#giving him a kiss on the back of his head as you place the cup on his desk...

[cherrygirlfriend]

passenger princess pairing: sunshine!reader x grumpy!rafe synopsis: no one touches your side of the car warnings: fluff! wc: 700 this was such a cute little idea, i loved it!!! this is for the baddies that refuse to get a license ⋆.˚ ᡣ𐭩 .𖥔˚ thank you for requesting!

whenever you'd come up with some new, ridiculous way to 'tune up' what you had deemed your side of his car, rafe would act like it was such a bother; like he really didn't get why you felt the need to be doing all that.

rafe's side of the car was, well, normal. sure, he had a few documents he kept in the driver's seat sun visor, but everything else was sleek, normal, but your side was like a kindergartner's dream come true. it got so ridiculous that you had a fluffy blanket you'd stuffed into the glove compartment, conveniently ignoring the gun he kept there. sure, that came in use for car quickies, but most of the time it was just there for when you felt like... napping.

the dashboard had a bunch of stickers as well as some of those weird furry toys (calico crits or some shit) along with those weird little babies with fruits on their heads; you'd put blu-tack on their feet to make sure they stayed in their rightful places. even the cup holder was taken over by a little plushie, and he'd basically had to argue for you to not get a pink cover for the steering wheel; that ended up with you giving him the silent treatment for a week until he showed up behind your door with more ridiculous trinkets for your side of the car.

secretly, he liked the fact that there was your side of the car, that even when you weren't there, he could still see traces of you everywhere.

rafe let out a small sigh, tapping his long digits against the steering wheel, glancing down at his watch the longer it took barry to get there; finally, he saw the man getting out of his trailer, letting out a low "fucking finally..." while barry opened the door to rafe's car, his eyes immediately landing on the crap on your side of the car. "don't ask."

"wasn't gonna." barry huffed in amusement, getting into the decorated side of the car, and rafe wished he wasn't in such a hurry, the sight being so ridiculous. "you're whipped, huh?"

"what are you talking about?" rafe scoffed, the car lurching forward as he started it, barry adjusting the cute seat cover you'd recently bought, letting out a small tut. "i wouldn't do that." but before rafe could stop barry from further meddling with your settings, he'd already started adjusting the seat, making him groan internally.

"are you gonna get shit for it?"

"obviously." rafe scoffed, "and you will too. it took her, like, a month to adjust it to be comfortable. so stop touching her shit."

still, barry continued looking at the little trinkets you kept on your side of the car, taking one of those weird fruit babies and toying with it, letting out a small snort, but when they pulled up in front of an unfamiliar house instead of the house party rafe had told him they'd be going, barry looked at the blonde with furrowed brows, who simply scratched the back of his neck.

"don't tell-"

before he could finish his sentence, barry was startled by the sound of a knock on the passenger seat window, and when he turned around, you were standing there, mouthing something.

"she's saying you're in her seat." rafe muttered under his breath, barry laughing at this; it was getting more and more ridiculous by the minute.

"whipped. w-h-i-p-p-e-d." barry slapped rafe's shoulder, making the blonde roll his eyes as barry got out of the passenger's seat.

"hi." you said with an excited smile as you climbed onto your side of the car, pressing a soft kiss on rafe's stubbled cheek, all the while barry climbed into the backseat, feeling like he was a damn kid getting a ride to school from his parents.

however, as you tried to settle onto your usual seat, you looked between the two men with narrowed eyes, your glossed lips pursing into a pout, rafe feeling like he might burn under your gaze.

"did he mess with my seat?"

"i told him not to!"

"barry!" you exclaimed, your keen eyes landing on the dashboard, noticing that something was missing; you turned around to face him, a sheepish grin on barry's face.

"barry, give me the angel back!"

[luveline]

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❤︎

[papercorgiworld]

Gryffindor Fever

Mattheo Riddle x Gryffindor!reader

Brought to you by this request. While the Slytherins usually bully you, everything drastically changes when you go missing and Mattheo finds out he might have, what Pansy calls: Gryffindor fever.

Happy readings lovely readers! 💛

“Wooh, your test went about as well as the last gryffindor quidditch game.” Mattheo laughed and half of the class chimed as you looked horrified at your test. Snape shushed the class only to hack into your emotional state himself. 

And if that had been it for today, you wouldn’t have complained but leave it to the slytherin douchebags to make your day worse. A smug looking Draco pushes everyone to the side to catch up with you, his cold eyes snaring at you, followed by his gang. “Being stupid can’t be helped. It comes with gryffindor colours, but dressing like you fell into your grandma’s laundry basket is your choice.” Theo snickers as he pulls your home knit scarf. You loosen your scarf and before you fully register what you're saying you’ve already snapped back at the tall slytherin. “Says the guy who doesn’t know how to use a comb.” You snap, darting mean eyes at his bird’s nest of a hairdo. Mattheo has to press his lips together, hiding his amusement at your feistiness, as Theo takes a big step towards you, only to be held back by Enzo. “Dumbledore is around the corner, think about the house cup, mate.” Enzo ushers in a loud whisper, making Theo turn around but not before his dead eyes curse you to the beyond. 

You give them a nasty look, before turning around a corner. “Nice one. Those guys need to be put in their place more often. Otherwise they’ll think they own hongwarts.” George says, but his voice echoes in the back of your head as you feel yourself get lightheaded. Suddenly you feel arms wrap around you and after a few deep breaths you manage to look up and meet Fred’s eyes. You regain strength and lift your hand to rest on your forehead. “I got dizzy for a moment.” You analyse out loud in a soft whisper. “Yeah, we noticed.” Fred voices his concern as he helps you sit down against a cold wall. George immediately conjures a cup of water for you, which you take with a soft smile. “I got way too worked up over my test and Snape’s lecture and those- those idiots.” The twins look at you with sympathy and to each other with a glitter in their eyes, for sure they would play a fantastic trick on those Slytherins for you getting so stressed. 

It was Hermoine’s advice that convinced you to ignore and avoid everyone and everything silver and green coloured. “Just study and find peace in the books.” She had told you over dinner that same day. You following her advice hadn’t gone unnoticed as Slytherins started to miss their favourite gryffindor to make a fool of. Harry was a sensitive issue after he and Draco had almost kissed him when drunk at a Hufflepuff party. Hermione was old news. And Ron was just too easy of a target. You were perfect, but as of the last few days: unfindable, since you hit in a corner of the library only nerdy ravenclaws and Hermione knew about. And apparently also Fred and George. 

“You gotta eat!” George exclaimed, losing his patience with you. “No. I got to study.” You mumble not looking up from your book. “Failing one test will not kill you, starvation will.” Fred added as he tried to reach for your book. You quickly pull your book closer. “I already failed a test, if I fail another Snape will kill me.” “Your brain needs food.” Fred says with a voice low and serious. “Later…” You say, your eyes meeting his for only a second. The twins sigh, but leave for the great hall in defeat. “Unbelievable, that one.” You hear George whisper, making you look at them walking away. I really should eat… after this chapter I should definitely eat something.

You did not eat after that chapter, in fact you studied late. Robbing yourself of sleep and draining yourself completely.

“Do you think (y/n) is alright?” Mattheo blurs out as he stares at the fire, standing still with his hands in his pockets. Pansy looks up from the novel she was reading, carefully studying Mattheo through her lashes before scanning the empty common room. It’s only when Mattheo turns to look at her that she puts her book away. “Do I look like the Gryffindor whisperer to you? No clue what that girl thinks. At this point I don’t even know what you’re thinking… What’s she to you?” Mattheo shrugs. “Just haven’t seen her in a while.” Pansy fakes a pout. “You must have the same thing as Draco…” Mattheo frowns, but Pansy’s quick to explain herself as she gets up and whispers in Mattheo’s ear: “Gryffindor fever.” 

Mattheo gives Pansy a look of disgust but quickly finds that he has no counterargument, because he really was worried about you. Pansy cheekily tilts her head to the side as she watches Mattheo struggle. Just as Mattheo has gathered enough words for a sentence the door to the common room is blown open and Mattheo is slung against a wall, making Pansy shriek and duck behind a couch. “Where is she, you snake?” George yells as both twins point their wands at Mattheo who is picking himself up off the ground. “What?!”

***

With panic in their eyes Fred, George and Mattheo flew over hogwarts’ grounds, quickly Mattheo grew impatient and started to explore the edge of the dark forest. You had been last seen by a hufflepuff who thought you were looking for potion ingredients, depending on what you were looking for you would have probably gone into the forest. Mattheo felt his heart racing, what if something bad had happened to you. He suddenly realised how silly he had been pretending he didn’t care about anyone, leave alone annoying Gryffindors. His grip on his broom tightened as it dawned on him that he only wanted people to think he didn’t care about you and that seemed so silly now. 

From a distance your body looks lifeless and Mattheo’s heart stopped beating for what felt like minutes until he wrapped you in his arms. A soft sound escapes your lips and a most gentle kiss on your head assures you that you’ll be alright. “Let’s get you back to the castle and all warmed up.” You were still pretty out of it but you could’ve sworn that sounded like Mattheo Riddle, but like the soft gentle version… Clearly you were not well yet, because that would be impossible. Instinctively you grab onto his warm clothes and snuggle in. Your whole body was drained of energy but you knew you were safe.

George opened the door to the Gryffindor common room and Fred held the door open while George threw everyone off the couch. Every Gryffindor in the room stood gawking as Mattheo carried you inside carefully. As Mattheo ever so gently lay you down on the couch, he heard Ron whisper: “Now I’ve seen everything.” Making the slytherin roll his eyes as he could already imagine the red head’s dumb face. Fred leans over you, softly whispering your name. George pushes both Mattheo and Fred away so he can lay a blanket over you and Fred tucks you in a little more as your eyes flutter open. Every student in the room has now surrounded the couch you’re laying on. “What happened?” Hermione asks, eyes darting between the twins. “Think she passed out.” George answers and Fred nods. “Yeah.” You whisper and you open your eyes fully to see everyone hang over the couch staring at you. “I probably shouldn’t have eaten and slept a bit more instead of just studying for Snape’s stupid test.”  

Mattheo just keeps his distance, feeling guilty for everytime he mistreated you. Not saying a word since he feels unworthy. Slowly he makes his way to the door as he hears you explain what happened. “Hey, is it possible I heard Riddle’s voice when I was in the forest?” You suddenly ask, making Mattheo hold his breath as the room falls silent. “Yeah…” George says as he moves away, so you see a soft looking Mattheo staring back at you. Mattheo swallows hard, gathering courage to say what he really wishes to say. “Take care of yourself.” There’s a sincerity in his voice, but the way he raises his hand to awkwardly wave you goodbye makes the whole ordeal just bizarre. Ron just stares at Mattheo with wide eyes as he leaves. “If I didn’t know any better I would think he genuinely cares for you, (y/n).” Yeah, if I didn’t know any better… I would think the same.

***

Mattheo had been on your mind ever since he left so awkwardly that night. You would often catch yourself trying to remember the warmth of that forehead kiss, his smell when you held onto him and his gentle words. It seemed so surreal. You shake your head trying to focus on the test in front of you, but again your thoughts drift to how ever since you passed out, not a single person has bothered you. Your eyes wander over to Mattheo obviously trying to see what Theo is writing on his test. In order to get yourself to focus, you promise yourself that you’ll confront Mattheo after Snape’s class. 

You patiently wait outside the classroom while Mattheo and Enzo try to suck up to Snape, since they had a bad feeling about the test. When both guys enter the hallway you immediately step in front of them. “Mattheo, can we talk?” Your voice came out softer than you expected. Enzo licked his lips, but Mattheo made sure nothing cheeky was said and sent Enzo away with one curt nod. “How did your test go?” Mattheo asks, to your surprise he sounded like any other student. There was no mocking tone and mean eyes staring you down. “It went pretty good, I guess… but you never know with Snape. He’s not really fond of Gryffindors.” Mattheo smiles. “You don’t say. Hadn’t noticed.” You chuckle and his eyes linger on your lips, adoring your soft laugh. 

“How are you?” He quickly picks up the conversation, worried his staring would weird you out. “I’m good. I’ve been eating properly and Ginny’s been making sure I go to bed on time, Fred and George’s orders.” A soft huff escapes Mattheo’s lips and you couldn’t quite figure out what it meant. “They’re good friends, those Weasley’s. You’re lucky you have them watching over you.” You couldn’t help but smile at him with loving eyes. There was something so adorable about Mattheo, you couldn’t have believed it if he wasn’t standing right in front of you. “Thank you.” You whisper, making Mattheo’s eyes shoot up to lock onto yours. “I’m lucky to have you as well.” You move to stand on your tippy toes and give a feather light kiss on his cheeks, turning the cold Slytherin into a blushing love struck puppy.  

Mattheo felt himself heat up and just stood there nailed to the floor as you walked away. And he could help but think back to Pansy’s words: This must be Gryffindor fever. 

Word count: 1803

[nvtstvrns]

Prettied Up - Chris Sturniolo

Smut, dom!chris, sub!fem

Summary: you and Chris are getting ready to go to dinner with Nick and Matt when he sees you doing your makeup in the mirror, he decides to eat you out while you do your makeup.

Contains: smut, sub!fem, dom!chris, oral (fem!receiver), almost getting caught, pet names (ma, pretty girl, etc)

Authors note: I am so sorry I put this story off for so long, here it is 😭

Divider Credits: @bernardsbendystraws @adornedwithlight and @cafekitsune

Chris and I were getting ready for dinner with Nick, Matt, Mikayla and Nate, we were in Boston for a few weeks and we wanted to get together with our old friends. I was standing at the mirror starting my makeup, Chris was in the shower.

“Ma, can you hand me that towel, please?” He asks me his finger pointing through the shower curtain. I walk over to the towel and I hand it to him. I quickly go back to doing my makeup, we only had twenty minutes left before we had to leave.

Chris comes behind me and wraps his arms around my stomach and he lays his head on my shoulder.

“Chris, you’re getting my clothes all wet.” I say pushing him off my slightly.

“That’s not too bad though right-“ he says hugging me from behind again. This time his hands trail to my bare waist. “Clothes will dry…” he reaches up and cups my breast.

“Chris.” I warn as I watch him run his hands all over my body in the mirror. “I’m trying to do my makeup.” I say blending out my blush trying to shake off the goosebumps. I could feel myself throbbing in need and I took a deep breath.

“You gettin all prettied up f’me?” He says as he puts on his underwear and then his pants. I grin and turn around. “Chris stop making me-“

He gets closer to me and grabs my jaw. “Stop making you what?” He says in a husky voice. My knees buckled. His grip on my jaw was light and soft but it still put a huge effect on me.

I look up at him with puppy eyes and he lets me go.

“Can I make you feel good baby…give you a little reward…”

“For what?” I ask quietly.

“You deserve it…but keep gettin prettied up for me ma.”

He gets down on his knees in front of me. This was a new thing from him, it’s always me getting on my knees for him, was he really going to make me feel good with no returns at all? I feel his hands fiddle with my button on my pants and then he unzips them, pulling them down to my ankles and then pulling them all the way off. His eyes trail up to mine and he places a soft kiss to my lower abdomen.

“Keep doing your makeup don’t watch me.” He says pulling my underwear off and throwing them somewhere with my pants. He doesn’t even hesitate, his mouth quickly attaching to my clit, I let out a gasp and I hang my head back. He taps the back of my thighs telling me to continue doing my makeup, so I do, trying to line my lips with all of this pleasure is not working, so I move on to my mascara.

“Oh my-fuck Chris…” I say as my legs begin to shake, I can’t focus on just my makeup, the image of him pumping his fingers in and out of my wet pussy while his mouth abuses my clit was way too much. “I’m gonna cum, Chris! Oh my fucking god, Chris…” I say grinding my hips on his face.

“Mmm yeah grind my face ma, cum all over me.” I continue grinding my hips reaching closer and closer to my high, with a final cry my legs jerk and I cum all over his face…luckily my makeup was fully finished, it didn’t look exactly how I wanted it to, but I did my best.

“Chris! Y/n come on! We have to leave!” Matt yells, in a daze I put back on my pants and he puts on his shirt, and puts on deodorant and other things. He wraps an arm around my shoulder.

“Don’t let it affect you too much baby.” He says kissing my temple “we still have dinner to eat, and then you can have me.”

This was a lot of fun to write, and thank you sm for all of your support lately (I recently did a face reveal) so thank you for all of your compliments on that. Thank you for reading my fanfictions and if you ever have a request just send me a silly little message.

[jji-lee]

nerd jisung first time getting head

(MDNI)

nerd jisung x hot girl reader ofc , library head , whiny ji , loud ji , squirmy ji , sensitive ji , virgin ji , jisung's first time getting head , reader is more experienced , shy ji , snowballing haha guys hear me out , he immediately nuts. , reader is understanding , he’s wearing those thick framed glasses , big brained anon idea !

“are- are you sure about this?”

you slipped your hand under his shirt a small giggle escaping your lips,

“why not ji? don’t tell me you’re backing out now?”

He squirmed under your touch, eyes peeking through the bookshelves of the library,

“n-no of course not, just- just what if we get caught?”

He whined softly as you planted a wet kiss on his cheek, his knees buckling gently

“Then you’re just gonna have to be quiet, right ji?”

clearly it seemed like jisung couldn't follow simple instructions, whining at every touch.

"jisung please lower your voice."

"fuck- feels good, 'm sorry."

you smiled into his neck, tongue poking out to trace his tense muscles, his grip on your hips deadly.

"please, too much, gonna cum."

your hand slipped past the waistband of his sweats, reaching in to hold onto his hot length. he let out a gasp, reaching for your hand to stop you,

"already ji? we haven't even gotten to the best part."

you giggled as he bit his lip, hiding the whine that threatened to slip out as you got on your knees in front of him, hands pulling down his sweats just enough to release his length. he was huge, length slapping against his stomach as you released him the his confines,

“you’ve been hiding this all this time?”

he pushed up his glasses as he looked down at you letting out a huff as you grabbed his length, the sight of your small hand wrapped around him making his stomach clench. jisung knew he wouldn’t last long, he hid his face behind the sleeve of his oversized hoodie watching you give kitten licks to his leaking tip.

“‘m not gonna last, please.”

his muffed voice was whiny, a smirk growing on your face as you planted a kiss to his tip,

“please what ji? what do you want me to do?”

he sighed as you removed your hands from him, placing them neatly on your lap as you waited for his next move. he moved his sleeve away from his face revealing his flushed cheeks, lips swollen from biting them.

you watched the definition of his veins as he rolled up his sleeves, hand coming forward to cup your face. he ran his thumb against your plump lips. you looked up at him innocently as you parted your lips, his thumb now grazing your teeth.

“stick your tongue out.”

you were quick to comply, core growing impossibly wetter as he removed his thumb from your mouth, instead using his index and middle finger to rub your tongue. he pushed them towards the back of your mouth, groaning as you swallowed around the tips of his fingers.

“fuck you’re dirty.”

he wiped at the slight fog that had built up in his glasses from all his heavy breathing wanting to get a better look as he dragged his fingers against your tongue, pulling them out of your mouth. his shaky hand gripped his length as he pressed his leaking tip against your parted lips. you waited patiently as he tapped his length against your mouth, stopping to rub his precum on your lips.

his face was priceless, eyebrows knit together tightly, lips parted into a silent moan. you backed away from his length,

“baby, you can fuck my mouth, i won’t bite, unless you want.”

you chuckled softly as he shook his head, releasing his length so you can take over, moving his hands to grip the roots of your hair instead. you held him tightly, opening your mouth wide to fit him all.

you took as much of him as you could into your mouth, tip hitting the back of your throat as you swallowed around him, lips wrapped tightly around his length.

maybe it was your fault for being impatient, or maybe you teased him too much from the start. you clenched your eyes tightly as you felt his warm cum spurt into your mouth. a whiny moan leaving jisung’s mouth as he hunched over, grip on your hair tightening.

“oh my- oh my god. y/n i’m so sorry. i’m so- oh my god.”

the feeling of his orgasm was quick to fade, embarrassment taking over immediately. he dropped down to his knees, now eye level with you as he leaned into kiss you roughly, warm hands cupping your face. he ignored the salty taste of himself on your mouth, kissing you deeply before planting light pecks all over your face,

“i’m sorry, i’m so sorry please, please don’t be mad, i should’ve said something-”

you giggled as he continued to kiss your face, his pants still around his thighs as he kneeled in front of you,

“sto-stop, okay okay! jisung it’s okay please, i’m not mad!”

he backed away from you, his glasses on the tip of his nose, revealing his soft eyes,

“you’re not mad?”

you shook your head, hands coming to fix his glasses.

“of course not ji-”

you smirked up at him,

“buttt, if you’re really sorry i have a couple ideas on how you could make it up to me.”

you looked down to see jisung’s length twitch slightly, a nervous cough coming from his lips,

“i-i think that’s a good idea, but maybe we should find another place.”

he lifted a nervous finger pointing past the bookshelves, you turned your head, eyes meeting the look of an annoyed studying student.

yeah maybe it’s best to take this somewhere else.

[eyeeereee]

boyfriend!Inumaki who’s a loser in a hot body. It’s kinda like dating two people. He’s so expressive in text with you because, well, that’s his main way of communication with you. Other than the notes and letters he always gives you.

Through text he’s always his trolling playful self and the longer you’ve been together you noticed just how confident he gets over text. However when you’re with him in person, he does a complete one eighty. Everything you do lights him aflame, he’s breaking out into a huge blush, hiding behind his sweater. You think it’s cute. That’s he’s cute. He loved to tease you over text and you loved to tease him in person.

But boy was it a different level when you’d confront him about it. This night was a little more than your guys usually teasing.

As Toge shuts off his phone does he only realize the reality of the situation right now. And he’s fucking nervous. He’s already half hard thinking of you but his hands are clammy and he feels so hot.

Still, he makes it over to you, opening your door and making sure no one else heard him come in. When he turns around to meet your eyes, he gulps.

“Hi baby.” You whisper, your hands finding their home on his cheeks, rubbing along the patterns etched into his skin.

You loved when he was bare like this, when you were able to see all of his face. He was so pretty after all, it was shame he hid it half the time. His hands shakily rest on your waist and you smile innocently.

“You sure you’re ready?” You question, your thumb still gliding along his cheeks. He hums.

“Are you?” He whispers and you smile, trying to hide it by biting your lip. You hum and just like that your lips connect.

You weren’t dumb, you noticed how nervous he was, you could sense it. In a way you were to, but the need to dominate your usually cocky boyfriend was clouding your mind. The kiss is heated right off the bat, your tongue exploring his mouth as his hands grow more impatient, grabbing whatever he could.

You slowly led him to your bed, pushing him so he can sit as you made your way on top of him. He pouts when your lips leave him to suck at his neck. He hissed and squeezed your waist.

“Let’s take this off yea?” You smirk against his neck, pulling off his shirt above his head.

Toge flushes, his heart beating unhealthily fast. His chest, ears and neck were all red, making you grin. You noticed he was getting shy under your gaze, you were just taking a second to admire your boyfriend’s lean body. You go back to placing kisses on his neck, gliding yours hand down his chest, he shudders, his Addams apple bobbing. You notice this and move to suck on it, making him let out a strangled gasp.

He’s beginning to notice how you’re easily dominating so he tugs at your shirt, a signal that he wants it off. So you sit up, tearing it off of you and now it’s his turn to stare. A lacy bra that hugged your breasts so perfectly, it makes him groan.

“Touch me Toge.” You add a little whine to your voice, knowing it’d have an effect on him.

You grab his hands, placing them on top of your chest. His eyes are blown wide, as he fondles your breasts. He squeezes and tugs, his hands trailing to slide the straps off your shoulders. One hand rests on your waist as you unclasp your bra, letting it fall on the floor. Toge’s breathing is erratic as his eyes lid with pure lust. His hands move to cup them and you moan, only egging him on. He leans down to press light pecks and then his tongue darts out getting a perfect sigh of the marking on his tongue as he wets your nipple.

You whine as your hands, tangle in his hair. He takes one into his mouth, sucking and leaving playful bites on them. You’re a whining mess on top of him. It becomes a problem for him when you grinding down on him. He’s groaning in to your skin, his hands guiding your hips along his. He’s warm, his clothed bulge fitting perfectly under your clothed cunt. He would spend hours playing with your boobs if he could but you’re growing impatient.

So you lightly tug him off you and he’s a little dazed. You smile as you stand in between his legs, stripping in front of him. He swallows dryly, his hand reaching out to glide across your dips and curves. Then you’re kneeling down in front of him, his eyes widening. You slide down his sweats only to be with a dark patch on his boxers. He covers his face and you giggle.

“What happened Toge? You all shy now? It’s ok, I’ll take care of you.” You smile, palming him through his boxers, his hips jolt, his hand slapped over his mouth.

He was so sensitive and you were loving every second of it. You finally pull down his boxers and his cock springs out, his tip an angry red. A bead of pre cum dribbles out and you lick your lips.

“You’re so pretty Toge, big too.” He whines, biting his lip so hard you’re surprised it hasn’t torn.

You plant kisses on his inner thighs sucking a mark on it making him hiss. You finally wrap a hand around him and he groans. You haven’t even had him in your mouth nor pussy and he was already a mess. You swipe your thumb along his slit and he grips the sheets. His eyes are squeezed shut so it’s a surprise when he’s met with your warm mouth.

This time he lets out a guttural moan, something you’d never expect to hear from your boyfriend. You can tell he’s shocked to because he’s even redder now. You take him in deeper and you can feel him twitch in your mouth. He’s panting at this point, his hands pulling your hair into a makeshift ponytail.

“S’good.” He babbles out, his eyes are barely open as he focuses in on the way your pretty lips wrap around his length.

Your hand goes up to massage his balls and he’s spasming. Series of ‘Yeses’ leaving his lips as he hunches over you, fucking into your mouth. You gag around him and the clench of your throat only makes him cum harder. He’s whimpering as the rush of his orgasm dissipates. He falls on your bed as he tries to catch his breath. His mind is mush that he doesn’t even notice you’re getting on top of him. You’re surprised he was still hard but that only made you all the more excited. Only when you grab him again does he rest on his elbows, eyes bulging as you glide his tip along your folds. You’re both moaning as you grow more needy. Toge is delirious.

“Ima put it in ok?” You huff out and he’s letting out shaky breathes, nodding quickly to your words.

You were so wet from sucking your boyfriend off that he bottoms out pretty easy. A pathetic moan leaves his mouth when he’s fully sheathed inside you. His hands shoot to your hips, a vice grip as he tries to fight the urge to cum again. He’s so fucking overstimulated but your walls are so warm and so tight he tears up.

“You okay baby? Don’t cry does it hurt?” He shakes his head frantically, god he feels like such a bitch. Or as he’d say, a beta.

“I’m gonna move, I can’t wait anymore, you feel to good.” You clench around him and you feel him twitch inside you at the praise.

With a lift of your hips your, slamming back down on him. You both moan and you begin to set a steady pace. You’re leaning down to catch his lips in a messy kiss. Neither of you even being able to kiss back because of how much you two were moaning.

“Acting all high and mighty hm? L-Look who’s beneath who.” You laugh out and he blushes.

“Fuck, I wanna cum so bad Toge, M’getting tired.” You puff out and now it’s your turn for your eyes to well up in tears at the sheer frustration of wanting your release.

That sight is like a switch for Toge and in a second his hands are on your thighs. He’s sitting up and flipping you under him.

“W-What Toge—ngh!”

You’re not able to process what just happened because he’s setting a brutal pace. His hands have your legs spread as he fucks you like he hates your guts. He’s utterly addicted and pussy whipped. His hips don’t skip a beat and you’re crying—sobbing even. He feels your cunt tightening around him and he stutters.

“So close, please Toge.” You cry, his dick hurts from his previous orgasm but he can’t stop. You’re so warm and wet he doesn’t think he can ever stop. Squelching is heard throughout your room and your bed creaking, you both are trying so hard not to let your noises be heard. Toge doesn’t let up and he drops a hand to your clit, rubbing it messily.

That’s just enough to have your back arching off the bed, as you convulse around him. Toges hand grabs the small of your back, fucking you through your high. You pull him into a kiss by his hair as you moan into his mouth. With a few more thrusts and whimpers and whines into your mouth he’s pumping you full of his seed. The both of you pant in to each others mouth, his hips slowing down as you both come down from your intense highs.

Toge’s arms sneak under your back pulling you flush against him. His head rests on your breasts as he tries to calm down his breathing. You’re doing the same as you slide a hand into his slightly damp hair. You both were covered with sweat and when pulls out you wince at the feeling of his seed spilling out of you.

“Toge, can you wipe me.” You rasp out and he lets out a noise, standing abruptly.

However his knees buckle not realizing how shaky they were. Yet he stills grabs his shirt, lightly cleaning you. Once he’s done he’s sliding in to your bed, pulling you flush against him. You both are so tired but you had a little energy to speak to him.

“I love you Toge, that was amazing.” You giggle into his neck and he smiles dumbly, rubbing your back. His nose nudges along your ear, his lips brushing across them as well.

“I love you too.” He whispers, sending shivers down your spine.

The both of you drifting off in each other arms. You were gonna have so much fun teasing him about this tomorrow.

He wasn’t wrong though, his hips did not lie.

© eyeeereee

[xxotothedeathx]

Introducing....

LOSER-SUB!CHRIS STURNIOLO X DOM!READER

warnings: smut, edging kink, masturbation, sub male, slight degradition kink, losing NNN, overstimulation, oral sex (male recieving), use of y/n, little to no plot, pet names, NOT PROOF READ

details: DOM!READER will be using SHE/HER pronouns. chris lives with his girlfriend, y/n, who works at the local pet store. one day, she comes home early to find chris in a very compromising situation.

a/n: hi lovelies!! thank you for voting on my poll. as you can see, this story won! if you would still like to see the matt story, let me know!! this is my first time writing in MONTHS, so excuse me if it's bad... ENJOY!!

You walked into your apartment, noticing all the lights out. You know Chris is home, You saw his car outside, and it's only 6:00.

You slide your shoes off and walk deeper into the familiar darkness, placing your purse and jacket on the couch.

You stumble towards the hallway, tripping slightly on a cord. You come to a halt outside of yours and Chris's shared room.

You reach for the handle, turning it to open the door slightly. You stop in your tracks, the door not even halfway open when you hear a quiet whimper.

You peek your head around the door and into the room, seeing Chris lying on the bed. One arm is draped over his face, his head thrown back into the pillows. The other hand is rather low, stroking a quite intimate area very rapidly.

You step into the room fully, slightly mesmerized at the sight. You couldn't help but giggle quietly, which Chris hears.

His arm shoots off his head, grabbing the blanket and throwing it over himself as he sits up. His eyes glued to you.

"Babe, your home early..."

He speaks awkwardly, shying away under the blanket.

"That I am. What were you doing?"

You speak teasingly, walking towards the bed slowly. You know what he was doing, and he knows you know

"Nothing babe."

"Oh, so jerking yourself is nothing?"

"Shut up.."

"Weren't you bragging to Nate about how your gonna win NNN?"

"And I will. Its No NUT November, doesnt mean I can't touch myself."

"Hmm, I think I could make you lose."

You say, sitting down next to him, your hand snaking under the blanket and resting on his thigh.

"As if. I have more self control then that."

Chris speaks in a tone of courage, but the shudder his body gives and the quiet gasp he lets out says otherwise.

"Is that...a challenge?"

You speak, gently lifting the blanket off of him and crawling over him, hovering.

"Maybe."

As soon as the word left his mouth, you wasted no time. Your lips fly down, attacking his, as your hand snakes down his body to his most intimate member.

You wrap your finger around his cock, gently, causing him to gasp into the kiss. When his lips part, your tounge subconsciously shoots into his mouth, exploring it.

You begin to move your hand up and down, slowly. Your long nails, which he had paid for, adding extra sensation.

You slowly pull your lips off his, before moving them down to his neck. Leaving little bruises all over it, being sure to bite his most sensitive spot.

"Y/n.."

He gasps out your name, his hips bucking involuntarily up into your hand.

"Shh, be quiet for me.."

You mumble against his neck.

Your stroking gets faster, and his whimpers get louder.

"Y/n, Im gonna cum!"

Chris cries out, and you immediately stop the movement.

He lets out a whine and looks down at you, giving a questioning look.

You pull away from his neck, looking up at him.

"Wouldnt wanna lose, now would you?"

You smirk, crawling back up and kissing him.

This kiss is long and passionate, as he cups your cheek. Your tounges danced together in a loving fight. The heat between your bodies matching the flame of the sun.

Your hand moves back down, starting the stroking slowly. Teasing the tip of his cock, before speeding up slightly.

You pull away from the kiss, staring down at him. Watching as his eyebrows furrow, and his head tilts back slightly.

His lips pressed into a thin line, a slight sweat on the edges of his mouth. His eyes squeezed shut.

You begin moving your hand faster.

His mouth falls open, groans falling out one after another, and his head jerks back further.

You can tell hes close. So,

You stop your hand movmemt, earning a whine from him. You give him a sharp look, shutting him up before he has a chance to protest.

You climb off the bed, getting on your knees at the edge. You open your mouth to give commands, but before you can Chris is already positioned infront of you, sitting on the edge of the bed.

"Little slut."

You mumble, before kissing the tip of his length. He lets out a quiet whimper, before responding. Or atleast, attempting to respond.

"Im not a slu- ahh!"

His words cut off, and blend into a moan as your wrap your lips around his tip. Your tounge flicks the very top as you move your mouth lower.

He throws his head back, a stream of curses, moans, and grunts leave his mouth as your work your magic.

You push your mouth as far down and deep you can go. Taking almost all his length in your mouth. What you cant take, your hand is tightly wrapped around it and twisting.

This throws him over the edge, his head falls back as he attempts to pull away from you.

"Please, im gonna.."

Before he can finish his sentence, you feel a string of warmth fly into your mouth and down your throat. It was a salty taste, but you swallowed it all nonetheless.

You dont pull your mouth way however. You keep going.

Sucking, and bobbing your head up and down.

"To much, to much"

Chris cries out, but his hand that has found its way to your hair eggs you on, pushing your face towards him as his hips buck up into your mouth.

Whimpers upon whimpers leave his mouth, and even faster then the first time he releases in your mouth once again.

You pull away, after swallowing it of course, and look up at him.

"Loser."

"Shut the fuck up."

hope you enjoyed it ! its not the best and kinda short, but its what i got ! let me know if you have any requests !!!

[stark-ironman]

Story idea as I love yours.

Hugh so tired after a day of filming deadpool wolverine comes over to your place and you give him a bath and then make love to him all night

Pampered

18+ No Minors

Warnings: praise kink, unprotected sex

Hugh trudged through the apartment, trying to be as quiet as possible incase you were asleep but the moment he walked in the bedroom, your eyes meet his and you immediately stand up and walk over to him, allowing him to collapse in your arms. His arms wrap around your waist as his face buries in your neck, groaning softly from the pain he feels throughout his whole body.

You hold him steady, letting him take as long as he needs before he finally pulls back and looks you in your eyes. His eyes tell you he's exhausted but you know he wants to stay up for a bit to see you. You grab his hand and lead him to the bathroom, watching as he stiffly props against the counter while you turn the faucet on in the tub, putting some of your bubble bath that he loves so much in the water.

Hugh attempts to get undressed but soft grunts fill the room while he tries, so you walk over and help him undress. You toss the laundry in the basket, catching his eye in the mirror as you walk back over to him and lead him to the tub, helping him step in the tub and sitting him down gently.

The smell of the bath immediately relaxes Hugh as he leans his head against the back of the tub, his eyes lowly watching you move around the bathroom to grab his stuff from the shower and a rag. You kneel beside the tub, running a hand slowly through his hair, watching as he close his eyes and letting out a deep breath.

You wet his hair with the cup you keep beside the tub, putting shampoo in your hand and massaging it gently into his scalp before rinsing it out. You wash your hands out in the water, a hand grabbing ahold of your arm and you look at him, your eyes softening even more when you see his head laid against the tub again and his eyes closed.

You bring your other hand up to run through his hair letting him relax, leaning forward and placing small kisses across his forehead. "Let's finish the bath and I'll hold you in bed." You mumble against him, feeling him nod in response so you grab a rag and wet it.

You put the soap on the rag and start washing him as gently as you can, massaging his muscles as you go, making sure to clean every place even though he grumbles about having to move but the look you give him quiets him back down.

Once he's rinsed off, you drain the tub out and help him get out of the tub, drying him off quickly but carefully and lead him to the bed. His hand grabs your waist and pulls you towards him but you stop him so you can undress and crawl in beside him.

You kiss his forehead again and then trail down his face until you land on his lips. Hugh pulls you in closer until you're on top of him, feeling his erection in between both of your stomachs. "Hugh.." You begin to say but he shushes you. "Please, darling. It will help me sleep." He mummers, running his hands up your body.

With a playful sigh, you raise your hips slightly and reach down to grab his cock, pressing the head against your entrance, slowly sinking down on him. A breathy moan escapes his lips and you roll your hips against his, kissing up his jaw before looking at his face.

"Such a beautiful man with an even more beautiful soul." You whisper, fully grinding your hips against his length. "You work so hard.." Your lips trail down his neck, bringing another moan from his lips, "best of all you love me and that makes me the happiest woman in the world. Especially knowing that you're all mine."

Your hands find his, interlacing each one before sitting up and bouncing slightly on his length. "You work so hard on this perfect body of yours but I will always think you are the most handsome man in the world whether you are ripped with muscles or not."

Hugh closes his eyes, the praise you're giving him pushing him closer to the edge but he tries to hold out for you. Your hands squeeze his before you take one away to rub your sensitive clit. You lean back down to kiss him again, running your other hand down his chest and through his chest hair.

"Such an amazing husband and daddy for your family." His dick twitches inside of you, a sign he's close, and you speed your movements. "I love you so much, Hugh." You moan out as both of your releases reach the peak.

He breathes heavily against you, softly groaning when you get off of him and walk to the bathroom to grab a rag, cleaning the two off quickly before laying beside him. "I love you, darling. Thank you." He mumbles as he buries his face in your neck. You kiss his forehead and rub his back, hearing his soft snores fill the room before you go to sleep.

[marvelfanfics1]

s2 rafe losing his temper ౨ৎ⋆ ˚.⋆

Rafe closes the front door of Tannyhill, resting his forehead against it and huffing out a breath. His wet and dirty clothes cling to his body and he licks his lips, tasting the dried up blood from his altercation with Pope he clenches his jaw before striding up the stairs to his room.

You sit up the moment the door opens, smiling brightly but it drops as quickly as it formed when you see the state Rafe is in, completely muddy and blood under his nose and splattered on his cheeks.

Your eyes widen and you scurry off the bed, approaching him you start to touch him all over with a frown on your face. "Daddy? Wha' happened? S'you hurt?"

As you keep fussing over him he closes his eyes, his head twitching to the side, muttering. "Stop..."

You continue to ask and press him to answer, too focused on figuring out what happened or if he's alright to hear him.

"Stop." He says again and when you don't seem to listen he snatches your wrist in his hands, suddenly snapping at you. "I said stop! Jesus. You're so clingy, I just want one damn second without you being all over me is that so hard to understand, huh?"

He looks so angry, you have often seen him mad but never were the one to receive the brunt end of it and it scares you. Rafe scares you right now.

You shrink in on yourself, looking up at him with a quivering bottom lip while you try to blink back tears when he lets go of you again harshly.

Rafe shoves past you and heads for his bathroom, slamming the door behind him. You stare after him before your face crumples, feeling guilty for wanting to help him and pushing him so far that he had to shout at you.

Maybe he just wants to be left alone for now, right? You decide to leave him alone and turn to sit back on his bed, grabbing your lamb plushie and holding it close with a tight grip.

After a while he comes back out, a towel wrapped around his waist as he went over to his closet to get dressed, pushing his wet hair back.

As he changes into clean clothes he stops when he hears an all too familiar sob, turning to meet your broken form, watching as you keep rubbing the tears from your cheeks, trying to not rile him up more than he already is.

Rafe sighs, pulling a shirt over his head he makes his way over to sit on the edge of the bed beside you, placing his hand on your knee his heart clenches when you pull your knees back, your rejection hitting him deep.

"Listen I...I just had a really long day. But that's not an excuse, I shouldn't have snapped at you." He murmurs, waiting for you to meet his gaze but you keep your eyes trained on your lap, not having the courage to look up. "I'm sorry."

Now you lift your head. Since you've known Rafe you never heard him apologize to anyone so hearing that coming from his mouth surprises you, a single tear running down your face.

Seeing that he reaches a hand up, stopping mid air. "Can I?" He asks softly, only cupping your cheek in his hand when you nod slowly, giving him permission to touch you.

You sniffle, overwhelmed with all the emotions you're feeling right now, shifting on the bed to get settled on his lap, still seeking his comfort despite the fact that he yelled at you.

Rafe starts rocking you gently, his hand stroking your back in a soothing motion as he presses a kiss to your cheek. "I didn't mean what I said. I love everything about you and wouldn't trade you for anything in the world. You know that, right?"

Nodding your head, you snuggle your face in the crook of his neck, grabbing onto his shirt to ground yourself.

Even though you don't say anything he knows you're slowly starting to forgive him and he keeps rocking you, whispering sweet nothings to you. "Did you pack some clothes like I told you earlier?"

"Mhm..." You nod, drawing some shapes on his chest. "Where we goin'?"

"Guadeloupe."

Taglist

For everything:

@my-river-lilly @pauntedblacknails @fanfictioniseverything @devilslilbabysblog @buckymydarlingangel @hallecarey1 @daybreakwinter @loveshineslikethesky @wandaslittlewhore @vase-of-lilies @white-wolf1940 @simpingbutch @mischiefsemimanaged @alina02 @teddybearsgrr @doozywoozy @angelbabydoll28 @glxwingrxse @lilymurphy03 @veryvaughnny @lokigirlszendaya @youngstarfishdinosaur @little--baby--bear @minideathgoddess @rach2602 @gh0stgurl @flourishandblotts-inc @lovelyy-moonlight @yoruse

@mythixmagic @iris-xoxo-juhu

For Rafe:

@chiaraanatra @chimindity @erikasurfer

[vvinirl]

satoru. g

roommates pt.2

“fuck.. so good for me” satoru was practically growling, moving your body faster against him as his lips dragged across your jaw and down to your neck

he gripped you even tighter as his name left your lips, his hips driving up into you harder as he let out a low moan into the skin of your neck

a few weeks ago satoru said that whenever you needed help with pleasing yourself he would be more than happy to

so you took him up on that offer

earlier that night you were laying in bed, unable to sleep as you tossed and turn, feeling all hot and bothered

you knew satoru was still awake because you could hear him on the game with suguru and kento

now that you knew he was up, you couldn’t get him out your head, not only that but the way he ate you out so good, you came 4 times just from his fingers and mouth

you wondered how many times he could make you cum with just his cock alone

fuck

now you’re thinking about the things you wanted him to do to you as you felt your panties getting wet slowly

then you remembered the offer he made you a few weeks ago

“now anytime this beautiful pussy needs pleasing, just know i’m here to praise it and please you”

it’s all or nothing, yolo right?

you got up and made your way to his door, knocking hesitantly as satoru quickly answered for you to come in

you stood at his door, staring at him as he looked back at you, looking you up and down, peeping the way your thighs squeezed together slightly

he tilted his head to the side, a small smirk on his lips as he already knew why you were knocking on his door at this hour

so here you were, taking everything he was giving you

“f-feels so good satoru” your words barely audible, all that came out was moans after moans

satoru gripping you even tighter at the sound of his name leaving your lips as he shifted slightly, changing the angle and driving into you even deeper

his hands gripped your hips tightly, the sounds coming from him a mix of guttural and deep moans

you ran your hands through his hair, softly gripping it as you felt yourself getting closer as you clenched around him

the feeling of you clenching around him made him let out a soft whimper, the sounds coming muffled by his face pressed into your neck

he kissed your neck gently, almost in a way to try to apologize for the way he was fucking you so hard and rough

“m’so close satoru- fuck”

his eyes clenched shut as if they were concentrating everything they had on holding back

his lips moved down to your chest, placing sloppy, wet kisses over the skin

your moans and the soft sounds you were making pushed him closer to the edge, “come on baby, wanna feel you come on my cock for me”

his lips moved back to your neck, the sounds escaping him grew more and more desperate

you buried your face into his shoulders, your arms tightening around him as you cried out in pleasure, the pleasure washing over you as you came

your thighs closing and tightening around his hips, your walls clenching around him harder

“fuck” he grunted against your neck, his body went a bit tense as he emptied himself inside you, his lips and teeth finding purchase on your neck as he held you there

he breathed heavily as he pulled back and loosened his grip on your hips

he stayed pressed inside you, not ready yet to move away or pull out of you

those blue eyes of his were glazed and filled with an almost dreamy expression as he looked at you, both your breaths coming out in warm puffs

he gave you a soft, almost lazy smile as he looked up at you. he cupped your cheek gently, his thumb caressing your skin as he spoke, that a smirk plastered on his face again

“did you enjoy yourself?”

which caused you to roll your eyes at him

[magicians-abode]

"What flavor was it...?"

[Ken Takakura/Okarun x gn!reader]

Warnings: fluff - long fic(?

Sitting on his lap with each leg placed comfortably beside his as he sat on the soft mattress, you gently but generously applied lipgloss over your lips once again. "Don't look, alright? I'm watching you," you murmured, teasing the poor guy as he nodded, kepping his eyes tightly shut as you had instructed. By now both of you had lost count of how many times your lips had clashed together in a sweet dance, or how many times you had applied lipgloss over your soft lips, or how many times, due to his nerves, Ken had guessed the flavor incorrectly, making you reapply it once again and try over and over until he got the flavor right.

Having lipgloss wasn't just good for whenever you wanted to feel pretty, it was also good for teasing the hell out of your poor boyfriend, like right now, and you couldn't be more taken by the sight of his reddened cheeks as he patiently waited for you to say he could open his eyes again.

He nervously fixed his glasses over the bridge of his nose despite having them shut in a nervous gesture before speaking in a shaky and rather high-pitched voice. "A—are you done... yet?"

With a loud popˎˊ˗ of your lips, you set the tube of shiny gloss behind him on the bed and grin. "Yup, all ready." His eyes flutter open, and he fixes his glasses once again with timidity. His eyes meet yours as he does, but then, they fall to the culprit of his nerves, of his almost sweaty palms. He swore he could feel them begin to sweat, he swore it. And it was terribly embarrassing. Takakura gulped, and before he could say anything, you leaned back in, pressing your lips against his.

His hand moved up to cup your face shakily as he closed his eyes once more, and even though your lips felt like heaven itself and he oh so badly wanted to get lost in the dizzying feeling they caused, he made his best efforts to focus on what flavor you had reapplied on them just for him this time.

After a good minute or two, he pulls away, breathless and in slight awe of your kiss. "Is it... Cherry?" He whispers, trying to guess correctly.

"We already used the cherry-flavored one, pretty boy," you say with a teasing smile, and it makes him avert his eyes, hoping you can't notice just how embarrassed you make him feel. "L—let me try again..." he mutters bashfully, already leaning forward on his own. The hand on your cheek moves to hold onto the back of your head tenderly instead. It's sweet and gentle, almost like he's afraid to touch you too harshly and accidentally hurt you. He'd be mortified if it happened, that's for sure.

His lips move against yours with sweetness, and despite how nervous he feels, he makes sure to let it be known that he loves this by kissing you slowly and taking his time. Takakura's lips are surprisingly soft, making them addictive and so, so kissable. You feel his round glasses touch your nose as he tilts his face to the side to deepen the kiss slightly.

With furrowed brows in concentration, he mulls over about the flavor in his head. "They said it's not cherry... but... I'm not sure what it is." He tilts his head to the other side and gently leans forward. "Maybe... strawberry? Or grapes? It's so soft... their lips feel so nice..." he pulls away again, this time more confused than before. "I... are you s—sure it's not cherry flavored, (y/n)?" He mumbles tentatively "I—It's very sweet."

"I'm pretty sure. But... if you give up, I'll tell you." Takakura blinks and instinctively tries to look behind him at the small collection of flavored gloss you hid from his view but finds his face gently being guided back to face you. "Nuh-uh, that's cheating" you pout, and he nods, flustered by your gesture. "R—right, I'm sorry, I—I just can't... get it right." he stutters, scratching the back of his head.

"Well then, it's a good thing we have aaall day, right?" You smirk. "Let's try again."

After repeating the process of closing his eyes tightly, reapplying your lipgloss, and kissing once again, Ken pulls away, breathless, a small string of saliva connecting your lips. He wipes it away quickly, feeling his hands shake with embarrassment. "I— I think I got it" he quickly speaks, looking to the side. "Is it— Is it peach... maybe?" He squints, an eyebrow raised hoping to finally get it right this time around. His heart is going to explode if he doesn't; he can feel it, beating like a bird trapped inside a cage.

Clapping your hands together a few times in applause, you grin. "Yeah, you got it this time, Okarun!"

"N—no way!" He smiles brightly with excitement, but his cheerfulness is quickly replaced by confusion as he shakes his head. "Wait, really? Peach flavor? That... that's not what it tastes like."

"Well it's an artificial flavor, it's obviously not going to taste like the real thing" you flick his forehead playfully with clear amusement in your voice. He rubs his forehead, letting a soft "ow..." and looks into your eyes. "H—How many did I guess so far?" He smiles sweetly, and you can't help but realize how adorable he looks each time he does.

"Hm..." you look behind him at the ones you've already used "seems like we only tried four different ones" you answer, and his eyes widen comically.

"Four?! Just four?!" He feels his face heating up again and he gulps nervously. "But we've been here for a really long time!" He looks at the clock on your bedside table, which shows the numbers 5:34 p.m., you've been kissing for a whole hour already...

You laugh at his bashful reaction, finding it endearing. "What, you don't like kissing me for that long, Okarun?" You tease, obviously not meaning anything by it, but he's quick to shake his head.

"N—no, it's nothing like that! I really enjoy kissing you" his hands had moved down to gently rest over your hips "it's just... I don't know, I guess it's just really embarrassing..." mumbling softly, Ken looks away, avoiding your gaze.

"Well... if you need a break we can take one. Just say the word" you cup his face in your hands and stare lovingly at him, a gaze he returns just as intensely.

"N—no... I can— I can keep going. I want to keep going. I really... enjoy kissing you, (y/n)" he admits, and your lips stretch into a wide grin.

"Well then, let's keep going, shall we? We have like eight different flavors left for you to guess!"

"EIGHT?!" Takakura practically squeaks, but as he sees you grab a different tube of lipgloss, his eyes fall closed. "You're going to make me pass out" he stutters a protest, but in all honesty, despite feeling like his world was spinning each time he kissed you, he found it was a rather beautiful way to go if he did happen to die thanks to the embarrassment. He could keep kissing you for the rest of his life, nothing else really mattered at all.

(A/N: oh my gosh! This took a really long time and so much effort for me to finish. I didn't want to just leave it in my notes like so many other ones so I did my best. Please do tell me if there's anything wrong, I feel like reading it seems kinda funny but it could be just the fact that I've been re-reading it over and over to check for any mistakes. I hope you enjoy it!!)

[mraprilfools]

Summary: As Vox's personal Physician it's always been a challenge to get him to take care of himself. Your motives originally may have been professional, but the line started to blend somewhere along the way. Now you're determined to get him to listen.

Pairing: GN!Reader x Vox

Contents: Mostly self-indulgent fluff. Bashful Vox, Doctor Reader, Assertive Reader, Reader has Glasses, Kissing, Lots of Flirting and Banter, Vox is a dork, Vox has freckles he hides

Word Count: 8k

A/N: Dedicated to @6esiree for her Follower contest! Please accept my humble Vox fluff. As for my followers, keep an eye out for tomorrow's Imagine for a very special message from The Heart of a Machine's Vox!

“You need to cut down on your caffeine consumption. Not only are you hopelessly addicted, but your quality of sleep is suffering as a result.” The tests had been taken again, and again, and again at your boss’ request. As a professional, you had standards. You weren’t going to let something as stubborn masculine machismo bother you. But the results on your medical chart had been almost completely static. The metallic nub of your pen rapped against the clipboard over the offending results that kept staring you back in the face.

Vox was hunched over on the examination table, refusing to face you. Already slipping on the buttons of his dress shirt.

“I didn’t say that the examination was over sir.” You reminded him, pressing up the glasses hanging on the bridge of your nose.

The artificial glow of that screen finally turned to greet you. The artificial smile he had was so kind to constantly parade in your presence, as obnoxious as always. “I am well aware, but I am saying it’s over. You don’t know what you’re doing.”

A challenge to your ability. A bold one too. There were few doctors knowledgeable enough in both machinery and biology. Fewer fanatical enough to learn the harmonious weaving inside your employer so you found the accusation funny. All but a single, “Ha” came out in a scoff.

Sparks of electricity crackled from Vox’s antennae, and the large crimson pools narrowed into squints. “And what’s so funny Doc?”

“You are Darling. If you wanted to get rid of me, we both know you would have long ago.” You curled your lips in a smirk, a clear defiance of your boss. With only half of his buttons slipped through, he gave up on the rest and rose to his feet. Long legs made quick strides over to you to make a direct challenge. Even when he stood nearly a foot over you, you didn’t feel intimidated in the least. You dropped the clipboard over to the counter, meeting his gaze defiantly, but cooly.

A foot stepped between your legs, and his body came close. You took a step back only for the sake of your balance, then another until he had your back against a wall. His hands pinned you in place while the eerie glow of his screen only grew more intense. There was a false cheer in Vox’s voice even as his smile never dropped.

“You’re cute, Doc. You’ve made yourself valuable, so you’re right. I give you a lot more slack than I would tolerate from anyone else in this worthless shit heap. However…” He pried one hand free to clap around your jaw. Holding you in place when the bladed end of his thumb pressed against your cheek, drawing a bead of blood from the pinpoint. A directed threat, no doubt to remind you that he could kill you at any time.

But he hasn’t.

“More people are falling to hell every day, you won’t be so unique forever.”

“So you admit that I’m one of the few who do know what they’re doing. So, can I count on you cutting down your coffee consumption down to three cups a day?”

His chest rose and fell as the energy left him. Vox pulled his hand away and returned to fixing up the buttons on his shirt. Turning his back to you to fetch the sweater vest thrown over the table, slipping it on next. A zipper on the side turned out to be the secret around putting on clothes when your head was a large television. Having a tailor right in the tower must be quite useful. “I can do the coffee. However, I don’t have time to sleep the full six hours you are recommending.”

“Daily.” You remind him.

He spun back around, uttering a scoff as his hands slipped through each sleeve of his blazer. The pointed cyan claws slid across the lapels. “Daily?! Now you’re just being ridiculous Doc.”

“Have I been known to tell you jokes, Vox?” You lifted a brow.

“Yes, actually. You make jokes about how stupid half of my employees are all the time. The other half you have creative insults about how brutish, boring, or pathetic they are. I’m starting to think you don’t like anyone in the tower...” Vox raised both his brows, sporting that smarmy little grin.

“Because I don’t, save a few exceptions.” You answered. “I’m not paid to like people. I’m paid to keep you healthy.” You pushed off the wall, seating yourself in the single office chair that had been afforded for the office. The leather squeaked with the new weight, wheels shifting from the sudden weight that had you barreling toward your coffee cup. You draped one leg over the other, pressing your back against the chair while you gave your boss your undivided attention.

The cyan eyes rolled within the crimson pools. At last, his bow tie was tied around his neck perfecting the image of the business CEO. Almost a shame how quick he always was to put his clothes back on. The technological and biological nature of his body was a near obsession of yours; even if you never admitted it.

“Is the friendship-making package extra?”

You raised your shoulders in answer. You hooked your fingers around the mug on the desk with your cup of coffee. The irony of it after telling him to cut his consumption didn’t bother you. “Do you want me to make friends Vox? I don’t see how that would benefit you at all.”

“It won’t.” He admitted as he walked by. The chair was sent backward as his claws laid hands on it, forcing you to make eye contact when he lingered from behind. “Only wondering how much I pay you goes into pretending to like me.”

You couldn’t help but break out into more laughter. The sight of which earned a sultry frown and a retraction of the hand that had come so close to him. You caught your glasses, preventing them from careening off your face. “You don’t pay me anything for that sir, you’re one of the few people in hell I do like.”

“You have a weird way of showing it… telling me to take care of myself.” He chuffed, shooting a nasty glare at the coffee in your hands. Unaffected, you took a sip. He could cope.

“I know, I’m a trailblazer. Do you need me to prescribe you sleeping pills or do you think you can handle it?”

Vox laughed, “Doctor, please! I can do something as simple as fall asleep! Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to get back to work.” Even if you couldn’t see it, you could almost feel that eye roll looking at the back of his head. The door clicked shut behind him, leaving you with that curt goodbye.

Vox, however, never listened to his doctor. Even IF you were always right. It was a hunch as you were finishing up writing up samples for the night. But the thought came to mind to check on your boss to see if he was heeding your well-intentioned advice. Your employee keycard gave you generous access, only beneath the Vee’s who could go everywhere. So it wasn’t any trouble stopping by that ridiculous office of his.

He was seated before a mural of monitors depicting snapshots of the lives all across Pentagram City. Wires were currently plugged into the back of Vox’s head, absorbed in his… information-gathering activities. Vox was completely unaware of your presence. You breathed a heavy sigh, resigning to the fact that you once again had to get this man to take care of himself. You passed through the bridge without fear, where the circling shark tanks beneath spoke of a deadly fall several floors down. Such a waste of space for an aesthetic. Your polished shoes smacked into the back of the chair, startling the Overlord within.

Arcs of electricity shot out from all angles. Coating the chair and his body as the wires all unplugged from their ports one by one and the frantic man spun around with an intense swirl in his right eye. The claws extended, drawing gouges in the rests beside him. All the fight in him sputtered out the instant he caught sight of you, painted over with annoyance.

“Doc! I did not call for you. What are you doing here?”

With your arms folded across your chest, you answered. “Coming to catch you red-handed. You should be sleeping.”

“Shouldn’t you?” He fired back, hunching low.

Touche, but you wouldn’t admit it. You pushed up the frame of your glasses before you answered.

“It’s not my fault the help I have in the lab is so incompetent. I can’t trust them to do something as simple as label specimens. It would be a terrible safety risk if I left it to them. If anything, I am a hero of Voxtek.”

Vox laughed, leaning back into his chair. It was genuine laughter, unlike that dorky evil cackle he thought nobody ever heard when he was alone. A palm smacked his thigh, with a crooked grin sliding heavy to the right of his screen. “Sounds like we’re both guilty, Doctor. I won’t tell if you don’t.”

“Tell who exactly?” You asked, striding up to the man. You sat on one of his thighs spread so wide it was practically an invitation. The overlord stiffened, digging his claws back into the plastic armrest, staring a hole at you. “What darling? There aren’t any other chairs and you wouldn’t have me stand the whole time would you?”

“No, I just didn’t expect you to try and seduce me.” He answered.

“Ah? And why do you think I am trying to seduce you?” You sent the question back to him, easing until your back pressed against the rest. You threw one leg over the other, balancing yourself by clutching the armrest. Your fingers only brushed against the cyan claws and he instantly yanked them out of reach.

“Oh, do you sit in any man’s lap then? And here I thought I was special.”

“I don’t like most people, Vox. You are special.”

Unexpectedly, the words brought a strange light blue glow to Vox’s face. He was just as shocked as you were, throwing an arm to cover the strange color in his face. There was an attempt to hide it as his face turned away, but he didn’t throw you off so you took that as a victory.

“What do you want?”

“For you to go to bed darling, that should be obvious.”

When he lowered the arm, you could see a deep frown on his display. The technicolor eyes bore into yours, locking you in eye contact trying to force the truth from you. A common tactic as most couldn’t lie while maintaining eye contact. But you were telling the truth so you made yourself comfortable admiring the view until the silence made him give up. With a sigh, he put his hand on your back and forced you back to your feet.

“Alright, I’ll go to bed, Doctor.” Vox shoved you off, forcing you back to your feet. He refused to even touch you, only lurching forward until you were forced to either catch yourself or fall. With a low grumble, you fixed your coat, keeping well away from the ledge.

Vox took two steps toward the bridge when he stopped and turned to look at you. “Do you flirt with all your patients?”

“Well darling, considering that you are my only patient? Yes.”

Vox chuffed, hooking a thumb forcefully into his pocket. The back of the TV greeted you, shoulders rolling as he weighed your answer. “And before I hired you, how many of your patients did you hit on?”

A single digit tapped your chin, which meant thinking back to something that hardly mattered. How often you satisfy your urges shouldn’t matter to your boss. But for the sake of this flirting to keep going you obliged. “Only the hot ones darling. I jump the bones of the ones I want nothing to do with besides their dick. But I take my time with the ones I really like.”

More electricity danced from his antennae. To busy his hands, Vox tugged and pulled at his bowtie. There was a joyful lilt in his tone as he answered, “Interesting. Good night Doctor.”

“Good night, Vox.” You followed right behind him, smiling with satisfaction. You felt happy that you finally got him to see reason, even if it meant flirting a little.

Or so you thought.

The next day, you decided to make another visit to his office to check if he went to bed on time. He was still plugged into the system, in the early hours of the morning. A little more flirting and back and forth was just as effective.

And the next day. There he was far more cold, not passing the buck back to you. But when you tried to excuse yourself, he’d find some excuse to make you stay for a minute or two longer.

And the next day too! Each time conning you into spending a little extra time with him. At first, it was only fifteen minutes. Then half an hour, and then you ended up lingering for a WHOLE hour. That was when you realized that if this got any worse, YOUR work would suffer.

Now that? That was unforgivable.

At this point, you suspected he was doing this on purpose. When you came charging down the bridge that evening, he was already spinning in place to greet you. You were expected. The bastard. The plugs in the back of his head popped free. Vox spun around in time to greet you with a wide smirk on his screen that faltered when his chair ended up swerving a little too far to the right. A heel smacked against the floor, giving him friction to push him back.

“You saw nothing,” Vox said.

“Pretty sure I did, you are up late. Again.”

“I slept yesterday. I’ll take care of it tomorrow.” Vox bent forward in his chair, looking smug. He was intentionally trying to rile you up now. You didn’t even attempt to hide your sigh. You glanced over to the monitors, still the same old surveillance for the most part. But there was one screen that stood out. The man was on Veddit. You adjusted your glasses to get a better look. Upon closer look, it was some subveddit asking advice about how to tell when somebody has a crush on you.

He was so pathetic it was endearing sometimes. His eyes followed yours, doing a double take when he noticed what you were looking at and smacked the console turning all the monitors off. Vox’s voice came out filtered as he attempted to sound assertive. “That’s classified company information. Nothing you are meant to be privy to Doctor. I’ll have to fire you if you keep looking.”

“I didn’t know relationship advice was sensitive company data. Are you having trouble with men, Vox?”

A faint blue light covered Vox’s screen beneath his eyes, his cyan pupils unable to meet you. Teeth clenched, his fingers rapped loudly against the armrests of his chair. You kept silent, watching him stew under the uncomfortable silence. His knee began to bounce, his fingertips clacking against the hard plastic until at last he groaned and rolled his eyes. “No! I could have anyone I wanted in Pentagram City in my bed by the end of tomorrow night if I wanted.”

Laughter spilled before you could help it. The sound inspired a swirl from his right eye, and another tense clutch of his claws gouging his chair. “What’s so funny?”

“You darling. You’re adorable.”

The color on his face grew more intense, as did his frown. He made some incoherent mumbling you couldn’t quite understand, but you were pretty sure at least one of those was an insult.

“How about a bet then, Darling? Whoever can bring a new partner into their bed first wins? If I win, you promise to go to bed no later than 1 AM. And if you win…” You sucked through your teeth, watching as his screen grew even more pale. A cyan claw nervously wove around the bow tie on his neck.

“If I win, you’re all mine for an evening,” Vox interjected.

Now there was a surprise, so he could take the lead. The man was already pushing himself up to his feet, stretching his back as he rose to his full height. “It’s about time I remind you who you work for.” Now he was compensating, with that blustering smile and the way he pulled on his lapels.

“Then it is settled! You can have an entire evening to see if you can make me as obedient as the rest of your employees.” You agreed. Unknown to Vox, you already had a plan that secured your victory. But you let him stew in the joy of his deal a little longer. The way his smile took up half his screen was endearing.

A pointed end met your chin as he forced you to look at him, the harsh artificial light shining a little too close for comfort. “I’ll make you sing for me, Doc. Though you are right… I’d almost miss your backbone. Almost.”

The screen was coming in close, dangerously so. With nowhere to go with that claw currently suck in your chin, you brushed away the mood with a question. “Would my magnanimous boss be willing to walk me home? Things have been rather dangerous in my neighborhood lately.”

Suspicion immediately colored his expression, with arcs of lightning dancing along his frame. Vox whipped his hand away, standing ramrod straight. “Didn’t you want me to go to bed? Trying to get a head start on me Doc?”

You coyly tilted your head. “No? If you’re that worried about that I can get somebody else to walk me. I’m pretty sure I could easily get Papermint to--”

A metallic claw smacked your shoulder, pointed ends digging into your flesh as a strained smile greeted you. Vox’s laughter came out deeply filtered. “That won’t be necessary! That man couldn’t defend you from a paper bag. I’ll be winning our little wager before the night ends, as I said. So I’ll gladly see you home and asleep while I take my victory.”

The pinprick stung, but it was a kind of pain that sent a shiver down your spine. Your hand laid over his, feeling the cool skin beneath for only a second before he yanked it away.

That was now the second time he yanked his hand from yours. Curious.

“Not if you are sleep-deprived, Vox. Come on then, it’s a bit of a walk through a bad neighborhood so I hope you aren’t too fond of your shoes.” You spun around first, taking the lead down the bridge. The larger overlord quickly strode over to catch up to you, refusing to let you guide him. Hands behind his back, he continued to stare at you from the corner of his screen, and he was terribly obvious.

“What is it darling?” You asked.

“...Can you stop calling me that?”

“What, darling?”

There was an uneasy shifting as he pushed out his pockets. The electronic door hissed open when the two of you approached by the proximity of the Overlord alone. The two of you took a turn down the hallways, empty and feeling almost haunted at these early hours.

“Yes.”

By how short the answer was, you suspected he wasn’t going to give you a reason why. As confident and blustering the man could be, there were always these little nuggets of insecurity that oozed. He was overcompensating. For most people, they wouldn’t bother to look any deeper. People were far more inclined to see what they wanted to see or to ignore anything that would be far too bothersome to address. A fact Vox relied on far too much.

Because you took an undeniable interest in this man. You knew his body better than anyone as his doctor. Knew how his heart was nothing but to ease his body dysmorphia. How he regulated his heat, how viruses affected his body, and how a simple cold could still lay him low. Initially, you wanted nothing more than to tear him open and learn everything but lately… you wanted to solve the riddle behind the little things. Such as why he wouldn’t let you touch his hand. Or why his screen always got a little brighter when you entered the room.

But if you pushed somebody too hard who didn’t want to be known, you risked pushing them away. This would require a delicate touch.

“Very well, I will have to call you something special then.”

There was another flash of static as Vox pushed the call elevator button. The repeated shifting of his cyan irises was so obvious you had to hide your smile underneath your palm pretending to hide a cough.

“Like what? Voxxy?”

“Voxxy is cute...” You admitted with a shrug, “But that’s not special. I’m sure you’ve had plenty of exes call you that.”

Fragmentation flashed over this screen at that moment, the crimson pools almost comically large in his screen. The ding of the elevator was his saving grace, striding in quickly to save face. “I’ll let you know if you pick something unique then.”

Unique. Most people would likely pick something with his name or his head. Picture Box, Plasma, Sparky. In the silence of the elevator, you leaned against the wall and considered it. A nickname for you alone to call him. Vox joined you. Leaning against the wall almost close enough to touch but you knew better than to reach out and chance him pulling his hand away a third time.

“Dove.”You suggested.

“That’s… uh--” Vox let out a breathy chuckle. “Quite an old-fashioned nickname don’t you think? I think people stopped using that decades ago.”

“Do you dislike it…?”

Claws settled on the rail behind him, clicking against the bare metal. Each metallic noise sent shivers up your spine, seeing them so close but out of reach.

“I don’t dislike it, no. I’m not quite so nostalgic as half of Hell seems to be, but I can appreciate the effort.” The rare gentle smile on his screen was a sort you’d never seen before. Not the fabricated nonsense to disarm viewers or the manic joy when he was doing something comically evil.

Ping

The elevator came to a sudden halt as it hit the first floor. You stepped out first, with your boss lagging shortly behind. Thanks to how early in the morning it was, the two of you weren’t especially bothered by employees or gawking pedestrians. Hell in the early evenings was often when you could find the worst of it. Drunkards, people stabbed in the middle of the streets, demons locked in heat fucking in any half-discreet location they could find. It was a place of sin and debauchery and everyone happily indulged. Vox was a wary individual you learned from watching him.

Despite being one of the most powerful men in the Pride Ring he constantly watched the streets looking for threats. Occasionally he would catch you looking at him, blush, and look away. After the third or fourth time, he scoffed and tugged on his collar.

“Why do you keep staring at me like that? Actually- WHY are you flirting with me so blatantly? Are you trying to get a promotion?”

“Can I be promoted from your personal physician?”

“No.”

“Then the only reason is because I like you.”

There was a question of why, obvious by the way he looked at you full of confusion. “I… wasn’t expecting such an honest answer.”

You laughed. “This is hell Dove, there’s nothing to be gained by being shy. Somebody else might try to sink their claws into you first and I don’t like to lose.”

“Your wager seems counter-intuitive to your goal.” Vox rolled his eyes. Yet at the same time, he was reaching out to you. His claws bumped against your fingertips for only a fraction of a second. They were cold and sharp to the touch, but having conquered the wall put a pep in your step.

“On the contrary, I believe it’s proven quite effective. You are taking me home so another man doesn’t.”

“I-Wait, were you manipulating me?!”

You laughed again, hiding your great smile behind your hand. “I was! But you manipulate all of hell daily so I think you’ve lost all right to hold that against me.”

Vox stopped, narrowing his great big eyes. “I could leave right now, or did you account for that in your plan too?”

“Mmn, no I had planned to drag you into my bed tonight.”

A bright blue blush flashed over the man’s screen, his arm rising to try and hide it. Sparks and electricity danced between each prong. “I--! That’s not what we bet on!”

“No? The bed was to drag a new partner into our beds tonight. I’ve never been with you, so you count Dove.”

Still masking his face, Vox was now wavering, looking behind him as he tried to determine whether to foil your plot now or fall prey to it. Even this game of indecision was fun to watch. He sucked through his teeth, tapping his foot against the concrete.

“Doesn’t telling me your plan ruin your chances?”

“No, to my experience telling a man point blank you want them is far more effective than being shy about it. Am I wrong?” You flashed a smile full of teeth. “Of course, it also has a chance to backfire and make them so nervous they run. But I don’t believe you aren’t quite that timid.”

“Tch, hardly. Fine.” His claw clamped around your wrist. Cold, awkward, and grating against your bone it wasn’t quite what you imagined. You had a strong suspicion it was that exact reason that made him so hesitant to touch you before. He dragged you forward, but after you reached the end of the street he realized that he had no idea where he was taking you. When he looked at you for help, you laughed. As predicted, he sulked.

“Sorry, sorry! You are just so cute! We’re almost there. It’s that apartment over there.” You pointed straight ahead to a sleek modern apartment. It was one of the nicer buildings in the Entertainment district, one of Voxtek’s provided housing. The familiar V on the building clued Vox in.

The walk became closer to a power walk as he took you into your apartment. Having to at least concede to let you lead to take him to your apartment on the third floor, fourth door down the hall. He was deathly silent watching you unlock the door, following behind you as quietly as a mouse inside. That same nervous jitters returned to the usually powerful and confident CEO as he found himself in a strange apartment that wasn’t his own. Perhaps he expected you to jump his bones immediately but you instead took off your shoes, and lab coat, and made your way inside.

“Would you like tea, Dove? Sleepy-time tea ought to help you fall asleep.”

“Fall… asleep?” Vox asked. All the wind in his sails had fluttered out, baffled by the turn of events.

“Yes darling, what did you think I was taking you to my bed for? You are up past your bedtime.” You didn’t even attempt to hide the smug smile on your face, so instead you focused on filling a kettle and setting it on the stove.

“I--- You tricked me!”

“Indeed I did. Are you upset?”

To your surprise, he wasn't. He was deathly silent, standing in the hallway lost, unsure of what was going on. A claw hooked around his bow tie, untying it to make himself comfortable. Next came off the blazer, and then the top hat left on the coat rack by the door. Normally meant only to contain your coat, it added a touch of domesticity to see your coat have a partner. The blue and white looked nice. Could only hope the two of you would meld just as harmoniously. Vox sat down at your dining room table, taking a look around your abode.

“I’ve never been dragged into somebody's place to only sleep with them before. You’re… an odd one Doc.”

“I’ve been told.” You answered in a sing-song tone, preparing the tea cups. A packet of sleepy-time tea tucked into each porcelain cup with saucers meant to carry a touch of your personality. “I like you too much to bed you this early.”

“I-- don’t get that. If you like me, doesn’t that mean I’d already be inside you, fucking you on your kitchen counter?” Vox scoffed, rapping his nails against the table. The kettle hissed with steam when the water was ready. After laying down the teacups and saucers you popped the kettle off the stove and poured into each cup. Joining your boss from the chair directly across from him.

“Come now, isn’t that how courtship used to work? A man would get to know a woman, and show her that he really liked her for her and not just her body. It’s like that Dove. Now, I would love to unwrap you but I’m more curious to know the man you are. Like-- why don’t you like it when I touch your hand?”

Vox twitched, pulling his hand immediately off the table, suddenly self-conscious. “Who said I don’t like you touching my hand sweetheart?” He forced that fake smile of his, taking a friendly artificial tone.

“Because you keep pulling it away whenever I touch it.”

The smile fell, and his eyes fell toward the amber liquid in the cup. He lifted the cup, testing to see if it had enough time to steep. It had not even been a minute, so all he tasted was hot water. He set the cup down, feeling bitter. “What if I don’t want to talk about it?”

“Then you don’t have to. But I want to know.”

The chair skid back, with your boss leaning forward. “Let’s… forget this getting-to-know-me bullshit Sweetheart. It’s stupid, this is hell. I can fuck you until your eyes roll into the back of your head and forget this whimsy of yours Doc. You're my employee. Nothing more.”

You set your chin on the nest of your overlaid hands, matching his eyes. You pushed a little too hard. “No, you’re getting your sleep whether you like it or not. If we have to sit here in silence, I’m making sure you get the sleep you need, Vox.”

Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.

Vox’s shoulders rose and fell with his sigh. Waiting three minutes for tea to steep felt like an eternity to him. “A secret for a secret Doc. I’ll tell you why, but in return, you need to tell me something you’ve never told anyone before.” An accusatory finger jut your way.

“Do you want to get to know me too, Dove?” Unafraid, you coyly tilted your head. Vox opened his mouth to respond, shut it, and turned his screen.

“...Yes. I’ve never had somebody care this much for my health or try to get to know me. You’re weird, but not in a… bad way I guess. I’m not saying-- you’ll ever be more to me than an employee-- don’t get the wrong idea.” He quickly interjected his point. But the shuffling in his chair and the way he weighed his words so heavily you were liking your chances. “But I like talking to you Doc.”

“Well...” You began, skidding your foot against the floor. “I was once madly and deeply in love with a man before. I was utterly, completely besotted in a way I bet you never would have expected. I wrote and sang him poetry. Spent many evenings dancing with him by candlelight, and had disgustingly kinky sex in public spaces. But my favorites were always the nights when he’d be gentle with me like I was the most precious thing in all worlds.”

Vox’s mouth hung open and then shut. A fresh shade of color danced across his screen at the bold confession “You’re… right. I have a hard time believing that. You’re the last person I imagined being a romantic.”

You sputtered a laugh. “Right? I was surprised too. Have you ever been in love like that before?”

“I’m not answering that question.” He immediately shut you down. “I don’t like you touching my hands because… most people are scared of them. They hurt, they’re cold, they aren’t nice to hold at all. They’re great, don’t get me wrong! When I need to get people in line they’re a fantastic tool for intimidation. But well, we’re demons. I’m not… built for intimacy. Inside or out.” Voxmotioned over his body with the aforementioned hands.

“They’re beautiful hands though, Vox. When you grabbed my wrist it hurt a little but it wasn’t a bad pain. They’re more than worth it for you.”

The familiar blush returned, coming with such a vengeance you swore you saw some white pixels mixed in within the blush. Like a nebula reflected on his screen, little imperfections that made him look endlessly beautiful. “Noted. So, what happened to that guy? You wouldn’t be bothering with me if he was still in your life.”

“We were… incompatible. There’s a piece of me that’s broken beyond repair inside that made me fundamentally wrong for him. It wasn’t his fault or mine. Closer to mine I suppose, since I cannot quiet the demon inside me that threatens to tear my guts out raw from envy.” The memory came bitterly, mostly because it came with a realization that even for the man you loved most you couldn’t be fixed.

A cyan claw hooked through the handle, with Vox sipping his tea. He had grown deathly silent, draining the cup until it was down to its dregs all in one. It hit the saucer with a clatter. “You should drink your tea doctor.”

Silently you obliged, taking more reserved sips. Truthfully you didn’t need it as much as he did. Habit and a circadian rhythm did wonders in getting your body trained for sleep. But for the sake of calming your nerves, taking this man to your bed where you would not take his clothes off felt oddly more intimate than taking them off. The heel of his shoes clicked multiple times against the floor, Vox was completely incapable of sitting still. At one point he even got up, walking around your apartment.

“Doc? Where’s your bathroom?”

“Back near the entrance Dove. To your right.”

“Thank you.” He disappeared into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him. You could hear the faucet running shortly after. While he took care of his business you finished your tea and washed the dishes. He was already out by the time you put the kettle in the sink.

“So, do you have anything for me to sleep in?”

“Mmm, I have a shirt of my exes if that works that should fit you. But I don’t have any bottoms. You’ll be fine in your underwear won’t you?”

He shrugged. “I mean, I’m fine to sleep naked. As long as that shirt doesn’t have you know whose face on it.”

“Of course not Dove, I would not tolerate merchandise of anyone who believes technology should have stopped in the thirties. That goes against everything I believe in.” You flippantly waved your hand as if you could hardly entertain the idea. To your surprise, Vox’s screen illuminated with light, with a big genuine toothy smile on his face.

“I changed my mind, I might be able to make an exception for you.”

“Of course Vox, it was only a matter of time before you saw my charm! Now… come on.”

Even if you were a Doctor who didn’t need a man or woman, you loved having a large bed to lounge in taking up nearly your entire room. You had your knick-knacks and other decorative items. A bookshelf of medical textbooks lined against the back of the bed for those late nights reading. Laundry piled up a little higher than you would have liked when you were bringing a boy over. A disturbing little skeleton you named Mr. Bones sitting on your computer desk. Diagrams and telltale signs of countless nights hunched over a desk. Signs of the passion of whatever gripped your mind and forced quill to meet paper.

Vox was obvious in the way he took in the various objects in your bedroom. His interest in getting to know you seemed genuine. You fished out the old shirt from your ex, which was a harmless plain white buccaneer shirt. You could see the confusion on his face when he was handed it, but you said nothing.

You grabbed your pajamas and disappeared into the master bathroom to change. Leaving Vox the whole bedroom to change. When you saw yourself in the bathroom mirror, you could spy a faint color present on your cheeks. Sure, maybe you could act cool and confident. But the truth was, you did like this man. Otherwise, why else would you go to all this trouble for him?

All your feigned confidence but you took care that your hair looked nice when you brushed it. You picked out your favorite pair of pajamas. You brushed your teeth and put on only a little spritz of perfume, as your heart beat with anticipation and hope.

Vox was already laid out on top of the bed, waiting for you. His monitor raised to look at you when you opened the door, propping his body halfway up with his elbows. “Huh, you did simply change into your pajamas. Was half expecting you to change your mind and pick out something sexy.”

“We can save that for after you’ve taken me to dinner, Dove.” A laughter followed after your statement, a friendly one. You stepped over to your nightstand to hit the switch next to a strange black and white orb. Vox did arch a brow, but his gentle smile remained.

“I’ll think about it.” The overlord fell back onto the bed, staring at the ceiling. That was perfect timing!

After you hit the light switch, the room was submerged in darkness. The purpose of the strange device on your nightstand became obvious when Vox spied the star system being projected over the ceiling. Creating a fabrication of the starry night sky that had been robbed from the two of you when death came. Vox’s right claw stretched out, reaching his hand out as if he could grasp the slowly rotating stars. The illumination of his screen slowly died until it became a dim pale blue light.

You crawled into bed opposite of him. Laying on your side with your arm tucked under the pillow to act as extra leverage while you watch the man beside you enjoy the sight above.

“You REALLY are a romantic. I’m expecting roses when you take me to dinner.” Vox joked.

“I’ll consider it. So, what makes you say that?”

“I may have had my hints when you told me you wanted to wait for sex. And oh I don’t know, The night light and nickname? You are aware of what Dove means right?”

Vox rolled onto his side, using the pillow as a gentle cushion for his screen. Normally looking right into a bright blue light wasn’t the best idea when you were trying to sleep. But the sight of that gentle smile on his face felt like it was going to lead you to some nice dreams. “Of course I do. And you were intentionally staying up late so I’d come and see you. I think you’re secretly a romantic too, Vox.”

The familiar blue flush dazzled his screen, something even pulling the blanket over to try and hide it couldn’t help with. The way his face glowed made the proof even more apparent when he only tried to mask it in darkness. “Nonsense. I’m just a machine.”

The statement came out in a half-whisper. By the way, his eyes widened at that moment, you suspected he had not meant to be that honest. A scowl took the place of his smile, and he fell back onto his back to hide his face from you. You didn’t let him run. You pushed yourself up and sat beside him, staring down at the screen that tried its best to watch the wavering astral movements above.

“You’re not a machine, Dove. And I would know that more than anyone, save yourself. Machines aren’t lonely for one.”

“I’m not lonely...” Vox bitterly retorted.

You stretched your hands out for his screen. He leaned back into the pillow, setting his cyan irises on you immediately. With your fingertips only inches apart, you met those eyes without moving an inch more.

“Do you not want me to touch you?”

“What good is touching me there? I can’t even feel it, you know.”

“Because it always makes me happy when somebody simply touches me without expectation of sex. Makes me feel beautiful.”

A complicated expression flashed over the screen. Alternating between vulnerability, a scowl, the widened sclera, and at last acceptance. His hand laid over yours and guided it to brush and trace over the hard plastic that housed his screen. The cool hand lingered on top of your palm, guiding your hand up toward where his prongs stuck out on top of his head. Following his lead your fingertips brushed along the metal prongs, then circled the receivers on the top.

“Maybe… I’m a little lonely.” He begrudgingly confessed.

Something cold suddenly brushed against your cheek, intense thanks to the heat that made a home there. The back of Vox’s claws brushed over your face, and you leaned into it. His palm filled the swell of your cheek, the harsh points nestled into the hair to cushion their prick. The thumb stretched out to tap your bottom lip, tracing the shape.

Slowly the two dark silhouettes you both cast on the wall came together melting into one. Vox guided you forward as his own body bent forward to meet you halfway. Shortly after you closed your eyes, the gentle sensation of his lips finally met yours. The edged fingers slid along the nape of your neck, sending chills down your spine while he held you. Entangling his fingers within your hair to hold you in place. Chaste and sweet, it was only a light brushing as he whispered to you.

“Your right doc… this is nice. I want to touch you more, may I?” Each little new syllable brought that ticklish feeling back, tingling with the natural static on his face. You sealed your lips against him, drinking deep from what he’d been teasing you with all this time.

“As long as the clothes stay on Dove.”

“Of course. This is nice… I don’t want it to end.” The confession came with the feel of his palm now brushing over your shoulder. Tracing down your arm until his fingers circled the wrist that had kept you supported all this time. He tugged you forward until your body fell on top of his. It was harder than the average man’s body and less cushy. The heat of your body was sapped even through the two layers of clothing, but it only gave him an excuse to wrap that blanket around the two of you.

You righted yourself until you laid flat across his body, with his arms coming around to circle your back. You buried your head into his chest, taking in his scent, wrapping your arms around his torso as you surrendered to his touch. The pointed end of one claw ran up and down your back, sending shivers down your body each time it came to meet the nape of your neck. It wasn’t a sexually thrilling sensation, but it was pleasant enough to eke out a moan. Instead of excitement, the man underneath you chuckled. Vox ran his claws through your hair instead, scratching your scalp.

“Why don’t you like to be called Darling?” You dared the question, feeling closer than ever now that the two of you were touching. The sound of his artificial heart beating against his chest and into your ear felt nothing like the machine he purported himself as. Nor was the careful way he touched you. You could feel its absence far more when his hands froze. You dared to look up, and you could see the heartbreak reflected in his eyes alone.

“It reminds me of somebody else, a man I’d rather not think of when I’m with you Doc.”

“I’d never want you to look like that when you think of me… so I will endeavor to be nothing like him, Dove.”

Vox smiled, curling a claw around a lock of your hair to brush out of your face. “And even if you are broken, I will make you feel whole one day Doc.”

Now that was unfair. How dare the vulnerability you share with him be used against you! You fought back the emotions that welled up, the brush of his hands bringing you back down against his chest made you feel like it’d be alright.

“We should get some sleep. But I want to keep holding you if that’s O.K.”

You leaned forward, kissing him goodnight. Vox kept you there for a moment longer, squeezing your shoulder. The other hand pressed against the arch of your back to press your body against his. Each little brush of those lips against yours felt addicting. Making you want to keep diving in back for more. Sometimes it was crooked, other times he’d steal your breath and keep you there. It was only the need for air that forced you two to part. A flushed face stared back at you with the beautiful nebula of freckles returned in full force.

You didn’t want to part, much as the sirens call for sleep called for you. You pressed your fingertips against his screen right beneath his eyes. Tracing each little freckle to make constellations with them. Vox closed his eyes, accepting your touch this time. The gentle wavering of his cyan irises watching you stole your breath. If only you could stay up all night and kiss each little star on his face.

But all good things had to come to an end. Vox pressed against your shoulders to force you to lie down. His own body came hovering over yours for a brief few beautiful moments, the starry sky above him framing behind him.

“You’re blushing so hard right now, Doc.”

A squeak escaped you, pressing a hand against your now hot cheeks. Gentle laughter broke out from the man above.

“You’re so cute… I can’t wait to see how red you get when I bed you for real.” The whisper of that promise came with a claw tracing along your jawline.

“When…? You sound so certain.” The blood rushing to your head made it hard to come up with a snappier comeback than that.

“Because I have already decided. I intend to win you over with everything I have. Goodnight, Doc.”

He fell back back onto the bed, lying on his side. Immediately wrapped his arms around you to pull you closer until your back was held flush against his front. Vox locked you tight so you couldn’t escape, the warm screen pressed into the back of your head.

“Goodnight Vox...”

Cursed with those beautiful thoughts Vox put in your head, your cheeks burned. The bittersweet pain in your heart gave you such contentment you were quickly pulled down past the point of no return. The gentle whir of Vox’s white noise banished the chaos of hell, pulling you into a world where only the two of you existed.

[kkayyerr]

Gift

Summary: You decided to make a gift for your Daddy.

Pairing: Daddy!Rafe x little!reader.

Warnings: age regression; none.

You were sitting at the table, admiring your work. You just finished working on a little gift for Rafe that hopefully he would like. He was bad at receiving gifts, almost always rejecting them. He liked buying you gifts a lot more, though. Your room was practically filled with them. Stuffies, jewelries, books. And that’s exactly why you decided to make something for him, something that you knew he wouldn’t reject. 

You hold a small handmade bracelet in your hands that was made of small black pearls. The white ones had letters on them that said the word „daddy”. You almost jumped as you heard the door behind you open. 

 „Baby, what are you doing?"

 Rafe’s voice sounded a little worried, he has been planning to check on you for a while now. He could never leave you alone for more than 5 minutes when you were regressed, because he would get too anxious, thinking about all the scary things that might’ve happened to you. Especially he would get anxious when you would get quiet. You got up from where you were sitting, hiding the bracelet behind your back, feeling too embarrassed to show it to him. 

 „N…nothing!”

 Rafe’s face expression turned suspicious, as he knew that you were obviously hiding something behind your back. He didn’t like the idea of you possibly having something that you shouldn’t. He approached you, giving you a stern look and you immediately knew what that meant.

 „Give it to me.”

 You shook your head, getting even more doubts now about giving him that gift. You couldn’t fight the thoughts of him; just throw it away because of how stupid and childish it is. You put your head down, feeling somewhat stupid about making that bracelet in the first place.

 „Give it to me, before I’ll snatch it right out of your hands.”

 His tone now was firm, and you knew that he'd do it if you wouldn’t give it to him willingly. You finally gave up and gave him the bracelet with a loud sigh, looking awfully embarrassed of your own gift. 

However, you saw that his facial expression wasn’t what you expected it to be. It softened right away when he saw what exactly you were hiding.

 „Is that…for me?”

 He asked, clearly not able to believe, that he could’ve deserved that gift or any gift from you at all. You nodded, a small smile now formed on your face, feeling much less anxious now. He didn’t look angry or disappointed to you; actually, he seemed really proud. 

 „Do you like it?” 

 He slowly nodded, tracing the word „daddy” with his finger and feeling how his problems were melting away because of the fact that he had you in his life. His grateful little girl. 

 „Very much, baby.“

 Rafe pulled you closer, giving you a kiss on the cheek. And another one. He then started kissing you all over your pretty face, making you giggle and hugging him tighter. You were so happy that he actually liked that gift that you forgot all about your previous fears and doubts. 

 „Topper and Kelce won’t laugh at you?”

 Your question was genuine because you knew that Rafe was always worried about his reputation. He only gave you a soft smile in return, holding your gift in his hand with pride.

 „Oh, they’ll be jealous! But we won’t care about that, right?”

 He chuckled as you quickly nodded. 

He probably was thinking about beating their asses if they would say even a word about you or his new accessory that you made for him. 

 „Do you want to put it on my wrist, baby?”

 Rafe asked, smiling as he saw enthusiasm in your sparkling eyes. You quickly took the bracelet from his hand in yours and gently put it on his wrist, making sure that the word „daddy” was placed on top. 

You wanted everyone to know that he is your daddy, and no matter what, you’ll still be his little girl. 

 „My daddy!”

 You said, looking at his hand with a bracelet on it, you were actually very pleased with your work now. Rafe cupped your face with his hands gently, looking you right in the eyes; his own gaze now had completely softened, not even a glimpse of his usual anger. He could’ve never looked at you with the hatred in his eyes. 

 „Yours only.” 

[jubburb]

》 "-ARE YOU COLD, MY DEAR?"

• @jubburb

ask: none.

sypnosis: waking up with your husband one morning and going on a walk in the snow.

a/n: ive been procrastinating this foreva, ik its short but I just want this out of the drafts so I can start writing more fics😼

warnings: female reader in mind when writing, but I'm not sure if I put any fem pronouns, just cute fluffy fluffness 😺

notes: ooc zhongli? definitely? maybe? idk.. u tell me

When fall hits Liyue, it can get pretty chilly pretty fast. The degrees quickly drop to fifty degrees and lower, previously being in around the eighties or nineties.

It's quite a sudden change. But a pleasant one, especially for tourists who come around during the seasons.

-

One quiet morning, you and your husband, Zhongli, are lazing about in your shared king bed. Zhongli was reading a book, idly playing with your hair with one hand, while you were still trying to wake up, laying your head on his broad chest.

"Mm.." You groan sleepily, reaching a hand up to rub your eye.

"Are you finally awake, my dear?" Zhongli chuckles, halting his hand that was intertwined with the tresses of your hair.

You simply nod, yawning, and sit up against his chest, feeling his hand snake around your waist to hold you closer.

"Do you have work today?" You ask, blinking a couple of times to actually fully wake up, staring up at him and he nods with a hum.

"I am, in fact, off today. What do you suppose we do?" He asks, placing the book down to give you his full attention.

"Sleep in?" You request with a chuckle, and Zhongli jokingly sighs, shaking his head no.

"Something productive, please, my dear." He says, playing with a strand of your hair once more.

"Sleeping is productive, Li." You retort, rolling your eyes, tempted to fall back into a deep slumber just to spite your husband.

There's silence for a moment as Zhongli thinks.

"-Oh, I know, what about a walk around the harbor? I'm sure nobody is awake during these early hours, so it'll be calm, quiet, and peaceful. Just the two of us." Zhongli smiles, cupping your cheek, his slightly calloused palm brushing against your soft skin.

"..Thats.." You start, ".. Not that bad of an idea."

"Knew it."

You only roll your eyes at his response, "Well, I guess we better get our lazy asses out of bed before it's too late and people start getting to work."

"You're the only lazy ass here." Zhongli chuckles with a whisper under his breath, getting out of bed before you could do anything about what he said.

"Oh you mother-"

-

As you two walk around the harbor, you did not expect it to start snowing..

The pretty white snowflakes started to dance across the sky before ultimately finding use on the ground, creating a soft blanket of snow covering the docks and pathways.

Aaaaand.. you forgot your mittens.. your hands were freezing, but if you told Zhongli, he would give you that: "i tOld yOu sO" bullshit.

Before you guys even left the house, Zhongli insisted you bring mittens, because, to quote him, "You don't even know how cold it is in the morning, love."

And of course, you just had to defy him, insisting that you'll be fine without mittens.

You really regret it now..

Even though you were clad in a comfy coat, your hands that were freezing seemed to freeze your entire body, and you were quivering every step you and your husband took as you walked around.

Zhongli looked through the shop windows, not really seeming to notice at first, but then he eventually heard your teeth starting to chatter together, and glanced back at you.

"..Are you cold, my dear?" Zhongli asks, staring at you with a concerned look.

"I-m f-ine.." You respond, your teeth clamming together continuously.

He glances down at your hands that were trembling the most, reaching his mitten covered hands hold them, and you immediately feel a sense of relief.

Zhongli smiles softly, chuckling a bit, and leaned forward to kiss your forehead, "I told you to wear the mittens."

"I kn-ow.." You chatter, before moving closer to cuddle into his chest, the two of you still holding hands, standing there for a while in the wintery streets.

Zhongli hums softly, his nose nuzzled into your hair as he smells your shampoo and conditioner, snow falling over his long brown hair and back.

You could fall asleep right there in the arms of your husband, but you'd rather get home before you get all lovey dovey, so you pull away, looking up at his handsome amber eyes.

"Let's head back, Li.." You say, and Zhongli nods, continuing to hold your hand.

He even not-so discreetly maneuvered it into the large pocket of his coat, so your hand could be even warmer as you two walked.

You smile softly, and lean your head on your husband's shoulder.

The two of you only left footsteps in your wake as you find comfort in eachother.

- signed by c♡

[daisymbin]

https://www.tumblr.com/daisymbin/767035170329149440/2104-kim-mingyu-warnings-fwb-angst can you make a part 2? 🥺

a/n: thank you for requesting a part2 🥹 I was debating between keeping it the way it is at angst or happy ending but....here we are with both. whichever fits your cup of tea, I hope you enjoy it!! (I'll admit my heart hurt a little when writing the angst one)

check out my masterlist! // read part1 here

v.1_angst ending

warnings: angst!!!

it’s been a month since mingyu walked out of your life and everything feels like its crumbling. food tastes like ash, laughter sounds like echoes of something you used to know, and the world continues to spin while you feel like you’re standing still, trapped in the wreckage of a person that used to feel so safe, like they'd never hurt you.

you find yourself wandering the streets today, hoping that moving through the city might make you feel alive again. but your heart sinks when you see him, mingyu, standing outside a small bar, the neon lights painting his silhouette with colors too bright for the pain you feel. he’s there, a girl tucked under his arm, her laughter ringing out clear, sweet, & god, she’s beautiful, she's so beautiful that it twists the knife deeper.

you should look away. you should. but you don’t. you can’t. instead, your feet root to the spot as your heart crumbles, the wound you thought was starting to scab over splitting wide open again. you watch mingyu’s eyes flicker over to you, and time slows.

he sees you. he sees you, and for a heartbeat, you think you catch a glimpse of something—regret? sorrow? but then his lips curl into a smile, one that doesn’t reach his eyes, and whatever hope you clung to evaporates. because he just looks so cold.

the girl beside him tilts her head up, oblivious, and mingyu’s hands starts to roam, sliding slowly down her back, to her waist, lingering in a way that makes your insides churn. & then, he pulls her impossibly closer by her waist as he presses slow kisses along her neck. you watch as he darts his tongue out and lightly drags it across her skin, deliberate and intimate, and the worst part? he does it while looking straight at you. his eyes never leaving yours, holding you in place, they burn into yours, dark and defiant, and it feels like he’s taunting you, as if daring you to do something about it, but really, its almost as if he's challenging himself to break you apart; like how fast he can do it? how many times he can break you? just how many times?

it’s sick. cruel. a sinister, sadistic challenge, and you don’t know if this version of mingyu is someone he’s always been, hidden beneath the boy who used to hold you so tenderly, or if he’s became this monster just to twist the knife a little deeper. either way, it doesn’t matter. the pain is real, and it’s yours.

you clench your fists, your nails digging into your palms threatening to draw blood as you try to steady your breathing. every cell in your body screams at you to do something, to scream, to demand answers, to yell that this isn’t fair. but you can’t. you won’t give him the satisfaction. instead, you force yourself to stand there, swallowing the anguish that rises like bile in your throat.

the girl giggles again, tilting her head to give mingyu more access, and your vision blurs as your tears threaten to spill. he’s touching her the way he used to touch you, and it feels like he’s shattering your memories one by one, tainting all of them, taking everything beautiful you once shared and warping it into something twisted and unrecognizable.

mingyu keeps his eyes on you, and for a moment, you think he might smirk. there’s something almost victorious in his gaze, and you wonder if this has been his plan all along—to break you until there’s nothing left.

you tear your gaze away and force yourself to move, each step feeling heavier than the last. your chest aches, and your breath comes out in short, jagged bursts, but you refuse to let him see you break down. not here. not in front of him.

the tears spill over as you walk away, hot and unrelenting. your whole world feels fractured, like a puzzle missing its most important piece, and the realization hits you like a freight train: mingyu has moved on, and he did it in a way that leaves no room for doubt. he’s not coming back, and even if he did, the person he used to be is gone.

you turn a corner, wiping at your eyes with trembling hands, and wonder if you’ll ever be whole again. life continues to pass you by, indifferent to the destruction left in mingyu’s wake, and all you’re left with is the hope that, maybe one day, this pain will dull. that one day, you’ll find a way to start living again instead of merely surviving.

but today is not that day. and mingyu’s laughter echoes behind you, a sound that will haunt you for as long as you let it.

you don’t look back no matter how much it feels like the echo of his laughter is calling you back because you can’t bear to see how easily he’s replaced you. and maybe that’s the final, bitter lesson: some people don’t just break you—they ruin the way you see love, the way you see yourself. and mingyu? he’s done both.

v.2_happy ending

warnings: slight angst with happy ending?

here’s how it feels to be without mingyu: like the world has lost its color. every day bleeds into the next, a monotonous blend of grays and shadows that never seem to lift. it’s like the sun has stopped trying, its warmth gone with the person who used to bring light to even your darkest moments.

you sit at the small table by the window of the coffee shop, the one you and mingyu used to claim as your own. it’s where you’d both spend hours talking, laughing, and holding hands over cups of lukewarm coffee. now, the memories feel like ghosts, haunting every corner of this place.

your fingers trace the rim of your mug, cold and forgotten. your mind is elsewhere, trapped in the past, replaying the way mingyu used to smile at you like you were his whole world. the tears you thought had dried a long time ago threaten to return, but you push them down, swallowing the lump in your throat.

“mind if i sit here?” a unwelcomed voice asks, and it startles you. you barely register the question, lost in the echo of mingyu’s last words to you.

you give a distracted nod, not even looking up. your gaze stays fixed on the steam rising from your mug, your thoughts heavy.

you don’t realize who it is until you feel a warm hand cover yours, gently but firmly. the touch shocks you, the heat of it burning into your skin and making you jolt slightly. you almost pull away, but then you hear it.

“it’s me,” the voice says, soft, familiar, and full of something that sounds like regret. “it’s mingyu.”

your head snaps up, and for a moment, you don’t believe it. it can’t be. but it is. he’s sitting there, eyes wide and filled with emotion, holding your cold hands between his.

“mingyu?” you breathe out, the name coming out cracked and broken, like a plea.

his grip tightens, desperation in the way he clings to you. “i'm here,” he says, voice trembling, “i'm sorry I took so long."

your chest tightens, and you try to pull your hands away, but he doesn’t let you, his hold on your wrist tighter than ever. “what are you doing here?” you manage, your voice barely steady.

“i couldn’t stay away,” he admits, and there’s so much pain in his eyes that it makes your own heart ache. “i missed you. i tried to let go, but i can’t. i’m so sorry.”

you swallow hard, shaking your head. “you left,” you whisper, the words heavy with all the hurt you’ve been carrying. “you said you couldn’t love me the way i wanted you to.”

his face crumples, and he looks at you like he’s been shattered, like every piece of him is breaking right in front of you. “i was wrong,” he says, his voice cracking. “i thought… i thought it was the right thing to do, to protect you from me, from all the things i thought i wasn’t good enough for. but god, i was so wrong. i hurt you, i-i made you cry and i hate myself for it.”

you bite your lip, tears welling up in your eyes. “you don’t get to come back and say that,” you choke out. “you don’t get to just… show up and expect everything to be okay.”

“i know,” he says quickly, his eyes pleading. “i know, and i don’t expect anything. but please, let me explain. let me make it right.”

you stare at him, your heart pounding in your chest. it feels too much, too sudden, like the wound he left behind is being ripped open all over again. “what’s there to explain?” you ask, your voice thick with tears. “you made your choice.”

“i thought it was for the best,” he says, his voice breaking. “i thought you’d be happier without me holding you back. but I.. I can't stop thinking about you and how I hurt you and it’s killing me.”

the confession doesn’t bring relief. it only makes the pain sharper, deeper. “well, congratulations,” you say, your voice shaking. “because it did kill me, mingyu. it broke me. and now you’re here, expecting what? me to run back into your arms as if nothing happened?"

his hands squeeze yours, and you feel the tremble in his grip. “i was scared,” he confesses. “scared of not being enough for you, of ruining what we had. but being without you—” his voice breaks, and he takes a shaky breath. “being without you is the worst thing i’ve ever done. i can’t breathe without you.”

you can’t hold back the tears anymore. they spill over, and you look down, not wanting him to see you break. “you hurt me,” you whisper, "you hurt me so bad, gyu." and the pain in those words makes him flinch.

“i know,” he says, his own voice thick with emotion. “and i’ll spend the rest of my life trying to make up for it if you let me. please.”

you finally look at him, and he’s staring at you with so much desperation, so much fondness & adoration, that it almost makes you believe him. almost.

“how am i supposed to trust you again?” you ask, your voice small.

he lets out a shaky exhale, his thumbs brushing over your knuckles. “i’ll prove it,” he says, his eyes locked onto yours. “however long it takes, whatever it takes. whatever you want. just… give me a chance..teach me how to love you the way you want to be loved, the way you need to be loved."

you close your eyes, the weight of his words pressing down on you, suffocating. you don’t know if you can trust him, if you can ever let him back in. but the way he’s looking at you, the way his hands hold yours like he’s terrified if he lets go, you will really be gone for good, makes your heart falter.

but for now, all you can do is breathe. breathe and try to make sense of the chaos he’s brought back into your life. because love isn’t simple, and heartbreak never truly heals. and mingyu — mingyu is both the hurt and the cure.

[criticallyacclaimedstranger]

Bread (Pero x wifey!reader)

Read on AO3

Sequel to Seed and Sprout. (Series now very cleverly titled Pero x wifey!reader)

Fandom: The Great Wall

Tags/warnings: Pero eats it from the back, PinV sex, Pero goes a little hard, some cum play, breeding kink blink and you'll miss it.

Words: 1,806

Summary: You mean to bake bread while the baby is napping, but your husband Pero has other plans.

A/N: Thanks to @pazizz for the idea, and sorry to keep you hanging for so long!

The rain is pitter-pattering against the windows, and you gaze out at the gray world outside. Autumn has arrived, and with it a slowing down of things, chores, life. You welcome it, after a hot summer that, in addition to your normal chores, included taking care of a baby. Not that little Tomás was too difficult: you strapped him to your body and carried him while doing your chores, it was as simple as that. He slept uneasily during the nights, but Pero gladly walked around with night after night, rocking him in his arms, patiently despite the crying. An upside to this was that the baby slept well during the days, and now you have a bread dough that has been rising since last night, and at least two hours to bake.

Sleeves rolled up, you spread flour on the table and begin to knead the dough. The baking oven spreads its heat in the kitchen, and soon your hairline is damp and your cheeks rosy and shiny. Still, you hum to yourself as you work the dough, rejoicing in the feeling of your strong arms, the smell of the dough, the warmth of your home. You loosen the laces that adjust your neckline, allowing it to widen enough to drop down one shoulder. You are still breastfeeding, and Tomás ate well before his nap, so your breasts feel wonderfully light.

The door opens and Pero steps in, bringing with him a gush of autumn. Stepping out of his boots and hanging up his coat, he is then left standing at the door for a moment, watching you. Looking up, you smile at him.

”Everything okay?”

”Yes.”

You go back to the dough, and Pero walks to the bedroom door.

”Is the baby asleep?”

”Just went down.”

”Good.”

Pero comes up behind you, hands low on your hips as he kisses your sweaty neck.

”Seeing you like this makes me stiff,” he murmurs, trailing his lips down your neck. You don’t stop kneading for one second.

”Like what?”

”Sweaty, disheveled, tits out.”

A shiver runs down your spine at your husband’s low voice, and when he presses himself against your ass – oh, he is stiff indeed! – your hands come to a stop, and a tiny whimper escapes you.

”Pero, I don’t have time, I need to do this before he wakes up...” you protest feebly, fingers thick in the dough as you turn your head to allow Pero better access to your neck.

”I’ll watch him if he wakes up before you’re finished,” he vows as he slowly moves his hands to your front, cupping your tits and pushing them up.

”The oven is hot now, I can’t keep it this warm for long...” you try, eyes closing when Pero’s hands roam further, one up to your neck, fingers softly closing over your wild pulse, the other down between your legs, cupping you over the fabric of your skirts.

”The oven will be fine, I however will perish if I don’t get to taste my wife...”

Your dripping cunt makes the decision for you, and you turn your head more, finding his lips, and give your consent in a desperate kiss. Pero pushes you against his hand, against the table, hard cock rubbing your buttocks through layers of clothing. You mean to turn around, but he keeps you in place.

”You said you were in a hurry,” he grins into the kiss, and releases your neck to quickly gather up your skirts. A strong, broad hand between your shoulder blades guides you to bend over the table, and he kneels behind you.

”Open up for me, wife,” he breathes ruggedly, hot breath burning your uncovered sex. You obey, parting your legs more, and hold your breath in anticipation, release it in a low moan when Pero finally kisses your cunt.

How could you ever say no to your husband? During your recuperation time from childbirth, Pero had respectfully waited, given you all the time you needed to be ready for intimacy again. He never rushed or pressured you, but you could tell after a couple of months that he was aching for you. And truth be told, so were you.

You know Pero better than anyone, know the man behind the scarred glare the rest of the world saw. You know so very intimately how that glare can soften, how lovingly the callused hands can caress.

And still, seeing Pero with his son opened up a whole new understanding of him. He is so gentle with the baby, so careful and patient. And his devotion to you has grown more than you thought possible since you gave him your son. He loved you, adored you, respected you before, now he worships you.

How could you say no to such a man? A man who sees you bake bread, and immediately grows hard in his breeches? Who is now on his knees behind you, devouring your cunt?

You don’t. Instead, you push back, stoking his hunger and your pleasure when he sucks at your bud, as gluttonous as the baby suckling your breast. He kneads your buttocks like you kneaded the dough earlier, fingers pushing and pinching into your soft flesh. You scratch at the table like you’re trying to hold onto the surface, flour powders your sweaty chest and the front of your clothes but you don’t care when your toes start to curl inside your socks as Pero’s lips and tongue take tighten the spring deep inside you. You mewl, your thighs shake, and Pero growls into your cunt, latches on and sucks hard. You slap your hand over your mouth to cover the loud moan that your climax pulls from you, and your nostrils are filled with finely ground flour that makes you snort and giggle, all the while Pero lavishes your dripping cunt with kisses.

”My love, my beautiful wife,” he murmurs between the kisses. ”So beautiful, so wet for me.”

You wipe your nose with the back of your hand and mumble something in reply. Pero kisses your buttocks, both of them, before standing up with a grunt. He pulls you up and holds you flush against him, back to chest, and seeks your lips for a kiss. He, however, stops when he sees your face, then smiles widely.

”You have a little flour on you, wife.”

With one big thumb, he gently brushes at your lips and cheeks before kissing you. He tastes of moss and sea; the flavours of your sex, your release, and you push back against him, eager for more.

”What is a little flour spilled compared to knowing my husband’s big cock?” you quip, earning a low chuckle before he presses his lips to yours once more. You reach behind you, find his belt and tug at it to let him know that you need him, and you sigh into the hungry kisses when Pero unbuckles his belt and opens the front of his breeches. His cock springs free, immediately seeking its way between your upper inner thighs, like it can smell you. You reach down, finding him and leading him right. Pero groans when the thick head slides in, his grip on you tightens momentarily, and you whine when he pushes on, further in, until you’re trapped between his hips and the table, your cunt full of his thick, hard cock. The kisses have ebbed out, you’re just breathing heavily against each other’s lips now, and Pero swallows audibly before pressing his forehead to your shoulder. You lick your lips and move back, hissing at the fullness.

”Husband, I need you,” you beg breathlessly, ”take me now, hurry.”

Roused by your plea, Pero takes a firm hold of your hips, and starts to rut into you. It’s in moments like these that you feel his strength, sense his violent past as a warrior. He grips you hard, teetering on the edge of too hard but never crossing the line, and ravages you in a way that doesn’t seem to belong in this quiet life, this sheltered village by the sea, where nothing ever happens and people are farmers and fishermen.

But being fucked like this does belong in your life, and you relish it, love the way he claims you, love the adventure of his force, and the way it frees you, makes you feel like something wild and untamed. You’re not ashamed when you ask him to go harder, and you lean over the table, hands clamped over your mouth when he does. Your hips will be bruised later from hitting the edge of the table over and over again, your front is covered in flour, Pero is growling somewhere behind and above you, and you claw at the table when it’s almost too much, but your still want more.

When he reaches his climax, he pushes all the way in, shoving the table forward an inch, and he lays down on you with a loud groan. You feel his cock pulsate inside you, your insides stained with rich, thick cum, and you turn your head to chase his lips for a kiss. His facial hair grates at your cheek and chin as you try to kiss but it’s mostly just panting into each other’s mouth. Still, you need it, need his breath, his weight on you, his hand that you only just now realize is around your neck, thumb slowly stroking your jugular. You swallow, and he feels it.

”Was I too rough?” he asks hoarsely, hands all soft and gently searching your skin for sore spots. You shake your head, smiling blissfully.

”No, husband, never. It was divine.”

He chuckles tiredly against your ear, one hand leaving your body to push himself up to stand. Your hum, the angle changing how he feels inside of you, and you realize that he’s still hard. He pulls out, however, and caresses your buttock.

”Being inside you is divine,” he tells you gruffly, and you hum, slowly rising up. Pero’s seed starts to ooze out of your cunt, and he places a hand on your lower back, stopping you. You feel the tip of his cock against your folds, catching the cum that seems so cold when outside your body, and then he slides back in, pushing his cum back inside you with a whimper. You catch your lower lip between your teeth in a throaty exhale.

”Pero...”

”I know, my love, I just don’t want to waste it.”

He pulls you up and brings you against himself in a soft embrace, dry lips on your neck. Shivering from the overstimulation, he still doesn’t stop his slow movement inside you.

”Don’t want in anywhere but inside your juicy cunt...”

You moan again, wanton and shameless, like a bitch in heat.

”Then fuck it deeper, husband.”