LET ME LOVE MY YOUTH.

kio ♡ she/her ♡ 21 ♡ (minors block ‘#nsfw’) & dnf

[wetheurban]

How to Return to Yourself Stop performing. Don't overgive. Choose peace over proving. Reclaim the parts you abandoned to be loved. Let it hurt. Feel it fully. Release it. Do your spiritual work. Forgive yourself for surviving in ways you had to. Try not to take anything personally. Zoom out. Remember who you were before they made you doubt it. Protect your energy like it’s sacred, because it is. Choose you... again and again.

[thememedaddy]

[endlace]

You if bugs didn't exist

[m0nk3y-bl0g]

[snoopyoftheday]

snoopy of the day

[save-child-ronza]

Stop playing games. Stop watching movies. Stop following football matches. Stop listening to music. Just for one minute. STOP SCROLLING PLEASE.

[save-child-ronza]

Sit with yourself and ask one question: Does my sister deserve to die because she cannot get the medical treatment she desperately needs? Does my family deserve to wake up every day fearing the worst? If your answer is no, then please don't let this post become just another one you scroll past.

[save-child-ronza]

If you can donate, please donate. If you can't, please share our fundraiser. Do anything that helps us feel we are not alone that there are still people who believe my sister's life is worth fighting for.

[pcktknife]

Please help Zeina save her sister !

[levionlyyours]

thanks for answering my ask, i'll come off anon now!! i was the one who asked for clarification on your requests/headcanons.

if possible, i would loooove to see some headcanons for levi as a husband, in canonverse (to soldier/squad leader!reader.) i'm in my 20s lol so i welcome angst, fluff, smut, etc -- anything you want and gets your creative juices flowing! if i could ask one additional request: only the superior officers know (erwin, hange, miche, etc.) i find it funny when people beneath him in rank might say, "HE'S married?!"

no prob if this is something you can't do. i was thinking of doing this one myself anyhow, but with your levi being so in character, i'd love to see what you come up with!

how cute! thank you for requesting!

cw: nsfw content

➺ Your marriage is the Survey Corps' best-kept secret. Levi doesn't intentionally keep your marriage a secret. He just doesn't think it's anyone else's damn business. You don't advertise it either so the secret persists.

➺ Erwin knows, because he's, well, Erwin. Hange knows because you can never hide anything from Hange. Miche knows because he took one look at the two of you six years ago and just went, Yeah.

➺ Everyone else thinks you're simply two squad leaders/captains who are suspiciously close. Nobody questions why you're constantly in Levi's office because you're also a squad leader. You're just discussing work. No one questions why Levi brings you tea because he's known you for years. Nobody questions why you're allowed to touch Levi because... actually, they do question that one.

➺ The first time it slips is when someone accidentally overhears you call him "my husband."

➺ Eren finally yells "Your WHAT?" while Levi doesn't even look up

➺ Meanwhile absolute pandemonium breaks loose. "CAPTAIN LEVI IS MARRIED?" "How long have you been married?" "YOU'RE MARRIED TO HIM?" of which that last one irritates him because, in his words, "Why is that the surprising part?"

➺ Then it kind of clicks to everyone, how Levi would adjust your harness before expeditions, how you'd drink from his cup, how he'd let you steal food from his plate, how you'd walk into his office without knocking, how you call him "Levi" while everyone else calls him "Captain." Also, there's the fact that Levi once allowed you to put your feet on his desk and somehow you survived.

➺ Husband Levi is ridiculously domestic, but he's still Levi, so he doesn't gush about how much he loves you. Instead you understand that him saying "Your tea's getting cold" means "I made this for you and if you don't drink it I'll be very sad."

➺ You always have clean clothes, your uniforms always get repaired when they're torn, your blades are always sharpened, your boots are always polished, and once, you mentioned a button that was loose and it was miraculously fixed by morning.

➺ He constantly complains about your cleaning habits regardless of how clean you actually are. You could be the second cleanest person within the walls, but you married the first.

➺ Sometimes just to tease him, you'll purposefully move something on his desk by like two inches. He'll notice immediately and move it back, and you move it again. It usually ends up with him asking "Do you want a divorce?"

➺ Levi is very different with you behind closed doors. He relaxes much more with you. Sometimes he'll lean against you, and that's when you know he's exhausted.

➺ Levi doesn't ask to be held. He just shifts toward you until his shoulder is touching yours, then his head, then somehow you're holding him. If you ever point it out, he leaves.

➺ Levi sleeps better beside you. You've been a miracle for his insomnia. It's not a cure-all, but he feels safer with you there.

➺ He has a habit of grabbing onto your shirt (if you happen to be wearing one) in his sleep, of which you have no intention of telling him.

➺ Being married doesn't stop you from being fellow soldiers, though. You're not his helpless spouse waiting at home. You understand his responsibilities because you have similar ones. You understand survivor's guilt.

➺ You hate when he hovers over you, but he still does it anyway. He can pick out your silhouette among dozens of soldiers. If your squad is running late, Levi becomes way more unpleasant to deal with.

➺ You also argue like an old married couple, but the reasons behind the fights are incredibly petty. You've been together too long and you know how to irritate each other.

➺ Hange has witnessed you argue about who finished the tea, whether Levi's handwriting is legible, whether you actually hogged the blanket last night, who stole whose pillow, who left the window open, and how many times one person can reorganize one cupboard.

➺ Levi is private about physical affection. In public, especially around subordinates, you might get a hand on your back, his fingers brushing yours, or him adjusting your collar. Behind closed doors, he's much more affectionate. He likes having you close.

➺ Kissing Levi after years of marriage is much different from kissing him when your relationship was new. There's less hesitation now. He knows exactly how you like to be kissed, and you know exactly how to make him lose his mind.

➺ Sometimes kisses are soft and sleepy before bed. Sometimes they're quick kisses exchanged before an expedition because neither of you wants to acknowledge the possibility that one of you might not return. And sometimes you haven't been alone together for weeks because military life is exhausted, so the second you finally get privacy, Levi is locking the door behind you.

➺Levi will take many opportunities to wake you with his mouth between your legs in the morning. You usually have to bite the pillow to stay quiet, because the last person you want hearing this is fucking Hange who will tease you until the end of time.

➺ Levi never outright says he wants you, but he'll lock the door behind him and wrap his arms around you before kissing your neck. His hands exploring your body is usually his way to signal he's DTF. And usually it's just because he can't believe that you're his and he's spent too much time secretly admiring your beauty in public where he can't act on it.

➺ Privacy is rare in headquarters, so Levi is an expert at silence. He usually swallows your gasps and moans and murmurs near your ear, "Keep it down, honey."

➺ Husband Levi doesn't babble sweet nonsense during sex, but the way he says "Good" in a low strained voice when you're taking him has you absolutely folding.

➺ Levi prefers positions where he can watch your face. Levi wants to see what he's doing to you, wants to catch the moment you come.

➺ He's very good at keeping a straight face around everyone else after thoroughly ruining you the night before. You could be sitting stiffly at breakfast, avoiding eye contact, and Levi would sit his tea while he nudges your foot with his under the table.

➺ Levi is the most physically affectionate after sex. It's when he's most vulnerable. He likes lying close enough that your bodies are touching. He might rest his hand on your waist or stomach. He doesn't like to immediately get up and leave.

➺ Actually, he doesn't like when you get up and try to leave. "Where are you going?" "I need water." "Later." "Levi—" "Five minutes." Then five minutes becomes twenty.

➺ Levi's favorite thing about being married to you is coming back to his room where your stuff resides. Your clothes beside his, your boot beside the door, two cups instead of one, your side of the bed.

➺ Sometimes you wake up before him and catch him looking at you, and then he'll reach over and brush your hair away from your face.

➺ Because in this life, with Titans and paperwork and soldiers who need him and an entire world that never seems to stop demanding something from him, he's found solace in you. You're still here, and that's all he needs.

MASTERLIST ♡ JOIN THE TAGLIST ♡ AO3 ♡ WATTPAD ♡ KO-FI

tags: @saccharinefool @bunbun6casp @levkuna @strangeeaglepost @how-interesting-wow @d1leviglazer @y44washere4somereason @nickibunny23 @slaytherinthoughts @levishart @gloomyveil @levislolita @nerdskillz @elegantmakercoffee @miaszt @daisyy-lev @naxymoon @caliope13 @wh0r3f0rchoso @im-just-a-simp-le-whore @starfallenlevi @tea-rae @ssomethingalieen @starryscara @starlighttitan @leviholics @angelbearknyyy @astersfantasties

divider by: diviniyae

[everythingcollided]

and time, is taking its sweet time erasing you (part two)

part one

pairing: peter parker x fem!reader

word count: 6.2k

warnings: mugging (minor, over quickly), kissing(!)

summary: getting your memories back comes with a lot of feelings, but one thought consumes it all: where is he?

a/n: thought about splitting this into more parts…then decided i didn’t care. thank you for all the love on part 1!! i’ve had the best time reading your comments and seeing all the reblogs!! tried to tag as many people as i could!! don’t hate me if this sucks okay byeeee

*ੈ✩‧₊˚. *ੈ✩‧₊˚. *ੈ✩‧₊˚. *ੈ✩‧₊˚. *ੈ✩‧₊˚. *ੈ✩‧₊˚. *ੈ✩‧₊˚. *ੈ✩‧₊˚. *ੈ✩‧₊˚

Over the next few days, you go a little crazy. 

Well, would it even be going crazy if you were suddenly having memories that you were sure were yours, and sure had been taken from you somehow? Is that going crazy, or is it going uncrazy? 

Whatever. 

After your dream, you spend the day with the worst headache you’ve ever had in your life. You think you take about ten Advil to get through the day (screw the warning labels), hating your stupid job and the stupid 90-day policy before you can take PTO because the last thing you want to do after remembering a name that makes your heart feel like it’s flying out of your chest is sit at a desk and look at code for a stupid, dumb app. 

On a Friday. 

You spend your entire shift staring at the wall in your cubicle where you’d pinned a picture of you, Ned, and MJ from high school. By twelve, you’re one hundred percent certain that there had been someone else there. Someone next to you, arm around your shoulder, a smile that makes you feel jittery just thinking about it. You know what that smile looks like. You know.

Peter Parker, a constant mantra in your head. You’d written it on sticky notes you’d slapped on twenty different things in your room, filled an entire page of your work notebook with it. You would not forget again.

You couldn’t.

By two, you remember his Aunt May and her warmth, the way she’d always feed you and always treat you like one of her own. How she’d always teased Peter but never, ever hesitated to protect him. 

By two-thirty, you remember that she’s dead. You look up her obituary on your work computer—screw it—and read through it, sniffling and aching and destroyed when there’s no mention of a nephew anywhere on it. 

Peter Parker, you write again on a sticky note, then under it, Aunt May. 

By four, your memories of high school have reshaped, the blurry remnants of them you’d had remolding like wet clay, and Peter is everywhere. 

The first day of freshman year, debating with you on the subway about who was going to be more popular (neither of you).  

Laid across your bed with chemistry textbooks open, wearing sweats and a hoodie and looking so soft. You remember wanting to kiss him, feeling ashamed because of it. 

All the times he’d started disappearing, missing classes. When you’d invite him over for dinner and he’d never show. When your study sessions turned from the two of you laughing and not really getting any work done, to just you. Alone. 

Following him after school, knowing something was up, wanting to be there for him. Watching him strip to his boxers in an alleyway, tug on Spider-man’s suit and launch himself onto the rooftops. 

Sneaking into his window and waiting in his bedroom, so angry he’d never told you. Deflating immediately when he’d slipped in later that night, wide and pleading brown eyes, a bruise on the apple of his cheek, looking so vulnerable in a suit that meant anything but. 

Your first kiss. The pink of Peter’s cheeks, the way his breath caught, stuttering through telling you it’d always been you. That he couldn’t imagine another day where you didn’t know. How couldn’t you have known? 

Sitting on rooftops, going to dances, learning the ways his body responded to your touch, looking up how to do stitches for when Spider-man would come tumbling through your bedroom window, scaring you to death—that’s how you knew how to do stitches! Dates where he’d hold you to his chest and take you swinging around Manhattan, wind in your hair and laughter in your throat. 

God, you’d loved him. You’d loved him more than anything else in the world. 

More than anything. 

And you still did. Still had, all these years. Felt it in your chest, curled up and ever-present. Felt it expand when you’d seen him again, light you up from the inside without warning. 

But how had you forgotten? 

By five, when you’re on the subway home, you know. 

The memory bleeds against your eyelids. Peter, beaten and bloodied, eyes red from crying and busted blood veins. Your Peter, telling you that you would forget everything, wiping your tears and promising that he’d come find you. That he’d come get you and make you remember. 

You telling him you would never forget. 

But you had. 

And he’d let you.

You’re so angry at the thought that you have to take a lap around your block before you enter your apartment. So angry that you end up going to your favorite bodega on the corner and getting your favorite sandwich even though you're supposed to be saving money. And then you get annoyed on top of that because the second your order leaves your lips you suddenly remember that it had been Peter’s favorite too. 

That you both used to split one from Delmar’s on Wednesdays and eat it on the roof of your parent’s apartment. 

You must look downright furious, because Jay, the cashier that’s been there every time you’ve come since you moved in, slides you a chocolate bar on top of your finished sandwich and doesn’t charge you for it. 

You eat the whole thing while you take the stairs up to your apartment, muttering to yourself. 

Then you see all your sticky notes. Peter Parker on your lamp, your closet door, on the coat hanging from your bed frame, on your window and pillow, where you’d scattered a handful of them at 3am. 

You were mad. You were pissed. 

But you wanted to be mad at him to his face. To see him and yell at him until you lost your voice. To watch the way his eyes would change from your words, so easy to read. To hug him and kiss him and touch him. To throw things and watch him dodge them effortlessly, to let him calm you down, to let him. 

You wanted to know if he still had the same sandwich order. 

Did he even want you to remember?

You think about the look on his face the night before—he’d been right there next to you after all that time, and you’d let him slip away. The way he’d looked at you when he’d knocked on your door, how he’d held your hand when he’d helped you up, how he’d let you talk to him about the dreams you’d already shared with him in the dark with this calm, serene look on his face. 

And you didn’t care if he wanted you to remember him or not.

You were going to find him. 

The next day, after a night filled with dreams about calloused hands and hushed whispers, after waking up with tingling lips and a hollowness to your chest, you start your search with a sudden kind of desperation. 

Ned had gone to visit his grandma for the weekend, so you plant yourself in his chair and spend hours searching the internet for any trace of Peter Parker. 

You even search for Maynard—absolutely ridiculous name—and then spend ten minutes crying over how Peter it was to use a dumb fake name, and how you miss him so much. 

You find nothing. 

The spell had worked. Peter Parker was nowhere. No one.  

You sit back in the chair and try to breathe through your disappointment. 

How were you going to find a ghost? How would he ever know that you remembered? 

A notification sounds through the computer. Discord, from Ned’s Spidey Tracker server. You silence it absentmindedly. 

Then you sit up. 

Peter Parker was nowhere. 

But Spider-man…Spider-man was everywhere. 

And you knew how to track him. 

You move so fast you hit your knee on the underside of the desk, and curse your way through pulling up the app files. You’d helped Ned code the app, so you knew it was based entirely on community sightings of Spider-man, constantly taking in reported locations and spitting them back out for the users. 

Which meant you knew how to compile a list of his most common locations. Maybe if you could narrow it down enough, you could figure out where he could be.  

You make a mental note to talk to Ned about how dangerous this app could actually be, and then you get to work. 

You can’t believe how many people have been using the app. There are hundreds of thousands of sightings and photos and videos to sort through. It takes you hours. 

Which is definitely attributed to you constantly getting distracted by videos of Spider-man after fights, heaving chest and weak knees, swinging off all alone. 

How many wounds had he had to treat by himself? 

How lonely he must be. 

You don’t narrow it down to a few specific locations until close to midnight. Queens (of course), a five block radius of sightings going back to when Ned officially published the app. You compile the time stamps. 

Most of them are in the middle of the night, into early morning. 

“God, Peter, when do you sleep?” You mutter to the screen as your code spits the times back at you. You’re almost sick with how much you want to hold him. 

It’s late. It’s late and you should wait until tomorrow. At least until the sun comes up. But you dismiss the thought as soon as you have it. You feel like you’ll die if you wait any longer to find him. Plus, it’s the perfect time. The app said so. 

And you’ve never been a very patient person. 

So you go to your room to get ready, and you hesitate. Should you…look nice? What if you don’t even find him? What if you find him and he says he doesn’t want you—

No. You’re not going there. This is Peter. Yes, you’d forgotten him. You’d forgotten him and the guilt was eating away at you for it. But you knew him. Even through the haze, you know him. 

As angry as you are, you know why he did what he did, self-sacrificing idiot. 

You hated that it made you love him even more. 

In an effort to be quick, you just throw on a sweatshirt, jeans, and sneakers. You grab your mace and make sure your keys are poking through your fingers, just in case. Small crimes have practically disappeared over the past four years, but you were going to a part of Queens your mom and even Peter had once warned you about, so you weren’t going to take any chances. 

Plus, a crazy part of your brain whispered, if you get mugged, maybe he’ll come save you.

Yep. Definitely losing your mind a little. 

You ride the subway with tunnel vision. Mapping where you’ll go, how long you’ll look, how much it’ll take before you give up. It’s quiet on the subway, only the occasional sleepy passenger and drunk college kids going home in crowds. But once you get to your stop in Queens, you exit alone. 

You take a deep breath, and you start walking. Eyeing alleyways and rooftops, ears perked for any movement. Keys in one hand, Spidey Tracker open in the other, map devoid of any spider symbols. 

You loop the blocks slowly, one direction then the next. It’s probably the stupidest thing you’ve ever done, being out so late on your own, but you had that feeling. The only one you’d trusted since college  Since, now you knew, you’d forgotten everything. 

The feeling of being right. Of being sure. 

So you keep walking, holding on to hope that the stragglers you avoid on the sidewalks will see something you don’t and set off the app. You keep staring at the screen, at the void of streets with no red icons, urging one to pop up. 

Which, in the end, was the thing that actually took first place for the stupidest thing you’d ever done. 

Because you hadn’t been paying attention. If you had, you’d have heard the footsteps. You’d have heard the schlick of the pocket knife being cracked open. 

You would have been able to close your hand around the mace on your keychain before you’d been pushed into an alley, face pressed hard into the brick wall, until it stung. 

The man holding you grunts as he slams your wrist against the wall to get you to drop your phone. You try not to cry out at the pain, to not show them how scared you are as it clatters to the ground. 

Your mind goes somewhere very, very far from your body. 

Another pair of hands wretches your keys from your grip, and then there you are, defenseless. The one holding your wrist yanks you back around and slams your back against the brick. He keeps one hand firmly on your shoulder and brings the other up to your throat. You feel the prick of the knife against the underside of your jaw, and grind your teeth against the whimper that wants to escape. 

You can barely see the man’s face under his hood in this darkness, barely make out the shape of his eyes. He must see the screen of your phone on the ground, because he snorts. “Looking for Spider-man?” 

His friend chuckles. 

“He’s not here,” He continues, his tone mocking. He runs a finger down the side of your face, and you think you’re going to throw up. “It’s just you. And us.” 

Your phone vibrates from where it’d fallen, still open to Spidey Tracker. A notification brightens the screen, then:

New Spider-man sighting! Location: Queens.  

The one holding you freezes a second before a web wraps around the knife he’s holding against you and drags it up into the darkness. 

“I’m sorry,” A voice calls from somewhere above, hiding where the light doesn’t touch. “Were you using that for something?” 

Your body crumples against the brick in relief. It’s him. 

The man doesn’t even have time to move before he’s getting jerked back, so hard his body goes flying into the adjacent wall. Before you can even blink he’s encompassed completely in webs, eyes and mouth obscured. 

The other one starts running immediately, but a figure swings from the shadows, kicking him straight in the chest and sending him sprawling against a dumpster with a deep clang. You have one second to let out a breath before he’s enveloped, too. 

It all happens so fast. Them getting webbed, Spider-man talking through the mask like he’s on a phone call, saying the words mugging and two males, early 20s, she’s safe. Then picking up your phone and keys, pressing a gentle hand into your upper back, and guiding you back out onto the street. The glow of the lights almost blind you, and you blink. 

You’re…okay. 

You look back into the alley, your attackers groaning into the dark. 

Wow, you think. 

“Are you okay?” Spider-man—Peter—asks, keeping his distance now that you're safely in the street and can see him fully. Cloaked in red and blue, the white eyes of the suit expanding and contracting as he takes you in. As he, no doubt, realizes who you are. 

You know exactly when he does, because his entire body tenses up and goes still, easy to see under the material that hugs every single muscle that has only grown bigger since you’d last seen him this close. You watch, slowly, as his free hand clenches into a fist, and then he’s crossing over towards you, fast. 

Fingers on your chin, turning you to face the light, to check for damage. A small, choked off sound when he must see something there. Now that your adrenaline is fading, you can feel the pain against your cheek, the way your knees are shaking, the other hand he’s put against your side to hold you up. He’s so warm, is your first coherent thought, so warm and here. 

“I’m okay,” You manage. Your voice sounds breathless, scared. 

Spider-man’s fingers leave your jaw, move up as if he means to press them against what you assume is a cut on your face, but then stop. You feel him take a breath, so close to you, then pull away. He takes a step back, two. Your body goes cold.  “What are you doing here?” He asks you, his voice desperate and wounded under the mask. You don’t have to see him to know the quiver in his lip, the worry that has to be shining in his eyes. But he clears his throat and backs up even more, almost completely out of the light now. “I mean…uh…why are you out here this late? Alone?” 

There’s a roughness on the alone, an anger you know from when you’d tried to help him stop a car jacker in junior year and gotten thrown to the ground, hard. The memories come easier now, a constant stream of pieces that leave you disbelieving that this man loved you. That he’d cared for you and you’d cared for him. Peter Parker. Spider-man. 

You hadn’t planned what to say. You sure as hell hadn’t actually planned on getting mugged, despite the real possibility. Your mouth feels dry and your body is buzzing with nerves, battling with the need to touch him. You open your mouth, not even sure what will come out—

New Spider-man sighting! Location: Queens. 

You both jump. 

Across the street, you see a flash, and a voice yells, “Spider-man!” Your phone vibrates and sounds another notification, and you see the spider icons start popping up, reflecting against the material of his suit where he’s still holding your phone. “Spider-man, could I get a picture?” 

Spider-man looks at the person starting to cross the street, then looks at you, then back. The eyes of his suit are impossible to see through, but you can see the indecision in every line of his body.  

Whether he should leave you for the police. Whether you want him to. 

You think back to the other night, the urge to tell him wait for me despite not knowing him. What had happened when you didn’t do it. 

You’re desperate. You have this feeling that if you let him walk away now, you won’t have another chance. That he’ll swing away or the cops will come and you’ll lose him, anyway. You grab at his arm, the hard line of his bicep, and all you can say, all you can whisper, is, “Peter.” 

His head whips over to you. Those eyes contract in, out, in, out. He goes utterly, completely still. You wish you could see his face, see what he was thinking. How he was looking at you. 

There’s a whoosh of breath from under the mask. He takes a step closer to you and your heart has enough time to jump into your throat by the time he hands you your things, wraps one arm around your waist, and tells you lowly, “Hold on to me.” 

So you do. Hands around his neck, so close to the line of his mask, as he shoots the two of you up and away from the pedestrian who throws his hands up, away from the incoming police sirens, and across the rooftops. You feel the wind in your hair for just a moment, enough time for you to smile, to let the part of you that’d forgotten everything remember what it had been like, before you’re on concrete again, however many stories up. 

Spider-man lets you go like he’s been burned, pacing a few steps away and running his hands over his mask, where you know he’d be pulling at his curls if he could get to them. 

All at once, he turns to you. “What did you say?” 

Quiet, nervous, as if he’d heard wrong. 

It’s a slow thing, dropping your things to the ground and walking over to him. He tracks your every movement carefully. Tracks it as you bring your hands up, across his shoulders, up to where the mask meets the neck of his suit. You run the pads of your fingers under the material, finally finally against his skin, and he shivers against you. 

You wait to see if he’ll stop you, but he’s practically swaying on his feet under your touch. You don’t think he’s breathing, don’t think he lets out a breath until you pull off the mask and your eyes meet. 

There’s a scratch across his forehead, right over his eyebrow. A bruise on his jaw. His eyes are glistening as they take you in, running over and over your face, searching. Hopeful. 

Perfect. 

The mask thudding to the ground sounds like it’s miles away.

“Peter,” you murmur. You press your hand to his cheek, and he leans into it, melts into it. 

He laughs, a disbelieving thing. A tear falls from his eye and curls around your thumb as he loops his fingers around your wrist, loose and distracting.  “You remember.” 

You feel like there are a thousand little stars in your chest, shining and imploding. You nod, and with a sniffle, realize you’re crying, too. Smiling, too. So hard you feel the strain of it. “I remember.” 

You look at each other, twin tear-stained cheeks, and then Peter is pulling you close, into his chest. You throw your arms over his shoulders, run a hand into the hair at the nape of his neck. He shudders, ducks his head into your collarbone, and bunches his hands into the fabric at your waist as if he’s scared you're going to disappear. 

You stand there for what feels like hours, breathing each other in. The smell of the wind on him, so familiar to you, so similar to how it was before everything happened. Like nothing had changed, like you hadn’t spent four years feeling his absence without knowing why. 

But he pulls away from you, sudden. Far enough to look into your eyes. “Tell me you’re okay.” His hand lifts to run against the cut on your cheek.  Moves down to your arms, the redness of your wrists. You feel his touch rattle into your bones.  “I hate that this happened to you.” 

“I’m okay, Peter. Promise.” You can’t stop saying his name, marveling at the feel of it on your tongue after not saying it for so long. 

The look he gives you is so pained. “Let me fix this for you.” 

You shake your head, even as your stomach twists pleasantly at the tone of his voice. “It’s nothing.” 

He grips your chin, and you wish you could feel his fingers without the suit. He makes you look at him, to see the emotion in his eyes. He says your name, low and sweet, and you feel like breaking apart. “Please.” 

“Okay.” 

You would’ve gotten mugged a thousand times—hell, you’re scared of what you’d be willing to go through—if it meant it would end with you right here, with Peter leading you down into his apartment. 

It’s a mess of tech: a line of monitors on a large desk, a fancy-looking printer lasering up something you can’t see, a treadmill shoved into a corner. The bed is a mess of threadbare sheets, and the kitchenette is bare, just a couple of chip bags and protein powder sitting on a shelf by the fridge. 

It’s…honestly, it makes you feel unbearably sad. 

You’d been going to college, learning about computers and SQL and Python, meeting Ned and MJ to study on the quad, making friends and new memories. 

And he’d been here. 

“Here,” Peter says, tugging you over to sit at the edge of his bed. He leaves you there, taking off his mask and throwing it haphazardly onto his keyboard, bending to tug out a giant first aid kit from underneath the desk. When he returns, he kneels between your legs, still in his suit, thigh muscles rippling and bulging against the fabric. 

A secret you hadn’t even told MJ and Ned: you’d had a crush on Spider-man. Crush sounded ridiculous, but it was the only way you could describe it. Even at MIT, you’d watched any video you could of him swinging around New York, thinking about the man under the mask. Could you be blamed, seeing how he filled out that suit? 

It’d made a lot more sense in the past couple of days. Maybe you didn’t remember Peter Parker, but your body sure as hell remembered Spider-man. 

It’s a little overwhelming, Peter looking up at you tenderly through his lashes, clad in something almost obscene. Two sides of the same coin. 

Very overwhelming, actually. 

He gets to work cleaning your cut, standing between your knees. He holds one hand against your jaw, fingers reaching into your hair, as he gently dabs it with alcohol. You sigh into the touch, and wait until he’s finished putting tape on it to say, “I missed you, you know. I might have forgotten you, but I don’t think my body ever stopped wondering where you were.” 

He must have been waiting for you to say something first, because he lets out a deep, shuddering breath. He tilts your head up with the hand still in your hair, and with the other, traces the line of your bottom lip. You feel like you’re on fire, hot under the touch. He’s looking at you like he had the other night, like he’s scared you’re going to disappear from right under his hands. “I missed you, too. So much. Every day.” 

You want to ask, then why? Why did you let me forget? 

But you’ve spent so much of the last forty eight hours angry, and right now, you want to be relieved.

The anger can come later. It will come later. 

Peter is doing this half-smile, gaze still caught on your face. “I was always—“ a huff, another graze against your lip that leaves you reeling. “I was always thinking about you. It was distracting. I couldn’t—I couldn’t do anything.” 

You run your hand up his abdomen, clad in red. It pulses under your touch, and Peter’s breath hitches like he’s in pain. You stop at the spider on his chest, drag a finger across the surface. “You seemed like you were doing just fine.” 

He sighs and shakes his head. “There’s so much to tell you. But I don’t want to drag you back—“ 

“Do not finish that sentence.” 

Suddenly you’re standing, finger pointed at his chest. You clench your teeth against the anger that hits you, white-hot. You’d been doing so good, forgetting it. You try to breathe, breathe through the reality that he’s trying to do this to you again. “Peter,” the way his face crumples under you saying his name again almost gives you pause. “I’ve lived without you for four years. And I’m so pissed at you for doing that to me. Thinking about you in this shithole—sorry—all alone for all that time makes me so angry. Thinking about you leaving me and Ned and MJ in a world where we think you don’t exist is—is so—“ 

You have to break off to breathe. Peter is following every word you’re saying, even as his eyes grow red with tears again. 

“I’m mad, Peter. I’m heartbroken that you did this to me. But now I can tell you that I do know what it’s like to live without you. Whatever life you wanted for me, away from you, from all of this, I got it.

“And I hated it. I spent every second feeling like something was missing. You know the first date I tried to go on, I puked twice before I even made it out the door and had to cancel? Everything was so wrong all the time. You said you were always thinking about me? Well I was always thinking about you and I didn’t even know why.

“Peter.” You touch his face, and you feel your expression shift, recognize it from your dreams. The soft slant of your mouth, the warmth of your eyes. “I’d rather be in danger every day of my life, every second, than to keep living it without you. I can’t do it anymore, and I won’t do it.” 

And Peter, through his tears, through the lump in his throat starts to say, “I don’t—“ 

You cut him off. “Do you love me? Still?” 

Even though you’d known the answer, known it since he’d knocked on your door as a stranger, it’s a relief when he immediately nods his head. “Yeah. Yes. You know I—yes, of course. Always.” 

Always. 

“Do you want to be with me? I’m talking about Peter Parker. No Spider-man, no multiverse bullshit. You.”

You watch, transfixed, as his defenses lower. As he’s left deflated, nothing but messy curls and sad eyes. “Yes.”

“Then be with me.” 

“I can’t—“

“If you want me out of your life, you’re gonna have to get Doctor Strange to make me forget again. I mean that. I love Peter Parker, and there is no Spider-man without Peter Parker. And if Peter Parker loves me, and Peter Parker wants to be with me, I’m gonna let him.” For good measure, you add, “Fuck Spider-man.” 

It gets a surprised laugh out of him, as watery as it is. The smile stays after, too. Even through it, through how much you’re sure he’s heard you, you know you haven’t completely convinced him. You see the hesitation behind his eyes. 

Stubborn, stubborn man. You could get him to change what kind of candy he wanted at the store, but when he came to what he thought protected you, it was like talking to a wall. 

And unsurprisingly, you were failing. 

“Just,” you touch his hand, revel in how it immediately envelopes yours like second nature. “Be with me. At least for tonight. No Spider-man, no memory curse that I’ll definitely need to talk to you about later, just Peter. You and me.”

He squeezes your hand once. “You and me.” 

Your chest feels like it could cave in with the relief. You’d do it. You’d convince him, some way. 

For now, you just wanted to see him. 

“You want to change out of the suit?” You ask him, “I wanna…feel you.” 

It comes out…not how you intended it. You just meant you wanted to feel the skin of his hand when he touched your face, the jut of his collarbone under your touch, the stretch of his bicep. 

But he gulps, hard. “I, uh—Yeah. Yeah, I can go—“ He throws a thumb over his shoulder, looking panicked, and honest to God stumbles over his feet. “I have—clothes, bathroom. Yeah. Be right back.” 

You laugh into the dark, and you think the lightness of your chest could fill the entire room. The entire city. 

When Peter returns in a hoodie and sweatpants—looking so much more like the boy you fell in love with—his cheeks are still red. He comes to stand close to you, chest to chest, and lets out a breath like it'd been hard to be so far from you for that small time. 

This was your Peter. Say all you want about Spider-man, but Peter would always be yours, tucked against your ribcage like a secret just for yourself. Whether he liked it or not. 

He leans his forehead against yours. Already, being out of the suit has made him softer. More honest. “I’m so happy you’re here. I’m scared I’m dreaming.” 

You do what you’ve been dying to do since two nights ago, even if you’d been avoiding the feeling. Run your hands under the bottom of his hoodie, splay them against his lower back. He’s so warm, and just touching him makes you feel too full, a soda can shaken too much just before opening. His content sigh, the way his body slackens the smallest bit, the heavy blink he gives you.

“Me too. It’s how I remembered you—a dream.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Us on the roof. I was saying your name. I was happier than I’d been in years. When I woke up I just…kept remembering. Stole Ned’s computer to try and find you.”

“Spidey Tracker…you coded it, didn’t you?”

You nod against him, pleased he’d noticed. “Totally dangerous, by the way. Someone could track you down easily.”

“Someone did.” He smiles at you, not at all threatened by someone using it to hurt him, not afraid.

You roll your eyes, and his crinkle at the corners, running over your face, catching on your lips.

Staying there.

“Hey, Peter?”

He makes a humming sound, distracted.

“When are you gonna kiss me?”

There’s a soft, startled gasp in the back of his throat. He looks back at you, eyes a little wide. “I didn’t know if you wanted me to.”

“I’ve been waiting four years to kiss you.”

He licks his lips, blushing at your words. He brings his hand to cradle the back of your head, just how you like it, and keeps the other under your chin to angle you so all you see are his eyes. “Can you say my name again?”

You wonder how long it’d been since he’d heard it. His name, meant for him.

“Kiss me, Peter.”

And he does, groaning softly against your mouth, tightening his grip on your hair just enough to have you sighing into him. He breaks away, tilts your face just the slightest bit, and meets you again, devouring.

This had been one of your favorite things, when Peter shucked off the awkwardness and became a mix of demanding, gentle, and eager.

It’s one of the last memories that come to you, how your body responds to him. Where to touch him so that his breath stutters, his fingers flex against your jaw. You run your hands up the notches of his spine and suck on his bottom lip, knowing the low groan that will come after. Trace your thumbs up the ridge of his abs, knowing his hips will twitch towards yours, knowing it makes him pull your head back to lick deeper into your mouth.

But he knows you too. Knows to put a hand on your lower back to arch you into him. Knows to, when your kisses start to get sloppy, spin you so that he can sit on the bed and pull you with him. Your knees on either side of his hips, him looking up at you.

Kiss-swollen. Dazed.

“I love you,” Hands teasing under the hem of your sweatshirt, he kisses your cheeks, your forehead. His thumbs are white-against the skin of your stomach as he presses his lips to the shell of your ear and whispers, “I’m sorry.”

He tells you twice more, hugging you to him, sucking spots into your neck, the underside of your jaw.

“Peter,” You say his name again just to feel him sigh into your neck. Card your fingers through his curls and tug him where you want him. “I’ll always love you.”

You sound so much like the girl in your dream. The past, happy version of you, with no missing pieces in your brain. This time, just a little breathless.

Feeling Peter’s lips lift into a smile against your skin.

When he pulls back, all heavy lidded eyes looking up at you, hands halfway up your sweatshirt, splayed over your bare ribs possessively, you have an all-encompassing fear that you are dreaming. That there’s no way this is happening, this beautiful man pliant beneath you, absolutely lovely.

But he’s so solid under you, under your mouth. The small sucked and bitten marks on your neck feel real, the coiling warmth in your stomach that spikes the longer he looks at you with those dark eyes, as he runs his tongue over his bottom lip, feels real.

The fondness, the relief threatening to rip you apart feels real.

You put your palm over his heart, just to feel it racing.

The both of you breathe in the dark.

He tucks your hair behind your ear. “You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs. Then, absently, like he doesn’t really mean to say it, “You said you couldn’t live without me.”

“I said I don’t want to live without you.”

He shrugs a shoulder, smirking now. “Same thing.”

You pretend to think. “On second thought—“

He makes a noise that sounds a lot like nu-uh, rolling you onto your back in the bed and blowing air into your neck. It makes you laugh and completely stops you from finishing your sentence. You’re so, blindingly, happy.

He looms over you, arms bracketed on each side of your head. Smiling. “Stay here tonight.”

“Um, was that a question, or?”

He says your name again, slow. Savoring it. “Stay here with me tonight, please?”

And it really hadn’t been a question because obviously you would do it. You didn’t want to let him out of your sight. “I would love to,” you answer. “But I have a question for you, too.”

“Okay.”

You grin at how attentive he becomes, eyes curious.

“Who the hell is Maynard?”

Peter buries his head into your shoulder with a groan.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚. *ੈ✩‧₊˚. *ੈ✩‧₊˚. *ੈ✩‧₊˚. *ੈ✩‧₊˚. *ੈ✩‧₊˚. *ੈ✩‧₊˚. *ੈ✩‧₊˚. *ੈ✩‧₊˚

taglist: @dyinginpeace @ciel4life @zayas-exe @stayacarat @idkbeark @strawberrywatersworld @sue-me-i-wanna-be-wanted @strawbelly32 @nooneishere69420 @gayandfairycore @bella-the-proud-fangirl @thebadbatchfan @aesthetic-lyss @dearanakin @zfreakwchic @fanficarchiveyum @livshmi162020 @peaches-1515 @zenxvii @almostuniquecherryblossom @barnaclebeeshive @saltedcoffeescotch @moniquethageek @guccistardust @sisterslytherinog @ceyceyjj @sparklyrose51 @serenlyserratedwraith @crispidation @strawberrylov-er @sugarxchrry06 @idkwhatimdoing27 @feestyles @sydssvalntyne @flashcal @simonsbluee @xriox3 @serenitybloodmoon @keilahhhsstuff @ellelabelle @shiggysgf890 @nikithepuff @spideyaurora @maes-flowers @iloveneilperry @idkkujo @johnnyfuckingsexystorm @blynie247 @rxeae @lost-fantasy @sclareclipse7 @lizzygrantttlove @idecorateitlikeagrave @mvsticmoony @moongirl27 @wickedslashdivine @kg0626 @arsmut31 @withanushka32 @pastelsweaters-and-bubble-t @cloudyparadoxqueen

[everythingcollided]

in dreams, i meet you in warm conversation (part one)

part two

pairing: peter parker x fem!reader

word count: 2k

warnings: brand new day spoilers (but it's genuinely the smallest one you ever did see)

summary: you're avoiding the party that mj and ned wanted to throw, but that doesn't stop you from being found by a stranger. why can't you shake the feeling that he's familiar?

a/n: umm it's been eight years since i posted on this account? we're so back? saw brand new day in theaters (twice) and felt teenage me gnawing on the bars of her enclosure this one is for her (and for y'all). potential for a part two...

*ੈ✩‧₊˚. *ੈ✩‧₊˚. *ੈ✩‧₊˚. *ੈ✩‧₊˚. *ੈ✩‧₊˚. *ੈ✩‧₊˚. *ੈ✩‧₊˚. *ੈ✩‧₊˚. *ੈ✩‧₊˚

You’d never really liked parties. 

You didn’t know exactly what it was. You didn’t mind the music or the alcohol; even being around so many people was fun sometimes. Before everyone got drunk and started spilling things and yelling, obviously. But every single party you’d been to at MIT had felt…wrong. Like you were missing something. Like someone was supposed to be there with you, and they weren’t. 

Which didn’t make sense. Ned and MJ had gone to a majority of the parties you’d gone to throughout college, and they were your closest friends. How could you feel like something important was missing when everything important was already there with you? 

Either way, you’d started trying to avoid that gnawing feeling in your chest. Besides, you were growing out of the phase where going to every party and meeting every person you could fascinated you. Maybe one day that deep, dreadful sinking would go away. Maybe it would stop appearing at parties, on every birthday you turned a year older, on the small amount of dates you’d gone on where the feeling got so strong it made you nauseous.

Today, though, was an exception. You’d graduated this past summer and moved back to New York with MJ and Ned, and they were determined to throw one last party with all the college friends that had wound up back in the city, too. 

Well, Ned was determined. You and MJ were lukewarm about the whole thing. 

Which is why you were in your—abysmally small—bedroom, working through this line of code that you were pretty sure was going to get you fired from your shiny new job if you didn’t figure out why it wasn’t working, with your door open to the noise beyond. It was to keep an eye on MJ and Ned, you told yourself, even as you eyed all the swaying people around the TV you’d just spent fifty dollars on from Facebook Marketplace. Ugh, you should have moved it before. If they broke it, you were totally making Ned buy you takeout for a week.

You went back to work, thankful everyone seemed to be too preoccupied with the party to worry about the weird girl staring at her computer screen on her bedroom floor. You couldn’t figure this out. It was driving you crazy. You were sure it had worked yesterday evening, and then when you’d come into work this morning it was all wrong and every single test you did didn’t fix it and you were going to throw your computer—

A knock on your open door. A cleared throat. “Um, hey.” 

You looked up.

A guy around your age stood in your doorway. The first thing you noticed about him were his eyes, wide and expressive, looking at you as if you were the one who’d shown up in his bedroom. But…reverent too, almost in disbelief. He was looking at you like he’d never seen a girl before. 

But he was cute. And something about him…

He seemed familiar. 

“Are you okay?” he asks you. His gaze starts to bounce around the room the second you meet it, avoiding your eyes. “You looked, um, mad?”

“Oh!” You laugh a little at yourself. “I’m just doing some work. I’ve been told I look mad when I can’t figure something out. I don’t even realize it.” But who had told you that? It wasn’t your family, or Ned or MJ. But someone had told you. Who had it been?

The guy shifts on his feet. You realize he’s holding a bouquet of flowers, which is a weird thing to bring to a party, but you find it charming. He squints his eyes at you, but the corner of his mouth is lifting like he wants to smile. It makes something in your chest flutter. “You’re doing work during a party?”

He’s teasing you. You feel yourself smiling back. “Yes, I am. Super important work, I might add.”

“Oh, yeah?” He leans a shoulder against your doorframe, eyes on yours now. 

You can’t look away. 

“Yep. Keep an eye out because I’m gonna dethrone Spider-Man from the first page of the Daily Bugle tomorrow with my amazing work on debugging this finance app that only has three hundred downloads. Really groundbreaking stuff.” 

He smiles fully, now. It makes you feel triumphant, nervous, and warm. “That’s awesome because I love—What’s the name of the app?”

“Financipply” Stupid name. From the doubtful look he sends you, he agrees.

“That’s perfect because I love Finacnipply. Can’t wait to see you on the front page.” You roll your eyes, but you laugh. You both do, his shy and small, as if he hasn’t done it in a long, long time. As if he shouldn’t be laughing at all. But his eyes are bright. They turn towards the floor as your laughter dies, shy.  “So what can’t you figure out?”

And you just can’t stop looking at him. You motion towards your computer screen vaguely. “Just this code. I don’t know what’s wrong with it. It’s just not working.” 

He takes a small step forward. “Do you think…Can I…look at it?”

“For real? You code?”

He shrugs, one hand in his pocket. Adorable. “I…dabble?”

“Are you sure about that?” 

Another flash of a smile. “Yes, I’m sure.”

“Alright then. Knock yourself out.”

He comes to sit next to you on the rug you found at the thrift store a couple blocks away, rubbing his palms over his jeans and looking intently at your computer screen. He smells like clean laundry and the rain the city had earlier in the day, and he’s looking at your code like he actually understands it. “Oh wow. Cool.” He scrolls through it a couple times, up, down. You’re entranced by his profile, so close.  He stops to type. “Did you try this?” 

You blink. Look at the screen. “Oh my gosh, no.” A simple line edit. You know when you see it that it’ll work. “Holy shit. You did it. Holy crap. Thank you. You’re, like, awesome.” 

“It was nothing.” But he's ducking his head with a blush.  “Seriously.” 

“What’s your name, anyway? Since you saved me from getting fired.”

“Um, May..nard.” 

“Maynard.” It sounds wrong. You’ve never had that thought before—that someone’s name is wrong. But it’s a sure feeling in your chest. The one you have when you know your code tests are going to work, and when you decided you wanted to move back to the city. It’s really the only feeling you trust anymore. 

“Yep.” He leans back on his palms, and your eyes run down his arms unconsciously, tracking muscles and veins. You have a brief, overwhelming urge to curl closer to him, to run your hands down his biceps, to take his hands into yours and trace the lines of his palms. And it feels normal, to have that feeling. So normal, your body almost starts moving on its own accord. But his voice breaks you out of it. “So, is this what you want to do? Program apps?” 

You tell him that your dream is to work on developing video games, and he nods like it makes complete sense and gets you to tell him that you’d love to make a game based off of Star Wars, which makes his eyes light up in a way that has your breath catching. 

And that’s how you end up talking to a cute boy on the floor of your bedroom for an hour, about Star Wars and your favorite video games and what got you into them in the first place. He makes you laugh, and talking to him is so easy. It’s hard to believe you just met him now and not in high school. He would fit right in with MJ and Ned. You can almost see it for a moment; the four of you hanging around the diner MJ used to work at before college, laughing and teasing and studying. The image is so visceral that for a moment it feels real. 

You’re just about to invite him over sometime because you’re so sure that they’d love him and that you want to get to know him better, when there’s a crash from the living room. 

Both of you turn, and your face immediately drops. That better not have been your TV. 

You sigh. “I need to go make sure nothing important is broken.” You almost add on a desperate wait for me, but he’s already standing up and holding out a hand for you. 

That would have been too weird to ask for, anyway. Right? 

You let him pull you up. When your hands touch, it’s almost as if the warmth radiates from his calloused fingers, grips your heart, and drags it all the way down to your toes. He lets go quickly, as soon as you’re on your feet, but you stand there for a moment, disoriented. Feeling like…feeling like you’re right where you need to be. But also like you’ve forgotten to do something. It pulls at your brain like a grocery item list you know you were thinking about five minutes ago, but no matter how far you reach, you can never remember what it was. 

It shouldn’t bother you this much—you’ve been feeling it since you went to college. It hung over you during orientation, and move-in day, and every visit home. It reaches you in dreams, and weirdly, whenever Ned shows you the thousands of videos he gets of Spider-Man swinging across the city. 

But you’d never felt this close to grasping it before. You can almost see an image in your brain, faded around the edges like an old photograph, a word floating just on the edge of your consciousness. 

“You okay?” He’s asking you. Maynard. God, why does that name sound so wrong to think?

He looks about a second away from grabbing your hand again. 

You want to let him. 

But you hear MJ’s voice from the living room, firm in the way she only uses when she’s annoyed, and you know that your TV is probably done for. Maynard seems to be able to sense it too, because he urges you to go. 

And your TV is broken, thanks to some idiot and his friend who decided to start play-fighting for no reason. He gives you a twenty from his pocket, but you can’t even focus. Your mind is too busy playing back your night. Warm brown eyes, messy curls, soft smiles. You end up just waving it off—but you keep that twenty—and rushing back to your room to find Maynard. 

Only, he’s not there when you return. 

Your laptop is closed and placed at the foot of your bed. On top, the bouquet he showed up with. 

You stand there, in the middle of your tiny room, touching your fingertips to the carnations and grieving. 

Grieving for what? You keep asking yourself. Why do I feel this way?

But you can’t figure it out. It stays, stays, stays. 

Later that night, his face comes to you in your dreams. It’s younger, unburdened with the sadness you’d seen lying underneath. He’s laughing, bright and beautiful, and he’s looking at you. You’re on a rooftop somewhere, both of you golden in the sun, and he’s saying your name with a fondness that notches into your spine. 

I love you, he says, and he means it. It’s in his eyes, in the way his expression melts into softness, in the way he traces his fingers across your shoulder and pulls you into him. 

Peter, your voice sounds just as yours does now, weighed down by adulthood. You run your fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck, and there’s a peacefulness in your body that you know you haven’t felt in years, even through the haze of the dream. I’ll always love you.

You feel the press of his lips to your hair, the curve of them as he smiles.

You wake up. Gasping, gripping the thin sheets of your bed, sweat gleaming on your collarbone. 

Peter, your mind whispers to you in the dark.

“Peter.” You murmur it into the moonlight shining across your floor, to your heart beating against your ribcage, to the knot in your stomach that finally releases. 

“Peter.” You say again. Taste it on your tongue, certain you’ve said it a thousand times, in a million different ways.

And the dark whispers back, Peter Parker. 

[hanasnx]

MINORS DNI 18+ . . . 🕷️

thinking about BND!PETER’s arachnid hormones subconsciously releasing pheromones whenever you’re near enough to him, spider n human dna marrying to chemically attract a suitable mate or just reacting to being triggered by peter’s own attraction to you. he’s of age, it’s only natural. he’s not even aware of it, only asking you with a grin, “what’s gotten into you?” after you ask for another round for the umpteenth time. using your batting lashes n bite-swollen lips to lure him into giving you what you want. creeping your hands up his shirt n making out w his neck so his eyes roll into the back of his head. “how are you…?” he trails off when he gets distracted. he lowers his voice, like it’s a secret, talking in your ear, “how can you go again?” without the slightest inkling that he’s the reason you’re so insatiable. vainly, he’d like to think it’s cos he’s gotten bigger, been working on his body, his biceps thick enough to ride at night when you’re particularly needy… it doesn’t occur to him that he’s put you under a spell. he’s just putting that inhumane stamina to work when he’s giving his baby yet another creampie.

[arachine]

❤︎ . . . how a typical morning looks before it's time for peter to head out for patrol

smut adjacent. domestic fluff. feeling soft for my boy atm gross :3

peter's gotta be up and out the door for morning patrol by 8 am. you woke him up at 7 am. already horny. already pawing at him to fix it. at 7:01 am, peter slides your panties to the side and sinks in all the way to the hilt. fucks you on your side nice and slow until you're coming around him with a broken sob.

at 7:15 am, peter attempts to unsheathe himself from you, and you release a whine in protest, and by 7:16 am, he's swinging you over his lap, guiding you down the length of him until you're fully sat on his cock.

he carries you from the bed to the kitchen, one hand resting firmly on your bottom, while the other twists the knob to the gas stove. he's holding you so effortlessly, unfazed and still groggy with sleep, sighing into your hair intermittently every time you roll your hips. truthfully, he could fuck you here against the counter, do it for you real nice and sweet before he leaves for the day, but you're always adamant on getting there yourself.

and it's endearing, he thinks. watching you work yourself on him. watching you take what you need because he's happy to give it. and it turns him on thinking about the sheer domesticity of it; how you're unwilling to part from him too soon, so you cling around him until the very last second. holding him, and smelling him, and kissing him until it's time for him to actually get going.

by 7:30 am, he's settled on the couch. strokes your back in mindless, zephyr-light circles, while you lay limp against him, weak from your third orgasm of the morning. slick with sweat. you make idle chatter while he drinks his coffee, and he listens. you talk about your plans for the day, what you're eating for dinner later, what movie you'll watch tonight before bed. he loves this part.

by 7:50 am, he's already showered and ready to go. you're laying on your side in bed, watching him with a sweet smile as he slips his mask on before opening the window. and this? this is the part he hates. loathes. detests. it never gets easier but on days like this, the warmth and the touch of your body remains with him until his return.

© all rights reserved arachine 2026. do not repost, modify, plagiarize, or recommend my work outside of tumblr.

[buckygasm]

Peter being the type to film you on his phone so he can jack off to it later while you're splayed out all prettily beneath him. Your face flushed warm, tears trickle down your soft cheeks as the girth of him stretches you open.

And Peter's soooo pretty when he gets noisy. All groans and huffs and moans while his fat balls tap against your soaked folds.

He's so clumsy behind the camera. Too focused on you and making sure you're feeling okay, making sure you're still all there when the plush head of his cock grazes that spongey part inside of you that makes you gasp and your brows furrow.

Peter pushes one of your legs up and over his shoulder, moving the camera to show your pussy off to the camera. "Spread it for me, baby– yeah, like that." You're so quick to listen in this fluffy little headspace; spreading the top of your folds wide to show off the way your pussy wraps tight around his pink-flushed cock.

You shiver a little at the exposure, whispering "Petey c'monnn, m'shy." All you get is a scoff, "No you're not." He gives a light tap to the plush curve of your ass, "Thank you, baby." He hums, pumping into you.

You whimper a bit and he's so quick to tune out everything but you with a "Y'okay?" He gages softly, pumping languidly in and out of your heat. You nod but you're grabbing for him all the same and he just forgets the video all together. Just chucks his phone to the side and gathers you up in his arms, wrapping your legs around his hips as he rolls his hips into yours.

[sluvaffair]

Headcanon position for arachnid spider-man?

✴︎ Have You Ever Tried This One? ✴︎

     ↳ Warnings/Themes: Mature (🔞). Smut. Multiple positions described. crying mention. overstimulatedish mention.

☁️: oh now you guys are COOKING in my asks! i changed this from one position to just my headcanon for sex w arachnid!spidey, i hope that's okay xx

General Masterlist here. Peter Masterlist here.

↳ Arachnid!Spidey who: will hold you down with one hand between your shoulder blades, while the other grips your waists so tightly that you know will leave a bruise. He'll keep you like that so you can feel every inch, vein, and ridge of him drag against your walls.

↳ Arachnid!Spidey who: spreads your cheeks just a little bit wider so he can watch how every hard thrust drives himself deeper within you. how his dick is coated with your slick every time he pulls out.

↳ Arachnid!Spidey who: presses you down against the bed, caging you in by his arms, because he needs you to feel consumed by him. He needs you to be completely at his mercy whilst he turns you into a blubbering mess.

↳ Arachnid!Spidey who: will whisper the filth in your ear that peter parker would never.

↳ Arachnid!Spidey who: will tease you when you try to arch away from the pleasure "awww," he says without an inch of sympathy, "my pretty girl can't handle my dick." or "weren't you just begging for this?"

↳ Arachnid!Spidey who: keeps bringing you to the brink of orgasm only to back off, black eyes shining with delight when frustrated tears well in your eyes. he'll threaten to, and probably will, web your hand to the bed when you keep trying to touch yourself. Every bit of your pleasure needs to come from him.

↳ Arachnid!Spidey who: finally lets you cum, and then doesn't stop, pulling multiple orgasms out of you. his calloused fingers feeling rough as he circles your swollen clit again and again.

↳ Arachnid!Spidey who: is so sensitive that he'll cum all too easily when he feels your walls tighten around him, it's thick and warm and sticker than usual, clinging to your insides like it doesn't want to let go.

↳ Arachnid!Spidey who: while being sensitive, gets hard again within seconds, able to go so many rounds that you end up falling asleep on his dick as he continues rutting into you.

↳ Arachnid!Spidey who: uses every thrust to send a statement. your tits bouncing and bed creaking with every posessive reminder.

↳ Arachnid!Spidey who: expects you to mark him as best as you can. whether that's with your nails dragging down his skin, your teeth biting into his neck, or a stinging slap across his face.

↳ Arachnid!Spidey who: loves to see your reaction to him, how your hands curl desperately into the sheets, how your heart rate sky rockets, how your tongue falls out of your mouth, how your head lols

↳ Arachnid!Spidey who: cares about your pleasure too, so he'll never go beyond the limits of what you've discussed before.

↳ Arachnid!Spidey who: becomes a balanced peter after, and gives you the aftercare your body needs.

Ummm, so yeah. anyways, my thoughts were all over the place here but it's headcanons so no need for logical flow lmao. share thoughts as always x

[liliesonthego]

Peter Parker / I'm here for you ── 18+ (MDNI)

Summary ⟅ When it comes time for you to finally admit your feelings for Peter, you meet a version of him you've never seen before.

Requested: yes

Peter Parker x Reader /  ⟣ SMUT / 3.6k ⟢

Warnings: BND peter, no spoilers that aren't in the trailer, light angst if you squint, virgin!peter (is this canon...?), peter is SENSITIVE, some yearning, grinding, dry humping (everyone cheered), dirty talk, peter is losing control, p in v, dacryphilia, nipple sucking, peter cums A LOT, creampie, slight praise, he whines and whimpers a bunch, he overstimulates himself, kinda sub space, I think that's it?

Lily's note — 🪷 well this is clearly not my niche but i got that request and needy peter? you don't have to ask me twice. IF YOU ENJOY PLEASE LEAVE A COMMENT LETTING ME KNOW :D

It had taken you a while to break through to Peter. But ever since you bumped into him that first day of moving into your new apartment, there was something about his eyes—something that eerily reflected the pain you'd felt through the past years—that made you want to know him.

He was extremely hesitant at first, understandably so given what you knew now about the whole spiderman and everyone forgetting him thing, but after getting to know you and hearing about the barrage of troubles the universe had thrusted your way, he figured if there was anyone he could trust, it was you.

A year later, not much had changed in your lives. You were still two struggling adults in your twenties just trying to get by on the day-to-day, except now, at least you had each other to cope. At least you were able to find some reprieve and light, though the pain from your lives remained a low hum in the background. 

You weren't exactly sure when it began happening—maybe a few months in—but you noticed it randomly one day. Your heart started beating faster around him. Then, he began taking up extra space in your mind until eventually, the thoughts became too loud to ignore.

You chalked the feelings up to all the trauma bonding and hours you’d spent together trying to shut out and disappear from the real world. You tried to ignore the rush of joy you felt when he laughed, or the dizziness of your head whenever you caught a glimpse of him changing out of his suit, until you were drowning in a pool of affection that you weren't sure you could surface from. 

There’d been a few times the confession almost slipped from your tongue. The intimate nights sitting out on the fire escape with food and the sound of the city in the distance, or the times where he sat a little too close to you on the couch during movie nights.

But then he’d sigh, his gaze going foggy as he zoned out on some far off point, murmuring, “MJ would have hated this movie,” or “Ned used to love this burger place.”

And just like that the words would die on your tongue. How could you ever compete with the monument of love he carried for his past relationships? No, it was easier to suppress the feelings and toss them atop the mountain of other struggles you carried. You’d learn to manage with the extra weight simple because the alternative—a life absent of his presence—wasn’t something you could fathom.

Then things started changing.

First, he was suddenly busy on your sacred days off, days you would always spend together exploring new restaurants and coffee shops around the city. Then, he started turning you away on his patrol nights, nights where you’d kept him company and even helped patch up the nastier cuts he couldn't reach. Excuse after excuse came and the fear that he’d figured out your feelings twisted your gut with nerves.

It didn't take long for you to come to the conclusion that he was building a wall to preserve the sanctity of his memory with MJ. There could be no other reason for the sudden distance. You tried convincing yourself it was for the best. The perfect solution to help you cope with losing him, because if it wasn’t now, it would be later.

You lasted exactly three days. Three days of radio silence was what it took for you to realize that no, you couldn’t do this. You couldn’t stay away from him. Maybe it was the return to a forgotten loneliness, a deep, screaming void, that had you knocking on his door frantically that night, your fist nearly pounding through the paint-chipped wood.

The door cracked open an inch and before he could get the opportunity to reject you, you pushed your way through, bursting into his apartment with a temper he’d never seen.

“Hey, stranger,” you said with a hint of venom in your voice. You turned to face him, your eyes widening slightly at the sight of his pale, flushed skin, a fine sheen of sweat settled on his temples. His eyes looked unusually dark; you blinked your own a few times to clear them and make sure you weren’t seeing something that wasn’t there. 

He said your name through the rasp of his shaky voice. “I-I’m sorry, I’m busy right now… you should go.”

“Like hell I should,” you scoffed, any anxious thoughts replaced by an unwavering surge of protectiveness. “Is this why you’ve been ghosting me? Are you sick or something?”

His face suddenly scrunched up, his hand raising to hold his head as he whimpered in pain. “I’m n-not ghosting you… I just…”

You took a step closer to him, freezing when he flinched back and held out a hand to stop you. Your heart fell to your stomach as you watched his eyes darken further. “Pete, I don’t know what’s going on but, please, let me help you… Stop pushing me away.” 

You attempted another careful step forward until he pushed himself back against the wall.

“S-stop, stop! Please just… don’t come closer.”

You swallowed down the thick lump in your throat that had risen, clenching your hands into fists to stop them from shaking. You waited patiently for him to speak, scared that the next words that left him were going to be the ones to shatter your world.

“I,” he paused, breathing in a deep breath before continuing. “I can’t… trust myself to be around you right now.”

Your brows pressed together in confusion. “Why not?”

His eyes bore into the ground as he tried to gather his thoughts over the multitude of senses that surged the moment you approached his door, but everything was fuzzy and melted together until all he could feel was you. Your presence, and it was driving him crazy.

“My systems are detecting an abnormally high heart rate, Peter,” Evie’s robotic voice rang out. “System overload is approaching.”

“Not now, Evie,” Peter choked out.

You shook your head in disbelief. “You can trust me, Peter. Please. Haven’t I proven that to you? After everything?”

“I-It’s not that—”

“Then what?” You approached him despite his protests, not stopping until you were a step away from touching.

His brain nearly short-circuited, any lasting restraint vanishing as he allowed you to fully flood his senses. The shampoo you used this morning, the perfume you’d applied a few hours ago, the fast thump thump of your heart, a beautiful rhythm that drowned out all rational thought to disarm him completely.

“Something is happening to me,” he gasped, the words tearing from his chest. “My arachnid DNA is… it’s evolving. Mutating. Everything is turned up to ten thousand a-and my impulses—” he cut himself off, slamming his head back against the door hard enough to make it rattle on its hinges. 

You shook your head, your hands reaching for him again. “If you’re scared you’ll hurt me, you won’t—”

“No!” he spat out desperately. “It’s not that I—I c-can’t—” He was practically shaking now, violent tremors racking his body.

Your heart ached as you watched him. Unable to control yourself, you lifted your hands to cup his flushed cheeks, his skin burning under your palms. “Peter,” you whispered softly, your voice reaching him over the storm raging within.

He stared at you, his pupils dilated so wide, only a thin ring of the soft brown you loved so much was present. Your lips parted with a pant at the hunger displayed in them as you got lost in their depths, a raw need you’d never seen before. “Woah…”

A low, tormented whimper escaped him when your thumbs rubbed along his skin, the sound shooting straight to pool low in your stomach, spreading a heat you scolded yourself for internally. Now was not the time.

“I can’t think straight when you’re near,” he confessed through a strained voice. His hands clenched into fists at his sides. “I can’t act normal. I can’t pretend like I usually do… not when all I want to do is—”

He groaned, tipping his head back against the door, a final sliver of restrain returning before he crossed the line.

“What, Peter?” you pressed, leaning closer to eliminate the last inch of space between your bodies, your chests brushing. You looked at him with such care, your gaze so gentle and understanding and comforting. “What do you want to do?”

In the split second before he moved you were able to catch the black swallowing the last fragment of brown, followed quickly by the entirety of the whites of his eyes. Then his lips were on yours.

It was all consuming as his mouth moved over yours, desperately kissing as if you were the very air that filled his lungs and it was being threatened away from him.

His hands dug into your sides, fisting your skin to pull you flush against his body until you could feel the taught muscle hidden beneath his shirt. You gasped into his mouth when he lifted you to wrap your legs around his waist, moaning when he took the opportunity to slide his tongue along yours.

He fell back onto the couch behind him, keeping you close as he continued to devour your lips, whimpering when your fingers threaded through his hair, tugging to pull him back so you could take a breath.

He fought against your grip, his eyes opening to lock onto yours when you pulled harder. Your chest heaved as you stared into the black pools with awe.

“I-I’m sorry,” he managed to say through clenched teeth, barely suppressing the desire to ravage you whole. “I tried to hide my feelings but it's harder like this.”

The smile that graced your lips had his head spinning all over again, his eyes burning as they turned glassy.

“Feelings?” you mumbled, leaning down to ghost your lips over his, the heat in your belly spreading further when he tried to chase them. You curve into him just enough to feel something poking you as he let out another strangled gasp. “You like me, Peter?”

A tear slips down his cheek when you say his name, the sound falling so beautifully from your lips, making his cock pulse harder in his sweatpants. The grip he has on you tightens, subconsciously pressing you down over his throbbing boner.

“I’m sorry,” he repeats with a shake of his head. “I don’t want to ruin what we have, I just… can’t lose you, too.”

Your heart clenches when his voice cracks with agony. You want to scream at him and the world the depths of your feelings for him, how he could never lose you and how the same fear had been tormenting you for weeks. But words felt small, too insufficient. So you showed him by capturing his lips with yours once more.

He met them with relief, his arms wrapping fully around your torso to cage you against him in an attempt to get as close to fusing your bodies together as possible. You arched into him, fully dragging your core against his cock, the friction a sweet torture that had his mouth falling open in a broken moan. 

“Please,” he gasped against your cheek.

You buried your face in the crook of his neck, your lips latching onto the sensitive skin as you rocked your hips faster. You could feel every inch of his cock pressing against your heat, your aching clit pulsating in your soaked panties. His grip on you turned bruising, his fingers digging into the flesh of your hips as he guided your movements to match how much he needed you.

“So g-good… you feel so—mngh—” he whined.

Just then a sharp blaring came from the other side of the room, a sound you recognized as his police scanner. You stilled your movements and removed your head from his neck. Before you could say anything, Peter’s arm flung out. A web whipped through the air and a second later it connected with the phone, striking it hard enough for a loud crack to sound out, silencing the alarm.

His black eyes shot back to find your surprised ones. He’d never, ever, ignored the call. But tonight he didn’t care. Tonight, all he wanted was you.

You could practically see the possession in his eyes as he stood up, holding you against him. Seconds later, your back met the soft mattress of his bed as he laid you down, quickly pressing himself back between your legs, his mouth finding your neck, kissing and nipping a trail of fire. Your mind, however, was still trying to comprehend what you’d just seen.

He intertwined his fingers with yours, pinning your hands beside your head, his hips rutting shamelessly into you with a pressure that stole your breath. You turned to stare at his wrist, bare of the bulky web shooters.

“Peter,” you panted, arching into his thrust. “How did you… the web?”

His lips trailed up your cheek, messily kissing over your lips with a desperate fervor. 

“Arachnid DNA,” is all he mumbled.

“O-Oh.. cool,” you managed to say before he swallowed the word with his tongue.

He parted to sit back on his heels, pulling his shirt over his head to reveal his sweat slicked torso. Your mouth went dry when he pulled down his sweats and underwear in one go, kicking them off the rest of the way.

Your gaze dropped, a heady moan slipping at the sight of his thick cock flushed a deep red as it pulsed against his stomach, streams of precum dripping down the sides.

He climbed back over you, pressing his cock into your clothed heat to resume his rutting, panting little sounds of pleasure into your ear.

“Mnmh—ah! I can—fuck… I can feel how warm you are, can smell you." His hands slipped beneath your shirt, running up until they grazed the soft skin of your breasts.

Something new in him snapped when he realized you weren't wearing a bra. He started snapping his hips harder into you until your body was climbing up the bed. “I’m sorry—oh god… fuck, I’m so sorry—I can't stop—”

“It’s okay, Peter.”

“No,” he pleaded, his lips brushing your throat. “I can’t hold back anymore. Fuck—I need you to tell me—”

“I’m here for you, Peter,” you whispered, cupping his face to force his dazed eyes back to yours. His lids were blotchy with tears, his lips red and kiss-swollen. You could see the struggle in them, the fight against his depraved thoughts to make sure you were okay with this. It only made you want him more. “Use me.”

Any remaining tension in his face melted. His brows relaxed, the cute crinkles by his eyes smoothing over at your permission.

He shoved your shirt over your head, moaning at the sight of your chest, your nipples peaked and begging for his touch. He captured one in his mouth, laving it with his tongue before sucking hard. His other hand rolled the other between his fingers, flicking and pinching the sensitive bud, drawing out high pitched cries from your lips.

“Mmm, so pretty, taste so sweet.”

His free hand fumbled with your pants in an attempt to push them down, a frustrated, almost animalistic groan escaping him when they caught on your hips. He gave a small tug and tore the fabric away from your body, discarding it without a second thought.

“Hey!” you yelped, the protest dying when he pressed the hot head of his cock through your sodden folds, rubbing it through the slick mess. 

The slick sounds of your wet heat were enough to make his consciousness slip as he failed to suppress a sob.

He could hear every microscopic hitch of your breath in his heightened ears, every pulse at your clit against his shaft a divine torment, the rush of your blood beneath your skin. You watched, enamored, as his eyes fluttered weakly when his tip caught at your hole, and then he was pushing in.

“O-Oh fuu—” his eyes fluttered as your tight cunt clenched around the invasion.

“I’m sorry, so sorry—so tight, fuck, ‘M sorry—” he apologized in a continuous stream as he sank in, forcing himself deeper until he was fully bottomed out. Tears slipped from his eyes, cascading down his flushed cheeks, your walls clamping down to draw out more small cries from him, basking in the sight.

You sucked in a sharp breath at the stretch. It had been a while for you and Peter was so thick. You could feel every vein, every ridge of his cock dragging against your velvety walls as his hips met yours.

Before you could fully adjust and let the sting subside, he was pulling out and driving back into you with a punctured breath, stealing the air from your lungs. You dug your nails into the muscles of his back, biting your lip to suppress a yelp as he set a brutal pace, each thrust burying him just as deep.

The head of his cock kissed your cervix with an overwhelming, euphoric pressure. 

“Cunt feels so fucking good, squeezing me so tight.”

The pain began to fade, replaced by a pleasure so sharp it bordered on agony. You wrapped your legs tighter around him, locking your ankles, pushing him deeper inside you. “'M so full, Peter.”

He collapsed onto you, his lips leaving wet, sloppy kisses wherever he could reach as he fucked you mercilessly, his cock pistoning in and out of you.

The pressure in your belly snuck up on you, building and coiling tight like a live wire trapped beneath your skin.

“P-Peter—!” you cried out, your cunt fluttering around his cock. You bowed off the bed, your back arching as he fucked the orgasm out of you, wave after wave of white-hot ecstasy flowing through your nerves.

The foreign scent of your cum invaded his senses, something he could only describe as overwhelmingly you and all-consuming, causing his eyes to screw shut with a sob.

The violent constrictions of your walls around his cock only edged him on further. He fucked you through your climax with ragged, desperate bucks, his movements dissolving into a frenzy, the filthy sounds of wet skin slapping together filling the room.

You latched onto his wrists beside your head, feeling an intense heat radiating from the hypersensitive skin over his organic webbing. Before you were even aware of your actions, your head was turning, your lips pressing a soft kiss to his wrist.

Words were beyond him as your touch reduced him to incoherent, whimpering babbles. “Feels… s’good—mphm. C-Can’t… ‘M yours… all yours—”

His thrusts turned erratic, his gut tightening as he rested his forehead on your chest, nuzzling into your skin in an attempt to sink into you, to become one.

"It h- it hurts—can't stop... 'M sorry—"

You could feel his cock swelling inside you, his thrust faltering to shallow, uncoordinated thrusts. A sob wretched from him, wanton and broken, hot tears spilling from his clenched eyes, dripping onto your skin.

"Come for me, Peter."

He sank all the way in one last time, burying himself as deep as he could go as his body tensed.

Then his mind blanked.

His vision went black, speckled with stars. With a guttural cry, he came, his release a torrent, spilling deep into your cunt in thick, hot pulsing waves. He whined into your chest, his body spasming through each powerful jet.

You panted through each hard twitch of his cock, overwhelmed with the sheer volume of cum as he continued to fill you, the sensation so intense you struggled to catch your breath. It just kept going as he shook above you, his cum leaking out around the base of his cock still stuffed deep inside you.

He stayed there as your cunt milked every drop, creating a home for himself, content with living inside you for as long as you'd let him.

You carded a hand through his hair as tremors continued to wrack his oversensitive body. “Shh, you’re okay,” you whispered into his ear, your voice hoarse. “You did so good.”

He went boneless above you, a dead, spent weight. Eventually, his softened cock slipped from your used cunt, followed by a stream of his release dripping down to soak the sheets as you whimpered through it all.

A few moments later, the silence in the room was broken by Evie’s voice. “Heart rate regulated. Vitals have returned to baseline levels.”

It seemed to bring Peter back to earth. He lifted his head from your chest with a groggy moan, blinking blearily down at you. His eyes were back to their normal, warm brown, the black reduced to his pupils, though still glazed with wonder.

You guided him to his back, leaning over to wipe the tears from his cheek before pressing a soft kiss to his lips.

He sniffled, fresh tears welling in his bloodshot eyes. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, voice wrecked. “I didn’t… I didn’t want it to happen like that. I wanted to be… better for you.”

You shushed him gently, kissing his cheek. “We’re okay.”

“I’m sorry,” he insisted, the vulnerability clear in his tone. “I am.”

You shook your head, a small smile playing at your lips. “Then never ignore me like that again.”

He sniffled with a nod, his lips squirking up into that boyish smile that made your heart ache. “Okay.”

“Do you feel better?” you asked, your hands smoothing down his chest.

He nodded, a dark blush spreading across his cheeks and down his neck. “I didn’t know I could feel that good,” he admitted with awe. 

“Has it been a while for you, too?”

He swallowed hard, his gaze flicking away for a second before meeting yours again anxiously. ‘I’ve never, um…” he took a shaky, deep breath. “That was my uh, first time.”

Your hands froze on his chest. “What?”

He winced. “I told you I couldn’t control myself.”

You laughed at the surprising confession, leaning down to brush your nose against his. “Well, at least it was memorable.”

He smiled, all shy and genuine and so Peter-like, you couldn’t resist kissing him, tender and slow. Your hand continued rubbing, your thumb brushing over a nipple, circling it to a peak when he whimpered, his whole body jolting back away at your touch.

“Tsk, so sensitive.” Your hand trailed lower, grazing over the dips of muscle to rest just above where his cock was stirring back to life. “So how easy is it for that side of you to come out?”

His breath caught as your finger dug into the sensitive skin of his lower stomach. When you flicked your eyes back up to his, you saw it again.

The inky blackness had started to expand, swallowing the warm brown, once again drawn out by you. 

Don't be shy to leave a like comment or reblog, truly means the world to me :D

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[levionlyyours]

⊱˙.✧ Wildflower

☆ Summary: It was supposed to be harmless dare: find a flower, hand it to Levi, walk away. No one accounted for what that flower would do to both of you.

☆ Pairing: Levi Ackerman x Female Reader

☆ Genre/Tags: Modern AU, Enemies to Lovers, Smut

☆ Content Warnings: Alcohol use, explicit sexual content, dubious consent, sex pollen, aphrodisiacs, oral sex (f. receiving), unprotected PIV, multiple orgasms, creampie, multiple creampies, cockwarming, biting, dom!Levi

☆ Word Count: 6.1k

☆ AO3 Link

☆ a/n: This was the second highest voted poll option for the 400 follower celebration, which I chose to write for celebration of 500 followers! pls don’t ask for a part two I will lick a shopping cart if you do. if you ask for a second part, even as a joke, I will block you.

[ Art by usson0002 ]

You huddle on the worn plaid couch in the cabin’s living room, knees drawn up beneath you. The whole place smells like damp pine from the woods outside and the acrid tang of cheap alcohol burning your nostrils. Though the fire snaps and spits in the hearth, throwing orange light across the walls, it barely does anything to fight the cold that leaks through the old window frames.

It’s the final night of the group trip—Erwin’s grand idea, naturally, because apparently nothing says team bonding after a miserable work week like cramming everyone into a cabin in the middle of nowhere with questionable plumbing, too much alcohol, and Levi Ackerman. Levi, who is currently the primary source of the knot in your stomach. Levi, with his permanent scowl and tongue sharp enough to fillet someone alive before breakfast. 

You put up with him because everyone else loves him, or at least claims to, but your patience with him has always been thin. Hange insists he’s just “misunderstood,” Petra calls him “harmlessly grumpy,” and Erwin gives you that weary, knowing look every time you and Levi end up snapping at each other like two feral animals. But you know better. Every comment he throws your way feels personal, like he’s dissecting your every flaw.

Two days ago, when everyone had first piled out of the cars, Levi had taken one look at the muddy footprints you tracked across the porch and said, loud enough for you to hear, “Great. Took five minutes for the place to turn into a pigsty.”

You’d turned on him instantly, your bag slung over your shoulder, and said, “Maybe if you weren’t such a neat freak, you’d unclench your ass long enough to enjoy a vacation.”

Erwin had clapped a hand on Levi’s shoulder, steering him away with a diplomatic smile. Miche had just stared as usual while Hange laughed so hard they nearly dropped their suitcase. Petra had given you a sympathetic pat on the back. 

Everyone knows about the tension between you and Levi by now. It’s not even subtle. It’s an open secret, a running joke, a little spark that Hange claims makes group events “more interesting.” You’ve told them they should seek help multiple times.

Now, the men have migrated out back to the fire pit. Erwin is grilling burgers, Miche is drinking a beer, and Levi is probably critiquing the alignment of the logs or something as stupid as that. Meanwhile, you, Hange, and Petra have taken over the living room for girl time.

On the coffee table sits the punishment lineup for Drink or Dare: grain alcohol for you, absinthe for Hange, and ouzo for Petra. The rules are simple. Take the dare, or take a drink of whatever awful bottle has been assigned to you. It was Petra’s genius idea to choose drinks each of you personally hates, which means the dares have become progressively unhinged. 

So far, you’ve eaten a raw onion slice on Hange’s dare. They streaked through the thankfully empty kitchen. Petra had confessed, in horrifying detail, her most embarrassing hookup story involving a clown costume. Against all odds, the bottles remain mostly full.

“Okay, my turn!” Hange announces, practically bouncing in the armchair, their glasses sliding down the bridge of their nose. They’re already tipsy from an earlier forfeit, having chosen to drink rather than send their boss a dick pic—which, frankly, is the first wise decision they’ve made all weekend. “Petra. Call your ex and demand that he moan your name. Loudly.”

You choke on your water so hard it burns your nose. Petra’s face flushes beet red, but to her credit, she snatches up her phone with grim determination. “Fine,” she says. “But if he blocks me, you’re buying drinks on the next trip.”

Next trip. You silently pray Levi won’t be invited. 

The ringtone rills the room on speaker. When Oluo answers, sounding cautious already, Petra launches in before he can even say hello properly. “Hey, Oluo, I need you to moan my name right now. Make it good!”

There’s a stunned pause, then a sputtered, “What the fuck, Petra?” The line goes dead. You and Hange absolutely lose it. You fold forward, laughing so hard your stomach hurts, while Hange makes a strangled noise somewhere between a cackle and a death rattle. Petra, mortified, throws her phone onto the couch and reaches for the ouzo bottle. She takes a shot and immediately coughs.

“Why did you drink?” you wheeze, wiping tears from the corners of your eyes. “You did the dare.”

“I needed one after doing that,” Petra shudders.

“Fair,” Hange says, still giggling.

“Alright,” you say, leaning back, cheeks aching from laughter. “Your turn, Petra.”

Petra recovers, eyes still watering, and then turns toward you with a look so wicked that your smile falters before she even opens her mouth. “You. I’m coming for you.”

Your stomach flips. She’s got that look—the one that says she’s about to escalate. “Lay it on me.”

She points at you with one devilish finger. “Go outside into the woods behind the cabin, find a flower—any flower—and bring it back to Levi. No explanation. Just hand it over and walk away.”

The room goes silent, save for the crackle of the fire. Your heart stutters. “Levi?” you repeat, staring at her. Petra smiles innocently.

Of all people, Levi. Levi, who once told you your coffee breath qualified as a biohazard after you leaned too close to argue with him. Levi, who treats every interaction with you like an endurance test handed down by a cruel god. Levi, who will absolutely look at a random flower in your hand and somehow turn it into a federal crime.

Heat creeps up your neck, equal parts embarrassment and irritation. Why him? Why not Erwin, who would accept it politely and probably say something poetic? Why not Miche, who would sniff if and move on? This is absolutely sabotage, but the alternative is grain alcohol, and the thought alone makes your throat close.

You glare at Petra. “Fine,” you mutter, pushing yourself off the couch. As you slip on your shoes, you add, “But if he kills me, I’m haunting your ass first.” You flip them both off on your way to the back door.

The hinges creak as you slip outside, and the cold night air smacks you full in the face. The backyard fire pit glows amber, silohuetting the guys: Erwin standing over the grill, Miche sitting with his beer while staring into the flames, and Levi lounging in a chair with a mug of tea cradled in one hand.

You veer left before anyone can call out, keeping close enough to the cabin that you can still see the light from the windows. Moonlight filters through the canopy, turning the forest floor silver. Twigs snap beneath your sneakers with every step, obnoxiously loud in the quiet. 

Stupid dare. Stupid Petra. Stupid Levi and his stupid face and his stupid ability to make your heart feel weird for reasons that are obviously anger and nothing else.

The air grows damp, alive with cricket chirps and the distant hoot of an owl. Your skin prickles. What if you get lost? What if you run into a bear? You tell yourself you’re being ridiculous. You’re a grown adult. You can walk twenty feet into the woods without turning into the first victim in a horror movie. Probably. You push deeper, the flashlight from your phone cutting a beam through ferns and underbrush. Your friends are probably snickering inside.

Then, you spot a cluster of wildflowers, delicate white petals glowing ethereally. You kneel and pluck one. It’s perfect. As you lift it, a bead of amber sap oozes from the break, sticky and glistening like dew. Great, it’s messy. Levi’s going to love that. You wipe it halfheartedly on your jeans, but it clings, tacky against your fingers.

Heart hammering, you trek back, the flower clutched in your hand. The cabin lights beckon you back. You skirt the fire pit’s edge, avoiding the gravel path where the guys sit. Levi’s profile is stark in the firelight. Erwin laughs at something Miche says. Your stomach twists. Just do it. hand it over. But doubt floods you: He’ll think I’m insane. Or flirting. God, no. Or worse, he’ll realize it was a dare and mock me forever.

You step into the firelight. “Levi.”

Three heads snap toward you. Miche’s nostrils flare subtly—he’s got that weird sniffing thing—and Erwin’s blue eyes widen in polite surprise. But Levi… Levi freezes, mug halfway to his lips. His gaze locks on you. Suspicion etches his features: narrowed eyes, slight tilt of his head, mouth pressing into a thin line. 

You thrust the flower forward, the sap gleaming. No explanation. No apology. No context. Just you standing there like an idiot, arm extended, cheeks burning. Your pulse thunders in your ears. 

Take it, you bastard. Don’t make this weird.

Erwin clears his throat, glancing between you. Miche shifts, arms crossing over his chest, and you catch the faintest suggestion of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. Levi stares a second longer. You don’t know what his deal is. He doesn’t even have to say anything. He just needs to take the damn thing. 

Then, his fingers brush yours as he plucks the flower from your hand. He turns his slowly between his fingers, the white petals catching the firelight, the amber sap shining at the stem. For a second, you wait for the insult. The dry little remark he always seems to have prepared. The inevitable, what the hell is this? It never comes. He says nothing. He just looks back up at you with an intensity that makes your heart stumble. You can’t stand it.

You spin on your heel, fleeing before he can speak, your heart slamming against your ribs. What was that look? Did you imagine the tension? No, he’s probably just plotting revenge. Gravel crunches underfoot as you burst through the back door, slamming it harder than intended. Hange and Petra are peeking from around the corner like spies, faces lit by their phone screens—of course they’re recording. 

“Oh my god!” Hange whisper-shrieks, yanking you into the living room. “He took it! Without a word! Levi Ackerman accepted a mystery flower!”

Petra collapses onto the couch, clutching her sides. “Your face! Why did that look so romantic?”

“Romantic?” you say, eyeing your alcohol bottle. You definitely need a drink after that. But the confusion stops you. Why didn’t he snap? Why didn’t he make some little cutting comment and flick the flower into the fire? The fire inside pops mockingly, and from outside, muffled voices drift: Erwin’s chuckle, Miche’s rumble, Levi’s low murmur—too quiet to catch. 

Hange pours celebratory shots—water, mercifully. “Your turn to dare now. But spill—did he smell it? Crush it? Fall madly in love? What?”

You flop down, forcing a laugh to drown the unease. “Nothing. He just took it like a weirdo.”

Hours blur after the game. The living room devolves into a haze of laughter. Petra passes out first on the couch, her assigned bottle clutched to her chest like a teddy bear. Hange drags you to the shared bedroom upstairs, a cramped space with twin beds. Both of you giggle too loudly, whisper-shouting at each other to be quiet. Hange drops into one bed and is asleep almost instantly, sprawled on their stomach with one arm hanging off the mattress.

The cabin quiets. The guys’ voices fade from the backyard, and doors creak shut. You strip to a tank top and shorts and slide under the quilt. You stare at the slanted ceiling. Moonlight pours in through the thin curtains. Exhaustion threatens to tug at you, but sleep evades, your body too restless. Your skin feels too warm under the covers. You shift onto your side, then onto your back again, then kick one foot out from under the blanket, irritated by the sudden heat gathering under your skin.

At first, you blame the alcohol. But you didn’t have that much. Then it creeps in: a low throb between your thighs. You shift, pressing your legs together, but it flares hotter. What the hell? Your nipples harden against the tank top. Heat pools in your core, slickness gathering. You turn your head and squint at the clock. It’s 2:17 a.m. Maybe it’s just stress from the game. Or… Levi’s touch? No, that’s insane.

The memory of his fingers on yours sparks unwelcome imagery—his eyes, his shirt clinging to his muscles. You squeeze your eyes shut, willing it away, but your clit throbs, demanding attention. Slick heat gathers until you feel trapped inside your own skin. You know this isn’t normal, but you have to get a grip. Hange snorts in their sleep. The sound should make you laugh. Instead, the room feels stifling, the walls closing in.

You can’t take it. Slipping from bed, your bare feet hit the cold floorboards. The hallway is dark and endless, lit only by a light from the main floor. Your heart races. You’ll just get some water and fresh air. Then it’ll pass. 

You creep downstairs, every creak of the stairs amplified. Petra is still in the living room on the couch. The kitchen is dark, the fridge humming. You fill a glass with icy water but it does nothing to quell the fire raging inside. The heat still rushes through you, making your hand tighten around the glass until your knuckles ache. Your body betrays you with every breath.

A hand suddenly clamps your wirst, yanking you sideways. You don’t even have time to scream. You gasp, glass shattering on the floor in a spray of shards. Panic surges as you’re dragged, stumbling, into the spare bedroom off the kitchen. The door slams shut and you’re shoved against the wall, the wood biting your back.

Levi looms, his breath ragged and eyes wild in the sliver of moonlight that pours in through the window. His hair is disheveled, his shirt untucked, his pants… oh dear god. There’s a strain against his sweats, unmistakable.

“What the fuck did you do to me?” he growls, pinning your shoulders. 

You blink, confusion crashing against fear. “What—get off! I didn’t do anything!” you whisper-shout, hands shoving at his chest. Arousal spikes tratiorously at the contact, your core clenching. What the hell has gotten into you?

His eyes narrow, face inches from yours. Fury is etched in every line. “Don’t play dumb. You drugged me. What was it?”

Drugged? The word yanks you back. “You’re crazy! I didn’t do shit. Let go!”

He doesn’t budge, his grip tightening just enough to terrify you. “My dick has been hard for the past hour no matter how many times I jerk myself off. What kind of aphrodisiac did you drug me with? Did you give me a pill? Slip it in my tea?” 

His voice drops to a hiss, his cheeks flushed—not just anger, you realize. Desperation. The outline in his pants twitches, and your own body responds, wetness soaking through. Shock ripples through you. Images flood—Levi’s hand down his pants, letting out frustrated grunts. Your thighs rub together. 

Then the pieces slowly start fitting together. 

“It’s the flower,” you blurt.

He stares, incredulous, like you’ve slapped him. “Very funny. Now tell me what you drugged me with before I report your psychotic ass.”

“No, listen!” You twist against him, but it only presses your breasts to his chest, your nipples scraping deliciously. You shake your head internally. You need to focus. “It’s the only thing we both touched. You took it from me. The sap got on your fingers too. Our friends wouldn’t drug us, not even for a prank.”

You’re not sure if you even believe yourself, but Levi’s expression shifts and his breath hitches. His eyes flick to your lips, then down your body—tank riding up, shorts clinging to your thighs that rub together. His eyes widen ever so slightly. He must realize that you’re going through the exact same thing. He releases your shoulders, raking a hand through his hair.

“Great. A fucking flower got me hard,” he spits.

You meet his gaze. “Yeah, well, a fucking flower got me wet. We’re even.”

Silence lengthens between you. His eyes darken, pupils blown, scanning your face, your heaving chest, then lower. His confusion mirrors your own. This can’t be real. A flower that releases an aphrodisiac? But the pull is undeniable.

Heat crackles between you, the air thickening and charged like a storm about to break. Slowly, your bodies lean in like magnets, the fight dissolving into shared desperation. He’s too close. He smells so good. He’s still hard against your thigh.

You don’t know who moves first. Your lips crash. You moan into it, hands grabbing his shirt, pulling him close. He groans, a low sound in his throat, his tongue invading and claiming yours. It’s messy and frantic. Teeth nip your lower lip. His hips grind his rigid length against your core. You break for air, foreheads pressed, both of you panting.

“Fuck,” he rasps, hand sliding to your hip, gripping hard enough to bruise. “This… we can fuck it out. Get rid of it. Then we’re done.”

“Yeah,” you say, nodding, even though your mind is reeling. Are you really about to have sex with Levi? But the ache demands it. All logic is lost. “Just this once.”

Levi’s gaze sears into you, stripping you bare before a single thread hits the floor. Your back hits the mattress with a muffled thud as he throws you down. Your entire body is buzzing, waiting for any sort of contact, your nerves screaming for more. He cages you. Forearms brace on either side of your head, trapping you between his body and the bed. The heat radiating off him is suffocating.

Then his mouth descends. It isn’t a kiss so much as a collision—hunger made physical. Your lips part under the assault, yielding to the invasive slide of his tongue. Teeth knock together. Saliva slicks your chin. You taste the black tea on his tongue as you arch up, hands clawing at the muscle in his shoulders. He answers with his hips, grinding down. The thick ridge of his erection drags against your soaked core through the thin fabric. The pressure drags a whimper from you, swallowed by his mouth. Your clit pulses with each thrust of his hips.

The kiss deepens into passionate chaos. His growl vibrates against your lips. Your nails rake his back under his shirt. He breaks away, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses along your jaw and down your neck. His teeth graze your pulse point, sucking hard enough to bruise. You gasp, head falling back against the pillow.

Sensation detonates across your skin, but the aphrodisiac coursing through your veins turns every spark into an inferno. Your flesh feels raw, hypersensitive to every touch. Every lick sends jolts straight to your core. His hands roam, shoving your tank top up to bunch under your arms. The sudden kiss of cold air stiffens your nipples, and then his mouth is there, closing over one breast.

His tongue swirls before sucking hard. You cry out, back arching off the bed, fingers twisting in his hair. The slight pain lights a fire in your abdomen. He switches sides, teeth nipping, drawing another moan—a moan that’s too loud for the paper-thin walls. Levi’s hand flies up, clamping over your mouth mid-gasp. His eyes lock on yours, dark and commanding.

“Stay quiet if you want my cock in you,” he warns, thumb pressing your lower lip. 

How the hell are you supposed to stay quiet? Still, you nod frantically, eyes wide, biting his palm to stifle the next inevitable sound. He smirks and slides his free hand down your body, shoving your shorts aside. Fingers find your folds, slick and swollen with need. He groans against your skin at the copious wetness that coats his hand. Two fingers plunge in, curling ruthlessly. His thumb circles your clit. You whimper into the cage of his hand, hips jerking, walls clenching around him. He pumps steadily, scissoring and stretching you to prepare you. His hawkish gaze never leaves your face, watching every flicker of pleasure, every grimace of need. 

Your orgasm builds like a rising tide, hovering just out of reach, but every time you teeter on the edge, he eases back, denying you. Tears prick your eyes. You nod again, muffled pleas vibrating against his palm. The room spins in lust’s haze.

Finally, he withdraws, both of you shedding your clothes in a frenzy. Shirts are yanked off, shorts are kicked away, his sweats hit the floor. His cock is freed, and your breath catches in your throat. He’s thick, heavy, veins tracing the rigid length, the head flushed dark and weeping. You know, with a certainty that settles in your gut, that he’s going to ruin you.

He hauls you toward the bed’s center, palms gripping your hips, flipping you onto your stomach with a suddenness that knocks the breath from your lungs. Face down, knees sinking into the mattress, you push up slightly on your forearms, ass lifted in involuntary offering. The position exposes everything, rendering you utterly vulnerable to the weight of his gaze and the hunger you can feel radiating off him.

His weight crashes down atop you, a heavy, furnace-hot blanket of muscle. His knees force yours wider, spreading you until the air ghosts against your drenched entrance. The blunt head of his cock prods your slit, dragging through your arousal in a teasing slide that has you whining into the bedding, hips twitching back.

Then he drives forward. One smooth thrust buries him to the hilt, splitting you open on his length with a stretch that’s almost agonizing. You scream, but the sound dies against the pillow as you bury your face in the fabric, teeth sinking into cotton. He fills you impossibly, the sheer girth of him forcing your walls to accommodate. Levi stills, chest heaving, his breath scalding the shell of your ear. You feel the tremor in his thighs. 

Then he moves. He pulls back and snaps forward, flesh slapping against flesh, driving the air from your lungs. He sets a brutal rhythm—deep, grinding thrusts that jolt you forward on the mattress. Every ram of his hips is angled perfectly to strike that tender, swollen spot inside you. The bed shakes, the headboard thumping softly. You bite the pillow until your jaw aches, trying to swallow the sounds, but a moan rips free.

His hand clamps your mouth again, sealing the sound inside. “Shut the fuck up,” he warns, his hips slamming harder in punishment. You obey, breaths ragged through your nose. He fucks you without mercy. Sweat slicks the seal where your bodies slam together. His chest is plastered against your back, trapping you completely beneath him.

Wet kisses pepper your neck, tongue tracing your vein before sucking marks into the skin. His groans build. To muffle them, he bites your shoulder. The pain melts into ecstasy. You clench around him, chasing the peak he denied earlier, but he controls it, pace faltering as his own end nears.

“Fuck—where do you want it?” he rasps, thrusts erratic.

“In me,” you beg, words muffled against his hand.

He snarls, burying deep one last time, grinding against your womb. His release floods you, hot ropes painting your walls. Levi shudders atop you, biting harder to silence his moan. You teeter on the edge, clenching to milk him, but he slips out too soon. Cum trickles down onto the bed.

He rolls off, chest heaving, but he’s still hard. His cock glistens in the moodnight, twitching back to life. “Shit,” he curses, glaring at the ceiling. “That damn flower.”

Panting, you prop yourself up on your elbows. You roll onto your back and look at him. “Wow, so you’re not even going to get me off?”

Levi’s eyes snap to yours, narrowing at your quip. A spark of challenge ignites in the storm grey. He shoves your legs wide and he settles between your thighs, breath ghosting your slick folds. Out of all the ways you expected him to get you off, you thought this would be the last. For a clean freak like him, you thought he’d despise giving. Clearly, you were wrong about him. In more ways than one.

His tongue comes hot and flat against your core. He licks a slow stripe up your center, gathering your mixed release. You jolt, hands fisting the sheets, a whine escaping your throat before you can swallow it. He groans into you, vibrations shuddering through your core. He seals his lips around your clit, sucking and flicking with precision. His fingers part you, delving in to curl against your g-spot, pumping in time with his tongue’s assault.

“Levi—” you moan, too loud. His hand covers your mouth again, eyes flashing warning above your mound.

“Quiet,” he hisses, muffled by your skin, but he doesn’t stop. His tongue lashes harder, fingers curling relentlessly. Your moans are swallowed by his palm. The stars behind your eyelids deotnate into surpernovas. Your orgasm crashes over you like a tidal wave, walls spasmsing violently around his thrusting digits. Your release floods his mouth. You cry out into his hand. He laps you through it greedily until you slump, trembling.

He rises, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. His cock stands rigid against his abdomen, angry and red, twitching with renewed demand. “I’m not done,” he says, positioning over you. 

He hooks his legs over the crooks of his elbows and folds you open—wider, wider still—until your knees press toward your shoulders and you feel the stretch of your hips, the total exposure of your core to his gaze. The position renders you helpless, a vessel for his use. The swollen head of his cock nudges your slit, dragging through the mess of your combined arousal, then he thrusts home, burying himself to the root. 

You gasp, a desperate sound, arms flying up to wrap tight around his neck, anchoring yourself as he splits you open on his length. But the moans spill free despite your best efforts—volume rising with each savage snap of his hips. 

Levi snatches the pillow from beside your head and slams it down over your face. Darkness engulfs you instantly, the scent of old cotton and sweat filling your nostrils. His voice filters through the barrier: “Tap my arm twice if you can’t breathe.”

You nod frantically under the fabric. You have no need to tap. He fucks you hard, setting a punishing pace. The sound of his skin hitting yours echoes softly. The mattress springs scream. When the bedframe hits the wall too hard, he curses under his breath and slows to deep, grinding rolls that press his pelvis flush against your thighs. They still hit every sweet spot inside you. Sweat drips from him onto your stomach.

Pleasure coils again despite the recent peak. He shifts the pillow aside abruptly, tossing it across the room. The air hits your flushed face. His mouth claims yours with feverish hunger—lips bruising, tongue plunging to swallow the moans you can no longer contain. The kiss is salvation. You taste yourself on him. Hands roam—yours in his hair, tugging; his gripping your thigh, angling deeper until he’s grinding against your cervix.

His thumb finds your clit, rubbing firm circles to match the rhythm of his hips. You break the kiss to gasp, but he chases your mouth, refusing you air. Pressure builds, inexorable. Your walls flutter, your release barreling forward with terrifying speed.

“Levi—gonna—” The words die in your mouth as you cum first, lightning spiking your nerves while your vision whites out. Your nails dig crescents into his back. 

Your clenching triggers him. He buries deep, groaning into the kiss, hot jets of cum pulsing inside you, filling your womb again. Your bodies lock together, shuddering through the aftermath, muscles spasming in unison. He collapses half-atop you, forehead to your shoulder.

And yet, he doesn’t soften. His cock twitches, still hard, trapped in your fluttering heat. Levi lifts his head, frustration etching his features. “Fuck—this thing won’t quit.” He pulls back slightly, staring down at where you’re joined, at the sight of his length disappearing into your cum-slick, swollen folds.

Panting, you meet his gaze. “Stay inside. Just ride it out.”

Levi pauses. He looks somewhat skepitcal, eyes narrowed and brows furrowed, but he sighs and shifts. “On your side,” he commands, laced with fatigue.

You comply, rolling onto your side. Levi mirrors you, molding behind you with his chest to your back and his thighs slotting against yours. One strong arm snakes under your head like a pillow, and the other hooks your top leg over his hip, opening you. He lines himself up and slides back in with a slow push. Inch by inch, he sinks all the way in, reclaiming the territory he never truly vacated, until his pubic bone is pressed flush to your ass.

You reach back instinctively, fingers gripping the jut of his hip. Levi envelops you fully, wrapping both arms around your torso, one hand splaying possessively over your stomach, the other cupping your breast. He groans low, the sound rumbling through your joined bodies. He twitches inside you, like a heartbeat against your walls. His lips find your neck, pressing soft kisses along the fresh bruises.

Neither of you moves. You stay connected, breathing synced in the quiet. The fullness is exquisite torture, his thickness stretching you as your cum-slick walls flutter around him, milking him without motion. Minutes pass and the tension simmers, a banked fire waiting only for the breath that will ignite it again.

“Why do you always act like I shit on your parade?” you murmur, turning your head slightly against his bicep.

Levi huffs, breath hot on your ear, hips shifting minutely—enough to cause your stomach to flip. “Me? You’re the one with the attitude, snapping like everything I say is an insult.”

You snort softly, clenching around him involuntarily; he hisses. “You nitpick everything. Calling me messy like you’re perfect, Mr. Disinfectant.”

His grip tightens on your breast, thumb circling the nipple lazily. “You are messy. Doesn’t mean I think I’m perfect. But…” He pauses, his voice dropping. “Fuck it. You’re hot as hell. You drive me insane.”

Heat floods your cheeks. You can’t exactly say that you don’t feel the same way. You just never wanted to admit it—to anyone else, or even yourself. “Well… I think you’re attractive too. Stupidly. I just didn’t want to admit it, so I pushed back.”

His chuckle vibrates into you. “Mutual torture, then.” Fueled, he stirs, hips drawing back an inch then pressing forward in a slow, deep thrust. 

“Levi,” you moan, arching back.

He holds you tigher, spooning your trembling body. His body envelops you completely like a protective cocoon. “Stay quiet,” he murmurs against your hair, thrusting again. It’s a slow, grinding slide that buries him to the hilt, stirring your depths. 

There’s no frenzy now, no desperation—only a deep, rocking connection that grinds his pelvis against your ass with each forward press. His cock drags against your swollen walls, the ridge of his head stroking that aching spot inside you. The pace builds languidly, a rising tide rather than a crashing wave, each roll of his hips designed to wind you tighter rather than break you apart.

One hand slides down your stomach, calloused fingers dipping through the slick mess of your combined arousal to find your clit. He rubs gentle circles, syncing the pressure perfectly with his thrusts—up and in, press and roll. The other hand rises to knead your breast, fingers pinching and rolling the nipple until it aches. 

The triple assault overwhelms you. Your clit throbs under his fingertips, his cock strokes a sensitive spot inside you, and the sharp tugs at your nipple thread a wire of sensation directly to your core. Moans build, muffled against his arm. You bite your lip, but they escape—his name, whimpers, pleads. The bed, mercifully, stays silent. His mouth trails hot, open kisses along the curve of your shoulder.

Your climax creeps in, inevitable. The feeling in your stomach spreads like liquid fire. “Levi—close,” you gasp, hand clutching his veiny forearm, nails digging into the taut muscle.

“Cum,” he orders, voice strained to breaking, the single word a command against your ear. His thrusts deepen, fingers pressing harder. It breaks you open, waves crashing against you as your pussy clamps around him, your wetness soaking his hand and cock. You tremble in his arms, crying his name into the pillow.

Your release milks him and triggers the flood of his own climax. Levi sinks in all the way, groaning your name against your neck as his essence erupts for the third time, painting you full. He pulses endlessly, hips stuttering in shallow jerks as he empties everything left inside him. Warmth overflows you, his seed trickling despite his plug. 

Exhaustion claims you both. Your limbs feel heavy, your breathing slows, and neither of you move. You’re too spent to disentangle and return to separate beds. It’s risky, but you both decide without even speaking it aloud that you’ll stay like this. His arms remain around you. His heartbeat thuds against your back. Your eyelids droop.

The flower’s fire turned you from enemies to lovers, if only for the night.

.

Sunlight pierces the spare room’s window, a golden blade slicing through the dust. It rouses you from your sleep. Your body aches, a delicious soreness. Your thighs are sticky, and your core is tender from Levi’s relentless claiming. He’s still behind you, arms lax but draped possessively. His morning wood twitches half-hard inside. You hope it actually is just morning wood and not the flower. 

You shift and he stirs, his eyes cracking open. His cock slips free with a wet sound, cum trickling anew. Levi tenses, rolling away. No words. The vulnerability from your confessions has evaporated, replaced by awkward silence. You both dress hastily. He cracks the door open first, and you follow.

Everyone is staring at you. Not subtly, either.

Erwin is at the counter, mug suspended halfway to his mouth, his expression neutral in a way that somehow makes it worse. Miche stares at you like he already knows what went down. Petra blushes furiously over her cereal, and of course, Hange is grinning like a maniac, chin propped on one hand, eyes bright with the knowledge that they’ve been handed blackmail material gift-wrapped by the gods.

Levisteps in behind you and stops. You freeze, heat crawling up your neck. You eye the ground where the broken glass should be. It’s swept up into a broom pan. Clear evidence. Recovered evidence. The worst kind. No one speaks. Tension crackles, and eyes dart between you two like witnesses to a crime.

Levi veers upstairs without a glance, shutting the door behind him. You bolt after him, cheeks burning, slamming your bedroom door. You consider simply staying here forever. Then you peel yourself away from the door and start stripping. Your tank top hits the floor, then your shorts follow. You grab a towel and turn toward the mirror, only to stop dead.

“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me,” you whisper. 

Hickeys are covering your throat and collarbone. Bite marks, too, faint but unmisktable, trail along places you absolutely cannot explain away with mosquitoes. A shower calls to you. Hot water. Soap. Steam. The chance to scrub away at least the sweat, if not the memory of every humiliating sound you apparently made in a cabin full of your friends.

You wrap the towel around you and take one step toward the bathroom. Then footsteps pound down the hallway, and the bedroom door bursts open. Hange barrels in.

“Hey, so by the way,” they start, flopping on their bed, “did you know that flower you picked up yesterday—the female ones anyway—have an aphrodisiac sap? It’s loaded with pheromones. Apparently it makes woodland critters go absolutely feral. Little sex rabbits everywhere. Nature is beautfiful.”

You whirl on them. “You couldn’t have told me before—”

“Before you fucked Levi’s brains out at 3 in the morning? Yeah, we all heard. Thanks for waking everyone up, dude! ‘Levi, oh god, Levi’—classic.”

Mortification washes over you, drowning you. Your face flames and you dive under your blankets, burrowing like a child. The sheets muffle your groan. Hange’s laughter erupts. They poke your foot. 

“Spill. Was he any good?”

“Out!” you yelp, kicking blindly at them through the covers.

You're not looking forward to the trip back home.

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tags: @levkuna @strangeeaglepost @how-interesting-wow @d1leviglazer @y44washere4somereason @nickibunny23 @slaytherinthoughts @levishart @gloomyveil @levislolita @angierb05 @elegantmakercoffee @444anya @miaszt @vmxz6 @daisyy-lev @naxymoon @caliope13 @wh0r3f0rchoso @im-just-a-simp-le-whore @starfallenlevi @altpsyche @ssomethingalieen @starryscara @starlighttitan @leviholics

divider by: strangergraphics

[levionlyyours]

⊱˙.✧ Get Your Fill

☆ Day 2 of Levi Month 26 | Breeding Kink | Event by @levievent

☆ Summary: There’s something Levi wants, something he’s thought about far too often and said nothing about for far too long—he wants to breed you.

☆ Pairing: Levi Ackerman x Female Reader

☆ Genre/Tags: Modern AU, Established Relationship, Smut

☆ Content Warnings: Explicit sexual content, breeding kink, pregnancy kink, dirty talk, oral sex (f. receiving), unprotected piv, multiple orgasms, creampie

☆ Word Count: 1.3k

☆ Check out the other days!

☆ AO3 Link

☆ a/n: damn header got the mature label slapped on this. have to repost, so sorry for the double ping for people on my taglist! anyway, thank you to my beta reader @slaytherinthoughts! pls don’t ask for a part two or I’ll write Levi calling sex “bumping uglies.” don't even ask for a part two jokingly, I will block you.

“You’ve been staring at me for ten minutes,” you say, sitting on the edge of the couch as you look to Levi, standing at the kitchen counter with a glass of water in his hand. “If you’ve got something to say, say it.”

Levi’s mouth twitches, annoyed at being read so easily. “Tch. You make it sound so dramatic.”

“It is dramatic. You’re really bad at pretending to not stare at me.”

He sighs and looks down at his glass, then shifts his gaze to you. Levi Ackerman is not a man who embarrasses easily, so the faint color rising along the tops of his cheekbones catches your attention immediately.

“Come here,” he says. 

You get up and stop in front of him. He sets the glass down, hand sliding around your waist. Up close, his expression is even more conflicted.

“What is it?” you ask.

For a second, he says nothing. Then, in a voice lower than usual, he admits, “There’s something I want that I haven’t told you.”

Your stomach flutters. “Okay.”

“It’s not because I didn’t trust you. I just wasn’t sure I should say it out loud.”

You rest your hand on his chest. “Tell me anyway.”

He looks at your mouth. “I think about breeding you.”

Levi watches your face, waiting for impact. Braced for rejection, maybe, for you to laugh. His face doesn’t give much away, but his thoughts are written clearly in the tension of his shoulders. Fuck. I said it. If she looks at me differently now, fuck it.

But you don’t laugh. You don’t reject him. You stroke your thumb once over his shirt. “You think about it,” you repeat.

“More than think,” he says. “I want it. The idea of filling you, seeing you take it…” He cuts himself off like he’s already said too much, then mutters, “Forget it.”

You stare at him for a second, then step closer until your bodies touch. “Levi. If I didn’t want to hear it, I’d tell you. And I asked because I want to know.”

There’s a new hunger to his eyes, unmistakable, but also caution. He always gives you that, even when he’s half out of his mind. It’s one of the things you love most about him. So you give him what he hasn’t dared ask for.

“Show me,” you say.

Something in Levi shifts. His eyes go black with want, and when he kisses you, it’s nothing like the restrained pecks you shared over coffee this morning. It’s deep in its intensity. His hand slides up into your hair, angling your head exactly where he wants it while his other palm presses into the small of your back, pulling you into him. You gasp into his mouth, and he swallows the sound with a low groan.

He kisses you harder once the realization that you said yes actually kicks in. His tongue sweeps against yours, starved for your taste. You clutch at his shoulders. By the time he pulls back, both of you are breathing hard.

“You’re sure,” he asks.

“Yes.”

His forehead presses briefly to yours before he takes your hand and leads you down the hall to the bedroom. He flicks on the lamp, then strips your shirt off first, then his own, then the rest of both of your clothes, leaving a trail of fabric across the floor. Right now, he doesn’t care about the messiness. 

He lowers you onto the bed, then kneels between your thighs and kisses his way down your stomach. When he spreads your legs wider and moves between them, he flicks his eyes up to yours. “Tell me if you want me to stop.”

You nod. His mouth on you is captivating. He takes his time at first, tongue dragging slowly along your wetness until your hands fist in the sheets. He listens to every little sound you make and adjusts, mouth and fingers working in tandem.

“Levi—”

“I know,” he says against you. He knows. He always knows. He keeps you on the edge until you’re squirming, then eases two fingers inside you, groaning at how wet you are. “So fucking ready. You have any idea what that does to me?”

You inhale shakily. “Probably the same thing your mouth is doing to me.”

That earns a rare, wicked half-smile from him before he bends back down and sends you over the edge. The orgasm hits hard enough to make you bow off the mattress. Levi holds you through it, one arm across your hips while his mouth and fingers work you until your thighs tremble around him.

He climbs over you, his eyes blown wide and his composure shredded. You reach between you and wrap your hand around his cock. Levi’s head drops with a broken sound. He lines himself up and pushes in slowly, both of you groaning at the same time. The stretch is delicious after the way he opened you up. He grips the headboard with one hand, fighting himself not to slam forward.

You look up at him. “Levi.”

“Don’t,” he says hoarsely, eyes shutting for a second. “If you say my name like that right now, I’m done.”

That makes you laugh softly, though it turns into a gasp when he finally sinks in all the way. He presses his forehead to yours again, every muscle tense. He starts to move. Even when he’s rough, he’s careful, keeping a brutal consistency that pulls pleasure out of you until you can’t think. Tonight there’s an extra layer to it, every thrust charged with the confession from the kitchen. You see the strain in his face, hear it in the way his breathing shifts when your legs wrap around his waist.

“Tell me,” you whisper.

His eyes snap to yours. “What?”

“What you’re thinking.”

He gives one sharp thrusts that makes your nails bite into his back. “You know what I’m thinking.”

“I wanna hear it.”

The last of his restraint burns away. “I’m thinking about filling you,” he says, low and shaking. “About fucking my cum so deep into you that you have to take every drop. Thinking about it leaking into your womb.” He watches your face as he says it all. “Thinking about you swollen with me, knowing I did that to you.”

“God,” you breathe.

Levi’s mouth crashes to yours. His pace turns harder, bed creaking under the force of it, and the room fills with the slick sound of him driving into you, your gasps, his rough little grunts that he usually keeps buried. Not tonight. Tonight he’s too far gone, and every sound he makes feels like a reward. You feel the tip of his cock kiss your cervix, and you squirm in repsonse.

“Is this what you wanted?” you ask against his mouth.

“Yes,” he says, the single word wrecked. “Yes, fuck. You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to tell you.”

“Then don’t hold back.”

He laughs once and hooks your leg higher over his arm. The angle has you crying out, cunt clenching hard around him. Levi nearly loses it right there. He reaches between your bodies and rubs your clit in quick, ruthless circles. The combination of that and the relentless drive of his hips tears your second orgasm out of you fast. Your whole body locks up around him.

Levi curses your name and thrusts deep, holding himself there as he comes with a low, wrecked groan. You feel the heat of his release. His body shudders with each pulse. His expression is almost enough to send you under again: stunned pleasure, relief, helpless devotion. 

For a long moment, you both stay still. Then Levi kisses your damp temple and stays buried inside you, one hand sliding down to your stomach absentmindedly. His breathing gradually steadies. “You alright?”

You smile lazily and brush his sweat-damp hair back from his forehead. “More than alright.”

He looks at you, a new raw vulnerability to his eyes. One you rarely ever see. “I mean it. If that was too much—”

“It wasn’t.” You touch his cheek. “I liked hearing it.”

Levi’s eyes soften, though his hand remains spread possessively over your belly. “Dangerous thing to tell me.”

“Why?”

“Because now I’ll think about it even more.”

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tags: @saccharinefool @bunbun6casp @levkuna @strangeeaglepost @how-interesting-wow @d1leviglazer @y44washere4somereason @nickibunny23 @slaytherinthoughts @levishart @gloomyveil @levislolita @nerdskillz @elegantmakercoffee @444anya @miaszt @daisyy-lev @naxymoon @caliope13 @wh0r3f0rchoso @starfallenlevi @altpsyche @tea-rae @ssomethingalieen @starryscara @starlighttitan @leviholics @angelbearknyyy @tallvanillalatte @gingerbreadsnail @geminifairy222 @myfreespirit23 @kacasplaca @christmaswarlock @jmmasstuff

divider by: sweetmelodygraphics

[levionlyyours]

Room 112

☆ Summary: Levi Ackerman doesn't have favorites. Room 112 is simply cleaner than the other classrooms and its teacher is simply easier to tolerate. Obviously.

☆ Pairing: Levi Ackerman x Female Reader

☆ Genre/Tags: Modern AU, School AU, Teacher!Reader, Janitor!Levi, Romance, Mutual Pining, First Kiss, Fluff, Humor

☆ Content Warnings: Mentions of sex

☆ Word Count: 3.8k

☆ AO3 Link

☆ a/n: This was requested by 🌻 anon! don’t ask for a part two or I’ll wet all of your socks. even if you ask as a joke, I will block you.

[ Art by sugarless_610s3 on Twitter ]

Levi Ackerman has learned, over three years of working in an elementary school, that children are capable of putting virtually anything anywhere.

He’s found crayons inside air vents, yogurt beneath bookshelves, a single wet sock hanging inexplicably from a ceiling projector, and, one memorable Tuesday afternoon, half of a banana wedged so deeply into the back of a student desk that he spends nearly five minutes staring at the browned fruit in complete silence, debating on whether he should just let the other janitor take care of it.

“How the hell did you even get in there?” he mutters, pulling on a pair of gloves.

By five o’clock, he’s scraped cracker crumbs from a rug, cleaned paint off a window, and discovered a nightmare in the second-floor boys’ bathroom, so by the time he reaches Room 112, he’s already preparing himself for another mess made by twenty-four small children with poor impulse control.

He unlocks the door, then pauses. Room 112 is clean. Not clean clean, because Levi’s definition of clean is far different to other peoples. But the chairs are pushed beneath the tables, the construction paper scraps have been picked up from the floor, the pencils are in their containers, and there’s not a single juice box left open. 

He narrows his eyes suspiciously. Then he spots the glitter.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

Gold glitter sparkles across half the floor, caught in the fibers of the rug and scattered beneath the tables. There is, however, a dustpan beside the teacher’s desk. A pathetic little pile of glitter sits inside it. A handwritten note is taped to the whiteboard.

SORRY ABOUT THE GLITTER. WE TRIED. — ROOM 112

Levi stares at it, then looks at the dustpan. “At least they’re honest,” he mutters.

“Can’t teach children to lie, can I?” 

Levi turns. You stand in the doorway, holding the frame, slightly breathless from apparently walking back through half the school in a hurry. He’s seen you before. Obviously; you teach here. He’s seen you crossing the cafeteria sometimes, holding folders and supplies. He’s passed you in the hall often enough to recognize your face, although most of those encounters have been polite nods exchanged. But this is the first time you’ve ever looked directly at him for longer than a few seconds.

“Forgot my purse,” you explain, pointing toward your desk. “And apparently, returned just in time to witness the crime scene.”

Levi looks down at the glitter. “So you’re responsible for this?”

“Technically, I just supplied the weapons.”

“Then yes.”

You press your lips together. He recognizes that expression immediately—you’re trying not to laugh. “I’m sorry,” you say. “We were making solar system projects.”

“With glitter?”

“Space is sparkly.”

“Space is a vacuum.”

You laugh, the sound filling the otherwise empty classroom. “Okay, fair.”

You cross the room, retrieving your purse from beneath your desk, but instead of immediately leaving, you set it on the tabletop and reach for the broom leaning against the wall. Levi frowns.

“What are you doing?” he asks.

“Helping,” you say.

“No.”

You pause. “It’s my mess.”

“It’s my job.” Levi takes the broom out of your hand. “You’ve been here since six.”

You raise your eyebrows. So does he, internally. Why the hell does he know that? He’s seen your car in the staff lot when he arrives, that’s all. Just a simple observation. Nothing strange about it.

“Six fifteen,” you correct.

“Congratulations.” You stare at him for a beat, then you laugh again. Levi turns away before you can see the corner of his mouth betray him. “You should go home,” he says.

You pick up your purse. “Yes, sir.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Yes, Mr. Ackerman.”

He looks over his shoulder and sees your smile. He isn’t sure why it annoys him that you’re leaving. He has work to do, and you have a life that exists beyond these four walls.

“Goodnight, Mr. Ackerman,” you say. You make it halfway into the hall when he suddenly speaks.

“Levi.”

You stop. He almost takes it back as you turn your head. Levi grips the broom harder, irrationally uncomfortable under your attention.

“Just Levi,” he repeats.

Your expression softens by such a small degree he’s sure that he’s just imagining it. But then you say, “Goodnight, Levi,” and you disappear.

Levi looks at the gold glitter sparkling around his shoes.

“Shit,” he says.

The word has nothing to do with the floor.

.

Levi develops a routine over the next few weeks. He cleans the administrative wing first, empties the trash cans in the second-grade corridor, and leaves Room 112 until later in his shift, because you’ve developed an irritating habit of staying after school to grade assignments and prepare lessons, which means cleaning your room before five thirty would involve working around you. It’s better to wait.

Yet he finds himself cleaning while you’re present anyway.

“Connie ate another crayon today,” you tell him one Wednesday evening.

Levi stops mopping. “Another?”

You sit at your desk surrounded by spelling tests, a red pen held in your fingers while you draw a tiny star beside a student’s score. “Three, technically.”

“Why?”

“He said blue looked yummy.”

“Is he stupid?”

“Levi.”

“What?”

“He’s eight.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.” You laugh under your breath and return to the test in front of you, though Levi catches the smile on your lips. 

It’s almost irritating how much he knows about your students now. Connie eats crayons. Mina hates reading aloud but loves science. Eren has lost four water bottles since September. Christa is currently in a one-sided feud with a girl named Ymir in Room 109 over a pencil shaped like a carrot. They’re all useless pieces of information that enter Levi’s life because you talk while he works, while he sweeps and sanitizes, and although he occasionally answers with little more than a grunt, you never seem particularly offended by his silence. Sometimes you fill it, and sometimes you don’t. 

One afternoon, he arrives to find a paper cup sitting on the corner of your desk. He stops.

“What’s that?” he asks.

You don’t look up from your laptop. “Poison.”

“Thought so.”

“Black tea. No sugar.”

Then you look at him. Levi feels a shift of discomfort—but at the same time admiration—in his chest. “You remember everyone’s drink order?” he asks.

“Nope.” You turn back to your laptop. That’s all you give him. No nervous attempt to ease the implication. Just nope. Levi stands beside your desk for an embarrassingly long second.

You’ve noticed how he takes his tea because you’re observant—that’s it. He can’t be stupid now. He notices things too, after all. He notices that you hum when you’re concentrating, usually without realizing you’re doing it. He notices that every child who scores higher than their previous test receives two stars instead of one. He notices the little bottle of vanilla hand lotion you keep beside your computer. He notices that you read stories using different voices for every character, because sometimes, when he’s cleaning the hallway during your final few hours of class, he hears your students howling with laughter through the door. He notices you always forget to drink your coffee while it’s hot.

Levi picks up the tea. “Thanks.”

You stop typing. Then you smile at your screen. “You’re welcome.”

For some reason, Levi thinks about that smile while he’s emptying trash cans two classrooms later.

.

In December, the sink in Room 112 begins leaking. Levi kneels beneath it during your math period, a wrench in one hand and his shoulders wedged awkwardly beneath the cabinet while twenty-four children attempt to complete multiplication worksheets.

Or, more accurately, twenty-three children. One watches him. Levi can feel it.

He tightens a connection beneath the drain. The child continues staring. Finally, Levi slowly looks over his shoulder. A small boy in a dinosaur sweater is leaning so far out of his chair that two legs have lifted off the floor.

“What?”

The boy straightens. “Nothing.”

Levi turns back to the sink. Three seconds pass.

“Mr. Janitor?” 

Levi closes his eyes. “Yes?”

“Do you live here?”

The classroom goes quiet. You look up from the desk where you’re helping Mina with a worksheet. “Thomas,” you say.

“What?” Thomas asks. “He’s always here.”

“I go home,” Levi says.

“Where?”

“Do your math.”

A few students giggle. Levi hears you trying not to. He also hears you resuming with Mina, your voice lowering, but not enough that Levi can’t hear it.

“It’s okay. Look at me,” you whisper.

A sniffle. “I don’t understand.”

“It’s okay to not understand.”

“I keep getting it wrong.”

“I know. That’s frustrating.”

Levi stops moving for a second. There’s no impatience in your voice, like he’s heard with other teachers. You pull a blank sheet of paper out and begin explaining the problem differently, using groups of drawn stars instead of numbers, pausing every few seconds to ask Mina what she thinks should happen next rather than simply telling her the answer. Levi listens, even though he doesn’t want to.

Eventually, Mina whispers, “Twenty-four?”

“There you go,” you smile.

“I—I got it?”

“You got it.”

The girl’s whole face changes. Levi sees it when he emerges from beneath the sink, the sudden burst of pride that makes her bounce in her seat, and he watches you pat her head. 

He knows teachers. He works around dozens of them. Some are patient, some aren’t, and some clearly entered the wrong profession, either due to attitude or their lack of realization that children bite, vomit, and ask the same question eleven times. But you never seem surprised by what your students need. You just adjust.

Levi returns his attention to the sink.

“Miss?”

His shoulders tense. He recognizes Thomas’ voice now.

“Yes?” you say.

“Mr. Janitor is staring at you,” Thomas says.

Levi’s wrench slips from his grasp. He hisses through his teeth and grimaces. 

“He is not,” you laugh.

“He was,” Thomas insists.

“I wasn’t,” Levi says.

Christa turns in her seat. “Yeah, you were.”

Levi slowly straightens his spine. Twenty-four faces are now looking at him. Well, twenty-five, if he includes you. “Don’t you kids have math to do?”

The room explodes into giggles. You turn toward the whiteboard, but not quickly enough to hide your smile. Then a hand shoots into the air, and you hesitate.

“Yes, Connie?” you say.

Connie lowers his hand, then looks to Levi. “Mr. Janitor, do you think Miss is pretty?”

Levi freezes. Someone gasps. Thomas whispers, “Connie!”

“What?” Connie asks.

Your entire face goes red. “Okay! Everyone finish your worksheet.”

“But—”

“Worksheets!”

“Mr. Janitor didn’t answer,” Thomas says.

“Worksheet, Thomas.” Another hand raises. You stare at it, terrified of what awaits. “Yes, Mina?” you ask, already nervous.

Mina looks between you and Levi with curiosity. “My mommy said when two grown-ups love each other very much, they have sex. Do you and Mr. Janitor do that?”

Every pencil in the room stops moving. Levi shoots upright so quickly he hits his head on the underside of the sink. You don’t even bother checking on him, because by the time you consider it, the classroom erupts.

“What’s sex?!”

“My brother said that word!”

“You’re not supposed to say it!”

“Do they?”

“Miss is red!”

You clap your hands once, loud enough that half the room jumps. “Tests!” you say brightly, silently considering an early retirement. Don’t blush, don’t blush, don’t fucking blush. “Eyes on your tests. Pencils on your papers. No one is discussing anything their mommy or daddy said at breakfast.”

“But Miss—” Mina tries again.

“No.”

“Is it true?”

“Mina.”

“What?”

“Worksheet.”

Levi stays crouched beneath the sink, one hand gripping the pipe so hard his knuckles turn white. Thomas, apparently choosing to continue the chaos, whispers, “Mr. Janitor still didn’t answer.”

“Thomas,” you warn.

He immediately looks down. “Worksheet!” he chirps.

Levi finishes the sink in absolute silence. He leaves five minutes later without looking at anyone. You catch him in the hallway.

“Levi.” He keeps walking. “Levi!”

“What?”

You hurry beside him. “I’m sorry.”

“They’re nosy, aren’t they?”

“They’re eight.”

“Same thing.”

You laugh. He looks at you properly and regrets it instantly, because he realizes your cheeks are still flushed. Something about that sight makes his heart skip a beat.

“For the record,” you say carefully, “you never answered the question.”

Levi stops. You take two more steps before realizing he’s no longer beside you. When you turn, he’s watching you, and he can practically see the moment your confidence falters. 

“Which one?” he asks. His mouth twitches at the sight of your flushed face and startled expression. “Didn’t think I needed to answer.”

You open your mouth. Levi walks away before he can blurt out anything else.

.

On Valentine’s Day, Levi discovers a card on your desk addressed to him in purple marker.

TO MR ACKERMAN

He doesn’t pick it up at first, but curiosity defeats common sense. Inside is a crayon drawing of two stick figures. One is holding a mop. The other wears a dress and has about ten strands of yarn glued to its head. Red hearts surround both figures. Beneath them, in enormous uneven letters, someone has written:

YOU SHOULD MARRY MISS BECAUSE SHE LIKES YOU

Levi stares so hard he doesn’t hear the classroom door open.

“Okay, before you get mad, the glitter this time is biodegradable,” you say, walking into the room carrying two tote bags. Levi silently holds up the card. You stop, your eyes widening at the giant words scribbled onto the paper. “Oh my god.”

“Your students sure are… persistent.”

You set the bags down. “They’re invested.”

“Clearly.”

You reach for the card, but Levi moves it out of your reach. Your hand freezes mid-air. “Are you keeping it?”

“Evidence of harassment.”

You huff out a breathy laugh and walk to your desk, opening the bottom drawer. “I have something for you.”

Levi frowns, “No.”

“You don’t even know what it is!”

“Doesn’t matter.”

You pull out a small box. “Happy Valentine’s Day!”

“Oh good god.”

“Levi.”

“No.”

You shove the box against his chest. He grabs it automatically. The packaging is simple, dark green, and when he reads the label, he recognizes the name of a tea shop across town. Good tea. Expensive tea. A sticky note is attached to the top. 

Thanks for surviving Room 112.

Levi looks at you. “You bought me tea?”

“Oh god, don’t make it all weird now.”

“I’m not the one making it weird.”

“You’re the one staring at me.”

“Because you’re talking too much.” 

Your smile appears slowly. That goddamn smile. The one that’s been making his job unnecessarily complicated since last year. He’d noticed it before then, yes, but it only started doing strange things to his stomach recently. 

“Thank you,” he says quietly.

“You’re welcome,” you grin.

Levi sighs through his nose. At least he feels less weird about what he did for you now that he knows you got him something. “Here.” He reaches into the cleaning cart.

“What?”

“Take it.”

He hands you a box. You look between him and the box. “Levi.”

“Open it or don’t.”

You open it, and inside is an insulated travel mug. Your mouth falls slightly open. It’s a muted blue, not too garishly bright that it’ll blind you first thing in the morning, but also not too dark that it’ll easily get lost in the dark. 

“Your old one leaks,” Levi says.

“You noticed?”

Levi immediately regrets speaking. He regrets the entire day. He regrets accepting this job. “You spill coffee everywhere.”

“Right.”

You’re smiling again. Levi glares at you. You run your fingers over the metal, then grin wider, hugging the box to your chest. “Thank you, Levi.”

“Yeah.”

“I love it.”

“It’s a cup.”

“And I love this cup.”

“Jesus Christ.”

The next morning, your old travel mug is gone. The new one sits on your desk.

.

Spring arrives slowly. The trees outside the school begin flowering, jackets disappear from classroom hooks, and the children become restless from the prospect of summer approaching. 

Levi finds you asleep at your desk on a March evening in April. He stops in the doorway. Your cheek is pressed against one arm. Student portfolios surround you in piles, along with construction paper, folders, and a roll of tape that appears to have become attached to your sleeve.

Levi checks the clock. Seven twenty-three. “Idiot,” he mutters.

You don’t move, but he still enters quietly. He empties your trash, sweeps beneath the tables, sanitizes the sink, and somehow, you sleep through all of it. Naturally, Levi looks at you, even when he screams at himself not to. Your face is relaxed in sleep, nothing like the attentiveness you show during school hours where you’re expected to answer questions or redirect arguments or notice if a child has gone too quiet.

You look exhausted. Levi doesn’t know why he doesn’t like that. Or maybe he does know. He finishes the room, then begins to organize the folders scattered near your elbow. You stir, and Levi immediately looks away as your head lifts.

“What—”

“You drooled on a spelling test,” he says.

You bolt upright. “I did?!”

Levi almost smiles. “Just fucking with you.”

You glare at him. “You’re horrible.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“What time is it?” you ask as you rub your eyes.

“Late.”

“Oh.”

You look at the unfinished portfolios. Levi watches your shoulders fall. Then, before he can think it over, he pulls the nearest stack toward himself.

“What goes where?” he asks.

“You don’t have to help,” you say, blinking.

“Didn’t ask.”

“Levi—”

“What goes where?”

Ten minutes later, you sit side by side at one of the student tables, slipping assignments into folders. The school is strangely quiet. A quiet that only exists after everyone else has left, when the hallways become empty and echo when one lone person walks down them.

“Why’d you become a teacher?” Levi asks.

You look up at him. He keeps his attention on the folder in his hands. “I had a teacher when I was little. In fourth grade,” you say after a moment. “She noticed things about me that other teachers didn’t notice.”

He moves a little slower, paying close attention to your words.

“I wasn’t a bad student. I wasn’t failing or anything. I just… got overwhelmed easily, I guess. And everyone thought I was shy, so no one really paid attention when I stopped talking.” You smooth the bent corner of a paper. “But she did.”

Levi then looks up at you fully.

“She used to let me sit in the reading corner when the kids were being too loud,” you continue. “Never made me feel weird about it. Never asked me to explain myself in front of everyone. She just… noticed.” You smile faintly. “I think I wanted to be that for somebody else.” You pause for a moment, then laugh and say, “That’s cheesy.”

“No, it isn’t,” he says. You meet his eyes, and Levi looks down at the folders again. “You’re good with them.”

“You think so?”

“Wouldn’t have said it otherwise.”

You stare at him. Then you say, “You’re good with them too.”

“No.”

“You are. The kids adore you.”

“They don’t know any better.”

“You fixed Armin’s backpack.”

“The zipper was broken and he was crying.”

You smile. “And you found Mina’s stuffed rabbit before winter break.”

“It was behind a shelf I needed to move anyway.”

“And you remember Connie’s allergies.”

“I clean the classroom he’s in.”

“And Thomas told me you taught him how to tie his shoes.” Levi pauses, so you lean slightly closer. “Levi~”

“He was holding up the fucking lunch line.”

You laugh again, louder than before, and Levi really looks at you for a moment. Your smile slowly fades as the air changes, your mind acknowledging the feeling of your knee touching his beneath the table and the hitch in his breath.

“You’re much nicer than you pretend to be, you know,” you whisper.

“You’re getting much more annoying,” he says.

“I’ve been annoying for months.”

“Yeah.” Levi’s gaze falls to your mouth. “I noticed.”

His breath catches, and so does yours. You’re quiet for multiple seconds, then, because you apparently have more courage than him, you ask, “Are you ever going to ask me out?”

Levi blinks at you. “I was planning on it.”

“When?”

“Before you started interrogating me.”

You grin. “Sorry.”

“You’re not sorry.”

“No, not at all.”

Levi huffs, then lifts one hand, his fingers brushing your jaw so lightly that, for one second, he worries you might pull away—but you don’t. Instead, you tilt your face into his palm. Shit. That’s it. 

Levi leans forward. The first kiss is softer than he expects. Maybe because he’s spent so long wanting it that the reality of your mouth against his feels strangely delicate, something he has to cradle carefully despite the months of tension that have led here. Levi’s thumb moves against your cheek. You kiss him again, and this time, he feels you smile.

A loud electronic chime rings from across the classroom. Both of you jerk apart. Levi turns to see a student tablet lighting up on the charging station.

SOFTWARE UPDATE COMPLETE!

Levi glares at it while you choke back a laugh.

“I’m throwing that thing away,” Levi grumbles.

You laugh so hard you fold forward into his shoulder. Levi closes his eyes, but his arm goes around you anyway.

.

Keeping a relationship secret from twenty-four eight-year-olds is, as Levi discovers, impossible.

He and you manage for a month. Technically. You don’t discuss your relationship at school. You don’t touch in the halls. Levi still cleans Room 112 late in his shift, although now he sometimes leaves with you, and your students only become suspicious when they notice that you’re smiling more often. 

Then, on the last Monday of May, Levi makes a mistake. He enters Room 112 before school. You’re standing behind your desk, rearranging papers.

“Morning,” he says.

You look up. “Hi.” Levi places a coffee beside your laptop. Your face lights up. “You got me coffee?”

“You forgot to make it this morning,” he says. You freeze, and Levi realizes what he just said. You stare at him. He stares back.

“Someone might think you like me,” you say.

“Someone would be an idiot,” he says, but you still smile. He walks around the desk, then kisses your temple, something he’s done a dozen times in your apartment.

Then he turns, and twenty-four children stand in the hallway. The door is wide open.  Levi freezes. You freeze.

Thomas points. “I knew it!”

Chaos erupts. Children flood the classroom.

“I told you!”

“Mr. Ackerman kissed Miss!”

“The valentine worked!”

“That was my card!”

“No it wasn’t!”

“I said they liked each other first!”

Levi stands perfectly still, sighing quietly to himself. Your face is completely flushed with heat. “You kissed me in front of them,” you whisper.

“I didn’t see them,” he whispers back.

“You always see everything.”

“Apparently not.”

Connie appears in front of Levi. “Are you getting married?” he asks.

“No,” Levi says.

Christa gasps. “Why not?”

“Because we’re not.”

“But you kissed her.”

Levi looks at you. You’re biting your lip, trying not to laugh, trying not to look too interested in his answer. He knows you too well by now.

“Haven’t decided,” Levi says.

Thomas smiles. “So maybe?”

Levi sighs. “Ask me again in a few years.”

The children lose their minds, but not before Levi leaves. He makes it halfway down the corridor when you catch up to him.

“Levi,” you say. He keeps walking. “Levi Ackerman.”

“Got floors to clean,” he says dismissively.

“Did you just imply you’re going to marry me?”

“No.”

“You absolutely did.”

“No idea what you’re talking about.”

You step in front of him, stopping him in his tracks. Your face is still flushed. You’re smiling so widely that he suddenly has trouble looking directly at you.

“Ask me again in a few years?” you repeat.

“Move,” he warns.

“Levi.”

He reaches forward, your breath catching in response, but he just straightens your crooked teacher lanyard. “Go teach your kids.”

“They’re your kids too now.”

“Don’t say shit like that.”

You laugh and kiss his cheek. Behind you, there’s movement. Levi looks back upon seeing your exasperated expression and sees a bunch of faces pressed against the narrow classroom window.

“I hate this school,” he mutters.

A muffled voice immediately shouts through the door. “We can hear you, Mr. Ackerman!”

Levi closes his eyes, and you laugh against his shoulder. Despite the embarrassment, he wouldn’t change anything. Not the glitter-covered classroom. Not the tea you got for him. Not the terrible Valentine’s card that remains inside his nightstand at home. 

“Go on,” he says.

You smile. “See you after school?”

“Obviously.”

MASTERLIST ♡ JOIN THE TAGLIST ♡ AO3 ♡ WATTPAD ♡ KO-FI

tags: @saccharinefool @bunbun6casp @hoebuns @levkuna @strangeeaglepost @how-interesting-wow @d1leviglazer @y44washere4somereason @slaytherinthoughts @levishart @gloomyveil @levislolita @nerdskillz @angierb05 @elegantmakercoffee @444anya @miaszt @astersfantasies @daisyy-lev @naxymoon @bxcketbarnes @caliope13 @im-just-a-simp-le-whore @starfallenlevi @altpsyche @tea-rae @ssomethingalieen @starryscara @starlighttitan @sleepykittycx @leviholics @angelbearknyyy @tallvanillalatte

divider by: dividersnook11

[levionlyyours]

hear me out... levi with messy bed head

anon, you got me, gal.

☆ you know things aren't neat when you wake up—sheets, clothes, pillows—but you don't expect levi's hair to be one of them—and to the point of disaster, at that.

☾ cw: none!

when you wake up for the first time next to levi, you don’t expect his bedhead to be so disastrous. 

you try not to laugh when you see it. you really do. but it starts as a tiny breath through your nose, then becomes helplessly loud, because humanity’s strongest soldier looks like he lost a fight with his pillow and barely survived.

levi turns his head slowly to look at you. “something funny?”

“no,” you say, obviously lying. he narrows his eyes in drowsy irritation. you sit up and reach for him, and he freezes as you slide your fingers into his hair, gently smoothing the stubborn pieces back into place. 

he closes his eyes briefly, a small surrender. he almost thinks of swatting your hand away, the designation of you being annoying resting on the tip of his tongue. protecting his dignity is important. but it’s not more important than the smile on your face. so, he leans closer, and it nearly makes your heart trip. then you see his ears turning a light shade of pink.

“there,” you say, his hair finally tamed. “very scary again.”

levi catches your wrist before you can pull away. “keep laughing and i’ll mess yours up worse.” you grin. he kisses your palm anyway.

MASTERLIST ♡ JOIN THE TAGLIST ♡ AO3 ♡ WATTPAD ♡ KO-FI

tags: @saccharinefool @bunbun6casp @levkuna @strangeeaglepost @how-interesting-wow @y44washere4somereason @slaytherinthoughts @levishart @gloomyveil @levislolita @nerdskillz @elegantmakercoffee @444anya @miaszt @astersfantasies @daisyy-lev @naxymoon @caliope13 @starfallenlevi @tea-rae @starryscara @starlighttitan @leviholics @angelbearknyyy @tallvanillalatte @gingerbreadsnail @myfreespirit23

divider by: diviniyae

[kosmogrl]

Dont blame yourself for not having known a lesson only time could teach