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silkscream · 2 years ago

Text

angel unaware

ꨄ︎ pairing: peter parker x silk!reader

ꨄ︎ synopsis: you’ve known peter since you were fifteen, shortly after you were both bitten by the same spider. it was too obvious that you’d end up loving him. as you drift apart during your first year of college, you’re not sure how much longer you can keep dancing in circles with him.

ꨄ︎ genres: best friends to lovers, angst, idiots in love, slowburn, mutual pining, hurt/comfort

ꨄ︎ tags: rated explicit/18+ (smut), alcohol usage, mention of drug usage, unprotected sex, oral sex (f receiving), characters are 19, mild violence, gun violence (there is a school shooting in the beginning but there aren't too many details)

ꨄ︎ wc: 13.8k

ꨄ︎ notes: omg. happy valentine’s day y’all. i’ve been working on this Big Bertha for literal MONTHS and i’m so happy to finish it and share it with you. thank you for being around even though i haven’t been the most active; this is a gift to you <3

ꨄ︎ listen to the playlist!

The spider bit you first.

It isn’t until you’re fifteen that someone else finds out about it.

In many ways, you should’ve known. The symptoms, the hypervigilance, the strange, gradual transition of filling out your body. You blame puberty first, but this feels more than abnormal. It's almost as if it's bursting through your skin. The only other person who seems to mirror your coming of age is Peter Parker, whose twitchy nature exacerbates the longer high school goes on.

You keep your head low because there’s no reason for you to tell anyone about your powers. Not even the boy about whom you’re positive shares the same curse as you.

But then the videos come out. Red and blue lycra flying through buildings, a blurred figure saving cats from trees, webs shooting and swaying as onlookers stare like it’s a circus act. He calls himself Spider-man and you think it’s awfully corny.

You’d be a fool to think that you were safe from the antics of Avengers propaganda, rubble, and ash blocking your way to school on more days than not. You’d be a fool to think that you could evade the classic tropes of American violence that force the president to lament about "unthinkable tragedies" multiple times a year. At this moment, you’re a fool for getting yourself locked in a janitor’s closet while there’s an active shooter at Midtown High.

Your breath hitches when the doorknob jangles in front of you. On instinct, you stick yourself to the ceiling, far in the corner with your senses on fire. You’ve never actually had to attack anyone before. You aren’t entirely sure how this would play out with a gun involved.

Peter Parker’s labored breaths fill your eardrums, and without thinking, you shoot your webs directly at him. He stumbles, clumsily tripping over an empty mop bucket. He looks up at you in confusion. He’s wearing half of his suit.

"You. You just–"

"Shut the fuck up," you hiss, covering his mouth with your palm. In the darkness, your eyes widen. Someone is near.

It’s a stupid ordeal. The crime happening, this meet-cute, the way your senses feel haywire being this close to him. Both of you are holding your breath, your heart is pounding erratically in your chest, and blood is rushing through your ears.

The day ends with you and Peter making it out of the closet through a vent and the shooter getting subdued by the police. A troubled sophomore who barely knew how to use the gun in the first place made it easy for Spider-man to intercept the weapon the moment the kid raised his arms.

Peter follows you home that afternoon like a stray cat, babbling over a game of twenty questions that you aren’t in the mood to entertain. Somehow, his presence leaves your chest feeling warm and light, and you realize that you don’t mind the company. Twenty questions become routine.

He’s the only one who gets it, of course.

He tells you about the Avengers, ignoring the way you scoff under your breath. Secretly, you’re only a little jealous. Not because you want that kind of prestige or even a fancy suit, but because at least there’s a group of freaks out there who know. "How come you didn’t tell me?" Peter asks you. He looks small on your couch despite his sixteen-year-old sleeper build and the fact that he’s taking up more than half of your space.

"What do you mean?"

"If you knew about Spider-Man this whole time… why didn’t you say something?"

"What, like I was supposed to seek you out on the street with a mask on?"

He gives you a pointed look. "You had a feeling about me. In school. Didn’t you?"

You don’t answer, which, to Peter, is an answer in itself.

"I didn’t want to be any trouble. It’s my burden to deal with," you say slowly, blinking up at him.

Burden. Peter smooths the word over in his mind and watches the way your nimble fingers pick at the threads of your sweater. He suddenly feels guilty for pestering you with questions, especially after the trauma of today.

"It’s not a burden," he says carefully. You don’t protest, but he knows there’s a certain level of repression inside you that won't let you give this part of yourself up. As if his knowing about your powers would only be that — knowing. He keeps staring at your fingers.

"You don’t have web shooters?" He gestures to your hands.

"Comes from my fingertips."

"No fucking way. You gotta show me."

"You saw it today," you chuckle as you take a breath.

"Not really," he pouts. The amber-brown of his eyes is annoyingly irresistible, and you know it because of how hot the back of your neck suddenly feels. There’s a hint of a taunting smile on his face, as if he knows.

You take him to the fire escape outside your bedroom window. It’s barely past five and it’s already gotten dark. Luckily, your bedroom faces an empty alley.

"I’m not some circus act, just so you know," you warn him.

"Please," he tuts. "If anything, we both are. Two arachno-freaks."

"You should rebrand as that," you say with a grin.

You shoot a web to the fire escape railing above you, holding yourself up and swinging like you're in P.E. climbing a rope. You feel ridiculous, to say the least. You quickly shoot more webs after a quick scan of your surroundings to swaddle yourself in something resembling a cocoon. It hangs like a playground swing from the metal above.

"Holy shit! Does it ever… run out? Do you get web blocks? Does it come out of anywhere else–"

"I’m not answering that." Your cheeks heat up at the insinuation.

"Sorry, just curious." He holds his palms up in defense, then reaches to touch a fingertip to the silk holding you together. It feels soft like cotton candy and is much less sticky than what came out of his web shooters.

He asks you to swing with him, and for some reason, you say yes. You don’t like to swing very much, and if you do, you try to look for construction sites or abandoned scaffolding to evade attention. Tonight, however, the New York City lights look warm against the velvety backdrop of the sky, and you decide that flying through the air with someone else feels better than doing it alone.

____

He doesn’t understand your desire to stay under the radar. Whenever he brings it up, you take the opportunity to bring up the New York City disasters that have gone underway before the two of you even graduate. If anything, you’ve been a decent backup, but you refuse to be in the public eye. You don’t want to be Spider-girl.

But you don’t mind swinging around the city in your handmade suit, spun and woven together with the silk that flows straight from your fingertips. It’s one thing that Peter’s jealous of, but it helps him when he needs to patch up a wound when he’s on the go with you.

Peter comes through your window with a red gash on his thigh. You can smell him before you see him.

"Ugh, you broke the streak. Five days without a scratch. That’s a record for you, Parker," you sigh, already rummaging through your drawers for the usual first-aid kit.

"I’m fine." He winces as he crouches down carefully on the floor. You’ve gotten good at minding your business and not asking about his wounds, at least not ones that aren’t too deep into the flesh. He knows it would only hurt you if you knew.

"And yet you’re here."

"I wanted to see you. You know I always want to see you."

You open your mouth to respond, but nothing comes out. You kneel before him, pouring hydrogen peroxide onto the gash as you dab gently with a hand towel. He hisses and grabs your forearm with more force than he intends to.

"You’ll be fine," you reassure him gently.

"Yeah. I could've done it, you know," he says as he carefully holds your gaze.

"‘S’fun sometimes," you reply without looking at him. Carefully, you wrap gauze around his leg. "When I was little, my neighbor and I used to play House, but it always turned into, like… Hospital. And I’d pretend to be a nurse and take care of her, I’d tuck her into bed, and I’d give her lollipops from my Halloween stash for being a good patient."

Peter chuckles. He wobbles slightly as he stands up with your help.

"Am I a good patient?"

"Mm. A very brave boy," you say as you pat his cheek.

"What, I don’t get a treat?"

"Your treat is staying alive." You take him by the wrist towards your living room couch.

He doesn’t know what he’d do without you. It’s not right for him to think of you as an extension of himself, but he often yearns for your presence like a phantom limb whenever you aren’t on patrol with him. He realizes you're the yin to his yang.

It excites him, the images of you two that end up on the Internet. How good you look together. You, on the other hand, dread any semblance of perception by the world.

"People are catching on, you know. Ned found a subreddit on you the other day," Peter murmurs into your lap.

You snort, rolling your eyes the way you always do. You fiddle with the soft strands of his hair. It’s second nature to you. "Ned needs to reduce his screen time tenfold."

"Rabbit."

You sigh dramatically at the nickname. He’d adopted it after the many jumpscares he’d give you when he’d sneak into your room at night. You’d become so accustomed to him that your spider-sense would dull when it came to Peter. He was your source of comfort.

"What, Pete?"

"Why don’t you patrol with me?"

"You know why." It’s too stressful. Too public. Too many run-ins with death that you can anticipate.

"It’s better when you’re around."

"You’re a big boy, Peter," you murmur. Your hand slides across his scalp again, this time with your fingertips settling in the space behind his ears. You aren’t looking at him; instead, you are watching the documentary on the television at a low volume. He crumples at your touch.

"May says you’re my guardian angel. Every time something really bad has happened, it always worked out because you were there."

"I mean, it probably helps when you have another Spider-person as a backup."

"I think she’s right, though."

You don’t say anything. You’re tempted to reply with something sardonic or self-deprecating. You put too much faith in me. But you can’t – he’s looking at you with something that you can’t fathom. Something earnest and entirely too fragile. You have to look away.

He hums, sighing into a tattered copy of Hamlet. "I can’t deal with any more Shakespeare."

"You’re such a slow reader despite being a goddamn genius."

"Did you just say something nice about me?" Peter raises a brow.

"Oh my God, relax, Big Bang Theory."

He scoffs and swallows down a smart-ass remark. A grin lingers in his mouth as he settles back into the book.

____

You’re apart from Peter for the first time since age sixteen. You don’t tell him – you don’t tell anyone – but you decide on an out-of-state university because you don’t want to feel tethered to him. Your friends consider you and Peter a package deal, and yes, he’s probably the first real best friend you’ve ever had, but the gnawing inside of you telling you that distance is needed doesn’t stop.

You, the black sheep, are the antithesis of your hero of a best friend, despite being bitten by the same spider. You’ve always wondered if your story was supposed to play out like some sort of Shakespearean tragedy because of your bond with Peter, so you decide to take your mind off of it. At least it won’t be as painful as severing it completely.

It feels free to be away from all the chaos. In Rhode Island, you can focus on your art and fold your feelings away in a neat little envelope. You’d rather die than let any of that out, especially when Peter insists on such frequent FaceTime calls.

Sometimes, you fall asleep to the sound of his voice. He tells you about taking a train down to Providence in the middle of September to visit you like some kind of long distance boyfriend. The thought makes something in your stomach bloom and stagger in the same way. He doesn’t keep his promise – chem labs are already kicking his ass halfway to Thanksgiving break, not to mention the crime rate in New York City rockets beyond normal.

Thanksgiving comes, and both of you are the same. Peter is exactly as boyish as you left him three months ago, though his brown hair has grown longer and he wears blue-light readers to help with the mild headaches he gets from staring at screens.

He isn't attached to your hip like you expected. Your week off is filled with missed texts and a marathon of TV shows about broken women—the kind with dark humor and falling in love with priests.

The next time you see him, your roommate is out of town. It's not an unusual occurrence given how little she spends time in the dorm, always elsewhere with her new boyfriend.

Peter takes up so much space in your bed that you almost offer to push the two twin beds together, but the feeling of his warmth is too comforting. Propped against the wall, you’re hip-to-hip with him as you scroll through Netflix on your laptop.

You can feel him staring. It becomes routine, or maybe it’s your senses, but you can always tell when he’s merely observing you, watching you carefully like ripples on a pond. You've never really chastised him about it, but it doesn't help that you know he can tell when you're nervous. He has you memorized.

He likes the way you look when you concentrate. Sometimes, when you’re deep in thought, he likes to take his thumb and smooth out the ridges of your furrowed brows even though you end up swatting him away. When he does this now, you look up at him with wide, doe eyes.

"Still as indecisive as ever."

"I have to be, otherwise you’ll just put on Gilmore Girls," you scoff.

"You’re the one who showed me that!" Peter protests.

"And then it was the only thing you wanted to watch to the point where I genuinely considered locking you out of my Netflix account!"

He doesn’t bother to argue, instead resorting to poking you in the side. You squirm immediately, yelping as he continues. He flashes you a leering grin as you whine in dissent, flinching from the feather-like touch of his fingertips dancing across your skin.

"You’re so annoying," you huff, curling your body toward the wall.

"And you love it."

More than you’d ever know.

You pause, rolling your eyes at him. You contemplate kicking him again just to get a rise out of him, anything other than the short silence between you that feels more present than it should be. Your stomach feels warm at his proximity, but then again, Peter’s built like a human furnace anyway.

When you attempt to playfully shove him, he catches your wrist with quick reflexes until the two of you are tangled together. It’s easy to fight with him when you’re both running off the same biological fuel. When he ends up on top of you, you forget how to breathe.

The two of you stare at each other like this, as if frozen in time. It’s you who looks away first, then back to his big brown eyes, settling a palm to his cheek. You can feel how hard he is. You wonder if he knows.

It’s something you’ve only thought about in your subconscious, in dreams, or in moments when you’re bandaging his wounds. How would it feel to have his skin all over yours? It’s a selfish thought, but it rings in your brain without warning at times like these, times of such closeness. The spider bit the two of you for a reason. Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.

It’s a curious thing for sure, but there are doors you don’t want to open yet.

"One episode and then I pick a movie," you mumble.

____

You don’t tell him about transferring when you come back for Christmas break. It feels embarrassing, despite knowing that he’d be ecstatic about the news. RISD proved to be too difficult for your one-track mind as you found yourself sleeping in more and more, flaking on the most rigorous of classes due to your mood. You’d successfully gotten into Pratt for the next semester and were fully moved out, thankfully. But when you see Peter in the arms of another, you wish you hadn't left.

You should’ve expected it, maybe. Peter had always had a thing for Michelle Jones but could never quite get past the friend zone. It seems as though your absence has nudged him further.

No, that feels too selfish to say.

But it’s still too difficult to bear in the loneliness of December, knowing that when the New Year’s parties hit, you’re still the black sheep. Even in a shiny little dress.

You don’t see him much over winter break, but he gets you a silver necklace for Christmas with a spider pendant hanging on it. It’s more sentimental than you expect, and it’s the nicest gift you’ve ever received. It certainly beats the Lego set you’d gotten for him.

Now, in your black cocktail dress, you smile dopily at Ned Leeds as the rest of the room counts down at the television, waiting for the ball to drop. It’s bittersweet when you remember last year’s countdown, in which Peter insisted the two of you swung out to Manhattan to watch the ball drop in person. You remember how much you wanted to kiss him then, but you didn’t. Thank God for his hero's anonymity and the impediment of his suit.

"Five, four, three, two, one – Happy New Year!"

Makeshift confetti falls to the ground as you watch him and MJ kiss. There’s enough champagne in your system for your heart to grow warm at the sight of it.

____

January is cold. Desolate. Even if you have your friends around you in New York, the place that feels most like home, you’ve come to realize. But there’s still something missing, something lacking. Like you’re inside a familiar place inside a dream.

You ignore the itch, learning to numb it with champagne. It worked on New Year’s, and now it’s been working for several weeks. You don’t leave your apartment.

Even though Peter Parker is a text or phone call away, you fade into the background of his life, watching him through newsreels and YouTube videos. You’re on his mind more than you’d expect. He doesn’t know why, though he does realize that your absence bothers him in small ways.

Sometimes, when he’s on patrol, he’s frustrated by his loneliness, especially in the dead of winter. You were never one to play the hero – he knew that – but it was still comforting to have someone to patch up his wounds or soften his fall. The webs that flow from your fingertips have always been strong, enough to form hammocks in between the corners of his bedroom or a makeshift suit.

And then there are the dreams. They feel real, vivid, and much too physical for something that his mind could conjure in his unconscious. You had only kissed him once before (in real life, that is), at a stupid basement party in the ninth grade, before the two of you were friends, but shortly after the initial spider bite. Although it’s something that’s only been brought up as a joke these past few years, Peter remembers vividly how hard his heart was pounding when the glass bottle landed on you after what felt like an excruciatingly long spin. He could never forget the feeling. He wonders if you feel the same.

It’s not something he should be thinking about right now. Especially when you’re not his girlfriend. He’d rather die a thousand deaths than have you know what you do to him in his dreams when you’re nothing but a reverie of your own silk-spun webs and soft, bare skin. You treat him like prey. He loves it.

Peter can nearly smell you, that sandalwood-citrus shampoo of yours, and your warm breath over his face. Your little whispers of praise, your tiny whimpers. The image of your eyes struggling to stay open while you’re underneath him is burned into his brain.

"I missed you," you say breathlessly. "Missed you so much."

God, how is this a dream? He can feel you so clearly. Until he doesn't, and he wakes up with a groan, an exhale, and an excess of sweat on his brow. Not to mention a dampness below him.

"Fucking Christ," he curses under his breath.

The ghost of you is on his bedroom ceiling, in the corner of his room. Something nearby smells like you, even though you haven’t been in his room in ages. This makes something in his chest hurt until he decides to get out of bed.

He wants to see you, but he feels guilty knowing what he's just dreamt about. He can’t help that the person that makes him feel the most human is the only other one who shares the venom in his blood.

Sometimes he follows you. It feels almost meditative for him to sit on a rooftop and watch you from the window of your favorite cafe, reading and writing and breathing. The brightness of his phone screen illuminates his face as his eyes scan over your contact. Your face smiles back at him, but there’s a distance considering the lack of texts between the two of you over the past month. He sighs as he zooms in on your location – the two of you had shared each others’ years ago and only found it convenient to keep.

Peter doesn’t know why he’s feeling all this yearning all of a sudden – sometimes he recognizes the feeling in his body and he thinks of you and he thinks of safety. Other times, like now, he knows that it only breeds guilt.

But he misses being quiet with you, misses the mundane intimacies of him poking you and you fixing his hair. All the small expressions you make with your face that only he notices. There’s something empty in the space he usually holds for you in his heart, and he doesn’t know why.

He has to see you. Maybe then, something in his brain will click, or he’ll see you as the old friend you’ve always been, and he can blame the heat in his body on his subconscious.

You’re predictable with your routine, because this afternoon, he finds you in your usual spot by the window at your favorite cafe again. You’re writing in your journal with your noise-canceling headphones on, so Peter’s presence is completely unknown to you. After he gets his coffee, he watches you from afar, just for a little bit.

As if on cue, you already know. The moment you skip a song and a millisecond of silence fills the space in your head, you feel him immediately. You always know when he’s around.

"Peter," you murmur without thinking. Your gaze is soft but carries the surprise of a deer caught in headlights.

"Hey," he smiles. "Mind if I sit here?"

He gestures to the armchair across from you, and you nod.

Peter knows how to coax your warmth from you, because within minutes, he has you talking about school, what’s on your mind, and why it feels better to be holed up in a cafe than sit miserably at home. You do the same for him, though you notice he’s more reserved for some reason – he’s tight-lipped about MJ, and doesn’t delve into the details of his hero work. He prefers to bombard you with questions instead, listening intently to your most recent fixations or the newest movie you saw alone in theaters.

"You replaced me yet, Rabbit?" he teases you.

"Never," you scoff, tipping your coffee cup to hide any embarrassment on your face. You haven’t heard him call you that in so long. "You know me. I’m a lone wolf."

"Pratt seems like your crowd though, no? No one at Midtown High was a match for you. You were way too cool."

"Mmm, true, yet you’re my best friend."

"Hey!"

Your laugh is like a song to him; he can’t help but smile ear to ear when he hears it.

"The only person who talks to me at school is this guy Cam from my ceramics class. He’s actually from Brooklyn so we took the train together to get home and he’s around for break, which is cool."

Peter’s face nearly goes cold at the sound of someone else’s name, though he stays composed.

"Fun. Are you two…" He gestures vaguely.

"We hooked up like, once, but I don’t really know where it’s going." You say it so nonchalantly like it’s an afterthought. You’re not even looking at Peter.

"If he fucks anything up, you know where to find me."

You smile, rolling your eyes in that bashful way you do when you shrug things off, and it’s more apparent to Peter now how much he adores all your little quirks and mannerisms. He realizes that he might have them all memorized.

"We’re actually going to a party tonight if you want to come. A friend of a friend’s birthday party in Manhattan, I think? I think her name was Anna?"

"Oh, my friend Gwen knows her and invited me!"

"Small world." You swallow down the image of Peter at the party with an ESU girl for a second, and it feels rough in your throat. But you’ll manage. You always do. "Is MJ coming?"

Peter shakes his head. "Ah, she’s in Philly visiting family. I’ll probably go with Gwen and her boyfriend Harry, though."

You feel shame in your relief. It’s sickening how much you have to bury your desire and your tenderness because you know better. You know that even though the two of you were bitten by the same spider, it doesn’t mean you’re necessarily compatible. Sometimes you think your attraction to Peter is some biological fluke determined by the cells in both of your bodies. And then you think, God, how can anyone look into his brown eyes and not feel a thing?

You're both warm in your chests as you part ways, waiting for your next meeting.

____

The night of the party, Peter revels in the sight of you wearing your spider necklace, which sparkles under the flashing lights of the penthouse apartment you’re both in. His mood dampens when he notices the tall boy attached to your hip like a guard dog.

It’s a stupid game and he knows it. The way he pretends not to see you or acknowledge your presence is cruel, but it feels safe for now. He doesn’t feel ready. He’s high off some gummy that Harry had given him an hour earlier, and it’s still fogging his senses, and even though he can be cloudy and nonchalant at this party, his paranoia precedes him. It feels like you’re everywhere.

He shouldn’t feel this way. Why does he feel this way? You’re his best friend and you have your own life that’s separate from his – he knew this would happen the moment he found out you were going to different colleges. Despite that, there’s a piece of you tethered to him that he can’t bear to cut off. It makes him feel sane, the parts of you that you’ve given him.

But now, he sees you laughing and swaying your hips with someone else’s hands resting on your waist and it makes his face burn.

"Dude," Gwen snaps her fingers in front of his face. Peter blinks back at her. "Are you good?"

"Yeah, sorry."

"Harry wanted to do a shot, you want to join?"

Peter nods numbly, following the blonde to the kitchen. He watches everyone else in the kitchen pour shots and drinks like they are rehearsed marionettes. Harry snaps him out of his daze once he slams down a shot glass full of vodka in front of him.

"Drink up, Parker!" Harry cheers.

The alcohol burns Peter’s throat, but he feels the head rush and the warmth. It feels good, makes him feel looser. Malleable. Invincible, maybe, if he took two or three more. But he knows he has to pace himself. He hates that his default setting is to look for you no matter where he is. But when he scans the room this time, you’re downing a glass of champagne alone.

Your body feels heavy at the moment, so you don’t register him plopping down on the couch next to you. You wake up to the sound of his voice as you always do.

"Hey, you."

"Hey."

Your glass of champagne is empty, so you take the beer bottle out of Peter’s hand without saying a word, and he lets you. He watches you gulp a bit of it down. Maybe you’re a little too drunk. Maybe you’re imagining the way his eyes scan your body.

You’re drunk enough to feel social, but truthfully, you’re deathly afraid of being alone with anyone right now. Being alone with someone would make you feel much too raw and vulnerable, so you convince Peter to introduce you to his friends that you’ve never met, and you try to cope with the fact that they look like they were cut straight out of a magazine.

"Peter talks about you all the time," Gwen gushes, sipping from her champagne flute.

"He does?" you ask, raising an eyebrow.

"Of course," she nods incessantly.

"Only incredible reviews all around," Harry nods, drunkenly slinging an arm around Peter’s shoulders. The brunette smiles sheepishly, bashfully. You raise an eyebrow at him along with a coy smile.

"Should hope so," you tease. "He wouldn’t have gotten through high school without me."

It’s mostly a lie considering Peter was the star student and you were barely second to him. Maybe fifth or sixth. In a way, your words are true, because Peter’s agreeing with you.

You zone out as he starts a story from junior year and you have half the mind to chime in when needed. Harry suddenly puts a whisky coke in your hand and you don’t want to refuse out of politeness, but you know the mix of different alcohol will have your head banging in the morning. Peter downs half of his within a millisecond.

"What?" he asks when he notices you making a face.

"Since when do you drink so much?"

"It’s a party," he shrugs.

"Peter, when I brought you to your first party, you refused to drink anything that wasn’t a fruity canned cocktail. You won’t go near wine let alone whiskey."

"A semester at ESU changes you," Harry interjects. "He’s still a little fruity, though."

Peter chastises him as you and Gwen laugh. As the boys bicker, Gwen gets your attention. She asks you mundane questions, like your major, your zodiac sign, and what you thought of the season finale of White Lotus. You’re grateful when she beckons you to follow her to the kitchen to make another whiskey coke.

Her glossed lips twist to the side, eyes bright with a teasing glance. She has the ability to make you feel calm, almost excited to be there.

"He is obsessed with you," she sneers.

"What do you mean?"

"He just talked about you so much when we met him that I had to stalk your Insta, and I was like Jesus Christ, that makes so much sense. If I wasn’t with Harry I’d snatch you up myself. And then when I met his girlfriend and I was confused that it wasn’t you. Unless you’re doing that, like, exes-that-are-still-best-friends thing."

You blush and nearly choke on your drink. "Peter and I never dated."

"Seriously?"

You say nothing, only forcing an amused smile. You don’t know where to put her assumptions, but you sure as hell can’t keep them.

"I’m actually, uh, here with someone," you mutter, pretending to look around. Briefly, you lock eyes with Peter on the couch, who’s pretending to listen to Harry's rambling. Your eyes flit away quickly. "I think I might step outside for a smoke and look for him."

You don’t have to turn around to know that Peter’s eyes are following you. Or maybe you’re just drunk and projecting. Gwen’s bubbly nature makes her seem like the type to gossip, and just because your best friend happened to talk about you doesn’t mean that there was anything under the surface. But then you notice his slightly nervous energy tonight, the silver necklace around your neck, and the last time he visited you months before, when his body was so close to yours.

A pair of hands situate themselves on your waist and it makes you jump. The warmth feels different, as does the sudden smell of sharp cologne, and then you feel your heart drop the slightest bit when you hear his voice.

"Was looking for you," Cam slurs. You can smell the beer breath as he exhales on your neck, making you shiver.

"You sure? Because you’ve been MIA for like forty-five minutes."

You try to keep your voice even, sighing when he plants a kiss on your neck. Any animosity in your tone is completely ignored.

"I was catching up with some people that I wanted to introduce you to," he says, tugging you along by the wrist like a child. You pull up a chair to a firepit surrounded by a group of strangers, and the charade of icebreakers returns. There’s no point in remembering anyone’s name.

You think about returning inside to look for Peter or maybe Gwen and Harry, but being on Cam’s lap is distracting you. At some point, a joint a passed around, and the feeling of the boy’s arms around you makes it easy to melt into nothing.

____

You’re right. You always are. Peter Parker doesn’t drink, and he’s never drunk this much in his entire life. He’s been sitting in the bathtub for… how long? He doesn’t know. All he knows is that his senses were dulled to the point of detachment and he needed to get alone to ground himself.

He’s so out of it that he doesn’t realize someone’s knocking on the door of the bathroom, and his reaction time is too slow before Harry barges in.

"Are you hiding in the bathtub?" Harry squints.

"No, I’m just… hangin’ out," Peter stammers.

Harry snaps out of the facade of a confused daze and shrugs, unbuckling his belt with nonchalance in front of the toilet.

"Dude!"

"What? I’m turned around!"

Sighing, Peter looks around his surroundings. Generic brand shampoo and conditioner. A deformed bar of soap. A red solo cup with clear liquid. He remembers suddenly – he’d filled an empty cup he found with sink water before getting in the tub.

His brain swims with dizziness and mild nausea that mix up his stomach. Gulping down the water, his throat burns immediately, only to realize that it isn’t water at all. It’s fucking vodka and seltzer. Harry’s turned around again, cackling before washing his hands.

"Idiot."

"Fuckingshitjesusfuckingchrist," Peter groans, pinching the bridge of his nose. "You should just drink straight vodka at this point, man."

"Oh, I do," Harry agrees. He crouches down, squatting to meet Peter at eye level. A warm palm taps Peter’s cheek. "You good, bro?"

"Mmm," Peter nods. His breathing turns shallow as he hunches over, pulling his knees into his chest.

"Jesus, you need to get home, don’t you?"

"‘m fine. You go home."

"Gwen’s been nagging me to for the past ten minutes, so I might. I’d let you crash on the couch, but we’re getting up early to go upstate. How are you getting home, bro?"

Harry frowns when he realizes Peter is barely listening. "Pete!"

He grimaces at Harry’s constant fidgeting. With an annoyed sigh, he shoos the other boy away with flailing arms.

"Heard you," he slurs. "I’ll– I’ll share an Uber with Y/N."

Harry sighs with exasperation, pulling Peter’s arm forcefully to get him out of the tub and down to the living room of the house. Peter is dizzy in his vision, clumsy in his movements, but finds clarity when he glances towards the couch and sees you sitting there with furrowed brows.

"Peter? Are you okay?" you ask.

"Yeah, absolutely not," Harry says. "Gwen and I gotta head home and we’re leaving early tomorrow so he can’t crash. You guys are like, neighbors, right?"

You swallow a lump in your throat, briefly turning your head to glance back at Cam, then back at Peter. He looks at you with a guilty cadence, though his eyes lull with a tiredness that is unusual for him. He’s corpse-like, still hanging onto Harry’s shoulder like a lifeline. It makes the pit of your stomach stir.

It’s unlike him, to be this drunk. The only other time Peter has been this drunk was once in high school, when he was slurring his words all night and determined to clutch you like a teddy bear in his twin-sized bed. You recall his warmth and how his post-puberty figure appeared gargantuan to your body. Foreign, but warm. Comforting. When you think about taking Peter home tonight, you feel like you aren’t allowed to lay next to a body that doesn’t belong to you.

"Yeah, I’ll take him home."

____

"Coulda swung home myself," the boy mumbles. You hit him on the arm and give him a chastising look. Thankfully, your current Uber driver speaks a limited amount of English, not to mention the radio is on blast.

"You couldn’t have. You’re so fucking drunk, you’d kill yourself," you hiss in a low tone.

"Not if you were with me."

"Well, I wouldn’t be. I wasn’t even gonna go home tonight."

"Ah. Of course. Cam,” he exasperates. “Is he your boyfriend?"

You sigh. "No, he’s not."

"Right, you don’t… you don’t do boyfriends," Peter murmurs, rubbing his face with the palm of his hand.

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing."

The car stops in front of Peter’s apartment building.

"Thank you," you say stiffly to the Uber driver as you drag Peter out of the car. The elevator ride is awkward and quiet, as is the fumbling of keys when Peter tries to unlock the door.

He leans on your body as you coerce him into his bedroom, with him thumping onto his bottom bunk.

"Jesus. I feel like if Richie Rich called you an Uber himself you could’ve easily made it up the elevator by yourself. Right, Pete?"

"Mhmm. He’s such. A worry wart. For some rea–" Peter makes a gulping sound that makes your face pale. Immediately, you grab his trash bin and place it between his feet.

"‘m not gonna puke."

"I think you might, Peter."

He pauses and examines you as you kneel in front of him. He’s so drunk, so awfully drunk, but he has enough sense in him to take the caution that the anxious voice in the back of his head commands. But fuck, you look so pretty. He doesn’t know what to do about it.

Peter takes a strand of your hair in his hands and curls it around his finger. His shallow breaths feel louder than they should be. Or maybe they’re yours. He can’t really tell.

"What?"

"Nothing," he shrugs. "I won’t vomit. I promise."

You sigh.

"I should get going–"

"Can you stay for a little?"

Swallowing, you nod. You get into bed with him, because, quite frankly, you’ve had your fair share of alcohol tonight, and laying down in Peter’s warm bed makes you want to melt off the bone.

"I'm sorry for fucking up your night." Peter turns to lie on his side and drapes an arm carefully around you. His hand is feather-bare on your hip.

"You didn’t."

"You were gonna go home with Cam."

"It’s fine, Peter. I wanted to make sure you were safe."

"Like a chore."

"Not like a chore."

"Yeah, okay."

He does that thing again – holds a strand of your hair in his hands. He runs his fingertips nimbly across your scalp as if he’s handling an injured bird. As if he’s afraid you’d bite.

Your eyes are huge, like flying saucers. He used to say that all the time, especially whenever you came to his apartment after experimenting with any new drugs. You only felt safe with him – you had told him that – and he took care of you and your big eyes and your tendencies toward erratic behavior. He always knew how to calm you down. And now, in your adult lives, you were doing it for him.

You let him keep his hands in your hair and he doesn’t know why. There’s a theory he wants to test – one that he dreams about even when he knows he shouldn’t. He thinks about it in vulnerable moments. He considers that maybe this is a vulnerable moment.

His fingertips trace your face between the edge of your eyebrow and the baby hairs on your hairline. He taps along your temple gently, smoothing across the softness of your skin until he sculpts down your cheek and jaw. He blinks once, then twice. And then he rests the pad of his thumb on the corner of your mouth.

Almost automatically, you part your lips. Your mouth is pink, dusted with a purplish-red in the center from the merlot you’d drank hours before, and he wants to lick it off you.

He feels your heart beating, too, and you can hear his. It's a loud bang that resonates in between your eardrums. It’s that shared venom that makes your bodies so acquainted with one another. You briefly consider whether a human body can overheat and burn away simply by being touched by another. You wonder how human the two of you can really be.

You close your eyes.

"What are you doing?" you whisper. Your voice is gossamer-thin, barely there, but you’re so close to him that he hears it so clearly.

"Whatever you want." His voice is dripping honey.

You shake your head, still with your eyes closed. Peter’s hand descends to your jaw, thumb on your bone, with the rest of his fingers warming up your neck. You feel like you might just choke on the feeling of it.

"No, that’s not fair. That’s not… okay."

"What?"

"You’re drunk, Peter. Don’t do that to me. Please."

"What am I doing?"

Your face scrunches up as your eyes open to look at him with a pained expression. You have to close them again. You don’t want to look at him. You want his hands off of you, so you push them away.

"You’re with MJ."

"I… I know."

Your face is crumpled as you inch out of his bed. You’re back to kneeling on the floor in front of him.

"Please don’t leave," Peter whispers.

"I’m tired. I’ll sleep on the top bunk," you mumble. You try not to let him catch you sniffling.

"Goodnight.” You don’t respond.

He falls asleep shortly after and smells your perfume even in his dreams. When he wakes up, he smells you. But you’re nowhere to be found. There’s only the cold air coming from a crack of his window left slightly open.

____

It’s not your fault, but you’ve broken his heart a million times. The night of the party was the most recent one. To be fair, he had also broken your heart. He was just too fucking drunk to remember most of it.

You’ve become a ghost, barely texting Peter back, and when you do, your responses are short and clipped. You don’t have much time to hang out, and he realizes he doesn’t either, not when he has MJ to spend time with along with his Spider-Man duties.

But he would make time for you if you wanted it. He wonders if you know that. He feels too ashamed to tell you that himself.

It’s been like this before, and he’s been able to cope. The way you’re on his brain and won’t leave —stuck on him like a parasite. It’s his fault, he decides, not yours. He knows he’s not being fair. Not to you, not to MJ, not to himself. But he keeps it all in and hopes it doesn’t boil over.

Truthfully, Peter wants to avoid everyone. He understands now why you abhor winter to the degree that you always have. The desolation is too much to bear when there’s not much sunlight in January to activate dopamine receptors, so Peter sleeps in longer than he should. Late enough for Aunt May to get on his case about it.

"Something’s up with you," MJ accuses him on a Thursday evening. It’s one of their ritual movie nights with pizza and wine.

"Huh? Nothing’s up," Peter shrugs.

"No, I know you. Something’s wrong."

"I’m fine, Em." A lie.

It’s a miracle that Michelle Jones sees through Peter’s bullshit because it means that she has the incentive to protect herself from any future bullshit that may break her later on. Peter is too numb to process any of it. There was the refusal of admission, the attempt to keep up the wall of his emotions, which crashed down soon enough by the time MJ was out of the door.

He thinks he should call you, but he doesn’t.

____

Peter is used to scrapes and bruises. He’s seen more than enough charred flesh than a nineteen-year-old should. You had never asked to be his caretaker, but over the course of years, that was what you became. His guardian angel.

He used to make excuses to come over after patrol, trying to coax you out of your nest of a room for just an evening. He'd always known you were far more talented than you gave yourself credit for when it came to spider abilities, but it felt more like a curse than a gift for you to bear.

Some nights, he dreams of you falling stories beneath him. Your face is covered in rubble and ash, and although his nightmares often start with this, he knows that somehow, it’s his fault. It feels visceral, the burning in his calloused hands. Torn lycra to show the dirt underneath his fingernails. Hot tears dripping.

He starts taking that Ambien you gave him years ago.

After that, each day passes like he’s trapped in a nightmarish purgatory. No, that’s an exaggeration. He’s just a victim of a New York winter, and he misses you more than he wants to admit to himself or anyone else.

"I can take care of myself." And with that, the image of you disappears.

"I know," he murmurs softly. He’s always known. It is insignificant in comparison to how badly he wants to take care of you if you let him. Your voice echoes in the cavern of his room. You get farther away by the second until you disappear completely, and he evidently wakes up.

Even in your worst state, he’s obsessed with your honeyed skin. It doesn’t matter the number of bruises or cuts – he caresses them all with his nimble fingertips, and he’s ready to kiss them until they heal. He thinks about this sometimes, how much he cares for you and your body. What he'd do if you just let him in, let him devour you however he pleases, and it disgusts him.

In his dreams where you’re hurt, he’s willing to sacrifice whatever he can so that you can revert to your clean, unbothered state. I’d never let anyone break you. It’s a prayer for him. One that he whispers in your ear whenever he can, at least in these dreams. In reality, he knows that he has to let you go because he knows you. Knows how much you want to be free and alone. How you can take care of yourself. You’re not a damsel in distress – you never have been. But Peter feels like he was made to care for you. It would gut him all the same regardless of whether you loved him or not, and he was willing.

When it’s real, he doesn’t know what to do. He didn’t ever think the two of you would be in this position.

He’s been in enough battles to know how these things end. Mr. Stark had walked him through it all and been by his side while the rest of the Avengers repaired the other broken bits of the universe.

Right now is one of those unique times, the quiet and wretched ones, where Peter is contemplating breath after breath before imagining the full picture. Shambles of the street he’s in. The ache of his bruised body and the blood that he sees from yours, that he shouldn’t have seen, because you said it yourself. You’re not a fucking hero. So why is your blood streaked on the palm of his hands?

The distance between you and Peter doesn’t matter – it never does. The moment you’d felt a dread stirring in your stomach, there was a sharp pain in your head that refused to leave unless the working adrenaline in your body was satiated. It wasn’t the same adrenaline that circulated within you from a night of debauchery – instead, it felt like poison. A compulsory kind of pain, a sharp jolt to your senses. Tonight, you’d felt Peter in danger, and it would’ve killed you if you couldn’t get to him. He'd been the destination you'd been dead set on by the end of the night because of your spider instincts.

The police broadcast was too muffled for you to understand much of it, but you picked out the parts where Spider-Man was mentioned and followed through on them. Although you didn’t fall into the shadow of his hero work, you still kept enough tabs on Peter to know where he would usually be on patrol. It wasn’t like he knew, or that you’d ever told him, but when he was starting out as another guard dog for the Avengers in high school, you needed to at least know his approximate location in the event that something went terribly wrong.

An explosion blasts in the center of a park, where the two of you would meet in the middle between Queens and Stark Tower. This is where you lay your courage down. This is where you find Spider-Man’s mangled body before anyone else does.

"Peter," you huff. "S’gonna be okay. You with me? I’m gonna make sure you’re okay."

He’s just less than conscious, the stretch of his animated eyes limited by his weakness. When he sees your face, however, his face glows – not that you can see it through his mask.

He says your name with a fervor that surprises you. His voice is raspy.

"‘m fine. I have to stay," he grunts, his pain palpable. You know that he’s telling the truth, but you don’t want to leave him alone in his misery.

"Peter. You’re hurt."

"You go home. I’ll come find you later. Just let me–"

"You’re fucking limping."

You had always carried yourself like a feather-like, lithe ghost. Quiet, whereas Peter was bold, despite the fact that his anxious nature had rendered him a boyish thing all these years. This is why he’s surprised that you carry him easily with your supernatural strength. He forgets that you have the same abilities as him. If anything, he’d think you were stronger than him in every way.

Even with his thick skin, he melts into something malleable, comfortable. The solace of your arms makes him feel better already.

A pang of small guilt rots away within him, knowing the circumstances of your last meeting. You’re too good. He didn’t deserve to be saved by you, to be patched up with your nimble fingers like he had been treated when he was younger and more naive.

"I can make it to my place, it’s okay," he rasps gently.

You don’t have to say anything, because bullshit radiates through the stern expression of your eyes, your mouth in a grimace. You had always been stubborn and today isn’t an exception. With your webs, you crochet a path for him toward your home, lifting and catching the boy effortlessly as you swing.

A gentle sigh escapes his mouth when the two of you crawl into the safety of your fire escape. The night is quiet behind you. When he looks at you, you have to look away, fixing your hair nervously or occupying your gaze anywhere but in his direction. His eyes are poignant in their longing, though you’re unsure of what he could be thinking. If he’s sorry about before. If he’s ashamed.

Your wispy webs wrap around the parts of him that hurt, but you wince when you check on him to see that the white fibers are slowly saturated with the dark crimson of his open wounds.

"Peter, you have to wash up," you whisper. "Shit’s gonna get infected. I can put some gauze on you after you shower."

He nods wordlessly when you ask him if he can manage the shower on his own. He feels vulnerable, and although your presence is always desired by him, he finds relief in the hot steam of your shower, alone with his thoughts. He’s still shaken from the explosion. Not completely catatonic, but tense. As if he isn’t in his body at all.

When Peter emerges from the bathroom, he looks like a stranger. Scars adorn his sides. Your face crumples at the sight of his fresh wounds.

"C’mere."

It doesn’t take you long to fix him up, cleaning his cuts and wrapping gauze around his stomach and chest. His quiet grunts startle you, as if he's a wild animal. Eyes screwed shut, brows cinched in pain. A heavy exhale and a mumbled apology followed.

You forgive him with a soft touch and a hushed whisper. He wishes the ache would stop. He wishes he could lie on your bed and have you whisper in his ear all night until the sound of your voice lulls him to sleep.

There aren’t many words exchanged, and you want to ask him why. If you did something. But then you think about the images on the news and his withered face, and you decide not to probe the sphere of trauma surrounding him. Peter has probably gone through more in the last twelve hours than you have in a week.

You stop him before he tries to make it out of your bedroom door and towards the living room.

"I don’t mind sleeping on the couch, I’ve done it before."

"It’s like sleeping on a rock, Parker. You just gone through God knows what," you chide. "Just… get in here."

As he breathes in and out, he nestles in your shoulder, his clean hair tickling your bare skin. There’s a nasty guilt that lurches from your sternum. As if you were the reason for his pain. For the state of his body. And you think back to the desperate look in Peter’s eyes the night you took him home from the party. Were you too cruel, then?

It’s like he steals the words from your mouth. He beats you to it.

"I’m sorry," Peter murmurs. His amber eyes blink up at you, unfathomable. You flash him a downturned grin.

"For what?"

"I feel like… there’s been a distance between us lately. And I don’t want that, because you’re my best friend. And now you’re taking care of me when you don’t have to. I just wanted you to know that I really appreciate it. That I, um, lo–," he stammers. He chews on his bottom lip. "You’re really good."

"‘m not all that good, Peter."

But of course, you are, he protests in his head. You are the moon and the stars and everything in between.

"I’m sorry for not being around."

"Not just your fault," you shrug. "Phone works both ways."

He knows you better than you think because, within seconds, his palm rests softly on your cheek, where he feels a hot tear.

"What’s up, Spidey?" he asks you. It makes you laugh.

"Shut up." You shake your head, trying to hide your face. The feeling of his thumb rubbing your cheek makes the tears flow even more. "I wouldn’t know what I’d do if something bad happened to you. If I couldn’t get to you. Or if you – if you were gone."

"I’m okay, Rabbit. We’re okay."

"Yeah," you chuckle, trying to hide your tears.

"Couldn’t get rid of me if you tried."

You feel warmer in his grasp. His small breaths fall on your arm as his body curls up next to you. He’s bigger than he’d been before back when you were teenagers. The jaw is chiseled and sharp. Not as soft and boyish as you once knew. With your senses, you can discern the steadiness of his heartbeat as his chest rises and falls into slumber. You fall asleep soon after, dreamless but full of warmth.

____

Waking up next to him is nothing new, but it’s been years. You never thought anything of it when the two of you were sixteen, staying up all night reading creepypastas and watching movies until you’d fall asleep on top of each other by four in the morning.

After a night’s sleep, Peter's sullen face is a bit brighter despite his dark circles. His limbs are entangled in yours, bodies fused together. Yin and yang. You can only assume that this is how it will always be.

You keep mental notes of him like trinkets. The uneven slant in his left eyebrow. The faint freckles dotted along his nose, the one near the corner of his mouth. The faint shadow of hollowed-out cheeks. Peter is still half-boy to you, and half-man, but you didn’t want to come to terms with it. Maybe he was something else. Half-ghost. Half-angel.

Slowly, over the course of a few weeks, he comes back to you again. Sitting together and reading at a cafe. The occasional 3 am swing. Walking around high at the 7-11.

"Did you like Rhode Island?" he asks over a joint one night.

You hum for a second, trying to come up with an acceptable answer. It wasn’t that you hated being in Rhode Island. It was that you hated being away from him.

So instead, you shrug. "It was nice to get away from everything. Providence is still a city, but it isn't as large as all this–”

You trail off, making a vague gesture with your hands. Chaos, Peter presumes.

"Less overwhelming?"

"Sure," you say, nodding. "I missed being home, though."

I missed you.

Peter passes you the joint. His brain feels fuzzy. Warm. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands. He massages your ankle absentmindedly.

"I get it," he says, breaking the silence.

"You get what?"

"Wanting to leave. I've been thinking about it," Peter shrugs, his eyes squinting in the late afternoon sun. "Sometimes I wish we could pack our bags and go to the countryside. See some cows and shit."

We. We. We.

"There are cows upstate," you snort.

"You know what I mean."

"We can do a road trip."

"You can’t drive."

"I am aware and perfectly fine with being a passenger princess. In fact, I’m looking forward to it," you grin.

He yanks your ankle this time, causing you to slip from where you’re sitting on the pavement. Giggling, you swat away his hands, but he’s too quick, untying your shoelaces as you kick and thrash.

"Honestly, it’s probably better for society if you never get behind the wheel," Peter teases. He dodges you when you try to kick him in the shin.

"Oh, but you can be? You get so distracted so easily! Whenever you’d practice driving, you’d miss so many exits or be too anxious to merge on the highway."

"Okay, well, you’re just a force of distraction," he shrugs, throwing his hands up in defeat. "You have that effect on people."

You look at him quizzically, your eyes narrowing. If there’s anything behind his statement, he doesn’t show it on his face. Peter knows his cheeks are burning, however.

There are more moments like these. Ever since you’d rescued Peter that night, he’s grown accustomed to spending hours of his day idly looking for you, learning your class schedule, and following you home like a pet when it’s time to unwind. He stays for hours like he used to when you were kids, and although he always thinks he’s overstaying his welcome, you don’t seem affected.

You curl into him more these days, like a sunflower stretching toward the morning glow. There are more lingering touches, here and there. You have to remind yourself not to get too comfortable, but God, he makes it so easy.

So the burning question pops out during a marathon of Chainsaw Man.

"Does MJ care that we hang out so much?" you blurt out. He looks at you like you have three heads. Also, his mouth is full.

"Um, webrobrup," he mumbles. He frowns as he looks down. Hot Cheeto fingers.

You mock him, of course.

"English, yeah?"

He chuckles as he finishes scarfing it all down. He shyly licks his fingertips, and you have to stop yourself from staring at the way his fingers enter his mouth. Ugh, gross. This is hardly supposed to be hot.

"We broke up."

You keep a straight face. It’s not like you’re excited or anything. You realize you shouldn’t be surprised because… why else would he be so available to you lately?

"Shit. You really fumbled, then."

"Shut up," he laughs.

"Seriously. Who else is gonna wanna put up with you?" You both know the answer to that.

"It was mutual," he says, shrugging. "I’ve got all my Spider-man shit, she’s getting into a bunch of extracurriculars and even a research internship even though we’re literally first years."

"Classic MJ."

"Yeah."

"We’ll get you back on the market, buddy," you tease, patting his head like a dog. A coy smile lights up your features. It makes something inside him melt.

"I’m not a piece of meat."’

You click your tongue.

"Oh, right, you’re an insect."

"Hey, so are you!"

____

You used to think it was a kind of twin telepathy, the magnetism to Peter that you felt. Bitten by the same spider and entangled in the same web. You realize as you grow older that it’s more than a platonic bond. It feels like wanting to share the same skin.

Or maybe it’s the wine talking.

It’s not your job to keep Peter afloat at the party right now, but both of you remember too well how the last party went. He continually sips water in between gulps of whiskey like a paranoid freak, which you tease him about. Maybe it’s just the darkness of his eyes under this light, but his pupils look wide and dilated.

It’s almost March. You’d both endured a proper New York winter, which usually extends until April if you’re lucky, but global warming has other plans. It's warm enough for you to pair one of your favorite dresses with an oversized Carhartt jacket that used to belong to Peter before the bite bulked him up significantly. You fiddle with the black velvet wrapped around your body as you pretend to listen to banal conversations, leaning your head into Peter’s bicep.

You keep picking at loose threads obsessively. You think about your fingertips and their webs. You think that maybe you should take up crocheting to distract your hands from their restlessness.

Peter grabs your hand away from you, squeezing it slightly, not even looking at you. His flushed palm rests against yours. Gently rubbing your thumb between your finger divots

If you were a cat, Peter would imagine you purring right about now. He wants to take you into his lap, stroke your hair while the alcohol subsides in both of your systems. The thought of you on top of him causes his cock to twitch slightly. His rose-colored cheeks are from the whiskey, he reassures himself. An affirmation. He lets go of your hand.

He knows that this isn't the time or place for such thoughts, so he makes an effort to push the desires down. He knows they'll come up again when the whiskey leaves his veins, but at least he'll be of sober mind.

Christ, he feels like he's at a middle school dance. Especially when you run off with a spring in your step to socialize with some girls you recognize from school. The smell of your hair lingers next to him. It's sweet and slightly floral, a scent that makes him think of when you were kids.

His ears perk up like a dog's when you call his name, reaching out to him so that you can introduce your best friend. He has the right mind to be polite, even funny at times, but he knows he pales in comparison to your current charisma, which contrasts with your usual wallflower nature.

Peter likes watching you talk, and you like that he watches you so intently. When you know he's watching, it's easy to deadpan some drunken jokes and elaborate superfluous tall tales from your high school days. His eyes are bright, and his bottom lip is chewed in between his teeth.

Suddenly, he gets to be alone with you in the kitchen. Your scent permeates the air. He could drown in it.

“Rabbit," you whine petulantly. "Swing me home."

"How drunk are you?" he chuckles with adoration.

"Not very. Just tired, s'all," you respond with a yawn. You scrunch your nose. "Can I sleep at yours?"

Peter looks at you with a soft gaze. "Of course, angel."

Angel. He's never called you that before. You decide that you like the sound of it.

By the time midnight comes around, you're barefoot in his bedroom, black velvet spinning loosely around your figure. In Peter's blurred vision, you look like a friendly apparition, one that particularly favors "Champagne Coast" by Blood Orange.

"Come into my bedroom, come into my bedroom," you quietly sing along as you sway your hips.

"You're already in my room."

Your smile beams at him, huge and illuminating, and impossible to look away from. Peter wishes that he could bottle up this moment to revisit it, or maybe live in it for the rest of his life. The sweetest way to exist.

Your body sinks to his level -- no, collapses -- as you roll over his heavy frame and rest yourself on your back. Your hair fans out like you're underwater. Your lips are red and wine-colored, freshly bitten. When you turn your head toward Peter, his hand plays with the exposed nape of your neck, fingertips grazing the creases of your skin.

"You used to be so gangly, you know," you murmur. Your voice is lower than usual.

"Okay, well, I'm not anymore."

"I could totally still take you in a fight." Still refers to the times when the two of you would attempt something along the lines of combat training, if combat training was just you unleashing your hotheadedness with your mutant powers instead of with your fists. If you weren't so agile, maybe Peter would've had a chance of winning.

"I'd like to see you try, angel."

It's decided -- you are on top of him, knees bent around his waist as you wrestle. The fabric of your dress pools around your waist in a way that feels sacrilegious. Peter has his hand on your thighs, and his touch feels white-hot to both of you, so he closes his eyes, tries to focus on swatting you away like a bat instead. When he opens his eyes, he meets your devilish ones, gleeful that you've managed to pin his arms above his head.

It would take two inches to break this spell of separation. He keeps trying to keep this bubble intact because the last time he tried to pop it, the look on your face made him want to dig a hole and lay in it forever.

Peter feels sorry for many things. He feels sorry for the times he's intruded, when he's made Mr. Stark angry, for the times he couldn't be there for you. He feels sorry that you had to take care of him when he wanted to do that for you.

Right now, however, Peter doesn't feel sorry at all. The slight twitch of your pulse, the way you smell, the curve of your bare shoulders -- it's all too tempting for him to feel sorry for. So he kisses you.

He's surprised when you nearly bite him back. You inhale sharply, pressing your body against him as you let go of his wrists and rest your palms on his jaw instead. Your kiss is fervent, desperate.

His brow cinches in confusion when you pull away.

"Wha--"

"Fuck."

"What is it?" He frowns.

"I owe Ned twenty bucks."

"What?"

"I just remembered. At graduation, he was like, teasing me that we were gonna get together, and we bet on who would make the first move. I was just entertaining him, but you know how that kid gets about twenty dollars."

"So you thought you were going to make the first move, then?”

“I mean, yeah. How was I supposed to know that MJ was going to cuff you before I did?”

“You snooze, you lose, I guess,” he deadpans.

“You don’t even fucking deserve me, you little freak,” you taunt, tickling his exposed midriff.

“God, I know. I’ve known that for a while. Too bad I want you regardless.”

He smiles as he captures your lips again, tasting sweet and smoky at the same time. He coaxes you onto your back and you revel in his body heat and the way his large hands grab the plush of your thighs, pushing and pulling your skin taut. It’s so erotic that it almost feels dirty.

You kiss him back like he’s your last meal while you roam your hands under his shirt, then to his protruding collarbones, then experimentally, to the tufts of his chestnut hair. You pull a bit too hard due to your eagerness and he lets out a mewl that you never could’ve imagined to come out of him.

“You like that, don’t you?” you taunt darkly. “Is that why you always want me to scratch your head when we watch movies?”

“I don’t care what you do as long as you’re touching me,” he breathes out, like a confession. “Don’t care how you touch me, s’long as it’s you.”

A tepid blush soaks your face. You shut him up with another kiss. He licks at your bottom lip, groaning softly at the feeling of your soft body against his.

“You’re so pretty, Peter,” you whisper.

“You are.”

Before you can react, you hitch a breath in surprise when you find that his hands have fully reached above the hem of your dress and onto the bare skin of your hip, toying with the elastic of your underwear. You part your legs, bending your knees so that you can pull the fabric off.

He sighs as his fingers tease the slot of your cunt, which grows wetter and wetter with every touch. Your sensitivity makes you squirm a little. He can tell so easily that you’re falling apart for him. He loves it.

You nearly whine when he takes away his fingers from you. Instead, he towers over your body, pulling your legs toward him as he pulls up the hem of your velvet dress and cascades kisses on your knees. He slowly works his way up to your thighs, biting gently, then hard. Meanwhile, his hands roam the perimeter of your chest and your ribs, all soft and pliable for him. You’ll be delighted when you wake up to a bruise on your thigh stuck in the shape of Peter Parker’s mouth.

A shiver lacerates your lower body all the way up to your neck – you feel it, viscerally. All from his mouth. He slots his tongue onto the bud of your clit going slowly just to watch you squirm.

“Please,” you beg.

“Please what?” His eyes are as dark as the sky. As dark as your dress.

“Your– your mouth. I need it. Please. More.”

Peter’s grip on your thighs tightens as his face moves closer to your center, licking incessantly as you cry out. You attempt to muffle your sounds with your hand covering your mouth, biting the skin on your palm. Your blood is hot, pumping hard, all the way down to your swollen clit, and he treats you like a man starved.

“Oh my God,” you gasp. “More, please. Pleasepleaseplease.”

He listens to you, forcing his ring and middle finger into your cunt and curling upward. Your legs shake involuntarily when he does this and it takes everything in him to not stop just so he can see the look on your face head-on. You look so beautiful right now.

“Gonna cum, Pete. Fuck.”

He closes his eyes as he savors your sweet taste. He feels it when you cum as if it’s happening in his body, too. A jolt to the sense. A vivacious rumble. Your mouth is slack, jaw falling open with your eyes screwed shut as you finish, and Peter towers over you to watch. He’s never seen you like this. He wants to keep the image of it forever.

You thank him with a messy kiss, not caring about the remnants of your lipstick. Your hands attack him, teeth nipping at his earlobe as you help him undress. Soon enough, the two of you are naked together, limbs entangled and kissing without paying any mind to oxygen.

You take his jaw in your hand as if he’s a delicate thing. Easy to break. It’s your turn to tease, now.

“What do you wanna do?”

“You’re such a little shit,” he mumbles, but he can’t help but grin.

“Tell me about it, Spidey.”

“Want you, Rabbit, want to make you feel good.”

“And how exactly will you do that?”

“Gonna fuck you. I’ll make you cry if you keep being a little shit like this, too.”

There’s no time for a reaction. He’s on top of you, pinning you down, and he licks your collarbone up to your jaw as you whine like a newborn kitten. He spanks your ass and you have to your bottom lip to keep from being too loud.

“You want it that bad, huh?”

“Yeah,” you respond breathlessly. He melts at the sound of your voice, cooing softly as he playfully bites the skin of your cheek.

You love him like this, a burst of passionate energy focused on you and you only. His little angel. You remember your rabbit heart caged in your sternum fragile and thumping like an earthquake for him.

He pauses to give you another kiss, this time sweet as he licks up the bottom of your lip. You can feel him at the crux of your legs and you can feel the want pumping in your veins. Patience. Patience. Patience.

“You want me to go slow?”

“Of course not.”

You’re so relaxed in his grasp. Gooey with your desire that it might disgust you if you weren’t so enamored. You keep your eyes on him when he enters you – you want to see the look in his eyes.

Peter feels selfish wanting to tease you like this. He’s slow when he enters you, listening to your sweet exhales.

“Easy,” he warns. “‘m gonna take care of you, don’t worry."

Please floods your entire body like a heat stroke. You bend your knees upward and rake the smooth terrain of his back, lifting your hips up at the same time. He thrusts once, then twice, and already, he feels like he’s ready to unfurl completely.

“Fuck,” he groans. You��re so goddamn wet. Soft. Velvety.

“Don’t be shy, Peter,” you murmur. “C’mere.”

You keen into the way he buries his nose into your shoulder, shallow breaths uneven and erratic as he continues, losing control bit by bit as he goes on. His pleasure is the knife you twist inside yourself.

You gasp at the way he can carve you out, the way he knows exactly where to put his hands as he grasps for your body, like he’d molding you from clay. He drinks down your moans with his mouth, eyes fluttering at the impact of your cunt clenching him.

Peter props himself up now, moving his body backward so he’s perpendicular to your core. He holds you by your hips a little too hard, but you’d always liked it rough. You liked it when he would cuddle you or play with you or put his entire body weight on you. To smother was to be encased in something akin to love.

“Fuck,” he hisses, getting the hang of a constant rhythm. His hips slot with yours as his cock thrusts deeper into you, until he can feel the slight tremble of your thighs.

“You okay?” he asks, chest heaving.

“Yes, keep going. Keep going.”

You underestimate how fragile you are. A rough thrust almost has you there, until he pulls out of you like a stolen breath, and it leaves you whining.

“Pete.”

“Shh, I’m just trying to pace myself,” he breathes, jaw slack and glistening with sweat. “You feel too fucking good.”

“Come back or I’ll break your wrists.”

He chuckles, but you’re dead serious. You lift your body to him so you can pull his down, kissing him with a ragged hunger that’s all teeth and lust. He’s quick to match your vigor but with more tenderness than desperation. It makes you melt, how natural it is, how this is how it might’ve felt in a past life. Your bodies entwined in a way that’s proverbial.

He listens to you. Fucks you much rougher than before, giving in to what he wants, because he’s not sorry about how much he wants you. Your broken moans curl out of your throat and into his mouth and the feeling of him deep in you makes you feel like a balloon ready to burst from the pressure.

It’s like Peter reads your mind, because suddenly, his hand is around your throat. You’ve never looked more angelic to him than you do now, eyes half-lidded and your reddish mouth all lax.

“So fucking beautiful, I love you,” he mumbles against his mouth.

I love you. I love you. I love you.

All of Peter’s muscles are tense from holding back. Fuck, he doesn’t want to cum until you do.

Luckily, the way his cock stretches you out has you nearly drooling underneath him. He touches the deepest parts of your insides like he belongs there, like he was meant to be there, as if the way he turns his hips toward you is a vow in itself. You whimper at the feeling of it all and he nearly loses it.

“I’m so close,” you pants. Thank fucking God.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Cum for me,” he coos. “You’re doing so good. Fuck.”

Your gaze lingers on the shape of his mouth. You think about how his voice sounds when he calls you angel.

Your orgasm comes like a flower blooming, like a beam of light in the darkness. He feels it, too, so vividly like he shares your body. It feels strange how much he feels that he hasn’t felt before, and it makes him come undone right after you.

He pulls out of you and spills onto your stomach unceremoniously with something in between a grunt and a whimper. He’s all over you. You want to bury your body into his.

“Peter,” you whisper, your gaze languishing.

“Yes, angel?”

“I think I owe Ned fifty bucks now.”

He looks at you incredulously but you can’t keep the facade, bursting into laughter as he groans in annoyance and flops his body on top of yours.

“Ew, clean me up, at least,” you complain.

“Right,” he says, nodding. And he does, with a spare t-shirt from his floor absentmindedly while he shares a grin with you. “You serious, though?”

“Of course not,” you scoff. “Ned Leeds will never get anything over twenty bucks from me.”

He laughs and it sounds like heaven.

“You said you loved me,” you tell him.

“I do love you. I’ve always loved you.”

You could cry right now. Surely the influx of endorphins in your body is breaking the rest of your brain.

“I love you, too.”

You kiss him again, open-mouthed, teeth sucking slightly as his lips. He takes a fistful of your hair while his other hand caresses your jaw. It excites you when he breaks the kiss by pulling your hair. His cheeks dimple the slightest bit when he smiles at you.

“Don’t do that, you’re gonna get me hard again.”

“You have the stamina,” you shrug, hugging one of his oversized pillows to your chest.

“You’re cute.”

“Hey.”

“Hi.”

“How come you call me angel now?”

Peter shrugs. He rubs his hands on your calves.

“You’re my guardian angel. Always have been. And you’re not allowed to complain about it being corny because it’s true.”

Peter is shy all of sudden as if he hadn’t just fucked you. His brown hair is tousled to bedhead perfection, messy and slightly frizzy, and the warmth of his skin radiates from the way his whole body seems to blush in front of you.

“I have a proposition.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“Come on!” You nudge him, kicking him with your feet. You get off of his bed to rummage through his dresser drawers for an oversized t-shirt, just dodging his attempts to grab you by the waist.

“Okay. What is it?”

“We should use our webs next time.”

He blinks, smirking, indulging you for a second.

“Deal.”

tagging mutuals: @meliapis @cutetomholland @userholland @sparklingsin @tomdutch @userholland @vendettaparker @selfcarecap @simplykenni @uhlxis @cordiformity @sapphicsoie @seolaseoul @honeyspidey @logangarfield @justapurrcat @arachine @cocoamoonmalfoy @ohcaptains @aniqua

#peter parker x reader #peter parker x y/n #spiderman x you #peter parker fluff #peter parker smut #peter parker angst #spiderman x reader #mcu!peter parker x you #tasm!peter parker x you #tom holland x you #tom holland x reader #tom holland smut #peter parker x you

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iamthemain-character · 2 months ago

Text

Dragon Bite

draco malfoy x reader she/her TW: highly suggestive (no smut), biting, draco is lowkey insane, i put 5k words in this bad boy, this was written for my favorite critic so i couldn't get her to proofread this is a request. you know who you are. <3 image used was found on pinterest, linked in the image :)

harry potter masterlist

Draco is a constellation in the far northern sky. Its name is Latin for dragon. It was one of the 48 constellations listed by the 2nd century Greek astronomer Ptolemy, and remains one of the 88 modern constellations today. The north pole of the ecliptic is in Draco.[1] Draco is circumpolar from northern latitudes, meaning that it never sets and can be seen at any time of year.

In some settings, dragons tend to guard hoards of treasure — typically by lying on top of it.

It was one kiss. And not even a real one. Being drunk on firewhiskey and giving into a dare didn’t count. Everyone had a Spin the bottle or Seven Minutes in heaven story, nobody was more stupid than sixth and seventh year Hogwarts students. And you were no different. It had been one of the illicit parties happening in the Hufflepuff common room, with drinks and magical concoctions flowing far too freely. But everyone was ready for graduation, high on life and the prospect of the future. So when a dare–or maybe it was a game, you couldn’t really recall–had pushed you and Draco Malfoy together, your usual logic and apprehension were absent from your thoughts. What you did remember, however, was his lips. They were soft, which had surprised you, and much like his skin, they were a little cool. But things had heated up plenty in the moment, as he had taken charge, maneuvering your mouth together in a way that was far too good for a casual kiss. You could remember the way his hand had cupped the back of your neck, ringed fingers catching in your hair as he directed you. You couldn’t recall if the kiss had lasted a second or an hour, but when the two of you had broken apart, he was gone in an instant, leaving nothing but a tingling sensation on your lips.

Your heart had given you plenty of trouble after that night, fluttering frustratedly every time you saw him after that. But he had never acknowledged it, had never even so much as looked at you again, so you stuffed those feelings away, refusing to let one kiss with a snobby boy ruin your life. And after graduation, you moved on, and it became easier to forget the blonde boy with the delectable lips.

That was, until now.

After leaving Hogwarts, you had become an author, receiving notable acclaim with your most recent book documenting the history of potion making and how it differed according to the geographical region. The newfound fame and fortune had certainly been overwhelming at times, but you were grateful for the new doors and opportunities your success had brought. What you weren’t enthralled about, however, were the numerous events you suddenly had to attend. Your agent assured you it was good for publicity, but you honestly didn’t care for the rooms full of stuffy air and stuffier people. Though it was a good excuse to get glammed up with professional makeup and designer dresses.

The glitter and satin soon lost their shine as you sat in the crowded ballroom. The aesthetic hors d’oeuvres sat half touched on your plate, the little delicacies not nearly as tasty as they looked. And even if they had been delicious, your stomach was currently housing a storm worthy of the anger of poseidon. To top it all off, the room was hot, the sea of black suits and neutral toned dresses taking up too much space, a little too close to you. Even your agent had abandoned you to do some “networking”.

Unceremoniously, you threw back the last of your champagne, rising from your little spot of isolation to try to find a restroom. You bore your clutch as your shield, protecting you from the stray elbows and backsides of the crowd. Eventually, you emerged on the other side, quickly exiting out the side door.

The hallway was darker, and much more quiet than the ballroom. A few stray people lingered here and there, but they were much too engrossed in their own conversations to pay you any mind. As you wandered around the hall, however, you soon realized that this elaborate building had no signs. Countless doors lined the hallway, leaving you clueless as to where a restroom would be, not to mention if it was even in this section of the historic house.

Taking your chances, you opened the first door you saw, slipping inside. Inside was not a bathroom, but rather a study, with ornate carved wood shelves lining the walls. Antique books filled every space, stirring delight within you. In the middle of the room there was a dark mahogany desk, the carefully placed decor indicating it was more for aesthetics than real use.

On the far side of the room was a tall window, the delicate panes allowing the moonlight from outside to shine in. The moonlight was silhouetting a figure standing by the window, back leaned against the alcove. The white light was bright as it highlighted the figure’s nearly-white blond hair, neatly combed back, brushing the collar of their suitcoat. It was a picturesque scene, but you had no interest in making small talk, so you reached for the handle behind you.

The figure, however, took notice of your presence. Turning their head, green-gray eyes land on you, and your heart suddenly meets the pit of your stomach. There was only one man who had ever had eyes like that, eyes that lingered deep in the back of your mind, reminding you of a “meaningless” kiss.

“It figures Lady Anorak would find her way into a library.” The taunting tone remark only solidified the identity of the glowing figure.

“Draco Malfoy.” You greet, straightening your shoulders. It had been years since you had last seen the man, and the time had been kind to his features. His bone structure was strong and sharp, his lips still perfectly pink as they curled into his signature smirk. His eyes once again brought butterflies to your stomach, the way they shamelessly glanced you up and down. You couldn’t quite tell, however, if he was checking you out or judging you.

“I’m surprised to see someone like you here.” Draco remarks, pushing himself off the wall, sauntering over to you.

You huff, crossing your arms. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

His amusement only grows as he gazes down at you, an unreadable expression behind his eyes. “Usually these events are for notable members of society. Stuffy, boring, too long. Not for someone as...free spirited as you.”

You roll your eyes, crossing your arms defensively in front of you. “You’ve lost your tact with insults.”

“Who said I was insulting you?” Draco replies, his face not giving away any insight as to what he was really thinking.

“So you’ve grown out of that now?”

His smug smile grows, tugging up one side of his mouth.You can see the sharp little points of his canines, giving him a slight vampiric look. “Only as much as you’ve grown out of being such a wonk.”

“Well, being a wonk happens to be the reason that I’m here in the first place.” You retort, tossing your head a little. It's infuriating, how easily Draco is riling you up again after all this time, but you just pray that your old crush on the man doesn’t return.

“Is that so?” Draco asks, lifting one of his brows, looking a little curious. “And how is that, Lady Anorak?”

“I wrote a book.” You explain, summoning all of your pride to fuel your confidence. “The Melting Pot: A study of potions across the globe. Perhaps you’ve heard of it? It was featured in The Daily Prophet.”

The corners of Draco’s mouth turn down as he considers your words, turning them over in his mind. “Was that you? I suppose you have a bit more acclaim than I gave you credit for. But it's still a very bookish bore thing to do.” He glances back at you, taking in your body for the second time. “You don’t seem to be basking in the evening’s glory, however.”

You grimace, thinking of the suffocating room you had just fled from. “I wasn’t aware there was much to bask in other than excessive egos and endless champagne.”

If you hadn't known better, you would have said the slight shift of Draco’s chest would have been a laugh. But his face remains unchanged, that damned small smile on his lips. “And so you decided to come steal my hiding spot?”

You roll your eyes, uncrossing your arms and meandering over to the desk, leaning against it. You could feel Draco’s eyes watching your every step, eliciting a strange feeling of both attraction and nerves in your chest. “I didn’t know it was your hiding spot.”

Draco just shrugs, running a hand over his hair, slicking back a small piece that had fallen out of place. “Well, now you’re trespassing, so if you’re going to stay, you’ll need to pay the fine.”

Now it's your turn to lift your eyebrow, your stomach giving a little flip as you think of just how many things you could give Draco Malfoy. “And what is this mysterious price for such a grievous crime?”

Draco takes a few steps closer to you, his eyes burning up your skin as he looks over you a third time. “Trespassing on my personal hiding spot, and you’re unremorseful. I’m going to need substantial repayment.” He says, his voice lowering a little.

Your stomach twists, and you mentally scold yourself that it's in desire and not in anxiety. Yet when you look into those gray eyes, their greenish hue glinting in the moonlight, you can’t help but feel that pull towards him you felt all those years ago.

But just like that moment all those years ago, the moment is cut short by a female voice at the door. “Draco? Are you in there? The Vickorat family wishes to congratulate us on the engagement.”

Your stomach twists, a feeling of nausea burning your insides, replacing the excitement that was just there.

Draco’s face immediately is schooled back into a blank, calm and even expression. “Coming Astoria.” He says, his tone lacking any of the warmth or playfulness it had just a moment ago. He looks back at you, his eyes study yours. “It seems I will concede this time, Lady Anorak. Enjoy your books.” With that, he turns and leaves, walking out of your life for the second time.

……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

The intense interaction between you and Draco didn’t leave your mind in the coming weeks, but you packed it away with the other memory of him. Instead, you threw yourself into the preparations for your second book.

You were sat in the aesthetic office of the publishing house you went through–Bramble Sons & Co.-sitting in front of a woman named Christine, who had been working with you since your first book.

“We honestly think your ideas for the second book are great, but we did have a few questions from the editor about the manuscript.”

You sighed deeply, steeling yourself for the critiques to come. You already second guessed your writing constantly, and going through the editing process had nearly broken you last time. Still, you straightened your shoulders, preparing for the barrage of comments.

As you did, however, movement caught the corner of your eye. You glanced over to the hallway outside the office, spotting a man walking past the large glass windows who looked suspiciously like Draco Malfoy.

“Excuse me one moment.” You said to Christine, getting up from your chair, trying to subtly speed walk over to the hallway.

As you glanced after the disappearing figure, you spotted the familiar combed back blonde hair, and your heels clicked on the wooden floor as you approached behind him.

“Draco.” You called, and you almost misstepped as he turned around, looking down at you.

His damnable suit adorned his lean figure, his hands stuffed in his pockets. “Lady Anorak.” He replied casually, as if his presence at the publishing house you worked with wasn’t odd.

“What are you doing here?” You queried, arching your brow at him. You crossed your arms over your chest, trying to calm the pounding of your heart.

Draco shrugs, irritatingly composed as he continued to gaze down into your face. “Am I not supposed to be?”

“You and I both know that this is not a place you regularly frequent.” You retort, your tone unamused as you glared at Draco. “So why are you here?”

Just in that moment, Ms. Wasthdrop, the manager of the publishing house, stepped out from her office. She smiled brightly as she saw you, approaching and coming to stand beside Draco. “Ah, Mr. Malfoy, I see you’ve met our new star author.”

“Indeed I have,” Draco says calmly, but you see the glimmer of mirth in his eyes.

“I actually was going to reach out to the authors today.” Ms. Wasthdrop continues. “We have exciting news to share. Mr. Malfoy is the new owner of Bramble Sons & Co.”

Of all the reasons you could think of Draco being at the publishing house, this was not one of them. “Oh.” Was all you could manage to say, trying not to let your confusion show through your expression You could almost see the ghost of a smug smile dancing on Draco’s lips. “Welcome...Mr. Malfoy.” You add, trying your best to seem polite.

Draco gives a small nod in return. “Thank you. I look forward to seeing more from our...star author.”

Your cheeks flush, and you watch as Draco and Ms. Wasthdrop disappeared into the latter’s office. You weren’t exactly sure how to feel about working with a company that Draco now owned. It felt odd, like he had some sort of claim over you. You couldn’t yet decide if you liked the feeling or not.

……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

It just so happened, however, that the universe gave you an out. You received a letter from an alternative publishing house, Thornston’s, offering to buy you out. They were offering a better cut of the profits to you, and you couldn’t help but wonder if this was your chance to remove yourself from Draco. But at the same time, did you really want to do so? He hadn’t changed anything with the publishing house, hadn’t made any new demands for your books. Maybe he was just into investing suddenly.

It was with these warring thoughts that you agreed to meet an associate of Thornston’s to discuss your possible switchover.

“I am so grateful you’ve taken the time to meet with us.” The rotund man you’d come to know as Mr. Peasley stated, folding his hands on the table. “Unfortunately, I cannot say I bring good news. We recently had a change in ownership, and our new owner has informed us to retract our offer.” Mr. Peasley stated, looking genuinely a little guilty.

New owner? You pause, leaning your head towards the man across the table. “Did Mr. Richmond retire?”

Mr. Peasley shakes his head, looking eager to share the gossip as he also leaned in. “That’s what he’s claiming. Yet I heard from his assistant that our new owner offered Mr. Richmond a substantial sum of money to sell immediately.”

You tried to keep a nonchalant demeanor as you continued digging. “So, who is this mysterious new benefactor?”

Mr. Peasley glances around. “Well, it’s supposed to be kept hush-hush, but…”

You place a hand on the man’s arm, offering a friendly smile. “I promise, my lips are sealed.”

Mr. Peasley returns the smile, his excitement evident. “The young Mr. Draco Malfoy purchased the firm.”

The confirmation of your suspicions fills you with a myriad of emotions. You kept your expressions carefully schooled into casual interest, not letting the surprise nor the irritation show. “Oh, really?”

Mr. Peasley nods, continuing on with little encouragement. “The strangest part is that Mr. Malfoy doesn’t seem to be doing anything different with our company. He simply just up and bought it.”

“How strange.” You remark non committedly. Inside, your mind was a whirl of activity. First, Draco purchased your original publishing house, also seemingly for no reason. And now he purchases the one you were switching to, but forces them to retract their offer. No matter how you turned it in your head, it felt like he was trapping you in a corner, and you didn’t appreciate it.

By the time you bid farewell to Mr. Peasley, you were pissed. You weren’t sure what game Draco was trying to play, but he was mistaken if he thought you’d simply lay by and be a piece for his amusement. You got in your car, immediately heading for his townhouse.

The elegant building sat in a row of similar townhouses, the neighborhood having belonged to rich pureblood wizards for decades. The door of the Malfoy flat was painted a dark green, a gold M swirling with snakes. You had always noted that the door was indicative of the dramatic nature of the family who it belonged to.

Now, however, you didn’t give a second thought to the decorative entrance nor the snakes that hissed at your approach. You knocked on the door–the harsh sound echoing in the quiet neighborhood–and you tapped your foot impatiently as you waited.

To your surprise, it wasn’t a house elf that answered the door, but Draco himself. You took notice of his black slacks that sat temptingly on his hips, slouching a little with the lack of a belt. Additionally, his white shirt was tight across his pecs and shoulders, his lean muscle flexing as he crossed his arms. “Lady Anorak, to what do I have the plea-”

“What the literal fuck Draco.” You snap, eyes dark with anger as you glower at him. He may have looked attractive always in this moment, but you weren’t going to disregard his blatant disrespect for your literal career.

He raises his eyebrows, smirking a little at your spiteful words. “Something amiss in your potions, darling? Mixed up a real worm with wormwood?”

You push your way past him, and he just smiles more as your shoulder brushes his chest. He closes the door, looking over you as you stand in his foyer, displeasure written in the wrinkle of your brows. “Care to explain why you’re trying to ruin my career?”

Draco quirks an eyebrow, sticking his hands into his pockets. “Last I checked, I’m helping you publish your books, so-”

“I know you bought out Thornston’s.”

Draco’s expression flickers, his smile fading and being replaced with a stony blank expression. “Who told you that?”

“Does it matter?” You scoff, irritated at his lack of remorse. “You purposefully denied me the opportunity to have greater pay, to possibly advance my career. What could I have possibly done to you to make me want to suffer this way?”

Draco straightens up, his green eyes shadowed in the antique lighting of the hallway. “Oh, I’m sorry that I’m ruining your life, keeping you loyal to the company that gave you your career.” His voice is low, a little rough as he speaks. “And here I thought the Lady Anorak would be smart enough to know a good business opportunity when she sees it.”

“Don’t try to make this about some nonexistent morals!” You snap, annoyed at him trying to make you feel guilty. “This is about me having the opportunity to do more than just get by. Though I suppose someone who was fed with a silver spoon his whole life wouldn’t understand that.”

His sharp jaw twitches, and he strides forward, quickly towering over you. His eyes seared into you, as if he could read your beating heart. “You want money? Fine, you have it. I’ll double whatever portion you receive. You want more creative freedom? I’ll fire your editor. You want to run the damn house? We’ll put your name on the door. Right under mine.” He leaned in even closer, his face dangerously hovering over yours. “You work for me, and only me. You don’t get to go run off and sign with a different publishing house. I’ll buy out every last company in London if I have to.” His words were a growl by the time he finished, his eyes narrowed on you. “You’re mine.”

Your anger was dwindling, being replaced as you became more perplexed by his actions. It didn’t help that his words stirred up a flutter in your lower belly, heat blooming up to your ears. You jut your chin out, looking up defiantly. “I don’t belong to you.”

He lets out a dark laugh, his hand coming up, caressing your hair back, then grasping it at the back of your head. “And that’s the problem. I need you to belong to me. My Lady Anorak.” He murmurs, his eyes glancing over your features, as if he’s drinking in a piece of fine art.

Your heart gives another treacherous leap, your skin tingling as the cool touch of his fingers in your hair burns into fire in your veins. “You shouldn’t say things like that.” You say quietly, your voice firm. “The only woman that belongs to you is Astoria.”

Draco’s jaw twitches again, the sharp edge even more apparent as he tenses. “Astoria doesn’t belong to me, or with me.” He takes in your surprise, giving a little huff. “Do you really think I could keep her after I saw you in that study? Looking so fierce, so alluring in your perfect little dress. I couldn’t keep my ring on another woman’s finger when all I could think of was if your lips still taste the same.”

You feel like the breath has been taken out of your lungs as you blink a few times, your lips parting in surprise as you hear Draco’s words. “You...you broke up with Astoria?”

“The same night. I may be an arse, but I know when I can’t be loyal to another woman.” He replies, his hand moving to your neck, his thumb running over your lower lip. His pupils almost swallow up his green irises, the flame of desire evident as he stares at you.

“Because you...” You can’t bring yourself to say the words, feeling like you can’t trust the feelings brewing up in your chest.

“Because I need you.” Draco breathes, and you can smell the mint of the tea he must have been drinking. A smell that haunts you every time you’ve brewed amortentia. His hand tightens slightly on your jaw, his nose brushing against your cheek. “I need you in my life, in my hands. So no, I’m not sorry for preventing you from leaving Bramble Sons. I’d do it again if it means I get to keep you close.”

The words make your body feel warm, that spark of hope you tried to bury long ago rising up. Draco continues to hover his face tantalizingly close, his eyes flicking over your features like he’s deciding which one to kiss first. “Do you have any idea what you did to me at that party?” He murmurs, his voice husky. Your heart skips as you realize he thinks about that drunken kiss as much as you do. “Walking away from you that night nearly drove me insane. And I have been losing my mind more and more, haunted by how it felt to have you. And then, you walked back into my life, looking so perfectly beautiful in your little dress, with your smartass remarks and incredible mind. And all I have been able to think about is having you again. And I’m not walking away this time.”

He’s ridiculous. And a little crazy. But you’d always known that, and yet your heart still flutters for him. So you don’t leave, instead taking the small step to close what little remaining space was between the two of you, your chest pressed up against his. “You could have just asked me out like a normal person.” You murmur, leaning up, his lips just a touch too high to meet.

He smiles, giving a huff of laughter. “It’s much easier to get you to say yes if you have no other option.” His voice is a low rumble, pride clear in the quirk of his lips.

“I wouldn’t have said no either way.” You tell him, your hands sliding up his arms, resting on his biceps.

He shivers at the sensation, closing his eyes for a moment before they refocus on you. “No? You agree then, you’re mine?”

Your heart squeezes in your chest, the words that have lingered on your tongue unspoken for six years ready to pour out. “All yours.”

What little restraint Draco was practicing snaps at that. He dips down, pressing his lips against yours. His hand shifted, the thumb and pointer finger that had been framing your jaw sliding downward, until he was holding your neck firmly in his grasp. His lips demanded yours to part, his own pulling at your lower lip a little. He kept moving your mouths together, as if he couldn’t quite settle, craving more, needing more.

Draco pushed you back, until you were pressed up against the wall, his other hand coming up to grasp your hip. His fingers dug into the soft curve, like a dragon’s talons staking claim of their treasure. Your hands went to his chest, clinging at the thin white material, trying to ground yourself as Draco’s demanding kisses turned any thoughts into hazy ideas. He growled at the touch of your hands, his hands slipping down to your thighs, grasping them firmly as he lifted up. You wrapped your legs around his hips, using the wall and his hands support your weight. His desire was obvious as your center pressed against the front of his trousers, a jolt of desire running through you as you feel his hardness.

He groaned, and he pulled his lips away from yours, moving them over your jaw, pressing a trail of open mouth kisses down your neck. His teeth scraped over the tender skin, and you could feel his two pointed canines pressing into your flesh. Before your brain could register any pain, however, he was soothing the spot with his tongue, swiping it over the red marks. He kept working downward, not stopping until there was a path of love bites from your jaw to your collarbone. He smiled proudly, his eyes dark with possessive admiration. “So beautiful.” He murmured, running his fingers over the tender spots.

“Oh, so now I’m beautiful?” Your voice was breathless, but your teasing nature couldn’t even be hampered by the heat Draco elicited in you.

The sound that escaped him was caught between a growl and a groan, and he pressed his body into you again, his hand tightening on your throat. “You know damn well what I mean. You’re fucking breathtaking.”

“Do I know?” You continue, your voice and eyes challenging him. You know you’re playing with fire, but you’re too lost into the moment to really care.

Draco’s eyes darken, and he pulls you away from the wall, moving to the stairs. “You’re going to know exactly what I think about you by the time we’re done.”

He carries you up the stairs, not lessening his grip on you until he throws you onto the bed. He doesn’t hesitate a moment, crawling on top of you, caging you in with his arms, his hands on either side of his head. “You look so fucking good like this.” He murmurs devouring you with his eyes. “I should have done this a long time ago.” His hands slip under your dress, running up your thighs, playing with the waistband of your underwear.

Heat flares in your body, a little tremble of excitement running through you. “You should have. Now you have to make up for lost time.” You breathe out, your heart delighted with the fact that you finally are in this moment with Draco. You reach out to the top button of his shirt, undoing it, watching his reaction.

Draco’s hands tighten on your hip, his eyes intensifying with hunger. “That is an incredible idea.” He murmurs, his voice husky with desire. “But only if you want me to.” He’s aching to have you, but he refuses to let go fully until he’s sure.

You lean up, pressing a kiss to his lips. “I want you to. I want you.”

Draco groans, and he dives deeper into the kiss with you, finally letting go of any hesitation as he lets himself take you. Your clothes quickly end up scattered around the room, the air hot with the movement of your bodies.

By the time the passion calms down, the two of you are thoroughly blissed out, your bodies feeling the delightful ache of being known. Draco lays down on top of you, pressing his face into your neck, his lips administering sweet kisses. “You’re so perfect. So beautiful, so smart. God, I’m never letting you go again.”

You smile, running your fingers through his hair. The pale strands are soft to the touch, deliciously messy from your touch. It's such a contrast from his usually perfect slick back, filling your heart with warmth as you relish in the fact that you alone get to see him like this. “I think I’ll let you keep me.” You tease.

Draco smiles, lifting his head so he can gaze down at you, his hand drifting over your waist and hip. “You better. Or else I’ll have to keep you locked away, all for myself to indulge in.”

You softly laugh, your smile growing. Your heart feels light, content and happy in this tender moment, your bodies warm together in the sheets. “Only if I get to keep you too.”

Draco’s eyes soften, and he nods, dipping down and pressing a soft kiss against your lips. “Always.”

#literally did not do any real work at my job just wrote this bad boy #chat i think i went insane #S.H i hope you're happy #if not im gonna cry #again #thanks again for the geto fic #even if i am still crying over that #draco malfoy #draco malfoy x reader #draco malfoy x you #draco malfoy x y/n #harry potter #draco #dracotok

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pseudoartistpostsstuff · 1 month ago

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Alright alright- Bear with me here. Could I perhaps ask for a Yandere LU Chain, where Reader is like HUGE adventurer. Kinda like Wild in his game, exploring everywhere and stuff. But one day maybe Reader gets hurt on an adventure by a black-blooded creature, and the Chain is bit too late to save them. So Reader is like Twilight for a bit, although maybe they can also recover due to the Chain likely supporting them as much if not more than with Twilight. How would the Chain react to this afterwards? Would they be relieved, angry, or...? Both? Tbh I think overprotectiveness would just go brrrr after this-

Also, love love LOVE your writing! Seriously, HOW DO YOU DO THIS MAGIC? It's put together so well and istg i get goosebumps sometimes from this stuff.

Thank you!!!

Thank you very much for requesting, and I hope you enjoy this very late reply!

Notes aka author ramblings: Apollo slapped me in the face with random energy and motivation to write this, the inspiration came along the way and faded a bit more towards the end, so please take that into consideration 😭

Basically I wrote this on the span of 2-3 hours

What may look like a few plot holes was some ties I left untied on purpose because I felt like it'd probably sound too much like an info dump in the oneshot

But I have so many thoughts

And yes reader's codename is Stray

I hope I'm not rusty fr

TWs: Light yanderism, blood and wounds (not graphic), mentioned spiders, bullying, childhood trauma and exclusion.

Yandere! LU! Chain x Reader

Stray at heart, collared in body.

The world is big and full of stuff, and to say that you loved to explore it would be an understatement. Sometimes it felt like your biggest love was for adventuring, cause’ of course it was! How could anyone not love to find new places, objects, people— Even animals and magical creatures!

It was the type of subject that got you rambling and all excited.

Of course, you weren't exactly one of those pure born hyruleans, you weren't even from Hyrule, for starters, so you lacked the elegant pointy ears, and, well, the actual magic and luck that came with being one so close to Hylia as the race that descended from the Goddess herself.

That definitely hindered your explorations, leaving you bare handed when it came to healing and all things good and helpful for explorers like you. Still, none of that ever stopped you.

Actually, it was the thing that moved you to start in the first place, back when you were very young.

Back then, in the village you came from yet never considered home, the whole place felt filled to the brim with boredom-inducing stillness — or so you remembered, and so your childish eyes told you — you felt like it wasn't worth staying there.

It was going to be still and empty of fun forever, you could never be happy staying locked down there when so many new and yet ancient things were waiting for you everywhere else!

Needless to say, your head was constantly in the clouds, though, maybe that was a good thing after a while. It certainly shielded you from feeling too lonely when you started to actually notice you were being excluded by the rest of the children.

The stares and quiet giggles weren't easy to bear, but you just learned to deal with them with time, keeping yourself focused on your future instead, the future you wanted to build far away from that place.

Of course, as you are now today, and after learning about and interacting with so many different cultures, learning what you could from their knowledge, some things stuck with you.

Like the knowledge that now you had, that the children weren't ever the ones at fault in the first place.

Their stares and giggles mainly mimicked, almost perfectly, the ones who teached them to act that way, their glares and mockery.

Sometimes you wondered how your own parents managed to cope with being badly spoken about in the mouths of other adults from that village, the ones who insisted in believing your restless adventurous spirit from such a young age could be nothing else but bad parenting or a curse to the family.

You used to believe it, wish it was real and you either were or had a curse. That would mean that you at least had a percentage of magic in your veins, even if it wasn't exactly the best type.

Because it turns out, you didn't fit in with the most of Hyrule, either. Your normalness kept them away just like your strangeness used to keep away those around you during your childhood.

In fact, that acquired you the nickname of “Stray”.

Stray. Stray because at heart, no matter the community you shoved your way into, you didn't truly belong anywhere. You belonged to the world around you, and nothing could force that out of you.

It was deeply etched into your very soul.

Or so they said.

Well, a group of people begged to differ.

You've heard of a “hero” and a “triangle trio” thing more than a few times already when you roamed the remaining villages of Hyrule, but the last thing you were expecting to find was nine heroes traveling together in a group.

However, none of them belonged here anymore, and so that spoke directly to your inner child, the one who was used to being the only one, always related to some synonym of lonely.

You were often called “Stray” by them rather than your own name, but you still wore the name with pride, because now you were in no way the only stray present anymore.

They were also the reason you stopped wishing for a curse of a magic of some kind. Because you were more than aware that then they'd also have to force you into an imprisonment of some kind.

Still, you already felt achieved.

Finally.

What else could you wish for? You were finally able to explore to your heart's content.

Though not without many worried glances and startled yells sent your way every time you got near anything that left you endangered in some way.

And the best part, you weren't shunned anymore.

At least not by them. Villager's still gave you uneasy and passive aggressive glances.

The one you were probably the closest to was the one named “Wild”, or so they called him — calling all of them “Link” wasn't ideal — after all, out of all of them, he was the one who was most in tune with you.

You were both from the same time period, which already differed from the others, but he wasn't able to fit in anymore due to his lack of ties to any community.

Of course, you were more than aware you still weren't the same. If he tried, he'd still be able to settle down anywhere he wanted, but he still had a job to do which rendered him unable to do so, therefore you made yourself believe you were still alike in some way.

It would hurt too much to not do so, your sanity was at sake here.

They made it so easy too. being all friendly and welcoming. You finally felt at home, in peace.

What else could you truly wish for?

Although, maybe singing victory and yapping about happiness wasn't the smartest idea when they were all in a dangerous mission. And you, of course, were involved.

You were all exploring — or rather, just walking through — a forest on the way to some village at the very ends of Hyrule.

The people of that village didn't travel much, but they had something your group wanted, therefore, your group had to go to them instead.

Being the dumbass, air head, you were, instead of walking in the middle of the moving crowd of fully capable heroes, you found yourself roaming the edges, gawking at whatever you could see yet not reach for past the edges of the path you were all following.

Time was keeping his eye on you — the only working one he had — the whole time, making sure you wouldn't wander off. You felt like a kid.

And just like a kid, the very moment he got distracted, killing a Skulltula, you wandered off.

However, turns out there wasn't just one spider.

The forest was infested, which definitely explained why the village folk were so against the idea of wandering too far past the starts of the foliage and the big thick bushes surrounding and protecting the narrow path you traveled by.

Didn't take too long for you to be found by something else rather than your friends, who by now, must have been definitely looking for you.

They never took long to notice your disappearances, the opposite actually, which used to annoy you a lot since Wild never had to face the same overprotectiveness. Not even Wind!

Now, your desire to prove them wrong brought you face to face with one of said spiders.

Maybe they weren't that wrong...?

And, just you luck! The thing undoubtedly had black blood.

Just like a kid, you failed to remember or acknowledge the fact your group just happened to be chased by those types of monsters earlier, some still following you.

It just slipped your mind, completely.

Just like you slipped on the mud on your way out of the trees and back to the narrow path where your friends’ yells and blurry faces were awaiting and rushing towards you worriedly.

When did it start raining enough to create mud?

The mud smelled metallic.

Your memory was blurry, the world itself felt blurry.

Still, you half remembered, like a far away memory, stumbling out of the thick bushes and into many arms, blood equally as thick dripping from a gash in your abdomen like a waterfall in a rainy — stormy, more like — day.

Then, like a blink, a very long blink, your consciousness was gone.

It took an overly long while for you to wake up. It felt like sleeping during a rainy night, you never wanted to wake up the morning after, and even if you felt like waking up was the best idea, your body refused to open it's eyes.

Only difference was that for you it felt like an overly long rainy night, and like you spent the following week still asleep.

At some point sleeping even became boring.

And you had 9 voices in your head telling you to wake up “please”, when they weren't chatting — worriedly, most of the time — amongst each other. Didn't sound like the usual, to be honest.

When you did come to it, it was in a slow, painful way.

Your head felt like someone banged their shield against it multiple times. If bone was able to bleed, your skull would have been bleeding.

Your eyes also felt tired, despite having just woken up from a long, restless and dreamless nap.

However, your throat felt surprisingly fine, and so did the rest of your body, though you felt numb and weak.

Instantly, your senses were crowded by familiar scents a bit too close to you.

Twilight's was the one which overwhelmed the others, and was paired with the feeling of fur and warmth, overwhelming warmth.

Your body definitely felt too hot. that much you could tell. Though the sight of the many blankets, coats and furs — one specific dark gray fur, actually — explained that, and also the weight on top of you.

With some strain and trembling limbs, you sat up. Instantly regretting it when the sleepy feeling which was still clouding your mind and leaving your movements sluggish got torn away from your body by the force of a sharp pain on your abdomen, strong enough to challenge the dull one still hammering inside your head.

You made a groan of pain and pushed the pile of warmth on top of you to the side, making it fall off the cot you were laying in, exposing the reason for your pain.

This triggered a gasp from somewhere near you. You didn't pay attention, too focused on the strange sight of a large bandaged wound on your belly.

“Stray! You're awake! You're finally awake...” The voice came from above, you could recognize the soft yet shaky tone of Hyrule.

Yet the body which wrapped around your shoulders carefully, and clearly as gently as possible, were definitely from Sky.

“We thought we wouldn't be able to…” Sky swallowed some of his shaky words, trying to spare you from listening to his rambling and sobbing at the same time.

Hyrule grabbed your hand on the bed, opposite to Sky's side.

“You're even worse than Twilight in the “no response to potions or enchantments” aspect…” He gave you a weak smile, now you could guess why it took you so long to wake up.

They had to resort to different methods to try and keep you alive.

You made a face and nodded slowly, also leaning a bit more into Sky now that you weren’t that surprised anymore.

It took less than about 2 minutes for the rest of the group to come back to see you, which was quite curious for you, considering there weren't any messages exchanged through anyone — Sky and Hyrule refused to leave your side, and nobody else was around — and they were all the way out of camp and into a village's market.

Guess you'd never know how they found out.

Your recovery took far longer to finish than Twilight's, considering you had no previous strength built against the black stuff, so you just spent your time sitting around or being carried.

The fact you were, in fact, able to walk, was just another reason for that extreme boredom.

And you weren't even carried to many places! Just around camp!

To say you were itching to touch the grass with your actual flesh and feel the thrill of seeing new things again would be an absolute misunderstanding.

And of course you wanted to bound to the first available place you could the very moment you were released from your inability to carry yourself around.

Did you, though? No, not really.

“I'm gonna check out that pond.” You yawned with serotonin coursing through your veins. The same restless feeling you always got when you saw the beach, despite having seen it many times.

It was around the fourth or fifth time you asked to go check out something. The answer was always the same.

This time you felt completely healed though, so you were hopeful!

“And get attacked by that bokoblin?” Legend crossed his arm with a deep frown, he was always frowning, but that frown just seemed more deeper than the others you've seen before.

“What bokoblin?” It confused you, the pond was absolutely empty when it came to any live beings, though maybe not if you counted the greenery and a few fish.

“There could be one. You didn't see the skulltula last time, did you?”

Well that made you frown. It hit you directly where it hurt.

And now you were unsure about venturing that way.

You nodded, slowly.

“I'll get Warriors to go with you, if you want, once he's back from the planning with Time and Twilight. For now, let's just do some crocheting?”

You always tried to convince him you could go alone.

This time, you voiced no opinion.

#yandere x reader #link x reader #tw: yandere #yandere linked universe #linked universe x reader #yandere link x reader #yandere lu hyrule #yandere lu time #yandere lu sky #yandere lu warriors #yandere lu legend #yandere lu wild #yandere lu twilight #yandere chain x reader #lu sky #lu time #lu fic #lu wild #lu hyrule

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skzhocomments · 27 days ago

Text

The Rising Empress - Bang Chan Stray Kids Fanfic (Masterlist)

Main Masterlist

Pairing: Bang Chan (of Stray Kids) x OC (name: Aristia)

Genre: non-idol AU, Royal AU, soft enemies to lovers, angst, romance, mature

Word Count: ~64k words divided in 17 chapters

Warnings: explicit, mature, swearing, feelings of hopelessness, angst, depression, crying, domestic violence, depression, anxiety, angst, etc.

This is just a story that doesn’t describe Stray Kids members' true characters in any way. It’s just a product of my imagination and should be treated as such.

This story is also on Wattpad (click here) and AO3 (click here)

A/N: As any other writer out there, I would appreciate reblogs and your comments on this story. Please let me know if you enjoyed it, and most importantly, have fun!

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Summary:

“I guarantee you nothing will happen to you. I give you my word.” “How much does your word weigh, though?” Aristia scoffs. “You vowed during our wedding to love, cherish, and protect me no matter what. So far, none of your vows were respected. You said it yourself. You were never a husband to me.” “Neither were yours. In sickness and in health, I will stand by your side. With all that I am and all that I have, I pledge my loyalty and my love to you.” Chris scoffs as well. “You didn’t give me any chance to get close to you. You’ve put up your barriers and thought of me as your enemy since day one.” She comes closer to him. “I had no idea we shared an enemy instead, Aristia. Truly. I thought you were a spy.” “You didn’t even ask me anything. You dead bolted me.” “How could I have trusted you? You are the daughter of my enemy.” Chris frowns. “I don’t know. How can I trust you now, then? You are a man who hates me for simply being born as a princess of the enemy kingdom.” “… I assume you can’t.”

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The Kingdom of the South and the Empire of the Sun forge an alliance at the expense of Princess Aristia - the daughter of a King who didn’t want her, sent over like a sacrificial lamb to his enemy, a man who doesn’t want her either, who won’t even cast a look at her. She decides she won’t look at him either. Two can play this game. --- Non-idol AU This story takes place in an alternate universe where Bang Chan is Emperor Mature content ahead. 18+ ©storminsidemycore

Hello!

Storm here!

The Rising Empress is a story I've started writing on 17/01/2024 and finished on 28.10.2024.

I've always been an avid Manga and Manhwa reader, so I've pretty much gotten inspiration from the hundreds of things I've read, which is how this story was born.

I hope you will enjoy it, as I'm extremely proud with how it turned out. It's safe to say that for me personally, this is one of my best, if not the best work.

The main character's name (Aristia) is inspired after the Manhwa The Abandoned Empress - which is where I found this name and its meaning. Apparently, "Aristia" means "Rising Empress", which I found quite fitting for this story.

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The story and cover are original and my property. Any similarities to other stories are purely coincidental. Aristia, the protagonist, is a made-up character.

Stray Kids members or any other famous people mentioned along this story DO NOT represent their true character in any way, they are simply mentioned in order to provide a visual representation for the readers. Their personas obviously have nothing to do with their true personalities. They're just characters I've created for this story, so please don't take this too seriously.

Mature content ahead. Lots of trigger warnings apply, so please read carefully.

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18+

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Chapter 1 - The Sacrificial Lamb - Tumblr + Wattpad + AO3

Chapter 2 - The Wedding - Tumblr + Wattpad + AO3

Chapter 3 - Mistreatment and the Loss of Self - Tumblr + Wattpad + AO3

Chapter 4 - The Bearer of Bad News - Tumblr + Wattpad + AO3

Chapter 5 - Dirt on the Marble Floors - Tumblr + Wattpad + AO3

Chapter 6 - When You're on Your Own - Tumblr + Wattpad + AO3

Chapter 7 - When the Emperor Takes Notice - Tumblr + Wattpad + AO3

Chapter 8 - Envy and Power - Tumblr + Wattpad + AO3

Chapter 9 - Yearning for More - Tumblr + Wattpad + AO3

Chapter 10 - The Battlefield inside the Palace - Tumblr + Wattpad + AO3

Chapter 11 - Setting the Plan in Motion - Tumblr + Wattpad + AO3

Chapter 12 - Aristia's Letter - Tumblr + Wattpad + AO3

Chapter 13 - Betraying the Emperor - Tumblr + Wattpad + AO3

Chapter 14 - The Punishment - Tumblr + Wattpad + AO3

Chapter 15 - A Way Out - Tumblr + Wattpad + AO3

Chapter 16 - Slowly Building Trust - Tumblr + Wattpad + AO3

Chapter 17 - The Rising Empress (Final Chapter) - Tumblr + Wattpad + AO3

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Thank you so much for reading my story, and I'm looking forward to your thoughts!

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comfortless · 9 months ago

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sylly (like silly yk yk) what are your könig hcs? 🌹

SYLLY?! i…. Ok…. fair warning this is a little long… all that i do is think about this guy someone get him out of my head.

tread carefully reading this! there is a lot of sensitive content here: mental health stuff, abuse, mentions of sex and pornographic material, suicidal ideation, etc etc.

Generic, silly headcanons:

He prefers coffee (black) over tea, but he does have a bit of a sweet tooth (will never resist caramel if it’s presented to him). Honestly, he’s pretty self-reliant when it comes to food, too. On lazy days, he makes enough to where a takeout bill is hardly a concern, but for the most part he cooks! Not a chef by any means, but nothing he ever makes is bad!

Definitely wants a big, loving family, the polar opposite of what he had growing up as an only child in a far less than perfect household. Not a dealbreaker, but he does yearn for all of the love that he’s missed out on and then some.

Not big on video games, but… I do think he is absolutely spending every lonely leave playing Elder Scrolls. Would be so easy to convince to go larping or to a renfaire. I see everyone’s car/bike guy headcanons and I raise you… obsessed with fantasy König. He loves history and myth!! Why not combine the two and see him in chainmail.

The scent & kink posts. But to add… he’s an affectionate biter. (,: Knows the correct places to do so that won’t cause damage or hurt too terribly much. Likes to sniff you just as well! The embodiment of the “merge souls with me” post; in love, he just wants to feel you any way that he can and have some part of you lingering on him, even if it’s just a stray hair or your scent clinging to his shirt or pillowcase.

Cheating is never on this guy’s mind when he’s in a relationship. If he’s found a lady not running for the hills the second she catches sight of him, that’s his one and only. Sure, he may find himself attracted to someone else at some point or other during the duration of a relationship, but he’s devoted and disciplined! There’s never the fear of anyone coming in between he and his lover. He’ll spoil you with gifts, clingy to a point it’s overbearing, always giving you the utmost care… but is not opposed to bullying you into being a submissive, trembling mess either. He’s balanced!

Adores animals. Like any of them. There’s a special place in his heart for cats, but having a constant companion that he can take on hikes like a large dog would be ideal. Would definitely consider owning a tarantula or a snake, too. ^^ He isn’t scared of anything, let alone a creature that most are misinformed about… (he projects a little..). He would treat them just as well as anyone would treat a more “normal” pet. Understanding if you wouldn’t want to hold a giant arachnid (they’re delicate and you squirming over it would make him a bit protective over the poor thing. ): ), but it would mean a lot to him if you were more accepting.

König would not be a pretty sight (to most people) the majority of the time… I doubt that he takes care of himself past training his body and his allotted one-two minute military showers. His character description describes what is rumored to be under his mask as scary. Let him have his buzzcut, and scars, and teeth or old wounds a little too fucked up to fix! Unconventionally attractive is still attractive! (i think his ‘face reveal’ is actually so cute…)

Lots of sporadic little thoughts, but… Ambidextrous, can not ride a bike, whistles/hums to fill lapses of silence, flexes his fingers/cracks his knuckles when he’s nervous, definitely snores (loudly), brushes his teeth like 3-4 times a day (when he can) because he eats so much, not a picky eater at all, thinks it’s cute if you’re affectionately a little grossed out by him from time to time, absolutely the kind of person that thinks fuel and fire smell good, fluent in English and German but certainly knows many words and phrases from other languages.

Kind of clumsy. Overthinks the way his body looks to the point where sometimes his movements are a little stiff. Overestimates how tall a door frame may be if he’s distracted in the presence of others, hits his head and plays it off like he didn’t even notice. He’s (obviously) highly confident on the field, but in regular circumstances it’s totally reversed.

Though. Yeah. Sometimes this does translate onto the field. Can’t stay in one place for too long, once knocked an enemy soldier out by barreling into him. He’s a quick shot, skillful with any weapon that falls into his hands, but his focus can get a little skewed.

He collects some things. Nothing exactly pricy, but antique knives, coins, and a pocket watch or two. And he isn’t the most apt at putting things together in an appealing way… The first time you’re allowed into his house it looks like he’s robbed some vintage hunting shop/is planning something nefarious with the way he’s just got a few daggers strewn about his kitchen table. Just push them to the side, it’s fine! (His favorite is certainly one with a handle carved from a stag’s antler.)

Definitely takes a physical approach to bad feelings. @melancholic-thing mentioned to me that he bites himself when he’s feeling dejected or frustrated and yeah. (All of Ghost’s hcs for him are factually correct.) Not going to punch a hole through the wall but may aggressively slam a door or raise his voice before he can catch himself.

I have many thoughts about König’s childhood/early adulthood. Like, too many. But to summarize…

I think that everyone experiences bullying to an extent but what would make it so bad that it managed to make its way into the scraps that we do have of him? What made him so fundamentally unlikable to his peers? /: With my König I’ve settled on it being a blend of neurodivergency and a nightmare home life and alienation from his peers.

Height is predominantly viewed as a good trait. I don’t think it was necessarily his appearance at all that got him picked on so heavily (albeit… I do think that he would have had some scars, crooked teeth, regular facial bruising or cuts from scraps with other children/his father). Perhaps not the most conventionally attractive guy around, but normally viewed as a solid 5/10, just average. The kind of person who you wouldn’t remember from just a face alone.

His personality was always memorable though.

Whilst the other children/teenagers were interested in the regular trends, sports, whatever was shown on the television or heard on the radio at the time, I think he probably would have had a great interest in escapism!!

Comics, books, researching history and geography, etc, anything that could keep him from thinking of where he was/what other people viewed him as. He had a lot of strange things to say: odd facts (like the kind of person to tell you the longest word in the dictionary because he thinks it’s cool, “um actually—“ to correct something, monologuing about some bug you’ve just squashed and how it was not just a pest but very useful in nature, borderline concerning reactions to being shunned (feigned threats of violence that he would laugh off, things he’s probably heard from media and his own parents), over explaining himself for the simplest of misunderstandings, and… quoting his Oma’s very old-fashioned turns of phrase (think of little Kö regularly saying “Du gehst mir tierisch auf den Keks.” when he’s annoyed whereas the others say things far less dated like “Du gehst mir auf den Sack.”)

With him being difficult to relate to and having the most uncanny things slip out of his mouth, others probably did view him as a bit of a freak. He didn’t particularly stand up for himself often either apart from a few fights (and would never hit a girl). He would stay quiet, pretend to focus on his studies or whatever else was before him while the other children jeered and taunted. Regularly a target for fake confessions and offers to hang out outside of school, too.

König did have crushes, did have people he thought were cool and wanted to befriend, but after the third time of showing up someplace that he had to walk to on his own to find that no one had actually wanted to spend their time with him, he gave up.

I don’t think he had a good relationship with his parents or much of anyone. Seriously, leaving for the military at seventeen sets off a ton of alarm bells! He left the week of his Oma’s passing, because what else was there for him — no girlfriend, no prospects, hardly a relationship with his mother or father.

His father was your standard shit parent— womanizing, loud, physically abusive towards König. “Bonding” activities with him always had a heavy lean towards violence: hunting and arguing that usually resulted in fist fighting his own son seemed to be his favorites. A small man with an equally small ego— he probably would have boasted about his affairs to König, exposed him to pornography as a way of making sure his son wasn’t anything other than straight (which: never stopped his curiosity). He would never hold back from telling König that he would never in a million years find a girl willing to put up with his supposed stupidity and shortcomings. Generally just viewed his own son as utterly worthless if not for use as a punching bag.

In turn, König always loathed him, would dread hearing the bastard just walking around the house because he knew he would always find something to bicker with his wife or son over. Nothing that they ever did would be deemed correct, and his social anxiety initially developed from his dealings with him.

His mother was withdrawn, emotionally neglectful. König was just… there to her; another mouth to feed, another person begging for the attention she would have rather spared on herself.

She wasn’t a bad mother and she did try, but the product of dealing with his father’s nonsense + letting her own mental illness go unchecked (as in, his father controlled the family financially and why would he let her blow through their funds to see a therapist and “lose her lucidity with pills and ridiculous talks”). There were some days when she would be feeling more like herself and take König along with her for walks through the park where she would try to ask him about his life, about school, and… he would end up spilling his guts to her only for her to return to silence. Still, those were his favorite days. His fondest memory was picking a flower for her on one of those walks, one that she kept pressed and later framed.

There were never family dinners, no movie nights, no day trips or vacations. The most blissful of days were spent in the comfort of his room where he could keep the door locked and muffle the sounds of his parents arguing with loud music.

So, König did not have much of a safe space within his own home, but he had his Oma and her cluttered little house. She had books and plenty of food, even a cat, too. Though she was like his mother, stern and withdrawn, she would at least sit with him and tell him stories of her own life. She would at least tell him “Ich lieb dich, Käferchen!” in her quiet voice, stroke his head where he would sit with his nose buried in a book beside her. She would show him her dusty antiques, her old photographs, and in turn taught him to be a proper man by making him tend to what needed to be done around her house. And the garden. He loved his Oma’s garden, full of orchids, petunias, and tomatoes she would mash up to make him goulash or tomatensalat!

With Austria’s leading religion being Catholicism, I do think his Oma would have dragged him with her to service plenty, too. Not that he ever particularly enjoyed it… just zoned out with a plastic soldier in his pocket to fidget with or some trading card he spent the money he earned doing chores for her on. He’s never considered himself religious, thought himself to be bound for Hell no matter what, even if most of the time he felt that he was already there.

You take a puppy that’s been beaten down his entire life, but still remains eager and throw him in a barrack with people more horrible than any bully he’s ever had, though…? He starts taking his father’s advice more and more then. He wouldn’t harm anyone that he didn’t view as deserving of it, but it didn’t need to go that far that often, anyway. König is aware of the space he takes up by then, aware that all of his training has made him more broad and sturdy, and those playground fights are nothing compared to what he’s capable of now.

He gets his callsign from a quip about him owning nothing. His barrack is empty, devoid of pictures or any sentimental belongings. He rarely checks his phone, there might be the occasional missed call from a spam number, what is there to even see? He has no social media presence, every leave is spent in a shitty apartment only a days travel from his hometown, and he is utterly silent when the other soldiers invite him out for drinks. So yes, he’s a king. The king of absolutely nothing.

One of these rowdy boys does eventually coax him into talking to a woman. He loses his virginity in a disgusting bar bathroom, where he asks her after the two minutes he’s spent inside of her if it means anything to her at all. She laughs, washes herself in the sink and calms him down, but doesn’t give him her number or anything more than her first name.

He’s starved for love, utterly miserable without it, but doesn’t have much of a desire to seek it out, either. He’s seen how people are, how they treat him. But time and time again he will grapple onto any thread that may lead him to a pinhole of hope when it’s offered to him. For the most part, he has his hand and a perpetually almost-empty bottle of lotion.

And it’s not much of a surprise that König has contemplated suicide more times than he can count. It has never culminated in any way, only fearing that he would disappoint his men, even further disappoint his parents, maybe even a small part of him still believes in a Hell; that maybe with enough vigilantism on his part he’ll earn his way to a pleasant afterlife, one he teeters on the separation of believing in and not.

He doesn’t think about his mental health, always haunted by his father’s words, thinking that assuredly it would make him weak if he were to seek help for something like his own thoughts. So he overexerts himself during workouts, bottles everything other than rage and love inside: no one is going to see him cry, not ever again after being laughed at for him hundreds of times during school where he sat being called an “ugly giant” a “daydreaming freak” and an “idiot” near daily where silent tears did escape, only spurring further laughter.

Though I do not write him with these things in mind for every au, there are always subtle hints scattered about. ^^ I could probably prattle on forever about him, but I will leave you with this for now…

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iridiss · 4 months ago

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I think because Aphmau is a self-insert character, it’s hard to pinpoint exactly what her personality is, because her personality is just…Jess’s personality. If a little different. Which makes it hard for me to get into Aphmau’s head, to see exactly how she works, what makes her tick—it doesn’t come naturally to me at all, and I wouldn’t be surprised if I wasn’t alone in that regard

Now that I’m finally working on my MCD rewrite, I really want to make sure I get Aphmau’s personality right, especially since she’s literally the protagonist character and likely the most common POV I’ll be using. I want to find a way to copy how watching her POV in-game felt, and make it so that it feels the same when I’m writing the fic. Lately, it hasn’t been feeling the same at all, and that’s mostly intentional, since I want her to evolve into the “unintentionally badass” woman that she is in the canon series. I want her to start off as kind of bright-eyed and naive, similar to Mystreet!Aphmau, as a newcomer to the world whose never seen a lick of war and violence in her life. Mainly because I know she’s going to be exposed to all of that later and fundamentally changed by it. But as I’m studying canon MCD Aphmau and trying to break down everything she does, how she thinks, the choices she makes and the patterns therein that define her, what choices she doesn’t make and what that says about her as a person… I think I have already strayed too far from the original in places.

Additionally, though Aphmau was still significantly emotionally affected by every little heinous thing that happened to her and her people, throughout season 1 she didn’t experience any sudden shift in who she was as a person. I’ve yet to finish rewatching season 2, so I could be wrong, but to me, it more seems like she held herself together and stayed largely the same person. But she was being slowly chipped away emotionally by everything that got added to the pile. From Brendan getting shot to Aaron’s death, it’s like there’s a million different little nicks and cuts in her mental health and psyche that have simply built up over time. Some of those scars are larger than others, like the 15 year timeskip and losing Aaron/Garroth/Laurance, but they all weigh on her psyche and make her progressively more anxious, more careful, more…traumatized? She’s traumatized and she’s not. I’d like to at least headcanon her as traumatized, probably severely by season 3. I’d like to think she’s a woman with the whole entire world on her shoulders and a million ghosts haunting her wherever she goes, and all of this leads to a great deal of stress and anxiety in her day-to-day life that she’s just kinda… Living With. She muscles through it. She keeps going. There are even moments I’m noticing in canon where she doesn’t allow herself to fully dwell on her grief and stress, saying it’s “selfish” to let them consume her, and then moving on to check on literally everyone else in the village and make sure they’re okay first.

Aphmau is a character that’s hard to understand in the broad strokes, like how you can see Laurance’s broad strokes of “Casanova” and “fiercely loyal” and “in love with Aphmau�� and make a pretty easy surface mold of what he’s like. It’s like every other character has at least one or two giant, broad strokes of paint on the wall that distinguish them as unique.

Garroth is a gentleman, Kiki loves her animals and can be stubbornly gullible. Donna is sassy, Dale is an alcoholic, Katelyn is fierce, Travis is playful and flirtatious, Aaron is brooding and guarded, Logan has a stick up his ass, so on and so forth. But they all have really easy to find smaller pieces that you can find and study as well. MCD!Katelyn is much more calm and reserved and proper than her Mystreet counterpart, and on occasion waxes philosophical and drinks tea. Kiki has always wanted to be a mother. Brendan is a horse girl. Garroth is terrible at being ~romantically forward~ like Laurance is, and instead he gets flustered and stuttery and shy and struggles to talk about his feelings with others. Laurance is gentle and caring and will tenderly take care of you and nurse you back to health with a mature, gentle warmth that puts his cocky Casanova personality aside, still flirting and teasing every now and then, but only for the purpose of cracking a joke that would make you smile. And then he reminds you right after how fondly he loves you and how he will never, not ever, leave your side.

Laurance grew up not knowing how to talk to girls, and Sasha was the only female friend he could actually speak to and connect with. Garroth checks on Aphmau in the mornings, asking how she slept and reporting back to her on all the duties she has to tend to for the day. Dale is a brilliant accountant, and that’s his calling in life. Zoey used to regularly prepare tea for Aphmau at night to help her sleep. Logan helped Zoey raise Levin and Malachi during the 15 year timeskip and “secretly” very much loves children. You can find all the little kernels of character and personality and heart in all of them.

But for MCD!Aphmau, it’s like she has one single broad stroke. “Helps others, kind, caring.” And everything else is invisible to me. Mystreet!Aphmau might have a second broad stroke, of “silly and childish and whimsical,” a stroke that MCD!Aphmau has much less of. It’s still there, she still teases and cracks dumb jokes on occasion, but it’s dwarfed in comparison by MCD’s more serious, mature tone and the sheer emotional weight of everything she keeps going through. It’s hard to be silly and have stupid fun when you’re fighting for your life, so in a way, MCD!Aphmau had to grow up in a way that Mystreet!Aphmau never had to. Mystreet!Aphmau’s worst problem (before emerald secret) is “oh no! which cute boy am I gonna date?! Gene is so mean to me in highschool!! Gawd, I wish my mom would let me bring boys home without making it weird, jeez.” She gets to keep her innocence. She doesn’t have to grow up and face the brutality of killers and monsters and the cruelty of the gods, and even after When Angels Fall, I don’t see her heavily maturing and growing as serious as MCD!Aphmau already is on main.

So if MCD!Aphmau has one single broad stroke that, for a protagonist, is actually vague as hell to work with, then maybe she’s a character who is revealed by all the little things that slip through the cracks. Maybe I can paint a picture of what she’s truly, really like (not what I want her to be like) by looking at all the little things, and then working inwards from there,,,

I know she’s at the very least a good person. A very good person. Better than canon Garroth, who has far too many asshole tendencies for my liking after the whole Incel Hell Irene Dimension fiasco (also why the FUCK is he racist—) Better than canon Laurance, better than most people honestly. Which is kind of the point, as an Irene. She’s supposed to be inherently a good, pure-hearted soul, whose destiny and sole calling in life is to help everyone around her. She seems to display a great fear and distress over violence and war. She’s always anxious and freaking the fuck out when she’s in combat (during S1), and building up to the Phoenix War, she was absolutely mortified by the idea of going to war, and yet that distress NEVER boiled over into cowardice. She always chose what was right and stuck to it, stubbornly. Even when faced with the worst of dilemmas, she refuses to succumb to her fear and run away, or pick the easy (and scummy) way out. She cares a great deal about the greater good, even if it comes at a devastating cost to achieve, and by god, she’ll achieve it. When presented with the option of fight or flight, she NEVER picks flight. So she’s brave? Has a strong natural sense of justice? Would she ever make cruel sacrifices, if it was for a greater good? I think I at least know that if I presented her with the option of “kill Garroth and Laurance, or save the entire world,” she would refuse the dilemma entirely and go to EXTREME lengths to forge a third option where she gets to keep the world AND her boys, and everyone comes out unharmed. (And in my mind, this is what distinguishes her from the old Irene…)

She is a herald for peace, above anything else. When Scaleswind destroyed her home as an act of violent rage, she didn’t seek revenge or even allow herself to feel vitriol or resentment for the man that attacked her people. Instead, she (cautiously and hesitantly) accepted his pleas for forgiveness if it meant she could have peace for Phoenix Drop. She held him accountable for his crimes, yes, but she forgave him, trusted him with the Phoenix Drop Alliance, and even trusted him with her people. All the while reiterating to him that she is an agent working for peace, and he needs to get on her level if he wants her forgiveness. She even offers care and aid to all of the rotten O’khasis knights that still swear their fealty to Zane. She brings them to court for their crimes, but she also offers them her care and a place to stay if they need it. She believes in justice, but not cruel retribution. The moral high ground isn’t a weapon she uses to bludgeon others with. She draws her strength by pulling others up with her. Even putting her trust in those unworthy of it at times, but that then inspires them to make better choices and pledge themselves to her cause. Even if you were a horrible, terrible person, she refuses to be downright cruel. It’s very rare to see her anger get the best of her (not that I don’t doubt that has happened at least once or twice in the series, I’m just saying it’s not her go-to choice when resolving any conflict). She will always give people the benefit of the doubt.

I know she struggles with sleeping problems, mainly due to her stress. She did for most of the latter quarter of S1 and when I skipped ahead and watched a few snippets of S2, she was STILL bringing up how poorly she slept last night, so like. You could make a case that she has insomnia. She could have insomnia. And PTSD but that’s a given

She finds babies absolutely adorable and has strong maternal instincts. (a connection between this and her great care for Phoenix Drop as a whole could possibly be strung… I don’t think “maternal instincts” is at all why she helps PD though. I think she just does that…because…you should. Because it’s the right thing to do. Obviously. If given the choice to be kind and help someone, she will always pick that choice, because,,,she just does)

you could make an argument that she has dyslexia. if you made a drinking game out of every time she flubbed reading the lines on the screen you would keel over and die by episode 15 I think.

you could make an argument that she needs glasses because Jess wears glasses for the first little while of S1 before she seems to have switched to contacts for the rest of the aphverse

She loves animals and has more animals than she has children

She seems very slow to develop romantic feelings for anyone. I think she only really started to develop little bits of romantic feelings for Garroth come late S1, and for Laurance probably like. around episode 95ish if you’re pushing it early, but honestly she probably only developed feelings for him after the entirety of season 1. after Laurance and her had already become very close and intimate on a platonic level. And any of his flirtatious advances prior to that she CONSISTENTLY responded to with flat out rejection, disgust, exasperation and annoyance with zero romance in sight. meanwhile she’s been very affectionate with Zoey from the beginning and is much more sweet and domestic with her than any of the boys, so like. I can definitely see where all the aroace spectrum aphmau headcanons in the fandom are coming from now and I wouldn’t be surprised if she was some form of demiromantic as well, but that’s straying out of canon aphmau territory and into headcanon land

Her worst fear, confirmed by Malachi, is seeing the entire village be burned to the ground with everyone she loves inside. Seeing Garroth and Laurance and every single villager murdered before she can do anything to stop it. She’s scared of losing them (and wow guess exactly what ends up happening… Garroth gets lost in the Irene dimension…Laurance becomes a cold and cruel shadow knight and she loses him to the nether… Aaron dies and becomes the shadow lord… girlie can just not win. and I’d like to explore more of the deep emotional impact that could’ve had on her—your worst fear is losing everyone you loved, seeing them get torn out of your hands brutally and violently, and..that happens. that happens to her anyway. to all of her boys, individually. there’s no way that’s not traumatic and emotional as hell for her) maybe you could even play into the idea that she has abandonment issues…

Every now and then she shows a few signs of toxic positivity and emotional repression. “Smile and be happy, focus on the work that’s important right now instead of completely and utterly crumbling under the weight of my grief and trauma” type shit. I feel like I can’t help but notice a running pattern that she keeps being presented with dialogue options that are emotionally vulnerable and intimate in some way, usually ones that progress her relationships with others (both romantically and platonically) and express a great deal of care or feeling…and then there’s the exposition dump dialogue option that continues her constant search for information that furthers the plot, and she often chooses that instead. Like for example, in one dialogue option with Aaron, she doesn’t say, “I really care about you, please, can’t you trust me?” Instead, she chooses to say, “What will you do?” Which is much more business talk as opposed to spilling her heart out to people. She seems to apologize for herself whenever she expresses a heightened amount of emotion, especially if it’s sadness or grief or anger, and again, I’d like to point to her taking 90+ fucking episodes to allow herself to feel any sort of intimacy with Laurance, the very man who has been constantly showering her with affection, and not just the dumb flirty stuff!! But like deep, sincere proclamations of “you matter to me,” and “I’ll never leave your side” and “you are my world, aphmau”!!! Bro I would have MELTED into his arms 70 fucking episodes ago if I met a man that talked to me like he does!! But she doesn’t!! SHE KEEPS HIM AT ARMS LENGTH!! THATS NOT NORMAL!!! Especially when EVERY OTHER character in the cast keeps falling in love at first sight. (so intimacy issues? trust issues? probably not trust issues. fear? too much on her mind? demiromantic ?? or probably a mix of all of the above + a dash of headcanon for the sexuality part)

And it’s so fascinating to see what she could say, but doesn’t. And sometimes you’ll even see her hesitate over the other, more intimate dialogue options, and then decide otherwise. It’s utterly fascinating to think that a character hugely defined by her heart might struggle with vulnerability.

She also hesitates over funny options a lot but decides against them because the serious, emotionally mature options are more appropriate and polite for the situation at hand lol. Laurance is a frequent exception to this rule, she will tease him no matter how serious their conversation is lmao (Laurance brings out her more forgotten whimsical side…?)

So on and so forth while I continue my binge rewatch of the entire series and collect more. So far, she seems to be overall: Kind. Gentle. Soft, warm, friendly, forgiving, understanding, merciful, patient. Playful and whimsical, though that’s become more forgotten with time and hardship. Serious, very emotionally mature, very much a source of wisdom among her peers. Inherently strong sense of justice, will always fight for the right thing. Brave and persistent. Refuses to ever back down from a challenge. Probably at least a little emotionally avoidant and I would not be surprised if she struggled with a particularly harsh inner critic. Optimistic. Never lets go of her heart, led by her heart much more than her brain, though that isn’t to say she isn’t smart, she’s not an idiot. Loves animals. Natural leader. Maternal. Insomniac. Probably neurodivergent, possibly aroace, possibly dyslexic, most likely needs glasses. Traumatized, very much so. Very stressed and anxious (please god someone give her a break). Carries the weight of the world on her shoulders but refuses to let herself crumble, even if she is exhausted and worn down and at her limit. you also cannot look at Zoey and Aphmau’s daily interactions and tell me there isn’t at least a little bit of sapphicism going on there. they love each other so much <3 and if not, she is a single mother going through literal actual hell and hanging on by a string but through the force of necessity and probably at least a little bit of toxic positivity and emotional avoidance she will persevere whether she wants to or not

and I will continue to learn more as we go along 👍

#MCD #aphmau #aphblr #Minecraft diaries #MCD aphmau #aphmau diaries #long post

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eroslove88 · 2 years ago

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"She only wanted to lie beside him"

Pairing: Yan. Kenma x Fem. Reader

Warnings: Stalking, kidnapping, bondage, noncon touching and noncon implied

Note: WOAH!!! I POST 2 TIMES IN A WEEK. WILD!!! Uhm yeah, this is a guilty pleasure fic.

Turning on your computer you feel a bit... dumb? It feels useless to even message him- but yet here you are. Kenma messaged you, and that's not out of the ordinary. Actually it's pretty normal, it's been normal for like 6-7 months.

You got close to him because he was in a server with a mutual friend. He goes to your high school and growing up the most you said to him was something about project years ago. Senior year- you thought that this would be the year where you'd come out of your shell but that never happened. Anxiety crashed that thought early on. When you got on a daily routine of texting Kenma you thought he'd actually want to befriend you, but that's not what happened. Long late night conversations and not a word said to each other in real life. It doesn't help that you two walk the same way home either...

Maybe you wouldn't have cared so much if you didn't have a small crush on him.

'hey did we hv hw' your computer gets a notification, Kenma. You sigh and type back, 'Yeah, the insert for this lesson.' you see that he's typing but he stops and doesn't respond until about 5 minutes later- despite being online. '👍' you couldn't help but roll your eyes and just sigh.

None the less he was an ok dude, he had offered to gift you things, games & chocolates- all of which you declined. You didn't want to feel materialistic and greedy.

'do you wanna play gungeon' you put your jacket on and replied quickly, 'Sorry, I'm going for a walk. I can play in an hour though!' you patiently waited and he replied quickly. 'k' huffing you closed your laptop, charging it before you left.

During the winter, the sun went down faster than usual. So around 7ish the streets were empty for walkers except for the occasional dog walkers.

The sound of quiet foot steps penetrated your mind. Snapping your head around you're faced with empty streets, probably paranoia you thought. You turned your music up walking down your usual route.

Even with the music playing you couldn't help but hear footsteps everywhere. You weren't so far from the park... just 3 more blocks.

The feeling of being watched burns your neck, you really should've turned around. Pounding footsteps come running towards you but you were too late. Your screams were demoted to tiny whimpers as you weakly try grasping the needle in your neck.

You were freezing, your arms and legs were duct taped together. It was a pretty lazy job, but whatever kind of tape it was was pretty fucking strong. Your vision was blurred with tears and you whimper into your gag and curled into yourself seeming to have missed the boy sitting at the desk across the room.

It wasn't until you heard the creaking of the chair and light footsteps that you felt panic. Your eyes remained closed even when he was right by your face.

The bed dipped down, "Don't worry, I won't hurt you" a small crying noise comes out from your gag as you try to beg him to stay away. He shushed you coming closer but all you could do was shake your head and try to move away, "Hey, it's ok" he spoke to you like a stray kitten as he slowly approached your trembling body, "Sh... It's only me" you knew that. But that didn't stop you from squirming in his arm as you tried pushing him away. He tisked at your pitiful attempt, " 'm really sorry for not approaching you" he mumbles kissing your head. "I knew you were lonely..." he chuckles, "But that honestly made things even easier" he let's you go and stands up. "I've been waiting a while to do this you know" he pulls out a black box. He opened it and paused "I've always been curious to see how your pretty face would look with a full pussy" he pulls out 3 big dildos, "and ass" he smirks pulling out a condom. "2 v. 2?"

#tw yandere #tw kidnapping #yandere #tw noncon #haikyu smut #haikyuu yandere #yandere haikyu x reader #yandere haikyuu #yandere kenma #yandere kozume #kenma kozume

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toomuchracket · 1 year ago

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black cat (dad!ross x reader fluff)

day 28 of promptober, the penultimate fic for me, and the return of dad!ross in fic form!! i like this one a lot. basically... you come home from work, and there's a cat in your gaff. cute! hope you enjoy <3

the first thing you see when you get home is your three year old son sat on the stairs by himself. keir is engrossed in one of the little thomas the tank engine picture books he loves so much, so engrossed that he doesn't even register the door opening, or the rush of cold air into the house that follows.

only when he hears the door close does keir look up. his little face lights up when he sees you, and he slowly sit-shuffles down, a stair at a time, before running to you and wrapping his entire little body around your leg. "hi mummy."

"hi baby," you lean down (with more difficulty than you'd care to admit) and kiss your son's head, shrugging your jacket off as you do. "how are you?"

"sleepy."

"me too, sweetheart," you hang your jacket on the coat stand. "you want up?"

keir nods, raising his arms. with a bit of effort, you scoop him up into your own - it's not that he's too heavy to lift, he's just so long-limbed (a trait he did not inherit from you) that manoeuvring him always takes a second. but it's worth it for the way he snuggles into you and faffs about with the string on your - well, ross's - hoodie.

speaking of ross - "where's dad, keir?"

"kitchen," comes the response, muffled by your jumper. "with eils."

"oh, ok. let's go and find them, yeah?"

keir nods sleepily into your neck, cuddling into you as you wander through the house. the incredibly tidy house, far neater than it was when you left this morning. there isn't a stray piece of lego anywhere, for once, and the carpets, you notice as you pad over them in your socks, have all been vacuumed to perfection. even the mess of blankets on the sofas have been folded - that never happens.

hmmmmm. interesting.

"what did you get up to today, then, baby? did you go to the park?" you nudge keir slightly when you see his eyelids fluttering closed. he's only just gotten past the napping phase, and you and ross are determined not to let him slip back into it.

your son brightens up immediately, and you know exactly what he's about to say. "yeah! me and dad played football. eilidh did cartwheels."

"who won the game?"

keir smiles smugly. "me."

"that's my boy!" you kiss his cheek.

he giggles. it makes your heart happy. "what did you do today, mummy? was your day good?"

oh, bless him. "it was, baby, thank you," you smile. "went to do some planning for when dad goes back to work. saw your auntie - she told me to give you a big hug from her, by the way - and cuddled lyla for a while."

"is the new baby here yet?"

"no, not yet. he will be soon, though."

(imminently, most likely - your friend is extremely, extremely pregnant. like, to the point that you were genuinely concerned about her leaving the house to hang out in a café with you. but she insisted, with an "i had to get out of there. matty's driving me up the fucking wall"; a statement you have also personally related to in life.)

keir hums. "and then he can play football with me."

"well, he won't be able to, for a while," you giggle, lightly poking your son's stomach. "he needs to learn how to walk first, remember."

"oh, yeah," he nods seriously. "maybe we can still get him a kit, though? just so he's ready?"

"i think your auntie and uncle will probably want to buy him his first one, but i'll ask them," you make a mental note to text after dinner. "sound good?"

keir nods again. he smiles, eyes crinkling really cutely, as you kiss his head and continue towards the kitchen. you can smell garlic and herbs and something rich that you can't quite name, wafting through the house quite deliciously; your stomach rumbles at the smell, but your eyes narrow. clean house, dinner on… ross is up to something.

as you near the kitchen, you can hear ross and eilidh whispering to each other through the half-open door. it's difficult to make out what exactly they're saying, over the sound of something bubbling on the stovetop, but they both sound fairly animated.

their backs come into view when you slowly nudge the door open with your hip, and find the two of them standing in front of the sink, bunned heads looking down at something in the basin. that image only lasts a split second, mind you; as soon as they hear the creak of the door (ross didn't fix that today like he's been promising to do for a week, apparently), the two of them spin round to face you so quickly that eilidh nearly falls off her ikea kids stepstool.

her eyes are wide, but ross smiles sweetly at you. "hi, my love. didn't hear you come in. you must've been really quiet."

to the untrained eye and ear, ross would seem completely unfazed right now. but to you, the person who knows him best in the world, his smile is slightly too fixed to be natural, and there's a tiny tremor to his voice… he's freaking out about something. what?

before you can question, though, keir speaks. "yeah, dad, she was quiet. i didn't notice she was there. and then the door closed and i knew."

"keir!" eilidh wails. "you were meant to notice! that was your job! you were on mummy lookout, stupid!"

"eilidh macdonald! don't be so rude to your brother!" you say sternly, at the same time keir buries his head in your neck, and ross turns to your five year old and just raises his eyebrows. it's quite impressive how quickly he can shut anyone up with that look - even you aren't immune, and that's saying something.

your eldest looks at her dad, then you, then at keir and his quivering lip, then at the floor. "sorry. please don't cry, keir, i didn't really mean it."

too late. you can feel both hot tears hitting off your bare neck and your son's shoulders rising and falling as he sniffles. ross nudges eilidh forward, and you don't miss the way he steps to the side so the sink is blocked from your line of vision; she tentatively puts a hand on her brother's arm and speaks. "really didn't mean what i said, keir, i'm really really sorry. please can we be friends again?"

keir turns to look at her with an expression of complete and utter betrayal. "you promise you didn't mean it?"

eilidh nods sincerely.

"'kay," keir sniffles. "but i get to tell mum the secret."

"deal."

"tell mum what secret?" you question, eyes flicking to meet your husband's. "has it got something to do with the suddenly very tidy house, and the dinner you're currently making? which, off topic, smells incredible. but yes. i would like to know what's going on."

"oh, you noticed the living room. nice," ross says, his face indicating the opposite.

"ross, babe, why are you freaking out?"

"i'm not! well - ok, fine," your husband sighs. "kids, you need to take over. it's better if it comes from you. you're cuter."

"aha! you are trying to butter me up," you point at ross, who just shrugs, and then look at keir. "ok, baby, tell me the secret."

"know how i said we went to the park and me and dad played football and i won and eilidh did cartwheels?"

you bite back a laugh. god, your little boy really is just so adorable. "yeah…"

"and when we were walking back home there was a cat."

he stops there. you wait for a beat and then talk. "ok…?"

ross interjects, hands on eilidh's shoulders to stop her from jumping in. "and what did the cat do, mate?"

keir has to think for a second; he grins when the penny drops. "oh! it followed us home."

the penny is also beginning its descent to the ground for you, now. "a cat followed you home…"

"...and now it's in the sink," keir finishes the sentence for you.

for fuck's sake.

"ross, can i talk to you in the hall for a second?" with great effort, you keep your voice steady, despite the fact you're screaming on the inside.

your husband sees that, though, of course he does. gulping almost imperceptibly, he nods. "kids, keep an eye on our guest, yeah? hands off, though. and no touching the cooker either."

"ok, dad," eilidh kindly runs to get her brother's stepstool and put it next to her own. "keir, come and see!"

you put your son down, and he runs to join his sister. she wraps her arm around his shoulders, and you allow yourself a second of smiling at how cute they are before you pull ross through the doorway and let your anger take over.

as soon as he closes the door behind him, you let rip. "you let our children bring an alley cat into my house?! just picked up a random creature off the street and brought it in? what if it's feral? or it has fleas? the last thing we need right now is it scratching someone's eye out. or an infestation, my god. wait, what if it's already got a home, and you've just stolen someone's pet? jesus christ, we could be criminals! i can't believe this. i need to sit down."

"love…" ross begins, tugging you into him in lieu of you sliding down the wall onto the parquet floor. something about the familiarity of his arms and aftershave enveloping you makes you teary, and he patiently rubs your back.

"what are we going to tell the kids?" you sniffle into ross's chest, not unlike the way your son was sniffling into your neck a moment ago. "when it turns out we can't keep it because it needs to be sheltered or it already lives somewhere else? they'll be distraught, babe! i can't do that to our babies."

ross unwraps his arms from your waist. your lips start to tremble as soon as he lets go, but you're appeased when he cups your face in his big hands instead. "listen to me, my love. please," he says firmly, but not unkindly. "d'you really think i'm daft enough to let our kids bring home a cat that i thought would ever hurt them, or you, or me?"

"no, but-"

"and don't you think i've checked with the neighbours to see if anyone's missing a cat? because i have. even spoke to scary margaret."

you giggle. "is she as terrifying up close?"

"worse. don't wanna talk about it," ross smiles, and you get the sense that everything will be alright. "popped into the vet on the corner to get our new friend checked, too. no microchip, no fleas - and i gave it a bath, too, just in case, did the fairy liquid trick and everything…"

"how the fuck did you know about that trick?"

ross sighs. "tiktok, but, love, it's really alright," he strokes your cheeks with his thumbs. "it's just… a random nice cat, who really likes our kids."

"you're sure?" you ask, still giggling sporadically at the way he defeatedly admitted to watching cat care tiktoks.

"positive."

"alright," another thought crosses your mind; you squint suspiciously at ross. "and what about the tidying, and the dinner? were you genuinely trying to butter me up?"

ross's cheeks go pink. it's adorable. "a little bit…"

"i knew it!"

"...but we also thought that it would be nice for the cat to see its new home in the best circumstances."

you loop your arms around the back of your husband's neck, grinning. "you're so sure i'll approve of this new addition to the household?"

"once the two of you finally meet, yeah," ross pecks your lips. "come on, love. before the dinner gets burnt and the kids start crying again."

shaking your head as you huff out a laugh, you take ross's hand and lead him back into the kitchen. he immediately heads towards the cooker, while you lean against the doorframe for a moment to watch eilidh and keir watch their new friend, still obscured from your line of sight. in spite of your inhibitions towards the whole situation, your babies' joy is undeniable, and you feel a proper fuzzy sense of love looking at them.

keir looks over his shoulder, beaming; dear god, he really is just ross's mini-me. "mummy, come and meet him!"

"him?" you raise your eyebrows as you pad over slowly. "you know he's a him?"

"we saw when we were washing him," eilidh doesn't look up from the sink, too fixated on her new furry friend. "well, me and keir didn't. but dad says he's a boy."

you look briefly over at ross, who nods in confirmation, before patting your daughter's head. "well, i guess we're outnumbered, bean. you cool with that?"

eilidh nods. "he's so cute i don't care. look, mum!"

you do as requested, and your jaw drops. lying half-wrapped in a soft old baby towel you had no idea you still had, sat in the belfast sink, is the cutest little kitten you think you've ever seen; almost pure black, with a tiny little white patch of fur on the top of its head and the biggest green eyes you know you've ever seen on a cat. it looks fairly healthy, if slightly on the thinner side, and content to be in the warmth of your kitchen and be gawked at by your kids.

experimentally, you rest your hand just so on the rim of the sink, so your fingers almost dangle down; the cat stretches and stands, then wanders over to you and gently nuzzles into the digits. he purrs as he does, and any and all reservations you had about keeping him dissipate completely.

"hi, darling," you coo, gently picking the cat up and cradling him. he lets you do so with absolutely no resistance, purring the whole time as you scratch at his stomach. "oh, you're just the loveliest, aren't you? would you like to stay here with us? yeah? we would like that too - wouldn't we, kids?"

eilidh and keir answer in hushed tones, taking it in turns to carefully pet their new friend. ross wanders over, smiling, and kisses your head. "guess we'll need to name him now, yeah?"

you nod. "what do you think, kids?"

"salem," eilidh answers immediately.

ross squints. "have you been watching sabrina the teenage witch?"

"yeah."

"i mean, great show, but where, baby?" you ask.

"at lyla's."

"oh, ok," ross nods, then leans down to whisper in your ear. "how upset d'you reckon matty'll be when i tell him he's been replaced as eilidh's favourite?"

"oof," you wince. "heartbroken. anyway," you shift your attention back to the kids. "what's your choice, keir?"

your youngest ponders for a moment, looking intently at the cat. "he kinda looks like toothless. maybe that?"

ross pouts, like the cuteness is too much for him. "he does look like toothless the dragon! that's better than my choice, keir - i was going to say guinness, because of his head."

you scoff - typical ross - while eilidh's brow furrows. "i don't get it."

"and that's why we shouldn't call him that," you say, stroking the cat's little head. "we can have a think during dinner and decide later. i'll hang onto him; i think i need to get to know him better before i make any name choices."

ross smirks. "alright, love."

true to your word, the cat genuinely does not leave you the whole night, except to take food and water breaks - you continue to hold him while ross dishes up the pasta he made, he naps as you eat dinner, and he curls up contentedly on your lap as you watch tv with a cuppa later in the evening.

and yet… you still can't think of a name for him. the process of coming up with one becomes so tortuous that you have to text the friend you saw earlier in the day:

you: hi babe, hope you're having a good night! would either you or matty be able to drop off that baby-name book i loaned you tomorrow? i unexpectedly need it back lol x

bff: WHAT

bff: of course i'll drop it off but OMFG ARE YOU PREGNANT AGAIN

you: omg haha no

you: sorry i kinda implied that didn't i x

another text interrupts your convo:

shortarse: fucksake can you not stress us out like that please

shortarse: she genuinely got so excited about the thought of another baby macdonald that i honestly thought she was going to go into labour

shortarse: tf do you need the book for then

you: came home to find ross and the kids had brought home a cat lol

shortarse: fuck off

shortarse: send pics

shortarse: wait no ew that sounds weird nvm

shortarse: can we come over and meet it lol

you: drop the book off tomorrow and i'll consider it

you: also keir wants to buy the baby a football kit lol can we? nufc obv

shortarse: sound

shortarse: aww i love that kid

shortarse: of course he can get a kit

shortarse: also my girl says you should have another baby and it can be best friends with our baby lol

shortarse: i mean it's not like our kids won't be best friends anyway

shortarse: but you get the point

shortarse: i think it would be cute tbh

shortarse: anyway i'm off to go and calm her down before our son makes his debut appearance on the carpet

shortarse: byeeeeeeee we love you all we'll see you tomorrow

you: we love you too!

chuckling, you click your phone off and throw it to the side of the couch. ross lifts his head from your chest as you do. "what are you giggling at, love?"

"i just asked if someone from the healy household could drop the baby-name book off, because i genuinely have no idea what to name our new friend…"

"...and they thought we were having another baby?" ross smiles, kissing your cheek.

"there was so much excitement that the new baby almost made an appearance, apparently," you smile as ross throws his head back laughing. "but i explained that you and the kids had been adopted by a cat…"

"...and matty insisted on dropping the book off tomorrow so he could meet it?"

"god, you're good at this game. he did, after asking me to, and i quote, send pics. of the cat, obv," you shake your head. "i was spared a pussy pics joke, thankfully."

ross snorts. "well, he has got baby brain."

"i'll say. he and the missus tried to convince me that us having a third kid would be cute."

your husband smiles, softly caressing the sleeping cat and trailing his hand up your arm. "well, i wouldn't be opposed to it."

"really?" you gently turn his head so he's looking at you - there's not a shred of insincerity in those lovely eyes of his. "you're not just saying that to further fulfil your dream of shagging a milf?"

"no, love," ross giggles, and your heart skips a beat. "i'm just saying, i wouldn't mind having another baby with you. but i think we should probably at least name the fluffy one on your lap first."

"yeah. and sort out litter trays and all that," you scratch the cat between the ears, and savour the purring that he emits. it's a perfect little domestic tableau you've got going on, what with you snuggled into ross with the cat asleep on your lap, and eilidh and keir sat on the floor against ross's legs, happily watching bluey; a baby would slot in perfectly. "i'm up for it too, though. i love our family. i love you. and i think we should at least consider a third kid."

"i love you too," ross leans in to kiss you sweetly. "fourth, though."

"hmm?"

"the cat. our third kid. a baby would be the fourth."

you smile. "i suppose you're right. ok, let's give our third kid some time to settle in and get used to the house - which, by the way, i expect to be this tidy all the time from now on - and then we'll discuss a fourth. sound good?"

ross kisses you again. "sounds great."

#mads muses #mads does writing #dad!ross #promptober75 #ross macdonald fanfiction #ross macdonald fanfic #ross macdonald fic #ross macdonald fluff #ross macdonald x reader #ross x reader

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