𝐂𝐑𝐘𝓫𝓪𝓫𝔂 by 𝐍𝐀𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐄 𔓘

call me t o f f e e !! ➳ cherry ˖⁠˙ ૮꒰◞ ˕ ◟ ྀི꒱ა

minor, soft, sapphic, sfw, fluff, mildly spicy, fanfictions, imagines, open to requests, currently active, open to queer content

FAIR WARNING: takes a long time to publish a post :( but will always take my time and make sure to answer all requests made!!

RULES: remain respectful, appropriate requests for appropriate characters, limited kinks / fetishes, bloody gore allowed, no limits (go wild), no promises on a lot of smut, be gentle with me please!!

HAVE FUN!

She was awful. So fucking awful.

“Evangeline…” His breath stuttered. He hated it. God, he hated it.

Hated how she'd make him shiver despite his disinterest.

Make him get on his knees rather than sit in the throne he built from the bones of bankrupt competitors and burned contracts.

Lincoln Laws was a fortress of a man -steel-eyed, cold, the very definition of a self-made billionaire. He ran empires with his mouth alone. One word, and markets shifted. One glare, and grown men wept.

He didn't do distractions.

He didn't do bright lipstick and bubbly laughs that echoed off marble halls.

He especially didn't do walking dollar vacuums with perfect curves and IQs that never cracked triple digits.

Golddiggers.

Bimbos.

Absolute parasites in designer heels.

He despised them.

And Evangeline Sinclair?

She was every single one of those things -and yet, somehow worse.

Because unlike the rest, she knew exactly what she was. And she loved it.

She owned it. Wore it like glitter. Sprinkled it in her wake.

He couldn't breathe when she entered the room. Not from awe, but from a suffocating cocktail of rage and arousal.

And it all started at the engagement party their parents arranged -a promise sealed by a contract out of drunken greed.

She walked in wearing pink fur, sunglasses indoors, and heels that clicked with every step .

"Hi, fiancé~"

She didn't shake his hand. She kissed his cheek. She didn't ask for champagne. She stole his.

She called him “Lincie” in front of everyone.

He clenched his jaw hard, trying to maintain his demeanor.

But even then, the worst part?

He felt his pants tighten.

She had him. Hook, line, and goddamn gold-plated sinker.

Evangeline was a menace.

She wanted the spotlight and dragged it wherever she walked.

“Everybody look at me, me.”

Paparazzi screamed her name. Fans sobbed for autographs.

The media branded her as “(Continent)'s Blonde Bombshell” -the heiress to nobody, made from nothing but confidence, cleavage, and chaos.

Lincoln hated how she made every room hers.

“Come on, everybody, what you here for?”

Her lips curled at interviews, poised like a queen waiting for applause.

“You either wanna be with me… or be me.”

And everyone did.

Especially Lincoln.

No, not because he liked her.

Not because he respected her.

But because she infuriated him.

And somehow, despite his disgust, he found himself upgrading his car fleet because "Evvie doesn't repeat rides."

Buying a new penthouse because "the view makes my hair look greasy."

Canceling meetings because "Evangeline demands brunch, darling, and I'm simply not one to wait."

She was a Maneater.

She made him work harder than ever -not to please shareholders, but to fund her spontaneous whims.

She made him spend hard, on fashion weeks, yachts, fucking flamingo fountains.

And worst of all?

She made him fall.

Hard.

Hard enough to ignore the way she'd strut into his boardroom in silk, toss his tie over his shoulder, and purr,

"Who's mommy's little worker bee?"

While his employees choked on their dignity.

He was the Lincoln Laws -he commanded fear. Power.

But with her?

He was just Lincie.

Her little CEO chew toy.

He hated how she mocked him.

Hated how she touched him like she owned every part.

Hated how she whispered promises in his ear at galas only to leave him wanting.

He hated that she had fun making his life hell.

And yet, when she looked at him with those glitter-coated eyes and said, "You wanna go back to your cold, boring, grey little life? Where no one laughs, and no one dares to touch you?"

He couldn't answer.

Because she was right.

She was the thrill.

The chaos.

The disaster he couldn't live without.

He wished he never met her.

But now that he had?

me fr:

le source:

This story contains sexual grooming, child abuse, emotional manipulation, depression, and body dysmorphia. Reader discretion is strongly advised.

Chapter ??: Doll

Y/N used to cry behind locked doors. At first.

She doesn't cry much anymore. Not because it doesn't hurt, but because it's easier this way -controlled. Like she was taught to be.

The girl in the mirror is elegant. Her posture, divine. Her presence, poised. A walking masterpiece. She doesn't shake under the lights anymore -she performs.

That girl? That girl doesn't exist in the bathtub.

In the water, there's only silence. And skin that won't feel clean no matter how hard she scrubs.

"Filthy…" she mumbled under her breath, voice barely audible above the dripping faucet. Her hands trembled, fingers red as she tightly gripped the loofah. "It's filthy... disgusting."

The surface of the water trembled, her knees pulled to her chest. Hair clinging to damp shoulders. She shivered. The water was warm. Always warm. Her mother made sure the house was immaculate, and warm water was the least of luxuries.

But Y/N? Y/N was freezing.

She'd stopped looking at her reflection hours ago. She couldn't anymore. It made her sick. The grace she carried in a leotard felt artificial now.

Her mother called it “elegance.”

He called it “valuable.”

He.

Her mother's “new friend.” The man with designer watches and a tighter wallet. The one who attended every performance now, right by her mother's side, clapping with that same slow elegance. He always wore expensive cologne, and when he stood too close, it lingered on her clothes.

At first, it was smiles. Then praise. Then small touches that seemed casual -except they weren't. They were memorized. They were slow. Controlled. Just like her.

Y/N didn't know when she started flinching at compliments. When "You were brilliant" began to sound like "I own you."

One time, after another competition -another trophy, another forced photo- her mother patted her shoulder with that same trained smile.

"You did amazing, sweetheart," she whispered before walking off to greet the crowd. To accept the praise meant for her daughter.

Y/N stayed behind. Always stayed behind.

He didn't follow her mother this time.

He stayed.

He smiled.

And then, he reached out -slowly. Like he was handling something delicate.

Two fingers tilted her chin up.

"Such a delicate thing," he whispered. "A porcelain doll... sculpted to perfection. Your mother should be proud."

His thumb grazed her jaw. It lingered. Too long. Too soft.

She didn't move. Couldn't. If she flinched, he might smile wider. If she spoke, she might cry. So she did nothing. Like always.

She was used to being touched in ways she didn't understand. Used to being stared at like a prize. He was just another collector pretending to admire the art when all he wanted was to own it.

Back in the tub, Y/N dragged the sponge down her arms -again, and again, and again.

"Ugly…"

Her voice was flat. Distant. Her face neutral, but her knuckles were white, gripping tighter, scrubbing rougher.

"Disgusting."

The water shaded red. No control. More pressure. Trying to rub herself away.

She had once felt beautiful on stage. Once. Now, the same legs that carried her across grand halls and lifted her into spotlight felt cheap. Soiled. Sold.

"I'm… ugly," she murmured again, the steam around her blinding, the water boiling, "...filthy."

She hated her body. Hated the way it grew into something she never asked for. Hated how it was the first thing people saw. The first thing he saw.

She was a ballerina.

But now, all she could feel… was the weight of being someone's doll.

VERY cute!!

---

WRONG SIDE OF THE TRACKS,RIGHT SIDE OF YOU

It had been a week since he met them. Her family. And he’d been chewing it over ever since.

Miles leaned against the headboard of the bed, in a room bigger than his entire apartment, staring blankly at the silver dome dish sitting in front of him.

Meanwhile, Y/N was humming, lips pursed, eyes locked on her reflection as she carefully applied her makeup, robe slipping off her shoulder.

“…And like, obviously I told him, "I’m not driving that car, daddy. He literally sat in it! That’s, like, tainted now!!" but did he listen? Nooo,” she said, rolling her eyes.

Miles blinked. She was still talking.

“Then mother had the nerve to bring me these hideous gold bangles -again! Like, did we not just cry over the Cartier set last week? UGH!”

She was so immersed in her rant that she hadn’t notice the way he slowly dropped his eyes to the tray again. It wasn’t just the food. It was the marble floors. The giant flat-screen. The scent of (favourite flowers). The way her double doors shut softly, like even they were too polite to make noise.

It wasn’t his world. Not even close.

He exhaled through his nose. Quiet. Heavy.

That’s when she finally looked up, brush paused mid-stroke. “What’s wrong with you?”

Miles didn’t answer right away. His eyes lingered on the tray -a small breakfast, her mother had called it, but to him, it looked like a page torn straight out of a magazine. Fruits carved into flowers. Eggs, fresh pastries, a teapot of tea and whatnot.

He lowered his gaze, brows pinched, and rubbed the back of his neck.

From the vanity, Y/N blinked. “Hello?” she called, uncapping her gloss. “What’s with the sigh? Is the food not hot enough? I can ask them to reheat it or whatever-”

“Nah, it’s not that,” he muttered, eyes drifting toward the enormous windows, sunlight filtering through in gentle rays.

She paused, twisting in her seat to face him. “Then what?”

Miles shifted in the plush armchair, elbows on his knees, voice low.

“You ever think maybe... I don’t belong here?”

Her hand stilled. The question hit harder than any complaint about bangles or boyfriends ever could. She turned in her seat, fully now, legs crossed, attention fixed.

“Excuse me?”

Miles didn’t look at her. Just kept staring at the floor like it had answers. “Your dad was right. You could’ve picked anyone. Some big-shot dude with a license and a gun. Hell, a real bouncer. Instead you chose some kid from the other side who patches his own hoodie and only got into this building ‘cause you said so.”

“Miles-”

“And now I’m sittin’ here in this palace of a room while maids bring me breakfast like I ain’t from a place where we eat leftovers out the pot,” he added, voice a little tighter. “It just... it don’t add up.”

Silence hung for a second. Y/N rose from her seat, bare feet padding over the soft (colour) carpet until she stood in front of him. Miles still didn’t look up -until she dipped down, crouching to his level.

“Okay. So, first of all,” she began, poking his forehead gently, “you’re dumb.”

He blinked.

“Second, I didn’t pick you to be my fake bouncer because you’re from some ‘other side.’ I picked you because you’re mine. And that’s a full-time job, okay? I need someone who doesn’t flinch when I have a mental breakdown about my nails. Someone who can carry me when my platforms snap. Someone who scares creeps with one look but still kisses me soft like I’m breakable.”

She grabbed his chin, making sure he looked her dead in the eyes.

“And I don’t care if my dad doesn’t approve. He still thinks flip phones are cool. I care about you. I want you.”

A beat. She added, softer, “You belong here because I said so. And not in this house. In my life.”

Miles stared at her, unsure what to say, his throat tight.

Y/N smiled, leaning up to peck the corner of his lips. “Now eat your food before it actually gets cold.”

He let out a small laugh, finally. “You’re somethin’ else, you know that?”

“I better be. My gloss is limited edition.”

Miles reached up, cupping her cheek, thumb brushing over her skin.

“You really don’t see it, huh?”

“See what?”

He smiled, small. “You talk like this place is yours. Like money don’t mean nothin’. But you the only thing in this whole mansion that makes it feel alive.”

She blinked once. Twice.

Then stood up, huffing, cheeks warm. “Okay, smooth guy, don’t start makin’ me emotional this early.”

He stood too, arms wrapping around her waist, pulling her into him.

“Too late.”

From down the hall, the sound of heels clicking warned them someone was coming. Y/N groaned. “If that’s my mom with more bangles, I’m jumping out the window.”

“You want me to bounce her?” he offered, smirking.

Y/N grinned. “See? Best fake bouncer ever.”

Miles smiled, eyes soft as they locked onto hers. Then came that flicker, that familiar glint of mischief in his gaze that always meant trouble.

Before Y/N could fully clock it, his arms tightened around her waist and- “Miles!” she squealed as he lifted her clean off the ground, legs kicking as laughter bubbled up in her chest.

“Put me down!” she yelped through a grin, but he was already stepping back with her squirming in his grip, both of them tumbling backwards onto her plush, oversized mattress.

They landed with a thump, the mattress bouncing slightly from the force. Y/N gasped, half-laughing, half-scolding, now sprawled across his chest, her hair tousled around her face. “You’re such a jerk,” she pouted, cheeks pink.

“You love it,” he said simply, voice smug against her ear.

She hit his chest with her fist -but it was soft, half-hearted. The moment her fist settled there, it stayed. Her fingers hooked into his shirt, clinging.

“...Maybe I do,” she murmured, face burying against his collar.

Miles let out a small breath, one hand resting comfortably on the curve of her waist while the other ran up and down her back. The silk of her robe brushed against his fingertips. “You talk so much,” he muttered, closing his eyes. “But when you shut up and lay like this? I could get used to it.”

“Mmm... shut up,” she mumbled, already nuzzling closer, her leg casually hooking over his. “Your shirt’s soft.”

He smirked. “You’re soft.”

“I know.” She yawned, dramatic.

Miles laughed under his breath, his hold on her tightening just a little. And for a moment, just one slow, sweet moment, there was no rich or poor. No sides of the city. Just the quiet sound of their syncing breaths, her gloss faintly smudged on his neck, his shirt smelling like her perfume, and the sun painting soft stripes of light across her bedroom.

She was his chaos.

And he was her calm.

---

do it. send me your fluff requests rn and ill start typing. yes, even the freaky ones, youve earned it loves (if it hadnt been obvious, the college au was to make a room for the said spicy shit, so go crazy ;3 )

no but really thank you sooo muchhhh for pushing this fic loves, omds, ive never felt more proud

Adorable!!!

ᶻ 𝗓 Cuddle Buddies𐰁

The math textbook sat open between them, equations sprawled across the page. Miles tapped his pencil against the side of the book, eyes glazed over as Y/N worked through the problem, focused .

"Okay, so if you carry the one, then- Miles, are you even listening?"

Her sharp voice snapped him out of his daze. Miles blinked, lips twitching as he fought back a smirk.

"Yeah, yeah, totally," he drawled lazily, tapping his pencil against the book once more, "Carry the... two? Or wait-"

Y/N's sigh cut him off. She was already reaching for the page to point at the problem, but Miles leaned back on his elbows, his head tilting as he watched her. The way her nose scrunched up in concentration, the way her hair fell over her shoulder -it was a better distraction than the math book could ever be.

His grin stretched wider, and before Y/N could scold him again, Miles made his move.

Without warning, his arm slid around her waist, a playful tug pulling them both off balance.

"Hey- Miles!"

Her book tumbled onto the pile of pillows scattered across the floor, and she landed with a soft thud, her body half-sprawled against his.

"Miles Morales," she huffed, giving him an unimpressed glare.

Miles just grinned, unbothered, one brow raised as he stared up at the ceiling like he hadn't just derailed their entire study session.

"Taking a break," he answered, teasing. "C'mon, you can't really expect me to survive a whole hour of math without some kind of reward?"

Y/N rolled her eyes, about to argue further -but the pillows were soft, the afternoon light warm, and the steady rhythm of Miles' breathing in her ear was oddly soothing.

So instead, she let herself sink into the cushions, the tension in her shoulders melting away. Her eyes fluttered shut, and after a beat, she felt it -Miles' quiet, almost surprised shift beside her.

His smirk softened into something more genuine, a small, quiet grin tugging at his lips. He watched her for a moment, taking in her features, the way her lashes rested against her cheeks, the faint rise and fall of her chest.

She didn't move when his arm slipped back around her waist, pulling her a little closer. Didn't flinch when he hesitated, waiting for a protest, and none came.

Instead, she breathed out softly, head tipping ever so slightly into the crook of his neck, her hand resting lightly against his chest.

Miles felt his heart settle in his chest, his muscles easing into the quiet. For the first time in what felt like months -after the chaos of patrols, of keeping his identity a secret, of holding the weight of the city on his back- he felt... okay.

Better than okay.

He took a deep breath, letting it out slow, a small smile ghosting across his lips.

"Thanks," he murmured, barely above a whisper, the words meant more for himself than for her.

chat... are we dead ass? *cries in utter pain and agony knowing i promised yall id listen and not judge to you requests*

---

Earth 1610, the Morales' household

It’s late Saturday afternoon, and Miles is exhausted. School’s been a lot lately -tests, projects, and what not- and all he’s been looking forward to is the sweet, familiar comfort of his own bed.

As soon as he steps into his room, bag sliding off his shoulder and sneakers barely kicked off, he sighs, dragging himself toward his bed and drops face-first onto the mattress, burying his face in the covers.

But something brushes against his foot -something small, warm, and… furry.

Miles blinks, lifting his head and glancing down. A soft smile tugs at his lips.

“Back in my spot again, huh?” he mutters, his voice muffled against the sheets.

At the foot of the bed, there’s a small (colour) cat, tail flicking lazily, (e.colour) eyes blinking up at him. The same little cat he’d found in an alley a few weeks back -skittish at first, but after sharing bits of food and giving her that makeshift collar he’d made out of string and a soda tab, she’d stuck around.

“Miss me?” he teases gently, reaching down to scratch behind her ears. The cat purrs, leaning into his touch.

But as soon as his fingers brush the soft fur of her neck, there’s a quiet poof.

In a shimmer of light, the small cat suddenly becomes a girl -cradled up on his bed, wearing a familiar hoodie that must have been swiped from his closet, the collar still looped around her neck. The only difference? Her ears -still cat-like and twitching on her head- and a long, swishy tail curling around her side.

Miles freezes, eyes wide, and then lets out a soft laugh.

“Oh... so that's what this is about?”

Y/N peeks up at him through sleepy, half-lidded eyes, her cheeks warming as she rubs one eye with her sleeve.

“Hey, I was warm here,” she mumbles, trying to pull the hoodie over her head to hide her face. Her ears flick back, a clear sign she’s embarrassed.

Miles smirks, leaning closer, his arms braced on either of her sides.

“Warm, huh?” he murmurs, voice low and teasing. “Or were you just waiting for me to come home, gata?”

Her tail twitches at the nickname, and she lightly swats at his chest, but there’s no real fire behind it.

“Shut up…” she mutters, but Miles is already laughing, ruffling her hair with a grin.

“Missed you too, gatita,” he says softly, pressing his forehead to hers before letting himself collapse onto the bed again, this time next to her.

Y/N lets out a soft sigh, curling up by his side. Her tail swishes once, then drapes lazily over his leg, and Miles wraps an arm around her shoulders, letting the calm wash over him.

For a while, there’s no words -just the sound of their breathing, the occasional soft purr from Y/N, and the quiet hum of the city outside his window.

And for the first time in what feels like ages, Miles feels like he’s home.

Earth 42, Davis' apartment

A soft buzz fills the dimly-lit apartment. The scent of solder, metal, and cheap takeout clings to the air. Miles sits hunched over the dining table at Uncle Aaron’s, fingers stained with grease, his gauntlet cracked open and its guts splayed out.

His eyes burn, the dim bulb above flickering every now and then, barely holding on. His chest feels tight -like the city itself, pressing in on him from all sides. Bills piling up at home. His mom working double shifts just to keep the lights on. His uncle slipping him crumpled bills when she’s not looking, while Miles just swallows the guilt.

And this -the suit, the gauntlet, the tech- it’s the only thing that feels like it’s in his control.

That is, until he hears it.

A soft, almost tentative scritch-scratch against the window.

His shoulders tense before his brain caught up, the sound familiar.

Lifting his head, Miles sees a small figure shimmying through the narrow crack in the living room window, her patched ear twitching as she squeezes through.

A sigh escapes him, soft, disbelief.

“Mierda,” he mutters under his breath, a crooked smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Look who decided to drop by.”

Gently setting down the gauntlet, Miles pushes himself up and strides across the room.

“Oye, careful,” he warns, just as her tiny paws nearly slip off the windowsill.

He scoops her up in his arms, feeling the warmth of her small, furry body pressed against his chest. She’s lighter than he remembers, maybe even skinnier. The patch on her ear, the one she earned from a rough fight with some stray, still stands out against her (dark/light) fur.

“Didn’t I tell you not to get into fights with the locals?” he teases quietly, rubbing his thumb over the soft fur between her ears.

Y/N lets out a soft mrrp in response, her head nudging against his hand.

“Yeah, yeah. You’re lucky I’m a sucker for trouble.”

He carries her to the couch, setting her down gently, and as soon as she lands, there’s a familiar poof.

Where the small, beaten-up cat once was, now lies a girl -her hoodie hanging off her shoulder, tail curling lazily against the cushions, and those ears twitching ever so slightly on her head. A faint bruise still lingers on her cheek, a few scrapes on her arms beneath the soft material of her hoodie, and the faint glint of the makeshift collar he gave her peeks out from under her.

“Hey,” she mumbles, voice low and soft like the city after midnight.

Miles stares for a second -like he always does, like he’s still not used to it even though he should be by now. Then, with a small, exasperated shake of his head, he lets out a tired laugh and sits down on the couch next to her.

“I swear you’re more cat than human,” he mutters, his voice barely above a whisper, but there’s no bite to his words.

Y/N hums, her eyes fluttering shut as she leans into his side, her head resting against his shoulder. Her tail flicks once, then curls lazily around his thigh.

Miles stares down at her, something in his chest tightening -not in the way the city does, or the bills, or the weight of the mask he wears- but in a quiet, aching sort of way.

He sighs, sinking back into the couch, letting his arm drape over her shoulder. His hand absently scratches behind her ear, and her soft purr fills the silence.

For once, he lets the city’s problems fade into the background.

Just for a minute or two.

---