hafza

[spoongyb]

this is for a very niche audience , but i watched vaazha 2 and it was so beautiful i wish more people watched malayalam movies cuz they always deliver. and the dynamic between hashir and team is so found family vibes I'm already craving for a rewatch ughh

[withmama]

my bed is mama

[rizzcom]

trapped

pairing: robin (dick grayson) x catwoman apprentice! reader

tags: mdni, fem reader, reader is a year older than dick, enemies to lovers¿?, dick calls reader “cat”, reader calls dick “birdie”/“baby”, very hormonal teens, dry humping, enclosed space, forced proximity, making out, groping, sub dick, thigh riding, praise, handjob, p in v, cowgirl, unprotected sex, creampie, reader is more “experienced” (lmk if i missed any)

You had never known stability. Not in the traditional sense.

Your earliest memories were of cold nights and empty pockets, of learning that in Gotham, you had to take what you wanted because no one was going to give it to you. And maybe that was why Selina Kyle took you in—because she saw something of herself in you.

From the moment Selina took you under her wing, normalcy became a foreign concept. She never pretended to be a mother, never showered you in words of affection, but she provided. She gave you food, a place to sleep, and most importantly—a purpose.

Life with her was exhilarating. Nights spent darting across Gotham’s rooftops, breaking into places you had no business being in, taking what you wanted simply because you could. Selina taught you everything—how to move unseen, how to pick locks with delicate precision, how to manipulate, how to charm.

And, of course, how to run.

But no matter how good you were, they were better.

Batman and Robin.

They were always there, always a step behind, always chasing.

Selina handled Batman, slipping through his grasp time and time again, leaving only whispered promises and stolen kisses in her wake.

And you? You were left to deal with Robin.

The first time you saw him, you nearly laughed.

A kid. Shorter than you, all bright colors and attitude, wearing a mask that barely hid the smugness in his expression.

Not like you were a kid yourself, right?

“You’re kidding,” You had said, eyeing the small figure in bright red, green, and yellow. “You’re Robin?”

From the way Selina warned you about Robin, you expected… something else.

Not this short, flamboyant boy in pixie boots and wearing that shit-eating grin.

Robin bristled at your tone, crossing his arms. “Yeah, and?”

“You just seem… smaller than I expected.”

He scoffed. “You’re, like, barely taller than me.”

You hummed, amused. “Still taller.”

It should’ve been easy. You’d spent months training under Selina, learning how to evade, how to slip through fingers like water. He was just a kid—a kid in bright colors, a cape to slow him down, and all energy and attitude.

But Robin was fast.

And relentless.

No matter how quick you were, how well you knew Gotham’s rooftops, he kept up. Every twist, every jump, he was right there, like a shadow that refused to be shaken.

He grinned through it all, like the chase itself was the fun part.

By the time you finally lost him—ducking into a hidden alley, heart pounding, breath sharp—you realized something.

You weren’t annoyed.

You were excited.

For the first time in your life, you were looking forward to something.

And it became a game.

Every time Selina clashed with Batman, you and Robin danced around each other, locked in your own little battle. He was all quips and acrobatics, relentless determination wrapped in bright colors, and you matched him move for move.

And then, somewhere along the way, over the years, the game changed.

It was subtle at first.

The way his hands lingered just a second too long when he grabbed you. The way his breath hitched when you leaned in, voice low and teasing.

And then, one night, after a particularly close chase—

“You’re slowing down, Birdie,” you teased, perched on the edge of a rooftop, looking down at him. “Getting tired of chasing me?”

Robin huffed, rolling his shoulders, the movement fluid yet tense, like he was shaking off exhaustion—or frustration. He was older now, no longer the scrawny kid you used to outrun on Gotham’s rooftops. He’d grown into himself, his frame broader, his stance more grounded, more sure. The suit, once bright and almost ridiculous in its vibrancy, seemed different now. The red looked richer, darker under the moonlight, the shadows clinging to the fabric, emphasizing the sharp angles of his body. His cape, now black and lined with gold, draped over his shoulders with an ease that made him seem more intimidating, more like a real threat than just Batman’s sidekick.

And then there was his voice—lower, rougher, with an edge that hadn’t been there before.

An edge that reminded you of Gotham’s Dark Knight.

Gone was the high-energy bravado of a kid playing hero. Now, when he spoke, there was weight behind his words, something firm, something undeniably commanding. It sent a strange thrill through you, though you’d never admit it.

“Who says I’m not letting you get away on purpose?”

You raised an eyebrow. “Awfully generous of you.”

“Maybe I like the chase,” he said, stepping closer, his gaze sharp. “Maybe I like you.”

The air shifted.

Your smirk didn’t waver, but your heart did.

For the first time, you didn’t have a quip ready.

And then, just as quickly as it came, the moment passed.

He grinned again, all mischief and ease, like he hadn’t just thrown a wrench into your entire world.

You rolled your eyes, shoving down whatever had just coiled in your chest. “You really should work on your flirting, Robin.”

“Is that a challenge?”

You leapt off the rooftop, and this time—

You let him catch you.

You were nineteen now.

It wasn’t that you weren’t grateful to Selina—she’d taken you in when you had nothing, taught you everything you knew. But you weren’t a stray kitten anymore. You had your own ambitions, your own scores to settle, and it was time you made a name for yourself.

Tonight was supposed to be the first step.

A simple break-in. A massive corporation with deep pockets and even deeper corruption. You weren’t just stealing from them—you were stealing leverage. Blackmail, blueprints, the kind of information that could buy you power.

Everything had been going smoothly—until he showed up.

“Still breaking into places you don’t belong?”

You didn’t need to turn around. You knew that voice—low, smug, and just the right amount of irritating.

Robin.

Or, as you liked to think of him now, Gotham’s Most Persistent Pain in the Ass.

You smirked, still focused on the files flickering across the computer screen. “You know me, Birdie. I just love a good challenge.”

“You’re getting sloppy,” he countered, stepping closer.

You caught his reflection in the screen—older now, taller. The bright colors of his suit had been traded for something darker, more tactical. His stance was solid, muscles tense, ready to spring.

You sighed dramatically. “You gonna fight me, or just lecture me to death?”

“I was thinking both.”

And then he moved.

You barely had time to react before he was on you, reaching for the drive in your hand. You twisted away, knocking over a chair in your retreat, and bolted.

The chase was on.

You darted through the office space, leaping over desks, twisting through narrow hallways, all while Robin stayed infuriatingly close. You could feel him at your heels, relentless as ever, and for the first time in a long time, you wondered if you might not shake him this time.

Then you saw it—a maintenance door left slightly ajar.

You shoved through, sprinting inside just as Robin reached for you. His fingers just barely caught the back of your jacket, and in his effort to stop you, he yanked.

Hard.

The force sent you both crashing through the doorway, tumbling down a short flight of metal stairs in a mess of limbs and curses.

You landed first, sprawled on your back against the cold floor. Robin landed on top of you, knocking the breath from your lungs as the door behind you slammed shut with an ominous clunk.

A silence settled.

“…Did you just tackle me down a flight of stairs?”

Dick groaned, pushing himself up slightly, bracing himself on his arms—his body still pressed against yours. His breath was warm against your cheek when he muttered, “You fell.”

“You pulled me.”

“You ran.”

You rolled your eyes, shifting slightly beneath him—only to realise just how close you were.

The space around you was tiny.

Metal shelves lined the walls, stacked with old equipment and cleaning supplies. The air was thick with dust and stale air, and the dim, flickering light overhead barely illuminated anything.

You and Dick were practically pressed against each other.

And worse?

The door wasn’t budging.

It’s like it automatically locked you both in the moment you entered.

Dick must’ve come to the same conclusion because he exhaled sharply, muttering a quiet, “Fantastic.”

You turned to face him, looking him up and down. “Aww. Trapped in a tiny, enclosed space with me? Try not to look so excited, Birdie.”

Dick clenched his jaw, shifting his weight, and—

Oh.

That was… interesting.

For the first time since you met him, he was the one who faltered. His breath hitched, his fingers twitching slightly where they rested against your waist.

“What’s wrong?” you asked, voice dropping to a whisper. “Never been this close to a girl before?”

His gaze flickered to your lips before he caught himself, schooling his expression into something unimpressed. “I hate you.”

“Uh-huh,” you hummed, tilting your head. “That’s why you’re still on top of me?”

Dick tensed. Then, with a sharp inhale, he pushed off you, moving to sit up—only to immediately hit his head against one of the low shelves with a dull thud.

You laughed.

Dick glared, rubbing the spot where he’d smacked his skull. “Glad you’re enjoying yourself.”

“Oh, of course.”

You pushed yourself up, stretching out your legs as much as the tiny space allowed. Dick was sitting against the opposite wall now, knees bent, arms resting over them. The space was too small for either of you to fully move without touching the other.

A slow smirk curled at your lips as an idea took root.

You shifted, closing the distance, swinging a leg over his to straddle his lap.

His whole body stiffened.

“W—What are you doing?” he asked, voice suddenly very unsteady.

“Getting comfortable,” you murmured, leaning in just slightly. “You don’t mind, do you?”

His breath shuddered.

This was new.

You’d spent years teasing him, pushing his buttons, testing his patience. But this—the way he was looking at you now, wide-eyed, breathless, trapped beneath you with nowhere to go—this was different.

You could feel the way his heart was racing.

You dragged your fingers down his chest, slow and deliberate. “Still think I’m getting sloppy?”

Dick exhaled shakily. “I—”

He stares unabashedly at the way your plush thighs brush against his sides when you shift to make yourself comfortable, he feels the way heavier breasts push against his chest as you leaned closer.

Dick wasn’t an idiot.

He knew you were doing this on purpose.

You can feel Dick’s eyes, despite it being hidden behind that damn domino mask of his. It was all over your face, and for a moment—you saw the way his breath hitch when his eyes landed on your lips.

That only fueled you more.

And without a second thought, you kissed him.

The second your lips met his, the tension snapped.

Dick made a quiet, desperate noise against your lips, his hands grasping at your waist, unsure whether to pull you closer or push you away. You made the decision for him.

His hesitation lasted seconds before he gave in, melting beneath you, responding with an eagerness that sent a thrill down your spine.

You nipped at his lower lip, earning a shuddered gasp, and God, you’d never seen him like this—needy, breathless, completely at your mercy.

“Is this what you wanted?” you murmured against his lips, your hips shifting just enough to make him choke on a breath.

His fingers dug into your sides as he struggles to maintain control.

He swallows hard, Adam's apple bobbing in his throat. “Fuck—Cat… no—” Despite the words, his body betrays his desire, hips twitching up to meet yours, his hands sliding up your back.

Dick kisses you again, soft and deep, pouring his desperation and desire into the embrace. And you didn’t waste a second to kiss him back, your hips slowly moving against his thigh, seeking out any sort of relief while also trying to provide Dick some.

And Dick—

He whimpered, soft and pathetic, adorable coming from him.

Your hand moved to cup his face, your thumb stroking along the soft skin of his cheek, leaning down to deepen the kiss.

"You're so pretty." You murmur softly, pulling away slightly to stare at him, your hand making its way to remove his mask. But Dick’s hand immediately caught your wrist, stopping you.

“N-no, wait, mask stays on, Cat. We can’t—“ He didn’t finish the sentence as you rolled your hips against him instead, body jerking in his hold. Somehow the gravity of the situation just stills in his head for a moment. “Shit, shit, wait—we should talk about this, right?”

“What’s there to talk about?” You mutter out, as you press kisses along his jawline. “You want this—I want this. We both want this, don’t you agree?”

You could feel his breath, ragged and shallow.

There was no escaping the sheer intensity of it. Every inch of his body was pushing into yours, and his movements—though tentative—were driven by an undeniable need. His hips, for all his effort to hold back, shifted instinctively, and for a brief second, you felt the unmistakable press of his body against yours. And in one swift motion, you removed his domino mask, tossing it aside as your eyes met his baby blue ones.

He looked at you with wide eyes, clearly torn between wanting to pull away and wanting more. You could practically hear his heart racing in the thick silence.

He swallowed hard. “I—” His voice cracked, and for the first time, you saw it. The boyish cockiness was gone, replaced by something more raw, more real. He was trembling slightly, unsure but wanting, and it made something stir in your chest.

You slid your hands up his chest, fingers brushing over the outline of his suit, feeling the heat of his skin beneath the fabric. His reaction was immediate—he let out a quiet, shaky breath as his hands slid down your back, pulling you even closer.

He kissed you again, this time with more force, his lips hungry, as if he couldn’t get enough. His hands roamed, brushing against your sides, your waist, his fingers lightly pressing against the curves of your body. You could feel him struggling to stay in control, his movements growing more erratic, more desperate, but still so careful, as if he was afraid of pushing you too far.

“Damn it,” he muttered between kisses, his voice tight with frustration. “I hate that you’re making me lose control.”

You smiled against his lips, pulling back just slightly. “You don’t have to hate it, you know.”

His eyes met yours again, and there it was—vulnerable, unsure, but undeniably drawn to you. “I—” He paused, exhaling slowly, as if gathering his thoughts. “I want this. But I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“You don’t have to know everything,” you said softly, running your hand down his chest once more. “Just go with it.”

Dick’s body reacted immediately, the way his hands moved to your back, pulling you closer as if he couldn’t get enough. You could feel the desperation in him, the way his movements grew more fervent, more insistent, as if the moment had finally overtaken him.

There was something so intoxicating about it—the way he kissed you with such intensity, like every second he spent with you in this confined space only heightened the tension between you. You could feel his body pressing against yours, his every movement a silent invitation, a challenge. His hands, once hesitant, were now roaming freely, touching you with a fervor that made your heart race.

Dick reaches up with one hand to cup your breast, thumbing your nipple through the fabric of your suit, and you let out a guttural moan.

“That’s it, baby, don’t hold back.” You mumbled, your hand grabbing a fistful of his hair, tilting his head up to meet his lips once more.

And don’t hold back he did. His hand fondled with your clothed breast, while the other made its way to the zip on your back.

Dick's gaze lazily makes its way up your form, greedily taking in every inch. He gently bites down on his lower lip, face starting to look flushed as he lets his guard down. Bending forward, you close the distance between your mouths, nipping gently and taking that plush lower lip for yourself. He gasps, but gives as good as he gets, tonguing into you with a little groan. When he tries to take control and deepen the kiss, you smirk and pull back, drawing a pouty little sigh from him.

"Ah ah, birdie—let me do all the work, yeah?" You scold him. His forehead came to rest on your shoulder, his warm breath mixing with yours.

“I’m sorry, I just—” You placed a finger on his lips, clicking your tongue.

“Don’t apologise.” You murmur, lifting his head up as you start to press kisses all over his jawline once again, trailing down to his neck. Dick whines softly at the sudden shift, mewling your name.

He grinds against your clothed cunt, the fabric of your suits making it easier to hurriedly slide against each other.

Dick wishes he could feel how tightly you’d wrap around him instead of this but he needed release now, and this was the quickest way to get it.

But you notice his neediness.

You noticed how much he was aching to be inside of you.

He was bucking into you desperately, moving his hands to grope your tits and roll your nipples between his fingers.

“There you go… Good boy, keep going.” You whisper, your hand trailing down to the hem of his pants, tugging at it.

Dick inhales sharply as he feels your fingers brushing against the waistband of his pants, his hips twitching in anticipation. He's breathing heavily now, chest rising and falling rapidly against yours.

“Ah fuck…” His voice is strained, torn between wanting to give in completely and the lingering hesitation. “I want to... but we should... shit.. but we should be careful.”

You tilt your head at that, your hand resting against his growing arousal, rubbing against it painstakingly slow. “And where’s the fun in that?”

Fuck.

Despite his words, his hips lift slightly, seeking more of your touch. “Please, just... let me...” He swallows hard, hands gripping your waist as he looks up at you with hazy, desire-filled eyes. “...let me make you feel good.” His fingers slip beneath the fabric of your bottom, brushing against the bare skin of your stomach, leaving tingles in their wake.

“Tell me what you want. I'll do anything... anything you want.” His voice is a needy whisper, one you knew you couldn’t resist now.

Your eyes darken with lust as you take in the sight of Dick beneath you, seeing the desperation etched into every line of his body. You can feel the heat radiating off him, the way his heart is pounding against your chest, the tremble of his fingers as they dig into the fabric of your suit.

Slowly, teasingly, you slide your hand lower, palming the growing bulge in his pants. You can feel him, hot and hard, straining against the confines of his costume.

Dick lets out a strangled groan, his hips bucking up into your touch, seeking more friction.

Boldly, you hook your fingers into the waistband of his pants and slowly, torturously, begin to tug them down. The fabric resistive at first, but with a final, sharp tug, you yank them down, exposing his bare skin to the cool air of the room.

Dick's cock springs free, long and cute and perfect, the tip already glistening with precum. It twitches as the air hits it, and you can't help but lick your lips at the sight. You wrap your hand around his shaft, feeling the weight of him, the heat, the way he pulses in your grip.

Dick is panting now, his eyes glazed over with lust as he stares up at you, taking in the sight of you looming over him, his cock in your hand. He looks wrecked, destroyed, completely at your mercy, and it sends a thrill through you, a rush of power and desire.

You stroke him slowly, teasingly, watching as he writhes beneath you, his body arching into your touch. You can feel him leaking more, his cock throbbing in your hand, and you know he won't last much longer at this rate.

So you lean down, your breasts brushing against his chest as you murmur in his ear, your breath hot against his skin. “That's it, baby... just like that. You feel so good... I can't wait to taste you.”

You take your time, stroking him with long, deliberate movements from base to tip. Your hand is soft and warm, encircling his thick shaft completely as you work him over. You can feel every ridge, every vein, the way he throbs and twitches in your grip.

Dick's breath comes in ragged gasps, his chest heaving as he struggles to maintain control. His eyes flutter shut, brows furrowed in concentration, a sheen of sweat breaking out on his forehead. Soft, breathless moans spill from his lips with every upward stroke, the sounds growing louder, more desperate as you continue your ministrations.

As you pick up the pace, pumping him faster, his reactions become more intense. His hips start to lift, meeting your strokes, fucking up into your fist with a desperate hunger. Quiet, strangled moans spill from his lips, each one making your own desire peak in response.

“Fuck... Dickie, you like that, huh? Like how you’re fucking my fist, don’t you? Such a good boy..”

You watch, as Dick’s face contorts with pleasure. His brows furrow, teeth sinking into his lower lip hard enough to leave indentations. The tendons in his neck strain as his head tips back, throat bared to you in a silent offering. His eyes, when they meet yours, are hazy and dark, the blue of his irises nearly swallowed by the black of his pupils.

The wet sounds of your hand moving over his cock fill the small space, obscenely loud in the charged silence. You can feel him leaking more, his precum making your strokes slicker, easier. His cock is red and angry, the head an almost painful shade of pink, the slit weeping with his desire.

You lean down, your breasts brushing against his heaving chest as you bring your mouth to his ear. Your lips brush the shell of it as you whisper, your voice low and heavy with lust. “That's it, baby... doesn't it feel good? Doesn't it feel amazing to have my hand wrapped around this big and needy cock of yours? I can feel how much you want it... how much you want me...”

Dick shudders, his body wracking with sensation as he listens to your words. A broken whimper escapes him, his voice hoarse and wrecked as he manages to gasp out, “F-Fuck… please, (Name)… I need you so bad…”

You never knew how much you needed him begging for you until now. And god did it feel good.

You can feel his desperation, his absolute need for release. And you're going to make him work for it. Slowly, torturously, you increase the speed of your strokes, squeezing just a bit tighter, twisting your wrist on the upstroke.

Dick is panting now, his breath coming in short, sharp bursts. His face is flushed, eyes squeezed shut, jaw clenched tight as he tries to hold back. But you can see the way his body is tensing, the way his cock is throbbing harder, leaking more steadily against your palm.

“(Name)... I can't... I'm gonna... fuck, I'm gonna...” His words dissolve into a guttural moan, his entire body going rigid.

You feel his cock throb and twitch in your grip, and then with a hoarse cry of your name, he's coming undone. Thick, hot ropes of cum erupt from his cock, painting your hand and his stomach with his release. His body shudders and jerks through each wave of pleasure, his hand gripping yours like a vice.

You work him through it, stroking him through each aftershock, feeling his cock pulse and twitch against your fingers until finally, he collapses back against the wall, chest heaving, skin sheened with sweat. He looks utterly debauched, hair disheveled, lips kiss-swollen and parted around shallow breaths. His eyes flutter open, hazy and unfocused, struggling to regain some semblance of coherence.

Slowly, you bring your hand up to your mouth, making a show of licking his spend from your fingers, my tongue swirling around each digit, ensuring he can see every last bit of him disappearing between your lips. Dick watches closely, his chest still rising and falling rapidly, a fresh wave of desire washing over his eyes as he takes in the sight of you licking his cum off your hand.

“Mmm, you taste good, Dick,” You purr, wrapping your hand around his re-hardening shaft, giving him a slow, teasing stroke. “I could get used to this view—you, all wrecked and wanting, cock throbbing and ready to go again already.” You lean in closer, your lips brushing against his ear as you whisper, “You really are an overachiever, aren't you?”

You can feel him shiver against you, his hips lifting slightly into your touch. You grin, pulling back to look at him with a wicked gleam in your eyes. Then, slowly, you reach back and unzip the rest of your suit, peeling the tight material down your body until you’re just left in your panties.

You hook your thumbs into the waistband and tug them down, baring your dripping cunt to his hungry gaze.

Dick's eyes widen as he takes in the sight of you, his tongue licking his lips as he stares at your glistening folds. You grab his hand, guiding it between your legs, pressing his fingers against your aching clit. He inhales sharply at the contact, feeling the slick heat of your arousal coating his digits.

“Fuck, (Name).…you're so wet.” He breathes, his fingers starting to move on their own, stroking along your slit, feeling how ready you are for him. “Is this...is this because of me?”

You moan softly, rolling your hips against his hand, seeking more of that delicious friction. “Yes, birdie...it's all for you,” You gasp, your head falling back as his fingers find a particularly sensitive spot. “I'm so fucking turned on right now, and it's all because of you.”

You reach down and grab his wrist, guiding his hand to move faster, to press harder against your clit. You grind against him, coating his fingers in your slick arousal, your body trembling with need. You can feel how hard he is, his cock throbbing and leaking against your ass, and you know he wants you just as badly.

Without warning, you shift your hips, positioning yourself so that the head of his cock brushes against your entrance. You feel him gasp, his fingers pausing in their movements as he realizes what you’re about to do. You look down at him, your expression one of pure, unadulterated lust, and then you sink down.

You take him in inch by delicious inch, your walls stretching around his thick length, wrapping him in your tight, wet heat. You both moan at the sensation, your bodies fitting together like two puzzle pieces, made to be joined like this. You don't stop until you’re fully seated on his lap, his cock buried to the hilt inside your clit, pressing against his pelvis.

“Oh fuck, Dick...” You whimper, your nails digging into his shoulders as you start to move, rolling your hips in a slow, sensual grind. “You feel so fucking good inside me.”

Your words seem to spur him on, and he starts to thrust up to meet you, his hips lifting off the ground to drive his cock deeper into your needy cunt. The room fills with the obscene sound of skin slapping against skin, your moans and cries of pleasure echoing off the metal walls. You can feel him getting closer, his thrusts becoming more erratic, more desperate, and you know he won't last much longer.

“Come on, baby,” You pant, your voice high and breathless as you ride him harder, faster, chasing your own release. “Come inside me. I want to feel you come inside me, Dick. Please...please come for me.”

With a final, harsh thrust, you grind down against Dick. His eyes widen as he feels your walls clench around him, your words pushing him over the edge.

He pistons his hips up harder, his heavy balls slapping against your ass with each punishing thrust. He leans in, burying his face between your breasts, his mask brushing against your skin as he suckles and nips at the soft mounds, leaving marks of possession in his wake.

“Fuck, (Name)...you feel too good,” he pants against your skin, his voice a low, guttural rasp. “So good...”

His words dissolve into a strangled moan as his thrusts become erratic, losing their rhythm as he teeters on the brink of climax. He's so close, his cock pulsing and throbbing inside your clenching walls, your arousal dripping down his shaft with each thrust.

“Ngh— fuck..” he hisses out, his fingers digging into the flesh of your hips hard enough to bruise as he holds you down, making sure you take every last drop of his seed. You can feel the hot, thick ropes of his release painting your insides, dripping down onto his lap and the floor below, filling you up just as you'd begged him to do.

You're both panting hard, chests heaving as you come down from your highs. You slump against his chest, completely spent, your body still twitching with the aftershocks. Dick's arms wrap around you, holding you close, his face buried in your hair as he tries to catch his breath.

You can't help but smile, cupping his face in your hands and pulling him in for a slow, deep kiss. You pour all of your satisfaction, all of your desire, all of your growing feelings for him into that kiss. When you finally pull away, you're both smiling, both looking at each other like you can't quite believe this is real.

But then, Dick's eyes widen in realization as the final pulses of his release subside, his softening cock still buried deep inside your fluttering heat. A look of panic flashes across his face beneath the mask as the gravity of what just happened sinks in.

“I...fuck, I'm so sorry,” he starts, voice shaking with remorse. “I didn't mean to... shit, I shouldn't have...”

But you silence him with a searing kiss, your lips crashing against his in a desperate attempt to stem the flow of apologies. You pour every ounce of passion and hunger into the kiss, your tongue delving into his mouth, tangling with his own. For a moment, Dick is stunned, his body stilling beneath you as he allows you to plunder his mouth.

When you finally pull back, your chests heaving, you fix him with a stern look. “Didn't I tell you not to apologise?” you demand, voice low and firm. “I know exactly what I wanted, and I wanted this. I wanted to feel you come inside me, Dick.”

Dick swallows hard, Adam's apple bobbing in his throat. “But I didn't use a condom,” he argues weakly. “I could have...we could have...”

You place a finger against his lips, silencing him once more. “Shh. I know the risks. But where’s the fun in not taking them?”

Dick's eyes search yours, a war raging behind those hidden depths. Slowly, hesitantly, he nods, your finger falling away from his lips. “Alright,” he murmurs, voice low and rough. “Fine, you win, Cat.”

A slow, shy smile curves your lips as you lean in to press a soft kiss to his jaw, your body still nestled against his, his release cooling inside you. “Good,” you whisper against his skin. “Because I think we're going to be stuck in here for a while,” you say with a grin, glancing around at the small, enclosed space. “You’re going to have to deal with me a little longer, Robin.”

Dick laughs, a real, genuine sound that makes your heart flutter in your chest, his hands sliding up your back to tangle in your hair. “You're insatiable,” he accuses, but there's no bite to his words, only a grudging sort of awe.

“But I think I can handle that,” he says, pulling you down for another kiss. “Especially if it means more of this.”

You nipped at his earlobe before soothing it with your tongue.

“You're just now figuring that out?”

—

Safe to say, Batman found you both a few hours later, and him and Selina lectured you both about the need for protection. (At least you were on the pill.)

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[juicykvnture]

TEAR ME OPEN

vampire!Dick Grayson x fem!reader

tags: PiV, established relationship, biting, blood mention, dacryphillia, dumbification, somno, dubcon.. paralytic venom (do not look at me.)

a/n: don’t come to my house or else I’ll sick your di- I mean blood!!!

wc: 3k | masterlist

"You know if you like totally hate me and like want me to die or something, you can just say that."

He's pulling those puppy dog eyes again, drumming his fingers against his knees as he leans over the couch a little, bumping his head against yours.

"Hm?" You mumble, unfazed and preoccupied with tapping away at your phone.

"So you're not only depriving me of your blood, but also of your attention? You're a heartless woman, you know that?"

Dick knows damn well you do have a heart. In fact, his hearing picks up every single thump little of it inside your ribcage, pumping all that blood around your body.

He lets out a dramatic whine, one part offended and two parts pathetic.

You’re ignoring him and starving him.

“C’mon, baby..” He’s really pushing the ‘poor pitiful me’ look at the moment, head ducked down to hide behind his hair, eyebrows all raised and pouty lips in an exaggerated frown.

To him, this is truly a double standard. He doesn’t get it! He's seen you demolish an entire pack of KitKats in one sitting for when you thought you were being sneaky!

So like God forbid your vampire boyfriend feels kinda peckish..

Your eyes narrow slightly, unamused.

“You have blood bags in the fridge.”

Your words make him wince, bumping his forehead against yours again. You’re ignoring him, as always when he suggests this kind of thing.

He hates it! Why the hell would he want one of those disgusting blood bags if he’s got a wayyy prettier one in front of him?

“Please?” he’s batting his eyelashes at you and everything, pressing lightly kisses to the inside of your wrist - only to lightly scrape his fangs against the thrum of your pulse.

“Dick,” you frown, shoving at his jaw like you would do to a misbehaving puppy.

“I told you, blood freaks me out.”

Hours later, staring up at the ceiling.. he’s at a loss.

Batting his lashes and kissing all over your face with hushed little pleas didn’t work. That’s a new one.

Convincing you barely worked either.

He offered anything and everything.

Promises to wash your sore skin after, to take you out to that Italian place you like, even saying he’d buy you everything in the whole world, just for one singular drop to quell the ache in his fangs.

Eventually, he managed to wear you down just a little bit, don’t you love him?

You told him you’d think about it, that should’ve been enough to rein him in.

Unfortunately, it only made the dull ache in his fangs more prominent.

He won’t open the fridge, he won’t look at a blood bag, he hasn’t dared to pick one up in the last number of days.

Why would he? Especially if you look so sweet asleep, your head tilted back against the plush pillows, your pretty neck is just right there.

His keen eyes watch as you shift a little in your sleep, blissfully unaware how he’s spiralling internally.

Dick wonders how you’d react, wonders how much longer he can take this before he loses his mind completely.

Shifting closer to you under the soft covers, he gently rests his chin atop your shoulder, his cold hand gently sliding up your soft thigh to your hip, lightly thumbing over the lacy hem of your panties.

Dick knows you don’t mind that, you’ve let him do that before.

He wonders if you’d jolt awake in horror if you felt his fangs pricking your skin. That makes him frown for a moment, you’re not supposed to be scared of him, he loves you more than anything - with every single beat of his cold dead heart.

It’s not the actual concept of it that freaks you out, right? You said it’s just the sight of the blood. You wouldn’t see it, you’d be fine.

Still, for a moment he thinks about how you’d react, even if you weren’t as horrified.

Would you cry? Maybe.

It’s not like he’s one of those total freaks that gets off on seeing his pretty girl cry, right?

Wrong.

The thought of your tear-stained lashes, your shaky breaths has him pressing himself against your ass, his fingers slipping down into your panties.

“Fuck,” his words are hushed, fangs still aching - hips pushing against you as his half-lidded eyes lock on your neck, trying not to drool at the feeling of your warm skin under his lips.

“..hmm?” your little murmur makes him stiffen for a moment, his hand flat against your lower stomach, his body still.

“Sorry, baby.” he groans into your neck, about to lift his hand away despite the desperate need coursing through his cold veins.

“S’fine.” your words are a soft slur into your pillow, your warm hand resting over his to gently coax it back down into your underwear, your ass pressing against the tent in his boxers as you lean back against him.

You trust him so much it makes him want to gouge his own heart for you.

“You sure, Angel?” when you give him a sleepy nod his hips roll forward again. Then once more.

His rhythm is lazy, he’s not trying to startle you or wake you up properly.

He’s not trying to get off, or fuck you either - he just wants to be close to you, he wants to feel your heart quicken, he wants to feel your skin heat up.

All sorts of awful things start to cloud his mind but his hips are still pressing against the soft plush of your ass. He’s throbbing in his boxers, hard. He doesn’t care. It’s not about that.

When you lean back against him with a soft little sigh, Dick swallows, his hand gently wandering further down into your panties, his fingers lightly brushing against your clit.

His hand shakes slightly, his Adam's apple bobs in his throat.

God, he can’t take the sight of your pretty neck like that.

His fangs hurt.

The way you’re letting yourself be so vulnerable with him makes something stir, gently dragging his fingers over your soaked slit.

Maybe that’s all he needs. He needs to distract you.

If his sweet girl trusts him enough to play with her pussy while she sleeps, is one little bite to your neck, that bad?

That makes him groan, louder than intended.

No, he can’t do it. That’s so extremely unfair to you.

He presses his hips against you again, his fingers tracing over each divot in your spine, while the other works between your legs, gently running his fingers through your throbbing folds.

“F-fuck,” he can’t help a small hiss when you lean back against him, your perfect little neck right beneath his lips.

“Huh?” the sound has your eyes cracking open, just barely, parting your thighs without a single word. You’re so good for him, he feels like he truly doesn’t deserve you - but your naivety seems to be your downfall.

His cock twitches against your ass again, precum staining his boxers, pressing against the fabric between you.

“Nothing.” he swallows, his breaths more laboured than he’d like them to be, voice shaky with need, “go back to sleep, Angel.”

“You’re alright, baby.” Dick insists.

He can’t tell who he’s trying to reassure.

His hand slides from your spine up into your hair, fingers pressing against the back of your head as he coaxes you back down a little more into the pillow.

His narrowed eyes are watching you now, leaning even closer to your neck as his hand slides back down your chest, dragging his tongue up the exposed side of your neck.

He can’t take it, he needs more.

Slowly, his lips part against your soft skin, savouring the moment once more.

He bites back a groan as his fingers press into your cunt, fangs hovering close to your neck.

“Sweetheart..” he swallows, voice cracking slightly as he speaks.

He should let you sleep. He can’t.

“Baby?” he tries to catch your attention once more, nuzzling his face into your neck - it takes a Herculean amount of strength not to just go ahead and bite you.

He can’t just do that, he loves you too much.

“Mhm?” Your response is a barely coherent mumble - not awake, not quite fully asleep. Just what he’s looking for.

He swallows, dragging his tongue along the side of your neck, his fingers still gently stroking at your pussy to distract you, his thumb running over your clit.

“Y’love me, right?” His lips brush against your nape, one arm firmly draped over your torso while his hand works between your legs.

You huff slightly, eyelids heavy.

“..course I love you,”

Dick knows that, he’s just trying to make himself feel better. Of course you love him, he doesn’t even need to hear you say it most of the time. Usually, the way your damn heart beats around him is enough of a giveaway.

Okay, fuck he can’t take it.

“..w-what the fuck,” you’re squirming against him now, shoulders shaking as the ache in your neck jolts you awake.

You can’t tell what to focus on, the pain or the feeling of his fingers moving against you, sinking deeper into the heat of your pussy.

“Don’t even think about it.” his hand slides out from your hair, moving to wrap his fingers around your neck so you don’t writhe too hard, the pressure making your blood flow smoother onto his tongue.

It’s been so long, he’s almost forgotten what fresh blood tastes like.

Unsurprisingly, yours is sweet. Just like you.

Between the fact that he’s holding you down and the blood loss, you don’t really have much time to react or protest.

His tongue drags up your neck once more, catching each little drop of your blood - he doesn’t want to waste anything, he doesn’t know when he’ll have this opportunity again.

Feeling you move, Dick stills for a moment, watching you in silence.

He’s bracing himself for you to yell at him. He’s gonna get an elbow to the face and spend the rest of the week on the couch, he can see it now.

He’s panicking internally for a few moments, until he feels you move - until he hears that sleepy little sob fall from your parted lips.

Is it fucked up that it turns him on?

“I know it hurts, Angel.” he’s panting, fingers starting to gently stroke your neck instead of holding it tightly when he hears a muffled little sob fall from your lips.

“I’ll make it up to you, okay?” His cock is rock hard now, hips grinding against your ass - he doesn’t notice, he doesn’t care.

You part your lips as if to say something but not a sound comes out, his hand under your jaw is the only thing stopping your head from hitting the mattress.

Maybe it’s the exhaustion, maybe it’s the blood loss, maybe it’s how stupidly horny you are but you just can’t think.

“..t-the fuck?” You swallow another little whimper, body almost limp against the mattress as you let him just tilt your head around in his hand.

Dick blinks for a moment, grip on your neck loosening slightly.

That wasn’t a sob this time, no screech of horror either.

You’re laughing.

Out of your fucking mind, dazed and fucking giggling as your blood stains his teeth.

It’s like you don’t even realise why you’re all dizzy.

Dick could probably do anything to you right now and you wouldn’t even care, you’re so out of it that you trust your big scary vampire boyfriend to not hurt you.

Dick hates the fact that it makes cock throb, the wet stain on his boxers getting harder and harder to ignore.

“What’s so funny?” He mumbles into your nape, tongue dragging against your skin to catch every drop of that blood he’s been so desperate for.

“..you,” a tired slur falls from your lips, your head feeling a little too heavy for your neck as his fingers circle over your clit.

“Me?” Dick pants, blood dripping down your chin as he tilts your head back.

God you’re barely able to keep your eyes open, like his hand around your neck is the only thing keeping you conscious.

“Mhm,” you giggle, cut off by a little whine when you feel his fingers sink into your wet cunt.

“..you’re all bite-y n’all,”

He isn’t sure if “bite-y” is even a real word, but fuck you’re cute.

You probably think he’s just nibbling at your skin for fun like he’s some harmless puppy.

As if he couldn’t just drain the life out of you if he felt like it.

“..what the hell,” You giggle again, brows furrowing slightly as you try and move your thighs apart to give him better access.

Right, Dick forgot about that.

They’re not cooperating, like your brain is a little too muddled to let you move properly.

He feels bad for a moment, eyes flickering down to the little scrunch of your nose, how hard you’re trying to focus to do something as simple as articulating yourself properly.

“Dick, I can’t-“

Move.

You would press your thighs together if you could, your cunt aching for something more than just his fingers.

“S’okay,” Dick coos, gently tilting your jaw back so your glassy eyes meet his.

“Bet you can’t think either?”

You whimper at that, nodding as you feel the tears stinging your eyes. Not because it hurts, but because you can’t touch him like you want to.

“Aw,” he murmurs, pressing his lips to the bite mark at the base of your neck like he isn’t the one putting you through all this.

“M’gonna have to do all that thinking and moving for you. Aren’t I, pretty girl?” His hand slides out of your panties to pull them down your thighs, embarrassing amounts of precum already staining his boxers at the sight of you like this.

“Y-yeah,”

“Yeah,” Dick grins at your immediate compliance (as if you have a choice), one hand pulling you back closer against him, the other working to free his strained cock from his pants, barely able to muffle a groan.

His leaking tip smacks against your clit with a small hiss, his forehead bumping against the back of your neck.

Dick would genuinely rather die than ever hurt his pretty girl, but fuck - the way he can just manhandle you around reminds him that he could.

Especially when you’re so out of it.

Dick cursed under his breath as you tried to move against him, your dazed whimpers going straight to his ego - and his cock as he slides into with an almost desperate thrust.

“Y’don’t need to think, baby. You just need to take me, t-take this fuckin’ cock, just the way I want.”

Just because he’s got this whole vampire thing going, doesn’t mean he can’t be so stupidly weak for you, panting and whining as his fangs scrape at your neck, your collarbone a mess of blood and drool as he pulls out again.

“Look at that,” Dick can’t stop himself from yanking you around, your back landing against the mattress with a soft thump as he all but crawls over you, hips clumsily moving against yours.

He could get used to you being so dependant more often, your eyes all dazed and glassy and looking up at him like he’s the one who hung all the stars in the sky.

“S-so fuckin’ pretty, all dumb n’takin’ this cock,” one of his hands slides up your his shirt to bunch it up at your collarbone.

Your hearts just so loud, beating so fast. You’re all worked up for him, letting him use you however he wants.

His other hand moves to hook your thigh around his hips cause god knows you’re in no state to do that yourself, thrusts getting sloppier as his half lidded eyes stare down at the subtle bounce of your tits.

He’d usually be too paranoid about scaring you too hard, but he can’t help it - kissing all the way down your chest before sinking his teeth in with an undignified whine, blunt nails pressing into your skin as he gropes at your chest.

No matter how close your heart is, it’s still not enough.

“Gonna-“

He lets out a stuttered moan, his hips picking up the pace, frantic almost.

“F-fuck,” he whines, messy strands of black hair falling into his eyes as he pounds you into the creaky mattress.

"..such a good girl, gonna make me f-fucking cum,”

“Dick,” You’re almost begging him to meet your gaze, hot tears rolling down your cheeks as you try and gather the strength to lift your head.

“Uhuh?” Dick mumbles against your chest, thrusts getting sloppy as he pounds into your cunt, hand sliding down to pinch your clit between his fingers.

“F-fuck, just kiss me,” you swallow, lips curling into a wobbly frown as your body aches to arch against him, the wet sounds of your needy cunt filling the space between you.

“Yeah?” He pants, “Want me to kiss you, baby?”

You bite back a whimper, pussy clenching around him.

“P-please,”

That catches his attention.

Dick latches off of your tits for a moment, ignoring the steady leak of his precum already leaking out of you.

He’s all gross, his parted lips a mess of spit and your blood - the very thing that’s supposedly scares you so badly.

His Adam’s Apple bobs in his throat, letting out a soft mewl when his fangs press into your bottom lip.

You should be mad at him, disgusted. You’ve got every right to be.

But Fuck, even though he could tear you open - he’d rather let his girl drive a stake through his cold dead heart.

a/n: u thought u heard the last of me??

also this song is a banger I promise.

as always thank u for reading, stay freaky ily.

Dick Grayson m.list | halloween masterlist

juicykvnture 2025 © do not copy, translate, repost or use for AI

[dissolved-g1rl]

too close for comfort ⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖

cw: weird awkward reader x mega babe dick

When Dick is in love, he usually makes it everyone else’s problem. It’s not an intentional thing, it’s just that when he loves, he loves hard. And it’s not like his family wasn’t aware of this, they just do their best to not get subjugated to it. You, on the other hand, get subjected to the full brunt of it.

“Get off!” You shriek, trying to shove almost 200 pounds of muscle off of you. Dick whines, holding onto you tighter. He’s had a bad week, Bruce is down his breathing down his neck, he’s got his ass handled to him more then once, and he’s behind on his paperwork. You understand his woes, but damn, he’s on you like a leech. Dick mumbles something against your skin, you feel his breath. “Huh?” You grunt, unable to really push him off. “I said—just lemme hold you.” He grumbles. You groan, and he wiggles on top of you so he can whisper to you better, “Pet me.” He pleads, and you oblige. He shuffles solely so you can rub his back. Dick shivers pleasantly, he’s tensing slightly, peacocking by flexing the muscles in his back. You swat him lightly and he relaxes. “You’re so fucking weird…” You murmur and he grumbles, nipping your skin. “Don’t be mean, be nice to me.” He pulls back, his eyes looking into yours. Damn, he’s so gorgeous. “I meant umm you’re so lovely and handsome.” You say wooed by his full lips and long eyelashes. “That’s better.” He hums, scratching under your chin like you’re some kind of pet, you swat his hand away.

“You’re crushing my ribs.” You murmur after exactly three minutes, you’ve been counting in your head, his cheek is pressed against your boob, listening to the steady thunk of your heartbeat, maybe you should buy him a stethoscope. “I am not that heavy, you’re dramatic.” Dick says, and as king of all divas maybe he’s onto something. “Do you still love me?” He loops his arms under yours, nuzzling his cheek against yours, you grunt turning your head, futile, he just leans into your skin. “Why wouldn’t I still love you?” Even when he’s being annoyingly lovey dovey the feelings you have for him don’t diminish. “I dunno, but I love you too.” He snuggles you, kissing the side of your mouth, nose and chin. “Thanks I guess…” He hums in acknowledgment to your somewhat shy gratitude. “How much do you love me?” He asks, like a fucking attention whore. “Ummmm like, to the moon and back?” You question, that’s a romantic thing to say, right? It’s a good enough answer cause he coos as if you wrote him some lame-o sonnet. “You’re so sweet.” He kisses your cheek like a reward, pretty fucking good one in your opinion.

You get used to Dick lounging on you like some fat cat, soley because every few minutes, despite the proximity, he misses you and wants to kiss. Sometimes you think this has to be some weird ass coma dream. Hunky, smart, sweet Dick wants you of all people, when he smiles with those pretty pearly whites, or whines for affection you always pause for a moment, waiting for an alarm clock or something to wake you up. “Can you hold me?” He asks oh-so-sweetly, looking at you from under his dark lashes. “Yeah.” You say, you’d really be dumb to say anything other than yes. He worms onto his side, and you wrap your arms around his waist, kissing the back of his neck, he smells good, and his body is warm. “Romantic.” He teases, his large head resting over yours. “Shut up.” You say feeling slight embarrassment. “I like when you try to be sweet, ‘s cute.” You groan at his innocent statement. Your hand travels up his strong torso, wrapping around his mouth, your nose can feel his lips curling up. You stiffen when you feel his lips part, he’s making out with your hand like it’s your fucking cunt. “Dick!” You shriek, wiping his spit off against his cheek, he laughs, turning over to hold you. He’s a pain in the ass, but hey, he’s all yours.

dividers by @saradika-graphics

a/n: it came to me in a vision

[stargrillzz]

THERE YOU ARE

SUMMARY: There were always signs, you just need to pick them up.

NOTE: I don't know if at this point in life, 2025, anyone will still be looking for Zayn fics, but yesterday I started listening to his entire album again and I just love him so much.(Khai here it’s a lil bit grown but still a kid) xoxo

Zayn’s country house was tucked in a quiet fold of the English countryside, hidden away from the world in the most beautiful, stubborn kind of way. The long dirt road leading to it was lined with wild hedges and crooked fences, and the house itself—warm brick and low windows—sat in the middle of a green field that rolled gently toward the horizon. It felt like another world here, like time slowed down just for him.

You loved it more than anywhere else. Even more than your own mansion back in L.A. with its glass walls and sharp, cold views of the Hollywood Hills. This place… this was peace.

You had been here for three days now. The guest room practically had your name on it at this point, and Zayn never made a big deal about it. You didn’t need to text before showing up. Sometimes, he’d just glance up from the kitchen with a smile when he saw you walking in with a duffle bag, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Because, well, it was.

You’d met almost ten years ago, back when you were just a scrappy 19-year-old with a voice and some half-finished lyrics, standing in a London recording booth, trying not to freak out because One Direction had just walked in.

Zayn was the one who caught your eye first. Not because he was trying to — he wasn’t like that. But there was something about the quiet way he moved, how he kept glancing at your notebook while pretending not to, and the way he finally leaned over during a break and said, “Those lyrics… they’re actually really good.”

That was it.

That was the start.

Now here you were — both older, more famous, a little more worn out by the industry — yet still exactly like that first day: sitting side by side, talking about music like it was your shared language.

Zayn had set out an old patchwork blanket across the backyard grass while Khai danced around it, twirling with one of her little dolls in hand. His daughter was sunshine personified. She had his eyes, his cheekbones, and somehow, his calm spirit too. She didn’t need to be the loudest kid in the room. She just was, and everyone noticed.

Zayn was sitting with one leg stretched out, his arm lazily propped against a pillow. His sleeves were rolled up, showing off the tattoos that still made your heart stutter sometimes, even though you’d seen them a thousand times.

“She’s obsessed with those daisies,” he murmured, watching Khai pick another one with serious concentration.

“She’s got good taste,” you replied with a soft smile, tucking your knees to your chest.

For a moment, it was just the sound of the wind moving through the trees and Khai’s tiny voice humming something under her breath. You reached over to grab your water bottle, and that’s when he said it — casually, but with a glint of something more in his voice.

“I’ve been thinking we should make a song together.”

Your head turned to him, brow raised. “Really?”

Zayn’s eyes were on you now, steady and warm, the kind of gaze that always made you feel like the rest of the world had gone quiet.

“Yeah,” he nodded. “It’s been a while since we sat down and wrote something.”

You leaned your head on your shoulder, smiling. “It has.”

He shifted a little closer, letting the sun catch the edges of his jawline, that slight scruff making your stomach flutter for no good reason.

“That’s true,” he said slowly, like he was piecing the thought together out loud. “But for the album I’m working on, I want that. A song… ours.”

You blinked, feeling the weight of the word settle between you. Ours.

Not just a song with you. A song belonging to both of you.

Zayn always had a way of making even the smallest words feel like poetry.

Your mouth curved into something soft. “Then let’s do it,” you said, voice low and warm. “Let’s make it something real.”

He nodded again, but didn’t say anything more. He didn’t need to.

You both looked out over the backyard, where Khai had now plopped herself onto the grass, muttering to her flowers like they were in on a secret.

You stood and brushed off your jeans, padding barefoot across the lawn. The grass was still warm under your feet, and the air smelled like earth and lavender and a little bit like the cinnamon candle Zayn had left burning on the windowsill earlier.

“Hey, Khai,” you called gently.

She looked up, squinting in the sunlight, and her face lit up the way it always did when she saw you. “Aunty!”

You laughed and dropped beside her onto the grass, landing with an exaggerated oof that made her giggle. She immediately climbed onto your lap, tucking her legs under her like a baby bird settling into a nest.

“What’ve we got here?” you asked, picking up a handful of daisies.

“Bouquet for Daddy,” she said proudly, clutching one in each hand. “But he can’t see yet. It’s a secret.”

“Ohhh,” you whispered dramatically. “Got it. Operation Secret Flowers.”

She giggled again, then leaned her head on your chest, and the peace of the moment wrapped around you like a silk scarf — weightless and delicate.

From a few feet away, Zayn sat back on his elbows, watching the two of you with something unreadable in his eyes. You weren’t looking at him, but you could feel it. That gaze. The one he saved for his most vulnerable thoughts.

He reached for his phone quietly and snapped a picture.

In it, you and Khai are laughing like nothing else exists except this exact second in time.

Zayn stared at it for a long moment, thumb hovering just above the screen. He did something he rarely did, post it.

The way Khai won’t let you go, holding you as you were the most incredible thing ever, he was melting.

zaynmalik

Liked by louist91, niallhoran, and others.

zaynmalik Peace 🪽

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Then he locked the phone again and looked back up at you, the corners of his mouth twitching into a small, private smile.

And then, his phone buzzed again.

He glanced down.

From: Management Subject: INTERVIEW CONFIRMED – FRIDAY, 12 PM Podcast format. In-studio. We need you on this. You know why.

His jaw tensed subtly. The warmth of the moment dimmed just slightly, the edges curling in like paper near a flame. He locked the screen and tossed the phone beside him on the grass.

You didn’t notice right away — you were still on the ground with Khai, your laughter floating up into the trees — but something in his face had changed. His expression wasn’t cold exactly, just… far away.

You sat up slowly, brushing grass from your arms. “Z?”

He blinked and looked up, as if pulled from somewhere distant. “Yeah?”

“You good?”

He gave you a quick nod, too quick. “Yeah, just… label stuff.”

You narrowed your eyes. “What kind of label stuff?”

He hesitated. “Interview.”

“Oh.” Your voice dropped slightly. “One of those.”

“Yeah.”

You watched him for a beat. “Do you have to go?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just leaned forward to pluck a daisy from Khai’s pile and twirled it between his fingers. “Apparently. It’s time I… I talk about some things.”

You knew what he meant. The last few months hadn’t been easy. Headlines. Assumptions. Long silences and constant pressure. Zayn had never been the kind of person to speak just to speak. But when he did open up… he meant every word.

You looked at him, really looked — the shaved head, the tired eyes, the shadows under his cheekbones that somehow made him look even more beautiful, in that tragic artist kind of way.

“Well,” you said softly, “if you go, just remember what you said earlier.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“That the next song will be ours.”

A small, tired smile tugged at the corner of his lips. “Right.”

You turned back to Khai, who had just tried to fit six daisies into your hair and declared you a “flower monster princess.”

Zayn sat there a moment longer, watching the two girls he loved most — one his daughter, the other something he hadn’t named yet — and knew, deep in his gut, that whatever he said at that interview… wouldn’t matter half as much as the song the three of you had already written together just by being.

The recording studio was nothing too flashy—clean-cut, brick walls, cozy lighting, vintage rugs under the chairs and cables, and the soft hum of a city afternoon outside the windows. A quiet kind of intimacy filled the room, the kind that invited honesty even when it wasn’t planned. It smelled like fresh coffee and worn leather, and the podcast host’s smile was warm and inviting, but Zayn still had his guard up in that low-key way he always did.

He adjusted his mic once, then twice, leaning forward a little, eyes focused on the foam cover like it might bite him. But his shoulders weren’t tense. His hands, ringed and tattooed, stayed folded loosely in his lap. There was a certain calmness in him lately—earned, not faked.

“All right,” the host said, pressing a button with a satisfying click. “We’re live.”

Zayn nodded once.

“Zayn Malik,” she started, with that signature smooth-radio voice, “you’re back with new music. And fans are losing it over this album. Can you tell us what it’s about?”

Zayn exhaled softly, smiling without showing too much. “I can’t say too much just yet…” he paused, glancing sideways like he always did when his mind wandered, “but it’s definitely one of my most personal projects.”

The host leaned in, intrigued. “More personal than Mind of Mine?”

He nodded slowly. “Yeah. Each song reflects something real, y’know? Parts of my life. Things I’ve gone through. Some dark… some really beautiful. It’s weird to say, but after everything, I actually feel proud of where I’m at. And I hope… I hope people connect with it. That’s really all I want.”

There was something in his voice when he said that—like he meant it more than anything.

The host smiled. “That’s beautiful to hear. Now…” she clicked her pen like she was switching lanes, “We’ve seen a lot of photos of you and a certain pop star lately. One of the biggest in the world right now, actually. Can you tell us something about that?”

Zayn laughed—head tilted back, that soft, rough sound escaping his throat as if it genuinely caught him off guard. “She’s my best friend,” he said, brushing his shaved head with one hand, “my greatest support. We spend a lot of time together, yeah. But it’s more than just that.”

He paused for a second, as if weighing the next words carefully, and then met the host’s eyes again. “She’s helped me through a lot. Like… a lot. Everyone knows I’ve had my dark moments. She never left. Not even at my worst.”

The host put a hand over her chest, visibly moved. “That’s the sweetest thing I’ve ever heard.”

Zayn just smiled.

“And the photo you posted,” the host continued, clicking again, “of her and your daughter… those girls looked so close. So warm.”

Zayn’s face softened. His voice did too. “That’s what makes me happiest, honestly. She always made it a priority to make sure I was being a good dad. She encouraged me to be better. She’d show up on days I didn’t even realize I needed someone. She’s been more than emotional support… she’s been like a lighthouse, y’know?”

“You’re saying you wouldn’t be who you are today without her.”

He nodded without hesitation. “Yeah. I mean that.”

There was a short, thoughtful silence in the room—like even the mic was soaking it in.

“She’s a huge part of your life,” the host said softly, “and fans are wondering… will she be on the album?”

“Of course,” Zayn said, smiling. “Again, this album is like… a piece of my heart. And she’s one of the most important things in my life. So yeah, she’s in it. Her presence is all over it.”

The host leaned forward again, clearly catching the subtle weight in his tone. “Sounds like a beautiful friendship. She was truly a lifeline for you.”

Zayn nodded, this time slower. “She is. Especially during the lowest points. Times when I couldn’t see a way out. She was always there. Even when I was pushing people away. Even when I didn’t want help… she was just there. Didn’t let go of my hand.”

The host blinked, visibly emotional. “That’s rare.”

Zayn’s smile returned, lopsided and private. “She’s rare.”

There was a small pause before the host switched gears again, flipping through her notes with quiet fingers. “And now she’s featured on your new album, which, for fans, is going to be a huge deal.”

“Super significant,” Zayn agreed. He leaned back a little, shoulders relaxing more. “Also… I mean, it’s kind of mind-blowing when you think about it. We’re both artists. Music’s always been our thing. And that creates something special between us.”

The host tilted her head, eyes glinting. “A special connection?”

Zayn looked up and met her gaze. “It’s a special connection,” he echoed, almost reverently. “Yeah. Actually, we met through her collab with the band I was in. That was the start of everything.”

“And now?”

“Now… we sit together at the piano. We don’t even have to talk sometimes. We just write. We hear things in each other’s lyrics, in the notes. It’s like… we understand each other without needing to explain. That’s rare too.”

Zayn’s eyes lit up as he spoke—really lit up, like a kid describing their favorite storybook.

“She’s really important to me,” he said, quietly, but firmly.

There was a beat of silence, the kind that fills a room with its own heartbeat.

The host chuckled suddenly, breaking the moment. “It sounds like the connection is deeper than I thought,” she teased lightly, though her eyebrows said romantic tension alert.

Zayn felt the shift instantly. He ducked his head, his laughter lower this time—quiet, a little shy. He stared at the floor with that familiar smile tugging at his lips.

He didn’t deny it.

Didn’t say anything at all.

And somehow… that silence said everything.

The world outside had dimmed into stillness, the last light of the countryside sun slipping beneath the fields like it didn’t want to intrude. Zayn’s house was quiet in the way that let you hear the small things: the creak of the wood when someone shifted their weight, the soft ticking of the vintage wall clock in the hallway, the low hum of the refrigerator in the next room. No paparazzi. No producers. No demands. Just the two of you and the simple comfort of being where you didn’t have to pretend.

It was Friday night.

Somewhere out there, people were popping champagne bottles and posing for the flash. Your phone buzzed hours ago with invites to industry parties in the city—ones you’d never respond to. Because here, in the cozy little studio of Zayn’s country house, barefoot and wrapped in the hoodie he’d tossed you earlier, was exactly where you wanted to be.

The space itself wasn’t glamorous. It didn’t have the sleek walls of your L.A. label’s studio or the soundproof velvet panels of Zayn’s London one. But it was warm. It was full of him. Guitar stands leaned gently in corners, unused strings coiled on tabletops, and handwritten lyrics stuck to the wall with old tape. There was a small upright piano in the corner, a little scratched but beloved, with a mug of cold chamomile tea resting on top.

You were curled sideways on one of the overstuffed sofas, knees drawn to your chest, a pencil tucked behind your ear. Zayn sat cross-legged on the floor, one of his notebooks balanced on his thigh. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, tattoos soft and inked against the glow of the warm studio light. The silence between you wasn’t heavy—it was alive. It crackled with unspoken understanding, laced with comfort that only came from years of friendship.

You watched him for a moment. He had that look again—brows drawn in soft concentration, lip caught between his teeth, pencil tapping against the corner of the page. Every so often, he glanced up at you. You tried not to smile when you caught him, but you always did. And each time, Zayn just smiled back like it wasn’t even something to be embarrassed about.

That’s when you said it. Barely louder than a whisper.

“You’re the lullaby the universe wrote to silence every ache I ever carried.”

He didn’t look up right away. But when he did, his eyes were already warm, already smiling. It was one of those smiles that started in his eyes, slow and soft, like it took its time reaching his lips.

“That’s beautiful,” he said, his voice low and full of something gentle. “Seriously. That’s a lyric I’d tattoo on my arm.”

You shrugged a little, looking down at your notebook like it didn’t matter. “Maybe we could slow it down,” you murmured. “Like... take it down a couple notches. I think a slow song would really breathe on this album. Something stripped.”

“I was thinking the exact same thing,” he said. “R&B, maybe. Something quiet, like... like two people talking in the dark.”

You looked at him again. He was already looking at you. Neither of you looked away.

Then he stood, brushing his palms on his joggers. “Come here,” he said, motioning toward the piano.

You blinked. “You sure?”

He didn’t answer with words. Just walked to the piano, lifted the lid, and slid across the bench with an inviting tilt of his head. You padded across the studio, your socked feet making no sound, and sat beside him, your legs folding neatly under the bench, shoulders brushing just faintly.

The space on the bench wasn’t exactly generous, but neither of you made a fuss about it. Your thighs touched, just barely, and his arm brushed yours as he adjusted himself to find the right key. You didn’t pull away. Neither did he.

He started first, letting his fingers trail softly over the keys, finding chords like muscle memory. It was a slow, dreamy progression, like rain tapping on windows at midnight. You watched his hands, fascinated by how natural it looked—the way he knew just where to go, just how long to hold.

After a moment, you placed your fingers on the keys too, joining in. A higher melody, floating softly above his chords.

You felt his eyes flick over to you, not in a way that interrupted the moment. Just... noticing. Appreciating.

“This is nice,” you said softly, barely louder than the piano.

He nodded. “Feels like a conversation.”

You smiled. “A musical one?”

“Yeah. Like the lyrics haven’t come yet but... the feelings already know what they want to say.”

You both laughed gently at that, but the truth hung in the air between you.

A few minutes passed in that peaceful, fluttery stillness. No pressure. No studio heads watching from behind the glass. Just four hands, two hearts, one quiet night. He started humming under his breath, a soft little melody that hadn’t found its words yet, and without thinking, you matched it, your voices blending softly in the glow of the old table lamp.

You turned slightly, looking at him. “What if that’s the chorus?” you said. “We layer both our voices? Like... overlapping harmonies.”

He looked at you like you’d just solved the universe’s riddle. “That’s exactly what I want,” he said. “Like a dream and a memory singing to each other.”

Your heart squeezed a little.

Then he nudged you with his shoulder. “Play the chorus again. I’ll follow.”

You laughed, cheeks warming, and played the melody a little louder this time. He caught on quickly, joining with a low harmony that gave you goosebumps. Your hands bumped once on the keys and you both froze—then looked at each other and broke into quiet giggles.

“Sorry,” he said, though he didn’t move his hand.

“No, that was my fault,” you murmured, smiling down at the keys.

He glanced sideways at you, his voice even softer now. “I like this. Being close like this.”

You didn’t say anything right away. Just nodded, still smiling, still playing.

“Me too,” you said after a beat. “Feels like we’re exactly where we’re supposed to be.”

Zayn looked at you like he wanted to say something else—something maybe bigger than the moment allowed—but instead, he just bumped your shoulder again, and said, “Alright then, let’s write something that'll make the world cry.”

You both laughed, and the music kept flowing. The notes between you melted into lyrics. His hand stayed close to yours on the keys. Your head dipped toward his shoulder more than once. There was no tension. No awkwardness.

Just music. Just closeness. Just two hearts quietly, unknowingly leaning into something far deeper than friendship.

And neither of you had to say a word.

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yourusername nights like this

You had never thought you’d actually say yes to a movie role, but there you were—starring in a full-blown, romantic drama with an emotional arc that dug deep, just like the classics. It was the kind of film that gave people goosebumps, that made strangers fall in love all over again just by watching the characters breathe around each other. And tonight? Tonight was the big premiere.

Outside the theater, the evening air was brisk but gentle, carrying with it the scent of perfume, pavement, and red carpet anticipation. Flashbulbs sparked in every direction, music thrummed quietly under the noise of gathered voices, and every movement felt ten times more important under the lenses of dozens of paparazzi.

You stood at the edge of it all, wrapped in a creamy, oversized faux-fur coat that spilled elegance and warmth around your body like a blanket of snow. Underneath it, your dress glowed like candlelight—silky, backless, hugging your figure like it was made just for you. A soft golden sheen shimmered every time you turned, and your hair was pulled up in a graceful twist, a few tendrils loose around your face.

Zayn had agreed to come with you.

That alone had already made your heart flip three times before you even stepped out of the car. He wasn’t one for crowds, and certainly not for red carpets. But when you’d asked him—quietly, with a small smile and hopefulness in your voice—he didn’t hesitate. He had simply said, “Yeah, of course I’ll go. Just tell me what time to pick you up.”

And he had. He’d shown up, clean-shaven, hair buzzed short the way he wore it lately, dressed in an all-black tailored suit that clung to him like it had been stitched to his bones. His sharp jawline was even more prominent beneath the warm lights, and his tattoos peeked out from under his cuffs and collar like little secrets he wasn’t hiding, just not showing off. He looked—well, he looked breathtaking. But you didn’t tell him that. Not yet.

Now you stood smiling for photos, your co-star beside you, tall and broad and dripping with charisma. He leaned in every now and then to whisper something cheeky—maybe about the way you almost tripped, maybe about the woman in the third row flashing too many teeth. Whatever it was, it made you laugh, and you didn’t notice it, but Zayn had.

He was watching you from a few feet away, hands in his pockets, brows subtly furrowed.

He didn’t know what the feeling was exactly. It wasn’t rage, not at all. Just… tightness in his chest. Like a string had been tugged. A quiet alarm in his ribs that he couldn’t ignore. Maybe it was protective instinct. Or maybe it was the way your eyes lit up when you laughed with someone else. Either way, before he could second guess it, he moved toward you.

You were just turning to face another camera when you felt it—Zayn’s hand brushing yours, then gently taking it. You blinked in surprise, your co-star pausing mid-smile.

Then Zayn brought your hand to his lips and kissed your knuckles.

Soft. Simple. But the message behind it? Crystal clear.

Your co-star laughed nervously and took a step back, suddenly remembering he had more photos to take elsewhere.

And Zayn stepped in beside you, his palm sliding with natural ease around your waist, fitting there like it belonged. Like it had always belonged. You barely had time to process it, but your body leaned toward him instinctively, your shoulder brushing his chest.

He looked down at you, eyes warm beneath his lashes.

"You look beautiful,” he said, low enough that it didn’t make the cameras click. “You always do, but... wow.”

You couldn’t help the way your breath hitched just slightly, or the way your heart fluttered inside your chest like a wild thing trying to break free. His gaze was soft but intent, like he meant it, like he saw you in this sea of glitz and wanted to pull you out and into his world.

“Thank you,” you whispered, cheeks warm despite the breeze. “It means a lot to me that you’re here. Even more so knowing you're not a very public person.”

He smiled, lips curving slow and familiar. “I’d do anything for you.”

You wanted to say something back, but the cameras flashed again, and the moment was frozen in time—your arm around Zayn’s, your laugh half-caught in the air, his hand settled protectively at your back.

“Guess I’m stealing all your press tonight,” he murmured teasingly in your ear, drawing out another soft laugh from you.

“I don’t mind,” you replied. “Let them write whatever they want.”

Zayn pulled back just enough to meet your eyes. “Let them.”

For the rest of the night, he stayed by your side—through interviews, through press lines, even during the screening when you cried a little watching your own movie and he subtly slid his pinky against yours in the dark. And the whole time, his arm returned to your waist again and again, like he needed the confirmation that you were still there, and that you were his to hold—if not completely yet, then maybe someday soon.

And you? You let him. Because whatever that feeling was blooming in your chest—it didn’t feel like acting anymore.

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zaynmalik proud of you, in every aspect.

The afterparty lights blurred behind the tinted windows of the black car as it pulled away from the theater, tires humming softly against the pavement. You didn’t go. You’d smiled and thanked everyone, posed for a few more pictures, waved politely to co-stars and directors, but once you saw Zayn waiting quietly by the car—with one hand on the open door and that look in his eyes like he didn’t care for crowds or cameras or flashing lights unless they were dancing across your skin—you knew you weren’t staying another second.

The moment the door closed behind you, the silence wrapped around you both like a blanket, and you let out a long breath. You didn’t even realize how tense your shoulders were until they dropped, and the quiet hum of the car made everything feel slower, softer.

Zayn sat beside you in the back seat, one leg crossed over the other, his fingers toying absently with a ring on his hand. His jacket was open now, and he smelled like cologne and something warm and clean—like cedarwood and coffee and maybe the lavender laundry detergent you told him to start using months ago and he never admitted he liked.

You looked down at your heels, unstrapping them slowly and tossing them gently to the floor of the car. Your bare feet curled against the leather seats.

“God,” you exhaled, leaning your head back. “Why do I always forget how exhausting red carpets are?”

Zayn chuckled under his breath, turning slightly to face you. “Because you make it look easy.”

You smirked at him without lifting your head. “Flatterer.”

He shrugged. “Just saying facts.”

The city lights flickered through the window, dancing on his face as he looked at you. You felt his gaze but didn’t look yet. Not just yet.

You could feel the static between you both. That soft buzz. The one that always came after long days or intense moments. Like your souls had synced up again without words, without effort. It had always been like that. Since the very first time you met. You’d chalked it up to creative chemistry. But lately, it felt like something deeper. Quieter. And stronger.

“You were amazing tonight,” he said, voice low, almost hesitant. “In the movie.”

You turned your head slowly, eyes meeting his.

“Really?” you asked, voice soft. “You liked it?”

He nodded, his expression gentle. “It felt… real. Like you weren’t acting. Like you were just… feeling.”

“I was,” you admitted. “It was harder than I thought it would be. That kind of love story—it’s rare. You want to do it justice, you know?”

He nodded, his gaze lingering. “You did.”

There was a pause. A long, easy one. The kind that only happened between two people who didn’t need to fill the silence. You reached over and took his hand, like it was the most natural thing in the world. His fingers curled around yours immediately.

“You looked good tonight,” you murmured without looking at him. “Really good.”

You felt his thumb brush softly across your knuckles. “I felt like a bodyguard in a suit.”

You laughed, tilting your head toward him. “You were more like a prince.”

Zayn’s mouth twitched. “A prince who nearly elbowed a photographer for getting too close.”

“I saw that,” you said with a knowing smile. “You really didn’t like my co-star, huh?”

He looked out the window, playing it cool. “He was fine.”

“Zayn.”

His jaw twitched. Then finally, he turned back toward you. “Okay, maybe I didn’t love the whispering and the leaning in and the smirking.”

You tried to hold back your smile, but it crept in anyway. “You jealous?”

He looked at you for a long beat, then shrugged with an honesty so simple it cracked something open in your chest. “Yeah. I think I was.”

Your smile faded, replaced by something softer. Something slower.

“Why?” you asked gently, still holding his hand.

He didn’t look away this time. “I don’t know. Maybe because you’re the most important person in my life and watching someone else make you laugh like that made me want to…” he trailed off, lips curving faintly. “Be closer.”

You blinked, heartbeat stuttering. “You’re already close.”

Zayn leaned in then, not enough to scare you, not enough to blur any lines you weren’t ready to blur, but just enough to feel his warmth move closer, enough to smell the sweet hint of mint gum and whatever soft cologne clung to his shirt collar.

“Yeah,” he said, voice lower now, intimate in the dimness of the car, “but sometimes I wonder if I could be closer.”

You didn’t respond right away. You weren’t sure your voice would come out steady. So instead, you slid your hand up, tracing the line of his wrist, the smooth skin just under the cuff of his sleeve. His pulse beat strong and steady under your fingertips.

“I don’t want to ruin what we have,” you whispered.

“Me neither,” he said. “But I don’t think we would.”

You looked at him then. Fully. The way you did when you were writing music together and you were on the edge of a breakthrough. The way you did when he was speaking about something important and you wanted to catch every word.

His eyes were the same ones you’d seen in a hundred different moods. But tonight, there was something in them you hadn’t let yourself name until now.

“I’m not saying anything has to change,” he added quickly, the pad of his thumb brushing over your hand again. “Just… I’m here. However you want me. I’m here.”

Your lips parted, the words trapped just behind them. And then—

The car pulled to a gentle stop in front of his countryside house, the porch light glowing in the distance like a lighthouse calling you both home. The driver didn't turn around, just nodded once through the mirror and stepped out to open the door.

But neither of you moved.

Zayn looked at you again. “Want to stay over?”

You looked down, smiling faintly.

“Yeah,” you said. “Yeah, I do.”

He helped you out of the car, his hand steady in yours. The night air wrapped around you both as you walked up the steps. And somewhere behind you, the last of the city lights flickered and faded.

But in front of you, something new was beginning. Quiet. Gentle. But real.

And this time, neither of you was afraid of it.

When you walked in, you let out a slow breath. His house was warm, quiet, still holding onto the smell of sage from earlier in the week. A faint trail of incense. Everything familiar. Comfortable. Like home, but not yours — his. Still, your shoes came off by the door like instinct. Zayn did the same. You slipped your coat off and hung it over the arm of the couch.

You caught him looking.

“What?”

His voice was soft. “You just looked so good tonight. And now you’re here like this… it’s just kind of messing with my head.”

You smiled and stepped closer. “You looked good tonight too. All serious and handsome and broody for the cameras.”

He rolled his eyes and took a step toward you too. “I was brooding.”

“And then you kissed my hand like we were in a black and white movie,” you teased, your voice light, but your heart beating just a little harder as he stepped even closer.

“I saw that guy whispering in your ear,” he admitted, voice low now.

Your lips twitched. “He was telling me he couldn’t believe how good my highlighter looked.”

Zayn grinned, eyes dropping to your cheeks. “He wasn’t wrong.”

You were standing inches apart now, in the soft light of his hallway. Neither of you moved. Not really. You just looked at each other for a long second. The buzz of the premiere still clung to you, but it was muted now, replaced by something far more real. Quiet. Intimate. Unspoken.

“You want to change?” he asked. “Get more comfortable?”

You nodded slowly, eyes not leaving his. “Can I steal one of your shirts?”

Zayn’s smile deepened, like it was something private he didn’t want to show the world — only you. “You don’t have to ask.”

You made your way to his room, and he followed. In his closet, he pulled out a t-shirt — worn, soft, smelling like him — and handed it to you without a word. You changed in the bathroom, carefully folding your dress and setting it on the counter. When you came back out, barefoot in just his shirt, the sleeves grazing your fingers, he looked at you like he might forget how to breathe for a second.

“Better?” you asked.

“Dangerously better,” he murmured.

You walked past him, pretending not to hear the way his voice had dropped, and made your way to the kitchen. He followed again, this time slower, his eyes lingering on your back. You opened the fridge. “Do we have tea? Or are we doing the rebellious, post-premiere glass of wine?”

“I have wine,” he said, stepping around you. “But I also have those sleepytime tea bags you like.”

You smiled. “You remember.”

“Of course I do.”

He put the kettle on while you sat on the counter, your legs swinging slightly. You watched him move — slow, familiar, so domestic in a way that was dizzying when paired with the memory of him on the red carpet just hours earlier, dressed in all black, jaw clenched, hand around your waist like it belonged there.

“You were jealous tonight,” you said after a beat.

He didn’t turn. “Was I?”

You bit back a smile. “You kissed my hand like you were challenging someone.”

He finally glanced back at you, his voice softer now. “I don’t like sharing your light with people who don’t know how to treat it.”

Your chest tightened, and for a second, you didn’t know what to say.

Zayn stepped toward you, his hands slipping into the space on either side of your legs as he leaned against the counter. He was close again. Close enough that you could smell the remnants of his cologne and something earthy — the fabric of his hoodie from earlier, maybe, or the warmth of his skin.

“I don’t know what this is becoming,” he said, voice lower now, more uncertain. “But I know I’m not ready to let go of it. Of you.”

You looked at him, really looked — at the tired around his eyes, the vulnerability sitting on his lips. Then you reached up, slowly, and cupped his jaw, your thumb brushing just beneath his cheekbone.

“You don’t have to let go,” you whispered. “You don’t even have to figure it out tonight. Just… stay close.”

He leaned into your hand. “I can do that.”

You shared tea on the couch after that, your legs tucked under you and his arm slung over the back, fingertips playing with the edge of your sleeve like he didn’t even realize he was doing it. The TV played something quiet neither of you really watched. Your head eventually rested on his shoulder. And after a while, he kissed the top of it — just once.

It was nearly 2 a.m. again, and the world outside Zayn’s house had gone completely quiet. No car sounds, no wind, not even the distant bark of a neighborhood dog. It felt like the world had fallen away, leaving only the two of you inside the softly lit studio — that familiar, sacred space that had grown to feel more like home than anywhere else lately.

The session hadn’t started with the intention of recording anything deep.

Zayn had texted you earlier: “Got something stuck in my head. Can’t sleep. You up?”

You were already halfway through brushing your teeth when your phone buzzed, and by the time you’d slipped into sweatpants and thrown on a hoodie, you were already at his door, your hair still slightly damp from a shower. He looked like he hadn’t even attempted sleep — messy curls pulled back in a bun, long sleeves half-pushed up, and a mug of tea in his hand that had clearly gone cold.

Now, almost an hour into the session, the lights were low again — not for the aesthetic, but because neither of you had the energy for brightness. Only the small amber bulb in the corner glowed, casting long shadows on the walls and a warm sheen on the keys of the piano.

Zayn was sitting on the bench, legs spread slightly, barefoot, his phone on the floor beside him. You were right beside him — too close for just friends, if anyone had walked in. Your thighs brushed. Your knees leaned in together as you shared the piano.

He was playing something slow. Something soft, unresolved, delicate. You rested your chin lightly on your hand, elbow on the piano as you watched his fingers move.

“You keep writing about someone,” you said quietly, voice barely above the music. “Is it always me?”

His hands faltered just slightly on the keys, then kept going.

“Most of the time,” he admitted, not looking at you. “Even when I’m trying not to.”

You turned your eyes down to the keys.

Zayn leaned back just a little, shoulder brushing yours. “Is that… weird?” he asked, softer now, like he was scared you’d pull away.

“No,” you said. “It makes me feel something I don’t think I know how to explain.”

He tilted his head, finally meeting your eyes. “Try me.”

You sighed. “It’s like… it’s like being seen and undressed at the same time. Like I didn’t know someone was watching me love them quietly until I heard you sing it.”

Zayn didn’t respond at first. His hands had gone still on the keys, and his jaw shifted a little, like he was holding something back. Then, slowly, he reached forward and played a single, long chord — one hand resting gently across the low keys. The kind of chord that hangs heavy in the air, then dissolves, leaving only silence.

Then he said, “Can I show you something?”

You nodded.

He stood, walked over to the soundboard, and pulled up an unfinished track you hadn’t heard yet. He motioned for you to sit near the booth mic. You obeyed, sliding into the chair inside the small glass room. He adjusted the headphones on your ears himself, letting his fingers brush against your jaw when he tilted them into place.

When the track started, you were stunned.

It was soft — a minimal, heartbeat-like beat under warm, layered strings. His voice came in first, fragile and almost raspy, like he’d been holding back tears when he recorded it:

“You’ve seen every part of me, Every shade, every fracture. But you never once looked away. You never asked for less…”

Then, almost immediately after, your own voice — sampled from old takes, harmonizing behind his like a ghost, like a memory.

Your lips parted slightly.

You looked up, and he was already watching you through the glass.

He pressed a button, his voice coming into your headphones.

“I made this the night after the premiere. I couldn’t sleep.”

“Zayn…” you whispered.

“I keep trying to say it in conversation, but I get scared you’ll leave if I make it too real.”

His hand found yours, gently covering it. His forehead grazed yours first, like a question.

And you answered it by closing the last inch yourself.

His lips met yours, slow and warm, like something that had been waiting to happen for years. There was no urgency, no rush — just the quiet realization of something that had always been there. You kissed him like he was a secret you’d known forever, and he kissed you like you were the chorus he never wanted to end.

When you pulled apart — barely — your hands stayed locked together, your noses brushing. And then you leaned in again — not just for another kiss, but because you were finally falling into the thing you’d both written into your lives for so long.

You’d helped Zayn tuck Khai in, both of you brushing her hair away from her eyes, laughing quietly at the way she’d insisted on wearing her sparkly skirt to bed. She was asleep in minutes, one hand still clinging to her pink ukulele like a shield.

Now, the hallway lights were dim. The moonlight poured through the windows in slivers, streaking silver across the wooden floor. The breeze had cooled just enough to be felt on your bare arms as you padded back downstairs in socks, one of Zayn’s long-sleeved shirts now draped over your frame. The same gray one from earlier — still loose, still warm, still him.

You heard the soft clink of glass as you reached the bottom of the stairs. In the kitchen, Zayn was rinsing two glasses under low light, the warm glow of the under-cabinet bulbs catching the angles of his jaw and casting long shadows down his neck. His sleeves were pushed up, tattoos like ink bleeding through candlelight.

He looked over his shoulder when he heard you. And smiled.

“There you are,” he said quietly.

“I didn’t want to leave her room yet,” you murmured, stepping barefoot onto the tile. “She was holding my hand in her sleep.”

His eyes softened, and you watched something flicker across his face — affection, admiration, maybe even awe. He handed you one of the glasses, something fizzy and citrusy, the ice clinking softly. His fingers lingered against yours as you took it.

“She adores you.”

You smiled gently. “I adore her.”

He leaned against the counter, one hand wrapped around his glass, the other tucked into the pocket of his joggers. His eyes traced over your face, resting on your mouth longer than they should’ve. Neither of you moved.

“What?” you asked softly, almost breathless from nothing but the weight of his gaze.

“You look like you belong here,” he said, voice like velvet, low and too sincere.

You blinked, caught off guard.

“Like this house missed you when you’re not in it,” he added. “Like… I do.”

Your throat tightened.

You walked toward him slowly, the glass still in your hand, unsure if you were moving because you wanted to or because something stronger than you needed to close the distance.

“You’re saying dangerous things, Malik.”

He didn’t smile this time. He just set his drink down and straightened slightly, closing the distance between your bodies, not quite touching, but so close you could feel his breath.

“I mean every word,” he whispered.

Your chest rose, your breath shallow. You set your glass beside his. The tile felt cool beneath your feet, but your skin was hot — your entire body hyper-aware of how close he was.

“Zayn…”

“Don’t say my name like that,” he murmured, his hand finally brushing your hip.

“Like what?”

“Like you don’t know what it does to me.”

You swallowed, trying to smile, but your lips parted instead, your eyes searching his face for something solid to grab onto — and finding nothing but that same depth, that same gentle pull you’d been falling into for weeks now. Maybe longer.

“I’m scared,” you whispered honestly.

He stepped closer, his hand resting flat against the small of your back now. “Of what?”

“That this doesn’t stop. That I won’t be able to leave.”

His hand tightened slightly.

“Good,” he said, barely audible.

“Zayn…”

His name again — this time not soft. This time you gasped it because his mouth was finally on yours.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t urgent.

It was the kind of kiss you give someone when you’ve wanted it for too long — slow, steady, overwhelming. His lips moved gently against yours, like he was still unsure if you’d change your mind, like he was tasting the truth of it before it could disappear. His hands slid up your sides, pulling you in, your chest flush to his now, and when you melted into him — because you did — you felt his exhale shake.

You pulled back barely an inch, noses brushing, hearts racing.

It was late afternoon by the time the golden hour rolled into Zayn’s countryside home, bathing everything in honey-colored light. The house felt like a warm cocoon, quiet except for Khai’s giggles floating faintly from upstairs, where she was playing music and dancing in her room. Zayn had just checked on her—she was in princess pajamas, spinning in circles, making up choreography to a song from Encanto, absolutely in her own world.

Downstairs, you sat curled up on the L-shaped sofa in the open living space, barefoot, legs tucked beneath you, a half-read poetry book resting on your stomach. The big windows were open wide, and the scent of grass, lemon trees, and sun-heated wood floated in. The breeze fluttered the edge of the gauzy curtains. Outside, the last light filtered through the fields behind the house, and inside, it caught in the gold specks of dust suspended in the air.

You glanced up when you heard him descend the stairs slowly, barefoot, a little flushed from running around with Khai.

“She’s in her own concert up there,” he said, his voice low and warm as he made his way toward you.

You smiled. “She’s got better moves than I ever will.”

Zayn grinned, walking past the couch to the open kitchen area, grabbing a glass of water. You watched the way his tattoos caught the light on his forearm, the casual way his oversized grey t-shirt slid off one shoulder, hanging loosely off his frame. He leaned against the counter and looked at you, soft and unreadable.

“You’re always looking at me like that,” you murmured.

“Like what?”

“Like you know something I don’t.”

Zayn’s gaze didn’t move from yours. “Maybe I do.”

You tilted your head. “Yeah?”

He walked slowly back toward the couch, glass still in hand. “Yeah. I’ve known it for a while now.”

Zayn sat beside you, but close this time—close in that way that made your heart thunder a little in your chest. His arm brushed against your knee, and he set the glass down on the coffee table without breaking eye contact. You felt the way the air shifted between you. It wasn’t just the heat outside.

“You ever get the feeling,” he said quietly, “that something’s been happening for a long time, and maybe you were both pretending it wasn’t?”

You swallowed, the softness of his voice curling around your chest like silk. “Yeah… I know that feeling.”

There was a long pause. The kind of pause that speaks louder than words. The room held its breath with you.

Zayn reached forward slowly, gently pushing a strand of your hair behind your ear. His fingers lingered at your jaw.

“I don’t wanna pretend anymore,” he said. His voice was lower now, like he was afraid to break the spell. “Not when you’re sitting here, looking like that, in my house, in my life, every day, and I keep stopping myself from…”

Your breath hitched. “From what?”

He smiled faintly. “From touching you like this.”

His hand cupped your cheek then, so careful, so tender, and the pad of his thumb swept along your skin as he leaned in. Your eyes fluttered shut just before his lips brushed yours—not rushed, not hesitant, just warm, deep, and unguarded. His mouth moved with a kind of reverence, a soft hunger, like he was savoring something he’d imagined a thousand times but never dared to take.

You shifted toward him, your hand on his chest, his heart hammering beneath it.

The kiss deepened, slow but intense. His hands slid along your waist, pulling you gently into his lap, your knees bracketing his hips. The hem of your soft loungewear shirt rose slightly as your bodies pressed together.

“You okay?” he whispered against your lips, his hand splayed along your back, grounding you.

You nodded, already breathless. “Yeah… I just didn’t think you’d ever actually do something like this.”

Zayn exhaled a quiet laugh, resting his forehead against yours. “I didn’t think I had the right to.”

“But you do,” you whispered, tracing his jaw with your fingers. “You always have.”

He kissed you again, harder this time, more certain. There was something unspoken between you, something that had been growing for years but had only just now bloomed fully in the golden light of his living room. You both moved in sync—his hands exploring, yours tangled in his neck, your hips slowly shifting against his lap, heat and want tangled with every breath.

Still, it never felt rushed. It never felt anything less than meaningful.

Zayn pulled back slightly, catching your face in his hands again. His eyes searched yours, open, vulnerable.

“I’m in love with you,” he said, quietly, like a truth that had lived inside him for years.

You didn’t hesitate.

“I love you too.”

From upstairs, faint music played on, a child’s voice singing. And in that moment, surrounded by warmth, sunlight, and the deepest, rawest affection you’d ever known, you felt like you were exactly where you were meant to be.

You hadn’t meant for it to happen like this. Not tonight. But maybe that’s exactly why it did — because there was no performance, no expectation, no carefully crafted script. Just you in his hoodie, your bare legs tucked under you, the wine half-forgotten on the coffee table, and Zayn sitting so close that his warmth soaked into your skin.

The kiss had already happened. And the second. And now you were breathing him in with a hunger that surprised even you, clinging to his shirt as your back met the couch cushions again.

Zayn kissed you like he needed to, like it had been sitting under his skin for years. There was no hesitation in him now. Just quiet confidence, a gentle hunger. His body pressed against yours — not too heavy, not too fast. He still kissed you like he was trying to memorize it. Trying to figure out if this was real.

Khai was spending the weekend with her grandmother, and the house, usually pulsing with her little footsteps and laughter, felt oddly still — but not empty.

You and Zayn had cooked together earlier. Nothing fancy — just some pasta, a bottle of wine, and a playlist of old R&B songs playing low in the background. You wore one of his hoodies, oversized and soft, the sleeves falling over your hands, and Zayn hadn’t taken his eyes off you all night. Not really. He was subtle, careful — but you felt it. That gaze. That heat. Something unspoken had been stirring between the two of you for a while now, and tonight… it hummed louder.

The windows were wide open, letting in the warm air of late spring. The kitchen lights were off, just the warm lamp in the living room casting amber light across the hardwood floor.

You tilted your head back and let out a soft sound when his mouth traveled to your neck, slow and reverent, like he had all night and no intention of rushing it.

“Zayn…” you whispered, your fingers curling into the hem of his t-shirt. “Tell me this isn’t a dream.”

He laughed quietly, lips brushing just beneath your jaw. “It’s real. And if it’s not, I don’t ever want to wake up.”

You felt him smile against your skin as his hand slid beneath the hoodie again, resting over your ribs — the warmth of his palm grounding, protective. Your body reacted instantly, arching into him. The fabric was thin between you. Too thin. Not enough.

“Can I?” he asked softly, his voice rasped, eyes flicking down to your thighs — the hoodie bunched just above them now, your breath shallow and lips kiss-swollen.

You nodded, heart pounding. “Please.”

That single word undid him.

Zayn kissed you again, slower, deeper, and this time his hands moved with more certainty, sliding the hoodie over your head and tossing it somewhere behind the couch. You were bare beneath it — no bra, nothing but soft skin and want — and he stared at you like he’d never seen anything more perfect.

“Fuck,” he whispered, like it physically hurt to hold back. “You’re driving me insane.”

You reached for his shirt and pulled it over his head, and the moment your hands touched his skin — warm and sculpted and already familiar from all those platonic touches that suddenly weren’t — you sighed, like it was exactly where you were meant to be.

He kissed you again, one hand slipping behind your neck to tilt your head up to him, and the other tracing the edge of your waist, just above your underwear. His touch was maddening — slow, teasing, hot — and every time he moved closer, it still didn’t feel like close enough.

“Do you know how long I’ve wanted you like this?” he murmured, mouth against your collarbone. “The way you look at me… how you always sit too close... how you know me better than anyone.”

You could barely breathe, barely think. “Then show me.”

That was it.

He stood, lifted you with such ease it made you gasp and laugh all at once, and carried you upstairs — your arms around his shoulders, legs around his waist, his mouth never leaving yours. You didn’t know which room he brought you into — his or the guest one — but the bed was soft, and the windows were still cracked open, and the breeze made the curtains flutter like you were inside a movie.

Zayn laid you down with such care it made your chest ache. His body followed yours, his hips slotting between your legs as he leaned over you, his hands framing your face like you were something sacred.

“I’m not just your friend anymore,” he whispered. “I can’t be.”

You reached up and pulled him down to kiss you, breathless and needy and full of that silent finally that had lived in your chest for far too long.

He made love to you like he’d been waiting years — like this wasn’t just a night, but a shift in your entire story. His hands roamed your body with reverence. His mouth whispered your name like a vow. There was laughter too, in between the panting and the kissing — because it was Zayn, and it was you, and somehow it felt like the most natural thing in the world to kiss him breathless one moment and giggle when he muttered something about you being “unfairly hot” the next.

But then it shifted again — deeper. He slowed down. His fingers threaded through yours, pinning your hand beside your head as he moved inside you, and suddenly it wasn’t just physical.

You stared at him, eyes glassy, heart too full.

He leaned down and kissed your lips, soft as a secret. “You okay?” he asked, brushing your hair back.

You nodded, overwhelmed in the best way. “Better than okay.”

When it was over, he didn’t let go of you. You stayed tangled, skin warm and damp, his arm tight around your waist, his lips moving lazily against your shoulder.

“You ruined me,” you murmured.

He smiled, eyes fluttering shut. “We just started”.

zaynmalik and yourusername

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[what-even-is-thiss]

“Cats don’t actually love you”

A cat is a small creature in the middle of the food chain that is fully aware that you are a very large thing that could stomp its head in at any moment and yet it chooses to rest its tiny little head on your leg for a nap and spreads out on the floor near you exposing its belly and its most sensitive organs. It brings dead mice and bugs to you to share food.

Don’t you get it? This tiny thing trusts you. It wants to help you too. It licks your leg thinking that it’s helping. It kneads on you to find comfort. It shares its body warmth with you in the cold and gives you your space in the heat. It hisses at other mammals it sees outside including other cats in an effort to protect its family.

Cats love you so so much. But they will keep trying to eat plastic.

[gr-ogu]

CHRISTIAN BALE as BRUCE WAYNE THE DARK KNIGHT (2008) dir. Christopher Nolan

[cassandrva]

i've been thinking about hobie spiderverse since i came out of the movie theater, about how on a superficial level he acts like every other stereotypically alt character, stealing and instigating and bantering and being chaotic and rebellious and looking Cool™ but on a second look it's so so clear that every single thing he does is motivated by kindness and compassion towards his friends in general and miles in particular, and that's so viscerally truly punk of him

the already famous palm suggestion that makes miles break out of miguel's containment thing. miles initially reads this as condescending but hobie's genuinely trying to help

already he's looking out for miles by trying to keep him away from hq, a place where he knows miles isn't welcome and might be in danger

now, they get to hq and he immediately starts lifting stuff to homebrew a watch for miles, a guy he's known for five minutes (bc you can't convince me he didn't already have a bunch prepped for gwen and the other spider-people he trusts). he even lampshades it with the line above.

he's questioned miles' motives to join the spider society and he knows they're the same as his own: it's literally just to get a watch, to have a means to travel dimentions, to see his friends, to build community. he's already made the decision to grant that ability to miles without subjugating him to the oppressive restrictions and requirements of the spider society. at this point we know he's strongly ideologically opposed to the society and he later in this scene admits he's only there to look out for gwen, just like miles

this one makes me insane. it's a "are you safe at home in your dimension? do you have one? do you need a place to stay?" bc we know he's given one to gwen, who's not safe and does not have nice parents and has been crashing in hobie's dimension for the previous months

and then he tries again to warn miles off the spider society

and when push comes to shove and all the other spider-people are set on stopping miles from going home and changing his timeline he's the only one in miles' corner

btw notice how the palms thing is the first and last thing he says to miles in this film?

anyway. he was in this movie for like 15 minutes tops, showed up exclusively to hype up his friends and protect them by whatever means necessary, adoption papers and illegal interdimensional tech included, and he looked that cool the whole time while doing it. most character ever.

[public-trans-it-deactivated2024]

I also want to note that the exact moment that Hobie went from "Oh sure I'll help this guy" to "This is someone that I will finally blow this place up for" is when Miles saves the police commissioner and disrupts a canon event. Miles doesn't know what will happen, but he DOES know that someone he trusts (Gwen) tried to stop him from saving someone, and rather than listening, his immediate reaction was "No, someone needs saving, I'm going to save them, I don't care what it costs me."

After that, Hobie goes from just friendly banter and helpfulness to being on Miles like glue and hyping him up at every possible moment.

He saw Miles in action for a whole five minutes, and immediately goes "This is what it's about. THIS kid understands what it means to be a hero fighting an oppressive system. He IS willing to make sacrifices, but refuses to sit back and be told he HAS to make sacrifices. THIS is what Spider-man should be."

Hobie has a line about the Quantum Mold, saying "It's a metaphor for capitalism" that is clearly meant to be a joke. But, as you pointed out, all his stuff that is 'meant to be a joke' is still actually genuinely sincere. And he is RIGHT, actually. It kinda IS a metaphor for capitalism. The Spider Society has basically gone "These are people that have to die for the greater good. In order to keep the system working. If we don't stand back and just let them die, the whole system falls apart." and when that happens, it takes the form of the Quantum Mold. That uh.... that very much IS (or at least can be read quite easily as) a metaphor for Capitalism.

I have no doubt that Hobie is sitting there thinking "If we can contain this stuff, why are we still just letting people die?", and he sees in Miles someone asking the same question, and willing to fuck around and find out because saving the life of even a single person is far more important than maintaining a system that allows them to die.

[orangei-sindy]

I'm back with another crack meme, let's see how well this one does

If it does as well as my New Yorker Post then I'll make a navigation list for the memes :D

Bonus:

[m0ssc0bbler]

trans gwen is so canon like u cant tell me that her having the trans flag colors around her while shes TALKING ABOUT HAVING TO HIDE HER IDENTITY wasnt intentional. “oh but its just the colors of her suit” okay ?? that doesn’t mean it can’t imply multiple things.

her dad also has a trans flag on his jacket

like, i highly doubt a cis parent with a cis child would have this on their police uniform

and ofc the protect trans kids sign above her door. not to mention the narrative parallels between hiding ur identity as spiderman and as a trans person. trans gwen is real to me !!

[suncrat]

Adventures in babysitting: a saga

One hour in:

Two hours in:

Three hours in:

Four hours in:

Five hours in:

Six hours in:

Seven hours in:

Bonus:

[fromjannah]

my beyond the spiderverse predictions ☝️ (find my other spiderverse shit here)

[moonlesslights]

Two Idiots in Love

Miguel O'Hara x Reader

Warnings: Sex, P in V, choking, breeding kink, innuendos, Miguel it's fucking hard to talk to.

A/N: Hope you enjoy this, I haven't sleep well for three days trying to get it done, but it's finally here. Love y'all xoxox

━━━━━━✧❂✧━━━━━━

Ok, but what about you becoming an Spider just about a year ago?

You are managing just fine.

Things got nasty for a while, that’s true. Your uncle died, your new responsibilities caught up on you, you almost die fighting some bad guys on your first months… And now you just try to eat three times a day (sometimes it doesn’t happen), pray to get more than six hours of sleep and do good in college.

But then, out of fucking nowhere, just when you were making peace with what your life was now and who you are, your identity, your place in this big ass world where you were completely alone to bear this double life… This giant prick with sullen face and cheeks the size of the moon comes into your life to tell you you’re not alone, everyone here has experienced the same or worse, stop being so dramatic.

So, in a second, your protagonist moment turns to you finding out there were thousands like you out there. And your whole life goes upside down.

Because now you don’t have to protect and look out only for your Earth, your city; but everyone else’s too. You have to travel to the most craziest worlds you could’ve ever imagine and fight horrible creatures you couldn’t even conceive its existence. And to make things even worst, Mr. Wide Hindquarters took an special hold of you to help him out with anything he would be ‘to busy’ to do. Like inform new recruits about their missions, filling out reports, doing research either respecting to what he occupied in the laboratory or to some universe yet to be explored… Whatever he needed, you would be called in to do it.

Some Spiders told you you were lucky, not many could work that close to Miguel, let alone being in charge of so many things without screwing something up and getting ‘their head ripped’. Even Lyla tells you that you’re something special, specially on the hard days, that’s why Miguel trusts you so much. After that you would just smile tiredly at her, whispering it was okay. Then Lyla would go face Miguel and demand him with a raised eyebrow to give you a break.

You manage for a few months, surrendering yourself to this strange routine. And your even more strange companion.

Every day you walk in to his space, every day he is already there. You turn a personal mission to arrive before he does. You never make it. The man apparently didn’t sleep and you aren’t waking the fuck up at 3:00am to prove a point or find out. So you let it be as another mystery to be solved.

“Good morning.” You wave your hand at him, making your presence known with that. Sometimes between a yawn, sometimes still cleaning the sleepiness off of your eyes.

“Good morning…” He always adds your last name to his greetings. It makes you feel like you are being scolded. Most of the time he is at the tables, working through the screens; if he’s not there, he’s at the lab, measuring substances with the help of crystal clear instruments.

Without looking at you, he points with his chin to the steaming coffee under the express machine. Through the weeks he has learned exactly how you like it. The first ones he made you were exactly like his: Awful. That couldn’t be drinkable. But you thought it was nice of him to always have hot coffee for you, so you didn’t say anything. But the faces you made at every sip were worth a thousand words.

Now, as you drink today’s, you cannot avoid thinking how cute that big stoic man must look every morning pouring the exact amount of sugar and cream you like into the cup. Moving the liquid with a tiny spoon until is all mixed.

He doesn’t talk much.

No more than orders and “Go home” followed by a “Good night”. You let him be for the first weeks. Not your business. But after the first month you knew you would go crazy if you continued this way of living.

You needed to talk to him. You needed to make things less awkward. He was your only human contact sometimes for entire days, and you cannot stand the fact of barely talking to him.

You don’t have idea how does the term “coworkers” serves on his Earth, but in yours, Human Relationships are encouraged to happen for the sake of teamwork.

With that very idea well tangled on your mind, one of those long days, you take a deep breath, imagine him naked (which isn’t difficult to be honest), stare deep into the space and say:

“Sohowhaveyoubeen?” Squeaking as fast as you can.

Miguel stops whatever the hell he is doing and turns his head to the right, side eyeing you with a raised eyebrow. You don’t even look at him, continuing to fill the document in front of you with the most unstable smile he could have seen in his entire life. Then, he turns around again, coming back to typing into one of the screens. You almost think he has completely ignored you until he answers in another fast and neutral line:

“I’m good.”

You give him an acknowledging nod, smiling softly and returning to your duties.

You had never wished so much to be victim of a lost bullet. Like right now. Like right fucking now. Please.

For one more week you took another personal mission: making a question a day.

“How was your day?”, “Did you have breakfast?”, “How was yesterday’s mission?”… It would be a good day if you got more than a monosyllable for answer. It was embarrassing, really. And Lyla looking at you with a grimace made it ten times worst.

After that, you just came in the eighth day and remained silent, focused in finishing all your work as soon as possible rather than trying to make your prick boss to talk to you. You felt bad, actually. Maybe he just doesn't like to talk, maybe you were making him uncomfortable, maybe... Maybe he's just an arse. Yeah, that is probably the right...

"Hm? Uh, what... What is this?" You look up from your tablet, facing the broad of his back walking to the desk at the other side of the room. You raise an eyebrow at the small cardboard box in front of you, the one that Miguel just left there.

"Food." He says as answering the very question to the origin of the universe.

"For me?" You tilt your head and he looks at you like you were stupid. You frown. How were you supposed to know that, when he barely even looks at you?!

"I did too much." He explains. "... So I brought you some. You can throw it away if you don't want it."

You look down at the box again, watching it as the weirdest of things, and cannot help the little smile that creeps up to your lips. You knew Miguel didn't eat at the HQ cafeteria, since he owns an apartment close from here, so this was completely homemade. Hm, you never thought he was into cooking.

"Why can't I give it to someone else if I don't like it?" You respond with an easy smile, almost teasing him.

"Throw it." He sentences without even looking back at you.

You side eye Lyla at your left, who winks at you. This is a whole ass victory. And you and the little hologram girl knew internally Miguel did not like the day you decided to stop trying to talk to him.

"Thank you." You finally murmur. "I really appreciate it."

"It's just leftovers..."

You nod, pursing your lips and… Still smiling. Fuck it. It was obvious he was going to dismiss it with something like that.

None of you says anything else for the rest of the day, but you make the choice to keep trying on the small talk every day and Miguel, apparently, started to mess up the amount of ingredients for his meals and brings leftovers almost daily.

You continue with this new routine for another couple of weeks.

With the time passing, you gain more and more confidence to talk to the big guy. Most of the times he doesn’t engage in the conversation, it is just you saying your thoughts out loud and telling him everything about your life at college, 'till the point he has a personal beef with some of your classmates. I mean, he doesn’t say it but he surely grunts under his breath every time you mention their name.

Gwen did asked you at some point if he really listened to you or if he just... Left you. You wondered the same for exactly... two hours.

"... And I handed him my essay, right? And he looks at me and says: 'So are you going to tell me who is helping you with these or am I going to find out myself?' So I obviously told him nobody was helping me, I just like doing them. And he freaking threatened me saying that if he founds out he's going to fail me. Like... He doesn't even listens. Agh, he hates me..."

"Is the same one who got angry because you were late to his lecture about himself and his recently published book?" That was a week ago. And he remembered.

You nod, sighing. Miguel clicks his tongue, shaking his head with disapproval.

He might not be talkative (at least for now) but he listens to you. You have no doubt left about that. He may not say a single word while you drop a hundred for minute, but he would come the next day asking "How was the test?" or would know you have classes with that professor and add to his daily good night a soft "Good luck tomorrow." You even start catching him lifting the left corner of his lips when you drop a bad joke about all the things you need to get done by the end of the day or about something you heard on your way there.

You noticed it when certain Spider came in to a meeting, a Spider two days ago you and Miguel had gossiped about because you were told something by your friends on Wednesday, Miguel heard some more on Thursday and with a final comment you put the pieces together on Friday, looking at him with a wide proud open mouth as he shook his head with a soft chuckle. Talking to the Spider in question Miguel would turn to you with the most neutral and blank expression and you would still fight to hide your smile at the memory of everything you found out during the week. No one ever noticed and you liked it. Miguel liked it. It was like a private joke only the two of you could share.

"But what would happen?" This was the part Miguel didn't like. "Like, how would you know I would fuck up something?"

"You cannot give Noir a kaleidoscope." He sentences, giving you another raised eyebrow.

You were in the middle of the daily session of Instructive and Informative questions, according to Lyla and you. Miguel prefers to call them Destructive and Irritating.

After today's mission you had taken a particular soft spot fo the black and white Spider, to the misfortune of your boss. So the whole session has been about the long shot of taking special gifts from your dimension to him.

"But why? Really, what's the worst that could happen if I just give him a tiny little kaleidoscope?"

"Ay, Dios, dame paciencia... You already gave him a rainbow slinky spring toy, why do you keep insisting on gifting him more stuff?"

He fix his gaze on you as you lower your eyes down to your lap, fidgeting with your fingers. "... He just looks happy when he sees color."

Miguel sighs, pressing the bridge of his nose between his thumb and index finger.

"I know, but every one of us needs to respect the natural order of our Earth. He shouldn't keep taking things with him that shouldn't be there, do you understand?"

"But..."

"No more 'but's'. I want those reports done by the end of the day." Miguel returns his eyes back to the screen in front of him, dismissing you just with that action. "Get to work instead of keep losing our time with this."

He hates the way you comply to his orders. Hates the way you leave the space beside him empty to go working at the other side of the room, where he can only see your back. He hates when you refuse him to see your face.

The human part in him hates the questioning sessions because they always end up with your heart too big for your own good, crushed a little bit more. The human part in him is what brings him closer to you after a few minutes, talking you through some trivial topics until he can convince you it is all not as bad a it seems, until you smile again when you insist it's okay, that you just needed a minute, that you understand. And he might o might not tell you can give Noir that fucking kaleidoscope if you want it so much.

But some deep and primal part in him whispers into his veins to walk up to you, take you by your jaw, forcing you to look up at him and order you you better not refuse your face to him one more single time again. That if he wishes to see your eyes, the curve of your nose or your lips, you better fucking show them to him... Every day. Every. Time. He. Wants. To.

He gets frustrated when he catches himself in the middle of those thoughts, of the drives. He has been able to control it magnificently 'till now. But he fears the day he won't.

For another while you enjoyed the 'leftovers' brought to you too. But it also came to happen the one day, they stopped being leftovers:

You yawn as you make your way to the exit of the lab, making sure your alarm for tomorrow is correctly scheduled, you can not afford another harsh look from your professors one more time. The building has fallen silent already; most of its ordinary inhabitants have already retired to their rooms or to their home worlds.

Miguel walks up to you from behind, watching you standing at the door. Neither of them managed to see even a ray of sun today. He didn't care, he had something much better to watch all day… But he can't help but sigh at the thought of taking it from you.

"Italian or Mexican?" You turn to look at him, barely catching what he said. Both of your brows furrow and he glares at you while adjusting the neck of his jacket on. "For tomorrow's lunch. You want me to bring Italian or Mexican?"

"Oh, uhm..." You widen your eyes, surprised by the consideration. Pursing your lips and squinting, you think about it for a second, but the only possible answer comes immediately after: "Mexican."

"Hm." He nods, fixing his eyes to the front again.

Both start walking now towards the exit of the building. You know you can open your portal to go back home now, but you refuse to do so. Miguel knows there's an exit on the other side of the lab that leads him to a closer path to his apartment, but he refuses to take it. Because you always take this one.

"It's getting chilly." You whisper, watching the first snowflakes of the season falling on the other side of the big windows in the lobby. Miguel hums in response. "I like it, though. The first month working with you I had to carry a fan with me everywhere. I am so sorry for the cost of the electricity bill back then."

Miguel tugs at one corner of his lips, but only that. You tilt your head, glaring at him for a second before you take two fast steps to put yourself in front of him. The poor man has to stick his feet to the floor to avoid knocking over you.

He frowns, confused, and you look up at him with those same eyes filled with determination you put on when you look at the cookies he always -purposely- leaves on top of the highest cupboard in his office. He could only describe it as the face of a master plan, because you would always come back with ideas to get them down without asking him for help. And he loved to play guess with what you would do this time.

"Smile for me." You ask as you were some kind of cameraman, and he was confused before he's into a new level now.

"What?"

"Y'know..." You bring both of your index fingers to the opposite sides of your face and part your own lips into a simple smile, like showing him what he was supposed to do.

"I know what smiling is." He frowns. "Why do you want me to do it?"

You shrug. "I just... I would be really happy to see it."

Miguel's expression remains unfazed, but he prays to every God out there you can't listen how hard his heart jumped inside his chest when your words reached him.

He swallows. His eyes fix on you and he brings both of the corners of his mouth up, exposing bright teeth and two big fangs that brush on his lower lip in the most precious awkward smile you could have ever seen. His brows are drawn together and he looks like he's in pain, and you know that even if a fucking meteor crashed down in the city right now, you still wouldn't be able to look away.

You clear your throat and lament how his smile is gone as soon as it came. You brush your hand at the back at your neck, nervous, fucking ashamed of your imprudence. Miguel raises an eyebrow at your reaction.

"Thank you. That was nice of you." You smile, avoiding his eyes and solely focusing on the snow awaiting for you. "I'm sorry if it was unpleasant for you. I didn't mean..."

Your words get caught up in your throat when you suddenly feel the texture of fabric coming around your neck. You turn back to look at the front again only to find Miguel tugging his scarf on you, with his fingers making sure it hugged every part of your skin your sweater couldn't.

"Miguel, no. It's even colder here than on my Earth. You need this more than I do." You frown with a worried expression washing over your features.

"You'll come back tomorrow pretty early. And it's going to be cold." You could try and argue about you having your own scarfs to bring tomorrow with you, but his eyes tell you he is not asking.

"... Thank you."

Miguel laments the moment your turn around, laments the moment you don't look at him anymore. He is sure the smile from a minute ago hadn't been anywhere near one of his best, and yet your eyes shone with the light of all the moons he's seen in all of the Earths he has visited.

And as you do a little wave when you start walking away before entering your portal, Miguel waves back, slowly and with only two unsure swings of his wrist. It was enough to make you smile anyway. It was enough to keep him standing there even after you were long gone wondering what the hell he was doing.

When Miguel began to bring food made specially to share, you began to bring desserts from your Earth for him to try.

You both started having lunch together after you told him how tired you were of eating while standing. Don't get me wrong, when you first told him he 'offered' you to go eat at the cafeteria if you wanted it so much. But when he dismisses you for the second time the next day with a 15 minute break to go find somewhere to sit, you, instead, sit down reluctantly at the very center of his work space, just a few meters behind him.

Miguel has to do a fucking double take to make sure he is seeing right before turning around at you calmly crossing your legs on the floor and unboxing today's meal with abrupt and resigned movements.

"Could you be so kind as to explain to me what you are doing?" He tilts his head with amusement when you take the first bite of your food.

"Eating."

"Sitting on the floor?" He raises an eyebrow.

"Sitting on the floor." You nod.

"Care to explain why?" He crosses his arms, pursing his lips when you refuse to raise your eyes at him.

"... Because of you." You murmur, taking another unnecessarily aggressive bite.

"Elaborate, please."

You keep on looking down, chewing the morsel in your mouth. Miguel awaits for you with well known experienced patience. By now, he recognizes when you are mad at him or the world, he sees how you fight to keep calm inside of all of this mess, that's why he always tries to encourage you to talk out the things that bother you, because he's there, he can listen; because he likes the way you smile after you let it all out.

And maybe...

"I don't care about eat sitting comfortably at the cafeteria. I want to eat with you. So if you want to stay here be my fucking guest. I'm staying here too."

Because you were the only one who could throw a tantrum at Miguel O'Hara without flinching.

You have earned that right. You didn't know when, because you insist you don't throw tantrums at him; you're a college student, basically an adult, you don't do tantrums. And still...

"Fine, spoiled girl..." He sighs, walking to get his own little box from the table and then coming to close the space between the two with a few long steps. He sits down right beside you, imitating the way you're crossing your legs. "If you want to eat on the floor, we can eat on the floor."

"I'm not spoiled." You hiss, giving him a deadly side eye that puts on a soft, almost unnoticeable grin on his face. Lyla had made fun of him a few days ago about him spoiling you, but instead of getting on his nerves he took a liking for the nickname. And now you suffer the consequences of it all. "And we wouldn't be eating on the floor if you decided to go to the cafeteria for once."

"... I hate talking to people."

You sigh, nodding. That's exactly why you never push him to do anything of that sort.

"I know." You turn to look at him out of the corner of your eye, noticing how he keeps his head low while eating. "Hey" You call for his attention, smiling. He blinks up to you, tilting his head. "It's okay." Your shoulder drops to his arm. "I like being here. I'm not stuck with you, you're stuck with me."

That makes his eyes catch a little bit more of light.

"Thank you." He whispers.

You stare at him for a second more and he fights to put all of the mess inside his head, his feelings, into his tongue... But he can't. You continue eating, and he knows you would never hold a grudge on him for it, and he's so thankful for that, for you being able to understand the way his actions speak when his words can't. But he still aches at the thought of never being able to tell you everything he wants.

The next morning you walk in to find out a new cleared space beside the screens with an elegant glass table and two chairs. It surely looked expensive, like everything he does and has, but for you, it's just the little corner where you can leave that particular cake from your Earth he seems to like so much, and then go to the laboratory to see the cake you seemed to like so much.

After two more weeks enjoying the day-to-day in the usual things in your life, you and Miguel got to a mission which revealed as the true calmness before the storm.

The anomaly you had fought was stronger than expected, more aggressive, more letal. Everyone had run lucky at least to times to escape from its claws, but you can still remember their closeness, the screams, the sirens at the distance. It all almost ends up with another canonic event altered.

"There's always a first time." Jessica had told you when you finally finished off the anomaly. She was worried about you, and you can't blame her. You haven't even registered how bad you were trembling until it was all over.

"Is there going to be a last time?" You replied, looking up at her with big eyes. And Miguel, only a few meters behind you, still trying to give some last orders to every Spider there, felt his heart breaking at the very sound of your words.

Nevertheless, thankfully, the universe remained perfectly fine and just a couple of hours later everyone was back home safely again. Most returned immediately to their Home Earths, but you, Miguel, Jessica, Lyla and a couple more had ten thousand things to do in the HQ before calling it a day.

"I thought I told you to go home an hour ago." Miguel points, coming from behind you.

You turn your head to look up at him and you can't not smile at the sight. The feeling of safeness that floods you when you see his huge figure entering any room hasn't wavered for a single second. He's still that solid ground you can always rest on when the world is to heavy to carry alone.

"I'm serious. What are you doing here?" He continues, grunting in pain when he drops his weight beside you. You turn to him, furrowing your brows in worry again. He had seen that expression in you so often today... And he hates it so much. "I'm okay. Just little scratches here and there."

You withdrawn your feet from the edge of the building where you had them hanging for an hour now and crawl your way to him, sitting down on your knees to try to be eye height with him.

Your right hand wanders to his bruised neck, there where the anomaly had left his horrible mark of the violence it brought within. You follow with your index the way the clotted blood draws on his skin, sending shivers down his spine.

"Does it hurt?" You ask.

"No." He responds in between goosebumps.

He loves the effect your touch has on him. He loves your little hands looking from him, tugging at his clothes to call for his attention, brushing against his when you pass him the tablet, documents, anything. He loves the busy days where he doesn't have time to eat, where he wouldn't eat if it wasn't for you sitting beside him as he works on the screens, you scrolling through your cellphone, taking little pieces of food with a spoon or a fork to bring them closer to his mouth so he could eat without even taking his eyes off the screen.

Ridiculous? Yeah. But he loved the intimacy within. The many forms your soft hands could soothe him.

But his? He hated them. He was scared of them. Their only use was to destruct, to tear flesh apart, not to...

"Show me." He asks, pointing with his chin at your left hand placed softly above your thigh.

"It's nothing."

"Let me see it." He insist and you carefully bring your arm up, placing your fingers against his when he holds out his hand for you. Your whole palm is bandaged, the work the doctor did on you was amazing, but he can still see dried blood on it.

He doesn't say anything when he finds your eyes on him, conflicted, hesitant. There is so much between both of you, so much unsaid, so much still to do. But he sees your doubt, he hates to be the cause of it. He wants to scream "Can't you see?! Can't you see how much you mean to me?! You're the only thing in my mind when I'm fighting, because I know I have to win, I have to get out alive to see you again. Eres lo único por lo que mi corazón llama!... Can't you not hear it?"

Instead, the tips of his fingers brush on your skin, his eyes reflecting every single light of the city below.

"Come." It's only a whisper that leaves his mouth, and you need nothing more to jump into his embrace with a desperate sigh, immediately cuddling yourself up on his lap, wrapping your arms around his neck, looking for his warm.

Hold.

He loves to hold you.

His hands serve to hold you.

To hold you against him, to protect you from anyone who wants to rip you away from his arms. To keep you warm, to keep you safe, to let you know you're home.

"Aquí estoy." He whispers.

"I know." You reply.

You breath into his scent for a couple of minutes more, until the screams and the sirens fell low to the sound of Miguel's chest going up and down in a soothing swing, his breathing, turning into the only thing you could listen to.

By the time you got your head out of his neck, he was already waiting for you with a soft smile, smile that puts your attention on the deep cut on his lower lip.

"What happened?" You ask, carefully pulling from his flesh to see the whole extension of the wound.

He sighs, closing his eyes with embarrassment. "I bit myself with the fang during the fight."

You smile, shaking your head. Your fingernail taps against the right fang in question, testing the edge by gently pressing the tip into your fingertip.

"I hate them." Miguel breaths out. His eyes are now so dim that struggle to say where are they looking in the middle of the night darkness.

"Why?" You whisper, taking your finger back at his lip.

"Because I fear of them. I fear they'll hurt you like they hurt me."

You purse your lips and then take his hand placed on your hip, looking back at him with raised eyebrows.

"Is the same with these?"

He nods.

"They are made to kill. I have done so many horrible things with, caused so much damage and pain, I..."

"Did you know I'm scared of heights?" His trail of words stop at your interruption. You smile, looking down from the edge, turning away form him just a little. "Ironic, for a Spider. But I still fight with it every single day. I always get so sticky when I'm on top of a building for too long it's embarrassing but..." You raise your hand in front of him, waving your fingers with a playful smile. "I'm not sticky now. And that it's because you're holding me." You cup his face. "Those things you're afraid of, are part of the person I love. And I wouldn't change a single thing."

"Mi cielo..."

"I knew what I was getting into when I decided to love you, Miguel, so don't get all soft now. I'm not going anywhere..." You whisper. "Make me bleed."

He would be lying if he said he haven't thought about it, that he haven't succumbed to his most animalistic urges when alone in the privacy of his room, pretending it was you around his cock and not his fist. He wanted to bite, he wanted to fill you. And he wanted to tear apart with his bare talons anyone and anything that got in his way.

A part of him might be scared to hurt you, yes.

But a bigger part of him was actually scared of what he would do to keep you safe. Of what he's capable of... to keep you his.

He feels sorry for you when you cuddle against his chest in your sleep as he stands up and starts walking back inside the building, covering you with his jacket to protect from the cold wind of the city for when he swings back to his apartment with you in his arms.

He feels sorry for the innocence in your love.

Like a beast, that's what he was. A beast who loved the softness in your touch, the kind in your words. But cannot return the same love. The beast is possessive, jealous of the very air that caresses your hair. And it may act vulnerable only to you, letting you get as close to slaughter him, but knowing you'll place a kiss instead. The beast would hold you as his own treasure, a creature that must not be hurt, not even for his own hands. He would cut them off before.

He would cut them off from anyone before they touch you. For no one should ever touch what he decided, that very morning you asked how he had been, would belong to him.

AND EVERYTHING WOULD HAVE CONTINUED ON GOING SO SMOOTHLY... BUT THE DAAAAAAAAMN FINALS, ah, made their entrance.

You barely have time to sleep, to eat, to fucking breathe. Your levels of anxiety are higher than the HQ damn building and your brain is so overworked you cannot do more than what you're asked to in autopilot. You know that you're only going to be like this for approximately another two weeks, but your poor lover has suffered the last four days thinking you're sick, or sad, or worse... Mad at him. No, not in that order.

"Arañita..." He calls for you. Your hand moving over your notebook at one hundred km per hour concerns him.

"The reports are done. Peter from -5266 and Hugh from -1993 are out right now. They should be getting back at any minute. Anomaly #125 was sent to its original universe this morning." You push the tablet to him with your free hand without even looking up or slowing down your writing.

"Thank you, but..." He tilts his head, furrowing his brows. "Are you okay?"

"Yes. I just need to get this done before four. By the way, can I leave early today? I need to study for tomorrow's test."

"Again? Didn't you have one yesterday?"

"Yes. We're on finals, Miguel. We tend to have a lot of them these days. That's why I'm losing my mind over here."

"Just for some tests?" You have to stop yourself to remind you it's not his fault to be smart. It's not his fault being more intelligent than almost every person you knew. It's not his fault he doesn't know what is to struggle on school. It's not his fault, It's not his fault, It's not his fault... "You haven't even touched your food." He says, looking at the little box he got you with the meal now cold.

"I... I know. I'm sorry, Mig." You sigh, looking up at him for the first time in the day. "I'm just really stressed out right now. But I promise I'll take it back home later, okay?"

This was also the fourth day you didn't stay at his place. My man doesn't want to be a burden, but he has attachment issues, ok?, and after the week you spent sleeping in his arms, it may or may not be that Miguel has been having trouble falling asleep without the weight of your body on his chest.

After watching you leave that day, Miguel found himself staying till unreasonable hours of the early morning working in the lab. There was no point on going back to his cold apartment anyway... And he had a lot of things to get done. He didn't have time to...

"Oh, it's you." Miguel jumps in his place at the sudden voice calling from behind. "I thought that poor girl had stayed here, with all the things she seems to be doing these days."

The man shakes his head, ignoring Jessica closing the distance behind him, leaning against the door frame. Miguel can almost make out the little smile on her lips without turning around, and that only infuriates him even more.

"And why do you look like a caged lion?" She mocks. "Trouble in paradise?"

Miguel's first instinct is snap back at her and ask her to leave him alone. He knows she would comply, what he doesn't know is how benefic that would be for his current situation.

"I don't know what's going out with her." He admits, letting his head fall in irritation. "She says she's having some tests right now, but she's just to... Stressed? I don't know. She's so smart I cannot conceive how bad this is affecting her." The laugh that emanates from Jessica's throat makes his ears go red. "What?"

"Oh, babe, when was the last time you went to college?" Jessica puts both of her hands on her waist, pursing the lips to avoid smiling again.

"Why is that important?"

"When, Miguel?" She demands.

"Ugh... I don't know. Like four-five years ago."

"When was the last time you failed a class?"

"Never." He immediately responds.

"When was the last time grades were important on your Earth?"

Miguel frowns. "I don't remember. The path for learning had changed long before I was born. I don't even think I ever had something like a grade. We were judged individually for our skills and our intelligence type. Not memorization."

"Exactly." She claps, pointing at him with a all-knowing finger. "Thanks to that you got the chance to develop your true abilities as a student, but our girl from 2023 it is not beneficiary of this privilege. She doesn't get the chance to strengthen in what she is good, she must memorize and memorize and memorize over and over again. Because the tests on her Earth aren't done with the purpose of just checking how is her knowledge progressing, they are done to see if she's worthy of continuing forward in her very career."

Miguel remains silent for a minute, swallowing all the new information by pieces. For someone so smart, Jessica has never see him seem so lost. The nuts in his brain begin to turn and turn until his eyes seem to light up with the clarity of the light of the new world.

"Hm." He nods. "Thank you."

The woman knows he doesn't need anything more when he turns around, typing into one of the screens something that escapes from her eyes.

During the rest of the two weeks of finals, Miguel tried to do his best to support you.

He even read all of the information about your education system, striving to understand everything in just a couple of nights.

He's a man on a mission: letting you know he's there, that you're strong and smart, and you can do it.

While you study in the lab, he leaves you be. He gets you coffee, or tea, or anything you prefer. He might even hiss at people entering his space (your space) making too much noise, pointing at you with his chin and threatening eyes.

"Hey, girl..." Peter B. comes in one morning, moving nervously under the scrutinizing gaze of your lover. "Don't be so harsh on yourself..." He gives you some awkward pats on the back, smiling. "You're doing great."

That was all it took.

"No, I'm not!" You weep, letting your head fall on the desk, shaking between sobs.

"Great. Ya la hiciste llorar." Miguel pinches the bridge of his nose, sighing. "Here, give it to her." He calls for Peter's attention, handing him an specific chocolate.

Peter takes it with confused eyes, offering it to you, reaching out his arm as if he were to touch you, you'll explode.

"Here." He says. "Look what I got."

You raise your eyes, meeting the little packing. Then, when you look at him, Peter almost thinks he just made all worst.

"Oh, Peter... Thank you!" You take the chocolate, pulling from him to a big hug. "I love these so much, thank you! You're so kind!"

Peter lets you be, looking back at Miguel who just nods at him to let him know this wasn't his first rodeo. He pats your back, soothing you with some more nervous words until you're ready to let him go.

If you're really struggling, Miguel won't think twice to help you. He's smart, it takes him nothing more than a look to his old notes or a quick search on the internet (specially if you're studying something science related or an engineering, if you're on law or arts, oh boy, you're gonna make this man suffer) to know exactly what you need and make sure you're taking that fucking project tomorrow.

Some other days, he just catches you sleeping with your hands crossed above the table and your saliva drooling out to your notes. His jacket would then come over you, after, he would take your pending stuff and start solving problems and making notes for you to have it easier at the memorizing part of the study.

You always wake up to see the edges of your paper full of arrows, little equations and encircled key words. And, sometimes, a tired Miguel sleeping uncomfortably by your side, just waiting for you to tell him it's time to go.

The day, a Friday, where you're finally done with college (at least for a couple of months) Miguel felt it like the day his soul came back to his body.

You are smiling all day again, calling his name, doing a mess all over the whole building. And he can not be more happy about it.

He might never tell you, me might even justify himself saying he had been staying up late working in the lab every time you ask for the bags under his eyes. Because he's definitely not telling you there were nights where he couldn't even close his eyes 'cause you weren't there with him.

"Time to go home." You hum behind him, getting all of your stuff inside your backpack.

"Thank God" He rubs his neck, walking closer to you to give you a soft kiss on the forehead. "I'm dying."

You yawn, nodding. "Me too. These weeks drained me."

"Me too." He repeats, and you don't know how much he means it. "Let's just go to sleep, yeah? Hopefully tomorrow there won't be so much to do."

You smile, leaning into his embrace as you walk out the door, hearing the lights turning off as both come closer and closer to the exit.

"Yeah, that sounds good."

"Okay."

"Okay."

Miguel steadies your body by pressing down on your hips, keeping your ass on the bed. You try to push his face out of between your thighs but he refuses to pull apart.

"Miguel!" You cry out, tears rolling down your cheeks cause of the overstimulation he was putting you in. "Too much, too much..."

His fingers curl inside you one more time, and your arch your back, almost rolling your eyes at the feeling. His tongue flicks over your sensitive bud again, dragging choked moans out of you. You try to squirm away but his hands pull you from your ass back at him as soon as you start moving.

"Easy there, Arañita. I'm almost done." He smiles up at you, letting you see the lower half of his face completely covered in your arousal.

"Mig... Mi amor..." You breath out, trying to push him out again when his chuckle crashes against your folds.

"One more, love, and you'll be ready for me." He sucks on your clit as he speaks, moving his fingers with an slower pace now. "Uno más, mamita, dame uno más."

He pushes his face down on you, working his tongue all around your most needy spot with his digits burying now deep inside you, hitting that soft place between your walls that makes you want to cry. You're a mess of moans and whimpers by now, but when his teeth slowly press on your clit, it's over for you. Your eyes roll back, your thighs tremble around him, encaging him in his favorite prison as he guides you through it, moaning into your skin when he feels your pleasure dripping on him, motivating his hips to hump against the mattress as a fucking teenager would do.

After you get down from your high, you look up at him to find him positioning himself between your legs, dragging the tip of his cock up and down on your folds.

"Miguel, wait, I'm..."

"You know your safe word, mamita, you can make me stop whenever you want." He places your legs on his shoulders and his hands on your hips, keeping you just as he wishes to. "I'm going in, and I want your eyes on me all the time I fuck you, ¿me entiendes, hermosa?"

You nod, watching the point where both of your bodies would join. He enters slowly, giving you time to adjust his size. But after the first hint of your hips trying to feel him even more, he pulls back and thrusts all the way in, making your head fall back as your back arches.

His right hand grabs you by the jaw, forcing you to open your eyes and observe how red his irises had turned.

"Eyes on me."

His pace speeds up, bottoming out with every thrust he makes. Your hands push at his lower abdomen, biting your lip to avoid crying out loud again.

"Too fast, Mig. Too much." You moan, your still overstimulated clit rips another whimper from you every time his happy trail and trimmed hair crashes against it. You were barely holding on, but your lover can't never get enough. His body reaches down, and as he places one hand around your neck, his other thumb toys at your clit in a excruciating pace. "Fuck! No, Miguel."

You tremble under him, wrapping your legs around his waist when you cannot think about anything more than cumming. Your nails bury on the skin of his back, dragging an out of breath grunt out of him.

"I'm, I'm cum-" You try to voice but nothing in your brain seems to work anymore.

"Do it, love. I got you." He keeps up his pace, almost kissing your cervix by now. "Cum for me, mi amor."

His hand squeezes a little bit harder on your neck and you need nothing else to see fucking white. Your mouth opens in a big O before your start trembling, shaking uncontrollably under his body, letting out the sweetest of sounds for him to hear.

He grunts, falling into the crock of your neck when you tighten your walls around him.

"I'm going to fucking fill you." He's out of breath and he curses something in Spanish you cannot make out. "I'm going to put a baby on your tummy, mamita..."

"Miguel..." You were on the verge of tears again, you cannot longer feel your legs but you surely can feel him deep inside you.

"Yes, love. Fuck... I'm cumming. I'm..." He bites down on your flesh, sinking his fangs into your skin when his hips stutter. His talons grow so big they dig into the headboard.

You moan at the feeling, hugging your body to his until he can breath normal again.

When he looks back at you his eyes have returned to that soft brown you're used too.

"Are you okay?" He asks, sending shivers down your spine when he caresses the sore skin.

"Yes." You smile and he traps your lips into a kiss. "And now I'm really fucking tired."

He chuckles, lifting his weight onto his forearms.

"Come here, amor. Let's take a shower so you can rest comfortably." He places another soft peck on your forehead. "I'll wash your hair."

You definitely know he will do more than that.

PD: Tbh with you guys, all I could think about while writing this was this tiktok:

#SPIDERVERSEDR ; ITS SO FUNNY JUSY HIM STANDING ALL SERIOUS AND SUDDENLY U SEE 🟫🟫 #spiderverse #shifting #shiftingrealities #shifttok #real

[lanadelreyscokewhor3]

PAPARAZZI- P.B PARKER

Pairing: Dark! Perv! Peter x Innocent! Fem! Reader

Word Count: 9.3k

Summary: as the outgoing, spontaneous cheerleader of the school, you arent too familiar with quieter people, such as peter parker. he sure is familiar with you though. soon, the photos and obsessions give him the courage to talk to you, which leads into his darker desires coming true.

WARNING. THIS CONTAINS DARKER CONTENT, SUCH AS STALKING AND MANIUPLATION. READ WITH CAUTION. 

Warnings: SMUT, stalking, public masturbation, stealing of panties, masturbation with panties, booze and drugs mentioned, swearing, maniplation/ slight gaslighting, pet names, heavy praise kink, size kink, daddy kink, overstimulation, corruption/ innocent kink, teasing/ playing with reader through panties, panties used as gag, mocking, taking pictures of reader while asleep, mentions of diff sex postitions, spanking, plugs and collars, mirror sex etc

“i’m your biggest fan, i’ll follow you until you love me- papa-paparazzi baby, there’s no other superstar, you know that i’ll be… your papa-paparazzi” - paparazzi, lady gaga

One of the first words you had ever said to Peter Parker had been a lie. 

A white one, something small and one that you had believed. 

But not him.

 He knew it was a lie that had slipped from your lips, clear as day as he snapped the photo with his Nikon. I’m not very photogenic. 

Those were the words of warning you gave him as he asked for a photo of you for the yearbook, a shy smile blooming across your face as he insisted. 

No one is ever un-photogenic. It’s the photographer that can make it that way. he had reassured, flexing his bicep as he ran his fingers nervously through his hair.

 Those weren’t the words he wanted to say, but they’d have to do. What he really wanted to say, the truthful answer was probably not something your innocent, soft persona was ready to hear yet. 

You are the most captivating person I’ve ever seen, and I look at your beautiful body any chance I can get without seeming like a full-on weirdo, imagining what you look like under those clothes. So yes, you are photogenic. Very, very photogenic. 

That would have to wait until a much later date, when you knew him better. When you would understand how photogenic you were, because he’d make you understand.

 “Peter?” you asked shyly, drawing his attention back to the present moment, breaking him from his trance about how your legs would look slung across his shoulders as he pounded into you. 

You knew his name. God, wait until you were moaning it. 

“Yea, yea sorry, just got distracted.” he smiled, making you giggle as he brought the camera up to face, eyes staring you down through the viewfinder as he snapped the picture of you smiling by the football field. 

A cheerleader in her natural element. 

Keep reading

[literaila]

negotiating 

tasm!peter x reader 

summary: you wake up on peter’s chest. 

warnings: ‘tis just fluff

a/n: welcome to “verity is sick in bed so here comes an influx of blurbs” 

*

Keep reading

[irondadmadlads]

Irondad Prompt #152

Steve Rogers: You get killed, walk it off!

Peter: Yes, si-

Tony: Peter, you get as little as a paper cut, you come tell me! Do not listen to what Captain Asshole says!

[spoongyb]

can someone tell me this fics name pls