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supercap2319 · 8 months ago

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Spiderwebs & Red chaos

Peter was working on the Sandman cure, when he stops abruptly, eyes darting back and forth in nervous anticipation. Something—someone has triggered his spider-sense. He stood up, catching the attention of Otto Octavius, and Norman Osborn.

“Peter?” Otto asked.

“What’s wrong?” Norman asked.

Their voices were distant and disoriented as Peter walked towards Happy's kitchen/living room. “I don't know…” It was true. Peter didn't know exactly what he was sensing, all he knew was that it made his heart want to burst out of his chest, and made his breathing shallow.

“May? Y/N?” He calls out loud. Norman and Otto followed him into the living room kitchen area as Peter stands in the center of the villains. “What is it, Peter?” May asked, wondering why her nephew is so troubled. The young hero’s breath was hitched and shallow as he looked around the room, the tension in the air thick enough to cut through with a knife, getting to everyone.

“What's happening?” Flint Marko asked.

Peter looks at him, then at Otto and Norman, who moves around the room, and then at Max Dillon, who looks uneasy at the hero's eyes on him.”Why are you looking at me like that?” Peter searches, on alert. What is he sensing? Is one of

them about to betray him? Where is the threat? Was he losing his mind? All these questions buzzed inside his head like angry bees. He closed his eyes and focused his spider-sense. Reaching. Feeling. Until he…

THWIP!

Peter webs Norman's hand to the robot arm of DUM-E.

Norman smiles. “That’s some neat trick. That sense of yours.” His voice was low and ominous.

“Norman?” Otto asked.

“Norman’s on sabbatical, honey.” Norman said, a gleefully undertone in his smile.

“What the hell?” Max asked.

“Goblin…” Y/N whispered in realization. Peter and May share a look of concern.

“Surprise. No more darker half? Did you really think that I’d let that happen?” Aunt May slips quickly into the storage room, searching for the cures as Norman, aka, Goblin, continues his tirade. “That I’d let you take away my power just because you’re blind to what true power can bring you. Because you and Y/N squander the potential that you have.”

“You don't know us.” Peter said, staring Goblin down.

“Don’t I?” Goblin asked.

“No, you don't.” Y/N talked towards Peter's side, fingers twitching with power, but he wouldn't release it. Not just yet.

“Here's the real truth: the people of this city. There's one thing they love more than a hero... is to see a hero fail, fall, die trying. In spite of everything you've done for them, eventually they will hate you. Why bother?”

“Because it's right.” Peter said.

Meanwhile, May grabs the cures, one-by-one, and shoves them into her F.E.A.S.T. tote bag.“I saw how she trapped you two.” Goblin begins as May sneaks back into the kitchen from the storage room, clutching the bag of cures. She nods at Peter. She has them. “Fighting her holy moral mission. We don’t need you to save us... We don’t need to be “fixed!”

Sandman frowns as Goblin looks around the room of people he does, and doesn't know. “These are not curses.” Max looks down at his cure device. Beep! Another green light flashes on the device. Two more to go.

“Norman, no.” Otto protests.

“Quiet, lapdog!” Goblin snaps.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” Peter said.

“I’ve watched you from deep behind Norman’s cowardly eyes. Struggling to have everything you want. While the world tries to make you choose. The Spider-Man and the brother of the Scarlet Witch, so desperate to have it all.” The device on Electro’s chest beeps once again. Only one more

light to go…

“Gods don’t have to choose.” Max looks at Norman, now really buying in… “We take.”

“You're no God, Goblin. You're sick.” Y/N said.

“Guess we'll find out…”

“May... RUN!” Peter said. May breaks for the door with the bag of cures. Electro takes the cure device off his chest, as Goblin tears free from the web holding him to DUM-E. Shooting electricity out, Electro reaches towards the storage room…

CRASH!

The Arc Reactor tears free from the Fabricator,

bursts through the kitchen wall, and flies into Electro’s hand as there is surgical electrical

contact happening. “Hey!” Y/N powered up his fist that glowed red with power, but Electro blasts him into the wall, crashing upon impact.

“Y/N!” Peter cried.

Goblin pounces on a distracted Peter, smashing him into the nearby stairs.Seeing this, Sandman disintegrates into a whirl of sand. Retreating. Down the hallway, May runs to the elevators, pressing the “down” button over and over again Electro surges with ARC Reactor power, supercharging his powers as he causes lights throughout the condo building to flicker on and off. May looks up, the hallway lights are flickering here too. As she pushes the elevator “down” button once more.

Doc Ock looks at Electro in horror. “Oh my God. What have you done?”

Electro scoffed. “I liked you better before.” He unleashes a Stark-grade cascade of electricity, blowing Otto back through the living room wall. Otto tears through glass and steel, plummeting to the ground below before finally coming to a

wrenching stop, his tentacle arms gripping the side of the building. Down in the plaza of the condo, J. Jonah directs his camera man upward.

“Up here, he’s up there!” The camera man points his camera towards the building just in time to capture Doc Ock climbing away, disappearing into the night. “It’s the guy from the bridge!”

In the stairwell, Aunt May heads for the emergency exit door, races downstairs.

Electro and the swirling cloud of sand that is Sandman approach the burst-open living room wall. Sandman propels himself forward, Electro following after he powers up with his new source of energy. The sand swirls around the police cars, rocking them back and forth as Max Dillon transforms into pure yellow lightning, hitching a ride on the tornado of sand. The shelter truck nearby rocks violently. The side of it being slashed, until the Lizard explodes out of the hole he cut open and runs off.

J. Jonah James looks at his camera guy. “...Did you see that?!” Police and bystanders scramble for cover as Electro and Sandman take to the wind and fly off.

Meanwhile, back in Happy’s apartment, Peter scrambled to help Y/N to his feet. Peter manages to get his boyfriend upward as they both turn to see Goblin staring at them, challenge in his eyes. “Y/N, find May. Protect her.” Peter said.

“No, not without you.” Y/N said. “We'll face him together.”

“No. Please, just do this for me. I need you to keep her safe. Promise?” Peter looks at him, vulnerability in his brown eyes. Y/N nods and begrudgingly heads for the door. “I promise.” He flies off, a red trail of energy behind him until he was gone.

“Perfect. Just you…and me…” Goblin cackled.

Peter charged.

#x male reader #male reader insert #male x male #spiderman comics #spiderman x male reader #tom holland #no way home #spiderman no way home #peter parker #peter parker x male reader #lbgtq #Gay #Bi #the apartment scene

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vicedmuses · 3 months ago

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"you're not a dork, yet you're saying i'm really soft and i'm the one that's going to have to carry you back." he snickers lowly, almost enough so that only the two of them could hear him. octavius isn't in his right mind to actually hide anything from people, but maybe it's his subconscious. "i don't know, seems like i'm the jock for the night." he absentmindedly continues to play with seb's chest. "my small little roommate. forget carrying you there then, i'm just going to put you in my pocket." when the other jokes and grabs his chin, he doesn't even realize that he's squeezing one of his pecs. "back at the room! i didn't think that you would be a fan of public proposals." he laughs softly as his head shakes a little bit at the result of his chin being tugged on. "plus i gave you several options. if you focused on that one then maybe you would have said yes to that proposal."

"i dunno about that. you're really soft," seb corrects him with a goofy smile. probably not, actually, but right now anything other than standing up feels great. he's a bit dizzy actually, can feel his blood thumping through his body. "however, i'm not a dork — that's you." he closes his eyes for a second and giggles to himself at the assertion. octavius calling him a dork, that was hilarious. sebastian feels his roommate's fingers on his chest and he cant deny it's a nice sensation. somehow calms him in his current state, like a grounding mechanism. "yeah, yeah, yeah. i'm the jock. but you're just gonna have to suck it up tonight. i'm still pretty small." usually it's something he hates, but in this case it's nothing but a benefit. "bridal style?" just like everything else, the question amuses him. "octavius! are you proposing to me? where's my ring?" he teases, reaching up to squeeze the other's chin and shake it as he does so.

#right they can do no wrong in my eyes #sunbecms #c: sebastian #octavius.

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yandere-daydreams · 2 years ago

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Title: Extra-dimensional.

Written for a very lovely anonymous commissioner.

Pairing: Yandere!Spot x Reader (Spider-verse).

Word Count: 6.0k.

TW: Non/Con, AFAB!Reader, Semi-Public Sex, Tentacle-Adjacent Sex, Prolonged Stalking, Psychological Abuse, Themes of Grief, and Kidnapping.

You were starting to think that your apartment might’ve been haunted.

The science-focused part of your brain was forced to look at the evidence, to acknowledge how many well-accounted-for articles of clothing and minor keepsakes had gone missing over the past few weeks, to count how many times you’d caught shadowy figures flickering in the corner of your eye, to take stock of all possible causes and admit that, tragically, a temperamental spirit was the only remotely plausible explanation, even if you had to use the term ‘plausible’ more loosely than you’d like to. It made sense – or, it made as much sense as invoking supernatural entities could, anyway.

On the other hand, the part of your mind that paid rent every month and vacuumed twice a week really, really didn’t want your apartment to be haunted and vehemently denied that ghosts – unseen, untouchable, unsolvable ghosts – were something you’d have to deal with a down payment like yours.

Both parts of your brain could agree that leaving a fully in-tact, as-of-yet unopened bank vault would be a weird thing for a ghost to do, though.

Teeth grit, still dressed in the clothes you’d worn to the memorial, you stood with one foot planted on its overturned side and another lodged in your carpeting, the end of a crowbar you’d borrowed from your loudest downstairs neighbor lodged between the door and the wall where a badly beaten mechanism bound them together. You’d already called the cops, as little as you wanted to do with them or the quote-on-quote ‘heroes’ who’d failed to save him, but the operator had laughed you off of the line and despite the hours you’d spent buried in the deepest trenches of any search engine that would have you, the only report you could find of a bank robbery had taken place in London, on the other side of the world. You’d considered, briefly, that grief had driven you to hallucinations and this was just the first sign of an upcoming downward spiral, but that idea had been swiftly vetoed when you’d tripped over the damn thing and decided it was very much, very unfortunately real. The idea to pry it open had come a few minutes later, after deciding that you probably had a legal right to anything to investigate anything that spontaneously appeared in your living room – ghosts or no ghosts.

You heard something snap, felt the reverberation of a fracture underneath your palms, but the vault didn’t budge. The only thing that changed was your crowbar – the bent claw replaced with a jagged, broken-off tip when you managed to dislodge it from the vault. You winced, swallowing back in an agitated grown. Trial One: Crowbar vs. Spontaneously Generated Vault complete. So far, the vault reigned victorious.

You tried to take a deep breath, to count to ten and tell yourself that this was no different than a failed experiment, a half-baked test that just hadn’t gone your way, but you could still hear church bells ringing in the back of your mind, still picture two empty seats at the front of the chapel – one for Dr. Octavius and the other meant for the CEO of the Alchamax, neither brave enough to show their face. You weren’t even sure why you were so angry. It could’ve been the clipped speech delivered by a company representative who’d barely known him, the closed casket, the way your coworkers could barely bring themselves to meet your eyes despite your stunted attempts at making conversation through the knot lodged in your throat. It could’ve been everything. It could’ve been something else entirely. You didn’t know. You didn’t care. There were already tears streaming down your cheeks, dripping down your chin as you pulled the crowbar back and swung it into the vault’s door. The force of the collision rattled through your body, but you steeled yourself and did it again, then again, then again, until the smooth, black metal was dented beyond any hope of repair and your crowbar was warped and misshapen. Finally, when you were panting and breathless, when your hands threatened to cramp and your shoulders ached in their sockets, you drove the blunted crowbar into the vault’s door with what was left of your quickly draining strength. In the end, your aggression was rewarded with a metallic clang, the sound of something cracking open, and then, what was left of the vault door fell open – nearly taking out one of your feet before you stumbled out of the way.

You clenched your eyes shut, forcing out a ragged exhale and re-tallying your score. Trail II: Crowbar vs. Spontaneously Generated Vault complete. Although the vault put up a good fight, the crowbar’s endurance ultimately persevered. Interference from external factors and researcher’s bias will be considered later on with the assistance of a glass of wine and a mediocre romcom you’ll cry your eyes out to.

Once you’d managed to dampen the lingering heat of your grief-fueled anger, you turned your attention to the bank vault’s contents – the fruits of your labor, the results of your little experiment. You weren’t sure what you expected. Jewelry, maybe, artifacts or century-old paintings some underground dealer had to ditch in a stranger’s apartment for reasons you couldn’t begin to comprehend. Part of you, the part of you that remembered the number written across your last paycheck, couldn’t help but hope for something simple; a disorderly pile of unmarked bills that you’d count and stow away and pretend you weren’t dying to waste. That part of you wasn’t entirely wrong, either.

Neatly stacked in the overturned bank vault, only slightly disrupted by your attempts to pry it open, were stacks upon stacks of neatly organized dollar bills. Or, that wasn’t quite right, actually. They were bills, but they weren’t dollars.

You took one of the bundles in your hand. English pounds – sorted by color and bound together by paper bands toting a logo you didn’t recognize. Huh.

Maybe your next call should be an international one.

By the next month, you’d escalated from a vaguely haunted apartment to a full-blown spectral presence that you just couldn’t seem to shake.

Spectral presence. You still weren’t convinced it was a real term, but you’d picked it up after a conversation with one of your coworkers (former coworker, now, you had to remind yourself, one of your former coworkers) when you both stepped out of a quickly lulling group session and you’d off-handedly mentioned your little ghost problem. In the moment, you’d laughed and shrugged and promised to let them know if you ever called an exorcist, but the phrase had stuck, resurfaced the next time you couldn’t find the threadbare t-shirt you’d been wearing for the better part of a decade and cemented itself in the forefront of your consciousness when the aforementioned shirt reappeared on your balcony, a jagged tear running from the collar to the midriff and the hems eaten away to nothing. If that didn’t count as a presence, you weren’t sure what would.

That was the first time your little ghost problem had followed you out of the house, but it wouldn’t be the last. You could practically feel it, now; constantly looming over your shoulder, constantly watching, constantly leaving little trinkets in places it knew you would be. If you could even call them that. They were more like… oddities – rings made of a kind of metal you couldn’t recognize, puzzle boxes you couldn’t seem to figure out, things that should make sense but just didn’t when you looked into them. The only one you’d been able to make sense of so far was a pair of glasses, one of the lenses sporting a hair-line fracture. You’d spent the rest of that day huddled in your closet, the door shut and the lights off. You considered that you could have a stalker, someone or something who loved you enough or hated you enough to follow you around, leaving things you didn’t want to see in places it knows you’d find them, but you didn’t know how a stalker would even start to get their hands on something like that. You didn’t know how anything of his could’ve survived that explosion, but you weren’t in a place to ask those kinds of questions, anymore.

Currently, you weren’t in a place to do much of anything. You’d spent most of the night before sleepless and huddled into yourself, and now, you were glassy-eyes and exhausted, staring down an aisle’s worth of produce blankly as you tried to ignore the chill fanning over the nape of your neck. You kept your tongue caught in your teeth, counting out the micro-seconds between one breath and another with a precision refined by years of measuring the time between stimulus and reaction, holding yourself stiff enough to drown out the unsteadiness. It’d pass, soon enough. It had to pass, eventually. You just had to—

Something brushed against the small of your back and you straightened, snapping over your shoulder and finding, predictably, nothing. You tried to write it off as just another figment of your stress-induced paranoia, a symptom of so many late nights and so little external stimulation, but any hope of calming your racing heart was torn away with you by the feeling of something settling against the curve of your shoulder-blade, then dipping lower, following the curve of your spine before sliding to your hip. It was a phantom sensation – cold and weightless, hollow and so close to intangible – but you could feel it clearly enough to recognize that it was pressing against you directly, frozen tendrils sapping the warmth from your skin without clothes to buffer its awful touch. There was something else to it, too, a sort of buzzing that you couldn’t seem to compare to anything but static. It burnt. It didn’t feel like anything at all.

If you’d been braver, you might’ve glanced down, tried to see if the fabric of reality had opened to reveal some terrible, eldritch thing, but you weren’t and it was all you could do to clench your eyes shut, to cross your arms over your chest and pray that would be enough to protect you from the thin trail of frigid, searing static slowly creeping up your side, drifting to your navel, following the curve of your chest until it was resting just underneath the base of your throat. You weren’t sure what you were afraid of. That it would hurt you, maybe, that the thing that was haunting you for months would realize it could touch you and take the next logical step. You didn’t want to die in a grocery store. You didn’t want to die at all. You didn’t want to—

“Do you mind, dude?”

The static disappeared, dissolving into the open air, and your eyes shot open, immediately finding a strung-out teenager standing next to you, awkwardly attempting to reach for something you must’ve been standing in front of. More out of reflex than anything else, you stepped back, muttering an apology under your breath before retreating out of the store entirely. You decided, when you were a block away and just starting to catch your breath, that you’d never be going back. You decided you were never going to think about what’d just happened to you again.

And, later on, when you realized that you wouldn’t be any safer at home, you decided not to think about your little haunting at all.

~ It was creeping up your spine, again.

“You’ve got more than enough experience for the position we’re offering.”

Lingering at the nape of your neck, pausing, then circling to your chest to trace over your collarbones.

“And I saw your resume, too – very impressive stuff. We’d love to have someone with your qualifications on our staff.”

It usually waited until you were alone, locked in your apartment or curled up under your sheets. It hadn’t touched you again in public since your first physical encounter – something you were thankful for and horrified by in equal measures. You didn’t want to consider the possibility that it was a conscious entity. You didn’t want to think about what it would mean if it knew what it was doing to you.

“There’s just one question. You mentioned that you were formerly employed at,” A pause, a polite smile that meant ‘depending on your answer, you might not be in my office for much longer’, “Alchemax?”

You forced yourself to smile, too, shifting slightly in your uncomfortable leather seat and hoping that would be enough to dispel the trail of frost now gliding down your chest. “Unfortunately,” you started, and your specter dipped lower, past your stomach and into the space between your thighs. You clenched your legs shut, then thought better of it and crossed them, but that did little to stop the chill now washing over your lap, fanning over the inside of your thigh. If you didn’t know better, you would’ve called it groping. “I wasn’t in that department, if that’s what you’re wondering. Our work was supposed to be completely theoretical. None of us knew what was really going on until – well, until everything knew.”

Your total rejection of autonomy appeased the interviewer, who rewarded your sacrifice by nodding his head and shuffling the papers on his desk before launching into some lengthy monologue about benefits and turn-over rates that you couldn’t bring yourself to concentrate on. Your crossed legs offered little protection. The entity’s touch expanded, infecting everything it contacted with that awful static and turning your skin warm, hyper-sensitive. A strange, alien weight fell onto your clit, pressing down harshly enough to earn a sudden gasp, to make you jerk forward and wrap your arms around your stomach. The interview went silent, his expression turning to one of sympathy-tinged confusion. “Oh, are you alright?”

“Yes, I’m sorry, I’m just—” You tried to straighten your back, to brace yourself on the arm of your chair, but the entity dipped lower, two finger-like projections tracing down the length of your slit and you forced yourself to stand in spite of your unsteady legs. “It’s just been so humid, lately. I think I might need to step out and get something to drink—”

“Please, let me.” No, no, no. You needed to be somewhere else, to find a broom closet to hide in until this was over, but you couldn’t say that, couldn’t explain that all you wanted to do was get away from here and run farther than this entity would be able to follow you. You couldn’t say much of anything as you fell back into your seat, as your interview offered a curt apology and fled his own office before you could do the same. You might’ve thanked him, but you couldn’t be sure. It was impossible to hear anything over the sound of your own heart beating in your ears.

As you feared, the entity seemed to know that you were alone. Its formerly ginger touch turned aggressive, dull fingertips (because they were fingers, you couldn’t deny it any longer, couldn’t claim this thing was as far from human as you hoped it would be) burrowing into the inside of your thigh harshly enough to bruise before pulling back and turning their attention back to your cunt, your clit. It was more than just the ghost of sensation, now – the pad of a thumb pressing into the sensitive bundle of nerves and drawing loose, quick circles into your clit. Your body, senses dialed up by paranoia and defenses thinned by exhaustion, reacted instantly, an unfamiliar warmth pooling in your core as you dug your nails into the leather seat and tried to hold yourself still, tried to stop your stupid, stupid body from doing anything that’d suggest you wanted to be molested by a ghost.

You grit your teeth, to clench your thighs together, but your resistance only seemed to make it more aggressive. You felt a hand curl around your ankle and jerk your leg to the side, forcing your legs apart. It was quick to fill the empty space, three fingers pressing into your entrance as the heel of a palm continued to torture your clit. Whatever chill it carried, you were burning hot enough to balance it out, now, to leave you struggling to ignore the slick starting to dampen the inside of your thighs, the wet sounds that echoed off the blank office walls as two fingers slid into your pussy – only vaguely muffled by fabric still between you and it. Suddenly, the material of your dress-pants felt thin, transparent, and against your better judgement, you forced yourself to look toward the door. The interviewer had closed it on his way out, but it wasn’t locked. You doubted it was soundproof, either. If you were lucky, they’d be short-staffed, and no one would have a reason to pass this specific office though this specific hallway. And, if you weren’t…

You choked back a ragged groan as the fingers inside of you started to move, started to do more than just grope and tease and haunt. Rather than numb, rather than paralyze, the static seemed to tote a much, much worse side-effect. There was a sort of… buzzing vibration, a resonating tremor that made you want to lean back, go slack, and let the sensation wash over you. You couldn’t, though. Even if you forfeited the job, gave up on the idea of ever working in this industry, you knew you’d never be able to show your face in public again if someone walked in and you had to explain what was happening to you right now. That was, if you even could explain what was happening to you right now.

You caught the inside of your cheek in your teeth, biting down until you tasted blood. The digits quirked upward, rubbing against your pulsing walls before scissoring apart, stretching you open. There was no pattern to it, no method you could track and prepare yourself for. If you didn’t know better, you’d call it experimental. If you didn’t know better, you would’ve called it clumsy.

You could feel your face heating up, a knot of tension growing tighter in the pit of your stomach, but rather than sped up, push forward, force you further towards that inevitable ledge, the entity’s hand pulled back, rubbing one more careless pattern into your clit before falling away completely. You let out a sigh that was equal parts relief and disappointment, letting one last disgusted shudder run through you before straightening your back and—

And forcing a palm over your mouth just in time for a tongue, wet and thick and cold, to run over your cunt, hauling you back to the edge just as quickly as you’d pulled away from it. It was rough, the texture too savage to be human, and so wet, the slick you’d been trying to ignore was immediately replaced with thick, freezing saliva. Even the length seemed designed to torture you – long enough to lap over your entrance and your clit in the same slow, aching stroke; to thrust into you and fill the space its fingers had left empty. Memories of a course on specialized biology resurfaced in the fog of forced pleasure and helpless confusion, something about the evolution of a giraffe’s tongue and then, in another lecture, of the practice of masturbation among dolphins as a marker of their intelligence. You’d hated that fucking class. You hated that you were thinking about it now, instead of doing anything useful.

Its tongue was wider, more flexible than its fingers had been. It didn’t have to stretch you open, no, not when it was big enough to keep you full as its tapered end curled and probed against the walls of your cunt. Two fingers pressed into your clit, drawing loose patterns while its tongue split you open so gracelessly, so brutally, it almost circled back around to feeling good. You didn’t try to stop yourself from grinding into it, anymore, letting your legs twitch and your hips buck freely as it worked, as it tore you apart with all the care of a predator gnawing at slabs of raw meat. Every scrap of your limited energy was devoted to keeping yourself quiet, to stifling the needy whimpers and little whines that managed to escape despite your best efforts to silence them. That terrible buzzing seemed to grow stronger, now intense enough to send pulsing jolts of pure electricity from your pussy to your core, and you doubled over, blunt nails biting into your own skin as that thing finally shoved you over the side and brought your body to a trembling, blinding orgasm.

It nursed you through your climax, and as the euphoria faded and the aftershocks dulled into sharp, searing pangs, you managed to speak, your voice hushed and shaking for reasons that were entirely beyond your control. “Go away,” you forced out, praying that your interviewer had left the building, that there had never been a research center here at all and you were just sitting in a condemned building crying about nothing because grief had driven you insane weeks ago and you were just too lost in your own delusions to notice. “Please, go away.”

There was a second of hesitation, a lingering chill against the inside of your thigh, and the entity chose to show its first sign of mercy and finally, finally leave – its cold tongue lapping over your cunt one more time before disappearing completely. You had a second to pull yourself into a more dignified position, another to make sure you didn’t look like someone who’s just gotten finger-fucked by a ghost in the empty office of a higher-up who had to already think you were some mad-scientist reject before the door swung open, your interviewer stepping back in and smiling at you as if nothing in the world could’ve possibly been wrong.

His eyes flickered over your hollowed expression, your wide eyes, your unsteady posture as he handed you a lukewarm bottle of water. You could only wonder why it’d taken him so long to get. “Are you…” A pause, a slight wince. You tried to pretend you didn’t notice. “…feeling alright?”

“Just fine,” you said, your voice hoarse, barely audible. You managed to brace yourself on the arms of your chair, pulling yourself upward and leaving the bottle forgotten in your lap. You didn’t want to drink anything. Not until your hands stopped shaking, at least.

“I think we were talking about my qualifications?”

You got the job, despite everything. They asked you to start as soon as you could, but you’d made your excuses, cited a half-remembered clause that’d come with your suspension package and got whoever was in-change of that kind of thing to hold the position for another month. You couldn’t imagine willingly stepping back into that building again, not yet. You couldn’t imagine doing much of anything, not when he still hung over your life like the smoke of a funeral pyre.

It'd been a bad idea, looking back on it. You should’ve worked harder to get yourself out of your stifling apartment. You should’ve done more to keep up with the friends you’d pushed away after the incident, to make sure you didn’t leave yourself socially isolated and alone. You should’ve left town. You should’ve fled the country.

You should’ve done everything in your power to make sure you didn’t end up where you were now, facing down the thing that was currently standing in your bathroom doorway.

Your ghost, you figured – even if it’d been weeks since you genuinely thought you were only dealing with a run-of-the-mill haunting. It looked… blurry, for lack of a more creative descriptor; the white, chalky outline of a humanoid figure standing sharply out against the entirely black background. If it had a body, it was lost in the shadows of the hallway beyond, the shadows it’d created when it appeared out of nowhere and took every light bulb in your apartment out with a single pulse of extra-dimensional energy. Right now, the only source of light was the phone you were clutching in your right hand, your left similarly preoccupied, busy keeping your suddenly very, very thin towel wrapped around your torso. It probably didn’t matter. As far as you could tell, this thing didn’t have eyes, let alone genitalia.

That was what the rational, scientific part of your brain said, at least. The rest was replaying the memory of the way its hand had felt as groped at your thighs and couldn’t seem to comprehend much else.

You half-expected it to lunge at you, or rather, to creep at you, to disappear and reappear just outside of your peripheral, too far to see but close enough to sense. In the end, it only had to take a step forward, its movements slow and jerky, as if it wasn’t used to carrying its own weight just yet. Did it even weigh anything? Could you weigh something that clearly wasn’t supposed to exist? It didn’t really matter. You already knew it could touch you. You already knew it could kill you, if it wanted to.

Another step, then another. It closed the distance between you easily, coming to a stop less than arm’s length in front of you. You could see it more clearly, make out a smear of color in the void, like light catching on an oil spill. The white lines that bordered its form were moving in a way you hadn’t been able to make out from across the room, too; trembling and shaking, constantly shifting as if it was only ever a second away from falling apart entirely. If you weren’t so scared, you’d be tempted to reach out, see what happened when you made contact with it, rather than the other way around. If you weren’t so afraid, you might’ve been able to do anything.

It lifted a hand, reaching towards you with those same unnatural movements. Its fingertips brushed over your skin, painting a strip of frost across your cheek, and you felt your blood turn to ice. You couldn’t hear the buzzing, but then again, it might’ve just been a sign that you’d already gone deaf with fear.

You opened your mouth, but speech was hindered, your internal monologue limited to a never-ending mantra of ‘go away go away go away go away go away’. Eventually, you managed to spit something out, even if your voice was barely above a whisper by the time it reached your lips. “I don’t want you here.”

There was a second of stillness, of silence. You started to wonder if you’d made it angry, if it could be angry. You started to wonder if it could understand you at all.

Your makeshift flashlight wavered, sputtering a few times before giving out completely. You scrambled to turn it back on, to not be left alone in the dark with a monster, but your apartment flickered back to life and you found yourself standing alone, the entity having blinked out of reality in the time it took your eyes to adjust to the light. The only proof that it’d been there at all was your dead phone and how violently your hands were still shaking.

You considered leaving your apartment. You considered leaving the city – renting a car and driving as far as you were able to. You’d sleep in whatever shady, cheap motels would have you, start a new life across the country with only your meager savings and multiple PhDs to keep you afloat. You’d change your name. You’d get away from here, away from it. It wasn’t like you had much of a choice, now that the infestation had spread to your sanctuary, too.

You took a shuddering breath, then set your phone down and let your towel fall away. You didn’t bother getting dressed before climbing into bed and curling up underneath your sheets, hoping in-vain that your comforter would be enough to hide you from any unseen voyeurs.

Some part of you must’ve already known that it wouldn’t.

You couldn’t remember waking up.

You must’ve, at some point. But, if you had, you would’ve remembered being brought here, would’ve been able to recognize the feeling of countless hands wrapping around your wrists, your ankles; countless mangled tendrils tangling around your fingers and dripping down your arms, snaking up your legs until you were entirely at its mercy. The numbers didn’t add up. There were too many hands, too many moving parts, too many things for your confusion-addled mind to keep track of. You couldn’t seem to figure out if you were suspended mid-air or if the gravity was different, if you were genuinely as weightless as you felt. That, more than anything, fueled the growing nausea twisting in the pit of your stomach, the growing sense of wrongness that threatened to tear away what little stability you had left. What little sanity you had left.

You tried to look past the awful things wrapped around you, to ground yourself with something beyond shifting colors and distorted limbs, but whatever pocket dimension you’d been dragged into didn’t offer much comfort. An expanse of white stretched on as far as you could see, only interrupted by free-floating pools of pure darkness; drops of ink spilled across an otherwise blank canvas. Occasionally, the landscape would waver, leaving you in a pure void broken up by streaks of colorless flesh that’d burn themselves into your sight and linger as phantom visions for seconds after the false reality corrected itself. Even the feeling of its skin against yours was off-putting, unsettling, lacking the warmth that would’ve accompanied the touch of anything human. Where there should’ve been comfort, there was nothing, a total absence of life and familiarity to a degree you’d never experienced before. Where there should’ve been intimacy, there was strangeness, and you’d never taken well to strangeness.

A pang of pure ache ran from your cunt to your core, a sort of numbing electricity that made your legs twitch and your body seize. Right, you’d managed to forget. It was touching you, beyond just the hands shackled around your wrists and ankles and the amorphous tendrils laving over any part of you they could reach. Two fingers kept your pussy spread open and vulnerable while a thick, tapered tendril thrust into you at the kind of idle, languid pace that was simultaneously infinitely merciful and too agonizing to put words to. That was one of the only things you could feel – the agonizing stretch, the tight knot of tension sitting in the pit of your stomach. If you’d been able to move anything beyond your eyes, you might’ve gagged. If your body had been something tangible, something real, you might’ve felt sick.

The tendril curled inside of you, and every fiber of your being seemed to wither. Struggling was pointless, but you still had to try, thrashing against your restraints, digging your nails into that obsidian flesh and praying to whichever deity would listen that it wouldn’t think to fight back. Fortunately, your blunt nails and weak thrashing didn’t seem to faze it. You weren’t sure if it knew you were there beyond some unconscious tactile sense, like a freshly triggered venus flytrap closing around its victim. You weren’t sure which was more horrific – the idea that there was some sentient, self-aware being knowingly and decisively doing this to you, or the passing thought that you’d just been caught in the mouth of some mindless creature that happened to like the way you tasted.

You decided not to think about it. You decided not to think about anything. You decided that, if you kept your mind totally blank, if you refused to count how many times you’d caught a lingering shadow in the corner of your eye or felt a stray hand brush against the small of your back, if you refused to feel its disembodied tendril filling your cunt, then none of this was happening, then you weren’t trapped in an plane of endless nothingness and you weren’t being fucked by the monster that’d been haunting you for months, now. You clenched your eyes shut and promised yourself that you couldn’t feel its dulled tip rubbing against that sensitive, softened spot inside of you, that your hips didn’t buck as another hand appeared from a puddle of kaleidoscopic ink and pressed three fingers into your abused clit, that it didn’t matter if warmth was starting to pool in your core because it couldn’t matter.

Ignoring it wasn’t an option, though. It wouldn’t let you ignore it – its pace changing, speeding up, getting rougher as you failed to stifle your reactions, failed to swallow down the little gasps and moans that slipped past your parted lips. It was almost brutal in its unyieldingness, fucking into you with enough force to bruise as you writhed and scratched and screamed. There was no remorse, no care, just its forceful affection and your body’s response. Another tendril wrapped around your midriff, another hand falling to your chest, and you let out a long, wordless cry. The entity reacted immediately, the blunt head of a tendril forcing its way past your lips and lodging itself in your throat, forcing you to gag around its bulk. It smelled like ozone – fresh and thrilling and terrible all at once. It tasted organic.

This one, mercifully, didn’t seem to want to hurt you. It seemed content to explore you, to twist around your tongue and prod at every corner of your mouth. Still, tears formed in the corners of your eyes, dripping down your cheeks and pooling on your chest as you attempted not to choke, as you tried not to let the deformed mass fucking into your cunt tear you apart. Your vision was distorted, blurred and darkened around the edges, but you forced yourself to open your eyes, to stare blankly at the new well of ink forming some indescribable distance above you. It was bigger than the others, soon interrupted by a border of white appearing in the darkness, the shape wavering, sketchy, like chalk line drawn with an unsteady hand. Eventually, you made out a shape not unlike the one you’d seen in your apartment all those weeks ago, the ghostly entity that’d barely had to lift a finger to terrify you. This one was different, though – harsher, flitting and flashing in and out of existence faster than you could comprehend. If it’d been a breath away from falling apart the last time you saw it, reality was struggling to hold itself together around it, now.

A head emerged from the darkness, then a neck, then the entity’s broad shoulders. A hand materialized, extending from the pull of darkness and reaching towards you, towards the mess of dark matter and appendages that now all-but entirely encompassed your form. Its fingertips brushed against your jaw, then cupped your cheek, it’s touch careful, ginger, cautious. As if it was trying to be gentle with you. As if it was trying to be loving.

You’re not sure what part of your exhausted mind made the connection, which piece slid into place first. You let your head lull to the side, your jaw fall limp around the tendril in your mouth. You grunted, a premature attempt to speak that it could separate from all the other meaningless, ragged sounds that’d been forced out of you by its invasive touch, and the tendril pulled back, wrapping loosely around your neck. It still took you a moment to find your voice, but you managed to spit out something nearly coherent.

“…Jonathan?”

For a moment, the hands wrapped around your limbs loosened, the tendril attempting to split you in two faltering and before going still.

Then, there was a resounding, resonating purr that seemed to emanate from every corner of the micro-dimension. When the tendril started to move again, it thrusted into you with twice the force, twice the mania. This time, you didn’t have to pretend. You were floating on air, your thoughts blank and your mind empty – your body numb and unfeeling. This time, you knew you wouldn’t be able to get away.

This time, you didn’t even bother to try.

#yandere #yandere x reader #yandere x you #yandere imagines #yandere oneshot #yandere spiderverse #across the spiderverse #spiderverse imagines #spiderverse #yandere spot #spot x reader #jonathan ohnn x reader #yandere jonathan ohnn #yanderecore #yancore

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squids-comics · 2 years ago

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Why have I not seen anyone talk about the Superior Octopus?

Just look at this guy!! I love his suit!

For those unfamiliar with Superior Spider-Man, there was a point where Otto Octavius swapped brains with Peter Parker because his (Otto's) body was dying, and became Spider-Man. Eventually, Peter came back and drove Otto to a dark, cobwebbed corner of his brain. Superior Octopus happens after, when someone (I'm not sure who) gives Otto a clone body to live in that's part Peter and part Otto. This gives Otto all the powers of Spider-Man.

Now trying to be a hero, Otto moves to the city of San Francisco to become their friendly neighbourhood octopus!

Also, his tentacles shoot webs dyed black to look like octopus ink!!

From: Superior Octopus #1!!

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libraryofgage · 1 year ago

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The Wish Job (One)

Part of: Steve Deserves Good Parents, Actually

This fic was line jumped! If you'd like to learn more about line jumping (getting to see your favorite fics updated sooner) you can read this post

I had a lot of thoughts for this AU, actually, so I'm really glad it got line jumped so I was forced to put them down into words lol

Steve becomes one of Nana's foster kids, but he spends a majority of this series with the Leverage crew working a job (as the name of this series suggests), and they fill similarly parental role.

As always, if you see any typos, no you didn't ;P

----

After his father's arrest, everything is a blur. Steve can remember flashes, sure, but nothing concrete. Nothing more than two FBI agents in the door of his classroom, the cold steel of interrogation room chairs, an agent's ponytail with split ends, a kind smile but clammy hand on his elbow, the broken A/C of the car when he finally left the FBI office, and the slippery feel of the garbage bag he's given to pack 14 years of a life he'll never see again.

Nothing comes back into focus until he's faced with an older black woman, standing outside a two-story house. The man with a kind smile but clammy hands introduces her, but Steve doesn't actually hear the name.

"You can call me Nana," the woman says, looking at the man like she doesn't know why he's still there when his work is obviously done.

"Well, uh, Steve, feel free to call if you need anything. We'll keep in touch," the man says, nodding before half-running down the walk way.

"Never liked him," Nana says, clicking her tongue. "Too damn squirrely for my tastes. Now, Steve, come inside and we'll go over some ground rules."

Steve follows her mechanically, gripping his trash bag tightly and wondering far too late why he wasn't allowed to pack his own suitcases. The house is a cacophony of noises: feet running across wood floors, a TV blaring from the living room, shouts coming from every direction, a microwave beeping while the oven timer rings, a crash from the next room over that makes Steve wince.

Nana stands in the doorway, takes a deep breath, and then shouts at the top of her lungs, "Y'all had better stop all this racket right the fuck now before I cancel pizza night!"

The house goes silent, and Steve feels his shoulders tense even more. He hates the silence. Silence means anger, and anger means punishment. He clenches his jaw, trying to keep himself small as Nana nods and leads the way into a dining room.

A girl appears in the room shortly after, carrying a mug and a soda. She places the mug in front of Nana and the soda in front of an empty seat, gesturing for Steve to sit. "Welcome. I can take your bag, if you want," she offers, looking at the trash bag with bright eyes.

"Don't make trouble, Breanna," Nana says, dismissing her easily.

Steve watches her leave before sitting. He licks his lips, opens the soda as quietly as he can manage, and waits for Nana to take a sip from her mug before saying, "Thank you for taking me in, ma'am."

"I said to call me Nana, none of that ma'am business unless you're in trouble, and you're not in trouble," she says, waving her hand dismissively. "Now, the rules. No complaining about sharing a room. No TV remote access after seven because that's when my shows start. We all eat dinner together on Wednesday night. You go to school every day unless you're sick, and you tell me when you're feeling sick. You got all that?"

"Yes, m....Nana."

"Good. Now, I know you're used to a fancier living than this, but I expect you to adjust without too much complaint. You still get your own bed, and whatever you brought is yours to keep, but money is tight. We save where we can, and I expect you to help with that. Turn off lights, use less water, unplug things when you're not using them."

Steve nods again, inexplicably feeling a little better as Nana speaks. She's not treating him like a spoiled brat, but she's not coddling him, either. She gets another boy (an older one named Hardison) to give him a tour of the house. He shows Steve the mezzuzahs on each door and the Kaaba directional marker in each room---"We're a multi-denominational household, kid, Nana will get whatever you need if she doesn't have it already," Hardison says, grinning widely at him---and makes sure he knows which spots are good for hiding when he needs a few minutes.

He ends the tour at Steve's new room. It has two bunk-beds, three of the bunks with rumpled sheets and one bottom bunk devoid of sheets altogether. Hardison gives Steve blue sheets, welcomes him, and then leaves Steve to unpack by himself.

It's new, it's unfamiliar, it's terrifying. Steve hopes, despite himself, that it's not a temporary stop.

----

"I don't care! He can't stay!"

"We're already in London, Hardison. We can hardly send him back on a plane by himself."

"Isn't that how he got here in the first place? He's 17, not seven."

Steve moves his gaze from Hardison to Sophie to Eliot, feeling like he's watching a tennis match. He's sandwiched between Nate and Parker, a hand on his shoulder holding him back from trying to defend himself. Not that he's upset about it. Keeping everyone from turning their frustration on him sounds like a great idea.

"Yeah, and how did he get here?" Parker asks, dashing Steve's hopes right as they're forming.

He shifts uncomfortably as everyone looks at him, ducking his head and staring at the floor. A small part of him is frustrated, angrily protesting the familiar move when its usual target has long been absent.

"Hey, give him some room," Hardison says, moving forward to push Nate and Parker back a few steps. He stands at an angle to Steve, leaving him plenty of room to move away if he wants. "Nobody's angry, kid. Well, I'm a little mad, but only because you could be putting yourself in danger. So, how'd you catch up to us?"

Steve wonders for a brief moment about whose wrath he'd rather endure. In the end, he decides Breanna is scarier than Hardison, so he lies. "Nana and I overheard you on the phone with Parker at Hannukah dinner, and then Nana said she gets worried about you sometimes," he says, meeting Hardison's eyes before glancing away. He makes himself small again, but it's on purpose this time, broadcasting shame as he adds, "I still have, um, access to my savings account...from my....from them. Enough for a plane ticket and cab ride, at least."

"Aww, Nana worries about us," Parker says, smiling brightly as she nudges Eliot with her elbow. "That's sweet."

"If it weren't a lie," Sophie says, her lips pursed and her eyebrows raised slightly as she walks closer to Steve. She taps his shoulder, his temple, and his hand. "Lowered head but not as low as before. Shoulders drawn in but tense to hold them there. Fingers twitching just slightly. Impressive, I will admit, but I'm a professional, darling."

Steve sighs and lifts his head, his shoulders relaxing some as he frowns. "You didn't have to call me out on it," he mumbles.

"Breanna got you here, didn't she? Ain't no way you'd lie to protect anyone else."

"She could ruin me, Hardison."

"I can ruin you, too, did you forget about that?"

Steve considers him for a moment before shrugging.

"Well," Nate says, clapping his hands together and pulling everyone's attention to him. "Steve is here now, we might as well use him. Sophie, give him an Italian accent and some suede shoes."

"I can already speak Italian," Steve says, "and I have my own suede shoes to match a Cesare Attolini suit." He feels something like guilt twinge in his stomach when Hardison glances at him. Steve's mother may have forfeited custody of him, but she still sends gifts every now and then. Steve usually sells them, slips the cash into drawers and wallets and couch cushions so they can be discovered by Nana and his foster siblings.

The suit and shoes, though? Steve couldn't bring himself to sell them. If there was one thing he missed about life before Nana's foster home, it was the clothes. It was the way his clothes made him feel like a better version of himself, a version everyone would admire and approve of. So, yeah, he'd kept the clothes and shoes his mother sent him two months ago, and he'd packed them for this trip just because.

He'd glad they seem to be coming in handy.

After processing his words, Nate blinks, a smile growing on his face like he's discovered a treasure he won't be letting go of any time soon.

----

Tag List

Please let me know if you'd like to be tagged!

#my writing #steve harrington #steve deserves good parents actually #leverage #alec hardison #parker #sophie devereaux #nate ford #eliot spencer #the wish job #nana leverage #this was a lotta fun to write actually #i love leverage so much you don't even know #anyway hope you had fun reading lol #thanks again for line jumping! i hope you liked it ^_^

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held-heart · 4 days ago

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"So I heard you could use a little distraction," Jo managed stepping into his office shutting the door right immediately behind her. "Rough day?" The scientist's daughter went on to manage as she approached him.

@held-heart liked for a starter from Harry

Oscorp stuff was sometimes so stressful, he'd taken on a lot of the work recently, got set up in his own little office and finally had some time outside of meetings to just breath, letting a little groan out as he hears his receptionist buzz him he presses the button. "Just send them through" he says before even hearing who was coming, he just wanted to get this day over and done with.

#goddamnmuses #C; Jo Octavius #Verse; Spiderman #heldheartqueue

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lina-lovebug · 1 year ago

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USM characters dating a villains daughter

- you were recruited into SHIELD based on your merits and smarts

- also including the fact that your dad was a villainous genius and wanted you farrrr away from all that mess

- you helped the team every now and then concerning tech stuff or hacking, and Spidey developed a crush on you

- you found him cute, having seen his face a few separate times, but knew that once he found out that your dad has made multiple attempts to clone his DNA and/or kill him then that crush would die

- it was a small accident from one of the other agents, but one that made you avoid Spidey for WEEKS

- "Oh hey Miss. Octavius" "Oh hey-"

- normally you'd let that slide but not when you were having lunch with Spiderman

- "Octavius? Like-?" "Wow, I'm late for a meeting. Bye!"

- it sucked too because you used to have a great relationship with your dad but his change and obsession over Spiderman drove you two apart

- you missed your dad

- each time you walked past the team training or happened to be in the same room as Spidey, you'd avoid him like the plague

- you would have kept doing that but suddenly found your hand webbed to your desk

- "You're avoiding me" "who said that?"

- after a long conversation that you weren't a spy or a weird creepy person trying to clone him, he let out a sigh of relief

- "And here I thought my crush on you was ruined" "yeah same here. . ."

- the team teased you both about that for the next month

- it's not everyday that you find out your dad is a terrorist

- okay not exactly a terrorist but one of the most dangerous men in the entire world to the point where they locked him in a prison without any metal

- yup, your father is Magneto

- it was fresh into your relationship with Danny when you found out. Your mom died when you were a baby, and you were adopted by an Agent of SHIELD

- it began to explain so much - your powers always have been strong, even for a mutant. You excelled in your strength and control, except for the few moments where anger woukd get the better of you

- you were scared to tell him. You had been dating for barely a month now, what if he got scared? Magneto brings fear to his name for a reason

- but you didn't have to tell him because Magneto had already found you. It's a strange thing to feel your child through your shared gene of controlling metal

- "(Y/N), I know I was never present before, but I never knew that you-" "Love, what's he talking about?"

- Magneto raised his brow at the green clad boy beside you and you rightfully began to p a n i c

- "I'm her father, and you are?"

- Danny is like 👁👄👁

- "You're not my dad. My dad is Agent (L/N), and as far as I'm concerned, the only person who knows me."

- and still, Danny is just 👁👄👁

- also okay my girlfriend didn't know that her dad is one of the few people I'm scared of

- After the initial blow up, you refused to talk to him. Erik Lensherr wanted to get to know you - to know the little girl he never knew he had even though this motherfucker has kids EVERYWHERE

- it was Danny who encouraged you to know him. You didn't have to force yourself to call him dad but you could atleast try to see if he's worth knowing?

- "How long have you been dating that boy?" "Oh, uh, a month now." "Hmm. . .he says strange things but I like him"

- He never saw it coming but Danny is the number one favorite of your adopted and biological dad. Yippee

- "When do I get to meet your dad, babe?"

"Uh. . .how do you feel about never? Also he's in prison, so not exactly the best meet up scenario."

- Luke knew you had a complicated relationship with your dad but never knew exactly how complicated

- first few years of your life, you were always on the road with him. You never thought much of the constant moving and new motel rooms every week - it was just a roadtrip

- until that roadtrip ended with your dad in custody and you cowering in the bathtub with claws and trying to act like a very scary person

- you looked like a spicy cat

- Luke was still curious though and since you weren't giving him much, he decided to sneak into the SHIELD database

- Sabretooth a.k.a Victor Creed who is sadistic and violent, and used to bring you on "roadtrips" which could have very easily ended up with you being killed

- also making Wolverine your uncle who didn't visit much himself

- "ooohh that's why she accidentally called Fury dad that one time"

- daddy issues to another level

- anyway

- Luke respected your decision not to see nor talk about your dad, now knowing that he never really cared about you

- it also made him realize why you were so avoidant when you first joined the team #likefatherlikedaughter

- but you were nothing like Sabretooth thank fucking christ and loved Luke, so he planned a dinner for you to meet his family

- and if you're wondering, yes, Victor found out you were dating whilst in custody and ended up destroying his prison cell

- oh yeah, Sam already knew

- you mean to tell me that a girl with green magical powers, a golden headpiece with horns AND who calls Thor "Uncle" is Lokis' Daughter?

- :0

- you weren't exactly subtle when it came to the few times the team and Loki butted heads

- "Dad, stop fighting my friends!" "They started it!"

- Meanwhile Sam over here like "Wow my crush is an actual Goddess"

- being half Frost Giant and half Asgardian came with perks, and one of those being that your body temp was always cold so Sam CLUNG to you during the hot summer days

- you and Sam were on the roof of the Hellicarrier when you confessed your feelings and out of excitement, Sam grabbed your face and kissed you

- spoiler alert: Loki also decided it was a perfect time to visit you

- so imagine your dad's surprise when he portals to Midgard to see his daughter and sees some mortal sucking her face off

- it was a very eventful and frightening evening for everyone, to say the least

- "Dad, I'm sixteen. I'm allowed to date" "that's like a fetus in Asgard. Come back to me when you're 500 and perhaps you can date"

- you dated anyway

- Sam didn't care that Loki is your dad, insisting he also wasn't afraid this bitch is terrified

- despite your differences, you do love your dad and he loves you, so you don't understand his hatred for Sam

- that was until Thor dropped the bomb

- as an Asgardian, you're immortal and Sam will eventually die. So Loki is terrified that one day you'll lose Sam and be left with nothing

- cue the mental breakdown

- "You did WHAT?!" "you weren't giving her answers, brother." "No but you've given her a crisis!"

- It was something Sam thought about from time to time but seeing you so heartbroken about it made him sad, and it kept you both distant

- Loki forced himself to talk to you, telling you to enjoy your time with Sam and if you wanted to one day - you could give up your immortality, if that's what you wanted

- after a long and much needed discussion, you came to Sam with the information. He felt bad that you'd have to surrender all that you were just to be with him, but you said:

"I'll still be who I am; I'll be the annoying magic girl who saved your ass"

- with a bonus of Loki admitting that Sam wasn't that bad he adored you two

- so like

- your dad is kinda fucked

- you just so happened to be the one who was somewhat sane

- you happened whilst your parents were casually dating, and while any other kid might want their parents to stay together, you were more than happy that your mom left

- your dad is Victor Von Doom and your mom? Hot asf Susan Storm

- Reed and Susan raised you away from him, and you inherited your own abilities from when Susan was caught in the storm in space

- you met Ava when the Fantastic Four visited SHIELD for some meeting, being the teenager dragging along because you've always admired your mom and dad's work

- Fury was eyeing you for your brains, considering bringing the matter up to Invincible Woman and Mr. Fantastic first

- after some debate, you were in and met White Tiger first and once she took off her mask, you were like "damn"

- "what?" "I-I mean, damn it's nice to be apart of the team"

- you both got along great, and she admired how smart you were and capable

- she asked you out and it had been a great few months, but you did receive a yell from Fury after he caught you two in the main tech area

- you weren't hiding it necessarily but it did shock her that you never told her, I mean, dudes number one for a reason

- "your dad is Doom?!" "Hes not my dad, he's my sperm donor - there's a difference"

- never in a million years did you consider Doom your dad. Reed raised you, and he called you his daughter from the moment you entered his life, so no - Victor Von Doom was not your dad

- she knew she touched a nerve, almost sounding accusatory, and apologized

- but she had no reason to, you reassured her, before giving her a kiss and asking if she wanted to come over for dinner to meet them

- she said yes :)

#usm x reader #ultimate spiderman #ultimate spiderman x reader #iron fist x reader #spiderman x reader #nova marvel

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