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[chocourse]

hi!! this is my main masterlist, where you can find everything i did/do. i've been a lot of fandoms in the last few years. i've written a few things from time to time, but i haven't posted anything. i thought it was time to be selective and write some new fic too and share it here.

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[chocourse]

locked.

➶ leon scott kennedy x gn!reader ｡˚ °

-ˏ` ✎﹏ “I'm just saying, if you shut my mouth again, I'll bite you.”

If you have to hide in a closet from the Artist with your worst enemy, well... it raises a lot of problems. And the unresolved tension.

➴ genre: enemies to lovers, forced proximity, there was only one locker, in the dead by daylight universe

: ̗̀➛ warnings: mature content, a lot of cursing, some heavy kissing & lingering sexual tension, also david is bleeding

⌨ :: 3.4K words ♡ ︵ . .

⁀➷ @honeytwo was the one who checked the translation. thank you very much, xoxo! <3

⁀➷ a/n: i uploaded this oneshot to ao3 around halloween. i wanted to upload it here right away, but i didn't feel like editing the "cover" and creating a new masterlist. but now i did!

by the way, the fic itself is made around 2021, in my great leon and dbd brainrot. very nostalgic.

➳ mlist

"What's up? With you and Leon?"

Feng's question makes you raise your head. It's not just the subject that piques your interest, but the way her question comes in the form of a worried, tired sigh. She's usually this exhausted when the current killer has been chasing her for at least a minute and a half.

It surprises you so much that you almost let go of the generator’s wires, and that would be a fatal blunder. Instead, you grip them tighter so she can work undisturbed.

That question makes no sense. You think the answer is obvious. You and Leon Scott Kennedy, the cop who knows more than anyone, hate each other. He makes you impossibly annoyed when he gives you orders, commands and gets on your nerves.

“I'd rather see him on the hook than around me," you say, summing up your feelings about the man.

“Interesting…” 

You don't like her tone, so instead of concentrating to keep the wire from slipping out of your sweaty palm, you glare at Feng.

“What do you mean?" your voice is perhaps a little irritated, trembling slightly with focused tension.

“That's not what I saw. I mean, sometimes it does feel like you're at each other's throats, but other times it's the opposite.” 

You don't know what she's talking about when she says the other times are opposite. Yesterday, you refused to go to a generator with Leon when he took it too personally, and from two hundred yards away you shouted about each other's uselessness, unnecessary and totally unprofessional behavior. Of course, the murderer is not deaf, he took the opportunity to hang someone, so Leon got you both into trouble with his displeasure.

Before he did, he asked you whether you wanted him to let you off the hook or continue with his 15% generator. He even expected you to thank him afterwards.

But that's just the way he is. He can't see past his ego. So you turn to him with contempt in every situation and you don't understand what Feng is talking about. You find her weird waffling somewhat offensive.

“I, for one, want to jump at his throat as soon as I see him. Maybe I could do a better job than the killer.”

Feng shakes her head. You're watching out of the corner of your eye because you need to focus on the job. You can't mess up this generator now, chitchat or no chitchat.

“Okay. Tell me what you're getting at," you say impatiently.

"I don't think you hate each other one hundred percent," she tells you. "Mutually," she adds meaningfully, and you're so freaked out by this that not only do your words fail you, but you even wave your hand defensively, idiotically, as if you could dismiss this sinister, completely false idea.

In other words, you let go of the wire, the generator sparks the key and fires up loudly. You mishandled it, and in doing so, you let the killer have you gave away your location. Feng does not address you, nor does she turn towards you, simply, following emergency protocol, crouches in the grass and sneaks away from the scene until she is certain that the killer - whose identity is currently unknown - will not come here, or if they do, will leave. Shamefully, you follow. You hide behind a log and watch the scene from there.

Someone is coming, not from the front, but from the grass. It's David. He's wounded, clutching his side, which is bleeding quite badly. You try to pry off his fingers to see how bad the cut is, and he screams in despair, pulls away.

“We've got the Artist, and she didn't spare me,” he reports in great pain.

“Get me a bandage!” Feng gives the task to you, then takes David's arm supportively. “David, we'll get a safe distance from the generator. You have a tetanus shot, right?”

Feng is in charge, but listening to her isn't hard at all. You understand what she's doing, and you know she has the collective interest at heart. And she's logical. Unlike Leon's orders, which are given out of thin air to protect only one man: himself. That selfish bastard.

These are the thoughts you fire yourself up with to stop shaking with fear by the time you get to the hut. In their cellars, there is always a box to help survivors. It's not too far away, but you approach it stealthily just in case, listening for any noises. As you start down the creaking stairs, you worry for David and yourself: someone is already opening the box. You hear the squeak of the lock, and there can only be one of the four of you downstairs. You feel sick in the stomach with anticipation of the inevitable encounter.

You take the final steps. Two lockers are in front of you, and to your left is the room, four hooks bounded by a wooden wall, the perfect sacrificial site. From here it's harder to rescue the one who's been hooked, this room is riskier and more isolated than all the others. Beyond the hooks are a few more lockers, and in the corner is the box. 

And as you'd expect, Leon kneels in front of it. He's so busy, he doesn't even know you're here. If you were a killer, you could easily pick him up and have him fiddle around, the hooks are just a few steps away. Yeah, this careless jerk thinks he's in charge.

“Now I understand why we're so fucked with the generators.” You cross your arms, sizing him up. His hands are bandaged, his face is dirty, and he's never wearing something more practical than his police uniform. So pompous.

“If you're so worried, you could make one. Maybe it’d calm you down.” He looks up, frowns. He doesn't understand what you're doing here. It's really none of his business.

“The only thing that would calm me down was if you got your ass up and contributed to the unit. If there were four of us, we'd be done a lot sooner with less risk.”

“I get that you've got hero syndrome, but I don't need saving. I can take care of myself.”

“I can see that. At everyone's cost.”

It's like there's pain in his eyes, but you can't analyze it. Grimacing as he returns to his task, he hits the lock so hard it breaks. The understatement of opening the top is more like slamming it against the wall. You've either angered him or offended him, or both. He's a drama queen who doesn't take defeat well. You glance over his shoulder at the exposed bracket and sigh in relief. In the trunk are clothes, a flashlight, and, thankfully, a first aid kit.

The tension is suffocating, the silence could be cut. You have to speak.

“David's hurt. I'll take the med kit.” You're trying to sound less hostile, more objective. He might not give it to you because you've stabbed him in the soul. You would expect that from him. He nods unconvincingly, so you reach for the box's ear in a hurry before he changes his mind. He's picking out the flashlight.

You barely grip the med kit, crows flutter above, the sound of running filters down. Leon was too loud. There's no time to think of escape, no time to make plans. The man jumps up, pulls you into the nearest closet. In his fury, he is fortunately careful not to slam the door, but to close it gently. You let the box down beside you.

And you languish in the cramped space in the dark, with danger lurking. You don't feel like kicking him or arguing or mouthing off. You're scared. You hate the hooks down below. You've been down them once or twice. You don't like it, you don't want to go back. 

A shaky, deep groaning whimper rises up from inside you. Leon puts his palm over your mouth. You press yourself against the wall, trying to relax, to slow your breathing.

The Artist arrives. She walks around the room, squawking. 

You close your eyes. You imagine you're somewhere else. 

A door slams creakily open. You tense up, Leon's thighs tighten. You feel him take your hand, his fingers close around yours. He's shaking, but he's holding on better than you are. You don't pull your hand away, you let him hold it.

The killer walks a little more. Then she pauses, ponders her next move, and finally leaves.

The sound of your breathing will be the only source of sound besides the creaking of the hut. Leon takes his palm away from your face, deliberately, as if he's not sure it's time. You sigh, throwing your head against the side of the closet.

“I'm still of the opinion that we'd be better off if you helped with the generators.”

“You're making things bigger.” His words are stiff and reserved. There's no trace of the intimate hand holding you just had. If you had any tenderness towards him, he's lost it, as well as his sweaty hands.

“Isn't it big enough that we almost died because of your carelessness?”

“And you ignore your own mistakes.” You can't see his eyes, but yours are aflame. You don't understand this guy. You've got more important things to do than to let him piss you off. “I saved your life.”

“You were the one who put me in danger, asshole.” That would be your last word, you'd end the duel of stifled whispers, leave your hiding place, but Leon pushes your shoulders against the wall, his legs pressed against yours, hips clashing. Only now do you realize how close you really are, how little closet space there is. The atmosphere is still thick, yet somehow this is different. He's not finished, and your stomach clenches at the unpleasant ideas of what else he's going to throw at you.

“I need great fucking restraint and patience when I'm with you. But it's no use. You are incapable of cooperating with me,” he mumbles.

“Your enormous patience is like an ant's dick. I say two words to you and you're ready to attack.”

“Just like you,” he sighs. Clearly, he's had enough of you. The feeling is mutual, so you don't understand at all why he hasn't let you go yet. By the time he says what he wants, David is bleeding to death.

“I never claimed to have patience with you.”

“Will you please shut up and listen to me for once?" he growls belligerently, his fingers digging into your skin.

“I’m not your subordinate. I’m under no obligation to listen to you,” you mutter, and you have no thought of showing any less resistance in his direction. You wouldn’t be you if you listened to him.

“How can someone be this annoying?”

“Here, you don't even have to ask.” You shrug, but you can feel how much he's squeezing. “On the other hand, you could really get off of me. I'm busy. Maybe another time I'll tell you about the world of non-egocentric, non-narcissistic people, so you at least get the theory," you sputter with derision, your heart about to plunge into your esophagus and choke you.

“What can I do to shut you up?” He thinks out loud. 

“I'm just saying, if you shut my mouth again, I'll bite you.”

“Fuck.” Leon groans deeply, disgruntled, worried and angry. His palm hits the space next to your head, his lips crashing against yours.

Willingly and wearily he kisses you, really wanting you to be quiet. You moan in surprise at how well he kisses you, instead of punching him in the face.

Your mind is still churning out pithy retorts, but your body is acting as if it has been ready for this. You grab the back of the man's head, holding him close. You press your legs to his hips, your soles against the bottom of the other wall. Maybe you'll manage to pry the closet open the way this make-out session does your lungs.

You grip his hair, trying to push him away a little to catch your breath, to think clearly, but Leon sweetly whimpers and kisses you more passionately. You melt into his arm, his pleasant earthy scent mingling with sweat. You no longer want to think clearly. 

His tongue dances around yours, caressing you, and you enjoy it more than when he uses it to mess with you. You press so hard against each other that you know why his pants are so relentlessly tight. He bites your bottom lip gently, making you go limp. And you promised that if he shut your mouth, you'd bite him, not the other way around.

Your lust-fuelled, angry and excruciatingly sensual games end when you accidentally kick the first aid box. You cringe, the moment is gone, and you have no idea what happened. You stare ahead languidly, your lips tingling, feeling a bit dizzy.

Leon strokes your cheek. The rough material of the gauze bandage sneaks over your skin. He presses your forehead together, panting softly.

“Listen to me, please," he whispers, hopeful and soft. 

He speaks to you so softly that every part of you feels hot again. You nod, because after all this you need an explanation to go on with your life from the point you fell into this closet with the man. It's a stupid idea, but you trust that he has a reason for your reaction. For example, he wears a perfume so seductive that even the people who dislike him the most can't resist kissing him.

“I experienced hell a few months ago,” he starts.

“Did you meet me?”

“Hush.” He puts his finger on your lips, and it's so intimate you don't feel like biting. You want to lick it instead. You have no idea what's going on with you. It's Leon, and you hate him. You hate him. “Killers are smart. I have a great friend, Jill. Nemesis built his plan on our friendship. We almost got caught because we were both protecting each other at all costs. When I met the rest of the survivors, I couldn't let you get in trouble. I pushed you away right at the beginning, just in case something happened.”

You remember the first moments. Actually, you started to hate Leon because he had a cocky, arrogant and uncaring attitude towards everyone you cared about. You never thought that was a strategy, not the ultimate in rudeness.

“Then why did you kiss me?”

Your question makes what just happened very real. Because he did kiss you and you enjoyed it.

“Because I couldn't take it anymore. You know, it's hard to insult you when all I can think about is wanting to kiss you.”

Now you understand what Feng was talking about. Leon's longing gaze must have told her a lot about his true intentions. You're not sure about the mutuality, though. You've never said anything about Leon other than you hate him... But if you think about it, your body language may have conveyed something suspicious that you didn't realize. After all, you just threw yourself at him the first chance you got when his lips touched yours... How long have you had this desire lurking inside you if it's been triggered like this?

You don’t answer. You're confused, and while he caresses your cheek so tenderly, you're unable to say anything, or even just to open your mouth.

“I'm sorry if I've made you uncomfortable,” he apologizes, and fails to hide the disappointment in his voice.

“I think it's much easier to hate you than to love you," you sigh, throwing your head against the locker. That's all you can suddenly say.

“Is it also better?”

“Excuse me, but you hate me in my defense.”

“That doesn't answer the question.”

"I have no idea," you shrug. “I've never tried to love you. I haven't dared.”

“And would you try?" These are hopefully light words, almost falling out of the man's mouth. 

“When we’re alone like this? Keeping it a secret from everyone? Maybe.”

Okay, it's not maybe, but you need to be firm and reserved a little longer. He needs to believe that a mind-blowing kiss and a heartwarming confession like that didn't sweep you off your feet. After all, half an hour ago you were wishing for his hanging.

He's smiling. That's for sure. You're glad you can't see it, so he won't notice your face is red. At most, he can feel it. This time his mouth is roaming your face instead of his finger. You shudder when he touches your cheekbone because the love in his movements is sincere and caring. If only he had treated you like this from the beginning! He would have spared you some very high blood pressure numbers.

“We can't do that here…”

“No one can see us here. And I have to prove to you that it’s worth being with me.” He's mumbling onto the skin of your throat. You moan, when he kisses your neck eagerly. He grabs your hips. You pull him tightly to you by the small of his back, so eager to let him prove the truth of his words with lots and lots of kisses and touches.

But then you remember David’s wound, the box, Feng. You're on a mission now, and you can't be seduced, you can't collapse into Leon's muscular arms to be undressed and ignited into true love in this closet. You'd gladly give yourself to him, but not now, when your friends are counting on you. Plus, there's a killer on the loose.

“David” your gasp makes the name sound a little longing, so Leon stiffens, trails off slightly. You rest your palm on his chest, feel how it rises, how it sinks. “Bleeding. Med kit.” You try to let him know in small words that you're not fantasizing about another guy when he's kissing you with his soul, ready to give you all he has. You're trying to clear your head, because it's foggy and stunned. No one has ever fallen like that for you in a closet.

To be clear, once Hillbilly dragged you out, but he's not known to be a kisser.

“Okay," Leon nods, presses a final kiss to your lips, then pauses, his hand hesitantly on the doorknob, "but what about us?”

“I’ll think about it. "Your answer is fifty percent, but the cheerful kiss you quickly plant on his lips increases his chances by twenty percent.

He opens the door. There’s no proper lighting, just a few candles, but that also disturbs your eyes after the total darkness. You grab the first aid, and squint as you stumble out of the closet that’s guarding the memory of your kiss.

You dodge the hooks, climb the creaking stairs, and a set bird trap awaits you. If you step inside, the crows will attack, and are so loud that the Artist will find you immediately. You pass it cautiously.

You are soon back. Feng and David are almost where you left them, continuing the generator, only David is holding his side. It is a desperate action to repair the generator, it has to be done at all costs.

Your moves are not too blunt, Feng snaps her head up. They both look towards you, and suddenly you can't think of anything forceful to say to Leon, or grumble about his presence. Instead, you close your eyes, kneel beside them and open the box.

Feng and you work quietly to tend to David's wound.

You want to be remorseful, shameful, do everything you can to help him, but it's hard to concentrate on that when Leon is lurking not far away, and you're still spinning about how he kissed you. which you loved, and you were really selfish.

“I'm off to another generator," he announces, as if reading your jumbled thoughts.

“No need to announce it. No one here needs your company,” you throw the judgment at him mockingly.

Feng's eyebrows furrow, she snaps at you in a whisper. She didn't expect you to go at Leon again. Well, sorry, now you have to, just to keep up the pretense.

"I just want to clear the record," you shrug.

You lock eyes with Leon. A mischievous glance flickers in both of your eyes, because this is far from what it used to be. They don't know, but you do. It's exciting and new, but you can't wait to be alone with him again, locked in your honest feelings.

Your notes, comments and Leon thoughts are warmly welcomed! 💓

[tengens4thwifee]

This kinda ateee👀👀

[chocourse]

ooh, thank you!! 🤗

[chocourse]

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𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐃 𝐁𝐘 𝐃𝐀𝐘𝐋𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓

Leon S. Kennedy

⚘ locked. 🤎

“I'm just saying, if you shut my mouth again, I'll bite you.”

If you have to hide in a closet from the Artist with your worst enemy, well... it raises a lot of problems. And the unresolved tension. 《 3.4K 》

𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐈𝐃𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐄𝐕𝐈𝐋

Leon S. Kennedy

⚘ locked. 🤎

“I'm just saying, if you shut my mouth again, I'll bite you.”

If you have to hide in a closet from the Artist with your worst enemy, well... it raises a lot of problems. And the unresolved tension. 《 3.4K 》

[chocourse]

locked.

➶ leon scott kennedy x gn!reader ｡˚ °

-ˏ` ✎﹏ “I'm just saying, if you shut my mouth again, I'll bite you.”

If you have to hide in a closet from the Artist with your worst enemy, well... it raises a lot of problems. And the unresolved tension.

➴ genre: enemies to lovers, forced proximity, there was only one locker, in the dead by daylight universe

: ̗̀➛ warnings: mature content, a lot of cursing, some heavy kissing & lingering sexual tension, also david is bleeding

⌨ :: 3.4K words ♡ ︵ . .

⁀➷ @honeytwo was the one who checked the translation. thank you very much, xoxo! <3

⁀➷ a/n: i uploaded this oneshot to ao3 around halloween. i wanted to upload it here right away, but i didn't feel like editing the "cover" and creating a new masterlist. but now i did!

by the way, the fic itself is made around 2021, in my great leon and dbd brainrot. very nostalgic.

➳ mlist

"What's up? With you and Leon?"

Feng's question makes you raise your head. It's not just the subject that piques your interest, but the way her question comes in the form of a worried, tired sigh. She's usually this exhausted when the current killer has been chasing her for at least a minute and a half.

It surprises you so much that you almost let go of the generator’s wires, and that would be a fatal blunder. Instead, you grip them tighter so she can work undisturbed.

That question makes no sense. You think the answer is obvious. You and Leon Scott Kennedy, the cop who knows more than anyone, hate each other. He makes you impossibly annoyed when he gives you orders, commands and gets on your nerves.

“I'd rather see him on the hook than around me," you say, summing up your feelings about the man.

“Interesting…” 

You don't like her tone, so instead of concentrating to keep the wire from slipping out of your sweaty palm, you glare at Feng.

“What do you mean?" your voice is perhaps a little irritated, trembling slightly with focused tension.

“That's not what I saw. I mean, sometimes it does feel like you're at each other's throats, but other times it's the opposite.” 

You don't know what she's talking about when she says the other times are opposite. Yesterday, you refused to go to a generator with Leon when he took it too personally, and from two hundred yards away you shouted about each other's uselessness, unnecessary and totally unprofessional behavior. Of course, the murderer is not deaf, he took the opportunity to hang someone, so Leon got you both into trouble with his displeasure.

Before he did, he asked you whether you wanted him to let you off the hook or continue with his 15% generator. He even expected you to thank him afterwards.

But that's just the way he is. He can't see past his ego. So you turn to him with contempt in every situation and you don't understand what Feng is talking about. You find her weird waffling somewhat offensive.

“I, for one, want to jump at his throat as soon as I see him. Maybe I could do a better job than the killer.”

Feng shakes her head. You're watching out of the corner of your eye because you need to focus on the job. You can't mess up this generator now, chitchat or no chitchat.

“Okay. Tell me what you're getting at," you say impatiently.

"I don't think you hate each other one hundred percent," she tells you. "Mutually," she adds meaningfully, and you're so freaked out by this that not only do your words fail you, but you even wave your hand defensively, idiotically, as if you could dismiss this sinister, completely false idea.

In other words, you let go of the wire, the generator sparks the key and fires up loudly. You mishandled it, and in doing so, you let the killer have you gave away your location. Feng does not address you, nor does she turn towards you, simply, following emergency protocol, crouches in the grass and sneaks away from the scene until she is certain that the killer - whose identity is currently unknown - will not come here, or if they do, will leave. Shamefully, you follow. You hide behind a log and watch the scene from there.

Someone is coming, not from the front, but from the grass. It's David. He's wounded, clutching his side, which is bleeding quite badly. You try to pry off his fingers to see how bad the cut is, and he screams in despair, pulls away.

“We've got the Artist, and she didn't spare me,” he reports in great pain.

“Get me a bandage!” Feng gives the task to you, then takes David's arm supportively. “David, we'll get a safe distance from the generator. You have a tetanus shot, right?”

Feng is in charge, but listening to her isn't hard at all. You understand what she's doing, and you know she has the collective interest at heart. And she's logical. Unlike Leon's orders, which are given out of thin air to protect only one man: himself. That selfish bastard.

These are the thoughts you fire yourself up with to stop shaking with fear by the time you get to the hut. In their cellars, there is always a box to help survivors. It's not too far away, but you approach it stealthily just in case, listening for any noises. As you start down the creaking stairs, you worry for David and yourself: someone is already opening the box. You hear the squeak of the lock, and there can only be one of the four of you downstairs. You feel sick in the stomach with anticipation of the inevitable encounter.

You take the final steps. Two lockers are in front of you, and to your left is the room, four hooks bounded by a wooden wall, the perfect sacrificial site. From here it's harder to rescue the one who's been hooked, this room is riskier and more isolated than all the others. Beyond the hooks are a few more lockers, and in the corner is the box. 

And as you'd expect, Leon kneels in front of it. He's so busy, he doesn't even know you're here. If you were a killer, you could easily pick him up and have him fiddle around, the hooks are just a few steps away. Yeah, this careless jerk thinks he's in charge.

“Now I understand why we're so fucked with the generators.” You cross your arms, sizing him up. His hands are bandaged, his face is dirty, and he's never wearing something more practical than his police uniform. So pompous.

“If you're so worried, you could make one. Maybe it’d calm you down.” He looks up, frowns. He doesn't understand what you're doing here. It's really none of his business.

“The only thing that would calm me down was if you got your ass up and contributed to the unit. If there were four of us, we'd be done a lot sooner with less risk.”

“I get that you've got hero syndrome, but I don't need saving. I can take care of myself.”

“I can see that. At everyone's cost.”

It's like there's pain in his eyes, but you can't analyze it. Grimacing as he returns to his task, he hits the lock so hard it breaks. The understatement of opening the top is more like slamming it against the wall. You've either angered him or offended him, or both. He's a drama queen who doesn't take defeat well. You glance over his shoulder at the exposed bracket and sigh in relief. In the trunk are clothes, a flashlight, and, thankfully, a first aid kit.

The tension is suffocating, the silence could be cut. You have to speak.

“David's hurt. I'll take the med kit.” You're trying to sound less hostile, more objective. He might not give it to you because you've stabbed him in the soul. You would expect that from him. He nods unconvincingly, so you reach for the box's ear in a hurry before he changes his mind. He's picking out the flashlight.

You barely grip the med kit, crows flutter above, the sound of running filters down. Leon was too loud. There's no time to think of escape, no time to make plans. The man jumps up, pulls you into the nearest closet. In his fury, he is fortunately careful not to slam the door, but to close it gently. You let the box down beside you.

And you languish in the cramped space in the dark, with danger lurking. You don't feel like kicking him or arguing or mouthing off. You're scared. You hate the hooks down below. You've been down them once or twice. You don't like it, you don't want to go back. 

A shaky, deep groaning whimper rises up from inside you. Leon puts his palm over your mouth. You press yourself against the wall, trying to relax, to slow your breathing.

The Artist arrives. She walks around the room, squawking. 

You close your eyes. You imagine you're somewhere else. 

A door slams creakily open. You tense up, Leon's thighs tighten. You feel him take your hand, his fingers close around yours. He's shaking, but he's holding on better than you are. You don't pull your hand away, you let him hold it.

The killer walks a little more. Then she pauses, ponders her next move, and finally leaves.

The sound of your breathing will be the only source of sound besides the creaking of the hut. Leon takes his palm away from your face, deliberately, as if he's not sure it's time. You sigh, throwing your head against the side of the closet.

“I'm still of the opinion that we'd be better off if you helped with the generators.”

“You're making things bigger.” His words are stiff and reserved. There's no trace of the intimate hand holding you just had. If you had any tenderness towards him, he's lost it, as well as his sweaty hands.

“Isn't it big enough that we almost died because of your carelessness?”

“And you ignore your own mistakes.” You can't see his eyes, but yours are aflame. You don't understand this guy. You've got more important things to do than to let him piss you off. “I saved your life.”

“You were the one who put me in danger, asshole.” That would be your last word, you'd end the duel of stifled whispers, leave your hiding place, but Leon pushes your shoulders against the wall, his legs pressed against yours, hips clashing. Only now do you realize how close you really are, how little closet space there is. The atmosphere is still thick, yet somehow this is different. He's not finished, and your stomach clenches at the unpleasant ideas of what else he's going to throw at you.

“I need great fucking restraint and patience when I'm with you. But it's no use. You are incapable of cooperating with me,” he mumbles.

“Your enormous patience is like an ant's dick. I say two words to you and you're ready to attack.”

“Just like you,” he sighs. Clearly, he's had enough of you. The feeling is mutual, so you don't understand at all why he hasn't let you go yet. By the time he says what he wants, David is bleeding to death.

“I never claimed to have patience with you.”

“Will you please shut up and listen to me for once?" he growls belligerently, his fingers digging into your skin.

“I’m not your subordinate. I’m under no obligation to listen to you,” you mutter, and you have no thought of showing any less resistance in his direction. You wouldn’t be you if you listened to him.

“How can someone be this annoying?”

“Here, you don't even have to ask.” You shrug, but you can feel how much he's squeezing. “On the other hand, you could really get off of me. I'm busy. Maybe another time I'll tell you about the world of non-egocentric, non-narcissistic people, so you at least get the theory," you sputter with derision, your heart about to plunge into your esophagus and choke you.

“What can I do to shut you up?” He thinks out loud. 

“I'm just saying, if you shut my mouth again, I'll bite you.”

“Fuck.” Leon groans deeply, disgruntled, worried and angry. His palm hits the space next to your head, his lips crashing against yours.

Willingly and wearily he kisses you, really wanting you to be quiet. You moan in surprise at how well he kisses you, instead of punching him in the face.

Your mind is still churning out pithy retorts, but your body is acting as if it has been ready for this. You grab the back of the man's head, holding him close. You press your legs to his hips, your soles against the bottom of the other wall. Maybe you'll manage to pry the closet open the way this make-out session does your lungs.

You grip his hair, trying to push him away a little to catch your breath, to think clearly, but Leon sweetly whimpers and kisses you more passionately. You melt into his arm, his pleasant earthy scent mingling with sweat. You no longer want to think clearly. 

His tongue dances around yours, caressing you, and you enjoy it more than when he uses it to mess with you. You press so hard against each other that you know why his pants are so relentlessly tight. He bites your bottom lip gently, making you go limp. And you promised that if he shut your mouth, you'd bite him, not the other way around.

Your lust-fuelled, angry and excruciatingly sensual games end when you accidentally kick the first aid box. You cringe, the moment is gone, and you have no idea what happened. You stare ahead languidly, your lips tingling, feeling a bit dizzy.

Leon strokes your cheek. The rough material of the gauze bandage sneaks over your skin. He presses your forehead together, panting softly.

“Listen to me, please," he whispers, hopeful and soft. 

He speaks to you so softly that every part of you feels hot again. You nod, because after all this you need an explanation to go on with your life from the point you fell into this closet with the man. It's a stupid idea, but you trust that he has a reason for your reaction. For example, he wears a perfume so seductive that even the people who dislike him the most can't resist kissing him.

“I experienced hell a few months ago,” he starts.

“Did you meet me?”

“Hush.” He puts his finger on your lips, and it's so intimate you don't feel like biting. You want to lick it instead. You have no idea what's going on with you. It's Leon, and you hate him. You hate him. “Killers are smart. I have a great friend, Jill. Nemesis built his plan on our friendship. We almost got caught because we were both protecting each other at all costs. When I met the rest of the survivors, I couldn't let you get in trouble. I pushed you away right at the beginning, just in case something happened.”

You remember the first moments. Actually, you started to hate Leon because he had a cocky, arrogant and uncaring attitude towards everyone you cared about. You never thought that was a strategy, not the ultimate in rudeness.

“Then why did you kiss me?”

Your question makes what just happened very real. Because he did kiss you and you enjoyed it.

“Because I couldn't take it anymore. You know, it's hard to insult you when all I can think about is wanting to kiss you.”

Now you understand what Feng was talking about. Leon's longing gaze must have told her a lot about his true intentions. You're not sure about the mutuality, though. You've never said anything about Leon other than you hate him... But if you think about it, your body language may have conveyed something suspicious that you didn't realize. After all, you just threw yourself at him the first chance you got when his lips touched yours... How long have you had this desire lurking inside you if it's been triggered like this?

You don’t answer. You're confused, and while he caresses your cheek so tenderly, you're unable to say anything, or even just to open your mouth.

“I'm sorry if I've made you uncomfortable,” he apologizes, and fails to hide the disappointment in his voice.

“I think it's much easier to hate you than to love you," you sigh, throwing your head against the locker. That's all you can suddenly say.

“Is it also better?”

“Excuse me, but you hate me in my defense.”

“That doesn't answer the question.”

"I have no idea," you shrug. “I've never tried to love you. I haven't dared.”

“And would you try?" These are hopefully light words, almost falling out of the man's mouth. 

“When we’re alone like this? Keeping it a secret from everyone? Maybe.”

Okay, it's not maybe, but you need to be firm and reserved a little longer. He needs to believe that a mind-blowing kiss and a heartwarming confession like that didn't sweep you off your feet. After all, half an hour ago you were wishing for his hanging.

He's smiling. That's for sure. You're glad you can't see it, so he won't notice your face is red. At most, he can feel it. This time his mouth is roaming your face instead of his finger. You shudder when he touches your cheekbone because the love in his movements is sincere and caring. If only he had treated you like this from the beginning! He would have spared you some very high blood pressure numbers.

“We can't do that here…”

“No one can see us here. And I have to prove to you that it’s worth being with me.” He's mumbling onto the skin of your throat. You moan, when he kisses your neck eagerly. He grabs your hips. You pull him tightly to you by the small of his back, so eager to let him prove the truth of his words with lots and lots of kisses and touches.

But then you remember David’s wound, the box, Feng. You're on a mission now, and you can't be seduced, you can't collapse into Leon's muscular arms to be undressed and ignited into true love in this closet. You'd gladly give yourself to him, but not now, when your friends are counting on you. Plus, there's a killer on the loose.

“David” your gasp makes the name sound a little longing, so Leon stiffens, trails off slightly. You rest your palm on his chest, feel how it rises, how it sinks. “Bleeding. Med kit.” You try to let him know in small words that you're not fantasizing about another guy when he's kissing you with his soul, ready to give you all he has. You're trying to clear your head, because it's foggy and stunned. No one has ever fallen like that for you in a closet.

To be clear, once Hillbilly dragged you out, but he's not known to be a kisser.

“Okay," Leon nods, presses a final kiss to your lips, then pauses, his hand hesitantly on the doorknob, "but what about us?”

“I’ll think about it. "Your answer is fifty percent, but the cheerful kiss you quickly plant on his lips increases his chances by twenty percent.

He opens the door. There’s no proper lighting, just a few candles, but that also disturbs your eyes after the total darkness. You grab the first aid, and squint as you stumble out of the closet that’s guarding the memory of your kiss.

You dodge the hooks, climb the creaking stairs, and a set bird trap awaits you. If you step inside, the crows will attack, and are so loud that the Artist will find you immediately. You pass it cautiously.

You are soon back. Feng and David are almost where you left them, continuing the generator, only David is holding his side. It is a desperate action to repair the generator, it has to be done at all costs.

Your moves are not too blunt, Feng snaps her head up. They both look towards you, and suddenly you can't think of anything forceful to say to Leon, or grumble about his presence. Instead, you close your eyes, kneel beside them and open the box.

Feng and you work quietly to tend to David's wound.

You want to be remorseful, shameful, do everything you can to help him, but it's hard to concentrate on that when Leon is lurking not far away, and you're still spinning about how he kissed you. which you loved, and you were really selfish.

“I'm off to another generator," he announces, as if reading your jumbled thoughts.

“No need to announce it. No one here needs your company,” you throw the judgment at him mockingly.

Feng's eyebrows furrow, she snaps at you in a whisper. She didn't expect you to go at Leon again. Well, sorry, now you have to, just to keep up the pretense.

"I just want to clear the record," you shrug.

You lock eyes with Leon. A mischievous glance flickers in both of your eyes, because this is far from what it used to be. They don't know, but you do. It's exciting and new, but you can't wait to be alone with him again, locked in your honest feelings.

Your notes, comments and Leon thoughts are warmly welcomed! 💓

[chocourse]

𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐁𝐈𝐓𝐄𝐒 (𝓁𝒾𝓀𝑒 𝓈𝓃𝒶𝓀𝑒𝓈 𝒹𝑜)

➶ poly! ineffable husbands x angel! fem!reader ｡˚ °

-ˏ` ✎﹏ The Egyptians built one of the seven wonders of the world, the Greeks discovered philosophy, but make-up was invented by a desperate angel during the construction of the Tower of Babel, when people spoke the same language and wanted to settle in a city after the great flood. That angel was you. And you really needed the make-up when the first bite happened.

➴ genre: fluff, polyamory, falling in love

: ̗̀➛ warnings: references to christian religion & lore, fashion and make-up lore, love bites/hickeys, mentions of snake poison, corruption i think

⌨ :: 2.2K words ♡ ︵ . .

⁀➷ special thanks to @honeytwo for helping me translate this into english, correcting my grammar and other mistakes. thank you for everything! °♡̷•.

⁀➷ a/n: Hi, dears! I am happy that I took the time to publish this story here after Ao3. I wrote it in January when I watched Good Omens and was looking for comfort after bawling my eyes out. Alright, that's all I wanted to say. Go and enjoy your unique history with the ineffable husbands! <3

➳ good omens masterlist

A FAIRLY LONG TIME AGO

As much as possible, you wanted to blend in with the people. You were too attracted by their nature to spend the rest of your time until Armageddon up there, among snow-white washed columns, in empty halls where nothing really interesting happens. You can deliver the reports even if you’re living on Earth and watching the humans work, you reassured yourself.

You've enjoyed watching the mortals ant-like, feverishly at work, creating wonders like the Tower of Babel.

“Upon my word, what a masterly job,” said Aziraphale, when the tower was already very high.

Aziraphale agreed with you about your intentions on earth, and you used to talk about the exciting things people can do and how exciting it will be to learn about their work and future generations.

When you were particularly engrossed in reciting your predictions, and explaining them to each other with sparkling eyes, Crowley would just roll his eyes and do it with relish, as if it was his natural reaction to your enthusiasm. He decided he'd rather be with the two of you instead of in the company of damned souls and stake-ridden demons when there was no one to tempt and lead into sin. It wasn't boring at all, especially with the fairs they held back then, the intoxicating people, the musical instruments, the delicious food. 

His favorite events were the celebrations. When the men working on the tower would take a break from work and gather in town to drink and sing. They fanned his fire, his desire to do something underhanded. Not evil, just something genuinely bad. Like what he did to the apples and Eve at the tree.

He thought deeply about the ways in which he could make others sin. That's when he heard you laugh. You were amazed at what Aziraphale had said. You sipped flushedly into your alcohol jar. You weren't wearing your halo or spreading your wings, but you looked just like an angel. Beautiful, ethereal, uncorrupted, even when you were indulging in human pleasures and getting drunk at an easy pace.

Bingo.

Crowley smiled, his eyes gleaming under his black sunglasses. He headed towards you.

“Did you try everything?” he asked.

“The dates are heavenly ,” Aziraphale agreed, putting another piece in his mouth. “You must try one, Crowley.”

“I will,” the demon promised. “Later. But first, I'm going to taste something that's inviting to my imagination…”

His fingers brushed over your shoulder. His fingertips touched your sensitive skin, then...

“Ow !" you squeaked in surprise as he sank his canines into the exposed skin of your neck. 

When an angel wants to fit in with humans, she can't walk around with a snake-bitten neck like she's fine. So you tried to use a miracle to make it disappear, but as it turns out, miracles don't work on demonic bites, which is kind of unfair, but part of the Incomprehensible Plan, so you had to resort to some other method, without blaming the Almighty for creating the demon bite the way it is.

You used paint to cover it up. It was the first make-up experiment in history. Cleopatra will use your method in dark red, but it will be a long time before then, your injury will heal and heal many times over.

In any case, Crowley grinned as he watched you walk around for weeks, neck covered in paint. He was very pleased with himself, and you often caught him looking at you with his yellow snake eyes, grinning like he was planning to do it again.

When God confused the tongues of men, you were grateful to Him. 

Now, you could send the demon to Hell in countless languages.

IN THE 16TH CENTURY

Garbo.

Garbos everywhere.

Lace, frills, colours, fancy fabrics. You were very fond of the English Renaissance under Queen Elizabeth I. Mainly because of the full turtlenecks, which usually covered your neck magnificently. You could even forgive the low-cut dresses and corsets - although when silk scarves came along, looking back, the wide turtlenecks you once wore would have looked like clown costumes.

It was further satisfying to know that Crowley hated rules by default, let alone about fashion. He really despised the Sumptuary Laws, and cursed that he hadn't invented them, because they were truly demonic. In contrast, Aziraphale, who always put a lot of effort into his appearance, was fine with the expected attire, and always looked elegant with a pleasant smile. 

Sometimes, though, his smile faltered when his turtleneck grazed the bite marks on his neck. You stroked his upper arm sympathetically at such times, and yet: neither of you told Crowley to stop what he was doing on your necks.

You had no problem with early medieval times. The tight, plain dresses were simple and, importantly, the neck was not visible, only the back of the hands and the face, and after marriage, the hair - not that you married, it was just the fashion among married women. On the other hand, the pale ideal of the early Middle Ages, when women had blood drained to make them white as doves, was disappointing. Then came arsenical powders, the cause of many women's deaths. At the time, you were ashamed of inventing make-up, and so women wanted to tamper with their natural beauty with all sorts of talc fads. You have to suffer to be beautiful, they said, and they didn't realize that there was no need for any suffering because they were beautiful from creation.

Your determination was only further strengthened when it was discovered that Elizabeth I died of blood poisoning from using white lead on her face. And you thought the sixteenth century would bring radical changes…

Actually, there has been a radical change, but not in make-up.

Crowley invented the suction mark, which didn't swell up like a snake venom-infused wound and came in a variety of colours depending on how much time Crowley put into creating them. They made him feel like an artist, so he liked to tinker with them. He'd been paying devoted attention to your necks for a very long time, so you're actually used to it, it's become a tradition. 

In fact, you both kind of loved it.

IN THE 19TH CENTURY

The rice powder is made from natural ingredients. We're finally back here, you peacefully acknowledged at every social gathering. Usually you only powdered the back of your neck, but richly. The fashions of the 1800s called for ruffles, corsets, a relatively modest neckline, no turtlenecks or neck-covering. But a thorough, ornate make-up look was something every self-respecting woman had to create, and because you only covered your neck, you were often the victim of gossip.

When Aziraphale opened his bookshop and held a small gathering to celebrate with champagne, snacks and a ball, the ladies whispered a great deal about you, hiding behind their fans. They sized up your clothes, your make-up, yourself. They guessed how much of a goer you must be. It made them angry that even though you don't wear normal makeup, men still seek your company because you're witty and good, not jealous like them.

Crowley was annoyed by the women who belittled you, the men who complimented you, the fact that you had been hiding the fact that you were his for centuries. Just like Aziraphale, only he didn't seem as desperate as you to cover his marks. Although his top hat usually shaded them well, where it was appropriate to remove the headgear, nothing covered them.

Aziraphale looked at Crowley more and more often as if he knew perfectly well what the marks meant, just as he knew that Crowley was a cruel, unrelenting demon and would not say it.

When Crowley asked you to stop covering your neck, he was actually saying it. With his eyes shining mysteriously in the moonlight through the window, when Crowley took off his glasses and all the guests had gone, leaving only the three of you and the empty glasses and the crumbs. 

Tenderness and love. This is what his words would have tasted like if you had eaten them.

It was the same way Aziraphale looked at you when you caught him gazing at you, silent and dreamy, or when you simply spoke to him enthusiastically about something that interested and excited you as people once did when the Tower of Babel was raised, and he listened patiently, as if he had nothing better to do.

When you said all right to Crowley with a smile, that meant you loved him, too. 

Them, too.

NOWADAYS

“Um, are you–” Gabriel furrows his eyebrows and tries to decipher you with a polite smile. “What is this?”

You're wearing the purest white, as befits a visit to Heaven. Obviously Gabriel would not object to that. He wears mostly white, with a faint hint of blue. What he can't make out is the fluffy white scarf wrapped tightly around your neck, right up to your nose. You stand before him like a polar bear with a neck brace. Or an almost completely covered, ethereal mummy. 

Or maybe a spool of toilet paper. 

You pull the material slightly in front of your mouth to answer. 

“I'm cold,” you report with a blush.

“It must be exciting.” Gabriel admits that you've probably spent too much time on Earth, among humans, and its somewhat dulled your angelic senses. He clears his throat. “Well, we can get down to business then, let's not waste each other's precious time.”

You nod. He is absolutely right.

In the empty, snow-white-plastered heavenly hall, a table, a folder and a pen with wings - not a bijou, strictly used for official signatures - appear. Sighing, you take a comfortable seat, and as you take the pen, you give thanks that now women can wear comfortable and practical pants too. 

And, you add with even deeper satisfaction, great scarves.

...

Ignoring the closed sign, you rip open the door and burst into the bookshop.

“Sorry, but we’re closed– Oh, it's you.” Aziraphale smiles a greeting, then notices the upset on your face. “What happened, darling?”

“It was embarrassing to show myself like this in front of Gabriel,” you reply as you begin to unravel the fuzzy covering around your neck.

Aziraphale pats your upper arm piteously, presses a kiss to your temple and promises to bring you a mug of hot chocolate to help you relax.

Long time ago you promised Crowley you wouldn't cover his marks, but when you meet your angelic bosses, it's a different story. If they find out what's between you and him, they'll make hell in heaven. That doesn't impress Crowley, especially not today. Before you left, he had so covered your neck with his special love marks that a simple scarf wouldn't have been enough to cover it. Especially since he's recently returned to biting.

You'll find him on the sofa at the back of the shop. He's got a real proud smile that makes you want to throw a scarf at him. You throw the scarf at him. He catches it easily.

"You little..." you grit your teeth.

“Idiot? Shit? Asshole? The lowest of demons? Bitter of your eternal life?” He's playing with the scarf. He doesn't look up, doesn't admire the colorful patchwork he's created on your neck. Even better. If he would do it, throwing a scarf at him would not be enough.

"Lovely sweet creature," you say in a voice dripping with sarcasm.

“Bleh.” Crowley scowls. “That's a thousand times worse than you swearing.”

“I know. That's why I do it.” You sit down in the armchair furthest away from him and continue to stare at him harshly.

He sighs.

“My love, you're too beautiful with my marks on your neck. I cannot help it. And every man should know those are mine. Even the angels up there.”

Except Aziraphale. He already knows full well that if the blobs on your skin were to be exhibited as paintings, the artist's name would clearly be Crowley.

And you know what these marks are called these days, and that makes you happy. You ask, a little more lightly, if he knows. Crowley shakes his head.

“Love bites,” you tell him.

“It's only natural that they call it that. I invented it, and for thousands of years you and Aziraphale have been the only ones to get it. What else could it be?” Crowley gets up, comes over to you and squats down in front of you, taking your hand in his. He’s not wearing his sunglasses. His eyes are vivid, the sky glowing yellow behind the black sliver of the moon. "It's not something I give as punishment or temptation. It is exactly what it is called. Humans are smart enough to give it such a good name.”

“Well, well, you're praising the humans.” Aziraphale arrives balancing a tray on the low coffee table next to his open book and a stack of newspapers.

“Have you heard what my creations are called?”

“I don’t think so.”

The demon tells him. The angel blushes and starts passing out mugs. Crowley admires him, then turns to you.

“Will you sit with me?”

Luckily for him, you're not overly resentful. You nod, and you’d be lying if you said you weren't warmed by the sight of his smile and his hand reaching out for yours. You end up on the soft couch, his arm around your shoulders, your hot chocolate in your hand.

And love bites on your neck.

[chocourse]

GOOD OMENS MASTERLIST ☕︎

fluff — 🍩

angst — 🩹

crack — 💩

suggestive — 🤎

mature — 🌰

my favorites — ☕️

main masterlist

𝐏𝐎𝐋𝐘! 𝐈𝐍𝐄𝐅𝐅𝐀𝐁𝐋𝐄 𝐇𝐔𝐒𝐁𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐒

⚘ LOVE BITES (like snakes do) 🍩

The Egyptians built one of the seven wonders of the world, the Greeks discovered philosophy, but make-up was invented by a desperate angel during the construction of the Tower of Babel, when people spoke the same language and wanted to settle in a city after the great flood. That angel was you. And you really needed the make-up when the first bite happened. 《 2.2K 》

[chocourse]

➳ dude

➶ peter parker x gn!reader ｡˚ °

-ˏ` ✎﹏ Peter's head is spinning with love. He asks you for advice on how to seduce his dream partner. What's so wrong with you calling him "dude"?

➴ genre: f2l, fluff

: ̗̀➛ warnings: sfw, kissing

⌨ :: 0.9K words ♡ ︵ . .

⁀➷ special thanks to @honeytwo for helping me translate this into english, correcting my grammar and other mistakes. thank you for everything! °♡̷•.

➳ marvel masterlist

“Uhm... What is the ideal confession for you?”

Peter is caught between uncertainty, curiosity and something akin to anxiety when you look up at him in puzzled surprise. You can't say you're shocked, subconsciously you expected something like this: just the two of you, no Ned or anyone else, ordering from your favourite restaurant, and for the past half hour the boy has been talking non-stop, all his attention focused on you. He's prepped you on the subject.

“Hmm.” You push the food carton away from you slightly - the smell of fresh food wafts out of it and mingles with the rising tension in the air. The smile that moves to the edge of your lips wants to gauge the reason for the question, its true meaning and possible implications. “So you want to give that mysterious person an unrequited offer through my advice?”

“Come on!", Peter laughs awkwardly and scratches the back of his head.

He is wearing a plain white T-shirt, his teeth shine in this colour, and his honey-brown biceps tighten in the movement, the dark colour of the LED making them look blue. You blink too fast, your heart skips a beat, but that frozen, almost ridiculously half-smile is just as stiff.

No sincere mirth, just self-serving anguish: if Peter wants that mystery person, you hardly stand a chance against them. Admirably amiable on your information, the boy fell head over heels in crush.

“I-I'm just interested! That's all.”

“Then why were you so anxious about it? Take a deep breath, you're going white, dude!”

“Ugh, you're doing it again.” He furrows his brows, shakes his head a little as if he doesn't believe his ears and snaps out of the playful teasing he's been getting.

“Doing what?”

“Calling me dude. You’re defensive.”

You shrug.

“I’m just being honest. We’re dudes, right?”

You reach for the food again, don't look up, Peter's scrutiny is obvious enough. But there's no secrets you're sharing with him right now. He doesn't need to know why you've been treating him so differently lately, nor how much self-control you actually need to shut him out and pretend when you most want to-

You'd love to receive a simple, spontaneous 'I love you' from him anywhere, anytime, nothing fancy, cheesy, expensive, no flowers, no heart-shaped bonbons, no big teddy bear. Just a smile, a loving look, a hug, maybe an innocent kiss. But it would really depend on Peter.

You also depend on Peter.

“Sure- Yeah, we're dudes.” Peter nods surrealistically. His smile is now strangely grimacing. He dips his hand into his own box and pulls out a piece of spicy chicken, but only holds it thoughtfully, not biting into it. “But still... What would be the ideal confession for you?”

“Why does it matter, Peter? It depends on the person: my tastes and your mysterious person cannot coincide.”

“What makes you so sure?” The boy puts the meat back. He sweeps the crumbs off his hands.

“Because I'm not your type, Peter.” You look up, you realize too late, and those words slip out of your mouth. Your eyes meet over the cartons, and the LED light feels like ice cold. Then it thaws, casts a doubtful glow, and the contact between you is broken. You both wake up.

“What makes you so sure?” This time, the boy inquires quietly, bordering on whispering and mumbling, his fingers picking at the patterned paper, his head resting on his knees.

“Because I'm not the-” You begin your incredulous, disappointed, slightly mocking sentence as the information settles in, and you cling with widened eyes to the strangely hopeful idea that spreads through you with such a benign tenderness. It even spurs your heart to beat faster.

“The mysterious person?” Peter smiles wistfully, overcoming his shyness. “I love your smile and your laugh. The meticulous attention you pay to your hobbies. Actually, I like a lot of things about you.” He laughs. “Well, everything. You're not so mysterious, are you?”

“You've answered all your questions, Peter Parker.” You blush and rub your tingling wrist, then smile. “This is the ideal confession. At least for me.”

“Then…” Peter swallows hastily. He doesn't quite believe what has just happened, he's still in a mild state of shock.

“Then?”

The blue of the LED becomes hotter than the red flames. The consciousness of realization merges with repressed desire, and you experience this process in each other's softened gaze.

“Will you date me?”

“Oh-” You stand up excitedly, walk around the low table, and then plop down on Peter's lap, who holds you by the waist, confused and startled. “I promise I’ll never call you dude again.”

Peter breathes with his mouth open, his breath caressing your skin sensuously. Eventually, he tires of the longing eye contact, his focus always finding those sweet-looking lips.

“Can I kiss you?” he asks longingly.

“Yes…” Not dude, not dude, not dude. “Love.”

Peter does what you've both dreamed of doing until now: he kisses his best friend, you.

Once he experiences your taste, your softness and your ever-increasing willingness, he can't stop at just one short kiss. As you grip his shoulders, Peter sinks into the kiss, delighted to find that this frenzied fulfillment is a mutual sensation of excitement for both of you.

After all, you were dudes a moment ago: now it's Peter Parker and his mysterious person who have found each other.

[chocourse]

MARVEL MASTERLIST ☕︎

fluff — 🍩

angst — 🩹

crack — 💩

suggestive — 🤎

mature — 🌰

my favorites — ☕️

main masterlist

𝐏𝐄𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐊𝐄𝐑

⚘ dude 🍩

Peter's head is spinning with love. He asks you for advice on how to seduce his dream partner. What's so wrong with you calling him "dude"? 《 0.9K 》