#gonna go cry and explode at once | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

waitimcomingtoo · 11 months ago

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I’ll Cry If I Want To

Pairing: enemies to lovers!Peter Parker x Stark!Reader

Synopsis: you get stood up on your birthday and Peter attempts to cheer you up despite your feud

Masterlist

Peter walked into the kitchen in the tower and was immediately greeted by a confetti popper exploding in his face followed by a tender kiss on the forehead from Tony.

“Oh, my. Good morning to me.” Peter smiled at the greeting.

“Damn it, Parker.” Tony groaned. “I thought you were my little girl.”

“Don’t feel bad, daddy. A lot of people confuse Peter for a little girl.” You said as you walked into the kitchen behind Peter. The two of you made eye contact and you gave him an innocent smile while he rolled his eyes at you.

“Ha ha.“ He said sarcastically and then hissed at you like a cat. You gave him a look as you walked over to your dad.

“Happy birthday, baby girl.” Tony said and pulled you into a long hug.

“Thank you, daddy.” You smiled and hugged him back.

“Thank you, daddy.” Peter said in a high pitched voice to mock you. You and Tony looked at him and he quickly cleared his throat.

“Sorry. What I meant to say was, happy birthday. I didn’t know that was today. I mean, I’d been wondering why you looked so old but I assumed it was from your lack of sunscreen use.”

“Nice try. I wear sunscreen everyday.” You replied.

“Really?” He gasped. “Might want to up that SPF a few. You look like a crumbled piece of paper and not in a fun Taylor Swift way.”

“Don’t talk to me about skincare, Rudolf.” You snapped and tapped your nose twice to point out the zit on the tip of Peter nose. He covered it with his hand and narrowed his eyes at you.

“Children, please. No fighting. It stops my moisturizer from sinking in.” Tony sighed and rubbed circles into his skin.

“Sorry, daddy. I just wanted to make sure Peter knew about the giant pimple on his nose in case he was going to see anyone today.” You said as you smiled sweetly at Peter. He discreetly flipped you off by scratching his cheek with his middle finger.

“Any plans for the night, jelly bean?” Tony asked you.

“Nothing crazy. My friends are coming over later for a sleepover.”

“Oh God. Is this gonna be one of those crazy parties where you all get drunk and things get out of hand and you accidentally kill someone and have to dispose of the body together while hijixs ensues?” Peter. whined.

“No, because this isn’t one of the pornos you watch.” You scoffed.

“Pfft. That is not what I watch.” He insisted. “Where would I even find something like that? What would I even type? I’m open to suggestions.”

“Shut up.” You laughed. “You’re such a weirdo. And don’t be hanging around when my friends are here. I already told them you’re a pervert and on the FBI watch list so you don’t have a chance with any of them.”

“I don’t want to date your freakbob friends anyway.” He scoffed. “And to keep it down tonight, will you? I already wake up the birds chirping every morning. I don’t want to hear you birds all night too.”

“I actually came up with a solution for that. What if you killed yourself?” You asked through a smile.

“That’s a great idea. I might give that a whirl today if I’m not busy.” He replied and matched your smile.

“You? Busy?” You laughed. “Please. Busy doing what?”

“Peter and I are gonna be in the lab doing boring stuff with the suits. Adjustments, additions, and what have you.” Tony answered you.

“Oh. Okay. Do you need any help?” You asked.

“I wouldn’t ask you to do that on your birthday, baby girl. Peters got it.” Tony replied, making your smile falter a little.

“Yeah. I’ve got it.” Peter boasted and gave you a smug look. You glared at him for a moment before looking back at your dad.

“I’ll catch you later for some cake, okay honey bun?” Tony told you before kissing your forehead.

“Okay. Bye. Have fun.” You smiled sadly as he left the room.

“You look greasy, by the way.” Peter said once you were alone.

“Like I care what you think. Even your hairline won’t stay with you.” You scoffed and nodded towards his forehead.

“It’s not actually receding, is it?” He asked and touched his hair.

“Maybe your forehead is just getting bigger.” You shrugged and popped a grape in your mouth from the bowl on the table.

“Bite me.” He replied and stopped touching his hair.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” You chuckled. “Isn’t that how you got your powers, spider boy?”

“Yup. What do you think would happen if you bite me? Would I be able to a do anything a total bitch can?” He wondered, making you pelt a grape at him. He caught it with ease and popped it into his mouth.

“Watch your mouth before I bring out the peppermint essential oils again.” You warned him.

“You wouldn’t.” He said quietly.

“Try me.” You shrugged. You stared at each other across the kitchen for a moment before Peter gave up.

“You win. Here’s your card. Happy birthday, gaylord.” He said as he handed you a homemade birthday card from his jeans pocket before quickly running out of the room. You rolled your eyes at him but smiled once he was gone and read the card. As annoying as you normally found him, you appreciated that he remembered your birthday. Inside the card was a crude drawing of the two of you fighting next to a drawing of a gift card to Planet Fitness.

Peter strolled into your bedroom around 10 pm when he had grown curious as to why your friends weren’t there yet. It was getting kind of late and you had listed many activities that you had planned to do while Peter begrudgingly listened to you talk earlier in the day. You were still in your room by yourself so he went in and knocked on your door to see what was happening.

“Hey dingus. When are your dumb friends getting here? I need to know when I should jam my ears with scissors.” Peter said as he leaned against your doorway. You were sitting on your bed with your knees draw to your chest and your chin resting on top of them as you stared out the window.

“Do that anyway.” You mumbled and didn’t move from your position.

“I’m going to. I can’t listen to you all yap about when Reputation TV is coming all night. And your friend Stacy’s theories are always way off.” He continued. You still didn’t turn to look at him and his smirk dropped when he heard a sniffle. He frowned and took a step into your room.

“Hello? I knew you were dumb but did you forget how to turn your neck or something?” He said to try to make you laugh. You stayed still and he craned his neck to try to see your face.

“Seriously though, when are they coming?”

“They’re not coming.” You said finally in a horse voice.

“Why? What happened? Did they finally realize you’re an annoying brat whose only redeeming quality is access to daddy’s credit card?” Peter teased in another attempt to make you laugh.

“Something like that.” You mumbled. Peter frowned and finally realized that something was actually wrong. He sat down on your bed and reached his hand out.

“Whats going on? Are you okay?” He asked in a soft voice.

“Just go away.” You said sadly and wiped tears from your face. Peter shot a web at a tissue box on your dresser and pulled it over.

“I’m not going anywhere until you tell me what happened.” He said and handed you a tissue. You gave him a skeptical look and he held up one hand in defense while waving the tissue in the other like a white flag. You sighed and took the tissue before wiping your eyes.

“They found out it wasn’t a yacht party or at some fancy restaurant or some elitist club in Tribeca so they all cancelled.“ You said as you nervously ripped the tissue up in your hands.

“They cancelled? Why?”

“Because no one wants to come to my party. They want to come to a Stark Industries party with puppies in the gift bags and acrobats suspended from the ceiling and Avengers walking around like party clowns. Just hanging out with me wasn’t cool enough so they all bailed.” You sniffled and turned back to look out the window. Peter raised his hand to place it on your shoulder but then drew it back. He didn’t know if he was who you’d want to comfort you and he didn’t want to push it.

“I’m sorry.” He said instead.

“Like you care.” You laughed sadly and held your knees tighter to your chest.

“I do care.” He insisted. “And I’m very sorry this happened to you tonight.”

“No you’re not.” You scoffed. “You’re probably thrilled to see me like this. This is probably the greatest moment of your dumb life.”

“It’s not.” He said quietly. You finally whipped around to look at Peter and he saw the pain in your red eyes.

“It’s not? Look at me, Peter. I’m pathetic. I’m alone on my birthday because I wasn’t good enough for anyone to hang out with.” You exclaimed. Peter went quiet as you slowly caught your breath. You teased each other all the time but you’d never actually yelled at him before. You wiped your eyes with the tissue before staring at your hands.

“You were right.” You said quietly. “I am just a spoiled brat who people only like because of my connections. And I’m sure you’re anxiously waiting for me to shut up so you can say “I told you so” and prove to me once again that I’m always wrong.”

You and Peter sat in silence for a minute without looking at each other. Peter felt guilty that you were expecting him to kick you while you were down. You were feeling your own guilt for snapping at him when he was trying to be nice.

“I’m not gonna say that.” He said after a beat.

“It’s fine. I’m fine. Just go away.” You said miserably and turned back to the window. Peter opened his mouth to say something but shut it when he couldn’t find the words. He patted your shoulder twice before getting up and leaving your room. You turned to look at the door once he was gone and felt yourself missing his presence. You turned back to the window and stared out at the night sky through your teary eyes and let time pass.

After a while, you started to smell something. You sniffed the air until you recognized it as the scent of a something burning. Out of sheer curiosity, you wrapped a blanket around your shoulders and padded into the kitchen. You found Peter in the kitchen with a lace trimmed pink apron tied around his waist and flour smeared on his cheek. You smiled in surprise and leaned against the wall to watch him for a minute. He was humming to himself a song you didn’t recognize while scrapping a burnt black lump of something into the trash can. When he finally turned around, he jumped when he saw you.

“Jesus. You scared me. But I guess I should’ve known the smell of something baking would have your big back running to the kitchen like I hit the bat signal.”

“Shut up.” You chuckled. “What are you doing in here?”

“Well, your parents went to a movie since they thought your friends would be here. That means no ones home.” Peter began.

“And?” You asked.

“And so I thought we could fulfill a lifelong fantasy of mine and making sweet love to you on the kitchen counter.” He smiled suavely and raised his eyebrows at you.

“Excuse me?” Your jaw dropped as he drummed his fingertips on the counter.

“I’m joking. I’m clearly baking a bake. Or, I tried. I guess 500 degrees was too hot.” He said and looked at the burnt cake in the trash.

“Yeah, that’s a few hundred above what it should be. But why are you baking? We have a chef for that.”

“Because it’s your birthday you miserable bitch. And everyone deserves a cake baked with love. Now do you prefer chocolate or vanilla frosting on your burnt cake?” He asked and held up two cans of frosting. You looked between the two before your eyes settled on him. You hugged your blanket tighter around yourself and shook your head.

“I don’t want your pity.” You said quietly.

“You don’t have it so shut up and grab a spatula before I rescind your choice in the matter and funfetti the fuck out of this cake.” He replied and held out a spatula. You stared at it and felt compelled to take it and join him, but you were still throwing yourself a pity party.

“No.”

“No? Look, I’m trying to cheer your dumb ass up so can you please work with me here?” Peter sighed and looked at you. You stared at him for a while before cracking the slightest smile. He noticed the smile and knew he had succeeded in his plan to cheer you up.

“Fine. But I’m not eating that. That’s what Santa puts in the bad kids stockings. We’ll make a new one. But I’m not touching raw eggs.” You told him and grabbed your dad’s matching pink apron from the drawer.

“I wouldn’t expect you to, Princess.” Peter mumbled under his breath. You glared at him through your lashes as you threw some flour and sugar into a bowl. Peter went to put the butter in but you pushed his hand away.

“It can’t be cold butter or it won’t mix properly. It has to be room temperature.” You explained as you filled a measuring cup with water.

“Oh. Let’s pop it in the microwave then.”

“We can’t do that either. Then the hot butter will scramble the eggs. Do you want little egg bits in your cake?” You asked him as you microwaved the cup of water for a minute.

“Maybe just a little.” Peter replied as he watched you put the butter into a small bowl and then place the bowl on top of the microwaved water.

“There. This will soften the butter without making it hot enough to scramble the eggs.” You explained. He looked between your little invention and you for a minute before smiling.

“Wow. That was really smart.” He said genuinely. “Women really do belong in the kitchen.”

“Shut up.” You rolled your eyes as you set the temperature to the correct heat on the oven. Peter couldn’t help but watch you over his shoulder as you combined the rest of the dry ingredients and expertly cracked an egg in one hand. He rarely got to see you like this, no makeup and in lounge clothes. And he definitely never saw you upset before. He was used to the perfectly groomed and standoffish version of yourself so this change of pace brought him unexpected joy.

“Move over. That’s not how you mix batter. You need to fold it.” You told him and reminded him of the you he knew. You bumped him with your hip and put your hands over his to help him fold the batter.

“Like laundry?” He asked as his cheeks heated up.

“Like you know what laundry is, Pigpen. And no. A different folding. Like this.” You said and helped him mix the batter until it was the desired consistency.

“Oh wow. That worked really well. I usually just go sicko mode until it turns into goop.” He confessed.

“And how does that work out for you?” You asked him.

“Look in the trash and you’ll find out.” Peter replied and eyed the burnt cake in the garbage can. You playfully rolled your eyes at him and kept helping him fold the batter. Everytime he tried to stir the batter, you gently corrected his hands to fold it instead.

“Why don’t you just do it?” He asked when he started getting frustrated with himself.

“Because you won’t learn if I do it.” You replied in a softer tone. Peter went quiet since you were being unexpectedly nice to him. You let the batter sit for minute once you were satisfied and then poured in into a cake pan.

“There. Thats gonna take about 30 minutes to bake and then it needs to cool before we frost it.” You told him as you shut the oven door.

“Oh, so we have 30 minutes? Then circling back to that making love on the counter idea-“

“Shut it.” You warned him. Peter pretended to zipper his lips and throw away the key. You cracked a smile before starting to clean up the kitchen. Peter wordlessly helped you tidy up and you exchanged a soft smile with each other in the silence of the kitchen.

“What was your worst birthday?” You asked after a long beat of silence.

“Are you talking to me?” Peter asked after looking around.

“Peter, we’re the only ones in the room.”

“Sorry. It’s not like you’ve ever asked me a personal question before. It’s usually “are you stupid?” or “can you go away?” or “do you need a tampon cry baby?” He recalled, making you feel bad for always being so mean to him.

“Oh. Sorry about that.” You said quietly. “I sound a lot meaner than I thought I was.”

“I’m mean too.” Peter shrugged.

“You tease me.” You shook your head. “I’m just cruel.”

“I think we are an equal amount of mean to each other. Don’t let it keep you up at night. I’m sure your chronic yeast infections do that enough.” Peter tried to lighten the mood, but you didn’t crack a smile. You seemed faraway in thought and he was curious as to why.

“Do you think I’m hard to be around?” You asked after a minute. Peter was about to crack another joke until he saw the look on your face. He could tell you needed a friend right now and was filled with determination to be one.

“No. I think those girls you called your “friends” are hard to be around.” He said seriously. “I’ve seen you with them. They’re the mean ones. Them bailing tonight has nothing to do with you. They’re a bunch of shallow jerks who only care about the material things in life. They don’t care about having deep connections with people. They only care about deep pockets on people. I know this isn’t the first time they’ve ditched you. And I know you feel alone even when they are here because you’re never fully included. You think no one notices because you tell stories about your charming adventures together but I see it in your eyes. They make you feel like an afterthought. You act tough and pretend it doesn’t bother you but I know that it does. You shouldn’t hang out with them anymore.”

“Then who am I going to hang out with?” You shrugged sadly. “Without them, I don’t have any friends.”

“Sitting alone is better than sitting at a table where you’re the topic of conversation when you get up.” Peter said simply. You stared at him for a moment before your eyes fell to the floor.

“I just don’t want to be alone.” You said quietly. Peter nodded his head in understanding and let a silence fall between the two of for a while. He was going to say that you wouldn’t be alone because you’d have him, but he didn’t know if you wanted to hear that.

“Can I ask you something?” He asked.

“No.” You said immediately. You made eye contact and you let out a sigh.

“Okay. Go ahead.”

“Why don’t you like me?” He asked without looking into our eyes. You saw that coming and stared at him to try and get a sense of what was going on in his head. He slowly looked back up at you and gave you a weak smile.

“Do you remember that time the power went out in the city due to that Max guy or whatever and we all lit candles and hung out in the tower?”

“Uh oh.” Peter gulped. “You answered my question with another question. That can’t be good.”

“Shut up. Do you remember or not?” You asked and gently kicked his foot with your foot.

“I remember that.” He told you and held your gaze.

“You were new around here. You had just gotten your powers that year so I didn’t really know you yet. I had gone to look for more candles and found you crying on the floor of the linen closet.

“I remember that.” He nodded. “It was all so overwhelming to be here with the whole team. I had never felt so small.”

“I know. I told you I felt like that too sometimes. And then we stayed up for hours talking about every stupid thing we ever worried about and gave each other advice. I think at one point I gave you advice on how much conditioner to use.” You said as you replayed the night in your memory. You had a look on your face that Peter had never seen on you before. It was natural and relaxed and playful, all things he knew to be the opposite of you. It was so rare that the two of you were getting along and he didn’t want to do anything to ruin in.

“A dime sized amount and not on the roots. I still use that advice.” He chuckled. “You were so nice to me that night. You came in and pretended I wasn’t crying so that I wouldn’t be embarrassed. You just sat down with me and started talking ad if we’d always been friends. You quieted all my fears that night. I was initially so embarrassed about it but then I felt a lot better knowing someone had my back no matter how bad I messed up.”

“I always had your back.” You insisted. “Even when I was mean to you. If you were in trouble with my dad, I was always here talking him down and trying to get him to see your side. He sees you through the lense of his child that he doesn’t want hurt but I’ve always seen you as a hero who wants to help. I even got him to give you the suit back when you were 15. And it was my idea to put the warmers in because you told me you’re always cold.”

“Really? You were rooting for me this whole time?” He cracked a smile in surprise.

“Yeah.” You shrugged. “Always.”

“Then how come you act like…” Peter trailed off in fear of insulting you.

“Like what?” You asked, sounding like you already knew what was coming.

“Like you hate me.” He admitted. You felt your face burn in embarrassment and shook your head.

“I don’t hate you.” You said sheepishly.

“You don’t?” He asked in genuine surprise. You looked at him and he could see the guilt in your eyes even in the dim light of the kitchen.

“No. I don’t. I never did.”

“Then how come we don’t get along anymore?” He asked. He had only gone along with all the teasing since you began it, but he had always wondered why it started.

“One of the things we had talked about that night was how my one regret about being homeschooled was never getting to experience a prom. I told you had dreamed of it since I was a little girl and it broke my heart to know I’d never have one. So then you said…” You trailed off, thinking he’d remember what he told you. His face showed no sign of remembering it but he racked his brain anyway.

“I said what?” He asked, breaking your heart just a little more.

“You promised to take me. To yours.” You told him. You and Peter stood in silence for a moment before he burst out laughing. Your sadness immediately hardened into anger at the sound of him laughing at you.

“Wait, you’ve been pissy towards me for the last few years because I broke a promise I made at 15 years old and didn’t take you to a stupid school dance?” Peter asked through a laugh. You glared at him for his reaction and he immediately stopped when he noticed you weren’t laughing too.

“Oh. We’re not laughing?” He asked.

“Why is that funny to you?” You snapped. Peter saw the moment slipping away from him and started to panic.

“Well I was- I was a kid.” He said simply. “I had a huge crush on this girl Liz and we were finally becoming friends so I asked her and she said yes. That was years after I promised you that. I’m sorry but I didn’t remember.”

Peter thought you were going to yell at him and hurl a parade of insults his way, but you just nodded your head and looked down at the ground.

“You’re right. We were just kids. Forget I said anything.” You mumbled and started walking towards the door to leave. Peter knew he had messed up big time and possibly just killed any and all chances of the two of you becoming friends.

“Wait.” He said desperately just as the kitchen timer went off. You stopped walking and watched him haphazardly take the cake out of the oven and throw it in the stove top as he blew on it.

“You should stay. We have to frost it.” He said with a weak smile and an even weaker attempt for you for stay.

“You can’t frost it while it’s hot. It’ll slip right off.” You said without looking at him.

“Oh. I didn’t know that. Well then do you want to talk some more or-“

“I have to go.” You cut him off and swiftly left the kitchen.

You went back to your room to resume the pouting you had started earlier. You felt guilty about walking out on Peter but it had hurt you to know that a promise that had meant a lot to you didn’t even stay in his memory. You stared out the window and sulked as you thought yourself into a deep rut. It didn’t take long for Peter to start making noise in the kitchen, interrupting your thought spiral. You heard things falling out of cabinets followed by Peter swearing. He bumbled around for a while and slowly drove you crazy with all the noise he was making until you couldn’t take it anymore. Just when you were about to text him and tell him the knock it off, you heard the dulcet sounds of “The Dancing Queen” coming from downstairs. You groaned in frustration and got out of bed to go downstairs and see what was happening.

When you got to the living room, Peter was standing there in one of your dad’s suits that hugged him a little too tightly around his muscles. The room looked like it had been decorated by a child with poorly hung streamers, ripped up construction paper to act as confetti, and bunches of webs that Peter had tried to shape into stars and moons. He had dimmed the lights and put a single bowl of chips on the counter, which he proudly stood beside.

“What the hell is this?” You asked him.

“Will you go to prom with me?” He asked with a huge smile.

“No.” You said immediately. “Please kill yourself.”

“I will.” He promised. “After one dance.”

“I’m not dancing with you. I’m not doing any of this.” You told him and turned to leave. You heard a “pst” right before feeling a web hit your back. Before you knew it, Peter tugged on the web and sent you stumbling back into Peter’s arms. He caught you with ease and winked when you landed in his arms. You rolled your eyes at him but felt a smile tugged at your lips.

“Please? Just one dance? Then I’ll let you go and hate me for the rest of your life.” He pleaded as he stared into your eyes. He looked so desperate that you found yourself nodding before you knew what you were agreeing to. He smiled in excitement and twirled you around before slowly swaying to the beat. You begrudgingly sighed and wrapped your arms around his neck while his stayed in a respectable place on your hips. You could feel his eyes on you but you kept yours on the ceiling.

“You can look at me, you know.” He teased, making you begrudgingly look him in the eyes.

“Oh. I almost forgot.” He smiled and pulled something out of his pocket. You looked down and saw a few poorly drawn flowers webbed to a rubber band.

“Your corsage, my lady.” He said as he slipped it onto your wrist.

“This is so stupid.” You laughed but secretly loved the thought he put into everything.

“It’s about to get even more stupid. Wait here.” He asked and quickly ran into the kitchen. He returned with one of Morgan’s plastic tiaras with a big fake gem in the center.

“Every prom needs its queen.” He said as he placed the crown on your head. You made eye contact as he stepped forward to adjust it and you felt your breath catch in your throat from how close he was.

“You didn’t have to do this.” You said quietly.

“Yes I did. I owed you a prom experience. I’m sorry I didn’t take you the first time. And I’m sorry for laughing at you. You just caught me off guard. I have spent many nights thinking of all the things I could have done to make you hate me. I genuinely forgot about that promise. I had no idea this entire time that you hated me because of prom.” He said as the two of you started swaying to the music again. You felt a feeling rise up in your chest, a feeling you hadn’t felt for Peter in many years.

“It wasn’t just the prom.” You admitted before you could think about it.

“It wasn’t? What else did I do? Did I hotbox the elevator with you in it or something?” He asked. “I did that to Wanda once and now she’ll show up in my dreams sometimes and make me pee the bed.”

“That’s disgusting.” You said flatly. “But no. It wasn’t that.”

“Then what?” He wondered.

“It’s stupid. You’ll just laugh again.”

“No I won’t.” He assured you. “Probably. I’ll definitely try really hard not to.

“Come on. Please tell me.” He pleaded and gave your hip a gentle squeeze. “You have to tell me now or I’ll become so annoying so quickly. I’ll be worse than those people who try to describe SNL skits to you and keep explaining even when it’s clearly only funny if you’re watching it.”

“I can’t tell you. It’s dumb anyway. Forget I said anything.” You said and hoped he’d drop it.

“It can’t be that dumb if it stood between us all these years. What, did you have a crush on me or something?” He laughed through his question. You went quiet and Peters eyes went wide.

“Oh shit. Did you have a crush on me?” He asked in a soft voice. You looked down at the ground to avoid having to look him in the eyes now that you were caught.

“I don’t know.” You sighed. “You were my age and had these cool powers and muscles and unexpected sense of humor. I was homeschooled and had swiped to the end of Tinder. You were my only option.”

“Oh. I see. So you only liked me because I was the only choice?” He said through a laugh but it hurt him. You could sense in his voice that you had just hurt his feelings and for once, that wasn’t what you wanted.

“I mean, not the only choice.” You added. “Cap used to hang around a lot more and he’s not the worst looking. But he’s like 500 so I never really had a chance.”

“Why me, then?” He wondered. You finally looked in to his eyes and shrugged a little.

“Because you were kind.” You admitted. “You didn’t need to take on as much as what you did at such a young age but you refused to do the easy stuff. You used to drive my dad crazy with how for you begged for assignments. You were so determined to get out there and save people, it was almost obnoxious. You were never content getting back stolen bikes. You always wanted to protect people from the big things. Even when you were just a kid. I liked that about you. I still do.”

“Still?” He gulped. “Even now?”

Before you could respond, the slow music that was playing ended and “Munch” started to blast from Peter phone. He scrambled to change the song but the moment had already been ruined.

“Sorry about that. I don’t know who put that on my playlist.” He quickly lied.

“It was you.”

“It was me, yeah.” He admitted and hung his head in shame. You stopped dancing and slowly withdrew your arms from him, making his heart sink.

“This was really sweet. Thank you, Peter.” You said genuinely. “I should probably get to bed now. I just want this day to end.”

“But we haven’t frosted the cake yet. It’s still your birthday. You can’t go to bed without any cake.” He said in a desperate attempt to get you to stay.

“I don’t know. It’s late.”

“Come on. It’ll be fast. That’s one of my powers. Spider can frost cake really fast and so can I.” He said and rushed over to the cake. He held it up and gave you a lopsided smile, convincing you to stay.

“Fine. Let’s make it fast.” You agreed and walked over to him. He smiled at you joining him and got out the frosting. He handed you a spatula and you started to frost the cake.

“You don’t have to keep wearing that if you don’t want.” Peter chuckled and went to take your crown off. You quickly swatted his hand and adjusted your crown.

“Back off. It’s mine.” You said and stepped away from him. He chuckled again and you laughed too.

“I really do appreciate everything you did for me tonight. I hope I can make it up to you one day.” You told him.

“You can make it up to me right now if we clear off this counter top and-“

“No.” You cut him off.

“Worth a try.” He mumbled.

“Really, though. You cheered me up tonight and I didn’t think that was possible.”

“In a way, I’m glad your stupid friends cancelled on you. It gave us an opportunity to spend time together. And this was the least I could do for not taking you to my real prom. Which was total buns, by the way. I missed most of it because I was putting my dates dad in jail.”

“Well I’m glad that didn’t happen tonight.” You laughed softly.

“Me either. I wish I took you to the first one. We could have been friends this whole time if I had just remembered my promise.” He sighed.

“It’s fine. It was a long time ago. I’m done moping about it. I’m ready to eat this cake and be friends from now on.”

“I’m ready for that too.” He smiled at you. “Especially the part about us being friends. But also for this cake because it’s kinda giving me a boner from how good it smells.”

“It does smell really good. I can’t even blame your boner. But if that thing even looks at me you’re getting impromptu gender reassignment surgery with this spatula.”

“Ouch.” He chuckled and looked over at you. He didn’t stop looking at you until you felt his eyes on you.

“What?” You laughed shyly.

“I can’t believe you ever liked me. And that this whole time, I had no idea. I am so not cool enough for a girl like you to like.”

“Yeah, well. It wasn’t like I dropped any hints.”

“Maybe not. It just doesn’t feel real. I wouldn’t believe it even if you weren’t always mean to me. You reciprocating my feelings was not something I ever thought would happen.”

“Reciprocating? You liked me too?” You asked as your mouth went dry.

“Are you kidding? You’re my mentors insanely hot and totally off limits daughter. Of course I liked you. Not to mention you’re funny, smart, good with a screwdriver and the apparently my biggest supporter. Though you did it in secret. Make no mistake, birthday girl. I had the biggest crush on you for years. Even when you were being mean to me.”

“Oh. I didn’t know.” You said quietly. You had your back to him as you washed your hands but you could feel his eyes on you. You peaked over your shoulder and sure enough, Peter’s eyes were locked on you. You gulped and turned back around when you heard him walking over to you.

“You know, as mean as your insults were, they were always clever. And you always looked good saying them. How could I not fall for you?” He said as he came up behind you. He was close enough that you could smell his cologne, along with a scent that was just distinctly Peter, making your heart pound in your ears. You turned around and leaned against the counter as you looked into his eyes.

“Well how do you feel now?” You asked with unwavering eye contact.

“I feel like those feelings never left.” He admitted. You had never heard such confidence in his voice and it was just the thing to tip the scales back in his favor.

“Hm. Interesting.” You shrugged and turned back around. It was almost like you could hear the disappointment in the air once you had your back to him again. You decided not to torture him forever and give in to what you both wanted.

“Peter?” You asked and looked over your shoulder at him.

“Yeah?”

“Clear the countertop.”

Tag List 🏷️

@thebookwormlife @imanativeofswlondondahling

@whatareyouhidingpeter @takenbyheartstrings

@imyourliquor-youremypoison @andreasworlsboring101

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#peter parker x reader #peter parker x stark!daughter #peter parker x stark!reader #peter parker enemies to lovers #peter parker angst #peter parker fanfiction #peter parker x you #peter parker imagine #peter parker x y/n #tom holland x reader #tom holland x you #tom holland fluff #tom holland fanfiction #tom holland x y/n

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enhaflixer · 3 months ago

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overstimulated!jay x f!reader - breaking his cocky ego. pure smut, he cries.

ENHA HARD HOURS 18+ MDNI

“You’re shaking,” you murmur, lips grazing the soaked head of his cock. “You okay, baby?”

He laughs—barely. A sharp breath that twitches out of him, mouth parted like he’s about to lie and say yes, even while his thighs are trembling beneath you.

Jay’s a cocky bastard. Always has been. Started this whole thing with a smug grin and a “You can try, babe, but I don’t break that easy.”

You didn’t say anything back.

Just pushed him flat on the bed, slid between his legs, and started sucking like your only goal was to destroy him.

Now he’s a fucking mess.

His skin’s flushed to his ears, jaw clenched so hard it’s shaking, fists tangled in the sheets above his head—not to hold on, but because if he touches you now, he’ll explode. Again.

You haven’t stopped. Not once.

Not after he came the first time, groaning through grit teeth.

Not after the second, his voice catching, fingers spasming against the mattress.

Not even after the third—when he sobbed into his own arm and whispered “Please.”

You’re still going.

Still licking around the base, dragging your tongue up his length while he twitches helplessly.

Still wrapping your lips around his tip, swollen and angry and red, tasting like ruin and salt and him.

“Can’t,” he gasps. “Fuck—I c-can’t—baby—”

You glance up. His eyes are glassy, bottom lashes wet, lips trembling like he’s about to cry harder just from your gaze alone.

God, he’s beautiful like this.

All that quiet dominance, that usual calm, shattered underneath you.

Sweat at his temples, tears on his cheeks, chest rising so fast he can’t even speak straight.

“You said you don’t break easy,” you whisper against his cock, lips brushing that oversensitive slit. “Were you lying?”

His hips jerk like he’s trying to crawl away, but his thighs won’t cooperate.

They just tremble.

A sob punches out of him—raw, real, humiliated—and his hands fly to his face, trying to cover it.

You pull back slowly, licking your lips. His cock twitches in the air, leaking again.

“Jay.”

He shakes his head behind his hands.

“Jay, baby.”

He peeks through his fingers, voice wrecked. “I’m—‘m gonna come again, I can’t—I’m—”

You just smile.

“Good.”

Because the second you wrap your mouth around him again, he breaks.

Fucking screams, like it’s being ripped out of him.

His hips buck hard, his thighs snap tight around your head, and you moan as he shoots down your throat—again, again, again.

You don’t pull back. Not even when his moans turn into high, broken sobs.

You just hum around him, slow and wet, drinking every drop while he falls apart under you—body jerking, mouth open in a soundless cry.

He’s crying now. For real.

Choked little gasps, face red and wet, begging like he doesn’t care about anything except escape.

But he doesn’t move. He can’t.

Just lies there, twitching, trembling, letting you suck him through the aftershocks.

When you finally pull off, he whimpers like it hurts.

You crawl up his body, hands gentle now, brushing tears from his face. He’s gasping. Chest still shaking. Eyes dazed.

“Still think you’re tough?” you whisper, kissing the corner of his mouth.

And all he can do is nod—pathetically—and whimper out, “Y-Yeah. Just… gimme a minute…”

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pinkgic · 7 months ago

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ex-boyfriend fratboy!rafe. god help me!

cw. smut (mdni), fem!reader, toxic relationship, alcohol and drug use, mirror sex, degradation kink.

the music sounds distant, muffled by the white-tiled walls that appeared a light, smudged gray thanks to the alcohol fogging your brain—and the way his pelvis kissed your ass with each plap-plap-plap, echoing in the bathroom of a party you weren’t even supposed to be at. for this exact reason. you knew how it would end. with your lame coked-up excuse of an ex inside you.

and still, you couldn't even answer the big, ugly question sitting in your gut: why the fuck do i keep letting him do this? your body had betrayed you again, thighs spread wide and shaking as his cock hit that spot that made your toes curl against the cold tile. and, of course, your eyes met his in the large, square mirror above the sink. a voyeuristic form of self-loathing. as if you needed to confirm, once again, how the promises of, “no, i’m not gonna talk to him, not even look at him, i promise!” made to your friends, were entirely baseless.

perhaps even they had already accepted it—

“fuck,” he groaned, and a grin stretched across his stupidly handsome face as you let out another loud moan when his fat tip grazes your g-spot, bingo. thankfully, for the sake of your peace of mind (because he, more than once, hadn’t cared if the entire party heard how good his cock made you feel), the host’s house was massive. you’d ended up here with him because all the other bathrooms were occupied when the drinks you’d downed earlier hit, and that’s how you found yourself in the second-floor bathroom at the end of the hall. that's how “pee-and-leave” turned into this.

his right hand—the one not gripping your shoulder with his beefy arm wrapped tightly around your trembling torso—moved up, cupping your jaw and forcing you to look into the mirror at the two of you: sweaty, panting bodies.

“fuckin’ look at that,” he panted, gaze flicking down. “hah, shit, look how those two bounce,” he slapped the side of your breast, leaving a hot, stinging mark. he was so mean.

and you hated yourself for clenching around him because of it.

his laugh was this low, mean sound, vibrating against your back as he leaned forward, his chest slick with sweat pressing into you like he needed to get as deep as possible. fucking gross. the thought was interrupted by the hot breath skating over the shell of your ear. “see that face you’re making?” he murmured. “‘s my favorite one. you look so—fuckin’—wrecked.”

and god, if he wasn’t right. your eyeliner had betrayed you hours ago, smeared into shadows that made your eyes look too big, too wide, like a haunted doll. your lips were red and swollen, half from the sloppy kiss that started this whole thing and half from biting down so hard to keep yourself quiet. the woman staring back at you was enjoying it, there was no way to deny that.

“shut up,” you hissed, you just wanted to look away. but his fingers curled tighter around your jaw, already marking his digits there.

“you don’t want me to shut up,” he taunted, his hips rolling deeper, lazier. like he had all the time in the world to ruin you. “you love it when i talk, when i tell you how fuckin’ good you’re taking it, like the slut you are.”

you hated him. you hated him so much you could cry—you were going to cry, but for different reasons. you hated the way he always knew exactly what to say, to keep you squeezing him between your slick walls, and getting you addicted every day a little bit more, increasing the dose.

but the worst part—the part that made your chest twist like a wet towel, wringing out something raw and acidic—was how he was right. he always was. every damn time. you hated how he’d figured you out. he was your ex, goddamn it!

because yeah, you did love it. loved the sound of his low voice dragging over your nerves like a matchstick ready to explode a bomb. loved the way his cock stretched you open until it felt like your brain short-circuited, leaving nothing but static between your ears. loved that stupid smirk, too. it wasn’t fair. he wasn’t fair.

you tried to focus on anything else—the way the faucet dripped, the faint bassline pulsing through the floor beneath you, keeping your eyes open. “rafe,” you whispered in a treacherous moan.

his hand slid down your belly, splayed wide like he was claiming you, branding you his. “tell me,” his voice was almost tender now, mockery softened by the way he groaned as you clenched around him. “tell me how much you hate me while you’re drippin’ all over my cock.”

you didn’t say anything. couldn’t. your throat tightened as your hips jerked back to meet his thrusts, sharp and desperate, chasing something you’d regret in the morning along with the hangover. or maybe right after you came. but right now, you needed it like you needed air.

his laughter curled around you, mean and knowing, as his hand slid up your belly, splayed possessively just under your ribs. like he owned you. like he always had, no matter how many times you’d tried to scrape him out of your system. “that’s what I thought,” he muttered, his lips brushing your temple like a kiss. like he thought he was being romantic, like he thought this was some kind of fucked-up love story. “hate me all you want, baby. but this?” his hand slid lower, between your legs, pinching your sensitive clit, making you bite your lip hard enough to taste blood as your legs buckled. “this don’t lie.”

#៹ 𔘓 pinkgic ! ꞌꞋ ࣪#𝓡. 𝓒.#[ ⋆ fem!reader ]#season one!rafe ⤸#fratboy!rafe ⤸#rafe cameron smut #rafe cameron x reader #rafe cameron x you #pinkgic's works ᡣ𐭩 #outer banks

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sharkylikesknives27 · 7 months ago

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!!ARCANE SEASON 2 SPOILERS!!

Do my eyes deceive me-

OR ARE THOSE VI'S GAUNTLETS DRAWN OVER JINX'S HANDS??

#I paused to get something and I SAW THAT???#watch how hard i can cry #I love details #I love blink and you'll miss type details SO MUCH #arcane s2 spoilers #piltover's finest #arcane spoilers #jinx arcane #jinx and isha #ig??#vi arcane #gonna go cry and explode at once

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hearts4hughes · 3 days ago

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ೃ࿔:･ bsf!rafe starts dating sofia and ghosts you

he was always yours…until he wasn’t.

you don’t remember when the shift happened—when lingering looks turned heavier, when brushing hands stopped being accidental. you just know it never went anywhere. because rafe was your best friend. he had been since middle school, since braces and bike rides and bad decisions with summer consequences. it felt safer to leave it unsaid.

until wheezie told you. “he’s been asking me weird stuff,” she said one night, legs curled under her on your bed. “like what kind of flowers girls like, or if i think scrunchies are still a thing. i swear, he’s gonna do it. he’s finally gonna ask you out.”

your heart did that stupid thing—clenched and soared all at once. you smiled like a fool and let yourself believe it. you started wearing your hair down more. painted your nails, let the hope live a little.

so when rafe texted “come by. got something to show you.” you thought, this is it. you wore that sundress he once said made you look like trouble and smiled at the mirror.

but he wasn’t waiting for you with flowers or reciting what he was going to say to you. he was with her—sofia. she was tucked under his arm like she belonged there. all glossy and sweet and brand new. her voice too loud and her smile too wide. the type of girl you and rafe used to giggle about.

“this is sofia,” rafe said, almost sheepish. “my…girlfriend.”

you just smiled, bit your cheek hard enough to draw blood, but smiled. “oh, wow. i’m happy for you.”

liar.

it was ok at first. sure, he didn’t sit as close to you anymore and he told you less and less (unless it was about sofia). but then he starts missing things. movie nights, beach days, your birthday, kind of—he texts sorry, things came up with a stupid champagne emoji and you stare at your screen until it blurs.

you try not to care. try to be chill��normal. the way he probably wants you to be. but it builds slowly and cruelly. every canceled plan another cut. until it snaps.

he shows up to your house to borrow a charger, of all things. you’re in the driveway before he even knocks, heart in your throat and fury in your fists. “so this is it?” you say, arms crossed. “you’re just ghosting me for some girl you met like—what, three weeks ago?”

rafe blinks and doesn’t answer right away. you take that as permission to keep going. “you forget everything we’ve been through? every night i sat with you when your dad was on a bender, or when topper left you stranded at that party? i was there. i’ve always been there. and now she shows up with her fake nails and new highlights and you just—what? forget me?”

his face darkens. “don’t talk about her like that.”

“why not? you don’t even know her.”

“i do.”

“yeah?” your voice cracks. “then what the hell am i, rafe?”

and he explodes. “she’s my girlfriend!” he growls, voice mean and low. the same voice he used to use on other people, but never you. “not you! she is!.”

you go still. just…still. your mouth opens, then closes. the world tips sideways. he sees it. the way you crumble, just a little. his expression shifts—regret, guilt, something softer—but you shake your head before he can speak. “don’t,” you whisper. “don’t say anything else.”

he steps forward. “look, i didn’t mean-”

“it’s fine,” you lie. “really. i hope you and sofia are just great.” you muster up the best faux smile you can and bring your voice up an octave. you’re getting good at it—pretending. “you don’t have to worry about me bothering you anymore.”

you don’t look back. you walk away from him, from that driveway, from everything that once felt safe and unbreakable between you. and when you get to your room, you let the door shut and the silence fall like it’s permission. then you cry—not loud, not dramatic…just quiet, painful little sounds that shake in your throat and make your ribs hurt.

you don’t text rafe. don’t check if he texted you. don’t even stalk sofia’s instagram. you just try not to hope.

a week passes. seven full days of radio silence. seven full days of heartache and shitty chocolates in heart-shaped boxes. you hate that you count them. saturday comes around once again. dusk spilling through your window like it’s sneaking in. you’re lying in bed, headphones in, not crying anymore, just numb. then, theres that knock.

it’s not at your door, it’s at the front door. you almost don’t check, almost pretend you’re not home, almost hope that someone else gets it before you. but something makes you move. you rise to your feet, stepping all of the candy wrappers and ripped up notes with rafe’s handwriting. trudging down the stairs, your stomach twists. your body knows before your mind does. and when you open it, he’s there.

he’s in a hoodie that looks like he’s slept in it. jaw bruised like he picked a fight and didn’t win. eyes bloodshot, hands twitching like they don’t know what to do if they’re not touching you. “can i come in?” he asks, voice hoarse.

you stare at him. this ghost of your best friend. this boy who shattered you with seven words. “why?” you whisper.

he swallows hard. “because i was wrong.” you don’t say anything, fingers playing with the hem of your oversized shirt. “i shouldn’t’ve yelled at you like that,” he goes on. “i shouldn’t’ve picked her.”

“you didn’t just pick her,” you murmur. “you left me.”

rafe frowns. “i know—fuck, i know. i thought—i thought maybe if i tried with someone else, it’d go away.”

“what would?”

“the way i feel about you.” your breath catches. “it’s always been you,” he says, quieter now. it’s a confession and it hurts to say out loud. “since freshman year. you had braces and wore those stupid cat socks and you punched topper in the face for calling me a daddy’s boy. and i think that was it for me. i was just gone.”

you stare at him. throat constricting around nothing. “then why didn’t you ever say anything?”

“because you were my best friend,” he says. “and i was terrified of ruining it. of ruining us.”

you blink fast, heart hammering. “wheezie told me,” you whisper. “she said you were gonna ask me out. that you’d been asking her about flowers and scrunchies and stupid stuff and—i thought it was finally happening.”

rafe steps closer. his hands are shaking. “it was,” he says. “it was for you. all of it. but i got scared and did something stupid and i hurt you. i know that.” he runs his hands over his face. “but please—i need you to know, none of it meant anything.”

you search his face. the cracks in it. the truth bleeding through. “you broke my heart, rafe.”

he nods. “and you’re breaking mine just standing there.”

you inhale shakily. then you whisper, “say it.”

his brows furrow. “say it’s me.”

he steps forward, gently cups your face in his hands. “it’s you,” he breathes. “it’s always been you.”

that’s when finally he kisses you.

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#bsf!rafe cameron #bsf!rafe #rafe cameron x bsf!reader #rafe cameron #nora’s writings 💐#rafe cameron x reader #rafe cameron blurb #rafe cameron obx #rafe cameron imagine

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rafesbimbo · 23 days ago

Note

gyno!rafe and reader going on a real date plspls ajajsjk

warnings: medical kink, praise, fingering, slight possessiveness, doctor/patient dynamic, soft smut, light manipulation, dominant!rafe, subby reader, public teasing

pairing: gynecologist!rafe cameron x reader

you still couldn’t believe you were here.

not on the sterile, too-bright exam table. not with your legs spread and your hands clenching the edge of crinkling paper sheets.

no, this time you were across from rafe cameron in a dimly lit steakhouse.

soft jazz playing overhead. a glass of wine sweating in your hand. his gaze heavy across the table, like he was still trying to memorize you in real time.

“you nervous, sweetheart?”

you blinked, eyes snapping up to his smirk. he leaned back, strong arms folded, perfectly tailored shirt stretching across his chest.

you didn’t answer right away. you were too busy trying to keep your thighs pressed together under the table.

“kinda,” you finally whispered.

rafe tilted his head, and his voice dropped low, intimate. “you weren’t nervous last week when you were whining on my fingers. what’s different now?”

heat exploded in your cheeks.

“rafe…”

he chuckled.

smug.

knowing.

he reached across the white-linen-covered table and brushed his thumb along your knuckles, gentle and sweet like he hadn’t once told you to 'open wider for me, baby, just like that.'

“i’m messing with you,” he said, eyes softening. “but you do look pretty when you blush.”

you squirmed, cheeks hot, thighs squeezing together again—because his thumb was still stroking your hand, slow, steady. comforting.

and all you could think about was how those same fingers had once been deep inside you while he told you you were 'so good for your doctor.'

the waitress brought your food, but you barely tasted it. not with the way rafe kept dragging his foot up your calf under the table. not with how he watched your lips every time you licked a little sauce off them.

halfway through the meal, his voice dropped again.

“you wet, baby?”

you almost choked on your drink.

“rafe—!”

“sweetheart,” he warned gently, with that fake-patient tone that always made your stomach flip.

“you know i hate being ignored.”

your mouth parted. your breath caught. you couldn’t answer. not really. and that silence must’ve been enough, because his gaze darkened.

“that’s what i thought.”

he pushed his plate away. leaned closer.

“be honest,” he murmured.

“you wore that little dress for me, didn’t you? the one that clings to your hips and shows me exactly where to put my hands?”

you nodded, shy.

“atta' girl.”

he didn’t make it to dessert.

neither did you.

he got you to the car and barely had the door shut before he was pulling you into his lap, your back to the wheel and your knees straddling his thighs.

“you know,” he murmured, slipping his hand up your thigh, “i’ve been thinking about this since the first time you walked into my office.”

you whined as he tugged your panties aside, fingers skimming right over your slit.

“rafe—someone could see…”

“let ‘em,” he muttered, pushing two fingers inside with practiced precision. “i’ve earned this. you’re mine now.”

your body arched at the stretch, his fingers curling just right, hitting that spot that made your legs shake.

“fuck—just like that—”

“you remember how you sounded on my table?” he whispered, kissing the corner of your jaw.

“so sweet. all needy. i knew you’d take me so good, sweetheart. knew your pretty pussy just needed a little training.”

you moaned, hips grinding down on his hand shamelessly. he was working you open so slowly, like he had all the time in the world—like you weren’t about to fall apart right here in his lap.

“m' gonna come,” you gasped, “please—please—”

“go on,” he coaxed. “come for me, baby. make a mess. i’ll clean it up.”

you did. hard. with a cry muffled into his neck and your whole body trembling in his hold.

he held you close after, lips brushing your temple, still stroking you with those big warm hands.

“you hungry again?” he murmured. “we can pick up dessert.”

you giggled against his shoulder. “not unless it’s you.”

rafe groaned. “jesus. don’t start, baby. i’ll take you right here.”

and honestly, you wouldn’t have minded.

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applepiiex · 20 days ago

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FIRST WORDS ! ! ! ⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆

Nanami Kento x Male!Reader

The baby is now a constant in that chat box. However, Nanami is as stoic as ever in front of his students. He wrote it off as a one time occurrence, not to happen again. Until a milestone happens once more during class. A/N: Sequel to Zoom Class

⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊

Nanami’s face on camera? Sharp. Focused. Almost stern. His notes? organized. Slide transitions: clean. His students? thoroughly convinced this man has never once experienced human joy.

“—and so, when considering how neoliberal policy influenced wage stagnation in the late 20th century—”

Thunk.

Off-camera, there was a soft, curious sound. Followed by a baby squeal. Nanami paused, barely, but kept going, smoothing his tone.

“—the emphasis shifted toward deregulated markets and—” Another squeal. Then: a distinct thud against hardwood flooring. Then—

“Pa.”

Nanami froze. The chat remained quiet. At first. Then it began.

did someone say “pa” wait is baby nanami BACK?? is that HIS BABY AGAIN?? omg is this happening LIVE RN Y’ALL SHUT UP I THINK THAT WAS HIS FIRST WORD

He stared straight ahead at the webcam. Unmoving. Calm. A statue of academic rigor. And then another one.

“Pa…pa!” The sound was clear. Bright. Practiced. Nanami’s eyes widened a millimeter.

You gasped offscreen, working silently in his office to keep your eyes on your son. There was a clatter, your voice hushed but frantic, “Kento. Kento. He just said it—he just—!”

And then a squeal of absolute delight from your son, who clearly now knew he had an audience. Nanami’s students, meanwhile, were losing their minds.

HE SAID PAPA ON ZOOM I’M CRYING I WAS HERE FOR THIS HISTORIC MOMENT drop the syllabus sir we’re done here THE WAY HE DIDN’T EVEN FLINCH. ICON.

Slowly, Nanami turned his head to the side just out of frame, but his voice finally broke that steady cadence. “…He said it?”

You were already stepping into view, baby boy in your arms, beaming so hard your eyes were glassy. “He said it. Twice. Papa.”

The baby waved his chubby fist like he’d just ended the Cold War. Nanami’s mouth parted slightly then curled, soft and in awe. “My son’s first word was ‘Papa’...”

The chat exploded.

i’m not crying YOU’RE crying PROFESSOR NANAMI IS A PAPA CONFIRMED ✨papa nanami supremacy✨ honestly class should be cancelled in honor

Nanami turned back to the screen, and for the first time ever—ever—he smiled, full and genuine and unguarded. “…Class dismissed,” he said.

A cheer broke out in the chat. Capslock. Emoticons. One person tried to post a link to a diaper sponsorship. You giggled as Nanami stood and gently took your son into his arms, cradling him close. The baby patted his jaw once, then said it again, proudly.

“Pa!”

Nanami looked at you. “He said it for me.”

You kissed his cheek. “He meant it for you.”

The camera was still on. The students were still watching. But Nanami didn’t care. He pressed his forehead against his son’s and whispered, “I’ll remember this forever.”

Three weeks after “Papa”, the household had been coasting off the high of that first word like it was a Nobel Peace Prize. Nanami was still floating. Still smug. Still bringing it up in casual conversation like he wasn’t completely obsessed.

“My son’s first word? Papa.”

“Ah yes, I’m afraid I have to end office hours early today. My son said ‘Papa.’”

“He likes bananas and saying Papa.”

You were equal parts endeared and mildly exasperated. “Are you gonna introduce yourself at conferences like that now?” you teased one night while folding laundry. “‘Hi, I’m Kento Nanami. Economist. Father of a prodigy who said Papa first.’”

He didn’t even blink. “If it fits on the name tag.”

But then came Tuesday. The pandemic had been mostly resolved and Nanami had a full day on campus. Office hours, a guest seminar, and a late faculty meeting that dragged until 8pm.

You were home. Alone. Playing soft music while the baby gnawed on a silicone giraffe, cheeks flushed with teething effort. You leaned down to rub his back and gently whispered, “It’s okay, baby. Dada’s here.”

The baby blinked up at you. “…Da.”

You froze. You blinked. Then tentatively, “Dada?”

His eyes lit up. “Dada!”

You screamed. (Quietly. Internally. Okay maybe not that quietly.) He said it again. Over and over. Like he knew what he had done. You immediately fumbled for your phone, hands shaking like you were defusing a bomb, and recorded a 10-second clip. Just one clean “Dada!” with a big toothless smile. You sent it to Nanami. No caption. Just the holy grail.

He opened it mid-meeting. In the middle of a dry PowerPoint on pension policy. The second he heard it, and he gasped.

His colleague paused. “Uh… Nanami?”

He stood up. Stood up. “I have to go.”

“But we’re only halfway—”

“I SAID I HAVE TO GO.”

He power-walked through the halls like he was storming a battlefield, gripping his phone like it was a lifeline. That video on loop. Playing it again. And again.

By the time he burst through the front door, you were holding your son in the kitchen, already on your third round of "What did you say? Say it again for Dada~”

Nanami dropped his briefcase. “Did he—was that real?”

You turned. “You’re home.”

He pointed accusingly, like he was both thrilled and personally attacked. “You got ‘Dada’?!”

You grinned. “I got Dada.”

The baby squealed and reached for him. “Dada!!” And Nanami cracked. Right there. Melted like a glacier under a heat lamp. He crossed the room in four strides and swept the baby up in one arm, holding him like treasure.

“You couldn’t have waited?” he muttered into the baby’s hair. “I gave you bananas yesterday.”

“Dada!!!” the baby shouted again, smacking his cheek with joy.

You hugged him from behind. “You’re still the first. I just happen to be the favorite today.”

Nanami huffed. “Unacceptable.”

He looked at your son, deadly serious. “Say Papa. Go on. Remind him.”

The baby gave a gurgle. Then, “No.”

You howled.

Nanami looked betrayed. “Did he just—?”

“Oh he understood. That was deliberate.” You pressed a kiss to his temple as he stood frozen, scandalized. “Don’t worry. He’ll say it again when he wants more bananas.”

“I’m filing a formal complaint.”

You laughed. “With who?”

Nanami looked down at his baby who was now gnawing his shirt button, and sighed. “God, probably.”

#jjk #jjk x reader #jjk x male reader #jjk x m!reader #nanami x m!reader #Nanami kento #nanami kento x reader #nanami kento x male reader #x male reader #x m!reader #fanfic #fanfiction #male reader #m!reader #applepiiexx writes #jujutsu kaisen #jujustsu kaisen x reader

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not-soap73 · 3 months ago

Text

✧･ﾟ: Rex ‘Splode’ Sloan ✧･ﾟ:

nsfw/smut oneshot, gn!reader, sub!rex, mention of multi-creampie

“Come on baby…you got this.”

Rex Sloan, a hot head for a boyfriend. A womanizer at heart. And a male who claimed he was a top while having sex. Yet here he was, complete putty in your hands.

The slapping of your ass against his thighs echoed throughout the room, mixed with the whines and high pitched moans leaving your wrecked boyfriends swollen lips as you road him.

His hands glued to your waist, keeping you in place with a bruising grip, nails digging into the fat of your hips. His pupils were absolutely blown, trying to look up at you, wanting to admire how pretty you looked bouncing up and down on his cock. But it was too difficult, not when you rocked your hips in a certain way, your gummy walls clenching around his sensitive dick, whispering lewd praises in his ear, all to which made his eyes roll back.

He felt like he was going to explode.

You’ve been riding him for god knows how long. Your legs burning up, motions growing sloppy but you couldn’t bring yourself to care. You made him cum…how many times now? Who knows. You lost track after three. The thick ring of creamy cum around the base of his cock was enough said.

“I can’t…please…fuck!”

“Yes you can, Rex…”

Moan after groan. Whining after complaining. All to which made you go harder and faster on top of him. Your head tilted forward, letting out soft pants as your eyes trailed over him, taking in the delicious sight. Your teeth marks in his tan skin, one that stood out the most was the one around his perky nipple. Hickeys and faint lines of your nail marks across his chest. Tears were beginning to gloss over his eyes, on the brink of crying from the overstimulation. Oh how you wanted to lick those tears away once they started rolling down.

“Such a pretty boy…”

Such a fucking tease, he thought. His hands gripped at your waist, rutting up as you slowed, making you moan out as the girth of his dick rubbed right against your sweet spot, head snapping back, thighs clenching around his hips. A smirk tugging on his lips at the sight of you.

He so desperately wanted to take control, to flip you over and pound into that gapping hole of yours until your the one cumming all over him, crying from the pleasure and whining out for more. He wanted that satisfaction. He wanted that glory. But he couldn’t find the strength, his body limp against the mattress, pebbled in sweat, lower half sticky with cum. He was letting you fuck him numb. And god did he love it.

“I’m gonna…ngh…”

Hot, thick ropes plunge into you, painting your walls white with his seed. Your hips smacked down, feeling as his cock twitched inside of you, half hard. He let out a strained moan, his hands falling from your waist and onto the bed, trying to steady his breathing from yet another orgasm. He wiped a bead of sweat that rolled from his temple, eyes flickering up to you.

“One more?”

A cheek grin plastering on your face.

You were going to be the death of him one day.

#rex sloan #rex splode #rex splode x reader #rex sloan x reader #rex splode x you #rex sloan x you #invincible #invincible smut #invincible rex splode #character x reader #rex sloan smut #rex splode smut

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ilovekkarnolds · 19 days ago

Text

“We been knew”

juju watkins x female!reader

Juju wasn’t hiding you.

You both agreed early on—your love was yours first. Not the world’s. Not for clout. Not for hashtags.

There were subtle things: the way she made sure you always had floor seats but never got caught on camera. The way her captions were vague, but the songs she chose on her stories said more than words ever could. The way her lock screen was you, but turned face-down when she was in the locker room.

You understood it. The world was watching.

And some parts of it? Ugly.

But she still showed you love loud and clear—just in spaces you two could breathe in.

The texts. The playlists. The handwritten notes slipped in your carry-on every road trip.

“Private,” Juju had whispered once while you sat on her lap, her arms wrapped around your waist, “doesn’t mean unloved.”

And she meant it.

But the world was about to see you anyway.

And neither of you were fully ready.

⸻

THE PHOTO

It happened after a win in Phoenix.

You’d flown in, surprised her in the tunnel—matching hoodie, sneakers, her old college chain around your neck—and hugged her so tight her knees buckled. She buried her face in your shoulder and exhaled like she hadn’t breathed in a week.

You didn’t know a fan caught it.

You didn’t know that moment—a hug, her hand lingering at your waist, your soft smile back at her—would go viral 36 hours later.

@WNBAUpdates:

Juju Watkins seen embracing mystery girl after Mercury game.

“She doesn’t do this with anyone. 👀”

🔥 or 🥶?

The comments spiraled.

“That better be her girlfriend or I’m gonna scream.”

“She looks so happy though??”

“OMG is this THE girl from her IG stories???”

“Please let this be real. I love this for her.”

“Y’all see the matching sneakers?? Yeah, that’s her girl.”

“Just say it already, Juju.”

Some were sweet.

Others… weren’t.

⸻

THE NOISE

Your phone blew up first.

Friends. Fans. That cousin who always said she “don’t really follow sports but saw your name on Twitter.”

Then came the DMs. Most were kind. Supportive. Curious.

But a few stung.

“She could do better.”

“Why do studs always pick girls that look like—”

“Not who I pictured for Juju.”

You didn’t cry. You wouldn’t give them that.

But it burned all the same.

Later that night, Juju called you. Her voice was tight.

“You okay?”

“Yeah,” you lied.

“Don’t do that.”

Silence.

You heard her sigh.

“I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“For not… saying it out loud. For letting you be the secret in other people’s eyes. For letting the world talk before I did.”

Your throat tightened.

“I wasn’t ashamed,” she added. “I was scared.”

You waited. Let her find her words.

“Scared that if I gave them this piece of us, they’d try to ruin it. But now I see… they never had it to begin with. We do.”

⸻

THE STATEMENT

Game day. National coverage. Juju walked into the arena in a crisp tan trench coat, black boots, and your name printed on her chain.

The cameras noticed.

But what really shook the world?

Her post-game interview.

After another 30-point performance, the reporter tried to slide it in smooth.

“You’ve been trending lately, off the court this time.

Any comment on the mystery girl from the tunnel?”

Juju smiled.

Calm. Confident. No hesitation.

“Yeah. That’s my girl.

She’s been my peace, my best friend, my biggest fan.

And I didn’t need the world to know to love her loud.

But now that they do?

Just know: she’s not going anywhere.”

The arena crowd—loud.

Twitter—exploded.

Your phone—unusable.

But none of it mattered more than seeing her step off that court, walk straight to you, and kiss you on the cheek in front of everybody.

“Hi,” she murmured, forehead pressed to yours.

“Hi, superstar.”

“You still mine?”

You smiled. “Always.”

⸻

“WE BEEN KNEW”

That night, Juju posted one photo on Instagram:

A blurry pic of you two holding hands at a food truck, laughing. No makeup. No angles. Just joy.

Caption:

been hers.

& she been mine.

love been loud—y’all just catching up. 💫

The comments were flooded:

“I KNEW IT. THE TUNNEL PIC WAS NOT A FLUKE.”

“This the soft launch and the full album drop.”

“They BEEN together huh?? 😭💖”

“I’m not jealous. I’m not. I’m happy for y’all. (lowkey jealous).”

“This is what peace looks like.”

⸻

HOME

Back at her apartment, wrapped in blankets and surrounded by takeout, you looked over at Juju.

“You good?”

She kissed your hand.

“I’m better now. You?”

You nodded. “Still private.”

“But not a secret.”

She smiled. “Never again.”

And when she pulled you into her arms and whispered “I love you” like it was the only thing worth saying, you knew—

The world could say what it wanted.

You and Juju? Solid.

Always had been.

Now everyone just… knew.

hey guys thank you for all the likes on my last one, hope you guys enjoyed this one!💙

#juju watkins x reader #wlw #juju watkins #juju x reader #usc wbb

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princessbrunette · 1 year ago

Text

edging. thats what was being done to you apparently. not that you could remember the word for it by that point, you were in too deep. infact, you think, as you lay there on your back with your thighs splayed open — you may have forgotten every word in the english dictionary.

you’d spent the weekend doting after john b and jj, having them stay in your free house — cooking for them, running around after them, doing anything they wanted to do — and now, they were repaying with a token of their appreciation.

“so here’s the thing, i’m like — 99% sure i can make you squirt. tonight. but here’s the catch, i kinda have to treat you a little mean first. keep working you over and over, and just when you’re gonna cum? i take it away.” john b explains as he helps you out of your clothes, the brunettes voice huskier than usual from arousal.

“s’called edging, dude.” jj stands in his boxers, a halfie poking up against the fabric already as he hurriedly moves your discarded clothes off the bed.

“i was getting there, actually? if you’d just, y’know— let me finish?” the two bicker like they always do, john b shrugging a dismissive shoulder at the blonde who ignores him to tackle you down and start mouthing hungrily at your neck. again, you didn’t really remember or care what the conversation was — the details a little fuzzy due to how much you needed them.

that’s how you ended up laying spread eagle, john b laying a warm hand on your inner thigh, soothing you by stroking your skin with his thumb as you cry out at another stolen orgasm. he pulls his lips off your swollen clit, brows raising and lips quirking up at a soft but amused smile. “ah, ah — i know pup. look, s’gonna feel so good soon okay? just let me be mean a little longer.” he disappears once more, you see him do so through your tears and his fingers start squelching on that squishy spot that made you shake.

jj reclines against the headboard, lazily fisting at his cock as he watches — prepping to eventually fuck the daylights out of you.

“yeah yeah, our girl likes it mean. don’t let those puppy eyes fool ‘ya.” jj drawls casually, tongue tucking between his lips in concentrated pleasure as you arch your back, humping against john b’s face.

“oh—oh m—oh it’s coming, s’coming!” you pant, voice high and desperate making the two chuckle. “please lemme have it, please lemme have it!” you beg, voice cracking and through the haze you feel your brunette boyfriend smirk against your parted folds.

“seeing as you begged so nicely. have at it, sweetheart.” he croons before doubling down on your clit, rolling his tongue over and over all whilst pressing up that spot inside you that made you explode. you mewl, crying and bucking against john b’s face until he eventually holds you down — and then you feel yourself really let go, liquid spewing out of you, a feeling you’ve never felt before.

you go to sit up in a trance, a little distressed and panicked at how overwhelming it felt and jj grabs your hand, rolling his thumb over your knuckles.

“nah you’re good pooch. just a lil squirt. never hurt nobody.” he chuckles and you flop back, rolling your hips up against john b’s face lazily but fluidly. “damn.” jj shakes his head, going to squeeze at his cock once more.

what happens next, you could swear you imagined. something out of a pornographic daydream you’d had. john b pulls back, sitting up from between your thighs and you swear he’s an angel. hair all tousled, skin glowing in the low light of the room on your pink bed sheets, your slick glossing his entire lower face. he holds the eye contact with you only for a little, that affectionate little smile of his not dying even when he breaks his gaze to look toward jj.

it’s then you realise that he’s not spoken, and it’s because he’s got your squirt in his mouth.

you’re panting still, coming down — and your brain is all over the place, unable to form a sentence even if you wanted to. you feel disconnected from your body, with no choice other than to simply watch from your post-orgasm paralysis as john b leans over with a playful smirk, grabs jj by the jaw, opens his mouth forcefully and spits your completion inside.

drawing back, a string of spit connects them both for a second— and whilst jj looks stunned, you noticed his fist tighten around his cock as he swallows it down, silenced for once in his god damn life. john b smirks, patting his cheek.

“uh-huh, get that down ‘ya, slick.”

“closest you’ll ever get to kissing me.” jj retorts, recovering his astonishment with red wet lips and wide eyes.

“i can live with that.” john b shrugs nonchalantly, coming back to lean over you like he didn’t just edge you for an hour. grabbing your hips, he effortlessly moves your body to be splayed infront of jj like a gift, and brushes a thumb against your cheek. “anyway, took that like a champ sweetie. you need a break? or are you gonna let jj in there?” he cups your cunt casually and you shudder.

usually you’d require a break, but after what you just witnessed — you needed it now.

#jj x reader x john b #puppy!reader

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musicallisto · 3 months ago

Note

omg for the valentine's prompt echo: sender leaves a voicemail, confessing their feelings with charles, u decide if receiver or sender :) (drgnsfly)

· · · · ♡ YOU WIN SOME, YOU WIN SOME (cl16)

… starring charles leclerc x f!reader ... 2.1k words ... in which losing an offhanded bet to pierre gasly never felt so good to charles leclerc. ... lol i know this was supposed to be short but im a chronic overwriter and i got carried away by this idea <3 piarles have my very heart and soul

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐋𝐄𝐒 𝐋𝐄𝐂𝐋𝐄𝐑𝐂 𝐒𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐋𝐃 know better by now than to make pacts with Pierre Gasly.

To be fair, it began so long ago—years upon years of late-night dinners after disappointing races hammering the habit in. Muscle memory, like corners of a track. Pierre says something outrageous to get a laugh out of Charles; Charles answers he'll gladly do it when he hits some impossible milestone.

"I think you should do a video with Squeezie, mate. You'd be aaaall over Twitter." "Yeah, right! When you beat me in chess, maybe."

"So are you ever gonna release an album where you sing or?" "When I'm world champion, sure. I'll let you do the adlibs."

And it always works, always does get a laugh out of Charles, even after the most botched races, once again powerless victim to Ferrari's fads, and somehow even after his very first breakup. Charles must've promised the moon and then some, in the sacred outline of a conspirational grin; things only the Norman can get out of him, it seems, and things he's already forgotten all about.

So it isn't that weird, truth be told, that he forgot about you too.

The pact is sealed on a charter jet. Charles can't remember where from and where to; somewhere between Europe and the Americas, because the flight had seemed eternal to him, gripping the seat's leather armrest every time the small plane jolted up and down from turbulence. For a second he'd thought the soft wheezing sound was an impending mechanical failure, precipitating them all to their death into the cold, unforgiving Atlantic... until he'd opened his eyes and noticed Pierre sneering at him.

"I don't understand how you're still not used to it with how much we fly."

"I don't understand how you get used to it," Charles had retorted. "It's just not natural! Man was not made to fly."

"Yeah, 'cause man was definitely made to go three hundred kilometers an hour in a big carbon box."

His exasperated sigh, arms crossing over his chest and eyes fluttering closed should be enough for Pierre to understand the conversation is over and out, but Charles can still feel his amused gaze on him. The Monégasque's pursed lips melt into a smile.

"Stop it," he groans.

"I'm not doing anything!"

There's a mock offense in Pierre's tone, quickly replaced by honeyed mischief when he speaks again.

"Just imagine you're sitting with Y/N instead of me."

Charles' eyes snap open.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Obviously he knows what that's supposed to mean, but he still has to brace himself for the conversation that comes next. For the high-pitched voice and offensively bad Southern accent.

"Oh no, Y/N, I'm so scared! The plane is going to explode! Hold my hand or I'll cry!"

"Okay, first of all, I'm not Marseillais," Charles' eyes narrow, "and second, I don't... need her to hold my hand or anything."

"But you'd like that," Pierre replies pointedly.

From the way Charles shifts in his seat, turning to face the window and muttering a "whatever", the Frenchman knows he's struck a nerve. He's more gentle when he speaks again, after a few seconds of silence.

"So when are you gonna tell her you're madly in love with her?"

"I'm not madly in love with anyone."

"You told me you think of her every time you pass Ascari because the little flowers that grow down the side of the track are her exact favorite color."

Of course, there's nothing to retort to that. Not that it would do much anyway; Pierre is Charles' closest friend on the grid, and has been for more years than his hands, now calloused from the gloves, can count; he doesn't need any word from the younger man, just the twitch of his eyelid and the shadow of his dimple, to know Charles is irrevocably enamored with his old friend.

"I'm just saying, if you're gonna be whipped for someone, at least make it your girlfriend."

"Ferrari is enough of a girlfriend to me," Charles snorts, but he doesn't miss how talking about you evaporated all the flying fright in his belly.

"Okay, hear me out," Pierre leans in conspiratorially, "if you win Monaco... you have to tell her."

Charles stares him down for long, long seconds. It's another one of those mindless pacts they sign together, a purely recreational agreement they'll both have forgotten by the time they hit the tarmac... and Pierre's eyes and slight smile are so familiar and enticing, and it's not like Charles has got any chance of winning Monaco soon, anyway, not after adding yet another DNF to his streak—by the time he stands on the top step before the marina, you'll have found someone, and perhaps even he will have, too, and all will be forgotten.

"Yeah, okay. Promise."

Promises to the wind. Utterly inconsequential.

Especially because Charles doesn't win Monaco the next year, and watches his teammate prowl on the podium instead. Nor does he even come close the following.

So by the time 2024 comes around, he's completely forgotten about his promise—more of a bet, really—to Pierre Gasly in that jet all those years ago. Although, of course, in the gaps left by the deep rumble of the engines, the only thing he hears is your voice from when you wished him good luck over the phone just an hour ago.

"This year's yours, champion! I'll be watching you on TV. Make me proud!"

Charles has never been more thankful for a boring race than the moment he races past the chequered flag, barely making out the mechanics' triumphant fists behind the tears clinging to his lashes. The walls he'd leaned against, catching his breath climbing Monte Carlo's steep hills as a child, kiss him one last time, beckoning him forth into the pitlane where he eventually comes to a halt, dizzy like only Monaco winners are.

Most of the celebrations immediately after are a blur. From the garage's bone-crushing embrace to the roaring crowd and a billion adoring eyes on him, like he is their god—it all clouds into one gigantic red and white haze and the immeasurable, euphoric lightheadedness of being on top of the world.

Charles is still in his drenched race suit, dripping from Mediterranean waters, when Pierre Gasly finds him in the harbor, beaming head to toe, and hugs him as tightly as his sore arms will allow.

"Bravo ma poule," Pierre laughs, and the vibration against Charles' chest makes him laugh too. "I knew you'd do it."

If this were a usual race they would debrief it right then and there, and Charles would no doubt hear detailed, explosive accounts of every act of vehicular manslaughter Esteban has attempted against his teammate; but this is no usual race, this is Monaco, its trophy now bearing Charles Leclerc's name until the end of time; so Pierre grabs his friend by the shoulders instead and looks him straight in the eye.

"So, you won Monaco."

"I did," Charles giggles.

"And you remember what that means, right?"

Charles doesn't like the sly smile he sees on Pierre's face—he knows it too well.

"That means we're gonna party?"

"That means you have to tell Y/N you love her."

For some crazy reason, Charles doesn't flinch at the thought, doesn't even try to argue against it, pretend he does not remember the pact—because it seems like a perfectly good idea, the most logical course of action to take. He's a Monaco Grand Prix winner—he's just won Monaco! He's drunk on the adrenaline, traversed up and down by a million lightning bolts; he could run a mile, or skydive into the sea, or even tell you he's been dying of love for you since the day you met.

This year's yours, champion! Make me proud!

"She's... she's in Paris right now, for work," he replies. "I'll have to do it when she comes back—"

"Call her."

"What?"

"Call her!"

"Like—now?"

"Yes, now! If you don't do it with me right now you're never gonna do it. You're not getting off easy."

Charles hesitates for a split second—so much for lightning-fast reflexes!—and then his hand reaches for his back pocket, and he goes to your contact like some higher being is piloting his every move.

One tone, two tones...

"Voicemail," Charles breathes out, frantic, looking over at Pierre like it's an implacable fatality only he can get him out of. Pierre opens his palms, widening his eyes with a shake of the head, his every muscle screaming, "So? Are you dumb?", and Charles nods, clears his throat.

"Ahem! Erm... hi. Hi! Hi Y/N. I'm calling to say I won! I won the race, I won in Monaco... at last," he smiles into the phone, somehow oblivious to the fact he's about to pour his heart out in front of his best friend. "And I, uh... I also wanted you to know that I'm... really sorry you couldn't make it to the race, because... the truth is I—I like you. Like, more than as a friend. I like you so much, and I've liked you for so long, it's... you've given me so much strength over the years, so much confidence and resilience to bounce back and I never expected to fall for you like this when we met but sometimes it just... happens! And I wanted to dedicate this victory to you. To thank you for sticking with me even when I suck horribly, or when I'm in a bad mood because I suck horribly... you're among the most important people in my life, and that's why I want you to have the most important day in my life too. At least if you don't feel the same way, you know, I still get... one victory. Uh, yeah! Bisous, bye!"

He misses the hang-up button once and then buries his phone in his pocket to never ever hear from it again. Pierre stands dumbfounded as his friend grimaces tentatively.

"Too much?"

But Pierre can't stop chuckling and shakes his head.

"Honestly, brother, I don't even wanna make fun of you, that was genuinely cute."

And the Frenchman grabs the Monégasque by the shoulder, whisking the little prince away into the fervent clamor of his Principality.

Charles' hands don't start shaking until well into the night. The rest of the evening passed in the blink of an eye amidst congratulatory kisses, unending interviews, and the grandest, finest dinner he's never had to pay for. But now Charles is sitting on the edge of his bed, trying to tie his nicest shoes for the afterparty, with the utmost certainty his eyes will burn out of his skull if he glances at the lit-up screen of his phone. No use putting it on Do Not Disturb, chucking it across the room, opening and closing the calculator app like a mad tiger pacing inside a circus trailer... the notification taunts him; three missed calls from you, and two voicemails he will never, ever open.

At least never ever sober.

He barely even remembers the exact words he used in that voicemail. Maybe it wasn't that bad, maybe there's still room to save face, salvage his ego. Pass it off as mere gratitude from a friend to a friend. He didn't say I love you, after all—right? Could he have?

The electric chime of his doorbell snaps him out of his reverie. Surely the taxi. It's a long way down to the first floor—dammit, Charles, who even needs a house with this many stairs?—and he's a little flushed by the time he rushes out the front door to the iron gate, distracted enough to forget to check the security cameras.

A gust of wind picks up just as he opens the gate... and stops dead in his tracks. You're only wearing a frilly summer dress, of course the night chill would make you shiver... you? At his doorstep?

You look up at him, all parted lips and disheveled hair in the night, and he swears your eyes light up the tranquil street a thousand times more than the car lights in the distance. He takes you in, you, you! So splendid and breathless like a comet made woman—your suitcase in your hand, the French taxi driving off behind, and he pieces it all together.

"Y/N...?"

"You had something to tell me," is all you answer, your face pure, gleaming, like the trophy he kissed facing the sea.

#f1 #charles leclerc #f1 x reader #charles leclerc x reader #charles leclerc x you #charles leclerc x female reader #charles leclerc fanfic #cl16 #cl16 imagine #cl16 x reader #f1 fanfic #f1 fic #f1 imagine #.ivy #clara.writing

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