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lazy-ahh · 2 months ago

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YOUR SON, YOUR BLOOD, YOUR UNDOING

pairing sinister! mark grayson x (superhero) male reader

from a beautiful, monstrous thing

love is a weak human thing—until it isn’t. until it’s mark’s hands around his father’s throat, his lips stained with viltrumite blood as he gasps ‘mine’ like it’s the only word left in his vocabulary. (or: the one where legacy means nothing, and you mean everything.)

this is for that beautiful, mysterious anon who dropped the w analysis of the sinister mark one-shot and even dropped a couple of scenarios that I JUST ABSOLUTELY NEED TO WRITE. this is one of three!

taglist @hhoneylemon , @queermaeda , @yujensstuff

mark grayson had always loved superheroes. of course he did—his dad was one. you remember the exact moment you found out nolan was omni-man: you were twelve years old, curled up in mark’s room, the two of you tangled in that giddy, breathless laughter that only comes when you’re too tired to function but too wired to sleep, where everything seemed funny. the blanket over your heads was thin, the flashlight beneath casting warm, flickering shadows across mark’s face as he grinned at you, his knee bumping yours every time one of you dissolved into another fit of giggles. you were whispering nonsense, stupid jokes that weren’t even funny, but it didn’t matter because everything was hilarious when it was just the two of you like this—close, conspiratorial, like the rest of the world didn’t exist.

then the front door opened downstairs.

mark shot up so fast the blanket went flying, his face lighting up like a firework. "dad! you’re home!" he yelled, already scrambling off the bed, nearly tripping in his haste to get to the stairs. you followed, still half-laughing, your socked feet slipping on the hardwood as you chased after him—only to freeze at the bottom step, your breath catching in your throat.

because there, standing in the entryway, still in full uniform, was omni-man.

nolan’s eyes locked onto yours, wide with surprise—like he hadn’t expected you to be there. like you’d caught him off guard.

(you’d caught mr. grayson off guard a lot, actually. when you’d suddenly appeared behind mark as the two of you stumbled through the front door after school, laughing about something stupid. when he’d pushed open mark’s bedroom door to say goodnight and found you already there, hunched over homework or video games, your shoulders pressed together like it was the most natural thing in the world. when you’d gotten your powers, and mark had whooped so loud the neighbors probably heard, his hands gripping your arms like he couldn’t believe it.

and later—much later—when nolan had seen you and mark kiss for the first time, his son’s mouth smeared with blood, your fingers tangled in his hair, eve’s paralyzed body lying broken at your feet.)

you’d like to say you were close to mark’s parents, but the truth was… complicated. debbie had always been warm, pulling you into hugs and slipping you extra snacks and junk food when she thought mark wasn’t looking. but nolan? you and nolan… tolerated each other. at best. you weren’t enemies, but you weren’t friends either—just two people orbiting the same boy, careful not to collide. you’d always brushed off his aloofness, his stiff nods and clipped greetings, telling yourself it didn’t matter. why would it? it wasn’t like he hated you. as long as you were on decent terms with mark’s parents, that was enough.

but now, looking back, you wonder if nolan had known something you didn’t.

because there had been moments—small, fleeting things. the way his gaze would linger when you and mark sat too close on the couch, your thighs pressed together, mark’s arm slung carelessly over your shoulders. the way his expression would shutter whenever mark reached for your hand without thinking, an old habit from childhood that neither of you had ever outgrown. the way his jaw would tighten, just slightly, when mark’s cheeks flushed pink at something you said, his laugh a little too loud, his eyes a little too bright.

you’d seen it. you just hadn’t understood it.

not then.

not until it was too late.

(≧∇≦)ﾉ☆

the first time nolan tries to pull mark aside, his son barely glances up from where he’s sprawled across your lap like a contented predator—his arms locked around your waist, his cheek pressed to your thigh as if he’s trying to fuse himself to you. you’re sitting up against the headboard, a pillow wedged between your back and the wood for support, the latest (and last) issue of seance dog comics balanced precariously in one hand. mark’s stomach is flat against the mattress, his legs stretched out behind him, but the rest of him is all possessive weight and warmth, his fingers kneading absent circles into the fabric of your shirt like he’s reminding himself you’re real.

the room is dim, the only light bleeding in from the hallway where nolan stands, casting long shadows across the rumpled sheets. the air smells like sweat and the faint iron tang of old blood—mark’s split knuckles from earlier, the ones you’d pressed your lips to when he’d stumbled in, grinning like a wild thing—but beneath it all, it still smells like him: like the expensive shampoo he uses, like the fabric of his hoodie you’ve stolen too many times to count. (your presence lingers here too, in the dent your body leaves in his mattress, in the stray socks tangled in his sheets, in the way his room has slowly become yours without either of you ever saying a word.)

mark’s eyes are half-lidded but bright, fixed on you with a devotion that borders on worship, his gaze tracing the way your fingers turn the pages of the comic, the way your lips quirk at a joke he can’t see. you try to keep your expression neutral, like you’re still engrossed in the story, but it’s impossible—not when mark nuzzles closer, his nose brushing the inside of your thigh, his breath warm through the fabric of your boxers.

"mark," nolan says, voice low, that same unreadable tension tightening his jaw—like he’s been bracing for this moment for years. "we need to talk."

mark hums, noncommittal, his fingers tightening around your waist like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. "later," he murmurs, not to his father—to you, the word muffled against your leg, a secret pressed into your skin.

(and you know, without a doubt, that later means never.)

your fingers curl deeper into mark's hair, nails scraping against his scalp just hard enough to make his breath hitch—a sharp little inhale that sends warmth pooling low in your stomach. he's sprawled halfway across your lap, his head heavy against your thigh, one arm slung possessively around your waist while his other hand toys with the hem of your shirt, fingertips brushing bare skin in slow, teasing circles. you smirk down at him, watching the way his lashes flutter when you tug just slightly at his roots. "listen to your dad, baby," you murmur, voice dripping with false sincerity, all honey-sweet obedience that neither of you believe for a second. your thumb strokes the shell of his ear, feather-light, and you feel the way his pulse jumps beneath your touch.

mark's grin is a wicked, feral thing—all teeth and sharp edges, his canines catching the light as he tilts his head further into your hand like a cat leaning into a stroke. "nah," he drawls, the word lazy and unrepentant, his fingers tightening against your hip in silent challenge. his eyes never leave yours, dark with something that makes your own breath stutter; it's the same look he gets right before he ruins you, right before he drags you under with him.

nolan's jaw clenches so hard you can hear the creak of his teeth grinding together. his hands flex at his sides, the muscles in his forearms corded tight with barely-leashed tension, and the look on his face—something caught between disgust and grim resignation—says he knows exactly what kind of game you're playing. his gaze flicks between the two of you, taking in the way mark's body curves into yours like a question you've already answered, the way your fingers never still in his hair, possessive even in their gentleness. there's a storm brewing in his eyes, thunderous and dark, but beneath it, something almost like grief—the look of a man watching his son slip through his fingers, and knowing he's already lost.

(≧∇≦)ﾉ☆

the second time, nolan corners him alone. or tries to. mark's already halfway out the door, fingers brushing against yours in that habitual way he has—always reaching, always connecting—when his father's voice slices through the space between you all like a blade.

"this ends now," nolan growls, the words vibrating with barely-contained fury. his massive frame blocks the doorway, shoulders taut beneath his compression shirt, veins standing out along his thick neck. "you're throwing centuries of legacy away for—" his eyes cut to you, lip curling like he's tasted something rotten, "—for that?"

mark goes preternaturally still. not the stillness of submission, but the dangerous quiet of a predator coiled to strike. your eyebrow arches as you meet nolan's gaze head-on, mouth quirking in silent challenge. what the fuck did you just call me? the question hangs unspoken in the charged air between you three.

you see the exact moment something fractures behind mark's eyes—that split-second where the last fragile thread of restraint snaps. his fingers twitch at his sides, the muscles in his forearms standing in sharp relief as his hands slowly curl into fists.

"say that again," mark murmurs, voice terrifyingly calm, the kind of calm that comes before hurricanes. the overhead lights flicker, casting jagged shadows across his face that make him look suddenly older, stranger—more viltrumite than you've ever seen him.

nolan doesn't hesitate. never does. "he's weak," he spits, gesturing dismissively at you. "can't give you proper heirs. just a distraction keeping you from your true potential." each word lands like a hammer blow, the air between you all growing heavier with every syllable.

the tension becomes something almost physical—a pressure building in your ears, in your chest. mark remains frozen, but you can feel it; the way every muscle in his body locks tight, the barely-perceptible tremor running through him like live wire. his breathing has gone shallow, shoulders rising and falling in quick, controlled bursts. you recognize that posture—it's the same one he gets right before a fight, that perfect balance between restraint and violence.

but then his eyes flick to you, just for a heartbeat—checking, always checking. his gaze searches yours for any hint of hurt, any crack in that carefully constructed armor. you let your lips twitch downward for just an instant, long enough for him to catch it, before smoothing your expression into something amused and disdainful. as if nolan's words are nothing more than the rantings of a pathetic old man. (and really, aren't they?)

nolan misreads the silence as surrender. his shoulders drop into that deceptively gentle slope you've seen him use on diplomats before reducing their cities to craters. "you think this is about prejudice?" he murmurs, voice slick with faux compassion. "i'm trying to save you from yourself, mark. keep your..." his eyes flick to you with barely concealed revulsion, "...plaything. but take a proper pet. a proper mate. someone who can actually give you what your blood demands."

you feel the exact moment mark's breathing stops. the air between you three grows thick enough to choke on.

"you're talking about him like he's livestock," mark says, so quiet it barely registers over the distant sirens. his fingers twitch at his sides—you recognize that tremor. it's the same one from when he'd first kissed you, terrified and exhilarated in equal measure.

nolan actually smiles, the expression more terrifying than any snarl. "what is a human lifespan to us? eighty years? ninety?" he takes a step forward, boots crunching glass. "whether he has superpowers or not, he's still human. you'll watch him wither while you stay young. watch his mind go before his body does. and then what? you'll mourn for decades? centuries?" his voice drops to something almost tender. "or will you finally understand why we need our own kind?"

your chest aches where your ribs cage your pounding heart. the worst part? some sick, traitorous part of you has wondered the same things during midnight panics with mark's sleeping face pressed to your chest.

mark's laugh cuts through the tension like a knife. it's the most broken sound you've ever heard. "you really don't get it." his hand finds yours without looking, fingers slotting between yours with the ease of a thousand repetitions. "he's not temporary. he's not... he's not replaceable." His thumb strokes your knuckle—the same way he does when you're both falling asleep. "if he dies in eighty years, i'll burn the universe down to find him in the next life. if not, then i'll just meet him in whatever afterlife that exists."

nolan's expression shutters. "sentimental weakness. your ancestors would weep."

"let them," mark spits, and you feel the exact moment something in his voice changes—that shift from pleading to something far more dangerous. his pupils swallow the warm brown of his irises entirely, leaving only endless black.

your lips part on a sharp inhale—not fear, never fear with him—but recognition. this is the mark who'd leveled a city block when a villain once grazed your cheek. the mark who whispers "mine" against your skin like it's both prayer and threat.

nolan sees it too. for the first time, real unease flickers across his face. then, he sighs. "what a disappointment. i knew i should have killed him when i had a feeling you were starting to form feelings for him. i thought you were gonna be better than this, mark."

and everything goes deathly silent. nolan stands there, waiting, oblivious to the danger he's just unleashed.

then—

mark moves.

one heartbeat he's standing there—all coiled rage and trembling restraint. the next, his fist plows into nolan's stomach with a wet, meaty crunch that sends the older viltrumite rocketing backward through wall after wall after wall. concrete shatters like glass, the air filling with swirling dust and the shriek of twisting rebar as entire structural supports collapse inward. you don't even blink. instead, a laugh bubbles up from your chest—bright and startled, the same breathless giggle that escapes when mark whispers something stupidly sweet against your neck in the dark, when the two of you are tangled together under his sheets with only the glow of moonlight painting his smile.

the dust hasn't even settled before mark is on him again—a streak of black and yellow uniform and flying blood, fists pistoning into nolan's face with sickening, rhythmic smacks. each impact sends thick ropes of crimson arcing through the air, splattering across broken concrete in abstract rorschach patterns. nolan's head snaps back with every blow, teeth skittering across the rubble like dropped marbles before he finally roars and hurls mark off with an explosion of force. your boy just flips midair, lands in a crouch, and wipes the blood from his split lip with the back of his hand, tongue darting out to taste copper as he grins.

"you don't get to talk about him," mark snarls, voice dropping into something guttural and raw. his chest heaves, shoulders rolling with barely-contained power as he steps forward, crushing chunks of concrete to powder under his boots. "you don't get to fucking look at him."

nolan lunges.

what follows isn't a fight—it's an annihilation. they carve through the neighborhood like gods playing demolition derby, each collision sending shockwaves that ripple outward in visible pulses, shattering windows three blocks over. nolan fights with centuries of experience behind every swing, his heavier frame turning each punch into a seismic event. but mark—mark moves like liquid fury, all feral grace and snapping teeth, his attacks sharper, meaner, fueled by something primal that has nothing to do with viltrumite legacy and everything to do with the way your fingers had tightened in his hair just hours earlier, the way you'd sighed his name like a prayer against his collarbone.

the ground quakes as they trade blows that would level skyscrapers, mark's laughter ringing out between impacts—high and wild and just for you, always for you—even as nolan's blood paints the ruins in glossy, arterial streaks.

your breath sticks in your throat like honey as mark drives nolan into the pavement with a force that spiderwebs the concrete for yards in every direction. dust plumes around them as mark's fingers lock around his father's throat, his knuckles bleaching white with the strain.

"he's mine," mark snarls, spit and blood flecking his lips. his voice cracks with something raw, something human beneath the viltrumite fury. "my life. my choices. mine to ruin."

nolan's gloved hands scrabble at mark's wrists, his boots kicking up rubble as he chokes out, "you'd choose... this weakness... over centuries of legacy?"

mark's grip tightens, his biceps trembling. "he's not a weakness," he growls, leaning down until their foreheads nearly touch. "and he is my legacy."

nolan's eyes widen—not with fear, but dawning horror as the truth cracks through him like the earth beneath their bodies. this was never about viltrumite supremacy. never about conquest or power or destiny.

this is about the boy who kissed his bloody knuckles after his first fight. this is about the hands that held him when his powers first came in. this is about you.

"pathetic," nolan wheezes, his lips peeling back from teeth stained red. "letting some... human pet make you soft—"

mark's snarl cuts him off as nolan suddenly twists with centuries-honed reflexes. his fist rams into mark's ribs with a sickening crack, the force lifting mark clean off him. in a blink, nolan's on top, his knees pinning mark's shoulders, one massive hand raised high—fingers curled into a killing blow, the other still gripping mark's throat.

"last chance, boy," nolan growls, his arm trembling with restrained power. "stand with your empire... or die with your distraction."

mark's lips move silently, forming a single word that makes your heart stutter even before you hear it—

"never."

nolan's fist comes down like a meteor—

you move.

you’re moving before the thought fully forms—a streak of motion so fast the air shrieks in protest. your knee connects with nolan’s temple just as his fist begins its descent toward mark’s skull, the impact cracking through the ruined street like a gunshot. nolan’s head snaps sideways, blood arcing from his split brow as he staggers back three steps—but he doesn’t go down. of course he doesn’t.

you land after doing a spin due to the force and speed, boots skidding across fractured pavement, leaving scorch marks where they brace against the ground. when you look up, nolan’s already wiping blood from his eye, his sneer more animal than man. "always hated you," he spits, the words thick with decades of loathing. "human cockroach clinging to what you can’t possibly understand."

"funny," you grin, rolling your shoulders as the familiar burn of your powers ignites along your spine. "i always thought you were just jealous."

nolan moves like lightning—but you’re faster. his first punch you duck, feeling the wind of it ruffle your hair. his second punch you catch against your forearm, the impact vibrating up to your teeth. you counter with an elbow to his ribs that makes him grunt, following up with a spinning kick that sends him crashing through what’s left of a fire hydrant. water geysers into the air, painting the battlefield in liquid silver.

"he was mine first," nolan snarls as he rises from the wreckage, shaking water from his hair like an angry bull. "my son. my legacy." his fist comes down on a parked car, sending the hood spiraling toward you like a deadly frisbee. you slice it in half with a precise energy blast, the molten edges dripping onto the asphalt between you.

"he was never yours," you pant, sidestepping a chunk of debris nolan hurls with his strength casually. you shoot nolan a sideways glance, a smug smirk forming on your lips. "you just didn’t notice until it was too late."

nolan roars, charging through the steam like a freight train. you brace—but then mark is there, a black-and-yellow blur intercepting his father mid-lunge. his fingers sink into nolan’s chest with a sound like tearing leather, muscles straining as he—

pulls.

the sound is obscenely wet. final. nolan’s heart beats once in mark’s palm, a grotesque, glistening thing that pulses weakly before stilling forever.

silence.

mark doesn’t look at it. doesn’t look at the body. his eyes find yours instead, wide and vulnerable in a way you’ve only seen in stolen bedroom moments. the heart drops from his fingers with a wet slap as something in him trembles. but when he sees you, something in him settles.

"hey," he breathes, like he didn’t just rip his father’s heart out. like he’s coming home.

you step forward, crushing nolan’s heart under your boot as you reach for him. "hey yourself."

you step forward, fingers trembling—not from fear, never from fear—as you cup mark’s face, smearing nolan’s blood across his cheekbone like war paint. it’s still warm, sticky between your fingertips, and you watch as a single crimson droplet trails down to the corner of his mouth. mark leans into your touch like a starving man, eyes fluttering shut just for a heartbeat before he’s surging forward, crushing you against him, his mouth crashing into yours with desperate, bruising force. he tastes like iron and ruin, like the copper tang of his split lip and something darker beneath—something that should scare you, would scare anyone else, but only makes you cling tighter. you kiss him back like you’re drowning, like he’s the only oxygen left in this ruined world.

when he pulls away, his grin is all sharp edges and bloody teeth, the kind of smile that would send sane men running. "love you," he rasps, voice wrecked, like it’s a secret. like it’s a threat. like it’s the only truth left in this godforsaken universe.

you press your forehead to his, breathing him in. "i know."

(and you do. you always have. even when the world called you unnatural. even when nolan’s eyes burned holes into your back every time your fingers brushed mark’s over the dinner table. even when you lay awake at night, tracing the scars on mark’s knuckles and wondering—just for a moment—if you were enough, if your human body could ever be what a viltrumite heir needed. mark had kissed the doubt from your lips before it could take root, his teeth sharp against your throat as he whispered, "don’t need an empire. just you.")

later, when the dust has settled and nolan’s corpse has gone stiff and cold, mark curls around you in the wreckage, his arms an unbreakable vice around your waist. his lips chart a familiar path along your shoulder, your neck, your jaw—every touch a brand, a promise, a prayer. you can feel the way his heartbeat stutters when your fingers card through his hair, like he still can’t believe you’re real, like he’s terrified you’ll vanish if he blinks too long.

"no one's ever gonna take you from me," mark growls against your pulse, his teeth scraping the tender skin there in a silent promise. his fingers dig into your hips hard enough to leave crescent-shaped bruises tomorrow—little purple reminders that'll make you smile when you see them in the mirror. you can feel the way his whole body trembles with the effort of holding back, his breath coming in ragged bursts against your neck. "not the coalition," he continues, voice dropping to something dark and possessive, "not some viltrumite bitch they'd try to breed me with—" his grip tightens almost painfully, "—no one."

you turn in his arms with a feral grin, your fingers tangling in his hair and yanking just hard enough to make his breath hitch. the sound goes straight to your groin, heat pooling low in your stomach as he lets you manhandle him, his pupils blown wide with something between pain and worship. "no one's ever gonna try," you murmur, lips brushing his in a teasing almost-kiss. you can taste the blood still clinging to his teeth from earlier, coppery and warm, and you lick into his mouth with a hunger that borders on violent. when you pull back, his lips are kiss-swollen and slick with your saliva, his chest heaving. "not after today," you finish, voice dripping with dark amusement.

because they'd seen it, hadn't they? the way you'd laughed as buildings collapsed around you both. the way you'd pressed bloody fingerprints into mark's cheeks like war paint when he'd returned to you, heart still pounding from the kill. the way you'd kissed him amidst the wreckage with tongues and teeth and no regard for who might be watching.

mark's hands slide up your back, fingers tracing each vertebra like he's trying to memorize you. "you're just as fucked up as i am," he breathes, and it sounds like a prayer, like the best compliment he's ever given you. his eyes search yours, looking for any hint of hesitation, any flicker of doubt—but all he finds is your matching madness staring back, just as hungry, just as gone.

you nip at his lower lip, smiling when he groans. "takes one to know one, baby."

his laughter is dark and sweet as he crashes his mouth back to yours, and you think—not for the first time—that you'd burn the whole universe down if it meant keeping this, keeping him. and judging by the way his hands clutch at you, desperate and claiming, he'd help you strike the match.

mark’s smile is a dark, beautiful thing, all sharp canines and devotion. his hand slides under your shirt, palm splaying across the small of your back—claiming, possessive, like he’s trying to memorize the way you fit against him. "good," he breathes, and when he kisses you again, it’s slow, sweet, at odds with the blood drying on both your skin. "because i’d burn every planet in this fucking universe before i let them try."

(and you believe him. you always have.)

4.3k words full of more of the sinister couple! +1 to the kissing/making out in front of a dying/dead person counter.

#lazy-ahh #invincible #invincible variant #mark grayson #male reader #invincible x reader #invincible x male reader #invincible variant x reader #mark grayson x reader #mark grayson x male reader #NEED THAT INVINCIDIH #ngl i feel like i could have done more with this but maybe writing this at 2 AM after working for 8 hours wasn't such a good idea #are you sure?

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fiastomatocheek · 14 days ago

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CHOP CHOP LOVE

pair: will smith x f!reader; will smith x athlete!reader

genre: romantic fluff, domestic sweetness, celebrity realism.

warnings: none beyond mild teasing and tooth-rotting love.

summary: you and will, sit down together for your first ever joint interview on the graham norton show. between laughter, career talk, parenting stories, and memories, you both reflect on the rare kind of love that defied busy schedules, different sports, and public pressure. for the first time, the world gets to see not just the power couple but the best friends behind the jerseys.

fia’s note: okay so this is a totally different universe for dad!will, in this one, reader are also an athlete! i didn’t specify what sport reader play because i wanted to leave it open for your imagination. maybe reader’s into something competitive and fast-paced, or maybe it’s something low-key but still intense. whatever sport you love or vibe with right now, just slide that version of you into this universe. it’s all about having fun with it and making it feel personal to you!

tagging team fia ! — @iloveyoutodeathbutimdrowning @dancerbailey3 @mashmashi @kell9rs @nokiaholland @smiley-roos @macka @alwaysclassyeagle @hopefulsuitcasemoneyzonk

fia’s masterlist | join fia’s taglist | fic discussion | fia's nav.

You sit down beside Will on the famous red couch, just happy to be here, next to Will, in this rare moment of where it’s not about your sports or media days or parenting twins… it’s about both of you. Together.

“This is a proper treat,” Graham leaning forward with his trademark mischief.

“A married couple, both top-tier athletes, parents to twins, and somehow still disgustingly in love? I’m jealous, and I don’t even know where to start.”

Will chuckles, his thumb brushing your knuckles.

“We’re just happy to sit still for once. No rink, no gym, no toddlers throwing Cheerios.”

You nod, grinning. “Yeah, this is basically a date night. You’re welcome, Graham.”

The audience laughs, and Graham claps delightedly. “A date night on my couch? I’m honored, Mr. & Mes. Smith. But seriously, how do you schedule your lives? Two athletic careers, twins, do you… do you ever sleep?”

“Uhm… we don’t,” Will says, deadpan. “We just vibe on chaos.”

“Lies,” you counter, nudging him.

“We’ve got this color-coded calendar that’s basically NASA-level logistics. My trainer’s on it, his coach is on it, even our nanny gets pinged when we’re double-booked.”

Graham blinks dramatically. “I can’t even sync my calendar with my mum. You’re superheroes.”

You and Will exchange a look, stifling giggles like kids caught passing notes.

“Okay, Let’s rewind a little bit,” Graham says, eyes twinkling.

“Will, you’re a star with the San Jose Sharks, NHL’s golden boy. And you,” he turns to you,

“An absolute force in your sport. How did this power couple come to be?”

Will’s grin softens, his eyes flicking to you.

“Teammate dragged her to one of my games. He’s like, ‘Come on, meet my friend, the athlete.’ I turn around, and she’s standing there, all ‘I’d rather be napping’ energy.”

You laugh, because it’s true.

“I’d just come from practice, totally wiped. My friend guilt-tripped me into going. I was not ready for hockey charm.”

“And yet,” Will says, squeezing your hand, “fate said, ‘Chop chop chop, let’s make this happen.’”

Graham leans in. “First impression of Will?”

You tilt your head, smirking. “He was so… red. Fresh-off-the-ice, cheek tomato-level red. Sweaty helmet hair, cheeks like stoplights. I thought, ‘Oh cute, but someone get this man a towel.’”

The audience roars, and Will clutches his chest.

“My face was out here winning her heart.”

“Honestly, though,” you add, softer,

“He was sweet. I’d been a Sharks fan forever, so meeting a player was cool. I just didn’t expect… us, you know.” You gesture between you, and the crowd awws.

Graham raises an eyebrow. “A Sharks fan before Will? So you were already tweeting about his team?”

“Oh, yeah,” you say.

“I’ve got receipts, tweets from years back, hyping the Sharks. Probably manifesting him without knowing it.”

Will leans toward Graham, mock-whispering.

“She summoned me with her fandom. I had no choice.”

Graham cackles. “Okay, careers. Different sports, Will tearing up the ice, you dominating your field. Any competitive tension?”

You both answer at once.

“No.” — “Yes.”

You turn to each other, bursting into laughter.

“Okay, maybe a little,” you admit.

“If I outrun him in a sprint, he’s like, ‘Bet you can’t do a slapshot.’ It’s his go-to.”

“She’s worse,” Will says, grinning.

“Honeymoon in Italy, we’re strolling through this gorgeous piazza, and she goes, ‘Race you to that fountain.’ In sandals!”

“And I won,” you say, pointing at him.

“Because I was carrying our luggage and your gelato!”

Graham is doubled over. “So, no relaxing honeymoon vibes?”

“We relaxed,” you say, then crack up again.

“But really,” Will adds, his tone shifting to something softer.

“That trip was perfect. I’d lose a hundred fountain races just to see her smile like that again.”

He looks at you, eyes warm, and your heart does a little flip.

The audience coos, and Graham fans himself.

“Will, you’re making us all swoon. How are you this romantic?”

Will shrugs, a playful glint in his eye.

“She makes it easy. I mean, look at her, my wife, she’s out here killing it in her sport, being the best mom, and still putting up with my sweaty post-game self. I’m just trying to keep up.”

You blush, swatting his arm. “Stop it, you sap.”

“Never,” he says.

Graham claps his hands.

“Okay, let’s talk twins, Charles and Theo Smith, gorgeous names. How’s parenthood with your high-octane lives?”

You squeeze Will’s hand, grinning. “It’s wild. They’re two, and they’re already little tornadoes.”

“Charles is a thrower,” Will says.

“Balls, toys, spaghetti, if it’s in his hands, it’s flying.”

“And Theo’s obsessed with speed,” you add.

“He sprints down the hallway in socks, sliding like he’s auditioning for the Olympics. We’re terrified he’ll crash into a wall.”

Graham laughs. “Are they already little athletes, taking after you?”

“Oh, definitely,” Will says.

“Last week, we set up this mini obstacle course in the backyard, cones, a little slide, toddler stuff. Charles bulldozed through it, and Theo? He’s weaving around cones like he’s got a game plan.”

You nod, laughing.

“I caught Will ‘coaching’ them, like it’s NHL tryouts. He’s whispering, ‘Stick to the left, Theo!’ I’m like, ‘Babe, he’s two. Let him eat dirt first.’”

Will grins. “Gotta start ‘em young. But yeah, they’ve got her fire, stubborn, fast, and way too charming for their own good.”

Graham leans forward.

“So Will, we all wanna know, you’re a young dad for an NHL star, yea sure but what made you so sure about starting a family?”

Will’s expression softens, and he glances at you, his voice full of feeling.

“I just… knew. The second I met her, it was like my life clicked into focus. I didn’t want to wait five years, ten years, whatever. I wanted her, us, family. Even with our crazy schedules, she’s always been my home base.”

You bite your lip, caught off guard by the emotion.

“He’s always been all-in,” you say quietly. “Like, we’d be on FaceTime me at a meet, him at an away game and he’d still find a way to send me flowers or a text that’s like, ‘You got this, champ.’”

Will smiles, a little sheepish.

“I proposed like eleven months in because I was on a ‘chop chop chop’ timeline. Couldn’t wait.”

Graham pounces. “Chop chop chop! Explain this madness!”

Will laughs, rubbing the back of his neck.

“It’s this dumb thing I’d say when we were dating. I knew I wanted to marry her, like, yesterday. So I’d tease her, ‘Chop chop chop, let’s get this love story moving.’”

“He was ridiculous,” you say, but your smile is unstoppable.

“Proposed right after a competition. I’m sweaty, chugging water, barely alive, and he’s on one knee with this ring, saying, ‘Marry me, champ.’”

“Best moment of my life,” Will says, eyes locked on yours.

“She won her event and said yes. Double victory.”

The audience melts, and Graham pretends to wipe a tear.

“You’re killing me. How do you stay this in love with all the pressure careers, kids, the spotlight?”

You pause, glancing at Will.

“He’s my best friend. Even when it’s hard like when I missed his game-winning goal because I was at an event, or he missed my big win for a road trip we make it work. We cheer louder than anyone else for each other.”

Will nods, his voice soft but firm.

“She’s my everything. I’d skate a thousand extra laps just to see her in the stands. And when I watch her compete? I’m her loudest fan, screaming like I’m at a playoff game.”

You laugh, nudging him. “You are loud. I could hear you over my own heartbeat last time.”

Graham claps dramatically. “You’ve ruined every other couple for me. But one last thing, any big plans for the future? More kids, more medals, more fountain races?”

Will grins, glancing at you with a softness that makes your heart skip.

“More of her. That’s the plan. I’ve witnessed her through the pain, the grind, even before all this, her strength, her heart. So if she wants more babies, I’m ready, chop chop chop. But if not, that’s totally fine by me. I’m good as long as it’s what she wants.”

You blush, caught off guard by his earnestness, and swat his arm lightly.

“You’re gonna make me cry on national TV, Smitty.”

The audience awws, and Graham fans himself again.

“Will, you’re setting an impossible standard here! Any response to that?”

You smile, leaning into Will’s shoulder.

“He’s stuck with me, that’s for sure. More medals, maybe. But mostly just… more us. Chasing goals, chasing toddlers, chasing eachother.”

“Chop chop chop,” Will adds, winking at you, and the audience erupts.

Graham throws his hands up.

“That’s it, you’re officially the cutest. Get out of here before I propose to you both myself.”

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dimepdf · 2 years ago

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★ 𝐓𝐎𝐔𝐂𝐇-𝐀, 𝐓𝐎𝐔𝐂𝐇-𝐀, 𝐓𝐎𝐔𝐂𝐇 𝐌𝐄. + 𝐌𝐈𝐆𝐔𝐄𝐋 𝐎'𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐀

masterlist. / taglist. / tip jar. synopsis. no matter how many times you try to convince yourself that Miguel is the bane of your existence, the way you react during training proves otherwise.

─── ☆ notes. i need fics of miguel being an absolute dick, like a petty bitch just for the hell of it i need more attitude yk? Like if that man isn't calling me a slut it ain't canon! | — feedback is always welcomed & don't forget to reblog 🤍

─── ☆ length. 4.3k (33 min read).

─── ☆ genre and warnings. +18 nsfw under the cut. minors dni | no spoilers | smut, enemies to lovers, maybe mutual pining, fighting and violence, semi public sex, gym sex, mentions of abuse, size difference, pain kink, strength kink, degradation kink, manhandling, power play(?), begging, rough sex, cervix kissing, choking, fangs, biting, marking, cunnilingus, eye contact, hair pulling, creampie, open ended, not an taiyo fic without a few typos.

IF YOU ASKED any of the other Spider-men what they loved so much about being Spider-Man, their answers would all be the same, ranging from "the suit" to "the enhanced abilities." It was a no-brainer that being a superhero came with a few awesome perks.

Which was why your answer was just a bit confusing, "the combat." You would always smile, despite the many eyebrows raises and looks that convinced you you had to be some type of overcover masochist, especially since you would never really go into true detail about why.

Your reasoning behind putting on the mask was similar to all the others: another traumatized kid being thrown into a whole new reality that you never would have dreamed of being possible.

Sadly, you had been raised with the loss of most of your loved ones, and your family was in shambles from the abuse you would go through from them. It was the reason why it was difficult for you to grow up and make many friends, let alone navigate your abilities on your own accord, which was why it was a whole different ball game when you first joined the spider society.

When you first met Miguel O'Hara, you thought he was an overly intimidating man with an even more scary personality. Your aesthetics and morals would clash in the first few run-ins you would have with him.

In all honesty, you first thought him to be a massive dick who surprisingly needed more therapy than you did. From his bored expression to his unnerving glare, it was clear upon the first introduction that you two just would not get along.

Which was why the universe made him the only spider person willing and with enough free time to train you. It came as a surprise to you both, who are usually butting heads. Miguel was adamant about not wanting to waste his time training some little girl who didn't even know how to throw a punch.

With much shit-talking on your part and a lot of teasing claims of him being afraid that you were going to kick your ass, training had quite literally started in full swing.

It was probably a bad move on your part to push the buttons of the guy who was teaching you how to fight. Miguel was clear with his fight-style techniques. He was nimble with his limbs and swift on his feet. It was hard for anyone to get a hit on him, especially since he wasn't the type to hold back his punches.

His teaching style was the same: your sessions included throwing you around as if you were some ragdoll and picking you up as if you weighed nothing, just to slam you into the ground with full bruising force.

There would be some very rare occasions when you would manage to get the upper hand on him. Miguel was about a foot taller than you, not to mention how pathetically compressed you looked standing next to him. You learned that the only way you could manage to get the upper hand was by using your size difference to your advantage.

All the sessions you won were hosted by you managing to tangle yourself from his claws and climb his towering figure into a headlock, praying that you had enough strength in your legs to make him tap out.

"How is she not dead yet?" Miles would mutter, looking concerned, as he stood from the sidelines of the training room, watching one of your sessions, as the blonde by his side didn't even wince at the sound of Miguel untangling you from the headlock you had him in.

His arms moved faster than you could process as he managed to loosen your hold enough to slam the air from your lungs as you fell back facing against the mat so hard that even Miles was convinced he could feel the blow in the lower spine.

"I mean, at this point, I'm kind of convinced she’s turned into his personal punching bag." Miles strains to watch Miguel not even wipe a sweat as he sprung back on his feet. He stretched out his full body, towering over you, curled flat against the mat, trying to collect your breathing as well as your broken ego.

Gwen nodded in agreement. "I don't even know how someone could hit someone so...squishy? She’s just so cute." She muttered, watching with her arms crossed.

"This punching bag needs to learn that in the real world, people aren't going to go as easy on her just because she’s cute." Miguel, despite glaring at the two bystanders, leaned down and yanked you back onto your stumbling feet.

Your fingers combed through the matted curls now drenched in sweat away from your forehead, using your water break as the perfect excuse to help cover up the reaction to the sudden compliment that came from his lips and the way he had made you feel.

"And her being my personal punching bag is completely at her fault, if you want to learn how to fight, you have to learn how to take a few punches." You couldn't help but roll your eyes and wave your hand out in annoyance at another one of Miguel O’Hara’s famous lectures.

"I’m not a punching bag, did you not see the hold I had on him early?" You huffed, almost choking on your water, trying to protest. Gwen humored your claim, the blonde reaching out and rubbing your shoulder out of support as you continued with your defense. "Any tighter, and I would have easily snapped his neck."

Of course, Miguel only smirked as you continued grasping at straws at the point of trying to prove to your friends your improvement, his eyes flitting back and forth at the exchange, expressionless at the sight of you managing to still joke around as if you weren't about to pass out from fatigue at any second.

"And was that before or after the part where I kicked your ass, little girl?" He shot out, chipping away at the final lock that held back your annoyance, you hadn't even had time to process the insult before he bumped his shoulder into you on his way out of the training room.

His rude exit enticed a round of reactions from Miles and Gwen trying their awkward best to comfort the boiling pot of anger they saw written all over your face, rolling your eyes, you pushed past the two, not without grumbling a string of insults in Miguel’s name to the washrooms.

You blessed the spider lords for somehow having the ability to shower under running water, let alone the unexplainable strange amount of amenities that the spider society dimensions had.

Like a web shooter's wonderland, you quickly shed the sweating clothes you trained in and stepped foot into the cold cubicle shower booth, letting the water run for a bit until enough steam fogged clouded stepping under the stream. Even with the hot water splashing pressure against your aching muscles, no amount of water could manage to wash away the annoying feeling in your legs.

It was enough of a jab at your pride to even find Miguel attractive in the first place, and here your body was betraying you once more, begging, throbbing desperately for his every touch in its every form, and having the nerve to grow more intense during your training.

The feeling had yet to fully disappear the next day, even with your session starting off with you fueled from yesterday's comments. You tried pushing the feeling as you were just ready to have Miguel mutter another word insult with the ass kick you were ready to give him. It was the only possible explanation for why you were so jittery about getting to training on time.

"It took you long enough." Was the first thing you heard Miguel announce throughout the empty room.

He wasn’t wearing his suit—neither of you did while training—instead, he was wearing dark gray sweatpants paired with some random dark red graphic shirt that fit him a bit too snuggly to leave room for imagination around his arms.

"Almost thought you were gonna skip out."

You were aware enough to spot this quick observation of your outfit as well. Keeping it casual and opting for better mobility, you shimmied yourself into plain Nike shorts that stopped higher up than you had expected them to on your thighs with a loose tank top that peeked out the straps of your sports bra.

Nothing about your clothes screamed attention grabbing—at least that's what you thought before you caught Miguel’s red-tinted stare on the way your shorts hugged your thighs.

He glanced away, muttering something in Spanish you couldn't quite translate the moment your fingers fidgeted with the bottom hems of the shorts, tugging them slightly more down while deciding to break the tense silence that had managed to sneak up on you. "So what are we doing today?"

"Huh, I’ve been thinking." He answered, followed by the clearing of his throat, "We try something a little different." You could never get used to the roughness of his voice or the way he spoke with so much arrogance that it reminded just about everyone that he thought he was better than just about everyone.

Even now that you stepped towards the middle of the mat, standing rigidly just a few paces away from him, you could tell from that stupid, cocky expression as he stood looking down at you that there was no possible way that he would ever see you as a real threat. "I want you to try to hit me."

Your brows creased together in confusion.

"What?" was all you asked, which seemed to be the wrong question to ask as Miguel stretched out a sigh from his mouth, his hands coming close to his to pinch the bridge of his nose.

"I said hit me." He speaks more slowly, making sure to mockingly over pronounce every symbol in every word as if you were a child. "Preferably soon and as hard as you can." A grimace finds itself twisting on your lips before you can even process your bubbling annoyance. Your body moved on autopilot because of your keen senses, jumping over the swing of his left leg with ease.

You couldn't say that swift grace stuck with your attempt at a counterattack. Bending your knee just enough to reach out and kick, you were only met with the bottom of your foot stomping flat against the floor mat and Miguel dodging your kick, standing just a few paces away. "Too predictable," he scolded in that annoyingly deep voice you hated oh so much and totally did not turn on you at all. You sprung yourself up by the heels of your feet and charged at him with full determination to land at least one punch on his stupidly chiseled, handsome face.

It had been your second mistake, giving him too much time to brace himself. Already regretting your emotionally impulsive start, resulting in the punch you swung being easily deflected by Miguel.

His hand wrapped entirely around your wrist, bending your arm almost out of your socket and kicking the back of your knee to the mat with his heel. You feel down to a kneel with a hissing pain in your arm threatening to get worse at any wrong twist.

"Lose that fucking attitude, or you’ll get sloppy." As if your body could radiate any more anger, you knew he was just trying to push your buttons, trying to throw you off your game with smack talk that was not working on you or anything.

"Again," he prompted, letting your arm go and stepping back, egging on another attack from you.

"Give me a damn minute." No matter how much you wanted to snap back at him with something snarky, you knew it would only prove his point entirely—not only that but also the fact that he was mentally hitting you in all the places that he knew counted the most to throw you off your game.

Biting back the insult you already had threatened to slip from your tongue instead of making a point by rolling your eyes as you stumbled back to your feet. Rolling your sore shoulder back as your eyes scan over his stance, trying to find the best opening for a better attack, you steady your breath and cloud your mind in thought. "You aren't going to get anywhere but dead standing around like that, you know."

So much for wanting to consider your options. Miguel took the first swing at you and was on the verge of kicking you on your ass if it weren't for your shoddy dodge.

"Didn't you just say I had to be less fucking predictable?" You snarled, lifting your foot with most of your weight pointed in the direction of his jaw. Surprisingly, the kick landed just not in the place you wanted it to; instead, Miguel’s arm blocked the blow, much to your annoyance.

"I also said—" All he was doing was using dodging moves on you, swiping your other foot from under you as he held the other one that you kicked up in his arm, resulting in you landing once again flat on your ass. "to lose that fucking attitude."

You had not gone down without a fight, twisting and kicking, trying to wrestle your limbs free by any means. Miguel had almost embarrassingly quickly ceased your squirming, his palm cuffing your arms and pressing hard against your chest as his other hand pressed tightly into your thighs, folding your legs in place under his hips.

The position was interesting, to say the least, but you still had some fight in you, wiggling against his grip with any strength you had left to break free. It was a useless battle, but the man had his grip around you tight as well as an overpowering size difference that blanketed your entire figure like one big rock.

And that's how you caught yourself in another web of misfortune. Your nerves are surging at the feeling of something—him brushing against your calf. Maybe it was all the adrenaline pumping through your veins or the fact that you were practically being manhandled so easily that did another thing to your body, or maybe it was just pure horny instability that your brain couldn't even process the lewd whine that tugged from your throat after the fact that it had happened.

Watching in pure horror as Miguel loomed on top of you, his mouth slightly agape as his chest heaved and his brows pulled together, the embarrassment from his confused, almost offended looking expression hit you fast. Here your body was betraying you once more, this time going absolutely haywire and melting like a stupid pile of putty at the fact that you were being body pressed against some mat with some guy's hard junk pressed into your leg.

You couldn't bear to even look him in the eye anymore, your head tilting to the side, pressing your cheek into the mat, and squeezing your eyes closed, not suddenly envying the spidermen with teleportation powers. "Fucking Christ, can you get off now?"

A beat of silence hovered between the small distance between you two, neither moving nor talking. It was starting to become unbearable how tightly Miguel had folded your legs against him, in the sense that you could already feel his body heat radiating. The close proximity did not help with how unbearably your heart was beating against your chest. "How do you manage after all of that to still have that shameless fucking attitude?"

You stilled at how his voice had managed to cut through your own thick cloud of betraying thoughts as well as the ringing in your eardrums. "Shameless? As if you don't have your dick pressed against me right now."

"By the sounds of it, you don't seem that bothered at all." Miguel taunted, You thought you were bound to die of embarrassment.

Yeah, this is how you went out—by dying from the sheer effect of your own extremely horny though—not some overpowered supervillain with a vendetta against you but Miguel O'Hara and his dick print.

You could already hear the new taunts that he would use against you, "Not even in your fucking dreams." being the only comeback that you could muster, your limbs tingling with slight pins and needles, threatening to go stiff under his unbound grasp.

"Oh, like you wouldn't love to," he sneered, shifting the weight from his hips flat against your thighs. "Probably thinking about me taking off these tight fucking shorts and having my way with you?" Your body reacted first to the accusation, cursing under your breath as you felt your second heartbeat flutter in between your legs.

His lingering stare hadn't helped one bit, and you watched from the sidelines as his eyes raked over your body with interest.

"I bet this was your plan the entire fucking time, huh?" He asked, leaning in as the distance dwindled until you could feel the brush of his breath against your face. "Put on some sweet naive act in front of everyone, knowing that you're getting yourself off on me throwing you around, touching yourself like some bitch in heat."

You hadn't bothered covering the whine that parted from your lips at the feeling of his erection slowly rutting against your thigh, the cocky smirk on his lips wanting you to melt away against the mat.

Miguel practically growled at the pathetic sounds that parted from your lips, tugging your legs apart to rut his hips down against your core. You shivered at the intrusion of his bulge pressed against your eagerness, the foreign feeling of him grinding against you left your thoughts in a dizzy fog.

"What? Can’t fucking speak now," he said as if he were dangling your most prized possession in front of your face, his fingers creeping into dangerous territory, making it a point for his fingertips to drag down your lower torso only to halt right above the elastic waistband of your shorts. "Go on, use your words."

"...fuck you."

The small amount of distance made the space between you two fall tensely thick, and the words spoken from your lips were different from the feelings that made your heart thud against your ribs. You weren't stupid, you knew Miguel could sense it, he could sense just about everything about your body from how close he kneeled on top of you.

Maybe that was why he had closed the distance so quickly after, letting the tight grip around your wrists give way to his hand finding a new objective, wrapping his fingers around your neck, not bothering to be gentle as he guided your lips towards his. The kiss was as rough as you had dreamed it to be. Eager for each other's kiss, you couldn't even process the noise that vibrated sharply from your throat before Miguel could pull away first, leaving you panting for more of his touch.

"First time I've ever seen you so quiet," his deep taunts were starting to grow unbearable, shifting your hips at the brush of his fangs against the jugular of your neck with every word, "who knew all you needed was some dick?" The harsh kisses he left trailing down to your collarbone made you feel like a hot, needy mess of putty. If it weren't for the tight grasp he had on your body, you were convinced that you would feel like you'd melt into some type of puddle. The growing frustration had only started to build up more as Miguel let go of your thighs, his hand trailing between your legs ruthlessly as the bud of his fingers rubbed against your clothed pussy.

As for why you shifted your hips up and let him impatiently tug and yank at the bow knotted around the waist of your shorts, breaking away from the red splotching light bruises already forming against your brown skin and wiggling you out of your shorts, Miguel thought it was quite the image, his eyes were fixated on the drooling sight of you under him, so vulnerable with your thighs hugging to your chest, spread open, revealing yourself in your pants.

All sanity was thrown out the window the moment he tugged you closer by your knees, your lower half lifted in his arms just enough for him to sit face to face with your cunt. His eyes darkened, his pupils blown as his tongue lapped over his lips, leaving you feeling restless. It was a slow and almost painful battle of trying to reach down and shove his face closer or buck your hips as his fingers sheathed and explored themselves against the fabric of your underwear.

As if Miguel could read your mind, his fingers hooked the fabric under the bend of his finger, followed by a quick tearing sound. "I’ll get you new ones," the comfort emitting a whine from your throat as you couldn't even scowl at him for ruining your underwear because you were too busy admiring the work his fingers were doing. Without warning, Miguel leans in closer, the warmth of his mouth almost sending you into a frenzy as his fingers spread open your lips, his lips sucking at your clitoral area, prompting you to let out a very lewd moan.

"Too loud," Miguel mumbled against your pussy, too busy webbed up in your own pleasure to even notice how every embarrassedly sloppy wet noise had seemed to perfectly echo throughout the empty room. You couldn't even explain the number of emotions that were flowing through you, from shame from being tongue fucked and fingered against the floor about the one man you hated so much to bashfulness from holding eye contact with him as he lay between your legs and ate your pussy like he was starving for you.

"I can't help it," you whined, shivering at the string of spit that contacted Miguel as he lifted his head in an idea. It took a second to process Miguel picking you up and turning you on your stomach, his hands guiding your hips up and stripping your torn panties down your legs to stuff them in your mouth.

Without a word, Miguel grabbed your ass with another hand, guiding your lower back into an arch as the other made small indents from his nail bearing into your cheeks as he spread them apart.

Before you could even feel embarrassed at the new position, he shoved his face between them, your moan being muffled by your makeshift cloth gag that worked a bit too well in lowering your whines as Miguel’s mouth sought his tongue out for your pussy once more.

"You're close I can smell it," you almost missed Miguel's groan over your building ecstasy, "just let it go, baby, let me take care of you. That's what you want, right?" His voice is drastically different from his usual rough, rude tone, softened to something of a coo that has managed to unknot your pleasure with his tongue. Your body tensed against his mouth for a moment as he had the nerve to suck his fingers clean. No grace period was given before he could lift you once more with a grunt, laying you flat on your back.

Slotting himself back between his legs, Miguel chuckled at the dazed look on your face. "It's alright, baby, I can take it from here." taking the balled up drool covered panties from your mouth and instead replaced them with his lips. The sensual change of pace wasn't enough to stop the shiver that rid your nerves of the feeling of his bare cock rutting against your slit, using his thumb to spread your lips apart to sink his tip inside of you with a low hiss against your mouth.

A gasp left yours as his girthy length intruded deeper inside of you, the burying stretch of his dick having your nails roughly grasping at the nape neck of his hair tugging a handful as his pace hadn't bothered to even get familiar already. Miguel’s hips weren't letting out as he fucked you almost animalistic against the floor. You were convinced he was trying to fuck you into the mat, to be one with the floor, which would perfectly explain the rough pace that left you breathless with each piston of his hips.

The graphically lewd sounds of your weak groans were nothing compared to the pornographic sound of your skin meeting his, your brain empty with nothing but greed, wanting to take everything and more of what Miguel was giving you. His fingers reach to unwrap your fingers tangled in his hair to intertwine them in his. "That's it, mama, that's it," he whispers against the shell of your ear, earning a whimpering reply from you, almost close to spilling the tears clouding your waterline.

Your mind couldn't process anything other than how good Miguel’s dick felt being shoved inside of you, his cock dragging against your tight, flustering walls with each shaky breath brushed against your ear. Your cunt seemed to react to Miguel’s lashes tickling against your neck as his eyes screwed tightly shut, muttering a string of compliments in his mother tongue.

You weren't lucky enough to be more stable, surprised that your throat hasn't gone horse with how ruined your vocal cords sounded in the pace of his pistoning hips. Only going up an octave higher as one of Miguel’s hands reaches down to pay attention to your clit, he doesn't stop even when your limbs start to tremble from your climax.

With one last hard thrust, he finally stills, your name being the only thing you could make out through his mumbling as his unfamiliar warm sensation welcomed itself inside of you.

Groaning right in your ear, he cums inside of you with his entire dead weight pressed against you, caging you against the floor. "Alright," Miguel sighs, settling on top of you once more with his arms holding himself just a few inches away from your face. "Again."

🔖 @adonis-is-dead-lmaoo @thesebitcheslovesosadotcom @inumakiiz @iheartlinds @creamyarishi @marzipaanz

tap here to be added to taglist.

#[ ⇢ ˗ˏˋ ★ — t.wrks. ]#miguel o'hara #miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o'hara smut #spiderman across the spiderverse #spiderman 2099 #spiderman #spiderman smut #marvel #into the spider verse

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thewritetofreespeech · 3 months ago

Note

can you do CFTYX for Mark Grayson on the SFW alphabet please?

SFW Alphabet

C = Cuddles (Do they like to cuddle? How would they cuddle?)

Mark loves to cuddle and it’s honestly his next best superpower. He’s like….really good at it. He will cuddle with his partner anywhere. On the couch, in bed, laying his head and cuddling up to them in the training room. It’s like a frickin’ Green Eggs and Ham skit over here.

His preference is to have all limbs wrapped around them for cuddling. But he realizes that’s not practical and will settle for any form of touching.

F = Flirt (How do they flirt? Are they smooth or awkward?)

Absolutely the worst flirt. The boy has no game, which honestly makes it that more endearing.

When he tries to flirt with his partner, it usually just causes them to laugh. They’ll kiss him and tell him he’s cooler or sexier when he doesn’t try so hard. Will use cheesy pick up lines.

T = Try (How much effort would they put into dates, anniversaries, gifts, everyday tasks?)

Mark tries really hard.

He knows he’s gone a lot with his superhero duties and can’t always make them a priority when the world is in danger. They are his world but…millions of lives to save.

So when dates or special occasions come up, Mark makes sure to give them his undivided attention and make up for lost time. Show them that they are important. He’s not the best gift giver, as Mark misses the mark a lot of the time, but he does make the effort with every one.

Y = Yuck (What are some things they wouldn’t like, either in general or in a partner?)

Mark can’t stand a partner that is messy. Maybe it’s just his own upbringing, or just a personal preference on tidiness, but if they are a person that leaves clothes all over the floor or dishes in the sink forever it’s not going to work. He’s not a neat-freak but a certain amount of order and cleanliness is expected or he’ll go bonkers.

X = Xtra (A random headcanon for them.)

If Mark never got his powers and did not become a superhero, he wanted to be a veterinarian.

#;ask and ye shall receive (request answers)#invincible #invincible x reader #invincible headcanons #invincible amazon #invincible show #mark grayson #mark grayson x you #mark grayson headcanons #headcanons #mark grayson x reader #invincible comic #Mark Grayson #Invincible Mark Grayson #Invincible x reader #mark Grayson x reader

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luvjunie · 2 years ago

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pretty boy earth 1610 miles 745 words

Three gentle taps to the glass pane of your bedroom window alerted you of your frequent nighttime visitor, ten minutes to midnight, like always. Nose abruptly lifting from the book it was tucked in, you quickly set it off to the side on your duvet and smiled at the sight of Miles—still fully suited up where he stood on your fire escape as he gave you an excited wave. Seeing Spider-Man randomly pop up where you live would probably scare the life out of anyone, but you weren’t just ‘anyone’.

With a small grunt and an upwards pull of your window, you were soon face to face with the netted nylon mask of your city’s secret superhero—who wasn’t much of secret to you and your small room.

Miles immediately pulled his mask off so your lips could meet faster: his main focus, aside from the fact that it was thirty degrees out and he was losing feeling in his toes.

“Hey,” he pulled away from you with a smile that nearly rivaled yours, ducking down and climbing through to escape the prickly chill of the November night.

“Hi pretty boy, I missed you.”

He already had his hands on the bottom, ready to shut it when it’d rolled off your tongue like the simplest thing as you pounced back onto your bed. The window came to a screeching halt, literally, when he looked over his shoulder, eyes widened and blinking as if he’d misheard you. Seemingly unaware of the years you just shaved off his lifespan with those two little words, you glanced down at your book that’d flopped closed due to the movement of your mattress. “Damn, I lost my page.” you muttered with a frown.

“H-What?” Miles blinked, eyes remaining on you until he finally remembered to shut the window, softly, and quietly. “What’d you say?”

“I lost my page?” you repeated.

“Before that.”

You tilted your head at him, brows creased to match the confused look you wore. “I…missed you?” you laughed uncertainly, thumb and pointer finger riffling through the pages of your well-loved copy of Hunger Games: Catching Fire. It was a desperate attempt, really, trying to find where you’d left off. You were never one to dog-ear your pages.

“No, no,” He was facing you fully now, the small two strand twists he had in his hair shaking with his head when it moved from side to side. “The other thing.”

You looked away and at your poster clad wall, eyes squinted as they slowly landed on him again. Your voice, quieter than it was before, had a confused lilt to it when you answered again.

“…Hello?”

“Jesus fuc—” Miles nearly smacked his forehead, hands clasping together and pointing towards you instead. “Baby. What did you say after ‘hello’?”

You thought on it for a moment, relaying through the brief interaction. “Oh!” You sat up, calves tucked beneath your thighs and face brightened with an oncoming grin. “Pretty boy?”

“Yeah,” he scratched his head, eyes bouncing on and off your face and canines showing when his top lip raised into something of a shy smile. “You think I’m pretty?”

“Duh.” You scoffed, as if the answer were beyond obvious. Miles shook his head at you, a puff of air sounding from his nose in the form of amusement.

“Don’t think I’ve heard that one before. Boys aren’t usually called pretty, but I’ll take it.”

Slowly lowering himself, Miles let out an unpleasant groan when his hip touched the ground, far too young to have his joints aching the way they did. Laying down on your sherpa rug, he sprawled out on his back and let his eyes close, like he always did during his night visits. He’d stay for an hour or so, talk with you, get patched up if needed (which was rare), or sometimes take a power nap so he could swing the rest of the way back. And after surveying the city he knew better than to even think about touching your bed. In his outside clothes was bad enough, now his suit? Absolutely not. He was more than satisfied with the floor.

“Yeah, well I think you are.” Laying flat on your stomach, you pressed your cheek to your folded arms and marveled down at your exhausted boyfriend from the height of your bed. “Everything about you is pretty. Like your eyelashes? They’re gorgeous, and for what? It’s lowkey unfair.”

“Aight you’re draggin’ it.” he laughed.

“I’m serious!”

a/n: pretty boys >>>

#junie’s works ᥫ᭡#three fics in one week?? 😦#miles morales x reader #across the spiderverse fanfiction #miles morales x fem!reader #miles morales fanfiction #earth 1610 miles x you #miles morales fluff #1610!miles x reader #earth 1610 miles x reader #1610 miles morales x reader #miles 1610 x reader

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tumble-witch · 3 months ago

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You get to have any Miraculous, which one are you picking?

Oohh, I love these types of questions!

Funny you ask that, two years ago I designed me and my fellow romantic associate as a miraculous hero/villain

Considering that every miraculous comes with super strength, mobility and stuff it's already cool as hell, but I'm torn between the butterfly and the ladybug

I always loved the support role in every game, it's my bread and butter

The ladybug as a fix-all is my favourite. Being able to reverse something and bring people back to life is the best ability a superhero can have. Chatting with the universe by it sending you cryptic objects which point towards the solution to whatever problem absolutely needs to be studied

The butterfly is just perfect for a supporting role - you can essentially have a teammate, help someone, make change happen. It also makes you much more aware of someone elses emotions, which I definitely could use if I'm about to abuse my magic powers

I do wonder if it comes with a basement wife

#ask #anon #my art

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legionofmyth · 7 months ago

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Absolute Power: How Optional Combat Rules Can Turn the Tide

Is your combat in Absolute Power RPG as thrilling as it could be? 🔥 Uncover the optional combat rules that can transform your battles into epic showdowns! Don't let your game stay ordinary when it can be extraordinary. Click to learn how to supercharge your campaigns! #AbsolutePowerRPG #TabletopRPG #Gaming

Absolute Power: Book 1: System Absolute Power: Book 2: Essentials Tri-Stat Core Prepare for action-packed battles as we dive deep into the optional combat rules for Absolute Power by Dyskami Publishing Company! Watch now to discover how these rules can revolutionize your combat encounters and intensify your superhero campaigns. Explore advanced combat mechanics that bring a new level of…

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morkhan · 2 years ago

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It is so buckwild to me what Insomniac did with Harry Osborn and Venom.

In the vast majority of Spider-Media, Venom's defining character trait is his hatred of Spider-Man, and at first, it looks like Insomniac might be going that route. They give Harry ample reason to be absolutely furious with Peter, to resent him, resent the life he gets to live, a beloved superhero with a girlfriend, healthy and strong, a genius of such caliber that even his own father seems to prefer him to Harry. His supposed "best friend" who seems to be withholding lifesaving medical treatment just because he likes how it feels on him, because it's not enough that he be better and stronger and smarter than poor, sickly, doomed Harry, no, he has to be stronger than himself, stronger than the old Spider-Man could ever hope to be. It's not enough for Peter to have his own powers, he has to have Harry's as well, and if that comes at the cost of Harry's life? Well, that's just the cost of doing business. As long as it makes him a better Spider-Man, that's all that matters, right?

It seems like they are going down the route where Harry gives into his anger and resentment, the symbiote whispering in his ear and exacerbating his worst aspects until there is nothing left of the sweet boy that Emily Osborn raised to be so deeply good, only a supervillain hellbent on revenge and world domination.

But that's not what happens.

Instead, almost everything Harry does after the Venom symbiote takes over is framed as helping. As a genuine, if twisted belief that the world he is making is a better world. Instead of seeking revenge against Peter, Harry/Venom wants to convert him. Wants him to stand beside him as they "heal the world" together. And the odd thing is, this only becomes more true with time. At first, Harry/Venom seems almost indifferent to Peter, and angers quickly when Peter calls them a "thing." But we see that the idea of Peter doing this with him, the need for his best friend to be beside him at the end of all things, eventually becomes so important to him that it is ultimately a weakness the heroes exploit.

Think about that; Harry Osborn's love for Peter Parker is so powerful that it almost seems to be corrupting the Venom symbiote, infecting it and twisting its mind as surely as it twisted Peter's, but in the opposite direction. It's so wild to watch the scenes at the end of the game and hear Tony Todd, in his deep-ass Venom voice, read lines like "Thanks for coming, Pete 😊" with the same casual inflection and tone as Harry would. Saying "This is where we became best friends. Now it's where we become brothers!" and sounding so pleased and excited that you'd think he was talking about Pete's mom marrying his dad and not infecting him with alien mind goop.

It's so incredible to me that the defining trait of Insomniac's Venom isn't hate; it's love. A twisted, warped love that doesn't fully understand itself, but a sincere and true love nonetheless, one that holds to the very end.

#insomniac spider man #spider man 2 ps5 #Harry Osborn #venom #peter parker #spider man 2 ps5 spoilers

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artbyblastweave · 9 months ago

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Heroify: Kingpin

Compared to some of the other characters people have sent in today this is like shooting monkeys in a barrel!

Part of the reason Fisk is such a good Daredevil villain is that he's already got a lot of the basic elements you need to make a street-level hero work- the will, the drive, the protectiveness, the territoriality, and the quote-unquote "badass normal" peak human fighting ability that, let's not fuck around here, is absolutely a superpower even if the chickenshit writers won't directly admit to that. It's just that he uses those abilities to be a crime boss rather than to fight crime bosses. To put himself in charge of his childhood bullies instead of fighting his bullies. A classic case of "If only he'd used his immense capacity for interpersonal violence for good." What would make him stand out from all the other heroes in his niche is his propensity for Empire-building, his complete inability not to build up some kind of organization from scratch, and what that impulse might look like in a superheroic context.

I'm imagining that his initial schtick is that of a Bully Hunter. After getting ripped and wiping the floor with his childhood bullies-or maybe this is one of the versions who offed his own father for beating on his Mother- he embraces the specific high of the "pick on someone your own size" routine, and he becomes The Big Man, the guy you go to when you need somebody who's been getting away with something for a while cut down to size. Upstairs neighbor is beating his wife and kid senseless, and nobody does anything because his brother's a cop? Call The Big Man. Real Estate Baron's using his connections to try to muscle out the residents of a tenement? The Big Man's gonna pay them a visit. Boss at the diner's withholding your paychecks and getting away with it because you're undocumented? You get where this is going. He usually doesn't kill people- not out of any particular code, but out of a combination of pragmatism and sadism. He's smart enough to engineer situations in a way that he can claim self-defense or frame someone's tumble down the stairs as an unfortunate accident or rely on the unexamined illegality of whatever his target was doing to prevent them from getting the police involved. He's got a bit of a financial cushion, as well, because all of this is actually his side gig- he's still a very successful, if not as cutthroat, local businessman, because hospitalizing domestic abusers doesn't pay the bills. As a power move, he does most of this under his own name- he's got a "costume" in the form of the distinct suit, and a nominal codename, but part of the bit, part of the point he's making, is that he's slightly better at weaseling out of the consequences of his actions than the people he targets. Always a bigger fish, after all. Power is relative. His thematic niche is distinct from Daredevil's abstract sense of idealized justice. It's not Frank Castles mechanical eye-for-an-eye approach. It's about the satisfaction of leaving a certain category of wrongdoer alive, so that they can remain very, very afraid.

Of course, since his entire bit is that he keeps putting untouchable assholes in fullbody casts, the attempts on his life start stacking up- First it's Ed the domestic abuser and his buddies from the bar coming around for a rematch, and then goon squads, then hand ninjas, then low-rent supervillains- and because The Big Man toes the line of being an actual superhuman, he's usually winning these things, and coming out ahead in the PR game for beating down a bunch of costumed thugs attacking his Perfectly Legitimate Art Gallery- but it's a pain that his office keeps getting firebombed. And this is where you start to reap the benefits of having done under-the-table favors for hundreds of people all over New York- The Big Man has a network now. The Big Man knows guys who knows guys, some of whom owe him favors, some of whom are just really afraid of him coming back for round two. The Big Man can pull together a hundred guys with crowbars and hammers on a day's notice, if he happens to need something like that. If he doesn't know someone with a backdoor into Tombstone's fortified penthouse or Hammerhead's mansion, if he doesn't know someone with incriminating information on Silvermane or Norman Osborn, well. He knows their cousin. And once he thinks to begin leveraging this? If the people escalating things have specific addresses, by the end of the week they very likely don't.

It's not as if he eliminates all criminal activity. He's not even interested in doing so. Like half the painting's he's selling are really convincing forgeries. But things hit a point where there's simply a hard practical limit on how imperial a supercriminal's ambitions in New York can become, how domineering, how visible to the man on the street, before The Big Man decides it's time to make a point and starts calling people, who in turn start calling people.

#thoughts #asks #meta #wilson fisk #man this one got away from me #crucial to this dynamic is that he's still on pretty bad terms with most of the other street level heroes #effortpost

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amethystarachnid · 3 months ago

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hey, could i request the secret admirer trope with mcu peter parker from love is in the air? it would be great if the reader was a female avenger (in a world where no one dies and everyone lives together). i just know that peter would be soo cute as a secret admirer; so could you write into the story him being super paranoid when leaving gifts and little notes at y/n’s door and always being the sweetest? oh and also thinking he’s super slick and all that but y/n actually knows it’s him leaving the gifts and stuff (she checked the security camera footage after the second one) but peter absolutely CANNOT take a hint so she decides to mess with him a little and convinces another avenger (maybe sam?) to act like her boyfriend to make peter jealous because she thinks it’s a little funny (:() but he only gets sad and barely leaves his room and no one knows why (except y/n) so she comes clean after the second day (i seem to have an obsession with the number 2) and kisses him after she comes to see him while he’s moping in his room. i should stop rambling i really hope this isn’t too long and im excited to read what you write! thanks!

(NOT SO) SECRET ADMIRER

⤷ PETER PARKER

ᯓ★ Pairing: Peter Parker x fem!reader

ᯓ★ Genre: romance, some angst and some fluff

ᯓ★ Requests status: open (only by asks)

ᯓ★ Story type: one shot

ᯓ★ Word count: 6.1k

ᯓ★ Summary: what the ask said and !! important!! both Peter and reader here are twenty-something

ᯓ★ TW(s): nothing i think

ᯓ★ I'm backkk! and I hope to have more free time to write for you guys! <3 also I'm working on a Bucky Barnes x fem!demigod!OC (demigod because yes I said so) so let me know if you would be interested <3

ᯓ★ Love is in the air - Valentine's Day special game

ᯓ★ My Masterlist

ᯓ★ MARVEL Holiday Special

ᯓ★ MARVEL Multiverse - choose an AU, pair it with your favorite character and make a request!

ᯓ★ Songs & Superheroes tales - The Game (to make a request, follow the rules on the link!)

ᯓ★ MARVEL Bingo

ᯓ★ English isn’t my first language

Moving into the Avengers Compound is overwhelming in ways you don’t expect. The high-tech security, the endless hallways, the casual presence of literal superheroes—it’s a lot to take in. You’re used to SHIELD facilities, where everything is sleek and professional, where people nod in acknowledgment but don’t stop to chat. The compound is different. It’s still high-tech, still crawling with some of the most skilled fighters on the planet, but it feels… warmer. Like a home, rather than a base.

It helps that the team is welcoming. Sam and Bucky tease you like an annoying pair of older brothers. Wanda is quick to pull you into conversations, treating you like you’ve always been part of the team. Even Tony, in his own sarcastic way, seems to have accepted you.

Then there’s Peter Parker.

Peter is unlike anyone you’ve worked with before. He’s clumsy but quick, brilliant but self-deprecating, always talking like his thoughts are moving faster than his mouth. He’s a dork, really, but in an endearing way. He’s also ridiculously powerful—not that he acts like it. If you hadn’t seen him in action, you’d never guess the guy who constantly fumbles with his web-shooters is the same Spider-Man who’s taken down entire teams of bad guys on his own.

You notice, almost immediately, that he’s nervous around you. The stammering, the way his face flushes whenever you look at him too long, the way he trips over his own feet when you’re in the same room—it’s impossible to miss. It’s cute.

And then, the gifts start showing up.

The first one appears a week after you move in. You find it on your way back to your room late at night—a slightly crumpled bouquet of daisies, placed neatly in front of your door with a small note.

Welcome to the team! Hope you like these. :)

No name. Just a simple message and a cute little smiley face.

You smile, crouching down to pick up the flowers. They aren’t professionally arranged—some of the stems are uneven, and a few petals look a little worse for wear—but there’s something undeniably sweet about them. Someone went out of their way to welcome you, and you have a pretty good guess who.

Still, you don’t say anything. You don’t want to assume. Maybe it’s Wanda. Maybe it’s Sam messing with you.

Then, three days later, another gift appears. A small bag of your favorite candy, along with another note.

Saw you training today. You’re incredible. Hope this makes your night better!

Again, no name. But the handwriting is the same.

That’s when your curiosity gets the better of you.

You’re trained to notice patterns, to pick up on the details most people overlook. And you’re trained to investigate. So, you do what any ex-SHIELD agent would—you check the security footage.

It doesn’t take long to find what you’re looking for. You scroll back to the timestamp from the night before, eyes scanning the grainy hallway footage. Then, right on schedule, someone drops into view.

Peter Parker.

You watch as he crouches in front of your door, carefully placing the candy down like it might explode. His movements are quick but nervous—he keeps glancing up and down the hallway like he expects someone to catch him. Then he pulls out the note, smooths it down three times, mutters something under his breath, and web-slings to the ceiling.

You replay the footage, laughing to yourself.

Of course, it’s Peter.

The pieces click together so perfectly you can’t believe you didn’t realize it earlier. The awkwardness, the way he lights up when you talk to him, the way he looks at you when he thinks you’re not paying attention. He has a crush on you.

And now, you know.

But you don’t tell him. Because, honestly? It’s adorable. And if Peter wants to keep thinking he’s being sneaky, you’re more than happy to let him.

Since then, the gifts keep coming.

Every few days, something new appears at your door. Sometimes, it’s snacks after a long mission. Other times, little trinkets—stickers, keychains, a tiny plush cat because you mentioned once that you like them. And always, always a note.

You start having fun with it.

You drop hints, teasing him just enough to see if he reacts. You compliment his intelligence, lean in close when you’re standing next to him, smile a little longer than necessary. You even start leaving notes of your own—nothing direct, just little things you know will fluster him.

Nice work in training today, Peter. Maybe next time, you’ll actually land a hit on me. ;)

He reads it while you’re in the same room, and his face turns so red you think he might combust.

It’s perfect.

But somehow, despite all your efforts, he remains completely oblivious.

Tonight, you’re determined to push him just a little further.

It’s late, and most of the team has already gone to bed. You’re in the kitchen, leaning against the counter, sipping tea when Peter walks in. His hair is messy like he’s been running his hands through it, and he’s wearing a hoodie that’s at least two sizes too big.

“Oh,” he says, stopping in his tracks. “Hey!”

You smile. “Hey, Peter.”

He shifts awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Didn’t think anyone else was up.”

“Couldn’t sleep,” you say. “What about you?”

“Uh, same,” he says, though you suspect he was probably sneaking around to drop off another gift.

You decide to test him. “I found something outside my door again.”

Peter stiffens. “Oh?”

You tilt your head. “Yeah. It’s kind of weird, though. It’s like… I keep getting these little gifts. And notes. No idea who they’re from.”

He swallows hard. “That’s—uh—crazy.”

You nod. “Right? I mean, it’s sweet. Really sweet. But I wonder who’s doing it.”

He lets out a nervous laugh. “Yeah, um, no clue. Could be anyone.”

You step closer, just enough to make him notice. “You think so?”

His eyes dart to your face, then away again. “Y-yeah! I mean, maybe it’s, like, a team thing? Or—uh—someone trying to make you feel welcome?”

You hum, pretending to consider it. “Maybe. But it’s funny… they always seem to know exactly what I like.”

Peter practically short-circuits. “That’s—uh—wild.”

You bite back a grin. He’s so obvious it hurts.

“Well,” you say, leaning against the counter beside him, “whoever it is, I kind of wish they’d just talk to me.”

Peter blinks. “Oh?”

You nod, watching him carefully. “Yeah. I mean, sneaking around is cute and all, but I’d really like to get to know them.”

For a second, you think maybe—maybe—he’ll take the hint. But then, he just lets out a choked laugh and says, “Yeah! Totally! That would be—uh—cool!”

You sigh internally.

Peter Parker is the worst secret admirer in the world.

But he’s also the sweetest.

So, you’ll wait. You’ll keep playing along, keep flirting, keep dropping hints. And maybe—eventually—he’ll realize you like him too.

Peter Parker is a genius.

He built his web-shooters from scraps, made it through MIT’s entrance exams before graduating high school, and helps Tony Stark with tech that makes most people’s heads spin.

And yet, for all his intelligence, he’s completely, hopelessly, unbelievably clueless.

You keep flirting with him, testing the waters, pushing the line between teasing and something a little more. Sometimes, it’s subtle—a hand on his arm when you laugh, leaning a little too close when you talk. Other times, it’s… less subtle.

Like the time you stretch in the training room, arching your back just enough to make him flustered, only to watch in delight as Peter—mid push-up—faceplants directly onto the mat. Or the time you “accidentally” call him handsome in front of the team, and he spends the next five minutes sputtering like a broken car engine while everyone watches in confusion.

At this point, it’s a personal challenge.

You want to see how far you can push him before he finally realizes you’re into him. And if he doesn’t? Well. You’re having way too much fun watching him suffer.

The best part is that no one else seems to notice. Everyone assumes Peter is just awkward (which, to be fair, he is), and you’re just being friendly (which, to be fair, you are—just with extra flirting).

At least, that’s what you think.

Until Sam Wilson calls you out.

It happens in the common room. You’re lounging on the couch after a morning mission, scrolling through your phone, when Sam plops down beside you with a knowing smirk.

“So,” he says casually, “you gonna tell me why you’ve been messing with Parker?”

You blink. “Excuse me?”

“Come on,” Sam drawls. “You’ve been flirting with that boy so hard I’m surprised he hasn’t passed out yet.”

You fight back a laugh. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Sam raises an eyebrow. “Oh, really? Then explain why he turns redder than Wanda’s magic every time you walk into the room.”

You shrug. “Maybe he’s just allergic to me.”

Sam snorts. “Nah, he’s just allergic to rizz.”

You burst out laughing. “Oh my god, Sam.”

“Hey, I’m just saying.” He leans back, crossing his arms. “Kid’s got it bad for you, and you know it.”

You sigh dramatically. “Yeah. But he has no idea I know.”

Sam squints at you. “Wait. He doesn’t know you know?”

“Nope.”

“…And he doesn’t know that you know that he doesn’t know you know?”

You blink. “What?”

“Never mind.” Sam shakes his head. “So, what’s the deal? You just enjoying the slow burn? Or are you waiting for him to finally grow a pair and ask you out?”

You grin. “A little of both.”

Sam lets out a low whistle. “Damn. That’s evil.”

“Not evil,” you correct. “Just… patient.”

Sam gives you a look. “Right. And I’m Captain America.”

You smirk. “You wish.”

He grins, then tilts his head, clearly considering something. “You want me to help?”

You raise an eyebrow. “Help how?”

Sam stretches his arms behind his head. “I could drop some hints. Get in his head a little.”

You hum, pretending to think about it. “Tempting.”

“Oh, come on,” Sam nudges you. “You know you want to see him suffer.”

That makes you laugh. “Fine. But don’t be too mean.”

“No promises,” Sam says, already grinning like he’s planning something dangerous.

You don’t know exactly what he’s going to do, but you do know one thing—Peter Parker doesn’t stand a chance.

It starts at breakfast.

Peter is sitting at the table, eating a massive bowl of cereal, when Sam slides into the seat across from him.

“What’s up, Parker?”

Peter blinks, mouth full. “Mmf?”

Sam smirks. “You know, I’ve been noticing something lately.”

Peter swallows, already looking nervous. “Noticing what?”

Sam leans forward. “You and Y/N.”

Peter chokes on his cereal.

“I—what?” he sputters, coughing.

“You and Y/N,” Sam repeats, smirking. “Something going on there?”

Peter turns so red you’re afraid he might actually explode. “N-no! I mean—uh—why? Did she say something?”

Sam pretends to think. “Hmm. Can’t say. But, you know, she does talk about you a lot.”

Peter’s eyes widen. “She does?”

“Oh yeah,” Sam says. “Like, the other day, she was saying how much she loves a guy who’s smart. Thought that was interesting.”

Peter makes a strangled sound. “She—she did?”

Sam nods. “And then she said something about how she likes guys who are good with their hands.”

Peter immediately drops his spoon. “WHAT?”

Sam shrugs. “I dunno, man. Just something to think about.”

Peter looks like he’s about to faint.

You, watching from across the room, nearly lose it.

For the next week, Sam continues his psychological warfare.

One morning, while you’re stretching before training, Sam casually mentions, “Hey, Parker, did you know Y/N thinks your arms are nice?”

Peter nearly drops the dumbbell he’s holding.

Then, during a mission briefing, Sam leans over and says, “You know, Y/N was just telling me how much she loves guys who can fight.”

Peter immediately starts sweating.

But the final straw comes during movie night. The team is gathered in the common room, popcorn bowls scattered across the couches, when Sam—loudly, for the whole room to hear—says, “Hey, Parker, Y/N said she likes guys who can take charge. What do you think that means?”

Peter, in the middle of drinking his soda, chokes so violently that Tony has to pat him on the back.

You’re dying.

Sam is clearly having the time of his life. Every time Peter panics, he shoots you a smug look, and you have to fight to keep a straight face.

Peter, meanwhile, is suffering.

And the best part? He still doesn’t get it.

Still doesn’t realize you’re into him.

At this point, you’re genuinely starting to think he might never figure it out.

But you’re patient.

So, you wait. You flirt. You tease. And you watch as Peter Parker, one of the smartest people you know, continues to be the most oblivious person on the planet.

At first, Peter’s obliviousness is adorable. It’s fun watching him squirm, fun seeing him turn bright red whenever you so much as look at him a little too long. But now? Now it’s getting annoying.

You’ve been dropping hints for weeks. You’ve been touching his arm, leaning in close, giving him every possible signal short of straight-up kissing him. And what does he do? He stammers. He trips over his own feet. He gets so flustered that he either short-circuits completely or runs away like a scared puppy.

It’s maddening.

You’re starting to wonder if you’re doing something wrong. Maybe you’re not being obvious enough. Maybe Peter just doesn’t think you could actually like him. Which is ridiculous, because if anyone in this compound paid half as much attention to him as you did, they’d see exactly why you liked him. He’s smart, he’s kind, he’s funny, and he’s got this dorky charm that somehow makes your heart race in ways it absolutely shouldn’t.

But none of that matters if he doesn’t get the damn hint.

So, you decide to kick things up a notch.

You start small. The next time you see Peter in the gym, you make sure to stretch right in front of him. It’s a bold move, but you’re desperate. You slowly lift your arms above your head, arching your back just enough to be noticeable. Then, when you bend down to touch your toes, you peek up to see if he’s watching.

He is.

And then he immediately panics and turns away so fast he nearly walks into the weight rack.

You barely hold back an eye roll.

Fine. If that didn’t work, maybe something else will.

Later that day, you find him in the lab, tinkering with his web-shooters. You walk in, pretending like you don’t have an agenda, and lean against the table. He looks up, startled, then immediately averts his gaze.

“Oh, hey, Y/N,” he says, voice slightly higher than usual. “What’s up?”

You tilt your head, resting a hand under your chin. “Nothing much. Just needed a distraction.”

Peter nods, focusing way too hard on his web-fluid cartridge. “Yeah? Um. Cool. What—uh—what kind of distraction?”

You smirk. “Oh, you know. Something fun.”

Peter’s hand slips, and a small burst of web-fluid sprays onto the table. He stares at it like it personally betrayed him.

You grin, stepping closer, casually placing a hand on his shoulder. “You’re so tense, Peter. You ever think about taking a break?”

He lets out the fakest laugh you’ve ever heard. “Me? Oh, no, I’m—I’m good! Totally fine! Not tense at all!”

You squeeze his shoulder lightly. “Really? Because you feel tense.”

Peter swallows so hard you can see his Adam’s apple bob. “I—uh—”

You drag your fingers down his arm slowly. “Maybe you just need someone to help you relax.”

Peter makes a noise that is definitely not human and abruptly stands up so fast his chair nearly topples over. “I-I should really finish this!” he blurts out. “So much work to do! Web-fluid doesn’t improve itself! Haha!”

You blink as he practically throws himself back into his project, acting like you didn’t just borderline seduce him in the middle of the lab.

It’s unbelievable.

How is it possible for someone to be this dense?

You sigh, finally stepping back. “Alright, Parker. Have fun with your webs.”

“Y-you too!” he stammers. Then, realizing that makes no sense, he adds, “I mean—uh—have fun with whatever you’re doing! Yep!”

You walk out, shaking your head.

This is getting ridiculous.

That night, you call for reinforcements.

Sam lounges on your bed, arms crossed behind his head, looking entirely too smug. “So. Parker still being an idiot?”

You flop onto the bed beside him. “He’s impossible.”

Sam chuckles. “Told you.”

“I don’t get it,” you groan. “I’ve been all over him. I’ve flirted, I’ve touched him, I’ve literally told him I think he’s cute, and he still doesn’t get it.”

Sam snorts. “Man, that boy is a lost cause.”

“There has to be a way to make him realize,” you say, frustrated.

Sam hums, thinking. Then he smirks. “Have you tried making him jealous?”

You pause. “Jealous?”

“Yeah,” Sam says. “You know. Flirt with someone else. See if that gets his brain to finally start working.”

It’s not a bad idea.

You sit up, considering it. “You think that’ll work?”

“Oh, definitely.” Sam grins. “Peter’s the kind of guy who doesn’t realize what he wants until he thinks he’s about to lose it.”

You tap your fingers against your thigh, mulling it over. It’s risky. But at this point, you’re willing to try anything.

“Alright,” you say. “Let’s do it.”

The plan is simple. The next day, you start subtly flirting with other people. Nothing crazy, just enough to test Peter’s reaction. You laugh a little too hard at Bucky’s jokes, compliment Steve’s biceps during training, even lean in close when talking to Sam just to see if Peter notices.

He does.

And he looks like he’s about to self-destruct.

The first time you flirt with Bucky, Peter nearly drops the coffee he’s holding. The second time you casually touch Steve’s arm, he stares like he’s witnessing a national tragedy. And when you get extra close to Sam at dinner, Peter’s entire body goes rigid like he’s about to short-circuit.

It’s hilarious.

But it’s also not working fast enough.

So, you take it a step further.

That night, when you run into Peter in the hallway, you lean against the wall, looking at him through your lashes. “You okay, Peter? You’ve been acting weird.”

Peter stiffens. “Me? No! I mean—yes! I mean—I’m totally fine! Why do you ask?”

You tilt your head. “I don’t know. You just seem… distracted.”

Peter laughs nervously. “Nope! Totally focused!”

You step closer. “Are you sure?”

Peter swallows. “Y-yeah! Why wouldn’t I be?”

You smile, slow and deliberate. “Well, I’ve just been spending a lot of time with other people lately. Thought maybe that was bothering you.”

Peter’s eyes widen. “Wh—why would that bother me?”

You shrug, trailing a finger along his arm. “I don’t know. Just wondering if maybe you wanted me to spend more time with you instead.”

Peter makes a strangled noise.

Then, just when you think he might finally get it, he blurts out, “I—uh—oh wow, look at the time! I gotta go!”

And then he runs.

Again.

You stand there, stunned, watching as he practically sprints down the hallway like his life depends on it.

You groan, dragging a hand down your face.

Unbelievable.

At this point, you have no idea what else you can do. You’ve flirted, teased, touched, complimented—hell, you’ve practically thrown yourself at him, and he’s still too dense to see it.

Maybe it’s time to just give up.

But then again…

You smirk.

Maybe it’s time to try something even bolder.

This is war.

You have tried everything. Flirting, teasing, touching, straight-up telling Peter you think he’s cute—it’s all been useless. The boy is either the densest human being on the planet, or he truly believes you could never be into him. Either way, you’re at your breaking point.

So, you decide to take Sam’s advice.

You’re going to make Peter jealous.

And not just by flirting with other people. That clearly hasn’t worked. No, you’re going for the nuclear option. If he won’t get a clue after everything you’ve done, then maybe—just maybe—he’ll realize he likes you if he thinks he’s already lost you.

Which is why you’re sitting on Sam’s bed, grinning while he stares at you like you’ve lost your mind.

“You want me to what?”

“Pretend to be my boyfriend,” you say, voice casual.

Sam blinks. “Oh, hell no.”

“Oh, come on,” you groan, nudging him. “It’s not like I’m asking you to marry me. Just a little act to make Peter jealous. You’re the one who suggested it in the first place.”

“I said flirt with other people,” Sam says, raising an eyebrow. “Not start a fake relationship.”

“Please, Sam,” you whine, clasping your hands together. “You’re the only one I trust to do this. And admit it, you think it’ll be hilarious.”

Sam considers this for a moment, then sighs. “Okay, yeah, it will be funny.”

You grin. “So, you’re in?”

He gives you a look. “This is gonna end in disaster, isn’t it?”

“Probably,” you say. “But it’ll be fun.”

Sam groans, rubbing his temples. “Fine. But if this backfires, you owe me big time.”

“Deal.”

And just like that, the plan is in motion.

The next morning, it begins.

You start by holding Sam’s hand at breakfast. It’s subtle, casual, like it’s something you’ve done a thousand times before. Sam plays along perfectly, smirking as he squeezes your hand.

Peter, sitting across the table, nearly chokes on his toast.

“Oh, you okay there, Parker?” Sam asks, smirking.

Peter forces a laugh. “Yeah! Totally fine!”

You smile sweetly. “Good. You looked a little… surprised.”

Peter shakes his head rapidly. “Nope! Not surprised! Just, um—just didn’t know you guys were—uh—” He gestures between you and Sam, clearly struggling to find the right words.

Sam shrugs. “Oh yeah, it’s a new thing. We figured, why not?”

Peter goes rigid. “Oh. Cool. That’s—uh—that’s really cool.”

You squeeze Sam’s hand again, leaning your head against his shoulder for dramatic effect. “Yeah. It is.”

Peter looks like someone just told him Spider-Man isn’t a real superhero.

It’s both hilarious and a little sad.

You expect him to ask questions, to push for details, but instead, he just goes quiet. He finishes his breakfast quickly, mutters some excuse about needing to work on something in the lab, and leaves before you can say another word.

You frown as you watch him go.

“Well,” Sam says, “that was… unexpected.”

You turn to him. “What do you mean?”

Sam gestures toward the door Peter just left through. “I figured he’d get all flustered, maybe try to ‘compete’ for your attention. But he just shut down.”

You chew your lip, suddenly feeling uneasy. “Yeah. That was weird.”

And it only gets weirder.

For the next few days, Peter avoids you. Completely.

He stops sitting next to you at meals. He doesn’t spar with you in training. He doesn’t even make eye contact when you pass him in the hallways. Every time you try to talk to him, he either mumbles some excuse or straight-up disappears.

It’s like he’s a ghost.

And no one—not even Sam—can figure out why.

At first, you think maybe he’s just adjusting. Maybe he’s trying to process his feelings, or maybe he’s sulking. But then you start hearing things.

“He’s been in the lab all day,” Bucky says at dinner one night.

“Yeah, he skipped training again,” Steve adds. “Is he okay?”

“I don’t know,” Wanda says, frowning. “He barely talks to anyone anymore.”

You try to play it cool, but inside, you’re panicking.

Because you know exactly why Peter is acting like this.

And suddenly, it’s not funny anymore.

That night, you find yourself standing outside Peter’s room. You hesitate, hand hovering over the door. You don’t know if he’ll even answer, but you have to try.

You knock.

Silence.

You knock again. “Peter? It’s me.”

More silence.

You sigh. “I know you’re in there.”

Still nothing.

You lean against the door, voice softer now. “Peter… can we talk?”

A long pause. Then, finally, a quiet voice from the other side.

“…I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

Your heart clenches. “Why not?”

Another pause. Then—so soft you almost don’t hear it—Peter says, “Because I don’t want to make things weird.”

You blink, confused. “Weird? Peter, what are you talking about?”

He sighs. “You and Sam. You guys are happy. And I don’t wanna… I don’t wanna get in the way.”

Your stomach drops.

Oh no.

You screwed up.

You thought Peter would get jealous. You thought he’d realize his feelings and maybe—just maybe—make a move. But instead, he assumed the worst. He thought he lost his chance.

And now he’s shutting himself off because he thinks it’s the right thing to do.

You feel like the worst person in the world.

“Peter,” you say carefully, “you’re not in the way.”

He lets out a bitter laugh. “I dunno. Feels like I am.”

You close your eyes, exhaling slowly. “You’re not.”

Silence.

Then, quietly, Peter says, “Are you happy?”

You open your mouth, then close it.

Because the answer is complicated.

You’re happy when you’re around Peter. You’re happy when he smiles at you, when he laughs, when he rambles about some weird science thing that you barely understand.

You’re happy with him.

Not Sam.

Never Sam.

And you should’ve realized that before pulling this stupid stunt.

You take a deep breath. “Peter… can I come in?”

Another long pause. Then, finally, the door unlocks.

You step inside. Peter is sitting on his bed, looking exhausted. His hair is messier than usual, dark circles under his eyes like he hasn’t been sleeping. It makes your chest ache.

You sit beside him, close but not too close. “I need to tell you something.”

Peter nods, but doesn’t look at you.

You hesitate, then say, “Sam and I aren’t together.”

That gets his attention. His head snaps up, eyes wide. “Wait. What?”

“It was fake,” you admit, voice soft. “I just… I thought maybe if you saw me with someone else, you’d realize…”

You trail off, heart pounding.

Peter stares at you, completely still. “Realize what?”

You swallow. This is it. No more games.

You meet his gaze, voice barely above a whisper.

“That I like you, Peter.”

Peter doesn’t say anything at first. He just stares at you like you’ve grown a second head, eyes wide, lips parted slightly. His whole body has gone still, like he’s afraid to move, afraid to breathe, afraid to believe what you just said.

You watch the way his brain tries to process it, his thoughts practically running across his face in real-time. His eyebrows furrow like he thinks you might be messing with him, then lift slightly, like maybe—just maybe—he dares to hope you’re telling the truth.

You inhale, steeling yourself. “I like you, Peter. I have for a while.”

He still doesn’t say anything.

Your heart pounds as you force yourself to keep going. “And I know about the gifts. The notes. Everything.”

Peter jerks back like you just electrocuted him. “You—what?”

You exhale, giving him a small smile. “I know it was you. I checked the security footage after the second one.”

Peter makes a strangled sound and immediately buries his face in his hands. “Oh my god.”

You bite back a laugh. “Peter—”

“Oh my god,” he groans again, voice muffled. “This is so embarrassing. You weren’t supposed to know.”

You grin. “Yeah, I figured that out.”

Peter drags his hands down his face, looking like he wants to disappear into the floor. “This is… this is bad.”

You tilt your head. “Why is it bad?”

“Because!” He gestures wildly. “You weren’t supposed to know it was me! I thought I was being sneaky! I had a whole system!”

Your smile softens. “Peter. It was adorable.”

He makes another pained noise, slumping forward, hands in his hair. “This is the worst day of my life.”

You shake your head, fondness swelling in your chest. You reach out, resting a hand on his arm. “Peter.”

He stops rambling immediately, looking up at you with wide eyes.

You squeeze his arm lightly. “I loved the gifts. And the notes. And everything about it. You have no idea how much they meant to me.”

Peter swallows. “Really?”

You nod. “Really. And you wanna know the best part?”

“…What?”

You smile, shifting closer. “I like you too, you idiot.”

Peter’s breath catches.

He looks at you, and for the first time since you walked into his room, there’s something new in his eyes. Something hopeful.

He licks his lips, voice barely above a whisper. “You do?”

Instead of answering, you decide to show him.

You lean in slowly, giving him a chance to pull away. He doesn’t. He just watches you, eyes locked on your lips, chest rising and falling like he can’t believe this is happening.

Then, finally, you close the distance.

The second your lips touch his, Peter freezes. For a split second, he doesn’t move—like his brain short-circuited entirely.

Then, suddenly, he melts.

He kisses you back with so much enthusiasm it nearly knocks you over. His hands fly to your waist, gripping you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go. His lips are soft and warm, moving against yours like he’s trying to make up for all the time you’ve both wasted dancing around this.

It’s messy, desperate, but it’s perfect.

Peter makes a small, needy sound in the back of his throat and pulls you closer, fingers pressing into your sides like he’s making sure you’re real. His heart is racing—you can feel it against your own chest, pounding like it’s trying to break free.

You smile against his lips. “You’re kissing me like a happy puppy.”

Peter pulls back just enough to breathe, his face flushed, eyes dazed. “I am a happy puppy.”

You laugh, cupping his face. “Good.”

Peter blinks at you, then suddenly grins—wide and bright and so full of joy it makes your chest ache. “Wait. I’m kissing you. We’re kissing.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Yeah, genius, we are.”

He looks almost dizzy with excitement. “This is—this is real, right? I’m not dreaming?”

You smirk. “If you were dreaming, would I do this?”

You tug him back in and kiss him again, slow and deep.

Peter practically melts, hands tightening on your waist as he kisses you back like his life depends on it. His lips are warm, a little clumsy but sweet, and the way he holds you—like you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to him—makes your stomach flip.

When you finally pull away, Peter is breathless.

“I’m so happy right now,” he says, looking at you like you hung the stars.

You smile, brushing a hand through his messy curls. “Good. Because I don’t plan on stopping anytime soon.”

Peter’s face lights up, and before you can say another word, he pulls you back in, kissing you again, and again, and again—like he’s trying to make up for lost time.

And honestly?

You’re more than okay with that.

It’s almost ridiculous how unsurprised everyone is when you and Peter officially become a couple. The second you announce it—or rather, the second Peter stammers through telling everyone while blushing like crazy—the reactions are so underwhelming that Peter nearly short-circuits.

“Yeah, no kidding,” Natasha says dryly, not even looking up from cleaning her knives.

“Finally,” Bucky mutters, shaking his head.

“Wait, you guys weren’t already together?” Clint asks, genuinely confused.

Bruce just gives a small, approving nod. Steve claps Peter on the shoulder like he’s just congratulated him on getting a promotion. Even Thor, who’s barely around, chuckles and calls you both “young warriors of love,” which makes Peter go completely red.

But the best reaction comes from Tony.

Because Tony Stark, billionaire genius, mentor, and serial eye-roller, just grins. Not a smirk, not a sarcastic look, but a real, proud, genuine grin.

“About damn time, kid.”

Peter practically chokes.

Tony pats him on the back, almost knocking the air out of him. “Seriously. I was starting to think you were gonna need some kind of intervention.”

Peter blinks. “You—you knew?”

Tony snorts. “Knew? Parker, you’re about as subtle as a wrecking ball. The only one who didn’t know was you.”

Peter sputters, but you’re just smiling. Tony’s approval means a lot to Peter, and you can tell by the way his eyes light up that hearing Tony say he was rooting for him is the best thing that’s happened to him all day.

But of course, because it’s Peter, he has to ruin his own happiness by still being annoyed at Sam.

Ever since the whole fake-boyfriend prank, Peter hasn’t exactly gotten over it. He knows it was just a joke. He knows you only did it to mess with him. He knows Sam doesn’t actually have feelings for you.

But does that stop him from glaring every time Sam so much as breathes near you? Absolutely not.

And Sam? Oh, Sam knows exactly what he’s doing.

“Hey, lovebirds,” Sam calls out one day, waltzing into the common room where you and Peter are curled up on the couch. He doesn’t even sit down before looking straight at Peter and smirking. “Relax, Spidey, I’m not gonna steal your girl.”

Peter bristles immediately. “I wasn’t—”

Sam laughs, clapping him on the shoulder. “I’m just messing with you, kid. Relax.”

Peter does not relax.

And you? You’re getting a little tired of your boyfriend pouting every time Sam so much as looks in your direction.

Which is why, after dinner that night, when Peter is still sulking over Sam calling you “sweetheart” in passing (just to mess with him, of course), you decide to do something about it.

You grab his wrist and pull him toward his room.

Peter stumbles after you, confused. “Uh, Y/N? What’s—”

You push the door open and drag him inside, shutting it behind you. Then, without a word, you shove him onto the bed.

Peter yelps, arms flailing as he lands on his back. “What—?”

You climb onto the bed beside him and immediately wrap yourself around him, curling into his side.

Peter freezes.

You sigh contently, nuzzling into his chest. “There. Now you can stop sulking.”

Peter doesn’t move for a solid five seconds. Then, very slowly, he wraps his arms around you, pulling you closer.

“…I wasn’t sulking,” he mumbles, but it’s half-hearted at best.

You smile against his shirt. “Yes, you were.”

Peter huffs. “Sam’s just—he’s just annoying.”

You tilt your head up to look at him. “You know he’s only doing it because he knows it gets under your skin, right?”

Peter groans, dragging a hand down his face. “I know. But that doesn’t make it less annoying.”

You chuckle, reaching up to brush some of his curls away from his forehead. “You’re cute when you’re jealous.”

Peter immediately flushes. “I—I’m not jealous.”

You raise an eyebrow.

He sighs. “…Okay, maybe a little.”

You grin and press a kiss to his jaw. “You don’t have to be. You already won, Peter. I’m yours.”

Peter makes a tiny, happy noise in the back of his throat and buries his face in your hair. “Say it again.”

You laugh. “What? That I’m yours?”

He nods, arms tightening around you.

You shift so that you’re straddling him now, hands resting on his chest as you lean down. “I’m yours, Peter Parker.”

Peter looks up at you, eyes wide and filled with so much awe it makes your heart ache. Then, before you can say anything else, he surges up and kisses you, gripping your waist like he never wants to let go.

The kiss is slow, sweet, and full of emotion. When you finally pull away, Peter just sighs happily and flops back onto the bed, keeping you in his arms.

“You’re ridiculous,” you murmur against his chest.

Peter hums, already halfway to falling asleep. “Maybe. But I love you.”

Your heart skips a beat. He’s never said that before.

You lift your head to look at him, but his eyes are already closed, his breathing soft and even. You smile and press a kiss to his cheek.

“I love you too, Peter.”

And as you settle against him, warm and safe in his arms, you know for a fact—jealousy or not, Peter Parker is yours. And you wouldn’t have it any other way.

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