Warnings: None, unless you count Charles having a mini heart attack and Toto yelling in three languages.
🏎️ Growing Up Ferrari’s Little Mascot
Y/N had been born with the smell of gasoline in her lungs and the sound of pit guns in her ears. The Ferrari garage wasn’t just her second home—it was her actual home. Her dad was a mechanic who had been with Ferrari for over a decade, and somehow, his kid had ended up becoming every driver’s unofficial niece.
By 2025, she was 17, loud, a walking car encyclopedia, and far too comfortable calling out World Champions for their nonsense. And the worst part? They all let her.
Charles swore she was like his little sister. Lewis claimed she knew more about aerodynamics than half the rookies who walked in. Max admitted he was actually afraid of her after she corrected his toe angle mid-track walk. George described her as “terrifying in a polite way.” Yuki saw her as a snack rival. Kimi once had his homework corrected by her and still hadn’t recovered from being roasted about his handwriting.
Y/N wasn’t officially employed by anyone, but the paddock knew her. She was the kid with grease on her hands, always rolling around under a car, and she had the uncanny ability to spot when something was off before even the engineers noticed.
🔧 The Spark of Chaos
It started innocently enough. Y/N had been hanging around the Ferrari garage, listening to her dad rant about the scrap pile they had to sort through.
So naturally, her brain went: “What if I… just… built something?”
Two weeks later, hidden in the corner of the garage, Y/N had assembled what could generously be described as a Frankenstein go-kart. It had an old kart chassis, leftover Ferrari bodywork from 2022, and wheels that absolutely did not match.
But it ran.
And that was the problem.
🚨 The Discovery
The first person to see it was Charles.
Charles blinked at the tiny car in the corner. “…what…is that?”
Y/N, without hesitation: “My child. Be respectful.”
Charles: “YOUR WHAT??”
Lewis walked in behind him, holding an espresso. He stopped mid-sip. “…why does it have a Ferrari front wing on it?”
Y/N, proudly: “Because it deserves the best.”
Lewis: “…that’s a 2022 spec part. Do you even—wait. Does it run?”
Y/N, grinning like she’d just robbed a bank: “Want to see?”
Before either Ferrari driver could stop her, Y/N hopped into the seat, twisted some questionable wiring, and the car ROARED to life.
Charles nearly dropped dead on the spot.
Charles: “NO NO NO. THIS IS DANGEROUS. YOU’RE A CHILD.”
Lewis: already filming it for Instagram “This is the best thing I’ve ever seen.”
🏁 The News Spreads
Unfortunately for Charles, Lewis uploaded the video with the caption: “Ferrari’s new junior driver 👀”
The internet broke. Within twenty minutes, every team garage was aware. Within thirty, half the grid was at Ferrari demanding to see it.
👀 Red Bull’s Reaction
Max stared at the scrap car like it was cursed. “…this is illegal.”
Y/N: “Show me the rulebook.”
Max, muttering: “…you terrify me.”
Yuki was already halfway into the seat before Charles physically dragged him out by the collar. “Move. I’m testing it.”
Charles: “NO. GET OUT. THIS IS NOT A TOY.”
Lewis: laughing while still recording “Actually, it very much is a toy.”
Y/N: “It’s art.”
🧑🏫 Mercedes Shows Up
George arrived first, pristine as ever, followed by Kimi, who had heard rumors that Y/N had “created a monster.”
George: hands on hips “This is not safe.”
Y/N: “Neither is Mercedes’ tire strategy sometimes but you don’t see me complaining.”
George: offended gasp
Kimi, wide-eyed: “You built this? Out of scraps?”
Y/N: “Yep.”
Kimi: “…can you help me with my physics homework later?”
George: “KIMI.”
Y/N: “Sure. But only if I can test drive it around the paddock.”
George: “ABSOLUTELY NOT.”
Lewis, unhelpful: “I think we should let her.”
Charles, about to have an aneurysm: “NO ONE IS DRIVING THIS DEATH TRAP.”
🔥 The Great Scrap Car Race (aka the Dumbest Idea Ever)
Of course, the more Charles said no, the more everyone else said yes.
It started with Yuki daring Y/N to do a lap around the paddock. Then Max insisted he could drive it faster. Then Lewis suggested a mini GP.
Within an hour, half the paddock had gathered for the first unofficial “Scrap Car Grand Prix.”
Rules were simple: one lap around the paddock, no sabotaging the kart, and winner gets bragging rights and an energy drink supplied by Yuki.
The participants? Y/N (the creator, obviously), Yuki (chaos incarnate), Max (because of course), George (to prove he’s responsible but also competitive), and Charles (only entered to make sure Y/N didn’t die).
Lewis was the commentator. Kimi was the flag waver. Toto tried to shut it down but failed spectacularly when Y/N pointed out “there’s no rule against it.”
📣 Race Commentary Highlights
Lewis: “Alright everyone, welcome to the first ever Scrap Car GP. I’ll be your commentator. This is already the dumbest thing I’ve seen in my entire career and I raced Pastor Maldonado.”
The race started with Y/N actually getting the jump because she built the thing and knew its quirks. Yuki nearly crashed into a catering table. George was trying to be careful but also screaming at everyone for cutting corners. Max was treating it like a real race and terrifying the spectators. Charles was literally just driving behind Y/N like a bodyguard.
Lewis: “Max is pushing Y/N into the wall—CHILL, SHE’S SEVENTEEN.”
Toto, off-camera and furious: “I’M CALLING YOUR FATHER.”
Y/N, yelling mid-race: “DO IT, HE’LL BE PROUD.”
🏆 The Aftermath
In the end, Y/N won purely because everyone else crashed, stalled, or gave up.
Max ran out of patience and stormed off. Yuki got distracted by snacks. George claimed he was “robbed” because he followed the rules. Charles deliberately slowed down to make sure Y/N was okay.
Lewis handed her a toy trophy he found in the Ferrari motorhome. “Ladies and gentlemen, your new World Champion.”
Charles, head in hands: “I hate all of you.”
📰 Media Reaction
By the next morning, the headlines were insane: “Ferrari Mechanic’s Daughter Builds Race Car Out of Scraps” … “Future F1 Talent? Meet the Girl Who Outsmarted Half the Grid” … “Lewis Hamilton Seen Commentating Illegal Paddock Race.”
Ferrari PR was in shambles. Y/N’s dad threatened to ground her. Toto Wolff was allegedly heard muttering about “junior driver contracts.”
Meanwhile, Y/N was just sitting pretty, polishing her Franken-kart, and asking if anyone had spare carbon fiber she could use.
✨ Chaos Forever
Y/N, grinning at her scrap car: “Next time, I’m building one with a DRS system.”
Charles: “NEXT TIME??”
Lewis: “I’ll sponsor it.”
George: “This is an actual safety hazard.”
Yuki: “I call dibs on first test drive.”
Max: “…if she enters F2 with that thing, I’m retiring.”
2 weeks later...
✨The Upgrade Nobody Asked For
The problem with Y/N wasn’t that she had ideas. It was that she had access to mechanics, drivers, and occasionally, very bored engineers who thought “helping the kid with her project” was a good way to kill time.
Two weeks after the Scrap Car GP, Ferrari discovered Y/N had been sneaking into the garage late at night, raiding the parts bin. Again.
This time, she wasn’t building a go-kart. She was upgrading.
🛠️ The Secret Helpers
She had help, of course. Yuki smuggled snacks and acted as lookout. Kimi Antonelli “accidentally” left his laptop with aero models open. George pretended he didn’t see anything but “accidentally” dropped notes about suspension setups. And Lewis? Lewis encouraged her constantly, occasionally tossing her leftover carbon fiber like it was candy.
Even Max caved after she pointed out a flaw in his simulator setup. He leaned over her shoulder once, muttered something about “that’s not the right camber angle,” and then stalked off like he hadn’t just contributed.
By the end of the month, Y/N’s Franken-kart had evolved. It had a DRS flap, better suspension, reinforced brakes, and an engine that absolutely had no business being inside a kart.
😱 The Reveal
Charles walked in one morning, humming, coffee in hand… only to freeze at the sight of Y/N revving her upgraded beast.
Charles: “WHAT IS THAT.”
Y/N: “Version two. Now with DRS.”
Charles: “IT HAS DRS???”
Lewis, casually leaning against the wall: “She’s innovating.”
Charles: “SHE’S GOING TO DIE.”
Y/N: “Nah, I fixed the braking system.”
George, whispering: “She actually did. It’s better than ours.”
Charles: “WHAT.”
🏎️ Scrap Car GP 2.0 (aka The Disaster Grand Prix)
It was inevitable. The grid begged for another race. Y/N insisted on it. Charles begged them not to. Guess who won?
Scrap Car GP 2.0 had actual heats, a bracket system, and a finishing podium made out of Red Bull crates. This time, even more drivers joined.
Participants included Y/N, Yuki, Max, George, Kimi, and—against his better judgment—Charles. Lewis commentated again. Fernando Alonso showed up just to spectate and bet money.
This race was chaos. Y/N’s upgraded kart smoked everyone down the straights. Yuki tried to ram her and ended up in a flower bed. Max pushed so hard he nearly spun himself. George lectured everyone while still losing. Kimi nearly cried with joy when Y/N let him test the DRS.
Charles was screaming the entire time.
🏆 Aftermath, Again
Y/N won. Again.
Lewis hoisted her onto the Red Bull crate podium like she’d just won Monaco. The crowd (aka half the paddock and some very confused journalists) cheered. Someone threw confetti.
Charles looked five years older. “We are ALL going to get sued.”
Ferrari PR passed out in the corner.
And Toto? Toto was already drafting paperwork for a contract. “If we don’t sign her, Red Bull will.”
✨ Chaos Forever
Y/N, tinkering with her kart: “Next upgrade, I’m adding ERS.”
Charles: “STOP ADDING THINGS.”
Lewis: “I’ll get you the batteries.”
George: “This is madness.”
Yuki: “I’m bringing snacks for the next race.”
Max: “…if she actually builds a hybrid system, I’m done.”
And that was how a 17-year-old mechanic’s kid became the unofficial terror and pride of the F1 paddock—one scrap car at a time.
Warnings: Age Gap, Mentions of Anxiety, Power Imbalance.
Summary: He was chaos. She was order. For two years, she was the secret genius who turned Tony Stark's wildest ideas into reality, all without ever meeting him. But when he finally walked into her office, he wasn't just impressed by her work—he was obsessed.
The hum of the data servers was the soundtrack of my life. At 25 years old, being the Director of Applied Innovation at Stark Industries was a dream that surpassed all fantasy. My world, much younger than that of most people in the boardroom, was composed of blueprints, algorithms, and the sublime challenge of translating the chaotic genius of a man who was almost a legend to me into tangible projects that would improve the world.
I had never met him. Tony Stark was a ghost, a myth from a previous generation whose ideas reached me through memos from Pepper Potts. I was his young, invisible shadow. He, an established genius. He created, I converted. He improvised, I organized. He blew things up in his lab, and I, the twenty-something with more responsibility than I could sometimes handle, presented the impeccable report to the board of directors, justifying the expense. It was a perfect dance, from a distance.
El día que finalmente lo conocí fue en la presentación trimestral del proyecto. Yo, con mis mejores tacones para aparentar más edad, le explicaba el programa de prótesis neuronales cuando entró. Entró en la sala con una confianza que solo los años y el poder pueden dar, y se sentó con expresión impasible.
The next day, the smell arrived first: motor oil, expensive coffee, and a clean, mentholated scent that smelled of experience and money. Tony Stark appeared in the doorway of my office with a smile that could melt steel and a box of scrap metal.
"Good morning, Director. I have a new idea for you," he announced, treating me with a familiarity that left me breathless. He sat down as if he had been doing it for decades, and began taking out pieces. "It's a molecular-level toxin neutralizer. What do you think?"
I was dumbfounded. It wasn't a memo. It was Tony Stark, in person, asking for my opinion, me, a girl who still remembered watching his exploits on the university news. I told him I would need to review the compound's stability. His smile widened. "Excellent objection! That's why I came!"
And from that day on, he didn't leave my side. His veteran chaos needed my young-girl order, and my meticulousness began to appreciate his brilliant improvisation, born from years of experience. He created, and I by his side, translating, refining. He asked for my advice. He listened to me. And for me, it was inevitable.
Era Tony Stark. Era exasperantemente arrogante y tremendamente atractivo, con una confianza que solo los años pueden forjar. Cada vez que se inclinaba sobre mi hombro, su aroma mentolado me hacía sentir como una groupie, pero su mente me trataba como a una igual.
He began to ask me out. "Come on, Director. This project requires pizza." I, with the heart of a teenager but the head of a professional, invented a thousand excuses. The contrast was too great: him, Tony Stark, a man at the peak of his life. Me, just starting mine. I was afraid of being just a fling for him, the young girl of the moment.
But Tony is persistent. The flirtation became a duel of wits where I, to my surprise, could win. With him, I felt smart, heard, valued not only for my efficiency, but for my mind, despite my years.
One night, after a success, we were celebrating with a whiskey. The tower was silent.
"You know," he said, his voice soft. "This works. We work."
"The project does," I said, avoiding his gaze.
"Not the project, us," he insisted, turning my chair. "I don't want you to go home. In fact, I don't want you to ever leave."
"Tony…"
"Move into the Tower," he said, and his gaze showed a raw vulnerability. "I have ten empty floors. I want to keep working with you at 3 a.m. I want to have breakfast with you at 10 a.m. I want… this to be permanent."
The silence was dense. The ball of ice in my stomach was pure panic.
"Are you… completely out of your mind?" The question came out tinged with disbelief. "Move here? With you? Tony, we barely know each other! I'm… I'm much younger, this is… it's insane!"
He blinked, as if my age were an irrelevant detail he had never considered an obstacle. "What does that matter? These months have been the most lucid of my life. We know everything we need to know."
"We don't know! You've lived twice as long as I have! You know nothing about my world and I know nothing about yours!" I stood up, feeling the immense generational gap suddenly like an abyss. "This is suffocating!"
The word fell like a slab. Tony went still, and for the first time, I saw something genuinely hurt in his eyes. It wasn't anger, but the bewilderment of a man who didn't understand why something so perfect for him could be so wrong for me.
"Suffocating," he repeated, in a flat tone.
"Yes," I whispered. "Tony, I need… to breathe. I need to live my life. I can't just jump into yours like that."
"I understand," he said finally, his voice regaining a glacial distance. He stood up. "I don't want to be a burden. Or… suffocating."
And he left.
Las semanas siguientes fueron una agonía. Volvimos al frío protocolo. Y yo me sentía miserable. Extrañaba nuestro mundo compartido. Me di cuenta de que, en mi terror a ser un cliché, había herido algo genuino.
I found a screwdriver he had personalized for me and knew I had made a mistake. Not for refusing to move in, but for not offering an alternative. For not fighting for "us."
Determined, I marched to his workshop. I found him under the hood of a car, with AC/DC at full volume. I turned off the music.
"Director? A problem with the last memo?" he asked coldly.
"Yes, a huge problem," I said, thrusting the screwdriver into his chest. "It's yours."
He looked at the screwdriver and then at me, confused.
"And I came to tell you that you were right about one thing, and I was right about another," I continued. "You were right that we work. I was right that me moving in here is insane… for now."
He smirked. "And?"
"And… that maybe there's a middle ground. One that doesn't involve sharing a zip code yet." I took a deep breath. "How about we start with a date? A real one. Outside the tower. Where we can discover if, despite the years of difference, our worlds can fit together."
Tony slowly took off his goggles, studying me. The tension evaporated.
"A date," he repeated. "Like… pizza and a view of Central Park at 2 a.m., but without the pretext of a project?"
"Exactly."
A slow, true smile lit up his face. "That sounds like a sensible and well-structured plan, Director."
"Someone has to," I said, smiling back.
"Deal," he agreed, taking my hand. "One date. But on one condition: I choose the place. And I promise not to mention the word 'move'… until you do."
Heyyy, is it alright if I ask for a Hazbin Hotel character matchup. (i don't mind the gender) Here is my info: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1lCoU2PmWJBBZNXi5Vj3mokyCZSAz3lykzknH2PcDIB4/edit?usp=sharing
Thank you so much
❝ HAZBIN HOTEL — MATCHUP ❞
⸻
❝ YOU ARE MATCHED WITH… Velvette ❞
ꜱᴛʀᴀᴛᴇɢɪᴄ ᴍɪɴᴅ x ᴄᴜʀᴀᴛᴇᴅ ᴄʜᴀᴏꜱ.
You are thoughtful, introspective, curious, constantly analyzing the world around you. Velvette is fast-paced, expressive, socially sharp, and hyper-aware of people in a completely different way.
And somehow?
You click.
Because where you observe, she acts.
⸻
❝ SHE FINDS YOU INTERESTING — FAST. ❞
You have that “people confess to me for no reason” energy.
Velvette notices immediately.
Not in a soft way.
In a fascinated way.
“You’re weird,” she says, scrolling through something before glancing at you again. “Not in a bad way. Just… people talk to you a lot, don’t they?”
You blink.
“…yeah.”
“Yeah. Thought so.”
And just like that, she’s paying attention to you more than anyone else in the room.
⸻
❝ YOUR INTELLECT x HER SOCIAL INTELLIGENCE. ❞
You’re a science person. Analytical, curious, mentally active.
Velvette is socially intelligent.
She reads people like data.
Together?
You cover both sides.
You’ll sit there dissecting behaviors, motives, patterns, and she’ll lean in like—
“Okay, but did you notice how she switched tone halfway through?”
And suddenly you’re both spiraling into analysis together.
It becomes your thing.
⸻
❝ SHE MATCHES YOUR ENERGY (IMPORTANT). ❞
One of your biggest needs is reciprocation.
If your energy isn’t matched, you pull away.
Velvette does not let that happen.
You text fast?
She texts faster.
You ramble?
She engages.
You send ten messages?
She sends fifteen back.
You never feel like you’re “too much” with her.
⸻
❝ YOUR ANXIETY x HER CONFIDENCE. ❞
You overthink. You get anxious. You need validation.
Velvette doesn’t baby you.
But she does ground you.
“Relax,” she says, not unkindly. “You’re fine. You’re overthinking it.”
And weirdly—
It works.
Because she says it like fact.
⸻
❝ YOUR ACADEMIA AESTHETIC x HER FASHION BRAIN. ❞
You love fashion. Academia, coquette, gold jewelry, curated looks.
Velvette loves that.
She will absolutely style you, help you refine your aesthetic, hype you up while doing it.
“You’re literally wasting potential if you don’t lean into this more,” she says, adjusting something on you.
You don’t even argue.
⸻
❝ SHE RESPECTS YOUR BOUNDARIES. ❞
You are curious but respectful. You back off when needed.
Velvette does the same.
If something is off-limits, she does not push.
She might tease—
But she won’t cross the line.
⸻
❝ YOUR LOVE LANGUAGES ALIGN PERFECTLY. ❞
Matching things?
Immediate yes.
Jewelry, outfits, small aesthetic details?
She eats that up.
Quality time?
Late night conversations, scrolling together, talking about everything and nothing.
Physical touch?
Present, but not overwhelming.
It feels natural.
⸻
❝ SHE KEEPS YOU FROM GETTING STUCK IN YOUR HEAD. ❞
You spiral. You overthink. You distract yourself constantly.
Velvette pulls you out of it.
“Okay, get up,” she says. “We’re doing something. You’re bored and it’s annoying.”
She doesn’t let you sit in that space too long.
⸻
❝ OVERALL ❞
A relationship built on stimulation and balance.
She keeps you engaged.
You keep her grounded in something deeper.
Smart, stylish, and perfectly matched energy.
⸻⸻⸻
❝ HONORABLE MATCH — Zestial ❞
ꜱʟᴏᴡ, ᴋɴᴏᴡɪɴɢ, ꜱᴏᴜʟ-ᴅᴇᴇᴘ ᴄᴏɴɴᴇᴄᴛɪᴏɴ.
⸻
❝ HE MATCHES YOUR INTROSPECTION. ❞
You think deeply.
So does he.
Your conversations would feel endless, philosophical, layered, meaningful.
⸻
❝ HE IS PATIENT WITH YOUR ANXIETY. ❞
No rushing. No pressure.
Just understanding.
⸻
❝ YOUR SOULMATE / FOUND FAMILY TROPE. ❞
This pairing feels like something fated. Quiet. Deep. Lasting.
⸻
❝ OVERALL ❞
Calm, intellectual, emotionally safe.
A bond that feels written in the stars.
> Fushi leaves a vessel to wander around campus while he’s fighting Knockers
> Reader tutors Fushi
> Reader is good at school
> Dialogue-heavy
~•~•~
❀ The semester started with a new transfer, which wasn’t odd in the slightest.
❀ Besides his white hair that suspiciously looked too natural to be dyed, Fuyuki Shiromiya was an average student.
❀ He slept during class. Turned in decent assignments and held up the bare minimum. Just the run-of-the-mill student that couldn’t care less about his grades.
❀ At least, that’s what you assumed.
❀ Because he was slipping in his coursework, the teacher had assigned you as Fuyuki’s personal tutor. In other words, the tired teacher’s threat to you to keep his grades up.
❀ Little did they know, they assigned an eternity’s worth of gore and magic that sounded like it came straight out of a fairytale. And to a simple high schooler no less.
> “You’re Fuyuki, right?”
> “W-Wha- oh, yes, that’s me!”
❀ You had startled him awake upon entering the classroom, gone vacant after everyone else had left the building.
❀ Everyone except him.
❀ Sighing, you put your bag down, already assuming that whatever you had to say was going to go from one ear out the other. Why did it have to be you?
❀ On the other hand, Fuyuki, who seemed mildly anxious about something, smiled awkwardly and took out his notebook.
❀ Which was just the amount of tidy to show how little notes he actually took.
> “What did you need help on?”
> “Um…everything?”
> “….Everything?”
❀ He was an immortal being who fought knockers for a living. As well as too busy monitoring them to fully attend class. He didn’t have a clue what the modern humans knew and didn’t know.
> “I guess we’ll start with history?”
> “Sounds like a plan.”
❀ For a boy who was “slipping”, he sure knew his stuff.
❀ He knew biology and science with an almost scary kind of proficiency.
❀ He was great in history, more so lacking in math and english. Yet, he was decent enough to pass.
❀ And the way he listened to you, like he heard every single word, it was unfathomable why this kid even needed a tutor.
> “You sure you need help? You seem pretty good to me. With this attention span and IQ, you could enroll in college if you wanted to.”
> “College?”
❀ He shook his head and hands, as if the mere thought was out of the question.
> “No way. I probably just feel more comfortable with you than the teacher. I still lack the knowledge necessary to pass the next test.”
❀ No way was that true. Perhaps confidence was just the issue, you thought.
❀ Over the next couple of weeks, you continued to “tutor” Fuyuki. Along the way, you even became his friend.
❀ You learned over the time you spent with him that he was far beyond the dozy, devil-may-care type you originally thought him.
❀ For starters, he was extremely observant and attentive.
❀ He remembers everything you tell him. Especially about yourself. A bit stupid here and there, but earnest to a fault.
❀ Needless to say, he was charming in his own unique way.
❀ But the one aspect of him that you couldn’t stress enough was his huge compassion for everything.
❀ He loved every living being like they were treasure. Hell, you thought you saw him trying to tippy-toe around ants one time because he was afraid he’d squash them.
❀ It was hard not to root for him. Care for him. Slowly fall in love with him.
❀ Even though Fuyuki Shiromiya felt like a mystery, you couldn’t help but adore him. Perhaps that was why when you met Fushi, you didn’t turn away like he thought you would. Even though at the time, he wished you did.
> “It’s 3, right?”
❀ You laughed.
> “Yep. By now, I don’t think you need me anymore.”
> “Don’t say that. There’s still some time before finals, so there’s lots of things I need help on. And besides, I don’t mind it if it means we get to spend time like this.”
❀ You swear, he had so much unintentional charm, it was practically unfair.
❀ The sun was starting to set, so you began to collect your things to go home for the day. You were just about to reach for your notebook when-
> “Y/n, look out!”
❀ CRASH
❀ Right through the window, fleshy tentacles shot through into the floor until something crawled in.
❀ Something nasty, hissing, and brain-like. Out of shock, you couldn’t do anything but gawk and stare as it came straight for you.
❀ Thankfully, a large branch came from under the creature and skewered it motionless. A sharp, powerful gesture made by a singular flit of Fuyuki’s fingers.
❀ But by then, even with you saved, he knew that he was going to have to explain everything.
❀ It was the death of Fuyuki Shiromiya, the normal high school student you had come to love.
> “So, let me get this straight. What that giant pink brain-thing was is called a Knocker, you’re an immortal being that’s lived for more than 500 years and fights those things, and we’re all in danger because they’ve finally made their move?”
> “…..Pretty much.”
❀ He had volunteered to walk you home because he was worried Knockers would find you. Also to explain the reason he could manipulate roots like a god.
> “You’re probably scared of me now, aren’t you?”
❀ Tilting your head, you could see the way his honey eyes looked at you without ever reaching yours. A sure sign he was afraid that one look would send you fleeing on the spot.
❀ A small smile came to your lips, and to both of your surprise, you laughed.
> “Well, sure it’s pretty terrifying knowing that we’re all about to be attacked by sentient bubble gum and my tutoring partner can shoot tree branches at will. However, that doesn’t mean I’m scared of you. After all, you’re still a student and we still have to study for finals.”
❀ Finally turning to face you, his honey turned golden with relief and surprise.
> “Really? You still like me, Y/n?”
> “Yes, Fuyuki, I do.”
❀ A smile you never thought you’d see blessed his features, giving a laugh lighter than a feather.
> “It’s actually Fushi, and I’m glad you feel the same.”
> “I see. It’s nice meeting you then, Fushi. And, wait a minute-
Summary: Steve and everyone finally find you, but not in the condition they were expecting.
You were so glad you excelled in engineering and tech, even though you were still severely injured you decided to upgrade the place, the house had a under ground home under the foundation, you upgraded everything starting with the steel paneled door,
Making sure no one could just walk in if they found the hidden door upstairs,
Finger print security locking, you put cameras up outside the house at every angle,
Alarm trip wires, upgraded everything you could think of, you couldn’t risk getting caught off guard
Sure at the time when the avenger were together you were just tech support and engineering, but you did take training with Nat and Clint, they showed you the weapons and escape training that you would need,
Steve taught you combat, all the training came in handy,
You were currently in the shower when the trip alarm went off and you could hear talking from above, you were extremely sore, you never properly stitched your deeper injuries you just wrapped them with gauze, you were also exhausted you couldn’t sleep properly because of your spiraling thoughts,
You step out of the shower putting on a pair of plaid pajama shorts, red and blue and a black tee shirt, you didn’t bother drying your hair, you knew if it was the government you had to move quickly,
You grab your tranq gun from the counter, you still didn’t have what it took to kill someone,
You take one of the hidden entrances you made, it was dark pitch black,
You were up in one of the beams in the house, near the roof,
You counted at least six of them,
“You sure this is the place?” One of them ask
“Positive, she’s definitely here” a female voice says,
There was no doubt they were looking for you,
“spread out” another says you watch as they separate
You watch the leader,
‘Always go for someone the group can’t function without’ Steve’s words echo in your mind
You take a deep breath jumping from the beam landing on the man, you both fall to the ground with a thud, you pistol whip him causing him to grunt, you straddle his waist about to tranq him in the chest,
“Whoa, whoa, Y/N it’s me, it’s Steve!” He says with his hands up in surrender,
You stop your movements.
Your eyes widening seeing it was indeed him, he had a bit of a beard going on,
“Glad to see your still in shape.”Natasha says from behind you
You look at them all shocked,
You couldn’t believe that they were here you were unsure if they were really here or if you were dreaming,
“Umm, Y/N could you…” Steve said motioning to you still straddling him,
“I’m so sorry.” You say getting flustered standing almost wincing,
“I thought you were.. I mean I didn’t mean..” you began
He chuckled,
“It’s fine.” He says,
“Come on in,” you say opening the hatch in the floor they follow you into the new space you created,
“Damn, this place is..” Sam be fan but couldn’t fin the right words,
Dude, the last lap dance you had was - was - was at Christmas. It was a gift paid for by me. You spent the entire song trying to convince the girl that she should go to nursing school.
or you give sam a lap dance, and he tries to convince you to go to nursing school
A/N - not smut but nsfw so be safe people
word count - 720
“Dude, the last lap dance you had was - was - was at Christmas. It was a gift paid for by me. You spent the entire song trying to convince the girl that she should go to nursing school.” Dean exclaimed.
Sam remembered it clear as day.
You’d strutted up to him, pointed his direction by Dean, an unknown amount of 100s in between your fingers like a cigarette. He’d protested, but you’d put the roll of money in between his lips, effectively silencing him as the next song queued.
Pony by Ginuwine.
You’d sat down on his lap, facing him with a bright grin as he pulled to notes from his lips with gentle care. You’d made him a promise, something about taking care of him, and Sam had nodded silently, giving you back your money. You tucked it in between the valley of your breasts, looking into his eyes, before standing, turning, sitting back down and grinding yourself into him.
“This is my song, you know?” You’d said. “I’m just a bachelorette, looking for a partner.”
Sam had basically choked on nothing as you said it, grinding particularly hard into his lap. You smiled, giggling at his reaction. It wasn’t often you had men as attractive as him coming into here, not knowing just how attractive they were, not acting like they owned the place.
“You could probably be a real nurse,” Sam had whispered, hands tentatively touching your waist, referencing the slutty costume you had on. You threw back your head in a laugh, the weight landing on his shoulder.
“You’re funny.” You giggled, spinning in his lap to face him. “I like funny guys.”
Sam closed his eyes as your breasts pushed up into his face. When he had opened his eyes again, you were frowning, eyes slightly narrowed, grinding slowly into him again.
“I mean it.” Sam said softly. “I’m sure you’re a smart girl.”
You rolled your eyes, placing a finger over his lips to silence him, shushing him as well. “I can be smart and a stripper.”
Sam grabbed your hand, pulling it away from his lips and staring into your eyes. “I know. But you could be anything you wanted. You don’t have to be a stripper.”
“I like being a stripper. I like pole dancing. I like doing lap dances. I like making more money in a song than a doctor makes in an hour.” You stood, turning and giving him a good view of your ass, bending over so that he could see your matching panties up your skirt. Sam’s eyes looked down to his lap. You stopped, standing upright with your hands on your hips. “I like the attention. And right now, you’re treating me like trash.”
Sam looked up, eyes wide. “No, no, no, no. I didn’t mean to offend you. You’re beautiful. I just didn’t want to objectify you!”
“I’m a stripper. It’s my job to be objectified!” You snapped, crossing your arms over your chest. Sam had looked up, trying not to look at your breasts as they threatened to spill out of the tiny little shirt you had on. “Look at me!”
Sam slowly looked back down at you, uncomfortableness clear on his face. You frowned.
“Why did you even come here if you didn’t want a lap dance, or to look at the women?” Sam sighed.
“My brother dragged me here. The guy who paid you.” You turned, looking over at the guy, who gave you a flirty wave. You waved back, smiling slightly.
“Okay, well. Do you want to respect me?”
“Yes!” Sam exclaimed, eyes wide once more.
“Then let me do my job, and look at me like I’m pretty. Don’t look away like I’m something disgusting. I chose to be a stripper.” You tilted your head. “You’re right. I could have been a nurse. Or a doctor, or a lawyer, or whatever I wanted. I was top of my class and I was accepted into an ivy league school. But I chose to be a stripper.”
Sam blink, then nodded. “Okay.”
“Okay.”
“Then, I think my brother paid for the rest of the song.” Sam offered tentatively. You grinned.
“You horny?” You asked with a giggle, referencing the song.
“My saddle’s waiting.” Sam said, and your grin widened. “Come and jump on it.”
tw // kidnapping, non-consensual picture taking, stalking, shitty friend activties, peter is a perv! (also posted on ao3 under angelkook)
dark content ahead! 18+
“peter! hey!” you rush over, pushing past the many fast-paced new yorkers.
“(y/n)!” peter perks up, holding two coffees and a camera slung around his shoulder. the weather was frosty, people were preparing for an awful winter storm over the weekend, and you had promised to meet peter for coffee after work.
“ahh, oh my gosh, thank you so much.” you almost moan as the coffee warms you up.
“you took your time getting here,” he laughs, he takes his camera out to take pictures of bystanders before turning it to you. “pose, please.” you freeze, coffee cup against your mouth. “perfect.” he looks at it for a couple seconds before turning it to you.
you smile, “peter parker, you are the only one capable of taking good pictures of me.” he shrugs, but you see the embarrassment creep up his face. you walk together, catching each other up. both of you end up walking through a park. aside from the quiet clicking of peter’s camera and the chirps of the birds, there was a comfortable silence between the two of you. soon you’re both in front of your apartment.
“thanks for coming, (y/n).” he smiles.
“it was nice catching up with you, pete.” you hug peter and he blushes again. “we should do this again sometime, once work settles down.” you smile.
“i’ll-i’ll send you the pictures later.” he turns away, putting his camera in his bag. you bite your cheek, stopping your laugh. the both of you part and the rest of your day progresses as normal.
at night, you’re awoken by a sound. something like clicking.
“it’s probably just some dumb kids.” you assure yourself, rolling over. your eyes close, but you sit up after hearing the clicks once more. you sit up, annoyed. you look towards your window, contemplating yelling at whoever’s on the roof, but see someone standing there. your eyes go wide, your breathing stops. their hands press against the glass of the window. the room turns cold and you can’t move. their hands start to, carefully slide open the window. right then, your body turns back on and you jump out of bed, sprinting to the door. you hear the window slam open and you start screaming. you get to the front door and unlock the deadbolts, but before you could open it. a hand slams against the door, cornering you. you face the door, shaking, too afraid to face the trespasser. their arms cage you against the door.
“(y/n).” the hairs on your neck stands as you hear the voice. “do you know who i am?” his voice was dark, almost teasing. you turn, careful not to brush against the arms trapping you.
“spiderman?” you recognize the masked man. you let out a breath, slumping against the door. “spiderman, oh my gosh, i thought you were some pervert.” you laugh nervously, ignoring the fact that the hero broke into your home after watching you from your window. he doesn’t respond, only using a hand to stroke your cheek. you frown, weirded out. “spiderman?”
“i love you.” your blood runs cold. you swallow.
“what- what are you talking about?’ spiderman chuckles. your body feels numb.
“i’ve loved you for so long, but i was going to keep it inside you know?” you try to move his arms, but he wouldn’t budge. “but, i don’t think i can hold back anymore.” you feel your throat close up, as your situation sets in. “the pictures aren’t enough for me anymore.” he shakes his head.
“p-pictures?” you respond, meekly. he wraps a hand around your throat and slams you against your door, you feel the wind get knocked out of you. you start screaming, praying someone will hear, scratching and kicking wherever you can. spiderman doesn’t seem fazed by your panic.
he shushes you, “don’t worry, (y/n), you’ll be okay. just give in.” his hand around your throat tightens. your vision goes dark as you start losing air. you’re fighting your body as it tries to give up. his grip tightens once more and you pass out.
when you wake up, your hands strapped to a bed. you try to look down and see that you’re wearing the same t-shirt and shorts you had slept in. sunlight streams in and you recognize the posters and clothing.
“peter?” you rasp, your throat sore. you start to remember everything that had happened before you lost consciousness. you close your eyes as tears start to well up.
“you’re awake!” you open your eyes and peter’s bright smile enters your view. “i didn’t know when you’d wake up… i was worried i had…” he looks away. “but everything’s fine.” he smiles and crouches down next to you. he places a glass of water on the nightstand next to you.
“peter… you’re spiderman?” you choke out. he jumps up and helps you sit up, loosening the straps a little. he places the glass to your lips and you, gladly drink, spilling water on your t-shirt. he pulls the glass away once you had finished. you clear your throat. “why did you fucking KID-” peter claps a hand over your mouth.
“i’m not hurting you, (y/n), i love you!” peter pleads, but you only feel disgust. you most show it on your face, because peter stands, hurt. “i’ll show you. i’ll show you how much i love you.” peter goes to the desk at the corner of the room and digs through his dresser. he pulls out a thick binder. he drops it onto your lap and signals you to move. you’re forced to shimmy to the side and he sits beside you, pressing himself to your side. he opens the binder and your eyes go wide. all of the pictures were of you. “i’ve known you were the one since the moment we met. i saved every picture i’ve taken of you.” he smiles, laughing slightly. you look over at him, horrified. “look, these are the ones i took of you the day we met.” you look and realize that these are ones he’s taken of you at the park, but farther down were pictures of you in your home. he flips through and you see glimpses of pictures of you sleeping, getting dressed, taking a shower. you feel bile rise up your throat.
“how could you, peter?” tears are running down your face, “we were friends, how could you DO THIS TO ME.” you scream and peter slams the binder closed. you start screaming again, hoping his neighbors would hear, but peter stares at you. he gets up, shaking his head.
unimpressed, he rolls his eyes, “no one will hear you, (y/n), stop your tantrum.” you sob and peter sighs. he grabs his binder and puts it back on his nightstand. “i’ll be back later to give you something to eat.” he opens the door, but pauses, “by the way, you don’t have to worry about working anymore.” he smiles and shuts the door. you scream, sobbing. you can feel yourself get nauseous once more and you turn to the edge. you throw up, sobbing. you fall back, struggling against the binds. you give up once everything starts to hurt and cry yourself to sleep.
you’re woken up by peter picking you up. “silly girl, crying so hard you throw up.” he quietly chuckles. you keep your eyes closed, making a plan that once the door is open, you could startle him and escape. you smell the vomit on your shirt.
when peter opens the door, he whispers to you, “i know you’re awake, baby, don’t try anything stupid.” you open your eyes, and he laughs. “i’m spiderman, (y/n). i know how your heartbeat sounds when you’re sleeping.” you look away, scanning the home, you see the front door right next to the kitchen. he takes you into the bathroom. he puts you down onto your feet. “feel free to leave your clothes at the door, i won’t come in when you’re showering. i’ll replace the old clothes with some new ones.” he closes the door behind him, leaving you alone. you wait a couple of minutes before peeking outside, you see peter in the kitchen. he looks up and waves to you, smiling. you slam the door closed, panicking.
‘spiderman…peter is…spiderman.’ you feel the waves of nausea come back. “i’m fucked.” you mutter to yourself. you can’t talk, breathe, or fucking piss without peter knowing. you want to throw up, scream, and sob all at the same time. you splash yourself with water from the sink and slap your cheeks with your hands. ‘get it together, (y/n). you gotta get out.’ you shake your head and strip down. you carefully open the door to toss your clothes out the door. you quickly close the door again and lock it. you shower quickly, not wanting to be naked and vulnerable for long. but as you were finishing up, you recognized the hair and skin products lined up on the sink. you feel your knees buckle and hold yourself steady on the counter. peter had been watching you for a long time, every single product in the bathroom were the exact products you used. every time you start to dissociate from your situation, you’re brought back to reality. you close your eyes tight, fighting back your tears. ‘i have to get out. there’s no point in crying.’ peter knocks on the door, bringing you out of your thoughts.
“your new clothes are out here, okay, (y/n)?” peter doesn’t say anything more as he walks away. you peek your head out and snatch up the clothes before he turns to look at you. he gave you a pair of shorts and a t-shirt.
“what the hell?” you wipe your eyes, confused. you open the door and call out for him. “peter? w-where’s the rest?”
“rest? rest of what? i gave you my shorts and one of my t-shirts.” he tilts his head, similar to a puppy. you bite back your disdain.
“like a bra, or some underwear, i don’t know.” you press your lips together.
“ah,” he pouts, “i’m sorry, (y/n), i didn’t think to grab your underwear. i have a couple around here, but they have to be washed.” he smiles. ‘oh my god, he’s fucking crazy.’ your eyebrows raise, but you don’t say anything. you close the door and pull on peter’s clothing. you still feel vulnerable with the clothes on, you can smell peter on you. you brush your hair with your fingers, thinking about what to do next. ‘he won’t let me leave now, but if i go along with everything, with his insane delusions. he’ll trust me. with his trust, i’ll be more able to escape.’ you hum, realizing what you’ll have to do. you open the door, uncomfortable in your new clothes. peter brightens when he sees you. “you look beautiful!” he looks at you with adoration, but your skin prickles at his leering. you don’t say anything, only sitting down at the table near his kitchen. he places a plate down and fills it up with food. “i made this for you. it took me a couple tries to get the recipe right, but i think it’s perfect now.” he pushes a fork towards you. you pick it up and start eating, much to your dismay, it tasted good.
you swallow and clear your throat, “it’s- it’s good.” you force a smile on your face. he sighs, seeming relieved.
“good, good. i’ll make this more often for you.” he sits down across from you, stretching his legs out to knock against yours. you force yourself to not move. after a few minutes of silence, peter decides to talk, “are you feeling better?”
you pause, “yeah-yes, i’m feeling a lot better. i’m-i’m thinking more clearly too.” you look up at him, peter’s mouth twists into a smile. you put your fork down. “i-um. i’ve thought a lot about your confession.” he straightens, hearing your tone. peter stays silent, waiting for you to continue. “can you… can you show me the pictures again?” peter presses his lips together, fighting back a grin. he immediately jumps up and runs to the bedroom. you look to the front door, maybe 30 feet away from you. you hold back, knowing better than running from spiderman so soon. you resolve to wait until he trusts you enough to leave you alone in the apartment. peter comes back, “here.” he places it down. you watch peter as you open the binder. you barely register the pictures, focused on keeping a neutral face.
“it’s… nice.” you spit out. peter smiles, softly, oblivious to your blatant lies.
“you like the pictures now?” he shines.
“ye-yeah! i’m very…flattered. i’ve never had someone be so… devoted to me.” you force another smile. “i’m just s-so happy that you’ve finally told me.”
“i’m so glad you’ve come around, (y/n).” he gets up and gets you up. your eyes go wide.
“peter, wait-” peter picks you by the waist and plops you down on the table. you wince as your butt hits the table. “peter, w-what are you doing?” he cups your face in his hands.
“you love me? you really, truly mean it?” peter comes up close to you, your noses almost touching.
“i didn’t-” you stop, seeing his face drop, and he moves away. ‘fuck. i need to do something.’ quickly thinking, you grab him by the face and pull him back. “i love you, peter. every picture, every dirty thought you’ve ever had of me,” you lean in close to his ear to whisper, “turns me on.” you pull away, feeling disgusted with yourself. you feel tears streaming down you face, but peter seems to pay no mind. he swallows, one of his arms drop from your waist to your thighs. fear itches your skin as goosebumps rise all over your skin. you fight the urge to push peter away as his hand trail to your inner thigh.
“i love you, my angel.” he rests his head in the crook of your neck, leaving small kisses along your shoulder. “i’ll keep you safe, sweetheart. i-i’ve had a lot of regrets, things i wish i could’ve changed. but with you, things will change. i will keep you safe.”
Ever since you were a kid you loved engineering/ science so when he told you he was the prowler you kind of used him as your test subject for your new inventions.
Crawling through your window after another successful night of being Ney Yorks most vigilante Miles has little to no injuries after you update his suite to be able to withstand a lot more than it could previously.
“Cariño, where you at?” he calls after he takes off his mask and the remanence of what is supposed to be his claws. “ Im in the bathroom give me a minute” as you walk out the first thing you see are his mangled scrapped claws. “ Miles, I told you to be carful I just fixed it last week” you say reaching for it.
“ I'm sorry these jus's were alot I'm not gon lie.” he says scratching his neck. “ ok, you should be happy I'm in a good mood and thought of some good things to add to this.’ you say studying the damage.
“thanks ma ‘ppreciate it” ne says giving you a kiss on your forehead.” you give him a loving smile. He then walks off to go take a shower.
While he's showering you get to work. Al claves were practically shattered and the joints in between making it difficult to bead your fingers. After fixing it you set it down moving onto his suit fixing minor damages such as scratched paint, some dents and some gashes.
He walks out of the shower seeing his fixed suit. “ooo your fixed the point too? You know yan did have to.” you turn to him” genus, but I wanted to cant have you walking around with a dingy suit, i would be a bad inventor” you say to him mater offactly.
“ You know I appreciate everything your do for me, right?” he says holding you hands and kissing your knuckles. “ I know miles, you tell me everytime you get the chance” “well I just have to make sure” he says looking inti your eyes trying to figure out what words to say next.
