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pairing ━━ ༯ spidey! michael x fem! reader
author's note ━━ ༯ this is a little hurt/comfort au that i wrote up over the last few days as life has been stressful and imagining michael as one of my fav comic characters has been comforting to me. also inspired by the lovely @amnesia-sc's spidey michael artworks.
w.c; 5.3k
The rain was a silver shimmering curtain call over Manhattan, a hissing, cold veil that turned neon signs into bleeding watercolors and slicked the fire escapes into glistening iron latticework.
It was late in the evening and you were awake because the city never truly slept, and neither did your thoughts. A book lay open on your lap, unread, your attention instead on the rhythmic drumming against your windowpane.
That's when you heard it; a big thud, and then a scraping metal sound, a pained gasp, and the unmistakable, wet slap of something heavy collapsing onto the grated platform outside.
Your heart jumped into your throat. You knew that sound. Well, you didn’t know for sure, per se, but you'd come to recognize the graceless arrival of your… occasional esteemed visitor.
You scrambled off the bed, the book tumbling to the floor, and yanked the curtain aside.
There he was, crumpled in a heap of red and blue, one arm draped over the railing, the other clutching his middle. The rain had plastered the suit to his form, turning it into a second, darker skin. And against that dark blue, spreading from beneath his gloved fingers with a terrifying speed, was a slick, violent crimson.
"Oh, my god," you breathed, fumbling with the window latch. It stuck, as always, and you shoved it upward with a grunt, the chill, wet air rushing in. "Spider-Man?"
He lifted his head. Even through the mask, you could see the effort it cost him. "Hey, neighbor," he said, his voice a strained parody of its usual melodic, teasing lilt. It was hoarse, punctuated by a sharp intake of breath.
"Mind if I… crash the party? Literally." He tumbled over, now fully laying on the ground.
You didn't answer, just reached out, your hands slipping on his wet shoulders. "What happened? You need to get inside before someone sees you… now."
"Got into a disagreement… with a new guy in town. And by guy, I mean ‘alien’ with crazy looking metal wings." He tried to help himself, pushing with his legs, but a full-body shudder wracked him, and he slumped.
"He made his point. Forcefully," his voice was strained but laced with humour.
"Let's just say the giant Pepsi billboard on 42nd street now has a… man shaped hole through the middle of it, from where he dropped me."
You just stared at him in sheer disbelief, not even beginning to be able to picture what the hell that messy scene looked like. And why the hell did this have to keep happening in your city?
With a strength born of pure adrenaline, you hauled him through the window by his arms. He was heavier than he looked, all lean muscle and sodden fabric, and you both tumbled onto your floor in a wet, tangled heap. He smelled like a damp…dog.
"Okay, okay, just lay still for now until I figure out what the hell I am going to do with you," you said, your voice trembling only a little. You were now running your hands through your hair on edge. What if a neighbor had seen you bring him in?
You pushed yourself up, and started mapping the emergency in front of you. The suit was torn across his abdomen, a vicious, ragged split. Beneath it, the wound was a nightmare; a deep, angry gash that wept blood steadily. It looked like some of the fabric of the suit was in the wound as well.
Your stomach turned, he was really badly hurt.
You'd prepared for this though, in a hazy, half-believing way… that maybe your spidey friend wouldn't just come along to your fire escape to watch sunsets and talk about how hot Iron Man was and instead, would need your help.
You'd gone into work after his 5th visit and brought some medical supplies home. The perks of being a trainee doctor.
As you ran to fetch the basket of supplies from your tiny bathroom, he spoke, his head lolling to watch you.
"You should see… the other guy. He's probably really banged up from where I – got him… But I guess we'd never truly know with all their crazy regeneration alien stuff. Probably not a scratch on him." He tried for a laugh; it came out as a wet cough. "I swear I got him good, I swea–"
"Shut up and save your breath," you ordered, kneeling beside him with the kit. You began cutting away the suit around the wound with blunt scissors, your fingers working with a clinical precision that belied the panic screaming in your mind.
The skin revealed was warm and golden brown, now marred by that brutal tear. You cleaned it with antiseptic, your touch as gentle as you could make it. He hissed sharply, his whole body tensing as you poured some saline over the gash.
"Sorry, sorry," you murmured.
"S'okay. Your hands are… really soft despite all the stingy chemical stuff." His voice was closer to a whisper now, his breathing shallow. "You're really beautiful, you know that?"
You froze, a cotton pad soaked in peroxide hovering over the wound.
Your eyes flicked up. He was looking right at you, the white lenses of his mask somehow managing to convey an intense, unwavering delight despite his pain.
You felt a flush creep up your neck. It was two in the morning. You were in ratty sweatpants and an old faded Madonna tshirt, your hair was a mess, and you had no makeup on.
"I look like I was dragged through a hedge backward," you muttered, focusing back on the gash. "Had a backshift at the hospital."
You began to apply antibiotic ointment, your fingers carefully smoothing it along the edges. "And now you're bleeding out on my floor. Not the time for flattery."
"It's always the time," he breathed. "And you're wrong. You look… gorgeous. Best view in the city. It's why I always come to your fire escape."
You ignored him, or tried to, as you started to place sterile gauze pads over the wound. The bleeding was slowing, thank god. But as you worked, you noticed other things. The way his left arm was held slightly stiff.
The faint, purpling bruise already blooming along his collarbone and sternum; with his beautiful black body hair swirling into the nebula-looking bruise on his skin. You gulped letting your mind wander slightly.
But you were distracted fairly quickly when he'd tried to sit up a little to help you wrap the bandage around his torso, he'd winced, his hand flying to his ribs to stop you.
"You took a bad hit to the head too, didn't you?" you asked, your voice firm. "You've never babbled on about how I look before."
You were concerned at the thought of him getting into these crazy fights; and challenging evil…aliens or whatever they were. A little concussion was the least of his concerns in reality, but not to you.
He didn’t reply straight away, still writhing dramatically in pain… it was hard to watch, but you pushed again to get an answer.
"I need you to think for me. When you went through the billboard. Did you fall head first?"
"Might've… dinged the noggin a little. It's fine. Hard head n'all."
"Mhm, okay can you stand so I can move you onto the bed?" you asked, the sternness still in your voice. “I’ll be able to bandage you up easier if I can stand over you.”
"Be honest Y/N, you're just trying to bed this ol' spidey boy, aren't you?" One of his weirdly emotive white lenses winked.
"Ugh no, you are so annoying. now stand!" He stood up, wobbling slightly but leaning on your shoulder allowed him to be able to hobble over to your cosy bed.
He lay up wincing, agonised sounds choking and spluttering out of him; the pain he was feeling was even making your eyes water.
"You'll need to stay here for a bit, rest. You're clearly in a bad way."
"Uh-huh, it will probably take me around 45 minutes to regenerate that skin on my torso, give or take."
Once his head was on the pillow, you started to think about the long lasting effects of a concussion and then the word vomit was outing your thought;
"Take off the mask."
The air in the room changed. The playful, pained flirtation vanished, replaced by a sudden, electric stillness. Even his breathing seemed to stop. "What?"
"The mask. Take it off. I need to check your pupils, make sure you don't have a concussion. And I want to see the rest of the damage." You sat back on your heels, crossing your arms.
"Don't you get the whole point of why I am masked, Y/N?" he asked, disbelief in his voice.
"You're in my apartment, bleeding on my expensive sheets. You don't get to have secrets right now," you said firmly. "Plus, aren't we friends now?"
For a long moment, he didn't move, he just looked at you through the hollowed out expression of his mask. The only sound was the rain and the distant sigh of traffic far below. Then, a slow, resigned sigh escaped him.
"You play dirty, girl. You know I can't resist you telling me what to do."
"I am not even going to begin to dissect what the hell that means. Off."
"Well I like when you are a bossy boots and tell me to water your plants whilst I am out on the fire escape or to swing over and bring you bagels from your favourite shop in the Bronx, or do whatever you ask, really–"
"Enough, okay, I get it, I tell you what to do a lot. But you come back, right? You may as well show me your face if we are going to be real friends. Your secret is safe with me."
He made a gargled sound of annoyance, but you knew it didn’t run deep. His gloved hands came up, trembling slightly—from pain or nerves, you couldn't tell. They gripped the edge of the mask at the back of his neck.
There was a soft, sticky sound as it peeled away from his sweat-damp skin. He pulled it forward,
over his head, and let it drop to the floor with a damp plop.
The first thing you saw was the hair. A cascade of dark, glossy curls sprang free, tumbling around his face and shoulders, shimmering under your lamplight.
Then, his face.
Sheened with a fine layer of rain water that made his olive skin glow in your orange salt lamp's light.
A small, angry gash marred the high arch of his cheekbone. His lips, which you'd never truly imagined, were full and lush, now busted and bruised at the corner, swelling prettily. That was the witty mouth that had been spouting major attitude at you when you chastised him for making so much noise right outside your window.
But it was his eyes that stole the air from your lungs. Huge, liquid brown doe eyes, wide with pain and vulnerability and a breathtaking shyness you'd never associated with the wisecracking wall-crawler. They held a universe of feeling, framed by long, sooty lashes. He looked heartbreakingly young, and impossibly beautiful.
"Oh," you said, the word leaving you in a soft exhale. You didn’t even realise he’d started to take off his gloves as well.
He averted his gaze, suddenly unable to meet yours.
The confident, flirty Spider-Man was gone, replaced by a young man who seemed to want to fold into himself. "Told you it was just a ding," he mumbled, his voice unmuffled now, a warm, smooth tenor, even roughened by pain.
You reached out, your fingers gently tilting his chin back, making him look at you. Your thumb brushed the unharmed side of his jaw. It was partially stubbly.
"What's your name?" you whispered, well and truly bewildered by the sight of this delicate man lying on your bed.
He swallowed. "Michael."
His eyes were now trained onto yours, brown and dark, and devoted. They were bloodshot from the rain, as he swung through the night.
"Michael," you repeated, and the name felt both strange and perfectly right on your tongue. “Huh. what a normal name,”
After breaking your mesmerised look, you pushed away your feelings of awe and got back to work. He seemed thankful for the change in pace.
You shifted to check his pupils with the small flashlight from your kit. They reacted normally.
"Okay, Michael. Tell me what actually happened. The real version. You seem fairly human to me and I am not satisfied with only knowing parts of your story. I need to figure out if we need to take you to a hospital."
His eyes went wider than they already were; “absolutely NOT. no hospitals - how are we going to explain I was flung through a billboard?”
“You are impossible, you know that?” You asked, mirth in your voice. “I should have told you to shoo the first time you commandeered my fire escape.”
He rolled his eyes and grinned at you. “But ya didn’t! Because you likeeee me.”
And then, he told you what happened. Haltingly at first, then with more flow as he saw you weren't recoiling, weren't fixing to call the news or trying to snap a photo on your film camera.
He told you about the sleek, chrome-skinned alien that had descended in a beam of green light, and how it had backhanded him through the Pepsi billboard like he was a ragdoll.
He had been trying to save the burning apartment block that the alien had set alight with some form of blaster gun. He'd been standing on the sidewalk, giving tiny little toddlers that he had rescued from the building some cuddles before he'd been scooped up by the threat, and beaten within an inch of his life.
This clearly didn't happen regularly—he had never looked this injured before, not in all the times he had come to visit you. He described the freefall, the desperate, dizzying swing across three blocks as he narrowly escaped, knowing his injuries would fail him in his fight. The only thought in his pain-fogged mind was the route back to your fire escape, your window, the one safe harbor he could think of.
"I knew you'd help," he finished, his eyes searching your face. "You always do. Even when I just show up to be a pest."
You finished taping the butterfly stitch on his cheekbone, securely, your hands lingering on the warmth of his forehead.
There was a bit of a tension; you weren’t sure if it was sexual… or if it was just innocent attraction. It had been a faint agony in the background of this whole mess and now had roared to life, crazily poignant in the small space between your bodies on the bed. The air was thick with the scent of him, rain, sweat, blood and then of course the chemicals you'd used on his wounds. Your eyes kept drifting to his bruised lips.
"You're not a pest," you said, your voice low. "You're a mess. A brave, stupid mess. Charming, somehow, despite it all."
He gave a lopsided smile. "You forgot handsome."
"You've got nerve fishing for compliments, Michael."
He seemed startled at the use of his name; almost like he forgot he even told you or that he had removed his mask. Every single interaction you’d had before was with it on; and despite that you’d still been attracted to his personality… his voice. Now that you knew what he looked like; those feelings were going to be hard to push down.
Your dating life was already a mess; you didn’t want to start courting a literal superhero. I think after this you’ve dealt with enough aliens to last a lifetime.
He began to lift himself up a bit on the pillows, so that he was eye level with you.
"Suppose so. I guess it's just because you're looking at me all weird and I want to know whether or not you find me attractive."
You were staring, admittedly. You couldn't stop.
"Does it matter if I do or not? I am helping you, aren't I?" you smirked, starting to pack up your medical kit.
"Well, yeah. I care what people think of me." His eyes had gone vulnerable again, sparkly and light.
"Didn't you tell me no one knew of your identity?" you asked, side eying him.
He started shifting in the bed again, uncomfortable, and hissed again.
"Shit—Michael, are you ok?"
"M'fine, it's just the regeneration can be a bit painful when the wound is this bad." You didn't even question 'regeneration' because, what the fuck? He looked human, but was clearly not.
"People know me in my normal life—I go to college and work in a recording studio when I'm not… taking care of Spidey business."
Once he settled against the pillows again, the shyness was melting from his expression, replaced by a warm, vulnerable affection that made your mouth go all dry.
The rain, the darkness, the intimacy of the wound-tending, it had stripped away every barrier of friendship you'd once had with this masked vigilante.
He was just a boy, a startlingly young man, sitting half-naked and injured on your queen size bed, and you were just you, and the world outside had ceased to exist.
Without overthinking it, without letting the fear or the absurdity of the situation stop you, you leaned forward. You closed the gap, and you pressed your lips to his.
It was soft, chaste, a mere brush of skin against swollen skin. But it sent a jolt through you both.
He went perfectly still for a second, then a small, sound escaped him; a mixture of pain and pleasure.
His hand came up, his fingers; bare now, you realised, slid into your hair, cupping the back of your head.
He kissed you back, carefully, tenderly, mindful of his busted lip. It was sweet and hesitant and flooded with a warmth that spread from your lips down to your toes. He tasted of something sweet, like nerds gummy clusters or something silly like that.
When you pulled back, his doe eyes were wide, dazed. A faint blush darkened his cheeks.
"Whoa," he breathed.
You sat back, your own face flaming. The reality came crashing in. The mask on the floor. The bandages. His age. He looked… he couldn't be older than twenty, he couldn’t be ages with you. You’d just turned 24. He had to be younger.
"Oh, my god," you said, the words tumbling out. "How old are you?"
The blush deepened. "Nineteen."
"Nineteen?" You stared at him, flabbergasted. All this time.
The fearless protector of New York, the quipping hero who'd faced aliens and other vigilante’s, was a teenager.
A teenager with incredible hair and soulful eyes who blushed when kissed. The absurdity of it swelled in your chest, wonder tangled up right alongside it. Underneath both sat a protective ache that was almost overwhelming.
He looked down, suddenly self-conscious. "I know, I'm…ugh, I should get home. I've imposed enough, and—"
"Don't you dare," you cut him off, your voice firming. The shock was receding, replaced by a fierce, surging certainty. You stood up, offering him your hand.
"You can barely stand. You're not swinging anywhere. If you need to stay the night to rest, you can. The couch pulls out. It's not much, but it's dry and it's safe."
He looked from your hand to your face, that vulnerability shining in his eyes again.
Slowly, he reached up and took it. His grip was strong, even now. You helped him to his feet, steadying him as he swayed.
"You're sure?" he asked, his voice small.
You led him the few steps to your couch, guiding him to sit. "I'm sure." You fetched a blanket and a pillow from your bed.
"Now, lie down. Try to sleep. I'll be right over there if you need anything."
He obeyed, settling back with a weary sigh that seemed to come from his bones. As you tucked the blanket around him, his hand shot out, catching your wrist.
His touch was warm and his hand… so big that it engulfed your wrist entirely.
"Thank you, Y/N," he whispered. "For… everything. My aunt would have murdered me herself if she saw the state I got into. She doesn't understand that I can heal from this sort of thing."
Really you didn't much believe it either or understand the science behind it. You just smiled, shaking your arm away from his grip.
You turned off the main light, leaving only the soft, golden glow of your bedside lamp.
You climbed into your own bed, facing the couch. In the semi-darkness, you watched him. His eyes were already closed, his long lashes fanning over his cheeks, his bruised lips slightly parted as his breathing evened out into sleep.
★⋆.
The first thing you became aware of was warmth. A deep, cocooning warmth that seeped into your bones, delicious in the way it cradled you in a state of perfect, sleepy contentment.
You were floating in the hazy, golden space between dreams and waking, and in that space, there was only him. Michael.
His face painted itself on the inside of your eyelids in exquisite, lingering detail. The memory of last night was a vivid recollection; a sensation, a tapestry of feeling woven from the lamplight.
The shocking softness of his curls between your fingers when you'd checked his head for lumps. The way his big, brown eyes had held yours, wide with a vulnerability that had cracked something open inside your chest.
The feel of his jaw under your thumb, the prickle of stubble against your skin.
And his hands. God, his hands. You dreamed of them. Long, elegant fingers, surprisingly graceful for all their strength. You saw them peeling off the damp mask, trembling slightly.
You felt them again, cupping the back of your head while you kissed, his touch so tender it made your heart soar. In your dream-state, those hands were everywhere; brushing hair from your face, tracing the line of your jaw, and going further and further down your body.
Their warmth seeped into you, claiming you in the gentlest, most possessive way.
A soft, sighing breath escaped you, a smile touching your lips as you nuzzled deeper into your pillow.
Then, a tickle. A faint, warm puff of air against your forehead. Your dreaming mind incorporated it—his breath, as he leaned in close. But the rhythm was off. It was too steady, too… present.
Your eyes fluttered open, blurry with sleep. And found themselves staring directly into another pair of eyes, mere inches from your own.
They were brown, liquid, and crinkled at the corners with unmasked, utterly delighted amusement. Michael was lying on his side, propped up on an elbow, his head resting on his hand.
He had clearly been watching you sleep for who-knows-how-long, a soft, goofy grin plastered across his beautiful, bruised face. His curls were a wild, glorious mess on his head, from having slept on them.
A jolt of pure, undiluted shock electrified your spine.
A strangled, gasping scream ripped from your throat; less out of fear, more out of the sheer, overwhelming proximity of him.
Your body spasmed backward, forgetting the edge of the bed existed. With a yelp and a clumsy thud, you landed in a heap on the floor, the blanket tangling around your legs. Your heart hammered against your ribs.
"Oh, shit! Sorry! I was trying to be funny!" His voice, laced with genuine alarm and a leftover trace of sleep-roughness, came from above. He was peering over the bed at you.
Before you could even untangle your limbs or process the embarrassment, strong hands were hooking under your arms. He hauled you up from the floor as if you weighed nothing, the motion so swift and effortless it stole your breath anew.
He meant to set you on your feet, but his strength, even injured, was miscalibrated.
You were pulled into him, your body colliding flush against his bare chest in the ripped spiderman suit. One of his arms banded around your back to steady you, the other still gripping your arm.
You were pressed together from chest to thigh, the thin fabric of your sleep shirt and his suit doing nothing to mask the solid, warm reality of him. The air left your lungs in a soft rush.
He looked down, his eyes wide with apology that quickly melted into something else. Something hotter, more intense.
The playful grin was gone, replaced by a look of dazed wonder. His face was so close you could see the individual flecks of gold in his irises, the faint scar bisecting his eyebrow. His bruised lower lip was slightly fuller than the upper.
He was leaning down, his head tilting. His gaze dropped to your mouth. The intention was as clear as daylight: he was going to kiss you. Again.
The morning-after kiss, without the blood and the panic, just the two of you, breath mingling, hearts pounding in a synchronous rhythm. The tension was insane, pulsing in the air between you.
Your own lips parted instinctively, drawn to him like a magnet. The memory of last night's sweet, hesitant kiss bloomed fresh and urgent.
Then, your nerves, frayed by the fall and the overwhelming onslaught of him, short-circuited your brain-to-mouth filter.
Just as his lips were a whisper from yours, you blurted it out, voice squeaky with adrenaline.
"You smell like a wet dog."
He froze. His gorgeous, soulful eyes blinked once, slowly, the romantic haze evaporating into pure, unadulterated bewilderment. "I… what?"
"A wet dog," you repeated, the words gaining momentum as you committed to the bizarre sabotage. "You should… you should probably shower."
A beat of silence hung in the air. Then, a slow, bewildered smile spread across his face, transforming his confusion into delighted amusement.
He threw his head back and laughed, a rich, warm sound that filled your small bedroom. It was a beautiful laugh, unrestrained and genuine.
“You think I am smelly and don't want to give me a kiss? I wish I could say I am surprised but most girls don't want to kiss me." He loosened his hold, letting you find your footing, and gave you a weird little half-wink-half-blink. That was something you certainly did not believe. That girls didn’t kiss him? He was a literal superhero.
You remained silent and motioned to the bathroom. He just tutted and padded to the bathroom. a few seconds later the spray started hitting the bottom of the tub.
You had mere minutes to change a bit and make sure you looked more presentable. You pulled on some clean jeans and a tattered sweater and then quickly fixed your crazy hair in the mirror.
The shower shut off just in time for you to be done with the pruning.
The door opened, and steam billowed out. Michael stepped out. Your breath caught.
The only thing covering him was one of your towels, slung low around his narrow hips. The towel was tied loosely, dipping below the sharp cut of his hip bones and the beginnings of a faint tan line.
The water clung to his deep, rich bronze skin, gleaming under the morning light. Droplets traced paths down the defined planes of his chest, over the faint, dark dusting of hair that formed a tantalizing trail from his navel downward.
That happy trail disappeared beneath the towel, pointing like an arrow to the pronounced V-cut of his obliques that framed his lean, taut stomach. He was oh so lean.
Your eyes fixed on his abdomen. The place where the vicious, bleeding gash had been last night. Only to find smooth, unbroken skin.
There was no pucker where he’d been sliced, not even a pink line. Nothing.
His curls, wet and free, were a riot of dark, springy coils framing his face. Water dripped from the ends onto his shoulders. He saw you staring and a slow, shy smile touched his lips.
"Better?" he asked, his voice breathy. “Or am I still smelly by your standards?”
You stepped closer, poking a finger directly at the center of his flawless stomach.
"Explain this."
He looked down, then back up, feigning innocence. "Explain what?"
"The hole that was here. It's gone."
"Oh. That." He had the decency to look sheepish. "Yeah. That tends to happen."
"You were milking it," you said, a smile threatening to break through. "All that 'ahh, the pain' drama last night. You were totally milking it."
A grin spread across his face, bright and unrepentant. "Okay, maybe a little! But in my defense, it did hurt! And you were so… nice about it." He shuffled his feet.
"It's usually the other way around. I'm the one looking out for everyone. I liked you looking after me. I didn't want your attention to wander. Sue me."
You laughed, shaking your head. "You're ridiculous."
Still chuckling, you turned and scooped his suit off the floor. You walked back and shoved the bundle into his arms. "Here. Get dressed. I've got class to go to."
He clutched the suit, the towel dipping even lower. "Yeah! Me too. Biochem. Wouldn't miss it." His eyes danced; he was a terrible liar.
"Right. Well, go get ready."
He grinned and ducked into your bathroom, closing the door most of the way. You busied yourself gathering your books. The door pushed open a moment later. "Uh, a little help?"
You turned. He was struggling into the top half of the suit. The tear you'd cut last night ran diagonally from his hip almost to the opposite side of his waist. Because he was leaning to pull it on, the torn fabric gaped open.
The torn material revealed a long, lean strip of his lower abdomen and hip, and the very low line of dark, curling hair that led downward. You saw a fleeting, breathtaking glimpse that made your mouth go dry. Huge. genuinely massive. Shit. He had to go or you were going to try sleep with him and you really did not need a casual relationship with a fucking SUPERHERO right now.
You gulped audibly.
"Okay! You're good! Suit's on!” You clapped your hands with finality, and turned around to grab your back.
“ I need to go, so please finish getting dressed and get out. And be safe. And don't scare me like that ever again."
He finally got the suit top settled, the material sealing most of the way.
He stepped out, now fully suited except for the mask. He took two quick steps toward you, leaned in, and pressed a soft, warm kiss to your cheek. His lips lingered for a second. He pulled back, eyes sparkling.
"See you soon, neighbor." His eyes were quite literally twinkling. “We can continue this,” he gestured between you, clearly marking the tension and the vibes exchanged. “At a later date.”
He pulled the mask on, gave you a little salute, and slipped out your window onto the fire escape.
You rushed to the window to make sure he was going to get away alright, and partially to make sure none of your neighbors were out for a cigarette or something.
He stood on the grated platform in the morning sun. He looked back at you, gave a final wave, and then simply stepped off the edge.
Your heart lurched. He fell, a plummeting streak of color, for one terrifying second. Then, a web shot out.
The line went taut, and his fall became a breathtaking arc, swinging him out and up into the open orange sky. He swung away, growing smaller against the city.
You let out a shaky laugh, your cheek still tingling from where he kissed you goodbye.
cw: fem reader, sexual content, desperate ben, vibes are used
wc: 1821
a/n: MEOWWWWWW. #needdat. also posting from my computer for the first time so we'll see how this goes
The first time Ben had complimented you, everyone in chat assumed it was pure irony.
B3N_DROWNED: god i would let u yell at me for misplaying that boss. respectfully of course.
Your mods immediately were texting back and forth in the private chat.
“He’s back.”
“was he evr gone LMFAO”
You glanced at the two rapidly moving chats between loading screens and couldn’t help the small laugh that escaped. “Hi Ben.” There he was again, same monochrome profile picture, same username, same little skull emoji tacked onto every message. You’d recognize him anywhere.
“…As long as it’s respectful,” you said, pointing dramatically at the pinned stream rules. Rule #1: Don’t be weird. Rule #2: Don't be overtly sexual. Rule #3: Listen to the mods.
Ben’s reply was instant.
B3N_DROWNED: understood queen
A moderator timed him out for thirty seconds. It became a ritual. Every single stream, without fail. Horror games? Ben appeared. Cozy farming sims? Ben appeared. Even that one random 2009 visual novel you dug up at 2 a.m.—he was there before the title screen finished loading. Chat joked that he had notifications hardwired into his bloodstream. You started joking about it too.
“Ben’s probably already here.”
The chat exploded.
HE IS. LOOK.
HE’S LITERALLY FIRST BRO
Sure enough, his message popped up.
B3N_DROWNED: hi babe:)
He never technically crossed the hard lines. His comments were always suggestive enough to make your mods twitch, but phrased as jokes. He backed off the second you gave him that particular look through the camera. Still, the timeouts piled up. He wore every single one like a badge of honor.
B3N_DROWNED: if u were a ghost would u still stream?
“Ben.”
B3N_DROWNED: hypothetical
“Timeout for being creepy.”
He accepted it cheerfully. When he returned: B3N_DROWNED: i deserved that. worth it.
Months slipped by, and you started expecting him. If five minutes passed without his familiar username, you’d catch yourself asking chat, “Has anyone seen Ben?” The community lost their minds every time. When he finally appeared—late, claiming “ traffic”—you rolled your eyes but felt an odd little flicker of relief.
He stream-sniped with terrifying precision. No matter how many thousands queued for a match, his character would appear, crouch twice, spin in circles, and type ‘hi :)’ in game chat. Your friends groaned. You called him terrifying. His avatar just waved innocently.
It wasn't a coincidence. Ben had studied every tiny habit: how long you lingered in menus, the average amount of time you took to refill your water, the way you answered donations before requeuing. He watched every VOD, every clip. Routines made you feel knowable. Close. He never admitted it, not even to himself.
Discord friend requests from viewers were an ironclad no. Until one Tuesday night at 11:48 PM, after a long editing session, his request appeared. Your cursor hovered. Ignore. Ignore. Ignore. But your finger moved on its own and clicked Accept.
In his own room Ben nearly dropped his phone. “She accepted…”
The first messages were awkward, halting. Then conversations stretched longer—twenty minutes at first, then hours. Voice chat came next. Late-night calls after streams became routine. His voice was quieter than you expected, dry and self-deprecating, laced with that same obsessive attention to detail. He remembered the offhand comment you made six months ago about your cat’s surgery. The indie band you mentioned once. The way you hated certain textures. Everything.
You talked about terrible horror games and old creepypastas until 3 a.m. He listened more than he spoke. Every time you laughed, his room felt a little less empty. Beneath the gremlin energy and flirty jokes, Ben was patient. Static behind a monitor. Always waiting.
The weeks blurred together after that first Discord acceptance. What began as careful, late-night typing sessions evolved into voice calls that stretched until the sky lightened outside your window. Ben’s voice became something you looked forward to more than you wanted to admit. He never pushed. He waited for you to set the pace, content to listen while you ranted about bad game design or the latest streamer drama.
But the tension was there, simmering beneath every “goodnight, babe” and every lingering pause. His compliments grew softer, more genuine. Your responses stopped being purely playful deflections.
One night, after a particularly grueling horror stream where chat had been relentless, you switched to a private call. The topic drifted, as it sometimes did, into teasing territory.
“You really would let me yell at you, huh?” you asked, half-joking.
Ben’s laugh was quiet, almost shy. “I’d probably thank you after.”
The silence that followed felt extra charged. You shifted on your bed, cheeks warm. “You’re impossible.”
“Yeah… but you keep letting me stay on the call anyway.”
That was the first night things crossed the line. The flirting turned explicit—slow, hesitant at first, then bolder as you both admitted how long you’d been thinking about it. Ben’s breathing grew heavier when you described what you were wearing. Yours hitched when he told you exactly what he wanted to do if he were in the room.
Mutual masturbation became the new ritual. Webcams turned on. His was on constantly now, a silent agreement after you’d shyly asked if he could keep it running “so it feels less one-sided.” He obliged instantly, the monochrome filter of his setup casting him in eerie, pale light that somehow made him look even more unreal—ethereal, hungry, and entirely focused on you.
You introduced toys on your side a few nights later. The first time, you held up a small purple vibrator, cheeks burning. Ben’s eyes widened on camera, his hand already moving under the frame.
“Fuck, show me how you use it,” he whispered, voice cracking into that familiar whine. “Please? I need to see.”
You did. Legs spread for the camera, you pressed the buzzing toy against yourself while he stroked in time with your movements, moaning openly. “You’re so pretty like this… god, the sounds you make—ah—I’m gonna lose it just watching you.”
He was loud, unfiltered. Every thrust of your toy earned a string of desperate praises and whimpers: “Right there—yeah, just like that. You’re gonna make me cum so hard—shit, I wish I could taste you.”
You came with his name on your lips. He followed seconds later, head thrown back, hips jerking as he spilled over his fist with a long, broken whine that sent aftershocks through you.
It became addictive. Night after night, the calls grew longer, filthier. Toys rotated—vibrators, dildos, anything that made him vocal. Ben kept his camera rolling the entire time, even between sessions, like he couldn’t bear to look away.
Then came the night everything changed.
You were still flushed and breathless, the toy discarded beside you, when the monitor rippled. The image of Ben on your screen distorted like water, pixels stretching and warping. His eyes—those unnaturally dark, knowing eyes—locked onto yours through the glass.
He leaned forward.
And crawled through.
His shoulders emerged after his head, then his torso, arms bracing on the edge of your desk with a solid, impossible thud. The rest of him followed in a fluid, unnatural motion until he dropped onto your floor on all fours, fully real, fully here.
You screamed.
Heart slamming against your ribs, you bolted off the bed, legs tangling in the sheets for a terrifying second. “Ben—what the fuck—how?!” Pure panic sent you scrambling toward the nightstand, hand outstretched for your phone. This wasn’t possible. This was a hallucination, a nightmare even.
But even as terror spiked through you, heat pooled low in your belly. He was here. Real. The same messy hair, the same intense stare that had watched you fall apart on camera night after night. And the way he looked up at you from the floor, desperate, reverent, a little scared himself, it made your body react before your brain could catch up.
“Y/N wait, please—” His voice was the same raspy whisper from the calls, but rawer now, unfiltered by speakers. He stayed on his knees, hands raised like he was approaching a startled animal. “I didn’t mean to—fuck, I couldn’t stay on the other side anymore. I’ve wanted to touch you for so long. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, but please don’t run. I’d never hurt you.”
You grabbed the phone. Your thumb hovered over the screen, but you didn’t unlock it. Confusion warred with the lingering arousal, the way your thighs still trembled from the earlier orgasm. Ben looked wrecked—pupils blown, chest heaving, a visible bulge straining against his soaked pants.
“I’m freaking out, Ben,” you whispered, voice shaky.
“Im sorry,” he admitted, voice cracking into a whine. “But I’m here. And you’re even more beautiful up close. Please… let me stay. I’ll leave if you want, but god, I can tell how wet you still are. It’s driving me insane.”
The confession, the raw need in his tone, broke something in you. You set the phone down.
Ben crawled forward instantly, still on his knees, until he reached the edge of the bed. His hands—cold at first, then warming against your skin—slid up your calves. “Thank you. Fuck, thank you. Been dreaming about this every night while you used those toys. You have no idea how much I need you, baby.”
He was whiney, vocal, and utterly desperate the moment you pulled him up onto the bed. His mouth found yours in a messy, hungry kiss, tasting faintly of static and vanilla chapstick. Clothes came off in frantic tugs—his hoodie being the first thing to go.
“Been so hard for you,” he whimpered against your neck, grinding his cock against your thigh. “Every night, stroking myself while you moaned my name. Please let me fuck you. I’ll be good; I swear I’ll be so good for you.”
When he finally pushed inside, the sound he made was pure sin—a long, trembling whine that vibrated against your collarbone. “Oh my god. So tight, so warm. Fuck, I’m gonna cum already, I can’t!”
He didn’t stop talking, couldn’t stop. Every thrust came with broken, needy commentary: “Feels better than anything—your pussy is perfect—gonna fill you up, been dying to—please, harder? Tell me what you want, I’ll do anything—”
You wrapped your legs around him, nails digging into his back, and Ben completely unraveled. His hips snapped faster, voice pitching higher into desperate moans and whimpers. “Yes, yes, just like that, gonna cum inside you, please cum with me, I need to feel it—”
You shattered first, clenching around him. Ben followed with a loud, shattered cry, burying himself deep as he spilled, body shaking, still murmuring praise and thanks against your skin.
He collapsed half on top of you afterward, face pressed into your chest, arms wrapped tight like he was afraid you’d vanish. Soft, needy little sounds still escaped him as he caught his breath.
“Can we do that again?” he whispered, already half-hard against your thigh.
◟♡ ˒ ʾʾ Michael Jackson was achingly desperate for your physical touch. He knew that you’re weren’t a touchy person, but he can’t help but seek out your warmth as much as a man possibly could.
While you were lazily flipping through the latest magazine, Michael sat beside you watching a movie. It had started entirely by accident. His hand rested beside you, palm facing up toward the ceiling. Unconsciously, you had reached out without looking, wanting something to fidget with.
It was a completely unconscious, hypnotic rhythm. Your fingers tracing the lines of his palm. It was a delicate, feather-light touch, and entirely addictive to Michael.
He was petrified to move a single muscle, afraid that you’d snap out of it and realise what you were doing.
Don’t move, he kept internally repeating to himself. Do not move.
You were entirely immersed in the magazine, your eyes widening only the tiniest bit whenever you found something interesting. Michael found it all too endearing.
Michael’s leg suddenly became restless. He pleaded with his own body. No. Don’t ruin it. Please don’t ruin it.
He let out a tiny, barely audible exhale. The feeling was so good it was almost agonising. You weren’t doing it to comfort him, you weren’t doing it to tease him. You were simply doing it because your body naturally sought out his, even unconsciously.
He wanted to stay in this position for the rest of his life. But obviously his traitorous body had to betray his mind. A stray curl tickled the tip of his nose. He tried to fight it. He really did.
His head gave a sudden, sharp jerk as he sneezed into his left shoulder. Your fingers froze. Michael’s heart sank straight to his feet. No, no, no, no, please God, no.
You blinked as the daunting realisation of what you had been doing crossed your face.
“Sorry. I didn’t realise I was doing that.” you murmured, your voice slightly raspy from disuse.
Casually, you began to pull your hand away, intending to rest it on your thigh. Michael felt the warmth slipping out of his palm. The corners of his mouth slightly drooped, his sad, wide eyes watching you.
Before he could stop himself and before you could fully pull away, his fingers gently clasped around your wrist.
“Wait,” Michael blurted out desperately. You blinked at him completely startled. “Michael? What are you doing?”
“I… I wasn’t complaining,” he stammered. He tried his best to seem casual but it was plain to see that he was slightly nervous. “You don’t have to stop.”
“I didn’t mean to annoy you, I’m sorry.”
“Youweren’tannoyingme!” Michael rushed out frantically, his eyes wide. He cleared his throat, trying to seem casual again. “It wasn’t annoying at all. It was… it was fine. It was good.”
“It was good?” you repeated his words, a teasing smile tugging at your lips.
“Yeah,” he muttered shyly. He looked at you through his dark eyelashes. “It was nice. You can… you can keep doing it. If you want.”
You stared at him for three long seconds while he watched you with pleading eyes, patiently waiting for your next move like a puppy eyeing a treat. A soft, genuine laugh escaped you. The sound instantly melted Michael’s features.
You didn’t pull away. Instead, your fingers began the same rhythm they had earlier.
ticci toby... who gives you life updates on everything. he makes sure to text you as soon as he arrives at a new mission; taking pictures of cool nick-nacks, dead bodies, and tim n' brian. he'll even send you selfies of him posing with a mutilated corpse, topped with a peace sign and the brightest smile you'd ever see on his face.
ticci toby... who gets nervous when you don't text him back right away. there will be a soft pout on his face, and he'll pause in the middle of cutting someone open just to text you. 'babyyy I miss u :((' or 'answer me my angelllll, imma die w/o u :((('. tim n brian are pissed everytime he stops just to check up on you.
ticci toby... who becomes more desperate the longer you go without replying to him. he becomes sloppy with his work, twitching and checking his phone more often than usual. he begins pestering the other two to hurry up. after all he's gotta see his angel.
ticci toby... who gets dropped off ( thrown out the car ) at your house. he rushes to the door, hurriedly shaking the doorknob before realizing it'd take too long and entering through your open window. tim n' brian shake their heads, praising you for keeping up with his over-eccentric behavior.
ticci toby... who runs into your house all nervous, his eyes darting anywhere and everywhere around your living room. he wants to rush right into your bedroom, but he makes sure to kick off his dirty boots as to not soil your carpet. he's desperate to find you, but he'd be damned before he ruined your things.
ticci toby... whose heart melts at the sight of you asleep on your shared bed. he'll quickly strip himself of his grimy, bloodied, clothes, before tangling himself into the sheets and subsequently you. then he'll pepper kisses all across your skin. your lips, your cheeks, your eyelids, all while giggling to himself gently.
ticci toby, whose hopelessly and madly devoted to you.
ugh. THEEE love of my life right here. I'm kissing him till my lips bruise.
i reallyyyy love this picture of michael for multitude of reasons. the fact that it looks like he smacked the phone to the ground mid-picture, his cheekbones, the sunglasses, hair hair, the blur still making him look hotter somehow, his fit, HIS CHEEKBONES. which then reminds me of the interview when he was asked if his cheekbones were fake and he had to correct everyone by saying it’s just genetics 😭
Idea: WWE fires their writers and hires a bunch of fanfic writers. It will be the best, most soapy show on TV. True violent theatre. And definitely gay.
