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#join in the tape collection

wraithsoutlaws · 3 months

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Sev, pls forgive the random ask but recently i was thinking about Winnie 👀🖤

By the time Al is with Dagger and DD, where is Winnie ? What does she think about her daughter's journey?

I know i have more questions but i'll keep it short for today akfjsjjfj

!!! oh this makes me happy!! i love her!!!!!

howerver,

unfortunately

well

she dies

their clan is attacked by raffen and a lot of the members do not make it. al survives because she wasn't at camp when it happened (she had gotten into an argument with winnie beforehand and left for some alone time ;A;) then comes back to the Horrors(TM). my poor baby angel gorl.....a big part of the reason she seeks out dagger is because she really has nothing left. winnie had tried to shelter her from who dagger was because she never wanted her to have to carry the burden of his crimes and notoriety. the only other person who knew she's dagger's daugther is an old circus friend, ex-maelstrom, who also happens to be losing his marbles. so he starts to talk about dagger to al more and more, and she starts to put it together that he's her father. thus she goes to find him!!

but al and winnie were very close. they had a tight-knit Best Friends kind of relationship, though not without their own tension. winnie really wanted al to be a dancer like she was, and al wanted to make her happy, but she hated it. and she's not good at it. and she has a lot of fear/anxiety about performing which often caused a lot of conflict between them. but winnie is the type of person who would be so proud of al for doing anything and always believed in her and championed her to others.

and likewise, winnie always saw the Good that was left in dagger (a trait al inherited from her) despite the Atrocities. she felt a lot of resentment and betrayal toward him of course, but she wouldn't doubt his capacity to change/love his own family. she might be...hesitant about al being with him, but she wouldn't be afraid. she knows he'd do anything to keep her safe and had in fact always kept him as a fall back plan if things got dangerous for them :')

but she would be so proud of al for being brave and growing so much and maintaining her love and whimsy despite the world being mean!!!

#i thought about taking more pics of her recently!! i dont think i saved her preset so i gotta dig through my saves v.v #winnie named al after dagger's mom Alma in fact.#she never knew her real parents/grew up an orphan and ran away to join the circus lol and dagger opening up to her about his family was #a special Moment between them. she was always fascinated by that idea of a Family bc its so foreign to her.#she collects old cassette tapes and dances barefoot in the desert and colors her hair like cherry blossoms because they are her favorite Uw #oc: winnie juniper #oc: al juniper

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randomshyperson · 6 months

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Sanctify - Cult Leader!Wanda Maximoff x Reader - Kinktober #06

Summary: After your worst semester at NYU, your Aunt Agatha convinces you to join the Children of Chaos as an alternative, and very expensive form of therapy. Leaving the cult becomes a very difficult task when you develop an unexpected affection for their leader.

Warnings: (+18), dom!wanda and brat!reader, rough smut, face-fucking, power dynamics, brat taming (ish), praising, lots of tension and teasing, definitely blasphemous on some levels, a lot of plot, mentions of past toxic relationship, unspecified age gap. | Words: 7.900k

A/N-> I’ve been dying to write something about Cult Leader Wanda since I watched the second season of Yellowjackets and became obsessed with Lottie Matthews, so while writing this, I was picturing Lottie’s cult to be fair. I also like how I ended this, as it makes it possible to turn it into a series. Good reading!

General Masterlist | Kinktober Collection | AO3 | Wattpad

-&-

Although the movement of the car brought a gentle breeze through the window, the weather was hot enough to actually make thinking painful. In an attempt to relieve the temperature a little, and perhaps escape Aunt Aggie's provocative reminiscences about the long journey and the events that made this trip necessary in the first place, you put your arm on the door, and propped your chin up, your face on the safety edge outside the window.

New York had been out of sight for hours and had given way to countless trees and a plantation further and further away. You figured it wouldn't take long for the radio signal to stop working, but to your pleasant surprise, the soft melody of cassette tapes hidden in the glove compartment by Nicholas were picked up once that happened.

Your cousin had grown up over the summer - His still youthful appearance now featured neatly cut curly hair and reading glasses that he often hung on the collar of his shirt. When younger, it was common to hear how much he resembled Sir. Scratch, his scumbag father in the words of Agatha and the other adults, not yours - but over time, he looked much more like his mother.

Nick met your gaze through the rearview mirror and gave you an assuring smile. You didn't reciprocate, but not because you were upset. Just because you were distracted by the huge sign coming around the next corner.

"Oh, boy, I've missed this place." Agatha commented with a nostalgic sigh, as soon as she noticed the entrance plaque. She slowed down enough that the wind wasn't enough anymore, so you returned to your original position with a low snort.

"There's still time to turn around." You muttered, getting a warning look from the older woman.

She leaned over, without answering you, to grab something from the open glove compartment. You pushed your hair back as a pamphlet was dropped into your lap.

"I know you hated the idea, but you need to trust your elders for once in your life, darling." Agatha began, as you grimaced at the crumpled paper. The title Children of Chaos was painted in red, but it was faded in several places. "The 70s were the apex for this place, I had a lot of fun here. It's such a unique experience, connecting with nature and the chaos that is part of us all."

Nick chuckled through his nose. "Mom, don't start your witch thing again, you'll scare her." Mocked your cousin from the passenger seat, but Agatha waved him off.

"She'll thank me when she gets there, I'm sure."

But you didn't do that. When the car finally came to a stop, and what looked more like a fancy farm merged with the forest took over your vision, all you did was crumple the Immersive Community pamphlet into your pocket and throw your old backpack over your shoulder.

Aunt Aggie and your cousin hugged you tightly, saying they were going to write, but they couldn't get past the reception desk since they weren’t part of the program. You saw Agatha take your mom’s borrowed credit card out of her purse to start your so-called treatment, and the last goodbyes left your tongue before one of the tutors started the tour of the place.

In between presenting a large number of different huts that served as dormitories and classrooms for the most diverse activities - painting, handicrafts or poetry were the ones you memorized - Mr. Emil Blonsky also took the time to welcome you, emphasizing how incredible the community was and how lucky anyone was to be there. You bit your tongue to keep from telling him that only those with money could.

Finally, Blonsky showed you the stables and greenhouses on the edge of the property, and on the way back to the rest of the huts, you noticed the path up the hill.

"And what's up there?"

The man stopped walking with a small smile. He was wearing clothes very similar to those of the other people you'd seen on the tour, the difference being a golden necklace with a strange symbol that was hidden by the movement of his loosely buttoned shirt.

"We must not go up there without permission." He begins, although he's smiling, there's something in his gaze that says this rule cannot be disrespected. " The Prophetess' Retreat is a sacred place of peace and reflection."

You look back at the hut at the bottom of the mountain, far enough away that you can't make out the decorations on the balcony, but still beautiful and quiet, high enough to make it look like the prophet had her own little piece of heaven.

"So, no bothering the boss without asking? Got it." You retort, getting a chuckle from the other at the summary. He starts walking again along the path towards the general area, but you can't help the curiosity burning in your chest. "About this prophet, will she be isolated up there or will I get a chance to meet her?"

Blonsky walks up beside you, and looks you in the eye to say; "You'll meet her when it's time to meet her, not early and not late."

You don't know what to say to that, everything here is so theatrical in a way. Mystical, you might say. It suits Aunt Aggie so well, that it's not hard to imagine her here, dancing to the midnight moon and talking to the trees. She already does that in New York, it should have been much simpler in the middle of the forest.

"Come, child. You must start the cleaning process soon." Announces the man as he picks up the pace on the trail. With a sigh, you decide not to contradict him by saying that you bathed before coming, thank you.

It was soon revealed that the cleansing process really meant a bath - the colleagues around you who helped you laughed when you joked that it was a strange way of saying that someone stinks, before clarifying that it was nothing of the sort. The Cleansing Process was a bath of salts and herbs, in a tub of stones and some kind of botanical baptism, the latter of which only members who had completed thirteen full moons could take part in. You would be invited to the baptism with the prophet's blessing, but there was still a long way to go.

Blonsky handed your uniforms, and explained the last rules before leaving you alone, or almost, since your hut was shared with six other people, and despite this, it seemed very comfortable and organized. There were bunk beds and private bathroom spaces, and at least three spacious shelves for each. The latter wouldn't be of much use to you, since you'd brought almost nothing and the vast majority of your belongings had been left at NYU. Just thinking about that place gave you a terrible stomach ache: You would have skipped dinner, but the mere suggestion of not attending made one of your colleagues frown in concern and repeat the rules, so you ended up giving that up.

The routine that followed was calm: it didn't surprise you that the new members were responsible for the hardest tasks, and it didn't bother you either. You were never afraid of hard work, and keeping your hands busy also helped to calm your mind, so it was a win-win. Besides, even if you didn't get the jobs nobody wanted, all veterans had chores. There was some rule about the amount of service time and dedication being rewarded, so those senior members could choose what they wanted to do first.

You didn't have to worry about this anyway: you would do what you had to do because, after all, the agreement was to stay here only for the summer. However, with each passing day away from exams, traffic, and New York's typical filth, it became harder to imagine leaving the Children of Chaos and their strange harmony and kindness.

After three weeks in the group, you learned to knit. You also earned the privilege of mail when you showed up for all your appointments without delay and decided to check the items in the privacy of your cabin during the last hour of prayer.

Since you hadn't yet found your faith or received your calling or whatever weird way Blonsky explained this, you barely joined in the prayer sessions. This evening, excited to receive news from home, was no different.

Aunt Aggie wrote about the store doing well and mentioned your mother, who didn't write to you with more than vague words about hoping you'd feel better soon. The best present was hidden in Nicholas' letter about the university being a sack without his favorite cousin. Wrapped in silk and next to a lighter.

You haven't earned the right to write outside yet - something about a month in isolation to accomplish. So you just clutched the items to your chest and wished your cousin knew how grateful you were.

Your initial intention was to save the weed for some more stressful day - which was rare in the leisurely pace of this place - but the last letter made you consider using it all that night.

The recipient's perfect handwriting, and the address you knew by heart. You didn't even open the item, you put it away in your drawer and stood up with the weed hidden in your pants pocket.

The common area was empty, as the vast majority of your colleagues were praying. You stepped up to one of the bonfires and threw the unopened letter into the flames, without hesitation and without caring to see it burn. You turned on your heels and continued along the trail, heading for one of the few more secluded spots you had discovered during the hours of exploring between tasks.

The rules were clear about the prophet's hut but said nothing about the road towards it. And since apparently everyone there was afraid of upsetting the boss, that spot was always empty and the perfect place to smoke in hiding.

You leaned against a tree, curled up and lit the weed, and tried to keep away all the painful memories about last semester that the damn letter had brought up.

You were halfway through a joint when you heard a voice at the end of the trail next to you.

"Good evening, Y/N."

"Jesus fucking Christ." You gasped, jumping with fright and almost dropping the blunt to the ground. You looked sideways abruptly, imagining that you were hallucinating because of the weed, and were almost sure that you were when the words escaped you due to the apparition in front of you. The most beautiful woman you've ever seen in your life. Instead of a uniform, she wore a loose dark wine dress that hugged her curves perfectly; her long red hair cascaded down her shoulders and back and her emerald eyes shone curiously in your direction. The dim light from the fire lamps scattered along the trail and the moon really made the woman look like an angel.

You coughed awkwardly. "Sorry, you scared me." You clarified, the cigarette hidden behind your back a stupid attempt to mask what you were doing. Sure enough, your pupils were dilated, and it was very easy to see the smoke. So, as soon as you tried to hide it, you gave up, offering the woman an awkward chuckle and gesturing the cigarette gently. "Don't tell on me."

There was a soft pause, which you couldn't tell from the intoxication in your system. The woman watched for a moment as the charming gesture of bringing the cigarette to the smile formed on your lips and blew the smoke into the starry sky with your neck slightly stretched. Your mind seemed to clear, and before the woman could speak, you grimaced. "Wait, didn't you just say my name? How..?"

She smiled, folding her hands in front of her body. "It was premeditated that we met today, of course. I'm Wanda."

You've heard her name before, in conversation circles and in advertisements about her heavenliness hanging around.

"Shit." It was your natural reaction, which made her laugh softly, and it must have been the weed's fault that the sound echoed in your mind and made your body shudder.

"Don't worry, I won't snitch on you." She assures you with an easy smile playing on her lips, and you swallow dry, completely at a loss.

"Thanks... but I thought you were the boss." You mumble, and Wanda makes a funny expression, like a false realization.

"Oh, you're right." She murmurs amusedly. "I think I can let this one slide if you'll share it with me."

"Fuck, of course, here." Your limbs feel strange, almost too heavy to move around her. You awkwardly hand her the cigarette, certain that your face is flushed. Hell, the last time you were this clumsy was last semester, with-

"You swear a lot." Wanda's comment pulls you out of your daze. She takes a long drag before adding: "Especially for a Christian."

You chuckle, shaking your head. "My father's a Christian, not me." You retort, and end up grimacing. "And how do you know-"

"This is a very exclusive program, sweetheart." Wanda cuts you off again, the cigarette between her fingers but her gaze is completely focused on your face. "Having a lot of money or being someone's niece isn't enough to guarantee you a spot, but a good letter of recommendation might. And Agatha wrote me almost everything about you, except the reason for rushing to get you here before the next recruitment period."

The sentence was an invitation for you to speak, but you didn't fall for the bait. On the contrary, you looked away with tense shoulders, and Wanda didn't press. At least, not now. She took another drag before commenting more softly:

"We have general meetings every Wednesday. We encourage members to open up."

You grimace softly. "Group therapy isn't my thing."

But Wanda smiles lopsidedly, giving you back the joint. " Neither is nice weed." She retorts a little provocatively, attracting your attention. "If you want to try something new, show up next week. And if you want to try something good, you should try the weed from our greenhouse. It won't taste like crushed dirt." Adjusting her hair around her shoulders, she offers you a wink. "Have a good night, darling."

You think about the color of her eyes for the rest of the night.

-&-

Sooner than you'd expect, you'll discover that Wanda isn't the type to let things slide. Far from it, she notices everything, especially those who are being too slack and prone to not following the teachings of the Children of Chaos, possibly ruining their record of total efficiency or something.

She puts an end to your plans for a quiet summer, trying to go unnoticed among the countless other followers just as abruptly as she left her meditation hut. Wanda seems to appear at every moment that you consider escaping from your commitments - it even occurs to you that she has a particular interest in watching you, but the idea sounds so absurd that you push it away while forcing a polite smile before returning to your duties.

Less than two weeks after you met, you finally stopped avoiding Group Therapy and showed up on time to join the session. The presence of Wanda, in a loose dark purple dress and her red hair tied up in a neat braid, makes you almost give up, convinced that you couldn't say anything without stuttering in the presence of such a stunning woman.

But she offers a gentle smile, opening her arms softly. "Come along, darling, you're just in time." She greets and you stumble towards a corner in the background, begging the gods that you can attend in silence this time.

It doesn't seem so difficult when it's other people doing it. A young man with whom you've already shared the task of looking after the stables spoke of the frustrations of returning from enforced service with a missing limb, and how the support he didn't get from the government and family members, he found here. Bucky received a finger-snapping applause - something that was explained to you as a way to avoid triggers on the countless ex-combatants or victims of post-traumatic stress that make up the crowd - before giving his turn to another ex-military woman, Carol Danvers.

More stories were shared until Wanda's gaze fell on your slumped figure and she called your name. All the attention in the room fell on you too, and you chuckled awkwardly.

"Thanks, but I'm not good at public speaking." You retorted, but Wanda, with her hands folded over her stomach, gave you a gentle smile.

"Don't worry about it, dear, this is a no-judgment zone." She says, but you make no mention of getting up, and her gaze becomes more insistent. "It's important that we all make an effort to be present at these exercises. We encourage participation around here. Come along, dear, please." And she smiled so kindly that you could only trust her.

The group offered a small chorus of encouragement, and before you knew it, you were a few steps away from the redhead, who held out her hands for your wrists.

"I want you to take a deep breath and close your eyes." Wanda guided, her melodic voice bringing goose bumps all over your body. "Turn all your attention inward. And tell me, is there anything in there that you'd like to share with the group?"

The memories of last semester hit you full force. But Wanda massages your wrists and it feels as if she can calm down the whole storm inside of you.

You sigh, before opening your eyes. "I... I don't know where to start." Your whisper is met by another chorus of support from the members, who retort that you're safe. Wanda releases your wrists to sit with the others, and you try not to be so self-conscious while you're in the spotlight. "I think I can share with you the reason why I'm here." You declare a moment later, taking another deep breath.

Bucky gives you an encouraging smile, mimicking that of the people around him, and you swallow.

"I don't have a history of fighting and overcoming war or any illnesses, so I'm sorry to disappoint anyone." You mumble, receiving confused looks.

The former sergeant assures you: "No problem competes with another. All our pains have their importance." And it seems to be something that has already been repeated here a few times because everyone shakes their heads in agreement.

You scratch the back of your head awkwardly. "Right... well, I won't beat around the bush. A month ago, when I was first enrolled here, I had just been kicked out of my house. Well, it wasn't exactly my house anymore, because I'd been living on campus for about three years, but I think you get the idea." You say, laughing awkwardly at the anxiety in your chest. You try to clear your throat so that your voice doesn't come out so shaky, but only Wanda's gaze really helps to calm your nerves. "And the reason for this was a relationship that my parents, more specifically my mother, didn't approve of. To be fair, no one really approved, because, well, the person... hm, I don't think there's any other way to put it, was another woman. An older woman, and also my professor. And well, the whole thing would have been a scandal anyway, but I really let myself believe that when the worst was over, we'd be fine. Bad news, we weren't." You laugh sadly. You pause, imagining that you'll get judgmental looks, but everyone listens attentively. "For a while, I thought the worst part was afterward. When everyone knew and judged me, and how my mother freaked out, and I tried... but no. The worst part was not realizing what that love if I can call it that, was doing to me. How ill it was making me. And until I got here, learned things about myself, and managed to take a break from everything that was left behind... For a while, I really hoped to go back and fix everything, but now... damn, sometimes I don't even think about leaving this place."

The group celebrates quietly, exchanging words of encouragement. Your ears feel warm, and Wanda stands up again. "You can stay as long as you need, darling." She says, massaging your forearm. She calls someone else to speak, but doesn't miss the opportunity to whisper in your ear: "I'm proud, stay a little longer today, I want to talk to you."

And you think you haven't absorbed anything for the rest of the morning.

Eventually, the session ends, and as soon as the room is empty, Wanda turns her face towards you.

"You were brave today, sweetheart."

Your hands, busy putting the cushions away, tremble a little. But you offer her an incredulous chuckle.

"Yeah, right." It's your answer, which makes Wanda frown in curiosity. At her inquisitive silence, you sigh before clarifying: "Everyone's nice, but I know it's kind of silly that my big trauma is a break-up and not post-traumatic stress from war or something that actually matters."

Wanda presses her lips together, studying you for a moment, and you take the opportunity to put away the last of the cushions. Suddenly, she says:

"This lack of respect for your own feelings comes from parental negligence, I suppose." You turn your face away in surprise, but Wanda gives you a small smile: "James wasn't lying when he said that no pain should compete with another. We all have our internal and external battles, and we shouldn't belittle our pain. I believe we should honor it, and wear it. And here, dear, you will learn to do that." Wanda makes her way around to one of the cupboards at the back, and you watch her movements in silence, from reaching into one of the last drawers to returning to you with an item in hand. "I have an invitation for you."

She opens the box she's brought, and inside is a necklace very similar to the one the instructors wear. The main difference is the symbol, the crown that Wanda also carries on the pendant around her neck. You frown in confusion.

"What is it?"

She wraps the item between her fingers, her gaze on you. "The disciple's necklace. The last one from the current solstice."

You imitate the gesture, touching the item with the tips of your fingers. Wanda doesn't move her hand away as your fingers brush together, and you ignore your own shyness as you watch her bite her lip for a moment. "I don't understand what it means."

She licks her lips, and the movement doesn't go unnoticed by your eyes. "It means that you would be my apprentice. You would accompany me during periods of meditation, you would study my teachings closely, you would be... entirely dedicated to..."

"You?" you add, and Wanda lets out a shuddering breath, warm against your cheek. When did she get so close?

"If you wish." She whispers, and you pull away gently, your face hot but the last thread of sanity in your mind.

"I'm sure there are more experienced members dying for this position. It wouldn't be right-"

Wanda shakes her head, interrupting you. "They weren't chosen. You were." She assures you, pressing the box with the necklace against your chest. "And if it wasn't you, the place would be empty until the next solstice. You don't have to accept it, darling. It's not a summons. It's an invitation."

You sigh, holding the box against your chest. "I just... I've never done anything like this. I don't want to mess things up."

There's a bell in the distance, signaling the start of the next activities. Wanda glances outside briefly before stepping close enough to press a kiss to the corner of your mouth that makes your whole body heat up at once.

"Just listen to your instincts." She whispers, before pulling away with a small smile.

You write to Agatha about it the following evening, but you don't have the courage to seal the letter for sending. The whole conversation with Wanda seems too private to be shared in this way.

Although the woman said it was just an invitation, you could feel some pressure to make a decision, and it seems that the news had been circulating ever since one of the tutors couldn't find the box of the last chaos disciple pendant, and Wanda ended up mentioning that she had extended another invitation.

In a way, you were stalling. Between your activities and meetings, you hadn't made any decisions and you hoped that the end of the summer would force Wanda to choose someone else. But there was also the question of the new, burning feelings that had appeared since you first laid eyes on her, and which seemed to awaken every time you two were in the same environment.

The idea of departing, of leaving her behind like a closed chapter in your life, seemed absurd every passing day.

In your second month with the Chaos Children, you received a rather unusual request: take the prophet her morning drink.

The crumpled piece of paper was handed to you by one of your cabin mates: Kate Bishop. A former student, a little younger than you, who, after destroying a bell at the university, was sent here by her millionaire mother. Kate was to stay until she had balanced her irresponsible impulses and could take over the family's security empire.

She seemed a little reluctant to interrupt your concentration on cleaning the garden, but much more determined not to disappoint Wanda.

"Just give it to the kitchen staff, they'll know what to do. And prioritize, she doesn't like to wait." Said the girl, but you gave her hand a gentle tug before taking the paper.

"But why did she ask me?" you asked, but Kate had no idea and just shrugged before leaving the garden.

While the kitchen staff prepared the item, you tried to improve your appearance in the bathroom next to the lounge, wiping all the soil from the plants from under your fingers, and even what had run into your cheeks.

When you came out, there was another order on the counter and a small group of people who hadn't been there before. They didn't see you. Blonsky, accompanied by two other women you didn't know, were talking to each other.

"I bet it was Carter. She hasn't stopped talking about her private piano lessons with the Prophetess for four whole weeks." Said the first, but the other laughed quietly.

" Sharoon is a simp, that's all. Wanda wouldn't choose her after the episode with Rogers last year, she knows she can't trust her." Rebutted the other. "Besides, I would have assumed it was Bishop, after all, she already acts like a maid. Why train another when you already have one so dedicated?" The women laugh amongst themselves until they finally notice you approaching, and fall silent. Blonsky smiles, but he appears very vicious.

"Hello, miss. Wouldn't you like to have a say in who our next disciple is?" He asks you, but you shrug, moving forward in the queue in front of the canteen to grab the prophet's items that were clearly being prepared in priority.

"I don't know anything about it." That's your answer, but the shorter woman gets in your way.

"Come on, dear, it's easy." She begins with a giggle. "Every solstice, the prophetess chooses her disciples. There are 24 of them, 12 of whom will become apostles after their apprenticeship."

You grimace softly. "It's very biblical."

Blonsky chuckles. "Of course, it is, despite the multiculturalism of our group, Wanda was raised in a Jewish Christian home. You're not going to tell me you didn't know that?"

You clear your throat. "Not really. Sorry, I have to run."

But the man puts a hand in your way, only to stretch his body out on the counter and reach for some colored leaves that he crushes and drops into Wanda's glass.

"She likes it this way. I would know, I prepared many when I was her houseboy for the first few weeks here." He says, and you swallow dry, mumbling an awkward thank you before hurrying off.

The path is a little tiring, you think it makes sense of Wanda's physique if she had to climb that trail every day, and you mentally curse yourself for thinking about her body. It's not at all appropriate, honestly.

The door is open, but you knock anyway. The woman inside, wearing her typical long, loose dresses at the edge, is busy finishing a loose fringe in her hair and offers you a smile.

"Come in, dear."

You do so a little awkwardly, almost overwhelmed by the moment of entering the most private place in the whole camp. It's a beautiful cabin, you let her know, without stopping to admire the perfectly arranged surroundings. You would have thought that the privacy of this place would allow her to make some kind of personal mess, but everything is impeccably in place.

Wanda approaches to pick up the items, and the smile falters on her face at the first sip of her drink.

"Did you put... did you put maca root in this?" She asks, and your natural reaction is a short laugh.

"I didn't prepare it, Wanda."

But she doesn't smile again, her tone of voice remains the same but her attitude changes to one of false kindness. "My morning drink is an ashwagandha. I need my concentration to increase, not my libido." It really sounded like a scolding, and her attitude of handing the cup back to you, accompanied by the memory of the recent events, made your blood boil.

"Well, I'm not your fucking maid, so if it's not good, get another one downstairs, or even better, make it one yourself."

It's the first time you see any kind of fury in her gaze, hot and vibrant, and it makes something in you rouse. Your mention of leaving the cabin is prevented by her hands closing the door and trapping you against the wood.

Wanda takes a deep breath, and the gleam in her eyes changes. "Can I ask... where did this attitude come from?"

You hold the glass tightly against your body, very aware that you'll drop it if Wanda doesn't step away and let you breathe. "I just want to make things clear." You retort with a seriousness that doesn't do justice to the way your heart is racing. "I didn't come to this place to be your personal servant."

Wanda chuckles briefly, letting her gaze drop to your mouth. "Oh, of course not, darling." She whispers. "You're not the type to follow orders willingly. You'd do a terrible job."

Swallowing dryly, you retort: "And why am I here then?"

Wanda smiles innocently. "I asked you to bring my drink." It's her reply, clearly trying to tease you, and you snort impatiently.

"I bet you expected an answer. Well, I haven't made up my mind yet, so if there's nothing else, I'll just go."

Wanda moves to take the glass from you and put it on the table by the door. The next second, her hands are in yours.

"Don't be silly, of course, there's another reason." She retorts, pulling you along as she walks backward into the cabin. "I hear you love painting."

What you had assumed was her personal painting canvas is offered to you. The laugh that escapes you is shy and genuine.

"Wanda, I don't... paint anymore."

But she doesn't flinch, her hands still in yours. "I know you haven't since last semester. It was in the letter. But you've progressed so much, that I thought you could paint for me." When you don't answer, she makes such an adorable expression that your heart skips a beat. "Please?"

Wanda definitely knows how beautiful she is, and how those puppy-dog eyes can take her anywhere. You bite back a smile, agreeing, and almost forget to breathe when she jumps excitedly onto your neck, hugging it for a whole moment before letting go as if she hadn't turned you into a complete mess with one touch.

She doesn't complain about the cocktail again - instead, she drinks it entirely while you get comfortable on the painting stool, doodling for a few moments before starting to paint the only thing you could after so many months without touching a paintbrush.

It's only when the drawing is clearer on the frame that Wanda becomes restless again. Loud sighs take your attention away from the painting and towards her.

"Is something wrong?"

She smiles half-heartedly, and only now do you notice the soft color of her cheeks. "I shouldn't have ignored my own complaints and drunk that juice."

You frown in confusion, letting the brush rest next to the paints. "Was it that bad? If you want, I'll complain to the kitchen-"

Wanda chuckles, shaking her head and you have to shut up because she reaches over to push the canvas out of the way and stops right in front of you, close enough to touch.

"Remember what I said? About focus and about... my libido." She asks, and you can swallow dryly, looking up in the direction of her dilated eyes. She lets her hands rest on your shoulders, pressing the weight of her body gently into yours. "Well, I suppose you'll have to see for yourself. Hold out your hand sweetheart, no, no, down... yes, you can move my dress out of the way." Your trembling fingers brushed against her knee, and immediately obeyed the order. Slowly making your way under her dress, while Wanda bit her lip and watched you draw patterns on her thighs. Finally, your fingers reached the side of her underwear. Instead of pulling it down, you let the inks drop to the ground, and your other hand went under her dress too, repeating the same path as before while you and Wanda panted together. Your face fell forward, flush into her dress, and you pressed your nose against her, inhaling deeply the scent of arousal she exhaled so strongly.

Her hands squeezed your shoulders as yours began to pull down her panties right away. A moment later, gracefully as everything so far, she kicked the item aside and spread her legs gently so that you could slide your fingers between more easily.

You looked up the second your index finger met her warmth, gasping at the mischievous smile of the woman in front of you.

"All this time I've been here..." You started hoarsely, your fingers spreading the wetness between her folds, and enjoying the way Wanda's breath caught in her throat. "Were you this wet?"

Despite the failure of her own breathing, and the way it's harder to stand up with your intimate stimulation, Wanda gives you a mischievous look and leans her forehead against yours, her red hair making a curtain between your faces.

"I get like this every time I'm around you." She confesses, giving you a provocative tug on your lower lip that forces you to thrust inside her with more determination. Almost enough for her to lose her pose. Almost. "It's disconcerting, to be honest."

Your thumb presses down firmly on her clit, and Wanda almost buckles into you, the delicious sound that escapes her throat will be in your dreams for sure. "Well, should I apologize, high sanctity?"

She chuckles at the teasing hidden in the nickname, before leaning in completely and capturing your mouth in a fervent kiss that takes you out of orbit for a whole moment, intense enough for you to whimper into her tongue, and force her hips down into yours, practically begging her to grind your lap. Wanda's response to this is a dirty giggle mixed with a moan into your mouth.

Without breaking the kiss that turns into a much hungrier one the next second, you get to your feet, adjusting your hands to grab her thighs to pull her onto your lap and carry her around the room. Between stumbles, you press each other against the various surfaces of the room, tables, and cupboards, exchanging increasingly hot and desperate kisses, and you're pretty sure you're going to have Wanda against the bookshelf if she keeps grinding into your abdomen like that.

In a pause for breath, when she's still wedged between you and the bookcase, your mouth descends on her jaw and Wanda struggles to keep her eyes open. She whimpers shamelessly as your curious hands advance down her body, pulling her dress out of the way and leaving it barely hanging off her body for you to clasp your palms over her now-bare breasts.

Her patience for release is quickly exhausted by the precise stimulation of her breasts, your eager fingers teasing and pinching her nipples until you turn her into a whimpering mess. She gives a determined tug on the hair at the nape of your neck, forcing your face back to hers in a hard, dirty kiss that makes you shudder. She breaks it only to give an order:

"On your knees." And you groan in obedience, falling to the floor almost at once, desperately pulling her dress aside to force your face into her, now with nothing in the way. Wanda arches her back once your hot mouth finds her drenched cunt; her hands desperate for some kind of support on the shelves behind her, while her chest heaves and her hips are restless against your face.

Your hungry mouth leisurely devours her, your tongue teasing her folds, spreading her wetness around and making a mess on your face. Your closed eyes show your dedication and surrender to the task, but Wanda tugs at your hair again, trying to gain a little control back and order you to quit the teasing and fuck her the way she needs you to. Fully dilated Irises then confronts her from between her legs, and Wanda loses her breath.

"Beautiful." She panted, staring back, shamelessly grinding herself into your face. "So beautiful... fuck... on your knees for me... oh, God, detka." She struggles to compliment you, but her native language begins to escape mixed with English shortly afterward, her climax approaching. You moan contentedly at the scene, aware of the state of your own underwear from all this play. Wanda's body begins to betray her, trying to pull away so you grab her thighs with a strong grip, and one of her legs ends up over your shoulder, increasing your reach just the way she needs it to fall over the edge.

Wanda comes on your tongue, spasming against the books, and in a deep moan. You don't let her pull away, keeping her restless hips in place as you lick your way through her previous climax in search of a new one. Soon her whimpering protests at the overstimulation turn into begging, and you fail to hide the smug smile at feeling her so at your mercy for a second time.

She's so close, so close, that the Sokovian comes back to her tongue, but there's a sudden knock on the door, and all the stimulation is interrupted by your fright. Wanda gasps incredulously, losing the time to react in time due to her own lust, and having to watch you stumble away - quickly wiping her cum from your chin with the back of your hand - as she tries not to fall down on her shaking knees.

"Why the fuck did you stop?" she asks in frustration through her teeth, but you, with a very flushed face, look at her with a certain desperation.

"Wanda, there's someone at the door!" You retort as if it were a very justifiable reason to steal an orgasm from her. Wanda huffs angrily, lunging at you and ignoring your confused eyes to pull you upright by the collar of your shirt, hurriedly throwing you onto the mattress. "W-wanda, what?"

"Quiet." She cuts in, pushing your shoulders until you're lying down and following the movement of your body to straddle your lap. The person outside knocks again, and although she's pulling her off, and is still shaking from her last orgasm, Wanda manages to speak in the same tone of voice as she does every morning meeting: "What is it?"

Your protests are muffled when Wanda sits on your face, and in fact, you would have forgotten any guests if Blonsky's voice hadn't sounded in the next second.

"Good morning, Reverend, I've come to join you for today's service." Says the man, but Wanda has to bite her lip hard because you're eating her out again, somehow even better than before. "Reverend?"

Wanda shakes her head, frowning at the difficulty of maintaining a rational thought when she has your tongue inside her. "Hm, I'm not going today, Blonsky... Deliver the service in my place." She fails to sound so breathless and has to close her eyes when your hands grip her thighs tightly, holding her down.

Blonsky then sounds concerned: "Aren't you feeling well, Reverence?"

Your nose nuzzles into her clit and Wanda reaches for the headboard, a satisfied sigh escaping her. "I feel great." She murmurs back and has to take a deep breath so that the next sound that escapes her isn't a moan. "Just busy. Anything else, Blonsky?"

The man clears his throat, Wanda has to press a hand against her own mouth as you reach another right spot.

"Hm, yes, Reverend... As you know, the deadline for the selection of the disciple is coming to an end." He begins, luckily unable to hear the muffled sighs inside the room through the closed door. "I have expressed my concerns to Your Reverence about a premature choice of new members-"

Wanda snorts impatiently. "Are you really going to question my choices again, Blonsky?"

"N-no, reverend!" He defends himself quickly. "Never. I just worry that the... affinity, that Your Reverence has acquired for some new members, might affect your judgment about their vocations. The premature choice of a disciple could result in their departure from our community, and we know how the withdrawal of one of our own affects everyone..."

"Don't worry about it." Wanda cuts dry, and now, she's remarkably close to climaxing. She doesn't care about the roughness, she thrusts her hips frantically into your face, muffling your breathless moans. "Y/N is the best choice... she's... so-god... dedicated and-hm... talented-" Wanda's lucky you're quick to react too. She would have screamed to the ceiling, exposing all the inappropriate activities in the room if you hadn't grabbed her thighs and spun her on her back onto the mattress. She didn't have time to lose this orgasm by the brief interruption of your movements - your fingers took the place of your tongue when you hovered above her, and your free hand covered her mouth when you sank inside her again.

Wanda came harder than before, squeezing your fingers and wetting the bed. She clings to your body in a desperate grasp, shocked by the achievement over her body, and grateful for the muffling of her moans. You keep thrusting until she stops squirting on the sheets.

You only remember that Blonsky is still outside because he speaks again. "I'll take your word for it, Your Reverence. And I hope you've made a good choice." He says at last, the sound of his footsteps moving away is ignored by you and Wanda, who meet in a hot kiss in the next second.

Your fingers continue to thrust lightly inside her, even though Wanda shudders from the excessive stimulation. And despite this, she also controls the kiss, which slows down so that she can ask in between: "Tell me, love. Did I do it? A good choice."

You kiss her a little harder. "I still don't know... what I want... or what I should do, Wanda."

She brings one of her hands up to your wrist, stopping your movements. You open your eyes to look at her. Wanda smiles, but her eyes are very mischievous. "You think too hard when the answer is right here." She retorts, giving your hand a gentle tug. You follow her lead, and soon, you have your drenched fingers with her cum inside your mouth. Your hips move instinctively, pressing down on her, and Wanda giggles mischievously, her free hand trailing down your back to encourage the movement. "Don't you want that, baby? You can be all mine."

You suck your fingerprints clean, removing them from your mouth to support yourself on the mattress now that you're so wildly grinding your hips against Wanda's thigh. She doesn't let you indulge in the sensation, grabbing your cheek and stopping your hips with the other at your silence.

Your soft protest is ignored, and your voice is almost a pathetic plea when it comes out. "It's not fair... I was feeling so good."

"Oh, darling, I can make you feel even better, every day if you decide to stay with me." She retorts, her grip softening on your cheek. You look at her, but there is still hesitation in your gaze and Wanda wishes to replace this doubt with something else. She kisses you but pulls away when you go to increase the intensity, ignoring your protest and pushing you gently away by the shoulders. "No playing, until I have an answer."

Wanda flees - because she doesn't think she'll live up to her words if she is under you - and slips out of bed before you can grab her back. Your next long protest is muffled against the mattress because you press your face down.

Wanda giggles half-heartedly as she stands up, reaches for her dress, and tries to adjust her appearance a little. "Thank you for the sex, sweetheart, it was a very pleasant surprise, but I can't let Blonsky lead a communion, he's not good at it. And you have errands, so if you'll excuse me..." Your silence made Wanda, now dressed, look at the bed again. To her surprise, you were sitting on the mattress, hanging something around your neck.

Your gaze met hers as the disciple chain was secure on your skin. The mischief in your gaze made her swallow. Twirling the symbol between your fingers, you smiled as you asked: "So how does this work? Should I confess my sins so that you can forgive me?"

"God offers forgiveness, not me." Wanda whispers back, brazenly watching you start to unbutton your shirt, the necklace hanging in the valley of your breasts is doing things to her.

"Hm, since I'm going to be forgiven, maybe I can sin a little more..." Wanda moved on instinct, crawling onto the bed to meet you halfway like a magnet being drawn towards you.

Your foreheads touched, and she sighed against your lips. "I should punish you for this blasphemy." She says, to which you smile naughtily before sticking out your tongue to tease her lips, eliciting a low moan from her.

"Promise?" You challenge, and Wanda gets tired of wasting time.

#wanda maximoff x reader #wanda x reader #elizabeth olsen x reader #kinktober 2023 #marvel imagines

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ikarakie · 1 year

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one of the known, undisputed rules of riding in steve harrington's car: passenger seat gets music privileges.

if you brought your own tape, and won the usually vicious battle for shotgun, there was a 100% chance that the drive would be backed with music of your choice. hell, there was even a small collection growing in steve's glove box of music that wasn’t his, because people left them behind either on accident or on purpose. no one really knew what steve liked to listen to- maybe minus robin- but he always seemed happy with whatever the passenger put in.

until one day, when dustin and lucas and mike climbed into his car. dustin had won passenger seat privileges, after a rather tense game of rock, paper, scissors, and instantly reached for the tape player.

steve smacked his hand down. "paws off, henderson." he scolded, not unkindly. all three kids stared at him like he'd grown a third limb as he pulled out of the wheeler's driveway. electric guitar played at a semi-low volume.

"what the hell?!" dustin squawked. "why can't i change the tape?" steve rolled his eyes, fingers tapping along to the rhythm of the beat on the wheel. none of the kids recognised the song, and it certainly didn't seem the kind of thing steve harrington would willingly listen to.

"is it so surprising i want to listen to my own tape in my car?" steve asks. dustin shouts an affronted, 'YES!' to which steve just shakes his head and continues driving.

the man on the track sings over heavy drums and guitar, talking about how he needed someone to 'show me the things that make true happiness' and 'he must be blind.' then, there's a guitar solo that steve smiles at.

"who are you?" mike asked, suspicious. "what did you do with our steve?"

"oh, shut up, wheeler." steve meets his eye in the rearview mirror. "next one to complain loses tape privileges for their next three turns."

that does shut them up. they make idle conversation over a couple more songs before they pull up to their destination. mostly threatening each other over high scores and making bets. steve waves them off with the usual 'don't be stupid' lecture and pulls out of the arcade parking lot, the bass of whatever the next track had been audible even through his closed doors and windows.

after that, steve retains ownership of his stereo every now and then, always playing some form of heavy metal. it just becomes the norm, though never fails to confound whoever's in the car. (because, seriously? polo shirt wearing steve harrington and heavy metal?)

they only ever hear anyone else listen to it after they join hellfire. eddie invites them to his trailer to create their characters together, and when they walk in one of the songs from that dumb tape is playing from a record in the corner.

"woah! you like this music too?" lucas asks. eddie nods excitedly.

"yeah, man! you a fan?" his smile dims a little when lucas shakes his head, but dustin is quick to jump in.

"our friend steve is always listening to a dumb mixtape with this sorta stuff on it." he explains, missing how eddie's eyes light up and his smile turns a little bashful. "he used to let us play whatever we want, but ever since he got that tape he makes us listen to it sometimes when he drives us around."

"well," eddie sighs, fiddling with one of his chunky silver rings. "seems this steve knows someone with very good taste in music." there's a warm look in his eyes before he claps his hands and diverts their attention to the character sheets he printed out.

later that night, steve gets a call.

"you told me you only listened to that tape once." the voice on the other end drawls. it's low and teasing, but it's undercut with obvious wonder and fondness. steve doesn't even bother pretending to be confused.

"well, it's good." (it makes me think of you) he replies, like it pains him. eddie giggles, and steve eyes the tape in question. sat on his bedside table, 'for my stevie' scrawled across it in eddie's neatest handwriting. shitty little hearts drawn around his name and an even shittier skull at the end. "how'd you know?"

"recognised my mötörhead record." eddie coos, "told me how you revoke their music privileges to listen to it." a pause. "you're so fucking cute."

steve can't help the dorky smile that spreads over his face. the way he twirls the phone cord like a fucking lovesick loser. he cracks a joke about making eddie a mixtape featuring the likes of duran duran and tears for fears, which makes him fake retch. they chat for a little while longer, whispering 'i love you's through the phones like it was their first time saying it.

the tape stays firmly in the bmw's music rotation.

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wileys-russo · 11 days

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‘April fools!’ Arsenal dressing room/ field

april fools II arsenal wfc

"kyra hurry up!" you hissed at the younger girl who was fussing about, tossing a boot at her head as it connected. "hey! thats not helping me go any faster dickhead." kyra huffed hauling it back as you ducked and it clattered against the lockers making both your eyes widen.

"nobody is coming." laia stuck her head out of the change rooms and gave you both a thumbs up behind her back, the dedicated lookout in this little mission.

"if we get caught in here all of this is for nothing." you warned, eyes darting to the door and bouncing nervously on the balls of your feet. "yeah yeah yeah just make sure nobody comes in then!" kyra rolled her eyes and turned back to it.

"come on ky lunch will be done soon!" you groaned quietly as finally kyra closed the last locker door with a click. "done! god relax you're gonna go grey." the australian teased ruffling your hair as the three of you collected the evidence and high tailed it out.

"whats our excuse again?" kyra stopped you once you'd disposed of said evidence, a hand on both of on your shoulders. "my hamstring was tight, we went to physio, nobody was there so you helped me tape it." you echoed, lifting the edge of your shorts to how the horrendous home taping job that solidified your story.

"that is so bad." laia shook her head at kyras efforts with a frown making you chuckle and kyra push at her shoulder. "didn't see you offering to help codi!" the australian rolled her eyes at the catalonian who shrugged.

"i only agreed to be the lookout." your friend reminded pointing her finger at the pair of you. "yes and if we get caught, you were never involved." you patted the taller girls shoulder condescendingly.

"good. now just don't look suspicious!" kyra poked at your cheeks as you smacked her hand away with a scowl, following after you as you grabbed your trays, the three of you sitting at different tables.

"what have you been up to?" you'd barely sat down at a table before leah appeared, dropping into the seat beside you and sending you a firm look. with a mouthful of food you rolled your eyes and lifted your shorts to show the taping job.

"who did that monstrosity?" leah scoffed eyes raking your leg as you swallowed. "kyra, we couldn't find the staff." you shrugged, stephs eyes narrowing now across the table at the mention of her own national teammate.

"you were with kyra?" steph questioned clearly suspicious. "yes. am i not allowed to hang out with kyra?" you shot back, squirming as leah pinched your leg, shoving your national captain away from you with a glare.

"the pair of you are nothing but trouble." steph shook her head as you scoffed. "steffy you told me to befriend her and make her feel welcome when she signed!" you argued, shoveling in another forkful of food, well aware your window of time to do so was dwindling.

"because you're both the same age and i wanted her to feel part of the team! leah told you the same about making laia feel welcomed." steph argued as you huffed and swallowed your mouthful.

"which i did. so what im hearing is i did what i was asked and the only people who seem to have any issues with it...are the two people who asked me to do it? makes perfect sense!" you rolled your eyes again.

"she makes a point." lia chimed in with a shrug as you shot her a grin, the swiss woman near always taking your side. "you would think that." leah groaned at her best friend who stole a tomato off your tray with a wiggle of her eyebrows.

thankfully the topic seemed to be dropped, you hardly contributing to the conversation as you busied yourself eating, ignoring the warnings that you were going to choke yourself as time dwindled down and the girls all started to group up and head to the media room.

finishing your food you returned your tray, following after lia and steph who'd kindly waited for you while you finished. a third person joined you, arm setting over your shoulder as she fell into step with you.

"you've done something today. what did you do?" alessia asked quietly, knowing you all too well having played alongside you for years now before she'd made the move to arsenal.

"nothing! why does everyone keep saying that?" you huffed trying to shrug her off but the taller girl didn't budge. "because you're a little shit, and you've been far too well behaved recently." alessia stated honestly with a snicker.

"god you pull a prank one time and get a reputation!" you groaned with a shake of her head. "one time!?" alessia scoffed in disbelief, tugging at your ear with a roll of her eyes. "alright, maybe a few times." you smiled innocently as the two of you entered the media room, kyra waving you down where she'd saved you a seat.

"not a chance." leah grabbed the back of your top and tugged you into the seat in front of her, sitting you beside laura as alessia sat down on your other side and you heard kyra groan as steph took the seat she'd saved for you.

without kyra or laia to chat with your attempts to distract yourself during the media briefing failed, leah having no problems shoving your shoulder in warning from behind anytime you tried to speak to those around you.

eventually you gave up all together, crossing your arms and sinking into your seat, alessia chuckling in amusement and you glared at her as she spoke quietly with lotte, leah of course making no move to tell her off.

you'd honestly forgotten all about your earlier activities by the time media finished and everyone started to head back to the change rooms to collect their belongings.

but you were swiftly reminded as now without many of the older girls around, all too eager to get home to bother with supervising you, laia and kyra fell into step on either of your sides, the three of you hurrying as to not miss any of the action.

you made it just in time, the first glitter bomb going off as laia subtly hurried to grab all three of your bags, the least suspect of your trio as you and kyra hovered by the door ready for a hasty escape.

as everyone was staring at a glittery vic and teyah in shock, alessia was the next victim opening her locker and getting a faceful of glitter, jolting backwards and letting out a cry.

but right as the three of them started to look around a change room filled with laughter for the culprit, things took a slightly less favorable turn.

you hadn't realised that steph had hung back to talk with jonas, lia offering to grab her keys and bag since they had plans to go and get a coffee and go for a walk with calvin after training, leah of course inviting herself as she stuck to her best friends side.

similarly caitlin had ducked off for a quick shower, katie stepping in to pack up her girlfriends bags for her so they could head off once she was done.

so right as alessia's eyes found yours and narrowed, jaw clenched and fists balled as she started toward you, the other two glitter bombs went off but did not hit their intended targets.

"april fools!" laia cheered happily not reading the room as kyra winced and you smacked your hand against your head, the catalonian looking at you both with a confused frown at your reactions.

now seven glitter covered woman advanced toward you, leah, alessia and katie looking particularly vengeful as you laughed nervously and felt kyra grab your hand.

"it was all her idea! codi run!" but you gasped as kyra used your interjoined hand to shove you forward, now grabbing laia and sprinting off to safety as you scrambled back to your feet.

"come on! its washable glitter its harmless, nobody got hurt!" you pleaded clasping your hands together and backing up as they continued to advance toward you.

"nobody got hurt...yet." katie warned seriously as your eyes widened and you tried to dart out of the room, but kyra's getaway scheme had worked as you didn't have enough time and hands grabbed at you, your body hauled up and over alessia's shoulder.

"hey hey hey where are we going!" you struggled in her grip, leah and katie following now as you were carried out of the room and everyone else hung back to shower.

"to the ice baths. we're gonna see if you can beat stina's record kid...seven minutes for seven victims seems fair." leah grinned as alessia kicked open the recovery room door.

"what come on its fucking freezing today and i did not act alone this isn't fair!" you groaned punching alessia's back before katie grabbed your hands rendering them useless as alessia piped up next, and you'd unfortunately forgotten she was your ride for today.

"and then you can walk home in the rain and think all about your beloved april fools."

#woso #woso community #woso x reader #kyra cooney cross x reader #woso fanfics #woso imagine #woso blurbs #alessia russo x reader #arsenal wfc x reader #leah williamson x reader #laia codina x reader

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zanarkandskylines · 28 days

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₊✩‧₊ ⇢ midoriya never thought he'd have a pop star for a girlfriend.

『 ♡ 』 midoriya x pop star fem!reader (18+ under the cut!) -`✧ izuku midoriya masterlist

✩ out of high school, you were scouted by a local talent agency on a whim. you'd desperately sent your demo tape to thousands of places, both in and outside of japan. you'd almost given up hope until your current agency called you one week after graduation.

✩ izuku was ecstatic for your chance to be a star. you sang every single song for him - he was your best friend and you trusted him with your life. he adored your voice and encouraged you to break out of your shell. you never told him which ones were about him, harboring your secret crush like a sacred treasure.

✩ two years of hard work and you signed your first record deal! going into the studio for hours at a time, constantly surrounded by various musicians, producers and directors. your first album was wrapped and ready for release in no time at all.

✩ izuku was the first one to buy your album and asked you to sign it for him. he bought two - one to save and one to play. he knew you were going to be popular and wanted to get ahead on his upcoming collection. he promised you, way back when, that he’d always be the first person to get your albums or merchandise.

✩ you would drag izuku to the mall and fashion district to shop alongside you, asking his opinion on every outfit you planned for shows you'd be performing. he'd mentally keep note of what he loved seeing you in...maybe it was a little selfish on his part, but you looked stunning regardless. dresses, mini skirts, crop tops, bodysuits - the works.

✩ your first concert was at a small venue booked by your manager - it held no more than 250 people but still sold out! it was a club with neon lighting, usually not your scene, but a gig is a gig. izuku was one of the VIPs, standing front row the entire night. you couldn't help but keep smiling at him as he took countless photos of your show as you danced and sang the night away. during your encore, you kneeled down and sang to him, leaving him with a kiss on the cheek.

✩ high on the adrenaline of your first show's success, you invited izuku to join you backstage in the dressing rooms to wind down...at least, that's what you told him.

✩ izuku heard the lock click on the door after you shut it, secluding the two of you from the world. he was confused until you sauntered over to him, straddling his lap on the obnoxious neon pink couch.

✩ his hands roam your body and settle on your ass as your tongue invaded his mouth, handfuls of his curls in your grasp. "you really think i never noticed, zu?" you mumble between kisses, each one more intense than the last. "the way you look at me?"

✩ the grin that crosses his lips is devilish. the confidence he's exuding in the moment makes your stomach cartwheel. "can’t help it, i’m your number one fan," he moans into your mouth, grabbing your hips and pulling you flush against him.

✩ clothes are discarded as the two of you tornado through the room, moving from the couch to the wall, to the stylist chair and back to the couch. you can’t get enough of each other - lips bruised from the excessive make out session.

✩ the black lace bra and underwear set that adorned your body drove izuku absolutely insane, pinning you underneath him on the couch as he nipped at your collarbone. you couldn’t help but whine when his clothed erection met your soaked panties.

✩ your hands slide to the hem of his boxers, hooking your fingers in the band and yanking them down his thighs, cock springing out and bouncing off your stomach. he reciprocates by sliding your panties down, shuffling your legs over his shoulders. they stay hooked around one of your ankles.

✩ izuku slips a hand between your bodies, relishing in the skin on skin contact. he brushes over your clit and slides a finger directly into your drenched cunt, a gasp falling from his lips as your slick coated his finger instantly.

✩ you’re biting your lip, trying to keep quiet as he fucks you into the couch, panting into the crook of your neck. his name echoes throughout the dressing room, breathless and growing higher in pitch as the thread in your core snaps. your nails are dragging down his back as your release coats his shaft with every thrust. he follows you soon after, pulling out and painting your stomach white.

✩ in the afterglow, izuku kisses you like you’re the only person in the world. once you part, you can’t help but jokingly say, “my number one fan, huh?” he smiles, a blush spreading across his cheeks. “always.”

⋆ ˚ʚɞ — something about midoriya with a pop star girlfriend is so cute to me! he really would be your number one fan, flabbergasted after every show that he gets to go home with you. ✨ i know this may seem a little ooc for izuku, but i honestly think a 20 something version of him wouldn’t be as shy and nervous around someone he’s loved for years. so when you make the first move, he’s all about it!

#izuku midoriya x reader #izuku midoriya x y/n #deku x reader #izuku midoriya #izuku midoriya smut #deku smut #my hero academia smut #my hero academia izuku midoriya #izuku midoriya headcanons #mha deku #my hero academia deku #deku x y/n #☆.rei writes

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mensfrightsactivist · 3 months

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Hi, this is Kaya from the Portland house. I can attest 100% that some of this is real, and some is fake. The track suits and clothes sharing are partly true! The record collection has quite a few tapes in it. Anything else you want me to clear up, just let me know. Affogato time! x

alright sure i’ll play. this makes you K i assume, the Jan and May partner?

how come none of the details on OPs blog line up with the post (in terms of identity)? y’all really change your hair color based on what room you’re staying in? how’d chester die? why does it seem like exactly one person pays for groceries for ten people? how many people in the house are vegan? do you have to be a similar size to everyone else to join the polycule so you fit in the prescribed uniform? do you guys have families that are worried about you? what’s the name of the punk band S (?) is in and do they really tour the same 11 months of every year? does everyone hate C or do you each have your own least favorite roommates? and really no one smokes weed?? that part i think was least believable.

i am not usually awake this late so i’m sure i’m forgetting questions but that’s what ive got for now. tagging @am-i-the-asshole-official also in case something comes of this

#the portland polycule commune cult

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solarmorrigan · 1 year

Text

There are entirely too many cassette tapes in Steve’s car

Steve himself isn’t very picky about music; he might not love everything he hears, but there’s very little he hates. What he does not like is listening to his passengers complain about whatever radio station he’s left on or make fun of him for listening to the Top 40s (his default station; it’s just easier)

What he can’t stand is listening to the radio jump between songs and static as the kids fiddle with the dial trying to find something they like. It takes about ninety seconds of this to give him a headache, so he starts telling them to just keep some tapes in the car so everyone will stop whining

The music is chosen by whoever sits shotgun (and shotgun works on rotation so Steve doesn’t have to listen to anyone fight over that, either. Whatever Henderson says, he does not have perma-copilot privileges)

(Robin does, though)

The collection ranges from new wave to pop to rock to punk to - Steve’s not even sure. He doesn’t really keep up with music, he just lets it play. No one really tends to ask his opinion on it. Still, as long as everyone else is happy, Steve’s not going to complain

When Eddie joins his group of regular passengers, Steve’s tape collection gains an expected smattering of metal, and that’s fine. Eddie is passionate about music in a way Steve’s seen few people be passionate about anything at all; it’s refreshing, and Steve likes to see the way it makes Eddie light up, even if metal wouldn’t necessarily be Steve’s first pick

This is why Steve is surprised when, after getting into the car one day, instead of putting in one of his own tapes, Eddie turns to Steve and asks what he wants to listen to

Steve doesn’t have an answer, because it’s not a question he’s ever had to contend with. It’s always either been a generic radio station or someone else’s pick. He tries to play it off and say that whatever Eddie had been about to put in is fine, but Eddie won’t be deterred. It’s Steve’s car, he says - so Steve should be allowed to pick the music at least some of the time

Eddie keeps needling and pressing, getting frustrated with the way Steve won’t just tell him which tape is his favorite, while Steve gets fed up with dancing around the question and finally just snaps that he doesn’t have a favorite, alright? He just listens to whatever everyone else wants to listen to, his input has never been required, so if Eddie would just put something in he’d be doing them both a huge favor

Except instead of coming to the understanding that Steve is useless for this sort of conversation and just picking some damn music, Eddie looks kind of sad. No one’s ever asked what your favorite is?, he wants to know

Steve shrugs, because it’s not important. Who cares what his favorite band is? He drives the car, and that’s fine

It apparently is not fine, actually. It’s not fine at all, Eddie declares. It is a travesty he will not let stand, because Steve is allowed to have a favorite - He knows that, right? That he’s allowed to have a favorite?

Steve shrugs again

Unacceptable, Eddie decides. Change of plans (they hadn’t actually had plans in the first place, except a vague intention to maybe get lunch); they’re going to listen to some music and find something Steve likes

(It doesn’t end up being as tedious as Steve thinks it will be. He might even find a few things he enjoys

Maybe a few new songs, a band he’s probably heard before but never put much thought into that he actually really enjoys, new names to put to genres he gravitates towards - and the way Eddie looks at him and asks his opinion and listens to him, like what he’s saying really matters

Yeah. Steve finds a few things he enjoys)

#steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #stranger things #eddiesteve #solar wrote #long post

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ghcstao3 · 28 days

Note

Hi would a Demigod 141 AU with SoapGhost be a weird promt? All of the 141 are demigods who joined the military and Price collects them into a taskforce to try and keep them safer then not.

This doesn’t have to be Percy Jackson themed but it is what spawned the idea.

Have a great day

not at all weird! but it's just going to be general greek demi-gods because i know very little about percy jackson (also i am so so sorry for how late this is)

Perhaps Price should have figured earlier that wrangling a group of demi-gods together wouldn’t be so easy.

The bastards would always be difficult to track down, of course, but he'd at least hoped that with his ability as Captain to cut through red tape and see everything hidden behind those thick, black redacted bars, the task may be just be a little less daunting.

But alas.

John "Soap" MacTavish is both the easiest to find and most willing to be recruited for Price's to-be task force; the former, of course, due to his... explosive nature.

Being a son of Ares, his penchant for fire and C4 and battle were not something to be overlooked; Price thought his enthusiasm and skill were something he immediately wanted on and for his team—even if he'd been discouraged by Soap's previous superiors about his bouts of insubordination.

(Years down the line, Price would discover he very seldom had an issue in that regard—the kid just had a better idea of the worth of certain calls.)

The next, recruited with only slightly more difficulty and an unimpressive amount of persuading on Price's part, was Kyle "Gaz" Garrick—one of Athena's sons, his moral compass and eye for strategy were unbelievably solid, if incredibly unshakeable.

Thankfully, he isn't nearly as impulsive as MacTavish, instead keen on a level-head and using only sharp words and well-disguised insults to influence what may originally stand as poorly-thought out ideas. He'd been skeptical, at first, about joining a team with other demi-gods, fearful the potential butting of heads would only mean mortal destruction—but, ultimately, he came around to it, partly because he'd already previously worked with Price.

And lastly, the most headache-inducing endeavour—Simon "Ghost" Riley.

The man was naturally elusive, especially considering a past suffered that most wouldn't wish upon their worst enemy, but actually recruiting him had been an entirely different problem in and of itself. But Price was determined.

Ghost takes to his callsign in far more likeness than Price would have preferred, always having disappeared by the time the captain finally finds an updated contact—and, much to his dismay, Ghost would often leave men temporarily incapacitated if only to rid himself of Price’s insistence just a bit longer. An insistent lone wolf type.

It takes the Gaz and Soap along with Price to be any kind of successful, and even then Ghost's acceptance is reluctant—but Price can work with that. Maybe it'd take time, but it was certainly more doable than a flat out refusal from a man who had once singlehandedly destroyed a prominent cartel.

Although, perhaps Price should first start with bothering Laswell about finally telling him Ghost's true lineage. Maybe then he’d have something of substance to work with, rather than basing his assumptions on the generic but perfected skills of a soldier.

Or maybe he should begin by investigating the way Ghost and Soap already seem awfully close, despite claiming to have never met prior.

Either way—Price can only hope the task force would work out, for all this effort to not go to waste.

#ask #captain john price #kyle gaz garrick #simon ghost riley #john soap mactavish #writing #task force 141

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withacapitalp · 3 months

Text

Starry, Starry Night Pt 1

Happy birthday dear friend!!! @thefreakandthehair Lex you are a pillar of the fandom, an amazing writer, and just all around one of my most favorite human beings. I'm so so lucky to get to call you one of my best friends and I hope this fic puts a smile on your face!! @stevethehairington and @hbyrde36 thank you for betaing and for encouragement!!!!

Read it on ao3 instead here

----------------

Steve was asleep at the counter.

Again.

Robin placed another VHS precariously on the top of the pile surrounding him, making sure to adjust it so it wouldn’t fall. A copy of Secret Admirer had toppled down half a dozen boxes when she placed it without care earlier, and Steve had almost woken up just from the sound. She had worked her way through all of the romantic comedy returns and was halfway through the horrors already, and the pile was up to Steve’s waist.

Her working theory was that she would be able to get all the way through the action movies before Steve was completely covered in tapes.

Part of her wanted to feel at least a little bad for fucking with him every single time he fell asleep. After all it wasn’t like Robin hadn’t fallen asleep on the job herself once or twice, and Family Video wasn’t exactly the hardest job in the world. Now that they lived in a veritable ghost town, the store was lucky to get even a handful of patrons every day.

Apart from her own boredom, there wasn’t really any reason to mess with him or try to wake him up.

But there lay the crux of the problem. Robin and Steve had gotten their jobs as one so they could spend time together. Not so Robin could get stuck watching her best friend drool on the counter she would inevitably be forced to clean before they closed tonight.

So, tape fort.

Robin’s theories were almost immediately dashed though, because just as she placed her fourth copy of Rosemary’s Baby down, Steve stretched out his arms, knocking directly into the wall in front of him and bringing that entire cluster of VHS cases down on his head.

“Ow! What! Why?!” Steve shouted, jerking upwards, startling as the rest of the tapes surrounding him began to tumble to the floor.

Robin snickered to herself as she watched the melee, hopping up onto the counter next to where he had been lying his head and beginning to gather up the failed remnants of her experiment.

“Good morning Dingus,” She sang, lightly tapping him on the top of the head with Ghostbusters, “Did you have a good rest?”

“Robin,” Steve groaned, covering his face with his hands and heaving an absolutely ginormous sigh, “Why?”

“Hey, this is your fault,” Robin protested, putting the stack of tapes to the side and sliding to the floor to start grabbing the rest.

“My fault?” Steve repeated, sliding his fingers away from his eyes so he could glare at her while still hiding his face.

“This is the fifth time you’ve fallen asleep on me this week, Dingus,” Robin said, giving him a look as she waved a VHS around her head, “Look at this place. Look at how boring it is. I need enrichment, I’m like a tiger in a zoo.”

Steve lowered his hands, raising a brow and silently judging her for a second before grumbling and joining her on the ground.

“What? Was making paper clip crowns and hiding M&Ms in my pockets not enriching enough anymore?” Steve asked rhetorically, referencing the other things she had done this week during his impromptu naps as he collected the rest of the rom-coms.

“Nope.” She replied, popping the p as she stood, tapes in hand, “Five times, Stevifer. Five.”

“So?”

“So, it’s only Wednesday!” Robin shouted, walking around the counter and towards the shelves, knowing Steve would be following close behind with his own stack. “Is Eddie really still that excited about getting you in his bed every night?”

“You would be the first person to know,” Steve said, wagging his eyebrows and looking far too smug for Robin’s tastes.

That much was true. Steve told Robin everything. What he had for breakfast, any weird customers that came in while she wasn’t scheduled, the stupid things the kids said, and, to the chagrin of both Eddie and Robin, anything and everything to do with his sex life.

And god damn it did her best friends have a lot of sex.

“Okay, so it’s not Eddie keeping you up,” Robin said, a small pit beginning to form in her stomach. She had hoped it was just them fucking like bunnies and Steve needing to recharge during the mornings, but now she was pretty sure it was the other thing, and that was a lot worse.

There was no quick fix for that particular problem.

“You wanna talk about it?” Robin asked softly, turning towards her best friend and trying to be as gentle as allowed.

“Not really,” Steve said, keeping his eyes on the shelves and avoiding her gaze.

Okay, so not gentle. Trying to get Steve to open up was a weird careful tightrope walk between being gentle enough to lower down his guard, while also being firm enough that he didn’t feel like he was being treated like a child. So far Robin was the only one who managed to succeed most of the time, but even she stumbled on occasion.

“You know I don’t mind covering for you, but you can’t keep this up, Dingus,” Robin tried, nudging their shoulders together as she did, hoping that a little extra physical contact would open Steve up even more, “It’s not healthy, and they’re not worth it.”

Wrong thing to say. It was like she could physically see the walls coming back up around him.

“I’ll be fine, Robin,” Steve said, the forced nonchalance in his tone hurting her almost as much as it was definitely hurting him.

“You’re not sleeping again,” She stated plainly, putting it out there for both of them to see. Steve flinched at her words as if she had physically struck him.

“I’m just…still adjusting,” He tried.

Adjusting was still figuring out how the oven worked at Eddie’s new trailer, or trying to find the best routine for sharing the bathroom in the morning. Adjusting was planning work schedules, learning how to live together, becoming used to each other's rhythms.

Whatever was happening here wasn’t adjusting.

“Steve, It’s been almost a month since…” Robin started, trailing off as she tried to find the right words to help him.

Steve already had them.

“Since what, Robin? Since my parents kicked me out?” Steve interrupted, his voice hard and angry as he forced himself to meet her eyes, as if challenging her to try and find a kinder way to say it.

That wasn’t a challenge she was planning to take on. There was no making this better.

“Yeah, since your parents kicked you out,” She repeated, refusing to meet his level of emotion, knowing that would only make Steve even angrier. Sure enough he pushed away from her, stalking over to the counter and furiously punching returns into the computer, a storm cloud of rage swirling around him.

“Steve-”

“God Robin, will you just drop it?!” Steve snapped.

Robin leaned ever so slightly back at his sudden shift and Steve let his eyes slip shut, hanging his head low and taking a slow deep breath. The anger drained from his face, leaving behind only barely there frustration, and a longing that his parents didn’t fucking deserve from a son that was far too good for them.

It wasn’t exactly a shock when Richard and Diane showed up and told their son to pack his shit and leave, but that didn’t make it any less painful for Steve. Robin had never had any faith in them, but for some reason Steve did. He expected his parents to love him just as much as he loved them, and he had deluded himself into thinking that they had only ever done the things they did to try and make him better.

Letting go of that couldn’t be easy, but it was also one of the few things about Steve that Robin felt she would probably never fully understand.

“Please.” Steve whispered, Robin’s heart breaking at the pain in his voice, “I just don’t wanna talk about it, Bobbin.”

Rather than answering she rounded the counter, pressing her body into his side and leaning her head against his shoulder. Steve adjusted to fit her automatically, two becoming one as she let Steve breathe into the pain instead of ignore it.

“Were you at least having a good dream?” Robin asked, her voice slightly muffled by the soft sweater Steve was wearing, wishing she had a way to help him.

“Oh yeah, it was great,” He said with a soft laugh, “I was lying back on a mountain of pillows while Eddie was using his massive thick-”

“Finish that sentence and I’ll be forced to smother you next time you fall asleep at work,” Robin groaned, sticking her tongue out and gagging as she pushed Steve away from her. She hammed it up for extra effect, but she couldn’t hide the smile on her lips as she listened to Steve’s laughter.

He hadn’t laughed as much in the last few weeks, and Robin hadn’t realized how much she missed the sound. It reminded her of everything good, all the stuff they hadn’t really been able to do since he moved in with Eddie. Burning breakfast together, dancing around the house in their socks, even trying to muffle their giggles in her bed so they wouldn’t wake her parents, looking through the skylight that was above her bed at the stars…

Huh. Maybe she did have an idea of how to help.

“Now that you’re awake, I’m going to take my break,” Robin said in a faux casual tone, stretching and trying to hide the Cheshire cat grin overtaking her face.

“You built a tape fort around me because you were annoyed I fell asleep and you were alone, so the first thing you do when I wake up is go hide in the back alone?” Steve complained, turning back to the computer and restarting the returns he had begun.

“Love you too,” Robin said, pecking his cheek as she practically skipped towards the breakroom. She closed and locked the door, pressing her ear to it for a second just to make sure Steve wasn’t eavesdropping before almost bolting over to the phone in the corner, punching in the number for the Thatcher’s Tires and bouncing in place as she listened to the dial tone.

This was a great idea. One of her best.

“Hey Pete, it’s Robin. Can you put Eddie on the phone?”

Part two is coming tomorrow!! If you want to be tagged say it in a reblog!!

#stwgdailyprompt #steve harrington #stranger things #st #eddie munson #steddie #steddie ficlet #st drabble #steve and eddie #robin buckley #stobin #Platonic stobin #robin and Steve are besties #and as besties #robin has an obligation to fuck with him

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spider-stark · 10 months

Text

A DARK AGE

next part

summary - it's been nine months since you watched your best friend, gwen stacy, plummet to her death; an event that ultimately caused new york's hero to abandon the city entirely. now that he's finally returned you find yourself being forced to confront the ugly truth you've been running from.

series warnings - 18+, minors DNI, will contain depictions of violence, sexual content, dark themes, and more. i will do my best to place warnings at the beginning of each chapter, but please read at your own risk.

word count - 10.3k

// a dark tasm!fan fiction // masterlist // send me your thoughts //

THE BUGLE was buzzing to life in a way it hadn’t in ages. Landlines were ringing off the hook, accentuated by a chorus of email and text notifications crying out from every cell phone in the building. As you stepped out of the elevator you found yourself staring at a sea of amateur reporters, all of them gathering on the far side of the office around a television set.

You clutched the coffee in your hand tighter to keep it from spilling as a young man accidentally bumped into you, quickly moving to join the herd of his peers. You shot him a nasty look, ignoring the swift apology he muttered out as he continued to rush past you.

Despite your intrigue at the collective panic of your coworkers, you didn’t bother moving to join them around the TV. Instead, you walked the clear opposite direction, making a beeline for the office of the only man in New York City that you trusted to know exactly what all of this fuss was about.

“What the fuck is going on?”

Workplace etiquette had flown out the window for you a long time ago. Reporters didn’t have time for benevolence.

“They’re acting like rowdy animals out there. Foswell is running around the office like he’s in a goddamn marathon! Nearly gave me a third degree burn trying to get past me.”

A vehement grunt was the first thing to leave Jameson’s mouth, which constituted a typical greeting for him. Following it was the shrill squeak of his old office chair as he spun around to face you. “Haven’t seen the news, y/l/n?”

You furrowed your brows. “We are the news.”

Another noise of discontent, followed by a hand coming up to rub viciously at his eyes. If you had learned anything during your time at the Bugle, it was that Jameson was always upset, which meant that you rarely found his vexed appearance very concerning. Yet, despite that, you couldn’t help but get the feeling that something was off.

“The Daily Globe.” The name of the Bugle’s biggest competitor slipped past his lips like a slur, Jameson’s lip curling as if it had somehow left a bad taste in his mouth. “Some jackass at the station leaked info to them before they even got the crime scene taped off. Bushkin had everything plastered on their front page this morning before most of us even had time to pour a bowl of Special fucking K!”

“What crime scene?”

His hand dropped from his face down to his lap, shooting daggers straight at you. “You’re a reporter, y/l/n! Check the fucking headlines for once in your life!”

“Sorry,” you sneered at him, “some of us actually have a life outside of work.”

Of everyone at the Bugle, you were the only one with the authority (and the audacity) to backtalk Jameson and actually live to tell the tale. It was a perk of being his top investigative reporter, one that you never let go to waste.

If anyone else dared to get snarky with him, he’d likely send a paperweight flying at their head. But, since it was you, he only responded to your comment with a dry chuckle—primarily because he was aware that you were lying through your teeth.

The Bugle was all that was left of your life, the one remaining piece after you had lost everything nine months ago. Jameson knew how fresh the wound still was, how hard you fought to ignore what you’d gone through, and so he elected not to make an actual comment on your remark; a subtle indication that the crotchety man actually did have a heart.

“Remember Aleksei Sytsevich?”

You nodded, patience already growing thin as you waited for him to finally just tell you what happened. At this point you were beginning to think you would have been better off to gather around the TV with the rookies. “Of course I remember him,” you told him, “I’m the one that wrote the story on him hijacking that Oscorp truck last year. He goes by the Rhino now, right?”

Each of you formed your own twisted expressions at the name Sytsevich had picked for himself. The name was fitting given the military grade battlesuit he’d managed to snag from Oscorp, but it was a tad too on the nose for your taste. It lacked creativity, though neither of you really expected anything better to come from the former Russian mafia leader.

“Sometime last night he was found in an alley off 102nd.” Jameson declared, following you with his eyes as you moved towards his desk, taking a seat in one of the old chairs that sat in front of it. “Beaten to a goddamn bloody pulp.”

Your nose scrunched up slightly.

If it were anyone other than Sytsevich that had been left to bleed out in the dead of the night, you might have felt a bit of sympathy for them. But, instead, you only felt hopeful that Jameson would confirm the question that already fell past your lips, “He’s dead?”

It was cruel to wish death on anyone. You should have felt guilty for the way your chest swelled with hope as you waited for Jameson to reply, but you didn’t. New York was running short on heroes these days, which meant that more and more criminals had begun to use that to their advantage, making a hobby out of terrorizing the innocent.

Sytsevich had already escaped the Vault once, the so-called impenetrable prison, which meant that sending him back to jail was all but useless. But death? Not even Sytsevich would be able to crawl back from that.

“No.”

Your heart nearly sank, and you could tell that the sentiment was shared by Jameson, who looked equally as disappointed. After all of the innocent lives Sytsevich had claimed, he deserved to be put six feet under.

“Not yet, at least.” He clarified, “As soon as they noticed a pulse they had him life-flighted to North General. Good news is that they don’t think he’s gonna make it through the weekend.”

You snorted at Jameson’s execution of the comment, as well as the childlike joy that seemed to twinkle in his eyes as he thought about the possibility of Sytsevich finally being gone for good. Still, you could tell that there was more. That he hadn’t quite told you the full story.

While the impending death of a former mafia leader was quite a story, there was little chance that it had been enough to piss Jameson off so much that the Daily Globe got word of it first.

Criminals die every day, especially in a city like this. It was hardly front page material.

“So you mean to tell me that the world is in hysteria all because Sytsevich is about to kick the bucket?” You questioned him, nudging your head in the direction of his office door, encouraging him to acknowledge his frantic employees as they paced the office floor.

“It sucks that the Globe got to it first, but we should be celebrating!” As demented as it might seem, it was true. “But instead you’re in here wallowing as if we just missed out on the story of the year.”

The joy that he had felt just moments ago was now extinguished entirely, replaced with an expression that carried far more weight.

“You’re right. Sytsevich dying an excruciating death would be a fucking fit from a God I don’t believe in, y/l/n.” His forehead creased, thin lines appearing between his brows as he pressed a button on the laptop in front of him, tapping a few keys before turning the screen around to face you. “But the story isn’t just about his death—it’s about who killed him.”

A wave of shock slammed into you like a ton of bricks, hard enough that it made you lose your grip on the disposable cup in your hand, the contents of it staining the old carpet that lined Jameson’s office. Neither of you paid any mind to the mess and you became consumed by the headline on the homepage of the Daily Globes website.

SPIDER-MAN RETURNS - BRUTALLY ATTACKS ESCAPED CRIMINAL

Your eyes grew wide, air getting caught in your lungs as you worked to keep yourself from vomiting right on Jameson’s desk.

“No.” The word slipped out from under your breath without approval, a flash of pity washing over Jameson’s face as he took in your reaction. He had expected it, though, aware that of every reporter in New York, you would likely have the most intense response to the news.

But your shock quickly began to morph into something more closely resembling rage. “There’s no way, right? Spider-Man’s been awol for months, J! They really expect us to think that out of every enemy Sytsevich has made that Spider-Man would be to one to fucking kill him? It’s bullshit! They’re just trying to get eyes on their shitty paper!”

Jameson’s brows raised, clearly agreeing with the sentiment. He was never one to miss an opportunity to slam the Globe. “Normally I’d agree with you,” he mused, turning the laptop back around, “but the NYPD confirmed that Sytsevich was restrained with webs, y/l/n. It doesn’t look good.”

Your blood ran cold, turning to ice in your veins. Darkness started to take over your peripheral vision, threatening to consume the entire space around you. Images flashed through your head—asphalt painted with thick blood, bones snapping, his gruesome screams—it was a past that you had fought so hard to put behind you, only for it to now creep back up on you.

You instinctively clutched the bag at your side, half debating reaching inside for the little orange bottle you hadn’t touched in months. You restrained yourself though, terrified to feel as if you needed to rely on the pills again. Things were getting better.

“Spider-Man’s not a murderer.” Your voice was so hesitant, so uncertain, and it made it difficult to tell who the statement was meant to convince, Jameson or yourself.

Jameson’s shoulders lifted into a lazy shrug as he leaned back in the rickety chair, the plastic creaking at the shift of his weight. You were aware of his stance on Spider-Man, but even he had never considered the possibility of the vigilante committing something like this.

“No, he isn’t.” He agreed with you, evoking a bit of shock. “But he’s about to be. He’s the only one that can be linked to the crime scene. If Sytsevich dies—and it’s only a matter of time—then Spider-Man’s the one going down for it.”

Your mind was reeling, yet your body remained motionless, your gaze fixed onto the floor. Coffee still leaked from your cup, forming a sizable stain that only grew with every second that passed. You didn’t care.

It had been months since anyone had last seen Spider-Man, and during that time, New York had already begun to turn on him. Citizens hadn’t yet forgotten their debt to him, the countless times in which he’d nearly laid his life down for the city, but that didn’t mean that many hadn’t grown to resent him.

They had been abandoned by their hero, left to question if he was even still alive. And if this was how he returned? A killer?

“It’ll turn into a man-hunt.”

There was no other outcome for it, you both knew that much. Since his disappearance, an eerie sense of unrest had settled in the streets. Spider-Man’s absence had created a whole slew of problems, things that the NYPD weren’t equipped to handle. Hope had already become such a precarious thing, and if it were confirmed that their lost hero had abandoned his own code of ethics? It would destroy all that's left. It would unleash pure chaos.

It would be the dawn of a new age.

A dark age.

“Maybe.” He was being cautious with his approach, aware that this topic had the ability to turn you into little more than a ticking time bomb. “Still, there’s not any cold hard proof that he was the one to send Sytsevich to his death bed. All they know for certain is that he was at the crime scene.”

It was strange to hear those words from Jameson, crafted as a defense for the vigilante he swore to hate. If anything, that only increased your already heightened level of fear.

Of everyone in the world, you would have never imagined that Jonah J. Jameson would be willing to testify that Spider-Man was innocent in anything.

“I already told Urich to assemble a team, get out on the streets, and start finding some real proof. I’ve got a source at North General giving me hourly updates on Sytsevich, but we still don’t have much time to put together a story.”

Your eyes snapped up to meet his, your face contorting into a sour expression as you flung out of your chair, ignoring everything about his statement except for one detail.

“Fuck Urich!” You screamed loud enough that more than a few heads turned from outside Jameson’s office, a few of them now attempting to eavesdrop as the conversation became heated. “This is my story, J.”

He sucked in a deep breath, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose. He’d anticipated this reaction too.

“No, y/l/n, it’s not!” Jameson’s own voice boomed, easily rivaling yours in volume. You didn’t so much as flinch. “Last time you chased a story with that Spider-fuck you nearly died! You’re staying away, got it?”

You gritted your teeth, taking another step towards his desk, closing in on him. “You said it yourself J, we’re running out of time, right? You need someone that knows what they’re dealing with. Urich doesn’t have any connections to Spider-Man! I do!”

Somehow you believed that preaching these facts to Jameson would change his mind, as if he didn’t already know about your past encounters with the hero, like he wasn’t the one that published the stories you had done on him.

“I’m one of the last people to even see him alive, J!” You reminded him, finally letting your tone drop back to a normal volume as you continued, “Urich might be able to snoop around a crime scene, but I’m the only one with a chance of getting an actual statement from him.”

Both of you knew that your claim was a bit far-fetched. If this were last year, getting a statement from Spider-Man would have been a piece of cake for you. But now?

It was different.

Either way, Jameson didn’t seem willing to budge. “A statement isn’t worth losing my best reporter.”

If the circumstances were different you likely would’ve teased him for the comment, for making it so obvious that you were one of the only things to matter more to Jonah J. Jameson than a story.

“Fine.” You snapped, clicking your tongue against the roof of your mouth as you challenged him. “Then I quit.”

His face blanched. “You what?”

“I’ll pursue the story on my own. Get a detailed fucking statement from Spider-Man—a few pictures, too.” You crossed your arms over your chest, entirely unwavering as you held his gaze. “Then I’ll sell it to the Globe.”

Jameson’s face turned beet red, his eyes narrowing at your threat. “Don’t be stupid. You’d need an entire team to go after a story this big.”

You mocked the lazy shrug he had offered just moments ago. “No, Urich needs a team. All I need is a few hours and some phone calls.”

Ben Urich would need access to several of the Bugle’s best reporters in order to conduct enough research to even know where to begin. Aside from that, you and Jameson both knew that one of the best potential sources for this story layed beyond the gates of Ravencroft—and Jameson would have a hell of a time trying to get authorization for an interview with any of their prisoners.

But you?

You could get in with a simple phone call.

“This isn’t a game, y/l/n.” Jameson cautioned. “The night Spider-Man disappeared—when I got that call from the hospital—I thought you were gonna be dead, y/ln.”

A pang of guilt shot through your chest and he reminded you of that night. When you arrived in the emergency room they had tried to call your emergency contacts—but you knew they wouldn’t answer, that they were the reason you were even there. Jameson was the only one that answered, the only one to show up.

You knew how much guilt he still faced for pushing you to chase another Spider-Man story, for encouraging you to get closer to the vigilante, only for it to land you in a hospital bed with several broken bones and a grade three concussion.

Sometimes you wished that you could tell him it wasn’t his fault. That you were already in too deep, long before you had started chasing another story, even if you didn’t realize it at the time. But you couldn’t.

“If you take this story then you’re putting yourself at risk. Again. You’ll be destroying everything you’ve worked for.”

Blood pooling, bones snapping, his screams echoing.

You bit your cheek until you tasted crimson, shoving the hellish thoughts from your mind. “Are you gonna take Urich off the story or not?”

Jameson’s shoulders immediately slouched, his disappointment evident as the corners of his mouth turned downwards. But he knew you—too well, which meant he knew that nothing would stop you from following this story.

So, against his better judgment, he straightened his posture and tried to mask his own emotions, but you could still tell how much it had hurt him to mutter out the word—“Fine.”

You didn’t plan on waiting around long enough to hear anything else he might have to say, already turning on your heel and aiming for the door, knowing that it was best to leave before he changed his mind altogether. Still, just before the door slammed closed behind you, you heard him speak.

“Your funeral.”

His snide comment left a bad taste in your mouth, pungent and unpalatable, but you did your best to ignore it. There wasn’t any time to comprehend the gravity of his statement, to consider just how close you had come to death last time.

If Jameson was right about anything, it was that time was of the essence. The sooner Spider-Man could be proven innocent the better.

So instead of dwelling on it and risking uprooting your past trauma, you shoved your way through the crammed newsroom, coming to a halt only when you could plant yourself at the edge of Urich’s desk. He looked up at you through his thickly-rimmed glasses, brows knitting together.

“This your team?” You asked him, an idle finger pointing to the crew of unfamiliar faces that surrounded the desk.

Urich gave a stiff nod.

“Great.” The smile you gave was sickening, filled with misplaced animosity. You scanned over the group, your gaze ultimately settling on the figure directly to his left, a somewhat tall woman with neatly bobbed hair. Out of everyone, she was the only one armed with a pencil and notepad, having taken note of his every word. “What’s your name?”

The women seemed stunned, her voice shaking the tiniest bit as she responded. “Betty. Betty Brant.”

“Nice to meet you Ms. Brant.” Your tone was much milder when speaking to Brant, though it quickly turned harsh again as you shifted your attention back to Urich. “I’m taking over the story. Jameson already gave me clearance, so please, if you plan on whining about it, keep it between the two of you, mkay?”

Urich’s usually squinty eyes suddenly widened behind his lenses, thin lines settling into his forehead. He didn’t even have time to open his mouth in protest before you had already cut him off.

“Anyone who isn’t Brant can get out of my face. I don’t have a use for you.” A dismissive hand was waved at the small crowd, although none of them bothered to move more than a few feet away, too interested in eavesdropping to venture any further.

“And, um, what is it that you’d like me to do?” Betty Brant was quite the apprehensive woman, her lack of confidence shining through in quite literally everything she did. She was new to this, that much was obvious, but you still found yourself with some sort of intuitive faith in the girl.

“I need you to track down some information for me.”

A pit suddenly grew in your stomach as it dawned on you that this would be the first time you had so much as uttered his name since that night. He had essentially become a ghost to you, capable of haunting every corner of your mind without ever reentering your life. It was easier that way, though. Avoiding him had been the best way to recover from him; even if that meant treating his name like a curse.

You took a deep breath, garnering every ounce of strength you had left to ensure your voice wouldn’t crack. “I need a way to get into contact with Peter Parker. He used to work here, but the number we have on file isn’t in service anymore.”

Once.

In the nine months since it happened, you had only tried to call him once. With the phone pressed to your face you had already prepared yourself to hear the dial tone go on for ages, fully aware that he’d just let it go to voicemail. He didn’t want to talk to you—he didn’t want to talk to anyone. But, instead, you were greeted by a prerecorded message saying the number had been disconnected.

And that was the closest you ever got to a goodbye from Peter.

“Parker?” Urich finally got a word out. “What’s he gotta do with this?”

You didn’t have any intention of offering him a detailed explanation, your back already turned to him as you spoke over your shoulder. “He’s the only one to ever get a clear shot of Spider-Man. If everything goes as planned, I’m gonna need his skillset.”

It wasn’t a complete lie, but it also wasn’t the full truth. Regardless, it was the best defense you had for needing a way to contact Peter; one that wouldn’t raise any suspicions. If anything, you would have preferred to start your hunt for information with Peter, because then you would’ve been able to avoid Ravencroft altogether. But, unfortunately, Peter was little more than a dead end right now.

“Jameson has my number–get it from him and text me as soon as you have a lead!”

It was the last order you barked before disappearing into the elevator, quick to rush off to the first destination on your list. You had to get moving, at least until you could find a way to talk to Peter, which meant you needed to start gathering the names of anyone who might’ve actually wanted Sytsevich dead.

Unfortunately, that meant hailing a taxi to Westchester County and digging up another ghost from your past.

You hastily pressed the button for the ground floor, your other hand already delving into your bag, grabbing your phone and dialing the number that had called you many times over the past months; a number you rarely answered.

“Hi, this is y/n y/l/n calling,” a weight settled deep within your stomach, accompanied by a shiver running down your spine as you forced yourself to speak, “could I speak with Leonard Samson? I would like to take him up on his visitation offer. Please tell him that I want to speak with Harry Osborn as soon as possible.”

The Ravencroft Institute for the Criminally Insane was not for the faint of heart.

At first glance, most would consider it a fine establishment. The ornate iron gates lining the property seek to paint a picture of elegance, while the impenetrable stone walls offer those on the outside a sense of security—serving as a silent oath that those on the other side can’t get out.

While technically labeled a prison, Ravencroft always insists that they place treatment above punishment for those incarcerated here. They pushed this motto, staff members regularly appearing on the local news to preach of mercy and remission; despite the fact that no one committed to the facility had ever made it out alive.

Ravencroft’s prisoners weren’t always as willing to keep up the facility's pristine public image though, well known for spitting in the face of that ‘guise of elegance they’d worked to build. It was because of their sharp tongues that Ravencroft rarely let reporters past the front gates, petrified of what they might learn from those on the inside, worried that someone might get the chance to uncover their true nature; or worse, expose their unlawful ways of curing the prisoners.

You were the only reporter to ever be invited onto the property, even if it was under special circumstances.

“Truth be told, I was shocked to hear you called!” Director Samson confessed. His tone always rubbed you the wrong way, always coming off as far too exuberant for a man in charge of a psychiatric facility for criminals. “What’s it been, five months? Six, perhaps, since we last spoke?”

“Seven.” You noted, sporting a rather sardonic smile. He didn’t seem to notice your ill-intent.

“Well, either way, it had been far too long!” He chortled to himself, a chorus of keys clanking against his hip as he led you down another winding hallway.

Fluorescent lights flickered overhead, illuminating the immaculate white linoleum beneath your feet. The smell of bleach was incredibly pungent, burning your nostrils with every breath you took. You did your best not to breathe at all.

“You’ve been checking your email, yes?” Director Samson was a few long strides ahead of you, moving at a pace you couldn’t manage to keep up with. “When you stopped answering your cell, I decided to have my secretary begin forwarding you all of our notes from his treatment sessions. It’s pivotal that you’ve stayed up-to-date on his progress, especially if you finally plan on becoming an active role in his recovery!”

You braced yourself for the tainted oxygen that would fill your lungs as you lied, “Of course. Even gave them a quick review on the ride over.”

In the seven months that you had been dodging Samson’s calls, you had never once opened any of the emails from his secretary. You always saw them come through though, and you always found yourself staring at the subject line for just a moment too long.

Patient #121394 - Progress Report

It made you sick sometimes, the way he had been reduced to a number. Other times, you were thankful for it. It helped to create a divide in your head, allowing you to create some sort of separation between who he was and who he is. Harry Osborn was your friend. Patient #121394 stabbed you in the back.

Regardless, you could never actually make yourself read them. But you also couldn’t bring yourself to delete them, stashing one-hundred and eighty-four daily progress reports from Ravencroft into a separate folder, out of sight but kept on hand, just in case you ever needed them.

You weren’t sure why you ever would.

“Good, good!” He chirped loudly, both of you now approaching a large armored door. It didn’t match the rest of the hallway, the rusted surface polluting the otherwise pure white space.

Your attention was pulled away from it as Director Samson spun on his toe, index finger suddenly wagging in your face, your eyes growing wide as you tried to lean back a few inches. His nails were a touch overgrown, caked with a substance you didn’t recognize. Describing him as eccentric would be kind, although disconcerting fit him better.

“You must promise me something before you speak with him!” He sputtered out. You did your best not to flinch as his saliva spewed onto your face. “I understand you may have felt a need to…” his head bobbed side to side, squinting as he considered his wording, “distance yourself from Mr Osborn. That is why I did my best to respect your need for space the past several months-”

Ah yes–you thought to yourself, fighting the urge to laugh in his face–calling bi-weekly and sending daily emails is clearly a sign of respecting someone’s wish to be uninvolved.

“But!” He shouted out, his rotten nails now close enough that you could smell whatever laid beneath them. “If you cross this threshold,” his hand moved to the large door behind him, offering you a chance to swallow back the bile building in your throat, “you cannot abandon him again, Ms. y/l/n. Progress is a volatile thing, especially for the damaged souls that call Ravencroft home. I need to know that you’re prepared to devote yourself to Mr. Osborn’s treatment.”

Abandon him—the claim was enough to make your blood boil. You wanted to scream at him, remind him of what had happened that night, remind him that you were the one who had been abandoned. You wanted to turn around, to leave and never step foot in this cursed building ever again.

If you did that, then maybe you could keep lying to yourself. Harry Osborn could remain your former friend, one of the few crumbs you had left of the life you so desperately wanted back. He could be innocent, and Patient #121394 could be the murderer.

“Well Director Samson, I can assure you that I have absolutely no intentions to abandon him!” The mask you put on was sickly sweet, more than palatable enough to hide the animosity behind it.

His bug-eyed stare remained locked onto you, unnerving and wild. “You must promise.”

“Okay,” A sigh managed to slip out, quickly covered by your response, “I promise.”

He instantly relaxed at the vow, easily returning to the childish ebullience he’d displayed previously. You wondered how he would react if he had noticed the hand behind your back, if he knew your fingers were crossed as you spoke.

Abandonment was a much kinder fate than Harry Osborn deserved, so you were certain that if a higher power existed, they would forgive you for breaking your promise to Director Samson.

Metal jingled about as he removed the keys from his belt loop, somehow knowing exactly which one to grab from the couple dozen crowded the thick ring they hung on.

“Now, please, do your best to remember the rules!” He began unlocking the various deadbolts on the door. “All patients in the visitation area will be secured to his or her station, for your safety as well as theirs. Under no circumstances should you touch any of the patients. Should you notice a patient is acting out of sorts, please remain calm and notify the warden-”

You already knew the do’s and don’ts of visiting prisoners, having interviewed several of the inhabitants at Ryker’s Island for the Bugle, and so you found yourself droning him out entirely, watching as he moved from one lock to another, until he finally reached the last one.

“Most importantly, do not forget that this time is meant to inspire and encourage your loved ones to continue on their new path towards righteousness!” He displayed a toothy grin, cavity filled and displeasing. In return you offered a much less prominent smile. “And please, when you’re done with your chitter-chatter, come by my office. I would love to discuss next steps with you!”

You gave a curt nod, aware that you would not be doing that. Interacting with Samson was enough to drain even the most extroverted people, which was one of the many reasons you’d stopped returning his calls only two months into Harry’s sentence.

He viewed you as a valuable tool for curing Harry—mentally, at least. His actual disease was of little interest to Samson, his physical health naught in comparison to his damaged mind. Harry had no next of kin, which meant all of Samson’s hopes had been placed onto you. He believed in order to cure Harry’s mind, he needed the assistance of someone who was dear to him, someone to act as a tether to his sanity.

Director Samson also believed that the venom Harry injected into his veins was the cause for his self-proclaimed insanity. This told you all you needed to know about the Director; he was clueless.

You knew the truth. After all, you were the one that had fed his lawyers the story and loaded them up with all the evidence they’d need in order to paint a picture for the jury, illustrating Harry Osborn’s mental descent. It was you that had convinced them to make him swallow his pride and take the insanity plea—your final act of kindness towards Harry.

The clunky metal door groaned profusely as Director Samson pushed it open, heavy enough that it required him to use both hands and the majority of his body weight. Once it was open, he bowed in a particularly odd manner, motioning you into the room with a dramatic flair that made you nauseous. More than anything in the world, you couldn’t wait to never see him again.

The small space you walked into had distracted you from Samon’s bizarre attitude, immediately taking note of them in case you ever felt like breaching Samson’s trust and writing a story on Ravencroft.

First–it didn’t share the same suffocating scent as the hallway, the smell of chemical cleaners having completely vanished. You took advantage of this, letting your chest expand with several deep breaths. Your nostrils no longer burned, however this came with a price, this room much grimier than the rest of the facility. It didn’t shock you.

Second–there was nothing white in here, a stark contrast from the unsoiled appearance of the never ending hallway you took to get here. This room truly felt like a prison, despite Ravencroft’s insistence that they were far from that. Muted shades of chipped paint coated the walls, the floors nothing more than poured cement.

And, finally, third–no one, and you truly meant absolutely no one, appeared as if they were on the road to recovery.

To your left there was a red-headed girl chained to a metal bar fastened to the wall. A bit of drool dribbled down her chin, her eyelids drooping as if she had been drugged. On your right was a boy no older than nineteen, handcuffed to his chair and left with nothing to do except stare at the floor beneath his feet.

They looked miserable, and you almost felt bad for sticking Harry in a place like this.

Almost.

Behind you the door shut with a crash, the symphony of locks clicking back into place. Your heart rate spiked as you realized you were now trapped in here with them, taking a glance at the warden. He was a burly man, yet the only weapon he had on him was a baton, lazily stuffed into his waistband. It only added to your growing apprehension.

Anxiety, you reminded yourself through gritted teeth, is another thing reporters don’t have time for.

Each second brought you closer to Sytsevich’s impending death, which meant you didn’t have time to waste on fear. But knowing that didn’t make it any easier, still feeling as if you were frozen in place, wishing that they hadn’t made you leave your bag in the main office.

If Brant had managed to find a number for Peter then you could just skip this whole mess, go straight to the source and get hard proof that he was innocent… but it was too late to turn around now.

You were already here.

In the furthest corner of the room you saw a steel table, placed directly in front of the patient’s only source of natural light—an incredibly small window, armed with thick black bars. Your heart lurched as your gaze settled on the table's only occupant. Even with his back turned, you could still recognize him.

Lifting just one foot had been the hardest part, terror pricking your bones as the single step caused one of the patients to whip their head around towards you.

He was an enormous man, standing several inches over six feet with muscles that rivaled the Hulk. Fortunately, you didn’t hold his attention for long, hesitantly watching as he went back to staring at the old-style television set that had been stuffed in the corner. Static painted the screen, and every once in a while the large man would give a swift hit to its side, making the other patients flinch. The warden didn’t stop him.

Each step after that was rushed, an attempt to get out of his line of sight. He was restrained, as were all of them, but he still filled you with a sense of unease. When you finally reached the table and quickly slipped into one of the metal chairs, eyes still darting about prudently, you heard the patient sitting across from you laugh.

You had thought the terror seeping into your veins had been intolerable, but it was no match for the misplaced grief that fought to consume you at the sound of his voice. It simultaneously sent chills down your spine and relaxed every muscle in your body, a paradox of a reaction that only the living dead could possibly provide.

“Aw, what’s wrong?” He drawled, leaving you hanging onto every syllable. “My new friends scare you?”

A bit.

“Hardly.” You snapped back a bit faster than intended. Beneath the table you clenched your fists, fingernails prodding into the soft flesh of your palms.

Stay calm. Hide your weaknesses.

You were disappointed with yourself, your inability to mask your discomfort, especially here. A penitentiary wasn’t the best place to rollover, and you knew that the moment you fucked up and showed your underbelly you’d be as good as dead. You needed to be better. You needed to be incomprehensible.

“You look well.” You spoke again before he’d have the chance to beat you to it, determined to be the one holding the reins in this conversation. “I’m shocked.”

It truly wasn’t meant as a slight though the scoff you received in response made it clear that he’d taken it as one. It was God’s honest truth though; you hadn’t expected him to look as good as he did.

Last time you saw Harry Osborn was when the venom had already invaded his bloodstream, transforming him into something near unrecognizable. That was the Harry Osborn you had been expecting to see today. A nightmare, a killer, a monster.

Instead, you found yourself looking directly into the cerulean gaze of a boy you had mourned for nearly a year. There were subtle differences; the natural dark pigment of his hair still hadn’t returned, leaving it a dusty shade of brown, and the disease that fought relentlessly to claim his life had spread, a scaly patch of skin taking over his cheek bone.

But, for the most part, he looked like himself. He looked like Harry.

And that simple fact was almost enough to break you.

“Wow, less than a minute in and you’re already spitting out back-handed compliments.” Harry's mouth twitched into a smirk. “You sure know how to greet an old friend.”

Was he antagonizing you on purpose? Or was he simply delusional? Either way, you only offered him a tight smile, “We’re not friends.”

You had no way of knowing if your words actually had any effect on him. Having been raised in the limelight meant that Harry had years of practice in maintaining his composure, always working to maintain the Osborn image. You had never been good at reading Harry, and that’s how he liked it. Like most powerful men, he enjoyed keeping secrets.

“Aren’t we though?” He countered, a swift tug at the reins, an effort to regain some semblance of control.

Your jaw clenched. “Not anymore.”

Harry leaned forward a touch, those menacing eyes glistening as his palms remained flat against the cold steel, secured there by thick cuffs. “You think I don’t know what you did? That I don’t know who fed my lawyers all that bullshit about childhood abuse and disease warping my mind?”

That bullshit had saved his life. Forced the jury to see him as more than another twisted villain, coerced them into feeling some sort of sympathy for Harry. By no means was Ravencroft comparable the the fucking Four Seasons, but it was far better than the alternative. Without the insanity plea, Harry was on a quick path to Ryker’s Island—a place you wouldn’t wish on your worst enemy.

“You’re right. I gave them everything they needed to build your case.” There was no use in denying it. The recounts of the trauma his father had inflicted on him were too detailed, too intimate, and Harry knew only three people in this world had access to that information. Himself, you, and Norman; and the latter was already dead. “But not because we’re friends.”

He cocked a brow at you, once again leaning back into the uncomfortable metal chair. “Then why bother?”

“Because I’m not like you.”

And you wholeheartedly believed that. Caring about him had nothing to do with your choice to try and spare his life, your decision to aid Gwen’s murderer.

“A rich boy like you wouldn’t last a single day in Ryker’s. Those guys would’ve eaten you alive.” You asserted, the only physical sign of the anger coursing through you being your flared pupils. You were in control. “I had an opportunity to save your life, so I took it. Not because of friendship,” the word tasted acidic, burning as it rolled off your tongue, “but because I’m a good person—better than you ever were.”

It wasn’t until you were done talking that you realized how desperate you had been for the declaration to cut him. You only recognized it afterwards, irritation flooding you as he remained perfectly still, seeming entirely unphased.

Then after a moment of nothing, he sighed. Not out of annoyance, not out of sadness. Instead, it seemed to be out of pure boredom, which only made your irritation towards him grow.

“Guess that means you’re not here to help with my treatment, huh?” He said it like a joke, as if he too thought he was incapable of redemption and found this whole thing to be a waste of time. “Samson’s gonna be so disappointed when he finds out.”

“You’re right, I’m not here to help you.” you confirmed, sucking in a deep breath and biting back at your pride, “But you’re gonna help me.”

His brows snapped up—a reaction, subtle, but there nonetheless. “And why would I do that? I mean, you already made it clear that we’re not friends. So why should I do anything for you?”

“I’ll keep coming here. Participating in whatever stupid shit Samson has planned, keep acting like I wanna help you get better.” You sneered, eyes rolling. People like Harry Osborn were incapable of better. “There’s gotta be something for you to gain in all of that, right? Some sort of reward for making progress. If you’re lucky then maybe they’ll give you more playtime with your little buddies or something.”

Your gaze flicked over his shoulder, once again landing on the enormous man that had noticed you earlier. He was still beating against the side of the television, the thumping of his palm against thick plastic echoing through the room. No one seemed to mind the noise.

“Besides,” you continued while shifting your focus back to Harry, “you owe me.”

He did owe you—him and Peter both—but pulling that card made you sound desperate, like you had truly run out of options and were now using everything left in your arsenal to sway him.

But that was the point.

It was a calculated move, entirely deliberate, right down to the doe-eyed glance you shamelessly flashed at him, feigning a moment of vulnerability. You hadn’t rolled over, hadn’t exposed your weak points, but you wanted him to believe you did.

There were certain benefits that came with knowing Harry—who he used to be. You knew about his insatiable desire to be needed by someone, to feel wanted. There had been a time in which you wouldn’t have dared to exploit the trauma that desire stemmed from, but things were different now.

Even when armed with his stoic mask, you could tell that you had hit your mark perfectly. He remained silent, considering your words. A rational part of him was likely screaming to tell you no, to send you out of Ravencroft without so much as a second glance. Odds were that he knew this was an attempt to manipulate him, to play at the side of his that ached to be essential to another.

But Harry Osborn wasn’t known for making rational decisions. He was rarely driven to act by his near-genius level IQ, instead always finding himself a victim to the gnawing pain in his chest; and you were banking on that.

Then, it happened.

For a moment—mere seconds, at most—the mask slipped. A single muscle twitched in his jaw, his nose wrinkling the slightest touch. The shift in his demeanor was so subtle, yet so apparent to you. Having once been so close to him, you’d all but trained yourself to detect the moments in which his arrogance would melt into something far more innocent. You used to crave those moments; live for them, even. It felt like an honor to witness the side of Harry in which he fought to keep locked away, a side he tried to ignore.

Now, though, you felt almost nothing.

Harry finally let out a gruff sound, his tongue darting along his chapped bottom lip. “You’re here about Peter, aren’t you?”

You were careful not to outwardly react. “You’ve seen the news?”

“Of course.” He rolled his eyes in an exaggerated manner. “Not everyday the city hails Spider-Man a murderer.”

He said the vigilante’s name like a curse, as if it were the dirtiest word he’s ever spoken. It was laced with a bone-chilling sense of contempt, one that only deepened your resentment towards Harry. You didn’t like it—the way he spoke as if he had a right to hate Peter. After everything Harry had done, after everything he’d taken—your nails dug deeper into your palms as you fought to keep your eyes peeled. terrified that if you so much as blinked you’d catch a glimpse of Harry’s sins. That you’d catch a glimpse of her.

“Are you gonna help or not?” You struggled to stay composed, his brows raised in amusement at the snipped statement.

An unfortunate oversight in your plan had been in failing to acknowledge that Harry knew you just as well as you’d known him. It didn’t matter if you rolled over, because you were already exposed. He knew that Peter was a soft spot for you, that he had always been a soft spot, and all he had to do in order to push you over the edge was jab a little harder at that unhealed wound.

Surprisingly, he chose to leave it alone.

“You’ll come four times a week. Minimum.”

You fought the urge to grin at his demands, aware that it meant the rational side of him had lost.

“Twice a week.” You countered.

“Make it three.” He almost sounded pitiful, coming off more like he was begging than demanding. It caught you off guard to hear him sound so desperate, and for a moment you wondered if he had turned the tables; if he was now manipulating you, playing on your emotions and trying to make you feel bad for the loneliness Ravencroft had inflicted upon him.

But there was something about the look in his eyes, how transparent they suddenly seemed, that made you feel like this hadn’t been done with nefarious intent. His desperation was genuine, and you weren’t sure how to feel about that.

“Fine.” You agreed, aware that you didn’t have time to negotiate with him all day. You had a story to write, and in order to create a solid defense for Spider-Man—for Peter, you’d need help. You’d need a culprit, someone that had a motive to kill Sytsevich. “Deal?”

Harry grinned, that same arrogant and flashy sort of grin you’d seen him give heiresses and models. You always wanted to be on the receiving end of that smile, to be the one he was trying to win over, but now it only made your stomach sink. “How can I be of service?”

“Do you know anyone who might want Sytsevich dead?” You decided to be blunt with the question, keeping your voice low.

“Uh, yeah. Try the entire Soviet Union. From what I’ve heard, it sounds like he made a real fucking mess of things when he left Russia.” Harry noted.

“O-kay,” you drawled, “what about locally? People talk in prison, yeah? If somebody was planning something you would’ve heard about it.”

His nose scrunched up. “What do you think happens in prison? That we all just get together like it’s a slumber party and swap hit lists?”

You didn’t bother responding, not verbally, at least. Instead, you opted for shooting him a sharp glare. It didn’t phase him.

“Look,” he glanced towards the warden, scooting forwards a touch once he noticed the negligent guard had become distracted by his phone, “a guy like Sytsevich doesn’t go down without a good fight, alright? I saw the blueprints for that armor he wears, right before the board locked me out of Oscorp’s systems. I know what it’s capable of. Most people wouldn’t even have a chance to get a hit in, let alone send him to the hospital.”

“Perfect,” you snapped, his eyes widening slightly, “if you know what his armor is capable of then you should know who would be strong enough to take him on.”

Harry scoffed at the simplicity of your deduction, “Yeah, I’ve got a pretty good idea, actually.”

You gritted your teeth, aware of where he was heading. “It wasn’t Peter.”

“How’re you so sure?” He asked you, a thin crease settling between his brows as he glowered at you. “I know you like to fixate on my fuck-ups in favor of avoiding his but you were there that night, y/n!”

The banging sound of the prisoner’s palm colliding against the side of the thick television kept the guard from hearing Harry’s raised voice.

“He wouldn’t kill Sytsevich.” You held firm in your beliefs, even as your gaze faltered and fell away from Harry’s, settling on the surface of the table.

Bang.

“He almost killed me!” His voice was consumed with bitterness, with pain.

“And you killed her.”

Was that truly a good defense? Had Harry’s sins somehow absolved Peter’s? A life for a life—the logic behind the sentiment was skewed and you didn’t want to think about it. You didn’t want to venture into the memories you’d fought so hard to block out. Your stomach suddenly became taut, unwilling to face the question you didn’t want answered.

“You know what he’s capable of.” He pressed further, still leaned in close, as if trying to close the gap between you both, the shackles securing him to the table preventing him from doing just that. “Sytsevich was restrained with webs, y/n. Don’t be dense-”

Bang.

“Peter isn’t a murderer, Har!” You hissed through your teeth—too overstimulated to notice the pet name slip from your mouth and too livid to care.

He went to argue the statement when another bang sounded out against the side of the television, this one finally powerful enough to knock some life back into the formerly deceased device. Your eyes darted in it’s direction, Harry’s neck snapping around to do the same as you both listened to the hum of the static clear, a female voice breaking through.

“-just moments ago we received word from the NYPD that former Russian mafia member Aleksei “the Rhino” Sytsevich passed away less than an hour ago. Sources from North General hospital confirmed that Sytsevich’s condition began to rapidly worsen, until he eventually gave in to the fatal wounds sustained in last night's mysterious assault.”

The tautness in your stomach grew stronger, a wave of nausea settling over you as the organ began to tie itself in knots.

“Chief Davis with the NYPD will be holding a press conference this afternoon, however officials have already confirmed that there is now an active warrant out calling for Spider-Man’s arrest. Individuals with any information on New York’s fallen hero are being asked to call the number displayed on the bottom of the screen, and police advise citizens to avoid their Friendly Neighborhood Spider-Man at all costs-”

Harry twisted back around to face you, cautious and uncertain as he met your stare. He almost appeared concerned—not about the news, not about Peter, but about you. The corner of his mouth twitched downward, forced to watch as your face blanched, mind reeling.

It’s not too late. There’s still a chance. He can still be proven innocent. A warrant doesn’t mean jackshit.

The metal legs of your chair screeched against the ground as you pushed yourself back from the table, “I need to go.”

Harry’s wrists pulled against the shackles that held him in place, instinctively reaching towards you, as if he’d nearly forgotten they were even there. “Wait!”

Against your better judgment, you listened to him, though you weren’t entirely sure why. You needed to go. You need to contact the Bugle, needed to see if Brant had found a number for Peter. As much as you hated to admit it, Ravencroft had wound up being a deadend, and you needed to keep moving—but you just didn’t. You stayed, staring back at a boy you once knew, waiting for him.

You always waited for them—Harry and Peter both.

“You’re not-...” he hesitated, blinking and shaking his head as he debated whether or not he should even continue, if it would even make a difference. “You’re not going to see him, are you?”

“Of course I am!” You ignored the groan that escaped his parted lips. “You’ve been fucking useless, so Peter is all I’ve got left. He didn’t kill Sytsevich, alright? But he was at the scene. He’s gotta have some idea as to who did this.”

It was obvious that the offhand insult had stung, evident by the way he winced as you launched it at him. You nearly found yourself apologizing for it, but decided against it as you watched him quickly stiffen back up, always refusing to wear his pain so blatantly. Norman had trained him well, drilling into his head that weakness wasn’t a part of the Osborn way.

“Don’t get involved.”

Your stare narrowed. What he offered hadn’t been a recommendation, rather a demand. “They’ll hunt him down, Harry! If the police convince the entire city that Spider-Man’s a murderer? The city will turn into a fucking disaster. I’m not gonna let him go through that alone.”

“You could get yourself killed!” Harry barked back, clearly indifferent to whether or not Peter suffered alone. You found yourself laughing in response, finding humor in his attempt to show concern for your life.

“It’s Peter.” You stated plainly, devoid of any emotion as you rose to your feet. Harry’s head tilted upwards, following you with his eyes. “He wouldn’t let anything happen to me.”

“Remind me again who saved you that night.” His jaw clenched, his tone turning callous as he decided to prod at the old wounds. “Cause it sure as hell wasn’t Spider-Man.”

Your fists balled up tighter, blood beginning to seep from your palms and pooling beneath your nails. You zoned in on the stinging sensation, digging deeper into your flesh, using the pain as a tether to keep you from slipping too deep into your own subconscious. You didn’t have time to think about that night. You didn’t have fucking time.

So you bottled up the thousands of thoughts running rampant in your head, biting your tongue instead of allowing yourself to spit anymore insults at him. He’s not worth it–you tried to tell yourself, starting towards the warden–it won’t change anything.

“y/n!” He growled as you moved past him, electing to ignore him entirely. He thrust his arms against the shackles again, rattling the thick metal and grunting as they tightened around his wrists. You were just a little over a foot away when he spoke again, “Don’t fucking tell him you know!”

You paused, suddenly feeling as if your feet had been cemented to the floor. You cursed yourself as you responded, refusing to look back at him. “What are you talking about?”

“Have you talked to him since that night?” He asked.

“No.” You chewed on your bottom lip, ignoring the abrupt pang in your chest. “I haven’t.”

“Okay. Great. Then he doesn’t know for sure what you saw that night. That you saw him without the mask, that you know he’s Spider-Man.” He was talking uncharacteristically fast, as if he was worried you’d leave before he’d get the words out quick enough. “So don’t tell him.”

You frowned, shifting to the side, now looking at him through your peripheral. “Why?”

“Because.” Harry squeezed his eyes shut, fending off the growing headache that this situation had brought on. “As far as he knows, I’m his only loose end. The only one that knows who he really is.”

Your chest tightened as you realized what was happening. Since walking into Ravencroft, you’d concerned yourself so heavily with keeping your guard up, with guarding your weakest points—only for Harry to be the one to rollover. He was exposing his hand, and you found it unsettling, especially when you realized that there was no selfish intent behind his words.

Harry had nothing to lose in this situation.

Except for you—his friend.

“Maybe you’re right. Maybe he’s not a murderer. But if he did kill Sytsevich? Anyone who knows about Spider-Man’s secret identity is gonna have a huge fucking target on their back.” His eyes remained closed, drawing in a shaky breath before he continued, “So please,” his voice shook, desperation lacing each syllable, “just–don’t tell him, okay?”

Goosebumps arose on your forearms, unable to hide from the fear that radiated off of him. No matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t find an ulterior motive for the statement. There was no clear sign of manipulation, no indication that he wanted to do anything other than protect you; and that made you feel sick.

You had long since buried Harry Osborn, having told yourself countless times that two of your friends died that night. For two-hundred-and-seven days you had mourned both of them.

With every fiber of your being you had believed that the arrogant boy that had weaseled his way into your life was gone, having been replaced with a malevolent monster.

But now you could feel him.

It no longer felt as if you had just been staring at his corpse, but rather as if someone had actually breathed life back into him, offering you a glimpse of what still remained.

It caused the tiniest spark of hope to ignite within you, a spark that you would do your damndest to extinguish.

Harry Osborn was better off dead.

“Our deal’s off.” You asserted, cold and uncaring. His eyes shot open again, a desolate expression washing over him. He didn’t try to conceal it, didn’t bother to adjust the mask he always wore. “You gave me absolutely nothing, so I’m not obligated to hold up my end.”

Harry’s lips parted as if he were going to protest, as if he were going to do something—but nothing came out, and you hadn’t expected him to find the words, anyways. Try as you might, the three of you had never been capable of such candor; never willing to shine a light on the darkest corners of your minds, too scared of the risks that came with exposing what laid beneath the surface.

You couldn’t help but think there was something poetic about it; the melancholy cord that bound you to Harry and Peter. How you were all fated to don matching wounds, but always be too afraid to admit to one another that you were bleeding.

Sometimes you wanted to show them the stains on your hands, the red that you could never scrub off. You wondered if it would have made a difference, if maybe then the three of you could have bore the weight of it all together, rather than crumbling beneath the pressure.

But none of that mattered anymore.

None of you were the same anymore.

And so you gritted your teeth and held your head high, letting the blood continue to collect under your nails, hiding it from his view. You took a heavy breath, your chest heaving beneath all of the pain you chose to carry.

“Coming here was a mistake.”

It was the only thing left to say, the only other admission you’d let slip past your lips. It hung in the air between the two of you, resonating with each of you in an entirely different manner, knowing that you’d never share your own interpretation with the other.

Harry didn’t respond, choosing to drown in his silence, having grown used to watching people walk away from him. And you forced yourself to leave, choking on the remnants of your own grief; having grown used to abandoning what you once loved.

a/n - ah, so it's definitely not june BUT i did post it finally! i've put a lot of time and effort into this fic cause i do just genuinely love the idea of it and it brings me a lot of joy lol. with that being said, it takes a ton of effort for me to write it because i'm putting in a lot of little details, so updates on this won't be the quickest, especially while i'm taking summer classes!! but i'll be doing my best! please feel free to leave comments, opinions, etc. and look forward to getting loads of peter content in the next part! also feel free to check out THIS if you want to see an edit of the newspaper headline!

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yaekiss · 10 months

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qi. qi. I know you see my poly posts, so I need your thoughts on tighnari and cyno. especially top tighnari (bc that's my preference) and bottom cyno. I wanna make out with him while tighnari watches until he can't restrain himself and joins us.

𝟐+𝟏

꩜ Room Content: Dom! GN! AMAB! Reader x Sub! Bottom! Cyno x Dom! Top! Tighnari, no gendered terms for reader, Tighnari Cyno reader polycule realness, threesome (reader and Tighnari spitroast Cyno), sex toy (used on Cyno), blowjobs (reader receiving from Cyno), edging (Cyno receiving), reader is a lil mean, lmk if I missed anything ! ꩜ A/N: HIIIII ANDI! Thank you for waiting RAHHH this one took a while to write ;;; Hope you enjoy it hehe! I dropped a lil cameo for you somewhere, think of it as a kiss from me to you muah <3

In the dim lantern light of the room, Cyno’s eyes glint a shimmering ruby red.

You’ve barely started but it seems that the presence of a certain forest ranger sitting nearby in the corner, eyeing him down, has an effect on the usually intimidating General Mahamatra. There’s a faint buzzing as the bullet vibrator taped to the tip of his already hard dick works away at the lowest setting, enough to provide stimulation but just shy of giving Cyno any real satisfaction. But there is great satisfaction to be found in the way he grips the sheets, brows furrowed as he reigns in his desires, trying to stay in control of his senses. A quick glance to Tighnari reveals that he’s no better, tail swishing as his sensitive hearing picks up each and every one of Cyno’s breathy pants.

“C’mere Cyno,” beckoning him closer to you, he obeys and shifts away from the edge of the bed and nearer to you until the only thing separating the two of you is a hair’s width and candlelight. You lean in first, capturing his lips in a kiss but he’s the one to deepen it, messily lapping at your lips as he chases for the taste of you, even if it’s sweeter than sugar. The kiss is purposefully, explicitly, loud as the both of you make out while Tighnari watches on, riled up and turned on by the indecent display and even more lewd noises.

Cyno is kind enough to let your hands roam over his toned body, sliding them down from his waist to happily grab and grope at his lean muscular thighs. Your fingers ghost over the base of his erect cock and he sucks in an intake of air at the sensation. A click, then a beep rings through the air and the vibrator starts humming away at a higher speed. Cyno’s cock jolts and he lets out a low groan at the increased stimulation. You look up to Tighnari who’s holding the controller to the toy in his hand.

“Can’t let you have all the fun,” he simply says.

“Touch- ugh… -me, please,” Cyno pleads and the grip he has on your thighs snaps your attention back to him, making you focus solely on the task at hand (him!). There’s beads of precum already forming at his tip, glistening as it starts drooling down the sides.

Cooing, you wrap one of your hands around his base as the other goes to thumb at his sensitive slit. It spurts more as you toy with him, his fingers clutching even harder on your thighs with each languid stroke up and down his length. His breathing grows ragged and shallow and his own muscles tense as he approaches his climax. But you don’t speed up your motions, still working his cock at the relaxed pace you started with, making sure he gets so pent up but stopping just exactly before the edge of tipping over. “Bastard,” Cyno thinks in between muddled thoughts.

Another click and a beep before the vibrator changes speeds and whirs at its third and highest setting. Cyno throws his head back with a loud gasp at the sudden assault of pleasure, cumming for the first time tonight, coating your hand with his sticky spend. You revel at the splatter of white against his tummy and you move in, diving down to lick a stripe up his abdomen and collecting his cum in your mouth, then tilting his head to kiss him yet again, making him savour his own taste. Cyno’s eyes squeeze shut at this as you lock lips, he moans desperately against your lips, a mixture of his own drool and cum dripping down his chin. The kiss is a frenzied mess with the toy still (miraculously) taped to his dick and still mercilessly buzzing despite the fact that he just came. “Ughn! Ah-! S- sss! -sensitive!” The poor male hisses out in the breaths he steals between kisses.

“It’s a shame Tighnari’s missing out huh? Don’t you want him to please you too?” Whispered coyly against his ear, your hot breath caresses his cheeks and he frantically nods at your words, a searing need and desire flooding through his veins.

“Call him over then.” Your tone is devilish, and your suggestion even more sinful.

Despite Cyno’s best efforts, all he manages to get out are broken moans interspersed with raspy gasps of “Please!”s and “Tighnari!”s. You tut at his pathetic efforts with mock disappointment.

“Is that all you can say, General Mahamatra? Come on, love. Try a little harder, hmm?” Your fingers trace over a vein on his cock before Cyno watches them undo the tape that’s holding the vibrator to his tip at an agonisingly slow pace - a warning to edge him even longer tonight.

With your threat, he chokes back a wail and focuses just enough to babble out, “Please- uh! I neeeed! you ‘Nari! Mmmph!”

There’s a screech of a chair and a flurry of dark green fur as Tighnari comes rushing over at Cyno’s plea. Gloved hands immediately wrap around his cock, the cum from his previous orgasm makes it easier for Tighnari to jerk him off and it only takes a few seconds for Cyno to cum again, hips jackrabbiting up into Tighnari’s hands as a loud keen leaves his lips.

“Tsk. Didn’t we agree that we wanted to help Cyno get his mind off of work tonight?” The ranger directs a glare at you but there’s no real heat behind his eyes, just impatience and a bubbling lust to finally get started tonight.

“Ha! Look at him now, I think the only thing he has on his mind is the two of us wrecking him!” True to your words, Cyno’s pupils are dilated and rolled far back into his head, still shuddering on the bed from the waves of pleasure from his second climax.

“I’m going to prep you, alright?” Tighnari asks gently as he clicks the controller back to the second speed setting. Slowly, Cyno’s mind clears from the dizziness and when he hums out an agreeing tone, Tighnari reaches over to the bottle of oil on the nightstand. He removes his gloves using his teeth, slicking up his fingers with the liquid. (To which you wolf whistle because hey, Cyno’s not the only one who gets to enjoy Tighnari. He just laughs and rolls his eyes at you.)

Nothing but gentle, Tighnari starts off with one finger, carefully, slowly opening Cyno up and getting him used to the stretch. It’s not long before Cyno starts rocking back against Tighnari’s finger, evidently unsatisfied, and since he’s feeling merciful tonight (unlike you), he quickly adds a second finger. As he preps Cyno, you busy yourself with kissing the man of the night, your hand snaking their way to his chest to tease at his nipples, relishing in the little blissful pants you steal from him with each pinch.

Soon, Tighnari deems Cyno sufficiently prepared when his fingers slide in without any resistance and the only protest from the white-haired male is to hurry and get on with it. Slicking up his own hard cock with the oil, he lines his head up against Cyno’s awaiting hole and pushes the tip in gingerly while checking for any signs of discomfort or pain on his face. When all he’s met with is a glazed-over look and a mouth hanging open, he feels his resolve to hold back dissipate.

“Looks like we have a slut on our hands tonight.” He punctuates his words with a slight roll of his hips and Cyno moans, loud.

“I’m… ‘m not- hhAH!” It’s definitely not helping that he’s trying to rut back down on Tighnari’s dick. How cute, a whore in denial.

“I hope you haven’t forgotten about me, love,” you coo out, and Cyno hurriedly shakes his head, “Think you can take me in your mouth?” Judging by the way his mouth instantly falls open, tongue lolling out with crimson eyes pleadingly looking up at you, he’s more than willing.

Guiding your length to his lips, he licks up the underside of your shaft, kissing and sucking on your tip before he takes you into his mouth. You sink into the warmth, and he’s careful enough to watch his teeth. He lets you fuck into his throat as Tighnari pounds into him, the sight is pure aphrodisia and you hiss at how good Cyno is being for the both of you, taking you and Tighnari at the same time.

“Fuck! He’s tightening up, I- ugh! -I’m close!” There’s a carnal edge to Tighnari’s voice, one that you understand fully with how you’re also close. Sharing a look with him, the two of you speed up at the same time, drawing out more babbles and incoherent noises from the man under you. Hooking an arm under Cyno’s knee, Tighnari throws it over his shoulder so that his cock is angled to hit Cyno’s prostate head on. Feeling extra mean, you swipe the controller from beside Tighnari and click it back up to the highest setting. (You laugh when his cock jolts.) The change in pace and position has Cyno howling without abandon, tears rolling down his face at the intense pleasure. Within mere seconds, the general is cumming once more, muscles drawing tight with creamy white spurting out.

A quick snap of Tighnari’s hips drives his cock deep into Cyno and with a guttural growl, he’s cumming into him. As Cyno feels the growing warmth from inside, he clenches down on Tighnari’s length and milks him for all he’s worth, locking his legs around him. At the same time, he moans around your cock and the resulting vibrations are all it takes for you to reach your peak. Grabbing onto his white hair, you push him down until you’re shooting your cum down his throat while his pupils roll back and disappear behind his lowered eyelids, as if savouring the taste of you. (He swallows, of course.)

After a bit, the both of you pull out (much to Cyno’s protests). The vibrator is removed by Tignari and thrown to a side as you help Cyno sit upright against the headboard of the bed. Tighnari’s load drips out of him and Cyno lets out a low groan at the sight. While Tighnari slips out of the room to grab some wet washcloths for everyone, you take the time to check up on Cyno, soothing and massaging away any aches or sores in his body.

It seems that tonight has taken quite a lot out of Cyno (his eyes are closing and he keeps dozing off with his washcloth in his hand), so Tighnari and you gladly help clean him up. While wiping away the sweat and cum from his skin, the two of you take turns peppering his face with tender kisses as he contently sighs out “thank you”s between drowsy yawns.

As the three of you settle into bed for the night, Cyno sleepily mumbles out, “Let’s have a spitroast for lunch tomorrow. Get it? Because the two of you just spitr-”

Tighnari cruelly smothers him with a pillow.

Thanks for reading! Consider supporting me on kofi if you enjoyed this or check out my other works hehe ♡

#📜.qi musings #📜.qi chats #chats with andi!#genshin smut #genshin x reader #sub genshin #tighnari smut #tighnari x reader #cyno x reader #cyno smut #sub cyno #dom reader #gonna pass out now good night!#📜.qi writings

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girasolreves · 9 months

Text

SAG-AFTRA Strike Rules are out! Here’s the list of what members aren’t allowed to do:

●Principal on camera work, such as:

○ Acting

○ Singing

○ Dancing

○ Performing stunts

○ Piloting on-camera aircraft

○ Puppeteering

○ Performance capture or motion capture work;

● Principal off camera work, such as:

○ ADR/Looping

○ TV Trailers (promos) and Theatrical Trailers

○ Voice Acting

○ Singing

○ Narration, including audio descriptive services except as the services may be covered by another collective bargaining agreement referred in the Notice to

Members Regarding Non-Struck Work

○ Stunt coordinating and related services

● Background work

● Stand-in work

● Photo and/or body doubles

● Fittings, wardrobe tests, and makeup tests

● Rehearsals and camera tests

● Scanning

● Interviews and auditions (including via self-tape)

● Promotion of/publicity services for work under the TV/Theatrical Contracts, such as:

○ Tours

○ Personal appearances

○ Interviews

○ Conventions

○ Fan expos

○ Festivals

○ For your consideration events

○ Panels

○ Premieres/screenings

○ Award shows

○ Junkets

○ Podcast appearances

○ Social media

○ Studio showcases

● Negotiating and/or entering into and/or consenting to:

○ An agreement to perform covered services in the future

○ Any new agreement related to merchandising connected to a covered project

○ The creation and use of digital replicas, including through the reuse of prior work

• Performing on a trailer for a struck production or other ancillary content connected to a struck production

#sag aftra #sag aftra strike #sag aftra strong #actors strike #sag-aftra #union #actors’ union #sag-aftra strike #amptp

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devilfic · 1 month

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Reading right place, right time and found myself kicking my feet and twirling my hair at the thought of Bruce writing about the surgeon in his diary after their first encounter . 🥺😂 (Sorry, I’m being silly) 😭 but I really do wonder what he wrote. Would he have added any personal thoughts of his own or keep it about his routine? 🤔 sorry for this weird message. I love your writing 💕

this is not weird at ALL. I've been itching to talk about this! unlike in where two are joined, I'm trying not to tell any of it from bruce's perspective so that the reader can be immersed in their own pov. therefore,,, this gives me an excuse :)

when bruce gets home, he is not thinking about his diary.

in an uncharacteristic turn of events, he puts his body first and passes out on the couch in the terminus. he gets about an hour or two of sleep, something he deprived himself of in your apartment out of fear of letting down his guard.

he sort of jolts awake after that second hour, thinking that he had fallen asleep in your home. his chest heaves as he gathers his surroundings, registers the pain in his side, unaware of the hour. it takes him a few minutes to collect himself and then he's pulling off his suit piece by piece, assessing the damage at his desk. to his surprise, your stitches have held together pretty well. he pops a few main meds and pulls out his journal.

Wednesday, November 16th.

I made a miscalculation with the smugglers. The weapons they're moving are military grade, and from the communications I was able to intercept, they've got several buyers I can't afford to let get their hands on these guns.

I managed to put a dent in their inventory tonight, but for every shipment I hit, there are two more I miss. I can't be everywhere at once, which means I can't afford to lose momentum. I can't let up.

I sustained injuries from tonight including one gunshot wound. I was able to remove the bullet once I found somewhere safe to retreat, but the wound was worse than I anticipated and I struggled to keep the bleeding at bay. I made another mistake and intended on finding a place to rest—a nearby apartment I assumed to be empty—where I could at least stop the bleeding and send Alfred my location. But someone was there. Before I could escape, I passed out from the blood loss.

I must've been out for a few minutes. This stranger could have unmasked me, and I'm still not entirely sure they hadn't. Regardless, they were a doctor. They managed to stitch me up, and after some convincing, I rested in their apartment for the next three hours. I had no intention to, but I'm certain I wouldn't be writing this now if I hadn't done so. If it wasn't for them, I would be

I was desperate. I realize that now. I put myself and potentially someone else in danger. Someone who chose to help me. Their intentions seemed innocent, but I need to know for sure. I can't make any more mistakes. I won't.

after that, I think bruce just throws himself into researching you. he starts with gotham general, looks for all the surgeons, eventually finds your name, and he falls down this hole of finding out whatever he can about you: your age, where you went to school, your relatives and past jobs. he wants to know that this freak twist of fate was just that: a twist, an abnormality.

alfred finds him like that, ready to retrieve him for the tour (which bruce definitely forgot about). he's about to make a comment like "you're up early" and then he sees gauze taped to bruce's side and god, if alfred doesn't have steam blowing out of his ears by the time he's done yelling at him.

and later, when he's standing in front of you as bruce wayne, he's caught off guard again because what are the odds that you could save his life as some freak twist of fate once, only to have him run into you again not hours later?

and you're... whip-smart. kind. he hears you talk about the work you do and he can see how much you care about the people of this city. it's not in his nature to trust easily but when he gets home later that day he is poring into everything he can about you, searching for the chink in your armor. there must be something. maybe he's missed it or you're good at hiding but all of this feels too good to be true.

it takes him a few days after he finds your file for him to think it over. the stitches have held up. he's replacing his gauze in the bathroom and asks alfred if he thinks it's the right call.

"are you certain there's no one else?"

"a vigilante doctor?" bruce laughs, stretching his spine. "how would I take applications for that, exactly?"

"they're a civilian."

"they saved my life."

alfred holds his tongue, nearly chokes on it, "you must be prepared for this not to work out. or worse. you may never pick up that cowl again."

bruce stares at his hands, scarred from his long nights. he doesn't remember much after passing out, only the split second of finality and the regret that followed... until you brought him back, "I've already made peace with that."

#if you see me using a weekday that conflicts with something I said in the first chapter no you don't :)#dates and times in my fics are based on vibes only #bruce wayne x reader #bruce wayne headcanons #batman x reader #batman headcanons #battinson #the batman #dc #mjwrites

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snowdropluck204 · 1 year

Text

How They React To Their SO Getting Stalked

PART 1

Sero Hanta

I feel like Sero would be the person to immediately comfort you, screw the person following you for right now! His baby is upset and he needs to take care of you!

~ Sero was out with the guys, they were hanging out at the mall after school, he got kind of sad sometimes knowing that you didn't go to UA, but he also knew that being a hero was dangerous and he didn't want you to get hurt. ~ He and his friends were laughing and messing around, when he got a call, looking at the screen, he saw My Love was calling him, he gave a bright grin to his phone, answering promptly. ~ "Hey darlin'! What's up with my angel today?" He asked cheerfully. ~ "Hanta..." You were whispering, sounding close to tears, the smile left Sero's face in less than a second. ~ "What's going on angel?" His voice was hard and tense, causing his friends to look up at him, the smiles leaving their faces too. ~ "Someone's following me, I just needed to hear you, I'm freaking out right now!" You were still whispering, but he could hear just how frightened you were. Could hear your walking speed up. ~ "Okay honey, take it easy, are you nearly home, turn on your location and I will be there, I promise." ~ He lived up to that promise, he met you just as you were walking up the street near your home, he saw a guy wearing dark clothing following fairly closely behind you, using his quirk, he wrapped the guy up in tape and called the police. ~ You looked up at him, surprised and grateful that he was there. You ran to him, jumping into his arms and attaching yourself to him like a koala. ~ "I'm so glad you're here," You whispered in his ear, trying your hardest to hold back a river of stressed tears. ~ Sero held you close to him, running a hand up and down your back, "I'm here angel, everything's gonna be okay," He kept his voice down and took you inside and up to your room. ~ Making sure you were comfortable and cosy in a mountain of blankets and cushions, he then went to different rooms of the house and collected what he though you could use. ~ "Alright gorgeous! I have some snacks, a hot water bottle, some of your favourite movies and this!" Sero told you, leaving a trail of things on your bed. In his hand, he held a warm face cloth that he brought to your red, tear stained face. ~ "My poor angel, I know today was scary, but I'm always going to keep you safe."

Shinso Hitoshi

Shinso wouldn't take any chances in a situation where you had been stalked. He would be attached to your hip at all times, to the point where it was annoying to every other person involved.

~ About a month ago, you and Hitoshi were going through some hard times, everything between the two of you was great! But unfortunately something bad happened to you. ~ Someone from school had begun following you, from school to home, to work and when you went out with friends. Then there were pictures and threatening, creepy messages, not only to you, but to Hitoshi and your parents! ~ Eventually, the stalker was caught but a lot of damage had already been done, your family was forced to move and you didn't want to be alone at any point. ~ Honestly, the dorm programme came at a perfect time, your parents jumped at the opportunity to move you into the dorms, protected by pro heroes and in the safe hands of your boyfriend (your parents loved him). ~ Hitoshi trusted you more than anybody and he knew you would be a fantastic hero, but he wanted to take care of you in what can only be described as a vulnerable situation that only you, him and your family knew about. ~ So after that incident, Hitoshi was with you at all times. Which was originally fine, until it got in the way of classes. You couldn't leave him for battle training, the two of you had joined your desks together and had to be touching at all times. Your boyfriend was either holding your hand, or playing with your hair, had a hand on your knee or your back. ~ Aizawa had had enough, this was in the way of the two of you learning and eventually, if it continued, could tank your careers! ~ "Shinso." Aizawa called, separating the two of you, keeping him behind after class. ~ Hitoshi looked back at you, leaving you with a kiss on the cheek, "Stay in the hall, I'll be right there." ~ Turning back to his mentor, he watched the tired man sigh. Hitoshi was getting nervous, tapping his feet, scratching his neck and running his hand through his hair, he needed to be with you. ~ "Shinso, you need to be less codependent with (l/n), it's becoming tedious." Aizawa began. ~ Shinso snapped. ~ "Tedious? Tedious!? My partner was stalked for over two months! Their life was uprooted, they felt scared and unsafe every time they left the house and trying to protect them is tedious to you!? I'm terribly sorry teach!" His voice was rife with sarcasm. ~ Aizawa was shocked. He didn't know something so awful had happened to one of his students, or that it was affecting the life of his protegee... He felt guilty, angry and... Useless. ~ Aizawa didn't really know how to apologise, so he simply placed a (hopefully) reassuring hand on the boy's shoulder, guiding him to the door of the classroom, where you were stood patiently, but were so obviously nervous. ~ He couldn't believe he hadn't noticed, that the massive change in one of his best student's behaviour had gone under his nose. ~ You were stood against the wall, eyes flitting constantly, monitoring the hall for any kind of danger, you were nervously wringing your hands and playing with your fingers, you seemed to almost be in tears. ~ "Go and help them, I'll keep an eye out for anything suspicious and extra security will be placed around the dorm." Aizawa spoke quietly, not wanting you to realise he knew, he was under the impression that, if you wanted him to know, you would have spoken to him about it. ~ Hitoshi looked at his mentor, grateful that now he could at least sleep soundly knowing his partner had more security. ~ Once he left the room, you were on him instantly, hand around his and an arm around his waist, both of which he reciprocated. ~ He whispered in your ear that everything would be okay. ~ "I'll never let you get hurt, you believe that, right?" ~ You nodded, of course you did.

Tokoyami Fumikage

Tokoyami would be a slightly different situation, he knew you could handle yourself and you did, but the idea of it happening again made him terrified, so he went overboard with his security measures and actually winds up annoying you (in a sweet way?).

~ You loved your boyfriend and Dark Shadow, but this was getting ridiculous! ~ You were a very logical person, so when you began getting creepy messages and pictures of yourself at times when you weren't aware you were being photographed, yes, you were scared, but you were also determined to be strong and fix it. ~ Obviously you told Fumikage that the stalking was happening, he was the first person you'd told, but you asked him not to go to anyone, that you had a strong feeling you knew who it was and how to handle it. ~ He had reluctantly agreed. ~ Dark Shadow was adamant that you needed help! He was begging Fumikage to check on you, help you, keep you out of sight and away from anyone who wanted to hurt you, or worse. ~ But he was your boyfriend, he trusted you, the way he wanted you to continue trusting him! If he took over and ignored what you'd asked of him, he was worried he would lose that trust. So he left you to it. ~ Less than a week later, police were outside the school, arresting a student who had admitted to sending you threatening messages, as well as other people in the school. ~ You were so smart, you followed the text messages, hacking and just being a genius and finding whose phone sent them. ~ You involved the police and Principal Nezu, who quickly looked over your evidence and made the correct assumption, calling the police and having the guy arrested. ~ You felt a lot safer now and were considered a bit of a saviour for the other students the boy was frightening, but Fumikage couldn't get it out of his mind that something similar could happen again. ~ Without you knowing, he placed tiny cameras outside your dorm room window and in the hallway (obviously he wasn't going to put cameras in your room, cause creepy), he wanted to make sure you were alright. ~ But you weren't stupid, as he now realised when you burst into his dorm room, holding his devices. "What the hell is this!?" You shouted. ~ Fumikage went silent, shocked that you'd even seen the cameras, he tried to explain but just released sputtered apologies. ~ "I-I just wanted to m-make sure you were safe!" ~ You looked shocked now, looking at your boyfriend who was now looking down at the floor, Dark Shadow curled up on the bed behind him, looking forlorn. ~ "Someone was following you and I didn't know, you're the most important person in the world to me, if something happened to you again and I could have stopped it, I would never forgive myself." ~ Looking calmer and sympathetic for the poor boy, you sat next to him on the bed, cupping his face and tilting his head to look at you. ~ "I know this was hard for you, but I'm safe and I can handle myself, you know that. But I know for a fact, you would never let anything happen to me, if you think this was a dangerous situation, then you feel free to take all the crazy security measures you need to. But I'm fine." ~ Your voice was practically a whisper, as you leaned in and left a soft kiss on Fumikage's feathered cheek. Then on Dark Shadow's, because he got jealous.

Shigaraki Tomura

This one seems pretty obvious, Shiggy would go nuts! Screw All Might and the plan, he had a new target to deal with, someone hurt his darling and there is no way in hell he was going to let them get away with it!

~ When Tomura got back to the bar, he was expecting the usual greeting, he had his gloves on already, preparing to be jumped on by his beautiful little love, but as he entered through the door, you weren't there. ~ He searched through the building, almost ready to tear off his gloves and disintegrate walls on the slight chance you were inside of one! ~ But then he heard you sniffling, he knew it was you, you cried that way when you were reading or watching one of your favourite shows, it was coming from Toga's room. ~ Bursting through the door, he saw you, being cradled by Toga and Dabi, he would have been upset that Dabi was anywhere near you, but he was more focused on the fact that you were crying hysterically. ~ Trying to get close to you, he stood on one of the many pictures he hadn't realised were strewn across the floor, they were of you. ~ Of you at work. Of you at the store. Of you out to dinner with your parents. That dinner had happened two nights ago. ~ "Where did these come from?" He asked, voice slightly raspy after his assault on the building. ~ Toga was the one who responded, for once, her crazed smile was missing, replaced with a scared frown. "Someone slid it under her apartment door, with this." She handed Tomura an envelope that had writing on it. ~ 'YoUr'E MinE' ~ The writing was scrawled and messy, the person who sent this, who took the pictures was obviously deranged. ~ You were being stalked. ~ Rage filled Tomura, who dared to come close to you, to believe you were theirs!? Hell no! You were his! His darling! ~ But he pushed the anger down so he could look after you. ~ Once you realised he had come home, you reached out for him, desperate to feel close to him, to feel safe. ~ He scooped you up, sitting next to the other League members as he cradled you in his lap. ~ "My poor baby," He whispered, leaving kisses on the crown of your head as you buried your head in his shirt. ~ "Kurogiri, you know what to do." ~ He did know what to do, he was under the command to follow you around, keeping you safe and find the stalker. ~ Tomura would have the joy of taking care of them...

#bnha #bnha x reader #x reader #sero hanta x reader #shinso hitoshi x reader #tokoyami fumikage x reader #shigaraki tomura x reader #love #cute #stalker #comfort #good ending #headcannons #bnha headcannons

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