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spider-stark · 11 months

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A DARK AGE

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

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

word count - 10.3k

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

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

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

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

“What the fuck is going on?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What crime scene?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Remember Aleksei Sytsevich?”

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

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

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

Your nose scrunched up slightly.

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

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

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

“No.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

SPIDER-MAN RETURNS - BRUTALLY ATTACKS ESCAPED CRIMINAL

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’ll turn into a man-hunt.”

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

It would be the dawn of a new age.

A dark age.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was different.

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

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

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

His face blanched. “You what?”

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

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

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

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

But you?

You could get in with a simple phone call.

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

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

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

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

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

Blood pooling, bones snapping, his screams echoing.

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

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

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

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

“Your funeral.”

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

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

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

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

Urich gave a stiff nod.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Once.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Patient #121394 - Progress Report

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

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

You weren’t sure why you ever would.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Almost.

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

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

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

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

You were already here.

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

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

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

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

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

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

A bit.

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

Stay calm. Hide your weaknesses.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And that simple fact was almost enough to break you.

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

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

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

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

Your jaw clenched. “Not anymore.”

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

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

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

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

“Because I’m not like you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But that was the point.

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

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

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

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

Then, it happened.

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

Now, though, you felt almost nothing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Surprisingly, he chose to leave it alone.

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

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

“Twice a week.” You countered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bang.

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

“And you killed her.”

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

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

Bang.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You always waited for them—Harry and Peter both.

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

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

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

“Don’t get involved.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Harry had nothing to lose in this situation.

Except for you—his friend.

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

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

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

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

But now you could feel him.

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

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

Harry Osborn was better off dead.

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

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

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

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

But none of that mattered anymore.

None of you were the same anymore.

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

“Coming here was a mistake.”

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

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

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

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slutforsilverfoxes · 1 year

Text

McGirlfriend

[A/N: in my defense, I did say I was becoming a DiNozzo simp 🙃]

—————

Ziva wadded up an old draft of a report that she was about to shred, opting instead to beam it at Tony’s forehead to gain his attention. The grin on his face melted away as his eyes narrowed in her direction, and he barked out a playful, “What?”

“What is it that you are smiling at over there?”

“A text.”

“From?”

“A friend.”

“Not just a friend,” Abby chimed in from her spot at McGee’s desk, propping her chin on her hands as she batted her eyelashes in Tony’s direction.

“Oh?” That piqued Tim’s interest, and he pulled his attention away from the screen where he was testing a new program to optimize one of Abby’s many search parameters. “Are you seeing someone, Tony?”

“Yeah, McProbie,” the senior agent grinned, brewing up a facetious response. “Your sister.”

Rolling his eyes, McGee shot back, “You wish. She’s too smart for you.”

“Children!” Gibbs barked as he rounded the corner. The three agents scrambled to appear busy, shuffling papers around and clamoring over one another with updates on their supposed productivity this morning. Silencing them all with a mere glance, Gibbs continued, “If you’re done dishing about your social lives, we’ve got a dead Marine in Rock Creek Park.”

—————————

“I do not believe that you have a girlfriend,” Ziva stated matter-of-factly, pulling open the van doors to gather the crime scene kit.

“Well, believe it, Zi-va,” Tony retorted, the two syllables popping off his tongue in that infuriating way only he could do, “because it’s true. Here, watch my eyeballs when I say it: I have a girlfriend. What does your Mossad training tell you about that statement, huh?”

“That you are telling the truth,” she huffed back, eyes narrowed. “But if that is the case then how are you not gloating about your sex escapes all the time?”

“Sexcapades,” DiNozzo corrected automatically.

“Whatever. Why not?”

Tony shrugged, trying to control the blush threatening to creep across his cheeks. “Because.”

McGee unzipped the camera bag and slung the device around his neck as he caught the senior field agent’s eye with a teasing grin. “Because he really likes her! Tony’s in love.”

“Shut it, McGoob,” Tony growled out, slamming the van doors shut and stalking off to find Gibbs at the primary crime scene.

“Look at that, Ziva,” Tim sighed dramatically as they watched their colleague walk away, “our boy’s all grown up.”

—————————

“How was your day today, babe?” You flipped back to the diagram on venous circulation in your anatomy textbook, wiggling your fingers in an invitation for your boyfriend to join you on his bed. He heaved a dramatic sigh before stretching out across the comforter, laying his head against your thigh. “Don’t ask.”

Your fingers automatically went to brush through his short hair, freshly wet from his post-work shower. “Tough case?”

“What’d I just say?” he teased, reaching up to tweak your nose and eliciting a sheepish giggle from you. “It’s not the case, it’s my colleagues. They found out about you today and now they’re probing for more.”

“So tell them,” you offered easily. “My friends at school know about you.”

“Oh yeah?” His voice grew a touch huskier and you resisted the urge to roll your eyes.

“Oh yeah,” you whispered. “I tell them all about your big, thick d…ura mater. For that big ol’ brain of yours.”

He groaned your name in frustration and you laughed, pleased with yourself, until his eyes shot open and you saw that green had faded to black. You held your book up in defense and tried to quell your now racing heart. “Whatever you’re thinking, don’t. I have to study! I swear- don’t you even-”

He shut you up with a gentle kiss that quickly turned more desperate. Taking the textbook from your hands, he set it on the bedside table and tugged your shirt off before molding his lips back to yours, mumbling, “You need to study anatomy? Let’s get you some hands on experience.”

—————————

Tony strutted into the bullpen the next morning, greeting his teammate with an uncharacteristic smile given the fact that the sun had yet to rise. “McProbius. How was your night?”

Tim’s face twisted into one of confusion as he answered, “Uh, fine. Uneventful. How was yours?”

“Why, thank you for asking,” Tony grinned despite intentionally prompting the exchange. “My night was absolutely incredible.”

Ziva dropped her coat on the back of her chair and smirked knowingly at DiNozzo. Crossing her arms, she stated, “You had sex. Good sex, I am guessing, from the way you are gloating right now.”

“Not just good,” Tony clarified. “Amazing. Mind blowing. Since you two are so interested, my girlfriend’s a med student-”

“Hey, so is my little sister!” McGee cut in excitedly. “At Georgetown?”

“Yes, now hush. Anyway, when I tell you that she knows her way around male anatomy which is truly a testament to just how hard she studies. So diligent. Doctors are amazing, and we should appreciate them more.”

Tim and Ziva exchanged curious looks, then turned to see the reason behind the sudden shift in conversation standing behind them. A chorus of greetings- slightly too loud- poured from the three agents’ mouths as they all but ran to their desks to continue working on their current case.

—————————

“His desk is right over there,” the security guard gestured in the general vicinity, and you thanked her with a smile before making your way through the bullpen bustling with midday activity.

An older man in a tan suit approached as you neared the section the guard had pointed out, a soft smile on his face despite the gruffness in his voice. “Can I help you?”

“She’s here for me,” two voices in unison confidently rang out, and you peeked around the man you assumed to be Gibbs to find the source of the sound.

“Easy, McGeek,” Tony chuckled as he rose from his desk. “Unless she’s the suspect you’ve been theorizing about all day, I’ll take it from here.”

“Uh, I think you should take it easy considering you have a girlfriend, Tony,” Tim shot back, brows furrowed. “She’s my sister.”

“But that’s- she’s-” Tony stumbled over his words while Ziva leaned back in her chair, laughing to herself as she connected the dots with a giddily mumbled, “This is the best day ever.”

Both men pointed accusatory fingers at you, fighting to be heard.

“You said you were studying last night!” “Your last name isn’t McGee!”

“Woah,” you held up your hands in defense, trying to calm the situation. “I was studying last night,” you directed the response to your older brother, then turned to your boyfriend, “and we have two different dads. How come you two have never mentioned each other?”

“He is Probie,” Tony clarified, as Tim mumbled, “He’s DoucheNozzle.”

“Hey!” you and Tony cried out.

“Hey!” Gibbs mocked you all, jingling a set of car keys in the middle of your heated circle. “Boyfriend and brother, go pick up our suspect. Figure this out when I have my killer behind bars.”

Sufficiently chastened, they each pressed a kiss to one of your cheeks while glowering over your head at the other man. As they made their way over to the elevator- clearly bickering from the looks of it- Ziva approached you gleefully. “They will either bond over their love for you in that car, or you will end up single and an only child. Also, hi, Ziva David.”

“Y/N,” you supplied in kind, taking her proffered hand.

“What inspired this visit, anyway?”

“Oh,” you laughed, shaking your head. “I came to tell them I passed my anatomy exam with flying colors.”

#anthony dinozzo #anthony dinozzo x reader #tony dinozzo #tony dinozzo x reader #timothy mcgee #Timothy McGee x sister!reader #tim mcgee #tim McGee x sister!reader #established relationship #ncis #ncis imagine #ncis fanfiction #tony dinozzo imagine #anthony dinozzo imagine #tony dinozzo x you #tony dinozzo x y/n #anthony dinozzo x you #anthony dinozzo x y/n

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paper-gold-theories · 7 months

Note

With the fact that Heed's father was a big influence into getting her onto the hero scene, I like to think Mr. Kelly is a big backer of the Golden Rule and they have to put up with her because Kelly could threaten them supportive wise if they try to kick his daughter off. However, Goldheart still would stand his ground on many issues especially when it comes to his daughter's creepy obsession with him.

Villainous Theory: After Miss Heed's Arrest and How She Got Out of Rehab

I agree that its a high possibility that Mr. Kelly might be a backer of The Golden Rule and P.E.A.C.E, but I think that that they are less dependent on him as one might think.

As Mr. Kelly, might be a rich and powerful guy, however P.E.A.C.E, who basically can control entire cities through the heroes that that deploy and are put in charge of protecting that said city, are even more rich and powerful organisation in comparison.

If not, why did P.E.A.C.E just throw Miss Heed in an actual rehab centre for months (without internet) instead of just whisking her off from the start in her yatch and just paying the news to say a fake story that she was in rehab?

(The news mentioned that she was there since October, maybe 2022 or 2021 since The Heedeous Heart Episode was released in 31 Oct 2021)

Why was Miss Heed so desperate for Flug to get her out of rehab, thinking that she had no hope of getting out if Flug doesn't save her?

————

My theory is that the kiss which not only broke the mind control of all of Miss Heed's simps but caused a clossal f-up scandal for P.E.A.C.E. and The Golden Rule for having an extremely corrupt hero employed under them and exposing to the public that they are involved in the mind control for having the hero in their ranks.

P.E.A.C.E. probably tried to cut their losses by locking down the entire city, rounding up as many Villains as they can to be sent to the Mictlán. (Refer to the last chapter of the Shrunken Rescue)

Afterwards P.E.A.C.E. tried to cover up the story as much as possible and told the news to report that that Miss Heed had a lapse of judgement by kissing a Villain and to go to rehab to improve her behaviour. GoldHeart also didn't remove her Golden Rule status because it confirms the controvasy of having a corrupt member in the best superhero club.

However alot of civilians who snapped out of their mind control probably have told people about what really happened to them. That Miss Heed mind controlled not only villains, but heroes and civilians for her own selfish reasons and a conspiracy that P.E.A.C.E. and The Golden Rule was involved and backed this up.

The public opinion was split. In most cases, people outside of Cosmopolis and the general public who were not involved in Miss Heed's mind control didn't believe that P.E.A.C.E, a hero organization that fights agaists villainy and protects innocent people and their best super hero group, The Golden Rule and one of their members, would do such an evil thing. However there are many credible stories from a lot of sources that have caused public doubt about P.E.A.C.E.

Mr. Kelly and her agent, Anana Piña, tries to bail his daughter out with bribes and deals, but P.E.A.C.E. won't change their mind because of the colossal scandal she caused, which P.E.A.C.E. is still trying to clean up and because she no longer has Villains under her mind control that prevents them from doing crime and not making any progress on the formula GoldHeart wanted, they didn't see the value of keeping Miss Heed as a hero and bailing her out more than necessary than to save the orgaisation's reputation (that she just went to rehab for kissing a villain).

However P.E.A.C.E. still see that she had some value in being kept alived because she still has the most information on how the the formula works, which they can be still use in the future this is why they extracted her from the city alive instead of leaving her there to be torn apart by her enraged former followers (or it might be some other hidden reason not mention yet), so they put her in the rehab facility to keep and eye on her and also keep her lock up because having her roam free will defnitely caused another extremely controversal scandal that P.E.A.C.E. is supporting Miss Heed mind contolling people (which they are)

Mr. Kelly and her agent tried to negotiate that they can just keep her out of the lime light and just let her lay low and live in secret on her family's private yatcht or their mansions, but P.E.A.C.E. said that they do not trust her not to cause another controversy after being let out immediately or having access to her social media accounts and even the the internet in general. Hence, this is also another reason why they detained her in this hero rehab without internet access.

____

Before Flug came to see Miss Heed, agent Anana Piña visited her in her in room 217 which caused Miss Heed to yell at her when she and her father will be able to get her out of this facility. She is suffering without internet and wants to post things online.

The agent replied seriously that she weren't sure if they will be able to get her out.

This caused Miss Heed's eyes to widen in shock which turned into in denial and outrage and started yelling and questioning her agent of why can't her wealthy father or her do anything to get her out.

The agent said that P.E.A.C.E. is determinant in keeping her locked up after the kissing scandal she caused that lead to a lot of problems for P.E.A.C.E

Anana said she and her father will try to negotiate furthur with P.E.A.C.E. and work out something out with one of his contacts but for now asks Heed to wait in this special care penthouse for the time being (the nurse mentioned in Chapter 8 she stayed at a special care penthouse), that her father convinced P.E.A.C.E. to let her stay in at least.

Miss Heed then proceeds to yell at her agent that she doesn't want to stay in her penthouse she needs to out, she needs to post things online and she needs love and attention from her followers.

And the agent just yells at her back to "settle what she has for now or nothing at all" (like in Chapter 10 in the last image below) before leaving her alone.

____

Miss Heed was in her penthouse room for awhile before Flug visited. Without internet and the attention of her followers made her display withdrawal symptoms which can be seen when Flug visited her in this scene.

youtube

____

Miss Heed was there for months, while Mr. Kelly with Agent Anana negotiated with both P.E.A.C.E. and made a deal with Porccini (refer to Chapter 10 and Arenque News):

P.E.A.C.E. will agree to let Miss Heed out of the facility if Porccini can bring them Villains to be captured and be sent to Mictlán and if Mr. Kelly can run his own damage control to ensure that her being let out of the rehab would not tarnished

P.E.A.C.E. and make them look good instead (however they might not restore her as a hero in Cosmopolis as they already deployed a new superhero group called the "Justice Guardian Friends, they who might possibly use to manipulate people's emotions using their music)

Porccini will create a heist to lure rookie villains to the rehabilitation facility and work together with Captain Estrada and other P.E.A.C.E. officers to capture the Villains.

Mr. Kelly will use his money and connections to expose King Cassino for his involvement in Villainy causing him to be put on trial and assets to be frozen and to send all the rookie villains directly to Mictlán without interrogation to prevent any loose ends being tied to Porccini.

Afterwards he will use his money and connections with the news and media, like Arenque News to run a campaign to "clear his daughter's name" by saying that a controlled villain is better than a villain let looses, and Miss Heed's efforts to control villains is important in reducing crime and was a form of rehabilitation (hiding fact that her true intention was to gain hypnotize people into loving her and she also controlled not only villains, but heroes and civilians as well) and using Porccini's heist make it look like the villains were cruelly attacking for her previous efforts in reducing villainy her while she was still still recovering, when reality she is long gone from the facility and on her private yatch.

Meanwhile all Miss Heed had to do is just have to lay low on her private yacht without posting anything on her social media while everything is being taken care of for her (which she still complains about) until her name is cleared and she can publish her book for her comeback.

#villainous #villanos #dr flug #dr kenning flugslys #goldheart #gold heart #herbert leth #flug #villainous theory #villainous theories #villainous missheed #cecilia amanda kelly #villainous miss heed #villainous headcanons #villanous king casino #villainous porccini #villainous anana piña

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alynnl · 6 months

Text

A line I read in one of the Sherlock short stories ("My friend never stood on the dock") and my recent fixation on the Ace Attorney series led to me asking one question.

"What if Sherlock Holmes did go on trial, being accused of murder?"

The short story title would refer to the courthouse (maybe The Old Bailey, referenced in The Great Ace Attorney Chronicles.)

Immediately following his arrest, Holmes sends a message to Watson. In the note, he tells Watson not to get sentimental and visit him in jail that night, but instead to investigate the scene of the crime, and see what he can deduce from it. Showing great trust in his friend, Watson does just that and takes very detailed notes on his findings.

"There was never a greater test of my own powers of observation."

And because of Holmes's status as a sort of celebrity, he will have a closed trial, with only members of the judiciary and key people on the case attending. This is to prevent the trial from becoming a media circus, and ensure the verdict will be reached by evidence and testimony rather than public opinion.

Godfrey Norton, who is now Irene Adler's husband, is serving as Holmes's defense counsel. Irene herself is attending the trial, watching from the gallery. (This is the final way Irene outsmarted Holmes in A Scandal in Bohemia - everyone believed Norton was a prosecutor working on her behalf, when he was actually a public defender.)

The opposing counsel is Charles Culverton-Smith, a prosecutor who is on track to become Director of Public Prosecutions. There’s a possibility that he took the case to add to his reputation (but that’s just speculation on Watson and Norton’s part.)

Watson tells Holmes of this theory when they speak in the defendant's lobby just before the trial, but Holmes is skeptical.

"If Culverton-Smith truly wanted to bolster his reputation, he would insist on a public trial where he could show his legal prowess to a larger audience. There is something else at play here, something far more sinister."

The trial begins. Both Norton and Culverton-Smith give their legal arguments, supporting their stances with evidence and witness testimony.

Watson is the final witness to speak in the trial. He describes his findings at the crime scene, and tries to use factual language (as Holmes remarked to him before, when talking about his writings.) Everyone in the courtroom (including the judge and the prosecution) believe Watson's observations to be so important, that they agree to call for a thirty minute recess. During the pause in proceedings, Lestrade and other policemen to look over the crime scene one more time alongside Watson to confirm what he said was true.

Sure enough, Watson's deductions prove that Sherlock Holmes couldn't have been the killer. When court is back in session, Lestrade gives his report. Based on the new information, the judge hands down a verdict of "not guilty" to Sherlock Holmes.

There is little time to celebrate, as Holmes immediately whisks Watson away to the streets of London. He insists they make haste the nearest carriage, because "There's still time to catch the true mastermind behind this devious plot!"

Lestrade picks up on Holmes's pursuit and decides to lead his own forces to block one of the main exits to London.

Meanwhile, Holmes and Watson enter a high speed chase against the true culprit, who's been behind at least two other incidents of framing people for murders he committed.

At the end of the chase, the criminal is surrounded by Lestrade and his police force on one side, along with Holmes and Watson (who is armed with his revolver) on the other side. He finally surrenders and gives himself up, at last being taken into custody.

Watson is astonished at this turn of events. "My dear Holmes, you've done it again! I'm speechless!"

"Indeed I have, but I insist you don't undersell your role in this, dear Watson. This case would have a much darker conclusion without your thoughtful analysis. I trust that you will reflect that in your writings, if there is ever a time you will be permitted to release the details to the public."

Charles Culverton-Smith catches up with Holmes and Watson. He didn't get a chance to speak with them after the trial, but wanted them to know that he harbored no ill will towards Holmes. He was simply doing his job as a man who practices law, and couldn't imagine leaving the trial to anyone else. Because everyone deserves a fair trial, and many other lawyers are biased either for or against Holmes, depending on how his actions affected their cases.

Holmes comments that Culverton-Smith will make a fine Director of Public Prosecutions when the time comes, since his integrity speaks for itself.

"If I am ever on the dock in the future, I would trust your judgment."

Watson insists Holmes not talk about "the next time in court" because he doesn't want there to be a "next time."

Holmes agrees to move on from the subject. He points out there is still ample time for breakfast and sets off to find the nearest place that will serve Watson's favorite dishes. "My treat, naturally."

Watson concludes the story mentioning that five years have passed since the first and only trial of his friend, Sherlock Holmes. The events in the closed courtroom have been made public, to teach students of law how to conduct a fair trial of a famous (or infamous) client.

#Sherlock Holmes #ACD Holmes #John Watson #Inspector Lestrade #Sherlock Holmes OC #Charles Culverton-Smith #Sherlock Holmes fan case #Watson does deductions #Sherlock goes on trial #courtroom drama #Letters from Watson

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l6ndrys · 1 year

Note

Could you do a oneshot where reader is around 18-19 years old and they're ghostface and jill roberts younger adopted sibling, and they basically did it for revenge for what happened to Jill (and they wanna carry on her legacy by getting famous off this), and they plan on going after everyone sidney knows, which means they're after any survivor of ghostface. So basically instead of having a whole reveal and quinn and her dad being ghostfaces, it's just ethan and reader that are ghostfaces and they frame Quinn and Bailey but the core 4 and gkirby and gale don't know because they had arrived after ethan and reader were done setting up the "aftermath" of the reveal (yk like they injure themselves purposely, and make It look like quinn and Bailey did it). So flash forward a week or two ethan and reader gather the core 4, kirby, and gale at readers house or apartment, and ethan and reader reveal themselves as ghostface (you can decide whether they lose or not, also can reader and ethan be dating secretly but reader betrays him like Jill did Charlie)

a/n : thank you for the request anon!! i hope you enjoy :D

this fic contains : cursing, mentions of death, stabbing, g*ns, blood, murder, violence, etc!! pls stay safe <3

better than revenge

ethan landry x reader

you sat next to anika, eyes glued to the television screen. the news reporter talking about the film students who you just so happened to have a little, chat, with. you weren't really listening, only hearing a panicked sam telling tara to pack her things. a phone starts ringing, making everyone's heads turn toward the noise. it was quinn's.

"it's my dad" she says, picking up and leaving to go into her room. you looked over to ethan, who was already looking up at you. the plan was working. soon enough quinn was speed-walking around the room, grabbing her coat and keys. she pulls the phone away from her face, "hey i've gotta go down to the station, i'll be back in a bit"

before anyone could say anything, she slams the door shut, clearly in a hurry. soon enough, a photo of quinn's drivers license flashed up on the tv, covered in blood at the crime scene. voices started to murmur around the room, you took this as your sign to leave.

"hey, i'm probably gonna head back to my dorm. make sure my roommate's okay." you say, gathering your stuff. "woah wait, no you're not leaving. we need to stay together." mindy says, leaving anika's grasp by standing up. ethan stands up too, "i'll walk them there, plus we both have econ tomorrow. we can be each other's alibis."

mindy looks at us, suspiciously eyeing us down before sighing, "fine, but if you go missing any other time, i swear to god–" chad cuts her off with an 'okay calm down', turning to the both of you with an apologetic look on his face. you turn to leave, letting ethan grab his stuff, before opening the door and leaving the apartment.

you both walk down the dimly lit sidewalks towards campus, occasionally bumping shoulders. ethan clears his throat, which makes you turn to him, "so what's next?" it makes you wanna roll your eyes, but you turn to him, "next, we frame quinn and her dad. i thought we already went over this?" he just nods, turning back towards the sidewalk ahead of you.

he understood why you were doing this, all for your sister's legacy. but why did you need him? he didn't wanna think too much about it, he was just happy to help you get revenge.

tara had told you quinn was out hooking up with some guy downtown, you didn't really know. all you knew was she was out, and could only imagine her dad was trying to solve the case of the murders. you told—no—sent ethan to pay a visit to your friends. since they knew you and ethan were both at 'econ', they could only assume it none other than quinn.

you, on the other hand, were getting ready for your part of the plan in your dorm. you had followed your sister's steps with this one. you plunged the knife into your thigh, grimacing while you twisted it. you just hoped ethan would be on time before you actually died.

you hit your limbs into different types of furniture, making sure bruises would form, breaking anything you could to make it look like you were attacked. you added a slash or two on your stomach and arms, before stumbling to your kitchen. you placed the knife in the sink, making sure to wash your blood off of it before going to lay in your spot.

you honestly didn't even have to fake cry. with how much pain you were in, your tear ducts did the job for you. just then the door slams open, revealing ethan. he looks like he's worried, despite him knowing the plan before hand, as well as putting on the whole nerdy act. you could hear him on the phone, probably calling kirby or someone, saying that you were both being attacked. everything faded to black before you could say anything.

it had been a couple weeks since the "incident". with ethan planting all of the evidence pointing to quinn and her dad being the murderers, kirby and gale were having a little 'survivor get together' or so they called it. you offered to have it at your place, since it was already fixed and pretty spacious, considering your roommate moving out after you were attacked.

you were the recent talk of blackmore university, and you were loving it. jill was right, you didn't need friends. you needed followers. and you'd be damned if you gonna let it stop. you needed to be sure to keep her legacy alive, you just had to get rid of the other woodsboro massacre survivors. and your little boyfriend in the process.

which you didn't even know if you could call him that. sure, in another life, another timeline, he'd be your dream guy. but that was another life. not this one.

you held up your glass of what was not wine, but you toasted anyway, "to the survivors," you fake smiled, looking to ethan, who was at the back of the room. he had a look that only you'd seen, and to be completely honest, it was hot.

"though," this caught people's attention, "i don't know if i'd call you that after tonight." confused looks shot over everyone's faces, "what do you mean y/n?" tara asked.

"oh its simple, really. i was tasked with a dying wish. my sister, jill," a look that you couldn't decipher wiped over kirby's face, "was murdered. she wanted to be famous like our cousin sidney. she would've loved social media these days and how easy a sob story can make you famous. too bad she never got to see it."

"jill never had a sibling." kirby said, clearly mad she'd been tricked again. "oh but she did. i came around right before her death. i was adopted and she just so happened to leave behind notes upon notes about herself. a guide, if you will, to go by. don't you think it's time for a little revenge?" you say, looking toward ethan, nodding.

kirby reaches for her gun, realizing it wasn't there. you wave it around, acting like a little kid mocking the other kid after stealing their toy. ethan stabs her, multiple times, leaving her to fall on the ground. ethan knew you had to act like you both got attacked again, putting his arms in the air, letting you know he was ready.

"sorry but there can only be one sole survivor" you whispered in his ear, stabbing him in the chest. you were really following in your sister's footsteps. he looked defeated, having been betrayed but you didn't really care. you needed to find the rest of the fuckers that snuck away.

you dropped the gun for a second, pulling the knife out of his chest. you reach for the gun, realizing it's not there. you turn to see tara holding the gun, "say hi to your sister for me." she says, pulling the trigger, shooting you in the chest. at least you could say you fufilled your older sister's legacy.

a/n : THIS TOOK SO LONG BUT I HOPE ITS OKAY IM NOT THE BEST AT WRITING ACTION LMAO ITS DEFINITELY SOMETHING I NEED TO WORK ON!! BUT THANK YOU FOR REQUESTING

#𓆩♡𓆪 ami writes #ethan landry x reader #scream x reader #scream 2023 #scream vi x reader

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mdemontespan1667 · 2 years

Text

STUPID GIRL

BLIND SPOT (3)

PREVIOUS CHAPTERS

THE LONG WALK (1)

JANE DOE (2)

18+ ONLY

SOFT DARK WALTER MARSHALL X READER

SUMMARY: YOU'RE JUST DOING YOUR JOB. TOO BAD SOMEONE DOESN'T AGREE.

(I moved the dates of this to the current year instead of 2018 so hopefully my dates match. I used what character information I could find for Walter and either filled it in with the actor's info or just winged it since no explanation was ever given for his accent. I did my best to research the neighborhoods and streets mentioned. If I made a mistake I apologize.)

SERIES WARNING: NON-CON/DUB-CON/GRAPHIC VIOLENCE/TORTURE/DEATH/DESCRIPTIONS OF DEAD BODIES/VAGINAL SEX/ORAL SEX/ANAL SEX/REFERENCES TO SEXUAL ASSAULT/REFERENCES TO MURDER/STALKING/CHOKING/SLAPPING

“Detective Marshall, Is this the 8th victim of the Hennepin Hatchet?”

“No comment.”

The man bristled at the name, barely concealed disdain in his expression.

You didn’t like the name any better.

Giving murderers cutesy names took the focus off the victims.

But the Press, yourself included, had to call this psycho something.

“Get out of my fucking crime scene”

“I’m not in your fucking crime scene.”

You gestured to the yellow police tape, flapping in the bitter wind, which you were currently behind, barely.

Detective Marshall grunted, clearly annoyed.

“I’m just trying to do my job. The public has a right to know if a serial killer is operating in Minneapolis.”

Crossing his arms, he fixed you with a bored stare.

“What makes you think this is serial? Prostitutes get killed all the time. Hazards of the profession.”

“You’re joking right?”

You rolled your eyes.

“All the victims were last seen in the Hennepin area, all petite blondes, all sexually assaulted, stabbed and mutilated. There’s no way in hell this isn’t the same guy.”

“No comment.”

The dark haired Detective walked away, effectively dismissing you.

“Can you confirm Madison Harper was missing her left breast?”

Turning back he lumbered toward you.

Oh shit.

Detective Marshall was a veritable bear of a man, with a rumored temper to match.

And you?

You’d just poked him, big time.

“Where did you get that information?”

“No comment,” you sassed.

Apparently you had no sense of self-preservation.

“If you don’t get the fuck out of here,” he growled, “I’m gonna have your ass arrested for interfering with a police investigation.”

“C’mon. Give me something, anything.”

You tried your best to bat your eyes.

“Officer Barton,” he shouted to a uniform, “I need you to..”

“Ok, Ok,” you threw up your hands, “I’m going.”

You stomped to your ancient, beige Subaru.

“Fucking prick.”

Driving away, you shivered, convinced the killer was just getting started.

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“I sincerely hope you're hitting submit as we speak.”

“I’m working on it.”

You glowered at your laptop, its blank Google Docs page taunting you.

“Uh, you know deadline’s in 3 hours?”

‘Yeah Brent, I know. I’m..I’m working on it.”

You hit the red dot, ending the call.

Brent was a great colleague, an even better friend.

SInce moving to Minneapolis a year and a half ago he was the only person you had gotten close to.

Even so, the last thing you needed right now was more pressure.

FUCK FUCK FUCK

Milton Turnbaldt, the editor of the Digital Division at the StarTribune, had finally moved you from Special Interest to the Crime Beat.

It was the next step in “THE PLAN” you’d mapped out since graduation.

Imagining yourself a modern day Helen Thomas, visions of Pulitzers had danced in your mind.

Reality had been a bit different.

Two years writing bar reviews for Bar Fly and one disastrous year at Chicago Suburban Family had been followed by a three year stint at the Chicago Sun Times, where the closest you got to reporting anything was letting Maintenance know a lightbulb was out in the Ladies room.

Getting hired at the StarTribune had seemed like a dream come true, even if you’d had to move to Minnesota.

FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK

It was obvious this woman was the 8th victim.

Problem was every other reporter knew it, even if the cops refused to acknowledge the fact.

Your one advantage was your intuition.

The women had to have been comfortable with the killer, therefore, he was most likely good looking, charming and came off as harmless. Every victim had voluntarily left their comfort zone, something sex workers usually refused to do.

The pre- and post-mortem mutilation meant the killer felt confident enough in his surroundings to spend hours with the women, unconcerned about noise or the mess. His secondary location had to be isolated enough for his purpose but close enough to Hennepin Ave that the victims had been willing to take a chance.

Unofficial autopsy reports on each victim listed copious amounts of lube found in the vaginal and anal cavities. It wasn’t unusual for sex workers to use lube but this seemed excessive. The ME had attributed the internal micro-tears and bruising to the sexual assault. That, coupled with the lube, had you leaning in a different direction: The killer was having sex with the dying women.

Too bad you couldn’t prove any of it.

Neither could you publish the information about the missing body part or lube without totally outing your source at the morgue, although that ship had kinda sailed when you showed your hand to the detective.

FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK

Praying for Divine intervention, you started typing.

—-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“What do you think Claude?”

The overweight Tabby cat yawned.

“Thanks for the support. I’ll remember that next time you want a treat.”

Looking at your reflection in the full length bathroom mirror, you critically assessed your outfit: short, pleated black polyester tennis skirt, metallic silver cowl neck top, dingy, thigh high, white spiked boots, and a cropped, pink fake fur bomber jacket.

Heavy eye makeup, red lips and purposely mussed hair completed the disguise.

This classy ensemble, courtesy of the local thrift shop, had cost you a grand total of $53.98, an amount you really couldn’t afford.

But since the police, one surly detective in particular, weren’t talking you were just gonna have to find someone who would.

—------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Your feet were numb.

Whether it was from the insanely high heels or the -2 degrees (F) windchill you didn’t know.

Or care.

After walking the Hennepin Ave circuit for 3 hours you had a whole lot of nothing.

The sex workers definitely knew something.

Clustered in groups of 3 or 4, they murmured to themselves, cell phone cameras flashing, warning potential customers they were being watched, however, no one was willing to talk to a stranger.

A midnight blue, extended cab pickup pulled up, idling at the curb.

“Come here.”

“Uh, sorry, I’m..uh.. off the clock.”

He wasn’t the first guy who’d tried to engage you.

Maybe your refusal to leave with a client had given you away.

“Come here or I’ll bring you here.”

Tentatively you stepped closer.

“I said I’m not…Are you fucking kidding me Marshall?”

He sat hunched over the steering wheel, eyes blazing at you.

Beyond annoyed, you hissed, “Go away.”

“Get in the truck.”

“No.”

“Get in the goddamn truck now.”

Mimicking his earlier behavior, you crossed your arms.

“You can’t tell me what to….”

The cab of the truck flooded with light as he opened the driver side door.

“Fine!”

In a huff, you climbed in, fastening your seatbelt before throwing him a scowl.

He ignored you, smoothly merging with the heavy Friday night traffic.

“Where’d you park that piece of shit car?”

You refused to answer, making a show of sulking.

“Answer me or..”

“Or what?” you interrupted, “You had no right harassing me, asshole.”

“Excuse me?”

His harsh tone was a clear indicator you’d pissed him off.

“Your car?”

“It’s at my apartment. I took an Uber.”

The Detective sighed.

“Exactly what the hell were you trying to accomplish out there?”

You shrugged your shoulders.

“You’re no help so I…”

“You what? You decided to play fucking dress up? Do you have any idea how dangerous the streets are? Some freak is killing prostitutes and your stupid ass is running around pretending to be one.”

“Are you finished?”

He clenched his jaw, cheek ticking.

“Contrary to your belief I’m not stupid. I can take care of myself.”

You reached in your bag producing a sleek, highly illegal taser.

“Plus I have this. And yes, I know how to use it.”

Taking a sharp left turn he headed South.

“Um, where are we going?”

“I’m taking you home.”

“How do you….”

“Born and raised in the Gold Coast area of Chicago. Only child. Undergrad at University of Chicago, Masters in Communication from Loyola, which your ridiculously rich mother paid for. You worked at two small time local papers then the Chicago Sun where you, what? Got coffee for three years? You took a job at the StarTribune 18 months ago writing online fluff. You live in the East Phillips neighborhood, don’t drink, smoke or do drugs and generally have no social life. I like to know who I’m dealing with.”

Your mouth dropped open in shock, more than a little angry he’d checked you out.

“Pretty good,” you retorted, “My turn.”

“Born in the Channel Islands. Strict Catholic upbringing, four siblings, three boys, one girl. Attended St Michael’s Prep before transferring to Stowe School your Sophomore year, sorry, you call it Year 11. Joined the London Metropolitan Police Force in 2008, the same year you married Angie Stultz. She was interning for Warrener Stewart right?”

You rambled on, not waiting for an answer.

“Your daughter Faye was born the next year. Four years later you were promoted to the Criminal Investigations Department. You started out in Street Crime, then Organized Crime, until landing in Major Crimes in 2015. January of 2017 you and the little family moved to Minneapolis, where your wife was from but you didn’t start with the police department here for another 5 months so I’m assuming you were a house husband until your emigration papers cleared. Apparently you weren’t a very good husband, house or otherwise, cause your wife filed for divorce under “Irreconcilable DIfferences” a little over a year ago. You live alone, don’t smoke or do drugs and are generally recognized as a bully. I like to know who I’m dealing with.”

You flashed a Chesire grin.

Uh, oh.

If looks could kill, you’d be dead, buried 6 feet down, “Here lies a stupid idiot who wouldn’t keep her mouth shut” carved in the marker.

“Um, this is me.”

You pointed to a two story brick building, an empty storefront on the first floor, your studio apartment on the second.

“Why do you live in this shithole? With mommy’s money you could be living in the Carlyle or Legacy.”

“I wanted to prove I can make it on my own. And this neighborhood? It’s not as bad as people think. The Pizzeria over there? The old, Italian couple that own it let anyone who needs to use the free wifi. On the weekends they stay open late and offer a free slice and drink so the kids have a safe place to go.”

You became animated, warming to the topic.

“Mrs Freemantle, in the brownstone next door, invites me over three or four times a month. Her oxtail soup and mac and cheese are freaking amazing. She doesn't get around too well so I run errands for her once or twice a week.”

You peered out the windshield.

“Those two guys on the steps, the ones you gave the stink eye to? Andre and Tony? They fixed my car for a six pack and a pizza the last time it crapped out.”

“Probably with stolen parts,” he mumbled.

“I bought the parts, you judgemental ass.” you spat.

Jerking the handle, you exited the vehicle.

Snow swirled in the open door.

“People here care more about each other than anyone ever did in the swanky condo’s I grew up in. Thanks for the ride.”

You flung the door closed with a thud.

Trekking up the sidewalk, you quickly unlocked the outside door, your mind already on a molten hot shower.

“Honey, I’m home,” you announced to the tiny studio, tossing your bag and coat on the fifth-hand orange and green couch.

You stretched, exhausted, looking forward to…..

It happened so fast.

One second you were contemplating splurging an extra ten minutes in the shower, the next you were slammed against the kitchen wall, Detective Marshall’s forearm across your neck, other hand over your mouth.

You flailed at him, hitting and kicking.

It was like fighting a marble statue.

He leaned in, leg slotted between yours.

“Taser ain’t much help now is it.”

You pushed at his arm.

“How fucking stupid are you? You didn’t even lock your fucking door. Anyone…”

You bit his fingers, drawing blood.

He let go, surprised by your counterattack.

“Get the hell out of…..”

His hand closed around your throat.

Your chest heaved from adrenaline, his booming heartbeat matching yours.

Without warning, his lips crashed to yours.

The kiss was desperate, all consuming, his beard scratching your delicate skin.

His hand slipped under your top and cheap push-up bra, palming your breast, rough fingers pinching the already pebbled nipple.

The kiss deepened to something dark, Marshall taking control.

You rocked your hips against his muscled thigh, your core on fire.

Snaking down your belly, he slid his hand beneath the waistband of you skirt, callused digits gliding through your damp, plumped slit.

He circled your clit, applying light pressure with each pass, thumb randomly sweeping the bundle of nerves.

Lost in a sea of sensation, you mewled, the sound swallowed by his warm, searching mouth.

“Tell me to stop.”

Afraid he wouldn’t stop, even more afraid he would, you remained silent as you unzipped his jeans, freeing his heavy cock.

Gathering the sticky wetness from the tip, you stroked his length.

“Fuck.”

The whispered obscenity went straight to your cunt, fresh slick coating his hand.

He tore your black tights in one motion, leaving you bare.

Marshall lifted your leg, curling it around his waist, his cock poised at you sopping entrance.

“Last chance.”

You draped your arms around his shoulders, balancing yourself.

Taking that as a sign, he pressed into you, you channel stretching painfully.

You cried out, the burn almost too much.

His lips latched to yours, tongues sparing until his cock was fully ensheathed in your heat.

He pulled out, briefly hesitated, before thrusting in again.

Breaking the kiss, you buried your face in his neck, fingers tangling in his dark curls.

He fucked you now, hips pistoning, his fingers digging into your flesh.

Marshall’s feral grunts mingled with your needy moans.

Tendrils of electricity surged along your nerves.

He lifted your leg higher, changing the angle of penetration, his cock hitting the soft, spongy spot repeatedly.

“Please,..please..” you choked out.

“I’ve got you.”

You came with a sob, hips pumping in time with his, cunt clenching, the sheer intensity of your orgasm frightening, wave after wave threatening to drown you.

He drove into you faster, chasing his own release.

All you could do was hold on, tears staining his coarse, coal gray sweater.

You felt him swell, hips stuttering.

His muscles flexed as he came, pushing you against the wall, milky ropes of cum splashing your walls.

Fevered lust dissipating, he rested his cheek on your head.

Untangling limbs, Marshall fastened his jeans.

He didn’t stay, instead turning towards the door.

Hand on the brass knob, he paused.

“I’m sorry. This shouldn’t have happened.”

His words froze the question in your throat.

Door closed, you collapsed to the floor, head bowed, knees to chest.

“What the hell just happened.”

@xoxabs88xox @imanuglywombat @fanfic-fangirl @caffiend-queen @alexakeyloveloki @americasass81 @lokislastlove @sweater-daddiesdumbdork @sweeterthanthis @ironlady1993 @joannaliceevans-fanficblog @joannaliceevans-fanficblog @jennmurawski13 @starynighty @sapphirescrolls @xsapphirescrollsx @sagechanoafterdark @momc95 @jtargaryen18 @demonsandpieohmy @dangertoozmanykids101 @lizzystuffsthings @nildespirandum @shikin83 @sinceimetyou @buckybarnesandmarvel @imdarkinme @inlovewiththefictionalcharacters @titty-teetee @saiyanprincessswanie @littlefreya

#SOFT DARK WALTER MARSHALL X READER #SOFT DARK WALTER MARSHALL AND READER #SOFT DARK WALTER MARSHALL (AU) X READER #SOFT DARK WALTER MARSHALL (AU) AND READER #WALTER MARSHALL X READER #WALTER MARSHALL AND READER #WALTER MARSHALL #SOFT DARK WALTER MASHALL #NIGHT HUNTER AU #NIGHT HUNTER FIC #DARK NIGHT HUNTER FIC #HENRY CAVILL #HENRY CAVILL CHARACTERS

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phantoms-lair · 1 year

Text

Batman Exalted thing - The First Exaltation

Bruce sometimes wished he crafted the identity of a reclusive hermit rather than a media darling. All he wanted to do was buckle down on the imminent attempt at a dimensional invasion and try to think of a way to solve it without relying on a power up from the enemy.

But instead here he was in an interview, talking about his company and charity work. "There's been some criticism of the Martha Wayne Free Clinic as of late. Some are skeptical about the noted criminal cliental." asked the interviewer.

Bruce fought back his annoyance. "My mother believed, as do I, that no person is expendable. Some have made poor decisions. Some had poor decisions made on their behalf without their consent. Some are children. All of them, all of them are entitled to medical care. The moment you start adding restrictions, it becomes all too easy to add more and more until only people who have been chosen as the 'right' people can gain aid. And there is nothing more abhorrent to me. Everyone in Gotham deserves care."

Will you protect all the people of Gotham?

Something twinged in his mind as wrong about the question, but he answered anyway. "Every last one." Bruce reaffirmed.

"That's quite a statement, given Gotham houses individuals like Scarecrow and the Joker." The interviewer pressed.

"They're still human. If Scarecrow had a heart attack in Blackgate, he'd still receive life saving care. Outside should be no different."

"But should that be the case? Do people like that deserve to be saved?"

Will you save them?

Bruce fought the urge to scowl. "Of course. And if I can save their minds too, I'll do it. I refuse to give up on anyone."

"MmmHmm." The interviewer looked at him like she'd figured something out. "You had a well know friendship with Harvey Dent. Between that and your charity clinic serving villains, it seems you have some connections to the wrong side of the tracks. Maybe the squeaky clean image of Bruce Wayne is hiding something else?"

Is your philanthropy really to help others, or just a cover?

He stood up, letting a sliver of his anger slip through. At this point it would be stranger not to take offense. "I watched my parents die in a mugging. It would have been so easy to act like you. To judge and look down on people I could easily blame for my grief. But my parents loved Gotham and wanted to see it rise above it's own ashes. And in trying to see their wishes granted I grew to love the city too. All of it. Good and Bad. And I will never give up on it or stop fighting to make it better."

Do you think you can protect the city?

"I will protect Gotham till the day it kills me." Bruce snarled, rising to his feet. And he knew something wasn't right. Something was feeding into his emotions. But it was too late to stop it. The screens cut to static as Bruce Wayne exploded.

The Bats had gotten their first, because of course they did. Jim was listening to his radio as he made his way to the studio, not saying a word.

Some of the reports were positive. Everyone else had made it out of the studio. Whatever had caused Bruce Wayne to explode in a dizzying array of light hadn't affected anyone else. This being Gotham, every had evacuated quickly. And the studio didn't seem to be catching ablaze. Small mercies.

From the radio he heard that most of the Bats had shown up, despite it being the middle of the day. They'd sealed the place tight, with Spoiler and Signal bodyguarding the entrance, saying only Gordon himself could get through. His men had tried to force the issue and they'd threatened Black Bat in retaliation.

Jim pulled into the crime scene that was likely the death spot of Gotham's Favorite Son. Spoiler was at the door, arms crossed, while Signal was talking to the EMTs. When she saw him she nodded and moved aside.

Jim didn't know what he was going to find inside. But whatever it was, it wasn't this. Despite video of the explosion going out before the feed was cut, Bruce Wayne seemed to be alive and well, sitting of the set with his head in his hands.

The power literally rippling off him was new. A bright blue energy flowed from his eyes and into a beautiful display rippling around him. It was Gotham, not any one part of it but a rippling view of the city from Park Row to Bristol ever shifting and changing, leading into a night sky with bats flying around. All contained in a very familiar, albeit larger than life silhouette of a sharp eared cowl and cape. The imagery plus his being there for the first conversation with Quill made it obvious.

Bruce Wayne was Batman. And he'd just Exalted, publicly, while in his civilian persona.

"Does one of you powers include seeing the future?" Nightwing asked someone on the other end of the phone. "Then I don't think not being able to accurately get into the mindset of a manipulative sociopath is a personal failing."

"What does Quill say?" Bruce asked in a completely exhausted tone.

"That you're an Exigent, like her. You're in 'Iconic' or 'Bonfire' anima, which is a representation of your soul and power and it's going to take a while for it to calm down. Also that in retrospect it makes sense as he wants a throne to be a power behind and Batman would never accept a throne but Bruce Wayne is more vulnerable. as well as already being a power in the city."

"Nightwing!" Robin hissed, glaring at Nightwing,

"He's involved." Bruce said in the same tired voice. "He's been involved since before you were born. We can trust him, and against Ketchup we need all the help we can get. The question is, what is our next move?" "If you want to kill off Bruce Wayne, now is the time." Red Robin said idlily. "Drake!" Robin shouted reprovingly. It wasn't just Bruce. It was Bruce's whole damn family. "What? He can make a new identity easily. All the paperwork is in place for Uncle Eddie if we need something in a pinch. But this would allow him to devote his time to his actual interests rather than juggle a very public identity that mostly annoys him." Red Robin shrugged. "Most people don't change identities like a coat, Baby Bird." Nightwing said, gently. "They need to get on my level." Red Robin sniped back.

"Killing off Bruce Wayne is not an option. I can feel the ripples of my death having an affect in the city. People are already planning to use it to roll back a lot of the philanthropic works I've done." Bruce blinked. "That interviewer was accepting a bribe to discredit me."

"How do you know?" Gordon asked. "I just do." Bruce sounded more bewildered than tired.

"Can an Exigent be the chosen of a location, like a city?" Nightwing asked Quill. "She says yes." Bruce sat up straighter. "Ask Quill what we should say. Her whole power revolves around stories and that's what we need right now."

"Okay, give her a minute." Nightwing instructed. "Okay, send out word that Bruce Wayne is alive, but under some kind of magical effect. Unknown, but a curse hasn't been ruled out. Bring in Justice League members know to work with magic as cover. Have them recommend isolation until the effects are fully known, which will give Bruce the privacy he needs to get this under control."

"I'll get on the official story then." He was going to get answers out of Batman, out of Bruce, but later. "If news of your survival isn't slowing down the plans, let me know. Nightwing, I take it you can call the Justice League." "There's someone else you need to call first." Bruce reminded Nightwing. "He's panicking right now with the news, but won't admit it."

"Oracle's already keeping Agent A informed." "Not him. R2." Nightwing snorted. "And he pretends he doesn't care." Jim saw himself out. And much as it still burned a little that something was obviously being kept from him, Bruce had said nothing to try to hide his own secrets or that of his children's. Which meant R2, whoever that was, was likely someone else's secret that Bruce didn't feel at liberty to say, like Oracle and Agent A. So fair.

That was for later. They all had work to do.

#Batman #Exalted #Ghost Writing #Bruce is still be cagey about Jason because Red hood is wanted for multiple murders

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sebstanismyspiritanimal · 11 days

Text

Third chapter! I didn't think so many people would like this concept! I thought it was a really niche au that only I wanted to read but y'all are changing my mind! I will probably start posting to ao3 once I hit 5 chapters, because I'm anticipating a fairly long story. Would you guys want me to keep posting the whole chapter here too or just a link for the new chapters for ao3? Let me know! As always if you missed part 2 here is a link for it!

The next couple of days saw Eddie relaxing into a routine at the bureau. There hadn't been a new case yet so Emily and JJ had taken to showing her the different paperwork forms and walking her thru how to do them, for when she had some of her own to complete.

Spencer had also been sharing the stack of cold cases files he worked on periodically and letting her get familiar with the process of trying to help solve them.

Watching Garcia hustle past the desks in the bullpen without so much as perky smile, Eddie and everyone else knew they had a case.

She followed the lead of everyone else and made her way up to the conference room, nervous and excited to participate in her first case.

---------------------------------------------------

"Lucy Barlow age 34 was found yesterday along a hiking trail after being reported missing for 5 days by her sister-in-law. There's no evidence of sexual assault, but the ME did find evidence of restraints on the hands and feet." Everyone was listening intently to Garcia's debriefing as they looked at the crime scene photos behind her head, no one saying anything, but looking for any clues or evidence as to what they were dealing with.

"It's a heroin overdose." Eddie said abruptly, standing up to look closer at the photos displayed, not realizing that all eyes were on her.

"How do you know?" Hotch asked, leaning forward to watch the new agent take her first shot at profiling.

Eddie turned to look at him and faltered slightly seeing the whole team watching her.

Clearing her throat, she turned back to the pictures, "She has miosis or heroin eyes, her pupils are constricted instead of dilated. Her fingernails are blue which is a sign of heroin use, and shes got vomit on the side of her mouth. Most overdoses include vomiting, but her muscles are also slack when they should have already been stiffening up."

Eddie went to sit back down and Garcia continued her debrief with a proud look in her direction.

"She's right, cause of death was ruled overdose by heroin."

"If it's an overdose, then why are we being called in? It sounds like she went on a bender for 5 days and OD'd." Derek said bluntly, everyone else nodding or humming in agreement.

"Because another woman was reported missing this morning, 35 year old Andrea Lakes." Penelope clicked to another photo and the team understood the connection, they looked eerily similar.

"Wheels up in 30." Hotch stood and walked out the door, the rest of the team standing and collecting belongings to start to head to the jet.

"How did you know that those were signs of a heroin overdose?" Eddie could hear the honest curiosity in Spencer's voice, the rest of the team perking their ears up at the new info, the newest agent had been pretty tight lipped about her life, even the parts that weren't redacted or classified.

"My mom overdosed on it when I was 5, we were alone in the house so I got a pretty good look at what it does to the body. Plus I spent a lot of time in trap houses after my dad had sole custody." Eddie said, nonchalantly packing the iPad and files into a carry on bag for the plane ride. She looked up when no answer came from the genius and saw everyone watching her with sad eyes, not even pretending they weren't eavesdropping.

"I'm sorry. I-I didn't know." Spencer mumbled, looking very upset at himself for unlocking a part of Eddie's Tragic Backstory.

Laughing slightly she squeezed his shoulder, "There's no reason for you to have known, Spence. I'm fine you guys, this was a long time ago. Besides the trap houses were my favorite places to stay, they always had the best snacks for the kids." With a grin at the teams slightly horrified looks, she shouldered her bag and went to find the jet.

The plane ride was uneventful, they spent the first 30 minutes to Nebraska going over the case and the rest of the time relaxing. Eddie had started reading a book when Emily tapped it suddenly.

"You read Tolkien?" She questioned in a loud voice making Spencer perk up and the rest of the team to groan exasperated.

Eddie slipped in a book mark, guessing that his was going to be a long conversation.

"Yeah? It's been a while since I read the Hobbit and I figured its a good plane book."

Derek groaned around a grin that was forming, "Don't tell me you're a secret nerd Eddie! Spencer and Penelope are too powerful together, we can't have someone else joining their ranks!"

Eddie laughed and shrugged her shoulders, "I don't know how much of a secret it is, Derek. I started a DnD club in highschool, nothing quite says nerd like a 20 sided die." The rest of the group groaned as Spencer shot up out of his seat and ambled up to the open one next to her, quickly starting up a conversation about LoTR, ignoring the laughter and teasing the whole plane started at the two of them.

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ejzah · 1 year

Text

The Agent and the Fireman, Part 8

***

“Deeks!”

“Kensi, what’s going on?” Callen asked as Kensi kept the phone next to her ear, and gestured to Eric.

“Someone’s shooting at Deeks. Can you make sure that LAPD is notified?” she said, waiting for Eric to give a nod of confirmation as she turned towards the sliding doors. All she could hear now where the faintest of shouts and static, making her think that Deeks had dropped his phone.

“Kensi, wait, where are you going?” Callen put a hand on her arm, not using any force, but stopping her in her tracks.

“It sounded like he was in some kind of altercation and then I heard gunfire,” Kensi reported, going into agent mode automatically.

“Ok, well I’m sure if anything did happen, LAFD has it under control,” he told Kensi.

“I’m not waiting to find out.” She gave him an incredulous look. “He could be in serious danger.” Or seriously injured, her brain added helpfully.

“Relax, we’re not going to let your lover boy get hurt,” Sam assured her. “Let’s go save Kensi’s firefighter.”

Kensi was just worried enough not to protest at his teasing.

***

Kensi’s heart pounded, stomach crawling with nerves the entire drive. She thought she might be sick when she saw the row of police cars lined up outside the burned out building.

Callen flashed his badge at the officer guarding the entrance. “NCIS,” he said.

“Officer Dan Perez. Damn, you guys are serious about this case. We just arrived a few minutes ago,” he commented.

“Agent Blye,” he gesture to Kensi. “was on the phone with one a member of LAFD, Lieutenant Deeks, when she heard shots fired.”

“Oh, I see.” The officer’s eyes drifted over Kensi.

The lack of urgency annoyed her, but it did calm her nerves slightly.

“Can you tell us what happened?” she asked. “Is the Lieutenant alright?

“Well, you can ask him yourself,” Perez offered, hooking his thumb behind him. “He’s getting patched up an giving his statement.”

Kensi sighed in relief, narrowly resisting the urge to hug the man. Patching up meant Deeks was alive.

“Thank you!” she said, rushing past him. It wasn’t hard to find the sole ambulance parked to the side, and even in the darkness, Deeks’ halo of blonde curls were like a beacon.

He has his head turned towards the EMT working on his arm, one hand raised to his head.

“Deeks,” she exclaimed in relief. His head swiveled, surprise crossing his features, followed by a wince. She realized now that he held an ice pack to his forehead, opposite the gash he’d received earlier that night.

“Kensi, what are you—oh my god,” he tipped his back, squeezing his eyes tight as he groaned. “The phone call. I’m sorry, I completely forgot about that.”

“No, it’s ok,” Kensi told him. At the moment, she was willing to forgive him anything. “Are you ok? I heard the shots—”

“Yeah, no, it looks worse than it is.”

“Bullet graze to the right bicep, mild concussion with superficial damage to the temple, and lots of bruises,” the EMT listed off calmly without pausing in her ministrations.

“Thanks, Tina,” Deeks said tightly. “Do you think we could have a minute?”

“Sure. But don’t even think about running off without letting me finish wrapping that or I will come and find you,” Tina threatened.

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Once she was out of immediate sight, Kensi stepped closer, immediately examining beneath the partially applied bandage. Her brows furrowed at the torn line of flesh along his bicep, still bleeding steadily.

“Oh my god,” she murmured. “This looks awful.”

“I know, it’s totally gonna mess up my tan,” Deeks joked. “Of course, I hear that some women really dig scars, so there’s that.”

“That’s not funny,” Kensi said sharply, drawing yet another surprised glance from him. She felt bad for it almost immediately, especially with the way his shoulders slumped. He looked tired and hurt, and probably should be at a hospital, not a grimy crime scene.

She rubbed her thumb over her bottom lip, forcing down her instinct to lash out instead of voicing her feelings. “ I’m sorry. I was worried about you,” she admitted.

“Extremely worried,” Callen added from behind her, and she almost groaned as he and Sam came to stand on either side of her. Deeks dropped his hand, revealing the bruised and gashed skin of his temple for the first time as he glanced between the two men curiously.

“I’m Agent Sam Hanna and this my partner, Agent Callen,” Sam introduced them. “We’re Kensi’s colleagues.”

“Marty Deeks, LAFD. How you doing?” Deeks asked, somehow managing to bring out a modicum of charm despite his downtrodden appearance.

“Well, based on how you look, pretty good in comparison,” Callen said, drawing a breathy laugh from Deeks.

“Yeah, I’ve had better nights.”

“Your captain said you might have seen the arsonist. Are you able to give us a statement?” Callen asked, getting back to business.

Deeks nodded. “Yeah, of course. I was near the east wing of the building, where there’s the least damage. We’d found some evidence of multiple incendiary devices, which is when I called Kensi. As I was walking out, I saw someone lurking around, dressed in dark clothes, picking something off the ground.“ He sighed heavily, brushing at his matted bangs with his thumbnail. “He ran, so I pursued, and tackled him.

“What made you realize he wasn’t just some nosy civilian?” Sam asked.

“Gut instinct,” Deeks answered without hesitation or smugness. “And the gun he pulled on me was kind of another big clue. He clocked pretty good with it, which is how he got loose. Then he just started firing aimlessly. Could have hit anyone.”

Kensi’s stomach clenched again at the image he created.

“One of the bullets ricocheted off of something and grazed my arm while I was calling for back up.”

“You took a pretty big risk going after this guy without any kind weapon,” Sam commented, maybe a little admonishment in his tone.

“I didn’t do it for the bragging rights, Agent Hanna.” Deeks faced him unflinchingly. “This arsonist has caused significant damage, wasted countless resources, and most importantly with this most recent fire, taken a life. In the moment, it seemed like a good idea to try and stop him,” he explained.

“Well, I can’t argue with that. Did you get a good look at the suspect?”

“Uh, yeah. He was roughly 5’10, pretty slim build. I didn’t get a look at his face, but I did pull it off when I tackled him. He has light brown or blonde hair and at the time, wore a black hat and shirt, black pants, and dark shoes,” Deeks rattled off.

“Good. Nell and Eric should be able to do something with that,” Callen said.

“Our tech people,” Kensi explained to Deeks.

“Mm.” Deeks winced again, energy clearing flagging.

“Are you sure you don’t want someone to take you to the hospital?” She couldn’t keep the concern from her voice.

“Nah, I’ll get one of the guys to drive me home after and I’ll pop a couple ibuprofen,” he said with a shrug.

“I’m sure Agent Blye will kiss it better for you,” Sam said in a whisper loud enough to carry a few feet away.

“Sam!” Kensi hissed, glaring at him.

“Now that sounds like the perfect cure,” Deeks murmured with a wink and a crooked grin. The thought seemed to liven him up a little.

“You, and you.” Kensi pointed to Sam and then Callen. “Go wait for me by the car.”

“Yes mom,” Sam grinned, pulling his phone out of his pocket as he turned towards where they’d parked the Challenger.

“Save the making out for after we solve the case!” Callen called after them.

Kensi groaned, covering her eyes. “Oh my god, I am so sorry about them.”

“Don’t worry about it. They seem like fun,” Deeks decided with obvious amusement.

“Sure, until they gang up on you.” She sobered a little, unable to joke freely with Deeks bloody and hurt right in front of her. “I’m glad you’re ok,” she added. Deeks held out his hand, and she hesitantly placed her hand in his. Folding his fingers around her palm, he raised her hand to his mouth, kissing her knuckles.

“Thanks for worrying about me.” He glanced around them, at the flashing lights, crumbled building, and sighed regretfully. “I think it’s going to be a while before we get to make up for that date.”

“It’s ok,” Kensi said. “I can wait.” She stretched up on her toes, brushing his hair back from his cheek so she could whisper in his ear. “And it’s going to be so worth the wait.”

She heard Deeks’ breath hitch and pulled back with a satisfied smile. “Get better fast, Lieutenant.”

***

A/N: This story is still 90% Kensi and Deeks flirting. I hope you enjoyed the little bit of whump.

#ncis la fanfiction #marty deeks #kensi blye #Sam and Callen #firefighter deeks #hot Deeks #the agent and the fireman #part 8 #fireman au #fluff #Deeks whump #ejzah fanfiction

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pastel-omegas-blog · 2 years

Text

Chapter one

CHAPTER TWO

⚠️⚠️⚠️⚠️⚠️WARNING!!! THIS BOOK WILL CONTAIN MATURE THEMES AND VIOLENCE PLEASE LEAVE IF IT WILL MAKE YOU UNCOMFORTABLE. I DO NOT NEED THIS BOOK TO BE REPORTED . YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED.( Mentions of suicide, bullying, blood/torture ⚠️⚠️⚠️⚠️⚠️( This book is going to have more matured themes compared to my others, from smut scenes to non-con, lactation, drugging, hypnosis, abuse of power and over obsessiveness. This particular chapter contains forced miscarriage. Again please stop reading if you find this upsetting or too hard to stomach down.

¶•¶•¶•¶•¶•¶•¶•¶•¶•¶•¶•¶

The h/c omega had become accustomed to waking up In a void of eternal darkness at this point and how long he had been floating alone in this one. Well him and thousands pretty pearl like orbs his misery had created, he didn't know.

He also didn't care.

At least here he was free from all the worries and responsibilities being alive brought him. Here he didn't have to worry about what people would say. Didn't have to listen to them scrutinizing everything little he did. Didn't have to hear them judging his worth like he was some sort of live stock. He didn't need to visit that God forsaken temple anymore in hopes of.

' Having his core cleansed from the despicable devil inside and finally becoming a decent human being worth of any rights '. He wasn't dealing with any of that bullshit anymore. He was just here.

At least that was what he liked to think.

Floating endlessly in an equally endless void with only his thoughts to keep him company. The thoughts that reminded him of his gruesome torture of over a year. The images of that helpless stage in life he had to endure, vividly flashing in his mind.

At first whenever it happened he would cry. His voice echoing through the emptiness and becoming disoriented. His wails and cries coming back to haunt him even more.

The tears streaming down his cheeks floating away from him to form the tiny pearl like orbs around him, that reflected the poor state he was in. He hated having to be surrounded by tiny little orbs that acted as a mirror that showed him how pitiful he has become. He hated how sickly he looked, how souless his eyes had become. He hated it. It made him feel worthless. Made him feel more inferior than he ever had in his whole life.

He had screamed and cried like a pup throwing a tantrum, desperately seeking comfort from anything that would come and aid. That would come and keep him company as he was being ravaged by his horrifying memories.

Being dragged through the muddy cobblestone streets and whipped in front of the people he had worked himself to the bone for to make sure they had a comfortable life, while they jeered and threw fruit at him.

He whimpered

Had been locked in the lowest level of the dungeon. Thrown in rat infested cell with the rotting corpse of the last victim strown a few feet away from where he was chained. The putrid smell making his eyes w, his arms and legs chained helplessly to the cold stone walls.

He sobbed.

Was treated worse than prisoners who had done unthinkable crimes. He was whipped almost ten time a day, the rope leaving scars along his formally soft smooth skin. He was hardly feed, the prison wardens would make him go days with out food, only forcing dirty smelling water down his throat every three days so he wouldn't die from dehydration. And when he was feed, he was given soup that was so watered down it looked like the murky brown liquid he was being made to drink with chunks of carrots floating on top. He knew fighting was useless it would only make them angrier. Would make them spite his shriveled up form even more. So he took it all with little complaints. The abuse was so often that after the first three months he got used to. They didn't like it.

So they did the unthinkable.

He wailed.

One day a number of twenty guards were sent to his holding cell and his weak from was prepared for a more brutal beat down than usual, but instead they started taking off their clothes, confusing the h/c male at first before his mind quickly piecing together what was happening, his dull eyes growing wide in fear as he tried in vain to back away from them as they laughed at his pathetic attempts.

He always wondered if anyone heard his broken screams as his first rapist forced the head of his hard dick into his dry entrance. Wondered what they thought of him as he body unwilling accepted the pleasure as a way to cope so he wouldn't go mad there and then from having the purity he had left robbed from. Wondered how they found it funny as the continuous sound of skin slapping against skin and the merry laughs of his beta assulters carried on through the night, before they finally discarded his passed out limp body in the early hours of the morning. They left him there, covered in drying semen, hickeys and bite marks drawing blood decorating his already scared body. When he came too again he cried himself to exhaustion with what little strength he had gathered before passing out again. His thoughts hoping it would never happen again as he faded into darkness.

He was wrong.

it became a daily torture method. After been whipped until he was barely conscious, the guards were let in to have their way with his limp body till he passed out and the events repeated exactly the same way the next day. And the next. And the next. And the next. And the next . And the next...............

He yelled.

So one morning when he woke up with a pounding headache and a sudden bout of nauseous that seemed stronger than normal as it left him puking over his dirty rag clothes he knew he was pregnant. Pregnancy that was supposed to be seen as a joyous moment for omegas did nothing more than increase the miserable state he was in. It made him cry and feel disgusted with his own body for carrying the seed of one of the people who had helped to make his life a living hell. He wanted to get rid of it, but had no way too and he was forced to carry the thing inside him for four months, before anyone took notice of what was actually going. I'm the four months he had with been to thoughts of he was going to be a mother he had stopped hating the pup growing in him, his maternal instincts taking over as he cooed softly and talked to the growing bulge of his stomach. When the guards took notice they stopped their ' fun' activities. They even gave him a loaf of stale bread and a quick wash with some water and undid his chains before they left him alone in solitude. The only thing keeping him from losing his mental state once and for all with the lack of human interaction, was the same child he had resented carrying.

⚠️⚠️ WARNING AGAIN PLEASE DO NOT CONTINUE IF MISCARRIAGES TRIGGER YOU⚠️⚠️

And he went like that undisturbed for two more months, until one day three ridiculously large men ( they remained him of orcs with their size ) entered his holding cell, all wearing the ceremonial grabs of the temple surrounding the tiny pregnant omega and pushing him to a corner. One got a hold him, making him stand up on his now twig like legs, the second clamped his large hands around the petite man's mouth and nose while the third knelt down in front of him, mumbling a prayer under his breath, but the s/c male caught the words.

" The devil's spawn must not be allowed to breed"

Those were words that the h/c man would never forget as the man drew his fist back, before landing a hard solid punch on his pregnant stomach. Fortunately or unfortunately, he didn't know. The shock from the first hit knocked him out, fading into the save haven of unconsciousness so he wouldn't break down while he watched and felt the whole gruelling process. It was the burning pain between his legs that woke him up to the aftermath of the whole thing. Lying in a small pool of his own blood the first thing his shaky hands went to touch was his now flat stomach.

The whole place became deathly still. The sound of rodents usually scampering around stopped,the annoying chirping of crickets the drunken laughter of the guards behind his cell. The scream that resounded in the empty night was gut wrenching and full of pain and hatred.

He had tried to bite his own tongue off after the incident. He had wanted to just end it all. Luck wasn't on his side as the guard on duty that day actually did his shitty job and managed to stop him from his pitiful suicide. After that he was made to wear a muzzle and his chains were rebound, even tighter than before. He stayed like that until the day of his execution.

All the while he was suffering that bastard Alpha who he had dedicated his whole life to was enjoying his own stupid happily ever after with that blue whore. They were doing things he had hoped he would be able to do when they while they we're married. Then he's stupid personal guard who had even taken a magic oath, to swore to protect him till his dying breath. But he turned his back on him. Broken the trust and hope he had put in him. Running to that blue wench like a loyal dog.

Enjoying his misery and using it to elevate their own lives. Using their blessed lives to mock him.

He hated it.

HE HATED IT.

How dare they.

How dare they!

HOW DARE THEY!!!

How dare they put him in such a state and they got away scott free for their crimes!! How was that fair. How had the so called god he had been forced to dedicate his life too, see him suffer like that and still chose to turn his back on him!!! He wanted them all dead

The Imperial family!

Those stupid Nobles!

The fucking temple!

His damned family!

That life stealing whore!

He wanted them all to face worse than he had. Wanted them beg at his feet for mercy that he would never grant!

He wanted to erase everyone of them from the face of the earth!

He didn't care what it would take-

" AnYThiNG~ "

A deep smooth voice purred under in darkness, startling the h/c male from his thoughts.

He turned around to search the darkness, looking for any signs of life, but once again the only thing other than him were his pearl like tears floating around his form like a cage.

A breathless laugh left the omega's lips

" looks like your finally going mad M/N " he muttered to himself as he ran a hand through his face, getting ready to try and sleep away his thoughts and hope he wouldn't be haunted by nightmares this time around only for the same laugh to ring out. The hairs on the h/c male's neck stood as he felt very small all of a sudden, like he was in the presence of something far greater than he had ever known.

" ThAT's RIghT CHILD~ "

The voice- No.

Now that he had heard it better it sounded like multiple people were talking together, the voices of the elderly and young, men and women woven together to make one terrifying entity of speech.

" OH~ You WoUNd mE CHILD. I DoN't sOUnD thAT baD "

They moaned out a bellowing laughter following after putting the petite male on edge.

Looking around him and still seeing nothing he shakily called out

" Where are you?. What are you?! "

The silence that followed after was deafening. The void was back to its sickeningly calm State and immediately M/N regretted opening his big mouth, his was back alone in this lonely state. That regret soon turned to hatred.

He wasn't going to blame himself. How dare whatever that thing was give him hope. How dare it poke for at him. How dare they all do it.

He hated it

HE HATED IT

Fuck everyone trying to make him feel worse.

He wasn't going to go down like this. He wouldn't. He was going to get the last laugh. He would make sure he would.

NOTHING WOULD STOP HIM!!!

ANYTHING THAT TO WOULD MEET A FATE WORSE THAN HIS!!

The petite male hadn't noticed it himself, but his was raging, his canines biting into his bottom lip, drawing blood,l. Veins popped out from the side of his head, trailing his neck and arms. His dull e/c eyes flashed a flurry of vivid colours, from yellow to orange then gold before settling in blood red, the same coloured liquid falling out of the corner of his eyes and running down his cheeks like tears. The metallic smell of it making his pupils dilate giving him feral look.

The small orbs around him shook violently their pure white colour changing to match the blood red of their creators eyes, before the swirled around furiously around his changing form, all suddenly stopping at once and they began glowing brightly, the blinding lights making the h/c have to squint and cover his eyes, only opening them went he felt a hand tilt his face upwards , shock taking his features when he stared in blood red eyes. The iris taking him by surprise. It was a cross shape. The only being ever said to have such eyes was.

The entity as if knowing the Omega had figured it out smirked sinisterly at him, razor sharp teeth that looked like they could tear through flesh peeking out of their thin lips.

" LOOKS LIKE THAT CRYBABY VESSEL I USED TO HAVE IS GONE ONCE AND FOR ALL ....."

They started purring out with joy as their clawed hand went up to squish the omega's cheeks, not caring that their claws were digging into the skin of his face and drawing out blood.

" SO M/N. ARE YOU READY TO CARRY OUT THAT PROMISE YOU MADE~ "

All the being received in response was a crazed grin from the human, so wild in matched their own and they watching how blood dripped out his mouth and into the void forming ruby like crystals that began floating around the two of them.

That was all they needed to see for confirmation.

The words M/N heard before blacking out sent a thrill to his core.

" NOW THAT I'M FREE IN THIS LIFE TIME, I'LL LEND YOU MY POWER.

GO FUCK THOSE BITCHES UP~

¶•¶•¶•¶•¶•¶•¶•¶•¶•¶•¶•¶¶•¶•¶•¶•¶•¶•¶•¶•¶•¶•¶•¶¶•¶•¶•¶•¶•¶•¶•¶•¶•¶•¶•¶¶•¶•¶•¶•¶•¶•¶•¶•¶•¶•¶•¶¶

Aria had lost count of how many time she had nearly passed out from high blood pressure as she screamed at the useless doctors to help her baby cousin.

It was clear they weren't purposely trying their best, they would only peer at the sweat dreanched p h/c male from a distance before shaking their heads and claiming there was nothing they could do. They wouldn't examine him properly to check just how much the poison had actually affected him. They had never once administered drugs from him to help with the pain. From the way their eyes gleamed that they were enjoying this. They we're their to watch the so called ' devil omega ' in his final moments and they probably felt like some stupid saviour helping humanity get rid of a foul beast. Oh she wanted to drive her fist up their asses and beat them to a bloody pulp. But she couldn't.

She had tried to plead with the imperial family to let her bring her own personal doctor, but they refused. The stupid excuse they gave was that the person who had done the poisoning hadn't still been caught. That it was to risky to bring in outsiders.

It was clear bullshit and they all knew it. The incident had happened over more than a month ago, yet the imperial guards still hadn't managed to catch the suspect. It was obvious they weren't ever going too. She ad swallowed her pride and begged them, yet they refused to listen to her, the princess laughing in her face while the former empress asked for the guards to drag her out. She had even gone to ever forgiving saint to ask for help, but he only gave her a comforting smile and placed a comforting handing on her shoulder.

If it wasn't because she would have ended up getting herself and M/N killed she would have slapped him.

" It's for the best~ "

She was losing hope at this point. She had been the only one taking care of him. No maids or butler had been assigned to help her, the stress was beginning to show on her features, her eyes were getting bags underneath them, her usually neat appearance was haggard and barely put together. Her normally homey scent had started to go stale. She feared she herself would be experiencing an omega drop soon, but she didn't care. M/N came first.

Here she was sitting at the edge of M/N's bed as she held on to his limp hand,tears rolling down her cheeks. She didn't get why he was been treated like this. M/N had been nothing but kind ever since he was young, yet because of his unique h/c hair and looks matching the appearance of a fallen god that once wreaked havoc on the world he was being mistreated. It wasn't fair. Her baby cousin had been nothing but pure and kind. He didn't deserve to just waste away in a room like this.

" Lord Aquilo..." The omega started, using her other hand to grasp the the male omega's own tightly as she bowed her head in prayer.

" ... Please if your listening to me, just this once. Heal him please. He's innocent. He doesn't deserve this. I know I'm not a faithful follower of your teaching, but please. Just give me this just this once. I just want him to recover safe and sound. " At this point she was full on sobbing her head buried in the bed sheets. She wasn't one to believe in miracles. She believed good hard work got people to were they were in life. But this once she was hoping for a miracle.

And it happened. At least she thought so

The petite male let out a pained moan on the bed and turned weakly, his thick e/c lashes fluttering open, his groggy h/c eyes fixed on the shock tear stained face of the woman. A groan left his lips as he parted them to speak, only for a cough to rack his form. That sprung her into action.

Aria didn't even know when she stood up and throw her arms around the petite male's sickly form, being careful not to crush him in her hug, but still bringing him closer to her. The soft scent of peach and honey making her relax as a soft sob racked through her body.

She was so relieved.

Through her crying she missed how his normally e/c eyes flashed blood red for a split second, a sinister smirk resting in his lips.

M/N giggled to himself as he hugged his cousin closer, not liking how broken she looked, but his smile grow wider, rage bubbling in his eyes.

Oh they were going to regret not killing him while they had the chance.

#x omega male reader #x male reader #omegaverse #mc #nobility #omega male reader #historical x male reader #leon #aria #fantasy #Dearly Detested

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borreloadsavagedragon · 11 months

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8 and 12 for the ask meme 👀

oh my god I reblogged that ask game knowing I am not a mean person AT ALL, so this is gonna push me to my LIMITS

(if you stand by anything in here, you’re cool as hell and I'm glad you interact with media, I am simply over sharing about fictional card game nerds like always!!!)

8. common fandom opinion that everyone is wrong about

I had to sit and stare at this one forever to come up with one because I am just so in my own little corner that I never really notice other people's interpretations of characters, like I have my bachelors and ph.d. in the ones that matter and I write my silly little fanfics using my deranged thinking, that's it, roll credits

BUT there is one thing I've seen a few times now across a couple of months in random liveblogs or opinion pieces that I kind of wanna touch on it

And that's that Kaito wasn't held accountable in Zexal.

I think a topic like accountability and atonement in fiction is going to differ very strongly between person to person and what they feel is the proper amount of justice to someone given their crimes, I understand that, but I just want to throw my own hat in the ring for why I disagree respectfully but wholeheartedly

Here's where I write about it in my analysis(WHICH IS 8K+ RN AND STILL GOING, GOD HELP ME)

"This is one I’ve seen a few times and I wanted to make an entire separate point for it because I do think it's a very interesting conversation to have in regards to the moral playground that a lot of the YuGiOh rivals in general have(with Ryoken Kogami from YuGiOh Vrains sitting as the reigning king in the topic of questionable ethics by some fans, but he’s another character study for another day), but the focus isn’t where I think it should be. I think it’s more fascinating that Kaito’s the character I see called out the most for his work as a Number Hunter compared to other fan favorites in the cast, especially when all we saw from Kaito since his actions in "The Seized Emperor's Key! Showdown, Kaito vs Shark" was his own form of accountability. We’ve known since the very scene following his introduction as the primary antagonist for the first half of Zexal I, Kaito despises the job and his employers based on how he can’t even look Mr. Heartland in the eye when he reports his progress and how his eyes drop to the floor when the premise of taking souls is brought up. He has a special distaste for those with Numbers because of what he was led to believe since we also learn later on he’s been fed almost nothing but lies about the Numbers so the times Kaito might have become far more conflicted with his circumstances sooner were always ripped away from him. In his mind, he's trapped and following orders is his best option right now, but if it means the only thing that matters most to him, his little brother, is ok, then he'll be the worst person in the world. And that's just the explanation for why he did it all. Because even with the truth, he doesn't excuse it.

Following Zexal I, Kaito continues to involve himself with the struggle against the Barians, and while most of it is with the understanding he's avenging the damage done to his family, it’s also in part avenging the damage he did to Yuma, Ryouga, and the many other people he’s laid a hand on. The idea that a character or a person needs to wear their guilt and redemption on their sleeve at every second is unreasonable. I also think it’s important to recognize that atonement isn’t just justice or forgiveness; Kaito, for example, never once asks for forgiveness, nor apologizes verbally. Instead, he shows up. He's there when he has to be and does exactly what he needs to do, because his actions are going to be worth more than his words are going to be. Kaito has always been and is always going to be someone who is going to act, not speak. Zexal I Kaito isn’t showing up to help handle the gang in the first few episodes of Zexal II. Zexal I Kaito isn’t taking Yuma’s place against Mizael in the duel in the sphere field. While Kaito continues to have alternate and additional motivation for his own newfound focus, he does not do these things for his ambition’s sake only. Anytime accountability and Kaito’s treatment of his allies is brought up, I think it’s also very telling when some things are excluded, like how he pivots the entire project with Chris in the Arctic into getting Yuma sent to Astral World instead of them in order to reunite with Astral is largely overlooked. Another example is his complete turnaround behavior towards Gauche and Droite both in Spartan City, going as far to recognize how strong of a duelist and person Droite is when Gauche is possessed by Alito and that Droite is the only person suited for that duel despite him being seemingly such an asshole towards her in Zexal I. Hell, Kaito’s treatment of Ryouga is far different in one half to another, he goes from reducing Ryouga down to a waste of his time and just another punk who wants a piece of him to respecting him in his own weird little way where he has to pick a fight with him. We've all seen Zexal I, we've seen how Kaito truly treats people he doesn't like. --- I like to look at Kaito through the lens of rejection because loneliness is such a key portion of his character. I feel like focusing on those wrongs doubles down on the theme that’s in place. Kaito has hurt people. But he recognizes that, verbalizes it when he calls himself hell bound even, so he will continue to do better by those people."

THIS IS WHY IM HIS BIGGEST APOLOGIST

I just think he's so interesting, I wanna talk about him being a piece of shit because he IS, how mean he was to Yuma in I says a lot, but he's not THAT much of a piece of shit by the end, his development isn't overwhelmingly apparent, much like most rivals in the franchise, but it's VERY there

12. the unpopular character that you actually like and why more people should like them

SPECTRE!!!!! I LITERALLY HAVE PIECES FOR HIS WIG AND HAVE HAD THEM FOR A YEAR NOW!!!!!!!!!!!

I was AMAZED once to find out that people didn’t like Spectre because Spectre is so standout and fascinating. I HATE how he's boiled down to being creepy or "what happened to Aoi in their duel"-

Before it plummeted to hell, I got a tweet on my Twitter fyp from an rp acct that was like “like this if you hate spectre” and it had ~35 likes so I had to be cheeky and tweeted "what's it like to have bad taste" gjdsakldgskajg My one time with a mean streak..........

Genuinely though, what’s it like to not have taste, he's a freak, it's on purpose, I'd die for Spec

#THANK YOU SONNY #this was a RIDE #asks #answered

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i-rate-horse-games · 2 months

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starshine legacy playthrough part 1

level 1

dang these graphics are CRISP!!! this was a CD rom game??? jealous!!!

i did in fact think there was an award for “Dyke” in there

got confused because i thought the massive stairway landing counted as a floor

wow we have to explicitly demonstrate that we’re not like the other girls?? dang

HAHA showed our guts by winning at a horrible game of tag

wow ?,,, uhh, already foiled an attempt at framing the book girl… what kind of horrible school is this…

level 2 - jorvik stables

the music and ambiance is so cool and spooky and sad and mysterious

alright i tried every door in this courtyard trying to find linda and one opened so i thought i’d finally found it but . i can’t go anywhere in the arena i ended up at so i guess i haven’t found The Stables yet. rip

ah. found the door. i just hadn’t done the dialogue all the way

OH SHIT DEPRESSED HORSIE??

DEPRESSED HORSIE CAN TALK?? WHAT THE HELL

don’t worry girlie just believe in urself and riding a horse for the first time since ur injury won’t be a problem!!” last time i rode i got thrown off for the 7th time and got a concussion lmao this game knows me too well

nooooo why are they letting the transfer student get right in the saddle no questions asked

“you’ll hit the ground faster than i can say ‘white trash princess’!”

“i thought i was the white trash princess…”

ah shoot i got stuck trying to dismount and accidentally did a gesture on my touchpad that works as a back button. didn’t know it could do that

i could have sworn it said starshine would only jump if he was in a gallop, but we are clearly cantering.. odd

lisa is very carefree about what side she mounts and dismounts from

casually “hey kid! you rode the horse good! i bet you have superpowers!”

“oh i might have superpowers? lemme try this” [instantly is able to use powers on command] lisa is just built different

wow!! lisa’s ringtone is Awful!!

level 3 - the library

linda tells us to meet her at the school library after hours? book girl being a rulebreaker? way to go!

hehe the janitor humming

“i was afraid the janitor wouldn’t let you in!” so we could have just talked to him? instead of sneaking around?

mr sands is a vampire?? mr sands is immortal??

whoa starshine is immortal too?? you would think all immortals would know each other by now

level 4 where is starshine?

whoa the nighttime ambiance at the stables is so great there’s huge stars and HAHAH THERE’S THE SPOOKY LADY VOCALS I KNOW!! WOOOHOOO HELLO SPOOKY LADY

now which one of those hired arms wrote the location of their secret base on a prominently branded matchbox and left it at the scene of their crime??

sabine: “omg you can’t go after them, the parents and teachers will hate it!! so instead i’m locking you in the stable overnight. this is a good plan.”

i accidentally clipped through the floor of the watery basement sdjfksjdfhkjdfh

“we need to find a way out of the stables!!” i think i’m out haha

“i think it’s better if i go alone” no it isn’t??? hello???

[edit from the future - i now understand that lisa went alone so that her friends wouldn’t be put in the uncomfortable situation of having to report her extensive property damage and trespassing crimes]

level 5 - the industrial complex

ok we’re just breaking in . by walking in huge pipes! great! awesome! there’s those spooky lady vocals again!

oops i didn’t even notice the searchlight got me. very nice of the game to just calmly fade to black when we get spotted instead of jumpscaring me

we just exploded a huge pipe!!! awesome!

we are now walking through said huge pipe which we just exploded by buildup of steam internally! and not getting burned!

uhhhh

i don’t know where i’m supposed to be going but there’s a star down there soooo

I SHOULD NOT BE HERE????????

well if you leap into the water you only go back to the start of the water so that’s nice

OH WHAT THE HELL????????

this is a really fun escape scene but uh we fell . through the floor, it just disappeared. these are my True Powers..

rats now i gotta do it all over again

i love how there’s no falling animation, she just chillin

oh man i got so into that level that i let my laptop battery die for the first time ever… luckily it managed to save my progress somehow and i didn’t have to start the level over for the third time

something i like about star stable franchise is how the game is less Horse Game and more Game heavily involving Horses, plot takes place surrounded by horses, which is fun

level 6 - the woods

at first i was like “i dunno, lisa, this looks like a pretty safe trail” but then it just kept getting WORSE and WORSE and OHHHH MANNNNN !!! WE SHOULD NOT HAVE BEEN JUMPING THOSE CLIFFS

level 7 - the competition

surprised that the snobby rich girl is our friend and on our side now? guess our gang has a common enemy in sabine. way to go girl! unity!

ok that was really fun!! looking forward to playing the rest of the episodes!!

part 2

#starshine legacy #horse game #not a rating

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popculturebuffet · 11 months

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Beetlemania: Dan Garret (Mystery Men Comics #16, Blue Beetle V1 #15)

Hello all you happy people and welcome one and all to beetlemania, patreon Brotoman.EXE's brilliant idea; use his patreon reviews for the next few months, take some time off robuts in disguise and onto those boys in blue, the unsung heroes of the dcu, and those who don't know when to give up: The Blue Beetles, covering all three up until the premire of the sparkly new movie in August. This WAS supposed to take up the summer, but with June being a mess thanks to my move, your getting two beetles this month, and then Jamie next month, along with a review of the film once I sees it. It's an ode to two heroes I love dearly.. and a chance to get to know one a lot better That one is Dan Garret and out of the three boys in blue, he's the only one I hadn't read ANY of going into this: I've read a ton of ted appearnces inclduing most of JLI and a chunk of his DC solo and all of the legendary John Rogers run for Jamie that kicked off the character, as well as a smidgen of his rebirth run. This isn't really the characters fault, but more DC Comics. See for those unaware while the beetle is a dc character NOW he has a bit of a complicated publishing history. Beetle started out under Victor S. Fox's Fox Comics. Fox.. was one heck of a character in himself, having been quoted as stomping around going "I'M THE KING OF COMICS I'M THE KING OF COMICS, I'M THE KING OF COMICS" and infamously making up Kooba cola, a soft drink that never existed but was still promoted in his comics and is refrenced rentelessly on atop the fourth wall. Fox was kinda nuts but he manged to still turn out a big star... which weirdly wasn't Stardust the Super Wizard, an actual character I just found out existed but have somehow never heard about and now badly need to cover. He was indeed a super wizard who watched as crime took place, for some reason did nothing, then after horrible things happened sure as hell avenged them with violence.

But since people didn't apparently want to see atomic supermen kill gangsters, Beetle became their breakout. The original Blue Beetle was Dan Garret, who definitely was a cop.

Yeah it's a shockingly common trope for superheroes, Dick Grayson also spent some time walking the beat, but it's really mostly there to set up Dan to be on the scene just in time instead of to beat up the poor, your tired, your huddled masses yearning to break free. Dan is a second generation cop and became the beetle to avenge his dad, sometimes working with a professor to give him super strength. Later it'd instead be a scarab he found after the silver age shifted dan to being an archeologist. This.. will be important later. For now though dan is flanked by two supporting characters: Joan Mason, an intrepeted reporter love intrest

And Mike Mannigan, Dan's dad's former partner and proof we need to defund the police. He's basically a comic relief grumpus who wants to catch the beetle but couldn't catch a cold and as we'll see is a bit of an asshat of all trades. Today we'll be looking at thereestories of the Beetle: The first is from Mystery Men Comic and both gives us a more typical blue beetle story.. but also has Beetle battling the nefarious crimes of Big Dix.

It's low hanging fruit and both AT4W and ComicTropes have talked about Big Dix, but frankly there's enough Dix to go around. The second is for less hilarious reasons: Brotoman wanted to spotlight Sparky, the blue beetle's sidekick, who most people don't know exist and who remained in comics limbo. Ironically neither of us realized that in the recent mini series Stargirl: The Lost Children... SPARKY CAME BACK.

Yeah. The series is about Courtney rescuting a bunch of sidekicks lost in time, all from the golden age and most being brand new, such as the Boom, daughter of jay garrick, but Sparky.. was also brought alone. He only shows up for one panel in profile, but a missing chapter of the beetle's legacy is something bound to peak ted and Jamie's intrest. So join me under the cut for some Big Dix, some small british children, and some casual racisim and sexisim! ... I don't know whY I ended on the worst part of it but come along!

The Blue Beetle versus the Nefarious Girth of Big Dix Look the name alone would be funny.. but what makes this story special is the horrifying contrast. See we have the funny name.. but Big Dix crimes are dead serious: He's selling faulty playground equipment that causes the death of several children on screen. No blood, thank god, but it's still pretty damn harrowing and not something i'm willing to show you guys. So yeah this is a story about a chlid murderer.. named big dix. Brotoman has a theory about that

Joan mason outs big dix as the biggest dix to the cops, and nearly gets killed for it, but Dan and Mike easily clean house. So now

Soon after Dan goes to get some MMMM drugs to become the blue beetle.. and we get a panel that perfectly sums up the unintentional tonal whiplash of this story

BIG DIX, MURDERER OF CHILDREN

It only gets funnier because they treat Big Dix as the biggest test Dan has ever faced, a true insurmountable wall. And as a villian Big Dix woudl work.. if it just werne't for the name. It'd be like if the Kingpin was named Testicles McGoo. It just deflates any menace you have.

After finding where Big Dix is sheathed, we get this awesome entrance

FUCK YES. Ted may have his bitchin Bug, Jamie may have his armor, but Dan Garret has a fucking mortorcycle. Paint that sucker blue and yellow and it'll join it's friends.. and the beetle buggy in valhalla.

Oh and if that wasn't enough...

Holy shit I think Dan Garret just killed a man...

I'll admit dan is just fun to watch. While he has super strength drugs and bullet proof chainmail, most of his prowess is just pure skill. He focuses more on throws and punches.. mostly throws. Seriously Dan Garret REALLY loves throwing guys.

Look ted has Genius, Jamie has armor , both of them have heart.. but none of them have the power of motorcycles and throwing motherfuckers.

The two face off and while the Beetle Can take big dix, he can't take his mortal weakness STAIRS!

And blunt force head trauma.

So after capturing jone, Big Dix plans to throw Blue BEetle out of his tower, the BIGGER DIX, but Beetle wakes up from his concussion and as his style throws another guy. Big Dix responds with gas.... for some reason, and super runs away. So beetle's response to get him and joan out of the deadly gas filled hallway before they both suffocate?

... why has DC done nothing with this man?

After a "Ray for the blue beetle!" Which.. isn't a ship I ever thought of but nice thought 1940s man, we get our destined showdown

With dan as you can see winning with his deadly THROWING PUNCH. Seriously the man can't even punch without throwing someone. Beetle wins, the world's children are safe from Big Dix, all is well. So ... this story is actually really good. While the name is hilarious, it's a genuinely fun "Superhero vs gangsters story", with Big Dix having disappearing stairs and a big tower and dan throwing people every which way. My only regret is he didn't throw anyone at the screen. Sure some of the mention of big dix can come off as

But that's entirely in hindsight. Hilarious, hilarious hindsight. As a story on it's own it's really good stuff.

Blue Beetle and Sparky Vs Some WWII Propoganda!

Now if you glanced at the covers of the original volume of the blue beetle you'd probably expect sparky's first apperance to be issue 14

For whatever reason all we get in that issue is Blue Beetle fighting the wicked looking RED ROBE OF DEATH!.. and I file that away on the rather massive pile of "Stuff I need to cover another day. " So we're onto sparky's first apperance.. which weirdly ISN'T his origin. Yeah that comes later in the comic and is kinda dry but in short: he's an orphan, he's rich, he can kick ass, as demonstrated on some toughs, and he finds out Dan's identity and asks him to train him. Mike also bafflingly reacts to this like he's seeing double here, four beetles, despite Sparky being younger, not having the chainmail cap and being an actual chlidren.

So our story begins with a splash page foreshadowing the story with nothing in it before we cut to Dan and Mike, given their latest assignment, to extradite Rob Rutter, local thug , from one state to another. They get an unexpected stoaway in sparky.. whose just here now. He's also despite his upperclaass as hell name seen in the panel way up above... a little shit.

This may be the worst thing i've seen a sidekick do. I mean if it was Dick Grayson i'd absolutely get it

But here I Mean where does it end? Will he threaten them if dan dosen't take him to mcdonalds? will he do it anyway if dan just gets a black coffee for himself as he should in response to this blackmail? Will mike be mad he dosen't get his double quarter pounder with extra cheese? These questions will forever haunt me as I doubt JSA will be answering them.

So the extradition itself goes smoothly, but on the way back your standard boiler plate "THE JAPANESE ARE BAD. IT'S OKAY TO BE RACIST AGAINST AN ENTIRE COUNTRY BECAUSE WE'RE AT WAR WITH THEM. THIS WILL NEVER LEAD TO HORRIBLE CONSEQUENCES" vilaness, who takes their gangster and leaves them with four flat tires. Mike's reaction.. is half the reason I wanted to cover this story in paticualar. Perhaps even 75%

I just.. I can't.. I just can't stop laughing at this panel. It's so agressively sexist, so grumpy, so over the top. LIke.. how much does he buy into that/ Is it just bluster? did he have a bad divorce? is he just a sexist asshat?

Or does he genuinely, 100% this in some crazy conspiracy theorist way.

"Think about it HITLER was born by a woman. If she'd just let her husband pull out there'd be no world war 2!" "Polio was made in secret womens only labs!" "Women made the mighty stegasaurs go excitnct by telling him to fix his alchol problem!" "My ex wife killed kaiser wilhelm!" "I saw a woman drive a chicken off a cliff but miraculous survivie!" "A woman cut my breaks after I dated her sister who also cut my breaks! "I saw a woman turn into a griaffe and then back into a car!" 'WWOWOOOOOMMMMEEENNNNNN" Naturally in a fit of karma not only is our heroes savior Joan whose here because the plot says so because scoops, but he falls off the back. Granted Dan casually uses the J slur so I guess EVERYONE in this car except joan is some form of asshat.

At any rate our friends find an abandoned country club. Madam Fang berates Rutter and tells them to TAKE HIM AWAY. So wait.. her whole purpose for doing this, drawing attention to herself... was just to pull a you have failed me? That's what prison shankings are for. Clumsy madam fang, real clumsy.

The Beetles plan to have Joan attentend to Mike . Thankfully before he can club her for mailing all his cats to his ex wife in canada, she's kidnapped by the villians including an awful japanese sterotype. I mean i've seen some bad stertoypes but I forgot just how next level hate mongering Golden Age racisim was. They make the poor guy look like a cromagnon and talk like jar jar binks. I .. I refuse to show it. I just do. It's gross.

So Madam Fang kills plot device gangster and plans to kill Joan and we get a fight scene. Once again the art is top notch. Not as good as the last story, the panels are a touch more crowded and the art a bit muddy (though the last part is likelyin some big part age), Sparky throws out some slurs, and Ted gets beaten by his newest arch foe.. a vase

Sparky is captured because small child

And our heroes are put in the DROWNING POOL instead of letting the bodies hit the floor. Sparky is less than optimistic

Dan however has a pretty clever fix: he got the shards of glass from the vase she broke over him... int he 40's vases were made of glass and elephant bones apparently. This allows Team Beetle Plus Sparky to get free and escape So apparently madam fang's plan is to.. cause a giant flood . She just needs a patsy. Enter mike who dosen't recognize Fang from earlier, suprising no one, and makes a racial slur. I remain not suprised as he agrees to throw a switch for her no questions asked.

Oh and it gets better... when Beetle arrives to stop her, he plans to ARREST HIM FOR DISTURBING THE PEACE.

Thankfully beetle saves the day and Mike.. never figures out the switch was a trap

The Madam Fang story wasn't nearly as good as big dix thanks to a combination of clumiser art, PLENTY of racisim, and Mike having to be so stupid the sun blots out to make this work. That being said Mike's intense stupidity makes it ENJOYABLY bad, not as much as the name big dix, but still a lot of fun. It's like Chief Wiggum because a superhero's bumbling nemisis. It's great.

So that was Dan. He'd gon on to have more adventures, getting rebooted in the silver age as an archelogist, with sparky lost to time till the lost children, and joan still lost to time, with that being the origin brought over post crisis. Next tim we'll see the man that took over him in both Charlton and DC Flavors, get more on that transition as we meet the man, the myth, the bwahahah, mr TED MOTHERFUCKING KORD. Thanks for reading

#blue beetle #dan garrett #dc comics #fox comics #sparky #kooba cola #golden age comics #sparkington j northrope #joan mason #mike manngian

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