#but it’s not even comfort i’m feeling
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mostly-imagines · 3 days ago
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Motion Sickness
jason todd x fem!reader
aka jason makes you cry after a fight
warnings: angst with comfort
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“Jason—”
He waves you off immediately, “No, I’m not your problem, okay?”
Your arms drop, “You’re not a problem at all, that’s not what I’m saying—”
“Then what are you saying?” he challenges. 
You almost bite your tongue but then decide against it, “I’m saying you’re being an asshole right now just because I tried to help.”
He’s angry and you’re someplace in between desperate and tired, but you push on, hoping you’ll be able to solve this without an extended argument. To little avail though, apparently. 
A tense exhale from him, “I don’t need your help, I don’t know how I can make it any clearer.”
“It’s not about needing it—”
“No, it’s about wanting it. I don’t want your fucking help,” he snaps. “I’m grown, I can handle my problems myself.”
You drop your hands to your sides, “Then what am I doing here, Jason?”
“I don’t know!” You can literally see the regret sweep over his face but he lets the moment consume him and the words linger anyways. 
You know he doesn’t always think before he talks, especially when he’s mad. You’ve seen it plenty when he’s fighting with his family. This is the first time it’s shown up with you though, and while you know it’s not coming from a place of genuinity—it still really fucking stung. 
Far from being in your control, tears slip out, more at his tone than his words, and you remove your gaze in favor of the linoleum tiles. He says nothing as you start to cry, which only makes the heat of the moment worsen. 
“Okay,” You take a deep breath, pursing your lips. “You need to go away.”
There’s a long, hard moment of silence, but ultimately he doesn’t fight you on it, only exhales harshly and slams the door on his way out.
The resulting reverberation of the apartment has your shoulders shaking, tears falling onto your shirt.  
You and Jason don’t fight often but when you do it’s usually about insecurities and fears coming forward. He’d been having a bad night to start with and all you wanted to do was make him feel better but he wasn’t willing to talk to you or let you do anything for him. He gets selfishly selfless like that, but you know why.
You know him, in and out. You could’ve anticipated this—you should’ve. You should’ve approached the topic more sensitively. And it’s not his fault, his life has taught him that it’s safer to believe that other people don’t have his best interest. You know that. 
Yeah, you know him in and out, but he knows you in and out, too. He knows you’ve shown him nothing but kindness and generosity since the day you met and you’ve reinforced a thousand times how safe you are for him. But if he still can’t trust you to care about him, then what are you doing here?
You let yourself fall back onto the arm of the couch, huffing in defeat. 
It’s nearing two in the morning when Dick awakens, the bandages across his abdomen digging into his skin uncomfortably. He sits up, bedsheet pooling around his waist. The ache of the bruising pushes him towards his old bedroom door before he’s even fully coherent, narrowly missing shouldering the door frame as he passes through.
He’s still half asleep as he thumps down the staircase, cold hands stuffed in the pocket of his sweatshirt. He’s so out of it in his blind search for painkillers, that he nearly misses the large shadowed figure huddled up on the couch.
Dick stills, blinking warily.
“What’re you doing here?”
His younger brother says nothing, only continues to stew in the shadows, staring at the rug.
As his eyes adjust, Dick takes in his appearance: messy hair, tired eyes, only clad in a t-shirt and sweatpants.
He rubs his eyes, approaching with measured steps, “What happened?”
Jason remains silent for a long minute before grunting out, “Got in a fight.”
Dick nods slowly, shuffling forward a little more to sit on the far end of the couch. 
“What’d you do?”
Jason doesn’t have it in him to comment on how his brother immediately knew he was the issue. It just makes the entire thing hurt even worse. Instead, he tells the truth. 
“Be myself.”
Dick says nothing, 
When the silence persists, Jason elaborates, even though it’s the last thing he wants to admit to.
“I made her cry,” he says, voice below even a whisper. He hates it and he hates himself for leaving you when he knew he’d hurt you.
Dick nods, not saying anything. He’s definitely been there before, though he’s not nearly as volatile as Jason can be, so he can imagine how this likely played out. In any case, Jason has never responded well to being pushed to talk about his feelings so Dick lets him get there in his own time.
He’s half expecting to end up with no results at all, but Jason pipes up after a minute, voice broken.
“I don’t know what she wants me to do,” he rasps.
Dick takes a deep breath, adjusting his posture. “When girls are mad you give them space but when they’re sad you definitely don’t. Is she sad or mad?”
Jason exhales desperately.
“Both, I think.”
Dick nods, understanding.
“Then go home.”
Jason shakes his head, defeated. “She told me to leave. She doesn’t want to talk to me.”
“What did you say?”
He huffs, not wanting to bring the memory back up. “I basically told her to fuck off.”
“Yeah,” Dick drawls. “I wouldn’t let that simmer.”
Jason’s head snaps over to him. “She’ll break up with me?”
“No, I don’t—” Dick pauses, thinking over his words. “It’ll be fine. Just go home.”
Despite taking the long route on the way to the manor, Jason sped back home on his bike, now unwilling to leave you alone for another second longer than he had to. 
He creeps through the front door of your apartment, proud and only a little hurt that you’d remembered to lock it. 
The apartment’s mostly quiet, nothing but a lamp lighting up the front half. He can hear the shower running from where he stands, the waterfall noise awfully muffled from behind the closed bathroom door.
He bolts the door behind him, pushing forward towards the hallway. He approaches the bathroom door, noticing how there’s no light flooding out from underneath.
“Baby?” Jason calls it out quietly, like he’s scared to commit to alerting you of his presence.
He hears no response, but he knows you heard him. He knows you heard him in the same way that he knows you’re sitting on the shower floor, curled in on yourself under the sensory relief that the pouring water brings. He doesn’t know how, he just does.
So he leans against the door, listening closely, and calls out again, “Can I come in?”
There’s a solid ten seconds of silence before you respond, just barely audible over the cascade of water.
“Not right now.”
Your volume has him wincing, saddened and embarrassed that he’s the one that made you feel like this.
He reluctantly walks back to the bedroom with heavy shoulders, thudding his weight down on the mattress. He sits half folded over himself for the next ten minutes, thinking only of you, sitting alone in the shower with your thoughts.
He perks up considerably when he hears the water shut off, and after several long minutes, you emerge from the bathroom, towel wrapped around your middle.
He stands up when you enter the bedroom, hands stiff and awkward at his sides. You barely look at him, having trouble willing yourself to do more than glance. 
Your eyes fall downward, your lips pursing. You instinctually move to clutching the towel tighter around you, more than anything because you don’t know what to do with your hands. 
It makes his heart break to see you so out of comfort around him—because of him—so he gives you the benefit of privacy, turning around so you can get dressed. It kills him to do it, makes him feel like he’s just some stranger in your life rather than him. But he supposes that he deserves to feel like that right now. 
Whether or not you wanted him to turn around goes unsaid, he can only hear the quiet shuffling of you putting clothes on.
He waits until the movement stops, after he hears the squeak of the bed springs and the faint sound of the sheets being pulled up.
He turns around again with a silent sigh, taking in the sight of you laying in bed, back turned to him.  
He approaches slowly, stopping just before his knees hit the mattress. He notices quickly that the t-shirt you’d chosen was one of your own. He frowns.  
“Sweetheart. Can I touch you?” His voice is soft and low, like he’s trying to coax you back out to him.
It takes a long few moments, but you nod.
He sits down on the bed, still hesitant to go through with it.
“Will you turn over?”
An even longer pause and you’re flipping over to face him. You don’t make eye contact, only look blankly past him. Your blinks are heavy, and even in the dark, he can see that your eyes are still bloodshot. 
He brushes your hair back, his fingers feather-light against you, like he’s scared to touch you too harshly. Like he’s touching porcelain.
He lets you hold the silence for a while, reasoning with himself that you’ll talk when you’re ready.
You let it go on longer than he’d hoped, past the point of him knowing what to do with it. He’d hoped you’d yell at him. He can take that, he knows he can. He can see plainly that you’re thinking deeply and wants more than anything for you to say it, scream it if you have to. 
He knows he deserves it and he frankly would take anything over the silence. But then again, he doesn’t deserve the reprieve, does he? No, but he’s not strong enough to deny himself the chance to hear your voice.
“Say it,” he urges. “Please.”
Your fingers tap against the bed sheets for a moment before you sit up, almost defeated. 
You face him, taking a breath and relenting. “I don’t like that you said that to me.”
He nods, brow deep. “Me neither.”
Your shoulders sag at that, and you feel stuck in the moment. You feel guilty too but you don’t know if you should. He didn’t mean it, you know that, and they weren’t his words, really. But the snap of his voice when he’d said it and the look on his face—it made you feel terrible. It still does.
You look awkwardly to the left, feeling heavily spectated by him and so hyper-conscious of all of your movements. The downturn of your lips gives way to burning in your eyes and before you can do anything about it, tears are spilling out. 
Jason sees it immediately, his head lulling helplessly. 
“Oh, baby. Please don’t cry, please.”
But that only makes it worse, the tears falling faster and heavier at his soft tone.
He forgoes asking permission and pulls you directly into his chest, a firm hand on the back of your head. It’s what you needed though, to be close to him right now.
“I’m sorry. I’m really fucking sorry, baby—” he murmurs against your hair, pressing a rough kiss as he holds you tighter.
You shake your head, sniffling. “It’s okay, Jay.”
“No, it’s not.”
That sentiment lingers for several minutes, as he holds you cheek to chest and rubs soothing patterns into your hair.
It’s not long before you’re able to fully relax against him, his touch feeling nothing short of therapeutic. Your breathing eventually levels out back to baseline and your thoughts start to find peace amongst themselves.
When you’re ready, you sit back from him, letting him see your face again.                    
He visibly winces as he scans over the tears on your cheeks, how they’re starting to stain.
You’re still upset, a little, but not nearly as much as you’re sure your face is conveying. 
“It’s okay,” you tell him, wiping your eyes with your sleeve.
He shakes his head, “If I ever say something like that to you again, hit me. I’m serious.”
You drop your hand onto your lap, tilting your head at him with a serious look. “I’m not going to hit you—”
“Then break up with me. Don’t ever let somebody talk to you like that, especially not me.”
His voice is hard and you can tell the impact of his words have every bit of weight intended.
Your mouth closes and you waver unsure of where to go with that. Your gaze falls down to where your hands lie discarded on your lap and there’s a palpable shift to the air in the room.
“Hey.” He pushes your chin up to make you look at him, “Listen to me. You’re the love of my life. You hear me? I’m supposed to take care of you, make you happy. I don’t…I can’t talk to you like that. I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.”
Your eyes flicker back and forth across each others and you can see the genuine sincerity etched plainly across his face.
He processes the comprehension across your own before his jaw tenses for a moment and he adds, “Nobody’s gonna talk to you like that, much less me. Yes?” 
You start to nod slowly and he mirrors you until he’s convinced of your belief in the statement. 
He rubs calm circles into your thighs as you both sit with the conversation, the light sounds of each others breaths the only sound heard. This silence isn’t the same as it was before though, it’s safer, more comfortable. It’s familiar, if not weighted.  
“I love you,” you tell him quietly.
His eyebrows furrow like his heart was just shattered. 
“I love you too, baby. So much.”
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luveline · 1 day ago
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𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐨𝐫 𝐬𝐞𝐞𝐧
Things between you and Peter change with the seasons. [17k] 
c: friends-to-lovers, hurt/comfort, loneliness, peter parker isn’t good at hiding his alter ego, fluff, first kisses, mutual pining, loved-up epilogue, mention of self-harm with no graphic imagery
。𖦹°‧⭑.ᐟ
Fall 
Peter Parker is a resting place for overworked eyes, like warm topaz nestled against a blue-cold city. He waits on you with his eyes to the screen of his phone, clicking the power button repetitively. A nervous tic. 
You close the heavy door of your apartment building. His head stays still, yet he’s heard the sound of it settling, evidence in his calmed hand. 
“Good morning!” You pull your coat on quickly. “Sorry.” 
“Good morning,” he says, offering a sleep-logged smile. “Should we go?” 
You follow Peter out of the cul-de-sac and into the street as he drops his phone into a deep pocket. To his credit, he doesn’t check it while you walk, and only glances at it when you’re taking your coat off in the heat of your favourite cafe: The Moroccan Mode glows around you, fog kissing the windows, condensation running down the inner lengths of it in beads. You murmur something to do with the odd fog and Peter tells you about water vapour. When it rains tonight, he says it’ll be warm water that falls. 
He spreads his textbook, notebook, and rinky-dink laptop out across the table while you order drinks. Peter has the same thing every visit, a decaf americano, in a wide brim mug with the pink-petal saucer. You put it down on his textbook only because that’s where he would put it himself, and you both get to work. 
As Peter helps you study, you note the simplicity of another normal day, and can’t help wondering what it is that’s missing. Something is, something Peter won’t tell you, the absence of a truth hanging over your heads. You ask him if he wants to get dinner and he says no, he’s busy. You ask him to see a movie on Friday night and he wishes he could. 
Peter misses you. When he tells you, you believe him. “I wish I had more time,” he says. 
“It’s fine,” you say, “you can’t help it.”
“We’ll do something next weekend,” he says. The lie slips out easily. 
To Peter it isn’t a lie. In his head, he’ll find the time for you again, and you’ll be friends like you used to be. 
You press the end of your pencil into your cheek, the dark roast, white paper and condensation like grey noise. This time last year, the air had been thick for days with fog you could cut. He took you on a trip to Manhattan, less than an hour from your red-brick neighbourhood, and you spent the day in a hotel pool throwing great cupfuls of water at each other. The fog was gone just fifteen miles away from home but the warm air stayed. When it rained it was sudden, strange, spit-warm splashes of it hammering the tops of your heads, your cheeks as you tipped your faces back to spy the dark clouds. 
Peter had swam the short distance to you and held your shoulders. You remember feeling like your whole life was there, somewhere you’d never been before, the sharp edges of cracked pool tile just under your feet. 
You peek over the top of your laptop screen and wonder if Peter ever thinks of that trip. 
He feels you watching and meets your eyes. “I have to tell you something,” he says, smiling shyly. 
“Sure.” 
“I signed us up for that club.” 
“Epigenetics?” 
“Molecular medicine,” he says. 
The nice thing about fog is that it gives a feeling of lateness. It’s still morning, barely ten, but it feels like the early evening. It’s gentle on the eyes, colouring the whole room with a sconced shine. You reach for Peter’s bag and sort through his jumble of possessions —stick deodorant, loose-leaf paper, a bodega’s worth of protein bars— and grab his camera. 
“What are you doing?” 
“I’m cataloguing the moment you ruined our lives,” you say, aiming the camera at his chin, squinting through the viewfinder. 
“Technically, I signed us up a few days ago,” he says. 
You snap his photo as his mouth closes around ‘ago’, keeping his half-laugh stuck on his lips. “Semantics,” you murmur. “And molecular medicine club, this has nothing to do with the estranged Gwen Stacy?”
“It has nothing to do with her. And you like molecular medicine.”
“I like oncology,” you correct, which is a sub-genre at best, “and I have enough work without joining another club. Go by yourself.” 
“I can’t go without you,” he says. Simple as that. 
He knew you’d say yes when he signed you up. It’s why he didn’t ask. You’re already forgiven him for the slight of assumption. 
“When is it?” you ask, smiling. 
Molecular medicine club is fun. You and a handful of ESU nerds gather around a big table in a private study room for a few hours and read about the newer discoveries and top research, like regenerative science and now taboo Oscorp research. It’s boring, sometimes, but then Peter will lean into your side and make a joke to keep you going. 
He looks at Gwen Stacy a lot. Slender, pale and freckled, with blonde hair framing a sweet face. Only when he thinks you’re not looking. Only when she isn’t either. 
“Good morning,” you say. 
Peter holds an umbrella over his head that he’s quick to share with you, and together you walk with heads craned down, the umbrella angled forward to fight the wind. Your outermost shoulder is wet when you reach the café, your other warm from being pressed against him. You shake the umbrella off outside the door and step onto a cushy, amber doormat to dry your sneakers. Peter stalks ahead and order the drinks, eager to get warm, so you look for a table. Your usual is full of businessmen drinking flat whites with briefcases at their legs. They laugh. You try to picture Peter in a suit: you’re still laughing when he finds you in the booth at the back. 
“Tell the joke,” he says, slamming his coffee down. He’s careful with yours. He’s given you the pink petal saucer from the side next to the straws and wooden stirrers. 
“I was thinking about you as a businessman.” 
“And that’s funny?” 
“When was the last time you wore a suit?” 
Peter shakes his head. Claims he doesn’t know. Later, you’ll remember his Uncle Ben’s funeral and feel queasy with guilt, but you don’t remember yet. “When was the last time you wore one?” he asks. “I don’t laugh at you.” 
“You’re always laughing at me, Parker.” 
The cafe isn’t as warm today. It’s wet, grimy water footsteps tracking across the terracotta tile, streaks of grey water especially heavy near the counter, around it to the bathroom. There’s no fog but a sad rattle of rain, not enough to make noise against the windows, but enough to watch as it falls in lazy rivulets down the lengths of them.
Your face is chapped with the cold, cheeks quickly come to heat as your fingers curl around your mug. They tingle with newfound warmth. When you raise your mug to your lips, your hand hardly shakes.
“You okay?” Peter asks. 
“Fine. Are you gonna help me with the math today?” 
“Don’t think so. Did you ask nicely?” 
“I did.” You’d called him last night. You would’ve just as happily submitted your homework poorly solved with the grade to prove it —you don’t want Peter’s help, you just wanted to see him. 
Looking at him now, you remember why his distance had felt a little easier. The rain tangles in his hair, damp strands curling across his forehead, his eyes dark and outfitted by darker eyelashes. Peter has the looks of someone you’ve seen before, a classical set to his nose and eyes reminiscent of that fallen angel weeping behind his arm, his russet hair in fiery disarray. There was an anger to Peter after Ben died that you didn’t recognise, until it was Peter, changed forever and for the worse and it didn’t matter —he was grieving, he was terrified, who were you to tell him to be nice again— until it started to get better. You see less of your fallen, angry angel, no harsh brush strokes, no tears. 
His eyes are still dark. Bruised often underneath, like he’s up late. If he is, it isn’t to talk to you. 
You spend an afternoon working through your equations, pretending to understand until Peter explains them to death. His earphones fall out of his pocket and he says, “Here, I’ll show you a song.” 
He walks you home. The song is dreary and sad. The man who sings is good. Lover, You Should’ve Come Over. It feels like Peter’s trying to tell you something —he isn’t, but it feels like wishing he would. 
“You okay?” you ask before you can get to your street. A minute away, less. 
“I’m fine, why?” 
You let the uncomfortable shape of his earbud fall out of your ear, the climax of the song a rattle on his chest. “You look tired, that’s all. Are you sleeping?” 
“I have too much to do.” 
You just don’t get it. “Make sure you’re eating properly. Okay?” 
His smile squeezes your heart. Soft, the closest you’ll ever get. “You know May,” he says, wrapping his arm around your shoulders to give you a short hug, “she wouldn’t let me go hungry. Don’t worry about me.” 
The dip into depression you take is predictable. You can’t help it. Peter being gone makes it worse. 
You listen to love songs and take long walks through the city, even when it’s dark and you know it’s a bad idea. If anything bad happens Spider-Man could probably save me, you think. New York’s not-so-new vigilante keeps a close eye on things, especially the women. You can’t count how many times you’ve heard the same story. A man followed me home, saw me across the street, tried to get into my apartment, but Spider-Man saved me. 
You’re not naive, you realise the danger of walking around without protection assuming some stranger in a mask will save you, but you need to get out of the house. It goes on for weeks. 
You walk under streetlights and past stores with CCTV, but honestly you don’t really care. You’re not thinking. You feel sick and heavy and it’s fine, really, it’s okay, everything works out eventually. It’s not like it’s all because you miss Peter, it’s just a feeling. It’ll go away. 
“You’re in deep thought,” a voice says, garnering a huge flinch from the depths of your stomach.
You turn around, turn back, and flinch again at the sight of a man a few paces ahead. Red shoulders and legs, black shining in a webbed lattice across his chest. “Oh,” you say, your heartbeat an uncomfortable plodding under your hand, “sorry.” 
“Why are you sorry? I scared you.”
“I didn’t realise you were there.” 
Spider-Man doesn’t come any closer. You take a few steps in his direction. You’ve never met before but you’d like to see him up close, and you aren’t scared. Not beyond the shock of his arrival. 
“Can I walk you to where you’re going?” Spider-Man asks you. He’s humming energy, fidgeting and shifting from foot to foot. 
“How do I know you’re the real Spider-Man?” 
After all, there are high definition videos of his suit on the news sometimes. You wouldn’t want to find out someone was capable of making a replica in the worst way possible. 
You can’t be sure, but you think he might be smiling behind the mask, his arms moving back as though impressed at your questioning. “What do you need me to do to prove it?” he asks. 
He speaks hushed. Rough and deep. “I don’t know. What’s Spider-Man exclusive?” 
“I can show you the webs?” 
You pull your handbag further up your arm. “Okay, sure. Shoot something.” 
Spider-Man aims his hand at the streetlight across the way and shoots it. He makes a severing motion with his wrist to stop from getting pulled along by it, letting the web fall like an alien tendril from the bulb. The light it produces dims slightly. A chill rides your spine. 
“Can I walk you now?” he asks. 
“You don’t have more important things to do?” If the bitterness you’re feeling creeps into your tone unbidden, he doesn’t react. 
“Nothing more important than you.” 
You laugh despite yourself. “I’m going to Trader Joe’s.” 
“Yellowstone Boulevard?” 
“That’s the one…” 
You fall into step beside him, and, awkwardly, begin to walk again. It’s a short walk. Trader Joe’s will still be open for hours despite the dark sky, and you’re in no hurry. “My friend, he likes the rolled tortilla chips they do, the chilli ones.” 
“And you’re going just for him?” Spider-Man asks. 
“Not really. I mean, yeah, but I was already going on a walk.” 
“Do you always walk around by yourself? It’s late. It’s dangerous, you know, a beautiful girl like you,” he says, descending into an odd mixture of seriousness and teasing. His voice jumps and swoons to match. 
“I like walking,” you say. 
Spider-Man walking is a weird thing to see. On the news, he’s running, swinging, or flying through the air untethered. You’re having trouble acquainting the media image of him with the quiet man you’re walking beside now.
”Is everything okay?” he asks. “You seem sad.” 
“Do I?” 
“Yeah, you do.” 
“Maybe I am sad,” you confess, looking forward, the bright sign of Trader Joe’s already in view. It really is a short walk. “Do you ever–” You swallow against a surprising tightness in your throat and try again, “Do you ever feel like you’re alone?” 
“I’m not alone,” he says carefully.
“Me neither, but sometimes I feel like I am.” 
He laughs quietly. You bristle thinking you’re being made fun of, but the laugh tapers into a sad one. “Sometimes I feel like I’m the only person in the world,” he says. “Even here. I forget that it’s not something I invented.” 
“Well, I guess being a hero would feel really lonely. Who else do we have like you?” You smile sympathetically. “It must be hard.” 
“Yeah.” His head tips to the side, and a crash of glass rings in the distance, crunching, and then there’s a squeal. It sounds like a car accident. Spider-Man goes tense. “I’ll come back,” he says. 
“That’s okay, Spider-Man, I can get home by myself. Thank you for the protection detail.” 
He sprints away. In half a second he’s up onto a short roof, then between buildings. It looks natural. It takes your breath away. 
You buy Peter’s chips at Trader Joe’s and wait for a few minutes at the door, but Spider-Man doesn’t come back. 
I don’t want to study today, Peter’s text says the next day. Come over and watch movies? 
The last handholds of your fugue are washed away in the shower. You dab moisturiser onto your face and neck and stand by the open window to help it dry faster, taking in the light drizzle of rain, the smell of it filling your room and your lungs in cold gales. You dress in sweatpants and a hoodie, throw on your coat, and stuff the rolled tortilla chips into a backpack to ferry across the neighbourhood. 
Peter still lives at home with his Aunt May. You’d been in awe of it when you were younger, Peter and his Aunt and Uncle, their home-cooked family dinners, nights spent on the roof trying to find constellations through light pollution, stretched out together while it was warm enough to soak in your small rebellion. Ben would call you both down eventually. When you’re older! he’d always promise. 
Peter’s waiting in the open door for you. He ushers you inside excitedly, stripping you out of your coat and forgetting your wet shoes as he drags you to the kitchen. “Look what I got,” he says. 
The Parker kitchen is a big, bright space with a chopping block island. The counters are crowded by pots, pans, spices, jams, coffee grounds, the impossible drying rack. There’s a cross-stitch about the home on the microwave Ben did to prove to May he could still see the holes in the aida. 
You follow Peter to the stove where he points at a ceramic Dutch oven you’ve eaten from a hundred times. “There,” he says. 
“Did you cook?” you ask. 
“Of course I didn’t cook, even if the way you said that is offensive. I could cook. I’m an excellent chef.” 
“The only thing May’s ever taught you is spaghetti and meatballs.” 
“Hope you like marinara,” he says, nudging you toward the stove. 
You take the lid off of the Dutch oven to unveil a huge cake. Dripping with frosting, only slightly squashed by the lid, obviously homemade. He’s dotted the top with swirls of frosting and deep red strawberries. 
“It’s for you,” he says casually. 
“It’s not my birthday.” 
“I know. You like cake though, don’t you?” 
You’d tell Peter you liked chunks of glass if that was what he unveiled. “Why’d you make me a cake?” 
“I felt like you deserved a cake. You don’t want it?” 
“No, I want it! I want the cake, let’s have cake, we can go to 91st and get some ice cream, it’ll be amazing.” You don’t bother trying to hide your beaming smile now, twisting on the spot to see him properly, your hands falling behind your back. “Thank you, Peter. It’s awesome. I had no idea you could even– that you’d even–” You press forward, smushing your face against his chest. “Wow.” 
“Wow,” he says, wrapping his arms around you. He angles his head to nose at your temple. “You’re welcome. I would’ve made you a cake years ago if I knew it was gonna make you this happy.” 
“It must’ve taken hours.” 
“May helped.” 
“That makes much more sense.” 
“Don’t be insolent.” Peter squeezes you tightly. He doesn’t let go for a really long time. 
He extracts the cake from the depths of the Dutch oven and cuts you both a slice. He already has ice cream, a Neapolitan box that he cuts into with a serrated knife so you can each have a slice of all three flavours. It’s good ice cream, fresh for what it is and melting in big drops of cream as he gets the couch ready.
“Sit down,” he says, shoving the plates with his strangely great balance onto the coffee table. “Remote’s by you. I’m gonna get drinks.” 
You take your plate, carving into the cake with the end of a warped spoon, its handle stamped PETE and burnished in your grasp. The crumb is soft but dense in the best way. The ganache between layers is loose, cake wet with it, and the frosting is perfect, just messy. You take another satisfied bite. You’re halfway through your slice before Peter makes it back. 
“I brought you something too, but it’s garbage compared to this,” you say through a mouthful, hand barely covering your mouth. 
Peter laughs at you. “Yeah, well, say it, don’t spray it.” 
“I guess I’ll keep it.” 
“Keep it, bub, I don’t need anything from you.” 
He doesn’t say it the way you’re expecting. “No,” you say, pleased when he sits knee to knee, “you can have it. S’just a bag of chips from Trader–”
“The rolled tortilla chips?” he asks. You nod, and his eyes light up. “You really are the best friend ever.” 
“Better than Harry?” 
“Harry’s rich,” Peter says, “so no. I’m kidding! Joking, come here, let me try some of that.” 
“Eat your own.” 
Peter plays a great host, letting you choose the movies, making lunch, ordering takeout in the evening and refusing to let you pay for it. This isn’t that out of character for Peter, but what shocks you is his complete unfiltered attention. He doesn’t check his phone, the tension you couldn’t name from these last few weeks nowhere to be felt. You’re flummoxed by the sudden change, but you missed him. You won’t look a gift horse in the mouth; you won’t question what it is that had Peter keeping you at arm’s length now it’s gone.
To your annoyance, you can’t stop thinking about Spider-Man. You keep opening your mouth to tell Peter you talked to him but biting your tongue. Why am I keeping it a secret? you wonder. 
“Have something to tell you.” 
“You do?” you ask, reluctant to sit properly, your feet tucked under his thigh and your body completely lax with the weight of the Parker throw. 
“Is that surprising?” 
“Is that a trick question?” 
“No. Just. I’ve been not telling you something.” 
“Okay, so tell me.” 
Peter goes pink, and stiff, a fake smile plastered over his lips. “Me and Gwen, we’re really done.” 
“I know, Pete. She broke up with you for reasons nobody felt I should be enlightened right after graduation.” Your stomach pangs painfully. “Unless you…”
“She’s going to England.” 
“She is?” 
“Oxford.” 
You struggle to sit up. “That sucks, Peter. I’m sorry.” 
“But?” 
You find your words carefully. “You and Gwen really liked each other, but I think that–” You grow in confidence, meeting his eyes firmly. “That there’s always been some part of you that couldn’t actually commit to her. So. I don’t know, maybe some distance will give you clarity. And maybe it’ll break your heart, but at least then you’ll know how you really feel, and you can move forward.” You avoid telling him to move on. 
“It wasn’t Gwen,” he says, which has a completely different meaning to the both of you. 
“Obviously, she’s the smartest girl I’ve ever met. She’s beautiful. Of course it’s not her fault,” you say, teasing.
“Really, that you ever met?” Peter asks. 
“She’s the best girl you were ever gonna land.“ 
He rolls his eyes. “Yeah, I guess so.” After a few more minutes of quiet, he says, “I think we were done before. I just hadn’t figured it out yet. Something wasn’t right.” 
“You were so back and forth. You’re not mean, there must’ve been something stopping you from going steady,” you agree. “You were breaking up every other week.”
“I know,” he whispers, tipping his head against the back couch. 
“Which, it’s fine, you don’t–” You grimace. “I can’t talk today. Sorry. I just mean that it’s alright that you never made it work.” You worry that sounds plainly obvious and amend, “Doesn’t make you a bad person. You’re never a bad person, Peter.” 
“I know. Thank you.” 
“You’re welcome. You don’t need me to tell you.” 
“It’s nice, though. I like when you tell me stuff. I want all of your secrets.” 
You should say Good, because I have something unbelievable to tell you, and I should’ve said it the moment I got home. 
Good, because last night I met the bravest man in New York City, and he walked me to the store for your chips. 
Good, because I have so much I’m keeping to myself.
You ruffle his hair. Spider-Man goes unmentioned. 
— 
He visits with a whoop. You don’t flinch when he lands —you’d heard the strange whip and splat of his webs landing nearby. 
“Spider-Man,” you say. 
“What’s that about?” 
“What?” 
“The way you said that. You laughed.” Spider-Man stands in spandexed glory before you, mask in place. He’s got a brown stain up the side of his thigh that looks more like mud than blood, but it’s not as though each of his fights are bloodless. They’re infamously gory on occasion.
“Did you get hurt?” you ask. You’re worried. You could help him, if he needs it. 
“Aw, this? That’s a scratch. That’s nothing, don’t worry about it. I’ve had worse from that stray cat living outside of 91st.” 
You look at him sharply. 91st is shorthand for 91st Bodega, and it’s not like you and Peter made it up, but suddenly, the man in front of you is Peter. The way he says it, that unique rhythm. 
Peter’s not so rough-voiced, you argue with yourself. Your Peter speaks in a higher register, dulcet often, only occasionally sarcastic. Spider-Man is rough, and cawing, and loud. Spider-Man acts as though the ground is a suggestion. Peter can’t jump off the second diving board at the pool. Spider-Man rolls his shoulders back in front of you with a confidence Peter rarely has. 
“What?” he asks. 
“Sorry. You just reminded me of someone.” 
His voice falls deeper still. “Someone handsome, I hope.” 
You take a small step around him, hoping it invites him to walk along while communicating how sorely you want to leave the subject behind. When he doesn’t follow, you add, “Yes, he’s handsome.” 
“I knew it.”
“What do you look like under the mask?”
Spider-Man laughs boisterously. “I can’t just tell you that.” 
“No? Do I have to earn it?” 
“It’s not like that. I just don’t tell anyone, ever.” 
“Nobody in the whole world?” you ask. 
The rain is spitting. New York lately is cold cold cold, little in the way of sunshine and no end in sight. Perhaps that’s all November’s are destined to be. You and Spider-Man stick to the inside of the sidewalk. Occasionally, a passerby stares at him, or calls out in Hello, and Spider-Man waves but doesn’t part from you. 
“Tell me something about you and I’ll tell you something about me,” Spider-Man says. “I’ll tell you who knows my identity.” 
“What do you want to know about me?” you ask, surprised. 
“A secret. That’s fair.” 
“Hold on, how’s that fair?” You tighten your scarf against a bitter breeze. “What use do I have for the people who know who you are? That doesn’t bring me any closer to the truth.” 
“It’s not about who knows, it’s about why I told them.” Spider-Man slips around you, forcing you to walk on the inside of the sidewalk as a car pulls past you all too quickly and sends a sheet of dirty rainwater up Spider-Man’s side. He shakes himself off. “Jerk!” he shouts after the car. 
“My secrets aren’t worth anything.”
“I doubt that, but if that’s true, that makes it a fair trade, doesn’t it?” 
He sounds peppy considering the pool of runoff collecting at his feet. You pick up your pace again and say, “Alright, useless secret for a useless secret.” 
You think about all your secrets. Some are odd, some gross. Some might make the people around you think less of you, while others would surely paint you in a nice light. A topaz sort of technicolor. But they aren’t useless, then, so you move on. 
“Oh, I know. I hate my major.” You grin at Spider-Man. “That’s a good one, right? No one else knows about that.” 
“You do?” Spider-Man asks. His voice is familiar, then, for its sympathy. 
“I like science, I just hate math. It’s harder than I thought it would be, and I need so much help it makes me hate the whole thing.” 
Spider-Man doesn’t drag the knife. “Okay. Only three people know who I am under the mask. It was four, briefly.” He clears his throat. “I told one person because I was being selfish and the others out of necessity. I’m trying really hard not to tell anybody else.”
“How come?” 
“It just hurts people.” 
You linger in a gap of silence, not sure what to say. A handful of cars pass you on the road. 
“Tell me another one,” he says. 
“What for?” 
“I don’t know, just tell me one.” 
“How do I know you aren’t extorting me for something?” You grin as you say it, a hint of flirtation. “You’ll know my face and my secrets and even if you tell me a really gory juicy one, I have no one to tell and no name to pair it with.” 
“I’m not showing you anything,” he warns, teasing, sounding so awfully like Peter that your heart trips again, an uneven capering that has you faltering in the street. 
Peter’s shorter, you decide, sizing him up. His voice sounds similar and familiar but Peter doesn’t ask for secrets. He doesn’t have to. (Or, he didn’t have to, once upon a time.) 
“Where are you going?” Spider-Man asks. 
“Oh, nowhere.” 
“Seriously, you’re out here walking again for no reason?” 
“I like to walk. It’s not like it’s dark out yet.” You’re not far at all from Queensboro Hill here. Walking in any direction would lead you to a garden —Flushing Meadows, Kew Gardens, Kissena Park. “Walk me to Kissena?” you ask. 
“Sure, for that secret.” 
You laugh as Spider-Man takes the lead, keeping time with him, a natural match of pace. It’s exciting that Spider-Man of all people wants to know one of your useless secrets enough to ask you twice. The attention of it makes searching for one a matter of how fast you can find one rather than a question of why you’d want to. It slips out before you can think better of it. 
“I burned my wrist a few days ago on a frying pan,” you confess, the phantom pain of the injury an itch. “It blistered and I cried when I did it, but I haven’t told anyone about it.” 
“Why not?” he asks. 
He shouldn’t use that tone with you, like he’s so so sorry. It makes you want to really tell him everything. How insecure you feel, how telling things feels like asking for someone to care, and half the time they don’t, and half the time you’re embarrassed. 
You walk past the bakery that demarcates the beginning of Kissena Park grounds across the way. “I didn’t think about it at first. I’m used to keeping things to myself. And then I didn’t tell anyone for so long that mentioning it now wouldn’t make sense. Like, bringing it up when it’s a scar won’t do much.” It’s a weak lie. It comes out like a spigot to a drying up tree. Glugs, fat beads of sound and the pull to find another thing to say.
“It was only a few days ago, right? It must still hurt. People want to know that stuff.” 
“Maybe I’ll tell someone tomorrow,” you say, though you won’t. 
“Thanks for telling me.”
The humour in spilling a secret like that to a superhero stops you from feeling sorry for yourself. You hide your cold fingers in your coat, rubbing the stiff skin of your knuckles into the lining for friction-heat. The rain has let up, wind whipping empty but brisk against your cheeks. Your lips will be chapped when you get home, whenever that turns out to be. 
“This is pretty far from Trader Joe’s,” he comments, like he’s read your mind. 
“Just an hour.” 
“Are you kidding? It’s an hour for me.” 
“That’s not true, Spider-Man, I’ve seen those webs in action. I still remember watching you on the News that night, the cranes. I remember,” —you try to meet his eyes despite the mask— “my heart in my throat. Weren’t you scared?”
“Is that the secret you want?” he asks. 
“I get to choose?” 
Spider-Man throws his gaze around, his hand behind his head like he might play with his hair. You come to a natural stop across the street from Kissena Park’s playground. Teenagers crowd the soft-landing floor, smaller children playing on the wet rungs of the climbing frame. 
“If you want to,” he says. 
“Then yeah, I want to know if you were scared.” 
“I didn’t haveI time to be scared. Connors was already there, you know?” He shifts from one foot to the other. “I don’t think I’ve ever thought about it before. I wasn’t scared of the height, if that’s what you mean. I already had practice by then, and I knew I had to do it. Like, I didn’t have a choice, so I just did it. I had to save the day, so I did.” 
“When they lined up the cranes–”
“It felt like flying,” Spider-Man interrupts. 
“Like flying.”
You picture the weightlessness, the adrenaline, the catch of your weight so high up and the pressure of being flung between the next point. The idea that you have to just do something, so you do. 
“That’s a good secret.” You offer a grateful smile. “It doesn’t feel equal. I burned myself and you saved the city.” 
“So tell me another one,” he says. 
Maybe you started to fall for Peter after his Uncle Ben passed away. Not the days where you’d text him and he’d ignore you, or the days spent camping outside of his house waiting for him to get home. It wasn’t that you couldn’t like him, angry as he was; there’s always been something about his eyes when he’s upset that sticks around. You loathe to see him sad but he really is pretty, and when his eyelashes are wet and his mouth is turned down, formidable, it’s an ache. A Cabanel painting, dramatic and dark and other. 
It was after. When he started sending Gwen weird smiles and showing up to the movies exhilarated, out of breath, unwilling to tell you where he’d been. Skating, he’d always say. Most of the time he didn’t have his skateboard. 
You’d only seen them kiss once, his hand on her shoulder curling her in, a pang of heat. You were curdled by jealousy but it was more than that. Peter was tipping her head back, was kissing her soundly, a fierceness from him that made you sick to think about. You spent weeks afterwards up at night, tossing, turning, wishing he’d kiss you like that, just once, so you could feel how it felt to be completely wrapped up in another person. 
You’d always held out for Peter, in a way. It was more important to you that he be your friend. You were young, and love had been a far off thing, and then one day you suddenly wanted it. You learned just how aching an unrequited love could be, like a bruise, where every time you saw Peter —whether it be alone or with Gwen, with anyone— it was like he knew exactly where to poke the bruise. Press the heel of his hand and push. The worst is when he found himself affectionate with you, a quick clasp of your cheek in his palm as he said goodbye. Nights spent in his twin bed, of course you’ll fit, of course you couldn’t go home, not this late, May won’t care if we keep the door open —the suggestion that the door being closed might’ve meant something. His sleeping arm furled around you. 
Now you’re nearing the end of your second semester at ESU, Gwen is going to England at the end of the year, and Peter hasn’t tried to stop her, but he’s still busy. 
“Whatever,“ you say, taking a deep breath. You’re not mad at Peter, you just miss him. Thinking about him all the time won’t change a thing. “It’s fine.” 
“I’d hope so.” 
You swing around. “Don’t do that!”
Spider-Man looks vaguely chastened, taking a step back. “I called out.” 
“You did?” 
“I did. Hey, miss, over there! The one who doesn’t know how to get a goddamn taxi!” 
“I like to walk,” you say. 
“Yeah, so you’ve said. Have you considered that all this walking is bad for you? It’s freezing out, Miss Bennett!” 
“It’s not that bad.” You have your coat, a scarf, your thermal leggings underneath your jeans. “I’m fine.” 
“What’s wrong with staying at home?” 
“That’s not good for you. And you’re one to talk, Spider-Man, aren’t you out on the streets every night? You should take a day off.” 
“I don’t do this every night.” 
“Don’t you get tired?”
Spider-Man’s eyelets seem to squint, his mock-anger effusive as he crosses his arms across his chest. “No, of course not. Do I look like I get tired?” 
“I don’t know. You’re in a full suit, I can’t tell. I guess you don’t… seem tired. You know, with all the backflips.” 
“Want me to do one?” 
“On command?” You laugh. “No, that’s okay. Save your strength, Spider-Man.” 
“So where are you heading today?” he asks. 
There’s a slip of skin peeking out against his neck. You’re surprised he can’t feel the cold there, stepping toward him to point. “I can see your stubble.” 
He yanks his mask down. “Hasty getaway.” 
“A getaway, undressed? Spider-Man, that’s not very gentlemanly.” 
You start to walk toward the Cinemart. Spider-Man, to your strange pleasure, follows. He walks with considerable casualness down the sidewalk by your left, occasionally letting his head turn to chase a distant sound where it echoes from between high-rises and along the busy street. It’s cold and dark, but New York is hectic no matter what, even the residential areas. (Is there such a thing? The neighbourhoods burst with small businesses and backstreet sales, no matter the time.)
“Luckily for you, crime is slow tonight,” he says. 
“Lucky me?” You wonder if your acquainted vigilante flirts with every girl he stalks. “You realise I’ve managed to get everywhere I’m going for the last two decades without help?” 
“I assume there was more than a little help during that first decade.” 
“That’s what you think. I was a super independent toddler.” 
Spider-Man tips his head back and laughs, but that laugh is quickly squashed with a cough. “Sure you were.” 
“Is there a reason you’re escorting me, Spider-Man?” you ask. 
“No. I– I recognised you, I thought I’d say hi.” 
“Hi, Spider-Man.” 
“Hi.” 
“Can I ask you something? Do you work?” 
Spider-Man stammers again, “I– yeah. I work. Freelance, mostly.” 
“I was wondering how you fit all the crime fighting into your life, is all. University is tough enough.” You let the wind bat your scarf off of your shoulder. “I couldn’t do what you do.” 
“Yeah, you could.” 
He sounds sure. 
“How would you know?” you ask. “Maybe I’m awful when you’re not walking me around. I hate New York. I hate people.” 
“No, you don’t. You’re not awful. Don’t ask me how I know, ‘cos I just know.” 
You try not to look at him. If you look at him, you’re gonna smile at him like he hung the moon. “Well, tonight I’m going to be dreadfully selfish. My friend said he’d buy my movie ticket and take me out for dinner, a real dinner, the mac and cheese with imitation lobster at Benny’s. Have you tried that?” 
Spider-Man takes a big step. “Tonight?” he asks. 
“Yep, tonight. That’s where I’m going, the Cinemart.” You frown at his hand pressing into his stomach. “Are you okay? You look like you’re gonna throw up.” 
“I can hear– something. Someone’s crying. I gotta go, okay? Have fun at the movies, okay?” He throws his arm up, a silken web shooting from his wrist to the third floor of an apartment complex. “Bye!” he shouts, taking a running jump to the apartment, using his web as an anchor. He flings himself over the roof. 
Woah, you think, warmth filling your cold cheeks, the tip of your nose. He’s lithe.  
Peter arrives ten minutes late for the movie, which is half an hour later than you’d agreed to meet. 
“Sorry!” he shouts, breathless as he grabs your hands. “God, I’m sorry! I’m so sorry. You should beat me up. I’m sorry.” 
“What the fuck happened?” you ask, not particularly angry, only relieved to see him with enough time to still catch the movie. “You’re sweating like crazy, your hair’s wet.” 
“I ran all the way here, Jesus, do I smell bad? Don’t answer that. Fuck, do we have time?” 
You usher Peter inside. He pays for the tickets with hands shaking and you attempt to wipe the sweat from his forehead with your sleeve. “You could’ve called me,” you say, content to let him grab you by the arm and race you to the screen doors, “we could’ve caught the next one. Why were you so late, anyways? Did you forget?” 
“Forget about my favourite girl? How could I?” He elbows open the doors to let you enter first. “Now shh,” he whispers, “find the seats, don’t miss the trailers. You love them.” 
“You love them–”
“I’ll get popcorn,” he promises, letting the door close between you. 
You’re tempted to follow, fingers an inch from the handle. 
You turn away and rush to find your seats. Hopefully, the popcorn line is ten blocks long, and he spends the night punished for his wrongdoing. My favourite girl. You laugh nervously into your hand. 
Winter 
Spider-Man finds you at least once a week for the next few weeks. He even brings you an umbrella one time, stars on the handle, asking you rather politely to go home. He offers to buy you a hot dog as you’re walking past the stand, takes you on a shortcut to the convenience store, and helps you get a piece of gum off of your shoe with a leaf and a scared scream. He’s friendly, and you’re getting used to his company. 
One night, you’re almost home from Trader Joe’s, racing in the pouring rain when a familiar voice calls out, “Hey! Running girl! Wait a second!” 
Him, you think, as ridiculous as it sounds. You don’t know his name, but Spider-Man’s a sunny surprise in a shitty, wet winter, and you turn to the sound with a grin.
He jogs toward you. 
You feel the world pause, right in the centre of your throat. All the air gets sucked out of you. 
“Hey, what are you doing out here? Did you get my texts?” 
You blink as fat rain lands on your face. 
“You okay?” Peter asks, Peter, in a navy hoodie turning black in the rain and a brown corduroy jacket. It’s sodden, hanging heavily around his shoulders. “Come on, let’s go,” —he takes your hand and pulls until you begin to speed walk beside him— “it’s freezing!” 
“Peter–”
“Jesus Christ!” 
“Peter, what are you doing here?” you ask, your voice an echo as he drags you into the foyer of your apartment building. 
Rain hammers the door as he closes it, the windows, the foyer too dark to see properly. 
“I wanted to see you. Is that allowed?” 
“No.” 
Peter takes your hand. You look down at it, and he looks down in tandem, and it is decidedly a non-platonic move. “No?” he asks, a hair’s width from murmuring. 
“Shit, my groceries are soaked.” 
“It’s all snacks, it’s fine,” he says, pulling you to the stairs. 
You rush up the steps together to your floor. Peter takes your key when you offer it, your own fingers too stiff to manage it by yourself, and he holds the door open for you again to let you in. 
Your apartment is a ragtag assortment to match the one next door, old wooden furniture wheeled from the street corners they were left on, thrifted homeward and heavy blankets everywhere you look. You almost slip getting out of your shoes. Peter steadies you with a firm hand. He shrugs out of his coat and hangs it on the hook, prying the damp hoodie over his head and exposing a solid length of back that trips your heart as you do the same. 
“Sorry I didn’t ask,” Peter says. 
“What, to come over? It’s fine. I like you being here, you know that.” 
All your favourite days were spent here or at Peter’s house, in beds, on sofas, his hair tickling your neck as credits run down the TV and his breath evens to a light snore. You try to settle down with him, changing into dry clothes, his spare stuff left at the bottom of your wardrobe for his next inevitable impromptu visit. You turn on the TV, letting him gather you into his side with more familiarity than ever. Rain lays its fingertips on your window and draws lazy lines behind half-turned blinds. You rest on the arm and watch Peter watch the movie, answering his occasional, “You okay?” with a meagre nod. 
“What’s wrong?” he asks eventually. “You’re so quiet.” 
Your hand over your mouth, you part your marriage and pinky finger, marriage at the corner, pinky pressed to your bottom lip, the flesh chapped by a season of frigid winds and long walks. “‘M thinking,” you say. 
“About?” 
About the first night in your new apartment. You got the apartment a couple of weeks before the start of ESU. Not particularly close to the university but close to Peter, your best, nicest friend. You met in your second year of High School, before Peter got contacts, ‘cos he was good at taking photographs and you were in charge of the school newspapers media sourcing. You used to wait for Peter to show up ten minutes late like clockwork, every week. And every week he’d barge into the club room and say, “Fuck, I’m sorry, my last class is on the other side of the building,” until it turned into its own joke. 
Three years later, you got your apartment, and Peter insisted you throw a housewarming party even if he was the only person invited. 
“Fuck,” he’d said, ten minutes late, a cake in one hand and a whicker basket the other, “sorry. My last class is on–”
But he didn’t finish. You’d laughed so hard with relief at the reference that he never got the chance. Peter remembered your very first inside joke, because Peter wasn’t about to go off to ESU and meet new friends and forget you. 
But Peter’s been distant for a while now, because Peter’s Spider-Man. 
“Do you remember,” you say, not willing to share the whole truth, “when you joined the school newspaper to be the official photographer, and you taught me the rule of thirds?” 
“So you didn’t need me,” he says. 
“I was just thinking about it. We ran that newspaper like the Navy.” 
Peter holds your gaze. “Is that really what you were thinking about?” 
“Just funny,” you murmur, dropping your hand in your lap and breaking his stare. “So much has changed.” 
“Not that much.” 
“Not for me, no.” 
Peter gets a look in his eyes you know well. He’s found a crack in you and he’s gonna smooth it over until you feel better. You’re expecting his soft tone, his loving smile, but you’re not expecting the way he pulls you in —you’d slipped away from him as the evening went on, but Peter erases every millimetre of space as he slides his arm under your lower back and ushers you into his side. You hold your breath as he hugs you, as he looks down at you. It’s really like he loves you, the line between platonic and romantic a blur. He’s never looked at you like this before.
“I don’t want you to change,” he whispers. 
“I want to catch up with you,” you whisper back. 
“Catch up with me? We’re in the exact same place, aren’t we?”
“I don’t know, are we?” 
Peter hugs you closer, squishing your head down against his jaw as he rubs your shoulder. “Of course we are.” 
Peter… What is he doing? 
You let yourself relax against him. 
“You do change,” he whispers, an utterance of sound to calm that awful bruise he gave you all those months ago, “you change every day, but you don’t need to try.” 
“I just… feel like everyone around me is…” You shake your head. “Everyone’s so smart, and they know what they’re doing, or they’re– they’re special. I don’t know anything. So I guess lately I’ve been thinking about that, and then you–”
“What?” 
You can say it out loud. You could. 
“Peter, you’re…” 
“I’m what?” he asks. 
His fingers glide down the length of your arm and up again. 
If you're wrong, he’ll laugh. And if you’re right, he might– might stop touching you. Your head feels so heavy, and his touch feels like it’s gonna put you to sleep. 
He’s Spider-Man. 
It makes sense. Who else could have a good enough heart to do that? Of course it’s Peter. It explains so much about him, about Peter and Spider-Man both. Why Peter is suddenly firmer, lighter on his feet, why he can help you move a wardrobe up two flights of stairs without complaint; why Spider-Man is so kind to you, why he knows where to find you, why he rolls his words around just like Pete. 
Spider-Man said there are reasons he wears his mask. And Peter doesn’t tell you much, but you trust him. 
You won’t make him say anything, you decide. Not now. 
You curl your arm over his stomach hesitantly, smiling into his shirt as he hugs you tighter. 
“I was thinking about you,” he says. 
“Yeah?” 
“You’re quieter lately. I know you’re having a hard time right now, okay? You don’t have to tell me. I’m here for you whenever you need me.” 
“Yeah?” you ask.
“You used to sit on my porch when you knew May wouldn’t be home to make sure I wasn’t alone.” Peter’s breath is warm on your forehead. “I don’t know what you’re worried about being, but I’m with you,” he says, “‘n nothing is gonna change that.” 
Peter isn’t as far away as you thought. 
“Thank you,” you say. 
He kisses your forehead softly. Your whole world goes amber. He brings his hand to your cheek, the thought of him tipping your head back sudden and heart-racing, but Peter only holds you. You lose count of how many minutes you spend cupped in his hand. 
“Can I stay over tonight?” he utters, barely audible under the sound of the battering rain. 
“Yeah, please.” 
His thumb strokes your cheek. 
Two switches flip at once, that night. Peter is suddenly as tactile as you’ve craved, and Spider-Man disappears. 
He’s alive and well, as evidenced by Peter’s continued survival and presence in your life, but Spider-Man doesn’t drop in on your nightly walks. 
You take less of them lately, feeling better in yourself. Your spirits are certainly lifted by Peter’s increasing affection, but now that you know he’s Spider-Man you were waiting to see him in spandex to mess with his head. Nothing mean, but you would’ve liked to pick at his secret identity, toy with him like you know he’d do to you. After all, he’s been trailing you for weeks and getting to know you. Peter already knows you. Plus, you told Spider-Man secrets not meant for Peter Parker’s ears. 
You find it hard to be angry with him. A thread of it remains whenever you remember his deception, but mostly you worry about him. Peter’s out every night until who knows what hour fighting crime. There are guns. He could get shot, and he doesn’t seem scared. You end up watching videos on the internet of the night he ran to Oscorp, when he fought Connors’ and got that huge gash in his leg. His leg is soiled deep red with blood but banded in white webbing. He limps as he races across a rooftop, the recording shaky yet high definition. 
It’s not nice to see Peter in pain. You cling to what he’d said, how he wasn’t scared, but not being scared doesn’t mean he wasn’t hurting. 
You chew the tip of a finger and click on a different video. Your computer monitor bears heat, the tower whirring by your thigh. Your eyes burn, another hour sitting in the same seat, sick with worry. You don’t mind when Peter doesn’t answer your texts anymore. You didn’t mind so much before, just terrified of becoming an irrelevance in his life and lonely, too, maybe a little hurt, but never worried for his safety. Now when Peter doesn’t text you back you convince yourself that he’s been hurt, or that he’s swinging across New York City about to risk his life.
It’s not a good way to live. You can’t stop giving into it, is all. 
In the next video, Spider-Man sits on a billboard with a can of coke in hand. He doesn’t lift his mask, seemingly aware of his watcher. You laugh as he angles his head down, suspicion in his tight shoulders. He relaxes when he sees whoever it is recording. 
“Hey,” he says, “you all right?” 
“Should you be up there?” the person recording shouts. 
“I’m fine up here!” 
“Are you really Spider-Man?” 
“Sure am.” 
“Are you single?” 
Peter laughs like crazy. How you didn’t know it was him before is a mystery —it couldn’t sound more like him. “I’ve got my eye on someone!” he says, sounding younger for it, the character voice he enacts when he’s Spider-Man lost to a good mood.  
Your phone rings in the back pocket of your jeans. You wriggle it out, nonplussed to find Peter himself on your screen. You click the green answer button. 
“Hello?” Peter asks. 
You bring the phone snug to your ear. “Hey, Peter.” 
“Hi, are you busy?” 
“Not really.” 
“Do you wanna come over? I know it’s late. Come stay the night and tomorrow we’ll go out for breakfast.” 
“Is Aunt May okay with that?” 
“She’s staring at me right now shaking her head, but I’m in trouble for something. May, can she come over, is that allowed?” 
“She’s always allowed as long as you keep the door open.”
You laugh under your breath at May’s begrudging answer. “Are you sure she’s alright with it?” you ask softly. “I don’t want to be a burden.” 
“You never, ever could be. I’m coming to your place and we’ll walk over together. Did you eat dinner?” 
“Not yet, but–”
“Okay, I’ll make you something when you get here. I’ll meet you at the door. Twenty minutes?” 
“I have to shower first.” 
“Twenty five?” 
You choke on a laugh, a weird bubbly thing you’re not used to. Peter laughs on the other side of the phone. “How about I’ll see you at seven?” 
“It’s a date,” he says. 
“Mm, put it in your calendar, Parker.” 
Peter waits for you at the door like he promised. He frowns at your still-wet face as he slips your backpack from your shoulder, throwing it over his own. “You’re gonna get sick.” 
“I‘ll dry fast,” you say. “I took too long finding my pyjamas.” 
“I have stuff you can wear. Probably have your sweatpants somewhere, the grey ones.” Peter pulls you forward and wipes your tacky face. “I would’ve waited,” he says. 
“It’s fine.“
“It’s not fine. Are you cold?” 
“Pete, it’s fine.” 
“You always remind me of my Uncle Ben when you call me Pete,” he laughs, “super stern.” 
“I’m not stern. Look, take me home, please, I’m cold.” 
“You said it wasn’t cold!” 
“It’s not, I’m just damp–” Peter cuts you off as he grabs you, sudden and tight, arms around you and rubbing the lengths of your back through your coat. “Handsy!”
“You like it,” he jokes back, his playful warming turning into a hug. You smile, hiding your face in his neck for a few moments. 
“I don’t like it,” you lie. 
“Okay, you don’t like it, and I’m sorry.” Peter gives you a last hug and pulls away. “Now let’s go. I gotta feed you before midnight.” 
“That’s not funny.” 
“Apparently, nothing is.” 
Peter links your arms together. By the time you get to his house, you’ve fallen away from each other naturally. May is in the hallway when you climb through the door, an empty laundry basket in her hands. 
“I see Peter hasn’t won this argument yet,” you say in way of greeting. Peter’s desperate to do his own laundry now he’s getting older. May won’t let him. 
“No, he hasn’t.” She looks you up and down. “It’s nice to see you, honey. And in one piece! Peter tells me you’ve been walking a lot, and I mean, in this city? Can’t you buy a treadmill?” she asks. 
“May!” Peter says, startled. 
“I like walking, I like the air,” you say.
“Can’t exactly call it fresh,” May says. 
“No, but it’s alright. It helps me think.” 
“Is everything okay?” May asks, putting her hand on her hip. 
“Of course.” You smile at her genuinely. “I think starting college was too much for me? It was hard. But things are settling now, I don’t know what Peter told you, but I’m not walking a lot anymore. You know, not more than necessary.”
She softens her disapproving. “Good, honey. That’s good. Peter’s gonna make you some dinner now, right?” 
“Yeah, Aunt May, I’m gonna make dinner,” Peter sighs, pulling a leg up to take off his shoes. 
Peter shouldn’t really know that you’ve been walking. He might see you coming back from Trader Joe’s or the bodega on his way to your apartment, but you haven’t mentioned any of your longer excursions, and everybody in Queens has to walk. That’s information he wouldn’t know without Spider-Man. 
He seems to be hoping you won’t realise, changing the subject to the frankly killer grilled cheese and tomato soup that he’s about to make you, and pushing you into a chair at the table. “Warm up,” he says near the back of your head, forcing a wave of shivers down your arms.
He makes soup in one pan, grilled cheese in the other, two for him and two for you. Peter’s a good eater, and he encourages the same from you, setting a big bowl of tomato soup (from the can, splash of fresh cream) down in front of you with the grilled cheese on a plate between you. You eat it in too-hot bites and try not to get caught looking at him. He does the same, but when he catches you, or when you catch him, he holds your eye and smiles. 
“I can do the dishes,” you say. You might need a breather. 
“Are you kidding? I’m gonna rinse them, put them in the dishwasher.” Peter stands and feels your forehead with his hand. “Warmer. Good job.” 
You shrug away from his hand. “Loser.” 
“Concerned friend.” 
“Handsy loser.” 
”Shut up,” he mumbles. 
As flustered as you’ve ever seen, Peter takes your empty dishes to the kitchen. When he’s done rinsing them off you follow him upstairs to his bedroom and tuck your backpack under his bed. 
You look down at your socks. Peter’s room is on the smaller side, but it’s never been as startlingly small as it is when Peter’s socked feet align with yours, toe to toe. Quick recovery time, this boy. 
“There’s chips and stuff on my desk. Or I could run to 91st for some ice cream sandwiches if you want something sweet,” he says. 
You lift your eyes, tilt your head up just a touch, not wanting him to think you’re in his space no matter how strange that might be, considering he chose to stand there. “I’m all right. Did you want ice cream? We can go if you want to, but if you want to go ’cos you think I do then I’m fine.” 
“That’s such a long answer,” he says, draping an arm over your shoulder. “You don’t have to say all of that, just tell me no.” 
“I don’t want ice cream.” 
“Wasn’t that easy?” he asks. 
“Well, no, it wasn’t. Saying no to you is like saying no to a puppy.” 
“Because I’m adorable?” 
“Persistent.” 
“Yeah, I guess I am.” He drapes the other arm over you. The soap he used at the kitchen sink lingers on his hands. 
“Peter…?” you murmur. 
“What?” he murmurs back. 
You touch a knuckle to his chest. “This– You…” Every quelled thought rushes to the surface at once —Peter doesn’t like you as you desire, how could he, you aren’t beautiful like he is, aren’t smart, aren’t brave, no exceptional kindness or goodness to mark you enough for him. It’s why his being with Gwen didn’t hurt; she made sense. And for months now you’ve wondered what it is that made him struggle to be with her. And sometimes, foolishly, you wondered if it was you. But it’s not you, it’s never you, and whatever Peter’s trying to do now–
“Hey, you okay?” he asks, taking your face into his hand. 
“What are you doing?” 
“What?” He pushes his hand back to hold your nape, thumb under your ear. “I can’t hear you.”  
You raise your voice. “Why did you invite me over tonight?” 
“‘Cos I missed you?” 
“I used to think you didn’t miss me at all.” 
Peter winces, hurt. “How could you think that? Of course I miss you. What you said to May, about college being hard? It’s like that for me too, okay? I miss you all the time.” 
You bite the inside of your bottom lip. “…College isn’t hard for you.” 
“It’s not easy.” He frowns, the fallen angel, his lips an unsure brushstroke. “What’s wrong? Did I say the wrong thing?” 
You’re being wretched, you know, saying it isn’t hard for him. “You didn’t. Really, you didn’t.” 
“But why are you upset?” he implores, dark eyes darker as his eyebrows tug together.
“I’m not–”
“You are. It’s okay, you can be upset. I just want you to feel better, you know that?” He settles his hands at the tops of your arms. Less intimate, but something warm remains. “Even if it takes a long time.” 
“I’m fine.” 
“You’re not fine.”
“How would you know?” you finally ask. 
Peter stares at you. 
“I know you,” he says carefully, “and I know you aren’t struggling like you were, but that doesn’t mean it didn’t happen or that you have to be a hundred percent better now.” 
“I didn’t realise that I was,” you say, licking your lips, “‘til now. I didn’t get that it was on the surface.”
Peter pulls you in for a gentle hug. “I’m here for you forever, and I’ll make it up to you for not noticing sooner,” he says, scrunching your shirt in his hand.
After the hug, he tells you to change and make yourself comfortable while he showers. So you put on your pyjamas and climb into Peter’s bed, head pounding as though all your energy was stolen in a fell swoop. You press your nose to his pillow and arm wrapped around his comforter, gathering it into a Peter sized lump. The shower pump whines against the shared wall. 
Things aren’t meant to be like this. You thought Peter touching you —holding you— was the deepest of your desires, but you feel now exactly as you had before he started blurring the line, needing Peter to kiss you so badly it becomes its own kind of nausea. Why are you still acting like it’s an impossibility?
When he comes back, you’ll apologise. He hasn’t done anything wrong. He does keep a secret, but don’t you keep one too? He’s Spider-Man. You’ve had deep, complicated feelings for him for months. They are secrets of equal magnitude, and are, more apparently, badly kept. 
You wish you could fall asleep. Your heart ticks in agitation.
Peter returns as perturbed as earlier. 
“Are you sure there’s nothing wrong?” he asks, raking a hand through his hair. A towel hangs around his neck. 
“I’m sorry for being weird.” 
“You’re not weird,” Peter says, bringing the towel to his hair to scrub ruthlessly. 
“It’s just ‘cos things have been different between us.” And, you try to say, that scares me no matter how bad I wanted it. because you’re not just Peter anymore, you’re Spider-Man. I’m only me, and I can’t do anything to protect you.
Peter gives his hair a long scrub before draping the towel on his desk chair. He rakes it messily into place and sits himself at the end of the bed. You sit up. 
“Yeah, they have been. Good different?” he asks hesitantly. 
“I think so,” you say, quiet again. 
“That’s what I thought.” 
“I don’t want you to feel like I don’t want to be here. I just worry about you.” 
Peter uses his hands to get higher up the bed. “Don’t worry about me,” he says, “Jesus, please don’t. That’s the last thing I want from you, I hate when people worry about me.” 
You curl into the lump of comforter you’d made. Peter lets himself rest beside you, his back to the bedroom wall, tens of Polaroids above him shining with the light of the hallway and his orange-bulbed lamp. His skin is glowing like it’s golden hour, dashes of topaz in his eyes, his Cupid’s bow deep. How would it feel to lean forward and kiss him? To catch his Cupid's bow under your lips?
You brush a damp curl tangled in another onto his forehead. 
You lay there for a little while without talking, listening to the sound of the washing machine as it cycles downstairs. 
“Am I going too fast?” Peter murmurs. 
You press your lips together, shaking your head minutely. 
“Is it something else?” 
You don’t move. 
“Do you want me to stop?” he asks. 
“No.”
Peter rewards you with a smile, his hand on your arm. “Alright. Let me get this blanket on you the right way. You’re still cold.” 
You resent the loss of a shape to hold when Peter slips down beside you and wrangles the comforter flat again, spreading it out over you both, his hand under the blankets. His knuckles brush your thigh. 
He takes a deep breath before turning and wrapping his arm over your stomach, asking softly, “Is this alright?” 
“Yeah.” 
He gives you a look and then lifts his head to slot his nose against your temple. “Please don’t take this in a way that I don’t mean it, but sometimes you think about things so much I worry you’re gonna get stuck in your head forever.” 
“I like thinking.” 
“I hate it,” he says quickly, a fervent, flirting cadence to his otherwise dulcet tone, “we should never do it ever again.” 
“I’ll try not to.” 
“Would you? For me?” 
You laugh into his shirt, feeling the warmth of your breath on your own nose. “I’ll do my best.” 
“Good. I’d miss you too much if you got lost in that nice head of yours.” 
You relax under his arm. You aren’t sure what all the fuss was about now that he's hugging you. “I’d miss you too.”
May comes up the stairs about an hour later. To her credit, she doesn’t flinch when she finds you and Peter smushed together watching a DVD on his old TV. He’s holding your arm, and you’re snoozing on his shoulder, half-aware of the world, fully aware of his nice smells and the shapes of his arms. 
“Door open,” she says. 
“Not that either of us want it closed, May, but we’re adults.” 
“Not while I’m still washing your clothes, you’re not.” 
He snorts. “Goodnight, Aunt May. The door isn’t gonna close, I promise.” 
“I know that,” she says, scornful in her pride. “You’re a good boy.” She lightens. “Things are going okay?” 
Peter covers your ear. “Goodnight, Aunt May.” 
”I have half a mind to never listen to you again. You talk my ear off and I can’t ask a simple question?” 
“I love you,” Peter sing-songs. 
“I love you, Peter,” she says. “Don’t smother the girl.” 
“I won’t smother her. It’s in my best interest that she survives the night. She’s buying my breakfast tomorrow.” 
“Peter Parker.” 
“I’m kidding,” he whispers, petting your cheek absentmindedly. “Just messing with you, May.” 
You smile and curl further into his arms. His voice is like the sun, even when he whispers.  
To your surprise, Spider-Man comes to find you after class one evening. A guest lecturer had talked to your oncology class about click chemistry and other molecular therapies against cancer, and the zine book she’d given you is burning a hole in your pocket. Peter is going to love it. 
You pull it out and pause beside a bench and a silver trash can, the day grey but thankfully without rain. The pages of your little book whip forcefully in the wind. It’s chemistry, sure, but it’s biology too, wrapping your and Peter’s interests up neatly. If it weren’t for Peter you doubt you’d love science as much as you do. He’s always been good at it, but since you started college he's been a genius. Watching him grow has encouraged you to work harder, and understanding the material is satisfying, if draining. You take a photo of the middle most pages and tuck the book away, writing a quick text to Peter to send with it. 
Look! it says, LEGO cancer treatment!! 
The moment you press send a beep chimes from somewhere close behind you, all too familiar. You turn to the source but find nobody you know waiting. Coincidence, you think, shaking yourself and beginning the trek to the subway. 
But then you hear the tell tale splat and thwick of Spider-Man’s webbing. 
You wait until you’re at the alleyway between Porto’s Bakery and the key cutting shop and turn down to stop by one of the dumpsters. 
“Spider-Man?” you ask, shoulders tensed in case it’s not who you think. 
“What are you doing?” he asks.
You gasp as he hops down in front of you, his suit shiny with its dark web-pattern caught by the grey sunshine passing through the clouds overhead. “Shit, don’t break your ankles.” 
“My ankles?” He laughs. He sounds so much like Peter that you can only laugh with him. What an idiot he is for thinking you don’t know; what a fool you’d been for falling for his put upon tenor. “They’re fine. What would be wrong with my ankles?” 
“You just dropped down twenty feet!” 
“It’s more like thirty, and I’m fine. You understand the super part of superhero, don’t you?” 
“Who said you’re a superhero?” 
“Nice. What are you doing down here?” 
“I was testing my theory. You’re following me.” 
“No, I’m visiting you, it’s very different,” he says confidently. 
“You haven’t come to see me for weeks.” 
“Yes, well, I–” Spider-Peter crosses his arms across his chest. “Hey, you’re the one who told me to take a day off.” 
“I did tell you to take a day off. It’s not nice thinking about you trying to save the world every single night. That’s a lot of responsibility for one person to have.” 
“But it’s my responsibility,” he says easily. “No point in a beautiful girl like you wasting her time worrying about it. I have to do it, and I don’t mind it.” 
“Do you flirt with every girl you meet out here in the city?” you ask, cheeks hot. 
“No,” he says, fondness evident even through the mask, “just you.” 
“Do you wanna walk me home? I was gonna take the subway, but it’s not that far.” 
Spider-Man nods. “Yeah, I’ll walk you back.” 
He doesn’t hide that he knows the way very well. He takes preemptive turns, crosses roads without you telling him to go forward. You can’t believe him. Smartest guy at Midtown High and he can’t pretend to save his life. 
“Are you having a good semester?” he asks. 
“It’s getting better. I’m glad I stuck with it. I love biology, it’s so fucking hard. I used to think that was a bad thing, but it makes it cooler now. Like, it’s not something everyone understands.” You give him a look, and you give into temptation. “My best friend got me into all this stuff. I used to think math was hopeless and science was for dorks.” 
“It’s definitely for dorks.” 
“Right, but I love being one.” You offer a useless secret. “I like to think that it’s why we’re such great friends.” 
“Me and you?” Spider-Man asks hoarsely. 
“Me and Peter.” You elbow him without force. “Why, do you like science?” 
“I love it…” 
“You know, I really like you, Spider-Man. I feel like we’ve been friends for a long time.” You’re teasing poor Peter. 
He doesn’t speak for a while. He stops walking, but you take a few steps without him. When you realise he’s stopped, you turn back to see him. 
Peter’s gone so tense you could strike him with a flint and catch a spark. It’s the same way Peter looked at you when he told you about his Uncle, a truth he didn’t want to be true. Seeing it throws a spanner in the works of all your teasing: you’d meant to wind him up, not make him panic. 
“What’s wrong?” you ask. “Can you hear something?” 
“No, it’s not that…” He’s masked, but you know him well enough to understand why he’s stopped. 
“It’s okay,” you say. 
“It’s not, actually.” 
“Spider-Man.” You take a step toward him. “It’s fine.”
He presses his hands to his stomach. The sun is setting early, and in an hour, the dark will eat up New York and leave it in a blistering cold. “Do you remember when we first met, the second time, we swapped secrets?” 
“Yeah, I remember. Useless secret for another. I told you I hated my major. It’s not true anymore, obviously. I was having a bad time.” 
“I know you were,” he says, emphasis on know, like it’s a different word entirely. 
“But meeting you really helped. If it weren’t for you, for Peter,” —you give him a searching look— “I wouldn’t feel better at all.” 
“It wasn’t his fault?” he asks. “He was your friend, and you were lonely.” 
“No–”
“He didn’t know what was going on with you, he didn’t have a clue. You hurt yourself and you felt like you couldn’t tell anybody, and I know it wasn’t an accident, so what was his excuse?” His voice burns with anger. “It’s his fault.” 
“Of course it wasn’t your fault. Is that what you think?” You shake your head, panicked by the bone-deep self loathing in his voice, his shameful dropped head. “Yes, I was lonely, I am lonely, I don’t know many people and I– I– I hurt myself, and it wasn’t as accidental as I thought it was, but why would that be your fault?” 
“Peter’s fault,” he says, though his head is lifted now, and he doesn’t bother enthusing it with much gusto. 
“Peter, none of it was your fault.” You cringe in your embarrassment, thinking Fuck, don’t let me ruin this. “I was in a weird way, and yes, I was lonely, and I really liked you more than I should have. You didn't want me and that wasn’t your fault, that’s just how it was, I tried not to let it get to me, just there were a lot of things weighing on me at once, but it really wasn’t as bad as you think it was and it wasn’t your fault.” 
“I wasn’t there for you,” he says. “And I’ve been lying to you for a long time.” 
“You couldn’t tell me, right? Spider-Man is your secret for a reason.” 
“…I didn’t even know you were lonely until you told him. He was a stranger.” 
You hold your hands behind your back. “Well, he was a familiar one.” 
Peter reaches out as though wanting to touch you, but your arms aren’t in his reach. “It’s not because I didn’t want you.” 
“Peter,” you say, squirming. 
He steps back. 
“I have to go,” he says. 
“What?” 
“I have to– I don’t want to go,” he says earnestly, “sweetheart, I can hear someone calling out, I have to go. But I’ll come back, I’ll– I’ll come back,” he promises. 
And with a sudden lift of his arm, Peter pulls himself up the side of a building and disappears, leaving you whiplashed on the sidewalk, the sun setting just out of view.
You fall asleep that night waiting for Peter. When you wake up, 5AM, eyes aching, he isn’t there. You check your phone but he hasn’t texted. You check the Bugle and Spider-Man hasn’t been seen. 
You aren’t sure what to think. He sounded sincere to the fullest extent when he said he’d come back, but he didn’t, not ten minutes later, not twenty. You made excuses and you went home before it got too dark to see the street, sat on the couch rehearsing what you’d say. How could Peter think your unhappiness was his fault? Why does he always put the entire world on his shoulders?
Selfishly, you worried what it all meant for his lazy touches. Would he want to curl up into bed with you again now he knows what it means to you? It’s different for him. It isn’t like he’s in love with you… you’d just thought maybe he could be. That this was falling in love, real love, not the unrequited ache you’d suffered before. 
But maybe you got everything wrong. All of it. It wouldn't be the first time. 
You and Peter found The Moroccan Mode in your senior year at Midtown. The school library was small and you were sick of being underfoot at home. When you started at ESU, you explored the on campus coffeehouse, the Coffee Bean, but it was crowded, and you’d found yourself attached to the Mode’s beautiful tiling, blues and topaz and platinum golds, its heavy, oiled wooden furniture, stained glass lampshades and the case full of lemony treats. The coffee here is better than anywhere else, but the best part out of everything is that it’s your secret. Barely anybody comes to the Mode on purpose. 
You hide in a far corner with a book and an empty cup of decaf coffee, a slice of meskouta on the table untouched. Decaf because caffeine felt a terrible idea, meskouta untouched because you can’t stomach the smell. You push it to the opposite end of the table, considering another cup of coffee instead. It’s served slightly too hot, and will still be warm when it gets to your chest. 
The sunshine is creeping in slowly. It feels like the first time you’ve seen it in months, warming rays kissing your fingers and lining the walls. You turn a page, turn your wrist, let the sun warm the scar you gave yourself those few months ago, when everything felt too big for you. 
Looking back, it was too big. Maybe soon you’ll be ready to talk about it.  
The author in your book is talking about bees. They can fly up to 15 miles per hour. They make short, fast motions from front to back, a rocking motion. Asian giant hornets can go even faster despite their increased mass. They consider humans running provocation. If you see a giant hornet, you’re supposed to lay down to avoid being stung. 
You put your face in your hand. Next year, you’ll avoid the insect-based electives. 
Across the cafe, the bell at the top of the door rings. Laughter falls through it, a couple passing by. The register clashes open. A minute later it closes. 
You don’t raise your head when footsteps draw near. A plate is placed on the table, pushed across to you, stopping just shy of your coffee. 
“Did you eat breakfast?” Peter asks quietly. 
His voice is gentle, but hoarse. 
You tense. 
“Are you okay?” he asks, not waiting for your answer to either question. “You don’t look like yourself. Your eyes are red.” 
You lift your head. Wet with the beginnings of tears, you see Peter through an astigmatic blur. 
“What are you reading?” He frowns at you. “Please don’t cry.” 
You shake your head. Your smile is all odd, nothing like his, no inherent warmth despite your best effort. “I’m okay.” 
He nudges you across the booth seat and sits beside you. His arm settles behind your shoulders. He smells like smoke and soap, an acrid scent barely hidden. “Can you tell me you didn’t wait long for me?” 
“Ten minutes,” you lie. 
“Okay. I’m sorry. There was a fire.” He rubs your arm where he’s holding you. “I’m sorry.” 
“Will you go half?” you ask, nodding to the sandwich he’s brought you. It’s tough sourdough bread, brown with white flour on the crusts and leafy greens poking between the slices. You and Peter complain about the price. You’ve never had one. He passes you the bigger half, holding the other in his hand without eating. 
“I know you’re hungry,” you say, tapping his elbow, “just eat.” 
You eat your sandwiches. Now that Peter’s here, you don’t feel so sick —he’s not upset with you. The dull pang of an empty stomach won’t be ignored. 
Peter puts his sandwich down, which is crazy, and wipes his fingers on the plates napkin. You’ve never seen him stop before he’s done.
“It was in the apartments on Vernon. I– I think I almost died, the smoke was everywhere.” 
You choke around a crust, thrusting the rest of your half onto the plate. “Are you hurt?” you ask, coughing. 
He moves his head from side to side, not a shake, but a slow no. “How long have you known it was me?” he asks, curling his hand behind your back again, fingers spread over your shoulder blade, a fingertip on your neck. 
You savour his touch, but you give in to your apprehension and stare at his chest. “The night you caught me outside in the rain in November. You called me ‘running girl’. The way you said it, you sounded exactly like him. I turned around expecting,” —you whisper, weary of the quiet cafe— “Spider-Man, and I realised it’s him that sounds like you. That he is you.” 
“Was that disappointing?” 
“Peter, you’re, like, my favourite person in the world,” you whisper fervently, your smile making it light. You laugh. “Why would that be disappointing?” 
“I thought maybe you think he’s cooler than me.” 
“He is cooler than you, Peter.” You laugh again, pleased when he scoffs and draws you nearer. “I guess you’re the same person, right? So he’s just as cool as you are. But why would being cool matter to me? You know I like you.” 
“You flirted pretty heavily with Spider-Man.”
“Well, he flirted with me first.” 
You chance a look at his face. From that moment you can’t look away, not from Peter. You like when he wears that darkness in his eyes, the hint of his rarer side so uncommonly seen, but you love this most of all, Peter like your best memory, the way he’s looking at you now a picture perfect copy of that moment in a swimming pool in Manhattan with cracked tile under your feet. His arms heavy on your shoulders. You didn’t get it then, but you’re starting to understand now.
“I’ve made a mess of everything,” he says softly, the trail his hand makes to the small of your back leaving a wake of goosebumps. “I haven’t been honest with you.” 
“I haven’t, either.” 
“I want to ask you for something,” Peter says, a fingertip trailing back up. He smiles when you shiver, not teasing, just loving. “You can say no.” 
“You’re hard to say no to.” 
“I need you to talk to me more,” —and here he goes, Peter Parker, flirting and sweet-talking like his life depends on it, his face inching down into your space— “not just because I love your voice, or because you think so much I’m scared you’ll get lost, but I need you to talk to me. We need to talk about real things.”
We do, you think morosely. 
“It’s not your fault,” he adds, the hand that isn’t holding your back coming up to cup your cheek, “it’s mine. I was scared of telling you for stupid reasons, but I shouldn’t have let it be a secret for so long.” 
“No, I doubt they’re stupid,” you murmur, following his hand as he attempts to move it to your ear. “It’s not easy to tell someone you’re a hero.”
His palm smells like smoke. 
“That’s not the secret I meant,” he says. 
You take his hand from your face. Peter looks down and begins pressing his fingers between yours, squeezing them together as his thumb runs over the back of your hand.
“So tell me.”
The sunshine bleeds onto his cheek. Dappled orange light turning slowly white as time stretches and the sun moves up through a murky sky. “You want to trade secrets again?” he asks. 
“Please.” 
“Okay. Okay, but I don’t have as many as you do,” he warns. 
“I find that hard to believe.” 
“I don’t. It’s not a real secret, is it? I’ve been trying to show you for weeks, we…”
He tilts his head invitingly. 
All those hand-holds and nights curled up in bed together. Am I going too fast? You know exactly what he means; it really isn’t a secret.
“I’ll go first,” he says, lowering his face to yours. You try not to close your eyes. “I’ve wanted to kiss you for weeks.” He closes his eyes so you follow, your breath not your own suddenly. You hold it. Let it go hastily. “What’s your secret?” 
“Sometime I want you to kiss me so badly I can’t sleep. It makes me feel sick–”
“Sick?” he asks worriedly. 
You touch the tip of your nose to his. “It’s like– like jealousy, but…” 
“You have no one to be jealous of,” he says surely. He cups your cheek, and he asks, “Please, can I kiss you?” 
You say, “Yes,” very, very quietly, but he hears it, and his smile couldn’t be more obvious as he closes the last of the distance between you to kiss you.
It isn’t the sort of kiss that kept you up at night. Peter doesn’t hook you in or tip your head back, he kisses gently, his hand coming to live on your cheek, where it cradles. It’s so warm you don’t know what to make of him beyond kissing him back —kissing his smile, though it’s catching. Kissing the line of his Cupid’s bow as he leans down. 
“I’m sorry about everything,” he mumbles, nose flattened against yours. 
You feel sunlight on your cheek. Squinting, you turn into his hand to peer outside at the sudden abundance of it. It’s still cold outside, but the Mode is warm, Peter’s hand warmer, and the sunshine is a welcome guest. 
Peter drops his hand. “Oh, wow. December sun. Good thing it didn’t snow, we’d be blind.”
“I can’t be cold much longer,” you confess. “I’m sick of the shitty weather.” 
“I can keep you warm.” 
He smiles at you. His eyelashes tangle in the corners of his eyes, long and brown. 
“Did you want my meskouta?” you ask. 
Peter plants a fat kiss against your brow. 
You let the sunshine warm your face. Two unfinished sandwich halves, a mouthful of coffee, and a round slice of meskouta, its flaky crumb and lemon drizzle shining on the table. You would ask Peter for his camera if you’d thought he brought it with him, to take a picture of your breakfast and the carved table underneath. You could turn it on Peter, say something cheesy. This is the moment you ruined our lives, you’d tease.
“You never told me you met Spider-Man, you know.” 
You watch Peter lick the tip of his finger without shame. “They could make a novella of things I haven’t told you about,” you murmur wryly. 
Peter takes a bite of meskouta, reaching for your knee under the table. He shakes your leg a little, as if to say, Well, we’ll work on that. 
Spring
“Sorry!”
“No, it’s–”
“Sorry, sorry, I’m– shit!”
“–okay! All legs inside the ride?”
“I couldn’t find my purse–”
“You don’t need it!” Peter leans over the console to kiss your cheek. “You don’t have to rush.” 
“Are you sure you can drive this thing?” 
“Harry doesn’t mind.” 
“I don’t mean the car, I mean, are you sure you can drive?” 
“That’s not funny.” 
You grin and dart across to kiss his cheek, too. “Nothing ever is with us.” 
Peter grabs you behind the neck —which might sound rough, if he were capable of such a thing— and pulls you forward for a kiss you don’t have time for. “If we don’t check in,” —you begin, swiftly smothered by another press of his lips, his tongue a heat flirting with the seam of your lips— “by three, they said they won’t keep the room–” He clasps the back of your neck and smiles when your breath stutters. You squeeze your eyes closed, kiss him fiercely, and pull away, hand on his chest to restrain him. “And then we’ll have to drive home like losers.” 
Peter sits back in the driver's seat unbothered. He fixes his hair, and he wipes his bottom lip with his knuckle. You’re rolling your eyes when he finally returns your gaze. “Sorry, am I the one who lost her purse?” 
“Peter!” 
“I can’t make us un-late,” he says, turning the key slowly, hands on the wheel but his eyes still flitting between your eyes and your lips. 
“Alright,” you warn. 
He reaches for your knee. “It’s a forty minute drive. You’re panicking over nothing.” 
“It’s an hour.” 
Your drive from Queens to Manhattan is entirely uneventful. You keep Peter’s hand hostage on your knee, your palm atop it, the other hand wrapped around his wrist, your conversation a juxtaposition, almost lackadaisical. Peter doesn’t question your clinging nor your lazy murmurings, rubbing a circle into your knee with his thumb from Forest Hill to Lenox Hill. There’s so much to do around Manhattan; you could visit MoMA, Central Park, The Empire State Building or Times Square, but you and Peter give it all a miss for the little known Manhattan Super 8. 
It’s been a long time since you and Peter first visited. You took the bus out to Lenox Hill for a med-student tour neither of you particularly enjoyed, feeling out future careers. It’s not that Lenox Hill isn’t one of the most impressive medical facilities in New York (if not the northeastern USA), it’s that all the blood made him queasy, and you were panicking too much about the future to think it through. He got over his aversion to blood but chose the less hands-on science in the end, and you worked things through. You’re a little less scared of the future everyday. 
You and Peter were supposed to get the bus straight back home for a sleepover, but one got cancelled, another delayed, and night closed in like two hands on your neck. Peter sensed your fear and emptied his wallet for a night in the Super 8. 
The next morning it was beautifully sunny. The first day of summer that year, warm and golden. The pool wasn’t anything special but it was invitingly cool, blue and white tiles patterned like fish below; you clambered into the water in shorts and a tank top and Peter his boxers before a worker could see and stop you. 
It was one of the best days of your life. When you told Peter about it last week, he’d looked at you peculiarly, said, Bub, you’re cute, and let you waste the afternoon recounting one of your more embarrassing pangs of longing. A few days later he told you to clear your calendar for the weekend, only spilling the beans on what he’d done when you’d curled over his lap, a hand threaded into the hair at the nape of his neck, murmuring, Tell me, tell me, tell me. 
He’d hung his head over you and scrunched up his eyes. Cheater.
The best thing about having a boyfriend is that he always wants to listen to you. Peter was a good listener as a best friend, but now he has his act together and the secrets between you are never anything more than eating the last of the milk duds or not wanting to pee in front of him, he’s a treasure. There’s no feeling like having Peter pull you into his lap so he can ask about your day with his face buried in your neck, sniffing. Sometimes, when you text one another to meet up the next day, you’ll accidentally will the hours away babbling about school and life and things without reason. Peter has a list on his phone of your silliest tangents; blood oranges to the super moon, fries dipped in ice cream to the world record for kick flips done in five minutes. It’s like when you talk to one another, you can’t stop. 
There are quiet moments. You wake up some mornings to find him awake already, an arm behind you, rubbing at your soft upper arm, fingertip displacing the fine hairs there and trailing circles as he reads. He bends the pages back and holds whatever novel he’s reading at the bottom of his stomach, as though making sure you can see the words clearly, even when you’re sleeping. 
There are hectic, aching moments —vigilante boyfriends become blasé with their lives and precious faces. You’ve teetered on the edge of anxiety attacks trying to pick glass from his cheek with a tweezers, lamented over bruises that heal the next day. It’s easier when Peter’s careful, but Spider-Man isn’t careful. You ask him to take care of himself and he’s gentle with himself for a few days, but then someone needs saving from an armed burglar or a car swerves dangerously onto the sidewalk and he forgets. 
He hadn’t patrolled last night in preparation for today. 
“Did you know,” he says, pulling Harry’s borrowed car into a parking spot just in front of the Super 8 reception, “that today’s the last day of spring?” 
“Already?” 
“Tonight’s the June equinox.” 
“Who told you that?” 
“Aunt May. She said it’s time to get a summer job.” 
You laugh loudly. “Our federal loans won’t last forever.” 
“Harry’s gonna get me something, I think. Do you want to work with me? It could be fun.” 
You nod emphatically. It’s barely a thought. “Obviously I want to. Does Oscorp pay well, do you think?” 
Peter lets the engine go. The car turns off, engine ticking its last breath in the dash. “Better than the Bugle.” 
You get your key from the reception and find your room upstairs, second floor. It’s not dirty nor exceptionally clean, no mould or damp but a strange smell in the bathroom. There’s a microwave with two mugs and a few sachets of instant coffee. Peter deems it the nicest motel he’s ever stayed in, laughing, crossing the room to its only window and pulling aside the curtain. 
“There it is, sweetheart,” he says, wrapping his arm around you as you join him, “that’s what dreams are made of.” 
The blue and white tiled pool. It hasn’t changed. 
It’s about as hot as it’s going to get in June today, and, not knowing if it’ll rain tomorrow, you and Peter change into your swim suits and gather your towels. You wear flip flops and tangle your fingers, clanking and thumping down the rickety metal stairs to the pool. There’s nobody there, no lifeguard, no quests, and the pool is clean and cold when you dip your toes. 
Peter eases in first. Towels in a heap at the end of a sun lounger, his shirt tumbling to the floor, Peter splashes in frontward and turns to face you as the water laps his ribs. “It’s cold,” he says, wading for your legs, which he hugs. 
“I can feel it,” you say, the cool waters to your calves where you sit on the edge. 
“You won’t come in and warm me up?” he asks. 
You stroke a tendril of hair from his eyes. He attempts to kiss your fingers. 
“I’m trying to prepare myself.” 
“Mm, you have to get used to it.” He puts wet hands on your thighs, looking up imploringly until you lean down for a kiss. The fact that he’d want one still makes you dizzy. “Thank you,” he says. 
“You’ll have to move.” 
Peter steps back, a ripple of water ringing behind him, his hands raised. He slips them with ease under your arms and helps you down into the water, laughing at your shocked giggling —he’s so strong, the water so cold. 
Peter doesn’t often show his strength. Never to intimidate, he prefers startling you helpfully. He’ll lift you when you want to reach something too tall, or raise the bed when you’re on his side to force you sideways. 
“Oh, this is the perfect place to try the lift!” he says. 
“How will I run?” you ask, letting your knees buckle, water rushing up to your neck. 
Peter pulls you up. He touches you easily, and yet you get the sense that he’s precious with you, too. There’s devotion to be found in his hands and the specific way they cradle your back, drawing your chest to his. “I don’t need you to do a running start, sweetheart,” he says, tilting his head to the side, “I’ll just lift you.” 
“Last time I laughed so much you dropped me.” 
“Exactly, you laughed, and this is serious.” 
The world isn’t mild here. Car horns beep and tyres crunch asphalt. You can hear children, and singing, and a walkie talkie somewhere in the Super 8’s parking lot. The pool pumps gargle and Peter’s breath is half laughter as he pulls you further from the sidelines, ceramic tiles slippery under your feet. In the distance, you swear you can hear one of those songs he likes from that poor singer who died in the Wolf River. 
He’s a beholden thing in the sun; you can’t not look at him, all of him, his sculpted chest wet and glinting in the sun, his eyes like browning honey, his smile curling up, and up. 
“You’re beautiful,” he says. 
You rest an arm behind his head. “The rash guard is a good look?” 
“Sweetheart, you couldn’t look cuter,” he says, hands on your waist, pinky on your hip. “I wish you’d mentioned these shorts a few days ago. I would’ve prepared to be a more decent man.” 
“You’re decent enough, Parker.” 
“Maybe now.” 
“Well, if things get too hot, you can always take a quick dip,” you say. 
You’re teasing, but Peter’s eyes light up with mischief as he calls, “Oh, great idea!” and lets himself drop backwards into the water. You pull your arm back rather than go with him. You can’t avoid the great burst of water as he surges to the surface. 
He shakes himself off like a dog. 
“Pete!” you cry through laughs, wiping the water from your face before the chlorine gets in your eyes. 
“It just didn’t help,” he says, pulling you back into his arms, “you know, the water is cold, but you’re so hot, and I actually got a pretty good look at them when I was under, and you’re just as pretty as I remembered you being ten seconds ago–”
“Peter,” you say, tempted to roll your eyes. 
Water runs down his face in great rivers, but with the dopey smile he’s sporting, they look like anything but tears. “Tell me a secret?” he asks, dripping in sunshine, an endless summer at his back. 
A soft smile takes your lips. “No,” you say, tipping up your chin, “you tell me one first.”
“What kind of secret?” 
“A real one,” you insist. 
“Oh…” He leans away from you, though his arms stay crossed behind you. “Okay, I have one. Ask me again.” 
You raise a single brow. “Tell me a secret, Peter.” 
He pulls your face in for a kiss. His hand is wet on your cheek, but no less welcome. “I love you,” he says, kissing the skin just shy of your nose. 
You’re lucky he’s already holding you. “I love you too,” you say, gathering him to you for a hug, digging your nose into the slope of his neck as his admission blows your mind. “I love you.” 
Peter wraps his arms around your shoulders, closing his eyes against the side of your head. You can’t know what he’s thinking, but you can feel it. His hands can’t seem to stay still on your skin. 
The sun warms your back for a time. 
Peter lets out a deep breath of relief. You lean away to look at him, your hand slipping down into the water, where he finds it, his fingers circling your wrist. 
“That’s another one to let go of,” he suggests. 
He peppers a row of gentle kisses along your lips and the soft skin below your eye. 
You and Peter swim until your fingers are pruned and the sun has been blanketed by clouds. You let him wrap you in a towel, and kiss your wet ears, and take you back to the room, where he holds your face. 
“I’ll start the shower for you,” he says, rubbing your cheeks with his thumbs, each stroke of them encouraging your face from one side to the other, just a touch, ever so slightly moved in the palms of his hands. 
“Don’t fall asleep standing up,” he murmurs. 
Your eyes close unbidden to you both. “I won’t.” 
He holds you still, leaning in slowly to kiss you with the barest of pressure. Every thought in your head fades, leaving only you and Peter, and the dizziness of his touch as he lays you down at the end of the bed. 
。𖦹°‧⭑.ᐟ
please like, comment or reblog if you enjoyed, i love comments and seeing what anyone reading liked about the fic is a treat —thank you for reading❤︎
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sjyuns · 3 days ago
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NO DOUBT、I LOVE YOU! — ENHYPEN MEMBERS TELLING YOU THAT YOU’RE THE ONE!
hyung line!enhypen x fem reader 1000+ words warning kissing pet names jealousy drinking genre fluff, slightly suggestive mikaela’s note happy comeback! i jumped the moment niki sang the chorus. i got carried away as the members progress haha (jake i want you so bad) | collection
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LEE HEESEUNG
The unfamiliar feeling of deep green envy bubbles up your chest and straight into your heart as you stare at your boyfriend — who’s familiar lean figure is nestled between Jay and another girl you’ve yet to get to know. And yet here you are by yourself, swept in coldness by the absence of your boyfriend by your side.
It was the first time you and Heeseung had argued since you got together five months ago — a rather long honeymoon phase. Your teeth gnaw fervently on your lips in slight panic, eyes glued on your boyfriend’s figure, overall too consumed with jealousy to notice his lack of comfort.
Even though Heeseung sits squished between two people, the lack of you makes his heart feel cold. And he notices the way your tongue sweeps over your lips, eyes darting away every time your gaze catches his. It’s too cute the way you’re obviously jealous.
“You jealous, baby?” Heeseung whispers, as he pulls you into an empty room, leaving his friend behind, “no need to be, you’re the only one that I want.”
Your lips part ever so slightly at the sudden confession, and Heeseung takes the chance to pull you in, placing his lips on your pillowy ones — slightly swollen from the constant biting. And the ever familiar feeling of his warmth returns back to your heart where it belongs.
“I’m sorry,” you mutter, head dipped down,“I should have listened to you first before jumping into conclusions.” Soft fingertips dance against the skin of your chin as he lifts your head up to kiss you yet again. “I’m sorry baby, I should’ve told you before.”
“I love you.”
PARK JONGSEONG
Your footsteps are hurried as you rush into the nearby pub, eyes scanning around for your boyfriend, only to find him slumped in a corner — eyes half opened, slick backed hair with strands poking out, and tie half undone. His head drooping side to side as his mouth muttered incoherently.
“Thanks for coming, he wouldn’t stop blabbering about you,” Jake said, moving over to give you space to sit next to Jay. He opens his eyes at the arrival of a new touch, cheeks flushed a shade or coral red and eyes glimmering at the sight of you.
“Love,” he speaks out, face housing an uncontrollable, geeky grin as he stares into you, and your heart pumps irregularly in the name of love. “I love you,” he says, fingers tracing your features from your eyes to your lips — and it’s almost like he’s casting a spell the way his touch is so gently intricate.
“I love you, love,” this time he says it more firmly, as if it was a proven fact, something he had known for a long time. And you stare at him, entranced at his very rawness of love, smiling goofily at a side of your boyfriend you don’t see too often.
“Are you not going to say it back?” He frowns, eyebrows furrowed as strands of hair fall back onto his sweaty forehead.
“I love you too.”
SIM JAEYUN
You absolutely regret introducing your friends to Sim Jaeyun with the way they’re clamouring around him, eager to get to know him more — as if you weren’t the one to know him first. His signature styled hair and thick black rimmed glasses that sit perfectly on his nose — the very features that lured you in once now irked you to your very core.
“Where did you get the hot nerd from,” your friend squeals, “can you link me up with him? Heard he’s single.” Your jaw clenches, lips tightly shut as you give her a small smile. Your heart eager to correct her yet your mind telling you to slow down, that you and Jake were nothing other than just friends.
“Sorry, think you heard wrong,” an arm swings over your shoulder, pulling your body closer to his, “this one’s got me.” The deep aussie accent puts you into a daze once again as your head swivels over to look at Jake, lips brushing against his face from the lack of space between the two of you.
“Isn’t that right, princess?” He asks, a mischievous glint in his eye. And all you can do is nod as she leaves the both of you alone.
“Jake? We aren’t in a relationship,” you state, head tilted slightly. And Sim Jaeyun has never seen someone as adorable as you look right now.
“Now that everyone thinks we are, we might as well right?” The cheeky glint in his eyes never leaving as his fingers move to tuck strands of hairs behind your ear, eyes darting from your lips to your eyes and back before moving closer to press his lips onto yours.
“Now that you’ve kissed me, i’m yours forever baby.”
PARK SUNGHOON
Being roommates with the devil’s incarnate might be the harder thing on earth, not to mention how insanely hot he is. The underlying tension and long gazes at each other makes it hard to breathe even in the familiarity of your own house. He invades all your senses — from simple habits of walking around topless to his teasing comments that leave you flustered.
“Leaving so soon?” Sunghoon questions as he steps into the kitchen with you, away from the dining room full of his friends. “Don’t like me that much?” He grins, sharp canine fangs on display.
“Yeah that, and also i’m tired,” you answer back, holding back a yawn of your own. Sunghoon feels his heart sink slightly at the thought of your absence in tonight’s round of gaming — the smile you have when he lets you win. “I’m going to bed now,” you tell him, turning your back around.
“Where’s my goodnight kiss,” he jokes, leaning over the counter, lean muscles on full display under the tank he’s donned. You turn back, face red and flustered at the sudden direct comment — you’ve always thought that Sunghoon was good looking, yet you’ve never really made a move given your relationship as roommates.
“I’m not giving you a goodnight kiss, Hoon,” you lament, tossing the idea of him flirting with you out of your mind. “So you want me to give you a goodnight kiss?” Sunghoon asks, his tone void of any mischief, as his eyes stare into yours with some kind of want.
And suddenly it’s quiet, the muffled laughter from the dining room gone, leaving the two of you in serene tension. Sunghoon’s ring clad fingers dancing against the slight revelation of your waist, cold metal a stark contrast to the warmth between you two.
He bends down to kiss you, and it isn’t a short one off peck — it’s raw and passionate, as if he’s wanted this all his life. And when it finally breaks off, the two of you are left gasping for air.
“I like you,” he says, breathless, “actually I think i might be in love with you.”
This time you pull him into you.
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© SJYUNS
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beloveds-embrace · 3 days ago
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noona. noon. any angsty thoughts to share for the duke au? 👁️ (i’m craving angst sorry)
Original post
I DO!! Angst version of the au would be if you weren’t welcomed at all. Sure, no one is being flat out rude to you, no one is actively sabotaging you and John doesn’t hit or force you into anything.
But it’s lonely.
The maids barely touch you, as if disgusted they have to help and tend to the woman their Duke needed to and not wanted to marry, and the butlers are the same. Especially the head butler Garrick. You still don’t know his first name and he doesn’t seem inclined to tell you.
During the dinner… nights with John, you’ve started noticing that your food isn’t quite as well done as his? Less decorated, occasionally burnt or not cooked well, but you don’t want to cause any trouble so you remain silent and John never asks why you seem to eat so little.
You do also meet Duke Riley, the man that John is said to have an incredibly close friendship with, something born during his time servicing the kingdom. You’ve heard so much about him, from bad to good, and you wonder how he actually is.
In the end, you wish you hadn’t met him, too. The humiliation of being flat-out ignored in your own home while he speaks amicably with John…
So yes. Life as Duchess Price isn’t a happy one, but you are just glad you aren’t physically hurting.
But you do find solace in the only kindness your parents had bothered to show you before they gave you away; your personal knight, König. He is the only one to not treat you as such. He is the only one you can confide in, feel just a little bit of happiness and friendship with even if you haven’t even seen his face yet.
“I’m so tired,” you whisper to him one night, under the blanket of the night sky. You’d thrown a simple shawl over your shoulders, and hadn’t questioned it when he fell in steps behind you, always a protective shadow. Today had been hard. You had also decided to no longer dine with John, not too excited about the lackluster food and the stilted conversations. Cold maids, lonely night… you ached for something more.
You take in a shuddering breath, wrapping the shawl tighter around yourself. Konig stands right beside the bench you are sitting on, a familiar and comforting sight and presence. But tonight, it’s not enough. “I’m so tired, König.” You repeat, your voice cracking.
König simply stares at you for a while; you are used to it, used to everything about him. The mask, the accent, the unyielding body that is always keeping you safe. The quiet congestions you have had, during the days you lock yourself away in your office to ignore the loneliness and sadness plaguing you.
You aren’t used to seeing König bend down in front of you, holding his hands out until you place them in his. Familiar pale eyes peer up at you. Proper etiquette doesn’t matter to you in this moment; who will chastise you for the lack of it when this entire duchy holds only the most basic form of respect for you?
Even if they did, you would not let go of König, your confidant. Your knight.
“…What do you need, mylady?”
After a silent moment, you take in a deep breath and look back at him. “…I want… someone who loves me enough to be kind towards me. I want someone who loves me.”
König nods his head. With bated breath, you watch silently as he brings your hands forward, under his mask, to kiss each knuckle on your hands.
“I am your knight, mylady. I am your sword, and your shield. I, too, can be your lover if that is what you want, mylady. Whatever you desire, it is my duty to provide.” König breathes out against your skin, eyes not once flicking away, words not once breaking. He is fully devoted in his decision. “Will you allow me, mylady? The decision is your, always has been. I cannot take you away from this horrible place-“ not yet. “-but I can give you my love and devotion, just as I’ve always done. Will you allow me, mylady?”
And after everything you’ve been through, all the pain and loneliness and exclusion- you can’t say no.
“…Yes, König.”
(By the time John begins to realize that he may have misjudged you, once you find out the truth, it is already far too late for mending any bridges. There is no particular feeling when you look at him, or any of his men. You only ask that no one bothers your time alone with your shadow, your knight. It’s far too late for anything.)
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derealizationns · 2 days ago
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"intimacy"
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characters - katsuki bakugou x fem reader
synopsis - katsuki’s tough facade crumbles as soon as you two are together, and he loves every second of it.
genre - fluff!!! so much fluff 🥹
warnings - none 🫧
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katsuki loves intimacy. he definitely won’t show it, but he’s all for it. that boy is so used to being tough and everything, that it makes him crave those tender and gentle moments.
just imagine simple things like making dinner. the world seems silent, the only things you can hear are the shuffles of yours and katsuki’s slippers and the raindrops hitting the roof of your shared home. bakugou is chopping food on the counter, with you sitting beside him on top of the island, swinging your legs and just observing his movements.
your presence brings him so much comfort, though you aren’t even doing anything special. just the feeling of domesticity makes katsuki experience some weird warm sensation in his chest. he subconsciously smiles at that. it’s a faint smirk, but you still notice it.
after jumping off the countertop, you wrap your arms around his chest and place your head on his muscular back. he huffs with fake annoyance, but in reality, this gesture makes him incredibly happy.
“whatcha doin’, idiot?” he asks.
you roll your eyes at his question.
“i’m showing love to my incredibly strong boyfriend, don’t pretend that you don’t like it.”
at that moment, katsuki shuts up. he can’t lie to your pretty face, that would be cruel, so he just decides to remain silently enjoying your presence and warmth.
some other day, you are lying under the covers with your boyfriend. it’s saturday afternoon, meaning that you two have a day off, just for yourselves. bakugo decided that both of you should watch a movie that just came out, but truth be told, he didn’t even pay attention to it. the boy is simply staring blankly at the tv, visibly deep in thought. you quickly notice his weird behavior and decide to bring it up.
“kats?” you start.
his attention quickly switches to you, bright red eyes staring into yours curiously.
“what’s wrong?” the question falls from your lips.
his expression changes to one of slight shock. perhaps bakugou didn’t realize that he was visibly zoning out, or maybe he just didn’t expect you to mention it. after a few seconds of silence, bakugo finally speaks up.
“nothin’ is wrong, why you askin’?”
you sigh at his words. he is clearly hiding something from you. just when you wanted to scold him for his obvious lie, he speaks again.
“just thinkin’… ’bout how much i love you, i guess…” he starts, but he’s not looking at you anymore; his eyes are fixed on the ceiling. bakugo feels so embarrassed after he says this. the boy silently curses himself for speaking up.
you look at him confused but can’t deny the warm, fuzzy feeling in your chest. katsuki wasn’t the one to express his love so directly, and that took you aback.
“every memory i have with you makes me feel… weird. like, not bad weird, just… puzzled, i guess? i’ve never felt that way, so it’s hard to exp—” you cut off his rambling before he finishes.
“i know what you mean, kats. every moment, even the simplest and most boring one, stirs up something within you, am i right?”
your boyfriend sends you a shocked look. he didn’t expect you to read his emotions so well. you just said everything right! how is that possible? did you read his mind or something? or maybe… it was because those were the same feelings you have…?
“yeah… i think you’re right…” he mumbles, visibly embarrassed by this conversation, so you think it’s time to cut it off.
“but it’s a good feeling, right? like you’re not… overwhelmed?” you ask him worriedly.
katsuki shoots you a look that you think was supposed to be scolding.
“what? no, you idiot. it’s… it’s good, i like it.”
you smile at his words and tuck yourself closer to him, bathing in his warmth.
“that’s good…” you whisper and feel yourself slowly doze off, as bakugou leaves a soft kiss on your forehead.
you sleep soundly, dreaming about every soft and domestic moment you had with katsuki. and there were many more to come.
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girlgenius1111 · 3 days ago
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study buddy
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solstråle engen ft. @wileys-russo 's fresa! sol struggles with school, and facing the threat of having to repeat the year, ingrid and mapi try to get her some study help. it doesn't go... exceptionally well.
It was more frustrating than anything. For years, you hadn’t really given school much thought, or put in very much effort. And then, suddenly, you’d been shipped off to Spain and everything was different. Everything changed again six months later, and suddenly, school felt like something that held a lot more weight.
You didn’t have many opportunities to make Ingrid and Mapi proud of you. Sure, they’d say they were proud of you when you asked for help while having a panic attack, or for setting some sort of boundary. That just didn’t feel… right. It didn’t feel like it was enough. They were bending over backwards, every day, to make you feel known and seen and loved, and the least you could do was show that they were helping you, right?
So, very suddenly, school was important. Grades were important. It seemed, though, that the years of not caring and not paying attention had taken their toll. Because you studied, and you actually tried but it wasn’t enough. Your grades were still… mediocre. Nothing to brag about. 
You worked harder, to no avail. You tried different methods of studying, you devoted hours and hours to your schoolwork, and… no improvement. So much of your work felt like it went way over your head. 
You had promised yourself you wouldn’t be upset when you handed Ingrid the test you’d gotten back. She had a busy week and she really didn’t need you breaking down over a stupid test, like you had earlier in the school bathroom. Your plan was to bypass your sister and her girlfriend, head straight to your room, and maybe slam the door. If you acted angry, they were more likely to give you space to calm down, which meant there was much less of a chance you’d get all pathetic and upset.  
Only, you’d forgotten that Ingrid had known you were getting the test back today, having seen you study and study and study for it. Your sister was sure that since you studied so much, it must be a good grade, and she had a magnet all ready to attach your exam to the fridge. 
The minute you walked into the house and saw her waiting in the kitchen, freshly showered from training, an expectant and excited look on her face, you shrunk in on yourself, very suddenly wanting a hug more than you wanted to cry silently into your pillow all alone.
“How’d you do?!” Ingrid asked excitedly, her smile only faltering when your lip began to wobble. “Solstråle?”
“I’m sorry.” You choked out tugging the collar of your shirt up over your eyes before she could see you begin to cry. Ingrid’s arms were wrapping around you only a moment later, holding you tight against her as she floundered, confused as to what had upset you.
“Hey, it’s okay. Whatever happened, it’s alright. I’ve got you.” Ingrid promised, making eye contact over your head with Mapi, who had wandered into the kitchen and caught sight of you trembling against your sister. 
Ingrid thought something must have happened at school, and Mapi quickly came to the same conclusion. The thought that you’d done poorly on your test, and this was the reason behind your distress, never even crossed her mind. Ingrid had never known you to care much about your grades, and while you were trying harder now, she didn’t think something like a bad result could get you this upset. 
“I’m really sorry. I tried my best.” You whimpered, briefly wondering when you’d turned into this person who cried at the drop of a hat and allowed her sister to hug you whenever you were upset. It was so different. Everything was so different. 
“What are you sorry for?” She asked, heart melting a bit as Mapi walked closer and pressed a kiss to the top of your head, before perching on the counter. “Tell me, Sol, tell me what’s wrong.” 
Wordlessly, you withdrew from the comforting embrace of your sister and swung your bag off your shoulder. You unzipped it, pulling out the exam from the red folder Ingrid had neatly labeled for you. You handed it to her, eyes brimming with tears again at the sight of all the red marks all over the first page. 
Ingrid’s first instinct was to sigh, but you’d been with her long enough for her to know you’d just shut down. Not to mention that she knew how much work you’d been putting into this specific exam. Prepared to ask you what had gone wrong, she looked up to see that the tears had stopped. There wasn’t a hint of emotion on your face, like you were preparing yourself to be yelled at. Ingrid had no such plans.
“Oh, Sol. Kjære, come here.” She said instead, pulling you back into her. There was some hesitation on your part, but after a second you melted into the hug, knowing that if Ingrid was upset, she would have told you so by now. “You studied so hard, I’m sorry it didn’t go well.” 
“I’m sorry.” You said again, frowning when Ingrid pulled back and placed both her hands on your face, tilting your head up to look at her. 
“You have nothing to be sorry for. You tried your best, that’s all I want from you.”
You shook your head, but didn’t say anything, instead opting to stare at your shoes. You hadn’t taken them off at the door, breaking one of Ingrid and Mapi’s rules. This additional mistake, regardless of how small it was, made you feel even worse. You couldn’t do anything right. 
A tattooed hand grabbed yours, and you looked up at Mapi. She had moved closer, holding the exam in one hand, her other gripping yours. 
“This is a passing grade, mi sol. Why are you so upset? It’s not like you to get so worked up over school.” Your face flushed, but before you could step away, Mapi’s grip tightened, as if she’d sensed you were about to run. “Come on, it’s us. You can tell us.” 
“I.. It’s not good enough.” You stammered, looking between your sister and her girlfriend with genuine despair written all across your face. “I wanted to do well. For both of you., I wanted you to be proud of me.” 
“Oh, Sol,” Ingrid sighed, exchanging a look with Mapi that only served to make you feel even more foolish. It had taken so much for you to admit why you were working so hard, and though you knew, logically, that Ingrid wasn’t trying to make you feel dumb, she had. 
You wrenched away from her, suddenly deciding that you didn't need her pity. Backing up until you hit the wall on the opposite side of the kitchen, you began to ramble. Unable to look either Ingrid or Mapi in the eye, you missed the sadness on their faces. “No, forget it. It’s fine. It’s really fine. It’s not a big deal, It’s my own fault, I’m too stupid to learn stuff my classmates already know-”
“Hey!” Mapi cut in, sounding uncharacteristically stern. “You are not stupid. Don’t ever say that again.” 
You froze, staring at her with your mouth agape. Ingrid took a cautious step closer, aware she was toeing a thin line between you breaking down again, and pushing you into anger. 
“You aren’t stupid.” Ingrid echoed. “You’re not stupid, and you know you aren’t. It’s just one exam, Sol, it doesn’t make or break anything.” 
At this, you averted your eyes, a blush creeping up your neck. This exam could be a determining factor in your educational career. Ingrid just didn’t really know that information yet. Like a bloodhound, though, Ingrid caught the scent of your secret, her eyebrows raising as she stared at you. 
“It doesn’t make or break anything, right?” 
It was a staring contest for a few moments, one you and Ingrid both knew she would win, yet you kept it going all the same. The silence became too intense, the gazes of your sister and her girlfriend breaking your resolve rather quickly. With a heavy sigh, you reached for your bag yet again and pulled out a slightly wrinkled envelope. 
Ingrid held her hand out expectantly, apprehension clear on her face. You handed her the envelope, eyes still training on the floor. 
“Solstråle. This is addressed to me.” Ingrid huffed, removing the letter from inside and beginning to read it. Mapi moved forward, peeking over her girlfriend’s shoulder, eyes quickly scanning over the letter. You braced yourself, prepared for the worst. 
The last time you’d brought home something like this… you’d ended up living in Spain. Which was potentially the best thing that could have happened, but you had a feeling the consequences of this letter wouldn’t work out as well. 
Your sister placed the paper down on the counter, raking her fingers through her hair as she thought for a moment. She wasn’t quite sure what to say. Part of her wanted to yell, but when was that ever the right choice? Before she could decide, María’s shoulder bumped into hers. Her girlfriend nodded in your direction, clearly trying to get Ingrid to see how terrified you were. 
And Ingrid couldn’t yell at you when you were like this, all sad and scared with your head bowed and your arms folded across your chest protectively. 
“Sol?” She said, her tone much quieter and kinder than you were expecting it to be. You looked up at her, shocked further to see that she didn’t look very angry. “Why didn’t you give this to me last week when they sent it?” 
Ingrid nodded towards the date on the letter, and you exhaled shakily. “I… I was hoping I could just try really hard for the rest of the year and do really well in all my classes and it would be fine.” 
Your sister nodded slowly, reading the letter over again. 
Mapi took the opportunity to chime in, her hand absentmindedly resting on your sister’s back, even as she fixed her warm gaze on you. “Nena, that is a lot for you to carry all by yourself. Having the threat of maybe needing to repeat the year hanging over your head… you should have told us.” 
You shrugged, blinking away the moisture pooling in your eyes at Mapi’s tone. “I didn’t want to disappoint you guys.” You mumbled. 
“You haven’t disappointed anyone!” Mapi exclaimed, frowning when you just scoffed in response. “I’m serious, Sol. We saw you study and study for this exam. You did your best, you’re doing your best. That’s all we can ask from you.” 
“My best isn’t good enough! I’m going to fail and have to repeat the year.” You cried, throwing your hands up in the air in exasperation. The mere thought of another year of school was horrifying. 
Ingrid finally put the letter down, a blazingly determined expression on her face. “No. You’re not going to fail anything. We’ll help you, we’ll reach out to your teachers, we’ll get you extra help. We’ll figure it out, Sol, but you’re not going to fail. Not if I have anything to say about it.” 
For anyone else, that may have sounded overbearing. For you, though, it just felt supportive. It felt like you weren’t dealing with this yourself anymore, and that was a relief you didn’t know you needed. 
“Okay.” You said quietly. “Thanks.” 
Luckily, your sister knew you well enough to understand that after such an intense conversation, you’d need some time to yourself to process. 
“Hey,” Ingrid said, catching your wrist and turning you around slightly before you could leave the room. “I’m already proud of you, and the person you are. You could fail every test for the rest of your life, and I’d still be proud of you. Okay?”
You blinked at her for a prolonged second, before you nodded jerkily. Turning to head up the stairs to your room, you changed your mind, spinning back around and falling into your sister. She hugged you tight, as she always did, and you wondered briefly how you got so lucky. 
It was the following day that Mapi and Ingrid proposed their plan. Before they’d even said anything, you knew a few things. 
One, that they were excited about whatever plan they’d cooked up that day at training. 
And two, that you weren’t really going to have a choice in the matter. 
As a general rule, Ingrid and Mapi didn’t make you do many things. If they thought something was important, they’d encourage you to try it a few times, and then they’d let you stop if you still didn’t like it. That was how it had been for the school’s climbing club, the school’s hiking club, and the school’s baking club. All those were activities you enjoyed, but… activities you enjoyed doing yourself.
Well, not always.You loved to climb and hike with Ingrid. Frido, too, sometimes. And you could bake for hours with Mapi helping, measuring out ingredients and getting baking flour everywhere. But doing any of the above with strangers who spoke in rapid, fluent Spanish or catalan, was not fun. It was anxiety inducing. 
You knew this was about to be another one of those ideas, the ones you had to give a fair shot. 
It was at dinner, and you were trying to hide the wince everytime you picked up your water glass with your right hand, your wrist intensely aching after the time you spent in the climbing gym after school. It always hurt when you climbed for too long, though it was getting worse with every passing day. Another problem for another day, you decided, seeing the barely contained glee on Mapi’s face as she cleared her throat. 
“What?” You said suspiciously, putting your fork down and narrowing your eyes at the Spaniard. 
Mapi opened her mouth to speak, but before she could, Ingrid chimed in. 
“Mapi’s made you a playdate!” She said, smirking when her girlfriend wacked her in the arm. 
“Ingrid, that is not going to help me convince her.” Mapi huffed, sitting back in her chair and crossing her arms over her chest. 
Still unamused, you continued to frown at Mapi. “I’d love it if you didn’t keep proposing ideas that you’d need to convince me of. Teaching you how to rock climb, trying to get that stain out of my favorite sweatshirt yourself, being the keeper while you practiced your free kicks, helping you build that bonfire–”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Mapi dismissed. 
“You got stuck on the rock wall, my sweatshirt has a hole in it, the ball hit me so hard in the stomach I threw up, and both of us lost part of our eyebrows!” 
Mapi glared at you, while Ingrid hid her face behind her hand as her body shook with silent laughter. 
“Well this plan,” Mapi sighed, “is Ingrid AND Alexia approved.” 
That wiped the smile off your face. 
“Alexia? What does she have to do with this?” 
There were a few things you knew for certain about Mapi. One, she didn’t give up easily. Another, that she wanted more than anything for you to be friends with Alexia’s little sister. And from the sly smile on her face, you were almost sure you knew where this was headed. 
“I asked her to ask Fresa to tutor you!”
“No.” You said immediately. 
Mapi continued like you hadn’t spoken. “Fresa is a bit younger than you, but already finished your year! She’s studying to be a nurse, she’s very smart. Fres speaks English and she can help you with your Spanish and any other school things you need help with.” 
“No.” You repeated, looking helplessly at your sister. Ingrid looked to finally be taking the situation seriously, a familiar look on her face; one you knew meant that no matter how much you argued, she was going to get her way. Meanwhile, Mapi was still droning on. 
“–get along great with her! I think you guys have a lot in common, and it could be fun and educational!” 
“And you know all the best things are fun and educational.” Ingrid chimed in cheerily, this time her face telling you to go along with Mapi’s idea because she was excited about it, or else. 
“Educational.” You said sarcastically. “Super!” 
Still, you agreed, Mapi grinned at you, and Ingrid patted your back reassuringly. Mapi had a lot of bad ideas. You were pretty sure this would turn out to be the worst. 
You always spent more time at the climbing gym when things were rough. Back in Norway, you’d spend multiple hours a day, everyday, there. It was one of your tells; Ingrid always knew something was bothering you if you went to climb right after school. It was your way of shoving your emotions down before you could feel them, before your sister could read the hurt on your face and give you one of those tight hugs that brought tears to your eyes. 
Only, sometimes climbing didn’t do it. Sometimes, it felt like the walls were closing in, like you were about to suffocate, if you didn’t have some time completely by yourself to think. On those days, you really preferred to hike. You hadn’t felt that urge in a while; the urge to just disappear for hours, walk until your legs felt like they were going to fall up, and sit at the top of the trail until the world felt like a place you wanted to be in again. The last time had been back in Norway, after a day you didn’t even want to think about. 
Yet you found yourself in that same familiar mindset after your first study session with Fresa. 
It hadn’t gone well. You tried to go into it confident, sure that if you acted chill enough, she’d maybe miss that you had no idea what you were doing with your schoolwork. 
Confident, even as you arrived 15 minutes late. Scout had gotten his favorite toy, a small tiger that squeaked, stuck under the sofa, and it had taken you time you didn’t have to get it out for him. You could have left it, but Ingrid and Mapi weren’t home and you knew Scout would just sit by the couch and cry the whole time you were gone if you didn’t get his tiger out for him, and you couldn’t bear the thought of leaving him to be so upset. And then you’d had a hard time finding a parking space at the library, and the directions inside were all in Spanish and Fresa had texted you to follow the signs to the study rooms but you misread the sign and went to the opposite end of the library before figuring out your mistake. And you would have texted you were going to be late, because you hated being late, but your phone was dead and the cord from your car had gone missing. 
When you entered the room, Fresa already looked annoyed. 
Annoyed, with her hair pulled back into a ponytail, twirling a pen repeatedly in an almost unconscious manner. She looked very… put together. 
“Llegas tarde.” She commented, rolling her eyes when you didn’t reply. Your face flushed a bit as she must have picked up on your confusion, repeating herself in english. “You are late.” 
Any other time, you would have known what she said. Your issue wasn’t really understanding Spanish, it was more speaking and reading it. You felt weirdly flustered though today, like your brain was distracted and not quite able to follow what the other girl was saying. Anxious, too, at this social situation you’d been forced into. 
Briefly, you thought about explaining about Scout and the tiger and the parking space and the signs being in Spanish, but then you realized Fresa wouldn’t care about any of that. So instead, you just nodded and apologized, feeling your heart start to pound from the anxiety of the situation. 
You didn’t like talking to new people. Especially pretty new people who spoke a different language and were looking at you like you weren’t very smart. Even if you thought that yourself… you didn’t want anyone else to think so. Any intention of actually asking Fresa for help with the mountains of stuff you were confused with went out the window, then, and you almost subconsciously decided to just… try to get through without letting her know quite how lost you were. 
Fresa was alarmingly smart. She kept asking you questions about your work, about what you needed help with. Everything didn’t feel like an answer you wanted to give. Fresa seemed organized, though, and you assumed letting her take the lead and decide what to work on would placate her. Instead, she just looked more and more annoyed with every passing second.
 She kept asking questions about this paper and that paper and you didn’t know what papers she was talking about. You felt so stupid. More stupid than when you’d failed your test last week. 
“How do you even find the right paper in there?” Fresa asked, pulling a judgemental look as you rifled through your bag, searching for the article she was asking for.
Your bag was a mess, you knew it was a mess. You’d knocked your coffee over all your folders a few days ago, sitting at the counter when Scout barked and startled you. That was oddly upsetting in and of itself because Ingrid had gotten you the folders and labeled them for you and you felt like you’d destroyed something nice she’d done for you. You hadn’t told her, not wanting to hurt her feelings or anything, so now your school papers were living crinkled and disorganized in your bag.
And you were pretty sure the article Fresa was asking for had been a casualty of the coffee incident, because you’d scanned the paper and thought it wasn’t important before throwing it out. The Spanish had confused you, and you hadn’t realized you’d need the article for an assignment. Stupid. 
 You were feeling more and more embarrassed as the minutes passed. And, maybe, your reaction to feeling embarrassed was always anger. You pulled out a random piece of paper, slamming it down onto the table with more force than necessary in your haste to give the Spaniard something. 
Fresa instantly knew that what you’d given her wasn’t the right article, asking again if you had it as you shoved the other paper back into your bag. 
Logically, you knew you should just… admit you threw it away because you didn’t realize you needed it. For some reason, you just couldn’t get the words out of your mouth. You couldn’t get any words out of your mouth, feeling shockingly like crying. Nothing was going right and you were making yourself look like an idiot and all you could do was shrug as Fresa looked at you and took a deep breath. 
Then, she seemed to come to some kind of realization, her expression softening slightly. 
“Can you not read this? The spanish?” 
You flinched, feeling your face flush. Again, the reply of ‘no I can’t, would you please help me?’ seemed to evade you. Instead, you spewed some lie about being able to read the article, calling Fresa’s questions stupid and telling her she was wasting your time. 
Fresa seemed to have reached her breaking point, her voice rising as yours had. You didn’t really hear what she said, much too distracted by the way her eyebrows knitted together when she was frustrated, and the way her hand tightly gripped the pen she was holding. 
Then, she made an offensive impression of your shrugging. And if you hadn’t been angry before, you were absolutely fuming now. 
So what if you were quiet? It wasn’t like you really needed to talk much, considering how many questions she’d asked. You were furious at being called out for all your bullshit, feeling like a mess compared to the perfect girl next to you. A very angry mess who’d had a long day and was cursing one María León for making her do this and cursing the beautiful girl next to her for being so infuriating.  
“Alexia’s super little sister. Everyone says you are so smart. Can you not see I do not want your help? You want to be a doctor, no? So go find someone who does.” 
Fresa’s nostrils flared as she shoved her chair away from the table and got to her feet. She began angrily putting her stuff into her bag, and you remained completely still, unable to stop this whole meeting from going up in flames. 
“Eres un maldita idiota!” Fresa snapped, her face red with anger. 
There wasn’t really anything worse she could have said to you at that moment. 
“Snobbete kjerring.” You threw back, feeling a sharp spike of satisfaction when she zipped her bag angrily, completely incapable of understanding what you’d called her. 
“You know, I did this as a favor, tonta. I have worked all day, I came right here after my shift, on time. I have my own studies to do because yes, I want to be a nurse. I am smart, and I know what I want to do with my life. Maybe if you get your head out of your own ass, Engen, you might too! And you are right, this is a waste of time. My time!”
Fresa stomped out of the room, then, and you waited until she was out of sight before dropping your head into your hands with a deep sigh. 
That couldn’t have gone… any worse. And though it was probably all mostly your fault, you couldn’t help the resentment building for the intelligent, stuck up girl that had thrown insult after insult at you, hitting you in all the places it hurt. You packed your own stuff up once you were sure you wouldn’t run into Fresa again in the parking lot or something, shuffling dejectedly to your car.
The overthinking had begun. Was it really overthinking, you wondered, if you’d actually completely fucked up and the reasons for your anxiety were entirely reasonable? You weren’t sure, and you supposed it didn’t matter, your thoughts quickly spiraling as you rewinded the short meeting in your head. 
The shrugging had really gotten to her, but you weren’t sure what else to do. When in doubt, you had learned silence got you the best results. Often, no one really cared what you had to say anyway. Fresa was different, though, looking at you with her wide eyes, expecting an answer. It was intimidating. It scared you, honestly, how well the other girl seemed to see right through you. 
And maybe… maybe there were some other feelings brewing. Ones you didn’t want to consider. Feeling that didn’t even matter given the way Fresa had stormed out. It didn’t seem like there would be another study session.
This led you to your other problem. You’d fucked this up. Something your sister and Mapi had gone out of their way to set up for you, because they didn’t want you to have to repeat the year. 
You didn’t like to make mistakes. Every single one you made carried the risk that Ingrid would lose her patience with you, and give up. She hadn’t yet, and you’d messed up a fair amount in the past several months, but you couldn’t let yourself believe that no mistake could push her away. That just wasn’t a possibility. So, rather than face your failure, tell Ingrid and Mapi how awkward and weird you’d been, you ran. 
Or walked, you supposed. Your study session with Fresa had ended at 4:00, and it was almost 8 when you found yourself at the top of your favorite trail, legs scratched and aching, as the sun slipped below the horizon. Your phone was still dead and now Ingrid was absolutely going to kill you for going off the grid. 
You broke traffic laws on the way home, any peace you’d found at the top of the hiking trail entirely gone as anxiety began to build up inside of you again. 
Stepping into the house, you slipped off your muddy shoes, wincing at the blood trickling down the few cuts on your legs. Before you could even set your car keys down, though, footsteps were pounding down the hallway towards you. 
“Oh, thank god.” Ingrid gasped, sounding alarmingly emotional as she rushed forward and crushed you into a hug. “She’s here!” 
“Dios  mio.” Mapi muttered, appearing over your sister’s shoulder a moment later. Ingrid pulled away from you, her hands on your shoulders keeping you at arm's length. Her face quickly transformed from relieved to furious. 
“Where the hell have you been?” She hissed. 
“I–”
“Do you have any idea how worried I’ve been? You didn’t call, you didn’t text. You were supposed to be home hours ago, Sol. Your location wouldn’t show up on my phone, Fresa even said you ended your meeting early,” Ingrid ranted, though you began to tune her out at the sound of her name. 
“You talked to Fresa?” You interrupted, ignoring the incredulous look on Ingrid’s face, turning your attention towards Mapi who was staring stonily at you. 
“That doesn’t fucking matter right now. Where were you? Are you drunk? High? Were you fighting?” Ingrid demanded.
Each accusation felt like a bullet to the heart as Ingrid grabbed your chin and yanked it towards her, looking intently at your eyes. You shoved her away angrily; Ingrid wasn’t supposed to see you as that person anymore. She had promised that she didn’t, that she knew you weren’t a bad kid, that you had just been having a hard time. Now, though. She was looking at you like she didn’t trust a word that was about to come out of your mouth. 
“No.” You spat at her, grabbing your phone from your pocket and slamming it on the front hall table. “I went on a hike after I met Fresa and my phone died. I lost track of time. I wasn’t getting drunk or high and I wasn’t fighting anybody, but thanks for having some faith in me.” Your voice dripped with sarcasm, and even though you expected Ingrid to soften with a bit of guilt, she only seemed emboldened with anger. 
“Don’t you dare turn this around on me. You were supposed to be back four hours ago Solstråle. Four! This was so irresponsible. Do you not care that we were worried? Do you not care that we were here waiting for you? That Mapi made dinner, and you were going to work on her bike? Or that we were supposed to make cookies? After everything we’ve done for you, Solstråle, I expect more.” She was shouting at this point, pacing back and forth in front of you. 
You looked to Mapi, hoping for her to step in and talk her girlfriend down, but she looked almost as mad as Ingrid was, and you shrunk in on yourself.
“You are…. you are grounded. This is unacceptable, and you better never let it happen again. That is not how family behaves Solstråle. Did you think about how worried we would be? I am so upset with you, so disappointed that you didn’t think about anyone but yourself, that you were so selfish–”
“Alright, Ingrid. Enough.” Mapi cut in finally, stepping forward to grab her girlfriend's hand and squeeze it. You were frozen in front of your sister, fighting the sob that was building in your throat. 
Ingrid stepped back, her face still red with anger. A hint of regret flickered across her face at the sight of your lip trembling and the tears in your eyes. Still, you looked confused, and Ingrid couldn’t shove her anger down at your lack of understanding. She turned, stomping off towards the kitchen, leaving you and Mapi behind. 
“Sol-”
“I’m going to shower. Sorry, Mapi. I’m sorry.” You mumbled, pushing past her and heading up the stairs before the Spaniard could get out another word.  
Mapi sighed tiredly, rubbing her hand over her face. Her Engens were going to make her go grey. 
You had only just pulled some pajamas on after your shower when Mapi knocked, her gentle voice calling to you from the hall. 
“Yeah?” You called back, voice gravelly from all the sobbing you had done in the shower. 
Mapi entered, the first aid kit in her hands and a much calmer expression on her face. She was in her pajamas, too, clearly having been waiting up for you to get out of the shower. It had been a long one. Another thing to be sorry for, keeping Mapi awake. 
“Can I help with your legs?” She wondered, gesturing to the many cuts that littered them.
Shrugging noncommittally, you sunk down onto the edge of the bed, Mapi soon taking a seat opposite you. She pulled your calf up to rest across her lap, getting out the antiseptic spray and a few bandages. You purposefully looked away, barely having been able to get the blood off in the shower without getting light headed. 
“Are you okay, mi sol?” Mapi murmured, fanning her hands over the cuts so the spray would dry faster. Mapi had a way of looking at you, eyes crinkled with concern and kindness, that made you want to burst into tears. You fought that instinct. 
“I am fine.” 
Mapi sighed, unwrapping a few of the bandages and beginning to carefully put them on you. 
“Then someone else was crying in the shower while you were in there?” 
No reply came, and Mapi sighed again, tapping your leg to tell you she was done with that one. 
“Look, I know Ingrid was harsh, but you have to understand how worried she was. How worried we both were. I know you still remember the things you wrote in that letter all those months ago. Things like that don’t just go away, Sol, and when you disappear for hours without a word, we worry.” 
This time, Mapi got a shrug in reply, and a small sniffle. She finished up with your other leg, gently pushing it off her lap and pulling you into a soft hug. “It’s okay, Solstråle. Everything is fine now.” 
You scoffed through your tears. “Nothing is fine, Mapi. I screwed up with Fresa, I screwed up with Ingrid. They both probably hate me. Please, just go. I’m tired.” 
Mapi shook her head. “You’re upset, I just want to–”
“No Mapi, just leave me be.” You tried to sound firm, but your voice was shaking almost as much as your hands were, and you were sure you just came off as pathetic. 
“Alright, nena. I love you, hmm? Don’t be too hard on yourself.” 
You remained silent, flopping back onto your bed as Mapi walked out of the room. Scout hopped up on the bed in her absence, licking your cheek twice before curling into your side. 
It wasn’t being too hard on yourself; the self hatred you felt in that moment was completely justified. You were very sure of that. 
You were tucked into bed when the door creaked open again, Scout not even bothering to lift his head from where it was tucked into the comforter draped over your leg. You blinked your eyes open and they widened in surprise at the sight of Ingrid walking into the room, hair messy as though she’d been tossing and turning. She neared the edge of your bed, leaning down and kissing your forehead gently. 
“Goodnight, sweetheart. I don’t hate you, okay? I love you very much. Everything is going to be okay, so just try to get some rest.” 
You nodded weakly, impatiently pushing a tear off your cheek with the back of your hand. “I’m sorry, Ingrid. Really sorry.” 
“It’s alright. You’re safe, yes? And that’s all that really matters.” Ingrid promised, and you nodded, sniffling pathetically. “We can talk more tomorrow, but just go to sleep, okay? Everything is fine.” 
“Love you.” You mumbled, Ingrid smiling softly down at her. You didn’t often say that first, something Ingrid attributed to having said it to your Mamma and not heard it back so many times. 
“I love you.” Ingrid replied, patting your cheek twice before tucking the covers up tighter around you, and heading out of the room. 
You woke up to a few unexpected things the next morning. One, it was almost 11 and Scout hadn’t woken you up demanding a walk. In fact, Scout was nowhere to be found. Two, the sounds of Mapi’s Spanish soap and Ingrid’s clanging around the kitchen echoed through the house. You’d forgotten they had the day off today. Ingrid must have taken Scout out to let you sleep in. 
The first two unexpected things, then, were explainable. The third… was not. 
A text from Fresa. 
Tuesday at the library. If you want to give it another shot. I think I can help. 
You thought about the way you’d behaved, and the way Fresa had spoken to you. Before you could delete the thread with her and close your phone, though, you thought about the letter you’d hidden from your sister. The excited smile on Mapi’s face when you’d agreed to let Fresa tutor you. 
Before you quite knew what you were doing, you pulled the message back up, your fingers typing away without you telling them to.
Yeah. I’d appreciate that. What time? 
There was something that drew you to Fresa, even as she infuriated you. Maybe it was how her voice had softened when she’d asked if you couldn’t read the Spanish on the paper, or maybe it was how she’d smiled unconsciously, watching Alexia score a goal the past weekend. It was a nice smile. And she had a nice voice. 
None of it really made any sense to you, but you’d already sent the text. 
For some reason, you felt a bit awkward. There was something very odd about knowing Mapi had been upset with you, because normally that was just Ingrid. But you knew Mapi had been just as worried last night as Ingrid, and just as upset. She’d been in the garage all morning, too, and you wondered if she was avoiding you or allowing you to decide to come to her if you wanted to talk.
After the 5th time you glanced at the door to the garage, though, Ingrid rolled her eyes from where she was sitting at the other end of the couch, typing away on her computer. 
“Go talk to her. She’s not angry, I promise.” 
Ingrid wasn’t angry anymore, either. You’d spoken with her practically first thing when you’d woken up, apologizing again and again and emphasizing that you hadn’t really realized how your actions would have affected Ingrid until it was too late. 
You’d told her about a time back in Norway when you’d stayed out all night after a fight with your Mamma, and when you’d come home the next morning, she hadn’t even noticed that you’d been gone. Ingrid understood a bit more, then, and was quick to hug you tight and whisper that she forgave you.
And even though Mapi had come in last night and tried to make you feel better, you knew she might have been waiting to be upset until she knew for sure you were okay. That made you even more nervous. 
Ingrid snorted from behind you when you knocked on the door to the garage, as normally you just walked right in. You shot her a glare, stepping inside the garage at the sound of Mapi’s quiet come in. 
The defender didn’t glance up as you walked in, but you took a seat in the chair next to her. Your chair. 
It was quiet for a moment, the sounds of Mapi’s metal tool gently clanging against the bike. 
“What did Fresa say to you last night?” You blurted out, face flushing red because why was that the first thing out of your mouth. 
Mapi fixed you with a half amused look, shaking her head. “That is what you’re asking?” 
“No.” You sighed. “Are you mad at me?” 
“No.” Mapi echoed, going quiet for a moment as she thought. “Not mad. It’s just hard for me, Sol. Last night, you didn’t even think that we’d be worried about you and where you were. It just makes me a bit sad.”
“Oh.” 
“And it’s not your fault, nena. I just worry for you.” 
You nodded slowly. “I’m really sorry. I should have thought about how worried you guys would have been.”
Mapi gave you a half smile. “I know you are. And you won’t do it again sí?” 
Your head bobbed up and down rapidly as you agreed, more sure than you’d ever been that you’d not be doing something that stupid again. 
“Now. Why are you so concerned with what Fresa said to me, hmm? What did you do?"
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incognit0slut · 8 hours ago
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in which you’re far too comfortable to move from Spencer’s lap, and he doesn’t mind carrying you around
content: fluff, 1.7k, established relationship, lots of kissing, sex talk, kinda fade-to-black smut, reader being very clingy, and spencer’s tummy (my fav) a/n: i once told @mandarinmoons that i wanted to climb the man and not even in a sexual way and she said “like a koala?” and to that i answered YES! self-indulgent fics are the best
Spencer smells nice. Like, annoyingly nice. And it’s not the kind of nice that’s vaguely pleasant. No, this is the kind that settles into your bones. A mix of soap and something uniquely him that you can't quite name but would probably pay an unreasonable amount to bottle up.
Now that sounds like a dream. Imagine Spencer in a bottle, spritzed onto your neck, lingering on your skin. Imagine a personal cloud of him following you everywhere, with top notes of freshly brewed coffee and a base note of comfort that leaves you no choice but to lean in just a bit closer. You shift on his lap, pretending to get comfortable, but really, it's because you want to catch another whiff.
Your boyfriend catches you mid-inhale. "Comfortable?"
You don’t even bother pretending to be embarrassed. Who cares if he knows you’re borderline obsessed? Who wouldn’t be? He’s smart, handsome, and smells like heaven bottled in human form. So instead of pulling away, you double down, pressing your nose right into the curve of his neck as your answer.
"I'm starting to think you might be a little attached.”
You sigh against his skin, “Might be? Spencer, I'm practically grafted onto you at this point. You better get used to it."
A hand runs up your spine. “Not that I’m complaining, but my legs might actually fall asleep if I don’t get up soon.”
“So dramatic,” you tease, smiling as you press a soft kiss to his jaw. The subtle scrape of his stubble tickles your lips.
“I don’t think you’ve moved an inch in the past hour.”
“I don’t even want to move an inch,” you murmur against his cheek. "I just want to stay like this. Forever. If I could just crawl under your skin and stay there, that would be perfect.”
Spencer laughs softly, the sound rumbling under your lips. You feel the warmth of his smile as he tilts his head toward you. “That sounds sweet yet incredibly creepy.”
“You know what I mean!” You slide your arms around him, weaving them across his shoulders. “I just… I want to—ugh, I don't know… squeeze you so tight you’d become part of me? Like an extension of my arm or something."
“That definitely sounds less creepy.”
“Shut up.” Your lips trace the rough scratch of his jaw, brushing along the curve until you reach the corner of his mouth. "Don’t you want someone permanently glued to you?"
“You’re definitely making a case for it.”
“Oh I’d climb you if I had to.”
His hand slides up to cup the back of your neck. “Is this where I find out you’re secretly a koala this whole time?”
“Mmhmm,” you hum against his lips, “and you’re my tall, handsome tree.”
His laughter vibrates against your mouth, and you let yourself melt into him, breathing in that comforting scent you’ve grown addicted to. You love him so much. You love him too much that your heart feels like it’s stretching to make room for all of it.
When he finally pulls back, you can’t resist reaching up to smooth your thumb over his bottom lip. “See? Permanent attachment.”
His own thumb caresses the back of your neck in lazy strokes. You're practically dissolving into him.
"I don’t have much of a choice, do I?" The tip of your nose brushes against his as you shake your head. He steals another quick peck from your lips. "I really do need to get up though.”
You pout immediately. “Why?“
“Because my throat is actually starting to feel a little dry. I could use some water.”
“Water is overrated. Stay.”
“Honey,” he croons softly, his eyes squinting with that familiar crinkle at the corners. He thinks you’re cute when you’re clingy. “The kitchen is only ten feet away.”
“Ten feet too far. Do you know the kind of emotional damage I’ll suffer if we’re apart for too long?”
“So dramatic,” he mocks back, planting a kiss on your jaw, your cheek, and you giggle when his mouth lands on the skin between your ear and your neck. “All I’m asking for is ten feet. I promise I’ll be quick.”
“I might wither away from loneliness by the time you get back.”
You feel the ghost of his smile against your skin. “I’ll be back before you even have a chance to miss me.”
“I miss you already,” you sigh when he gently nips at the soft flesh of your neck. “Maybe you should just take me with you.”
You’re mostly bluffing, half-expecting him to laugh it off because Spencer has never actually carried you before. Not that you’ve ever minded—it’s not exactly the first thing you’d expect from him. But before you can even process it, he shifts beneath you, sliding one arm under your knee and the other around your back with surprising confidence.
And just like that, the floor seems miles away as he lifts you up.
“Wait! Wait!” you laugh, clutching at his shoulders. "Spencer!"
“I thought you wanted to come along."
“I didn’t think you’d actually carry me!”
You’re met with his steady grip, and to your surprise, he’s not struggling in the slightest. Apparently, those arms are stronger than you’d given him credit for, and it’s… well, very, very attractive. He strides confidently across the apartment, and you can’t help but let out an impressed, slightly flustered, “Okay, this is actually kind of hot.”
The corners of his lips twitch upward, but he doesn’t say anything.
“I did not know you were strong enough to do this,” you comment, then a thought sneaks into your mind, “Do you think we can try this position in the bedroom?”
He looks surprised and mildly amused. “Really? While standing?”
You loop your arms tighter around his neck. “You seem perfectly capable.”
“Wouldn’t I be doing all the work?”
“I thought you liked doing all the work.”
His chest presses against yours as he lets out another laugh. “If by that you mean spoil you, then yes, I do,” he says, casting a quick glance around the room. “Can I sit you on the counter, or are you planning to keep hanging on to me?”
“Tempting, but you can put me on the counter.”
With a gentle ease, he lifts you just slightly higher and sets you down on the cool countertop. “I can still carry you around if that’s what you want.”
“I know,” you reply, reaching up to brush a stray lock of curls from his face. “I don’t want to tire you out.”
“You’re not tiring me out,” he assures you as he reaches up to grab a glass from the top shelf, arm stretching just enough to give you a teasing glimpse of his soft stomach.
You can’t help yourself. You reach over and splay your hands over that warm skin, feeling the faint tickle of the fine hair scattered down his belly that disappears into his waistband. He doesn’t flinch—he’s long used to your hands finding their way to him like this—but he does cast a sidelong look in your direction. Behave.
If he’s expecting you to follow some sense of decorum, he should know better by now. You give his stomach a gentle, almost smug pat, and shakes his head as he moves to pour himself water.
“What do you want to do after this?” he asks, glancing back at you over his shoulder. You don’t give him an immediate answer, but he’s already suggesting a few ideas for the rest of the evening.
You can’t even pretend to pay attention. Is it normal to be this obsessed with your boyfriend? Because at this point, your focus isn’t even on the words coming out of his mouth. Something about a documentary, maybe. He’s probably rattling off the details right now, but you’re entirely distracted, your eyes shamelessly zooming in on the way his forearm flexes as he holds the glass. Even the soft hair dusting over his skin is doing things to you.
He catches your blatant stare and looks at you over the rim of his glass.
“What?”
“You are so sexy.”
He almost chokes on his water. The glass clatters against the countertop as he sputters, “What has gotten into you today?”
Probably ovulation. But you simply shrug, legs swinging idly against the cabinets beneath you. “I just love you.”
The answer is simple. Words spoken with all the casual sincerity you feel, but it’s enough to melt his astonishment into affection as he strides over and slips between your thighs.
“You just love me?”
“Yeah,” you reply softly, reaching up to brush over the delicious roughness of his stubble. “Like a ridiculous amount. Probably too much.”
His heart is swelling, so full it feels like it’s about to burst. “I love you too.”
“That’s it?”
You watch as his nose twitches, the smallest hint of a smile playing at his lips before he sighs, “I love you so much, angel."
"I think you can do better than that."
He huffs a chuckle, "I love you too much," he tries again, "more than I even know what to do with."
You smile in satisfaction, a little triumphant over his exaggeration. You’ve taught him well. “Say it again.”
The wide expanse of his palms settles on your waist.
“I am madly,” he presses a kiss to your cheek, “deeply,” another finds its way to your jaw, “hopelessly,” he murmurs as he grows even closer to your lips, “in love,” he’s a breath away from yours, “with you.”
The space between you shrinks to nothing. You swallow his last words, letting them dissolve on your tongue like the sweetest confection. What begins as a delicate melding of warmth and breath quickly intensifies, as though he’s determined to steal every bit of air from your lungs. And before you know it, his hands are sliding under you.
A surprised squeal escapes your lips as he lifts your weight, and an even louder gasp follows when he carries you toward the bedroom.
You know exactly what he plans to do for the rest of the evening.
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ellecdc · 2 days ago
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spiked woes and revenge
poly!darksun x fem!reader who is slipped a love potion [2.1k words]
prompts: from my darksun disciples @butt3rnugg3t : "darksun (I'm obsessed and I'm not sorry) with a reader who gets slipped a love potion without knowing?", as well as @underoospeterparker : "could I request poly!darksun x reader where they're both really protective over her"
CW: drugging someone, anxiety and concern, friends responding perhaps violently, hurt comfort, hateful and disgusting men being publicly shamed :)
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James and Barty were just making their way up the stairs to the 7th year Gryffindor boys dormitory when they came upon a peculiar sight.
The door - which was notoriously ajar should any number of friends or acquaintances want to drop by (with the exception of first thing in the morning when they were dressing for school, the end of the day when they were getting ready for bed, or when there was a very pointed tie hanging by the handle) - was not only closed, but there were the telltale plumes of smoke indicative of a potion being brewed within the dorm room walls trailing beneath the ancient wooden door. 
“But what if he doesn’t like me?” Came your muffled voice then; painted with worry and…tears? 
“Hey, it’s alright, Trouble.” James heard Sirius counter, though he didn’t miss the anxious tilt of his voice. “You’re impossible not to like.”
“You know who likes you an awful lot?” Remus added then, though it sounded as though his attention was split between you and whatever else was happening in the dorm room. “James and Junior.” 
“So much, Y/N.” Lily agreed quickly, before her voice dropped as she hissed “where the sodding hell are they!?” to someone else in the room. 
Yet whatever James thought he was about to walk into didn’t even compare to the chaos that was their dorm room. 
Regulus, Lily, and Remus were all hovering in front of a makeshift potions station in the centre of the room; Remus dutifully checking and rechecking the brewing instructions from a heavy tome, Regulus chopping and prepping the ingredients with an efficient precision, and Lily expertly stirring the potion whilst keeping an eye on the heat and adding the ingredients as Remus read them out and Regulus handed them to her. 
Marlene and Dorcas stood to the side of the room, muttering angrily under their breaths as Marlene paced back and forth, though she kept her eyes trained dutifully on you, and Sirius had you wrapped up in one of their throws - so tightly that James wondered if it didn’t actually hurt - like a muggle straight jacket as he rubbed your back and rocked you back and forth, Peter hovering over you with a tissue in one hand to catch falling tears and a fan in the other to keep you cool. 
“What in the buggering fuck is going on here?” Barty spat then, apparently having come to his senses faster than James.
“Hey! Hey Trouble, look! Look who it is!” Sirius started with forced enthusiasm, rubbing your back with new vigour as he tried to get you to turn your attention to your two boyfriends. You hardly spared them a glance. 
“What’s the matter, angel? What’s with the tears?” James asked cautiously, easing his way over like the scene was a live wire ready to explode with one wrong move. 
“I’m scared. I don’t feel good Jamie.” You admitted, which James could very well see, though you immediately followed it up with “and what if he doesn’t like me?” 
“What if who doesn’t like you?” Barty asked then with a hard edge to his voice that saw James swatting at him warningly and Regulus hissing “would you take it easy, Junior?” 
“McLaggen.” Marlene answered for you; muttering the name with so much disdain that James almost wondered if it was the delivery itself that saw you burst into tears. 
“McKinnon, please.” Peter whined then, working overtime with both his tissue and his fan, looking like he was sweating nearly as much as you were and just as close to hysterics. 
“James?” Remus whispered, his eyes widening in warning. “A word, please?” 
Both James and Barty wretched their attention from you to join the impromptu potions class. 
“Listen, you cannot freak out; we’re brewing the antidote right now, but-”
“What antidote?” Barty interrupted darkly, causing Regulus to scoff at his oldest friend.
“Junior, what did we just say?”
“Listen, the two of you have one job right now.” Lily spat then; her tone taking on a no nonsense quality that had both boys unintentionally standing up straighter. “And that one job is to help keep her calm, got it?”
“Okay. Alright.” James agreed breathily, but Lily’s fiery gaze turned to Barty as she raised one perfectly arched auburn brow at him expectantly.
“Merlin,” He groaned, though they all watched him take a steadying breath, “okay, okay. What antidote are you brewing?”
“The Love Potion Antidote.” Regulus responded quickly, handing Lily the wiggentree twigs that Remus directed him to prep, watching over the cauldron as the potion turned green.
“Love Potion?” James hissed.
“She was slipped a Love Potion!?” Barty added.
“Looks like it.” Remus muttered darkly, though his face turned soft and pitiful when he looked over his shoulder to watch Sirius and Peter trying to keep you calm. 
“Alice overheard him asking her to Hogsmeade next weekend after Astronomy class yesterday. She declined, obviously.” Lily explained.
“Looks like he’s not used to rejection.” Regulus spat bitterly.
“Oh, he’s going to get used to rejection alright.” Barty muttered threateningly as he reached for his wand and made to storm out of the room, only for Marlene and Dorcas to block his exit. 
“One job.” Marlene demanded then, gesturing roughly in your direction. 
“It’s orange, now what?” Lily asked, and Remus flipped the page in the tome. 
“Add castor oil until it turns blue.” 
“I…I think maybe I should go?” You whimpered then; sentence dotted by hiccups and sniffling as you seemed to be staring unseeingly into the room. “I should go, right?”
“Hey, angel; you’re alright. I think you’re good here, huh?” James tried as he kneeled in front of you, and Peter seemed more than happy to step aside and make room for your boyfriends. “What do you say? We’ll just…hang out for a bit?”
“But I think I should go see McLaggen.” You pouted, and James had to remind himself to tamp down the anger threatening to boilover at the sight of your tearstained face. 
“Or,” Barty started then, and James prayed to the gods that he kept his wits about him, “why don’t we try to relax for a bit, and if you still feel like seeing him afterwards, we’ll all go pay him a visit?” 
Dorcas let out a humourless snort at that. “I vote for option number two.” 
“And….we’re blue.” Lily announced then, snuffing the flame out from beneath the potion and transferring it to a vial. “We’re gonna get you feeling better, Y/N.” She promised. 
“Okay, thank you.” You all but sobbed in response.
“What’s with the restraints?” Barty asked then as he pulled at the blanket wrapped around your being. 
“We didn’t handle being told to sit down very well.” Sirius responded for you, tightening his arm around your shoulders comfortingly as Peter rubbed a quickly growing red welt on the side of his cheek. 
“I’m sorry.” You nearly wailed as Lily made for you. “I just feel like I’m supposed to go find McLaggen!”
“Don’t worry, Treasure.” Barty assured you with a disturbing amount of composure. “We’re absolutely going to go find McLaggen, okay? Why don’t we take the potion Lily made for you, hm? Get you feeling better first.”
Barty spoke over the discontented grumblings of Regulus and Remus who ‘also helped make the potion, thank you very much’ as he took the vial from Lily and held it up to your mouth. “Big drink, okay Tres?” 
James was glad that you were as agreeable as you were in your discontented state, simply wrapping your blanket clad hands around Barty’s and allowing him to hold the vial as you drank the entire potion down. 
“It reads here that she’s probably going to be very tired and more than a little confused for a while, but the anxiety and lust should be gone.” Remus explained; James could kiss the sod. 
“Good. Good, yeah? That’s good, right angel? Do you feel better?” 
You sucked in a deep, shuddering breath as you licked a droplet of the potion from your lips and considered your answer before nodding slowly. “I…yeah. Yeah, I- I think so. I think I feel better.”
No sooner had the words left your lips did Lily grab her wand. “Great! Ready to go?” She asked no one in particular, but both Marlene and Dorcas answered in the affirmative immediately. 
“Where are you three going?” James asked cautiously. 
“You know,” Dorcas drawled casually as she began rummaging through Sirius’ trunk, though the long-haired boy hardly seemed to mind, “we just realised that we haven’t caught up with our old classmate in so long.” 
“A shame, really.” Marlene agreed as Dorcas filled her bag with various dung bombs, charmed firecrackers, and other various pranking paraphernalia. “All this talk about inter house unity, and we neglect a vast majority of our peers.” 
“We’re going to change that.” Lily declared as she swiped the Marauders Map from Remus’ desk. “Starting with McLaggen.” 
And with that, Lily shot you a wink, Dorcas a salute, and Marlene blew a kiss before the three witches closed the door to the boys’ dorm behind them.
“Can I take this off now?” You asked then, wriggling under Sirius arm as you tried to free yourself from your blanketed prison. 
“Only if you promise to keep your hands to yourself.” Sirius teased as he unravelled the blanket, causing you to fluster as you shot Peter your best doe eyes. 
“I really am sorry, Pete.” 
“Oh…it’s alright.” Peter offered with a nervous laugh, though he winced as he prodded the tender portion of his jaw that was well on its way to bruising. “I’m just glad you’re feeling better.” 
“What the hell happened?” Barty asked then; shoving the offended blanket off your shoulders and taking the fan from Peter (rather roughly, though Peter seemed more than glad to be effectively dismissed from his job) and started fanning you off. 
“I…I honestly don’t even know? Professor Slughorn was handing out chocolates to us after class today for a job well done, and whilst he was doing that, McLaggen approached me again asking if I wasn’t entirely sure I didn’t want to go to Hogsmeade with him.”
You were interrupted by James and Sirius grumbling, Remus scoffing, and Barty muttering something along the lines of “ask first, respect the answer, fuck face” under his breath. 
“And I said no, and left. I didn’t drink anything or-”
“Did you eat the chocolate?” Regulus interrupted then, ignoring his best friend’s murderous gaze for daring to speak over his Treasure. 
“What?”
“The chocolate that Slughorn handed out. Did you eat it?”
“Well, yeah, but-”
“Before McLaggen spoke to you, or after?” Regulus continued, inching closer and closer to being hexed straight to hell by Barty. 
“After…”
“You think he tampered with the chocolate?” Remus asked then, earning him a shrug of Regulus’ shoulders, though his head moved side to side in semi-confirmation. 
“It’s the only thing that makes sense.”
“The only thing that makes sense,” Barty spat venomously, “is a fucking dementors kiss for attempted…what? What was his plan?”
No one had the chance to answer, though, when the castle walls shook with the force of a boom coming from outside. 
The seven of you all stood and crammed your heads into the alcove of the window to see almost an entire acre of the castle grounds coated in a thick, sludgy yellow substance and one individual slipping and sliding as he tried to make his way out of the mess. Hexes and jinxes were being shot at him from three sides - clearly the doing of Marlene et al., if James recognised her duelling strategies correctly. 
“Well…” You offered cautiously. “I guess none of us have to go find McLaggen now?” 
Barty seemed wholly unconvinced, but by the time the group of you got to the Great Hall for breakfast the following morning to find McLaggen unable to speak to any femme (student or faculty alike) without first announcing “My name is Tiberius McLaggen and I am a sexual predator.” for all to hear, Barty relented on his insistence to defend your honour. 
“The girls beat you to it.” You’d whispered into his cheek before stamping it with a kiss.
James figured this was probably the only time Barty would ever allow himself to be outdone.
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bookwormjust · 2 days ago
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Subtle change of your scent (established relationship with Azriel, the start of your pregnancy)
After a long, exhausting day of shopping with Feyre, you were curled up on the couch at home, reading a book. The warmth of the fire crackled softly in the hearth, the rhythmic flipping of pages creating a comforting ambiance. You sighed, feeling the contentment of finally being home. Feyre had insisted on spoiling everyone for Solstice, and the day had been filled with laughter, joy, and plenty of gifts. Now, it was time to relax.
Azriel had been out with his brothers, enjoying some time together after a long week of missions. You hadn’t heard him come in, so when the front door softly closed, you didn’t immediately look up, absorbed in your book.
But Azriel, as always, noticed everything. He stepped into the room, his shadows slipping silently into the corners, but it was the change in the air that stopped him in his tracks. His steps faltered as he paused, his sharp senses picking up something new, something that made his heart skip a beat.
Your scent—it was different. The familiar notes of it, the one he had known for so long and was so intimately connected with, had shifted. It was still you, still the essence that made you *you*, but there was something more now. A new depth, a richness to it. And underneath it all, something faint but undeniable—his scent, mixed with yours, and a new, blossoming presence.
Azriel’s breath caught in his throat as realization slammed into him. His eyes, usually so composed and guarded, widened, disbelief and hope warring within them. He stood frozen for a moment, the world around him fading as everything zeroed in on this one fact.
You were pregnant.
Your eyes lifted from the book when you sensed him standing there, the quiet intensity of his presence pulling your attention. His gaze locked onto yours, his expression unreadable at first. But then his wings trembled slightly, and you saw something flicker in his eyes—something raw, vulnerable, and utterly overwhelmed.
“Az?” you asked softly, setting the book down, confused by the way he was staring at you as if he had never seen you before.
Azriel didn’t answer right away. Instead, he moved toward you in slow, deliberate steps, kneeling in front of you on the couch. His large hands, always so steady and sure, reached out to gently grasp your own. He stared at you for a long moment, his breath uneven, his eyes searching yours as if trying to confirm what he was feeling.
“You…” His voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper. “Your scent… it’s changed.”
You blinked, a wave of understanding suddenly dawning on you as the words settled in. Your heart raced as you processed what he meant. You had suspected for a while—small changes, subtle signs—but to hear it like this, to see the way Azriel was reacting…
“I—” you started, but your voice cracked as emotion welled up in your chest. You squeezed his hands, your own shaking slightly. “I think… I think I’m pregnant.”
Azriel’s breath hitched, and his hands instinctively moved to rest on your stomach, even though it was too early for any visible change. His eyes, normally so shadowed and controlled, filled with tears that he couldn’t hold back. His entire body seemed to tremble with the weight of what he was feeling, as if the realization had hit him like a tidal wave.
“You’re pregnant,” he whispered, his voice filled with awe and disbelief, as if saying it out loud would make it real. Tears spilled down his cheeks, and before you could say another word, he wrapped you in his arms, burying his face in your neck.
“I can feel it,” he murmured against your skin, his voice thick with emotion. “I can feel them… our child… part of you, part of me.”
You felt a tear slide down your own cheek as you held him close, feeling the way his entire body shook with the intensity of his emotions. Azriel, who had always been so strong, so in control, was now trembling in your arms, overwhelmed by the news that you were carrying his child.
He pulled back slightly to cup your face in his hands, his thumbs gently brushing away your tears. “You’re carrying our baby,” he whispered again, his eyes full of wonder, as if he couldn’t quite believe it.
You nodded, smiling through the tears. “Yes, Az,” you whispered back. “We’re going to have a baby.”
Azriel let out a soft, broken laugh, his wings curling around you protectively as if he could shield you and your child from the world. He kissed you deeply, tenderly, as though trying to pour every ounce of love he felt into that single moment.
When he pulled back, his face was still wet with tears, but there was a smile—a real, unguarded smile—that lit up his entire face.
“I love you,” he whispered, pressing his forehead against yours. “I love you so much. I didn’t know… I didn’t know I could feel this much.”
You smiled through your tears, your hands resting over his on your stomach. “I love you too, Azriel.”
And in that moment, wrapped in his wings and his love, you knew that this was the beginning of something beautiful. Azriel, who had always been your strength and protector, now had a new role—a father. And the joy and love that filled the room was almost overwhelming, as the two of you shared the quiet wonder of knowing that soon, you would become a family.
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gay-dorito-dust · 2 days ago
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Can I request headcanons for Zayne, and Sylus react to his shy gn s/o asking him if they can sit on his lap please?
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You don’t even have to ask him. His lap is your permanent seat, your throne and Sylus wouldn’t want you sat anywhere else other than his lap.
You provably didn’t even have to finish the question before Sylus’s grab your hand and pull you into his lap, smirking as you griped his shoulder to stabilise yourself while getting comfortable on his plush thighs.
‘For future reference, you don’t need to ask for permission to sit on my lap, just sit on it however you wish I don’t mind little kitten.’ He’d say as he kisses just under your jaw and your neck gently.
However the moment you are pulled into his lap, you’re never getting off, even if you asked nicely he’ll tilt his head to the side and say;
‘Isn’t this what you wanted sweetie? To sit on my lap and now you want off? I’m hurt.’ And the cheeky bastard will have a pout upon his face to emphasise his sadness at you wanting to get off his lap. Sylus is a little goofus despite his intimidating appearance.
‘That’s not what I meant!’ You’d exclaim. ‘I just don’t want your legs to go numb-‘
‘Nonsense kitten, I’d much rather prioritise you and your needs over my own.’ Sylus interrupts as he keeps you close to him, his large hands squeezing your waist, kneading it as though it was play dough. Needless to say your stuck on his lap for the foreseeable future and Sylus is happy as fuck to have you on his lap.
Sylus could keep you on his lap forever if he could. There will be no need for any other seat in the large house to exist when you’re always put into his lap from the moment you wake, all the way to the moment you fall asleep.
No chair, nor sofa, no anything could compare to sitting on Sylus’s lap unironically he loves the weight you provide when you sit on his lap. It’s comforting and satisfying to him in a plethora of ways that words fail to describe accurately enough for his liking. So it doesn’t matter whether your skinny or not because the same end result is that Sylus will refuse you getting off his lap.
it’s the closest you guys have ever been and he’s high off of feeling your warm and your body on top of his own that he’s engraved the feeling of you sitting in his lap so much that it’s an common occurrence within his dreams to have you on his lap happy, albeit shy, but content.
The lesson to take away from this is that you should be careful what you wish for because you just might end up becoming Sylus’s personal lap warmer, given with how often he pulls you into his lap and keeps you there while he does his work and doesn’t care who’s seeing such a sight. You’re his and his alone and he’s more than proud to show you off, even if your head is buried into his chest to quell your flustered state.
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This sweetheart couldn’t deny you even if he tried, your every wish is his command and if you wanted to sit on his lap? Then who was he to deny such a request that came from your mouth so sweetly and polite.
‘As you wish my beloved.’ He’d say as he guides you onto his lap, holding you by the waist respectfully after you’ve adjusted yourself to a more comfortable position.
He likes it when you’re on top- who said that?!
He, like Sylus, finds your weight on his lap comforting and it reassures him that you’re with him and this is not actually a dream he’s made up in his mind and he couldn’t help but smile softly as he keeps you close, even going so far as to rest his head atop of your own as he indulges in this sweet moment between the two of you.
After a hard day at work Zayne would gladly have you sit on his lap, it’s the only thing that could ground him in this moment as he relaxed with you sat upon his lap, probably spending quality time together as you gave him a slow, almost intimate shave. His favourite way to spend time with you to be honest.
He’d hum softly as he felt the need to sleep come easier to him when your atop of his lap, your weight comforting him much like a blanket would, all the while his hands rested against your waist or near the small of your back and tracing patterns and shapes into the skin from your shirt slipping up slightly. It’s heaven to him and he’ll hope you felt the same.
If you ever need to get off his lap, he’ll let you but he’ll internally hate the loss of weight and warmth and will go as far as to wait until you were ready to sit back in his lap again, where he’ll once again keep you close to him and rest his head in the crook of your neck as he indulges in the moment once more.
He’s like a cat in human skin who loves to leech off of your warmth and is very adamant to let you leave his space, but lets you do so because he’s an absolute gentleman.
Anyway Zayne loves having you on his lap, it’s his happy place as he gets to look at you up close and personal that he couldn’t help but press his forehead against your own from time to time, whether that be to admire you or engrave this moment into his head.
But sooner or later you both slowly drift off to sleep on the sofa, cuddled tightly together with little smiles gracing your lips.
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vintagebuckybarnes · 1 day ago
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In Vino Veritas
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Pairing → Avenger! Bucky Barnes x Lab Assistant! Female! Reader
Total Wordcount → 3.5K
Summary → It all started when you and the Avengers enjoyed drinks during the afterparty back at the Avengers Tower. There, Tony revealed one of your deepest secrets, and even though you wish it had never come to light at first, you’re glad it did when the man you love stands on your doorstep, ready to start the rest of your life together.
Tags & Warnings → Semi-canon compliant, Avenger! Bucky Barnes, Female! Reader, Tony’s Lab Assistant! Reader, Bucky’s past as TWS is mentioned, emotional hurt/comfort, mutual pining, some cursing, and explicit sexual content.
Tags: Smut → Grinding, begging, some dirty talk, praise, teasing Bucky, protected sex, cowgirl position.
Story Rating → Explicit
Author’s Note → This story is beta'd by the wonderful @late-to-the-party-81, and I cannot thank you enough for that. I hope you'll all enjoy my story, which is filled with some angst, lots of fluff, and some smut to top it all off! 💜
Writing Prompts @fandom-free-bingo Bug Edition → “There is no us.” | Riding | In vino veritas | “Touch me.” @fandom-free-bingo Medical Edition → Crush at first sight @julybreakbingo Post-JBB → Being confronted about their feelings for another
Tags List → If you’d like to be tagged in my stories, you can add yourself to my tag list here.
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The evening starts fine, good, even. But it all takes an unexpected turn when the man you work for - Tony Stark - reveals your secret. A secret that you’d only recently revealed to him.
Earlier that day, you’d spotted Bucky as he was working out and from that moment on your mind has been with him instead of your usual work and tasks.
“Hello, Y/N? Anyone home in there?” Tony asks as he lays a hand on your shoulder, making you jump. You look up at him with a worried look while he smiles back at you with a kind expression. A soft sigh escapes your lips as the thoughts in your head wander off again, specifically how his back looked underneath the tank top he wore in the gym while doing squats. Not only that, but you also can’t stop thinking about the way his ass looked in the sweatpants he wore. In a word, magnificent.
“Is everything okay with you? You’ve been a bit off your game today.” As Tony sits next to you, you put down the screwdriver you were holding - the one he asked you three times to pass to him - before turning to face him, your gaze focusing somewhere on the wall behind him. For a moment, there’s a silence between you as you gather the courage to tell him what’s been on your mind.
“Well, uhm- There’s something, or someone, that I can’t stop thinking about, and it’s taking over my mind every second of every day. It- It’s Bucky,” you say almost in a whisper. For a few seconds, Tony is completely silent as he lets the thought of you having a crush on one of his fellow Avengers sit in his mind. Then, after what seemed like an eternity, he reaches out for your hand and takes it between his warm ones.
“You know that I’ll always support you in everything, right? I supported you when you expressed your desire to halt your life as an Avenger and retrain as my lab technician, and I supported you when you moved out of Avengers Tower to have your own home with more peace. This is not going to be any different. All I’m hoping for is that he will make you the happiest and best version of you, as you deserve nothing less.”
Tears brim at your waterline as Tony tells you this, and even though you deeply appreciate him, his words, and everything he has done for you, you can’t help but still feel a bit… odd about the fact you told him you’re having a crush on Bucky. That you have a crush on the man who was once the most feared assassin in the world under the hands of HYDRA.
“Now, can you hand me that screwdriver before your thoughts wander off to him again?” your boss asks in a teasing tone, making you smile as you grab it and hand it to him. Somehow, he always seems to know the right thing to say, and it's exactly why you enjoy spending time by his side while learning everything there is to know about his lab and what's going on in there.
Just as you’re about to get comfortable with another drink in your hand, you meet the gaze of the man you’re crushing on, and you feel heat coursing through your veins. The lines around his deep blue eyes intensify as he smiles at you, his attention making every last thought in your brain disappear. You’re so captivated by how Bucky looks at you that you miss your seat as you sit down. However, before you fall, you’re caught by a pair of solid arms that prevent you from hitting the floor.
“Careful there, Little One,” Thor says in his deep voice, his accent always making the butterflies in your stomach go wild. Even though you’d known Thor since you were young, you couldn’t help but get a little flustered by the nickname, and he smiled at you as you were finally sitting on the chair you intended to use.
“Thank you, Thor,” you whisper before sipping your cocktail. Around you, the conversations are starting to become a little blurry as you focus on Bucky and everything he has to say, his lips forming around the words effortlessly. When you suddenly feel a little shove against your arm, you yelp, making everyone go silent as they look at you.
“What did you do that for?!” you ask Thor in a low voice, but all he does is point to Tony, who obviously has something to say as he’s waving for everyone’s attention. There are moments when you enjoy the fact that alcohol can bring out people’s true feelings or thoughts, also known as in vino veritas, but not now. Oh no, now you wish you could disappear as you listen to the words coming out of Tony’s mouth.
“Guys, you really shouldn’t say this to Bucky or Y/N, but they’re having a massive crush on one another!” Tony says in a loud whispering tone, but what he fails to notice in his inebriated state is that you two are sitting right across from one another, enjoying the afterparty just like everyone else. Or at least, you were enjoying the afterparty until your secret got out.
The glass you were holding falls out of your hand before shattering into pieces on the floor, and your feet carry you as fast as they can away from the party and away from your worst nightmare come true. The music behind you fades away as you turn one corner after another, tears burning in your eyes as the event repeatedly replays in your mind. Your lungs start to burn as you keep running, the stinging feeling in your side increasing as you run out of the Avengers Tower into the night.
Meanwhile, Bucky’s world feels like it has taken a 180-degree turn. Mere minutes ago, he could only fantasize that you could have feelings for him, but now? A wave of disbelief washes over the super soldier, his expression showing pure surprise as he takes the moment in. For him, it was a crush at first sight from the momentyou walked into the training room on your first day. Over the years, his feelings have intensified, although he has only told Steve about his crush - or rather his now deep-rooted love - for you.
And yet, now that the pair of you have been confronted about your feelings for one another, he doesn’t know what to do. He has replayed the moment he’d confess his feelings to you more times than he can count in his mind, and in none of those versions, this is one of the scenarios that had appeared. It’s only when Steve grabs his arm and pulls him away that he seemingly comes back to reality again.
“Bucky, how does Tony know about your crush on Y/N? I mean, I’m, of course, fine with you sharing it, but-”
“I don’t know, Steve, I don’t know, and it kills me,” Bucky says as he runs his fingers through his cropped hair.“Fuck- I was planning on telling her this week but… but now it’s ruined, and I didn’t even get the chance to talk to her, and-” It’s all Bucky can say as he fights the urge to punch the wall with his metal fist, both hands clenched by his side as he tries to regulate his breathing. Without warning, Steve pulls him into a hug, and Bucky’s arms snake around his best friend's waist as his fingers clutch at the fabric of his shirt.
“It’s going to be okay, I promise,” Steve whispers, though he’s not entirely sure that’s true because he knows as well as anyone that things don’t always go back to how they were before. Still, Bucky decides to believe him as they stand there for a little while longer, and he soaks in every bit of comfort he can get for now. Lord knows he’s going to need it.
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The past few days have been strange, to say the least. You haven’t been to the Avengers Tower since Tony revealed your now not-so-secret crush on the super soldier. You’re afraid of what will happen if you do. This also means you haven’t seen Bucky in a few days, and you miss him. You miss hearing his laugh, and you miss seeing how his mouth turns slightly upward as you hand him one of your baked goods, but most of all, you miss how his arms feel when he pulls you in for a hug.
Just as you’re about to make yourself a cup of tea, you get pulled from your thoughts by a soft but familiar knock on the door; only one thing can make that sound: Bucky’s metal hand knocking against the wood. For a moment, you contemplate your actions, but decide to give him at least a chance to talk, especially as it wasn’t him who laid out your feelings in front of everyone.
“Bucky, hi,” you say softly as you take in his appearance, your heart sinking as you do. It’s evident he hasn’t slept at all the past few days. There are dark circles under his eyes, and he doesn’t look as healthy as usual—more disheveled. The struggles he’s facing are apparent in his entire demeanor, and all you want to do is wrap him up in a warm blanket and cuddle him until the end of time.
“Hi,” he says hoarsely, and you step aside, allowing him to enter your apartment. He’s been here a few times already, and usually there’s a warmth radiating from you and every inch of the little place you call home, but ever since the party, it hasn’t been the same. It isn’t just the apartment, either. You feel different.
“Would you like some tea before we talk?” you ask to break the tension. “I was about to make some.”
He nods at you before wandering further into your apartment, and you head to the kitchen, picking out another mug for Bucky to use. Once he’s caught sight of your couch, he immediately takes a seat, a soft groan audible as he does. There aren’t many places more comfortable than the large couch that’s standing right here in your living room.
When you emerge a few minutes later with two steaming mugs of tea and a plate filled with chocolate chip cookies you baked fresh this morning, Bucky can’t help but smile at you. He gladly takes the tea with one of the cookies, as they’re his favorite, and when you sit down next to him, it feels just like it always has, as if nothing has changed. But you both know it has, and that’s why the super soldier’s now in your living room.
“So…” you start, unsure what to say now that he’s sitting on your couch. Bucky’s eyes are trained on the steaming tea in his hands, his thoughts going a mile a minute as he’s thinking about what he wants to say - other than confessing his love for you.
“So… uhm, we missed seeing you around the Tower,” Bucky starts, though you both know it’s mostly him who has missed seeing you there. You have always been a staple there during his mornings as you make him a cup of coffee, and during movie nights, you were always the one he could sit next to and enjoy the movie, but now that you’re not there, it’s like a piece of soul has left the Tower with you.
“I mean, yeah. It’s been a bit awkward for me to go back after what happened a few days ago,” you tell him, and a shudder of horror runs down your spine at the thought of having to face Tony again. A smile tugs at the corners of Bucky’s lips as he thinks back to what happened that night, a happy memory of your first meeting resurfacing in the back of his mind as he does.
“Good morning, Sergeant Barnes. I’ve made some chocolate chip cookies, if you want some. However, I should warn you, Tony’s been on the prowl since I took them out of the oven, so I’ll advise you to be quick,” you say with a glare towards Tony, who has been eyeing them up since he walked into the kitchen and poured himself a cup of coffee. For the first time in a long time, Bucky showed something akin to a smile, and everyone looked at each other to ensure they saw it, too.
“Thank you,” he says lowly, grabbing one of the smaller ones on the plate, followed by a cup of coffee, before swiftly leaving the kitchen to spend more time in his room. Before Bucky even left the kitchen, Tony was on the cookies as if he hadn’t eaten in weeks, and this time you let him.
“Can I- Is it okay if I tell you something? Because if I don’t say it now, I don’t know if I ever will,” Bucky says softly, and you nod before repositioning yourself so that you’re facing him. His gaze is still trained on his mug as he thinks carefully about his next words, afraid he might accidentally say the wrong thing.
“Tony was right. He is right, actually. When he said, we’re crushing on each other. I’ve been crushing on you since you offered me those chocolate chip cookies when Tony threatened to eat them all before anyone else had a chance to get them. It was like a switch flipped inside me back then, and I haven’t been the same since,” Bucky says, his mouth now in a line as he tells you about his feelings.
“Each time I look at you, it’s like I’m seeing an angel, and every time I hear your voice, it’s like a little piece of my soul is healing, too. I find myself drawn to you in every room and wonder what life has in store for us. But deep down inside, I know there is no ‘us’ yet. But I want there to be us. I want you, Y/N. I want you to be mine, in whatever capacity you’ll have me. If you want to stay friends, that’s okay with me, but if you want more, I’ll happily accept every bit of love you’re willing to offer me.”
Once Bucky’s done, you’re unsure what to say. What to think. What to do. You want to say that the feelings between you are mutual, that you’re in love with him and that you want nothing more than to be his, but something inside you is stopping you. So, instead of saying anything, you place your hand over his flesh limb, and his eyes slip shut at the feeling of your soft fingers against his rough hand.
“Bucky.” His name is a whisper on your lips, but it’s enough to make him look at you, to meet your gaze.
“I’m in love with you, too.”
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As soon as the words leave your lips, Bucky carefully put his tea on the coffee table before hauling you onto his lap, his hands digging into the soft flesh of your waist as your lips interlock in a passionate dance. He can’t get enough of your soft mouth slotting together with his and the way his tongue fights for dominance with yours as your fingers dig into his neck. It’s been a long time since you’ve felt a strong connection with someone, and you’re happy to explore it with Bucky.
Your hips grind over his growing length of their own volition,your body looking for any bit of friction it can get. Without warning, one of Bucky’s hands slides lower until he’s cupping your ass, making you gasp into his mouth as a result. Bucky can’t help but smile into the kiss as he pulls you impossibly closer, your legs spreading just a bit further as you sink against his muscular body.
“Hmm, I’ve been wanting this - you - for so long,” he says between the kisses trailing your jaw towards your ear, his teeth nipping on your earlobe as your head lolls to the side. With every passing second, your thoughts are melting away more and more, and all that’s left inside your mind is Bucky. Soon, his other hand joins the first as he helps you grind onto him, a groan falling from his lips as he sets a perfect pace for you both.
“B-Bucky—" his name sounds more like a whine than anything else. “I—I want you.”
“But you already have me, pretty girl, ‘m right here,” he says with a teasing lilt to his voice, his hands continuing to help you grind until you’re a complete mess for him. Your shorts are ruined, your arousal soaking through them and onto the bulge in his black jeans, much to Bucky’s joy. He was wondering what it would take to get you to this point, and it turns out it won’t take much.
He smiles against the skin of your neck, where he’s taking his time to mark you with hickeys and small bitemarks, all of which leave you a bit more of a moaning, begging mess on his lap, much to his pride. When one of your hands moves away from his neck and down his torso, he quickly catches on to what you’re doing. “Someone’s a little impatient today, huh?”
“Yes, oh god, yes! I need you to touch me, Bucky. I want to feel you inside me as you make me fall apart on your cock, and I need you to fuck me like there’s no tomorrow!” Your voice sounds more breathy than usual, but every care you thought you had has gone out the window. All you want is Bucky and his cock to ride, until you’re orgasming so hard and long you can’t remember your name.
“Okay, I will. Don’t you worry about anything, okay? Let me take care of you, and I’ll give you everything you need and more,” he reassures you in a shushing voice. You nod before kissing him again, which immediately deepens before he gently helps you get up, allowing you to take off your panties and shorts, and he can take off his pants and boxershorts, too. As soon as you’re both freed from your last pieces of clothing, you hand him a condom you retrieved from the side table drawer while he took the time to undress himself.
“Hmmm, looks so thick,” you tell him as you look at it with wide eyes, wondering how he’s going to fit inside you as you’re positioning yourself on his lap once more, your legs bracketing his thicks thighs as you get comfortable.
“I know, but I’m gonna go slow. Wouldn’t want to hurt you and your perfect, sweet little pussy.” He smiles as he holds his cock in place, your pliant body sinking onto him slowly as your fingers dig into his shoulders to steady yourself. Your hiss of pleasure is audible and your face contorts at the slight sting of him stretching you, but just like he promised, Bucky is taking it slow to ensure you’ll both have the most amazing first time.
As soon as you’re fully seated on his lap, your body goes limp against him, your face tucked in the crook of his neck as you adjust to his girth, and Bucky places soft kisses on your head while praising you through it all. “You’re doing so well for me, baby. Such a good girl for me, letting me take the lead and giving you exactly what you need.”
A small smile appears on your face as you look up at him with big, doe-like eyes, and he can’t help but smile back as the back of his fingers gently caress your cheek. He may have thought you were beautiful before, but nothing compares to this moment. 
“I love you, Y/N, and I promise to take care of you with every fiber of my being,” he whispers, his lips sealing his promise against your cheek. Your eyes fall shut at his words, and his hand moves down your side until it’s on your hip again, ready for you to let him know when you’re good to go. Your bodies work in complete sync with one another with every rise and fall of your chest, and his hands guide you beautifully as you slowly sink and rise on his length.
“Fuck, you feel so good,” he groans, and it doesn’t take long for both of you to find your highs for the first time, and they’re serving as a promise of everything else that’s still to come in this lifetime. A few days ago, you and Bucky didn’t even know you felt the same about one another, but now you’re sharing the start of the rest of your lives, and it’s all thanks to Tony. Because without him, you wouldn’t have been able to tell the man of your dreams how much you love him.
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Masterlist → Bucky Barnes
GIF: Source → All the other graphics you see are made by @vintagebuckybarnes
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419 notes · View notes
honey-tongued-devil · 3 days ago
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HEYY
i saw the vi x chubby user and as a chubby girl I NEED more of the girlies x chubby user. please 🙀
[Arcane preference (girlies)] with a chubby s/o
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I made you wait so long for nothing, I’m sorry if it’s short, BUT I haven’t forgotten about you!
Jinx:
- Forget that thing called “personal space.”
- If you want to sleep with her, you’ll be the little spoon, and she’ll even throw herself on top of you. She loves feeling human warmth, and with a partner with more body mass, it’s not painful to stay in a long embrace because no (or almost no) bones are attacking her.
- She pinches your love handles and thighs, then bursts out laughing. It's done with tenderness, she loves it to bits, and it’s something extremely rare in Zaun.
- If you can't find anything your size, she'll sew it for you from leftover fabric, or by beating up a passerby to steal their clothes. Either way, you don’t have to worry.
- If you even try to say the words "lose weight," she’ll furrow her brow, deeply offended: you’re hers, and if you lose mass, she has less of you for herself, which means you’re trying to take something from her.
- Which means for the following week, she’ll do everything to make you eat more, terrified that you might lose weight.
Vi:
- What’s the point of being so strong if not to lift you into her arms effortlessly?
- She makes you stay on her back while doing push-ups, carries you to the bedroom, and holds you on her lap on the couch.
- She’s a fighter, not a coward. If she can’t lift you, it’s not that you weigh too much, but that she’s too weak. And within three days, she’ll make sure she fixes this shortcoming.
- But it never actually happens. Vi never misses an opportunity to show you how strong she is and how special you are.
- When you talk under the blankets, she often loses herself playing with your soft spots, almost as if she’s relaxing.
Caytlin:
- She sits on your lap, but if you want, you can sit on her without any issues.
- She loves your body to bits, and if you try to hide it, she might put on a little show just to take off your shirt and enjoy what you were hiding, like your belly.
- Clothes aren’t a problem; she’ll have them made so that they not only fit you but also highlight your best features.
- No jokes here—when you go out together, she wants the world to see how proud she is of her partner and how attractive they are. So, she takes care of your preparation herself, even stealing a kiss here and there, but letting you choose what you want to wear.
Mel:
- She has a personal tailor who makes coordinated outfits for every occasion. She can’t let you look bad, and she wouldn’t want to, so she personally ensures every detail reflects you.
- She knows what you like and dislike, so she can correct the sketches herself, so when the clothes arrive, they’ll be a complete surprise.
- When you're in public, she likes to sit on your lap, if the occasion is casual enough to allow it. Otherwise, she’ll leave subtle lipstick marks on you before leaving, just enough to discreetly remind people you’re with her.
- She likes being the little spoon, feeling protected and vulnerable at least in one place, even though, subconsciously, she changes position while she sleeps. But in any case, feeling your softness against her gives her comfort.
Sevika:
- Think you’re big? Be more humble.
- She lifts you like you’re a little bunny, carries you around on her shoulder, takes you to bed in her arms, and constantly pulls you onto her lap, always keeping one hand on your waist.
- She loves skin-to-skin contact, and she’s strong enough to lift you completely onto her shoulders, with your back against the wall, and hold you like that until her ‘hunger’ passes (or until you can’t take it anymore).
- She’s still terrified of hurting you, so she always keeps you on the side of her good arm, so she doesn’t damage your body with her prosthetic limb.
- When you’re resting, she pulls you completely up onto her, no matter how tall or heavy you are, constantly reminding you that she’s big and strong enough.
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evie-sturns · 2 days ago
Text
avoid - Matt Sturniolo
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summary: when matt calls you out on you pushing him away, until a huge fight breaks out between the two of you. a couple hours later you find him a mess, you have no choice but to make things right.
contains: angst, crying, arguing, yelling, fluff, comforting, swearing.
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you didn't realise you were doing it, you just were.
you had accidentally been avoiding him and pushing him away for the past couple of weeks, there wasn't a specific reason but you just were.
9:04pm
i'm laying on the couch alone, watching some random romcom as i stare at the screen.
the floorboards creak as i hear matt coming down the hallway, his footsteps are heavy as he approaches the living room.
he stands in the doorway, just observing me for a couple of seconds.
i hear his lips part as he gets ready to speak.
"y/n..?" he mutters softly, his voice is weak and shy.
i hum quietly as a response, not even diverting my gaze away from the bright screen. i hear matt huff slightly, a hint of annoyance in his tone.
"what- why- can you at least look at me when im speaking?" matt scoffs.
"what difference does it make?" i mumble back, still staring at the television.
"makes me think you might actually give a shit about me still." matt spits, his arms fold over his chest as he leans against the doorway,
"pfft." i dismiss him which only sets matt off even more.
"why are you acting like this? seriously!" matt exclaims,
"why are you being so sensitive." i groan,
i know i’m being annoying as shit, but i can’t help it, i’m just doing what i can to tick him off.
matt just stares at me, his breathing heavy as i see him visibly start fuming.
“you wanna know what it is? you’ve been acting like a total stranger for the past couple months and i’m done with it, i’m done with you.” matt raises his voice
i stand up off the couch, standing a couple feet away from matt as i lock eyes with him,
“me? i’ve been acting like i stranger?” i laugh dryly, not cause this situation is amusing, i’m just in shock.
“yes! you’ve been treating me like crap for the past too long!” matt keeps his voice raises,
i point my finger at his chest as i walk closer to him, “you cannot be serious? i literally do everything for you? i gave up so many things for more time with you!”
“i didn’t ASK you to do that! nobody did!” he scoffs loudly, grabbing my wrist and yanking it away from his chest.
“so it meant nothing to you? clearly you’re not appreciating my love for y-“
matt cuts me off,
“don’t even. you’re trying to make me feel bad when i’m literally trying to talk to you about my feelings!”
his eyes are narrow slits now, his fingers wrapped tightly around my wrist.
“let me go, now.” i mutter angrily,
“just listen to me!” he spits, moving his hand off of my wrist to grab my shoulders,
he jolts me back and forth harshly,
“i fucking hate this new attitude of yours, you’re the most self centred bitch ever!” matt shouts,
his voice booms through my living room, making my heart race quicken.
“would you just shut up- shut up!” i scream,
matt shoves me back gently, not enough to actually hurt me, just enough to get his point enough.
“you’re just- you’re just being ridiculous?” matt mutters, turning on his heels and walking away from me.
“i fucking hate you! i hope you get that through your thick head!” i snap
i didn’t mean it.
not at all.
i was so angry, just doing anything i could to be mean.
i hear matt’s heavy footsteps as he walks up the stairs, followed by the door slamming shut.
i flop down on the couch, running a hand through my hair as i pant.
i don’t know why i said any of that.
(35 minutes later)
i’ve just been thinking for the past half hour, about things i shouldn’t have said, things i shouldn’t of done.
i’ve held back all my emotions, feeling somewhat numb, except for the intense feeling of guilt gnawing away at me
the whole house has been eerily silent, usually it would be filled with matt and i’s endless giggles, but it’s not.
i stand up off the couch, my legs somewhat wobbly and my stomach churning with immense guilt.
i need to talk to him,
i drag my feet over to the bottom of the stairwell, knowing matt’s at the top of the stairs, locked away in our bedroom.
one step,
after another,
i slowly walk up the stairs.
my heart pounds against my rib cage, not knowing what matt would say, nor think, when he saw me in the doorway,
the same person that just screamed at him, making him believe that i hated him.
i reach his door, my hand stalling on the doorknob as i let out a soft sigh.
i couldn’t bring myself to just twist the doorknob, my hand was lightly shaking.
i swallow harshly before twisting the knob,
i stand in the doorway, looking around the dimly lit room.
there’s a discomforting feeling in the air, the room is cold.
my eyes search around the room until they land on matt.
he’s laying down on the bed, his back facing me and his still.
is he asleep?
“matt..?” i call out quietly, my voice breaking.
i walk over to the bed, my footsteps light.
suddenly i hear him,
a choked sob escapes him.
he’s crying?
i made him cry,
matt’s never cried infront of me before
and i’m the reason he now has.
“baby- are you crying-?” i whisper, reaching down and brushing his hair away from his eyes. he shivers at my touch, rolling over so his face is buried in the pillow.
i quickly crawl into bed beside him.
“please- please don’t cry-“ i mutter, my tone is panicked as i reach for him.
i sit up against the headboard as he stays buried in the pillows beside me, letting out strangled sobs.
“please look at me- darling i am so sorry, seriously.” i speak softly, my voice just loud enough so it’s audible to him
“matt, look at me please.” i say, my tone shaky as my voice cracks again.
he gently lifts his face from the pillows,
i take the opportunity to grab him, and tug him to sit up beside me.
i run my hands through his messy hair, he looks like a wreck, i feel terrible.
his eyes are swollen, his lips are a deep red and puffy and tears roll down his pale cheeks.
i grab his hands, “matt,” i sigh, “y-you’re killing me.”
matt stares down at the bed, “can- can i have a hug?” he whispers with a small hiccup.
“of course you can have a hug.” i sigh, wrapping my arms around him and pulling his body flush against mine.
i hold him close to me as i lay down on the bed, his head buried in my chest.
he sniffs shakily as he just cries, letting everything out.
i can still feel the undeniable tension in the air,
we’re both so angry at eachother still, it’s hard not to be after argument like that.
“hey, it’ll be okay- we’ll be okay.” i whisper, running my fingers through his locks of hair.
he lets out another sob against me, the noise making my heart break.
“you’re gonna make me cry.” i whisper with a small sigh, holding the back of his head gently.
“sorry.” he sniffles.
i hold him in my arms, whispering small words of affirmation while matt slowly starts to calm down.
i fight back the tears in my eyes as i attempt to stay strong for him.
“could we- talk maybe?” matt sniffs, wiping his eyes on my shirt before slowly lifting himself away from me.
he sits up on the headboard beside me, his legs outstretched and his hands still gently shaking.
“i think we need to.” i nod,
we both sit in silence for a second, waiting for one person to start.
“i know i was-“ i start but matt interrupts me,
“can i go first- i just want to tell you… how i’ve been feeling.” he rambles, his voice cracking.
i nod, “yeah..”
matt starts,
“i mean it when i say you’ve been stupidly distant for the past months, everytime i try to initiate anything with you, i just get brushed off, all of our conversations are shallow and i can’t tell if you actually care about me anymore!”
i stare at him as he rambles, trying to take all of his words to heart without getting mad again.
“i love you so much, and it’s hurting me to see you slowly drift away from me, i just want to know what i did wrong..?” he follows on, swallowing harshly,
i nod slightly, my lips parting to speak but no words coming out.
“i’m not trying to push you away matt.” i whisper,
he goes to speak but i interrupt, “i think it’s just a mix of everything, i’m just so exhausted with work after half my coworkers quit, i’ve been working long hours and i don’t mean to push you away, i swear.” i ramble on,
matt nods slightly with understanding, his hands fidgeting in his lap.
“i love you so much matt, and i’m trying to do better, i promise.” i finish,
matt just looks at me, before finally nodding.
he lets out a breath, one that i can tell took a weight off his shoulders.
“i’m sorry about the argument.” matt says,
i shake my head, “no i was being a pain on purpose, it could’ve been avoided if i acted differently.”
“i came at you with like a confronting tone- i should’ve approached it better.” he speaks,
“and i also shouldn’t have laid my hands on you, i didn’t mean for it to ever get physical..” matt whispers, his eyebrows furrowing as he breaks eye contact with me,
“it’s okay, i needed it-“ i try to defend his actions but he cuts me off,
“no- no that was a shitty thing for me to do, i feel super guilty about it.” he sighs,
the room goes silent, my heart aches as i try to apologise for that one thing i said, the 3 words that exited my mouth, which is now eating me alive.
“i’m sorry- for saying i hate you.. i- i don’t i swear, it wasn’t true at all i was just saying it to make you mad- i promise, i love you more than life itself.” i spit it out.
matt’s gaze softens,
my eyes well up with tears, “i shouldn’t have said that, i’m so sorry-“ i whisper out,
matt reaches his hands up to my face, his hands caressing my cheeks and his thumbs wipe my eyes quickly.
“no tears.” he gently coos,
“i’m so sorry- i fucked up so bad-“ i continue, but matt cuts me off.
he presses his lips to mine, his hands still firmly on the sides of my face.
he rolls us over so he’s ontop of me, keeping our lips connected.
i kiss back, distracting myself from the swirling thoughts in my head.
after a few moments he pulls away from my lips with a small ‘pop’.
a warm smile appears on his face as he peppers kisses all over my face.
i squirm with a giggle as his pecks kisses all over me, before pressing a final peck to my lips.
“we’ll always talk things out next time, i promise this won’t happen again.” he whispers comfortingly, his hands gently running through my hair.
i nod in agreement, “i love you.”
“love you too sweetie.” he whispers, before going back to peppering kisses all over my face.
-
@sturnsdoll @obvisturns @stupid4sturniolo @meerkatzthings @witchofthehour @rosalierenee43 @gabrielle-brun1 @ilovemymannnnnnnn @sturnioloxlver @buckys-goodgirl @sturniol0s @ilovemymannnnnnnn @chr1sgirl4life @luanetaluenta @sturnsssbow @mattfangirl girl @luvr4miya @luvtay111 @lolasturniolo @freshloveforthefit @ruedowney @lovingchrissposts @333michelle @h3arts4harry @jamiesturniolo o @chrisstopherfilmed @ @daddyslilchickenfingers2 @ev3rgreenxtrees @certifiednatelover er @solarsturniolo lo @mattsenthusiast t @yomamaslays4lyfe @peachmels @alinaa131 @pepsiluvr0209 @creamoncreamoncream2 @szobofc @mattscoquette @blahbell668 @sturniolo04 @bitchydragonparadise @sturni0l0tripletzz @ratatioulle @sturnsfav @mattsonlybitch @justalittle47 @sunsetsturniolos
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loves0phelia · 2 days ago
Note
hi! I wanted to request a cute jj fic where they’re just being cute together and he’s overprotective (can you base it off an episode in the series?)
thanksss!
Risking
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Summery: Moments JJ risked his life to protect you.
Words: 2.8k
Warnings: near death experiences, grammar mistakes.
A/N: I'm like 100% sure this is not what you meant but this is what i came up with, thank you for requesting xxx (for anyone that requested i will do them all eventually, might just take time)
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JJ was always protective of his friends no matter what, whether it was in a fight, an argument or just a small altercation, he was ready to protect. But with you, it was quite different. He wasn't just protective, he was ready to kill to assure your safety. He followed behind you wherever you went like a personal guard. He would do anything to shield you from any harm.
The first time you noticed just how much he was committed to your protection, was during the Kegger at the beach. You and him had begun dating a couple of months prior and it was the first beach party of the summer, where kooks, pogues and torons met to have a good time.
“Hey, y/n! How are you doing?” Your head turns when you hear the call of your name. You notice  Topper, Rafe, and Kelce approaching. Their presence quickly becomes hard to ignore. They are always looking for trouble, even when there is none.
“Oh, uhm I'm good Rafe, thank you for asking” You began looking around for the familiar head of blond hair you loved combing your fingers through but only failing.
“Looking for someone?” It was now topper's time to speak up.
“Actually yes, I'm looking for JJ-”
“Yeah I don't actually care, you want a drink?” Topper smirked, a glint of arrogance in his eye; it was in no way comforting. It was malicious.
“No thanks, I'm not drinking tonight…” You slowly start backing up feeling cornered by the trio.
“Relax, we’re just being friendly. Have a drink with us. Unless, of course, you’re too good for that. But you won't deny a free drink, right, pogue?” Topper pushed and almost shoved the red plastic Solo cup filled with beer that tasted like pee in your face.
“What the fuck is going on here” Sighing in relief, A weight was lifted off your shoulder when you heard his voice coming up behind you. You turned to see JJ striding over, eyes hard and jaw clenched. His gaze flicked from you to the three boys, warning in his stare.
“There you are, we were just offering your little bitch of a girlfriend a drink, isn't that right y/n?” Topper laughed, feigning innocence. 
JJ didn’t back down, his voice low but clear. “The fuck did you just call her?.”
Topper took a step closer, his grin mocking. “I called her a bitch. What are you gonna do about it, tough guy?” He laughed and earned a slap on the back from Rafe.
Before anyone could process what was happening, JJ's fist was swinging toward Topper landing a solid punch across his jaw.
The air was thick with tension, and you instinctively took a step back—until Rafe's hand caught your arm, gripping tight.
“Let go of me!” you snapped, trying to pull free.
“Don’t. Touch. Her.” Seeing you struggle, JJ’s face darkened
JJ lunged toward Rafe as Topper troubles to stand from the sand still winded from the hit he received. Then, In a second everyone at the party began circling the fight.
Both blond boys punched and kicked around earning cheers from the crowd surrounding.
“Stop!” John B and Pope push through and quickly pull JJ off the bloodied Rafe.
“Lay a hand on her again, and you’re dead. Got it!?” He screamed at his face before getting completely pulled off.
JJ’s demeanour softened as soon as He turned to you, “Hey, you alright?” he asked, gently brushing his fingers over the red handprint on your arm.
You let out a relieved breath, meeting his concerned gaze. “I’m fine, thank you,” you whispered, slowly raising your tippy toes to press a delicate kiss on his cheek.
His hand raised to your cheeks and pulled you into a proper kiss before wrapping his arm around your shoulder and bringing you away from everyone. He couldn't wait to lay in bed close to you.
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the second time you noticed was when he was ready to take a bullet for you. You and your friend hadn't expected your summer to turn into a treasure-hunting adventure but here you were with a nugget of badly melted gold in your pocket on your way to a “warehouse”.
“Is there really a warehouse out here?” Your friend, Kiara asked, confused. The route you were on only had forest and maybe a couple of cabins nearby, no place where someone could be keeping 70k in cash.
“That's what she said, hehe that's what she said” JJ smirked and you from your spot on his lap slapped his thigh and gave him a warning but playful look.
‘Shut up” Pope said unimpressed which only made JJ's smile fall into a frown.
“Sorry baby,” You said and kissed the tip of his nose and his smile was back immediately. He had already forgotten his bad joke.
“Cops? out here?” Your little make-out session was interrupted by the flashing of the red and blue lights and siren.
“Hide the gold!” All the pogues panicked and tried acting as innocent as possible, but JJ only tightened his arms across your lower stomach holding you against him.
Barry appeared, his face hidden with a skull scarf, and in his hand was a shotgun. He raised it, pointing it directly at John B. in the driver's seat. You all froze, hearts pounding.
“Why don't you get out and raise those arms in the air” Barry sneered. “Right now!”
John B stepped out of the van, hands raised high in fear.
“Come everyone get out! Let's go”  Shaking you slowly got up from your place in JJ's lap and got out of the car.
“There you go pretty girl, hurry up!” He pointed the gun in your face, the barrel touching your forehead.
“Relax bro!” JJ jumped out after you and instinctively pushed you behind him. His face was dark with anger as he screamed. Your heart jumped in your throat when the gun shifted from you to him.
“Stay back bitch!” he shouted at JJ.
“Face down in the ditch, get down on your knees” He threatened with his gun and pushed down Pope's head as you all got down in the dirt.
After a short while, Barry went into the van and went looking for the gold but as he was searching John b got up and went into his car to ambush him.
Thankfully his plan worked and as soon as John B got the gun out of his hand you all rushed to help. JJ ran and punched him in the ribs, Kie punched his face, Sarah pulled the car door on his face twice and you kicked him as hard as you could where the sun dont't shine.
Barry spat, his anger mingled with a hint of fear now. “You’re dead for this. You hear me? All of you!” You all just took what he had stolen from you and left.
Later that night in bed pressed against JJ's stomach at the chateau you thought about the situation.
“You can't jump in front of me when there's a gun involved” You whispered and JJ's rubbing movement on your back stopped.
“the hell I can't” he scoffed.
“You're gonna get hurt badly if you keep protecting me.”
“It's my job to protect you, if something happens to you I will literally die, I can't live without you” His sentence made your head shoot up.
“You mean that?”
“You're the love of my life y/n, nothing matters more to me than you.” You carefully laid your head back down on his chest where you could hear his heartbeat and hugged him tight, almost wanting to crawl into his skin.
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The third time you were out in open water, nowhere to turn, and adrenaline was coursing through your veins. Sarah had gotten kidnapped by her family and you and the rest of the pogues were on a mission to save her.
The boat pitched and swayed on the ocean. JJ and you stood side by side, backs pressed to the railing, as you faced off against Renfield, an employer of Ward Cameron. 
The man grinned wildly, holding a machete with a terrifying confidence, the blade shining menacingly in his hands. 
“JJ look out!” He lunged forward, machete raised, his eyes locked on JJ. Your heart leaped in fear, but JJ ducked, narrowly dodging the swing. The machete sliced through the air, missing by an inch.
Before he could make another move, you stepped in, launching a punch right into his nose throwing him off his balance. But he quickly got back up continuing the fight.
Before JJ could fully react, Renfield rushed forward, landing a brutal punch across his jaw. The force of the blow sent JJ stumbling backward, right up against the railing. Disoriented, he struggled to regain his balance.
His vision was blurry but he didn’t miss how The blunt end of the machete in the man's hand was making a beeline for your head.
“Y/N!” He lunged from the floor and pushed you out of the way. 
Your heart dropped to the bottom of your feet as you watched JJ topple backward receiving the hit that was initially meant for you, arms flailing as he plunged into the dark, icy water below.
“JJ!” you screamed, rushing to the side, your eyes frantically scanning the water for any sign of him. The boat rocked beneath you as you leaned over, the sound of your heartbeat roaring in your ears.
Without a second thought, you kicked the man and jumped in after your boyfriend.
“JJ!” You swam closer and closer until you reached his floating body, you held him and hugged him close to your body, elevating his face above the water.
“Please! John B.” You felt yourself sink further as you frantically moved your legs beneath you.
“Please, JJ I can't, I can't” You choked on the water filling your mouth.
As you sank several pairs of hands grabbed onto you and JJ pulled you onto a smaller boat when you realized your friends had saved you you rushed to JJ's side, begging, and shaking his shoulder attempting to bring him back.
“Please get up!” suddenly he began coughing up water and slowly opening his eyes.
“Oh my God” You sobbed and held his face gently with your hands.
“Sup” Everyone around you erupted in laughter and you laid your forehead on his chest giggling.   “Don’t… ever do that again,” you said, your voice barely a whisper.
JJ chuckled weakly. “Can't promise anything”
You rolled your eyes, a smile breaking through despite the panic that still lingered. 
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“I'm coming with you,” you argued.
“No you're not,” JJ said as he was putting his diving gear on.
“Yes, I am” You take the second wetsuit and start unzipping it.
“Hey, no” he takes it from your hands and puts it aside.
“Yes, JJ. I am going down with you whether you like it or not” Your tone hardens which took him aback, JJ rarely saw this bossy side of you, you were always soft-spoken and gentle or at least with him you were. 
After pulling on the suit and oxygen gear both you and JJ were ready to go down.
“Okay guys remember the safety stops, or else you get the bends” Pope warned and you both nodded.
The water was calm and clear. Underwater, everything was peaceful and quiet, the only sounds coming from the rhythmic hiss of your breathing through the scuba gear and the faint echo of distant waves above. It felt like a different isolated world.
He gestured to you, pointing toward a dark shape partially buried under a rocky overhang. You nodded, eyes bright under the goggles as you swam toward it, fins propelling you through the water. 
But before either of you could examine the wreckage further, a shadow passed over you, casting a sudden darkness across the sandy floor.
Just as you looked up, the unknown diver was on you. The stranger grabbed you by the shoulder, yanking you backward, forcing you to drop the small underwater flashlight you had been holding. 
“y/n!” JJ’s eyes widened as he took the spear he had brought down with him and stabbed the attacker without mercy. But that angered him. Quickly he turned and punched JJ, with his skills he swam quickly and locked JJ up in a room inside the wreck while he was disoriented, leaving you alone with the man.
“NO!” he yelled but it was muffled by the oxygen tube.
The stranger’s hands reached for you again, trying to get hold of your air tank, and when he did he cut off your oxygen supply. Your lungs burned instantly from the lack of oxygen and panic.    As soon as JJ managed his way out of the trap he was in, he shoved his regulator into your mouth, completely uncaring about his need for oxygen. He took your hand while you were taking desperate breaths and he kicked himself forward, rushing to the surface and escaping from the attacker.
As you broke through the water, you both gasped for breath and clung to each other, adrenaline pumping through your veins. 
“Are you okay!” His hands reached for your face, and you only weakly nodded.
“Talk to me please, baby” 
“I'm okay” You swam closer to him and he held you without daring to let go until John B was near.
When you finally reached the safety of the boat you and your boyfriend sat close. You were still panting, your chest heaving but as you took another breath, you felt a sudden, sharp pain twist through your chest.
"Guys, are you okay?" Kiara asked, noticing the pained expression on your face.
You tried to respond, but winced, feeling an intense, stabbing ache radiate from your joints to his abdomen. Your head spun, and you suddenly felt nauseous as though your blood had turned to acid. Panic flashed in Pope's eyes as he watched you and his best friend struggle, the realization hitting him hard. 
"They have the bends, we need to get them to the hospital" Pope and Cleo slid their arms around JJ's back lifting him up and John B. and Sarah did the same to you. 
JJ panicked at the sudden disconnection between you too, You were so close now so far apart because of your friends separating you. 
“y/n” JJ moaned as pain shot through his side.
“We're getting you both to the hospital!” pope shouted. The ride felt like thousands of hours, the pain was unbearable. 
"Almost there, guys, just hold on," Sarah encouraged, as she tried making you both take deep breaths. 
The van rattled down the dirt road, jostling you and JJ in the back as you leaned against each other, pale and clammy, both fighting the building pressure in your heads and chests. 
“go, go, go” one of your friends screamed and tore the van door open pulling you out of the car. You struggled through the hospital door and in a second you were shoved into a small, cramped hyperbaric chamber that was barely big enough to fit one person, let alone two.
After a couple of minutes of groaning, heavy breathing and twitching you both cooled down shoulders pressed against one another, his breath shallow and quick, matching your own in the tightness of the space. His fingers slid into yours sneakily.
JJ glanced over, a spark of guilt in his eyes as he shifted uncomfortably now tracing his fingers on your face. “I'm sorry I couldn't protect you from all this” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.
You met his gaze, his face so close you could see every freckle on his sun-kissed skin. You swallowed, trying to ignore the way his hand brushed your cheek as he reached to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear.
“I'm glad you didn't,” you said. JJ’s hand lingered, his fingers warm against your skin, and you felt yourself leaning in, just slightly, as though pulled by a force.
“I'm glad you didn't because if you did I wouldn't be here with you ” you whispered, unable to look away.  Before you could stop yourself, you closed the gap, kissing him with a fierceness you didn’t know you had.
JJ’s lips met yours, soft and warm, and his hands found their way to your waist, pulling closer. The hum of the machine, the aching in your muscles, even the fear — all of it fell away, leaving only the two of you, tangled together in this moment.
“It’s the first and last time I ever let something happen to you, got it?” You grinned and rolled your eyes. You shifted, grabbed a pillow and quickly pushed it directly in front of the circular window before climbing on his lap pressing a deep kiss to his plumped pink lips.
Only the two of you know what happened in that chamber in the minutes that followed.
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soleilapproves · 2 days ago
Text
Wearing a backless dress in front of Nanami for the first time.
Note: early relationship feels. F!reader, AFAB reader. Not proofread, I’m sorry for torturing you guys. A smidge of SUGGESTIVENESS
Nanami was a punctual man. He hated tardiness especially when it came to himself. Which is why he was getting agitated when you were taking too long to get ready.
“Honey, are you done?” Nanami impatiently called out from your living room. You were going to meet his friends for the first time today. It was a high school friend group reunion because everyone conveniently happened to be in the same city at the same time.
You were all meeting at a very luxurious bar so you wanted to dress well to make a good first impression. “Yeah, let me just get my coat and we’re good to go.” You said as you left your room to get to the coat stand in the living room. He thanked his lucky stars at that moment. He knew it took you a long time to get ready but he was starting to think that he should give you an earlier time so you could get ready faster from here on out.
But time stood still for him when his eyes landed on you.
Nanami immediately stood up when he saw you. He involuntarily put his hand on his chest. Almost like he was trying to calm himself down.
His tawny eyes raked down your figure. It was a simple dress- full sleeved with a square neckline and a hem that reached right above your knee. The show stopper was your bare back.
Sure, Nanami had seen you naked a few times since the beginning of your relationship, but he hadn’t seen you dress up so beautifully unless it was for a date at an expensive restaurant (which seldom happened for you both enjoyed exploring hole in the wall places).
Friends be damned. His girlfriend looked like dessert served on a gold platter.
“You…” His rasped out. He couldn’t even find the words to describe the sight in front of him.
He slowly walked towards you (with heart eyes) and removed your jacket from your grasp. “Everything alright?” Your eyes searched his but he was too busy staring at your neckline.
“Yeah, just… spin for me, darling. I want to take this all in before we leave.” You giggled at his request and did as he asked.
“Like what you see?”
“Very much.”
“You can have me whenever, babe. We’re gonna come back to my place after meeting everyone anyway.” Nanami pulled you to him with a small tug to your wrist after you said that.
“Yes, but knowing that we’ll be late because of how beautiful you look makes me feel excited.” His said as he stroked his fingers up and down your back. He leaned in to get a kiss but you pulled away. “I just did my makeup.” You whined.
“Just one little kiss. I promise I won’t ruin it.” You groaned at him but leaned in, planning to leave a small peck on his eager lips.
Except you were met with an intoxicating kiss. His mouth was ready to devour you as his hands situated themselves behind your head.
“Kento-“ You tried to remind him of his promise as you pulled away but he just used his grip on your head to pull you back in.
“Little more.” He mumbled into your mouth. You let out of a sound of annoyance and he squeezed your ass to comfort you.
His tongue lapped up whatever was left of your lipstick as he continued to attack your lips. His hands pulled you impossibly close that you could feel his need for you through his pants.
After what felt like ages, you both pulled away. “Great, we’re going to be late now.” You said as you stomped away to your room to apply more lipstick.
“Come back!” He yelled out as he followed you. “We can afford to be a few minutes late.” He said as he entered your room and closed the door.
You had managed to shake the principles of the ever punctual Nanami Kento.
-
I was thinking about that one scene from How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days while writing this. You know, when Benjamin sees Andy in that yellow dress?
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wizashcs · 2 days ago
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One Piece Headcanons - “You can handle it” with Portgas D. Ace, Eustass Kid and Dracule Mihawk (NSFW)
cw: fem!reader, m!dom, comfort, softcore, Kid is mean but not really, fingering, guys have a large dick and you’re just a silly girl.
Portgas D. Ace
Whenever you’re with Ace he makes sure you’re eased, and feel comfortable under his care. You can expect gentle, warm touches and long makeout sessions before you get into the nasty. You lived stressful times in the past few days. You were tensed, and it not only showed how you were a little more sensitive and even a little grumpy these days, but you felt it physically too. You were in your shared bed with Ace, he held you in his arms, spooning your back against his heating chest. He traced his fingers on your stiff shoulders, gently caressing away the tufts of your hair out of the way of your neck.
“Can I do something to make you relax, babe?” He asked, implying on a bit of a fun with his fingers running down on your chest towards the bottom of your belly. His fingers found a way to sneak under the underwear you wore, and began to carefully circle around your clit, while he pressed his heated lips against your neck, leaving gentle yet eager kisses here and there. “You stress too much, baby.” He whispered into your ear with a kiss. He nipped your earlobe between his lips, teasing you to get you in the mood. Even with so little effort, you craved more of him, encouraging him with lovely sighs he adored so much. He couldn’t wait to hear you say his name between two of your pleased breaths.
Your pulled your underwear down on your legs, so you could freely spread them apart wider for him. He smiled, chuckling while he kissed you on your cheek and neck over and over again. Each kiss felt more and more hotter, quite literally. He loved using his devil fruit power on you in the bed, and he knew you also enjoyed him playing with the temperatures of his hand and…other places of his body.
When he reached your entrance with two of his fingers, he noticed how tensed you were. You weren’t so wet yet, and he felt the tightness around his fingers, so he didn’t rush putting them in. His other hand moved to your face, gently pulling you towards him so he could see your expression. You seemed slightly worried.
“I don’t know what the matter is…” You tried explaining. “I’m never this tight.”
“Baby, I don’t blame you.” He hushed and comforted you by pressing his mouth against yours. His burning lips chained to yours, his tounge found a way to meet your tounge and embrace eachother with passion. He took it slow, almost a tease.
He parted your lips for a few moments, just so he could see your face while he starts rubbing on your clit once again. You became so wet by just a few moments of kissing. In that moment, two of his fingers reached down to your entrance again. It slipped in so easily, yet he was very careful not to cause you any pain or discomfort. When he finally pushed the last digits of his fingers in, he began rubbing his fingertips against the sweet spot of your pussy. It was his favorite part when he could watch your struggle not to become too loud because of his touches.
“That’s my girl.” He praised you before he leaned into a kiss once again. Just as his mouth, his fingers working on you began to heat up against your body that made you even more crazy for him. You moaned into the kiss, while he smiled into it as a reaction. “I knew you could handle it, you just needed a little time, right?”
Eustass Kid
Captain Kid was never known for his patience. He was reckless, rough and sure as hell one of an impatient man. When he commanded something, that must be done, when he asked something, he wanted answers, and when he wanted something, he wanted it right away. It wasn’t an exception when it was about sex with you. A slightly more cropped shirt or a fabric he liked on you in the right moment and that’s it, you were already in the tight hold of his metal arm until he threw you on his bed to make you his.
It was a similar case this time as well, you were already laying on your back against his sheets when he climbed top of you, kissing you wildly as he reclined his arms beside the two sides of your head. He bit your lower lip while you kissed, his human hand reached to cup one of your tits into his palm, massaging it roughly, yet not hard enough to cause you pain.
“I want you.” He groaned, leaning closer to you, the tip of his nose tickled your ear as he talked. “Let me fuck you… I wanna fuck you ‘til you pass out, or ‘til we both do.”
You only chuckled as a tease, and that made him even more eager to be rough with you. He quickly sat up on his knees, and he ran his hand under your skirt so he could pull your underwear down from your legs, and might as well free his manhood from his pant’s trap.
“Kid…” You moaned out his name, reflecting on his rough movements, hoping that he might slow a little down. Ha, you were wrong.
“Too late, no mercy for ya’ babydoll.” And just like that, he leaned down to you once again, attacking your lips with his one more time. His red lipstick stained marks on your mouth and on it’s corners, leaving his messy tracks on you so whenever he looks at your face while he fucks you hard, he could acknowledge it even more that it’s his work. He’s the one who does this to you. His real hand adjusted the tip of his cock to your wet entrance, pushing his way inside you without further more questions. You moaned loud and pressed your palms against his shoulders to resist. God, how is he this huge?!
“Hurts, hurts, hurts!” You warned him not to continue, and he indeed stopped, tilting his head sideways as a mean grin appeared on his face.
“Aw, are we tight?” His mocking tone made you blush and pressed one of your palms against his face to wipe down the grin of his face as a reply. He caught your hand by your wrist and pushed it down against the sheets. “Come on, I know ya’ can handle me, baby.” His voice was still teasing, but it was an encouragement in his own way. He’d never admit, but he will be very careful with the penetration, because he doesn’t want to hurt you the way you don’t want it. He tries his best not to tell you he cares deeply for you, and for your body as well. When he’s finally inside with his whole length, he’d start rocking his hips slowly, still having your arm pressed against the bed by his hand, while his metal arm reclined above your head. “There ya’ go babe… It wasn’t that hard, was it?”
Dracule Mihawk
You and Mihawk had your flings a few times, but since he wasn’t the type of man who needs it often, you barely remember when was the last time you two have seen eachother between the sheets. The Warlord had you as a welcomed guest that night, and your conversations beside a good glass of wine led you to his bedroom once again. As much as you could recall, he was always remarkable when it was about carnal desires. He laid you down on his dark-red silk sheets, nesting himself between your legs. He pulled your elegant trousers down with your panties at the same time, leaving you a little flustered.
“You’re fast.” You claimed, and he leaned over to your face to kiss your cheek gently.
“Must be the wine, or I’m just not in the mood to play with the prey.” He teased, though his hawk-like eyes told you he’d rather want to eat you alive like a hawk does to a helpless bunny, than to bed you in incensed candle lights. Though as I mentioned that you don’t do these kinds of things often, it seems like when he has the inspiration to have you in his bed, he likes taking it slow. He teased you with his fingers all around your body. His short-clipped nails traced invisible lines on your stomach, on your chest, shoulders, and down on your arms to reach your bottom parts once again. He liked kissing your body, and you liked how his moustache and beard tickled your skin, that sometimes it made you flinch. He secretly treasured those little flinches of yours.
You were both completely naked when he decided to finally stop the tease, and enter you after such a long time. Melting into eachother wasn’t something he’d do to anyone, because it means becoming one with another person in his mind, which means, you were the only one worthy for him. But oh, something wasn’t right. He only managed to put his tip in, and your expression you gave were painful, you were gripping the red silk tightly to endure.
“What’s the matter?” He asked, and you became quite embarrassed. You were wet, and you wanted him to put it in for so long now, and yet you’re the one who closed the doors.
“I- I think I’ll have to get used to your length again, darling.” You mumbled out quietly, and at first he didn’t say anything in response. One of his hands moved to your hand that grabbed on the sheets, and raised it to his mouth, so he could press a gentle kiss on top of it. He tried comforting you in his own, quiet way.
“Alright, sweetheart. We’ll take it slow for you.” He spoke tenderly, leading your hand back to the bedsheet, chaining your fingers into eachother as a matter of support. His other hand was helping to adjust himself into you, directing it slowly inside. When he felt like he can keep it in, he moved his hand under your hip, so he could raise your bottom just enough to make it easier for you to take him. With his help and care, it wasn’t even slightly painful. “There you go, my love, I knew you could handle it.”
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