#Marvel Unleashed 1

[dispatchdcu]

Marvel Unleashed #1 Preview

Marvel Unleashed #1 Preview #marvelunleashed #petavengers #lockjaw #lockjawandthepetavengers #MARVEL #marvelcomics #comics #comicbooks #news #mcu #art #info #NCBD #comicbooknews #previews #reviews

Marvel Unleashed #1 Preview: KRAVEN UNLEASHES THE BEASTS! When Kraven abducts Lockjaw at the same time a local scientist mixed up with A.I.M. goes missing, it’s up to Throg the Frog of Thunder, Redwing the Falcon, Chewie the Cat Flerken, Lucky the Pizza Dog, Bats the Ghost Dog and their scrappy new ally D-Dog to save the day. But there’s more to this case than meets the eye, and something…

[incorrect-tmnt2012-quotes]

Donnie: Is everything a joke to you?! Mikey: We all have our coping mechanisms.

[deadpooltato]

Im so insane about them

also they're are literally soulmates

people only get spideypool on a surface level, saw someone say “poolverine and spideypool are equally as good” to YOU but i am crazy. spideypool devotion drives me crazy. wade would stop killing if peter asked him to. wade would kill if peter asked him to. wade has died for peter without hesitation. wade refuses to live WITHOUT peter. peter trust deadpool despite his morals because of this. the devotion is SO enriching.

i don’t care about sExUaL tEnSiOn, we get that every tuesday. what do you MEAN killing was all wade had and he gave that to peter then morality was the best thing that happened to him then he also gave that to peter without hesitation, WHAT?

[chucksnerdthoughts]

Daredevil Unleash Hell #1

That was really good! I enjoyed the level of bloody violence. That "statue" was terrifying! I'm excited to see how Muse using Morgan. The start of their relationship is off and running! I'm def pulled in and I think I might keep reading. It has my attention!

-Chuck

[cuntyji]

nanami prides himself on many things—his discipline, his work ethic, his impeccable taste in ties. but above all, he prides himself on his ability to communicate clearly and concisely, whether in speech or in writing. his text messages are a testament to this:

nanami: I will arrive at 7:30 p.m. Let me know if you need anything.

capitalized. punctuated. grammatically flawless.

then there is you. his lovely girlfriend. his chaotic girlfriend.

you: oks eeu thns

nanami blinks. once. twice. he tilts his phone screen away, then back, as if a different angle might help decipher whatever cryptic language this is. "oks eeu thns" is not english. nor is it japanese. it is… something else. something eldritch.

"what." he mutters to himself.

this is not the first time. nor will it be the last. your texts are a battlefield, a warzone of typos, autocorrect fails, and complete disregard for sentence structure. you do not "text." you unleash a tornado of half-formed thoughts at an alarming rate, as though your thumbs operate on a separate plane of existence.

exhibit a:

you: r u cmg home latr i wan ice cre nanami: Are you asking if I will be home late, and if so, whether you want ice cream? you: ye nanami: …What flavor? you: gimme mint sumn u kno the blue green w the chunks idk idc nanami: You want mint chocolate chip. you: ye

he has, over time, become somewhat of a linguist. an interpreter. a man who now instinctively knows that when you say "bcum," you mean "become" and not whatever horrifying alternative that initially flashes through his mind. but nothing—nothing—prepared him for exhibit b:

you: bby whn u cming hom i wan hug n u also i los a sock idk where she go nanami: I will be home at 6 p.m. I assume you meant to say you lost a sock. you: y au did nanami: What does that mean. you: *ya i did nanami: Understood.

he did not understand. he once tried to gently correct your typos. you responded by sending him "ok grammarly" and proceeding to text even faster with worse errors out of sheer spite. now, nanami has simply adapted.

you: i made pasta bt i dropd some :( rip lil guy nanami: Rest in peace to the fallen. you: he wud hv wantd us to eat his brothr in his honr nanami: Then we shall.

sometimes, he marvels at how two people so fundamentally different could love each other so much. and then he remembers the first time you sleepily texted him "gn ily mwuah" at 1:43 a.m. with no capitalization, no punctuation, just raw, unfiltered affection—

and suddenly, he doesn’t mind deciphering your nonsense at all.

[azzibuckets]

we make a good duo [pazzi]

paige bueckers x azzi fudd

summary: some christmas day fluff written at 1 am for yall….and also a fic finally written from azzi’s perspective😪 | masterlist

Azzi wakes up smothered by blonde hair.

It shouldn’t be a surprise that Paige has somehow made her way on top of her in her sleep. Yet despite three years of dating and seven years of sharing beds together, she still marvels at how Paige can possibly make herself comfortable with her limbs all splayed out across Azzi’s body.

As if on cue, Paige burrows her head deeper into the crook of Azzi’s neck with a contented sigh. Azzi runs her fingers over her back for a moment, allowing her girlfriend a few seconds of rest before slowly starting to slide her body out from under the older girl without waking her.

Azzi’s unleashed her arms and is prepared to wriggle out her legs next when Paige hooks a leg over her body, pulling her in.

“Paige.”

Paige’s eyes remain tightly shut, but her fingers curl just a little bit tighter around Azzi’s waist.

“Dumbass, I know you’re awake.”

The corner of Paige’s lips turn upwards, and Azzi bites back a smile. “If you’re gonna try and pretend to be asleep, at least keep a straight face.”

Finally Paige opens her eyes, her smirk growing wider. “Oh hey,” she feigns a yawn. “Good morning.”

Azzi pushes Paige’s body, but the blonde stays stubborn in her koala grip around the younger girl’s body. “Get off me. I need to pee.”

“My girl’s so mean to me,” Paige grumbles, lying her head on Azzi’s chest. “Just want some morning cuddles.”

“It’s Christmas, Paige. I bet everyone’s already awake downstairs.”

“They’re still eating breakfast,” Paige says sleepily, eyes already fluttering shut again. She falls silent, her breathing evening out, and Azzi’s about to smack her awake when one of her eyes fly open. “But I could eat mine up here,” she says suggestively, her pupils darkening.

Azzi shakes her head in disbelief. “So fucking dirty,” she mutters, flicking her girlfriend on the forehead.

“Bruh, I’m joking,” Paige complains, exaggeratedly rubbing her temple in faux pain. “Just five more minutes, please?”

Azzi relents, slipping on her side so she can look down at Paige. The older girl looks almost irresistibly good right now, her hair mussed up, blue eyes half lidded and sleepy. Her shirt has ridden up to show a sliver of pale skin and the top of her boxers peeking out over her pajama pants. Smirking a little to herself, Azzi plants a hand on Paige’s waist, caressing the exposed skin of her stomach with her thumb.

Paige’s lips part a little, a breathy moan escaping, but her eyes don’t open. “Feels good.”

Azzi continues to rub circles with her thumb, her hand slowly dipping below her shirt and making her way up Paige’s tummy to her ribs, flirting with the lower hand of her sports bra.

“Fuck.” Paige grabs Azzi’s wrist. “Don’t start something you can’t finish.”

Azzi’s hand immediately disappears from under her shirt. “Whoops.” She smiles innocently, giving Paige a kiss on her cheek before sitting up in bed. “We should get ready now.”

Like the fatass she is, Paige brushes her teeth quickly and doesn’t even bother to fix her hair or change her clothes before bounding down the stairs to eat breakfast. Azzi takes her time, carefully making the bed before slowly joining the rest of her family.

She can hear Paige and Jon arguing before she even makes it to the kitchen. “That’s mine!” Jon says, exasperation clear in his tone.

“You had thirty minutes to eat!” Paige shoots back.

“I didn’t know there were strawberries til now,” he complains. “At least give me one of them.”

Azzi walks in the room to see her brother and girlfriend death glaring at each other over an empty bowl on the counter. Paige’s plate is stacked with pancakes, whipped cream, and exactly four strawberries.

“Jon,” she chastises. “Don’t be annoying. Let our guest have the food.”

“Guest?” Jon grumbles. “Are people still guests when they’re here all the damn time?”

“Yes, they are,” Paige interjects. She turns to Azzi, her eyes brightening when she sees her. “Hey.”

“Paige, you don’t even like strawberries,” Azzi, ever the mediator, reminds her as she opens the fridge, searching for orange juice.

“Yeah, they’re for you.” Paige slides the plate over to her before starting to build her own.

“Baby,” Azzi says, dimples on display as she smiles down at her breakfast. “Thank you.”

“Az, can I have one?” Jon says hopefully, his fork already poised at her plate.

“Fuck off,” Azzi says.

“I thought this was the season of giving,” Jon grumbles before storming out of the room.

Paige laughs. She presses up against Azzi, kissing her temple. “We make a good duo.”

“Our brothers hate us.”

Azzi holds her breath for a second. She hadn’t meant to say that - Ours. But when your brother is her brother, when your families are so intertwined you almost forget that you’re not blood related, isn’t that the only way you can describe it? Ours?

But Paige doesn’t even hesitate. She gives Azzi a proper kiss on the mouth, tasting Crest and whipped cream and home. “They do,” she agrees.

[antiquarianfics]

Marry me? Nah. Marry me? Yeah.

4 times Bucky Barnes asks you to marry him and you refuse. 1 time Bucky Barnes asks you to marry him and you accept.

A/N: I have been working on this for the last day, so enjoy. HOWEVER, I wrote it on my phone and refuse to proof it. Warning(s): Some canon level violence, swearing. Note: I do not own Bucky Barnes or any other Marvel affiliated characters.

You do not have permission to steal or repost my work; however, feel free to like, comment, and reblog.

—

Proposal 1

The first time Bucky Barnes proposes to you, you aren’t even dating. The two of you are paired on a mission to dismantle a HYDRA base hidden deep in the Appalachian Mountains in Kentucky. You had met before but never shared more than polite conversation. Steve had assured Bucky you weren’t scared of him, but that you wouldn’t push him to speak with you. Bucky never quite believed him, so he never attempted to converse with you either.

However, when you’re paired on this mission, you take that as the go-ahead to finally speak to him.

“So, Barnes,” you say, nudging his shoulder with your own, “guess we’ve got to come up with more conversation topics than the weather.”

“Guess so,” he replies.

It is during the mission he proposes. There are more HYDRA agents active than expected, and they come at the two of you guns blazing while you’re distracted setting up an explosive at a structural point of the complex.

“Y/L/N,” Bucky says to grab your attention, “we’ve got company.”

You bite your lip, finishing your task before standing and pulling your rifle from your back, preparing yourself for a fight.

“Don’t worry, honey, I’ve got this one,” you tease, shooting him a wink before unleashing precise kill shots before Bucky even thinks to pull his own trigger. After taking out a dozen soldiers, a few manage to get close to you, and you hit one in the head with the butt of your gun and then quickly pull a knife from a thigh holster while pivoting on your foot to slit another’s throat. You shoot the unconscious soldier in the head for good measure before wiping your knife on your pants.

With your knife returned to its home on your thigh, you look up at Bucky who is staring at you with a dumbfounded, albeit impressed, look on his face. You had taken out 14 men on your own. He was in love.

The words “marry me” slipped past his lips before he could stop them, and you laugh.

“Maybe buy me dinner first, Sarge.”

Proposal 2

The second time Bucky Barnes proposes to you, you’re comforting him after a nightmare. It is late at night, at the point it was really morning, and you happen to hear his screams through his bedroom door.

You stop at his door, letting a frown set on your face before reaching out for his doorknob. You hesitate before opening it, wondering if he’ll appreciate you barging in on him in such a vulnerable state. Then, he screams again—louder—and you turn the doorknob, letting yourself in.

The sight you’re met with is heartbreaking. Bucky is tossing and turning, his sheets bunched at his feet, comforter on the ground. He’s sweating buckets and whimpering what sounds like, “Please, no. Not the chair. Please!” over and over again. You choke back a sob before crossing over to him, gently lying a comforting hand on his shoulder and calling out his name.

“Bucky, honey, wake up. It’s just a dream, hun.”

The touch and sudden sound wake him up from what is truly a light sleep. Bucky shoots up into a sitting position, right hand shooting out to grab the hand touching him, and eyes darting around the room until they land on you.

“Shh,” you coo, “you’re okay, Bucky. It’s me, Y/N. It was just a dream. You’re safe.”

Bucky’s heart rate slows to a normal pace, and he lets out a shaky breath.

“Y/N?” He asks hesitantly. “W-what are you doing here?” His voice is small, like a terrified child’s, and you can’t help but frown at the thought.

You let your hand move to cup his face, noting that he relaxes at the gentle touch, leaning his face ever so slightly into your touch.

“I was headed to the kitchen and I heard you scream. I just wanted to make sure you’re alright.”

He nods, eyes searching yours for some sort of anger or resentment for bothering you. He doesn’t find any.

“Can I do anything to make you feel better?” You ask kindly.

“Um,” Bucky says, voice shaky. “Would you mind—you don’t have to—but would you mind staying with me? Only if you want.”

You smile kindly, pressing a comforting kiss to his cheek before climbing into his bed with him, pulling his head close to your chest.

“When I was little, I lived in a house in the woods for a while,” you say randomly, catching Bucky’s attention. His eyebrows scrunch together in some sort of confusion, but he says nothing. “At dinner one night, I look out the glass door onto the porch. Wanna know what I saw?”

Bucky hums his agreement as your hand works it’s way into his hair and your fingers begin to massage his scalp.

“4 raccoons!” You exclaim. “3 babies and a mama. We had a toddler slide on the porch at the time,” you continue, “and the baby raccoons kept climbing the little ladder and sliding down. The mama just sat a little bit away and watched and stole cat food occasionally.”

Bucky chuckles, finding your story cute but also recognizing your attempt to distract and soothe him after his nightmare. He appreciates it more than he himself understands; he is comforted by your voice more than he feels he should be. He lets the proposal slip a second time: “Marry me?”

You grin and press a kiss to his head.

“Not yet, hun.”

Proposal 3

The third proposal comes after the two of you begin dating.

Bucky takes you out on a date to a little coffee shop in Brooklyn you both had become fond of. You’re standing to the side of the café, out of the way, waiting on your order. Bucky has his right arm around your shoulders while you lean into him; his left hand stuck in his jacket pocket.

“So Natasha’s screaming at Clint to show himself so that she can kill him, right? Like, she was so fucking pissed at him. And Clint is in the fucking air vents—like those big ones people crawl through in action movies—hiding from her. Over a remote, Bucky!” You excitedly recount one of the most ridiculous encounters you’ve ever had with the Avengers to your boyfriend who is quietly listening with a fond smile.

“Like, ‘Earth’s Mightiest Heroes’ my ass,” you scoff. You’re about to add another thought to the discussion when you hear someone else’s conversation from a few feet away.

Bucky tenses. You tense.

“Personally, I think they should’ve carted him off to the South, or somethin’, and put him in the chair,” a younger man—college age—says. “The death penalty, y’know? An eye for an eye, and all that. I mean, the guy killed a lot of people.”

“Fuck, man,” his companion, another college aged man, says. “Don’t you think that’s a little harsh? I mean, he’s also like a war hero and a prisoner of war.”

“He killed innocent people, man. Like, people’s kids and shit.”

“I guess.”

Bucky clenches his jaw, and he also tightens his grip on your waist when he feels you start to move away from him.

“It’s fine, doll,” he assures you, but he doesn’t seem fine to you.

The barista calls out “Barnes” and Bucky kisses the top of your head before moving to grab your drinks. You, however, take the opportunity to address the disrespectful boys while your boyfriend isn’t holding you back.

“Excuse me,” you say, walking up to them.

“Fuck!” One says, jumping a little. “You’re an Avenger.”

“Mhmm,” you agree. “So is Sergeant Barnes who you so innocently suggested deserves the chair.” You jam a finger into his chest.

“You have absolutely no fucking right to talk about him that way. He gave his life for this fucking country; fought alongside your grandparents. The fuck is wrong with you?”

“Ma’am, I’m sorry. Shit. It’s not like my opinion is gonna change anything.”

Before you can say anything else, you feel Bucky’s hand wrap around your bicep, pulling you away from the college kids and into his side. He leans close to your ear to whisper, “Doll, it’s fine. Come on.”

He pulls you out of the coffee shop before you have time to protest.

Walking down the street, you’re ranting, letting your arms flail around angrily.

“What the actual fuck is their problem?! You can have your obviously wrong opinions, but why would you express them so loudly in front of the person you’re talking about? You’re a fucking Avenger. You’re a good man. Why would they pardon you if you weren’t? Why would the Avengers adopt you as one of our own if you weren’t? Pieces of shit! Hateful, fascist, brain dead, ungrateful, military-hating, assholes!”

Bucky can’t help but laugh at your insults, and he can’t help but feel flattered that you care enough to defend him.

“Sweetheart, it’s really fine. I’m used to it,” he assures you, finally handing you your coffee he’d been balancing in his hand.

You take it, but shoot him an incredulous look.

“Like hell it’s okay! You deserve better than that bullshit, Bucky. You deserve to go out on a date with your girlfriend without being fucking harassed.”

Bucky pulls you into his side, kissing your head like he had earlier, and murmurs into your hair his third proposal.

“Marry me.”

You smile softly.

“Nah,” you say, leaning into his hold. He laughs.

Proposal 4

The fourth time Bucky proposes to you, it’s less direct.

In fact, you’re in the field, lying on your back in Bucky’s arms while he frantically puts pressure on a bullet wound in your gut.

“Steve,” he says into the coms, “Y/N’s down. She got shot. I’ve got to get her back to the jet.”

“Go,” Steve responds quickly, “I’ll cover you.”

Bucky’s attention falls to you, grimacing at the blood covering his hands.

“Hold on, baby. I’ve got you,” he says, lifting you into his arms as gently as you can.

“I’m fiiinnneee,” you slur, unsteadily and awkwardly reaching to pat his face. Your action, meant to be comforting, only adds to your boyfriend’s anxiety.

“Doll, you’ve been shot, and it isn’t a clean wound.”

“That’s nothin’!”

Bucky grunts indignantly in response.

Finally, he gets you back to the jet, moving through the aircraft quickly to get you to a stretcher to triage you best he can. When there is nothing more he can do, he holds your hand, doing his best not to cry or show how scared he is.

“Y/N, stay awake for me, alright?” He pleads, squeezing your hand.

Your eyes flutter open and you smile goofily.

“No worries, Doll,” you giggle as you call him by the pet name he reserves for you. “I’m A-Okay.”

Bucky scoffs.

“You’re bleeding out.”

“You fixed me.”

“Not fully; I put a bandaid on you really.”

“Silly. Bandaids fix you!” You try to comfort, but you fall into a laughing fit.

“Doll, I need you to take this seriously so you make it. You’ve gotta marry me.”

“You didn’t ask me to!” You say, narrowing your eyes and pointing accusingly.

Bucky smiles at your antics.

“Marry me, Doll?”

You smile fondly as you stare up at Bucky.

“Ask me again when I’m not bleeding out.”

Proposal 5

The fifth time Bucky Barnes proposes to you is the last time.

You convince the super soldier to go hiking with you; you argue he deserves to sit and watch a waterfall with his girlfriend. He gives in easily because you’re not easy for him to say no to.

The two of you find a local hiking trail that leads to a decent sized waterfall, and you’re pleased to find the trail is mostly deserted. You only run into a few stray hikers along the trail.

Bucky smiles as you hike, watching as you excitedly stop to watch centipedes cross the path, or point out woodpeckers, or smell flowers. Finally, the two of you reach the waterfall and you squeal in excitement, running a few paces ahead of Bucky and jumping to let out some excited energy.

“Buck, look! It’s gorgeous!”

“Yeah,” Bucky agrees, slowing to a stop behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist and resting his chin in the crook of your neck.

The two of you stand like that, in each other’s embrace, for a few minutes, watching the waterfall, listening to nature around you.

“Thank you for coming up here with with me,” you say, turning around to place a grateful kiss on Bucky’s lips. He gently returns the kiss before pulling away.

“Anything for you, sweetheart.”

You peck his lips again before turning back to the waterfall.

“Look!” You say upon turning around. “Bucky, a rainbow!” The spray of the water and the beams of sunlight meet to display a rainbow in front of you.

When Bucky doesn’t respond, you curiously turn around.

“Bucky? Oh!”

Bucky is on one knee, a ring box open in his hands, held out to you.

“Y/N, will you marry me?”

There is no speech, there is no absurd gesture. There is just Bucky, and there is just a question.

It’s perfect.

“Yes.”

“Finally.”

[alittleflowerchild]

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[camelspit]

Fintan Pyren by @crescentpaws

Gethen Ondsinn by @lemontarto

Definition of a sexyman: An often pathetic and/or evil man who is sexy (but perhaps not in the conventional sense)

Propaganda:

Fintan Pyren:

"he's like if a chewed on and half-dead rodent was a twink" anonymous

"Okay, let's be real. Fintan is HOT. Bro's the kind of person that makes you nervous. Good or bad, whatever. And I KNOW he gets a lot of hate, but let's be real. The only reason I'd join their cult- I mean the Neverseen, is because of HIM. Like, @/maxcrescentpaws art of him.... My friend that absolutely HATES Fintan, well, after seeing some fanart...." anonymous

"twink, need i say more" anonymous

"girl idk i just am hyper fixated on this bitch and want gethen to lose by an embarrassing amount" @luigimangionesjailcell

"I love all of them in different ways, but also FINTAN 😍" @kyeiscrying

Gethen Ondsinn:

"this was a bribe. but i do find him interesting and uh. sexy? in a pathetic way? if that makes sense..." anonymous

"pathetic." anonymous

"he's evil and hot. got his fingernails frozen off. pro kidnapper™. stria is in love with him. sexy man. yes. :)" anonymous

"[Verses 1-4]

Gethen Ondsinn: a Tumblr sexyman goldmine

Blonde hair, blue eyes, cheekbones, jawline

But that’s not all, no, he goes beyond conventional

His broken nose and deranged mien are exceptional

Tried and failed to kidnap a preteen

With nothing but a dog unleashed

A pathetic failure, reduced to a retreater

By his future murder victim, the Black Swan’s leader

And when the kidnapping went successfully

He found he could not wipe her memories

He’d failed at his purpose, his craft, his skill

Pathetic failure, the plan went unfulfilled

But then, finally, he’d get to prove his worth

By being brought to Lumenaria, to his mirth

Dumped in the dungeon, where he would recharge and rest

This was where his worth would be put to the test

[Chorus]

This is why you should vote Gethen

For the sexiest of men

In the year twenty-twenty-five

This year Gethen will revive

When it comes to this decision

You should make it with precision

[Verses 5-8]

The wait was the lock, patience was the key

He knew he could wait this out, that soon he’d be free

He had the discipline, the determination, the endurance

He could pull off a feat like this, there would be no hindrance

But he had a higher aim to achieve than plain old freedom

He’d been put here for a very specific reason

For down in this dungeon, where routine was forbidden

Was also the one whose memory had been hidden

The Peace Summit would come, and everyone would see

Just how much the Council always failed to be

The great fantastic leaders they claimed to be

But more importantly, the prisoner would be freed

So it was, he thought, as Lumenaria was falling

The marvelous destruction he’d caused was nothing short of enthralling

But he realized he had one more job to do

So he freed the blade in his cell, it was time get his due

[Chorus]

This is why you should vote Gethen

For the sexiest of men

In the year twenty-twenty-five

This year Gethen will revive

When it comes to this decision

You should make it with precision

[Verses 9-12]

He saw her then, dimmed blue eyes, blonde ringlets and rosy cheeks

He raised his diamond sword, right now so clean and so sleek

To take care of the one who’d underestimated

The Neverseen’s plans, so carefully created

But then the excruciating puffy leader took out Brant

So a different death he would grant, than originally planned

Instead of a pretty head rolling on the ground

He’d have to settle for an abdomen completely gouged

He was no unfortunate villain, he was no diamond in the rough

For him, no one murder would ever, could ever be enough

And so he set forth, patting his diamond sword

He knew without murder, he would soon grow bored

His plans laid out, he knew precisely when next he’d use it

The goblins of Everglen, he would kill as a unit

His beloved sword, through soldiers it would tear

He shrugged, it wasn’t as if he hadn’t told them to beware

[Chorus]

This is why you should vote Gethen

For the sexiest of men

In the year twenty-twenty-five

This year Gethen will revive

When it comes to this decision

You should make it with precision

[Verses 13-16]

This was his trick, this was his trap

He would always tease his enemies with scraps

Of his plans, just enough to toy with his pawns, just to enjoy

The way they bumbled about to try to find out his plan and foil his ploy

As he would do now again, with the Vacker boy, he’d

Get in his head, he would pretend he could prevent what was to come, toying

Not even really a lie, such a shame they’d never cave to violence

The only way to defeat their plans, so down to a science

Like Lumenaria: he’d told them he was perfectly content

So many clues, yet they struggled to prevent

The inevitable, for the Neverseen had sent their most estimable

Candidate to lead their attack on the reputable

Or apparently reputable, he darkly supposed

After all, the idiotic Council only imposed

Arbitrary rules that nobody actually liked

So how was it his fault if he decided to fight?

[Chorus]

This is why you should vote Gethen

For the sexiest of men

In the year twenty-twenty-five

This year Gethen will revive

When it comes to this decision

You should make it with precision" @the-way-astray

Want to submit propaganda? Do so here and it will be added in the next round!

[ihopeinevergetsoberr]

playing with this bow (and arrow)

— chapter 1

author’s note: we’ve made it, folks. i’m writing yet another all-vibes meagre plot erotic thing. everybody act surprised!modern au (well, the 90s, since i’m so very consistent). classical musicians au set in beautiful brno. both viktor and reader are pushing 30. lots of longing and unresolved issues. reader is kind of insufferable, but oh well. you know exactly how i usually write her, don’t you? and, of course, my favorite thing to dabble with: failed marriages. also. i took it upon myself to give viktor a czech last name.

pairing: viktor x fem! reader

rating: mature. mildly nsfw-ish (some bitter masturbation), but expect explicit chapters in the future.

word count: 5k

—

Your bow plows through the strings like a thin dagger, wieldy in the hand of its swordswoman. You drag it to and fro, frenzied in a sweaty-templed convulsion. With your nyloned calves cramping from itchy tension, you almost leap swinging off the edge of your seat, pulling the cello south. The high-pitched finale of Saint-Saëns’ longest concerto finally perishes.

Your bow comes to rest on the A-string, idly fleeing away; the strain of your mouth relaxing, the flutter of eyelids ceasing. And when they spring up, unleashing your blown-out pupils, you have to flinch again—away from the scorching chandelier and its dozen artificial suns, struggling through the white patches in your shielded retinas.

You hold a breath and bask in stunned silence, counting precisely four heartbeats before the audience erupts into a standing ovation. One. The air returns to their lungs, charging for a screeching Bravo! Two. They jump out of their seats, the rustling of their clothes merging into one big swish. Three. The silence finally perishes. Each pair of palms, no matter the size, joins in on the frantic clapping. Four. Someone demands an encore. The others pick it up like an obedient hive, yelling, cheering, impelling you to grab another hold of the bow. You’d turn towards the orchestra, crooking your best fake smile, and the cycle would repeat until everyone had run out of lungfuls to request resumption. 

Then there would be flowers, hearty shoulder pats, and countless impressed gasps preceding endless dithyrambs: colleagues, students and occasional admirers all producing repetitive praises—the things once catering to your ego, yet long failing to fill the void now. 

‘You were marvelous, Professor.’ Of course they would say that. They could never quite catch your foibles, the way you shamefully strangled allegro moderato’s briskness, delivering but a decent-ish con-brio instead. 

But you’ve always known your etiquette. Turning down praise, no matter how generic, is bad manners. So what if marvelous hardly suited your performance? So what if you were after life-changing, masterful or flawless—everything you've been chasing and failing to seize, a distant idyll that kept slipping through your calloused fingers? 

So you’d shrink your shoulders and bob your head, returning the affectations, and the world would spin in a blur of your suffocating mediocrity until the afterglow of the concert had burned out, leaving you to your doleful tread down the reticent conservatory halls. Marvelous will have to suffice. You’d never call your skills something half as nice, after all. 

You slid the cello onto your hunched shoulders and its weight thumped against their blades, bending you in half. One last adjustment of the strap, and you were out of the dusty building—the heavy door budging under your shove, trading its carved whimsy for the wet, pitch-black grains of tarmacadam under your oxfords. You wanted to tumble right there, to rest your heavy head against the scabrous ground, drunk on the clean smell of ozone. August had no intention of overlapping with September this year, and Brno was drenched to the marrow nearly as soon as your tear-off calendar revealed a big two in fancy cursive. 

You stared at the streetlights, contemplating getting a taxi. The humidity couldn’t be any good for your Klingenthal—the mere thought of slackened plates and lax strings made you feel nauseous, and suddenly, the weight of the instrument in its shiny case quadrupled, sending a shiver down your sunken knees. Taxi it is. There’s no chance you’re climbing the Golgotha with a cross that massive.

The Golgotha was what Viktor had dubbed the uphill walk to the bus stop—a spindly street, malicious with bumpy pavement—more so now that it was soaked with slick raindrops. The nickname would reach a twelve-year mark soon—an intimate inside joke that you still found hilarious. It reminded you of the better times, of the first flicker of rosin-colored eyes in the very cool halls behind you, back when neither of you was bound by the same last name or troubled with the title Professor.

You gently laid your cello on the backseat, stroking its downward slope; that, too, was Viktor’s doing—a fifth-anniversary gift, pricey as a fine vintage like that can be. You sighed and crawled into the passenger seat, tiredly announcing the destination to the driver. The man looked spent and drowsy, and you bit your cheek, cautiously staring at the instrument in its lacquered carapace. Your right hand found the ring on your left, anxiously teasing the metal warm.

“Please, drive safely.” You sank into the soft headrest. “My cello is very expensive.” 

The driver gave you a lazy nod and took off, slowly struggling up the Golgotha. The world tumbled under your eyelids. 

It was hard to tell when exactly things went wrong with Viktor. They say young love is bound to ruin you. There’s an inherent danger to it, a gamble of will it-won’t it. But even when it doesn’t tumble right away—there’s always something waiting to be discerned—a crack in the foundation that had been overlooked or deliberately ignored for years, a cancerous tumor surreptitiously waiting to reveal itself during the autopsy. The question is: who will be the first to reach for the scalpel in this marriage? 

You preferred ostracizing Viktor from his omissions. The trick required guile—a self-subjected mind game of believing that he could do no wrong. It was easier that way. How else were you supposed to bask in self-deprecation, to find more excuses for delving into your obsession? You picked a tale old as time—the sinner and the saint, the neglector and the neglected. I am the indiscretor, you chanted. The selfish wife. The bigamist, simultaneously married to man and music. There’s no redemption for me. And I shall make my heart bleed on the fingerboard. 

Dr. Talis didn’t like that approach. Matter of fact, he detested it, always trying his hardest not to roll his eyes at your weekly spirals into hypocrisy. 

“Don’t start, Mrs. Knirsch.” He’d tap his pen against the notepad—a brisk staccato of condemnation. “It’s hardly ever productive.”

Productive. You winced at the word and sliced the condensate with your finger, watching a pivot of sodden city lights creep into the dripping gash. It looked harsh: a cut of black and dazzle in the foggy car window, a mini starry night. You proceeded to carve more amorphous lines into the dusky glass: they dribbled into corpulence, crawling everywhere like thick oak roots. There were five of them—precisely the number of times Jayce had uttered ‘productive’ the last time you saw him, and so you added the sixth crooked mark—a struck-through one, prison tally style.

Dr. Talis was recommended to you by a concerned upstairs neighbor. She was a darling spinster, nosy—but benevolent. When Viktor bid his indefinite farewell, her motherly shoulder was the first (and only) one to welcome your puffy face. 

The next morning you were dragging up Petrov Hill, looking an utter mess—all laddered tights and tear-sodden cheeks. The shrink had taken you in before his opening hours, no questions asked. He hovered above you in the bulky stance of a weary, kind man, and you hit the wall, choking on whines.

But, as it often happens, that first impression was nothing short of mutual deception. His—of you crying all over his parquet. Yours—of him understandingly nodding along. Every session following that one was spent strictly within your confines. You quit sobbing. He quit being patient. A professional relationship built on a vulnerable mishap that had rarely occurred ever since.

And yet, you had nowhere else to go. This bespectacled, large therapist had become your only friend—a paid-for one, no less (and even so, you still confided in him quite selectively). Every Monday and Friday, you were sitting on his vintage couch, pondering anything but the issue at hand. All while he was trying to crack you again, confused by the loss of a miserable woman who had crawled to him at seven in the morning two months ago. 

For all it’s worth, you quite liked the man. There was an ineffable comfort in his mild incompetence, ridiculous height, motley ties, and expensive woolly sweaters. He always looked tired, browline glasses hanging low on a big nose, dark hair glinting with too much gel. His face was sheer jawline and perpetual morning shade (another ridiculous feature, considering you only ever booked evening sessions). You wondered if he’d worn the glasses just to sharpen his big eyes: light and perceptive, they stared right through you with tender, glassy might, clashing with his virile angles. 

His office resided in a moldy Austrian building—a two-story, worn-down thing flanking the cathedral, with its dusty Biedermeier windows staring right through the pretty lancets.

The place was hoarding all kinds of contentious trinkets—Tiffany lamps, fake flowers, checkered cushions, and little mockeries of classical masterpieces strewn across every wall. Mona Lisa smoking a cigarette. A frame from The Simpsons recreating The Last Supper. Venus boldly flashing the viewer instead of shyly covering her breasts with a dainty palm. 

Your only grievance with the place was the window. Such a clear view of the church’s insides made your sessions feel like soft-spoken confessions, supervised by Christ himself; the distant crucifix always dwelling somewhere in your peripheral, creeping in the bleakness of gorgeous neighboring windows. 

You’ve only properly visited the cathedral once: when Viktor volunteered to introduce you to Brno, utterly enraged by your scarce route of choice.

“How dare you disrespect us like that!” he murmured, shaking his head in earnest disapproval. “How come you’ve spent an entire year here, in the heart of Moravia, and yet the only walk you ever take is from the dorm to the conservatory? No, that won’t do! I have this thing,” he nudged you with his cane, earning himself a chuckle, “what’s your excuse?” 

So he showed you picturesque at its finest, from Old Town Hall to St. Peter and Paul’s—an entire day of labyrinths, ossuaries, and bunkers, a palette of Czech beauties guided by the main one—lanky, well-spoken, and dressed in corduroy head-to-toe. Too bad your most vivid memory from the church was Viktor’s nape, dissected into a dozen square watts of light and drowning in not-yet-overgrown hair, its prickly ends sunbleached—the pipeline of umber to ochre. You didn’t mind, though. ‘In a room full of art, I’d still stare at you,’ or however that cheesy saying goes. 

And now that swivel of maudlin was intruding on your attempts to fix the irreparable: twice a week, like clockwork, Jesus was poking his pierced-through legs into Jayce’s window, disturbing your therapy session. 

“Stop ogling Jesus’ feet, Mrs. Knirsch.” Jayce snapped his fingers at you—a dull, sweat-spoiled sound. You bolted and met his eyes, scrunching your nose in sudden awareness of some mawkish whiff in the room. The culprit—a reed aroma diffuser the color of cough syrup—was glowering at you from the coffee table, emitting stifling vanilla. 

You pulled at a stick, watching the oil dribble down the thin trunk. It made you smile, meek and lopsided—a shaky omen of inevitable distraction. The therapist clicked his tongue, drawing your attention back to his scorn. The clock above his head showed a quarter past six, meaning there were forty-five more minutes of confession left at your disposal. 

“I don’t like his feet.” You abandoned the reeds, pushing the bottle away. Jayce caught it just in time, sucking a furious breath: right before the essence had the chance to spill all over his Turkish carpet.

“Mrs. Knirsch.”

“What? They’re pale and disturbing. I don’t know how you can just sit here, having them stare at you all day.”

“Mrs. Knirsch!”

“I told you to stop calling me that.”

“Because it reminds you of your ex-husband?”

“No, because I prefer to be addressed by my first name. And he’s still my husband. We’re merely going through a separation.” 

“Oh, believe me, with that attitude, you’re definitely going to end up divorced.”

“Are you sure you’re a real therapist? Can I see your license again?” 

Jayce didn’t react to that. He sighed and nosed his notepad, looking up at you from under his crooked glasses. The whimsy of bickering never lasted with him. It always dissolved when Jayce would return to the very thing therapists were meant for. 

Probing. 

“Please, remind me, why are you here?” Jayce coughed and propped his chin on a sturdy fist, taking his signature cross-legged interrogation stance.

You pondered his impressive knuckles, swallowing a lumpy gulp. They were thick digits of a stern man—digits that could’ve easily pulled classified information out of terrified KGB agents. You wondered if that was his occupation before he decided to become a shrink. 

You pulled your skirt over your knees, straightening into a defensive sapling. 

“I’m here to figure out why my husband wants to leave me—“ 

Jayce didn’t let you finish. His pen (that infuriating bauble!) loudly tapped the notepad again—like a makeshift incorrect buzzer. You wanted to tear the thing from his grip and throw it into Mona Lisa’s mouth, wincing with rage. But that option implied being ejected out of this quaint place.

So you decided to budge.

“I’m here because I work too much.”

The pen stopped mid-strike, hanging in the air. 

“And?” The therapist trailed off, tongue running over his palate in pregnant anticipation. 

“And I’m obsessed to the point of neglecting everyone around me. Myself included.”

Jayce smiled. The pen-guillotine withdrew from the blow, limply landing on the table.

“Correct.” He nodded, looking very pleased with himself. “Figuring out your Viktor business is but a bonus point. Speaking of the devil—“ Jayce licked his fingers and flicked the page, preparing a clean sheet for his observations. “How is he doing?” 

You stared at the clock, drawing a nasal breath. The dial foreboded forty more minutes of this torture. 

“I don’t know. He’s in London, playing Schubert.”

“Ah.” Jayce clicked his tongue. “So you do know. Is the separation not going as planned?”

You scoffed, tumbling against the couch, limbs flailing boneless in resignation. “The separation is going just fine. We haven’t spoken in two months. I just know he’s touring in Europe this time of the year.” 

“But have you seen each other?”

“We work at the same conservatory. Go figure.”

“How’s that, by the way?”

“Fine. My students think I’m their local Yo-Yo Ma, or something. The usual.”

“And what do you have to say about that?”

“I think they ought to go see a doctor for an ear irrigation.” 

Jayce huffed, quickly scribbling something down. “I see. Self-deprecating as ever. Well done, Mrs. Knirsch. No productivity in that capacity. But that’s all right. It’s a… process. Have you been following the curfew, at the very least?”

You chuckled at the wording, squeezing the hem of your skirt. ‘The curfew’ was a newly imposed restriction to help you overcome your compulsive rehearsing—no coming near the cello first thing in the morning (brush your teeth and have breakfast first, for god’s sake!), no playing it past eight PM, either. 

Now, this part of ‘the process’ has been rather dreary. If anything, you found it damaging to Jayce’s beloved productivity—it hardly did anything except make you count the torturous seconds until you were allowed to pick up the instrument again, fingers itching like those of an addict in urgent need of a fix. 

Anyhow.

“It’s okay,” you acquiesced, throwing your head back. The rippled ceiling gazed back at you, threatening to crumble into your eyes. “God. You really need to refresh this place. Am I not paying you enough?”

“As a matter of fact: yes. I don’t get paid nearly enough to catechize you like this twice a week.” 

“Ha!” You pointed your shaky finger at Jayce, smiling an accusatory grin. “I see what you did there. Catechize. You have a cathedral rearing your windows. Well done, Mr. Talis. Have you considered becoming a stand-up comedian?” 

“Define okay for me, Mrs. Knirsch.” 

“Okay is okay. What’s there to define?”

“Everything needs definition with you. I’m going to ask you again: please, define okay.”

You sat up.

“Well, I’m following it. I have an alarm set for eight PM. I still think it’s stupid, though. It accomplishes nothing but my misery.” 

The KGB interrogator melted back into a smiling man. 

“Excellent!” He affirmed, almost sing-songy. His pen followed in a sequence of happy scribbles. “That’s the aim.”

“What is? My misery?” You sneered, curtly eyeing the dial. Only thirty-two minutes left. Thirty-two endless minutes until you can finally play your guts out—if you make it home in time, that is. 

“No. The process. That’s how you treat an addiction.”

“Addiction? Please. Music is not heroin.” 

“I beg to differ. In your case, it might just be opium.” 

You sipped your bottom lip into your mouth and chewed on the soft tissue; tongue and teeth grinding over little wounds, tasting bronzey guilt. Dr. Talis pointed to his mouth, urging you to stop. You spat out your mangled lip and he watched it become plump again—all swollen skin dribbling with fresh bloody crescents. The incident was immediately reported to his little dossier. 

“You’re doing that thing to your lip again.” 

“I’m sorry. I can’t help. I always do that when I feel attacked.” 

“Oh. Admission. That’s nice, for a change. What made you feel attacked? Was it something I did?”

“It’s not you, per se. It’s Viktor. He said something similar about opium once. It’s a shrewd metaphor.”

“Shrewd enough to make you eat yourself alive like that?” 

“Don’t be a smartass. I’m contemplating cracking here.”

The minute hand shuffled, and you were reminded of the remaining half of the torture. You skimmed over the selection of Jayce’s caricatures, only to invariably linger on the voyeur-Venus, squinting for a better look. Ever since you first started coming here, she’d become a scapegoat for your telltales. Who could possibly be more vulnerable than a woman with her soul out? That’s right. A woman with her tits out. Though, you’d rather reveal the latter than the former. And the voyeur-Venus looked vastly more comfortable anyhow. 

Jayce hurried to intrude, shielding the painting as his head emerged from the notes. You groaned, having been reduced to the only bare person in the room again. 

“Do you think of him often?” 

He regretted the fumble right away. Your eyes had regained their bludgeon glint, aiming for his throat. 

“My partner of twelve years, seven of which we’ve been married, had just requested a separation. Take an educated guess.” 

“I’m sorry. I’ll rephrase the question. How often do you think of him?”

“My every waking moment. And, considering that I get six hours of sleep on a good night, that adds up to a rather pathetic sum of… about eighteen to twenty hours a day. All the time, Jayce. I think of him all the time.” 

“Once again, I’m so, so sorry. This separation—how long is it supposed to last? And, if it doesn’t help your cause—which, let’s hope it never comes down to that, yeah?” He shot you an apologetic smile, shakily clicking his pen. “What’s the plan in that case?” 

You glowered past him, tiredly seeking Venus again, and Jayce hunched, aiding the fervent pursuit of your beacon. But when the frame sprang up from above his head, you rejected it, squeezing your eyes shut. Temples full of pulsating blood, short nails deep under bleeding cuticles (Dr. Talis had put that down, too, by the way), and in a second you were recoiling at your embarrassed “I don’t know”—all dry throat and taut calves, charging as if to snap. 

Jayce blinked: once, twice. The third one must’ve been staged, just to match your three-syllable answer. He huffed, at last, wiping his glasses against his cashmere sweater.

“Don’t know…to the separation deadline or the plan in case you go through with the divorce?”

“All of it.” You whined. “Any of it. I live in willful ignorance.” 

“But why? Hasn’t it occurred to you to… at least request some ephemeral due date?”

“You’re judging me. Proper therapists are not supposed to do that.”

“Well, I’m no ‘proper’ therapist. I’m just the kind you need.” 

A giggle had rippled through the tears—a brief exchange of pathetic things coming in and out of your mouth. You tasted salt now, prickly, raw, and sizzling, a mess of wailing and mascara chunks, all dribbling down your chin and onto the mohair skirt, its saddle brown now speckled with wet carob. You tried to stop it, to push those shameful things back into your waterline, and yet they rolled, and rolled, and rolled, flooding the quaint office. Dr. Talis got his miserable patient back. 

He offered you his handkerchief, lamenting the decision as you loudly blew your nose into the shiny white. 

“I just… I felt like I had no say in it. I hurt him. He wanted a break from me. I simply went along.” 

“It’s not a question of who hurt whom. You’re supposed to make those decisions together, as a couple.” 

You looked up from the ruined cloth, blinking the blur away.  “I thought you were on his side.”

“There is no side.” Jayce tsked, mentally calling the dry cleaning. “You’re hurting too. It’s time you embraced it.” 

“Nonsense. I have no right to feel hurt.”

And then it came. The third pen-thud of the session, the weary frown, the infamous “Don’t start, Mrs. Knirsch. It’s hardly ever productive.” 

The hour hand was practically licking the chunky Franklin Gothic seven on the dial. It’s truly unsettling how much time one can waste sobbing. 

“Tell you what.” Jayce set his notepad on his lap, and you instantly arched, trying to sneak a glance. But, to your utmost disappointment, the thing was laid report-down, irrevocably classified. 

You flicked the last parched tear and shrugged, rolling the mascara crumbs between your thumb and index. “Tell me what.”

“By next Tuesday, I want you to prepare me a list of all the reasons why you feel hurt by this separation. Could be minor, inconsequential details. Could be something more tangible. Your choice. Anything but the absence of a due date, since we’ve already established that much.” 

You sniffled, peering at your hands. Black stains of makeup were drying on your calluses, enhancing the scabs of your labor. These were pockmarks of a true cellist—one-of-a-kind, immaculate, sensual. Suddenly, you were yearning for the instrument, to hell with curfew—your only desire was to have the beloved four strings cut through your fingertips, merging with the marrow. 

You quit picking at your dirty skin. “That’s just weird. I’m here to stop hurting Viktor. What you’re suggesting is just gloating in poor-me’s.”

Dr. Talis gripped his nose bridge, twisting it as if to snap the cartilage. “How do you expect to un-learn your hurtful ways when you hardly even know what hurt is?”

“What if I discover something I hate about him?”

“So be it!” Jayce rose to his feet. His knees made a crunchy sound, screaming for a long walk. “Any scenario where you feel anything but pointless guilt is a win in my book.” 

“Can I read it?” You nodded to his notes. 

“No chance.” 

“What about the handkerchief?”

“Keep it. I’m not interested in catching some weird, wailing disease.”

“Failed marriages are not contagious, you know.”

“And thank god for that!” 

You lumbered out of the car, spilling a bunch of korunas. They jarred onto the slippery pavement out of your loose pockets—a downpour of fives and tens, all swiveling in between sandy joints. The driver murmured a rhotic profanity, tutting at his scattered tip, and the cab trundled away, bobbing on the pebbles. 

“Sorry,” you offered into the alley, watching the plate number canter into the smog of the awry Veveří district. The curious upstairs neighbor gawked out of her window, hunching over the ledge; her frantic Einstein-blowout parted in twain, out like a greying halo. You tipped your head backward and waved, cracking your last smile of the night. She waved back and lolloped inside, heavy slippers shuffling around. You watched her disappear under the citrusy light of her lamp, swearing to never take therapist recommendations from sweet old ladies again. 

You conquered three flights of stairs with breathy effort, hanging on to the straps of your cello case. Then came the habitual array of jingling keys and wan grips on the doorframe—inevitably through stinging, agape pants as the instrument gently thumped to the floor, the hum of strings an eerie vibration in between plates. It’s an unwieldy position: back—pressed against the jaundiced wallpaper, legs—tangled in a frenetic kick-away of clunky oxfords, and, finally, you were free of your confines: stockings, scarf, and skirt, all divested of into a limp heap. The heavy coat plopped over the mess, leaving but a dirty shoe to glint from beneath the huge leather sleeve—a single unshielded thing, waiting to be swept to the side. 

The apartment greets you with a damp smack of bare feet against the saggy hardwood, the wallpaper daffodils becoming the cheery color of mustard when you roughly flicker the switch and idly grope your way through the half-lit rooms. You bump into the bathroom door—all awkward brushes of naked thighs—and the world cuts itself into dozens of paper-white tiles, their glint ghostly, almost asylumish. You yearn for the mirror, bending above the slippery sink. The reflection shows you a weary, barely clad woman. Her underwear slides down her legs, scrunching into a skimpy fold of—yet again—paper-white. Her tile-counterparts copy the sentiment: a bunch of flyweight-yous, all peeling the final layer of their dignity. 

This used to be Viktor’s job. The thought follows you into the glass door, refusing to vaporize even when you blast hot water into your mouth—like you expect it to somehow reach your brain and melt its austerity into obtuse condensation. Sick from chlorine, your capillaries pop like a bloodshot spill. The stream persists, crawling under your prickly lashes. Viktor’s face emerges from the froth, urging you to add some salt into this whirling cocktail, and the tears oblige, goading their way out of your waterlines.

Viktor bled kindness from his fingertips. You mourned the feeling of his hands, their slothful, caring glide over the gorges of your hip dips—gently peeling the lace from those pretty dents and dragging it over your darling convexities. An exciting, albeit not-yet-erotic dance. A sweet routine, every night before shower—a blessing long forgotten. 

You hold the soap under the steaming water in a vain attempt at feigning a human’s touch, its flit foreign on your back—a mushy lick that could never compete with the real thing. It pours in between your toes, thick and foamy; splits your body with milky rivulets, and lingers there in a murky trace—a study in things unfinished, a desperate search for whatever little hatred you’re allowed.

Your options assemble into the shittiest hand one could be dealt—a measly two-seven offsuit where two stands for the torturous months of his absence, and seven for the number of pathetic highs you dryly rode out around your sore fingers. Oh the miserable repercussions of sexual frustration. You contemplate upgrading it to two-eight, wet forehead tightly pressing against the glass, the squeak of clean skin a wince-igniting high-pitch. 

Your hand falters. The dirty double-down stops mid-slope, coiled under your breast—a skittish tug and drop, half-hard nipple seized mid-thumb and index. You try to blow on it as Viktor-esque as you can—a stupid, vicarious stunt, but your breath gets lost in the vapor, failing to land home. You quit the thing with a strangled groan, tepidly going straight for the main ache. The itch between your thighs welcomes one awkward finger, not nearly enough to make up for the loss of him—the painful opposite of a tight fit. 

Viktor. A two-syllabic, tender torture. You murmur the name like a breathy chant, the third reiteration half-assed and stumbling over the consonants. Your molars grind into powder when you claim your first head-to-toe shiver, the balls of your feet suddenly unsturdy. You think of his mouth, chapped lips upturned in a cruel denial of a kiss. The smell of him, now banished from the sheets with detergent. But you could still make it out: clean skin and the faintest whiff of piney soap. The very one slithering out of your grasp, the closest you’ve come to touching him in months. His button-down, forgotten on the shabby piano stool—the one you don’t dare move, as if trying to conjure him bent over the keys and vehemently taping out Beethoven. His penciled-in partiture, thrown all over the place—kitchen counters, desks, shelves and floors, a map of minuscule scribbles and serendipitous choices for countless coituses. 

Your high slips through your fingers, escaping down the drain. You change the angle, but the chase proves fruitless: your every inch both sensitive and senseless, a stubborn ache refusing to be tamed. With your lips bitten bloodless and your hair a wet sheet of cold strands, you screw the faucet, catching your angry face in its warped reflection. 

The strange, tired woman comes back, now smudged with runny mascara. You ponder her, naked and afraid, wrapped in the terror of her-your sudden revelation. 

You didn’t hate Viktor for leaving. To that, he was fully entitled. For that, you could even forgive him if only you tried hard enough. 

The culprit lay deeper. Uglier. Out of all his grudges, no matter how thoroughly you went over them, you always failed to find a single valid one. Hell, you failed to acknowledge there were any grudges to begin with. 

All along, you didn’t hate him for the separation. You hated him for finding a reason to separate. 

For being the first to reach for the scalpel. 

You stumble out of the shower, staring straight ahead. Viktor’s piano glints at you from the bedroom, sad and lacquered, with no fluff of hair darkly hovering above it. You linger in the doorway, wrinkled fingers damply groping the wall, and the naked staring contest lasts a few long minutes. That is, before you grow bored. That is, before you pivot into the hallway and drag the expensive tumor of your marriage out of its shiny case. 

At one in the morning, the sweet upstairs neighbor banged on your door with a noise complaint. 

But you couldn’t hear her. Not over the maniacal squeaking of strings. Well, what did she expect? Dvořák’s cello pieces are known for crescendos.

[dispatchdcu]

Daredevil: Unleash Hell - Red Band #1 Preview

Daredevil: Unleash Hell - Red Band #1 Preview #DaredevilUnleashHell #MARVEL #marvelcomics #comics #comicbooks #news #mcu #art #info #NCBD #comicbooknews #previews #reviews #daredevil #mattmurdock #hellskitchen #kingpin #elektra #NYC #amazon

Daredevil: Unleash Hell – Red Band #1 Preview: MURDER IS AN ART! The violence and the occult swirling across the Marvel Universe find their way to Hell’s Kitchen! As grisly crime scenes start manifesting across the city, all signs point to an impossible perpetrator: MUSE! Estranged from Matt Murdock, it’s up to Elektra to get to the grisly truth as only DAREDEVIL can… if she can stomach the…

[djevelbl]

Same train of thought, slightly different track — if I made a list of all my fictional crushes (criteria for WHAT makes a blorbo a fictional crush yet to be determined. probably whether or not I read x readers of the guy) there'd be certain trends happening that I'd laugh about just to not have a visit with my therapist--

GOD the things I'd do to make certain characters real so I had a shot at dating them,,,,

[theodore-sallis]

“Several Meaningless Deaths Part 1”, Monsters Unleashed (Vol. 1/1973), #8.

Writer: Steve Gerber; Penciler: Pat Broderick; Al Milgrom

[logansargeantsbabymom]

You Deserve It

Oscar Piastri x Fem!Reader

FLUFF

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A Marvelous Surprise

I’d always thought that my life was pretty perfect. I had everything I could ever want: a supportive family, great friends, and a boyfriend who was not only incredibly talented but also genuinely kind. My boyfriend was none other than Oscar Piastri, the Formula 1 driver who had taken the world by storm. But, as I found out one sunny afternoon at the racetrack, sometimes even the perfect life has a few extraordinary surprises.

The day started like any other Grand Prix day. I was in the pit lane, surrounded by the clamor of engines and the frenetic energy of the race day preparations. Oscar had been busy with the team, and I was making my way through the paddock, trying to stay out of the way but still soaking in every moment of the high-octane atmosphere.

I had my usual race day ritual—cheering for Oscar from the best spot I could find and, if I had a moment, catching up on social media. My love for Marvel was well-known among my friends, and they had teased me about it endlessly. Every interview I did where I gushed about my favorite characters—Bucky Barnes, played by Sebastian Stan, and my all-time favorite actor, James McAvoy—was met with knowing smiles and playful jabs.

Oscar had heard it all, of course. He was always so patient with my endless Marvel monologues. I had even been lucky enough to attend a few fan events, where my excitement for superheroes could be fully unleashed. But nothing could have prepared me for what was about to happen.

The race was in full swing, and Oscar was driving brilliantly. I was on the edge of my seat, my eyes locked on the track, when my phone buzzed with a new message. I glanced down to see a text from Oscar: “Meet me at the hospitality suite after the race. I have a surprise for you.”

My heart raced—not from the thrill of the race, but from the anticipation of Oscar’s surprise. The remainder of the race felt like it dragged on forever. When Oscar finally crossed the finish line, victorious as always, I couldn’t wait to see him.

After the post-race celebrations, I headed to the hospitality suite. The area was relatively quiet, a stark contrast to the chaos of the pit lane. I entered the suite, expecting to find Oscar waiting with a small token of his appreciation or perhaps just a sweet gesture to celebrate his win.

What I saw instead took my breath away.

The suite was filled with the unmistakable aura of Marvel’s finest. There, standing among the elegant furniture and decorations, were some of my absolute favorites—Chris Evans, Sebastian Stan, Elizabeth Olsen, Scarlett Johansson, Robert Downey Jr., James McAvoy, Evan Peters, and Anthony Mackie. They were chatting amongst themselves, their faces lit with amusement as they turned to see me enter.

My jaw dropped. My eyes darted between them, not quite believing what I was seeing. I stumbled into the room, feeling like I was walking through a dream.

Oscar stepped up beside me, his grin as wide as ever. “Surprise, YN!” he said, his eyes twinkling with mischief and affection. “I know how much you love Marvel and James McAvoy, so I thought I’d arrange a little meet-and-greet.”

I couldn’t form words. I just stared, blinking rapidly. Chris Evans noticed and chuckled. “I think we broke her,” he said, leaning toward the others.

Elizabeth Olsen came over, her smile warm and genuine. “Hi, YN! I’m Elizabeth. We’ve all heard so much about your love for Bucky Barnes. It’s great to finally meet you!”

Sebastian Stan, ever the charming Bucky, approached with a wink. “Hey there. I see you’re a fan of my alter ego. I have to say, it’s always amazing to meet someone who appreciates Bucky like you do.”

James McAvoy was next. My heart skipped a beat as he extended his hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, YN. I’ve heard you’re quite the fan. Your enthusiasm is contagious.”

I shook his hand, barely able to contain my excitement. “James, I can’t believe it’s really you. You’ve been my favorite actor for as long as I can remember.”

Evan Peters and Anthony Mackie joined in, their smiles infectious. “So, YN, what’s it like having Oscar Piastri as your boyfriend?” Evan asked playfully. “Is he as impressive off the track as he is on it?”

I laughed, still trying to get my head around everything. “Oh, absolutely. He’s amazing.”

Scarlett Johansson then stepped forward, her presence commanding. “YN, I’ve heard so much about your passion for the Marvel universe. It’s wonderful to see such enthusiasm.”

We spent the next few hours in a whirlwind of conversation, photo ops, and laughter. I felt like I was floating on a cloud. Oscar watched with a knowing smile, clearly enjoying the joy his surprise had brought me.

I chatted with each of them about their roles, my favorite scenes, and even got some behind-the-scenes stories. Chris Evans regaled me with tales from the set of the Captain America films, while Robert Downey Jr. shared funny anecdotes about his time as Iron Man.

When it was time to say goodbye, I was reluctant to leave. I hugged each of them, my heart full of gratitude and happiness. “Thank you all so much. This has been a dream come true.”

As I walked out with Oscar by my side, I felt like I was walking on air. “You really outdid yourself this time,” I said, leaning into him.

Oscar kissed my forehead. “I’m glad you enjoyed it. You deserve every bit of happiness.”

The ride back to our hotel was quiet, filled with comfortable silence and shared smiles. I knew I’d be reliving every moment of the day in my mind for a long time. The memories would be a cherished part of my life, thanks to Oscar and his incredible surprise.

As I finally settled into bed, I found myself replaying the day’s events. It felt like I was living in a Marvel movie, where everything came together perfectly in the end. I had my superhero dreams come true, and it was all thanks to the love of my life who knew me better than anyone else.

-

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[incognit0slut]

Right Kind of Wrong (8)

She never thought she would be involved in a murder investigation and encounter her one-night-stand again, the awkward guy who isn’t exactly that good in bed—Or is he? Offended by the sentiment, Spencer is determined to prove her wrong… But as he gets tangled with the beautiful stranger, he realizes there is more to her than what meets the eye.

Part Summary: Spencer and Y/n get caught up in their newfound bliss. wc: 3,3k

Series Warnings: 18+ explicit content (this part includes chocking, slight cockwarming, unprotected sex, creampie, and sub Spence), graphic details of murders, mentions of suicide

a/n: another smut update, enjoy it while it lasts because the plot will unravel soon

Other parts: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14

THE MOMENT HIS LIPS MET HERS WITH URGENCY, she knew there was no turning back. She could feel the taste of desperation and desire in his kiss, a bittersweet cocktail that ignited her senses. His lips moved with a raw intensity, as if desperate to imprint his very essence upon her, to leave an indelible mark upon her being.

Their breaths mingled; fevered and erratic as if trying to merge into one unified rhythm. And her hands, driven by instinct, clung to him with an intensity borne of the same desperation. Fingertips traced the contours of his jawline, mapping the strong curves of his face before they brushed the back of his neck, pulling him closer to her while her hips swayed along his groin.

While her hands threaded into his hair, his hands began roaming toward her waist as they slipped under her shirt. She gasped as his calloused fingers tugged at her nipples, twisting the buds between his thumb and forefinger over the sheer cloth of her bra. Underneath her, she could feel the length of him growing each time she moved. She could feel the sensation building in her body too as she continued to roll her hips, hiding her face in his neck.

The textured gabardine of his slacks rubbed against her in the sweetest way as a shudder rolled up her body. Spencer slid his hands down her waist before placing them on her backside, gently squeezing her ass while pushing and pulling her over him faster.

A breathless whine left her lips as his hardness caught her clit, her inner walls clenching around nothing as she began to grind herself frantically against him. "Shit, I'm close," she whispered against his skin, hands sliding down his body until she could feel his broad chest over his shirt.

Spencer's body tensed in surprise. "Just by this?"

She nodded. Experimentally, he thrust his hips a little harder into her, eliciting a breathless moan out of her. He couldn't stop the amused laughter falling from his lips, marveling at her reaction.

"And here I thought I wasn't good in bed," he commented.

She slightly leaned back to catch the amused glint in his eyes, and when she decided she didn't like his teasing, a newfound desire surged through her veins.

The smirk playing on his lips sent ripples of electricity coursing through her body, igniting a fire within her that demanded to be unleashed. Suddenly, she was no longer content to be the passive recipient of pleasure; she hungered for the taste of control.

So she grabbed onto the back of his head and tugged his hair, a surprised gasp falling from his lips as he saw a new intensity in her eyes.

"Stop gloating," she demanded, and then she devoured him, tasting his mouth all over again. Her kisses became bold and commanding, exploring every inch of his willing body with an intensity that left him breathless. He could sense a shift in the dynamics between them, a change that intrigued and aroused him in equal measure. Her sudden desire to take control awakened a thrilling sense of submission within him.

Then she pulled away and quickly took off her jacket before throwing it away somewhere in the room. Her shirt followed to the floor, and Spencer watched in anticipation as she unhooked her bra before she was left half-naked sitting on his lap. He gently reached out as his fingertips danced along her skin, burning wherever it touched.

He softly placed a kiss on the nape of her neck, his arms moving around her body before pulling her closer. "I think we should move to my bedroom."

"Why?"

His brows furrowed at the question as he leaned back. "Because the condoms are there?"

She gazed into the depths of his eyes, searching for the spark of understanding, the glimmer of reciprocation. Her heart beat in synchrony with the rhythm of her breath, both quickened by the anticipation of what was to come. She finally gathered her courage and broke the silence.

"I want to feel you."

His heart beat in tandem with the rhythm of this silent interlude, its pace quickened by the resonance of her words. "...what?"

"I want to feel you. I-I'm on the pill... and I'm clean," she added. "Are you?"

He slowly nodded, trying to catch any glimpse of doubt in her eyes but was met with none. "Well, yes, but are you sure? I can just go back there and get—"

"Do you not want to?"

A disbelief sound emitted from his chest. "Y/n, I'd be a fool to decline such an offer."

"Then let me feel you."

He pondered for a moment, wondering if this was a wise discussion. But as he studied her face, he couldn’t help but giving in, slowly giving her a deep, aching kiss, completely enthralled by the softness of her lips.

"Alright," he murmured against her mouth. "You'll feel every inch of me."

"Good." She gently got off his lap and undid her pants before sliding them down her legs, her underwear following along while her eyes never looked away from his face. "Now take off all your clothes."

It didn't take long for him to obey her command. She watched as he started unbuckling his belt and—how did he manage to make it look so sensual? His shirt came off after, then his loose slacks were thrown away, then his underwear was next to her pile of clothes on the floor. Then he was stark naked and she found herself irresistibly drawn to the allure of his body.

Her eyes traced the lines of his form with a reverence that borders on worship. From the broad expanse of his shoulders to the defined muscles that rippled beneath his skin, muscles that weren't made from working out, but probably made from his constant work on the field. The touch of her gaze caressed the contours of his soft abdomen before lingering between his legs.

His length laid heavily against his stomach and it took a lot of self-control for her not to drool. He was so thick and heavy, it was a sight that evoked a combination of awe, desire, and a profound appreciation for the beauty that lay before her.

"Y/n?" he asked, tilting his head to the side with an amused smirk. Her eyes immediately raised to his face, realizing she had been ogling without care.

There it was again, his infuriating smirk. As her eyes met him, an urge to wipe away the smug look on his face took over her. It was as if an untamed flame had been ignited within her, urging her to take the lead, to embrace her dominance.

She slowly made her way back to him. Once she threw each leg on either side of his thighs, she wasted no time and took his cock in her hand. She raised her hips as she stroked the tip of him between her slick folds, feeling him catch against her tight entrance as she let out an airy gasp.

A strangled moan escaped his lips. "You're so wet."

She smiled and then slowly lowered herself, and finally—finally—felt his girth stretch her. Her gasp was overthrown by the loud groan that left his lips as he entered her, his forehead falling on her shoulder.

"God, I forgot you feel so good," he growled in her ear.

He couldn't express the sensation with better words, it was as if he was stealing her exact thoughts. Their first night together was somehow a blur to her, but now... The burn of him stretching her felt amazing. She had already felt him inside her before, but she wasn't sure she felt as full as she did now. Her body was taking him so eagerly and with nothing else separating them, he felt so deliciously warm and hard she could practically feel his veins pulsing inside her.

She wanted to savor the moment, so she held onto him and silently sat there on his lap. She clenched her thighs on either side of his hips, trying to keep him still while he was buried deep inside of her, her walls twitching around him. Spencer's large calloused palms stroked along her exposed back and down towards her ass as goosebumps began to appear on her skin. Evidentially bored from the lack of movement, he tried to move her body, which she simply smiled in return.

"Stop doing that," she whispered and relaxed into his touch, nuzzling against his collarbone as she pressed chaste kisses along his chest.

"You're... not moving."

"You have to be patient."

A moan was caught up in his throat as her lips sent shivers all around his body. "You're such a tease."

"And you shouldn't have started being so cocky." She leaned into his ear, fingers running up the span of his chest. "Do you want me to move?" He desperately nodded as a wicked grin formed on her lips. "Then beg for it."

She felt him throbbing inside her, a heavy breath escaping from his chest. His hands hesitantly gripped onto her hips, unsure of himself. "Pl–please."

"Please what?"

"Please, move your hips," he pleaded, his voice taut in his throat, his muscles involuntarily contracting beneath her.

"Well, since you asked so nicely."

She then planted her knees on the cushions on either side of him and started to ride him in earnest, watching in awe as his mouth fell open and he truly wailed out his pleasure. He had never been quiet during their intimate moments, but this was loud, even for him. She was immersed in the symphony of his voice, an intoxicating melody that stirred her own desires and ignited a fire within.

And so she moved at a more rapid pace and another moan escaped his lips, followed by a soft whimper. His voice, unapologetically loud, became a source of empowerment and validation. Every passionate utterance reminded her that she was the catalyst of his pleasure. She found herself intoxicated by the knowledge that she had the power to elicit such a fervent response from him, to bring him to the brink of ecstasy and beyond.

Spencer's mind was numb, the tiredness he felt earlier seeped away from his body, replaced by a desperate need. It felt so good to be buried so deep inside her as he watched her bounce up and down so effortlessly. She was so warm, so soft... it was too much for him to bear. His eyes drew heavy as he watched, slack-jawed, hypnotized by her hips, helplessly lost in her rhythm as his hips rutted upward gently to meet hers at every fall.

"I can't—" Spencer growled as she suddenly reached up her body to squeeze her breasts while moving on top of him, the sight making him tremble. He watched as she pinched and tugged at her nipples while her hips jolted at a steady rhythm. Her name fell from his lips softly, barely above a whisper.

A coy smile stretched along her mouth. "What's wrong, Spencer?"

"S-stop." He stammered, trying to collect himself as he tried to ignore the throb between his legs. "I won't be able to last long if y-you—"

She grabbed onto his shoulders at his words and quickened her pace. "I'm not slowing down. You're close, aren't you?"

He nodded helplessly.

"Then come for me."

He leaned back and looked into her eyes. "B-But you haven't—"

"I said," she demanded, bouncing along his cock. "Come for me."

He was barely holding on. It wasn't that he didn't want to reach his high, just not like this nor this quick, but it seemed she had other plans for him and she was relishing in the power it gave her. She gently wrapped her fingers around his throat, watching his reaction.

His eyes widened with a mix of surprise and desire as the rhythm of their bodies heightened. She watched as he surrendered willingly to her every whim, his own desire mirrored in his eyes. Then her grip tightened and her touch was no longer gentle and yielding. He marveled at her newfound confidence, her eyes ablaze with a commanding presence that left him both awestruck and surrendered.

Her voice, once soft and submissive, now dripped with confidence and dominance. "I know you want to," she whispered, her lips grazing along his mouth. "Be a good boy and come for me."

He whimpered at her words but she could still feel him hanging onto the last thread of self-control that he had. She gripped his throat tighter and leaned into his ear.

"If you won't come, then I'll make you," she whispered, rolling his earlobe between her teeth gently before she intentionally squeezed her inner walls around him, strangling his cock in a vice grip as she rode him with renewed vigor.

It was enough for him to let go, his teeth latching onto the curve of her neck as he let out a crude hiss, a pleasurable moan coursing through him as he frantically jutted his narrow hips up to meet her brutal thrusts. She finally let go of her grip and cradled his head against her chest while she continued to bounce on his lap. Her legs were starting to ache with the strain, but she hardly felt it over the rush.

Moments after his body seized, his body lurched and shook with every spurt, a hoarse cry forced from his throat with each spasm. She willed her hips to slow to a lazy grind, ignoring the way her body screamed at her for it. But the sensation to reach her own pleasure was consuming her and she began to roll her hips, trying to focus on the sensation of his cock hitting the same spot each time.

Then she gasped, catching her off guard when she felt him thrusting his hips up into her, he was flinching from his release but seemed so desperate to please. "Let me do it, I want to feel you come."

She melted instantly, peppering grateful kisses all over his face. Then he slid in and out of her with ease, his release making it wet and slippery, in the best way.

"Spence," she gasped in surprise as each thrust had his cock dragging against her inner walls perfectly, her mouth open in a constant moan as she bounced on his lap. "Oh, my god. Yes, yes, yes."

Maybe this was why he liked having her on top of him so much. He marveled at the intricate dance of limbs and the exquisite weight of her form against his own. Her presence, so close yet so tenderly apart, sent a rush of sensations cascading through him. From his vantage point, he could admire the grace of her profile, the gentle sweep of her hair cascading over her shoulder, the delicate curve of her neck inviting the soft brush of his lips.

And as his eyes traveled down her body, he could see their bodies intertwining into one. He watched as he moved into her, leaving rings of her slickness and the evidence of his own release around the base of his cock. The crude sound of her slick walls squelching around him rang in his ears, and he continued thrusting his hips against the same spot inside her, focusing his movements as he worked her toward her release.

She could feel the familiar sensation in her stomach and she found herself clutching onto him tighter, her nose scrunching as she felt herself on the cusp of her climax. "Faster, Spence."

His movements became unrelenting, each thrust had him hitting that sweet spot and soon there was nothing she could do but let out a loud cry, her chest heaving as she tried to focus on the pleasure that was slowly taking over her rational thoughts, the coil inside her desperately close to breaking.

"Fuck," She gasped, her hands reaching over to hold his shoulders, nails leaving red lines in their wake as she felt herself teetering on the edge of her bliss. "I-I'm gonna—"

Then a loud moan ripped from her lungs as she felt her climax surge through her, her body trembling as he continued his harsh pace, hips clapping loud and furious into her. Then he pressed his lips onto hers, swallowing all her pleasant screams as he held onto her. His forceful thrust and sudden control over her had her sob against his mouth, thighs trembling on either side of his thighs. Her eyes rolled behind her closed lids, making a mess over his hips with how much liquid surged from her body.

She squirmed with a whimper when his hand swept over her back with a pleased, low rumble, his nose and parted lips nuzzling over her neck as she eased down her high. Rhythmic, vibrating purrs ran through him and lured her into relaxation as she panted and threw all of her weight on top of him.

Spencer felt her body relaxing and pulled her close as his thoughts suddenly swirled in a whirlwind of emotions. It was not long ago since the day he met her, yet he found himself inexplicably drawn to her, his heart entangled in a web of enchantment.

He questioned the depth of his emotions. How could such intensity blossom from a single night, into another intense night? It was as if the universe conspired to bring them together again, even if only for a fleeting moment. 

And now he couldn't deny the surge of longing that coursed through his veins, the ache to delve deeper into her world. Thus, he found himself asking, "Stay here for the night."

Her breathing seemed to hitch at his words, her mind going into bewilderment. But then her heart softened as she melted further into his arms. 

Was it foolish to yearn for something more, to desire a continuation of the connection they had forged? It probably was, considering the circumstances they had met. But she couldn't help it. It was just one night, right? She could let herself linger on this bliss for one night. Nothing less, nothing more. So she nodded, giving him her answer. 

"Okay." Then she shifted across his lap and winced at the mess sticking between her legs. "I think I need a shower."

"Yeah," he noted. "We should probably wash ourselves."

She pulled away and gazed into his eyes with a small smile. "Was that an invitation?"

He thought for a while, examining every detail of her face. "Maybe."

Y/n wasn't sure how it happened but he somehow managed to stand himself up with her in his embrace. She wrapped her arms clumsily around his neck for support, gasping at his impulse gesture, her feet dangling on either side of him as she squealed.

"At least give me a warning!"

He grinned as he walked over to the bathroom with her clinging to him as if she weighed nothing.

And at that moment, she felt conflicted, not because he was inviting her to wash off their bodies together, but because truthfully, she wanted it as much as he did. It was the way how laughing with him after something so intense seemed surprisingly natural. It was also the way her mind kept on reminding her of what they did, what they were about to do, and what she was currently feeling, and the latter she had no clue of answering.

Whatever. She would think of it later, she was going to have this moment for one night. For now, she was going to scrub away the smell of sex in the proximity of the man she couldn't keep her hands off, pulling him closer as he finally steadied her back to her feet—kissing him once again underneath the warm spray of water.

She would think of the consequences tomorrow.

>> NEXT PART

.

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[pixelsandpins]

Let's say you see the new Venom movie this weekend. Then you want to read the comics. Reading guides can be very overwhelming. So as a Venomaniac, let me give a broader approach discussing main storylines, what's worth your time, and where I think you should/could start.

80s-90s: Origin, First Villain Run, Transition to Hero

The Alien Suit Saga begins in Amazing Spider-Man #252 (1984) after Peter finds the goo in Secret Wars #8. Then more specific Eddie/Venom shenanigans start in 298-300. Venom's whole origin story can be found in a trade paperback (aka a TPB) called Spiderman: Birth of Venom which also includes issues from other series to fill out the story. Venom continues to be a villain in Spider-Man for awhile, so most of his story up through 1993 is found across Amazing Spider-Man and Web of Spider-Man. There're couple of collections that cover parts of this, but the most complete is Spider-Man Vs Venom. From this era you can also get the trade paperback called Carnage: Born in Blood which covers the arrival and birth of Carnage. A more in depth reading guide will give you these individual issues, and you can find them all in Marvel Unlimited or other online source.

(I'm having a hard time finding what I feel is the optimal link, but these have the information, at least).

Birth of Venom individual issues.

Birth of Carnage individual issues.

These are all very 80s and 90s comics, however, so they require a little bit of fortitude if you've never read comics before. This theme will continue up through Venom's solo work through the 90s.

Venom's solo stuff begins with Venom: Lethal Protector in 1993 (available as a TPB). This is the arc where Eddie moves from villain to hero. It also introduces the first symbiote spawn and a few other major lore elements.

Up through the rest of the decade there are A LOT of 3-4 issue mini-runs starting with Venom: Funeral Pyre. You can knock each of them out in an evening, and they provide some details about character and story. You absolutely don't have to read most. There are some key ones, though, where the lore carries through:

Venom: The Madness brings value not in lore, but in narrative. It shows the way Eddie and the other physiologically affect each other. It's also just really good.

Venom: Separation Anxiety separates Eddie and the symbiote, exploring the changes in their relationship and deals with more spawn. This one is a major influence on the first movie.

Carnage: Unleashed gives more development to Carnage and sets a story beat up for later.

Go back to Spider-Man for Planet of the Symbiotes. This expands on symbiote lore and is a key element of Eddie and the others relationship. You can read it as individual issues or as a TPB. This one has a major influence on Venom 1 and 3.

Venom: Sinner Takes All introduces She-Venom, traumatizes Anne, and sets some later lore hooks for story.

Venom: The Hunger expands on the brain eating/addiction and introduces the chocolate substitute. They also hold hands at the movies, and I think that's super important, personally.

Venom: Seed of Darkness is one of the lesser priority ones but does provide some interesting Eddie backstory.

Spider-Man: The Venom Agenda sets up some new story and lore beats for the Venom/Spider-Man relationship.

Venom: Finale the symbiote temporarily dies, and it sets up narrative for future comics.

If you've never read comics before, this whole era might be a difficult starting place. Mostly because the ethos of comics have changed, and it can be harder to connect with material from the 80s and 90s. It's not bad, it's just different. It's kind of essential narrative and lore establishment, however. So either accept the challenge or come back to it later and accept you'll have gaps in the lore. If you've read pre-2000s comics before, you'll be fine. Read from the beginning. It's a riot.

Venomnibus 1 and 2 covers this era. The first bout of Epic Collections also end here.

1999-2010

There's a bit of a tricky transition here over the change in millennia as Venom goes back to being a villain for a bit, joining the Sinister Six. Because of this most of the story moves back to Spider-Man. The problem is: there's major story shit introduced, and there isn't a collected edition that covers this era properly. You'll require a reading guide or accept the lore gap.

Peter Parker: Spider-Man #9-10 covers the return of the symbiote to Eddie.

Amazing Spider-Man #19 features the death of Anne Weying, Eddie's ex-wife and, at one time, temporary host.

In 2003 they start expanding the Venom story again, in earnest, but he's still an antagonist. The first solo run here is Venom Vol 1 by Daniel Way. This is collected into 4-5 trades, also appears in Venomnibus 3, and consists of 4 arcs. This one never got narratively resolved, but Wolverine is there. So that's something. This is probably the most skippable of the "big series" however you could use this as a starting place. It's early enough that you won't be missing the second phase of lore, and it's a more "modern" story. However, it's not the strongest of the runs, so it might set the wrong expectations.

Spectacular Spider-Man: The Hunger adds an element of maliciousness to Venom's motivations. It's moderately essential narrative but very divisive.

Venom/Carnage is pretty good, introduces Toxin, and transitions us into the next narrative beat.

The Symbiote and Eddie Part Company, Scorpion!Venom Begins

Here is where Venom becomes a proper villain again, only...he's a protagonist? A PROTAGONIST VILLAIN, YOU SAY?

Marvel Knights: Spider-Man #5-12 are often left off reading guides, but they transition the symbiote from Eddie to Angelo Fortunato to Mac Gargan.

Gargan, as Venom, then joins the Thunderbolts for a while. This is in Thunderbolts #110-127 and continues in Dark Avengers

Dark Reign: Sinister Spider-Man is the story of Mac Gargan fuckin' around as Venom/Dark Spider-Man.

I'm of the opinion you can pretty much skip the entire Gargan era, and you won't lose much going forward. But it's also...kind of a fun read? And it does expand on what the influence the symbiote has on their host looks like.

Venomnibus 3 also collects much of this, but not all. Marvel Knights, Thunderbolts, Dark Avengers, and Dark Reign are all available as TPS/Omnis

Also skip Venom: Dark Origin, for now. It sort of rewrites Eddie in a way that didn't really stick going forward.

Right at the end here, Carnage gets a few more series and Eddie as Anti-Venom is first introduced in Spider-Man. Anti-Venom barely shows up, at first, but he persists going forward. There's no dedicated collection to the era, but the primary comics are collected in Spider-Man: New Ways to Die, and Anti-Venom: New Ways to Live.

2010->today

Flash Thompson/Agent Venom Begins

Here, the government strips the other from Mac and gives it to military vet Flash Thompson

If you start here you're coming in right at the start of the next major phase of lore for Venom that covers all the Cool Space Shit. It's a fan favorite and an objectively well-written run, but it's also thematically and narratively a bit of a turn from all the others. It will also be a really really long time before you see Eddie as Venom. So just keep that in mind going forward.

After a bit of Spider-Man prologue, this kicks off properly in 2011 with Venom Vol 2 by Remender and Bunn. The Spider Island crossover as part of this run goes in tandem with Amazing Spider-Man. You can use a guide to sort these issues or get the TPB or Epic Collection that covers them.

Right in the middle of Venom Vol 2, Flash joins the Secret Avengers in issue #23. This is the sort of "official" intro of the Agent Venom iteration specifically. You'll also see this era tie in to the Minimum Carnage crossover. It's an okay read, but doesn't leave a lot of lasting impact on the story. You can skip it, for now.

Agent Venom also joins the Thunderbolts from issue #1-23 (Way and Soule). This is skippable.

Superior Spider-Man #22-25 is the pretty darn Superior Venom story and coves the gap between the end of the Agent Venom run and the beginning of the upcoming space-based stories. It's an an odd comic, though, in that very quickly changes the shape of Flash's relationship with the symbiote, but that relationship holds going forward.

Flash Goes to Space

His story continues in the Guardians of the Galaxy run from 2014, joining in issue #14. The most important part of his tenure with Guardians, however is issue #21-23. This is where we see the symbiote/Klyntar homeworld.

He rejoins the Guardians for 20 issues in the next run starting in 2015, but it's skippable.

These are both available as their own omnis or TPB collections.

Venom: Space Knight is sick as fuck and my favorite with Flash. A lot of good, juicy alien lore.

Eddie Becomes Venom, Again

Before Eddie goes back to his boyfriend, he spends some time as Toxin. The bulk of this is covered in the 2015 Carnage run by Conway.

Venom Vol 3 by Costa begins in 2016, and we see the transition from Flash to Lee Price briefly then finally back to Eddie. This is my personal favorite major run. It currently comes in 4 TPB. Starting here gives you street level Venom again but does drop you deep shit into the lore. You can one-hundred percent start here, though, extremely easily because they treat it as a soft reboot.

Within this run you'll see crossovers for Venom Inc. and Poison X. These expand on the overall story by introducing Mania and the Poisons, the latter of which are lead-ins for the first Venomverse comics. You can skip the Venomverse storylines, for now, but they are a lot of fun.

First Host is a really great mini-run in 2018 that talks about the true first host of the symbiote and introduces Sleeper. It's available as a TPB.

The Cates run (vol 4) (also has Bunn on it) begins in 2018, and it's very very good. It's where the character of Knull comes from, as featured in the new movie. A lot of people start here and have a good time. The way it's narratively constructed, it's beginner friendly, but you're sort of coming in at the end of Eddie's arc.

This also involves the Absolute Carnage and King in Black crossover events which are collected in a TPB/Omni.

This is also all collected in the recent Cates and Stegman Venomnibus.

The current Ewing run (vol 5) ends in November (cries), but you CANNOT START HERE. Without the previous Cates run, at minimum, the current run is missing vital story and lore information. You will be so lost, at first, that it simply won't be fun.

You'll note I've skipped a number of side runs including a few Carnage runs and Toxin. Slot them in if you want additional lore and story, but you can get by without them if it all becomes too much.

The lore drops that appear in Spider-Man in between solo runs might seize you up for a moment, but when necessary, the solo comics will catch you up as needed.

The past five years have also seen a handful of retro-runs that go back in time to tell stories from Eddie's early time with Venom. You could slot them in with the other 90s mini-runs, but I think they're more fun after you've been reading for awhile.

A new run is starting in December called All New Venom where Eddie will no longer be the host. Who will? We don't know! The way it's being advertised, I'm going to make a guess it ends up being a passable starting point for new readers. I'll know when I get my issue #1.