#vulture x reader

[baby-chirp]

POV you and Vulture go out on a date.

[dirtyvulture]

i know you’ve written multiple variations of this but one more time??

sgt beef returning from deployment (completely unharmed this time) and sgt nat is waiting for them at the airport and they get to have one of those moments where they see each other from across the room and run into each others arms? and nat just fully jumps into beefs arms and kisses them in front of everyone??

Finally someone asking for a happy ending to the deployment AU 😭

Wrote something short and sweet for you anon :)

Natasha paces anxiously, checking her watch every ten seconds as if that will make the time go by faster. She looks out the wide windows, still not sure which plane you're on, but she knows you're in the vicinity.

People in uniforms start walking out of the jetway and she holds her breath, waiting to see you. Her heart is pounding so hard in anticipation it feels like it's ready to burst out of her chest. But as she waits and waits, her anxiety increases when she doesn't see you yet.

A million thoughts rush through her head; maybe there had been a miscommunication and you had been on a different plane. What if something had gone wrong and you hadn't even boarded a plane to begin with? Or what if something had happened while you were flying and--

Natasha's head empties of thoughts when she sees you appear on the jetway. You look exhausted, your face thinner than usual, but when you hold eye contact with her, your face lights up and Natasha feels butterflies in her stomach like she's seeing you for the first time again.

She doesn't even realize her feet are propelling her across the floor until she's suddenly leaping into your arms and you catch her easily, your strong arms holding her tightly as her legs wrap around your waist. Her arms go around your neck possessively and she kisses you with all the passion that you've missed in the last 12 months.

You're holding her so tightly you're afraid you're going to hurt her, but you still can't believe you have her in your arms again. Your head is spinning from the lack of oxygen but you don't want to pull away. Natasha finally does, burying her face against your neck and you hope you don't smell too bad after being on a plane for over 14 hours.

"I love you, Nat," you whisper, kissing her forehead.

"I love you, too," she says, and it will never make you happier to hear her say that.

"Take me home?" you ask, setting her back on the floor.

She grabs your hand eagerly, dragging you away from the gate, not even caring how many people are staring.

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AN: Please like, reblog, and comment! Follow for more content. 🥰

[insertsparkleshere]

Five vs One

Summary: Five times you and Rosa kissed for show, and one time it was for real.

Word Count: 2,586

Pronouns: Implied she/her/hers

Published: 12/28/2022

Author's Note: My obsession with Rosa Diaz continues

Trigger Warnings: Some swearing, mentions of drugs, general police shit

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1. Stakeout

You've been friends with Rosa for years. Ever since you transferred to the 99, she's been your partner. You work most of your cases together, you're the only member of the 99 that's actually been to her apartment, and you would say that you know her pretty well.

The silence is comfortable as you sit in the car. The two of you are on stakeout, trying to catch some poor drug dealer.

You yawn.

"You good?"

"Tired. I can't believe we have another hour of this shit."

"You want me to grab you a coffee? I'll buy."

"I won't say no to that."

Rosa comes back ten minutes later with your usual order, handing it to you as she slides into the driver's seat. "Anything new? Or is he still waiting for the buyer?"

"Still waiting, but I think he's getting suspicious. He saw me in the car, but I pulled out my phone and pretended I was calling someone, so I don't think he made me."

"Good."

You take a sip of your drink, once again lapsing into comfortable silence. The drug dealer (you can't remember his name) looks over at you again. He starts walking over to the car.

"Shit." You look at Rosa. "He made us."

"No, he didn't."

"What-?"

You haven't even finished getting the word out when Rosa pulls you forward into a kiss.

"Go with it," She says against you, but you decided to do that the moment it happened.

"Yep, doing that." You break away from her, face flushed, and look over at the dealer. "He went back."

"Good."

You both sit back into your respective seats. You're freaking out, but you're trying not to show it.

"Sorry. It was the only thing I could think of."

"It's fine."

2. Operation: Broken Feather

"Commence Operation: Broken Feather."

And with those words, everyone's off to their varying positions. And yet, nothing works. Charles spills his coffee, but the Vulture just wipes it off. Rosa flirts with him (you see red), but he moves on. For once, he's not interested.

"I can't believe I'm gonna do this." You march over to Rosa, determined and praying that Jake can get the confession soon. "No time to explain, come on."

You take Rosa through a back way. You stop where you know the Vulture will come out of the stairwell he took to get from the bathroom to the squad's floor. "Trust me?"

"Yeah."

You grab Rosa, pulling her into a kiss just as the Vulture comes out of the door.

"Woah!"

He stops for a few moments, staring, then you hear his footsteps recede.

"Damnit!" You say, pulling away once you're sure he's gone. "I really thought that was going to work."

"Uh...Yeah."

"Sorry. Only thing I could think of to stop him."

"It's fine."

3. Tactical Village

"How come you're so mad at Boyle?" You ask, creeping down the hallway. Charles is a few feet ahead of you, but you're careful. Quiet.

"He didn't invite me to his wedding."

"You can be my plus one."

"If he didn't invite me, that means he doesn't want me there."

"I'm sure there's a perfectly reasonable explanation for all of this. Just talk to him."

Rosa wrinkles her nose.

"Yeah, I know, feelings are for losers. But give it a try, okay?"

"Fine."

You hear something up ahead. Charles ducks through a side door, but there's nowhere for you and Rosa to hide.

"I have no clue if this is going to work," Rosa says, "but I need you to trust me."

"You know I do."

"I'm going to kiss you. When the perps come through, shoot them."

"Got it. You know we're being watched, right?"

"Yeah."

She presses her lips against yours, and you melt into the kiss like you always do.

Part of you wishes that you could do this more often, but you know that's not possible.

You hear footsteps, drawing closer.

"Woah. Uh, sorry."

You pull away, gun already in hand. You shoot one guy, and Rosa shoots the other. Green paint splatters across their chests.

"Don't be." You say. "It was just a distraction."

4. The Wedding

"We have a problem," Amy says.

"What's wrong?" You ask, pausing in your frosting of Rosa's wedding cake.

"Rosa's drunk."

"How?"

"Bellinis."

"I got it." You set your frosting bag down, wipe your hands on your apron, and set off for the small room Rosa's hunkered in.

"(Y/N)!" She slurs. "I'm getting married."

"Yes, you are. Which you need to be sober for. Come on, let's get you some water."

"No." She drags out the word, but you stand your ground.

"Rosa, you need to be sober to get married."

"Do I?"

"Yes." You sit down across from her at the table.

"You should have a drink."

"Absolutely not."

"You're so wound up! Why are you so stressed?"

"Because your wedding is today, Rosa, and you're currently drunk off of champagne, of all things. I mean, really, it's half bubbles."

"Yeah, but you shouldn't be stressed. This isn't your wedding."

"No, it's not. Which is why I'm going to drink my way through the ceremony and reception, but not while I am trying to make you a wedding cake."

"Huh?"

"I'm trying to make your wedding cake, Rosa."

"No, the other part."

"Ah, right. I am going to drink my way through the ceremony and reception."

"Why?"

"Because that's what you do at a wedding."

"No." Rosa gasps dramatically. "Is it because we've kissed?"

"What? No!"

"It is." Her eyes go wide. "Do you like me?"

"No, Rosa, I don't."

You hate lying to her.

She surges forward, kissing you hard.

"What about now?" She asks when she pulls back.

"Now...I need a bellini."

5. Nutriboom

"Why does this always happen?" You duck behind a door, praying the person goes away. "Seriously, every time!"

"It's comical." Rosa agrees, but she kisses you anyway.

+1. Show Me Going

“(Y/L/N), can I speak with you in my office?”

You jump. “Sorry. Startled me. Yeah, sure.” You stand and follow Holt into his office. “What’s up?”

“I wanted to ask how you’re doing. I know that you and Rosa are close, so you’re more likely to be particularly affected, what with her current involvement in the Brooklyn Heights shooting."

“Captain, I’ve been in love with Rosa Diaz for the last four years.” Your voice shakes a little, but you smile. “If I couldn’t take a little danger, I’d have broken a long time ago.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure. I’m okay. Honestly, I’m more worried about the rest of the squad.” You look back and see Charles and Jake talking, while Terry gets his blood pressure checked. “Seriously, Boyle’s got that vein popping out in his forehead. You know the one, when he gets stressed?” Holt’s phone rings. “I’ll let you get that.”

You leave just in time to see Charles stand. “Shots fired. Shots fired!”

“What?” Jake exclaims.

“Is anybody hurt?” Terry asks.

“I don’t know.”

“Oh, man.”

“And, you’re BP’s at 290. Oh, 350. You broke the machine.” The guy next to Terry's desk says.

“Alright, screw this.” Jake stands and storms into Holt’s office. “There were shots fired.”

“I just got off the phone. There are two officers down.”

You run to the nearest trashcan, convinced you’re going to puke, but then you hear, “Neither one of them is Diaz,” and suddenly, you’re fine.

Holt shuts his door. You don't hear the rest of his conversation, instead sitting down at your desk. It's right across from Rosa's, a fact that you desperately try to ignore. You're trembling, but otherwise normal, so you take a breath and try to focus on paperwork. You put your headphones on, despite the ban against them, and blare your music as loud as you can in an attempt to drown out your thoughts.

A few songs later, someone taps you on the shoulder. You practically jump out of your skin, but when you turn around, you see Jake. “God, dude, don’t sneak up on me like that!”

“I got pizza. Come grab a slice.”

You shake your head. “Not really hungry.”

“Come on, eat. You haven’t had anything all day.”

“Fine.”

You stand up and grab a slice.

“Peralta, why are you back so soon?” Holt asks.

“Because I wanted to do something.” Jake turns back. “Hey, guys. How’re you holding up?"

“I mean, not great, but I know you really don’t want to talk about it,” Charles says.

“No. We should talk about it. I’m really scared for Rosa.”

“Yeah.” You say quietly. “I’m terrified that she’s gonna die and I’ll never actually have told her the truth.”

“Me, too.” Terry says. “I mean, the her dying part. It keeps making me think about my kids. How do I deal with the fact that every day I leave for work, I might not come home?”

“Man, I don’t even know, Terry. I don’t have kids yet, but I know you love them. And I feel like that’s all you can really do, right? I mean, now that I'm getting married, I keep thinking if something happens to me, it'll actually affect someone else.”

“I'd get over it eventually, after a lot of therapy.”

“I was more talking about Amy, but yes, you too, Charles.”

You all sigh.

“Hey, look at that. 130 over 80.” The guy next to Terry says. “Back to normal. I can get out of your hair now.”

“Nice. Told you, Andrew. Terry’s in tiptop. Thanks, Jake.”

“Yeah.” You say, nodding.

Jake turns to talk to Holt, and Charles’s phone goes off. “Guys!” He says. “Guys, guys, guys. They just took both shooters into custody. Officers got injured in the action. They don’t say how many.”

“Call Diaz. Get her cell.” Terry says.

Jake grabs his phone. “Damn it. It’s still just going to voicemail.”

“Let me try.”

Straight to voicemail.

“Her phone’s gotta be off, but I’ll try again.” You say. “She’s always picked up when I’ve called.”

“Adorable.” You glare at Jake. “Right, not the time. Just…glad that whole thing’s over.”

“For now.” You mutter.

Fifty minutes (or a lifetime, you aren't completely sure) later, Holt comes out of his office. He’d spent ages on the phone, trying to get in contact with someone who could give him the names of the injured officers.

“Okay.” He says. “I don’t have the names of the injured officers,” You swear internally, “but if Diaz is unharmed, she should be contacting us shortly. Or, if her phone is dead, perhaps she’ll be walking out of the elevator at any moment.”

Just then, the elevator dings. Your head snaps towards the doors.

They open…revealing Scully.

“Come on, Scully!”

“You can’t be doing stuff like that, man!”

“Fuck you!”

“I was just making a copy downstairs.”

“Yeah, well, next time, think.” Jake says.

“About what?”

“I don’t know!”

“Okay, Jake. Come on, man. Go easy on him.”

“Diaz!” Holt says, surprised.

“Rosa!” You and Jake say at the same time.

“You’re okay! Where’d you come from?” Jake asks.

“Felt like walking, so I took the stairs. Also, I thought it’d be funny to mess with you guys.”

“Rosa, you know I hate pranks.”

“You love pranks.”

“I do. I really do.” Jake hugs her tightly. “You did it so good.

“Were you guys worried about me or something?”

“No.” He says.

“I plead the fifth.” You put in, holding yourself back from running to her.

“So, what happened? Did they shoot at you?” Terry says. “Were you in the thick of it?”

“It’s been a really tough day. I just want to go get a beer. I don’t feel like getting into it.”

“Are you sure? Because the journey I went on today taught me that sometimes it’s best to talk about things-”

“Jake.”

“Right. It was a stupid idea. And Holt told me to do it, so. Let’s just go get a drink and sit in total silence.”

“Perfect. First, I gotta go to the can.”

“Actually, you might want to go check out the ladies’ room up here.” You turn at the sound of Gina’s voice. “Hey, Rosa, it’s me, Gina Linetti. Welcome back. Me and Amy made a little surprise for you, and I think you’re gonna like it very, very much. Come on, girl.”

You follow Gina and Rosa into the bathroom. You feel like if you don’t have your eyes on Rosa, she’ll disappear.

Also, you want to see how the bathroom turned out.

“Ta-da!” Gina says.

“You made it sound like you fixed the toilet.” Rosa says dryly.

“Yeah, I thought maybe Amy would’ve pulled something together in the two minutes I stepped outside.”

“Hey, Gina! Look what I stole from the Barnes and…Oh, my God, Rosa! I’m so happy to see you!” Amy runs forward, dropping the toilet seat she’s holding to hug Rosa.

“Wait, are you covered in toilet water?”

“Yes, big-time. But this is happening.”

“Ugh. Fine.”

“Kinda feel like I’m lurking.”

“Gina, get in here.”

“Yay!”

You hesitate.

“(Y/N), you too.”

You grin, rushing forward to hug the three of them.

“Do you mind if I come to Shaw’s?” You ask, once you're out of the bathroom and Amy and Gina are gone.

“Whole squad’s going. Let me go to bathroom, and I’ll drive you.” Rosa offers.

“You don’t have to-”

“You walk to work.”

“Fine.” You smile slightly, and go upstairs to grab your stuff from your desk. You meet her in front of the bathrooms, and follow her out to the parking structure. When you’re sure that you’re alone, you look at the ground. “You know, if you’d died, I’d have been so pissed.”

“Really?”

“I would’ve brought you back so I could kill you again.”

“Didn’t think you cared that much.”

“Of course, I care that much. You’re my partner. Half my cases, I work with you. Can’t have you dying on me, can I?”

Rosa doesn’t say anything.

“Seriously, though, you scared the shit out of me. Didn’t want to say anything in the precinct, I know you don’t like the mushy stuff.”

“Thanks.”

You stop in front of her bike.

“Do you really care that much?” She asks, giving you pause.

“What do you mean? Of course, I care. I don’t know if anyone told you, but I was close to a nervous collapse today.”

“Why?”

You stare at her, bewildered. “Why do you think?”

“We’re friends, but-”

“Rosa, I’ve…” You close your eyes. “Never mind. Let’s just go to Shaw’s, okay?”

“No. What were you going to say?”

“It’s nothing.”

Her voice drops. “It’s not nothing.”

“Rosa, trust me, it doesn’t matter.”

“No, it does matter. If you have something to say-”

“I told you it’s nothing!”

There’s a brief pause. You could cut the tension with whatever knife Rosa probably has in her pocket.

And then she lurches forward, and you don’t have time to say anything before she kisses you, hard.

You freeze, for a split second, and it’s enough that Rosa pulls back. You don’t let her go far, though, dragging her back to you. Butterflies erupt in your stomach.

She bites your lower lip, and you gasp.

“You know,” you say, between kisses, “I’ve been waiting four years for this. I mean...Except for all the fake ones.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Just…didn’t think it would happen."

“I’m glad I made the first move then.”

“Me, too."

You never do make it to Shaw’s.

[ensignsimp]

Romantic VOY Vorik w/ Hyper Emotion L/I HCs:

A/N: They did this poor boy dirty!

Prompt: Cute Romantic Vorik

GIF by vreenak

You were standing in your workstation in Engineering when you noticed Vorik was approaching you. Rather quickly.

You give him a smile and your usual casual greeting.

He seemed to tolerate your company well enough.

So you consider him one of your work friends.

That was until he started to ask you questions of a more personal nature.

"What is your preferred activity during your off hours?"

"I noticed that you keep skipping meals? Is it because you are feeling insecure or are you forgetting to eat?"

"Do you have a preferred term or act of affection?"

It didn't help that he was staring at you all of the time.

He seems to stare at your hands mostly.

As well as getting very close to you when speaking.

It's so hard to tell him that you're uncomfortable.

He would become visibly disappointed and shy away slightly.

His big brown sad puppy dog eye just breaks your heart.

One afternoon while you were working Vorik requested to have you meet him in his quarters later.

When you do you see him kneeling on the floor in front of a bunch of candles. In fact, the entirety of his quarters were illuminated by them.

"You are asking yourself, why I have asked you here?"

You noticed he was wearing traditional Vulcan attire.

"I wish to declare koon-ut so'lik. I desire to become your mate."

He held his hand out to you in a Vulcan kiss, "Please, accept."

[michaela-o]

Hello you guys ! Here's something a bit different from what i'm used to draw but this is fun so far !! I absolutely love vultures so i decided to draw this beauty !❤️

( American black vulture ) hope you like it🥰❤️

Also updated on the break up and me if anyone's interested: I'm doing pretty good, better than half a month ago, i can proudly say!❤️ A week ago i graduated high school and i would like to forget about all the bad stuff that has happend recently even tho i'm aware it's gonna take some more time❤️ but don't worry ! I'm healing slowly and my friends have been my biggest support so my heart goes out for them !!❤️ Also i've been having those self care days where i spent most of my days off the social media and outside with my besties🥰❤️ But don't worry tho !! I see all of your sweet tags and posts and i always come to look at your blogs on what's new (loving my sweet mutuals🥰❤️) so yea i'm still here just not posting as often :]❤️

[dainty-fingertips]

THESE ARE SO STUPID BUT I LOVE THESE NERDS SO MUCH HELP ME

[boyinafandom]

And what if I said he’s up my ass like a dildo??

I’m then boo’ed and yanked off stage by a giant hook used to Hurd sheep

[summervale]

「The Hound and The Vulture 」

Part 5 (and a half)

Third person reader-insert! After weeks—or had it been months now?— on the road north, the Hound and the vulture can finally withstand the cold rain no longer and turn to an inn for a single night of reprieve. And, of course, there is only one bed.

Contains: Reluctant pining, teasing, mature situations

Words:  4,871

Tags: @lunnybunny12 @supervalcsi

Notes:  The overused, cliché, worn-out trope of “and there was only one bed.” Let’s have it one more time, then, once more from the top. 

This is half of Part 5. Parts of the second half are already written, but I wanted to go ahead and get this finished, edited half out for everyone who has been so supportive and so patient! Thank you all for your kind words.❤️

The town was dismal at best. But still, there was an inn. Any respectable person from any respectable keep would have spat on both the inn and the town, but neither the Hound nor the vulture were in any position to turn away a warm bed. Even the thought of a damp straw mattress and a bowl of dubious brown stew warmed the vulture inside—just a little.

They plodded their way down what they could only assume was the main road of the town, though it was currently little more than a bog. The mud sucked at their horses’ hooves as they went; gods forbid the northern reaches of Westeros go more than a day or two without getting rained, snowed, or sleeted on, or any miserable, abysmal combination of the three. Sometimes they were met with all three in one day–those were the worst days, soaked to the core and chilled to the bone–but still, Sandor would not let them rest.

The rain had let up to a cold, ever-present mist when they reached the village. Everyone is staring again, thought the vulture. They’re always staring. She had half a mind to run the staring people down from time to time. Everywhere they went, the Hound drew stares. Children often fled, sometimes they laughed. Sometimes they asked questions. The adults were no better, and often the vulture found herself wondering how many times the Hound had been recognized. She half expected to be seized by the white cloaks themselves in the middle of the night. Sandor could fight them off, no doubt. She’d seen him do some serious damage in their time together.

And though he could defend himself blindfolded with one arm tied behind his back (of this the vulture had not a doubt), it was the people who stared who bothered her the most. The brute of a man was somehow too nice to send the staring children away with a “fuck off,” easy as it may have been. The vulture was less nice in this regard.

Wait. She turned in her saddle to look at him. He raised an eyebrow at her but said nothing—an expected interaction by this point. When did I start caring if they laugh at him? Why would I want to defend him? She’d had her moments of weakness, it was true. But she was not one to chase love unrequited. Especially not from a mongrel like Sandor Clegane. It had been the cold and the dark and the rain that had gotten to her before, or so she could tell herself. She would have wanted any man. And he saved her, too. No matter who he was, he had saved her and he had not forced himself onto her. It was a noble act. Of course she’d wanted him, it was almost instinct.

And yet…

“Boy, get over here.”

She was wrenched from her thoughts by Sandor’s voice. There was a boy a few strides away from the stables of the inn, shirtless and shoeless even in the cold, and dirty, too. Had he not had such a nasty look of revulsion on his face at the sight of the Hound, the vulture might have pitied him. But she didn’t.

“You the stableboy?”

The little cretin’s face twisted further. “No, I’m here for fun,” he japed.

Sandor paid the comment little mind. “Take these horses. See that they’re brushed and watered. And that they have oats.” Sandor began to dismount as he spoke, and the girl followed suit.

The ground was miserably soft and wet below, mud from the rain and muck from the stables. Her nose wrinkled as she swung one leg over the saddle to dismount, bracing herself for the ankle-deep plunge into the filth. Please hold, please don’t come apart, she prayed silently to her boots. If there was any place for her only pair of boots to be ripped apart by the mud, it would be this hole of a town, though, and the vulture was anything but optimistic.

“Easy there.” The Hound was aside her, suddenly, and before she knew what he was doing, the mountain of a man had lifted her from her horse. He took her with the ease an average man would use to lift a child.

The sudden act of kindness caught her off guard so badly that all she could think to say was, “What are you doing?” He held her, navigating the muck of the stables with the small woman in his arms. Without thinking, she draped one arm over his shoulder and held fast to his chest with her other hand, holding onto him as if for dear life.

“No point in both of us getting fuckin’ muddy,” he grumbled. It was, it seemed, to be the most begrudging act of kindness ever. But still, it was an act of kindness nonetheless, and the vulture found herself oddly fond of the Hound in that moment.

Said moment was cut short when the Hound unceremoniously all but dropped her back onto drier ground. The well-packed earth beneath the overhang of the inn rose up to meet her boots, and when she was no longer entwined in his arms (his big, strong, protective arms…) the young woman snapped back to reality.

“Thank you,” she said, still dazed. All she received in response was a grunt of acknowledgement—not that she’d expected anything more.

The inside of the inn was significantly better than the outside of the inn. Hells—it was better than the whole town. Or maybe it had just been that long since they’d lived like civilized people, sleeping in barns that had been put to the torch with only their cloaks for comfort, hiding out beneath crevasses in hillsides. The inn smelled of rabbit stew and hot spiced wine, and within moments of standing in the doorway it was undoubtedly the warmest the pair had been in weeks.

The woman behind the bar eyed them suspiciously. “What do you want?” she asked.

Before the Hound could answer, it was the vulture who stepped forward. “Two rooms, please. And two meals, and some wine.” She thought for a moment. “And two baths as well.” They had the coin to spare, after all, having sold their third horse to the farmer and selling the bits of armor the vulture was so good at scavenging from the many dead soldiers they encountered. Stark, Lannister, Frey…it was funny how the houses they died for didn’t matter anymore when they laid dead in the dirt with a woman ripping the armor from their bodies for whatever coin it might bring. A futile fight with a fitting end. Often it sold for a few coppers at best, but the stew and ale it would buy was worth a hundred gold dragons to the pair.

The innkeep eyed the Hound. “It’ll be double the cost of the bath for him,” she said. “I’ll have to heat and haul twice as much water.”

“Done,” the vulture answered for the Hound. She could feel the scowl he was boring into her head behind her.

“I’ll get you your food, have a seat. But there’s one problem,” said the woman, who was already shuffling off to the kitchens.

“Seven hells. What’s the problem?” The Hound finally found his voice, it seemed, and joined the conversation.

“There’s only one room. Big bed, though, even for the likes of you,” the woman never looked over her shoulder. “I’m sure you can share.”

Beside the vulture, the Hound huffed. “I’m sure we can share,” said the small woman, half-mocking the innkeep, half-teasing Sandor.

Her traveling companion, ever silent, said nothing. He strode off for the dining area, no doubt in anticipation of the promised wine. The vulture scowled. They’d shared a bed once at the farmhouse. Something inside of her fluttered at the memory. It hadn’t gone anywhere, though, and she’d be a fool to expect he’d feel any differently about her at an inn than he would in a farmhouse or a cave or a barn or anywhere else they had been or ever would be.  It was cliché, to be sure, having arrived at an inn with only one bed vacant in the whole damn place. But it made no difference. The vulture could strip herself of her clothes and present herself before him bare; she could climb on top of him, she could do and say whatever she wanted. The Hound would not have her.

The small talk they made over their dinner was as bland as the stew. The Hound wasn’t one for conversation, much less when other prying eyes and open ears were nearby. The stew was thin and watery and the cook had skimped on the rabbit. But the radishes and potatoes were cooked well, at least, and though the wine was more brown than red, it washed the stew down all the same and warmed them to their core. They mopped at their trenchers with bread that was not quite stale but would be soon. Yet, they cleared their plates. By the time they’d finished, a serving girl appeared at their table’s side.

“A bath for the lady?” asked the girl. She seemed nervous, her eyes darting back and forth from the Hound to the vulture to the floor, then back again. “It’s ready. The bath. For the lady.”

“A bath for the lady.” The vulture nodded in agreement. She drank down what was left of her wine in one swallow and replaced the cup to its original spot on the table. “Hear that? I’m a lady,” she said to Sandor.

He grunted. “Could have fooled me.”

She didn’t dignify him with a response. Instead she stood and followed the girl, who led the way up the flight of stairs and to a store room where a copper tub had been half-way filled. The water was tepid, as mediocre as the meal they’d been served and the wine they had drank, but just like the meal and the wine it served its purpose, and for that the vulture was grateful. The girl helped the traveler out of her clothes and into the tub. The vulture allowed herself to relax the slightest bit; the serving girl dutifully and silently washed her hair (a pity, as the vulture would have appreciated a good conversation) while the vulture set to scrubbing her body.

When all was said and done, the serving girl provided the vulture with a shift made from plain, undyed wool and promised that her clothes would be washed and dried before the night’s end—a service the woman had gladly allowed herself to be upsold on for two extra coppers. Warm and clean for the first time in an undetermined amount of time (even the vulture had since lost track of how long they’d been traveling) she retired to the room they were given. The last room at the end of the hall was where they’d been situated. It was a small room with a large bed that took up the majority of the space. The bed was large and sturdy enough to sleep four, there was a small square table with a single chair, and an iron brazier in which the innkeep had so kindly started a small fire. The innkeep had been right: they could share without problem.

After a moment’s time warming her hands at the brazier, the vulture settled into the bed, choosing the side closest to the wall. It was heaven. The Seven themselves surely had a hand in crafting this wonderful, glorious room in this wonderful, glorious inn. Never before had the vulture been so relieved and comfortable as she was here.

That was an exaggeration. It was a dank inn in a shithole of a town. The vulture knew this. But she knew that she was warm and comfortable, too, and she knew that she’d spent months sleeping in caves and barns and open fields even, and that this was better than anything. She closed her eyes. She was safe and warm. She was comfortable. And soon Sandor would be at her side.

Sandor…

Beneath the covers, her body was warm. Her mind was fuzzy. Sleep was taking her. He’ll have a bath, and then he’ll join me. Soon, so soon. She, in the moments before sleep when the mind is both the most absurd and the most honest, anticipated the feeling of the mattress sinking beneath his weight as he climbed into bed beside her. She wanted the heat of his body beside hers. She wanted him to settle in and pull the blankets around them, to feel his chest rise and fall against her back with every breath he took. She wanted him. She wanted him. She wanted him...

The door closed quietly, but loud enough to wake her nonetheless. The world was dark. Outside the small window the whole sky was black and starless, so the only light came from the single brazier on the opposite side of the small room. It was raining. The rainfall made a quiet patter on the roof, in the same peaceful way the wind whipped against the wooden siding of the inn in the night.

Sandor stood near the door he’d shut. “Were you sleeping?”

“Yes,” she said, though for how long she’d been sleeping she could not say. Long enough for the sun to go down, at least. She was comfortable, and though she couldn’t remember it now, she’d been having some sort of wonderful dream.

The Hound said nothing. He was just standing there almost awkwardly. The vulture sat up, her eyes adjusting to the darkness, and in the dim light of the room she could see he was squinting back at her. She realized at once that it must have been a foreign sight to him to see her look so…not feral. On the best of days she could easily be taken for a wildling, like some creature who’d come raiding from north of the wall or an escapee from a hill tribe. He’d never known her as the maid who loved to sing and dance, who baked bread and had once wreathed her hair with summer daisies. He knew her as what she had become. He knew her as the vulture. In their time together she’d huddled beneath a mourning cloak of black with her hood drawn, changing between the two skirts she had (both of which were also black and worse for the wear) with her hair unkempt and her skin hidden from the cold beneath her many layers.

The woman staring back at him must have been a stranger. Her hair was soft and clean and dry, as was her skin, and she smelled of soap instead of horses. Her black cloak was replaced with a thin wool shift. And for the first time, her guard was down.

Sandor was still Sandor, though, just a little cleaner than usual. This is probably what he looked like when he was one of the white cloaks, she thought, studying him.

After a long moment of silence, he said, “Throw me a pillow.”

That struck her as odd. “What for?” she asked, and though she gathered one in her arms, she hesitated on passing it to him. 

Even in the darkness he was looking at her like it was the most obvious thing in the world, which he punctuated with an impatient huff. “If I’m going to give you the fucking bed, you’re going to give me a fucking pillow.”

“Give me the bed?”

“Though I have my doubts about it, you’re a woman. I’m not making a woman sleep on the floor.”

She stared at him. He stared back. “Why would I sleep on the floor?” she asked. “Why would you sleep on the floor?” The question only resulted in more staring.

“So you can have the fuckin’ bed,” Sandor told her at last though it clarified nothing and was circular reasoning at best. “Now give me the pillow.”

“You’re being ridiculous. We’ve shared a bed before.” She clutched the pillow more tightly to her chest. “There’s no need for you to sleep on the floor when this is the first time either of us have had a good bed in—”

“Seven hells, give me the pillow.”

Her eyes narrowed. “No.”

With a signature annoyed grunt, Sandor stomped the few short strides to the bed. “You’re a lady, you get your own fuckin’ bed. Give me that.”

“No!” She pulled back as he reached for it. “No, you beast!” He grabbed for the pillow, but she was faster, lurching backwards onto her haunches. Her win was momentary, though, as for the first time in their time together, he outsmarted her. He reached past her and around her, grabbing the pillow she’d previously been sleeping on.

He pulled away successful in his endeavor and tossed the pillow onto the floor. Sandor knelt, pushing the pillow against the wall and going to his knees to get comfortable.

“You’re being ridiculous,” she reiterated. “We’re paying good coin for this bed. There’s no reason for you to lay down there and catch a chill from the draft.”

He propped himself up on his elbow to look at her. “Do I have to tell you to go the fuck to sleep every time we go the fuck to sleep?”

If he wants to be ridiculous, we will be ridiculous. The vulture swung her legs from the bed so suddenly that even Sandor looked surprised. No sooner did her feet hit the floor than she pulled the other pillow from the bed. She dropped it on the floor with a muffled thump.

“What in the gods’ name are you doing?”

“If we’re wasting money on the bed, we’re wasting money on the bed.” She let herself fall back against the pillow. It really is cold down here, she realized, suddenly unsure whether she had the constitution to win this game or not. She didn’t want to be cold. She wanted to be warm in bed, but she wanted to be warm in bed with Sandor.

And seven hells did she hate admitting that.

“Get up there.” Each word the Hound said came out punctuated with evident frustration.

“No.”

“And you think I’m ridiculous?”

“Yes.” She was looking over at him, at his hulking form in the dark. The room was small save for the bed, so they were left with only two or three feet between them. Even with those two or three feet she could feel him thinking, scathing, fuming. If she was good at nothing else in this life, she was good at frustrating Sandor Clegane.

Truthfully, she wasn’t sure if he’d care enough to join her in the bed. He might just let her lay there and be cold. Even on the floor with no blankets, this was the warmest they’d been in a long time. They were in no danger of freezing, and if she wanted to make herself miserable, no doubt Sandor would let her.

That’s why it came as such a surprise when Sandor first pushed himself back onto his knees, then stood.

She watched him wordlessly. He closed the gap between them until he was standing over her. And then he descended on her.

“What are you—oh!” The vulture’s objections were cut short when the great beast of a man stooped and lifted her for the second time that day. Though helping her from the horse had been almost graceful, this was unceremonious but equally effortless.

The bed rose up to meet her when he dropped her. “Get in the fucking bed and go to sleep.” 

“You get in the fucking bed,” she told him. And quick as that, she was out of the bed again.

A game was afoot. He grabbed her, catching her in the ribs with his forearm. Her feet left the floor as she found herself tossed like a doll back onto the bed. In the brief pause that ensued, the faintest, most brief smirk played at Sandor’s lips. The vulture silently admired it. But the game was not so easily won, not for him at least, and in a blink she was up again. This time she anticipated his movement and ducked beneath his arm, dancing away from him. He whirled and grabbed for her, catching her by the elbows before she could take her spot on the floor again.

It was ridiculous. The whole thing was ridiculous, she’d called it right from the start. The vulture didn’t even attempt to suppress the laugh that escaped her lips when he caught her. Though at first it seemed he was going to yell at her, her laugh changed everything. They stood there, Sandor holding her by her shoulders inches from him as she laughed and laughed in the darkness. How long had it been since she’d laughed like this? Had he ever seen her laugh? Had he ever seen her have fun?

Frustrated though he may be, he said nothing, instead lifting her again. He turned, and once more made to drop her onto the bed. This time she didn’t let go. She tightened her arms around his shoulders, a move he was not expecting, and he halfway toppled down with her when he dropped her weight. His knee buckled into the side of the bed and he caught himself with his arms, pinning one on either side of the small woman whose arms were still tangled around his neck.

She was laughing again.

“Fuck you, woman.”

And in the dark, with her face inches from his, with her arms around his neck and her chest pressed to his, she could hear her own voice ask, “Is that what you want? To fuck me?”

Why did I say that? A thousand thoughts rushed to her mind in an instant’s time. Why did she say that? Was it the wine? She could easily blame the wine. But the blame didn’t matter. He was him and she was her, and her attempts to sway him in the past had failed, and now she’d fucked up and he was going to pull away, and she’d ruined a perfectly nice moment, and—

And…?

He wasn’t pulling away. He wasn’t moving at all, actually. He was still there, still so close to her. He stayed that way, too, studying her in the dark. Without thinking, she silently and gently—so gently—brought one hand to the unburnt side of his face. With her thumb she brushed his hair from his eyes. His hair was surprisingly soft, if not a little damp still from the bath, and so close together he smelled of soap and spiced wine. He didn’t stir, and she didn’t breathe. For a moment she thought he might kiss her.

“I’ll get in the fucking bed if you go to sleep,” he told her. He didn’t back away, though, and she watched his lips when he spoke.

You didn’t answer my question.

“Okay.” She’d been subdued. Don’t let me go, please don’t let me go, she thought as he let her go. He gathered their pillows from the floor and tossed them to her one at a time. She settled back into her spot nearest the wall, watching him move through the dark as he made his way back to the bed. Outside, the rain was falling harder as if to hush them.

Sandor’s movements were awkward but still somehow brusque as he found his way beneath the covers. The vulture remained still as he settled in, pulling the blankets this way and that to accommodate his size. When at last her companion was still too, she allowed her head to rest against her pillow. There were few ways to bother him now; the game was over and she had won. At this realization, she let her eyes close for a moment.

He didn’t pull away, she thought. He didn’t answer my question.

She kept her eyes closed, replaying their fight, however brief it may have been, in her head again and again and again. The way she’d laughed and spun as if dancing, the way he’d smiled, too. If her winning had meant the game was over, she’d rather have never won at all. When at last her fantasies were over and she could replay the scene no more, she opened her eyes again. Minutes had passed, but not too great of a time.

Even in the fading light of the brazier, she could tell he was watching her. Sandor was laid on his side facing her, which in itself was rare as he usually chose to sleep with his back to her when they huddled together beneath a cloak at night. She couldn’t see his eyes, as he was just a shapeless black silhouette in the night, but she knew nonetheless. She could feel it. She stared back.

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“What question?”

She was silent for a long time. You didn’t pull away. Try as she might, she did not have the courage to ask again.

It was Sandor who spoke. “If I want to fuck you?”

Her heart skipped a beat—or two or three or four—and she realized she was holding her breath, scarcely breathing at all. Had she not been laying down, the world may have gone sideways. “Yes.” Her face was hot, suddenly. Her whole body was hot.

“You think I look at you like some common whore?” That was not an answer to her question, though. He was avoiding it. Was that a yes? A no? What did that even mean? The answer frustrated her. She was not a whore, no, but she was no maid, either, and he knew that. She’d been married, however brief it may have been, so what did it matter now if it was a farmer or a hound whose bed she shared? She was no maid, no high lady, and no whore. She was nothing. She was a vulture, and he was a hound. And she wanted him, try as she might to suppress it.

This was not the time for anger; this was the time to get what she wanted. What she wanted, and what she knew he wanted, too. It was time to stop denying themselves.

“I wish you would,” she said. “Then you might give us what we both want.”

“Is that what you want? To be treated like a whore?” Through his aggression, the vulture couldn’t help but wonder if Sandor truly thought it was that unbelievable for a woman to actually want him.

“You’re making this awfully hard on yourself for someone with a woman trying to sleep with him.”

There was a pause. It was his turn to be at a loss for words, and she let him. After a moment, he asked, “Is that what you want?”

The question had been turned on her. “To fuck you?”

“Yes.”

Unlike him, she could answer. “Yes.”

He was still for a long time. Silent, too, saying nothing. He was silent so long, in fact, that the vulture thought he may have made the decision to ignore her. But still the tension festered, growing stronger and stronger as that one single word, “yes,” hung between the two of them. 

Sandor’s movement was so quick and hard that it was over by the time she’d processed what was happening. He brought one arm up and around her, pulling her body to his with fierce strength. Her chest to his, her head craned up to look at him. Instinctively, she parted her thighs and draped one leg over his as their bodies were pressed so tightly together, their legs entwining, one of his hands in her hair. She shuddered when his lips grazed hers, and again when she felt his thigh press hard and deliberately between her legs. 

His hand tightened in her hair when he finally kissed her–really kissed her, hard and rough, passionate; he kissed her with the fervency of a man who had been meaning to kiss her for quite some time now, who had been looking at her and thinking of kissing her, with all the passion of a man who laid awake at night at her side and wondered what it might be like to hold her this exact way and kiss her this exact way in the darkness. She kissed him back, too, and with her arms pinned to his chest, she grabbed helplessly at his tunic, as if she could somehow pull him closer than he already was, or never let him go at all.

When he finally pulled away, she tried to force herself closer, never wanting the moment to end. Sandor was unpredictable, and the possibility that he’d never kiss her again was real. But she wanted him, she wanted him so badly. At least he wanted her too, if nothing else. 

With his lips brushing hers, he murmured, “Yes.” 

“Yes,” she repeated dreamily. She would have said or done whatever he wanted in that moment; her Hound, her knight. 

“I want to fuck you.” 

She did not hesitate. “Then do so.” 

He was on top of her before she finished her sentence.

[backtothefanfiction]

The Angel In The Garden of Evil | Chapter 4: Some Shadows Loom Large

Summary: A new morning brings new realisations.

Warnings: 18+ Only, eventual smut, mob/mafia typical violence, graphic descriptions of death, angst, Harry Osborn (yes he does need his own warning)

Word Count: 4.9k

A/N: This is one of those chapters where I have to start off by thanking @liz-allyn again and her Sugar and Vice series for its influence. Using the greater Spider verse crew as Peter’s team is genius so I had to adapt that into my story. This was originally two chapters but I have moved them both into one longer chapter for your enjoyment. This chapter starts to go into the business side of the things for Peter and Angel with a final reveal of who was Angel’s Dad in the second half of this chapter, (did you guess who it was?). Also there’s a nice little dramatic cliff hanger at the end too… Enjoy!

FOUR

She didn’t sleep, merely stared at the ceiling, trying to make out the rise and fall of the popcorn texture in the dark. Every now and again her ears would prick up at a sound down the hall; a shuffle of feet, the buzzing of a phone on the coffee table. Eventually she heard the sound of the front door close and she knew he had gone out.

She wasn’t sure when it had happened but at some time between him going out and returning, she had managed to fall asleep, the exhaustion of the evening and crash in adrenaline finally dragging her down into slumber. But it wasn’t for long. Not as long as she would have liked anyway.

It was the front door slamming closed again that put her on alert and woke her. The sound of voices out in the living room muttering before once again the door opened and then closed. Tentatively she pulled herself out of bed, her hand rushing for her shoulder as it groaned in pain at the sudden movement. The room was cold in comparison to where she had been tucked up all cosy in bed and she reached for a zip up hoodie hanging long forgotten on the back of the door.

She padded carefully down the hallway, unsure who she would find, if anyone at all. The very last thing she wanted to do was accidentally wake up May and have her stare at her again, that cold hard look in her eyes.

She entered the living space to find Peter sat forward on the sofa, elbows resting on his knees as he looked down at his phone. His fingers typed furiously before he seemed to change apps or text message conversations or whatever he was doing and began typing out something completely new.

He could feel her presence looming in the doorway but he was too tired to care.

“Didn’t you get any sleep at all.” her soft voice dreamily carried over to him, concern dripping from every word.

He took a quick look out the window towards the rising sun then sighed, letting his hand with his phone in it hang limply between his legs as he sat back, his other hand coming up to rake across his face, rubbing at his tired under eyes.

“Peter?” she said his name so softly it made him want to melt. But he couldn’t, he couldn’t allow himself to let his guard down right now, there was too much at stake.

“I called Harry and got him to stop by and check out the house, see how bad it was.” He couldn’t look at her, his face returning to his phone screen instead.

“And?”

The simple innocent inflection to her word finally made him look at her. His stomach turned, his anger coming to bubble under the surface again. How could she be acting so naive right now when their home, their safe space, had been invaded, by the man she brought home. The danger she brought into their lives. “Really?” his voice came out harsher than he wanted and he instantly wished he could take it back.

She didn’t say anything back, just folded her arms and stared at him. There it was again, that new hardened look in her eye, reminding him of all that time, all that change that sat between them. She had said yesterday she had always wanted to come back. That she always would come back, but was that what he wanted. Right now she was still almost a stranger to him.

“Well they completely ransacked the place for a start.” he huffed.

“Did they find anything?” Her voice was genuine, somehow still soft despite his hardened demeanour.

“Thankfully no.” he said, allowing himself to relax back into the sofa with a loud huff.

She watched him closely as he lay his head back against the back of the sofa. His eyes closed as he allowed himself the briefest of moments to relish in that particular piece of news. She slowly crept forward, perching herself on the arm of the faded armchair across from him as she waited for him to continue.

“Thankfully I stopped taking important bits of work home after you left. Made sure I started leaving it in the office instead.”

He didn’t need to say it, but she knew what he meant. After she had left he didn’t have a reason to be home on time, a need to bring work home to continue after dinner, after his designated time spent with her. He could stay as late at the office as he needed, no one staying up, waiting for him to come home.

“Okay, so what’s the bad news?” she said when he remained silent for too long.

That’s when he looked at her with pity in his eyes. “They, um… After they left the house they went to the docks.”

“Okay.” she said quietly, letting him know she was following him, but he couldn’t look at her, couldn’t speak, almost like he was trying to protect her from something. “Pete.” she said forcefully.

“They burnt down the Anchor,” he said. His gaze was cold. “They took all the goods out of it and then torched it.”

She was quiet for a moment before she said, “Wasn’t anyone watching it?”

The Anchor was her father’s biggest stronghold and warehouse. The first point of call for all imports. Guns, drugs, black market antiques. Everything that came into the country through her father’s business was first inventoried at the Anchor. She couldn’t understand how it could get jumped, there were always men on guard on a regular rotation, always armed, always alert. She watched as Peter’s face fought the grimace that wanted to spread across his face as he tried to fight away the memory from the night before long enough to tell her.

“They um…” he stuttered again.

“Peter!” she spoke more forcefully.

He quickly stood in reaction to her voice. “They hung them from chains and attached them to the front of the building.” he snarled at her, a hard look in his eyes, trying to press the severity of their situation into her.

His gutt twisted as he watched her face fall into a look of shock and horror as she processed what he said, her own image of what he had said forming in her head. Peter hated the feeling of satisfaction her look of distress somehow gave him in that moment. She quietly shifted herself to sit properly in the arm chair, unable to meet his eyes as the images of those poor men, all of their charred bodies, just hanging there.

“Were they already dead when he…” she couldn’t bring herself to finish the question.

“Don’t ask that. Don’t torture yourself like that.” His voice softened as his protective side suddenly kicked in again at the vulnerability in her voice. He crouched down in front of her, trying to get her to look at him, to focus on him instead of whatever was currently going through her head.

“How’s your arm?” he asked gently, trying to change the subject and pull her mind from its spiral. His fingers carefully reached for the top of the hoodie to pull it to the side slightly, allowing the baggy fabric to drop off her shoulder so he could lift the arm of her t-shirt to take a look at it.

“It’s okay, it just aches a little when I move it.” she quietly said, her head turning towards him slightly, eyes finally meeting his. She hated how vulnerable his touch made her. That look of concern in his warm brown eyes made her want to melt under his gaze. She couldn’t help but glance at his lips, just the briefest of moments, but it was enough to make that want for him return to her. Just like after he had stitched her up last night, if they moved their heads to the side ever so slightly their lips would meet. If she leaned in just that little bit she’d finally find that feeling she had been craving for, she didn’t want to think how long.

She felt like her heart was in her mouth, ready to leap out at any moment. She was sure he could feel it. Knew he’d seen her eyes drop down to his mouth again and back up. Her chest felt like it was being torn open as he suddenly stood.

“I think May should have some prescription painkillers left over in the cupboard. I’ll go check.” he said as he turned his back to her.

She couldn’t help but close her eyes, the sting of her growing tears unbearable. She breathed deeply, willing them away before he returned. This was all her fault and she needed to deal with the consequences she told herself. She was a fool for thinking she’d just walk back into his life and he would just roll over for her and everything would go back to how it was.

“Here.” he said, holding out the small plastic tube of pills, rattling it slightly in front of her, forcing her to take them from him.

She was about to say thank you, when there was another rap on the door. Peter’s hand absentmindedly brushed across to top of her back as he walked past her towards the door to answer it. She shrunk back into the chair, her fingers picking at the lid to the bottle of pills.

“Thank’s Miles.” she heard Peter say.

“No problem Boss.” a youthful yet deep voice replied before the door was closed again.

When Peter walked back into the room he had a large dry cleaning bag in his hand, he folded it over his forearm, his finger toying with the hooks and he stood staring at her. For a moment he thought he saw a glimpse of the girl he once knew, the angel in a den of vipers, innocent, sweet, but he knew she hadn’t been that for a long time, even before she left and changed again.

“What’s that?” she asked and he realised her eyes were now focused back on him.

“I had Miles run down to the storage locker with all your stuff, pick out a few pieces of clothes for you and run them to the dry cleaners and get them to rush them so you could have something of your own to wear.”

She slowly crossed the room to him as he spoke, her fingers reaching for the bag. “Thank you.” she said, taking it from him, her fingers reaching for the zip to find which long forgotten treasures lay inside. Her eyes caught a brief flash of red before Peter cleared his throat drawing her attention back to him. He then pulled out a small lingerie store bag.

"There's also this.” he said, holding it out to her on the tip of his finger. She hesitantly took it from him. “It’s okay, there’s nothing special in there, just regular underwear.” She stayed quiet as she took a step back from him. “Umm, go get yourself dressed, we’re meeting Harry in the Kitchen for breakfast in an hour.”

She remained silent as she turned her back on him, making her way back down the hall to the bedroom. Peter couldn’t help but stand frozen, staring at her. Even after she closed the door he still couldn’t pull his eyes away from the wooden door.

He eventually let himself fall back onto the sofa, his back leaning into the old cushions as he hooked his fingers between the buttons of his shirt. They latched onto a silver chain that hung low on his chest, pulling it out from the confines of his shirt. His fingers wrapped delicately around the small ring, threaded onto the fine chain links, turning it back and forth.

He had kept wearing it for a further 6 months after she left but as the months went on, he began to feel like it was suffocating him. 4 Months after she had left he had hired Felicia. Another month after that he had started sleeping with her. He’s still not even sure if it was a decision he had made. The young platinum beauty knew exactly what she wanted and knew exactly how to get it.

She didn’t want a relationship, no special treatment, she just wanted to fuck the famous Spider. But for all her forwardness she did have her moments of compassion. She had noticed when he began to slip it off of his finger before they had sex, leaving it on his desk or his bedside table before they fucked. His fingers would reach for it during their come down, his fingers turning the band back and forth before he put it back on. She noticed when it took him longer to start reaching for it.

One day she turned up with the chain for him, he didn’t ask how she had acquired it, just took it from her and thanked her and from then on, that was where the ring stayed. The only time he took it off now was to shower, he didn’t even take it off to sleep.

He had noticed the moment he’d seen her in the house she still wore hers. As he stitched her up last night, he couldn’t help but feel guilty as he watched the way her fingers clinged to the side of the bath, both her wedding and engagement rings flexing around the tightened muscles.

He slowly pulled the chain over the top of his head before he found the clasp and undid it. He held out his palm underneath the chain as he let the ring drop into his hand, separating it from its temporary home. He placed the chain to one side before turning the gold band back over in his fingers again. His eyes looked up to the closed door, fell back to the ring in his fingertips again, then sighed as he placed the ring back onto his ring finger.

———————————————

She was grateful when she found her old stash of makeup hiding out in the back of his old wardrobe, hidden behind his jumpers May just couldn’t seem to get rid of, along with the rest of his things. She knew she couldn’t use the foundation or concealer, both long split and looking less favourable, but she was more than pleased to find one unopened eyeliner pen and a bright red lipstick from a set she was given by her mother that she had never worn at the time, but seemed to be her perfect shade now.

When she came out of the room wearing a white jumpsuit and red blazer, that just so happened to match her lipstick shade perfectly, Peter was stunned. He suddenly froze, his consistent pacing on his phone for the last 15 minutes, completely forgotten. It took all of his effort not to say the words that were screaming in his head, yet he still managed to sigh the word ‘wow’ barely audibly as her heels clicked their way into the room.

He quickly covered it with a small cough, clearing his throat, before he said, “You ready to go?” He quickly looked away from her, checking his phone so she wouldn’t think he was staring at her.

She quickly turned, checking herself on last time in a mirror, flicking her hair back gently over her shoulders with her good hand. “Yeah, I think this’ll do.” She turned back towards him with a tight lipped smile.

“Okay, then. After you.” He said, holding his hand out in a gesture that ushered her towards the door.

***

They met Miguel downstairs out the front of the building. The silver Porsche from the night before, now nowhere to be seen. Instead a black Mercedes sat flush to the curb which Miguel was conveniently leaning against, his arms folded, fingers drumming against the tight sleeves of his black button up. Peter had opened the rear passenger door for her with one hand whilst the fingers of the other absentmindedly fiddled with the button on his own blazer, unfastening it as his eyes scanned the street protectively, waiting for her to get in.

It seemed old habits really did die hard, as when he looked down to check she was in the back of the car okay, he quickly realised she had slid all the way across to the other side of the car allowing him space to get in beside her. He climbed in, giving a brief nod to Miguel, who quickly turned and climbed into the driver's seat, both doors slamming closed at the same time. Miguel then quickly pulled out into traffic and they sped off across the city.

***

The car slowed, pulling over to an empty spot on the street, as they approached the Diamond. There were already a few people sitting eating on the tables out front and there was a steady line inside of people heading up to the cashier to order food and drinks. As she glanced over the flowerbeds that surrounded the outside seats, it didn’t take too long for her eyes to rest on Harry Osborn, sitting at a table in the sunshine, his shades on facing the direct sunlight as he waited. He was joined by 5 other guys spread out across two tables of 4 that were seated fairly close together. Every single one of them wearing black.

“Oh well if it isn’t her majesty come back to grace us with her presence.” Harry quipped as Angel made her way over to the table, her heels clacking loudly on the ground.

“Harold.” she gested back as Peter came up beside her, his hand reaching to pull out her chair. “Thank you.” she muttered to him as she took her seat and he gently pushed it in.

It didn’t take Harry long to notice his best friend had started wearing his wedding ring again and he couldn’t help but make a comment as Peter sat down across from him.

“Well that didn’t take long.” he said, lowering his sunglasses, his intentional gaze at the ring screaming all the things he really wanted to say.

“Shut Up, Harry.”

“Yes, Boss.” Harry sassed as he pushed his sunglasses back up his nose and relaxed back in his chair.

She hadn’t noticed it on the car ride over. His fingers had been turned away from her, wrapped around his phone which he now reached into his pocket for again, opening it up, typing a couple word response, before he lay it on top of the table between them.

“Umm good morning Miss Fisk.” A young woman who looked no older than 19 came up to the table.

“How many times have I told you Kate, that my name is actually Mrs Parker.” she said to the young girl kindly, the two gentlemen at the table exchanging awkward glances to one another.

“But your Father said-”

“Kate, my Father’s dead, he doesn’t even own this place anymore. Actually my husband here does," she cut her off as kindly as she could, her hand motioning to Peter sat somewhat intimidatingly next to her. She knew it wasn’t the young girl's fault. Her Father was a pretty stubborn man and when he was the boss, what he said went, even for her. She gently nudged Peter’s arm, catching his attention. He gave her a brief look before he turned his body towards the young girl extending his hand for her to shake.

“Nice to meet you, Kate, was it?”

“Umm, yes Sir.” she replied timidly, a small blush rising to her cheeks as she met his eyes.

“Well Kate, it’s lovely to meet you.” Harry chimed in, ever the charmer, his own hand extending to shake hers too. “I’m Harry.” he beamed with a sickly sweet smile.

“Pack it in Osborn, she’s only 19.”

“Yes, your majesty.” He spoke like a child who had just been told off by his Mother.

“Umm, can I get you anything from our menu today?” Kate nervously asked the table.

“Actually, yes Kate, you can.” Harry sat forward enthusiastically as he grabbed the menu off the table. “I will take your stack of extra chocolate chip pancakes, with a side of bacon aaaannnd can I also get a blueberry, mango smoothie.” he said, flipping the menu to read the drinks off of the back.

“Umm, yup.” Kate said, noting down the order. “Anything else?” she quickly said, turning her body cheerfully towards the other side of the table.

“I’ll just take a Latte please.” Angel, politely requested.

Peter wasn’t satisfied by this though, turning to fix her a look that implied he was not about to watch her go on hunger strike. “Ummm, no, we’ll take two traditional English breakfasts please, can you swap out the mushrooms on hers for avocado though and can I get two eggs on mine not just the one.”

“No.” his wife quickly protested, despite being impressed he still remembered her food preferences. She shot him a look that told him to respect her wishes but his own look told her he was not about to back down. “Fine.” she said before turning back to Kate. “Can I just get avocado and poached eggs on toast?” She would feel less guilty about the food wastage once her churning stomach inevitably prevented her from eating.

“Yeah, no problem.” the young girl replied.

Finally satisfied, Peter turned his gaze away from his wife and back to the waitress. “Can I also just get a black coffee?” he asked.

‘Yes, of course. Is that everything?” she asked sweetly.

“Yes, I believe it is.” Harry said, leaning forward once more, sliding his sunglasses down his nose so he could bat his eyelashes at her and make her blush, for which he quickly received a kick under the table. “Ouch.” he glowered at Angel across the table. “Jeez and I thought you were supposed to be an Angel.” Harry grumbled under his breath.

“Just a nickname I’m afraid.” she snarked at him.

“Thank you.” Peter said to the young girl, quickly dismissing her before more of a scene could be created. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” Peter growled at his friend across the table. “Why can’t you be fucking nice?”

“I am fucking nice.” Harry protested but he was quickly cut off by the arrival of a final person to their little breakfast meeting, a thick manila file being slapped down onto the table before Eddie Brock took the final seat at the table beside Harry.

“Boss, Angel.” he greeted them nicely before giving a light smack to the back of Harry’s head. “Bozo.”

Harry rubbed the tender spot on the back of his head as Peter reached across the table for the file. “I’m not a bozo.” He grumbled under his breath.

“What have you got?” Peter asked as he began to flick through the pages.

“Not much, the man’s a ghost. Until he showed up a couple months back and started picking off King Pin’s properties and causing a bit of havoc, it’s like the guy barely existed, just rumours.” Eddie informed them.

Peter froze as his gaze fell on a photograph of his late Father in law’s body. He cringed at the image of his body splayed out on the ground, his brains smashed into the concrete, a vision of black, white and red. His body grew tense as he tried to tilt the file away from his wife’s view, but something within him knew it was probably futile. Knew that she’d already seen it, figured she’d have been the one to identify the body, his only living relative, yet still he didn’t want to force her to relive that. He quickly turned the page in an attempt to stop his own thoughts betraying him into thinking of his own untimely death, shaking off any notion or possibility of weakness, before it took hold.

“What are we gonna do about the Anchor?” her voice asked timidly across the table. She wasn’t used to being as involved in Peter���s work stuff, being included in the roundtable discussions, but they all knew that was different now.

“I mean, not much to do, the place is charcoal.” Harry said tactlessly.

“No. I mean, what about the stuff that was stolen.” she rebutled, already growing irritated with Harry’s attitude.

“Well, Felicia’s already scanning the black market for anyone trying to flog any of it, but I doubt she’s gonna have much luck. A guy like that isn’t in it to make a buck off of some stolen goods.” Harry spoke with an air of nonchalance.

Angel couldn’t help but wonder who Felicia was at that moment. It was a new name for Peter’s usual circle and a female one at that. A pang of jealousy started to root within her stomach and she crossed her legs under the table nervously in an attempt to hide her jitters and compose herself.

The young girl, Kate, returned to their table with their drinks, Harry throwing out a sickly sweet and over the top “Thank you, Kate.” as she placed his smoothie in front of him and he leaned forward pulling the cup towards him and sucking the straw into his mouth suggestively. The whole scene made Angel’s eyes roll, forcing her to look out onto the street and people watch instead.

“Would you pack it in?” Peter said with a fixed furrow to his brow. Harry’s eyes fell to his lap as he twiddled his thumbs. “Did you get the list of assets?” Peter asked Eddie.

“Uh, yeah, it’s right… here.” Eddie said, reaching into the inside pocket of his leather jacket and pulling out a folded piece of paper.

Peter took it and looked it over before handing it to Angel. “I need you to check this.” he said as she took it from him.

“What is it?”

“It’s the full list of properties your Dad left me… us.” he quickly corrected himself. “I need you to put a star next to the ones you think the Vulture is gonna find the most valuable so we can supply extra protection. I’ve got a vague idea of the ones we think would be important, but you knew his business better than us, if there are any weaknesses.”

It was then that their food arrived. Drinks were moved, plates and cutlery laid out so they could tuck in. “Uhh I’m fucking starving.” Harry groaned as he eyed up his breakfast. “-HEY.” he swatted at Eddie’s hand as he reached for a slice of his bacon. “Get your own food.”

“What because you’re gonna eat all that.” Eddie retorted.

It was like having a family meal, Angel noted. Eddie and Harry acting as the two kids who struggled to behave, her and Peter the parents trying to act more poised and controlled.

She picked at her food and sipped her coffee as the men continued to discuss their plan for the day, Harry was to organise teams to hit the different locations to do a full assessment on each one so they could familiarise themselves with any weaknesses and construct a plan on how they would inevitably bring them into the Web. Eddie, meanwhile, was tasked with trying to dig up any more dirt on the Vulture that he could.

“And what about me?” she questioned Peter as they made their way back to the car.

“You’re gonna go home and-” his sentence was cut off when Angel’s shoulder collided with a random gentleman’s on the street.

“Oh sorry.” she blindly threw out to him but then she froze when the man turned towards her and she saw who it was.

“No, it was my fault, no harm done.” He said, his voice oozing with charm. Then his face changed, a glimmer of recognition taking over him. “Oh, my. Angel? Little Angel Fisk? My how you’ve grown.” he said.

Peter watched his wife closely as she remained frozen, that look of fear he saw in her eyes at the dinner table the night before, slowly creeping its way back in, putting him on the alert.

“Oh and this must be the husband. You know, I’d heard you’d gotten married. I bet your Dad didn’t feel too great about his only little girl growing up and leaving the nest, I know I wouldn’t. Sorry I haven’t introduced myself.” he said turning to Peter who was tense and alert, trying to assess what was going on. “My name’s Adrian.” He said reaching out his hand to Peter to shake. “Adrian Toomes. I’m an old friend of her Dad’s. Or at least I was.” He continued turning back away from Peter and back to Angel. “I was so sorry to hear about what had happened.” His voice was overly charismatic, like a businessman trying to schmooze a client and it made Peter uncomfortable. “It really is a tragic thing.” He said, placing a hand on her shoulder. Peter watched unsure what to do as she quickly shrugged him off.

“Anyway, I better run. It was lovely to meet you uh,” he held his hand out in Peter’s direction, silently asking him to fill in the blank.

“Peter.”

“Peter.” Adrian repeated. “Angel.” he turned and addressed her with an over the top smile and a wink before he continued on up the street.

Peter stared at the man’s back as his wife slowly began to recover, turning back towards him.

“Who was that?” Harry asked, as he came up behind Peter.

“That was him.” she said quietly. “He’s the Vulture.”

————————————

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[gorbo-longstocking]

Chapter Nine

A flash of movement snapped you out of your thoughts. You ducked deeper into the shrubbery, thankful for your insistence to stay as filthy as possible. While you couldn’t see yourself, you knew you were well hidden. There had been many times that you had to hide from other humans — nevermind that these weren’t humans you were dealing with — and not once had you been caught. You knew how to still your body and blend in with your surroundings.

In order of what you preferred, it was hide then run then fight. While you were adept at all three, if you could avoid a confrontation, you would be pleased with the outcome. You didn’t enjoy bloodying your hands, or, in this case, making them dusty. If you had to, you would, though you knew you would hesitate before the final blow. You always did. It would get you killed one day.

Low grumbling caught your attention. It sounded like someone was complaining to themself, right under their breath. Barely audible over the sounds of nature, you made out lumbering footfalls. Feathers were what you saw first, and a stab of fear pierced your heart, terrified of another encounter with Shrike, before you realized that they were dull and tattered. A large skeleton stepped into your line of sight. Though he was shorter than Velvet by a significant amount, he was wide with thick bones. He wore a bomber jacket, the sleeves rolled up to display impressive forearms. His jeans were riddled with holes, held up by a thick black belt. A pair of broken wings were folded behind his massive frame.

It was Vulture and he was staring right at you.

[hope-to-hell]

The Vulture and the Jay, or: even the air is shaped by its vessel. Adrian Toomes x Reader. Smut, oral, angst, moviverse, taking liberties with canon. For those who got butterflies when it turned out Toomes was in control of the situation all along. Retirement is a pretty thought, but it’s not for people like him. Still, for good or ill, this is going to be his last job.

——

He’s leaning up against the workbench with that wry got my ass too close to the fire look that he wears when he’s cut things a little too fine. And he’s tired, too: all those late nights, all the worry of being not only a boss but a leader. It weighs on him, and if you could convince him to put this whole business on pause in favor of a few lazy middle-of-nowhere afternoons, you would. But there’s no convincing him, and so he leans there and waits among wires and tools and the bric-a-brac of invention. But there’s also the way he cocks his head like he’s listening to your heart hammering in the space between your footsteps, and the corner of his mouth lifts just a bit when he clocks the breathlessness behind your smartass words:

Looks like you’ve been a little tied up today.

Oh, sweetheart. You don’t know the half of it.

Sure, he’s got his hands stuck tight with one all webbed up on the table and the other somewhere out of sight but he’s leaning back all relaxed-like and it’s a good look, isn’t it, the way his crows’ feet deepen with shifting shadows; he’s all leather and machine oil and that shearling collar soft against his throat and Adrian. For real, though. You alright?

Yeah. He pauses then, lips parting slightly as he assesses the situation. When he speaks, the words catch on his teeth; they come out ragged on the edges. Could’ve gone better. Could’ve gone worse.

You wanna get away for a while? I’ve got a cousin, he says we can use his cabin as long as we like—

But there’s no getting away, not from this. Not from the razor-thin line he walks between black-market deals and outright villainy, not from the secrets that weigh heavy on his shoulders. He knows it, and you know it, but there’s still that little crumb of the daydream left til he brushes it away with the words of a man who already knows how this is gonna end. No, I have to see this through. I’ve got a feeling this’ll be our last job. From anyone else it would be a hopeful after this we can retire and enjoy ourselves, but from him—

Damn. That bad, huh?

It’s a hell of a risk. But you know I have to take it. Yeah. Yeah, you know. Water’s wet, the sun rises in the east, Adrian Toomes puts his ass on the line. The world’s full of rot but there are still things worth living for— still reasons to put his wings on and take to the skies— and though this wasn’t the way he meant his life to go, this is the way it’s ended up and damn it all, he’s good at it. But— hey, sweetheart. I can see those gears turning in your head. Don’t you worry about me. Now, why don’t you go on and come a little closer?

With a tilt of his head he brings you down easy as pie; if he’d said please it would send worry needling under your skin, and if he’d said on your fuckin knees it would be likely as not to start a fight. He toes the unspoken line between want and need; in the middle there is you and him and the spark that binds you when he meets you there.

He says eyes on me and from your place down on your knees in the dust he seems impossibly tall, cut with shadows that make his eyes shine with mischief, with lust for the skies and for the jewels of streetlights as he wings through the air, with an undefinable unknowable something that crawls along his jaw and pulls it tight. Don’t look away, sweetheart. And you don’t, though you’re fumbling at button and zip, feeling him twitch beneath his fly, warm and hard and thick with blood.

When all this is over—

Don’t.

When all this is over, we’re taking that fucking vacation. And you swallow him down. It’s a neat trick that short-circuits his thoughts; any chastisement he might’ve been cooking up is vaporized in the rush of need that vibrates through him. What a treat it is to feel him struggle for control, to catch those half-checked thrusts and know that he is hanging by a thread. This is the part of him that hides so well, gliding beneath his skin: the part that doesn’t think and cannot calculate, but only feels.

You wouldn’t take him for a talker, and he isn’t one, not really; words are weapons and he handles them with care. It’s not until his thigh is bruising beneath the clench of your hand— not until he sees the tears pricking at the corners of your eyes— that he speaks. Easy, there. Don’t have to take more than you like. But his approval is warm and shining even as he reins himself in, as his crows’ feet dig their shadows ever deeper with the effort of restraint. Oh, honey. What you do to me.

He traces callused fingers over your cheek, their susurrus more felt than heard; he follows the working of your jaw until he reaches the spit smeared shiny around your lips, savoring the feel of it,

wait.

slipping the tips of his fingers in alongside his cock, watching your lips stretch to their limit. He tastes of salt and metal, machine oil and sawdust. It’s bitter and heady and it’s so— so— fuck, it’s—

oh.

Body and mind meet each other at last, and realization coalesces. Now wait just a goddamned minute. You sneaky fucker, you weren’t stuck at all, were you?

Sweetheart. Just because something’s not as true as you think it is, that doesn’t make it a lie. And there’s that crooked little half-smile, the one that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, the one that speaks to long nights in the air with his phone turned off, watching the world through infrared lenses. His future is precarious, volatile; he believes that the key to it all lies beyond some unknown door and if he could only find it— What would you have done if you’d known?

In truth you’d probably do the same thing, but a little closer to the heart of him; you could climb him while he held you steady. You could nose at the soft skin beneath his jaw and whisper don’t, don’t, you can let it go into his bones. But you’d keep the worry tucked inside; before, you spoke of a soft life, a gentle life where you could sit lazy on the front porch while he kicked up his feet and spoke of birds. Carrion birds, yes— he has a fondness for scavengers; he sees his own life reflected in their bloody beaks— but all manner of others too. You’re like a jay, smart and stubborn he would say, and laugh when you reached to swat his arm. It’s a pretty fantasy, but one viewed through a door to nowhere.

You’ll be careful. It’s not a question. When you get back

(I’ll wash the wind out of your hair)

we’ll close up shop

(I’ll ease your jacket off your shoulders)

and go away for a while.

(I’ll bury you.)

Promise. It still isn’t a question; it’s an order and a plea.

I— and he doesn’t say it; he can’t because he is many things but he is not a liar. But he runs his thumb across your lips and if this is all that you can get of him, then this is what you’ll take.

Tch. Cut yourself loose, I want your hands on me. And so he does; with shreds of web still clinging to his hand, he guides you back to him. Don’t be gentle. Just be you. And so he grasps your hands in his: he plants them firmly on his ass with a sound halfway between a chuckle and a groan, and though he’s flagged somewhat, he soon swells thickly on your tongue.

And he is watching you watching him; when he breathes it’s harsh and openmouthed, sharp teeth flashing white. In all the wide world there is nothing that can compare with this: his body strung tight, straining toward sensation that’ll send him flying. It’s so easy to let the warehouse go fuzzy at the edges until there’s nothing left but you and him and the way the lines on his face swim in and out of focus as his fingers skip spit-slick across your skin. Too good. You’re too damn good to me. He is the ache in your jaw and in your concrete-pocked knees; he is salt and sweat and the sudden rush of bitterness across your tongue when orgasm catches him by surprise.

And all too soon he is tucked away again, looking for all the world like nothing happened. For a long moment there is silence as he helps you to your feet and wipes the spit and come from your lips. There’s a fleeting judder in his throat like he’s just about to speak, but you beat him to the punch.

Hey. You watch your ass out there.

Don’t I always?

He turns toward the sky to trace his flight path in his mind once more; he’s weighed risk against reward and now that he’s decided, he will not— cannot— change his mind. If he has regrets, they’re buried deep; if he has hope it’s wrapped up tight where even he can’t see it. He sighs and you sigh with him, and then you have to let him go.

[alkalyart]

Broken wing-ATSV!vulture x reader

You found this man on an alley, but things go bad as they progress.

The protagonist's PoV

This hell of a ride started when I found him, just a rainy night on the street, walking down wondering about why there's a lot of spider-mens coming out of nowhere, not even heroes, even villains too, last time I got almost killed by a cel-shaded version of doctor octopus, what a ride, but suddenly I saw a wing, but, by looking at it, it looked like if a Renaissance drawing came to life, I walked to see more clear that wing, a big wing, broken, with lots of feathers, as I turned around I saw a man, he was also colored like in that old style I mentioned before, the man was wearing a sort of Renaissance clothes, and wearing a bird mask that remind me of a vulture bird, that poor man was lying on the ground with those broken wings, I didn't know what to do, I don't know who it is and I never see him before, but is that really a man or a giant bird, I don't know, the only thing I could do is to take him to my home to see if I can help him, as I arrived home, I tried to remove those machines on him carefully and placed the body in my bed, I checked his pulse, he's alive, but it seems to be paralyzed, checking his neck I saw two bite marks, by the shape and color I figure out that those were spider-bites, the internet couldnt help me at all as I heard that man moaning from the of the spiderbyte, poor thing, I checked him again, I don't want to let him die, seems that he has a fever due to the spider bite, I placed a towel on his forehead to see if it cools downs, but I'm not sure, I don't know what kind of bite is this, neither a cure or something else, I'm lost in this hell of a ride

[mirnsey]

Oh..

Humans and vultures..

Animals so different but such the same..

Humans, who just happened to dwell around with those who they want to take from. They hang over their heads, giving them the love and attention to stroke their ego to then get their stomachs filled in return once the person starts to turn thin. Humans who watch in glee as they start to get weaker, awaiting for the dreadful moment they fall dead. They can then feast on the other beings corpse, devouring all they can to fill the everlasting void in their gut…

And then vultures, or was it.. humans? Who had I just explained?

Are they such the same that I must recall back to my own writing to make sure what I had written was correct? Is it true that both are grotesque flesh eating creatures who anticipate for the downfall of another being to then feast on the meat of their former.

But.. neither vultures nor humans dedicate their lives to do this, they do it to live, not to feel like they are living.

Yes, some are aware of their devilish ways, using their silent movement and spine chilling calls to input fear or even comfort into their decaying victim. Despite this, most did not. Most loved their life and those around them, but soon got an empty feeling in their gut when around a certain person. They seemed different, dwindling of their shining strength.. they were weak.. consumable…

Attachment was the animals next move, slowly integrating into one’s life and heart. They would sit there silently, spewing whatever the prey wanted to hear to try and get into their head. Watching them was their whole life from then on, eyes trained on their food’s body as they slowly decayed to nothing but a reeking corpse. And they would then do nothing but move on instinct, digging their claws into the unmoving body and devouring their flesh.

It wasn’t what they wanted. It was what they needed. They never wanted to do this… giving those what they want just for their body to be eaten in return. To just sit by their side as a companion they could have been, to only be what disposed of their body once they had died. It was how they showed love, making use of the fall of someone who they had seen peak. Stuffing their beak with the meat of a being who they had watched reach their best and slowly become their worst. It was all they could do, all their minds had been calibrated to satisfy some carnal hunger that would come upon them.

It was what the vulture needed to do to live, maw molded to crush bones and talons designed to rip and tear at rotted skin and muscles. They did it to fill their bottomless stomach, sharp eyes searching for whatever new being decided to show even a speck of weakness they could then exploit. To then fulfill their endless need of sustenance in their gut..

To give peace to that pleading and thrashing demand to devour those they have loved…

Or.. was that humans?

Who cared, this is fanfiction, do with it what you please.

————————

I wrote this for the beginning of an angst fanfic, and I’m proud of myself for this *pats self on back*

[dainty-fingertips]

Hi I love how you write TSSM!Sinister Six. If possible, would it be alright writing about them with a very shy reader who secretly loves to cuddle and they all think it’s the cutest thing in the world? Thank you in advance 🥰

See what’s funny is that I am a cuddler. I cuddle. It’s what I do. I like to do a bit of snuggling. I personally think I’m the best person for this job and I thank you for requesting this of me. I will put this in with my in-home engineer series!!

tssm sinister six x engineer reader cuddling hcs!!

||

Rhino/Alex O’Hirn does his best not to make you socially exert yourself,, although he doesn’t know that that’s what he’s doing

He always likes to stand guard around you when Montana’s flirtations are making you a blushing, stuttering mess

He will sometimes drag you away if you look super shy

Like physically

Sometimes he just actually picks you up

One day in particular, he thought he saw you being particularly embarassed

And he has claimed it as his duty to protect you from that (because he has got a RAAAAGING crush)

(But that didn’t come from me)

So he leans down and picks you up, holding you into his chest like he usually did while he walked away

And he glanced down and noticed your eyes were closed

Oh???? Wait were you just tired??

wait a second,,,,,

Your arms were wrapped around his neck..,,,

And your cheek was smushed up against his plating,,,

I-

HELLO WHAT

HE NEVER NOTICED THIS???

HE COULDNT FEEL YOU SNUGGLING INTO HIM BECAUSE OF HIS ARMOR

WHAAAAAT WHEN DID THIS STAAART

he smiled in enamor and he squeezed you just slightly to let you know he loved it

You didn’t open your eyes or anything

A fast blush whipped across your face and you leaned a little further into him

Alex couldn’t help but grin like an absolute fool the entire time

You really know how to make him melt

“Ahhh, doll… you’s a cute liddle broad.”

He is dying someone please help him

Shocker/Montana often joins you on the couch whenever it’s nighttime and you’re enjoying yourself watching whatever it is you enjoy watching

It’s turned into a habit actually

He only started doing it initially to be close to you and make you blush

Because hot DAMN are you the cutest thing when you’re flustered

He had no interest in what it was you were watching until like a few weeks in

And he started getting invested

He started bringing his own blankets even

And eventually one night, after a particularly exhausting day, you fell asleep in the middle of an episode

And he only noticed when he felt you leaning up against him

He immediately turned to you with wide eyes, but they softened seeing your hazy and sleepy expression

“Glory hallelujah, Y/N…”

He wraps his arm around you and leans against the arm of the couch, pulling you against his chest

You snuggle a little more into him, one arm under him on his back and the other resting on his chest

You got some of the best sleep that night,,,

Sandman/Flint Marko is just a very physical guy

Pre established relationship here, you two cuddle ALL THE TIME

mostly in bed together

When it’s cold

And you’re under the blankets

And your body heat warms him up and he can’t help but look down at your red cheeks while you snuggle into him

He kisses your head many many times before cradling it with one hand

One of your legs is slung haphazardly over his own

You two are just barely behind the line that separates “next to” and “on top of”

And he wouldn’t have it any other way

“How’re you always so warm, sweethaht??”

He adores how comfortable you are with him

Like so much,,,,,, you make him feel so special bro,,

Doc Ock/Otto Octavius is another physical man

He loves hugs from you and you alone

He will NEVER turn them down

You’re often a little too shy to initiate it but that doesn’t mean a thing to him

If you’re working around the lair, expect his arms around your waist and your back against his belly at some point

He always gives you a little kiss on your neck

He tells you how good you’re doing and how grateful he is to have you

And within seconds you can no longer form sentences

It’s perfect

“Let me know if I can help you in any way, my dear. I’m never too busy for you.”

Vulture/Adrian Toomes is not as big on physical touch, but that does NOT mean he doesn’t like it

He will never skip out on the chance to give you a little peck (haha see I’m funny guys) on the cheek

But he loves holding an arm around your shoulder whenever he can!!

Especially with his FlightTech suit on because the wings make it look like you’re wearing a cape and he thinks it’s very cute

He’ll use his other hand to hold both of yours

He’s a classy romantic alright

A gentleman even

Electro/Max Dillon cares nothing about what others think

If he wants to hold you he will do it RIGHT THEN

No exceptions

Standing up? Hugs

Sitting down? Someone’s head is in someone’s lap

Laying down? You already KNOW

You gingerly pepper kisses all down his mask while he squeezes you with a smile

He also loves giving you massages

They feel absolutely wonderful coming from him bc you feel tingly and cool afterward

He will always run his fingers through your hair also

Because I said

[but-a-pretty-vulture]

psst, i made a new crushon ai character

his name is willem; he's a super sweet dom incubus boyfriend. y'all might enjoy

gimme notes on him so I can improve him

Willem the Lovestruck Incubus

if he does well, i might make more

× Vulture ×

[hope-to-hell]

Fulgurite Dreams, chapter 5: Lightning Strikes

Adrian Toomes x Reader. At last, the final installment in this story. Win or lose, you’ve gotta play the game.

———

When he smiles, it’s with the barest knife’s edge showing beneath the curl of his lip. But you know he’s got softness gathered up at the corners of his eyes; he’s all salt and acrid oil but underneath is the warm wet taste of flesh and the words weighing heavy on his tongue.

(It’s not like you wake up one day and decide to do this. Fate opens a door, and you step through.)

There’s this one ray of sunshine that slices through the window just right: across the pillow and right into his eyes, giving his whole face a honeyed glow; he rises toward wakefulness with a sigh. Still feels strange.

Bad?

No. Just like— his pupils are pinpricks in the morning light, crows’ feet cut deep— like eating something for the first time. If you lay your head down close you can feel heat rising from his cheeks. And of course you do: you get right up beside him, and nevermind the morning breath; his kiss carries the lazy hunger of someone who knows he will soon be full. My brain knows, but my body’s still catching up.

Just think. Someday you’ll want to close the curtains, ‘stead of getting smacked in the face with sunshine every morning.

Maybe once it gets old.

(Oh shit oh shit oh shitshitshit)

Pete’s getting his ass kicked down there, wild yells drowning out his voice over the comm and he’s so fucking young, not yet steadied by the weight of experience; he’s outmaneuvered, pinned down; the shreds of his suit stream out behind him, and he— hey, it’s just a kid. What the fuck— so what? He’s still a problem— hold still, this’ll only hurt a lot— he needs help.

(Goddammit, kid. Why didn’t you wait?)

There’s frost catching at his mask; contrails spiral out behind him and there is no time; Adrian Toomes doesn’t say a thing but grits his teeth and pulls in his arms and legs as tight as he can and he

falls.

Fortune favors the reckless.

The voice on the other end of the line is all grit and broken glass. I— might be home a little late.

You okay? Adrian?

Don’t wait up, honey. Get some rest for me, alright?

Maybe you get what you want, but do you ever really win?

Wind sighs in the trees and all the air smells of raw dark earth. Listen for the faint scratch of nails on wood, on stone, on soft wet flesh. Listen for the missed you, sweetheart. Adrian grins through mossy broken teeth and there is nothing left of him: not crows’ feet or the little scab beneath his jaw from when he nicked himself shaving, not calluses whispering across your skin as he strokes your flank. What’s the matter? Aren’t you glad to see me? And he is

awake.

(Oh thank fuck.

Language, kid.)

He’s awake.

Why the hell would you—

You really think I could’ve done anything else?

He’s awake and he looks like hell, one eyebrow singed away and he’s pale, deep bruises around both eyes, sand and blood still caked in his hair. But he’s watching you from his tangle of tubes and wires, sharp as always. When he says c’mere it blooms warmth down your spine; he presses his cheek into your palm and he is going to be alright.

Don’t worry, I told the doctor it was a barbecue accident.

And they bought it?

I don’t think they cared much. Too busy trying to put all his blood back on the inside.

Peter.

Yeah?

That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard. And one more thing—

Yeah?

Thanks.