😅 = I wrote this is long time ago and my writing was horrible
Series:
Casual - You and Steve Harrington aren’t dating. You’re not even really together. You’re just… hooking up. Secretly. Repeatedly. Stupidly. No one knows, especially not Dustin, who would combust if he found out his sister was sneaking around with his hero. Following season 4 storyline! She/Her reader!
One Shots:
After Everything ⭐️
After Everything pt 2
Russian Confessions
Consequences 🔥
Going Crazy 😅
Scientific Theories 😅
Nancy Finds Out
Stuck with Me ⭐️
Druken Nights
Series:
Beneath Rebel Skies (The Masterlist for this series is broken, but everything is tagged on my page!)
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Summary: A year and a half after the events of Spider-Man: Brand New Day, Peter Parker is finally starting to rebuild his life. Then an investigation into the newly founded Osborn Corporation puts you in his path. You’re Harry Osborn’s closest friend and employee, completely unaware of what’s being built behind closed doors. Peter is supposed to be investigating your boss, not falling for you. But the closer he gets to you, the closer he gets to the truth - and keeping you out of it might be the one thing he can’t do.
Warnings: She/Her reader. Adult themes, cursing, fighting, blood, and will probably get a tad bit dark as the series continues! Will also eventually have NSFW content sprinkled in
Word Count: 6,747
Previous Chapter
“You stole evidence.”
Peter stared at MJ from across the kitchen table.
“I temporarily relocated evidence.”
MJ’s expression didn’t change.
“That’s stealing.”
“It’s not stealing if I give it back.”
“Did the police tell you that you could take it?”
Peter glanced toward Ned.
Ned was sitting beside him with a screwdriver in one hand and a slice of pizza in the other, watching the conversation with the sort of expression that told Peter he had absolutely no intention of getting involved unless it became entertaining.
Peter pointed toward him. “You understand what I mean.”
Ned stopped chewing.
He looked at the broken device spread across his dining room table, then at Peter, before finally looking toward MJ.
“I mean, legally?”
Peter’s shoulders dropped.
“Why would you start with legally?”
“Because she asked if it was stealing.”
“I asked you to back me up.”
“You didn’t specify how.”
MJ’s mouth twitched as she reached for the soda sitting beside her laptop. “Good talk.”
Peter sighed and returned his attention to the device.
Ned and MJ’s apartment had somehow become the place they always ended up.
Peter had his own apartment, technically, although calling it an apartment sometimes felt generous. It was larger than the place he had lived in before, which mostly meant he could walk from his bed to the kitchen without hitting anything, but it still had exactly one chair that didn’t wobble and a refrigerator that made a noise Peter had been meaning to investigate for six months.
Ned’s place had a couch.
And food.
And, more importantly, Ned and MJ.
That part had taken some getting used to.
There had been a time when sitting at a table with the two of them had felt so normal that Peter never imagined he could lose it. Then, for years, he had carried every memory of them alone, knowing that somewhere there were two people living lives that had once included him and no longer did.
Now they were here.
Not the same, but good.
MJ sat on the counter across from him with one leg crossed over the other, scrolling through something on her laptop while Ned leaned so close to the exposed circuitry that Peter eventually reached over and pushed his forehead backward with two fingers.
MJ looked up from her laptop. “So this, this did something to your powers?”
Peter’s smile faded.
He picked up one of the smaller components with a pair of tweezers, turning it beneath the kitchen light. “It shut them down.”
Ned’s expression immediately became more serious.
“All of them?”
“Not completely, and not for long. Maybe ten seconds, fifteen at most.” Peter set the component down carefully. “My spider-sense went first, then my strength dropped. My hearing, reflexes, everything else followed.”
MJ lowered the laptop.
“So for fifteen seconds, you were basically...”
“Me.”
Her eyebrows pulled together.
He looked back at the device.The strangest part wasn’t losing his strength. It wasn’t even losing his spider-sense, although he really could have gone the rest of his life without experiencing that again.
It was how vulnerable he had felt without them.
Peter had spent so many years learning how to live inside a body that could hear too much, feel too much, break things if he wasn’t careful, that he had forgotten what it was like to exist without constantly adjusting himself to the world around him.
For ten seconds, he has felt…fragile.
Ned leaned his elbows against the table. “And we’re sure it came from Osborn?”
Peter slid the broken casing toward him.
The logo was still visible.
“Pretty sure.”
MJ had already started typing.
Peter watched the Osborn Corporation website load across her screen, the green-and-black logo appearing above a rotating series of images showing laboratories, solar fields, medical equipment and, eventually, Harry Osborn standing beside what looked like a senator.
Peter frowned.
“I’ve seen that guy.”
Ned looked at him. “Harry Osborn?”
“Yeah.”
“Everybody’s seen Harry Osborn.”
Peter glanced over.
Ned shrugged. “He’s, like, rich-rich.”
“Very insightful.”
“Thank you.”
MJ scrolled. “He’s also twenty-four.”
Ned leaned closer.
“Okay, now I hate him.”
Peter laughed. “Because he’s twenty-four?”
“Because hes twenty four and owns a company. I’m 24 and I forgot to pay the electric bill last month.”
MJ ignored them. “Osborn Corporation was founded twenty-two months ago, but it looks like it’s technically a re-founding. His father owned the original company.”
Peter was still looking at Harry’s picture. “Who was his dad?”
“Norman Osborn.”
Peter stopped.
The reaction was small enough that Ned might not have noticed it if he hadn’t known to look for those things now.
MJ did.
Her eyes lifted from the screen.
Peter stared at the name.
Norman Osborn.
It had been years since he had heard it spoken out loud, but memory didn’t seem particularly interested in time.
For half a second he could smell smoke.
He remembered broken glass beneath his knees, May’s blood on his hands and a man smiling at him with a face that had looked so painfully human despite everything living behind it.
Norman’s on sabbatical, honey.
Peter blinked.
“Pete?”
Ned’s voice pulled him back.
Peter rubbed his thumb against the edge of the table.
“Sorry.”
MJ watched him carefully. “You know that name.”
“Not this one.”
Neither of them spoke.
Peter looked between them.
There were parts of his life they knew about now, stories he had slowly given back to them over the last year and a half. He hadn’t told them everything. He didn’t know if he ever would.
But they knew enough about the multiverse.
Enough about May.
“There was another Norman Osborn,” Peter said quietly. “One of the people who came through before Strange fixed everything.”
Ned’s expression shifted. “Was he...?”
“Yeah.”
Peter didn’t need to finish.
MJ looked back at the screen, her movements slower now as she clicked into an older article.
“This Norman died seven years ago.”
Peter leaned closer.
A photograph appeared beneath the headline, showing a man who looked nothing like the Norman Peter remembered. He was older, graying slightly around the temples, with one hand resting against the shoulder of a much younger Harry.
The headline underneath made something tighten in Peter’s chest.
OSBORN INDUSTRIES FOUNDER AMONG SEVENTEEN KILLED DURING AVENGERS-RELATED MANHATTAN ATTACK
Ned stopped eating.
MJ read quietly for a few moments. “Building collapse during a fight. Harry was nineteen.”
Peter’s eyes moved toward the picture again.
Nineteen.
There was something about knowing the age that made it worse.
At nineteen, Peter had already lost more people than he knew what to do with, but that didn’t mean he had ever gotten good at it. He knew what it was like to sit in the aftermath of something superheroes had been involved in and wish desperately that someone had made a different choice.
“He rebuilt the company a few years later,” MJ continued, opening another article. “New investors, new name, new mission.”
“What mission?” Ned asked.
MJ turned the laptop slightly so they could both see.
Harry stood behind a podium beneath the Osborn logo, considerably younger than he looked in the photograph on the company website.
A quote filled the space beside him.
The world has changed. We cannot build our future around the assumption that extraordinary people will always be there to save us. Ordinary people deserve extraordinary protection too.
For a few seconds, nobody said anything.
Ned finally leaned back in his chair.
“Well.”
MJ looked at Peter. “That feels pointed.”
Peter stared at the quote.
It did.
But it also made sense.
That was the uncomfortable part.
If Peter removed himself from the equation, if he ignored the device currently sitting in pieces on the table and the fact that it had temporarily shut down every ability he had, there was nothing inherently wrong with Harry’s argument.
People shouldn’t have to wait for Spider-Man.
They shouldn’t have to hope an Avenger happened to be close enough when a building started falling.
Peter knew that better than anyone.
But there was a difference between giving ordinary people something that could protect them and building something designed to make extraordinary people powerless.
“What division did you say was printed on the casing?” MJ asked.
“Advanced Development.”
She searched the website.
Nothing.
Peter leaned toward the screen.
“Try research.”
MJ did.
Still nothing.
“Defense?”
“No.”
Ned frowned. “Maybe it’s internal.”
“It probably is,” MJ said. “Companies don't publish every department they have.”
Peter looked at the device.
That was true.
It was also boring.
And Peter had never been particularly good at accepting boring explanations when there was a potentially dangerous alternative available.
MJ slowly closed the laptop.
“No.”
Peter looked up. “What?”
“No.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were about to.”
“I wasn’t.”
“You’re doing the face.”
Peter frowned. “What face?”
Ned looked between them. “You are kind of doing the face.”
Peter turned toward him. “What face?”
“The one where your eyebrows do that.”
Peter stared at him.
Ned pointed. “That.”
“My eyebrows aren’t doing anything.”
MJ folded her arms. “You’re going to Osborn Corp.”
Peter opened his mouth.
Nothing came out.
MJ nodded. “There it is.”
“I’m not going to Osborn Corp.”
“You're thinking about going to Osborn Corp.”
Peter looked down at the table.
That was harder to deny.
“I’m thinking about looking into it.”
“Peter.”
“I’m not saying I’m going to break in.”
“Good.”
“I could just... look around.”
“From outside?”
Peter didn’t answer.
MJ sighed.
Peter leaned back in the chair, looking once more toward the broken device between them. He could understand why she thought it was a bad idea. He knew it was a bad idea.
Unfortunately, Peter had learned a long time ago that knowing something was a bad idea and deciding not to do it were two completely different skills.
“I just want to know what they’re building.”
MJ studied him for a moment. “And if Harry Osborn is building something meant to take away your powers?”
Peter’s gaze drifted back toward Harry’s picture on the laptop.
Twenty-four years old.
Father killed during an attack.
A company built around the idea that people shouldn’t have to rely on superheroes.
Peter understood more of that story than he wanted to.
“Then I need to stop it”
Peter lasted thirty-six hours before he came up with a plan.
Personally, he thought that showed tremendous restraint.
The Daily Bugle press badge hanging around his neck suggested otherwise.
He adjusted it again as he stood outside Osborn Corporation on Saturday morning, staring through the enormous glass doors while people moved through the lobby beyond them. He had been standing there for almost two full minutes now, which was long enough that he was starting to look significantly more suspicious than if he had simply walked inside.
The badge shifted against his chest.
ERIC LEETHE DAILY BUGLE
Peter looked down at it.
This was a bad idea.
Not his worst idea.
There was some fairly intense competition for that title.
But definitely bad.
The real Eric Lee was currently sitting inside a coffee shop two blocks away, arguing loudly into his phone about an editor while his visitor badge sat forgotten on the counter beside an empty sugar packet.
He pushed through the doors before he could reconsider.
The lobby was enormous in a way that felt completely unnecessary, the ceiling stretching several stories above him while sunlight poured through floor-to-ceiling windows and reflected against polished marble. Employees moved through electronic gates with the comfortable confidence of people who belonged there, carrying laptops and coffee cups while Peter immediately became aware of the fact that his nicest button-down shirt had cost twenty-eight dollars.
It was fine.
He looked normal. Probably.
“Good morning.”
Peter looked toward the reception desk.
The woman behind it smiled at him.
He smiled back.
“Hi.”
Normal. Easy.
He had fought aliens…he could speak to a receptionist.
“Guest pass?”
Peter looked down.
Right.
“Yeah. Yes.”
He pulled the badge from around his neck and handed it over.
The receptionist scanned it.
Peter watched the computer screen even though he knew that made him look suspicious.
A small green light appeared.
His shoulders relaxed.
“Perfect, Mr. Lee. You can head up to the twenty-seventh floor. Your contact should meet you there.”
Peter’s relief vanished.
“My...”
He stopped.
Of course Eric Lee had a contact.
Peter laughed softly, hoping it sounded significantly more natural than it felt. “Right. Sorry. Long morning.”
The receptionist handed the badge back. “No problem. Enjoy your tour.”
Peter nodded. “Thanks.”
He turned toward the elevators and started walking before she could say anything else, forcing himself not to speed up even though every instinct in his body was telling him to get out of sight before somebody realized the twenty-three-year-old currently impersonating Eric Lee looked absolutely nothing like a man named Eric Lee.
The elevator doors opened almost immediately.
Peter stepped inside.
Twenty-seventh floor.
He pressed the button.
The doors closed.
Peter exhaled.
“Okay.”
He looked at his reflection in the mirrored wall.
Peter straightened his shirt.
“You’re fine.”
He had done harder things than this.
Much harder.
He had fought Thanos on another planet. He had held together a ferry with webbing. He had once spent several hours pretending not to know Happy Hogan while Happy Hogan was actively staring at him like he knew Peter was hiding something.
He could pretend to be a reporter for an hour.
The elevator chimed.
Twenty-seven.
Peter immediately stopped believing himself.
The doors opened onto a long hallway lined with glass offices, each one separated by sleek black frames and small green signs identifying departments Peter had never heard of. He stepped out slowly, expecting someone to be waiting.
Nobody was.
Peter looked left.
Then right.
Still nobody.
Okay. That was either extremely lucky or the beginning of a much larger problem.
He waited several seconds before deciding not to question it.
His original plan had been fairly simple. Find Advanced Development, figure out whether there was any connection between the division and the device, then leave before anyone noticed he had been there.
In retrospect, the plan relied heavily on Osborn Corporation having helpful directories.
It did not.
Peter started walking.
The first hallway led toward conference rooms, the second toward several open laboratories. He chose the laboratories.
His senses stretched around him almost automatically as he moved, picking up pieces of conversations through closed doors and footsteps approaching long before anybody reached the corner. Peter tried not to listen too closely. It felt invasive.
Then again, he was currently walking around a private company with someone else’s press badge.
The moral high ground had been abandoned somewhere around the coffee shop.
Most of what he heard was useless.
Quarterly reports.
Someone complaining about a broken centrifuge.
A conversation about lunch.
Peter turned another corner.
The hallway was quieter here.
Unlike the open labs he had passed earlier, the doors along this section were opaque and required badge access. Peter slowed as he walked past each one, reading the small labels mounted beside them.
Materials Testing.
Restricted Storage.
Systems Integration.
Then, near the end of the hallway, he saw it.
ADVANCED DEVELOPMENT
Peter stopped.
His heartbeat picked up.
He glanced behind him.
Nobody.
Peter approached the door and tapped Eric’s badge against the reader.
Red.
Of course.
That would have been too easy.
Peter looked toward the ceiling.
Camera.
He watched it rotate slowly toward the opposite end of the hallway.
Okay.
He could work with that.
There were several ways to bypass a card reader, and Peter only needed about thirty seconds to figure out which one Osborn used.
The camera turned farther away.
Peter reached into his pocket, his fingers just brushing against the small tool he’d brought with him when a voice sounded from somewhere behind him.
“Um, excuse me? Can I help you?”
Peter froze with his hand still halfway inside his pocket.
Shit.
Slowly, he pulled it back out and turned around, already cycling through every possible excuse he could come up with for why a Daily Bugle reporter would be standing directly outside an authorized-personnel-only door with his hand suspiciously tucked into his pants.
The excuses disappeared the second he saw you.
You stood several feet away with a laptop tucked against your chest, your head turned just slightly as you studied him. You looked around his age, maybe a year older, with your hair pulled into a high ponytail and a few loose pieces framing your face like they had escaped sometime during the morning and you hadn’t bothered fixing them. Dark trousers and a fitted top made you look professional without having that overly polished corporate look Peter had seen on half the people downstairs, and small silver earrings caught beneath the overhead lights when you shifted your weight.
Peter noticed all of that within maybe two seconds.
He also noticed that you were pretty.
Really pretty, actually, which felt like an unfair complication considering he was currently trespassing inside your workplace while pretending to be a man he had never met.
“Uh, I was just...” Peter started, his voice trailing off as his brain apparently decided that now, of all times, would be a good opportunity to stop functioning.
He was better than this. He had spent years sneaking into buildings he wasn’t supposed to be in, lying to criminals who would happily kill him if they realized who he was, and pretending to know exactly what he was doing in situations where he absolutely did not. He had stared down aliens, assassins and people significantly more terrifying than the woman standing in front of him now, and somehow a simple can I help you? had reduced him to staring at you like he had never spoken to another person before.
Your gaze dropped briefly toward his chest, and Peter followed it before remembering the guest badge currently hanging around his neck.
Right.
The fake identity.
Your eyes returned to his face. “Eric Lee?”
There was something underneath your voice when you said it, so subtle that Peter wondered if he would have even noticed it before the spider bite. The faintest hint of amusement sat beneath the otherwise polite question, and when your mouth pulled into a small smile, he had the strange feeling that he had missed something important.
“From the Bugle, right?”
“Oh.” Peter glanced down at the badge as though he needed to confirm it himself before quickly looking back at you. “Yeah. Yeah, that’s me.”
His voice cracked slightly on the last word.
Fantastic.
He cleared his throat and stepped forward, holding out his hand because shaking hands seemed like something a reporter meeting a professional contact would probably do, and Peter was suddenly very invested in behaving exactly like a reporter meeting a professional contact.
“Nice to meet you, uh...?”
“Y/N.”
You shifted the laptop into your other arm and reached forward, your hand slipping into his.
Peter had shaken approximately thousands of hands in his lifetime.
Probably.
Maybe not thousands, but enough that there was absolutely no reason for him to become this aware of one now.
Still, he noticed the warmth of your palm against his and the way your fingers curled briefly around his before letting go, and by the time Peter remembered that he was supposed to respond, he had already been holding your hand for slightly longer than necessary.
“Y/N,” he repeated, dropping his hand quickly back to his side.
A small smile appeared on your face. “Sorry about this. I swear I told reception to call me when you got here so I could meet you in the lobby.”
Peter stared at you for half a second before the implication settled.
You were Eric Lee’s contact.
Of course you were.
“Oh, don’t worry about it,” he said, forcing out a laugh that sounded painfully fake even to him. “I found my way.”
Your eyes flickered toward the restricted door behind him.
“I can see that.”
Peter’s stomach dropped.
There was that tiny smile again, almost too small to catch, but before he could decide what it meant, you looked back at him and adjusted the laptop beneath your arm.
“I was actually going to grab coffee before we started, but since you’re already up here, I can show you around first if you want?”
Peter blinked.
“Yes,” he answered immediately, then winced at how eager he sounded. “I mean, yeah. That would be great.”
“Perfect.”
You turned and started down the hallway, leaving Peter to stand there for half a second wondering how exactly he had gotten away with that before hurrying to follow.
For the first few moments neither of you said anything, and with the immediate threat of being escorted out of the building apparently gone, Peter became painfully aware of what he was doing with his hands. Leaving them at his sides felt unnatural, folding his arms felt defensive and keeping one anywhere near the pocket he had just been caught reaching into seemed like a terrible idea, so eventually he gave up and shoved both hands into his pockets anyway.
You glanced sideways at him.
Peter pretended not to notice.
“So,” you said as you continued down the hallway, “how familiar are you with Osborn Corp?”
Finally, something he could actually answer without lying through his teeth.
“A little. Clean energy, medical technology, aerospace research. Some defense contracts.”
Your eyebrows lifted slightly. “Someone did their homework.”
Peter smiled, feeling the first bit of tension leave his shoulders. “I try.”
At least that part was true.
You pushed through a set of glass doors and Peter followed you into one of the open laboratories he had passed earlier, although walking through it with someone who actually belonged there gave him permission to look properly this time.
He slowed almost immediately.
The room was impressive, even by Peter’s admittedly high standards. Workstations stretched across the open space, most of them covered with pieces of equipment he desperately wanted to pick up and inspect, while several large displays rotated through digital models of batteries, prosthetics and materials he didn’t immediately recognize. Scientists moved around the room in small groups, carrying tablets and samples between stations without paying much attention to either of you, and Peter’s eyes moved from one project to another so quickly that he almost forgot he was supposed to be pretending this was normal to him.
“You can look around,” you said.
Peter glanced over. “Oh, I am.”
That little smile appeared again.
Peter smiled back before he could stop himself.
You continued walking, explaining that most of the floor was dedicated to applied research, projects far enough along that Osborn could comfortably show them to journalists and investors without handing out nondisclosure agreements before anyone entered the room.
“The less interesting stuff,” you added.
Peter looked toward a robotic prosthetic hand flexing inside a testing chamber, each individual finger curling with almost unnervingly natural precision. “This is the less interesting stuff?”
“According to Harry.”
The name immediately pulled Peter’s attention away from the display.
“Harry Osborn?”
You nodded as you continued toward the next station. “He gets bored easily.”
Peter fell into step beside you. “You know him?”
You glanced at him, and Peter heard his own question a second too late. It had come out considerably more interested than a casual reporter probably should have been.
“I mean personally,” he added, trying and failing to make the clarification sound natural.
“Yeah. I’ve known him for a while.”
Something about the ease in your answer caught Peter’s attention. There was no careful corporate phrasing or pause before you said Harry’s name, nothing that made him sound like the distant CEO whose picture appeared in the lobby downstairs. Whoever Harry Osborn was to you, Peter was almost certain it went beyond simply signing your paychecks.
You stopped beside another display, this one centered around a small rectangular energy cell surrounded by diagrams Peter immediately started reading.
“This is one of ours,” you explained. “It’s an emergency power system for medical equipment. The goal is to keep critical devices running during outages without having to rely entirely on hospital generators.”
Peter leaned closer, his attention immediately catching on the material surrounding the cell.
“Graphene composite?”
You stopped.
Peter realized his mistake about half a second too late.
When he looked over, you were staring at him.
“What?”
He straightened slightly. “Uh, the casing.”
Your eyes narrowed, not quite suspiciously, but with enough curiosity that Peter knew he had said something unusual. “How did you know that?”
His brain scrambled for an answer that sounded remotely appropriate for someone who was supposedly here to write a newspaper article rather than someone who had spent most of his life taking apart technology just to figure out how it worked.
“I read the patent.”
“You read our patent?”
“Some of it.”
There was a brief pause before the corner of your mouth twitched. “Huh.”
You started walking again, and Peter immediately caught up beside you.
“Is that weird?”
“Most reporters just ask if it explodes.”
Peter looked back at the energy cell. “Does it?”
“Only on Tuesdays.”
He turned toward you.
Your expression was perfectly serious, so serious that Peter almost believed you until the corner of your mouth lifted again.
A laugh escaped him before he could stop it, a real one this time, and something warm flickered across your expression as you looked away.
That was probably the exact moment the whole thing became a problem.
Peter had come to Osborn Corporation because someone had built technology capable of temporarily stripping away almost every ability he had. He was supposed to be paying attention to security systems and department names, listening for anything that might connect Harry Osborn to the device currently sitting dismantled on Ned’s dining room table.
Instead, somewhere between the prosthetics lab and a materials-testing station, Peter realized he was having fun.
It wasn’t just because you were funny, although you were, or because he found himself noticing your smile every time it appeared, which he was trying very hard not to think about. You actually understood what you were showing him, maybe not at the level of the scientists working behind the glass, but enough that Peter could ask a real question without immediately being redirected toward some polished company talking point. Whenever he asked something you didn’t know, you simply admitted it and then turned the question back on him, curious about what he thought in a way that made it very difficult for Peter to remember that he was supposed to know significantly less than he did.
That was how the two of you somehow ended up standing beside the same materials display for almost ten minutes.
“If you changed the bonding agent, you could probably fix the temperature issue,” Peter said, leaning slightly toward the rotating model. “The polymer itself isn’t really the problem. It’s the way the layers are reacting when they expand, so if you changed the ratio and used a thinner internal layer, theoretically you could keep most of the durability without...”
His voice slowly trailed off.
You were looking at him.
Peter swallowed. “What?”
Your head tilted slightly, that familiar hint of amusement returning. “You really like science.”
It wasn’t a question.
Peter glanced back toward the display, suddenly aware that he had spent the last several minutes explaining polymer expansion like someone who absolutely did not spend his days writing newspaper articles.
“Yeah,” he admitted.
“It’s weird though, you don’t write like a science reporter.”
His eyes snapped back toward you.
There it was again.
Peter couldn’t decide whether you were teasing him or testing him, and the fact that he genuinely couldn’t read you was beginning to bother him almost as much as it interested him.
“Do you read my stuff?”
The question left his mouth before his brain could stop it.
Immediately, Peter regretted it.
Your smile widened. “Should I?”
“No.” He paused. “I mean, yeah. If you want.”
Why was he like this?
You rescued him from having to make the answer worse by turning toward the next hallway, and Peter followed with a silent promise to himself that from this moment forward he was going to remember who he was supposed to be.
Eric Lee. Daily Bugle reporter.
Definitely not Peter Parker, science nerd.
He lasted maybe four minutes.
By the time you reached the quieter section of the floor again, Peter had almost forgotten why he was there, and the realization pulled his attention toward the restricted hallway somewhere around the corner.
He needed something useful.
The tour had given him plenty of information about Osborn Corporation, but nothing that explained how a prototype carrying their logo had ended up strapped to a man who could temporarily shut down Spider-Man.
“So what about Advanced Development?” he asked, carefully watching your reaction.
Your steps slowed.
Only slightly, but Peter noticed.
You turned your head toward him. “Advanced Development?”
“Yeah. I saw it mentioned while I was researching the company.”
Research had become a remarkably useful excuse.
You adjusted the laptop against your chest. “What did you see?”
“Not much. Just the name.”
For a moment, you studied him.
Peter held your gaze, trying his best to look like a perfectly normal reporter asking a perfectly normal question despite the fact that his heartbeat had picked up slightly.
“I don’t know much about it,” you said eventually.
Peter listened.
Your heartbeat changed.
Barely.
It didn’t immediately mean you were lying. Peter knew that. People’s heart rates changed for dozens of reasons, and using his senses to judge whether someone was telling the truth had always felt a little too invasive for his liking.
Still, he noticed.
“It’s mostly Harry’s department,” you continued. “He oversees a lot of the projects personally.”
That was useful.
Very useful.
Peter tried to keep the interest off his face. “What kind of projects?”
You looked at him.
He offered what he hoped was an innocent smile.
You smiled back, although this one was noticeably more professional than the others. “If I knew that, I’m pretty sure telling a Daily Bugle reporter would get me fired.”
“Worth a shot.”
Your professional smile cracked into something real again, and Peter had the extremely unhelpful thought that he liked that one better.
The tour continued for another ten minutes before you finally checked the time on your phone and winced slightly. “I should probably get you downstairs.”
Peter looked toward the nearest window, surprised to realize just how long he had been inside the building.
“Oh, yeah. Sure.”
There was a strange flicker of disappointment beneath the answer that Peter immediately ignored.
He had gotten something.
Advanced Development existed, and Harry personally oversaw it. That was enough to justify coming back another night when he could actually get inside the restricted area, preferably wearing a mask and significantly less likely to get distracted by the woman showing him around.
You led him toward the elevator bank and pressed the call button, and for the first time since the tour began, a noticeable silence settled between you.
Peter suddenly wanted to fill it.
He just couldn’t think of anything to say.
The elevator arrived a few seconds later and the two of you stepped inside. You pressed the button for the lobby while Peter leaned lightly against the wall beside you, watching the numbers begin dropping above the doors and wondering why the ride suddenly felt much quieter than it should.
Twenty-six.
Twenty-five.
Twenty-four.
“So, Eric.”
Peter looked toward you.
You had turned to face him fully now, your laptop tucked against one arm and that tiny, almost-too-innocent smile sitting at the corner of your mouth.
“Yeah?”
“How are your wife and kids doing?”
Peter went completely still.
You didn’t give him enough time to answer.
“I heard your youngest just got married the other day.”
For one long second, Peter simply stared at you.
Then everything clicked into place.
The amused look when you read his badge. The way you had watched him stumble through the introduction. Someone did their homework. The questions about his articles. Every tiny smile Peter had noticed and dismissed over the last hour suddenly rearranged themselves into something painfully obvious.
You knew.
You had known the entire time.
“Listen, I can explain.”
“Don’t bother.”
You turned back toward the elevator doors, but Peter could see the smile you were trying to hide.
His mouth fell open slightly.
The elevator chimed before you could answer, the doors sliding open onto the lobby.
You gestured politely toward the exit. “After you.”
Peter stepped out, mostly because he had absolutely no idea what else he was supposed to do, and immediately looked toward the security desk.
Nobody moved.
There were no guards waiting for him, no police officers walking through the front doors, not even an irritated receptionist coming over to confiscate his very stolen visitor badge.
You walked straight past him.
Peter frowned and followed.
You passed reception, continued through the security gates and headed directly toward the front of the building without slowing down, leaving Peter increasingly confused with every step.
He had expected you to turn him in.
At the very least, he had expected somebody to escort him outside.
Instead, you pushed through the glass doors and stepped onto the sidewalk like the entire last hour had been perfectly normal.
Peter hurried after you.
“So,” you said casually, still walking, “what’s your real name?”
Peter took a longer step until he was beside you.
He should lie.
That was almost definitely the intelligent thing to do.
You worked for the company he was actively investigating, and giving you his real name after sneaking inside under someone else’s identity was the sort of decision Ned would spend an unreasonable amount of time making fun of him for later.
Peter knew all of that.
“Peter.”
Apparently knowing it wasn’t enough.
“Peter Parker.”
You nodded once. “Hmm.”
Peter glanced at you. “That’s it?”
“What were you expecting?”
“I don’t know.”
You stopped just outside the glass doors and turned toward him. “Well, Peter Parker, it was lovely meeting you. I hope you enjoyed your tour.”
Peter stared at you.
That was it?
You started to turn back toward the building.
“Wait.”
You looked over your shoulder.
“You’re not going to report me?”
Your head tilted slightly. “For what?”
Peter looked at the enormous Osborn logo visible through the glass behind you before turning back. “Trespassing?”
“Trespassing?” Your eyebrows pulled together with such convincing confusion that if Peter hadn’t spent the last hour learning exactly what your amused face looked like, he might have believed you. “I don’t remember you trespassing.”
Peter’s own eyebrows furrowed.
You shifted slightly on your left leg, “Harry is a huge advocate for giving tours to college students interested in science and technology, and if I remember correctly, you called me earlier this week asking if you could come in.”
Peter stared.
“And,” you continued, the corner of your mouth lifting, “I must have forgotten to officially log you into the system.”
Understanding slowly settled across his face.
You were covering for him.
“But why?”
For a moment, you simply looked at him, and Peter watched some of the playful performance fade from your expression. You were still smiling, but it was softer now, warm enough that something strange shifted low in his stomach.
“To be honest,” you admitted, “I thought it was kind of entertaining watching you pretend to be Mr. Lee.”
Peter laughed before he could stop himself. “So you knew the whole time?”
“Pretty much.”
“How?”
You stared at him like the answer should have been obvious.
Peter waited.
“Eric Lee is fifty-three.”
The smile disappeared from Peter’s face.
You laughed.
Not the quiet little laugh he had managed to pull from you upstairs, but a real one this time, your shoulders shaking slightly as Peter stared at you in horror.
“He’s fifty-three?”
“He has three kids.”
“Oh my God.”
“One of whom did, in fact, just get married.”
Peter covered his face with one hand, and your laughter only got worse.
Peter stared at you.
You smiled back.
And somewhere in the middle of standing outside a company he had just infiltrated while being mocked by someone who probably had every right to have him arrested, Peter realized he liked you.
It wasn’t dramatic. There was no ridiculous bolt of certainty, no sudden realization that this stranger meant something important, and definitely no part of Peter that was stupid enough to start attaching words like fate to a woman he had known for approximately one hour.
He just liked you.
He liked that you had figured him out almost immediately but let him keep going anyway, apparently deciding that watching him struggle his way through being Eric Lee was significantly more entertaining than calling security. He liked the way you asked questions when you didn’t understand something instead of pretending you already knew the answer, and how quickly the professional smile disappeared whenever he managed to make you laugh.
Mostly, Peter liked the way you were looking at him now, openly amused but not unkind, like the two of you had somehow ended up sharing a joke he hadn’t realized he was part of until five minutes ago.
“So you just give tours to random guys you catch breaking into corporate office?” he asked.
“You weren’t breaking in.”
Peter smiled. “This feels like a pretty terrible security policy.”
You laughed softly, and Peter found himself smiling again despite the fact that he had every reason not to.
You glanced toward the glass doors behind you. “I should actually get back before somebody realizes my fifteen-minute coffee break turned into an hour-long tour.”
“Right.”
You took a step backward. “Try not to steal anybody else’s identity today.”
“I didn’t steal his identity.”
You gave him a look.
Peter sighed. “Okay.”
You turned toward the doors.
Peter watched you walk away, his attention following you for several steps before something in his chest tugged strangely enough that his mouth moved before his brain had decided what he wanted.
“Y/N?”
You turned around.
Peter opened his mouth.
Nothing came out.
Great.
Again.
You waited, one eyebrow lifting slightly.
Peter realized he had been staring.
“Thanks.”
Your expression softened. “For the tour?”
He shoved his hands into his pockets. “For not having me arrested.”
Your smile changed again, losing some of the teasing edge it had carried for most of the last ten minutes.
“Anytime, Peter Parker.”
Then you turned and disappeared through the glass doors.
Peter stayed where he was for longer than he wanted to admit, staring through the entrance until someone trying to walk around him muttered something irritated under their breath.
Right.
He should probably leave.
Peter finally started down the sidewalk, and he had barely reached the corner when his phone buzzed inside his pocket.
NED: alive?
Peter smiled as he pulled it out.
PETER: yes
The typing bubble appeared almost immediately.
NED: did you find anything?
Peter slowed.
He had.
Advanced Development existed, and Harry personally oversaw it. Whatever they were working on inside that department was secret enough that you either didn’t know the details or weren’t willing to tell a reporter about them, and considering what the prototype had done to Peter less than two days ago, those were important things to know.
Things he should currently be thinking about.
Instead, his mind supplied the image of you leaning against the elevator wall with that tiny, knowing smile.
How are your wife and kids doing?
Peter smiled.
He made it several steps before realizing he was doing it.
His mouth flattened immediately.
No.
He glanced back toward Osborn Corporation despite himself, and through the massive glass windows he could just barely make you out crossing the lobby, your ponytail swaying behind you as you disappeared farther into the building.
Nope.
Absolutely not.
His phone buzzed again.
NED: peter???
Peter looked back down.
PETER: yeah
His fingers hovered over the screen for a moment before he added:
PETER: i found something
He hit send and shoved the phone back into his pocket, forcing himself to turn away from the building before his brain could invent another perfectly reasonable excuse to keep looking.
He had gotten what he came for.
A connection to Harry Osborn, a secret division, and enough information to justify coming back.
Summary: A year and a half after the events of Spider-Man: Brand New Day, Peter Parker is finally starting to rebuild his life. Then an investigation into the newly founded Osborn Corporation puts you in his path. You’re Harry Osborn’s closest friend and employee, completely unaware of what’s being built behind closed doors. Peter is supposed to be investigating your boss, not falling for you. But the closer he gets to you, the closer he gets to the truth - and keeping you out of it might be the one thing he can’t do.
Warnings: She/Her reader. Adult themes, cursing, fighting, blood, and will probably get a tad bit dark as the series continues! Will also eventually have NSFW content sprinkled in
Word Count: 2,289
Peter felt the shift in the air about half a second before the car came flying toward him.
Which, really, was becoming an annoyingly normal thing to sense on a Thursday night.
His head snapped toward the screech of twisting metal just as the sedan lifted completely off the pavement, headlights flashing across the brick buildings lining either side of the street. Peter barely had enough time to mutter a quiet, “Oh, come on,” before he pushed himself off the wall, dropping several feet before his wrist flicked instinctively toward the fire escape above him.
Webbing shot from his palm.
It still felt weird sometimes.
Not bad weird. Just... weird.
For years, the familiar thwip had come from something he built himself, cartridges tucked beneath his suit and web-shooters strapped around his wrists. Now his body apparently handled that part for him, which would have been incredibly convenient if Peter wasn’t still mildly disturbed by it.
The web caught against the fire escape and Peter swung beneath the sedan with barely a foot to spare, feeling the rush of displaced air skim over his head before the car crashed into the empty intersection behind him with a violent crunch of metal.
He twisted around on the web and stared down at the man responsible.
“Okay,” Peter called, because apparently getting older had done absolutely nothing to improve his ability to shut up during a fight. “I feel like throwing cars is a pretty big escalation from robbing an armored truck.”
The man didn’t answer.
Of course he didn’t.
They never wanted to talk when Peter actually wanted them to.
He dropped from the web, landing in a crouch on the roof of the armored truck the man had been trying to pry open before Peter interrupted him. From this close, Peter could finally get a better look at whatever the hell he was wearing, and it definitely wasn’t something somebody had put together in their garage.
A black metal framework wrapped around the man’s torso and shoulders, branching down both arms before disappearing beneath thick gloves. It wasn’t bulky enough to be armor, at least not exactly, and the pieces seemed almost unnaturally fitted to his body. Every time he moved, narrow lines of blue light pulsed beneath the metal like veins.
Peter slowly straightened.
Yeah.
Definitely not homemade.
His eyes moved toward the center of the man’s chest, where a small black unit had been secured directly over his sternum.
Peter tilted his head.
“Huh.”
The man charged.
Peter’s spider-sense prickled seconds before he moved, that familiar warning spreading along the back of his neck and giving him enough time to step neatly out of the way. The man’s fist came down where Peter had been standing and punched straight through the roof of the armored truck.
Peter stared at the hole.
Then at him.
“Okay, that’s...”
The man ripped his hand free.
“...concerning.”
Another fist swung toward his head.
Peter ducked beneath it, caught the man’s wrist and twisted, intending to use his own momentum against him. Usually that worked. Peter had gotten pretty good over the years at figuring out exactly how much force he needed to use against somebody without accidentally putting them through a wall.
This time, the man barely moved.
Peter’s eyebrows pulled together beneath his mask.
“Oh.”
A metal-covered hand wrapped around his forearm.
Peter had just enough time to realize that maybe standing this close hadn’t been his best idea before the man threw him.
He went flying.
His back slammed against the side of a delivery van hard enough to dent the metal inward, knocking the air from his lungs. Peter slid down the side of it with a low groan, one hand pressing against the pavement as he tried to catch himself.
His ribs hurt but not broken.
Peter pushed himself upright as the man came toward him again, his steps heavy enough that Peter could feel each one vibrating faintly through the pavement beneath his fingertips.
He’d fought stronger.
A lot stronger.
The problem wasn’t the strength.
It was where the strength was coming from.
Peter’s gaze flicked back toward the metal framework.
The blue lights brightened every time the man moved, pulsing outward from the small unit against his chest before traveling down his arms. Some kind of power source, then. Maybe electrical, though Peter doubted it was that simple.
There was a time when something like this would have sent him straight to Mr. Stark.
Peter would have taken a hundred pictures, collected whatever pieces he could find, and shown up at the compound with approximately six thousand questions before Tony had even finished his coffee.
Peter pushed the thought aside as the man lunged again.
This time Peter was ready.
He jumped, planted one foot against the side of the van and pushed himself upward, flipping cleanly over the man’s head. His wrist snapped forward before he even landed, webbing shooting from his palm and wrapping around the man’s ankle.
Peter pulled.
The man’s leg jerked out from underneath him and he crashed face-first into the pavement.
“There we go.”
Peter landed behind him.
“See? Much better.”
The man growled.
Peter’s shoulders dropped.
“Why do you guys always do that?”
The blue lights suddenly flared.
Peter’s spider-sense exploded.
He barely had time to register the warning before something pulsed outward from the metal frame.
There was no explosion.
No bright flash.
No blast throwing him backward.
Instead, Peter felt something pass through him.
His breath caught.
For one strange second, he couldn’t understand what had happened.
Then the city disappeared.
Not literally.
He could still see it.
He could see the flickering streetlight across the road, the abandoned cars lining the intersection, the people watching from windows several stories above them.
But he couldn’t feel any of it.
The distant footsteps he normally heard without trying were gone. The faint vibration of the subway running somewhere beneath the street disappeared. He couldn’t hear the frantic heartbeat of the man twenty feet away from him, or the electricity humming through the streetlight, or the police sirens still several blocks away.
And the constant awareness at the back of his skull, the thing Peter had spent years learning to listen to, had gone completely silent.
His spider-sense.
Gone.
Peter froze.
“What the...”
The man hit him.
Peter didn’t see it coming.
That alone was terrifying.
A fist slammed across his jaw and sent him stumbling sideways. Peter instinctively threw his hands out to catch himself against the side of a car, but his palms struck the metal harder than he expected and his arms buckled.
His strength.
Not gone.
But dulled.
Significantly.
Peter stared at his hands.
A strange coldness crawled into his stomach.
The man grabbed the front of his suit.
Peter’s head snapped upward.
“Oh, shi-”
The next punch caught him directly in the stomach.
Pain tore through him, sharper than it should have been, and Peter folded forward before the man threw him across the street.
He crashed through the front window of a laundromat.
Glass shattered around him as his body slammed into a row of plastic chairs, taking two of them down before his shoulder collided painfully with the base of a dryer.
For a moment, Peter just stayed there.
His ears rang.
His ribs definitely hurt now.
Somewhere beside him, a washing machine continued turning lazily through its cycle, completely unconcerned with the fact that Spider-Man had just been thrown through the front of the building.
Heavy footsteps approached through the broken window.
Peter forced himself upright, ignoring the protest from practically every part of his body as he backed away.
His senses were returning.
Slowly.
The fluorescent lights above him started buzzing again.
Then he heard the washing machines.
A car alarm outside.
Someone shouting from across the street.
Peter swallowed.
Come on.
The man stepped through the shattered window.
Peter’s spider-sense gave the faintest twitch.
There.
He almost smiled.
The man swung.
Peter ducked.
His hand shot forward and a thick strand of webbing caught the man directly across the face.
He stumbled backward with a muffled curse.
Peter didn’t give him time to recover.
Another web wrapped around his right arm, then his left, pinning both against his sides as Peter jumped onto the wall beside him.
The metal framework whined.
Peter’s eyes immediately went back to the black unit on the man’s chest.
The lights were flickering now.
Whatever that pulse had been, it had come from there.
Peter fired another web.
It struck the unit.
He yanked.
Sparks burst from the exposed wiring, scattering across the tile floor as every blue light running along the man’s body died at once.
The man stopped struggling.
Peter landed.
For a second, the two of them stared at each other.
Peter’s spider-sense came rushing back so quickly that the sudden flood of sensation nearly made him dizzy.
He could feel everything again.
The people outside.
The electricity.
The approaching police.
The man shifting his weight before he moved.
Peter sighed in relief.
“Oh, thank God.”
The man threw a punch.
Peter caught it.
Easily.
Peter looked down at their hands.
Then back up at him.
He punched him.
Not hard.
Well.
The man still went flying backward through what remained of the laundromat window and landed on the hood of a parked car with enough force to set off the alarm.
Peter winced.
“Sorry.”
The man didn’t move.
Peter climbed through the broken window after him, stepping carefully over the shattered glass as he crossed the sidewalk.
Police sirens were getting louder.
He should leave.
He knew that.
But the broken device was lying in the middle of the laundromat floor.
Peter glanced toward it.
Then toward the unconscious man.
Then back toward the device.
Curiosity won and he went back inside.
The casing was hot when he picked it up, and Peter turned it carefully between his fingers, studying the damaged circuitry through the crack he had created.
He didn’t recognize half of it.
That bothered him almost as much as what it had done.
Peter knew technology. Maybe not everything, obviously, but enough to recognize the basic architecture of most systems he came across. This was different. Compact in a way that didn’t make sense for the amount of power it had generated, with tiny components layered over one another so precisely that Peter found himself leaning closer without realizing it.
“What are you?”
He turned the device over.
Most of the outer casing had been destroyed, but there was a small section near the bottom that remained intact. Peter wiped his thumb across the blackened metal, clearing away a layer of dust.
A symbol appeared beneath it.
A thin green circle surrounding a black O.
Peter stared at it.
He knew that logo.
It had been hard not to know it lately.
Advertisements were plastered across subway stations. Their name had started appearing on hospitals, research grants, technology expos. Peter had even swung past their headquarters hundreds of times without giving the building much thought beyond the fact that the glass exterior made for a surprisingly terrible place to stick a web.
His thumb moved lower.
The sirens rounded the corner.
He looked toward the street.
Then back at the device.
There was a line beneath the logo, smaller and partially scratched away.
ADVANCED DEVELOPMENT DIVISION
And beneath that:
PROTOTYPE - NOT FOR DISTRIBUTION
Peter stared at it for several seconds.
The police cars screeched to a stop outside.
He slipped the device beneath his arm.
He could already hear MJ’s voice in his head.
That’s stealing evidence.
But Peter preferred temporarily relocating something important for scientific analysis.
It sounded much less illegal.
“Spider-Man!”
Peter looked toward the broken storefront.
Detective Jean DeWolff stood on the other side of the street with one hand resting near the holster at her hip. Her eyes moved over the unconscious man, the destroyed cars, the armored truck and finally the enormous hole Peter had made in somebody’s laundromat.
Peter lifted one hand.
“Hi.”
Her eyes narrowed.
Peter immediately pointed toward the man on the car.
“Most of this was him.”
DeWolff looked at the sedan sitting upside down in the intersection.
“I figured.”
“Oh.”
Peter lowered his hand.
“Good.”
She crossed the street toward him, stepping around a piece of broken glass before looking him over more carefully.
“You hurt?”
Peter opened his mouth automatically.
Then stopped.
His shoulder ached, his ribs hurt every time he breathed too deeply, and he was pretty sure there was a piece of glass stuck somewhere near his ankle.
“Nothing exciting.”
“That wasn't my question.”
Peter smiled beneath the mask.
“I’m okay.”
DeWolff gave him the kind of look that suggested she had already learned exactly how much that answer was worth.
Peter pretended not to notice.
Her attention shifted toward the man.
“What happened?”
“Armored truck robbery. Except he had some kind of...”
Peter stopped.
His arm tightened slightly around the device hidden against his side.
DeWolff looked back at him.
“Some kind of what?”
Peter hesitated.
“Suit.”
“A suit.”
“Yeah.”
She stared.
Peter gestured vaguely.
“Very strong. Very metal.”
“That your professional assessment?”
“I’m still workshopping the terminology.”
The corner of her mouth twitched.
Peter noticed.
“Anyway, he’s unconscious, nobody got seriously hurt, and you probably shouldn’t touch the metal frame until somebody checks whether it’s still carrying a charge.”
Hello everyone! I just watched Brand New Day the other week, and it awoken something inside of me. I've been drafting a Peter Parker x Reader series. Post Brand New Day. Will be on the fluffy/drama side, with 18+ content sprinkled in. It will have a lot of references to the older Spiderman films, and will loosely follow the marvel universe.
I will post more information soon!!
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Characters: Cassian x Female Reader
Summary: Luthen sends Cassian undercover as security for a powerful Imperial senator whose estate is filled with secrets, politics, and some of the Empire’s most dangerous people. The senator’s daughter is infamous - beautiful, sharp-tongued, and completely untouchable. Cassian writes her off immediately as another spoiled piece of Imperial luxury.Until he realizes she’s not part of her father’s world. She’s trapped inside it.
Word Count: 2,330 words
Warnings: None for this chapter, but I do plan on this series to become young adult/mature in the future.
The shop smelled like it always did.
Turpentine and old wood and something underneath both of those things - something that had no name but that Cassian had come to associate with bad news.
Luthen Rael had a talent for delivering bad news in rooms that smelled like art. Like beauty. Like the careful, considered arrangement of precious things.
Cassian had never decided if that was ironic or entirely intentional.
He stood with his hands loose at his sides and watched Luthen move between the display cases with the unhurried ease of a man who had nowhere to be and all the time in the galaxy to get there. It was a performance. Everything Luthen did was a performance. Cassian had learned to wait it out.
“You look tired,” Luthen said without looking at him.
“I’m fine.”
“I didn’t ask if you were fine. I said you look tired.” Luthen lifted a small artifact from one of the shelves - something ancient and amber-colored, a Togrutan ceremonial piece if Cassian had to guess - and turned it slowly in the light. “There’s a difference.”
Cassian said nothing. He had a bruised rib from the last job and a cut along his jaw that hadn’t fully closed and he hadn’t slept more than four hours together in the better part of two weeks.
Luthen knew all of this. Luthen knew everything. The observation wasn’t concern.
“Sit down, Cassian.”
He sat. The chair was old and expensive and deeply uncomfortable, which also felt intentional.
Luthen set the artifact down and finally turned to face him. In the low amber light of the shop, he looked like something out of a painting himself - angular and deliberate, eyes always calculating three moves ahead of wherever the conversation currently lived.
He reached beneath the counter and produced a slim datapad, which he set on the surface between them without ceremony.
“Senator Eddian Beruss,” Luthen said.
Cassian picked up the datapad. The face on the screen was unremarkable in the way dangerous men sometimes were - broad, well-fed, hair going silver at the temples, the practiced smile of someone who had spent decades learning exactly how much warmth to perform and when. Mid-sixties, maybe. Eyes that were lighter than they should have been, almost colorless in the image.
The kind of man you’d walk past at a function and forget inside of an hour, which was, Cassian suspected, precisely how he preferred it.
“What about him?”
“He’s been making a name for himself.” Luthen moved around the counter and settled into the chair across from Cassian.
“Quietly. Carefully. In the way that men who understand the Empire make names for themselves - not with noise, but with access. Senator Beruss has spent the last four years cultivating relationships with some of the most significant military figures in the Imperial structure. People whose decisions shape the movement of fleets, the allocation of resources, the designation of occupied territories.”
“He’s a collaborator.”
“He’s more than that. He’s a facilitator. There’s a distinction.” Luthen folded his hands. “A collaborator bends his knee and does what he’s told. A facilitator creates the conditions in which things get done. Senator Beruss doesn’t simply support the Empire - he hosts it. His estate on Lexrul has become something of an unofficial gathering point for the Imperial upper class. Parties. Dinners. Extended stays. The kind of social infrastructure that exists entirely off the record but within which a very great deal of Imperial business gets conducted.”
Cassian scrolled through the datapad. The estate was substantial - he could see that even from the external surveillance images. Stone and manicured grounds that stretched farther than they had any right to, set back from the capital city of Lexrul’s northern coast.
It looked old, the kind of old that had been carefully maintained to look old, which was its own kind of wealth.
The interior shots were sparser. High ceilings. Wide corridors. The kind of space that was built to hold a crowd.
“What’s the ask?”
“There is a position open on the estate’s security staff,” Luthen said. “A guard vacancy. Mid-level - not personal protection, not outer perimeter. Interior rotation. Close access to the main house.” He paused. “We need someone inside, Cassian. The conversations happening in that estate represent months, possibly years, of Imperial planning that we currently have no visibility into. Fleet movements. Resource allocations. The names of officers whose cooperation the Empire is quietly securing in the Outer Rim.” He paused again, and this time the silence carried weight. “The location of facilities we have not yet identified.”
Cassian looked up from the datapad.
“How long?”
“As long as it takes.” Luthen held his gaze, "Weeks. Possibly months.”
“Months.”
“Is that a problem?”
Cassian looked back down at the datapad. Senator Beruss’s pale eyes stared back at him from the screen, that practiced smile going nowhere near them.
He scrolled further.
More images of the estate. Staff records, partial - the full package would be embedded in the cover identity, he assumed. Property schematics. A guest list from an event three months prior that read like a directory of everything wrong with the galaxy.
General Verath.
Admiral Suun.
Moff Deleran.
Names he knew. Names that appeared in Rebel intelligence reports with varying degrees of dread attached to them.
He scrolled again.
The next image made him stop.
It was candid, clearly taken from a distance - surveillance grade, slightly grainy, the subject caught mid-movement on what looked like an outdoor terrace.
A young woman.
Hair oose around her shoulders, caught mid-turn so that her face was only partly visible to the lens, her expression unreadable in the particular way motion-caught faces sometimes became. She wore something pale and formal and held a glass she didn’t appear remotely interested in drinking.
She looked like she was staring at something just beyond the edge of the frame. Something not entirely there.
Even through the grainy quality of the image, she was beautiful enough that Cassian looked twice before he could stop himself.
He made himself look once more and moved on.
“Who else is in the household?” he asked evenly.
“Staff. Approximately thirty personnel between security, domestic, and administrative.” Luthen’s tone remained calm. “The senator has no wife - she died several years ago. He has one daughter. Y/N Beruss. She lives on the estate full-time.”
“Is she a concern?”
Luthen considered the question for a moment longer than felt strictly necessary.
“She is a fixture,” he said at last. “The senator uses her presence at social functions. She is, by most accounts, decorative.” Something unreadable flickered briefly across his expression. “I would not anticipate her being a problem. But I would encourage you to be mindful.”
“Mindful,” Cassian repeated.
“She’s observant,” Luthen said. “In the way people who spend their lives in rooms full of conversations they aren’t supposed to hear often become observant.” He paused. “Don’t underestimate her.”
Cassian nodded once, filed the warning away, and looked back at the estate details.
“Cover identity?”
“Joren Vasek. Born on Fest, which accounts for the accent variation if pressed. Former security contractor, two prior corporate postings - both fabricated, both verifiable to a standard background check. Clean record. No political affiliations. References have already been seeded.”
Luthen reached into a drawer beneath the counter and produced a small sealed case, setting it carefully between them.
“New documents. Comm device - civilian grade on the surface, buried Rebel frequency underneath. The full briefing packet is embedded.” He paused. “There is also an interview. Tomorrow morning.”
Cassian looked up sharply.
“You scheduled an interview without me agreeing to this.”
“I scheduled an interview because I knew you would say yes,” Luthen replied with the serenity of a man who had never once doubted his own instincts. “Was I incorrect?”
Cassian picked up the sealed case. It felt lighter than it should have for something carrying the weight of an entirely fabricated life inside it.
“No,” he said quietly. “You weren’t incorrect.”
Luthen nodded slowly, as though this simply confirmed something he had known long before Cassian walked into the shop.
“There is one more thing.”
Cassian waited.
“Senator Beruss is hosting an event within the first week of your posting. Significant attendees. It will be an early opportunity to begin gathering intelligence.” Luthen’s gaze stayed fixed on him. “But it will also be a test. New staff are watched more closely during those first weeks than at any other point.”
Cassian leaned back slightly in the chair.
“You will need to be unremarkable, Cassian. Patient. You will need to be, for all intents and purposes, nobody.”
“I know how undercover work functions.”
“You know how undercover work functions for three days,” Luthen corrected evenly. “You know how to become someone else during a crisis because you are exceptional in a crisis. This will not be a crisis.”
His voice sharpened only slightly. “This will be weeks of being no one in particular inside a house full of people who are very good at reading everyone around them.”
Cassian held his gaze.
“The temptation will be to move quickly,” Luthen continued. “To push for access. To take risks that feel calculated but are simply impatient.”
“I understand.”
“I need you to actually understand, not simply say it.”
Silence stretched between them for a long moment.
Then Cassian nodded once.
“I understand.”
Luthen studied him carefully - that long assessing look that always made Cassian feel like an artifact being turned over beneath a light, checked carefully for fractures.
Finally, Luthen rose from the chair.
The meeting was over.
Cassian stood too, tucking the sealed case beneath his arm as he moved toward the door, the familiar smell of turpentine and old wood settling around him once more.
“Cassian.”
He stopped.
“Be careful,” Luthen said quietly behind him.
Cassian almost replied I’m always careful, which would have been a lie.
Instead, he said nothing at all and stepped out into the gray Coruscant afternoon without looking back.
"I stand this morning with a difficult message. I believe we are in crisis. The distance between what is said and what is known to be true has become an abyss.
Of all the things at risk, the loss of an objective reality is perhaps the most dangerous. The death of truth is the ultimate victory of evil. When truth leaves us, when we let it slip away, when it is ripped from our hands, we become vulnerable to the appetite of whatever monster screams the loudest.
This Chamber’s hold on the truth was finally lost on the Ghorman Plaza. What took place yesterday… what happened yesterday on Ghorman was unprovoked genocide! Yes! Genocide! And that truth has been exiled from this chamber! And the monster screaming the loudest? The monster we’ve helped create? The monster who will come for us all soon enough is Emperor Palpatine!"
I’ve been working on a Cassian Andor fic and I think I’m finally ready to go back, edit everything, and post it.
It’s a Cassian Andor x Senator’s Daughter story with heavy, darker themes. specifically, I wanted to explore what life might realistically look like for a woman living under the Galactic Empire. I personally think it would be a very lonely and suppressed life.
Premise: Luthen sends Cassian on an undercover mission embedded in the security detail of a high-ranking Imperial-aligned senator. The senator’s daughter has a reputation - beautiful, cold, and untouchable. She moves through her father’s world like she owns it, and as far as Cassian’s concerned, she’s just another face of the Empire he despises.
But the longer he’s on this mission, the more the cracks begin to show. She isn’t her father’s right hand… she’s his pawn. Her life is a gilded cage, filled with men who see her beauty as something to be used. The arrogance Cassian once resented turns out to be armor. And the woman underneath it is someone he never expected to understand.
Thoughts? I’ve currently written it out as a OC story, but can easily be changed to a reader insert!
Lil update! I currently have the flu, so I’m pausing on releasing any fics. I have one that is drafted that I’ll look over again and maybe release it if I trust my mush of a brain. But for others I’ll be waiting until I can confidently review/edit/write.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Yoooo so basically I'm gonna start writing my own fics, my first one being a Steve one in s4 era to start but I need some input and thought you could help since you've been making similar work for some time. How do you specifically go about following the plot of the show without rewriting the dialogue word for word? I'm very new to writing, and I like how you do it in your fics. Which scenes do you choose to flesh out and which do you gloss over since the audience has already seen it in the show, while still having the feel of being in it? Just any writing tips in general for fics would be appreciated 🙏🏾
Omg first of all that’s so exciting!!! 🥹🫶
Honestly, I’m gonna be very real: trying to strictly follow the actual plot of the show is tedious. Like… so tedious. I personally find it WAY easier (and more fun) to write made-up scenes that exist in the same universe, rather than trying to perfectly mirror canon beat-for-beat.
When I do stick close to the show (like in Casual), it usually means a LOT of rewatching. Like, I’ll replay scenes multiple times and only pull specific moments or lines...aka usually dialogue that:
actually moves the plot forward
or something that made me laugh or feel something
Sometimes I literally rewatch a scene over and over and almost respond out loud to what the actors are saying, just to see if a line or reaction would fit naturally from the reader's POV 😭 If it flows, I keep it. If it feels forced, I scrap it.
And then - this is the important part... add a LOT of stuff that isn’t there. Extra reactions, internal thoughts, quiet moments in between scenes, aftermaths the show doesn’t give us. That’s where a fic really shines, in my opinion. The reader already knows what happens...they’re here for what we didn’t get to see.
As for what I gloss over vs flesh out:
Big plot-heavy scenes? I usually summarize or lightly touch on them.
Emotional beats, conversations, downtime, trauma, comfort, tension? I zoom WAY in
Write what you wish the show had paused on for 5 more minutes.
Add scenes that dont change the entire plot into a different direction (unless that is what you are planning on doing)
You’ve got this 🤍 and seriously, feel free to reach out anytime.
hiii can u do a steve Harrington smit where the reader and steve are dating for a while, and he tells her that he became a sex Ed teacher so teases him about it
Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI; Smut!, Unprotected p in v (wrap it before you tap it), Dirty Talk, Breeding Kink? Let me know if I forgot anything!
Word Count: 1,756
The door shuts behind him with a soft click.
You look up from the couch, one leg hooked over the armrest, book slack in your lap. Steve’s standing there like he’s trying - and failing - not to grin, jacket slung over his shoulder, eyes bright in that way that only ever means one thing.
“…You got it,” you say.
He lets out a breathy laugh, like he’s been holding it in all day. “Yeah,” he says. “I got it.”
You’re off the couch in seconds, arms looping around his neck. He catches you without thinking, hands settling low on your back as he laughs into your hair.
“I knew it,” you murmur. “Coach Harrington.”
“Alright, alright, don’t start,” he says, smiling despite himself.
He leans in like he’s going to kiss you - then stops.
You clock it immediately.
“What,” you say, pulling back just enough to look at him. “You paused.”
Steve exhales through his nose. “There’s… a catch.”
You slide your hands down his chest slowly, deliberately. “Steve.”
“They needed someone to cover a class,” he continues, eyes tracking your hands like they’ve betrayed him.
“What class?”
“Health,” he says - too fast.
“…Health?”
“Yes. Health.” He steps back, rubbing a hand through his hair, a nervous habit you learned years ago.
You blink. Then grin. “You mean sex ed.”
“No - I - well - ” He gestures vaguely. “It’s not like -”
“Oh my god.” You laugh. “You’re teaching sex ed.”
“Okay, shut up,” he mutters, turning like he’s going to walk it off.
“You, Steve Harrington?” you follow him. “King Steve? Former menace to Hawkins High?”
He spins back around. “Yeah, and so what?” he snaps, then immediately deflates. “Why is that funny to you?”
“I’m not laughing at the job,” you say, still smiling. “I’m laughing at the mental image of you trying to professionally explain sex to a room full of teenagers.”
“I can be professional,” he argues.
You step closer, backing him up until there’s nowhere else to go. “You’re telling me you’re totally fine standing in front of a class and talking about -”
“Don’t,” he groans.
“ - safe practices?” you finish sweetly, dragging a finger along his collarbone.
Steve squeezes his eyes shut. “You are enjoying this way too much.”
“I really am.” You tilt your head. “Do you have to use diagrams?”
“Yes.”
“And abstinence?” you add innocently. “Do you have to preach that too?”
He goes quiet.
Slowly, he opens his eyes and looks at you.
The silence answers everything.
You grin. “If only they knew their teacher ignores half the curriculum.”
“Y/N,” he warns…but there’s no real bite to it.
“Steve,” you mock, softer now. “Be honest. Can you even remember the last time we actually used a condom?”
He opens his mouth. Pauses. Thinks.
Then sighs, defeated. “Okay, so?”
“I just think it’s ironic,” you say. “You standing up there telling them all about precautions you clearly don’t care much about.”
He shakes his head, cornered but smirking now. “That’s different.”
“Oh really?” you prompt, flashing him a teasing smile.
“Yes, really.” His mouth curves, slow and dangerous now. “Because unlike all those horny teenagers, I actually know what I’m doing.”
You scoff softly. “Steve - ”
“And,” he adds, stepping back into your space, voice dropping low, steady, certain, “unlike them, I wouldn’t mind the consequences.”
Your breath stutters.
You look up at him. “The consequences?”
His hands settle on your hips, thumbs pressing in just enough to make your knees weak.
His eyes search your face - not teasing now. Honest. Heated.
“Yeah,” he murmurs, his gaze dropping to your lips. “The consequences of not stopping, of not pulling out, of… putting a baby inside you”
Your breath leaves you in a shaky exhale.
Steve doesn’t move at first. He watches you instead - really watches you - like he’s checking to see if he went too far.
Like he’s ready to apologize.
You don’t give him the chance.
Your hands fist in the front of his jacket and you pull him down, your mouths crashing together with a quiet sound that’s all heat and pent-up want.
He makes a low noise in his throat, surprised, before his hands find you - firm, sure - one sliding into your hair, the other gripping your waist like he needs to anchor himself.
The kiss deepens fast.
Slower.
Hotter.
You walk him backward without breaking it, step by step, until the backs of his knees hit the couch. He stumbles slightly, laughing breathlessly against your mouth as he falls back, pulling you with him.
You land half on his lap, half sprawled across him, your knees sinking into the cushions on either side of his thighs. His hands immediately slide under your shirt, warm palms pressing against your skin like he’s memorizing you all over again.
“Jesus,” he murmurs, lips trailing along your jaw, your neck.
You rock into him without thinking, and his breath stutters. One hand tightens at your hip, the other slipping up your back, fingers flexing like he’s trying to ground himself.
His hands stop their gentle exploration and grip you, pulling you down harder against the thick ridge straining the denim of his jeans. The friction is electric, a jolt that goes straight to your core, and you gasp into his mouth.
“Off,” he grits out, his voice a low rasp against your lips. His hands are already tugging at the hem of your shirt, - and you help him - fumbling to get it over your head before your hands are back on him, clawing at his own jacket.
He shrugs it off, then his shirt, and the moment his bare chest is pressed against yours - skin to skin - you both sigh.
His mouth is back on yours, hungry and deep, as he expertly unsnaps your bra and tosses it aside. His palms are hot as they cup your breasts, thumbs brushing over your nipples until they pebble under his touch.
He breaks the kiss, ducking his head to take one into his mouth, and the wet, sucking heat makes you arch your back, a cry catching in your throat.
Oh god.
He lavishes you with attention, his tongue and teeth working in tandem, while his other hand slides down your stomach, fingers hooking into the waistband of your pants.
He doesn’t waste time. In one fluid motion, he has your pants and underwear down over your hips, his knuckles brushing against the slick heat already gathering between your thighs.
You lift up just enough for him to pull them free, and then you’re back on him, naked and wanting, the rough denim of his jeans contrast against your bare skin.
“Steve,” you breathe, your hands fumbling with his belt buckle. “Please.”
“Shh, I’ve got you,” he murmurs, his voice thick with an emotion that goes far beyond lust. He helps you with his jeans, shoving them down just enough to free himself.
When his cock springs up, hot and heavy against your inner thigh, you groan with want.
He’s so hard, the tip already leaking with precum, and you reach down to wrap your hand around him, stroking him slowly from base to tip.
He hisses, his head falling back against the couch cushions, his jaw tight. “Fuck… keep doing that, and this’ll be over before it starts.”
You smile - slow and confident - and guide him to your entrance.
You don’t wait.
You sink down on him in one slow, deep movement, taking every inch until he’s buried to the hilt.
The stretch is intense, a full, aching pressure that steals the air from your lungs. You pause, your foreheads pressed together, both of you breathing heavily in the sudden, profound silence.
“God, you feel…” he trails off, his voice cracking. He’s shaking, his hands gripping your hips so tightly you know you’ll have bruises tomorrow.
You don’t care.
You start to move, a slow, deliberate rocking of your hips that has him cursing under his breath. Each roll drags him against your inner walls, hitting that spot deep inside you that makes your vision blur.
It’s not fast, not frantic.
It’s deep. Intense.
Every thrust is a statement - a promise.
His eyes are locked on yours, dark and possessive, and the raw sweetness of it all makes your chest ache.
“Look at you,” he pants, his thrusts growing a little harder, a little deeper. “Taking me so well. So perfect.”
His hand slides from your hip to your stomach, his palm pressing flat against your lower belly.
“Right here,” he says, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Gonna fill you up right here”
The words are your undoing. The coil in your stomach tightens impossibly, and you move faster, chasing the release he’s offering.
The couch creaks in time with your movements, the room filling with the sound of skin slapping against skin and your broken moans.
“Steve, I…” you can’t finish the sentence.
The pleasure is too much, a white-hot wave coming closer and closer.
“I know,” he says, his voice strained. He sits up suddenly, wrapping an arm around your waist to hold you close as he takes over, slamming his hips up into you.
The new angle is devastating. “I know, baby. Come on. Give it to me. Let me feel you.”
His other hand moves between your bodies, his thumb finding your clit and circling it with just the right amount of pressure.
That’s all it takes… and the world shatters.
Your orgasm rips through you, a powerful, convulsing wave that leaves you crying out his name, your body clamping down around him like a vice.
He groans, a long, guttural sound, and buries his face in your neck as he follows you over the edge.
You feel him pulse inside you, hot and thick, spilling deep into your body. He doesn’t stop, rocking into you slowly as he empties himself, his lips pressing soft kisses against your skin.
It feels endless, a final, possessive act that seals everything he said.
When the tremors finally subside, you collapse against him.
He’s still inside you, still hard, a warm, grounding presence. You stay like that for a long time, just breathing, his hands stroking your back in slow, soothing circles.
He tilts your chin up, his eyes soft and searching. “You okay?” he asks, his voice gentle.
You nod, a genuine smile spreading across your face.
You lean in and kiss him, a soft, lingering press of lips that’s full of everything you can’t put into words. “More than okay,” you whisper against his mouth - teasing - “Mr. Harrington”
Girllll, I havent written smut in....FOREVER! I hope I did ya justice :)
After Everything Pt 2 - Steve Harrington x Henderson!Reader
Summary: After surviving Hawkins together, you return home from school without telling anyone - not your brother, not even Steve Harrington. What was once an unshakable friendship faded quietly when you left for college, turning into distance neither of you knew how to close. When you surprise Steve at one of his baseball games, the two of you spend the evening catching up, circling everything that was left unsaid. Old feelings resurface, confessions slip out, and you’re forced to face the truth: that some things don’t fade, no matter how much time passes. SHE/HER READER
Word Count: 5,712
Previous Chapter
You got the job.
Steve told you you would - like it wasn’t even a question. Like it had been decided the second you walked into Hawkins High with your portfolio tucked under your arm, your blouse pressed too carefully, the shaky smile you’d rehearsed in the mirror clinging to your face like a shield.
“They’d be stupid not to take you,” he’d said after, leaning against the hood of his car, squinting into the sun like he was sizing up the entire world. “You’re perfect for it. Like… annoyingly perfect.”
You’d rolled your eyes because it was easier than acknowledging the way your stomach had fluttered at the words you and perfect coming out of his mouth…and because he looked stupidly good when he said it, all relaxed confidence and quiet certainty, like he could make things true just by believing them hard enough.
“Don’t say that,” you’d warned.
He’d blinked, pretending innocence. “Don’t say what?”
“Perfect. Annoyingly. Anything.”
Steve’s grin widened. “So… you want me to say you’re moderately adequate?”
“Steve.”
He shrugged, unbothered. “Fine. You’re moderately adequate at being the best person in the room.”
You’d tried not to smile, but failed miserably.
The whole “date” afterward - if that’s what you could call it - he barely let you breathe. It wasn’t fancy. Just burgers and milkshakes, a booth that creaked when you slid in, and Steve’s knee bumping yours under the table.
He kept talking about how fun it would be. How it would be “like Family Video again,” except better, because you wouldn’t be stuck shelving dusty tapes while Keith pretended he wasn’t eavesdropping.
“We’d be like coworkers again,” he’d said, like it was the most natural thing in the world.
You’d laughed. “You’re getting ahead of yourself.”
He’d sipped his milkshake and stared at you over the rim like you were the one being unreasonable. “I’m being realistic.”
You leaned back against the booth, watching him as he talked - the way his hands moved when he got animated, the way his knee still stayed pressed lightly against yours like it hadn’t even occurred to him to move it. Every so often he’d glance at you, like he was checking to make sure you were still following, still there.
And the whole time, under the teasing and the jokes, there was this quiet truth humming between you:
He wanted you here.
He wanted this to be real.
You still remember the day the phone call came.
You’d gone back to school - driven those ten brutal hours, unpacked your car, slipped right back into routine like you hadn’t just sat on Hawkins High bleachers a few days earlier and confessed something you’d buried for years.
You and Steve had promised each other you weren’t going to drift again - whether you got the teaching gig or not. But the second you were back on campus, it felt like that promise was hard to achieve.
Your schedule swallowed you whole: classes, exams, campus noise that never stopped. People moving fast with coffee cups and headphones and futures they acted excited about. You tried to keep up, tried to pretend the knot in your chest wasn’t tightening every time your dial phone stayed silent.
Maybe that was why you didn’t call Steve.
Because if you called him and talked about classroom layouts and apartment hunting and all the things you’d do when you moved back - and then the offer never came - it would hurt ten times worse.
So you kept busy instead. Told yourself it was fine. Told yourself you were being smart.
It lasted four days.
Maybe five.
You were sitting at your desk, notes spread out in front of you, highlighter uncapped and drying because you’d been staring at the same paragraph for ten minutes without reading it. Your roommate had music playing softly in the other room. Normal life. Ordinary noise.
Then the phone rang.
Something in your chest tightened like it already knew.
You answered, polite and careful.
And then they said it;
We would love for you to join their teaching program at Hawkins next school year.
English department. Full position.
For a second, you couldn’t breathe. Like your lungs forgot what they were supposed to do. Like your whole body short-circuited around the fact that this was real - not a maybe, not a possibility, not something you were trying not to hope for.
You managed to thank him. Managed to sound coherent. Managed to hang up.
And the first person you thought of was Steve Harrington.
Not your mom. Not Dustin. Not your advisor.
Steve.
It was almost funny - how instinctive it was.
Before you could stop yourself, your hand was reaching for the phone, dialing his number from memory - fingers moving like they’d done it a hundred times, like they hadn’t spent almost two years in hibernation.
It rang twice.
He picked up on the third.
“Hello?” His voice came through warm and familiar, the low murmur of a TV behind him - an action movie, maybe, something with too much yelling.
Your throat tightened.
“…Steve.”
There was a pause.
Not long.
Just enough.
Like he wasnt expecting to hear your voice.
And then you heard it - the way his breath caught, the way his tone shifted into something careful - and the tv noise coming to a halt.
“Hey,” he said. “Hey. Everything okay?”
You didn’t even answer him properly. You just burst.
“I got it,” you blurted. “I got the job. They - they offered it. Like, officially. I’m going to teach at Hawkins next year.”
Silence.
Not because he didn’t hear you.
Because he was processing.
And then Steve laughed - sharp and disbelieving, like his body didn’t know what else to do with the happiness.
“I told you,” he said immediately. “I told you. I literally told you.”
You could hear him moving, like he’d stood up so fast he nearly tripped. Like he couldn’t stay still. Like the information physically wouldn’t let him.
“Say it again,” he demanded. “Say it again, because I swear, if I’m hallucinating right now-”
“I got the job,” you repeated, laughing now too, breathless and dizzy. “I got it.”
“Holy shit,” he murmured, and his voice dropped softer. “Holy shit, Henderson…”
Something about the way he said your name - not teasing, not cocky, just… full of pride, made your eyes sting.
You started rambling because you couldn’t stop.
You told him you were going to finish up the semester before moving back home. That you were already thinking about what kind of classroom you wanted - what posters, what books, what stupid little desk decorations you’d never cared about until now. You told him you’d start looking for an apartment. That you were scared, but excited. That everything suddenly felt… possible.
Steve listened through it all, quiet in a way that made your heart squeeze.
“Hey,” he cut in gently at one point. “Slow down.”
You paused, swallowing hard. “Sorry.”
“No,” he said. “Don’t be sorry.” A beat. “I just… I wanna hear all of it, slowly. Like - I wanna picture it.”
Your throat tightened again.
And then you said it - too quickly to back out.
“I’m excited to see you.”
Another pause.
Then Steve exhaled, slow and shaky, like he’d been holding something in his chest and finally let it go.
“Yeah?” he said, quietly.
“Yeah,” you admitted, voice suddenly small.
You could hear the smile in his voice when he answered.
“Good,” he said. “… I’m excited to see you too.”
After that, the calls became a daily thing.
Not as some big dramatic decision - it just happened. Like the universe nudged you into place and you two couldn't get enough of each other.
Almost every night, your hand drifted toward the receiver without you even thinking about it. Sometimes you were the one who called first, dialing his number from memory while you brushed your teeth or kicked your shoes off after class. Other nights, it rang while you were sprawled across your dorm bed, notes half-highlighted, textbooks abandoned.
“Hey,” he always said, like he had been waiting.
And you’d roll your eyes and pretend you hadn’t been, too.
You talked about school - exams, professors who hated joy, the way this semester felt heavier and slower than you expected. You’d complain about your roommate leaving dishes in the sink like it was a personal attack, and Steve would laugh and say, “Welcome to adulthood,” like he hadn’t once eaten cereal out of a mixing bowl because all his dishes were dirty.
He told you about Hawkins. About the team. About kids who mouthed off and acted tough until Steve looked at them a certain way and they folded with muttered apologies. And slowly, without either of you naming it, you started sliding into the spaces of each other’s days.
He’d call before your morning exam - not long, just enough to say, “You’re gonna do great,” and then, quieter, “Call me when it’s over.”
You’d call after his games, listening to him recap plays like you knew anything about baseball strategy.
“That kid I told you about? The one who can’t catch?”
“The one who ‘has hands made of butter’?”
“Yeah, him,” Steve said. “He caught it today.”
“No way!”
“I swear,” Steve said, proud. “I almost cried.”
Sometimes the calls were stupid. Five minutes at the payphone while you stood outside your classroom in the cold because you missed him. A quick check-in while he cooked something that sounded suspiciously like microwaved spaghetti.
Other times, they got quiet… real.
Late-night conversations where Steve’s voice dropped low and careful, where he’d ask, “You okay?” and you’d know he meant more than the surface. Nights when a nightmare dragged you awake and you didn’t want to admit you were scared, and Steve would just stay on the line anyway, talking about nothing until your breathing slowed.
It wasn’t long until you began thinking about him the moment you woke up. On walks across campus. When something funny happened and your first instinct was to call him before anyone else. You’d catch yourself smiling at nothing in the middle of a lecture because you remembered the way he’d said your name the night before.
Whatever was building between the two of you… it wasn’t nothing.
It was a slow, steady weave - thread by thread - until it started to feel like he’d already moved into your life without ever stepping foot in your dorm room. Like you were already making room for him too.
So when Steve asked - casually, like it didn’t matter, even though it did - “So when do you get back again?” - you could hear him shuffling papers on his end like he was making a note, like he was circling the date on a calendar.
“I finish my last final Tuesday,” you said. “Then I need to pack everything up, say my goodbyes… so I’ll probably leave Wednesday morning. Get in maybe around seven?”
“Cool,” he muttered - too casual, too fast, like he didn’t want you to hear how much he cared.
There was a beat.
Then, quieter: “Maybe I could swing by yours around eight?”
You went silent, smiling so wide your cheeks hurt. You bit at the tip of your thumb, staring at the ceiling like it might calm your heartbeat.
Because eight meant he was coming over.
Eight meant he couldn’t stand the idea of waiting until the next day.
Eight meant… something.
“I mean,” he rushed immediately, voice tripping over itself, “I get it if it’s too much. Long drive, you’ll be tired, and you’ll want to hang with your mom and Dustin and -”
“Steve,” you cut in gently, smiling into the phone. “Eight sounds good.”
He exhaled like you’d just given him permission to breathe.
“Yeah?” he asked, like he was making sure.
“Yeah,” you repeated, soft.
“Okay,” he murmured. And then, like he couldn’t help himself: “Okay, cool. Great. Awesome.”
You laughed quietly.
He did too.
And the sound of it stayed with you for the rest of the week.
So now it was Wednesday night.
You just spent ten hours cramped in your car. Back stiff. Eyes burning - and the last hour spent in your living room catching up with your mom and Dustin.
Dustin already vibrating with graduation nerves, pretending he wasn’t. Pacing like a lunatic, reciting his speech for the fifth time, getting annoyed when you corrected his pacing or grammar.
By the time you escaped to your room, it felt like your body was running on pure adrenaline and nostalgia. You rummaged through drawers like you hadn’t touched them in years. Brushed your hair until it stopped looking like a ten-hour drive and started looking like I don’t care, this is casual. You swapped your sweats for your favorite pair of Guess jeans.
You dabbed blush onto your cheeks with your fingertips, then stared at yourself in the mirror, suddenly struck by how strange it was to be back in this room, in this body. Though you were older, and life was now calm - it felt like you were back in high school.
Your eyes flicked to the clock again.
7:58.
You took a breath.
And you felt it - nervous, warm anticipation curling low in your stomach. You shouldn’t be nervous. This was Steve. The same Steve you’d survived hell with. The same Steve you used to call your best friend like it was the simplest fact in the world.
But now… it wasn’t simple.
Now you were both adults with normal lives and real stakes.
Now you were standing right on the edge of friendship and something more - and you could feel that “something more” approaching like thunder.
At exactly 8:01, a soft knock tapped against your bedroom window.
You smiled before you even moved, warmth blooming at the familiarity - at all those late nights when you, Steve, and Robin couldn’t sleep and the insomnia always seemed to sync up like a cruel joke - knocking on each other's windows to sneak away together.
You crossed the room quickly, careful with the floorboards, and slid the window up just enough to peek out.
Steve was there.
Leaning against the siding beneath your window, hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket, head tipped back as he looked up at you. The porch light caught the line of his jaw, the familiar curl of his hair, the soft hopeful grin that spread across his face the second he saw you.
“Hey,” he whispered, like it was a secret - like you were kids again.
You bit your lip to stop yourself from smiling too wide. “You’re late.”
“It’s one minute,” he said defensively, glancing at his watch. “I rounded up.”
You rolled your eyes at his stupidity, pushing the window up farther. Cool air spilled into your room, carrying the smell of cut grass and summer and something faintly familiar - Hawkins at night.
Steve’s gaze followed the movement, then flicked back to you.
“Well?” he murmured. “You coming or are we just… staring at each other through a window like creeps?”
“You’re the one standing outside my bedroom,” you whispered.
“Fair,” he said, lifting both hands in surrender. “But for the record, you invited me.”
“I did not invite you,” you hissed, laughing under your breath as you swung one leg over the sill.
The floorboard inside creaked faintly. You lowered your other leg out, careful, but the window frame snagged on your jeans for half a second and you wobbled.
Steve’s hands shot up immediately - not grabbing you, just hovering beneath your waist like a safety net.
“I’m fine,” you whispered, but your heart was already pounding, adrenaline and nerves mixing into something warm.
“Mmhm,” he said, not believing you even a little.
You eased yourself down, toes searching for the ground. It was lower than you remembered…or maybe you were just more aware of gravity now that you were older and trying not to eat dirt in front of Steve Harrington.
You dropped the last few inches with a soft thud onto the grass.
Steve let out a quiet breath like he’d been holding it the entire time.
“See?” you whispered, straightening. “Nailed it.”
He leaned closer, eyes bright in the porch light. “You almost fell.”
“I did not almost fall.”
“You absolutely almost fell.”
Your grin softened as you looked at him. Up close like this, he didn’t look like Coach Harrington or Adult Steve or anything else you’d been trying to call him in your head.
He just looked like Steve.
And for a second, neither of you moved.
The air between you felt… different. Not awkward exactly. Just charged in a way you weren’t used to yet.
Steve shifted first, clearing his throat. His eyes flicked to the window behind you, then back to your face, like he didn’t quite know what to do with his hands anymore.
“So,” he said softly, “hi.”
You smiled. “Hi.”
He huffed a small laugh under his breath, rubbing the back of his neck - the same nervous habit from the bleachers those few months ago.
And then, like he couldn’t help himself, he stepped forward and pulled you into a hug.
It wasn’t smooth.
It wasn’t the easy, familiar high school hug where you’d thrown your arms around him after a close call and neither of you had thought about it.
This one hesitated… his arms wrapping around you like he was checking for permission mid-motion, like he was afraid you’d pull away.
For half a second, you stayed stiff too - surprised by how much you wanted it. Then you melted into him, exhaling against his shoulder. Steve’s hold tightened just a little, like he’d been waiting months for this.
You pulled back first, mostly because if you didn’t, you were going to stay like that for hours.
Steve’s hands lingered for a beat at your sides before he let them drop, like he had to physically remind himself to behave.
“Ten-hour drive?” he asked, voice shifting back toward teasing.
“Ten and a half,” you whispered. “Traffic was horrible.”
He winced. “Oof. You okay?”
“Tired,” you admitted. “But… good.”
His gaze flicked over your face like he was checking for signs you might be lying. When he seemed satisfied, he nodded toward the street.
“I know you just spent the entire day in a car,” he said, already smiling like he knew your answer, “but… you wanna go for a quick drive?”
Your heart skipped.
“Yeah,” you said immediately. “I do.”
His Chevy was parked a little down the block, engine already warm. He opened the passenger door for you like it was instinct, like it was something he’d always done. The seat creaked softly beneath you. The smell hit you instantly - leather, motor oil, Steve. Different from his old shiny BMW. More lived-in. More him.
He slid in beside you, shut the door quietly, and just sat there for a second, hands on the wheel, breathing.
Then he glanced at you.
“You eat?” he asked, dead serious.
You laughed. “I swear to God.”
“I’m serious,” he repeated. “You eat?”
“Yes, Steve,” you admitted. “My mom basically made me a feast.”
“Okay,” he nodded like he’d completed a mission. “Good.”
He pulled away from the curb, headlights sweeping across familiar houses. Hawkins slipped past the windows quiet and peaceful, unchanged in a way that made your chest ache.
Steve didn’t turn on the radio. He filled the air with his voice instead, talking about his day - about Dustin making him listen to the speech for the fifth time, about how he nearly lost his mind when Dustin insisted on practicing “eye contact.”
He then asked about your drive. Where you stopped. If you listened to music or just dissociated the whole time.
And when the conversation lulled, he glanced over at you again.
“So,” he said, casual but careful. “How’s it feel?”
“How’s what feel?”
“Being back,” he clarified. “Like… for real.”
You thought about your room, the smell of your house, Dustin’s shoes kicked by the door, the knot that had been loosening in your chest since you crossed the “Welcome to Hawkins” sign.
“Honestly?” you said. “It feels like I can breathe again.”
Steve nodded, a crooked smile tugging at his mouth like he’d been expecting you to say that.
The engine hummed as he turned into the overlook, headlights sweeping briefly across the trees before he killed them. The sudden quiet settled thick and familiar - crickets, wind, the soft rush of leaves.
Steve leaned back in his seat, stretching his arms overhead with a quiet groan. “Man,” he said, shaking his head. “I still can’t believe your twerp of a brother graduates next week.”
You laughed softly, turning toward him. “Yeah. Me either. In my head he’s still ten years old, refusing to shower, running around with dice in his pockets.”
Steve snorted. “Oh, he’s still doing that.”
You smiled. “Good.”
“It’s weird,” he added, fingers drumming lazily on the steering wheel. “Seeing him this grown up. Like -” he searched for the word, “ - he’s tall now. And mouthy. And he has opinions about politics.”
You gasped dramatically. “Not opinions.”
“He told me Bush is going to ruin the economy,’” Steve said, offended. “I don’t even know what that means.”
You laughed. “It means he’s smarter than you.”
“Rude,” Steve said immediately, but his mouth twitched. “Also… he’s not smarter than me.”
“He is absolutely smarter than you.”
Steve turned toward you, eyes bright. “You are so mean to me.”
“You love it.”
He leaned closer, voice dropping. “Yeah,” he murmured. “I kinda do.”
Your stomach flipped again. You cleared your throat, because you were weak and he was playing a dangerous game right now.
“You gonna cry at graduation?” you asked, trying to tease.
Steve scoffed. “No.”
You tilted your head. “You’re totally gonna cry.”
“I am not”
“He told me you cried when you picked him up from his last day of school,” you said sweetly.
Steve froze, scandalized. “That little asshole-” He turned fully toward you. “He told you that?”
“You cried?” you pushed, delighted.
“I did not cry,” Steve said, defensive, then sighed. “Okay, fine. Maybe I got - emotional. For, like, one second.”
“One second,” you echoed, unconvinced.
“Yes, one second”
You smiled at him - not teasing now. Just fondly.
And something in Steve shifted.
His grin faded into something quieter as he turned back toward the windshield, gaze drifting out toward the trees…like the laughter had finally peeled back something real.
You watched him for a moment before speaking. The way his jaw tightened, the way his fingers rested against the steering wheel like he needed something solid to hold onto.
“So,” you asked gently, careful not to startle the moment, “how’re you actually holding up with all of it?”
“With…?” he said, glancing toward you, though there was no real confusion there… just hesitation. Like he wanted you to say it first.
“All of them leaving,” you said. “College. Growing up.”
Steve exhaled slowly, the sound low and tired, like he’d been carrying the answer around for a while. “Yeah.”
His thumb began tapping against the wheell. A habit you’d seen before when he didn’t quite know how to say something but knew he needed to try.
“I try not to dwell on it,” he admitted. “I mean… I keep busy. Practices, work, fixing random shit around the apartment that doesn’t really need fixing.” A huff of a laugh. “But I won’t lie - it’s gonna suck.”
Your fingers curled slowly in your lap. “Yeah?”
He nodded once. “Yeah.”
There was another pause. Longer this time.
“I mean,” he said, voice softer now, stripped of teasing, “Mini Henderson kinda became one of my best friends.” He swallowed. “Gonna be hard not to feel it when he’s gone.”
Something in your chest squeezed at that - not surprised, but still affected. You’d seen it happen in real time: the way Steve showed up, over and over again. How naturally he slipped into the role of protector. How Dustin trusted him in a way that went deeper than hero worship.
“You were really good for him,” you said quietly.
Steve shrugged, embarrassed, eyes still fixed ahead. “He was good for me too.”
The words settled between you like something you both already knew, but rarely said out loud. Like a truth that didn’t need defending.
Steve cleared his throat, then shook it off with a small grin, like he’d realized he was getting a little too earnest.
“But,” he added, lighter now, “we planned this massive road trip for his spring break.”
Your mouth curved into a smile immediately. “Of course you did.”
“He’s got a whole itinerary,” Steve continued, equal parts fond and horrified.
“Color-coded?” you asked.
“Oh, it’s color-coded,” he groaned. “And there are backup plans.”
“Plural?” you pressed.
“Plural,” he confirmed solemnly. “I think there’s a contingency for weather, traffic, and -” He waved a hand vaguely. “- literally any thing that can go wrong”
You laughed, the sound cutting through the quiet. “He gets that from me.”
Steve hummed, amused. “Oh, I’m aware.”
The laughter faded, but the warmth lingered.
The silence that followed wasn’t awkward… It was comfortable. Familiar. Like the kind that only happens when two people don’t feel the need to fill every gap with noise.
Steve glanced at you then, and his tone shifted again - teasing, but warm. Soft around the edges.
“But you know,” he said, “even when he’s off at school… at least I’ll still have one of my Hendersons around.”
Your eyebrow lifted. “Oh yeah?”
“Yeah,” he said easily, like it hadn’t even occurred to him that it might be strange to say. “It’s like a little trade.”
You grinned. “You swapped siblings.”
“Pretty much.”
“You lose the loud one.”
“But I gain the dorkier one.”
You scoffed, crossing your arms. “I - I am, I am not Dorky, Steve.”
Steve turned toward you fully now, body angling in your direction, eyes bright and challenging. “Yeah, you sure about that?”
You opened your mouth to argue, and then a sharp crack split the night.
Your body reacted before your brain could catch up.
You flinched hard, breath catching, shoulders tensing as a jolt of adrenaline shot straight through your chest. Your heart slammed against your ribs, fast and unsteady. Images of the Abyss, Starcourt, Vecna, El, Billy, Eddie - everything - ran through your mind.
Steve’s head snapped toward you instantly. “Hey -”
“It’s okay,” you said quickly, even though your hands were shaking. “I know. Just -”
“Hunting rifle,” he said calmly. “Or fireworks.”
You nodded, forcing a breath, but your fingers were clenched tight in your lap, knuckles pale.
Steve didn’t hesitate.
He reached over and laid his hand over yours - warm, solid, grounding. Not squeezing. Just there.
“Still gets me sometimes,” he admitted quietly. “Sounds like that.”
You glanced at him, surprised. “Yeah?”
He nodded once. “Yeah.”
Your fingers slowly relaxed beneath his, your breathing evening out as the tension eased. The quiet that followed was heavier now.
Steve stared at your hands for a moment, like he was watching the way your fingers softened, the way your grip loosened under his.
Then he exhaled, long and slow.
“You know what’s stupid?” he murmured.
“What?”
“I thought after everything…” Steve said, voice low. He gestured vaguely toward the trees, toward the dark, toward the sound that had made you flinch. “I thought I’d be better at this.”
“At what?” you asked softly.
He huffed a quiet breath, almost a laugh - but there was no humor in it. “At feeling normal,” he said. “At not jumping at every quiet sound. At not waiting for something bad to happen just because things are calm.”
He shifted in his seat, one shoulder rolling like he was trying to loosen something that had been sitting there too long.
“I keep myself busy,” he went on, like he hadn’t meant to say it but needed to anyway. “Practices run late. I volunteer for stuff I don’t need to volunteer for. I leave the TV on when I’m home, even if I’m not watching it.” A pause. “Sometimes I’ll just… sit there and let it run, because the silence feels worse.”
You swallowed. “Yeah.”
Steve nodded once, like that was all the confirmation he needed - that you understood without him having to spell it out.
“Everyone’s grown now,” he said quietly. “They’ve got new plans. New lives.” His jaw tightened, just a fraction. “And I’m proud of them. I really am. But Hawkins used to be loud, you know? Not just the monsters - but the people. The kids. Everyone was always barging in, yelling, needing something.” His mouth twitched. “Now it’s just… me.”
Your chest ached at that.
Steve’s thumb brushed your knuckles once - not absentminded. Intentional. Like he wanted you to know he was here with you, not drifting somewhere else.
He let out a small, self-conscious laugh, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe he was saying this out loud. His shoulders lifted and fell, tension bleeding out of him in pieces.
“Which is dumb,” he said quietly, “because it’s not like I’ve been completely alone.”
The words sat between you, tentative. Not defensive. Just… honest.
You turned slightly toward him, studying his profile - the way the dashboard light caught the curve of his cheekbone, the faint crease between his brows when he thought too hard. “Oh?”
Steve rubbed his jaw, thumb catching against faint stubble like he needed the grounding. He hesitated, then nodded once, like he’d made a decision.
“Yeah,” he said. “For the past couple months, there’s been… this girl.”
Your heart fluttered - not sharp, not painful - just a soft, involuntary reaction you didn’t bother hiding. You kept your voice light anyway, easy, teasing in the way that felt safe. “A girl?”
“A girl,” he confirmed, and a small smile tugged at his mouth despite himself. It wasn’t cocky. It wasn’t practiced. It was fond in a way that made your chest warm.
He stared out through the windshield again, like the trees might help him find the right words. “She’s smart,” he said slowly. “Funny. Stubborn. Dorky in a way that sneaks up on you when you’re not paying attention.” His smile deepened, almost embarrassed. “Knows way too much about Star Wars.”
You smiled, unable to help it. “That’s… weirdly specific.”
“It’s an important detail,” he insisted, glancing at you briefly, eyes bright. “Trust me.”
“She sounds great,” you said
Steve chuckled, but the sound faded into something quieter, heavier. He leaned back against the seat, fingers lacing together in his lap. “Yeah,” he said. “That’s kind of the problem.”
“The problem?” you teased gently, even though your heart had started to thud a little louder.
He smirked, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yeah. She’s different.”
“Different how?”
He took his time answering. You watched the way his chest rose and fell, the way his jaw set like he was bracing himself.
“Like,” he said carefully, “with her, I actually think before I talk.” He glanced at you then, a little sheepish. “Which is new. And honestly kind of terrifying.”
You laughed softly, warmth blooming low in your chest. “Steve Harrington. Scared of a girl.”
“Hey,” he warned, but there was no bite to it - just that familiar mix of mock offense and affection. “Don’t make fun of me. I’m serious.”
“I know,” you said, gentler now. “Why’s it scary?”
His gaze flicked to you - then away again, like holding eye contact would make it too real, too close to saying something he couldn’t take back.
“Because it’s real,” he admitted. “Back then everything felt temporary. Like we were just… passing through.” His voice dropped. “We were kids. The future felt unachievable - like something that happened to other people.”
He swallowed, adam’s apple bobbing.
“And now,” he continued, quieter, “I know what I want.”
Your heart stuttered, breath catching just slightly.
“And I don’t wanna mess it up,” he added. “I don’t want to rush her, or make her uncomfortable, or-”
“-or let it slip away,” you finished softly.
“Yeah,” he breathed. “That.”
The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was full - of everything unsaid, everything hovering just beneath the surface.
You smiled then. Not teasing. Not shy. Just steady. “Sounds like you should probably make a move.”
Steve’s thumb brushed slowly over your knuckles, deliberate, grounding. The contact sent a quiet spark up your arm.
“Yeah?” he asked, voice lower now.
“Yeah,” you said. “Before she gets confused. Starts wondering where she stands.”
His smile came slowly, unfolding like he’d been waiting for permission he didn’t realize he needed. “That would be bad.”
“Very.”
He leaned closer - not rushing, not crowding - just enough that the space between you thinned, the air warming. You could feel his presence now, solid and certain, the faint scent of him wrapping around you.
“The thing is,” he murmured, eyes searching yours, “I don’t think she’s confused at all.”
Your breath caught.
“I think,” he continued, voice steady, sure, “she’s just… patient with me.”
Your pulse thudded loud in your ears.
For a heartbeat, neither of you moved.
And then Steve leaned in.
Slow. Certain. Like he’d finally stopped overthinking and let instinct take over.
His lips met yours in a kiss that was warm and unhurried, full of intention - not desperate, not rushed. Just right. Like something he’d been holding onto for years and finally allowed himself to claim.
You melted into it instantly, a soft sound leaving you without permission. His hand came up to your jaw, thumb brushing along your cheek with adoring care as if he was memorizing the feeling.
The kiss deepened - not frantic, just fuller. You leaned into him, fingers curling lightly into his jacket, grounding yourself in the reality of him being here. With you. Choosing this.
When you finally pulled back, it was slow - reluctant - your foreheads resting together, breaths mingling in the quiet.
“Took you long enough,” you murmured, voice soft, amused.
Steve smiled - not cocky, not teasing. Just sure. Content. Like something had finally settled into place.
“Yeah,” he whispered. “I’ve wanted to do that since 1985.”And the way he said it - like it wasn’t a joke, not really - made your chest ache in the best possible way.
Let me know what you think!! I’m thinking about doing one or two more chapters - maybe following Dustin’s graduation, or leaning into some softer domestic moments: moving in together, working at the school, more baseball games… just letting them exist in that space for a bit
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
