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olsenmyolsen · 4 months

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This Is Me Trying - One - (A Y/N Parker Spider-Woman X Kate Bishop Story)

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Summary: The Winter semester is challenging as you fall behind on exams and essays all while an old threat emerges.

Word Count: 3.3K

Content: College stress, cutie Kate Bishop

You, Y/N Parker, loved Christmas time.

You loved how it changed the city from a smelly concrete jungle into a smelly concrete jungle but with snow!

Lights went up with trees covered in decorations. Lattes got better, and so did the cookies.

The air got colder, and sometimes the people got warmer. Whether it was buying things for strangers or for a lifelong friend. Random acts of kindness increased, but on the flip side, so did the rate of crime.

Plus, swinging in the cold was awful, but with some insulation in the suit, it helped.

All of this to say you still loved this time of the year.

"You know, since you love it so much, how about you let me go? You know, like you said, kindness of strangers and all that!"

You looked at the guy webbed to a pole who just mugged a woman coming home from work and tilted your head.

"You know what you're right. Tis the season!" The man nodded as you took a few steps closer. "However, on second thought!" The man's eyes widened before you webbed his mouth shut.

"Marv, how many times are we gonna do this, buddy?" You patted the man's head as the sirens were approaching.

"Happy Holidays!" You yelled as you swung up to the nearby rooftop, looking for the woman whose purse was in your hand.

As you stay perched on the corner, your phone starts to ring. It was Peter—your best friend and brother. You debated whether to answer it or not, but eventually, you gave in and pressed the side of your mask.

"Hey man, what's up?"

"Not much... I know it's late, but I- I was just wondering if you started on Dr. Ohnn's paper yet? I'm completely lost. H-He knows we're sophomores, right?!"

You chuckled and sighed.

You haven't started on the paper yet.

"Sorry, Pete. I've been busy..." You heard Peter let out a disappointed sigh.

"Y/N... you're out, aren't you?" You felt bad. For the last couple of weeks, Peters has been asking you to take it easy with your after-school duties due to the number of exams these previous few weeks have had and, as mentioned before, the crime rate, but you haven't. If anything, you tacked on more. "Y/N, you know how dangerous I still think this is."

You rolled your eyes. "Yes, Peter, I know, but-" Before you could finish, you saw a person jump from one rooftop to another two blocks down from you. "Hey Pete, I gotta go..."

"Wait Y/N... Y/N!"

The line went dead as you tapped the side of your mask and took off, swinging purse in hand to the stranger on the rooftop.

As you front-flipped from your webbed, you laughed. "Well, if it isn't the purple bird!" You said when you got up from your landing pose, scaring the crap out of the archer. He jumped and drew his bow on you before realizing who it was.

With an exaggerated groan, he withdrew his weapon.

"What do you want, Spider!?" He sounded annoyed. You put your hands over your heart. Purse still in hand. "Ouch! I just wanted to check up on the man who destroyed 30 Rock last year."

Clint Barton rolled his eyes.

"It was a tree and a skating rink. Get over it." You raised your hand and mocked the archer as you stepped onto the roof's ledge.

"Where's the youngster?" You asked switching topics. Clint raised an eyebrow. "What are you spying on me now?" You put your hands up. "As if! Just curious. Making conversation. It's not my fault you two happen to fall into my patrol area."

Clint looked at you. "Your patrol area?" You nodded. "It's called New York. Ever heard of it?" Clint rolled his eyes again. "You can be a pain in the ass sometimes, you know that."

"I've been told."

"By friends?" You laughed. "No by enemies. Wait..? Why did you hear something?"

Clint cracked a smile. "Maybe." He hadn't, but he enjoyed this back-and-forth you two played. Like his protege, it was nice to have someone around who reminded him of the heroes of the past. People that brought hope for the future.

"So is that purse yours or?" Clint looked up from his binoculars at you. "No. It's not my color." When Clint didn't laugh, you continued. "Lady got mugged, and I don't know where to find her."

Clint looked from the purse to you and did it two more times. "What?" You asked when no words were spoken. Clint huffed. "You have her purse. It probably has her ID." You tilted your head before your eyes got wide. "Oh! Her address!"

Clint nodded yes and grumbled about you before looking into his binoculars again.

"Thanks, bird man!" You said as you looked at the address. It wasn't far. "Same time tomorrow?" You asked as you twhiped away.

Clint sent you a thumbs-up even though he wasn't paying attention. But you didn't know that. You saw a thumbs up and smiled.

You were getting through to the old man.

As you twhiped to the woman's place to return her purse, a bright-eyed Kate Bishop saw you.

"It's the Spider!" She very awkwardly whispered to no one else before running to the building; she had no idea you had just left from.

And when she got to the top: "Clint!" She shouted, making the archer jump before realizing who it was. "What!?" He said, looking at her as she smiled with excitement. "The spider! I just saw her!" He nodded like a dad would. "And?" He said. "And! And! And isn't that cool!" Clint shrugged. "I guess. She was here. She actually asked about you." Clint held in a smile.

It was a not-so-secret that Kate had a slight crush/admiration for the web-slinging hero.

"And!?" Kate took the binoculars from Clint and awaited his answer. "And... that was it. Nothing else. She joked around. I rolled my eyes. That was it."

Kate was going to press for my information, but Clint was useless when it came to details so mundane.

"Ugh. Fine. Here." Kate tried to hand the binoculars back, but Clint shook his head. "Look and tell me what you see." Kate looked through them and into the window of a known wheelman. "Tracksuits." She said, making Clint nod.

"See the guy with the awful chops?" Kate shifted her focus to a guy with bad facial hair. "Yeah."

"Look past him on the wall." Kate did just that and smiled. "I thought people only drew on blueprints in the movies?!"

"Our guys must watch a lot of movies," Clint said as he chuckled.

Kate put the binoculars down and looked at Clint. "After last year, do you still think Kingpin and these guys are connected? I mean..." Kate made a gesture that said, "really, these guys??" while pointing in the direction of the Tracksuits.

Clint shrugged. "I think it's best to believe they're connected than to not. Plus.. drugs and money still need to be run for guys like Kingpin. Any disposable person that's easy to pay is like Christmas to these guys."

Kate thought about it and nodded as she looked through the binoculars again. "Remember when we destroyed 30 rock."

Clint groans and closes his eyes. "It was a tree and an ice rink. Not the whole city!"

While Kate was busy trying to figure out what annoyed Clint and what Kingpin was planning next, you were busy climbing into your dorm through the window.

You tore your mask off as your feet landed on the floor. You ran your covered hand through your freshly shortened hair and took a deep breath before frowning. You sniffed the air before lifting your suit close to your nose. "Ah, man.."

The city really got to it tonight.

You tossed your mask into the hamper in your closet as you started wrangling out of your suit. You've been meaning to make adjustments to your suit since your arm muscle has only grown, but you hadn't, which left it a bit tight to get out of sometimes.

Lucky for you, you never had people drop by unannounced, so you could always take your time-

"Y/N is that you- OH MY GOD!"

You turned towards the voice of your brother as the top half of your suit fell, showing off you in your black sports bra and toned abdomen.

"Peter!" You yelled as he threw his hands over his eyes. "I didn't know. I'm sorry!" He shouted as he went to run out the door but hit your wall instead, causing him to fall to the floor, knocked out.

An hour later, as you moved your clothes from the wash to the dryer, Peter woke up. And after scolding him about not knocking, you and him got to work on Dr. Ohnn's paper.

But with your exhausted brain and body. Plus Peter's... mild concussion, you two didn't get far. So, just as you were about to suggest calling it for the night, your roommate came home.

Where she was or who she was with was always a mystery to you.

"Hey, losers!" Michelle-Jones, aka MJ, greeted you and Peter as she ran to grab the TV remote sitting on the table. She clicked it on and found the local news channel. "MJ, what are you-" She held up a finger and shushed your brother. "Look!" She pointed to the screen as a reporter was standing in front of a run-down apartment building that was on fire. "It's the fifth one this month!" MJ stated. "Everything thinks I'm crazy, but I know insurance fraud when I see it."

You and Peter weren't sure how to continue.

"Okay..." You started. "What's your point?" You questioned, hoping your roommate and friend was going somewhere with this. "Obviously, someone is doing something very illegal."

"Okay..." Peter said. "What can we do about it?"

"We can't do anything about it. But someone here can." MJ started motioning her head towards you, making you sigh. "MJ. I've told you multiple times. The pictures were a summer thing. I don't take their pictures anymore!" MJ rolled her eyes. Clearly not believing you. "Whatever you say..." She narrowed her eyes at you. "Spider!"

Before you could argue back, MJ got up and went to the fridge before taking a box of pizza to her room. "I'm gonna crash. Night."

"I brought that pizza..." Peter quietly said as you collapsed onto the couch. "You were gonna give it to her anyways." You turn your head to Peter. "Was not!" He defends, but you see through him. "You've had a crush on her for the last year, so please let's be honest here."

Peter closed his mouth and then said: "You're the one not being honest with her."

"Dude."

"Sorry," Peter mumbled. "It's just she's going to find out on her own if you don't tell her." He whispered. You nodded. "I know. I know. But you and I both know that the fewer people that know, the less I have to worry about. The less people get hurt."

Peter wore a sad smile on his face. "You're right. I.. I just hate lying to her."

You looked at Peter as he brought his knees close to his chest on the other end of the couch. "I'm sorry, Pete." He nodded. He knew it was easier for you to do this if the less people knew about your other life, but he wasn't sure how much longer he could lie to MJ.

The following morning, after Peter returned to his dorm, you woke up late.

Apparently, in your sleepy daze, you hit 730 into your calculator app and not your alarm clock application. On top of that, you forgot to charge your phone, so as you panicked to get ready for the day, you quickly put in the cable to charge.

You grabbed your closest pair of jeans and threw on your school sweater, all while grabbing the textbooks scattered on your desk.

You ran into the kitchen and grabbed your last pair of pop tarts before heading to the door and slipping on your vans. You zipped up your bag and bolted out the door.

However, you immediately reentered your dorm, ran into your room, snatching your glasses and phone, now on 16%.

The lecture hall was full by the time you entered. The booming of the door attracted the attention of everyone.

Your brother included. Your eyes found his, and he gave you a weak smile as you sat at the first seat you could find.

When you pulled out your textbook and looked up, you saw Dr. Connors sigh before he continued speaking. "As I was saying. Yes, just because the holidays are upon us doesn't mean we won't have our test on Friday. I want something fun to grade over the break, people." He gave an awkward chuckle that few students, including you, gave back. "Oh, and don't forget. Your papers on physics are still due by the end of the school year. If you've forgotten... well, there's a reason I'm tenured, and this class lasts all year." He smiled and proceeded to dismiss everybody.

Everybody but you.

"Y/N Parker. A moment."

You knew it was coming, but you kept your head up high. You look to Peter, and he nods. He'd see you after class.

"Dr. Connors, look, I'm sorry about being late-"

"Late?" He cut you off. "You missed the whole dang class." You sighed and adjusted the bag around your shoulder. "Look..." Dr. Connors started. "You're a bright student. I've seen it firsthand, but lately... it's like you're not even here. Your grades have been steadily declining. You always appear exhausted."

You nodded. "I'm trying. I wanna be here!"

"Then be here." He said before he sighed. "You still haven't told me what your physics paper is on."

You perked up at that. "I plan on doing it about fusion and Dr. Otto Octavius."

Dr. Connors sighs. "Well, planning is not a major at this university." He walks past you and goes to the giant board in the middle of the room. He then stops. "Octavius is a friend of mine. Better do your research, Parker." You nod. "I'd really hate to see you fail."

"I don't want to, sir." You say, making Connors look at you with a sad smile on his face. "I can pass along your information to Octavius. Whether he contacts you or not is up to him. After that..." He looks at you. "It's up to you, Parker."

When you exited the lecture hall, you found Peter talking to your mutual friend Ned. The closer you got, the more you saw Peter panic and tell Ned to "shut up."

"What's going on?" Peter shook his head as if nothing was wrong. You looked to Ned, who sheepishly looked away. "Ned." You drug his name out.

Ned took one look at you and broke. "I think I might know about the fires around the city!" He smiled and looked excited. It paid to have Ned be the guy in the chair.

You looked at Peter. "You didn't want him to tell me?" Peter sighed. "Y/N, you have so much going on already we don't need you." He gestures with his hand as if he was shooting a web. "Right now. Besides, you haven't even started on your essay, and you just got in trouble with Connors!"

Before you could defend your lack of action, you get interrupted.

"Hey guys!"

Immediately, your stress melted away as you looked down at Kate Bishop. Captain of the Archery Team. Your friend and study partner.

Oh, and your crush.

Katherine Elizabeth Bishop.

"Hey Kate!" You said a little too excitedly, something that everyone caught on to. Thankfully, they chose not to make a big deal out of it. "Hey, Y/N." She looked at you and smiled.

There goes the butterflies.

"So what are you three amigos talking about?" She bounced on her heels as she looked away from you and to the other two. "Oh, nothing!" Peter said. "I don't think you're allowed to say that?" Ned added with a confused face.

"Doesn't sound like nothing," Kate said, making Peter glance at you. "Sounds like Y/N is getting in trouble with Connors." She replied as she turned to you with a teasing smile. "Let me guess..." She made a thinking face. "Too busy studying for our History test?"

History test!! Oh crap, that is Friday!

"Okay, based on the look I just gained, you forgot." You nodded. Kate made a hmm noise but kept her head towards you as she thought.

"Shit," Ned spoke up. "Peter, we gotta go, or we'll be late!" Peter looked at his watch and came to the same conclusion. "Gotta go! See you, Y/N! Bye, Kate!" Peter and Ned took off running down the hall and out the doors before they sprinted across the courtyard.

"What class do they have?" Kate asked.

"Robotics."

"Sounds about right." She said. "We should probably get going." Kate smiled and gestured her head in the general direction of your History class with Kate. "Don't worry about the test," Kate said as you two walked side by side. "You always do just fine." You shrugged her compliment off.

Kate noticed. "But I was thinking if you want..." You looked at Kate and noticed her fingers interlocking with one another. "Maybe you could come to my dorm to study some more. Besides, I still need help on the laws and how they changed once the Sokovian Accords were ratified."

You and Kate had always hung out in mutual gatherings and settings. You two were good friends, but you had never been to her dorm.

On top of that. Alone.

You suddenly felt very warm and wary of your every move.

"That sounds great!" You managed to say. "When were you thinking?"

Kate thought. If it were up to her, you'd come over tonight, but Kate wasn't sure what her roommate Cassie was doing. Plus, she and Clint had a hot new lead to follow up on. "Ummm, is it cool if I text you?"

You nodded. "Sounds great." You smiled widely and pushed the door to your History class open. Letting Kate walk in first. You and Kate walked to your seats and sat beside one another.

"Shit." You heard Kate mumble when she opened her bag. "You okay?" You asked. "Uh yeah.." She bit her lip. A habit you noticed that she only got when she was embarrassed. "What's wrong?" You asked when you tore your eyes away from her chewed-on pink lips.

Kate sighed when her lips parted. "I forgot my textbook. I thought I packed after Clint- Clint-on Clinton and I got back from Archery, but I guess I didn't." Kate didn't look your way.

She was now warm and aware of every move she made.

"Hey, I surprisingly remembered mine." You pulled yours out. "We can share." You moved it in between the two of you. "Really?" She charmingly lifted her eyebrows. "Really." You said.

Kate let out a little cheer and wrapped an arm around you. "You're a lifesaver!"

If only she knew.

Kate didn't remove her arm from around you as quick as she usually would have; instead, you could feel her hand slide up your muscles to your shoulder.

Kate had been noticing your muscle growth as of late but didn't know where it came from...

Eventually, Kate removed her touch from you.

Yet you still felt her.

"It's no big deal." You said about sharing the textbook. But you and Kate both knew that based on your actions recently, you remembering to bring your book or not falling asleep in class was a miracle.

This was Kate's first time forgetting a book, and she could sense Clint's disappointed sigh.

Kate smiled as she watched your fingers turn the corners of the page in the textbook. Her eyes lifted to your fingers, to your sweater, and up to your face. She watched your side profile as you silently read a paragraph to yourself. She only stopped when you looked her way and hid a smile when you pushed up your glasses. "What's up?" You quietly asked.

"Do you want to come to my archery practice tomorrow?" Kate whispered back.

Kate wasn't sure what you had going on in your life. You and her were close but not close, like with Peter, Ned, and MJ. So she never pushed.

Plus, she liked you and didn't want to ruin what you two might have.

But when you said, "Yeah! That sounds awesome!" Like a dork, Kate smiled.

dividers by @/benkeibear

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youandtom2 · 2 years

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Praise You Like I Should (CEO!Tom Holland) 18+

Summary: You were always a people-pleaser, desperate to do right by everybody no matter what they asked. Being an intern, your boss Jackson exploited your people-pleaser tendencies in a very unprofessional manner, and CEO Mr Holland wasn't happy about it... Themes: smut! little bit of fluff and angst, dom!tom and sub!reader, oral (m+f), major praise kink, sir kink, overstimulation, masturbation (alone) , slight jewelry kink w/c: 10k+

MASTERLIST

You look over the dimly lit hall before you, tables decorated to the nines with hand-folded serviettes, silver-ware suited for royalty, gleaming as they sit on a fresh white linen table cloth, surrounded by tall plum-coloured cushioned chairs. There’s about twelve tables dotted around the hall identical to one another, waiting to be filled by guests in about an hour or so. The room sparkles with the metallic colouring of birthday banners and balloons floating around the room, illuminated by the dancing, multicoloured disco lights.

The surprise birthday party you were instructed to organise is for Mr Holland’s business partner, Taylor. They’re each other's yin and yang, mixing together like oil on water but somehow they make it work. The informal Taylor bases his relationship with his employees on friendship and a sense of mutual equality, where the formal Mr Holland prefers professionalism and respect on top of trust. Nevertheless, both are equally respected as bosses and businessmen in their own right. It doesn’t necessarily mean you all prefer one over the other, but if you had to make a choice as to who you would rather hang out with, the answer is an obvious one.

As an intern, it isn’t exactly part of your remit to organise and host birthday events, but your boss, Jackson, ordered you to do it. Jackson’s notable within the workforce for several reasons; he’s outgoing, social, ambitious, confident, and is unofficially Taylor’s kiss ass. He appointed himself (ahem, you) with the responsibility of organising Taylor’s surprise party, not because he thinks he’s capable, but because he’s looking for recognition. What people don’t know is that he’s actually a lazy guy who has gotten himself drunk with the taste of superiority, abusing you as his own personal slave for favours both big (entirely consequential and out of your depth) and small (worthless and petty). Unfortunate to be his first intern, you’ve realised how gluttonous he’s become with you at his disposal how and whenever he pleases. However, being placed at the bottom of the pecking order, you’re not at liberty to say no.

Jackson’s not your favourite boss by any means, but by God he keeps you busy. It tooks weeks for you to organise the venue, the catering, the entertainment, the decorations, the invitations, most importantly the cake, and the little oddities that everyone forgets about like hand-written name tags and having straws at the bar. You’ve been working relentlessly and after weeks of stress, late and often sleepless nights, numerous phone calls and emails, cancellations and rebookings, tonight is the night that all of that can end. The curse of being a perfectionist and a people-pleaser can finally release its hold on you.

Just as you finish clarifying the itinerary with the hotel’s bar staff, you notice a dark figure walking through the entrance. Your eyes trail nervously from the black patent shoes to the white shirt peeking beneath the black suit of which belongs to Mr Holland. He has his tortoise shell glasses perched perfectly on his nose, reflecting the colours of the disco lights as he walks towards you, stoic and poised. A silent ‘fuck’ crosses your mind.

Being the CEO eight floors above you, Mr Holland’s face isn’t one that you see as consistently as Jackson’s. He’s at least 6 tiers above you in the pecking order, one of two to take superiority over a long line of directors, specialists, managers, supervisors and assistants before you. So you can hardly blame yourself when you start to feel nerves gathering in your chest, despite how well-respected he is amongst the workforce.

His eyes finally find yours and he clarifies your name. You can appreciate that he’s at least taken the time to learn your face. “You're Jackson’s intern, right?”

Wow. He knows you more than you thought. “Yes sir. Is there anything I can do for you?”

“No, thank you. I was just coming to take a look around. I’m normally part of organising the celebrations but this year I’ve been too busy.” He wordlessly waves a hand before weaving in and out the tables, reading each name tag as he passes by. You watch nervously as he inspects the room until finding himself in front of what you call The Shrine with folded arms, almost bursting at the seams. More simply, it’s a collage of photos of Taylor taken over the years pieced together in a mosaic standing on an easel, gathered and no less arranged by you, of course. Next to it stands an empty corkboard, waiting to be filled with pictures from tonight's celebration, provided by the pop-up photobooth beside it.

“Whose idea was this?” There’s a warm smile on Mr Holland’s face.

“Mine, sir.”

“And the handcrafted name tags?”

“Also me, sir.”

“I love it. It’s very creative.” You exhale loudly, relieved. The people-pleaser inside you starts to buzz, fluttering wildly at Mr Holland’s praise. “Did you…” His eyes squint narrowly, honing in on you. “Did you organise all of this?”

“Yes, I did. The venue and catering took some negotiating but once that was planned, the rest came with time.”

“Impressive.”

You’re about to thank him but you're interrupted by the obnoxious calling of your name in a voice that booms from the entrance of the hall. Jackson marches towards you and you stand a little straighter. He doesn’t notice Mr Holland standing in the corner of the room next to the shrine. Instead of Mr Holland announcing himself, which is what you expected him to do, he sinks his hands into his pockets and quietly observes from afar.

“I need a rundown--” Please, that would be great. “--and for the love of God where is the present I was supposed to get Taylor?” Thanks for getting me a present for him, I’ll pay you back.

Your answer is succinct and to the point. “I’ve left it in your hotel room; it’s a dinner reservation at Keens Steakhouse in New York. As for tonight, the bar will be open for guests when they arrive at 6:30pm, Taylor will arrive between 7:00pm and 7:15pm for his surprise, the buffet will open at 7:30pm and cake will be served at 8:30pm. Last orders are at 11:30pm and the curfew is midnight. Everyone has checked in and has their hotel room key, although Kelsey couldn’t make it tonight, so her room is spare.”

Jackson gives a gruff nod, mumbling something intelligible under his breath. He cautiously looks to the bar, then narrows his eyes at you with a pointed finger wavering in your face. “I need tonight to be perfect so I need you to be sober. No alcohol. Got it?” In other words, I can’t be bothered making sure everything goes smoothly so I need you to stay sober while I get shit-faced. You nod, pursing your lips angrily as he walks away from you without a final word.

With Jackson no longer in sight, the tension finally deflates and your shoulders relax. You hate that every interaction with Jackson is a test of your skill and knowledge, caught in a vicious cycle of having to prove yourself worthy time and time again.

As Mr Holland emerges from the corner of the room, it’s an observation he also confronts having finally witnessed Jackson’s true authoritarian nature. His eyes are fixated on the golden doors in a stare so firm it could burn holes through the metal, and just when he steps into the brighter lights of the bar, his overall demeanour changes.

His jaw ticks when he finally faces you. “Jackson’s keeping you on your toes tonight it seems.”

“He always does, sir.” You shuffle awkwardly on your feet, recounting the numerous occasions his brutal demands have worked you to the bone.

“I don’t think I appreciate the way he talks to you.”

“Oh I’m used to it by now.”

“So he talks to you like that all the time?” Shit. In truth, Jackson would never have spoken so harshly to you had he known anyone was in the room let alone Mr Holland, but that was his mistake. One you’re not sorry for. “Well, if he isn’t going to tell you what an amazing job you have done, I will. You should be proud of organising all of this by yourself, it’s not easy. Well done.”

Your chest swells with pride as Mr Holland pats a gentle hand against your upper arm. Finally, your first taste of positive reinforcement. “Thank you, sir.”

Mr Holland’s smirk quirks at the edges. His hands find themselves deep within his pockets once again as he coolly and oh-so-calmly exits through the doors.

~~~~

You are insomnia personified. As relieved as you are that the night is going exactly to plan, with the nervous anticipation over, you just cannot wait to get to your bed knowing that the stress is over. You have hours of sleep to catch up on, a stone of weight to put back on and friends and family to respond to, and without a single alcoholic drink to lift your spirits, you’re finding it harder and harder to keep the exhaustion at bay. Beyond the exhaustion, however, there’s a sadness hidden deep within your conscience and while you glance over the decorations you hung up as the melodic singing of ‘happy birthday’ rings in the air, it spreads. It’s clear that people are oblivious to what makes you so downcast on a celebratory night as they pass nothing more than a glance your way, but in all honesty, you much prefer it to be that way. You wouldn’t want anyone to see the tear building in the corner of your eye.

For now, you thrive on the compliments you’ve heard about the venue, the decorations, the drinks and the food, each and every one of them satisfying your perfectionist mindset. Okay, so what no-one knows you organised the party, and sure, you can oversee the fact that none of the compliments are directed to you in particular, because in the end, you’ve gained Mr Holland’s approval and that’s enough for you.

Well, it was enough until Taylor took to the stage for a speech.

“...and a special shout-out to Jackson for putting this all together for me. This is absolutely amazing, I couldn’t have asked for more.”

Your heart sinks in your chest and your ears instinctively drown out the clapping and cheering of the crowd around you, eyes set in stone as they watch Jackson accept the dedication so graciously that it makes you sick to your stomach. It takes every ounce of energy you have left in you to suppress the wobble in your lip at the sight of Jackson soaking up the glory like a sponge. Jackson taking the credit for your hard work was something you should’ve expected from him. After all, he is lazy and will never be willing to admit it, definitely not in front of Taylor. Still, the chase for recognition was always going to be a losing battle for you; you’re an intern for fuck’s sake, you are merely just a name and a face for most, unfulfiling of the protagonistic arc the people here want in their stories. Jackson, the kiss ass, makes much more sense being the hero than an underdog intern.

You close your eyes and take a deep breath, accepting defeat.

You claim an empty seat at an empty table in a dark corner of the room, far from the crowd mingling on the dance floor and you remain there as the party continues into the night. The glass of tepid water looks pitiful in your hands, its lack of taste offering no respite from your sorrow.

With fifteen minutes until last orders, you begin counting down to the moment you can retire to your bed which you know won’t arrive until after you’ve cleaned up the hall. You’re jealous of some of the guests who have already decided to leave the party.

The chair to your right suddenly scrapes across the floor and you’re slightly taken aback when Mr Holland sits close beside you and abruptly rests an elbow upon the table, blocking your view of the crowd and demanding your attention. A cedarwood scent silently announces itself and you inhale it deeply, finding sanctuary in its presence despite how startled you are by it. Your breath is simply taken from you when he shuffles himself closer. He isn’t wearing his usual attire; something a little less formal, but likely to be just as expensive. With that expensive taste comes his expensive appearance: clean, styled, decorated admirably and booming with authority. A warmth starts to take a hold of you.

His movements are harsh and his body moves with brute intention, but behind those curls, his eyes hold sympathy, knowing what is upsetting you before it even spills from your lips. You try to fake a smile but he can see right through it.

“I thought it was you that organised the party,” he calmly states.

“I did. But because Jackson instructed me to plan a party means he takes responsibility for it.”

Mr Holland doesn’t waste a single second. “It isn’t right. It’s one thing to speak to you so rudely, but it’s another to take credit for your hard work, and I’m starting to believe that Jackson doesn’t value you as an intern as much as he values the superiority that comes with it, am I right?”

Anxiously, your eyes catch Jackson lazily hanging over the bar and demanding another drink. If Mr Holland were to know the truth, it would get Jackson in a lot of trouble and the people-pleaser inside you is screaming at you to just deny it all. Your skewed perception of professionalism means skipping over these things, something about snitching just seems so petty and childish, and that’s not the impression you want to give Mr Holland of all people.

Mr Holland’s stern voice brings you back. “You’re not answering to him now, you’re answering to me. Am. I. Right?”

You gulp. “Yes, sir.”

“I intend to have a word with Jackson--”

“Mr Holland, it’s okay, really--” You try to protest but he quickly rests his hand on top of yours, his warmth enveloping it completely, and your mind halts. Your heart flutters the moment his fingers curl just the little bit tighter, a compassion that says more than words could. It’s genuine, caring, but firm in a way that’s supportive, pledging to do right by you.

“He will apologise to you and let everyone know the truth.”

“Please, I don’t want to cause a hassle or stir anything in the office, I just want to do well. And what would it change if people knew the truth? It doesn’t bother me that much, honestly. Besides, you know the truth. That’s all that matters to me.” Desperately and without thinking, you twist your hand and your fingers interlock, returning the squeeze with a soft smile. Mr Holland tries his best to return the sentiment but you can tell the whole ordeal still troubles him and sits discontented by your side, a regretful sigh heaving through his lips. Soon, after a silent plea to let it go, he eventually sits level with you with a brighter sparkle to his eyes and instantly, the mood is lifted. You notice how his hand doesn’t leave yours.

“You at least deserve a drink.”

“I shouldn’t, I’m closing up tonight and I’m working early tomorrow.”

He scowls for what seems like the hundredth time tonight, facing issue after issue the more you expose Jackson’s true nature. “It’s Saturday tomorrow, you should be having a day off.”

“It’s laughable you think I get a day off,” you chuckle. The sad thing is, he thinks you’re joking. Jackson often sends you his overdraft of reports to complete over the weekend and has the cheek to deem you lucky that he gives you so much wisdom and experience. You can’t imagine Mr Holland being aware of this…

“Don’t be silly darling, everyone is entitled to days off. Even Taylor took a day off today for his birthday.”

Again, your scathing laughter meets his ears and he tilts his head, that skewed eyebrow lifting high into his forehead. “No offence sir, but with his position, he can afford to. I don’t think interns have that same benefit--”

“Of course you do, it’s company policy that everyone is entitled to a day off on their birthday.” Before you get a word in, he’s already pulling out his phone from his suit pocket. “Tell me when your birthday is so I can make sure you get it off, and I know when to get you a birthday present. Taylor too--”

“Oh, you don’t need to do that.”

“We do it for all our employees, regardless if you’re an intern or not.” His calendar flashes to life before his eyes. “So when is it? June? July?”

Your mouth suddenly goes dry and it gawps like a fish, not a usual response to such an easy question. Your fingers knead together on your lap as the sadness once again materialises and Mr Holland quickly senses something is amiss.

“It’s…it’s today. My birthday is…was today.”

Mr Holland’s eyes widen with horror. It’s no less than a minute later that he finally replies. “And Jackson has you working?”

“Since 7am this morning. I had asked for my birthday off two months ago because I did actually read the company policies, but he said interns can’t request holidays because they’re not permanent. I didn’t think anything of it.”

“What?! For fuck’s sake…” Mr Holland twists his chair violently, its legs colliding with the table as he tries to face you more directly and leans forward, your knees slotting into the space between his. The wave of his anger has rolled back even higher in its tide and now, unlike before, there’s a vein popping at his temple. “Let me just make this clear, okay? Correct me if I’m wrong. You’re telling me that Jackson has knowingly denied you of your birthday holiday entitlement and instead had you plan someone else’s birthday just so that he can take credit for it, make you work through it and clean up after it as well?”

God. In his words it sounds so desperately sad. Up until this point, you were able to distract yourself from getting caught up in the tragedy of it all, but now there’s nothing stopping the gates from opening and wallowing in self-pity. Although your blurring eyes tell of your true emotions, the forced smile on your lips does everything it can to convince both you and Mr Holland that you’re not bothered by it. “Yeah, I guess so.”

Mr Holland’s heart inevitably sinks. In that moment, he thinks of the cruelty behind Jackson ordering you to buy and wrap his present for Taylor when you have none to open. He thinks of you, alone, buying the candles of the birthday cake you wouldn’t be blowing out. He thinks of you, just hours ago as the crowd sings happy birthday to another person, blissfully ignorant of your sorrow. He thinks of the hours you spent working when you should have been with your friends and family. It’s all of the things you truly deserve, but have been robbed from you.

He reaches once again for your hand, now resting on your lap, and the tips of his fingers graze your thigh. You would be a fool to miss it. “Darling,” he sincerely murmurs, almost as quiet as a whisper. “I’m so sorry.”

The fake smile takes lead and the rebel tear is wiped away. “It’s okay, it’s not your fault--”

“But it’s not okay. You…you didn’t even get to have a drink.” Damnit, your cheeks are wet again. “Did you at least get a break today?” Don’t cry in front of your CEO. Don’t cry in front of your CEO. Don’t cry in front of your CEO.

In fact, you spend so much time failing to not cry that Mr Holland assumes the worst. He takes in a long, deep breath and lures you into his embrace with a hand creeping up to the back of your head, and the second your forehead hits his shoulder, the dams break.

“I’m just so tired,” you sniff.

“You’ve been overworked, darling, that’s why.” His hand passes over your hair, gently cupping the curve of your head as he takes in every hiccup. His breath flows past your ears smoothly, broken up every few seconds with whispers of comfort. You feel horribly embarrassed, crying into the expensive suit of your CEO at the party you organised on your birthday: definitely not the definition of professionalism you are chasing.

“I’m sorry. I promise I’m not usually like this.” You retreat from his shoulder but the hand cupping the back of your head prevents you from travelling too far and you’re stuck, just inches from Mr Holland’s pitying eyes. He keeps you concealed from the crowd, but it’s not enough to hide from the burning glare of Jackson, his eyes drawing daggers at you from over Mr Holland’s shoulder. He’s somewhat frozen in a stupor, scarily steady for a man who was flailing over the bar minutes ago, but anger is a quick cure for intoxication.

Mr Holland’s voice sidles quietly into your ear. “You don’t need to explain yourself to me. Get yourself up to bed, I’ll deal with Jackson.”

“But--”

“I will not take no for an answer. Now go.” You shiver at the stern tone, appearing only as he turns to lock eyes with Jackson who’s faring a guilty look upon his face. As Mr Holland brings you both to a stand, he gently encourages you towards the golden doors and although you should be indulging in the relief of finally being let off, you can’t pull your focus away from Mr Holland’s cold stare that refuses to stray from Jackson. In the few seconds that it takes to walk from your chair to the doors, a clear, obvious shift in mood transpires, one that is felt by the entire room because now it isn’t just you that notices Mr Holland’s sudden decline in temperament. Evidently, everyone is quick to sense the tension. The crowd’s lively dancing now settles into an awkward shuffle and the singing dulls into hushed whispers because they know to never underestimate the seriousness of Mr Holland’s anger. It’s uncomfortable and intimidating, even more so if you’re the reason for his vexation and if that’s the case, you should be on your knees begging for his forgiveness. It’s the one power Mr Holland holds that Taylor, his business partner, his equal, doesn't possess. This is your first time seeing him exercise this power and it’s incredibly daunting.

The beat of your heels clicking their way up the staircase is a quick one, not daring to hang around the unease any longer. The fresh smell of washed cotton that greets you in your room winds you down and you don’t spare a second of reflection before you strip yourself of your stiff dress, blister-inducing heels, thick make-up and the heavy stress. You slip right between the sheets, ready to drift asleep.

The lights are switched off, your eyes are closed and your body properly relaxes. Yet inexplicably you can’t settle into your bed no matter how much you toss and turn. Rationale convinces you that it’s because you’re in a bed different from your own, that the mattress doesn’t have the mould of your body imprinted on it, and although it’s a perfectly reasonable explanation, your inner conscience is telling you something else…

Flashes of memories made just half an hour prior spring to the surface and suddenly you’re watching yourself converse with Mr Holland again. But it isn’t exactly how you remember it.

For example, his hand is on your lap, gripping the curve of your thigh with his heat scorching through your skin when you know that, in reality, it was nothing more than a soft sweep. And when you both stood, you know he guided you with a gentlemanly hand, yet your dream sees his hand curving down the slope of your ass and squeezing the flesh. You have to refuse the idea of you shivering with arousal from hearing Mr Holland’s stern growl because truthfully, it was nerves.

Or…was it both?

You try to ignore it, but the seed has already been planted. Now all you can visualise is his fleeting touches, his soft voice praising you and calling you darling, the twinkle in his eyes as he sympathised for you, the caress of his hand through your hair as he comforted you, the way he cared for you, and fucking hell, the exhilaration of seeing him protect you so defensively when no one else did. His taut jaw, his clenched fists, his dark eyes, the pulsing vein at his temple, his eminence that commanded the room, the list is endless.

“F-fuck,” you stutter, succumbing to the pleasure of your own fingers toying with your clit. You don’t quite remember the exact moment your hand slipped beneath your underwear, too caught up in your fantasy of Mr Holland to realise. Regardless, the movie in your mind continues to play out and by now, none of it reflects any real events from tonight - it’s all purely fictional.

His hand slides up between your thighs. He dons a devilish grin because he knows there’s a whole crowd blissfully unaware behind him. An innocent gasp slips from your lips and it lures his eyes to your mouth, panting as he traces the letters of his name over your covered cunt as a sign as to who it belongs to. Overrun with anticipation, you bite your lip, feeling the pad of his finger slip beneath your thong and…

“Oh my god! Shit!” Your body seizes, curling into itself as your fingers dull to a small twitch between your clenched thighs. There’s a blissful moment where you ravish the hot rush of blood pulsing at your pussy, letting it bubble until it slows to a simmer, and only when you come down from your high minutes later do you fully realise what has just happened. Eyes split wide open, you rise from your bed.

You just masturbated fantasising over your CEO.

What in the hell have you gotten yourself into?

~~~~

The morning comes surprisingly quickly and the hotel's thin curtains don't fully shield you from the sun's glare. It’s bright, directly in your face and if you didn’t know any better, you would think that it’s spotlighting you because it knows what you did last night. As if you forgot…

The guilt still ruins your conscience and you feel nothing but regret; fantasising and sexualising Mr Holland’s kindness is just the pinnacle of everything you disagree with and it doesn’t exactly define the sort of professionalism you strive for.

Shaking it off as best you can, you refresh yourself with a shower and a harsh splash of cold water to your face, and by the time you open your laptop it’s 9am. There hasn’t been any emails from Jackson so far which you’re not too sure if you’re shocked by. It’s typical on a Saturday morning for Jackson to send you multiple reports with deliberately vague instructions that you would somehow have to decode and translate for yourself. But regarding last night’s events, perhaps he’s heeded Mr Holland’s words and decided to honour your weekend entitlements.

The white screen stares back at you, watching you nervously bite your nails as if you’re expecting a red notification to pop up, attached to an email from Jackson with hungover words. A minute or two passes by and alas, nothing. Not a word. In all honesty, you don’t have an issue with it, not at all, but it means that your routine is completely disrupted and you’re struggling to decide what to do with yourself. And without work, you have nothing to distract you from last night’s sin while it plagues your mind.

A new sweat arises and your cheeks flush with embarrassment. It shouldn’t have felt as good as it did, and that’s the part you think is the worst. Why did it feel so fucking good?

What brings you out of your self-loathing is three quick, quiet knocks echoing from your door in quick succession. Curious, you open the door and when you see who stands there in all his formal glory, you wish you hadn’t. Your heart immediately jumps to your mouth.

“Oh, Mr Holland--hi. I wasn’t expecting you…” Your words fade into a soft whisper when your eyes spot a small pink bag, its ribbon handles hooked daintily onto his fingers. Surely that can’t be what you think it is…?

He’s painfully quiet, a small smile painting his lips at what he sees; he’s never seen you dress so casually before and he wants to take a good long look at you, unsure of when he’ll see such a sight again. The weight of his stare burns holes through you, heating you from within.

Not a second later, he holds out the pink bag towards you and you forget to breathe.

“Happy belated birthday,” he gently voices. Your fingertips graze each other as you take it from him. For such a small, delicate bag, it’s certainly weighty and your stomach drops thinking about how much money he’s stupidly wasted on you…

“Thank you sir, really. You didn’t have to do that.” A nervous chuckle escapes your dry mouth. “How…how did you get this so quickly? It’s barely past 9 in the morning.”

“I have a few contacts who owe me a few favours. And I just felt so guilty about you missing your birthday. Sorry you couldn’t celebrate it like you should’ve.”

“Like I said, it’s okay--”

He shakes his head disapprovingly but surely, a taunting smirk begins to form. “Am I going to have to give you the same ‘talking to’ I gave Jackson last night to make you realise that it is definitely not okay?”

Yes, yes, yes, fucking yes. “No, no, of course not. Sorry, I suppose that’s just the people-pleaser in me.”

Mr Holland stands stoic before you, his head slightly tilted and his hands clasped in front of him. His eyes are watching you endearingly, drawing you into him, but everything else about him oozes something that makes you want to swallow a little harder. His confidence in himself is mildly intimidating and you wish you could feel the same. Just his being here creates a dizzying effect on you that you just can’t shake.

“You can think of this as a congratulations of sorts too.”

You tilt your head. “Congratulations?”

“Mh-hm,” his eyes flit over your confusion, a devilish, haunting smirk gracing his wet lips. “Congratulations on becoming a permanent member of Taylor and I’s company.”

Mr Holland admiring you be damned, you find yourself taking a step back in shock. “Are you…are you serious?”

“Of course I’m serious, do you think I would lie to you?”

“Not at all, I just, I thought it was going to be Jackson’s decision. I am his intern.”

You aren’t a fool to miss the way his jaw ticks at the mention of Jackson’s name and all too quickly, a ferocious fire consumes his eyes. A small shiver cuts through your skin. “You don’t work for Jackson anymore because Jackson no longer works for me.”

“What?!”

“What did you think when I said I was going to deal with Jackson? That he was going to continue working for me even after finding out he was treating you badly? Or finding out that he orders you to do his work over the weekends? Or even when he blackmails you into doing jobs beyond your remit? How could you possibly think that I would let that sleazy bastard feed off my pay when I know he isn’t capable of the job? You’re far more deserving of the position than he is, far more deserving of the appreciation and beyond capable.”

“Sir, I…I can’t thank you enough. I’m very grateful. I won’t let you down, I promise.”

“I know you won’t. Although I do sometimes wish you would’ve told me or Taylor about Jackson’s behaviour sooner. I don’t tolerate that kind of exploitation, not even for a second and you shouldn’t have either.”

“I know, I’m sorry. I was just so caught up in wanting to do well that I would’ve done anything to please the company.”

“Maybe you should stop spending your time trying to please other people, and focus on pleasing yourself.” His face gravitates just a hairsbreadth towards yours and in quieter, darker words, he whispers… “You were certainly capable of pleasing yourself last night.”

You take a timid step back, mouth agape. You can’t think of anything to say, not when the ringing in your ears starts to resonate louder and louder. Shame swells like a disease and you can feel the bile rising in your throat. You are almost certain you didn’t hear anyone outside your room last night, how could he have possibly known?

“I…um…I don’t know what you’re talking about…”

He smoothly leans against the door frame, his wicked grin tells you that he doesn’t believe a word you say. Nevertheless, he explains, not to worsen how mortified he knows you already feel, but to reminisce of the surge of adrenaline and lust that coursed through him last night.

“I came by late last night to drop off your present. I didn’t think you would still be awake so I planned on leaving it at your door, and just as I bent down to place it there, I heard just the softest of moans—“

“I think you must be mistaken—“ An uneasy chuckle barely covers your tracks, leaving you just as compromised as before.

“I thought you might’ve been with someone, but I then didn’t hear any other voices, so I assumed you were by yourself.”

“Sir,” you squeak, intending to finish your sentence but you just don’t have the words nor the confidence to deny him of what he already knows. You feel like a deer caught in the headlights, exposed and vulnerable without the faintest idea of how to get yourself out of his commanding presence.

A million and one emotions rage through you and drown you in a fluster. Your feet shuffle nervously beneath you, slowly inching your way back into your hotel room as you sense yourself losing control over the conversation. With a mouth drier than the Sahara desert, there’s not much else you can do or say to avoid falling victim to both Mr Holland’s taunting and your own taunting; last night’s images playing out before you more vividly now that he resurrects them.

The subject finally diverges, but it doesn’t mean you're any more comfortable with it. “Do you know you’re the only one that addresses me as ‘sir’?”

You shake your head, eyes inevitably averted. You didn’t know that, you just thought it was professional.

“You never corrected me.”

“I didn’t want to.”

“Why not?”

“I liked hearing it. Just as much as I liked what I heard last night. But I need to know,” he takes a step to cross the threshold of your hotel room. “Was there anything…anyone in particular crossing your mind?”

“There was…” His jaw ticks furiously and you instantly get the notion that denying him is simply not a choice here.

“Who?” He demands in that stern voice you’ve heard only once before.

One word sits on your tongue and you know that as soon as it breaks the silence, the professionalism you worked so hard to build up will crumble before you. But the risk is entirely worth it.

“You.”

Mr Holland’s lips part and releases a snicker as if he knew, and the curl of his smirk becomes dangerous. He lets the singular word ring out into the air, and the tension envelopes you both in a suffocating bubble until he finally speaks. “You…what?”

“You, sir.”

His chest rumbles with approval and you even feel its vibrations fluttering low in your stomach. Desire consumes you; a desire to know what he’s thinking, to know what he’s planning to do with that compromising information, to figure out whether he’ll respond to it in a way that satiates your more promiscuous desires like the ones that distracted you last night. You would give anything to see what’s going on inside his head.

Inexplicably, he nods towards your pink bag, easily brushing over your last conversation like it was nothing to him and it completely throws you off. “You should open it.”

It takes a second to drag your eyes away from him. You actually forgot you’re still holding it in your hands. The tissue paper rustles loudly as you reach in-- “Inside.” Mr Holland urges. With a short nod, you lead the way, allowing him to slowly close the door behind you with a gut-wrenching squeak and a thunderous boom.

The second the door shuts, the air becomes taut, strained and harder to breathe and you dedicate all your efforts into ignoring your last conversation just as easily as he had, but he’s standing right behind you and the warmth of his breath skates past your ear and it’s all you can think about. Even without disclosing what he now knows, the presence of Mr Holland alone would bring about such unnerving effects, so you don’t find yourself at fault for struggling to keep it together.

From the pink bag you pull out a small white and gold box, wrapped with yet another ribbon. Inside is a silver chain, light and dainty, but the pendant it carries is nothing alike. The reflection of the sun hits the circular-cut diamond, becoming iridescent as it hits your eyes. The stone is slightly on the larger side, bigger than any other necklace you own, but it sits perfectly in the balance of being flashy yet classy. Expensive yet tasteful. It’s a piece that you can’t price and that exact thought scares you.

“It’s beautiful,” you softly murmur. The chain cascades elegantly across your fingers, almost mesmerising to watch.

Your eyes catch his movement in the mirror in front of you and steals your attention away from the necklace. He holds out his hand by your side, soft but firm.

“May I?” You almost flinch as his words hit your ear, the ripple of your shiver continues for long after. As the chain pools in his hand, he is equally gentle, handling it with expertise while he lifts it carefully over head and rests the pendant tenderly in the dip between your clavicles. Its icy cold touch seers your skin, heat radiating with each grazing touch of his fingers as they clasp the chain together behind your neck. Once secure, you admire the way it shines brightly against your skin tone, eyes momentarily lost in your image until you realise that yours are the only pair looking back at you. Mr Holland remains engrossed with the curve of your neck, his proximity close enough to be counting the beats of your pulse as it thumps beneath your skin and for all you know, it’s elevating, thrashing harder and harder while you watch with wide eyes as Mr Holland presses his lips against it.

The second his lips meet your skin, his hands find your hips, holding you steady to prevent you from buckling. A numbing tingle shoots through your nervous system at the feeling of Mr Holland swiping his tongue across the reddening bruise he’s leaving behind. Every kiss is with purpose, targeting each and every sweet spot as if he had a map to each of their location: the peak of your neck that connects to your jaw, the sensitive spot just millimetres below your ear, the slight curve of your shoulder that sits beneath the chain. He instantly claims you, and you show no sign of resistance when you find yourself voluntarily tilting your neck, begging for more.

You finally meet his eyes in the mirror, realising how cavernous his blown-out pupils are; that if you search too far you’ll become trapped. “This…” he whispers, planting another kiss to your ear, his hands beckoning to the chain, “is the only thing I’ll allow you to wear while I fuck you.”

A shameless, breathless mewl whines from your throat and a rampage of endorphins consumes you. As the first piece of insight to his mind, you don’t get nearly enough time to let it process in your head before his clawing hands are tugging at the drawstrings of your joggers.

The small nip to your neck is a wake-up call. This is real and this isn’t a fantasy of yours, only that it will be a recreation of what had you orgasming last night.

“You know, I can be a people pleaser too.” His hand slips beneath your joggers, but refrains from slipping beneath your underwear. “I can please you in so many ways.” As a testimony to his words, his fingers trace over the silk of your underwear, catching your bud in its travels and a silent gasp bursts from your lips. “But not without earning it. Do as you’re told, and I’ll do exactly that.”

Your head falls back onto his shoulder, words vacant, eyes rolling.

“Are you listening to me?” The hand on your hip squeezes harshly and you jerk in his arms. You have never agreed to something quicker in your life.

“Yes, sir! Oh—”

“Good. Then you can start by closing those curtains over there.”

His hand slips fluidly out of your joggers when you force yourself away from the subtle torment. The light dims a little, however you think it’s more for privacy than for light. When your back turns once again, Mr Holland sits himself on the edge of the bed, legs spread and leaning forward with his elbows resting on his knees. Whatever it is about him in that single second triggers something in you; attraction, lust, sex appeal, or all of the above. Whatever it is, it compels you to give yourself in to him.

A messy mixture of want, need and unrelenting desire brings you to your knees before him. His eyes sweep over your face, examining, analysing, translating every desperate twitch. He can even see your lips parting where he spots the remnants of teeth marks from when you had nervously bitten them in hidden moments. Smoothly, the pad of his thumb brushes over your lip, tugging it into a pout because that’s what he wants to see; you, desperate, pouting, begging for him. It soon pops back into place, his hand now curling around your chin and pulling you closer. His own lips are nothing more than a breath away from yours and you think he’s going to finally kiss you, but annoyingly, he only allows you to feel the shape of the words as he whispers them to you.

“So what is it about me then, hm? What do I do that turns you on?”

“It’s…it’s stupid.”

He lets out an exasperated sigh. “Let me rephrase.” The grip on your chin tightens and your noses collide. “Tell me what it is about me that turns you on.”

“Last night at the party, you were the only one that…cared. You made me feel like I wasn’t invisible.”

“What else?”

“You stood up to Jackson for me - you just looked so determined like you were unstoppable.”

He tilts his head in the other direction now, leaning in just as close, your breaths mingling together. You’re so desperate to feel his lips on yours. “And?”

“When…when you touched my thigh--”

“You were burning.”

“I was nervous--”

“Because of me.”

“Of course because of you. I was scared of disappointing you.”

A small snicker escapes him and leaves behind a wicked smirk. Two hands now firmly cradle your jawline and you think the moment has finally come. Why else would your heart be thumping in your chest?

“Not possible. I always knew you were a good girl. And I think you like being told that, don’t you? You like being recognised to the point where you need to be reassured of it. I saw that coy little look on your face the first time I told you how impressed I was. It was obvious that no one else had praised you like I did - you couldn’t keep yourself together. And I bet if I kept telling you how fucking sweet you are, and how much of an perfect angel I know you are for me, the second I slip my fingers into your tight little pussy, you’d be an absolute mess.”

Well, he’s not wrong. You’re already soaked.

“Please, sir,” you whimper. “Please just kiss me.”

Finally, finally, he pulls you in for a long, languid kiss, his tongue takes lead to taste every part of your bitten lips as they slot perfectly in between his, lingering longer with each time he captures them. The blood rushes so quickly through your veins you think you might implode, overwhelmed by just how good it feels that your hands suddenly grapple onto the cuffs of his shirt.

A satisfied hum buzzes against your lips, twisting your own into a small grin that unbeknown to you, Mr Holland could actually feel.

“Let me see you,” he demands, his hands plucking at the hem of your sweatshirt. When you don’t do it right away, a tight grip coils around your neck and stops the gasp leaving your mouth. “Do. As. You’re. Told.”

You’re baring your all for him (all except a diamond necklace) in a matter of seconds, standing before him as he leisurely leans back against the bed, resting on his elbows. Those predatory eyes roam your body, mapping out the shape and details, and imprinting them to memory.

“So fucking pretty…” He deliberately watches for your reaction and you crumble under the praise resulting in a mirthful laughter to shake his chest. His arms reach for your waist, luring you in with the tight grab of your hips until his lips sit just below your ribs. The heat from his breath hitting your skin makes you involuntarily wriggle, but he doesn’t allow for any movement from you, not unless he permits it. You feel his lips suddenly, trailing across your ribs and up your chest. “Do you know what good girls like you do for me?”

“What?” You breathlessly murmur.

“They get on their knees,” Mr Holland pauses to let you act on it. Now you’re looking up at him as his knuckle ghosts over your cheeks and he mingles closer. “They look at me right in the eyes and they beg me to give them a taste, to let them suck me off because they’ll do anything for a reward, even if it is just a few words of praise. So let’s hear you, pretty girl. I want to hear you beg me with that sweet, innocent voice of yours.”

You take a cautious breath. “I want to taste you so badly, sir. Please. Will you let me?”

“Hmm.” He purses his lips. Shit. It isn’t good enough for him and he spots the panic in your eyes. All of a sudden, you begin pleading in such a desperate, childish tone you didn’t know you were capable of. Even your lip begins pouting as the need to please him becomes so overwhelming that, unexpectedly, your eyes water, like you’re facing life or death. And he is the decider.

“Wait, wait, no, please, I want to make you feel so good, so, so, so good. I can do it, I promise, and I can be good for you if you let me. Please sir, I really need it. I’ll do anything.”

Mr Holland smiles and gently kisses you with approval, just the shortest of pecks of reassurance before he leans back and nods towards the zipper of his suit trousers, tented with the erection that’s pleading to be satisfied. You waste no time in unbuttoning, unzipping and pulling free his hard cock that almost dwarfs your hand and you stare at him with such bewilderment, a stare that is returned by a certain smugness, a confidence that has you licking your lips.

There’s a surge of instinct coursing through you and your brain convinces you that there’s nothing else you should be doing, that your whole purpose at this very moment is to do as you promise; to please him, to make him feel good, so when you hear his moans the second you wrap your lips around him, your heart flutters with fulfilment. It’s a sensation you keep chasing, growing stronger the longer you bob your head up and down his cock, every time his praise seeps from his lips, and you just about lose it when his fingers comb through your hair. You offer every trick in the book; swirling around your tongue around the head of his cock, sweeping it across the small slit to collect the small bead of cum, teasing him before taking him down your throat and gagging on him. Not too little, not too much. Consistency is key.

You’re not sure how much of an idea he has about just how dedicated you are in your mission to prove yourself to him, that you’re desperate to show how capable you are by what you’re willing to do; perhaps a horrible side-effect of having to constantly prove yourself to Jackson with each conversation, but with Mr Holland, there’s an element of belief and confidence: a contradiction between Jackson’s ‘I don’t believe you until you prove it’ versus Mr Holland’s ‘do it because I know you can’.

Mr Holland’s head falls back, his eyes closed, and falls into an eerie silence. If it wasn’t for his hand still combing through your roots, you would’ve thought he wasn’t satisfied with you. Still, you keep going, running your lips and tongue down his shaft and returning slowly back up again where you get a teaser of the bitter-sweet taste you’re vying for. He doesn’t say anything for a while and you’re undecided of whether you’re doing so well that he’s speechless, or you’re not doing enough that’s worthy of his praise. It’s hard to tell with his head tilted back, and you begin to lose faith. You’ve become so drawn into his voice and words that you feel lost without them.

‘You like being recognised to the point where you need to be reassured of it.’

“Sir,” you meekly voice, leaving a beat to suck on the head of his cock. “Am I making you feel good?”

The depth of his growl sends a spike of arousal straight to your clit. He spits out his words in a manner that’s uncontrollable. “Fucking incredible.”

His head finally lifts and his eyes pin on you, fully blown and dilated. “Look at you - oh fuck - taking me so well. Knew you’d be a good girl but f-fuck, I don’t know if I can hold it in any longer.”

You reply with a wanton mewl, your dopey, tear-stained eyes saying the words your mouth can’t. You need to do something that would push him over the edge, do something that would completely shatter his world, never to be forgotten. He’s already so close, and you're already dripping onto the carpet, and with one last final trick up your sleeve, you catch his eyes, sink yourself onto him until your nose bashes against skin, and fight through the gag. Teeth baring, you slowly, lightly, graze your teeth up his cock, ghosting over every vein that pulses, leaving behind the soothing aftercare of your soft lips. By your side, his thighs twitch and by the time you reach the head of his cock, an explosion happens.

Mr Holland swings forward, grappling onto your head as you drink down everything he gives you. His entire body tenses, trapping you into a headlock and just only for a couple of seconds do you feel yourself losing breath. It's slightly tense and panic-inducing but it doesn’t matter, because above you he’s panting heavily, enclosing his thighs around your head and holding onto you for dear life. It’s all the signs you need to know that you’ve done what you promised, you have proved yourself.

“Fucking hell,” Mr Holland pants. His grip loosens around you and your lips release him with a pop. The instant your lips are free, he claims them, humming into them with adoration. “That was…” A soft, tender kiss. “The best goddamn…” Then another. “Blow job I’ve ever had.” He kisses you for a final time with a smile laced through it, and rests his forehead on yours to give himself some time to catch his breath. “So good…” he breathes. “So, so, so good. Sweet angel. My sweet angel.”

There isn’t anything to describe the burst of achievement that swarms your chest when you hear those words and your cheeks inevitably heat under his hands. You’re smiling, obviously smiling and no matter how hard you bite your lips to hide it, the pull is too strong. You make yourself far too goddamn easy to read so when Mr Holland catches a glimpse of your reaction, he smirks, clearly amused, and simultaneously reaches down the length of your body until his hand finds sanctum between your thighs.

“Hmm, you’re soaked, darling. Don’t you think we should do something about it? After all, you’re earned your reward, and I’m dying for a taste of that messy, little pussy of yours.”

You release a shaky breath when his fingers start exploring. “Yes, oh god, yes.”

“Yes…what?”

“Yes, sir!”

“Better. Let’s not make that mistake again.”

“No, sir.”

“Good. Now--” In a vice-like grip, Mr Holland encircles your waist and your body burns against the rough cashmere of his suit. It’s surprisingly stimulating as he casually hauls you off your feet, but you would much rather the heat of his skin. Nevertheless, your back soon meets the soft cotton of your sheets as he lays you to rest on the bed, remaining shadowing above you basking in the sight of your naked, wanting body. The diamond that nestles deep into the base of your throat twinkles obnoxiously in his eyes and he almost grows jealous of the way it hugs your neck. However, it's a jealousy he can overlook as his eyes wander over the peak of your breasts and your glistening cunt, because he knows that they are all for him.

Mr Holland promptly sinks to his knees, placing his head in between your thighs, his eyes never straying from your cunt. There isn’t a moment of hesitation when he swings his arms to cross over your hips, dragging your legs effortlessly over his shoulders and diving, tongue first, into your cunt. It’s a complete invasion of his touch, his tongue immediately swirling around your clit with a careful, consistent pressure that deep down, you know will end you in minutes. The gasp is telling of your struggle to keep composed, gradually crescendoing into a moan as that amorous tongue descends down your slit, licking you up in long, fat strips. An urge in your hips begs for attention, wanting to raise higher to ease the tension building deep in your stomach, but you're trapped, locked in place with no routes of escape and you have to tell yourself that you just have to tough it out.

But it’s harder said than done when he begins slotting his tongue into your hole, tasting and caressing every inch of you he’s capable of reaching. Digging deeper and deeper, his mouth consumes the entirety of your cunt, humming into it to push you further over the edge. He knows you’re hanging on by a thread, but it doesn’t mean he’s willing to slow down. And just then, an evil, malicious thought spawns in his mind which he voices immediately.

“You’re not cumming until I say so. Understood?”

The feeling of you clenching to stop the impending orgasm has him chuckling. He knew you were close.

“Such a sweet, little angel. So obedient too, right?” He blows a gentle breeze onto your clit and you simply whimper in response. “Right?”

“Y-yes, sir.”

Satisfied, Mr Holland has your cunt in his mouth again, salivating over its taste as he suckles on your clit, your folds, your skin, anything to lure out what he knows he’s going to get eventually, but it makes it twice as appetising when he knows your orgasm is only at his command.

Meanwhile, your heart stammers in your chest with each tug of his lips. Whatever sanity you have left to cling onto, you claw at it with desperate hands, fighting to hold up the wall that blocks the blood rushing to your cunt, holding your breath to stop the bubble from bursting, because fuck, you are ready to snap. You can’t help but notice how he’s taken a page from your book, pleasuring you at a steady consistent pace, not too much but not too little. Unsurprisingly, the result is the same but the conditions are far worse.

“Oh my god, please let me cum, I can’t hold it anymore.”

His grip only tightens, his tongue moves faster and his mouth gets hotter.

Your hands, of a mind of their own, decide to condemn your obedience and push at his arms around your hips in an attempt to get away. Despite his obvious strength, you somehow manage to get a microsecond of respite, but his mouth only sucks you back in again, murmuring only one word that runs laps around your head.

“Obedience.”

“I can’t, sir, please, I can’t h-hold on. Fuck!”

“Oh dear.”

“NO! No, no, no, no, okay, okay, I’ll do it, I can hold on. Just…please go slower.”

His dark cavernous eyes meet yours from behind his arms, unmoving even as he relishes the taste of your slick, challenging you for only a second before he thankfully listens to your wishes. Weakened, your head flops back onto the bed with a small bounce, eyes drifting shut as the feeling in your stomach calms and a small relief hugs your heart. It’s a small price to pay to lose the feeling of euphoria that was going to course through you…only if Mr Holland had let it or if your people-pleasing traits had failed you, none of which had actually happened.

The feeling deflates but the pleasure still lingers.

“You taste so delicious, darling. I could eat you all day.” Arousal jumps to your clit like a flash of electricity. “And you’re doing so well for me, how could I ever stop?” This time, it’s his tongue, soft and caressing. “And this pussy; so pretty, so fucking pretty, I could just play with it for days.” His finger begins circling your clit not too long after he spits into it. By now, you realise what he’s doing. He’s feeding into your need for praise that, along with the small touches and sweeping licks, builds you up just as quickly and suddenly as before, and once again you’re struggling to cope. “I know you can be such a good girl for me, I know you can do as I say, and you have no idea how much it turns me on when you do.”

“Sir…” You warn. He instantly recognises the desperation.

“I’ve got one last instruction for you, angel.” He sucks on your clit for just a couple of seconds, just to get you closer and closer to falling apart. “Cum for me. Cum in my mouth.”

“Fuck!” You scream as an endless stream of euphoria consumes you, hitting you in a sudden white wash of heat that riddles your entire body top to toe. You can feel your cunt clenching erratically, between homing an orgasm and suffering under Mr Holland's continuous lashings, it can't, not for one second, rest until either relent. You feel your own slick, hot and bothered, trickling down your ass but before it gets the chance to meet with the white sheets beneath you, Mr Holland sweeps it up expertly with his tongue, partnered with a primal growl of pleasure.

By the time Mr Holland has finished cleaning up every inch of your cunt and ass with his tongue, he proceeds to kiss his way gently up your body, not forgetting to leave your tits untouched and pinches your buds between his lips. You have just enough energy to cradle his head, allowing yourself the pleasure to run your fingers through his hair, moving with him while he leaves sharp kisses to your chest, your collar bone, your neck, ear and jaw, until once again, those hungry lips claim yours.

Still somewhat recovering, you purr quietly, content with the overall sense of pleasure, both of your sexual and people-pleasing needs.

Your lips slowly part. The kiss ceases but your noses brush off one another gently, still basking in the blissful, intimate aftermath of what's just happened. Your CEO above you remains, hovering over you with admiration in his eyes, running over your features as if it is the first time he's seeing them, adoring them all over again.

There's two words sitting on the tip of his tongue, hidden behind a smirk because he knows what he'll see when he speaks them.

"You're beautiful."

Of course, his prediction comes true. Your cheeks redden, your eyes roll away and your teeth sink into your swollen lips, muttering incoherently about it not being true but thanks him incessantly, but Mr Holland is too caught up in your coy modesty to rebuttal. It's just like the first time he complimented you, and he realises then and there that he's addicted to being the person that makes you shy, blushed, diffident.

Being a CEO, he does indeed posses significant power in the palm of his hand, obtained by hard work, dedication, commitment and sacrifice, but for him, there isn't a power stronger than the one he has over you and all it takes is a few, simple, praising words.

"We still have another three hours until check out."

Your eyes and ears perk up. "Sir?"

Cautiously, he shuffles above you, innocent until you feel his cock sliding into you and he relishes the catch in the back of your throat at the sudden pressure forcing its way fluidly into you. You're simply speechless, questioning if it'll ever end as he pushes every inch of him inside you, breaching and stretching the boundaries of your walls. Mr Holland snags your bottom lip between his teeth, harshly biting as a relief for the tight grip that surrounds his cock.

When your ass eventually meet his hips, you both release a groan in unison, breaths mixing and mingling until Mr Holland breaks the silence.

"You're gonna look even more beautiful when you're all fucked out and dumb for my cock, all with a diamond wrapped round your neck."

His hips snap back at a frighteningly fast pace and thrusts in even more aggressively. The pain is immeasurably exhilarating. Your thighs squeeze his waist, mouth agape without a single breath escaping.

"Think of this as a second birthday gift." Like before, he draws back and slams into you without mercy. "Do as you're told and you'll get your third on Monday in my office."

Somehow, your gut tells you that you won't have a problem with that. Not at all.

#dom!tom holland #ceo!tom holland #soft!dom!tom holland #sub!reader #tom holland smut #tom holland #tom holland fic #tom holland x reader #tom holland x you #smut #angst #peter parker smut #one shot #peter parker #tom holland one shot #tom holland fanfic #praise you like i should

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browniues · 6 months

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🕷ㅤ٭ㅤ𓏲ㅤ𝖸𝗈𝗎𝗋 ℱ𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽𝗅𝗒 𝗇𝖾𝗂𝗀𝗁𝖻𝗈𝗋𝗁𝗈𝗈𝖽, 𝗦𝗽𝗶𝗱𝗲𝗿-𝗠𝗮𝗻 !

#⚊ㅤ𝗱𝘂𝗱𝗮ㅤ✿ㅤ𝗇𝖾𝗐 𝗉𝗈𝗌𝗍 ㅤ!#𝗰𝗿 : 𝖾𝗌𝗉𝗎𝗈𝗋 #layouts #packs #icons #bts icons #bts layouts #jungkook icons #jungkook layouts #spiderman icons #spiderman #spiderman layouts #spiderman headers #soft icons #boys icons #boys layouts #soft layouts #peter parker

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m00nagedreamin · 20 days

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imagine tony stark getting home after a long day of meetings and dealing with people he really hates dealing with

he’s tired. he wants to rest. but when he gets back he sees that pepper is still awake and in the living room

he asks what’s wrong and she informs him that they had a late night visit from a certain teenage vigilante

low and behold, their bed has been taken over by a very unconscious spiderman who stumbled in at night injured, exhausted, and seeking comfort

#this is just a cute concept idc #irondad and spiderson #fluff #so much of it #your honor he is Soft #peter parker #tony stark #fanfic

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spiderdeli · 6 months

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Nothing to see

#spiderman ps4 #spider man 2 ps5 #spider man #insomniac spiderman #peter parker #marvel #soft nsfw?????

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godslittledarling · 1 month

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A concept: Tony Stark with tatoo's.

A follow up concept: Peter Parker uses eyeshadow to color them in.

#i just think the soft rhytmic movement would be soothing to tony #they're in love ur honor #starker #tnpt #peter parker #tony stark

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x-gon-give-it · 1 year

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Late Valentines Day Pic ❤️

#peter parker #spider-man #spideypool #deadpool #wade wilson #fan art #my art #otp #they soft and cute #and I love them #so much

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likely-moony · 8 months

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hi, how you doing? can i ask for some headcanons for clingy yandere boyfriend peter parker?

Okay, so I'm a blind Dumb-ass so I didn't read the headcanon part and instead wrote a short fic 💀💀

Anyway, hiii I'm doing great, and I hope you enjoy it!! <3

(Also, let's pretend I'm not casually returning as if nothing happened and I didn't disappear for 7 months)

Gaslight

Paring: Yandere Peter Parker x Reader

Type/words: Short Story ~ 888 Words

Synopsis: Peter doesn't like you going out to parties, so one night, when you're getting ready for a college reunion, Peter pulls out his big guns of toxic manipulation to get you to stay with him.

TW!!: Yandere-Themes, Yandere Characters, Abuse Of Power (Supernaturally, Scientifically??), Obsessive Characters, Unhealthy Feelings, Unhealthy Relationships, Manipulation, Gaslighting, Abusive Relationships, Cheating Accusation, Toxic Relationship, Toxic Boyfriend Peter.

⚠️ YOU HAVE HAVE BEEN WARNED ⚠️

Masterlist

Rules For Requesting

Taglist

“Where’re you going?”

Peter’s voice rang out from the living room couch as you sat on your little chair in front of your dressing room mirror.

“What?”

You could hear Peter shift uncomfortably on the sofa as you pinned your hair into place.

“Well, you wearing that little skirt that I got you the other day and-”

With a sigh, you put your pins down and turned to him as he turn his head around to face you, not even bothering to get up.

“What are you talking about, Peter, I told you?” You began asking, your eyebrows slowing stitching together at his confusion. “I have a college reunion party tonight.”

Peter placed a sour expression on his face.

“You didn’t say that it was on tonight?” He muttered, seemingly disappointed.

“I did, Pete. A billion times over.” You said back to him, you face stone cold with determination. Ever since you’d moved in with him, or hell even before that, it was like you barely left your place.

Your appearances at party and gathering were starting to lower drastically. You never noticed it at first, which was how Pete liked it, but he got too greedy. He restricted you a little too muchf ro you to let it slide and he was starting to show his real face more and more.

But it didn’t worry peter too much. There’ wasn’t anything a nice lovely date with some expensive champagne, a bouquet of your favourite flowers and a billion kisses won’t fix. And if that didn’t cut it, he resorted to straight up gas lighting you. That always worked, and he’d simply do it again.

“No. You didn’t.” Peter said softly, ever so slightly shaking his head. Peter looked innocent and so left out that it made even you start to question your sanity and memory. Had you really not told him? Were the hundred notes you’ve left him made up, or were the billion messages you sent him fake?

“But- But I did. And I promised them I would go, tonight, Petey.” You said back to him, just as softly as you go up from your chair.

“So who is it for?” Peter’s sudden change in tone confused you.

“What..?” Peter seemed somewhat unconvinced at your confusion.

“It's just that- you never really wear those kind of skirts around me and suddenly you’re going to a college reunion wearing them, so-”

“What’re you trying to say, Peter?” You pressed on, inching towards him.

“So what I'm saying is- Who’s the other guy?” Those few words left you speechless. Did Peter really think you were screwing around with other guys behind his back simply because you wanted to go to a party with your friends?

“There is no other guy, Peter, I just wanted to go to a party with my ladies and have some fun!” You said, desperately.

Peter let out a shaky breath and he looked at the time on his phone.

“Fine then, go and enjoy your party love,” Peter said lovingly, looking at you with those same pair of glossy eyes you fell in love with. “I’ll just cancel it and reschedule it for another day,” He added almost silently at the end. It was a bait, obviously. It was a bait and you caught on like the adorable little thing that you are.

“Cancel what?” you asked, starting to sound worried.

“Oh, it’s really nothing.” Peter smiled, “Don’t worry about it and go enjoy your party.” Peter turned back to the tv and listen to your footsteps intently. That was also bait, and the real question now was are you going to try to catch it too?

Peter watched you intently in the reflection of the tv to see what you were going to do and when he saw you step forward, he had to hold himself back from smiling, because you had fallen straight into his trap yet once again.

“No, tell me.”

Peter faked an exhausted sigh.

“It’s dumb really. I just planned for us to have a sweet date night so I could cook you dinner while we relax and maybe even watch a movie together?” Peter looked up at you, his shiny doe eyes ever so slightly growing glossier.

They weren’t real tears of course, but Peter had mastered the art of fake tears and it always came in handy when you were being stubborn.

“Don’t worry about it though,” He said quickly, turning away from you, and back to the tv.

Peter watched you from the corner of his eyes and when he felt you wrap your arms around his chest, he knew you had fallen straight into his intricately webbed trap, yet once again.

“There’s so way I’d let you cancel such a romantic event.” You whispered into his ear as his hand instinctively came up and grabbed yours in a loving way. You kissed him on the cheek, “I’m sure I can skip this party. It’s not that important anyway.”

Good. That’s how Peter liked it. So pretty and compliant, he just loves you so much.

A little too much.

Peter took your hand and led you to take a seat next to him on the couch. He wrapped his arm around you as you landed your head on his chest.

“You’re just so adorable sometimes. I love you so much,”

Hope you enjoyed it :)

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saber-monet · 3 months

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🥰🥰🥰

Now Available as vinyl stickers on my Etsy ($2.30-$4, multiple sizes):

Sticker 1

Sticker 2

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alchemax-genetics-division · 10 months

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The Sleeping Habits of one Miguel O’hara

One-Shot || Peter B Parker x Miguel O’hara || Gen

This is unbeta’d, written in tumblr, and unedited, so any mistakes are mine alone! If there are any egregious errors, please feel free to (respectfully) reach out and I’ll fix them asap! I hope you enjoy!

———

No one had ever seen Miguel sleep. Doze, sure, but that was only late at night, and only if you were unlucky enough to wander into Miguel’s darkened lab when he hadn’t yet dragged himself back to wherever it was that he found even the scantest scrap of comfort. On nights like those, Miguel could be found slumped over the nearest lab table, forehead braced against his forearm on the tabletop. And then, mere moments later, his red eyes would blink open, as silent as a predator’s, glowing in the pitch-dark room, and the room’s occupancy would very quickly return to one.

But no one had ever seen Miguel sleep. The rumor mill abounded with speculation, each more ridiculous than the last, but only barely; he sleeps upside down like a bat, he sleeps stark naked, he sleeps in vats of fresh blood. Peter B had never paid such whisperings any mind, far more focused on his own sleep schedule and the toddler that wreaked havoc on it.

And then Peter B had confessed his feelings for his boss and, surprise of all surprises, hadn’t immediately gotten fired (or killed, he supposed, because he had seen Miguel’s talons in action and while their metal- and flesh-rending ability was agonizingly attractive in the field, he didn’t think Miguel would hesitate to use his natural weapons in any situation where he was uncomfortable, even emotionally.) Even more mind-bogglingly, Miguel had… reciprocated. Slowly, hesitantly, with all of the trepidation of someone who had been burned before, and then burned twice more for good measure.

It didn’t change much, if Peter were being honest with himself. He still co-parented with MJ. He still brought Mayday into Headquarters and, when the anomaly didn’t appear to be too dangerous, into the field. He still pestered Miguel within an inch of his life whenever he got the chance. He still wrangled spider-kids like he was paid to do it. He still did his job, when it was absolutely required of him to do so.

The only difference was that, now, he got to hold Miguel’s hand while he did it. Now, he got to throw a casual arm around Miguel’s shoulder while he made his characteristic dad jokes, giving Miguel a one-armed squeeze that conveyed more between them than words ever could. Now, he got to kiss Miguel for luck before every mission and he got to kiss Miguel in victory when they got back.

Their relationship didn’t change the fact, however, that Miguel was an incurable workaholic. Even with Peter pestering him to eat, leaving water bottles at his elbow during the day, and reminding him to sleep at some point during the night before leaving the lab to return to his shared apartment with MJ or (on nights where he hadn’t had Mayday at work that day) to the small living quarters in HQ that had been assigned to him, he knew that Miguel didn’t rest nearly enough. Something about vulnerability, Peter reasoned, and tried not to take it personally. Miguel didn’t rest around anyone; he hadn’t had the luxury of trusting the people around him and two months of love, no matter how all-encompassing or overwhelming, would change that.

So when Peter opened his HQ apartment door one night, more than ready to collapse against the nearest semi-horizontal surface and remain dead to the world for the next twelve hours straight, the last thing he expected to find was Miguel O’hara in his bed.

His first thought, irrationally, was that every single spider-person who had ever speculated about Miguel’s sleeping habits was dead wrong, because Miguel slept exactly like a normal person. Well, almost. He was on his back, which would’ve looked as stiff as a board (and therefore, not much of a difference from how he normally looked) if not for the almost delicate crossing of his bare ankles, the sleep-gentle curve of his fingers where they rested on his stomach, tilt of his head towards the window. The only light in the apartment came from the glow of the city through the window, casting a neon outline over the ridges of Miguel’s face, illuminating the long lines of his neck. Peter couldn’t help but to trace the length of the contorted muscles, twisted below Miguel’s skin; his gaze came to a rest in the tiny divot behind Miguel’s ear, a minuscule detail, so agonizingly human, and he was overwhelmed with the urge to press his lips to the fine bone of his boyfriend’s skull. He had the wherewithal to close the door, engaging the latch as quietly as possible so as not to wake the man in his bed and swearing softly when red eyes blinked open under a furrowed brow.

“Sorry love,” he whispered, toeing off his shoes and shucking his jacket to the floor. He could deal with then tomorrow. Right now, he needed to be in Miguel’s arms, preferably five minutes ago. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

The city glow silhouette shifted, warping in the near-darkness, and Peter’s heart rate kicked up in his chest at the half-concealed movement, every instinct, carefully honed from decades of constant danger, screaming at him to defend himself from the shadow that slithered across the floor. But his spider-sense wasn’t activated; the skin-deep vibration that accompanied every impending blow like lightening to thunder was comfortingly absent. And then the shadow took shape, forming thick-knuckled fingers and a scarred forearm, extending towards him like an invitation, like a demand, like a plea.

Miguel’s half-lidded eyes were still locked on him, sleepily glazed, his face still slack with residual relaxation that hadn’t yet sloughed off from the force of full wakefulness, and Peter’s entire chest clenched. He didn’t try to resist the pull, drawn to Miguel’s side like a magnet. As he took the few steps to the bed, he shed his clothes and by the time he reached the edge of the mattress, little more than a hospital mat with ill-fitting sheets, he was down to his boxers and socks and even in the inky black room, he knew Miguel could see the red and blue webbed pattern that criss-crossed the fabric. Sure enough, when he stepped into Miguel’s line of sight, he heard a familiar huff of exasperation. Only two months of experience enabled him to detect the fondness that laced the sound like veined marble. Peter smiled to himself, smiled down at his sleep-softened boyfriend, smiled in gratitude to the universe.

If he had expected to be allowed to arrange himself in his own bed, he was sorely mistaken. As soon as his hands and knees indented the mattress, prepared to crawl into as comfortable a position as the thin mat could provide, Miguel had his arms around him, tugging him sharply across the remaining space between them. Before he could register the movement, Peter found himself crushed between the mattress and Miguel’s broad bulk, and he suddenly had a much better idea of how pancakes felt when he pressed them down into the pan with his spatula on mornings when he cooked breakfast for Mayday.

He and Miguel were of a height, a fact that was so well hidden by Miguel’s love of raised platforms and dramatic entrances that it shocked nearly everyone who saw them standing together, but his considerable shoulder breadth made Peter feel like an ant underneath Miguel’s body. Only his spider strength lent his lungs the force required to expand. It wasn’t uncomfortable by any stretch; it reminded Peter of the time he had nearly been crushed by a flying slab of concrete and emerged five minutes later with every joint in his body cracked, every vertebrae in his spine popped, and more limber than he had been before being slammed into the ground by two tons of rock and rebar. It was grounding, more grounding than Peter had realized he had needed.

The expansion of his chest must’ve given Miguel concern, however, because he made a noise, something like a grunt but far more sympathetic, and made to move. The second his weight lifted, Peter snaked his arms around his boyfriend’s torso, locking him in place, and Miguel collapsed back down with a huff of amusement.

“Feels good,” Peter mumbled into the side of Miguel’s head. Hair tickled at his cheek and lips but he didn’t dare pull away. Miguel hummed and shifted slightly, settling into a more comfortable but no less compressing position and within seconds, was fast asleep again. His breath ghosted over Peter’s neck where his face was tucked, pebbling the sensitive skin, and Peter’s thoughts raced.

The first position he had found Miguel in had made sense. Most spider-people slept on their backs, ready to protect themselves at a moment’s notice, all of their enhanced senses well within reach and easy use at the first sign of danger. But this, the baring of Miguel’s back to the room, the vulnerability in Miguel’s hidden face, especially for someone without spider senses, was shocking. It didn’t make sense.

Peter pondered it for a while, his mind circling itself like an endless game of chase, every go around converging on one central, illusive conclusion that stubbornly remained concealed.

And then Peter shifted. Nothing major, a mere twitch of his arm, an itch that needed to be scratched, a mindless movement. Immediately, he froze as Miguel’s entire body vibrated above him, a deep rumble emanating from the depths of his chest, his grip tightening around Peter’s torso to the point of creaking ribs and stuttered breath, and it clicked.

Oh.

Miguel had had an entire dimension stolen from him. A home, a family, a wife and daughter, all stolen unceremoniously right from under his nose. In the dead of night, with no warning or preamble, his entire world had collapsed into ruin and desolation and then nothing.

Suddenly his grip felt less crushing. The pressure hadn’t eased, and Peter knew that he’d have bruises in the morning, a ring of black and blue circling his chest, but he didn’t mind. Suddenly, he could feel the protectiveness that coursed through the muscles in Miguel’s arms. He could feel the challenge in his hold, as if daring the universe to try to steal Peter away from him. As if he’d fight God and man alike to keep Peter in his arms, and Peter knew he would.

Peter raised one arm, gently, softly, and placed it, gently, softly, in the thick mane of hair, curling it between his fingers, scratching at Miguel’s scalp with blunt fingernails.

“I’m right here, sweetheart,” he whispered, trusting enhanced senses to catch the barely-audible words. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Slowly, Miguel’s arms relaxed once more, returning from their current level of suffocating back to their previous level of merely constricting. His growling quieted to even purr, deepened further by the hand tangled in his hair.

Within minutes, the vibration rumbling through the entire bed, the scent of his own shampoo wafting from Miguel’s hair, and the weight of his boyfriend above him had lulled Peter into the deepest sleep he had ever gotten, and for once, he was blissfully untouched by nightmares.

———

Peter should’ve been prepared for the barrage of questions. Miguel had slipped from his room early the next morning, but not early enough to be undetected, and while the devil worked hard, but the rumor mill of the Spider Complex worked harder. So he should’ve braced himself for the onslaught of questions that the spider kids aimed at him as soon as he stepped foot into the dining hall for breakfast.

“Did Miguel sleep in your room last night?”

“Are the rumors true?”

“How much sleeping did you actually do?”

“Does he sleep at all or did he perch in the corner all night like a psychotic cat?”

That last one was the helpful input of Hobie and Peter rolled his eyes. It was far too early in the morning to deal with such pointed questions about his sex life and thinly veiled accusations about his boyfriend.

Across the room, he could feel the weight of Miguel’s gaze on him and a flick of Peter’s eyes revealed a subtle and convoluted maelstrom of emotions behind Miguel’s carefully schooled expression. Cautious hope warred with a silent plea and Peter could tell he was waiting for his response, waiting to see if Peter would reveal the depth of his vulnerability, the most sacred and coveted piece of him he had ever entrusted to Peter’s care.

With a half smile and a wink, Peter turned back to the gaggle of teenagers staring hopefully up at him, eyes wide and eager, fully expecting Peter to fuel the gossip circle and ready to take every word that dropped from his lips as gospel.

“Have you ever seen Interview with the Vampire?” Peter asked, grinning at the small chuckle he could hear floating from across the room, even over the sound of exaggerated gagging and riotous laughter that erupted around him. When he looked up, he met Miguel’s amused gaze, his eyes softened with gratitude and mirth, and they didn’t have to say anything. Even across the crowded room, their eyes said everything for them.

———

Thank you for reading!! I hope you enjoyed it!

Edit: If you’d like to leave some support in the form of kudos/comments, you can read this fic on AO3 here!

#spiderman: across the spiderverse #non canon compliant #spiderdads #soft #so soft #fluff #mentions of angst #but only to highlight the fluff #probably out of character but I don’t care #I’m so soft for them so I’m making them soft for each other #miguel o’hara x peter b parker #peter b parker x miguel o'hara #migeul o'hara #peter b parker

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