#web vulnerability scanning

[nyuway]

The Role of DAST in Protecting Your Web Applications From Vulnerabilities

Nyuway

As cyber attacks become increasingly sophisticated, enterprises require DAST to help defend their applications against sophisticated cyber threats. By scanning a running application and simulating hacker behavior, it can identify vulnerabilities before enterprising hackers exploit them.

DAST complements static application security testing (SAST) and software composition analysis (SCA), offering additional runtime insights beyond source-code scans. Furthermore, it serves as a valuable companion to manual penetration testing.

Web Application

Dynamic application security testing (DAST) scans running web applications by simulating malicious external attacks and identifying vulnerabilities which could be exploited. DAST can reveal business logic flaws like SQL injection, XSS attacks and authentication issues which often go undetected through static code analysis tools (SAST) or manual penetration testing methods.

While DAST tools can be effective, they do have their limitations. False positives and lack of context can result in security gaps when applied solely. To address this limitation, it may be useful to combine DAST with other methodologies like SAST, IAST or software composition analysis (SCA) in order to create a comprehensive security program.

Implementing DAST into your CI/CD pipeline can ensure vulnerabilities are identified and fixed as code changes are made, leading to decreased costs and speedier time to production. Furthermore, early detection helps minimize accidental releases or potential data breaches; many of today's most harmful cyberthreats rely on unpatched vulnerabilities within running applications for attack.

API Security

DAST tools differ from SAST in that they attack an API without knowledge of its application; instead, this kind of testing mimics how attackers would try to exploit it - thus helping detect vulnerabilities which are harder to spot with traditional testing techniques.

DAST can be particularly effective at protecting web APIs. It can scan API endpoints to expose vulnerabilities that attackers could exploit, such as injection attacks or misconfigurations; and can identify unexpected data leaks or performance issues which might signal deeper security holes.

DAST excels at scanning web application UIs, yet struggles to access and test APIs tucked behind dynamic behavior layers. These layers hide backend API calls behind their respective UI layers until JavaScript code executes and uses an appropriate request format for runtime visibility.

Continuous

As web applications continue to be developed and evolve, security risks continue to shift and adapt accordingly. DAST can help address this challenge effectively.

This type of testing works by simulating attacks a malicious actor might employ to penetrate an application. By employing a black box approach and looking at it from outside in, this approach can detect vulnerabilities which other methods such as SAST or SCA fail to find.

DAST provides feedback and reporting to help developers and security teams prioritize vulnerabilities for remediation. It can also be easily integrated with the CI/CD pipeline to scan at every stage of development, making it easy to detect security issues before they reach production.

DAST can provide an overall picture of your application's vulnerability to threats when used alongside SAST & IAST (which examine code line by line), to form part of an integrated security assessment process. DAST tests entry points such as forms & API endpoints while SAST & IAST examine internal risks like misconfigurations & coding errors to provide a full assessment.

Automated Vulnerability Scanning

DAST differs from traditional static testing by testing an application while it runs, simulating how a hacker would search for vulnerabilities in real time. DAST can run both unauthenticated and authenticated modes to see how the app responds to attacks that typically gain control over an account and reveal sensitive data.

Businesses using advanced DAST solutions that utilize proof-based scanning can quickly identify and prioritize critical vulnerabilities using sophisticated DAST solutions that use proof-based scanning to eliminate false positives, making their teams focus their efforts on real risks that could cause serious breaches instead of spending hours sifting through massive test results.

DAST tools also give development and QA teams detailed information on how they can reproduce and fix vulnerabilities more quickly, so as to minimise disruption in production environments. When integrated into the Continuous Integration and Continuous Deployment pipeline, DAST can detect vulnerabilities at each stage of development and production to decrease chances of breach as well as ensure compliance with regulatory standards such as PSI-DSS or HIPAA.

Managed DAST Services

DAST is an essential part of any comprehensive application security program, and an indispensable element for its testing capabilities. As the most adaptable security testing tool on the market, it can be integrated into each stage of development from early design through quality assurance testing, staging deployment and production deployment. When integrated into an CI/CD pipeline DAST can also help developers identify vulnerabilities before reaching production, saving both time and money in development costs.

DAST works by conducting automated tests simulating external attack behavior without understanding its internals, similar to malicious attackers' tactics, in order to uncover unexpected outcomes and vulnerabilities. Language independent, DAST can detect runtime issues like server configuration problems, authentication/encryption misconfigurations and more that SAST cannot.

To maximize the value of DAST, organizations should set clear security objectives and incorporate it into existing CI/CD and DevOps workflows. This includes developing strategies for handling false positives and regression tests to verify previously fixed vulnerabilities do not resurface. Ideally, DAST should be integrated with CI/CD pipeline so every code push or deployment triggers dynamic security checks automatically.

[blacklocksecuritynz]

5 Tips for Selecting a Penetration Testing Company in 2025

As cyber threats continue to grow in sophistication, businesses must stay proactive about securing their digital assets. Penetration testing, a critical part of a robust cybersecurity strategy, involves simulating cyberattacks on a system to identify vulnerabilities before hackers can exploit them. While many organizations recognize the need for penetration testing, selecting the right penetration testing company can be challenging given the range of options available.

With the market expected to reach $4.5 billion by 2026 , businesses must make an informed choice when investing in these services. This article outlines five key tips for selecting the right penetration testing company in 2025, ensuring you get the best value and protection for your investment.

1. Evaluate Experience and Industry Specialization

Not all penetration testing companies are created equal. When selecting a provider, it's crucial to look for one that has a proven track record and experience in your specific industry. Cybersecurity needs vary significantly across different sectors—what’s critical for a healthcare provider may be very different from a financial services firm.

Track Record: Look for a company with a solid history of providing penetration testing services. Ask for case studies, client testimonials, and references that can vouch for their expertise. A reputable firm should be able to demonstrate successful projects similar to what you need.

Industry Expertise: Ensure that the provider understands the regulatory and security challenges specific to your industry. For example, in 2023, 83% of healthcare organizations reported being targeted by ransomware attacks , underscoring the need for specialized knowledge in handling patient data. Similarly, financial services companies often need to comply with stringent regulations like PCI-DSS, which requires expertise in securing payment systems.

By choosing a penetration testing company that understands your industry’s unique risks, you can ensure that their testing methodologies align with your security needs.

2. Verify Qualifications and Certifications

Penetration testing is a specialized field that requires specific technical knowledge and skills. When choosing a penetration testing company, it’s essential to verify that their team is well-qualified and holds industry-recognized certifications.

Certifications to Look For: Common certifications that indicate a high level of expertise include Certified Ethical Hacker (CEH), Offensive Security Certified Professional (OSCP), Certified Information Systems Security Professional (CISSP), and CREST. These certifications ensure that the testers have undergone rigorous training and possess a deep understanding of the latest hacking techniques.

Accredited Companies: Look for companies that are accredited by industry bodies like CREST, EC-Council, or ISO 27001. These accreditations signify that the company adheres to industry standards in penetration testing methodologies and data security.

Why This Matters: According to a survey by (ISC)², 70% of cybersecurity professionals believe that the skills gap in the industry is a significant concern . Partnering with a company that has certified professionals helps ensure that you’re working with skilled experts who can identify and address vulnerabilities effectively.

3. Assess the Methodology and Approach

The approach a penetration testing company takes can greatly impact the effectiveness of their service. Understanding their testing methodology helps you gauge their thoroughness and how well their approach aligns with your needs.

White Box, Black Box, or Gray Box Testing: The types of tests conducted vary based on the level of access the tester has to the system. White box testing involves full access to the application code, black box testing is performed with no prior knowledge, and gray box testing combines elements of both. A good penetration testing company should explain which approach is best suited for your needs.

Compliance with Industry Standards: Ensure that the company follows recognized frameworks such as OWASP (Open Web Application Security Project), NIST (National Institute of Standards and Technology), and MITRE ATT&CK. These standards ensure that the testing process is thorough and aligned with best practices in the industry.

Reporting Quality: A comprehensive and clear report is a key deliverable of any penetration test. The report should not only list vulnerabilities but also provide a detailed risk assessment, impact analysis, and actionable remediation steps. Some companies also offer dashboard-based reporting, which provides real-time insights during the testing process, making it easier to track progress and understand risks.

Statistics to Note: In a 2024 survey by Gartner, 65% of businesses cited the lack of clear reporting as a major frustration when working with third-party cybersecurity providers . A clear, actionable report can make the difference between understanding your risks and merely being aware of them.

4. Consider the Use of PTaaS for Continuous Security

Penetration Testing as a Service (PTaaS) is becoming increasingly popular, providing a flexible, on-demand model for businesses looking to conduct regular security testing. PTaaS platforms offer continuous testing and real-time vulnerability scanning, making them an attractive alternative to traditional penetration testing.

Benefits of PTaaS: PTaaS platforms provide access to a user-friendly dashboard where you can monitor vulnerabilities as they are discovered, track remediation efforts, and collaborate with testers in real-time. This approach is particularly useful for businesses that deploy regular updates to their web applications and need to ensure that each release is secure.

Cost-Effectiveness: Traditional penetration testing can be costly, with one-time tests ranging from $10,000 to $50,000. PTaaS, on the other hand, can offer continuous testing for a more manageable monthly fee, starting at around $1,500 per month . This makes it more accessible for small and medium-sized businesses that want to maintain a high level of security without a large upfront investment.

Why This Matters: The frequency of updates and changes to web applications has increased, with DevOps practices enabling faster releases. In this environment, PTaaS helps maintain continuous security and avoids the gaps that can occur between periodic tests.

5. Review Their Post-Test Support and Remediation Guidance

The value of a penetration test extends beyond identifying vulnerabilities—it lies in the guidance provided for fixing them. A good web application penetration testing company will offer post-test support, helping your development and IT teams understand the findings and implement effective remediation measures.

Remediation Guidance: Look for a company that provides detailed recommendations on how to address each identified vulnerability. This may include guidance on code fixes, configuration changes, or suggestions for improving security practices.

Availability for Re-Testing: After the vulnerabilities have been fixed, re-testing is essential to verify that the issues have been resolved properly. Some companies offer re-testing as part of their package, while others may charge additional fees. Make sure to clarify this upfront.

Training for Your Team: Some penetration testing companies also provide training sessions for your in-house development or security teams, helping them better understand the vulnerabilities and how to prevent them in the future. This can be especially valuable if your team is new to security best practices.

Statistics Highlight: A report by Forrester in 2024 found that 78% of organizations improved their security posture by working with penetration testing companies that offered comprehensive post-test support . This underscores the importance of selecting a partner who is committed to helping you address vulnerabilities, not just identifying them.

Conclusion

Choosing the right penetration testing company is a critical decision that can significantly impact your organization’s cybersecurity posture. By evaluating the provider’s experience, qualifications, methodology, and post-test support, and by considering the flexibility of PTaaS models, you can find a partner that aligns with your specific needs.

With the ever-evolving threat landscape, it’s more important than ever to invest in robust security measures and partner with experts who can help you stay ahead of potential risks. As you navigate the market in 2025, these tips will help ensure that you make an informed decision that supports the security of your digital assets.

[eggroll-sama]

When Your Bikini Top Goes Loose

The Spider Society is hosting a beach party and you were invited. It was supposed to be a nice sunny outing with your lovely boyfriend, until an accident occurs with your bikini top…BASICALLY the stereotypical anime beach swimsuit trope. How would the boys react?

Miles

Tries to block the view with his body because he doesn’t want anybody else to see his girlfriend in such a vulnerable state, but his skinny stature doesn’t help, especially if you’re on the thicker side.

“O-kay! Everybody turn around! Just a little outfit malfunction, nothing to see here!”

Probably draws more attention by opening his mouth, but he didn’t mean it. Very protective boyfriend. Webs a random beach towel from the ground (apologizes later to whoever it belonged to) and hands them to you. He will help you hold it up while you fix your outfit malfunction. Very awkward but respectful. He would try to act cool and indifferent, but his mind is running 100 miles an hour.

99% chance he’ll get jealous and put off if someone saw you. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to tell it’s bothering him. If you ask him about it to tease him, he’s going to deny it to his grave.

Hobie

The most chill when it happens. Doesn’t get possessive if someone saw your chest since he’s a believer in normalizing public nudity, but will shoot web on their face if they were ogling or making you uncomfortable. The man just quietly saunters over to not make a big scene and helps you out. Afterwards he’d joke that his hands will be more trustworthy for your chest.

To make sure that the bikini bra doesn’t go loose again, he makes it more secure for you with his spiderwebs. 100% full proof and the bikini won’t ever go loose again.

“Okay, give a little twirl for me now. Damn, absolutely stunnin’.”

Gives you a little slap on the butt and a kiss on the cheek. Doesn’t care if anyone else sees.

Pavitr

As the ever observant boy that he is, he notices it going loose even before you. Quickly used his webs so that it covers your chest on time.

“Ay, that was a close one! Good thing your amazing boyfriend was there to help you!”

Might get creative when he’s tired out from swimming and playing volleyball, and starts crocheting you a bikini outfit while you’re laying on him. According to him, he’s a “talented, amazing, super cool, handsome” boyfriend like that. He’ll use your favorite colors and even asks you what type of design you’d prefer.

Miguel

Doesn’t have the spidey-sense to notice your bikini top going loose before it’s too late. His eyes instantly scan the area, landing on a few spider people that fervently shake their head in denial of seeing anything or acting like they were distracted.

Holds you in his arms bridal style, ignores you telling him to put you down, and takes you to the beach bathroom where you can fix your top.

He acts standoffish when you come back, and he would give you a half-baked answer if you ask what’s wrong. You get your answer when he starts to act clingier and protective over you. You catch him glancing at your bikini top’s strings several times to make sure it doesn’t go loose again and when you suggest doing anything physical like swimming or volleyball, he gets skeptical.

“What’s wrong with reading with me under the parasol? …dios, I’m just too worn out to go back into the water…(sees you running back to the water)…ay coño (chases you).”

[satinestales]

❝he turns me scarlet❞ | qimir x reader, 1

pairing: qimir x reader

summary: qimir decides to test your loyalty, playing with your mind, testing it, see how long it would take for you to break.

warnings: english is not my native language, dark undertones!+18, cnc hints, blood, sexual innuendo, mind tricks, soft somnophilia, mental torture, improper use of force, physical violence, toxic relationship, yandere behaviour

part 1: this is more of a little foreplay, stay tuned for part 2

a/n: we don't know much about qimir's character yet so let's just pretend this is well written

now playing, desert rose by lolo zouaï

You stumbled through the dense undergrowth, your breath visible in the frigid air. The trees loomed tall and foreboding, their skeletal branches forming a tangled web above your head. You were lost, alone, and cold. Your hands trembled as you clutched your tattered cloak tighter around you, every nerve on edge.

"Master?" you called out, your voice a thin thread of sound swallowed by the forest. There was no reply, only the eerie silence of the woods. Suddenly, a drop of crimson splashed onto your cheek, warm and sticky. You raised your hand to wipe it away with trembling fingers, your heart pounding in your chest. Blood.

More drops followed, a relentless rain of blood falling from the sky. You gasped, the metallic scent overwhelming your senses. The trees offered partial shelter, their branches catching some of the blood, but you could feel it seeping through your cloak, chilling you to the bone. Panic surged through you as the blood pooled around your feet, soaking the forest floor.

You scanned the area, your vision blurred by fear and confusion. Then, through the crimson haze, you saw them. Two figures lying on the ground amidst the torrent of blood. One was your master, Qimir, his dark robes drenched, his body motionless. Your heart dropped seeing him like that. Your feet almost moved towards his direction before the second figure caught your eye. She was a civilian, a young woman, equally drenched and shivering, her eyes wide with terror. Your heart started racing against your chest bone.

The blood fell heavier, a deafening roar filling your ears. You looked from Qimir to the woman, your mind reeling. The woman's eyes pleaded with her, filled with fear and desperation. Your fear mirrored in her, but you forced yourself to focus. Your thoughts raced. The civilian was innocent, a life worth saving. But Qimir was your master, the one who had trained you, who held your future in his hands.

I cannot abandon him.

You took a step towards Qimir, and your decision was made. As you moved, the blood rain slowed, and the surrounding forest began to dissolve. Suddenly, everything vanished. You found yourself falling, tumbling through a black emptiness, with nothing but darkness surrounding you. The sensation of weightlessness consumed you, your mind spinning with disorientation and fear. With a jarring thud, you landed on your legs in a vast, dimly lit hall. The air was thick with an oppressive energy, the walls adorned with menacing, ancient symbols. Flickering torches cast eerie shadows, their flames dancing to an unseen rhythm. The hall seemed to pulse with a dark life of its own, and your breath caught in your throat.

Good.

You flinched as you heard an enchanting voice in your head. Master. You nodded, acknowledging his praise, adrenaline still coursing through your veins. The blood, the forest, the woman - all gone. Like a nightmare dissipating in the morning light.

~~~

His dark figure stood in the dimly lit chamber, his imposing silhouette casting long shadows on the cold, metallic walls. His eyes, dark and intense, were fixed on you, lying in your bed, your breathing steady and peaceful. In sleep, you seemed so vulnerable, a stark contrast to the fierce warrior you were now in your dreams.

He moved closer, his presence almost ghost-like. Gently, he sat down next to you on the bed, his fingers tracing the scars on your arms, each mark a testament to your trials and sacrifices you made for him. The pale light accentuated the lines and curves of your figure, and he couldn't help but admire the strength you exuded, even in repose.

As he gazed at you, a complex mix of emotions stirred within him. Pride in your achievements, a deep connection to your struggles, and a pool of mistrust. You always chose him in your hallucinations, always saved him, always sacrificed innocents for him. But those were dreams, illusions he put in your mind to test you. Like the one he was applying now. Dark foggy forest, overflowing with blood. Would you choose him in real life?

The question kept dancing around in his head as his fingers traced your forearm down to your waist. You didn’t bother to lay under a blanket, this night was warm. His thoughts reached a deeper part of his mind, a small smile appearing on his lips. He could easily kill you right now. You were so vulnerable in your sleep. He could do anything, and you would have no choice but to let him.

His fingers traced down the scar on your torso, aware he killed the person who gave it to you. Your body reacted to his touch, but your mind didn't, as you kept lying down, forced to be tested by his illusions even in your sleep. He had complete control of your mind right now, your body left unguarded. He let his fingers dance on your exposed skin, admiring you, wanting to be close to you.

His fingers felt the skin of your thighs, your shoulders, your neck, your stomach. He touched every scar, every mark, every imperfection. He liked to play with your hair, pushing them away from your face.

When he first met you, you were nothing. A former jedi. A failure. Then you found him. He took you in and trained you. Formed you.

He wasn’t just training you to be an exceptional force wielder. He was training you to be his. He enjoyed being known by you, protected by you, and one day maybe even loved by you. He was never going to let you go. You saw his face. You knew his soul. You touched his heart. He was prepared to kill you if you ever chose a path on which he didn’t stand.

~~~

You awoke the next day, disoriented and shivering with goosebumps from a lingering sense of unease. The comfort of your bedroom provided little solace against the remnants of your nightmare—visions of a blood-flooding forest that had felt all too real. Your mind was so focused on the frightened dream that you failed to notice the remaining shadow left over by your master.

Rising from your bed, you began your morning routine, determined to shake off the dread of the night and prepare for whatever mission your Qimir had in store for you. You moved with purpose, your mind already focusing on the tasks ahead, hoping to regain your composure and strength. As you stood in front of the mirror, still clad in your robe, you reached for your clothes, your thoughts momentarily drifting to the intense training you knew awaited you.

You didn't even hear the door creak open, nor did you sense the immediate danger.

Beginners mistake.

Suddenly, without warning, strong hands wrapped around your neck, cutting off your breath. You gasped, your eyes wide with shock as you were slammed against the cold, unyielding wall. Panic surged through you. Struggling against the iron grip, your hands clawing at the attacker's wrists, trying to break free.

Their face was obscured by a hood, their grip unrelenting. Your vision started to blur, but you fought to stay conscious, your mind racing through the techniques you had learned.

Drawing on your training and the power of the Force, you focused your energy, pushing back against the darkness closing in around you. With a burst of strength, you drove your knee into the attacker's abdomen, loosening their grip just enough to create a small gap. You twisted your body, breaking free and dropping to the floor, gasping for air. Scrambling to your feet, you assumed a defensive stance, ready to face this unexpected threat. Your eyes locked onto the figure before you, and you could feel the tension in the air, thick with the promise of violence.

You fought with all your might, but the intruder's strength was overwhelming. Their struggle intensified, the room echoing with the sounds of their violent clash. You landed several blows, but each time you thought you had gained the upper hand, he countered with brutal efficiency.

Desperation surged through you as you found yourself pinned to the ground, your arms restrained, the cold floor pressing against your back. You strained against his grip, but he was too powerful. Your breath came in ragged gasps, your body trembling with the effort.

Fuck.

As you struggled against his grip, the room filled with a palpable tension. Each movement was a desperate attempt to break free, but the man's overwhelming strength held you firmly in place. Your breath came in short, ragged gasps, your body trembling from the exertion and adrenaline.

It was in the midst of this struggle that a realization began to dawn on you. The brute strength, the familiar scent, the unmistakable energy—it could only be one person. Your body tensed even more as recognition flooded your mind, a torrent of confusion and disbelief mingling with a rush of other, more complicated feelings.

"Master?" you whispered more to yourself, your voice barely audible, choked with a mixture of shock and something else you couldn't quite name.

Qimir's hood fell back, revealing his stern, unyielding face. His eyes bore into yours, a storm of dark intensity that made your heart race. The shock of seeing him, of knowing it was him all along, sent your thoughts spiraling.

Your mind reeled. The realization brought with it a flood of memories and images, some of them inappropriate, crossing the line between master and apprentice. You tried to push them away, but they only made you more aware of the heat of his body, the firmness of his grip.

What are you doing?

You desperately asked through the force, unable to form words from the shock. You were frozen, lying on the ground, Qimir's knees crushing your thighs, his firm arms holding your hands above your head. His intense eyes hiding behind the curtain of his dark waves, but you could see the smirk playing on his lips. You saw the smirk many times, and it never ended well.

"Do you yield?" he spoke, his eyes never leaving yours. You could feel his grip on your wrists getting stronger, feeling your bones crush against each other. You couldn't help but let out a moan, the pain forming black dots before your eyes. He was so close, his body almost resting on yours, his face only a breath away. Under different circumstances, you'd enjoy this. But as he kept crushing your wrists together, your mind was only focused on the pain.

"I asked you a question." You almost didn't hear him, trying to hold back the tears forming in your eyes. You didn't cry because of his firm voice but because of the pain, he was inflicting on you. His knees digging into your flesh, his nails ripping your skin open on your wrists and pushing your bones together. You injured way worse, but your master, being the giver of this pain, brought it to another level.

You didn't answer for a while, and you realized that his hands left your crimson wrists to lay above your head alone to put them around your neck. Your hands were so paralyzed that you couldn't even use them to try to push him away. Instead, you let his fingers curl around your neck, stealing the air from your lungs.

"You really won't protect yourself?" He whispered against your cheek as if to mock you. His lower body pressed against yours as he held his upper body up, your neck as his support. "You're going to let me do this to you?" His tone was softer but still humiliating. He was your Master. You were certain this was one of his tests. To test your endurance, your breaking point. Your loyalty. You were loyal to him, but not out of love or care. Fear kept you loyal.

But you knew there was a hidden second reason why you stayed. Why you stay nights awake, excited to see him again, for him to test you again. But you didn't want to accept that.

He liked it. The way he made you shake with terror, fear, and confusion. He enjoyed the power he had over you, but at the same time, he also wanted you to be his equal, his friend. But he knew your feelings towards him. You never considered being his equal. He terrified you. He played mind tricks on you. You were scared. No matter how gentle or soft-spoken he was outside of training hours. Your head was horrified, your heart uncertain, your body, welcoming.

He was aware of the effect he had on you. He smelled it every time he even looked your way. He smelled it now. The way you tensed. One could argue that fear played a role in your stiffness. True. Partially. He sensed everything that was happening in your room, and every night you had a training routine together, you hid in your room, filled your head with images of him, and traced your body with fingers that you wished were his.

He smelled your needs, felt your skin get hotter, the sweat dripping down your forehead. Many times, he wanted to open those doors to your room and give you that for which you were so ashamed to wish. Instead, he used the force, meditating in his room, watching you through the walls, amplifying your pleasure.

You sometimes thought as if you felt another hand, touching yours, pushing you to go further. You felt the warmth, felt it in places only you touched.

"Very well," you heard him murmur to himself before putting all his strength into his hands wrapped around your neck. If he wanted to, he could kill you right now. You were at his mercy. You couldn't move your legs, your hands were recovering from bruised bones, and your body pressed by his against the cold stone floor. You were ashamed you secretly enjoyed the proximity.

"Pl-" you failed to form even a few words as he slowly took all your air supply. His eyes scanning your reactions, watching you carefully, every breath, every small movement. Like a hunter watching his prey. But you didn't count as a prey anymore. You didn't run, you were already served on a golden plate for him.

"You thrive on pain and fear." he leaned in closer to you, his hands softening his grip around your neck, letting a small dose of air run through you. But he didn't let go. You could feel his lips against your ear, his breath, his hair tickling your nose. You could feel the heat of his body, The Force letting you see the colors of his thoughts, up close. Your body tensed, the hunger slowly reaching out for you too.

"You like the torture," he whispered into your ear, scaring you as he quickly rose up, sitting steadily on your hips and raising one hand, leaving only his left one around your neck. Your frozen arms slowly recovered as you managed to pick them up, instinctively wrapping them around his hand that kept suffocating you. He didn't move a muscle and watched you struggle underneath him. You could never overpower him. You weren't stupid enough to believe that, but you didn't want him to see you not try.

"You must learn how to master them." he continued, a psychotic smile on his face as his other hand slowly rested against your chest. "Use them as your tools." You felt his fingers making small circles below your collarbones, his touch sending goosebumps around your body.

After a while, you noticed you never once felt the familiar darkness around you. He kept you on the edge, knowing where exactly to place his fingers on your neck. To cause you enough pain, to make you quiver but never to let you fall over the horizon.

"Was that you?" You tried to let out, to ask him, confirm that the dream of the blood storm was his work, but instead, it sounded like a cat squeaking. “The dream.”

“Hmm,” was all he let out, his eyes scanning your body up and down.

It wasn’t the first time you caught him doing that, but never under circumstances like this. Never when he held you down, pressing himself against you, letting you feel all his curves and edges. Not when you were at his disposal.

His captivating eyes found yours again, reading your thoughts as if they were written in black ink on a white paper. You were transparent to him, no imagine managed to slip underneath him. As if you were bare. The grin on his face told you all you needed to know.

“I don’t trust you,” he whispered, digging his nails into your neck, forcing you to cry out. “Well, not fully.” The way you struggled beneath him was amusing to him. If he could, he’d let you struggle below him every day, every hour for a different reason. “I wanted to test you.”

“I killed- for you.” You breathed out, trying to push his hand away as you slowly regained your strength in your arms. But he didn’t move an inch. “I, serve only you.”

“Yeah?” you heard him purr, totally forgetting about his fingers reaching the top of your robe, right between your breasts. Your heart skipped a beat feeling him so close, not daring to look him into his eyes. You felt his fingers push into your flesh; his fingers alone strong enough to leave a mark. The pressure hurt but not as painful as the one around your neck. “Your heart is saying otherwise.” He uttered under his breath, his fingers bending, going underneath your robe.

“Why are you lying. Don’t lie.” He added, shaking his head, his eyes soft. He almost looked pitiful. “Why are you so scared.” His voice was low, gentle even. His hand around your neck loosened, letting you gasp a cough for air. He waited for you to welcome the air into your lungs before pushing your head back on the ground by your hair. He forced your head against the floor so hard, you were sure for one second, you’d lose consciousness. Fortunately, he kept you awake, healing any of your injures with The Force.

“What are you so scared of?” he asked gently, still holding your head back, accidently grinding on you as he leaned in, his face right above yours. You could feel his breath, tickling your skin. His plumb lips so close to yours, so pink, so desirable. He was ethereal.

“That,” you squeaked, stopping as his hands reached the tie of your robe, painfully slowly trying to untie it. His response was raised eyebrows, his eyes going up and down your eyes and your lips. You struggled more with breathing now than you did mere seconds ago. “That I won’t be good enough for you.” You managed to let out, closing our eyes out of embarrassment.

Not being good enough. Your fear ever since you were born. Not enough for your mother, for your father, for your brother, for your friends. For him. You had no one else left, but him and you were scared you were going to lose him too.

Qimir stopped his movement, his eyes stopping, staring right into yours. You felt a warm touch on your face, his fingers making slow circles on your red cheeks. As you stared back into his eyes you swore, you’d volunteer to drown in them. You imagined they’d taste like dark chocolate. His lips like strawberries. His skin like black cranberries.

His lips formed a small smile as he caressed your face gently.

“Let’s see about that, shall we.”

[silkscream]

possession

venom!peter x silk!reader

ੈ✩ synopsis: peter parker is not himself when he falls into your universe. it must be a curse that he finds himself tethered to you. the darkness inside him has never wanted anything more.

ੈ✩ genres: strangers to lovers, hurt/comfort, angst, slow burn

ੈ✩ cw: smut (18+ only minors dni), unprotected sex, slightly dubcon, biting, masturbation, violence, gore, self-harm, angst, codependent relationships, slightly ooc peter

ੈ✩ wc: 10k+

ੈ✩ a/n: this is post-nwh. i’ve been working on this for months and i finally feel comfortable posting it even though i still have a love/hate relationship with this story. hopefully i’ll muster up enough energy to make a part two because i certainly have more in store for them. (i miss peter so bad)

ੈ✩ playlist | ੈ✩ masterlist

Peter wakes up with a sharp, throbbing pain in the back of his skull. Maybe if he was lucky, he had completely knocked the wind out of his frontal lobe. Maybe he’d woken in the middle of a coma-induced dream state. As he blinks his eyes open, through the haze of the world around him, his environment pulls itself together. What he sees isn’t familiar.

This isn’t his room.

Maybe this isn’t his body, either. He hopes it isn’t, but he feels the sting of a side wound like an electric shock when he stretches his upper body slightly. 

He scans the walls in search of clues. He knows he’s not in danger – at least, he doesn’t think so – considering that he’s in a girl’s room and not a cavernous dungeon. His vision is dreamlike, blurry, still. When he squints at his surroundings, he can see posters on the walls and books stacked in every corner. He shivers when he realizes he’s looking around the room without his mask. Where the fuck is it?

When Peter looks down at his body, he notices how it stings and frowns at the few rips of lycra on his suit that showcase bloody wounds underneath. The bruise on his cheekbone throbs along with the tension headache that plagues his temples. He can taste copper in his mouth from his split lip. 

“You’re awake.”

The voice startles him. Everything is still sensitive, his joints and wounds and the act of occupying his body. The sound of someone else’s voice in the room triggers enough adrenaline in him to shoot out a web in the direction of the bodily presence that enters.

You frown, cringing at his attack, but you don’t look as startled as he would expect. He widens his eyes when he sees that you’ve dodged his webs completely. Sitting up, he winces from the sharp pain on his side.

“Sorry,” he mumbles. “Reflex.”

“Yeah, I can tell.”

He doesn’t know what to do other than stare. Quite frankly, he didn’t expect to have to entertain a stranger tonight, nor did he think that his identity would be compromised in the presence of one. He’d barely remembered what had happened before he’d gotten knocked out. All he could recall was pain and the taste of blood in his mouth. Glancing at the slenderness of your fingers, he realizes that he doesn’t even remember your hands pulling him toward safety.

“You took my mask.”

“Wanted to make sure your face wasn’t broken. I didn’t take any pictures or call the cops if that’s what you think.”

“Why wouldn’t you?” he asks cautiously.

“I'm not particularly fond of them. Unless you want me to test how much ransom a loose Spider-man is worth.”

He blinks at the name, considering how ironic it is that you are the first person to see him in his most vulnerable state since his world changed for the worse. You, this unassuming stranger, who happened to have enough kindness to lug his body into your home. 

He’s on edge. Of course, he is; he feels as if he’s been kidnapped, but the acuteness of his senses feels differently than they do when his body knows a threat is in front of him. Instead, it feels like the kaleidoscope of neurons inside him collects together in clear recognition. Like he knows you in his soul alone.

“How did you– how did you even get me up here? I was in an alley, and then–”

“And then I carried you back to my apartment.”

He narrows his eyes.

“Don’t see how that’s possible,” he mutters. 

You surprise him by shooting a web from your fingertips to grab a water bottle from your desk and having it recoil into your hand without much effort.

Oh. 

He asks you your name, and you tell him. When you ask him the same, he shifts uncomfortably and doesn’t answer you. You don’t take it personally.

Christ, he needs to leave now. But he’s transfixed by your big eyes and your curious stare, and he begins to wonder about you in the same way, as if you are the wounded butterfly he’d picked up on the street instead of the other way around. 

You’re fucking weird, Peter’s decided, because, after this, you don’t ask him any more questions. Not anything that deviates from your concern about his wounded state. 

You’re rather casual, which surprises him. You make him a cup of tea, lend him some of your oversized clothes (they fit him perfectly), and force him to stay on your bed so you can attempt to tend to his wounds. (He doesn’t let you.)

Naturally, he watches you wash your dishes and he plays the interrogation game, and you let him. You tell him that you’re in Brooklyn. You negate the idea of him swinging back to his house despite how much he insists. When he asks why, you’re hesitant. 

“You’re probably safer here,” you sigh, almost impatiently.

He doesn’t argue when he feels the ache in his bones again.

“How is it that you’re like me?”

“I was also bitten by a radioactive spider.”

“Shit. There was another one?”

You don’t answer. God, your nonchalance freaks him the fuck out.

Why aren’t you fazed? What the fuck is wrong with you?

Maybe Peter will fake you out and flee, and he’ll forget all about you. He’ll never come near you again. But then there’s the warmth of your voice, and he stubbornly refuses to give in.

“I’m too fucking tired for all this interrogation, okay?” you exasperate. “You can take the bed. Or the couch. I don’t care. Just pick one.”

Why the hell are you letting a stranger crash at your place?

He doesn’t register it coming out of his mouth. You scoff.

“I’ve been through worse. And you’re barely a threat.” 

Peter should feel offended, he thinks, but mostly he’s fascinated by you. He doesn’t blame you for your crabbiness once he sees the clock on your wall read 2:45 am. There’s a nebulous pause between the two of you now, so you make the first move by turning away from him and rummaging through your drawers. You throw an oversized t-shirt and sweats toward him that he catches immediately.

Without a word, you leave the room, which leaves him confused. He thinks that maybe you’re coming back eventually, washing up in the bathroom, but after twenty minutes of examining the knick-knacks and pictures on your wall, your absence is louder than ever. He frowns when he steps out and sees your sleeping figure on the living room couch. Shit. You were serious about him taking the bed.

He peers at you again, eyes adjusting to the room's pitch-black darkness until the window's blue moonlight allows him to see your face. You look peaceful, at bliss, almost. 

Peter should just fucking leave. He contemplates this for over an hour as he lays in your bed, frowning at the ceiling because he’s not letting himself succumb to your weirdly kind offer of staying in your bed as a complete stranger. 

Yeah, there had to be something wrong with you. You’d probably taken him in to use for human meat to sell on the black market or something. The whole girl-next-door thing was definitely a facade. It was.

Fuck you and your pretty eyes and pretty hair and how he could smell it everywhere in the room regardless of whether or not you were in it. Fuck you and your soft sheets and obnoxious amount of pillows. 

Of course, once Peter is done ruminating, the sleep he has in your bed is the best he’s had in fucking weeks. 

__

Your bed smells just like you. Like your sheets are fresh out of the laundry with a hint of something citrusy. Peter can barely open his eyes, but the sunlight from your window annoyingly beams onto his bruised face. The warmth licks his face. 

He can hear the barely-there pattering of your light footsteps in the hallway. The hissing of a kettle. He emerges from your bedroom cautiously like a wild animal released from captivity. Your back is turned to him as you hum something nonspecific, some song he thinks he might’ve liked when he was in high school, but he doesn’t remember the name of it.

“Good morning, Peter,” you murmur, looking up and turning around when you notice his presence.

He furrows his brows. There’s a gleam in Peter’s eye that you can tell is untrusting. Like he’s expecting you to attack him.

“I never told you my name.”

Your gaze softens with sympathy. For some reason, you utter a soft apology.

“You already knew about me, but I didn’t know about you,” he accuses, arms crossed. “Why?”

You sigh. “Have you heard of the multiverse, Peter?”

No. No fucking way.

In a panic, he makes his way toward the front door of your apartment, but you beat him to it with two hands on his chest to block him.

“Peter! Peter, stop–”

“What the fuck is going on? Where am I?” 

He doesn’t realize that he feels short of breath, chest heaving as he clutches you by the shoulders. He also doesn’t realize the extent of his super-strength, though you don’t complain or flinch from the contact.

“I’ll explain if you just calm down,” you reply, your voice still calm. Even in crisis, you’re still so fucking soft, so placid, and Peter isn’t sure if the fact is comforting or terrifying.

Something catches in his throat when you place your warm palms on his cheeks, an embrace too loving and nurturing for a stranger like him to deserve. The entire gesture rewires his brain instantly. Despite his ragged breathing, he stills and nods slowly. 

“You’re on a different version of Earth. Okay? In this version, I’m the one who got bitten by a radioactive spider. I’m Silk.”

“I’m not supposed to be here.”

It comes out more like a question than a statement. You shake your head. 

“No. I don’t know how you got here, but I promise you’ll be able to make it back. There’s a lot of us–”

“I know about the multiverse. I’ve– I’ve met other versions. Of myself.”

“You have?” you raise an eyebrow. 

He hesitates. His brown eyes search yours, scanning your face until his gaze falls through you to fixate on your collarbone instead of your eyes. He blinks with a glassy scrutiny that bleeds with anxiety.

“I fucked things up on my Earth, and now no one knows who I am. No one knows who Peter Parker is, I mean. But why do you know who I am? How did you find me?”

“You know there are other Peters. I’ve met other Peters. After the multiverse nearly collapsed, the Spider Society was created. As a preventative measure, so that shit doesn’t happen again. All of us have the same story, and fucking it up fucks everyone else up, to put it simply. That can be something we can unpack for later. And I– I felt your presence. And I wanted to keep you safe, so I took you in..”

“There was something out there last night when I fell through. I don’t even remember how I got here. It was like waking up inside of a dream.”

The bewildered look in Peter’s eyes has you nearly as panicked as he is because you recognize it all too well. You’d seen it in the mirror yourself when you had first got bitten by that damn spider, however, at that time, you were fifteen and alone. 

“What thing?”

“Something… dark. Amorphous. I don’t know.”

You frown. Your hands are still on him. His face feels like it’s on fire.

The thing inside his body screams at a frequency he can’t understand. It’s so loud that he can’t even hear himself think. 

Kill her. Kill her. Kill her.

Shut the fuck up.

Peter jumps and takes a step back. When you try to move in tandem with him, he doesn’t let you. The voice in his head has a rasp unfamiliar to him, and it wants to overtake him. Fuck, is he hallucinating? Is he being fucking possessed?

Get out. Get out. Get the fuck out.

I don’t have anywhere else to go, Peter. 

GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY BODY.

Look at her. Fucking delicious. We have to devour her. Now. NOW. NOW.

He won’t remember it later, but he runs through your bedroom door to the window, fumbling on the hinges until he nearly falls off your fire escape. When you relay this to him later, he’s bewildered, shaking. Too afraid to touch you. Too afraid to be in your apartment at all. Unsure of his memory, considering his lack of ability to recall any of this.

And yet, the warmth of your touch drinks him in, and he thinks that if he’s going to be trapped in a different universe than his own, he’s comfortable being in yours, under your roof. After he blacks out, your face is the only thing he can remember when he dreams.

__

The nightmares wake him up this time. He remembers the horrors of the night before you had found his mangled body in the alleyway. He remembers the pain, the glitch in the atmosphere that had seemed to have his body bursting through the seams, and the black entity that consumed his skin and stuck to it like glue. He remembers what it felt like to be transformed. He just doesn’t remember by what.

When Peter’s lids flutter open, he sees that his environment is sterile and sanitized. You make eye contact with him, and his honey-brown eyes darken, almost spiteful. The longer you look at his face, the more you notice he looks like a child.

He attempts to get up from the bed, but he’s restrained to it. He groans quietly, sucking his teeth.

“You’ll be out soon.”

He doesn’t say anything, though the grimace on his face says a thousand words. Instead, he scoffs.

Kill her. Kill her. Kill her.

The voice in his head is faint and raspy, though, unlike the other times, it’s barely there – much more muted than before. It comes as a passing thought, so nonchalant and quiet that Peter almost convinces himself that it’s something he hears echoed from the hallway nearby. 

Your expression doesn’t falter. You merely watch him with curious eyes. It makes his skin hot. 

“What happened?” he finally asks.

“You don’t remember?”

Peter doesn’t shake his head, nor does he look confused. He stays neutral as if he’s testing you. His jaw clenches.

“You fucking scared me, you know,” you mutter. There’s an exhaustion to your voice. How long has he fucking been here?

“Tell me.”

“It’s like you weren’t in your body,” you breathe. “Your eyes were all dark and you were trying to run away from me. You passed out after trying to jump off the fire escape. I thought you were trying to kill yourself, Peter.”

He notices that the edge in your voice is languishing, full of a distinct type of worry that he hasn’t felt from anyone else in ages. No one’s known him in over a year. But here you are, from a different universe, sitting across from him in this room with a face that almost looks like it’s about to be ruined with tears.

“I wouldn’t do that.”

“I know.”

“Why am I here?”

“I don’t know what happened. The tests they ran on you – it’s nothing we’ve seen before. Or yet.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“We use a device to send our Spider-people home based on your DNA. Or the spider you were bitten by since that’s what tethers you to your Earth. We thought you might go home and transport back to your universe, but you didn’t. The system fucking went berserk after scanning you.”

Peter’s first instinct is to say I’m sorry, but he knows that would be stupid, and the parasitic thing in his body shuts him down. He clamps his eyes shut to find darkness under all the harsh fluorescent lighting, but the hint of something sinister shakes his body in a way he can’t explain. He briefly remembers the moments before he allegedly tried to jump off the fire escape of your bedroom. Your soft eyes. Your hands on his face.

Your hand touches his now, and it makes his whole body jerk. 

(Your warmth reminds him of someone else’s, and for that, the thing in him wants to fucking kill you.)

__

Miguel doesn’t know what the fuck is wrong with Peter, either. He has other shit on his plate, like chasing misfits through the multiverse. 

Peter gets tired of the tests. It’s not like they’re doing anything because every so often, the thing inside him is lecherous and makes him feel disgusting for reasons beyond him. You are the only thing that keeps him calm. It’s like a manifestation of some curse cast upon him, a plague of a punishment.

In between the tests, he stays at yours. You don’t talk to him much because of your hours at the office, and when you’re home, you mostly eat dinner in silence. Sometimes Peter cooks and has dinner warm for you before you get home because he’s impatient and knows how to make a few basic meals from living alone in that dingy apartment.

It’s mundane. Comforting. In some stupid, twisted way, Peter wants to keep it. Keep you. Even if he won’t admit it. 

He doesn’t have to be Spider-Man on your Earth, and no one knows his identity. He almost feels like a housewife from how he dotes on you in small ways without you asking, this domesticity he’s adapted just because he can. His injuries have healed, and he works on yours instead. 

You reject his help because you’re used to it. Still, he hovers by the bathroom door when you bind your wounds.

He watches you with bated breaths, bottom lip sucked in his teeth. You have no qualms about the pair of eyes on you – at least, you don’t show it. 

“That shit’s gonna get infected.”

You roll your eyes without looking at him. Your nimble fingers work on patching up the cut under your breast instead.

“I know what I’m doing,” you huff.

“You didn’t even put Neosporin on it.”

“Huh?”

“You don’t have Neosporin in this universe?” he asks, an incredulous expression on his face.

You shrug. 

“Again, I know what I’m doing.”

“Maybe I should be out there with you on patrol.”

Your head whips around then, studying Peter’s face. He stares back at you with a seriousness that doesn’t break. You narrow your eyes.

“We’re working on getting you home, Peter. I’m not dragging you into my shit.”

“You dragged me into your shit the moment you took me in.”

You grimace, saying nothing. Your lack of response annoys him, but more than anything, it chips away at his ego. 

Maybe you regret rescuing him. The thought brings dread to his chest, guilt riding up in the caverns of the space he holds for you, which has grown bigger and bigger as the weeks go on. He thinks that if the two of you had met in different circumstances, normal ones, perhaps the two of you would be friends. 

He’d been alone for far too long. The scrubbing of his identity already turned him into a shell. The old Peter would’ve been much more proactive about this situation. He certainly would’ve been less fucking moody. But he knows there’s no one to accuse him of not being his usual self because nobody knows him anymore, except you.

__

Peter is so fucking bored of staying in your apartment. He needs something to keep him going, whether it’s crime or college. Cooped up in your home, he feels like nothing at all.

Sometimes, that feeling subsides when you’re home with him all domestic. He agrees to your movie nights despite protesting your incessant preference for horror. He likes how you curl your lip in a smirk when you tease him for being so damn jumpy.

While your relationship is mildly symbiotic, the thought of you permeates him more and more, usually at night. He has dreams of you that he’d be ashamed to relay when he’s awake. The thing inside him lurches, wants with so much zeal that he has to take measures to calm it down.

One night, when you return from patrol, your Silk suit ripped at your bicep, hip, and the space that’s supposed to cover your ribcage. He lets you patch yourself up like you always do without words other than an annoyed gruff. 

Peter can’t get the sight of your bloody wound out of his head, the exposed skin under your breast. Even the tightness of your suit allures him more than it should, which is fucking ridiculous. It’s nearing five weeks since he dropped into your universe. He should be used to you by now. 

“You good?” you ask, raising an eyebrow.

“Uh-huh.”

You know that’s not true. Peter looks like he’s seen a ghost. You don’t pry. You stopped doing that weeks ago.

The second he leaves your room, he runs the shower on cold. 

You want it.

“Shut up,” he growls under his breath.

Peter has never wished for a lobotomy, and certainly not as much as he is now.

You want her. Take her.

Shivering does nothing for him. He turns the water up to hot, nearly scalding, just as he’s convinced himself to like it. The thing inside him is consuming him, getting closer and closer to his point of breaking, and he knows it. Every moment he can’t be around you for more than a minute, he knows it. 

The only thing that satiates the feeling is to take action himself. To truly quiet that dark, venomous desire, he has to touch himself for release, and he’s ashamed that you’re the thought at the apex of it every single time. Each time he reaches his peak, he can almost make out the figure expanding over his own, a viscous black substance that seems to breathe over his veins. Once he comes to bed with you, it’s gone.

__

The stupid urges make him feel animalistic. It’s never been like this. 

Images of you with your suit ripped at the seams and flashes of your bare skin reel in his brain constantly. It’s embarrassing. He’s not fucking sixteen.

You bother less with pleasantries now that it’s been nearly two months since he fell into your universe. After the initial shock of his situation, of course, he’d had a billion questions, to which you attempted to answer to the best of your ability. Proactive as ever, he’d opted to go to the Spider Society himself on several occasions without you, attempting to understand what could be keeping him tethered to your universe, and to no avail. 

After those trials and tribulations, he’d become withdrawn. 

“Wanna watch a movie?” you try one night. He shrugs. It’s an answer to most of your questions now. It’s starting to get fucking annoying.

“You mentioned you like Star Wars, right?”

“Sure,” Peter mumbles.

“I’ve never seen the prequels.”

It’s the only thing that brings light to his eyes in maybe a week, you notice. The only other times you see that lightness is when you catch Peter in secret moments cozying up to your cat, Ferris.

(Weird name for a cat, he’d remarked. You tell him you’d watched Ferris Bueller’s Day Off the day you found him in the alleyway.)

Now Peter is settled on your couch with a soft black t-shirt clinging loosely to his frame. Maybe he doesn’t mean to be on the complete opposite side of the sofa, but the distance feels more apparent to you than it should. Ferris purrs in Peter’s lap. Traitor.

You pretend you aren’t fixated by the slight freckles that decorate his nose. Or his collarbone. Or the way that he smells just like you because he hasn’t bothered to ask you to buy him soap for himself.

You get bits and pieces of Peter’s personality over time. You learn that his favorite Thai dish is larb, just like you. He’s incredibly smart, which isn’t unlike you, but you certainly give less shits about the scientific aspect of the multiverse than he does. He has a guilty pleasure for sugary cereal. He loves the Velvet Underground. He has a freckle under his abs on the left side of his body. He’s annoyingly persistent in helping you patch yourself up.

When you hear the sound of your name in his voice, you wince.

“You zoning out already?”

“Huh?”

He gives you a look and you can’t help but giggle.

“You didn’t even hear anything I just said.”

“I was having flashbacks,” you shrug, blinking back at Natalie Portman on the television screen instead of Peter’s eyes. “To my Padme Halloween costume.”

“That’s stolen valor!”

“I was twelve, dipshit. It was on sale at Specter Halloween and there was nothing left.”

“Spirit Halloween?”

You furrow your brows.

“Oh my god. Nevermind.”

For some reason, this reaction makes you pull the fleece blanket from his body. You mumble a rushed apology to your cat, who scrambles off of Peter’s lap in an instant. Peter is quick to pull the blanket back immediately until the two of you end up in a tug of war. You see a flash of grinning teeth. 

“Peter!” you squeal when he yanks the blanket so hard that you nearly fall off the couch.

“Why do you have so much energy– dude!” You’re almost in his lap but he’s faster than you. You are so close to using your webs on him.

A flush of heat spreads over your cheeks when he has you pinned to the couch, arms above your head with the blanket now forgotten on the floor. His knees are on each side of you, so squirming does nothing for your cause.

“Relax,” he gruffs. 

You can’t tell if his eyes shift in darkness or if it’s just a trick of the television light. The warmth emanating from his cheeks matches yours. The way his legs are spread above yours is vulnerable, and so is the way you’re looking at him, and – fuck, can you stop looking at him like that?

You feel the grip on your wrists loosen as he shuffles to his feet, nearly tripping over the discarded blanket.

“We need more popcorn,” he mumbles.

Fixing the mess of your hair, you peer at him through the dimness. 

“That was the last bag.”

“I can get some more then.” 

He pulls on the hoodie that’s draped over the armchair – your oversized hoodie, in fact – and it’s clearly too tight on him.

“What? It’s late. Are you – are you hungry or something? I can make you food.”

“With what?” he snaps. “We haven’t been able to go grocery shopping yet this week.”

“Well, it’s too fucking late for that now.”

Silence permeates the space between the two of you. The seconds that pass feel so long. There is no void in Peter’s head, only the sound of a disgusting, gnawing desire. Grotesque wanting. He wishes you would just leave so he can scrub himself raw in the shower like he usually does.

She smells so good.

“I’ll get some stuff from the bodega. I need– I need air, anyway,” Peter stammers. “Should swing around and stuff. I’m holed up in here every goddamn day.”

The comment stings. It’s not your fault that he’s stuck here like a stray cat. He knows that, so he feels guilty when his words come out with more bite than he intends. He can’t stand to see the way your bottom lip trembles slightly as you look away from him, mumbling something of a useless apology even when you both know you have nothing to apologize for.

You flinch when the door slams behind him.

__

You don’t see Peter the next morning even though your keys hang right next to the doorway. The window by your bed is left slightly ajar, so you assume that it’s meant for him. 

It’s fine. He had already expressed his cabin fever to you, so it makes sense that he’d be out exploring the city. (This is what you tell yourself throughout the day, even though you can’t stop feeling an ache in your gut.)

Your day is mundane, but they always are, you suppose. Maybe they haven’t felt as such since you had company every day. Peter’s absence is so much more apparent than it should be. You haven’t been without him in a bit. Even at your stupid day job, he occupies your mind, and the mere knowledge of his absence sears a hole in your heart. It feels pathetic. Maybe he’s home. Maybe he’d come back after you’d left for work. 

When you get home in the evening, he’s nowhere to be found. You pretend that it’s nothing to you. You still make dinner for two.

__

Once you’re settled for bed, Peter is on the other side of town at a random bar. It’s a miracle he gets in without an official ID and all, not to mention his boyish face. A raven-haired girl who skips the line takes a liking to him, plus she seems to know the bouncer. She’s attached to Peter like a moth for the rest of the night. 

She’s daring and touchy, with a sense of humor that’s too over-familiar to appear charming. Peter doesn’t have to do much except nod and smirk to seduce her, downing shot after shot just so he can feel a buzz instead of irritation whenever the girl has her hands on him. On the dance floor, the shape of her body slightly resembles yours, maybe. She reeks of over-saturated vanilla, like the inside of a Victoria’s Secret. 

When he fucks her in her lavish penthouse, he can only think of you. He thinks her apartment is boring, lacks character, and looks soulless. It’s nothing like yours. It doesn’t even begin to contain the same warmth. Peter feels similarly about the girl, but he’d had enough shots in the bar to ignore that emptiness. For now, he feels full with his cock inside her, hearing her whiny pleas and soft moans as her face gets buried into the mattress. He only cums when he thinks of your face.

It’s not enough.

Shut the fuck up, Peter screams in his head. Shut up.

Though, we’re hungry, aren’t we? 

No.

Peter groans, digging his teeth into the girl’s neck as his fingertips press into the curve of her waist. He shuts his eyes, breathing rapidly as his body relaxes on top of hers. None of her sweet nothings registers in his brain. He holds off the violence in his head until she’s fast asleep, to his relief, because then he can return to you.

___

You’re wide awake when Peter fumbles with your bedroom window at three in the morning. He nearly trips next to your bed, but he braces himself, landing his hands on the softness of your rug. 

You hear him sigh. Maybe you’ve become too attuned to him. Every movement he makes is a small earthquake to you, so present and real as he unravels even when he’s just taking a few steps toward you. Maybe you’re imagining his breath behind your neck. Maybe you’re dreaming and you wish for it.

He assumes you’re asleep when he crawls into bed with you. This is only the second time. The first time, he’d had a nightmare on the couch and you had offered your warmth. At the moment, he’s inexplicably warm as he wraps his arms around your waist.

“Where were you?” you whisper. 

“Out.”

“You smell like a high school girl’s locker room.”

He snorts, tightening the grip he has over your middle. You feel his breath tickling the nape of your neck.

“Okay.”

“You gonna answer me?”

“Why does it matter? ‘m a big boy.”

“It matters when I’m responsible for you and I don’t know where you are.”

“I was always going to come back.”

You don’t say anything to that. You think this is too intimate, but you can’t help but admit to yourself that it’s what you need. The touch of someone else. The feeling of warmth enveloping your body.

You haven’t felt him this close to you before, at least when you’re this hypervigilant. Stretching your back slightly, you decide to turn to face him. Your body curls naturally into Peter’s without a second thought.

You notice the way he bites the inside of his bottom lip subtly. It’s dumb, how rapidly his heart beats now that you’re looking right at him. You pretend you don’t feel it from being so close to him, but it makes your heart elate.

Peter closes his eyes so he doesn’t have to see your face. It’s not like the action helps him calm his heart down, because fuck, you’re so warm and soft and pliant in his arms. He’s gotten good at quieting the voice in his head lately but he’s still afraid of it consuming him. 

“Goodnight, Peter,” you murmur. 

He pretends he’s asleep. It takes everything in him to keep up the facade until he knows for sure you’ve passed out inches away from him.

___

When Peter wakes before you, something primal pushes his senses into overdrive. You smell so fucking sweet. It’s like the universe wants him to eat you.

She’s right there on a platter for you. Just for you.

He’s good at restraining it. Sucking in his teeth, his eyes scan the curves of your waist to the soft edges of your lips. 

Despite his restraint, he can’t be in the room with you right now. Certainly not in the same bed basking in your warmth. For fuck’s sake, what were you thinking, allowing him into your bed in the first place?

He already knows the answer – kindness is what fuels you—your altruism. When the mind gets the best of him, Peter curses at your character when he’s alone. Sometimes he’s on a random rooftop bombarded by thoughts of you. Sometimes he’s in your shower.

If anything, you were perfect, so perfect that Peter couldn’t stand it. So warm and pretty and pleasant that even the way he touches his cock doesn’t dirty the image he has of you in his head. You’re too pure, even when you use your nasty tongue against him, even when you fight him. 

The slightest showcase of your bare skin doesn’t help the cause. Peter retreats to the couch again even though you tell him that you don’t mind the space he takes up in your bed. He can’t tell you he’s doing it for your safety. 

Even so, he’s so attuned to you that he hears your midnightmare whines in the night as if you were right next to him. And when he guards your bed like a dog while you’re asleep, he tries not to focus on the shape of your collarbone. Of course not. He convinced himself that he was lonely, fucking pathetic. He tells himself that the mere sight of your exposed neck and the pout of your lips does nothing to him at all. 

__

Peter comes with you to headquarters. The other spiders are sympathetic to him, often over-friendly. He sticks to you like a lost puppy.

“Did Miguel figure out anything yet?”

“Huh?”

“About getting me home.”

You raise your eyebrows in surprise, though your expression neutralizes once you look away. It was stupid to hold any value towards Peter. This is what you tell yourself, at least, so you must remind yourself that his questions aren’t out of left field. 

You refused to face the reality that you’d grown attached to him, that his presence had felt normal to you after he’d stayed with you for more than two months. 

“Still working on it,” you reply, giving him a sheepish smile. 

You feel guilty despite telling the truth. No tests could decipher why Peter was immune to being sent off back to his universe. No updates to the technology had worked, either. 

(You don’t really know what he’s still doing here, especially considering how quiet it is at headquarters today. You’re only really there to assist Margo in perfecting the gizmo that helps Miguel verse-jump.)

“I got you lunch, though. And feel free to leave whenever you want, I might stay late.” 

You drop a paper bag in front of him. The contents reveal a Cuban sandwich, bread smooshed flat with extra pickles. His favorite. You’d remembered his long rant about missing Delmar’s.

The gesture is sweet. You’re sweet, even though you’re a hard shell to break. 

The voice in his head is louder than usual today. Once you’re in a separate room, he feels immediately desperate for your presence, and he can’t tell if this is one of his usual emotions. The moment he fell into your world, besides feeling possessed, the emotions he experiences within his body are unlike him. Stronger, desperate, on the brink of detonation. 

“I’m sorry you’re stuck here,” you stammer after clearing your throat. 

“I’m lucky,” Peter shrugs. His eyes don’t waver from yours. “That you’re the one taking care of me, I mean. You’re kind for letting me stay.”

For keeping me. Do you want to keep me as much as I want to keep you?

The smile you give him is saccharine as you flush. He wonders if it’s fake, secretly full of vitriol. Perhaps he’ll find out when the both of you are home. 

He decides to give you space for the rest of the afternoon. After boring himself with floating in and out of random stores in Manhattan, he returns to your apartment in the evening, jiggling your bedroom window open even though you had given him a spare key. 

None of the lights are on except a glow emitting from behind the bathroom door, left open slightly. 

Your eyes shoot open when you hear the creak of the door. In the dimness of your bathroom, the only thing that helps you see Peter’s face is the dozens of tealight candles you have around the bathtub.

He gulps, mumbling an apology as he looks away. 

“You’re home earlier than I thought you’d be,” he murmurs.

“I was having massive brain fog all day so I came home early,” you tell him. He nods in understanding without saying anything. He doesn’t know why he’s lingering.

“You clearly haven’t figured out the concept of a front door.”

He blinks at the wet sheen of your collarbone, how the candles flicker an orange light across your face, and then he looks away again. 

“Sorry. Force of habit.”

“Well, you should try it. You have a key,” you snort. 

Peter’s heartbeat races. God, you smell so fucking good. Like citrus and sandalwood and sunlight. There’s no way he’s going to be able to sleep next to you tonight.

TAKE HER RIGHT NOW. FUCKING DO IT.

“Uh, I’ll leave you be,” he rasps, accidentally slamming the bathroom door closed. 

He knows you’ll be annoyed about it later, but he unlatches your bedroom window again to get outside and feel the fresh air. He doesn’t know what to do with his energy, with the gnawing in his body, so he tries to get his breathing even on the roof of your building. 

“Fuck off, fuck off, fuck off,” Peter mumbles in succession, straining his body. 

On the concrete of the rooftop, he lies down and stares at the evening sky, trying to think of literally anything else, but he can’t. He knows that your existence isn’t a curse, that whatever it is that’s plaguing him is deep within his body, but he doesn’t know how to exorcize it. 

In a frenzy, he rips his suit from his body because the thing inside him is begging for stimulation. Thoughts of you flood his brain. Every angle of you, every memory, every scent. You would be surprised to know how much he’s memorized about you considering how rarely he likes to make eye contact.

And God, your eyes. How would you feel if you were watching him right now? Would you be disgusted? Would you be as disgusted as Peter is with himself?

It takes a minute or two of palming his dick before he finishes just from thinking about you. He groans lowly, animalistic, and there still isn’t any relief despite the mess he’s made on his suit. 

YOU’D FEEL BETTER IF IT WAS HER.

Fuck you.

Why is he so goddamn flustered? He’s literally slept next to you. And it isn’t like he saw anything when you were in the bathtub. Just your bare face, your wet shoulders–

Fuck, he’s hard again. Peter doesn’t think he’s been this hard in his entire life. 

It doesn’t take long for him to cum again even with all the overstimulation. You’re probably wondering where he is, too. He hopes to God you aren’t in your room so he can sneak back in quietly and get changed, maybe throw in a load of laundry so he doesn’t give himself away.

This is so stupid. So, so stupid.

Luck is on Peter’s side when he crawls back into your apartment. He hears you humming from the kitchen and the smell of onions and garlic wafts under his nose. He strips quietly and changes into new clothes.

“Pete?”

Sighing, he follows the sound of your voice. The smile you give him is nearly blinding.

“Where were you?”

“Uhh, checking the mail.”

“For half an hour?” you raise a brow.

He shrugs. An excuse makes its way into his mind.

“And I went out to look for cat food. We ran out. I couldn’t find the, uh, brand Ferris likes, though. Sorry.”

“Wow,” you give him a hint of a smirk. The cat in question jumps onto your shoulder as you bend down to get a pot from one of the lower cupboards. “You hear that, Ferris? Seems like Petey cares if you live or die.”

You coo at the small tabby, who meows in response. Peter rolls his eyes, feigning annoyance.

“And you still haven’t figured out how to use the front door. Do you need a live tutorial from me or what?” 

Peter bites the inside of his cheek as he sits down at the island, watching as you pour crushed tomatoes into the pot. The sight makes him awfully nostalgic. You’re the first person who’s cooked for him in years. 

“Let me be,” he huffs, the hint of a chuckle in his voice. “And you’re gonna get cat hair in the pasta sauce.”

“No. Ferris is so well-groomed.”

“Not when he sheds all over my clothes.”

“You should be thankful he likes to roll around in your dirty laundry pile. That means he likes you, you know.”

Silence stews in the room, save for the sounds of boiling water. Peter takes the liberty to unlock your phone and put one of your playlists on the speaker. 

He clears his throat. “You need any help?”

“Nah, it’s just pasta,” you shrug. “It’s the last we have, though. Wanna go on a grocery run tomorrow?”

“Of course. The fridge is pitiful.”

“I don’t need your attitude when I feed you every day, Parker.”

You smile in jest at him and of course, he avoids eye contact like he usually does. Over the weeks, you’ve been accustomed to him acting like another stray kitten, but sometimes, you wonder if there’s something about your presence or personality that makes him keep you at arm’s length. Not that you should care what a stray thinks about you.

Peter wishes he could act normal around you instead of constantly being on edge. Again, it’s not your fault. If there was a way he could make it up to you, to let you know how much he’s grateful for you, he would. Every time he thinks about it, his body takes over and shame is all that’s left. 

The bowl of pasta you put in front of him smells heavenly and looks like a page in the cooking section of the New York Times. 

“Help yourself to seconds, big boy.”

His eyes flash to your face, but you’re busying yourself with putting wet cat food onto a small plate for Ferris. 

You both end up eating on the island together. You don’t take a seat next to him, choosing to stand up across from him. Instead of conversing, the music continues to play quietly from the speaker, and you scroll mindlessly through the emails on your phone.

“I can feel you staring at me, you know.”

“I wasn’t,” Peter replies, defensive.

“You were,” you snort. “Which is funny because usually you refuse to make eye contact with me.”

“That’s not true.” (He’s lying through his teeth.)

“It’s okay. I’m not offended.” (Okay, maybe now you’re the one lying through your teeth.)

Peter scoffs, looking away, of course. 

“Thanks for dinner,” he mumbles.

He looks down, collecting his bowl and utensils. He decides to busy himself with the dishes, taking yours wordlessly without looking at your face. 

“You don’t have to do that,” you say softly. He shrugs. 

When you say his name, you’re right next to him and he feels like he might choke on nothing. Sure, he senses your presence in proximity to his own, but there’s nothing to stop you from getting close to him. 

“You’re always on edge around me.”

He doesn’t reply, even though he knows the sound of running water from the kitchen sink isn’t enough to drown out the tension between you two.

“Peter,” you try. Ugh, now you feel whiny.

“Hm?” He feigns ignorance as he glances at you, turning off the faucet.

“I– I just want you to be comfortable around me.”

“I am,” he lies. 

You don’t know what to say to break through the invisible wall he’s put between you two. He doesn’t know how to tell you that the distance is to keep you safe.

Your shoulders sag in defeat as you turn away from him and it conjures a new ache in his chest. Peter is often too caught up in his agony to notice how it might affect you. He can notice the frustration that radiates off of you – he’s not stupid. But the clear disappointment in your body language is so much more apparent than it ever was before.

“I think I might go to bed early,” you tell him, your voice just above a whisper. “Thanks for cleaning up.”

“Of course.” 

The door to your bedroom shuts quietly. 

Despite his constant uneasiness around you, Peter feels petulant now that you’ve left his side. Especially with the guilt of making you feel alienated in your own home. The trouble of explaining any of this to you feels like a burden more than anything, and you were already dealing with the burden of him staying in your apartment like he was haunting the place. 

Ferris slinks between Peter’s legs, purring. He climbs up his legs the same way he does to you and Peter welcomes him into his arms.

“You shouldn’t be nice to me, either,” Peter whispers, stroking the cat’s fur slowly. 

After Peter finishes cleaning up the kitchen, he settles on the couch for mindless television while Ferris settles on his lap. It doesn’t take him long to feel his eyes heavy-lidded, and although it should be easy to fall asleep on the couch, his body itches for your touch. Trying to sleep on your couch makes his limbs feel like they need to stretch every other second. So he surrenders and falls into your bed like he usually does. Like how you expect him to.

__

He dreams of you. He often does. 

Usually, he never remembers once he wakes up, which is probably the safest option. At the moment, the dreams are too visceral to be considered dreams to his subconscious. 

At the moment, he thinks the silkiness of your skin has to be real under his fingertips. It has to be. It would only make sense because your scent is so fucking strong, so alluring. It permeates the entire room, along with the subtle smell of sex and desperation.

Peter can see your pink mouth parting. The way your back arches. The way his name sounds when it comes from your throat, babbling its way out of your mouth, so sweetly. So fucking innocently.

It’s all rudely interrupted by the darkness that he’s attempted to keep away for so long. A black cloud that envelops the both of you, until the cloud is tangible, until it feels like a substance that could drown you. 

Where his senses only uttered your name and acknowledged your sweetness is now replaced by an insatiable hunger. One that is partially his, partially from an entity that could break you in half without a second thought. 

Now, the entity clouds him. Consumes his entire body until he’s nothing but a vast monster with sharp teeth with you underneath him. 

The look on your face is full of horror. Your naked body shudders. Peter wants nothing more than to comfort you, but he knows he can’t, not when something black and viscous has obscured his entire body. 

He is not in his body when his teeth graze the skin of your shoulder, biting hard enough for blood to trickle out of your skin. Your scream is the only thing that he can hear, maybe other than his own, once he sees your mouth spit out blood.

And then, darkness.

___

“No, nonononono, no, fuck, please–”

It all happens so fast. He doesn’t know what he does to you that makes you drop dead so quickly, and for fuck’s sake, his arms are still not his arms. 

“Peter!”

A shake in his universe breaks him apart. When he opens his eyes, he sees yours, wide and shocked and bright despite the darkness of the night.

You’re in your bed and so is he. And you’re holding him, unscathed. There is no black gore adorning his arms. 

“Peter, it’s okay,” you shush him softly. 

One hand strokes his hair while the other is splayed with fingers stretched across his warm cheek. You’re more than concerned by how shaken he looks. Like he’s in shock. You’ve never seen him like this.

“You’re okay,” he says. It’s a whisper. It sounds like a prayer.

“I am,” you nod. “I’m fine. I want to make sure that you’re fine, too, okay?”

His lashes flutter when you stroke his cheek. His breathing is heavy like a newly discovered beast, but you know that you don’t have to tame him from the way he keens to your touch. 

“I–I thought–”

“Shh, you don’t have to talk about it. It wasn’t real, okay? You just had a nightmare,” you coo. 

You can feel the way he swallows sharply and the way he struggles to breathe through his nose. He winces when he realizes that you’re wiping away a tear from his cheek.

“I was– I was terrible–” he stammers, gasping for breath. “And you–”

“Peter, it’s okay. It was just a dream. It’s okay.”

“You aren’t safe with me.”

His eyes are wild. He’s so earnest when he speaks that maybe, just maybe he could be telling the truth. 

You ignore it even though the way he says it breaks your heart.

“I am safe with you. And you’re safe with me, right here,” you try. The sound of his voice has tears brimming the corners of your eyes, too, but you don’t notice. You just want to get through to him. You swallow your anxiety. “We’re safe together, I promise. I would never let anything bad happen to you.”

He scans your face frantically until his eyes zero in on your lips. His senses are flooded with you, like he’s an animal ready to pounce on his prey, but he tries to hold back. His breathing turns shallow and he can’t help but stare at your bottom lip quivering, feeling the warmth of your palms against his cheeks. 

TAKE HER. TAKE HER. TAKE HER.

He’s not sure what the motive is for him pressing his lips to yours, whether it’s the demon inside him or the desire festering in his body. Peter knows that they’re one and the same. 

To his surprise, you surrender your mouth to him immediately. His tongue slots into between your lips without effort as his hands clasp your body with his innate strength, ranging from your hips to the undersides of your breasts.

You didn’t expect him to kiss you, but now that he has, you don’t think that you want him to ever stop.

Your hands graduate from his cheeks to the back of his head, pulling at his brown tresses as his hands roam your body with more fervor than anyone else has given you. 

You’ve been intimate with other people before, but they were always so careful, so timid with you. Maybe sometimes they were rough, but your mind was too checked out to notice. But now, the mere touch of someone else’s fingertips on your hard nipples has you squirming in your bed, making your breath hitch. Already, you feel the warmth in your core.

Peter discards your shirt (nearly rips it off) with ease as you whimper, enabling him, neither of you saying a word at all. You grab at Peter’s shirt to tug off, which he does, but when you pull at the waistband of his sweatpants, he takes your hand and slams it above your head with fingers interlocked.

Look how fun this is, Peter. Don’t you want to ruin her? Fuck her pretty little face?

Peter groans at the thought of you gagged with his cum, but he can barely fathom even taking out his cock yet. Well, he can, and although he’s thought about you like that, he doesn’t want to move too quickly. In contrast, his body seems to be moving faster than his brain.

He never thought you would want it as much as he does.

You whine when you feel Peter’s fingers creep under the waistband of your shorts and underneath your panties, immediately feeling your wetness. It pools into the fabric as he rubs your slit incessantly, making you mewl eagerly as Peter’s teeth suck on the skin of your jaw.

“F-fuck–,” you whimper, limp in his arms, preening to the feeling of his tongue on your clavicle. 

You’re so fucking wet, he could devour you in one bite if he wanted to. He could make it painless for you, but that wouldn’t be fair, would it? You wouldn’t feel any of it, none of the agonizing pleasure that should build up between your thighs from his touch alone, and he wants to see it all over your face so fucking badly. 

Do not tease us. We have an appetite to fulfill, don’t we?

I’m fucking getting there, hold on.

Sure, the monster in him wants to devour you, kill you, swallow you whole in a snap. But Peter wants to enjoy it. Wants to enjoy you. So he attempts to quiet the deep voice inside of him.

He still has your wrists bound in one large hand while his other grips your thighs hard, discarding your bottoms in the process. When he opens his eyes, he sees you splayed naked for him with a wanton expression on your face, nearly drooling. 

He also sees that somehow, he’d taken off his sweatpants and boxers, hard cock swelled up and aching as it grazes your folds slowly. 

Peter thinks he’d like to finger you, go down on you, and see how his touch makes electricity spark within your abdomen while your face contorts. He wants to see all your features twist into a sweet expression of pure pleasure, but he’s too fucking impatient. Maybe that’s the thing inside him speaking, so hungry and urgent that he can’t tell if he’s suppressing a being or his desires at this point.

He doesn’t know what currently guides his instincts. They’re all blinded, flooded by thoughts of you. As if there’s nothing else on Earth he could want, ever. 

That could be true. It probably is. But that’s something he can unpack later.

For now, he can only be influenced by the sound of your voice begging his name. He swallows down the sound of it with his tongue in your mouth, drinking in your whimpers as he bites on your bottom lip.

“Please,” you beg, lifting your hips to meet his length desperately as you squirm underneath him. “Need it— need—”

“Need me, huh?” Peter rasps. He touches his forehead to yours, hands still clutching at your wrists above your head.

“Yes.”

“So fucking clingy,” he mumbles against your mouth. You arch your back at the mere feeling of his cock prodding against your wet folds and it drives him fucking insane.

For once, the voice inside his head is only yours. He feels grateful for it.

“Were you planning this the whole time, huh? Wanted me in your bed from the beginning, didn’t you? Admit it.” He’s all teeth when he taunts you. He wonders if you’d let him spit in your mouth if you weren’t so busy pouting.

“Y-yes.”

“So fucking cute,” he sneers. “Pathetic, too.”

You don’t recognize the wrath in his voice — it’s unlike him. Even when he’s been pissed off with you. But you don’t have it in you to question it, because the darkness in it sounds like silk and crushed velvet, and the feeling of his hot breath against your neck makes you want him even more.

In the darkness, Peter’s eyes look otherworldly. Dark and bottomless, the devil incarnate.

You moan his name once more and whiplash meets the senses.

With a shaking exhale, you take the stretch of him, all of him, wincing the slightest bit as he bottoms out. It stings until he slides out just to thrust himself back in again, the resolve blatant on your face as your mouth falls in surrender.

Usually, you’d be embarrassed. It takes a bit for you to let someone in like this so intimately, and even when you’ve done it with other men, you were at least a little intoxicated.

Right now, you’re merely blissed from drowsiness, borderline euphoric from Peter’s proximity. You wouldn’t be able to admit it out loud — you knew the sweet sounds falling from your mouth were enough. Even when Peter had first settled into your bed tonight while you were asleep, you subconsciously curled into him like a moth to a flame.

Peter cups your breast in his hand harshly to latch his mouth onto your nipple, sucking and biting just to hear you whine. He’s rougher than any lover you’ve had before, so you aren’t exactly sure if he’s being sadistic with the amount of teeth he’s using. The feeling of his canines against your flesh is like nothing you’ve felt before. You’d never thought it would be a feeling you would get so fucking addicted to.

He fucks into you harder now, pulling up your legs so that his large, calloused palms are bruising the skin of your thighs. One leg ends up hitched over his shoulder so that he can thrust into you from a deeper angle, one that makes your eyes roll back into your head.

“So fucking good for me– so fucking good–”

Your hips shake when Peter inevitably reaches your sweet spot while his hand that isn’t propping you up is focused on stimulating your clit. You’re fucking brainless, listening to his filthy praises.

“Peter! Aah– oh my god–”

He’s obsessed with the way you’re rendered speechless, how you’re lifting your hips just to meet his, how you’re so obedient when you whimper his name. He’s obsessed with you. He thinks this might be another dream.

Sloppily, he nibbles at your earlobe and laves his tongue from your jaw down to your throat as he fucks into you with ease. His pleasure is a rubber band about to fucking snap. Your hushed breaths and whines nearly tip him over the edge, especially when he can feel you sucking in him so tightly.

“Cum for me, fucking cum for me,” Peter growls. “I know you can do it, baby. Can feel you’re close.”

He’s more intense with his thrusts now that he’s trying to coax your release, and truthfully, he can feel himself following you right after. 

“I’m– I’m gonna–” 

Your voice falls into a staccato of moans that dissipate into Peter’s wet mouth. Your nails dig into his back as he nearly melts into your body. 

His frantic thrusts begin to slow, his hips sloppy against yours as he groans against your neck. His mind is in such a frenzy that he thinks he might just devour you. It starts with his fingers wrapped around your throat. He revels in the sound of your voice choking on your moans.

Peter nearly smothers you with his hand over your mouth, while he bites incessantly at your neck and shoulder. The sweetness of your voice, desperate and wanton for him, is quickly replaced by something darker in his mind. A voice dormant inside him that awakens with the threat of contamination. He’s in his nightmare again, but with the aid of your body to remind him of bliss. Of power.

“Fuck, I’m sorry, fuckfuckfuck–” 

His body is so fucking heavy on top of yours, suffocating you with his desire. His teeth bite down hard enough on the juncture of your neck to draw blood, and he ignores your cry. The frenzy of war and lust and intoxication in his head is too fucking much. It’s his own personal eclipse.

His warmth spills into you. He feels his cum in between your bodies, overflowing out of your soaked cunt and onto the bedsheets. 

It takes a moment for Peter to notice that you’re crying. He knows it should hurt him. He knows he can’t stand the sight of tears flowing down your delicate cheeks because of him. But he doesn’t feel anything at all. 

In a way, both of you are changed. 

You had leaped off of a precipice the moment you let him into your bed.

Peter furrows his brows at your tear-streaked face, body stilling with shallow breaths. He cups your face in his warm hands and kisses you sweetly like a lover would and not a monster. 

For some hellish reason, you kiss him back. 

[sweetimpurity]

ੈ✩‧₊˚ day 22! coming in late ugh! but we get a two for one special today be on the lookout cw: minor breathplay wc: 932 ੈ✩‧₊˚

It’s not often you’re the one being chased. You’re usually the one finding anomalies and taking them down, taking them back to HQ. But tonight, you’re the one who’s being hunted. Tonight you’re the villain and he’s on the prowl. 

Your webs strain and thwip from building to building. Running and sliding over rooftops, climbing windows and fire escapes. Trying to find a place to hide out and see if you can spot him. You know he’s not far behind you. But you both turned your trackers off so there’s no telling where he is exactly. 

It’s exciting. All of this. And you told him to play it up. Told him to pick you up and throw you around a bit if he wants. Something you’ve been craving.

The hairs stand up on the back of your neck. A telltale sign that he’s close. You can sense him. You’re perched on a skyscraper, tuning out the sounds of busy Nueva York city to listen for him. Trying to listen for his breath, his heartbeat, his steps, anything. 

Staying deadly still, dialing your senses to 11. Scanning your surroundings and trying to pick up anything you can. A metal creak has you turning to see the source, only for his hand to grasp your face, sharp talons pricking your cheeks. “Found you.” He growls. 

Instantly you’re jumping from your hiding spot. A rush of adrenaline and energy. His hands try to grab onto you as you launch yourself from the edge of the building, thwipping and pulling yourself to a neighboring skyscraper and making your way down the block. The chase is really on. 

As fast as you can, you’re pulling yourself through buildings, sprinting across rooftops, looking back at any chance you get to see him trampling up the sides of buildings. Huge and hulking as always. His claws digging into the brick and sparking off metal siding. It’s scary. Like being chased up a flight of stairs. Knowing every new step you take, he’ll already be up one step too. Your heart is beating so fast and hard. 

You get to the edge of a crane, more than a hundred feet in the air. The wind whipping past your cheek and taking one second too long to decide your next jumping point. When his red glowing webs reach you, wrapping around your torso, making you gasp, trying to break out of them but he’s gaining on you, climbing up the crane on all fours, like an animal stalking its prey. “No no no!” You squeal with a smile, heart beating out of your chest and messing with the webs to break them. And he’s smiling too, watching you trying to escape him. 

Once the webs finally break and you’re free, you lean back, allowing yourself to freefall. But he lunges forward, talon tacking in your suit before grabbing you by the throat, his big hand firm yet gentle. Not to hurt you, just to hold you. “You should stop running, baby, I caught you��” 

“I can still get awa-” You gasp, your hands coming up to hold onto his wrist as his fingers tighten just slightly around your airways for a moment. Forbidding you from finishing your sentence. The pad of his thumb pushes your head to the side, and his head tilts to keep looking in your eyes. “Go ahead and try… see if I’ll let you get away…” 

The words stoke the fire already burning inside you. Making you want him, making you need him right now. But you need to play the game. And you can see that glint in his eyes, telling you he’s loving this too. 

He moves quickly, releasing your throat and grabbing you up in his arms, pressing himself to you and trying to squeeze you in his grasp. And there’s that vulnerable moment you’ve been waiting for. Squirming from his hands and stepping back off the crane structure, falling off the edge and out of his grasp, but he’s instantly on you. Soaring through the air and he swoops in, grabbing you around the waist, instead pulling you the opposite direction. Swinging on his neon webs up through the night sky. You could struggle, you could fight, but the feeling of being so snuggly kept beside him, the cold air in your face, the flip in your stomach as you fly through the sky, knowing he’s got you now, knowing you’re caught. It’s enthralling, it’s intoxicating. 

“I’ve got you, just give in to me…” He smirks, jumping onto a skyscraper rooftop. Wind whipping past both of you. The moon is the only source of light this far up. City lights are far below. “You can’t run anymore…” 

He’s on you, stopping your squirming and smiling when he can hear the laughter that bubbles up in you. Pushing you down on the cold metal, holding your hands behind your back and wrapping some of his webs around them. Not the artificial ones that glow red, but his. And it’s now you’re like a fly in his trap, in his web. He’s quick to shred your suit, finding how wet you’ve become. Who knew you’d love being chased like this, treated like you’ve done something you need to be punished for. 

“You stay nice and still now…” He huffs, prodding your core with his cock and nudging at the entrance. His long fingers grabbing into your hair and tugging gently, just to lift your head and hear the gasps, the whines, the cries that escape you as he slips in your cunt to the hilt. 

Taglist!! love my sweeties!

@spooky-sculder

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if you'd like to be added/dropped from the taglist, please comment on my masterlist post. Or else I might not see it! thank you! 🩷

[andy-15-07]

Hello, could you do a Pedro Pascal x fReader curvy CIA agent, they meet for the first time and go on a date, Pedro after the date goes home and says he found his soulmate and has a silly smile, exuding happiness

Secret Hearts and Stardust

PAIRING:Pedro Pascal x reader

WORD COUNT: 2854 | requests are open (send requests, I will gladly answer them all)

Pedro Pascal Masterlist

The evening was unusually warm as you stepped out of your sleek, black sedan and into the softly lit ambiance of The Gilded Lily—a chic little restaurant known for its intimate vibe and artfully curated jazz background. You, a curvy CIA agent who’d spent years blending into shadows and decoding secrets, were now about to step into a light you rarely allowed yourself: vulnerability. Tonight was different. Tonight, you had a date with none other than Pedro Pascal.

Standing near the entrance, your heart pounded a curious rhythm as you smoothed down the fabric of your form-fitting emerald dress. The dress hugged every curve of your body, a gentle yet assertive declaration of self-love and confidence, a far cry from the utilitarian uniforms of your everyday covert life. As you scanned the room, your eyes landed on him: Pedro, leaning casually against a polished mahogany bar, his dark eyes scanning the room until they rested warmly on you. A slight, self-assured smile played on his lips as he stepped forward.

“Good evening,” he said in that familiar, mellifluous tone that had captivated audiences around the world. “I’m Pedro.” His voice carried an effortless charm, and even in the bustling atmosphere, it seemed to wrap around you like a protective cloak.

“Hello, Pedro. I’m Y/N,” you replied, offering a handshake that quickly evolved into a brief, knowing smile. “I must admit, I wasn’t expecting to see you here tonight.”

Pedro’s laughter was light and genuine. “Neither was I, but sometimes the most delightful surprises are the ones we don’t plan for.” His eyes crinkled with amusement as he gestured to a quiet booth in the corner, its warm lighting promising an oasis of conversation away from the clamor of the restaurant.

As you both settled into the booth, the conversation began with the casual ease of old friends reuniting after a long separation. Over a shared appetizer of truffle fries and a glass of crisp Sauvignon Blanc, you discovered how Pedro’s day had been spent balancing film shoots with unexpected moments of hilarity, while you recounted a day filled with high-stakes meetings and covert operations that were as challenging as they were unyielding.

“So, you work in… a field that requires a lot of discretion?” Pedro inquired, leaning in as if he were about to unravel an intriguing mystery.

You smiled wryly. “Discretion is an understatement. I’m in the intelligence community—a CIA agent, if you can believe it. I spend my days untangling webs of secrets and navigating through a maze of lies.” Your tone was light, yet behind your eyes lay the depth of experiences that few could imagine.

His eyebrows lifted in genuine interest. “That sounds like something straight out of a spy novel. I can only imagine the stories you must have.”

You chuckled softly. “Stories? I suppose I have a few, but not all of them are meant for dinner conversations. The life I lead is often hidden behind layers of duty and codes. But tonight, I’m glad to share some of the lighter moments. After all, everyone deserves a break.”

Pedro’s eyes sparkled as he leaned back, clearly fascinated. “Well, tonight you’re giving me a glimpse into a world I’d never experience otherwise. And trust me, I’m all for experiencing the unexpected.”

The conversation flowed naturally, punctuated by moments of laughter, reflective silences, and the occasional shared anecdote. Pedro recounted tales from his travels on set, the odd mishap with a prop that turned into an impromptu comedy skit, and the time he had to improvise during a tense scene. You, in turn, found yourself sharing snippets of your life that were seldom told—the thrill of chasing leads in distant lands, the camaraderie of working with a team that trusted you with their lives, and even the surreal feeling of living two different lives: one defined by duty and the other by moments of genuine connection.

“Do you ever wish you could just… step away from it all?” Pedro asked quietly, his gaze earnest as he took a sip of his wine.

For a moment, you considered the question. “Every single day,” you admitted, “but then I remember that it’s not the work, it’s the mission—the idea that I’m making a difference in some small way. Still, nights like these remind me that there’s more to life than secrets and strategies.”

Pedro nodded, his expression softening. “I get that. Sometimes, being in the spotlight isn’t all it’s cracked up to be either. You’re always playing a part, always expected to be something or someone. But tonight, I want to just be with you—no pretenses, no roles. Just two people sharing a moment.”

As the evening deepened, so did your connection. The restaurant’s gentle hum faded into the background as your conversation ventured into more personal territories. You spoke about your childhood dreams and how life had taken unexpected turns, while Pedro confessed his own struggles with living up to the image the world expected of him. There was a sense of relief in laying aside the masks you both wore every day.

“Tell me,” Pedro said with a teasing glint in his eye, “what’s something about you that no one would guess?”

You paused, considering the layers of your life. “Well,” you began, leaning in conspiratorially, “I can infiltrate some of the most secure facilities in the world, but I still sometimes struggle to assemble IKEA furniture without losing my mind.”

His laughter filled the booth, warm and infectious. “Now that, I would love to see. I can only imagine the epic battle of man versus Allen wrench.”

Between bites of dessert—an exquisite molten chocolate cake—and sips of a decadent port wine, the evening turned into a series of joyful revelations and shared confidences. Pedro’s charm wasn’t just in his celebrity aura but in the genuine curiosity he had about the world and the people in it. You found yourself opening up in ways you hadn’t anticipated, shedding a layer of guarded professionalism to reveal the person behind the badge.

“You know,” Pedro said, his tone shifting to something more contemplative as he looked into your eyes, “life is full of unexpected encounters. I’m beginning to think that maybe, just maybe, I’m in the middle of one of those surprises right now.”

A gentle blush warmed your cheeks. “I’m glad you think so. It’s rare to find someone who can see past the surface, to appreciate the complexities beneath.”

He smiled, a soft, silly smile that hinted at a profound joy. “I have a confession to make.” He leaned closer, lowering his voice to a near-whisper that somehow made the words feel even more intimate. “Tonight has been unlike any other date I’ve ever been on. I know it sounds crazy, but I think... I think I’ve found my soulmate.”

The words hung in the air, a delicate promise wrapped in sincerity. For a moment, you were silent, the weight of his confession mingling with the joy of the evening. It wasn’t a grand gesture or a dramatic declaration—it was a quiet, honest admission that resonated deep within you.

“Pedro…” you began, searching his eyes for a trace of jest, “that’s a big statement for a first date.”

He chuckled, a light, self-deprecating sound that belied the intensity of his feelings. “I know, I know. It might seem impulsive, but I can’t shake this feeling. There’s something about you—something real—that makes all the chaos of my life seem worth it. I’ve met a lot of people, played many parts, but with you, it’s like I can finally drop the act.”

The sincerity in his voice was undeniable. In that moment, all the complexities of your secretive world and his public persona seemed to converge into one perfect truth: that connection, genuine and unexpected, had the power to transform everything.

After dinner, you both took a slow walk along the moonlit boulevard that lined the river. The city lights danced on the water, casting shifting patterns of gold and silver. The conversation continued effortlessly—this time, quieter, more reflective. Pedro shared a memory of his grandmother’s advice about always following one’s heart, while you recalled a rare moment of vulnerability from a past mission that had left an indelible mark on your soul.

“Do you ever worry that we’re just... too different?” you asked softly as you paused at a quiet overlook, the city sprawling before you like a living tapestry.

Pedro considered your words, his gaze drifting to the horizon before returning to meet yours. “I think it’s our differences that make this so exciting. I come from a world of bright lights and constant scrutiny, while you navigate the shadows with a grace I can hardly imagine. But maybe that’s exactly what we need—a balance, a merging of two disparate worlds.”

You smiled, feeling the tension in your chest ease as the thought sank in. “A balance,” you echoed. “I like that.”

There was a gentle pause, the only sound the distant hum of the city and the soft rustling of leaves in the night breeze. Pedro reached out, his hand brushing against yours in a tender gesture. “I’m not saying everything will be perfect. Life never is. But what I do know is that I want to explore this connection—every unpredictable, exhilarating moment of it.”

Your heart fluttered at his words, and you squeezed his hand in silent agreement. “Then let’s take it one step at a time. No expectations, just us figuring it out as we go.”

As the night wound down, you found yourself back at the restaurant’s entrance, reluctant to part ways but knowing that the evening was far too special to end on a hurried goodbye. Pedro walked you to your car, the warmth of his hand lingering on yours a promise of more to come.

“You know,” he said as you reached your vehicle, “tonight has been nothing short of magical. I can’t remember the last time I felt this... alive.”

You paused, meeting his gaze. “I feel the same, Pedro. Thank you for a truly unforgettable evening.”

After a final lingering look and a gentle kiss on your cheek, you climbed into your car, the gentle hum of the engine mingling with the soft afterglow of your shared moments. Meanwhile, Pedro lingered by the doorway, watching until you were safely out of sight. With a small, silly smile that betrayed his inner joy, he muttered to himself, “I’ve found my soulmate.” The words, simple yet profound, echoed in the quiet of the night as he slowly walked away, each step buoyed by the newfound happiness that filled him.

Later that night, as Pedro finally reached the solitude of his apartment, he couldn’t help but replay the evening’s events in his mind. Standing in front of his mirror, he caught his own reflection—a man whose eyes shone with a mix of wonder and certainty. “I’ve found my soulmate,” he repeated softly, a playful grin tugging at his lips. The admission was not just a fleeting thought but a declaration that resonated deeply within him—a truth that had emerged from the shared vulnerability of an evening spent connecting beyond the masks and roles they both carried.

The next morning, Pedro’s phone buzzed with messages from friends congratulating him on the mysterious and captivating woman he’d met. With every notification, his heart swelled a little more, and as he sipped his morning coffee, he couldn’t help but smile at the memory of your laughter, the way your eyes had lit up when you spoke about chasing justice in a world of secrets, and how you had, in that moment, allowed him a glimpse into your soul.

Meanwhile, as the day unfolded for you, you found yourself reflecting on the previous night with a mix of awe and cautious hope. Life in the intelligence community rarely allowed for such moments of unabashed honesty. You recalled Pedro’s words, his vulnerable confession echoing in your thoughts, and wondered how a man so steeped in the glitz of fame could see the raw, unguarded parts of you that you usually kept hidden. Yet, somehow, in that brief interlude, the distance between two very different worlds had dissolved into nothing more than a shared human experience.

During a quiet break in your hectic day, you picked up your phone and sent a simple message to Pedro: “Last night was incredible. I hope we can do it again soon.” His response was almost immediate: “Absolutely. I can’t wait to see you again, Y/N” There was something so comforting in that exchange—a promise that, despite the chaos of your respective lives, there was now a space where both of you could be completely authentic.

That evening, as you prepared to wind down, you found yourself replaying the night’s memories in your mind. The gentle cadence of Pedro’s voice, the twinkle in his eyes when he spoke about following one’s heart, and the quiet strength in his declaration—it was all so unexpected and so real. In your line of work, trust was hard-earned and vulnerability was often a liability. But with him, it felt like a risk worth taking, a rare chance at genuine connection.

Across town, Pedro settled into his couch, a contented smile still curving his lips as he scrolled through photos from past events and snippets of fan messages. Yet none of them compared to the authenticity of last night. “I’m not one to believe in soulmates,” he mused aloud to his reflection in the darkened room, “but maybe I should start reconsidering.” His mind drifted back to the way your laughter had filled the quiet corners of that intimate booth, the subtle way you had looked at him as if you were reading between the lines of his carefully crafted persona. The memory was enough to make him feel like a young man again, full of dreams and possibilities.

It wasn’t long before Pedro picked up his phone once more to send a quick, playful text to a close friend who had always known his heart better than anyone else. “I think I met someone who might just be the real deal. I’ve found my soulmate, and I can’t wipe this silly grin off my face.” The response was immediate—a mix of teasing banter and heartfelt congratulations that warmed him even more.

Over the next few days, both of you found subtle ways to integrate these newfound feelings into your everyday lives. In the midst of strategic briefings and covert assignments, your thoughts would stray to that magical evening, to Pedro’s honest words and the undeniable spark that lingered in the air long after the night had ended. And Pedro, in the midst of film shoots and press interviews, found himself waiting eagerly for the next time he’d get to see you—curious to discover more about the woman who had so effortlessly disarmed him.

One lazy afternoon, as you sat in a quiet corner of a bustling café—your temporary refuge from the relentless pace of your work—a familiar notification popped up on your phone. It was a message from Pedro: “How about dinner tomorrow night? I’d love to hear more about your adventures in the field…and share a few more of mine.” You couldn’t help but smile as you typed your reply, feeling that same spark of anticipation that had made you step out of your comfort zone just a few nights before.

“Tomorrow sounds perfect,” you replied. “I have a few stories that might just rival your tales from behind the scenes. See you then, Pedro.”

That simple exchange carried with it the promise of new beginnings—a chance to weave together the disparate threads of two lives that had found each other in the most unlikely of ways. And while the world around you continued to spin with the weight of secrets and staged performances, there was now a corner of your heart that belonged solely to the memory of a date that had redefined what it meant to be truly seen.

In the end, it wasn’t just the allure of Pedro Pascal’s celebrity or the thrill of stepping out of your usual guarded persona that made that night unforgettable. It was the authenticity of a moment when two people allowed themselves to be vulnerable, honest, and open to the possibility of something extraordinary. A moment when a curvy CIA agent and a celebrated actor discovered that beneath all the layers of duty and public image, there lay a simple, undeniable truth: that sometimes, in the most unexpected encounters, you find the person who makes all the risks and uncertainties of life seem utterly worthwhile.

And so, as you closed your eyes that night, memories of shared laughter, whispered secrets, and promises of tomorrow gently lulled you into a peaceful sleep. Somewhere in the city, Pedro did the same, his silly smile a constant reminder of the joy that had unexpectedly blossomed between you. In the delicate interplay of shadows and light, in the blending of two very different worlds, you both had discovered something rare—a spark of soul-deep connection that would forever alter the course of your lives.

[ficnation]

Chapter 7: Jos Metodai

Series: “Eat Your Heart Out” Pairing: Hannibal Lecter x Female! Reader x Will Graham Word count: 4,4k+ Warnings: canon-typical warnings A/n: I didn't even read it over ;-; sorry (unedited)

Main Masterlist || Hannibal Masterlist

PREVIOUS CHAPTER || NEXT CHAPTER

You awaken with a scream tearing from your throat, the echoes of the vivid images still lingering in your mind like tendrils of smoke. Your heart pounds against your ribcage, the echo of your scream reverberating in the stillness of the night as you gasp for air.

Will’s eyes snap open, his body tensing instinctively at the sound of your screams piercing the silence of the night. Confusion clouds his features for a moment, before recognition dawns and he bolts upright, his gaze scanning the dimly lit room in search of the source of your distress.

“Are you okay?” he asks, his voice laced with concern as he reaches out a hand to steady you, his touch a reassuring anchor amidst the tumult of emotions swirling within you.

Breathless and trembling, you struggle to find the words to articulate the remnants of the nightmare that still cling to your mind like cobwebs, weaving a tangled web of fear and uncertainty. Yet, even as you attempt to convey the depths of your distress, a part of you hesitates, reluctant to burden him with the weight of your troubled thoughts.

With a soft sigh, Will pulls you close, enfolding you in a comforting embrace that soothes the frayed edges of your nerves and calms the storm raging within. In his arms, you find solace, a sanctuary amidst the chaos of the night, as you cling to the fragile thread of connection that binds you together in this moment of vulnerability.

“Will,” you mumble his name like a lifeline, summoning the courage to articulate what you’ve just witnessed. “I saw...something. It felt so real, but also…unreal.”

“It was just a nightmare, darling,” he murmurs, pressing a tender kiss to your sweaty forehead, soothing your fears with his gentle words.

You nod, but you don’t believe his words wholeheartedly. You’re not sure it was just a dream.

Gradually, the lingering tendrils of fear begin to loosen their grip on your mind, replaced by the warmth of Will’s presence and the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against your chest. In that moment, you allow yourself to believe that perhaps, just perhaps, the nightmare was nothing more than a figment of your imagination, a fleeting shadow in the night soon to be banished by the light of dawn.

“How did we get home?”

“We left shortly after the chess match,” Will explains, his voice calm and reassuring. “You fell asleep on the way back. You’ve been restless since we got home.”

You voice your concern, the worry evident in your tone. “Why is everything so fuzzy?”

Will pauses for a moment, his facial expression darkening with concern as he stares at you in silence, deliberating on how best to respond. “You should rest. You’re exhausted,” he says softly, brushing the back of his hand gently across your forehead, a comforting gesture that also serves as a discreet check for your temperature.

“No, no, no... Something’s wrong,” you mumble, tears gathering in your eyes. 

“Shhh,” Will whispers tenderly, his hands tightening around you, his body enclosing you completely. “It’s just a nightmare. I’m here, and nothing can harm you,” he adds, his voice tender and soothing as he attempts to calm down your nervous system and ease the flood of emotions that threaten to overcome you.

You lie in bed for what seems like an eternity, your throat burning and your heart aching as you try to digest the overwhelming feeling of dread you felt in the dream. You can’t stop trembling, even the touch of the sheets makes you feel uneasy.

Will moves next to you, his presence providing some comfort as he wraps his arm around you even tighter. You lean into him, desperate to feel his warmth and seek shelter from the outside world. His touch makes you feel safe, and you begin to relax a little, taking a deep breath as the intensity of your emotions eases.

The faint glow of the moon highlights the contours of his face, accentuating the intensity in his eyes as he watches over you with a silent vigilance. Despite the ethereal quality of his presence, his touch is grounding, a tangible reassurance amidst the nebulousness of the night.

It takes hours before you fall asleep again, and even then, your slumber remains shallow. Each movement from the man beside you jolts you awake with a start.

Will envelops you in a tight embrace each time, his body forming a protective shield against the outside world. His warmth steals your breath away, and you yearn to draw him closer, as if by melding with him, you could become one and leave your fears behind. But the memory of the encounter with the enigmatic figure, the haunting visage of Hannibal, lingers like a stain upon your psyche, refusing to be dismissed with the dawn of a new day.

This was undeniably the worst night of your life. Never before had you experienced nightmares of such intensity. Not even after your father’s death, when you were forced to leave Will and travel far away, had you endured such torment in your sleep.

You’ve slept poorly and you feel exhausted and sore from the nightmare. Will is up before you, busy in the kitchen preparing breakfast.

He notices the fatigue etched on your face and promptly brings the cooked food to your side of the bed, offering a tender smile as he sets down a steaming mug of coffee on the nightstand next to you. Then, he settles beside you, placing a reassuring hand on your arm, leaning in close so that his warmth and calming presence envelop you.

“Not feeling any better, are we?” 

“Not really, no. I’m tired, and my head hurts,” you mumble, clutching the blanket tightly. Your fingers keep tracing through the fibers, seeking some form of comfort as exhaustion creeps over you. Will offers you a reassuring smile and plants a gentle kiss on your forehead.

“I’ve never seen you have a nightmare like that before. Not even on the most difficult days.”

“Well, that is new,” you mumble, leaning back against him. You’re too exhausted to resist the overwhelming urge to surrender to the fatigue.

“I can’t stop thinking about it. It felt so real,” you add, turning to him and attempting to describe it despite the exhaustion and the headache that’s growing at an alarming speed.

Will pauses for a moment, absorbing your words and trying to comprehend the depth of your distress. He draws you closer, wrapping you in a tight embrace, as if to shield you from the haunting echoes of the nightmare. Tenderly, he presses a kiss to the top of your head and squeezes you gently, his silent gesture conveying his earnest desire to protect.

“We don’t have to talk about it,” he whispers into your hair.

“I can’t stop seeing it...” you murmur, your voice shaky and fearful as you attempt to articulate the haunting imagery that continues to replay in your mind, the vividness of the dream lingering despite your lack of sleep. “It felt so real, as if it actually happened,” you continue, your breathing uneven causing your voice to crack as you struggle to convey the entirety of the experience. Uncertainty gnaws at your gut as you grapple with the unsettling feeling that refuses to dissipate.

Will remains silent, recognizing the rawness of your emotions, knowing that no words could easily soothe your distress. Yet, he persists in holding you tightly, refusing to let you confront your fears alone. Pressing his face against your neck, he seeks to offer solace through his touch, silently conveying his unwavering support even when words fail him.

“Will... “ You mumble, your voice barely audible. “Could it happen? This...this thing that I saw… I had no control over it,” you add, your breaths growing shallower as the images threaten to overwhelm you once more. You can’t bear to keep your eyes open any longer—the headache has made you sensitive to the light, and the haunting images continue to replay in your mind, tormenting you anew.

Will’s silence speaks volumes, his eyes locked firmly on you, watching, waiting. Your breaths grow shallow and frantic, and the pain in your head intensifies, driving you into a spiral of despair. 

“I don’t know anymore,” your voice emerges quietly, the lingering images refusing to dissolve. Those pitch-black eyes and antlers continue to haunt you, flashing before your eyes every time you close them, so you try to keep them open. 

“Shhh,” Will gently presses his lips to your forehead, caressing the skin with a gentle touch. His hand traces a pattern across your body, leaving a trail of gentle warmth in its wake as he draws your attention back to the present. “It’s just a nightmare, darling. Nothing more.”

“It’s not,” you mumble, barely able to fight off sleep. “It’s not just a nightmare.”

Will’s eyes narrow as he observes you slipping back into restfulness, knowing that despite his efforts, your mind still clings to the vivid imagery of that nightmare. Nevertheless, he remains steadfast, cradling you in his arms and offering his warmth and reassuring touch, determined to bring your body to a state of complete relaxation to ensure that your sleep remains undisturbed this time.

You eventually succumb to exhaustion, your head resting against his chest as your body melts into a state of serene calmness. Will continues to caress you gently, keeping you safe from the outside world. The untouched food on the bedside table serves as a testament to the intensity of your troubled night.

Your second encounter with Hannibal Lecter is a shock—both physically and mentally. You never thought that this moment would come so soon, and you aren’t prepared for it in the slightest. Not after the week you just spent slouched on the carpet in Jack Crawford’s office over piles of open folders and files. You’re exhausted, famished, and dehydrated. You don’t even have a clue what day it is. 

There’s a knock on the door, and before you have the chance to yell back “Crawford’s not here!” the man enters the office without even waiting for an invitation. Your heart skips a beat as you recognize the distinct figure of Hannibal.

His sudden appearance only adds to the disarray of your thoughts and emotions, leaving you feeling utterly unprepared for whatever twist of fate has brought him back into your life. Quickly regaining your composure, you rise to your feet, bracing yourself for whatever conversation or scheme he has in store.

Hannibal Lecter is a tall, elegant man—all sharp angular features, perfectly parted hair, and eyes that seem devoid of color. He wears a suit that looks as if it was made specially for him, immaculately tailored and pressed. He exudes a sense of style and sophistication that belies his true nature, his demeanor a stark contrast to the unsettling aura that surrounds him.

His gaze sends a shiver down your spine, and your skin erupts in goosebumps as you feel him scrutinize you from head to toe.

“Good morning, Agent Avant,” Hannibal Lecter greets you with a tone that seems to pierce through all your barriers, causing your heartbeat to accelerate like a car on the highway with no speed limit. Despite the unsettling effect he has on you, he remains composed and polite, exuding an air of kindness and understanding that belies the darker nature lurking beneath the surface.

You sense him taking in your appearance—the tousled hair on your head, the loose sweater that probably belongs to Will, the gray sweatpants, and the scattered open folders strewn across the carpet and glass coffee table. You feel like a stark contrast to his impeccably groomed appearance.

“It’s not a good time, Doctor Lecter,” you murmur, crossing your arms over your chest, feeling a pang of embarrassment at your disheveled state.

Hannibal’s face softens instantly—whether out of guilt, surprise, curiosity, or something entirely different, it’s impossible to discern. He takes a step towards you, and you feel as though you’re under his spell. The way his eyes scan over your body is hypnotic, and when he speaks, his tone is the most friendly it could possibly be.

“Forgive the intrusion, Agent Avant,” Hannibal says, his voice smooth as silk, each word carrying a subtle charm. “I merely wished to extend my greetings and offer any assistance you might require. I understand that you’ve been through quite a challenging time recently.”

You find yourself momentarily captivated by his demeanor, his words soothing some of the tension that had been building within you. However, a lingering sense of unease tugs at the edges of your consciousness, a reminder of the dangers that lurk beneath his polished facade. Despite this, you can’t help but feel a strange allure to his presence, a magnetism that both draws you in and fills you with apprehension.

Your eyebrows scrunch in confusion as you try to decipher the meaning behind his words and gaze. Despite causing quite a commotion with your sudden reappearance at the BAU, you consider yourself to be no one special.

After a few beats of silence that seem to stretch into eternity, Hannibal shifts his attention, casting his gaze around the office. His tone takes on a professional demeanor.

“Can you take a seat, please?” he asks, gesturing towards a chair positioned in front of Crawford’s desk.

You’re accustomed to occupying that seat, whether it’s to present your latest theories to your boss or to feign attention during his lectures, so you comply without questioning it. As soon as you’re seated, your hands instinctively grip the armrests for support, and you feel your heart rate begin to accelerate as the terrifying creature from your nightmares flashes behind his person. Here he is—the monster who took your sister’s life and nearly destroyed Will’s.

Hannibal reclines in Crawford’s chair, his gaze fixed intently on you, making you feel like a bug under a microscope. You attempt to acclimate to his unwavering attention, but it proves to be no easy feat. His gaze feels like a pair of hands delicately exploring every inch of you, and as your heart rate increases, you sense him delving deeper, searching for something within you.

After a prolonged moment, he finally speaks, his words leaving you breathless. “I’ve heard a lot about you recently.”

“From Will?” you inquire, your voice tinged with curiosity.

“No, not from Will,” Hannibal responds, the corner of his mouth raising almost imperceptibly.

The man watches you patiently, his words and tone exerting a magnetic pull that freezes you in place. Your mind goes blank—you’re at a loss for what to say in response, uncertain how to decipher his intentions. While you’re accustomed to Will’s penetrating stares and silence, Hannibal exudes a different kind of power—a captivating yet intimidating presence that both intrigues and unnerves you. It’s a dynamic that commands both fear and respect simultaneously.

“I must admit, I’ve heard about you too, Doctor Lecter,” you manage to say, forcing your body to relax, your shoulders dropping as you exhale the breath trapped in your lungs.

Hannibal nods slowly, his gaze unwavering as he processes your words. “Jack has spoken a lot about you and your special methods…” he acknowledges, his tone carrying a hint of intrigue.

His eyes continue to shift over you, as if he is calculating something, and you find yourself unable to look away, meeting his gaze head-on. The subtle curve of your lips seems to particularly pique his interest.

“Special and unconventional,” he goes on, his voice measured and deliberate, causing you to shift slightly in your chair under his scrutiny. “A bit reckless at times…” Hannibal adds, as if he were attempting to gauge your reaction or perhaps provoke a response from you.

You don’t give him the satisfaction of a reaction. You were aware that your methods might have appeared reckless to observers, but they had never failed you, not even once. You possessed a knack for working your charm on anyone, and if that didn’t suffice, getting a rise out of somebody was even easier. Crawford relished allowing you to do your thing, reveling in the satisfaction of achieving the desired results.

“And successful,” you assert confidently, emphasizing the undeniable effectiveness of your approach. “Very successful.”

“I know you work outside the box, barely on the edge between what’s moral and what’s not,” Hannibal says, as if this were some kind of revelation. “And I’m curious to find out more.” He leans back in his chair, his body relaxed enough for his suit to fold around him, exuding an air of intrigue and anticipation.

“Then tell me, what unconventional methods of mine have you heard about?” You cross one leg over the other and raise your eyebrow, a subtle challenge in your demeanor. You need to ascertain whether he’s genuinely aware of your methods or simply baiting you to reveal them yourself.

Hannibal stares for a long minute at your leg, then at your arms, your face. The way his eyes keep circling and circling you makes you hold your breath—his gaze is sharp and penetrating, with a touch of curiosity that you almost feel like covering up in some way. His scrutiny feels almost invasive, as if he’s peeling back layers of your facade to uncover the truth beneath.

“I’ve heard that you’re not afraid to provoke the suspect into revealing their motives,” he says slowly, each word carefully measured. “That you use empathy to understand their thoughts and fears, and that you can even convince them to help you.” He pauses, as if assessing each new word before he says it, while you listen intently, fingers tapping on the cushioned armrest.

“You believe that the human mind is like... a puzzle,” Hannibal continues, his tone thoughtful. “And once you find the right pieces to put together, the answers are within your reach.”

You notice that he doesn’t mention your other technique—either he has no idea about it or he’s choosing to omit it from his speech. Fascinating.

“What brings you here, then?” you inquire, shifting the focus back onto him, curious about his intentions for seeking you out.

Hannibal smiles as a knock sounds on the door. Crawford sticks his head inside, appearing almost like a visitor in his own office. His timing is unnervingly perfect—in a bad kind of way.

“Agent Avant,” the chief says, his voice soft as he takes in your appearance. You look even worse than two hours ago, a fact he didn’t think was possible. “I don’t want to interrupt, but we have to go.”

“It’s my day off,” you respond, a hint of frustration creeping into your voice at the interruption. So close. Crawford only quirks an eyebrow not saying anything more. “Not in this industry,” you concede with a resigned sigh, acknowledging the relentless demands of your profession.

“It’s urgent,” Crawford insists, his tone leaving no room for argument as he emphasizes the gravity of the situation.

It’s all you have to hear to shut everything else off. You jump to your feet and frantically search the room for your coat, your exhausted mind struggling to locate it even though your gaze skips over it twice.

“Give me two minutes,” you sigh, rubbing your temples in an attempt to coax your brain into action.

“I can drive you,” Hannibal offers suddenly, his eagerness to see you in action apparent. Without hesitation, he rises from his seat just as quickly as you did, crossing the room to retrieve your coat from the rack. It’s almost as if he knew which one was yours from the start. Before you can even say a word, he throws it over your shoulders.

“Thank you, Hannibal, but we already have someone waiting for us,” Jack declines, saving you from having to make that choice.

You put your arms through the sleeves of your coat and extend your hand toward Doctor Lecter. “It’s been a pleasure. I’m sure we will meet again in no time.” The way your tone of voice mimics his politeness makes his eyes glint with something indescribable.

“Surely, Mrs. Graham,” Hannibal responds, shaking your hand. “We’ll talk again very soon.”

You can almost feel him analyzing you again, reading the expression on your face from the curve of your lips to the slight movement of your nose. His gaze remains as sharp as ever, but the look on his face is almost affectionate when he looks down at you.

And then you realize he’s not looking at you—he’s looking past you.

You turn to find Will leaning against the doorway, his eyes fixed on you and Hannibal. He barely moves as he stands there, the light of the room falling on his face and illuminating him like a golden statue.

Will’s expression remains blank, as if he’s trying to process the entire situation from an outsider’s perspective. His eyes don’t leave you for a second, yet you get the sense that they aren’t even focused on you. He watches as you shake Hannibal’s hand, his gaze unwavering as your fingers brush Hannibal’s forearm. He seems so absorbed in observing the two of you that he appears oblivious to his surroundings, almost like someone whose mind is trapped in a memory.

Hannibal’s gaze shifts slowly from you to Will’s face. Sensing the tension, you discreetly pull your hand away. Meanwhile, you notice that Crawford has stepped out into the hallway, clearly unwilling to find himself caught in the brewing storm.

“Will,” you acknowledge him with a smile, attempting to quietly reassure him that everything’s alright.

Will snaps out of his trance as he hears your voice. His face softens, and he stares at you for a second before he moves towards you, intertwining his fingers with yours. You notice, again, that his expression is empty, but there’s a hint of relief in his eyes.

“Let’s go,” he says, gently pulling you with him, and you can’t help but notice how carefully he holds your hand. It’s almost as if he’s afraid of hurting you, the way he keeps his movements so gentle.

You’re in the back seat of the car when you notice the silence. You turn to look at Will’s profile, his face turned away from you, his eyes focused on the road as you head toward the crime scene.

He’s been unusually quiet lately—no comments, no observations, no idle chatter. It’s as if he’s trying to protect you from any unnecessary stress or fatigue. You wonder if he’s feeling frustrated because you refused to discuss what happens in your nightmares that repeat day after day.

Will’s silence fills you with unease, making you wonder whether his mind is filled with questions you should already have answered.

You try to distract yourself by studying the passing scenery, but your eyes keep gravitating back to his profile. Every time you look at him, his gaze is trained on the road ahead, almost as if he’s avoiding your eyes. You can’t help but sense that he’s keeping something to himself, like he’s holding back some valuable insight or observation that he thinks you’d prefer not to hear.

Jack, who is occupying the passenger’s seat, must have noticed your darting gaze. “What’s wrong with you two lately?” he asks, his voice carrying a hint of concern.

You freeze, feeling as if you’ve been caught in the act of doing something wrong. Will seems to tense up, his brows creasing in mild irritation. You open your mouth to offer some explanation or excuse, but Jack has already started talking again before you can even get a word in.

“Avant, you spend your whole days in my office; I’m starting to consider you a permanent resident,” Jack remarks, injecting a touch of humor into the situation to alleviate the tension.

Will glances at you out of the corner of his eye, his features appearing neutral despite the tense situation between you two. You can’t help but notice how his gaze lingers on your face for a few beats longer than necessary, as if he’s waiting for you to reply to Jack’s comments.

Feeling the weight of his gaze, you muster a faint smile and respond, “Well, Jack, your office does have a certain charm to it.”

“You don’t want your own?” Jack asks, his tone light but with a hint of genuine curiosity.

“I hate being alone,” you admit, your voice carrying a note of vulnerability.

Jack glances between the two of you, his eyes narrowing slightly as he processes your response. “Can’t stand being alone with your own thoughts, eh?” he asks, his tone suggesting a hint of understanding mixed with a touch of skepticism.

“Yeah, you could say so,” you reply, keeping your response brief but acknowledging Jack’s observation.

“I didn’t take you for the type who needed company all the time.”

“Oh come on, Jack. You’ve known me long enough to know that,” you respond, injecting a touch of humor into your reply.

Jack’s lips curl into an amused smirk before he lets out a chuckle, his features returning to a more neutral expression. “That’s true,” he says agreeably, his attention shifting back to the road ahead.

Your attention is drawn back to Will’s profile. His gaze remains fixed on the road, his expression stoic and unreadable. You get the distinct impression that he’s listening in on your conversation with Jack, although he seems unbothered by it.

“We will talk about it,” you mumble to yourself, hoping that somehow Will hears your words, even in the midst of the steady hum of the engine.

Just as you finish your sentence, Will breaks your pondering, his gaze briefly returning to you and catching yours for a split second. You can tell from his expression that he heard your murmur, although you’re not sure if he caught the words.

There’s a subtle shift in his demeanor, a flicker of understanding passing between you, before he returns his focus to the road ahead, leaving you to ponder the unspoken communication exchanged in that fleeting moment.

You hold onto that moment, a glimmer of hope that perhaps Will is open to discussing whatever has been weighing on your mind. Despite the lingering tension between you, there’s a sense of reassurance in the silent understanding that passes between you.

As the car continues down the road, you find yourself lost in your thoughts, contemplating the complexities of your relationship with Will and the challenges you both face. You silently vow to find a way to bridge the gap that has formed between you, determined to address the issues that have been left unspoken for too long.

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[kaycares22]

At 7:36 AM on a Tuesday, Draco stumbles out of her personal Floo. It sounds like he tumbles out, and Hermione gasps as she whirls around to face the hearth in her kitchen. He’s bent over with his hands on his knees, catching his breath. She’s never seen him look less put together.

“Draco. What’s wrong?” There’s a wild look in his eyes as he straightens, staring at her in a way that makes her feel more vulnerable than when he had her skirt hitched up around her waist seconds after he placed a silencing charm on the door to her office yesterday. She’s grown used to his touch, his taste, his presence in her life in stolen moments. But a wake-up call is outside the protocol of their trysts.

Not to mention that his face is currently whiter than the white blonde of his hair.

“What happened?” she asks when he continues to stare at her with wide gray eyes instead of answering her question. “What’s wrong?”

His hand shakes as he raises it to run it through his hair. “The tapestry,” he finally rasps. “The bloody fucking tapestry.”

“The…?” Hermione frowns as she watches his Adam's apple bob with the force of his swallow. He runs his hand through his hair again, and she thinks to herself that he looks spider-webbed, seconds away from shattering with the force of a breeze. “Here. Come sit.”

Draco’s hand still shakes in hers when she takes it, but he lets her lead him to one of the stools at her counter. He stares at some spot over her shoulder, almost despondent in his panic, until she presses her palm against his cheek. She ignores the voice in the back of her mind that questions why this feels like the most intimate way she’s ever touched him.

His eyes have that same wild quality when he stares back at her. “What happened to the tapestry?”

Rubbing a hand over his face, he mumbles something to himself that sounds like Didn’t think this part through. His hand covers his eyes for several long seconds before he finally lets it drop away. But then his eyes roam her body like he’s searching for an answer, and she wishes he’d cover his eyes again instead.

It catches her off guard when he asks, “How do you feel?”

“How do I feel?” she repeats, sounding daft even in her own ears.

“Do you feel… normal?”

Draco’s eyes scan her body again, and she crosses her arms over her chest to lessen that feeling of being laid bare before him. “I don’t even know what that means.”

“Is there something you need to tell me?” He shifts directions as he shifts uncomfortably in his seat. And Hermione feels exasperated.

“Draco, what the hell are you getting at?” she sighs.

He falls silent again, but at least this time he holds her gaze. Another swallow, another bob. Another shaking hand through his hair. And then his voice a thin rasp again when he says, “You appeared on my family tapestry.”

Her blood freezes in her veins. She has no idea what that means, and she’s certain she knows what he just said at the same time. But her brain refuses to accept that interpretation. “I- what?”

“Granger, you are now on the Malfoy family tapestry. Which could mean that when you got me drunk on firewhisky last Friday, I married you and managed to forget.” Her stomach flips at the easy way the word married rolls off his tongue, but something in her mind screams at him to stop there.

Marriage. Period. Full stop. As far as this train of thought goes.

But instead, he levels his gaze with hers again as a muscle twitches in his jaw. “But there would be a line connecting your name to mine. Not an empty circle with an hourglass beneath both our names.”

His eyes drop from hers to stare solidly at her middle. She rushes to cross her arms there, to hide it from his view. “That’s impossible.”

But even as she says the words, she hears the lack of sincerity. Impossible would mean she hadn’t been the one to kiss him first. Impossible would mean she hadn’t invited him back to hers that first time, telling herself the next morning that she had been a little too drunk when she hadn’t drunk at all. Impossible would mean he was still just her coworker, not someone who had traced every part of her with his hands.

It was very possible.

“You’ve been a bitch,” he adds, interrupting her thoughts.

“I have not!” She takes a step back to create distance. Her hand itches to slap him. He must sense it because his lip twitches despite the lack of color that remains in his face.

“You were all pissy with me last week when you misplaced your notes on the vampyr rights’ bill.” He waves a hand lazily towards her. “You’re pissy right now.”

“You called me a bitch!” she says, aghast. What had ever made her think it was a good idea to sleep with this man? And then to keep returning at various times for the last three months?

“Yesterday, my hand barely grazed your tit, and you flinched.” He cards a hand through his hair again. It looks unkempt now, and Draco Malfoy never looks unkempt. Neither of them. Neither of them ever looks unkempt because they are calculated and careful and intentional in everything they do.

Except for when she kissed him on an impulse after their co-authored legislation for the protection of centaurs passed.

Hermione has to fight the urge to raise her hand to her own breast to see if it’s still just as tender.

“Well, it’s impossible.” She sounds more sure of herself as she shakes her head and raises her chin. “I’m taking a potion.”

This time, his lip does more than twitch. It’s a sad kind of smirk he wears, and her hand itches again to slap it off his face. “Which would be canceled out by the antidote you took when you had that skin reaction to the asphodel.”

She had held her breath, waiting for him to point out all the potential flaws in her brewing her own contraceptive potion. But the way he takes his Double Mastery of Potions knowledge and easily points out the way her potions would counteract one another leaves her feeling faint.

Hermione feels the color leave her own face. But her stubborn resistance grows a reciprocal amount.

“Well, this is ridiculous,” she mutters as she storms across the room to her discarded wand on the counter. She turns back around to find that Draco is standing again, gripping the counter as if it’s a life raft. She waves her wand and mutters the detection charm, determined to prove him wrong.

And instead, a tiny gold light appears above her abdomen. Flickering like a rapid heartbeat.

Her knees buckle as her whole world upends. But Draco just stares at it with wide eyes, his expression a mixture of fear and awe as he whispers, “Well, fuck me.”

[mya-valentine]

In the Web of Shadows

Synopsis: Tasked with assisting the enigmatic detective L, you—a skilled and reclusive hacker—find yourself thrust into the high-stakes Kira investigation. What starts as professional collaboration evolves into a deeply personal connection as you uncover the rare vulnerabilities of the man behind the legend.

The glow of your multiple monitors was the only source of light in your cluttered apartment. Empty energy drink cans littered the desk, tangled wires snaked across the floor, and the faint hum of your custom-built PC filled the room. You were used to solitude, thriving in the anonymity of cyberspace, where your fingers did the talking, and no one ever asked about your past.

That is, until he contacted you.

The message had been cryptic but unmistakably urgent. A renowned detective, known only by the alias "L," required your expertise to help dismantle the growing threat of Kira—a killer who could strike with a mere name and face. Intrigued, you accepted, your curiosity piqued by the challenge and the man behind the message.

When you first met L, it wasn’t in person but through a secure video link. His disheveled hair and sunken eyes betrayed his erratic sleeping habits, and his strange sitting posture immediately struck you as odd. Yet, his voice was calm, commanding even, as he laid out the parameters of your collaboration.

“You’ll be working remotely,” he had said, his dark eyes locked onto yours through the screen. “But I need real-time updates. No delays, no excuses.”

His clipped tone might have irritated you if not for the flicker of curiosity behind those shadowed eyes. He didn’t fully trust you—not yet—but he needed your skills. You smirked and leaned back in your chair.

“You’re the boss, L. But I work better with coffee breaks.”

His lips twitched, just barely, into what might have been the ghost of a smile.

Weeks passed, and you fell into a strange rhythm with L. Your primary role was hacking into encrypted databases, surveillance networks, and occasionally cracking into highly secured government files when the investigation required it.

Despite his initial rigidity, you found L’s company surprisingly... stimulating. He wasn’t much for small talk, but his sharp wit and dry humor had a way of surfacing at the most unexpected moments.

“You’re unusually quiet today,” you teased during one late-night session. “Trouble in paradise?”

L, perched in his usual crouch in front of a mountain of screens, didn’t look up from the sugar cube he was carefully stacking onto the rim of his teacup.

“Paradise implies a state of happiness,” he said, his monotone voice laced with subtle sarcasm. “Happiness is an illusion when one is chasing a god of death.”

You rolled your eyes, though you couldn’t help the small laugh that escaped. “Ever the optimist, aren’t you?”

“And you, [Name], are ever the cynic.”

For all his peculiarities, L had an uncanny ability to see right through people. It unnerved you at first, how easily he seemed to read between the lines of your guarded demeanor, but over time, it became strangely comforting.

It was during one of those rare quiet nights, when the investigation seemed to hit a lull, that you saw a different side of him.

You were hunched over your keyboard, scanning for anomalies in a series of banking transactions Kira might have used to fund his activities. L sat nearby, absently twirling a fork through a slice of strawberry shortcake. The glow of the monitors cast a pale light across his face, accentuating the dark circles under his eyes.

“You should sleep,” you said without looking up.

“And you should socialize,” he countered, his voice devoid of its usual bite.

You glanced at him, surprised by the uncharacteristic softness in his tone. He wasn’t teasing this time—it was an observation, almost wistful.

“I could say the same about you,” you replied quietly.

L set his fork down, his gaze lingering on the untouched dessert. For a moment, the weight of the investigation, of his own relentless pursuit of justice, seemed to settle heavily on his narrow shoulders.

“I’m not particularly skilled at forming attachments,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “It’s a weakness I can’t afford.”

Your heart ached at the vulnerability in his words. L was a man who carried the weight of the world on his back, yet allowed no one close enough to share the burden.

“You know,” you said softly, “you don’t have to do this alone.”

He looked at you then, really looked at you, as if searching for the truth in your words.

“Perhaps,” he said after a long pause. “But I wonder if you understand what that entails.”

His cryptic response stayed with you long after the conversation ended, a puzzle piece you couldn’t quite place.

As the days turned into weeks, your relationship with L grew more complex. The banter became more frequent, the silences less strained. You found yourself seeking his approval, not because you needed it, but because it felt good to know he valued your contributions.

One night, after a particularly grueling session, you found L asleep at his desk. His head rested on his arms, his breathing steady for once. The sight was so disarming that you hesitated to wake him.

Instead, you draped your jacket over his shoulders and returned to your monitors.

The turning point came during a particularly close call. You had intercepted a coded message that suggested Kira’s followers had discovered your location. L acted swiftly, relocating you to his own secure hideout before you could protest.

“This isn’t up for debate,” he had said, his tone leaving no room for argument.

The new environment was sterile, cold, and yet... his presence made it bearable.

One evening, as you worked side by side, L spoke without warning.

“You’re different from anyone I’ve worked with before.”

You raised an eyebrow, caught off guard. “Is that a compliment or a warning?”

“An observation,” he said simply. “You challenge me in ways I didn’t anticipate.”

For once, you didn’t have a snarky retort. The weight of his words hung in the air, unspoken but understood.

It wasn’t long after that night that the first crack appeared in L’s otherwise impenetrable facade.

You were poring over surveillance footage when you felt his hand brush against yours as he reached for a pen. The contact was brief, accidental, but it sent a jolt through you.

“Sorry,” he murmured, though his hand lingered for just a fraction too long before retreating.

“It’s fine,” you said, though your voice betrayed you.

His dark eyes met yours, searching, and for the first time, you saw something more than calculation in his gaze.

“[Name],” he said softly, your name, a question, a confession, and a promise all at once.

And in that moment, the walls you had both so carefully constructed began to crumble.

.

.

.

Masterlist

[luis-michael6160]

Multiversal brothers-in-law, or How Peter Parker Took Tim Drake to Bed EP: 03

Spider & red Robin EP:03

[story collection]

previous episode

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🕷️🖤 Wayne Manor – 08:03 AM ☕💤🛏️ “This is better than swinging through Brooklyn…”

Morning light filtered softly through the curtains. Peter Parker woke up slowly. No alarms. No screams. No accidentally fired web-shooters. Just… warmth. Silence. A Tim Drake half-tangled in his arms, face buried in his chest, brows slightly furrowed even in sleep.

Peter smiled. He gave himself a few more minutes, running his fingers gently through Tim’s hair, memorizing his weight, his slow breathing, the very human warmth of him.

"This beats rooftop brooding," he thought.

With the care of someone disarming an emotional landmine, he slid out from under Tim—no small feat. Before stepping away, he leaned in.

“Good morning, sleepyhead,” he whispered, and planted a loud, exaggerated kiss on Tim’s lips.

Tim muttered something like “mghfph-microchip ectoplasm” and rolled over, hugging the pillow like it owed him rent.

Peter stretched, still smiling sleepily, and padded to the door, adjusting a rumpled t-shirt (probably stolen from Dick Grayson) and wondering if Alfred might be convinced to make bat-shaped pancakes.

He opened the door.

And froze.

The entire Batfamily was standing outside. Every single one of them.

Dick, smiling so wide it had to be suspicious. Jason, chewing gum, arms crossed, eyebrow raised. Damian, katana on his back, glaring like Peter owed him a favor. Barbara, tablet ready to record or report — probably both. Steph, filming him with her phone like this was TikTok drama. And Bruce.

Right in the center.

Silent.

Peter blinked. Half-shoeless, half-dressed, fully caught.

“…Uh. Hi?” he offered.

Silence.

Jason was the first to speak. “Sleep well, multiversal Romeo?”

Peter swallowed. “Yeah. Nice manor. Quiet. Spacious. Very ‘I see you from the gargoyle’ aesthetic.”

Bruce narrowed his eyes. “You’re Peter Parker.”

“Yes, sir,” Peter replied automatically. “And you’re even scarier in real life, which is saying something.”

Damian stepped forward. “You have super strength and wall-crawling powers, yet you let my brother drape himself over you like a sedated koala. Why?”

Peter didn’t hesitate. “Because I love him. And because he’s cute, warm, and smells like overpriced coffee and fresh notebooks. Need more reasons?”

Dick burst out laughing. “I like him. Bruce, does he pass?”

Bruce stared Peter down with that soul-scanning expression. Then… one nod.

“Don’t hurt my son.”

Peter raised his hands. “Sir, he could destroy me with a passive-aggressive glare and a 300-page dossier. I’m the vulnerable one here.”

Steph clapped him on the shoulder. “Welcome to the family, Parker. Pancakes?”

“Bat-shaped?” he asked hopefully.

“Who do you think we are?” Dick grinned. “Obviously.”

As they descended toward the kitchen, Bruce lingered with Barbara.

“You ran the scan?” he asked.

“Yep,” she nodded. “Peter Parker. Spider-Man. Smart. Strong. Traumatized. Hopelessly in love with Tim. Also, makes great breakfast. According to neighbors.”

Bruce didn’t reply. But for the first time in weeks, the corner of his mouth twitched upward.

Maybe this Spider-Man was exactly what Tim needed.

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💬Comments make Peter and Tim sleep well and 8 hours

🫶Likes are coffee for Tim

[suzukiblu]

Ko-fi thank-you sentences for Flamyangelwings; Kara gets to Earth on time and the Kents get a two-for-one special on free kids.

Ma and Pa store the wreckages of both of their ships in a building that Kara thinks is a barn and cover them with thick, heavy fabric. She takes the crystals out of the ships first, obviously. The ships are little more than scrap now, but they’ll need the crystals one day. 

Not yet, but . . . one day. 

She and Kal both wear alien clothes and eat alien food and she does her alien work, and he plays with his alien toys, and Ma and Pa . . . Ma and Pa fuss, Kara can’t help feeling. 

Sometimes other aliens visit, or they go into Smoll-Veel for supplies or to eat at the restaurants or visit places Kara doesn’t always understand the purpose of. There’s a park, and a shop for textiles, and a . . . library, she thinks? Ma and Pa don’t exchange money for the things they take from it, anyway; just scan a card, and then bring them back later. Kara thinks they’re some sort of . . . paper records, from what she’s gathered–sheets upon sheets of paper, all bound together on one side. Some of them are slimmer and have pictures, and Ma and Pa like to take turns reading those to Kal. Some of them are thicker and don’t have pictures, or at least not many, and those they either read in silence or read to each other or even Kara.

She doesn’t understand them, obviously, but . . . it’s . . . nice, she thinks. 

She actually thinks they might be stories, not just records. Especially the ones with pictures in them. 

So it’s very nice, that Ma and Pa are sharing those with them. Very . . . very kind. 

In the settlement, Ma and Pa introduce Kara and Kal by slightly different names, and everyone calls them Mar-Tha and Jona-Than, not Ma and Pa. Kara thinks maybe this planet has private names on top of their public ones, though she’s not actually certain. 

They call her “Ka-Lair” and call Kal “Ka-Lum” to the other aliens, though they pronounce them a little oddly–“Claire” and “Callum”, more like. Or that’s as close as Kara can get, anyway. Sometimes they say “Ka-Lair Zo-El Kent” and “Ka-Lum El-Ot Kent”–Kara’s not sure why Kal gets the Laborer title attached to his name too, but supposes it must be because children on this planet are associated with their guardian’s guild until they’re old enough to choose their own–though again, the pronunciation is a little odd. More like . . . “Claire Zoelle Kent” and “Callum Elliot Kent”, she thinks. 

Most of the other aliens in Smoll-Veel are kind, but none of them are as kind as Ma and Pa. Ma and Pa are . . . they’re so kind. Ma teaches Kara how to make her “pye”, and Pa teaches her how to play a catching game with a small white ball and a peculiar webbed glove and sometimes a stick to hit the ball with, and they both teach her how to work on their little farm and help her take care of Kal. They’ve even gotten him his own little bed, with tall fenced-in sides so he can’t roll or climb out of it, and set it up in a bedroom for him and her to stay in together, with a closet full of clothes for them both and a box of toys for Kal and a shelf of thin paper records with pretty pictures inside of them that they read to him from every night after “supper”. 

She thinks Ma is female and Pa is male, now, and is mostly certain that they’re either mated or married or whatever this planet does, not related or just friends. Definitely not just coworkers, either way. They still call Kal’s toy dog “Krippo” instead of “Krypto”, but given Kara’s problems getting her own tongue around their language’s words, she’s not going to hold it against them. Kal understands what they mean when they say it, so that’s all that matters.

She feels vulnerable and uncomfortable whenever they’re off the farm, and sometimes even on it, but . . . but Ma and Pa are so kind, and it’s hard to feel uncomfortable with them.

Vulnerable, maybe, but not quite in the same way as she does out in Smoll-Veel.

[snorklingfae]

Shades of Deception- Prologue

Dark!Joel Miller x naive!Fem reader

Synopsis: Amidst the ruins of a broken world, one survivor stands out from the rest - Joel Miller. With his sharp wit and unmatched ability to deceive, Joel has always managed to outmaneuver those around him. But when he meets y/n, an unsuspecting and trusting survivor, Joel sees an opportunity to take his game to the next level. As their relationship progresses, y/n unwittingly becomes entangled in Joel's web of lies and deceit, utterly unaware of the true extent of his cunning and manipulation. Will y/n break free from Joel's grasp before it's too late?

Notes: thinking of instead using the term y/n as it can get tedious to write but use Bambi instead as a nickname Joel uses.

Warnings: none yet more will be added in each chapter

Joel trudged wearily through the overgrown remnants of what was once a thriving city. The air hung heavy with the scent of decay, and the dilapidated buildings echoed his every footstep, reminding him of the world that had crumbled around him.

His senses were on high alert, scanning the shadows for any sign of danger. Survival had become his second nature in this unforgiving landscape.

One day, fate intervened as Joel was patrolling the area, and he saw a movement amidst the rubble of an abandoned storefront.

He slowly approached, weapon at the ready, prepared for any threat. But as he drew closer, he realized it wasn't a runner or clicker. It was a survivor, like himself, but far more vulnerable than he could have imagined.

She looked up at him with wide, trusting eyes, and her face was illuminated by a faint glimmer of hope that still flickered within her.

Despite the grim reality of their world, she radiated an aura of innocence and purity that Joel found both unsettling and strangely captivating.

As Joel observed her, a comparison sprang to mind, one that surprised even him. She reminded him of a character from a storybook, a creature from a world untouched by the darkness that now enveloped them—a fawn, fragile and trusting, with wide eyes that held a spark of curiosity and wonder.

Bambi, he thought to himself, though he doubted she would understand the reference in this harsh new reality.

"Are you bit?" Joel's gruff voice betrayed his concern as he approached cautiously.

"No, I swear," she replied, her voice trembling.

After a few seconds of debating, Joel sighed, "Are you alright?"

She nodded, offering him a tentative smile that tugged at something deep within Joel's hardened heart.

“I'm fine," she replied softly, her voice barely above a whisper. "Just... scared."

Joel crouched beside her, his expression unreadable as he studied her carefully. He could see the fear in her eyes, and the uncertainty mirrored his inner turmoil.

Despite the danger that lurked around every corner, there was something about this girl that drew him in, a flicker of humanity amidst the chaos that consumed their world.

Without a word, Joel extended a hand to her, offering her comfort in a world devoid of kindness.

“Come on," he said gruffly, his tone softened by a hint of warmth that surprised even him. "You'll be safer with me."

And with that simple gesture, Joel's solitary journey took an unexpected turn, leading him down a path he never could have anticipated—a path that would intertwine his fate with hers in ways neither of them could have imagined.

As they set out together into the unknown, they would discover that sometimes, in the darkest of times, it was the tiniest glimmer of hope that could light the way forward.

Shades of deception tags

@orcasoul @paanchusblog

[spencerreidswhore187]

Night Shift

Spencer Reid x Reader

Summary: In the pursuit of an audacious art thief, Spencer Reid and you engage in a thrilling cat-and-mouse game.

Word Count: 1.2k

In the dimly lit room of the FBI's Behavioural Analysis Unit, Special Agent Spencer Reid meticulously studied the pattern of a notorious art thief. Known for their audacious heists, the thief had been stealing famous religious paintings, leaving behind little evidence but a trail of intrigue and frustration. As Spencer delved into the case, he couldn't shake the feeling that there was more to this thief than met the eye.

It was another morning at the BAU, and the team gathered around the large round table, ready to discuss their latest case. Spencer adjusted his glasses, flipping through the files and crime scene photos, attempting to find a connection that eluded even the most seasoned investigators.

"Alright, team," Hotch began, his voice steady and authoritative. "We've got a new case. The thief has struck again, stealing 'The Madonna with Child' from the St. Augustine Museum. Reid, what have you found so far?"

Spencer looked up from his notes, his mind racing with information. "The thief seems to be specifically targeting religious paintings. There's a pattern in the choice of artwork, and I'm working on identifying any potential religious or symbolic significance."

As the team continued to brainstorm and strategise, a mysterious figure lurked in the shadows, watching them from a distance. You, the infamous art thief, observed the investigation unfold with a mix of amusement and fascination. The challenge of outsmarting the brilliant minds of the FBI excited you, and you relished in the chase.

Over the course of the investigation, Spencer's intellect and determination began to catch your attention. You found yourself drawn to the enigmatic agent, intrigued by the way his mind worked. As the thefts continued, the cat-and-mouse game between you and Spencer intensified, each move more calculated than the last. Each heist brought the two of you closer, like chess players engaged in an intricate dance, each move calculated and deliberate. Spencer found himself captivated by the mystery that surrounded you, your motives, and the brilliant mind that orchestrated these audacious thefts.

One day, after another successful heist, you received a mysterious message. An encrypted note left at the scene of the crime, challenging you to a meeting. Intrigued, you decided to take the bait.

The moon cast a soft glow over the secluded park where the meeting was set to take place. Spencer stood in the shadows, his eyes scanning the area. Suddenly, you emerged from the darkness, your face obscured by a hood.

"Special Agent Reid," you greeted, your voice low. "Impressive. You managed to find me."

Spencer's gaze was unwavering as he replied, "I'm not here to arrest you. I want to understand why you're doing this. There has to be a reason behind the choice of these paintings."

You chuckled, the sound echoing in the quiet night. "Curiosity killed the cat, Agent Reid."

But Spencer wasn't deterred. He continued to engage you in conversation, unravelling the layers of your motives and the intricate web of your past. As the night wore on, an unexpected connection formed between you and Spencer, a bond that transcended the roles of detective and thief.

The echo of footsteps resonated through the quiet museum as you emerged from the shadows, your face still concealed by the hood of your cloak. Spencer's gaze met yours, and for a moment, time seemed to stand still.

"You're quite persistent, Reid," you remarked, your voice laced with a mixture of amusement and intrigue.

"I need to understand why," Spencer replied, his tone earnest. "There has to be more to this than just stealing paintings."

A spark of curiosity flickered in your eyes as you engaged in a battle of words, each probing the other's vulnerabilities. The conversation danced between danger and desire, the line between captor and captive becoming increasingly blurred.

The stolen artworks were not just random targets; they held a deeper meaning, a connection to your past that even you hadn't fully unravelled. Spencer, with his keen intellect, became the key to unlocking the mysteries that shrouded your motives.

The heists continued, each one revealing a layer of complexity in the relationship between the art thief and the profiler. Spencer found himself torn between duty and an inexplicable attraction that defied logic. You, in turn, struggled with the emotions that surfaced as you got to know the man behind the badge.

In the quiet moments between heists and investigations, there were stolen glances and fleeting touches. The air was charged with unspoken words, the tension simmering beneath the surface. A slow burn, like a fuse inching its way toward an inevitable explosion.

One night, after the recovery of yet another stolen masterpiece, Spencer found himself standing in front of you, the weight of the investigation heavy on his shoulders. "Why did you choose me?" he asked, his eyes searching for answers in the depths of yours.

You hesitated, the vulnerability in your gaze betraying the walls you had built. "Because you see beyond the surface. You see the person, not just the criminal.”

The admission hung in the air, a silent acknowledgement of the connection that had formed between you. As the investigation intensified, the line between right and wrong blurred further. Spencer found himself grappling with the realisation that the art thief he was chasing was not just a criminal but a complex individual with layers of pain and redemption.

In the midst of a high-stakes operation to recover a stolen painting, the unexpected happened. A moment of danger, a shared adrenaline-fuelled escape, and the realisation that the lines between love and justice had become indistinguishable. The slow burn ignited into a fiery passion that neither of you could deny.

The aftermath of the operation left you standing in the dimly lit room, surrounded by recovered artworks. Spencer approached you, his gaze intense yet tender. "I can't just let you go, but maybe there's another way. Join us, and work with the FBI. Help make amends for what you've done."

And so, the notorious art thief became an unexpected ally, a consultant to the BAU. The slow burn of your connection continued, navigating the complexities of love and redemption. Spencer and you found solace in each other's arms, the weight of the past gradually lifting as you embraced a future that defied expectations.

The dance between the art thief and the profiler had evolved into a love story, a journey that transcended the boundaries of law and order. As the days turned into months, the BAU faced new challenges, but with the strength of an unexpected bond, they confronted each obstacle together.

In the quiet moments, between stolen glances and whispered confessions, Spencer and you discovered that love, like art, was a masterpiece that took time to unfold, layer by layer, brushstroke by brushstroke, in the canvas of their intertwined lives.

A/N: Thank you for reading ◡̈

[superwholock36]

~ A Little Taste of Heaven ~ (Peter Parker x Fem!Reader) (10/10)

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Warning: Angst / Sad / Nightmare / Mature / Happy ending?

Summary: After a high-stakes showdown with Blackout, the aftermath sees Peter surrounded by concerned friends, heartfelt confessions, and Tony Stark’s trademark banter. Meanwhile, [Name] grapples with her boyfriend’s double life as Spider-Man and an Avenger, while recovery downtime is filled with surprise visits from MJ and Ned, plenty of humour, and strict doctor’s orders to rest—no web-slinging allowed.

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🎵🎶 I Like You Best - Ella Red 🎶🎵

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[Name] knelt beside Peter’s lifeless form, her hands trembling as they pressed against his chest, desperately trying to will him back to life. Her tears fell steadily, soaking into his suit and mixing with the blood that still seeped from his wounds. Every shaky breath she took felt like it was tearing her apart, the grief consuming her. “Please,” she whispered, her voice raw and breaking. “Please, Peter… don’t do this. Don’t leave me.”

Her shoulders shook as a fresh wave of sobs wracked her body, her forehead resting against his as she clung to him. Every second that passed without a sign of life from him felt like an eternity, her heart splintering further. He’s gone, the thought whispered cruelly in her mind. You lost him.

Her head snapped up suddenly when the faint hum of engines filled the air. Her body tensed, her grief momentarily giving way to fear as she clambered to her feet, her tear-streaked face hardening into anger. Blackout. Her blood boiled at the thought of him returning to finish what he’d started. She grabbed a nearby pipe, her fingers tightening around the cold metal as she held it in front of her, ready to fight, ready to protect what little she had left.

The hum grew louder, the sound cutting through the night as the glow of repulsors came into view. Her heart pounded, fury surging through her veins as she raised the pipe, her hands trembling but her stance unwavering. “Come on,” she muttered under her breath, her voice shaking with equal parts rage and determination. “I’m not afraid of you.”

But as the figure drew closer, she realized something was off. The silhouette wasn’t Blackout’s. The armour was different—sleeker, brighter, more familiar. And then it clicked.

Iron Man.

The pipe clattered to the ground as her fingers went slack, her legs threatening to give out beneath her. Tony Stark landed with practiced ease, his suit gleaming even in the dim light of the rooftop. The helmet retracted with a hiss, revealing his face, his expression tense and alarmed. “Where is he?” Tony demanded, his voice sharp as his eyes scanned the scene. “Where’s Peter?”

She didn’t need to answer. His gaze landed on Peter’s body, and his face fell, the sharpness replaced by something softer—concern, fear, and a determination she’d seen before, in Peter. “F.R.I.D.A.Y.,” Tony barked, rushing to Peter’s side and dropping to his knees beside him. “Vitals. Now.”

As Tony worked frantically, [Name] crumbled again, her sobs breaking through the silence. She hated this—hated that Peter had fought so hard, had given so much, and might still be taken from her. “Please, help him,” she cried, her voice desperate and pleading. “He… he saved me. Please, don’t let him—”

Tony’s jaw tightened as he glanced up at her, his eyes flickering with emotion. “We’re going to fix this,” he said, his tone firm but carrying an edge of vulnerability. “I’m not losing him. Not today.”

“Vitals, F.R.I.D.A.Y.,” Tony barked, his fingers trembling slightly as he worked to stabilize Peter’s head. His usual sarcasm was absent, replaced by a tone of barely restrained panic. [Name] sat beside Peter, her hands clinging to his unresponsive form, her sobs breaking through the tense silence.

F.R.I.D.A.Y.’s voice came through the suit, calm yet firm: “Peter’s vitals are weak. Significant blood loss from abdominal wounds. Respiratory function is shallow but present. Immediate medical attention is required.”

Tony exhaled sharply, muttering under his breath, “Come on, kid. Hold on.”

F.R.I.D.A.Y. continued without missing a beat. “And [Name]—her injuries include multiple lacerations, possible bruised ribs, and mild shock. Superficial cuts along her arms and legs are consistent with rolling through glass. I recommend she receives medical attention as well.”

“I’m fine,” [Name] rasped, her voice barely audible through the tears. She glanced at Tony, her expression both defiant and desperate. “Just… help him. Please.”

Tony’s eyes softened for a split second as he glanced at her, but his focus quickly returned to Peter. “We’re getting him out of here. F.R.I.D.A.Y., notify the team. I need the Quinjet here yesterday.”

“Already en route, sir,” F.R.I.D.A.Y. replied smoothly.

Minutes felt like hours as they waited, the rooftop a surreal blend of chaos and silence. [Name] refused to leave Peter’s side, her hands trembling as she smoothed back his hair, her tears dripping onto his battered face. “Please, Peter,” she whispered. “Don’t leave me.”

The sound of the Quinjet’s engines roared in the distance, the hum growing louder as it approached. [Name] turned her head toward the sky, relief flickering in her chest as the jet descended. The landing gear unfolded with a practiced precision, and the hatch opened with a sharp hiss.

Steve Rogers emerged first, his tall, broad frame commanding as always. His shield was slung across his back, his expression stern as he took in the scene. Close behind him was Bucky Barnes, his metal arm glinting under the firelight as he scanned the area with a sharp, assessing gaze.

Steve’s pace quickened as he approached Tony and Peter, his brows furrowing in concern. “How bad is it?” he asked, his tone steady but tinged with urgency.

“Bad,” Tony admitted, his voice tight. “We need to get him to Bruce and Doctor Cho—like, now.”

Steve nodded, turning back to Bucky. “Let’s get him on the jet.”

The two moved swiftly, with the precision of soldiers used to working together under pressure. Bucky crouched down, his metal arm steady as he helped lift Peter’s limp form, while Steve carefully supported his legs. Tony hovered nearby, his armour clinking softly as he kept a close eye on the situation.

[Name] stumbled to her feet, her entire body protesting the movement. “I’m coming too,” she said, her voice shaky but determined as she hobbled after them. As they moved toward the jet, she glanced back toward the side of the building. “Blackout,” she muttered, her tone bitter. “He’s webbed to the side of the building.”

Steve followed her gaze, his eyes narrowing as he spotted the villain tangled in a mass of webbing. “That’s no joke,” he said, a hint of admiration in his voice. “What a dame.”

A ghost of a smirk crossed Bucky’s face as he helped secure Peter in the jet. “You staying to deal with it?”

Steve nodded. “Yeah. You get them to the clinic. I’ll handle this.” He gave Tony a firm look. “Keep me updated.”

“Always do, Cap,” Tony replied, his tone quieter but still resolute.

As the hatch of the Quinjet closed, Steve turned his attention back to Blackout, his shield sliding off his back with a practiced motion. The urgency of the moment remained, but for now, their priority was clear: Peter and [Name] needed help—and fast.

The Quinjet hummed softly as it cut through the air, the rhythmic vibration doing little to ease the tension in the cabin. [Name] sat beside Peter, her hands trembling as she reached out to brush his hair away from his face. His skin was pale, his breathing shallow, and the sight of him lying so still tore at her chest. The shock was settling in now, creeping up on her like a slow, cold wave. Her movements were mechanical, her mind too overwhelmed to process the chaos she had just escaped.

She let out a shaky breath, her fingers ghosting over his forehead. “Come on,” she whispered quietly, almost to herself. “Hold on.”

Bucky’s boots echoed softly against the metal floor as he approached, his expression calm but his posture deliberate, careful. He crouched beside her, his voice low and gentle. “Hey,” he said, his tone carrying a quiet kindness. “I need to take care of those cuts, okay? Just… let me help.”

[Name] blinked up at him, her tear-streaked face reflecting exhaustion and grief. She nodded silently, her throat too tight to speak. Her hands didn’t leave Peter, not entirely—her fingers still hovered near his cheek, as if letting go would make her lose him forever.

Tony moved closer, his hand resting firmly on her shoulder. The weight of it was grounding, steadying. “We’re getting him to the best docs there are,” he said, his voice steady but touched with an edge of optimism. He gestured briefly toward Peter’s unmoving form. “Bruce, Cho—they’ve got this. He’s in good hands.”

[Name] nodded again, her tears falling faster as she glanced at Peter’s face. “Thank you,” she managed, her voice trembling.

Bucky, ever patient, pulled out a first aid kit and began cleaning her wounds with practiced precision. He worked quietly, his movements careful and deliberate, his metal arm as steady as his flesh one. “You’ve got some nasty cuts here,” he said softly, dabbing at her arm with an antiseptic-soaked cloth. “A few of these are going to need stitches, but for now, I’m wrapping them up.”

She didn’t say much, her focus split between Peter and the sharp stings of Bucky’s work. She winced as he tightened a bandage around her ribs, but she didn’t pull away. The grief in her chest outweighed the physical pain, and she barely felt the needle-sharp sting of the antiseptic anymore.

“Sorry about the sting,” Bucky murmured, his tone apologetic. “Almost done. Just hang in there.”

Tony’s voice broke the silence again, softer this time. “Kid’s a fighter,” he said, glancing at Peter. “He’s got a habit of proving everyone wrong. You watch—he’ll bounce back.”

[Name] swallowed hard, her lip trembling as she nodded, her tears still flowing. She didn’t have the strength to reply, but she clung to Tony’s words like a lifeline, even if they felt impossibly distant.

The Quinjet continued forward, the hum of its engines the only constant in the chaos surrounding them. Every moment felt heavy, but the quiet assurances from Tony and the steady care from Bucky worked to keep her grounded, even as the grief pressed down like a crushing weight.

The hum of the Quinjet was the only constant sound, a faint backdrop to the heavy silence that hung between them. [Name] barely registered the passing time, her sense of it lost amidst the overwhelming grief gnawing at her chest. She hadn’t moved from Peter’s side, her fingers brushing his hair away from his pale face, her touch trembling. Her breaths came in short, shaky gasps, her chest tightening with every shallow rise and fall of his.

Her voice broke the silence, barely a whisper, as though speaking the truth aloud might shatter her entirely. “He took the blade for me,” she murmured, her tears dripping onto her hands as she stared down at him. “We had one shot to get the destabilizer—and I ran for it. Blackout was flying toward me, and I thought... I thought I could lay my life down to stop him. I was ready for it.” Her lip trembled, her voice faltering as she continued. “But I wasn’t ready for Peter to. I didn’t even know he was Spider-Man until Blackout ripped the mask off…”

The words lingered in the air, raw and heartbreaking, her grief palpable in every syllable. Bucky knelt beside her, his metal arm gleaming faintly in the dim cabin light. His voice was quiet, soft but steady. “He did what he thought he had to,” Bucky said gently, his eyes meeting hers with an understanding that came from his own history of sacrifices. “It doesn’t make it any easier, but Peter’s... Peter’s built like that. He protects the people he cares about. Even at his own expense.”

Tony’s hand rested firmly on her shoulder, grounding her in the midst of the chaos. “Kid’s a hero. Always has been,” he said, his voice carrying an edge of emotion but still threaded with determination. He gestured slightly toward Peter. “Bruce and Cho—they’ll fix him up. And we’ll keep him in one piece.”

She nodded weakly, her tear-streaked face betraying the turmoil running through her. The Quinjet shifted slightly, its engines softening as Friday’s calm voice came through Tony’s suit. “We’ve arrived at the compound, sir. Doctor Cho and Dr. Banner are waiting in the theater.”

The urgency returned like a slap, and Bucky moved to help her stand, steadying her carefully despite her wobbling legs. The hatch opened with a sharp hiss, revealing the Avengers compound bathed in lights, the medical team already prepared. Tony gestured toward Peter as the stretcher arrived. “Move him fast. I want Banner and Cho on this immediately.”

A swarm of activity followed, their movements quick and efficient as Peter was carefully transferred onto the stretcher. [Name] stumbled after them, her breathing uneven as she struggled to keep up. Her gaze stayed locked on Peter, her heart hammering in her chest as panic gripped her again. I can’t leave him. I can’t.

Doctor Cho approached her as they wheeled Peter toward the operating theatre, her tone firm but compassionate. “We need to tend to your injuries,” Cho said, gesturing toward the cuts and bruises covering her arms and legs. “You’ve taken some serious hits yourself.”

“No,” [Name] said sharply, her voice trembling as she tried to push past Cho. “I can’t leave him. Please—I have to stay with him.”

Tony stepped in, his voice steady but gentle. “Go with Cho,” he said, his hand briefly resting against her arm. “Get patched up. Bucky’s going with you. I’ll stay with Peter, and I’ll keep you in the loop. I promise.”

Her legs felt like they might give out as she stared at him, her heart pounding harder as the weight of his words sank in. She slumped slightly, nodding weakly as tears continued to fall. “Okay,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

She watched helplessly as Peter was rushed down the corridor, his bloodied form disappearing behind the swinging doors of the theatre. Her chest tightened, the ache deepening with every step that took her further from him.

[Name] barely registered the soft hum of the compound as she was escorted through its hallways, her feet moving automatically but her mind far away. Every corner of her mind was consumed with Peter—his pale face, his shallow breaths, the blood staining her hands and clothes. The grief sat heavy in her chest, dulling everything else around her.

Doctor Cho’s calm voice broke through the fog as they reached a small medical room. “Alright, let’s get you cleaned up and patched,” she said gently, guiding [Name] to sit on the padded table in the center of the room. “You’ve been through a lot. This is going to sting a little, but you’ve held up pretty well so far.”

Cho crouched beside her, inspecting the makeshift bandages Bucky had applied earlier. She tilted her head in approval, her tone light and steady. “He did good work,” she said, glancing toward Bucky, who leaned casually against the wall with his arms crossed, his demeanor quiet but watchful. “Clean bandaging, solid pressure. You’re lucky.”

Bucky shrugged, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. “I’ve had some practice,” he said simply, keeping his voice low. He didn’t want to disturb [Name] more than she already was, her vacant stare fixed on a spot far beyond the walls of the room.

Cho’s gaze softened as she turned back to [Name]. “I’ll need to numb some of these areas before I stitch them up, okay?” she said, her voice gentle but professional. “Let me know if anything feels off.”

[Name] nodded faintly, her movements stiff and automatic. She didn’t flinch when the needle pricked her skin, nor did she react as Cho began her precise work. The antiseptic stung, the stitches pulled at the raw edges of her cuts, but none of it seemed to register. She was numb to it all, her thoughts spiralling back to Peter over and over again. Was he still alive? Had they reached him in time? What if they hadn’t?

Bucky stepped forward after a few minutes, holding a glass of water in his flesh hand. He crouched slightly to meet her gaze, his voice quiet and steady. “You need to drink this,” he said, his tone firm but kind. “You’ve lost blood, you’ve been through hell… if you’re not taking care of yourself, you’re not going to do him any good.”

She blinked slowly, her tear-streaked face turning toward him. For a moment, she looked like she might protest, but instead, she took the glass with trembling fingers. “Thank you,” she murmured, her voice hoarse and barely audible as she sipped. Her eyes didn’t meet his again, her focus drifting back inward as Cho finished the last of her stitching.

“Done,” Cho said softly, standing and patting [Name] lightly on the shoulder. “You’re a tough one. These stitches will hold until we can do a more thorough check. For now, I’ll get you set up in a room where you can shower. You’ll feel better once some of this grime is off.”

[Name] nodded wordlessly, her movements mechanical as she allowed them to guide her to a private room in the compound. Bucky lingered near the door, his metal hand resting lightly against the frame as she stepped inside.

“I’ll wait out here,” he said, his voice low. “Take your time.”

The door closed behind her, and she stood in the center of the room for a moment, the reality of the past hours crashing down on her. Her body felt foreign, heavy, like she didn’t recognize it anymore. Blood streaked her arms and legs, dirt clinging to her skin, glass embedded in the fabric of her torn clothes. She moved toward the bathroom like a sleepwalker, her hands trembling as she turned on the water.

The sound of the shower filled the room, the steam rising almost instantly and fogging the mirror. She undressed slowly, peeling the layers of ruined clothing away from her aching body. The air was cool against her skin, the faint sting of her cuts and bruises growing sharper without the fabric to muffle it.

When she stepped under the stream of hot water, it hit her like a wave. The heat seeped into her muscles, loosening the tension she hadn’t realized she was holding, but the water stung where it met open cuts. She bit her lip, the pain grounding her as she watched the water run red and brown, carrying away blood and dirt. Her fingers traced over her arms, scrubbing lightly as she tried to wash away the grime—and the memories.

Her chest tightened as she thought of Peter again, the sight of him pale and motionless burning into her mind. Her breath hitched, a sob escaping her lips as she pressed her hands to her face, the water mingling with her tears. The grief felt endless, swallowing her whole, but she forced herself to keep moving. She scrubbed harder, her movements almost frantic as if she could scrub away the guilt, the pain, the hopelessness.

When she finally stepped out of the shower, her legs felt like jelly, her arms shaking as she wrapped herself in a towel. She stared at her reflection in the fogged mirror, her eyes red and swollen, her skin clean but pale and marked with bruises and fresh stitches. She didn’t recognize herself.

A soft knock on the door broke her trance. “You doing okay in there?” Bucky’s voice called through gently.

She took a shaky breath, steadying herself as she opened the door. Bucky stood just outside, his expression calm but observant, his gaze flicking briefly to her freshly cleaned arms. “You’ll feel better once you rest,” he said simply, stepping aside to let her into the main room.

[Name] stepped out of the medical room, her movements slow and unsteady as she leaned against the wall for support. Her freshly stitched wounds throbbed faintly, but the physical pain was nothing compared to the ache in her chest. She had barely registered Bucky's reassurances, her mind too consumed with thoughts of Peter. The image of him lying on the rooftop, bleeding and broken, was burned into her memory, and the weight of it pressed heavily on her.

Bucky was waiting just outside, his posture relaxed but his gaze sharp as he watched her approach. “You okay?” he asked gently, his voice low and steady.

She nodded faintly, her eyes distant as she glanced toward the hallway leading to the operating theatre. “Can you take me to Peter?” she asked, her voice trembling with desperation.

Bucky’s expression softened, and he shook his head slightly. “Not yet,” he said, his tone careful but firm. “He’s still in the theatre. They’re working on him— Once he’s out, I’ll take you to him. I promise.”

Her shoulders slumped, the exhaustion weighing her down as she let out a shaky breath. She followed him to a nearby lounge, her legs barely carrying her as she sank into the sofa. The cushions felt too soft, too comforting, and she leaned back, her body heavy with fatigue.

“You hungry?” Bucky asked, crouching slightly to meet her gaze. “You should eat something.”

She shook her head, her voice barely audible. “I don’t feel hungry.”

Bucky didn’t push, but his lips pressed into a thin line as he stood. “I’ll make you something light,” he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. “A fruit plate or something. You don’t have to eat it all, but it’ll be here if you need it.”

She didn’t respond, her gaze drifting off into the distance as her thoughts spiraled back to Peter. The hum of the compound was faint, almost soothing, but it did little to ease the turmoil in her mind. Her eyes grew heavier with each passing moment, the exhaustion finally taking hold. Her body sank deeper into the sofa, her head tilting slightly as sleep began to claim her.

When Bucky returned, a small plate of neatly arranged fruit in his hand, he paused in the doorway. She was asleep, her face still streaked with dried tears, her body curled slightly under the weight of her grief. Setting the plate down on the nearby table, Bucky grabbed a throw blanket from the back of the sofa. He unfolded it carefully, draping it over her with a gentleness that belied his rough exterior.

“F.R.I.D.A.Y.,” he said quietly, his voice low to avoid waking her. “What’s the update on Peter?”

The AI’s calm voice filled the room. “They’re stitching him up now. The blade missed a vital organ by millimeters. He’s stable but critical. A transfusion is underway to address the blood loss.”

Bucky let out a slow breath, his jaw tightening as he processed the news. “Come on, kid,” he muttered under his breath, his voice carrying a mix of frustration and hope. “You’ve got this. Don’t make us wait too long.”

He glanced back at [Name], her chest rising and falling steadily as she slept. The exhaustion etched into her features mirrored his own, but he knew she needed this rest more than anything. For now, all he could do was wait—and hope.

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The world was shrouded in shadows, the skyline warped and unfamiliar as [Name] sprinted across the rooftop. Her breaths came in sharp, ragged gasps, her legs burning as she pushed herself harder, faster, desperate to reach Peter. The flames from the surrounding buildings roared louder, casting a hellish glow that seemed to devour the night. But the rooftop stretched endlessly ahead, her destination always just out of reach.

“Peter!” she screamed, her voice cracking as she stumbled forward. The only answer was the howling wind, carrying with it the acrid scent of smoke and ash. Panic clawed at her chest, her heart hammering against her ribs as she scanned the desolate rooftop. He wasn’t there. He should be there. “Peter, where are you? Please!”

She turned wildly, her eyes darting through the haze, but the rooftop was empty. No Quinjet. No Avengers. Just the suffocating weight of the silence and the oppressive heat of the flames closing in around her.

Her foot caught on something, and she fell hard to her knees. Pain shot through her, but she barely noticed as her hands scrambled over the rough surface. Her fingers touched something warm and wet, and when she looked down, her heart stopped.

Blood. A trail of it.

Her stomach churned as she followed it, crawling forward with trembling hands and legs that felt too weak to carry her weight. Each smear of crimson was a dagger to her chest, the fear twisting into something unbearable. Her vision blurred with tears as she reached the end of the trail, her breath catching in her throat.

Peter.

He lay face down, motionless, his suit torn and bloodied. The sight was like a punch to the gut, her entire body freezing as she stared at him, unable to believe what she was seeing. “No,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “No, no, no…”

She lunged forward, her hands gripping his shoulders as she rolled him over. His face was pale, his lips slightly parted, but his chest—his chest wasn’t moving. Her heart dropped, the world tilting violently as she pressed her hands against his wounds. “Peter, wake up!” she begged, her voice rising in desperation. “Please, please wake up. Don’t do this. Don’t leave me!”

Her fingers trembled as she searched for a pulse, her hands sliding across his neck and wrist with frantic movements. Nothing. She pressed her ear to his chest, hoping, praying for the faintest hint of a heartbeat. The silence was deafening.

“No!” she screamed, her voice shattering under the weight of her grief. Her tears fell in heavy streams, mixing with the blood that stained his suit. She shook him, her hands clutching at him as though sheer force could bring him back. “You can’t leave me! You can’t!”

The flames crept closer, the heat licking at her skin, but she didn’t care. She couldn’t care. Her entire world had come crashing down in that one moment, and the loss was too vast, too suffocating to comprehend. The air felt thick, choking her as she cried harder, her forehead pressing against his. “Please,” she whispered, her voice broken. “Please come back. I need you. I can’t do this without you.”

Her sobs echoed into the emptiness, the world around her darkening as the flames consumed everything. She felt like she was being swallowed whole, the despair pressing down on her until she couldn’t breathe. Every second stretched unbearably, the weight of his absence threatening to crush her completely.

And then, like a cruel twist of fate, the rooftop crumbled beneath her. She fell, the air rushing past her as she screamed his name, the darkness rising up to claim her.

[Name] jolted awake, her body shooting upright as a panicked cry tore from her lips. “Peter!” she shouted, her voice raw and trembling, the name echoing off the walls of the room. Her hands clenched the throw blanket draped over her, her eyes darting wildly as her breath came in rapid, shallow gasps.

Bucky was at her side in an instant, his hands raised in a calming gesture, his movements steady and deliberate. “You’re safe, [Name],” he said, his voice low and soothing, as though trying to calm a wild animal. “Peter’s safe. We’ve got you. You’re at the compound.”

Her chest heaved as she stared at him, her eyes wide and frantic, the dream lingering in her mind like a shadow. “Wha-what time is it?” she stammered, her voice shaky as she glanced around the room, her gaze flitting like a deer caught in headlights.

“It’s the next day,” Bucky said, his tone calm but tinged with concern.

Her eyes widened further, her jaw dropping as she clutched the blanket closer to her chest. “What? You let me sleep that long?” she asked, disbelief and faint anger creeping into her voice.

Bucky nodded, his lips pressing into a thin line as he crouched slightly to meet her gaze. “You needed the rest,” he said simply. “Your body’s been through hell.”

She moved slightly, trying to push herself upright, but a sharp pain shot through her side, and she winced, her hand instinctively flying to her ribs. “Ugh,” she muttered under her breath, the soreness making even small movements difficult.

“Take it easy,” Bucky said gently, moving to the nearby table and returning with a glass of water and a small bottle of painkillers. “These are from Doctor Cho—for the pain.” He handed them to her, his flesh hand steady as he held the glass.

She hesitated for a moment before taking them, her fingers trembling as she swallowed the pills with a small sip of water. Her eyes stayed locked on him, her expression pleading. “Take me to Peter,” she whispered, her voice cracking slightly.

Bucky’s expression softened further, and he sat back slightly, his tone steady but firm. “I will,” he promised. “But first, you’ve gotta eat something. I’m serious—just a little something to keep you going.”

Her shoulders slumped, exhaustion and pain making her feel heavier with every passing second. “Fine,” she murmured, her voice barely audible.

Bucky stood, his movements slow and deliberate, and headed toward the small kitchenette tucked into the corner of the room. A few moments later, he returned with a light breakfast—a simple plate of sliced fruit and toast arranged neatly. He set it down in front of her, his tone quiet but insistent. “Take your time,” he said, gesturing slightly toward the plate. “You eat, and then I’ll take you to Peter. Deal?”

She nodded faintly, her movements mechanical as she reached for the food, her thoughts still consumed by him.

[Name] picked at the fruit on the plate, taking small, hesitant bites. Her stomach twisted uncomfortably as she forced herself to eat, the soreness a reminder of how long it had been since she’d had a proper meal. The sweetness of the fruit lingered on her tongue, but the heaviness in her chest made it hard to fully focus on the taste. She chewed slowly, her gaze fixed on the plate, though her thoughts were far away—back with Peter, back in the theater where his life hung in the balance.

Across the room, Bucky stood near the small kitchenette, his posture casual but his movements betraying a hint of unease. His metal arm, glinting faintly under the soft light, stayed tucked behind him, hidden almost instinctively. He fiddled with the edge of the counter for a moment before clearing his throat, drawing [Name]’s attention.

“You’re doing good,” he said softly, his voice a little awkward but kind. “Eating’s a good start.”

She glanced up at him, noticing the way he shifted slightly, his gaze flickering between her and the plate. For a moment, she didn’t say anything, but then her lips curved into the faintest of smiles. “You don’t have to hide it, you know,” she said quietly, her gaze dropping to his metal arm before meeting his eyes again. “It doesn’t bother me. And neither does who you are.”

Bucky blinked, clearly caught off guard by her words. His shoulders relaxed almost imperceptibly, and the corner of his mouth twitched in what might have been a relieved smile. “Not everyone says that,” he admitted, his tone lighter now. “Guess I should’ve figured you’d be different.”

[Name] shrugged faintly, her fingers idly brushing the edge of the plate. “I don’t really have time to judge people,” she murmured. “Not when everything’s so... messy.”

The moment was interrupted by a knock on the doorframe, and both of them turned to see Steve standing there, his presence as commanding as ever but softened by the concern in his expression. “Hey,” he said, stepping into the room. “I just came from the theater.”

[Name] straightened slightly, her breath hitching as she gripped the plate tighter. “Is he—?”

Steve’s lips quirked into a small, reassuring smile. “He’s stable,” he said, his voice steady. “The transfusion’s doing its job. His vitals are holding, and Bruce says he’s strong—he’s fighting.”

A shaky breath escaped her, and she sagged back against the cushions, relief washing over her like a wave. “Thank God,” she whispered, her hands trembling as she set the plate aside.

Steve moved closer, his expression still warm but carrying a hint of curiosity. “You did good out there,” he said, his tone genuine. “Taking on Blackout the way you did, holding your own—that’s impressive.”

She shook her head quickly, her cheeks coloring slightly as she looked down at her hands. “I didn’t do anything,” she said softly. “It was the web bomb. I just... found it. I didn’t even know what it was. My gut told me to press the button, and... well, you saw what happened.”

“You trusted your instincts,” Steve replied, his voice steady and calm. “That counts for a lot.”

Bucky, who had moved to sit on the arm of the chair across from her, chimed in with a faint smirk. “Yeah, not everyone would’ve kept their cool like that. Blackout’s no small-time villain.”

[Name] exhaled softly, her gaze dropping as she fiddled with the edge of her sleeve. “I didn’t feel calm,” she admitted. “I felt like everything was falling apart.”

“And you still did what needed to be done,” Steve said, his tone firm but kind. “Don’t sell yourself short.”

Her eyes flicked back up to meet his, her lips pressing into a thin line as she nodded faintly. The weight in her chest felt a little lighter, though the ache for Peter remained.

Steve leaned against the doorframe, his blue eyes meeting [Name]’s. There was no judgment in his gaze—only calm understanding. “You know,” he began, his tone steady and thoughtful, “what you did out there… that took a lot of courage. Facing someone like Blackout, holding your own, making that split-second decision—it’s not easy. But you did it.”

[Name] shifted slightly, her fingers brushing the edge of the throw blanket draped over her lap. “I don’t know if it was courage,” she murmured, her voice soft. “It felt like I was just… desperate. I didn’t even know what the web bomb would do. My gut told me to press the button, and I did. Everything else was just… chaos.”

Steve smiled faintly, stepping further into the room. “Sometimes courage is just acting despite the chaos,” he said quietly. “Trusting your instincts, even when everything’s falling apart around you. I know a little something about that.” He paused briefly, his expression turning nostalgic. “When I was just a kid, before all of this,” he gestured vaguely toward himself, “we were in training. They threw out what we thought was a live grenade, told us to hit the deck. But me? I jumped on it.”

Her brows furrowed, a mixture of curiosity and disbelief flickering across her face. “You jumped on it?” she asked, tilting her head.

Steve nodded, the faintest hint of a smirk pulling at his lips. “Turns out it was a dud. But at the time, I didn’t know that. I just… acted. Not because I wanted to be brave, but because it felt like the only thing I could do to protect everyone else.”

From his spot near the kitchenette, Bucky let out a low chuckle, the sound warm and familiar. “He’s always been a punk,” he said, his tone laced with fondness. “Never could resist showing off.”

[Name] blinked at him, her lips curving into a small, hesitant smile. “You know,” she said, her voice gaining a little strength, “you two aren’t exactly what I thought you’d be like.”

Bucky raised a brow, crossing his arms as he leaned against the counter. “Oh yeah?” he asked, his tone light. “What’d you expect?”

She shrugged, a trace of humour slipping into her voice. “I don’t know—less… human? More untouchable, I guess. But you’re just… people. You care about each other, you care about Peter, you care about me—and I wasn’t expecting that.”

Steve chuckled softly, his blue eyes warm as he glanced at Bucky. “Guess we’re full of surprises,” he said lightly. His gaze shifted back to [Name], softening further. “Come on then. Let’s go see Peter.”

Her breath hitched slightly, but then she nodded, her lips curving into a genuine smile for the first time since she’d woken up. Steve moved to her side, offering his hand to help her up, while Bucky grabbed the plate of fruit she’d been picking at.

They walked slowly, Steve and Bucky matching her pace as she hobbled forward, her movements stiff and sore but resolute. The corridor stretched ahead, but with each step, the anticipation built, the hope flickering brighter in her chest.

The corridor leading to Peter’s room felt impossibly long, each step heavy with anticipation and fear. [Name] walked slowly, her pace uneven as soreness tugged at her every move, but she refused to stop. Steve and Bucky flanked her on either side, their presence steady and quiet, an unspoken promise of support. The air was thick with tension, every inch of her growing heavier as they reached the door.

Steve pushed it open gently, stepping aside to let her through first. [Name] paused for a moment, her breath hitching in her throat as she took in the sight of the room. Peter lay in the hospital bed, surrounded by machines that beeped softly, their rhythmic sounds the only indication of life. A blood bag hung next to him, the crimson liquid flowing steadily through a line into his arm. His face was pale, his body looking so small and fragile amidst the wires and tubes.

Her eyes welled with tears, the weight of seeing him like this crashing over her. She hobbled toward the bed, her legs shaking but steady enough to carry her to his side. Her fingers brushed against his pale skin, the touch so gentle it was barely perceptible. Leaning down, she pressed a faint kiss to his forehead, her lips trembling as she whispered, “You stayed. Thank you.”

The words were meant only for him, a quiet acknowledgment of his fight, his sacrifice, and the hope she clung to. She stayed like that for a moment, her forehead hovering just above his, her tears falling silently onto the blanket.

Steve’s voice broke the stillness, soft but resolute. “We’ll wait outside for you,” he said, his tone leaving room for her to stay as long as she needed.

She shook her head, her throat tight as she looked back at him. “I want to stay,” she said, her voice cracking. “I won’t leave until he wakes up.”

Steve nodded, his gaze steady, and Bucky offered a faint smile before turning to follow Steve out of the room.

A few minutes passed in silence before Bruce entered, his movements careful and deliberate, his expression lined with concern. “Hey,” he said softly, his tone measured but carrying a trace of hesitation. “You’re holding up well. Just so you know, there isn’t a guarantee he’ll wake up today. He’s stable, but his body’s been through a lot.”

Her chest tightened, guilt flaring in her gut as she looked down at Peter’s pale face. “I shouldn’t have…” she started, her voice trailing off as she struggled to find the words. “I should’ve—”

Bruce shook his head gently, cutting her off with a reassuring tone. “You did what you could. Sometimes, the hardest choices don’t leave room for perfect outcomes. What matters now is that he’s here—and he’s fighting.”

Before she could respond, Tony appeared in the doorway, his expression a mix of concern and forced levity. “Man, it’s too quiet in here,” he quipped lightly, striding into the room. “Not exactly the lively hangout I imagined for the kid. But hey, at least he’s getting some beauty sleep.”

His gaze softened as he looked at Peter, and then at [Name]. “You know,” he said, his tone dropping slightly, “this isn’t on you. The kid—he’s got guts. More guts than most of us combined. And whatever happens, you can bet he’d do it all over again.”

Bruce nodded in agreement, his arms crossed as he leaned against the nearby counter. “Tony’s right. Peter’s resilient. It’s not easy, but he’s got a lot working in his favor. And it’s okay to take some of the weight off your shoulders. You’re not alone in this.”

[Name] let out a shaky breath, her fingers still brushing Peter’s arm as her tears fell silently. The room grew quieter, the sound of the machines steady and rhythmic, a faint reminder of life continuing despite everything.

The room fell quiet after Bruce and Tony stepped out, leaving [Name] alone with Peter. She stared at his pale face, her fingers gently brushing over the blanket that covered him, feeling the faint texture under her trembling touch. Her tears had dried, though the ache in her chest hadn’t lessened. She exhaled softly, leaning forward as she rested her head beside his arm on the bed. The steady rhythm of the machines was almost soothing now, each beep a quiet reassurance that he was still here.

“You’re still fighting,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “I’m going to stay right here until you wake up, Peter. I promise.”

Her fingers grazed his arm, as if the smallest touch might give him strength. The exhaustion tugged at her, her body heavy and worn from the events of the past days. She resisted it at first, unwilling to leave him even in sleep. But as she sat there, the hum of the machines and the faint warmth of his presence began to lull her.

Her eyelids grew heavier, her breathing slowing as she surrendered to the pull of rest. Her head tilted slightly against the edge of the bed, her posture softening as her body relaxed for the first time in what felt like forever. This time, sleep didn’t bring chaos or nightmares. There were no flames, no blood, no desperate cries. Instead, it was quiet—a deep, comforting quiet that wrapped around her like a soft blanket.

Her dreams were scattered and light. She wasn’t running or fighting; she was simply… existing. The weight of grief lifted slightly in this space, the turmoil quieted. The steady rhythm of Peter’s monitors seemed to carry into her subconscious, anchoring her amidst the calm. For the first time in days, she didn’t feel like the world was crumbling beneath her feet.

The faint light of the room reflected off the machines, casting gentle shadows that danced softly against the walls. Her breathing matched Peter’s in rhythm now, steady and peaceful. She shifted slightly in her sleep, her hand resting near his as if reaching out even unconsciously.

Outside, the compound moved forward—Tony and Bruce continued their quiet coordination of Peter’s care, Steve and Bucky exchanged updates about Blackout’s status. But inside the room, time seemed to still, allowing [Name] a moment of pure tranquility beside him.

Though her heart was still heavy, her exhaustion had given her a reprieve—a peaceful moment in a storm she wasn’t ready to face alone. And for now, that was enough. She would wait for him, no matter how long it took.

The room fell quiet after Bruce and Tony stepped out, leaving [Name] alone with Peter. She stared at his pale face, her fingers gently brushing over the blanket that covered him, feeling the faint texture under her trembling touch. Her tears had dried, though the ache in her chest hadn’t lessened. She exhaled softly, leaning forward as she rested her head beside his arm on the bed. The steady rhythm of the machines was almost soothing now, each beep a quiet reassurance that he was still here.

“You’re still fighting,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “I’m going to stay right here until you wake up, Peter. I promise.”

Her fingers grazed his arm, as if the smallest touch might give him strength. The exhaustion tugged at her, her body heavy and worn from the events of the past days. She resisted it at first, unwilling to leave him even in sleep. But as she sat there, the hum of the machines and the faint warmth of his presence began to lull her.

Her eyelids grew heavier, her breathing slowing as she surrendered to the pull of rest. Her head tilted slightly against the edge of the bed, her posture softening as her body relaxed for the first time in what felt like forever. This time, sleep didn’t bring chaos or nightmares. There were no flames, no blood, no desperate cries. Instead, it was quiet—a deep, comforting quiet that wrapped around her like a soft blanket.

Her dreams were scattered and light. She wasn’t running or fighting; she was simply… existing. The weight of grief lifted slightly in this space, the turmoil quieted. The steady rhythm of Peter’s monitors seemed to carry into her subconscious, anchoring her amidst the calm. For the first time in days, she didn’t feel like the world was crumbling beneath her feet.

The faint light of the room reflected off the machines, casting gentle shadows that danced softly against the walls. Her breathing matched Peter’s in rhythm now, steady and peaceful. She shifted slightly in her sleep, her hand resting near his as if reaching out even unconsciously.

Outside, the compound moved forward—Tony and Bruce continued their quiet coordination of Peter’s care, Steve and Bucky exchanged updates about Blackout’s status. But inside the room, time seemed to still, allowing [Name] a moment of pure tranquility beside him.

Though her heart was still heavy, her exhaustion had given her a reprieve—a peaceful moment in a storm she wasn’t ready to face alone. And for now, that was enough. She would wait for him, no matter how long it took.

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Everything was dark. The kind of all-consuming darkness that pressed in from every direction, heavy and suffocating. Peter’s senses felt distant, muted, like they were locked behind a thick layer of fog. His body wouldn’t move—wouldn’t even respond when he willed it to. It was as though gravity itself had doubled, pinning him down with an unforgiving force.

There were voices, muffled and indistinct, weaving through the haze. He couldn’t make sense of them; the words tangled together in a meaningless blur. Every time he tried to focus on the sound, it slipped away, leaving him with only the oppressive silence and the weight of the darkness. His head felt heavy, his eyelids leaden, as if opening his eyes required a strength he didn’t have.

And then, like a sharp, unforgiving blade, memory struck.

[Name].

The image flashed in his mind, vivid and raw. Her body tipping backward, her cry ringing out over the chaos, the way her arms reached out to pull Blackout with her as she fell. It hit him like a punch to the gut, the grief so strong it stole the breath he didn’t even realize he’d been holding. I couldn’t stop her, he thought, the guilt slicing through him like jagged glass. I didn’t save her.

The heaviness pressed down harder, the suffocating weight of failure closing around him. He tried again to move, his fingers twitching faintly, but it felt like his body was fighting against him. He wanted to scream, to cry out for her, but the darkness swallowed his voice.

A sensation broke through the void—a touch, light and familiar, brushing against his cheek. It was so faint at first that he thought he might have imagined it, but then it came again. A warmth spread from that single point of contact, grounding him in a way he couldn’t explain. The fog in his mind shifted slightly, the weight lifting just enough for clarity to flicker at the edges.

Her hand.

He knew it, instinctively, without needing to see it. That touch—it was hers. It had to be. The grief faltered, replaced by something softer, something that carried with it a fragile hope. He focused on the sensation, letting it anchor him amidst the darkness.

His eyelids twitched. The heaviness was still there, pulling at him, but the faint warmth from her touch gave him the strength to push back. Slowly—painfully slowly—he willed his eyes to open.

Light pierced the void, sharp and overwhelming as his lashes fluttered. His vision blurred, shapes and shadows blending together in a chaotic mess. The voices grew clearer, no longer lost in the haze, though he still couldn’t place them. He blinked again, each movement feeling monumental, and the room around him began to take shape.

Machines beeped softly, their rhythmic sounds steady and reassuring. The faint glow of monitors illuminated the space, casting gentle shadows on the walls. And beside him, her figure came into focus.

It was [Name].

Her head rested against the bed, her hand lightly brushing his cheek, her breathing steady as she slept. Tears streaked her face, and though she looked worn and fragile, there was a quiet strength in the way she stayed close to him. His chest tightened, the guilt and relief clashing in a whirlwind of emotion.

His lips parted, the faintest whisper escaping into the quiet. “… [Name.]”

Peter’s hand trembled as he slowly reached out, his fingers brushing gently against her hair. The strands were soft, familiar, and the sensation grounded him like nothing else could. Relief washed over him in an overwhelming wave, his breath hitching before he let out a deep, shaky sigh. She’s alive. The weight in his chest eased slightly, the suffocating guilt and fear shifting just enough for him to breathe.

Her movement was subtle at first—a faint stir against the bed—but it sent a ripple of anticipation through him. He blinked slowly, willing his vision to focus, and then her eyes opened. She blinked, disoriented for a moment, before her gaze locked onto his. Her lips parted, her voice breaking the quiet like sunlight cutting through a storm. “Peter! You’re awake!”

Peter swallowed hard, his voice trembling as he spoke, barely above a whisper. “You’re alive,” he said, the relief palpable in his tone. “I thought… I thought I lost you.”

“No,” she said firmly, her voice cracking with emotion. Tears welled in her eyes as she leaned closer, her forehead gently touching his. “I almost lost you. Don’t ever do that to me again.”

Peter’s lips curved into a faint smile despite the heaviness in his chest. His thumb brushed against her cheek, wiping away the tear that slipped down. He tilted his head slightly, his gaze soft and full of unspoken words. Then, with a tenderness that belied the chaos of the past days, he leaned forward and placed a gentle kiss on her lips. The warmth of the moment wrapped around them like a shield, fragile but strong enough to hold them together.

“I love you,” he whispered, his voice carrying all the weight of his emotions—his relief, his gratitude, his unwavering affection.

Her lip trembled, and she whispered back without hesitation, “I love you too.”

The moment lingered, quiet and intimate, until the sound of someone clearing their throat shattered the stillness. They both looked up sharply, and there stood Tony in the doorway, his arms crossed casually but his expression carrying a mix of amusement and warmth.

“Hate to interrupt,” Tony said, his tone laced with his usual sarcasm, “but I’m glad you’re okay, kid. Really glad. You had me worried there for a minute—and I don’t do worried well.”

Peter let out a breathless chuckle, his voice still weak but filled with gratitude. “Thanks… Mr. Stark.”

Tony’s eyes softened as he stepped into the room, his typical bravado tempered by the relief that Peter was awake. He gave them space, but his presence carried a quiet reassurance, the kind that only came from someone who cared deeply but hid it behind humour.

Peter let out a soft exhale, his head sinking slightly into the pillow as his energy waned again. Relief filled his chest at the sight of [Name] alive and beside him, but exhaustion tugged heavily at him. Tony, ever the commanding presence, leaned against the side of the bed, arms crossed and smirking faintly.

“You’re gonna be bed-ridden for a bit, kid,” Tony said, his tone straddling the line between teasing and serious. “Lost a lot of blood back there. Between the transfusion and your energy levels, we’re keeping you horizontal until Banner gives the all-clear.”

Peter groaned softly, his voice raspy and weak. “I’ll be fine…”

Tony raised a hand, cutting him off with mock sternness. “Yeah, and I’m Iron Man,” he quipped. “Oh, wait. I am. So maybe listen to me, kid. No running around rooftops or getting into fights for a while. Doctor’s orders—and Tony’s. You don’t want to see me enforce it.”

Peter chuckled faintly, his lips twitching into a weak grin. “Got it… Mr. Stark.”

Just then, Steve stepped into the room, his presence as steadying as ever. “Tony, you’re lecturing already?” he teased, raising a brow. “Give the kid a chance to catch his breath.”

Tony turned, pointing at Steve with a smirk. “Lecturing? No. Educating. Big difference, Cap.”

Steve shook his head, walking over to Peter’s side. “Good to see you awake, Peter,” he said warmly. “You had us all worried.”

Peter gave a slight nod, his voice soft but earnest. “Thanks… for everything.”

“Alright,” Tony interjected, clapping his hands together. “As much as I’d love to hang out, we’ve got stuff to do. Bruce wants updates, Cap’s got debriefs, and I—well, I just have a million things to handle.”

Steve chuckled as he followed Tony toward the door, glancing back briefly. “Take it easy, Peter. Rest up, [Name].”

Once they were gone, the room fell silent, the faint beeping of the machines the only sound. [Name] turned to Peter, her expression shifting as she struggled to keep her emotions in check. Finally, she exhaled sharply, her voice trembling. “I can’t believe it,” she said, her eyes glistening. “I can’t believe you’re Spider-Man. How… why didn’t you tell me?!”

Peter’s face fell, guilt flashing across his pale features. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. “I wanted to, but I didn’t know how. I didn’t want to put you in danger.”

Her shoulders slumped, her frustration ebbing as she looked at him—really looked at him. “I get it,” she said softly, her tone losing its edge. “I do. I just… I wish I could’ve been there for you, you know? I hate that you’ve been carrying this alone.”

Peter reached out weakly, his hand brushing against hers. “You’re here now,” he said, his voice cracking with emotion. “And that’s all that matters to me.”

She nodded, tears spilling down her cheeks as she held his hand tightly. “You scared me,” she whispered. “Don’t ever scare me like that again.”

“I promise,” he replied, his voice laced with sincerity.

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The living room was a mess of takeout boxes, tangled charging cords, and scattered blankets, but it felt alive. After days of tension and recovery at the Avengers compound, [Name] could finally breathe again, surrounded by familiar faces and a comforting lack of life-threatening chaos. Peter was sprawled out on the couch, his legs stretched across the cushions as he leaned against [Name], her head resting on his shoulder. MJ sat cross-legged in the armchair, her usual deadpan expression softened by a faint smile, while Ned dug into a carton of lo mein like it was the most important task of his life.

“So,” MJ began, her tone carrying its signature dryness as she glanced at [Name]. “I guess it’s time for us to apologize for… you know, not mentioning the whole ‘Peter is Spider-Man’ thing.”

Ned froze mid-bite, his eyes darting between MJ and [Name]. “Yeah,” he said quickly, nodding in agreement. “We, uh… definitely should’ve told you. I mean, you kinda had a right to know.”

[Name] raised an eyebrow, her lips curving into a faint smirk. “A right to know? That’s what you’re going with?”

Peter groaned softly, tilting his head back against the couch. “Guys, stop making it sound worse.”

“No, no,” MJ said, holding up a hand to stop him. “Let her talk. She has a right to be mad at you, Peter. And at us.” She turned back to [Name], gesturing slightly. “Go ahead. Get it all out.”

[Name] snorted, shaking her head as she looked between the three of them. “Honestly? I’m not mad. I mean, I was, for like… a second. But I get it. You were just trying to protect me.”

Peter’s hand slipped into hers, his thumb brushing against her knuckles. “I didn’t want you to get hurt,” he said softly, his gaze searching hers. “I didn’t want you caught up in all of this.”

“Too late for that,” she quipped, her tone lighter now. “But seriously, I understand why you didn’t tell me. And for what it’s worth, I’m glad you all had his back.”

Ned perked up slightly, his grin widening. “Does this mean we’re forgiven?”

[Name] rolled her eyes, but her smile betrayed her. “Yeah, you’re forgiven. But don’t expect me to let you off the hook so easily next time.”

MJ nodded sagely. “Fair. That’s fair.”

Peter chuckled softly, shaking his head. “You guys are lucky she’s nicer than me.”

“Oh, please,” MJ shot back, leaning forward. “You’re the softest one here. Don’t even try to act tough.”

“I don’t know,” [Name] said, glancing at Peter with a smirk. “He did throw himself in front of a blade to save me. That’s pretty badass.”

Peter’s face flushed slightly, and he cleared his throat, trying to play it cool. “It was nothing.”

“Nothing,” Ned repeated, his eyes wide. “Dude, you literally fought Blackout and took a blade for her. That’s not ‘nothing.’ That’s, like, superhero-level romance. You’re basically living a comic book.”

“Oh my god,” Peter muttered, covering his face with his free hand.

MJ smirked, her eyes glinting with mischief. “Careful, Parker. Next thing you know, you’ll have fanfiction written about you.”

Peter groaned louder, while [Name] dissolved into laughter, her hand squeezing his reassuringly. “Don’t worry, Spider-Man,” she teased, leaning in close. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

The room burst into laughter, the light-hearted banter a welcome contrast to the heaviness that had weighed on them all just days ago. For the first time in what felt like forever, they could just exist—messy, imperfect, and entirely themselves.

------------------------------------------------------------------

The door clicked shut behind Ned and MJ as they left, their laughter still echoing faintly in the hallway. The apartment fell quiet, the kind of peaceful silence that felt almost surreal after everything they’d been through. Peter leaned back against the couch, his arm draped lazily over the backrest as he glanced at [Name]. She was sitting cross-legged on the floor, fiddling with the edge of a blanket that had been tossed haphazardly onto the coffee table.

“So,” she said, breaking the silence, her voice light but curious. “What do we do now?”

Peter tilted his head, a mischievous grin spreading across his face. “I have an idea,” he said, his tone carrying a playful edge as he leaned forward.

Before she could respond, he reached out and scooped her up, his arms wrapping around her as he stood. She let out a startled laugh, her hands instinctively grabbing onto his shoulders. “Peter!” she exclaimed, her voice half-laughing, half-scolding. “What are you doing?”

He smirked, his grip steady despite the faint wince that flickered across his face. “What does it look like I’m doing?” he teased. “I’m carrying you to bed.”

Her eyes widened, and she shook her head quickly, her hands pressing against his chest. “No, no, no,” she said firmly. “We can’t—your stitches, Peter! You’re still healing!”

“It’s fine,” he said, his grin widening as he tried to play it cool. “I’m Spider-Man. I heal fast.”

She raised an eyebrow, her expression shifting into something between amusement and exasperation. “Banner said no,” she countered, her tone sharp but laced with humour. “And I’m pretty sure he’d kill me if I let you mess up his work.”

Peter groaned dramatically, his head tilting back as he sighed. “Banner’s not here,” he muttered, his voice carrying a faint whine. “He doesn’t have to know.”

“Oh, he’ll know,” she shot back, her lips curving into a smirk. “You think you can hide anything from him? He’s like a medical ninja.”

Peter chuckled, finally setting her down gently onto the couch. “Fine,” he said, throwing his hands up in mock surrender. “You win. No funny business.”

She grinned, leaning back against the cushions as she crossed her arms. “That’s right,” she said smugly. “And don’t you forget it.”

He rolled his eyes, but the smile on his face betrayed his amusement. “You’re impossible,” he said, shaking his head.

“And you love it,” she replied, her tone teasing but warm.

Peter leaned closer, his hand brushing against hers as his grin softened into something more genuine. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “I really do.”

The moment lingered, the playful banter giving way to something softer, more intimate. The chaos of the past days felt distant now, replaced by the quiet comfort of being together.

Peter leaned in closer, his hand still resting lightly on hers, his gaze soft and unwavering. The faintest smile tugged at the corners of his lips as he tilted his head, closing the small distance between them. His lips brushed against hers, gentle and warm, carrying all the unspoken emotions that had built up over the past days—the relief, the gratitude, the love.

[Name] didn’t hesitate. She leaned into him, her hand slipping up to rest against his cheek as she kissed him back. The moment was quiet, tender, and unhurried, as if the world outside their little bubble had ceased to exist. It wasn’t about passion or urgency—it was about connection, about grounding themselves in each other after everything they’d endured.

As the kiss deepened, their breaths mingled, and the air between them grew charged with electricity. Peter's hand moved to her waist, pulling her closer, his touch sending shivers down her spine. She moaned softly into his mouth, her fingers tangling in his hair, holding him to her. The sound of their combined moans filled the air, and the temperature under the covers began to rise.

Peter's lips left hers, trailing a path of kisses down her neck, his tongue flicking out to taste her skin. She gasped, her head falling back, giving him better access. He continued his exploration, his lips and tongue moving lower, tracing a path down her collarbone, her chest, her stomach. She could feel the heat of his breath through the thin fabric of her clothes, and it sent a wave of desire crashing through her.

She reached down, her hands gripping his shoulders, her nails digging into his skin. "Peter," she whispered, her voice breathy and desperate. "You need to heal."

He looked up at her, his eyes dark with lust. "My mouth is pretty fine," he murmured, his voice low and husky.

She bit her lip, her body trembling with anticipation. She knew she should protest, but the desire that coursed through her veins was too strong to resist. She gave in, her body surrendering to his touch.

Peter's lips continued their journey down her body, his tongue and teeth teasing and tantalizing her skin. He reached her legs, his hands gently parting them, his breath hot against her most intimate place. She moaned, her hips bucking slightly, her body begging for more.

He teased her, his tongue flicking out to taste her, his fingers gently parting her folds. She cried out, her body convulsing with pleasure, her hands gripping the sheets beneath her. He continued his assault, his tongue and lips working in perfect sync, his fingers teasing and exploring.

As the waves of pleasure washed over her, she couldn't help but laugh softly, her voice filled with a mix of amusement and ecstasy. "I still don't forgive you for webbing me to that wall," she gasped, her body shaking with laughter and pleasure.

Peter looked up at her, a satisfied smile on his lips. "I know," he murmured, his voice low and teasing. "But I think you'll forgive me eventually."

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And with that! A little Taste of Heaven is Done! I hope you all enjoyed the ride! I'm sorry for the cliff hanger! but all is good! thank you to everyone of my readers! those with me from the start! and those that have joined me on the way! Much love!

Tag list: @never-stop-dreaming30

[dronebiscuitbat]

Oil is Thicker Then Blood (Part 48)

Twenty minutes later, N came back online, he was dizzy, his entire body felt as though it was filled with radio static and his core was stuttering, seemingly still fluttering from what it had just experienced.

There was a warm body on top of him, collapsed on his chest, his arm moved on its own to wrap around her, his breath seemed to catch up and come out in some astonished half-choke.

Had that really just happened?

“U-uzi?” He found his voice though it was horse and husky, and he got no response, his girlfriend continuing to lie there limp. He began to get worried, had he overloaded her somehow? Fried her processors?

He lifted her up to face him, her visor reading [Reboot, Data Overload!] but she was very clearly still online, they were also still linked together, the wire shifting as what it was connected to moved. His worry dissipated, she was fine, just still rebooting.

In the meantime, he attempted to disconnect, he lightly pulled on the wire only to find that her port had locked him in, leaving him stuck there until she woke up. So he leaned back into the pillow and looked at the ceiling, basking in the afterglow.

Uzi's system gave a beep before a low groan left her lips, clearly feeling the same dizzy feeling that had hit him when he first woke up, N went to hold her steady, one hand on her back and the other on her cheek, tilting her head up to look at him.

“Welcome back.” He smiled at her, a laugh tugging on his lips as she slowly looked up at him, embarrassed at herself, even so, her eyelights seemed to smile at him.

“Hey…” She replied back, her voice soft and small, she tried to pull back, either to get off him or just to get a better look when the short cable connecting them stopped her, painfully yanking on both of them.

“Oh… we're still…” She said, still a little out of it, she lightly brushed over the wire, fingers tangling in it, N watched her curiously, she was acting… off.

“Are you okay?”

At that she seemed to look at him, really look at him, her eyelights scanning every inch of his face before something overtook her and she kissed him. It wasn't hungry or urgent like before, but it was passionate and they both found themselves melting into it before she pulled away.

He chuckled as they remained with their visors pressed together, it was clear that neither of them wanted to get up just yet, he wasn't sure he'd be able to anyway, his legs felt numb.

N couldn't help but run his hands along her silicone softly, in which she replied by humming in contentment and caressing the seam of his visor with her thumb.

Whatever enjoyment they got out of holding each other like this seemed to be enhanced, Uzi's edges were nonexistent, leaving her as vulnerable as she would ever be and N's anxiety had run off to find it, because that was gone for the moment too.

“I love you so much.” He almost whispered in her ear, causing her to giggle lightly and bury her head into the crook of his neck, he could feel her smiling against him, making a similar smile tug the corners of his mouth.

“I love you too.” She replied equally as softly, and she finally sat up as far as thr cable would allow, she grabbed the end of in before sighing and moving her hand directly underneath to where it plugged in. There was a small click. And they were disconnected, the wire immediately snapped back inside the compartment over his core, causing him to wince as it smacked his casing.

“S-sorry, probably should have warned you.” She manually closed her compartment, before reaching up and doing the same to his, the low buzzing of his core ceased, and the radio static of his limbs seemed to let up a little.

“It's alright.” He leaned forward and held her before taking them both back down to lay on the bed, she was still mostly on top of him, although now her head rested on his chest.

“Did that… really just happen?” She asked after a moment, sounding like she didn't belive herself, he gave her a breathy laugh and used his hand to massage her back, he felt… complete? satisfied? They had become one, he had known her every thought and feeling, and she knew his. It was… incredible.

“Mmhm.” He replied, squeezing her closer even if it was physically impossible, he gave her a kiss on the forehead and buried his face into her hair.

Had she always had a smell? Because right now she smelled like freshly forged metal and citrus, a strange but oddly pleasant smelling combo.

“That was amazing…” He breathed out, causing her to laugh again, she looked up at him, nervously glancing to the side.

“Good. I… was afraid I was bad… or something.”

He blinked, almost confused on how or why she'd ever think that.

“It wasn't bad, it wouldn't have ever been bad. It was with you, and you're so, so amazing.” He immediately voiced all these things, making her blush and kiss his visor again, which in turn made him lean down and kiss hers.

“You were too…”

“I didn’t really do anything.”

She looked at him incredulously.

“Are you serious? You wrote, I love you, like fifty times over my display code. That's all I could see!”

Oh, well he was being a little clumsy…

“At least you liked it?”

“Of course I did… you goob.”

Then there was silence for another few minutes, riding the high of their afterglow together, with Uzi ending up tracing small shapes on his chest and around his core, avoiding actually touching it.

N smiled, she was being so soft, her walls had been completely demolished for him, Even before, she would have been embarrassed she was touching him so freely, now she was doing it with a small smile on her face.

“That kinda tickles Zi.” He hummed as he pretty much did the same to her back, avoiding the scars in favor of tracing around them.

She stopped, not responding but curling into him and purring, triggering his own.

Then, as if waiting for the perfect moment. A wail broke through the house like a thunderclap, alerting to two parents to their charge, who had woken up alone on the couch and was very much not happy about it.

“Mm. She has your attitude.” N laughed as Uzi slapped him lightly, slowly rolling off him to crawl out of bed even if she was initially unsteady.

“Hush.”

She got dressed, although only in her skull pajamas and made her way to the living room where Tera was beating her fists into the couch cushions in a genuine tantrum.

“Oh Tera honey, it's okay.” Uzi scooped her up, black blanket and all and the toddler almost immediately settled down, looking up at her mother, albeit with squinted eyes, almost saying “how dare you leave me alone!”

“I'm sorry Jellybean, daddy and I lost track of time.” Uzi nuzzled her daughters visor, causing the girl to let out a peel of giggles as she did it back, clearly not holding much of a grudge.

“Least you don't hold a grudge like me…”

There was a knock at the door. Making Uzi jump and Tera to immediately look at the door in curiosity, it used to just make her cry, but at least now she seemed to understand that it meant someone new was here.

She looked down at herself, her pajamas ruffled her hair a complete wreck. She sighed, hopefully it was someone she knew, this wouldn't be as awkward.

“Coming.”

She made her way to the door, looking over at N who was still in the process of getting dressed, buttoning every single button on his coat took awhile…

She used her solver to pull the door shut for him, then she let the front door swing open. Tera resting mostly in one arm as the other was free to press the button.

Red eyes looked back.

She jumped back, startled. Her other hand immediately flew up to protect Tera's head as her tail immediately wrapped around mother and child, spines flared out and ready to impale the intruder.

The intruder also jumped back, and Uzi suddenly realized that the red eyes didn't belong to who she thought they did. For starters, this drone was clearly a dude.

“Sorry for the scare man! I'm Guy, I uh, work with N?”

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