ENGLISH IS NOT MY NATIVE LANGUAGE, PLEASE BE KIND!!!
All my work is +18.
If you are a minor: leave. BYE BYE!
MARVEL PART 2
DC
SUPERNATURAL
CALL OF DUTY
STRANGER THINGS
CRIMINAL MINDS
THE PITT
9-1-1
ONCE UPON A TIME
OTHERS
Masterlist will be updated as i post.
A/N: Hello, thank you for reading my blog!
I need to clarify, due to recent events, my stories are mine. I am translating them from my Wattpad profile where I used to post (and sometimes still do). There was a recent accusation that raised the hypothesis that someone translated and posted some of my stories (without my consent, obviously). I can prove that the stories are mine, since they have been posted on Wattpad since 2012.
I do not allow copying/reposting/translation without my consent.
When Brendon gets home, he sees you in the kitchen with Murphy lying right beside you.
The dog perks up at the sight of Brendon, getting up and whining for attention.
“Hey Murph boy,” Brendon coos, getting on the floor. Murphy climbs on him, giving him kisses. “Oh that’s a good boy.”
Brendon gets up off the floor and kisses your lips. “How are you feeling?”
“Better now that you’re home,” you answer with a smile. “Dinner is in the oven now. Should be ready in 30-ish minutes.”
“Sounds good. I’m gonna shower and change. Feel like joining me?”
You shake your head. “I’m sorry, babe. I’m not in the mood after the whole park debacle.”
He nods understandingly and kisses the top of your head. He walks up the stairs and into the bedroom, Murphy following him.
Brendon sits the bed and pats the space next to him.
“Murph, c’mere,” he says
Murphy jumps up on the bed, lying down so that his paws are on Brendon’s Brendon scratches behind Murphy’s ear.
“You’re the best boy,” he tells him. “You’re sweet and well-behaved and your mom and I love you very much, ok?”
Murphy whines, lowering his head. Brendon’s heart swells.
Murphy was the sweetest boy who was judged before people could see how wonderful he was. Sure, Brendon and Y/N’s parents spoiled him and their siblings and friends treated him like a king. Murphy was also so sweet and patient to their kids and babies, often giving them kisses.
Then again, Brendon knows what it’s like to get a bad wrap before people get the chance to know him. He’s just lucky his friends didn’t give a shit.
And he’s lucky you gave him a chance all those years ago.
peter parker x fem!reader | brand new day spoilers kinda
“Does it... What?” Peter laughed nervously, already naked and on top of you. “No! I mean—I mean I don’t think so.”
The night started like many others. Peter got home from saving people, slightly banged up but totally fine. You took care of him, made dinner and took a shower where you cleaned him up.
Which led to a small mid-shower makeout, which led to him eating you out, which led to now. In bed, with no clothes on.
The thought barely crossed your mind, but it came out before you could stop it.
He’d told you about all of his changes (kinda had to when his webs were all over your apartment) and you’d seen how incontrollable they still were. They were shooting out of him hard and fast and he was struggling to stop them.
So was it really that crazy for your brain to think ‘natural web shooting = web ejactulation = web cum?’
Apparently so because when the words, “Does it come out anywhere else?” slipped from your lips, Peter looked at you like he just watched his puppy get run over.
There was confusion, worry, and maybe a little bit of awkward ‘humor’ in his face. But even as he told you no, he didn’t look sure of himself anymore.
“Should we test that?” you asked, your voice low and sultry, trying to get the mood back. It worked, because you felt Peter’s still-hard cock twitch against your leg. “Yeah?”
He nodded, waiting for you to make a move.
If he was being honest, he didn’t know what you meant when you said to test it. He just knew that his very sexy girlfriend was talking about making him cum, so he agreed without thinking.
Watching as your hand snaked between your bodies, Peter’s heart was racing with anticipation. He wasn’t sure it would be safe for a normal person’s heart to be beating that fast.
Luckily, he wasn’t a normal person.
And he found that opened a lot of opportunities in the bedroom.
“You can go twice right? I still want you inside me after...” your voice was laced with need, almost pushing Peter over the edge right then and there. He nodded frantically, his hips twitching, pushing his aching cock against your palm.
“I can. I promise. Please just—” he cut himself off with a moan as your hand pumped and curled around his tip. “Fuck.”
Failing to hold in a giggle, a smile spread on your face that made Peter feel like he just fell in love with you all over again. Weird.
Your hand wrapped around him, giving him a few teasingly slow strokes before you scooted backwards enough to wrap your mouth around his sensitive pink tip. You started to up your pace while your mouth sank further down, taking more of him in.
Bringing him closer and closer to the edge, he felt the same internal panic he did when the webs came out of his wrists for the first time. But you didn’t stop. No. You only went harder.
Peter barely pulled you off at the last second, watching as webs came out of his cock and splattered on the ceiling.
It was probably the best orgasm he’d ever had.
The relief when it was over, the pleasure he felt during it. All of it. His curls were sticking to the sweat on his forehead, and when he looked over you were staring at him with wide eyes.
Wide, excited, horny eyes. (He could tell).
“That was so hot, oh my god,” you squealed, wiping off the last string of web from his extremely sensitive cock. A strangled noise came from his throat, overwhelmed by the strong feeling.
“Oh jesus,” he whispered, trying to catch his breath. “I think I need just a minute. It’s really, really sensitive.”
You nodded, running your hands over his curls. He smiled, his head subconsciously leaning into your hand. Before you knew it, Peter was pulling you down to kiss him again, all wet and open-mouthed. His hands were roaming your body, reclosing the gap.
One of your legs swung over him, straddling his abdomin that was glistening with a sheer layer of sweat. You were careful not to go too far back until Peter was ready, but that didn’t mean you wouldn’t rock yourself against him.
The hard ridges of his ab muscles were perfect for grinding your clit against, and not to mention Peter loved it. He didn’t realize how much he liked the praise until he met you.
“That’s it. Uh-huh,” he mumbled as he helped you guide yourself against him. Sweet noises were falling from your open mouth as you ran your slick pussy over his stomach.
One of his hands ran up, kneading your tits while the other stayed and grabbed at your ass—helping spread you open to get a better feel of him. You could feel your second orgasm of the night quickly approaching, but you wanted to save it.
Halting your hips was hard, you really didn’t want to stop, but you knew you’d be happier if you came with Peter inside you.
“Are you ready?” your voice was breathless and whiney, your eyes hooded and glazed over with need. He flipped you onto your back, pulling a cute squeak from your throat.
“Uh-huh.” Leaving open kisses down your neck, he asked, “But are you ready?” against your sticky skin.
You felt yourself squeeze around nothing. “Yeah.”
He pressed one last kiss to your neck before you felt his long cock stretch you out. You could feel every ridge, every vein, as he slid into you so far you felt like it would come out your mouth.
Your mouth was stuck open, tears from the pleasure welling up in your eyes. Peter felt your nails dig into his back as he started at a slow pace. It wasn’t gentle, but it was just enough to refamiliarize yourself with him.
As the seconds passed, you needed more and more. Trying to grind your hips up and meet him halfway for more pressure, more speed, wasn’t cutting it. You needed his all.
“Peter. Oh my, fuck. Peter, please. I need more. I can handle it,” you moaned as he thrusted, your eyes meeting his so he could see the truthfulness in your eyes. That you would really be okay if he went harder.
He was always scared of hurting you, so he needed that confirmation every time.
His pace sped up along with his thrusts’ power. After only a few seconds, he was fucking you into the mattress. Moans and heavy breaths were spilling out of your mouth, along with Peter’s grunts and moans himself.
The bed was squeaking, a dull thud against the wooden wall for every thrust he gave you. “Shit,” Peter grumbled, looking at something behind your head for only a second.
You could feel your second orgasm coming back, along with Peter’s antsy hands. They were moving from beside your head, to your waist, to your legs—pushing your legs further apart and hitting an even deeper angle.
Your moaning only spurred him on, his hand coming to rub circles to your clit. He felt you squeeze and flutter around him, your eyes and face scrunched up.
He felt his own orgasm coming up, but he was determined to focus on you. Your shaky legs and light knuckles from gripping the sheets too hard. Your short breaths and teary eyes.
“C’mon. Come for me,” he whispered as you felt yourself go over the edge. Your hips twitched and your pussy squeezed him unbearably tight, followed by his warm liquid leaking inside you.
The thought of his web-sperm mix you saw earlier being inside you made you flutter around him again.
He had the same sensitivity as before, hissing through his teeth as he dropped his head to your neck. He relaxed his body on top of you, too sensitive to move or pull out yet.
His weight and heat on top of you was a common feeling, but it was one of your favorites.
You loved having him lay on top of you, especially right after sex. “Thank you,” you mumbled against his hair, your fingers gently rubbing up and down his rigid back muscles. You could feel him twitching and softening inside you, an almost ticklish feeling.
Peter hummed before laughing and whispering, “Also, uh, we might need a new bed, by the way.”
masterlist
note this isn’t proofread so if there’s any mistakes 🤫 (or lmk and i’ll fix em!)
Everyone forgot who spiderman is—including his girlfriend Y/N. But her body remembers something her head can't. She wakes up in the middle of the night craving something she never knew she had. Peter ensures they find their way back to each other (very smutty)
WC: 16.4k, unprotected sex, restrained by Spiderman's webs during sex, dirty talk, kinda Dom!Peter, sex dreams (memories), reader is horny af, casual mentions of sex throughout the entire story, this is the same as my NCT Donghyuck story, this is a MCU ver! Part 1, part 2 at the end
----------------
Spiderman slips onto the fire escape outside Ned's apartment, the city humming below him like a heartbeat he can't quite feel anymore. He's not here to spy—he tells himself that. He's just checking. Making sure she's safe. That's what he does now: patrols her life like a ghost, invisible and aching.
But then he hears Ned's voice through the cracked window, and Y/N's laugh—that soft, familiar sound that used to be for him—and he can't tear himself away.
He crouches low, listening.
"So you're telling me you haven't gotten laid in, what, three months?" Ned's voice is teasing, light. He's sprawled on his couch, a beer in hand, grinning at Y/N like they're having the most casual conversation in the world.
She's curled on the other end, legs tucked under her, a throw pillow hugged to her chest. "That's not what I said."
"That's exactly what you said. You said you're 'too wound up, stressed, can't sleep.' That's textbook horny, babe."
"Ned!"
"What? I'm just saying." He takes a lazy sip of beer. "You're way too tense these days. You need to hook up with someone. Let off some steam."
She gasps, swatting at his leg. "I absolutely am not."
He grins, eyes glinting. "Yes you are. I can't put my finger on it, but you just seem so restless lately. Like you're crawling out of your skin."
"It's just stress over work." She pulls the pillow tighter. "Writing for the New York Chronicles is a lot of work. Deadlines, interviews, fact-checking—"
"Uh-huh. And when's the last time you got properly fucked?"
"Ned!"
He laughs, full and unbothered. "I'm serious. Maybe some good dick will help you. Relax those shoulders, clear that head of yours. You're practically vibrating."
On the fire escape, Peter's hands tighten into fists.
She's mine.
The thought crashes through him, possessive and raw. His jaw aches from clenching. He watches her through the window—her flustered expression, the way she hides her face in the pillow, the way she doesn't deny it. She's restless. He knows. He's seen her pace her apartment at 2 a.m., seen her press her thighs together in the bathtub, heard the soft, frustrated moans she thinks no one can hear.
And he knows Ned is right. She needs release. But the idea of her finding that release in someone else—some stranger's hands, some stranger's mouth, some stranger's cock inside her—makes his stomach twist with something dark and violent.
"You're impossible," she mutters, throwing the pillow at Ned.
He catches it easily. "And you're in denial. But okay. Keep telling yourself it's deadlines."
She stands, smoothing her shirt. "I'm leaving before you say something even more embarrassing."
"Text me if you change your mind! I know a guy—"
"Goodnight, Ned!"
The door clicks shut. Ned chuckles to himself, shaking his head.
Peter stays frozen on the fire escape long after she's gone, her scent still lingering in the air, her laugh still ringing in his ears.
He knows what he has to do.
He has to reintroduce himself. Casually, carefully. Slide back into her life before she finds someone else to release those frustrations on. Before some other man touches what's his.
But not tonight.
Tonight, he watches her walk home from a rooftop three blocks away, her silhouette moving under the amber streetlights. He watches her pause at her door, glance over her shoulder like she feels something watching her. She hugs herself, shivers, and disappears inside.
Soon, he tells himself, pressing a hand over his chest where his heart used to belong to her. Soon I'll make you remember. Or I'll make you want me again.
But for now, he waits.
Peter stands outside the coffee shop, his reflection staring back at him from the glass door. He checks his hair three times—runs his fingers through it, smooths the front, tucks a stray strand behind his ear. The black shirt hugs his shoulders just right, and the glasses frame his face in a way that used to make Y/N bite her lip and look at him twice.
She loved these glasses, he thinks, adjusting them once more. She used to say I looked like a secret librarian. A hot one.
He takes a breath, pushes the door open, and walks in with a confidence he's been practicing for weeks.
The bell above the door chimes. Y/N looks up from the counter where she's been scribbling in a notebook—probably working on another article for the New York Chronicles. Her hair is pulled back in a loose ponytail, a few strands escaping to frame her face. She's wearing a simple apron over a cream sweater, and when she sees him, she smiles.
It's polite. Professional. The same smile she gives every customer working at her parent's cafe.
But it's still her smile, and his heart stumbles.
"Hi," she says, setting down her pen. "What can I get started for you?"
He steps up to the counter, leaning an elbow on the polished wood. "Hey. I'll take an iced americano and a chocolate donut."
She nods, writing it down. "Anything else?"
"No, thanks. That's perfect."
She turns to prepare the coffee, and he watches her movements—efficient, practiced. The way she scoops ice, pours the espresso, reaches for the donut with a tissue. When she turns back and hands him the cup, their fingers brush.
It's barely a second. Just a whisper of contact.
But she pauses, her eyes lifting to his face. A flicker of something—recognition? Curiosity?—passes through her gaze before she blinks it away.
"Here you go," she says softly.
He takes the cup, letting his fingers linger just a moment longer than necessary. "Thanks."
She smiles again, a little different this time—warmer, a hint of confusion. Then she turns back to the sink where a few dishes are waiting, rolling up her sleeves.
Peter takes a seat by the window, sipping his americano, watching her from behind his glasses. She's humming softly, something he doesn't recognize. From the back room, he hears Ned's voice, humming some pop song, the clatter of boxes being moved.
Over the next few weeks, he becomes a regular.
He comes in every other day, sometimes every day. Always orders the same thing—iced americano, chocolate donut. Sometimes he grabs a table and pretends to work on his laptop, but really he's watching her. The way she tucks her hair behind her ear. The way she bites her lip while reading. The way she laughs at something Ned says, bright and easy.
Their interactions are casual. Limited.
"Morning Peter." She learns his name.
"The usual?" She asks.
"You know it."
A smile. A quick exchange. Then she's busy, and he's left with the ghost of her attention.
It's not enough.
So one afternoon, when the shop is empty and Ned is in the back, he makes his move.
He walks up to the counter, coffee in hand, and as he reaches to pay, he lets his wrist go slack. The cup tips. The lid pops off. Brown liquid splashes across the floor, a puddle spreading near his feet.
"Shit," he mutters, a little too loud.
Y/N spins around from the espresso machine. "Oh no! Don't worry, I'll get it—"
She grabs a roll of paper towels from under the counter and moves to crouch down, but he's already there. He takes the roll from her hands, his fingers closing over hers for a brief, deliberate second.
"It was my fault," he says, meeting her eyes. "Don't worry about it."
"Really, I can—"
"Nope. I got it." He kneels, wiping up the mess quickly, ignoring her protests. "You have enough to do. Let me take care of this."
She stands there, hands on her hips, watching him clean up her floor with an expression caught between amused and impressed.
"You're not going to let me help, are you?" she asks.
"Nope." He finishes, tosses the wet paper towels in the trash, and straightens up. "See? All good."
She shakes her head, a smile tugging at her lips. "You're stubborn."
"I prefer determined."
"A determined mess-maker."
He laughs—a real laugh, not the careful one he's been using.
They stand there, the air between them easier now, the tension cracked open. She leans against the counter, crossing her arms, studying him with fresh eyes.
"You come here a lot," she says.
"I do. Good coffee. Good donuts." He pauses, letting his voice drop just a fraction. "Good company."
Her cheeks flush. She looks down, then back up, a spark in her gaze. "You're not from around here, are you?"
"Born and raised. Just... been away for a while."
"Ah. A returning native."
"Something like that."
She tilts her head. "What do you do, Peter? Besides cleaning up your own messes?"
"I'm a freelance photographer. I take pictures of the city, the people. Try to capture moments that don't last."
Her eyes light up. "That sounds beautiful."
"It has its moments." He holds her gaze. "Maybe I could show you sometime. If you're interested."
The offer hangs in the air, soft and deliberate. She bites her lower lip, considering, and he feels his pulse quicken.
"I'd like that," she says quietly.
A bell rings from the back—Ned calling something about a shipment. The moment breaks, but it doesn't shatter. It settles into something warm, something potential.
"I should let you get back to work," Peter says, stepping back. "But I'll see you tomorrow. Same time?"
"Same time," she confirms, her smile lingering.
He walks out of the coffee shop, heart hammering, a grin threatening to break across his face. He doesn't look back, but he doesn't need to.
He knows he has her attention now.
Ned slides up beside Y/N the moment the door swings shut behind Peter. He nudges her shoulder with his, a knowing grin already spreading across his face.
"Okay, so that guy? Exactly your type."
Y/N rolls her eyes, but she can feel the heat creeping up her neck. "Peter?"
"Obviously Peter." Ned leans against the counter, crossing his arms. "Like, I get it. He's attractive in that nonchalant way. The whole I just rolled out of bed but I'm still hotter than you vibe. And that confidence? It's practically dripping off him." He wiggles his eyebrows. "Makes you horny, doesn't it?"
"Ned!" She smacks his shoulder, but she's laughing. "Shut up. He's just a nice guy."
"A nice guy who you've been staring at for three weeks straight."
"I have not—"
"You literally watched him walk to the door just now. Like a sad puppy."
She opens her mouth to argue, but nothing comes out. Because he's right. She did watch him. She always watches him.
Ned groans, shaking his head with mock exasperation. "When you two finally hook up, I'm going to be right there to say I told you so."
"He's just a customer, Injun."
"Mhmm. Sure." He pats her shoulder and heads toward the back room, already humming again, leaving her standing there with her thoughts.
She bites her lip.
He's just a customer, she tells herself. But her mind drifts anyway, unbidden.
His voice—low and warm, with a teasing edge that makes her stomach flip. The way he carries himself, relaxed but aware, like he knows exactly what he's doing at all times. His baggy clothes, the way they hang off his frame, hiding and revealing at the same time. The silver rings on his fingers. That little smirk he gives her sometimes, like he's in on a joke she hasn't heard yet.
Her exes were... fine. Nice. Respectful. Boring.
They held doors open and said please and thank you. They kissed her forehead and asked if she was comfortable. They never made her pulse race. They never made her wonder what it would feel like to be pushed against a wall and taken.
Peter does.
He gives her mystery. Maybe even a little danger. The way he looks at her sometimes, like he's holding something back—something intense.
She shakes her head, physically trying to dislodge the thought. Crazy. You don't even know him.
But the thought lingers, hot and stubborn, all the way through the rest of her shift. It follows her home, past the subway, up the stairs to her apartment. It settles in her bones the moment she closes her door.
---
She's restless.
The apartment is quiet, dark except for the lamp by her bed. She changes into a tank top and shorts, lies down, tosses, turns. Her body feels tight—a coil wound too tight, needing release.
She gives in.
From the nightstand drawer, she pulls out her vibrator—a sleek pink thing she's had for years. She lies back, spreads her legs, and lets the hum of the motor fill the silence.
Her mind drifts to him.
To Peter. To his hands. Those rings. What they'd feel like gripping her thighs. His voice, low in her ear, telling her exactly what he's going to do to her.
She presses the vibrator harder against her clit, her breath hitching. She thinks about his smirk, his confidence, the way he holds her gaze a second too long. She chases the image, lets it build—
And then she comes.
A sharp, quick release. A gasp. The tension snaps, but it doesn't dissolve. It just... scatters. Falls apart unsatisfyingly.
She sighs, letting the vibrator drop onto the mattress. Her body feels hollow. Empty. Like the orgasm barely scratched the surface of what she actually needs.
"Fuck," she whispers to the ceiling.
She lies there, staring at the dark, her skin still buzzing with unresolved heat. She wants more. She wants him. But he's a stranger. A customer. Nothing.
She rolls onto her side, pulls the blanket up, and tries to sleep.
---
Outside her window, perched on a fire escape three buildings over, Peter watches the dark shape of her bedroom through the gap in her curtains.
He didn't look. Not directly. He swung toward her building on instinct, drawn by the familiar pull of her presence, and he landed on the adjacent rooftop just in time to hear it.
The buzz of the vibrator. Her soft, breathy moans.
His name. She whispered his name—Peter—on a desperate exhale.
And then the sigh. That disappointed, hollow sigh at the end.
He heard it all.
His fingers curl into a fist against the brick wall beside him. A smirk spreads across his face, slow and predatory, mixing with the ache in his chest.
You're not satisfied, are you, baby?
He knows the feeling. He's been unsatisfied too—in a different way. Hungry for her touch, her voice, her warmth. But that hunger is about to be fed.
He pushes off the ledge, letting the night air rush past him as he swings into the darkness.
Soon. I'll take my rightful place soon.
Below him, the city blurs. Sirens wail somewhere in the distance. Another night of crime waits for him—thugs to stop, civilians to save. The usual.
But tonight, for the first time in weeks, he feels something close to hope.
———
It starts slowly.
A whisper of warmth against her skin. The weight of a body behind her, pressed close, solid and familiar. She can't see his face, but she knows him—or rather, her body knows him. Her back arches into his chest instinctively, seeking more contact.
His hands. God, his hands. Calloused palms sliding up her thighs, fingers digging into her hips with just enough pressure to bruise. She feels the cool bite of metal rings against her overheated skin. A low chuckle rumbles against her ear.
"You've been so good for me, baby. But I'm gonna take what's mine now."
She opens her mouth to respond, but he's already rolling her onto her stomach, pulling her hips up, positioning her on her knees. The sheets are soft beneath her palms. She can feel his cock—thick, hard, pressing against her soaked entrance—and she whimpers, pushing back against him.
"Please," she breathes. "Please, I need—"
He cuts her off with a sharp thrust. He slams into her to the hilt, and she screams, her body clenching around him immediately. He doesn't stop. He fucks her like he owns her, like he's been waiting for this, each stroke deep and punishing, hitting a spot inside her that makes stars burst behind her eyelids.
"That's it. Take it. Take all of it."
His voice is low, rough, almost unrecognizable through the fog of lust. She can't think. She can only feel—the stretch, the burn, the relentless pounding. He wraps a hand around her throat, not choking, just holding, tilting her head back so he can whisper directly into her ear.
"You missed me, didn't you? Your tight little pussy missed me. Say it."
"I—yes—fuck—I missed you—"
He groans, a sound so raw it vibrates through her bones. His pace quickens, his grip on her hip bruising. She feels the coil building, tighter and tighter, her moans turning into desperate sobs—
And then she wakes up.
---
Gasping.
Y/N bolts upright in bed, her tank top soaked with sweat, her thighs sticky with arousal. The sheets are twisted around her legs. Her pussy is throbbing, clenching around nothing, so empty it almost hurts.
She blinks at the ceiling, panting.
What the fuck was that?
The dream is already fading, slipping through her fingers like water. She remembers heat. A deep voice. Being pinned down and fucked senseless. But the face—she can't remember the face. Just a blur of dark hair, broad shoulders, a cruel smirk.
She presses her palm against her cunt, gasping at the sensitivity. She's soaked. Her thighs are slick. Her hole flutters, desperate to be filled.
"Fucking hell," she mutters, flopping back onto the pillows.
It's been like this for almost a week now. Every night, another dream. Some nights she's on her knees, sucking a thick cock while a hand tangles in her hair. Some nights she's tied to a bed, spread open, being fucked so slowly she can feel every inch drag against her walls. Some nights it's just a voice—a low, possessive voice—calling her filthy, desperate, mine.
She always wakes up the same way: wet, aching, unsatisfied.
She reaches for her vibrator on the nightstand, but even as she presses it against her clit, she knows it won't be enough. It never is anymore. She comes—hard, fast, grinding into the plastic—but the release is hollow. An echo of what her body actually craves.
She doesn't know what that is.
Her exes were boring. They never made her feel claimed. They never made her scream.
But her body wants something more, something she's never experienced. Or so she thinks.
She sighs, tossing the vibrator aside. Her cunt still throbs, still clenches, still weeps for something she can't name.
Why does this feel like grief?
---
Across the city, perched on a water tower overlooking her block, Peter watches the distant glow of her window with a dark, hungry expression.
He knows.
He's been watching her sleep through the gap in her curtains. He's heard her moans, her whimpers, the desperate sounds she makes when she's lost in a dream he put there—not consciously, but through the lingering threads of the spell that binds them. She can't remember him, but her body can. Her body is a traitor, whispering his name in the language of her muscles, her slick, her trembling thighs.
He clenches his fists, his cock hardening painfully in his suit.
He lets out a slow, shaky breath.
I'll give you what you're craving soon.
He pushes off the water tower, swinging into the night, leaving his mark on the rooftops like a promise.
But he doesn't go far. He lands on the fire escape just outside her window—close enough to hear her frustrated sigh, the rustle of sheets as she rolls over, the quiet, desperate whisper she thinks no one hears:
"What do I need? What's wrong with me?"
He presses a hand to the glass, his rings glinting in the moonlight.
Nothing's wrong with you, love. You just need me.
————
The morning rush at the coffee shop had been mercifully slow, leaving Y/N and Ned with nothing better to do than wipe down the already-clean countertops in a lazy, synchronized rhythm. The TV mounted in the corner murmured in the background—some local news broadcast about a bank robbery in Midtown. The anchor's voice was tinny, almost an afterthought.
"...and witnesses report that Spider-Man intervened just moments after the robbers entered. No casualties reported. The web-slinger made a quick escape as usual—"
Y/N didn't look up. Neither did Ned. It was New York. Spider-Man stopping a robbery was as routine as a subway delay. They'd both heard the name so many times it barely registered anymore—a ghost in red and blue, flickering across screens, saving lives, disappearing.
Ned hummed a tune under his breath, rubbing a smudge off the granite with his thumb. Y/N's mind was elsewhere. Still half-lost in the hazy aftertaste of another dream from last night—the echo of a deep voice, the phantom weight of hands on her hips, the ache between her legs that hadn't fully faded even after she'd come twice this morning.
She bit her lip, grip tightening on the rag.
Focus. Work. Coffee. Normal stuff.
The little bell above the door jingled.
She looked up.
And there he was.
Peter stepped inside, and she felt the air shift. He was breathing hard, his black t-shirt clinging to his torso like a second skin, dark patches of sweat spreading across his chest and under his arms. His hair was damp, plastered to his forehead in messy waves, and a thin sheen of perspiration glistened over his neck and collarbones.
He looked exhausted. But also... good. Really good.
"Hey," Y/N said, her voice coming out a little too breathy. She cleared her throat. "You okay?"
He offered a tired smile, wiping his brow with the back of his hand. "Yeah. Just tired. Killed it at the gym today." He let out a huff of laughter, rolling one shoulder like it ached. "Didn't realize I pushed myself that hard."
She nodded, already moving to make his usual ice americano. Her body went through the motions automatically while her eyes trailed down his frame. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, revealing forearms corded with muscle, veins visible beneath the tanned skin. The sweat highlighted every contour—the arch of his biceps, the column of his throat, the way his chest rose and fell with each controlled breath.
Shit. She felt heat creep up her cheeks.
Her gaze dropped lower, catching a glint of silver at his wrist. A bracelet—woven black cord with a small metallic charm, a roughly shaped star. It looked handmade, well-worn, the edges smooth like it had been touched a thousand times.
She slid the cup across the counter toward him. "That's pretty," she said, nodding at the bracelet.
For a split second, something flickered in his eyes. A flash of emotion too fast to name—hope? Pain? He opened his mouth, and she could've sworn she saw him about to say something, his throat bobbing with a swallow.
Do you remember that you gave this to me?
But the words didn't come. He just watched her as she pulled away from the counter, already turning back to the rag in her hand.
Of course she didn't remember.
"Thanks," she said over her shoulder, already distracted, moving toward the back to restock napkins.
Peter stared at the bracelet on his wrist. The star charm. She'd made it for him on their six-month anniversary, clumsily braiding the cord while sitting cross-legged on his bed, laughing about how she'd never made jewelry before. "So you don't forget me," she'd said, pressing it into his palm. "Wear it even when you're being Spider-Man. I want to be with you, always."
He clenched his jaw, forcing the ache down his throat.
She doesn't remember. Of course she doesn't. You knew that.
Ned slid off his stool and walked over, holding out a napkin. "Hey," he said, his voice soft but pointed. "Your forehead's bleeding a bit."
Peter blinked, reaching up. His fingers came away with a smear of red. Shit. Must've caught a stray piece of debris during the takedown. He'd been too focused on getting there fast—on changing out of the suit in that alley, on making it to the shop before she closed—that he hadn't bothered to check for damage.
"Ah, that." He took the napkin with a casual shrug, pressing it to the cut. "Tripped on the way here. Almost ate pavement. Stupid, I know."
Ned's eyes lingered on him a moment too long, a quiet skepticism behind his gentle gaze. He didn't say anything, but Peter could feel the weight of his unspoken question.
That's a weird place to trip. And you're too banged up for just a fall. And you showed up right after Spider-Man was seen.
But Ned just nodded, taking a slow sip of his own drink. "Be careful," he said simply, and walked back to the counter.
Peter exhaled slowly, pressing the napkin harder against his temple. He watched Y/N move behind the counter, her hair tied in a messy bun, a few strands escaping to frame her face. She was beautiful. She was his. And she didn't even know it.
He took a long sip of the coffee she'd made him, letting the bitterness ground him.
He smiled against the rim of the cup, eyes fixed on the curve of her back as she bent down to grab more cups from the low shelf.
The bracelet gleamed on his wrist like a promise.
The morning air in Manhattan carried the usual cocktail of exhaust fumes, pretzel cart steam, and distant sirens. Y/N walked with her messenger bag slung across her body, earbuds in, a playlist of lo-fi beats keeping her grounded. The New York Chronicle skyscraper loomed ahead, all glass and steel, reflecting the pale winter sun. She was running a little early today, which meant she could grab a decent coffee from the lobby cart before heading up to her desk.
She was two blocks away when the screaming started.
At first, it was distant—a ripple through the crowd ahead. Then it grew, a wave of panic rolling toward her. People began sprinting in her direction, faces twisted with fear, elbows knocking pamphlets and coffee cups out of the way. A woman clutching a toddler nearly collided with her.
"What—" Y/N pulled out her earbuds, heart lurching. "What's happening?"
No one stopped to answer. The tide of bodies pushed past her, and she stumbled sideways, grabbing a lamppost to steady herself. Then she saw it: a column of smoke rising from the base of the Chronicle building. Orange flames licked at a collapsed awning. Glass littered the street like crushed diamonds.
Oh god. That's the lobby.
Her feet started moving before her brain caught up. She had to get in there. Had to see if her coworkers—her editor, the layout team, Maria from HR who always gave her extra granola bars—were okay. Her phone buzzed in her pocket. She ignored it.
"HEY!"
A blur of red and blue dropped from above, landing in front of her with a soft thud that cracked the asphalt. She yelped, skidding to a halt.
Spider-Man.
His lenses narrowed, body angled like he was about to grab her.
"What the hell are you doing?" His voice was modulated, sharp with urgency. "There's a gas leak—could blow again any second. Get back."
"I have to see if the people in that building are okay!" She tried to sidestep him, but he moved with her, a wall of spandex and muscle.
"I'll check. You stay here." He pointed a gloved finger at the sidewalk behind her. "Don't move."
She barely registered that she'd just been ordered around by a superhero. Her heart was hammering. The smoke stung her nostrils. "I'm not just going to—"
He was already turning, preparing to leap. She took a step forward, following him.
A sharp thwip sliced through the air.
Something snapped around her right wrist—a rope of white webbing, sticky and warm, yanking her arm sideways. She stumbled, grunting, and found herself anchored to the handle of a police cruiser parked at the curb. The web held fast, elastic but unyielding.
"What the hell?!" She yanked at her wrist, but the webbing stretched and held. "Are you serious right now?!"
Spider-Man paused, tilting his head. She could almost hear the smirk behind the mask. "Nope. Wait here. I'll free you after I'm sure it's safe."
And then he was gone, a red streak disappearing into the smoke-filled doorway.
Y/N stood there, arm stretched awkwardly toward the cop car, jaw hanging open. People were still running past her, but the immediate panic was thinning. She looked at her wrist, at the white strands wrapped snugly around it, and felt a jolt—not of anger, but of something else.
The texture. The pressure. The slight give when she pulled.
Her breath caught.
She was in her bedroom. The lights were dim. Her wrist was bound to the bedpost with...not a rope...not a scarf...something else entirely. Her arms stretched above her head and a dark figure hovered over her. She couldn't see his face, but she could feel his weight, his heat, the deep rumble of his voice against her ear.
"Stay still, baby. I'm not done with you yet."
The memory dissolved as quickly as it came, leaving her gasping on the sidewalk, knees weak.
What the fuck?
She shook her head violently, pressing her free hand to her flushed cheek. "I'm starting to feel like a fucking sex addict," she muttered under her breath. Of all the things to think about right now—tied to a car by Spider-Man—her brain was conjuring erotic flashbacks? With...Spider-Man? For all she knew, the guy was a forty-year-old accountant underneath that suit. He could be balding.
But he didn't move like a forty-year-old. And his voice, even through the modulator, had a certain quality—young, confident, teasing.
She shook her head again, harder. Stop it. Focus. The building.
A few minutes passed. The fire trucks arrived. EMTs started setting up a triage zone. Y/N strained her neck, trying to see if anyone was being carried out. She pulled at the web again, frustrated, but it held true.
Then Spider-Man emerged from the smoke, walking casually now, hands on his hips. He jogged over to her.
"Building's clear. No casualties. Gas leak was contained before it got worse. Minor injuries, but everyone's out." He reached for the web on her wrist and gave it a sharp tug setting her free.
She rubbed her wrist, red and slightly raw. "That wasn't cool. You could have just asked me to stay."
"I did. You didn't listen." He shrugged, the motion exaggerated by the suit's padding. "You should be more careful. People get hurt when they run toward explosions."
"I work there." She glared at him. "I was worried about my friends."
He was quiet for a second, his head tilted. She could feel his gaze through the white lenses, studying her. There was something familiar about the angle of his jaw, the set of his shoulders.
Then he straightened. "Bye."
And with a single leap, he was gone, swinging between buildings, disappearing into the Manhattan skyline before she could even respond.
Y/N stood there, mouth half-open, hand still rubbing her wrist. The phantom sensation of the web lingered—soft, taut, possessive. Her skin tingled where it had been wrapped.
Why does that feel like a memory I can't reach?
She stared up at the empty sky, the smoke still curling into the gray clouds.
And for some reason, her thighs pressed together.
Get a grip, Y/N. He's a stranger in a mask.
But her body didn't believe that. Not for a second.
The evening air did nothing to cool the heat lingering beneath Y/N's skin. After the chaos at the Chronicle building, after being webbed to a police car like some disobedient puppy, after the shredded remains of her dignity scattered across Sixth Avenue—she'd gone through the motions. Talked to her editor. Confirmed everyone was safe. Filed a preliminary report on the gas leak. Smiled at Maria's thanks.
But all the way home, her wrist tingled. The ghost of that webbing refused to fade.
Now she stood in her apartment, shoes kicked off, coat thrown over the armchair. The city lights bled through her window, painting amber stripes across her wooden floor. She should shower. Eat something. Answer the three texts Ned had sent asking if she was okay.
Instead, she grabbed her laptop and collapsed onto her bed, flipping it open.
YouTube.
Her fingers moved before she could talk herself out of it. She typed in the search bar: Spider-Man New York 2024.
The results flooded the screen. News clips. Fan edits. Compilations titled "Spider-Man's Top 10 Saves" and "Spider-Man Being a Menace for 12 Minutes Straight." She clicked the first one—a news report from two months ago, shaky cell phone footage of Spider-Man webbing a falling construction beam before it crushed a bus.
She watched it twice. Then a third time.
The comments section was a battlefield.
"whoever is under that suit is DEFINITELY packing i'm not taking questions"
"imagine getting railed by spider-man... the grip?? the stamina???"
"he literally fights crime every night and still has time to help old ladies cross the street... husband material"
"plot twist: he's actually a 50 year old dude with a beer belly and we're all just simping for spandex"
"even if he is 50 i'd still let him web me to the bed 🥴"
Y/N snorted despite herself, scrolling deeper. The thirst was real, embarrassingly real. These women were out there, posting paragraphs about what they'd let Spider-Man do to them. What they'd do to him. She felt a pang of something—not judgment, because who was she to judge—but recognition.
She'd felt that web around her wrist. She'd felt the possessiveness in that single thwip.
And God help her, she wanted to feel it again.
She clicked on another video. This one was different—a street interview, low-budget, filmed by someone's phone. The camera focused on Spider-Man, standing casually beside a hot dog cart, and standing next to him was a little boy—maybe eight years old, holding a notebook.
The interviewer says, "We've got a special guest today—this is Liam, and he wanted to ask Spider-Man a few questions."
Spider-Man crouched down to the boy's level. His lenses softened, tilted—the body language of someone genuinely engaged. He reached out and patted the kid's head, a casual, affectionate gesture.
"Go ahead, Liam. I'm all ears."
And he laughed—a low, warm chuckle that cut through the modulator like a blade through silk.
Y/N's breath hitched.
That laugh. She knew that laugh. It tickled something deep in her chest, a phantom sensation, like a voice calling from underwater. Her fingers tightened on the laptop. She replayed it. Once. Twice. Three times.
"I'm all ears."
The way he said it—teasing, gentle, familiar.
She shook her head, hard. You're projecting. Every guy laughs. It's not him. You don't even know who "him" is.
But her skin was prickling. Her thighs pressed together under the laptop.
She kept scrolling.
There was a Reddit link. r/SpiderManFantasies (NSFW). Her thumb hovered over it for a full ten seconds before she clicked.
The forum was a treasure trove of desperation. Women (and some men) posting photos they'd taken of Spider-Man mid-swing, or perched on a rooftop, or standing in the middle of a street after a rescue. The photos weren't explicit—they couldn't be, he was fully suited—but the captions were anything but.
"If I ever meet him I'm dropping to my knees immediately. That suit does NOT hide what he's working with."
"Imagine him pinning you down after a fight, all that adrenaline still pumping... you'd feel the bass in his chest."
"I don't even care what he looks like. I just want one night. ONE. NIGHT. With whoever is under that mask."
One post showed a blurry shot of Spider-Man crouched on a fire escape, his legs spread, the suit stretching taut across his thighs. The caption read: "I want to sit on his face and never get up."
Y/N closed the laptop so fast the screen clicked shut.
Her heart was hammering. Her cheeks burned. She pressed a hand to her forehead, groaning.
"I'm not above this," she whispered to the empty room. "I'm so far below this it's embarrassing."
She threw the laptop aside and flopped onto her back, staring at the ceiling. The city hummed outside—distant sirens, a neighbor's TV, the low bass of a car passing by. Her skin felt too tight. Her cunt ached, a dull, persistent throb that had been living in her bones for weeks now.
The clock on her nightstand read 11:47 PM when Y/N finally collapsed onto her bed, still wearing her jeans and a thin camisole.
Sleep came heavy and reluctant.
---
She woke with a gasp, thighs pressed together, a dull throb between her legs.
The clock read 2:47 AM.
Her skin was damp with sweat. Her nipples were hard, rubbing against the cotton of her shirt. She'd been dreaming again—fragments of a body above her, weight pressing her into the mattress, a warm mouth trailing down her stomach. She couldn't see his face, but she could feel his hands. Strong, calloused, knowing exactly where to touch.
"I've got you, baby. I've always got you."
She threw an arm over her eyes, breathing hard. She was wet, aching, clenching around nothing. She slid a hand down her belly, into her underwear, her fingers finding her clit swollen and desperate.
She rubbed herself slowly, trying to chase a release that never came. She imagined the web wrapped around her wrist again. Spider-Man's lenses staring down at her. The low laugh from the video.
"Fuck," she whimpered, fingers moving faster. But it wasn't enough. It was never enough. She could feel a shape just out of reach.
Her body remembered. Her mind didn't.
She pressed her palm harder, hips bucking, but the orgasm hovered like a mirage, untouchable. She let out a frustrated sob, pulling her hand away, her chest heaving.
Outside, on the fire escape, a shadow shifted.
Peter pressed his back against the brick wall, his own breathing uneven. He'd heard her whimper through the glass. Heard the wet sound of her fingers working. The whine of her frustration when she couldn't finish.
His cock was hard, straining against the suit. He'd come here to check on her after the explosion—to make sure she was safe, to watch her sleep like he did most nights. He hadn't expected this.
But he couldn't leave. Not while she was aching.
Not when he was the only one who could fix it.
He pressed a palm against the cold glass of her window, the mask hiding the anguish on his face. Soon, he told himself. Soon I'll find a way.
But for now, he just listened to her breathe, and hated the spell that kept them apart.
———
The knock that rattled Ned's door at 11 PM was frantic—three sharp, pounding hits, then a pause, then another. He barely had time to unlatch the lock before Y/N pushed past him into his apartment, her eyes wild, her hair a mess, her chest heaving like she'd run the whole way.
"Okay," she said, hands on her hips, pacing his narrow living room. "You were right. You were fucking right."
Ned closed the door slowly, crossing his arms. He was in sweatpants and an old band tee, clearly winding down for the night. "Right about what, exactly? Because I'm right about a lot of things."
She whirled on him, jaw tight. "The sex thing. The needing-to-get-laid thing. The I'm crawling out of my skin thing." She raked her fingers through her hair, tugging at the roots. "It's not just being horny, Ned. It's like—" She stopped, struggling for words. "It's like my body is craving something specific. A specific touch. A specific rhythm. A specific person. But I don't know who or what. I don't remember. I just feel this ache that nothing fills."
Ned's teasing demeanor softened. He gestured to the couch, and she collapsed onto it, head in her hands.
He sat beside her, voice careful. "An ex? Someone you dated before? Maybe your brain locked away a breakup that hit you harder than you think."
She looked up, rolling her eyes so hard it was almost audible. "No. It's not an ex. I don't have any traumatic breakup memory. It's—" She groaned, frustrated. "I don't know. It feels like a ghost. A phantom limb."
Ned was quiet for a moment. Then he said, slowly, "Maybe you don't need to find that specific person. Maybe you just need to try someone new."
She blinked at him. The idea hung in the air, fresh and foreign.
"Someone new," she repeated, tasting the words.
"Someone who doesn't come with baggage or memories. Someone who can just—" He made a vague gesture. "Fuck you into forgetting whatever's haunting you. A clean slate. A hot body. A night of no strings."
She stared at him. Then, slowly, a nod. "Maybe you're right."
His grin spread wide. "I am right. And I know exactly how to start." He pulled out his phone, already scrolling. "There's that new nightclub in midtown. Opened last week. 'Velvet Underground.' It's got black lights, VIP booths, and supposedly a very attractive bartender who does body shots. I've been dying to go."
"A club," she said flatly.
"A club where you can find a guy—or girl, no judgment—who will take you home and fuck you until you forget your own name. That kind of club."
She chewed her lip. The idea terrified her. Thrilled her. She thought of her empty bed, the wet sheets, the incomplete orgasms. She thought of the phantom hands in her dreams.
"Okay," she whispered. "Okay. Let's do it."
Ned clapped his hands together. "Yes. I'll text you the details. Wear something slutty. I'm talking a dress that says 'I'm here to get railed.'"
She laughed—a real laugh, shaky but genuine. "You're such a bad influence."
"Someone has to be."
They spent the next hour planning. What time to arrive. Which drinks to order. An exit strategy if the guy was a creep. Y/N felt lighter than she had in weeks, a fragile hope blooming in her chest.
---
Outside, pressed against the brick wall of the adjacent building, a figure in red and blue watched through the sliver of curtain left uncovered.
Peter's hands curled into fists.
His jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached.
Someone new.
The words echoed in his skull, each syllable a knife twist. She was going to let some stranger touch her. Some random guy from a club. He'd put his hands on her skin, his mouth on her throat...
A low, guttural sound escaped his throat, muffled by the mask.
No. Absolutely fucking not.
He pushed off the wall, landing silently on the fire escape below. His mind raced. He couldn't stop her—not directly. He couldn't reveal himself, couldn't break the spell. But he could intercept. He could follow. He could make sure that no one—no one—got close enough to touch what was his.
Even if she didn't remember it.
He swung into the night, a plan already forming. The club. He'd be there. Not as Spider-Man—too obvious. He'd ditch the suit, put on something tight, something that would make her look. He'd find her on the dance floor, buy her a drink, let the night unfold.
The hunt was on.
The strapless bodycon dress was a weapon, and Y/N knew it.
Black velvet hugged every curve from her collarbone to mid-thigh, the hem riding up just enough to make men's eyes glaze over. She'd paired it with strappy heels that made her legs look miles long and a thin silver necklace that caught the light. Her hair fell in loose waves, makeup smoky and deliberate.
Ned let out a low whistle when she stepped out of her bedroom. "Holy shit."
"Too much?" She tugged at the neckline nervously.
"Not enough. You're going to break necks tonight. Possibly some hearts too, but who's counting." He offered his arm. "Shall we?"
She took it, laughing. "Let's get me laid."
---
The Velvet Underground lived up to its name. The interior was all dark burgundy and dim gold lighting, with a massive dance floor pulsing under black lights that made white fabrics glow. Bodies moved together in a haze of sweat and bass, the air thick with perfume and alcohol.
They claimed a spot at the bar, and Ned ordered them both shots of tequila. "Warm-up," he shouted over the music.
Y/N downed hers, grimacing at the burn. A second followed. Then a third.
By the fourth, the edges of her anxiety had blurred into a pleasant haze. The bass thrummed through her bones, and she found herself swaying, scanning the crowd. Potential candidates everywhere—sharp jawlines, broad shoulders, confident grins.
None of them made her stomach flip.
But then the door opened.
And he walked in.
Peter had planned this.
Tight black jeans that hugged his thighs and sat low on his hips. A simple white T-shirt, thin enough that the outline of his chest was visible when he moved. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, exposing the veins in his forearms. He'd styled his hair messy, like he'd just rolled out of bed, and he wore that lazy half-smirk that had always made her knees weak.
Her favorite outfit.
He remembered the first time she'd seen him in it. They'd been dating for a few weeks, and he'd shown up at her door looking like this. She'd pulled him inside by his collar, pinned him against the wall, and kissed him so deep he'd seen stars. Her hands had tangled in his hair, pulling, while the other roamed down his stomach to palm him through the denim. She'd broken the kiss just to whisper against his lips, "You look so good it should be illegal. I want to ruin you."
And she had. For hours.
He carried that memory in his bones as he pushed open the club door, scanning the crowd with practiced casualness. His eyes landed on the bar.
There she was.
Strapless black dress. Hair loose. Cheeks flushed from alcohol. She was even more beautiful than he remembered—which was saying something, because he remembered every detail.
He pretended not to see her at first. Ordered a drink. Leaned against the bar, letting the black lights catch the contours of his arms.
Then Ned spotted him.
"Hey! Peter!"
Peter turned, feigning surprise. His eyes landed on Y/N, and he let them widen slightly—just enough. "Oh. Hey. Didn't expect to see you guys here."
Y/N's breath caught. Her lips parted, a soft gasp escaping. "Hi."
Just that. Hi. But the word came out breathy, almost involuntary.
Ned gestured him over. "Come join us. We're just warming up. Y/N's on a mission tonight."
"A mission?" Peter raised an eyebrow, sliding onto the stool beside her. Close enough that his knee brushed hers under the bar. "Sounds intriguing."
She opened her mouth to respond, but the words came out slurred. "M'sion... find someone... hot..."
Ned sighed. "I think the tequila hit faster than expected."
Peter smiled knowingly. She always did get tipsy fast. Three drinks and she'd be clinging to him, whispering dirty things in his ear. Four and she'd be begging to go home. Five and she'd be asleep before they hit the door.
"I can help you get her home," he offered, voice steady. "If you want."
Ned looked relieved. "God, yes. I was not looking forward to carrying her six blocks in those heels."
They helped her off the stool. Her legs wobbled, and she stumbled forward—
Right into Peter's arms.
Her palms landed flat on his chest. Her head tipped up, eyes glassy and unfocused. She blinked at him, a dopey smile spreading across her face. "Wow. You're... strong."
His hands caught her waist, steadying her. The velvet of her dress was soft under his fingers, her skin warm beneath the fabric. He could feel the rapid flutter of her pulse.
He lowered his voice, letting it dip into that husky register she'd always loved. "Oh yea?"
She nodded, earnest and drunk. "Mmhm. Like... hero strong."
If only you knew.
Ned was already heading for the door, waving them along. Peter kept one arm around Y/N's waist, guiding her out into the cool night air. The city hummed around them, taxis honking, distant sirens, the buzz of neon signs.
The walk to her apartment was slow. She kept tripping on cracks, leaning into him, her fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. At one point she looked up at him, squinting.
"You smell... familiar."
His chest tightened. "Good familiar or bad familiar?"
"Good." She nuzzled into his shoulder. "Really good."
Ned shot him a look—half curious, half amused. Peter just shrugged, playing it casual, though his heart was hammering.
They reached her building. Ned held the door while Peter helped her up the stairs. At her apartment door, she fumbled with her keys, nearly dropping them twice.
When she finally got it open, she turned around, throwing her arms around both of them in a messy group hug.
"Thank you," she mumbled into Ned's shoulder. "You're the best."
She pulled back, swaying slightly, and turned to Peter.
Her eyes met his.
The air between them thickened.
"You..." She reached up, touching his cheek with drunken clumsiness. Her thumb brushed his jawline. "You look so good tonight."
The words came out soft. Barely a whisper. Heavy with something she couldn't name.
Peter's throat tightened. He wanted to grab her, pull her inside, pin her against that door and remind her exactly what she was missing. He wanted to kiss that drunk confession off her lips and replace it with moans.
But not yet.
Not yet.
He smiled, gentle and aching. "Get some sleep, Y/N."
She blinked slowly, then ducked inside, closing the door with a soft click.
The lock turned.
Peter stood there for a long moment, hand pressed flat against the wood. He could hear her on the other side, shuffling, probably kicking off her heels.
"She say something?" Ned asked from behind.
"Just saying goodnight."
Ned hummed, unconvinced. "You know, for a guy who just met her, you're pretty invested."
Peter turned, keeping his face neutral. "She's a friend. I don't like seeing friends drunk and alone."
"Uh huh." Ned didn't push. "Well, thanks for the help. I'm gonna crash. See you around, Peter."
"Yeah. See you."
When Ned disappeared down the stairwell, Peter let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.
He pressed his forehead to the door, listening. On the other side, he heard her humming—off-key, sleepy—as she padded toward her bedroom.
Soon, he promised himself. Soon she'll know.
But for tonight, he'd settle for knowing that even drunk and confused, she still thought he looked good.
That was enough.
For now.
The door clicked shut behind him, and the silence of his apartment swallowed him whole.
Peter stood there for a long moment, forehead pressed against the wood, listening to the echo of her voice in his head. You look so good tonight. Drunk, slurred, honest. She'd meant it. Even without knowing who he was, her body remembered. Her eyes had traced the lines of his shoulders, the curve of his jaw, and something deep in her gut had stirred.
But she was inside, alone, probably already curled up in bed, dreaming of strangers.
And he was out here. Alone. Again.
He pushed off the door and walked to his kitchen, grabbing a glass of water he didn't want. The apartment was too quiet. Too empty. The walls seemed to press in on him, carrying the weight of every night he'd spent like this—restless, aching, watching the clock tick toward dawn while the city hummed outside.
It's hard when no one loves you and the ones you love can't remember you.
He set the glass down harder than intended. It cracked. Water spilled across the counter.
"Fuck."
He stood there, dripping, staring at his own reflection in the dark window. A stranger in his own life. Spider-Man saved people. Peter saved no one. Not even himself.
He loved being Spider-Man. Loved the rush of swinging between buildings, the wind in his face, the sound of sirens fading as he swooped in to help. Loved the gratitude in strangers' eyes when he pulled them from wrecks, the way kids pointed up at him with awe.
But Peter deserved his own life too. A job he didn't have to hide. Friends who called him by his real name. A girl who looked at him like he was the only man in the world.
He closed his eyes, and there she was. Y/N. Laughing. Touching his face. Whining his name in that breathless way she used to when he was inside her.
"You're so good, Peter. Fuck—don't stop—"
His hand curled into a fist.
Then his spider-sense flared.
Sharp. Urgent. Something wrong.
He sighed, heavy and resigned, and reached for the suit.
---
The city was cruel tonight.
He swung from rooftop to rooftop, the wind biting at the exposed skin of his face and hands. Below, the neon lights of Manhattan bled into puddles on wet asphalt. Somewhere, a woman screamed—he veered toward it, landing on a fire escape to find a mugger wrestling a purse from an elderly lady. He webbed the guy to a lamppost in seconds, returned the purse, and was gone before the woman could finish thanking him.
Two blocks over, a car crash. He helped pull a family out before the fuel line sparked.
A domestic disturbance. He talked a man down from a balcony ledge.
A break-in at a convenience store.
A fire on the Lower East Side.
He kept moving. Kept saving. Kept pretending that each life he touched filled the hole inside him.
But it didn't.
Because the whole time, in the back of his mind, he was thinking of her. Her safety. Her smile. The way she used to trace the scars on his shoulders after a bad fight, her voice soft with worry: "You can't keep doing this, Peter. One day you won't come back."
And he'd kissed her forehead and promised he'd always come back to her.
Now she didn't even know to wait.
---
He landed on a rooftop overlooking her building.
The lights were off in her apartment. She was asleep, probably still drunk, tangled in sheets that smelled like her perfume. He imagined her lips slightly parted, hair fanned across the pillow, the slow rise and fall of her chest.
He pulled out the photo he kept tucked inside his suit. Polaroid, edges worn from handling. Her smiling at the camera, hair messy, wearing his hoodie. She'd taken it one morning after they'd spent the whole night tangled together. He'd been making coffee, and she'd grabbed his phone, snapped the picture just as he turned around.
"So I can look at you even when you're gone," she'd said.
He didn't know she'd end up being the one gone.
He pressed his thumb to her face, tracing the curve of her smile.
Soon.
Soon, he'd find a way. Something drastic. Something that would break through the spell's hold and make her remember—or at least make her feel it, even if she couldn't name it.
Soon, he'd be inside her apartment. Inside her. Reminding her exactly what she was missing.
But for now, he tucked the photo back, turned toward the next siren, and launched himself into the night.
For her. Always for her.
The bell above the door chimed, and Peter walked in like he owned the place.
Y/N looked up from the register, head pounding, eyes barely open. Her hair was pulled into a messy knot, and she was pretty sure she still smelled like last night's cheap perfume and regret. The hangover was a dull throb behind her eyes, a punishment for every shot Ned had convinced her to take.
She squinted at him. Him. The guy with the dangerous smile and the bracelet she didn't remember giving him.
"Morning," she grumbled, not even trying to sound pleasant.
He grinned. Actually grinned, like her misery was the highlight of his day. "Someone had fun last night."
"Someone regrets everything."
He laughed—that low, easy sound that did something annoying to her stomach—and walked past her to the counter. "Just the usual, please."
She turned to make it, moving slow, her head throbbing with every step. The espresso machine hissed, and she winced.
Behind her, she heard the door open again—a small commotion, a child's voice. She glanced over her shoulder.
A little boy, maybe seven or eight, had run in too fast, his backpack swinging. He collided with the table where Peter had set his bag, sending it toppling. But before it could hit the ground, Peter's hand shot out, catching it mid-air with reflexes too fast, too precise.
"Sorry, mister!" the boy said, eyes wide.
Peter just smiled, crouching down to the kid's level. "It's okay, buddy. No harm done." And he reached out, ruffling the boy's hair with an easy, affectionate motion.
Y/N froze.
The gesture. The way his fingers moved through the dark strands, the gentle mock-scolding in his tone. It was exactly how Spider-Man had ruffled that kid's hair in the interview she watched online. She'd watched the clip multiple times, her body heating each time—the way those gloved fingers had been so careful, so human, beneath the mask.
She blinked, shaking off the thought. No. That's ridiculous. Lots of people ruffle kids' hair.
But something nagged at her. The precision of the catch. The casual confidence. The way he moved.
Peter straightened, catching her stare. His eyebrow arched. "Something wrong?"
She realized she'd been staring. Heat crept up her neck. "No. Nothing. Your coffee."
She shoved the cup toward him, maybe a little too aggressively. He took it, amused, and leaned against the counter instead of leaving like a normal person.
She needed to get this over with.
"Listen," she said, forcing herself to meet his eyes. "About last night. I was... a lot. I know I was all over you, and I'm sorry. I don't usually—I mean, I was drunk, and Ned was being an ass, and—"
"Cute."
She stopped. "What?"
"You were cute." He took a sip of his coffee, watching her over the rim. "Not 'a lot.' Cute."
Her face burned. She opened her mouth, closed it, opened it again. No words came out. Just a stupid, flustered silence.
He smiled—that knowing, crooked smile that made her knees weak—and pushed off from the counter. "See you around, Y/N."
He walked out, the bell chiming behind him.
She stood there, heart hammering, watching him disappear down the street.
Fuck.
She touched her cheek. It was hot. She was blushing like a teenager. And worst of all, she was thinking about him—the scent of his cologne, the strength in his hands when he'd caught that bag, the way his voice had dipped when he said "cute."
She shook her head, turning back to the register.
But as she wiped down the counter, her mind wandered. To Spider-Man. To Peter. To the way both of them made her feel seen in a way she couldn't explain.
Maybe I have a crush on him.
She bit her lip.
Or maybe I'm just that desperate.
But even as she thought it, she knew it wasn't true. There was something about him. Something familiar. Something that pulled at the edges of her memory, just out of reach.
And somewhere across the city, swinging between rooftops, Peter smiled to himself, her blush burned into his mind.
Soon, he thought. Soon, you'll remember.
The city was settling into dusk, streetlights flickering to life as Y/N walked home, her bag slung over one shoulder. The hangover had faded to a dull ache, replaced by the restless energy that had been gnawing at her all day. She was thinking about Peter—the way he'd laughed, the way his hand had caught that bag, the way he'd called her cute.
She was so lost in thought she almost missed the commotion.
A sharp cry. An old man's voice, cracked with panic. "Help! Someone help!"
Y/N's head snapped up. Across the street, a figure in a hoodie was sprinting away, an old leather bag clutched under his arm. Behind him, an elderly man stumbled, reaching out helplessly.
"Hey!" Y/N didn't think. She ran.
Three blocks. Her lungs burned, her legs pumping, the thief weaving through pedestrians. She was fast—she'd always been fast—but he was younger, more desperate. He ducked into a narrow alley, reeking of garbage and stale urine.
She followed without hesitation.
The alley was dark, shadows pooling like liquid. She could hear his footsteps echoing, slowing. He was cornered. She rounded a corner, ready to tackle him—
And then he was gone.
No. Not gone. Pinned.
A figure in red and blue dropped from above, landing silently. The thief was already webbed to a wall, the bag dangling from Spider-Man's hand. The hero turned to her, the white lenses of his mask catching the faint light.
"You really need to stop running into danger," he said, his voice modulated, teasing.
Y/N's heart pounded—not from the chase, but from him. From the way he stood, the way he moved.
She tried to step forward, to get a better look at the thief, to see where he'd gone into the darkness—
A thwip. A strand of web shot out, catching her wrist, yanking it to the brick wall beside her.
She stared at her hand, pinned by the familiar white silk. Again.
"Are you kidding me?" she snapped, yanking at the web. It held firm. "You can't just—"
"Watch and learn," Spider-Man said, and in two quick moves, he had the thief subdued, the bag retrieved, a police call tapped into his comm—all while she stood there, helpless, a memory flickering in the back of her mind.
Webs. Restraint. A voice whispering in the dark. Hands on her wrists, pinning her down. A body pressing against hers, the rough texture of a suit, the heat beneath it.
She blinked, the image dissolving like smoke.
He was in front of her now, the old man's bag tucked under one arm. He reached up and flicked the web on her wrist. It dissolved instantly, dropping her hand.
"You're free," he said. "Now go home. It's not safe."
She rubbed her wrist, glaring at him. "You can't just do that whenever you want! I was helping! I could have—"
She stepped forward, jabbing a finger at his chest plate. "You don't get to decide when I'm in danger! You don't get to just—"
She pushed him. Hard. He didn't move, but she kept going, frustration boiling over, her hands flat against his chest—
And then her foot caught on a loose piece of asphalt.
She stumbled forward, off-balance, straight into him.
Her body collided with his, her hands instinctively grabbing his arms to steady herself. Her fingers wrapped around his biceps, the fabric of his suit smooth and textured beneath her palms.
And something clicked.
The feel of it—the tight compression, the subtle ribbing, the exact way the material hugged the muscle underneath—sent a shiver through her. Her eyes widened. She didn't know why, but her hands began to move, sliding down his arms slowly, almost reverently. She felt the curve of his shoulders, the strength of his forearms, the way his muscles tensed under her touch.
She looked up.
The mask stared back at her, white lenses unreadable. But she could feel him watching her, feel the sudden stillness in his body.
Her breath caught. She could see him beneath the mask. Not his face, but something else. A feeling. A memory just out of reach.
I know you. I've felt you before.
She lifted a hand, reaching for his mask, her fingers trembling—
He stepped back.
Just one step, but it was enough to break her hold. Her hand hung in the air, empty.
"I have to go," he said, his voice tighter now, less playful. He set the bag down. "The police are on their way. Stay safe."
And before she could say another word, he was gone—a blur of red and blue vanishing into the night sky, leaving her alone in the dark alley, the old man's bag at her feet, her skin still tingling where she'd touched him.
She stood there, heart racing, frustration and confusion twisting in her chest.
Why does he feel so familiar?
She clenched her fists. It was like a word on the tip of her tongue, a name she couldn't remember, a face she couldn't see.
And yet, he's a stranger.
She bent down, picked up the bag, and walked out of the alley, her mind churning.
Who are you?
The question echoed in the empty space where Spider-Man had been. And somewhere, high above, hidden in the shadows, Peter watched her go, his hands shaking, his heart aching with the weight of everything she didn't remember.
——————————
The bell above the café door chimed, and Y/N's heart did a little flip she immediately suppressed.
Peter walked in, all easy confidence in a loose black t-shirt and those worn jeans that hung just right on his hips. He ran a hand through his hair—still slightly damp, like he'd just showered—and gave her a small smile as he approached the counter.
"Morning, Y/N."
She should have said something. She should have smiled back, asked for his usual order, made some casual remark about the weather. But her mind was still reeling from last night. The alley. The webs. The way her hands had traced the suit's texture like her fingers remembered what her brain couldn't.
Instead, she just nodded, her movements mechanical as she punched in his order. "Americano."
He blinked, clearly noticing her clipped tone. "Yeah. Thanks."
She turned to make the coffee, her back to him, feeling his gaze on her. She could sense the question in his silence—what's wrong?—but she couldn't bring herself to address it. She didn't know what to say. Hey, I think you might be the superhero who's been haunting my dreams and my subconscious sex life, but I can't be sure, so just pretend everything's normal.
She slid the cup across the counter. He took it, their fingers almost brushing. She pulled back too fast.
"Thanks," he said again, slower this time, searching her face.
She just nodded and turned to wipe down the counter, even though it was already clean.
The café was quiet—a lull between the morning rush and the lunch crowd. Ned was in the back, restocking cups, humming something under his breath. Y/N busied herself with meaningless tasks, acutely aware of Peter settling into his usual table by the window, pulling out his phone.
He didn't look at her again. Or maybe he did, in brief glances she pretended not to notice.
After a few minutes, he stood up, stretching his arms above his head. The motion pulled his shirt up just slightly, revealing a sliver of his stomach. Y/N's eyes tracked it before she forced them away.
"Bathroom," he said, more to announce it than anything, and disappeared through the back hallway.
The moment the door clicked shut, Ned emerged from the stockroom, his eyes gleaming with mischief.
"Okay. Now's my chance."
Y/N frowned. "What chance?"
Ned didn't answer. He darted to Peter's table, where the worn leather messenger bag sat propped against the chair leg.
"Ned, what the hell—"
"Shh." He was already crouching, unzipping the bag with practiced ease. "He's so mysterious. I just want to snoop a little. See if he's hiding anything interesting."
Y/N's heart lurched. "Stop! Put that back." She hissed, crossing the café in three quick strides. "What are you doing? That's his private stuff—"
"Relax, I'm just looking." Ned's hands moved through the bag's contents—a wallet, a phone, a protein bar wrapper, a small notebook. "Boring, boring, boring. How does this guy have no personality in his bag?"
"Ned, I swear to God—"
He pulled out a crumpled piece of fabric. Dark red and blue, folded into a rough square.
His eyebrows shot up. "Oh, he's a fan."
He unfolded it, and Y/N's breath caught in her throat.
It was a mask. A Spider-Man mask. The white lenses stared up at her, empty and familiar.
Ned held it up, smirking. "See? Fanboy. Probably wears it to bed or something." He scoffed, tossing it carelessly back into the bag. "Guess even mysterious guys have heroes."
But Y/N wasn't listening.
She reached down, her fingers trembling, and picked up the mask. The fabric was cool against her skin. She ran her thumb across the surface—the subtle ribbing, the tight weave, the exact texture that had pressed against her palms last night.
The same texture.
Her blood ran cold.
She remembered the alley. The way her hands had slid down Spider-Man's arms. The way the suit had felt beneath her fingers. The way her body had known it, even when her mind couldn't.
This was the same mask. The same fabric. The same—
She looked up. Ned was staring at her, his smirk fading into confusion. "You okay? You look like you've seen a ghost."
She couldn't speak. Her throat was tight, her heart pounding so hard she could hear it in her ears.
She was holding Spider-Man's mask.
Peter's mask.
Peter is Spider-Man.
The realization hit her like a freight train, knocking the air from her lungs. She stood there, frozen, the fabric clutched in her hands, the truth burning through her.
He's the one who saved me. He's the one who webs me to walls. He's the one who watches me from the shadows.
He's the one I've been dreaming about.
She thought of the dreams—the vivid, explicit dreams where Spider-Man's voice had whispered filthy things in her ear, where his hands had pinned her down, where his body had moved inside hers like he knew every inch of her. The dreams where she had arched into him, moaning, pleading, coming undone.
Her face flushed, her thighs pressing together involuntarily.
Oh God.
She had been dreaming about him. About the man who had been coming into her café, smiling at her, teasing her, touching her—and she hadn't known.
But her body had.
Her body had remembered.
"Y/N?" Ned's voice was sharper now. "Put it back. He'll be out any second."
She forced her hands to move, folding the mask roughly and shoving it back into the bag. She zipped it closed just as the bathroom door creaked open.
Peter emerged, wiping his hands on his jeans. He glanced at them—Ned standing awkwardly by the table, Y/N frozen behind the counter—and his brow furrowed.
"Everything okay?"
"Fine!" Ned said, too quickly. "Great. Just—telling Y/N about a thing. A thing I saw. Bye."
He scurried back to the stockroom, leaving Y/N alone with Peter.
He walked to the counter, picking up his coffee, his eyes studying her. "You sure you're okay? You seem... off today."
She couldn't look at him. She stared at the counter, at the espresso machine, at anything but his face.
"I'm fine," she said, her voice flat. "Just tired."
He didn't push. He just nodded, taking a sip of his coffee. "Alright. I'll see you later, then."
He turned and walked out, the bell chiming behind him.
Y/N stood there, her heart pounding, her mind racing.
Peter is Spider-Man.
And she had been dreaming of him fucking her senseless.
She pressed a hand to her chest, feeling the rapid thrum of her pulse. A strange mix of fear, confusion, and something else—something hot and hungry—coiled in her stomach.
She had questions. So many questions.
But more than that, she had a need.
A need to find out if the dreams were somehow real.
----------
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summary: part two to this, read the first one, thank you love you
word count: 453
content warning: smut, dub-con if you squint, puppy-play if you’re blind, face riding, threat of pregnancy, knots, i think that’s it.
a/n: OH EM GEE!!! the love i’ve been getting is insane, i wrote my first ever fanfic in ten minutes and posted it, thinking nothing. and it was beloved. crazy. you deserve part two even if it is half the size of the first one, so sorry. very quick. let me know if you hate me or not.
p.s criticism is welcome if you’re nice
“nnmghh… hoooly shit… yes! right there right-“ you ground yourself against his handsome face, his crooked nose covered in you.
his arms clutched your thighs as you rutted yourself into him (pun intended), the air felt even thicker thank to both of your pungent pheromones, and your guttural noises could be heard from russia, you’re sure.
“mhmph…” he whimpered out, grumbling sappily against your hole. he looked like he’d ascended from pleasure, hips jutting and grinding into the air, he could cum untouched.
you tried to focus on how horrible and immoral you were for taking advantage of his mindless state, he was your confidante, your stoic friend, and skilful teammate, how dare you?-
“yes!!- oh..h! i’m c- shit… simonnn…” you rode out your high on his face as he finished lapping at your hole.
he pushed you off of him onto the other half of his mattress and climbed atop of you. he palmed your face into the mattress and hoisted your hips up to position himself behind you. “so good lovey.. good beta, so nice t’me…” he mumbled to himself like a zombie.
he slid himself in dubitably, knot excluded, and ignored your pleasured protests, hand still shoving your face into the mattress. he began to hammer into you like a mutt, panting, shaking, mumbling stupid words.
he moved to lay almost entirely on top of you, lapping at your ear and the back of your neck, and pulling at your hair. he shoved his fingers in your mouth and refused to seize.
“si-i-mon!-“ you dribbled on his thick fingers. he couldn’t stop moving, whether it was inside you or positioning you, he was constant.
you spent hours being degraded by his cock. on your stomach, full nelson, sideways, and now on your back. this was your favourite one yet, so intimate yet so filthy.
he held the entire lover half of your face with his hand, the other played with you as he pounded into you. the eye contact was orgasmic in itself, but the drooling, manhandling, blatant disregard? he really was a dog in this state.
“gonna get y’pregnant- full a’ pups..”
“s-simon, s’so good…”
it was just a competition of who could be more pathetic and it was a draw. he slowly pushed further and his bot slipped inside you with a few moans and whimpers.
“you a’right dove.. did i hurt ya’? you wan’a bath? i dunno where you put those waters..”
“i’m fine si… sorry… i’m supposed to be taking care of you??”
“y’have. y’did. you’re perfect.”
…
“again?”
a/n: guys i’m skimming over it and i hate it, but lemme know… if you hate it ill just redo it.
tags: @hopedyoulovedme @mushys-mush @satinbullet @thewikiforredhood @constellationguy @lifeisafreakshow @xxmattyboixx @luckyrblue @kakashisslut-amongothers and others bc i couldn’t tag some
summary: your long-time pal, simon, gets his rut set off on a mission and you were ordered to take care of him now that he was back, with your presumably passive pheromones...
word count: 830
content warning: omegaverse, ruts, simon begging to fuck you, and vulgar language. reader is also gn!
a/n: HELLOo!!1 this is my first ever fic, if you see this, please read it and give me kind feedback, bc idk what im doing!!! yay!
long term teammates, tolerable conversation, a perfectly adequate, non romantic relationship.
that's what you and Simon had.
you'd known the alpha for years at this point, you had met before the task force, both serving as young sergeants in the SAS . it was an acquaintanceship, passing comments over comms or emailing documents for superiors.
when you'd both been invited into the task force for a secret operative (that turned into multiple), it became something closer. something more subtlety intimate and tension filled. whether it was sharing MREs wordlessly or quietly smoking together behind crumbling buildings, you did it together, and no one was allowed to say a word.
meanwhile, scents and primal urges were never a real problem between you two thanks to the uniform scent blockers and his seemingly obvious un-attraction to you. not like you cared... he was hot, of course, smoking hot. but you had gotten used to alphas preferring omegas.
on your second year in the task force, hed been placed in a simple in-and-out opp in south America. once hed gotten back he started getting more agressive and territorial, even pacing outside your door at night? when price found out hed been scented by a bolivian con-woman he was banished to his quarters until he was civilised. you, being the only beta on the team, were asked to use your scent to neutralise his rut urges, a common request for betas, being the mediator and all. but seeing him in such a viscous (horny) state (even if it turned you on), upset your instincts. so you also made time to help your poor simon bathe and rest and hydrate.
a knock was placed on his door with your forehead as you carefully balanced two trays of tuck from the mess hall, his one being significantly heavier, making you wobble. "hrmph.." you heard him grumble from inside, he sounded like an agitated dog.
"don't start, I'm being so good to you." a firm acknowledgement as you carefully manoeuvred the door open whilst balancing the trays of semi-hot food. he shuffles in bed, covering his nude lower half and peevishly glaring at you from amongst the covers and sheets before sitting up to eat.
the room was moist, and the smell that lingered wasn't something you wanted to think about Simon doing, so you focused on giving him the food and cutlery. you gave him water, ran a bath, tidied up his quarters, and you ended your pottering by opening a window as he finished eating. you cleared your throat and looked at the huge miserable man, who was already piercing his eyes through your head. "you okay, si? need anything else? you look super fucked out."
"tired. horny. angry. no. thank you."
"mhm, your welcome. you're sure you dont need anything else? i can scent you to help with the pain?-"
he grumbled again, low in his chest. the sound flipped your stomach and made a heat crawl up your spin. 'ew? no? now you want to fuck him? when he's acting like a rapid dog?? you're sick.' you mentally scolded yourself as he writhed around uncomfortably in the sheets further before answering truthfully this time.
"all i can smell is you, luv. and its not neutralising shite. i feel like a horny mutt ‘round ye." he whimpered, the most embarrassed you’ve seen him look.
you froze in place awkwardly, standing stiffly at the end of his bed by the window. you hardly thought before retorting, its like your brain didn't even want to process what he'd said whilst stumbling out a petulant reprimand and avoiding the hot eye-contact he was forcing. "nah… beta scents can't make you horny, i think its just your hormones talking-"
"you’re so pretty, wish i could smell ye all the time… wish you’d let me do what i need to, i’ll be so good.." he shuttered as he mumbled, voice course from whining and growling into his pillow for days. you stood frozen in the middle of the hot, sex perfumed room. your face was flushed and your insides were tingly, you don't think you've ever been this pitiful in your life.
he was hunched over himself, still, peering at you like a predator through those midnight eyes. you'd never felt like prey before as a beta. his short, choppy, blonde hair was messy and arousing but less entertaining as your eyes trailed down his plump pecs and solid biceps. his tummy and champagne happy trail protruded slightly and the moist bedsheets were bunched at his abdomen, hardly covering his unrelenting erection.
"you’re being dramatic… you’re not into me like that anyway-" never have you been so flustered and visibly pathetic in your life. you tried to reason with yourself aloud on his behalf when he cut you off. "i am. have been for a long time. can you ‘least sit on my face?… please.. i need this.. you…” he let out a whiny please and fluttered his pretty eyelashes at you…
a/n: okayyyy... i think thats fine... depending on the reaction i get from this i might post the smut
edit: I POSTED THE SMUT!!! it’s half the size and very short but i hope you still love me…
Okay now in a turn of events, imagine a Kyle who is just totally unaware of how pretty he is, while the rest of the 141 and you are just constantly thirsting.
He’s generally regarded as the prettiest of the group, not to say the rest of you are bad on the eyes either, but Kyle could have definitely pursued modeling if he wanted to.
It’s because of this that the other people on base, anyone you work with, or hell, even randos in bars are far too intimidated by him to ever approach. Which…the rest of you are rather fond of because, in your minds, he’s your Kyle. No people trying to take him away is all the better.
However, this—unbeknownst to you all—contributes to Kyle’s incredibly skewed world view that he is somehow hideous.
In his mind, no one has ever approached him, and everyone just assumes he knows how beautiful he is so why would they need to say it out loud?
This, of course, makes no sense and does not register to the rest of you, because your daily dialogue practically revolves around complementing him to each other.
“God look at his thighs in those pants…” your sitting next to Simon in the mess, waiting for the rest of your crew to make it through the line. You aren’t complaining, though, because you have a great view of Kyle from here. Particularly the way his thigh muscles are straining against his paints and holsters.
“Heard he accidentally shrank ‘em in the dryer. Better for it I say.” Simon adds between mouthfuls.
“Maybe we should shrink all his clothes.” You look at Simon conspiratorially.
There’s a beat where you both ponder.
“Crop top.” You say simultaneously, and then nod together in understanding.
Simon and you were the first two to talk about it together, but you figured Soap might be amenable to the discussion too--what, with the way he looks at him after finishing a particularly hard training session.
He's leaning against the wall, guzzling water, but his gaze stays trained on Kyle and the way his shirt now hangs around his neck to let his skin breathe. It gives the rest of you a perfect look at his sculpted muscles dripping with sweat.
You lean against the wall next to him and he shoves the bottle in your direction without removing his eyes from Kyle. You take his offer and squirt some water in your mouth, back of your hand coming up to wipe the bit dripping down your chin.
"Good view, huh?" You open. Might as well.
He chuckles, "Fockin' understatement of the century, that."
You nudge his shoulder teasingly, "It's a wonder we get anything done with him around."
Soap laughs full-heartedly, "Cap'n can barely contain himself."
This draws your attention, you had thought Price was maybe the only one of you immune to Kyle, even if purely because of his role. "Really?"
Soap finally looks at you, shocked expression visible, "Aye," he emphasizes, "He forgot he was suppose'ta speak in a meeting because he was too busy staring at our pretty boy."
Your eyes widen, eyebrows raising. "No. Way."
You are thrilled to learn your unbreakable captain is not so untouchable after all.
"Ohhh yeah...Captain Price is just as whipped as the rest of us."
You don't notice how the devil himself had pulled up to the water station beside you both until he speaks.
Price scoffs, "Why do you think I plan trainings this intense?"
You whip around, startled that he's been there for some undisclosed amount of time. "Captain!"
He side-eyes you, before also turning back to stare at Kyle. "At ease, sergeant."
You hesitate for a moment, his meaning from before finally finding you. "You...you design our training purely in order to get Kyle sweaty?" You're incredulous, but at the same time can understand your captain perfectly.
"...Pretty much." He doesn't deny it.
You stare for a moment. "Huh," you contemplate, "So you really are as effected as the rest of us."
"Oh yeah, I pop one whenever he enters a room."
"Captain!" You practically scream. You did not need to know that about him.
"What?" He shrugs like you're crazy for being shocked. "Like you lot are any better?"
You scan the room for Simon, who is still doing reps, but is staring at Kyle with what some might interpret as a death-glare. You know his murder eyes and horny eyes are barely distinguishable. Your eyes are glued to Kyle too. "...touché."
Of course Kyle's misunderstanding of his situation means that whenever any of you call him "pretty boy" or anything similar he thinks you're joking.
You'll see if he still thinks that when you finally make good on your locker room talk about him.
Your nose is buried in psychology books and notes when your pager goes off
‘PSYCH CONSULT, EMERGENCY DEPT’
You slide it back into your pocket and make your way to the elevators, pressing the down arrow to take you to the pitt.
As a psych floor nurse, you accompany the psychiatric team whenever there’s a consult, whether that's during it or finishing it up. When you’re not on the move to consults, you’re tending to the patients already on the psychiatric unit floor or studying for class.
You’re in the final year of your Master’s of Arts in Psychology. As much as you love nursing, you’ve always had a passion for wanting to help people in the realm of counseling. Between your nursing job and volunteer clinical hours, you’re almost to the finish line. Of course you wouldn’t have been able to do it all without the support of your husband Brendon and your Pitt family.
Speaking of Brendon, you hadn’t seen him all day. Not even in passing.
He must be slammed with surgeries and consults.
‘I’ll text him after this consult’ you think as the elevator doors open up to the emergency department.
“Mrs. Park, it’s so good to see your gorgeous face!”
You smile wide as you approach the nurses station.
“It’s always good to see you too Dana. Where’s this consult that I’ve been summoned to?”
She nods her head towards the left “Room 4. Your boss already swung by so, just need you to go over the paperwork with em, administer some meds and then we’ll get them sent up to you guys.”
You pat her arm as you walk away “Thanks D, you’re the best!”
Walking into Room 4 you pick up the chart.
“Good afternoon…” you glance down for a name “James. I’m nurse Park and I’ll be getting you ready to head upstairs in a little bit, okay?”
James nods his head with a calm neutral expression.
“Alright, so… I see you have some medicine you normally take. Unfortunately I don’t have them in pill form so I’ll just push the liquid version through the IV today.”
You take a syringe and pull from the first bottle of medicine that the chart lists he needs.
“It may sting at first but y–”
Your back is slightly turned to James so you don’t see him move. And you don't expect it when he wraps his arm around your neck, putting you in a chokehold.
The sudden movement makes you drop the syringe and immediately try to pull his arm away but he’s got a strong grip on you.
“J-Ja-ames. Pl-ea-see.” you struggle to speak
Struggling, you manage to pull him to the floor with you and throw him off balance. You both crash into the instrument table, causing a loud crash as its contents hit the floor.
James then releases you but only to hover over you, trying to choke you with both hands.
You both struggle against each other until you see arms wrap around him and he’s quickly pulled off of you.
Your adrenaline is still pumping, your heart racing as you close your eyes for a minute now that the immediate danger is gone.
“Hey kid, don’t close your eyes. Look at me Park!” a voice says while lightly tapping your cheek.
You look up and see Jack kneeling beside you.
“J-Jack?” you wheeze out, voice rough from the chokehold.
“Shhh kid, I gotcha.” he helps you sit up and gently examines your neck. “You’re gonna have a hell of a bruise. Want me to get Brend–”
“No. No, don’t do that.” you insist.
Jack looks at you with a raised eyebrow “Are you sure? You know he’ll be down here in a breath at the mere mention of you.”
You shake your head as you touch your throat.
“Gentle, Park” he warns as he grabs your hand lightly.
“Yeah, no. It's fine Jack. I’ll tell him later.”
He lets out a sigh “Okay kid. Let’s get you some ice and back up to psych.”
﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌
Before you know it you’re back on the psych floor studying again to hopefully make the last few hours of your shift pass faster.
Your neck and throat ache from the earlier altercation.
Only an hour passes before you hear the sound of shoes hitting the floor at what seems to be a jog. You already know who it is. It was only a matter of time.
Looks like Brendon found out.
You look up as his large frame appears in the doorway of the staff desk area as his chest heaves from how fast he was moving.
He silently looks over you from where he is and moves to kneel in front of your chair.
“Bren look, I–” your words are stopped short by him gently pushing your chin up and examining your already bruising neck.
He ever so carefully runs his fingers across the tender skin and places a gentle kiss right at your jawline.
After a few minutes of charged silence he speaks.
“Care to tell me why I had to find out from Abbot that my wife got choked out by a patient almost two hours ago and I wasn’t notified immediately?”
The words are direct but gentle in tone because as upset as he was with no one telling him and finding out that someone laid hands on you, he'd never raise his voice at you.
You cup his face as you lean your forehead against his as he stays kneeling.
“You were working, baby. And I'm okay. Psych is always a bit more risky with patients.”
He huffs and grabs your waist gently pulling you and the rolling chair a little closer.
“I’m never too busy for you, sweetheart. You and everyone in this building know that. If something is happening with you, good or bad, I want to know. I want someone to bother me when it's about you. Work can wait.”
Oh this man.
Your heart swoons at his words.
“I love you, Bren” you kiss him briefly “so damn much.”
He pecks your lips with a smile “Love you more.”
“I’m about to head out in a few minutes," he says as he stands up "What do you want for dinner? I’ll go home and make it and then come pick you up in a few hours when your shift is done.”
“Bren, that’s too much.” you groan dramatically.
He scoffs with a smile, shaking his head.
“Text me what you want in the next ten minutes so I can stop by the store on my way home. See you in a bit, sweetheart.” he winks.
“Bye Bren” you say before blowing him a kiss.
He catches it and holds it to his heart with a smirk as he backs out of the room, leaving you alone.
You shake your head in amusement as you turn back to your textbook
I feel like ghost is the type of guy you need to sneak supplements into his food to get him to take them. Kinda like disguising meds as a treat for dogs.
Quite literally the only thing keeping ghost out of medical were the sandwiches you'd make him Tuesday and Thursday.
An Italian sub, loaded with freshly toasted cheese and meats. In between the lettuce, little vitamins and supplements. Without fail, ghost is too busy scarfing down his food without much chewing to notice the pills you added.
Until he starts leaving bits on the plate, telling you he already ate earlier. For once, you're glad that ghost is actually listening to his body instead of forcing himself to overeat.
Peter’s hips snapped forward in a steady, deep rhythm, the wet sound of skin meeting skin filling the quiet bedroom. His forehead rested against yours, brown eyes half-lidded and dark with need. Every thrust dragged a soft, broken sound out of him.
“Fuck—you feel so good,” he breathed. “I’m close. Really close.”
You wrapped your legs tighter around his waist, nails digging lightly into his shoulders. “Me too… hah don’t stop. Just—ah—keep going like that.”
He groaned, pace stuttering. “Gonna come. I’ll pull out, I swear—”
“Mmm—okay,” you managed between breaths.
He nodded frantically, starting to ease back. “I got it, I got it—”
The change hit mid-motion.
Peter’s entire body locked. A low, guttural sound tore out of him that didn’t sound entirely human. His muscles flexed hard under your hands, denser and tighter than usual, like every fiber had suddenly drawn taut with unnatural strength.
His eyes flooded pure black from edge to edge, reflective and hungry, pupils vanishing completely. Fangs pressed faintly against the inside of his lip. The new spider mutation—stronger, more instinct-driven—took complete control without changing his shape.
He didn’t pull out.
Instead he slammed forward to the hilt and stayed buried deep, grinding hard as he came with a harsh, animal growl. Thick pulses of heat flooded you, over and over, no hesitation at all.
“Peter—!” you gasped, eyes wide. “Wait, you’re still—oh my godd”
One hand shot up, not rough but firm, cradling your jaw and gently parting your lips with his thumb. He leaned in and spit a slow, warm strand of saliva straight onto your tongue, watching it land with those pitch black eyes.
Then he kissed you messily—open-mouthed, wet, tasting you and himself, tongue sweeping deep while his hips kept twitching through the last of his orgasm. The kiss was frantic and claiming for several long seconds, then softened into something almost sweet, like the human part of him was still trying to be gentle even while the mutation ruled.
You made a small, startled sound against his mouth, hands flying up to grip his wrists. “Peter… Peter, what’s happening? Your eyes—”
The mutation receded as suddenly as it had come.
The extra tension drained from his limbs. His eyes cleared back to that familiar dark brown, blinking rapidly. Peter froze, still buried inside you, still kissing you.
He pulled back just enough to look at your face, pupils blown wide with pure confusion. Then his gaze dropped between your bodies.
He stayed buried for a second longer, watching with dazed intensity as he finally eased back the slightest bit. A thick, pearly strand of his cum immediately welled up around his cock and began to drip out of you in a slow, heavy trail, sliding down to the sheets. Another pulse followed, warmer and messier, coating him as he stared. His breath hitched hard.
“Oh my god…” he whispered, voice cracking. He didn’t yank away; he stayed carefully still, eyes locked on the steady drip of white leaking from you around him. “I—fuck, look at that… it’s everywhere. I came so deep and it’s just… pouring out.”
His cheeks flushed dark with a mix of horror and residual heat. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t— I was gonna pull out, I swear I was. Something just… took over. It—fuck, I’m so sorry. Are you okay? Did I hurt you? Please tell me you’re okay.”
You stared up at him, still catching your breath, heart racing from both the intensity and the sudden shift. Your voice came out soft but steady. “Hey… hey, look at me. I’m okay. You didn’t hurt me.”
“…But I came inside,” he whispered with a small pout coating his face, panic rising as another slow drip slid free and he tracked it with his eyes. “I just— I couldn’t stop. And the spit, the kissing like that— fuck, what the hell was that? There’s so much of it… it’s still coming out of you.”
He swallowed hard, gaze still fixed on the mess between you for a long moment. A new, flustered expression crossed his face. “And the worst part is… part of me liked it. Like, really liked seeing it. Filling you up. I think—god, this is so messed up—watching it drip out of you is doing something to my brain and I feel terrible about it.”
You reached up, cupping his face with both hands so he had to meet your eyes. “Baby. Breathe. I’m right here. It felt… intense. But I’m not scared of you. And hey… finding something out about yourself doesn’t make you a bad person.””
His lower lip trembled. “I love you. I’m so, so sorry. I’ll do whatever you need—morning-after stuff, anything. Just please don’t be mad.”
You brushed your thumbs over his cheekbones, voice gentle. “I’m not mad. Surprised? Yeah… but if anything that was really hot”
Peter let out a shaky breath and carefully lowered his forehead to yours again, still half-buried like he was afraid moving would make the mess worse. His eyes flicked down one more time, watching another thick trail of his release slip free. “I hate that it happened like that. I never want to take choices away from you.”
You slid one hand down to rest over his racing heart. “I know. And I trust you. We’ll figure the rest out together, okay? Just… stay close for a minute. Don’t pull away yet.”
He nodded against you, pressing a soft, apologetic kiss to the corner of your mouth, then another to your cheek. “Okay. I’m here. I’m so sorry… and thank you for not freaking out on me.”
You gave a tiny, breathless laugh, fingers carding through his damp hair. “We’ll talk about the mutation later. Right now just hold me. You’re still my Peter.”
He wrapped his arms around you carefully, burying his face in your neck with a quiet, relieved sound. “Always. I love you so much.”
“I love you too,” you whispered back, stroking the nape of his neck. “Even when your DNA decides to get dramatic mid-orgasm.”
That pulled a small, watery chuckle out of him, and he held you tighter—still apologetic, still a little shaken, but softening into the comfort of knowing you weren’t going anywhere.
dividers — @/pixopix
an — just saw the movie today and im going crazy just mmm i need him
♡ synopsis: you & robby agreed to a friends with benefits arrangement that included no strings attached, long-term plans, or an ounce of commitment from either of you. when the two month mark begins to near, robby brings things to an end with no argument from you. your lack of reaction & moving on immediately, however, causes an unfettered feeling of jealousy to rear its ugly head when he begins to want you back & all to himself.
♡ content: song fic, age-gap, jealous!robby, pining!jack, park is circling reader too, jesse flirts, unprotected p in v sex, creampie, spanking (sorta), reverse cowgirl, lotus flower position, dirty talk, robby has a praise & mommy kink
Settling your palm over the handle to the storm door, Robby speaks. "Before you go—"
You turn on your heel, and a pleasant ache radiates between your thighs which're taut with muscles you overexerted tonight from riding his ample, sweaty waist in bed. "Hm?" you respond with a quiet hum.
He scratches nervously at the back of his head. Dropping his gaze to mopped hardwood floors, Robby quickly crosses his arms. "We're nearing a couple months now with our arrangement."
"We are," you concur, curious as to the direction he's headed in.
Trailing your eyes along the generous swell of his stretch mark-laden belly—which you painted a slick trail along just a couple of hours ago with your fluttering cunt—you lick your lips at the sight and consider the prospect of sacrificing a few extra hours of sleep in exchange for another mind-bending orgasm.
Then again, Robby's been wanting to take things a bit slower the last few times you've been in bed together. A fact which is beginning to make you feel the least bit antsy for the favor of being fucked deep and hard into the mattress like he used to only a month ago.
Maybe it's too much on his back.
"And we agreed nothing long-term," he states.
Lifting your head, his brown eyes flit between yours.
"We did," you respond in agreement. Not that two months is really that to you, but you suppose everyone has their own metric by which they measure time by.
"Maybe tonight we, uh..." he sighs and scrubs a hand down his face; over the coarse brown and silver trimmings of his beard. "We quit while we're ahead."
You deflate. So much for another orgasm...
You're pretty sure you have fresh batteries in the junk drawer at home, though. A vibrator and Twitter porn will have to do just as well for tonight, you suppose.
"Alright!" you chirp with a gentle smile. "See you at work tomorrow, Robby."
Turning back to the door, you press the handle down with a swift click, leaving him standing alone at the threshold.
Watching as you toss your things into the passenger seat of your vehicle before climbing into the driver's side and peeling out of his driveway—some unfamiliar pop tune blaring from your radio as you rumble away—Robby finds himself at a loss for words.
When he pushes the front door closed, an unsatisfied feeling settles deep into his chest at just how well you took things. "Alright!"
That's it? That's all he gets?
No "Oh, are you sure?" Or "Did I do something wrong?" Not even a single tear shimmered in your fiery eyes in disappointment. Nope, just "Alright!"
Quietly grumbling to himself in discontentment, Robby pads back to the bedroom and slams the door shut before wrenching soiled sheets from the bed with a curse.
Where Robby would typically keep you close to his side like you're glued to it, he's instead kept you at arm's-length all day. Including when you were treating a case of anaphylactic shock together somewhere in the afternoon, during which he hardly glanced twice in your direction. It wasn't for a lack of wanting to, though—like a damn itch he needs to scratch—but Robby knows that if he does, it'll only lead to an open wound he won't have the first clue as to how to get closed again.
So as a distraction, he buries himself in work—as per his usual unhealthily avoidant coping mechanism—while the hours flit by and the sun begins to wane outside before finally dipping behind towering buildings, much like the hand of a clock, signaling that it's time to head home.
Your mouth waters at the scent of something meaty and delicious. "C'mon, Abbot," you whine. Hefting your backpack onto your shoulders, you turn to face him. "At least take it into the employee lounge so I'm not subjected to it."
Lips lined with silver stubble curve into a grin. "Maybe psychological torture was the point, kiddo."
Rolling your eyes sarcastically, you press your locker shut and study the logo on the side of the bag he's about to set inside his own. "Really? Applebee's? You know it's one of my favorites."
Swinging his head in your direction, he reaches into the oversized brown paper bag and produces a tempting container of Bavarian-style soft pretzels.
You take a step forward—your eyes now the size of saucers—and half think to reach greedily for it while chanting the mantra of gimme, gimme, gimme, but refrain.
Extending it toward you, Jack presses the to-go box to your chest. "Go on."
You keep your hands at your sides and swallow down pooling saliva. "No, I can't take your—"
"Got 'em for you," he explains. "Those," he grunts before diving deeper. "And this."
When a cheeseburger appears, you smile and squeal excitedly. "You're sure?"
He chuckles. "I am. Got myself a steak and a side of green beans. Figured you'd be starving by the time I got here."
Gently taking both containers, you clutch them to your chest with a grateful smile. "Thank you, Jack. You really didn't need to..." You throw a look over your shoulder—to your backpack which your wallet lies inside a zipped compartment of. "How much do I owe you?"
He blows a raspberry. "You know better than that. Just eat and enjoy."
Bounding onto your tiptoes, you press a quick kiss to his cheek before turning to head out. Sooner you get home, the sooner you can dig in.
Only once you're well out of sight does Robby round the corner of the wall he was previously hiding behind. "Dinner, huh?"
Closing his go bag securely away, Jack turns to Robby. "Just something quick and easy for her. It's only food, Mike."
Tucking his hands away into the soft pockets of his hoody, Robby shrugs. "No, it's fine. We're, uh..." he huffs a humorless laugh. "It's done. As of last night. Called things quits."
Jack raises a brow of surprise. Though, he can't really say he's shocked. He's been counting down the days, and this one came right on time.
He doesn't need to ask whose decision it was.
"She seemed okay to me. Didn't take it too hard, then?" he questions, folding his arms behind him—the paper bag knocking against his calves when he does so.
Robby nods with raised brows. "Yeah. No, she's been good today. Hasn't brought it up at all."
Somewhat to his chagrin...
Jack purses his lips and nods. "Good to hear."
And even better to know.
Slapping a hand over Robby's shoulder, Jack heads in the direction of the employee lounge so he can get to work on downing his own dinner before nightshift starts. "See you in the morning."
"Yeah," is Robby's simple one-word reply.
He frowns at the seemingly renewed pep in Abbot's step that's been missing since Robby took you into his bed.
He knew the vet was displeased when Robby made you his next person of interest—in terms of sexual partners—just two months ago, but he backed off and kept his distance out of respect, which the daytime attending appreciated. Now, however... It's dinner tonight and probably breakfast with a damn Tiffany necklace to accompany tomorrow.
Pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration, Robby considers venturing upstairs to see if Noelle is still around, but ultimately opts against it—refusing to acknowledge that it's because there's only one woman he wants coming home with him right now so he can get a straightforward physical release.
Whatever.
Time will do its thing like always, and he'll be onto the next one before long with you left far in the rearview.
Not that he's ever been much of a fan of the genre, but as Robby listens to the obnoxious sound of bombastic pop music drifting through your rolled-up car window, he grits his teeth.
Whatever happened to Heart, Pat Benatar, or Bonnie Tyler? Not this modern shit that sounds like a damn car accident. And first thing in the morning? Clearly no consideration for others and the prospect of giving them a damn splitting headache all before 7 o'clock. And of course you're singing along with a radiant smile.
Rolling his eyes toward the bruised purple sky, Robby groans a guttural growl of irritation before turning in the direction of the hospital on a booted heel.
"Morning, honey," Jack greets quietly, with a pleasant smile that causes his crow's feet to wrinkle charmingly around his eyes.
Gripping either end of your stethoscope, you turn to meet him. "Hey there."
When something crinkles behind him, your lips tilt into a smirk. "What might that be?"
He shrugs playfully. "Have no idea what you're talking about."
Leaning all your weight onto one foot, you attempt to glimpse whatever he's hiding by leaning heavily to the side, but your plans are foiled when he turns to shield it from your view.
"Oh, I definitely smell food again," you mumble before jumping in an attempt to round on him, but Jack's reflexes are faster when he presses his back to the lockers.
Throwing your head back in frustration, you moan and he chuckles in response. "You really want it?"
Dropping your chin, you bob your head. "Pleeease," you drawl while batting your lashes.
Jack removes one of his arms from behind his back and taps his cheek with an index finger, indicating the required payment. You sigh, but with a cheeky grin to accompany before you step forward and press a lingering kiss to weathered skin that smells sharply of minty aftershave.
A paper bag is then pressed to your belly which you don't waste a moment in tearing into.
"Breakfast burrito," Jack states as your hand wraps around the warm wrapper it's encased in.
Pulling it free, you get to work on peeling damp paper away from the provided meal. "Thank you," you say with quiet appreciation. "You really don't need to do things like this for me, though. I don't want you going out of your way, okay?"
He raises a shoulder. "I Doordashed something for myself a little bit ago. Thought why not, since I knew you were coming in."
Biting into scrambled egg and cheese, you chew thoughtfully for a moment. "This was sweet of you, Jack."
Reaching forward, he runs a calloused palm down your arm. "Don't mention it, kiddo." Clearing his throat, he slips his hands into the pockets of his cargo pants. "So, I heard that you and Ro—"
"Bring anything for your best friend?"
Jack clenches his jaw when Robby starts down the hall the two of you did have all to yourselves only a moment ago. "No. Sorry, brother. Tomorrow?"
Robby slides his arms around your shoulders, then tugs you back against his chest as you stare at Jack with wide eyes of confusion. "Gimme a bite, baby," Robby mutters.
"I got it for her," Jack deadpans displeasingly.
Robby snorts. "It's alright. We've shared way more than saliva."
Were Jack not already leaned against something solid, he'd be stumbling back in shocked response to his friend's distasteful candor. He's garnered quite the reputation around the hospital over the years, but has always remained anything but forthcoming when it comes to discussions of his female companions, even with him. So this is an unexpected change in character, to say the least.
Holding the burrito up above your shoulder while keeping your eyes on Jack with a regretful look painted across their irises, Robby dips his head and takes a hearty bite before leaning back and chewing. "'S good," he grunts before swallowing. "Thank you, sweetheart," he finishes with a peck atop your head. "Once you finish up, come find me. I want your help on this first case."
You nod. "Okay."
Robby's palm lingers against your hip momentarily before he reluctantly steps away, leaving you and Jack in each other's sole company again.
Stepping forward, Abbot crosses his arms defensively. "Did the two of you—"
You fervently shake your head before he can even finish that question. "No. Night before last he ended things. You're as taken aback as I am."
A frown tugs at his lips. "I thought it was just..." he swipes the heel of his palm awkwardly across his cheek. "Sex."
"It was," you confirm with a nod. "Just... Physical, carnal release." Your cheeks heat. "We both understood at the beginning and all the way through that it would never be anything more. I was happy with that arrangement."
"So you don't think he's having second thoughts? That that wasn't plain as day jealousy just now?"
You take another bite of your burrito, wanting to finish it before it gets cold. "I think he can have boundary issues... At times."
Jack bites back a laugh. "Oh, you think?"
You keep the story of him attempting to go through your locked phone one night when you accidentally fell asleep—instead of going straight home after the two of you got done fucking like you usually did—to yourself. Lucky for him, you'd been far too groggy and out of it to chew him out properly like you otherwise would've, had you been wide awake when it happened.
Or the night maybe a week and a half ago when he got all whiney when you demanded he either run out and pick up a box of condoms or have them delivered to the front door, otherwise you were going home.
He really tried his hand at making you out to be the one who was overreacting while you sat on the edge of the bed, repeatedly telling him go get them, go get them, go get them before he finally threw his hands up in a fit of curse words and stomped out of the bedroom and into the bathroom where—big surprise!—he just so happened to find a spare one in the medicine cabinet.
Whatever. It's in the past. The time for friends with benefits is over and you're onto other things. Or... Will be, anyway, when you have the time to figure something out.
Tinder is a rather unappetizing idea, but something about beggars and choosing...
You sigh. "I gotta get to work. But thank you for the food again. I really do appreciate it, Jack."
Cupping the back of your head, he presses an affectionate kiss to the bridge of your nose, earning him a bubbly giggle in response. "You're welcome, honey."
One night I was bored in bed
And stalked you on the internet
Stirring a crumbled granola bar into a cup of creamy yogurt, you swing your hips from side-to-side before licking the tip of the spoon clean.
It's feminine intuition
Park is just headed for the elevators when an attractive feminine form catches his attention from the corner of his eye. Turning back around, he plants himself in the threshold of the ED's employee lounge with crossed arms while an amused smirk crawls across thin lips.
'Cause I always had a vision of us standing like this
All pressed up in the bathroom line
Swallowing a bite of your stirred snack, you turn to the sink where a roll of paper towels rest, then promptly stumble back with a hand planted over your pounding heart when you see that you're being watched by a pair of unfamiliar eyes.
Yanking your headphones down to your neck, you set your food on the countertop and exhale a ragged breath. "God, you scared me."
A plucked brow merely twitches in response.
"Were you just... Standing there watching me?"
Leaning a muscular shoulder against the doorframe, Park trails his eyes from your tennis shoes that're adorned with floral blooms sprouting from the stitching to your pretty young face. "You always spend your breaks putting on performances like that?"
You blink dumbly. "I'm sorry, who are you?"
He snorts derisively, followed by extending a hand. "Dr. Brendon Park. Orthopedic surgeon," he states with emphasis.
"Uh huh," is your less than enthusiastic reply. "Y/N. Fourth year resident."
His grip is firm—bordering nearly on squeezing—but the contact is over just as soon as it began after one definitive shake is granted. "Might have to spend more time down here if the answer's yes."
Male chauvinist asshole.
You retrieve your yogurt again. "Nice to meet you."
Taking a step forward, you eye the narrowly allotted gap between him and the other side of the doorway, which isn't nearly enough room for you to squeeze through. When he turns, you eagerly step past—the crown of your shoulder brushing against his chest when you do so—before heading in the direction of the ambulance bay so you can finish eating in peace.
Brendon watches you go with eyes trained squarely on your ass.
If this were a cartoon, steam would be blowing from Robby's ears, but you'd never know it from the calm disposition he portrays when he greets the younger doctor. "Park."
He nods to your retreating form. "She single?"
An intrusive image of Brendon's head being shoved through one of the trauma bay's glass walls flits through Robby's mind unwelcomely. "Not sure," he lies. "Think she might've just gotten out of something, but I couldn't tell you a lot about it."
"Was it serious, do you know?" he inquires casually.
Robby grinds his teeth. "You know how the grapevine works—like playing a game of telephone, so take it with a grain of salt—but, yeah, I guess feelings were exchanged."
Even if they were apparently one-sided.
He hums in interest. "Don't always mind a chase. Seems like she might be worth one." Turning, he grants Robby a nod. "Thanks."
The senior attending keeps his mouth firmly shut, watching as Brendon finishes his walk to the elevators while thinking to himself that he has no idea what the hell he's asking for. A chase. He told himself the same damn thing only a couple months ago and look at the position it's put him in.
Once Park is out of sight, Robby goes after you—absolutely fucking fuming when he does.
"What was that about?" barks Robby, now advancing in your direction.
You only somewhat acknowledge him from the brick half-wall you're seated atop—otherwise occupied with mindlessly scrolling through social media while finishing your snack. "Huh?"
Crossing his arms in a humph, he levels you with a glare. "You could do with looking at me when I'm speaking to you."
Locking your mobile device, you lift your head and smile sweetly. "Sorry, Rob. What was what about?"
Somehow, the oblivious expression painted across your glowing features only serves to further light a fire under his ass. "The exchange between you and Park," he spits.
You shrug. "I was mixing up my yogurt. He was watching me."
He glowers from beneath heavy brows. "Watching you shake your ass for the whole of the ED to see, seemed to me."
Your sunny disposition is quickly overcast by a cover of dark, heavy clouds ready to break into a fit of lightening strikes if he keeps pressing the issue. "I didn't ask for an audience," you snip. "I was simply enjoying my music while taking a quick break."
He shakes his head, causing the chain of his gold necklace to glint against the overhead sun. "Well, going forward here at work you could try practicing a little self-respect. It'd go a long way."
Swinging your legs over the edge of the wall, you dig your nails into solid concrete. "Sounds to me like this is beginning to border on some sort of victim-blaming nonsense."
Robby chuckles incredulously. "Victim?" He leans forward onto the balls of his feet. "I'm sorry. Victim of what, exactly?"
"You, apparently," you scoff. "And whatever this conversation is turning into. Which, from your tone and the look on your face, seems to be an argument."
His hackles raise. "Is this you trying to get back at me because I cut things off?"
You choke back a laugh. "Excuse me?" you stare up at him with an open-mouthed smile, sure he can't be serious.
He sneers at your apparent inability to take the matter fucking serious. "Jack, then Park. Seems to me like you're making the rounds."
"First of all," you snap, causing Robby to take a small step back—he never did care for when you got a temper with him; typically preferring to fuck it out of you until you were a contentedly babbling mess coming around his cock with a smile. "I didn't even know who Park was until like two minutes ago when he introduced himself. And I can tell you with the utmost certainty—from that brief interaction alone—that he couldn't be any further from my type. Not that it's any of your business." Standing, you shove your phone into your pocket. "Secondly, Jack and I have always flirted. It's not exactly a well-kept secret."
He raises a brow. Bending at the knees to meet you at eye-level, Robby squints suspiciously. "You don't think that's the least bit cruel? Leading on a widower like that?"
You tuck your hands into your pockets to keep from slapping the smug look off his face. "We did it before you and I, and are clearly continuing the tradition after. It makes the day go by faster and the workday the least bit more bearable."
Which he should know, given the parade of women he's gone through around here.
Standing at full height again, Robby snorts in disbelief. "So it has nothing to do with the fact that he's my best friend?" he questions doubtfully.
You inhale a deep, calming breath. "As I just said, it's something we've done for years, Robby. Years." You quirk your head curiously to the side. "Is there something you'd like to say to me? Or can I enjoy the rest of my yogurt in peace and quiet—the whole reason I came out here to begin with?"
Hands planted firmly on his hips, Robby chews the inside of his cheek until the the metallic taste of blood pools on his tongue. With a roll of his eyes, he turns and heads back inside without another word.
Plopping back down, you scream quietly in the back of your throat before retrieving your now lukewarm snack. Frowning down at a honeybee who's now crawling across a melted chocolate chip, you shoo the creature away before tossing the cup into the trashcan behind you.
Steering clear of Robby for the remainder of your shift, you silently pray that tomorrow will be a brighter day.
Had you known he would behave this way, you never would've carried on with him in the first place. The last thing you want is for the ED to grow into a toxic workplace. Not that it's from a lack of you trying to keep the peace by being a normal, well-adjusted adult who's returned to treating Robby the way you always have—including when the two of you were screwing—but the fact seems to only be setting him off instead of putting him at-ease, as was your intention: that your work relationship remains unchanged, that is.
Absolutely beat by the end of the day, you manage to dip out early—just missing Abbot by ten minutes when he pulls in and you're already on your way home.
It pleases Robby, however, that the pair of you fail to have a chance to talk again tonight.
He wants a resident that he can dote on? He has plenty of them on nightshift. Hell, he can take any from dayshift that he wants if it'll get him to back the hell off of you once more.
Given how tired Robby is this evening, it's for the best, lest he fly into a fit of rage again when he sees Abbot wink at or give you another to-go container.
Sure, it's only been a couple of days, but lack of the utter relief he found daily between your legs and in your mouth—as well as the loss of being able to curl himself around you afterward while talking your damn ear off as he vented endlessly about work as his head rested between your soft breasts and you played with his hair, or when you would straddle his back in just one of his t-shirts while kneading the knots from it—has put him on-edge.
His hand can do in a pinch, but... It isn't soft and warm like you, nor does it quietly whimper as he comes undone in its arms.
Robby thought he wanted—like he always does—to get himself out sooner rather than later, but for the first time, he's regretting it.
At least with Janey, he didn't have to see her every day after he broke things off and shattered not just her heart, but Jake's as well.
A fact he still feels guilty about.
And Noelle... Well, she works on another floor, so contact between them is rare and fleeting. Maybe a nod in the hall or a quick "How are you?" is all he has to concern himself with every once in a blue moon.
But you? Everything that initially drew him in is now getting under his skin like a damn parasitic infection that he can't seem to rid himself of no matter how many measures he takes to do so.
Your easy-going nature and bubbly personality he found sweet. Perfect facets for a short-term fling. Your libido was a hell of a lot higher than his, but it only served to make him feel all the more desired. Now, however, with the rose-tinted glasses halfway removed, he sees that he wasn't quite as special as he first thought. He clearly could've been anyone, as it now turns out.
You just wanted something warm and hard to fill your... Needs.
He operates the way he does—dealing strictly in casual relationships—because it puts him in control. Of the coming and going, the how and why of when it ends... But this instance has thrown him fully off-kilter.
Because you just don't seem to care. In fact, in the ambulance bay, you were coming off as if it bothered you that he did.
Damn brat.
He has half a mind to pile on the work so high you can't even see the top. But that would surely earn him a one-way ticket to HR. Something he begrudgingly acknowledges he'd deserve for such assholish behavior.
With a sigh, he gathers his things, vowing to get his head screwed on straight before he blows his life to pieces all over a piece of ass.
He cringes on his way out for thinking of you like that.
Filing in alongside the afternoon rush, Noelle makes an appearance at the ED's hub, looking for none other than her past flame. She's well-aware that it's none of her concern, but if what she overheard upstairs a handful of days ago was indeed untrue, she'd like to have as much confirmed by the source before she goes correcting other people's ignorantly made statements.
Spotting the man in question standing tall at a computer cart, she heads in Robby's direction with quietly clicking heels.
"Heard from a little birdy that you've been seeing a resident." Crossing slender arms clad in a perfectly pressed suit jacket, she tilts her head to the side, sending silky black hair cascading over a shoulder. "Robby, please tell me that isn't true."
Keeping his eyes on the monitor in front of him, he snickers while the back of his neck warms. They've not spoken in weeks and this is what she presents him with as conversation material? "Alright, it isn't true."
She shakes her head with a disapproving look. "Really? Robby, I thought you were smarter than that."
Assuming a casual stance with hands tucked away into his pockets, he glances past her to where you sit charting but a handful of feet away. "It's not a big deal." Robby looks at Noelle again and shrugs. "It's over now anyway."
"May I ask whom?" she inquires politely.
He can't stop himself from looking at you again. Finally, you lift your head and he doesn't miss a beat. Sliding a hand down Noelle's arm, Robby barks an overly dramatic laugh. "You may, but I don't find myself obliged to answer."
When you greet him with a toothy smile, accompanied by two thumbs up and nod toward Noelle—as if you're encouraging him to make a fucking move—he drops the hand back down to his side with a feeling of defeat swelling up in his chest.
He'd like to carve it out with a scalpel.
Slowly turning her head out of curiosity, Noelle studies you with drawn brows. "Well, I suppose you don't have to now. She's certainly young enough." Returning her attentions to the chief of the ED, she folds her arms coolly behind her. "Are you aware that it's over?"
Now crossing his arms, Robby rocks back on his heels. "I'm sorry?"
Noelle grants him a knowing look. "You can hardly keep your eyes off of her."
Sarcastically rolling them, Robby locks the computer before heading to a patient room that lies behind where you presently sit. "S'cuse me."
Sighing to herself, Noelle debates momentarily before following behind. Stopping in front of the desk you occupy, she slides her forearms atop it and offers you her hand. "I don't think we've had the pleasure. Noelle Hastings."
Your mind whirring into a state of overdrive, you begin thinking of a way to be a good wingman for Robby, but after his actions from yesterday, you find him the least bit undeserving of such kind efforts. Wrapping your hand around hers, you give Noelle a firm shake. "Y/N," you quip with a happy smile.
Folding her manicured hands together, she leans forward. "I hope this doesn't come off as inappropriate... But out of a sense of morbid curiosity, I was wondering if you'd be opposed to sharing notes?"
"Notes?" you ask ignorantly.
"Well..." Noelle's lips tilt into a nearly imperceptible grin, like she's considering whether to go on with finishing her sentence. "Like his apparent inability to sleep without the TV on," she elaborates with a playfully scrunched nose. "Not that I experienced it but maybe twice since he's always so eager to usher you out the door once you're properly dressed. Heaven forbid he partake in a bit of pillow-talk," she says with a chuckle.
Eyes flitting to the room behind you, Noelle continues. "Sleeping with it on in the background was impossible for me." Her attentions return to you then. "He ever tell you why he does it? I mean, I have my theories, but..."
You slide now sweaty palms over the thighs of your scrub pants. Affable as you may be, gossip tends to make your stomach twist uncomfortably when it's presented. You don't enjoy lying, but she'll be none the wiser as to whether you're returning her honesty with the truth.
"I can't attest to it since I never stayed the night. Never could sleep in a bed that wasn't my own," you commentate with a laugh. "Vacations as a kid were a nightmare since hotels scared me."
The reality of it is, is that apart from the night with the phone incident, any other time you slept over was at Robby's behest. He'd stare up at you with these wide, pleading eyes while quietly whispering "please stay" as he clutched tenderly at your hand. Not wanting to hurt his feelings, you almost always agreed, despite it being against your mutually agreed to set of rules.
Once you were lain back in bed with the covers thrown over you, he'd scoop you into his arms and pull himself against the length of your body before burying his face between your breasts and closing his eyes.
Didn't take long after that for him to fall asleep.
She hums pensively. "Certainly is one for privacy, though, right? Couldn't believe how defensive he got the night I went looking in his medicine cabinet for a single bandage."
Is she positive you're both discussing the same man? From nearly week one Robby assured you that nothing was off-limits in his house. Hell, he actually encouraged you to make yourself at home during the handful of times you stopped by on the weekend for a quickie in-between running errands.
Never did take him up on such an offer, though. His space was his and yours was yours. Not that he ever came over.
Speaking of the medicine cabinet specifically, there had been an evening maybe three weeks ago when he told you to look in it while he was busy relieving himself in the toilet beside where you stood at the sink. When you popped it open, you weren't really sure what you were supposed to be looking for, until he nodded at a still packaged toothbrush. "Just incase," he'd remarked with a wink. "Figured you could put it next to mine in the cup there on the counter."
It didn't see much use in the end, though.
You don't know it, but Robby still hasn't tossed it.
Awkwardly clearing your throat, you swivel your mouse and the computer screen bleeds back to life. "I don't mean any offense, Noelle, because it's been nice talking to and meeting someone new, but I don't like to, um... Kiss and tell, for lack of a better term."
If Robby doesn't have as much respect for you, that's on him. You know your character.
"Oh." She leans back. "I'm sorry if I made you uncomfortable."
You wave your hands in a panic. "Oh, no, you didn't! I guess like anyone, Robby's a complicated man. I can agree on that account, at least."
She smiles. "That he is. Well," she says, now turning on her heel. "I'll let you get back to work then."
He was hurt initially when Noelle started in on disclosing his private behavior—worried it would lessen your opinion of him from wherever it currently stands at—but when you lied in order to shield him and the affection he tried to shower you with... It warmed his heart.
Robby had thought more of her than that. That she was more mature; seasoned when it came to concealing the details of an ex's private life like any middle-aged individual.
He was wrong.
Peeking at you from behind a patterned curtain, Robby's lips tug into a faint smile, appreciative of your discretion. And he hopes...protectiveness over what you had.
Admiring the swell of your backside and the outline of a pair of floral panties from where you're bent over trying to retrieve the Sharpie you dropped, Jesse stretches a rubber band between both of his index fingers before firing.
"Ow!" Clapping a hand over your ass cheek, you about-face and scowl at your offender. "You're such a pain in my ass, Jesse."
He grins. "Literally this time."
Were his glasses not resting on the bridge of his nose, Robby wouldn't have believed his eyes just now. So now it's not just one, or two, but three men that're vying for your fucking attention? Who's next, then? Shen? Mateo? Might as well just form a damn line at this point!
Crumpling a sheet of paper into a ball, you toss it at his head, but sorely miss when he rounds the end of the nurse's station with his head thrown back in a mocking laugh. You're just considering rifling through his desk drawer to steal a snack or a hard to obtain stationary item when your eyes meet with Robby's steely gaze.
With his lips drawn into a taught line and his nostrils flared, you shrink into yourself, like a child ashamed that she got caught with her hand in the cookie jar.
He shakes his head in disapproval before returning to the tablet propped up against his bent knee.
Throwing yourself down into a cushioned rolling chair, you switch on a computer to finish up your end of the day charting—far too aware of his nearby presence. Such a party-pooper.
Hopping onto your bed, you position the head of your plastic hairbrush above your mouth and belt the lyrics You're looking like an angel on the walls of Versailles as Olivia Rodrigo blares from the bluetooth speaker in the living room.
The most alive I've ever been, you cry while swinging your hips from one side to other, but kiss me and I might drop dead!
Falling onto the mattress, you bounce, then hang your head off the foot of it while kicking your legs excitedly in the air. Pisces and a Gemini, but I think we might go really nice together!
Robby can't sleep. No matter how much he tosses and turns, nor how many times he fluffs the pillow he's holding close to his chest which still smells of you—he'll do laundry this weekend, dammit; he has too much on his plate already to be worried about fucking sheets—rest refuses to find him.
Rolling onto his back, Robby stares up at a dark, lofty ceiling while stewing in anger aimed at none other than himself.
He wants to blame you—has tried to the last few days—but the fault lies solely with him as to his predicament of perpetual bachelorhood. Can he really blame any of the others for being so taken with you? He has been since you were but a doe-eyed med student, so he obviously understands the crushes they're all harboring, even if he wishes otherwise.
Maybe he's kidding himself by thinking the two of you ever had a chance at anything more, had he not broken things off.
When he presented you with the idea of quick, easy sex, you leapt at the opportunity, and it almost unsettled him how easily you went along with the typical set of rules he always keeps in place, so as to retain a healthy amount of metaphorical distance between himself and whoever his chosen sexual partner for the next month or two is.
Perhaps part of him had been secretly hoping you'd object—would complain about how you wanted to snuggle on the couch, hold hands while walking into work, and go on cute little dates to local diners. Instead, it seems he had finally met his match in the detachment department.
You were actually worse than him about it.
Robby wondered at one time if that was what made him pine for your attention before long: because you were trying to play hard to get, which only spurred him on all the more. But no, it's just your personality, apparently.
Makes for good doctoring, at least.
You're not entirely mercurial and free-flowing, though. Anytime he asked you to stay... You would. That was what made him fall, he thinks: the nights he spent curled around you, safe in your arms while he rested peacefully against your breast.
Before you, every night was an hour long battle—if not longer—in terms of getting to sleep. But with you? The sound of your softly thumping heart always sent him dozing off after only a matter of minutes.
He slept like a damn baby where you were concerned.
And there was the way you'd play with his hair when his head would be resting in your lap after a long day as he read aloud to you, or the stupid trivia gameshows the two of you would watch in bed, debating the answers to ridiculous questions before a buzzer proved you both wrong.
Being in your company was just...easy. It didn't give him anxiety about the future or instill him with fear of the unknown. For once, he was finally able to live in the moment.
And no, he didn't require the TV to be on while he slept next to you because being wrapped in your arms equaled a quiet head. You're quite the contradiction yourself, speaking of. A free spirit with a nurturing side.
Sighing, Robby yanks his phone off the nightstand and dials.
He lets it ring damn near a dozen times before finally ending the call—his head now swimming with visions of Park pounding away inside of you, or Jesse fondling your ass while your own intimate escapades become long forgotten as he's replaced with another younger model.
Blinking wet lashes, Robby sets his jaw and sniffles quietly. He supposes this is what he deserves: a taste of his own medicine for once.
Was only a matter of time before karma came knocking.
With the shower now heating up in the bathroom, you plunk down in the middle of your bed and begin scrolling through unread notifications. When you see a missed called from Robby, your heart lurches.
Uh oh, is something happening at the hospital? He didn't leave a message, so hopefully not.
Best call him back, though, to make sure.
"Hey!" you beam when he promptly answers "Sorry I missed your call earlier, I didn't hear it. What's up?"
Your shirt is eschewed and hanging off of one shoulder, your skin is covered in a thin sheen of sweat, and your chest is rapidly rising and falling in a clear effort to catch your breath.
Not to mention the mess of bedding found just behind you.
Is that a damn shower he hears running in the background?
Robby's ears perk up at the sound of a man's voice coming from a room away which immediately sets his blood to fucking boiling.
Turning to the side with an arched brow, your face screws into an expression of confusion.
What? Your little one-night stand already crying for you from the other room?
"Nothing," Robby hisses while you're still turned away. "It was an accident."
Staring at your mussed reflection on a now dark screen, you sigh then toss the device aside before pushing off the bed and padding into the bathroom to change whatever God-awful dad rock has come onto Spotify.
Whatever was the cause for Robby's attitude isn't your problem right now. Or ever, really. Your apartment is finally nice and clean, as are you about to be before long, and there's leftover Chinese food in the fridge.
For once, everything feels peaceful again.
Removing your sweat-stained t-shirt, you toss it into the laundry hamper before stepping beneath a cascade of steaming water.
"Good morning," you say warmly while greeting Robby with a sunny disposition.
He only hums in response, choosing to keep his eyes trained on the inside of his locker rather than bidding you the same pleasantry.
Wrapping your stethoscope around your neck, you pluck a ballpoint pen from the middle shelf and tuck it into your pocket.
"Looked like you got quite the workout last night," Robby grumbles quietly.
Clicking your locker shut, you chuckle. "Oh, yeah, the best cardio," you reply sardonically—deciding not to mention how you started squealing when a sticky cobweb got stuck to your face. "I'm gonna go check the board. Let me know if you need any help today!"
Watching as you walk away, it's all Robby can do not to flip the bird at the back of your head. How can you be so cocky about it? It isn't normal for someone to be this happy all the time.
Are you on something?
He never got that impression before, but supposes it makes sense.
Perhaps he should take a peek in your chart. Finding out that Langdon was hooked on benzos was bad enough. To discover that you had to get high in order to lie beneath him... He doesn't know whether he could tolerate the knowledge.
Not even lunch from a nearby sandwich shop managed to improve Robby's mood. He can't keep on with this headspace. It's not fair to you, the staff of the ED, or any patients who he could potentially end up taking his frustrations out on when someone inevitably refuses to listen to sage medical advice.
A glass door slides shut behind Robby, casting the exam room you're wrapping things up in in silence. "Can I at least ask who?" he asks gently, not wanting to intrude if he's not welcome to.
He understands that he isn't entitled to anything here, including answers if you choose not to give them. Your affairs are your affairs and they have nothing to do with him.
It's not right him acting otherwise.
It'll only lead to you feeling uneasy around him and that's the last thing he would ever want.
Your education comes first.
Glancing to him, you cup your hand beneath a sanitizer dispenser. "Who what?"
He studies you from beneath long lashes. "Last night. Who you were with when you called me back."
Uh... Why does he think there was someone in your apartment with you?
Wait.
Did he see something on camera? A chill crawls up your back. "I was alone. Why do you think otherwise?" you ask hesitantly.
His brows furrow. "I heard the shower. And another man's voice. C'mon, sweetheart, I might be old, but I'm not stupid. Not to mention the—the state you were in."
Rubbing the sanitizer into both your palms and along the backs of your hands, you take a step forward. "I was warming it up. I'd just gotten done cleaning my apartment right before you called. Well... I cleaned my apartment, then sort of ran around singing pop music and putting on my own personal concert with a hairbrush," you admit sheepishly. "As for the voice, it was some awful rock station Spotify picked out. God knows why."
He takes it back. He's both old and stupid.
"You were alone."
"Just me and Olivia Rodrigo," you confirm with a nod.
He raises a brow, to which you bat a hand in response. "Singer."
"Ah," Robby replies with a nod.
Submerging your hands in your shirt pockets, you cock your head to the side. "Why do you ask?"
Moment of truth.
Robby sighs. "I was jealous. I have been this whole week and I've been making you pay for it." He presses his lips into a thin smile. "I'm sorry."
You give him a once-over with a scrutinizing gaze. "So, are things going to return to normal now?" You lean your hip against the exam table. "Or are you going to pout when Abbot gives me a piece of gum?"
Robby considers for a moment while watching the hustle and bustle of the ED on the other side of the door. "Maybe I made a mistake."
Your brows knit closely together. "What do you mean?"
Studying the laces of his boots, he shrugs with a dismissive shake of his head. "Calling it off. Letting you go. Not asking for more." He lifts his chin. "All the above."
"Are you saying you want to continue hooking up?" You question with a cocked head.
You don't know how keen you are on that idea with how tiresome he's been the last handful of days—it'd be akin to rewarding bad behavior without an ounce of consequences being paid for it—but a warm body is admittedly a considerable improvement over a silicone toy.
Running a hand through his hair and down the back of his neck, Robby digs his fingertips into freckled skin. "No. I mean..." he sucks his teeth. "I'd want sexual intimacy, yes, but more than that. I want us to be together."
The last sentence was spoken so quickly and quietly that it was barely an octave above a whisper. Nevertheless, you heard him.
"Like a relationship?" you inquire with crossed arms.
He nods.
You've had him in bed—inside of you—but not even then did he looks so soft and small and vulnerable. Almost boyish with the way he's rocking back and forth from the balls of his feet to his heels. It's kind of cute, really.
So shy.
Coming to stand in front of him, you pull one of his hands toward you and wrap each of your own around it. "Okay."
Robby's head lifts so swiftly that something pops in the back of his neck. "Okay?" he repeats with a lilted tone of surprise.
"I have one rule, though. Or...an understanding, anyway, that needs to be agreed upon."
Cupping the side of your neck with a warm, heavy palm, Robby brushes his thumb along the underside of your jaw. "I'm all ears, sweetheart."
"You get one shot at this," you state point-blank. "And I don't mean we're not allowed to argue or have disagreements or lose our tempers on occasion. That's bound to happen; it's a normal part of any relationship. What I do mean is that if your commitment issues manifest a few weeks or months from now and you start thinking about running, that's it. I won't allow you to treat my life like a revolving door."
As if plenty of others aren't trying to pass through it, he muses. Sliding his palm down to the crown of your shoulder, he gives it a gentle squeeze. "So just like that you're mine?"
You nod and your stethoscope nearly slips off of you with the motion. "Yes."
His lips tug into a displeased frown. "So... I ask you to start sleeping with me and you do. I call it quits and you couldn't seem to care less. I come back groveling, and you hardly bat an eye before telling me okay to being together. I'm sorry, sweetheart, but it's hard to take this seriously when you seem to just go along with wherever the wind blows you."
You can feel the vein in the middle of your forehead swelling up to size. "Did you expect me to get down on my hands and knees while begging you not to leave me? You said it was over and that was that. I'm not pleading with someone to stick around who has no interest in it. I think more of myself than that."
Not to mention that he's way too old to be playing these sorts of head games...
He'll never admit it, but the pride you seem to have in yourself he finds the least bit threatening to his ego. But it's also a turn-on, if he's being completely honest with himself. "Just hard to feel like an exception when it's coming off like I could be anybody. Abbot, Park, Jesse. What makes me different?"
From the way he runs the ED with an iron fist, you'd never think him so insecure.
It makes you wanna pinch his cheeks. Or slap one.
"Like I said about Park, I don't like him. Period. As for Jesse... Yes, we've joked around every now and again, but I honestly think of him more as a brother. Whether he shares that sentiment is his own business."
"And Jack?" Robby presses.
Removing his hand from where it's slid down your arm, you splay his fingers apart and lightly squeeze his fourth one. "He still wears his ring." Lifting your head, you gaze into Robby's eyes. "They didn't... Fall out of love or go through a nasty divorce. She died while he was still in love with her," you explain with the utmost care. "I can't ever hope to compete with that. His ring would serve as a constant reminder of what I have to try and live up to: impossible standards I could never even attempt to meet."
He nearly asks you what if Abbot stopped wearing it, but supposes it's a moot point. For right now, he does. End of story.
Craning his head down to meet you halfway, you tilt your own back and smile when his lips brushes against yours. "My girl," Robby murmurs before closing the breathy gap between you with a kiss.
"You like that?" you ask breathlessly. Lifting your hips, you slide down the considerable length of him and he utters a quiet curse.
Slapping a hand against your ass cheek, Robby watches with appreciation as the plump skin ripples like water before digging his fingers into the meat of your hips again. "Told you it feels better without a condom."
You roll your eyes, but with him seated behind you, he's unable to see it. "Don't really feel much of a difference myself, but—"
"Fuck, feels so much better on my end," Robby moans.
Straightening, you begin bouncing on it with a repeated wet plap, plap, plap while toying with your pebbled nipples.
"Turn around, sweetheart," he mutters; his hands sliding up your stomach and brushing along the underside of your soft breasts. "So I can look at you."
Lifting off his hard cock, Robby fists himself in his hand as you spin around. Guiding his swollen, leaking tip back between your slick, fluttering walls, he moans pleasurably when your cunt swallows his girthy length again until the shaft disappears entirely.
You love the way he stretches you open so deliciously.
Wrapping an arm around his shoulders, you cup the back of his head in your other palm before pulling his face between your sweaty breasts. "C'mere, baby," you coo affectionately.
His dick stirs and you snicker softly. Leaning his head back, you flick the tip of your tongue across his lips. "You gonna come inside me? Huh?"
Robby blinks wide eyes of pleasant surprise. "You'll let me?"
You grin. "I want you to," you reply with a faux pout. "I'm not getting off it until you do." Crushing your lips to his, your tongues tangle together in a battle for dominance.
Rapidly rocking your hips until a familiar bang, bang, bang of the headboard can be heard, you break away, then reposition your lips next to his ear. "You're such a good boy."
He shudders, so you drag the lobe of his ear gently between your teeth. "Come for me, baby. Come for mama."
Slapping a hand over your ass and squeezing hard enough to leave a bruised print, Robby bends his knees before hammering away between your pulsating walls. "O-oh fuck," he stammers. "I'm s-so fuckin'—"
"That's it," you sigh encouragingly. "Y-you're almost there. A little more."
Biting down on your shoulder, he chokes back a muffled growl. His whole body seizes while his cock twitches and spurts inside of you in-between long, deep, filling thrusts.
"Good boy," you gasp happily. "Oh my God, that's such a good boy."
Pressing your lips to the crown of his head, you ride out your high—flexing your walls around his emptying cock as your own orgasm ascends to its pique, leaving you a mess of babbling, praiseful words as you cling to Robby, tracing your tongue along his naked, salty skin while you do.
Gazing up at Robby from where your chin is resting against the back of a hand you've planted atop his hairy chest, you smile when he does.
He's been doing so for the last almost half an hour while tracing lazy circles along your naked hip. "That good, huh?" you ask with a laugh.
He rolls his head from side to side. "Just happy," he rumbles.
You press a damp kiss to his stubbled cheek before toying with his necklace. "Can I ask you something?"
He smirk morphs into a contended grin. "Anything."
"Not to bring another person into bed with us, but... Noelle and I spoke the other day. I don't know if you were aware."
Bending an arm behind his head, he nods. "I was. Heard most of it."
Eavesdropper...
"Why were you so different with her? Or... With me?"
It's been eating at you, truthfully.
He chews his lip for a moment in thought. "It's not that she did or didn't do something. I mean, I had nothing against her being around. She just... She didn't make me laugh. I felt like when I was with her—and maybe this was just me—that I couldn't step out of my role as chief, even when I was here in my own home. I struggled to let my guard down or relax. There was this need to be in serious "adult mode" 24/7." He tilts his head to the side. "There wasn't any vulnerability."
You lift a brow. "Thought you preferred that?"
He sighs and readjusts the pillow tucked against the crook of his neck. "Thought I did too. 'Til you came along."
You curl your fingers into the coarse hair smattered across his chest. "Is it because you think more highly of her than me? So you felt a need to impress by being—as you say—serious? That because I'm younger, I'm just the fun squeeze toy to keep around?"
Finally he finds a crack in your perfect sunshine façade. He rocks his head from side to side. "No. Was just a difference in personality. We all have various faces we wear. With different people, during different occasions... With her, I was Michael Robinavitch, chief attending of PTMC's ED. With you, I can just be me."
Not that he's wholly sure who that is most days now, but he hopes at your side, he can finally start to figure it out.
Cupping his cheek, you press a kiss to his lips. "I know exactly who you are."
A curious brow curves upwards.
"Sweet boy," you simper.
He huffs a laugh.
Turning onto his side, Robby pulls you flush against his weighty belly. "I'll be whatever you want me to be, sweetheart."
Twining your fingers in his hair, you nod and bring him in for a kiss.
summary ⌗ castiel trades the trench coat for hoodies and fuzzy socks, and discovers that being held might be one of the holiest things humanity ever invented.
pairing ⌗ castiel x reader ( gn )
wordcount ⌗ 722 genre ⌗ extreme fluff !!
warnings ⌗ cuddling, soft kisses, bunker domesticity, castiel being adorably touch-starved
notes ⌗ absolutely in love with this request!! #castieldeservessoftness 🥹🤧
⠀︶⠀⠀support me on ko-fi⠀ ݁⠀ 𓂂
castiel takes comfort very seriously.
that’s the first thing you learn after he starts staying in the bunker properly, not just appearing when the world’s ending or vanishing with that worried pinch between his brows. he stays. actually stays. his coat ends up on the back of a chair more often than on his body, his tie disappears into a drawer, and little by little, almost shyly, he lets himself be convinced of softer things.
hoodies, mostly.
he likes the blue one best because the sleeves cover half his hands, even though he insists that isn’t the reason. he likes sweatpants after exactly one suspicious hour of pretending they are “structurally confusing.” he likes fuzzy socks so much that dean catches him standing in the hallway one morning, sliding one foot slowly across the floor just to feel the texture, and has to leave before he laughs himself sick.
you don’t laugh.
well... not where cas can see.
tonight, he appears in your doorway wearing the blue hoodie, grey sweatpants, and the soft white socks you bought him because he kept staring at them in the store with the grave wonder of a man witnessing divine revelation in aisle four.
“may i come in?” he asks.
you lower your book. “cas, you live here.”
“yes,” he says. “but this is your room.”
your heart does that small, helpless fold it does around him. “come here.”
he doesn’t hesitate after that. he crawls onto the bed with more focus than grace, mattress dipping beneath his weight, and then he simply lowers himself on top of you. all of him. chest to chest, hips heavy over yours, arms sliding under your shoulders as he buries his face in the side of your neck and lets out a long, quiet breath.
you go still for one second, surprised by the sudden warmth of him, by how completely he gives himself over to the contact.
then your hands come up to his back. “comfortable?”
his answer’s muffled against your skin. “extremely.”
you laugh softly, fingers moving into his hair. “you’re crushing me a little.”
he lifts his head immediately, concerned. “should i move?”
“not yet.”
his expression softens so much it almost hurts to look at, and then he settles again, more carefully this time, cheek pressed near your collarbone. he’s heavy, warm, solid in a way that makes the whole room feel quieter.
the bunker hums around you, pipes ticking somewhere in the walls, but cas melts against you as if there’s nowhere else in creation he’d rather be.
after a while, he shifts. “i would like to try another position.”
you bite your lip. “another cuddle position?”
“yes,” he nods solemnly. “it is important to be thorough.”
so you let him be thorough.
he turns onto his side and pulls you against his chest, one arm around your waist, chin tucked over your shoulder. then he changes his mind and lies on his back, guiding you carefully until your head rests over his heart. then he wants your legs tangled together. then his forehead against yours. then your hand in his because, apparently that counts too.
between each adjustment, he kisses you. your temple. your cheek. the corner of your mouth when he misjudges and then looks so pleased with the accident that you kiss him properly. his lips are soft and slow, his hand cupping your jaw with that gentle seriousness he brings to everything he loves and doesn’t fully understand yet.
“you’re very affectionate tonight,” you whisper.
his thumb brushes your cheek. “i am happy.”
oh. as simple as that.
you blink at him, suddenly too full of something warm and breakable. “yeah?”
“yes.” his gaze moves over your face with quiet certainty. “i like being here. with you. in soft clothing.”
a laugh slips out of you, small and wet around the edges. “that’s very romantic.”
“i intended it to be.”
you kiss him again before he can look worried about getting it wrong, and he sighs into it, hand spreading over your back, socks brushing clumsily against your ankle beneath the blanket.
later, when he settles on top of you again, lighter this time, face tucked back into your neck, you hold him there and feel him smile against your skin. he stays that way until your breathing matches his.
@bitchinwallaby requested ⠀ ݁⠀ 𓂂 I crave for Castiel fluff, can you pretty please supply?I just want him to be happy and living in the bunker with reader. He should have comfortable clothes, right? No more stiff business wear. Just soft hoodies, comfy sweatpants, fuzzy socks. Mmmm. I want him to be a cuddle bug. He'll crawl on the bed and lay on top of reader with his whole weight, bury his face in their neck and just melt. Blissful. He'll move after a while, assume some other cuddle positions hehe, he wants to try them all. Soft touches for both him and the reader. And kisses, lots of kisses.
.⛥ ݁ ˖ writing guidelines ⌗ posting schedule ⌗ all works
Author's note: English isn't my first language. This is only my second fanfic, and I'm still figuring things out, so thank you for reading! Anyway... here's another trash fic. I'm writing these to kill some time and for the sake of my mental health, I guess. I would be glad to have some feedback!
Summary: Park is definitely not jealous. Absolutely not.
Enojy!
You and Brandon had been colleagues for almost three years.
The first time you met him, you couldn't stand him, he was arrogant, blunt, and somehow always looked like he hadn't smiled in years. You even joked to Dana that maybe he didn't have any teeth.
Somehow, though, the two of you had found your way to each other.
Three years later, you were inseparable at work. The person you vented to after a terrible shift. The one who always brought you coffee before morning rounds. The one who knew exactly when you needed a joke and when you needed silence.
Neither of you ever questioned it.
At least... you didn't.
Brandon certainly didn't.
She's just my co-worker.
Nothing more.
Nothing less.
That's what he kept telling himself every single day.
Because admitting anything else would've complicated everything.
Or so he thought.
―――――――――――――――――――――
Another day.
Another shift.
A new resident was starting today.
Nooo.
As you pushed open the door to your shared office, you found Brandon exactly where you expected him to be.
Already working.
And, as always, there was a cup of coffee waiting on your desk.
"You know," you said as you picked it up, "one day I'm actually going to beat you here."
"I'll believe it when I see it."
"How was your weekend?"
"Boring," you admitted. "I didn't do anything. I basically lived on my couch and watched TV."
Brandon looked up from the chart in front of him.
"Sounds nice."
"You?"
He sighed.
"What happened?"
"Three trauma patients came in after a car accident outside Pittsburgh yesterday. We spent more than half the day in the OR- "
Before he could continue, someone knocked on the office door.
"Come in," you called.
The door slowly opened.
A young man stepped inside, backpack slung over one shoulder.
He looked to be in his mid-twenties, tall, with dark hair, warm brown eyes, and the kind of awkward smile that usually belonged to nervous first-year residents.
"Uh... hi, I'm the new resident. I'm looking for Dr. Y/L/N?"
"That would be me."
You stood up from your chair and smiled, extending your hand.
"Nice to meet you."
His face immediately lit up.
"Oh, thank God. Lucky me."
You blinked.
"...Lucky you?"
"I've heard you're one of the nicest attendings here."
You laughed it off.
But behind you, Brandon remained completely silent. His eyes stayed on the chart in front of him. At least, that was what it looked like.
The resident adjusted the strap of his backpack.
"So... where should I leave my things?"
"You can leave them here for now," you said. "Next time, just use the lockers. Someone from the nursing staff will show you where they are."
"Perfect. Thank you."
He carefully placed his backpack beside your desk.
"Ready?" you asked.
"As I'll ever be."
You smiled.
"Come on. I'll show you around."
As the two of you walked out of the office together, Brandon didn't look up.
Not until the door clicked shut behind you.
Only then did he glance toward the empty doorway. For a brief second.
―――――――――――――――――――――
Over the following weeks, the new resident settled into the department surprisingly quickly.
He learned everyone's names within days, the nurses, the residents, even most of the paramedics. He asked questions without pretending to know everything, worked hard.
You couldn't deny it. He was good. Which also meant he spent most of his shifts following you around.
"You'll get used to the pace eventually," you said one afternoon as the two of you walked toward Trauma 2.
"I hope so," he laughed. "Right now, I'm just trying not to embarrass myself."
"You'll survive."
"I feel better knowing you're the one teaching me."
You smiled.
"I'll pretend I didn't hear that."
―――――――――――――――――――――
The two of you were called for a consult to a patient who had been brought in after a motorcycle accident.
The patient had suffered a fractured femur, but fortunately, there were no signs of major internal bleeding.
You were explaining the CT scans to the resident when the curtain suddenly moved.
Brandon stepped inside.
"What are you doing here?" you asked, surprised.
"They asked me to consult the case."
You frowned.
"Oh... I didn't know."
"It's fine."
He glanced briefly at the patient before looking back at you.
"I'll leave you to it."
Robby, who had been standing near the foot of the bed, raised an eyebrow.
That's... unlike him.
Brandon was usually the last person to give up a consult.
Before he could leave, the resident spoke.
"We can handle it together, can't we?"
Brandon stopped.
You smiled politely.
"Of course. The more opinions, the better."
The resident looked at you with a grin.
"You know... you're actually a really good teacher."
You let out a quiet laugh.
"Thanks."
"You know, I was kind of hoping you'd say yes to dinner, too."
Silence.
For a split second, both you and Brandon wore the exact same expression.
Completely caught off guard.
You blinked.
"Oh...wow."
"I'm sorry," the resident said quickly. "I didn't mean to make things awkward."
"No, no, it's okay."
You offered him an apologetic smile.
"I just don't think that's a good idea."
He nodded immediately.
"Right. Yeah... sorry."
"It's okay."
The conversation moved on.
But Brandon stayed unusually quiet for the rest of the consult.
After that, things should have returned to normal.
They didn't.
The resident accepted your answer without making things uncomfortable. He remained respectful, professional, and just as eager to learn as before.
Unfortunately for Brandon...
That somehow made everything worse.
"You always smile this much?" the resident asked one morning while helping you finish discharge paperwork.
"Only when patients aren't trying to kill me."
He laughed.
"That's good."
"Why?"
"I'd hate to miss it."
At the nurses' station, Brandon's pen stopped moving across the chart for just a second.
―――――――――――――――――――――
A few days later...
"I was wondering if maybe after today's shift- “
"She's busy."
The words came so quickly that even Brandon looked surprised he'd said them.
The resident blinked.
"Oh."
You slowly turned toward Brandon.
"...Am I?"
Without missing a beat, he replied,
"You are…now."
He simply picked up another chart and walked away.
You watched him leave before looking back at the resident.
"...I have absolutely no idea what that was."
―――――――――――――――――――――
The shift was finally over.
You slipped your bag over your shoulder before walking out of the office.
"Hey."
You turned around.
Brandon was standing a few feet behind you, car keys dangling from his fingers.
"Need a ride?"
You smiled.
"Thanks, but I'm good."
"You sure?"
"Yeah."
You adjusted the strap of your bag.
"I'm having dinner."
For the first time that day, Brandon froze.
"...With whom?"
"My mom.”
You couldn't help but laugh at the look on his face.
"I promised her we'd catch up after work."
He blinked once.
"Oh."
"See you tomorrow."
"Yeah... see you."
You walked away, disappearing down the hallway.
Brandon stood there for another moment, staring after you before letting out a quiet breath.
"Relax."
He turned around.
Dana was leaning against the nurses' station, arms crossed, clearly amused.
"You look like someone just told you the world's ending."
"What you're talking about."
She tilted her head.
"You practically interrogated her over dinner."
"I asked just one question."
"Mhm, yeah."
Dana pushed herself off the counter.
"You're impossible."
She started walking away before stopping beside him.
"Oh... and for the record?"
Brandon looked at her.
"You're jealous," she grinned.
"I'm not?"
She laughed.
"Whatever helps you sleep at night Shark."
Dana walked away, leaving Brandon standing there alone.
He looked down at the floor and realised he has a little problem.
pairing: peter parker x stark!thunderbolt!reader
summary: peter isn't prepared to take his clothes off for a meeting with the white widow, and he's much less prepared to meet his best friend for the very first time since fate tore them apart in a cruel twist of memory.
cw: angsty undertones, a little light flirting, tony stark mention
wc: 1k
a/n: mina writing and posting something in the same day? unheard of but i'll do it for the peter girls
From the changing room, Peter can hear someone new enter the bath, and he shuts his eyes tightly at the prospect of having even more company as he shimmies himself out of his suit. What comes instead of a strange voice though, is one that is too familiar — one that he hasn’t heard in years and makes his heart fall out of his chest.
“Yelena, I have a question about the timing of our mission tomorrow! Bucky says I shouldn't go out tonight, but John says that as long as I’m not too hungover, it shouldn’t matter.”
Peter swings the door open with the towel hanging around his waist, eager to see your face for the first time in so long. What are you wearing? Who are these friends you’re going out with tonight? Is Peter going to pass out at the sight of you? These thoughts circle his head so fast he doesn’t hear Yelena’s loud laugh at your question, or the way you insist for her to just tell you the time of the mission.
At the loud creak of the wooden door, both you and Yelena look over to him, and whilst Yelena lets out a loud laugh you feel yourself falter, blinking quickly at sight of the masked man in front of you. Peter feels his entire body go still, from the rigid muscles beneath his skin to the hairs that angrily stand above it.
“Are you seriously going to keep that thing on?” Yelena asks, and Peter tears his gaze from you, though not for long. It’s been forever since he’s seen you — a literal lifetime ago for him. You look exactly the same, just more mature. You’ve grown into your features and stand with the confidence of a woman, not an awkward teenager. And Peter - he knows the shirt you’re wearing, with the Stark Industries logo now peeling off the front from years of wear and tear.
Yelena follows Peter’s line of sight to look back at you with a quizzical expression. But you’re too busy staring at Peter to notice her stare. Your eyes scan down Peter’s muscular torso, noticing how developed his figure has become since you used to do rounds with him all those years ago. Even without his suit, you can see how much bigger his muscles have become, and the only thing that lets you place him is the mask covering his face, otherwise recognisable.
“It’s been a long time, Spider-Man.” You say, a casual smile on your face.
Peter nods quickly, forcing himself to swallow the lump in his throat before speaking so his voice doesn’t shake. “It has.”
“You know, we haven’t worked together since-” You shake your head, blinking slowly. “You left the Avengers so soon after my dad-”
“Yeah, so did you.” Peter mumbles, the goggles on his mask shrinking slightly when his face morphs with a sad expression. You nod, smiling sadly at him. “I’m back though. The new avengers, you know?” Peter nods, and the two of you stand in silence for a long moment, just acknowledging each other. As though the people you saved the world with on countless occasions aren’t gone. Or in your case, your family.
“So are either of you going to get in the bath, or are you going to leave?” Yelena asks. Peter nods, awkwardly removing the towel from around his waist and lowering himself into the hot water, giving you the dwindling chance to admire the muscles in his thighs, bulging against his tight briefs. You need to shake yourself out of this weird daze you’re in and remember why you’re even here in the first place. Peter stares at Yelena, unable to say anything while you’re standing right there.
His best friend.
Or at least, you used to be before Tony died, and the two of you could barely speak to each other without thinking of him. Before Dr. Strange’s spell tore you apart. Peter once believed you were the love of his life, before the world happened, before things got complicated.
Yelena slowly turns around to shoot you a pointed look — you’re interrupting her meeting. You shake your head. “No, I don’t have the time.” You secure your bag on your shoulder, taking a step backwards for emphasis. You unhook your headphones from the strap, ready to put them on.
“Uh, we should train together some time, Spider-Man. Or, you can train me — the muscles look great compared to the last time I’ve seen them.” Peter laughs shyly, nodding in thanks as you rush out of the room. When he turns his gaze towards Yelena again, she’s shooting him an incredulous look, as if searching for more context. “I didn’t know you guys were so close.” She says, squinting her eyes at him. Peter pushes his lower lip out, shaking his head. “We’re not, no. We were friends when we were both avengers.”
“And did she ever get to see you without that mask?”
Peter’s heart goes still for a beat longer than necessary. If only you knew that you had been his best friend. That the two of you would train and make jokes together, spending every second of your time together. When he wasn’t with you in the tower, you’d be with him at his Aunt May’s, baking cookies or sitting in the bottom bunk of his bed whilst doing something so ridiculous, you knew it couldn’t be done in the avenger’s tower. For example, build a lego tower.
But ultimately, no you don’t remember who he is, or what he looks like under his mask. So Peter shakes his head. But maybe he’ll take you up on that offer and see you soon.
A/N: if you would like NSFW headcanons for any other characters that I write for, please let me know.
Brendon has a huge foot fetish. He gives you foot massages, kisses your feet. Nibbles on them as he’s fucking you and they’re over his shoulders.
Brendon also has a heel kink. Sometimes he gets you to wear only them during sex.
Brendon loves period sex. He doesn’t care if it’s messy. Another reason why he’s known as Park the Shark.
Brendon loves being called Sir or even Dr in the bedroom.
Brendon loves to leave marks all over you. Somewhere only he can see but that he can admire until they fade.
Brendon is surprisingly gentle at after care. He will help you clean up, and then pull you to his chest, holding you close.
When Brendon arrives home after every shift, the first thing he wants to do is get his hands on you. He’s desperate. Like he’s been waiting to fuck you all day. And he has.
Brendon loves being in control. He will dominate, command, and control in the bedroom.
Brendon loves public sex. But he needs to keep you quiet. Hand over your mouth, fingers in your mouth. Or just give you his signature Shark glare that tells you if you are loud, you will be punished for it later.
Brendon is amazing with his mouth, he can make you cum multiple times with just his tongue.
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