapping

You were once abducted by the Scarecrow. Now you found yourself at the hands of another one of Gotham's criminals.

No matter what you did, you couldn’t forget that night. The night Scarecrow abducted you.

Even though you were desperate to forget it, your brain latched onto it in a cruel act of self-preservation. Crystalline memories haunted you, seared into your mind, encroaching on your everyday life. Every time your mind wandered, there they were, taking hold of you and dragging you backwards. Back into the dark, kicking and screaming. So desperately did you want to forget — you would have given anything — but your mind was never so forgiving.

You remembered the way he sent someone else to do the abduction. Some lowlife lackey who most-likely chose you at random out of the handful of strangers on the subway car heading for Miagani Island. The man who followed you off the subway at your stop, which led to you hearing a second set of footsteps just behind yours as you made your way down the desolate tunnel.

You remembered way you picked up your pace gradually, not wanting to look paranoid at first, and how the speed of the man behind you changed to match yours. The way that by the time you had begun near-sprinting for the stairs leading up to the street — the unforeseen sanctuary of Gotham’s lit streets only steps away — it was too late. You remembered the man grabbing your hair, tugging you backwards with such force that the pain made you breathless, before an arm curled around your torso. Then a cloth pressed up against your face. Then blackness.

It was the middle of the night; you should have known better. At least that was what you kept telling yourself.

You remembered waking up in what appeared to be a warehouse, though there was nothing identifiable to determine exactly where in the city you were. If you were even in the city. Though with how dilapidated the place was, you had a pretty good hunch that you still were.

You remembered how you weren’t alone. Several others were there with you, regaining consciousness at different times, all tied to chairs just like you were. You awoke to the sound of their mumbling. Whimpering. Muffled cries of fear from gagged mouths. None of you could say a word to each other. None of you could provide each other any comfort, ease the agonizing anticipation of whatever was to happen to you. Not a single one of you knew why you were there, but you were certain that everyone else was thinking the same thing you were — why me?

You remembered the way your heart pounded in your chest with such intensity that it stung, feeling each beat radiate up your throat. You could hear it in your ears, as if your body was trying to tune-out the sound of all that surrounded you.

And you remembered Scarecrow. You never paid much mind to the whereabouts of any of the city’s most notorious criminals. There were too many to keep track of, and you weren’t one to live your life in fear of them. The irony of that made you sick.

You had heard that he was left horribly disfigured after an encounter with Killer Croc, whispers amongst fellow Gothamites about him having his face reconstructed to look intentionally grotesque. Seeing him in-person not only confirmed the rumors, but made you realize that they were an understatement. You had seen him referred to as the self-proclaimed “Master of Fear” on news ticker tapes; even without his use of nightmare-inducing hallucinogens, his face alone fit the bill.

It was only after he began speaking, circling each of his victims like a hawk targeting its prey, that you noticed the IV hooked up to your arm.

He explained that you were all to be his test subjects. How this was one of his first trials for his new fear toxin. How the last group of test subjects didn’t live long after being injected, but that he hoped this refined formula yielded better results. His voice shook you to your core. It was calm, calculating. That made it worse.

One by one, he lurched over to each abductee, connecting bags of orange solution to each of their IVs, and one by one they fell victim to its effects. Their muffled screams fueled your fear, panicked cries escaped you as you prayed for someone to save you.

And just as Scarecrow had given you your dose, someone did. Batman and Robin, just a second too late — they were the last thing you remembered. You expected fear to wash over you, but instead, everything went blank.

You had spent months comatose in the hospital. You were told that you should consider yourself lucky. The toxin had been flushed from your system and you were spared from the fate of the others Scarecrow had injected. Had Batman and Robin arrived any later, you would have died like everyone else. You wished you could feel as lucky as you were.

The physical recovery process was nothing compared to the mental one — an ongoing battle that you still found yourself fighting. It got easier to live with the trauma over time, but the wounds were still there. Healing slowly, your mind’s remembrance of that night often tearing at the scabs and drawing flesh blood, causing the process to start over.

It took what felt like ages to find someone who understood — truly understood — what it felt like to live that way. To have to piece yourself back together, picking up fragments of yourself as you navigated the world with newfound apprehension.

How funny it was to find someone who had suffered at the hands of one of Gotham’s criminals like you did. One would think it would be a common enough occurrence in a place like Gotham, but with a population of 6.3 million people, it was easy to feel alone.

Jason’s wounds were deeper than yours, tortured by the Joker for over a year in an abandoned wing of Arkham Asylum. You couldn’t even imagine what that must have been like. The fear he felt. The pain. The hopelessness. It was when you met him that you finally did consider yourself lucky. His body told his story, a branded ‘J’ under his left eye announcing a troubled past to everyone he met. You knew that he, too, was unable to forget. How could he?

It was because of his own past that he was so gentle with you, and you always returned the favor. Every flashback, every intrusive thought, every anxiety attack — you were there for each other. He knew how to navigate your trauma in a way that nobody else could. He knew what boundaries to never cross, what soothed you. Despite the way he carried himself, with unwavering brashness, he was always so soft in your presence.

Every time your wounds were torn back open, he was there to aid in the healing. Sturdier than any suture, he held you together.

Your paranoia was often unwarranted, though you figured it was better to be safe than sorry. If there was anything you had learned the hard way, it was that you can never be too careful. Not in Gotham. Though your life had thankfully gone without incident since your abduction, as far as you were concerned, you were living on borrowed time.

You had only just left your apartment after scrambling to get ready for a date with Jason. You were running late, and had plans to meet at the restaurant around the block for dinner. After not seeing each other for a few days, you were looking forward to it. It wasn’t a far walk, and it was still light enough out to where the streets were still bustling with life. You convinced yourself it was safe, and for the most-part, it was. Your luck had just run out.

Before you knew it, you were dragged into the alleyway beside your apartment building by a man who looked like he had affiliations with Two Face. Clearly he wasn’t paying his henchmen enough. He slammed you against the wall behind the set of dumpsters that lined the building’s exterior wall. You let out an instinctive whimper as pain shot through your back as it collided with the brick.

The man looked into your panic-stricken eyes with such callousness, you weren’t sure if he was doing this to survive or for his own pleasure. Though you weren’t sure of anything. Your mind raced at such a speed that you could hardly keep up with it, misfiring short bursts of incoherent thoughts.

This couldn't be happening again.

You let out a small pitiful “please” before his hand covered your mouth, knife suddenly pressed against your throat. You whimpered again, breathing becoming erratic at the feeling of the cold blade against your skin. “You’re gonna shut up and give me everything worthwhile in that bag, got it?” he demanded, his voice gruff and cold. His body was so close to yours that you could feel his breath on your skin as he spoke.

Surely people had to have seen you. Someone had to notice you get dragged into the alley. Help should have come, but then why would it? Gothamites were self-serving by nature. It was best not to get involved in these types of things. You never knew where they might lead, or who you’d be making enemies with.

You fumbled around in your bag, not moving your head even slightly out of fear that the knife would press further into your skin, and pulled out your wallet. All you could think of was how badly you wanted to be freed from this situation; to be on your way to the restaurant, as torn up as you were, calling Jason and explaining what had happened.

The man withdrew both of his hands and grabbed the wallet, dark eyes flicking back up at you with aggravation when you didn’t reach back into your bag. “What, you ain’t got a phone?”

Your heart nearly leapt from your chest, and suddenly something in your mind seemed to snap. You felt it — the exact moment that all inhibitions were lost to your fear.

In an instant, you were reminded of how you wouldn’t be able to call Jason. You wouldn’t be able to call anyone. You’d lose what felt like your only connection to the world. It wasn’t, but in that moment, it were as if your brain were irrationally latching onto the concept of your phone’s significance. A million anxiety-fueled questions were brought to your attention, inescapable questions that demanded answers. How would you call Jason, or the police? How would you afford a new one? Would this man use the information on your phone against you? Would he make use of your photos? Your contacts? Would he be able to find you again? The most irrational of all, your trauma crafting creative scenarios in which to paralyze you — what if you were abducted again?

You cried erratically, at full volume, unable to control yourself. You begged in incomplete sentences — something you couldn’t do the last time you found yourself a victim. Though the danger of this situation wasn’t on the same level, your body did not discriminate.

You raised your shaking hands defensively as you pleaded. “Please— I— I don’t have the money to— I can’t—“

The man cautiously looked to the end of the alleyway before turning back to you and harshly grabbing your face. “You’re gonna shut up before I make you shut up. Give me your phone. Now.”

You reluctantly reached into your bag, doing at least one of the two things asked of you. But you couldn’t stay quiet. Once you started crying, you just couldn’t stop. That might have been your savings grace.

The man snatched the phone from your hand just as it barely left your bag and stuffed it into his pocket, but just as he did, you spotted someone coming down the alleyway. You could only make out a silhouette, his footsteps quiet, and for a moment you feared that it was another one of Two Face’s henchmen or someone else taking advantage of your vulnerability. His footsteps were quiet, but your fixation on him made the man in front of you turn around.

The knife fell from your throat, and as the mysterious form moved closer, you realized that it was Jason.

You spoke his name, voice violently trembling — an indirect plea for help — but before you could say more, the criminal lunged at him with the knife. You screamed, hands instinctively flying up as you flinched.

Jason was quick to disarm him, and you were pretty sure you heard the distinct sound of bone crunching as Jason gripped his wrist and twisted it unnaturally. Jason fought with such ferocity, an anger in his eyes that you had never seen before. He slammed the man into the dumpster beside you, the sound of his body colliding with the metal echoed through the alleyway. You jolted, nerves fried.

Jason stood just before the man, glaring him down. He kept a firm hand on his chest, gripping his shirt. “You give me what you took or I swear to God I will kill you and take it anyway.”

Reeling in pain from his likely-broken wrist, the man spoke through gritted teeth. “N-no way man.” Jason scowled. “Who do you think you are anyway, huh?”

Jason didn’t appreciate his defiance. He was going to make him realize that your phone and wallet were not worth the pain he was in for.

He sighed sarcastically and shrugged, an heir of casualness laced the words he spoke. “Suit yourself.”

His fist collided with the man’s solar plexus, knocking the wind out of him and sending him to the floor with a yelp. And Jason continued — kicking him over and over, with unrelenting fierceness that made it clear that this was personal. That nobody was to violate you or your boundaries, jeopardize your safety, or they would suffer violent consequences. You had been through so much, he knew how you suffered, and could not stand the idea of anything more being done to you. You deserved peace.

The man finally retreated, frantically pleading for Jason to stop before returning your belongings. Jason was courteous enough to let him run off, bruised and beaten — a blow to his ego that hopefully prevented him from seeking revenge.

Your body buzzed as adrenaline began to wear off, watching the man scramble down the alleyway, back out to Gotham’s bustling nightlife that would pay him no mind or sympathy. You slid down the wall, mind blank, and curled your knees up to your chest as a means of self-soothing. You rubbed your neck, checking for any sign of injury, and watched silently as Jason gently picked your belongings up off the ground.

The man before you was completely different than the one you had just seen. His face softened at the sight of you, his eyes alone disclosing his pity. His empathy was clear in the way he moved — slow and cautious, as if not to startle you. He could see the toll this took on you, your eyes glazed over your lip trembling as you tried to withhold your cries. Though that was all you wanted to do.

Your thoughts felt fragmented, the world around you nothing more than a hum — unimportant background noise you couldn’t be bothered to pay any mind to. Yet you felt so overstimulated at the same time. If anything were loud enough to cut through, it’d feel like a defribulator to the chest, thrusting you back into reality, heart pounding.

The feeling felt so familiar.

You felt as if all the progress you had made had been undone. All your fear, all your precautions — they all ultimately meant nothing. You weren’t sure if you could handle that.

Jason sat beside you, leaving a bit of space between you. He tilted his head to get a good look at you, brows furrowed over glassy eyes. “Did he hurt you?” he asked. His voice was soft, every word laced with concern.

You were spiraling, but the sound of his voice was enough to bring you back, just enough.

You removed your hand from your neck and shook your head — a knee-jerk response. Jason nodded. “Good.”

He granted you the courtesy of a moment of silence for you to decide what to do next. He wanted you to feel in control. He knew that was important. Though it did not take you long to throw yourself into his arms. Gotham’s undertow was deep and forceful, and you clung to Jason like he was the only thing preventing you from getting swept up in its current. Though the salt of its tides stung your freshly torn wounds, Jason’s warmth offered you relief.

He rubbed your back, letting out soothing shushes between affirmations that the nightmare was over. “It’s okay,” he told you. “I got you.”

He held you in his arms with an ardent desperation that nearly matched your own, as if he felt guilty for not getting there just a bit sooner, trying to rectify that fact by putting every ounce of energy into consoling you.

You pulled away when you were ready. “I’m so glad you found me,” you sobbed, wiping remaining tears from your face. “Why were you even here?”

“I texted you and told you I was gonna meet you here instead,” Jason noted. A distinct tremble was evident in his voice as he continued. “I heard crying in the alley as I walked by…”

“I was running late and I—“ didn’t look at my phone was the rest of the sentence, but the words didn’t come. Instead, only the sound of your unsteady breathing escaped you. If only you had looked. If only you managed your time better. If only—

“Hey,” Jason’s voice brought you back again. He could see the panic in your eyes. “That’s okay. It doesn’t matter.”

He placed a hand on your cheek, keeping you grounded with his touch and your head steady so that your eyes could remain locked on his. His words were spoken with adamant sincerity. “I’m just glad I came.”

Silence fell over you again as Jason’s hand fell from your face. He reached into his jacket pocket, collecting your wallet and phone, and quietly handed them back to you. You stared at them for a moment, almost resentful of their significance, and placed them back in your bag. “Thank you.”

A barely-noticeable smile appeared on Jason’s face, brief but earnest. “Of course.”

You both sat there as you gradually returned to baseline. Jason quietly rubbed your back until you were ready to leave — ready to move on, but only physically. There was an unspoken understanding between you that moving on mentally would be a process, just as it was for you before. You would once again have to learn how to navigate the world. Once again find fragments of yourself. Though this time you would not be pieced back together so crudely. Jason would help you uncover those pieces as you would continue to help him uncover his. You would find each other, just as you had before, just as Jason had found you now.

Tenderly, lovingly, he would help you heal, if only to witness the beauty of it. To see your wounds finally become scars, forever being a part of who you are, but fading into obscurity with time. That was all you wanted for each other.

Even if you were never able to forget a single grim detail of what occurred, you would remember Jason's actions as well. His protectiveness. His understanding. You would remember the panic you felt as you handed over your wallet, and Jason's softness as he returned it to you. You would remember the feeling of the man's breath on your skin as he made his demands, and the feeling of Jason's arms around you as you cried. You'd remember sitting on the cold asphalt of the alleyway, with Jason sitting right beside you for as long as you needed.

You'd remember that you would be okay. And you would heal. Together.

#jason todd fanfic #arkham knight fanfic #jason todd fic #arkham knight x reader #arkham knight #jason todd #possum reads #commissions

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self-deprecating-possum · 8 months

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Fragile Apologies (Yandere! Miguel O’Hara x Gn! Reader)

Content notes: minor spoilers for Spider-Man: Across the Spider-Verse, unhealthy/abusive relationships, verbal & emotional abuse, physical intimidation & violence, minor injuries, implied future imprisonment

Word count: around 4k

Short summary: You thought it would be easy to leave your dying relationship with Miguel. This turned out to be not true.

The sun was setting. It cast a long, orange beam on the wall, and you slowly followed it with your eyes as it advanced, gradually fading.

You purposely didn't look at the clock on the wall, you didn't want to know how much time had passed since Miguel decided to pull you onto his lap, not caring that you were right in the middle of preparing dinner. You were relieved you had not boiled the water in advance. You were not sure if the kitchen would burst into flames by the time your boyfriend lets you go.

Miguel's arms wrapped around you like iron bands. He didn't squeeze tightly enough to cause pain, but even so, you wouldn't have been able to move an inch, no matter how much you wanted to. All you could do for your own comfort was to wrap your legs around his hips and let your hands hang by your sides.

From experience, you knew it wasn't worth begging to be let go, no matter how stiff you were or how important a task you had somewhere else. The easiest way was always to simply wait for him to finish.

Your stomach growled loudly. Maybe… Just this once, he might let you go.

Miguel buried his face in your neck, you felt his hot lips and closed eyes on your skin. Softly, you patted his back with one hand, while attempting to slide the other in the gap between your bodies, hoping he would let you push him away.

He didn't move at all, so you let out a frustrated sigh.

“Miguel” you whispered “Miguel, please, let me go. I'm very hungry.”

Despite trying to move and signal that you wanted to break free, you were ignored. Panic started to set in, but you were trying to overcome it. You grabbed his shoulder to try to push yourself away with full force.

It felt like you were trying to move a concrete wall. He showed no reaction, not even his face moved on the skin of your neck.

"Miguel," you hated how whiny, how sharp your voice was. It sounded annoying even to your own ears. "Please, please, let me go!"

“Enough.”

You immediately stiffened. There was something in his voice that made your throat tighten. You waited for him to say something else, anything, as you lowered your hand to its previous place, but in vain. It seemed like it was enough for him that you didn't protest anymore.

The sun set behind the skyscrapers of Nueva York, and the room plunged into darkness. With a defeated sigh, you rested your chin on his shoulder.

Miguel began tracing playful circles on your back with his thumb, pressing slow, deliberate kisses onto your neck. As if your protest woke him up to the fact that he was holding a living being in his arms. The touch of his skin ignited a flare across yours, and your chest tightened with pain.

If only it had always been like this with him. Or at least sometimes, when you would have been open to him too. He was completely unpredictable, never knowing when he'd acknowledge your existence. From the very start, you knew he wasn't an easy personality, but this was something different. You felt both completely abandoned and overwhelmed at the same time.

You raised a hand to ran your fingers through his hair and felt his hands relax around you. You gently kissed his temple.

Suddenly he tensed, and you stifled a quiet scream. You know he would never hurt you, you told yourself, but you weren't convincing enough. You saw with your own eyes how the iron rods bend under his fingers as if they were made of clay.

You watched every news report on TV and every video that Lyla showed about him. You were well aware of what he was capable of. Even in this moment, he could have snapped your spine at any time, a slightly stronger squeeze would have been enough.

“Okay, that's enough," said Miguel, as if you were the one who didn't want to let him go, not the other way around.

"Hey!"

He pushed you off his lap. You would have fallen if he hadn't caught your arm to hold you. You grabbed onto him to regain your balance while he turned his attention towards his watch.

“Lyla, is there anything new?”

“Yes there is, but I didnt want to disturb you lovebirds. It seems like there’s some new info about Vulture, but nothing imminent. Still no info about his whereabouts.”

Miguel hissed in frustration and then turned his back to you. He started heading towards his own room.

"Didn't you want to make dinner?" he threw back before the door closed behind him.

You just stared after him for a few moments, standing alone in the dark room.

"Asshole," you said to the door. You sounded more tired than angry.

You went back to the kitchen and continued preparing dinner. Your home appliances could have made anything you wanted, probably cheaper (and tastier) than you, but there was a certain comfort in this simple routine that you couldn't let go of. Right now, you needed your hands to be busy as you thought through your situation, likely for the hundredth time in the past few weeks.

You didn't want to live like this. That was the simple truth.

When you first got together, Miguel was different. Not by much, but different. He was still willing to put energy into your relationship. However, since then, there have been more and more threats, work and problems, not to mention the number of Spider-Men he kept track of.

He doesn't have the time or energy for those little things that made you fall in love in the first place. You knew what had happened to him before you met, what happened to his daughter and that other universe. You tried to be understanding, genuinely.

Honestly, if it were only you suffering, maybe you could let go of all this, but it seemed like that Miguel also didn't want this relationship that much. Those tender moments that used to be so common between you, the hugs, the kisses, the intimate touches were increasingly scarce.

No, scarcity is not the right word for it. These moments between you slowly condensed into a single point, first daily, then weekly, lately almost monthly, when you often could do nothing but endure whatever he put you through.

You didn't want to think this way about the person you loved more than anything, but when you looked deep inside yourself, you knew you were starting to fear him. It didn't help much that when he wasn't being controlling, he often just plain ignored you, like he was doing right now.

When it first occurred to you that you should move out, you dismissed the thought. Then again. And again.

And then you didn’t.

It was much easier to find a rental apartment than you thought. Even Lyla helped when you asked her to. She hesitated, but not much, she just said you definitely have to talk to Miguel about it, and you agreed with her. You didn't understand why you haven't brought up the matter to him since then.

Maybe because you knew trying to reason with him wouldn't accomplish anything, as you had asked him many times before to consider your feelings. Maybe because you felt this was a much bigger step than anything you've brought up before. Or maybe it was the guilt you felt over the fact that you were increasingly looking forward to the date when you could finally move out.

This date was tomorrow.

You finished dinner. Two plates of boiled egg sandwiches with salad and a soft drink. Nothing special, you just tried to drag out the preparation as long as possible. You laid everything out on the table and then leaned against the counter. It's been so long since you've eaten together like this. Lately, Miguel ate everything in his own room or wherever he happened to be on a mission.

You took a deep breath, then pushed yourself off the counter. You started walking towards Miguel's room to knock. You thought you'd have to beg again, so you were surprised when the door slid open in front of you.

You entered the dimly lit, cold room filled with humming and blinking computers. You didn't like being here. You never knew when you'd see something on one of the screens that you couldn't get out of your head for weeks.

"What is it?" Miguel sounded annoyed, but at least he turned in his chair to look at you. You saw his eyes searching your hand for the plate of dinner you usually set outside his door, as if he were a teenage kid and you a resigned parent. When he realized you were empty-handed, he furrowed his eyebrows. "Is something wrong?"

You cleared your throat. You felt your heart racing, making you feel like an idiot. You had prepared for this moment for so long, yet now you wanted to turn around and flee. But why am I still so scared?

“No, I just want to talk to you. Can you come out a bit? I've set the table outside.”

Miguel looked like he would rather say he was too busy, but when he looked at your face, it was clear that he knew something was wrong. After a brief silence, he spoke up in a surprisingly gentle tone.

"Just give me a minute to finish this. Lyla!"

You didn't wait to hear all his instructions. You went back to the kitchen and waited for him there.

"If this matter is so important, you can tell me now," Miguel said.

"Let's eat first, please. We can talk after. I promise, this will be the only time.”

It was clear that this did not decrease his suspicion, but rather fuelled it. Nevertheless, he sat down and without any further talk picked up his sandwich. This compelled you to do the same.

As you ate, you tried to formulate in your mind what you would eventually say to him from the myriad of possibilities you had gathered. It proved to be surprisingly difficult, and you didn't feel ready to speak when you finally finished eating.

Miguel leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest.

“Well? I'm all ears.”

There was something so condescending in his voice that your jaw tightened. You closed your eyes for a moment before you spoke. You tried to keep your voice calm.

“I've been thinking a lot lately. About you, about us… You know this isn't working. I don't know if Lyla told you, but…"

Miguel slammed the table so hard that the cutlery clinked. Your breath hitched. You didn't even see him move.

“Again, seriously? Look, I don't have time for this. I understand that you're not happy with the current situation, and believe me, neither am I. But still…”

“I want to leave you, Miguel.”

He immediately stopped talking. You just stared at each other. The sound of the impact was still ringing in your ears.

Eventually, you broke the silence again.

"I'm sorry. Believe me, I really am sorry. I know we've tried a lot…" I tried, you told yourself, “but I don't want to continue this. It will be better for both of us if we can move on."

“Vale” he said dryly.”And what are you going to do after this? Do you have any idea what's out there in the city?”

"Yes. I've already found an apartment, well, we've found one with Lyla."

Another silence followed. You stood up from the table.

“I'm sorry” you said again. You didn't even know what got into you when you reached out to stroke his hair.

"Don't," he hissed, causing your hand to stop in the air. He turned away from you.

“What are you waiting for? Pack your stuff and get out of here.”

This time you didn't hesitate. You turned around and left to gather your things.

***

Unbelievable. Just fucking unbelievable, really.

A week had passed since you moved out. Miguel refused to use the word ‘permanently’. At first, he didn't even want to believe that you were really capable of going so far as to bring up the breakup, and he never dreamed that you would actually go through with it.

As you packed, he waited for the moment when you'd break down and apologize, when you'd take everything back to let things return to how they used to be.

As it turned out, he waited in vain. Somehow, you had enough backbone not to waver as you always did before. This was his mistake, he should have noticed the signs that this time you are not just planning, but also acting.

His fist clenched at the thought that Lyla helped you without telling him. This could never happen again. When you told him this, he was so furious that he was on the verge of smashing the table between you. He was so angry that he feared he might actually harm you. This is partly why he didn't stand in your way when you started pulling your suitcase out.

But now? Now he was left alone, and he knew he would never be able to truly let you go.

He lay alone in his bed. He managed to fall asleep on the first night, perhaps he didn't even dream, but then he woke up in the middle of the night. He was so used to you being next to him when he slept, regardless of the time of day, that when he didn't hear your breathing in his sleep, panic immediately set in.

He woke up to his heart almost bursting out of his chest, while clutching the spot on the sheet where you usually lay. He hated himself for being so predictable, and he hated you for eliciting this from him even when you weren't near.

Since then, he hardly slept at all. He was so tense that even the slightest slight could push him to the brink of a rage fit. For a while, Lyla didn't even try to reason with him.

He immediately got your address from her, of course, then checked it out for himself. He deliberately didn't go when he knew you would be home, but he couldn't help it, he had to cling to the walls of the surrounding buildings to watch when your figure, shrouded in shadows, got home.

Villains came to his mind. They were the ones who thought like him in this moment. Obsessively focusing on a single target as if his life depended on it… In a way, it was a very petty mindset. Not suited for someone responsible for the safety of others. But that's exactly what he was doing – watching over you and ensuring no threat reached you. Of course, he continued to track Vulture and the others as well, not to mention the other Spider-People, but it was true that they all took a backseat when it came to you.

No, he wasn’t like the villains. He did this because you were important to him. If you had a little sense, you could have seen this too. That's why he waited through this week to calm down enough to speak to you in a normal tone. If possible, it would have been best if you came back to him of your own free will, but if he scares you, he might achieve the opposite.

Actually, what he wanted most was for you to come back on your own with your stupid suitcase, but so far you've held firm. It seemed you were doing just fine without him. Sometimes he even caught you humming to yourself on the way home. You haven't done that in months at his place. Miguel didn't even want to admit to himself that this made a small part of his heart ache.

The problem was that as time went on, he didn't become calmer, quite the opposite. If he wasn't thinking about you, then he was thinking about the things that could harm you while you weren't with him. If something were to happen to you when he wasn't there…

He didn't finish the thought. He couldn't.

A soft beep came from his watch. A reported robbery. Since it seemed the local patrol had already dealt with the matter, he almost settled back down, but then he glanced at the holographic map.

He immediately jumped to his feet. His blood thudded in his ears so loudly that he could barely hear Lyla's responses to the instructions he barked at her as he headed out.

The robbery had occurred near your block. Right next to you.

***

You stood with your arms crossed in front your chest in the window of your third-floor living room. The sirens had long since gone silent and the police had left. The case did not seem serious, and you were not overly worried. These things were not unusual in this city. Before you got together with Miguel, you often saw similar crimes.

Miguel. You thought you would miss him more, but from the very first days you felt the invisible weight lifting off your shoulders. You unpacked the few belongings you brought with you and started creating a new life for yourself.

It was good to occupy yourself with something other than ruminating about your ex. It was strange that you no longer had to think about when you would push him away or make him angry with some insignificant detail.

At first, you didn't even notice the dull thud that sounded like a heavy object had hit the wall of your panel apartment.

Then your bedroom window burst.

You slapped your hand over your mouth before you could scream. You looked around the room, then crouched behind the couch in the corner, using the clatter of the glass shards to cover the sound of your movement. You didn't turn on the light in the living room because you didn't want anyone to notice you watching the police cars, but the light was on in your bedroom. The intruder must have seen this.

Who was currently out in the city? Vulture? Venture? And who else? They shouldn't have known who you are. While you were with Miguel, you barely left the apartment. No one has seen you two in the same place for months.

You covered your face with your palm as a massive thud shook the wall behind you. That might have been the door that led to the hallway.

“Where are you?”

Your breath hitched. This can't be happening.

You almost answered him, but changed your mind at the last minute. You flinched when another blow shook the house. It was the wall mirror.

You pulled your knees to your chest, using one hand to stifle the sob rising in your throat, and the other to pull your phone out of your pocket. Who should you call? You can't send normal cops after Miguel. Plus, you've never heard him like this.

A superhero wouldn't harm innocents… But a superhero wouldn't break into his ex's home like this either. If he just wants to save you from something, then why did he smash everything in his path? No, you felt that you shouldn't come out, but with his senses, it shouldn't have taken much time for him to find you.

As if he heard your thoughts.

“I know you're here. I can smell you.”

His voice was slightly calmer than it was a few moments ago. You heard him take a deep breath. This meant that it was quiet enough that if you started crying now, he would find you instantly.

You didn't dare to move. Tears freely flowed down your face, but you didn't feel it. Suddenly, you became very aware that you really had no idea how good his hearing was.

He stopped in the hallway. What was he doing? Fiddling with something, but what…

Your phone rang in your hand.

The next moment, the couch disappeared in front of you. You didn't have time to end the call before Miguel grabbed your shirt to pull you up. Your back hit the wall, knocking all the air out of your lungs. Your phone fell to the ground, but you didn't even try to catch it. Sharp claws tore up the fabric of your clothes where he held you.

You cried out in pain and terror.

For a moment, you locked eyes with each other before Miguel's red gaze slid down to scan your body. It took a little time for you to realize he was looking for injuries.

When he was convinced that you were unharmed, he slightly loosened his grip, but not enough for you to break free. You desperately clung to his wrist, despite knowing that if he wanted to kill you, nothing would stop him, especially not your weak human hands.

"Please, don't hurt me," you whimpered from the depths of your throat.

He growled. You had never heard this sound from him before.

“Hurt you? Are you out of your mind? I'm here to take you home.”

You didn't dare shake your head, but he must have seen something in your eyes. Suddenly, you felt your feet on the floor again.

Miguel dragged you by the remnants of your shirt like a ragdoll. Your mind was foggy with panic, yet you instinctively tried to dig your heel into the carpet. As you passed by the doorway, you reached out to grasp it, but it didn't slow him down. You felt something crack in your shoulder, then the burning pain flooded you. You had to let go.

You needed all your willpower not to scream when you saw what he had done to your apartment. It was as if someone had let loose a small hurricane. Your knee was scraped raw on the few feets leading to your front door, not to mention the shards of glass Miguel dragged you over. You were so terrified that you barely felt the pain.

You thought he would drag you straight out of the apartment, so you squeaked in surprise when he stopped in front of the door and let go of your shirt. As you collapsed unceremoniously onto the floor, he stood in front of you.

"I want you to pay very close attention to me, because I won't say this again. What do you see?"

You looked at him in shock. You followed his gaze with your eyes as he pointed to the lock.

"The door handle?”

He growled so loudly that your chest trembled. He reached down to roughly grab the back of your neck. His claws left shallow scratches on your skin as he forced you to stare at the lock above the door handle.

"This is a damn biometric identifier. Do you know how long it takes for someone to get a few samples from you? For God's sake, do you know how hard it would be to break in here?”

You were afraid that a stronger jerk and he might just tear your head off. You whimpered like a cornered animal.

"Answer me!"

"Very easy?" you muttered.

“Exactly! And do you know what's the deal with your windows? Anyone can see in, from anywhere, not to mention breaking in.”

Yes, you demonstrated that very well, you thought numbly, but you had the sense not to say it out loud. He let go again, and you took the opportunity to slide against the wall. You huddled up just like you did in the living room only a few minutes ago.

Miguel said something in Spanish, but he spoke too quickly for you to understand. He paced back and forth in front of you.

"I simply don't understand what was going through your head. It's a miracle you're still alive. What if those on the streets decide to break in? What if they follow you to your apartment?"

He roughly ran his hand through his hair.

"I know foresight isn't your strong suit, that's for sure, but even you have to see this. You need to come back with me. It's obvious you can't keep yourself safe."

You were about to shake your head, but you stopped yourself. Instead, you covered your face, and agonizing sobbing broke out of you again.

A little time passed, which seemed like hours to you, but could only have been a few minutes. Miguel stayed silent, and you had no idea what he might be doing. You didn't hear him move among the shards of glass, but that didn't mean much. If he wanted to, he could remain completely silent.

Somewhere in the distance, sirens began to wail.

You flinched when you felt his hand on your arm. His claws were no longer out. You didn't answer him when he called you by your name. You were still crying.

“Damn it” he said quietly. “Please, calm down.”

You tried to hold yourself back, you didn't want to anger him again, but you couldn't. Even though every part of you protested when you felt him gently pull your hand away from your face, you didn't resist. Now you could see that he had squatted down in front of you. He wiped a tear off your face with his thumb.

It was evident that he wanted to say something more, but then he changed his mind. This time, much more gently, he reached out to pull you into his arms. As he drew you close to his chest, you responded by clinging to him and burying your face in his shoulder.

You could feel the movement of his muscles beneath his skin as he let out a sigh.

"God, I missed you so much."

You had no idea what expression he might be wearing. Tears were still streaming from your eyes, soaking his superhero suit, but it no longer seemed to bother him.

"I'll never let you go again."

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