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urdreamydoodles · 1 month ago

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MARVEL COMICS CHARACTERS X FEM!READER

You kiss them when they least expect it

Characters: Peter Parker, Tony Stark, Steve Rogers, Thor, Loki, Clint Barton, Natasha Romanoff, Bucky Barnes, Matthew Murdock, Frank Castle, Bullseye, Marc Spector, Taskmaster, Johnny Storm, Reed Richards, Ben Grimm, Susan Storm, Felicia Hardy, Stephen Strange, Namor, Johnny Blaze, Eddie Brock / Venom, T'Challa, Elektra Natchios, Muse, Victor von Doom, Peter Quill & Nova

Reply to anon: As promised...your little Catholic boy. I spend my days writing to keep my mind off my surgery. I'm a really anxious person, so I have to fill my head with my pleasures (my fandoms). So the requests will come out quickly, I'm happy and you're happy... win win. Thank you for all your requests and support. LOVE YOU GUYS SO MUCH ♡

Peter Parker

- Peter Parker has been kissed before. He has known the warmth of affection, the giddy rush of young love, the slow ache of something deeper. But nothing—nothing—could have prepared him for the moment your lips press against his, sudden and unannounced, shattering the rhythm of his thoughts like a lightning strike in the middle of a quiet night. His brain short-circuits instantly.

- His body reacts before his mind does, his breath catching, fingers twitching as if unsure whether to hold you or simply let himself drown in the moment. There is a fleeting second of hesitation, a half-formed thought that this must be some kind of dream, some cruel trick played by the universe. But your warmth is real, your presence undeniable. The city fades around him, the constant hum of responsibility momentarily silenced beneath the press of your lips.

- When you finally pull away, Peter blinks—once, twice—like he’s trying to process what just happened. Then, without warning, his face erupts into a deep crimson flush, spreading down to his neck like wildfire. “Oh,” he breathes out, voice slightly strangled. “Okay. Cool. That was… um. Wow.” He rubs the back of his neck, a nervous chuckle escaping him. “Was that, like, a scientific experiment? Because if so, I volunteer for more data collection.”

- Despite the awkward attempt at humor, his hands are still trembling, his pupils blown wide with something raw and unspoken. And then, after a moment of hesitation, his fingers curl around yours, his grip steady despite the lingering nerves. “But, uh… just so we’re clear,” he murmurs, voice softer now, more certain, “if you ever wanna do that again, you won’t have to catch me off guard next time.”

Tony Stark

- Tony Stark has spent a lifetime mastering control. He anticipates every possible scenario, every variable, every consequence. His mind is a constant whirlwind of calculations, solutions, contingencies. But when you kiss him—when you seize the moment and steal his breath away with no warning, no preamble—his mind goes completely, utterly blank. For the first time in years, there is no plan. No exit strategy. Just you.

- His body reacts on instinct, hands coming up to grasp your waist, a sharp inhale against your lips. But it’s not just the physical contact that undoes him—it’s the fact that you did it at all. That you, beautiful and untouchable in a way he never dared to hope for, have chosen him in this moment, with no ulterior motive, no expectation. It is not a conquest. It is not a game. It is real. And Tony Stark has never known how to handle real.

- When you finally break away, his lips are still parted, his usually sharp tongue momentarily silenced. Then, ever so slowly, a grin tugs at the corners of his mouth, something dangerous and delighted and entirely Tony. “Well, well,” he muses, his voice a low hum. “That was unexpected. Not that I’m complaining, of course.” He tilts his head, eyes gleaming with mischief. “But, uh, you might wanna be careful, sweetheart. You kiss me like that, and I might just start thinking you like me.”

- And yet, beneath the bravado, there is something softer, something unspoken in the way his fingers linger against your skin, in the way his expression shifts—just for a fraction of a second—into something almost reverent. Because the truth is, he is already lost. And if you kissed him again, he wouldn’t just let you—he’d make damn sure you never stopped.

Steve Rogers

- Steve Rogers is used to the world moving too fast around him. Time slips through his fingers like sand, people come and go like ghosts, and every moment is a reminder of just how much he has lost. But when you kiss him—when you break through the steady, predictable rhythm of his days with something as sudden and undeniable as your lips against his—it is the first time in a long, long while that he feels truly, absolutely present.

- He freezes at first, caught between instinct and shock, but it lasts only a second. Then, without thinking, his hands find your waist, steadying you both as though the moment itself is something fragile, something sacred. His heart is hammering against his ribs, a deep, resounding drumbeat that he swears you must be able to hear. And when he finally exhales, it is not out of hesitation—but out of something else. Something like surrender.

- When you pull back, his blue eyes are searching, tracing your face with an intensity that makes your breath hitch. He doesn’t speak at first, doesn’t joke or tease or stumble over his words. Instead, he simply watches you, memorizing every detail of the moment, committing it to memory as if he is afraid it will slip away. And then, at last, he lets out a quiet, almost incredulous chuckle. “You really do like keeping me on my toes, don’t you?”

- But there is warmth in his voice, something gentle and unshaken. And then, after a moment, he does something you don’t expect—he leans in again, slower this time, deliberate. His lips brush against yours, and this time, he is the one who takes control. And when he pulls away, his hand lingers at the back of your neck, his thumb tracing slow, absentminded patterns against your skin. “Just so you know,” he murmurs, a small smile playing at his lips, “next time, I won’t let you take me by surprise.”

Thor

- Thor Odinson has been kissed before. He has known the passion of warriors, the devotion of gods, the fleeting tenderness of mortals who looked upon him with awe. And yet, when you kiss him—when you press your lips against his without hesitation, without prelude—it is not reverence that he feels, nor expectation. It is something deeper, something that sinks into his very bones. It is you.

- There is a moment of stillness, as if the entire world holds its breath. Then, with a deep, rumbling exhale, he reacts—not with hesitation, not with shock, but with the full force of a man who has never done anything by halves. His arms wrap around you, pulling you flush against him, his grip firm yet careful, as if you are something both fierce and fragile, something he is terrified of losing.

- When you pull back, he does not release you immediately. His forehead rests against yours, his breath warm against your skin, and for a moment, he simply exists in the aftermath of what you have done. Then, with a slow, wolfish grin, he pulls back just enough to meet your gaze, his eyes bright with something unmistakably pleased. “Ah,” he rumbles, his voice thick with amusement, “so the battle has begun, then?”

- And before you can question him, before you can even think, he leans in once more—this time with purpose, with certainty. His lips claim yours in a way that is both a challenge and an offering, a promise and a declaration. And when he finally pulls away, his fingers trail down your spine, his grip unwavering. “A warning, my beloved,” he murmurs, eyes gleaming. “You have started something you may not wish to finish.” But the way he holds you—the way his touch lingers, possessive and warm—tells you that, in truth, he is hoping you never do.

Loki

- Loki is a creature of calculation, of control wrapped in silver-tongued deception. He reads people like poetry, anticipates betrayals before they are spoken, dissects affections before they can wound him. But when your lips find his—without warning, without preamble—it is the first time in centuries that someone has truly caught him off guard. His breath halts, body rigid, as if the universe itself has shifted beneath him.

- He does not pull away. He does not return it immediately, either. Instead, he remains perfectly still, sharp eyes searching yours with an intensity that borders on dangerous. You can almost hear the gears turning in his mind, the war between disbelief and hunger, between skepticism and the undeniable thrill of being wanted without agenda. And then, ever so slowly, the corner of his mouth curls, something dark and pleased blooming in his expression. “Interesting,” he muses, voice velvet-smooth, though there is an unmistakable edge of breathlessness beneath it.

- When you move to step back, he does not allow it. A hand—cool, firm, deceptively gentle—curls around your wrist, anchoring you in place. “You think you can best me in my own game, little one?” he murmurs, amusement dripping from every syllable. “That you can steal a kiss and escape unscathed?” His voice is teasing, but there is something else beneath it—something raw, something aching, something that trembles on the edge of longing.

- And then, with a slow, deliberate certainty, he leans in once more. This time, there is no hesitation, no caution. His lips claim yours in a way that is both challenge and surrender, fire and ice melting together in something neither of you can quite name. And when he finally pulls away, his thumb traces the edge of your jaw, his smirk lazy yet predatory. “You are playing a dangerous game, darling,” he whispers. “And I do hope you intend to see it through.”

Clint Barton

- Clint Barton has been trained to anticipate the unexpected. He is a man who survives on instinct, who sees what others miss, who never lets his guard down—not truly. But when you kiss him, when you press your lips against his without warning, without prelude, it is the first time in years that someone has managed to slip past his defenses. And it floors him.

- His breath stutters, muscles tensing as if expecting some kind of punchline, some cruel joke at his expense. But then—then—your hands brush against his jaw, gentle, grounding, real. And suddenly, the world feels quieter. The weight of it all—the missions, the past, the scars that never quite fade—momentarily lifts, leaving nothing but the steady, warm press of your mouth against his. And for once, he lets himself sink into it.

- When you finally pull away, he blinks as if shaking off a haze, lips parted in something like disbelief. And then, ever so slowly, a grin spreads across his face—lazy, crooked, entirely Clint. “Well, damn,” he breathes out, a chuckle escaping him. “Gonna be honest, didn’t see that one coming.” He tilts his head, eyes alight with mischief. “You always go around ambushing guys like this, or am I just special?”

- But there is something softer beneath the teasing, something unspoken in the way his fingers linger near yours, as if debating whether to pull you back in. And then, with a quiet exhale, he murmurs, “Not that I’m complaining, but—maybe next time, give a guy some warning?” He smirks. “Or don’t. I kinda like the element of surprise.”

Natasha Romanoff

- Natasha Romanoff is not a woman who is easily caught off guard. She is control, precision, danger wrapped in elegance. She anticipates every move before it happens, never allows herself to be vulnerable, never lets anyone too close. But when you kiss her—without warning, without calculation—it is the one scenario she never saw coming.

- Her body tenses immediately, years of instinct screaming at her to assess the threat, to react. But then—then—your lips linger, warm and unhurried, and something in her falters. There is no ulterior motive, no expectation, no game being played. Just you. And that, more than anything, leaves her shaken. She does not kiss you back, not at first. She is too busy deciphering why—why you would do this, why she doesn’t hate it, why the world suddenly feels too small with you this close.

- When you pull away, she does not speak. Instead, she tilts her head, studying you with an unreadable expression, emerald eyes scanning your face as if searching for an answer you have not yet spoken. And then, at last, a small smirk tugs at the corner of her lips. “Brave,” she murmurs, voice smooth, almost amused. “Reckless, but brave.” But there is something else in her gaze—something uncertain, something hesitant. As if she is not quite sure what to do with the warmth still lingering on her lips.

- Then, before you can respond, she steps closer, closing the space between you. There is no hesitation this time, no calculation—just the slow, deliberate press of her mouth against yours. And when she finally pulls away, her voice is softer, quieter. “Don’t do that unless you mean it,” she warns. But the way her fingers trail against your wrist, the way her breath lingers against your skin, tells you that she is hoping—just this once—that you do.

Bucky Barnes

- Bucky Barnes is a man who flinches at softness. He does not know how to accept kindness without suspicion, does not know how to be wanted without expectation. He has spent years being used, being controlled, being nothing more than a weapon to be wielded. But when you kiss him—when you press your lips against his without warning—it is the first time in a long, long while that he is simply Bucky.

- His entire body stiffens at first, muscles coiled as if expecting an attack, a trap, a trick. But then your hands brush against him—gentle, grounding, real—and something in him cracks. His breath shudders against your lips, something raw and unspoken trembling just beneath the surface. And for the first time in years, he allows himself to be held instead of holding himself together.

- When you pull away, he doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe. His expression is unreadable, blue eyes stormy with something you can’t quite decipher. And then, ever so slowly, he exhales. “Why?” The word is quiet, hesitant, as if he doesn’t believe he deserves the answer. As if he is bracing himself for you to tell him it was a mistake. But you don’t. You just look at him, and that alone is enough to undo him.

- And then, after a long moment, his fingers brush against yours, tentative, uncertain. “Do it again,” he murmurs, the words barely audible. But when you do—when you kiss him once more, slow and patient and real—his hands finally come up to hold you, steady and warm and home. And this time, he doesn’t let you pull away.

Matthew Murdock

- Matthew Murdock is a man who lives in anticipation. Every breath, every footstep, every heartbeat in his vicinity is accounted for, cataloged, expected. He senses things before they happen, navigates the unseen with the certainty of someone who has never truly been blind. But he does not sense this. The moment your lips press against his, his world—usually so finely attuned—stutters. For the first time in a long time, Matt is truly caught off guard.

- His breath hitches, his fingers twitch at his sides, and for a brief moment, he is frozen in place. The taste of you lingers—warmth and surprise and something maddeningly sweet. His senses flood with you, and it is overwhelming in the best and worst way. His pulse is erratic, his mind a mess of tangled thoughts. He has fought the devil inside himself for so long, denied himself softness, pushed away love because it only ever ends in ruin. And yet, here you are. Kissing him.

- When you pull back, he exhales shakily, his lips parting as if to speak, but no words come. Instead, his hand finds you—fingertips ghosting over your cheek, as if to make certain you are real. His voice, when he finally manages to use it, is quiet, reverent. “You shouldn’t do things like that,” he murmurs, but there is no conviction in his words, no true protest. Only the lingering tremor of someone who wants—desperately, deeply—but does not know if he is allowed to have.

- And then, as if unable to resist the temptation you have placed before him, he leans in. His kiss is not hasty, not fevered, but something far more dangerous—slow, deliberate, inevitable. It is an unspoken confession, a quiet surrender, a promise that he may not be ready to put into words. But his hands find your waist, his lips press deeper into yours, and the way he sighs against your mouth tells you all you need to know.

Frank Castle

- Frank Castle has lost too much to believe in second chances. Love is a thing he buried alongside his family, a thing he does not touch, does not deserve. He is a man made of violence, of war and grief and cold, unrelenting vengeance. He does not get soft things. So when you kiss him—when you, in all your warmth, in all your reckless beauty, dare to press your lips to his—he does not know what to do with it.

- His entire body goes still, as if the world has caught fire and he is standing in the center of the blaze, unscathed but bewildered. He does not pull away. He does not push you back. He simply exists in the moment, feeling something that is not rage, not pain, not the gnawing emptiness that has been his only companion for years. The taste of you lingers—something achingly sweet against the bitterness of his own existence.

- When you finally step back, he exhales sharply, his breath uneven, his jaw clenched. His eyes—dark, stormy, battle-hardened—lock onto yours, searching, questioning. He wants to tell you this is a mistake. That people who get close to him only end up hurt, that his hands are meant for killing, not holding. But he doesn’t say it. Because for the first time in a long, long time, he does not want to push something away.

- Instead, his fingers curl at his sides, his voice low, rough. “You sure you wanna be doin’ that?” It’s not a warning—it’s an invitation. A chance to walk away before he inevitably ruins you the way he ruins everything else. But when you don’t—when you meet his gaze and kiss him again, slower this time, softer—his resolve cracks, and he kisses you back with something that is almost desperate, almost alive.

Bullseye (Lester)

- Bullseye is used to taking. He takes lives, takes power, takes anything he wants because no one can stop him. He is a monster, and he knows it—embraces it. There is nothing good in him. Nothing worth saving. And yet, you—beautiful, foolish, unafraid—have the audacity to kiss him as if he is anything but ruin incarnate.

- The moment your lips meet his, something snaps in him. His instincts scream at him to turn this into a game, to take control, to make you regret ever thinking you could surprise him. But for once, he does not move. He lets himself feel it. The warmth of you, the softness, the maddening contrast of something so pure against the corruption that coats his soul like tar. It is unexpected, undeserved, and utterly intoxicating.

- When you pull away, his smirk is slow, sharp-edged, dangerous. His eyes—dark and gleaming with something predatory—drag over your face like he’s memorizing every detail, committing your recklessness to memory. “Well, damn,” he drawls, voice slick with amusement. “Didn’t know you had it in you, sweetheart.” His fingers ghost over his lips as if testing whether the sensation was real or just some twisted hallucination.

- And then, with a sudden, startling speed, he moves. One hand grips the back of your neck, the other pressing against your waist, and before you can react, he’s kissing you back. But this—this is something else entirely. It is wild, chaotic, consuming. A warning, a promise, a claim. And when he finally pulls away, grinning like the devil himself, he murmurs, “Hope you know what you just started.”

Marc Spector

- Marc Spector is used to ghosts. His past, his mistakes, his fractured mind—he carries them all like shadows that never fade. He does not trust happiness, does not trust peace, because both have been ripped from him too many times to count. And love? Love is not something that belongs to men like him. But then there is you. And then there is this. Your lips against his, unannounced, unexpected, real.

- The first sensation is shock. Not fear, not rejection—just shock. His mind, always a battlefield of shifting identities and whispered voices, goes silent for one aching, beautiful moment. The warmth of your mouth, the way you lean into him with no hesitation, no fear—it is something foreign, something he does not know how to hold. And yet, he wants to. God help him, he wants to.

- When you pull back, his breath is unsteady, his hands curled into fists at his sides as if fighting the urge to pull you back in. His eyes—haunted, desperate, yearning—flicker between you and the ground, as if struggling to find something solid to anchor himself. “You shouldn’t…” His voice is raw, broken. “You shouldn’t do that.” But there is no weight behind the words, no real protest. Just the quiet, trembling confession of a man who does not believe he deserves to be touched with kindness.

- And then, with a slow exhale, he makes a choice. His hand—scarred, trembling—reaches for yours, fingers brushing tentatively before curling around them. He does not pull you close, does not claim you the way others might. Instead, he simply holds on. A silent plea, a fragile hope. And when he finally kisses you back, it is not with hunger, not with dominance—but with something far more dangerous. Need.

Taskmaster (Tony Masters)

- Taskmaster survives by reading people before they can act. He sees a shift in weight, a flicker of intent, the smallest twitch of a muscle, and he knows what comes next. It’s how he wins fights, how he predicts every move before it happens. But not this. Not you. He doesn’t see it coming when your lips press against his, a ghost of warmth against the cold edge of a man who has spent his life being untouchable.

- His entire body stiffens, instincts roaring at him to react, to counter, to do something—but he doesn’t. His mind, trained to memorize, analyze, replicate, suddenly falters. He can mimic a thousand fighting styles, anticipate attacks from the best in the world, but he has no defense for the softness of your mouth, the way you kiss him like he is something more than a weapon. And it unsettles him.

- When you pull back, his hands twitch at his sides, fingers flexing as if searching for the right response. His mask hides his face, but you can feel the way he’s staring at you, the sharp intensity of a man trying to process something he can’t categorize. “The hell was that for?” he finally mutters, his voice low, rough—gravel scraped over steel. But there is no anger, no mockery. Just a quiet, dangerous curiosity.

- And then, something shifts. A decision made. He moves faster than thought, a gloved hand catching your wrist, pulling you in before you can slip away. And when he kisses you back, it is not soft, not hesitant. It is sharp-edged and confident, like a man reclaiming control over the one thing that has ever caught him off guard. You wanted to surprise him? Fine. But now, he’s the one in charge.

Johnny Storm

- Johnny Storm burns hot—always has, always will. A fire that never quite settles, never dims. He is loud and reckless and bright, and he wears his confidence like a second skin. But beneath it all, there is something deeper, something hidden behind smirks and easy laughter. And it is that something that flickers the moment you kiss him.

- At first, he doesn’t process it. One second he’s talking, maybe making some cocky remark, and the next—your lips are on his. His brain short-circuits. Johnny Storm, king of comebacks, has absolutely nothing to say. There’s just heat, not from his flames but from the rush of you, the sudden realization that this thing he’s been pretending not to feel is very, very real.

- When you pull back, he blinks—once, twice—before a slow, almost disbelieving grin spreads across his face. “Damn,” he exhales, voice a little breathless, a little stunned. And then, because he is who he is, he recovers. “If you wanted a piece of me, sweetheart, all you had to do was ask.” But his voice wavers slightly at the end, betraying the fact that he is not nearly as unaffected as he wants to seem.

- And then, before you can say anything, he moves. A hand curling around your waist, pulling you flush against him as he crashes his lips back to yours, kissing you with the full force of his fire—burning, consuming, alive. Because Johnny Storm never does anything halfway, and now that he knows what you taste like, he is never going to pretend he doesn’t want more.

Reed Richards

- Reed Richards lives in a world of equations. He understands the mechanics of the universe, the fabric of reality, the infinite complexities of time and space. But there are some things even he cannot predict. Some things he cannot quantify. You are one of those things. And when you kiss him, it is a complete and utter anomaly.

- His breath stills, his mind goes blank—something that has not happened in years. He can usually calculate the likelihood of an event before it occurs, but this? This wasn’t factored into his reality. His hands hover in the air, as if unsure of the proper response, as if the laws of physics themselves have momentarily escaped him.

- When you step back, he does not move immediately. He is frozen, recalibrating, processing. Then, slowly, his lips part, and a quiet, stunned “Oh” escapes him—soft, unguarded. He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose, as if needing a moment to refocus. “That was… unexpected.” His voice holds no rejection, only fascination, as if he has just witnessed a scientific miracle.

- And then, something shifts. His hand reaches for yours—not hasty, not desperate, but careful, deliberate. His eyes meet yours, and for the first time in a long while, Reed Richards abandons calculations in favor of instinct. When he kisses you again, it is slow, exploratory, like a man learning a new language and savoring every syllable.

Ben Grimm

- Ben Grimm does not get soft things. He does not get stolen kisses or tender touches or the kind of love that isn’t weighed down by pity. He is The Thing. A man made of stone, of battle and loss, of aching loneliness that he never speaks of. And yet, here you are. Kissing him. As if he is not a monster. As if he is just a man.

- He stiffens, his whole body locking up. His heart—too big, too hopeful despite everything—stumbles in his chest. He has dreamed of things like this before, but dreams are cruel, and reality is harsher. He expects you to pull away, to realize what you’ve done, to see him and regret it. But you don’t. You don’t. And that, more than the kiss itself, threatens to undo him.

- When you finally step back, his throat works around words he can’t quite form, holding the weight of years spent convincing himself he doesn’t get to have this. His massive hands twitch at his sides, as if afraid to reach for something too fragile, too precious. “You… you sure about that?” There is doubt in his tone, not because he doesn’t want you, but because he doesn’t know how to believe you’d want him.

- But when you step closer again, pressing your hands against the solid breadth of his chest, when you tilt your head up and kiss him again, slow and sure and certain, something in him cracks. A deep, shuddering breath escapes him, and his massive arms finally—finally—come around you, pulling you close. And when he kisses you back, it is hesitant at first, reverent. But then it deepens, something raw and aching in the way he holds you, like a man who has been starved of love for far too long.

Susan Storm

- Susan Storm is a woman of grace, of careful composure, of quiet strength that bends but never breaks. She is a leader, a protector, a force of nature wrapped in silk. And yet, for all her brilliance, for all her ability to phase in and out of sight, she does not see you coming. Not when you step close. Not when your fingers graze her cheek. Not when your lips press against hers in a kiss that is as sudden as it is soft.

- Her breath stills, caught between the moment and the impossible realization of what it means. Her mind races—was she blind to this? Had she misread the signs, the weight of your glances, the unspoken words hovering between you for so long? But all thoughts unravel when she feels the warmth of your lips, the unguarded tenderness of it. She has spent her life holding herself steady, but now—now she is the one being unraveled.

- When you finally pull back, she blinks, slow and breathless, a flush creeping up her neck. “Oh,” she murmurs, a small, almost disbelieving smile tugging at the corner of her lips. A rare moment where she is not Susan Storm, the poised and polished heroine, but simply a woman standing before someone who has just shaken her world.

- And then, that moment of surprise shifts into something else—something warmer, something braver. Her fingers find your wrist, curling around it in a silent request. She meets your gaze, eyes shining with something unreadable, something soft. And when she kisses you again, it is no longer hesitation, no longer surprise—it is intention, steady and sure, as if she has made up her mind that this—you—is something she does not want to let go.

Felicia Hardy

- Felicia Hardy is a woman who dances on the edge of danger, who thrives in stolen moments and the rush of risk. She is a thief, a phantom in the night, a creature made of silver laughter and sharp edges. She knows the art of seduction, the game of push and pull, and yet—when you kiss her, it is not part of the game. It is not calculated, not played for leverage. And that is what stops her dead in her tracks.

- Her lips part against yours, a stunned exhale slipping free. For the first time in a long, long time, Felicia Hardy is caught off guard. She is used to controlling the moment, to being the one who sets the pace, who dictates the terms. But this—this—feels like something stolen from her. And she doesn’t know if she wants to steal it back, or if she wants to let herself fall.

- When you pull away, her signature smirk wavers, something uncertain flickering behind those sharp, clever eyes. “Well, well,” she purrs, but there’s a breathlessness to it, a vulnerability beneath the velvet tone. “Didn’t know you had it in you.” A tease, a cover. But her fingers twitch at her sides, as if resisting the urge to reach for you, to pull you back in, to demand more.

- And then, as if making a silent decision, she moves. She closes the space between you with a sharp, deliberate kind of grace, tilting her head with the confidence of a woman who has decided to play a game she was not expecting—but one she suddenly wants to win. When she kisses you again, it is slow, languid, laced with amusement and hunger, as if savoring the way you are the one who caught her off guard for once.

Stephen Strange

- Stephen Strange is a man of logic, of precision, of control honed by years of discipline. He bends reality to his will, commands forces beyond human comprehension, and yet—he is utterly unprepared for the moment your lips press against his.

- His body locks up, his breath caught between disbelief and something deeper, something dangerously close to longing. He does not move at first, too caught in the sheer absurdity of it. He has faced cosmic horrors, rewritten fate itself, but he cannot seem to process the feeling of your touch, the warmth of your mouth against his own.

- When you step back, he blinks, slow and calculating, as if searching for some rational explanation. “That was… unexpected,” he says at last, his voice measured but carrying the faintest waver. He looks at you as though you are a paradox he cannot solve, an anomaly in his carefully structured existence.

- And then, after a long pause, his lips curl in something resembling amusement, a rare, genuine softness breaking through the rigid control. “I suppose,” he murmurs, stepping closer, voice dropping to something almost dangerous, almost reverent, “it would only be fair if I returned the favor.” And when he kisses you again, it is with the deliberation of a man who refuses to leave anything to chance.

Namor

- Namor is not a man accustomed to surprise. He is a king, a warrior, a god walking among mortals. He has stood against empires, defied the heavens, and shaped history with his own hands. But when you kiss him—you, with your infuriating defiance and your breathtaking boldness—he is, for the first time in centuries, at a complete and utter loss.

- His entire body tenses, as if bracing for an attack rather than an act of tenderness. And yet, despite his initial shock, despite the sheer audacity of you, he does not pull away. He does not stop you. Instead, his sharp, piercing eyes darken, a slow and simmering heat curling beneath his ribs—dangerous, unrelenting.

- When you finally part, he does not speak immediately. He simply looks at you, gaze heavy with something unreadable. And then, after a moment, his lips curl—not in anger, but in something far more unsettling. Amusement. Interest. Challenge. “You are either very brave,” he murmurs, voice rich and edged with something unmistakably possessive, “or very foolish.”

- And then, before you can respond, before you can think to retreat, he moves. His hands—strong, unyielding—catch your wrist, his body closing the space between you with the effortless command of a king reclaiming what is his. And when he kisses you again, it is not a question. It is a declaration, a silent vow that whatever game you have started, he will be the one to finish.

Johnny Blaze

- Fire and damnation have clung to Johnny Blaze for as long as he can remember. He is a man marked by hellfire, by a fate he never asked for, by the weight of every soul he has ever sent screaming into the dark. He does not expect kindness, not really, not from anyone. And yet, when you kiss him—suddenly, without warning, like a spark catching dry earth—he is stunned into absolute stillness.

- The scent of smoke and leather clings to him, the remnants of something infernal lurking beneath his skin, but you do not hesitate. Your lips are warm, soft, a stark contrast to the cold edges of his existence. He has faced demons, outrun the devil himself, but this? This simple, quiet moment? It terrifies him in a way nothing else ever has.

- He exhales sharply when you pull back, as if he’s just come up for air after drowning. His blue eyes burn like embers, searching your face as if trying to understand what the hell just happened. His throat works around words he doesn’t know how to say, his fingers twitching at his sides like he wants to reach for you but doesn’t trust himself to. “You don’t wanna do that,” he finally mutters, voice rough with something dangerously close to longing.

- But when you tilt your head, when you don’t flinch, don’t pull away, don’t fear him—something in him cracks. His jaw clenches, his hands curl into fists, and then, finally, finally, he lets himself move. He grabs the back of your neck with a touch that is both possessive and reverent, and when he kisses you again, it is with the desperation of a man who has spent too many years in the dark, suddenly blinded by the light.

Eddie Brock / Venom

- Eddie Brock is a man who has lost too much, fought too hard, and learned to trust too little. He is rough around the edges, worn down by anger and regret, always bracing for the moment when the world inevitably turns against him. He is not used to gentleness—not from others, and certainly not for himself. And so, when you kiss him, when you press your lips against his like it is the most natural thing in the world, his brain short-circuits entirely.

- His first instinct is to pull back, to question, to doubt. But Venom—Venom is faster. The symbiote rumbles in amusement, in approval, wrapping around Eddie’s ribs like a second heartbeat. "We like this one," the alien purrs inside his mind, and Eddie swears under his breath because of course Venom would be delighted by this.

- “You’re—” Eddie starts, but stops himself, dragging a hand down his face like he’s trying to physically shove down the confusion. He shakes his head, glancing at you with something that is half bewilderment, half hunger. He wants to say something cocky, something to brush it off, but all that comes out is a breathless, “What the hell was that for?”

- And then Venom moves, slick tendrils curling around his shoulders, shifting his posture. "Kiss her back, Eddie," the symbiote urges, a wicked, knowing grin in his voice. And—God help him—Eddie does. He surges forward, his grip strong, his kiss a mixture of frustration and want, like he’s fighting against how much he needs this, how much he needs you. And when he finally breaks away, his breath is ragged, his pupils blown wide. Shit.

T’Challa

- T’Challa is not a man who is easily surprised. He is a king, a warrior, a strategist who sees every angle before the game even begins. His mind is always ten steps ahead, his composure an unshakable force of nature. And yet—when you kiss him, when you step close without prelude or warning, tilting your chin up to press your lips to his—he is caught entirely off guard.

- His breath hitches, just slightly, so small a reaction that most would not catch it. But you are not most. You are you, and you notice the way his body stills, the way his fingers twitch at his sides as if warring with the impulse to pull you closer. His heartbeat is steady, measured, but beneath the surface—oh, beneath the surface, you have sent ripples through a man who does not bend easily.

- When you part from him, his dark eyes study your face with a sharpness that borders on unreadable. “You are bold,” he says, but there is no admonishment in his tone—only observation, only something deeply considering. His gaze is heavy, knowing, like he has already unraveled every reason why you did it. And yet, for all his brilliance, there is one question left unanswered.

- And so, after a pause, he tilts his head ever so slightly, a slow, deliberate movement. “Was that a challenge?” The words are a whisper, rich and silken, spoken against your lips as he closes the space between you once more. His kiss is not hurried, not desperate—it is a promise, a declaration, a reminder that T’Challa does nothing without intention. And you? You have just become something he intends to keep.

Elektra Natchios

- Elektra moves like a shadow, like a blade cutting through the dark, like something that cannot be held for long. She is sharp edges and silken danger, a whisper of death wrapped in a dancer’s grace. She does not trust easily. She does not love easily. And yet, when you kiss her—fast, sudden, without warning—she does not push you away. No. She freezes, her entire body tensed, not out of resistance, but because she did not see it coming.

- For a woman who has spent her life reading people like open books, you have just managed to turn a page she did not anticipate. Her lips part against yours, not in invitation but in sheer, startled stillness. The moment you step back, her gaze is already piercing into you, unreadable and electric, the air between you charged with something taut and dangerous.

- “That,” she breathes, eyes narrowing just slightly, “was foolish.” But the way she says it—it is not a warning, not truly. It is curiosity, the ghost of something far more wicked lurking beneath the surface. She watches you like a cat watching its prey, her fingers twitching at her sides, as if deciding whether to draw a weapon or pull you back in.

- And then, just as quickly, just as effortlessly, she moves. Her hand catches your wrist, yanking you forward with a force that is not violent but possessive. And when she kisses you this time, it is not hesitation—it is fire and fury, a battle won with the curl of her fingers at your nape, the press of her body against yours. If this is a game, you have just signed yourself into a war. And Elektra Natchios? She never loses.

Muse

- Muse does not feel things the way others do. Art consumes him, violence is his language, and the world is nothing but a blank canvas begging to be marred. He has wandered through blood-soaked streets and carved poetry into walls with trembling hands, but this—this sudden kiss, this moment where your lips press against his without prelude or warning—is something entirely new.

- He does not flinch. He does not gasp. He does not react in any way that might be considered human. Instead, he listens. To the way your breath hitches. To the way your heartbeat stumbles in your chest. To the way the world stills around him, just for a moment, like existence itself is waiting to see what he will do next. And oh, how he loves the weight of expectation.

- When you finally pull back, his blind eyes remain locked onto you, empty and unreadable, yet somehow knowing. His lips part—not in surprise, but in something closer to fascination. “Beautiful,” he murmurs, the word almost a sigh, almost a prayer. “Do it again.” It is not a request. It is not a plea. It is a command wrapped in velvet, spoken like a secret only you were meant to hear.

- And when you hesitate, when you wonder if it is wise, if it is safe, he simply tilts his head, his smile carving itself into his face like a brushstroke on an unfinished painting. His fingers ghost over your jaw, not quite touching, not yet. “I wonder,” he muses, voice lilting with something dangerous, something close to reverence, “how many shades of red I could pull from your lips alone.”

Victor von Doom

- Victor von Doom does not tolerate surprises. His mind is a kingdom unto itself, a fortress built upon knowledge and control. There is no action he takes that is not calculated, no movement that is not deliberate. And yet—when you kiss him, when you dare to step into his space and press your lips against his without permission, without warning—it is the one moment he does not anticipate.

- His body tenses, not in shock but in something colder, something unreadable. There is steel in his stance, in the way his fingers curl ever so slightly at his sides. For one impossibly long second, the world feels as if it has stopped, as if the very air around you is waiting for his verdict. And then, his hands rise—not to push you away, but to cup your face with the precision of a sculptor, as if he is considering whether to keep this moment or cast it aside.

- “Foolish,” he murmurs, though his grip does not loosen. His green eyes burn into yours, heavy with something unreadable, something vast. “You mistake me for a man who yields to impulse.” But you can feel it—the faint tremor beneath his touch, the war waging behind his gaze. You have shaken something in him. Something he does not have words for.

- And then, Doom decides. His grip tightens just slightly, his gaze darkens, and when he leans in, it is not hesitant. It is not uncertain. No, Victor von Doom does not do anything halfway. His lips capture yours with the finality of a ruler taking his throne, with the weight of a choice made, a fate sealed. And when he pulls away, he exhales sharply, as if he has allowed himself one moment of indulgence—and nothing more. “You are either very bold,” he muses, voice quiet, “or very foolish.” And then, after a pause, after a second’s hesitation— “Perhaps both.”

Peter Quill

- Peter Quill has been kissed before. By strangers in bars, by lovers who knew better, by the lingering ghosts of memories he refuses to let go of. But this—this kiss, your kiss—catches him completely off guard.

- He is mid-sentence, probably saying something ridiculous, something cocky, something meant to make you roll your eyes—and then, suddenly, your lips are on his, stealing the words right from his mouth. His brain short-circuits so violently that for a full second, he just stands there, hands hovering awkwardly like he doesn’t know what to do with them.

- And then, like a delayed reaction, like an aftershock, he grins. A slow, lazy, completely obnoxious grin that spreads across his face like wildfire. “Well, damn,” he breathes, blinking at you like he’s just been hit by a starship. “If I knew that’s how you felt, I would’ve shut up ages ago.”

- But then—just when you think he’ll ruin it with another joke—he tugs you forward, his fingers curling around your waist with an easy kind of confidence. And when he kisses you this time, it is deeper, slower, like he’s savoring it, like he means it. And maybe, just maybe, Peter Quill has finally found something—someone—worth holding onto.

Nova (Richard Rider)

- Richard Rider has been through hell. He has seen galaxies burn, has carried the weight of worlds on his shoulders, has fought and bled and lost more than he can put into words. He is tired. He is so tired. And yet—when you kiss him, when you pull him down from the weight of the cosmos and remind him of something as simple, as human as this—he forgets, just for a moment, how heavy the universe feels.

- His breath stutters. His entire body tenses, like he’s waiting for something to go wrong, like he’s bracing for an impact that never comes. He has been hurt before, has been broken in ways that no amount of power can fix, and yet—this is different. You are different.

- “I—” he starts, but the words get lost somewhere between his lips and yours. He laughs, but it’s not the cocky, confident sound most people expect from him. It’s breathless, unsure. He runs a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply. “Didn’t see that coming.” But the way he looks at you—the way his blue eyes soften, the way his fingers twitch like he wants to reach for you and doesn’t know if he should—tells you that maybe, just maybe, he’s glad you caught him off guard.

- And then, slowly, hesitantly, he steps closer. He cups your face in his hands, his thumbs brushing over your cheekbones with a gentleness that feels at odds with the battles he’s fought, with the wars he’s survived. And when he kisses you again, it is not hurried, not rushed. It is quiet. It is careful. It is real. Because for the first time in a long, long time—Richard Rider is not fighting. He is simply here. With you.

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winterspiderpurrs · 3 months ago

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Happy never forgets a face. Never. It's what makes him extra valuable to someone like Tony Stark. Tony Stark, who runs Stark Industries. Tony Stark, who is head of the Carbonell Italian mob; though, while there is some speculation, it's never been proven.

Happy had a system. He categorized people into color groups.

Green for these people are no bodies and didn’t touch the crime world and were safe to interact with.

Yellow for people who are some bodies but won't cauae trouble but have connections.

Red are people who have connections and could cause trouble.

Then their were Black. Those are the unknowns, and they could be as bad as the reds. People a little too clean. Or people who maybe could be someone undercover. Not enough information on them.

Before every convention, Happy makes a point to do background checks on everyone. He memorized all the photos of the people attending. Sure, maybe Friday helps break into the databases to get the photos, but he is just trying to protect Tony.

So when Happy saw Tony talking to someone, he was already going through the catalog in his mind to place the person. Catching Tony's eye, he touched his black tie to silently signal the group the person falls in. Doesn’t mean it's gonna stop Tony, but it just means he is gonna be a bit more cautious. Hopefully.

Peter Parker. 20 years old. Just finished with his masters at Columbia University in Biochemical Engineering. Mother was a scientist as well. Mary Fitzpatrick. Irish. No father listed on the birth certificate. She married another scientist 4 years later, Richard Parker. Both deceased. Plane crash. Italian Aunt and Uncle raised him. Uncle died later. Shot at a Bodega. Not their area, so not tied to them. Trained as a gymnast. Big brown eyes, wavy brown curls. Smart. Cute. Flexible. Just Tony's type.

But something nags at Happy as he watches Tony and Peter talk.

He glances around the room when he spots them.

The Winter Soldier leaned against a wall, looking around the room on the left side, looking a little too casual. At the refreshment table section was The Captain. He worked for the government but has ties to the Irish mob, though, like Tony. Couldn't be proven. He was staring at Peter and Tony with a frown, not subtle at all.

Then it hits. See, there were rumors that The Captain had a kid. Had them young before he was involved with potential mob connections. And he recalls another rumor going around that there was a small riff between The Captain and The Winter Soldier, a love interest that was not approved.

He has to get Tony away from this Peter Parker.

Peter Parker, who potentially could be the kid of The Captain Steve Grant Rogers.

Peter Parker, who potentially could be the love interest of The Winter Soldier James Buchanan Barnes

#writing prompt #world building #if someone wants to expand on it #imagine Steve hooking up with Mary as a teen. between 15 to 18. steve wants to do the right thing but she wouldn't have it #so if peter is 20 that makes Bucky around the age of 35 to 38. so a stretch but not BAD #peter was not raised by Steve or even around Bucky - steve just gave cash and occasionally checked on peter #i like the idea of Peter and Bucky meeting organically cause while sure Bucky knew Steve had a kid he never met him #i just think it would be funny to have bucky bring his date Peter to met his friend and steve looses it #could make it go winterironspider #winterspider #peter parker x bucky barnes #starker #winterironspider #peter x tony x bucky #steve rogers is peter parkers dad #winterspiderpurrs #mob au

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captainkirkk · 8 months ago

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✩ WEEKLY FIC ROUND-UP ✩

All the fics I’ve read and really enjoyed in the past week-ish. Reminder: This list features any and all ratings and themes. Please look at tags and warnings on ao3 before reading.

Marvel

how to return home by JBS_Forever

Flash Thompson is a good person, but not a great one, so when Peter Parker accidentally gets drunk at his house party, all he can do is say, “Shit.”

Or: the one where Flash is just trying to be a decent person and get a drunk Peter home. Peter, on the other hand, has different plans.

scandal of the century by joshriku

The headline reads:

STEAMY SEX TAPE BETWEEN MAGNETO AND PROFESSOR X LEAKED!

“All right,” Charles says. “I wouldn’t call it steamy, you know, that’s an exaggeration.”

“That is seriously not the point, Professor,” Jean answers.

(A sex tape is leaked. PR crisis ensues).

two vigilantes carry a cake across gotham by JBS_Forever

Jason's had a nagging suspicion that Bruce keeps stalker-esque levels of tabs on all the places he’s lived, so when Tim Drake shows up at his apartment door, it takes only a half second for Jason to level his gun directly at Tim's stupid face and to say, bored, “Give me one reason not to shoot you.”

Honestly, he knew Bruce had a problem, but sending a bat to his doorstep? This is just ridiculous.

Or: in a scheming attempt to make them bond, Bruce forces Jason and Tim on what should be a simple quest: retrieve Alfred’s birthday cake from across town and make it back before the party.

But this is Gotham. And nothing is ever simple in Gotham.

racing on the thunder by merils

Fortunately or unfortunately, Clark Kent is kind of used to getting phone calls about his too-curious-for-her-own-good wife being held hostage somewhere. Superman usually handles it.

Conner Kent gets a phone call meant for Clark Kent, who is Superman, who is currently in space. Uh.... Have no fear, Superboy is here!

What could possibly go wrong?

Original Works

Halfway Home for Wayward Mages by hoebiwan

Part 24 of mage in a wolf pack (This whole series kills me)

He wouldn’t mind it if Lada collared him, if Khalida or Dimitri collared him, because none of them have forced him to hurt anyone, whether human or wolf. They mostly just want him to—

Live, Jaime. Live.

In which the wolves rescue Jaime, but he doesn't realize he's free.

the sin eater by whitegeraniums (puertoricansuperman)

Part 25 of mage in a wolf pack

Lada, alpha of the Hearthstone wolf pack, finds herself in possession of a captured, broken werewolf hunter.

ATLA

Keeping Ones Head Down by ApoplecticAtPeace

Part 3 of May You be Noticed by The Fire Lord

Bao lost his ability to walk when he was 19. Despite the prejudice of many Fire Nation citizens, he got a job as an accountant in the Royal palace, in the Department of Education. After 11 years of working quietly, keeping his head down and allowing his work to be claimed by others, he expected nothing to change when Fire Lord Zuko took the throne. He didn't expect the entire department to be reformed under the new Minister Shu-Lin, and Bao's overlooked position with it.

Clone Wars

Something in the heart beat like a drum by CombatBootsandDreams

Most Jedi only have to take three formal sexual education classes. Obi-Wan, in all their blessed biology has to take five.

Or: Obi-Wan growing up in a galaxy where Stewjoni are Succubi. This changes very little--but it does make certain things a hell of lot more interesting.

A Stewjoni are succubus au that has way less to do with sex, & is more about logistics, medical problems, and cuddling. Featuring Qui-Gon being an excellent master, codywan, aromantic Quinlan Vos, Obi-Wan using he/they/she pronouns, and plenty of costume changes.

#weekly fic round up #my posts #fic recs #this is my father's day gift to you all #say thank you daddy #sjdkjsdjs #atla recs #dc recs #marvel recs #sw recs #misc recs

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mrs-kmikaelson · 2 years ago

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MASTER LIST

Started: July 7, 2023 Last updated: March 3, 2025

I write for:

The Vampire Diaries, The Originals, Shadowhunters, the MCU, the Hunger Games series, and Criminal Minds. I may also write for Fate: The Winx Saga, Cobra Kai, Grey's Anatomy, 13rw, Gossip Girl, and Riverdale (even tho I have no idea what's happening in that show anymore). I typically write fem!reader-insert fics, but you might see a ship once in a while. Crossovers may happen. Btw, I add angst to like everything. Straight-up fluff is rare.

a/n: just wanted to let everyone know that requests are open rn, but that might change once summer's over. i update this list every time i post.

Klaus Mikaelson

The Tribrid You're Klaus Mikaelson's long-lost daughter that he has no idea about, yet somehow you still find yourself getting entangled in the New Orleans wars, both with the city and then with your own family. 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 Should've Known Better After a thousand years of marriage, everything comes crumbling down, taking you with it. But you shouldn't have been so surprised; you knew that Klaus was fire, and you knew that fire burned. You should've known better. 1 2

Stefan Salvatore

Coming soon

Damon Salvatore

Coming soon

Elijah Mikaelson

Coming soon

Katherine Pierce

Coming soon

Kai Parker

Coming soon

Elena Gilbert

idk y'all but i had an idea so we'll see ab this one

Steve Rogers

Coming soon

Bucky Barnes

Coming soon

Natasha Romanoff

Coming soon

Tony Stark

Coming soon

Peter Parker (T.H.)

Coming soon

Alec Lightwood

Coming soon

Jace Herondale

Coming soon

Finnick Odair

Our Song and Dance You'd grown used to dancing the same dance over and over again, the victor's dance, but then you start dancing with Finnick Odair and you feel things you never thought you'd feel. So you let yourself enjoy the dance, even though you knew that every song inevitably came to an end. 1 2 3 4 5 6

Aaron Hotchner

What's in a Name? 5 times you and Agent Hotchner questionably cross paths over the years, just for him to watch you walk away (+1 time you don't). The Grey Area You meet Aaron Hotchner and he makes you see everything in colour; he makes you feel like you're the only girl in the room. But then, as you find out that you're not, you realize the colour he actually makes you see the most is grey. (a/n: very scandal based). Series Masterlist Icarus Helios Apollo Aaron thinks you're just about the most radiant person he's ever met. But then you fly too close to the sun, and all your light disappears. Your Five Truths You have five simple truths. But when your relationship and your life are put on the line, you start to question what you believe in anymore.

Derek Morgan

Coming soon

Spencer Reid

Coming soon

Emily Prentiss

Coming soon

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cherienymphe · 2 years ago

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Basic Training VIII (Peter Parker x Reader)

Warnings: NON-CON, DUB-CON, MURDER, violence, kidnapping, captivity, public sex, degradation, forced pregnancy, forced marriage, stockholm syndrome, ptsd, housewife kink, cop!Peter

➥ banner by @vase-of-lilies | divider by @whimsicalrogers

➥ series masterlist

summary: A pit stop during a road trip ends tragically when a small town cop sets his sights on you. You’re the newest addition in a long standing fucked up family tradition.

You stared at Peter with a slight frown, knees pulled to your chest with your hands clasped together against your skin. He was sound asleep, breathing deep and even while you were so far from slumber. You hadn’t slept good in weeks, not since that really bad nightmare that night, but it had nothing to do with the awful images that had plagued your mind that night…

…and everything to do with the kiss.

You stared at the dark-haired man, watching him sleep and fighting with yourself over feelings you didn’t quite understand. You hated Peter. You absolutely hated him, and why wouldn’t you? He was the sole reason you were even here, trapped and meant to live out this nightmare. He wanted you, and so he took you, and not once had he hinted at a smidgen of remorse for that.

In the same breath though, he was your only source of comfort, and shame tore through you at the memory of allowing him to kiss you. So focused on the foreign feel of his lips on yours, you’d forgotten all about your nightmare, trying to get him off and then…letting him. Again. And again. Peter had kept kissing you until your sobs had mellowed into something much quieter, until your harsh breathing became light.

You hadn’t even remembered turning your head into him until you woke up the next morning with your face in the crook of his neck.

It wasn’t something you wanted to repeat, and you had jumped, hurrying to get started on breakfast no matter how early it was.

How funny it was to be complimented by Steve on your initiative when the whole ordeal had been driven by your fear of Peter and what had happened. You hadn’t wanted to see the man, let alone be near him, and so you’d thrown yourself into successfully cooking the few meals you’d mastered in your time here. If Peter noticed your sudden reservations around him, he didn’t voice it.

You avoided his eyes at dinner, and you kept your back to him when you slept. You woke up before him and made to leave him alone, and you at the very least feigned sleep whenever he joined you in bed. There were many nights like tonight where you struggled to sleep and settled for staring into space or watching Peter instead.

Absentmindedly, you reached up to touch your lips, tears kissing your eyes as you did.

Jane had told you that Peter was one of the good ones, and that he’d be good to you…but he wasn’t a good guy. If he was, he wouldn’t even be participating in any of this, or at the least…he’d feel some kind of guilt. He’d try to help you escape, maybe turn everyone here over to some good police. Peter wouldn’t be doing any of this if he was good…

Before you realized what you were doing, the sound of the slap echoed in the room.

You hit Peter again and again, the other man long awake by now, but you couldn’t stop. He was up and facing you and fighting to grab your hands, but you weren’t really hitting him with any rhyme or reason. Your vision was blurry, and you couldn’t see from crying so hard, but that didn’t stop you from hitting him.

“Y/N, stop-!”

“You’re not good,” you sobbed, pushing at him as he tried to restrain you. “I’m here because of you. They’re dead because of you.”

One harsh slap had Peter’s head whipping to the side, and you crawled back away from him. You kicked at his hands as he grasped at your legs. Your foot met his cheek, and you turned on your stomach. You could hear Peter calling your name, but you mistook the concern in his voice for anger, paying no mind to your haste to get off the bed until you were falling off.

The sound of your face connecting with the corner of the nightstand was loud, and you sharply inhaled when you hit the floor. You could hear Peter swearing, and you tasted blood when you licked your lips. You were crying for a whole other reason, now, your hands pressed to your face as you laid on the floor. Even from behind your lids, you knew the room was now flooded in light, and you flinched when you felt Peter’s hand on your shoulder.

“Let me see… Y/N, let me see,” his voice lowered, tone more serious than you’d ever heard him.

He pulled your hands away, and you heard him sharply inhale. Your face felt so warm, and when you peeled your eyes open, Peter was helping you sit up.

“You’re okay,” he breathed. “Come on.”

Your legs shook as he helped you stand, and he forced you to lean against him. The anger that you’d felt moments ago had dissipated into embarrassment. You couldn’t stop crying no matter how much you tried, and when you made it to the bathroom, Peter forced you to sit on the toilet. You could hear him wetting a rag in the sink, and you winced, hissing when the wet cloth met your skin.

Peter sighed.

He didn’t say anything for a while as you cried, just cleaning your face and occasionally running his gaze over it. You couldn’t tell how mad he was, if he was mad, at all, and your lips trembled as you thought about what Steve would do in his shoes. You shuddered at the thought, and again, you found yourself thinking about Jane’s words as she compared Peter to the other husbands.

As if he read your mind, Peter spoke.

“You know I should punish you for that…”

Your head started to fall, but Peter prevented it from doing so. You blinked at the redness on his face.

“…but I think this was punishment enough…don’t you…?”

You sniffed, studying the tiles of the floor.

“I’m sorry,” you mumbled.

You felt crazy for apologizing to him of all people.

Peter didn’t respond, opting instead to stand and wet a new cloth. You could hear him wringing it out, and when he grabbed your arm, you let him pull you to your feet. You stumbled with him, tears spilling over again, and Peter kept his arm around you as he climbed onto the bed. You were crying again, the saltiness of the tears making your wound sting a little, and Peter pulled you against him as he leaned against the headboard.

Peter wasn’t a good guy, and you wanted him to stop acting like one. You wanted him to be mean, to yell at you and punish you. You wanted him to be like Steve, strict and hateful and violent. If Peter was like Steve, this would all be so much easier. If Peter were like Steve, you wouldn’t feel confused about the man who’d kidnapped you. You would hate him and fear him, and there wouldn’t be anything confusing about it.

…but Peter wasn’t like Steve.

Peter held you when you cried, and he kissed you to make you feel better, and he let you talk about things you weren’t supposed to. He’d let you see how your mom was doing, and he cleaned up after you when your body and your mind weren’t in sync. Peter held damp rags to your face even when the injury was your own doing…

…and he kissed it better.

“Once you make it a few times, you’ll barely even have to think about it,” Natasha said, taking the dish out of the oven.

Jane was supposed to help with dinner, but you’d come to find out that morning sickness wasn’t exclusive to just the mornings. The redhead had assured you that the two of you would be just fine, and you’d sworn there’d been a hint of a smile on her face. It wasn’t that Natasha disliked you. At least…you didn’t think so, but part of you felt like she was just as unsure of you as you were of her, and so the sight had given you pause…until you were reminded of the pain in your face.

You gently touched your cheekbone as you looked over the salmon wellington.

“Buck really likes it. He says it’s his favorite thing that I cook, and I guess I was feeling nice today,” she lightly chuckled.

You cracked a smile at that, noting how good it smelled and thinking that you probably couldn’t blame him. The thought of the brunette had it falling some, and you found it hard to reconcile Natasha’s husband with the same man who killed your best friend.

“I don’t know what Peter likes… I’m still just getting the hang of not burning things, so maybe he’ll never tell me.”

Your tone was light, but your frown deepened. There was something in you that wanted Peter to tell you, that wanted to see him smile with surprise as you cooked his favorite meal, and you grimaced. When you glanced up, you could see the other woman briefly looking at your face before looking away, a slight frown of her own on her features.

“Peter didn’t do this,” you suddenly said, feeling the need to defend him.

Peter, like all of the men here, was a lot of things, but he wasn’t that, and you didn’t want her thinking he was.

“You keep looking at it, and I know what you must think…”

She didn’t respond, focusing her attention on the side dish.

“…but I did it. I fell off the bed. I…I’m having a really hard time, and I didn’t want to be around him.”

You weren’t supposed to say that, and you were relieved that Steve wasn’t home yet. You didn’t want to think about being on the other end of his ire if he heard you saying anything less than stellar about your time here and your relationship with Peter. Your gaze found the counter.

“He’s been really…patient with me,” you whispered. “More than anyone else would be.”

Natasha eventually nodded.

“Bucky warned me that it might take a long time for you to adjust. They warned all of us to be understanding with you.”

You didn’t know that, and you blinked.

“It is hard,” she finally said, and you looked at her. “It’s very hard to think about how your friends and your family have to go on without you. To think about what conclusions they’ve been forced to accept about what happened to you.”

Your frown deepened, and as Natasha stared at the mashed potatoes, your mind whirled.

“I can’t say for sure that you’ll ever fully accept it. Some of us have, and some of us haven’t…” it was clear which category she put herself in. “…but sometimes it doesn’t hurt to think that they’ve found some kind of peace with whatever they think happened.”

Her green gaze met yours.

“I tell myself that it’s better they think I’m dead than know the truth.”

You blinked at her, and for some reason, you thought that she knew. You thought they all knew about the details surrounding how you’d gotten here, but Natasha’s mention of ‘friends’ made you think that maybe she didn’t. After all, if she knew that your friends had been brutally murdered in the efforts to take you, that would make her wildly insensitive…and she’d never struck you as the type.

“Did…?”

You paused, opening and closing your mouth.

“Bucky…didn’t tell you…?” you quietly wondered.

You could see the slight confusion on her beautiful face, and now you wished you hadn’t said anything. Before she could respond, you quickly shook your head, turning away.

“Never mind. I… Forget I said anything.”

You were quick to throw yourself into finishing dinner, and you could feel her eyes on you here and there.

Truthfully, you didn’t know why you just assumed that Natasha knew that. After all, that would make the man she laid down next to every night a murderer, and while you’d just assumed that wasn’t his first time, maybe you shouldn’t have assumed that she knew. It was possible Natasha thought that was one line her husband hadn’t crossed, and you didn’t think it was your place to tell her that he’d shot someone down in cold blood.

You didn’t think it was your place to tell her that the man who hugged and kissed her and who she was making dinner for was a killer.

At dinner, you found yourself eyeing Margaret here and there, concluding that if Natasha didn’t know about Bucky, then she didn’t know about Steve. It wasn’t a stretch to think that Sharon didn’t know about Sam either, and in all that, it really just hit you that the other wives probably thought you were just crazy.

As you felt Peter’s fingers graze your hand in your lap, you found yourself thinking that maybe you were.

When you looked at him, you felt your heart clench at the way his eyes dimmed with one look at your face. It wasn’t the worst bruise in the world, but the corner of the nightstand had cut you deeper than either of you thought, and it was more than noticeable. Peter leaned in, and your lashes fluttered when his lips brushed over the bruise. They lingered for a bit, and when he pulled away, he reached up to gently touch it.

You noticed that Peter’s own cheek was still a little red, and when you glanced over, eyes catching familiar blue ones, you wondered if he’d mentioned what happened to Steve. The blonde’s expression was unreadable, but he didn’t look the happiest. However, Steve rarely looked happy, really only when Margaret was smiling at him or when he was with his daughter.

You hurriedly looked away, your gaze resting on your plate, shoulders only relaxing when Peter’s hand met your back.

You shook your head at Peter’s words, fighting back tears.

“We knew this was temporary…”

Your lips trembled, and you looked towards the window, feeling like your stomach had dropped to the floor.

“I only did this to help you adjust better, to get into the swing of things-.”

“I don’t like being here when you’re not,” you tearfully interrupted, struggling to swallow.

“Y/N-.”

“I’ll be alone,” you choked out, and you didn’t look at Peter when he reached for you.

One of his hands was on your arm, the other reaching for your face.

“Hey…look at me,” he softly commanded, and you squeezed your eyes shut, shaking your head. “You won’t be alone. The other-.”

“They can’t talk to Steve like you do…”

You were trying to keep it together, realizing how ridiculous you were acting, but was it crazy to say that had you realized your good behavior would make Peter’s hiatus from work shorter, you would’ve acted differently? You’d grown used to Peter being just around the corner, and the thought of going back to entire hours without him was making your chest hurt.

It was getting hard to breathe.

You could hear him calling your name as you squeezed your eyes shut, pressing your hand to your chest, but it did nothing. What about the nights where he’d have to stay late, and you would be forced to try and go to sleep without him there? You would be lying if you said that knowing he was just a room or two away didn’t make you feel more relaxed, allowing you to feel more comfortable in the kitchen or cleaning and therefore less likely to make mistakes like you had before.

The threat of Steve just around every corner made your stomach churn. Even if Steve wasn’t here, the other husbands weren’t yours. You didn’t belong to them like you did Peter. They wouldn’t treat you like Peter treated you, and most of all, unlike Peter, they wouldn’t plead your case to Steve should you screw up again. Hell, they might even punish you themselves, and you turned away from Peter.

“Y/N…”

“You c-can’t,” you gasped, struggling to breathe. “I’m going to break something else-.”

“You won’t.”

“…or burn the food again or screw up something like I always do and…”

You were shaking, and you reached up, twisting your fingers into your hair while Peter tried to calm you down. Your head felt too light, and the room wasn’t as clear as it normally was. You thought about the sting of the wood on your palms and the darkness of the basement. You hadn’t forgotten that Steve wanted to put you down there after your outburst that day. It was something you never forgot.

How easily and quickly Steve would’ve forced you back down there if it hadn’t been for Peter.

Peter was right. You had known this was temporary, but you hadn’t allowed your mind to linger on it. You hadn’t wanted to think about the day Peter would decide you were in a better place and he wouldn’t have to be here as much. You hadn’t considered having to function without him.

You were crying, now, and you hated it.

You hated Peter for putting you in this situation. You hated him for deciding you were who he wanted and ruining your life. Peter wasn’t the good guy, he was so far from a good guy, but he was the hand you’d been delt, and you knew that it could be so much worse. You’d seen the so much worse, experienced it, and as much as you hated Peter for who he was, you appreciated him for who he wasn’t. Peter terrified you and confused you, and you grappled with his role in all this…

…but you needed him.

“You can’t leave,” you sobbed, voice unsteady.

“I’m not leaving,” Peter whispered, taking your face into his hands.

“Is this about the other night? I’m sorry,” you hurried to say. “I’m sorry! I shouldn’t-.”

“This isn’t about the other night,” Peter softly told you. “I told you I wasn’t mad about that-.”

“Then why? Why?”

You could hear your voice getting higher, but you couldn’t stop it. The thought of being in this house without Peter was pushing you over an edge you didn’t know existed, and you were positive you were going to be sick.

“I have to-.”

“Did Steve tell you you have to? Did you tell him what I did?”

Peter assured you he didn’t, but you didn’t believe him, frantically shaking your head.

“I shouldn’t have hit you,” you cried, pulling at your hair. “I was angry about the kiss, and I was confused and scared…”

The next time Peter said your name, it was stern, his voice hard, and it just made you cry harder.

“This was temporary. You knew that. You know that I have a job just like Steve and the others, and you’re meant to be here at home…”

You fought to get out of his hold, turning away and trying to stumble off of the bed, but Peter wouldn’t let you. His fingers dug into your arms, and he shook you.

“Do you understand?”

Tears spilled from your eyes as Peter held your gaze. The only sound in your ears was that of your own harsh breathing and the occasional sob. You snatched yourself out of Peter’s hold, stumbling to your feet.

“I didn’t ask for any of this,” you cried. “After everything you’ve done to me…you can’t stay a little longer?”

You watched Peter sigh, and you knew he was gearing up to refuse you again. In a matter of seconds, you swiped the lamp off of the nightstand, the sound of breaking glass reaching your ears. The dark-haired man froze, his face falling just a tad, and you backed up when he stood.

He called your name when you ran around the bed, close on your heels as you grabbed the other lamp. He was calling your name, a warning in his tone as you broke the other. You could feel his hand on your arm, but that didn’t stop you from ripping the covers off of the bed, flinging them around the room in a rage.

You were heading for the bathroom when he wrapped his arms around you, holding you close. You hadn’t realized you were screaming until his hand covered your mouth, the room suddenly a lot quieter, and you couldn’t stop yourself from breaking down in his arms. You were a sobbing mess, and you curled in on yourself as best as you could.

Your wails made it past his hand, and Peter shushed you, but you couldn’t stop. You could only think about hours alone with your thoughts, hours without Peter, hours of having to navigate the ticking time bomb that was Steve. You couldn’t do it, not yet, and your head fell as you cried.

When Peter took his hand off of your mouth, his voice was in your ear, softly shushing you. You clung to the arm around you, struggling to breathe, and Peter rocked you with his lips at your ear.

“Y/N…”

“Please, don’t go,” you cried. “Please…”

Your nails pressed into his skin, and you were sure you were drawing blood.

“Please,” you begged him.

You could feel him sigh, and he didn’t say anything for what felt like a long time. Peter shifted so that he was leaning against the bed, and you were in his arms, your head leaning back against his shoulder, his jawline in your vision. He was still rocking you, his free hand smoothing itself over your head. Tears stained your cheeks, and Peter leaned down, pressing his lips into your hair.

“Alright…”

You tilted your head back, staring at him.

“I’ll stay a little longer. I’ll talk to Steve…”

You tightened your hold on his arm, holding him closer.

“You promise?” you forced out, voiced breaking.

Peter looked down at you, his fingers grazing your forehead.

“I promise,” he assured you, kissing your forehead. “Anything for you, pretty girl.”

#dark peter parker #dark!peter parker #dark!peter Parker x reader #peter parker x reader #peter parker #peter parker imagine #peter parker fanfiction #marvel imagine #marvel fanfiction

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webslingingslasher · 2 years ago

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would make peter go camping with me because he’s head over heels in love and also he’s strong (spider man duh) and then i’d just be like :) the whole time (i’d totally ask him to pick up heavy logs and stuff just because)

everytime i go camping i wish i had a peter parker

“Don’t forget that log, looks like a good one!”

Peter looks up at his girlfriend sitting in her green rocking camping chair, a cold can of alcohol in her hand, he can’t decipher if it’s a white claw or miller light based on the distance. The other points to his left, the setting sun hits the crown of her head and dances over her features, for a moment he forgets how to breathe and takes a lopsided inhale.

It was your idea to take him camping, you were the master. You grew up doing it and always talked about it, always swore you’d take Peter and give him the glamping experience. You set up the trip as an anniversary gift, and Peter doesn’t think he’ll enjoy it half as much as you but seeing you so happy makes him match it.

Peter’s hand cups over his forehead to look at you in the sun, “awfully demanding today, aren’t we?”

He’s not wrong, you have been bossing him around the whole time. But, it’s your favorite activity and he was doing it, and you’ve been together long enough that he’s not doing it because camping will be his new hobby, but because you love it and it makes you happy.

And his red flannel looked awfully lumberjack like on him, his biceps straining the fabric when he moved totes from your car full of heavy accessories. It got even better when you made him help you set up the tent, you gave light instructions and worked on your side but got distracted when your boyfriend crouched on one knee and had his tongue poked out the corner of his mouth as he focused on connecting the poles.

You were left scrambling when his eyes shot to yours waiting for you to finish your half, he didn’t catch onto your greed. “I thought you’ve done this before, slow poke.”

Struggling, his side full of tension, “I didn’t know it was a race.”

It got worse when Peter noticed your struggle and came to pull your side taut, his back flexing under his down vest.

You nearly slingshotted the tent into the woods.

“Here, baby. I got it.” Peter placed the rest of the poles and you were able to catch your breath in time to hammer the stakes in. You rest your fists on your hips as you look up at the sky, due to flooding in the main roads it had taken a bit longer than you expected, night was approaching.

“We don’t have a lot of daylight left, you wanna grab some firewood and I’ll finish setting up camp?”

Did you give him the man's job? Yes.

Logs were heavy, plus bugs crawled all over them and not to mention the splinters.

You had the camp ready in ten minutes, leading you to relax in your camping chair watching your ripped boyfriend trot back and forth from the campsite with handfuls of stems and logs. At first the tugged a fallen tree over to you which sent you running towards him pushing at his chest to throw him back in the woods whisper shouting.

“That’s not even remotely funny, Peter! Do you know what will happen if a park ranger catches you? They have eyes everywhere.”

Peter rolled his eyes, “I dragged it like, ten steps.”

You shoo him, “back it up ten, and get real campfire wood. I’ll get some fire starter.”

Thus led you to watching with a careful eye and directing him, you’ve done this a million times and now you have someone else to do it, who also happens to be your super hot, loving boyfriend.

“Love you, honey!” You called out the praise, hoping it would erase your demands from his mind. It works, he blows you a kiss and picks up the wood you called out for. He’s gotten more than enough for the night, and you stand before gesturing to your seat.

“Take her for a ride, mama’s gonna make you a fire.”

Careful eyes watched you, you could sense that Peter was ready to jump up and save you from a swallowing fire at any second. You talked through the process and into the night, where you then had Peter make you every s’more you wanted.

Peter likes being out of the city and loves being around you with no distractions.

He doesn’t think he minds camping half as much as he thought he would.

Until you wake him up at three in the morning and ask, no, force him to get out of bed to walk into the woods with you so you could pee. You squatted behind a tree and had your arm wrapped around to the other side where it intertwined with your boyfriends.

“Okay, turn around.”

Too scary.

“Wait, let me hold your hand.”

Too quiet.

“Can you hum or something?”

It is currently three in the morning and Peter is in the middle of the woods, back to a tree with his arm twisted wonky to hold hers, and he’s humming the star wars intro but can still hear you stream clearly and won’t tell you.

“Okay, done.”

Your boyfriend fumbled with his waistline, his hand pulling it down swiftly. You get a peek of his lower half and squeeze your eyes shut, your hands cover them on instinct. “Yuck!”

Peter has no regard, proudly pissing inches from you.

“What, I have to hold your hand and sing and you can’t stand here?”

“I’m in the splash zone!”

“Oi! I’m aiming away, I’m not a mongrel.”

A snap of a branch, rustling of bushes sent the hair on your neck straight up. Normally you’d think it was a squirrel, it’s almost always a squirrel. But this sounded big, in an instant you jumped on Peter’s back, giving him no time to prepare and he was sent slightly stumbling while trying to tie his pajama pants back up.

“It’s a fucking bear, is it a bear, can you smell if it’s a bear?”

Peter hiked you further up his back and walked back towards your site, “it’s not a bear.”

Your arms lock around his neck so tightly he has to tug at arm so you could loosen your hold, “it could be a bear and you’re trotting slowly.”

“Baby, if a bear comes up and starts a fight, help the bear.”

“‘Cause that bitch gon need it,” you grunt in his ear. He tapped your leg in appreciation to the reference.

You yawned when you laid back down in the tent, shuffling a little closer to Peter than the first time. He can say what he wants, but you’re the woodsy person and you’d give your right arm on a bet that was a bear.

Loud ruffling near your tent sends you clinging to your boyfriend.

“It’s the bear.” Your words are almost mute with how quiet and slow you were speaking.

Peter doesn’t even open his eyes, his arm opens and tugs you into him. “It’s not a bear.”

Another branch snaps, you’re nearly on top of him, he grunts with the new weight on him. He doesn’t even need to see to know what you’re about to say.

“It’s not a bear.”

A lazy grin forms when he feels puffy air on his neck as you grumble, “it’s totally a bear.”

#peter parker x reader #tasm!peter x reader #peter parker blurb #peter parker fluff #tasm! peter parker x reader #tasm!peter x you #my writing

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rinaforpages · 8 months ago

Text

how (not) to survive academic invalidation

park gunwook x reader

hahahha...

using the american hs system bcs wow! im american... (i half wrote this at the end of last school yr so)

warnings: swearing, self-deprecation (obv), yn hits themself, angst with a bit of fluff at the end, reader is actually smart but surrounds themself with geniuses.

2.6k words

________________________________

# 1 dont compare yourself

"junior year kicks everyones ass." you wanted to kick whoever said that ass. not only was the school work kicking your ass, your friends and classmates seemed to be doing just fine.

they were working on ap chemistry minus laura and gunwook who were working on ap environmental science, and you, who took neither of those classes, felt extremely out of place, doing your ap us history homework.

"whats species richness again?" laura asked gunwook, who quickly answered her question. you looked up, planning to ask the soon-to-be early graduate a question, only to see him helping sarah with a chemistry problem.

you weren't like them and you despised that. your friends were top of the class, an average of a 4.4 gpa, an early graduate (and first in the 2024 class overall) and there you sat with your measly 3.75. they were in 3-4 ap classes, and you sat there, struggling through your 2. (in your defense, ap lang and apush are the two hardest aps juniors could take).

you didnt excel in any way shape or form. they had just about an a in every class (minus ryan in french, who had a b), and a b was your most common grade.

a good 10 minutes later you had finished struggling through apush, you moved on to mandarin. you were the only one who took mandarin, everyone else opting for french. the characters jumbled your brain as your friends spoke in french, seemingly coming easy to them.

you heard footsteps walk by, and ricky laid a hand on your shoulder, looking over. "thats wrong." he said simply. the french kids careened their necks to look at you. he grabbed your pencil and wrote the right character, then walked away. you hummed as you circled the characters you didnt know, opting to ask zhang hao over bothering ricky again.

"you ok over there?" gunwook asked. you scowled.

"i dont understand why there are so many idioms! im losing my goddamn mind." parker laughed, mumbling that you chose the language. you couldnt (or didnt want to) voice your doubts as you thought you could.

as they focused their attention on their homework again, you waved over zhang hao, who hanbin had asked to help cut fruits for you and your friends. he set down a plate in front of you, then sat down.

"what does 开夜车 mean zhang hao please im gonna kill myself." he laughed as hanbin looked up, extremely concerned.

"you know 熬夜, right?" you nodded "so its kind of like that but youre doing work. it literally means burn the midnight oil" you thanked him as he patted your head, pulling the plate of fruit away from your friends and toward you, gunwook making a sound of discontent.

you sighed, packing up your bag at a text from your oldest brother. he was home from his masters program in germany, apparently, and was now waiting outside the dorm. you loved your older brothers, you really did, but they were so much smarter than you ever will be. the oldest graduated magna cum laude from mit, now achieving an accelerated masters for mechanical engineering, and the younger was attending harvard for premed, both completely full ride.

your friends, finally re-noticing you, looked up. "where are you going?" gunwook asked, shushing yujin.

"brothers here," you mumbled, not wanting to wreck your self-esteem any more than you had. sarah pouted, but nodded, whipping out her phone. gunwook opened his mouth, but then quickly closed it. "bye hao, thanks for the help. bye, hanbin and jiwoong!" the three oldest members waved back, hanbin hugging you as you walked by. when you got in your fathers' car that your brother was driving, you spilled your guts.

# 2 dont fall behind

at some point, your motivation fell through. all you wanted to do was lie down and stare at the ceiling all day. sadly though, education laws (and school rules) prevailed.

as you trudged up the stairs from last lunch to pre-calculus, you cursed the architects of the three-floor building and whoever required you to go to school.

two of your friends—laura and ryan—had junior priv, which meant they left early. sarah and coral (who had missed the study session) were in ap chem, and gunwook left for a shoot. without your friends to motivate you to work harder, you felt there was nothing left for you to do.

you had fallen asleep in mandarin earlier that day, so why were you still exhausted?

quick answer: you had stayed up late finishing your apush bonus points.

actual answer: you had no motivation to do anything.

you were falling behind on homework: what used to be doing homework as soon as you got home turned into doing it right before class. a teacher had approached your freshman-year english teacher about it, the one teacher who you could talk easily to. yujin was standing right there; they mustve not have realized you two knew each other.

ricky and zhang hao had invited you over for a cdrama binge session. (ricky said "itll help you" in his texts.) but yujin quickly pulled you aside.

"youre falling behind?" he asked, pointedly. you sighed, nodded, opening your mouth to reply as gunwook walked by, asking what you were doing.

"nothin! ricky and hao invited me over." the words rushed out, and they were so not convincing, but gunwook shrugged and moved to sit down beside ricky and gyuvin. you hushed yujin and walked over and sat down beside hao. gunwook stared at you.

"come here." he motioned, shoving ricky off the couch. you hesitated as you made eye contact ricky, but eventually, there were only so many thumps against the couch you could take. "see? more comfortable over here" you hit him, and he let out a yelp.

"do you have much homework, yn?" taerae asked, setting down a bowl of popcorn.

"only a couple of classes," you replied, shoving a kernel in your mouth.

matthew laughed, "the usual suspects, im guessing?" you nodded. gunwook threw a (toned) arm around you as the two chinese members debated the drama.

"how much have you done? its sunday." gunwook asked, lightly, rubbing circles on your arm with his thumb.

"i can do it all tonight and tomorrow." you sighed, the sentence reminding you of where you are in school. gunwook hummed.

"make sure you get sleep, though. you need sleep, its not healthy if you dont." fuck. you were in deep shit in two ways. you were falling deeper into your rut, and you were falling deeper in love with your childhood best friend.

# 3 dont be too hard on yourself

...was easier said than done. your mind cursed you every time you got a bad grade. you wondered what was the point: you werent good enough to get into the likes of yale, or any of your colleges for that matter.

you had long since fallen off the ladder. it had injured you your 8th-grade year, and every attempt to climb back to where you were or any pushing from a 3rd party proved futile, as you only slipped and fell back down again.

the sat was fast approaching, and every practice test you did was never where you wanted them to be. every stupid math problem you got wrong brought a punch to your head. you had called gunwook, only realizing when he didnt pick up that he was in a shoot. panicked, you hung up before the voicemail. when he called you back (10 times with his members also calling you), you opted to ignore it. it was getting late, anyhow, and you had to go in early for apush in the morning.

apush lab made you want to kill yourself. sarah sat next to you, but everything always seemed to favor her. the quizzes, the teacher. it was unfair, really. american history was supposed to be your thing. so why were you struggling? after lab, sarah asked you what was wrong. "gunwook had called us in a panic because you didn't pick up." you shook your head, lying through your teeth.

"i had a question, but then passed the fuck out like 5 minutes later." sarah laughed and nodded, saying she was glad you got proper sleep, mumbling something about the aforementioned friend. when you asked, she waved you off, the man himself standing outside your classroom. he swung an arm around you as sarah walked in the opposite direction to her next class. he asked you the same thing. you lied to him too, but he looked less convinced. he didnt press you further, though, as you two began to walk down the stairs to your creative writing workshop—a senior elective you had begged your guidance counselor to take. gunwook took it to fill spots in his schedule.

the teacher loved him. as did everyone. you wondered if you could ever experience that. your oldest friend was everything you weren't and it was a point of contention inside your mind. you cursed yourself that you were nothing like him. gunwook nudged you in the middle of class when you were given an opportunity to work, asking what was wrong.

"i know thats not why you called me and then didn't pick up. you're also in your head right now." he pointed out, softly. you hummed, scribbling down something in your notebook.

"i just... i had a question but it was stupid. i figured it out." he looked at you pointedly, a look that told you to tell him the truth. "seriously! im ok!" he nodded, grabbing your hand for a squeeze.

# 4 do your best

you were nervous. ok nervous was an understatement. you rocked from heel to toe as you awaited the announcement that the doors were open. your friends chattered nervously around you. for them, this was the first time they were taking the sat. this was your second. you had gotten a 1340 on your first try—nowhere near where you wanted it to be. your brothers had gotten 1600 and 1590, respectively.

you were on call with all your friends the night before, gunwook coaching you guys through certain questions. he had texted you, (only you, but you didnt know that) wishing you luck. ricky and zhang hao had wished you luck as well.

everything seemed like bricks in your bag. it was only a couple of things—a computer, for the digital sat, a pencil, a calculator, a water bottle, and a banana. but it felt like you had hundreds of textbooks in your bag for no reason at all.

the doors swung open, and you rushed up to your assigned room. the setup was a blur, and the reading section seemed to be so too. during the break, your friends voiced similar opinions. then, during math, you began to struggle. somewhere along the way, though, gunwook popped into your head. you dont know if it was because you wanted to make him proud, or you didnt want to disappoint your oldest friend and crush, but it worked. you powered through module 1 and 2, module 2 being the toughest one by far.

when the results came back two weeks later, you waited with baited breath as your friends skipped class with you to check all of your scores. gunwook held your hand as you refreshed the page.

"i dont want to look." you said, hiding your face in his chest.

"ill look for you." he mumbled into your hair, scrolling down. you felt him smile into the crown of your head, "i knew you could do it, sweetheart." you looked, and a big glaring 1590 stared back at you.

"wook!! holy shit a 1590!!" you wrapped your arms around him, squeezing him tight.

# 5 talk about it

you sat with your friends and the members as you awaited gunwook's family's arrival. gunwook smiled from his seat on the gymnasium floor, holding up his phone. almost on instinct, you all checked your own.

wook🩵: this'll be you guys next year. ill be up there watching you all.

sarah burst in to tears. laura full on sobbed, and ryan and carols eyes were brimming with tears. as you read the text again and again, you got a separate text.

wook🩵: i'm proud of you y'know? i saw you struggling a bit at the end there but you made it through. i love you, yn. im glad to call you my friend.

i love you i love you i-

"hey yn sweetheart!" gunwooks mom sat next to you. his brother waved, and his father gave you a curt nod.

"hi. you guys must be excited." his mom laughed, nodding, then shoving your shoulder.

"im more excited about something else." you opened your mouth to ask her what, but the ceremony started

giving gunwook his graduation flowers made him blush. he shook his head. "do you not like them, wook? i thought theyre your favorites." he shook his head again, dropping the flowers into his mom's hands, grabbing your face.

"you are clueless, yknow that? i gave you so many hints. everyone knows." when you asked him what he meant, "yn, you didnt think id notice you putting yourself down? you know i cant fucking stand that. sorry mom. it kills me that the love if my life doesnt realize how fucking amazing they are, and it kills me that they dont realize that im in love with them." at this point, you dont know what you were doing. because gunwook was confessing to you that he both likes you and that he knows about your self-deprication. so now, surrounded by friends and seniors, gunwooks family and members, you kissed him.

it wasnt like anything you had imagined. your first kiss, you mean. peering seniors were waved off by shouts from matthew and gunwooks brother—both burly enough that even the biggest varsity football players would shrink away.

gunwook smiled on your lips as your friends cheered amongst themselves. you heard a loud "闭嘴!" from zhang hao to what you presume was ricky chatting with the senior mandarin class. when you broke off, gasping for air, gunwook tore off his graduation gown, pushing it onto his poor unsuspecting leader. he grabbed your arm, and the two of you sprinted as fast as you could.

out the gymnasium doors, out back by the cafeteria, through the back-woods path. he stopped when he was sure no one would follow him.

"so whats going on? with the whole." he gestured to your head. you knew what he meant, so you nodded. you told him everything, how you compared yourself to everyone, especially your friends and brothers, you were falling behind, your motivation was close to 0, and you never really believed that you could do it. he was quiet for a while. you knew he was trying to find the right words.

you wanted to cry, or throw up, probably both. it felt like the trees and the birds and your boyfriend? were judging you. but gunwook just apologized, for not noticing sooner, for not knowing how to help. you shook your head, tears threatening to fall, but he shook his too.

"no, no, im your best friend, yn, i need to be here for you. im serious, you have people to rely on, you dont have to shoulder this all by yourself." the tears threatening to fall were not a threat anymore, and the dam broke. gunwook grabbed the back of your head, pulling you into a hug.

—

mandarin guide:

开夜车: kai ye che, lit. burn the midnight oil

熬夜: ao ye, stay up late

闭嘴: bi zui, shut up/close your mouth

#zb1 x reader #park gunwook x reader #zerobaseone x reader #zb1 x you #gunwook x reader #wow rina actually posts

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thehorrorgirlstyles · 9 months ago

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thehorrorgirlstyles's Masterlist !

Updated 12/16/2024

welcome to my masterlist

Hi thank you for reading! Request are open. Most of my stories will include 18+ content. Some have mentions of non-consensual and dark themes. Warnings will be included, read at your own risk! If you wish to be tagged to a future post please comment on that post and I will try to get back to you. Tags will be found at the end of each post. My stories and this account are for fun and shouldn't be taken seriously! My stories are not proofread and there could be spelling errors, just skip over them. :) If a story or part contains some type of smut an 18+ sign will be by the title. I will try to make updates and finish parts as soon as I can! If I plan to make a lot of fics of a certain character I will post a separate page for that character, all links can be found here. More stories on the way......

New writer please be nice, everyone is welcomed here!

Note: Sometimes the links don't work, just let me know and I will fix it asap!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Eddie Munson

Opposites Attract

You are the queen of Hawkins high, being a cheerleader and dating the football captain Jason, however after spending time with the dungeon master and getting to know just how attractive he is, while Jason shows his true colors one night, your love for the blonde slowly starts to fade away and is replaced by an ache needing to be relieved by Eddie “the freak” Munson…

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3 18+

Part 4

Part 5 18+

Brotherly Love 18+

You move in with your mom's new husband, only to find out that he has an annoyingly hot son.

Billy Hargrove

Best Kept Secret

Billy is a dick to everyone and your brother is his number one hater, however, he's so hard to resist.

Part 1 18+

Part 2

Part 3

Steve Harrington

coming soon......

Ethan Landry

Tainted Love 18+

You meet Ethan at a Halloween party Chad invited you to and start to become close to him, when the truth is later then revealed of his family’s plan. Was your relationship ever real or was it all a lie?

Billy Loomis

Make you scream 18+

You find out your boyfriend is Ghostface, which should scare you, instead it turns you on even more.

Peter Parker

Boner

Your dad has been keeping Peter away from you, making you want even more attention from him, so you come up with a plan that will have Peter drooling at the site of you.

Loki

Be my Queen

Loki has taken a liken to you, wanting you to be his queen....his mother has other plans in mind.

Rafe Cameron

coming soon.....

JJ Maybank

The Kook Princess

Being best friends with Kiara means spending a lot of time with the Pogues, something that your boyfriend, Rafe, isn't to happy about.

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Other fics

Dick Grayson

Family Affairs

You and Dick have been dating without your family knowing. What happens when they find out the truth?

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Elijah Mikaelson

coming soon...

Klaus Mikaelson

coming soon...

Harry Styles

coming soon...

Daryl Dixon

coming soon...

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whumpsandwhimpers · 6 months ago

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INTRO POST!

HI fellow whump lovers!! I'm Aster! (my main is @ablatheringblatherskite!)

I have finally decided to make a whump blog. Mostly because I'm having a hard time sorting and finding the posts I reblogged on my main. My main will still be getting a bunch of whump stuff, but this sideblog will be exclusively whump!!

I'm mostly a fanfic writer, although I do have some original stories in the works!

Some fandoms I've written for (and want to write for): Phantom of the Opera, One Piece, Manifest, Epic: The Musical, HTTYD, Les Mis, Spider-Man, Daredevil, Wednesday, Hamilton

Blorbos I've Whumped (Or will whump): Raoul de Chagny, Erik (the Phantom), Roronoa Zoro, Sanji, Zeke Landon, Peter Parker, Matt Murdock, Tyler Galpin, Telemachus, Odysseus, Hiccup Haddock III

READ MY WHUMP FICS HERE!

IMPORTANT NOTE AND SQUICKS:

I'm also a Christian. I avoid explicit and NSFW whump, as well as whump as a kink or fetish. I'm fine with graphic gore and violence, but avoid the more sexual side of whump generally.

Squicks: Noncon, Urination,

Some whump stuff I like!:

Restraints!!!! (shackles attached to the wall or ceiling, chained, tied to a chair, bound on the floor or in a stress position, gags, cloth gags and duct tape, collars and muzzles, hidden restraints, etc.)

Kidnapped and capture!!

Body horror (especially paired with non-con body mod)

Resigned whumpee, especially a defiant whumpee becoming broken and resigned and afraid

Small cages

Trophy Whumpee (Whumpee to be shown off and be pretty)

Mouth/eyelids stitched shut

Manhandling!!

Royal whumpee

Stress position

Dehumanization, Infantilization, and Humiliation/Degredation

Torture!!

Pet whump (obviously not the NSFW kind)

Nonsexual BBU

Roleplay whump (like, when the whumper forces the whumpee to play a specific role for them. Like their child, or spouse, etc)

Creepy whumper

Intimate whumper (yes ofc not the NSFW kind. More like ruffling their hair, patting their cheeks, holding their face, playing with their hair or ears, etc.)

Non-sexual, noncon touching

Exhaustion (but particularly when it's with an art form)

Performance whump (is this a thing. Like being forced to sing/dance for whumper's entertainment, or for whumper's gain)

Art whumpee (whumpee that's somehow turned into art)

Cosmetic whump

Plaything Whumpee (Whumpee being treated like a toy, a plaything)

Doll Whumpee (Whumpee being treated like a doll)

Experimentation and lab whump/medical whump (Lab rat whumpee!!)

Living Weapon

Forced obedience

Manipulation, mind games and gaslighting

Body control (Like, when whumper is only in control of the body but not the mind, so whumpee is maybe trapped in their mind and forced to watch)

Enslaved whumpee (IDK WHAT THIS IS CALLED but basically when a usually non-human whumpee is forced to serve and obey their master, whether that came about through a contract or the master somehow finding a way to trap them into servitude)

Whumpee being turned into a puppet (literally and figuratively)/Literally being puppeteered with strings

Brainwashing/mind control

Cybernetics whump

Sensory deprivation

Branding

Carving skin with a knife (carving words, or maybe a creepy smile on the corners of whumpee's mouth!)

Public whump (public humiliation and being used as an example/to discourage people mmmmm)

Dismemberment/General Mutilation/Permanent damage

Waterboarding/Head being dunked into water forcefully

Good ol' classic beating while whumpee is restrained/already down

And I Must Scream

Trauma

Comfort

And probably more that I've forgotten!!

Masterposts:

Chrumblr Whumblr 2024

Whumpuary 2025

Stuff I've Written (that aren't for whump challenges):

Muzzled / Foot on mouth / Bait for WoW / "Say It." / Good Bunny

Stuff I've Drawn:

Kiki being tortured / Raoul locked up

FEEL FREE TO GIVE ME WRITING/PROMPT SUGGESTIONS!!

Aaaand that's all I guess! Let the whumping begin!

Tags and stuff:

#asterrisks, #favorites, #aster's writings, #aster's snippets, #aster's art, #my reblog additions, #blorbos, #aster's inbox, #aster's asks, #to watch, #was tagged

#whump writing, #whump writing references, #whump, #whump art, #whump gifsets, #whump prompts, #whump writings, #crack whump, #whump dialogue, #whump humor, #masterlist

#whumper, #multiple whumpers, #possessive whumper, #intimate whumper, #creepy whumper, #creepy/intimate whumper, #sadistic whumper, #cold whumper, #collector whumper, #artist whumper, #vampire whumper,

#whumpee, #multiple whumpees, #non human whumpee, #trophy whumpee, #lab rat whumpee, #resigned whumpee, #conditioned whumpee, #pliant whumpee, #broken whumpee, #royal whumpee, #defiant whumpee, #scared whumpee, #sarcastic whumpee, #stoic whumpee, #scared whumpee, #immortal whumpee, #child whumpee, #minor whumpee, #owned whumpee, #battery whumpee, #doll whumpee, #feral whumpee, #winged whumpee, #plaything whumpee, #digital whumpee, #vampire whumpee,

#caretaker, #bad caretaker, #carewhumper, #siblings, #relationships in whump

#restraints, #bound, #cocooned, #hanging from the ceiling, #tied to a chair, #tied to a tree, #strapped to a table, #tied to a bed, #bound and gagged, #gagging, #mouth stitched shut, #muted, #silenced, #blindfolded

#forced to watch, #forced to hurt a friend, #forced smile, #forced labour, #forced marriage, #force feeding, #forced drinking, #forced to participate, #forced to fight, #forced obedience, #hypnosis, #mind control, #controlled, #body control, #paralysis/paralyzed, #loss of autonomy, #possession, #catatonic

#punishments, #torture, #bullying, #abuse, #manhandling, #hair grabbing, #kneeling, #stepping on whumpee, #noncon touching, #sleep torture/sleep deprivation, #past torture, #tickle torture, #bruises, #injuries, #broken bones, #digging into injury, #scars, #broken bones, #electrocution, #drugged/drugging, #poisoning, #stress position, #beating(s), #slapping, #stripping, #whipping, #starvation, #strangling, #suffocation, #dehydration, #waterboarding, #branding, #tattooing, #emeto/vomiting, #noncon haircut, #noncon body modification, #experimentation, #amnesia, #sensory deprivation, #solitary confinement, #gunpoint, #curses, #sacrifices, #sickness, #being recorded, #being watched, #parting words regret, #transportation, #buying and selling, #on display, #used as target, #mutilation, #blood, #taking blood, #stabbing/impalement, #dismemberment, #gore, #permanent damage, #death, #resurrection, #came back wrong, #and i must scream

#chains, #ropes, #duct tape, #cages, #tiny cages, #cells, #two dimensional prisons, #muzzles, #blindfolds, #leashes, #collars, #head collar(s), #shock collars, #guns, #knives, #glass whump, #barbed wires

#conditioning, #mind games, #manipulation, #self-deprecation, #self loathing, #self harm, #self sacrifice, #sacrifices, #screams, #sobbing, #resignation, #dehumanization, #humiliation, #shame, #infantilization, #degradation, #desperation, #fear, #pain, #trauma, #triggers, #vague discomfort, #distrust, #dazed, #dazed and confused, #disorientation, #delirium, #horrified, #mocking, #arguments, #betrayal, #guilt, #amnesia, #hallucinations, #exhaustion, #nightmares, #begging, #gaslighting, #abandonment/abandoned, #isolation, #unconscious, #insecurity, #threats, #hurtful words, #helplessness

#kidnapped, #captured, #trapped, #slavery, #body horror, #rescue/rescued, #recovery, #aftermath whump, #hostage whump, #used as bait, #royal whump, #lab whump, #medical whump, #magic whump, #superhero whump, #pirate whump, #superpower whump, #superhealing whump, #undercover whump, #public whump, #surprise whump, #pet whump, #wing whump, #water whump, #mouth whump, #eye whump, #hand whump, #domestic whump, #cybernetic(s) whump, #art whump, #performance whump, #cosmetic whump, #living weapon, #hurt/comfort, #parental whump, #family whump, #psychological whump, #emotional whump, #roleplay whump, #prison whump, #historical whump, #religious whump, #performance whump, #holiday whump, #team whump, #held for ransom, #gladiator whump, #time loop, #reality manipulation

#sickfic, #hypothermia

Archive

#whump community #whumpblr #whump intro #asterrisks #whump writer #whump writing #whump

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ofbluesandyellows · 1 year ago

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Blueberry Wednesday - TASM! Peter Parker / Fem! Reader

Summary: Peter has a new noisy neighbor and he doesn't know how to deal with that -including bright plates and tasty food.

Word count: 2,086

a/n: Hiya! This is a new little thing that came to mind a few days ago, it's so nice to be back to share something with you. Hope you enjoy it let me know if you want to read more :)

Peter had been living in this new apartment for a few months now, the building was nicer than the last, the hot shower worked fine and the electricity didn’t have that buzzing sound that made his migraines unbearable. It was in an okay area and it was close to where he worked.

His life had been monotonous for the same amount of time too, maybe even longer, waking up, shower, coffee, work, lunch, patrol, kick some ass, fix his wounds —when needed—, sleep and back to square one. Peter didn’t feel the need of anything at the moment, Mary Jane had broken up with him for the second time, and even when he was heartbroken, and cried to sleep when he missed her, he was not pushing her to accept him back, he knew it was for the best. Pushing everyone away was the thing he was masterful at.

But this banging and screeching coming from the floor on top of his was causing his body to flinch every time that mother fucker sound appeared. His jaw clenched, his fist tightened. Peter had given whomever this person was, about an hour to come to their senses but this was enough. He stood up from his bed, leaving his badly sewed spider-man fixed suit splattered on the bed. Heavy steps and the slam of his door didn’t give the owner of the apartment a clue of what was coming for them, so when he banged the door two times, he waited but nothing happened, instead a wave of noise came through of it, as if the air and life were doing it on purpose just to add more stress in him; music the loud kind, instruments clashing against one another as if they had no rhythm to go with.

He banged the door, this time with white knuckles and a fury bubbling in his stomach. Suddenly the music stopped and Peter inhaled, oh, he was so ready to give this person hell, he was even expecting a fight to go down. This didn’t have anything to do with MJ dating another person, of course not, this was about the noise, yeah, that was it.

The door swung open and Peter puffed his chest, but it deflated the second his eyes landed on your frame.

“Hi!” You said chirpy and jolly, waving a hand. Your hair was messy as if a wind swirl had trapped you and now you had to deal with this new crazy hairdo and a sweaty forehead.

Peter tried, he really did but his eyes betrayed him and went up and down your body, pink shorts, with strawberries, that was something. Your shirt was spotty with breach, it was an Arctic Monkeys one, he liked them. You looked… not as annoying as he expected.

He gulped and inevitably sighed. “Um hello, listen, I came up here to make you stop with the noise but I was not expecting to find you here, so um, yeah sorry. Just would you keep it down?”

All the hot bubbly anger settled down, he was in no way going to fight a girl let alone an adorable looking one.

“Oh, I had no idea, sorry!” You smiled sheepishly. “I just moved in this morning and I was trying to move a few things around because they just left them all scattered and I kind of wanted to— anyway yeah I am so sorry about that.”

Peter nodded, he caught the pink in your cheeks going brighter the more he stared at you.

“You’re fine, really, maybe I’m just being a little dramatic.”

Dammit enhanced hearing.

“I bet you aren’t, I put the music too loud to avoid hearing the screeching myself.” Scratching your cheek you looked at him in the eye and quickly looked away.

“Well, I live downstairs, do you… er need some help?” Peter looked past you, his eyes landing on the piled boxes and the furniture indeed resting in the center of the room.

“No need, I think I caused enough mayhem,”

“Nonsense, I would be also doing it for myself, if I help you you will finish early, hence I can have silence in my own apartment.”

After a second you nodded, stepping aside. “Alright then.”

“My name’s Peter Parker by the way, I live literally below you.” His big hand extended, you met his and soon you two were moving furniture around the apartment, the music didn’t sound like noise in Peter’s ears any more, he in fact found out you really liked The Strokes.

The next morning Peter woke up with a banging headache, a brick wall fell over him when he tried to save a dog from a fire down by Little Italy. Only positive thing about his heroic act was that the owner of the dog handed him a little coupon card for free pizzas for the rest of the year at his son’s pizzeria two blocks down. He was definitely using that one.

A soft almost imperceptible knock startled him as he swallowed two ibuprofens with a big gulp of black coffee. The coffee was cold but he couldn’t care less.

As if he wasn't sure the knock had been on his door, he opened it slowly, you couldn’t be too sure anyway. At least his spider senses weren’t skyrocketing, which was always good.

His eyes found emptiness, there was no one at his door, his head popped out, looking to the right then the left and then a sweet smell caught his attention. Syrup-y, vanilla like.

Eyes went to the floor instinctively, right at his feet there was a yellow plate, a baby blue sticky note on the plastic wrapping it.

His brows furrowed as he squatted down.

Hi, Peter Parker.

I’m so sorry I disturbed your peace last night,

take these pancakes as an apology and as a thank you for your help.

Have a good day,

- your noisy top floor neighbor.

Peter felt a flutter in his chest, he hadn’t eaten pancakes in so long, and these looked extremely good. The plastic wrap was forming little condensation drops, so he picked it up, with a smile forming on his lips.

As soon as the wrap was discarded his apartment filled with the smell of sweet homey goodness. Even a little plastic pot of syrup was resting at the side of the pancakes. He looked at them for a good minute, just appreciating the looks of it.

“Okay…” he mumbled to himself as he grabbed a fork, his cold coffee still half drunk near his left hand.

Peter firstly dipped his pinky in the syrup and as he sucked on it he couldn’t help to make a sound of pure joy. Pouring the gooey thing over the spongy misshapen circles was making his mouth water and the first bite was like a whole new experience to him. He noticed how the pancakes were soft like he imagined clouds were, then he chewed on something sour his eyes widened, looking down he noticed the very well hidden blueberries.

It was like having a party in his mouth, warm, sugary with a hint of sourness and then all combined, he moaned as his forehead hit the surface of the counter in his kitchen.

“You have to be kidding me!”

Peter was a fan of berries in general but there was definitely something in the blueberries that made him extremely happy, it was almost childish, it was probably the memories of his mom adding them to his cereal when he refused to eat something else.

The whole thing disappeared in less than a few minutes. He was both flattered and a bit insulted by you for giving him six pancakes instead of the common amount of three but he was also very grateful, he hadn’t had a breakfast like that since he lived with May, and that had been years ago. This made him feel warm inside, almost loved.

The water of the sink cleaned the remains of the food and he stared at the plate, a big pink smiley face was painted on the center of it, this made him chuckle, one that vanished as quickly as it came. How was he supposed to give you back your plate, he was not good at cooking, well… only if you appreciated instant ramen or mac and cheese coming from a box.

He wasn’t very fond of the idea of returning your plate empty, made him feel ungrateful, even though he had been the one handing you his services, it hadn’t taken much from him to help you anyway, you had been nice and chatty, he even enjoyed being around you, and Peter didn’t enjoy being around many people.

With a deep sigh he left the cheery plate to dry on the rack, he had to go to work now.

Working for this new lab was something he didn’t expect to feel excited about but being part of the genetics department was probably the best decision they made for him, he could check all kinds of weird things, giving him access to classified information that was also helpful for his arachnid counterpart.

But just today wasn’t one of those days, his mind kept on drifting to you and your plate and those freaking incredible pancakes. Deep down he thought of finding ways to help you so he could eat those delicious fluffy things at least once more. For now he had to just entertain the idea, soon he focused on options to give you back your stuff without even going knocking at your door.

Because that would be weird? Isn’t it? To knock and give your plate back with a nod and then disappear without a word. It seemed too impolite and somehow Peter wanted to seem like a complete gentleman with you, after all he had been a bit forward last night, he was tired and upset and you were being so noisy but now here he was in a dilemma.

Lunch felt like a slap, like a bucket of cold water, his sandwich tasted like sandpaper –not that he had tried it but he guessed that’s what it tasted like–not even his favorite drink from the vending machine seemed good enough in comparison to his three Michelin star breakfast. Swinging back home felt a little better than going in the subway, he made a mental note to fix his motorcycle, he didn’t need to deal with the heat of the city when he could drive to work and back and enjoy the breeze.

You know how destiny and coincidences are such a funny thing, Peter decided to take the elevator to his floor instead of just crawling up to his window. He just felt like it, so he stood there waiting until the door clinked sliding open, revealing a figure inside, your sparkly eyes was the first thing he saw.

Peter almost gasped.

“Peter! Hi,”

“Hey! Are you heading out?” duh how are you so smart, Parker? “I mean yeah of course you are, if not you wouldn’t be here.”

You chuckled. “Yes, I just ran out of milk.” Cheeks going pink, Peter smirked.

“Right, well, I won’t get in your way.”

“Okay, see you around.”

Peter walked in the elevator and just as you walked past him, he held the door open just to see you for a little longer.

“Hey!” he quickly shouted. your hair flipping as you twirled to face him. “Thanks for the pancakes, they were really good, like exceptionally amazing.”

“Ha, wow no, thank you, I really appreciate what you did for me yesterday, hopefully there won't be more disturbances in the future.”

“Please, be my guest, if you need something you know where to find me.”

“Will try not to bother you much but it’s good to know, thanks!”

Peter was grinning. “By the way, the blueberries were quite the surprise, they’re my favorite.”

Your whole face brightened “Good! You were lucky, then. It was Blueberry Wednesday.”

Chest fluttering and all, Peter saw you wave at him and disappear out the door, his way to his apartment felt light, like all his worries had suddenly evaporated. His apartment seemed cozier too. Kicking off his shoes, he went to grab a glass of water, his eyes finding the happy yellow and pink plate, he almost choked.

“Oh shit! What am I going to do with you?”

Scratching his neck, he really needed an excuse now. He wanted to see you again.

#Peter Parker x reader #tasm peter parker #tasm x female reader #tasm peter parker fic #fluff #fanfiction #tasm fanfic #tasm! peter parker fluff #peter parker x you #andrew garfield peter parker #tags are hard #fluff and nothing but fluff #andrew garfield spiderman #tasm! peter fic #andrew garfield

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rancidpancakebatter · 4 months ago

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Another Way to Fly-[P.P.] | Chapter Seven

Pairing: TASM!college!Peter Parker x female!college!reader

Summary: You've been dating Harry Osborne for three years. You love him...but maybe not as much as you once did. Maybe not enough.

AU Where Norman isn’t as sick- he’s just an asshole- and Gwen didn't go to Oxford. Harry is functioning as an apprentice at Oscorp (He graduated with a master's in two years because of his studying abroad). You, Peter, and Gwen are all seniors at ESU. Because Peter isn't Spider-Man and Norman isn’t dying, the whole “Goblin” thing is scratched from the record, so Peter and Harry are besties.

Prompt: Based on an ask for my 200 Follower celebration

Word Count: 3.1k

Content Warnings: Swearing, drinking (of age)

Previous | Chapter List | Next

A/N: reader is stressed and I'm loving it, sorry :P

There’s a thick tension in the air, it brought sweat to your brow that you blamed on the already stuffy room. You felt like you were being watched, the hairs on the back of your neck now irritating to you. When you looked around, you never discovered who it was, or whether it was just your brain pushing on paranoia.

Your stomach twisted and churned as you carefully teetered between convincing yourself that you were just crazy and trying to figure out why Gwen and Peter suddenly wanted nothing to do with you and Harry– and then reminding yourself that Harry wasn’t shown any coldness, just you. And how deeply that had stung.

But your heart would mend little by little. With every bit of attention Harry gave you, and the timid passing smile you would sometimes catch from Peter across the room. He was tied to Gwen for most of the evening, but they seemed robotic. They were stiff. No one was leaning into the other. There were no soft pets or admiring the other. They barely looked at each other. It was odd.

You’re used to feeling lovesick just from looking at them. You craved the silent conversations and their affectionate touches full of care. But their actions now looked rehearsed. They lasted as long as they needed to and offered nothing more. And only Peter seemed to mind.

His face was neutral unless speaking with someone. He looked tired, but you couldn’t tell if it was from late nights or if it was the kind of tired that sleep couldn’t fix. His slouch was more pronounced as he followed Gwen around the room. His dead eyes floated aimlessly, looking at everything but seeing nothing.

Gwen held her chin high and her smile wide. She greeted everyone with brilliance and charm. But this was her night, you guess.

You couldn’t get it off your mind. All night, your thoughts and eyes wandered to them, and your heart felt heavier with all the space between you.

You would feel much better if you didn’t feel like the pair was ducking you. You had caught up to them twice now. The first time, You spotted them on the outskirts of the crowd. They talked amongst themselves, observing the room as they took a break from socializing. Harry was locked in a titillating conversation about the economic reality and accessibility of their research, but your eyes continually drifted to your friends across the room.

“You can go over if you want,” Harry whispered, having caught your stare. “I’ll join you in a moment.”

You hesitated at his side, your linked arm tensing. The idea of leaving Harry caused you to pause, as usually, separating meant you likely wouldn't catch his attention again within this hour, or the next. However, he had promised to be with you this evening and had yet to waver from his word.

He seemed to recognise your reluctance and encouraged you further, “Really, I’ll be right there. I just need you to pin those evasive weasels down.”

He chuckled at his own joke and you cracked a smile of your own before breaking away.

Peter noticed your approach first, his height making it easier to scan the crowd. You waved as your eyes met and, in turn, a wide smile spread across Peter’s face. It’s hard to say if enough data had been gathered for this conclusion, but you don’t think you’ve seen him that truly happy tonight. Regardless, the smile on your face was also record-breaking for the evening.

Timid ‘Excuse me’s fell out in soft breaths as you tried to navigate the partygoers. One thing you had learned very early on in dating Harry was that rich people (like, Wikipedia page rich) were often very rude, as they have this inflated idea of self-importance, tied solely to the thickness of their wallets. Many of them would not move out of your way if you were on fire. Instead, they would keep their feet planted as they merely watched you slide against them to get by. The act never failed to make you feel suffocated and irritated.

Once you finally breached the crowd you were a little out of breath, but no less deterred, as the promised land was finally before you.

“Hey, Guys!” You called once before your friends.

Gwen stiffened and in turn, Peter’s smile faded.

“How’s your evening going?” You tried again.

A scoff floated through the air, the blonde rolling her eyes.

“Well, it’s just great.” Her tone had a bite to it that you didn’t understand. “Everyone here keeps telling me how wonderful and brilliant I am.”

“Well,” Her eyes ripped from yours as she redirected her indignation towards the man beside her. “Almost everyone.”

Peter’s face fell towards the ground, his neck reddening so quickly you were sure the flush would swallow his cheeks in seconds. You were unsure, however, what Gwen had meant by that. Surely Peter was supportive of her work, he always was.

“I’m sure Peter is very proud of you,” You said attempting to defuse tension you couldn’t define, “I know I’m proud of Harry.”

At the mention of your boyfriend's name, you glanced behind you hoping to see him fight his way through the crowd to where you were. Instead, he was still speaking to the same man, just as animated as before you left. You hoped he was at least enjoying the conversation, but if he could over here that would be great. You weren’t sure how long you could keep this up.

“Don’t speak for him.” The words came out in a snarl, her eyes squinted in anger.

You had never seen Gwen upset like this, and your hands came up instinctually to guard yourself from the sting as your jaw dropped.

“Come on Gwen, don’t be mean.”

Peter’s head never lifted as he chided her, though hers whipped around in an instant, and you felt bad because whatever anger she had for you, she had more for him. Her cheeks flushed with it, her eyes widening under her furrowed brows. When their eyes met, you recognised that all-too-familiar psychic link they shared. A conversation happening only in looks, leaving you in the dark. However, this one looked more like a fight, so you were happy to miss out.

After a moment she scoffed again, “Un-fucking-believable.”

She stormed off and ignored you calling after her. Peter didn’t even try to stop her from leaving. He didn’t even look up, just shaking his head at the ground.

Once your shock began to wane, you asked your friend, “Is everything alright between you two?”

The tender concern in your voice convinced him to finally raise his eyes to meet yours, though his expression looked pained. He brought his glass up once, then opened his mouth to answer. When no answer came, he raised the glass again. The poor guy was a wreck for sure. He was never this quiet.

“Peter?”

Your hand gently reached across the distance between you to rest on his bicep. The act was meant to be comforting, a touch well rehearsed. But just as your fingertip grazed his sleeve, He jumped back, his drink sloshing as he tried to catch it in his mouth instead of his suit jacket. You retracted your touch quickly, holding your jilted hand to your chest.

“She’s just stressed,” He said, avoiding your gaze and much farther away now, “Big night.”

You nodded your head, not really believing him but not wanting to push it. “And how are you?”

A soft laugh left Peter’s lips, but you had missed the punchline. You waited for him to expand, but no explanation came. Instead, he took another sip of his liquor, then sucked his teeth.

“I gotta go get her.”

He didn’t sound excited as he trudged off to where she had disappeared moments ago, leaving you staring at the cityscape out of the giant window you had first found your friends gathered around.

You stood there for a while, fighting back tears as the city lights twinkled below when Harry finally did appear. You didn’t notice his approach from behind before his voice startled you.

“I told you to keep them here.” He sputtered, “Where did they run off to now?”

You appologized and told him you weren’t sure as he joined you at the window to enjoy the winter scenery.

The second time occurred about an hour later when your mingling had brought you towards the center of the room. There you found a circle of women talking animatedly and who you assumed were their adjoining men floating on the outskirts.

None of the men interacted much, they simply nodded their heads in acknowledgement, nursing their preferred poisons as they waited for their ladies to return.

Suddenly Harry was tugging on your arm, moving you around the herd. A small smile stretched across your face when you saw where he was going.

Peter stood awkwardly, trying his best not to make eye contact with anyone who looked like they might initiate a conversation, swirling his drink more to do something with his hands than to stir it. The way the golden drink glistened in the lights reminded Peter of a potion a wise witch might fix up. He tried to imagine what sagely words she would share with him and hoped if he stared harder into the spell some sort of clarity would wash over him.

He only stopped when he heard Harry call his name, looking up to see you. The gown you wore tonight was beautiful, but he was sure you looked great in any dress you wore. Or any sweater, t-shirt, or potato sack. Your smile was small but he saw the joy you held in your eyes. They shown in a different way than his drink. Your eyes were bright, blindingly so. The world fell away when he looked there, unable to see anything else. An arm fell around him and he flinched.

“Hey, Pete,” Harry greeted, “You okay? You’re jumpy.”

He tried to laugh it off, trying his best not to look your way again, knowing he had no self-control.

“Yeah, I’m fine. How are you? Enjoying the party?”

Peter could feel you examining him. Not much got past you, there was nothing he could hide. But he had to try. Because if you knew how truly terrible he was, if you knew all he had torn apart and how much more he wished he could destroy, you might hate him. And he wouldn’t be able to blame you.

“It would be a lot better,” Harry teased, “If my best friend was with me. Seriously man, are you hiding from me?”

Peter’s stomach fell, the guilt tearing him up inside. His mind became loud with a mess of voices, all reminding him of how selfish and pathetic he was. How utterly cruel and treacherous he had been to his friend.

“Anyway,” Harry continued, “you’re not getting away from me now.”

He brought their glasses together with a clink and made a face Peter knew well. He downed the rest of his drink with Harry, knowing that the scolding he would get for “forfeiting” would be worse than the drink. He beat Harry by a mere half a second and Harry cursed under his breath.

“Fine, rules are rules.”

Harry squeezed your shoulder as he passed you, accepting defeat as he went to the bartender. That left you with, a very awkward, Peter. His feet shuffled in place as his eyes tracked the empty glass twisting in his hands. His head was thudding in his ears as your eyes continued to burn holes into his rented tux, and his hand came up to fiddle with his tie in a failed attempt to create more air in the room. The pressure was rising the longer he stood here.

“It’s supposed to get really cold tonight.”

He didn’t acknowledge your remark, and you felt your heart seize in his silence. Your time with Peter was usually filled with easy laughter and quick-witted jabs, and you were trying to wrack your brain for why there was such a rift between you now. When did your friendship become one where you discussed the weather?

“I uh…I heard that a blizzard might be rolling in soon.” You gracelessly continued, “It’ll be a problem more so for the North– like Buffalo or whatever– but still…”

Peter offered nothing, refusing to save you from this…well you hesitate to call it a conversation. He was much too fascinated by the once-polished glass in his hands.

“But apparently it’s gonna get up to sixty on Thursday,” You cringed at yourself, but words continued to tumble out, as they often did around Peter. “Which is like…crazy right?”

“What are you talking about?”

Your back straightened, surprised by his dry tone, as you tripped around an answer.

“I was just…” You pushed past the lump of nerves in your throat, “I was trying to make conversation.”

His eyes still refused to meet yours, and he offered nothing more. You couldn’t bite your tongue any longer.

“Hey, are we-” You began, then fought through before you lost your nerve, “Are you okay?”

Peter feigned nonchalance in his returning question. “What do you mean?”

“You seem a little…off tonight.”

The nonchalance fell quickly as he now looked at you challengingly. His eyes looked red around the edges like he had been rubbing at them, but his gaze was gentle, the only familiarity you found in the man before you.

“Maybe you’re just not used to seeing me here.”

His apathy was insufferable. You couldn’t think of a single time in the four years of knowing this man that he had spoken to you with so much disinterest. You didn’t know what to do or make of it.

“I- I guess, but— I don’t know —you just seem upset about something.” You swallowed hard, the next words being exceptionally hard to force out. “Maybe something I did. And as your friend, you can tell me.”

He took a breath, his presence softening with the action. His smile tightened, his left cheek pulling into his face, and his eyes began to twinkle under the chandeliers, slowly wetting as he tried to hold together. That’s when you knew. You fought the urge to bring into your your arms then an there.

Before he could answer, your shoulder was shoved forward as someone pushed past you.

“I’m sure he will,” Gwen says coldly, appearing on Peter’s arm, “But now isn’t the time.”

The countenance on your friend's faces as they look at you makes you feel sick to your stomach. Gwen holds nothing but disdain for you as Peter’s spirit is immediately distinguished by her presence, and is replaced by a sullen look your way.

“Yeah, okay, we’ll talk—” She turns him away before you’ve finished your statement, walking off “—later.”

Tears threaten to fall from your lashline, knowing that you must have done something to them for them to treat you this way. Your friends hated you, and you knew that must be true. You feel the warmth of embarrassment and shame rise to your cheeks, the skin itching in its wake.

You feel alien standing in the middle of this crowd of merry folk, chatting and drinking through the night with smiles and laughter in the air. Your eyes are closed as you try to count through your hitching breath, willing the tears to return peacefully to your eye ducts before they fall.

When Harry returned with his punishment– A dastardly looking Ceasar Cocktail with tabasco sauce swirling around the many olives in his tall glass, that he stirred around with his celery stick, raking up the smell of clam permeating your nostrils– he was once again distressed to see Peter walking off.

“Where are they going?” He asked, taking a sip from his drink, then shuddering. “God, that’s awful.”

“They felt crowed,” You lied, “You should catch up with them while I run to the restroom.”

You didn’t wait for Harry’s response before running off, desperate to escape. You glide across the floor, your stride wide as you flee as fast as you can without actually running. There are bathrooms on this floor, but you didn’t want to risk a line or audience. Once you reached the steps, you flew, your feet scrambled as you skipped over some. Your chest began heaving and you tried to blame the exertion but you knew your desperate sprinting had nothing to do with it.

Once you reached the lobby, many workers tried to offer their assistance to you, but you waved them off, avoiding their gaze. In the security of the grand, marble-slabbed restroom, you began to cry. Your hand covered your mouth to try and muffle the noise, hoping to avoid the attention of anyone outside, as you blowing through the lobby the way did was most likely concerning enough.

You took your time, as the images of Peter’s despondence and Gwen’s enmity floated around your mind like haunting drama masks, twisting the distortions of your once familiar friends. You wracked your frazzled brain for what you could have possibly done, and tears of frustration poured as nothing came forth.

You opened your phone, suddenly paranoid that maybe you had sent a mean message to one of them by mistake. But alas, in the two days between when you last saw them and now, the only messages there– other than the few you had sent today asking when they were coming– was a thank you to the both of them (individually) for taking care of your sorry, drunk ass. Only Peter had responded to you.

From Peter: Nvr a problem for my lil heartbreaker !! Glad u got home safe

From Peter: 6438_92.img

From Peter: cu again soon :)))

You croaked as you looked at the wide, carefree smile he wore in the photo, his free hand raised above his head in half a heart– a common sign-off between you.

What had changed? What could you have done in these passing days to make them feel this way? Gwen was mad at you, you knew that much, but Peter? He seemed crushed. If you had done something to wrong Peter, it would make sense why Gwen was so cross with you. Hell, you were cross with you. Because if you had done something– and that is the only thing that makes sense– then you did it so carelessly, so brazenly, that you couldn’t even remember.

Putting a little secondary note down here to just say hello, and I'm sorry to all of you who waited so long for this (and many other) updates. I hope that the finished product is worth it, and thanks for sticking around to find out :))

Tag List: @actuallypeterparker, @athenxt, @andrews-lovr, @barbecuetiddy, @cherriescherriesred25, @heejinw0rld, @ilovemoonknight, @Isshecrazyorissheclever, @negasonic-teenage-asshole, @preciousbabypeter, @purple-amaranthe, @raajali3, @rudy-the-winged-wolf, @scorpiolystoned, @supernerdycookietrashblrr, @tayswiftlovebot, @wannapizzamymindposts, @whoreforklitz

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themculibrary · 2 months ago

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Wade Wilson Masterlist

All About Chemistry (ao3) - TwiceBakedPotato peter/wade M, 74k

Summary: After serving his 20 years in the Marine Corps, Wade Wilson is cashing in his GI Bill and going back to college. He feels like the old man on campus, but that doesn’t matter. He likes his classes. He likes learning. And he especially likes his Chemistry professor with the messy brown hair.

All I Want For Christmas is You (Deadpool Edition) (ao3) - jenniferlawrencelover logan/wade E, 52k

Summary: Wade never thought he would be engaged again.

And he wasn’t.

Yet.

Another Trip Around the Sun (ao3) - isaDanCurtisproduction peter/wade M, 31k

Summary: Peter likes Wade. A lot. Like-likes him. But this is a problem, see? Because Wade has no idea who is behind the Spiderman mask.

And then they go to a New Years Eve Party hosted by Tony Stark, get completely wasted, and suddenly this does not seem to be nearly as much of a problem as Peter originally thought. Because Peter always makes the best decisions while drunk, don’t you know? Especially when his decision involves getting into Deadpool’s pants.

A Soft Place to Land (ao3) - alby_mangroves, Pineau_noir steve/bucky, peter/wade, clint/natasha, kate/america E, 41k

Summary: Bucky Barnes grew up thinking he could do anything, and is coming to terms with the fact that his parents might have oversold the idea of being an adult. He's an average 30-something Brooklynite with an average job, an average life, and a (smaller than) average apartment. So, he compares his life to the colorful Instagram pictures his friends post while longing for the excitement and brightness of their online presences.

Steve Rogers has his dream job as a master stylist at the Red Room Salon, along with his dream apartment, and almost his dream life. Except, he's terrified of getting too close to people after his last real relationship left him self-conscious of being too hard in both personality and body type. While most of the emotional wounds have healed, their scars still linger.

What happens when Steve and Bucky meet one night over an accidental gesticulation gone wild alongside a smack in the face?

Backshots Mountain (By Wade Wilson) (ao3) - 69OldManYaois logan/wade E, 8k

Summary: Wade and Logan decide to take a little summer vaycay camping trip in the Canadian wilderness. Logan is excited to be back in nature again, but Wade seems a little distracted, something dark gnawing at the back of his mind.

BF(F) (ao3) - Carol989 peter/wade T, 10k

Summary: Five times people thought Wade and Peter were a couple which, seriously, where did they get that from? They are not a couple, stop asking. They are just friends now, and did plenty of friend stuff. Like kissing.

And one time people were right.

dissonance (ao3) - stuckybarnes peter/wade M, 121k

Summary: Wherein Deadpool is reluctantly hired to protect Peter Parker from an organization out to hunt him, with varying success on both ends and quite a lot of feelings, revelations, and identity crises.

I Love You, Wade Wilson (ao3) - sciderman vanessa/wade E, 10k

Summary: “I love you, Wade Wilson.”

For a while Wade’s mouth hung open.

“Nobody’s…” Wade started, in a small voice. “…no one’s ever said that to me before.”

Join the Club (ao3) - HashtagLEH peter/wade T, 143k

Summary: Homeless and mute after everything Peter has been through, he somehow makes friends with Deadpool, as Spiderman. And then he meets the Avengers, as Peter.

Or, alternatively: “Spidey and Deadpool: the Mute and the Motormouth” (a title by Deadpool).

morning in the burned house (ao3) - antivenom peter/wade T, 50k

Summary: Wade’s got a defense mechanism. Grin and bear it.

But the thing is, Wade’s angry into his bones.

(Or, this is what happens when a seemingly unassuming, run-of-the-mill hit gets personal)

Room 418 (ao3) - Sintero, Staubengel peter/wade E, 143k

Summary: On the run, Peter has managed to carve out a living as an escort. It was lucrative work, self-managed, and provided him with the anonymity and security that he so desperately needed.

But, he never accounted for meeting Wade.

Sunshine and Whiskey (ao3) - that_one_dead_author logan/wade E, 40k

Summary: “Oho, there’s number two-oh-seven.” Wade laughs and Logan already knows he’s grinning beneath his cowl. “That fight really got ya goin’ huh?”

Logan hated the way he could feel his cheeks heat up. He snarled, “shut the fuck up, Red.” There was a spray of warm blood against Logan’s knuckles, a breathy groan from Wade sending a shiver down the older man’s spine.

Wade glanced out of a broken window to his right. “Isn’t he cute?” He asked an invisible audience. Logan rewarded him with another stab.

Wade’s attention turned back to Logan, gloved hands grabbing his hips and giving an experimental roll of his hips. Logan’s breath hitched, and Wade had the passing thought that he wanted to swallow the sound.

Tacos, Spider-suits and Sex (ao3) - Castello (orphan_account) peter/wade E, 28k

Summary: Deadpool and Spiderman have… an arrangement. Just sex, no strings, perfect for your everyday crimefighter. They haven’t even shared their identities. Peter’s happy with it, until he finds out that Deadpool’s interested in getting to know the kid behind the mask.

Explicit for language, some violence, and sex. LOTS OF SEX. In many locations and a fair amount of different positions. Surely NOT for the weak of heart. Honestly, I started writing this as an outlet for humorous kinky ideas and it just… sort of evolved into a cool story…

the bucket list (ao3) - mikaminato logan/wade E, 33k

Summary: Wade loses his mutation and his cancer returns. With only a little time left, he decides to create a bucket list and make the most of his final moments. Together with Logan, he tries to check off every item on the list.

That is, until Logan decides he’s not ready to say goodbye just yet.

The Stalking of Wade Wilson (ao3) - s0ymilk peter/wade M, 18k

Summary: "It’s around this point that a niggling thread of thought worms its way into his head when he’s not paying attention, one that gently suggests that Wade might be slightly less of a bad guy than Peter previously thought." (Spideypool, one-shot)

Wade Wilson, All-Knowing (ao3) - therealpeterparker T, 4k

Summary: Matt Murdock is really bad at pretending he can't "see," and Daredevil is sometimes worse at pretending that he can.

Prompts: Matt and Foggy's college days, Red Team shenanigans

we got love sure enough (ao3) - ziphiidae logan/wade M, 30k

Summary: There’s something about the mundane that wrestles with Logan’s mind far more than violence ever has. He’s already proven to himself that he can be a hero. Now it’s time to prove he can once again be someone worthy of trust on a far more personal level. ___

Or, Logan and Wade’s bumpy road to domesticity.

We sweat it out in the streets of a runaway american dream (ao3) - mattfrack T, 52k

Summary: Deadpool’s back in town and Peter seems to be the only one keeping on eye on him.

Wooing Wade Wilson (ao3) - QuirkyNeon (iforgetlikeanelephant) peter/wade M, 5k

Summary: aka the one where Wade's targets keep getting gift wrapped by Spider-Man and Deadpool keeps being there to help rescue Peter Parker from weirdly chill villains of the week with various Avengers

you are the space in my bed (ao3) - sleeponrooftops M, 18k

Summary: There are rules, damn it. Number one: never sneak up on Peter while he’s napping or he will end up on the ceiling. Number two: stop trying to get in Peter’s pants. Wade stops listening after that one because he doesn’t like rules.

#themculibrary #marvel #mcu #masterlists #wade wilson #wade wilson masterlist #deadpool #peter parker #logan wolverine

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worldsmessiestwriter · 4 months ago

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Hi! Welcome to my page. I primarily write Marvel fanfiction and songfics. I am currently accepting requests, so if you have a specific story in mind, feel free to send it my way, and I’ll be more than happy to write it for you! Additionally, I also publish on Wattpad under the same name, so I would appreciate it if you checked that out as well! now onto the master list.

✰ = angst

♡︎ = fluff

* = smut

♬ = songfic

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆ ☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆ ☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆ ☆ ★ ✮ ★

Peter Parker

Good For You. ✰ ♬

synopsis -

Peter is struggling to balance his personal life and is failing miserably. His friends and aunt are tired of him letting them down, and it has come to a breaking point.

Inspired by Good for You from Dear Evan Hansen.

Maybe. ✰ ♬

Synopsis -

You're Tony Stark's daughter, and you and Peter Parker have broken up. You find yourself hung up on the maybes you could have had with him.

Inspired by Maybe by Gabriella Bee

When you know, you know. ♡︎ ♬

Synopsis -

Peter Parker sees you at a coffee shop and knows you're the one he's meant to be with.

Inspired by Margaret by Lana Del Rey

Don't push it, Parker. ︎♡ ✰ ︎♬

Synopsis -

You and Peter attend couples counseling, thinking it will be useful for both of you, and you end up at least halfway on the same page.

Inspired by Therapy from Tick Tick.. Boom!

Just.. Make it up to me later. ︎♡

Synopsis -

Peter Parker tends to be late to dates, but you don't mind as long as he makes it up to you later.

Waste of champagne. ︎♬

Synopsis -

Being the child of a man like Tony Stark means you were practically raised at high-society parties, so of course, you don't mind showing Peter how to fit into the "Stark lifestyle."

Inspired by new money from The Great Gatsby

Now that we don't talk. ✰ ♬

Synopsis -

Peter Parker has abandoned you and Ned for his new Stark internship, and you've had enough of his secretive life.

Inspired by Now that we don't talk by Taylor Swift

Do you ever stop talking? ︎♡

synopsis -

Peter Parker comes home from a night of fighting crime with an ego that‘s a bit too big for your liking, so naturally, you resolve it in your own way.

Cross the line. ︎♡

Synopsis -

You and Peter are in the lab discussing where to draw the moral line as a hero, and you have very different opinions.

I waited. ✰ ♬

Synopsis -

When Peter gets blipped, he tells you he'll return, so you hold out hope until one day you realize maybe you need to let go.

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆ ☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆ ☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆ ☆ ★ ✮ ★

Tony Stark

The bolter. ✰ ♬

Synopsis -

You meet Tony Stark at a party and refuse to be one of his one-night flings, causing him to completely fall for you and make you his world.

Inspired by The Bolter by Taylor Swift

That killer instinct. ✰ ♬

Synopsis -

As Tony Stark's daughter, you may have learned a couple of skills from his cutthroat business days and used them to become the head cheerleader.

Inspired by Killer instinct from bring it on

I'm sorry Daddy. ✰

Synopsis -

You resembled your father in every way growing up, and now, in your teenage years, you've adopted his partying habits as well, becoming just as out of control as he was.

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆ ☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆ ☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆ ☆ ★ ✮ ★

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narrans · 1 year ago

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My Borrowed Son | 16 | Friends and Curiosities

Chapter Sixteen | Friends and Curiosities

Parker couldn’t believe it. Within such a short amount of time, he suddenly had a dozen followers and friends on his page.

Sure, he didn’t know them personally, but everyone was welcoming and polite – two things he was eager to report to his mom when she expressed concern. The miniscule boy also made sure his mom knew he was being safe, not giving out too much personal information, and that the topic of his condition hadn’t even been brought up.

One person commented on his profile picture being interesting, which was a picture of Parker standing in front of his computer screen, but he just explained it was a background and that he wanted to showcase the platform he was publishing on. Karl was the kid’s name, and evidently he and Parker were the same age.

All in all, Parker was pleased with his interactions and the people he was meeting. Lots of them had advice and things for him to check out, and he liked all of the things he was seeing.

There were sketches of space and vast mountains as well as the everyday interactions. There were hundreds of stories from writers just like him.

It felt nice. It felt like some kind of community with people supporting and helping one another. A sense of satisfaction filled the young teen every time he checked his notifications and saw he was getting the chance to meet someone new.

“Just look here, mom,” said Parker eagerly as he showed his mom the latest post he made. “It has almost fifteen likes!” He looked up into his mom’s features and saw her beaming with pride.

“That’s so great, Parker,” she complemented. “Are you going to post your latest story from Mr. Tamplin’s class?”

“I… think so. I don’t know yet though. It doesn’t feel done,” he replied, feeling his cheeks getting warm. The latest story he came up with for Mr. Tamplin’s class was a fiction fantasy story about a sprite named Tal’el. It essentially was his backstory for the Dungeons and Dragons campaign he and his friends started.

Basically, he was a small fairy-like person who was a poison master for his people until he decided he wanted to go out adventuring and exploring. The Dungeon Game Master said it was fine if he played a smaller character, thankfully not questioning why he would want to do such a thing and found a special class for him to play as.

The story actually won a young adult author award for his class and Parker had Mr. Tamplin to thank since it was he who tutored him through his writing slumps. He was now refining it for his literature class.

“Well, don’t be scared to post it sweetie. You’re such a great writer and can do whatever you set your mind to,” encouraged his mom. “Now before you get sucked into checking your notifications, finish your homework and get ready for bed. You have a long day tomorrow.”

“Yes, momma,” Parker replied, rolling his screen back into place in the main area. The structure walls rumbled as his mom closed the outside walls to his home. It was hard to believe it had been a whole month since he “moved in” to this new space.

Parker loved it, in a weird way.

Not to sound ungrateful, but having his own space to roam around, especially in a space that felt suited to him, made him feel just a little bit normal. He liked that he was usually at eye-level with his mom instead of having her loom over him. Just the thought made him shudder involuntarily, and he wasn’t sure why.

It made him feel guilty every time the sensation seized him.

But, now was not the time to dwell on that. It was time for bed.

Parker walked into his room and rummaged through his dresser to find his oversized space t-shirt and elastic band sleep shorts. Then, he went back to the computer and finished submitting his assignments. The words filled the page and Parker hoped that his paper on the evolution of technology was going to be good enough to get him the grade he needed.

Parker’s other assignments were a breeze. Math was simple enough and the biology project about documenting the growth of plants was going smoothly. It was his other project, his story for his literature course, that he was worried about. It was his same story that he was using for his channel, but it was more a mild fear of rejection and lack of perfection.

His online friends liked it, but would his teacher? His followers?

Parker sighed and leaned against the wall before slinking down further into the chair. His eyes focused on the blinking line in front of him as he stared at the end of the fifth chapter he had been editing. Something about this story felt particularly personal, but Parker remembered hearing once about how writers put more of themselves than they’re aware of when they’re making characters and stories.

Perhaps this was just part of that feeling?

The teen sighed and stretched when, suddenly, his lights flickered up above him.

Confusion injected itself into his mind as he stared at the wired lights on the ceiling. His eyes flicked over to the wall switch.

Perhaps just a fluke?

The notion was dismissed when the lights flickered two more times, all of his lights dimming and glowing systematically.

Something raised the hair on the back of Parker’s neck. He felt like he was on pins and needles, the anticipation of a drop while suspended in mid-air. Cautiously, the curious teen stood up and walked over to the switch, examining it closely.

It was still up and wasn’t jiggling or loose.

The lights flickered again.

It felt like he was in a spooky movie, of which Parker had only ever seen one in his life along with a couple of older “thrillers” like Alien and Jaws. Even those movies were censored because his mom didn’t want him to get too spooked.

Was there something wrong with the plug?

Parker glanced at the window at the back by the stairs and, just for a moment, he could have sworn he saw something.

It looked like the quick flick of a shadow.

It was quick and Parker wasn’t even sure if he knew what he saw. He did just step out of his room after all, and he had been staring at his computer screen, which he knew sometimes made shadows appear when there weren’t any.

He held deathly still, his entire body locking up like a perfect figurine. His body fell naturally into the position as he slowly crouched and laid his hand against the floor, as if he could detect any trembling or motion.

He didn’t get a chance to investigate for long though. Before he could make his way to the stairs in his crouched position, there was a knock on the table that made Parker nearly jump out of his skin.

“Parker? Are you going to bed soon?” Parker’s entire body shivered as he pushed himself upright and heaved in a few deep breaths. Every nerve in his body felt electrified. While his heart continued to thrum rapidly, he cleared his throat and called over his shoulder to his mom as the sides of the walls began to open.

“Y-y-yeah, mom. I’m ready for bed,” said Parker. He glanced up at the lights stayed on without the slightest hint of a flicker. The walls opened fully and, instantly, Parker saw his mom’s brow furrow quizzically.

“Everything okay? You look a bit pale,” she said. The maternal instinct in Amanda kicked in and she reached forward and pressed the tip of her finger against Parker’s forehead. He shied away from it, which was typical teenage behavior, but something else felt off about Parker that Amanda couldn’t quite place.

“Y-yeah. I’m fine. I just…” Parker stopped short. It felt like something physically squirmed in his mind, preventing him from saying something about the shadow and the lights. He shook the notion loose, confused as to why this instinct flared up in him, and proceeded with his thought. “I just saw the lights flicker and got spooked.”

“Oh?” Amanda replied as she glanced over and looked down at the power strip that fed electricity into Parker’s Place. Nothing looked off about it to her, but she still knelt and glanced around the ground.

Still nothing.

“Well,” she sighed as she stood and walked back over to the front of Parker’s tiny home. “I don’t see anything. It looks like it’s all plugged in, but we’ll check on it tomorrow. Okay? For now, it’s bedtime.”

“Yes, momma,” replied Parker as he walked up to the edge and accepted the kiss on his torso that his mom gave him. With that, Amanda smiled and watched as Parker curled under the blankets, forming an almost imperceptible lump in the bed. “Goodnight momma. I love you.”

“I love you too, Parker. Sweet dreams my love.” Amanda closed the walls and secured them tightly before tiptoeing out of the room and to her own room to turn in for the night.

Just in the other room, Parker laid there with his heart still fluttering nervously. Everything in him was still on edge, and the curiosity of what was going on with his lights was really bothering him. Parker enjoyed a good mystery or puzzle, but he generally liked ones he could solve.

This one wasn’t solved yet.

For what felt like a couple of hours, Parker tossed and turned in his bed as a mixture of homework assignments and curiosities about the power outlet swirled like a mist in his mind. The more the young teen thought, the more it annoyed him that he didn’t have the answers.

He had had enough.

Parker pushed himself up and decided to go and check out the source of the flickering lights. If it was a cable going bad or possibly the breaker being loose, he needed to get a new one as soon as possible. It would be terrible if he was in class and his power went out. His mom said they would do it in the morning, but Parker knew himself; and he knew he couldn’t sleep if he didn’t at least go and see it for himself.

He couldn’t afford to not check it out with his presentation tomorrow.

The teen stepped noiselessly through his house and exited the front door. As he walked around, he noticed a few things that just seemed, in a word, natural.

Sound was amplified. The darkness in the corners of the room seemed brighter. He could feel every tremble in the desk from his footsteps.

As he made it outside, a choice presented itself to him. For a moment, he considered going down the climbing line he installed himself on the backside of the desk.

But he knew if he slipped on the rope and got hurt, which he never did, his mom would make him take down the line.

He decided to risk it.

It was late. She was asleep. Parker was as sure footed as a goat and knew he would be fine all the way down. The temptation was also too great for the teen to resist. Plus, it would be a lot faster.

There was something about the experience that was, in a word, liberating. The free fall. The catch. The feel of the rope in between his fingers.

It felt natural.

The urge to climb and fall and hide never failed to fascinate parker. Whether it was something his condition genetically programmed him to do so or if it was some personality trait he possessed, he didn’t know.

What he did know was the sensation was addictive and he was itching for a good climb.

Parker snagged the line in between his fingers and leaned over the edge of the desk. There was a mild sense of vertigo that swelled inside him, but he loved it. The weightlessness seized him as he let himself slip over the edge, hands and feet firmly in place and secured on the line.

The line burned against the teen’s palms and against his legs as he quickly descended. It felt like something a secret agent would do, and it felt epic.

The moment Parker’s feet hit the ground, he felt himself instinctually look around and crouch low. Silently, he stepped across the planks of wood that constructed the floor and walked toward the power strip that was only a few feet away. The whole thing was four times Parker’s size, but he navigated through the wires with ease.

His hands worked quickly to check the buttons and reset panels, and the teen could find nothing wrong with any of it.

Perhaps something is up with the electrical cover in the wall? Parker wondered silently. He jumped over the stiff cord that led to the wall and approached the trim on the wall which had small notches in it, so he didn’t need to snag a ladder.

As he approached, Parker noticed something by the very base of the electrical cover that made his hair stand on end.

It was a drill bit.

Flat head.

It was a tad bit rusty, and Parker didn’t recognize it from his mom’s kit that she used to help construct his space. He approached and picked it up, realizing it wasn’t as heavy as he thought it would be. In his hands, it was about twice the size of the drill that his mom used, and he realized he could probably carry it around easy enough; but where did it come from?

I don’t think this is mom’s drill bit. How’d it get here?

Parker glanced up at the electrical cover and felt his heart skip a beat as he noticed the screw for the wall socket was protruding from the wall ever so slightly.

His entire body was shaking now, but he wasn’t sure why.

Had his mom messed with the electrical cover with some old tools that she forgot about?

It didn’t seem like her.

Parker stepped up on the trim, balancing precariously and using the cord to stabilize himself, as he pushed on the very bottom of the electrical cover.

With almost no effort, the piece wiggled free and the screw clattered to the ground. The end looked a lot shorter than the others. He knew because he helped his mom replace the covers a few weeks ago.

The young teen took a few deep breaths to calm himself before he dared to peek inside. Engulfing darkness belonging to the wall consumed his vision. There was something exciting and enticing about the darkness in front of him.

It felt, in a word, familiar.

But why?

Parker felt his head beginning to throb as his mind stirred some fragmented memory, but it was hazy and distant.

What really set the teen on edge, however, was when he dared to push himself up onto the ledge to peer better into the wall and noticed something else that made his insides fill with nervous energy.

There was something that looked like a pencil mark. Two lines with a triangle on top followed by a little check mark on the inside. To Parker, it looked like a kid’s drawing of a house with a check mark inside of it.

Was this something his mom did?

Or was this some kind of construction mark?

What was this?

What did it mean?

The teen stared at the marks and then back to the darkness of the wall. Just like the shadows of the room when he stepped out of his house, the looming abyss of those narrow spaces between the walls didn’t seem very dark. It almost seemed inviting.

There was something about that confined space between the drywall and the studs and exterior boards that made Parker feel like he was back in his space. It was familiar.

But why?

Parker hadn’t realized that he had been learning forward to the point where he was barely hanging onto the edge of the electrical cover and leaning into the walls. It took the sound of his foot skidding against the wood and nearly tumbling headfirst into the space in front of him.

Startled and shaken, Parker pulled himself back out of the entryway into the walls, forced the electrical cover back onto its perch, and hurried back to his room. He was in such a tizzy, the young teen didn’t even realize he had gone straight to the secured line he left and climbed up it in record time, ignoring the staircase mere feet away.

His little feet barely made noise as he scurried back to his room, securing the door and slipping under his covers without so much as a squeak.

Parker’s mind was racing. What was that he just saw? And what was that weird draw he had toward the walls?

Hopefully, his mom would have the answers.

First thing in the morning, he would ask her. She would make everything better, right?

~~~~~^*^*^*^*^~~~~~

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