Undead Disaster

May write but idk.. (18+ only blog) WILL BLOCK AGELESS BLOGS ~Salem/Frankie ~20's ~she/they

[rawme-price]

Werewolf!soap who, for the longest time refused to be anywhere near you during the full moon.

He knows what he's like, has seen the carnage he can cause. Soap, more than anything, wants to keep you safe.

Which is why he internally panics when you visit him so close to the full moon. Technically it should be fine, but his ma taught him to never rely on things to go well. He's never been around a mate so close to the moon, and it has his inner wolf acting out in a qay it never has before.

Two days. Two whole days before the full moon and soap is locking himself in the bathroom and begging you to leave.

You don't. Instead, you unlock the door and get the wind knocked out of you when a giant wolf slams you into the floor.

It snarls, drool stringing between its teeth, dripping onto your skin. Then, its nose twitches, and soap is leaning down to sniff at your neck. The change is so sudden it nearly gives you whiplash, that giant terrifying creature replaced by an oversized dog in mere minutes.

He's big enough to drag you to his 'den' and does so happily.

Which is how you end up buried under oversized wolf, smothered while soaps tail thumbs into your shin, rumbling happily. This is the first transformation he's had where he actually feels safe and happy.

[kentluv3r]

I absolutely luvvvvv your writing Bae, could I get a cockwarming fic with Clark plsssss

Thank youuuu

ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 (MINORS DNI) mhmmm, thinking about cockwarming CLARK KENT while he tries to edit a new daily planet article.

the softness of the light in the bedroom creates shadows on the wall as you sit on clark’s lap, legs bracketing on both his thighs. you were tired, sure, but you weren’t going to go to bed without your 6’4 farmboy in the bed with you— he’s been gone on missions for too many nights— so of course, you weren’t going to let him get away from you for journalism at home.

“clark… handsome…” you whisper, chin resting on his shoulder as your hands drag up and down his bare back. that stupid sound of the keyboard enters your ear, only melting at the feeling of his cock twitch at the sound of your voice.

clark hums, pausing his typing to look at you. “mhm? what’s wrong, sweetheart?” he asks, trying to not let his voice break at just how hard he is inside of you, the warmth of your pussy making him only hornier… but his job matters, the bills ain’t gonna pay themselves!

you look at him, kissing him softly as you speak against his lips. “please… fuck me already…”

he looks at you, his blue eyes soft. he thinks for a second but shakes his head, leaning in again and kissing you with a quick peck on the lips right before going back to his work— a moan leaving his mouth when you shift on him, his cock stroking against your walls. “can’t baby… i’ve gotta get this done, ‘promise that after this, you’ll be all i focus on; swear to you, baby.”

you huff but you couldn’t argue— especially right when he presses a kiss on your neck. “you’re mean.” you mutter.

he chuckles at your neediness, typing with his right hand as his left hand takes a chance to squeeze one of your asscheeks, making you squeak and inadvertently rock on his lap, making a guttural groan leave his mouth right after the chuckle. “am not… just making sure i get my work done.” he argues. “besides, you’re sexy like this… whimpering for me on my lap.”

rolling your eyes, you twirl a piece of his black hair with your finger. “yeah yeah, whatever… i just think you don’t want to fuck me.” you challenge.

that makes him halt his movements, leaning back which forces you to be face to face with him. the expression on his face? unimpressed and frankly disappointed.

“baby.” he says, tilting his head. “you know that’s not true.”

“oh yeah?” you ask. “then prove it.”

he groans and finally relents; after having you on his lap for damn near thirty minutes, all his need building up in his heart and balls… it’s not a shocker that he wraps his arms around your waist and lifts you up, bringing you to the bed…

maybe cockwarming a kryptonian is the best way to tease ‘em.

masterlist is here! click here for more!

ⓘ KENTLUV3R’S WORK. all my fanfics (not the characters) is my very own, coming from my own efforts and my time. do not copy my work, rewrite it, shove it through an ai machine and shit out slop, and don’t repost to wattpad/ao3/c.ai!

[vexic929]

I think a lot of what pro-AI people are really wanting is stuff that already exists but they don't know it's out there like

can't format a work email? templates

don't know how to write a resume? templates

writing a thank you card or a condolences card or a wedding invitation? templates templates templates

not sure how to format your citations in MLA or whatever format? citationmachine.net

summary of something you're reading for school/work? cliffsnotes.com

recipe based on ingredients in your fridge? whatsintherefrigerator.com

there's a million more like, guys, we don't need AI, we never needed generative AI

[derinthescarletpescatarian]

I'm constantly seeing people like "look what this guy did with AI to make his life easier" and it's like. A script that the guy wrote in 2021.

[basementcoffee]

john price who buys a plot of land and moves west, only to arrive after weeks on the trail and find a ramshackle little cabin already squatting on it. the whole place looks abandoned. reeks of neglect. he draws his gun and ventures in for a look anyway, see if he can’t at least salvage the place to build his own—and scares its lone resident, a woman armed only with a knife.

though it takes some time, skittish as you are, he talks you down. learns who you are and what you’re doing on his property. apparently, you’ve been fending for yourself for months after your new husband took your horse into town for supplies and simply never came back. no letter or body, nor word from anybody who might’ve seen him—just a house that’s falling apart and a garden you depend on to keep you alive.

price shows you the deed and bill of sale to convince you he isn’t some drifter or swindler trying to trick or rob you, and watches the fight go out of you when you realize what the papers actually mean, that the land was never your husband’s to begin with. that this stranger has every right to put you out.

you were frightened before, but now you’re looking at winter coming on with no horse, hardly any money, nowhere to go, and truly no one left in the world. and price, who’s spent his life living hard and thought that he’d spend the back half of his life alone, finds he can’t stomach the sight of you standing there trying not to beg him mercy.

he looks at the growing calluses on your palms, the dirt under your fingernails, and the dried mud caked along the hem of your skirts, and he is struck. all those violent, bloody years he survived when better men did not? this must be what he’s been kept alive for. to come all this way to this slice of heaven and find you here.

so he strikes a bargain instead: you can stay through the next month while you decide what you want to do. in the meantime you’ll help him make the place livable and he’ll teach you what he knows.

you’re not stupid. you know exactly how lopsided a deal it is, how little you have to offer compared to what he’s putting on the table—besides the obvious. he gives you the night to think it over, you toss and turn beneath for hours trying to invent a better alternative, but there simply isn’t one.

in the morning, bleary-eyed and embarrassed, you tell him you accept. john just grins and drains his coffee. to him, the matter was never in much doubt. he puts the two of you to work immediately.

the first few weeks are hard. john tackles the roof and walls first, making you his little helper, calling down for whatever tool he needs next or sending you to fetch whatever materials you can manage. you go to bed and wake up sore, palms blistering in a pair of his old gloves. all the while, john, strong as an ox, seems capable of working from dawn until dusk.

in the afternoons, when the heat makes repair work miserable, he puts you both on his horse and rides double to the nearby lake to teach you to fish. you squirm the first time he makes you gut a trout, nearly retching when the knife opens its belly. john only laughs when you try to shove the whole bloody business back toward him. his big hands close over yours instead, guiding the blade while his chest glues to your back, his voice rumbling in your ear as he chides you for trying to worm your way out of it. can’t live on good intentions, love. go on. get your fingers in there.

he teaches you to shoot next and that’s when you get your first inkling of whatever life he led before he found you. he’s an excellent shot, on foot and horseback. he’s also a good teacher. hands-on. correcting your stance, one wide palm at your waist and the other on your elbow, enduring every flinch of yours until you can fire without shaking. he shows you how to set basic snares and read the ground for tracks. in return, you teach him what grows best in the garden and what you’ve found foraging.

and during those early weeks, you live on edge, waiting for him to ask for more than just a second helping at dinner. because you know enough of the world to know what sort of bargain a woman in your position might ordinarily be expected to make, whether the exact terms are spoken aloud or not.

you hold your breath whenever he squeezes past you in the kitchen and go stiff when his hands squeeze your sides while shooting, steadying you against the recoil. more than once you’ve lain awake listening to the floorboards creak beneath his weight while he stays up late, waiting for him to appear at your bedside. when you bathe in the lake, he stands watch on the bank with his back turned, and though you wait to catch him looking over his shoulder. but, to your honest shock, he never does.

he’s refreshingly gentlemanly. you can’t tell whether he’s honoring the existence of your husband, suspended somewhere in that awful limbo between living and dead, or whether john is simply a patient man biding his time. waiting for the right moment.

whatever the reason, each day that passes without him demanding that certain kind of tender as payment relaxes you just a bit more. your vigilance eases and you stop keeping track of where he is in and outside of the cabin. for the first time in a long time, you feel at peace.

as a consequence, the whole situation grows domestic. his razor appears beside your washbasin. his coat hangs beside yours by the door. you start setting two places at breakfast and supper. at night, when there’s oil or wax to spare, you read aloud to each other.

so it comes as a surprise when, near the end of the month, john tells you to put on your best. you’re going into town.

today, apparently, you’re going to finally buy a horse of your own.

you start protesting immediately—you haven’t the money for a horse, your husband carried the bulk of it, you certainly don’t have enough a good one—but john waves all that away. you need one, he insists. can’t have you stranded. and while you’re in town, you can make some inquiries after your husband.

that shuts you up. almost makes you petulant. worse is the stab of shame when you realize you’ve barely thought of the man in weeks. for months, his absence had occupied every waking hour. you would daydream and imagine hoofbeats or footsteps and fly to the window, searching. then john arrived, and at some point, your husband became an afterthought.

in town, john waits patiently while you ask after your husband at the general store, the barber, the blacksmith. he accompanies you into the saloon, standing a few paces behind while you question the bartender and whatever regulars might have been there around the time your husband disappeared. john doesn’t say a word. he watches their faces, thick arms folded across his chest, eyes jumping from face to face beneath the brim of his hat while you explain when your husband left, the horse, and what he looked like.

nobody knows a thing.

in the end, you wilt dutifully. resigned to the fact that he either ran off or that his bones are bleaching in a ditch somewhere on the road. the thought ought to devastate you more than it does, and that brings another little stab of guilt.

john simply plants a hand between your shoulder blades and steers you toward the livery.

there, at least, he manages to cheer you up. he helps you choose a pretty chestnut gelding with a blaze on his forehead and a friendly disposition. john pays for him while you’re busy cooing at the creature, along with a saddle and tack, and when you claim that you’ll pay him back, he merely smiles and says, ‘m sure you will, love.

back home, neither of you mention that your agreement is nearly up. and when the month comes and goes, and neither of you mentions that either.

the timeline simply stretches, one day passing into the next. any sense of urgency gets lost. there’s still work to be done on the cabin, after all. you’re getting better with the rifle but john reckons you’ve plenty left to learn. you’ve only just got your own horse and ought to become a better rider before setting off anywhere alone. then the sun starts setting earlier and the leaves start to change, and really, leaving now would be foolish what with winter so close. you better to stay until spring.

john lays all this out over dinner one night. says it so plainly.

you agree, a mite too eager, and hide your smile behind another bite.

that night, while you sleep curled beneath your blankets, john eases your door open enough to look in on you. he stands there for a long while, listening to your breathing, before slipping a hand into his pocket. his thumb finds the worn band of that wedding ring he picked off a dead man on the road west and toys with it.

he wonders if he ought to pray. john never put much stock in faith or fate before. but what could he call this? finding that failure of a man, then finding the home he’d abandoned and the wife he’d left behind? what else is john supposed to understand it as, if not a series of signs pointing him precisely where he was meant to go? of all the land he might have bought, all the roads he might have taken—what are the chances?

the next day, he takes that dead man’s ring down to the lake and tosses it in. he will buy another the next time the two of you ride into town.

and that night, after weeks of patience, of sneaking off to see to his own wants in private, kicking dirt over his wasted spend, he will finally make his move. he will employ that same slow tenderness he’s shown you from the beginning. he has no reason to believe you won’t welcome it. you won’t shy away. you’ve been alone so long, starved for company, and he’s taught you to reach for him when you need something, hasn’t he?

no, you won’t fight him one bit. you’ll understand better, too, when he’s got you on your back, cock buried deep, drool hanging off your lip—you’ll know that you’re both right where you belong. where you’re meant to be.

and with luck, by the time spring returns, there’ll be more reason for you to stay. maybe his baby in your belly and a new ring on your finger. that bargain of a single month so far behind you both that neither of you will remember there was ever supposed to be an ending to it.

[silverlullabies]

[мαѕтєяℓιѕт]

[request/asks] | [my ao3] | [my tiktok] | [Twitter 🌽links]

Call me Silver. 30s. Multi-fandom writer. 18+ (MDNI). Highkey have severe anxiety. Gender fluid so you can use any pronouns (she/he/they/it). Transcended labels of sexuality, lowkey just a horndog for everyone. Been writing on here since 2017which can include dark content. If you’re reading this, send me a pic of your pet.

Occupation: The chances of your nurse reading and writing smut is low, but never zero.

All works belong to @silverlullabies do not copy or translate my work, feed into ai, or claim as your own. I don’t mind if you create works inspired by mine as long as you tag me in it so I can read them too. My reader inserts are cis afab 99% of the time

Fandoms I currently write for: Call of Duty, Batman/DC universe, Marvel, Supernatural, My Hero Academia, Jujutsu Kaisen, Naruto, The Pitt.

Anons: 🫧, 🦦, 🦷, 🫟

❦ (Smut; 18+, MDNI) | ★ (Humor) | ☁︎ (Angst) | ❀ (Fluff)| 𓅃 (Dead Dove/Dark Content)

˗ˏˋѕєяιєѕˎˊ˗

**still being written

⤷ ❦ Kinktober 2025 Masterlist (completed)

⤷ ☁︎❀ Dogs of War:(141 x Reader. Your boyfriend is shitty and abusive. Kate Laswell doesn’t like that. Luckily, she’s got four men on retainer to be your guard dogs.)

⤷ ❦☁︎𓅃 Always The Last**: (Price x Reader / Ghost x Reader. If Price won’t treat his girl right, Simon will. Even if it means crossing the line from loyalty into possession.)

⤷ ❦☁︎𓅃 Ripples On Still Water**: (Makarov x PriceDaugher!Reader. Your father built a girl desperate enough to take warmth from the first hands that offered. Unfortunately for everyone, Makarov happened to extend his hand first. dddne)

⤷ ❦☁︎𓅃 Salt In The Wound**: (Ghost x Reader slow burn / Price x Reader. You used to be one of theirs. And the secrets that once destroyed you five years ago that you thought you left behind- might not be finished with you yet.)

⤷ ★❀The Civilian’s Field Guide To Task Force 141**: (Suburban AU. Crackfic. Your new neighbors are a little…eccentric. SFW.)

⤷ ❦★ A Dog Named Ghost**: (Ghost x Reader You have a dog named Ghost. Somewhere along the way, the wires in Simon Riley’s head crossed. Kink heavy fic. [part one] [part two] [part three])

⤷ ❦☁︎𓅃 Dark!Soap AU**: [one] | [two] | [three] [four] (Soap x Reader Loosely connect one shots of Johnny MacTavish being a whole different man with you than with everyone else.)

⤷ ❦ Task Force 141 dosed with Truth Serum**: [Soap] [Ghost] [Price] [Gaz] [Reader] Coming soon: [König] [Alejandro/Rudy] [Graves] [aroace!Reader][ Laswell]

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

˗ˏˋσηє-ѕнσтѕ / ∂яαввℓєѕˎˊ˗

𝐆ɦⱺ𝗌𝗍 𝐌α𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗋ᥣ𝗂𝗌𝗍

ρяι¢є 𝐌α𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗋ᥣ𝗂𝗌𝗍

𝐒ⱺαρ 𝐌α𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗋ᥣ𝗂𝗌𝗍

𝐆αƶ 𝐌α𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗋ᥣ𝗂𝗌𝗍

𝐎𝗍ɦ𝖾𝗋𝗌/𝐌υᥣ𝗍𝗂

⤷ König, Graves, Nikto, Task Force 141, Alejandro, Rudy, etc)

⤷ ❦☁︎𓅃 performance review: Brendon Park x Reader. Power imbalance. corruption kink. bully kink. degradation. manipulation. biting. enemies to no-other-choice-but-him

⤷ ❦☁︎❀𓅃 teeth in tender flesh: brendon park x emma nolan. predator/prey dynamics. possessive behaviors. power imbalance. god complex.

⤷ ❀ There’s a betting pool for how long it takes Robby to realize he’s in love with Whitaker

⤷ ❦ Robby having explicit thoughts about Whitaker

⤷ ❀ Robby getting cornered by a therapy dog

⤷ ❦ Dennis house sitting for Robby drabble

⤷ You accidentally tell Park to shut up

⤷ ★Touch Starved:(Crackfic) Reader vs The Avengers

⤷ Two Sides of The Same Damn Coin:Bucky x Reader x Loki

⤷ ❦❀ All The Times You Slept In Bucky’s Bed:  Bucky x Reader Currently being rewritten

⤷ ❦ Two’s A Handful: Steve x Reader x Bucky

⤷ ★ Resemblance:  (Crackfic) Johnny Storm x Reader x Steve Rogers

⤷ ☁︎ The Burden of Godhood: (Loki x Reader) Or in which, the Loki at the end of time realizes he loves you in every universe and in every universe you hate him. Except for one.

⤷ ❦ Clark uses his X ray vision to watch as he fucks you

⤷ ❀❦★ Lightning Strikes Twice: Nightwing x Reader

⤷ ❦ DC boys getting a hand job after you got a new nail set

⤷ ❦ Always Been You:(Teacher x Student)Aizawa x Reader (My Hero Academia)

⤷ ❦ Soulless!Sam is curious what sex is like without emotional attachments (Supernatural)

⤷ ★❦ You just found out Chuck was God after sleeping with him (Crackfic. Reader Crash out fic) (Supernatural)

⤷ ❦ He just wants your douchebag boyfriend to shut up (COD, DCU, Marvel, SPN, MHA, JJK)

⤷ ☁︎❀ Your spouse watches you get ready in the morning after a depressive episode (COD, DCU, Marvel, SPN, MHA, JJK, Naruto)

⤷ ❦ Toji keeps going even after the sex pollen wears off (JJK)

⤷ ❦ [Knight with Princess!Reader drabble] (non-fandom)

[silverlullabies]

Sometimes violence is the answer to your problems- or in this case, Simon Riley’s problems

It’s not as if there had been a particular moment where Simon Riley had sat down and decided that he was done with having sex.

Rather, it was the accumulation of torture over the years that had left damage- nerves misfiring or simply not firing at all beneath scar tissue that had healed wrong.

Then there were the other injuries layered over it across the years: the fractures, surgeries, concussions, medications, chronic pain and the permanent state of low grade readiness his body seemed incapable of leaving even when he was technically safe.

Simon had spent enough time in hospitals to know the human body was less a machine than people liked pretending it was. Things went wrong. Sometimes they healed. Sometimes they didn’t. Sometimes nobody could tell you why.

His cock, apparently, had decided not to.

He’d noticed it gradually.

Morning erections disappearing first, though he couldn’t have said precisely when- not when his mornings were spent around other people and never actually got the time to wank one out before morning drills or in between dodging gunfire.

Then on the rare occasion he did actually feel enough inclination to do something about himself, it became an exercise in diminishing returns: attraction still existed somewhere in his head, sensation technically existed below the waist, but whatever bridge had once connected the two appeared to have been bombed out.

Simon discovered it through the deeply scientific process of occasionally attempting to masturbate and getting absolutely fuck all for his trouble

He could touch himself and get nowhere. Could want, abstractly, and have his body answer with complete indifference. The first few times Simon tested it, he approached the problem the way he approached most of his failures: with detached irritation, as though persistence alone might force the damaged thing back into service.

Eventually he’d stared down at himself, accepted that nothing was happening, pulled his trousers back up and thought, Right. That’s that, then.

He never mentioned it to anyone, not to a doctor and certainly not to Price, because- contrary to popular belief- there were limits to what Simon Riley was willing to survive and the idea of being waterboarded ranked higher on the list of things he’d want to go through again before having John Price know whether his lieutenant’s cock remained operational or not.

He didn’t make an appointment specifically for it either. Doctors had poked, prodded, scanned, stitched and reconstructed enough of him already, and there was something uniquely intolerable about volunteering this particular failure for examination when he had no real intention of actually doing anything with the equipment even if they did manage to fix it.

Casual sex had never really held enough appeal to justify navigating the humiliation of his body refusing to cooperate halfway through. A relationship sounded worse. Relationships required trust, trust required vulnerability, and Simon had never understood the fascination people had with handing another human being that kind of weakness so openly.

So celibacy became another practical adjustment. Fine. Good, even. One less thing to worry about, one less chemical urge trying to convince him another person was necessary.

Simon’s body already demanded sleep, food, medication, physical therapy and the occasional begrudging acknowledgment that he was not, despite considerable evidence to the contrary, composed entirely of out of spite.

He didn’t particularly mind losing one more demand and eventually he stopped checking whether anything had changed. He stopped noticing attractive strangers beyond the detached recognition that, yes, objectively, they were attractive. He stopped wondering whether there might be some circumstance under which his body would respond differently.

It had been years and whatever part of him had once wanted sex had either been damaged beyond use or buried beneath too much other shit to reach daylight, and Simon had made his peace with that.

Then you arrived and immediately became the most irritating person he had met in recent memory.

Not because you were cruel. Simon could deal with cruel; cruelty was straightforward. You simply possessed a spectacular disregard for the strange force field that usually formed around Ghost.

New recruits tended to give him space. Experienced operators might not fear him, but they understood him well enough not to poke unnecessarily at whatever lived behind the skull mask.

Even Soap, who had elevated testing Simon’s patience into a recreational activity, possessed enough survival instinct to recognize certain lines.

You, however, seemed unaware there were lines at all.

The first time Simon deliberately crowded your space during a disagreement, expecting the usual subtle retreat people made when six-foot-something of masked lieutenant invaded their breathing room, you merely tipped your head back farther and continued arguing. When he leaned down, you leaned forward. When he blocked the doorway afterward because you’d been getting on his nerves for the better part of twenty minutes, you stared at him and asked, “Are you finished?”

“Finished what?” he’d replied, because sometimes Simon could be every bit as juvenile as Soap accused him of being, even if he’s deny it until the day he died.

“This.” You waved vaguely at all of him. “Whatever weird intimidation ritual you’ve got going on. Move.”

He hadn’t and you responded with putting both hands against the center of his chest and shoving him instead. He barely shifted if course, which only seemed to annoy you further.

Your mouth tightened, your boots planted and you shoved again with genuine intent this time while Simon stared down at you in profound disbelief.

Somewhere behind him Soap made the distinctive strangled sound of a man swallowing laughter, and when Simon turned his head just enough all he saw was the sergeant suddenly studying a patch of wall with extraordinary concentration because he valued his continued existence.

By the time Simon looked back, you were already shouldering past the narrow gap you’d created, muttering something about oversized fucking roadblocks.

Deeply irritating. That was Simon’s assessment, and it remained his assessment over the following weeks while you developed an increasingly casual habit of putting your hands on him whenever he was being difficult.

Not affectionately. Never anything he could easily categorize as flirtation.

Rather, you slapped his hand away when he reached for things you were using, nudged his boots aside when he stretched his legs into your path, drove your shoulder into his arm rather than walk around him when he occupied too much corridor.

One afternoon he reached over your head for the exact mug you’d been reaching toward despite three identical ones sitting beside it, and you promptly elbowed him in the ribs.

“Use another one.”

“Wanted this one.”

“You’re a prick.”

“Been told.”

You turned with your mug held against your chest and gave him a look of profound disgust. “Do you wake up every morning and consciously decide to be unbearable, or does it come naturally?”

“Natural talent.”

Something low in his stomach tightened when your eyes narrowed. Simon noticed it only enough to dismiss it. His body produced strange aches, sparks and misfires constantly; one more meant nothing.

The real problem emerged three weeks later over a mission report, largely because Simon had made the decision to edit your wording after you’d already submitted it.

You found him sitting at his desk with the amended copy beside him and launched immediately into an accusation of bureaucratic sabotage.

Simon informed you that he’d corrected inaccuracies. You informed him there had been no inaccuracies. He reminded you that on line of your official report had read, Lieutenant Riley ignored the proposed entry point because apparently God himself whispered a better idea directly into his ear.

“That is an accurate account of events,” you argued.

“Not putting that in an official report.”

“You’re only mad because it makes you sound like an asshole.”

“I am an asshole.”

“Then why are we editing for accuracy?”

You were already moving around the desk while you said it, coming toward him with the particular determined stride Simon had learned meant you were about to invade his personal space as punishment for some perceived crime.

He remained seated though, mostly because standing would have made the whole thing absurd; he was already large enough without looming over you while you complained about paperwork.

You stopped directly between his knees instead, close enough that the fabric over one of your thighs brushed the outside of his. Simon registered it without meaning to and dismissed it.

Then your finger came up and pressed hard into the center of his chest.

“You listen to me, Riley. If you touch my report again without asking, you can take that red pen and shove it so far up your- “

Simon stopped listening.

His body had gone abruptly, impossibly still around one singular point of awareness. There was pressure beneath his pants. Heat. A heavy rush of blood into an organ Simon had, for all practical purposes, considered medically retired.

For several bewildered seconds his brain refused to identify the sensation because it had been absent too long to belong naturally among the catalog of things Simon expected his body to do.

Then his cock gave a distinct pulse against the front of his trousers and every word leaving your mouth vanished beneath one stunned thought.

He was hard.

Not sort of hard, not an ambiguous twitch he could blame on sitting wrong or fabric pressure or some random neurological event.

Simon Riley, who had gone years without getting an erection under considerably more deliberate circumstances, was sitting in his office with a fully functioning cock because you were jabbing him in the chest and telling him to go fuck himself.

You were still speaking, though Simon had no idea what you were saying anymore- although judging by your expression it remained insulting.

He stared at you with such unusual stillness that eventually you stopped on your own, finger still planted against his sternum. “What?”

Simon said nothing.

“What?” you repeated. “Have you gone deaf?”

His gaze dropped to your hand as though it might explain what had just happened. You mistook the look for irritation and removed your finger and Simon waited for the erection to disappear with it. It didn’t.

If anything, the lingering anger in your expression produced another deeply inconvenient pulse.

“No,” he finally said.

“Then say something.”

There were probably several sensible options but Simon chose, “Finished?”

Your whole expression sharpened. “Oh, fuck you.”

You snatched the report from beside him and stormed away, leaving Simon alone in his office with the door swinging behind you and his body apparently celebrating a resurrection.

He sat there for another several seconds before slowly looking down at himself.

The erection remained as undeniable as it was inexplicable. After years of absolutely nothing, his nervous system had apparently located a bypass around the damage because you had yelled at him over paperwork.

Simon stared until disbelief curdled into suspicion, then muttered, “Tha’s fucki’ inconvenient.”

By the following morning, he had explained it away. Bodies were strange. Blood pressure changed. Anger raised adrenaline. Perhaps poking his chest had compressed something in precisely the right way. Perhaps a damaged nerve had fired randomly for the first time in years.

After much deliberation, Simon decided one isolated event proved nothing, and there was absolutely no reason to investigate further.

So it was a completely coincidence, of course, that Simon happened to be standing directly in front of the cutlery drawer the next day, when you needed it.

You’d made tea, reached for the drawer and found approximately two hundred and forty pounds of lieutenant in the way. “Move.”

“Comfy.”

Your hand paused on the mug. “You’re blocking the spoons.”

“Plenty elsewhere.”

“No, there aren’t. They’re in the drawer behind your ass.”

“Sounds inconvenient.”

You stared at him. Simon leaned against the counter with studied indifference, though somewhere beneath that indifference his attention had become embarrassingly focused.

Nothing happened. No stirring. No heat. Simon experienced an emotion dangerously close to disappointment and immediately resented himself for it.

Then you stepped forward, caught a fistful of his shirt at the chest and yanked. “For fuck’s sake, Riley, move.”

His cock went hard so quickly Simon nearly inhaled his own tongue.

There was no ambiguity this time. Your knuckles dragged against his sternum through the fabric, your body crowded directly into his as you tried to haul a man significantly larger than yourself out of the way, and apparently this combination constituted the precise password required to unlock Simon Riley’s long dormant reproductive system.

You succeeded in shifting him half a step, reached around him for the drawer and retrieved your spoon without noticing that Simon had gone rigid for an entirely different reason.

“What’s wrong with you?” you asked when you turned back.

“Nothin’.”

“You look weird.”

“Always look like this.”

“No, you’re acting weird.”

Simon left without making the tea he’d ostensibly entered the kitchen to prepare.

Still, twice could still be coincidence. Simon clung to that argument for roughly forty eight hours before curiosity overwhelmed dignity and the entire situation deteriorated into an experiment he refused to acknowledge he was conducting.

He began noticing variables with the clinical attention he would normally reserve for surveillance. Ordinary proximity produced nothing reliable. Sitting beside you during briefings didn’t do it. Your shoulder bumping his in a crowded transport didn’t do it. You once passed him a weapon and your fingers brushed his glove, and his nervous system remained entirely uninterested.

There was something reassuring about that at first. Perhaps the episodes really were random.

Then he ignored you while you were trying to ask him a question.

“Riley.”

Simon continued inspecting the rifle in his hands.

“Riley.”

Nothing.

“Simon.”

There it was: that warning woven through his name, irritation sharpening the edges. Simon looked up and caught the full force of your glare just as warmth tightened low behind his belt.

“Wot?” he asked.

“I’ve been talking to you.”

“Have you?”

Your eyes narrowed further. His cock stirred harder.

Simon turned back toward the weapons bench before you could notice the slight adjustment in his stance.

Three times constituted a pattern.

After that, his behavior became indefensible.

He discovered that if he deliberately moved one of your things, you would hunt him down to complain. If he blocked your route, you would put your hands on him rather than politely ask twice. If he took the pen nearest your fingers instead of any of the other four available, you would slap the back of his hand. If he walked away while you were talking, you would occasionally grab the back of his vest and yank him to a halt, which produced such an immediate response the first time that Simon had needed to invent an urgent reason to leave the room before you noticed.

He tested other possibilities privately because, despite what his increasingly deranged behavior suggested, Simon was still attempting to establish whether you were actually the variable.

A woman flirted openly with him during leave; nothing. He watched pornography one evening and experienced such profound indifference that halfway through he became distracted wondering whether he’d cleaned the knife he’d used on a security guard earlier. He tried touching himself without any outside stimulus and got little more than the same sluggish response he’d become accustomed to years before.

The following afternoon you stormed into the common room because he’d eaten something with your name written very clearly across the container and jabbed him in the chest, snarling. “I swear to God, Riley, I’m going to kill you.”

His body responded like somebody had thrown a switch, cock harder than diamonds.

Simon stared at you as heat settled heavily between his legs. You stared back, waiting for remorse that was not forthcoming.

“Did you hear me?”

“Yeah.”

“And?”

A profoundly defective impulse surfaced. Simon leaned slightly closer. “Gonna have to try harder than that.”

Your mouth fell open before outrage filled the space. “You absolute fucking bastard.”

You attempted to leap at him, spitting profanities and attempting- Simon assumed- to claw his eyes out but Gaz intercepted and kept you off of him. Still, you managed to shove his shoulder and his cock throbbed in response.

Simon stepped back immediately, which only made you look suspicious. “Stay away from my food,” you snapped, throwing Gaz’s hands off of you, before walking out.

Gaz lowered his hands and looked toward Simon.

Simon turned his head very slowly.

Gaz’s eyebrows rose.

“Wot?”

“Didn’t say anything.”

“Your face did.”

Gaz gave him a deeply searching look- perceptive bastard- before finally settling on. “Not a conversation I’m looking to have, mate.”

Simon went upstairs, shut his bedroom door and sat on the edge of his mattress with both hands dragged over his mask.

It should have been good news. That was the part he could not reconcile. For years he’d assumed the damage was permanent, another small theft committed by men and circumstances that had already taken enough from him.

He had accepted it because Simon understood loss better than he understood recovery; there was peace in declaring something gone and never hoping for it again after all.

Now, against every expectation, his body was proving that some pathway still existed. Something beneath the scar tissue and damaged nerves still knew what to do. Under any reasonable circumstance, that should have felt like getting a piece of himself back.

Instead, Simon was being forced to confront the humiliating possibility that his cock was not broken so much as catastrophically selective.

Apparently lingerie did nothing for it. Flirting did nothing. Attractive strangers did nothing. Pornography had nearly put him to sleep.

But you glaring at him like you were three seconds away from committing an indictable offense? Excellent. You hauling him around by his clothes? Evidently irresistible. You shoving him because he was deliberately standing somewhere inconvenient? His nervous system seemed to consider it practically erotic.

It got worse because Simon genuinely enjoyed irritating you even without the increasingly inconvenient physical reward attached to it. There was something satisfying about the immediacy of your reactions.

Most people behaved differently around Ghost. They measured their words. Watched his hands. Gave the mask more space than it physically occupied. Even people who knew him eventually retained some instinctive awareness that he could become frightening very quickly if circumstances demanded it.

But you treated him like an enormous nuisance.

Simon could stand silently behind hardened soldiers and watch their shoulders stiffen; but all you would do is look over, discover him hovering there, and tell him his breathing was annoying you. People feared monsters but you only responded with irritation at the one who stole your mug.

Simon did not examine why that distinction mattered to him. Instead, he moved your mug again.

The situation finally collapsed when he blocked you in a corridor for no reason beyond the fact that he knew exactly what would happen.

You stopped in front of him with immediate suspicion. “Move.”

Simon remained where he was, arms folded.

“Riley.”

“Hm?”

“You’re doing it again.”

“Doing what?”

“This.” You gestured at the width of him occupying nearly the entire passage. “Standing exactly where I need to go.”

“Small corridor.”

“Exactly and you’re somehow taking up all of it.”

“Skill.”

You stepped left. Simon stepped left. You stopped and stared at him. He could see realization beginning, he dawning certainty that his obstruction was deliberate. You moved right. Simon mirrored you again.

“Are you twelve?”

“Could ask you the same.”

“Oh, my God.” You tried left one more time. He blocked you, and now your patience broke visibly. Your shoulders squared, your jaw tightened and when you spoke again your voice dropped into that particular warning register his body had inexplicably decided it adored. “Move, Riley.”

Heat tightened beneath his belt.

Jesus fucking Christ.

He should have stepped aside then. He had his answer. He had, in fact, accumulated an absurd quantity of answers over the previous week and required absolutely no further data.

Instead, despite being a grown ass adult, Simon leaned one shoulder against the wall and heard himself say, “Make me.”

You went very still.

There was a small part of Simon’s brain, the portion apparently not currently occupied by destroying his own dignity, that recognized he had pushed this into ridiculous territory.

Then you planted both hands against his chest and shoved hard enough to drive his shoulder into the wall.

The response was immediate and vicious. His cock surged against the front of his pants, balls tightening instinctively, breath catching just enough that you noticed. Your hands remained spread over his chest while your expression changed from irritation to confusion.

Simon looked down at them.

You followed his gaze, but this time your attention continued lower.

Silence settled between you.

Simon felt the exact moment you understood.

Your eyes lifted slowly back to his.

“No.”

He said nothing.

Your mouth began to twitch. “No fucking way. Is that why you’ve been fucking with me?”

“No.”

The denial came far too quickly.

Your expression transformed. “Oh my God.”

Simon pushed away from the wall. “Don’t.”

“You have been deliberately pissing me off.”

“Have not.”

“You moved my boots yesterday.”

“Safety hazard.”

“They were under my bed.”

“Could’ve tripped.”

“In my sleep?”

“Dangerous business.”

You stared at him for a long second before laughter broke through. Not polite laughter either. You actually bent slightly with it, one hand still braced against his vest while Simon considered every decision he had made since entering military service and wondered which one had placed him on the path toward this precise humiliation and whether he could go find his enemies and beg for the west release of death.

“You ate my food,” you accused between breaths.

“Was hungry.”

“You stole my pen out of my hand when there were three sitting next to it.”

“Liked yours.”

“You stood in front of the spoon drawer for five fucking minutes.”

Simon’s silence convicted him more effectively than anything he might have said.

“You’ve been fucking with me because it gets you off.”

“Wouldn’t call it that.”

“What would you call it?”

He had nothing.

Your laughter returned, softer now but infinitely more dangerous because amusement was giving way to curiosity. Simon recognized the shift immediately. You looked down again, not long enough to be crude, merely long enough to confirm the evidence remained present, then back up at him. Something in your expression sharpened with wicked understanding.

“You’re a fucking freak, Riley.”

“Watch your mouth.”

“That do it too?”

“No.”

“Liar.”

Simon caught your wrists when you pressed both hands to his chest again, intending only to remove them. The movement changed your expression instantly. Amusement flashed into irritation at being restrained, your weight shifting toward him instead of away.

“Let go.”

His erection throbbed so hard Simon nearly swore.

Your eyes narrowed.

Simon shut his own for half a second because apparently there were indignities even he required time to process. When he opened them, you were staring at him with a new kind of fascination.

“Oh,” you said quietly.

Simon released your wrists.

You didn’t move back.

Neither did he.

The corridor had somehow become smaller around you both, the joking edge thinning into awareness. You watched him for a second, then reached forward with deliberate slowness and hooked one finger beneath the edge of his pants. Simon knew exactly what you were doing now. More importantly, so did you.

“Don’t,” he warned.

“Don’t what?”

“You know what.”

“I don’t think I do.”

“Bullshit.”

You tugged him half an inch closer.

His jaw tightened as his cock reacted instantly.

That awful, delighted grin spread across your face before cupping your palm around the hard, obvious shape of his cock through the fabric and closing your fingers.

Simon’s entire body betrayed him at once.

His head tipped back against the wall with a dull, undignified thunk. His eyes rolled upward so hard he briefly saw the inside of his own skull. A sound escaped him that could generously be described as a groan and less generously as a whine.

He stayed like that for a second- head thrown back, eyes somewhere in the rafters, cock throbbing shamelessly in the warm curve of your hand- while his brain attempted to process the sheer fucking audacity of the situation.

You gave a small, experimental squeeze.

Simon’s hips jerked forward of their own accord- traitors- and he locked every muscle he still had control over, forcing himself still, which only made the next pulse against your palm more obvious.

“Christ,” he muttered at the ceiling, voice strangled.

You didn’t let go. If anything, you adjusted your grip with the calm curiosity of someone who had just discovered a particularly interesting malfunction and intended to poke it until it made more interesting noises. Your thumb stroked once along the ridge of him, and Simon’s breath left him in a short, punched out sound that was deeply unhelpful to whatever remaining dignity he was trying to cling to.

You tilted your head, still cupping him, and watched the way his throat worked under the mask.

“So,” you said, far too conversationally for someone currently holding a lieutenant’s previously non-functional cock in her hand, “this is the bit where you explain yourself, or…?”

Simon dragged his eyes back down to you with visible effort. The mask hid most of his expression, but the set of his shoulders suggested a man who had just realised he had spent the better part of two weeks engineering his own public humiliation and was now living with the consequences.

“Not explainin’ a fuckin’ thing,” he managed, voice rough. “While you’re still holdin’ my cock in your hand. You’re becoming a problem.”

“I’m becoming a problem? You’ve spent the last week acting like a primary school boy pulling someone’s hair because apparently your dick needs interpersonal conflict to function.”

“Tha’s not what’s happening.”

“You got hard because I shoved you into a wall.”

“Coincidence.”

“I can test that.”

“You fuckin’ will not.”

Your grin widened and your palm pressed down and Ghost nearly saw God long enough to ask why after nearly thirty years of suffering, this was apparently the punchline.

Before he could ask, God apparently decided to throw the poor suffering bastard a bone because Soap’s voice sounded from around the corner. “Ghost, ye seen- “

Simon stepped away from you with enough speed that you nearly stumbled forward.

Soap rounded the corner, stopped and took in the scene. You were suspiciously amused. Simon was standing at an equally suspicious angle with his hands planted on his hips and approximately three feet more distance between you than two people naturally needed. Johnny’s gaze moved from you to Ghost, back to you and then very deliberately refused to travel any lower.

“Aye,” Soap said slowly.

Nobody answered.

He nodded to himself. “Actually, never mind.”

Soap turned around.

“MacTavish.”

His pace increased.

“Johnny.”

“Didnae see anything, LT.”

“You didn’t.”

“Exactly.”

He disappeared around the corner before Simon could decide whether murder was worth the paperwork.

You made it perhaps two seconds before laughter burst out of you again, and Simon dragged one hand down the front of his mask while your amusement echoed through the corridor.

This, apparently, was his life now. He had survived torture, burial, gunfire, explosions and enough bodily damage to permanently alter the way his nervous system functioned, only to discover that whatever remained of his sexual response had crawled out of its grave specifically for the most confrontational person he knew.

The pattern had become painfully specific: you close enough to crowd him, your voice edged with irritation, your hands on his chest because Simon had deliberately made himself impossible to tolerate.

His body had surveyed years of opportunity with complete indifference, ignored every conventional invitation offered to it, then watched you square up against a man nearly twice your mass and apparently made an executive decision.

That one. You need to fuck that one.

The thought arrived so clearly Simon actually glanced upward again as though God might be willizng to throw him another bone.

Apparently he’d used up all this good will because the Almighty wasn’t.

There was only you, still laughing as you pushed past him and deliberately knocked your shoulder into his chest on the way.

“Move, Riley.”

His cock twitched again.

Simon closed his eyes and stood perfectly still in the corridor while the universe continued to punish him for crimes he could not presently recall committing and groaned out. “Fuck’s sake.”

[inspired by this post by @quarterlifekitty]

[allthingswhumpyandangsty]

[ghostedink]

Mean little thing.

୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧ ⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅ ୨୧

The first time Simon sees you, you’re halfway up a mechanic’s chest and tearing him to pieces.

“You had one job,” you snap, voice cutting through the hangar like a blade. “One. And you still managed to screw it up so badly I’m wondering if you did it on purpose.”

The man—built, older, clearly outranking you in everything but nerve—doesn’t even try to argue.

Because you don’t let him.

You step closer, boots loud against the concrete, chin tipped up like you’re staring down a giant instead of barely reaching his shoulder.

“I don’t care what rank you think protects you,” you continue, quieter now—worse, somehow. “If that bird fails out of the air because of your laziness, I will personally make sure your career ends in a broom closet.”

Silence.

Thick.

Heavy.

A few heads turn. No one interferes.

From across the hangar, Ghost watches.

Still.

Silent.

Hooked.

There’s something wrong with him, he knows that. Always has been. What he endured growing up and years of war don’t leave a man right. But this—this sharp-tongued, five-foot menace dressing down grown men like they’re nothing—

Christ.

His fingers twitch at his sides.

You don’t even raise your voice again. You just look at the mechanic, unimpressed, like he’s already beneath you.

“Fix it,” you say flatly. “Or get replaced.”

Then you turn on your heel and walk off like the entire world should part for you.

Ghost exhales slowly behind his mask.

“Who’s that?” Soap mutters beside him, equal parts impressed and terrified.

Ghost doesn’t answer right away.

Because he’s still watching you.

Every step. Every sharp movement. The way you don’t hesitate, don’t soften, don’t care.

“…mine.” he says finally, voice low enough that Soap almost misses it.

୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧ ⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅ ୨୧

You don’t notice him at first.

Why would you?

He’s just another soldier in a mask, another shadow in a place full of them.

And you don’t waste your time on shadows.

The first time he speaks to you, it’s because you’re arguing again.

“—if you send me that report one more time with missing data, I will assume you’re illiterate and act accordingly.”

“I am your superior—”

“And I do not care,” you cut in instantly. “Fix it.”

There’s a pause.

Then, from behind you—

“Bit harsh, aren’t you?”

You turn.

Slow.

Measured.

Your eyes land on him—tall, broad, skull mask staring back at you like something out of a horror flick.

You don’t flinch.

You don’t hesitate.

You don’t even blink.

“…and you are?” you ask, flat and unimpressed.

Ghost—Simon—feels something snap pleasantly in his chest.

God.

You don’t know him.

You don’t even care.

You’re looking at him like he’s just another problem waiting to be dismissed.

“Ghost.” he says.

You hum, like that means absolutely nothing to you.

“Great,” you reply. “Then you can mind your business, Ghost.”

And you turn your back on him.

Just like that.

He’s done for.

Completely.

Utterly.

Gone.

୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧ ⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅ ୨୧

It starts small.

He notices things.

The way you take your coffee—black, no sugar, always too hot.

The way you pinch the bridge of your nose when you’re irritated (which is often).

The fact that no one touches you—no casual brushes, no friendly pats on the back—because you’d probably bite their hand off.

Good.

That suits him just fine.

He doesn’t touch you either.

Not yet.

But he stands closer than necessary.

Speaks to you more than he needs to.

Finds excuses.

“You missed a detail in your report.” he tells you once.

You snatch it from his hand, scanning it.

“…no I didn’t.”

“You did.” he replies calmly.

A beat.

You squint at it.

“…oh.”

Silence.

Then you look back at him, narrowing your eyes.

“…don’t get used to being right.”

Ghost feels something dangerously close to a smile pull at his mouth under the mask.

୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧ ⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅ ୨୧

The others notice.

Of course they do.

“L.T.’s gone soft.” Soap whispers one day.

“Not soft..” Gaz mutters back, watching as Ghost silently sets a fresh cup of coffee down beside you before you even ask. “Worse.”

“Obsessed.”

You still don’t give him much.

A glance here. A clipped response there.

Sometimes you let him stand near you without telling him to piss off.

Sometimes.

And for Ghost?

It’s everything.

୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧ ⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅ ୨୧

The shift happens on a bad day.

Everything’s gone wrong.

Reports missing. Equipment delayed. Someone incompetent breathing too close to your oxygen supply.

By the time Ghost finds you, you’re alone—finally—but you’re pacing, jaw tight, hands clenched.

“Problem?” he asks quietly.

“Several,” you snap, not even looking at him. “All fixable if people weren’t useless.”

He hums.

Steps closer.

You don’t tell him to stop.

That’s new.

“They bothering you?” he asks.

You scoff. “They bother me by existing.”

A pause.

Then, softer—sharper in a different way—

“…I don’t need help.”

“I know.” he says.

You finally look at him.

There’s something in your expression—not soft, never that—but tired. Frayed at the edges.

He tilts his head slightly.

“Doesn’t mean you shouldn’t have it.”

You stare at him like you’re trying to figure him out.

Like he’s a puzzle you didn’t ask for.

“…you’re weird.” you decide.

“Been called worse.”

Another pause.

Then you sigh—short, annoyed—and scrub a hand over your face.

“…fine,” you mutter. “You can stay. Just don’t talk.”

Ghost nods his head.

Steps into your space.

Stays.

From then on It’s over for everyone else.

Because Simon Riley—silent, deadly, untouchable Ghost—

is yours.

He brings you coffee without asking.

Stands behind you like a wall when you’re tearing someone apart.

Fixes problems before they reach you.

And if anyone dares to speak to you out of line?

They don’t make that mistake twice.

୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧ ⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅ ୨୧

One day, you finally ask him.

“Why are you always around?”

He looks at you.

Really looks.

And for a second, something raw slips through the cracks.

“Because I want to be.”

You narrow your eyes.

Suspicious.

“…that’s it?”

“That’s it.”

A long pause.

Then—

“…weird..” you repeat.

But you don’t tell him to leave.

And Ghost?

He’s never been so completely, irrevocably owned in his life.

And he’s never been happier about it.

୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧ ⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅ ୨୧

[ghostedink]

Simon Riley hates his birthday.

୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧ ⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅ ୨୧

The date sat quietly at the top of the mission log.

Most people wouldn’t have noticed it.

You did.

It wasn’t something Ghost ever mentioned. There was no offhand comment, no teasing from the others, no plans. In fact, the more you watched him that day, the more obvious it became that he hoped no one would notice at all.

Ghost hated attention. Everyone knew that much.

He moved through the base the same as always—silent, efficient, mask in place, shoulders squared like he was still on patrol even when he wasn’t. If anyone wished him a happy birthday, it never happened in front of you. No one brought it up. No cake appeared in the mess hall. No decorations.

Just another day.

But you still remembered.

You didn’t say anything when you passed him in the hallway that morning. Didn’t smile knowingly or hint at anything. You simply nodded, just like always, and he gave the same short nod back.

Normal, That’s how he liked it.

So that evening you volunteered to cook.

It wasn’t unusual. Everyone already knew you liked being in the kitchen, and the team certainly never complained about real food instead of whatever the mess hall served. Price raised an eyebrow when you mentioned it, but he didn’t question it long.

By dinner time the small kitchen smelled warm and comforting—roasted chicken, buttered potatoes, fresh bread, and something sweet baking in the oven.

Soap wandered in first, drawn by the smell.

“Christ, what died and made ye a five-star chef?” he laughed, peering over your shoulder.

You nudged him away from the counter. “Get out before you eat something that isn’t finished.”

Gaz followed, then Price, and eventually Ghost appeared in the doorway like a shadow.

He paused there for a moment.

Watching.

His dark eyes flicked over the room, the food, the team settling around the table. For a brief second his gaze landed on you.

You didn’t say anything.

Just handed him a plate like you would any other night.

“Dinner’s ready.”

No birthday songs.

No jokes.

No awkward attention.

Just the team sitting together, eating something warm, talking over each other like usual.

Ghost said very little during the meal, but you noticed something small—the way his shoulders weren’t quite as tense as normal.

Like maybe, just maybe, he appreciated it.

Even if he’d never say it.

୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧ ⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅ ୨୧

Later that night the barracks were quiet.

Simon pushed open the door to his room, expecting the same thing he always found—dim lights, a neatly made bed, silence.

Instead, he stopped.

There was something on his desk.

A small plate.

On it sat a single cupcake, the frosting swirled unevenly, like it had been done by hand instead of a bakery. A small candle rested beside it, unlit.

Next to the plate was a folded card.

Ghost stood there for a long moment, staring at it like it might disappear if he moved too quickly.

Finally, he stepped inside and picked up the card.

Inside, the handwriting was familiar.

“Didn’t think you’d want a crowd.

But everyone deserves something sweet on their birthday.

Happy Birthday, Simon.

—You”

He read it twice.

Maybe three times.

The room stayed silent around him, the distant hum of the base the only sound.

For a man who had spent most of his life believing birthdays meant nothing—just another day closer to the grave—the small cupcake sitting on his desk felt… strange.

Quiet.

Gentle.

Thoughtful in a way he didn’t quite understand.

Ghost set the card back down carefully, like it mattered more than he would ever admit.

Then he sat at the desk, staring at the cupcake.

“…Bloody hell,” he muttered under his breath.

After a moment, he lit the candle with the small lighter he kept in his pocket.

The flame flickered softly in the dim room.

Simon Riley, Ghost to everyone else, sat alone at his desk and stared at the tiny light for a long time before finally blowing it out.

Thinking maybe.. just maybe his birthday wasn’t so bad after all.

୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧ ⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅ ୨୧

Thank you @diereonah for the request! I had too much fun writing this one :))

[llliissyyy]

Masterlist

PriceDaughter!Reader: first, cinema, shopping, at the club(Price is like 50 and his daughter is 23)

Johnny x reader x Simon Poly:

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6

Dog

Simon "Ghost" Riley imagines/oneshots

Simon taking your shirt with him

Blind!reader and Simon, Part 2

Simon wanting cuddles

Simon having a comically small dog

Simon being your heated blanket

Simon being a reader

Simon feeling you

Simon feeling save with you

Simon being a cat

Emotional!Reader

Happy wife, happy life, another one

Adopting strays

Simon working as a shelter

Reader meeting Johnny

Simon is clingy

NotSoStalker!Simon, Part 2

How did that happen?

Take your claim

Softie!Simon, more, even more

Love at first walk in

well he is right

His emotional support

You have to train him

His apartment

Pervy!Simon

F1Driver!Simon

Alien!Simon

Johnny "Soap" Mctavish

WolfShifter!Johnny,

DogHybride!Johnny

How dare he

ADHDdiagnosed!Johnny

First Date

Johnny eating you out under your desk/NSFW

Big dick energy

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

Love Letters

Whole Team 141

Civilian!Reader walking into their bar

Someone breaks in

Influencer!Reader

König

König is down bad

[llliissyyy]

Simon as an alien and you're sick.

Be aware that English is not my first language and I definitely didn't read over it again before posting it.

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Alien!Simon being kept in a secret science facility where he is supposed to be analysed.

Alien!Simon is obsessed with Scientist!Reader and you're being the only one who can get near him without him freaking out.

(That may have to do with him seeing you as the perfect mate but you don't know that.)

He lets you touch his weirdly green skin - even though he doesn't get the weird blue second skin you always seem to have covering your beautiful hands - while giving off sounds of pure delight.

He lets you cut his nearly white hair and take saliva samples while also trying to impress you with his giant fangs - that are totally mate materiel.

There is just one thing that gets into Simons way, you getting sick and not being able to get into work. So someone else has to bring Simon his food and he absolutely hates it.

By day three he hasn't eaten a single thing and just sits in a corner playing with the little elastic band that kept your hair up the last time you were there.

At day four he broke out of the little cell they have him in to search for you.

He gets out of the facility after a lot of chaos and is now wandering around the streets of London. He's searching for something of you just a little thing just something that tells him he's on the right way to finding you.

That's when he smells you a little whiff of yourself and he immediately starts off into the direction where your apartment is. His nose in the air trying to figure out the fastest way to get to you.

You don't know anything about that though because you're lying sniffling and coughing in your bed. Four empty packets of tissues are lying around you with the used tissues there.

Simon gets to your apartment and knocks on the door like a normal person would - kidding - he climbs in through your window scaring you half to death.

He stands in your bedroom looking at his - self declared - mate immediately jumping to thinking you will die.

"What....?" you squint at the huge figure in your bedroom. You're sure your sick mind is playing tricks on you when you think you're seeing the alien you have to study at your job.

Simon slowly inches closer giving off a distressed sound when he sees your snotty nose and teary eyes. He reaches for you with one of his hands chirping at you to get you to tell him what's wrong.

You're to sick to understand anything and you don't even speak alien when youre not sick so the only thing that happens when he does that is your eyebrows knitting together and you looking really confused. After that your brain slowly drifts back to the small part of fever dreams that kept you company the whole time of your sickness.

The alien in your bedroom now completely freaks out because now it looks like you're actually dying and he can't let his small human companion die. So he has the only reasonable reaction you can have - he calls for his mothership to get him and you out of your apartment to make you live again.

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Don't worry there will probably be more of this.

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Taglist: @pinkfluffyclouds14, @imbetter111 @s-a-v-a-n-a-34 @1natea1 @hayati0 @shmeepshmorpspants @rubiighostlovr @imbetter111 @fenn3kk @shewrites247 @sassymox @phantominlace @kubeti666 @naooosummer @fizzypeachhh @abcdefghijklmnopkrstuvwxyzz @terriemustdie @sugarplumfairy03 @kiaonthemove @bellerbells

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Here you can join my taglist

[cruxhing]

Simon likes to joke about the age difference between you two. And by joke, we’re talking about jokes that are too real to be jokes.

He knows that the age difference makes people side eye or do a double take. He’s aware that he receives strange looks when he tells people that his partner is twenty years younger than him.

It wasn’t intentional; it wasn’t like he was specifically scoping out someone younger than him. He wasn’t a goddamn creep, cut him some slack.

The two of you connected over something entirely so dumb. He had caught you staring at a cereal box at a grocery store with the most disgusted look on your face. “Can you believe they changed the design on the box?” you had asked him.

And all he could do was stare down at you with the flattest expression imaginable. Here you were, a stranger, speaking to him like you came in the store with him. But he played along, “Wouldn’t be the first. You’re too young to know what the first design looked like.”

Since that one singular conversation, his life has changed; a complete switch. Instead of his usual “Leave-Me-Alone-It’s-Bourbon-Saturday,” his weekends now consist of date nights with you.

Or “Taco-Mondays” (because Taco Tuesday was so overused in his mind), had now become “Simon gets to spend Mondays trying out new restaurants with his new partner.”

He felt young again; remembering that life was more than gunshots and gun wounds. Or that summer wasn’t just a long mission in the middle of a country he’s never been to but rather, a long weekend getaway while the sun burns the fuck out of his back.

“You got daddy issues,” Simon randomly said as he laid ontop of your beach towel. His sunglasses covered his eyes, a blob of sunscreen was on his nose, and his arms rested by his sides like he was ready for the summer heat to wash him away.

The beach was full of people; all setting up their little spots and kids running away from the gentle waves. You stared down at Simon, whom looked too comfortable tanning. Since when the fuck do men like him tan? Apparently, since he started dating you. “That came out of nowhere,” you replied, glaring down at him.

“Just saying, love. Not everyone wants to date a man who looks like he could be your father’s friend,” Simon replies without a second thought. He didn’t move— you barely noticed his lips move. That’s how serious he took his tanning.

A quiet scoff escaped your lips as you glanced over at the water, the small waves bringing in sand before throwing it back. “Yeah, it’s really not my fault you’re like… fifty and past your prime,” you joked back. “You probably have to pop a viagra to get it up before we fuck,” you added with a shit-faced eating grin.

It’s become a running joke of who could make who feel more uncomfortable at this point.

“Hey,” Simon began and finally shifted. “First of all, I’m not fifty. And second of all—“ he propped himself up with his elbows before turning around to lay on his stomach, “my dick’s twenty years older than you and you take it well, so.”

He won this round.

Simon 10 - you 0.

[honey-on-your-tongue]

𝓂𝓎 𝒷𝓁𝑜𝑔

Avatar

Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley

The Last of Us

Javier Peña

House MD

Logan Howlett

Miguel O'Hara

Clint Flood

Harry Castillo

Clark Kent

Kinktober

One shots

all rights reserved ©

[millenniallust4death]

I’m paying to force seven thousand strangers to see a photo of my late husband having fun with his dog. Tumblr Blaze is totally worth it. XD

[millenniallust4death]

Thank-you to all of my new Internet stranger friends for being so gracious about having my post shoved onto your dashboards. I loved reading all of your kind tags and comments! Both Martin and Bosco have been gone for several years now but for 24 hours, they felt very present in my life. I greatly appreciate this gift. ❤️

[psycorax]

Reblog to have your dashboard be visited by the spirit of joy that death can end but not erase.

[leavescrown]

Love that this is well beyond 7000 people now and still going

[millenniallust4death]

@leavescrown Exactly! It’s a beautiful gift. Martin and Bosco out there travelling around the Tumblr community, continually making new friends.

[millenniallust4death]

@sseanettles

#hello again martin and bosco!! sending you boys round for another go :)

Reading your tag made me laugh out loud. It’s like two old friends unexpectedly stopped by your porch for a quick visit. XD

[petermorwood]

I’ll always reblog Martin and Bosco when they splash across my dash, because of Reasons.

What’s loved, lives.

[dearwalker]

mask on, fuck it, mask off | sex pollen

Pairing: Peter Parker x reader Word Count: 8.4k

Contains Brand New Day spoilers 🕸️

Description: You’re spider-man’s closest thing to a friend since the world forgot his name…all without him ever taking the mask off. His true identity has always been a barrier between you two, but what happens when he gets hit with the pollen, and not only him, but the creature lurking inside him fixates on the only person he gets to call home?

Tags/warnings: sex pollen smut, fem!reader, porn with plot, whiny desperate peter >>>, dry humping, piv, riding, oral fem!rec, fingering, dark!peter taking over for a bit, orgasm denial, prone bone, so much yearning, mask stays on…or does it?

Note: You have no idea how giddy it makes me to write him again. He had NO business looking that good in the movie so I had to get this out of my system. Enjoy 🤍

Masterlist

You've seen spiderman hurt many times. When you signed the lease of the first apartment you could afford as a recent graduate, you never thought that would become your new normal. 

The first time it happened was completely accidental. He’d arrived at the building in the middle of the night, bruised, bleeding and too disoriented to realize that the window he’d come through was not his. 

That night, the noise of a heavy body collapsing onto the floor woke you up. For one terrifying moment, you believed someone had broken into your apartment, only to switch on the lamp and find the city’s superhero groaning and pressing his hands to his side. His suit was torn there, and blood soaked through the ruined fabric onto your rug. 

He barely lifted his head when he heard you gasp, the lens of his mask focusing on your figure standing there with wide eyes, wearing only an oversized shirt.

“Wrong window,” he choked, then tried to hold himself up but immediately collapsed again. “Dammit,” he cursed, waiting for you to freak out any second now. 

You could have, but instead you rushed to him and knelt beside him.

“Oh my god, are you okay?” Your hands hovered helplessly over his body, trying to see how bad the damage was in the dark. “You need a hospital–”

“No!” He snapped, trying to turn away but failing miserably. “I’ll be fine, I heal quickly.”

“You still need to stop the bleeding,” you countered, folding your knees under your body so you could rest on your calves. “Listen, I can help you. I took some medical courses last year and I have a kit somewhere.”

You looked at him with pleading eyes. He’d saved the city so many times, the fucking world, it was the least you could do to give something back. 

He considered his options for a second, and to be honest he didn’t have many. His body was betraying him, and he couldn’t even get up to fix it himself like usual. 

The blood loss made him nod, and you wasted no time in getting up and finding said kit. The blood loss also made him drift in and out of consciousness as you tended to the wounds on his ribs as much as you could. 

It did not make him less cautious of you though. When you noticed the rip on his mask over a nasty gash on his neck and reached for it, his hand closed around your wrist and even half conscious, his grip was strong. 

“Please,” he whispered. Pleaded. “Keep it on.” 

The fear in his voice made you promise you would. Even if you couldn’t get to that gash properly. Even when he fell asleep on your floor and didn’t wake up for six whole hours. 

The next morning, he opened his eyes and found you sitting on your bed, still staring at him. 

His hands patted his chest, and confirmed his arachnid powers had done its job and healed him mostly. But most importantly, his mask was still in place. With no warning from E.V of it being removed. He learned that you’d spent the night making sure he was still breathing without seeing his face. 

That had been one year ago. 

After thanking you profoundly for helping him, he’d repaired your window, apologized several times, and disappeared into the apartment next door. He then considered moving into another building, but the thought was brushed away very quickly when he remembered the balance in his bank account. 

So he acted more careful instead. For a while, he only turned back home when your curtains were already closed, or he only left the apartment when you had already left for your job (because yes, he absolutely researched the hell out of you after that night.)

Then he moved to the attic of the building. Bigger space, no neighbors, no risks. No you. Or at least he thought. 

Because some nights…some delirious nights he still found your window a few stories down, and the accidental visits became less accidental. When he was too badly injured to care for himself, he came to you, even after you confessed your degree had nothing to do with medicine. 

When he noticed you understood about his equipment malfunctioning, he’d bring it for you to inspect. When he became too reckless with himself you talked his ear off about how being difficult to kill did not make him immortal.

Somewhere along the way, you became spiderman’s friend. 

Spiderman was safer. With you, spiderman was the only part of him he could let you see. Because that was the thing, you only knew the masked superhero. 

He’d spent so much time blocking away his identity, making peace with the fact that there was no longer anyone in the world who would call him Peter and know exactly who that person was. That name only belonged to the people that once knew him, and no longer existed, so he never gave it to you.

Never showed you more than a sliver of skin when his mask rode up or glimpses of his abdomen when you tended to his wounds. He always kept that barrier and you respected it, even on those nights he was too weak to stop you. Even if sometimes not knowing the color of his eyes kept you up at night. 

A promise was a promise. 

Maybe that’s why he kept coming. Why he trusted you with a certainty he couldn’t understand. Why he eventually showed you his new living quarters in the attic and let you spend time with him. Why half a year ago, he added another chair next to his desk so you could work together, or help him when he was out patrolling and needed an extra set of eyes.

“I’m officially the girl in the chair, spidey,” you joked that time as you sat next to him, spinning around in your chair.

He’d gone quiet immediately, his body tensing up enough to make you frown, but then managed a small smile and said you were. You pretended you didn’t notice him being too quiet as he worked on his inhibitor after that. 

He was wearing a hoodie, sweatpants and the mask. Always the mask that didn’t quite let you see through him. After a moment of quiet, you rolled your chair closer to his and nudged his arm playfully. 

“You know I can’t keep calling you spidey forever, right?” 

He snapped out of his trance, and the chuckle that came from under the fabric was unmistakable. 

“Why not?” He nudged your arm back, but still focused on the device he was hunched over. “I like spidey.”

You put your elbow on the desk, resting your cheek on your hand so you could lean a little closer. 

“I like it too, but it feels ridiculous after having my hands all over your body almost every night.” 

The moment the words left your lips, you realized how bad that sounded. He straightened up, turning toward you.

“Wow.” Even if you couldn’t see the smile on his face, the lenses of his mask were quite expressive sometimes. He was amused. 

“That came out very wrong,” you said immediately, before he bursted into laughter. He had been laughing more since you entered his life. “You know what I meant,” you whined, laughing too with heat flooding your cheeks. 

“I think I know,” he chuckled, making you roll your eyes. 

“I’m being serious though,” you added, a little more quietly. “You don’t have to say your real name. Just give me something.”

“Mmm…” he acted like has considering it, going back to tinkering with the piece of metal between his fingers, but then his eyes drifted to the flowers he’d bought that morning, and the name came out of his lips before he could think twice about it. “You can call me Maynard.” 

“Maynard?” You repeated, suppressing a chuckle. “You don’t sound like a Maynard. That’s like an 80 year old man’s name.”

“That’s all I can give you,” he shrugged playfully. 

You had a feeling it went deeper than that, but you’d also learned not to push it with him. 

“Alright. Maynard,” you nodded, “but don’t expect me to use that name unless I’m dying. Guess I’ll stick to spidey for now,” you chuckled, going back to your own work as he hummed in agreement. 

The conversation ended there. With him trying not to think about your hands all over his body in…different conditions. 

Peter didn’t know exactly when his gratitude became longing. He could not identify the moment the friendship, the closeness, or just your smile, shifted into something he craved everyday. 

Despite the mask and the fake name, he knew that after years of being no one to everyone, he had become someone to you. And you had become everything to him. Even if it was behind walls he’d built, you were the person who knew him better than anyone alive.

Which is why, the night he lost control of himself after an unknown dust was thrown at him in a fight, he chose not to crash land into your room. 

Peter hit the floor of the dark attic with a loud thud, as his senses went overboard. His suit was sticking to his body uncomfortably due to the sweat coating his feverish skin. The fabric was intact, with no visible wounds in his body, just that burning sensation of something running through his veins. 

And that dark part of him he’d managed to lock down with the inhibitor, trying to claw its way out. 

“What the…what the fuck is going on,” he cursed, clutching his heaving chest as he panted against the worn wood floors. “I can’t–I can’t breathe…” 

The computer’s monotone voice broke through the silence. 

“You have arrived injured. I’m letting her know–”

“NO!” He cut the AI off, “EV, don’t tell her–”

“Message already sent.”  

He glanced up at the digital clock on his desk. 2:18 am. 

He groaned, grabbing his head when a wave of migraine hit him. He knew what came after that. The black eyes. The desire to break. To take. But this time something felt different. It was like a pull, looking for something or someone…for…for you? 

Oh fuck. 

You were going to come in and you were going to see him like this. No, no–

“Spidey?” You asked from behind the door, knocking exactly twice before opening it anyways.

The air changed the exact moment you walked in, and that something inside him shifted too. It became aware that the only thing it craved to survive was in the room now. 

He needed to get to you. He needed to pin you down and– 

“Don’t!” He managed to scream, holding his hand up weakly when you scrambled toward him. 

You stopped right in your tracks, eyes wide and running all over him, searching for torn fabric, blood, or anything that would explain why he looked like every breath was painful. 

“What happened?” You frowned, when you couldn’t find any source. “Did you get hurt?” 

You instinctively stepped forward, but he waved his hand in front of him again. 

“Stop, stop, stop,” he said quickly, “don’t come any closer.” 

The harshness in his voice caught you off guard, but what sealed the deal was him dragging himself further away from you. It was barely more than a clumsy, desperate crawl, but he managed to put a decent distance between you before collapsing against the side of his thrifted couch. 

He avoided looking at you. The oversized shirt covering your body, the comfy shorts you were probably wearing, the way your hair looked messy from rolling out of bed as soon as you got EV’s warning even if you had work the next morning.

You stayed right where you were, watching him. His suit had always fit him like it was painted on his skin, but every pant made his chest rise and fall beneath the fabric so violently that you wouldn’t be surprised if it ripped at the seams. 

This reminded you too much of the changes that happened in him months ago. 

It started with a sharpened temper, then the heightened sensitivity to everything, the black covering his eyes, and moments during patrol when his reactions became simply frightening for someone who had as much strength as he did. But you were supposed to have stopped it. 

“Is it the inhibitor?” You asked, crossing your arms over your chest, “is it failing?” 

“I–I don’t know…I was hit with some dust out there,” he breathed. “I think it’s tampering with it…my head is killing me. Everything is too much.”

You nodded, turning toward the workstation. 

“I will check the programming. Just hold on.” Not your best attempt at reassuring him, but he groaned in acknowledgment. 

“EV?” 

The computer woke when you touched the keyboard, illuminating the dark attic in a wash of blue light. 

“Online.”

“Please run a diagnostic on the inhibitor and any possible interference.” 

“Beginning diagnostic.” 

You waited impatiently for the results, tapping your fingers on the desk while you watched him from the corner of your eye. 

Over there, he…he was doing his best trying to breathe. 

This obviously wasn't his first time having sensory overload. When the animal tried to take over the human part of him, everything in the city became impossible to escape. Not a single movement, or sound, or simple existence within miles was unnoticed by him. 

But this time? The rest of the city had disappeared. There were no sirens in the distance, or voices coming through the walls, or every heartbeat in the building pounding in his head. 

There was only you. 

Your rapid heartbeat echoing inside him. He felt every tap of your fingers against the wood, every slight catch in your breathing each time he made another involuntary and pathetic sound from his spot on the floor. 

Your scent…God, your scent filled the entire apartment. 

The scent he found himself coming back to so often that it scared him. He didn’t want the attachment. The possibility of having someone again only to risk losing them again. 

That same scent was making every muscle in his body react in a way he didn’t understand. It made him, and the other him, wanna do things to you he had only dreamed of in his wildest fantasies. Things he wasn’t proud of, things he wouldn’t dare to say out loud, even if he looked at you through the lenses of his mask and you couldn’t see the black in his eyes. 

He pressed the back of his head against the couch harshly. 

This was wrong. So wrong. 

His senses were supposed to consume everything when the change came. Instead, they had fixed themselves entirely on you.

He could feel the heat of your body from across the room as though you were still in front of him. Could remember with sickening detail how soft your hands looked when they reached for him. Could almost feel the burn of the touch that had never landed because he stopped you. 

What if he’d let you? What if he’d felt the way your hands ran all over his body? What if you’d moved them lower, and lower, as your mouth–

“Diagnostic complete.” 

Your heads snapped toward the screen. 

“There’s no external damage affecting the integrity of the device. I detected a foreign biotoxin in the bloodstream that may be bypassing the inhibitor, activating the suppressed arachnid hormones.” 

“What biotoxin?” You frowned. 

“Unknown. No matches found in available databases.” 

Great. He thought. He had no time to take a bath with Yelena Belova to find out what the stupid dust was. 

The screen changed, displaying a model of his nervous system. There were yellow bright lines pulsing quickly, running all the way from the base of his brain down the length of his spine. Something unknown was moving through his blood, altering the part of him he had spent months forcing into submission.

He sucked in a breath as he watched you read the screen. Your eyes were focused, and a bead of sweat made its way down the side of your forehead. 

He suddenly felt the need to lick it off. 

Wanted to run his tongue from the base of your neck to the back of your ear. Wanted to fist your hair and make your heart beat out of your chest from how good he knew he could make you feel–

“The effects remain within his enhanced tolerance. However, prolonged exposure to certain hormones can cause extreme distress without relief.” 

“What hormones?” Your voice, worried and unknowing of his thoughts only made him feel guiltier. 

It took him a second to realize what you asked, but EV threw him under the bus before he could say anything. 

“There’s a significant rise in reproductive hormones. The unknown toxin is inducing a strong mating response in him.”

Mating response. He stopped breathing. 

Your eyes slowly moved from the monitor to him, and he saw the moment your attention dropped lower to the tent of his pants. 

That suit concealed nothing on a good day. On one like this? Fuck. Fuck. Fuck–

He shifted almost immediately, but the movement only worsened the pressure, pulling a helpless groan from his throat that made your pulse jump. You looked away at once, turning back to the computer. 

“Is there a way we can…umm…stop it?” You asked hesitantly. 

“The subject is experiencing severe sexual arousal with a fixation on a nearby individual,” she explained, because fuck him if he wasn’t the unluckiest individual on earth. “Acting upon it can be a positive option to relieve sexual tension.”

He wished the floor would open beneath him, swallow him, and never ever EVER spit him back out again.  

Your pulse was absolutely hammering after that. He caught the sudden change in your scent. There was a sharp spark of surprise, nervousness, and something else beneath it that his altered senses fed on immediately.

You kept your eyes fixed on the monitor, although the data had stopped meaning anything the moment you heard fixation on a nearby individual. 

“Is that what you really feel?” You asked softly after a moment. 

His head fell forward, catching it between his gloved hands. He didn’t know how to answer without making everything worse.

Although, after what EV said, could it really be worse? 

“…Yes.” The word came out rougher than he expected. Yet still not enough for what was happening inside him. “It’s like…I can only feel you. All of you.”

Heat rose to your face once again. 

“What does that mean?” 

Don’t say anything, don’t–

“I can smell you.” Great start, idiot. He cleared his dry throat before continuing. “I can smell your shampoo…the lotion you use…the ink on your hands from your favorite pen.” 

He chose not to mention he could also smell the adrenaline on you. The heat gathering slowly beneath your skin. 

Your eyes dropped to your hands, and under the dim light of the computer, you caught the blue stains in them from your journaling session before bed. 

“I can hear your heartbeat changing every time I speak,” he added. Okay, that one slipped out.  

You swallowed. And god, he felt that in his own throat. 

The suit was suffocating him at this point. He wanted to rip it off as much as he wanted to rip off the fabric covering the goosebumps on your skin. 

“Is it only because I’m nearby?” You asked, gathering the courage to turn your chair to him.

White lenses met you across the room. He dragged in another shaky breath of oxygen made of you as he thought about his next words. He could’ve lied. He should’ve lied. But instead, chemically overwhelmed and stripped of every defense he possessed, he gave you the truth. 

“No.”

His voice was firmer this time. No hesitation in it despite the thousand red alarms pounding in his head telling him to shut up. 

“It picked you–no, I picked you for a reason,” he added. “And it’s not just me. The other…the other me wants you too.” 

His voice went lower on the last part, that told you how much it cost him to admit that. 

The silence following his confession was heavy. For a moment he wished he could read your mind. For all he could feel of you, your thoughts were unreachable. 

His own mind was a mess. The impulses didn’t feel like thoughts anymore, just his body feeding him instructions. 

Get up. Cross the room. Touch her. Breathe her in.

His palms shook with the urge to close around you. His teeth ached with the need to graze your skin. His eyes burned with the desire to see beyond fabric. 

Every part of him seemed convinced that the small distance between you was a mistake he needed to correct. That he needed to breathe you in until his lungs burned. Drag his mouth along the inside of your wrist and taste the pulse there.

He hated it.

He hated that something inside him could look at the person he cared for the most and reduce her to an answer for his pain. 

“EV, how long is this state going to last?” He asked the computer, followed by a weak cough as he clutched his side. 

“Your enhanced physiology is struggling to break down the toxin’s structure. I estimate a time between ten to twelve hours before it’s metabolized. However, neurological collapse is expected before that timeframe.”

“What?” You looked at him. “There’s no way we’re letting that happen. Maybe I can–”

“Don’t even start,” he cut you off, shaking his head profusely. 

“So what? I’m supposed to sit here betting on whether your body collapses on hour three or hour six?” 

“I’ll just pass out, big deal. I’m not putting you in danger because of this. I can handle it.”

“You’re barely handling it now. There’s no danger in trying–”

“You don’t understand what’s happening inside me right now,” he argued, raising his voice. “This other thing, the one the inhibitor controls it’s…awake. That part of me doesn’t think like I do. It doesn’t care if you're scared, or hurting–”

“You wouldn’t hurt me–”

“You don’t know that!” He snapped, his fist struck the floor next to him, hard enough to make the worn wood crack beneath his knuckles. 

The sudden noise made you flinch. He smelled the flash of fear moving through your body for only a second. 

One second enough. 

“Fuck–that is what I mean,” he cursed, covering his lenses with his hands. “I don’t…I don’t know if I’d be gentle. I can’t risk this, I can't…shit, I can’t risk you.”

The words, said with so much pain, and honesty, seemed to settle somewhere deep in your chest. 

“Okay,” you nodded, settling deeper in your chair. “But I’m not leaving you like this. I can’t risk you either.”

He shuddered a painful exhale. His head dropped to the couch again, shutting his eyes in preparation of what the next hours of torture would be. 

Except…he didn’t even last ten minutes. 

The suit was killing him, so he decided he’d be better without it. He reached desperately behind his back, clumsily undoing the zippers that tied the suit together.

He could feel your wide eyes on him as he tugged the fabric off his shoulders, peeling it off his sweaty arms. He groaned when he lifted his hips and the suit grazed his swollen crotch. In a matter of seconds that felt like eternity he managed to break free from the spandex, and threw it away somewhere in the room. He’d undressed down to his dark boxers, mask still in place, revealing the marble sculpture of his body.

You let out a shaky breath from your spot, eyes raking over a body you’d only seen partially. He was covered in wounds most of the time, but this time, he only had faint bruises from the night before decorating his chiseled abs. 

His tight muscles flexed with every rise of his chest, his bulge straining harder the more you devoured him, pressing against his pants, making him curse quietly. 

You noticed, and returned your eyes to the screen to track his vitals. 

He felt grateful that you’d given him that grace, but just you being in that room made it very hard for him to think of anything other than your existence. 

Too hard. 

Before he knew his hand drifted down the growing ache in his crotch, trying to feel some relief, but every rub he made over the fabric of his boxers sent a jolt of pain through his body instead of pleasure. 

It only made it worse when he realized you were tense at the desk, trying very hard to keep your focus on the screen and not on the whines he was letting out. 

“…I’m sorry,” he apologized instantly, breathlessly, moving his hand away. “I didn’t–”

“Don’t apologize,” you shook your head quickly, eyes still on the screen. “You…you can do whatever you need.” 

He didn’t say anything, just whined in pain again, so you took it as a chance to say it before you regretted it. 

“But my offer still stands, spidey.” 

What a polite way of saying ‘I’d let you fuck me into next week so you can control your horny arachnid hormones, spidey.’

Fucking hell. 

“I’m okay I just–God I didn’t–I didn’t think it would feel this way…” He laughed humorlessly, staring at the ceiling. “But I–I got this. Yes.”

You kept quiet, hearing him mumble to himself about a hundred times about how he had this.

“I’m okay…I’m good…it’s fine…” 

He wasn’t. 

“Fuck I don’t…I’m going to die…”

For God’s sake. 

“I think I can help.”

By the time he registered the words and looked back at you, you had already moved from your chair and shortened the distance between you, kneeling in front of him. 

His senses went from one thousand to one million. He forced his hands behind his back, trying to keep the animal from grabbing you and getting it over with. 

“What–what are you doing?” He stammered nervously, the lenses of his mask going wide. 

“Maynard,” you said quietly, ignoring the way his body tensed up at that name. “Would it make you feel better if I put my hand here?” 

You placed your hand right in the center of his chest, and your cold palm met his overheated skin. He gasped, feeling every individual fingerprint on his skin. He wanted them marked on him. Tattooed. 

His back arched from the couch, with a strangled gasp breaking from beneath the mask. The relief hit him all at once, through a simple contact that felt like salvation. 

Your hand steadied him for only a glorious second, but now that you had touched him, his body knew precisely what it had been denied.

It wanted more.

His own hand closed around yours so suddenly that you almost pulled back, but he loosened his grip the instant he realized how tightly he was holding you. 

“Sorry–”

“Don’t apologize.” You pressed harder. 

He was burning.

The heat beneath your palm scared you, but what scared you more was the violent pounding of his heart beating against your hand so so quickly. 

“Better?” You asked quietly, trying not to bite your bottom lip at the image of him crumbling under your palm. 

“So fucking better,” he said breathlessly, pressing your hand tighter against his chest. “I…dammit–”

“Breathe,” you reminded.

His head fell back against the couch. Chest rising up and down, up and down, up and down. 

Just take her, man, she’s right there–

Your free hand accidentally brushed his neck, right where the border of the mask started, snapping him right back. He grabbed your hand, not harshly, but firm enough to make your breath hitch. 

“Please.” Was all he said. 

Leave it on. 

It brought you back to that first night he’d crashed into your life. 

“I wasn’t planning on removing it,” you whispered, leaning closer. “You can keep it on. But let me help you…I really want to.”

See? She wants it. She needs it so bad. 

He hated that the other guy was right. He knew you meant what you said because he could smell the proof pooling between your thighs.

Fuck it.

In a sudden movement he reached for your waist, dragging you forward so you were straddling his lap. The bulge you landed on made you gasp, hands instinctively grabbing onto his sweaty biceps for balance when he let out a broken groan that vibrated against your core. 

His hand cupped your jaw, bringing it closer to his face, and your dilated pupils reflected on the white of his lenses. 

“I can feel that you want this,” he mumbled, tilting his head to the side. “Please, say it again…”

You shifted your hips, barely, so minimal yet he felt it travel through his whole body. He hissed, tightening the grip on your jaw. 

“I want this,” you repeated firmly, moving your head closer to his ear. “You can take whatever you need…”

You moved your hips again, more deliberate this time, pulling a broken whine from him. The toxin made every contact feel like electricity racing down his spine, straight to the heavy, aching weight of his cock under you. 

“Yes…yeah just like that…” he panted. “Just let me…”

His hands landed on your waist, moving you back and forth at a quicker pace over his bulge. You gasped at the friction, fingers digging into his shoulders, while he let out a collection of muffled words you could barely understand. 

“...M–more…” he whined, throwing his head back against the couch. “I can’t–I need…”

“What do you need? More what?” 

“More contact.”

His hands left your waist to grab the hem of your shirt. 

“Can I?” He whispered.

You nodded eagerly, gasping when his hands shifted to the collar of your shirt instead, ripping it off your body with a sharp pull. 

“Oh fuck,” he cursed when he realized there was nothing under that shirt, and saw your nipples hardening instantly under the cold air. 

He resisted the urge to bite them through the mask. 

His hands, however, wasted no time to cup your breasts with a broken whine. His thumbs played with your nipples, tugging at them as hard as he could allow himself to without hurting you. 

“Fuck you’re perfect…you’re so perfect…” he whispered, more to himself than you, pulling some soft whimpers out of you when he tugged a little harder. His hands drifted to your lower half, to the hem of the last piece keeping your body from his greedy eyes. “These too,” he said, “please, can I? I want to feel you.”

“Yes,” you nodded, already out of air. 

You didn’t even know why you tried to get off his lap to take the shorts off properly, when he just did the same as the shirt: ripped it in half where it rested on your hips, yanked it off from your body and threw the ruined pieces far away. 

You weren’t wearing anything underneath. 

“I can smell you. God, I can smell you. You’re so–oh God…”

Now he could feel your wetness drenching his boxers, dripping onto the fabric. He could almost taste it in his mouth. He wanted nothing more than to drown in it for hours. 

“Can–can I–?”

You didn’t even let him finish, you grabbed his hand and placed it right between your legs. 

Water. He found water in the middle of the dessert. 

His hand moved carefully through your wet folds once, twice, delighting in your warmth, the way you felt, the way you let out the prettiest sound he had ever heard in his miserable life. 

“Fuck…” you cursed softly, moving your hips eagerly when he kept stroking slow. Too slow. “Touch me, please.”

He obliged, fingers finding your clit in movements that had you gripping his shoulders tighter, eyes fluttering shut so beautifully he had to bite his lip to not let out a pathetic sound. 

“Been wanting this,” he mumbled. “Longer than today. Longer than tonight.”

His finger slid inside of you, making you moan when he curled it just right. 

“There were…there were nights I thought about you riding my hand,” he kept going, voice cracking as he added a second finger, stretching you more. “I’ve wanted you for so long–not just because of this shit in my blood. Because it’s you.”

Every word made you clench around his fingers. Every admission pulled another shaky moan out of your throat. You were a mess already, breathless, hips rolling down to meet the thrust of his fingers. 

“Oh my God–don’t stop, please don’t stop–”

“Not stopping, baby.” 

He kept working you open, the white lenses of the mask never leaving your face. His free hand slid up your chest, settling between your breasts. 

“I’m–I’m close,” you managed. “I’m so close–”

“Come on…you’re perfect. You’re so fucking perfect like this.”

The heel of his palm lifted to press against your clit. You were right there, right on the edge, about to come on his hand and drip down his boxers–

“Please,” he begged, unable to keep it in. “Let me fuck you after this…please. I need to be inside you. I’ve needed it for so long–just let me, after you come, please, please–”

The plea undid you.

You came with a broken cry, stopping your movements as your walls pulsed around him. The sound you made against his shoulder nearly finished him right there. 

It took you a second to just breathe again, your chest synching up with his in the search of oxygen. He kept rocking his hand slowly, not just to work you through the aftershocks, but because the friction of your pussy in his hand brought the tiniest relief to him. 

You just stayed there as the last soft waves rolled through you. 

Once you were able to see clearly again, you let out a breathless chuckle and straightened back up. 

He needed you. He needed you so badly you really thought he was going to die if you didn’t help him. 

You placed one hand on his chest as the other reached under you, slipping inside the fabric of his boxers without breaking eye contact. 

The second your bare fingers brushed him, his hips jerked hard under you. 

“You said please,” you whispered breathlessly. 

You wrapped your fingers around him and pulled him free.

His cock sprang out, heavy and flushed between your bodies, so thick and hard and painful. The head was red and shiny, with precum dripping down the vein that ran along his length. The tip brushed the skin of your stomach, leaving a warm, wet patch that made the hair on your arms go up. He could smell the small flicker of intimidation sparking inside you, but the want that followed was stronger. 

You stroked him a few times, slowly just as he’d touched you at first. 

“Oh my God, your hand–your hand–”

Another thick bead of precum welled up and spilled over your fingers. Whether it was the toxin or just his enhanced physiology, he was dripping for you.  

Flustered wasn’t enough of a word when you had his leaking cock in your hand. 

His hands slid down to your hips, gripping tighter, guiding you up as if he was about to lift you then pulling you back down immediately. 

Fuck her. Fuck her right now. 

“Please, I need–I need to feel you…” he cried out. “Let me…let me…”

You nodded just as desperately, lifting yourself up as he helped, steadying you with shaking hands until the thick head of his cock nudged against your entrance. You both exhaled hard at the same time when you started to sink down, taking him inch by inch.

He was big. Almost too much. The burn of it made your breath hitch, but the way he cursed under his breath multiple times, completely at your mercy, made you keep going until he was buried balls deep.

You sat there for a moment, breathing heavily, and so full of him. 

When the initial sting faded away, you started moving. He let you set the pace as you adjusted, holding back his need of thrusting up. His fingers dug on your skin, not lifting just holding you, but the more that you moved, the more that control started to waver. 

He could feel it coming. The change. 

You kept moaning, bouncing on top of him, completely unaware of his self restraint crumbling away. 

His grip slowly tightened when his eyes began turning completely black under his mask. That careful, pathetic boy who’d been begging disappeared beneath something more…primal. 

Fuck. Whatever had been holding him back finally snapped.

The next thing he knew, his hands slid under your thighs with sudden strength. He lifted you up in one motion until only the thick head of him remained inside you, held you there for a second as the last part of him tried to remember how to be gentle–then snapped his hips up hard.

That first thrust pulled a sharp moan out of you, but there was no chance to adjust this time. He set a relentless pace almost immediately, using pure strength to bounce you on his cock while he drove up to meet every drop of your body, buried so deep it stole your breath every time he bottomed out. 

“Oh my–May…Maynard–” the name you barely used on him slipped out in the middle of the frenzy, but his hand reached behind your head to pull your hair back slightly as he kept thrusting up. 

“Don’t call me that,” he snapped, his voice so different from just minutes earlier. “It’s Peter. Call me Peter when I’m inside you.” 

He didn’t even give you time to process, still lifting and dropping you onto his cock at the exact hard rhythm he wanted. The only one that satisfied the need inside of him. Your hands instinctively reached for the edge of the arm of the couch he was leaning against, fingers digging into the worn fabric as he hit that spot inside you over and over again. 

“Of fuck…Peter–fuck…yes…”

“That’s better,” he approved. “I was right, you’re so so perfect…taking every inch like you need it as bad as I do…”

A desperate sound slipped out of you at the praise, he could feel your walls clenching tight around him as your body went for that second orgasm, your eyes were fluttering shut, almost there–

“Nuh–uh,” he denied immediately, stopping mid thrust, holding you pressed against him as you gasped, surprised and confused. 

“What–what happened? I was about to–”

“I want you to hold it for me. I know you can.”

That twisted part of him enjoyed the slow realization on your face. 

Even if you couldn’t see his eyes, you knew the same spiderman he’d been without the inhibitor, was the one with your body at his mercy now. 

Good. 

He stayed buried to the hilt for a moment, breathing hard behind the mask. When your breathing finally slowed down and accepted that the high never came, he stood up. Still inside you, he walked you to the bed in the corner of the room. 

His bed.

He pulled out with a wet sound that made both of you groan, then laid you down roughly near the edge of the mattress. He kneeled down, strong hands hooking behind your knees and dragging your legs over his shoulders, folding you open for him completely.

“Look at the ceiling,” he ordered. “Don’t look at me.”

You obeyed, staring up at the wood beams high above you while he tugged the bottom of the mask just high enough to free his mouth. 

Peter leaned down and pressed a few soft kisses to your swollen folds. He wasn’t necessarily eating you out, just giving a few loud smooches that felt good enough to make you grip the sheets. 

“M’sorry, you were so perfect there…” he mumbled condescendingly against your most sensitive spots. “But I need you to hold on a little longer. Can you do that for me, sweetheart?” 

You nodded, eyes still fixed on the ceiling. Maybe too eager. Maybe too pathetic. Just like he’d been. Had he pumped that toxin into you? 

Either way, you didn’t care. You’d be lying if you said you didn’t like this version of him. 

He laughed right over your clit when you moaned loudly, after he moved his tongue in a slow, torturous swipe over it. 

“Was back there too much?” He cooed. “Maybe I just need to stretch you more...”

Two fingers slid inside you, so easily, but the sudden stretch still dragged a whine out of your throat. He curled them immediately, finding the spot that made your hips jerk. 

“Peter…” 

“Huh?” He acted coy, pumping his fingers with a rhythm that kept you right on the edge without letting you tip over. He added a third finger, making your back arch from the mattress. “Keep holding it in.”

Every shake of your body fed the stupid toxin inside him. Having you like this…really trying to keep your body from coming apart because he said so. 

God. He was never going back. 

“You just took my cock. I think you can take three fingers with no problem.” 

He kept the same relentless pace, chuckling when your body started twitching again. 

“Shhh, you’re perfect, absolutely perfect…”

“Peter…” you called out again, hand dropping the sheet to find his shoulder instead. “I need…need…”

“Need what?”

“Need you inside me…please I won’t–I won’t hold for much longer just–fuck me.”

He stopped altogether, a smirk you couldn’t see stretching the corner of his mouth. He pulled his fingers out with a wet pop, licking them clean before tugging his mask back in place and standing up. 

“Yeah?” 

Your legs dangled off the edge of the bed for a moment before his hands gripped your hips and turned you over. He moved you higher up the bed, grabbing one of the pillows, and shoving it under your hips, tilting your lower body up for him. 

He then climbed onto the bed behind you and knelt between your spread thighs, the mattress dipping under his weight as one hand stroked down the length of your spine. 

But something made him stop. 

“This fucking mask–” he cursed under his breath. “It’s suffocating me.”

The sweat on his forehead had pooled under the mask, making it so sticky over his eyebrows that it was affecting the lenses he was trying to see you through. 

“I need you to be a good girl for me,” he added breathlessly, yet still commanding enough. “Keep your head on the mattress. Ass up. Don’t turn around.”

You nodded. Too eagerly again. Couldn’t care any less again. 

He didn’t think twice, just yanked the mask off and tossed it aside. It landed near you, making you bury half your face on the sheets as if staring at the mask alone would be disobeying his commands. 

The sound he made when the cool air hit his face was pure relief. He swiped the sweat off with his forearm, finally seeing you clearly. Face down. Eyes squeezed shut. Already clutching the sheets. 

“You look so pretty like this,” he mumbled. “All spread out for me…waiting.”

“Peter…” you whined, lifting your ass slightly from the pillow. 

“I know, I know. You’re okay.” He couldn’t keep the smirk away when he added, “you said please.”

He reached between you, guiding the thick head of his cock between your thighs until it nudged against your entrance. You were still soft and ready and perfect. 

Peter pushed in slowly, letting you feel every inch as he sank deep and deep and deeper. 

He braced one hand beside your head and kept the other on your hip, pushing you into the mattress as his thighs hit the back of yours. Slap. Slap. Slap. The position left almost no space between your bodies, with Peter pressing his chest against your back. 

“Fuck…you feel so good like this…so pretty taking me.”

He kept going, making the mattress creak and the base of the bed hit the brick wall repeatedly. Your desperate moans ran through his body like electricity, making something inside him crack open again. 

What? What is–

The moment his rhythm stuttered, he shook his head, trying to clear it. Beads of sweat flew from his hair to your back. 

“God–you…you’re making me–” The roughness of his thrusts slowed down immediately, inhaling a sharp intake of air as he felt the change again. “I can’t, I can’t…”

He lifted his gaze to the window behind the bed and noticed his eyes had turned back to its original color. 

“Oh my god,” he gasped, stopping altogether. He straightened up, still kneeling and inside you, but panicking. “I’m…I’m so sorry. I don’t know what happened I–“

“Peter!” You cut him off, pushing yourself back, closer to him, without turning around. “Shut up and fuck me.”

The order left your mouth breathless, pushing back against him even more to make the point clear. His hands twitched when they gripped your hips again. 

“Okay, okay…” he panted, groaning when you dropped back on the bed and his cock almost left the warmth of your pussy. “I’m sorry–if I was too rough, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to…”

He picked up the pace again, but the words tumbling out of him now were pure pleading Peter again. 

“Don’t turn around–don’t turn around–fuck, fuck…” slap, slap, slap. “You can come now. Please. Please, I want to feel it–you’d come apart so pretty on me, I know you would…pleasepleaseplease–”

His final permission and the desperate way he said it made you crash harder than the first time, crying out into the mattress. The second he felt you coming around him, he knew he couldn’t last much longer either.

“Can I–inside…please, can I??…let me fill you up–”

“Yes–inside, Peter, do it inside me…” 

He buried himself to the hilt with a strained groan and finally came. The orgasm tearing out of him was harder and longer than anything he’d ever felt, holding you there, filling you up. 

You gasped against the sheets, breathless, as the waves of cum seemed to go on forever, flooding you with warm and thick ropes in every spurt as he emptied himself inside you. 

“Thank you…thank you…” His forehead dropped between your shoulder blades, sending broken gasps against your skin as he kept coming. “You are so perfect–fuck…so perfect…thank you…”

The pollen wrung him dry until he could barely breathe, and even then he kept rolling his hips weakly, chasing the last of it while he slowly softened inside you. 

When it finally eased, the pain, the need, the hunger…he pulled out slowly with a whine, and half collapsed over you. His arms held most of his weight as he planked above you, but you could feel every ridge of his muscles brushing your sweaty skin. 

Peter’s eyes fluttered shut, feeling exhausted and aching in the best way, almost lulled by the sounds of your agitated breaths. 

You both felt the warm trail of liquid leaking out between your bodies and neither of you moved or said anything for a while. He could’ve stayed like that forever, really. With your naked body under him, no masks, no barriers, just your swollen pussy leaking out his seed–

“Successful ejaculation brought down the arachnid hormone levels immediately. Inhibitor working within regular parameters now. Congratulations, Peter.” 

EV’s monotone voice cut through the silence. 

It took two seconds of shock before you both broke into breathless laughter. His teeth grazed your back as your bodies vibrated in sync from the amusement and overall flustering after everything that happened. 

“Thank you, EV,” Peter muttered. 

“You’re welcome. I gathered data and the released semen volume exceeds standard parameters by two hundred and twenty six percent due to the high hormonal concentration. Hydration, clean up and rest are advised.”

“For fucks sake…” Peter cursed under his breath. 

“Oh god…” you mumbled against the sheets. 

That was your call back to reality. 

Peter felt you move under him, reaching blindly to the side until your hand found the mask. You lifted it over your shoulder, offering it to him without looking. 

“I don’t want to,” he said, too quickly, then cleared his throat. “I…I don’t want to put it back on.” 

“Then I’ll close my eyes,” you offered instead. 

“No–I mean…you don’t have to. I don’t want to wear it around you anymore. Not after…all of this,” he admitted sheepishly. 

“But you told me to not turn around,” you reminded him, dropping the mask on the mattress again. “And that was you, not the darker you.”

He chuckled, nodding even if you couldn’t see him yet. 

“Yeah, because if I saw your face while I was balls deep inside you I would’ve busted before you came.”

There it was. He said it. No turning back now. 

At least it got a chuckle from you too. 

“Listen I…I meant everything I said. Everything. The wanting, the nights I thought about you,” he confessed. “I don’t want you to feel like I just used you when…when there was always a reason why I needed you like oxygen tonight.”

Your breath hitched, and his hand found your waist, pulling you closer to him, and when you didn’t push away…he exhaled in relief behind you. 

“So maybe…you can turn around now. If–if you want to. Know the real me.”

“I would really like that,” you whispered without hesitation. 

You tried lifting yourself up to turn around, but he did most of the job, moving away the pillow he had placed under you and helping you roll onto your back. You closed your eyes, at least until you were facing him completely, and took a deep breath. Holding onto his biceps for moral support, you finally opened them again. 

Seeing his face for the first time felt so intimate, even after everything you just did. 

There he was. The same guy who just fucked you into next week, looking more shy and boyish than you could’ve ever imagined. 

Brown eyes. Dark, curly hair sticking to his forehead. A nervous smile tugging at the corner of his gorgeous mouth. 

So young. So earnest. So yours. 

No spidey anymore. Just Peter. 

Your Peter. 

Thank you so much for reading 🤍 I used to write Peter so much back in the day (shoutout to my starktonyx era) and I’ve missed him dearly.

Feedback is always appreciated 🕷️

Divider by @andromeda-graphics

Tags: @johnnyfuckingsexystorm @harryplzruinme @jellyfishjpeg @tatumrileyslover @kg0626

[midniqhtt]

girl bye. my clothes are gone, hormones are high, but no spidey to help 😭 fuck me. can’t get enough of your sex pollen fics. feel like you release you’re own toxins in your fics making me want crave more 🤭 loved every minute of it

[conleches]

some fucking resources for all ur writing fuckin needs

body language masterlist

a translator that doesn’t eat ass like google translate does

a reverse dictionary for when ur brain freezes

550 words to say instead of fuckin said

638 character traits for when ur brain freezes again

some more body language help 

[bellero]

REBLOG TO SAVE A WRITER

[honey-on-your-tongue]

writer lifesaver omg

[2well2water]

i am so sickkkkkkkk of people seeing misogyny perpetuated by a man and automatically going "well SOMEONE'S closeted" omfg you know that men hate women even when theyre attracted to them right??? why are you more interested in making fun of gay people than hating misogynists. you fucking freak