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dobbysnotsureaboutthis · 2 months

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Very Long Mating Season Pt. 2 - Elevator Shenanigans

Masterlist

WC: 3,203

Description:

You get stuck in an elevator with Alastor and some shenanigans 乁(ಥ ͜ʖಥ)ㄏgo on. Basically, it is a short (shorter compared to pt.1) continuation of pt.1 which you can find here

Warnings:

SEX STUFF again I repeat there is !SEXUAL CONTENT IN THIS FIC! And again, tiny tiny bit of blood stuff, I felt like writing him soft cuz something’s gotta balance all that hardness, also by shenanigans (in the title) I mean !SEXUAL CONTENT!, unedited (warnings sponsored by Vivziepop)

It didn’t take too long for the rest of the hotel crew to realize what happened between you and Alastor. Angel Dust was the first to suspect the two of you, then Husk, before they spread their suspicions to the rest of them.

You did your best to avoid their judgemental (in your mind) stares, laughing awkwardly whenever Alastor would stand a little too close for comfort while they were around. When you were alone, you let him hold you when he wanted, enjoying the cozy cuddle of his hold as he had you in his lap by the fireplace, his one arm petting your fluffy ears and the other holding a book. You let him keep you in his radio tower, swinging your legs aimlessly for hours while he excitedly talked through his broadcast.

Although he still wouldn’t let you touch his antlers, despite your offer to help him with that itch he kept on scratching. When you asked him why…

“Well my de[e]ar, deer shed their antlers each year after mating season.”

Which didn’t answer your question, but explained the flaky red strips of gummy fur clinging to his antlers. As a doctor, you’ve seen much grosser things, so you watch him pick at them with curiosity rather than disgust.

But as soon as you saw the opportunity - while he was distracted in a heated argument with Lucifer, who you’ve yet to speak to - you slipped out of the hotel. You would be back, you couldn’t bring yourself to cruelly leave him back there (not that he would let you do so). It would just be after a well-needed break from that abnormally clingy demon.

After all, you did grow a bit fond of him yourself after the weeks spent constantly in his passionate embrace. But you missed walking freely through the city without an overgrown strawberry attached to your side, and you definitely needed to get back to your job at the office, rather than treating patients in the hotel while a red-eyed demon watched over your shoulder.

As you’re turning the street to your office, feeling renewed and ready to start the day, you’re stopped by… the sight of nothing.

Your office was gone. All that was left of the humble one storied building was bits and pieces of the cheap gray walls, looking like burnt bread crumbs on a messy eater’s plate. No way.

“What happened here?” You question a nearby tiny bunny demon in a construction uniform, watching as her yellow eyes flicker rapidly over a blueprint of sorts.

“Ugh, it’s the same guy again.”

“What guy?”

She ignores you, and begins moving away from the wreck that was left of your humble building. You’re not at all thrown-off, being painfully used to her type of behavior. It was rare in fact, to find a single soul down here capable of basic etiquette. You follow her, determined to get some type of answer.

“Can you at least tell me when all the construction is going to be over?”

“It’ll probably take us a month or so to fix up that tall of a building.”

Tall? You’re confused for just a second before you notice a ruined building owned by VoxTek across the street of your location. The center had disappeared as though someone took a giant bite out of it. A minute loss for a company as big as VoxTek. Well, at least compared to yours.

“What about the building over there?” You gesture to the empty spot your office used to occupy. “How long is that going to take?”

“What, you think we just have all the time in the world?”

“...Yes?”

“We don’t bother to fix small buildings like that, they get wiped out all the time.” She snorts. “I don’t even know what that thing was for!”

“That was my office. I’m a doctor. I need it reconstructed, I have patients who need me.”

That makes her lift her head from her blueprint to look at you, clear astonishment and a hint of mockery in her expression. “Seriously? A doctor in hell? That gives me even less reason to fix the darn building, your patients probably kill each other as soon as you treat them!” She reaches up high to pat your shoulder patronizingly, as though you just told her the funniest joke. “Go find yourself another job sweetheart. Maybe you’ll find one in Mr. Vox’s building that we’re fixing up right now.”

And that was that. There was nothing you could do to get them to listen to you, unless you fought fire with fire and resorted to the same type of bloodthirsty violence as them. You weren’t going to do that.

“Oh, fuck you. I hope you fall while working and reconsider what you said about doctors being pointless.” You could still say whatever the fuck you wanted, though.

Now there was only one place you could think of heading to, and that was straight back into the arms of your... “lover” was a term never explicitly stated, but friends would be a severe understatement.

The doors to the hotel entrance slam open before you could touch the handle, and you’re greeted by a deafening, “Dear, where have you been?” in your ear, a slender, red-sleeved arm hooking over your shoulders and squeezing you tightly.

“I was trying to check up on my office,” you sigh. Then you look at him reassuringly. “I wasn’t planning to leave you or anything.”

“I’m not at all worried about you leaving, I knew you’d come back.” He says this, but his tail twitches once. You smile. How endeering that he’s nervous about you leaving.

“Let me guess, somebody tore down your office?” Vaggie interrupts your conversation seemingly out of nowhere, and you notice the state of chaos the hotel lobby was in as you peer behind her shoulder to get a look inside.

Charlie is running all over the place, rambling at 100 miles per hour as she practically melts down over the crumbling walls and spilled beverages. A dart of hot pink indicates the tiny maid demon jumping around, giggling and stabbing at parts of the carpeted floor that were on fire. And, perhaps most notably, as Vaggie snags you from Alastor’s hold and pulls you outside, you notice that an entire chunk has been pulled out of the third floor, done in a similar fashion to the VoxTek building you glimpsed earlier. The third floor. Also known as, the only floor with extra rooms you could potentially stay in.

“Are you kidding me? Here too, at the hotel?”

“Yes. And even worse, it’s only been a day since we heard of this building-eating demon.” She groans. “A day! They fucked up our hotel in the short time you were gone.”

You bite your lip, brow furrowing at the information. So now, there was truly no place to stay. Well, you could ask Alastor, but you really didn’t want to. After all, he was a stranger to you up until a month ago, and you needed distance away from him to sort out your thoughts. What do you do now-?

A gloved hand squeezes your cheeks, and you’re met with red eyes right next to your face. “Smile, my dear! The fallen buildings are no big trouble, I could fix them up right now if I wished to.”

“Then could you?” You start to feel hopeful.

His grin widens. “And provide you with your own space, which you will only use to hide away from me? Not going to happen!”

You briefly think of just walking away right then, but just as you were about to, Charlie joins you at the door. “Oh, good, Alastor you’re here! You have to go fix the third floor right now, it’s really bad!”

His eyes narrowed to slits, still maintaining that grin of his which made him appear hilariously irritated in your perspective. You stifle a laugh and cheer of victory as he reluctantly accepts, knowing that he won’t defy a direct order from the princess of hell. “...Why of course I can.”

He has you on his arm again the second Vaggie lets go of you, humming an old-timey tune. The vibrations from his chest buzz pleasantly against your side, and you relax at the comfortable sensation. Well; it’s not as though you had anywhere to go, so you mindlessly follow his steady pull as he heads for the elevator. You look up, doubtful of its sturdiness at the moment.

“Alastor, are you sure this thing is safe to go on? You gesture with your free arm at the giant dent in the middle of the doors. “Are you sure we can even open the door?”

“I have my ways.” With a flourish of his hand, the doors creak open; albeit slowly, and it gets stuck at the halfway open mark. Huh. Doubtful, highly doubtful.

But Alastor’s looking at you with as innocent of an expression as a face like his can express, and you still feel slightly sorry for leaving him this morning without a word. So you step in, again slowly, because the ceiling of the elevator is smushed in. It’s low enough that you have to duck your head while walking in, and Alastor nearly has to crawl in. He twirls his radio stick behind his back, snapping his fingers to close the doors. You squeeze in front of him to select the button for the third floor.

As soon as the doors close, you become aware of just how tight the space was. Alastor sits crossed-legged next to you, his knee brushing against your ankle. You stand awkwardly, the lowered ceiling conveniently pushing on the back of your head so that you're staring at your feet. It’s even worse that you could feel him staring at you the whole ride up. He sure had no concept of other people’s personal space, for a man who supposedly guarded his own with an iron fist.

The elevator’s at the third floor. Great, it’s over. You wait for the doors to open.

One moment turns to two, then four, then… Why aren’t the doors opening?

“It appears we are stuck!”

“Seriously? I couldn’t see that! I thought I was hallucinating the whole thing so thanks for confirming!” You nearly scream in frustration, the events of the day finally catching up to you. “What happened to ‘I have my ways’?” You direct your yell at him, arms crossed in front of your chest as you finally meet his gaze.

He’s grinning at you, but his ears slightly fold back. Great, now you can’t even properly yell at him because then you’d feel bad. You turn around to face the crack of the door, attempting to pry it open to no avail. Pressing the open-door button didn’t work either. And there was no call button, because why would there be a call button in an elevator in hell?

You sink down to your knees to join him on the elevator floor, your skirt pooling neatly around your knees. The singular light illuminating the elevator flickers, and before you could even pray it doesn’t fall, it does. You barely had the time to cover your head with your arms, preparing yourself for the impact.

It doesn’t come. You look up from your hunched position to see that it had landed on Alastor instead. You blink in surprise at his form, frozen in suspense as his head tilts slightly to the right from the weight of the light that now hanged from one of his antlers. His eye twitches with the effort to not flinch at the sensation, and you gasp, realizing that it must’ve hurt due to the sensitivity from the shedding.

You carefully reach a hand upward, eyes asking him for permission. His teeth had clenched, signifying his pain despite his reluctance to drop the wide smile on his face.

“Go ahead…” He grounds out through the agony, ears completely flattened and tail nearly vibrating from its rapid twitches.

Gently wrapping your fingers around the base of the light bulb, you tug at it in small, repeated successions in hope of loosening the stuck object. It loosens just enough to make you think it's working, only for it to get stuck again on a higher ridge. His antlers shift and grow in length, until the tips nearly reach the elevator walls. Even with all the shifting, the light bulb doesn’t budge.

A pained noise alerts you of Alastor, head dipped and black liquid drooling from his teeth. You concentrate harder on dislodging the offensive gadget - nope, not moving. You couldn’t break the light bulb, who knows the extra damage that would do to him?

You didn’t notice how you had shifted onto his lap in your effort to reach the stuck object until you felt his claws dig into your waist, threatening to rip open the old wounds that had just begun to scar from your little mating session weeks ago.

You rack your brain for additional ideas. Then one comes to you. Hmm, kind of gross, but your options were limited enough to try. There was virtually no illumination in the elevator except the soft glow of red from his eyes, and you relocate the light bulb you had let go of through touch alone. You could feel the sharp edge of his nose slot between your chest, making you smile a little as it tickles.

You part your lips, and lick the smooth surface of the bulb, coating the surface with a thin layer of spit. Smearing the stickiness with your finger, you work it into the crevices where the object met his antler. The slight budge of the material gives you hope that you were doing something. Just a little more…

Beneath you, the deer man shifted relentlessly at your soft ministrations on his antler, fingers working diligently at detaching the object. Soft whimpers barely register to your unsuspecting ears as you focus on your work, letting more saliva pool in your mouth so that you could coat the entire surface with a thicker layer of goo. You slather your tongue all over its smoothness, digging the tip of it into the same crevices over and over. A musky, almost smelly taste of iron infects the point of your tongue and spreads to the rest of your mouth.

The taste is unpleasant in the way that, if you were served a bowl of the bloody bits with no context, you would probably gag; but the subtle flavor of Alastor peeking behind all the rancid munch led you to willingly take more and more of it into your mouth, as you savor it at the same time you work at the thing clinging to his antler. Periodically, you’re gifted by the squeaky noises of the object losing its grip on his antlers.

The skin on your waist aches with the clench of his clawed fingers, but you pay the affliction no mind. You vaguely register some hardness pressing into the slot between your thighs, and the familiarity of it all made it difficult for you to recognize its presence. Something about the rhythm of his hips, jagged and shamefully finding solace in your own, was still so ingrained into your mind from the two weeks of heated passion that you found it as natural as breathing, letting his actions fade into the background.

It feels like forever, as you diligently deliver slobbery licks to the bloody strands of flesh still heated by his body temperature, the soft, blood-matted bits of fur contrasting with the hard texture of his antlers. He had pulled you down to his crotch, desperately grinding into your heat until there was no space left between the two of you. His teeth encircle your shoulder as they dig into the exact imprint they left a day ago, the motion intimate and ritualistic.

Finally, your ears perk up as you hear a sharp scraping sound from the light bulb, and you let the muscles around your jaw relax, pulling your head back to gently shift the light bulb out with your hands.

“Alastor, I think I got it out-!”

You’re interrupted by a feral tightening of his claws on your arms, and the sound of bleating. The noise is broken and animalistic, and his cheeks are apparently flushed even in the darkness. Soft bleats continuously escape his lips; against his will, as indicated by his tense posture. You sat frozen, pussy pressed against his jumping clothed cock, back arching in heated fascination as you feel wet pumps of muffled fluid against your underwear.

The sensations of his heavy, labored breathing, sweat running in rivulets down his shoulders and stuttering hips finally registers to you, sinking into his hold and letting him handle your willing body as he rides out his high.

He just… came in his pants.

You simply sit in silence, light bulb still clutched in your hand, as you let him recover while his labored breaths pump into the nook of your shoulder.

“...Is that why you wouldn’t let me touch your antlers?”

He bares his teeth, the same bleating noise escaping his lips, although without embarrassment this time. Within no time at all, he had pulled your slowly distancing body flush against his own body again. “I’ll answer your curious little questions after I’m done with you.”

Ah, right. You settle yourself into his hold as you mentally prepare for what was to come.

You forgot that man had no such thing as a recovery time.

—---------------------------------

“The problem got so big that it showed itself. Turns out it was just a little crocodile demon, who was having a fit and got a little hungry while trying to find its mother. We got it down to its original size, and Charlie is working on fixing the broken buildings of the pride ring.” She holds up the tiny crocodile, its eyes glistening in fascination at the red lego in its hands. Was everything red in hell?

And what was a child doing in hell?

“Ah, don’t eat that!” Oh, that’s why. You snort as Vaggie wrestles her bleeding mouth from its jaw. Well, you’ve always thought some children were demons on earth.

“Anyway, what took you and Alastor so long to fix the floor?” She turns to look at Alastor accusingly. “I thought you had powers to help you with these types of things.”

You race to answer her question before Alastor could potentially say something weird. “We got stuck in the elevator.” That was technically the truth.

Alastor hums a guileless tune, a complacent smile resting on his face. Between his strange wordlessness (only because you threatened him earlier not to speak a word of it) and your suspiciously quick answer, something clicks in her expression.

“Oh. Ohhh. Ew.” She wrinkles her nose.

Your face burns in shame as you re-enter the elevator with Alastor. He’s still smiling the same smile, and you’re grateful for the silence until he speaks up, head tilting to one side as he ends your little escapade with one last candid remark.

“It’s a good thing you’re a doctor dear, not a politician.”

A/N: So I didn't write them fucking because every time I start a fic, I think of it as being part of the same universe. And they've already fucked in this universe. It doesn't make sense to me to write a full-on sex scene twice in the same universe, especially one with not that much plot, because then it translates as more of a "sex diary of reader and Alastor" (which I MEAN HEY IT COULD BE A THING) and less of a continuation of a story from point A to point B. But with how the fucking is the main point it might as well be a sex diary so... (WHAT DID I TYPE THAT WHOLE THING FOR) Also when I wrote jumping clothed cock I kept picturing his dick turning into a sausage and jump-roping so now you can think about it too (only if you want to (#consent (...I bet you thought about it)))

Taglist(? Never done one of these things before/ Is it a list with one item (in the English language (not programming or whatever else with lists))): @angeldustharmony here’s that pt. 2! ᕙ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)ᕗ

#alastor x reader #hazbin alastor #alastor x you #alastor x you smut #after the rut #fanfiction #hazbin hotel smut #hazbin hotel x you

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writingbynova · 1 month

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Nanami Kento

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⊹ 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬 ⊹ : ceo! Nanami x employeefem!reader - explicit content; minors DNI - pwp (porn with slight plot) [un]protected sex - pet names (princess) - kinda possessive - mind breaking - this is short af coz I'm sleepy sorry babes ♡ (let me know if I missed any tags)

Word count: ~ idk but it's short

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A corporate bitch. It's what you could call yourself. Clean, demure, obedient, quiet. It's the etiquette you held onto. Until he ripped it off.

"show me your true self"

Finally your first year in this company, although that wasn't the reason for the party. Your boss, the ceo had just signed an extremely promising deal, thus, a party was thrown to celebrate. You were walking from the car to the entrance of the building, like you had done so many times but today was different, these heels were high, this dress wasn't something you'd usually wear to a party, it wasn't something you'd wear at all, you only did because your friends forced you to, a strapless corset-top short black velvety dress, barely hiding your ass from anyone who walked behind you, that made you more nervous than ever.

You finally walked in the building lobby, it was empty except for a security guard, asleep. You walked to the elevator to the sound of your heels hitting the cold building floor. The closer you got to the 17th floor, the louder it was, the more anxious you got, your heartbeat ringing through your ears, you weren't late, you had brought a gift, but you were so anxious, oh how you wished to turn back, this was a bad idea, you should have sat this one out, why did you want to integrate in the company so much? this was not your place to be, you're not welcome- *DING*

The elevator's metal pans slid open, exposing you to the whole room. They all stared at you. All of them. You walked into the room, trying your best to ignore the eyes following you. What was wrong with them?

As the party went on something felt different, entirely too different. The atmosphere has shifted, he was too close to you. Nanami Kento. CEO. Ever since you handed him the gift you got, his gaze hadn't left you. You tried ignoring it but how could you ? You could feel your heart beating harder every time your eyes crossed his. As the night went on people your coworkers started leaving, one after the other. Some offered to take you home, even though you had driven there. But he opposed it every time. Saying you had 'promised to help him clean after they all left' of course nobody would defy the boss words, except you. You would, but the grip his hand had on your hip made you a pliant corporate bitch. You stood next to him until the last person left. And when the elevator door finally closed on your last coworker you were met with reality. It was only you and him left. You didn't dare moving. But you could feel the butterflies in your stomach your thoughts ravaging your mind. Your pussy already excited at the thought of what could happen.

"You were beautiful tonight." His words caught you off guard "oh! thank you so much si-"

"Don't you ever dare wear something like that again around here? Understood? I don't like the way those bastards look at you, I should be the only one allowed to look at your beautiful body sway in this room. Right before my eyes. Now come on darling, give me a private show."

Oh and a show you held. Your body writhed against him, his arms bouncing you on his thick large cock. Your heels were slowly dropping to the floor, your makeup was ruined, mascara dripping, lipstick all over his shirt's collar instead of your lips. Which instead were quietly moaning his name. "You've always been such a nice girl. Always dressing modest, being quiet, shameful. But today...ah... Coming in, dressed so sluttily? How could I resist indulging in you?" You could barely speak, your mind only focused on how good it felt. "Thought, ahh, you'd like i-it" you whimpered, shuddering above him. "I loved it princess"

This wasn't the plan, you were supposed to spend some time at the party, not spend the entire night riding your ceo's dick like a whore...but it felt so damn nice. His hands rubbing your lower back enticing you to go rogue on him "I know you've been holding back. Tonight you need to let go, show me your true self princess" his words ignited a fire in you. You felt so little in his arms, tightly holding your body close to his. You felt so hot. Burning, you buried your face in his neck "I need your help" you whispered, as much as you wanted to let go and show your true disheveled self to him. He had to provoke it. You had turned into the perfect corporate robot for him. Now he had to fuck you out of your shell.

"Mhm, gladly"

"Ah! K-Kento, s-so de—ep, fu-fuckk, 's too good" you cried, panting heavily beneath him.

You used your elbow to cover your face, hiding how good you felt. In vain.

"Told you I want to see that pretty face, hide from me again I'll fuck you on your own desk so you'll think about it every time you dit in that chair" he groaned, sliding his thumb to abuse your throbbing clit. "Ngh! Ah- m-mercy Ken" You whined, immediately revealing your face. "Mhm much better". His hips slammed against you, drowning you in pleasure, you struggled to talk, struggled to breathe. You held your body up on your elbow, unable to keep your head from bobbing around. You felt your legs spasm, your toes curling, you threw your head back, biting your lower lip. But you were too far, too far from him to give in. You mechanically stretched your hand, in a desperate attempt to feel him, body to body. He's Nanami Kento. Did you really think he'd disappoint ? His arms immediately wrapped around your back, pulling you into his hold, you gasped, almost choking on the air that filled your lungs, feeling his tip nudge your g-spot, with each thrust he rammed into you. He slightly moved back, his forehead against yours, his eyes dug into yours, watching you break. You felt too close entirely too close, it's like you were losing control over your body. And you did. It only took one thrust. Only one. You were cumming, all over him, throbbing and pulsating around his girth cock. Fat tears slipping out your pretty eyes. Oh he'd indulge in you every day from now on. What a perfect employee he had.

TYSM for reading!! And for all the notes on my previous posts ♡

I'm so eepy rn so this is kinda trash but I wanted to post a little something, hope u enjoyed ♡

Divider by : adornedwithlight

#nanami kento #nanami smut #jjk x reader smut #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk nanami #18+ mdni #kento x reader #nanami x reader #nanami x you #smut

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romanoffsbish · 10 months

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On The Edge

Natasha Romanoff x Reader

Prompt Request | Natasha’s patience for your lack of time management boils over, and you pay the price | WC: 2,210

No pronouns used, but “pretty” and equally as soft terms are used to label / describe R.

Warnings: Non-Con (unintentional / momentarily) | Possessive Natasha

Smut: Dom!Nat | Prior Solo Play (R) | Oral / Fingering / Strap (R) | Teasing / Overstimulation | KO

18+ | Minors DNI

Natasha groaned, punching the bag in frustration as the secondary hand on the clock landed on the three. You were late, like usual, but you knew better than to leave her waiting in the training room for this long. So, the redhead tossed her gloves beneath the swaying bag and made her way to the elevator to collect you.

It wasn't like she didn't know where you were, seeing as how every time you are late it's because of sleep. It was honestly adorable to watch you stumble in, with the occasional patch of dried up drool on your chin, but usually that's only a few minutes after the time to train. Natasha never let you off the hook for it, but she also went far easier on you than she ever had anyone else, and that was simply because she adored you.

——

You were the light of the compounds, and her life... She's just never told you that before for the sake of professionalism as she was in charge of making you Avenger ready. Feelings, no matter how real, would not keep you safe in the field, so for the sake of a future relationship she dreamed of, she focused on training.

It worked, for the most part anyways, but there were times she nearly lost her cool. Like every time she'd pin you to the mat, your eyes would roll back at the impact and her mind would picture it in a different light. Or, the post training glow you usually sported that made you look twice as delectable. Natasha needed you in a way that challenged her every known process, she was not regarded as soft and sweet, but with your head on her shoulder after a long day, she knows she can be...

You were undeniably perfect, beautiful in both looks and spirit and as pure as the light of the halo that she imagined hovers atop your head... In a moments time though, her entire view of you would be changed, all because she was too frustrated to remember the proper etiquette, and the one of many reasons, for a knock.

Or to respect the barriers you'd put in place, as her trusty bobby pin clicked into place Natasha flung your previously locked door wide open and gasped. Her eyes laser focused in onto your exposed skin, and her hands were quick to shut and re-lock your door lest anyone else see what she now deemed—soon to be, hers.

The redhead wasn't the type to crumble, and if anyone else had been before her she'd remain an unmoved fortress, but if you begged she might just fall to the ground. Might a loose word really, because the longer she stared at you, the more she felt her knees shake.

Which would only be fair as you've blessed her with such beauty, lying there spread open for her. It was as if you were posed for her by a deity, in her worn down death metal hoodie that went missing after a mission.

You in her clothes was an undreamed fantasy, you truly looked ready to be ate, the fabric had ridden up significantly, leaving your naked lower half exposed to her predatory gaze. Natasha was gnawing on her lip when her eyes locked in on the strap beside your leg.

You were going to make such a pretty slut for her...

The smell that surrounded her was enough for her to know this was a recent endeavor of yours, fresh slick still shining on the skin of your thighs a clear mark too. An unexpected groan fell from her lips at the sight, leading to your body shuffling as your eyes snapped open. "Natasha?" Your adorable, groggy voice made her feel like smiling, but she kept her neutral face. "Y/L/N, why weren't you at our morning training?"

"Clint told me it was cancelled," you loudly yawned, but for some reason you didn't move to cover yourself up and the redhead smirked. "Y-you have a mission?"

Natasha now knew exactly what had happened, her best friend decided to meddle and now she was met with a glorious opportunity. Clint likely didn't expect that it would work out this way; she didn't mind, nor did she have the urge to ask him, she’d won regardless.

Natasha ignored your question and began to stalk her way over to you, her eyes roamed over your frame without even a hint of shame. This time you attempted to pull the hem of fabric down, but her hands latched around your wrists to stop you. "Is that my hoodie?"

The way you gulped in fear amused her tremendously, then you nodded and her lips upturned devilishly. "We are going to have so much fun together krasivaya," her tone dropped an octave, causing your body to shimmy as a pathetic little whimper left your chapped lips.

Natasha was two sounds away from ripping you apart, but she needed to be sure she wasn't taking advantage of your vulnerability. "Do you want to have fun Y/N?"

"Please," you cried instantly, hips desperately canting off the bed in emphasis as she swiftly straddled them. The way your slick spread against the skin of her toned abs and settled into the defined lines was what truly drove the woman into action. With determination and precision on her side Natasha helped you out of her hoodie, one hand fell to your bare chest to fondle your sensitive breasts while the other held your hands down above your head, her eyes were blown out in a way you had only ever dreamed of before this surreal reality.

"Fuck detka," she moaned, so deep and raspy that it was nearly a growl, "Your perfect tits are pierced?" The question was rhetorical, but her eyes were full of a lusty wonder, her fingertips pressed into the metal balls and her hand twisted, tweaking your nipple and ripping a deep moan of your own from within you.

Natasha moaned too and felt as her walls pulsed, she had you pegged as an angel, but here you were, a deviant and for some reason the subtlety was much hotter. In public you'd be her precious little peach, but behind closed doors you would be her pretty little slut.

"Do you have a safe word honey?" You nodded, then whispered a soft, "widow," when you saw that her eyes were waiting for more. "I can't wait to hear you use it." The redhead winked, then chuckled softly as she saw the way your eyes widened and your mouth fell open. "Don't worry now darling, I'll be gentle enough," her teeth grazed over your racing pulse. "Rough is fi-fine," you practically shrieked, hands flying up to grip and claw at her shoulder blades to drive home the need.

Natasha nodded with a smirk, not only hearing your message loud and clear, but finding it appealing too.

However, she believed in more of the long game, she slowly, painstakingly so, began to kiss all over your body, purposefully missing both sets of your slick lips. Open mouthed and fervent the more she got into it, leaving behind dribbles of spit along the various spots of injured skin as she'd claimed you without asking.

There was no need to ask to claim what's already yours, with you sleeping in her hoodie the ties were sowed, so all she was doing was making sure the world knew too.

Once she felt satisfied with the way your body looked, and more so how easily she'd gotten you to squirm, she devoured you wholly, her tongue slid in and out of your oozing hole until she could feel you growing restless. She’d crawled back up your body and pressed a kiss to your parted lips just as soon as she was released by your quivering thighs. A smile stretched her face as she saw the clear effect she had, you harshly panted as she'd worked you up so well, and she wasn’t even done.

You blinked a few times, clearing your vision only to be met with her blackened eyes. Part of you was terrified, but the other part was more so antsy for what was going to come next. Her eyes spoke to you, whispering promises of something you couldn’t quite decipher. Your heart was hopeful for love, but your heated body prayed for the opposite, it craved the widows carnality.

After only a second of time to think you got an answer, as did she as you couldn't stop a moan, but she did as her tongue seductively slid over yours while her middle and pointer fingers abruptly divorced inside of you. It wasn’t like the stretch of your strap had been, that was nothing but a filling up, her fingers were slender, but it was somehow better just because it was her doing it.

Natasha wasn’t the only one dreaming of this moment. Every training session ended the same, with you in the shower fucking yourself senseless to thoughts of her.

The redhead could feel that honesty with every thrust of your jittery hips that met her fingers, she truly felt liberated from the confines of your former student-teacher roles. It couldn’t be wrong when it felt this good; having you beneath her felt prophetic, and if today hadn’t been your last day together before you were tested by Fury she would have had to resign.

There was no going back to the grey area between the roles now, the blurred lines were finally washed away, that much was clear as you arched off the bed with a sultry cry of her name; Natasha officially had a new job, and that was to have you trembling and desperate for her, which you were, it was borderline humiliating.

Every move she made was intimately sloppy, the way her fingers prodded at your sensitive walls had you mewling around her tongue that played chicken with yours, intermixed with sharp inhales that wordlessly spoke to the woman above you of a job well done.

"You're so desperate," she acknowledged in a purr against your swollen, parted lips. Your inability to keep up broke the kiss apart, and allowed her a chance to take her teasing up a level. "This pussy is crying..."

"Natasha..."

"Do you remember what I say to you when we train?" Natasha knew it was cruel to ask you such a thing as your mind was blanked, with her fingers doing their best work inside of your velvety, clenched warmth.

"You can't keep being late and expect not to be punished Y/N," she taunted, a rough chuckle felt against your cheek as she removed her fingers. You whined, "I-I, Natasha please, I need you," just as she expected you to, and she brought the wet pads of her fingers up to your pulsing clit. "I always remind you too, that I call the shots detka, you’re far too precious to know what’s best Y/N, so hush yourself and relax."

The redhead rolled her eyes when she found your glossy ones already boring into hers, then without anymore hesitation she filled you up with a thick strap you'd left out, once again making her think this was what you wanted to happen from the start. Strong, eager hands held your hips down as she picked up a quick pace, her breath was hardly even different aside from the deeper rasp as she rutted her hips into you and whispered her filthiest dreams. Meanwhile you came with a loud whine and tears that pleaded with her to stop, but Natasha only rolled her hips faster.

"I'm not letting you go until you've either drenched the sheets, or passed out," she growled against the welted skin of your throat, her teeth nipped at the fresh sores, a display of her brutal carnality.

You were a panting mess at the mere threat of more, you were already sensitive from your private session. "I-I can't take anymore, please," you managed to stutter, but your resistance was as weak as your cunts grip. Natasha was ruthless, and since you didn't utter your chosen safe word she happily continued, "You can take it, and you'll do it graciously, one more complaint and I'll edge you all month."

"M-month?" Natasha rolled her eyes, she was strap deep inside of you, lips marking up your skin and still you questioned her attachment. Though that frustrated her, there was a rare softness to her tone that held a much deeper meaning. "If you thought this was a one time thing you were mistaken lyubov'." Natasha's lips pressed to yours right after her half baked confession, intent on devouring your soul as it left your body with the next deep thrust of her thick strap. "You're as good as mine now Y/N," she sighed against you as she felt the waves of pleasure ripple off your convulsing body.

"Sweet dreams," she whispered in amusement only moments later as your body relaxed and her eyes caught sight of your peaceful sleeping face. Natasha settled in beside you, strong arms wrapped around you to pull you closer, a sigh of relief followed, "My girl."

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eetherealgoddess · 8 months

Text

ꨄCaughtꨄ

Second part as requested!! Link below!! ♡︎♡︎♡︎

Part Two

Oneshot - Yandere Cheater Au

❦You catch your boyfriend, Sanzu cheating with the Haitani brothers❦

Sanzu Haruchiyo & Haitani Brothers x Reader

Not fully proofread

MY TR FANDOM WORKS ARE ONLY ON TUMBLR, AO3, AND WATTPAD UNDER EETHEREALGODDESS! REPORT IF YOU SEE IT POSTED UNDER ANYONE ELSE BUT ME!!!

I apologize if I get any Japanese etiquette or culture wrong, I literally have to research the culture for some of my fandom stories so if anything is wrong, please excuse my ignorance.

Notice:

✩Y/n is 18+. I picture him as a black male but you can see him however.

✩Some parts of the story may not be realistic or factual. After all, this is a work of fiction.

✩Although it's a dark 'romance,' I do not condone any of the behavior displayed.

✩Dark content such as: gore, violence, triggering topics, graphic scenes, vulgar language, explicit sexual content, etc.

✩There may be scenes that involve non con and/ or dubcon so don’t read if that makes you uncomfortable

✩That being said, this story is for 18+ only.

Enjoy!

Caught

You are on your way to your boyfriend’s penthouse to surprise him for your three year anniversary. Although you and Sanzu had already celebrated it yesterday, your gift for him didn’t come in on time, resulting in your plan to stop by and give it to him today. You both had a romantic dinner as well as finishing the night off passionately with him moaning under you as you declared your undying love for each other.

Pulling up you parked your car and walked into the doors of the lobby with the box in hand, heading into the elevator as you eyed your phone’s screen, a picture of you and your beautiful boyfriend. Once you reached your destination, you entered the unlocked door, walking into a dark living space.

Huh, he should be awake.

Your eyebrows furrow at the distant sounds of moans and rustling, recognizing your boyfriend’s voice as sweat begins to drop and your fingers begin to tremble. As you slowly walk towards the sound, you try to convince yourself that Sanzu is probably just masturbating, something you’ve walked in on occasionally, though your pretty boyfriend purposefully set it up when he knew you were coming over. What convinced you otherwise was the sound of two other voices you barely recognized, walking closer to the cracked door as you leaned against the wall to peek through.

“Good boy. Just like that.” The man you recognized as one of your boyfriend’s coworkers, Ran. The man who currently has your boyfriend’s hair tangled in his fingers, thrusting his cock inside of his mouth as he leans against the headboard. You hold back a gasp as you watch Sanzu on all fours taking his other coworker’s cock behind him, Rin thrusting so hard his hips smack against the pink haired man’s ass.

Tears threaten to pour as you watch the sight, hearing your boyfriend moaning on another man’s dick as he takes it up the ass raw, the same ass that your own cock had been in. The sight would’ve been beautiful if you hadn’t been cheated on, lied to, or betrayed. Though you’re not into sharing anyway so it would’ve never worked.

“God, you’re sucking me in so tight.” Rin hissed. “You love it when I fuck you like this, huh?” Sanzu responds with a long muffled moan, saliva and cum dripping out of his mouth as he looks up at Ran with doe eyes.

“Such a good slut for us. Dirty boy, what would Y/n think if he saw you like this?” Ran teases with a smirk as he continues his thrusting, making intense eye contact with Sanzu who responds with another loud moan before Rin smacks his ass. You could only stare with your mouth covered at the mention of your name.

“He likes it. So fucking dirty.” Rin chuckles as he accelerates his thrusts. “Tell us how much of a dirty whore you are.” He halts before bending over to grab Sanzu’s hard cock as he gives it a squeeze. Ran pulls Sanzu’s head off of his cock.

“I’m such a fucking slut! I’m a dirty whore! Keep fucking me, please! I’m so close!”

“Good boy!” Ran praises before he shoves his cock back in his mouth.

You couldn’t watch anymore, too devastated as you rushed away from the door. Before you left, you angrily punched one of the walls, resulting in a hole as well as throwing the box before you walked into the elevator.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” You slam your fist against the driver’s wheel as you make your way to your small apartment.

I knew from the beginning we wouldn’t work out. He has the looks, the money and all the men he’s surrounded by who are on his level or higher. Of course he’d be attracted to them. It all makes sense, even though it hurts.

You just thought after three years those thoughts were just insecurities. You felt nervous when you had met the Haitani Brothers who had appeared at one of your dinners and who had visited his penthouse one day when you showed up unannounced. When you had picked him up from his job that you still know nothing about, you had seen the way they all looked at each other. The memory makes you sick. If he had been longing for them then why stay with you for three years.

When you walk into your apartment, you lock the door and immediately go to your cabinets to pull out a bottle of whiskey, drinking it straight, something you normally don’t do. You went to your bedroom and covered yourself in blankets as you drank from the bottle, leaving a text to Sanzu saying, “We’re done. Have fun with your coworkers.”

You blocked his number as well as his social media, doing the same for all your mutuals considering they’re all people he knew first. You couldn’t believe how raunchy the scene was. You hadn’t even known he was into being degraded like that. Maybe you didn’t satisfy him in the way he needed, though how were you supposed to know that when he hadn’t told you. You shake your head as the bitter taste burns your throat.

How did you miss the signs? At one point he even asked what you thought about polyamory. Of course, you told him you were monogamous but that should’ve been a sign right there. Especially since it was only after the fact that he began hanging with those specific coworkers more. Even when you found clothes at his place that didn’t fit you and you honestly didn’t think it’d fit him. How long has it been going on?

Well he’s free now. He can do whatever he wants. None of it is your concern anymore. And to hell with sitting in the bed, rotting over someone who clearly didn’t love you in the way you thought. You pick yourself up, dressing in your best casual fit, as well as washing your face. You took one last shot of your whiskey before you left it on the nightstand, walking out of the apartment and heading to the nearest bar.

Luckily, it’s the weekend so the bars and clubs will be busy, music will be broad and lots of men should be out. Your plan isn’t to hook up considering how sick you feel even thinking about sex after what you saw, but to just get out of the apartment. You have plenty of time to sulk tomorrow during your hangover.

You stayed at the bar for hours, dancing drunkenly as you conversed with strangers, as well as dancing with different groups of people. A guy you met offered to help you home considering how drunk you were. When you made it back to your apartment, you both lied in your bed, offering him to stay the night against your better judgment. Fortunately the only thing you guys did was have a heated make out session before the memories of your ex boyfriend came back to bite you in the ass. Causing you to ball your eyes out as this random stranger comforted you, both of you falling asleep as you were happy to have made a new friend.

You woke up to a loud bang, your front door bursting open before a group of footsteps entered your bedroom. The guy next to you sits up as he rubs his eyes before he screams, your eyes widening when you hear a gun cocking, causing you to sit up as well to face the three intruders.

The guy hopped off the bed just in time before the bullet made contact with his chest, penetrating your headboard. Another gunshot rang as the shirtless stranger fell, rolling before hopping back up and attempting to make it to your bathroom before a bullet made contact with his stomach, his body falling with a thud.

“WHAT THE FUCK!” You yell at the intruders before hopping up and running to the bleeding man, kneeling as you use your blanket to try and help before you are yanked by the arm.

“This is your fault.” Sanzu hissed, gun still in his hand. You look at him with anger as the stranger groans in pain.

“How the fuck is this my fault? You cheated on m-! You know what, I don’t have time for this right now, I need to get him to the hospital!”

“You’re not doing shit but going to the car.” Rin says. Your eyebrows furrow.

“Who the fuck are you to tell me what to do, huh?” You growl, stepping in front of him threatenly as you shove him. He smirks before turning away, holding back considering he knows his strength. A hand grabs your shoulder as you’re turned back to your ex.

“What’s gotten into you? Let’s go to the car now.” He growls. You snatch his hands from you.

“Fuck you and fuck them too. Get the fuck out of my apartment!”

“Such a little brat.” Ran tsked before he grabs you and throws you over his shoulder. “Christ.”

“Put me down you asshole!” Your fists connect with his back as you’re forced outside, heading towards the car. When the door opens, he tosses you in.

“If you run out of this car, I will knock you out. Do you want that?” You glare in response, arms crossed.

A hand meets your face as you're forced to look at the side with wide eyes before the same hand pulls your chin to face Ran.

“Did you just slap me?”

The grip on your chin tightens, causing you to wince.

“Do you want that?” You shake your head no before he stands out of the car and closes your door, opening the passenger seat and hopping in.

“Are they taking him to the hospital?”

“They’re getting rid of the evidence.”

Your eyes widen as tears threaten to fall.

“I hate all of you.” Ran chuckles as he lights a cigarette.

Rin opens the driver’s door as Sanzu gets into the back seat, talking amongst themselves about someone named Koko contacting the cleaners. You shift your gaze to the window as you avoid eye contact with anyone. Sickness forms as well as a throbbing headache which indicates a hangover, circling your arms around your legs as you rest your head on your knees, still eyeing the window as you try not to throw up.

The ride was quiet besides the Haitani brothers conversing, Sanzu eyeing his phone as you continued to look out the window. When you made it to the penthouse, you all walked into the lobby and stood in the elevator before you made it to his living room, you attempt to hide in one of the bathrooms, but Sanzu snatched your wrist before you could make it, pulling you to the bedroom before closing the door, the Haitanis staying in the other room.

“What do you want to say?” He questions, crossing his own arms as he eyes you with a frown.

“What do you think? First you cheat on me, then you kill a guy who didn’t do anything wrong! Since when did you even have a gun? What else have you been hiding from me? Actually, nevermind. I’m going home!” You attempt to pass him only to get yanked back and shoved onto the bed. Sanzu climbs on top of you before pinning your wrists next to your head.

“You’re not leaving. I’m sorry for hurting you, but you have to get over it if this is gonna work out.” Your eyes widen as you release a laugh.

“What a bullshit apology! I guess this can’t work out because I can’t get over it so let me go!”

“Y/n, I-I need you. I need you to work this out.”

“You seemed pretty full of cock to me, I don’t see why you need me.” He glares at you before his grip tightens, causing you to yelp painfully.

“We’re going to work this out. There’s no other option.”

“So you think I’m gonna stay in a relationship with you while you’re fucking two other men? In the same bed we would share? Are you out of your mind?” You ask in disbelief. “You don’t even seem like you feel bad!”

“I don’t care what happens, you’re still mine.”

“I used to be yours before I found out you weren’t mine!” His glare softens.

“I am yours. We can be theirs together. Please!” Your eyes widen as your eyebrows furrow.

“Are you begging me to involve myself with whatever you three have going on? I-I can’t even look at you the same!” Sanzu’s eyes widen as his face morphs into a slight panic.

“Don’t say that! I’m still the same!” The tears fall out of your eyes before you can stop them.

“Not only were you getting fucked in both holes while getting off to the mention of me catching you, but you killed someone right in front of me only to call some Koko guy to clean the evidence! Who the fuck are you? I don’t even know who I was with for three fucking years!” You angrily cry out, struggling against his hold.

“Let me go!”

“No.” He whispers before lying his head on your chest, nuzzling between your neck and shoulder.

“Get off of me, Sanzu! We’re done for good!”

You flinch in pain as you feel his teeth dig into your skin, liquid oozing out. He picks himself up, staring at you with a crazed look you’ve never seen before.

“We’ll never be through! You promised!” He says before he pulls his arm back and lands a direct punch to your face. Your head faces the side as your eyes are wide open, face throbbing from the impact. You grab his wrists as both of his palms force your face to look at him.

He leans over and places his lips on yours, you not responding as you try to push him away. You know that even if you bite his lip hard, he’ll like it so you decide to move your head to the side.

“Ah lover’s quarrel.” Rin teases as he leans against the doorway with his hands in his pockets. Ran stood by the side of the bed, leaning on the post as he eyes both you and Sanzu.

“We have a mission, let the boy rest Sanzu.” Ran says with his usual smile.

Sanzu gazes at you one last time before he picks himself up and follows the Haitani’s to the doorway.

“I wouldn’t try to leave if I were you, guards are surrounding the outside area.” You're told by one of the brothers before they shut the door.

When you finish sulking, you shower as well as clean the wounds on your face and neck. You don’t bother to eat and you go to the guest’s bedroom once you're finished, the memories from when you caught them in Sanzu’s room making it less of a comfortable familiarity. Before you wrapped yourself in the blankets you drank a cup of water as well as checked the notifications on your phone, attempting to distract yourself from the death you saw today. Time passes and you drift off to a deep sleep.

You wake up to your body rocking, a new pain you’ve never felt lingering behind as the pleasure of pressure deep inside your ass causes you to cry out. The darkness of the room didn’t help your blurred vision, only the moonlight shining on the two bodies in front of you helped decipher what was going on.

The stimulation of your cock forced you to look at the pink head of hair that covered your erection, warmth engulfing your girth as your legs are held up by the hands coming from behind you. Following the bent over body in front of you, a tall figure with familiar glowing purple eyes thrusts into the ass as his hands grip the hips. Your eyes widen when realization hits, just as Rin gives a harsh thrust against your prostate.

Tears spill out as your hips move uncontrollably, overwhelmed by the stimulation coming from both ends.

“S-stop!” You yell, grabbing Sanzu’s hair before pulling him off your cock, a string of saliva and cum hanging from his mouth as you eyed his gorgeous, red face. His eyes glazed over as he moans from the grip on his head, body rocking as Ran fucks into him.

“What is th-!” He cuts you off by desperately attaching his lips to yours.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.” He whispers against your lips with one hand balancing himself as he rubs your cock. You twitch in his hand as you feel Rin’s breath on your ear.

“See how sorry he is?” He questions as he grunts, shoving his cock into you as he pulls back out before thrusting back in.

“He’s being such a good boy, Y/n. How could you not forgive that pretty face?” Ran says, pulling his hips back and pushing against Sanzu, causing a moan to release from him as his head falls onto your shoulder, both of your bodies rocking as you breathe heavily.

“Th-this isn’t… hah! Isn’t okay!” You groan as your head falls back, feet dangling in the air. Sanzu’s grip accelerates as he whimpers in your ear, kissing and sucking on your neck as he continues to apologize.

“He’s still not convinced.” Rin says, motioning his head for Sanzu to kiss him. You hear the lip smacking of both men next to your ear, the pain in your chest deepening as well as your conflicted feelings of being aroused by the display.

“Show him how sorry you are.” Ran says before yanking Sanzu’s hair back. In response, he bends over obediently as he gives you his doe eyes before licking your cock, closing his lips around the head and pushing his head down, your dick hitting the back of his throat.

“Fuck!” You hissed, frustrated with the overwhelming pleasure you’re feeling from these men. One of Ran’s hands forces you to face Sanzu.

Between kisses on your cock’s head, Sanzu repeats “I love you,” before it sinks back in his throat, bobbing his head relentlessly as you couldn’t help but thrust against him. His hands grip your hips as he embraces you fucking his mouth.

“He’s so eager to please. He’s being so good to you right now, Y/n.” Ran cooed as you reach closer to your orgasm, Rin’s cock beating your prostate as you grind your hips. Sanzu grabs your hand and places it on his head as you subconsciously tighten your fingers in his hair, breathing heavily as you grind into his mouth all the while Rin’s cock rubs deeper into your walls.

“You like this, huh? Watching him get fucked while he takes your dick in his throat. You just wanted to be included, yeah?” You can hear Rin’s smirk as Ran chuckles, sweat covering his body as his face becomes darker.

“You’re a dirty boy, too. That's why you watched us for so long. Maybe you’re a slut too, yeah?” Ran grins.

You bit your lip as you shut your eyes tightly, not wanting to admit that the sight was arousing and the words they’re saying are going straight to your erection.

“It’s okay if it feels good. Embrace it, my love.” Sanzu says softly against your cock before he uses his hand to jerk you off once more, placing his mouth around the girth, bobbing at a continuous fast pace. Your body tenses as warmth covers your body.

Your body convulses as ropes of cum shoot down his throat as he caresses your thigh, thrusting your hips as you moan uncontrollably, eyes in the back of your head as you lean against Rin’s shoulder. The night continues on until they all release, you and Sanzu falling in between the brothers as you all fall asleep on Sanzu’s bed.

The next day, you woke up with a sore backside, attempting to sit up but prevented by the arm locked around you. Sanzu’s head rested on your chest as his leg and arm wrapped over you, breathing steadily as you felt the warmth from his naked body. Your arm naturally tightens around him as you always do, the sun shining through the thin curtains as you view his messy hair and pretty features. Once you remembered the night before, you felt conflicted. Yes you are very much attracted to the Haitanis as well as your ex of course, but there’s no way this could work. Not only did Sanzu cheat with them, along with nobody telling you, but no matter the pleasure you felt last night, it was forced upon you, not to mention the physical abuse.

Your grip loosens as you attempt to push him off, only for his limbs to tighten around you.

“Don’t leave me, please.” He whispers. “I need you, Y/n. Please stay with me. With us!” He looks up at you with tears falling out of his eyes.

You sigh, “Sanzu, I don’t know. It isn’t right or fair to me.” You want to forgive him. You want to stay with him. Maybe if he would’ve brought this up differently or if the Haitani’s had already been involved besides everyone sneaking behind your back then you could’ve worked something out. You can’t even trust Sanzu, how could you trust the other two?

“Please! Let’s just try it!”

“And if it doesn’t work, who are you going to choose?”

“It’s going to work!”

“So mean of you to make him choose like that, Y/n.”

You roll your eyes when the brother’s walk in shirtless. “And it wasn’t mean for you guys to fuck my boyfriend behind my back while smiling in my face. Not to mention what you did last night.” You glare at them.

They only smile in return.

“Regardless, you know where you belong so I don’t know why you’re acting like you have a choice at this point.” Rin shrugs before hopping on the bed next to you.

“We’re really just being nice at this point but what our good boy wants, our good boy gets.” A hand grabs your chin, forcing you to turn to Ran.

“And what we want, we always get.”

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spider-stark · 1 year

Text

A DARK AGE

next part

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

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

word count - 10.3k

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

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

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

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

“What the fuck is going on?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What crime scene?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Remember Aleksei Sytsevich?”

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

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

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

Your nose scrunched up slightly.

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

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

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

“No.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

SPIDER-MAN RETURNS - BRUTALLY ATTACKS ESCAPED CRIMINAL

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’ll turn into a man-hunt.”

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

It would be the dawn of a new age.

A dark age.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was different.

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

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

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

His face blanched. “You what?”

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

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

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

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

But you?

You could get in with a simple phone call.

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

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

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

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

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

Blood pooling, bones snapping, his screams echoing.

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

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

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

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

“Your funeral.”

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

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

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

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

Urich gave a stiff nod.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Once.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Patient #121394 - Progress Report

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

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

You weren’t sure why you ever would.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Almost.

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

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

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

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

You were already here.

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

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

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

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

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

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

A bit.

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

Stay calm. Hide your weaknesses.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And that simple fact was almost enough to break you.

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

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

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

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

Your jaw clenched. “Not anymore.”

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

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

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

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

“Because I’m not like you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But that was the point.

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

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

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

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

Then, it happened.

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

Now, though, you felt almost nothing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Surprisingly, he chose to leave it alone.

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

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

“Twice a week.” You countered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bang.

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

“And you killed her.”

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

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

Bang.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You always waited for them—Harry and Peter both.

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

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

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

“Don’t get involved.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Harry had nothing to lose in this situation.

Except for you—his friend.

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

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

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

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

But now you could feel him.

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

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

Harry Osborn was better off dead.

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

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

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

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

But none of that mattered anymore.

None of you were the same anymore.

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

“Coming here was a mistake.”

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

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

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

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arabellasleopardcoat · 1 year

Text

Lamb (Daemon Targaryen x Reader)

Summary: Modern Daemon has bad blowjob etiquette. You think you can teach him a lesson.

Warnings: Smut. Rimming. That’s it. That's the fic. Nah, kidding. Cursing, trapped in an elevator, male masturbation. Casual workplace sexism.

A/N: The last two Sundays I decided to be sweet. But since my finals started, we go back to my scheduled period of being unhinged. And then I started my actual period and hated this so much. So if it sucks, sorry.

He is staring at you. Again.

You never understood the point of glass walls. If you owned the building, you would have them all replaced by real, actual walls. Or at least, you would put blinds on. But you don’t own the building.

The man that does is sitting in the office right across from yours, staring towards you. Daemon Targaryen. Board member of Targaryen’s Industries. Your father and he had been at each other’s throats since you had been a little girl. Otto Hightower and Daemon Targaryen hated each other, it was a fact of life. Him choosing the office right across from yours had been taken as nothing more than a taunt to your father.

But you knew better. Daemon was set on driving you to insanity. You scowled, and he smirked at you, closing his laptop and sliding those damn glasses off his face to look at you unashamedly. He looked starving. Like he wanted to eat you whole.

You didn’t actually know what his position was. It was hard to keep track. He had been appointed by the CEO, your godfather Viserys, to more departments than you could count. First, he had been head of marketing, but your father complained he was using too expensive models that were not on the budget. Then, he had overseen PR, which had been an absolute disaster. After that, he had been placed as the CFTO, only to be demoted a few weeks later. Then he had been… Well, you get the idea.

Daemon waves his hand, shaking you out of your contemplation. You quickly close your mouth, noticing you had your lips slightly parted, as if to speak a word that would never come out. He snickers, no doubt amused at what he perceives as a weakness.

He has done this for a month. You have to give it to him, he is a patient man. Daemon sits there every morning and just looks at you. Takes you in, as you flutter around your office, sometimes on the phone, sometimes typing away on your computer. He never gets bored, or tired of it. How could he, when he is a predator waiting to pounce?

You see, Daemon has been waiting weeks for a moment of weakness. Taunting you, looking at you, making you uncomfortable. And it’s fitting, really. That today of all days is the day you break. There is a storm raging outside, the worst winter Westeros has seen in years. Climate change it’s at fault, or so they say. You only know that you despise Daemon, and you despise thunderstorms.

His eyes. Purple and mischievous, meeting yours at every turn. You despise those. His little sideways smirk. That, too, you hate. You hate his entitled, nepo baby attitude, and you are sick of the taunts about your nephews and sister. His handsome face, and how good he looks in glasses. Annoying. You wish someone would put him in his place.

No one had actually expected you to enter corporate life. You see, as the daughter of an old money family, your father was sure you would do just as Alicent did and become the housewife of a rich man. The thing he didn’t take in consideration was that you had inherited none of your mother’s and Alicent’s grace and soft tempers, and all his cunningness.

You had gone to a good school, and had quickly risen through corporate ranks. You had a strong work ethic, but your last name had helped, too. Being the daughter of Otto Hightower had his perks, especially in university, considering you had been able to not worry about paying student debt and only focus on getting good grades. It also helped that you had a sure work once you had graduated, since Viserys Targaryen was not only your brother-in-law, but you were his goddaughter too. That last fact had made for interesting conversations after he married your older sister.

Still, you dedicated yourself to your work, trying to prove you deserved to be there as much as anyone else. It was a male dominated field, and working in the company where your father was CCO, and your sister married to the owner meant many expected you to be either looking for your own rich husband or to be a lazy nepo baby. Just like Daemon was.

The sound of thunder cast you out of your thoughts. You gave a quick glance at the window, noticing that once more, it was pouring. Not a good omen for your meeting. Thunderstorms always made you slightly uneasy.

Too wired to keep working, you shut down your laptop and slid it inside your purse. You had to be at the meeting room in fifteen minutes, which, in reality, meant you had to leave now. As soon as you stepped outside, however, it seemed destiny had other plans.

“Oi, sweetheart!” Daemon called, and you fantasized of strangling him with one of his expensive ties. You knew, without needing him to speak more, that he was about to taunt you. Still, he owned half the company, you couldn’t risk ignoring him. You turned, heels clicking in the hallway. “Bring me a soy latte, no sugar.”

“Mr. Targaryen, I’m sorry, I’m not your secretary. And I’m going to a meeting.” You answered, very politely, and started walking again, this time towards the elevator. Daemon followed, eyeing your ass with delight. You truly worked those dress pants.

“Come on, Hightower. We both know you are not really busy.” He arrived at the elevator first, to your disgrace, and pressed the button. Daemon leaned his arm on the wall, effectively caging you in. You glared at him, trying not to get distracted by how good he smelled. It’s not that you were attracted to him, surely. He just used an expensive cologne, and those always smelt good. Even your nephew Aegon, who was the sleaziest twenty-something you had ever met, could make them work.

“I am, though.” You ducked under his arm and pressed the button insistently, trying to get the elevator to arrive faster. Nothing happened.

“Doing what? Getting the rest of the board coffee?” Daemon snickered at his joke. You turned to look at him, giving him a disdainful once over that turned… Not so disdainful, when you realized he looked good enough to eat in that suit. Whatever, it’s not like it meant anything. All men did. Still, your cheeks heated up, and your next words came out in a mutter.

“Doing my job, Mister Targaryen. Which does not involve serving coffee.”

“Bah, you are a CDO. A made up position if I saw one.”

“I plan the whole company's social media strategy, and oversee our different digital platforms for purchase and devolution.” You glare even more, but quickly avert your eyes when you realize he is looking at you like he wants to eat you. Again. Gods, does he ever tire? “Hardly a made up position.”

“So you direct a bunch of nerds and interns. Big deal. You can still get me coffee, or send your minions to get me one.” Daemon stepped closer, twirling a strand of your hair between his fingers. You batted his hands away, shivering. From the cold, obviously. There was a storm raging outside, it had been one of the harshest winters in a while. It didn’t matter that you were wearing thermal clothes underneath your suit, which was wool. You were not affected by Daemon’s touch. At all.

“Here’s a novel idea.” You were just too angry to avoid insulting him. It was not often you resorted to those petty tactics. You left them to your nephews, Aemond and Aegon. “Why don’t you go bring me coffee? I don’t even know what you are doing in our department, you don’t even have Instagram, old man.”

Daemon laughed.

“Who are you calling old man, little girl? I will have you know, I know all about social media.”

“Oh, really?”

Daemon ignored you, typing something on his phone. You weren’t too bothered by it because the elevator finally got there, and you were able to step inside. Your phone pinged, as you did, so your hand went to the pocket of your blazer to check it. Distracted, you didn’t notice Daemon getting into the elevator with you.

Your phone pinged again. You took it out, checking the notification without unlocking it.

@caraxesrider has started following you

@caraxesrider: U were saying?

At that, you looked up and glared at him, startling a little at finding him inside the elevator.

“You know I will have to report this, right?” You quickly started scrolling through his Instagram, which seemed very… Normal. He followed his official one, and the accounts of his family members and plenty of models and fitness girls. In little clothing. What a pig. “You are not allowed to have an Instagram, apart from the official one that is in the hands of the community manager.”

“Says who?”

“Viserys.”

“Real mature, that you call him by his first name now. Tell me, do you think watching your father’s business partner marry your older sister, who is young enough to be her daughter, traumatized you?”

You ignored his taunt, frowning.

“I will report you to the PR department, they were clear you are not allowed to…”

“Not allowed.” He imitated your voice, mockingly. “Not allowed. Will you tell your daddy, little girl?”

“I’m serious.”

“Whatever. Report me. I don’t care, you are such a kiss ass.” Daemon rolled his eyes. It stung a little. You hated being called that. It was not your fault, truly. You liked following the rules. They were there for a reason. And Daemon’s antics usually made the company stock drop because his last name was attached to it. When Daemon got drunk and insulted a server or was spotted at a strip club, it was not him who suffered, but the company as a whole. He was a PR nightmare. His Instagram, no matter how private, would eventually leak and become another.

But whatever you were going to say, be it either a witty retort, or more talk about what you were going to do, died in your throat when the elevator jerked to an abrupt halt.

“What… What..?” You braced against the wall, the phone falling to the floor in your haste to hold on to something.

“Well, at least we still got power…” Daemon pointed towards one of the security cameras. “They will see us and then…” He didn’t get to finish his sentence because the lights turned off, leaving you both completely in the dark.

“You jinxed it!” You accused, voice shaking. You were not claustrophobic, nor were you afraid of the dark. What did scare you, however, was that you were trapped in an elevator in a building with no power, which as far as you knew, meant you could plummet to your dead anytime.

“Fuck. Never mind. Are you alright? You sound as if you are about to cry, and I can’t deal with crying people.” Daemon complained, switching on his phone, so he could light up the space. He truly looked concerned. He dropped to his knees to search for your phone and handed it to you.

“I’m fine. Just… Do you think we are safe?”

“Yeah, yeah.” Daemon banged on the wall of the elevator, making you let out a tiny yelp at how it shook.

“Don’t do that!”

“When elevators get less power, they jerk to a stop. It’s safe. It was probably the storm.” Daemon is leaning against the wall and starting to scroll through his phone. Like he is bored. And not, you know, terrified out of his mind because he is hanging from a rope in a metal cubicle caught between floors. The thought makes even more panic bubble up in your throat, so you try to think of something else.

“How do you know that?” You narrow your eyes at him, noticing how the light from his phone lighted up his sharp features, giving them an eerie blue glow.

“I read the OSH mail, every once in a while. That was in the winter’s newsletter.” He drawled, in a bored tone. “Come here.”

“Why?”

“Because you look frightened. Come here. I can make you feel better.” And he almost sounds convincing. Were the light on, you would be able to see that he is nearly salivating at the mouth, like the wolf about to pounce on a little lamb.

He has been working on you for a month. Little pretty Hightower, so tightly wound, always doing the right thing. So close to snapping. It’s like you were a present, placed on his lap by Otto himself when he sent him to this godforsaken department.

You gave him a dubious look, but stepped closer.

“Good girl.” Daemon brushed your hair back, gently. You were so close to breaking, he could taste it. “You will be just fine, just match your breathing to mine.

“I’m not having a panic attack, you fool.” You complained, trying to hide the hint of a smile on your lips. What was it about him that was so intoxicating? He had boosted your mood immediately. Oh, you hated feeding his ego.

"Rude.” Daemon muttered. He pulled you into a hug, pressing your bodies close. Chest to chest, hips to hips. Your curves against him, so damn soft, so ready for the taking. “There, there. It will all be fine.”

“I pity your kids.” Still, you melted into the hug regardless. Daemon took the chance to nuzzle your hair, hands trailing dangerously lower on your back.

“You are so rude and cunty. I can see the family resemblance.”

“Shut up, you inbred degenerate.” You mumbled against his throat, still hugging him. “You were chasing after your niece’s skirts not so long ago. And Viserys first wife was your cousin. Your family resemblance is worse.”

“I have not denied it.”

And of course, doing something very foolish, you tilted your head up and kissed him. Blame it on the sexual frustration, or the way he had shown you he had a decent side to him, but you never found him more tempting. Your kiss was heated, all teeth and frustration. If he responded, it would undoubtedly turn things less family friendly.

Daemon, never one to lose the opportunity to have sex, responded in earnest. How could he not, when he had been waiting for a chance to pounce for a month? His lips parted, turning the kiss into something much more dirty. His hands went to your hips, rolling them against his. You moaned.

When you parted, he had his trademark smirk on, full force. The one that said, Daemon Targaryen is a winner. The asshole was getting off on the thought of corrupting a Hightower.

You pressed a few careful kisses down his throat, making sure to not smear your lipstick in places that are noticeable. Daemon smells so good, it makes your knees weak. Fucking expensive cologne.

The arousal doesn't let you think straight, and he loves it. You are desperate for him already, Daemon can tell by the way you clutch and grope at him. And in truth, you are turning into a wanton little thing. Wet from just a few stolen kisses, it’s hard to think of all the reasons why this is wrong.

You want to suck his cock, badly. It’s not often, you are in the right headspace to give head. It gets guys too arrogant. And Daemon is already arrogant enough. The temptation seems too great, until he tries pushing your head down. Talk about a mood killer. It feels as if a bucket of cold water has been dumped on top of you, dulling your arousal and making you realize, in fact, you had been about to suck your nemesis off.

Daemon. You had been about to suck Daemon's cock. The guy who orders you to bring him coffee, as if you were some intern and not the head of your section. The guy who despises your family. The guy who calls you and your father kiss asses and Alicent a cunt. Twenty years older, brother to your godfather, man whore, Daemon.

Oh my god, are you turning into Alicent? Fucking men old enough to be your father? Being into Targaryens? Ew. No way. Viserys is nowhere near as appealing as Daemon. But still. What's next, leaving your career to pop out entitled brats?

You stop. Daemon pushes your head down again. It ignites a rage long settled on you.

“Are you seriously pushing my head down?” It comes out like an indignant little yelp. Turns out, the little lamb was not so willing to surrender, Daemon thinks. He has two choices. He can force you down, make you break. Or he can wait it out, lull you into a false sense of comfort, and slowly get you more and more pliant. Yet, he wants to see what you are about to do.

“Is it working?” He sasses, and you turn your head up to glare, even if he can’t see it in the dark elevator. Then, a thought sparkles in your mind. Kiss ass. And here you have someone who needs to be taught a lesson.

A thud. Your knees hitting the floor of the elevator, between Daemon's legs.

“Fuck. Are you really…?” He groans, and you hear another thud. Must be his head against the wall. Good. Perhaps this way, his two brain cells will actually connect.

You unbuckle his belt and open his trousers, the sound loud in the stillness of the elevator. It's done the fast and quick way, not really knowing how much time you have left before someone comes looking for you. You kiss his hipbones, then his thighs. Daemon tangles a hand in your hair, leading you to his cock. You go along with it, but do not touch him where he wants you to.

Instead, you go lower. And a bit further back.

“What are you…?” He asks, confused. Praying to god he showered that morning, you spread him open and lick a stripe over his asshole. His body seizes up, a moan leaving his mouth. “Oh, little girl… You are filthy.”

Daemon is clean, if a bit hairy. The carpet matches the drapes, you will be able to say now. This will be a little secret, between the two of you. When he mocks you in the boardroom, or asks you to get him coffee, you will be able to think of this moment. Not only have you seen him bare, but you intend to take him apart.

For all his posturing, he is only a man. It shows in the way he arches, hips bucking, desperate to find friction. Cock swollen and balls heavy, tip messy with precum. You lick at him, making sure to make the most obscene slurping noises you can, as if his ass was a fine meal. Daemon moans, hand desperately going to grab at the wall to keep himself upright, and you snicker.

“Tell me again how much of a kiss ass I am.” You taunt, curling one of your hands around his gorgeous cock. He is thick and warm in your grip, you can feel him throb in your hand. Your panties feel embarrassingly wet at the pure filth of the act you are performing, but also at the fact Daemon is losing control so steadily.

“You… Oh. Seven Hells. Fuck.” And it's not his fault, really. You have been steadily opening him up with your tongue, nearly french kissing his hole, only to spear your tongue right when he tries to form a coherent sentence. One of your hands keeps him spread for you, and the other is braced on his hip, to avoid him rutting and bucking. Daemon is so pent-up that if you weren't holding him, he would be humping the wall.

His hand tugs at your hair, harshly. You stop.

“What…?” He looks down at you, at the way your face disappears between his thighs, utterly confused. Then, he gives you a menacing growl, as if he were the one in control. “Don't tease, little girl.”

Daemon wears dominance well. It comes with being a Targaryen, you have realized. The entitlement oozes out of his pores. When he gives an order, he is used to at least five people jumping out of their seats to obey him. That gives any man an unstoppable confidence.

But it's not what you want. This is about rewarding politeness, not him acting like an entitled fool. You press down on the sensitive skin behind his balls, right on his perineum. You want him to beg. Not only will it teach him a lesson, but perhaps, get you railed after.

“Beg.” You order, pinching at his thigh.

“You are out of your mind if you think…” Daemon starts, but he quickly shuts up when you place a hand on his cock again. You are not what he was expecting, not what he was expecting at all. He underestimated you. Yet, he cannot say he doesn’t like what he is learning about you.

“Beg.” You insist, teasingly dragging your nails over his sensitive skin. Not enough to hurt, but to warn. Your teeth and mouth are very close to his most delicate parts, and he should remember it. “And be polite about it.”

“You will not get away with this, little girl. I’ll spank your pretty ass red.” Daemon complains, and you snicker. Funny, that he thinks that is a threat. You intend to do much worse to him.

“Oh, really? And who says you will have the chance?” Petty. Realizing you are not going to budge, and he cannot make you, Daemon lifts his hand from your head and pats you on the hair. Not an apology, no. A reward for a particularly clever pet. The game is not over yet. Not when he still has everything to play for. What is losing a battle when he can win the war?

“Please.” At his moan, you start jerking him off. It's a bit rough, without any lubricant, so you offer your hand to him, never stopping your tongue and mouth from working. Daemon catches the hint beautifully, spitting on your open hand. You go back to jerking him. His desperation is a heady thing. It gets you almost high on the thrill of it. You squeeze your thighs together, trying to get some friction on your clit. A shame you cannot touch yourself, with both hands busy.

You wish you could suck his cock, mouth watering with the sight. He has one of the prettiest you've ever seen, all flushed skin and slightly curved in a way you know would feel just right inside of you. And he is smells nice too, which is deeply unfair. Clean, yet still male and musky. Daemon tenses, cock throbbing in your hand. He is very close, about to spill all over you.

The sound of metal scratching against metal makes you jerk and pull away. Divine intervention, you think to yourself, as you get up and start rightening your clothes and hair.

“And where in the Seven Hells you think you are going?” His tone is so short and clipped, you worry he is about to pounce you. His breath is heavy. You bet, if you could see his face, he would be absolutely enraged.

“Are you deaf?” You answer condescendingly. You can hear how his teeth grit against themselves with how hard he must be clenching his jaw. “Bruxism is not sexy, by the way. You will hurt your teeth.”

“Deaf? Bruxism? What the fuck are you talking about? You just ruined my orgasm! I was so close and you, you… ” Daemon truly, truly wants to grab at you and choke you. He underestimated you. Again. Such a fool, he has been. Thinking he is leading his little lamb to the slaughter, and here you are, composed and retouching your lipstick without a care in the world. Oh, next time he gets his hands on you, he is going to make you cry.

“They are opening the door.” You answer, smugly.

“You little shit!” Daemon nearly screams. You cannot hold it any longer, and start laughing. The scratching turns louder, and Daemon hurries to tuck himself back into his suit.

When they finally open the doors, you strut out, not a care in the world. You kiss your father’s cheek, who is standing next to the security guys. Daemon glowers.

“Neither of you thought to text or call someone?” Otto asks, incredulous. He turns to you and checks you over. “Are you alright? Did he hurt you?”

“I didn’t hurt your precious little flower, Otto.” Daemon rolls his eyes. Now that he is standing in the light, you can see he looks slightly disheveled, cheeks flushed and standing awkwardly. You nearly smirk. “She is a cunt, just like you. If any, she hurt me.”

Otto glares at him, and places an arm over your shoulder, gently steering you away. He starts talking a mile per second, something about all meetings being adjourned because of the weather and waiting to give you a ride home. Of how worried he was, when you didn’t answer your phone and were not in your office. You hardly listen. Because your phone pings in your hand, another Instagram notification.

@caraxesrider: You will pay for that, little girl.

Your fingers fly over the keyboard in your haste to answer him:

I'm totally reporting you to the PR guys. XOXO.

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