Well, here it is — my masterlist. I was kinda tired of having everything scattered all over the place. Hopefully this makes things easier to find. Thanks so much for all the love and support 💖
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Love on the brain 《Spiderman, Peter Parker x reader 》
Tom Holland!Peter Parker x Female Reader
Rating: Mature (or Explicit for intense sensory overload, telepathic/mind-link intimacy, and heavy mutual desire)
Sumary: Training your bio-electric powers with Peter was supposed to be simple. When curiosity drives you deeper into his neural pathways, a phantom touch triggers a cascade of physical sensations that neither of you can control.
A/N: Well, it looks like this Peter Parker personally dragged me right out of my writer's block! I promise I'll stop spamming your dashboards soon, but I just couldn't get this scene out of my head. It's a little bit experimental and weird (think bio-electric mind-linking, intense sensory overload, and extremely touch-starved Peter), but I hope you guys enjoy it as much as I loved writing it! 🖤
"Oh, wow. What was that?"
You blink hard, clearing the static from your eyes as the shock of what you just tapped into recedes. As your consciousness snaps back into your own body, you notice Peter wincing, a grimace so tight it looks almost physical. His eyes are still squeezed shut, his brow furrowed in that sharp crease between his eyebrows. A spike of panic hits you, you worry you hurt him, though you hadn't felt any psychic barrier break or crossed a boundary inside his mind.
He’d promised he wouldn't resist, and he meant it. He had left his mind completely open to you.
"As for that," Peter mutters, cracking open just one eye while the other stays defensively shut, "try not to wander into the deeply personal corners, alright?"
"It’s not like I can pick and choose what pops up! You know your brain isn't Inside Out, right? There aren't little cute door knobs or tiny emotional creatures guiding me through—"
"Okay, I get it—"
"—though if there were, yours would definitely be run by Anxiety, slamming every single button on the console—"
"Got it, got it. Okay." He lets out a breathless laugh, opening both eyes to lock onto yours. "Wanna try again?"
He looks at you with an intensity that pulls the air right out of your lungs. You feel yourself sinking into those deep brown eyes, no powers required, just pure, dizzying gravity. Before you can lose your train of thought completely, his hand moves, dragging across the small space between you until his palm rests gently on your knee.
You stare down at where his skin meets yours. A sudden wave of calm washes over the nervous buzz in your chest. Gently, you slide your hand over his, soaking in his solid, grounding warmth.
"Do you want to try again?" a bashful smile tugs at your lips as you shrug.
"Your other option is Frank, so..."
You snatch your hand back with exaggerated offense, acting scandalized, but you can't suppress the smirk breaking through.
"For your information, I have a whole line of people waiting for me to fry their brain circuitry."
"Oh, yeah? Name three."
"Dave would be thrilled, for one."
"Dave? The homeless guy who lives by your lobby?"
"He’s very sweet! And I guarantee his head is way more organized than yours or Frank’s."
A huff of laughter escapes Peter, though he doesn't deny it. Even while joking, a quiet pang of worry lingers in your chest: what if you actually hurt him? But Peter's half-smile softens the lingering tension.
"Look, you just need to learn to control it without short-circuiting your subject," he says softly. "I'm your best bet."
Deep down, you know he's right. You’ve been running these training sessions for weeks now. You’d both discovered early on that Peter’s metahuman neurons are surprisingly resilient to your manipulation, regenerating synaptic pathways at an absurd rate.
You wish there were an instruction manual for powers. Yours isn't classic mind control, it’s pure bio-electricity. You manipulate electric currents, and only recently did you realize that meant you could perceive, mirror, and jump-start the synaptic connections firing inside a human brain. At the end of the day, the mind is just one massive, delicate electrical grid.
You look back at Peter, hesitancy holding you in place. Sure, his Spider-Man DNA helps him bounce back, but what if...
"...what if I touch a part of your brain I shouldn't and leave you paralyzed?"
Your face twists in genuine horror. You still have nightmares about the session where his nose suddenly started bleeding after you accidentally nicked an essential neural bridge.
"You're not going to do that," Peter says, his tone firm yet gentle. "Nothing's gonna happen."
"Peter, I haven't even finished my degree! I haven't even taken basic neurology yet. I don't know which synapses are expendable!"
"Look, as long as you leave my motor controls and speech intact, we’re good."
You swat his arm lightly. "Don't joke about that. Keep talking like that and I'll zap your sarcasm center."
Peter laughs softly, shaking his head, but this time he reaches out and takes your hand in his, giving it a reassuring squeeze.
A sharp, electric hum crackles straight up your arm, radiating through your entire body like a live wire. From the sudden twitch in his jaw, you know he felt it too. Ever since a couple of weeks ago, every time your skin meets his, your nervous system translates the contact into tiny, buzzing sparks that set every pore on fire.
"You’re going to do great," he says quietly, his eyes fixed on your joined hands as if he has no intention of letting go.
"I don't trust myself."
"I trust you."
He whispers it like a secret meant only for the two of you, even though no one else is around. You try to take a deep breath to steady the fluttering in your chest, a nervousness that has less to do with your powers now and everything to do with how close he is. Your breath catches in ragged hitches. You close your eyes tightly, squeezing them shut, trying desperately to focus.
The moment you tune into your abilities and let your physical body slip away, the world around you reconfigures into raw, unfiltered energy. You can feel the sharp, addictive crackle of electricity thrumming through the apartment walls: a low, seductive hum calling out like a siren song. A heavy pulse tugs at your core, tempting you to siphon every last amp. The mere anticipation of absorbing that power sends a jolt down your spine, raising the fine hairs on the back of your neck. You could start with this building, bleed into the next, take over the whole block... maybe the entire city. A faint gasp nearly escapes your throat at the sheer thrill of it.
It would feel so intoxicating, so blindingly alive, that nothing else would matter. Pure power. Every nagging doubt, every heavy feeling holding you down would dissolve into nothing. Slowly, you reach out toward that brilliant, buzzing orchard, pulling the restless particles closer. In the physical room, the overhead bulbs flicker wildly, and the TV screen glitches against the sudden bio-electric draw.
Peter senses it before he sees it: the air growing thick and static-heavy. He looks over at you, realizing instantly that you've drifted far off track. He opens his mouth to pull you back, to put a stop to whatever surge is brewing, but the words he spoke just minutes ago echo back to him: I trust you. Instead of pulling away, he closes his eyes and projects a steady, quiet beam into the void, trying to draw you toward his own mind.
Blind to everything except the ocean of raw current, you're a heartbeat away from devouring every circuit in reach. But then, a softer, intricate frequency cuts through the noise. It’s far weaker than the city grid, but infinitely more magnetic: a delicate, glowing web pulsing in perfect sync with a human heart. The city grid instantly vanishes into background noise. As your consciousness drifts toward that vibrant node, you remember why you're here. The connection feels almost welcoming. A quiet, mental hello ripples softly around you.
Peter.
His mind just saved you from causing a city-wide blackout. You search for fear or hesitation in his neural feedback, but find none, only a warm, open door.
The second you cross the threshold into his electrical lattice, you feel like you're dropping into an endless abyss. Instinctively, your physical hand reaches out, gripping his forearm. He's already bracing for it, catching you before the sensation of falling can fully hit. You don't hear spoken words, but a reassuring pulse—I've got you—echoes in a timbre that is undeniably his.
You float in a dark limbo, illuminated only by the steady beat of Peter's mind.
An unmistakable scent pulls you deeper: the sharp, earthy smell of sun-baked asphalt after a heavy rainstorm. Then come the voices, whipped away by speed. A rush of pure, chest-blooming euphoria surges through your synapses: that stomach-flipping thrill of a controlled freefall. You let out a quiet gasp in the real world, tightening your grip on your physical anchor. It’s the exact feeling of swinging through the city held safe in Peter's arms. You cling to that familiar high, letting it carry you until you land squarely in a dark, intimate space.
"What did you..."
"Thought you might need a little help finding me," Peter’s voice echoes through the dark, bouncing off the walls of his thoughts.
Then, a new barrage of sensory input hits you: the rich, comforting aroma of fresh coffee brewing on a stovetop, followed by a rush of cozy warmth spreading from your chest to your shoulders. Right behind it comes a sudden spike of vertigo. Not the thrill of falling, but a raw, vulnerable insecurity. You try to trace the memory, but the sudden sound of your own laugh disorients you. It plays loud, layered over overlapping conversations you don't remember having. You feel a flush climbing up your neck, hot and searing. These aren't just random memories, these are his memories of you, and how he feels when he's around you.
"Sorry," his thought brushes against yours, a soft, unbidden stray thought from his internal monologue. "Can't always filter everything out. Didn't mean to overwhelm you."
You fight through the sensory static, trying to regain control of your physical voice. "It's okay, Pete," you whisper out loud, your real voice thick with emotion. "This is..." You swallow hard, overwhelmed by the tenderness woven into every single synapse. "...thank you."
You re-engaged your power with deliberate focus, trying to tame the rush of thoughts and bring order to the chaos. You locked onto a technique you hadn't attempted until now: giving your friend's mind a tangible shape you could manage, something to help you navigate the ocean of his thoughts without getting swept away like before. You focused on the ebb and flow of electric impulses, mapping out the synapses flashing in rhythmic intervals, categorizing each one even if you didn't fully understand what they corresponded to. With a final breath, a massive glowing spiderweb materialized before you, with electric currents racing down its threads at lightning speed.
Giving Peter that specific mental image of his own head felt surprisingly fitting, and you wondered if he could actually feel the order you had brought to the chaos inside him. You carefully observed each interlocking strand. You could easily spot the one that had dragged you in (that exhilarating rush of swinging through the city) and right beside it, you recognized the thread that seemed to hold memories of you.
You extended your consciousness, leaning in to listen closely to what that part of him had to say. The moment you brushed against it, a delicious warmth flooded your chest, trickling down into your stomach and making you feel as though the floor beneath your feet might dissolve. A soft, soothing hum lulled your stray thoughts into submission. In the physical world, Peter tightened his grip on your hand, clinging to you as an anchor.
"What are you feeling, Peter?" you asked softly, testing whether tapping into his subconscious evoked the same sensations in him.
"It’s... comforting and warm," he murmured, his breath catching. "Like holding a hot cup of cocoa on a freezing cold day."
You froze. Did he realize you were touching the exact feelings you associated with yourself?
"Do you know what's triggering it?"
Peter wetted his lips, searching his mind for the source, but it immediately linked to the feeling that washed over him whenever he was around you. He wanted to confess it (that this was precisely how he felt when you were together) but he held back.
"Maybe... a memory of May."
Those words dragged you into a far colder sensation. Affection and longing lingered, but a sharp bitterness ruined the sweetness of the memory, like tasting vinegar right after candy. A heavy, dark pressure slammed into your chest as invisible chains wrapped tightly around your lungs, stealing your breath.
You knew instantly what was happening, and an intense urge pushed you to pull your friend away from that suffocating grief. You flooded the connection with your own emotions, choosing the feelings of a crisp autumn afternoon when the two of you finally built that massive Lego set. The familiar scent of old books and pure comfort washed over you: like a warm ray of sunshine hitting your face on a chilly day.
A wave of relief washed over him. Though an echo of pain remained, the warmth drowned it out. You felt Peter’s silent gratitude, underscored by a tender squeeze of your hand.
Guiding your focus back to the cluster of shared memories, you noticed dozens of tiny nodes pulsing along a larger mental highway. Curiosity flickered as you wondered where these pathways led.
"Do you mind if I..."
"Go ahead," he gasped out before you could even finish the sentence. He didn't hesitate, not for a single second. His Spider-Sense, usually screaming at the slightest threat, stood down completely, surrendering his entire body and mind to you without a shred of defense.
Carefully, you tapped one of the minor nodes branching off from the main strand. The moment your bio-electricity brushed it, a sharp, choked hiss ripped through Peter’s teeth. His back arched violently off the couch, his entire body coiling tight as a shudder wrecked through his frame.
"Did I hurt you?" Panic flickered in your chest. "I don't know what I touched—"
"No—God, no," he stammered, his voice thick, raspy, and completely undone. A ragged, breathless gasp caught in his throat as his knuckles turned white where he held your hand. "It's... it was just a shiver. Don't stop. Please."
The node you touched blazed like a dying star in the dark, igniting a cluster of nearby nerve pathways that practically begged for your touch. Driven by curiosity, you stroked the glowing thread again, pouring a fraction more of your power into it.
Peter let out a helpless, ruined groan that vibrated straight through your own bones. Ghost fingertips dragged up his spine from the base of his back to the nape of his neck, leaving a trail of scorching, liquid fire. Goosebumps broke out across every inch of his skin. He threw his head back into the cushions, exposing the long, vulnerable line of his throat to the dark, his chest heaving violently as he fought for air.
All around you, a whole constellation of neural networks exploded into blinding light. You locked onto a central node pulsing in a heavy, hypnotic rhythm, a beat that matched Peter's racing heart perfectly. You wanted to drown in it. A fierce, possessive hunger flared in your chest: you wanted this heart to be yours, beating exclusively, wildly, only for you.
Lost in the high of his mind, you didn't realize you were broadcasting that raw, ravenous desire straight into his central nervous system, pouring months of unspoken, suffocating longing into his brain without a filter.
The emotional wave hit Peter like a physical strike. A ragged, animalistic whimper scraped up his throat, tearing past his parted lips. To him, your unspoken hunger felt like a warm, lingering lick dragging over his pulse point, pressing right against his Adam's apple.
"Fuck," he choked out, the curse slipping past his lips in a desperate, shivering plea as his grip on your hand tightened to a white-knuckle crush. He was completely unraveled, drowning in you.
He had tried so hard—so damn hard—not to imagine this. He had fallen for you the exact second Frank introduced you, slipping so deep under your spell it terrified him. You had bypassed every single one of his defenses, crawling beneath his skin and settling right next to his heart.
On the nights when the weight of being Spider-Man felt too heavy to carry, he had spent hours perched in the dark shadows outside your apartment window, crouching in the cold just to listen to the soft, steady rhythm of your breathing to keep himself sane. He had never dared confess that desperate, obsessive part of his life. But now, with your phantom breath burning against his neck and your mind tangled in his, he was on the verge of spilling every dark, starving secret, anything to keep you delivering this exquisite torture.
"Peter, I think your heart's going to burst... should we stop?" you whispered softly, trembling as the frantic, thunderous rhythm of his pulse vibrated directly through your soul, terrified that blending your bio-electricity with his was pushing him past his point of no return.
"No—God, no," he choked out, the words tearing from his throat in a raw, strangled plea as he fought against his own overwhelming senses. His fingers tightened over yours in a desperate, white-knuckle crush, dragging your hand closer to his chest. "Don't... I'm fine, I swear, it's just..."
Hearing the absolute ruin in his voice, the part of you that craved him beyond reason completely shattered your remaining restraint. You tapped into a deeper, surrounding neural current, unspooling months of suffocating, unspoken desire directly into his nervous system.
It completely undone him. Peter drowned in the surge, intoxicated beyond sanity. He couldn't draw a breath that wasn't saturated with you: your sweet shampoo, the warm heat of your skin, the aroma he had secretly cataloged as home now consuming his lungs in the most exquisite torture. He dragged his tongue over his dry, parted lips, a low, needy whine vibrating deep in his chest as every single cell in his body screamed to finally taste the girl who haunted his every waking thought and midnight patrol.
Just as he felt ready to lose his mind completely, a stray spark of your phantom touch glided along the ultra-sensitive skin of his inner thigh: a fleeting, razor-thin trace of a fingernail dragging upward.
A bruised, pitiful groan broke from his throat, shivering through the dark room. His back arched violently off the cushions, his hips twitching in an involuntary, desperate bid to press into a touch that was purely inside his head. His entire body surrendered its autonomy, obeying a single, absolute master: you, and whatever intoxicating mercy you were willing to give him.
A wave of molten heat rushed through your own body at the sound of his completely unspooled voice. Your lips parted in a sharp, silent gasp, feverish with the need to hear him make that sound again. But your rational mind (the lingering panic that you were invading his mind) screamed at you to abort. You tried to pull your hand back, to sever the current and apologize, but Peter clung to you like a dying man to a lifeline.
Before you could pull away, his mind exploded into an unfiltered, deafening storm of thoughts, crashing over your consciousness in a frantic, beautiful wave:
Don't stop. Please, please don't stop. It's okay. I'm Okay. This is better than anything I've ever dreamed of. God, you're incredible…don't leave me.
They all echoed at once, forcing you to focus just to make sense of any single thought.
"I didn't mean to. I didn't know... What are you feeling?"
Peter hesitated. Even with his eyes squeezed shut in sheer overwhelm, he felt the desperate urge to reach for you, to beg you to do something, anything, again. You felt it instantly: every neural network pulsing to the frantic beat of a wild, racing heart.
"You," he chokes out, his eyelids fluttering shut, dark eyelashes resting against flushed, feverish skin. His chest heaves violently. "It’s... God, it’s you. Everywhere. It feels like you're touching me from the inside out."
He takes your physical hand and drags it up his arm, guiding your fingers to the bare skin of his throat. He presses your palm firmly over his fluttering pulse, letting out a heavy shiver that vibrates straight through your bones. His fingers slide lower, dragging yours down the hard line of his torso, past his waist, to the damp fabric over his thigh. He presses your hand flat against his heat, begging without words for every ghost caress to become real.
"Friction..." he whimpers, his breath hot and ragged, sending a white-hot jolt straight down your spine. "...feels like your nails scraping down my skin... like your lips right on my neck..."
The sheer intimacy shatters your remaining restraint. You stop resisting and plunge straight into the current, letting your bio-electricity fuse completely with his. The boundary between your body and his dissolves. You feel the frantic, heavy hammer of his heart inside your own chest. You feel his abdominal muscles coil and shudder beneath your hands, his thighs trembling as a liquid, intoxicating heat pools deep in his gut.
His mind explodes with an unfiltered torrent of pure need: Don't stop. Please, don't stop. Take whatever you want.
You lift a hand that feels broader, heavier—his hand—and trace the feverish skin of his chest, listening to your own name slipping from his parted lips in a broken, raspy plea. You are no longer just exploring his mind: you are inhabiting him, breathing through his lungs, feeling the agonizing pleasure of your own touch through his hyper-sensitive skin. You are completely lost in him, drunk on the electric current binding your souls together, drifting toward a point of no return.
Your mind fuses completely with his. You feel the scorching heat consuming his stomach, the involuntary shudder of his thighs, the desperate, overwhelming hunger he has tried so hard to lock away since the day you met.
Outside the tangled sanctuary of your minds, the apartment lights flicker wildly, brightening into a searing, blinding white. The bio-electricity surges out of control, leaping from your skin into the wiring, bleeding through the walls into the city grid. The air crackles with ozone, static humming so loud it drowns out your ragged breaths.
Then, with a deafening CRACK, every lightbulb in the room shatters, raining glass into the dark.
The violent discharge severs the bond, throwing your consciousness backward with the force of a physical blow. You slam back into your own body, gasping frantically for air, your lungs burning as if you’ve been drowning.
Darkness instantly swallows the room. You scramble backward on the floor, sweat-soaked hair clinging to your face, trembling uncontrollably. When you look out the window, a cold spike of pure dread pierces your chest: entire city blocks are completely blacked out. The city is dead, plunged into pitch blackness because of you.
But the blackout isn't what makes your blood run cold. It's the horrifying truth that settles in your gut: you almost devoured him. You hadn't just touched his mind, you had felt his very life force starting to dissolve into your current, feeding your power like a parasite. And the scariest part? You hadn't wanted to stop. You had craved the warmth of his soul, ready to drain him dry just to stay wrapped in that blinding ecstasy.
Beside you, Peter is taking ragged, heavy gulps of air. But there is no fear in his eyes. As he looks at you through the shadows, he feels an agonizing, hollow void ripped open inside his chest. Being merged with you hadn't frightened him. It had ruined him. The sudden severance feels like an amputation, leaving every nerve in his body screaming for your return. He doesn't care about the blackout, or the fried electronics, or the glass in his hair. He craves you with a terrifying, unhinged intensity. He wants your mind back inside his, your hands on his skin, your electric soul devouring him until there is nothing left of Peter Parker except you.
Peter murmurs something, disoriented, feeling an agonizing emptiness where your mind just was.He reaches for you through the dark, wanting to hold you, but stops cold at the look of sheer horror on your face.
"Don't..." he chokes out, scrambling toward you in the dark, his voice thick with a desperate, starving need. "Don't leave..."
"I almost killed you," you whisper, tears burning your eyes as panic suffocates you. "I almost swallowed you whole, Peter."
"It's okay," Peter stammers. "We'll figure it out. We'll find a way to control… just stay."
The sheer danger of what you are (what you could do to him) spurs you to your feet. Blinded by guilt and horror, you back away toward the door, retreating from the boy who would willingly let you burn him to ashes, leaving him alone in the pitch-black apartment, hollowed out and starving for the monster who stole his heart.
Like a female bird? 《Spiderman, Peter Parker x reader 》
Tom Holland!Peter Parker x Female Reader
Rating: Fluffy, Awkward & Low-key Spicy
Sumary: Navigating Peter’s chaotic spider-biology was something you thought you had under control. That is, until you walk into his apartment to find it completely transformed, and Peter acting with an unnerving, magnetic intensity that feels a little too physical to be normal. He thinks he’s just taking care of you. Google thinks it’s something else entirely.
A/N: Hi! Oh my god, it’s been forever since I last posted anything here. Life’s been so insanely busy lately that I honestly haven’t had the time to think about anything other than work. I’m pretty sure it’s been over a year since I last wrote a single word! Because of that, I’m dropping this here without expecting too many people to read it, I just couldn't help it, Spider-Man: Brand New Day has completely rewired my brain chemistry, and this story was genuinely the only thing I could think about.
Thank you for reading, really. Every like, comment, or message makes my day and keeps me writing ♡
It had been a strange season. Complicated, too.
Then again, it had always been like that, right from the very beginning. And once you truly understood what you were walking into, you embraced every single tiny caveat that came with entering Peter’s world. An emergency alert going off right in the middle of a dinner that was going wonderfully? Sure, no problem. Falling asleep alone on the sofa while waiting up for him, just to squeeze in a five-minute chat about your days? It didn’t matter, as long as you got to share a little more time together. Ending up stranded at the very top of the Ferris wheel because trouble flared up a few blocks away? You knew he’d make it up to you later.
As chaotic as it got, the two of you always managed to find a middle ground, a quiet corner where you could tether yourselves back to each other.
Until a couple of months ago.
Even though Peter insisted everything was business as usual, things had started to feel… off. You often crashed at his apartment for days at a time, since his building was much closer to your workplace. But lately, the temperature inside his place felt ridiculously high, bordering on suffocating. On top of that, there was a strange, heavy humidity in the air. The kind that feels sticky and clings to your skin like a second layer. When you finally asked him about the sudden climate change, he just looked at you with a blank, puzzled expression, as if he hadn't noticed a single difference at all.
But it hadn't stopped at the heat. The stifling warmth was soon followed by behaviors far too bizarre, even for Spider-Man.
There were the moments when you’d try to have a normal conversation after days of missing each other, only for Peter’s brain to completely short-circuit. He’d stare right into your eyes, wide-eyed and completely vacant, looking as if his mind had drifted off to another astral plane entirely. He would nod a beat too late to whatever you were saying, his focus trapped five floors down, tracking the erratic fluttering of a fly roasting against a lightbulb.
Then came the sudden jumpiness, the kind that sent your own heart into your throat.
Any unexpected noise would trigger a minor catastrophe in the apartment. You still remembered the time a spoon slipped out of your fingers while clearing the table after dinner. Out of the corner of your eye, you watched Peter launch himself several feet into the air, his head nearly brushing the ceiling. When he landed back down, he stared wide-eyed at the culprit responsible for the heart attack: the spoon harmlessly resting between your fingers. All he managed was a quiet, embarrassed "sorry" before ducking out of the kitchen.
And how could you ever forget the dinner incident from a few weeks back?
Peter had spent ten straight minutes staring blankly at his plate, consumed by his own thoughts. He looked exhausted, having spent days complaining about a killer headache that kept him awake. He was constantly rubbing his temples, trying to relieve the pressure building behind his eyes.
Hoping to pull him out of his trance, you slid your hand across the table to gently brush his forearm, careful not to startle him. You knew the warm proximity would prevent him from jumping out of his skin. Peter blinked rapidly, finally snapping back to his small kitchen table.
"Welcome back. You okay, Pete?" you had teased, trying to lighten the mood. "You’ve been glaring at your food for five minutes. I promise I cooked it right, it won't run off the plate."
All you got in return was a weak attempt at a half-smile. Still, he closed the distance between you, lacing his fingers through yours and giving your hand a soft squeeze.
"What? Yeah, of course. The chicken is awesome... super good." He cleared his throat, releasing your hand to wipe his palms against his jeans, clearly sweating more than usual. "Is it just me, or is it hot in here?"
You didn't answer, considering this was one of the rare moments his apartment didn't feel like a sauna. Once he relaxed, he gave himself a small nod. "Could you pass me the salt, honey?"
Trying not to look at him too strangely, you complied. But as you reached out to hand it over, a weird, wet popping sound shattered the quiet, like something being violently launched under pressure.
Before you could even process it, Peter turned ghost-white, looking like he was about to pass out. You followed his horrified gaze down to your shirt. Right over the printed logo, there was a glob of a strange, thick, milky-white substance.
You carefully set the salt shaker down and pulled the fabric taut to examine the residue. As you reached out to touch it, you caught a faint, panicked "Don't..." from your boyfriend, but you ignored it. You pinched a tiny bit between your fingertips. The moment you felt it, you knew instantly what it was, even though you had never touched anything like it before.
"It’s webbing," you said, looking back up at him.
Peter looked mortified. You instinctively scanned his wrists, expecting to see his mechanical Web-Shooters. Instead, there was only bare skin. That stuff had just shot straight out of his wrist.
"I’msorryI’msorryI’msorry," Peter had blabbered, panic lacing his voice. "I don't know what happened... It's never... I didn't mean—"
He threw his hand over his mouth as a sudden dry heave cut him off.
"It's fine, Pete. I don't understand what just happened, but it's..." You leapt out of your chair, turning your back on him instantly. The forced, reassuring smile you were trying to hold had just been crushed by a wave of intense, visceral nausea.
"I'm sorry!" Peter squeaked.
"It's nothing—"
You didn't get to finish the sentence before bolting straight for the bathroom to save your dinner.
Yet, as strange and gross as those moments were, the two of you had survived them. Step by step, piece by piece.
Eventually, Peter figured out that his spider biology was acting up. His hormones had spun completely out of control, shifting into overdrive and affecting his body in ways he was reluctant to admit.
Which brought you to right now.
You arrived home that day completely exhausted from work. J. Jonah Jameson’s shrill, booming voice was still reverberating inside your skull, stubbornly refusing to leave. As you stepped into Peter’s apartment, a wave of relief washed over you when you realized you weren't greeted by the stifling, humid heat wave that usually turned his place into a sauna.
"Peter?" you called out.
You always made a point to announce your entry, just in case the sharp slam of the front door proved too much for his hyper-sensitive hearing. You had tried calling him on your walk over to let him know you were just a few blocks away, but he hadn't picked up.
It took a second for your senses to register the air inside the apartment. You crinkled your nose, picking up a dizzying array of scents. There was an overwhelming mix of food aromas, so many that your un-enhanced nose couldn't even separate one from the other. Underneath it all, a soft melody was playing, drifting pleasantly from the living room like a faint thread of background music.
Following your instincts, you walked in, half-expecting to find Peter lying face down on the couch, completely overstimulated. But before you even made it past the hallway, something in the living room froze you dead in your tracks.
The apartment was filled with brand-new acquisitions, laid out as if they had always belonged there. Five entirely different types of throw pillows were scattered across the furniture, boasting an array of rich textures. They looked impossibly plush, unnaturally soft, as if someone had spent hours meticulously fluffing them to perfection. Then there were the blankets, layers of ultra-soft, weighted throws draped over the couch. You ran your hand over the top one, marveling at how absurdly gentle the plush fabric felt against your fingers.
Your brows furrowed in utter confusion. Peter’s apartment was the most functional, bare-bones living space you’d ever seen. He owned only the bare minimum, keeping furniture exclusively if it served a practical purpose. Decor was non-existent. The most personal thing he owned was a framed photo of the two of you at Rockefeller Center. And honestly, calling it a "frame" was a stretch.
Leaving the plush fortress behind, you followed the heavenly scent of food toward the kitchen. A second wave of utter bewilderment left you glued to the doorway.
Peter was standing at the stove, his back turned to you. He was completely shirtless, wearing nothing above his low-slung sweatpants except a simple black kitchen apron tied snugly around his waist. Every line of his back was on full display, the deep groove of his spine, the cut muscle of his shoulders, and the subtle, rhythmic flex of his lats as he moved. He was gliding between pots and pans with a fluid, predator-like grace, softly humming along to a low, sultry beat playing from his phone.
You opened and closed your mouth, searching for words. It wasn't that Peter hated cooking, it was just that he’d sooner starve to death than ignite a gas burner. He survived almost entirely on takeout, microwave burritos, and cheap bodega sandwiches. None of this made sense.
Your eyes darted across the kitchen island, taking in the array of finished dishes. Every single one of them was one of your absolute favorites. And sitting right in the middle of the feast...
"Peter... is that a cheesecake?"
He smiled from ear to ear, not taking his eyes off the plate he was plating, nodding along to his own humming.
"What's going on? What are we celebrating?" you asked, slowly approaching the island and pulling out a stool. You watched him with genuine concern, clasping your hands together to resist the urge to feel his forehead for a fever.
When he finally looked up, the way he did it made your stomach do a sudden flip. He didn't lift his head all the way, peeking up at you through stray strands of dark hair resting on his forehead. His eyes held an intense, dark hunger: one that had absolutely nothing to do with the food on the counter.
You swallowed hard.
"Why don't you go change so we can have dinner?"
That simple suggestion set your cheeks completely on fire, and you had no idea why. When you didn't move immediately, Peter stood up straight. Something in his gaze softened, breaking the intense spell for a fraction of a second. But his posture was strange... Was he puffing his chest out? No, no way. It had to be your imagination.
Before you could think, you felt the gentle brush of his hand sliding under your chin. He leaned across the counter and pressed an impossibly light, lingering kiss to your lips.
"I missed you so much today," he whispered softly, pulling back just an inch. "Don't worry about a thing. Go get comfortable, okay?"
Desperate to shake off your stunned confusion, you agreed and headed toward his bedroom.
You stumbled into Peter’s bedroom and pulled open the drawer he usually cleared out for you whenever you stayed over. But when you pulled it open, you were greeted by an unsettlingly empty space. All that remained were a couple of your socks and some underwear. You checked the other drawers, scanning for your things, but there was only Peter’s clothing.
"Peter? Have you seen my clothes?"
His voice drifted back from the kitchen, slightly muffled. "Oh! Yeah, I threw everything into the wash. Wanted to get a full load done!"
It sounded like a lie, a terrible one. But why on earth would he lie about laundry?
"You can just borrow my stuff for now," he added. "I think you’ll be much... comfortable."
You snapped your head up. Sure, you stole his clothes sometimes, but it was never this coordinated. 'You'll be more comfortable?' What on earth had gotten into him?
You heard his footsteps approaching. A second later, Peter was leaning against the doorframe. The apron was gone. He stood there completely shirtless, his bare skin gleaming under the soft hall light as he flexed his shoulders in a way you had literally never seen him do before. You stared, stunned by how that posture made him look oddly... bigger?
"And what happened to all your shirts?" you asked, gesturing vaguely. "Did those end up in the wash too?"
A slow, sly half-smirk spread across his face, a look that was entirely uncharacteristic for Peter Parker.
"Maybe," he murmured, shrugging in a way that deliberately flexed every single muscle in his broad chest and back.
He rested one hand high up on the doorframe, leaning his weight into it as he tracked your every move. For a split second, you thought you saw a dark shadow bleed over the brown of his pupils, turning his eyes into twin black voids. You shook it off, it disappeared in a blink. You shook your head with a quiet sigh and reached into his drawer for one of his worn-in grey hoodies. The moment your hands touched the fabric, a low, satisfied hum vibrated from the back of his throat.
When you turned to head toward the bathroom, he didn't move. He blocked the hallway, his intense gaze tracing every single line of your face as if he were trying to memorize it forever. Then, he leaned down and gently pressed his nose against yours: a soft, tender gesture that completely threw you off guard.
You pulled back slightly, laughing nervously at his strange behavior. He seemed like he was in a trance.
"Okay, seriously, what is up with you today?" you asked, laughing softly as you tried to put a little distance between you.
Peter stayed completely quiet. His expression remained intensely serious, his lips slightly parted as his breathing ran a little heavier than usual. Your laughter faded, replaced by growing worry. You placed a palm flat against his bare chest, feeling the intense heat radiating from his skin.
That’s when you felt it: a strange, deep vibration echoing through his sternum.
You had never felt him do anything like this before. It was as if his entire body was humming on a sub-bass frequency, a rhythmic, mesmerizing pulse that felt strangely soothing, lulling you into a warm spell. Hypnotized by the purr like rumble, you stood frozen as he slowly brought his face closer and closer to yours...
BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!
The kitchen timer blared from down the hall.
Peter jumped, snapping out of his trance like a splash of cold water to the face.
"I'll... I should..." He cleared his throat violently, pointing a thumb over his shoulder.
"Yeah. I'm gonna... bathroom," you muttered.
You ducked right under his raised arm, still feeling that lingering, hypnotic vibration buzzing in the tips of your fingers. You shut the door behind you and sat down on the toilet seat, completely bewildered by what had just happened in less than fifteen minutes.
Peter had filled his apartment with soft, plush nests. He had cooked a feast fit for a party of twenty, made up entirely of your favorite foods. He had hidden all your clothes so you’d be forced to wear his. And then there was that bizarre, chest-puffing, purring thing he was doing.
Exhausted, you stared up at the ceiling.
Sitting in the upper corner of the wall was a tiny web. It wasn't Peter’s, it belonged to "Hugs," the resident bathroom spider who occasionally showed his face. You watched as the little spider worked on his intricate web, carefully wrapping up a tiny bug that had gotten trapped in his threads.
And suddenly... click.
The missing pieces fell into place with the force of a freight train.
Peter’s wild spider hormones had stayed outside of your relationship until now. You had never seen him act strange with you, beyond his overstimulated senses or his lack of control during patrols.
You pulled out your phone frantically, typing "spider behavior" into the search bar. You spent a long time reading, searching, and piecing together what on earth had triggered this behavior in the superhuman cooking dinner a few feet away from you.
The words "COURTSHIP RITUAL" took your breath away.
You read further:
Male spiders will prepare a plush, secure nest to make it attractive in the first stage. Food stockpiling also becomes a key necessity in this behavior. Certain species use rhythmic vibrations to attract and soothe the female. Not to mention flexed physical displays, where they attempt to appear larger or showcase their strength.
You squeezed your eyes shut. Oh my god.
Peter was courting you. You had no idea how to handle this, or how to even bring it up. It wasn't that you didn't like the changes but they were just overwhelming. And the last thing you wanted was to hurt his feelings or make his spider half feel rejected.
You tried to clear your head under the stream of the shower, thinking about how to face what was waiting for you outside. You dressed slowly, taking an odd, grounding comfort in the scent of Peter’s clothes.
Taking a deep breath, you stepped out into the living room. There was no sign of him anywhere. Yet, the tiny hairs on the back of your neck stood straight up. You could feel eyes watching you from somewhere in the house.
"Peter?" you called out.
Without a sound, Peter dropped from the ceiling, landing in a low, flawless squat right in front of you.
You shrieked, taking a step back, but before you could recover, Peter stood up to his full height. His shirtless chest was still glowing with heat, his shoulders back, his eyes darkening as he took a slow, deliberate step toward you.
"Didn't mean to scare you," he said. But his tone lacked any real remorse, he actually looked amused.
"Well, you failed!" You slammed a hand over your heart, trying to calm your racing pulse.
As you looked at him again, you realized he was doing the vibration thing once more, and the memory of the trance he’d put you in came rushing back. As Peter tried to step closer, you stopped him.
"Ah-ah! Absolutely not. No more spider-hypnosis today, Parker!"
He looked deeply confused, but he stopped in his tracks. Your heart squeezed in your chest at the wounded, disappointed pout that immediately crossed his face.
You rushed forward, gently taking his face in both of your hands, forcing him to look at you. There it was again, that subtle, dark shadow glazing over his eyes.
"Peter, I think your hormones are totally shot. I suspect you don't even realize what you're doing right now... but I don't need you to court me."
The words acted like a light switch, clearing the dark haze from his eyes as a genuine, confused smile formed on his face. He pulled back slightly, surprised.
"What?"
"I mean, I really appreciate the comfortable nest, and…"
"Wait. Nest?"
You carefully chose your next words. "Peter... you are acting exactly like Hugs in the bathroom if he were trying to win over a lady spider. You padded the entire house with soft pillows, you cooked enough food to survive a winter hibernation, and then there's that weird chest-vibration thing you're doing. Which is very soothing, by the way! But I’m slightly terrified you’re trying to hypnotize me so you can wrap me up in a giant web. Honestly, I didn't finish reading the whole article."
You watched as the realization slowly travelled through his brain, connecting the dots of his own involuntary biological instincts.
His jaw dropped. His eyes went as wide as saucers.
"Oh... oh no," Peter squeaked, his voice cracking violently. He covered his face with both hands, his bare chest heaving as a deep, mortified red flushed across his entire body. "Oh my god. Oh god, I... I tried to spider-mate you."
"Yeah," you teased, stepping closer and wrapping your arms around his bare waist, resting your cheek against his chest. "You kind of did."
"I am so sorry!" Peter blabbered into his hands, completely mortified. "I didn't mean to…I wasn't thinking! My brain just felt so foggy and I just really wanted to make you happy and keep you here and…oh god, I was standing there flexing, wasn't I?!"
You let out a loud laugh, looking up at his utterly ruined, embarrassed face. "Honestly, Pete? It was incredibly hot. A little terrifying when you tried to hypnotize me, but the shirtless chest-puffing? A solid ten out of ten. If I were a lady spider, I would've been wrapped around your finger in seconds."
Your words achieved exactly what you wanted. A burst of nervous laughter escaped Peter as he tried to fight off the overwhelming embarrassment crushing him.
Peter groaned, burying his face in the crook of your neck, his arms tightly wrapping around you. "Please kill me. Throw me out the window."
"Not a chance," you giggled, pressing a soft kiss to his warm shoulder. He shook his head, closing his eyes in sheer embarrassment at his own little show.You pulled back slightly and bumped your nose against his, just like he had done earlier, and stole a quick kiss.
"Though... I do have one question."
"What?" he mumbled miserably into your neck.
"According to the article... after the nest, the food, and the vibration... there's supposed to be a courtship dance." a mischievous glint in your eyes. "Were you going to dance for me, Peter?"
Peter went completely still. He slowly lifted his head, his ears burning so bright they were practically glowing.
"No," he lied horribly.
"Peter Parker! You had a whole ritual planned out!" You shook him by his waist, laughing uncontrollably. "Come on, tell me! What song were you going to do your spider-courtship dance to?!"
Peter tried to pull away, desperate to physically escape the apartment, but you held on tight, burying your face in his chest as you shook with laughter.
SCREAMING CRYING thank u all for the love on this!! i really wasn't expecting it and it completely warmed my heart 🥹💖 definitely wanna write more for this spidey if life ever gives me a breather!!
Like a female bird? 《Spiderman, Peter Parker x reader 》
Tom Holland!Peter Parker x Female Reader
Rating: Fluffy, Awkward & Low-key Spicy
Sumary: Navigating Peter’s chaotic spider-biology was something you thought you had under control. That is, until you walk into his apartment to find it completely transformed, and Peter acting with an unnerving, magnetic intensity that feels a little too physical to be normal. He thinks he’s just taking care of you. Google thinks it’s something else entirely.
A/N: Hi! Oh my god, it’s been forever since I last posted anything here. Life’s been so insanely busy lately that I honestly haven’t had the time to think about anything other than work. I’m pretty sure it’s been over a year since I last wrote a single word! Because of that, I’m dropping this here without expecting too many people to read it, I just couldn't help it, Spider-Man: Brand New Day has completely rewired my brain chemistry, and this story was genuinely the only thing I could think about.
Thank you for reading, really. Every like, comment, or message makes my day and keeps me writing ♡
It had been a strange season. Complicated, too.
Then again, it had always been like that, right from the very beginning. And once you truly understood what you were walking into, you embraced every single tiny caveat that came with entering Peter’s world. An emergency alert going off right in the middle of a dinner that was going wonderfully? Sure, no problem. Falling asleep alone on the sofa while waiting up for him, just to squeeze in a five-minute chat about your days? It didn’t matter, as long as you got to share a little more time together. Ending up stranded at the very top of the Ferris wheel because trouble flared up a few blocks away? You knew he’d make it up to you later.
As chaotic as it got, the two of you always managed to find a middle ground, a quiet corner where you could tether yourselves back to each other.
Until a couple of months ago.
Even though Peter insisted everything was business as usual, things had started to feel… off. You often crashed at his apartment for days at a time, since his building was much closer to your workplace. But lately, the temperature inside his place felt ridiculously high, bordering on suffocating. On top of that, there was a strange, heavy humidity in the air. The kind that feels sticky and clings to your skin like a second layer. When you finally asked him about the sudden climate change, he just looked at you with a blank, puzzled expression, as if he hadn't noticed a single difference at all.
But it hadn't stopped at the heat. The stifling warmth was soon followed by behaviors far too bizarre, even for Spider-Man.
There were the moments when you’d try to have a normal conversation after days of missing each other, only for Peter’s brain to completely short-circuit. He’d stare right into your eyes, wide-eyed and completely vacant, looking as if his mind had drifted off to another astral plane entirely. He would nod a beat too late to whatever you were saying, his focus trapped five floors down, tracking the erratic fluttering of a fly roasting against a lightbulb.
Then came the sudden jumpiness, the kind that sent your own heart into your throat.
Any unexpected noise would trigger a minor catastrophe in the apartment. You still remembered the time a spoon slipped out of your fingers while clearing the table after dinner. Out of the corner of your eye, you watched Peter launch himself several feet into the air, his head nearly brushing the ceiling. When he landed back down, he stared wide-eyed at the culprit responsible for the heart attack: the spoon harmlessly resting between your fingers. All he managed was a quiet, embarrassed "sorry" before ducking out of the kitchen.
And how could you ever forget the dinner incident from a few weeks back?
Peter had spent ten straight minutes staring blankly at his plate, consumed by his own thoughts. He looked exhausted, having spent days complaining about a killer headache that kept him awake. He was constantly rubbing his temples, trying to relieve the pressure building behind his eyes.
Hoping to pull him out of his trance, you slid your hand across the table to gently brush his forearm, careful not to startle him. You knew the warm proximity would prevent him from jumping out of his skin. Peter blinked rapidly, finally snapping back to his small kitchen table.
"Welcome back. You okay, Pete?" you had teased, trying to lighten the mood. "You’ve been glaring at your food for five minutes. I promise I cooked it right, it won't run off the plate."
All you got in return was a weak attempt at a half-smile. Still, he closed the distance between you, lacing his fingers through yours and giving your hand a soft squeeze.
"What? Yeah, of course. The chicken is awesome... super good." He cleared his throat, releasing your hand to wipe his palms against his jeans, clearly sweating more than usual. "Is it just me, or is it hot in here?"
You didn't answer, considering this was one of the rare moments his apartment didn't feel like a sauna. Once he relaxed, he gave himself a small nod. "Could you pass me the salt, honey?"
Trying not to look at him too strangely, you complied. But as you reached out to hand it over, a weird, wet popping sound shattered the quiet, like something being violently launched under pressure.
Before you could even process it, Peter turned ghost-white, looking like he was about to pass out. You followed his horrified gaze down to your shirt. Right over the printed logo, there was a glob of a strange, thick, milky-white substance.
You carefully set the salt shaker down and pulled the fabric taut to examine the residue. As you reached out to touch it, you caught a faint, panicked "Don't..." from your boyfriend, but you ignored it. You pinched a tiny bit between your fingertips. The moment you felt it, you knew instantly what it was, even though you had never touched anything like it before.
"It’s webbing," you said, looking back up at him.
Peter looked mortified. You instinctively scanned his wrists, expecting to see his mechanical Web-Shooters. Instead, there was only bare skin. That stuff had just shot straight out of his wrist.
"I’msorryI’msorryI’msorry," Peter had blabbered, panic lacing his voice. "I don't know what happened... It's never... I didn't mean—"
He threw his hand over his mouth as a sudden dry heave cut him off.
"It's fine, Pete. I don't understand what just happened, but it's..." You leapt out of your chair, turning your back on him instantly. The forced, reassuring smile you were trying to hold had just been crushed by a wave of intense, visceral nausea.
"I'm sorry!" Peter squeaked.
"It's nothing—"
You didn't get to finish the sentence before bolting straight for the bathroom to save your dinner.
Yet, as strange and gross as those moments were, the two of you had survived them. Step by step, piece by piece.
Eventually, Peter figured out that his spider biology was acting up. His hormones had spun completely out of control, shifting into overdrive and affecting his body in ways he was reluctant to admit.
Which brought you to right now.
You arrived home that day completely exhausted from work. J. Jonah Jameson’s shrill, booming voice was still reverberating inside your skull, stubbornly refusing to leave. As you stepped into Peter’s apartment, a wave of relief washed over you when you realized you weren't greeted by the stifling, humid heat wave that usually turned his place into a sauna.
"Peter?" you called out.
You always made a point to announce your entry, just in case the sharp slam of the front door proved too much for his hyper-sensitive hearing. You had tried calling him on your walk over to let him know you were just a few blocks away, but he hadn't picked up.
It took a second for your senses to register the air inside the apartment. You crinkled your nose, picking up a dizzying array of scents. There was an overwhelming mix of food aromas, so many that your un-enhanced nose couldn't even separate one from the other. Underneath it all, a soft melody was playing, drifting pleasantly from the living room like a faint thread of background music.
Following your instincts, you walked in, half-expecting to find Peter lying face down on the couch, completely overstimulated. But before you even made it past the hallway, something in the living room froze you dead in your tracks.
The apartment was filled with brand-new acquisitions, laid out as if they had always belonged there. Five entirely different types of throw pillows were scattered across the furniture, boasting an array of rich textures. They looked impossibly plush, unnaturally soft, as if someone had spent hours meticulously fluffing them to perfection. Then there were the blankets, layers of ultra-soft, weighted throws draped over the couch. You ran your hand over the top one, marveling at how absurdly gentle the plush fabric felt against your fingers.
Your brows furrowed in utter confusion. Peter’s apartment was the most functional, bare-bones living space you’d ever seen. He owned only the bare minimum, keeping furniture exclusively if it served a practical purpose. Decor was non-existent. The most personal thing he owned was a framed photo of the two of you at Rockefeller Center. And honestly, calling it a "frame" was a stretch.
Leaving the plush fortress behind, you followed the heavenly scent of food toward the kitchen. A second wave of utter bewilderment left you glued to the doorway.
Peter was standing at the stove, his back turned to you. He was completely shirtless, wearing nothing above his low-slung sweatpants except a simple black kitchen apron tied snugly around his waist. Every line of his back was on full display, the deep groove of his spine, the cut muscle of his shoulders, and the subtle, rhythmic flex of his lats as he moved. He was gliding between pots and pans with a fluid, predator-like grace, softly humming along to a low, sultry beat playing from his phone.
You opened and closed your mouth, searching for words. It wasn't that Peter hated cooking, it was just that he’d sooner starve to death than ignite a gas burner. He survived almost entirely on takeout, microwave burritos, and cheap bodega sandwiches. None of this made sense.
Your eyes darted across the kitchen island, taking in the array of finished dishes. Every single one of them was one of your absolute favorites. And sitting right in the middle of the feast...
"Peter... is that a cheesecake?"
He smiled from ear to ear, not taking his eyes off the plate he was plating, nodding along to his own humming.
"What's going on? What are we celebrating?" you asked, slowly approaching the island and pulling out a stool. You watched him with genuine concern, clasping your hands together to resist the urge to feel his forehead for a fever.
When he finally looked up, the way he did it made your stomach do a sudden flip. He didn't lift his head all the way, peeking up at you through stray strands of dark hair resting on his forehead. His eyes held an intense, dark hunger: one that had absolutely nothing to do with the food on the counter.
You swallowed hard.
"Why don't you go change so we can have dinner?"
That simple suggestion set your cheeks completely on fire, and you had no idea why. When you didn't move immediately, Peter stood up straight. Something in his gaze softened, breaking the intense spell for a fraction of a second. But his posture was strange... Was he puffing his chest out? No, no way. It had to be your imagination.
Before you could think, you felt the gentle brush of his hand sliding under your chin. He leaned across the counter and pressed an impossibly light, lingering kiss to your lips.
"I missed you so much today," he whispered softly, pulling back just an inch. "Don't worry about a thing. Go get comfortable, okay?"
Desperate to shake off your stunned confusion, you agreed and headed toward his bedroom.
You stumbled into Peter’s bedroom and pulled open the drawer he usually cleared out for you whenever you stayed over. But when you pulled it open, you were greeted by an unsettlingly empty space. All that remained were a couple of your socks and some underwear. You checked the other drawers, scanning for your things, but there was only Peter’s clothing.
"Peter? Have you seen my clothes?"
His voice drifted back from the kitchen, slightly muffled. "Oh! Yeah, I threw everything into the wash. Wanted to get a full load done!"
It sounded like a lie, a terrible one. But why on earth would he lie about laundry?
"You can just borrow my stuff for now," he added. "I think you’ll be much... comfortable."
You snapped your head up. Sure, you stole his clothes sometimes, but it was never this coordinated. 'You'll be more comfortable?' What on earth had gotten into him?
You heard his footsteps approaching. A second later, Peter was leaning against the doorframe. The apron was gone. He stood there completely shirtless, his bare skin gleaming under the soft hall light as he flexed his shoulders in a way you had literally never seen him do before. You stared, stunned by how that posture made him look oddly... bigger?
"And what happened to all your shirts?" you asked, gesturing vaguely. "Did those end up in the wash too?"
A slow, sly half-smirk spread across his face, a look that was entirely uncharacteristic for Peter Parker.
"Maybe," he murmured, shrugging in a way that deliberately flexed every single muscle in his broad chest and back.
He rested one hand high up on the doorframe, leaning his weight into it as he tracked your every move. For a split second, you thought you saw a dark shadow bleed over the brown of his pupils, turning his eyes into twin black voids. You shook it off, it disappeared in a blink. You shook your head with a quiet sigh and reached into his drawer for one of his worn-in grey hoodies. The moment your hands touched the fabric, a low, satisfied hum vibrated from the back of his throat.
When you turned to head toward the bathroom, he didn't move. He blocked the hallway, his intense gaze tracing every single line of your face as if he were trying to memorize it forever. Then, he leaned down and gently pressed his nose against yours: a soft, tender gesture that completely threw you off guard.
You pulled back slightly, laughing nervously at his strange behavior. He seemed like he was in a trance.
"Okay, seriously, what is up with you today?" you asked, laughing softly as you tried to put a little distance between you.
Peter stayed completely quiet. His expression remained intensely serious, his lips slightly parted as his breathing ran a little heavier than usual. Your laughter faded, replaced by growing worry. You placed a palm flat against his bare chest, feeling the intense heat radiating from his skin.
That’s when you felt it: a strange, deep vibration echoing through his sternum.
You had never felt him do anything like this before. It was as if his entire body was humming on a sub-bass frequency, a rhythmic, mesmerizing pulse that felt strangely soothing, lulling you into a warm spell. Hypnotized by the purr like rumble, you stood frozen as he slowly brought his face closer and closer to yours...
BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!
The kitchen timer blared from down the hall.
Peter jumped, snapping out of his trance like a splash of cold water to the face.
"I'll... I should..." He cleared his throat violently, pointing a thumb over his shoulder.
"Yeah. I'm gonna... bathroom," you muttered.
You ducked right under his raised arm, still feeling that lingering, hypnotic vibration buzzing in the tips of your fingers. You shut the door behind you and sat down on the toilet seat, completely bewildered by what had just happened in less than fifteen minutes.
Peter had filled his apartment with soft, plush nests. He had cooked a feast fit for a party of twenty, made up entirely of your favorite foods. He had hidden all your clothes so you’d be forced to wear his. And then there was that bizarre, chest-puffing, purring thing he was doing.
Exhausted, you stared up at the ceiling.
Sitting in the upper corner of the wall was a tiny web. It wasn't Peter’s, it belonged to "Hugs," the resident bathroom spider who occasionally showed his face. You watched as the little spider worked on his intricate web, carefully wrapping up a tiny bug that had gotten trapped in his threads.
And suddenly... click.
The missing pieces fell into place with the force of a freight train.
Peter’s wild spider hormones had stayed outside of your relationship until now. You had never seen him act strange with you, beyond his overstimulated senses or his lack of control during patrols.
You pulled out your phone frantically, typing "spider behavior" into the search bar. You spent a long time reading, searching, and piecing together what on earth had triggered this behavior in the superhuman cooking dinner a few feet away from you.
The words "COURTSHIP RITUAL" took your breath away.
You read further:
Male spiders will prepare a plush, secure nest to make it attractive in the first stage. Food stockpiling also becomes a key necessity in this behavior. Certain species use rhythmic vibrations to attract and soothe the female. Not to mention flexed physical displays, where they attempt to appear larger or showcase their strength.
You squeezed your eyes shut. Oh my god.
Peter was courting you. You had no idea how to handle this, or how to even bring it up. It wasn't that you didn't like the changes but they were just overwhelming. And the last thing you wanted was to hurt his feelings or make his spider half feel rejected.
You tried to clear your head under the stream of the shower, thinking about how to face what was waiting for you outside. You dressed slowly, taking an odd, grounding comfort in the scent of Peter’s clothes.
Taking a deep breath, you stepped out into the living room. There was no sign of him anywhere. Yet, the tiny hairs on the back of your neck stood straight up. You could feel eyes watching you from somewhere in the house.
"Peter?" you called out.
Without a sound, Peter dropped from the ceiling, landing in a low, flawless squat right in front of you.
You shrieked, taking a step back, but before you could recover, Peter stood up to his full height. His shirtless chest was still glowing with heat, his shoulders back, his eyes darkening as he took a slow, deliberate step toward you.
"Didn't mean to scare you," he said. But his tone lacked any real remorse, he actually looked amused.
"Well, you failed!" You slammed a hand over your heart, trying to calm your racing pulse.
As you looked at him again, you realized he was doing the vibration thing once more, and the memory of the trance he’d put you in came rushing back. As Peter tried to step closer, you stopped him.
"Ah-ah! Absolutely not. No more spider-hypnosis today, Parker!"
He looked deeply confused, but he stopped in his tracks. Your heart squeezed in your chest at the wounded, disappointed pout that immediately crossed his face.
You rushed forward, gently taking his face in both of your hands, forcing him to look at you. There it was again, that subtle, dark shadow glazing over his eyes.
"Peter, I think your hormones are totally shot. I suspect you don't even realize what you're doing right now... but I don't need you to court me."
The words acted like a light switch, clearing the dark haze from his eyes as a genuine, confused smile formed on his face. He pulled back slightly, surprised.
"What?"
"I mean, I really appreciate the comfortable nest, and…"
"Wait. Nest?"
You carefully chose your next words. "Peter... you are acting exactly like Hugs in the bathroom if he were trying to win over a lady spider. You padded the entire house with soft pillows, you cooked enough food to survive a winter hibernation, and then there's that weird chest-vibration thing you're doing. Which is very soothing, by the way! But I’m slightly terrified you’re trying to hypnotize me so you can wrap me up in a giant web. Honestly, I didn't finish reading the whole article."
You watched as the realization slowly travelled through his brain, connecting the dots of his own involuntary biological instincts.
His jaw dropped. His eyes went as wide as saucers.
"Oh... oh no," Peter squeaked, his voice cracking violently. He covered his face with both hands, his bare chest heaving as a deep, mortified red flushed across his entire body. "Oh my god. Oh god, I... I tried to spider-mate you."
"Yeah," you teased, stepping closer and wrapping your arms around his bare waist, resting your cheek against his chest. "You kind of did."
"I am so sorry!" Peter blabbered into his hands, completely mortified. "I didn't mean to…I wasn't thinking! My brain just felt so foggy and I just really wanted to make you happy and keep you here and…oh god, I was standing there flexing, wasn't I?!"
You let out a loud laugh, looking up at his utterly ruined, embarrassed face. "Honestly, Pete? It was incredibly hot. A little terrifying when you tried to hypnotize me, but the shirtless chest-puffing? A solid ten out of ten. If I were a lady spider, I would've been wrapped around your finger in seconds."
Your words achieved exactly what you wanted. A burst of nervous laughter escaped Peter as he tried to fight off the overwhelming embarrassment crushing him.
Peter groaned, burying his face in the crook of your neck, his arms tightly wrapping around you. "Please kill me. Throw me out the window."
"Not a chance," you giggled, pressing a soft kiss to his warm shoulder. He shook his head, closing his eyes in sheer embarrassment at his own little show.You pulled back slightly and bumped your nose against his, just like he had done earlier, and stole a quick kiss.
"Though... I do have one question."
"What?" he mumbled miserably into your neck.
"According to the article... after the nest, the food, and the vibration... there's supposed to be a courtship dance." a mischievous glint in your eyes. "Were you going to dance for me, Peter?"
Peter went completely still. He slowly lifted his head, his ears burning so bright they were practically glowing.
"No," he lied horribly.
"Peter Parker! You had a whole ritual planned out!" You shook him by his waist, laughing uncontrollably. "Come on, tell me! What song were you going to do your spider-courtship dance to?!"
Peter tried to pull away, desperate to physically escape the apartment, but you held on tight, burying your face in his chest as you shook with laughter.
Like a female bird? 《Spiderman, Peter Parker x reader 》
Tom Holland!Peter Parker x Female Reader
Rating: Fluffy, Awkward & Low-key Spicy
Sumary: Navigating Peter’s chaotic spider-biology was something you thought you had under control. That is, until you walk into his apartment to find it completely transformed, and Peter acting with an unnerving, magnetic intensity that feels a little too physical to be normal. He thinks he’s just taking care of you. Google thinks it’s something else entirely.
A/N: Hi! Oh my god, it’s been forever since I last posted anything here. Life’s been so insanely busy lately that I honestly haven’t had the time to think about anything other than work. I’m pretty sure it’s been over a year since I last wrote a single word! Because of that, I’m dropping this here without expecting too many people to read it, I just couldn't help it, Spider-Man: Brand New Day has completely rewired my brain chemistry, and this story was genuinely the only thing I could think about.
Thank you for reading, really. Every like, comment, or message makes my day and keeps me writing ♡
It had been a strange season. Complicated, too.
Then again, it had always been like that, right from the very beginning. And once you truly understood what you were walking into, you embraced every single tiny caveat that came with entering Peter’s world. An emergency alert going off right in the middle of a dinner that was going wonderfully? Sure, no problem. Falling asleep alone on the sofa while waiting up for him, just to squeeze in a five-minute chat about your days? It didn’t matter, as long as you got to share a little more time together. Ending up stranded at the very top of the Ferris wheel because trouble flared up a few blocks away? You knew he’d make it up to you later.
As chaotic as it got, the two of you always managed to find a middle ground, a quiet corner where you could tether yourselves back to each other.
Until a couple of months ago.
Even though Peter insisted everything was business as usual, things had started to feel… off. You often crashed at his apartment for days at a time, since his building was much closer to your workplace. But lately, the temperature inside his place felt ridiculously high, bordering on suffocating. On top of that, there was a strange, heavy humidity in the air. The kind that feels sticky and clings to your skin like a second layer. When you finally asked him about the sudden climate change, he just looked at you with a blank, puzzled expression, as if he hadn't noticed a single difference at all.
But it hadn't stopped at the heat. The stifling warmth was soon followed by behaviors far too bizarre, even for Spider-Man.
There were the moments when you’d try to have a normal conversation after days of missing each other, only for Peter’s brain to completely short-circuit. He’d stare right into your eyes, wide-eyed and completely vacant, looking as if his mind had drifted off to another astral plane entirely. He would nod a beat too late to whatever you were saying, his focus trapped five floors down, tracking the erratic fluttering of a fly roasting against a lightbulb.
Then came the sudden jumpiness, the kind that sent your own heart into your throat.
Any unexpected noise would trigger a minor catastrophe in the apartment. You still remembered the time a spoon slipped out of your fingers while clearing the table after dinner. Out of the corner of your eye, you watched Peter launch himself several feet into the air, his head nearly brushing the ceiling. When he landed back down, he stared wide-eyed at the culprit responsible for the heart attack: the spoon harmlessly resting between your fingers. All he managed was a quiet, embarrassed "sorry" before ducking out of the kitchen.
And how could you ever forget the dinner incident from a few weeks back?
Peter had spent ten straight minutes staring blankly at his plate, consumed by his own thoughts. He looked exhausted, having spent days complaining about a killer headache that kept him awake. He was constantly rubbing his temples, trying to relieve the pressure building behind his eyes.
Hoping to pull him out of his trance, you slid your hand across the table to gently brush his forearm, careful not to startle him. You knew the warm proximity would prevent him from jumping out of his skin. Peter blinked rapidly, finally snapping back to his small kitchen table.
"Welcome back. You okay, Pete?" you had teased, trying to lighten the mood. "You’ve been glaring at your food for five minutes. I promise I cooked it right, it won't run off the plate."
All you got in return was a weak attempt at a half-smile. Still, he closed the distance between you, lacing his fingers through yours and giving your hand a soft squeeze.
"What? Yeah, of course. The chicken is awesome... super good." He cleared his throat, releasing your hand to wipe his palms against his jeans, clearly sweating more than usual. "Is it just me, or is it hot in here?"
You didn't answer, considering this was one of the rare moments his apartment didn't feel like a sauna. Once he relaxed, he gave himself a small nod. "Could you pass me the salt, honey?"
Trying not to look at him too strangely, you complied. But as you reached out to hand it over, a weird, wet popping sound shattered the quiet, like something being violently launched under pressure.
Before you could even process it, Peter turned ghost-white, looking like he was about to pass out. You followed his horrified gaze down to your shirt. Right over the printed logo, there was a glob of a strange, thick, milky-white substance.
You carefully set the salt shaker down and pulled the fabric taut to examine the residue. As you reached out to touch it, you caught a faint, panicked "Don't..." from your boyfriend, but you ignored it. You pinched a tiny bit between your fingertips. The moment you felt it, you knew instantly what it was, even though you had never touched anything like it before.
"It’s webbing," you said, looking back up at him.
Peter looked mortified. You instinctively scanned his wrists, expecting to see his mechanical Web-Shooters. Instead, there was only bare skin. That stuff had just shot straight out of his wrist.
"I’msorryI’msorryI’msorry," Peter had blabbered, panic lacing his voice. "I don't know what happened... It's never... I didn't mean—"
He threw his hand over his mouth as a sudden dry heave cut him off.
"It's fine, Pete. I don't understand what just happened, but it's..." You leapt out of your chair, turning your back on him instantly. The forced, reassuring smile you were trying to hold had just been crushed by a wave of intense, visceral nausea.
"I'm sorry!" Peter squeaked.
"It's nothing—"
You didn't get to finish the sentence before bolting straight for the bathroom to save your dinner.
Yet, as strange and gross as those moments were, the two of you had survived them. Step by step, piece by piece.
Eventually, Peter figured out that his spider biology was acting up. His hormones had spun completely out of control, shifting into overdrive and affecting his body in ways he was reluctant to admit.
Which brought you to right now.
You arrived home that day completely exhausted from work. J. Jonah Jameson’s shrill, booming voice was still reverberating inside your skull, stubbornly refusing to leave. As you stepped into Peter’s apartment, a wave of relief washed over you when you realized you weren't greeted by the stifling, humid heat wave that usually turned his place into a sauna.
"Peter?" you called out.
You always made a point to announce your entry, just in case the sharp slam of the front door proved too much for his hyper-sensitive hearing. You had tried calling him on your walk over to let him know you were just a few blocks away, but he hadn't picked up.
It took a second for your senses to register the air inside the apartment. You crinkled your nose, picking up a dizzying array of scents. There was an overwhelming mix of food aromas, so many that your un-enhanced nose couldn't even separate one from the other. Underneath it all, a soft melody was playing, drifting pleasantly from the living room like a faint thread of background music.
Following your instincts, you walked in, half-expecting to find Peter lying face down on the couch, completely overstimulated. But before you even made it past the hallway, something in the living room froze you dead in your tracks.
The apartment was filled with brand-new acquisitions, laid out as if they had always belonged there. Five entirely different types of throw pillows were scattered across the furniture, boasting an array of rich textures. They looked impossibly plush, unnaturally soft, as if someone had spent hours meticulously fluffing them to perfection. Then there were the blankets, layers of ultra-soft, weighted throws draped over the couch. You ran your hand over the top one, marveling at how absurdly gentle the plush fabric felt against your fingers.
Your brows furrowed in utter confusion. Peter’s apartment was the most functional, bare-bones living space you’d ever seen. He owned only the bare minimum, keeping furniture exclusively if it served a practical purpose. Decor was non-existent. The most personal thing he owned was a framed photo of the two of you at Rockefeller Center. And honestly, calling it a "frame" was a stretch.
Leaving the plush fortress behind, you followed the heavenly scent of food toward the kitchen. A second wave of utter bewilderment left you glued to the doorway.
Peter was standing at the stove, his back turned to you. He was completely shirtless, wearing nothing above his low-slung sweatpants except a simple black kitchen apron tied snugly around his waist. Every line of his back was on full display, the deep groove of his spine, the cut muscle of his shoulders, and the subtle, rhythmic flex of his lats as he moved. He was gliding between pots and pans with a fluid, predator-like grace, softly humming along to a low, sultry beat playing from his phone.
You opened and closed your mouth, searching for words. It wasn't that Peter hated cooking, it was just that he’d sooner starve to death than ignite a gas burner. He survived almost entirely on takeout, microwave burritos, and cheap bodega sandwiches. None of this made sense.
Your eyes darted across the kitchen island, taking in the array of finished dishes. Every single one of them was one of your absolute favorites. And sitting right in the middle of the feast...
"Peter... is that a cheesecake?"
He smiled from ear to ear, not taking his eyes off the plate he was plating, nodding along to his own humming.
"What's going on? What are we celebrating?" you asked, slowly approaching the island and pulling out a stool. You watched him with genuine concern, clasping your hands together to resist the urge to feel his forehead for a fever.
When he finally looked up, the way he did it made your stomach do a sudden flip. He didn't lift his head all the way, peeking up at you through stray strands of dark hair resting on his forehead. His eyes held an intense, dark hunger: one that had absolutely nothing to do with the food on the counter.
You swallowed hard.
"Why don't you go change so we can have dinner?"
That simple suggestion set your cheeks completely on fire, and you had no idea why. When you didn't move immediately, Peter stood up straight. Something in his gaze softened, breaking the intense spell for a fraction of a second. But his posture was strange... Was he puffing his chest out? No, no way. It had to be your imagination.
Before you could think, you felt the gentle brush of his hand sliding under your chin. He leaned across the counter and pressed an impossibly light, lingering kiss to your lips.
"I missed you so much today," he whispered softly, pulling back just an inch. "Don't worry about a thing. Go get comfortable, okay?"
Desperate to shake off your stunned confusion, you agreed and headed toward his bedroom.
You stumbled into Peter’s bedroom and pulled open the drawer he usually cleared out for you whenever you stayed over. But when you pulled it open, you were greeted by an unsettlingly empty space. All that remained were a couple of your socks and some underwear. You checked the other drawers, scanning for your things, but there was only Peter’s clothing.
"Peter? Have you seen my clothes?"
His voice drifted back from the kitchen, slightly muffled. "Oh! Yeah, I threw everything into the wash. Wanted to get a full load done!"
It sounded like a lie, a terrible one. But why on earth would he lie about laundry?
"You can just borrow my stuff for now," he added. "I think you’ll be much... comfortable."
You snapped your head up. Sure, you stole his clothes sometimes, but it was never this coordinated. 'You'll be more comfortable?' What on earth had gotten into him?
You heard his footsteps approaching. A second later, Peter was leaning against the doorframe. The apron was gone. He stood there completely shirtless, his bare skin gleaming under the soft hall light as he flexed his shoulders in a way you had literally never seen him do before. You stared, stunned by how that posture made him look oddly... bigger?
"And what happened to all your shirts?" you asked, gesturing vaguely. "Did those end up in the wash too?"
A slow, sly half-smirk spread across his face, a look that was entirely uncharacteristic for Peter Parker.
"Maybe," he murmured, shrugging in a way that deliberately flexed every single muscle in his broad chest and back.
He rested one hand high up on the doorframe, leaning his weight into it as he tracked your every move. For a split second, you thought you saw a dark shadow bleed over the brown of his pupils, turning his eyes into twin black voids. You shook it off, it disappeared in a blink. You shook your head with a quiet sigh and reached into his drawer for one of his worn-in grey hoodies. The moment your hands touched the fabric, a low, satisfied hum vibrated from the back of his throat.
When you turned to head toward the bathroom, he didn't move. He blocked the hallway, his intense gaze tracing every single line of your face as if he were trying to memorize it forever. Then, he leaned down and gently pressed his nose against yours: a soft, tender gesture that completely threw you off guard.
You pulled back slightly, laughing nervously at his strange behavior. He seemed like he was in a trance.
"Okay, seriously, what is up with you today?" you asked, laughing softly as you tried to put a little distance between you.
Peter stayed completely quiet. His expression remained intensely serious, his lips slightly parted as his breathing ran a little heavier than usual. Your laughter faded, replaced by growing worry. You placed a palm flat against his bare chest, feeling the intense heat radiating from his skin.
That’s when you felt it: a strange, deep vibration echoing through his sternum.
You had never felt him do anything like this before. It was as if his entire body was humming on a sub-bass frequency, a rhythmic, mesmerizing pulse that felt strangely soothing, lulling you into a warm spell. Hypnotized by the purr like rumble, you stood frozen as he slowly brought his face closer and closer to yours...
BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!
The kitchen timer blared from down the hall.
Peter jumped, snapping out of his trance like a splash of cold water to the face.
"I'll... I should..." He cleared his throat violently, pointing a thumb over his shoulder.
"Yeah. I'm gonna... bathroom," you muttered.
You ducked right under his raised arm, still feeling that lingering, hypnotic vibration buzzing in the tips of your fingers. You shut the door behind you and sat down on the toilet seat, completely bewildered by what had just happened in less than fifteen minutes.
Peter had filled his apartment with soft, plush nests. He had cooked a feast fit for a party of twenty, made up entirely of your favorite foods. He had hidden all your clothes so you’d be forced to wear his. And then there was that bizarre, chest-puffing, purring thing he was doing.
Exhausted, you stared up at the ceiling.
Sitting in the upper corner of the wall was a tiny web. It wasn't Peter’s, it belonged to "Hugs," the resident bathroom spider who occasionally showed his face. You watched as the little spider worked on his intricate web, carefully wrapping up a tiny bug that had gotten trapped in his threads.
And suddenly... click.
The missing pieces fell into place with the force of a freight train.
Peter’s wild spider hormones had stayed outside of your relationship until now. You had never seen him act strange with you, beyond his overstimulated senses or his lack of control during patrols.
You pulled out your phone frantically, typing "spider behavior" into the search bar. You spent a long time reading, searching, and piecing together what on earth had triggered this behavior in the superhuman cooking dinner a few feet away from you.
The words "COURTSHIP RITUAL" took your breath away.
You read further:
Male spiders will prepare a plush, secure nest to make it attractive in the first stage. Food stockpiling also becomes a key necessity in this behavior. Certain species use rhythmic vibrations to attract and soothe the female. Not to mention flexed physical displays, where they attempt to appear larger or showcase their strength.
You squeezed your eyes shut. Oh my god.
Peter was courting you. You had no idea how to handle this, or how to even bring it up. It wasn't that you didn't like the changes but they were just overwhelming. And the last thing you wanted was to hurt his feelings or make his spider half feel rejected.
You tried to clear your head under the stream of the shower, thinking about how to face what was waiting for you outside. You dressed slowly, taking an odd, grounding comfort in the scent of Peter’s clothes.
Taking a deep breath, you stepped out into the living room. There was no sign of him anywhere. Yet, the tiny hairs on the back of your neck stood straight up. You could feel eyes watching you from somewhere in the house.
"Peter?" you called out.
Without a sound, Peter dropped from the ceiling, landing in a low, flawless squat right in front of you.
You shrieked, taking a step back, but before you could recover, Peter stood up to his full height. His shirtless chest was still glowing with heat, his shoulders back, his eyes darkening as he took a slow, deliberate step toward you.
"Didn't mean to scare you," he said. But his tone lacked any real remorse, he actually looked amused.
"Well, you failed!" You slammed a hand over your heart, trying to calm your racing pulse.
As you looked at him again, you realized he was doing the vibration thing once more, and the memory of the trance he’d put you in came rushing back. As Peter tried to step closer, you stopped him.
"Ah-ah! Absolutely not. No more spider-hypnosis today, Parker!"
He looked deeply confused, but he stopped in his tracks. Your heart squeezed in your chest at the wounded, disappointed pout that immediately crossed his face.
You rushed forward, gently taking his face in both of your hands, forcing him to look at you. There it was again, that subtle, dark shadow glazing over his eyes.
"Peter, I think your hormones are totally shot. I suspect you don't even realize what you're doing right now... but I don't need you to court me."
The words acted like a light switch, clearing the dark haze from his eyes as a genuine, confused smile formed on his face. He pulled back slightly, surprised.
"What?"
"I mean, I really appreciate the comfortable nest, and…"
"Wait. Nest?"
You carefully chose your next words. "Peter... you are acting exactly like Hugs in the bathroom if he were trying to win over a lady spider. You padded the entire house with soft pillows, you cooked enough food to survive a winter hibernation, and then there's that weird chest-vibration thing you're doing. Which is very soothing, by the way! But I’m slightly terrified you’re trying to hypnotize me so you can wrap me up in a giant web. Honestly, I didn't finish reading the whole article."
You watched as the realization slowly travelled through his brain, connecting the dots of his own involuntary biological instincts.
His jaw dropped. His eyes went as wide as saucers.
"Oh... oh no," Peter squeaked, his voice cracking violently. He covered his face with both hands, his bare chest heaving as a deep, mortified red flushed across his entire body. "Oh my god. Oh god, I... I tried to spider-mate you."
"Yeah," you teased, stepping closer and wrapping your arms around his bare waist, resting your cheek against his chest. "You kind of did."
"I am so sorry!" Peter blabbered into his hands, completely mortified. "I didn't mean to…I wasn't thinking! My brain just felt so foggy and I just really wanted to make you happy and keep you here and…oh god, I was standing there flexing, wasn't I?!"
You let out a loud laugh, looking up at his utterly ruined, embarrassed face. "Honestly, Pete? It was incredibly hot. A little terrifying when you tried to hypnotize me, but the shirtless chest-puffing? A solid ten out of ten. If I were a lady spider, I would've been wrapped around your finger in seconds."
Your words achieved exactly what you wanted. A burst of nervous laughter escaped Peter as he tried to fight off the overwhelming embarrassment crushing him.
Peter groaned, burying his face in the crook of your neck, his arms tightly wrapping around you. "Please kill me. Throw me out the window."
"Not a chance," you giggled, pressing a soft kiss to his warm shoulder. He shook his head, closing his eyes in sheer embarrassment at his own little show.You pulled back slightly and bumped your nose against his, just like he had done earlier, and stole a quick kiss.
"Though... I do have one question."
"What?" he mumbled miserably into your neck.
"According to the article... after the nest, the food, and the vibration... there's supposed to be a courtship dance." a mischievous glint in your eyes. "Were you going to dance for me, Peter?"
Peter went completely still. He slowly lifted his head, his ears burning so bright they were practically glowing.
"No," he lied horribly.
"Peter Parker! You had a whole ritual planned out!" You shook him by his waist, laughing uncontrollably. "Come on, tell me! What song were you going to do your spider-courtship dance to?!"
Peter tried to pull away, desperate to physically escape the apartment, but you held on tight, burying your face in his chest as you shook with laughter.
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White blank page -𝔓𝔞𝔯𝔱 2-《The Creature, Frankenstein x reader 》
the creature x femreader
Sumary: You are a poor governess, left in charge of an insufferable little girl who seems intent on driving you mad. One day she runs away and falls into the river. What would have become of you both, had the creature that dwells in the woods not been watching the whole time?
A/N: Well, I didn’t plan on splitting this into so many parts, but the story has completely taken over my head and I need to give it a bit more depth. I’ve also found myself returning to elements from the original book, weaving them back into this version as the story grows. I’ve decided it’s going to be a slow burn, and I’m very happy about that (my poor Adam deserves a little peace and a little love). I’m already outlining the next part. I’ll put together a tag list in case anyone would like to join.
Thank you for reading, really. Every like, comment, or message makes my day and keeps me writing ♡
𝔓𝔞𝔯𝔱 1
Lead me to the truth and I will follow you with my whole life
The house had dissolved into absolute pandemonium. When you appeared upon the threshold, the unconscious girl cradled in your arms, every soul present held their breath; they knew not if Olivia’s stillness signaled a tragic end.
When you demanded help, your voice a mere thread, and asked for hot water, the household released their collective breath and rushed to your aid. A swarm of people surrounded you, a discordant choir demanding answers. You had been gone all day: it was unheard of, a scandal that would not soon be forgotten. You could not answer. Your mind was still at the forest’s edge, lingering on what you had left behind. You felt Olivia being wrenched from your grasp, and your arms fell uselessly to your sides. You remained there in the doorway, half-clothed, the winter chill beginning to seep back into your very marrow.
You could not help but look back at the blackness of the woods. With teeth chattering, you searched for a sign that he was still there, that what you had witnessed was not a trick of the adrenaline or the sheer terror of seeing the child dragged away by that uncontrollable force. You thought you saw a fleeting glimmer, like a star, or like the eye of the creature that had saved you.
Almost in a trance, you turned back toward the open door, as if your promise weighed more than your exhaustion. But you stopped dead when you heard the heavy thud of boots behind you and a forced, dry cough demanding your attention.
The hair on the nape of your neck prickled. You turned slowly to find Davies, the gardener who had watched you closely since the day you arrived. He did not look you in the eye, instead, his gaze raked over you from head to toe. He offered no word of concern, no sigh of relief. Under that predatory scrutiny, a wave of nausea rose in your throat.
You stood trembling in the threshold, caught between the freezing night you had fled and the suffocating air of the house. Your mind drifted back to the riverbank: to the moment those heavy, mismatched hands had pulled the child from the current. You remembered the initial jolt of terror you felt at his sight, the way you had flinched from his shadow. Yet, as you looked at the man standing before you now, a bitter clarity began to take hold.
The Being in the woods had looked upon you with a somber, almost reverent distance. In his presence, your state of dress had not existed, he had seen only a life to be preserved, a child to be returned. His eyes had searched yours for a spark of consciousness, not for the curve of a shoulder or the line of a throat. To him, you were a soul in need of mercy.
But Davies offered no mercy.
He did not rush to fetch a blanket for your shivering frame, nor did he call for the doctor. He simply stood there, blocking your path, his stillness far more predatory than anything you had encountered beneath the trees. As he began to circle you, his boots heavy against the floorboards, You realized his gaze was not fixed on your face, lightened by the cold, nor on your blue-tinged lips. It was a slow, calculating inventory. He was mapping the skin revealed by your wet chemise with a clinical, shameless hunger.
The contrast was a physical weight in your chest. The one you had feared for his monstrous form had treated your dignity as something sacred. This man, who wore the face of a neighbor, was looking at you as if you were something he had found abandoned on the road, something he now felt entitled to claim.
"Well, well," he murmured, the sound thick and oily, "look what the river washed in."
He stepped closer, invading the space that even the Creature had dared not touch. When his hand rose, it wasn't to steady you or offer warmth. His fingers brushed your cheek, lingering with a sickening familiarity. You felt a wave of revulsion that had nothing to do with the river's silt.
In that moment, without a word being spoken, the truth settled into your bones: the “monstrosity” you had left behind possessed a humanity this man would never know.
His thumb traced the line of your jaw, dropping deliberately toward your collarbone. "You’re frozen through, aren't you?" he whispered.
The spark of satisfaction in his eyes told you everything. He wasn't looking for a way to help you, he was looking for a way to use the fact that you could no longer help yourself.
The revulsion hit you like a physical blow, sharper and more piercing than the cold. As his fingers began to slide lower, the silence of the hallway felt heavy with his unspoken intent. You realized that while the woods held dangers of tooth and claw, this house—this supposed sanctuary—held a malice that was calculated and cruel.
You didn't think, you simply reacted. With a sudden, desperate jerk, you struck his hand away. The sound of your palm hitting his skin cracked through the quiet air.
Davies blinked, the arrogant smirk faltering for a fraction of a second as he recoiled from the unexpected blow. You didn't wait for him to recover. You pivoted on your heels, your bare feet nearly slipping on the polished floor, and darted past him.
"Now, wait just a moment—" his voice rose behind you, no longer a whisper but a sharp, jagged command.
You heard the heavy, rhythmic thud of his boots as he turned to follow. The sound sent a jolt of pure adrenaline through your veins. You weren't just running from a man, you were running from the suffocating weight of his gaze. You reached the grand staircase, your breath coming in ragged, shallow hitches. Your hand gripped the banister, pulling your exhausted body upward, stair by stair, as you heard him reach the base of the flight below.
"I’m not finished with you, Governess!" he hissed, though he kept his volume low enough to avoid alerting the entire house.
You didn't look back. You scrambled up the final steps, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird. You burst into the upper corridor, the dim light of the wall sconces blurring as you sprinted toward the only door that promised safety: Olivia’s room.
You threw yourself against the heavy oak door, bursting inside and slamming it shut behind you. You stood there, leaning your back against the wood, gasping for air that tasted of lavender and medicinal herbs.
The room was full, but the warmth you expected was nowhere to be found. The suddenness of your entry drew every eye, but there were no gasps of sympathy, no rush to wrap you in a shawl. The maids and the senior housekeeper all froze, their hands hovering over basins and blankets. They didn't look at you with concern, they looked at you with a cold, weary judgment.
To them, you were the "eccentric" governess, the woman who took the child too close to the trees, the outsider who didn't know her place. You saw it in the way they exchanged glances: a silent, collective rolling of the eyes. They didn't see a victim or a survivor, they saw a nuisance who had caused a scene, a woman whose wild hair and ruined clothes were just more proof of your instability.
A wave of profound isolation washed over you. You felt exposed, not because of your state of dress, but because you realized you were utterly alone in this house. You didn't belong here, you were a stranger to the people under this roof. You were a spectacle, a performance they were tired of watching.
Shame burned in your chest, hot and bitter, until a small, fragile sound broke the heavy silence.
"Miss...?"
The voice was a ghost of a whisper. You turned your head toward the bed, where Olivia lay buried beneath a mountain of wool. Her eyes were open, just a sliver, but they were focused on you.
The judgment of the servants and the memory of Davies’ touch faded. You crossed the room in a blur, falling to your knees beside the bed. As she reached out a tiny, trembling hand to touch your mud-streaked cheek, you finally let the tears fall. In that moment, you didn't care that the women behind you were whispering about your "unbecoming" state. You only cared that the child saw you—not as a freak, or an object, or an outsider—but as the person who had brought her home.
You stroked the girl’s damp hair, your fingers still trembling, and leaned in close to her ear. "I am here, Olivia," you whispered, the words a jagged vow. "I am here, and I will not leave you again."
As the child’s breathing eventually slowed, drifting back into a shallow, exhausted sleep, you finally turned to face the room. The silence was suffocating. The maids stood like statues of salt, their arms folded, their faces etched with a weary incredulity. To them, you were an exhausting puzzle they had no interest in solving. You were the woman who spent her hours buried in ink and parchment, the one with "modern" ideas that only served to fill a young girl’s head with nonsense and "birds." You weren't the mistress of the house, yet you weren't one of them, you existed in a lonely, literate limbo, despised for your education and mocked for your eccentricities.
You hesitated, debating with yourself. If you spoke with too much kindness, they would trample over you with their silent disdain. If you spoke with the coldness of a lady, they would brand you a pretender.
"Please," you said, your voice cracking but steady. "Leave us. I will take over from here. I will see to her through the night."
One of the senior maids stepped forward, her mouth thinning into a line of practiced protest. "The master will expect a proper report, Miss, and the girl needs—"
"Please," you interrupted, cutting through her voice with a sudden, bone-deep exhaustion that seemed to weigh more than your wet clothes. You didn't snap, you simply sounded hollowed out. "Just... please. Leave the water and go."
The sheer heaviness of your gaze must have done what your status could not. With a collective, muttered sigh and a final, judgmental sweep of their eyes over your disheveled state, they filed out. The click of the door felt like a reprieve from a firing squad.
Left alone, you moved toward the basin of hot water they had prepared. You stripped away the ruined, mud-caked remnants of your chemise, the steam rising to meet your chilled skin. As you washed the river silt from your limbs, the warmth felt like an apology for the night's horrors.
"Miss?" Olivia’s voice was a tiny thread from the bed. "Stay. Please."
You couldn't refuse her. Clad in a borrowed nightgown, you climbed into the vast bed, pulling the layers of wool over both of you. You felt her small, cold hand find yours under the covers.
"The spirit in the woods," she murmured, her voice already heavy with sleep. "He was real, wasn't he? He didn't hurt us."
You closed your eyes, the image of the Creature’s somber, intelligent eyes flashing behind your lids. "Yes," you whispered, your heart aching at the memory of your promise. "He was real. He saved us."
A wave of guilt washed over you. You had promised to return, to acknowledge him, but the thought of the hallway downstairs—of Davies lurking in the shadows like a different kind of monster—paralyzed you. You were a prisoner of your own fear, trapped by a man while a "demon" waited for a sign of gratitude in the cold.
"We have to thank him," Olivia breathed, her head sinking into the pillow.
"We will," you promised, though the words felt heavy. "We will go to the edge of the lawn before the sun rises. We'll find a way."
Pinned between the terror of the man downstairs and the debt you owed the Being in the dark, you finally succumbed to a fitful sleep, lulled by the rhythm of the child’s heartbeat.
As if a nameless force demanded you settle your debt with the Being in the woods, your mind tore through the heavy silken fog of exhaustion. Your eyes snapped open before the sun could even begin to bleach the horizon. Beside you, the room was a cavern of grey shadows. You felt the rhythmic, shallow pulse of Olivia’s breathing against your side. Her small hand was still clamped around yours, a desperate anchor as if she were still fighting the river’s current in the depths of her dreams.
For a long moment, you simply watched the steady rise and fall of her chest. You felt a profound ache of gratitude that the dark events of the previous day hadn't silenced that fragile thrum of life. You thought of waking her, remembering the whispered vow you had shared in the candlelight, but the sanctuary of the bed was a powerful siren. It beckoned you to pull the quilts higher, to let the world wait, and to drown the memory of the forest in the comfort of sleep.
But then, the image of the Creature’s eyes returned to you—haunted, intelligent, and hollowed out by a loneliness so vast it made your own isolation feel like a pittance.
The memory was quickly soured by the thought of Davies. The image of his predatory sneer made fear crawl up your throat like a cold hand, threatening to choke the breath from you. You dreaded the thought of crossing the hallway, of seeing that despicable man lurking in the dim light of the morning. Yet, you recalled the gunshot wound the Creature had shown you; despite the agony humans had inflicted upon his body, he had not hesitated to shield you. His quiet, selfless courage became the steel in your spine.
You began to slip away, moving with the silence of a ghost, but the small grip on your hand tightened. Olivia’s eyes opened, hazy and heavy with sleep.
"Where are you going?" she whispered, her voice like the rustle of dry leaves.
You considered a lie—a gentle deception about preparing lessons or checking the hearth—but you knew the girl was too perceptive for such trifles. If you didn't offer her the truth, she would surely hunt for it herself in the labyrinth of the house.
"I must see our spirit of the woods," you murmured, leaning close. "I promised I would return."
The transformation was instantaneous. The lethargy of her illness vanished, replaced by a spark of pure, unadulterated resolve. "I want to go with you. I have to thank him."
A firm refusal sat ready on your tongue, but the light in her gaze stayed you. You remembered the reverence with which the "monster" had carried her, and you realized that her simple, honest gratitude might be the only balm for a soul so neglected. You sighed, a heavy sound of resignation, and nodded. As she moved to throw back the heavy wool blankets, you caught her shoulder, your voice dropping to a sharp, urgent hush.
"We must be silent as shadows, Olivia. No one else can know he exists. Not a soul."
"Why?" she asked, her innocence striking you with the force of a blow. "He saved me. They should be happy."
Your heart constricted at the crushing logic of a child. "You are right," you said, smoothing her hair. "But the world is not always ready for such things. We must keep it a secret to ensure the magic doesn't vanish."
She nodded solemnly, as if swearing a blood oath. You quickly devised a desperate, clandestine plan: while Olivia crept into her father’s chambers to scavenge the heaviest garments she could find, you would descend to the kitchen to gather whatever sustenance you could carry. You would meet at the side door, the one that bled out toward the dark line of the forest.
The journey down the stairs was a lesson in terror. You moved with agonizing slowness, testing each floorboard, avoiding the spots you knew would groan under your weight. You used the deep, velvet shadows of the hallway as a shroud, praying that Davies was still lost in his own dark dreams. Once in the kitchen, your hands shook as you gathered bread, hard cheese, and winter fruit, wrapping them tightly in a coarse linen cloth.
Returning to the meeting point, you found Olivia waiting in a narrow alcove, nearly buried under a mountain of wool and leather. She had stripped her father’s wardrobe of its most practical treasures. A sharp pang of anxiety hit you—if you were caught, there would be no explanation for this theft—but the master was months away, and the house was still draped in the silence of the dead.
Resting atop the pile was the heavy fur coat the Creature had lent you. It was a crude, singular thing that had been your only shield against the frost. Olivia followed your gaze.
"The maids didn't touch it," she whispered. "I think they were afraid of it. They thought it belonged to you, and they didn't want to get close. I thought... I thought he might need it back."
Together, you pushed open the side door. The cold air of the pre-dawn bit at your cheeks, tasting of pine and ancient earth. The sun was just beginning to bleed a pale, bruised violet over the horizon, but the lingering night still offered a narrow, silvered path of safety. You stepped out onto the frosted grass, two small figures fleeing the "civilized" world to find the only creature who had shown you true mercy.
The transition from the manicured lawn to the tangled wild felt like crossing a border between two different realities. You reached the edge of the forest, the very spot where the creature had watched you depart the night before, but the space between the ancient oaks was empty. There was no towering shadow, no glint of glistening eyes. Only the damp mist clinging to the ferns and the distant, lonely call of a waking bird greeted you.
You stood there, the weight of the stolen clothes and food pulling at your arms. A sudden, hollow sadness flooded your chest. You realized with a pang of desperation that you had no way to call him. You didn't know his name. You wondered if he had grown tired of waiting in the biting frost, or if he had interpreted your long absence as the typical ingratitude of your kind.
"Is he not coming?" Olivia whispered, her breath hitching in the cold air.
"We must wait a little longer," you replied, though your voice lacked conviction.
The minutes stretched out, agonizingly slow. Behind you, the sun was gaining ground, its pale light beginning to strip away the protective shadows of the house. Soon, the windows would catch the glare, and your position would be revealed to any wandering eye—to the cook, the maids, or worse, to Davies.
Olivia tugged at your sleeve, her curiosity sparking through her fatigue. "Where does he live? Is it a cave? Does he have a family?"
You looked at her, unable to answer. You realized how little you knew of the being who held your life in his hands. You knew the texture of his strength and the depth of his sorrow, but of his world, you were as ignorant as a child.
Just as you were about to turn back, convinced that the opportunity had vanished with the night, a sharp crack of a branch echoed through the silence.
The Creature emerged from the dense thicket, moving with a tentative, almost fragile grace that seemed at odds with his immense frame. He didn't approach with the confidence of a savior; he edged forward timidly, his shoulders hunched as if he expected a blow. It was clear he was bracing himself for a change of heart, fearing that now that you were safe and back within your stone walls, you would look upon his scars with the same loathing as the rest of the world.
Olivia, startled by the sheer scale of him, instinctively ducked behind your skirts, her small hands clutching your dress for refuge. You felt the Creature flinch. A flicker of profound hurt crossed his distorted features, a flash of guilt for the sin of simply existing and causing fear in a child. He began to step back, his head bowing, ready to retreat into the lonely oblivion of the trees.
"Wait!" your voice rang out, soft but commanding. He froze. "Thank you. I... I could not come last night. I am sorry. But we are here now."
At the sound of your voice, devoid of horror, filled only with a weary sincerity, he paused. Olivia, sensing the shift in your posture and the gentleness in the air, slowly peered out from behind you. She looked at his mismatched features, then at the way he stood so still, so vulnerable. She remembered the warmth of the fur and the steady arms that had carried her through the dark.
With hesitant, stumbling steps, she moved toward him. You reached out as if to stop her, but her resolve was absolute. She walked right up to the towering figure and looked up, her head tilted.
"What is your name?" she asked, her voice clear and bright. "Where is your house? Do you get cold out here?"
The Creature stared down at her, his breath hitching in a ragged gasp of pure shock. No one had ever asked him such things. You stepped forward to bridge the gap, placing a hand on Olivia’s shoulder. "Easy, Olivia. Don't overwhelm him." You looked up into his eyes, offering a small, sad smile. "We aren't just here to say thank you. We are going to take you somewhere safe. Somewhere the others cannot find you."
His eyes widened, a look of utter bewilderment crossing his face. He didn't move, as if he suspected this was a beautiful dream that would dissolve if he breathed too deeply.
Then, Olivia reached out. Her small, warm hand disappeared inside his massive, scarred palm. She didn't pull away. She didn't flinch. She simply squeezed his fingers and began to tug him toward the hidden path you had scouted.
"Come on," she insisted. "It's much warmer this way."
To your amazement, the great Being allowed himself to be led. He looked down at the child’s hand as if it were a fallen star, something too bright and holy to be touched, yet he held it with a terrifyingly gentle grip. As he moved, his joints gave a low, heavy creak, and he spoke. It was not a roar or a grunt, but a broken, hesitant rasp that seemed to tear itself from his chest.
"You... you return," he murmured, the words clumsy and weighted with a lifetime of disbelief.
"I promised," you replied, your voice catching. "We don't break our promises here."
The three of you moved through the grey, predawn mist like a procession of ghosts, leaving the manicured gardens behind for the tangled, forgotten paths that led toward the old hunting lodge. It was a modest timber structure, long abandoned by the men of the estate, which you had reclaimed and transformed into a sanctuary for Olivia’s education. No one came here. The servants found the walk too long, and the master found the building too primitive. For you, it was the only place where the air felt clean.
As you pushed open the heavy wooden door, the scent of dried herbs, old paper, and the lingering ghost of a wood fire greeted you. It was a space born of your own hands, a room where the walls were lined with the books you had painstakingly collected, and the center was dominated by a sturdy oak table covered in maps and inkwells.
The Creature stopped dead at the threshold. His breath hitched: a low, shuddering sound that rattled in his throat as he took in the scene. To him, the room was a revelation. It wasn't just the physical heat of the hearth you quickly began to stoke, it was the "warmth" of the atmosphere, the deliberate, peaceful order of a world that invited him in rather than casting him out. He looked at the rows of leather-bound volumes as if they were holy relics, stunned to find himself included in such a sanctum.
"A... house?" he whispered, his eyes tracing the spine of a book as if it might burn him.
"Our house," Olivia corrected, her voice full of a child's absolute certainty. "Our school!"
She began a frantic, joyful tour, her voice a constant, cheerful babble. She led him by the hand, showing him the fireplace, the maps of distant lands, and the small porcelain cups. You stood back, leaning against the doorframe, watching them with a mixture of profound curiosity and a quiet, aching amusement. The sight was surreal: the small girl leading the towering, scarred giant through her little kingdom, explaining the world to him as if he were simply a new friend from a far-off place.
When the tour finally concluded, Olivia pointed to one of the oversized wooden chairs. "Sit. You must be tired."
The Creature obeyed, lowering his massive frame into the chair with a wary grace, his eyes darting toward you as if asking if this were truly allowed. Olivia began to pile her world in front of him: botanical sketches, a globe, a collection of smooth river stones. She shared her treasures without a trace of the judgment he had known all his life.
Then, she paused, looking up at him with wide, earnest eyes. "Do you know how to read?"
He lowered his head. A shadow of shame, a deep-seated longing for the things that made men whole, crossed his distorted features. Olivia noticed immediately and patted his hand. "It doesn’t matter if you don't. My Governess is the very best in the world. She’s taught me everything, and she can teach you, too."
You felt a jolt of shock, a realization of what this would mean: the days spent in secret, the danger, the profound intimacy of teaching a soul to speak its own truth. Yet, as he turned his gaze toward you (his eyes wide with a silent, desperate question) you found yourself nodding before you could even think to hesitate.
"She is right," you said, stepping into the circle of firelight. "You can stay here as long as you need. This can be your refuge during the nights, and during the days... well, we shall all learn together. I will teach both of you."
The silence that followed was thick with emotion, the kind that changes the very atoms of a room. The Creature looked from the books to the child, and finally back to you. His hands, which had known only the cold of the forest and the violence of men, trembled on the table. For the first time, he spoke clearly, a resonant rumble that seemed to vibrate through the very floorboards.
"I have... no words for this," he rasped, the gratitude so intense it was almost a physical weight. ”Thank you... for the light."
You looked at him, and then at the child, and you knew that the doors of the manor were no longer the only ones that defined your world. In this forgotten cabin, among the dust and the ink, a new story was beginning to be written, one that the world outside was not yet ready to hear.
white blank page 《The Creature, Frankenstein x reader 》
the creature x femreader
Sumary: You are a poor governess, left in charge of an insufferable little girl who seems intent on driving you mad. One day she runs away and falls into the river. What would have become of you both, had the creature that dwells in the woods not been watching the whole time?
A/N: Well, here it is. The story of Guillermo del Toro’s creature. I have been thinking about him far too much, to a probably unhealthy degree, and I am already deep into writing the continuation. I needed to share this part first. I couldn’t help myself and borrowed this scene from Mary Shelley’s novel, bending it until it fit this world. I am not immune to this man, clearly. Tell me if you enjoyed it, or if you want to know what happens next between the governess and the creature.
Thank you for reading, really. Every like, comment, or message makes my day and keeps me writing ♡
𝔓𝔞𝔯𝔱 2
Lead me to the truth and I will follow you with my whole life
That odious little girl had got her way. You curse yourself for agreeing to such an absurd game, but you needed her attention, needing to pull her back to her lesson. She had made it her mission to drive you mad, and now she would secure her own death if you did not find her quickly.
You could not comprehend how she had covered such distance so swiftly. It felt as though hours had passed since you left the house, yet you had only been running frantically for a couple of minutes. Fear consumed discretion, you had not bothered to clear the branches, and you felt the fresh scrapes upon your frozen cheeks. That mattered nothing now. The only imperative was to locate the disrespectful child and reprimand her for abusing your confidence.
You still recalled the sharp, malicious laughter receding from the garden, and how you only reacted upon seeing the yellow flash of her dress disappear among the trees.
Your thighs burned and your breath hitched in your throat. You did not cease running, quickening your pace as you heard the river's dangerously close murmur. You cried her name again, but received no response. Nausea gripped you, a combination of fear, adrenaline, and exhaustion.
A scream halted you completely—a high, piercing cry filled with raw terror. Your blood ran cold, and you sprinted toward the jarring sound, dreading the worst outcome. It felt like being trapped in a nightmare, where your strides only carried you farther from sanctuary and closer to a truth you wished to avoid.
As your feet sank into the mud, your eyes caught the furious silver gleam of water colliding violently with the rocks. You searched the current frantically, shouting the girl's name once more. A muffled sob was swallowed by the roar, and your eyes discerned a hand emerging from the water, desperately clinging to a branch. Then, a mass of black hair, and finally, a face gasping for air.
You rushed forward, lifting the heavy skirt of your dress, and instantly realized the perilous weight of the fabric. To enter the river clad in the gown would ensure the drowning of both. Without a moment's thought, and disregarding the brutal chill of December, you quickly began to strip off your garments. Your body shook violently from the cold, which bit your skin, making your movements clumsy and slow.
When you had shed everything that might guarantee death, you moved toward the water. Just as you prepared to step into the wild current, a powerful grip seized your arms. The ground vanished, and the world became a confusing, formless blend of elements. The motion ceased, and you stumbled as you were placed back onto solid earth. Disoriented, you lost your balance and fell backward, feeling a sharp ache.
You dragged yourself forward desperately, unable to escape the cold that held you to the ground. You were about to scream the girl's name again, terrified by her diminishing visibility, but a vast figure filled your view. A man of immense stature, clad in thick furs, stepped into the river, clearly intent on reaching the child. Before submerging, he removed his outer layer, as if sharing your panicked logic. You watched in astonishment as the current struck his impossible body without dragging him, allowing him to cut through the water. You knew this river, it had claimed strong men before. Yet, this person reached the girl with unnerving ease. He secured her hand just as she lost her final grip.
Your breath hitched watching him pull the small body against the current, battling the river's force. He held her tightly, pulling her to his chest, shielding her with his back. When they reached the shore, you remained transfixed, unable to move. You watched him set her down on the ground with a gentleness that seemed wholly incompatible with his size. He awkwardly knelt, bringing his ear level with hers, and a rough, guttural sound emerged from the immense figure.
You still could not see his face nor ascertain your savior's identity, as his profile remained turned away. When he moved his shaking hands toward the girl's chest, long, matted hair still concealed him. You watched him press rhythmically on her sternum, attempting to restore life. When he finally turned to assess the effect of his efforts, his hair parted, revealing a countenance that instantly expelled the breath from your lungs.
You had never witnessed such a thing. That face did not appear to have been shaped by time, but rather meticulously constructed, section by section. Your tentative eyes traversed the disparate tones. Deep scars divided his face; it was like observing a map, with lines delineating where one territory began and another distinct one ended. You noted how the line of the jaw failed to follow the expected contour where it met the cheek. You could not look away, simultaneously fascinated and profoundly terrified by the sight.
You then realized that the hands working to revive the girl also appeared fabricated, composed of distinct fragments that, in a bizarre way, connected perfectly like puzzle pieces to construct that instrument. You did not comprehend how they could coordinate to function in such a complex manner.
You were jolted from your thoughts when the girl's body arched, and a raspy cough escaped her. You crawled through the mud toward them, and the creature moved away to give you space, as if anticipating that his presence would instill fear.
You took her into your arms and held her in your lap, sobbing and whispering simple thanks that were directed at no one in particular. From the corner of your eye, you saw the huge figure stand up, watching you carefully. Your eyes met, and despite his disconcerting appearance, you discerned immense concern. You wondered if this worry was for your own distressed state. One of his eyes shone unnaturally, compelling you to look away.
An alarm sounded in your mind: an illogical, instinctive fear of the unknown. Your brain could not process the sight before you, but another voice fought your basic instincts, affirming that everything was well, that this creature had just saved the girl's life and labored to restore air to her lungs.
You looked at him again, and something within you connected when you saw that wounded look in his eyes, yet what truly struck you was the certainty that he had anticipated this. There was an element in his posture, in the contained way he breathed, that suggested a being accustomed to eliciting fear.
You attempted to swallow the panic, hiding it behind the assurance that he intended no harm, as evidenced by his withdrawal the moment you approached. It was as if he expected a horrified response. You strove to relax your face, controlling your expression and softening your features. You thought of the gesture you always offered Olivia when comforting her after an emotional injury.
“Thank… thank you…” The stammer was caused not by terror, but by the cold. Your teeth chattered, and you instinctively pulled the girl's unconscious body closer to conserve the little heat remaining to you both.
The creature watched you closely, and the shine in his eyes suggested comprehension. He offered no reply. He turned, and just as you thought he would abandon you to the cold and the descending darkness, he bent to retrieve his furs. He approached you with a hesitant step, holding them out between you, as if in offering. He did not move toward you until he was certain you would not faint from terror. When you nodded to reassure him, he approached carefully and, with extreme gentleness, placed the garment over your shoulders, adjusting it to cover both you and the child.
Although the garment had been lying on the ground, it still retained a measure of warmth. The scent of the forest enveloped you, and you quietly murmured thanks. You slowly regained control of your stiff muscles under the careful watch of the creature, who maintained a safe distance. While focused on you, he appeared to be simultaneously observing the forest, aware of his surroundings. Moving your limbs slowly, you continued to watch him. He was immense, nearly as tall as the closest trees. All exposed skin appeared uniform with his face—stitched together. He, too, inspected you patiently.
After a period, you knew you had to start the journey home before the night consumed you and the wild animals emerged. A warm certainty spread through your chest at the thought that perhaps you would not be alone when that occurred. You tried to stand, but your body failed. You tried twice more, failing each time. When he saw you collapse on your last attempt, he reached out, holding your shoulder. Instead of pulling away from his touch, exhaustion made you want to lean upon him.
“Let me help,” he said. His words sounded rough, as if his voice had been unused for a long time. It was a deep, rough voice, yet you found it comforting. You nodded again and yielded to his assistance.
He knelt beside you, and the closeness allowed you to see the true nature of his face. Although patched together, it looked as if someone had strived to assemble it with the greatest possible care. He allowed your inspection, as if giving your common sense time to react and compel you to run.
Instead of running, you gently directed the girl's unconscious body toward him. He slid his hands beneath her, attempting to lift her with profound caution. Your heart swelled at the tenderness he displayed.
He lifted her, holding her against his vast chest in the same manner he had done in the river: with absolute protection. The girl's small body, now wrapped in the furs you had adjusted, looked even smaller.
You watched the ease, the impossible delicacy, of his hold. He was a walking contradiction: a monumental being made of patches and sutures, yet moving with the caution of a father cradling his newborn. Your panic had utterly evaporated, replaced by a burning, almost academic curiosity. It was not primal terror you felt now, but sheer, profound awe. The fairy tales you told Olivia, the ones that populated the woods with kind giants and protective spirits, were mere shadows compared to this real presence.
How could he be so real and yet so impossible? You perceived his face as a map of pain and a work of brutal art, an imperfect assembly that functioned flawlessly. The patches of skin weren't ugly, you saw them as proof of an atrocious survival. You felt fascinated by the texture, the disparity of tones, the broken line of his jaw. It was as if a powerful will had decided that it didn't matter if the pieces fit 'correctly,' only that they were there, serving a noble purpose. He was not a man, he was something more, a magical creature perhaps, cursed by some spell, but with an intact heart. And the bright eye? A star embedded in the night of his face. You looked at him, and instead of fleeing, you desperately wanted to draw your fingers across the topography of his scars. Fear was a discordant note you could no longer sustain.
Seeing that he had secured Olivia, you dragged yourself towards the edge of the furs covering the girl and you, and carefully pulled at them, trying to cover his immense back, now exposed to the icy air, too.
The Creature became instantly alarmed. His body tensed like a spring, and the bright eye fixed on you with a renewed intensity, almost panic. He turned, the girl in one arm, and with the other, he quickly moved your hand away from the furs, surprisingly fast but without a hint of roughness. Then, he slid the heavy furs back over your bare shoulders and Olivia's body, ensuring the thick pelt covered you completely. He remained outside, exposed to the frost.
“You… you are cold,” he murmured, his deep, guttural voice expressing genuine distress for your well-being, not his own.
The scene was so simple and so powerful that your heart skipped a beat. He, as vulnerable to the cold as any man, had given you his only protection without hesitation
“I am not afraid of you,” you said softly, looking up into his face. It was a statement, not a question. He looked at you with that melancholic certainty in his eyes, the look of a being who knows they are feared, and who can only receive this gesture as a miracle.
You began the difficult walk, guiding the way through the uneven, darkening terrain. You felt an astonishing sense of security beside him, his immense presence was a constant, formidable shield against the wildness of the December night. He walked silently, the girl a feather-light weight held carefully to his massive chest. You were keenly aware of the rough fur cloak’s warmth, a stark contrast to your exposed skin beneath, yet the shame was utterly absent, supplanted by a growing, profound fascination with the silent, damaged creature beside you.
After several minutes, the thick woods began to thin. The dense gloom of the pines and oaks yielded, and through the winter-stripped trunks, you discerned a faint, familiar glow: the moonlight reflecting on the windows of the house, tantalizingly close.
“We are almost there,” you murmured, relief momentarily overriding caution. He did not move. His vast body halted abruptly, as if striking an invisible wall of fire. You noticed the immediate, awful return of tension to his shoulders. The bright eye, which had momentarily softened, now burned with raw, contained dread.
You reached out, hand wrapped in the thick furs, and gently tugged on the sleeve of his vest, a quiet encouragement to take the final step toward safety.
“No.”
The word was a broken sound, a low, guttural utterance that conveyed more suffering than simple refusal. He did not look at you; his patched face remained fixed on the distant lights of the house. You felt a sharp pang of confusion.
He sensed your bewilderment. With the girl secured in one arm, he used the other to grasp the leather garment. He pulled it aside from his shoulder, near his collarbone, revealing the skin beneath. There, you saw the pale, sunken, perfectly round scar of an old bullet wound, distinct from the others.
“No,” he repeated, his voice barely a breath of anguish. His head was bowed, unable to meet your gaze, as if his very survival was a monstrous offense.
The sight broke something inside you. You realized with chilling clarity that you had initially judged him, recoiling from his appearance. Now, seeing this proof of cruelty, you felt a searing conviction of his goodness. He had known the depths of human malice—the threat of the shot, the pain of being tracked and wounded—yet he had risked that same cruelty again to plunge into the frigid river and save Olivia. He had walked this far, exposing himself to the very edge of danger, simply because you needed help.
A wave of profound, desperate gratitude washed over you, followed immediately by a stinging question: How could you possibly repay this debt? How could a small act of kindness ever match the self-sacrifice of walking into the shadow of a gun? You couldn't. You couldn't take him to the house and risk delivering him to the people who did this.
The pain in your chest was physical, a consequence of this sudden, profound reversal of judgment. You had to comfort him. You took a step closer. You reached out a hand, allowing it to slip free of the furs, and gently brought it to rest upon his shoulder, deliberately avoiding the scar, choosing instead the solid, patched skin surrounding it.
“They hurt you, didn’t they?” you whispered, a plea for truth wrapped in sorrow.
He looked down, and you saw the immense, isolating pain in his eyes.
A sudden, sharp idea formed, cutting through the emotional fog. You couldn't offer him your house, but you could offer him protection, a hidden sanctuary. You could protect him the way he had protected Olivia.
“I cannot bring you closer,” you said, the words heavy with apology. “But Olivia needs to be warm, and I need a moment to think. I will come back. I promise. I know a place, away from the house. A safe place. You saved us,now let me help you.”
You shifted closer, reaching up to wrap your arms around his thick middle, holding him in a brief, fierce embrace that communicated your gratitude, your awe, and your promise.
He hesitated, his immense body trembling slightly under your touch. He had tasted kindness and felt seen, a terrifying discovery for a creature built to be feared and alone. The thought of letting you walk away, perhaps never to return, was a deeper dread than the bullet wounds. But the gentle pressure of your body, the sheer conviction in your eyes, demanded trust. He slowly nodded
He gently transferred Olivia’s body from his arms into yours. You found that carrying her was no longer impossible; the thick fur cloak had done its work, and the warmth he had shared had revitalized your chilled muscles. You pulled the furs securely around the girl’s body.
“Thank you,” you murmured once more, this time for the warmth, for the safety, for the miracle.
You turned and, holding the precious bundle, walked out of the protection of the forest and toward the moonlit house. You did not look back, but you felt his presence, immense and watchful, until the trees obscured him entirely.
The Creature stood fixed to the spot, watching you disappear. For the first time in his existence, he felt a warmth in his chest that had nothing to do with fire or physical exertion. The life he had restored, the life he had protected, was safe. And the person who had shown him fearlessness had promised to return. For the first time, the world and he were at peace.
your last Nate fanfic was SO GOOD in the MOST TERRIBLE WAY I AM OBSESSEDDD‼️‼️ the way you show the thoughts behind Nate's behavior and his FEELINGS??? got me HOOKED i adore when the internal dialogues of morally uhhh evil? characters show that they know to an extent that their actions aren't exactly good, and even more when they are aware but simply don't care because they are justified LORD you did it so masterfully!!!!!!! ngl in fiction the obsessive dynamic truly gets to me, thank you for sharing this with us!!!💛💛
and mmm any possible other Nate works coming?👀 maybe?👀 that was so good so i can't help but ask👀
ohhhh my GOD thank you??? genuinely sitting here kicking my feet because this absolutely made my day 😭🫶🏻
i’m so, so grateful....like “smiling at my screen like a fool” grateful.
writing Nate does something weirdly magnetic to me. he’s got that energy where I’m basically a moth hovering around a candle (fully aware I might get burned if I get any closer), but somehow I keep drifting back anyway. he’s irresistible in the most dangerous way.
i’m not sure if I’ll do more Nate soon, because every time I write him it feels like I’ve run an emotional marathon, but… I also know myself, and I wouldn’t put it past me to end up doing it again 👀
right now I’m leaning towards playing with something involving Frankenstein’s creature, but if Nate decides to wiggle his way back into my brain… well. you know how it goes.
thank you again, truly, your message made me so, so happy 💜💜
Sumary: He systematically dismantles your world, because Nate Jacobs knows the chaos you hide and he's the first person who hasn't run from you.
Warnings: Strong language, suggestive content (nothing explicit), extremely toxic dynamics (If you’re in anything remotely similar, please, I’m begging, get out of there), angst, Nate Jacobs (Yes, he deserves his own warning).
A/N: This honestly wasn’t supposed to happen. I’ve got a dozen half-finished things sitting in my drafts, staring at me like little abandoned children, and yet this is the one my brain refused to shut up about.
Blame it on Guillermo del Toro’s Frankenstein, because falling in love with the Creature apparently rewired something in me. And, honestly, Frankenstein has been my favorite book since I was old enough to underline sentences and pretend I understood them. I can’t help dreaming about some story—any story—where the Creature walks in and ruins me in the most poetic way possible. Don’t tempt me (should I?). Then I rewatched Euphoria and, yeah. I fell right back into Jacob Elordi and the Nate Jacobs hellhole. I know he’s a walking red flag. I know he’s a disaster wrapped in a trauma bow. But here I am, writing him anyway like I haven’t learned a single thing.
So… sorry? You’re welcome? I don’t know. All I know is that this scene wouldn’t leave me alone until I wrote it down.
Thank you for reading, really. Every like, comment, or message makes my day and keeps me writing ♡
“So? What do you say?”
Your heart is beating so loudly you can barely hear Chris’s voice. It thunders against your ribs, drowning out everything else, leaving you light-headed, almost dizzy. Heat creeps up your neck and settles in your cheeks, blooming into a blush you know you can’t hide.
It’s absurd, you’ve imagined this exact moment for months. Before the closed doors and the whispered demands in the dark. Back when Chris McKay’s smile actually made something warm unfurl in your stomach, signaling a simple, straightforward kind of happiness.
Now that it’s finally happening, your mind refuses to cooperate.
You open your mouth, but all that comes out is a broken little sound, a stutter swallowed before it even forms. You want to say yes. God, you want to tell him you’d love to grab a coffee, to be the kind of girl who chooses the light. But something hard and invisible has lodged itself in your throat. It’s pressure. Squeezing. Twisting. Like a hand closing around your neck.
Your brain betrays you, offering up image after image of the real reason you can’t say yes. The pressure isn't metaphorical. You’ve felt it before. Those fingers, long and deliberate, pressing into your skin until you forgot where your own breath began.
The lack of air is so vivid your hand flies to your neck, half expecting to find him there.
The touch is instantly associated with the furious, consuming heat you share. You remember the last time his hand was there, not to hurt, but to demand. The feel of his thumb, rough against the sensitive skin near your carotid, just enough pressure to make your vision swim slightly, to pull you deeper under his control. He used to watch your eyes when he did that, knowing the slight sensation of being suffocated sharpened your focus only on him, and that the thrill of the danger made you crave it more. It was a silent, dangerous way of asking for permission, and you always gave it with a helpless, consuming shudder. You craved the edge of his control.
You can almost feel those fingers again, curling possessively around your throat. Nate’s fingers. Nate’s voice. Nate’s shadow stretching over every decision you’re supposed to be able to make on your own.
You are suddenly filled with a wave of self-disgust. You, who always vowed to avoid the arrogant, cruel men like him, the boys who treated desire like ownership. You had despised Nate Jacobs for his existence. And now, you hadn’t just fallen for him, you were completely hooked, addicted to the intense, forbidden energy that came from being wanted by the most dangerous person in the room. You were falling in love with a dream, yes, but also falling into a dark, thrilling addiction that felt more real than any daylight truth.
The seconds drag themselves thin. His eyes appear again in your mind, the way they look in the dark, hungry, consuming. You remember how his thumb brushed your pulse the last time you told him to slow down. How he murmured, the words hot against your ear, “No one else gets this. No one else touches you like this,” right before his mouth dragged down your jawline, making your body seize with immediate, desperate pleasure. He wasn't just claiming you, he was giving you the kind of desperate, all-or-nothing intensity your secret self couldn't live without.
The invisible grip tightens.
You can’t breathe, but you feel the familiar pull of wanting him to tighten it just a little more.
You remind yourself, harshly, that it isn’t real.
The only thing real right now is Chris. Chris, who’s looking at you the way boys look at girls they aren’t afraid to want in public. Chris, who stepped closer, warm and patient.
You glance over your shoulder, convinced for one panicked moment that Nate might be there, listening, reminding you that your voice isn’t entirely your own anymore. But the hallway is empty. The only reality is the soft frown forming on McKay’s face, his usual ease clouded by concern.
“I… I can’t.”
The words felt borrowed, hollow. They sounded defeated. You watched the light die in Chris’s eyes, the beautiful, simple hope fading into confusion. You had just chosen the dark over the light. You had chosen the painful, consuming drug of Nate over the easy, real potential of Chris.
“Oh. Right. Okay,” Chris murmured, the embarrassment sharp on his features. He collected himself quickly, forcing a slight smile. “Is it… too much with school? Totally get it. Let me know if you change your mind.”
You shook your head slightly, unable to manage a full denial. You didn't deserve his kindness, or his understanding. But as Chris starts to turn away, the magnitude of what you just chose collapses in on you. The sight of him leaving, of the daylight happiness walking away, is a sudden, sharp shock of panic.
And then, before you can stop yourself , before you even understand why your mouth is moving, you hear the words slip out of you.
““Wait—wait, no. I mean…I’d love to.”
You didn't recognize your own tone. It sounds like a plea. You have no idea where that agreement came from; your conscious mind was yelling no. But Chris stops, and the relief that flickers on his face is dazzling. You mimic his smile even as a distant alarm ricochets through your skull, screaming that something is terribly, dangerously wrong, wrong, wrong.
“Great, great,” he says, clapping his hands once, excitement rolling off him in warm waves. You nod, telling yourself it’s fine. it’s just coffee, it’s harmless, it’s normal. And you’ll have time to finish your assignments first. Time to breathe. Time to quiet the guilt already unfurling in your stomach like smoke.
You didn't hear a word of what happened in the locker room, just moments before practice. You were safely oblivious.
The damp, metallic air of the locker room thrummed with background noise. Nate Jacobs remained coiled on the bench, his focus on his gear, while Chris McKay, the oblivious fuse, dropped a bomb beside him.
“I finally did it.” Chris was practically vibrating with a raw, honest happiness he couldn't stand.
Nate didn’t flinch, refusing to acknowledge the excitement. He meticulously adjusted the straps of his shoulder pads, pretending his immediate world consisted only of perfectly placed plastic.
“Dude, are you even listening to me?” Chris poked his shoulder, a casual touch that Nate endured with chilling stillness. He looked up, his expression cold enough to freeze water, but it did nothing to dim Chris’s confidence. “I asked her out. I asked her out, and she didn’t hesitate for a second.”
Nate’s mind frantically shuffled through the revolving cast of girls Chris had been talking about, girls who meant nothing to him.
“Glad for you, man. Which one was it? The short girl from the party the other night? Didn’t seem like it was going to take you much effort, not sure why you’re so proud.”
Chris shook his head, the wide, unshakeable grin reaching his ears.
“Nah, man. I’m talking about the girl. I finally grew the balls to ask her. I would have bet my starting spot that she was going to say no.”
Jacobs slowly reviewed the last few conversations he'd had with his teammate, his brow furrowed in feigned concentration. Several faces flashed through his memory, and then his entire face seemed to drop—a sudden, sick plunge—when he recalled a specific conversation about a smile that was too wide and hid an incredibly sharp tongue. He could feel the blood drain completely from his face. The only outward sign was an imperceptible twitch, a clench of his jaw so strong his teeth grated together.
His muscles seized. He disguised the reaction by fiddling with his perfectly placed shoulder pad. His stomach twisted sharply, and he had to breathe hard through his nose to keep from throwing up on the tiled floor.
“...it’s just coffee, but I think she’s interested. I hope she doesn’t pull a Carrie on me or something, you know, just to laugh at me.”
Nate’s head was spinning. He latched onto his friend's monologue with detached disinterest, not wanting to know anything Chris thought about you. He thought bitterly that it would be your style. You had laughed at him plenty of times, and he had no doubt that if he hadn't managed to get under your skin, you would have publicly humiliated him without a second thought.
“Didn’t know she was your type,” He cursed himself for the words, but he was rapidly losing control. The carefully constructed ropes holding his inner chaos were slipping through his hands, and he wasn't sure he wanted to contain them anymore. He felt his blood boiling and his skin reaching feverish temperatures..
“Gorgeous, smart, and hot as hell? Yeah, sure, nobody’s type.”
Nate swallowed hard, fighting down the burning memory.
Gorgeous, smart, and hot as hell.
The words hammered in his mind. As if Chris knew anything about you. He felt like he was losing his grip on reality, his mind drowning in the intimate, secret moments. The suffocating darkness of his room,kiss that had tried to shut down a conversation that drove him crazy. A bite on his lip in protest that had only drawn a satisfied groan from him.
She didn’t hesitate for a second.
The nausea was all-consuming, he felt sick. His head was pounding, the ambient noise fading entirely, replaced by the frantic rush of his own blood. The heat in his ears brought the immediate, cruel memory of your humid breath that you could barely contain when he found your exact spot.
He squeezed his fists, fighting the tremor that ran through him. The heat was unbearable, and the mere rub of his clothes against his skin felt like sandpaper.
He was aware of the lockers, the light, the smell of sweat, and yet completely detached. The friction of his t-shirt against his chest brought the memory of your soft fingers exploring his skin curiously. He never pushed them away because, despite his usual aversion to that intimacy, he found a perverse comfort in it. He craved those smooth strokes, the way his skin rose in gooseflesh with every graze. He could feel your ghostly presence on his back, your hands moving in an ephemeral touch, climbing his chest, stopping at the length of his neck, and finally reaching his hair, where they would linger. He almost let out a guttural sound recalling your nails on his scalp, waiting for the slight, intimate tug that always preceded a deeper moment.
All of it, the raw, secret intimacy, was slipping away.
For the first time since Chris dropped the bomb, Nate looked at him. He observed the genuine smile Chris allowed to form while talking about you, the same genuine smile Nate only allowed himself in the safety of his dark room.
“I’m not gonna lie, I’m a little worried about the whole genius thing. I have a feeling she could get bored.”
A crushing retort was on the tip of Nate's tongue, something to sink Chris and seize back what he had possessed in secret for so long. But the words died. It would be a lie. He could almost evoke the image of you sitting on his bed, wearing only one of his t-shirts, talking nonstop about some topic that had pursued you that week. He always tried to look annoyed, overwhelmed. He thought you should be exhausted, but you seemed tireless. And in all those convoluted theories that baffled him, you never once embarrassed him when he tried to answer and failed.
He realized he didn't care about being wrong with you, unlike every other situation in his life. Instead of mocking him, you would slide onto his lap and stroke his arm while patiently explaining why his conclusions didn't make sense. And he could only listen, watching you in silence.
“And you know what the best part is?” Chris said, leaning closer, oblivious. “She’s not the drama type. No games. I’m tired of all that stuff. Just chill, easy.”
Nate’s vision blurred. Chill. Easy. Chris was describing the complete opposite of what you were with him. What you both craved.
He remembered the way you looked at him in the aftermath: not sweet, but raw, exhausted, almost hating him for making you feel that much. That was the addiction. The fight. The razor-thin line between hate and want that he knew Chris McKay was too simple, too easy, to ever cross.
And he was going to lose you too easily.
The fury was no longer contained; it was pure, electric panic, the terror of a man realizing his secret treasure is about to be claimed in public. He couldn't lose the one place where he felt truly exposed and yet strangely safe.
He felt something twist in his chest. A radiating heat in his lungs, seizing his breath.
“Dude, are you okay?” Chris’s voice finally cut through the memory.
Nate blinked, shedding the heat of the past.
“Yeah, fine.”
“Doesn’t look it. You’ve been messed up since you and Maddy broke up.”
Since I started keeping a secret I couldn't reveal. But Nate didn't say it. He stayed lost in the memory of your wicked tongue and the way it moved across his skin in deep, felt kisses.
“You know what? If it goes well, and it will, I’ll tell her to bring one of her friends. Get you back in the game, what do you say?”
Nate’s eyes snapped away from Chris immediately, as if he had been physically assaulted by the suggestion.
A double date. He wouldn't even have the right to look at you. A VIP pass to watch someone else touch you in public. To hear you ramble about a thousand topics and make you laugh.
He barely had the strength to hold the chaos inside him, he had almost let it go completely. And the culprit wasn't McKay, or even you. The only one responsible was himself, maintaining the secret just to avoid stares and comments.
What would people think if they knew Nate Jacobs fell to his knees in front of that girl? The one who seemed to despise him in every public interaction? The one who made an effort to show that boys like him deserved nothing but contempt?
The truth was, at this point, he would be satisfied if you just gave him a single glance, even if he couldn't hold it. He had been a coward, and the result was that he had pushed you into the arms of someone less afraid.
He wanted to scream in frustration, to slam his helmet into Chris for taking away something he had assumed belonged to him.
Instead, he grabbed the helmet and stood up, without even looking at Chris.
“Don’t worry about me. You shouldn’t worry too much about that coffee, either. Focus on the field.”
Nate walked toward the tunnel. He was breathing hard, every breath a suppressed roar. He wasn't thinking about the coach, or the game plan. He was thinking about you, laughing with Chris, forgetting the way your breath used to catch only for him.
The field feels wrong the moment Nate steps onto it, too bright, too loud, too open, like the world decided to stretch itself out just to make him feel small inside it. The sunlight glints off helmets and shoulder pads, too sharp to look at directly, and it needles into the growing pressure behind his eyes. He tries to shake it off. He tries to shove his thoughts back into a corner where they can’t claw at him. But Chris’s voice keeps looping in his head, bright and stupidly hopeful, like a broken tape he can’t eject. I asked her out. She didn’t even hesitate. She’s interested. Each word has weight, dragging across the inside of Nate’s skull like metal scraping concrete. He can’t breathe around it.
When the whistle blows, he launches forward with the rest of the team, but his body moves on autopilot. Every hit lands too hard, every shove borders on violent, every breath feels like he’s inhaling heat instead of air. His teammates yell at him to chill, but their voices come through warped, distant, like they’re shouting at him from underwater. He tries to focus, to anchor himself to the play, but his mind keeps snapping back to you.
The sound of your breathing when you’re close enough that he can feel your chest rise against his. The way you’d tugged his shirt one night, irritated at something stupid he’d said, and how your irritation had melted into something hungrier before either of you admitted to it. He remembers your fingers sliding up his jaw like you were testing the heat of him, the way you’d whispered you drive me insane against his throat, not like a confession but like a threat. His body reacts instantly to the memory, his pulse spikes so hard it rattles him.
He lines up for the next play. His cleats dig into the grass. He tries to shake you off.
He fails.
Because now he’s remembering last week, your voice low and sharp in the copilot seat of his car, telling him to watch the road while your hand was on his thigh, dragging deliberate patterns into his skin. He’d pretended he didn’t care, pretended he wasn’t shaking, pretended you didn’t have him wrapped around your fucking finger. And then you’d leaned in closer, brushing your mouth against the corner of his jaw, murmuring something he can’t repeat without feeling like his chest might cave in.
The whistle blows. He snaps back to the field, but the damage is done. His head feels full of heat, his lungs too tight, his vision narrowing with every heartbeat. He can’t stop picturing your mouth: smart, cutting, always getting him in trouble. He can’t stop picturing the way you’d looked at him in the dark that one night, like you hated yourself for wanting him and hated him even more for wanting you back.
His chest tightens painfully. Something inside him buckles.
Then someone bumps him—just a normal, harmless part of the drill—but it hits the last, frayed thread holding him together. The world tilts. His vision sharpens to a pinpoint. And suddenly he’s sprinting, not at the ball, not at the line. Straight at Mckay.
The tackle isn’t a tackle. It’s an attack. He slams into him with a brutal, unrestrained force that draws a collective, horrified sound from everyone around them. Chris hits the turf hard, a sickening thud echoing as his helmet cracked sideways against Nate’s, the plastic shell jolting violently, and the world seemed to distort with the sound. Jacobs felt something tear open across his eyebrow, a hot sting followed by warmth trickling down. Not a clean cut—more like the skin had split where his brow met the hard inner padding of his helmet.
For a moment he stands over him, chest heaving, fists clenched so tightly his nails cut into his palms. The coach yells his name. Hands grab at him. He can’t process any of it.
He’s too busy staring at Mckay curled on the ground, clutching his ribs.
Some awful, ugly part of him feels satisfied.
Teammates curse. Someone grabs Nate but he shrugs them off like they weigh nothing. A heavy, cold, ringing blow. Pain blooms, bright and metallic. Warmth follows, sliding slow and sticky down his temple. He touches it. Blood coats his fingertips.
And the world goes red.
His vision shifts, smears, pulses. Red like anger. Red like humiliation. Red like the marks you once left on his neck when you’d kissed him too hard and he’d pretended it didn’t affect him. Red like the flush that climbed your chest when he pressed you against the hood of his car and whispered things he should’ve never said out loud. Red like your mouth when you pulled away from him and said his name like it hurt.
The coach is shouting again, distant, muffled. Someone asks if he’s okay. Someone else says he’s bleeding like hell. He barely hears them over the pounding in his ears—violent, rhythmic, drowning out every rational thought.
He’s breathing too fast. His hands shake. The taste of copper fills his mouth even though he’s not bleeding there.
He’s thinking of you again.your grip on his collar the night you kissed him first, your body leaning into his like you were daring him to step back, your voice saying his name like you hated it and needed it at the same time.
The whistle blows again, but it doesn’t matter. He’s already gone.
The coach grabs him, shouting, “Jacobs! Off the field—now!”
Nate pulls away, blood dripping in slow, hot lines down his face.
He walks off the field like a bomb that hasn’t detonated yet.
You don’t even think twice when you hear what happened on the field. The whispers, Nate lost it, Nate blindsided him, Mckay can barely breathe, Jacobs has blood all over his face, travel faster than sound, but you move on cold certainty. Someone tells you in the hallway, and you go straight to the physio room. Because of course you do. Because you’re not cruel. Because Mckay didn’t deserve it. Because someone has to clean up the mess Nate never stops making, and maybe, deep down, you need to confirm the sickening truth of why.
The room smells like disinfectant, sweat, and the sharp tang of pain. Mckay is sitting on the table, his shirt off, ribs already mottled with what will be deep bruising by morning. His shoulder is tightly wrapped. He tries to smile at you when you step in, but it wavers at the edges, pain cutting through it.
“Hey,” he breathes out, trying to sit a little straighter despite the physiotherapist’s warning. “Didn’t think you’d come.” The genuine relief in his eyes makes the cold knot of guilt tighten in your stomach. You realize he sees this visit as a confirmation of your interest, utterly oblivious to the real reason you are there.
“Are you okay?” Your voice is tighter than you mean for it to be. A little sharper. A little too full of heat that isn’t for him but bleeds out anyway. “What the hell happened?” You want to scream the question, but you settle for a strained whisper, desperate to know if Nate, in his blind rage, had revealed anything.
“Just a stupid play. Nate hit me harder than he should’ve,” Mckay admits, wincing as the physiotherapist carefully adjusts his sling. He shrugs his good shoulder, the movement painful to watch. “He was probably just in his own head. I mean, he’s been off lately, right? Since Maddy.” Chris offers you a simple, trusting explanation, one that doesn't include secrets, lies, or jealous violence. And in that moment, the weight of Nate’s explosion falls squarely on your conscience. He didn't even use the date as an excuse; he just exploded.
You nod, but your jaw is clenched so tight it aches. You didn't want anyone to get hurt. You didn't want this. You didn't want him to do this, not for you, not in this ugly, public way that screamed possession while maintaining his pathetic silence. And underneath all of that, buried so deep you barely acknowledge it, there’s a flicker of something ugly: the knowledge of why, and the sickening feeling that this is the inevitable cost of that intense, secret pleasure you share with Nate.
Chris clears his throat, his eyes earnest and slightly apologetic. “Look, I know this probably doesn’t look great right now, what with the, you know, shoulder.” He gestures weakly to his arm. “But is the coffee still on? If I can’t move this thing, at least I can still talk. We can push it back a couple of days, maybe?”
Your heart drops, hitting your ribs with a painful thud. The sheer, decent normalcy of his question is devastating. You look at his bruised ribs, his strained smile, and the total lack of suspicion in his eyes, and the irony—that your simple yes caused this—is crushing. You are furious with Nate, exhausted by the secrecy, and yet, saying no now feels like letting Nate win twice. You are tired of being kept in the dark, but the thought of stepping into the light with Chris, after this, feels like a betrayal you can't manage.
You want to tell Chris that yes, it’s still on. You want to embrace the simplicity, the normalcy, the promise that your life doesn’t have to be this complex. But the words are lodged behind that invisible pressure point in your throat, that place Nate's touch always claimed. You hate him for putting you in this position, forcing you to choose between his hidden, electric chaos and Chris's open, damaged kindness.
“Yeah,” you whisper, the word sounding borrowed, thin. It’s an act of defiance against Nate, a painful step toward freedom, even though you know your agreement is the reason Chris is strapped to this table. “Yeah, Chris. When you’re ready. Just call me.”
You stand up, unable to meet his eyes any longer. You make sure he can stand. You make sure he can breathe. And then you turn to leave.
You stood with your back to the hallway, your hand still on the nursing room doorknob. The muscles in your back fought against the urge to arch, desperate to shrug off that invisible pressure closing in on you. You closed your eyes for a second and let out the air you’d been holding, trying to shake off a feeling you couldn't quite describe.
Despite not looking up, a cold shiver ran down your spine. The weight of certain eyes upon you instantly cut off your breath. You didn't need to turn your head to know who the pressure belonged to. And while on other occasions the hairs on your arms would stand up in anticipation of inevitable yearning, this time the sensation bordered on the deeply unpleasant.
When you finally turned, his eyes were already there, holding your gaze. He was leaning against the opposite wall, looking utterly depleted, exhausted to an extreme you didn't understand. It wasn't physical fatigue; you had seen that side of Nate. This was entirely different. And the perspective of not knowing what you were about to face made your heart pound so violently you feared it might escape your ribs.
You opened your mouth, but nothing came out, although you realized you didn't want it to, either. You glanced down the hall and noticed a couple of people talking distractedly, but their attention was subtly fixed on Nate’s silhouette.
You held his stare for a moment longer, trying to convey that this had crossed every conceivable line, that you were furious with him. But you met the familiar, impenetrable wall you always crashed into when trying to extract any type of emotion from him.
You shook your head in his direction and started walking, not even looking back to ensure he was following. You didn't need to, as you instantly perceived the shift of his body, detaching from the wall. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw his imposing frame moving alongside yours. If you moved your hand just a few centimeters, it would brush his, and the heat of his skin would cloud your judgment. That’s why you crossed your arms and tried to increase your pace, leaving him a few meters behind.
You heard your name, and the shock brought you to an immediate halt. He had stopped, too. You looked around and confirmed that despite the presence of people, no one seemed to be paying real attention to the drama, which only reinforced your shame, the sickening feeling that maintaining this ridiculous secret had been an absurd move. The anger stained your cheeks scarlet.
You turned once again and could only stare at him. The imposing figure that seemed to swallow all the light in the room. The body you had sought refuge in for months. It seemed impossible that this serious, distant countenance was the same one you knew—the relaxed, open expression you craved on nights of need.
He took a step forward, and you instinctively took one back, forcing him to stop, as if that rejection shouted everything that was running through your head.
“Let me just explain what—”
“No, Nate. There’s nothing to explain.” You shrugged, a gesture of deep surrender, and looked anywhere but at him, blinking rapidly to relieve the burning itch that threatened to make you weep.
He took another step, and you backed away again. You watched his jaw tighten, his nostrils flare from the sheer amount of air he was taking in, trying to regulate himself.
“This is ridiculous.” You let out a short, incredulous laugh accompanied by a faint sob that anyone else might have missed, but not him. “Your friend is in there with a dislocated shoulder. And the worst part is that it was so absurd, he thinks it was an accident. It’s so ridiculous, he thinks you’re just out of it because you and Maddie are done.”
You saw his knuckles turn completely white, and you didn't know if you were pushing the buttons of his self-control too hard, but you no longer cared.
“Tell me, Nate, what was the point of dragging your teammate across the turf when he doesn’t even know why you did it?”
“I wasn’t thinking about that when it happened.”
You let out another sharp, disbelieving laugh, and it hit Nate like a physical blow. There was no trace of the certainty he always felt with you—not in this open space, not seeing your eyes reflect nothing but contempt.
“Then what the hell were you thinking about? That no one should poke their nose into your business, but you didn’t even have the balls to name what they were trying to take from you? Which, for your information, there’s nothing to take because nothing exists between us.”
He didn't give you time to react. Between one blink and the next, Nate had moved like a storm, his strides so long that he was inches away in under two seconds. His breathing was ragged, labored. His chest rose and fell violently, and his gaze raked over your face frantically.
“I was thinking about you. All I could think about was you, damn it. And I couldn’t stop seeing you, or remembering you. And it drove me completely insane.”
For a moment, your field of vision blurred at the edges. You could only clearly see Nate, furious, perceptible only by a rigid line creasing his brow; otherwise, he maintained his mask of brutal indifference. But those eyes reflected a contained rage, one that mirrored your own chaotic feelings.
“What the hell am I supposed to do with that?” You finally spoke, a veiled whisper, as if you didn't believe your own words. “Is that supposed to justify anything? You’re an asshole, Nate. A total fucking asshole who only knows how to hide behind his rage. You’re terrified, and you think if you scream louder than everyone else, no one will notice.”
His expression shifted completely. The fury you had been seeking materialized in an instant, letting loose the torrent he usually kept buried. His gaze hardened further, and you recognized that look, the exact change that came right before he lost hold of the ropes binding the mess inside him.
The word was a bullet to the chest, delivered by the one person whose eyes had seen him flinch in the dark. It wasn't just rage he felt; it was a white-hot, suffocating pain. He had let you see the wires, let you touch the exposed circuits, and now you were using that intimate knowledge to carve him open in the sterile light of the hallway. You don't get to use that against me. You don't get to name the fear I shared with you. The betrayal was immediate and searing. He couldn't speak the pain, he couldn't admit, even to himself, how much it hurt to hear his greatest weakness spoken out loud by the one person he let close. The only possible response was absolute destruction, delivered with the same clinical precision you had just used on him.
“The amateur shrink. And what about you? Don’t you go around yelling just to see if anyone cares? Don’t you break things just to remind yourself you’re still alive? You’re fucking nuts, and you think you’re better than the rest because you won’t let anyone close enough to confirm there’s something seriously wrong with you.”
The hit landed exactly where it hurt. He always knew where. Always. A terrifying realization suddenly flooded your head: you had opened up to the wrong person. Nate had the power to destroy you if he wanted, and in that moment, he seemed to be pursuing that goal like a hunting dog that had scented prey and wouldn't let go. You couldn't comprehend that this menacing body was the same one that had so many times held you when the world seemed to be closing in. You felt stupid for ever having believed there was someone who understood you.
“I hate you,” you said, feeling something deep in your chest shatter. “But I hate myself more for still being here. For staying in this bullshit with you.”
He advanced another step, his pupils burning, his shoulders impossibly tense. He wasn't furious because of you; he was furious because of himself. Because he felt the weight of your words and didn't know how to handle the painful truth you represented.
The hatred was a mirror, and you were turning it on him. You were walking away, and that simple act was the ultimate surrender of his control. You couldn't leave, because if you left, you'd take the only fragile piece of reality he had. He had to burn the bridge behind you. You have to know that your chaos fits his chaos, and that connection is the only damn thing holding either of you together. If I can't keep her, I will ruin her so completely she has nowhere left to go but back to me.
“You are unbalanced,” he said. He spoke slowly, savoring the syllables as if to inflict maximum damage. “There is nobody who is going to put up with that. Nobody. You think I don't know why you keep coming back to my room? Because you’re fucked up. You say I’m crazy, but you’re worse. And the reason you can’t end this is because I’m the first goddamn person who hasn’t run.”
You wanted to scream, to push him, to tell him to go to hell, but you were completely paralyzed. You had been running from this truth for so long that you almost didn't recognize it when it stood right in front of you. That’s why it hurt so much, because he had seen past the thousands of layers you had woven around those testimonies. And far from leaving you behind after reaching such depths, he had seized that entire throng of destructive thoughts and carved out a space for himself among them, as if he felt comfortable with the chaos you provided. And all because, underneath it all, he fit perfectly with his own.
The sheer exhaustion of the fight finally overtook the rage. You looked at him, at the ruthless certainty in his eyes, at the way he consumed all the air and light, and saw not your lover, but your perfect, devastating mirror.
“Go to hell, Nate. You and all your bullshit behavior. Don’t talk to me again.” You turned on your heel, the finality of the statement hollow and brittle. You didn't wait for his reply. You knew you wouldn't get far. You just walked, carrying the crushing weight of the truth he had forced you to confront.
But as you took your first step away, his voice sliced through the air, low, sharp, and confident enough to be heard but not understood by others.
“You’ll text me by midnight,” Nate drawled, his tone utterly devoid of doubt, laced with a cold, triumphant certainty. “You always do. Don’t waste your time fighting it.”
You walked faster, refusing to acknowledge the prophecy. You kept your head high, every step away from him feeling like an immense effort, pulling against the invisible, impossibly strong cord tied to your core. I am leaving. I am choosing freedom.
You didn’t hear his footsteps. You didn't hear him call your name. But you felt him. You felt the space behind you expand, knowing he hadn't moved. He didn't need to chase you. He had delivered his verdict, and he knew you were carrying it away with you.
You reached the end of the hallway, pushing through the heavy exit door that led to the senior parking lot. The late afternoon light was weak, washing the concrete in a pale, indifferent gray. You leaned against the exterior brick wall, letting your shoulders fall, the physical rigidity giving way to a sudden, wrenching tremor.
He’s right. I’m unhinged. I’m broken.
You focused on the parking lot, mentally calculating the quickest route home, forcing yourself to concentrate on the mundane. But your gaze snagged on his black SUV, parked with arrogant entitlement near the entrance.
The engine was already running. Nate wasn't running; he was waiting for the perfect moment to leave.
You didn't want to look, but you couldn't resist. You scanned the tinted windows of the Escalade, and then you saw him.
Nate was already seated behind the wheel, his hand resting casually on the steering wheel, his seat reclined just enough to watch the exit. He hadn't bothered to look away. He was watching you leave.
Your eyes locked. Across the distance, through the windshield, his gaze was clinical, heavy, and utterly victorious. He gave you no smile, no wave, only a cold, silent confirmation: You tried. It didn't work.
You held the stare for a beat too long, and in his eyes, you saw the blueprint for the next time, the time you'd crawl back into his darkness.
You broke the contact first, forcing your body to move toward your own car. You didn't dare look back as the powerful, expensive engine of the SUV revved, pulling out of the parking lot with the slow, deliberate confidence of a predator who knows its prey is already tagged.
You knew exactly where he would be tonight. You knew the exact time your phone would buzz. And the terrible, sickening truth was, Nate Jacobs had never been wrong about you.
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ohhh you awakened something with that ask. like. I did not plan to go feral about ancient-enemy-turned-beloved vampire and his wolf girl but here we are. so picture this: she hears he has been captured. she should let him rot, right? clan orders, centuries of blood feud, all that glorious righteous duty. except her chest goes tight and suddenly loyalty feels a lot smaller than love that should never have existed in the first place. so she sneaks out in the dead of night, fighting the magic that is literally dragging her to her knees for disobeying her people, because she would rather crawl through pain and humiliation than risk him dying alone. very underworld vibes, but more tragic, more fever-devotion, more “I hate that I love you but I will burn the world before I lose you.” anyway. if this turns into something, just know it is entirely your fault and I thank you for the chaos:
"Let it rot. Saves us the trouble."
If those had been the words of your clan leader, then why were you disobeying? Why slip out beneath the shroud of night like a coward or a traitor? Your beloved moon seemed displeased too, hiding behind a thick wall of storm‑heavy clouds. It felt like she had turned her back on you, withholding her silver blessing. Though perhaps, in her own way, she was helping you, cloaking your escape in shadow.
Sickness gnawed through you, the kind that came not from flesh but from spirit. Fever clawed at your veins. Every step along the rugged path dragged you deeper into exhaustion. Your head swam, dulling senses that were usually sharp enough to split a heartbeat in two. Muscles trembled. Placing one foot before the other became a trial, as though the earth itself resisted you.
You knew exactly what it was. Willpower slipping from your grasp like a child losing a balloon to the sky. The price of defiance. The consequence for disobeying a superior.
One hundred meters from where your beloved hid, your knee buckled. You crashed to the ground, pain spiking up your spine, sharp as a whip's crack across a punished back.
Your claws tore into the soil, erupting from your fingers in response to agony. Your body was no longer yours. A voice, cold and ancient, pressed inside your skull, commanding you to turn back, to obey, to bow. You nearly did. Truly, you almost surrendered.
Then your heart remembered who it belonged to.
It thundered like a war drum battered by furious hands, and with each beat it flooded your body with memory, sensation, hunger so fierce it burned away weakness.
A flash of fangs beneath moonlight. A forbidden laugh echoing in your mind, smoothing pain like silk over a wound. The terror of imagining those hands gone forever, the ones that held you as if the moon herself had descended to worship every longing inside you.
Then another voice, one you would know in any lifetime.
"Rise, wolf. We still have centuries ahead."
Hands replaced claws. Human again, soft again. Your heart roared defiance, answering no hierarchy but its own, and you pushed to your feet. Your steps steadied, sure as destiny.
You had learned only hours ago: the vampire clan your people had warred with for millennia had fallen to humans. A handful survived, broken in alleyways, breathing by miracle alone.
Dread had sunk its teeth into you at the news. The possibility that your greatest enemy had been slaughtered sparked not triumph but terror. Your secret teetered on the edge of discovery. You hid your panic behind calm and volunteered to hunt the survivors, to end the threat. Your clan dismissed you.
Fools.
You would find him. You would rebuild him. You would not allow centuries of false hatred and secret meetings to end here.
You belonged to each other long before loyalty ever meant anything at all.
Everyone Prays in the end 《Remmick, sinners x reader 》
Remmick x femreader
Summary: He killed your lover. Stole his face. Drinks your pain like wine. And when you whisper his name… you’re reborn in his arms.
A/N: This draft’s been gathering dust for a while. I wasn’t planning on touching it again, but a few anonymous messages in my inbox made me go back to it. (Who knows — maybe it should’ve stayed buried in the drafts. Too late now.)
It’s heavily inspired by Constantine — not just the aesthetic of that hell-sequence, but also the kind of character “you” are in this: tired, haunted, hard-edged. Someone who hunts monsters without ever really escaping them.
Hope it resonates. likes & comments mean a lot and keep me writing ♡
Is this how it ends?
You would’ve laughed—maybe even snorted at the poetry of it—if the mere thought didn’t send a shockwave of pain through your chest, from the festering claw marks down to the last living cell in your broken body. You wish you could say the pain was gone. That the adrenaline had numbed you, or that your nerves had finally given out. But no. The agony was pure. Unrelenting. So sharp your vision danced with black dots that pulsed and multiplied, threatening to swallow the world whole.
You heard it, somewhere behind you—the wet, dragging scrape of the creature pulling itself toward you. You’d hoped to be dead before it reached you. Or unconscious, at least. But fate, as always, was cruel.
Terror layered itself on top of your exhaustion. It skittered cold across your skin, needling your arms, tightening your throat. No, you weren’t afraid of that thing slithering your way, gargling on its own blood. That kind of fear was simple. Primitive. What haunted the back of your neck was something older. Deeper. It clung to the very bones of your existence.
You’d spent your life hunting monsters—driving them back into the shadows, dragging them screaming from their dens, tearing the nightmares out of mortal lives. But that didn’t mean you had a place saved by the Creator. You weren’t holy. You weren’t clean.
The laugh that tried to rise in your chest gurgled and collapsed into something wet and awful. It hurt to even try. You remembered the demon who once snarled in your face as you forced it back to hell—your soul is already spoken for. That you were beyond saving. That hell was your final destination, no matter how many monsters you fed into the fire.
So, you made it a game. A tally. Maybe if you collected enough damned souls, they’d count for something. Maybe it could be a trade. How many souls equal yours? You’d never found the answer. Only that it still didn’t feel like enough.
You imagined Hell with its gates already cracked open, your name etched in brimstone, and all the monsters you’d sent down waiting just beyond the threshold—claws raised, grinning. Ready to tear you apart the moment you stepped through.
Your vision blurred again, and you blinked furiously, like you could fight off the dark by sheer will. You drew tiny, fluttering breaths, hoarding them like you knew they were numbered. And they were.
Your brain—rotting, panicked, desperate—began feeding you scraps of memory. Flashes of a life poorly lived. You wondered, distantly, if this was how humans described it. The so-called “life flashing before your eyes” bit. A cheap, low-budget highlight reel. But no. This wasn’t the best of you. These weren’t triumphs. It was loss. Ache. Failure.
Fear crawled into your throat again, sharp as glass. You didn’t want this. You didn’t want to remember. You didn’t want to relive the things you couldn’t change. And yet—
You saw it.
That smile.
Broad, warm. Framed by dimples. Eyes too bright to belong in your world, full of life you couldn’t keep safe.
You saw him fall. Again. Heard the wet snap of teeth meeting flesh. The scream. The gunshot that came too late, trembling and misfired.
One bullet.
One second slower.
And it had cost you everything.
Just like the laugh, the sob never made it out. But the burn behind your eyes ached like it had. Tears stung, even if they never fell. Your heart clenched violently—so tight you weren’t sure if it was grief or a final spasm. Didn’t matter. You couldn’t breathe either way.
That was what had brought you here. You thought you had him. Finally. That after months of chasing shadows, of drowning yourself in rage and vengeance, you were close enough to tear the beast apart. To end the thing that ended him.
But hatred makes you reckless. And reckless made you blind. The shadow you followed into the alley hadn’t been him. And the claws that tore your chest open? Not his.There’d been no satisfaction in gutting the thing that now clawed its way toward you. Only pain. Only failure.
You heard it whimper—a pitiful, broken sound, like an animal that didn’t know it was dying. It was crawling toward you, still, desperate to kill you before it died. You shut your eyes, feeling its shredded body inch closer.
So you did the only thing left. You summoned the face of the man you loved.The one you didn’t save. The one you couldn’t avenge. The one that monster stole from you with a grin and a moan of satisfaction.
A hot breath hit your throat, foul and wet. You inhaled deeply—bracing yourself for the feel of teeth splitting your neck. The creature grunted. Clawed the stones.
You waited.
But instead of a bite, there was wind. A gust—fast, strong, sudden. Like the rush of something being ripped from the earth and hurled through the air. The gurgling stopped. The alley fell silent.
And then
thud.
Far away.
You blinked.
The alley swam. Your eyelids cracked open enough to catch the silhouette of a man standing over you. The light behind him made it hard to see his face. But you knew that shape. You’d been chasing it. You’d dreamed of driving wood through it for months.
He tilted his head, curious. Not triumphant. Not mocking. Just... curious. Like you were a painting he was trying to understand.
When the figure leaned down to your level, you instinctively tried to move, reaching for your weapon, though you knew it had fallen too far during the earlier struggle. Your body refused to obey you now—limp, slow, heavy with pain and blood loss.
That’s when you heard it. A laugh.
Not loud. Not cruel. Just low enough to crawl under your skin and remind you that you weren’t alone.
Your gaze dragged itself up toward the looming threat, your vision swimming in and out of focus. You hadn’t really seen him before. Not up close. Not like this. The last clear memory you had of his face was with it buried in the throat of the person you’d loved more than anything. When he had finally looked up from the lifeless body, his face had been soaked in a thick, gleaming red that clung to him like war paint. That was all you’d needed to remember him by.
But now… now he was here. So close. Towering over you.
And he looked at you like a god watching something sacred break.
You felt like a moth pinned beneath the light that would devour it. His crimson eyes caught the dim alley light and reflected it back with a glint that struck you somewhere deep in your animal brain—something in between hunger and amusement, and something worse than both.
It didn’t fit his face. Not at all.
There was nothing monstrous about his features. On the contrary—he was beautiful. Soft in places where predators usually weren’t. His expression was almost gentle. Delighted. And when his lips parted, they did so in a slow, knowing smile, just wide enough to show you what lived inside.
Fangs.
Brilliant under the moonlight too sharp to be anything but real. They caught the light like glass and gleamed like a warning.
If you’d had strength left, you might’ve shivered. Instead, you found yourself studying him, searching for some sign of rot, of decay, some physical marker of the inhuman thing he was—but all you saw was beauty. Timeless, preserved, a sculpture crafted in youth and sealed there forever, regardless of the soul rotting beneath the surface.
Then you saw it. The necklace.
And a new pain bloomed beneath your ribs—different from the wounds, deeper.
You knew that chain. You’d toyed with it so many times, distracted fingers looping it during quiet nights. It had brushed your skin in moments you’d buried deep, hoarded close to the heart.
Now it was around his neck.
Your stomach turned. You didn’t know if it was the blood loss or the horror—but the nausea hit hard. That monster hadn’t just taken a life. He’d kept a piece of it. You had lost him, and you were now forced to watch the ghost of him worn like an accessory. The bastard tilted his head, as if following the exact thread of your thoughts. As if he knew you—deeply, intimately, with a familiarity that went far beyond observation.
“You always make such a mess of your hunts, sweetheart,” he murmured, playfully cruel. “You never did know how to work without getting your hands dirty.”
His hand, resting lazily on one knee, lifted to gesture toward the puddle of blood seeping out from beneath you. You saw the dilation in his pupils, the subtle flare of his nostrils as he inhaled the scent of your bleeding body. The hunger was there, simmering under his skin, coiled tight like a spring. And yet—he hadn’t pounced.
You almost wondered what was holding him back. What little shred of humanity was left in him to keep him still?
“Fuck you,” you spat, or tried to. The words came wet, broken. The effort sent a violent cough ripping through your chest, and blood filled your mouth, metallic and warm. You felt it spill past your lips.
He moved instantly. His hand darted toward your face, too fast to stop, too fast to brace for. Your body tensed, weak and useless. You felt his cold thumb brush over your mouth, tracing its shape, catching the blood as it dripped.
You froze.
Something inside you said this was different. There would be no escaping this. No lucky break. No clever trick. You weren’t walking away this time. And just like that, fear had a clear path to your bones.
With nothing left to hold it back, grief surged up from the pit where you’d buried it. Your eyes burned. Vision blurred. The monster in front of you went soft around the edges as tears spilled over your lashes.
Even through the haze, you saw him bring his blood-slicked finger to his lips.
He sucked it in.
Slowly.
Reverently.
A sound escaped him—something between a groan and a purr—and it echoed between your bodies like something obscene. Your sorrow paused, frozen by sheer shock. He looked enraptured, consumed, utterly undone.
His voice was hoarse when he finally spoke, like gravel soaked in blood, thick and low. “Even better than I imagined,” he murmured, and for a moment you thought you were hallucinating—because beneath that spectral tone, you could’ve sworn you heard the echo of a voice that was starting to slip from memory.
“I thought I’d be prepared for it, you know. Thought I'd tasted every inch of it in his mind. But nothing inside that hunter’s head could’ve readied me for the real thing.”
Your eyes flew open, surprise jolting through you like a final jolt of lightning trying to resurrect a dying storm. It took everything you had left just to hold them open. Your lips parted, then closed again—searching for words you’d never find.
You’d dedicated your entire life to hunting creatures like him. But the truth was, you’d never really understood them. You studied habits. Patterns. Weaknesses. Enough to make the kill clean. That was all that mattered.
His hand reached out again, slow and deliberate. Not to strike, but to touch. It found a strand of your hair, soaked in sweat and blood. He twirled it around one finger, and your breath hitched painfully. The gesture… it was so intimate, so achingly familiar, it carved a hole in your chest. You’d felt that before. That exact motion, idle and fond, performed by a different man. A different hand.
When he finished playing with the strand, he tucked it behind your ear and cupped the side of your face. And your body—too broken to know better—leaned into the contact. Just for a second. Too tired to hold your head up, too far gone to remember why you shouldn’t.
Your eyes fluttered shut when his thumb grazed your cheek, the same one he’d smeared your blood across earlier.
But the warmth you remembered never came.
Only cold.
The kind of cold that seeps into your bones. The kind of cold that belongs to the dead.
“You miss him,” he whispered, with mock pity curling around the words. “How sweet. Poor little dove, left all alone.”
That name—dove—cut through the fog in your mind like a blade. You forced yourself upright, just barely, fury burning through the horror. Your gaze locked on his, sharp and defiant despite the tears still blurring your vision.
He smiled wider.
“Oh, surprised?” he asked, as if he didn’t already know the answer. “Yeah, I didn’t just keep the necklace as a souvenir, sweetheart. I’ve got all of him now. All his memories. He lives in me.”
He leaned in. The distance between you vanished, and what little air you managed to breathe was filled with him. That scent again—cloying, intoxicating—like lilacs dying in a field too far gone to save. Sweet, but rotting underneath. A smell that made you dizzy. A smell you could get addicted to, if you weren’t careful.
“Everything he was belongs to me now,” he whispered, his nose brushing yours. You couldn’t tell if it was affection or if he was simply inhaling the scent of his next meal. “And that boy of yours… he was drowning in you, dove. Your scent. Your laugh. Your voice in the dark, warming him like fire in a snowstorm. He craved it all. Now I do.”
His lips hovered over yours. Just barely. Just enough to feel the echo of what once was. For a second, you almost let yourself fall into the memory. Let yourself feel what it was like to be loved again.
But something inside you—some last shard of sanity—resisted.
You pulled away as much as your broken body allowed. Then spat what blood you had left straight into his face.
He didn’t flinch. The smile never left.
The blood dripped slowly down his lips, and he licked it up in one slow motion. His eyes fluttered closed with the sound of pleasure rumbling low in his throat. A sound too alive for something so dead.
“Mmm,” he hummed. “Starting to crave that strength of yours too, little dove.”
“Stop,” you choked out. Your voice was barely more than a whisper, scraped raw from the inside. “You have no right to keep him.”
He cocked his head like a curious animal, the smile softening into something even more sinister.
“’Course I do,” he said. “He’s mine now. Just like the ones before him. Just like the ones who’ll come after.”
You wanted to kill him. Needed to. Every atom in your body screamed for the strength to drive something sharp through that beautiful, twisted face. But your body was empty. Hollow. Nothing left to give.
The fact that you were still breathing was just another cruel joke.
And this—this moment, this monster with your lover’s memories stitched into his bones like a parody of something sacred—this was just the beginning.
You didn’t need a devil to drag you to hell. He was already here. And he wore your grief like a crown.
He leaned back just slightly, eyes still on you, burning, devouring, aching in ways that felt too human for what he was.
"You think I haven’t tried?" he murmured, almost as if the confession surprised even him. "To forget. To rip the feeling out. I’ve tasted hundreds, thousands, drank ‘em down to the bone and moved on like I always do." He tilted his head, studying you with a hunger that went deeper than blood. "But not this. Not you."
His hand returned to your face, colder now, his thumb grazing the corner of your mouth where fresh blood had already dried. "You linger, dove. You're like a damn splinter under my skin. The more I claw at it, the deeper you sink in."
You tried to look away. You couldn’t.
He didn’t smile this time. He looked almost… wrecked. Starved, not for flesh, but for whatever tethered you to that man.
"I didn't know it could feel like that," he whispered. "I didn’t even know I was missing anything. I’ve walked this world for centuries, dove. Taken everything I wanted, tasted every kind of fear, every kind of lust. And then I took him."
He paused, and you saw it: a flicker in his eyes, something almost like shame, swallowed quickly by obsession.
"And suddenly, I knew what it meant to ache. Because what he had for you? That love? It fucking branded me."
He leaned closer again, and this time it wasn’t a taunt. It was reverence. Worship.
"You’ve been living in my head like a fever. Every time I close my eyes, you're there. And not just you, not just your face—no, I feel it. The weight of you in my arms. The sound of your breathing against his neck. Your warmth." He said the last word like it hurt.
You flinched. You close your eyes. You can’t take it. Can’t look at that face.
But he doesn’t stop. He never does.
“I wake up drenched in dreams that aren’t mine. I want things I never wanted — sun on your face, your fuckin’ laugh in the morning. And when I touch myself—”
“Don’t,” you growl, voice shredded.
He stops. Smiles.
“You think I saved you for fun? You think I slit that thing’s throat just to look heroic?”
He leans in, so close your noses almost touch.
“I saved you ‘cause I can’t fuckin’ stand the thought of you dyin’ before I’ve had you proper. Before you scream my name like you screamed his.”
You shake your head.
He exhales, like he’s in pain. “You think I like this? You think I want to crave you like this? You think I want to wake up hard and furious and soaked in his memories of your skin?”
He pulls back just enough to look at you fully.
“You’re sick,” you whisper.
“I’m yours,” he says.
And for a second, it’s so quiet, you can’t hear your own heartbeat.
Then his hand hovers over your torn side, palm trembling.
“I can fix it,” he murmurs.
His finger found the deepest of your wounds—the jagged gash tearing across your abdomen. For a moment, he seemed lost in thought as he let the pad of his index finger trace along the broken edges of flesh. His eyes never left the mess. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. Then, as if to underline his words, he pressed, and the scream ripped from your throat without warning, instinctive, raw.
That finally got his attention.
His gaze flicked up to your face. Your breathing had gone ragged, fluttering like a dying bird, and your eyelids squeezed shut so tightly you must’ve been seeing bursts of light behind them.
"I'd rather rot in Hell," you spat, or tried to.
The words came out wet and weak. Still, his brows lifted. Surprised. Amused.
“Would you now?” he murmured. “Funny. Given how scared you are of the place, I don’t believe that for a second.”
And he would know.
It didn’t even shock you anymore that he did. That he knew all the dark, broken pieces of you so intimately. Of course he did, he had devoured them. Eaten the one person who had known you better than anyone else. Worn his soul like a cloak. Lived inside his thoughts.
Your lover had known. Known about the ache that chewed at your bones when the sun rose and you still hadn’t found redemption. He’d seen the quiet, cold terror that lived in your gut every time you wondered what waited for you below. Wondered if the gates would open and every creature you’d banished would be standing there, grinning, claws out.
"He didn’t beg for his soul," Remmick said, voice dipped in something almost like reverence. "When I tore into him. No, little dove. That boy used his last breath to beg for your forgiveness."
And somehow, that cut deeper than the fingers inside your ruined stomach.
The pain surged—physical and otherwise—and heat spilled down your temples. You couldn’t tell if it was blood or tears anymore. Both burned the same. You didn’t even realize you were whispering until you heard your own voice break apart.
You were praying.
Not just crying out in fear, but praying. Whispering the name of a God who had never answered you. Who had ignored every plea, every offering, every lost hour of devotion. You asked Him to help you, to end this, to take you—to spare you from the final humiliation of dying in this monster’s hands.
You didn’t stop even when you heard the chuckle.
Didn’t stop when you felt his cold breath against your face again.
“Don’t pray to him,” he said softly. “Don’t waste your last breath on someone who’s never listened to you.”
His touch was almost gentle as he wiped the tears from your cheeks.
“Pray to me.” His voice curled around you like smoke. “Say my name, dove. Ask me for help. Let me be the one who saves you from what you fear most.”
Something inside your chest thrashed. The panic wrapped around your thoughts like vines, twisting, choking. It became harder to tell where your will ended and your survival instinct began. Maybe this was what happened when you teetered on the edge, when your body knew it wanted to live, even if your soul didn’t.
But if you said yes, if you accepted his offer… you would never live again.
You would belong to him.
“If you think death will bring you back to him, it won’t,” he said, voice firm now, urgent. “That hope you’re clutching? Let it go. Let me help you. He’ll live in you. And I—everything I am—will belong to you. And everything you are… will be mine.”
You opened your eyes.
Slowly. Painfully. Like peeling apart something ruined.
You turned your head just enough that your noses touched again, and stared into the ruined beauty of his eyes—eyes the color of blood and bruises and all the things you swore you’d never fear. You raised your hand, trembling, until your fingers brushed the chain around his neck.
That chain had once been warm. A resting place for your mouth in quiet moments. Something you’d idly tug while lying close, while safe. Now, it was just… cold metal. Nothing more than a shadow of the man who once wore it.
He caught your hand in his, and for the first time, his touch was soft. Measured. Like he knew he was trying to coax you into a fall you couldn’t undo.
And behind the infinite hunger in his gaze—behind the violence and craving—you saw something that broke you a little more.
Recognition.
Not from him.
From what lived inside him.
Something that had once loved you.
You didn’t resist when he brought your hand to his mouth, not this time.
You didn’t flinch when he pressed featherlight kisses to your fingers like he was memorizing them—like he was coming home.
The sigh that left his lips wasn’t theatrical. It was hollow. Devastated. Like someone who had searched too long and too far and finally found what they thought they’d never touch again.
You didn’t know when the question left your lips. Maybe it had always been sitting there, buried deep beneath the pain and bile and fury. But now, with your body broken and your breath running out, it came up like a prayer—hollow and aching and laced with something too desperate to name.
Your voice shook as you whispered it.
“Will he be mine again?”
Remmick stilled.
The kisses he’d been tracing over your fingers faltered. His hand tightened around yours. His mouth didn’t move, but something shifted in the air, a sudden drop in pressure, like the earth itself had exhaled.
You didn’t dare repeat the question.
You didn’t need to.
His silence was enough. So was the way his eyes darkened with something ancient and helpless.
He nodded, once. Not a lie. Not a promise. A curse. A surrender.
Still, he kissed your knuckles like they were relics of a chapel he’d burned down and regretted ever since.
And you, too tired to cry again, let him.
Your voice barely held when you asked next:
“And those creatures?”
You didn’t say their names. You didn’t need to. “The ones waiting for me... down there. They won’t reach me?”
He looked up at you slowly, his thumb stroking the inside of your wrist.
The change was subtle—almost tender. But you could feel it: the shift from monster to something else entirely. Something possessive. Something that had nothing to do with hunger or blood.
You saw the flicker of fang behind his lips as he answered, not with malice, but with something closer to devotion—in that twisted way only he could mean it.
“Not while I still stand”
You said yes.
Maybe not in words. Not in the shape of something brave or willing. But it left your mouth nonetheless, torn from your throat like a final breath. You asked him to help you. You whispered his name—not your lover’s, not the man you had lost, but the thing that devoured him.
And Remmick heard it.
The second it escaped your lips, the world tilted. He froze, like the moment had cracked something open in him. As if for all his hunger, for all the dreams he’d drowned in trying to recreate you in his mind, he hadn’t truly expected you to yield.
But now you had.
And it shattered him.
A slow laugh curled out of him—soft, disbelieving, broken in its own way. His fingers framed your face, thumbs brushing your cheeks like he was afraid you'd vanish if he didn’t anchor you there. He kissed your forehead, and the reverence in it was terrifying.
“Good girl,” he whispered, voice thick with something far older than lust. “You’ll never bleed for anyone else again.”
“I’ll be gentle,” he lied.
He didn’t wait. His mouth dropped to your throat, warm lips brushing your pulse like a prayer, and for a moment you felt almost calm. Almost safe. Until the fangs sank in.
The pain was immediate, precise. Not like a bite, not like anything your mortal body had ever known. It was separation. Unmaking. Like he was peeling your soul from your bones one heartbeat at a time.
You arched weakly under him, breath caught in your lungs, and all you could hear was his moan—low, raw, guttural. He drank you in like you were holy water and he’d been dying of thirst for centuries. The world dulled. Faded. Your fingers twitched, but the blood was leaving too fast. You were floating, slipping out of your skin.
And then—there was nothing.
No heartbeat. No air.
Just silence.
Until you fell.
Not metaphorically.
You fell.
The sky cracked open above you, red and endless, and the earth below wasn’t earth at all—it moved, pulsed, bled. You weren’t standing on it. You were part of it. Dragged. Pulled. Your wounds were still open, but here they didn’t hurt—they sang. Screamed.
The air burned like acid in your lungs.
And they were waiting for you.
Shapes without shape. Shadows with teeth. They didn’t lunge all at once. They circled, grinning, slavering. Familiar faces flickered in the dark—things you had hunted, cursed, banished, sent to rot in places like this. They remembered.
And now they wanted you.
They were going to make you pay. Piece by piece. Forever.
A voice screamed in your head—your voice—and it wasn’t crying for mercy, it wasn’t cursing the damned. It was praying, with a desperation you hadn’t known you still had. Not to a God. But to him.
To Remmick.
He didn’t answer.
Not with words.
But just as the darkness lunged, just as the heat began to eat through you, you felt it.
His blood.
Hot and furious, crashing through your mouth like a tide that swallowed the fire whole. Your throat burned as it filled you, foreign and sacred and wrong. You didn’t drink. You drowned.
The demons screamed.
The ground shrieked.
And then—you rose.
Your body came back in fragments. Cold. Then pain. Then heat. Then hunger. And when your eyes opened, the world was wrong.
Sharper. Louder. Redder.
And there he was.
Remmick.
Still cradling your body like it was something priceless. His wrist bled against your lips. His eyes watched your return like a man witnessing a resurrection he didn’t dare believe in.
You gasped, lungs re-learning air. The hunger slammed into you so hard you clawed at him. He held you, murmuring nothing, everything.
You trembled. Not from weakness—there was no weakness left in you. But from the echo of what had almost been.
He pulled you closer. You could feel the beat of his thoughts now. The only sound you trusted now.
“I told you,” he whispered against your skin, lips brushing the edge of your jaw, “they’d never touch you while you were mine.”
Waited 6 months for these vinyl babies and it was worth every second. I collect vinyls, and as soon as I heard the Sinners soundtrack, I knew I needed it on wax. Been praying for special editions by madebymutant, and these turned out even more gorgeous than I imagined.
They're so beautiful I could cry (and maybe I did).
if you don’t mind me asking, are you still writing for any of jack’s characters??
yep, i still am! i’ve got a few ideas floating around, but nothing’s felt quite right to actually post yet. thank u for asking tho, it honestly means a lot 🖤 i’ve been toying with this one story about remmick + a vampire hunter reader who ends up having to let him turn her just to survive… not sure if anyone would even read it anymore (where did the remmick fandom vanish to??). but hey, your ask kinda brought the spark back, so thanks again ✨
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Well, here it is — my masterlist. I was kinda tired of having everything scattered all over the place. Hopefully this makes things easier to find. Thanks so much for all the love and support 💖
(I just) Died in your arms 《Vigilante (Adrian Chase), peacemaker x reader》
Vigilante (Adrian Chase), Peacemaker x femreader
Warnings: Slight angst (nothing heavy), touch-starved reader, fluff, Adrian being Adrian, a little bit of drunk reader, suggestive content (nothing explicit).
A/N: Once again, here I am being annoying lol. Honestly, writing makes me a little happy, even if it’s just for a handful of people. I can’t stop thinking about Adrian Chase and how cute his look is in the new season. Thank you so much for the support—likes, reblogs, and comments mean the world to me. Remember that my requests are open, thanks <3
“Do you guys usually hang out a lot?”
Economos let the words fall with obvious difficulty.
“No… not all of us. More like two at a time.” Leota cast a quick glance at the group chatting in the distance. “I hang out with Chris, of course.”
“Of course.”
“I hang out with Harcourt. Chris with Adrian.” Suddenly there was a pause, and as if it was the most normal thing in the world: “Adrian and y/n.”
Economos leaned closer to Leota, whispering as if she hadn’t said it loud enough for half of Evergreen to hear.
“Adrian and y/n?”
Leota let out a little sound somewhere between laughter and excitement, mixed with a shh to quiet him down.
“What the hell did I miss all this time?”
They both laughed as if it was all insane while clinking their bottles together. Suddenly, Economos grew serious.
“I can’t believe that guy calls me at midnight to tell me random facts about owls but not about this.”
He shook his head as he drank, and Adebayo couldn’t stop laughing, a tear running from the corner of her right eye.
-
“Do you think if I manifest it enough, I could fly like Eagly?”
Not only did your words make no sense, but they were dragged out so much it was hard to tell if you were even speaking the same language as everyone else.
Adrian looked at you with an expression hovering between uncertainty and annoyance. If it had been anyone else, he would’ve insulted them for saying nonsense like that. But you weren’t just anyone. His features softened when you stumbled closer to him. It made no sense that this unstable figure swaying side to side was the same person who happened to be one of the best killers he knew.
You tripped over your own feet and crashed into his chest, laughing softly, the warmth of your breath seeping through his shirt. He held your waist firmly to keep both of you from collapsing to the ground. He didn’t like physical contact in excess, but yours didn’t bother him. It had become a habit—one that was annoying at first, but one he had learned to enjoy over time.
You climbed clumsily up his chest until you found a steady spot in the hollow of his neck. You stayed there with your eyes closed, breathing in his scent. You murmured something happily, but he couldn’t quite catch the words. He lifted one of his hands and set it on your upper back, giving you a few pats, as if consoling you. He was learning—you had been the most persistent teacher, and he the worst student imaginable. But in that moment of weakness, it felt like the most genuine show of affection you’d ever received.
You brushed the base of his neck with the tip of your nose, smiling when goosebumps rose on his skin and you felt his throat swallow with difficulty. You made your way to his ear and planted a small kiss on his earlobe. He let out a sharp exhale and glanced around, checking if anyone was paying attention. But he stopped looking when he heard you speak so close.
“I think I know what we could dress up as for Halloween. You could go as Chris, and I’ll go as Eagly.”
What the hell was it with you and Eagly lately?
His train of thought was cut short when a pleasant warmth settled in his abdomen. You were stroking him absentmindedly, no clear intention behind the gesture, but he always had trouble understanding certain signs of affection. It felt good, so he didn’t stop you. He was in some kind of bubble. Normally his head was a swarm of ideas, concepts clashing for his attention. In those moments when he had your warmth near him, your scent, his brain seemed to short-circuit and go into standby.
White noise, and a little sign that said: We apologize for the inconvenience. We’ll be right back.
Heat rose to his cheeks when you began planting scattered kisses on the exposed skin closest to your lips. Your caresses slid lower until he felt them dangerously close to the waistband of his pants. He gently moved you back, careful not to make any sudden movement that could send you tumbling with your terrible coordination.
“No. No exhibitionism. You’re not making me commit any infraction, especially not in front of our friends.”
He said it very seriously, but something in your brain wasn’t registering the words properly. You laughed, eyes half closed, body loose and trusting completely that he would hold you up if you couldn’t stand on your own. And you were right—he would.
He shifted his grip to hold you by the upper arms and spoke slowly, as if the problem were a neural failure rather than the effect of several beers in your bloodstream.
“We’re going to say goodbye and I’m going to take you home.”
“Home? The two of us together?”
It irritated him a little that he couldn’t just be bluntly honest with you, to tell you that you were only saying obvious nonsense. But then he remembered the pout you’d made the last time, when he told you your aim was crap while you were crying. His heart ached a little at the memory, and for a split second he wanted to pinch you so you’d share the pain. It wasn’t fair that it only hurt him.
“That’s what taking you home implies—that we both have to go together.”
He had underestimated your strength because, within seconds, you launched yourself forward with everything you had. You landed with your chin against his sternum, grinning from ear to ear. The rest of your body stayed where it was; only your top half had gone forward. He hissed at the impact and looked down at you, his chin pressed to his chest.
“I like that idea.”
You closed your eyes and puckered your lips, waiting for a kiss. Instead of giving in, Adrian separated you and half-dragged you back toward the rest of the group, who were still chatting casually.
“I think I’m gonna take her home before she decides it’s a good idea to test if she can fly like Eagly.”
Everyone looked at you both with a strange expression. Adrian searched his mental notes—what had you told him those expressions meant? Ah, expectation. Wait, what? They were going to figure it out.
He straightened you up as you clung to him like a life jacket in the middle of a storm at sea. He moved his hand from your waist to your shoulders, much friendlier.
“Don’t think that… I’m not going into her house. I won’t even step over the threshold. I’m just gonna drop her off and wait until she goes upstairs. Why would I go into her house? Pfft, that’s ridiculous.” He let out this weird fake laugh, way too loud and way too forced.
Nobody laughed with him. Not even a pity chuckle. The group just kind of… froze. A couple of them exchanged these sideways glances, others took these very deliberate, too-long sips of their drinks. The silence stretched until it was so thick you could choke on it, and Chris—poor Chris—looked like he’d just swallowed a whole ball of guilt he didn’t know what to do with.
“Yeah, buddy. Sure. You’re just gonna drop her off,” Chris said finally, shrugging in a way that screamed please, everyone, let’s just move on before this gets more awkward.
Adrian nodded rapidly, like three, four times in a row, convinced that he’d just completely smoothed over the whole situation. You waved this wobbly little goodbye, your hand flapping lazily in the air, muttering “thanks” several times. Nobody knew exactly what you were thanking them for, but they all assured you it was nothing.
By the time you reached the fire escape, you slipped one hand into the back pocket of Adrian’s jeans with this little mischievous giggle. He still had an arm locked firmly around your shoulders and gave your arm a quick squeeze.
“You’re touchier than ever,” he muttered, trying to sound unimpressed.
But he couldn’t stop staring at the ridiculous grin plastered across your face. It was… absurd. And yet, it got under his skin in the best possible way. He liked it. He liked that grin, how it softened you, made you look younger, lighter. He loved your sharp edges too—maybe more, honestly—but seeing you like this, so open, it tugged at something deep inside him. He hadn’t seen much of this version of you lately, not since the butterflies were gone and the missions had stopped. And he missed it more than he wanted to admit.
“Just because you look cuter than ever,” you blurted out, words tumbling out too fast.
You kissed his cheek, and he smiled despite himself. Compliments still hit him like bullets—unexpected, disorienting—but he craved them too, impatient for the next one. He lived for you pointing out that his hair looked good, or that his aim was deadly, or that you thought he was adorable in his glasses. “You’re a kinky boy, aren’t you?” you teased.
And he couldn’t deny it. Not really.
The climb up to your apartment took twice as long as it should have. It wasn’t just keeping you upright—though that was a whole mission in itself—but also fending off your increasingly bold attempts to peel his clothes off in the middle of the damn street. You pulled out every trick: complimenting him as Vigilante, whispering he was the “best boy,” rattling off random new facts about owls. He suspected most of them were made up, but it still punched something warm into his chest to realize you’d actually gone out of your way to look up owl trivia—just because it mattered to him.
At the door, he plucked the keys out of your hand, trying to juggle unlocking the lock while you pressed yourself against his back, arms limp at your sides, your cheek smushed against his shoulder blade. You mumbled something incoherent about how good he smelled, and it nearly made him drop the keys.
Spinning carefully so you wouldn’t collapse, he frowned down at you.
“What’s up with you tonight? Did Chris give you some of that stuff he smokes in his pipe?”
You shook your head, shoved him through the door, and laughed way too loudly. Adrian clamped a hand over your mouth, whispering sharp sshh sounds over and over that did absolutely nothing. You mumbled against his palm, words dissolving into nonsense, then suddenly went quiet. And then—your tongue. Flat against his palm. Slow.
He didn’t even flinch. His face stayed perfectly deadpan.
“If you think that’s gonna gross me out, you clearly forgot that I’ve had your saliva literally all over my body.”
You whined when he finally pulled his hand away. Your eyelids were heavy, drooping like lead weights, and he wasn’t sure you’d last much longer before passing out completely. Still, he wasn’t convinced the neighbors wouldn’t call the cops if you laughed like that again.
You stared at him for a beat too long before blurting:
“Abby’s not here. She’s with her girlfriend’s family for the weekend.”
Relief slammed into him so hard he actually exhaled.
“We’re alone.” You arched your brows up and down in this ridiculous, suggestive rhythm.
“Why are you doing that? Do you need me to take you to the hospital?”
“What?”
“Your eyebrows are moving independently of your face. That’s weird. Looks like some kind of neurological malfunction. I’m worried.”
You groaned, gave up on explaining, and tugged him down the hallway by his shirt sleeve until you reached your bedroom. Then you flopped face-first onto the bed with a dull thud, limbs splayed out like a starfish. Lifting your head just enough to pout at him, you demanded:
“Lie down with me.”
“With these clothes? Street clothes? Uh, no. Absolutely not.”
“Then take them off me.” You said it with clear suggestiveness, but his sharp nod told you he’d interpreted it as nothing more than a practical task.
He bent to start tugging at your sneakers, but your whole expression crumpled. Your lip trembled, your eyes glossed over, tears pricking before you could stop them.
“Adrian… do you even like me?”
He froze mid-motion, sneaker halfway off, his hand still gripping your leg to keep it propped up. He blinked down at you like you’d just pulled a gun on him.
“What?”
“I think… I think you feel obligated to be with me.”
Your lip wobbled harder, and then tears spilled, hot and fast, down your cheeks. He finished pulling off the shoe, gave your thigh two awkward pats, desperate to redirect you. These situations always made his stomach knot—because he didn’t know how to fix you when you broke like this, and that made him feel like a failure.
“I don’t hate you, if that’s what you’re asking,” he blurted finally.
The words landed like a grenade. Your tears doubled, morphing into an unstoppable flood as you dropped your head into the mattress. You wanted to curl into a ball, vanish into the sheets, but even that felt impossible.
“Hey, hey, don’t cry. Please?”
The answer was a louder, messier sob.
He gave your other thigh a couple of awkward pats, like that was going to magically fix anything. You couldn’t bring yourself to look at him. You knew Adrian wasn’t like everyone else—it took effort for him to show any kind of emotion. But in the past few months, you’d thought you’d broken through, that maybe you’d carved out a space where his affection lived. Never in a million years would you have expected him to say: “I don’t hate you.”
“What I meant was… I guess I like you. Like, actually like you. God, I’ve done things with you I never would’ve imagined.”
The crying stopped almost instantly. After a couple shaky breaths, you lifted your gaze. Adrian looked like his brain was doing cartwheels, like he was digging around for words he didn’t usually keep in stock.
“I’m not—” he scratched the back of his neck, glancing away, “I’m not good at this. Feelings. Or, like… saying things that don’t involve knives or bowel movements. So maybe I don’t show stuff like normal people. Not the way you’d expect. But, uh—I’m here, right? That counts for something.”
You blinked hard, drunk brain clinging to every word. Normally you would’ve stopped him, told him that was enough. But you needed more. Since the Butterflies, you hadn’t known who you were, or what you were good for. You weren’t needed. Adrian had tried in his own awkward way to pull you out of it, dragging you along on patrols, but that wasn’t your path. You still longed to belong to something bigger.
Your insecurities slipped out raw and loud, more than you wanted. And you needed him to tell you—you were worth something. At least to him.
“If I didn’t like you, I wouldn’t be here. I’d be with the others, or—hell, I’d have let you jump off that stupid fire escape to test your flying theory. I wouldn’t give a crap how you got home. I could’ve just stayed home sharpening knives, which, by the way, is very satisfying. But I didn’t. I walked you home.” He lifted a hand as he listed off his alternatives, then let it smack against his leg with a thunk. His eyes tracked your face, and when he caught your lip trembling again, he made an exaggerated tsk. “I’m here. With you. Holding you up so you don’t faceplant on the sidewalk. Stopping you from stripping me naked on Main Street, which, by the way, is illegal in several states. I Googled it. It’s a felony in Utah. Just saying.”
You bit your lip, holding back a laugh at his very specific worry about laws. You didn’t remind him that he was the one who’d once ended up in his underwear, drenched in beer, in front of the whole team.
Adrian’s words started tumbling out faster, like a faucet he couldn’t turn off.
“And I don’t like you in the boring way. Like tacos—I love tacos, I’d marry tacos. It’s different. It’s like…you make my brain shut up. Normally it’s all noise in there. Like a hundred radio stations playing at the same time, and half of them are talking about murder techniques. But when you’re around? It’s like static. Quiet static. And that’s… actually really nice. I didn’t even know I wanted that until it happened. So yeah. You’re basically like my human white noise machine. But better, because sometimes you kiss me.”
He scratched his neck again, eyes darting up like maybe he’d find a trapdoor in the ceiling.
“And also—you touch me. Which is insane, because usually I hate people touching me. Like, don’t touch me. Ever. Handshakes? Gross. Sweat, germs, hand oil—blegh. But with you, it’s fine. It’s… more than fine. It’s… I don’t know, it’s good. Like I want it. Which means, scientifically speaking, that I definitely like you. Because otherwise I’d have pepper-sprayed you and sprinted home. Fast. I’m very fast.”
He shrugged, like he’d just presented a flawless math equation.
“So yeah. That’s it. You make me want to stay. You make my brain stop screaming. You’re the only person alive I’ll let touch me without stabbing. If that’s not ‘liking,’ then the dictionary is a liar.”
You just stared at him, chest pulling tight, while he rambled. Then, suddenly, the tears returned—hot, fast, unstoppable. But this time they were different. Your lip wobbled, and you started crying again, only now you were smiling too.
Adrian’s face twisted in horror.
“Oh no. Ohhh no, no, no, no, no. Not again. Why are you leaking? I literally said nice stuff this time! Do you have, like, a tear duct malfunction? Should I Google it? I can Google it. Wait—no, my phone’s dead. Don’t move, I’ll—”
“Adrian.” You laughed through your tears, catching his wrist before he could bolt. Your voice cracked, but you got the words out. “I’m not sad. I promise. I’m just… happy. You don’t usually say things like that and… it’s a lot. In a good way.”
He froze. Rigid. Deer-in-headlights.
“…Wait. You’re crying because you’re happy? That’s not real. Crying is for funerals. Or when your burrito falls on the ground tortilla-side-down. Not for happy.”
You sniffled, wiping your face clumsily. “For me, it is. My brain just… reacts like that. Too many feelings at once, and this is what comes out. And what you said… it made me feel safe. And wanted.”
He blinked. Hard. Mouth opening like he wanted to argue—but shutting again. Then he leaned closer, squinting like he was trying to read the fine print of your soul.
“So… you done crying now? Happy crying, sad crying—what category are we in? Because I wanna lie down with you. I like when you pet my hair while I fall asleep.”
Something warm spread through your chest, drowning out the last of your doubts. You almost laughed at how he suddenly couldn’t stop listing things he liked about you. You nodded, smiling, opening your arms in invitation.
But he shook his head, leaned over, and started undressing you again.
You couldn’t stop laughing as he fought with your jeans, cursing under his breath. He froze only when he caught sight of your underwear. You cupped his face, making him meet your eyes, biting your lip in what you thought was a sexy smirk. In reality, your eyelids were so heavy you looked like you were seconds away from passing out.
Adrian stifled a frustrated noise, kissed your forehead, and tugged your shirt off gently. When you were settled, he tucked the blanket over you, then clumsily stripped out of his own clothes. He slid into bed, hopeful you might still be awake—but your eyes were already closed.
He lay facing you, studying your flushed cheeks, puffy eyes, steady breathing. Something strange bloomed in his chest—habitual now, even if it wasn’t natural. Without overthinking, he wrapped an arm around your waist, pulling you tight against him until your warmth quieted the buzz in his skull.
Half-asleep, you stretched out a hand, playing lazily with his curls, mumbling something dangerously close to I love you.
He had no idea what to do with that. No idea if he could say it back. So instead, he pressed another kiss to your forehead and began rattling off every owl fact he’d memorized that week, while you answered with soft, nonsensical murmurs.
