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serenity--writes · 1 month ago

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Doe-eyes | Peter Parker x Reader

You wake up and decide, as you cough and hack up god-knows-what, that today is a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day. You're right, but it's also the catalyst for the best day of your entire life. (Peter Parker is the brightest light in your life, and you're tired of hiding it.) //Originally posted on AO3. I'll get around to editing this one day. //5k+ words. Finished! Unedited!

It builds slowly. The lingering pressure behind your temples rears its head first, then your cheeks dip between too hot and too cold, and then ends with your eyes burning as coughs plough through your throat. An amalgamation of sickness. Your body really pulled out all the stops for you this time around.

You groaned—getting sick was the last thing you needed, but already you were digging out your phone to shoot your professor a quick email. Your fingers move mechanically, too familiar words springing onto the screen. You figured she’d call bull, but you were too groggy to care. You didn’t have much going on today—

Ah.

Peter.

One of the few days he is free, today, and you’re sick as a dog. Figures. If it weren’t Peter’s borderline ridiculous excuses (he calls them “reasons” as though they weren’t absolute crap, the cute fucker) that disrupted your plans together, it was nonsensical whims of the universe. Perhaps both.

“Shit,” you huff quietly. Your voice is scratchy, and you wince at the sharp pain that shoots up the back of your throat. Water it is, then.

The walk to your kitchenette is longer than you want it to be, but you pour yourself a glass without any fanfare, briefly stopping on the way back to your bed to grab some cold medicine. It sucks, because the sun looks so warm and inviting, so reminiscent of Pete’s smile—not that you’d ever tell him that, God—and you feel horrible.

Bzzt. Bzzzt—

You blink blearily at your phone. It feels like it’s miles away, so you deem whatever popped up unimportant and collapse back into your bed of sickness, your eyes slipping shut.

You need sleep, you think needlessly. Sleep is good.

You wake up hacking up your lungs.

God, it hurts. It feels like thorns are getting cozy around your lungs and your throat, shredding both your vitality and dignity.

“Woah, woah—”

Your head perks up against your will, but you’re forced back into a ball as phlegm bursts past your lips and onto your pillow. You’d wrinkle your nose if you could—gross—but you’re more concerned about not dying and panicking because why the hell Peter is in your apartment.

Not that he’s unwelcome. Just, you’re surprised. And flustered. All of the above. Holy shit.

Peter rushes out of the room and returns with a glass of water and a pack of something, probably medicine, and helps you sit up before shoving a pillow behind you for more support.

“Thanks,” you mumble quietly. If you speak any louder, you might start coughing again. You know better than to set off another fit, no matter how confused you are; instinct tells you to hold as still as possible and breathe as shallowly as you can. Your curiosity will have to wait. Either until he explains, or you get a notepad to interrogate him with.

Actually… You raise an eyebrow at him, mustering up your best ‘what the fuck is happening and why am I not dying alone right now?’ look.

It lands because he rubs the back of his neck sheepishly, setting down the packet of cough drops (oh, you love him) on your lap. “You missed lunch,” he pouts as you gratefully throw two drops into your mouth, one for each cheek.

As if he hasn’t skipped out on lunch hundreds of times before, intentionally or not.

Your face must be a lot less neutral than it usually is because he groans. “I know, I know, hypocrite Parker, but c’mon—it’s super out of character for you. And, I was right!”

You’ll give him that.

Now that you’re not actively wishing for death, your ears pick up on the sound of your TV—how long has he been here?—and the sound of your washing machine in the distance (it’s pretty close, actually, but the illusion of distance makes it feel like your apartment is bigger and more expensive—it’s all about your mindset. Ha. Ha).

“You had a pile,” your resident best friend and long-term, oblivious as fuck crush explains, taking a seat at the end of your bed. “Figured I’d throw ‘em in the wash before it got any bigger.” He looks good, disregarding the new cuts decorating his face. His eyebags look less like canyons and more like small pits, which makes something in your chest soften.

Peter is a good man. You know this. Hell, most of the people who know him know this. Peter is also stupid as hell, self-sacrificing, and all around irritating when it comes to taking care of himself. You’re happy he’s gotten some sleep. You’re not optimistic enough to hope he’s had more than pizza since May last cooked for him, but more sleep is a good thing on its own.

You nod your head in thanks, your face more than likely too soft and open than you’d like it to be, but you're sick, for God’s sake, you can let go every now and then.

His lips quirk into a smile, a soft upturn of pretty, plump lips that sends your poor heart stuttering from where it’s stuck in your chest. “I stopped by your class, too,” he adds quietly. He nods to your desk, and you can see a few folders sitting there, unfamiliar to you but decorated in your professor’s messy scrawl.

Your cheeks heat up with the sheer amount of awe that surges inside you. He’s far more busy than you are, being a biochem major is already way more stressful than what you’re doing—though Peter always rolled his eyes and said stress was subjective, the dork—and the fact that he not only cleared his lunch schedule to spend time with you, but also went out of his way to get your assignments?

Your heart beats traitorously loud in your ears, but the smile lighting up your face is more than enough to express your gratitude.

Peter brings his hand up to your forehead, finger curling around a loose hair—damp with sweat and sticking to your forehead—to bring it back around your ear. Soft breaths dust over your nose, your cheeks, the smell of your chocolate ice cream making your stomach growl.

Your nose scrunches.

“Peter Benjamin Parker,” you cough furiously. “You did not eat my ice cream!”

He pulls back with a small yelp as you bat your hand against his chest. He holds his hands up as if you were the police. “Nope! Just like you didn’t steal my brownies that Aunt May made for me a few weeks ago!”

You frown. You did steal them. And you know he knows you know that he knows—wow, that’s confusing—but if you say anything, he’ll actually start giving you shit over it (May’s brownies are worth it, you understand his ire), so you sigh dramatically and let yourself melt into your pillows. Ice cream sounds so good right now, though.

You kinda hate him for putting that thought in your head, because you know he ate it all. You don’t know why his black hole of a stomach has persisted past highschool (you lied to yourself that he’d stop stealing all of your snacks as he grew older, but he didn’t, so now you just lie to yourself about the hopelessly fond feeling that stirs in your stomach whenever he does steal them) but it has and you suffer for it every time he comes over.

Pete snickers at your dramatics, which sends fireworks throughout your synapses—a pure shot of endorphins, his laugh is—and presses a gentle press of his knuckles against your too warm cheek before cupping it gently. “You want anything to eat, or are saltine crackers it?”

You attempt to think about it, but your stomach rebels against the thought of actual, warm, and filling food. Not to mention how your brain just practically shut down—when did Peter get so smooth? “Crackers,” you croak, subconsciously letting your head fall deeper into his palm.

It’s so easy to just exist when he’s with you.

There’s no need for words, not when you can read each other so well. You’ve been friends for so long, it feels like you know what he’s thinking before he even thinks it. And the same goes the other way around, for most things. Except your ever-lingering, downright obnoxious crush. He hasn’t caught onto that yet, thankfully. He’s still too hung up on Gwen to notice, and you’re too desperate to keep him that the thought of confessing and getting rejected makes you want to vomit.

But… It's nice. Being with him. Laughing with him, gushing about nerdy stuff with him. He’s been into everything science-nerdy and pop culture-nerdy since you were kids in middle school, and it’s rubbed off on you like a particularly sweet yet debilitating disease.

You hadn’t planned on the yearly Star Wars binge, but Peter was very persuasive.

(He literally just batted his eyelashes at you for a few seconds, and you caved like a house of cards. You are just really in denial about how down-bad you are for him.)

Peter pulls back with a grin. “Take a sip of water, and I’ll be back with those crackers.” You do, and he returns with a slight jump in his step; the effect of whatever musical he’s playing now. After stealing a few of your crackers, and balefully ignoring your pout, he breaks one in half before throwing one of the pieces in the air and catching it in his mouth.

“You’re not cute,” you lie unconvincingly, forcing the dry and tasteless food down your throat. It lingers in your throat, so you throw your head back as you down more than half a glass of water.

“I’m so cute,” he protests, “the absolute cutest!”

You agree, very begrudgingly. “Very humble, Pete.”

He mock bows. “‘Humble’ is my middle name.” You open your mouth to continue your back and forth, but he straightens abruptly, head turning to your window, which is slightly pitched open. You frown. It was closed just this mor—

“I’ll be right back, okay?” Peter sends you an apologetic glance before zipping out of your room, stumbling back to peek through the gap between your door and the wall. “I forgot that, uh, I was supposed to turn in some paperwork—and—”

You wave him off tiredly. He’s always been a shit liar. It’s kind of endearing at this point. “Bring back some ice cream.”

He smiles in relief, saluting you. The warmth in your chest nearly bursts at the sight. “See you soon!”

See you soon!

He doesn’t come back.

(‘See you soon’ you think, and hide your face in your pillow. It’s soaked with sweat. ‘See you—’)

You twist uncomfortably in your bed, panting and whining as more bile crawls from your throat. You grabbed a bowl after you puked on your carpet, thank God, but it’s a vicious cycle of vomiting, smelling the vomit, getting queasy from the smell, and then vomiting some more.

You feel like death.

Honestly, you’re not sure living is worth it at this point. You know this will pass—it always does—but your body doesn’t feel like it’s going to survive this. The nausea is overwhelming, and the puking hasn’t gotten to the point that it feels better once you’re done, because you can’t catch a fucking break.

You feel like you’re going to hyperventilate and choke and die because what the fuck. It’s like being stuck in your own body, being able to do nothing other than vomit and pray that it stops sometime soon.

You haven’t eaten anything other than that one cracker.

The world hates you.

The night passes in a blur, and so does the following day, until it’s been a full day since you’ve seen Peter. You’ve taken so much medication that it’s a miracle you’re still awake (you got desperate, and may or may not have disregarded the six hours written on the bottle. Four isn’t that bad, right?).

You feel marginally better, though a bit bored. Lonely.

You toy with the idea of calling Peter, but you don’t want to seem needy—a sure sign that you’re getting better, you think with a sigh—so you let the device sit there as you use the small burst of energy to get to cleaning your carpet and bedding.

Opening up the window half-way (which was still cracked open, oops!) lets in sounds you could do without but clears the air of vomit fumes, so you endure for the sake of your poor stomach. Hearing all the hubbub of New York beats the pounding headache that comes from emptying your guts through your mouth—courtesy of your nausea—so your headache can suck it.

You have to throw your clothes in the dryer, which sends a prickle of something down your spine. Whatever it is, it’s not pleasant, because you feel your eyes heat up in preparation for tears, and yup, that’s a firm no.

Peter leaves all the time, and you know he’s busy. He took care of you for how long while you were asleep? Probably since your lunch plans at one, so at least five hours. He missed work for you, and forgot an assignment. Hell, he probably wasn’t lying about having to turn in an assignment, or maybe he just worded it so that you’d feel less bad.

“I forgot to turn in my work,” sounds a lot better than, “I missed work to take care of you and now my superiors are mad at me and I have to go work to make up for the time missed.”

…

Right. You’re cleaning.

You can hear May as clear as the crystals you have in your bedroom—”Focus on what you can do, honey, don’t linger on what you can’t control.”

Peter was lucky to have her, you think, envious. But she always had love for everyone, and you never went without your share, whether you deserved it or not.

(“She loves you,” Peter assured you as you panicked, clutching at your mom’s homemade cookies with a grip that could rival that of a crab. He looked nervous, though, probably because he was a person who cried because someone else cried, and that extended to your random bouts of anxiety. You felt bad, but your mind gets overwhelmed to the point that you can't apologize.

“How do you know?!” You were about to meet May for the first time, and your anxiety was causing your stomach to knot itself into a pretzel. You were going to throw up. Or at least, that’s what it felt like.

Peter pulled the box of cookies from your hands and set it on the porch, gently wrapping his arms around you. You gulped and buried your face in his shoulder. His glasses dug awkwardly into your ear, but it was oddly calming. Uncomfortable enough that you could focus on it instead of the rolling of your stomach.

“I know because she’s been excited to meet you ever since I mentioned you,” he says softly. “And Aunt May is the kindest person you’ll ever meet. You could walk in there looking like a member of the mafia and the worst she’d do is raise an eyebrow—”

You laugh, disbelieving.

He tightens his grip on you. You never noticed that he smelled like strawberries until now. Somehow, that makes your breathing slow just a smidge more. “I’m serious! She knows about how you stood up to Flash for me, and how you got me to watch her favorite musical—now she won’t stop singing that one, stupid song—”

You snort. “‘Popular’ is iconic, you nerd.” Your voice is nasally, but you’re smiling. If Peter Parker had a superpower, it was the ability to make you smile. Without a thought, your arms wrap around him, and you grin like an idiot in the crook of his neck.

“Anyway,” he continues, the segue as smooth as a brutal pileup crash, “Aunt May would rather you cry over uh—”

“Wicked,” you supply helpfully, the sound muffled by his skin.

He shivers slightly. It’s cold out. December, and all that. You feel bad all over again, but shove the feeling down and clutch at him tighter. It helps a bit, settles the goosebumps rising on your flesh.

Peter clears his throat. “R-Right, Wicked. She’d rather you cry over Wicked together instead of you crying alone, over meeting her. She loves you already, and she’ll love you even more after meeting you for real. Okay? I promise.”)

Meeting May was oddly emotional, mostly because she was the most important person in his life, aside from Ben, who you met that same night when he came home early, surprising all three of you. But May hardly ever spoke without a purpose, and she had wisdom on her side, so you trusted her words like gospel, almost.

Focus on what you can do, you remind yourself, and get to work.

An hour (two? You lost track of time) later, you’re lying down on your couch, beat, and fighting an upcoming cough with cough drops (that are running out worryingly fast) and dayquil. Your bedding is in the dryer, and your clean, unfolded clothes lay in a heap under your feet, but at least it’s done. Almost.

Ugh.

The vomit has been cleaned up, and though you kind of want to burn the newly-labeled ‘puke bucket’, you just cleaned it, so it’s staying. For now. And your teeth are freshly brushed, because you’d be crazy to leave them dirty for a moment longer.

… Ice cream sounds fucking perfect right now.

Crackers sat stacked on the table beside you, pulled out of your cupboards by Peter more than a day ago, and it leaves a bitter taste in your mouth.

You’re acting like he’s your boyfriend, and it’s pretty pathetic. He’s your best friend, sure, but he’s… busy. He doesn’t live here, has no way of knowing if you’re even awake—

Oh. Your phone. You heard it go off earlier, not even ten minutes ago, actually, from inside your bedroom. You're drowsy enough that calling Peter sounds like an amazing idea.

Stumbling into your bedroom, you snatch your phone and go to open it.

Tap, tap, tap.

You freeze, bolting around to look at your window, suddenly wide awake.

Peter stands breathlessly in the cold, awkwardly shifting as you stare at him. He’s… in your fire escape, having just knocked on your recently closed window (it got cold, sue you), and well, now you know how he got into your apartment. Maybe you should lock your windows in the future. That would be smart.

You take too long just gaping at him, apparently, because Peter sags and mimes opening up the window. He dangles a Walmart bag in his hands like it’s an enticing treat, a pout forming on his lips.

You pitch forward, tripping on nothing, and he panics, rushing forward before remembering that there’s a wall in the way, but you catch yourself because you’re not that clumsy. What the hell.

You’re muttering to yourself as you wrench the window open, ‘what the fuck’ being a prominent phrase amidst the rest.

Crossing your arms, you wait silently.

Guilt flashes in his eyes, and your resolve nearly crumbles at the sight of fresh bruises on his face, but he opens his mouth before you can reach forward to cradle his cheek. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles, shamefaced. “I—had to work, uhm, overtime, and I literally just got off a few hours ago, and—”

You didn’t notice before, too shocked by his sudden appearance, but as you drink him in, you see just how exhausted he is. His eyebags are back to canyon size, dark bruises that make your stomach churn, accompanied by split knuckles. He got into a fight, somehow, sometime in the past day, and you—

Unbidden, tears pool in the corner of your eyes. You’re not even sure why, really, just that you’re about to break down and neither of you are prepared to deal with that, so you wipe your eyes and try your best to ignore the sudden silence as Peter tries to figure out what to do with his hands.

His bag crinkles as he places it on your bed, but it’s forgotten as he crushes you into a hug. “Hey, I got you, I got you,” he mumbles into your hair. “You’re alright.”

For a while, you two just sit there as you both attempt to calm down. His heart rages against his chest so fiercely that you can physically feel it. As calm as he appeared, he couldn’t hide everything, not from you.

“You’re hurt,” you whisper tearfully. Your Peter, who is so kind and wonderful, even if he’s late or never shows, or hell, even if he leaves far too soon, doesn’t deserve to be in pain. The unfairness of it all stings the most, you think, because he’s always getting hurt but he doesn’t explain why, so you can’t help.

His assurances die out as he searches for something to say. Eventually, he takes a deep breath and buries his nose in your hair. “Yeah. Got… mugged. I was grabbing stuff from Walmart and some dude—” he gives up half-way through with a mirthless chuckle. “Should see the other guy, actually, he turned out way worse.”

You pull back with a sniffle, willing yourself to toughen up. Sickness and medication and repressed emotions be damned. “Peter, don’t lie to me. Not now. Please.”

It feels awful, to use your tears in your favor, even if there’s only remnants of them, but you’re so tired of him getting hurt and lying about why.

If he’s getting extorted, or—or something, you can help. You could get your cousin, who’s a police officer, on the phone in a heartbeat, and you’d corral the perps into a cell yourself if you had to.

You just want him to be safe. To stop coming back from ‘work’ so exhausted, bloody, broken. It’s not right, and it doesn’t fit. It can’t fit, because that means he has to suffer, that the universe is right, and you just can’t accept that.

Peter grits his teeth, the grind of it making you wince.

You purse your lips. Your voice is a whisper when you finally speak. “You’re always somewhere, getting hurt, and the first few times, I believed you when you said you got mugged or fell. But now…” You take a deep breath. “Now, I just can’t anymore. Peter, you—you mean so much to me, and I can’t do this anymore. Who’s hurting you? A-And why won’t you tell me? I can help, if you—”

“I’m Spider-Man.”

You fumble, pausing before peering at Peter, searching for a lie, or something. His face is stone-cold, and you shiver. It’s like ice has been dumped down the back of your shirt. You forcefully pull yourself away from him, feeling guilty as his face falls into something akin to despair.

“Prove it.”

If he’s lying… you don’t know what you’ll do. You love Peter Parker, no matter how infuriating he is, no matter how much he lies to you, and you know he’ll be your undoing.

But if he’s Spider-Man—

Fwip!

A web shoots out at you, and you flinch as it lands on the wall behind you, inches away from your face. You look at it, then at Peter, then back at the web. Laughter bubbles in your chest and bursts from your mouth without your input, but it feels like release.

Peter murmurs your name warily, because you’re acting like a nut (you’re at the very least, self-aware), and wow, your name sounds beautiful when he says it like that. You really want to kiss him.

He’s still getting hurt, but he told you the truth. It feels like you’re on cloud-nine.

You wiggle a bit, a mimicry of a typical happy dance, but it comes close, so you count it as a win.

…

… Peter’s looking at you like you’re about to collapse and have a mental breakdown. He’s not wrong to assume that, but you’re laughing out of sheer and utter relief at the fact that he’s not getting extorted or abused at work (or by some secret partner that he couldn’t tell you about).

You smile at him, laughter petering off into soft giggles, then exhales, then silence. “I thought you were getting extorted,” you muse, “or abused. I’m glad you’re just, uhm, willingly—” you say it like a question, because you’re pretty sure that’s not the case but not one-hundred percent sure, “—getting beaten up by random people who sometimes dress up like a bird. Or become a lizard for some reason.”

He snorts, looking exhausted and tentatively hopeful. “Definitely not willingly.”

You frown. “You don’t want to be Spider-Man?” Who the hell is forcing him—

He raises his hands in a panic, shaking his head. “I meant the ‘getting beat up’ part! I chose to be Spider-Man!”

“Oh. Makes sense.” You are really out of it.

Peter continues on like he hadn’t heard you. “Like, who willingly gets beat up by criminals? You’d have to be a huge masochist, and even then, that’s like, insane. Beyond insane, actually. Just get like, one of those BDSM contracts from that Fifteen Shades of—something, and why am I still talking.”

You snort-laugh, shaking your head. The fondness in your heart beats in tandem with your pulse, and you surge forward into his arms before it can overwhelm you like before. Spider-Man or not, Peter Parker was a masterclass on anxious word-vomit.

It’s beyond adorable.

His pout is too, but it disappears as you trace the curves of his lips with your eyes, until it settles on a shaky smile. You can hear him holding his breath, and wonder, out of nowhere, if it will smell like your ice cream.

You look up to find him already looking at you. You always told him one of his best features were his eyes. ‘Big, brown, doe-eyes,’ you used to tease him. You called him ‘doe-eyes’ up until your junior year of highschool, a way to avoid spilling about how beautiful they were. He’d roll his eyes every time you called him that, but May secretly told you how much he enjoyed the nickname.

(“He doesn’t get complimented or appreciated enough,” she told you softly, watching Peter snore into the couch pillow. He was contorted into a position that had to be uncomfortable—it was a position only a teenager could pull off. Her lips twitched at the sight, and it was hard to imagine a world where one needed more than May Parker’s love, but if someone deserved it, it would be Peter Parker. “It’s easy to make him happy, really, but you’re one of his best friends, and it means so much more coming from you.”)

Oddly, when your heart flutters, it’s not because of anxiety, but because you feel right at home. Like you found your place amongst the stars, sitting in his lap, your hands in his hair and on his skin.

His cheek is soft under your thumb, and you’re gentle as you brush past the bruises, so soft that you’re barely grazing his skin; you savor the feeling of him against you as he shivers before leaning forward, resting your forehead against his.

“You’re not mad?” he asks shakily, running his tongue over his bottom lip.

Maybe you are, but right now you can’t help but feel much more than a tingly happiness. “I don’t know,” you answer honestly, toying with the curls around his ear. “I just… really want to kiss you right now.”

You laugh a little at how silly you both are, how weird you’re acting. Pete exhales through his nose, and smiles dopily at you. His eyelashes are longer than you imagined. He looks…

“Beautiful,” you murmur, ghosting your lips against his, giving him a chance to back away. Your eyelids dip until you can just barely see him as he presses closer to you, his near-silent whine escaping into your mouth as his lips meet yours. He wants this.

Fingers dig into your waist needily, the warmth of Peter’s palms soothing the aches left behind by the strength of his grip. How you never noticed his super-strength before, you’ll never know, but now…

Your thoughts trickle out of your head as Pete murmurs into your kiss, the flush of heat on both of your cheeks making you feel so warm and hazy. Kissing him is like a drug—very, very addicting. You don’t want to leave his mouth, nor his lap, so you desperately press closer even after he pulls away, mouthing at the delicate skin of his neck as he pants into the quiet of your bedroom.

He giggles, sounding as heady as you feel. “You taste like cough drops,” he mutters, giddy, tilting his neck to give you better access. You suck a small hickey onto the skin there, and he groans, hips bucking upwards with no real heat.

You’re both too exhausted for more, but too drunk on endorphins to care about it.

“I was hoping you’d taste like my ice cream,” you whisper into his neck, hopelessly fond—you remember him after getting his wisdom teeth removed, how he acted then, and it's like that day all over again, just better. His pulse beats in your ear, fast but steadily slowing. You wonder if you could wake up with this sound tomorrow, if he’d want to sleep in your bed and wake up with you, next to you—

“Oh shit.” Peter scrambles up, taking you with him.

You'll deny the squeal that leaves your mouth until the day you die. Fuck you, Peter. “What the hel—”

“I bought ice cream,” he explains breathlessly, tugging the Walmart bag off the bed and hurrying you both into the kitchen. You dangle in his arms, the afterglow completely ruined, and can’t help but gape at your stupid idiot as he throws the carton of ice cream—chocolate!—into your freezer.

He freezes after seeing the look on your face.

“... It was twelve dollars, okay?”

You break into uncontrollable laughter. Despite the comedy of it all, you agree with him. Twelve dollar ice cream must be preserved. You still give him shit for it, though, because what else are best friends/potentially-a-girlfriend for? “Oh my God, Peter. You’re a complete disaster!” You tilt your head back to stare at your ceiling, eyes closed in mock repentance. As if God, or whoever was up there had anything to apologize for by allowing Peter into your life.

“Says the person who has had almost two mental breakdowns in the past fifteen minutes,” he snarks back. It doesn’t quite achieve the desired effect he must want, because seeing how frazzled he is just makes you want to pinch his cheeks and kiss him stupid.

Or, well, considering how he acted earlier, it probably wouldn’t go amiss…

“Go on a date with me,” you demand suddenly. He goes still as you bury yourself against his chest. Hearing how fast his heart speeds up makes you feel better about how fast yours is pounding. “And no flaking for Spider-Man activities! Unless there’s like, a fire, then you should probably go—”

“Saturday,” he interrupts you. “At seven. I’ll pick you up, and we’ll go watch that new movie you’ve been wanting to see, and then I’ll take you to that one place you really like—the one near Forest Hills, and—”

You wiggle your eyebrows, the joke too funny to pass up. “Netflix and Chill?”

He flushes, groaning. “OhmyGod.” Then he thinks about it, restless as he shifts against you. He’s visibly imagining it, which makes you flush with so many different feelings, it’s kind of hard to focus. “I mean, if… you want to?”

You smile into his chest. “We’ll figure it out then,” you reassure him.

“Yeah,” he breathes, words blending together in what you fondly call a 'Peter Word-Tornado', where all his words get jumbled up because he's so excited. Your knees feel weak at the thought of hearing that everyday. God. “Yeahyeahyeah, that works.”

Maybe getting sick wasn’t too bad, you decide. (It was pretty bad, but you're too floaty on ‘Peter’ to think straight. Being sick sucks ass. Getting together with the love of your life is pretty nice, though.)

Fin.

#spiderman #spider-man #spiderman x reader #spider-man x reader #peter parker x reader #gender neutral reader #no use of y/n #hurt/comfort #sickfic #identity reveal #minor angst #mostly fluff #i think

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seat-safety-switch · 10 months ago

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Movies make nitrous oxide seem so much more exciting than it really is. Green exhaust flames, super blurry vision, cars that instantly do wheelies and jump drawbridges. Completely rad. If nitrous oxide was so cool, I ask Hollywood, then why does my dentist have a whole bunch of it? The truth of the matter is that nitrous oxide has one hell of a lot of marketing goodwill, built on the dreams of every broke-ass drag racer on the planet.

First, a primer: cars run on oxygen and fuel. As anyone who's run up a hill can tell you, there's only so much air in the air that you can breathe, and there is basically an infinity of Burger King Whoppers you can practically eat. It's not fair, so we have to make it more fair.

There's ways to compress the air, and cram more of it into the engine. Then we can eat more Whoppers – I mean fuel – and make more power. We've all heard of miraculous mechanical devices for adding air, such as turbos and superchargers, but those cost a lot of money and involve complex fabrication. Nitrous oxide, a gas that we get from whales or some shit, accomplishes the same goal just by being sprayed into the engine.

It's sort of like if you gave an asthma inhaler to a Tour de France bicycle dude. He'd go a lot faster for a few seconds until and unless his heart explodes. Or maybe not. Don't get medical advice from me. Treat your captive Tour de France bicycle dudes like you yourself would want to be treated (and for the love of Pete, get them spayed or neutered if you let them outside.)

Hollywood has largely failed to make the intricacies of nitrous, such as not being able to afford filling an entire bottle with today's prices, into a compelling narrative. The sequel to Two Lane Blacktop was never approved because the middle 40 minutes of the film consists of the two of them digging through a half-abandoned parts store looking for the exact AN fitting they need for the fuel system. That's not how you win even a soundtrack Oscar. So instead, they do this crazy movie shit, which in turn makes a lot of other people buy nitrous setups. They want to be like the famous movie star Mr. Bean.

I'm not asking for perfect realism, here, folks. All I want is the occasional admission that sometimes you forget to turn on your bottle heater before making a pass.

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cryingscreamingpuking · 3 months ago

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A few 'Eltingville club as parents' headcanons, part 2

Josh! - He'd likely be the most neglectful out of the parents. His girlfriend/wife would be the one changing diapers, waking up in the middle of the night, getting that kid dressed. Josh isn't helping out despite working from home, he's too busy writing - Despite being so neglectful, his kids would still love him, at least when they're young. Why, you may ask? Because he's the fun parent. Mom would be left to discipline and correcting behavior alone, so is associated with being the mean parent, meanwhile these kids could probably ask Josh for anything and he'd just be like "meh whatever" or, if its food related, "Oh yeah thats a good idea, we SHOULD put fruit loops and ice cream on our pancakes" - On that note, he's passing on his disordered eating to his kids. They aren't coming out unscathed, no, not at all, that house is filled with easy to microwave snacks and those kids are unfortunately allowed free roam of the kitchen - I think Josh would be the kind of parent who's kids would go to him for help on an especially hard level of a game. Because he IS available, and he IS interested in those games, and he WOULD be able to get past that stupid level with the stupid boss who's mechanics don't make sense And finally, B i l l - First of all, he is nobody's dad. He is never getting laid. Like, Jerry has Mandi to have kids with, Pete has the girls he works with to knock up, and I have seen too many instances of guys like Josh finding wives and having kids to say "nah he wouldn't get laid". But Bill? No. Absolutely not. That man is an UNCLE. He's either dealing with Jane's kids or some other relatives kids, but absolutely none of his own. - Bill is good for one thing and one thing only. Family discounts. His nibling is able to approach him with cash and go "Hey you have this not necessarily rare figurine/comic/collectible, I wan it, ill give you 25 bucks" and Bill would haggle the price up to 30-50 dollars instead of the usual unreasonably high price - He's calling his older niblings either a normie, a faggot or a poser, depending on both gender and nerd status. They are not free from slurs. - I lied, Bill is good for one other thing and that's causing so much chaos at family gatherings that his nibling is able to get away with sneaking out or stealing an entire pumpkin pie. Like. He's REALLY good at that.

#the eltingville club #welcome to eltingville #bill dickey #josh levy #eeeeeeeeeeeeeghhhhh #headcanon

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baby-blue-skyy · 4 months ago

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Too Sweet // R. Grimes (TWD) Part 4

Fourth part of: Too Sweet

Hi everyone! I just wanted to say thank you all so much for the love and support—I appreciate you all so very much. I am so excited to let you all know that part 5 will be posted soon! Part 5 has a-lot of juicy stuff lol. I hope you all are enjoying and I cannot wait to share more parts of this series with you all! Xoxo 🤎

Warning: age gap, hints of abuse, language

Summary: After arriving in Alexandria, Rick is still on high alert, uncertainty about the people who live within the walls of his new, unfamiliar home. But one person has caught his attention.

•••

The sun hung heavy in the sky, its light both harsh and warm, as Daisy worked in the small yard. The clothesline was nothing more than a makeshift affair, strung between two sturdy posts. Yet, in this new world, it was a small comfort—one of the few remnants of normalcy that still clung to the edges of their existence.

Her fingers worked with practiced speed, moving over the damp sheets she had gathered from the house, quickly and efficiently hanging them one by one. The fabric flapped gently in the warm breeze, their edges dancing like faded memories in the light. Her movements were rhythmic, mechanical, a distraction from the thoughts that always seemed to lurk just below the surface.

The world around her continued its mundane pulse. The sound of footsteps filled the air, a constant hum of activity as neighbors went about their daily tasks. People moved in and out of their homes, each one of them carrying the weight of their own burdens, their own routines—trying, in some way, to hold on to the remnants of a life that had long since vanished.

Daisy’s gaze drifted aimlessly over the scene. It was almost peaceful—if you could ignore the undertones of fear, the silent questions hanging in the air, the unspoken weight of survival. Her eyes flicked from one familiar face to the next, but then, without meaning to, they found him.

Her stomach dropped. It was as though the earth had shifted beneath her, leaving her off balance. She felt a strange, tight knot form in her stomach, and for a brief moment, she could feel her pulse quicken, a wave of unease rushing over her. The worst part was that she understand exactly why.

His gaze met hers, sharp and unyielding, as if he could see straight through the facade she tried to maintain. She tore her attention away quickly, her fingers gripping the fabric of the sheet a little too tightly. She needed to focus, needed to stop the erratic pace of her heart. But it was hard to breathe, hard to ignore the feeling of his eyes on her.

She couldn’t escape it.

Daisy kept her hands moving, her body mechanically pulling the sheets taut against the line. The faster she worked, the more grounded she felt, even if it was a false sense of control.

But then, just as she thought she might regain some sense of normalcy, his figure entered her peripheral vision. She didn’t have to turn to know it was him—Pete. The presence of him was undeniable, his energy as insistent and heavy as ever. He was walking toward her, a lazy, almost deliberate stagger to his step, a beer bottle clutched loosely in his hand.

Her heart clenched.

She couldn’t seem to stop the way her chest tightened. The pit in her stomach deepened. She felt the oppressive weight of his approach, a shadow that stretched further than the sunlight allowed. She could hear the sound of his shoes dragging slightly, the scrape of the earth beneath his feet, each step an unwelcome mark on the ground between them.

“Look at you,” Pete’s voice broke through the tension in the air, a mocking tone lacing his words. He wasn’t asking a question. He was making a statement. The familiarity in his voice unsettled her more than she was willing to admit.

Daisy’s eyes flicked around instinctively, checking for anyone who might be watching, anyone who could be a witness to this moment. Her stomach twisted in a knot of anxiety, but her gaze couldn’t quite escape the heaviness of his stare. She swallowed, her throat dry.

He spoke again, the words tumbling out with a note of annoyance. “You didn’t come by last night.” The sharpness in his tone didn’t surprise her, but it still made her stomach twist with a familiar sense of dread.

Daisy shifted, the nervous energy pulsing through her, pushing her fingers to work faster than before. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, her movements quick and unsteady. She could feel his gaze on her, felt his eyes following every tiny motion she made, like a predator watching its prey.

His figure seemed to loom over her, taking up more space than it should have. She could sense him moving closer—too close—and her body tensed in response. She fought the instinct to step back, to put distance between them. The heat from the beer bottle in his hand seemed to burn against her skin, even from this distance.

He tilted his head, his eyes never leaving her face. A smirk tugged at the corner of his lips, a dangerous glint in his gaze. And then, as if testing her, he moved even closer. Daisy could feel her breath catch in her throat.

“How’s Karen?” Daisy heard her own voice break through the silence, though it sounded nothing like her own. The words stung, sharper than she’d intended, but they slipped out before she could stop them. The moment they left her lips, she knew they had hit their mark. Pete’s expression shifted, a flicker of anger flashing in his eyes—quick, but unmistakable.

He let out a laugh, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes, and took a long swig from the beer bottle. The motion was lazy, nonchalant, but Daisy knew the truth behind it. He was trying to mask something, trying to put on a front, as if it was all so simple—so casual. But she knew better.

“Karen?” Pete repeated, the words drawn out, almost mocking. “You’re not still mad over this, are you?” His finger reached out, brushing against her bottom lip, the touch soft but purposeful. Daisy’s lip twitched involuntarily beneath his touch—her bottom lip, bruised from a past encounter, still tender to the slightest contact. She flinched, the sensation of it his touch almost unbearable. His fingers lingered, brushing too close, a taunt disguised as a gesture of intimacy. It was as if he was reminding her of how easily he could hurt her, of how he had already left marks on her, both seen and unseen.

Daisy’s body stiffened in response, a rush of heat and disgust flooding her veins. Her skin prickled, her pulse racing in a way that was beyond fear—it was revulsion. She could feel her heart thudding violently in her chest, the dread slowly creeping over her, seeping into her bones.

She shook her head, refusing to let him have this power over her again. But even as she tried to hold herself together, she could feel the cracks spreading.

“You need to leave me alone, Pete,” she said, her voice quieter than she intended. The words felt fragile as they left her lips, but she stood her ground. She had to. There was no other choice.

Pete hummed in response, the sound low and mocking, like he was savoring the discomfort he was causing. His eyes raked over her body with an intensity that left her feeling exposed, vulnerable. She could feel the weight of his gaze, every inch of her skin prickling under it. His lips curled into a smirk, the cruel edge to it sending a wave of nausea through her.

“I want something from you, Daisy,” he murmured, the words coated in a dark promise she knew she couldn’t afford to entertain.

Her heart hammered painfully in her chest, the feeling of his presence overwhelming her, suffocating her. The world seemed to shrink around her, the noise of the distant neighbors, the hum of the wind—it all faded into the background as Pete’s presence filled the space between them.

But Daisy didn’t move. She couldn’t. She wasn’t sure if it was because she was paralyzed by fear, or if it was the crushing weight of the memories she couldn’t escape. Either way, it didn’t matter. His smirk deepened, his body leaning in closer.

“I don’t think you’re in any position to fucking refuse me.” He whispered, his voice low and dangerous. His breath was warm against her skin, and Daisy flinched, fighting every instinct that screamed at her to run.

This time, she did step back, moving toward the line of laundry, her hands gripping the sheets tightly. But even as she tried to steady herself, Pete’s smirk never wavered. He took another swig of his beer, watching her as if she were a puzzle he was trying to solve. His gaze, predatory and unrelenting, never left her.

Daisy’s heart raced in her chest, thudding against her ribcage as if trying to escape. Her eyes were wide, her vision swimming with a disorienting haze. Her skin crawled beneath her clothes, every inch of her body protesting the closeness of Pete. She felt dirty, like his presence had seeped into her skin and left an unbearable residue. It wasn’t just the weight of the words he’d spoken, but the familiarity in his eyes, the way he looked at her like something to be owned, like she was a possession he could call on when it suited him.

Her stomach churned, the pit inside her growing deeper as she fought to keep her composure. She couldn’t remember the last time she felt this vulnerable—this exposed. The bruised bottom lip, the lingering ache of their last encounter, it all rushed back, threatening to drown her.

Then, like a sudden gust of wind slicing through stagnant air, a voice pierced the tension.

“You alright?”

Rick’s voice was like an anchor to her mind, pulling her away from the suffocating weight of Pete’s presence. Daisy’s head snapped to him instinctively, her breath catching in her throat.

There he was—Rick.

His figure was like a beacon, a lifeline amidst the storm of emotions crashing over her. The wave of relief that rushed through her veins was palpable, almost physical, and for a fleeting moment, the tightness in her chest began to loosen.

Pete shifted, his posture stiffening as Rick’s presence seemed to disrupt the thick cloud of control he had over the situation. Rick’s gaze was sharp, unwavering as he surveyed the two of them, his eyes falling on Daisy. His attention was immediate, honed in on her discomfort, the way she couldn’t quite mask the unease that radiated from her in waves.

Daisy felt the air shift. The electricity between them was undeniable—the difference between Rick’s solid, grounded presence and Pete’s dissonant chaos. Rick wasn’t just concerned. He was aware. And she knew it. She could feel the shift in his gaze as it flicked between her and Pete, the subtle narrowing of his eyes when he saw how Pete lingered too long, too close.

Rick tilted his head, his brow furrowed slightly as he took in the scene. He didn’t like it. The way Pete stood there with a smirk playing at his lips, like he had some sort of claim to Daisy.

“Rick,” Daisy’s voice was soft, almost too soft, like the sound of a whisper carried on the wind. It was an exhale, a release of the tension she’d been holding in her body since Pete had appeared. Her eyes darted quickly from Rick’s concerned gaze to Pete’s watchful one, her pulse skipping in a nervous rhythm. She wasn’t sure what she felt more—relief that Rick was here or anxiety at the idea of being caught in the middle of these two.

The way Rick’s name fell from her lips was like a soft caress, sending an unfamiliar warmth spreading through Rick’s chest. It was gentle, but it was loaded with something more—something Rick couldn’t quite place. The sound of her voice stirred something inside him, an instinct to protect, to shield her from whatever it was that had caused the distress in her eyes. His muscles tensed, his jaw set as he studied Pete’s reaction to his arrival.

But Rick was no fool. He wasn’t blind to the subtle shift in the air, the way Pete seemed to shrink slightly as he realized his hold over Daisy wasn’t as strong as he’d thought. Rick could see it now, in Pete’s stance, in the way his eyes flickered with an almost possessive energy.

The discomfort in Daisy was clear to Rick. He could see it in the way her shoulders were pulled tight, the way her hands hovered over the laundry, as though it was the only thing holding her together. And it only made him more determined to get her away from Pete. The other man’s gaze was dangerous, like a storm on the horizon, ready to erupt at the slightest provocation.

“Are you alright?” Rick repeated, his voice gentle but firm, trying to cut through the haze of tension that clung to the air. His eyes didn’t leave Daisy’s, studying her every subtle movement. He could see the way she nodded slightly, almost too quickly, as if she was trying to convince herself, more than him, that everything was fine.

A soft, hesitant smile tugged at her lips, fragile and quick, like something she wasn’t sure she had the strength to give. But it was enough to let him know she was still here, still standing. She was trying to hold it together, even if it was barely holding at all.

“Yeah, just finished,” Daisy said, the words coming out a little too fast, a little too rehearsed. Her eyes briefly met Rick’s, and for a heartbeat, it felt like the world outside of this small, tense space disappeared. The distance between them, though small, seemed to be filled with something unspoken.

Her body moved toward Rick almost involuntarily, like some magnetic pull she couldn’t escape. It was as though his presence was a balm to the wound Pete had opened, an instinct to seek safety, to find some kind of relief in the midst of the storm. Rick’s gaze softened, just for a moment, as she stepped closer. But the flicker of concern never left his eyes.

Then Pete’s voice cut through, dragging Daisy back into the moment. “Come by later, Daisy. I can look at that lip for you.”

His words, casual as they were, sent a shiver down her spine. The insinuation was there, veiled beneath the surface, and it made her stomach turn. Daisy couldn’t bring herself to meet his gaze. She kept her head down, avoiding his eyes like they were a trap, something she couldn’t let herself fall into again. She felt like a puppet, her strings pulled tight by his presence, even as she fought to remain in control.

She forced a smile, a thin, tight thing that didn’t reach her eyes. “Yeah,” was all she managed to say, her voice barely above a whisper. She could feel the warmth of Pete’s gaze on her, like a lingering weight that refused to let go.

Rick’s eyes narrowed at Pete’s words. The challenge in them was clear, but Rick didn’t respond immediately. His gaze lingered on Daisy for just a moment longer, before finally flicking back to Pete. There was no mistaking the tension that hung between them. Rick didn’t like Pete. Not the way he looked at Daisy, not the way he spoke to her like she was something to be controlled.

Rick could feel the muscles in his jaw tightening, his mind working over the words Pete had just spoken. His protective instincts flared, a wave of anger building behind his ribs. But he pushed it down, knowing it wouldn’t do any good. Not yet.

Daisy was swift as slid past Rick, her anxious form desperate to remove herself from the tension.

Rick felt a pang in his chest, the distance between them growing even though she was just a few feet ahead of him. He didn’t want her to push him away, but he understood, maybe more than she realized, how hard it was to let someone in when you’d already been broken.

But he wasn’t going to let her close herself off.

He followed her, his footsteps slow but deliberate as she walked toward her home, her steps quickening with every second.

“What was that back there?” Rick’s voice broke the silence, his words heavy with concern.

Daisy paused, twisting one of her rings anxiously. The motion was so familiar, so telling, but she didn’t look at him as she spoke. “Pete? He was just… trying to make me come in for a checkup.” Her laugh was hollow, the sound of it lacking any real mirth. She was hiding something, and Rick could feel it, deep in his gut.

Rick stopped in his tracks, his brows furrowing in disbelief. “No. No, I think you’re lying to me.”

The words hit her like a slap. Daisy froze, her body turning sharply to face him. The air between them thickened, electric, and Rick could feel the magnetic pull of her, the way her presence wrapped around him like a silent storm. His heart pounded in his chest, and for a brief moment, he felt dizzy from the sheer nearness of her, the closeness he hadn’t realized he was craving.

Her face was a storm of emotions, hurt flashing across her features before it was quickly masked by something else—something unreadable. Her freckled face scrunched, and for a second, Rick thought she might break, that she might spill everything she was holding back.

Her voice came out small, almost imperceptible. “Why are you concerned?”

The question caught him off guard, and for a moment, Rick didn’t know how to respond. His breath faltered, and his mind raced. Why was he concerned? He wanted to shout it at her, to tell her that the moment he’d laid eyes on her, something had shifted inside him. But he couldn’t. Not yet.

He didn’t speak at first. The words failed him.

Daisy, sensing his hesitation, took his silence as an answer and started walking again, her pace quickening as if she were running from the conversation she knew was inevitable. Her steps carried her closer to the door, closer to the safe walls of her house, but Rick’s feet moved before he even realized what he was doing. He was there in an instant, his hand on the door before she could open it, a physical barrier between her and the escape she so desperately sought.

She looked up at him, confusion and something else in her eyes. Rick’s stomach flipped. He couldn’t stop himself now.

“I need you to tell me if something’s going on,” Rick’s voice cracked, the desperation in it pulling her attention back to him. “I know what he does to Karen. To her boys.” He emphasized his words with a weight that felt like a promise.

Daisy’s breath shuddered, and she swallowed hard. She was so close to him now, so close that Rick could feel the warmth of her body seeping into his, feel the heat that radiated from her skin. The basket of freshly folded sheets the only thing between them. She looked away briefly, her eyes darting past him, scanning the street for anyone who might see them, before her gaze met his again.

Rick’s eyes fell to her lip, the faint trace of a bruise still visible despite her attempt to hide it. His heart hammered in his chest as he leaned in closer. “Did Josh do that? Or did Pete?”

The words hung between them, heavy, weighted. Daisy’s lips parted, then closed again, but no sound came. Rick could feel the tension in her, the tightness in her chest, in the way she held herself.

She remained silent, but her eyes told him everything he needed to know. And then, just like that, her guard dropped. Daisy nodded, the small movement so delicate it was almost imperceptible.

Rick’s chest tightened, and the flood of emotions hit him like a wave. His mind scrambled to process it all—he wasn’t ready to face the depth of the pain she was carrying, the hurt she was hiding behind those beautiful, vulnerable eyes.

“Pete only hit me because I didn’t have sex with him.” The words were blunt, and they hit the air like a slap. Daisy winced even as she said them, her face flushing with a mix of embarrassment and regret. She hated saying it out loud, hated the hollow sound of it, but it was the truth. She couldn’t deny it anymore. “What Pete wants, he’ll get. There are no rules in here, Rick.” Her tone was distant—hollow even.

Her words stung. Rick’s chest ached, his body instinctively taking a staggering step back, as though he couldn’t bear to be this close to her hurt, this close to the truth.

Motherfucker.

How could Deanna allow someone like Pete to exist in Alexandria—to do this to someone like Dais? His eyes met hers again, but this time, there was something more in them—something dark, a mix of protective fury and a deep, gnawing desire to make it stop.

Daisy met his gaze, her own eyes brimming with unspoken pain. She hadn’t meant to say it like that, hadn’t meant to say it so, nonchalant—but there it was—her truth, raw and uncomfortable.

Rick’s fingers twitched by his sides—he kept himself steady—grounded as he physically had to stop himself from reaching out, grasping her. Touching her.

But she didn’t notice. Daisy was already pulling the door open, her back to him as she stepped inside. The air between them grew colder, the distance between them impossibly vast. She didn’t look back.

And Rick… Rick was left standing on the porch.

#rick grimes season 5 #rick grimes x y/n #season 5 rick #rick grimes x you #rick grimes x reader #rick grimes x oc #rick x reader #rick grimes fanfiction #twd rick #rick grimes #twd x reader #the walking dead fanfiction #the walking dead #fluff #tension #x reader #twd fanfiction #rick grimes x female reader

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spoonfulofmilo · 8 months ago

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Could you do fic for Bono from Merc with wife photographer!reader? She surprised him at the race because he thought that she would not be back due to something work related. Maybe a little surprise for them. You decide what it was. Fluff and cute. Thanks!! :))

finally out of a writing block and back to writing, enjoy this :)

my masterlist can be accessed here

Please keep requesting - y'all have awesome ideas we agree on a lot of stuff :) - my guidelines are here, and if you want some prompts, they are here.

also feel free to come in and start chatting to me in my asks, would love to get to know y'all better

and if you want to be added to my taglist lmk :)

peter 'bono' bonnington x wife!photographer!reader

“I’m sorry Darling, I wish the timing was better, but I need to be there.” Y/N sighed, trying to look as guilty as she could

“Hey, hey it’s okay, shit happens y’know.” He smiled, pulling her into a hug and rubbing her back.

“It’ll make it even better when I come home.” He grinned, before pulling his suitcase and his backpack out the door to the car that was waiting.

Y/N grimaced, she hated lying to her husband, but she hoped it would be worth it for the surprise.

---

“C’mon Susie! We’re gonna be late.” Y/N turned around, comfy in her sweats and eager to get on the plane to get to the race. Susie was also surprising her husband this weekend, and had agreed to help Y/N with her plan.

“Y/N, the plane will still land at the same time regardless of whether we run down the bridge or walk.” Susie followed behind, wearing the same sweatpants but somehow looking as much of a girlboss as she always did.

“Yes but, okay leave me alone, I’m excited.” Y/N couldn’t stop the smile breaking out on her face.

“Wait for me!!” Susie jogged after Y/N, laughing at her friend's antics.

---

“Hey Bono, where’s the wife this weekend?” one of the Mercedes mechanics got up from where he’d been working on the car and clapped Bono on the shoulder.

“Couldn’t make it, had something pre booked that she couldn’t avoid.” Bono grimaced slightly, focusing on the data on his laptop. He didn’t want to think about it.

“Aww bummer, well, would love to see her at some point, and the missus wants her to come round, both of you, for dinner or something.” the mechanic pointed his spanner at Bono before bending down back under the car.

“Well when I next see her I’ll get her to message Natalia, okay?” Bono was distracted as he picked up his phone, before pausing at the lock screen.

It was a photo of Y/N and Pete, on their wedding day. Due to lockdowns they hadn’t had the opportunity to have a proper wedding but they had dressed up nicely for the courthouse to sign all the documents. And they’d taken a timed photo outside to make it feel slightly romantic. It was both of their lockscreens and brought up many good memories, with a tinge of sadness due to the fact that they couldn’t celebrate it with their friends.

---

Susie and Y/N subtly entered the paddock. Due to the fact that qualifying was underway, the paddock was almost abandoned as everyone was focused. They took the opportunity to grab a quick coffee from the hospitality, swearing the staff to secrecy as they settled down in a booth, watching the qualifying.

The qualifying ended, with George in 5th but Lewis on pole. Y/N smiled at her husband being spotted, celebrating and hugging Toto.

“God, they’re both gonna be so excited.”

Toto and Jack quickly left the garage, and Susie prepared to see her husband and son, laughing when they came in.

“Hello Toto. Hello Jack.”

“Y/N!” Jack quickly bypassed his mother, instead running towards Y/N, laughing as she scooped him up in a hug.

“Hello Jack!”

“Bono said you weren’t coming this weekend.”

“I know, but it’s a secret, can you keep a secret for me Jack? Just until I find Bono and then I can tell him, and you don’t have to keep that secret anymore.”

“Oh, like…” Jack leaned down and whispered something in Y/N’s ear, which caused her to laugh

“Yes Jack. Just like that.”

---

“Darling? What are you doing here? I thought you couldn’t make it this weekend.” Bono almost spun himself out of his chair as he spotted his wife walking into the garage, chatting lightly with Lewis with her camera in her hand.

“Well I wasn’t about to miss a race weekend, besides, the shoot finished early, here come look at the photos.” Y/N beckoned to him as she set the camera on the desk and started clicking to find her photos.

“So these are the photos I shot, if you want to have a look.” Y/N beckoned to the camera, before taking a step back and awkwardly hovering next to him, looking nervously around the garage.

Bono scrolled through the photos on the camera, stopping when he got to a photo of his wife.

“Oh darling, I didn't know you were doing modelling for this job too.”

“Mmm, yeah,” Y/N looked at the rest of the garage, who were acting like they were still trying to work, while subtly listening in on the conversation.

“Wait darling, what’s this?”

Y/N turned to look at the photo he was pointing at which had her holding a sign with the words ‘wedding part 2?’

“Well I felt bad about all your friends and family and coworkers missing the wedding because of COVID, so I may have started planning a vow renewal so they can see us get married.”

“Darling…i- this is one of the best things you could’ve given to me.”

“Of course!”

---

taglist: @leosxrealm, @pear-1206, @tallrock35, @wolf-knights, @janeholt3

#f1 x reader #miloformula123fan #f1 fanfic #f1 fic #peter bonnington x reader #peter bonnington #peter bonnington fanfic #peter bonnington fic #peter bonnington x female reader #peter bonnington x you #peter bonnington x y/n

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limblessbody · 2 months ago

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𝔭𝔢𝔱𝔢 𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔩𝔪𝔞𝔫 𝔵 𝔯𝔢𝔞𝔡𝔢𝔯

‘are you falling in love? i have a feeling you are..’

fluff ☁️ | aged up characters (18) | fem! reader

‘i’d rather die.’

when asked about his future plans regarding love, this is what pete thelman would respond with. he had experienced small crushes before, like sophie gray, but nothing ever really lasted. love was just something your mind would do occasionally when a new girl came around. love was just temporary excitement, or the excuse used for lustful souls looking for some fun.

but when you came around he started to say that a little bit less. pete could acknowledge that he had stirring feelings for you, but if you thought he would ever tell anyone, you’re wrong, and fuck you. it was true; pete had matured into a little bit of an asshole. but something about that just had you coming back over and over again for more.

‘you’re annoying me.’ he would say, as you stood next to him.

both of you were located out back of the school as he smoked one of his cigarettes, leaning back against the wall with a poker face.

‘i am?’ you’d say, ‘how?’

‘you’re luring me.’

‘luring?’

pete would say that often, and he’d never expand on what he meant by that. the side of pete that you didn’t see for a long time was the pete that kept pictures of you in a special folder on his phone. the pete that would secretly write poems about you and then sneak them in your locker for you to see. he liked seeing you rant about having a secret admirer, not knowing that you were talking to your secret admirer.

‘do you think he’s handsome?’ you would ask him as you both sat on the bleachers, bugging him as usual, ‘or cute?’

‘i don’t know.’ pete’s dark eyes would gaze at you meaningfully, ‘you tell me.’

‘do you think it might be stan?’

pete’s eye twitched.

you were like a coping mechanism for him, aside from his cigarettes. he would be a jerk to you most of the time, or just blank you, but deep down, he just didn’t know what to do with himself. he hated to admit it, but he didn’t know what to do with a girl like you.

so, he never confessed. but you still found out.

one day, when you came into school a bit earlier than normal, you headed to your locker to put your physical education clothes inside of it. however, when you reached the hallway that your locker was in, a soft gasp escaped your lips when you saw pete slipping an envelope inside of your locker— a.k.a, what you would receive all of your love letters and poems in.

he must’ve heard your soft gasp, since his head snapped around quicker than the speed of light. his own eyes widened. you were shocked at seeing him leave the envelope in your locker, and also partly shocked since this was the most emotion you had ever seen on pete’s face.

‘uh— ah..’ he froze, trying to restart his breathing, as he had stopped for a moment, ‘.. i have some things to say.’

‘clearly.’ you let your shoulders fall and relax. your mind and heart were in knots.

‘fuck..’ he looked seemingly disappointed for letting himself get caught in such an.. awkward way. ‘look, if you can’t figure it out by now, then i don’t have anything to say to you.’

‘.. pete.. you’re in love with me?’

‘take a guess.’ he exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face.

he seemed annoyed, but not with me.

‘i wanted to be able to tell you anonymously. i just.. i didn’t think it would actually work out, but i still wanted you to know.’ he explained his secretive written words to me, ‘i’m sorry.’

‘.. sorry for what? pete, i’m not upset at all.’ my eyebrows furrowed, ‘why wouldn’t it work out?’

‘do you even know me?’ his eyes narrowed into thin slits as if i had asked him the stupidest question ever, ‘y/n, i don’t think you realise how different we are. and plus, i’m not interested in romance.’

‘you just admitted that you’re in love with me and now you’re saying that you aren’t interested?’

‘no, i mean— fuck, i don’t know, y/n!’ he sounded conflicted and grunted irritatedly, ‘please, i just—‘

‘is that what you meant when you said that i was ‘luring’ you?’ i felt idiotic for not realising his hints sooner, ‘pete..’

‘just..’ he walked up to me to speak quieter, visibly not wanting the attention of other, nosy students, ‘.. i want to be your boyfriend, y/n. that’s my truth. but i don’t trust myself to satisfy you.’

‘.. well.. i trust you. i think your letters proved you enough.’

‘y/n, if you want it then i want it, but please don’t make a decision you’re gonna regret.’ pete’s hands moved up from his sides and to my shoulders, gently gripping my flesh.

‘trust me. i won’t regret anything.’ i assured him, confident in my decision.

‘remember when you used to write me those little love poems in highschool?’ you grinned, leaning back on the black sofa.

almost everything in your shared apartment was black. pete always believed college dorms were just a way to put students in debt, so he spent most of his life after 17 working overtime to earn money for an apartment, which he insisted was as gothic as him once you both finally moved in.

‘fuck off.’ he glared at you, but not maliciously, as he raised his mug to his lips and sipping on the bitter, brown coffee inside, ‘you loved my letters.’

‘yeah.’ you agreed full heartedly, ‘i did. you should start writing me letters again.’

‘wanna know a secret?’ he turned to you, putting an arm up on the back of the couch, ‘i used to give the enveloped small kisses before sliding them through the hole in your locker.’

he cringed, expecting your small squeal.

‘oh my god— no you didn’t.’

‘yes, i did.’ he sipped his drink again, ‘don’t tell me what i did and didn’t do as if you were there.’

‘well, technically i was.’ you smiled at him, raising and dropping your eyebrows repeatedly.

‘ugh.. don’t even.’ he rubbed under his eyes with his palm, ‘worst way to get caught.’

‘but aren’t you glad it led to this point?’ your hands pressed against the cushion on the couch, scooting closer as you leaned in and kissed his cheek softly.

‘…’ he stared at you once you pulled away, ‘.. very.’

#south park x reader #south park #fanfiction #south park x y/n #south park x you #pete thelman #pete thelman x reader

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secfics · 7 months ago

Text

my favourite starker fics, part 2

hi. for my second reclist in this blog, i put together more starker fanfics that i’ve been discovering lately and have made their way into my personal list of favourites that i re-read again and again. in no particular order and with some cw/dark themes here and there, here they come:

• pete’s eats; by bloodgutsandstarbucks (ao3) aka @darker-soft-starker, Teen and Up, 9’3k, oneshot

Peter having a YouTube channel where he just drinks wine and teaches people how to cook things if they live in a mediocre apartment. While cooking and drinking he just talks about stuff like memes and school and, most importantly, his undying thirst for Tony Stark.

• naturally; by ursafootprints (ao3) aka @ursafootprints, E, 16’3k, 3/3 chapters

"Mr. Stark," Peter whispered for the third time, his voice now airless where it had previously been rough from sleep. "Are you okay?"

Mr. Stark's thumb was slowly tracing back and forth over Peter's temple, but it stopped its trek as he finally took a deep breath, the first sign that he was really hearing what Peter was asking.

Voice rough with something other than sleep, Mr. Stark said, "No," and leaned in to kiss him.

Or: Unbeknownst to Peter, Tony gets dosed with sex pollen (sex serum?) on a mission, so he's nothing but thrilled when all his wet dreams about Mr. Stark suddenly start coming true-- until the morning after.

this app won’t let me add links to all of the titles for no reason so i’ll add extra links after the summary of the ones i wasn’t able to, here is the link:

• you’re not yet done; by ursafootprints (ao3) aka @ursafootprints, E, 166’7k, 14/14 chapters - cw: rape, bad guys made them do it

Tony didn't know what it would do to either of them, to play this out like a shadow cast by the real thing, real love and sex and intimacy. But it was what Peter was asking him for, so he did it.

In the aftermath of a traumatic abduction by a villain, Tony and Peter have to cope with their not-entirely-in-sync coping mechanisms, concerned family and friends, figuring out who exactly really arranged the whole thing, and their evolving feelings for each other.

link:

• the leash; by downjune, M, 30’2k, 2/2 chapters

Peter didn’t know if they talked to anyone else who carried them, but when he had the Infinity Gauntlet tucked under his arm, he could swear the stones were trying to…commune with him. They wanted something from him. Wanted to be used. He wanted to be rid of them.

Until he found Tony Stark leaned against some torn up tree roots and rock. He found Tony dying.

At that point, Peter was ready to bargain.

• velvet elvis; by orphan_account, M, 45’7k, 7/7 chapters

Peter just wants Tony to feel comfortable in Peter's new home. That's it. He totally has no ulterior motives whatsoever. Nope.

link:

• practical results; by anonymous aka ‘is this thing (an)on?’ tag, M, 81’4k, 12/12 chapters - cw: dubious consent/bad guys made them do it

This isn’t his bedroom - not the one at the compound, or the suite in Milan. Definitely not the penthouse in New York. In all honesty, it looks like the inside of the fucking Spaceship Earth ride at Epcot.

“Kid,” he tries again, more urgently now, “where the hell are we?”

“Uhh, the guy said we’re someplace called Sakaar.”

“The guy? What guy?”

Let's say that after the uprising on Sakaar, the Grandmaster manages to cling to power by offering people an even better form of entertainment than the Contest of Champions: Porn. He offers them porn.

• rebuild; by tuesday (ao3) aka @everysecondtuesday, Teen and Up, 14’7k, oneshot

Tony lives, falls in love despite himself, and spends entirely too much time in California.

• in the hands of gods; by therogueheart (ao3) aka @therogueheart, E, 20’2k, oneshot

Peter has known nothing but the God Stark his entire life. The blessings he gives; and the cruelty he can deal. When Peter comes of age he must begin the next phase of his worship to the God - Sexuality.

But Peter has never been good at following rules, and he does the one thing that no man is permitted to do.

He touches.

link:

• expiration date; by learnedfoot (ao3) aka @learned-foot, E, 12k, oneshot

Tony knows exactly what this is. First big breakup, go for a fling with a completely inappropriate person. It’s basically a cliché. He kind of thought Peter was better than that, but apparently being brilliant and one of the bravest people on the face of the planet doesn’t mean he’s immune from being a stupid college student who makes stupid college student mistakes.

AKA Tony is sure this is just a fling, and he deals with that about as well as you’d expect.

link:

• the last five years; by orphan_account, M, 71’1k, 9/9 chapters

Tony Stark has spent the last six months trying to find a way to bring back those lost in The Snap, but when he succeeds and Peter Parker and the rest of the lost Avengers return he discovers that it has been a little bit longer for them.

• prototype protocol; by roamingsignals (ao3) aka @spider-mancan, E, 82’8k, 8/8 chapters

Tony Stark isn't good, despite years of trying. When the multiverse dumps a younger Tony into their laps, Tony is split between solving the problem and protecting Peter's virtue.

“Don’t worry about it, Mr. Stark.” Peter’s eyes are wide and unassuming and Tony is a bad man. “I’ve been handling you for years. I can handle him just fine.”

“I’m sure you can,” Tony's throat is really dry, for some reason. “I trust you.”

He just doesn’t trust himself. He doesn’t trust himself at all.

link:

• the friendly neighborhood; by postelectric, M, 22’9k, oneshot

“Mr. Stark?”

Before Tony looks, he hopes to every god whose hand he’s shaken that he’ll meet an uncanny Parkeresque-but-definitely-not-the-real-Peter Parker doppelganger who just happens to know who he is. That’s what he tells himself, anyway. It’s not impossible. Tony saved the universe. Most people know him, even with the giant face scar. Maybe because of the giant face scar.

It’s the real Peter Parker. He’s barely taller than he was at sixteen and he has pretty much the same amount of hair, but he’s got more in the shoulders and jawline these days. “Mr. Parker. You grew up.”

“Yeah,” Peter says. “That, uh, that happens sometimes, if you’re lucky.”

“You got lucky.”

(or, in which the friendly neighborhood spider-man from queens doesn't become an avenger and doesn't turn to dust. or, in which tony stark restores the universe for pepper potts and then lives to tell about it, which is not according to plan.)

link:

• permission; by cagestark (ao3) aka @cagestark, E, 15’8k, 5/5 chapters

During drinks with the Avengers, Peter admits that he enjoys orgasms more when someone is giving him permission, though since he's single, there isn't anyone in his life to offer it.

Generous Tony offers to offer it.

link:

hope you like them as much as i did!

#starker reclist #check the tags #starker #starker fic #starker fic rec #starker fic recs #favourite starker fanfics #starker fanfic

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