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darkdemeter · 9 months ago

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BY THEIR LEASH

⚤ Wanda Maximoff x Werewolf! Female Reader Mafia stuff — mention of death — alcohol consumption (like a lot) — 18+ SMUT, MINORS DNI — Porn with plot? — lesbian sex — threesome — may be some grammar errors and such — slight bondage — little bit of muscle/stomach riding if you squint your eyes, turn your head that way... — I think that's it? ✎ 4.3k

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An expensive investment. A broad term to use for a werewolf broken in by the system at a young age. But it’s true.

Alexander Pierce, the finance manager and ringleader as a whole, did all he could to break you in, and to say he did is an understatement. He exceeded the limits you once believed you had and once you were ready, he put you out in the field to garner your reputation.

You had no limits. Ruthless in your endeavour to complete whatever task was required of you, prepared to do whatever it took, your peers could only look at you with both fear and admiration.

When all was said and done, you were given your collar, then sold through the underground hub for criminals: the black market.

That’s when you learnt in the span of the few minutes that the auction lasted for, that you were either a trophy to those of the higher class of crime, or a very wanted source of security and war. From black funding operators that had their hand in the military’s pit on the hunt for a war hound, to the gangster overlords who controlled territories in the differing states and countries, requiring some form of high end security, there was a very rapid increase in the price they were each willing to pay.

At a total of twenty-five million, your collar and services were sold to Mr. Tony Stark. From the sleek fit of a light grey, three piece suit and bright pink tie, Stark had a brighter outlook on the window of his underhand activities. He was the type that lounged back in the severity of his criminal dealings.

Unlike his fellow company who each wore darker palette suits of either navy blue or jet black. He stood out for sure as his auburn tinted glasses did little to hide the one question on his mind: Was his money well spent?

Well, to say at the very least, you wouldn’t be here tonight if you weren’t worth every single cent he spent on you three years ago.

Thinking about the memory now, this is a different tone entirely. Dark and neon is how you remember the black market scene, stalls and cube stores with an assortment of supplies anyone in the business would need, whether that be for the amateurs - which were the usual target customers - or the smaller businesses which belonged to small cluster gangs.

The big time runners had designated storehouses to spare where they obtained their supplies, and ran other dealings and hand-offs in and out of private rooms in the clubs.

Here, the scene is warm, lavish and made for those who seek the comfort in living in marble halls and pristine white pillars, short cut grass and elaborate parties such as this one.

“Shit, this party is awfully chipper for someone who died last week,” you huff, eyes scanning the crowd from the smooth, darkly polished bar, which you incidentally found very comfortable to lean back on when told for the hundredth time, “Just sit tight, just a little bit longer.”

You didn’t have the time nor patience to sit around getting older by the damn minute. Thankfully, Tony put his card behind the bar so that meant an endless river of drinks. Because you needed the alcohol. A lot.

Not a moment too late is your glass refilled with your refreshment. And not too soon after is it halfway downed.

“Please, Y/N,” sighs Steve from your right side, arms folded over his chest, navy blue suit straining just a bit too tightly against his body, “have some respect for the Maximoff family. They lost their only male heir to a deal gone wrong. They need our support.”

Your shoulders rise with a particularly deep inhale before falling lax, you swirl the sliver of whiskey left in your glass and with a jerk of your wrist you finish it. Ice rattles in your glass as you shimmy it, indicating you need another refill and pronto.

“People live, people die. You cross someone and you get shot in the back. It happens.”

“He was gunned down in the streets with a fucking machine gun, Y/N. You consider that a mere shot in the back?”

You shrug in response to Sam’s question with a pout of your bottom lip. “Pietro thought he was the shit. That’s what got him killed by Rumlow.”

Sam runs a hand over his face, now distressed by the lack of sincerity you show for the grieving family. “For fuck sake…”

In the three years of your loyal work to the Stark family and those of his brotherhood - his allies - your colours shone through immensely to reveal a shining personality. Excluding the fact you’d become something of a playful rogue with the women.

You simply chalk it up to your animal magnetism. Something that leaves them wanting more whenever in the presence of your company.

In fact, that was how Tony came to own unclaimed establishments and clubs in the boroughs, ones he wasn’t able to get his hands on before, but after he had you as a playable card in his hand, you provided club goers the relief of being harassed and drinks being spiked. Territorial take over schemes from rival gangs were second guessed when they saw you watching over the joint.

The after hour visits for your libido were just the perks. But you left a lot of lustful and broken little hearts in the wake of your work.

For a werewolf, you were always assumed to be a means of security, and that much was true. Didn’t mean it excluded you from taking on other odd jobs for the families from time to time. Debt collection, assassinations, tailing and blackmail ops, the list is endless.

When Steve casts a hardened stare your way, you mockingly raise your hands up in surrender.

“Alright, I’ll offer my condolences to the heiress, but I ain’t weeping at her feet for her brother who got himself into that mess because he thought he was too big for his own shoes.”

“Just behave yourself, alright? The last thing we need is the entirety of Europe at war with us.” You roll your eyes and salute the captain. “Yessir.”

You bring the glass rim to your lips and draw a small gulpful of your renewed liquor, the fiery taste rolls over your tongue, you savour it to keep your sanity intact lest you go insane from the waiting. Where was the heiress?

“Well, well, I thought I wouldn’t see any of you again. Especially you.” Your head, as well as those of your group, direct their gaze to the new voice. The corners of your lips twitch up and you flash her a wolfish grin, chin tilting up slightly in your relaxed position against the bar. You looked like a cat happily laying in the sun.

“Miss Romanoff,” each of the men greeted with a nod of their heads. You, however, pat your thigh as an invitation for her to sit. “I had work to do the next morning.”

“Mm, that’s what you tell the other girls, I’m sure.” You clap a hand to your chest with a wince. “You wound me, sweetheart. If I had the chance, I would have stayed.”

She hums but it’s obvious she doesn’t believe you by the rise in her brow.

Natasha Romamoff is a hard fish to catch. One of the more established families that control practically the entirety of Europe, alongside the Maximoff family, the two were partners and crafting an empire strong enough to stand on their own without any dire need for support.

Yes, her family had prior dealings with the brotherhood. The Starks, Wilsons, Barnes and Rogers and more, whether to collaborate on a bigger criminal project to the smaller portioned deals. Smuggled goods and weapons, blackmail intel deliverance, international bribery to keep the feds off your backs.

But she never committed to joining forces.

You suppose it’s a good power move on her part. She doesn’t have to abide by any of the family creeds, in the end, you’re all loose ends that may potentially be severed if need be. She had the ball in her court and the mysterious Maximoff heiress.

Even your animal magnetism wasn’t enough to charm her into joining forces with Stark and his powerhouse of families, but they were surely enough to charm her into a wild one night stand.

But as you told her. You had work to do. And now she appears to spurn you with her eyes and cruel words, but still entertains your flirtatious advances and indulges the empty space of your thigh.

For a well respected mob boss such as herself, she definitely liked to play it risky; dressing included.

Last you saw her, she was dressed in a more professional manner. But here at this funeral party, whatever the fuck it was, she chose to wear a black, spaghetti strap cocktail dress that’s short enough to be skimming the mid of her thigh. The slit riding the dress up higher is just plain dangerous.

She’s facing you, back arched and arse resting on the cliff of your knee. Your clawed hand supports her at the small of her back. Her perfume is strong and complimenting, a sweet bouquet of lavender which rolls over the exposed tops of her breasts from her even more exposed neck. Her plump, red lips move in a way that’s hypnotic. “So I hear you’re going to be a bargaining chip for Wanda Maximoff.”

“Where’d you hear that?” you scoff with a flick of your chin.

“I have spies who whisper to me,” she answers with a swift quirk of her brow.

Of course she overheard the news. She then chuckles softly, and all eyes watch her with a level of suspicion. “She won’t take any deal you offer her. She’s determined to steer clear of your little gang wars over in the states.”

“Rumlow killed her brother and he has bases around our territories. Wouldn’t she appreciate the extra hands in catching the rat?” Bucky poses the question with a dark brow angled high and clenched jaw, the muscles in his cheeks flex harder when Natasha offers no affirmative response; a mark to hopefully land you in the door and good graces with the heiress.

“You really think she wants a guard dog?”

“Hey,” you growl with a wrinkle of your nose, fangs on the precipice of baring at her. How she used the term in a condescending manner made the fur beneath your skin bristle. Sam claps a hand to your shoulder, somehow able to sense the seething anger within you.

“We just want to help. Offer support for her loss and bring Rumlow down.”

“No. You want a foothold in Europe. And I’m sorry but…” She looks you up and down, drinking in the sight of you and you know she can see you without your clothes on. “You’re not going to cut it, babe.”

She turns her body to make her getaway but you don’t let her slip away just like that. She gasps and looks to you with a furrowed glare when your arm circles her waist and tugs her back until she’s flush against you, the men in your company watch with trepidation of your next course of action.

“I will cut it because whether she wants to admit it or not, she needs us.”

Natasha’s eyes, true to her fashion, darken with a challenge. “You’re wasting your time. She’ll get Rumlow herself.”

“And if Rumlow plans to get her first?” For a moment you see the doubt cross her face. “That’s where she needs me.”

“Tony Stark.” Each of the men turn to the voice behind them and their once cool and collected selves turn rigid, nervous under the power one woman can hold so absolute, her green eyes scan each of their faces before they land on you.

You finally look and meet her stare, still holding Natasha against you even as she tries to push away from you.

“Unhand her,” the woman commands with an accented tongue.

At first, you wanted nothing more than to play this out a little, see what makes this woman tick. But both Tony and Steve look at you, silent in their order, you sigh heavily and release Natasha. Once you do, she wastes no time in joining Wanda’s side with a bow of her head.

“I hear that you wished to have an audience with me.”

Wanda is the sole survivor of this ordeal. Her parents were assassinated two years ago and now her brother was killed. This is the stressed matter at hand, her empire could crumble to the ground, all that hard work put into the grave because she’s being so fucking stubborn with this deal.

“I will not sign my family, nor any of my shares, to Stark Industries. Enough have I done to keep you out of the hands of law enforcement. I will handle Rumlow myself.”

This isn’t how any of you hoped this would go. The grief has made her stronger than before. It wasn’t exactly you were waiting for the chance for her to have a weak spot and try your luck, but you all had thought she might even be at least a little desperate for extra help.

Natasha’s face says it all: I told you so. You can only roll your eyes and resume with what you’re doing. Refilling your empty glass with more liquor. You’ve yet to scratch the surface of being tipsy.

“Miss Maximoff, we only wish to help you. All we ask in return is that you grant us some territory to work with for our trade deals as payment, for support lent to you to catch Rumlow.” Steve is calm in his approach to reason with her, but if anything, her raised hand indicates her refusal, unswayed by the honey of his words. Your tongue rolls the rounds of your mouth, each time measured by your impatience as you slowly circle around the dealings table, unable to find yourself comfortable against the stiffened wood of your seat.

“You do realise that you’re asking for more than your so-called ‘support’ is actually worth.” You blink several times, the blow of it a downright attack on their egos.

“No, I want something more.”

“And I want alcohol to affect me so I can sleep well at night,” you mutter to the glassy rim against your bottom lip. Wanda’s eyes flicker to you, bearing down a sinister glare. “Excuse me?”

“And we were just about to suggest that very thing!” Tony interjects with a grin, eager to utilise his card, his Ace Wolf as he liked to call you. He gestures to where you stand now at the table’s other end.

She directs her eyes to look you up and down slowly, gaze polished with keen observation. She hums thoughtfully before she looks to Natasha.

“E atât de bună?”

The red haired chuckles and sitting back in her chair, chest heaving with a breathy sigh, she nods.

“Exceptional de bun. Cu o limbă ca asta…”

Bucky shifts in his seat, a hollow whistle on his lips over the exchange of heated words, and you flash a grin at both women. The words of foreign tongue, however, pass over the heads of the other men, their eyes looking to either you or Bucky only to be answered with a shrug, but knowing that look in your eyes, they can take a good guess as to what’s being discussed.

With another passing frame of time, both women pull away from their engrossed conversation. “I’ve been made aware that you intend to bargain your wolf to me,” she says, once again letting her sight fall on you.

“And if that is the case, and what I have been told…” She trails off momentarily, finding to correct herself in the midst of something you can smell very clearly on her - or rather between her legs. “Then I’ll accept.”

Each man present in the room is given pause to revel in the stun before them. Wanda Maximoff, the heiress of Europe’s biggest family, accepts their deal. All at the price of you.

“You’ll have your answer by tomorrow, Mr Stark,” Wanda says, standing from her chair, she beckons you to follow with a kink of her fingers. One by one and following in unison, their eyes turn to you as you shuffle back on your heel with shrug your shoulders and fanged grin.

“Animal magnetism, boys.”

Wanda’s heels bound a steady beat as she wanders over to the foot of her bed, making an elegant show of swaying her hips and drawing your attention to her form. From behind, Natasha slips the dark suit jacket from your shoulders. Tosing it aside, her hands play the form of an enchanting guide, ushering you forward while tracing the hidden curves of your muscles.

“As per courtesy, Miss Maximoff wants the first claim.”

You huff in reply, “And you?”

Natasha hums softly and plucks your belt loose from your trousers. “I have you two, I won’t go unsatisfied tonight.”

Tilting your head to view Wanda who stands idle, fingers playing with the lining of her dress above her breasts, you stalk towards her, her back arching under your touch with a breathless whimper, you trail the zip of her gown down slowly. Falling around her ankles as a fabricated halo, she turns suddenly and your lips collide together in hunger.

She sinks down to the bed, laying back until her hair fans around her, spreading her legs apart. That feverish hunger boils within your blood, running it hold and thick, the fur beneath your skin bristled in your excitement as you take care to roll the sleeves of your skirt to your elbows. To your knees, you’re brought to the sight of her soaked underwear, the dark patch evidently giving away just how badly she required you between her quivering thighs. Natasha’s hands rake through the length of your hair and scratches at your scalp, earning a low purr of pleasure to rumble in your chest.

You lean forward and all it takes is a single inhale and you’re let loose of your chain of control, claws shearing the fabric that dares to confine her awaiting cunt any longer. She gasps upon contact, your lips smothering her moistened, slick lips and she gives a deep-noted moan, arching her hips up, your hands wrap around her thighs to drag her to you more.

She tastes like the fine wines of heaven, a forbidden savour on the tongue that which you greedily lap, your eyes close as you succumb to the wolf’s hunger, tongue lapping heavily at her clit.

She whines and cries, breath hot and light in her lungs as her nails rip into the sheets to no damaging avail. Natasha hovers above, watching on in her own longing and desire. She dips a hand beneath the hem of her dress, aside she pushes her own soaked panties and delicately dances her fingers over the sensitive bulb with a keening breath you hear catch in her throat.

Natasha leans down low until the scape of her breasts brushes against your shoulder blade, lips a tantalising thing and moving sinfully to mouth, “I’m touching myself to you.”

“Watching you please her is making me so wet, Wolf.”

“Make us both cum.”

You growl deeply and Wanda’s body visibly shudders in response to the wild vibrations that course through her abdomen, shaking her whole and off centre, her hips begin to jerk as she nears her climax. Both women mingle in their euphoria and your own core comes to life, sparked by the noises they make in unison, an orchestra of pleasure. Suckling and licking at her core, she cries out and the lips of her pussy shrink around absence and she sighs in bliss. In tandem, Natasha moans loudly from behind and you feel her body press against you as her hand works hard as fucking her fingers into her cunt, the sound of slick and skin melding together addicting.

“You weren’t… kidding, Nat,” she says between laboured breaths.

Slowing your advances, you finally pull away with a sigh, her juices glistening on your lips. Wanda looks at you and her cheeks flush at the sight before Natasha’s other hand forces your attention to her. Her lips connect with yours and her tongue darts over the bottom of yours, tasting Wanda with a delicious sound that you swallow.

After she pulls from you, she then shares a look with Wanda and the two of them grin. “Shall we reward her?”

“I think she’s been a good girl.”

Oh, how the wolf loves that. Praise for a job well done you can hardly suppress your proud smirk. Buu before you can do much else, Natasha pushes you and your knees are knocked out from beneath you, Wanda having rolled to the side only to follow Natasha’s lead as they both halfway straddle you, otherwise keeping you pinned to the mattress below.

Together they peel away your dress pants, giggling and muttering to one another in that alluring tongue, your mind in a haze to catch barely a sentence shared between them but you gained awareness of what they intended when they each stroked their tongues over your stimulated pearl.

“‘Sh–shit!” you hiss sharply and your hips buck, the two women giggling at the sight of you writhing.

They give no further warning as they duck down. Their mouths work together against your clit, suckling it to draw pathetic whines from that deep part inside you dare not let anyone see, their voices trespass the air with betraying praises that speak only of teases and their tongues lap at the slick of your pussy that clenches at the attention. Your hands grapple the sheets and tear hard, the damage unnoted and not cared for.

“Girls– fuck!” you groan at the rise in your core, oh so ready to reach that climactic end that you have been denied for the past several weeks. It’s not too long that your first release has you whining, the nois a higher pitched sound that does slowly in broken notes as you cum, the girls moaning and allowing their lips to graze one another as they lapped and sucked you.

Wanda is the first to make eye contact and move towards you, her leg swoops over to fully straddle your stomach, in her hands is your belt. She rips the centre of your shirt apart, buttons flying to discarded corners of the room to be mere pebbles of disregard.

You see the way her eyes drink in the sight of your toned muscles, the pinky tip of her tongue darting over her wet lips.

She adores the way you tilt your head to the side, a curious whine on your lips. “I’ve always wanted something on a leash. May I?”

You don’t particularly care for the way her question hits a mark submerged deeper into your heart, reaching for something you denied was there. Dignity. Usually people just took from you and you came to accept that. Expect it.

You nod up at her and she fixes the belt around the column of your neck, the leather cool against the blazing heat of your skin, but something inside you flutters. Quickly, you push it down.

Natasha moves into the same position behind Wanda, your larger size very much able to accommodate both of them, Natasha trails light kisses along Wanda’s shoulder as she fastens the belt and gives an experimental tug. A soft grunt hitches in your throat in retort and you flash her a grin, the sharpened points of your fangs perched against your bottom lip.

“The wolf never let me tame her, Miss Maximoff.”

“Oh, she just needed some reassurance,” Wanda replies gently with a smile. For a moment, you wanted to believe her words were sincere. Your hands run along Wanda’s thighs until they reach her hips and with a roll forward, she grinds her pussy against your torso, feeling the defined muscles press and tense against her, bringing her to moan under her breath. Natasha drapes a hand over your own to roll and pinch Wanda’s swollen clit, her eyes finding yours.

“Watch her,” she commands breathlessly and you do so, amber glows in fluorescent pulses as Wanda biomes slick with her arousal. The fine artistry of their bodies moving together as they roll and grind against you, you cannot help but reach a hand up, claw catching the thin silk of Wanda’s bra and severing the contraption into two, letting it fall and reveal her plump breasts; her nipples erect.

Wanda circles an arm behind her and behind Natasha’s head, her back arching to the pleasure she becomes lost in, and you purely enjoy the show above, admiring the glow of sweat collecting on their skin, groaning as their slick covers your stomach as they ride you. The hand working Wanda’s clit speeds up and then slows, teasing the heiress, she gives you a sly grin.

“Do that thing with the claws,” she says and Wanda’s eyes open, as if awakening from her bliss and becoming enlightened with wonderment.

“W-what thing?”

“I’ll show you.”

You sit by the bed, elbow propped up on the chair’s arm with a glass in your grasp, imagination lost in the reverie of last night’s events with a smirk carved into your mouth. Both women lay wrapped together, bodies nude and pressed up to each other as they continue to sleep. You surely tired them out.

Thankfully and mostly dressed when Tony came wandering in, the band of his fellow brothers staying just beyond the room’s threshold, though it still didn’t make to hide the snarl creeping up your throat as the sudden intrusion. You take a sip of your drink as Tony scans the room, gaze flickering between the two women and you who bares an illuminated glare at him.

“What the hell happened last night?”

“We got her affirmative answer on the deal,” you answer with a raise of your glass in cheers before downing the last of your drink.

THANKS FOR READING!

✎ a note from the author, Long overdue, finally knocking this one out before it gets retired to permanent draft status ughhhh... *proceeds to fall face first in tired raccoon*

on this issue's taglist, we've got: @alexawynters @alyciaddict @simpforlizzie @literaturedog @maladaptive-daydreamz @mathxa @blackbirdv98

#headlinesxcomics publishing #female reader #mafia au #wanda maximoff x reader #natasha romanoff x reader #werewolf reader #wanda maximoff smut #natasha x reader #natasha romanoff x you #wanda maximoff x you #wanda x reader smut #wanda x werewolf smut #natasha x werewolf smut #wanda maximoff fic #wanda x werewolf! reader #wanda x reader #wanda maximoff

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starrystella85 · 10 months ago

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Home Sweet Home Au (image and Au by: @MissMio)

Since the day you left that hell scape of a toy factory known as Playtime Co. you may have brought some stowaways with you, specifically Dogday, Catnap, Kissy, Huggy, Poppy, you get the idea. The human toy experiments that Playtime Co. created from their insane and sadistic imagination, honestly what were they thinking when they did this, anyways you took them home with you to your giant mansion in the woods, that your family owned thanks to not only the money you had made at Playtime Co. while it was still in operation, but because your family owned a huge marketing company that made millions. What was it named? Safe Heaven Toys LLC, funny really that your life revolved around toys.

On the drive home cause you had to make multiple trips during the night so no one would see the monstrosities that were once human in the back of your truck, you pulled into the driveway with the last of the toys, and as soon as you step inside Dogday and Catnap are the first to greet you.

"Welcome home Angel!" The orange stuffed dog said as his tail wagged violently through the air, his tone upbeat and energetic.

"Savior. . .welcome." The purple cat said in a more sleepy tone, but nonetheless excited to see you as his tail snaked it's way around your hips.

"hey guys. . .ugh. . ." You said to them before almost collapsing from the amount of sleep and sustenance you were deprived of, you were lucky that Carnap still had his tail wrapped around your hips to make sure you wouldn't fall face first.

"You need. . .rest now. . .Savior." Catnap stated and honestly you couldn't have agreed more. And so you were brought upstairs to the master bedroom, your room and placed on your king sized bed. As soon as you hit the mattress you pass out immediately, out like a damn light. It would take at least a week before you can recover from all the bullshit that you when through or so the toys thought. Apparently you only need like three days of sleep and a large portion of food, but other than that you were good.

Everyday for the next three days the toys would check on you, making sure that you were alright and well provided for, then just like that you were back on your feet ready to start the day. You've never felt *this* peaceful before, actually you've never felt *this* peaceful a day in your life since you were always moving and on the go, but it felt nice and finally having some company thanks to the living toys you didn't feel as lonely as you originally did before they came into your life.

"Angel how are you feeling now?" Dogday asks you know he's just doing it out of concern for you, he was always a sweet one, possessive? Maybe, but definitely sweet.

"I'm alright Dogday, I've just been doing one to many things that I crashed." You replied back to him, easing his worries, still there's a small glint in his eyes that say otherwise. "I'm being honest Dogday I'm fine." You told him as you began to scratch behind his ears making his foot do the weird moving thing. It was adorable to see and you couldn't help but scratch harder and harder which caused his tail to start thumping against the floor, causing a giggle to come out of your lips. Hearing your soft voice and fits of laughter caused a deep crimson blush to spread across Dogday's face. If he was given the chance he could listen to you all day, cause something about your voice just makes his heart flutter. Unfortunately the moment was short lived cause Catnap having a long ass tail like he does managed to snatch you up and drag you away from the loving pup that was Dogday.

"CATNAP!!! 💢" Yup Dogday was pissed as soon as you were stolen away from him. He tried searching all of the mansion but the mansion was to big and had one too many rooms that Catnap could use to hide, so the poor angry orange puppy gave up, but he swore if he saw that cat again he was going to teach him a lesson about stealing *HIS* angel away from him. Meanwhile Catnap and taken you to the more quiet areas of the house, mainly the ones you didn't have any use for and was just kinda sitting there gathering dust, except for a room that Catnap made to be his nesting spot. The room had a bunch of mattresses, blankets, pillows, and other soft plush-like materials he could find, half of them belonging to you, and the other half you don't know where in gods name he got it from. Probably stole it or something.

"hi Catnap." You said to the large purple cat as he looked at you while holding you within his arms. A faint purr came from his throat as his ears flicked, indicating that he acknowledges you.

"Savior. . ." He says. Ever since you saved him from, what would have been an unfortunate accident if you didn't intervene, was his near death encounter with 1006, and while he knows that he'll always be somewhat loyal to the prototype, he'll mostly be loyal to you just like, if more, the prototype.

Later you were wondering around aimlessly tell someone hugged you from behind. When you looked up you saw the blue huggable monster himself, Huggy Waggy. He'd changed since he and the other toys left the factory with you, and like Dogday, he was extremely clingy. It also didn't help that fact that whenever he looked at you he gave you this innocent little face as if saying "love me."

#@MissMio #poppy playtime #yandere #Poppy Playtime au #gn reader #SunnyAngel #sleepyangel #fluff

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hannie-dul-set · 29 days ago

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[patience is a virtue…?]. in the over two hundred years that dokyeom has been working as a guardian angel for heaven— cycling through various humans needed proper guidance time after time— never had he met someone so, so—

“hello! my name is dokyeom, and from today on, i will be your guardian angel.”

—so morally problematic.

“oh, it’s alright. i don’t need one.”

that was the first thing you said to him during your first meeting. it still rattles him three, four months into being assigned to you, and throughout these past four months, he’s slowly started to realize exactly why your previous angel resigned.

“ex—excuse me?” dokyeom stammers, and the heavenly halo spotlighting him in the middle of your room flickers a bit, in tune with the flustered twitch of his smile. you’re not even looking at him. you’re sitting cross legged on your desk chair, swinging it back and forth as you pour a hundred percent of your attention into your cell phone. “haha, everyone needs and has a guardian angel, silly! you are one of the special people to actually meet yours!”

special is a stretch. it’s a general rule in the GAORAP (Guardian Angel Operating Rules and Procedures) that no angel may, for whatever reason, materialize in front of their assigned human— except in special cases, where direct contact between angel and assignment is deemed absolutely necessary for the latter’s spiritual growth and development.

in other words, when someone’s strayed too far from the path towards god, heaven has to directly intervene.

“hey.”

his words seemed to have caught your attention.

“catch.”

swoosh!

thwack!

just not in the way he had hoped.

“whoa. holy shit. seems like even angels can get hurt.”

his first meeting with you ended with a phone getting punt straight into his nose. no wonder mingyu looked like he’d gone through hell and back in the six months he’d been assigned to you, and the moment his resignation got approved, it’s like he regained back seventeen years of life, singing praises of hallelujah while skipping out from the management office.

that was because you are way worse than hell. case in point—

“can’t you just— can’t you just talk it out?! ack, stop! stop! he’s already unconscious!”

right now, the nth person you’ve dragged into alleyway simply because you didn’t like the way they were looking at you. dokyeom is stressed. so, so stressed as his words fail once more— bam!— and your fist lands on the nameless victim’s nose again. he winces. he can’t intervene directly. your reformation should start with you after all. but you’ve shown no signs of even wanting to become a better person.

“c’mon, he started it! he glared at me from across the street like he wanted to start a fight! look, he even punched me too!” you let the poor guy fall onto the dirt ridden floor to snatch dokyeom’s hand, press it up to your cheek— your blood grazed cheek, warm and burning— almost like an inferno from hell. “see. it hurts when you touch it here. don’t you have healing powers or some shit?”

dokyeom lets out a squeak and snatches his hand back.

you cackle, turn your wildly grinding face back to the opening mouth of the alley, and start walking away (not without landing a spit on the guy that allegedly tried picking a fight with you).

“gonna stop by the market! you can head home first, mr. angel!”

so much for reformation. this is worse than dealing with a murderous convict. what makes you worse than someone who has committed numerous crimes against humanity, is the fact that you seem to get a kick out of seeing an angel in distress. you seem to enjoy testing just how much of your bullshit he can handle before snapping.

“haha, maybe think twice next time before taking someone’s—”

“please think about the consequences of your actions.”

“where did you get that phone?”

“that’s— that’s trespassing! this is illegal!”

“what…what was your reason for breaking his nose this time?”

it’s fine. this is fine. he can handle all of this. he was trained for this very thing. you should become a positive person who is considerate of others, his mentor had told him on the day of his promotion. he’s so, so patient. he’s the embodiment of patience. that virtue is literally imbibed into his very being. one day, he’d be able to get you to do something good. it doesn’t have to be grand. it doesn’t have to be virtuous.

but if he keeps trying, if he could just stop you from acting out just once, then the rest will follow.

maybe his words will work this time. maybe you’ll—

“what the fuck did you just say to me, you prick? hey, get over here! i’m gonna kick your— whoa!”

nevermind.

“hey what the fuck, angel, what are you doing?! dokyeom! put me the fuck down!”

no amount of coaxing or convincing can stop you from succumbing to your violent impulses. nothing. “stop squirming,” he grunts. you hang over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. your fists hammer against his back as he walks a set of stairs that lead the way down. he skips a few. you let out a sharp yelp. “if i drop you, you might just end up straight to hell at this rate.”

“let me go! hey! are you even allowed to do this?!” sure, he isn’t supposed to intervene directly, but 1 john 3:18 reads: “let us not love with words or tongue but with actions and in truth.” actions speak louder than words— if words fail, then he’d just have to pick you up and stop you from doing wrong himself.

#prompt: dokyeom + angel #i'm starting to think i made this activity just to give myself an excuse to pull out the dumbest shit out of my ass.#and pretend it's literature #dokyeom x reader #seokmin x reader #lee seokmin x reader #dokyeom x you #seokmin x you #lee seokmin x you #svt x reader #seventeen x reader #svt x you #svt fanfic #seventeen fanfic #svt scenarios #seventeen scenarios #dokyeom au

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astroboots · 2 years ago

Text

Every You Every Me #8

COLLABORATED WITH @THIRSTWORLDPROBLEMSS

Pairing: Miguel O'Hara x female reader

Summary: You embark upon 'a Cosmic Masterplan to survive' - Phase one

Word count: 6,600

Series Masterlist | Spiderverse Masterlist | Astroboot’s Masterlist | thirstworldproblemss’ Masterlist

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Ten days have passed since your home was blown to a million pieces.

Ten days since you found out that there are multiple universes.

Ten days since you learned that your universe—the world as you know it—has less than three months left before it implodes unless you can somehow find a way to save it… and yourself.

Despite the fantastical nature of those events, you find yourself returning back to your everyday life, just as mundane and ordinary as ever, cosmic murder attempts notwithstanding.

The helicopter crash was featured across the front page of The Times by morning, and apparently no one was hurt. The pilot had somehow been flung from the helicopter into a nearby window and miraculously survived without even a scratch. The only real casualty was your every worldly possession.

After a personal calamity of that scale, you’d hoped you might be offered an extended leave from work. Unfortunately, corporate America stops for no tragedy.

The only thing you're offered is a very sympathetic email the day after with a gift voucher for Dominos attached. Then Sally from HR had let you know that, given the severity of your situation, the company was generously granting you three whole personal days to sort out your affairs. After that you were requested to return to the office—the second quarter of the financial year was beginning soon after all.

And so you find yourself back at work.

Back to 8+ hours a day spent sitting in your rickety office chair, killing your eyesight in front of your computer screen as you pore over excel sheets. Back to the same old boring one-on-one meetings with your boss, who keeps harping on about Key Performance Indicators, as if they mean anything. You don’t understand what the point is. No matter how key your performance is, it never seems to be enough to net you a raise.

“Our total revenue increased by 15% compared to last year, which is a significant achievement considering the challenges in the market, but I know we can do better if we just–”

You stifle a yawn, as you readjust yourself in your chair. It’s Monday morning, and you find yourself in one of the stale meeting rooms, with staler treats that you’re not even allowed to have because they are for external clients only. Your boss is right next to you, droning on and on about how she wants to see better results in the next fiscal quarter. All the while you’re trying to fight the losing odds of keeping your eyes open and the temptation of gravity that wants your head to lay down on the conference table for an impromptu nap.

“We managed to improve our profit margin by 3% by reducing overhead costs, but we need to focus on further optimizing our operations in order to–”

Out of nowhere, the sound of her shrill nasal voice stops, and for a second you think that perhaps, sweet mercies of mercies, the meeting is finally over. But instead she points out the window and says the last thing you expect.

“Hey, isn’t that Spiderman?”

Huh?

You whip your head around to stare out the window so fast you nearly give yourself whiplash, and the sight that greets you is nearly enough to give you a heart attack on the spot.

Oh, it’s Spiderman alright. Your Spiderman.

Your maybe-vampire-but-maybe-not (he hasn’t combusted in sunlight yet, but then again he wears a full-body spandex suit) Spiderman.

Your Spiderman is right there in front of you in plain sight on the outside of the building, plastered to the wide wall-to-wall meeting room window. That dark blue super suit with the angry red spider emblazoned on his chest like a neon sign screaming: ‘Here I am!’

Your boss skips closer to the window in giddy excitement, until the two of them are only about a feet away from each other separated by a half an inch of glass.

“Look, his suit is different! I wonder if it’s an upgrade?” she exclaims, tilting her head to study him from the window. “He sure is a lot bigger in person, isn’t he?”

You feel the blood drain from your face, and the whole of your back breaks out in cold clammy sweat against your blouse. Doing your best to act normal, you force yourself to stay seated in your chair despite the shrill scream ringing in your head and the way your heart is threatening to leap right out of your throat.

What the hell does he think he’s doing!?

Thank fuck your boss still has her back to you, too enthralled by the unexpected superhero sighting to pay attention to anything else. You take advantage of her distraction to gesture frantically at Miguel, waving him away with as covert of a shooing motion as you can manage and praying that he’ll take the hint.

You know he sees you because the triangular outlines of his eyes narrow into annoyed slits and then he turns his face away as if offended, refusing to look at you. But at least he finally moves, leaping into the air and disappearing out of the sight of the window.

“Oh, shoot! There he goes again,” your boss says, letting out a long, loud sigh as if even she doesn’t want to go back to listening to her own voice for the rest of this meeting. “Well, back to work. Guess that was the excitement for the day.”

Scratch what you were saying before. There are no more completely mundane days. Not now that Miguel O’Hara has entered your life.

Once upon a time, your biggest dilemma with him was that he was avoiding you, refusing all your attempts to force a face-to-face meeting. Now you find yourself in the strange position of having the opposite problem.

True to his promise, Miguel is always there to protect you.

In fact, he’s just plain always there.

Never more than 10 feet away, regardless of where you go. He’s the last thing you see… or rather, hear before you go to sleep, his incessant snoring reverberating off the walls of your shared hotel room. Then, when you wake, it’s to his big 6’9” frame draped across the tiny velvet sofa, his long legs sticking off the end and hanging out into the room.

Miguel hovers over you when you eat, in case you get another piece of toast stuck in your throat and he needs to do the Heimlich maneuver on you again. Or, like that one time last week, in case you developed another hitherto completely undiscovered food allergy and have to be rushed to the ER. He is constantly on alert, eyes glued to you at all times.

Miguel comes with you when you go grocery shopping at the corner bodega. Sticking close to your back in the cramped aisles, lest one of the shelves fall over and bury you under crates of Lucky Charms and Fruit Loops… again. He has a sneaky habit of covertly dropping the most nutritiously questionable grocery items in your basket: jellied donuts, sugar-frosted pop tarts, fun dip and jolly ranchers. He eats like a five year old who has too much pocket money and no understanding of the food pyramid. It’s worrying to watch and you definitely google diabetes risk for spiders at least once, but the internet has nothing helpful to offer on that front.

Even when you’re relaxing in the luxury hotel suite that’s become your home, flipping through Tik Tok-edits on your iPhone (the newest model, which Lyla snagged for you!) or catching up on Netflix, Miguel is always right there. Not two steps away from you, looking over your shoulder.

Being the constant center of Miguel's attention is… disconcerting. You know it’s because he’s watching for the next random disaster to strike, but having his eyes on you nonstop leaves you feeling uncomfortably aware of him all the time. Especially when you’re trying to watch Bridgerton on your new macbook pro (also courtesy Lyla) and an R-rated scene comes on. You’ve resorted to having Lyla order books and magazines for him in an attempt to keep him occupied, but it doesn’t seem to make much difference.

It’s so bad that you can barely go to the bathroom without Miguel guarding the door like a zealous German Shepherd, his back plastered to the nearest wall when you emerge. You try not to let the lack of privacy bother you… or to think about the fact that his spidey-supersenses probably let him hear everything.

The only place Miguel doesn’t come with you is when you go to work, because he doesn’t have the clearance needed to get into the building—tourists and non-personnel aren’t allowed any further than the lobby. It doesn’t stop him from climbing the walls of the building and hanging around outside the 44th floor though. You know he’s there because, you see his shadow blurring at the window whenever you get up to get more coffee or unstick the paper jammed in the printer.

It’s an adjustment, but for all the madness that comes with the package, having Miguel around does make you feel safe.

Time always seems to pass too quickly when there’s a deadline approaching.

The problem is that right now the due it’s not the date of a school assignment or some work project that you’re worrying about. And if you take too long, the consequences will be much worse than a lower grade or a slap on the wrist. If you fail to meet this deadline, it will be the end of the world—not just as you know it, but for everyone in your entire universe.

A week ago you had been dauntless, facing Miguel down across the table at Starbucks and announcing that you intended to fight cosmically impossible odds in order to live. Bold even, when you’d confidently declared that the only thing you needed was three months and his protection from the universe's murder attempts to make that happen.

In retrospect, you might have been less dauntless and more… delusional, because so far the only real progress you've made is drawing up a Master Plan, complete with a bullet point list and no idea if any of it is actually going to accomplish anything.

'A Cosmic Masterplan to survive' - Phase one

Step 1: Personal history:

Identify past wrongdoings

Determine if they could explain cosmic retaliation

Step 2: Analyze incident patterns:

Study recurring near death incidents

Identify commonalities and patterns

Determine strategies to stop or prevent future occurrences

Step 3: Research genealogy:

Explore family history

Investigate any ancestors who may have incurred celestial grudges

Determine if these grudges extend to descendants

Step 4: Examine past life wrongdoings:

Establish if reincarnation is real

Investigate potential past life transgressions

Assess if they correlate with current cosmic retaliation

Step 5: Seek cosmic expert assistance:

Consider approaching Dr. Strange for guidance

Request expertise in understanding cosmic phenomena

Things had started out okay.

You completed Step 1 in less than a day, quickly compiling a list of all the people you’d wronged in your lifetime. Anything that might make the universe want to intervene on their behalf and dole out some karma against you.

So far, your life's most egregious crimes include:

That time when you wet the bed during a sleepover when you were six and blamed it on your friend Sally Jenkins.

The night you bailed out in the middle of a date with a dentist from Tinder who insisted on ordering for you and kept talking about Alpha and Betas. (It was only after a very confusing and awkward conversation that you realized he was not talking about the omegaverse). You’re pretty sure you did both of you a favor when you told him you were going to use the bathroom before dessert and took off without saying goodbye instead.

That summer you brought only chocolate with coconut back to share with your coworkers after your vacation in Canada so that Matt in accounting (who always steals your yogurt out of the office fridge) couldn’t have any because he's allergic to coconut.

Are those the actions of a good person? Probably not.

Are they petty? Oh yeah.

Are they bad enough to justify karmic retaliation from the universe in the form of death? You doubt it.

As for Step 2, despite all the near death experiences you've had recently, there doesn’t seem to be any discernible pattern that could help you predict or prevent future incidents. After all it’s a bit difficult to predict that an impromptu mounted police parade would take place near your office, only for there to be a wild stampede of panicky horses that tried to mow you over.

Step 3 of your plan? Another dud.

Your family line is made up of uncles working blue-collar jobs at warehouses, aunties who pester you about being single, one grandfather who likes to talk about how things were better in the old days and a grandmother who likes to complain that you never call every time you call her (and another grandma you actually like because she feeds you sweets and cakes when you go visit).

There are no skeletons hidden in your family closet. Nothing interesting at all except maybe that one cousin who claims to have hooked up with Leonardo Di Caprio at Coachella (unverifiable and unlikely).

Your mission to try to figure out if all of this is caused by any past life connections in Step 4?

It had seemed like a reasonable thing to look into, but how the heck do you go about doing that? You’ve put it on hold for now.

As for the final step? Your search to seek out cosmic expert assistance is still ongoing.

Contacting another Supe that has a magical expertise in the cosmic should be the most logical avenue. Doctor Strange is the superhero that famously deals with the magical cosmos stuff, so you figured maybe he could help in some way. That it wouldn't be hard for Miguel to reach out to him, one superhero to another.

It’s the one part of your plan you could actually take action on that seems like it might lead somewhere. Problem is, you've run into a big sassy roadblock named Miguel O'Hara.

Miguel flatly refuses to have anything to do with Dr. Strange.

His justification?

"Hate that guy."

Repeatedly pestering him has gotten you nowhere, and it’s not like you, a random normie, can just rock up outside of Dr. Strange’s residence and ask for help because the universe is out to get you. That’s a good way to get yourself hauled away, like that guy from Colorado who was in the news last year for faking a UFO invasion with cheap props on YouTube and then camping out outside of Bruce Banner’s lab. Idiots like that show up from time to time, Superhero fanatics seeking the attention of the Avengers for some fake emergency.

Worst comes to worst, you could probably just stand outside Doctor Strange’s house until something tries to kill you again and hope that he’ll notice, but you’re not sure the universe won’t thwart you on purpose. Probably not the best use of your limited time, especially since you’re out of PTO.

For now, you’re hoping to change Miguel’s mind through sheer persistence, but given how stubborn the man is, that might be more of a lost cause than trying to thwart the universe itself.

It’s payday today, and you’ve decided to take Miguel to dinner in Chinatown as thanks for the man’s continuous efforts in saving your life.

As touristy as that area can be, there are some good, cheap diners owned by grumpy Cantonese families that serve large enough portions to feed this horse of a man.

It’s not entirely selfless. You’re tired of being cooped up in the hotel room as soon as you get off work, and you want to stretch your legs. You’re also hoping that stuffing Miguel full of food will make him more receptive to the next round of your arguments in favor of Step 5 of your Cosmic Masterplan.

But you’ve been here for two hours now, and you’re not sure Miguel knows the meaning of the word full.

He’s ordered egg tarts by the dozen. Crispy fried seafood noodles drenched in sweet cornstarch slurry. Deep fried turnip cakes soaked in sweet soy sauce. Beef Ho Fun. Every other dish is deep fried and slathered in XO sauce, and you are starting to be genuinely concerned about his cardiovascular health as you watch him shovel it down his maw, barely pausing to chew as he goes.

At least he looks happy while eating? Endearingly so. It’s the only time you’ve seen him relaxed and finally drop his guard a little bit, though you’re sure he’s still aware of every minute detail in his surroundings. You decide it’s better not to say anything since scolding him about being a glutton would be like the pot name calling the kettle. Your wolfish food habits is a shared hobby you have with Miguel at this point.

“What’s wrong with the egg tarts?” you ask, eyeing the plate that lies still untouched on the table, the only food to have escaped Miguel’s massacre. Given how sweet they are, you would have expected him to inhale them within seconds.

“I ordered them for you,” he says, not slowing down as he spears more food onto his plate. “Your favorite, right?”

You nod slowly and reach for one, touched by the gesture but not sure what to say.

There’s a fleck of sauce smudged on his cheek, a stray rice grain on his nose. He looks like any other civilian as he scarfs down the food in quick succession.

Out of his super suit, he looks different. He’s partial to oversized clothes that makes him look oddly gangly even with his build. You’ve caught him with glasses on more than once, even though you’re pretty sure he’s mentioned that supersight is one of the things he’s gifted with. You can’t help but wonder if he wears them out of a sense of habit or if it’s a conscious fashion choice. Probably the former, given what you’ve seen him wear so far—fashion doesn’t seem to be one of his fortes. All in all, it makes him look like a much homelier person with a slightly nerdy vibe than the handsome superhero when he’s on the job.

He’s softer without the supersuit. Still scowling, but it’s less intimidating when he’s doing it wearing a big hoodie with dumb logos printed across his chest.

It’s still odd seeing Rude Spiderman in these domestic settings, but you think you prefer him like this.

“How’s your plan coming along?” he asks, mouth full of fried rice as he’s already reaching for a piece of char siu.

Of course, he has to ask you a question just as you bite into sweet and creamy egg custard.

“I’m kind of stuck,” you admit, the words muffled slightly by the pastry in your mouth. “I think we need to talk about reaching out to Dr. Strange.”

“No.” He doesn’t even bother to stop eating, still chewing with a gusto as the word emerges.

Nothing more than that. No reasons or explanation given, just ‘No.’

Irritation brews in your chest at his unhelpfulness. He’s throwing a monkey wrench into your cosmic survival masterplan, and he won’t even tell you why.

Too busy stuffing his face with crispy wontons.

“But why? He’s the only Avenger with an expertise in cosmic magic!”

“Expertise, my ass,” he retorts.

“Why do you hate him so much?” You slide the plate of roasted duck across the table, away from him, and that finally makes him pay proper attention.

Miguel is doing that scowling thing again, first at you and then dropping his gaze to glaring down at his rice and chopstick like he’s about to stab it.

“Because he’s an idiot. “Doesn’t have a clue what he’s talking about. Gives terrible advice.”

“He was one of the world’s leading brain surgeons,” you huff. “I don’t think he’s an idiot, Miguel.”

Miguel leans over the table, sliding the plate back closer to where he’s seated.

“Being handy with a scalpel isn’t a transferable skill to the supernatural. And he wears a cape. Only idiots wear capes.”

“Wait, what? You don’t like him because he wears a cape!?” you spit out incredulously. You don’t understand this man’s logic sometimes.

“Capes are impractical. Get snagged everywhere. No superhero worth the name would wear one,” he explain as if this alone perfectly justifies hating someone. He stabs a piece of meat with his chopstick and brings it to his mouth. “I will never ask that man for help again.”

Then he inhales the rest of the plate of roasted duck.

You leave the restaurant frustrated.

Miguel’s stubbornness remains as immovable as stone, and this big red and blue boulder has left you stuck at a dead end roadblock in the middle of a street, one you don’t know how to get around. He won't agree to talk to Strange, and you don’t know what else to do.

You need divine inspiration, or failing that maybe just… a hint. Something to tell you what direction to go in. Some kind of a sign.

Deep in thought, you turn round a corner, barely noticing how the alley narrows as you keep walking forward. It’s not until a pile of crates in front blocks your path, forcing you to stop dead in your tracks that you lift your head to survey your surroundings.

You and Miguel are at a small alley that you don’t recognize, which is weird because you know this area like the back of your hand. Somewhere along the way you must’ve taken a wrong turn.

Just ahead of you, there's a red stall set up on the sidewalk surrounding a small rickety table with red cloth draped over it, a couple of folding chairs set up in front.

Above it is… a giant sign. Fortune Teller, it says.

Not quite the metaphorical sign you were asking for a few minutes ago, but maybe the universe has given up on subtlety for today. Hey, at least it’s not trying to kill you… unless fortune teller assassins are a thing. Shit, is the universe resorting to baiting traps now? You really hope it doesn’t start setting out poisoned cookies on window sills, because then it will be game over for you and Miguel both.

You look the stall over, noticing that there are no crystal balls. No tarot cards. No trinkets or ancient scrolls like the ones you see in the movies.

There’s just an old lady. Her head is cleanly shaven, shining slick under the sole street lamp in the alley. She’s wearing a thick robe with a blue shawl draped over her shoulders that seems much too warm for the current weather, and cheap oversized sunglasses perch on her small nose despite it being evening. That outfit is certainly a choice.

Maybe you should be more cautious, but what harm can it do at this point?

The fortune teller certainly looks harmless and frail with her big round cheeks, sitting on a small stool. Even though she looks nothing like her, she makes you think of your grandmother—the one you actually like to call. The grandma who always has cookies stashed away for you when you come to visit.

Maybe she can give you a reading of who you were in your past life.

Maybe she can give you a protection amulet to make the universe chill the fuck out for a while.

Maybe she can burn some incense that will make you relax and get rid of the migraine you've gotten since the universe decided to murder you.

"Miguel." You tug at the lapel of his jacket, and point in the direction of the sign.

He turns around, scanning the space and then his eyes narrow disapprovingly.

"Fortune… teller,” Miguel reads off the sign in a slow skeptic drawl. He doesn't need to say more to express his complete and utter disdain, but that doesn’t stop him.

"You know it's all a scam right? People like this can't actually tell the future. They have no supernatural powers. What they do is cold reading."

It’s entirely unsurprising Miguel doesn't like the idea. There are a lot of things Miguel doesn’t like.

"What else do you propose we do?"

"Ask someone with actual skills who can help us?"

"You were the one who shot down the idea of asking Doctor Strange for help," you remind him.

"I don’t want his help," Miguel shoots back, grimacing as though the mere mention of the name is enough to leave a bad taste in his mouth.

"Yeah, so you keep telling me." You continue on to the stall, despite your companion's strong protests.

The sweet old lady greets you as you sit down at the table. She looks even weirder from up close, her bald head abnormally large for her small body. You try not to stare, not wanting to make her self-conscious, but you can’t help but wonder how gravity keeps her head upright.

“Fifty dollars,” she announces the moment you take a seat.

Fifty bucks to get your fortune read!? Talk about highway robbery! You could get seven overpriced Spiderman cookies for that.

“That’s too much.” You shake your head, rising from your seat.

“Okay, okay. I can do cheaper,” the woman immediately concedes, looking nervous at your sudden outburst, and you have to bite back a smile.

That was easy.

“How much cheaper?” you ask. You know how this game is played.

“Twenty?”

If she’s willing to drop the price from fifty to twenty that easily, you can definitely get her to go lower.

“Ten.” You cross your arms where you stand, making no move to sit down.

“Are you really haggling over this? You were the one who wanted to do this, and now you’re going to cheap out over ten bucks!?” Miguel says from behind you, but you ignore him. It’s enough to have him there looming over the lady as you stare her down, taking a note out of his intimidation tactic book.

“Some of us aren’t made out of money, Miguel–”

“Fine! Ten, I’ll do it for ten,” the lady says over the top of your arguing.

She’s skittish in the sudden silence that follows, looking over her shoulder to her left and right, as if she’s checking if your loud outbursts have attracted any attention.

Seemingly reassured that there’s only the three of you here, she gestures for you to sit back down and then tilts her head towards you.

From behind her sunglasses, you can see that her eyes are clouded white from glaucoma, but when she raises her gaze to give Miguel an appraising look from head to toe, it’s obvious that she’s still able to see.

“Your husband is tall.”

You see Miguel go rigid out the corner of your eye and chance a quick glance up at him. His sour expression hasn’t changed but you can tell he’s uncomfortable from the way his fingers are gripping the fabric of his hoodie where the chain holding his ring is hiding underneath the layers of clothing.

"Can you do a past life reading?" you ask instead, trying to steer the conversation away from anything that might inflict further painful reminders upon him. "I want to know if I could have attracted bad karma in my past lives."

“No such thing,” she says bluntly, shaking her head, "You have no past life. Reincarnation is not real."

That’s step 4 taken care of, you think to yourself, and you think you hear Miguel choke back a laugh behind you. You’re not thrilled that he’s having fun at your expense, but at least he’s not sad anymore.

"Uh… okay…" You try to think of what else was on your list. "Then can I buy a protection amulet or something? I've had really bad luck lately."

The old granny looks you over appraisingly, eyes traveling from the top of your head as far down as she can see before the table top gets in the way, and her benign and friendly smile fades as she does.

"No," she says, eyes wrinkling with worry. "An amulet is of no use to you. Just a waste of money."

Oh wow, grandma is really dissing you right now.

She gestures her hand in a come hither motion to get you to lean down, and then pulls out a paper and pen and starts to draw an uneven circle with thick, crude lines.

"See here?" she says as she loops the circle closed, "This is all of us, our world"

Miguel is suddenly right next to you, hunching down and bent over the small table. You don’t know when he managed to sneak up on you, but he’s right there, so close his shoulder is brushing up against yours.

The fortune teller moves her pen inside the circle to draw a much smaller one, then a forked line sticking out of it, and another line across the center of that one. It’s so crudely drawn it takes you a second to realize it’s a stick figure.

"This is you," she points at it with a pen, seeming to admire her own creation.

Next to you, Miguel is staring down at the childish drawing with his hands crossed against his chest in irritation, his right eyelid is twitching. He looks like he’s about to have an aneurysm.

Even though he’s not saying a word, you swear you can almost hear his inner monologue, protesting the lady’s poor handmanship and drawing skills. He doesn’t need to say it but even $10 is too much of a price to pay, even for a man with infinity dollars.

Seemingly oblivious to Miguel’s irritation, the fortune teller proceeds to draw angry darts from inside the circle aimed at the poor you stick figure. Pressing so hard with her pen that the ink bleeds into the paper and the darts are starting to look like daggers. You almost wince when you see a couple of them pierce through your stick figure. “Outside interference has brought bad luck to you. It will never go away; it will follow you forever.”

You peer down at the paper with a sense of unease. Aren’t scam fortune tellers supposed to tell you what you want to hear? Where are the reassuring lies? Shouldn’t she be telling you that you’re going to meet a tall, dark, handsome stranger? Or that you were a princess in a past life? Since when do they tell you that you’re doomed to die over and over?

“So what am I supposed to do?” you ask.

“Keep moving,” she says with an unfaltering smile as if she hasn’t given you the most grim fortune telling of all time.

You lean back in your seat deflated. Scam or not, the prognosis isn’t looking good for you right now.

The lady ducks under her desk, and is sorting through a pile of junk paper, before she pops back up again. She shoves something into your hands, and leans over to you with a piercing gaze in her milky-white eyes. “The man who will help you lives here.”

Hope sparks bright in your chest at her words. Finally, a lead! Someone who can help you! You can’t believe your random decision to stop has given you the first clue that might actually lead somewhere!

You look down at what she’s given you. It's a pamphlet map of New York. Yellow and bright, the title reads: ‘Star Maps of Celebrity Homes.’ One of those cheap plastic ones they hand out with the tour buses.

The hope that had been building in your chest deflates, popping like a cheap balloon.

You make yourself scan the tacky star map for any clues as to who she means, but you you don’t see anything to lift you out of your disappointment. As much as you love Robert De Niro and Whoopi Goldberg and would love to get their autographs, you don’t think any of the people on this map are in any position to help you.

You sigh.

Ok, maybe Miguel was right. The fortune teller was a bust. What a waste of money.

From behind you, you can already hear the rustle of movement from him, as he’s stepping away.

“Come on, Cielito,” he says as he nods his head in the direction towards the exit of the alley.

The fortune teller grabs your hands in hers, as she leans in closer to your ear and whispers, as if trying to be out of earshot of Miguel. “Be careful with that one. He’s not from around here.”

Back at the hotel, you plop down on the ridiculously wide and fluffy bed, but not even the luxury of your surroundings can lift your spirits. You’re still uncomfortably full from dinner. The overload of delicious egg tarts sit like lead in your stomach, weighing you down.

Wasn’t there a Swedish king at some point who ate too many sweet buns and died of a burst stomach? Wouldn’t it be ironic if, after all the calamity and disasters you’ve escaped, your gluttony was the thing that ended you? You don’t think anyone who knows you would be surprised to read ‘died from eating too many egg tarts’ in your obituary. It’s perfect. A stupid and meaningless death to match your stupid and meaningless life.

From the corner of your eye, you see Miguel drag off his hoodie over his head. You squint your eyes, pretending not to look as the tan skin of his firm muscled back is revealed to you before he pulls on a tight-fitting white t-shirt that pulls taut against his chest.

The free peep show usually makes excitement and heat thrill through your spine, but tonight it does nothing. You feel… oddly numb.

The lights go off with a gentle click, and then you are left by yourself in darkness with nothing but your thoughts to keep you company.

You don’t know what to do. The fortune teller had been as stupid and pointless as every other idea you’ve had.

You grit your teeth, sighing as you turn restlessly onto your side in the bed, stretching out your leg to make yourself more comfortable, hoping sleep will claim you so that you can stop these thoughts from running on a constant loop on your brain like the world’s shittiest radio channel.

God, you can’t believe you spent $10 dollars on that fortune teller, and got nothing to show for it except a crappy map meant for gullible tourists.

What are you going to do if you’re too stupid to think of any other ideas? Your skin crawls at the thought, a tangle of worry sitting in the pit of your stomach, climbing upwards and trying to burst out of your chest. You roll over, but it only seems to get worse.

Are you just going to wait out your time like a sitting duck?

You twist your body, squeezing your eyes shut. The thoughts won’t stop.

Are you just going to sit here doing nothing?

Are you going to di–

Screeeeeeeeeeeeeeech.

The loud noise startles you, and you freeze, suddenly aware of just how vulnerable you are with only the sheets and comforter for protection.

Oh god, what is trying to kill you this time?

Your eyes are wide open with a strain, staring off into the darkness like a deer in the headlights as you listen to the sound of something sharp scraping against the wooden floor.

It’s coming closer.

Fuck. Is it an assassin? Some kind of otherworldly monster that’s come to drag you to hell with it?

And where is Miguel? Why isn’t he stopping it!?

Maybe he’s gone, a cruel voice whispers in your head. Maybe he’s had enough. Maybe he sees what you don’t want to—the futility of what you’re trying to do. Running around like a headless chicken trying to find a way out of the grand cosmic slaughterhouse that is set on ending your life. Maybe he’s given up on you.

Maybe you need to give up too.

You’re too scared to risk making noise, but you can’t not do anything. You turn as soundlessly as you can in bed, rolling towards Miguel—hoping with all your might that he’ll still be there to save you—only to be greeted by the sight of his back closer than you expect, hunched over the lounge chair as he drags it towards the bed, the metal legs scraping against the floor, making the very sound that had just scared you half to death.

You dart upright in the bed, outraged.

“What are you doing!?”

Miguel looks back at you, then down at the chair he’s moving, and then back up at you with that blank expression on his face.

“Moving this?” He sits down on the lounge chair that’s now next to your bed, “I heard you tossing and turning. Thought you couldn’t sleep.”

There’s a pause as he peers at you in the darkness, then he rubs his hand at the back of his neck.

“Shit, did the noise scare you? Sorry, Cielito.”

There’s that nickname again. You don’t remember when it started or where it came from, but it’s something he’s been calling you more and more often. He’s wearing a wrinkly oversized t-shirt and a sheepish expression as he’s eyeing you, making sure you’re okay. It’s almost, nearly endearing.

“Why do you keep calling me Cielito?” you ask. “Is that what you used to call other me?”

“No, I didn’t call her that.” He shakes his head, the same aching longing in his eyes that’s always there at the mention of your other self. “I called her Nena.”

“Then why Cielito?”

He tilts his head down at you as if the answer is obvious, and then he breaks out into a small smile. “Because you keep falling through the sky.”

You stare at him in silence for a second, at the goofy looking grin he’s wearing. He looks so proud of himself and his silly dad joke that you can’t help but smile back, laughter bubbling up and out of your chest. His smile just gets bigger.

What a dork.

You lay back down in bed, still tittering with laughter, and there’s a comforting weight that rests on top of your head for a brief moment. It’s his hand. The touch is pleasant, his palm warm against your skin, and the comfort of it erases the last trace of residual alarm in your body.

“Just go to sleep already." The words are impatient, but his voice is gentle, and it makes your chest warm as he continues, “It’s okay. You don't have to worry. I won't let anything happen to you.”

He hasn’t given up on you.

His words drip through your insides and warms you from inside out. It’s comforting, the way a blanket feels wrapped around you in the winter when your heating is out. He sounds so confident when he says them. Like there’s no doubt in his mind that you’ll survive this, because he will personally see to it. The anxious chatter in your mind finally quiets, and you close your eyes, knowing he’s only an arm’s length away.

Somehow, with Miguel here, the impossible odds you’re up against don’t seem quite so impossible, and hope buzzes pleasantly in your chest as you drift off to sleep. It's the best sleep you've had in a long time.

~ Next Issue

Credits & Dedication: Love a thousand and million years for @thirstworldproblemss who had to finely comb over and beta-read and edit this chapter over and over and rubber duck i with me while I was fixing up the details. I hope that I get to write with her til I go old and grey and senile, because it is the most wonderful joy and experience and I love her so.

This chapter is also dedicated to the wonderful and talented @forwantofwill who was endlessly kind in doing this amazing, beautiful piece of art of Miguel eating cookies in the windowsill Thank you so so much for making this and gifting me not just with your immense talent but also your time!

For those of you who haven't yet please follow her! She's amazingly talented and have such a wonderful blog filled with gorgeous and amazing fanart!

a/n: to be notified of new writing updates follow astroboots-writes and turn on notifs.

#miguel o'hara x you #miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o'hara fic #miguel o'hara #miguel o'hara fanfic #miguel o'hara fanfiction #spiderverse #oscar isaac #across the spiderverse #marvel #spiderverse fanfiction #miguel ohara x reader #miguel ohara #miguel ohara x you #marvel mcu

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velvettte · 8 months ago

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part two (previous) || series masterlist (read part one here)

“so good to hear from you mr. nanami kento. the way you’ve been, you’d almost forget that i made up this whole jujutsu technology thing.”

nanami put a hand up to his temple, realizing that he had forgotten just how much of a pain in the ass his friend turned superior was.

gojo satoru was notorious for revolutionizing the technology field with his creations. jujutsu tech was a frivolous venture — one that he had began to prove to their inner circle of friends and investors that he was truly, one of the most innovative entrepreneurs of all time.

of course, when the load and expectations became quite much, he decided to stick to the press and marketing area and left most of the operations to kento.

“since when did you entertain relations with atlantis solutions?” he sighed, “and i want the straight answer. not some bullshit.”

“ah, i see you’ve met the stunning ceo then. what’s your impression?” from his tone, nanami can practically feel the smirk from gojo across the line.

“answer my question or i will be forced to come and seek you out in person.”

“so stern nanami,” gojo laughs. “look, the only reason i agreed to the deal is because atlantis solutions has the software knowledge we need to expand. there is no reason we shouldn’t meet that profit margin. plus, you need to get around a little.”

“what?” he asks.

“admit it,” gojo laughs again, “they’re your type.”

“i do not mix personal matters with business,” he responds, trying not to think of yesterday’s encounter.

you, soaked in the rain, clothes clinging to soft skin, lips plush and so innocently asking for a ride home — only to be a candidate for taking over both of your companies.

“yes, absolutely your type,” gojo concludes all on his own. “go to that meeting and be yourself.”

with that, gojo drops the call, only moments before his secretary walks in.

“mr. nanami,” she says, “it’s time for the meeting. the atlantis solutions ceo is already in conference room three.”

“of course,” he says, unsurprised that you’re in that room and his heart’s already picked up pace.

the walk to the conference room is agonizing. with every step he attempts to strategize, wondering if he will truly be able to measure up to you. you’re formidable….and distracting, two things that will mess up the focus and clarity he needs to be the ceo that his company needed.

when he walks in, the breath is almost stolen from his lungs when he sees you again. somehow, in the forty five minutes that you’d been gone, you’d managed to make yourself even more stunning than usual.

he supposed you came to him in some state of undress, if how you looked now was your normal presentation.

he took his seat on the other side of the table, looking at his papers and doing everything he could not to look at you until he couldn’t anymore.

“hello there kento,” you say, and he’s winded by the way his first names leaves your lips.

say it again, his thoughts nearly beg, but he regains his composure.

“let’s begin our negotiations.” he says, “starting with this. atlantis solutions ceo must work at our office headquarters if this deal is to go through. i do not want our operations being separate if we are in a business venture together.”

your gasp gives him the confidence he needs to continue.

read part four here

taglist: @iniyalovesall @debussy42 @chosostonguepiercing @salsakiyoomi @m1gvmi @mysterystarz @prettypyromaniac

send an ask or leave a comment to join the taglist!

#ari scribbles #clause and effect #nanami x reader #nanami kento x reader #nanami kento fluff #jjk x reader #jjk x you #jjk x y/n #jjk fluff #nanami x you #nanami x y/n #nanami kento x you #nanami kento x y/n #nanami headcanons

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thesimblrofficedirectory · 2 years ago

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Welcome to The Simblr Office Directory

This blog is an archive of the submissions for the office-centric OC prompt posted by the light of Simblr, @kashisun.

Here you can browse all the amazing creations submitted by your fellow simblrs. Feel free to scroll to your delight or click one of the links under the cut to see who's on roster under (or over) a particular bureau or delegation.

Want to be added to the directory or confirm that you've been queued? Just include a link to your post in an ask off anon and it will be queued within 48 hours. Until we get through the backlog and can queue at a more leisurely pace, all ask submissions will receive a confirmation. You can always mention us, but we won't be able to provided confirmation for that method.

Leaving the company? If you'd like your post removed, just include a link to the post in an ask off anon and it will be removed. Sideblogs may require additional verification. Please allow, at most, 48 hours for the request to be honored. Removal requests will not be confirmed, only acted upon.

Every company's hierarchy is a little different. Designations for this directory are based on some of the companies I've worked for, but especially on the multi-media marketing company I work for now.

Bureaus and Their Delegations

Delegations with an * currently have low or no headcount (posted and queued). Excludes leadership.

Bureau of Client Engagement

Leadership

Billing*

Escalations*

Product Support*

Quality Assurance*

Sales*

Bureau of Compliance (Bureau-specific Internal Affairs and Auditing)

Leadership

Client Engagement*

Facilities*

Finance*

Human Resources*

Information and Technology*

Legal (General)

Legal (Leadership)

Marketing*

Bureau of Facilities

Leadership

Catering*

Environmental (Janitorial, HVAC, and Plumbing)*

Mechanical (Electrical, Elevators, Equipment Maintenance)*

Premise* (Grounds Maintenance and Real Estate)

Purchasing* (From pushpins to pallet jacks)

Security

Warehousing* (Shipping, Receiving, Mail room, and Inventory)

Bureau of Finance

Leadership

Accounting

Asset Management*

Investments*

Travel and Accommodations*

Vendor Relations*

Bureau of Human Resources

Leadership

Career Development (Internships and Internal Role Transitions)

Dependent Care*

Employee Activities Committee (Members are volunteers)

Employee Benefits*

Floating Delegates (Administration) (For profiles that list a nondescript secretary/admin/receptionist/assistant role)

Floating Delegates (General) (For profiles that do not list a position)

Floating Delegates (Leadership) (For profiles that list a nondescript managerial role)

Health Services*

Payroll*

Recruiting*

Training*

Union Relations*

Bureau of Information & Technology

Leadership

Data Security*

Infrastructure*

Public Relations

Research and Development*

Systems and Devices*

Telecommunications*

Bureau of Marketing

Leadership

Copy

Design

Planning and Implementation*

Board of Directors

Chief Officers

CEO - Chief Executive Officer/President

COO - Chief Operations Officer/Vice President

CCO - Chief Compliance Officer/Vice President

CFO - Chief Finance Officer/Vice President

CITO - Chief Information and Technology Officer/Vice President

CMO - Chief Marketing Officer/Vice President

Executive Administration* (Admins that report to chief officers)

#new simblr #the simblr office #thesimblroffice #pinned

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mollysunder · 1 year ago

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Does Sevika Have What it Takes to Run Zaun?

The power vacuum in Zaun is sure to be a major source of conflict next season. There will be plenty of figures, both known and unknown, that will try to gain control of what's left of Silco's Shimmer empire and thus the center of Zaun's black market. Of all the candidates that could possibly replace Silco, one of the strongest contenders is Silco's right hand, Sevika. Sevika has many of the qualities that make her an excellent candidate to take Silco's place. Sevika is one of few key players that is trusted by the members of Silco's organization, brutally competent at her job, and genuinely believes in Zaun's independence. The real question is, can Sevika handle Silco's mantle?

Sevika has a lot going for her, but just as much against her, and one of her main problems is that she uses Jinx as a crutch for her shortcomings. When the Firelights destroyed the shipment of Shimmer that was supposed to go out on Progress Day, she laid the blame for the operation's failure squarely on Jinx. It's true that Jinx did injure at least one member of her team in friendly fire and failed to protect the cargo, but everyone else failed too, including Sevika. Not only were all of the crew easily ambushed, none of them had any countermeasures for a known enemy. One guy grabbed a harpoon gun and missed miserably with each shot. Jinx herself wouldn't have gotten involved if Sevika and the crew were better able to work proactively, maybe by investing in a net gun.

Worse still, Sevika claimed she could have handled the situation without Jinx, which is practically a lie. Without Jinx, the Shimmer would have been destroyed much faster, there would have been no one to delay the Firelights or take down 5 of the 8 that were present. But Sevika would rather use the situation to cast more focus on Jinx to undermine her position rather than manage the critical failure in defense that the rest of the team demonstrated under pressure. Silco even pointed this out, the audience was just more inclined to see his opinion as biased.

You can't let Jinx be the excuse for why everything goes wrong, all it does is make everyone zero-in on just Jinx's mistakes rather than take a few steps back to examine why things went wrong. If that actually happened, then someone might actually ask, "How did the did the Firelights know there'd be an important shipment going out on Progress Day?". Or "How did they know which ship they'd be using if they obscure any identifying information on the ship manifests?". And more importantly, "Is there a mole?". Instead, you get a team that drinks and parties after a real shitshow because their direct boss confirms that all their problems are just one person.

This all bleeds into another main issue of hers. Every time Sevika's in a confrontation, she thinks like an individual rather than a leader. The first time she fights Vi, she let's two of her underlings runaway rather than help her. When Vi comes back for round 2 with the same special hextech that caused so much mayhem at the Shimmer Refinery, Sevika tells the entire crew there to leave so they can go 1-v-1. Everytime something comes up, Sevika chooses not to delegate work or strategize with others around an obstacle, she'd rather take on the responsibility for problems like this by herself.

You could argue that Sevika was the only one capable of fending off Vi, especially with Sevika's new prosthetic's enhancements. But Sevika left no room for support in the background to at least distract Vi or give Sevika cover. If we go way back to the Cannery, Silco has to hold back Sevika from fighting Vi because he thought it was a better idea to use Deckard than do the same thing over again. And he was right! It was better to throw a Shimmer'ed up Deckard at Vi, and reserve Sevika when everyone else lost to Vi. If he hadn't Sevika wouldn't have saved him from the explosion.

If all this wasn't enough, the way Sevika is portrayed in terms of power, doesn't bode well for her potential as a leader. Plenty have pointed out that smoking is a symbol of power in Zaun, those with even a modicum of power smoke. What isn't always pointed out is how anyone who's interrupted smoking, inevitably loses power.

The first time it happened was with Vander, Marcus snatched his pipe and extinguished Vander's flame in his drink. The next episode Marcus' deal with Silco sealed the end of Vander's regime. A man on a smoke break at Silco's refinery (probably a manager) is immediately held at gunpoint by an enforcer part of the raid, where everyone caught was likely arrested and lost their jobs. Silco never actually lost his cigar, and so when he was killed, it wasn't politically motivated, it was an accident.

Curiously, Sevika and the Enforcers from the Progress Day attack actually smoke the same kind of cigarillos. These enforcers happen to be the only Piltovans we see smoke in the series, maybe because they're lower class or former Zaunites themselves. Unlike all the the other times, no one had to directly force them to stop smoking, Jinx made them drop it by simply terrifying them. And Jinx would go on to kill at least a score of enforcers including the Sheriff. Jinx likely threw the chain of command in disarray, doubly so if she killed at least 5 councilmen who the Sheriff would report to.

It makes for an interesting parallel when Vi first attacks Sevika and knocks out her symbol of power. In that scene Sevika managed to win her card game with Trump cards that heavily resembles Jinx and Viktor, but even when she wins, she still loses her cigarillo. All Vi needed to do was catch Sevika off guard and apply force, the same as the other enforcers (and even the Firelights). Later she'll let Finn light up her cigarillo while he affirms her strengths in Zaun.

By the finale, we see her after she's been beaten by Vi, Sevika chooses to go to Silco's office to smoke one of Silco's cigars while he'sgone, but she can't light it on her own. While this might foreshadow that she'll try to take Silco's place, Sevika struggles to light the cigar because if you notice in her hand is a lighter with a fancy "F" on it, Sevika's using Finn's lighter. Silco, Vander, and Finn all had their own matches and lighters. To light Silco's cigar, Sevika uses means by which she took from Finn, a man she just killed for an ill planned selfish gambit for power.

This alone wouldn't look too bad, because as I see it, in Zaun, it's not the act of smoking but the imagery of smoke itself that's associated with power, and you don't need to smoke to have smoke. Look at Jinx and Vi, both command considerable influence on the ongoing developments between the two cities and align with strong figures. Neither of the two smoke, instead they cover themselves in smokelike tattoos, Jinx's tattoos literally resembles the blue smoke of her first succesful bomb. In contrast to their predecessors both manage to embody their power more wholly onto their person in a way that's less vulnerable than the smoking tradition to usurpation. Sevika herself also wears smoke like patterns on her collar, which are less prominent or permanent than Jinx and Vi's tattoos.

Each issue alone is cause for concern in the viability of Sevika's potential leadership role, but altogether they create a solid line of doubt for if she can pull it off. To make it work she needs to shape up Silco's former crew because she can't be the only one pulling any weight. They're all going to face a conflict that will only grow more complex, demanding, and fast changing as time goes on. A situation like that prior to Jinx's rocket would have easily have incapacitated them, now it's all going to happen on a larger scale. Sevika needs to recognize what went right and wrong for Silco, Vander, and Finn.

Tldr: The chance for Sevika to be Zaun's new leader will be an uphill climb for her for sure. Her biggest problems is that she takes the lead rather than utilizing the team, she gets easily caught off guard, and Jinx can put blinders on her perspective. She's kind of like an older more seasoned Vi that never gave up on Zaun's independence warts and all.

#arcane #sevika arcane #silco #jinx arcane #arcane meta #arcane speculation #arcane season 2 speculation #i feel like if Silco saw a play by play of what went down on the ship he might actually be relieved #in a “my imagination made it worse way” and he'd feel more free to go wtf at everybody else's game in the first half #vi arcane #vander arcane #some people work better as kingmakers #also i think that the push for sevika to lead is more about lining up competent ducks in a row rather than her in a good fit

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weebsinstash · 2 years ago

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Every day I get closer to writing the "You vs YouTwo trying to steal your identity in the Spider Society" fic (which, the fic even has a name as I slowly build it, I'm calling it Imposter Syndrome because, you know, 1 Reader is starting to get depressed and feel unneeded even before YouTwo comes along and 2. Well. It's self explanatory)

But anyways I keep thinking of all of these dramatic interactions and scenes (shit I was listening to John Mulaney stand up just to write dialogue for Peter Porker, for funsies) where, thinking of either Reader being kicked out of the Spider Society and such, and them having to literally hunt you down and search for you, but. What if YOU came to them?

It's been like 3 months since you "died" after the Society mistaking you for your double and removing the dimensional watch that kept you tethered down, and there's a palpable air of depression. Spiders go to the training room you used to teach your classes in and leave flowers and mementos and share stories of their times spent with you. Maybe they even do something fucking dramatic like set up a memorial, like a plaque with your name and photo or something, but, something to help remind them to be wary of who they bring into the Society and appreciate the ones they have and so on so forth, and also like I imagine there were Spiders who were so attached to you that this entire incident makes them leave the Socety for good (like maybe Hobie equates the way you were exiled to fascist tyranny and hates Miguel more than he already does for letting it/helping it happen, for example)

But, anyways, months later, but not too terribly long for them to stsrt to forget about you, just enough time for the guilt and depression and the longing to marinate, and some Spiders are hanging out in the food court, Peter B and Jess and some of the others managing to drag Miguel out of his lab to eat and be around other people because he's just been holing up by himself almost 24/7 since you "left". Dude's a fucking mess, man, you can literally just look at him and see the dark circles under his eyes, the unwashed hair, the body odor because he fucking lives in that suit, and half the cafeteria is wondering if he's about to start crying into his stupid silly ass Miguel burger and

*FWOMP*

Some loud ass undescribable noise as the fabric of the universe suddenly shifts and, you glitch right back in and slam down on the floor besides their table. The entire room freezes as they literally had no idea you were still alive as you scramble to your feet, the first thing you notice being the food as you DIVE for Miguel's burger, snatching it right off his plate and beginning to absolutely devour it like literally gobbling that shit as the man amd everyone else is AGHAST. You've lost a significant amount of weight (like, an unhealthy amount for the time that has passed) and you're covered in bruises and scratches with tears and holes all over your suit. Your hair has knots and tangles and your Spidey suit is beyond dirty with a raggedy jacket and a tattered backpack on your body. You've just been constantly bouncing in and out of different dimensions, ricocheting all over the place this entire time, which made it hard for you to eat, sleep, bathe, do just about anything normally. One minute you're trying to swipe some food from a market because you have no money, the next you're glitching again and you're lost in an apocalyptic wasteland, or a thick jungle, or even places where shapes and colors don't operate the same as we can even comprehend it

You're constantly dropping the food because your hands keep glitching but you're clearly obviously starving, and Pavitr hands you his chai to help wash everything down, but you still pick up several beverages on the table and absolutely chug them as your friends are just stunned into silence, still in shock, quickly morphing into all kinds of different emotions. Joy you're still alive, horror and pity for your current state, guilt and anguish that all of them did this to you. Jesus, have you even been able to drink water? Like if you didn't have Spider powers you probably would have died by now and it's easy to see you're weak on your feet

And from here I see two options and I'll go with the less exciting one first:

Reader is so fucking hungry and malnourished and weak that after the Spiders make room for you to sit at their table and eat their food, you being just genuinely so fucking worn down from constantly not being able to eat and sleep properly, that you basically show up, eat the entire table's worth of food, and all but fall into a food coma right then and there because this is like the first time youve been able to sit and mildly relax for WEEKS, like here comes Spider Plushie for the save like he's trying to slide across home base, loyally stopping in front of you and directly under your head as you just kind of, slump forward, the little guy making the perfect pillow as he keeps your forehead from smacking against the table, and you're just, like O U T out as Miguel cradles you in his arms because, oh my god he thought you were gone forever, and he won't let anyone else touch you as he marches you straight to, wherever the fucking doctors in this place are

But option TWO: suddenly you pause your gorging as some burps rise up in your chest and you suddenly have some calories pushing enough energy to your brain that you finally look around, like REEEEALLY look around. The entire room is dead silent, some starting to cry with joy and relief, others still stunned, many looking absolutely confused, and your eyes eventually meet with Miguel's. He doesn't look quite as run down as you, but WOW is this one sad haggard looking dilf, and you blink at him for a minute. And then look around. And back at him. And around. And to him

And your expression morphs into something so fearful as you force out a nervous laugh, "oh, wait, it's... you guys..." And the second everything clicks for you, you're IMMEDIATELY TAKING OFF, and despite your weakened state you actually make them really work for it because wow that adrenaline kicks in as you for your life because you're thinking "shit they still think I'm the fake and they'll kill me this time if they get their hands on me" when in actuality Miguel is getting his ass on the intercom system ordering all available units to stop you so they can put a bracelet back on you so you aren't lost again, which i mean it is but isnt even a yandere thing at this point, youre literally going to die without some sort of dimensional tether. But during the chase Miguel realizes you aren't using your webs, and you're actually not nearly as fast as he's seen you before, and he realizes with a broken heart, oh Jesus you're literally too malnourished to produce your organic webs within your body, or a lot of it, anyways. You must REALLY be in bad shape

And I imagine like, the chase comes to a halt, not when they catch you, but when your physical exhaustion finally catches up to you. Sweetie you barely ate anything for the last several days, suddenly gorged on a whole spread of food, and then started sprinting and jumping and climbing and parkouring on shit. You HAVE to stop running because you're literally getting sick and VOMITING, like, your former students and fellow Spiderpeople and of course Miguel are hot on your heels and they all pause and give you space because you're literally having to throw up in a gutter with sweat pouring down your face and entire body developing the shakes as, oh no, you feel your strength leaving you as you can't even hold yourself up, collapsing onto the ground, barely conscious as something scoops you up with the gentleness of handling glass, your eyes unable to stay open as you whimper things. "Please don't kill me... I'll leave... I'll never come back..." before you pass out

Miguel has you immediately checked by doctors while the staff have to limit the amount of people trying to come and see you (because, uh, there are a ridiculous amount of Spiders invested in your wellbeing) and only he's in the room as the medical team details your current state. Severe malnutrition, sunburns, broken ribs, a finger or two in crudely-improvised splints, telogen effluvium aka temporary hair loss from illness/extreme stress, you're probably starting to come down with a cold of some sort, potentially something dramatic like pneumonia.

You sleep for like several days straight while hooked up to IVs and fluids because your body just needed to heal THAT badly. By the time you wake up you feel like you're rising from the dead, your entire body aching and heavy, taking minutes to blink yourself awake to take in your new surroundings. You've got a private medical suite that's pretty well-secured, and when you try to scratch a sudden itch on your nose, you feel a weight on your wrist after going to move your arm. Oh, it's another kind of watch, although this one doesn't have nearly all the features and buttons of the first one, and when you keep rotating your wrist over and over, you can't seem to find the latch to take it off, because, well, there isn't one

Miguel is already in the room with you, either having been working on a laptop or just legitimately sitting there watching you sleep for an unknown amount of time, even if its completely dark in the room. He's gotten himself all cleaned up and back to normal and looking like his old self again but he's honestly not even sure what to say to you. Emotions aren't really his strong suit? Where does he start, apologizing for this whole mess or promising it will never happen again?

The only guarantee for now is that you will NOT be leaving Nueva York again, or even so much as leaving his SIGHT, so long as Miguel doesn't want you to, and trust me, after being tricked and having you ripped away from him, to see you in such a vulnerable sad state because of his own actions when all he wanted was to protect you, he's got a whoooole lotta things he wants to do and talk to you about. First and foremost? Vowing that he's going to make everything up to you, starting now, by being your most devout protector

#yandere spiderverse #yandere x reader #yandere miguel o'hara #atsv #yandere stuff #sinprompts #imma be real im pretty sure my posts dont show up in tags anymore but who knows :(

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humanpurposes · 1 year ago

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(Teaser) It Will Come Back

Chapter 3, Broken Bonds

Series Masterlist // Main Masterlist

A/n: I feel bad that it's been forever since this series had an update, and I'm just feeling silly today so I thought I'd share a lil something of what I've been working on (to hopefully motivate me to finish the chapter lmao).

Now…

The heat is relentless this summer. Light bleeds through the ancient stained glass windows of the Red Keep in beams of red, green, blue and gold, only to be lost to the dark wood floors, furniture and panelled walls. It is Aemond’s least favourite time of year, when the weather makes him irritable and the harsh light gives him a headache, when business tends to be busy and everyone is preoccupied with holidays and garden parties. He’s less inclined to distract himself with frivolity.

His sleeves are rolled up, his long silver hair pulled into a ponytail, sweat starting to pool underneath the eyepatch over the left side of his face. He’s leaning over Aegon, one hand on the back of his chair, staring down at his laptop and they check over some details for next week’s event.

It’s not often Aemond finds himself in his brother’s office. Technically Aegon is his superior, ‘deputy operations manager’ according to the golden plaque on the door. This is more of a courtesy title because he couldn’t get a respectable job anywhere else, and it would be far worse for their father’s image to have a layabout son.

That’s the funny thing about the family business. It’s no secret that Viserys Targaryen didn’t want his sons involved in Dragon Bank, but his influence is not as all encompassing as he would like to believe, not since the Hightowers got a foot in the door thirty or so years ago… then another… then another. Viserys can make his demands and shout when he’s angry enough, but there is one truth he cannot deny; he needs them. He needs Otto. He needs Alicent. He needs Helaena and Daeron to stay perfect. He needs Aegon to not be a fuck up and that’s enough. And he needs Aemond because he’s good at his job. No one has an eye for detail like him, no one can make sense out of figures or persuade clients and investors like he can.

Why their grandfather wants him to look over PR and marketing nonsense is understandable, but irritating nonetheless.

Their father has been planninging this event for years, Dragon Bank’s fifth centenary gala, with all the pomp and grandeur of a bygone era, held at their ancestral seat of Dragonstone Castle, just outside the city. Five hundred years since one of their ancestors forged a throne for himself in King’s Landing, building an empire that still has most of the country under their family’s thumb. Viserys intends to use the occasion as a reminder to every individual and family in Westeros who thinks they are even slightly important that they cannot compare to the might of the Targaryens.

There can be no oversights. Everything has to be perfect.

His eye scans over the diagram on the screen, circles surrounded boxes with names; the seating plan in the main ballroom. Then a name catches his eye and it makes his heart stop. He doesn’t want to believe what he sees but there it is on the screen, in Times New fucking Roman: Jaya Velaryon.

He’s hardly heard that name, read it, or heard it in six years. He can already feel a dull ache creeping into his skull, which he knows will catch like kindling and soon become a burning, blinding pain behind his eyes and in the crevices of his scar.

Aegon, completely oblivious, huffs a little laugh to himself. “Shit, yeah, I meant to say there was an update with the seating. So this could turn out to be quite interesting– fuck, are you alright?”

“Fine!” Aemond snaps, staggering back from the chair. His head feels like it’s been run through with a knife and his fingers fumble to get his eyepatch off. “Fine– fuck! I’m fine.”

“Sit,” Aegon orders, quickly standing and guiding Aemond over to one of the leather sofas on the other side of the room, where the sunlight isn’t so direct.

The pain is often like this, striking suddenly, spreading quickly like a forest fire, eating away at him like a disease, and he has no choice but to endure it.

He feels the eyepatch slip from his face before something cold presses against the worst of his scar. He reaches up to clasp his hands around it: a glass water bottle, one Aegon is holding. His brother is useless most of the time but he does have his moments.

“Fuck it’s all red,” Aegon mutters. “Have you got meds with you?”

When Aemond opens his mouth to speak his jaw is trembling. “Office,” he says, gritting his teeth together, trying to control his breath and the extent of the pain. “It’s in the office.” He can see where the packet is in the first draw under his desk.

“I can go and grab some–”

“No,” Aemond says, grabbing Aegon’s arm so he won’t move.

He can handle this. Every time this kind of pain flares up he thinks of how much it hurt that night, how terrified he was as he felt the blood gushing from the gash in his eye, slipping through his fingers. The pain had been so great he thought it might kill him. If he can get through that night, the first few hours in the hospital, the months of recovery or the years since, then he can get through a fucking headache.

He closes his eye and breathes in counts of three. In through the nose, hold, and out. Between that and the bottle against his face the pain starts to feel a little duller and the room doesn’t feel so close.

“Is it… you know,”

Did seeing Jaya’s name shock him so severely that his body went into meltdown? Is his heart still pounding in his chest at the thought of reading her name and the possibility of seeing her again?

Aemond exhales irritably against the back of his throat, defeated, but always stubborn.

#aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen fanfic #aemond targaryen fic #aemond targaryen fanfiction #aemond targaryen x ofc #aemond targaryen x oc #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen x you #hotd #hotd fanfiction #hotd fanfic #house of the dragon #house of the dragon fanfiction #modern!au #aemond targaryen smut #it will come back #hozier coded

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darkdemeter · 1 year ago

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OLD DRAFT CONCEPT : " GUARD DOG "

—- not my gif, credit to original poster! -—

Wanda Maximoff x Werewolf! GN/Female/Male Reader (x slight Natasha Romanoff)

A/N — Here's a little bedtime story for ya'll. Old draft concept for an upcoming and looong oneshot for Wanda in a mafia au setting. Bits and pieces may be recognised in the published column plot wise but overall, we're taking an alternate route, my babbies.

WORD COUNT — 2.2k

READER DISCRETION — Alcohol consumption — mafia business and semi dark themes — profanity — mention of death and murder — mention of black market and auction — reader and Nat have some history — player reader Tony is so proud — Alexander Pierce is of course an arsehole, what else is new? — Rumlow is a bad guy (duh) — I think that's it?

An expensive investment. A broad term to use for a werewolf broken in by the system at a young age. But it’s true.

You had no limits. Ruthless in your endeavour to complete whatever task was required of you, prepared to do whatever it took, your peers could only look at you with both fear and admiration.

When all was said and done, you were given your collar, then sold through the underground hub for criminals: the black market.

Well, to say at the very least, you wouldn’t be here tonight if you weren’t every single cent he spent on you three years ago.

The big time runners had designated storehouses to spare where they obtained their supplies, and ran other dealings and hand-offs in and out of private rooms in the clubs.

Here, the scene is warm, lavish and made for those who seek the comfort in living in marble halls and pristine white pillars, short cut grass and elaborate parties such as this one.

Not a moment too late is your glass refilled with your refreshment.

Your shoulders rise with a particular deep inhale before falling lax, you swirl the sliver of whiskey left in your glass and with a jerk of your wrist you finish it. Ice rattles in your glass as you shimmy it, indicating you need a refill and pronto.

“People live, people die. You cross someone and you get shot in the back. It happens.”

��He was gunned down in the streets with a fucking machine gun, Y/N. You consider that a mere oopsie?”

You shrug in response to Sam’s question with a pout of your bottom lip. “Pietro thought he was the shit. That’s what got him killed by Rumlow.”

Sam runs a hand over his face, now distressed by the lack of sincerity you show for the grieving family. “For fuck sake…”

You simply chalk it up to your animal magnetism. Something that leaves them wanting more whenever in the presence of your company.

In fact, that was how Tony came to own unclaimed establishments and clubs in the boroughs, ones he wasn’t able to get his hands on before, but after he had you as a playable card in his fold, you provided club goers the relief of being harassed and drinks being spiked. Territorial take over schemes from rival gangs were second guessed when they saw you watching over the joint.

The after hour visits for your libido were just the perks. But you left a lot of lustful and broken little hearts in the wake of your work.

When Steve casts a hardened stare your way and you mockingly raise your hands up in surrender. “Alright, I’ll offer my condolences to the heiress, but I ain’t weeping at her feet for her brother who got himself into that mess because he thought he was too big for his own shoes.”

“Just behave yourself, alright? The last thing we need is the entirety of Europe at war with us.” You roll your eyes and salute the captain. “Yessir.”

You bring the glass rim to your lips and draw a small gulpful of your refurbished liquor, the fiery taste rolls over your tongue, you savour it to keep your sanity intact lest you go insane from the waiting. Where was the heiress?

“Miss Romanoff,” each of the men greeted with a nod of their heads. You, however, pat your thigh as an invitation for her to sit. “I had work to do the next morning.”

“Mm, that’s what you tell the other girls, I’m sure.” You clap a hand to your chest with a wince. “You wound me, Sweetheart. If I had the chance, I would have stayed.”

She hums but it’s obvious she doesn’t believe you by the rise in her brow.

Even your animal magnetism wasn’t enough to charm her into joining forces with Stark and his powerhouse of families, but they were surely enough to charm her into a wild one night stand.

But as you told her. You had work to do. And now she appears to spurn you with her eyes and cruel words, but still entertains your flirtatious advances and indulges the empty space of your thigh.

For a well respected mob boss such as herself, she definitely liked to play it risky; dressing included.

She’s facing you, back arched and ass resting on the cliff of your knee. Your clawed hand supports her at the small of her back. Her perfume is strong and complimenting, the sweet bouquet of lavender rolls over the exposed tops of her breasts from her even more exposed neck. Her plump, red lips move in a way that’s hypnotic. “So I hear you’re going to be a bargaining chip for Wanda Maximoff.”

“Where’d you hear that?” you scoff with a flick of your chin.

“I have spies who whisper to me,” she answers with a swift quirk of her brow.

“You really think she wants a guard dog?”

“We just want to help. Offer support for her loss and bring Rumlow down.”

“I will cut it because whether she wants to admit it or not, she needs us.”

Natasha’s eyes, true to her fashion, darken with a challenge. “You’re wasting your time. She’ll get Rumlow herself.”

“And if Rumlow plans to get her first?” For a moment you see the doubt cross her face. “That’s where she needs me.”

You finally look and meet her stare, still holding Natasha against you even as she tries to push away from you.

“Unhand her,” the woman commands with an accented tongue.

“I hear that you wished to have an audience with me.”

Wanda is the sole survivor of this ordeal. Her parents were assassinated two years ago and now her brother was killed. This is the stressed matter at hand, her empire could crumble to the ground, all that hard work put into the grave, because she’s being so fucking stubborn with this deal.

“I will not sign my family, nor any of my shares, to Stark Industries. Enough have I done to keep you out of the hands of law enforcement. I will handle Rumlow myself.”

Natasha’s face says it all: I told you so. You can only roll your eyes and resume with what you’re doing.

“Miss Maximoff, we only wish to help you. All we ask in return is that you grant us some territory to work with for our trade deals as payment for support lent to you to catch Rumlow.”

Thank you for Reading! (◕ ᴥ x)

TREEHOUSE TAGLIST — (Even though I doubt this is worth putting the taglist on, here it is anyway)

@alexawynters

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starshine-hockey-girl · 5 months ago

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My late addition to the Cellyfloshie Birthday Bingo. In my usual fashion, I am unable to write a short blurb. Instead, I wrote a 12k word prequel to The Crosby Crew. (Don't worry- I am going to post it in three more digestible parts)

My bingo was virginity, age gap, secret lovers, pining and meet cute. I threw in Inspired by too (My Big Fat Greek Wedding and a scene from Return to Me)

Many thanks as always to @pattiemac1 and @penstxgal1968 for the continuous support. Shout out to @couldawouldashoulda50 for helping find the dividing points.

Finally, thanks to @cellythefloshie for her patience and complete understanding of my verbosity. I hope you enjoy.

I don't think any warnings apply. It's pretty PG.

September 13th, 2014- Back of the house - Aphrodite’s Kitchen - Pittsburgh, PA

“Well, look at what the cat dragged in,” the bus boy called out as Sera entered the kitchen through the back door. She swept her long, brown hair up into a quick bun as she made her way to the office.

“Kostas,” she smiled, “Don’t antagonize me or I will make sure that you are the last one cut tonight.” He stopped in his tracks. He and she both knew that he had a standing date with his girlfriend every Saturday night.

“Come on, Sera,” Kostas called back, “Can’t I give you a hard time or are you too snobby now - Miss “I graduated from an Ivy League college”.

Sera pressed her lips together. Her decision to go to college to pursue a degree in business management and marketing did not go over well in her family. Well, at least, it didn’t in her extended family. The idea that Sera was not perfectly content to work in the restaurant her family had owned and operated for generations was patently absurd to her tight knit group of aunts, uncles and cousins. There were whispers that she thought she was too good for the family that had followed her since she decided to pursue her education. They simply could not understand why she didn’t want to find herself a nice Greek boy and settle down. It was an expectation that even her parents, Alexander and Sophia, clung to even if they supported her need to follow a different career path.

There was one person, however, that stood in Sera’s corner, no matter what. Her beloved Theía (aunt), Calliope, was her champion and idol. She was mysterious and flamboyant and marched to the beat of her drum. She, like Sera, had deviated from the chosen family career path when she opened up a travel agency after the death of husband, Alphonso. Everyone expected her to give up her dream when he died suddenly at a young age, but Calliope worked tirelessly to make it the “go to” among the Greek community. She specialized in travels to Greece and started taking Sera with her on location scouting trips when she was in high school. It was only natural for Sera to make the decision to pursue education that would allow her to help her aunt to take the agency to the next level.

Sera grimaced slightly and then put on a fake smile. “To answer your question, I am here because Calista went into labor.” Kostas turned to shout it to the rest of the crew. “Kostas!” she shouted, “Don’t announce it yet. You know that first babies take forever and you will get everyone in an uproar for nothing.” He knew from his many nieces and nephews that she was exactly correct. “Now let me get out there,’ she smiled.

Sera nodded to the other server, Marina, and looked over the dining room. Marina nodded to a table of four that had just sat down. Sera paused. The man that she could see looked familiar but she couldn't place him. She gathered her thoughts and approached the table. Two couples sat across from each - Marc-Andre Fleury and wife Vero along with Sidney Crosby and a random blonde, Michaela. Sera did a quick observation of the body language. It was clear that Marc-Andre and Vero were comfortable and relaxed. The other couple at the table, however, were the exact opposite. Sidney sat stiffly as Michaela droned on about the traffic and lack of valet at the restaurant. “What kind of restaurant doesn’t offer valet parking?” the blonde asked.

“Come on, Michaela,” Vero countered, “This is supposed to be the best Greek food in town. My hairdresser told me.”

Sera smiled, “Let me guess, Patricia sent you this way?” Vero nodded in agreement. “She’s married to my cousin, Theo. She is our biggest source of advertisement.” Sera noticed the subtle way that Michaela placed her hand on Sidney’s thigh. She also noticed how he looked down, pressed his lips together and glanced at Michaela before staring straight ahead again. “I am assuming this is your first visit here. Let me welcome you and formally introduce myself.”

Sidney turned his focus on the pretty brunette with kind eyes. There was something about her that put him at ease, opposed to the blonde beside him. Vero had spent months trying to convince him to go on a blind date with her Pilates instructor. He had broken up with his long-term girlfriend, Kathy, in the spring. When the relationship had died a slow, yet painless death, she started her campaign immediately and didn’t let up until he finally agreed two weeks before training camp. He had tried to keep an open mind, but it was obvious within a few minutes that this was not a love match. From the moment they shook hands outside the restaurant, everything about Michaela screamed high maintenance. It was the last thing that he wanted as he looked into a brand new season. “No,” he thought to himself as he listened to Sera speak, “I need someone low key. Someone like her.”

He was lost in thought when he felt the eyes of everyone at the table and Sera’s eyes on him. She smiled at him and repeated her question, “What would you like to drink?” He gulped and looked around the table, hoping it wasn’t obvious that he had been transfixed by her mouth.

“Do you have beer?” he asked shyly.

“Yes, what kind would you like?” she asked.

“I'm not picky.” he answered, “As long as it is cold.”

“Do you trust me?” Sera leaned forward and asked in a conspiratorial tone. Sidney nodded yes and suddenly felt flushed. “I will bring you my favorite. You'll love it.”

“I am sure I will,” Sidney smiled before Michaela cleared her throat loudly.

Sera nodded as she turned to Michaela. ”And what can I get you?”

Michaela looked around the restaurant and scrunched her nose, “Do you have bottled water?”

Sera inhaled sharply at the insulting question, “Of course we do.”

Michaela continued “I would like bottled water, I just don't want Swiss. I got sick on imported Swiss water once.” She looked to Sidney for sympathy. His eyebrows furrowed together as she spoke. He grew annoyed but he nodded sympathetically. She turned back to Sera who could barely contain her laughter. She said “As long as it's not Swiss or tap water, it'll be fine. Preferably, French.” Sera nodded in understanding. Michaela continued, “I'd like it cold, no ice, no glass, just the bottle and a straw.” Sidney and Sera exchanged a look before Michaela leaned forward in front of Sidney, “Do you need to write that down? Should I repeat it?”

Michaela turned to Vero, “They never get my order right at these places.”

Sera smiled sweetly, “I think I got it"

Michaela questioned, “Are you sure?”

Sera was about to spit out an answer when Sidney interjected, “I am pretty sure she got it.” She turned to walk away when Sidney reached out to touch her, gently putting his hand on her arm. Both of them felt a jolt of electricity that pulsed through their bodies. “Can I also get a glass of water? Any kind, no straw.” Sera nodded and raced away.

Sidney’s phone rang and he sheepishly got up. His mother spoke softly and he walked to the back of the restaurant to hear her. His Nanny Forbes had not been feeling well and his mother gave him the update from her doctor’s appointment. Sidney leaned against the back wall and looked up. HIs gaze landed onto Sera.

Sera emptied a bottle of Evian water into a sink and refilled it from the tap. As she replaced the cap, her eyes met Sidney’s. She blushed with the embarrassment of being caught. Sidney winked his approval and they shared a smile.

Sidney spoke to his mother, “Can you call me back in five minutes? Please?”

Sera returned to the table with the tray of drinks. She placed the two glasses of Sauvignon Blanc for the Fleurys in front of them. In front of Sidney, she placed a mug of Alfa Beer. She explained that it was a Greek import. Finally she placed the bottle of Evian and a straw in front of Michaela. She took a big drink of water.

“I bet that’s refreshing,” Sidney stated then he asked, “Was it just what you wanted?”

“Exactly the way I asked.,” Michaela responded as Sidney shared another look with Sera. Michaela spoke to Vero, “You know that you have to be exact with these people. Otherwise, they’ll just give you plain water from the tap. Can you imagine?” Sidney began to laugh. “What’s funny?” Michaela questioned.

“Nothing,” Sidney replied as a fit of giggles overtook him, “I’m just glad that your delicate sensibilities were not disturbed.”

As Sera began to take their food order, Sidney’s phone rang again. He got up and walked away. She tried to not eavesdrop as she put the orders in at the point of sale computer but she couldn’t help when she heard the distress in his voice.

“What do you mean? Taking Nanny to which hospital?” he questioned, “You said she was fine earlier.”

Sera stopped and studied his face. Sidney turned to return to the table but finished his conversation. “I’ll be on the first flight out,” he said as he hung up. After a quick explanation to Marc-Andre, Sidney turned to walk out of the restaurant.

Sera grabbed a to-go order sitting on the counter. “Kostas,” she yelled out, “What is this order?"

“It’s a greek salad with gyro meat, pastitsio and baklava,” he yelled back.

Sera grabbed and followed Sidney toward the exit. “Excuse me?” she called out to him. He turned to face her. “Take this,” she thrust the bag into his hands, “I don’t want you to go hungry.”

He took the package and said, “Are you sure? What do I owe you?”

“It’s on the house,” she replied with a smile.

“You don’t have to do that,” he hesitated before remembering that he needed to leave.

“It’s the least I can do,” she said quickly as he left, “I hope that your Nanny is okay.”. He turned around quickly and looked at her. Her eyes shone with unshed tears. “I don’t know what I would do if anything happened to my Yiayiá. I will pray for her.”

“Thank you,” he replied in a hushed tone, “I really appreciate it.”

Friday, October 3rd - Pittsburgh, PA

Sidney drove around aimlessly after practice. He was in a bit of a state of limbo that was between the end of preseason and the start of the regular season. To be honest, he was avoiding going home to an empty house to be alone with his thoughts. He was still processing the death of his beloved Nanny a week ago. He had been numb and going through the motions after returning from the funeral. No one had said anything but it had been noticed by his teammates, particularly Marc-Andre Fleury.

He stopped three cars back at a red light and looked around to get his bearings. The neighborhood looked familiar and it took a moment for him to place the memory. Then he saw the neon sign that confirmed his recollection. It was the Greek restaurant from before training camp - the one from the disastrous first date. Michaela, despite getting no response from Sidney, had continued to text. He laughed as he recalled the game of water switcheroo that the waitress played on her. “What was her name again?” he thought.

At that moment, he saw her as she walked down the street. However, the light had turned green and the car behind him honked. “Hold on there, buddy,” Sidney said to himself. He started to drive forward before he was overwhelmed with a desire to see her again. He made it a block and a half before he did a quick u-turn. “What are you doing?” he asked himself.

Fortunately, he found street parking right outside the restaurant. Sidney hopped out of the car. The reality of what he felt compelled to do hit him hard. “Crosby,” he said to himself again, “What are you doing?” The scene from Good Will Hunting flashed in his mind and he answered himself, “I am going to go see about a girl.” He flung the door open wide and entered the restaurant with confidence.

His eyes searched the dining room for her, but he couldn’t see her. He walked past Didi, the hostess who stared in stunned silence as THE Sidney Crosby walked past her. He walked to the back of the restaurant where he had observed her that night. He stopped short when he saw her. She stood with her back towards him but with her arms wrapped around the neck of a tall, muscular man. They shared a kiss that landed somewhere in the middle of passionate and platonic. Sidney stood in disbelief. He tried to will his body to move but it refused to budge.

Nicolas, the muscular man, caught sight of Sidney through his peripheral vision. “Can I help you?” he asked as Sidney stared intently, the heartbreak apparent on his face.

Sidney raced outside the restaurant and paced. His heart raced and his face flushed with embarrassment. “WTF?” he asked himself, “What the hell were you thinking?”

“Hey Crosby!” a middle aged man yelled from across the street, “Give ‘em hell this season.”

Sidney gave a short wave and started walking down the block. He made it about 100 yards before he reached the edge of the Westinghouse Memorial Garden. In all of his years in Pittsburgh, he had never been inside of it. “What the hell?” he told himself before he entered the park. He walked around aimlessly and allowed the serenity of the park to ease his mind.

Internally, he questioned his reaction to seeing The Girl in the arms of another man. He didn’t even know her name even though he was sure that she had introduced herself. What he did remember was the mischief in her eyes and the smile that lit up the room. He kicked himself for not remembering her name. He kicked himself for leaving the restaurant without getting her number. “What did that matter, Crosby?” he asked himself, “Clearly she is unavailable.”

He found himself standing in front of the Westinghouse statue. He looked at it for the first time. He studied the details and reached out to touch it. Somehow, touching it would ease the anxiety and pain.

“Fancy meeting you here.” Sera called from the bench behind him, “How is your Nanny?”

Sidney spun around. Sera sat serenely on the bench and smiled at him. He stood still and tried to process what was happening. “How is she here?” he thought to himself. He left her in the restaurant. He left her in the arms of another man. Then he noticed Sera’s colorful sundress. She hadn’t been wearing that at the restaurant. “Wait,” he thought, “how could she have changed clothes.”

Sera watched as his face contorted and processed his thoughts. Mistakenly, she interpreted his lack of response as a sign that he didn’t remember her. She looked down in embarrassment.

“How did you get here?” he asked breathlessly.

“I’ve been here. I watched you walk up from that way,” she answered before standing up, “I am sorry I disturbed you.”

“No, I just saw you now….. At the restaurant,” he interjected.

Sera studied his face, “You didn’t see me. You must have seen my sister. I have been here for a while.”

“Your sister?” he asked meekly.

“Twin actually,” Sera smiled.

“You have a twin?” Sidney asked, suddenly aware of the possible mistaken identity, “You have a twin?”

“Wait, so you do remember me?” Sera suddenly realized.

“Of course I remember you,” Sidney replied, “You made an impression.”

“Hopefully a good one,” she blushed.

“The best one……:” he started to say her name and realized again that it had escaped his memory. He stepped toward and she stood up. “I am embarrassed that I forgot your name.”

“Sera Pappas,” she grinned, “I never got your name by the way.”

Sidney stared at her for a moment. “My name?” he asked incredulously.

“Yes, your name,” Sera replied, “You do have a name, right?”

“You really don’t know my name?” he asked.

“Should I know it?” Sera answered bluntly.

Sidney blinked and processed her words. He smiled, “I don’t guess you should, but it’s Sidney….. Sidney Crosby.”

Sera tilted her head, “Like the hockey player?”

Sidney shook his head, “Not like….. The hockey player.”

“No shit,” Sera’s hand went to her mouth, “You’re the hockey player, Sidney Crosby?”

“The one and only - at least as far as I know,” he grinned at her expression.

They stared at each other for a few seconds. Each of them grinned stupidly. Finally Sera spoke, “So you were at the restaurant? Why?”

“I am not entirely sure,” he blushed, “I think to find you.”

Sera tucked her hair behind her ear, “To find me? Why? Do you need some non-Swiss, preferably French bottled water?”

“With a straw, please,” he answered.

“Follow me, Mr. Crosby,” she teased.

Together they walked through the park. “Are you not working today?” he asked as they walked.

“No, I am on my lunch break,” she answered, “I like to come here to clear my head."

“Ahhhh,” he responded, “I guess the restaurant can get annoying.”

Sera stopped in her tracks, “I don’t work at the restaurant.”

Sidney stopped, “Yes, you do. That’s where we met, remember?"

“Yes, I remember. How could I forget Michaela?” she grinned.

Sidney winced at the memory of the blonde, “Then I am confused.”

“Calista, my sister, went into labor that night so I took her spot,” Sera answered matter of factly.

“So where do you work?” Sidney asked as they began walking again.

“Currently, I am working at my aunt’s travel agency,” she laughed, “Once I get that into the 21st century, I will move onto my uncle’s insurance agency. Who knows from there?”

Sidney was filled with questions for her. He wanted to know everything that there was about her life. They walked in comfortable silence before they paused at the entry to the park. Sera glanced at him. “You never answered my question, by the way.”

“Your question?” Sidney tried to remember what her question might have been.

“How is your Nanny?” Sera asked again, “You were going to fly to see her?”

Sidney looked down and kicked an imaginary rock on the sidewalk. “She….” Sidney struggled to find the words, “She……” Sera looked on with concern. “She died,” Sidney finally spit out.

Sera’s hand went to her mouth momentarily, “Oh no! I am so sorry. I feel horrible for asking.”

“It’s okay. You had no way of knowing,” he started to assure her.

Suddenly she ran and leapt into his arms. “I’m so sorry, Sidney. I am so sorry, Sidney.”

His arms wrapped around her instinctively and inhaled her scent. She squeezed him tight as if it was the most natural thing on earth to do. He held onto her as the tears slid down his face. She kept repeating herself and he clung to the words. Slowly after a minute, he sat her feet back down on the ground. Without thinking, he kissed her forehead then stepped back, “I’m sorry. I should have asked.

“No, it’s fine. I would have said yes,” she looked at him shyly. “I am really sorry to hear about your Nanny,” she said without thinking and added, “I would love to hear about her some time.”

“How about over dinner?” Sidney blurted out.

“When?” Sera shocked him with her answer.

“Tonight?” he asked hopefully.

“Okay,” she smiled before she pulled away a bit, “You can pick me up at work.” She looked at the restaurant before she spoke, “I really need to get back to work now. Can we skip the water? Do you think that you will survive? You won’t dehydrate, will you?”

“I think I’ll survive - just barely,” Sidney jested, “Can I pick you up at 5:30?”

Sera paused. She wanted to be sure that her aunt was gone when he arrived. The last thing she wanted was to set the family group chat on fire for a first date. “Let’s say six instead,” she suggested.

“Works for me,” he started to walk backwards to his car. Sera mirrored his backwards walk as she headed back down the street to work. Sera paused and watched him get into his car. She tried to wipe the goofy grin off of her face, but it was an impossible task.

Once he was safely in his car, she turned to walk back to the travel agency storefront. After a minute, she got the sense that she was being followed. She turned to look behind her and saw nothing. Then she saw his car in her peripheral vision. She stopped and turned to the street. “Mr. Crosby,” she called out, “Are you following me?”

“Maybe,” he called back.

“Why?” she stepped toward his car and ignored the irritated driver in the car behind him.

“Multiple reasons,” he shot back. He too was aware of the car behind him that impatiently waited.

“Such as,” she smirked.

“One, I need to know where to pick you up later, “ he explained. Sera blushed at forgetting to tell him.

“You’re a resourceful one,” she smiled, “and the other reason.”

“I want to make sure that you got there safely,” he said while looking her directly in the eye.

“Oh,” she replied, “Anything else?”

“Just admiring the view,” he teased, “It’s a mighty fine view.”

Sera turned around and began to walk again. She moved her hips in an exaggerated sashay movement. When she arrived at Apollo Adventures, she turned to wave at Sidney before going in.

Her aunt looked up from her desk. “Who did you wave to?” she asked, “Anybody that I know?”

Sera blushed, “No - it’s nobody that you know.”

#sidney crosby x oc #the crosby crew #nhl fic #nhl imagine #cellysbingo2024

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