⊹ ࣪ ˖ msg from: tumblrina ballerina katerina aka kitty (s⋮her) 21 ♈︎
🫧 you’ve found my sideblog! an alternative to my main blog, but the same kitty roams free here from time to time too
soo if you’re seeing this it’s bc i had a liiittle identity crisis where i changed my tags & now i have to make this post with all the tags i changed so that they show up in my suggested tags & i won’t have to painstakingly copy paste it every single time TLDR: you can just ignore this post it’s just for me to keep track of some tags
soo if you’re seeing this it’s bc i had a liiittle identity crisis where i changed my tags & now i have to make this post with all the tags i changed so that they show up in my suggested tags & i won’t have to painstakingly copy paste it every single time TLDR: you can just ignore this post it’s just for me to keep track of some tags
soo if you’re seeing this it’s bc i had a liiittle identity crisis where i changed my tags & now i have to make this post with all the tags i changed so that they show up in my suggested tags & i won’t have to painstakingly copy paste it every single time TLDR: you can just ignore this post it’s just for me to keep track of some tags
hi lovely!! congrats on 7k! <3 may i request a roulette, number 27 from the acts of service list? for peter parker ofc, i’m obsessed with the way you write him! 🫶🏽
thank you!! & thanks so much for playing <333
Peter Parker x gn!reader who helps him bathe [640 words]
CW: ²⁷⁾ helping them bathe, no gender markers used from reader, brief mention of injury/blood but not descriptive, anxiety re: injuries and safety, Peter's belief in himself is astounding, fluff
“Knock it off, Parker.” You murmur softly, avoiding eye contact as you squeeze a waterlogged sponge over Peter’s shoulder, watching the clear liquid take on a pink hue as it streams in macabre rivulets down his arm and into the tub. You pretend that the sight doesn’t leave your heart constricting painfully in your chest.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” He replies, smug.
“You’re staring.”
“I’m admiring.” He corrects you.
“You’re distracting.” You counter.
“I’m fine.”
Your next exhale is shaky as you let the sponge fall into the tub with a dejected splash.
“Babe,” he chides with put-upon cheer, “look at me.”
“No.”
“Look at me.”
“Pete…”
“Hey,” he murmurs – raising his sore arm to softly pinch your chin between two gentle fingers as he forces you to look at him – ever present smile both soft and smarmy, “I’m just fine. Right? I always am.”
“But what if you’re not, Pete?” You whisper as though afraid that voicing the concern might threaten to make it true; his eyes are too earnest, causing your gaze to fall to his mottled chest instead which feels too painful to look at, seeing your eyes fall shut completely.
A sound you can’t bother to decipher escapes Peter’s lips as he shifts in the bath; water sloshing as he inches as close to you as he possibly can even though the two of you are separated by the porcelain edge of the tub.
“You think I’m not always gonna come home to you?”
“You come home beaten and bruised-”
“I never lose, lovely.” He argues softly.
“But what if you do?”
“There is nothing out there – nothing – that would ever stop me from coming home to you, Y/N.” He insists; you have half a mind of being angry at the selfishness in him making promises that there is no guarantee he can keep, if only he didn’t sound so earnest in his proclamation. “Nothing.”
“Pete…”
“You’re stuck with me, babe.” He murmurs, the curve of his mouth looking to be fighting for its life in order to stop from full on beaming at you – the ghost of a smile dancing across his lips – as he tilts his head in an attempt to meet your eyes. “No one and nothing’s gonna keep me away from you.”
You let out a half-assed snort of laughter. “Your confidence in yourself is unbelievable.”
“Well your confidence in me is severely lacking; sue me for trying to counter that.”
“I will, you’ll be hearing from my lawyer.” You murmur, still staring resolutely at the water instead of his perfect infuriating brown eyes.
“Oh?” He laughs, grabbing each of your wrists with one strong hand. “Is that right?”
You hum in agreement, chancing a peak up to his eyes to see them alight with excitement and love. He obviously feels alright enough to tease you, maybe you should believe him.
But any leeway he’s made with you goes straight to shit when he braces one hand at the base of your neck, the other worming around your waist before he yanks you into the tub – fully clothed – sloshing water all over the bathroom floor.
“Peter!”
“Stop being mad at me!” He laughs as you sputter.
“Well now I’m pissed! Look what you’ve done to the floor!”
“I’ll clean it up!”
“And my clothes!”
“I’ll wash those too!”
“You-” you sigh, relenting to your new reality of soaked clothes and a shared bath with Peter “-are unbelievable.”
“You love me.” He all but giggles into the crook of your neck, holding you tight to his chest as more of the water exits the tub.
“And you are so lucky that I do.” You laugh in turn, knowing full well that loving Peter Parker has been one of the easiest things you’ve ever gotten to do.
finnick odair is tough. he is corded muscle and calloused hands, a true victor. everyone knows that— you know that— it’s just hard to believe when that very same finnick odair is carefully braiding your hair before bed so it doesn’t tangle itself while your sleeping, when he pulls you close to trace ‘i love you’s and lopsided hearts onto the skin that covers your shoulder blades. the same one that presses kisses to your forehead and the bridge of your nose before even touching your lips, the one that doesn’t kiss you hungrily like the others, but rather as if he’s giving you all the love he has to offer. he certainly doesn’t seem tough to you, crawling on top of you after a long swim and letting you gently detangle his salt-ridden waves as he hums softly against your collarbone. finnick odair is tough, but your finnick— your finn— is soft as they come.
finnick odair is experienced in the bedroom, but not experienced with true, genuine intimacy. he knows how to end a sexual encounter fast, how to find all the right spots and get it all over with. but he isn’t quite sure how to be slow, to savor it. you have to teach him, kiss your way down his body, be gentle. you tease him, make it last.
he knows how to seduce, how to be charming. but he isn’t good at vulnerability, real connection. he will grin and smirk, but covers his shy smiles, his genuine laughter. he doesn’t blush, except how he does when you’re involved. you teach him how to date. you hold his hand, cuddle him, kiss his cheeks.
the capitol has taken so much from him. he’s had sex more times than he can count, but he’s never made love. he’s been on dates, but he’s never dated. he’s been adored by people who will never truly know him, but never been known and loved at the same time.
you know him, and you love him, even with his flaws. he is not just the hot victor to you. he’s just finnick, who snorts when he laughs too hard and loves when you kiss down his chest and belly, who ties knots when he’s nervous and hates kissing with too much tongue.
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