PETER HAS BEEN QUIET FOR THE LAST TWENTY MINUTES, which is how you know something's actually wrong, because with you, peter parker does not do quiet. peter narrates his own thoughts out loud as a matter of habit. peter fills silences the way other people fill out forms — automatically, compulsively, sometimes with information nobody asked for.
so the fact that he's been leaning against the kitchen counter at flash's party for the last twenty minutes, arms crossed, jaw tight, barely responding when ned tries to pull him into a conversation about some new movie trailer called “brand new day,” is more than a little concerning.
you find him there after finally extracting yourself from a conversation you'd gotten cornered into near the drinks table — some guy from your chem class, a group project partner from last semester, who'd been friendly enough but had also, you now realize, been standing slightly closer than the conversation strictly required.
"hey baby," you say, sliding up next to peter, bumping his shoulder gently with yours and planting your usual greeting kiss on his lips. you furrow your brow when he doesn’t reciprocate, because peter usually is excited to receive every inch of your attention. "you good? you've been over here a while."
"i'm fine."
"you don't sound fine."
"i'm great, actually." he says it too fast, too flat, staring resolutely at some point across the room that you're now fairly sure is the exact spot you'd just been standing in. "having a genuinely wonderful time."
you follow his gaze, and it clicks all at once — the tight jaw, the crossed arms, the twenty minutes of uncharacteristic silence.
"peter, baby.”
"what."
"are you jealous of ethan from chem class."
"i don't know who that is."
"you literally just scowled at his name, i can see it on your face."
"i did no such thing." he finally looks at you, and there it is, plain as day, something tight and a little wounded behind the forced casualness. "i just noticed he was standing pretty close to you for a group-project-partner-from-last-semester. that's all. purely an observation."
"peter."
"it's fine. you can talk to whoever you want. i'm not — i'm not being weird about it." he is, very clearly, being weird about it, arms still crossed, gaze already drifting back toward the spot across the room like he can't quite help himself. "i just think it's interesting that he apparently needed to stand that close to discuss a project that ended four months ago."
you can't help the small, fond smile that creeps onto your face, watching him try so hard to sound unbothered while failing spectacularly at it. "you're actually jealous."
"i'm observant."
"you're jealous, and it's kind of adorable."
"i'm not — " he stops, deflating slightly, some of the forced casualness finally cracking. "okay, maybe a little. he laughed at something you said and you did that thing where your whole face lights up, and i was standing all the way over here, and it was, admittedly, not a great few minutes for me, emotionally."
"peter parker, are you telling me you've been standing here sulking because a guy from my chem class made me laugh."
"i wasn't sulking. i was contemplating."
"contemplating what."
"whether i should go say something or punch him. i decided against it. mostly because ned physically blocked the path when i tried to move."
you laugh — you can't help it, the image of ned bodily intercepting peter mid-jealous-march is too good not to — and he goes slightly pink, embarrassed now on top of everything else.
"it's not funny."
"it's a little funny."
"you're laughing at my emotional turmoil."
"i'm laughing because you're being ridiculous, and also because it's genuinely sooo cute that you got worked up over ethan, of all people, who i have spoken to a grand total of maybe three times in my entire life, every single one of them about a chemistry project."
"he stood close."
"he always stands close, he doesn't have a great sense of personal space, it's not a me thing." you step in front of him properly now, effectively blocking his view of the rest of the party, forcing his attention fully onto you instead. "you know there's no one else i'd rather be standing next to right now, right?"
"i know that. logically." he still looks a little sheepish, a little unconvinced despite himself. "it's not really a logic thing, though. it's more of a — watching-someone-else-make-you-laugh thing. i don't love it. i'm allowed to not love it a little."
"you are allowed to not love it a little," you agree, gently. "but for the record, nothing about tonight has changed anything. i promise."
"i know."
"do you, though."
he hesitates, just for a second, and that small hesitation is answer enough — so you reach up, cup his jaw, and kiss him properly, slowly, deeply, and a little hungrily, right there in flash's crowded kitchen, slow and deliberate, meant less as a public statement and more as proof, the kind he clearly needs more than he'd ever admit to needing out loud.
he makes a small, surprised sound against your mouth, but melts into you as fast, hands finding your waist almost immediately, and whatever tension had been sitting in his shoulders for the last twenty minutes visibly starts melting away the longer the kiss goes on.
"okay," he murmurs, when you finally pull back, looking considerably more like himself again — a little dazed, very pleased, the sulky edge from earlier entirely gone. "okay, i believe you now."
"just needed the visual confirmation?"
"apparently, yeah. very effective methodology. i'd recommend it for future jealousy-related incidents." he's grinning now, some of his usual chattiness creeping back in, and you feel a rush of fondness at how quickly he bounces back once he's actually reassured. "for the record, though — i really wasn't trying to be dramatic about it."
"you crossed your arms and stared at a wall for twenty minutes."
"i was being subtle."
"you were being extremely obvious. ned noticed. i'm pretty sure flash noticed, and flash notices nothing."
"flash notices things when it's convenient for him to mock me about it later, which is different." he tugs you a little closer, resting his forehead against yours, voice dropping quieter now, more sincere. "i really am sorry. i know it's not a big deal. i just — i really like you. probably more than is normal for someone who's known you since freshman year. it makes me a little insane sometimes, watching someone else get your attention, even for something as boring as a chem project."
"you don't have anything to worry about, peter. genuinely."
"i'm working on believing that faster next time. give me a little grace, i'm new to having something worth being nervous about losing."
something in your chest goes soft and warm at that, and instead of responding you just kiss him again, slower this time, one hand curling into the front of his shirt, and he responds immediately, easily, any last traces of the earlier jealousy dissolving completely under the attention.
"you know," he says, a little breathless when you finally break apart again, "if this is the reward system for jealousy, i might start getting jealous a lot more often."
"don't push it."
"no promises." he kisses you again anyway, quick and easy this time, grinning against your mouth. "worth the risk, honestly."
"peter."
"i'm kidding. mostly."
you lace his fingers through yours, tugging him gently away from the kitchen and back toward a hidden corner from the rest of the party, and you grin to see that his usual easy confidence fully restored now. "come on. want me to make it up to you?”
"the day i say no to that, i want you to push me off the tallest building without my web shooters.”
you laugh, and if you catch him shooting one last, faintly smug look toward ethan across the room on the way — well. you decide, generously, not to comment on it.
“GET A FUCKING ROOM!” someone shouts at the both of you
“ON IT!” peter yells back, raising a middle finger at them.
pairing: Clarisse La Rue x reader
fandom: Percy Jackson & the Olympians
setting: Camp Half-Blood
contents: jealousy, tension, enemies-to-lovers vibes, aphrodite!reader, almost kiss, emotionally confused clarisse
─────────── ⋆ ˚⋆୨୧⋆ ˚⋆ ──────────
Clarisse had noticed it the second breakfast ended.
You were sitting near the campfire circle, sunlight spilling through the trees as you laughed at something one of the Apollo campers said. Your head tipped back slightly, the sound bright and effortless.
Clarisse tried not to care.
Really.
She leaned against the edge of the arena fence, arms crossed tight over her chest, pretending to watch the Ares campers spar.
But her eyes kept drifting back.
The Apollo kid nudged your shoulder.
You nudged him back.
Clarisse’s jaw tightened.
Gods.
What was so funny?
He probably said something stupid about the sun or music or whatever the hell Apollo kids talked about all day.
And the worst part?
You didn’t even glance her way.
Not once.
—
By lunch it was worse.
You were sitting at the tables again with him—some tall blond guy from the Apollo cabin whose name Clarisse couldn’t even remember. He kept leaning close when he talked, like he thought whatever he was saying was fascinating.
You laughed again.
Clarisse stabbed her fork into her food harder than necessary.
Across the table, one of the Ares campers raised an eyebrow.
“Who pissed you off?”
Clarisse didn’t even look up.
“Mind your own damn business.”
—
By the afternoon she was irritated enough to take it out on the training dummies.
Her spear slammed into one with enough force to split the straw.
Another Ares camper whistled.
“Damn, La Rue.”
Clarisse ignored him, yanking the spear free again.
Across the field, she spotted you near the archery range.
Still with him.
The Apollo boy brushed your arm while he talked.
Something hot and unfamiliar twisted in her chest.
What the hell was that?
She shoved the thought away and threw her spear again.
Harder.
—
Night fell over Camp Half-Blood quietly.
The cabins were mostly lit with soft lantern light, the air cooling after the heat of the day.
You were heading back toward Cabin Ten when you noticed a familiar figure leaning against one of the wooden posts near the cabins.
Arms crossed.
Waiting.
Clarisse.
Her expression was unreadable.
You slowed slightly.
“Hey,” you started.
Clarisse pushed off the post.
“Finally done flirting with sunshine boy?”
You blinked.
“…what?”
She stepped closer, her boots crunching softly on the gravel path.
“What were you doing with that loser anyway?”
Your eyebrows shot up.
“He’s from the Apollo cabin.”
“Yeah, I know that,” she scoffed.
“What, he likes to dance around in the sun and eat fucking rainbows or something?”
You stared at her.
“Clarisse, what is your problem?”
She took another step closer.
“You were hanging all over him all day.”
“I was not.”
“Yeah, you were.”
Your arms crossed instinctively.
“Why do you even care?”
The question landed harder than you expected.
Clarisse froze.
Just for a second.
Her jaw clenched.
“Because he’s an idiot.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
The air between you felt suddenly tight.
Clarisse rubbed the back of her neck like the conversation itself annoyed her.
“Whatever,” she muttered.
“Just—stay away from him.”
You let out a small laugh.
“You don’t get to tell me who I talk to.”
She stepped closer again.
Now there was barely any space between you.
“You don’t get it,” she said quietly.
“Then explain it.”
Clarisse opened her mouth.
Then stopped.
Her eyes flickered down—briefly—to your lips before snapping back up.
“I just—”
She cut herself off.
Your voice softened slightly.
“Clarisse?”
She exhaled slowly, clearly frustrated.
“You laugh like that with everyone?”
You tilted your head.
“No.”
Silence settled between you.
The lantern light flickered softly across her face.
Clarisse leaned forward slightly—
Then stopped herself.
Like she’d just realized what she was about to do.
She ran a hand through her hair, stepping back abruptly.
“Forget it.”
Before you could respond, she turned and started walking away.
Fast.
You watched her go, still standing in the quiet space between the cabins.
War kids, apparently, had absolutely no idea what to do when they started falling for someone.
poly sajaboys x reader but with that scene where they were signing everyone's stuff ? maybe with a bit of tension but up to you !!
pairing: Saja Boys x Hunter!Idol!reader
warnings: Flirtatious teasing & romantic tension Competitive behavior, Mild jealousy, Slight power play dynamics, Crowd setting, Blushing, embarrassment, flustering
disclaimer: not my pic!
I tried to include shipping names with y/n and it was very difficult so be gentle hahaha
The fan sign was already chaos.
Not the bad kind — no, this was the kind of chaos that made your pulse race in the best way. You sat at a long, glitzy table with five devastatingly attractive men beside you — five men who also happened to be demons, your closest allies, and... complications in the form of sweatpants, cologne, and smirking mouths.
Your hands were sore from signing albums, your smile worn but genuine. The fan chants had barely died down between interactions, and the energy in the room was electric. Fans were decked out in glowing headbands, face paint, and custom slogan banners — and more than once, you caught glimpses of your face next to one of the Saja Boys on cardboard hearts or glossy posters.
You were too distracted to care… until one fan stepped up with a giant sign that made your stomach drop.
“WHAT’S YOUR FAV SHIP? 👀 YINU? MYSTERYN? BABYN? ROMANYN? ABBYN??!”
You blinked.
And the boys noticed.
Abby leaned closer, glancing at the sign and then at you, a slow grin creeping over his face. “Well well well…” he purred, voice dripping with amusement. “Didn’t know we had an official ship war going on.”
Romance let out a low whistle. “They really gave us couple names, huh? I like that. Very K-drama of them.”
Mystery, who had been relatively quiet up until now, tilted his head toward you. “So, Y/N,” he said smoothly, “which ship do you think sounds the best? I think ‘Mysteryn’ rolls off the tongue quite nicely. Has a dark, seductive flair, doesn’t it?”
You let out an awkward laugh, waving your hand. “Guys, come on—don’t start this—”
But Baby had already perked up, lips in a mischievous pout. “Why am I always the cute ship? ‘Babyn’ sounds like a damn plush toy.” He leaned across the table, chin resting in his palm as he looked you over. “Should’ve known they’d ship us though. You did call me pretty on that radio show last week.”
Romance narrowed his eyes. “Hold up. You called him pretty?”
“Don’t sound so offended,” you mumbled, already regretting every decision that led to this moment.
Jinu, who’d been casually sipping a coffee from a fan, set it down slowly. His tone was deceptively mild. “You told Baby he was pretty... but you told me I looked ‘intimidatingly hot.’” He turned that gaze on you — all fire and quiet danger. “Was that just fan service?”
Your breath caught.
The fans, oblivious to the rising tension, were eating it up. Some were even chanting shipping names now. And the worst part?
The boys loved it.
Abby leaned toward the mic and said with mock seriousness, “Personally, I think ‘Abbyn’ is the superior ship name. It's bold. Strong. Sexy. Like us.”
“Oh please,” Romance scoffed, nudging Abby. “Romanyn is obviously the most romantic. It has aesthetic. Even our fans draw us in couples’ shoots.”
“Because you pose like a damn perfume commercial every time Y/N looks at you,” Baby muttered.
“You sound jealous,” Abby added, winking at you. “Don’t worry, princess. I’ll still sign your name with a heart.”
Your face was burning. The fans were laughing and gasping, some even screaming.
You tried to speak, but Jinu’s voice cut through the noise, lower now, directed only at you.
“I don’t care about names,” he said, eyes locked on yours. “I care about what you want.”
Everything paused.
The table. The crowd. The noise.
Romance was the first to break the silence, his voice dropping into something more intimate. “Do you want us to stop, Y/N?” he asked quietly, fingers brushing close to yours across the table. “Or are you… enjoying this a little too much?”
You glanced at his hand. You should have pulled away. But your hand stayed.
And that’s when Mystery reached for the mic again and spoke with quiet menace, “We’re not teasing her. We’re claiming her. Don’t get it twisted.”
Baby’s eyes gleamed. “Or maybe she’s the one who owns us. Ever think of that?”
“God, you’re such a brat,” Abby muttered under his breath, sitting back in his chair with an exasperated grin. “She totally plays favorites.”
“I do not!” you blurted.
Five heads turned.
Five pairs of eyes — each so different in color and intensity — locked onto you like you were prey in the middle of a warzone.
“So you admit,” Jinu said slowly, “that you’ve thought about who your favorite would be.”
You froze.
“Answer carefully,” Mystery murmured.
“She’s blushing,” Romance said with a smirk.
“I knew she liked the attention,” Baby chimed in, practically bouncing in his seat.
“I will walk off this stage,” you warned, voice an octave too high.
Abby leaned in, eyes gleaming. “No you won’t.”
And he was right. You stayed seated, cheeks flaming, while the boys continued to battle it out with teasing smiles and veiled flirtation — signing albums for squealing fans while not once taking their eyes off you. The air around you was hot, charged, a mixture of electricity and tension that left you dizzy.
As the last fan approached the table, handing over a final sign that read:
"No matter the ship, she's ours."
The boys went silent.
And then Jinu signed it with a bold flourish — before sliding the marker across the table to you. His voice was soft but serious.
“Want to add your name to that?”
You hesitated, the weight of the moment finally settling on your shoulders — five demons, five dangerous hearts, and one very public stage.
But you smiled.
And added your signature with a soft little heart.
Ghoap x Reader single mom reader, hoping to have part two out before Christmas.
As per usual, just an idea, and writers can take it and run with it. Just let me know where to read your work.
Master list
So maybe looking on Craigslist for a wife was not his most logical decision. Maybe meeting a complete stranger from the internet was not the best idea. Maybe he should have asked for her picture. Maybe he should have told someone where he was going.
But Simon Riley was desperate and running out of time.
"Are you Simon?" He looks up at you, eyes wide, clearly nervous, even with half his face covered by the surgical mask, then nods.
You sit across from him, the little mom and pop dinner seat squeaks. He is stunned because you look nothing like he imagined.
"Do you have some form of proof of your situation?" You cut right to the point. Simon pulls out his military ID, shows his dog tags, and then shows some pictures of Riley.
Then you smile at the pictures. "Oh, he is adorable. Can not believe you gave him the same name as your last name." Within seconds, he is gushing about his good boy.
Once the conversation lulls, you get serious again. "I have a big yard. It is fenced in. You will have to buy the kennel and whatnot. I will take him to vet appointments and text you daily pictures. In exchange, I want health insurance and you to pretend to love me in front of my kid. I also have a prenup to make sure we do not fight over custody of Riley should we divorce."
He finds himself nodding along. He was not even prepared for that risk, but you had. How much had you thought about this?
"How good is your acting, by the way?"
Turns out Simon is a decent, if quiet, actor. Gentle touches here and there, temple kisses, general family time. He was not perfect, but it was enough to get your kiddo believing in love again. Which was all you wanted.
Certainly helps that Kiddo took to both Riley and Simon like one takes to oxygen. Kiddo gushing all about their precious fur baby being retired military.
Simon was a bit confused about why neither of you reacted to his mask or even asked about it but honestly, he was a little scared to ask and then bring attention to it. He was thankful you adopted Riley off the bat, signing a notarized paper giving him visitation with him to buy some time for the wedding.
You had said, "I have to make sure you are a safe person to be around my kid. I may be desperate, but I am not stupid or reckless," while holding up what was clearly a tracker at the end of your first meeting. You are prepared in all the ways Simon is not. Still, it started small, being seen together. Meeting up after you get off work, just so kiddo and the babysitter see him drop you off. Then the dates were you "could not find a babysitter" so the kiddo had to come. Within a few months there was a small ceremony, and he was moving in- right into your shared bedroom.
He realized he might not have thought far enough ahead, but the moment Riley crawls into the bed, he is out cold, waking up to you bringing him homemade breakfast in bed and talking about how exhausted he must have been. Any time he is not working, he is home, Riley by his side, and the kiddo firmly believes in love and all is good in your perfect little worlds, even if they rarely cross.
You expected the bare minimum from Simon. Seemingly, he has set his goal to break every expectation you set. You were pleasantly surprised at him playing with the kiddo and genuinely being interested in your baby's life and achievements. Simon hung the awards and pictures on the fridge as much as you did. You did not expect him to do anything around the house, but one night after the kiddo went to bed, you fell asleep in your chair before doing the dishes and laundry that desperately needed to be done. You woke up to Simon gently trying to tell you to head to bed. Prompt mom panic, only to find the laundry done and folded. You never asked, but he always did something to make your life a little easier while home. Even more, he never asked for anything out of you.
The first argument floored you. He wanted to split the bills, stating he lived there, too. You countered that he was only there when he was not deployed. He was having none of that. Eventually, you compromised to have him pay the less expensive bills. Then Christmas rolled around, and of course, this man decided to spend all the money he saved on bills on you and the kid.
You are not sure what you expected to happen if your kid called him Dad, but it certainly was not this.
He and the kiddo were playing with Riley when you heard it, "Dad, watch this!" It was a slip of the tongue. Kiddo did not even realize he said it. Simon tensed up the same as your exs before they started yelling. Simon, though precious Simon never raised his voice to either of you, and that did not change that day. He had quietly excused himself. Thankfully, it was time for the kiddo to go to bed anyway, and so you found Simon on the back porch smoking tears running down his face and an unopened bottle of whiskey beside him.
"Hey," you sit beside him, quiet, waiting, unsure.
He speaks barely above a whisper, "I do not want to be like my father."
He did not have to say more; you understood. Leaning back to look at the stars, you start talking, "My parents do not love each other. Not sure they ever did. They were good parents, but it still left a lasting impression. I believed in love. I kept trying, and yeah, there were lots of foul people who just used that naivety against me. I thought I had found the one when I got pregnant. Guess what, he is not here. You are. You may not love me romantically, but you saved my kid from facing the cruel reality I had to. I do not believe I ever will find love, but I believe there has to be someone out there for my angel. Because of you, they will not fight against that chance. You have been more of a father to them than anyone else. I will not pretend to understand what happened to you, but even if we were to divorce, I would encourage you to see the kiddo. You clearly care for them like a father." With that, you take the whiskey bottle and head inside while Riley joins him on the porch.
Soap can't get a plane home for the holidays, but Ghost gets two tickets home and a plane ticket from his home airport to Soap's home the day after Christmas. Ghost planted the tickets in Soap's hand, and that was that.
Until Soap saw the house Ghost supposedly lived in. There were little snowmen lining the porch, clearly made by a child. Then there are lights strung up. Soap remembers Simon's old flat. He did not even have pictures on the wall. Soap follows the love of his life into the house, heart slowing every step of the way. He watches Simon shrug off his coat and hang it on a hook with his name above it, then gesture to a guest hook for soap. The boots were nicely lined up, and he slipped on a pair of house shoes like he had done it a thousand times.
Then he followed Ghost into the kitchen, where a Lady was cooking. He felt his heart shatter as Ghost placed a hand on her waist and leaned down, kissing her temple. "Where is Kiddo?" The lady chuckled and turned to look up at Simon. "At ease, soldier. Your mini me is with his paternal grandmother's till Christmas morning." Then she turned to Soap, seemingly startled at his presence. She was beautiful, seemingly glowing with the joy of a woman seeing her husband after a long work trip. Soap felt sick, but he would not dare let it show.
Simon explained that Soap could not get a plane home, and the only available flight would be the day after Christmas. You nodded along and welcomed Soap into the guest bedroom, telling Simon to make sure Soap knew the house rules.
Soap knows he has no right to be this upset, even as he silently cries in the guest bedroom with you and Simon sleeping on the other side of the wall. It was not like he ever told Ghost his feelings. Even still, he thought Simon would have told him that he was getting married. Then again, it was a huge show of faith for Simon to bring Soap into his home. Into a place with his wife and child. Soap found some comfort in that.
Reality is, Simon is just embarrassed by how this all occurred and never told Soap because he was sure he would make fun of him. He also thinks that Soap believing that he is really with you will convince the kid more.
in which Tech gets jealous of how you care for his brothers and admits that he’d like special treatment.
warnings: none (sfw), some smooches and injuries
a/n: something short and sweet for my first post on this blog pls be nice ily
“Alright, c’mon, big guy…” you murmur, guiding wrecker towards the med bay. He and Hunter had just returned from another one of cid’s errands, which, naturally, had involved blaster burns and damaged armor.
“Just a scratch,” he chuckles, while you lean closer to remove his chest plate and inspect the charred mark across his torso. You shake your head affectionately and turn to gather some supplies.
“Up,” you gesture, gently raising his muscular arms to roll his blacks out of the way. He smiles and watches as you begin to clean the wounded area.
Across the ship, Tech glances up from his datapad. His eyebrows furrow slightly behind his goggles as he watches the two of you interact so comfortably. His older brother always seemed to bring out a softer side of you. It was almost…irritating, how much you laughed around him.
His eyes narrowed further as you prepared a bacta patch and applied it to the burnt skin across Wrecker’s chest. The sight of your hands on him—so gentle—sent a sharp sting of jealousy through Tech. He clenched his datapad tighter and stayed quiet.
You whisper an apology every now and then when your fingers accidentally prod at his injury. Wrecker grunts softly, but never complains, instead attempting to distract himself with humor.
“You know, if ya keep babying me like this, I might just get used to it,” he grumbles.
You laugh. Again. Tech exhales sharply.
“Well, that’s what I’m here for, hm?” You affirm, smoothing over the patch. Wrecker wiggles his eyebrows and nods.
“Okay…there you go…” you mutter softly as you begin to bandage Wrecker’s wound, your arms circling him to fasten the fabric across his torso. You press even closer to reach around his large frame, and he doesn’t seem to mind.
“Thanks, doc,” he grins appreciatively, “I owe ya.”
He opens his arms for a hug, and as you’re about to lean in, Tech clears his throat. You look over your shoulder.
“Oh, hi,” you chuckle, noticing that he’d left his seat and was now only a few feet away. “What’s wrong?”
He was suddenly very aware of how stiff he sounded. He blinked a few times and watched wrecker shuffle back to his own bunk.
“…May you…check on my wounds as well?” He asks in his usual matter-of-fact cadence. There’s an uncharacteristic hesitance to his question, though, and you tilt your head. Tech hadn’t been out with the other two boys…and you’d made sure he was healthy after their last mission. You were fairly certain he had no ‘wounds,’ but you accept anyway.
“Oh…of course, hun. Come sit,” you smile.
You nod to the small bunk and he follows your instructions diligently. Although you don’t see it, his eyes widen for a split second when you call him ‘hun,’ a term of endearment the batch had only heard from you before.
He’d always been infatuated by your little affectionate habits; they were so unlike the cold, clinical care he’d received on Kamino as a child. When you’d first joined clone force 99, he’d immediately researched the psychological effects of your treatment style—breathing exercises and positive reinforcement and such. He’d questioned your methods, as he did with everyone, but…he couldn’t deny your results. You’d become a beacon of support for the entire batch, and for Tech, you were slowly becoming more than that.
He’d been visiting your med bay more often than what could be considered logical or reasonable. He would replay recordings on his datapad to ‘analyze mission files,’ but only the ones that included clips of your smiling face. He’d taken note of how you cared for Omega and his brothers as if they were your own family.
However, right now…he found himself looking for ways to direct your attention away from his brothers and towards him.
“Rope burn again?” You ask lightly.
He glances away as he remembers the time you’d witnessed him skid down a ledge without properly securing his grapple and insisted you check for injuries. He couldn’t refuse when you’d clutched his hands and pressed a cold compress to his palms. He clears his throat.
“…No. I have a bruise.”
You blink.
“A bruise?”
You’d seen Tech return from missions half dead. Why was he concerned about a bruise?
He nods, promptly removing his gloves and wrist gear. Sure enough, there was a yellowing mark on the inside of his forearm.
“Hm…” you gently cup his elbow with one hand and swipe your thumb over the contusion with the other. Not swollen, not hot to the touch. Seemed…normal.
At this point, the gears in your head were turning. Tech was easily the smartest member of the batch and his medical knowledge was not limited. He knew this bruise was relatively harmless.
He also knew you would inspect it anyway. He held out his arm to you so expectantly, almost eagerly, his brown eyes gazing up at you with a soft expression you’d seen before in children with scraped knees. It was impossible not to recognize, and you gave him a small, knowing smile.
He watches as you turn to retrieve a small tin of bacta-infused ointment. You wordlessly gather some of it on your fingertips and begin to lightly spread it over the discolored skin.
“Tech,” you begin, your voice quieter than before.
“…hm?” He glances up and adjusts his goggles.
“…if you want my attention, all you have to do is ask,” you murmur, one hand sliding down to hold his wrist.
He looks up from your hands and stares at you like you’d just thrown his datapad out of the airlock. Then, he swallows and glances sideways.
“…Wrecker does not ask for your attention.”
Your expression softens with realization and you give him another smile, your fingers leaving the faint bruise to cup his jaw.
“Wrecker doesn’t have an itemized list of ‘non-tactile comfort strategies,’” you comment, almost teasing. The tips of his ears redden slightly as your thumb strokes his chin, and for once, he’s silenced.
“I didn’t think you would like…any of that,” you continue to gently explain, “I’m sorry, sweetie…”
The pet name brings his gaze back up to yours, soft and swimming behind his goggles.
“I suppose I could have been more direct,” he murmurs. You huff a laugh, and his eyebrows curl up with something like admiration.
“Mhm. But…I know now,” you whisper, leaning closer. Your hand slides up to cradle his cheek and he turns into your palm, his own hands moving to rest against your hips like he couldn’t keep them still if he tried. It sends a flutter through your stomach and you give him an approving smile that morphs into a more playful expression as you let out a low murmur.
“I never took you for the jealous type…”
The corner of his lip twitches and his hands flex at your sides.
“Niether did I. But you…” he trails off, blinking as you tentatively reach up and slide his goggles to his forehead. His honey brown eyes stare up at you, now unobstructed.
“I’m special?” You prompt, your face gravitating closer to his.
“Illogical,” he corrects with a slow nod, glancing down to your lips.
You giggle once more before removing the distance and pressing your lips to his. The kiss is short—simple but meaningful. Your noses brush together when you pull away and it’s quiet for a moment.
“…Y/n?” he mutters.
“Hm?” you hum, your fingers carding through the hair at the nape of his neck.
Summary:
Years after Peter left you behind, he returns to Midtown only to find you’ve grown into his rival—and the one person he can’t stop staring at. Between jealousy, school competitions, and a science fair showdown, Peter finally proves he’s on your side. But when feelings resurface, the line between old wounds and something new starts to blur.
Warning:
Mentions of past teasing/bullying, jealousy, light angst, tension-filled banter, but ends with a slow-burn romantic payoff, kinda occ Peter parker.
Main masterlist || Navigation
Being Tony Stark’s daughter meant the world saw you before you ever really saw yourself. From the outside, it sounded like perfection—penthouse views, designer toys, a famous father who could build an AI before breakfast. But on the inside? It was quieter. Lonelier.
That’s where Peter came in.
You met him when you were five. Your dad had brought him over one Saturday afternoon, introducing him as the "brightest kid in Queens"—though in your five-year-old brain, that meant nothing. All you saw was a boy with messy brown hair, a Spider-Man backpack too big for his shoulders, and a smile that made your stomach fizz in a way you didn’t understand yet.
He was ten. Practically a grown-up to you.
From the start, you wanted to be near him. You followed him down the hallways of the Stark Tower like a shadow, clinging to his sleeve when he tried to shake you off. You wanted him to teach you things, to talk to you, to notice you. But to Peter, you weren’t "Tony Stark’s daughter." You weren’t even "his friend." You were just the kid sister he never asked for.
And he made sure you knew it.
(“Stop following me, Mini Stark,” he muttered one afternoon when you trailed after him to the lab. You blinked at the new name, not realizing it was meant as an insult until he smirked. “Actually, no—Mini Iron. You’re like… a knock-off version of your dad. Tin foil girl.”
His friends laughed. You laughed too, pretending it didn’t sting.)
(You’d spent two hours doodling a crooked picture of Peter in his Spider-Man hoodie—stick figure limbs, but a big heart scrawled in the corner. You handed it to him shyly. He took one glance and passed it off to Ned, snorting.
“Dude, she drew me with three fingers. What am I, an alien?”
They laughed until tears ran down their cheeks. You shoved the drawing into your pocket and never mentioned it again.)
(One game night when the Tower was too big and too empty, you begged Peter and his friends to play hide and seek. They agreed, but when it was your turn to seek, you searched for nearly an hour before realizing they’d locked themselves in Peter’s guest room to watch a movie instead.
When you confronted him, he shrugged. “We just… forgot you, Tin Foil Girl.”
Forgot. The word hurt more than being laughed at.)
(Halloween came around when you were seven. You wore a glittery princess dress, tiara slipping down your head. You twirled into the living room, where Peter and his friends were slouched across the couch.
“Look, she thinks she’s royalty,” Peter teased, putting on a fake bow. “Your Majesty of Annoying Kingdom.”
His friends roared. You ran back to your room before the tears fell.)
(At eight, you sat at the kitchen counter with a glass of grape juice when Peter and Ned came barging in. Peter "accidentally" bumped into you, spilling purple liquid down your shirt.
“Oh no, Stark Industries is ruined! Quick, someone build her a bib suit!” he laughed.
You tried to smile, but your throat ached.)
(By nine, you’d learned your dad’s lab was the one place you weren’t supposed to wander. But Peter could. He had "special clearance." When you asked to join him, he shook his head.
“Sorry, Mini Stark. This place is for real geniuses, not… kids who still sleep with stuffed animals.”
You flushed. He was right—you did still sleep with Mr. Bear. But it wasn’t fair that he said it like that.)
(At ten, your birthday cake was decorated in pink and gold, candles flickering bright. You made a wish—secret, shy—that maybe Peter would smile at you like you weren’t invisible. But when your dad cut the cake, Peter leaned in to whisper to MJ loud enough for you to hear:
“She’s probably wishing for me to like her. Dream on, Mini Iron.”
They laughed. You swallowed the wish whole, pretending it didn’t taste like ashes.)
Years blurred together, but the pattern stayed the same: you followed, he teased. You wanted him to notice you for real, he pushed you down with words that always felt sharper than sticks or stones. You told yourself it didn’t matter—that it was just Peter being Peter.
But somewhere between five and twelve, your tiny crush began to wilt. Not vanish, not completely, but it twisted into something complicated: longing mixed with embarrassment, admiration tangled with anger.
By the time you were twelve, you weren’t the same little girl who clung to his sleeve. Your dad’s company had taught you to walk in heels too big for your feet, to smile in front of cameras, to answer questions sharper than most adults could handle. You weren’t "Mini Stark" anymore.
And Peter? He was sixteen, almost seventeen. Taller now, voice deeper, Spider-Man responsibilities doubling on his shoulders. You saw less of him in the Tower—he had school, patrols, a life outside of you.
But every time you did see him, you remembered all the times he’d laughed, all the ways he’d reminded you that in his world, you were always the little sister.
And you hated that a part of you still wanted to be more.
When the Blip hit, you were twelve.
One moment, Peter was there—eyes wide with fear, hand shaking as he clutched Tony’s arm—and then he was dust. Just… gone.
And you stayed.
The world cracked in half, but you didn’t vanish with it. You had to live in the ruins.
At first, the silence was unbearable. For so long, Peter had been part of your every day, even if it was only through teasing remarks or the echo of his laughter bouncing down Stark Tower’s hallways. Without him, it was too quiet. You hated how much you noticed. You hated how much you missed him, even after all those years of being his punchline.
But five years is a long time. Long enough for missing to turn into moving on.
You learned how to grow without him.
You stopped trailing behind anyone and started walking ahead. At school, you worked until your name sat at the very top of the grade sheets—not because you were Stark’s daughter, but because you earned it. Teachers praised your essays, your sharp eye for detail, your art that painted entire worlds on paper. You weren’t "Mini Stark" anymore. You were just you.
And people noticed.
By fifteen, you had a circle of friends who weren’t glued to your last name but to you. Girls who came over for sleepovers, boys who actually looked nervous when you laughed at their jokes. Even seniors respected you, nodding when you passed in the hallways, borrowing your notes when they fell behind.
You weren’t chasing anyone’s shadow anymore. You had built your own.
Puberty had been kind, too. You weren’t the awkward kid in tiaras and lopsided braids anymore—you were striking. The kind of girl who turned heads without trying, who knew how to walk into a room and make it hers. Cute had transformed into something sharper, something magnetic.
You found balance. You found yourself. You became the girl Peter once teased you for pretending to be—the girl who didn’t need him.
So when he came back, five years later, looking exactly the same—sixteen, messy-haired, gangly, with that same dorky smile—it was almost laughable.
Because you weren’t twelve anymore. You weren’t waiting for him to notice you, or aching for his approval. You’d spent half a decade becoming someone who didn’t need Peter Parker.
And that tiny crush you once had? It was dust, just like he had been.
Peter had faced aliens, fought alongside the Avengers, even died in Tony’s arms—and yet nothing had knocked the breath out of him the way seeing you did.
Five years. For him, it felt like five minutes. He still remembered you at twelve, trailing after him with wide eyes and messy braids, always scribbling in sketchbooks or asking if he’d play hide and seek. Annoying sometimes, sure. Cute in a kid way. But never someone he let himself really think about—you were Tony Stark’s daughter, for one. And for another, he was sixteen then, and you were just… a kid.
But now—
God.
Now you were standing in the Tower common room, sunlight catching on your hair, posture poised in a way that screamed confidence but not arrogance. You weren’t the clingy little sister figure anymore. You were… you. And Peter felt his chest tighten like he’d been hit by one of Hulk’s punches.
Your smile wasn’t shy. It wasn’t reaching for him, begging to be noticed. It was calm, effortless, directed at your friends clustered around you. Real friends, people who laughed with you, not at you.
And you looked—different. Not just older, but grown. Polished in a way Peter couldn’t quite process. Pretty wasn’t the word. Gorgeous, maybe. Stunning. The kind of gorgeous that made his throat dry and his brain short-circuit.
For a second, he just stared.
You glanced over, eyes catching his, and the jolt that shot through him nearly knocked him backwards. Because you didn’t look at him the way you used to. No wide-eyed awe, no clinging. Just… acknowledgment. Like he was anyone else.
And that’s what twisted the knife.
Because Peter realized, with a sudden drop in his stomach, that you didn’t need him anymore. You’d grown without him. Flourished. He’d been stuck in time, the same gawky sixteen-year-old, while you’d built an entire life in the five years he’d been gone.
But God help him—he couldn’t stop looking at you.
His breath hitched every time your laugh rang out across the room. His palms went clammy just watching you push your hair behind your ear. He remembered teasing you, brushing you off, calling you Tin Foil Girl. The memory made him want to crawl into the floor and never come out.
Because now, standing here, Peter Parker knew something with bone-deep certainty:
You weren’t the kid who had a crush on him anymore.
But he?
He was dangerously close to having one on you.
The music pulsed through the Stark Tower ballroom, lights dancing across the walls like fireworks. Your dad had thrown another one of his “not-a-party-but-definitely-a-party” events, half Avengers gathering, half press opportunity. You didn’t mind anymore. At sixteen, almost seventeen, you could handle the spotlight—and besides, it was a good excuse to dress up.
Your dress shimmered when you moved, subtle but striking. You weren’t trying to make a statement, but the way people’s eyes followed you said you had anyway. Your friends clustered around, laughing at some joke one of the older interns cracked. And when one of the boys—tall, broad-shouldered, definitely into you—pulled you onto the dance floor, you went easily, smiling.
That’s when Peter walked in.
He hadn’t been to a Stark party in years—not since the Blip. To him, nothing had changed. He still felt like the awkward Queens kid crashing a billionaire’s event. But the second his eyes found you, the world stuttered.
You weren’t the kid he remembered. Not the girl with braids trailing after him, not the twelve-year-old he’d teased before vanishing. No—you were glowing, laughter spilling freely, movements confident, dress clinging in a way that made his throat dry. And then you were dancing, spinning under the lights with someone else’s hands brushing your waist.
Jealousy hit him like a punch.
He tried to play it off, tried to pretend he wasn’t watching, but his eyes kept dragging back to you. The way you laughed. The way your hair caught the light. The way the boy leaned closer, clearly smitten.
Peter’s palms went clammy. He’d fought Thanos. He’d been to space. But he’d never felt this kind of panic before.
And then—you caught him.
Your gaze flicked across the room, landed on him, and held. You raised one perfect eyebrow, smirking faintly as if you’d caught him red-handed. Then, as the boy twirled you back toward your group of friends, you mouthed the words:
Something on my face, Parker?
Heat crawled up Peter’s neck. He tore his eyes away, pretending to focus on anything else—the buffet table, Happy talking to Pepper, the chandelier. But it was too late. You knew.
School only made things worse.
Peter had walked back into Midtown thinking he’d slide into his old rhythm—top grades, the smart kid teachers bragged about. But that was before he realized you were there.
You weren’t just there. You were everywhere.
Your name sat at the top of every leaderboard. Teachers called on you for answers before anyone else. The art teacher displayed your sketches on the walls, the science teacher praised your lab reports, even the debate team captain mentioned how you’d basically carried them to victory last semester.
And Peter? He was playing catch-up.
He sat in the back of class one day, watching as you calmly explained a physics problem he’d been struggling with since last night. The teacher beamed, the class hung on your words, and Peter gripped his pencil tighter. He’d been the genius. He’d been the kid everyone admired. But now?
Now you were that kid.
It was humbling. Infuriating. And maybe—God help him—kind of hot.
The shift came quietly.
One afternoon in the library, you found him staring blankly at a page, pencil tapping against his temple. You slid into the seat across from him without asking.
“Need help, Parker?”
He blinked, startled. “Uh—no, I—I’ve got it.”
You leaned over anyway, eyes scanning his scribbled notes. With a quick motion, you flipped his equation, pointed to a miscalculation. “You forgot to carry the exponent. Rookie mistake.”
For a moment, it was like old times—your teasing, his flustered stammer. But then he looked up and really saw you: steady, self-assured, a little smirk tugging at your lips. Not the kid sister anymore.
And something inside him cracked.
From then on, things shifted. Study sessions turned into quiet conversations. You’d mock him lightly, he’d roll his eyes, and sometimes—sometimes—you’d smile at him in a way that made his chest ache. Slowly, cautiously, you let him back in. Not fully. But enough.
Peter found himself craving it.
Then came the complication.
Tony Stark was not an oblivious man.
Peter should’ve known better than to stare too long across the lab, but he couldn’t help it—you were leaning over a blueprint, explaining some idea to your dad with gestures sharp and confident. Sunlight from the glass ceiling poured across your hair, and Peter’s eyes lingered too long.
“Careful, Underoos.”
Peter nearly jumped out of his skin. Tony was watching him, one eyebrow raised, the ghost of a smirk tugging at his lips.
“I—uh—I wasn’t—”
“Relax, kid.” Tony clapped him on the shoulder, voice deceptively light. “Just saying. Eyes on the project, not on my daughter. Unless you want a suit with your face engraved on the bottom of my shoe.”
Peter’s cheeks burned crimson. He stammered something unintelligible, and Tony chuckled, turning back to the schematics. But the warning lingered in the air, unspoken but sharp:
Don’t screw this up.
Peter knew he was in trouble.
Because the truth was, he didn’t just think you were beautiful. He didn’t just admire you.
He was falling. Hard.
And for the first time, he wasn’t sure if you’d let him catch up.
The gym had been transformed for the science fair, rows of tables lined with projects, each one desperate for attention. Posters gleamed under fluorescent lights, judges in suits strolled past, pens tapping against clipboards.
Your display sat in the middle—neat, polished, detailed, a project you’d poured weeks into. It wasn’t just technically perfect, it was beautiful—your sketches, your diagrams, your careful lettering. It looked less like homework and more like art, which was exactly your point. Science and art weren’t opposites. They were mirrors.
And people noticed. Students leaned in to ask questions, judges scribbled notes, even teachers from other departments came by just to look. You answered every question calmly, your voice steady, your confidence unshaken.
Peter was supposed to be focused on his own project—something about energy-efficient circuitry—but he couldn’t.
He was across the gym, but his eyes kept flicking to you. The way you gestured, the way your smile lit up when you explained something complicated, the way you seemed untouchable in this space. His chest tightened with something sharp and warm all at once.
You weren’t just good. You were magnetic.
And then it happened.
One of the judges—a man with silver hair and the kind of dismissive smirk that belonged on Wall Street, not in a school gym—leaned over your table. He flipped through your notes, barely glancing at the diagrams before he said, “This is impressive… for a Stark.”
The words dripped like poison.
“As in,” the judge continued, “clearly your father must’ve helped. No offense, of course. Still, it’s a fine attempt.”
You froze, that old ache in your chest threatening to return—the one that used to twist whenever someone reduced you to your last name. But before you could speak, before you could compose yourself—
Peter was there.
He’d crossed the gym without thinking, planting himself at your side like it was the most natural thing in the world. His voice was steady, but the edge in it was sharp enough to cut.
Excuse me, sir, but with all due respect—you’re wrong. I’ve seen her work. This is hers. All of it. She’s top of every class, her designs are cleaner than mine half the time, and she’s been doing this without anyone’s help for years. So maybe you should actually read the project before assuming.”
The gym went silent for a beat.
The judge blinked, clearly taken aback by the outburst, and then scribbled something quickly on his clipboard before moving on.
You stared at Peter, stunned. Not just by his words, but by the way he’d said them. No smirk. No teasing nickname. No undercutting joke. Just… belief.
Real, unshakable belief.
For the first time, he wasn’t on the other side of the laugh. He was on yours.
Hours later, the fair had ended. Your project had won first place. Your friends had already dragged you through a round of congratulations, but you’d slipped away for air, stepping out onto the school steps beneath the cool night sky.
That’s when you saw him.
Peter sat on the railing, hoodie pulled tight around his shoulders, staring at the stars like they might answer whatever storm was brewing in his head.
You hesitated, then walked closer. “You planning on camping out here?”
He jumped slightly, then rubbed the back of his neck, a sheepish grin spreading across his face. “Uh—no. Just needed… air. You know. Fresh. Breathing stuff.”
You laughed softly, crossing your arms. “Breathing stuff. Very scientific.”
He smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. Silence settled, heavy but not uncomfortable. Then Peter cleared his throat.
About earlier…” His voice cracked, and he winced. “I—uh—I meant what I said. All of it. You’re… you’re amazing. And not because you’re Stark’s daughter. Because you’re you. And I’m sorry it took me this long to figure that out.”
Your chest tightened, old memories pressing in—nicknames, laughter, the sting of being dismissed. You wanted to brush it off, to tell him it didn’t matter anymore. But it had mattered. For years.
“You were kind of awful to me, Parker.”
He flinched, nodding quickly. “I know. God, I know. I was a jerk. I thought teasing was easier than admitting that I—” He stopped, biting the inside of his cheek. Then he forced himself to look at you. “That I liked you. Even back then. I just… you were younger, you were Stark’s kid, and I didn’t know how to deal with it. So I handled it the worst way possible.”
The words hung between you, trembling.
You studied him. He wasn’t making excuses. He wasn’t hiding behind a joke. He was just… raw. Honest. And terrified.
Finally, you sighed. “I don’t know if I can forgive everything. Not yet.”
His shoulders sagged, disappointment flickering across his face. But then you added, quieter, “But I don’t hate you, Peter. And I… don’t not feel something. Anymore.”
His head snapped up, eyes wide. “Really?”
You rolled your eyes, a smile tugging at your lips despite yourself. “Don’t push it.”
For a moment, you just stood there, the air charged, the world narrowing down to the space between you. Then, almost without thinking, Peter leaned forward—hesitant, careful, giving you every chance to pull away.
You didn’t.
The kiss was soft, almost clumsy, but real. The kind of kiss that wasn’t an ending, but a beginning.
When you pulled back, Peter was grinning like an idiot, breathless. “So… does this mean we’re—?”
“Friends,” you interrupted, smirking. “Maybe more. If you earn it.”
His grin only widened. “Deal.”
And for the first time in years, you weren’t the kid chasing him, and he wasn’t the boy running away.
You lay buried under a mountain of blankets on the couch in the dorm's living room, your body aching from the worst flu you had had in years. Your head throbbed, your nose was completely stuffed, and every cough felt like it rattled your ribs.
The boys, your boys, had insisted on staying home with you instead of their usual schedules, and while part of you was grateful, the other part just wanted quiet, peace, and maybe a little happiness without the tension crackling in the air.
Sunghoon and Jungwon were both dating you. It had started separately, grown naturally, and somehow become this beautiful, shared thing where they both made you feel cherished in their own ways. But today, with you sick and vulnerable, their care had turned into a silent battlefield.
Sunghoon moved with his usual quiet precision. He was in the kitchen now, the sound of a blender humming softly. He was observant like that, always noticing the little things.
Earlier, he had gently tucked an extra blanket around your shoulders without a word, his cool fingers brushing your feverish forehead as he checked your temperature. "You're burning up," he murmured, voice low and steady. He brought you water with electrolytes, fluffed the pillows behind your back, and even dimmed the lights because he remembered how light hurt your eyes when you were like this.
But every time Jungwon tried to do something, Sunghoon's jaw would tighten just a fraction.
Jungwon, on the other hand, was all warm energy and playful concern, even if he tried to tone it down for your sake. He sat on the edge of the couch now, a damp cloth in hand that he had refreshed with cool water.
"Here, noona," he said softly, pressing it to your forehead with a gentle smile.
His touch was lighter, more lingering, like he wanted to comfort you with presence as much as anything. "This should help the fever. I looked up some remedies, ginger tea is supposed to be good for this."
You managed a weak smile, reaching out to squeeze his hand. "Thank you, Wonnie... both of you. I just... I hate making you worry."
"You're not making us do anything," Jungwon replied quickly, his eyes bright and sincere. He was the type to keep promises, to show up fully. He pulled out a small container from his bag, one he had apparently prepared earlier. "I brought some sliced fruit. Easy on the stomach, and I cut them small so you do not have to chew much."
From the kitchen, Sunghoon appeared with a tall glass. His expression was calm, almost cool, but you caught the subtle glance he shot toward the fruit. "She needs hydration more than sugar right now," he said evenly, handing you the blended drink. It smelled faintly of banana and something soothing, probably one of those electrolyte mixes he researched silently while you dozed. "Drink this slowly. I added a bit of honey for your throat."
Jungwon did not snap back, but his shoulders squared a little. "The fruit has natural sugars and vitamins. It is not just sugar." He turned to you with that soft, teasing lilt he used when he wanted to lighten things. "Right? You like the mango I cut?"
You nodded weakly, taking a small sip of Sunghoon's drink first to keep the peace. It was perfect, cool, not too sweet. "Both are good... really." Your voice was hoarse, and another cough shook you.
Immediately, both of them moved.
Sunghoon was faster this time, grabbing the cough medicine from the table and measuring it out with careful, practiced movements. "Here. This one does not make you drowsy as much."
Jungwon was right behind, adjusting the blanket again and rubbing small circles on your arm. "After this, maybe some Red Velvet slices? I picked them up from that café you like, the ones with the cream cheese frosting. Soft and not too heavy. I thought they would cheer you up."
You perked up a tiny bit at that. Red Velvet slices, your favorite treat when you were not dying. The rich, slightly cocoa tinged cake with that tangy sweet frosting was comforting in a way nothing else was. "That sounds... nice," you whispered, eyes watering from the cough.
Sunghoon's lips pressed into a thin line. He did not say anything against it, but you saw him glance at the small box Jungwon had set on the coffee table. "She might not keep it down yet. Let us wait until the medicine kicks in."
The quiet war continued like that for the next hour. Sunghoon would bring practical things, thermometer checks, steam from a hot shower he ran in the bathroom to help your congestion, even quietly playing soft lo fi on low volume because he knew it helped you relax. Jungwon countered with warmth, funny little stories from practice told in hushed tones to make you smile, the promised Red Velvet slices cut into tiny, manageable pieces, the cake was moist and velvety, the frosting just the right balance of sweet and cream cheese tang, melting on your tongue without being overwhelming, and constant gentle touches, brushing hair from your face, holding your hand.
You felt caught in the middle, too exhausted to mediate properly. "Guys... I love you both for this. I really do. Can we just... sit together? No fighting over who does what?"
They both froze for a second.
Sunghoon sat on the other side of the couch, his long legs stretched out. Jungwon stayed close on your left. The silence stretched, broken only by your occasional sniffles.
Jungwon spoke first, voice softer than usual. "We are not fighting. We just... both want you to feel better." He looked across at Sunghoon, and for the first time that day, it was not competitive, it was something searching.
Sunghoon met his gaze, his usual composed mask cracking just a little. He was the observant one, he had noticed things for weeks now. The way Jungwon's eyes lingered on him sometimes when they were all together. The way Sunghoon himself felt a strange pull when Jungwon laughed at his dry jokes or when their hands brushed while taking care of you. "Yeah," Sunghoon said quietly. "We both do."
You watched them through heavy eyelids, the Red Velvet slice half eaten on the plate in your lap. The tension in the room shifted, not gone, but transforming. Sunghoon reached over and adjusted the blanket over all three of you, his fingers brushing Jungwon's arm in the process. Neither pulled away.
Jungwon let out a small breath, almost a laugh. "You know... taking care of her like this. It feels right when it is both of us." His eyes flicked to Sunghoon again, a faint blush on his cheeks that had nothing to do with the warm room. "More than right."
Sunghoon nodded slowly, his voice low. "It does." He looked at you, then back at Jungwon, something vulnerable and new in his expression. "Maybe... we do not have to compete for it."
You smiled weakly, reaching for both their hands. The fever made everything fuzzy, but this moment felt clear. "You two... are cute when you are like this." Your voice was raspy, but teasing. "I want you both happy. With me... and maybe with each other too."
The words hung there. Jungwon squeezed your hand, then hesitantly reached across to rest his other hand over Sunghoon's for a brief second. Sunghoon did not move away. Instead, he turned his palm up, linking them loosely.
It was not a big declaration. Not yet. But as you drifted off to sleep between them, the quiet war easing into something warmer, you could feel it, the three of you, tangled in blankets and care and new possibilities. Sunghoon's steady presence on one side, Jungwon's gentle warmth on the other, and the faint taste of Red Velvet still on your lips.
They would figure the rest out together. For now, you were just glad they were both here, learning that their care for you had room to grow into something that included each other too.
It’s the first beach day of the summer and you and your boyfriend make time to go to the beach. You take off your coverup, and suddenly your boyfriend can't look away from you.
Part 2: Barou, Yukimiya, Aiku, Gagamaru, Otoya, and Karasu
Requests: OPEN
🦁 Barou Shoei
When you take off your cover-up:
You’re standing near the grill on the beach, the warm summer breeze blowing through. You waved the smoke out of your face and laughed about the charcoal not lighting fast enough. You took a look at the Sun starting to set before realizing it was about time to get in the water, and with a quiet giggle, you tug off your cover-up and toss it onto the beach chair behind you. Barou glances over, then stiffens completely. His jaw tightened as his eyes snapped back to the grill. Then back to you. Then back to the grill. He looks like he’s trying not to react. At all. But the flush creeping up his neck says otherwise.
You catch him. Raise a brow. “Something wrong?”
He grunts. Shrugs. Doesn’t answer. But when you turn away to help someone open a drink, he mutters under his breath,
“What the hell is that swimsuit…”
Not because he doesn’t like it. Because he does. Way too much.
Under the umbrella, when you ask him to put on sunscreen:
You’re laying on your stomach, back arched slightly, top untied like it’s nothing. “Babe, can you do my back?”
Barou stares at you, just a little bit longer than usual. Doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak.
“Shouei?”
He huffs and sits up from the plastic white chair, grabbing the bottle of sunscreen and squirting a bit into his hand. Then kneels beside you with a focused look. He starts rubbing it in, slow yet firm, and doesn't waste a moment. He’s methodical about it, up to your shoulders, down your back, careful not to make it weird. But his hands pause, only once, and that's right around your waist. Then he clears his throat and finishes up, tying your top back with a quiet but deadly, “You’re lucky I don’t make you wear a jacket out here.”
You smirk. “Jealous much?”
“No. But I’m not sharing either.”
In the water, when guys start staring:
You’re splashing around, laughing, having fun. Barou’s standing nearby, half drenched, looking completely unimpressed. Until he sees two guys at the edge of the surf eyeing you a little too long. Barou felt himself getting pissed off, but decied to act calm, not make a scene. He walkes over, one arm wraps around your waist. Then another. He pulls you to him like it’s instinct. Tight. Protective. His lips right by your ear.
“Let them look.”
You blink, a little amused. “Oh?”
“They’ll stop once they realize they don’t get a second chance.”
He’s mid-convo with a friend who was visiting from out of town, sunglasses on, sipping something iced. You were watching from afar, tilting your head when you walked by and casually pulled off your cover-up. It takes a second for him to realize, then he turns his head really slow, and freezes. His mouth parts slightly. His grip on the cup tightens. And for a solid three seconds, he forgets every single thing he was just saying.
You catch the look. “Something wrong?”
“No,” he says too quickly. “You just… you didn’t tell me that swimsuit was gonna look like that.”
You grin. “Like what?”
He swallows. Adjusts his sunglasses, clearing his throat and looking towards the side with a tiny smirk on his lips. “Like a problem.”
Under the umbrella, when you ask him to put on sunscreen:
You untie your top, lay down without a second thought, and hand him the sunscreen bottle.
“Kenyu? My back?”
He hesitates, not because he’s shy, but because he’s thinking about every man within fifty feet. Still, he smiles and takes the bottle before kneeling beside you, voice low.
“You really want me doing this out here?”
“You scared?”
He smirks. “No, why would I be?”
He rubs it in, slow and practiced, hands gentle but precise. His fingers ghost across your back, brushing the curve of your waist. And when he’s done, he ties the top again with care. Then leans down, lips brushing your ear.
“But I won't forget this."
In the water, when guys start staring:
He sees them. Of course he sees them. (Hahah I'm so funny ifykyk) He doesn’t make a scene. Doesn’t glare. Just calmly pulls you closer by the hips, expression smooth but eyes sharp.
You raise a brow. “Something wrong?”
“No,” he says, glancing back at the guys. “Just reminding them what they can’t have.”
You giggle, wrapping your arms around his neck. “A little clingy today, huh?”
His hands slide lower, resting just above the backs of your thighs.
He’s lounging back on the beach chair, shirt open, sunglasses low, fully relaxed with a pina colada in his hand. The view was great, summer was in the air, and the weather was perfect. As Aiku went to pick up his drink and take another sip, a figure flashed past him, and he stopped what he was doing so quick. You were walking past your boyfriend, lifting your covering up over your head before holding it in one arm, revealing your swimsuit. He lifts his sunglasses slowly. Stares. Then exhales a low whistle. “Well damn.”
You glance over your shoulder. “What?”
“That swimsuit is bold."
You laugh, brushing sand off your leg. “You’re dramatic.”
“Not dramatic enough,” he mutters, still staring with a giant smirk.
Under the umbrella, when you ask him to put on sunscreen:
You hand him the bottle, already laying on your stomach with your top untied. He blinks once. “You serious right now?”
“Very.”
He cracks a grin. “You really trust me with this?”
“Your hands are steadier than mine."
He kneels beside you, starts rubbing it in slow. Too slow.
“You're enjoying this a little too much,” you tease.
“I’m suffering, actually,” he mumbles, smiling while his eyes are locked on your back.
He finishes up, ties your top carefully, and leans down and gave the back of your neck a gentle kiss before whispering. “You’re dangerous, y’know that?”
In the water, when guys start staring:
He sees it. All of it. And he doesn’t just pull you closer, he wraps both arms around your waist from behind, chin on your shoulder.
You raise a brow. “You good?”
“Not really,” he mutters, glaring past you. “They need to back the hell off.”
You giggle, whispering, “Jealous?”
He shrugs, holding you tighter. “Nah. Just loving you."
He’s not paying much attention at first, just helping unpack everything from the trunk. the towels, sunscreen, umbrellas, and flip-flops. He has these bags on both his broad shoulders with his usual blank expression, already scanning the beach like it’s a soccer field. Gagamaru was looking around for where you decided you wanted to sit, and there you were. You were standing up, pulling the coverup over your head as the breeze flew in, blowing your hair slightly as you set your coverup down. He freezes. Eyes wide. Mouth slightly open. The towel in his hands just… drops.
You glance at him. “What?”
He blinks. “Nothing."
Then looks away. But not for long.
Because every couple seconds, he’s sneaking glances. Quick ones. Like he thinks you won’t notice. Like he’s trying to memorize it and still play it cool, even if he’s clearly not.
Under the umbrella, when you ask him to put on sunscreen:
You pulled your hair up into a high ponytail before laying down on top of your beach towel lying on your stomach, top untied, handing him the bottle. He stares at it. Then at your back.
“… You want me to use this on you?"
You laugh. “ Yes silly, who else?"
He clears his throat. “Yeah. Right.”
He’s careful. Ridiculously careful. His hands are big, warm, a couple scars over them, and lastly a little clumsy. But he moves slow, like he’s scared to mess it up. Doesn’t talk. Doesn’t even breathe too loud. When he’s done, he ties your top and sits back, cheeks pink, avoiding your eyes.
“You okay?” you ask, smiling.
He nods once. “Yes." (He's so not.)
In the water, when guys start staring:
Gagamaru notices immediately. He did grow up in the mountains after all, his senses are on point. His face remains blank as always, but if you looked closely, you could see his jaw tighening just ever so slightly. And suddenly, without a sound, as if he could somehow teleported, he’s behind you, one arm around your waist, pulling you back into his chest like it’s instinct.
You feel your face heat up before looking up at your boyfriend with a laugh. “You good, babe?”
He nods. “They’re not.” He says bluntly, still looking dead at the guys staring with beers in their hands.
You glance back and catch the glare he’s throwing, basically giving them a warning.
He doesn’t say anything else. Just holds you there. Close. Where everyone can see.
He’s mid-sip of his drink, shirt open, talking with a couple of his party friends about the party later tonight. Everyone was talking about whatever was gonna happen later tonight, who was going to be there what drinks. Of course he was gonna bring you along, he always brings you unless you say otherwise, so needless to say, at the moment his attention wasn't on you exactly, till you walked by. You were walking ahead, pulling your cover up over your head while heading over to the bar, smiling brightly. And for a moment, Otoya just stares. And all of a sudden, he didn't care what his boys were talking about. His eyes were stuck!
Then: “…Damn.”
You raise an eyebrow at him from across the resort before going back to ordering your drink. (nonalcoholic) He tries to smirk, but his green eyes betrayed him, wide and clearly impressed. Though he recovers fast, but like a ninja, he was next to you in no time. Sliding up beside you with that usual lazy charm.
“You wore that just to mess with me, didn’t you?”
You laugh. “Maybe.”
He licks his lips, watching you grab your straw and napkin before speaking. “Yeah, not surprised."
Under the umbrella, when you ask him to put on sunscreen:
It's just you and your boyfriend now, both sitting under the umbrella. His friends were still there, but he decied to spend some time with you before the party, but now, you were laying down. Top untied, bottle of sunscreen in hand.
“You mind?” You asked, handing him the bottle before lying down fully on the warm towel.
Otoya takes the bottle from you, tossing it up in the air and catching it before opening it and leaning down. atches it, leans down, and whistles.
“You’re really testing it today." But he starts, hands gliding slowly and practiced. Not shy, no not at all, but focused. Intentional. He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t grope. (surprisingly) Just takes his time, pressing his palms into your skin like he wants to memorize it. And when he leans down to tie your top again, he murmurs, “You know, you owe me for this.”
You look over your shoulder. “For sunscreen?”
He smirks and nods his head before getting up like it was nothing.
In the water, when guys start staring:
Otoya notices after a little bit.
He was more fixated on trying to get you back for splashing him when he felt eyes on you and him. He decided to look over his shoulder just for a moment, before looking over at you, he doesn’t even hesitate, walks right over and wraps his arms around you from behind, and kisses your shoulder.
His voice drops near your ear. “You see them?”
You chuckle and nod.
He tightens his grip just a little. “Good. I want them to look. But they’re not getting shit.”
You laugh, but he’s not joking. He glares right back at them, head tilted, daring them to say something. They don’t. He smiles. And then pulls you deeper into the water.
He’s already lounging under the umbrella, his legs stretched out with his sunglasses on, drink half-melted in his hand. His mind was wandering from place to place, wondering what you were gonna eat later, what movie to watch, all that when he saw you from under his sunglasses. You were pulling off your cover up. smooth yet quick while heading towards the water like it was nothing. But Karasu? He nearly dropped his cup. He sits up in his chair slightly, slowly, glasses sliding down his nose, eyes following every step.
“…Damn.”
He isn't loud, doesn't say something stupid. But when you glance back at him, he gives you a low whistle with a smirk on his lips. You just grin.
Under the umbrella, when you ask him to put on sunscreen:
You drop onto the towel placed by Karasu's chair, pulling your hair over your shoulder before handing him the bottle of sunscreen before resting your head on your arms.
“Can you get my back?”
He raises an eyebrow while fighting a smirk to form on his lips. “Really? Geez you're a full time job."
Still, he takes the bottle, slicks his hands, and starts rubbing it in. He’s not shy, but not doing too much either. But the closer his hands get to the tie of your top, the slower they move.
“You doin’ this on purpose?” he mutters.
You smile into your arms. “What, trusting my boyfriend?”
He huffs a laugh. “Shut up."
Still, he ties your top back, smooth and swift before giviing your sides a firm tap.
“All done. Unless you need help with the front too.”
In the water, when guys start staring:
Karasu noticed quickly, given his eyes were on you. He doesn't make a big deal out of it, if anything he liked it, but decides not to make a scene. He just swims over and stands up, grabbing your wrist before pulling you up into his arms. A firm hand dropping under your thighs.
“..What are you doing?" You ask raising a brow.
He grins, pulling you closer. "Holding you. Is that a problem?"
You chuckle and look away, shaking your head.
He smirks. “Cool. I'm not letting go anytime soon." He said before turning his head, locking eyes with one of the guys watching for a moment. Then he smiles. But it’s not nice. It’s the kind of smile that makes people look away, and they do.
“Clingy,” You tease.
“Territorial,” He corrects, arms still wrapped around you.
