#i looooooove this fic!!!!

[augustslippedavvay]

i dig your cinema (steve harrington)

masterlist ❈

summary: your boyfriend suggests you catch the 10:15pm showing of 'the lost boys' and parks at the back of the drive-in theater. you put the pieces together from there. author's note: i uhhhhhhhh got a little carried away with this lmao. also i don’t know if there’s a drive-in in hawkins but there is now i suppose i love reading fics where steve is the softest, sweetest boyfriend alive and lets his girlfriend get away with pretty much anything except for in the (metaphorical) bedroom. so. here is that. lmao. this is my first time writing him but it was so fun, he has such a specific attitude about him that is so satisfying lolllllll also, headcanon that despite his himbo reputation, steve loves all things horror and reads horror books and watches horror movies all the time. he consumes stephen king's books at an alarming rate

pairing: steve harrington x f!reader word count: 5k warnings: pwp, alternate universe: canon divergence, no spoilers, semi-public sex, car sex

cross-posted to ao3 <3

ALSOOOOOO everyone in this fic is 18+ - minors pretty pls dni!!!!!

The first thing you see when you unlock the front door to your apartment is the tanned expanse of your boyfriend’s bare back, a tea towel thrown over his shoulder. 

Steve’s standing over the stove, cooking what you can only assume by the smell is some sort of meat. His jeans sit so low on his hips that you groan inwardly - it’s been a long day, and all you want right now is to sink your teeth into his tanned skin.

He hasn’t noticed you come in - you can hear his favorite mixtape blaring through his headphones from where you stand, him humming along to “I Want You To Want Me” by Cheap Trick  - and you watch him as you shut the door behind you, toeing off your sneakers. 

You walk up and shove a hand in the back pocket of Steve’s jeans, squeezing once, twice, then reach up to lift his headphones off of one of his ears. He doesn’t even flinch.

“Hey, hot stuff,” you murmur, leaning up to kiss his cheek. Steve looks over his shoulder at you and chases your lips, planting a few chaste kisses on your mouth. He pulls his headphones fully off to sit around his neck, easing the volume down. 

“Hey, baby. You’re home early.”

“Yeah, they cut me loose at six today,” you say, rubbing your hands up and down his arms. “Whatcha cookin’?”

“Tacos. You hungry?”

“Mmm, yes,” you say, backing off to set your purse on the kitchen table and put your hair up in a ponytail. “Anything I can do to help?”

Steve turns to look at you, the pan in one hand and a wooden spoon in the other, stirring as he says, “I hadn’t had a chance to get any of the fixings out?”

“Ay, ay, captain,” you say, crossing the kitchen and opening the fridge.

“Thanks, baby.”

You fall into a comfortable silence as you pull everything from the refrigerator, setting it onto the counter on the other side of Steve and pulling two plates from the cabinet above you. He finishes up sauteeing the beef and turns off the burner, and you grab a hot pad from a drawer. He smiles at you and takes it from your hand, setting it down with the pan on top of it.

The two of you quietly build your tacos - his soft shell, yours hard - and occasionally bump hips, exchanging sly smiles. Your face flushes. Three years with Steve Harrington and he still gets your heart racing with just a look. 

You take your usual seat at your table, and Steve sits next to you, so close that your knees are almost touching. You eat in silence, only whispering, “These are good,” to him with a small smile, and he knocks his knee against yours in thanks.

“Hey, you wanna go see a movie tonight?” Steve sets his taco down and sucks the pad of his thumb into his mouth, pulling it back out with a pop while you watch. “They got a 10:15 showing of The Lost Boys at the drive-in, I checked the paper.”

“Ooh, that sounds good. And scary.”

“Yeah, I figured we could pop some popcorn at home, take some blankets and snuggle up in the front seat of the car. I’ll keep you safe, cross my heart.”

You grin at him. “My hero. Count me in.”

The two of you finish up dinner and clean up after yourselves. You shoo Steve away when he tries to help you with the dishes. 

“You cooked. Back off,” you say playfully, aiming a fork in his direction.

He holds his hands up in defense, then kisses the top of your head before hurrying off into your room. You hear the shower turn on while you’re tidying, and you turn and finish washing your plates, plus the pan and spoon Steve used to cook with, and put away everything else you used as fast as you can.

When you get back to your room, Steve is lying diagonally on top of the covers in only his briefs, a box fan pointed in his direction, tousling his wet hair, and you sigh at the sight of him. He looks up at you from behind the book he’s reading and raises his eyebrows.

“You okay over there?”

“You have, like, two seconds before I collapse on the ground in exhaustion, so make room for me right now, Harrington.”

“Oh, my God, you’re so dramatic. Get over here.”

Steve is grinning at you as he says it, though, and he watches you peel your work clothes off, down to your bra and a pair of cotton underwear. You ease yourself onto the bed, and he holds one arm out so you can tuck yourself into his side, your head on his chest, and he’s so warm and comfortable underneath you that you close your eyes and feel yourself relaxing.

“Are you gonna fall asleep?”

“No,” you whisper, but it’s not long until you’re snoring softly. Steve smiles and runs his fingers through your hair. He lets you sleep, only pulling his hand away every few minutes to turn pages on Stephen King’s Pet Sematary. 

About 20 minutes before you have to leave, Steve sets the book down and gently peels you off of him - to only minimal protesting on your part, amended when he presses a soft kiss to the top of your head - and hops out of bed, pulling his jeans back on. Soon after, you hear popping from the kitchen. You smile to yourself and stretch, sitting up on the edge of the bed. You change into denim shorts and a sweater, grabbing one of Steve’s crewnecks for him, too, since he always forgets a jacket.

You walk out into the kitchen with Steve’s sweater in one hand and your slip-ons in the other, dropping them on the floor and pulling them onto your feet.

“Hey, sleepyhead,” Steve teases, looking up from where he’s watching the popcorn on the stove. “Did I wake you?”

You smile and shrug. “I needed to get up. Almost ready?”

“Almost ready,” Steve confirms, grabbing a Ziploc bag to put the popcorn in. “Salt? Butter?”

“Both, please. In excess.”

Steve obliges and when he’s finished, he seals the Ziploc bag and trades you the popcorn for his sweater. You take one last opportunity to run your hands over the bare skin of his back and torso, watch him shiver. He kisses you, then backs off to throw his own beat-up sneakers on along with the crewneck and then ushers you out the door, leaning back in quickly to flip the kitchen light off.

When he puts the car into reverse, you lean over and thread your hand through his hair, holding the back of his head as he turns to look over his shoulder.

“You’re touchy today,” Steve murmurs, and you shrug.

“You’re very touchable. What can I say.”

He smiles at you and kisses the palm of your hand before throwing the car back into drive and peeling out onto the street, which he does because he knows it’ll make you laugh, and he watches as you toss your head back and giggle. 

You roll down the passenger side window and stick your hand out, feel the mild nighttime air between your fingers, then lean over and slip Bruce Springsteen’s Born in the U.S.A. into the tape player and skip to your favorite song.

Steve drives quietly the whole way to the theater, tapping his fingers against the steering wheel to the beat of ‘Dancing in the Dark,’ which you’re singing under your breath. This kind of companionable silence is one of the many reasons you love getting to spend so much of your time with Steve. When you talk, you can talk for hours without running out of things to say - but when one of you goes quiet, the other will follow suit, and it never feels strange, or awkward. It’s comfortable. 

When Steve pulls the car into the entrance to the drive-in, he rolls his window down and smiles at the ticket seller, who blushes under his gaze. You smirk - you know that feeling all too well.

“Two for The Lost Boys, please,” Steve says, holding up two fingers, and hands her a ten dollar bill when she tells him the price. He gets a few bills back and some change, and he hands it to you, leaning forward so that you can pull his wallet from the back pocket of his pants to shove the money back inside.

“She didn’t even ID us,” Steve murmurs, and you start to laugh, handing him his wallet. He gives you a scrutinizing look. “What’s so funny?”

“Steve, she was too lost in your eyes to care whether we were underage.”

“Shut up, she was not.”

“She so was,” you say, and Steve groans. “You said four words to her and the poor girl was down for the count.”

Steve waves you off and pulls the car toward the back of the field, and you grin at him as he parks. He rolls his eyes and shakes his head at you.

“Were you planning on gettin’ some tonight, Harrington?”

“Don’t you give me shit for that. It’s the best spot to be parked, and you know it.”

You just keep smiling, your eyes roaming over his face. “Hey, if you were - who says I wasn’t, too?”

Steve raises his eyebrows at you and his lips part, like he’s about to say something, but you lean over to press a quick kiss to his open mouth and then pull the popcorn from your purse and open it, start snacking. Steve snorts and shakes his head again, reaching over to tune the car radio to the theater’s station for the movie.

“You are something else tonight, baby, you know that?”

You grin over at him and rest your elbow on the back of the seat, propping your head on your palm.

“Look at us, Harrington. We’re on a date. A cute little date, like we’re sixteen again.”

“I know,” Steve says, looking over at you and smiling. He grabs your hand and threads his fingers through yours, pressing kiss after kiss to the center of your palm. You grin and watch him, watch as his gaze comes up to meet yours, let him run his lips up your hand to your wrist, before you roll your eyes, take his face between your hands, and kiss him fiercely.

Steve sighs into your mouth and kisses you back for a beat, but pulls away when you start to run your tongue along the seam of his lips. “And you were givin’ me shit for parking us at the back of the field, you little minx! The previews haven’t even started yet!”

“Alright, alright,” you say, smiling and inching closer to him. You start to run your hand up his chest. “You caught me, Steve. I’ve been plotting to jump your bones since the moment I walked into our apartment after work today.”

“What did you in, baby?” Steve asks with a smirk. “Was it the jeans?”

You throw your head back and groan. Steve reaches over and squeezes your knee.

“Knew it.”

“They were so low on your hips, Steve - how am I supposed to resist that!”

“That’s the thing, sweetheart,” Steve murmurs, his thumb rubbing circles on the outside of your thigh. “You’re not supposed to.”

You sit there watching him for a moment, the way his tongue darts out to wet his lips, but the projector for your movie powers on just as you’re working up to make a move, illuminating the car completely, and it fully kills the mood. Steve huffs a sigh and pulls his hand away, and you turn to face the screen, which displays a message on a white screen welcoming you all, and informing you that your movie will start shortly. 

“Baby,” Steve whispers, and you ignore him, rooting through your purse for your chapstick. Steve eyes your profile, and out of the corner of your eye, his lips curl just slightly, illuminated by the light of the drive-in screen. “Come over here.”

Steve laughs when your reserve falls and you all but scramble across the bench of his car. He puts his hand around your waist and helps you scoot closer, bringing his other hand up to cup your face. You’re pressed against him, your hip turned so that your left leg is up over Steve’s right. You glance at his eyes, then down at his mouth and back up.

Grinning, Steve tucks one finger under your chin and angles your face up towards him. “Your mood is rubbing off on me.”

“Yeah?” You bite your lip. Steve nods, then leans in to kiss you once, twice. He brushes your hair back from your face and holds you in his hands.

“We might have to do something about it,” he murmurs, his eyes roving your reddening face. “Does that sound alright to you?”

You nod eagerly, then rearrange yourself so you can easily slide into Steve’s lap. He brings both of his hands down to squeeze your hips, running them down your thighs and around to your backside. You lean your head into his neck and moan when he presses you down into him and you feel the drag of his hardening cock against the seam of your shorts.

You sit up to press your nose against his, waiting for him to lean forward and kiss you again, when the radio starts up, rolling on one of the previews set to play before the movie itself, and you both jump slightly, laughing into the space between one another’s mouths. Steve wraps his arms around your middle completely and pulls you flush against him, parting his lips when you press yours back to his so you can slip your tongue into his mouth. 

One of Steve’s hands begins to wander, trailing up your back, then down and under your shirt to brush against the space right beneath your naval, making you shiver. He rubs up and down your bare thighs, squeezing gently, before settling against the zipper of your jean shorts. You pull away and watch as he undoes the button and zipper, then let out a loud groan when he slides his hand down into the front of them, pressing up against your clothed clit.

“You gotta be quiet, baby,” Steve murmurs, bringing the hand not currently between your legs up to push your hair back behind your ear. “Wouldn’t wanna get caught, would we?”

You shake your head and he smiles. “Good girl.”

Steve leans forward to press his lips to yours and kisses you again, but so chastely you could cry. You want him to kiss you, to open his mouth and devour you, and he smiles against you when he hears you whine, pulling back to look at you. He cups your face.

“Steve, I want –”

“I know what you want, but you’re gonna have to be patient, okay?”

You nod. He isn’t normally in the mood to tell you what to do - you’re usually the one bossing him around - but you love these rare moods of his. It’s so unbelievably hot. 

Steve captures your lips with his again and the hand pressed against your cheek slides around to push into your hair at the base of your skull. He rolls his hips up into yours, which puts more pressure on the hand tracing circles around your clit, and when you whine, he grips your hair harder.

“That feel good, baby?”

You open your mouth to answer him, but he dips his hand into your underwear, so nothing comes out, and your eyes roll back into your head when he slips it down even further to slide between the seam of you.

“So fucking wet,” he mutters, and presses a kiss to your chin. “All for me, huh?”

“For you, Steve,” you sigh. “Yes, yes, all for you.”

His middle finger traces along you for a few moments longer, and he watches you close your eyes and hum, your head lolling to one side, before he presses it up, up, and sinks into you to the second knuckle.

“Oh, fuck, Steve,” you whine, shifting a little to try and take more of him, and he laughs at you, wrapping his other hand around your hip to still you.

“You really have been dreaming about this all day, huh?”

“God, yes, all day.”

Steve purses his lips. “Yeah?”

“At work,” you say, finally catching your breath, and wince when he curves his finger inside of you just slightly, “all I could think about was coming home to you, pressing you against the counter, and dropping to my knees for you. I don’t know what it was. I just couldn’t get you off my mind. And then I got home, and you were making me dinner, and you were wearing those fucking jeans so low on your hips. I couldn’t stop thinking about how I wanted to see the rest of your tan skin. I have been just aching for you, Steve, all day long.”

Your words send his heart down into his stomach, and Steve groans at the thought of his cock stuffed down your throat, but that was for another time. Maybe when you get home. The air between you sits charged while you silently try to work yourself down on his finger even further. Steve smiles softly at you, at the way your eyes flutter closed when he eases his finger fully inside of you.

“You’re so good to me, baby, you know that? What do you want? What can I give you?”

“More,” you groan, and Steve leans forward to press his lips against the curve of your throat. You bring one hand up and thread it through his hair, mussing it before gripping tightly. “More, Steve, please.”

“More of what?”

“You,” you sigh, and Steve laughs shakily.

“Alright, baby,” he breathes against the skin of your neck. “You can have more.”

Steve brings his mouth back up and gives you a searing, deep kiss, one that almost distracts you from the fact that he’s pulling his finger out of you and adding another alongside it. You moan at the feeling, and Steve takes this moment to slip his tongue into your open, waiting mouth. He starts to move his fingers in and out of you, and you vaguely register that the previews have finished and the movie has begun, but you honestly couldn’t care less. The only thing on your mind is the way the palm of his hand is pressed right up against your clit, and you grind down into him, panting as you work yourself closer to what you hope will only be your first orgasm of the night.

“Look at you,” Steve remarks, chuckling. “I don’t even need to do any of the dirty work, do I, sweetheart? Are you gonna make yourself come? Hm?”

You nod and your hips stutter when he starts to curl his fingers in towards himself, pressing on that spot inside of you that makes you see red. 

“Good thing the windows are fogged up, huh - we wouldn’t want anyone to be able to peek in here and see you looking like this, hm? You’re a mess, aren’t you, baby? Fucking yourself on my fingers like that.”

You lift your hips up, feel his fingers slip out of you almost to their tips, before you sink back down onto them, repeating this motion until you feel the knot in the pit of your stomach start to tighten. Steve winds his fingers into your hair again and pulls until you’re looking him in the eye. He groans and stretches his fingers out, pressing you open, then curls them again, working that spot until you’re panting and writhing in his lap. When your eyes flutter closed, he tugs your hair, forcing you to open your eyes again.

“I want you to come,” Steve whispers, glancing down and watching you drag your hips along his hand, then back up to look you straight in the eye. “I want you to come, sweetheart, because I want to fuck you so bad.”

You cry, “Fuck, Steve,” and your thighs start to shake when he curls his fingers again, this time stroking in quick succession until you come, hard, so hard you fall forward onto his chest. You tuck your face into his neck, and you clench around his fingers while he runs his hand through your hair. 

“That’s it, fuck, baby, come for me.”

Your head rolls back, and Steve claps one hand over your mouth when you start to get a little too loud. His lips press against your ear, whispering, “Shhh, it’s okay, pretty girl, it’s okay, I’ve got you,” until you come down from your high. You whine softly, so he pulls his hand from your mouth and presses it gently to the side of your face.

Steve removes his fingers from inside of you and you cry out, sit up a bit to look down and watch him, your gaze dragging up to his face as he slips both fingers he was using to fuck you into his mouth and moans around them. Fuuuuuuuck. His lips are so swollen from kissing you, and you can only begin to imagine what you must look like to him. He smiles, pulls his fingers out of his mouth with an obscene pop, and slides his hands under your shorts, beginning to push them down and off your hips.

“Steve, what are you doing,” you laugh, leaning up further onto your knees so he can work your shorts down your thighs. He cups your ass and nudges you forward, so that your top half is practically in the backseat. “Steve!”

“You’re fine,” Steve mutters, smacking your backside playfully. You gasp and he takes your shorts the rest of the way off, leaving you in only your panties, and you sit back in his lap. You can feel how hard he is for you inside of his jeans. 

“You could have asked,” you protest, holding his face in one of your hands, your thumb pressed into his cheek.

“It was faster that way,” Steve says, lips pursed, smirking as he grabs your hand and guides it down to the button of his jeans. You scoff, then pop it, dragging his zipper down so slowly you hear his breath catch in his chest. You push your hands up under his sweater, rake your nails up and down his torso. Steve lifts his arms so you can rid him of his top, and you immediately lean forward to press soft kisses to his chest, pressing your hands into his warm skin. He huffs a sigh through his nose, so you pull back to look at him.

“Who’s impatient now?”

You laugh when he rolls his eyes at you. The two of you sit quietly for a moment and you eye him appreciatively as the light from the screen casts him in a soft blue haze. You want so badly to reach out and run your fingers over the freckles that cover the apples of his cheeks.

“You look so pretty right now, baby.”

“You should see yourself,” Steve breathes, hands gripping your waist, smiling up at you. You snort. 

“Flattery will get you everywhere, Harrington,” you whisper, and he smugly responds, “I know,” but cuts himself off when you reach into his jeans to pull his thick cock from his underwear. He groans at the feeling of your hand tight around him, whispering, “Oh, fuck,” and bucking his hips up when you flick your thumb over the tip of him. You work him for a few moments, leaning down to spit, using your hand to spread it over him. Steve starts to pant and a deep red flush rises on his cheeks, spreading down his neck and onto his collarbones.

Lifting your hips, you help Steve work his pants and his briefs down his thighs until he’s bare before you and able to spread his legs a little. As you hold him in place, your panties pushed to the side, he guides you down. You feel him press against the seam of your cunt.

“God, fuck,” Steve mutters, hips stuttering, the head of his cock pressing further into you. “You’re so wet. So soft.”

You sit down further and groan at the way he slides right into you with no resistance. Once you’re fully seated, you feel so, so full. He’s so big, and it always takes you a few moments to get used to the stretch. Steve watches you catch your breath, his own hitching when you clench around him.

“I feel you,” you pant. “Steve, I feel you everywhere.”

Steve groans and both of his hands go straight to your hips, squeezing gently. You lean back and rest your hands on the tops of his knees, your back pressing against the steering wheel, and ease your hips up an inch, two, before settling back down, gasping when your clit rubs against his pelvis. He brings one hand around and under the front of your shirt.

“I feel me, too, baby,” Steve pants, pressing down on your stomach, and you whine when he slides his hand down to work at your clit, his thumb brushing over it with just enough pressure to make a difference, making you cry out. “You’re takin’ me so well, sweetheart, God, you feel so good around my cock.”

You want to cry at his words - they send a knot of pure pleasure straight into the center of you. Using all of the strength you have left in your thighs, you rock your hips over and over, pushing yourself up so that only the tip of Steve’s cock is still inside of you, waiting there until he grabs your hips and hitches you down himself. He keeps his hold on you, guiding you up and down, helping you fuck yourself on his cock. After a few more moments, you feel him twitch inside of you, his grip on your hips getting tighter and tighter.

You lean forward to press your mouth against his shoulder. “Are you gonna come, Stevie?”

He laughs breathily at the nickname and nods, turning to kiss the side of your head. “Yeah, you got me pretty close.”

“You gonna come inside me?”

“Fuck, baby, if you want me to,” he pants, and you feel him twitch inside of you again.

“Want you to,” you whisper, easing yourself up out of his grip and then down fully onto his cock, shifting your hips so that your clit drags against the flat of his pelvis again. You bite your lip. “Want you to fill me up, Steve. Want to feel you slipping out of me later tonight.”

Steve nods, groans, “Jesus fuck,” and braces one elbow against the driver’s side door, his other arm coming around to hold you in place. He starts to fuck up into you, hard, short strokes that drive the air right from your lungs, and as his hips snap against yours, you fall forward against him. The best you can do in this moment is to try to hold yourself up, your hands braced on his chest, while he fucks you so hard you can’t see straight. You curse and bring one hand down to rub your clit, and Steve groans. 

“Are you gonna come again, baby?”

“Not until you do,” you pant, forehead pressed against the hollow of Steve’s throat. “Not without you.”

“Fuck,” Steve says and throws his head back. He pushes himself a little harder, fucks you a little faster. You keep working your clit until you feel your orgasm overtaking you, and you angle your head up to bite at Steve’s throat, clenching around him one last time before you feel him stiffen underneath you. You rock up and down, easing him through his orgasm, pressing soft kisses along his throat and panting open-mouthed against his skin when you start to come, too. Steve snakes his hand down underneath yours and takes over on your clit, prolonging your orgasm, feels you tighten around him until you’re practically begging him to stop touching you.

“Oh, god,” he groans, giving one last buck of his hips.

Steve stills, panting, softening inside of you, and when he pulls out of you, you cry out, overly sensitive. He pulls your panties back over to cover your cunt, then shakes his head and places his hands on both sides of yours, angling your face up so he can kiss you softly. He brushes your hair out of your face and kisses your forehead. “You good, baby?”

You hum and nod, bracing yourself against his chest. Steve leans over and grabs your shorts, helping you off of his lap and handing them to you. He pulls his pants back up, grabs his sweater, and glances back out the windshield at the screen.

“We’re gonna have to come see this movie again,” Steve says absentmindedly, his hair sticking straight up, a result of your hands tugging on it. You reach over to press it down and he bats your hand away playfully, looking over at you. “I don’t think I’m really following what’s happening.”

“I wonder why,” you snort, pulling your shorts back up your legs and buttoning them. You turn back to Steve in the driver’s seat to find him staring at you, a tender look in his eyes. “What?”

“Nothin’,” he says, pulling the sweater back over his head. “I just love you.”

Your heart stutters in your chest. “I love you, too, you softie.”

“Now,” Steve says, clearing his throat and clenching his hands around the steering wheel. “You wanna finish this movie, or should we…?”

“...Go home so I can jump your bones again?” 

“Yeah, that.”

“I think,” you say, leaning over to kiss him on the jaw, “that you should get us the hell out of here before I start taking my clothes back off.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Steve grins, turning to look out the rear window and throwing his car into reverse.

[gwennhadu-bug]

I want more Messed Up Wenclair art. I get a good amount of fics like that, but I mean bloody, violent art that really embraces that Enid is a werewolf who transformed for her first time to protect Wednesday from a serial-killing monster. More art that embraces that Wednesday is a psychopath that loves blood and dirt and guts and murder and monsters. I do get to see lots of cuddly wolf-form art, but man, where’s the blood tw stuff, the scars Wednesday will totally think are hot, the “I guess serial-killing monsters are my type”?

Their first hug was while covered in dirt and dried blood! Where’s THAT???

[blorbocedes]

Age difference marriage for your choice of hornstappen or nico/mika please!!!!!

When Mika proposes, it's with the latest 2010 Mercedes sportscar model. Nico jumps into his arms, and then immediately reaches for the key. It's better than any ring, he tells himself.

"Did you know I used to have posters of him on my wall when I was a boy?" Nico wiggles his brows to the strangers at the Ibiza party lounge. Nico knows why Mika wants to get married in the party capital with no one else in their distinguished motorsports circle around. He's embarrassed. 42 year old, second marriage, pretty young thing on his arm. It all screams midlife crisis.

Well, Nico doesn't need to make it easy for him.

"Mouse." Mika's voice is warning, hand on his shoulder. Nico immediately turns to Mika, smiling, and crawling on his lap.

"What, it's true," Nico toys with Mika's collar. Mika's blonde hair falls over his eyes, hiding the carefully botox'd crows feet when he frowns. "You remember."

Mika's hand rests on Nico's hip. "Don't be trouble." Nico grinds down on him.

The strangers now look away from their public display, embarrassed, and Nico takes it as a win.

A GP2 crash shattered Nico's motorsports dreams, and he kept his word to his father, did 3 years at Imperial, graduated with flying colours with an engineering internship at Williams waiting with his name on it. Nico opted to instead chase after rallying and endurance races, cheering for Mika and waiting for him. It wasn't even hard, after Nico decided his favourite Finn was his white whale. Slipping into the hotel sauna where they were alone, and not wearing much. Mika objected weakly, the flimsy excuse for his conscience, and gave in anyway.

Nico grew up like a little prince so it's hard to spoil him. Mika does, anyway. A short fling of a childhood infatuation turns into something akin to whirlwind romance, it's dangerous and fun and a little bit taboo, and Mika leaves his wife for him.

Nico knows his father would disapprove. Mika knows it too, even as Nico shows up beside him more often than not. But it's nice, Mika's a large, protective figure behind him and always has a sweet name for him: mouse, pigeon, pet, darling, something in Finnish Nico can't quite decipher.

When they're in bed together, Nico can think of how neither of them are going to F1. Yes, Mika's technically on 'sabbatical' but everyone knows. The slight swell of his gut gives it away, but it's okay Nico will be fit enough for both of them, breaking up his croissant so it's harder to notice he hasn't touched it and feeding Mika. He likes that Mika has that touch of vanity of him, that keeps dyeing his hair blonder and is susceptible to the Monaco lifestyle of keeping everything looking young, tight, tucked in procedurally. It makes Mika not the dashing hero from his childhood dreams, humanizes him. And when Mika calls Nico beautiful, it is both a fact and tinged with envy.

"Pigeon, we have to go to the F1 paddock this weekend." Mika tucks Nico's long lock of hair behind his ear.

"Why?" It's technically their honeymoon.

"Mercedes are trying to get Lewis. Hamilton-Schumacher lineup. Ron called me to convince him to stay."

Lewis... Lewis Hamilton, 2008 world champion. The wonder rookie. Nico knew him once upon a time, when they both promised they'd make it to Formula 1 together, childish promises of becoming World Champion. Only Lewis kept up his end of the bargain. The thought of seeing him again makes Nico feel funny, like he wants to hide away. Nico hasn't even gone to Monaco in years.

At the British Grand Prix, Mika Hakkinen enters the McLaren garage with relative fanfare of a Formula 1 World Champion. Nico stays out of the cameras, doesn't have to field any interviews -- people generally don't know him without his dad around. The smell of the rubber and engine fuels and screams of thousands of fans, it's all reminiscent of his childhood. Nico idly thumbs the car keychain in his pocket, waiting for Mika.

"Nico? No way, is that you, man?"

[queenimmadolla]

Sneak Peak of another little Pennyverse requested Drabble (it’s longer than a Drabble but shorter than a fic for me which is like 10k or over apparentl, i dont know what that word would be I’m high rn) coming soon, which doesn't give the plot away:

[sodaquail]

Dude I’m so hyped for your werewolf AU, you have no idea. I’m the biggest werewolf!Chip fan out there. Anyways, if you want asks (sorry if I misinterpreted your post):

What type of werewolf are we talking here? Classic bipedal or twilight style giant wolf? Somewhere in between?

Are any of the other characters werewolves, and/or does Chip know any others?

Is lycanthropy a known thing? How do people react?

One of my D&D books has a section on lycanthropy, and while you can play player characters affected by it, it goes hand and hand with the Evil alignment (it’s an older book, not sure about lycanthropy in 5E). Is this similar in your AU, or are werewolves misunderstood?

Don’t feel obligated to answer any of these haha, I understand that they could definitely lean into spoiler territory, I’m just so excited!! :D Werewolf world building is the best.

Im sooooo glad to see you're excited!!! I can totes add you to the tag list ^_^

for the TYPE of wolf... I totally leant more into mythology rather than werewolf movies. ive never actually watched a werewolf movie (although, a friend said wolfchip would be like the wolves from twilight so now im planning a marathon with IRLs.... oops) I'm doing a lot of worldbuilding into the nature and magic of werewolves and that stays hidden but.. - physically they are BIG. like twilight wolf sized... big big. - They have no tail (a mythology thing for werewolves!! common for creatures rumored to just be witches in disguse actually) I was VERYYYYYYYY much not going to pull the werewolf pop culture thing and have some 'weird human-wolf hybrid cross' because i did not like the idea tooooo much..... would rather be taken out back and killed with bricks than make chip bipedal wolf-man hybrid thing.... noooooooo...... also in human form werewolves are distinctly inhuman!! Won't go into TOO MUCH worldbuilding of mine but essentially, among other things their wolf form and traits fluctuate with the lunar cycle. on new moon they're indistinguishable from human, on full moon they're fully wolf, and all inbetween is a mix of traits. It all depends on when you catch em, whether it's day or night, whether it's new moon or close to full moon.... you might not know what you're signing up for if you find a normal person on the full moon only for them to change as the lunar cycle goes on, lol. but from mythology these are the traits which often identify a werewolf in human form - unibrow (not giving chip this one. no dice) - low, swinging stride (yes!) - lower set ears (also yes!) - when the skin is cut, there is fur under it! (yes, but i felt might be too obscure for people.... not included in common werewolf pop culture sadly...) as well as a few special things of my own!!! I ALSO HAVE A PHOTO OF WHAT WOLFCHIP LOOKS LIKE!! i found this on a dog grooming video on tiktok and went 'thats wolfchip."

2) Yes! I have one confirmed werewolf NPC (of my own making for the purposes of the story) and am toying with the idea of making another character a werewolf. It won't be too big of a deal though... just a neat little reference!! 3) now THIS is staunchly spoiler territory!! sorry dude!!! 4) this is also spoiler territory but what i will say is that I did not go off of DND modules (although it wouldnt hurt to give them a read...)!! I play BECMI and 5e as my DND modules among other TTRPGS but i did not lean from any of them. Honestly, I didn't take much inspiration for my werewolf worldbuilding outside of some mythology shit (and not a lot, anyway). I think i just went off the general, well known werewolf myths and said 'ok what can i do with this' and i sewed and cut and now it is a new beast. it is MY beast. TYSM for your questions!!! Hope you enjoy the final project ahhhh...... seeing the answers for the spoilers in the fic will be SO much better than reading them here i swear :3

[maybebabyplease]

today is a special day in new zealand, home of sheep and stunning views and most importantly...toothpaste @colgatebluemintygel​!!! one year ago today (NZ time), tp posted the final chapter of their incredible first fic, making today their fic anniversary!!!

now i’ll admit, at first i wasn’t too sure about reading a bake-off fic. but wading in waist-high water completely changed my mind! this fic is so sweet and wonderful and FUN all the way through. there’s no way to read toothpaste’s gorgeous bake-off world and not enjoy yourself! she’s perfectly built these characters and told a story that i, personally, just had to finish in one sitting (even though i definitely got hungry somewhere in the middle...all that bread...)

but the BEST PART about this fic is that it brought me to one of my favorite people on this site. toothpaste, it has been so wonderful to get to know you over the past (almost) year! thank you for sharing your kindness and your passion and your writing with me and with all of us! happy one year of wiwhw, and here’s to so many more :)

[callmehere-iwillappear]

FOR LIKE. CONTEXT. idiot's guide is broken up into two arcs, arc 1 is... almost done i think. hopefully. there's still kind of a ways to go for arc 2

so essentially i'm thinking about, once i do finish writing and editing arc 1, starting to post those chapters on a once a week schedule. then if i haven't finished arc 2 by the time i run out, i'd take a break from posting until it does get finished. if it is finished by then i'll just continue posting lmaofjdsklfjd

[chadsuke]

I get why people do not like Hinata,,,,, but I love Hinata sorry

[finnpeach]

THR0NE 0F GLASS SPOILERS AHEAD (up to Q/ueen of Shadows)

hey guess who just read qu/een of shadows and lost her fucking mind. ME!!!!!!!! why hasn't r0wan sneezed yet. anyway if you care let me know which fic would be hotter

[fag4dykestobin]

i have this like. strong dislike of any plot where someone replaces max in getting vecna'd. its usually steve but sometimes its eddie but either time its like.... COME ON...... max's character is so enriched by her experiences in season 4. her complicated feelings of grief and anger and self loathing is just so good. don't take that away from herrrrrrrr

[chrissy-n-eddie]

❤️‍🔥, 🌨, ✨ for the ask game! either three separate recs or a combination if there is one lol

❤️‍🔥, 🌨, ✨ - rec a tear-jerker fic with big feelings under 5k!

this is a great combo! I can't remember the last time I cried at a fic unfortunately but I can fulfil the other two!

baby i'm yours now (dreaming of a connection) by @notquitecogent

this is one of my faves! the funkiest, smuttiest little fic about Eddie and Chrissy's first time with plenty of big, dreamy feelings. Like how painfully sweet and sexy is this lil bit:

“Can I- can I? With my mouth…” he says haltingly, brain thoroughly useless at this point. But it’s not like he has much experience to go off, anyway – has no idea what he’s supposed to say. 

Chrissy blushes scarlet from her forehead to the tips of her breasts and nods. “Ok, ok, uh... lie down,” he tells her, and he’s never been more thankful for being barefoot, because now would be the worst time to have to unlace his Docs or his Reeboks, and instead all he has to do is pull off his T-shirt and his jeans and his boxers and then he’s naked and he looks up and Chrissy is shimmying out of her skirt and unhooking her bra and then she’s naked too. 

[infinitystation]

how do you download fics as a pdf. i have to know

over in the corner of ao3 where it says "download" it gives a pdf option :D

cant speak for how this works with other browsers, but in firefox it will open with each chapter listed on the side

and the format is standard web stuff. strips down the website's aesthetics but that's the price you pay for offline fic lol

(this fic is devil town btw 👍)

[hanlimz]

.

[hells-wasabii]

hello :33

Could i request a drabble with Alastor x reader who can break deals made by demons

He meets the reader, who comes into the hotel, and they make a deal that is totally bad on their end (like to let them touch his ears once and in return they will do his bidding forever and ever).

But then after getting Alastor to do his part, they break the deal, and Alastor and everyone else is dumbfounded. (he is equally pissed and intrigued)

I looooooove your writing and congratulations on 200 followers!! :3

A/N: Hey wait I know you! You were one of my first followers! Thanks for sending this in, it’s seriously a cool concept and was pretty fun to work on! I actually hadn’t planned on it being so long, but I hope you enjoy!

Character: Alastor

Type: Fic (Alastor x reader with a deal breaking ability, Fluff, Angst)

Alastor knew when he was being watched, he could practically feel your eyes on him from across the room. His smile turned tense as he narrowed his eyes at the little display that Niffty was attempting to show him. Though, she really couldn’t be bothered whether he was paying attention or not. Alastor couldn’t help but wonder: why was it you were staring at him so intently?

You were an enigma to Alastor. You were a guest of the hotel, and yet of you he knew next to nothing other than a name and a knack for mischief. As far as he could tell, you were ordinary. A specimen that did little to pique his interest. The radio demon turned his attention from Niffty’s insect display to look at you from the corner of his eyes. He watched with unease as you smiled knowingly at him, almost as if you knew something that he didn’t and he was the last to be left in the dark.

“I want to make a deal with you.”

Now that, that got his attention. The words had left your mouth so effortlessly. It was barely a whisper and yet it was enough to make his shadow move across the room to tower over you. If you noticed, you didn’t let it show. Perhaps that should have been his first sign that something was amiss.

In moments Alastor was mere inches away, a grin that couldn’t be described as anything else but plotting splitting his lips. “And what is it that I can do for you, my dear?” Behind him, his shadow waited impatiently, hungry for a meal, a soul. And Alastor planned to feed it.

“I want to touch your ears,” You said it with such confidence, so much so that it nearly took him aback. In fact, there was hardly a pause or even a moment of consideration. It sounded more like an impulse than anything else.

Surely he was hearing things. His… Ears? What kind of preposterous request is that? And to offer your soul for such a thing? Preposterous. Surely you had lost your mind before or since your arrival. But perhaps it was an even trade-off, considering his aversion to touch. Truly, he couldn’t see himself losing to a fool’s deal like this.

It was all standard, really. The matter was settled in a shake of the hand, markings and sigils appearing in the air and lining the walls around the both of you. And of course the rest of the Hotel’s residents, guests and staff alike came along to see what the fuss and light show was about. Alastor didn’t make deals every day after all? When had been the last time he had struck a deal for a soul? He could hardly remember as your hand left his.

“Well, let’s get this over with, shall we?” As if you needed any more invitation than that. Stepping closer, you reached up. Had it not been for the fact that the radio demon had no choice but to hold up his end of the bargain, you were sure that getting this close would either reward you with a stern warning or the loss of a limb. Anyone else would have hesitated, but not you. Not when you had an ace up your sleeve the way you did.

The moment that your fingers brushed the appendages on the top of the radio demon’s head, your mouth opened into a fine ‘o’ shape. They were unbelievably soft. Usually, the pelt of a deer is coarse, the hair only smooth when you go with the grain, and prickly when against. But with Alastor, it felt more like fur than the usual coarse hair of a buck. Interesting.

The radio demon did his best to steel himself, unwilling to show any sort of reaction, especially with an audience present. His expression nearly fell as he realized that the rest of the Hotel’s residents were bearing witness to such an embarrassing situation. He made a note to attempt to save face later.

When it was finally over, his smile turned sinister. He relished the feeling of a new leash, a new bond, forming in the palm of his hand. The radio demon couldn’t help but love the way a new wave of power coursed through him He watched with glee as the chain began to form, link by link until it came to an end at the binding around your neck. But you merely smiled. This was his second clue that something was a miss.

He lifted his gaze to follow your hand, as you raised it up to grasp the glowing green bond. He watched as it strained, the shackle and the chain before it shattered in a manner that was not unlike glass. He could feel it, the broken bond. He could feel the power that had just coursed through his veins leave his body.

His lips twitched. His smile nearly fell, in fact, the overlord was certain that if it hadn’t been for the green stitches that appeared as he slipped into his demonic form, he was sure that he would have bared his teeth in a ferocious snarl. Instead, Alastor lost his composure. He reached out to grab ahold of you, but you were already two steps ahead and three out of range of the radio demon.

“What is the meaning of this.” The radio in Alastor’s voice crackled, a grating sound that nearly made you falter.

But you merely grinned, continuing to back away towards the others. “Deals are always meant to be broken.” With this, you turned on your heels and were out the door before more could be said.

You. You were exactly what he needed. But how could he possibly have you do anything in his favor without some sort of leverage or contract? It had been quite some time since someone had provoked his ire like this, but he wouldn’t allow himself to be bested like this. Not by a long shot. Alastor stood tall, dusting off his tattered coat, as if it had been sullied in some form or fashion as he watched you make your leave. It would seem that the radio demon had quite a bit of work to do.

[devilishchaos]

your writing is amazing <3 if your requests are still open, could you write fluff fic and smut (if you like), where rúben is really gentle, taking care of you while you’re drunk. perhaps you both went to a party together and we all know that he can’t drink alcohol so he basically takes care of you from the bar/club to your shared house and you were so needy asking him to have sex with you while your drunk.

The one where you get drunk and he looks after you | Rúben Dias imagine

Rating / genre: fluff

Pairings: Reader x Rúben Dias

Warnings: mentions of drinking, explicit talk, begging

AN: Thank you for requesting <3 I hope you like it! :)

Word Count: 1 743 words

This is a work of fiction. The story, names, characters and incidents either are product or the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

A group evening together with the whole Man City squad and their families usually spelled disaster for all of you, especially when celebrating. 

“Another one!” Jack announces as he hands you another shot. With a click, the two of you are throwing them back. You’re already feeling tipsy and the encouragement is enough to keep you going. 

Rúben is not as nearly far gone as everyone else, telling you to let loose. He holds your hand as you two walk around to the kitchen to find a snack. He giggles at your slight stumble, holding you up successfully. 

“You’re so strong.” you say with a hiccup and Rúben shakes his head with a grin as he forces you to sip on some water in between your next drink. 

John screams as his favorite song comes on, begging you to come join them. You pull Rúben along with you, his hands become steady on your hips as he presses kisses to your neck as the two of you sway in sync. 

You are far gone. Rúben’s hands haven’t left your body, not that you’d complain - you are more than grateful for the way he’s holding you up. 

“Here, let’s get some water in you, amor.” he picks you up and sits you on the counter, finding home between your legs as you sip on a cup of water. 

“Good girl.” he says, pushing your hair from your face. 

“You can not say that to me right now, Dias.” you say, wiggling your eyebrows “Nuh uh, no mister. Not when you look like this.” you give him a pout, only causing him to smile. 

*

The whole journey home was filled with conversation, from only one of you in the car. Light giggles were the only thing that came from Rúben, as you spoke about anything that came to mind, slurring most of your words.

“This place looks familiar..” you whispered as you pulled up outside your shared apartment. 

“There’s a reason for that.” Rúben sighed, getting himself out of the car before giving you a helping hand.

As soon as you stepped foot into the apartment, you threw yourself down onto the sofa, lifting your feet up for Rúben to untie the laces of your strappy heels and strip your jacket off of you. You could feel his eyes studying you closely with every little thing you did, bringing a light red blush to your face.

“What are you looking at?” you giggled as he lifted your legs up, sitting himself down on the sofa before moving your legs across to rest in his lap “Why do you keep looking at me like that? Have I got something on my face or on my jeans? Oh, man..not my jeans.”

Rúben rolled his eyes “Your jeans are fine, and so is your face. I’m just admiring how you look when you’re drunk.” 

“Is that because you looooooove me?” you cheekily asked, holding your hand out for him to take a hold of “Because I love you, I love you a lot. Have I told you that I love you?” 

“I think you might have mentioned it a couple of times Y/N, don’t worry about that.” Rúben assured you. 

As the room darkened and finally silence began to descend upon you, the dizzy state you had found yourself in for most of the night began to subside. It didn’t stop your eyes from staring across at Rúben though, focussing on the feeling of his hands running against the bare skin of your ankles. 

“Rúben..” you whispered, breaking up the silence in the room “..come lay with me for a bit?” you questioned, tapping the space beside you on the sofa. 

Without a second thought, Rúben lifted your legs up so that he could swing his frame around to rest against the back of the sofa. The stench of alcohol hit him as soon as he got close enough to your face, as he pressed a kiss against your cheek. 

“You smell nice.” your voice was muffled against the collar of his shirt. Breaths of warm air brushed against his neck and Rúben clenched his jaw in a half-ditched effort to seize the pounding in his chest. Surely you could hear it. 

“Let’s get you to bed, amor.” Rúben said softly, as he got up from the sofa and took you with him, starting to take a step backward. You kept your arms wrapped tightly around his waist, but you allowed your legs to follow him. Steady, careful steps were taken as Rúben continued to walk backwards towards the bedroom. 

His hand felt around for the door knob and he twisted it open. You had yet to lift your head from the alcove of his neck, sighing contently as he pulled you into the room. Rúben flicked the light switch on at your bedside, illuminating the room in a soft white hue in an effort to preserve the sensitivity in your eyes. 

“I’m going to find some sleep clothes for you, alright?” Rúben asked, as he reached behind him and pulled your arms from around his waist. The flash of disappointment across your face as your lips tugged into a frown did not slip his notice. He set you against the edge of the bed, a steady hand on your shoulder to make sure you were balanced. He turned back towards the closet. 

“You want to sleep in my clothes or yours, baby?” Rúben scratched at his head, tucking his hair behind his ears. 

“Baby?”

When he turned back towards you, a gasp caught in his throat to find you standing just inches away. How you managed to sneak up on him in this state, he’ll never know. You were staring at his lips, breathing heavily as eyes slowly trailed up to meet his. If Rúben thought his heart was beating painfully before..

A brush of your fingers at his waist line, playing with the edge of his shirt forced a gulp out of him. You purse your lips into a mischievous grin, grabbing at the fabric. 

“Take this off.” 

“W-what?” Rúben stuttered. God, he was never as nervous as he was around you. 

You leaned forward, hands releasing the fabric and trailing along his stomach under his shirt. Nails gently dragging over his skin, leaving goosebumps in their wake. Before Rúben could say a word, your lips were on his neck. 

“A-amor, hold on now..” Rúben started, though he found he couldn’t finish where he was going. He couldn’t remember what he was even going to say, not with the way your lips were sucking so sweetly against that spot on his neck that drove him wild, traveling up to pepper kisses along his jaw. He closed his eyes, relishing in the sensation you left behind with each kiss. He knew he should stop you, but, God, how could he possibly when your lips were on the corner of his mouth? 

The moment you pressed your lips to his, he froze, hands out to the side. Your soft, plump lips kissed at his own, tongue dragging against the bottom of his lip, until you bit down, not enough to hurt but enough that it took Rúben out of his trance. 

His hands came up to the sides of your face, holding you against him as he parted his lips further for you. It was wet and messy, and rushed, and nothing like he thought it would be as you moaned into his mouth, sending a jolt below his waistline. The way you were tugging at him, the way his hands tangled in your knotted hair, it was all so much rougher than he wanted it to be. But with your tongue sweeping over his, all he could think about was how bad he wanted this. 

“Amor..” you moaned and Rúben nearly came on the spot “..Rúben..please, I need you to fuck me.” 

Rúben pulled away instantly, panting heavily. Eyes wide as you sat down on the bed, reaching to pull your shirt over your head. He couldn’t believe what he was doing, but hands darted out to grab yours before you had the chance to remove the fabric. 

“Wait a second, amor.” Rúben urged, stare caught on your swollen lips. He was screaming in his own head. 

You frowned “Rú, please. Fuck me.” 

The heavy slur of your words. The way your eyes couldn’t quite focus on him. The sway of your body, unable to keep balance even as you sat on the bed. You weren’t in your right mind. He should have known that from the moment you touched him. 

“Fuck.” Rúben cursed under his breath, the realization of what he was doing flooding through him. He took a step back, brushing his hand over his mouth “I- I can’t, amor. I’m sorry.” 

“But, Rúbenn..” you wined, grabbing at his arms and pulling yourself back to your feet. Your lips connected with his neck again and he had to stifle a moan before it came out. His hands set carefully on your shoulders in an effort to push you away. He couldn’t do this to you, not like this. 

Your lips came back to his own and Rúben pulled away reluctantly. It killed him to do so, tore at his chest in every painful way imaginable, but he did it. 

“Not like this, baby.” he urged and pushed softly against your shoulders, keeping you at a distance. Your eyes searched his, confusion evident across your features “Not now, maybe later..” 

“Why don’t you lie down, for now, hm?” Rúben gestured towards the bed. You followed his gaze and nodded slowly. All of your energy seemed to drain away in an instant. He had to nearly carry you to the side of the bed. Lifting the covers and tucking two pillows under your head to aid in the dizziness, Rúben helped to tuck you in. A warm smile pulled at the corners of your lips as you closed your eyes, just barely visible, enough so that he would have missed it if he wasn’t watching you so closely. 

He leaned forward and pressed his lips to your forehead. A couple pain relievers and a glass of water by your bedside were left for you. He changed into some comfy clothes and joined you to bed, plopping down with a heavy sigh. His fingers brushed up at his lips, the sensation of you still tingling there. 

[silverzoomies]

Monster Mash

peter maximoff x reader smut

warnings: shameless smut, smut, kissing, porn with plot, halloween, zombies, biting, undead, undead!reader, gender neutral reader, zombie kink

word count: 11,996

a/n: first of three peter-centric halloween fics!! hopefully i'll get them all posted before the month ends!! timeline here is extremely fuzzy, and might not fall in line with canon. it's kind of super ambiguous.

the usual apologies: clunky writing, potentially ooc peter/other characters, inconsistencies, ending's super meh, etc etc etc. idk if peter would realistically be down to bang a cute, zombified reader. but hey, it's fiction. why the heck not!

tag list (i remembered this time!!): @dewberryobssesed @violetharmonscupcake @kaismanwich @jellyluvr @icannot3 @taintandviolent @ahoyladiesz @scene-and-dandylover @quickandsilvers @luttic @billielourdslays

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October. Just a week before Halloween.

Peter didn’t celebrate the holiday too often these days. Not like he used to. Ever since he took up teaching at the X-mansion, he only participated in a handful of Halloween activities. The staple being - playing escort for mutant kiddos on trick-or-treating ventures. An activity he enjoyed a lot, since the kiddos referred to “Mr. Maximoff” as “the school's most awesome trick-or-treat buddy.” Which had nothing to do with Peter swiping a little extra candy - for the kids, of course - when the other teachers weren’t looking. Swear on his life.

Another Halloween festivity he loved? The school's annual, X-family Halloween party. The team generally left Peter in charge of decorations, considering it took him no time at all to set them up. Professor Chuck himself - legendary baldy - always played host at those parties. As per tradition - after the party died down - Peter cozied up in the living room with the team. They’d gather together to watch everyone’s favorite horror flicks on VHS.

He really couldn’t wait for this year’s festivities. Peter looked forward to those after-party, horror movie marathons every year. Movie nights with the team? Pretty freakin’ awesome. If only for two reasons: The abundance of sugary garbage to snack on. And the way Ororo loooooooved snuggling up with him on the couch. Being so hot natured helped. Living life in the fast lane - operating like a human furnace - sure had its perks sometimes. ‘Ro’s cuddling made an excellent distraction from Peter’s unbridled loneliness. Haha...

C-...Consider that a topic for another day. Moving on.

On horror movie night, Peter inevitably saw the jumpscares coming leagues before anyone else. It never failed. He’d call them seconds ahead of time. With ‘Ro lying at his side, and his arm wrapped around her waist. Peter would exclaim, “Jumpscare!”, breaking the tension heavy silence amongst the group. Spoiling whatever movie played. Everyone hated it, of course. Kurt growled at him. Animalistic, but nowhere near intimidating. Jubilee pelted Peter with popcorn.

Peter just couldn’t help himself. Those scares were so predictable and boring sometimes. Sure, he liked horror movies enough. With all the gnarly gore and twisted kills. But they never freaked him out, since he didn’t spook easily. His incomprehensible reaction time made terror a tough game.

All that being said...

Even with his totally outrageous bravery streak, Peter - guilty as charged - sure had his candy-ass moments.

This current mission proved, without a doubt, one of the spookiest situations he’d ever landed himself in. He could feel it in the air tonight. And not in the groovy, Phil Collins way either. An ominous sense of uneasiness crawled across his skin. Eerie vibes sent chills creeping up his spine like spiders through a web. Peter wished he could fast forward to Halloween night on the couch with ‘Ro. Heck, he'd even take decorating duty over this any day of the week. At least he could go all out, and have his own fun with it.

For an October’s night, the weather seemed uncannily coincidental. Drops of rain showered from a mass of black clouds. A sharp crack of lightning struck the ground, with a roar of thunder following in succession. It rattled the very foundation of the abandoned lab Peter found himself exploring. As part of a last minute, late night mission.

Below his feet, tiled floors laid in disrepair. Dirtying the mismatched laces of his untied sneakers. Peter snuck his way through murky hallways, his heightened senses buzzing on edge. Fight or flight kicked into high gear, making him all the more sensitive to any outside stimuli. Another echoing roar rumbled through the building, threatening to topple its cracking walls. Peter worried the ceiling might cave in at any moment.

A terrifying thought. But it happened to be the exact reason Hank chose Peter for this mission to begin with. Should shit hit the fan, Peter could skedaddle at the speed of light unscathed. Easy peasy, lemon squeezy. Unlike his other team members, who might risk being flattened like a pancake. Under the weight of, not one, but two floors above.

…Speaking of pancakes. Peter should definitely drop by a mom ‘n pop diner before heading back to base. He could really go for a fresh stack of late night hotcakes right about now. Warm and soft. With chocolate chips melting on the inside. Caked in sticky syrup and slathered with butter. Oooooh! And a little bacon on the side. Not too crispy, not too flop-

His mouth watered, and Peter blinked. Wiping his jacket sleeve across his lips, he redirected his attention to the task at hand. Focus, Quickie. He had a job to do, and he didn’t wanna be stuck doing said job all night.

The lab sat nestled off the coast of some island with a foreign name. Super hard to pronounce. Peter couldn’t remember it off the top of his head. Prior to this assignment, he’d never even heard of the place. But apparently, neither had anyone else. Hank sent Peter in search of what he dubbed leads on a mystery project. Something to do with scientific documents.

If he found any, he’d read their info over to Scott. Who would then relay that same intel back to Hank. Like an insanely boring game of telephone. Why Peter couldn’t speak to Hank directly was anybody’s guess. Too busy with his super secret project thingy-majig, possibly?

Hanging from Peter’s stereo belt alongside his old Walkman, a walkie screeched with a shrill chirp. A shock of alarm shot straight through Peter’s veins, making him jump. Scott’s voice crackled from the speakers.

“Any updates, Pete?” Scott asked, “Tell me anything you got. Even if it seems boring. Just hit me with it. It’s gotta be better than waiting around here in the lab, doing nothing.”

Peter held a compact flashlight in one hand, searching the lab’s pitch black halls. Most of the rooms he passed looked desolate. Barren and dusty. Save for the odd desk or empty cabinet. Peter wondered if they’d all been ransacked when the place closed down. The ceiling leaked rain from the floors above, dripping onto Peter’s bomber jacket. At the edge of his vision, he caught a rat scurrying by. But otherwise, not much else.

Pulling the walkie from his belt, he brought it up to his lips, “Uh. It’s dark and kinda spooky here. Saw a rat. Storm’s not gettin’ any better. It keeps shakin’ the whole place.” Peter shook his head, “If it doesn’t let up, I’m gonna have to split. Don’t wanna wait around to see what happens next, y’know? Over."

On the other end of the line, Scott breathed an annoyed sigh. Even through low-quality speaker fuzz, Peter could tell the sigh lacked any real spite.

“Peter. We’ve been over this. We aren’t using decades old, two-way radio communication. You really don’t have to say over. ”

Peter drummed his free hand on an empty desk. Following the beat of Sweet Poison by Naked Eyes, as it played from the only earbud he wore. He wanted to keep one ear open, just to hear Scott clearly. And mayhaps because he felt the teensy weensiest bit paranoid by his lonesome in the lab.

“Copy that. Over.” He grinned to himself.

The further Peter explored the lab’s halls, thick layers of mucky green seemed to take over. If he had to guess, he assumed Hank didn’t consider masses of moss “key intel.” Every few feet Peter stepped, he tore his way through another wall of cobwebs. Lots and lots of creepy cobwebs. Reduced to undying boredom, Peter took to karate chopping them. Might as well have fun in the face of ennui.

Half second flickers of lightning cast the lab in gleaming flashes. Bringing Peter’s attention to more rooms he missed. He wandered through some old offices. Or what he thought were offices, anyway. The trashed state of the rooms made it hard to tell. Nothing within them had withstood the test of time. Peter even tried poking around with some clunky computers. No luck. Dead as doornails.

“Found some computers. C64’s, I think. Haven’t seen one ‘a these bad boys since forever ago. But they’re totally busted.” Peter reported into the walkie, banging a fist onto one of the computers, “Yep. Busted. Over.”

Before leaving the room, Peter fucked around. Knocking over a computer monitor for no reason at all. He snatched a few, grubby pens from a lone desk. As well as a cracked coffee mug that read “I try to tell chemistry jokes, but there’s no reaction.” Just for the heck of it. Why not swipe some keepsakes, eh?

After what felt like a geological age of scouring, Peter eventually stumbled upon more filing cabinets. Stuffed to the brim with research documents and science-y records. Sighing, he pulled each drawer open one by one. Peter read the dusty files, sharing intel with Scott over the walkie. For every document Scott dismissed, Peter tossed them carelessly aside over his shoulder.

Antsy to wrap the mission up, grab some pancakes, and race home for a game of GoldenEye; Peter rushed through the last few folders. In hopes of finding whatever specific file Hank needed. But upon the last one, Scott broke some totally bogus news.

“Sorry about this.” Scott sighed, “Those files? Yeah. Hank says they’re all duds. No dice. You think it’s safe to keep looking? You might have to check the second floor.” He mentioned, to Peter’s dismay.

Peter bumped his head into the filing cabinet, groaning aloud. With a kick of his foot, he closed the last drawer and trudged onward. Oh well. The speedster could totally manage. At least he brought mix-tapes to keep his mind occupied. Along with extra tapes stashed in his belt pockets for good measure. Without music, he’d be so outrageously miserable on a mission like this.

Shining the dinky flashlight, he scanned the first floor area one more time. Just to be sure. The flashlight’s glow passed a set of double doors, leading to-

Wait. Back it up a sec. Double doors? Quietly singing New Order’s Blue Monday to himself, Peter moonwalked backwards to observe the doors again. Knitting his brows, he blinked. Stumped.

“Yo. Scotty. Got another room on the first floor. Gonna check it out real quick. Over.” Peter reported, clicking the walkie into place on his belt.

Another echo of thunder rattled through the lab, shaking the floors above. Lightning illuminated the halls in temporary flickers of white. Peter stared at the large set of doors, totally bamboozled. He couldn’t comprehend how he missed them before. When he knew for a fact he checked every nook and cranny. Inching closer, he eyed a sign pasted on one of the doors. In a rough scratch of permanent marker, the sign read:

Reanimation experiments in progress. Do not disturb!!

Reanimation? What, like…of the dead? Pfffbt. No way! Could this spooky place get any spookier? Peter swallowed an uncomfortable wedge in his throat. Shaking off any chills threatening to overtake him, he shined his flashlight through one of the door’s windows. Peter scanned the area for anything useful.

Inside, he clocked an operating table. Close to that, a lone cart cluttered with rusty, surgical tools. Cracked computer screens lined one of the walls, more advanced than they should’ve been. At least for the era they originated. Tangled cables ran along the floor, leading to something in the shadows. Peter couldn’t make it out.

He arched a brow, finally locking his sights on - Aha! Jackpot! More filing cabinets. Hopefully, they held his ticket out of this creepy place. Fingers crossed. Peter burst into the room in a flash, kicking up dust in his wake. Tearing through another wall of cobwebs, he surveyed the area again. Making a mental note of every cabinet he could see. Enough to keep him busy for the next hour, he guessed. Peter slumped his shoulders, huffing an aggravated groan.

Talking to Scott through the entire process made it more bearable. Being so no nonsense and straight forward, Scott had no problem retaining the info Peter shared from every file. Which saved the speedster any hassle of repeating himself, or having to explain things he didn’t understand. Science? Not really Peter's area of expertise. He thought himself more of a tech, or music guy.

Luckily enough, Peter found whatever documents Hank sent him after. A deep dive into every folder, in every drawer, in about a dozen different cabinets were all it took. Had Peter aged another thirty years? He sure as hell felt like it. No sweat! Mission accomplished. Time to bid the old lab goodbye.

Peter flew through the rest of the cabinets in less than a second’s time. Triple checking for any intel Hank might find compelling. He skimmed some records documenting the “reanimation of dead tissue.” Hm. Actually, blue beastie might potentially find that fascinating. “Reanimation” of the dead didn’t exactly sound too commonplace in modern science, did it?

In a folder, Peter discovered a file. Clipped with a photograph of - hellllllllooooo there! Someone…kinda cute. Very cute. Peter whistled, piercing the quiet thrum of distant rain. He read on.

Oh. The cute someone. They died. Tragically perished. Hit by a car back in the 80’s. What a bummer. One of the scientist's brought them to the lab as a test subject. Used for some twisted experiment in reanimation. The kicker? They proved to be the lab’s first and only successful trial run. Of around fifty different, reanimation trials. Yikes. That's...a lotta dead bodies.

These scientists successfully revived the dead? Peter doubted it. Over a decade had passed since then, and no one ever used the technology mentioned in the files. This lab's research couldn’t be as successful as they documented. Or something must've gone wrong, for them to give up and shut down the lab's operation completely.

Yeah. Treating human corpses like science fair projects for school? Super warped. Hank, wacky in his science ventures, totally found macabre shit like that interesting. Shrugging, Peter tucked the manilla folders he gathered under an arm. He grabbed his walkie, and reported to Scott.

“I got somethin’ else Hank might be into. It's totally messed up, he'll love it. But-uh…if that’s all he needed? I’m gonna jet now, ‘kay? I can’t take another minute in this scary ass place. Over and out.”

Before making his leave, Peter glanced around the room one last time. He appeared near the operating table in a picosecond, his brown eyes scanning the cart next to it. Curiously, Peter picked through some rusty, surgical tools.

Upon finding a scalpel in fairly okay condition, he swiped the tool and slipped it inside his back pocket. Whistling to Oingo Boingo's No One Lives Forever - in hindsight, kind of ironic - playing from his Walkman, Peter raised a foot to kick the cart. Watching it roll away into a nearby wall. Hasta la vista.

As Peter steered away from the operating table, a monstrous shadow loomed at the edge of his vision. His heart rampantly pounded in his chest, his senses still high strung. Jumping back with a terrified gasp, Peter climbed halfway onto the operating table. He fumbled for his flashlight, pointing the glow at the massive bundle of darkness. The light shook in Peter’s trembling hand.

But it-...oh. Phew! Nothing to be afraid of. Hah. What the heck was Peter gettin’ riled up for?

Like something straight out of science fiction, Peter’s shadowy monster proved nothing more than a giant pod. He squinted, moving towards it until close enough to observe it more clearly. The tech appeared big enough to hold a person of his size. Or, hell, maybe even someone of Beast’s size. Peter ran a hand along the surface of the pod, gathering a layer of dust on his fingertips. Scowling, he shuddered, wiping the dust on his jeans. “ EUGH! Eck-” Peter exclaimed to no one, “What’s up with this dusty, old thing??” Glass encased the outer layer of the large machine. It might've been see-through, if not for the unsanitary grime blanketing the entire thing. Years upon years of soot build up. Peter tried wiping the dust away with his elbow, to no avail. He couldn’t see inside, even with the aid of his flashlight.

Puzzled, Peter darted around the room in a silver blur, searching for clues. A switch of some kind? A secret code? He tampered with everything from the cracked monitors on the wall, to the colorful cables lining the floor. Peter even tried prying the pod open with a rusty hammer he found. Still, it refused to budge. Even with the power of speedster strength. Was it made of adamantium or something?

Sighing, defeated, Peter tossed the hammer away. It crashed into one of the screens hanging against the wall. Shattering the crystal display upon impact. Whoops. Oh well. How much more damage could be done to the place? Not like anyone would be making renovations anytime soon. Not in the middle of buttfuck nowhere island.

Making an accidental misstep, Peter slipped on his untied shoelaces. His ankle entangled itself in a circle of cables on the floor, and he lost his balance. Tripping, Peter stumbled backwards into some busted machinery, knocking his head. His back collided with the hard, metal surface behind him.

“ Auuugh. Shit.” Peter muttered. He didn’t understand how he could be so goddamn clumsy all the time, given - what the professor called - his mutant gift, “Ow. Dammit.”

He must have triggered a switch when he tripped. Suddenly, a loud hiss seethed through the air like a bus braking to a stop. A slow moving cloud of smoke rose from inside the pod. As it spread, filling the room, the fumes turned radioactive neon in color. It swarmed Peter’s nostrils, overflowing his senses with an earthy scent.

“Uhhh…uh oh.” He mumbled, “Is that supposed to happen?” Acting in haste, Peter scrambled to free his ankle from the cable’s tight grip.

A corpse reanimation research lab.

Nope. Noooope. He’d seen Return of the Living Dead enough times to know - whatever the hell’s happening now? Bad news. Couldn’t be good. Peter suppressed the urge to scream like a frightened child. A buzzing voice chimed from his walkie, startling him further. Dammit all, Scotty! He almost sent Peter into cardiac arrest for a hot second.

“Peter? Hey-uh, are you there? You alright? You didn’t stop somewhere for pancakes again, did you?” Scott crackled through the walkie, but Peter didn’t respond, “Better bring enough back for the whole class.” He joked, sarcastic.

Peter gawked at the sight before him in a mix of horror and confusion. Completely petrified, as Oingo Boingo played through his ear. The neon smoke emitted from the pod began to clear, revealing a body inside. A dead body.

Your dead body, to be specific.

Somehow, Peter recognized you. But that didn’t make any sense at all. He knew for a freakin’ fact he’d never seen or met you a day in his life. Unless… oh. Oh, holy shit. He hurriedly grabbed the extra folder he’d taken and opened it, just to glance between you, and the photo inside. And sure enough… The first and only successful trial run in reanimation.

Oh. Oh no. Oh no, oh no, oh no. Peter’s eyes blew open wide. His stomach dropped twenty thousand feet through the ground, plummeting to the Earth’s core. Swallowing thickly, he observed your slumbering body from his position on the dirty floor.

Your skin appeared ashier than it naturally should be. Y’know, on account of being dead and all. It more closely resembled a subdued, greenish color. Kinda Frankenstein-esc. Stitches lined each and every one of your limbs. As if some psycho nut job took you apart and sewed you back together again. Judging by the info in your file, they probably did. Embedded into your neck, were two bolts on either side. Also very Frankenstein-esc. You reminded him of a wax dummy on the set of some low-budget, horror flick. It’d be kinda funny, if he didn’t feel seconds away from screaming in horror.

You could be a dummy, if Peter had any luck. Yeah. This mission? Surely just a super elaborate prank set up by the team. Like a haunted house tour, made to scare the silver pants off him. Those sly dogs think they’re so slick, huh? ...R-Right?

Peter took a deep breath, keeping his terrified gaze fixed on you. In his ear, the funky tune came to an end. The lab fell into a deafening silence. Only broken by the faintest pitter patter of rain, and a quiet clamor of thunder now echoing at a distance. Signaling the passing of the storm. One less thing to worry about.

Though, he’d much rather agonize over a building’s foundation crumbling. He could handle a weather-related disaster wayyy better than a zombie coming to life, to - potentially - gorge on his flesh.

Raising his flashlight, he pointed the glow at your lifeless body. Again, Peter breathed a long sigh to ease his panic stricken nerves. An interference of crackling static ripped through the walkie then. Loud, and shrill enough to cut glass. At that very moment, your eyes - once locked in eternal slumber - popped open freakishly wide.

Oh. Oh hellllll no. Fuck that. Fuuuuck that.

Peter’s hunch proved totally right. You weren’t just dead. You were undead.

“ Mmmmmm nope.” Peter mumbled to himself, swiftly shaking his head, “Nuh uh. Nope.”

Shaking with adrenaline, he glanced between your dead-eyed gaze, and his trapped foot. Okay! No problem-o! Not a problem at all. For an X-Man, zombies made an easy foe, right? Peter could totally just-...

Just vamoose! Make a break for it! Right now!

Like, now.

Peter hadn’t run away yet. Why hadn’t he run away? Hellllloooo? Ground control to Quickie! Time to make a quick exit, and head for the hills. Lest he become zombie chow.

Stunned, Peter remained petrified. In an uncannily slow movement, you rose from the pod like Nosferatu out of a coffin. Peter cursed under his breath, willing his terror to take a one way ticket outta there. He needed to come to his senses, and fast. Even as Peter tried to move, his paralyzed state caused him to fumble again. His movements lacked their natural fluidity, and his blood ran cold.

Like a total doofus, in his failed attempt to escape, Peter tangled his foot even deeper through the cables. Sometime in the last thirty seconds or so, he dropped his flashlight. Within the inky darkness, he could barely make out your shape as you moved. You groaned a long, croaky sound. Guttural, like an eldritch abomination.

Another crash of lightning showered your living corpse in a white luster. Peter made direct eye contact with you. A gaze between life and death.

A yell vibrated through his lungs and bounced off the walls of the room, as Peter finally screamed. Your slow moving, zombified body climbed from the pod much like a spider. Stumbling at first, you connected your bare feet with the dirty, tiled floor. Once you found your balance, a cracking sound erupted from your limbs. Your bones clicked and popped audibly into place. Peter scowled, physically cringing.

Another scream tore from the depths of his chest, “SHIT! SHIT! SHIT! SHIT! SHIT!” He shouted.

You dragged your feet in a limp, moving towards Peter with a slow gait. Stitched arms reached out for him in an unhurried motion, “ Luhhhhhhhh- ” You choked on a groggy gurgle.

Fuck. Fucking shit fuck. You definitely wanted to feast on his juicy brains and smooth flesh. No denying that. It had been, like, a decade since you last ate anything. And Peter probably looked like one hell of a snack right about now. Not even in a totally kinky way.

“WOAH, WOAH, WOAH! Hold yer horses there, baby! Yer gettin’ a liiiitttle too close fer comfort now! C’mon, huh? Do you really think I’m on the menu? ‘Cuz trust me. If yer gonna eat somebody? I shouldn’t be yer first choice! I really don’t taste all that great!” Peter yelled, throwing a hand out momentarily before returning to the tangled cables. He huffed an uneasy laugh, “SHIT! Yer not listening, are you? Ahaha! Yer gonna eat me. Totally gonna eat me. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck-”

Peter tore at the cables wrapped around his foot. Acting as quickly as his petrified state would allow, he pulled the scalpel from his back pocket. But the dull razor’s edge refused to cut through the wires. Dropping the useless tool, he ripped into the cables one more time using all his strength. Only to free himself a millisecond too late. Always late. You lurched forward, making grabby hands. 

Quicksilver vs. an actual, real life zombie. If he made it out alive, that’d make one helluva story.

But-

Wait a damn minute. Hold the freakin’ phone. Why were you…looking at him like that?

The glazed over eyes of a living corpse opened up, all big and doe-like. Gazing at Peter in - no mistaking it - infatuated fondness. Your supple lips parted with a wide smile of pure delight. Like sunshine peeking through hazardous, storm clouds. You leapt forward unexpectedly, squeaking a raspy squeal. Burrowing your face into the warmth of Peter’s chest, you linked your arms around his neck. Holding onto him tight.

“What the-” He whispered, looking down at your messy head of hair.

Uh. Okay. So, that just happened. Weird. Why weren’t you feasting on his flesh? Wasn’t he supposed to be your first meal since zombie hibernation, or something? Didn’t you wanna go chomp chomp chomp, and turn his guts into mush?

Peter realized, looking at you up close, you appeared perfectly clean and preserved. You didn’t reek like a dead body. The earthy scent on your cold skin wasn’t too unpleasant either. It smelled herbal. Floral, even. Your smooth skin lacked any signs of rot. Aside from one or two lesions revealing rib or arm bones. Kinda...freakishly cool. The surface of your skin looked see-through, with veins weaving underneath like intricate wiring.

A little spooky, sure. But not all that scary to look at, surprisingly enough. Not like Peter expected, anyway. As you snuggled closer into Peter’s body, he began to realize how oddly affectionate you were. Very out of character, for a zombie. You squeaked an unintelligible noise, attempting to communicate. But you just couldn’t form the words. Maybe your speech capabilities fizzled out after years and years of unending silence.

Peter creased his brows, lowering his defenses and calming himself down. Another thirty seconds passed. His brains remained intact, and you hadn’t made him your next meal. He pulled the earbud from his ear, hooking them around his neck and pressing pause on the Walkman. Craning your neck back, your glassy eyes met Peter’s own. You grinned so big and joyful, gleaming the innocence of a pure-of-heart, golden retriever. Despite being totally bizarre, Peter found your sweetness...sorta...weirdly cute.

“Uhmmm…hi? Hey. Uh-why’re you lookin’ at me like that?” He laughed, a little uneasy.

Maybe your affection stemmed from something simple. If Peter were locked up in a cramped pod for so many years, he’d be ecstatic if someone finally freed him. You were probably just uber thankful he’d broken you outta that pod thingy. And you showed gratitude through touching, since you couldn’t exactly flurry him with thank yous. He could accept that. Sure. For now.

The walkie hanging from his belt droned a buzz, and Scott’s voice called out. Peter finally reached for it, maneuvering between his body and yours. Your arms stayed around his neck, your body hanging like a stubborn monkey’s from a tree.

“Peter? Do you copy? Peter, are you there, man? Talk to us. Please. Should we send someone over to assist?” Scott asked, his voice itching with alarm. “Yeah! Yeah, nah. Uh-hey, Scotty! Hey, I’m here. I’m oka-...dude, it’s fine. Nothin’ to worry about. Seriously. But…I do kinda have a situation here? Over.” Peter replied.

Scott exhaled a relieved sigh on the other end of the line. In the crackling background of the walkie, Peter heard Jean’s voice. She asked, “Did he say over ?” Followed by a series of hushed chuckles. Peter smirked to himself.

“Oh! Oh my god. Thank goodness, Pete. We were all getting pretty worried about you over here. What’s going on? Are you still at the lab? You said there was a situation. What kind of situation? Did that old place finally cave in?” Scott asked. Many, many questions.

Peter heard even more frantic, muffled conversations in the background. While he couldn’t understand them, he recognized the voices. The entire team had gathered, just to make sure he made it out alive. Awww. How sweet. They were worried about lil ol’ him? If Peter hadn’t had the bejesus scared out of him not even five minutes ago, his heart would’ve melted.

“Heyyyy, guys! Uhhhh…soooo…I might’ve found, like, a zombie? No joke. Like, a real zombie. But it’s not tryna kill me. It’s-” Peter paused, raising a brow. You fluttered your lashes, giving him a coquettish look, “Bro, I think it’s makin’ eyes at me. Legit. Kinda weird, right? Definitely not what I was expecting. But it’s totally fine. I got it all under control now. Over.”

A long silence fell amongst the walkie’s noise. Until Scott finally responded in monotone.

“Did we hear you wrong, or did you just say you found a zombie?” He asked, his tone carrying a hint of disbelief. As if expecting Peter to say - Psych! Fooled ya!

Peter parted his lips to confirm. But the abrupt tickle of a chilly kiss on his neck silenced him. You stood up on your bare toes, giggling sweetly. Across his hot skin, you peppered your chapped lips. Instantly, Peter froze in place again. Shudders rang through his body. He reached for one of your arms, tugging you to try and pull you off him.

“Uhm. Y’know what? It’s no big deal. B-But yeah, it’s a zombie fer sure.” Peter tugged your arm with more insistence, urging you to let go. But you persisted, giggling into the crook of his neck, “Like I said. No worries here. It’s not like I’m in da- haaah okayokayokay-”

Your feather light kisses became soft, kitten licks. Flicking Peter’s flesh with your slimy tongue, you squealed, tickled pink. Peter jolted, shivers sizzling down his spine. He tilted his neck to the side, wincing. Over the walkie, he heard Hank’s gruff voice.

“Peter! It’s Hank-” The blue beast said, as if Peter couldn’t already tell based on his growly tone, “Are you a hundred percent sure the undead creature isn’t dangerous?” He asked, buzzing through a scratch of interference.

Coldness slathered and swirled Peter’s neck in slow circles. Fluttering his eyes closed, he replied, “N-Not dangerous. Ohhhh. Definitely not dangerous. No danger here. All good. Over.” Again, he tried to pull you off.

Your discolored arms tightened their hold around his neck and over his shoulders. Cooing noises dripped from your tongue like honey, so sugary sweet. You swiped his skin with your tongue, nuzzling your cold nose into the heated crevice of his neck. Pressing your body closer into his, you squirmed, littering him with zombie kisses.

Peter tensed, apprehensive of your affections. He didn’t want to be too harsh or aggressive towards you. Worried that any sign of conflict might make you snap. For all he knew, you might go bonkers and brain hungry. Really, he should’ve gotten it over with and pushed you away. Before you took things a little too far. And you did. Your teeth sank into his neck, lightly nibbling his flesh. As you pressed yourself even closer into his proximity, your breasts - covered only by a ragged crop top - met the swell of his broad chest. WOOOOOAH! Talk about twisted! Sure, okay, maybe your bites turned him on, like, a little. Flooding his body with a pleasant, all-over shudder of pleasure. But he couldn’t just fold for a zombie, could he? That’d be disgusting!

It’d be gross, right?

A subconscious desire in the recesses of his lonesome mind told him he wanted - no, needed - the attention. He hadn’t been intimate with anyone like this since the pogs fad. Easy, now, Peter! Down, boy.

But…shit. As much as he wanted to give in, he couldn’t. Not for a monster. A living corpse, left cooking in a secluded pod for a decade. Cloaked in discoloration and held together by expertly crafted stitching. Not entirely mindless, but so dense, you hadn’t the forethought to ask - “What happened? Where am I? Who are you?” No. Instead, you went after him the moment you saw him, showering him in bubbly, zombie lovin’.

He…shouldn’t find that hot. His fingers shouldn’t be tightening around the walkie, and his groin shouldn’t feel as scorching as it does. Oh, man. Could Peter be any more doomed? He’d have to be mad desperate - way out of his mind - to reciprocate your affection. Raising the walkie again, he cleared his throat.

“Hiya, Beastie. A-Acutally, I think they-...the zombie really, really likes me.” Peter added for no reason at all. You nibbled him a little harder, and he winced again.

“Well, now! That’s good then, isn’t it? Better than the alternative, I’d say! If at all possible, Peter, you should bring the creature with you. I’d like to look it over. Maybe run some tests. Figure out what brought it to life! This could be the secret to reversing brain death!” Hank chimed, excited.

Peter rolled his eyes. Of course Hank wanted to poke and prod at you like some little, lab rat. He opened his mouth to respond, but choked before he could get a word in. Your dull teeth clamped roughly into his neck. Peter braced a free hand on your hip, his thumb digging into the cool, exposed flesh there. Now, suspicion began to dawn on him.

You could be a clever, little zombie. Capable of luring Peter in with flirtatious wiles and sweet touches. Once he let his guard down, what if you planned on tearing into his guts? Well played, smarty pants zombie. Well played. But Peter caught onto your little game. You couldn’t get anything past him.

Instead of slurping his blood like a 7-Eleven slushie, or ripping your nails into his taut muscles; you suckled his skin lovingly. Pulling tiny hickies into his neck. Squealing and giggling in that girlish fashion, playful with every nibble. Peter gulped, biting his lip between his teeth. No way in hell he allowed a zombie to give him hickies.

…Except he did. So what? No harm in it, right?

“Y-Yeah. Sure. I’m good. Great. Just hangin’ out with my new zombie buddy. It’s totally not gonna eat my brains. Like, zero percent chance I’m gonna die an ugly, zombie death. So, y’know, Beastie, don’t lose any sleep over it.” Peter responded, before following it up with a condescending, “Over.”

On the walkie line, Peter heard a series of groans and faint giggles. Followed by Hank’s voice, as he passed the walkie back to Scott. The X-Men’s laser eyed leader sighed, his tone unamused.

“Whatever, Peter. Just…just hurry up, will you? And bring those documents over for Hank. Thanks.”

Peter tried, and failed to keep his composure. A cutie pie zombie kept macking on him like a lovesick puppy, and he had no clue what to make of it. You sucked more sloppy, violet marks into his neck. Tugging his skin with your teeth and nibbling like you couldn’t get enough of him. Peter’s skin flared up in cold creeps, as you trailed your chilly lips to his shoulder. Pulling his jacket and the collar of his shirt aside, you spoiled him in more undead affection.

“Gotcha. Copy that. Ov- mmm -” Peter whispered a moan, replying with a rushed, “Overandout.”

He clipped the walkie back onto his belt. Attempting once more to pry you off him, Peter gave your arm a strong tug. A little more forceful this time around. As you finally dislodged yourself from his neck, Peter took a few steps back. Avoiding any stray cables on the floor.

Now, with some distance between the two of you, he cleared his throat. Peter brought a hand to his neck, grazing fingers over the love bites you left behind. Tiny splotches of purple pooled with offsets of scarlet. Faint teeth marks left grooves in his skin. He hissed.

Giving you the freedom to pepper him with hickies might not have been the smartest idea. Hopefully, you didn’t infect him with some sick, zombie disease. One with the potential to end humanity as he knew it. He couldn’t cope with the weight of that responsibility on his shoulders.

You gawked up at him with those big, adoring eyes. Excitedly, you squealed, hopping towards him with your eager arms outstretched. Hoping to pull Peter into another close hug, just so you could litter him in more nibbly, love bites. He raised an abrupt hand, maintaining distance. Peter cleared his throat again. His cheeks burned hot, doused in bright pink.

Totally not fair, the way an overly affectionate zombie got him blushing.

“L-Listen. Uh. Yer sweet, but-” Peter started. Subconsciously, his gaze drifted down your body. He observed the stitches sewn into your neck and limbs. His dark chocolate eyes followed the rips and tears in your skimpy shirt. The flimsy garment revealed a tiny peek of your - admittedly pretty - breasts. And Peter swallowed, his throat running dry, “Uhhh…you can’t keep doin’ this, okay? The-” He wiggled his long fingers, gesturing to his neck, “The hickie thing. If yer gonna come with me, we gotta lay down some ground rules. Alright? You get me, babe?”

You tilted your head to the side, blinking slowly. Gazing at Peter with a look that told him you didn’t understand. But you didn’t seem to give a shit either way. You reached for one of his hands, a dazzled smile curling into your lips. Purring a candied noise of affection, you brought his hand to your cheek and nuzzled his palm. Your lips gently kissed each fingertip. Peter pulled a face, knitting his silver brows.

“Why’re you so damn-” He shook his head, “Whatever. Listen. Can you, like, chill out? No biting, you understand?” Peter paused to make a chomping gesture, clicking his teeth. But this only made you giggle. Which, unfortunately, he found super infectious.

Peter chuckled, scoffing playfully, “Stop that! I’m totally serious! No biting. No licking. No kissing. Like this. You see this?” He gestured to the hickies on his neck, their trail leading under his shirt, “No more ‘a that, you feel me? I dunno how I’m gonna explain this to the crew back home. They’re gonna think we got, like, freaky ‘er somethin’. Yeah. Can you imagine that? Like I’d ever fool around with-”

Fluttering your off colored lashes, you tilted your head to the other side. You parted your chapped lips, squealing as you edged his fingertips into your mouth. Pressing the salty pads to your bitter tongue.

“Oh! EUCK! Gross! Don’t-” Peter scowled, jerking his hand from you in less than a millisecond. With a horrified look, he observed his fingers as if they were germ-infested specimens, “Yer a real weird one, babe.”

His guard fell. While Peter kept his perplexed eyes on his fingers, you leapt forward. Burying your face deep into the fabric of his shirt, you squealed. Gleeful and bubbly. Peter groaned, only half-annoyed. He made a move to push you off him again. But your precious, little purring noises changed his mind. Peter couldn’t find it in himself to put his foot down.

Turns out he had a weakness. Cute, overly affectionate zombies. Who woulda thought?

Whatever. Peter had wayyy more important things on his plate. He knew he should gather up those folders he dropped, along with anything else he lost during his freak out session. Once he did, he needed to get the two of you out of this dingy, old lab asap.

“ Mmmmm …n-need…” You hummed your first word, before squealing, “Loooooove~!” Your voice strained, rattling like you’d been pounding down cigarettes by the plenty.

Peter’s eyes widened, and he let his sizeable hands fall to your hips, “Di-...wait a sec, did you just talk? Holy shit! You can talk?” Peter asked, dumbfounded, “Woah! Wow. Uh…so…you got a name? Can you at least tell me yer name?”

Your case file hadn’t listed your name, leaving you reduced to a number. Pretty messed up, if anyone were to ask Peter. Either you still didn’t understand him, or you couldn’t remember your own name. Instead of giving him an answer, you nuzzled your face in his chest. You tittered, so soft and smitten, your ragged voice muffled by the fabric of his shirt. Cold, tiny zombie hands tickled the back of his neck, raking gentle nails down his torso.

Standing on your toes, you connected your cool lips with his neck all over again. You kissed your previous love bites, as if doing so would heal them entirely. Ashamed of himself for letting it happen, Peter stifled a groan.

"Y-...You don't remember yer name, do you?" He mumbled. Peter's strong arms wrapped around your back, pulling you in, "That is...a seriously messed up situation. But, hey, I'm here fer you. Don't worry, 'kay? We'll get you to a safe place, and you can start over there. Sound good?" His caring nature shined through. But male horniness abruptly overshadowed it, as your wet tongue tickled his skin.

A guilty part of him, overrun with sympathy, felt bad for you. Those scientists hadn’t treated you like the victim of an unfortunate accident. More like a toy. Meant to be ripped apart, played with, and abandoned. It seemed wrong to perceive you in a frisky light. But then again…you wanted love. You may as well have been begging for it.

Love. One of the first words you spoke since your undead coma. Not that much of a surprise, if he thought about it. As a science experiment, loneliness probably consumed you. Even before your decade-long slumber. In a way, Peter understood. He too felt haunted by a longing for affection for far, far too long. In his mind, that made the two of you kindred spirits.

Ahhhh …dammit. Peter just couldn’t resist you and your sweet wiles anymore. His self control steadily slipped from his weakened grasp.

“ Mmmmm! Wa-....waaaant…love~! Neeeed… mmm …lo-....love~!” You squeaked, your cold tongue curling over a fresh, purple mark.

“C’mon, baby. We can’t-...you really have to stop this. We gotta head back to base, like, now. Everyone’s waitin’ on me, and I-” Peter muttered, and you pulled back. Gazing at him with that mystified, doe eyed look. Like you saw the beauty of the cosmos in him, and him alone. Your lips sparkled, wet from your lovin’. Peter clutched your hips firmly. His jeans seemed...somehow tighter all of a sudden, “Would ya stop lookin’ at me like that?”

“Looooooove~?” You cooed, your voice taking on a lustrous, but groggy tone.

“Yeah. I know. But…” Peter sighed, letting his hands feel up and down your curvy sides, “Yer gonna get me in soooo much trouble. But, fine. You win, okay? What kinda love are we talkin’ 'bout here, babe? You wanna hug? Want me to-uhm…to plant one on you? Is that it?”

You perked up then. Peter took it as a sign you understood him, more than you let on before. He arched a brow. At this point, why even hold back? Because you were dead? So what! Who ever said zombies couldn’t be smokin’ hot?

If he messed around with you just a little, no one would ever know. Which…made the concept even more enticing. You could be his little secret. An affectionate secret he’d forever bury in the ground. In place of the grave those scientists never gave you.

Peter fluttered his eyes closed, finally giving in to your closeness entirely. Lowering his big hands, he grabbed your ass. His palms squeezed over the torn, booty shorts you wore. Never did he imagine - upon exploring some horror movie, science lab - he’d feel up a cutie pie corpse’s plump bottom by the end. What a way to end a mission. Life worked in some wildly bizarre ways sometimes.

Kissing a zombie? Not as gross as he thought it’d be.

Okay. Maybe for, like, half a second. But the earthy taste on Peter’s lips didn’t faze him much. Once he pushed past the initial ick, he embraced you fully. Peter decided he didn’t give a flying fuck how unsanitary zombie smooches might be. Uncoordinated lip motions lured him in further. Pinkish teeth grazing his bottom lip between kisses. Soon enough, they turned sloppy, and Peter found himself frenching the living dead.

Zombie make out session. An experience he hadn’t planned to check off his bucket list. But now, he could.

One of his hands gripped your ass. While his other held your face and pulled you in for more tongue action. In the midst of swapping spit, you sought every opportune moment to nibble him. Peter couldn’t help but be super into it. You mewled softly, giggling when he gave your booty a hard squeeze. Chuckling, he parted from your lips to look over your greenish face. Your eyes bulged so big and wide, pupils an off-grey color and impossibly huge. Wonderstruck by his very existence. Darting down to capture your lips again, Peter stumbled forward. He guided your body towards the operating table, knocking you into it. Your hips collided with the edge, causing a loud, vibrating clang. The rough motion worried him enough, he stopped sucking face just to confirm you were alright. Peter feverishly kissed your cold lips, his hands exploring your body. Feeling stitched skin under his fingers.

You pulled from him with a joyous squeal, but Peter followed. Confused as to why you stopped, until you dove for the untarnished side of his neck. Dull flats of your teeth chomped straight into his flesh, grinding a little too roughly for comfort. Peter winced with a start, ceasing his love on your bootylicious bottom.

“N-No! Noooo! Hey, baby, look at me.” Peter snapped his fingers to get your attention. Not that he wanted to be so demanding. But you needed to understand his boundaries, before you tore into his flesh and guzzled his blood. Instantly, you reacted, retracting your teeth from his neck. You moved to make eye contact, and Peter fixed you with a soft gaze, “What’d I tell you, huh? Look, it’s not that I can’t appreciate some neckin’. 'Cuz I totally can. And I really dig it. Like, a lot. But you can’t be munchin’ on me! Really freaks me out when you do that.”

You angled your head again, curious. Doe eyes gaped at him with fluttering lashes, innocently confused, “ Mmm. Giv-....Giiiiive…love?” You croaked, pawing at Peter’s chest over his shirt, acting so needy.

He couldn’t begin to understand what you meant, or what you imagined love to be in your head. Were you really so desperate to bite him? Or, were you asking for something else? Wanton, bedroom eyes dawned your pretty face. Plush, ashy lips parting. You pawed his chest again, your blunt nails scraping across his shirt. In your desperation to communicate your-uhm…needs, you jutted your hips forward into his jeans. “L-L…Lo-” You started, throaty voice oozing innocence. Though, the look in your lidded eyes betrayed said innocence, “Loooooove. Need. P-Please?” 

Peter’s eyes popped open, as realization dawned on him. Oh. You meant you needed-... Ah. He understood now. The unreasonably cute, living corpse he found - dormant in a pod for, like, a decade - wanted to bump uglies. Great. Awesome. What the hell was he supposed to do about that? Fulfill your unbridled desire? C’monnnn. Didn’t boning undead cuties come with any moral implications? If he took you to pound town, would that make him a necrophiliac? Peter really didn’t wanna be labeled a necrophiliac.

But hypothetically, what if he admitted his own desperation to himself? He always fumbled every time he tried to step up his game and woo the ladies. Not like he had any game to begin with. And tonight, there you were. Practically begging for him to take you. He should acknowledge the fact that, yeah - no matter how much he tried to pretend otherwise - he found you very hot. So, ludicrously hot. Zombie traits and all.

And regardless of how many times he second guessed himself - at the end of the day - his dick didn’t have any qualms about zombie hanky panky.

Peter’s hand traveled up, thumbs curiously tracing the rough lining of your neck stitches. Before toying with the rusted bolts an inch or two above. Testing if you could even feel it. You didn’t react, and Peter wondered if scientists used those bolts to revive you. Did they awaken you Frankenstein style, with sharp surges of electricity? Or did you come to life by other means? A glowing, reagent liquid, maybe?

Hesitating for a fraction of a second, Peter tugged the front of your loose top down. A pair of off-green, zombie melons jiggled freely. Stitches circled each breast, and Peter may or may not have thought they looked hot as fuck like that. Call him inhumane, but he really dug your whole monstrous babe aesthetic.

His hands kneaded the softest pair of undead knockers he ever felt, making you squirm under his touch. Peter grinned, pleased with every choked squeak leaping off your lips. He flitted his dark gaze up to your face, then back down to your breasts; back and forth, back and forth. Admiring the delicate expressions you made, your precious face scrunched in pleasure.

“Damn. Anyone ever tell you how pretty you are? ‘Specially like this.” Peter chuckled, pinching and twisting your perky nipples, “Bet those bad guys never did. Sucks fer them. Yer a total babe. And sooo fuckin’ cute. Makes me want you all fer myself.”

Sooooo…about your…cooch situation. Yeah. Uh…Peter might’ve been somewhat worried about that. Taking your condition into consideration, he felt himself overcome with hesitance. Fearful that your-uh…flower, so to speak, may have withered away after a decade of darkness.

What about diseases? The thought made Peter squeamish. Even though you appeared and smelled relatively clean, you still hadn’t showered in a long freakin’ time. Then again, protection existed. Not to mention, you were so, so needy and cute. Your body looked undeniably amazing, and felt so soft. Fuck it. With some reluctance, Peter willed himself to test the waters. For your sake, but also for his own. Just to make up for the years he spent wishing he could get laid again.

A win-win for you both.

Tugging your tiny shorts down your smooth thighs - finding a little struggle along the way, since the meat of your thighs proved an obstacle - Peter snuck his fingers under the hem of your worn panties. The millisecond before his fingers met the supple curtains of your pussy, he second guessed himself for the zillionth time. Peter’s subconscious doubt pestered him enough, he almost withdrew his hand completely.

But the precious whimper you made gave him enough encouragement to keep going. His thick digits cautiously braved forbidden, undead territory. Finding an overabundance of cool, silky wetness between your lips. Peter swallowed hard, knitting his brows as he scoured for your clit.

“Jesus, baby.” He muttered. Judging by your bubbly squeak of delight, Peter assumed he found what he’d been venturing for. Leaning slightly forward into your proximity, Peter circled your stiff, little nub, “You want it bad, don’t you?”

“G-...G-....Gooooood! Mo-....More? More!” You mewled, clenching fists into his shirt. Mindlessly, you canted your hips, seeking his crotch. “Hey, it’s whatever you want, pretty.” He mused with a smirk, voice tender, “Relaaaax. I gotcha. I gotcha. ”

His fingers drew downwards, teasing for a beat before cruising into your silken entrance. Lush, deathly cold walls welcomed his digits in a loving hug. Beckoning Peter to sink them in deeper. You held his shirt like a lifeline, moaning an angelic, rattle of a noise. Pulling you closer into his warm body, Peter lowered his head to your shoulder. Thin strands of silver hair tickled your cheek. His thick fingers curled, hooking into a cushiony spot inside you. Your near-empty eyes saw hot flashes of light.

“L-LOOOVE~!” You whimpered through hitched cries.

“Mhm?” Peter laughed, impishly nibbling his lip, “Feel that lovin’? Feels good, doesn’t it, baby?”

Keeping you distracted for a temporary moment, Peter dotted your neck in warm kisses. Subtly easing his fingers in and out of your velvet pussy at a quicker pace. Your knees buckled, trembling the faster he moved. Until his motions became brutal. With a perfect curl, speedy digits rammed repeatedly into that spongy spot you loved. Your sugary sweet, unintelligible whines rose in volume, as your sticky, little, zombie cunt quivered.

You gnawed powerful bites as you came, your teeth digging into Peter’s neck. But this time, he allowed it. He forced himself to muscle through the pain, holding your shuddering body close, “ Shhhh. Shhh. It’s cool, baby. It’s - ahh - it’s cool. That's it.” He cooed with a careful tone, stroking the back of your head and threading fingers through your ragged hair.

Easing his fingers from your cunt, he double checked the digits, making sure nothing seemed off. Your release felt thicker and stickier than any living person’s, but didn’t have much of a scent. While usually he looooved to taste the aftermath of a total cutie’s orgasm, Peter opted not to. Sure, your wetness didn’t appear radioactive or hazardous. But the thought of guzzling zombie honey put him off a little bit.

“G-....Goood?” You ogled Peter with half-lidded, glassy eyes, your lips parting in an irresistible giggle.

Peter bit his tongue. Alright. Maybe he…could give it a shot. Just this once. Zombie love liquor couldn’t be deadly or anything, could it? Disease-ridden, maybe. But Peter knew a hyper-intelligent doctor who could whip up a cure for most ailments. Guess it didn’t matter anymore. By the time Peter second guessed himself yet again, he’d already sucked his fingers clean. A bitter thickness lingered on his taste buds. Peter salivated at the thought of drinking down more.

“ Mmmm … mhm …not bad.” He chuckled, lips humming around his fingers, "I'd go fer seconds." He added with a wink, making you laugh.

Yikes. If Hank only knew how reckless Peter acted in the presence of some zombified cutie. He’d lock him up in the infirmary and run a thousand tests on him. Just to make damn sure Peter hadn’t contracted anything lethal.

Politely pushing you off him, Peter turned his head. He double checked the perimeter for any signs of life, despite the lab being totally desolate. Hopefully Summers hadn’t sent anyone after him, since the speedster took way too long returning to base. Unbuttoning his jeans, he pulled his hard length from the fly. Almost immediately, you gasped in elation. Tickled squeals danced on your discolored tongue. Thick, and flushed a dark scarlet, Peter’s cock throbbed in his hand.

"I'm guessin' you like what you see?" He snickered, giving his dick a firm stroke, "I like what I'm seein' too...if you couldn't tell." Every word Peter said, every charming smile he gave, seemed to attract you considerably. Drawing more kittenish giggles from you.

With your freezing, zombie mitts, you ungracefully reached for him. Cold fingers squeezed his cock, stroking in a clumsy motion. Peter drew in a sharp breath, the cool sensation of your hands arousing his nerves. Even if your hand to gland combat lacked any skill, it felt damn awesome to be touched like this again. He stepped forward, his giant hands grabbing your hips. You played with him as much as your little, unbeating heart desired. Tugging his burning hardness with an overzealous grip.

You tried lowering yourself to the floor, your mouth falling open, tongue gliding over your lip. But Peter instinctively stopped you. His hands darted to your shoulders, pulling you into a standing position. He preferred if you didn’t take your biting addiction downstairs. Visitations of the oral variety were closed to any undead visitors. At least, for right now.

“Y’know, I don’t usually like goin’ all the way on the first date.” He spoke, fishing his wallet from the back pocket of his jeans, “Like, call me an old soul 'er whatever.” Peter worked quickly, pulling a condom out of his wallet. He slipped the latex over his length, “But I can make an exception. Just fer you, cutie. But this stays between us, yeah?”

You nodded, pushing yourself up onto the dusty, operating table. Peter cringed, curling his lip out of concern for you. This couldn’t be sanitary. Dragging his attention from the filth under your bottom, you parted your knees. With your body angled backwards, you pointed eagerly at your panty-clad pussy. Soaked and dripping under the thin fabric. Peter’s breath hitched.

“Looooooove~? M-Ma…make?” You cooed, scooting a little off the edge of the table. As if tempting him to give in and fuck you already, you wiggled your ass. Like a beautiful, monstrous display of stitches and postmortem skin. All for the speedster's taking.

"I-I mean-uh...sure. If you really want me to. What kinda guy would I be to turn you down?" He awkwardly joked, fighting his nerves.

Peter pushed a strong hand against your inner thigh. Warm on your deathly cold flesh. He pulled your thin panties to the side, teasing your glossy slit with the head of his cock. You whimpered, cute noises bubbling in the back of your throat. Edging you for a beat more, he slid the teary eyed tip over your clit. Before sinking his length through your walls. Inch by pulsating inch, he bottomed out in a flash, tip kissing your cervix.

“ Wohhhhh, fuck.” He groaned. A new kind of coolness enveloped his cock, plushy and soft. Hooking your stitched legs over Peter’s shoulders, you tilted your body. Inviting him to submerge as deeply as your tight cunt would allow, “Oh, baby…yer so-...ah, fuuuuck. ”

"G……..Goo-......Gooood~!" You whimpered, squeezing your eyes shut. Your strangled voice erupted in a mantra of lustful squeals.

By some act of divine intervention, Peter could feel the swollen, unyielding lusciousness of your pussy. Walls wringing his cock, like you wanted to suck him dry of everything he had. He swiftly rutted into your cunt, hard enough to make you bounce against the table. Peter’s sluggish eyes followed your breasts as they bobbed. Titties jiggling with such a soft, sexy whirl; He felt his cock twitch inside you.

Leaning down, Peter loomed over you, the rough fabrics of his clothes sliding along your bare skin. He kissed you tenderly, a little heedless. In the midst of fondling your precious, stitched breasts, Peter's hot palm curiously pressed against your chest. Feeling...nothing. No heartbeat, no blood flow. A little spooked, he refocused his attention. Playing with your bouncing, zombie titties again.

"Feels so-...you feel so good, holy fuck -" He moaned, his voice catching in his throat, "So pretty. L- ah ...love how tight you are." Playfully, Peter lost himself in the moment. He pulled a nipple between his teeth, suckling one of your Frankenstein tits, "Loooove these zombie boobies. Hah -oooohhh, shit-"

Lying in slumber for a decade must have left you majorly sensitive. In just a few more, aggressive, bunny humps; you came again. Hypnotic delight burst through your core, pushing you to the point of tears. Your pussy fluttered, sticky wetness gushing around his cock. Reaching up to link your arms around his neck, you clawed little etchings into his skin.

“M-Mmmmmooore~! More, mmm- ...more~!!” You pleaded, coaxing Peter to drill you with all the energy he carried. Not to toot his own horn, but - little did you know - he harbored enough energy for a hundred men. And then some.

"You w- fuck -want more? Want more, baby? God, yer gonna make me-" His voice wavered between moans, "G-Gonna make me lose it-"

Peter’s mischievous eyes met yours, as you gave him that doe eyed look he couldn’t fucking resist. Sharp jabs of his cock sped to a blur, slamming into your cunt in a brutal display of his strength. Keeping himself balanced, hands pressed to the table on either side of you; Peter showed no mercy. Abusing your precious, syrupy walls with a ruthless pace. But not fast enough that he’d tear his means of protection. A harsh surge of heavenly pain flared up inside you, as he tore into your pussy and bashed your cervix.

"LOOOOOVE~! Ah~! Peeeetur~!" In a moment of post orgasmic clarity, you called his name. Slurred, and barely recognizable. How'd you even know? Had you picked it up from his walkie conversations? Damn, his zombie buddy's more perceptive than he thought. Peter snickered, finding your pronunciation ridiculous. But the cute, needy sound of his name on your lips triggered something.

" ’Mgonnacum- ” Peter whined, his brutal pace more inconsistent and sloppy, “Gonna-...feels too good o h fuck oh fuCK -” 

A pearly white burst of thick heat stuffed the latex of the condom full, threatening to make it pop. Burying his nose deep in the crook of your neck, Peter moaned. Guttural whines ripped from his chest, drying his throat. Panting - not from exhaustion, but overstimulation - Peter loosened his muscles. In mellow, post nut bliss, he almost overlooked the sizzle of static buzzing from his walkie.

“Peter? Peter, answer me right now. So help me god. Everyone’s worried sick about you! Do you read me? Peter, I said, do you read me? Please!” Scott pleaded through a mix of agitation and genuine distress.

 Peter drew out a long, hard groan. Pushing himself up a little, he fumbled lazily for his walkie. A sluggish grin curled into his dimples, as he nibbled his lip and winked down at you. His eyes half lidded and hanging heavy.

 “Mmmm…’M fine. ‘M fine. ‘M fine.” He chuckled, overcompensating for himself. He knew he’d be in mega trouble with the crew by this point, “It’s all-uh…all good. Jeez, Summers. Did ya think I was dead ‘er somethin’? Haha…” Peter drolled, his tone slower than usual. He withdrew his softening cock from inside you, watching while you squirmed. On your back, you appeared a blissful, fucked out mess. Ultimately satisfied. Mission accomplished, “Don’t worry so much, bro. I was only takin’ my new, zombie buddy out to-uh…tooooooo…an arcade. Yeah. An arcade.”

On the other end of the line, a silence fell. Peter filled it with an, “O-Over.” to compensate again.

 “...You took the zombie…to an arcade?” Scott responded, an edge of irritated disbelief in his tone, “Peter, are you out of your damn mind? Do you not realize how much of a risk that is? I can’t even-...your priority for this mission was to retrieve those documents for Hank. Doesn’t it seem irresponsible to be dragging an unknown, undead creature around a public place? I can’t even believe you!” He heard Scott scoff, “Now, will you please return already with those documents? We’re all waiting on you. Bring the zombie too.”

“Uhhh…yeah. Sorry ‘bout that. Dunno what came over me. Sure. Okie dokes. Lemme, uh-” Peter spoke, playfully fighting you off. You reached for his neck, trying to pull him back down for post-sex cuddles, “Lemme grab ‘em. They’re goin’ hog wild with skee-ball right now. Crazy, right? They scored, like, sooooo many points. You should see all the tickets we got, man. We could totally get one ‘a those jumbo prizes. Say, Scotty, do you want, like, a giant Mighty Mouse?”

“Maximoff.” Scott replied sternly, without a beat of hesitation. His frustration oozed through the speakers, and Peter could feel guilt itching at his conscience.

In the background, Peter overheard someone - though he couldn’t guess who - mutter a, “Is Mighty Mouse even a thing anymore?” Oh. Once Peter returned, he’d be in for it. Royally fucked. Figuratively, and, thankfully, literally. In the short, momentary instance of silence between walkie communication; Peter disposed of the condom and straightened himself out. He disappeared for a millisecond, snatching a fresh towel from some luxury bath shop all the way in Paris. Dousing the cloth in warm water, he wiped you clean upon his ultra speedy arrival. Before helping you redress, making you look…somewhat presentable. 

“Fine. I totally get it, okay? Look, man. I’m sorry. But can ya really blame me fer wantin' to hang after the experience I just had? Doesn’t matter. Be there in a flash. M-Maybe don’t tell Hank, though. If you can hel-” Peter rambled sheepishly, slinging the towel over his shoulder. He stepped backwards, extending a hand for you to take. 

“Pietro Maximoff, I am beside myself with you!” Hank started, clearly agitated, cutting Peter off.

Peter groaned, mumbling quietly to himself as you took his hand, “He told Hank. He did it. He fuckin’ told him. Shit. I’m so fucked. I’m so, so fucked.” In a motion to guide you off the operating table, Peter pulled you forward by your hand.

“I have several questions. Why would you bring an undead creature to an arcade? What were your motivations behind taking the creature out, on a recreational activity? The potential danger or damage to the arcade and its patrons is far too high. And, furthermore, Peter, is there any scientific value to observing a zombie around arcade equipment? I understand you have this insatiable need to act out, but this is ridiculous! It is our duty, as members of the X-Men, to protect humanity from all threats. Including potential zombie related incidents at public arcades. Now then, please return the specimen immediately for further observation.” Hank ranted on and on and on and on-

A noise, like fabric tearing, cut uncomfortably through the air. Weak stitching around your elbow ripped loose, and Peter pulled your forearm clean off. Hank’s tirade met an abrupt end, as a blood curdling scream rocked the entire room. “Peter? Peter?? What’s happened? Peter, are you alright?” Hank panicked over the walkie.

Past the edge of terrified, shocked to the point of nearly pissing himself; Peter screamed. He wiggled his hand, trying to let go of your lone arm. But your hand held his tightly, your grip refusing to ease up. Once he finally freed himself, he expected your arm to drop to the floor. But your little fingers moved, crawling like spider legs. A zombie’s dislodged arm creeped up Peter’s shoulder over his jacket. Some real, Evil Dead kinda shit. He smacked at it, shouting like a housewife frightened by a mere mouse.

“YEAH!I’mfineI’mgreatI’mawesomesorryit’snothing.” Peter responded, rushed and unclear, “O-Over?” He cringed, scowling as you hopped off the operating table to retrieve your missing arm.

“...Pardon?” Hank asked, tone puzzled. Peter swallowed, shuddering while you pulled your freakish, deadite arm off his shoulder, “Are you…sure you’re alright, Peter? What’s going on? You’ve been acting awful strange tonight. Is there something on your mind?”

A lot. Peter had so much on his mind. Like, the totally real fact that he boned an undead, Frankenstein babe, for one.

“Uhm. It’s-...it’s nothing. Seriously, don’t even worry, Beastie. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Just-uhm…lab’s still-...there was some thunder, and the building-uh-” Peter nervously rambled, struggling to find his words, “Over.”

Another pause drew out long enough for Peter to realize his mistake. He cursed, smacking himself on the side of the head. How could he be scatterbrained, to forget his own lies in a matter of seconds? He had a feeling, deep in his gut; Hank would rip him a new one tonight once he got back. “...The lab? Peter…didn’t you just tell us you were at an arcade?” Hank asked, reasonably suspicious.

Peter’s voice broke as he replied, “I mEAN-” He cleared his throat, “Uhhh-...heh. I-I ran back! Forgot-uh...there was somethin’ I forgot. Like I said, doesn’t matter. I’m totally fine! I’m juuust peachy! Hang tight. I’ll be right there. Over and out.” Peter took a second to collect himself, clipping his walkie to his belt. He silenced the device, ignoring any further questions from Hank. Subconsciously, Peter took a step back as you reached for him again. His veins vibrated with a buzz of adrenaline. With your arm dismembered, you moved abruptly forward. Nuzzling your face into Peter’s chest, the same way you had all night. Still just as smitten with him. Groggy purrs rumbled in your throat.

Rolling his eyes, Peter patted your head, smoothing out your ragged, messy hair, “What am I gonna do with you? Yer nothin’ but trouble, y’know that?” He teased, pinching one of your cold cheeks, “Whaddya say we get outta here already? But I gotta make a couple ‘a pit stops. And you gotta behave yerself. Don’t get any funny ideas about eatin’ anybody.” Peter wrapped an arm around your waist, holding you close. Pointing at you with an accusatory finger. 

You tilted your head, confused again. Peter really couldn’t get enough of that cute, clueless look. Hank and Scott had no idea what they were talkin’ about. His zombie buddy? Totally harmless. You’d never even hurt a fly.

Okay. First order of business. Find a Mighty Mouse plush, just to really sell his arcade story. After that, he planned on snatching you some nicer clothes. Anything to protect your modesty. Thirdly, Peter wanted to teach himself some gnarly makeup tricks. Cover up his hickies. Yeah. No sweat! He could do all that in a flash.

Oh. And late night pancakes. Peter refused to skimp out on those. He’d been craving them all night, and his body desperately needed to replenish its energy. Surely, the gang back home wouldn’t mind. After everything, they totally wouldn’t be supremely pissed and fed up with Peter’s bullshit. And the waitress serving at whatever diner he picked? She wouldn’t bat an eye at some undead, zombified customer, would she?

Why's he even kidding himself?

Gathering Hank’s files, Peter tucked them under his arm. He zipped around in search of whatever other knick-knacks he lost, including his fallen flashlight. Stepping towards you, Peter brought his earbuds to your ears. He exchanged the tape in his Walkman for another, aiming to keep you entertained with music while he traveled at superspeed. As soon as the tune graced your ears, you leapt in place. Squeaking a surprise chirp. Your shoulders bunched, and you darted your hazy eyes around.

“Hey, easy, easy-” Peter reassured, cranking the volume down low so you could still hear him, “It’s just music, baby. It’s nice, right? You like it? You like-uh…you like the Monster Mash? Crypt Kickers? Bobby Pickett?” He gestured with his hands, suggestively raising his brows, “We had a graveyard smash, didn't we, eh?” You simply stared at him, clueless as usual. Huffing, Peter pressed a kiss to your forehead, “Seriously. What am I gonna do with you?”

You clutched your dislodged arm tight, cradling the appendage close. Throwing a quick glance your way, Peter shook his head. He pulled his goggles over his eyes, and braced a warm hand at the back of your neck. The few seconds before he took off, he leaned in close. Hearing that Halloween melody playing from the earphones you wore, he quietly sang along.

As much as he liked cuddling ‘Ro on Halloween, horror movie nights; A new idea crossed his mind. He might just snuggle up on the couch with someone special this year.