summary: You go to Peter’s expecting a normal hangout, only to accidentally discover he’s Spider-Man… and react way more excited than he was prepared for.
warnings: use of y/n, fluff, friends to lovers, mutual crush, identity reveal, humor, mild suggestiveness, awkward nudity (non-explicit), aunt may interruption, chaotic reader, peter parker being a mess, first kiss, light teasing, lower case intended!
notes: reader is said to have hair.. sorry if you're bald! slightly proofread!
word count: 3.9k
you were sitting cross legged on Peter’s bed, absently flipping through a worn comic book, the pages soft from being read a hundred times over.
the oversized Spider-Man top you borrowed from peter.. and maybe planned on never giving back, slipped slightly off one shoulder, your pajama pants loose and comfortable against your legs.
every now and then, you glanced toward the door, listening for footsteps.
ned had bailed last minute, something about his grandma needing help “cleaning spider webs off the ceiling,” which sounded completely made up but you hadn’t pressed.
honestly… you didn’t mind.
if anything, it made your stomach flutter a little.
because now it was just you and Peter.
you tried not to smile at the thought, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear as you turned another page without really reading it.
you’d been looking forward to this all day, telling yourself it was just a normal hangout, nothing special but the quiet would feel different without Ned there filling every silence.
your eyes drifted around peter’s room, the scattered school books, the cluttered desk, the half finished projects and you couldn’t help but feel a little fondness bloom in your chest. It all felt so… him.
and maybe just maybe you liked him a little more than you should.
okay, a lot more.
but it wasn’t like it was one sided… right?
you bit your lip, staring down at the comic in your hands, though your mind had completely wandered.
the way he looked at you sometimes, the way his voice softened just a bit when he said your name…
or how he’d glance at you first when something funny happened, like your reaction mattered more than anyone else’s.
or the way he’d get just a little flustered when you stood too close, like he didn’t quite know what to do with his hands, or his words, or himself... it had to mean something.
a small smile tugged at your lips as you hugged the comic a little closer to your chest.
yeah… you were pretty sure peter liked you too.
a sudden thwip at the window made you jump.
the comic in your hands slipped slightly as your grip tightened, eyes snapping toward the sound.
the window.
something had hit it.
another faint creak followed, the soft rattle of glass shifting in its frame, like something or someone was right outside.
for a split second, everything stilled, your heart kicked hard against your ribs.
peter wasn’t home yet.
and may was downstairs.
so… who?
you slowly sat up straighter on the bed, pulse thudding in your ears, every instinct suddenly on edge as you turned your head and stared at the window, waiting for something, anything to move.
a small tug, so quiet you almost thought you imagined it but no, the bottom edge of the window shifted, just barely, like something was pulling at it from the outside.
the latch gave with a soft click, your fingers curled more on the comic book, gripping harder while your eyes stayed locked on the window as it began to slide open a few inches on its own.
cool air slipped into the room first, brushing against your skin, lifting the curtains just enough to make them sway.
your heart was pounding so loud you were sure may could hear it from downstairs.
the window opened wider.
the outside noise crept in, distant traffic, a horn somewhere far off, the hum of the city.
a slow, creeping chill ran down your spine as something moved around outside of the window.
you couldn't move or speak, it was like you were frozen in place.
a blur crossed your line of sight, and before your brain could catch up, a figure swung through the opening with impossible speed, landing inside peter’s room in one smooth motion.
a quiet thud against the floor, crouched perfectly, like they had done it a thousand times before.
you watched, breath trapped in your chest.
the figure stayed crouched for a second, one hand pressed flat against the wall, the other steadying them on the floor.
muscles coiled, alert, like they were listening for something outside.
oblivious to the fact that someone was already in the room.
then slowly, almost cautiously, they straightened. The light from the window caught the fabric of the suit, and suddenly the details came into focus.
your stomach dropped, 'No way.' you thought to yourself.
standing in the middle of peter’s room was spider-man.
the suit shimmered faintly under the sunlight, all red and blue. Then, almost hesitantly, they reached up and pulled at the mask.
your eyes widened, jaw slowly falling open as the mask came off.
peter parker’s face was revealed, messy hair falling across his forehead, eyes wide and frantic, cheeks already pink from exertion.
peter, unaware that you were already there, exhaled shakily and began loosening the suit.
first he tugged at the shoulders, peeling them down slowly, you stayed silent, captivated, every muscle of your body tense as you watched.
he slid the sleeves off one by one, then slowly reached for the zipper at the back of the suit, sliding it down just far enough to reveal the top of his chest.
then, sliding the arms down, revealing his pale, toned arms that flexed with each subtle movement.
his breath was heavy, his movements were careful, as if he could feel the tension in the empty room even though he thought he was alone.
your eyes, though you tried to look away, betrayed you.
they lingered, dragged along the lean lines of his arms, the curve of his shoulders, and then his back as he slid the suit down further.
and then, without warning, his eyes flicked to the bed.
you. sitting there. watching. silent. time seemed to freeze.
peter froze mid motion, hands clutching the suit at his waist, face flaming red. “y-y/n…” he stammered, voice breaking slightly.
“peter.” your voice came out breathless, barely a whisper at first, then louder as realization hit. “you… you’re… spider-man?!” eyes still tracing him, but now in full realization. “It’s you… the whole time… it was you?”
“how’d you get in here i-“ he spoke, tilting his head before you cut him off.
“may let me in..” “wait… wait… wait!” you shrieked, springing upright. “you’re spider-man?! are you kidding me?! that’s insane! that’s so cool! i can’t believe it’s you!"
peter froze, muscles tensing, eyes wide. “I… I didn’t.. uh…”
you stood up on the bed, jumping around, hands flailing, pacing in excitement.
“this is unbelievable! you’re swinging around the city, saving people, and i had no idea it was you! oh my gosh, peter, i can’t even.. ”
in his panic, flustered and overwhelmed by your energy, peter tugged at the suit’s zipper again. “I... I can’t… just...” he yanked the rest of the spider-man suit off in a desperate attempt to explain, revealing his bare chest and toned torso. by the time he realized it, he was down to nothing but his boxers.
you thought for a second, then pointed a finger at his chest, heart still racing from your excitement. “wait- why didn’t you tell me? why didn’t you tell me it was you this whole time?!”
peter’s mouth opened and closed, cheeks bright red. “I… I… I didn’t… I didn’t think… you’d.. uh…” he scrambled, trying to cover himself with his hands and the discarded suit.
and that’s when it happened, the door swung open.
“peter? Y/N? are you-”
it was May and both of you froze. Your finger was still pointed at his chest. Peter was frozen mid cover, boxers on, red-faced beyond belief. You were half standing on the bed, still vibrating with excitement.
may’s eyes went wide immediately. The image of you two looked… wrong. Very, very wrong.
peter groaned, pressing a hand to his face. “May! I… it’s not what it looks like!”
may blinked at the two of you, clearly mortified herself. “I… I’m going to… give you two a minute.”
and just like that, she spun on her heel and walked out, shutting the door behind her.
the sound of the click echoed in the room.
you blinked at Peter, who was still hunched over, trying desperately to cover himself with the suit. His ears were red, his chest rising and falling quickly.
“well… that was… something,” you said, a grin tugging at your lips, still vibrating from excitement.
peter groaned again, flopping onto his bed beside you, pulling the suit over his lap. “I… I hate you right now.”
you laughed, now sitting, eyes tracing his bare chest. “I love you right now. This is amazing.”
“okay… okay,” you said, leaning back on your hands, still grinning, heart racing. “Seriously… does anyone else know? Like… Ned? MJ? Anyone?”
peter’s eyes went wide. His cheeks flushed deeper, and he shook his head quickly. “N-No! Nobody knows. It’s just… you. You can’t tell anyone. Not Ned, not MJ, not anyone. Promise me.”
you nodded. “Don’t worry… your secret’s safe with me.
you sat up a little straighter, your eyes still on peter. “…What?” he asked cautiously, already suspicious.
you clasped your hands together, leaning forward. “Okay. Hear me out.”
“No.” “I didn’t even say anything yet!”
“I know that tone,” he said, pointing at you.
you grinned. “I just think… hypothetically… as your very trustworthy best friend…”
“Uh-huh.”
“…I should get to try the web shooters.”
peter laughed in disbelief. “…Absolutely not.”
your jaw dropped. “What?! Why not?!”
“Because they’re not toys!” he shot back. “You could, like.. stick your hand to the ceiling! Or your face! Or something worse!”
“That sounds awesome,” you said immediately.
“That sounds like a hospital visit,” he corrected.
you scooted closer, grabbing his arm lightly. “Peter, come on. Just once! I won’t even aim at anything important. I’ll aim at, like… your chair.”
“My chair is important!”
you groaned dramatically, flopping back onto the bed. “You’re no fun.”
“I am fun! I just don’t want you accidentally webbing May to the wall!”
you snorted. “Okay, first of all, I would never...” There was a pause. “…Okay, maybe a small chance, but still!”
peter shook his head, trying not to laugh. “No. Not happening.”
you sat up again, closer this time, closer than before.
"I’m getting dressed. This conversation is over.”
“Please?” you said, softer now.
he hesitated, big mistake because you noticed immediately.
“Oh my god, that almost worked,” you whispered, eyes lighting up. “Peter.. ”
“Nope,” he said quickly, standing up. Peter was shaking his head, pacing a little now, running a hand through his already messy hair.
“No. Nope. Bad idea. Terrible idea,” he muttered. “You with web shooters? That’s statistically a disaster.”
you followed him with your eyes, arms crossed, trying not to smile. “You’re being dramatic.”
“I am not being dramatic. I have experience with these. You don’t.”
you slid off the bed and stepped closer. “Then teach me.”
he stopped pacing. “…Teach you?”
“Yeah,” you said simply. “You said they’re not toys. Fine. Show me how to use them properly.”
he hesitated. you could see the argument forming, the refusal right there. Then he sighed, a long, defeated sigh.
“…One shot,” he said, pointing at you. “One. You aim at something harmless. You listen to everything I say. And the second it goes wrong, I take them back.”
your entire face lit up. “Wait... really?!”
“I’m already regretting this,” he mumbled.
“Peter!” You grabbed his arm, practically bouncing. “You’re the best!”
"Yeah yeah." He said, as he turned around, walking toward his closet where he tossed his suit in.
you watched, very much not looking away this time, as he hurriedly grabbed a pair of plaid pajama pants.
he glanced back at you, feeling your eyes on him. "Turn around!"
you didn’t.
you just raised an eyebrow.
“Y/N.”
“Peter.”
“…Please.”
you hum as if in thought, but finally turned around, holding your hands up. “Fine. I’m being respectful. Look at me, respecting your privacy.”
“I don’t believe you,” he muttered, scrambling behind you.
you could hear the quick shuffle of fabric, the thump of him nearly tripping, a quiet “ow.. ” under his breath.
“…You okay?” you asked, trying not to laugh.
“I’m great,” he said, very obviously not great.
a few seconds later, “Okay. You can turn around.”
you did, he was in plaid pajama pants, a lightly wrinkled t-shirt and his hair was even messier.
“…Wow,” you said, looking at him like you were seeing him for the first time. “You clean up nice, Spider-Man.”
he groaned. “Please don’t call me that.”
“No promises.”
he moved to his desk, grabbing one of the web shooters. When he came back, his expression was serious, focused in a way you hadn’t seen before.
“Okay,” he said, gently taking your wrist. “Hand out.”
you obeyed immediately, he slid the web shooter onto your wrist, his fingers brushing your skin as he adjusted it. “It fits… okay, I think.”
your breath hitched just a little. “Feels… cool.”
“Don’t get used to it,” he said quickly, he lifted your hand slightly, guiding your fingers into position. “Alright. You press here, but only when you’re aiming. And you have to flick your wrist like this...”
his hand wrapped around yours to demonstrate, for a second, neither of you spoke. Then you whispered, “You’re, like… really good at this.”
he huffed softly. “I’d hope so.”
you glanced up at him, your faces closer than you realized.
“…Okay,” he said, clearing his throat. “Target. Uh.. chair. You said chair.”
you nodded, forcing yourself to drag your eyes away from him.
“On three,” he continued. “One… two…”
you didn’t wait for three.
thwip!
the web shot out, sticking perfectly to the chair across the room.
both of you froze, then your eyes went wide. “I DID IT?!”
peter stared at the web, then back at you. “…You actually did it.”
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
you were still buzzing.
like, actually buzzing, pacing a little, shaking out your hands like you’d just had ten cups of coffee.
“I can’t believe that worked,” you said for what had to be the fifth time, staring at the web still stuck to the chair. “I mean.. I can, because I did it but also, I can’t.”
peter leaned against his desk, arms crossed, trying very hard to look unimpressed.
“Beginner’s luck,” he said.
you spun toward him immediately. “Excuse me?!”
“I’m just saying,” he shrugged, failing to hide a small smile, “first try? Suspicious.”
you narrowed your eyes. “You’re jealous.”
“I am not jealous.”
“You are. You’ve been doing this for, what, months? Years? And I nailed it in one shot.”
“I was bitten by a radioactive spider,” he shot back. “You had a tutorial.”
“Still counts.”
he huffed out a laugh, shaking his head. “Okay, well, tutorial’s over. Hand it back.”
you immediately clasped your hands behind your back. “No.”
peter blinked. “No?”
“One more.” “No.” “Peter.” “Y/N.”
“One more,” you repeated, stepping closer, your voice dropping just slightly.
he shook his head, but he didn’t step away. “I said one shot.”
“And I listened. I did everything right.”
“That doesn’t mean you get unlimited turns!”
“Not unlimited,” you said quickly. “Just… one more.”
“No.”
you tilted your head, studying him, before you stepped even closer, close enough that he had to look down just slightly to meet your eyes.
“…Are you really gonna take it away after I was that good?” you asked, softer now.
he hesitated again and you saw it again.
“Oh my god, you’re thinking about it,” you whispered, a grin tugging at your lips.
“I’m not...” “You are.” “I’m really not...”
“You are,” you insisted, gently catching his wrist. “Come on. I won’t mess it up. I promise.”
his gaze flicked down to where your hand was touching him, then back up to your face. “…One more,” he said finally, like it physically pained him. “And that’s it. Seriously.”
your face lit up instantly. “Yes!”
“I mean it.”
“I know, I know,” you said, already holding your arm out again.
he sighed, but stepped in, adjusting the web shooter back into place on your wrist. “Okay, same rules.”
“Same rules,” you echoed.
his fingers were slower this time, more careful, like he was suddenly very aware of every point of contact.
“Alright,” he said quietly. “Focus.”
you nodded, but your attention drifted the second he stepped in closer behind you, closer than before.
his arm came around yours again, guiding your aim.
“Target,” he murmured. “Desk.”
“Mhm.” “Wrist straight.” “Mhm.”
“Focus,” he murmured again.
you tried, you really did but it was a little hard when you could feel him this close.
“…Peter,” you said softly.
“Yeah?”
“I forgot what I was aiming at.”
he let out a quiet, breathy laugh. “You’re unbelievable.”
“Your fault,” you said. “You’re distracting.”
“I’m distracting?”
“You’re the one hovering.”
“I’m teaching!”
“Mhm.”
“…You gonna shoot?” he asked, voice quieter now.
“…Maybe,” you said, but you didn’t move your hand.
instead, you turned your head slightly.
he was right there.
close enough that your noses almost brushed.
his breath hitched and for a second, he didn’t move.
you glanced down at his lips before your eyes met his, watching him as he slowly leaned in, closing the gap.
the kiss was soft at first, a little tentative, like he was still catching up to what was happening but it didn’t stay that way for long.
his hand shifted slightly against your arm, steadying you as you kissed him back, the was kiss a little more sure this time, a little less hesitant.
the web shooter was completely forgotten.
when you finally pulled back, your lips still tingling, you smiled faintly. “…Okay,” you said softly.
he blinked. “Okay?”
you lifted your wrist up in front of you again, the web shooter still snug against your skin. “Now I can focus.”
it took him a second, then his eyes widened just a little. “Wait..”
thwip!
the web shot out clean and fast this time sticking to the edge of his desk with a soft tck.
you gasped, eyes lighting up all over again. “I DID IT AGAIN!” You laughed, pure excitement bubbling out of you as you grabbed his arm. “Twice! That’s not beginner’s luck anymore!”
“Okay, okay,” he laughed, shaking his head. “Maybe you’re a fast learner.”
“Maybe I’m just that good.”
the web hung forgotten across the room on the edge of his desk.
your hand slowly slipped from his arm to his hand instead, fingers brushing against his.
“…So,” you said, a small smile tugging at your lips, “does this mean I get promoted to… assistant Spider-Man?”
peter groaned, but didn’t let go of your hand. “Absolutely not.”
Summary: A heatwave and a clingy boyfriend are not the best combo. (0.4k)
Tags/warnings: fluff, pre established relationship, clingy!dick
A/N: Just something short 'n sweet to ease back into writing. The heat is killing me, I literally can't leave the house without my cute fan. English is not my first language and this was not proofread. Enjoy!
masterlist
It's that time of the year again.
The heat outside is unbearable, and the busted AC that should have been your saving grace is certainly not helping.
You're sprawled on the bed, desperately trying to fall asleep, switching sides of your pillow like a woman possessed, craving for the short lived coolness.
Just as you found a new spot on the bed that seems to have yet to be warmed up, you feel an heavy arm sneak around your waist.
"Don't touch me," you mumble with your face buried in the soft pillow.
When your boyfriend doesn't seem to get the hint, you take matters into your own hands and move his arm for your overheated body.
"But babe," Dick says, and you can hear the pout in his voice, "how am I supposed to fall asleep without touching you?"
"You'll get over it," you respond, your voice muffled.
He doesn't say anything after that, so you think he got the hint and just went to sleep. But who are you kidding? It's Dick Grayson we're talking about.
Just as you're about to finally drift to sleep, you feel the heat radiating from his body as he gets closer to you.
In response, you shuffle closer to the edge of the bed, trying to run away from his warmth.
"I wasn't even touching you," he whines. Whines.
"Doesn't matter. You're too hot."
What a bad choice of words. In fact, you regret them as soon as they come out of your mouth.
"Oh, so you think I'm hot?" he teases, his tone smug, apparently forgetting about how he was pouting just two seconds ago.
"Richard. We've been dating for two years."
"So you do think I'm hot?"
At this point you let out a heavy sight and turn around to face him.
"If I let you hold my hand, will you let me sleep?"
He simply nods, looking beautiful — more than usual, actually — with the streetlights filtering through the open window shining over him, making him look almost ethereal.
A smile appears on your face, despite your best efforts to hide it, and you just comply, giving him your hand.
After this win, he finally closes his beautiful blue eyes, and with a soft smile still plastered on his face, he falls asleep.
And just for a moment, the way he's holding your hand, as if it were his only lifeline, burns hotter than any heatwave.
A/N: This was the fic! Reblogs and comments are always appreciated, even if it's criticism (as long as it's constructive). I love talking with you angels, so my dms and inbox are always open!
a/n : not proof read.. 1.7k ish words? CW: injury detail, he’s a boxer duh, injury description along with fight details, suggestive at the end. No smut || masterlist
The basement beneath the old meatpacking plant smelled like sweat, rust, and cheap beer. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting harsh shadows across the concrete floor where the ring had been marked out with duct tape and chain-link fencing scavenged from somewhere illegal. The crowd was loud tonight - dock workers, low-level gangsters, college kids looking for a thrill, and the usual collection of scarred fighters nursing bruised egos between bouts.
You stood ringside with your arms crossed, clipboard in one hand, stopwatch in the other. Your black tank top stuck to your back from the heat. The air was thick enough to chew.
Dick Grayson was in the makeshift ring, shirtless, sweat-slicked, bouncing lightly on the balls of his bare feet. The white wraps on his hands were already stained red at the knuckles. He looked every bit the underground legend they whispered about in the locker rooms: the pretty boy with a killer right hook and a smile that made people bet stupid money.
He caught your eye across the ring and flashed that grin - sharp, cocky, and entirely too knowing.
You didn’t smile back.
“Keep your damn guard up,” you called, voice cutting through the noise. “Last time you dropped it in the third round and ate a hook that almost ended your pretty face.”
Dick’s grin widened, flashing teeth. “Worried about my face, boss?”
“Worried about my cut of the purse if you get carried out on a stretcher,” you shot back. “Focus.”
The bell - really just a guy slamming a wrench against a pipe - rang for the final round.
Dick moved like liquid. Fast, fluid, every punch thrown with precision that looked effortless. His opponent was bigger, heavier, a brute who relied on power and dirty shots. Dick danced around him, landing clean jabs and hooks, body shots that made the bigger man grunt. The crowd roared every time Dick’s gloves connected.
But you saw the little things. The way his left shoulder dipped when he was tired. The split second his guard wavered after a particularly hard counter. The way his eyes flicked to you between combinations, checking for your reaction.
He wanted your approval. He always had.
The fight ended with Dick’s opponent on his knees, gasping, unable to answer the ten-count. The crowd erupted. Money changed hands. Someone slapped Dick on the back hard enough to make him stumble.
You were already moving, ducking under the chain-link and shoving a water bottle and towel into his hands before he could bask too long in the noise.
“Drink,” you ordered. “And stop grinning like an idiot. You dropped your left twice in the last round. He should’ve caught you.”
Dick took the bottle, gulping water before pouring the rest over his head. Rivulets ran down his chest, cutting through sweat and a fresh bruise blooming along his ribs. He wiped his face with the towel, then looked at you with that dangerous half-smirk.
“Still won, didn’t I?”
“You got lucky,” you said, voice low so only he could hear. “Next time that brute lands a clean body shot, your ribs are gonna crack like eggshells. And if you keep looking at me mid-fight instead of your opponent, someone’s gonna knock your teeth down your throat.”
He stepped closer, crowding you against the edge of the ring. The noise of the crowd faded to a dull roar. Up close he smelled like sweat, copper, and that stupidly expensive cologne he still wore even down here.
“Maybe I like the way you look when you’re mad at me,” he murmured, voice rough from shouting and getting hit. “Gets me motivated.”
You shoved the towel harder against his chest, right over the fresh bruise. He hissed but didn’t move back.
“Motivated to get your ass handed to you?” you snapped. “We need the money, Grayson. Not another hospital bill. You keep fighting like this and one of these animals is going to end your career before it even starts.”
His eyes darkened. Not with anger - with something hotter, more dangerous. “You worried about my career or worried about me?”
“Both,” you admitted, the word slipping out before you could stop it. “And if you keep pushing, one day I won’t be here to patch you up.”
Dick’s jaw tightened. For a second the cocky fighter disappeared and you saw the exhaustion underneath - the kid who’d lost everything and still smiled for the crowd because that was all he knew how to do.
He leaned in until his forehead nearly touched yours. “Then stop threatening to leave every time I bleed.”
You held his gaze, heart hammering. The air between you crackled with weeks of unspoken tension - every late-night strategy session, every time his hands lingered too long when you taped his knuckles, every argument that ended with both of you breathing hard and standing too close.
“I’m not threatening,” you said quietly. “I’m warning. There’s a difference.”
Someone shouted your name from across the room—another fighter wanting a word about tomorrow’s card. You stepped back, breaking the moment.
“Get cleaned up,” you told him. “We’ve got a meeting with the promoter in twenty. Try not to bleed on the paperwork.”
Dick watched you walk away, towel still pressed to his ribs. His eyes followed the sway of your hips a second too long.
The locker room was a concrete box that smelled like mildew and old blood. You waited outside while Dick showered, arms crossed, ignoring the other fighters who catcalled or tried to flirt. When he emerged, hair damp and wearing only low-slung sweatpants, the bruise on his ribs had already started turning purple.
He tossed his bag over his shoulder and jerked his head toward the exit. “Come on. I’ll drive.”
You fell into step beside him, the night air cool against your overheated skin as you left the plant. His beat-up black car waited in the shadows. He opened the passenger door for you—always did, even when you told him it was stupid.
Inside the car the tension returned, thick and heavy. The engine rumbled to life. Dick drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the gear shift close to your thigh.
“You’re mad,” he said after a few blocks.
“I’m always mad at you,” you replied. “It’s part of the job description.”
He glanced over, green-blue eyes catching the streetlights. “Not like this. You’re quiet-mad. That’s worse.”
You stared out the window at the passing warehouses. “You keep taking shots you don’t need to take. You keep looking at me instead of your opponent. It’s reckless. And it’s going to get you hurt worse than a couple bruises.”
Dick’s hand left the gear shift and landed on your thigh - warm, calloused, possessive. Not squeezing, just resting there like it belonged.
“I look at you because you’re the only thing in that ring that matters,” he said, voice low. “Everything else is just noise. The crowd, the bets, the pain - it all disappears when I see you watching me.”
Your breath caught. His thumb brushed slowly along the seam of your jeans, a deliberate, teasing stroke.
“Eyes on the road, Grayson.”
He smirked but obeyed, hand staying exactly where it was. “You’re the one who patched me up tonight. You’re the one who gets pissed when I bleed. Don’t act like you don’t feel it too.”
You didn’t deny it. Couldn’t.
The rest of the drive was silent except for the low hum of the engine and the occasional honk from other cars. When he pulled up outside your apartment building, neither of you moved to get out.
Dick killed the engine. Turned to face you fully. The bruise on his cheek looked worse under the streetlight, but his eyes were bright, focused, hungry.
“You gonna invite me up?” he asked, voice rough.
You met his gaze. “You gonna behave?”
“No.”
The single word sent heat rushing through you. You got out of the car. He followed.
Inside your small apartment the air felt charged. You dropped your bag on the couch and headed for the kitchen, needing distance. Dick didn’t give it to you. He followed, crowding you against the counter before you could open the fridge.
His hands settled on either side of you, caging you in without touching. Close enough that you could feel the heat radiating off his body, smell the faint scent of sweat and soap from his shower.
“You’re mad because you care,” he said quietly. “And I’m reckless because I care too much to play it safe when you’re watching.”
You tilted your head back to look at him. “Then stop being reckless.”
“Can’t.” His voice dropped lower. “Not when you look at me like that. Like you want to patch me up and then tear me apart.”
Your hands came up to rest on his chest - right over the fresh bruise. He hissed but didn’t pull away. Instead he leaned into the touch, eyes half-lidded.
“You’re impossible,” you muttered.
“Yeah.” His forehead dropped to yours. “But I’m your impossible.”
The kiss that followed wasn’t gentle. It was months of tension breaking - teeth and tongue and the faint metallic taste of blood from his split lip. Dick’s hands slid to your waist, gripping hard enough to bruise in the best way. You tugged at his hair, earning a low groan that vibrated against your mouth.
He lifted you onto the counter without breaking the kiss, stepping between your legs like he belonged there. One hand slipped under your shirt, palm hot against your skin, thumb brushing the underside of your chest.
You pulled back just enough to breathe. “This doesn’t mean I’m not still pissed at you.”
Dick’s laugh was rough, breathless. “Good. I like you pissed. Makes the makeup worth it.”
He kissed you again - slower this time, deeper, like he was trying to memorize the way you tasted. His hips pressed forward, letting you feel exactly how much he wanted you. You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him closer, nails digging into his shoulders.
When he finally broke the kiss, both of you were breathing hard. His forehead rested against yours again, eyes dark.
“Stay the night?” you asked, voice husky.
He smirked, thumb tracing your lower lip. “Try and stop me.”
Neither of you mentioned tomorrow’s fight, or the next one, or the very real possibility that one day he might not walk out of that basement ring. Tonight there was only the heat between you, the raw need, and the quiet understanding that whatever this was—manager and fighter, friends with too much history, something dangerously close to more—it was worth the bruises.
For now, that was enough.
a/n : just a lil thing based on the poll the other day :3
se elas passassem um dia aqui lendo fulano da silva coreano, chines etc que se torna brasileiro hoje, carioca amanhã e fim de semana goiano + a pp c/ a descrição física que apetece cada escritora e seus regionalismos iriam TODAS morrer de ódio!
se você não consegue se imaginar em outro contexto, tempo, roupa, estilo etc (tirando características físicas muito importantes), qual a graça de ler fanfic? 😭
Sem contar que existem descrições e determinações que servem justamente pra um público especifico.
turnnoffyourmind
kianamaiart
kaledo-art
germansingergirl
ellievsbear
vaporwave
