#“I’m going to throw you through that window” | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

nephynes · 1 day ago

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You were just Heeseung’s girlfriend’s cousin—quiet, polite, a little too naive for your own good. Then you met his friends. Now you’re in the middle of a spiraling mess of jealousy, bad decisions, emotional whiplash and two boys who treat boundaries like suggestions. Oops.

•minors do not interact

•park sunghoon x afab reader x jake sim

•wc: 33k (i’m so sorry)

•genre: slow burn, darkish? fic, angst, smut

•content tags: SMUT, toxic friendships, possessive behavior, emotional manipulation, jealousy, angst, character conflict, questionable decision-making, emotional tension, verbal degradation, crying, physical altercation, unhealthy coping mechanisms, complex feelings, power imbalance, mentions of blood, depictions of anxious behavior, manipulative dynamics, sunghoon speaks in italics, jake has issues, messy people being messy, mentions of enhypen’s heeseung and lesserafim’s yunjin. not proofread.

•a/n: this got a little out of hand. everyone in this is insane and needs therapy (except maybe yunjin). please remember this is fiction and not a guide to healthy relationships. enjoy the chaos.

•nsfw tags below

You don't know why you're still here, the music's too loud, the laughter too sharp and the room too small for how much it feels like it's pressing against you, closing you in. You're not even sure how you ended up here, or why you let Yunjin drag you out when you knew damn well it was going to be one of those nights. She's busy talking to someone else now, lost in the chaos, and you're left to wander, like always.

You clutch your cup tighter, not because you want more to drink but because it's the only thing grounding you. It's plastic, cheap, and it's all that's standing between you and the clamor of this stupid, stupid party. The people around you are so loud, so unapologetically themselves. Everyone's happy, laughing, drinking, talking with their friends, and you? You're just another face in the crowd, a blur, standing on the edge of it all.

There's a group of girls dancing by the window, the kind of girls who laugh too loud, talk too much, their bright colors making it clear they've got more attention than you ever will. You want to look away, but your eyes keep dragging back, following them as if your brain can't help but analyze the way their bodies move, the way they shine so effortlessly. And then, you wonder how they'd look if you were in the center of their circle, taking the place of one of them, laughing, dancing, without a care in the world. You can almost see it, but the picture feels blurry, like it's just out of reach.

Somewhere across the room, you spot a couple making out by the fridge, their hands wandering, the slapping sound of wet lips and muffled giggles piercing through the noise. The guy's hands wander lower, and she pulls him in closer, her body shifting beneath him. It's normal, you think, but the weird feeling in your stomach twists deeper. You've always felt like an outsider in these situations. These people, they know what they're doing, know how to have fun, know how to look and act in the moment. You never really fit in like that.

You glance around again. There's a guy on the couch talking too loudly, probably trying to impress someone with some half-baked story, and another girl, looking over at him like she's interested but not enough to give him her full attention. You catch bits of conversations, fragments, half-formed words and laughing sentences that don't make sense to you. People throwing their heads back and laughing like it's the easiest thing in the world. And you're standing there, holding your cup like it's a shield, too afraid to walk into any of it, too scared to be a part of it.

You sigh, letting your gaze wander to the corner by the stairs, where a few of the guys are hanging out. They're laughing, but their laughter sounds different from the others. Louder, sharper. There was something about observing everyone else that made you feel detached, almost like an outsider. Heeseung, of course, was the life of the party, laughing loudly with friends, always the center of attention. His presence demanded it, naturally. And then there was Sunghoon, looking as composed as ever, standing off to the side with his arms crossed, watching the room with his usual detached gaze.

But what caught your attention most in that moment was Jake. The chaos of the party seemed to swirl around him like he was at the eye of the storm. You caught a glimpse of him near the drinks table, his usual smirk on his face as he chatted with a girl who was all doe-eyed and giggling, the kind of girl who looked like she'd fall for anything he said. He didn't seem bothered by the attention, though.

In fact, he seemed...pleased.

You watched, your heart picking up pace, as he gently guided the girl toward Sunghoon. Jake's hand rested at the small of her back, his smile playful and effortlessly charming as he introduced the girl to Sunghoon. The moment wasn't anything special on the surface, but the way Jake's hand lingered, the way Sunghoon tilted his head slightly, his expression unreadable... it sent an unexpected ripple of discomfort through you.

It wasn't just the way Jake stood so confidently, so familiar with the girl, but the way Sunghoon's lips curved upwards—slightly, ever so slightly—into something that resembled a smile. It was the first time you'd seen him genuinely show any hint of warmth toward someone in this room, especially a stranger.

Sunghoon took the girl's hand delicately, raising it to his lips in a soft, almost theatrical gesture, kissing her knuckles with a quiet grace that didn't match the chaos of the party. His gaze flickered briefly to the girl, and then back to Jake. You couldn't hear the words they exchanged, but the scene itself was enough to make your stomach tighten, an odd mix of curiosity and something heavier—something that felt like jealousy, though you quickly pushed that feeling aside.

The girl blushed, her smile sweet as she laughed at something Sunghoon said. You couldn't help but notice how easy it was for her to slip into this world, how effortlessly she fit into the social dynamic that you were still trying to make sense of.

And then your eyes caught Sunghoon's gaze—just for a moment. His eyes met yours across the room, cold and distant, before he blinked and shifted his attention back to the girl in front of him. But it wasn't the usual indifference you were used to; there was something there, something flickering beneath his cool exterior that made your heart skip a beat. But then it was gone, and he was back to his composed self, nodding politely at whatever the girl was saying.

You shook your head, blinking away the strange feeling of being left behind. You had no reason to be affected by any of this, right? You were just... observing. That was all..

You shift your weight, trying to ignore the way your heart beats a little too fast. You wonder what he's thinking, or if he's thinking anything at all. He never really pays attention to you. At least, that's how it feels. Sunghoon's the kind of person who sees everything but says nothing. He can be in a room full of people and somehow make you feel like you're invisible. Like it doesn't matter if you're there, or not. But you know better. Deep down, you know he notices. He has to. Why else would you feel like your pulse quickens every time he's near?

You turn your eyes away from the corner and try to focus on something, anything else, but your mind keeps drifting back to them. To him. To the way the whole room feels different when he's around. You wonder if they all see it — the way he stands apart from everyone else, like he's above it all. And you wonder if they notice that you're always the one looking at him, the one too afraid to be noticed, but always noticing him. Your breath hitches slightly as you feel the weight of your own thoughts.

There's a sudden burst of laughter nearby, and someone bumps into you, startling you out of your thoughts. You almost spill your drink, but you catch it just in time. Your hands tremble slightly, and you hate yourself for it, because who the hell gets nervous in a crowded room full of drunk people?

The night is too long. It's too much. It's too overwhelming.

And just when you think you've had enough, just when you're about to leave and find a quiet place to breathe, someone grabs your wrist gently but firmly.

"Hey, are you okay?"

It's Yunjin. Again. Her eyes are softer now, concerned.

You blink up at her, not even realizing you'd been holding your breath. She's got that knowing look on her face, like she can see right through you.

You nod, not trusting yourself to speak. You're not okay, but what's the point in admitting it?

Yunjin doesn't buy it. "You're not fooling anyone. Loosen up. Let go. It's just a party."

You swallow, then force a smile. "Yeah, just a party."

She gives you one last look before pulling you toward the kitchen, ready to distract you with something, anything to get you out of your head. You follow her, only half-present in the moment, lost in thoughts of someone who probably doesn't even know you exist.

The music is a dull hum in the background as Heeseung finds you and Yunjin. He looks a little too smug, like he's up to something. You feel a sinking feeling in your stomach as his eyes flash between you and Yunjin, and you know exactly what's coming.

"You two," Heeseung grins, "let's go say hi to the boys. They're over by the back corner."

You immediately freeze. No. No way. You'd rather do just about anything else than walk up to that corner of the room. It's always them, always Jake and Sunghoon, always that strange tension that makes everything feel ten times harder than it needs to be.

Yunjin, surprisingly, seems to read the atmosphere instantly. "Heeseung, no. We're good. Let's just—"

But before she can finish, Heeseung's already dragging her along, and of course, that means you have no choice but to follow. You want to protest, but the words catch in your throat. You could leave, but that would make you look like a coward. So, you trudge after them, barely registering the shifting in the crowd as Heeseung pulls you both toward the back.

As you approach, you see them. Sunghoon, leaning against the wall like he owns the place, his eyes cold but somehow piercing. He's not looking at you, and the familiar ache in your chest stirs again. And then there's Jake, that infuriating, charming, always-too-confident smile on his face. He's leaning toward Sunghoon, whispering something in his ear, and for a brief moment, Sunghoon's lips curl up into a rare smile—an actual, genuine one. Your heart lurches in your chest, an unfamiliar feeling tightening your throat.

It's the kind of smile you rarely get to see from him. It's like a secret just for Jake, a look of camaraderie you'll never be a part of. It almost feels like you've just been slapped. Why does it bother you so much?

And then, before you can even process the feeling, Heeseung's already talking to them about something you can't hear over the thrum of your heartbeat

Jake, not missing a beat, looks over at you with that mischievous glint in his eyes, smiling like he just found his favorite toy unattended. His lips curve into that damn teasing smirk that makes your stomach churn.

"Well, well, well," Jake begins, leaning in a little too close, voice dripping with something far too cocky, "look who finally showed up, Sunghoon's biggest fan" His eyes scan you up and down, like he's not even trying to hide how much he's enjoying seeing you squirm.

You swallow, trying to keep your expression neutral, but you know your face is probably betraying you. The red creeping up your neck is only the start of it and like clockwork the memory of that damn day starts playing in your head, that damn art show.

The school art show wasn't your idea of fun, not by a long shot. It was all cliché stuff—overpriced paintings no one understood, weird sculptures that looked like junk, and way too many people pretending to care about the "emerging artists." You hated those events, but Yunjin had dragged you there because Heeseung had convinced her it'd be "fun", at the time you had even wondered if this was what your life would amount to, Yunjin dragging you everywhere Heeseung drags her too, You wanted to be anywhere else that night but there you were, standing in the middle of a sea of pretentious art students, holding a plastic cup of wine that tasted like it was from a box, trying to look like you belonged.

You were trying to blend into the background, holding your drink like a shield. You hated how awkward you always felt around people you didn't know, how out of place you were in spaces like that. But that wasn't the part that had bothered you. No, what hit you hardest was when you saw him.

Sunghoon.

He was standing across the room by a few abstract paintings, his expression as unreadable as ever, hands shoved into the pockets of his blazer, looking as out of place as you felt. You could never fully decipher what was going on in his head, but it didn't stop you from trying. He was stunning, impossibly cool, like he belonged in a different world, not the sweaty, underfunded art gallery that smelled like paint fumes.

You didn't know how long you'd been staring at him until you felt the weight of someone standing beside you. When you glanced over, it was Jake, his usual smirk plastered across his face. He didn't even need to say anything, not really. You could tell by the look in his eyes that he already knew.

"Interesting, huh?" Jake's voice was low, teasing, like he was reading you like a book and you were too obvious for him to care.

Your heart skipped, heat creeping into your cheeks, but you just shrugged, trying to play it cool. "Not really. I'm just looking around."

But Jake wasn't buying it. His gaze flicked over to Sunghoon, then back to you, sharp and calculating. He raised an eyebrow. "Right," he said, his tone dripping with mock amusement. "You sure you're not looking at him?"

Your stomach dropped. The way he said it was casual, too casual, like he was testing the waters, but you felt your pulse quicken. No. This couldn't be happening. You could feel the blood rush to your face, betraying you. The truth was, you were looking at him. It was hard not to. Sunghoon had a way of standing in a room and making everyone else feel irrelevant. But of course, you couldn't admit that to his demon of a best friend, not now, not ever.

You turned away quickly, pretending to focus on some abstract art that was meant to be a painting of a tree but looked more like a tangle of colorful spaghetti. "I wasn't—"

Jake didn't let you finish. He stepped closer, his voice a little too loud, cutting through the low hum of the party. "You know, you're really obvious sometimes."

You froze. The words burned, like they were meant to sting.

"I mean, you're always so quiet around him, so careful not to look at him too much, like you're afraid he'll notice." He paused, his eyes narrowing. "But I noticed. I always notice."

You swallowed hard, your heart racing in your chest. You hadn't realized it was that obvious. Had you really been that transparent? You'd tried so hard to hide it, but it felt like every single moment around him was a magnet that pulled your attention back to Sunghoon, even when you didn't want it to.

"I don't know what you're talking about," you muttered, trying to backpedal, but Jake was already laughing, low and knowing. He was enjoying this. He was enjoying the fact that you couldn't hide from him, not anymore.

"No need to deny it," he'd said, leaning in a little too close, his smirk practically leaking into his words. "It's cute. How you've got it so bad for him. But you're not the only one who notices, you know? And don't even bother you're way too plain for...well, anyone." He nodded in Sunghoon's direction, and your heart froze at the thought of him knowing too.

Before you could even form a response, Jake was already walking off, leaving you standing there, your thoughts spiraling. The rest of the art show blurred into the background as you watched Sunghoon from the corner of your eye. He was talking to a group of people, his expression still cold, his gaze distant. He wasn't even looking at you. Of course he wasn't. You were just another face in the crowd to him.

But for that brief, horrible moment, you felt completely exposed, like your deepest, stupidest secret was laid bare for everyone to see.

Jake had seen it all and made you feel bad for it like you were so wrong for even thinking about Sunghoon. All the thoughts and memories were quickly pushed out by Jake's laughter, his reaction to your stunned expression.

Before you can muster any response, Jake's voice lowers, and he asks, his tone far too casual, "So, did you touch yourself to the thought of him this morning? I mean, come on, it's not like you've been hiding it."

Your stomach drops. The world feels like it slows down as your cheeks burn with the harsh sting of embarrassment. You're about to say something, anything, but Yunjin immediately jumps in.

"Jake, stop," she snaps, her hand on his shoulder, trying to push him away but her voice doesn't hold the sharpness it needs. It sounds more like a half-hearted attempt at deflecting, not like someone who's genuinely defending you.

You can't even look at her, the humiliation swarms you, sinking in deeper as Jake's laugh fills the space between you all. It's mocking but there's something else in it too, something darker and of course, Sunghoon is just standing there, arms crossed, his expression still unreadable. He meets your eyes for a split second and for that brief moment, your chest feels tight, like the air's been sucked out of your lungs.

His gaze is cold, but there's something there. Is it judgment? Disinterest? You can't tell. Before you can make sense of it, he looks away, turning his attention back to the group, like the brief moment never happened. And that feeling—the one you've been trying to avoid all night—surges again. You want to disappear. You want to vanish into the floor, to leave this all behind. To not have to stand here, in front of them, where every word feels like a betrayal of yourself.

"Wow, she's really shy," Jake continues, noticing the red creeping up your neck, "don't worry, I won't tell anyone. Your little secret's safe with me." He says crossing his heart clearly to continue in his mockery of you.

Yunjin steps in front of you, her posture protective, though you can tell she's just as uncomfortable with the way Jake's been pushing. "Jake, seriously. Just, cut it out."

But Jake doesn't listen, of course he doesn't. He's too caught up in the fun of teasing, in watching you squirm under his words. He steps closer to you, leaning in, the space between you shrinking with every breath.

"Tell me, did you think about it when you were alone? How badly you want him, hmm? I bet you've been thinking about it for a while now." His words are so casual, but the intensity behind them has your heart racing, your hands shaking at your sides.

You don't know how to answer. You don't know how to respond without making it worse. The silence stretches too long. You feel the weight of everyone's gaze, even if most of it is on you, the heat of the room pressing in, suffocating you.

And Sunghoon—he just keeps ignoring you. Like he always does. Even now, when Jake is throwing all of this in your face, Sunghoon just looks away. He doesn't speak, doesn't even acknowledge the tension between you all. You're invisible to him, and that hurts more than anything else.

The world suddenly feels smaller. You want to crawl into a hole, to escape from the fire that Jake's started with his words but for some reason you can't. Not yet.

Yunjin doesn't know what to say anymore. The air is thick with the weight of unspoken things, the tension hanging between all of you, and nothing will be the same after this.

You didn't even realize your body had moved you to walk way until you hear Yunjin calling after you but you ignore her, you don't care, you need to leave, her voice fading with every step you take. You don't care about that look of pity Heeseung probably gave you slipped out of their presence, or that anyone else in that damn party even notices your absence. All you can focus on is the frantic pounding of your heart, the feeling of humiliation that's gnawing at your insides, like it's eating you from the inside out.

The cold night air hits your skin like an ice-cold slap, sharp enough to snap you back into some kind of reality, but not enough to stop the sting in your chest. You press your arms tighter around yourself, the thin fabric of your jacket doing little to protect you. The tears you don't want to cry keep falling, though they're dry now, the cold air sucking them away before they can even make it down your face.

You hate Jake.

You hate him so much.

How dare he? How fucking dare he see through you like that, so easily, like you were some pathetic little thing for him to toy with? Like you weren't even a person, just some... joke for him to laugh at, to humiliate. He knew exactly what he was doing when he cornered you like that, when he asked you about Sunghoon like it was the most casual thing in the world. He had to have known how you'd react, how fucking embarrassed you'd be. He had to have known.

And yet, he didn't stop. He didn't care.

Your thoughts spiral, each one more self-loathing than the last, each one making your chest tighten until it's hard to breathe. You should've known this was coming, right? You should've known it would end like this—Jake, smirking, tearing you apart with a couple of words, and Sunghoon... Sunghoon—who just... looked at you. Like you were nothing. Like you were invisible.

You didn't even have the strength to stay at that party. You couldn't even pretend to enjoy yourself. You were suffocating, choking on your own insecurities. Every breath felt heavier than the last, every step you took colder than the one before.

"God, I hate him..." The words slip out before you even realize you're speaking them, your voice shaking. You're not sure if you're talking about Jake or Sunghoon anymore, but in this moment, it feels like the same thing. Like both of them were the reason you were this miserable.

Your pace quickens, though you don't know why. Maybe it's the restlessness, the panic bubbling up in your chest that makes your heart race faster, like you can't get away from the thoughts, from the feelings fast enough. You can feel your chest tightening, your breath coming in shallow gasps. You can almost feel the anxiety creeping in, wrapping around you like chains.

You want to scream, but it gets stuck in your throat. You don't know how much longer you can keep it together, keep pretending like none of this is killing you inside.

The city lights flicker in the distance as you push through the cold, the emptiness of the streets echoing the emptiness in your chest. It feels like you're walking on autopilot, each step taking you further from the party, further from the night that just destroyed everything. It's not until you reach the alley by your apartment building that you stop, your back pressed against the cold brick wall, fighting to get control of yourself.

Breathe. Just breathe.

But even the simple task of breathing feels like too much. Your head is spinning, the world around you feels far away, like you're trapped inside your own head and can't escape.

You press a hand to your forehead, trying to steady yourself, but the dizziness doesn't go away. Everything's too loud. Your thoughts are too loud. Your own heartbeat is too loud.

You can't stop thinking about what Jake said, what he made you feel. And Sunghoon... he didn't even notice. Did he notice? Probably not. He never notices you. You weren't worth noticing.

Tears prick at your eyes again, and you curse under your breath, wiping them away furiously, but they keep coming. How could you be this weak? How could you let them both—Jake and Sunghoon—tear you apart so easily?

It feels like everything is unraveling, like you're losing control of the only thing you had left: yourself. And you want to scream, to punch something, to hit Jake and Sunghoon for making you feel this small.

But instead, you just stand there, on the sidewalk. feeling completely hollow inside, letting the cold air do what it does best—drown out the tears you couldn't stop.

Two weeks, that's how much time had passed since the night of the party, two weeks of you keeping your distance from both Jake and Sunghoon, not that you were ever willingly in their presence anyway—it was easy. You'd stayed firm, avoided every chance to interact with them, despite Yunjin's insistence that you needed to stop being so stubborn. You weren't about to let yourself be subjected to Jake's taunts and Sunghoon's indifference. So, you avoided them. Kept your head down, and kept to yourself.

Whenever Yunjin tried dragging you to Heeseung's apartment or anywhere you knew they would be, you'd fake an excuse, stand your ground, and avoid them like the plague. It had been too humiliating, too hurtful to let them into your space again. Jake's teasing, his knowing smirk when he'd drop hints about Sunghoon, about your obvious feelings—everything about it made your skin crawl. Sunghoon's lack of acknowledgment had only made it worse. You weren't sure what was worse: the way Jake tormented you or the way Sunghoon simply didn't care.

But today was different. Yunjin had made a big deal about a girls' day out. Just you and her, no boys allowed. You weren't sure how she convinced you to go, but you'd relented. You needed a break from everything—the pressure of avoiding people, the stress that kept mounting every time you had to walk past Jake, every time Sunghoon was just there.

So, you got dressed.

A simple dress—nothing too flashy, but it was enough to make you feel good about yourself, for the first time in weeks. The fabric clung just enough to your figure, and you paired it with simple sandals that didn't make you feel like you had to put on some act. It was just you, trying to feel a little more like yourself.

But then, of course, life had other plans.

You met Yunjin at Heeseung's apartment, ready to head out. She'd already slipped into a playful, teasing mood, chatting excitedly about the day ahead. But as you stepped through the door, you froze.

Jake and Sunghoon were sitting in the living room, you think about bolting, making a run for it. Why are they here anyway? Don't they have some super expensive off campus apartment?

You tried to avoid eye contact, hoping they wouldn't notice you, but of course, Jake's eyes were already on you, studying you in that way that made your skin prickle.

"Y/N," Jake drawls, voice warm like honey—if honey were made of gasoline and meant to burn. "You're looking... fuckable today."

Your mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.

"What the actual—"

He's already pushing off the couch, making his way toward you like a predator who's just noticed his prey flinching. You take a step back instinctively, fingers gripping your phone like it could protect you.

Jake hums as he circles you. "You got a date? Some sweet campus boy finally grow the balls to ask you out?"

"I'm here for Yunjin," you bite out. "She's just grabbing something." You add, you yourself wondering why you're explaining it to him.

His eyes drag over your figure slowly. "Blue suits you."

You fold your arms over your chest. "Whatever game you're playing—"

But then his hand moves. Quick. Thoughtless.

He flips the hem of your dress up just enough to see the skin of your upper thighs and lets out a low whistle. "Damn, sweetheart. Who's the lucky guy today? Or lemme guess..."

He leans in, breath ghosting your ear, "You wore this for Sunghoon?" Your entire body stiffens and you glance past Jake's shoulder—expecting, maybe, for Sunghoon to roll his eyes, or finally say something to make Jake shut the hell up but he doesn't look at you.

He stays exactly where he is, face blank, eyes still trained on his phone like you don't even exist.

It stings more than it should.

You turn on your heel and head toward the door, heart thudding somewhere between your ribs and your throat

"Jake—" Yunjin started, her voice sharp, defensive, but it wasn't convincing. She didn't sound angry enough. Didn't sound protective enough. "Heeseung! Tell Jake to leave Y/N alone! For fucks sake". She says to her boyfriend but he just looks around like he doesn't want to get involved.

You wanted to disappear. Wanted the floor to swallow you whole.

You looked at Sunghoon again, hoping for a flicker of recognition, maybe even a hint of something. But no. His gaze was trained on something else entirely, indifferent to the scene Jake was creating. He didn't look up at you. Didn't acknowledge you at all.

And then, as if to prove that he'd never been part of this conversation, Sunghoon looked away towards the hallway.

You bit your lip to stop the tears from welling up, your throat tightening. The humiliation was unbearable. You didn't even care about Jake anymore, or what he said. What hurt was the fact that Sunghoon didn't even spare you a second glance.

"Jesus, Yunjin, relax," Jake continued, his voice light but dripping with mockery. "She's just dressed up. Can't blame me for noticing. Not like she's got anyone else to impress."

You wanted to scream. Wanted to say so many things, tell him to fuck off, tell him you weren't anyone's joke but you couldn't. You were stuck in that moment, frozen, watching as he mocked you.

You finally managed to move again, head low, pretending you were above it all, pretending it didn't hurt, but it did.

As you turned to leave, Jake's voice rang out again, as if he hadn't had enough of toying with you. "See you later, baby girl," he called after you, too casually, too easily. You're almost out. One hand's on the handle, back turned because you don't want to give Jake the satisfaction of seeing your face, or how flushed you feel.

But you pause against your better judgment and look back and see Sunghoon lean in to whisper something into Jake's ear his voice is low, soft. You barely hear it, just a whisper, meant only for Jake.

You don't catch the words—but you do catch Jake's reaction. He jerks his head toward Sunghoon, brows lifted in disbelief. "Are you fucking serious?" Jake mutters, like it's something vile. You don't wait to hear more, you're already out the door, the fabric of your dress still settling around your thighs, and your chest feels tight again. Not because of Jake but because you don't know what Sunghoon said.

And it's driving you crazy.

Yunjin is still babbling behind you, but you barely heard her.

You pressed your hand to your chest, feeling your heart thudding too fast. The burning in your throat was almost unbearable. You didn't even want to go out anymore. You didn't want to do anything. You were sick of feeling this way. Sick of the way Jake had gotten under your skin, sick of the way Sunghoon could make you feel like nothing without even trying.

The day blurred into night, the girls' day with Yunjin more of an exhausting performance than any kind of relief.

You laughed when she laughed, smiled when she took pictures, nodded along when she gushed about Heeseung and the shoes she wanted to buy next. You pretended. Pretended you weren't thinking about the way Jake flipped your dress like you were nothing but an object. Pretended your mind wasn't stuck on the mortifying second you caught Sunghoon not even looking at you.

You had tried.

And for a few moments, it almost worked until you were back alone in your dorm room, peeling the dress off like it was a brand you couldn't scrub off fast enough. The blue fabric lay crumpled at the foot of your bed, a mocking reminder of everything you wanted to forget.

You sat on the floor in front of your bed, knees pulled up to your chest, the textbook you were supposed to be reading long abandoned beside you. The words wouldn't sink in. Your brain was too loud, too crowded with shame. You couldn't stop replaying it, Jake's smirk, Yunjin's half-assed defense that reminded of when you were younger and her mum would make her play with you, Sunghoon's nothingness.

Your phone buzzed beside you. You didn't even think before reaching for it, needing any kind of distraction. It was a message from Jake's private instagram.

smjyn: you should let me fuck you in that blue dress, baby girl.

You stared at the screen, the bile rising in your throat so fast it nearly choked you. For a moment, you couldn't even breathe, then you were typing before you could stop yourself, your fingers moving too fast, too angry.

you: kill yourself.

You hit send, your heart hammering painfully against your ribs, the aftershock making your hands tremble. Jake didn't reply. You wished that was the end of it, you wished the night would just swallow you whole, let you sink into the silence, into the smallness you couldn't seem to shake off lately.

You tried to study. Opened the textbook again, blinked at the words until your eyes blurred. Your phone buzzed, you didn't want to look, every part of you screamed not to. But you did anyway and this time, it wasn't Jake.

It was from Sunghoon.

The username from the account you had endlessly stalked, made your stomach drop, made your fingers clench tighter around your phone. You had never texted before. He had never even looked at you like you existed, the message was short, almost careless.

parksgh: don't let jake get to you. he's just fucking around

You read it once, then again, and again. Your heart was lunging up into your throat, thudding painfully against your ribs. You hated how fast you moved to open it, hated how warm your cheeks got even though you knew better. You didn't know what to say back, you didn't even know if you should say anything back and it didn't even matter because by the time you thought about it long enough, he had already gone silent again.

Like the message itself had been a fluke. A mistake. A momentary lapse in his indifference. You set your phone down face-down on the carpet, your chest rising and falling too fast, your hands refusing to steady. You couldn't even remember what you were supposed to be studying anymore. All you could think about was the way his username looked lit up on your phone screen and how stupid you were for letting it mean something.

Your chest was tight, the weight of everything catching up with you all at once. It wasn't just the text; it was his name on your screen. You didn't know how to feel about it. He barely acknowledged you when you were in the same room, so why was he even texting you now?

You tried to resist but you couldn't help but type back.

you: okay, thank you

It felt like an awkward response, but you didn't know what else to say. It didn't even make sense that you were talking to him, you barely knew him and yet here you were, replying to his message like this was normal. You waited, breath held, for a reply, not sure what you were expecting but certainly not what came next.

parksgh: wyd

Your heart skipped a beat. What? He was asking what you were doing. Wyd?

You hadn't spoken before, he hadn't even looked at you in that way. So why was he reaching out now, like you were old friends? You sat frozen, staring at the words, your mind swirling in confusion.

The little bubble popped up again, a response almost immediately.

parksgh: you good?

Your brain stuttered as you tried to process it. This couldn't be real. Sunghoon—the guy who never said anything to you, the one who had barely looked at you, was texting you and not just some generic message, he was asking about you. You didn't know what to say, so you just typed something simple, something that wouldn't give anything away.

you: yeah, just tired

You waited, heart racing, unsure of what was going on. His responses kept coming. Short, blunt, and entirely unbothered.

parksgh: sounds like it, you been studying?

Another message came through as you were reading that one, making your head spin.

parksgh: you should get some sleep, it's kinda late no?

You didn't even know how to reply. He wasn't a friend, wasn't someone you were close with. Why was he being so... normal with you? But then, his next message made everything stop. A simple question, one that you couldn't even begin to understand.

parksgh: do you actually touch yourself while you think of me?

You froze. The air left your lungs. You couldn't breathe. The panic crept up your throat, your heart pounding violently as though it wanted to escape your chest. The words felt like a slap, hard and painful, as if your body was rejecting the sheer audacity of them. Your thoughts crashed together, the weight of what he was implying sinking in. You felt dizzy, like you were spiraling into something you couldn't control.

You couldn't—you couldn't—tell him the truth. That you had done what Jake had accused you of that night, that he was the star of all your wet dreams so instead you denied. You scrambled to type your response, fingers shaking with the intensity of the emotions clawing at you.

you: no, no i don't. of course not.

You hit send almost too quickly, hoping the denial would settle your racing heart, but the seconds felt like hours as you waited for him to respond. Your hands were trembling, your breath shallow, as you tried to keep the panic at bay.

And then, after what felt like an eternity, there was nothing. You stared at your phone screen, willing the next message to come, but the minutes passed in silence. Your mind raced with confusion, frustration, and a strange, bitter emptiness. You tossed your phone aside, hoping the night would be over soon so you could just sleep and forget about everything, forget about him.

But of course, right when you were about to close your eyes, your phone buzzed. The message was simple, curt, and devastating.

parksgh: liar

You stared at the screen, your pulse still thundering in your ears. The word was a punch to your gut, sharp and cutting, like it was meant to tear something inside of you. You couldn't understand it, couldn't understand him but all you knew in that moment was that you were utterly, completely, lost.

You dropped your phone onto the floor like it burned.

You sat there for a minute, staring at your lap, feeling your face get hot, your chest get tight. It didn't make sense. None of it made sense.

Sunghoon had never said more than a casual hey when you'd bumped into him before. That was it, a polite, distant nod in a crowded hallway, a meaningless word tossed over his shoulder when Heeseung introduced you to the group once, barely even looking at you.

Now, he was accusing you of touching yourself while thinking about him? And calling you a liar when you denied it?

You scrubbed your hands over your face, willing the burning behind your eyes to go away. What the hell was happening?

You weren't close. You weren't even friends. You were just Yunjin's cousin, the quiet tagalong at parties you didn't want to be at, the awkward extra body in rooms you didn't belong in. Not the kind of girl Sunghoon would think twice about as Jake had said to you before. Definitely not the kind of girl Sunghoon would text.

But he had.

You leaned back against the frame of your bed, feeling the cold seeping through the concrete, feeling the ugly knot of confusion and shame twisting in your stomach.

You hated this. You hated the way your heart had raced when you saw his name light up your screen. You hated the way you couldn't even deny it properly, because somewhere, deep down, you had thought about him. Exactly the way Jake always teased but enough that the accusation had knocked the breath out of you and you hated, just hated how badly you wanted another message from him.

You pressed your palm against your chest like you could force your heart to slow down, it didn't help. Nothing helped, you genuinely felt sick.

You weren't the kind of girl this happened to. You didn't even know how to flirt, let alone handle whatever the hell this was. You were good, you were quiet, you kept your head down, you knew your place.

Still, you were sitting here, trembling like some desperate little thing just because Sunghoon, with his pretty face and cold eyes, decided to say a few reckless words to you. You didn't know what he wanted, didn't know if he was serious, if he was playing some fucked-up joke, if he even cared what his words would do to you.

Maybe he was bored, maybe he didn't even think twice about it.

Maybe you were just a stupid, convenient distraction for him. The thought made your throat close up, made the sting behind your eyes sharpen. You climbed up into your bed turning your head into the pillow, biting down on your lip hard, willing yourself not to cry over something so stupid, over a boy who probably didn't even remember texting you.

You squeezed your eyes shut and tried to breathe.

You didn't ask for this. You didn't want this.

You just wanted to go back, before the art show, before the party, before the texts, before your heart learned how it felt to be pulled in two different directions at once.

You just wanted to be invisible again.

You knew should've gone the long way around the finance building, you should've kept your head down, kept walking, kept pretending like the weight of that unanswered text didn't cling to you like a second skin.

Instead you stood there, muttering under your breath about your asshole finance professor, flicking through your notes like you could understand what was in it despite being the one who wrote them all down, your hands curled tight around the notebook, trying to fight the rising frustration buzzing under your skin. The sky was cloudy, the wind sharp against your legs where your skirt ended.

You didn't even notice him at first, not until you glanced up and there he was. Across the street, leaning against the stone wall like he was born there, staring at you.

Blank face, hands in his pockets. Eyes so sharp they cut through the heavy air between you.

You froze, every instinct in your body screamed to run but it was already too late. Sunghoon pushed off the wall, crossed the street without looking, closed the space between you in a few long strides like he had every right to.

You couldn't breathe, couldn't move and hated how your pulse quickened anyway.

He stopped too close. Close enough that you could smell the clean laundry scent of his hoodie. Close enough that you had to tilt your chin up to meet his eyes.

He didn't say anything at first. Just stared down at you like he was trying to figure out what you were made of.

And then, flat voice, barely louder than the wind:

"Why'd you ignore my last text?"

You blinked at him, like he was insane. Like you were insane for being the only one who thought this wasn't normal. You shifted your weight, glanced away, noticing how his body blocked your only exit, of course it did.

You hated how small you felt and you really hated the way his words hung between you, sticky and hot, like you owed him something.

You hated him.

"I didn't know you cared," you said finally, your voice sharper than you meant it to be. You crossed your arms, armor thin and cracking. "Since when do you even talk to me?"

He cocked his head to side, his eyes never leaving your face like he genuinely couldn't understand why you seemed mad. "Oh" He said lowly, "I thought you wanted my attention."

The breath you were holding punched out of your chest, making you take a step back but he followed, slow and lazy, like he had all the time in the world to watch you unravel.

You didn't know what you hated more—how smug he looked or how badly you wanted to grab him by the front of that stupid hoodie and shake him until he made sense.

"I don't," you said, even though it sounded like a lie.

He tilted his head in the other direction, watching you, like you were something pathetic he'd found crumpled on the sidewalk, like you weren't even real.

You swallowed hard, the bitterness burning your throat.

He said nothing, just stood there, letting the silence stretch so taut between you it could slice you open. before you could snap, before you could say something you'd regret, he reached past you, flicked the ends of your sleeves with two fingers like he couldn't help himself.

And maybe you would've stood there forever, frozen in place, if Jake hadn't come strolling around the corner at the absolute worst moment, backpack slung lazily over one shoulder, a smug smirk pulling at his mouth like he knew exactly what he was walking in on. He slings an arm around Sunghoon's shoulder like he's crashing a party—his usual stupid grin painted across his face, and an energy so casual it only makes things feel worse.

"Aw, am I interrupting?" he coos, eyes flicking between the two of you. "You look like you're about to cry, baby girl".

Your cheeks flame instantly. "Shut up, Jake."

He just laughs—God, you hate him—and leans in a little too close, voice low but far from discreet.

"Would she let me watch you fuck her, Hoon?" he said, all fake innocence, all ugly laughter, eyes trained on you but directing the question to Sunghoon as if you weren't there and you felt your entire body seize up, blood rushing to your face, stomach flipping painfully like you were about to be sick.

You opened your mouth to say something—anything—but Jake was already bumping Sunghoon's shoulder, brushing past like this was normal, like this was just what they did.

You didn't even notice the way Sunghoon's mouth twitched, the way something dark and unspoken passed between them, because your brain refused to process it, refused to even consider it.

All you could think about was getting away, getting anywhere that wasn't here, before you embarrassed yourself even more.

You didn't see the way Sunghoon's eyes stayed on you long after you turned and fled.

You didn't know yet what they were really like.

* You should've stayed home, when the smell of opened beer cans hits your nose you realize you should've stayed home, stayed small, stayed out of the fucking way like you'd been doing for the last month, shrinking yourself into something harmless, something invisible, something that Jake and Sunghoon couldn't touch even if they wanted to.

But you didn't, against your better judgement let Yunjin drag you out, wide-eyed and whining about how you were turning boring, how Heeseung promised it would be chill and Jake and Sunghoon would be on their best behavior, how they swore they wouldn't even look at you and you believed it, like an idiot.

Now you're standing here in the middle of some shitty house party, abandoned, holding a lukewarm plastic cup like it's a fucking shield, feeling stupid, feeling trapped. The music is too loud, the floor is sticky under your shoes, someone's laughing way too hard behind you and it feels like the sound is aimed directly at your back.

You look around like maybe you'll see Yunjin and Heeseung, maybe you'll see a way out but they're already gone, already swallowed up by the night, already tearing at each other in some dark corner and you're left with nothing but your own pathetic loneliness.

You hate this, you hate how obvious you must look, you hate how you're gripping your cup so hard it's starting to crumple in your hand and you hate that you thought, even for a second, that you'd be safe here. You really try to suppress it but a part of you starts to build resentment towards your cousin.

You're just about to turn and leave, cut your losses and slip out the door like a coward, when you feel it. That horrible prickle at the back of your neck, the sensation of being watched, heavy and suffocating and familiar in a way that makes your stomach twist.

You already know who it might before you even turn around, only two options come to your mind and you can't even decide which one is worse but of course it's him.It's always him.

Sunghoon stands across the room, half in shadow, arms folded across his chest, head tilted like he's studying you again, not smiling, not frowning, just watching.

You freeze, panic blooming low in your stomach but look away quickly, pretending you didn't see him, pretending you don't care. You take a shaky sip from your cup, trying to check your phone like you have somewhere better to be.

You lie to yourself with every breath you take but it doesn't matter because he's already moving toward you.

Your heartbeat stutters painfully in your chest as he crosses the room, cutting through the crowd like he doesn't even see anyone else, like you're the only thing that matters.

You turn your body slightly, angling away from him, hoping he'll take the hint.

He doesn't.

He stops just in front of you, so close you can smell the clean, sharp scent of his cologne, can feel the heat radiating off his skin.

"Are you avoiding me?," Sunghoon asks voice indifferent like this is just some passing question he doesn't seem to want the answer to.

You swallow hard, throat dry and say nothing, even if you could speak, you don't know what to say. You don't know why he's even talking to you, why he's pretending you exist after ignoring you so effortlessly for so long.

"You look pretty." You blink. "What?" His voice is low, steady and as usual unemotional.

"Your dress is pretty and you look pretty in it, Y/N" He says so matter of factly and it almost sounds like he's telling you the sky is blue and it makes you scoff, turning your body away like maybe that'll help you breathe again. "Please don't start. I'm not doing this tonight." "Doing what?" he asks.

"You know what, Sunghoon. Why don't you and your guard dog just leave me alone?", you grit and instantly you swear you can see his mouth twitch like he's about to smile

He doesn't deny it, doesn't even argue, he takes one slow step forward. "Guard dog? You don't seem so mouthy when he's in front of you though" he almost taunts, clearly referring to how you lock up whenever Jake is close. The comment hits you so hard, you don't even notice you're against the wall now. His hand barely grazing your waist, his voice brushing your ear.

"Do you wanna kiss me?" Your breath hitches because there's no teasing tone in his voice not like the way Jake would say it just to fluster you and make your cheeks flush. He's genuinely asking if you want to kiss him.

Sunghoon says it like he's asking a favor, like he's letting you decide.

"I—no. I mean—" you stammer, heart climbing into your throat. "I don't know what you're doing, but—"His lips brush your jaw and you immediately go quiet, your mind shifting between how this is the closest you've ever been to him and how this is also the longest conversation you've ever had.

You gasp—his hand is suddenly pressing flat against your stomach, holding you in place. "Sunghoon—"

"You don't sound like you want me to stop." You shake your head, eyes wide. "This isn't fair." "I didn't say it was."

His mouth trails lower, his breath is warm and while you're melting he's still expressionless, calm, like nothing about this affects him and maybe that's what finally breaks you.

So when he whispers, "Let me take you home," you're nodding because your body listens faster than your brain can protest.

Sunghoon unlocks his car without looking at you and gets in without waiting. You just followed him, numbly, helplessly, into his car, stomach churning and heart hammering so hard you thought you might be sick.

He drove like he kissed—silent, steady, like none of this meant anything. You sat there in the passenger seat, hands clenched in your lap, trying not to look at him, trying not to think about the way your body was still burning where he touched you, trying not to wonder why he hadn't even smiled once.

He drives in silence, not looking at you once, not when he's merging onto the freeway, not when you're stopped at a red light, not when you pull up to the underground parking lot of his building. He just turns off the engine and gets out.

You sit there for a second, paralyzed, watching his frame walk towards the elevator. Then you force yourself to move, force yourself to follow him inside, force yourself to pretend that this is fine, that you can survive this, that you won't fall apart the second he touches you again.

You don't even know why you do it, you don't know what you're hoping for or what you're trying to prove.

Maybe you just want to feel wanted or to hurt and maybe right now to you, it's the same thing.

The door shuts behind you with a soft click. You half-expect him to push you against it, mouth hungry, hands impatient but instead, Sunghoon walks ahead, tossing his keys on the counter like this is routine, like you've done this a hundred times before.

You stand uselessly at the door, all stiff, unsure, heart climbing your ribs like it's trying to get away from you. He finally turns around, his eyes meet yours for the first time since the party but you can't help but look away, attempting to look around to observe the space

Sunghoon's apartment is exactly how you'd pictured it, it's big, cold and kind of empty. Everything is clean, clean to the point of sterile, all dark hardwood floors and concrete walls, black leather couch, black coffee table, flat screen bolted onto the wall.

No clutter, safe for the pile of PS5 games next to the console and a camera that's charging in the corner. Even the lights are dim, recessed into the ceiling, casting everything in sharp, ugly shadows.

There are no photos or trophies or notes on the fridge. Just space, silence and a daunting kind of emptiness. He doesn't say anything when you walk in or ask if you're okay, he just tugs you by the wrist down a short hallway into what you assume is his bedroom, like you're an obligation he's trying to get out of the way.

The room matches the rest of the apartment—gray walls, dark bedding, no signs of life. A single queen-sized bed in the center, neatly made with black sheets, a dresser, a nightstand and nothing else.

You hover awkwardly by the door, arms wrapped tight around yourself, not knowing what else to do. You want to ask him what you're doing here, or if this means anything to him at all, you want to ask him if you mean anything.

You don't, you don't say a word. He crosses the room in three long strides and crowds you against the wall again, just like he did at the party, pressing his body into yours, slotting his thigh between your legs.

You gasp, hands scrabbling at his chest. He kisses you, rougher this time, hungrier, but still there's that same frustrating emptiness radiating off him, like he's only half there.

It stings and you know it shouldn't but it does. You kiss him back anyway, desperate and clumsy, letting him push you toward the bed. You fall back against the mattress, bouncing once, heart pounding so loud you're sure he can hear it.

He shrugs out of his jacket and tosses it aside, then hooks his hands under your thighs and yanks you down to the edge of the bed, manhandling you like you weigh nothing.

You squeak in surprise, trying to suppress the fluttering in your stomach as presses a kiss to the inside of your knee. The touch sends a shudder through you, he doesn't seem to notice or if he does, he doesn't care, he just pushes your dress up higher, baring your thighs, your panties, the flushed vulnerability of you.

You try to press your legs together instinctively, but he's already settling between them, mouth dragging hot and slow along the sensitive skin. Your head drops back against the bed with a helpless whine. It's overwhelming, the weight of him, the heat of him, the way he's so calm while you're falling apart.

He kisses the crease of your thigh, breathes against the damp cotton of your underwear, licks a slow stripe over the center and you jerk, thighs trembling but he doesn't stop, he doesn't even flinch. It's almost clinical, the way he touches you , it's efficient, methodical but his mouth. God, his mouth.

His mouth might be the only part of him that's honest, it is frantic, almost desperate even. Devouring, like he's starving for you, like he's trying to say everything he's never said aloud, everything he can't bring himself to voice.

You fist his sheets, chest heaving, feeling tears sting at your eyes. It feels too good, too much, like you're dying but also floating. You barely register it when he hooks his fingers into the waistband of your panties and tugs them down, baring you completely. You barely register it when he slides a finger through your folds, testing your wetness, humming low in his throat like he's pleased.

You only really come back to yourself when you feel the tip of his finger pressing against your entrance, when your whole body locks up in terror, when you squeeze your eyes shut like you're bracing for impact.

Sunghoon halts. You can feel it, the sudden tension in his body, the way his head lifts, the way he goes still between your legs. You crack your eyes open to find him staring up at you and his brows are drawn together, just slightly. You realize you're shaking and quite clearly crying. "Have you..." he starts, voice rougher than before, almost uncertain before he clears his throat. "Have you done this before?"

You shake your head, violently, squeezing your eyes shut again, humiliated beyond belief. You're so sure this is it, he's going to kick you out, he's going to laugh in your face and tell you he doesn't fuck virgins. So you brace for it and wait for the disgust, the mockery but it doesn't come. Instead, you feel his lips against your knee, soft and featherlight, like an apology he doesn't know how to give.

"Don't cry," he murmurs. Your breath shudders out of you and when your open your eyes, Sunghoon is still kneeling between your legs, still staring at you with that same unreadable expression, but there's something different now, something softer, something almost vulnerable.

He brushes his thumb over your thigh, gentle and you can't even hide your surprise that he doesn't move to get off you or tell you to leave.

He stays, like maybe, just maybe, you're not completely disposable after all. He's there looking at you in a way that has you trembling, gasping for air and blinking tears from your eyes, when he leans in closer, breath ghosting over the slick, swollen heat of you, his mouth brushing your inner thigh as he speaks. "So," he says, low and almost lazy. "What did you do when you touched yourself thinking about me?"

You choke on your own spit and you feel your whole body lock up again, shame burning hotter than your skin. "I— I didn't," you lie, immediately, stupidly. He huffs a laugh against your thigh, the first real sound he's made all night but it's not cruel, not that it's kind either. It's just amused. "Oh?" he murmurs, lips still trailing your inner thighs, "Then why are you shaking like that?"

You squeeze your eyes shut again, trying to disappear but he doesn't let you. He presses a kiss to the very edge of your hipbone, then another, closer and another.

"Tell me," he says, voice slipping lower, rougher. "Tell me what you did." You can't breathe, like the air has been completely stolen from your lungs. You can't lie either, not when he's looking at you like that, like he already knows and he's just waiting for you to admit it.

"I— I just—" you stammer, your voice breaking. "I just rubbed—" you curl in on yourself, mortified, "I rubbed my clit a little, that's all, I swear." You force the words out like a confession, like a sin and Sunghoon? He smiles. For the first time since you've known him, for the first time ever, he smiles at you. It's small, almost imperceptible but it's there and it knocks the air out of your lungs.

Like he's pleased, almost like he's proud of you. "Good girl," he says, and your heart almost explodes. You're still trying to process that, still trying to make sense of the sudden weightlessness in your chest, when he dips his head again, mouth closing over your clit without warning. You cry out, hips bucking up off the bed but he doesn't even flinch, he just pins you down, hands bruising against your thighs, licking you like he's been starving for it, like you're the only thing he's ever wanted and you sob, writhing, overwhelmed.

It's too much but it's not enough, you don't even know anymore.

He doesn't give you a second to breathe, to think, to ask him why he's doing this, what you are to him, why it feels like you're being torn apart and stitched back together all at once.

He just keeps going.

Keeps sucking your clit into his mouth, keeps teasing your entrance with the tip of his finger.

When he finally pulls his mouth off you, you're keening, fists twisting in the sheets, tears spilling freely down your cheeks. He lifts his head to look at you, face flushed, mouth slick, and mutters, almost to himself that you barely hear him over the roaring in your ears. "Need to get you ready."

You sob again when you feel him nudge a finger at your entrance. "Please," you whimper, not even sure what you're begging for. "Please slow down, I—" He cuts you off by tapping your thigh, light but firm. "Tap my shoulder if you want me to stop," he says, flat and emotionless, like he's just reminding you of the rules he never even told you in the first place.

Then he pushes inside, you gasp, a very raw, broken sound, as your walls clench instinctively around him. He groans low in his throat, but otherwise shows no reaction, like it's nothing, like you're nothing. You clutch at the sheets, tears burning your eyes again, but you don't tap out. You don't stop him, you can't because it's not like you want to anyway.

He works his finger in and out of you slowly, methodically, never looking up, never checking your face. You try to catch your breath, to calm down, to not cry harder but fail.

And Sunghoon doesn't stop, he just keeps going—steady and unflinching, like you're a problem he's determined to solve, like your pain and or pleasure isn't even real to him, like you're something he already owns but somehow, somehow, it still feels like the best thing anyone's ever given you.

He's relentless, barely even gives you a second to breathe, to think, to feel anything but the stretch of him working you open, one finger at first, slow and steady, ignoring every soft sob that falls from your lips.

You feel like you're drowning. The bed is too big, the room too cold, the walls are grey, the sheets are dark, the only light coming from the dim bedside lamp casting long shadows across the plain white walls, like he doesn't feel anything and maybe he doesn't and you're the idiot for expecting him to.

You dig your fingers into the sheets tighter, squeezing your eyes shut, trying not to sob out loud again. Trying not to embarrass yourself even more. Then you feel it, the slow, deliberate curl of his finger inside you.

You hiccup, chest spasming with another silent cry. Sunghoon clicks his tongue, sharp and soft at the same time. "Stop crying," he mutters, not looking up from between your thighs, it's almost bored, almost annoyed but there's something under it too, something you can't name.

You sniffle pitifully, nodding even though he's not looking at you, even though you don't think you could stop even if you tried. Then he shifts again, sliding his mouth back over your clit, and the heat of it makes you jolt. You mewl helplessly, high and broken, when he sucks harshly at the sensitive bud.

"Gonna add another," he mutters against you, voice low and unaffected, like he's just narrating, like you're not trembling beneath him. You barely have time to brace yourself before he's pushing a second finger inside. The burn is sharp, almost unbearable, and your whole body arches off the bed involuntarily, you're gasping, panting, trying to wriggle away from the overwhelming sensation, but he just presses your hips down, holding you in place like it's nothing.

You whimper, the sound muffled against your fist when you shove it into your mouth to stop yourself from making more noise. You don't even realize you're babbling until you hear your own voice cracking through the air, "Sunghoon, Sunghoon—"

You're not even thinking, you're just saying his name like a prayer, like it might save you. For a second, he stills, before softly, curiously, he murmurs, "Yeah?" and it's he thinks you're trying to talk to him, like he doesn't even realize it's just moaning.

Your whole face burns hotter, your body trembling harder, you shake your head frantically, tears dripping onto the pillow.

You don't know what you're saying anymore, you don't know anything at all, except for him, his mouth, his fingers, the way he's filling you, the way he's making your body light up in ways you've never known it could.

He curls his fingers again, deeper this time, deliberate and suddenly you see stars behind your eyelids. You cry out, bucking your hips up against his mouth, sobbing out another desperate, broken whimper of his name.

And he gets it then, you can feel it in the way his mouth curves into a smirk against you, the way he presses in deeper, harder, finding that spot again, hitting it relentlessly until you're gasping, twitching, clenching around his fingers so hard it hurts. Your whole body's on fire and you're so close you can't even think. He's still so calm, so detached, like he's just...studying you, watching you fall apart with that same unreadable look on his face.

You don't even realize you're crying again until he lifts his head, looking up at you with a frown. "You're so sensitive," he says, almost wonderingly. "You gonna cum already?" You shake your head, sobbing harder, even as your hips grind desperately against his fingers. He huffs a soft laugh under his breath, not mocking, just...satisfied.

And then when he's lowering his mouth again, sucking harshly on your clit while his fingers fuck into you deep and slow. You don't stand a chance, you come undone with a wrecked cry, shattering under him, your whole body locking up and then convulsing, thighs trembling uncontrollably.

He doesn't stop or even slow down. He works you through it, fingers deep, mouth unrelenting, until you're gasping, shaking, tears flooding down your cheeks from the overstimulation and only then—only then, does he finally pull back.

You feel so empty when he does, you almost sob again, he sits back on his heels, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand — looking completely unaffected while you lay there ruined, shaking, broken on his bed.

You cover your face with your hands, humiliated, you don't even know what you're crying about anymore. The pain? The pleasure? The way it all feels so impossibly hollow when he's looking at you like that?like he's still a thousand miles away even when he's inside you.

"Don't cry," he says again, voice almost too soft to be real but he doesn't reach for you, doesn't comfort you or say anything else.

He just sits there, watching and waiting like he doesn't know what to do with you now that he's broken you but then you feel him lift off the bed and you hear the faint sound of the door opening and closing.

You're alone now and you don't know how long you lay there, body trembling, cheeks sticky with tears drying into itchy trails down your skin. Minutes pass, maybe even hours cause it feels endless.

The room is too quiet without him, so quiet you can hear your own heartbeat, your own ragged breathing. The ache between your legs hasn't faded. It throbs there, humiliating and hot, like a bruise you can't stop pressing on. You stare up at the ceiling. You wonder if this is it, if he's just going to leave you like this. Used up, humiliated and forgotten.

You try to move, but everything feels too heavy, you feel stupid for thinking it might've meant something different when he touched you and you feel even stupider for still wanting more.

The door opens again, making whole body tenses on instinct. You don't sit up because in reality you can't. You listen to the soft footfalls across the room then the mattress dips beside you.

You flinch, you can't help it then something presses into your arm, you blink and look. It's a water bottle, unopened and cold. You glance up at him, confused, uncertain but he's not looking at you. He's staring blankly at the floor, legs spread casually, one arm draped over his bent knee.

You fumble to unscrew the cap, hands still shaking, and take a small sip, the water almost choking you. The silence is suffocating. You don't know why you're surprised when he breaks it first. When he turns his head just slightly, eyes flickering to you, dark, unreadable and says, almost absent-mindedly,

"You want more?"

Your breath catches and you stare at him, wide-eyed, like you must've heard wrong but then you see his mouth twitch. The tiniest hint of a curios smile, genuine like he really doesn't know the answer.

Your heart stutters painfully as you set the water down on the nightstand with clumsy fingers.

Your throat is dry even though you just drank and you nod.

Barely, a small, scared movement.

He watches you steadily for a moment then he tips his head slightly, like he's trying to get a better look at you. "You sure?" his voice is lower now, rougher but still that same detached calm but something else too, threading underneath.

Something you want so desperately to be real and it makes you nod again, a little firmer this time because don't trust your voice to come out right.

He stares at you a second before moving slowly.

He stands up, shrugging his t-shirt off in one smooth motion, leaving him in shirtless with just his jeans. Your heart hammers against your ribs, panic and anticipation fighting for space in your chest. You watch as he unzips his jeans, pushing them down his hips with a casualness that almost makes you dizzy.

He's already half-hard, think and heavy between his thighs. You realize, distantly, that you're gawking so you quickly jerk your gaze away, cheeks burning.

You hear a soft, breathless chuckle from above you not mean and then he's crawling back onto the bed, over you, caging you in with his body.

You feel so small beneath him like prey. He's looking at you differently now, not in the normal cold and empty way, he's looking at you with hunger now and it makes you shiver.

"You sure?" he asks again, voice barely a murmur this time, lips brushing your temple.

You nod frantically, squeezing your eyes shut. "Say it," he says, tone still maddeningly calm. "Need to hear you." Your voice is a whisper, a plea, a confession. "I want you," you breathe. "I want more."

Something in him finally cracks. You feel it in the way his whole body shifts closer, the way his mouth finds yours in a kiss that's nothing like before. His tongue slides against yours, filthy and slow, and you whimper into his mouth without meaning to.

He kisses you like he wants to consume you as if he needs to and when he pulls back, just barely, his forehead resting against yours, he's panting. For the first time tonight, he doesn't look unreadable, wrecked and hungry. He shifts, reaching between your bodies to guide himself to your entrance — the swollen, aching place between your legs still slick from his mouth.

He rubs the head of his cock against you, slow, deliberate, pulling another pathetic whine from your throat. You feel him smile against your cheek. "You're so wet," he murmurs, nudging your thighs wider with his knees, not even asking, just taking. You feel the blunt head of him pressing against you and it's too much, it's not enough, you can't tell which.

He leans down, mouth brushing your ear. "Tap my shoulder if you want me to stop," he reminds you, voice rougher now. You nod frantically again because you don't want him to stop, you just want everything he's willing to give. Even if it's nothing real or even if it feels you emptier than before.

He doesn't say anything when he pushes in. Doesn't shush you, doesn't kiss you, doesn't tell you it's okay. He kind of just watches, like he's waiting for something, like you're some sort of test he's trying to pass. The stretch is unbearable, sharp and hot and you're scrabbling at his shoulders before he's even halfway in, breathing fast and panicked against his neck.

You hear yourself whispering, wait wait wait wait but he's already slowing, already stopping, his hands bracketing your hips steady and firm like he expected this because he knew you'd break apart underneath him. You feel him breathe against your temple, slow and even. He's still hard, still not fully inside you but he's giving you the space to catch up even if he looks utterly unbothered doing it. "Relax," he says after a beat. "You're making it worse."

You nod frantically against him, squeezing your eyes shut, willing your body to loosen, willing the burn to subside. It takes a minute, maybe longer and he waits like he has all the time in the world.

Not stroking your hair or murmuring sweet things like you imagined the person you'd lose your virginity to would do, none of that. He's just existing above you, warm and solid, until finally you whimper, nodding again, giving him permission to move.

He pushes in slower this time but you still cry out, it's too much, too much, you feel so impossibly full but he hushes you, a soft sound, almost absent-minded, like he's trying to focus. You claw at his shoulders, needing something to hold onto, needing something real while your body stretches and aches around him. You hear him swear under his breath when he bottoms out, low and strained, like he's barely keeping himself together.

He stays there, buried deep, not moving. You don't realize you're crying again until he shifts just enough to catch your face in his hand, tilting your chin up to look at him. "Still with me?" he mutters, thumb brushing your wet cheek almost carelessly. You nod, trembling, wrecked and he gives a low breath of a laugh, amused but not mean. "Good girl," he says, more to himself than to you and it makes your heart seize painfully in your chest.

Good girl.

You cling to it like a lifeline.

He moves then.

Slow at first, dragging out almost all the way before pressing back in and it's overwhelming, the feeling of him inside you, the stretch and slide and pressure so much you can't breathe properly. You can hear the slick, embarrassing sounds your bodies make, can hear the broken little noises spilling from your own mouth. You bury your face in his shoulder, too humiliated to meet his eyes. He fucks you in slow, grinding thrusts, deep and steady, like he's trying to memorize the way you feel wrapped around him.

You're babbling something, you don't even know what, little pleading sounds that don't form real words. You hear him murmur something against your hair, so soft you almost miss it. "Fuck," he mutters. "You're so fucking tight." You whimper at the words, at the ragged sound of his voice, at the way he sounds affected for once, not calm, not detached, but wrecked. He groans low in his throat when you clench around him by accident, and his hips stutter for the first time.

"You're not doing it on purpose, right?" he mutters, almost teasing. "You're just that desperate, huh?" You shake your head frantically, sobbing against his skin, too overwhelmed to even think straight. You hear him laugh again, a breathless, disbelieving sound and then his mouth finds your shoulder, your neck, teeth scraping lightly. Your nails dig into his back, desperate, and he lets you, he lets you cling to him, lets you leave marks on his skin.

At some point, you don't know when, he finds a rhythm that brushes something devastatingly good inside you. Your whole body jerks when he hits it and you cry out, high and sharp.

He stiffens, then slowly, he pulls back and thrusts into that same spot again. Harder and deeper. You keen, the sound raw and broken, he does it again and again. Until you're sobbing into his neck, clinging to him like he's the only thing keeping you alive, you can't seem to stop moaning his name. You don't even realize you're doing it until you feel him smirk against your throat.

"Yeah?" he says, almost amused. "Is that what you like?" You nod frantically, tears leaking out the corners of your eyes. "You're so fucking sensitive," he murmurs, almost admiring. "Didn't even know girls like you existed." You want to ask what he means. You want to ask what kind of girl he thinks you are but you can't speak, you can barely think only feel. It feels too much, too good, too raw. He keeps fucking into that spot, relentless, steady, unforgiving, until you're arching beneath him, your whole body trembling, your voice breaking on desperate cries. You cum with a strangled sob, clenching around him so tight he curses, low and vicious. You shake and shudder, tears spilling hot and fast, still clutching at him like you'll fall apart without him but doesn't stop moving or give you a second to catch your breath. He keeps fucking you through it, slow but deep, grinding against that sensitive place inside you until you're gasping and whimpering and scratching at his back without meaning to.

You can't take it, your whole body feels too raw, too overwhelmed and overstimulated. You tap frantically at his shoulder, voice breaking. "S-Stop— please—"

He stills immediately, breathing hard above you. You feel him pull out slowly, carefully, and you collapse back against the sheets, boneless and trembling. There's a pause and you barely register him looking down at you, at the spots of blood smeared between your thighs, at the stains on his sheets.

He sighs.

"You bled on my bed," he mutters, like it's mildly annoying and it makes you flinch, humiliated, curling in on yourself but then before you can sink too deep into the shame, you feel him brush a hand over your knee. Gentle, almost absent-minded that it makes you blink up at him through tear-blurred eyes. He looks exhausted, disheveled and a little dazed. His thumb traces circles into your skin, not looking at you.

"You did good," he says quietly, almost endearingly. Then, louder, more to himself than to you — he mutters, "First time... fuck."

He leans back on his palms where he's sat at the edge of the bed, dragging a hand through his hair, looking genuinely thrown off for the first time. You don't know what to say, you didn't even know if you should say anything at all so you just lie there, aching and ruined, staring up at the ceiling like maybe you'll wake up and this will all have been some fever dream.

But you don't wake up, because this is real and he's real. Your whole body feels heavy, used up, raw and your thighs are sticky, the sheets beneath you damp and crumpled. The room smells like sweat and sex and something softer, something sweeter—him, you think. Sunghoon moves around the room in that quiet, efficient way he does everything, tugging the blanket up over you, finding the bottle of water from earlier and cracking it open but he doesn't look at you while he works. You think, distantly, stupidly, that he looks more real like this, less like the untouchable version of him you built in your head and more like a boy with messy hair, bitten lips and fingerprints pressed into his hips.

He comes back to the bed, crouches at the edge, and presses the bottle into your hand. You almost drop it cause your fingers are too shaky but he catches it, wrapping his hand around yours until you can hold it steady. "Drink," he says simply. You sip, obedient, trying to focus on how it tastes metallic now that it's lukewarm. You don't realize he's still touching you until you feel his thumb stroking over the inside of your wrist, absent and repetitive, in a way that seems like he doesn't even know he's doing it. He watches you drink, then takes the bottle from you when you're done and tosses it onto the floor with a soft thunk.

There's a weird, heavy silence between you, not uncomfortable, just thick with something you don't have the words for. He shifts back onto the bed, sitting with one knee drawn up, shirt sticking to his chest. He clears his throat once, like he's thinking through what he wants to say. "You want me to drive you home?" he asks eventually, making you blink up at him, throat dry even thought you just had water. You're not sure what you expected him to say, something colder, maybe. Something meaner but his voice is weirdly careful, almost... tentative.

He scratches the back of his neck. "I live with Jake," he mutters, like it's some necessary disclaimer. You realize, a beat too late that it's not about him hiding you. Something in you convinces yourself that this is his own weird way protecting you. From Jake and from the teasing you know would come if Jake figured this out.

It's almost enough to make you cry again but you bite it back, swallowing around the lump in your throat. You're about to shake your head to tell him no, it's fine, you'll call a cab, you don't want to be his problem anymore but then you realize he's now holding you. Somewhere in the middle of everything, somewhere between the water and the words, he'd pulled you against him, tucked you into his side and you didn't even notice.

His arm is around your shoulders, warm and steady. His hand is rubbing slow circles into your bare thigh, not sexual just steady and it knocks the air right out of your lungs. You blink up at him, wide-eyed and wrecked, he catches your stare and raises an eyebrow, that unreadable almost-smirk twitching at his mouth.

"What?" he says, voice rough and low. You shake your head, bury your face into his chest instead, trying to hide the way you're falling apart all over again. Trying to hide how much this, the tiny stupid casual tenderness of it is undoing you faster than anything else tonight.

He keeps holding you, stroking your back now and it's all the gentleness you wanted in the start, It feels so good, you don't realize you've fallen asleep, maybe it was somewhere between his hand tracing slow lines up and down your thigh or when you curled deeper into his chest, hiding from the world outside the four walls of his room.

You don't know but you wake up to the feeling of him shifting, gathering you against him, moving you like you're something breakable. You blink up at him, dazed and disoriented. "C'mon," he murmurs, thumb brushing your cheekbone. "I'm driving you back." The way he says it so definitively has you thinking there was never a version of this story where he didn't

You don't remember getting dressed cause he helps you, pulling your dress down over your hips, smoothing it out like it matters if it's wrinkled now. He doesn't touch you wrong or linger where he shouldn't, he just gets you ready, like you're something he needs to take care of.

The drive back is nothing like the drive to his apartment.

The first time, it had been silent, heavy even, your heart slamming itself against your ribs with every mile closer you got to something inevitable. Now it's quieter, somehow, still tense and thick but not scary. Not when he keeps glancing over at you, real glances this time, not just bored flickers, like he's making sure you're still breathing.

"You okay?" he asks when the stoplight stretches a little too long. His hand settles on your thigh without even thinking, warm, steady, thumb stroking small arcs into your skin. You nod without thinking, too cause you don't trust your voice and his jaw tightens like he doesn't believe you but he doesn't press, he just squeezes your thigh gently, keeping it there, like he needs the contact to stay grounded.

The city blurs by outside the window, neon smears, headlights, the occasional drunken laughter of a group stumbling home from the bars. You stare out at it and try not to think about the fact that his hand hasn't moved and that he's still touching you like it's second nature now.

When he pulls up in front of your building, he cuts the engine without a word and climbs out. Your brain can barely register that you didn't give him an address but yet here you are. You fumble with the door handle and your seatbelt, still half-dazed, but he's already there, opening it for you, offering a hand you don't take because you're too stunned to move. You look up at him and can't help but sense there's something different about him now, something softer around the edges, something raw. "Text me," he says, low and serious, an order. "And..." he hesitates, jaw clenching, like the next part hurts to say. "Don't cry again."

It's almost desperate, almost as if it does something to him, seeing you fall apart. You open your mouth to say something but nothing comes out. You're standing there on the sidewalk, small and ruined and still half in love with a boy who doesn't even know how much damage he's doing. He watches you for a second longer, waiting, like he's giving you the chance to say no, tell him to fuck off and end whatever this is before it starts but you don't.

You just nod, biting your lip so hard it stings. Without another word, he's backing away, climbing into his car, pulling off into the night with the windows down and the music low and his hand still flexing like he misses the feel of you under his palm.

You don't text him or even think about texting him, you genuinely try not to. You bury your phone under your pillow, your backpack, sometimes even your bed, as if that'll keep the temptation away. As if you're not sitting there, curled up in bed with the covers pulled up over your head, thinking about his hand on your thigh during the drive back. Thinking about the way he opened the door for you like it mattered. Thinking about the way he said don't cry again like it physically hurt him to see it.

It doesn't help, none of it does so much so that you spiral, slow, inevitable all into something heavy and gray and miserable. Yunjin notices immediately, of course she does, she keeps knocking on your door, calling you, threatening to break in if you don't answer her. She even gets Heeseung to come at one point, she probably told him something frantic enough that you have to lie through your teeth and tell them you're just sick or tired or busy.

Anything but the truth.

You don't leave your dorm except for class and even then, you barely make it out the door, trudging across campus like a ghost.

Until, three days later, you drag yourself out to a small cafe off campus, needing a change of scenery, somewhere quiet to pretend you're still a person. You've been there for maybe an hour, laptop open, notes spread ever, highlighter caps scattered across the table then you feel it.

A presence, a shadow falling over your table that makes you look up and there Sunghoon stands, different hoodie, same unreadable face but there's something in his eyes, something sharper, something frustrated, something almost desperate when he says "I told you to text me." You blink at him, heart slamming into your ribs so hard you swear you hear it. He stares down at you for a second longer, shoving his hands into his pockets like he's physically stopping himself from reaching for you.

Then, deadpan, he says "Don't you wanna have sex again?" You just stare at him, absolutely dumbfounded, mouth opening and closing but no words forming. The cafe noise blurs around you and you shove your chair back roughly and stand up, your heart hammering, your hands shaking, your voice raw when you snap at him "I'm tired of being confused."

He blinks, actually looks caught off-guard but you're not finished. "What do you even want, Sunghoon?" You're almost yelling not caring if people are looking cause now you just need to know. You need to stop being this wreck, this ruin, this stupid girl still hoping for softness from someone who only ever gives you pain.

Sunghoon doesn't answer right away, he just looks at you, unmoving like he's thinking or deciding something. And then, so soft you almost don't hear it, he says "You." Your breath catches as your whole body goes rigid. For half a second, half a heartbeat, you believe him, you believe he means it Until he tilts his head slightly, voice dropping, eyes darkening as he adds "In my bed again." It just feels like you've been punched hard and straight through the chest. Your hands tremble at your sides as you stare at him—at this boy you thought you hated, thought you craved, thought you needed and you realize; You don't know him at all.

You're about to walk away, already trying to gather up your things into your bag, you're thinking about how you'll shove past him, out the door, back into the rain-slicked street but then Sunghoon leans in. So close you can feel the heat of him bleeding into you. His voice lowers like something rougher and raspier, like it's been clawing its way out of his throat. "I meant it," he says. "You."

You halt, you hate him, you hate him so much but he's still leaning in, dipping his head down slightly like he's confessing something dark, something private, like he's handing you a piece of him, bloody and raw. "You don't get it," he says, almost whispering now. "Nobody's ever been like that. In my bed." Your heart cracks, the worst part is you believe him, you believe he's telling the truth but there's still that sharp, selfish edge to it, that gleam in his eyes like he's not just confessing, he's coaxing, begging even.

"Let me have you like that again," he says, and his mouth is so close to yours it almost feels like a kiss. It's almost sweet, if not for the way he says it—half desperate, half manipulative, like he thinks those are the words you want to hear and he knows you'll fall for it. Maybe you already have because your body is betraying you, shivering, leaning closer, your fingers curling into fists at your sides so you don't grab him by the hoodie and kiss him first.

You want to hurt him back but all you can do is whisper, broken "You don't even know what you're asking for." Sunghoon just looks at you, silent and still, a flash of something almost like regret in his eyes but it's gone too fast for you to catch it properly. His fingers twitch in his hoodie pocket, like he wants to reach for you and doesn't know if he's allowed.

He hesitates, for the first time, he hesitates, before he speaks again "Let me learn" and it guts you because you're stupid enough to want to believe it. You're stupid enough to want him even when you know better. If you weren't so stupid you would have noted the amount of chances you had to turn away and tell him no but you don't, not when he's helping you pack up your things or guiding you to his car, not when he's pulling you in for desperate kisses at stoplights, you don't say no because the part of you that wants him is bigger and anything else and because you're stupid.

The memory of how you got here is a haze, you remember him frantically pulling off your sweater as soon as you walked in through the door, unlike the first time you were in his apartment and he waited to take you into his room, it's all so frantic, the heat of his mouth on your neck, the way his hands tug at your skirt frustratingly before he's grunting against your mouth like he's telling you to do it and you do, You remember him picking you up off the ground making your legs instinctively wrap around him as he holds you up effortlessly, taking you to his room again and placing you on the bed more gently.

You can't help but notice how his room looks a bit different in the daylight but your thoughts about it are thrown out the window when you feel him pull your panties down your legs and stare at where you're wet for him. His mouth is just devouring as devouring as it was the first time, it's so skillful, it has you arching instantly, grabbing at his hair and bucking your hips up to meet his mouth.

You don't hear the door open or even sense someone is in the room until his voice cuts through the dim air like a blade.

"Well, well. Look at you."

Your eyes fly open to meet Jake's, he's leaning against the wall, jaw clenched, arms crossed, eyes dark but he's not mad. No, he's smiling, slowly and cruelly like watching the punchline of a joke he told hours ago finally land. "Guess I was right about you."

Your hand flies to Sunghoon's shoulder, tapping at him panicked, breathless. "Hoon—Sunghoon—stop. He's here—" But Sunghoon doesn't even glance back. He just coos, soft and low. "It's okay," he murmurs, almost fondly. "Ignore him." Ignore him? Ignore Jake standing there, wolf-eyed and grinning, hands shoved into his pockets like he's about to stay a while.

You try to pull away again, one last desperate wriggle of your hips but Sunghoon is relentless. His mouth finds your clit again, his hands pressing your thighs wide, pinning you open like a butterfly.

Pinned, shivering, exposed and Jake fucking laughs under his breath. "Desperate little thing," he says, almost sweetly. "You like this, huh? Like having an audience?" Your throat closes up and your heart punches against your ribs.

You squeeze your eyes shut humiliated, so humiliated but Sunghoon's tongue doesn't falter, his fingers don't slip. He's focused like you're the only thing in the world, like Jake's presence is meaningless. Maybe it is. Maybe all that matters is the way Sunghoon is pulling these pathetic little sounds out of you, wet, broken and soft.

Jake comes closer because you feel his heat at your side, hear the way he crouches down, mouth grazing your ear when he speaks "Go on, pretty baby," he whispers. "Cum for him." You sob, you can't help it and Sunghoon's tongue just flattens harder, swirling, ruthless.

Jake hums approvingly.

"Yeah, that's it. Cum like a good girl for your beloved Sunghoon." Your whole body snaps tight and you fall apart like he ordered it, helpless, degraded and soaked. You cum hard, gasping, clutching at the sheets, your hips jerking up into Sunghoon's mouth like you're chasing it, like you need it to survive. It's pathetic; it's degrading and it's the best thing you've ever felt. Sunghoon doesn't even slow down through it, just keeps licking, gentle now, coaxing the last little spasms out of you until you're shaking, whimpering, completely broken open.

Jake just watches, smirking.

You don't even realize you're shaking until you try to sit up, your hands are trembling and the sheets are damp under your thighs, your whole body still pulsing from the devastating orgasm Sunghoon wrung out of you like it was nothing.

You don't even have time to gather yourself or to cry or scream or run, before Sunghoon is shifting, sitting back on his heels between your spread thighs. "Let Jake take your top off," he says, all flat and dispassionate like he's asking you to hand him your notebook in class.

Your mouth falls open and you blink at him—once, twice—because surely you didn't hear that right."No," you croak, voice ragged with confusion, shame and heartbreak. "What the fuck—" You glance between them, voice rising. "You guys are fucking weird." You yank at the sheets, trying to cover yourself but Sunghoon doesn't even flinch. Jake that's still smirking devilishly just shifts closer to the bed, looming over you and Sunghoon? God, Sunghoon just tilts his head, looking at you. That same unreadable stare, dark and heavy and burning but this time there's something different there. Something that reaches out and claws at you even as you recoil. Not affection or cruelty, just want, so intense it's borderline unbearable.

Jake's gaze is different, lighter, crueler, like he's seeing you as something to be played with but Sunghoon—Sunghoon is hungry. You feel it crackling in the air, feel it vibrating against your skin and God, you hate yourself, because your body is betraying you again — your head nodding before you even realize it, weak, desperate, aching.

Jake grins, sharp and wolfish—the second you do. "Good girl," he breathes, wasting no time, before you can regret it, his fingers slip under the hem of your flimsy top, tugging it over your head, baring you completely, safe for your bra that he immediately discards and his mouth is on you immediately, hot and slick and brutal.

Sucking at the soft flesh of your tit, biting down just enough to make you whimper. You gasp, your hands flying up to grip his shoulders, not pushing him away or pulling him close either, just clutching him, trying to hold yourself together. It's too much, their hands, their mouths, the heavy stare of Sunghoon's black eyes like he's drinking you in.

You can't catch your breath and Sunghoon's patience wears thinner by the second. You can feel it in the way his hands slide up your thighs, the way he spreads you open again without a word, the way his cock twitches against his thigh as he watches Jake mark you up.

He's done waiting, he wraps his hand around the base of his cock, not even bothering to slow down, not even pretending to give you time to adjust. "Move," he mutters to Jake, a single word, sharp-edged. Jake laughs against your skin but he obeys, pulling back just enough for Sunghoon to settle between your thighs. You barely have time to whimper before Sunghoon is there, pressing the blunt head of his cock against your entrance, not cruel but not careful either, sliding in with slow, brutal finality.

You gasp high and broken—your nails digging into the sheets. Jake's mouth finds your ear, murmuring filth. Sunghoon just fucks into you like you're a thing he's owed, stretching you open on his cock and you clench on him, your hips jerking with every punishing thrust, tears slipping from the corners of your eyes and soaking the sheets beneath you. Your head is spinning, your chest heaving, every nerve ending raw and oversensitized.

You think if he fucks you any harder, you'll just shatter apart and you almost want him to. You almost want him to break you completely so you'll stop feeling this ache, this desperate, hollow yearning for something he refuses to give you. Your eyes screw shut, your fingers scrabbling uselessly at the sheets and it's all just white noise.

Until one particularly brutal thrust has your whole body jerking and your eyes fly open on instinct and that's when you see it. Through the blurry haze of your tears, your vision sharpening in short, frantic bursts. You see Sunghoon not just fucking you but kissing Jake, in fact it's not just kissing, it's devouring. Sunghoon's mouth is slanted hard over Jake's, his tongue forcing its way between his lips, messy and aggressive. Jake is grinning into the kiss like he's won, one hand tangled in the back of Sunghoon's hair, the other lazily tweaking his own nipple through his t-shirt, like he's savoring the way Sunghoon is practically fucking his mouth too.

You whimper without meaning to, your body clenching helplessly around Sunghoon's cock at the sight because it's so much, too much even. Sunghoon driving into you, Sunghoon moaning into Jake's mouth, Jake playing with himself, Jake smirking like he knows exactly what this is doing to you and somewhere deep down, even through the pleasure flooding your body, even through the slick obscene noises filling the room, you know now what you hadn't let yourself believe before. That this thing between Jake and Sunghoon—whatever it is—It's more.

They're not just friends, they can't be, not with the way Sunghoon is gripping Jake's jaw, the way he's pulling those filthy little noises out of him like he knows exactly how. Your stomach twists, sick and overwhelmingly turned on. You're so close again, you can feel it, your whole body trembling on the precipice of another orgasm, Sunghoon's thrusts getting sloppier, deeper, his low grunts spilling out of him like he can't even hold them back anymore.

"Jake," Sunghoon suddenly groans all wrecked and desperate "I'm—" Before you can even understand what's happening, Jake is moving, quick and decisive. He shoves Sunghoon back by the hips, pulling his cock out of you with a wet, messy noise that has you gasping at the sudden emptiness. Your legs twitch, your pussy instinctively clenching down around nothing and then you watch, horrified as Jake drops to his knees in front of Sunghoon like it's normal, like it's natural and wraps his lips around Sunghoon's flushed, dripping cock without hesitation.

Sunghoon moans, really moans. Loud, guttural, shameless, the kind of sound he never gave you, the kind of sound you ached to pull out of him. Jake hums smugly around him, looking right at you, his eyes sharp and gleaming with amusement.

Like he's mocking you, almost daring you to say something. To admit how much you wish it were you making Sunghoon fall apart like that. Your breath hitches in your throat, your hands fisting in the ruined sheets, every inch of you burning with humiliation and confusion and sick, aching need.

Sunghoon stands there, looking disheveled and flushed, his skin slick with sweat, the faintest smirk pulling at the corner of his swollen mouth. Jake wipes his lips with the back of his hand but instead of stepping away, instead of giving you a moment to think, he's reaching for you.

His hand tangles in your hair firm and he's dragging you forward, toward him. You don't even resist, too stunned, too broken open already, too ruined by the heavy tension that wraps around the room like a noose and then he's kissing you, messy and wet, so incredibly obscene. You whimper into his mouth when you taste it—Sunghoon's lingering arousal still coating Jake's tongue, thick and salty and wrong. You should pull away, shove him off and spit it out you don't because Jake is holding you there, mouth slanted over yours, his free hand cradling the back of your head so you can't escape the way the taste spreads and soaks into your own tongue and somewhere in the blurred confusion of it all, you realize you're kissing back and obeying when he pulls away and looks at you with those sharp eyes, telling you to swallow.

Your knees buckle, but Jake catches you easily, turning you towards Sunghoon. "You were such a good girl for me," he says under his breath, incongruous with the essence of him still coating your lips. "You'd be even better if you let Jake fuck you too." You glance up at him through a blink, stunned, teetering on the edge of sanity, knowing exactly what you should say.

No. No. No.

But it's like there's a part of your brain wired exclusively for him, for the soft cadence of his voice, the weight of his hand on the curve of your waist, the promise of his approval, so nod weak and trembling, before your mind even finishes forming the thought.

Jake grins, triumphant and he's moving immediately, not wasting a second, grabbing your hips and turning you around like you're just something to be positioned, something to be used. "You're going to let me fuck you? After all that mouthing off? Telling me to kill myself?" he taunts, "What was it she called me again, Hoon? Your guard dog?" he adds, running his hand down your back and pressing down so you're perfectly arched for him.

You can see Sunghoon sitting back against the headboard now, watching you with lazy, half-lidded eyes. Jake's hands are rough as he spreads you open, humming low under his breath when he sees just how wet you still are. It's shameful, the way your body betrays you, throbbing and slick and eager.

"Fuck," Jake mutters, almost to himself, "Sunghoon really did break you in, huh?" You hear Sunghoon laugh, smug but you don't dare lift your head to look at him. You're too busy squeezing your eyes shut, fists curling tight in the sheets, bracing yourself for whatever's about to come.

And when it does come, when Jake finally pushes into you, it's so different, he's not as patient. He's rougher, filling you quick and deep, grunting under his breath when your body clenches down instinctively. "Still so tight," he breathes, reverent, like he can't fucking believe it. You whimper, your arms shaking, your body arching more without your permission, as he starts to move. Long, deep thrusts that make your back curve, your mouth fall open in helpless little gasps and all the while Sunghoon is watching.

In a silent possessive way, you can feel like a brand burning into your skin. You know you're not supposed to want this, you're not supposed to like the way Jake is fucking you, hard and fast and unrelenting while Sunghoon watches like you're putting on a show just for him.

Your body doesn't care, it's already chasing the next brutal, devastating high and Jake aids it, fucking you with sharp, brutal thrusts that knock little gasps and whines from your throat without mercy. Each snap of his hips punches forward into that spot inside you that feels too raw, the overstimulation crackling up your spine like electricity.

It's nothing like how Sunghoon fucked you. Where Sunghoon was calculated, almost teasing in the way he stretched you open, Jake feels like punishment, like he's trying to split you in half just because he can. His pace didn't slow once, not even when Sunghoon shifted closer, not even when the softest brush of lips pressed against your temple like a secret only you were supposed to feel. If anything, it got worse. Harder, deeper, like he was trying to fuck the kiss right off your skin.

And it was so stupid, it was so stupid, because your body betrayed you instantly, muscles clenching down around him so tight you felt it too, the way your walls tried to drag him deeper, how your toes curled and your back bowed like you were desperate for more.

Jake's laugh was low and rough against your ear, all teeth and mean amusement as he tightened his fingers around your waist. "She's fucking clenching. Just 'cause you kissed her," he taunted, and you wanted to say no, wanted to deny it, wanted to pretend you had any dignity left but it was impossible when Sunghoon's mouth was finding the corner of your lips now, slow and tender and unbearably sweet. "You're so pretty"

"Pathetic little thing," Jake cooed, voice dipped in false pity, "Sunghoon calls you pretty and you're already squeezing my cock like it's the first nice thing anyone's ever said to you." You whimpered, pressing your forehead to the mattress, trying to hide from them both, from the unbearable heat prickling under your skin. You could feel Sunghoon smiling against your cheek, soft and secretive, and when you cracked your eyes open, you caught it, that tiny, almost imperceptible look he passed to Jake. The faintest tilt of his mouth. Permission. Encouragement.

"Don't listen to him," Sunghoon murmured anyway, voice as soft as his kisses, pretending like he wasn't the one feeding the fire. His hand stroked lazily down your spine, light enough to make you shiver. "You're pretty. That's all that matters."

Pretty.

You could have cried.

You almost did.

Jake's laugh rumbled against your back as he thrust up into you again, hard enough to have you gasping, scrabbling uselessly at the sheets. "Such a good girl," Jake crooned mockingly, dragging the words out, slow and sticky like syrup. "All pretty and dumb for us."

Sunghoon just kept petting you, like you were something small and helpless. His fingers tracing your spine like he was counting your vertebrae, his mouth ghosting over your skin, and then he was murmuring almost absently, like he was thinking out loud, "So pretty like this. So pretty I almost feel bad."

You didn't even know who he was talking to—you, Jake, himself—it didn't matter. Nothing mattered except the way Jake's cock bullied into you without a hint of mercy, and the way Sunghoon looked at you like you were something sacred he was offering up to be ruined.

"Are you gonna fucking cum or what," Sunghoon muttered next, his voice a little rough around the edges, impatient, a glimpse of the colder boy underneath all the tenderness, "You never take this long with the other girls."

Jake barked a short laugh, snapped his hips forward once, hard enough to make you cry out. "Sorry," he said, not sounding sorry at all, "she's just a little too fucking sweet." You didn't know if he meant the way you tasted, the way you sounded, the way you looked sprawled out for them like you'd forgotten how to say no. Maybe all of it. Maybe none of it.

You couldn't think straight anymore.

You couldn't do anything but clench and sob and ache for them, feel Jake's cock dragging in and out of you, feel Sunghoon's kisses ghosting over your skin, hear their low voices murmuring above you like a prayer and a curse all at once.

You heard it, heard it even through the messy sounds of Jake using you, even through the haze of your own breathless little cries and for a second everything inside you pulled tight.

Other girls.

He said it like it meant nothing. Like it was just some passing detail, a shrug of the shoulders, a fact you should already know but you didn't and in the haze of it all you almost didn't realize Sunghoon wasn't yours, maybe he was Jake's but one thing is sure though; you weren't the first girl they'd done this with.

Your throat worked uselessly, a desperate little sound clawing up before you could stop it and you hated it, hated that they would hear it, hated that it gave you away. "S-Sunghoon"

He turned to you, still petting you absentmindedly but you could feel the slight hesitation in his touch, the way his fingers paused just a little too long at the dip of your spine, as if considering whether he'd gone too far but he didn't apologize, he didn't even look sorry. He just leaned in closer, brushing his lips over your shoulder, whispering sweet nothings into your burning skin like he could stitch up the bleeding hurt with pretty words.

"You're better than them," he murmured, so quiet you almost thought you imagined it. "So much better, baby." You despised how easily you melted for him. Jake thrust particularly deep and you choked on a sob, "Oh my God! J-Jake!", hips jerking helplessly back against him, desperate for any kind of grounding. Your mind was a mess, a riot of shame and pleasure and need and you didn't know how much longer you could hold yourself together, you tongue was already dropping out of your mouth, making you drool.

Above you, Sunghoon just smiled, the corner of his mouth twitching like he was pleased you were breaking because to him it was probably the whole point.

Jake groaned low in his chest when he finished, the sound rattling deep in his throat, but you barely heard it. You were already gone, gone somewhere far inside yourself, where you didn't have to feel the way Sunghoon was murmuring at Jake to "go ahead, finish inside," like it was just another order to be given. Where you didn't have to feel Jake's lazy satisfaction as he spilled inside you, one hand gripping your hip like he owned you, like he had some right to leave pieces of himself inside your body.

It hit you all at once, the whiplash of it, how went from being a virgin a week ago to this, spread out, used, letting boys who barely even liked you do whatever they wanted with you. The shame was so thick it tasted metallic in your mouth. You scrambled, struggling to move, your limbs trembling and slow. Jake was still inside you and you hated it, hated the hot sticky reminder of everything you'd let happen, hated him for still being there like he had every right.

You shoved at him, weak and clumsy but desperate enough that Jake gave a startled grunt and stumbled back, finally slipping free. You barely registered it. You were already trying to crawl off the bed, blind and panicked, desperate to get away before they could see the tears slipping hot and furious down your cheeks but before you could even swing your leg over the edge, Sunghoon's hand closed around your wrist.

Firm that it makes you halt, chest heaving, refusing to look at him, refusing to let him see how broken you were. You tugged weakly against his grip, but it was useless. He didn't say anything at first, just held you there, thumb brushing thoughtlessly against the inside of your wrist, as if soothing you. As if he thought he could soothe this.

You yanked at your wrist, the pathetic sound of your struggle filling the heavy room, Sunghoon didn't even flinch and his grip stayed firm, like he barely noticed how hard you were trying. He just stared at you, something strange and unreadable flickering in his dark eyes, his gazed held confusion, as though he couldn't understand why you were crying.

His gaze dragged over your face, the wetness on your cheeks, the trembling of your mouth, the way you could barely breathe around the panic squeezing your ribs and then he asked it, so casually you almost thought you imagined it.

"Why do you cry all the time?" Asking as if your tears were an inconvenience but it makes something inside you snap. You tore your wrist out of his grip with a violent jerk, your whole body swaying from the force of it, and you backed away so fast you stumbled over yourself. You didn't even care that you were still naked, still aching, still leaking down your thighs.

"I can't believe I did this," you choked out, voice cracking, the words coming in one ugly, messy rush. "You're both fucking weird. I can't believe I let you— I can't believe I—" but before you could finish, Jake's voice cut through the air, lazy and amused, like none of this meant anything to him. "You wanted it," he said, shrugging like it was obvious. "And from the way you were moaning for us? Pretty sure you enjoyed it too."

The shame burned hotter than ever, climbing your throat like bile. You wrapped your arms around yourself, wishing you could disappear into the floor, wishing you had never met them, wishing you could scrub the memory of all of it off your skin. They weren't even trying to comfort you or apologize, they were just standing there, like you were the crazy one for thinking any of this was supposed to mean something more.

You flinched when Sunghoon moved toward you, every part of you braced to be mocked again, humiliated further but instead of laughing at you, instead of pushing you back onto the bed and telling you to take it like before, his hand came up, slow, almost unsure, and wiped the tears off your cheeks with the pad of his thumb. The touch was awkward but gentle in a way that made your throat close up. He didn't know what he was doing, you could feel it in how clumsy he was, as if affection wasn't something he gave often, like he was terrified of getting it wrong.

Before you could form more thoughts, he was leaning in, mouth brushing yours so softly it barely even counted as a kiss, just a warm press, a quiet apology he didn't know how to speak. You made a sound, something broken and desperate in the back of your throat, and he caught it with his mouth, kissing you a little harder. "Don't cry again," he mumbled against your lips.

You squeezed your eyes shut, hating him for making it worse, feeling sorry for yourself for leaning into him without even thinking.

Jake stood a few feet away, still shirtless, still burning from the inside out, arms crossed, watching the whole thing with something close to murder flashing in his eyes. He wasn't smiling anymore, the lazy, taunting smirk was gone, replace with something aimed at Sunghoon like he had just witnessed a betrayal, as though Sunghoon wasn't supposed to kiss you like that, wasn't supposed to wipe your tears or whisper anything that sounded even remotely like he cared.

Jake's jaw clenched, his fingers dug into his biceps, nails biting through the thin fabric of his shirt. It made your stomach twist, that look on his face, the look of boiling anger and ugly jealousy.

Because Sunghoon had never, not once, touched another girl like that and now he was wiping tears off your face like you were some delicate fucking thing worth saving.

Jake's hands curled into fists and stomach twisted. The anger was old, nothing new because it had been sitting in him for a long time—months, maybe.

It started at the party.

The girl, he couldn't even remember her name now but he remembered how she was giggling, clutching his arm, pressing her tits against him like she didn't know he wasn't the one she needed to impress. Jake led her through the crowd anyway, up the stairs, through the half-cracked door where Sunghoon stood against the wall sipping something dark from a cup.

"She's cute, right?" Jake said, grinning, jostling her forward a little. Sunghoon barely even looked at her before he tilted his head, caught her wrist in his hand, brought it up to his mouth and kissed it, all while his eyes were on Jake, while his smile was directed at Jake.

It was mechanical, hollow even and Jake saw it even if no one else did. Sunghoon didn't even want her, he didn't want any of them, not really anyway. He just let Jake bring girls around because it was easier to use them than admit there was nothing either of them actually wanted. It was an arrangement, an easy and disposable arrangement.

Until you, Jake had felt it the day he saw you in Heeseung's apartment, you came over, looking so nervous you could barely meet his eyes. It was supposed to be a joke, flipping up your dress while you were trying to leave. Just to see if you'd cry, just to see if Sunghoon would even bother looking.

He did.

Jake caught it—the way Sunghoon's gaze went dark, sharp, almost hungry. He was the one who leaned over, under his breath, and whispered into Jake's ear. "I want her."

You.

Jake could still feel it, the way those words made something twist in his gut, made his palms itch to hit something. Sunghoon had never said that before. Not once, not even when Jake handpicked the prettiest, most desperate girls at every party but you, standing there like some little doll about to bolt for the door. You, who they hadn't even touched yet, you were the one Sunghoon wanted.

Jake ignored it, or he really tried to. He tried to brush it off, the same way he brushed off the weird sick feeling that climbed up his throat every time you looked shyly at Sunghoon instead of him.

But then the night came. The night Sunghoon was meant to fuck you, Jake was there in his room—had the door cracked open, waiting for Sunghoon to come to him.

It should've been routine, it always was, especially with the shy or naive girls and you were certainly naive, almost borderline oblivious in Jake's opinion. Sunghoon was meant to get you ready and Jake would join later if he felt like it, they'd use you up and that would be that. Instead, Sunghoon slipped out of the room, tight-jawed, tense and cornered Jake by the kitchen sink when he came to get you the water bottle. "She's a virgin," Sunghoon said low, eyes dark and unreadable. "We're not doing this tonight." Jake had laughed because it sounded like he was joking. "What, you scared or something?"

Sunghoon just stared at him. Something ugly, something furious flickering just beneath his skin. "I'm serious," he muttered, voice rough. "I'm not ruining it like this." Like this? Like it mattered?

Jake stood there, watching Sunghoon grab a bottle of water, stall for time, anything to calm down before he went back to you. It burned something inside Jake that he didn't even know he had, not jealousy, not really, it was something worse. Jake wanted to break something. Wanted to break him.

Sunghoon is still holding your waist, like you were his to protect, his fingers pressing deep enough to bruise, yet there's a softness to his grip. He's staring at you like he doesn't understand what's wrong, his eyes searching yours like he can make sense of everything. But he can't. He won't. His breath brushes against your ear as he whispers, "Stay."

It's quiet. Almost too quiet.

Your chest tightens, the words hanging in the air like a weight you can't shake off. You feel the tears welling again, the ache in your throat, the rawness of everything you've just experienced. This wasn't supposed to be you. You weren't supposed to be here.

But you're still here. Still in Sunghoon's room. Still caught between the chaos of two boys who have never looked at you like you were anything other than a game. The thought nearly breaks you, but you keep your head tilted away from Sunghoon's searching gaze, eyes trained on the floor.

That's when Jake's voice cuts through the silence.

"She's not yours, Sunghoon," he sneers, his voice thick with mockery. "She's a free use toy now, remember?"

The words hit harder than anything physical. Sunghoon's face tightens, a flicker of anger flashing across his features for the first time. This is the first time, in all the years of living with Jake, that Sunghoon's ever asked a girl to stay in his room. He never needed to. The others, they always left when the night was over, like it was just part of the script. But with you... he's different. He wants you here. Wants you more than he's willing to admit.

And Jake knows that. He knows it, and he sees the change in Sunghoon, the shift that makes everything spiral out of control.

Sunghoon tenses, his grip on your waist tightening, but it's not to keep you close anymore. It's like a warning, a subtle shift, like he's trying to hold onto something that's slipping through his fingers.

"You don't know shit about her, Jake," Sunghoon spits, voice low, dangerous. But there's a tightness in his chest, the kind that tells you this isn't just about you anymore. This is personal.

Jake laughs, the sound cruel and mocking. "I know enough. You're just fucking delusional, man. She's never gonna be anything but a toy, something to fuck when you need it."

And that's when everything breaks. That's when the jealousy and the anger in Jake's eyes finally win out. He's seething, and there's something darker in him now, something that twists his features into a snarl.

"You think she's different?" Jake's voice rises, thick with bitter disbelief. "You think she's special? She's just a body, Sunghoon. You're no different from me."

Sunghoon doesn't even think. His fist is already flying toward Jake's face before the words are fully out of his mouth.

The sickening crack of Sunghoon's punch echoes through the room. Jake stumbles back, a flash of shock before he's charging again, but this time, Sunghoon's ready. They clash together, their bodies colliding with a force that shakes the room, like they're trying to tear each other apart with their bare hands. You watch, heart pounding in your chest, unable to move.

Jake doesn't care. His gaze is locked on Sunghoon, furious and burning, but there's something else there. Something ugly. It's like he's mad at the whole world. Mad that Sunghoon is breaking the rules, mad that he's treating you differently, and mad that he can't have you like he thought he would.

"You fucking hypocrite," Jake spits, shoving Sunghoon hard enough that he almost knocks you over with him. "You think you're better than me? You fucked her first. You let me fuck her too. Don't act like you're some fucking savior now."

Sunghoon's fist lands again, and this time, the sound of the punch is more brutal, sharper. The room stills for a moment. Everything quiets.

And then Jake stares up at him, blood dripping from him his split lip, his expression twisting into something almost unrecognizable.

"You're not special either, Sunghoon. She'll never choose you."

And that's when the weight of it hits you. Both of them are broken. Both of them have pushed you to this point. But the one you can't seem to tear your eyes away from, the one who's been different with you, is Sunghoon. It's always been him, hasn't it? Even though everything's a mess, even though your mind tells you to run, your body aches for the one who's holding you in place.

But this fight, this ugly confrontation, it feels like the breaking point. Both of them, tearing each other down, just to try and prove something to you. And you don't know how much longer you can stand it.

Jake slammed the apartment door so hard the hallway lights flickered. His chest heaved like he'd run a marathon, every breath sharp and unsteady, and his jaw ached from how tightly he was clenching it. Sunghoon's words were still ringing in his ears. His fists still burned from the impact.

And you? You were still in that room, still with Sunghoon. The echo of it made something cave inside him and he wasn't sure if it was the punch or the shame that hit hardest. It hadn't always been like this.

Two months ago, that was when Heeseung brought you around for the first time. Introduced you casually at a birthday party as his girlfriend's cousin. Jake barely remembered whose birthday it was because the moment he saw you, you eclipsed everything. Not because you were trying to. No, you didn't even speak much that night. Just nodded politely, murmured a hello. It was your eyes that did it—too soft, too open, too easy to read. He saw the way you looked at the floor more than at anyone else, how your hands fidgeted with the strap of your bag.

You didn't belong in their world of sharp words and sharper games and maybe that's exactly why he wanted you. He told himself it wasn't serious, just a passing thing. You were pretty, sure. Innocent too but surely not his type. Except he caught himself watching you, noticing you, even wondering about you but then you had to go and ruin it—by looking at Sunghoon.

He hadn't even looked at you that night, he barely nodded in acknowledgment, said something offhanded to Heeseung about you being "quiet." Sunghoon didn't see you at all but you saw him and Jake saw you.

Staring.

It was in the little glances, the way you perked up just slightly when Sunghoon's voice cut into the room. The way you didn't blink when he walked past, as though you could memorize his silhouette if you tried hard enough. Jake had watched you the whole time, watched you light up for someone who never even looked your way and it made something petty and jealous unravel in him.

He approached you that night of the art show just to tell you, you were too plain for Sunghoon, he said like a warning but it came out more like a challenge. He saw your lips part, saw the brief hurt in your eyes before you turned away.

That was the beginning.

It became a game, or that's what he told himself. Teasing you at parties, mocking the way you watched Sunghoon like he hung the fucking moon. A part of him thought that if he made you feel small enough, you'd stop looking at Sunghoon like that, maybe you'd look at him instead, maybe he could rewrite the script if he could just make you flinch enough to forget what you wanted.

Then one night, after too many drinks, Sunghoon admitted it. "She's cute." Just those two words, offhanded, they barely even meant anything but Jake saw it. The way Sunghoon had been looking at you lately—less like he didn't notice and more like he didn't know what to do with the noticing.

It hit Jake like ice water before Sunghoon even whispered it in his ear that day at Heeseung's apartment, Sunghoon wanted you and you had always wanted him, so where did that leave Jake? He didn't even know who he was jealous of anymore. You, for getting Sunghoon's attention? Sunghoon, for having yours? Or himself—for turning something tender into something so vile?

Maybe that's why he let it happen tonight. Why he hadn't walked away the moment he saw you under Sunghoon like that. Why he'd joined in, touched you like he had any right, kissed you just to claim a piece of something that was never his but none of it made the ache go away, in fact it only made it worse.

"She's not yours, Sunghoon. She's a free use toy now, remember?"

He'd said it because he was furious, he needed to get under Sunghoon's skin because to him it was easier than admitting the truth; he still wanted you and not just your body and not just tonight but when Sunghoon looked at you like that—held your waist, whispered soft things into your skin, kissed your tears away—it gutted Jake.

Sunghoon had never asked a girl to stay, not even once, not even the girls that had way more experience than you and now he was asking you.

Jake punched the wall as he reached the bottom of the apartment stairwell, breathless. His hand split open against the drywall. Still, the pain didn't come close to what was boiling in his chest because the truth was, he never stopped wanting you and now he might've lost you forever along with his best friend.

Back in the apartment, the room still smelled like sweat and anger and something unspoken, thick in the air, clinging to your skin like shame. Sunghoon's touch was gentle this time, he didn't say much as he led you toward the bathroom, one hand lingering low on your back, the other steadying your wrist where his fingers had left slight red marks earlier. You were too quiet to fight him on it, too tired to explain the weight sitting in your chest like wet cloth.

The warm water hit your skin and it felt too good, too soft, like maybe you didn't deserve it. Sunghoon didn't rush. He moved like he'd done this before, washing over you with careful fingers, rubbing suds into your arms, your thighs, behind your ears like he was memorizing the shape of you with every glide. He kissed your shoulder once. Then your temple. Then your mouth. Quick, gentle intervals like he was testing if you'd still let him.

You did.

He didn't speak until he was drying you off, voice low, half-rasped. "Lift your arms." You obeyed. Not because you were weak but because for once, it felt safe to surrender. He slipped a soft shirt over your head, long enough to brush your thighs. It smelled like detergent and cologne and him. You could get drunk off the scent alone. Your legs wobbled as you stepped into clean pair of his shorts and he caught you without a word. He tucked you in like he hadn't just broken you down hours ago. Covered you up to your chin, smoothed the damp strands from your face, lingered a little longer than he meant to. His gaze was unreadable—something suspended between guilt and awe.

"I'll be back," he murmured, like he was worried you'd vanish if he didn't say it aloud.

The sound of the shower running again was the only thing that lulled you close to sleep. You didn't hear him come back in. You just felt the bed dip and the warmth of his body sliding in behind yours, arms looping slow around your waist, chest pressing to your back like he needed to feel you breathing to believe this was real.

He nuzzled against your hair. "Come here," he whispered and he pulled you into him like you belonged there, like he hadn't just chosen you in front of Jake, like maybe he always had.

*•*•*

Jake hadn't been back to the apartment in three days. He'd spent them mostly on Heeseung's couch, pretending to watch TV, pretending he wasn't thinking about you every second he blinked. He didn't say much and Heeseung didn't ask, that was the thing about old friendships—they left space where words couldn't go.

When he came back, the apartment felt the same but emptier, he told himself he wasn't looking for signs of you but the disappointment in his chest when he didn't find any told the truth.

You're gone.

He heard the door to Sunghoon's room click open not long after. He didn't have to turn around to know it was him. They stood in the kitchen like strangers. Jake's knuckles itched with memory, so did his ribs but his voice didn't shake when he finally spoke.

"She left."

Sunghoon didn't deny it. "She needed space."

Jake almost scoffed. "From you too?" Sunghoon looked at him, and there was something devastating in the softness of it. "From the both of us."

A beat passed. Then another.

"You know why you're this angry?" Sunghoon said, his tone level. "It's not because I touched her. It's not even because she let me. It's because you wanted to be the one."

Jake's fists curled before he could stop them.

"I didn't—"

"Yes, you did," Sunghoon cut in, unshaken. "You were just too scared to be anything other than cruel."

Jake's mouth opened, but nothing came out. He couldn't argue—not really. Not when Sunghoon looked at him like he already knew, not when he didn't even have to say it. There was a shift, almost invisible. A flash of something in Jake's eyes, something like grief or longing. It passed too quickly for anyone else to notice but Sunghoon saw it and maybe that's why, as he turned away, he said, "She's at her place."

Jake swallowed. "Why are you telling me?"

Sunghoon didn't answer.

But he didn't need to.

*•*•*

The stairs felt longer than usual or maybe Jake was just nervous regardless of the five days it took him to gather the courage to show up here. His legs didn't feel steady, not when he reached the third floor. Not when he raised a hand to knock on your door. His heart wasn't racing—it was free-falling.

He almost turned around but then the door opened and you were laughing.

It wasn't a sound he'd heard ever, it was soft, light, the kind of thing that came from somewhere safe. You were mid-laugh, leaning slightly into the doorframe, probably reacting to something Yunjin said behind you. Her voice floated out from the living room. Jake barely registered it.

Because then you saw him and everything about you changed. Your smile dropped like glass slipping from a ledge. You didn't say anything but your face said enough, the laughter hadn't just faded, it had recoiled almost like you were scared, like seeing him reopened something you'd tried to bury.

Jake felt it in his chest, low and sudden and still, he didn't speak because how could he? He had no right to be hurt, not after what he did, not after everything he'd been. Still, he stood there, holding his breath, waiting to be let in.

"Can I talk to you?"

Jake's voice was soft even careful like he wasn't sure if he deserved the words he was speaking. Yunjin was at your side in a heartbeat, sliding into the doorway with one brow raised, a hand coming instinctively to your elbow. "She doesn't owe you anything," she said, her tone sharp but calm. "So if you're here to play whatever game you were playing before—"

"It's okay," you said, cutting in quietly. Yunjin looked at you, frown deepening. "You sure?" You nodded. "Just give me a minute."

There was something in Jake's eyes, something raw and unguarded and even if your brain was screaming to slam the door, your heart—traitorous and trembling—wanted to know what he had to say.

You stepped out, closing the door gently behind you, and followed him into the empty hallway.

Jake didn't speak right away.

You could see it—the way his throat worked, how his eyes flicked to the floor and then back to you, like he was sorting through a thousand things he could say and none of them felt right.

Then, finally, "I'm sorry."

It was plain, simples and unpolished, it had you blinking. "What?"

"I'm sorry," he said again, firmer this time. "For everything. For how I treated you. For flipping your skirt up in front of everyone. For saying shit that made you feel—less than." His breath caught slightly. "I'm even sorry for fucking you like that. And calling you—"

You cut in before he could finish. "A free use toy?"

He flinched. "Yeah. That."

Your arms crossed over your chest, suddenly cold. "Are you only saying this because you and Sunghoon want to fuck me again?"

Jake's eyes widened. "No. No. God, no. That's not—I'm not—" His words tumbled, frantic. "I'm not here because of that. I'm here because I have to tell you. I have to tell you that I liked you first."

Silence blanketed the hall.

Jake took a breath and stepped closer, gaze never leaving yours. "That day Heeseung introduced you, when he said you were his girlfriend's cousin, Sunghoon didn't even look at you. But I did. I couldn't stop looking at you. You were so—" He stopped himself, jaw tightening. "And then you were looking at him. Always. Like he was everything." His voice cracked on that last word.

You didn't move.

He ran a hand through his hair, voice lower now. "I didn't know how to handle it. I just— I hated that you never looked at me the way you looked at him. And it made me cruel. I know that. I know I was an asshole. But I swear to god I was only ever like that because I didn't know how else to deal with it."

You stared at him, stunned into silence, noticing how his eyes were glassy like he was begging himself not to cry and maybe for the first time, you saw him. Not as the boy who teased you mercilessly, not as the one who touched you like you were nothing but as the one who was unraveling in front of you—afraid, desperate, honest. He huffed out a breath before continuing, "I know you think I'm just awful and that Sunghoon doesn't have feelings but he does and—" "I—I promise I'll be better and he will too, just come over please." "There's so much we want to tell you" he sighed the last part like he was using the last of his energy to say it.

That was the last thing he said before he left you standing there and you don't remember agreeing, not really. It's all a blur—Jake's quiet voice on the stairwell, the look in his eyes like he was begging without asking, the way he said please, the way he mentioned Sunghoon like the words had weight in his throat.

Maybe that's why you're here, maybe it's closure, maybe it's not.

The apartment is quiet when you knock but the second the door opens, you feel a pair arms around you. "You didn't cry again, did you?" Sunghoon's voice murmurs into your hair, soft and close.

You shake your head. No, you didn't, not this time. His scent is familiar, clean soap and something warm underneath. He lingers a second too long before he steps aside and that's when you see him—Jake, standing by the kitchen counter like he's unsure whether to stay or disappear. His expression flickers when your eyes meet, but he doesn't say anything. He just watches, you used to think his stare meant mockery but now it's something else. It's waiting, even hoping.

The silence stretches and you feel like you should say something. Sunghoon glances between you two like he's used to translating tension. "We talked," he says, mostly to you. "Jake wanted to say sorry. Properly this time." You nod because right now it's all you can do.

"Can I...?" Jake's voice trails off. He gestures awkwardly toward the couch, like he's asking for permission just to sit near you. He's never been this quiet before, never this cautious.

He settles beside you with careful space between your knees. The silence isn't comfortable, but it's not hostile either, just dense with everything unspoken.

Jake speaks first, the words low and halting. "I didn't mean for it to happen like that. Any of it. I was—" He stops, jaw tightening. "I guess I didn't know who I was mad at. You. Him. Myself." Sunghoon stays leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching the exchange unfold like it's something he can't touch just yet. Jake glances at you. "You don't have to forgive me. I just... I didn't want it to end like that."

The part of you that once trembled under his cruelty now twitches at his vulnerability, you're not sure when that shifted. Somewhere between the teasing, the way he flung ugly words like armor, and the raw admission in his stare now—something changed.

Maybe you did want him, not like before, not in spite of the way he hurt you but because somewhere beneath the mess, something inside him looked like it had been reaching for you all along.

"You're not as mean as you think you are," you say quietly. Jake huffs a breath that sounds like he might cry if he lets it finish and it has you reaching for him rubbing his cheek with your thumb and you're not entirely surprised that he's leaning into your palm.

You don't know who moves first, only that the space closes and his lips are on yours now, frantic and almost clumsy, his hands find your waist and trail up to your back before he's pulling at your hair so your neck is exposed to him. He pulls away and his forehead presses against yours, Sunghoon is behind you again, kneeling on the couch and sliding a hand along your back like he's grounding you in the moment.

"You sure you want this?" Sunghoon murmurs. You nod, barely but he sees it. Jake sees it. The air shifts and you all somehow manage to make it to Sunghoon's bedroom. Their hands are everywhere, their lips too, kissing, biting, marking, Jake's hands are tugging at your clothes like they personally offended him, Sunghoon is kissing you like today is his last day on earth. He pulls off you placing kisses to your cheeks before speaking, "Come on, let Jake show you how sorry he is" he says as back away, you look to Jake and he seems to want it more than you realize. "Okay".

That was all it took for him to pull down the denim of your shorts along with your panties, staring at you between you legs like he was looking at art, "So pretty, so wet for us" he mumbles, placing kisses to your inner thighs. "Don't tease her, Jake. Do as she says", Sunghoon's voice rings through the room and it makes Jake look up at you like he's waiting for your command, the look has your breath stuttering before you say, quietly but firmly, "Eat my pussy".

Jake must have been on voice command because he immediately starts eating you out. You whimper, back arching as he leans in, licking up your folds with a deep moan like he's lost his mind.

"Fuck—Jake—"

His tongue is everywhere—sloppy, relentless, devouring you like you're dessert and he's starving and you're grinding against his face before you can help it, hand in his hair, breathy moans spilling from your lips like a prayer. Your thighs were already trembling but Jake wasn't slowing down, you looked up from his to see Sunghoon smiling down at you and it makes you moan out more, "Oh my god!"

If anything, Jake is more determined now—tongue working your clit with maddening precision, fingers spreading you open so he could taste you deeper, wetter, messier, like he's trying to pull those sounds from you. You tried to push him away—not because you wanted to stop, but because it was too much, too good but Jake just growled low and gripped your hips tighter, dragging you back to his mouth like he'd die without it.

And then, slowly, finally, he pulled back—lips and chin glistening. Your breath hitched at the sight, he looked wrecked. Hair a mess. Eyes dark and blown wide with hunger. "She didn't ask you to stop, did she?" You look up at Sunghoon as he spoke, just now noticing that he's taken his cock out, it's hard, red and leaking as he palms himself while looking right at you.

Jake look at you and then back at Sunghoon and Sunghoon comes up behind him where he is, "Go on baby, tell him what to do. Use him" he says to you but you can't really speak so instead you grab Jake's hair and pull him back where you're aching for them both.

Behind him, Sunghoon watches, calm and in control, one hand fisted in Jake's hair as if to keep him there. The warm flick of his tongue makes you jolt, your hand gripping the sheets. Jake moans into you, desperate, like he's trying to earn your forgiveness with every swirl of his tongue. You almost don't notice Sunghoon has pulled Jake's up on his knees and now has Jake's shorts and boxers down to his knees where they meet the sheets. Sunghoon looks down at Jake where his back is involuntarily arched with lust filled eyes and the sight of him spitting a dollop of saliva right onto Jake's hole has you gasping, "Sunghoon" you gasp out and he looks at you with a smirk, you look down at Jake and notice his eyes rolling back, you can't tell if it's because of how you taste or because of Sunghoon's index and middle fingers that are now pushed into him.

Jake is still trying his best, his tongue is fucking your hole so good you're trembling but then suddenly he's crying out and you see that Sunghoon has pushed his whole length into him at once and it makes Jake choke on a gasp against your pussy.

"You're losing rhythm," Sunghoon murmurs, dragging his hips back before pausing. His voice is low. "Don't you want to show her how sorry you are?"

Jake whimpers, nodding frantically, "I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" his lips returning to you with renewed effort—tongue trembling, breath shaking. You arch, overwhelmed at the way he's trying so hard for you. For both of you.

And it's working.

Your thighs close around his head, your moans tangling with Jake's soft cries as Sunghoon keeps rocking into him. The way Jake's mouth moves on you—messy, reverent, aching—pulls you closer and closer until you're gasping his name, your fingers tangled in his hair as you finally finish against his tongue.

Jake groans, muffled by your release, clinging to your thighs like they're the only thing keeping him grounded but then he starts moving again—this time, back against Sunghoon. "Fuck," Sunghoon hisses, voice strained as Jake starts to push back harder. "So desperate to be fucked now, huh?"

You slide forward, cupping Jake's flushed face, and he looks up at you with wide, watery eyes. Your thumb brushes away a tear rolling down his cheek. "Pretty boy," you murmur, kissing his cheek, then the other. "You're so pretty like this." The moment your voice breaks through him, his eyes widen, lips parting in a shaky moan, just like Sunghoon once did to you—Jake clenches down hard around him, the shock drawing a ragged groan from Sunghoon. Sunghoon chuckles breathlessly, eyes flashing. "Oh, now that's familiar. You remember that, sweetheart?" he says to you.

You do remember and now it's Jake—whimpering, trembling, taking it. You trail your hand down Jake's trembling stomach and wrap your fingers around his cock, already dripping. He jerks in your hand, keening, hips stuttering as you start stroking him in time with Sunghoon's thrusts.

"Oh, fuck," Jake cries. "Please—please—"

"Look at you," you coo. "Falling apart just like me." "All that anger, you're just a fucking brat huh?" you ask and he shakes his head furiously. "I—I'm not!", you keep stroking him, speeding up your movements.

Sunghoon growls behind Jake, watching your hand work him while Jake chokes on a sob and fucks himself harder on Sunghoon's cock. "K—Kiss" he whimpers, "Aww, you want a kiss baby?" Sunghoon coos but Jake can only respond with incoherent babbles now. You lean down and kiss him but that means you neglect his aching cock, when he pulls away just to moan out, you go back to stroking him.

Jake lets out a wrecked, high-pitched moan, body trembling as you reach between you and wrap your hand around his cock again . He nearly collapses.

"Please—please, I'm gonna—"

You stroke him slowly, watching the way his body bucks into your fist and back onto Sunghoon's cock in perfect rhythm. He's whining, shameless and loud, hips jerking. Every time you squeeze, he moans louder.

Sunghoon grits his teeth. "Good fucking girl," he growls to you, fucking Jake harder. "He's gonna cum just like this—such a fucking mess."

Jake's the first to break. He sobs your name as he spills all over your hand, body curling in on itself. The clenching sends Sunghoon over the edge with a groan, and he pulls Jake close, hips stuttering as he finishes inside him.

And then, silence. Just heaving breaths, sweaty skin, bodies tangled together on the sheets.

Jake collapses against your chest, still gasping, and you stroke his hair without thinking. Sunghoon lays beside him, one arm thrown lazily over his waist.

For a moment, it's quiet.

Then Jake speaks, "You think Heeseung would be mad we fucked his girlfriend's little cousin?"

You blink. "I'm older than Yunjin."

They both whip their heads toward you.

"No fucking way," they say in perfect unison and somehow, that's the moment you realize you're probably not getting rid of either of them anytime soon.

#enhypen angst #enha smut #enha x reader #enha imagines #enhypen #enhypen x reader #jake angst #jake smut #jake sim #sunghoon smut #sunghoon angst #park sunghoon #jake x reader #sunghoon x reader #enhypen fanfiction #enhypen fic

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nizhspo · 2 days ago

Text

genre: haikyuu imagine, fluff

pairing: atsumu miya x fem!reader

summary: lost in japan.

you’re lying on your stomach on the couch, your phone propped up awkwardly against a mug on the coffee table, facetime crackling slightly with the spotty wifi.

atsumu’s grinning at you through the screen, chin propped in his hand, hair messy and flattened a little on one side like he just woke up.

“i should come see ya,” he says, offhand, like he’s just talking about picking up groceries.

you snort, lazily twirling the pen in your hand. “yeah, okay. you’re only a couple hundred miles away.”

“a couple thousand,” he corrects with a mock-offended look, lips jutting out in a pout. “but sure, close enough.”

you laugh under your breath and roll your eyes. “mhm. sure. see you in five minutes then.”

there’s a loud clatter as your phone slides sideways off the mug and onto the table, giving him a lovely view of your kitchen ceiling.

“hey, hey!” you hear him protest, voice crackling through the speaker. “put the camera back up, i wanna see my beautiful girl.”

smiling stupidly to yourself, you pick it back up and angle it toward you again, chin resting on your folded arms.

he’s smiling too, this soft, slow, lovesick kind of smile like you’re the best thing he’s seen all day.

“there she is,” he murmurs.

you feel your cheeks heat a little, biting your lip to hide the way it makes you want to kick your feet like a schoolgirl.

he gets a call on his end. you hear the little notification ding and he grimaces. “shit. i gotta go, babe. team stuff.”

you sigh dramatically, clutching your chest. “abandoning me in my time of need.”

“i’m comin’ back soon, promise,” he says, playful but sincere, like he means it.

“i miss ya,” he adds, softer.

“miss you too,” you say back, a little quieter.

he blows you a kiss, stupid and exaggerated — before the call cuts off.

you spend the rest of the afternoon in a cozy haze.

you do some studying. half-hearted, if you’re honest, tapping away at your laptop in the soft sunlight slanting through the windows. you clean up your tiny apartment, vacuuming around the cluttered corners and scrubbing down the little kitchenette. you even throw on sneakers and wander downstairs, picking up a bag of groceries from the corner konbini, yawning the whole way back.

by the time evening drapes itself over the city, you’re exhausted.

you make yourself a cup of tea, nibble at a convenience store pastry, and settle into a lazy rhythm: answering a few emails, half-finishing a homework assignment, scrolling your phone aimlessly.

tokyo outside your windows is breathtaking at night: rivers of golden headlights threading through the streets, towers lit up like constellations, neon signs blinking in and out of existence like fireflies.

your little apartment feels even smaller against it, but it’s cozy. warm.

you tug on one of atsumu’s old t-shirts, massive and soft and falling halfway to your knees, and a pair of fuzzy socks. your hair’s a little tangled, your skin clean from a quick shower, and you flop onto the couch, flicking on cars for maybe the twentieth time this month.

the gentle hum of the city floats up through the cracked window. you curl deeper into the cushions, blinking slow and heavy-lidded at the screen.

you’re asleep already when the knock comes.

at first you think it’s a drunk neighbor knocking on the wrong door. maybe a late package you forgot you ordered.

you blink blearily at the door, not quite processing it.

then comes another knock. louder this time, hurried.

you shuffle over, yawning, dragging your feet. you peek through the peephole—

and your heart nearly stops.

atsumu’s standing there.

hoodie shoved over his messy hair, mask pulled down under his chin, a tiny half-zipped suitcase by his ankle.

and in his hand, a bouquet of flowers, messy and half-wrapped, an explosion of color like he just grabbed the wildest, brightest thing he could find.

his smile when he sees you looking is crooked and breathless, golden under the cheap hallway lights.

he leans against the doorframe, casual like he didn’t just cross the entire world for you, and says, “ya gonna let me in or make me stand here lookin’ stupid?”

you fumble with the lock so fast you nearly pull it off the door.

he steps inside like he belongs there, suitcase forgotten, standings on the backs of his uggs, a little dazed from the travel and the weight of finally being here.

he holds the flowers out to you, sheepish. a little battered, a little squashed. still beautiful.

“ya wouldn’t believe how much airport flowers cost,” he mutters, almost shy, and it makes you laugh, breathless and stunned and a little choked up.

you take them in both hands, hugging them to your chest, the stems cool and damp against your fingers.

then he’s pulling you into his arms. lifting you slightly off your feet, holding you so tight you can barely breathe.

he buries his face into your neck, breath warm against your skin, hoodie soft against your cheek. he smells like airplane air and his favorite cologne, a little musky from running around, a little familiar, a little like home.

and into the hush of the tiny apartment, into the glow of the city outside your window, he mumbles, “missed ya like crazy.”

you laugh, pressing your face into his shoulder, arms wrapped so tight around his back you never want to let go.

you’re half-convinced you’re dreaming, but he’s real, solid, warm, right here.

he leans back just enough to look at you, that dumb, gorgeous grin tugging at his mouth.

“idiot,” you whisper, voice shaking.

he just bumps his forehead gently against yours, still smiling, and says,

“your idiot.”

#haikyuu fluff #haikyuu headcanons #haikyuu imagines #haikyuu fanfiction #haikyuu #atsumu x you #msby atsumu #atsumu fluff #atsumu headcanons #atsumu x reader #haikyuu atsumu #hq atsumu #atsumu miya #atsumu fanfic #miya atsumu #atsumu x y/n #shawn mendes

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gothamite-rambler · 3 days ago

Text

Stephanie: Hey Cass, I heard a story about how you became the leader of the League of Assassins and killed a lot of people.

Cass (eyes downcast, slowly putting her phone down): You cut right to the chase with that.

Stephanie: Yeah, but don’t worry I’m not judging. We all have dark pasts. I just want to hear about it cause I'm curious. What started it? How did you get your wake-up call? What happened in between or afterwards.

Cass: You’ve heard of Slade Wilson, right?

Stephanie: That goof? Yeah. Did he attack you during all of this?

Cass (starting the story): I wanted a father figure, and Bruce was missing…

One depressing and sad story of brainwashing her best friend and (maybe) future girlfriend later Stephanie stormed down the halls, searching for some special people, knowing immediately where they’d be: the Batcave.

Cass chased after her, pleading for her to calm down.

Cass: Just take a second to breathe! Please—

But Stephanie had already tuned her out, stomping down the stairs to the Batcave, striding past Jason, Tim, Damian, Kate, and Bruce until she found Dick.

Stephanie: HEY, NIGHTWING!

At first, Dick turned around, a smile brightening his face at the sight of her, but that smile vanished in an instant when she delivered a stinging slap to his cheek.

Dick (eyes wide, shocked): OW!

Stephanie: You… You! Penis! You absolute penis! How dare you mistreat Cass while she was going through all that? I knew you were too nice; something had to be buried, and YOU… penis!

Dick (cupping his sore cheek): Stop calling me a penis!

Jason (doubled over laughing): I feel bad for laughing, but this is priceless.

Bruce: I shouldn’t be laughing either, but at least it wasn’t me. What’s happening here?

Cass (hurriedly explaining as she fidgeted her hands): Steph wanted to know about the time I went insane like Jason and became the leader of the assassins. I mentioned my issues with Dick, but that was forgivable. She—

Stephanie: Is pissed at this eejit!

Damian (surprised): Did you just call him an idiot with an Irish inflection? You are mad.

Dick (taking accountability): I… she… this is so old! I admitted I was a jerk back then, but I'm not anymore.

Huffing angrily, Stephanie lowered her hand as Dick instinctively took a step back.

Stephanie: You know what? Dick, I get that you didn’t want her to kill her deadbeat dad or Slade. We don’t kill, well, except Jason, but I’m starting to understand him more!

Jason nodded, continuing to read.

Stephanie: But how you treated Cass during most of her redemption journey... such a penis move!

Dick: I wasn’t… she killed… And Barbara snapped at her sometimes! Why the hell won’t you slap her?

Barbara (having silently watched the spectacle): I apologized and she likes me more. And I taught her how to read and write more so there.

Dick: I apologized too!

Stephanie: After Alfred stepped in! You—

Dick: Don’t call me a penis. Alfred helped out and is usually the voice of reason, I'm obviously going to agree with him.

Cass walked over, stepping between them and lightly pushing Stephanie away with a warm smile.

Cass: I admire you defending me, but Dick and I have made amends — mostly. We replaced it with sibling bickering, and I’m not completely innocent. I did throw him out a window, which was wrong… even if I still think he deserved it a tiny bit.

Dick (dryly): That’s the closest you’re going to admit it was wrong?

Cass: Yep.

Dick: I’ll take it.

Stephanie sighed, stepping away from Dick and thinking silently.

Stephanie: Jason, can Rose stab her father for Cass?

Bruce: Excuse me for interjecting, but do you mean to kill or just maim?

Kate (chuckling): That’s legitimately a good question.

Stephanie: I want so badly for her to kill him or for you to kill him. But respecting my code and Cass’s wishes, can she just stab him to hurt him?

Jason pulled out his phone and texted Rose.

Jason: She might actually have a better method. I’ll get back to you on that.

Stephanie: It’s a start… right?

Cass: He won’t die? It’s not me plunging the knife, but I’d rather not have phantom blood on my hands.

Stephanie (placing a hand on Cass’s shoulder): I can make sure he lives afterward. Bruce, if you try to stop this, I'm sending my ma after you with a heel in her hand.

Bruce: Just make sure he lives. That’s all I ask.

Stephanie: Got you, B-Man. You can fire me again if I go against my future girlfriend’s rule.

Kate laughed more and walked upstairs to excuse herself, with Bruce following her for a drink after that show.

Dick: Right, cool. Not sure how I feel about this—

Stephanie (pointing at the man): Dick, I’m not too happy with you, so your opinion means diddly squat!

Barbara (laughing, but also reasoning with Stephanie): Steph, you have to understand that we were all going through hell back then. You were there, and Dick could be a bit of a… penis.

Stephanie: I get that, and now that I’ve delivered the righteous slap to him, I’m cool with him. Unless he angers her again, then I’m kicking him in the penis while wearing a pointed heel.

Dick groaned as he rummaged for ice in the fridge underneath Bruce’s fridge. Jason could be heard laughing at the insult, joined by Damian's snickers.

Tim mostly remained silent, deciding it was wiser to stay neutral and embrace his role as Switzerland rather than take a side.

Tim: Oh wow. Um, I'm going to step in front of him.

Tim walked up in front of Dick, positioning himself as a buffer. Dick appreciated the gesture, grateful for the support in the heat of the moment.

Damian: That’s very funny to think about.

Stephanie (to Tim and Damian): As for you two… Tim, Cass actually had a lot of nice things and wild adventures to say about you. You’re cool. Damian… eh, not anything scandalous.

Damian (satisfied): Alright, that’s great to hear.

Tim: Cass, thank you.

Cass: It was just me being honest and venting. I tried to make it unbiased.

Dick: Didn’t work! She slapped me! Ow, by the way!

Stephanie (indifferent): Sorry or whatever.

Cass: I’m sorry as well. When I spoke of our feuding, it wasn’t to paint you as a villain. I got my payback when I replaced your human shampoo with dog flea and tick shampoo.

Stephanie (surprised): You what?

Barbara (chuckling): That’s why your hair smelled like oatmeal for a month.

Dick: Jokes on her... that was great for my hair! And yes, that is a flex for me! Cass, I forgive you. Stephanie, I choose to forgive you for now. To make it up to you both, I’ll take us all out for dinner.

Stephanie: You should probably have that wallet with you, then, cause we’re going to Chills, and I’m bringing my ma.

Dick: Of course you are; I’m going to rest for the next hour. Barbara…

Dick lightly slapped Barbara on the back of the head and then ran off. Barbara laughed, relieving any tension.

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sorryitsmyfirstdayonearth · 2 days ago

Text

Are you now or have you ever been (Sam Winchester x female reader)

Fic masterlist

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Chapter 2 - Kilgore

Sam runs his hand through his hair, still wet from the shower, as he steps into the kitchen. He doesn’t miss the look Dean throws him at the fact that he obviously slept in, is walking in with a rain cloud over his head.

“Morning,” Sam mumbles and Dean nods at him. “Is there coffee?” Dean nods again.

“Gotta take it to go, though,” he answers. “Found us a case.”

You wake in the field behind the house, early morning sunlight falling on your face. The ground is hard and cold. Your clothes are wet from the dew on the grass around you. You get up and look around. You have no idea where you are. Except for the farmhouse, there is nothing to orient yourself by, so you start walking.

It takes you a while to find a road and by the time you do, you're shivering. It’s a long country road and you start walking along it, picking a random direction. After a while, you hear an engine and turn around.

It’s a large truck, barreling down the road. Getting picked up out here by a stranger is a bad idea. But you don’t know what else to do. So you stick out your hand.

As the car pulls up next to you, you look up and down the road again. Then you lean into the window. The man inside is old, white hair, skinny.

“Where you going, honey?” he asks, voice a little suspicious.

“Into town,” you answer. He nods.

“Well, I’m going into Kilgore,” he answers. “I can take you there.” You look down the street again.

“Do they have a police station there?” you ask and the man nods.

“Yeah,” he says. You think for another second. Then you get in.

The old man pulls back onto the road. You look out the window, at the fields going by, but you can tell that he’s shooting looks over at you.

“Did something happen to you?” he asks, voice careful. “Did someone hurt you?” You keep looking outside.

“I don’t know,” you answer. He’s quiet for a moment before he speaks again.

“What’s your name, sweetheart?” he asks. You feel your eyes fill with tears.

“I don’t know,” you reply.

A part of the electric grid dying and some weird weather aren’t much in the way of supernatural omens, but it’s enough to pique Dean’s interest, apparently. Sam’s pretty sure that his brother is just trying to get him out of the bunker. He’d be moved if he wasn’t so damn annoyed by it. He just wants to sleep.

Instead, he is wearing his FBI suit, talking to the deputy after he and Dean have just walked into the local police station. He’s a middle-aged man with impressive sideburns, who distantly smells like tobacco.

“I’m telling you,” he says as he leads Sam and Dean away from the front desk into the station proper, police bustling around them, phones ringing off the hook. “Nothing out of the ordinary has happened in this town in the fifty-three years I’ve lived here, and then in one weekend, boom!” He shakes his head.

“Any idea how these things could be connected?” Dean asks, but the deputy just frowns at him over his shoulder, not stopping.

“Connected?” he asks. “How would these things be connected?” Dean does his best non-committal shrug. The deputy waves him off.

“You take care of the conspiracy theories, son,” he says. “I’m just trying to make sure people can watch the game tonight. Lotta good it’ll do me, I’ll probably have to stay with our Jane Doe.” Sam frowns at his back.

“Jane Doe?” he asks, and the deputy nods.

“Yeah,” he answers, “young woman, doesn’t know her name or where she came from. She was picked up by Jim Hoover this morning. Wait.” He stops, turns around to face the brothers, scratches his chin. “I thought that’s why you were here.”

“We’re here to cover all the… bases,” Dean jumps in, polite smile on his face. “What can you tell us about her?” The man shrugs.

“Not much, seeing as she don’t seem to know anything herself,” he answers. “Doc checked her out earlier. She’s an amnesiac, or whatever the hell it’s called.” Sam nods. A witness is always a good place to start.

“Where is she now?” he asks, and the deputy gives an awkward smile.

“Still here at the station,” he says, rubbing at his chin again. “We don’t really know what to do with her, truth be told. We’re checking all missing person reports in the state involving women around her age.” He shrugs, a distant look of desperation coming over his face.

“So far we got nothing,” he continues. “We don’t even know if she’s from around here.” He snaps back into the moment.

“Might be a good idea for us to talk to her anyway,” Dean offers.

“Well, if you think she can tell you anything about electrical storms,” the deputy continues, “knock yourselves out.”

He leads Sam and Dean towards the end of the open office space into another hallway, to a door that reads Interview 1. He opens the door and walks in.

“Ma’am,” he starts, “these two gentlemen from the FBI are here to talk to you.”

“Look, I already told you,” you say as you turn around in your chair to look at the three men in the doorway. “I don’t know anything else.”

Sam stops dead in his tracks. He sees you, he recognizes you, but he doesn’t believe his own eyes, doesn’t trust his judgement. He’s had this happen a lot – walking down the street and thinking he sees you in the distance, only for it to be a complete stranger. That’s what he expects this to be.

He waits for the confusion to clear, for his brain to turn your face into the face of someone who only slightly looks like you. But it doesn’t happen. He blinks and still it’s you. It can’t be. He says your name.

“What?” you reply, your eyes going to him. There’s no reaction there, no recognition.

Dean must be equally stunned, but he’s the one who snaps out of it, takes over. He tears his eyes off you and turns to the deputy.

“You mind giving us a minute?” he asks, practically already shooing the man out of the interview room. “Just have a few questions.” The deputy opens his mouth to say something, but then Dean closes the door in his face, spins around.

Meanwhile Sam takes a step closer to you. He can’t take his eyes off of you. How is this possible? He thinks your cheeks might be a little bit more hollow, maybe your hair is a little longer. Is that possible? So he says the thing that he believes will clear things up.

“It’s me,” he says. “It’s Sam.”

Your eyes are big as you stare at him, slowly shake your head.

“I-- I don't…” you say, but don’t finish the sentence. Sam takes another step forward, and that’s when you stand up, back away. Bring distance between you and him. “Who are you?”

Dean has turned back from the door, watched the exchange. Sees his little brother grappling with what he has in front of him, who he has in front of him. So he takes over, once again,

“It’s us,” he says, motioning towards the two of them. “It’s Sam and Dean.”

Nothing changes on your face, almost as if you’ve never heard these two names before. Dean quickly looks back at Sam, checks his reaction, but Sam’s only staring at you. You are looking between the two brothers. Sam’s stares seem to make you uncomfortable, and you can’t keep his gaze.

“I don’t know you, okay?” you finally say. “The… the doctor at the hospital thinks I might have had an, uhm, an accident, which is why I don’t remember anything.” You rattle off this information as if you’re a kid and it’s your home address that you just learned.

“Do I,” you start, then stop. “Do we know each other?” Sam’s still frozen in place but Dean can only give an unbelieving scoff.

“Yeah,” he says, like he can’t believe you’re asking. “Yeah, we know each other. Are you saying you don’t remember us at all?” You shake your head.

“No, I’m—I’m sorry,” you reply, then look the brothers up and down. “Did I—was I a fed too?”

Dean doesn’t understand what you’re talking about for a second before he follows your gaze, looks down himself and remembers what he’s wearing, who he’s pretending to be.

“No, no,” he answers, then wonders if it would help you trust them if you think that you work together. “I mean, kinda. Look, it’s a long story.” He narrows his eyes at you. “You really don’t remember us?” You shake your head.

“I don’t remember anything,” you reply.

There’s a knock on the door. Dean turns halfway towards it.

“Give us a minute!” he says, voice raised so it can be heard on the other side. Almost like his loud voice makes Sam snap out of his stupor, the younger Winchester suddenly blinks his eyes.

“I… I can’t believe it’s you,” he says, still not looking away from you. You look up at him, nervously.

“Okay,” Dean says when he turns back. “First thing we’re gonna do is get you out of here. We can take care of everything else after that.” He’s interrupted by another knock on the door.

“I said, give us a minute!” Dean repeats, voice loud and annoyed. Meanwhile, Sam takes a careful step closer to you, hand raised like he’s trying to calm a scared animal.

“You’re safe, okay?” he says, voice a little thick. “It’s all gonna be okay.” This time, you don’t back away. You study him, and then slowly nod. Another knock breaks the sudden silence.

Dean turns back to the door, hand reaching out. “I said—” he starts as he rips it open to give whoever is on the other side of it a verbal thrashing.

It’s the deputy. But there’s something strange about him. His eyes are turned up and there’s blood on his bottom lip. He fills out the doorway for a second, and then collapses to the floor, only to reveal another police officer behind him. This one with black eyes.

“The King of Hell wants a word with you,” he says. Dean pulls the angel blade quickly, barely a conscious process at this point, more like a honed instinct.

“You can tell Crowley to shove it,” he says through clenched teeth. The demon moves his head towards Dean.

“Not you,” he says, and then glares back into the interview room. “Her.”

Your eyes go wide, but it’s nothing compared to what happens when Dean reaches out, grabs the demon by the shirt collar and rams the blade into his neck, black smoke inside flickering. You scream, and Sam turns to you, but he also knows he shouldn’t take his eyes off the door. There could be more. There always are.

Dean meanwhile drops the body and then peeks out into the hallway, looks up and down it. He pulls his head back, turns to Sam, who’s pulled out his demon knife.

“I don’t see any more, but I doubt he’s on his own,” he says, and Sam nods. No matter what is going on between them, this is what they’re good at. This is where they work perfectly together. Sam turns back to you. You are staring at the dead officer on the ground.

“You killed that man,” you mutter and, well, Sam can see how that might look.

“Believe me,” Dean cuts in. “That wasn’t a man. Now come on.” Since Sam still seems to be out of it, Dean walks towards you, wraps his hand around your arm. You flinch at the contact, but don’t fight him, maybe too stunned to do anything.

Sam walks out first, knife raised and when he nods back at Dean, the three of you slowly make your way back towards the front of the station.

“That guy…” you say, voice shaky as you walk next to Dean, needing to take two steps for every one he does. “He… he had black eyes.”

Just then, you enter the area with the desks. It’s completely empty at first glance. That could be good. It could also be very, very bad.

“Those were demons,” Dean explains as he drags you through the room. Your eyes widen.

“Demons?” you repeat, then take a deep breath. “Oh my God, you’re lunatics.”

Sam, who’s walking ahead, stops suddenly, Dean almost running into him. He looks past his brother.

He can just see into the entrance hall of the station, where the reception is. The front of the building is mostly glass. Beyond it are more demons than Dean can count.

Some of them are in police officers and some of them are civilians. They are surrounding the station, all turned to look at it. Making a split-second decision, Dean drags you behind the reception counter, out of sight, Sam following and kneeling next to the two of you.

“Oh my God, oh my God,” you mutter. You might not believe in demons, but the visual of those people outside is chilling, no doubt. Sam looks around the counter.

“Dean,” he says, the first thing he’s said in a while. “We’re not gonna make it out that way.”

“Yeah, I know,” Dean answers, looking around. “There.” He nods towards the side of the room. There’s a door with the words Roof access on them. Sam understands, and keeping low, he makes his way towards the door. Good, Dean thinks. He needs to keep him busy. Because Dean saw the look in his brother’s face. If you’re not, well, you… He’s not sure Sam’s gonna survive that.

“Now,” he says, letting go of you, pretty sure that you’re not gonna try to run now, and reaches into his jacket. “You don’t remember anything, huh? Not us or demons or how you got here?” You shake your head intensely.

“No,” you say, keeping your voice low. “I just… I woke up in some field, and I don’t know anything else.” Dean nods, then takes his hand out of his jacket. In it he has his silver flask, passes it to you. You frown at him.

“I’m not sure drinking is the solution right now,” you say and it makes Dean grin.

“It’s holy water,” he says. “Just wanna make sure you’re not one of those guys with the black eyes.”

“Holy water?” you say, lowering your head. “Are you going to kill me and, and cut up my body and play with my innards, or something?” This time Dean chuckles. You might not remember who you are, but there’s something very distinctly you about whoever he’s talking to.

“Wasn’t planning on it,” he responds. You eye him for another second, then take the flask from him, smell it. Dean guesses that if you really don’t remember who you are, you would also want to make sure you’re not a demon. Hesitantly, you take a sip. Nothing happens. If Dean was the praying kind, he would send a quick thank you up to Heaven. He takes the flask back from you.

“I guess you don’t have any actual liquor, do you?” you ask and Dean turns towards you. He shakes his head, and you look disappointed.

Just then, Sam comes back. Dean notices he’s avoiding looking at you, but still can’t stop himself from his gaze flickering to you. But he always looks away quickly. Maybe he’s too scared to get used to the sight of you.

“The door’s unlocked, we can get up there, try to make it to the next building,” Sam explains, then looks at you. His face immediately goes soft. “How are you doing?” You look at Sam, brow furrowed.

“Not great,” you say and Sam nods.

“It’s gonna be okay,” he says again. Maybe he needs to convince himself more than anything.

“Okay,” Dean says, getting both of your attention, “I say we make a run for it. On three. One—”

All the glass windows at the front of the building suddenly explode.

“Three! Three!” Dean yells. You’ve brought your hands together over your head, but Sam grabs one of them, pulls you after him and then all three of you are running towards the stairs. Dean takes the rear and he can hear footsteps behind him, people running. Sam rips open the door to the roof and starts sprinting up it, needs to slow himself because you are not as fast as him. Dean turns around last second, grabs the door handle and slams the door closed behind him.

You reach the roof and Dean looks into the distance. The Impala is parked down the street, just one building further. If you can get to that building and climb down it, you should be able to make it to the car and drive off with a head start.

There’s a little bit of a gap between the two buildings, Dean sees, as he jogs towards the edge of the roof. The good news is though that the next building is lower, so it should be an easy jump.

“This way,” he says, then takes a few steps back and jumps across the gap. He lands on the other side, then keeps going to the edge, careful the demons below can’t see him. There’s a fire escape down into an alley – if you’re fast, you can cut the demons off, make it to the car.

Sam, meanwhile, is intensely aware of the fact that he is holding your hand, and the fact that he will need to let go for either of you to make the jump. He turns to you, looks at you intently.

“I’ll go first,” he says. You’re looking around, terrified, but then focus on him, look at his face. “And I’ll catch you, okay?” He dares to look at your face.

It’s you, Sam thinks. It’s really you.

Then he needs to let go. It takes him everything but he turns, makes the jump. It’s not far, really. He turns around, stands close to the edge and looks up at you. But you don’t jump.

Instead you look back as someone bangs against the inside of the door leading up to the roof. Sam can see your breathing picking up. You’re panicking, he’s pretty sure.

“Come on,” he says and your eyes shoot towards him.

“I… I can’t make it over there,” you say. “It’s too far.” Sam shakes his head.

“No, it’s okay,” he says, and now he feels himself start to panic. He should have let you jump first, should have stayed up there with you. He went first because he thought you’d find it easier if you had him to jump towards. But you don’t know him. Jesus, do you really not know him?

“You can do it,” he says, trying to reassure you. “I’ve got you.” You turn back to the door, more banging coming from there. When you turn back to Sam, he sees tears in your eyes.

“They’re gonna kill me,” you say, lips shaking.

“No,” Sam says, trying to make his voice as clear as possible, trying to break through to you. “They’re not.” But you’re looking away from him.

“Hey!” Sam says, voice loud, and you finally look at him again. “Look at me.” And you do. Your eyes stay on him.

“I’m not gonna let anything happen to you,” he says, his own voice shaking. “But you need to trust me. Please.” And you still look unsure, but you also look so much like you. Those times when you would let Sam see your fear, your soft, gooey center, as you'd call it afterwards, wiping away your tears, trying to make light of the situation.

“Please,” Sam repeats. “I can’t lose you again.”

The door behind you bangs open, and the first demon comes through. He looks around for a second, and when he spots you he starts sprinting towards you. You don’t have time to walk backwards and get more of a run-up. They’re too close. So you simply jump.

Sam leans forward, and he can feel the moment his arms wrap around you. He pulls you in, holds you, turns so that your feet land on the roof. When they do, you gasp, and he quickly looks down at you to make sure you’re okay.

It seems that you are and the moment he looks at you, so close, staring back at him, he knows it’s really you. Being a hunter has taught him to always make sure, always look for proof, but it’s also taught him to trust his gut. And his gut is saying one thing loud and clear – that this is you. That you’re not dead, but that you’re alive.

Sam can already hear the approaching footsteps, so he tears his eyes away from you and grabs your hand again, takes you over to the edge of the roof he can just see Dean disappearing down. You let him hold your hand as he leads you to the ladder. This time he makes you go first.

Dean’s feet hit the ground of the alley, and when he turns to move towards where the Impala is parked, three demons are just turning the corner. He stops, turns, starts going the other way just as you and then Sam reach the ground as well, but there’s more demons already on the other side.

Without thinking about it, Sam reaches out for you and pulls you back, between him and Dean. Each brother faces one way, knife drawn.

It’s too many, Dean thinks as they approach slowly.

Sam doesn’t think that. All he thinks is that he will not lose you again. He won’t. This time, he’s going with you.

“Hello, boys,” they suddenly hear a smooth voice saying. “Should have known it would be you two.”

Crowley isn’t there and in the next second he is. The demons stop their approach while the King of Hell saunters towards the brothers, both now turned towards him.

“What the hell do you want, you limey ass?” Dean asks, voice low. Crowley grins at him.

“Keep it in your pants,” Crowley says, then tilts his head and looks at you. You’re half hidden behind Sam, shoulders pulled high.

“There’s my little runaway,” Crowley notes. Sam raises his knife.

“Stay the hell away from her,” he pushes out through gritted teeth. Crowley only scoffs.

“And what if I don’t?” he asks, keeping Sam’s gaze. “What if I tell my lackeys here to tear you all to pieces?” Sam stares back at Crowley, hoping, praying, he’s bluffing. That Crowley will let them walk away the way he so often has.

At last, the King sighs, slowly shakes his head.

“At least tell me how you did it,” he says, looking from Sam to Dean and back. “Let me know where I need to tighten up security.” Dean blinks, and looks sideways at his brother, then back at Crowley.

“Did what?” he asks. Crowley gives a deep sigh.

“You really are as dumb as you are lucky,” he complains, then points at you, making you tense up. “How did you break her out?” Sam narrows his eyes.

“Out of Hell?” he asks, and this time Crowley can’t help but roll his eyes.

“No, out of Disneyland,” he says. “Of course out of Hell!” Sam looks at Dean, notices his brother studying him.

“That wasn’t us,” Sam replies, making Crowley narrow his eyes.

“Then who was it, Romeo?” he says. Dean cuts in.

“We don’t know, okay?” he says.

Crowley thinks for a second. The magic it takes to drag a soul out of Hell is significant, and he must know the brothers couldn’t have done it without some help. And the fact that it’s you that’s been brought back puts them in the library with the candle stick. But they’re too simple to lie this well. Someone had to help them, and maybe they don’t even know. But Crowley can’t just let this go. He needs to make an example out of someone, anyone. He purses his lips.

“I want whoever did that spell,” he says, his eyes landing on you. “Or I’m coming back to collect what’s mine.” With that, he’s gone.

In the next second, all demons surrounding the three of you raise their heads, rip open their mouths. The black smoke screeches out of them, and the humans they were possessing collapse to the ground. You gasp, but Dean shakes himself out of it.

“Come on,” he says and starts walking. Sam looks down at you. You look terrified, and he doesn’t blame you. But you move, follow Dean, which he decides, for now, to take as a good sign.

The Impala is down the street, and there’s more of the recently possessed humans lying around it.

“Are these people gonna be okay?” you ask. Sam steps over the legs of an older woman.

“They’ll be fine,” he says. “They’re just out of it right now.”

Dean walks around to the driver’s side, gets in while Sam opens the door to the backseat, stepping aside so you can get in. But you don’t. You look at the car, then down the street. Finally at Sam. It feels like lightning traveling through him, to have you look at him.

He’s not sure if you trust him, but you do get in the car then. Maybe just because you think you don’t have a choice. Sam gets in the front just as Dean starts the engine.

Nobody says anything for a few miles. You make it out of town and onto the country road. The taller one with the dark hair – Sam? – keeps throwing looks your way, like he expects you to disappear into thin air. The other one whose name you can’t remember is concentrated on the road, both hands on the wheel.

You have your arms wrapped around you, look outside. The adrenaline you burned through is slowly making you tired, but if there’s one thing you know, it’s that the only thing dumber than getting into a car with two strange men who apparently are devil worshippers or something, is to fall asleep in that car. Still, you need to suppress a yawn. It makes Sam fully turn around in his seat.

He opens his mouth to say something, but seems to forget it in the same moment. Instead he just looks at you for a second before he catches himself.

“Uhm,” he says, and you couldn’t agree more.

“So I’m guessing you’re not really FBI agents?” you ask before he can say anything else. He seems confused for a second, then chuckles.

“No, uh, we’re not,” he says, looks down, then back up at you. “We’re hunters. We hunt demons and monsters and other things.” You nod, even though it’s a tough one to swallow. Part of you wants to tell him to take a hike, but also what you just saw… You don’t know how to explain it. If they’re just trying to kidnap you for some reason, get you to trust them, they’re going through an awful lot of trouble. And that guy, the one with the English accent, he really did just appear out of thin air, and then disappeared again. And that black smoke… Your memory catches on something.

“That guy in the suit,” you say, trying to remember. “Cowley?”

“Crowley,” the one who is driving corrects you. You nod.

“Crowley,” you say. “He said something about Hell? About breaking out of it?” The driver throws Sam a quick look. You’re not sure why, but for some reason you feel that a lot is said with that single look. Driver shifts in his seat.

“Yeah,” he says. “You were in Hell.”

You’re about to say something to that, something like I think I’d remember that I’ve been to Hell, but the answer dies in your throat. You don’t remember anything. And you don’t believe in Hell. At least you think you don’t.

“Okay,” you say, nodding slowly. Just in case these two are the psychotic kinds of lunatics and not the selling-your-organs-on-the-black-market ones, you decide to play along. “And why was I in Hell? I mean, is there a Heaven?” Quiet, again. Sam has turned back around, is looking out the front window. He has a deep frown on his face. The driver shoots him another look, like he’s waiting for him to answer.

“Because you sold your soul,” he answers when Sam doesn’t.

“Right,” you say, because of course you did. “And why did I sell my soul?” The driver sighs.

“Because you were trying to help someone who—” he starts, but Sam interrupts him.

“Dean,” he says, voice warning. Dean looks at him, studies him for a second, then looks forward. Again you feel like a whole conversation has passed without you noticing.

“You helped people,” Dean says instead, looking at you in the rear view mirror. “You did what we do. And you sold your soul to help someone.” He looks at Sam again, raises his eyebrows. You’re not sure what that means.

“I hunted things too?” you ask. Well, this is interesting. “Demons and monsters and stuff?” Now it’s Sam’s turn to turn back to you.

“Yeah,” he says, voice softer than when he spoke to the other man. “You were really good at it, too.” He smiles a little at you. It makes you blink. For a second, he seems incredibly familiar to you, but it’s gone a moment later. Maybe just déjà vu.

The three of you keep driving for a while, nobody saying anything. You look outside, watch the fields and then small towns and then farm houses and then fields again pass by.

“Where are we going?” you ask after a few miles. Dean clears his throat.

“To the place we live,” he answers. “You’ll be safe there, and we can figure this all out.” Sam turns around again.

“It’ll be a few hours,” he says. “If you wanna sleep, or something—” Whatever goes over your face must tell him that the last thing you’re gonna do is go to sleep in this car. You might have followed them, but then the alternatives weren’t exactly tempting. He closes his mouth, then leans forward. He moves, then pulls the knife he had earlier out from somewhere. You tense for a second, but he sees and raises his other hand, turns the knife so that he’s holding the blade, then passes it to you over the seat.

“Sammy—” Dean says but Sam doesn’t listen to him. Carefully, you reach out, take the knife. Lay your hand on your thigh and just hold it there. It feels strange in your hand, but not strange the way you expect it to feel.

“Would you prefer a gun?” Sam asks, studying you carefully. You take a deep breath and play over the revelation that apparently these men have guns.

“I’ve never shot a gun before,” you reply and Sam nods.

“Okay,” he says, then looks away, then back at you. You force a little smile onto your face.

“You don’t look… like a Sammy,” you say, hoping to lighten the mood a little. Maybe they’re less likely to sell your organs if they think you’re charming.

But Sam seems taken aback, blinks, frowns a little. He’s handsome, you realize, thick chestnut hair and an earnest, masculine face.

“I’m sorry,” you quickly add. “I didn’t mean to offend you or anything.”

“No, no,” he says quickly. “It’s just…” He’s quiet for a moment, continues watching you. This time you hold his gaze.

“That’s what you said to me the first time we met,” he says, and his voice sounds impossibly gentle. You’re not sure what to do with that, how to understand what he’s saying. The first time you met? This is the first time you’re meeting. But then you remember that these two think you’ve known each other before. Before you went to Hell. Because you sold your soul.

Sam turns back in the next second. He looks out the window on his side, and you can’t see his face but he sits perfectly still. Dean looks his way again, but he doesn’t return the look. So instead Dean looks at you in the rear view mirror again, and then back at the road as he keeps driving.

You lean back into the seat, tightening your grip on the knife just in case.

#supernatural #spn #fanfic #sam winchester #gadreel #spn fanfic #sam winchester x reader #sam winchester x you #gadreel x reader #gadreel x you #are you now or have you ever been #aynohyeb

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annaswrites00 · 1 day ago

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Just Between Us - Lando Norris

Lando Norris x Margot Piastri (OC)

(2.2k)

Chapter Three - Between The Flags

Chapter Two, Chapter One

Summary - Margot visits the McLaren Technology Centre and sees firsthand how Oscar thrives in his element. A quiet moment shared with Lando blurs lines she didn’t really know were there. As the Miami Grand Prix looms, so do feelings she’s not sure how to name. Warning - Mentions of unhealthy relationship with food, insecurities. Light emotional vulnerability. This chapter includes themes of disordered eating. While I approach it with care and lots of personal experience, please take caution if you are sensitive to this topic.

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The first thing Margot noticed about McLaren’s Technology Centre was how quiet it was.

After the chaos of the Bahrain paddock and Saudi Arabia— the screaming fans, the camera flashes, the shouting over headset static — the MTC felt like a library built for machines. Cool, sleek, and perfectly polished. Even the reflections in the floor felt like they had somewhere important to be.

She followed Oscar through the lobby, trying not to stare at the race cars suspended behind glass like art. A receptionist smiled politely. Somewhere, a coffee machine hissed. The hum of compressed air systems drifted in from one of the bays.

No one mobbed her brother here.

And yet, he still glowed.

Oscar walked a little taller, head high, his shoulders loose like he belonged here — like the spotlight from Bahrain and Jeddah hadn’t dimmed, just followed him home.

Margot swallowed the knot in her throat and adjusted the strap of her canvas bag.

"You okay back there?" Oscar asked, glancing over his shoulder with a grin.

"Yeah," she said.

Margot lingered near a glass wall while Oscar disappeared into a meeting room. She could hear muffled voices behind the door — Zak Brown, someone from a press team, maybe a FIA rep — but she didn’t feel like inserting herself.

Instead, she wandered.

Not far. Just around the corridor. Past the simulation room, where the hum of machinery sounded a bit like breathing. Past a row of McLaren-branded water dispensers. She ended up in a quiet alcove near a window that looked out over the lake.

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Margot sat on the edge of a window bench, one foot tapping anxiously against the floor. She tried to focus on the view outside — the glassy lake, the manicured trees, the faint ripple of wind through the reeds. But her mind wouldn’t settle.

She kept seeing Lando.

Not the polished, PR-friendly version. The one from Bahrain. The one who looked like he’d been punched in the stomach by his own expectations.

She hadn’t meant to watch him that closely.

But something about the way he’d stood there, holding his helmet like it was the only thing anchoring him to the earth — it hadn’t left her.

He looked like she felt, most days.

Like he was trying not to drown in a sea that everyone else insisted was shallow.

A voice cut through her thoughts.

"Didn’t think anyone else liked hiding in my quiet corner."

Margot turned.

Lando stood in the hallway, hands shoved deep into the pockets of a McLaren hoodie. His curls were slightly damp again — from the gym maybe, or a sim session. His expression wasn’t quite a smile, but it wasn’t cold either.

"I’m not hiding," Margot said, even though she clearly was.

He raised an eyebrow. "Sure."

She shrugged. "Guess I found your secret spot."

Lando stepped closer, not quite sitting, but not walking away either. "It’s a good spot."

For a few seconds, they stood in silence. Margot looked down at her hands. Lando looked out the window.

"I saw you after quali," she said quietly. "In Bahrain.”

His jaw twitched. "Yeah?"

"You looked like you were going to throw your helmet at something."

He huffed a laugh — dry and self-deprecating. "I didn’t."

"I know. That’s kind of what stuck with me."

Lando didn’t answer right away. He lowered himself onto the other end of the bench, elbows resting on his knees, fingers laced loosely in front of him.

"It just—" He exhaled, his breath catching a little. "I knew I could’ve done more. Should’ve. P6 sounds decent until you remember what the car has in it. What I should’ve had in me. And Jeddah, I don’t even have an excuse for that one.”

Margot nodded slowly. “P4 was great, considering where you started.”

"But I get that,” she said. "The not-enoughness. Even when people say it’s fine."

He glanced sideways. "You?"

She hesitated. Then, "It’s not the same. I’m not in the car. But... sometimes it feels like I’m just a puzzle piece that doesn’t fit, no matter how hard I try to make it work."

Lando looked at her properly then.

Not the quick glance most people gave when they were pretending to listen. This was different. Sharper. Realer.

"Yeah," he said. "That’s it. Exactly."

𐙚⋆°｡⋆♡ 𐙚⋆°｡⋆♡ 𐙚⋆°｡⋆♡ 𐙚⋆°｡⋆♡ 𐙚⋆°｡⋆♡ 𐙚⋆°｡⋆♡ 𐙚⋆°｡⋆♡

They didn’t talk much after that.

They sat there for a while. Not speaking. Just... being.

The kind of silence that didn’t press too hard.

Eventually, Lando stood.

"I should head back. Andrea’s probably wondering if I’ve made my escape."

Margot smiled. "Tell him you were having a deeply emotional moment."

He chuckled. "Right. That’ll go over well."

He hesitated, then nodded toward her. "You coming?"

She shook her head. "Think I’ll stay here a bit longer."

He didn’t push.

Just lifted two fingers in a casual goodbye and walked off.

𐙚⋆°｡⋆♡ 𐙚⋆°｡⋆♡ 𐙚⋆°｡⋆♡ 𐙚⋆°｡⋆♡ 𐙚⋆°｡⋆♡ 𐙚⋆°｡⋆♡ 𐙚⋆°｡⋆♡

Oscar found her an hour later.

"You good?" he asked. "Thought maybe you fell in."

Margot stretched. "Just needed some air."

"You missed Lando pretending to be interested in the new merch line."

She arched her brow. "Pretending?"

"He spent twenty minutes trying to take a hoodie off without taking his helmet off."

Margot laughed, and something loosened in her chest.

She followed Oscar out of the MTC, the late afternoon light casting long shadows across the grass.

𐙚⋆°｡⋆♡ 𐙚⋆°｡⋆♡ 𐙚⋆°｡⋆♡ 𐙚⋆°｡⋆♡ 𐙚⋆°｡⋆♡ 𐙚⋆°｡⋆♡ 𐙚⋆°｡⋆♡

Dinner was at a low-key pub about ten minutes from the place they were staying. Oscar invited a few of the engineers he works closely with, and Lando showed up halfway through, claiming traffic, though Margot had a feeling he just didn’t want to arrive early.

She sat at the end of the table, picking at her food and nursing a water while conversations buzzed around her.

Lando slid into the seat across from her, glancing at Margot with a raised eyebrow. "You look like you're in deep thought."

Margot met his gaze for a moment, then shrugged. "Maybe I am."

"Should I be worried?"

"Only if you’re afraid of people who think too much." She smiled, but it was faint, more of a reflex than anything genuine.

Lando grinned, leaning back in his chair.

There was a comfortable silence between them. Lando took a sip of his drink, letting the quiet stretch for a moment before he spoke again. "So, Miami. I’m actually kinda looking forward to it. It’s always a wild weekend."

Margot shifted in her seat, her fingers lightly grazing the edge of her fork, but not picking it up. "Yeah, I guess it’s... been a year since your big first win. Right?"

“Keeping tabs on me Piastri?” He smirked.

“The whole world knows that was your first win, Lando.” She defended.

They lapsed into a more comfortable silence, the kind that came with shared understanding, but Margot couldn’t shake the gnawing feeling in her stomach. The more they talked about the race, the more she felt her focus slipping between the pressure of the weekend coming up and the overwhelming reality of trying to pretend that everything was fine when it wasn’t. Her mind kept drifting back to the uneaten food, to the way her body seemed to pull in on itself whenever food was involved.

Lando paused, looking at her closely, the way her fingers played with the fork, the way her gaze avoided his. Something unnerving settled in his stomach. "Uh, are you going to eat that?”

“You can have it,” she said, pushing her plate towards him.

“You sure,” he questioned.

She pasted on the best natural smile she could, “Yeah, all good,” she urged before getting up and going to the bathroom.

What she didn’t see was Lando’s soft gaze following her across the room.

The fluorescent lights buzzed softly overhead. Everything was clean, sterile. A row of sinks lined the wall, each mirror spotless. She stepped toward one — the middle — and braced her hands on the cool porcelain edge of the basin.

Her reflection stared back, tired. The shadows under her eyes had settled in like tenants refusing to move.

She tilted her head. Pulled the sleeves of her jumper down further. Tried to see herself the way someone else might — the way Lando had, maybe — but it didn’t stick.

Her fingers tapped anxiously against the marble. She pressed her lips together and forced herself to stand up straight. Breathe.

You’re fine, she told herself. You're fine, you're fine, you're fine.

The words didn’t mean much, but they gave her something to hold onto.

She stayed there a moment longer, staring into her own eyes until they felt like someone else's.

𐙚⋆°｡⋆♡ 𐙚⋆°｡⋆♡ 𐙚⋆°｡⋆♡ 𐙚⋆°｡⋆♡ 𐙚⋆°｡⋆♡ 𐙚⋆°｡⋆♡ 𐙚⋆°｡⋆♡

That night, in her hotel room, she stared at the ceiling. Willing herself to sleep.

Her phone buzzed once — a message from Oscar, something about meetings in the morning. Then another, from a number she didn’t recognize at first.

Maybe: Lando

8:43 PM you survive oscar’s merch tour?

Margot

8:47 PM barely. too many zippers he’s so proud of the socks it’s kind of cute

Maybe: Lando

8:49 PM he’s been talking about those socks for 3 weeks he wore them with slides yesterday. i’m still recovering

Margot

8:52 PM he needs to be stopped i’ll stage an intervention

Maybe: Lando

8:55 PM just tell me when and where. see you in Miami

Margot set her phone down, the screen still lit with Lando’s last message.

Her room was dim, the bedside lamp casting a gold halo over the sheets. She rolled onto her side and buried her face into the pillow for a second, cheeks heating without her permission. That soft kind of blush — the one that bloomed before you even understood why.

It was just a text.

A stupid, friendly text from a guy who was probably already asleep. But still, her heart did that quiet stutter. Not loud or dramatic. Just enough to notice. Enough to make her feel like maybe she’d been seen — not as Oscar’s sister, not as someone drifting along the paddock margins — but as herself.

She hugged the pillow tighter and closed her eyes.

And for the first time in weeks, maybe months, she didn’t fall asleep counting the ways she could disappear.

Tonight, she counted the ways someone might be starting to notice she was still here.

𐙚⋆°｡⋆♡ 𐙚⋆°｡⋆♡ 𐙚⋆°｡⋆♡ 𐙚⋆°｡⋆♡ 𐙚⋆°｡⋆♡ 𐙚⋆°｡⋆♡ 𐙚⋆°｡⋆♡

Fav chapter yet!! Thanks for reading!!!

⋆˚✿˖°⋆˚꩜｡

#ln4 fic #ln4 imagine #formula 1 fic #f1 imagine #f1 fic #f1 fanfic

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uss-butterscotch · 1 day ago

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Part 2 of this (another between seasons 3&4 fic from eddie’s pov)

The next encounter Eddie had with Steve Harrington was one week later, but it wasn’t in the school’s parking lot. Instead, it was in the bathroom. The rest of the group was working on solving a puzzle to make it through this week’s quest, and he figured he’d have plenty of time to hit the head before they figured it out.

He should have known something was up when he walked through the bathroom door and the lights were out. When he flicked them back on, and he heard a pained groan, he should have turned back around and found the bathroom in the next hall over. But it was just his luck that he didn’t do either of those things.

He took a cautious step into the bathroom to find none other than Harrington. On the floor by the sinks. His arm slung over his eyes.

He took a quick glance at his watch and confirmed what he already knew. There was still an hour before Hellfire ended and Steve was expected to pick up his gaggle of freshmen. And yet, there he was, right in front of Eddie, looking more than a little pale.

“Harrington?” Eddie asked tentatively, “You good, man?”

“Munson.” The man on the floor all but groaned out. He took a deep breath and if Eddie was a betting man, he’d guess it was to steady himself. “I’m uh… I’ll be good, just gotta…”

Eddie waited for a moment, but Harrington never finished the thought. The more he looked at Harrington, the worse he looked. His hair was damp like he’d splashed water on his face and his usually neatly tucked shirt was rumpled.

“Are you like, drunk or something?” Eddie asked.

“No I-“ he stopped abruptly and grit his teeth. He looked like he was trying to hold back another exclamation of pain.

Eddie watched for a moment, unsure of what to do, or if he should even be seeing this. He was about to ask another questions when Steve let out a shaky breath.

“Lights.” Was all he said, and it took Eddie half a second longer than it should’ve to realize he should turn the lights back off.

When he did, he heard Harrington take another deep breath. “Thanks,” he said quietly.

Eddie shifted awkwardly on his feet. “Okay so, not drunk… Hungover?” He didn’t really expect this to be the answer, given Harrington’s “keg king” reputation, but it was the only other thing he could think of.

“No.” Steve said, almost sounding frustrated. “My head, I get-“

If he looked pale before, he looked downright green now in the dim light filtering in through the window into the hallway. Suddenly he was scrambling to one of the stalls with less grace than Eddie thought was possible for a star athlete like him, and the telltale sign of emptying the contents of one’s stomach could be heard from within.

It was at that moment Eddie decided he was not equipped to deal with the situation alone, and he turned to leave the bathroom. “I’m gonna go get help, man. Stay here.”

Stay here? Real helpful, Eddie, the guy writhing in pain on the bathroom floor wandering off was probably a big concern. He took off running back to the drama classroom with one goal in mind.

“Henderson,” he shouted as he threw open the door.

Six pairs of eyes snapped to him, a combination of confused and startled.

“Your babysitter’s like, dying in the bathroom.”

“What?” Dustin practically screeched, hurriedly getting up from his chair. Mike and Lucas exchanged a worried look.

“What’s happening? Did he lose another fight? Is there blood? I don’t have my first aid kit on me! Shit, shit, shit!” Dustin was fully panicking.

“Woah, slow down. No blood, just, his head? I think? And he was uh, throwing up when I left him.” Eddie said, feeling a little guilty about riling the kid up so much. And filing away the fact that he apparently keeps a first aid kit on him sometimes.

“Oh thank god.” Dustin sighed and immediately relaxed. “It’s just a migraine.”

Lucas was immediately on his feet. “I’ll call Robin.” And he was out the door.

Dustin began digging in his backpack and pulled out a pill bottle, a walkie talkie, and his bottle of water. “Which bathroom?” He asked, staring intently at Eddie.

“Uh, just, the one down the hall.” Eddie replied a little shakily, his body not quite catching onto the fact that it didn’t seem like an emergency situation anymore.

Dustin nodded and pushed past him through the door. Without even really thinking about it, Eddie found himself following.

“Wait wait, what’s happening?” Eddie asked, still a little frantic.

“Steve gets these migraines now. Really bad headaches.” Dustin explained quickly. “Doctor said it can happen after too many concussions, which Steve has had plenty of at this point.”

They made it back to the bathroom where the lights were still off. “Steve?” Dustin called softly.

He received an unintelligible mumble from the stall Eddie knew Harrington to be in.

Dustin made his way toward the noise. “Did you take your pills already?”

“Threw’em up..” Steve slurred quietly.

“Ok well, I brought some more. I’ll leave them here for when you think you’re done throwing up.” Dustin said, using the voice he saved for when he was trying to be helpful.

Eddie heard the pill bottle be set down on the floor followed by two other objects. The water bottle and the walkie, he deduced in some back room of his brain.

“Lucas is calling Robin, but walkie if you need anything else, okay?”

Once again, the only response he got was something that might have been words if they got put through a meat grinder. As Eddie stood there he remembered the apparent relief the freshman seemed to have at knowing it was only this. Apparently a headache bad enough to be throwing up on the floor of a dark high school bathroom. He couldn’t help but wonder what they could have been expecting that was worse.

Dustin exited the stall, careful not to let the door slam shut. “Let’s get out of here.” He whispered to Eddie in the darkness, and he was only too eager to agree.

Once they were back in the hallway, they started slowly making their way back to the others. Eddie glanced over at Dustin, whose expression was unreadable other than he looked lost in thought.

“Well that looks like it sucks.” He stated, trying to break the silence.

“Yeah.” Dustin said quietly.

Now Eddie was starting to get anxious again. Henderson was never this quiet. “It’s good that you know what to do to help.” He offered.

“It’s my fault it even happens.” Dustin snapped.

Eddie whipped his head to look at the freshman. “Woah, I don’t think-“

“I’m the one who kept dragging him into all the shit that got him hurt.” Dustin shouted. “He was there when Billy showed up because I asked him to help me! He got take-“

He did the thing that Eddie had been noticing more and more. Like he was adjusting what he was about to say for some reason. Like he was keeping secrets.

“He got hurt at Starcourt because I convinced him to come with me!” The kid’s eyes were dangerously close to spilling tears.

“Knock it off!” Mike’s voice came from down the hallway.

He stalked closer to them at an agitated pace. “If he hadn’t been there any of those times, we’d all be dead.”

Eddie didn’t have time to process that before Dustin was yelling back to him.

“Oh, and it’s ok to turn his brain to mush if it means we’re safe, huh?” Dustin shot back.

“It’s not like we were forcing him to do anything! He could have said no whenever! It was his choice to be involved!” Mike was yelling now too.

“Oh really? What about the tunnels?”

Eddie watched them go back and forth, barely making sense of what they were saying, but knowing it was turning into a full blown fight. “Hey guys,” he tried to interject.

“You’re the one who insisted we couldn’t leave him behind!” Mike yelled, exasperated.

“Because if Billy had woken up to us and his car missing, who knows what he would have done!”

“Guys?” Eddie tried, a little louder, but he was ignored again.

“And besides, you just said we would have died if he hadn’t been there, so what side are you on?” Dustin continued.

“I’m just saying, he can make his own decisions, it’s not our fault anything happened!”

“Hey!” A voice came from down the hall behind Eddie. They all turned to see Harrington half in the hallway, supporting himself on the bathroom doorframe. “Will you little shits keep it down out here?”

He didn’t look any better than he had when Eddie first saw him, and he wondered how the hell he had managed to pull himself off the floor at all.

“Sorry, Steve.” Dustin said at the same time Mike scoffed and said “Whatever.”

Again, Eddie found himself watching the scene in front of him like it was a tennis match.

Harrington winced in the light of the hallway, but he managed to look at the two freshman. “Dustin, as much as I hate to say it, Wheeler’s right. Everything I did, I chose it. And I’d do it again if it meant keeping you idiots safe.”

Dustin sighed. “That doesn’t exactly make me feel better.”

Steve waved a hand at him, a motion which looked like it almost cost him his balance. “I know, sorry.” He tried to flash them a smile, but it was leaning a bit too far into grimace territory. “Point is, it’s nobody’s fault, or if it’s anyone’s it’s Billy’s and…”

Harrington trailed off, eyes shifting to briefly to Eddie, before he closed them, looking like he gave up on the thought.

“Whatever, you know what I mean, right?”

Dustin chewed his cheek for a moment before answering. “Yeah, I guess.”

That seemed to be enough for Harrington. “Now get back to your game and let me wallow in here in peace.” Harrington said, disappearing back into the dark bathroom.

Dustin and Mike looked at each other and appeared to come to some sort of agreement telepathically. They shook hands and looked at Eddie.

“Sorry for derailing the session.” Dustin offered.

Eddie blinked a couple times, realizing he was once again one of the players in the scene, not just an observer. “Oh it’s fine, I’m just counting all the time you spent out here as time your characters were in the shrinking room.” He put a devilish smile on his face and watched as they scrambled back to the drama room.

As he followed them, he saw Buckley rushing down the hall.

“Where is he?” She asked. She looked frazzled with her pajama pants, an oversized sweatshirt (emblazoned with “Hawkins Basketball”, he noted), and a plastic bag overflowing with an assortment of things like lotions, and ice packs, and several items Eddie couldn’t identify.

He pointed her down the hallway and watched her shuffle away. He burst back through the classroom door, less panicked, but with much to think about.

“Well boys, where were we?”

#gives steve my own migraine symptoms gives steve my own migrain symptoms gi-#what can i say i’m rolling all of my favorite tropes into this fic. i love tormenting steve for no reason #experience my pain boy #steve harrington #eddie munson #dustin henderson #robin buckley #(briefly) (she’s in it more later i prommy)#mike wheeler #lucas sinclair #miscellaneous hellfire freaks #i am gonna call the unnamed one Brian and you guys just have to accept that

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tintedswindows · 2 days ago

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adrien tilted his head lazily as junie scolded him, the faintest grin dragging at the corner of his mouth — not wide enough to be a full smile, more like a secret he wasn’t sharing yet. the sunlight pouring through the tall windows of the forum made him wince behind his sunglasses, and he rocked back slightly on his heels to avoid a direct shaft of light. he looked very much like someone who was enduring the day, not participating in it: hands shoved deep into the pockets of his leather jacket, shoulders loose, posture almost arrogantly relaxed. he tilted his head back to look at her properly — her new inch of height advantage not seeming to bother him in the slightest. “oh, hold still, bossy?” adrien echoed, voice syrupy and teasing, like he was about to stage a fake swoon. he — being adrien — did the exact opposite of holding still: he swayed just slightly to one side, just enough to throw her off. she instinctively grabbed for his shoulder, and he, naturally, did nothing to help her stabilize except offer a wicked little smirk.

but when the bench actually wobbled under her, he shot out a hand without warning and grabbed her calf — steadying her with a grip that was firm, lazy, and definitely unnecessary once she caught her balance. he didn’t let go immediately, either. just looked up at her from beneath his lashes, grin wicked. “whoa there, napoleon,” he said, voice rich with faux-concern as he held her calf lazily with one hand, his fingers lingered just a second too long — a deliberate choice — before he let go, all mock-innocence. “you planning to conquer the forum one bench at a time?” he asked, voice low and amused. he let out a soft, raspy chuckle — the kind that suggested he’d laughed a lot harder last night at something a lot stupider. he glanced sideways at one of the student art pieces — an abstract sculpture that, to his hungover brain, looked suspiciously like a giant misshapen shoe — and then back at junie.

“well,” he said, looking up at her from just beneath the ledge of his lashes, “congratulations. you’ve officially scaled mount adrien. i hope the view from the summit lives up to the hype.” he plucked a crumpled pack of gum from his pocket, popping a piece into his mouth with a snap of foil, all while maintaining that slow, insolent eye contact. like he was daring her to knock the smirk off his face. the mint hit his tongue sharp and cold, and he spoke around it like it was some necessary lifeline. “you don't need permission to climb me like a jungle gym, be my guest.” obnoxiously taunting in a classic way for him. he slowly dragged his gaze down her stance — hands on hips, imperious glare — “and i’m so delighted you’ve appointed yourself my moral compass. truly. you’re very convincing from up there.”

“but i hate to break it to you, sweetheart,” he went on, voice a little rougher around the edges now, like gravel and silk, “i don’t believe in authorities. especially not ones wearing,” he made a show of glancing down, “—such dainty, sensible sneakers.” his tone made it clear he was joking. mostly. adrien stepped closer, just enough that she might feel the slight tilt of his frame toward hers — not threatening, but maddeningly casual, the way a cat might lean its shoulder into your leg before darting away. his grin was slow and crooked, the kind that said he found this whole thing deeply entertaining. he didn’t mind being scolded — on the contrary, he looked like he was enjoying it a little too much. her hands on her hips, the glare she threw his way, the superiority she tried to wield like a weapon — it all made something gleam in his eyes, amused and intrigued.

he shifted his stance again, just a little closer, enough for his jacket to brush against her leg. then he cocked his head, like the idea had just struck him. “you know what?” he said, tone brightening into something almost innocent — almost. “if you’re so desperate to put me in my place, we should take this elsewhere.” he shrugged, eyes flicking over her like a dare. “or we could stay here. you on your pedestal, me down here pretending to be humbled. i like this little role play we’ve got going on. it’s fun. very fresh,” the entire interaction had distracted him entirely from the prior pound of his head. “either way, you’re still talking to me.” his gaze dropped to her mouth for just a second before snapping back to her eyes, infuriatingly casual. “so. what’s it gonna be, you little tyrant? need help down?”

It wasn’t like Junie didn’t want to ignore him - but it was true, that where she could be somewhat patient with people, she could also become temperamental. She walked on a tightrope at all times, and she threatened to teeter in either direction given her mood. The company she kept, what she ate that day - there was an endless list of reasons why Junie would or wouldn’t be more palatable to a stranger, and vice versa. So try as she might to return to a level-headed state of tranquility, she was incapable of letting things go without having the last word. Even when she knew it wasn’t worth it - her biggest downfall, really, her inability to settle and lose the risk of embarrassing herself by simply taking a deep breath and walking away from provocation. Something about it did thrill her. Dispute would always leave her fascinated, on her tiptoes and awaiting the moment she could properly stomp her foot down in protest.

But with this Adrien, it felt slightly different - she knew he was goading her on purpose, seemingly hitting every judgment she’d had in mind before she even had the chance to vocalise it. Clearly expecting her intolerance. It made her glance over his face, hearing him without really listening. It didn’t really make a difference when she stood to get a closer look, still needing to crane her neck to keep eye contact. “So - enlighten me then. You’re usually this obnoxious? If it’s this common for you to talk to yourself that you stopped expecting an answer I’d suggest seeking professional help.” She hadn’t realised it, when her hands immediately went to her hips. Suddenly scolding him like he was nothing more than a school boy. Quickly, she grew frustrated with their height difference - huffing and demanding he “Hold still,” until she stood atop the bench she was previously sat on, using his shoulder for leverage, so that she could stand a mere inch taller than him, before snapping her hands back to her hips once more. “I’m always a little bored. It’s nothing special to do with you - it’s rare to find anything that matches my level of capability.” She said haughtily, raising a brow as if to dare him to challenge her on such a statement. “If you’re going to say something so reprehensible, accept the reprimand. Unless you think your opinion is above mine? I promise you, it’s not.”

#adrien / junie (001)#th standing on the bench. SDKAKASD #THEATRICS!#thanks for letting me use this perfect gif <3

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clownsuu · 2 years ago

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Are they friends? Frenemies? Oh, who knows!

LMAOOO c l a s s i c Mob!Barnaby behavior

#Big bad boi dog who can chomp your head off ruthlessly and without mercy?#W r o n g #Anime school girl tsundere #LmAOOOOO #JUMPSCARED AGAIN BY HONORABLE ART AAAAAAUGGGHHHH #W o r m p h y s i c s n e c k #Funfact barnaby is almost as strong as Howdy #And Howdy is commanded to never harm ANYONE unless told otherwise by Wally or is a immediate threat (everyone else can do whatever)#So technically barnaby can throw him through a window and get away with it #T e c h n i c a l l y #“I’m going to throw you through that window”#“…..Is that a threat Mr Beagle-?”#“No that’s a P R O M I S E-“#[c r a s h i n g n o i s e]

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chheese-mmmhh · 3 months ago

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eddie diaz i LOVE YOU i don’t care what people say…i will commit heinous crimes in your honor because i LOVE YOU and im SICK and TIRED of people saying shit I LOVE YOU EDDIE DIAZ I LOVE YOU I LOVE YOU

#i’m so serious the next person i see say a bad thing about him is getting lit on fire #i will be throwing rocks through your windows #if someone has the balls to say a bad thing about him one more time i WILL go absolutely batshit #i’m becoming the joker except my only goal is to terrorize you specifically #fuck widespread panic i want YOU to panic #eddie diaz i LOVE YOU until the day i DIE #eddie diaz #911 abc

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444venicebitch444 · 1 month ago

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a/n: ty guys so much for all the love on my last post, i absolutely wasn’t expecting it. probably gonna write something about joel miller in the next few days. if you have requests, send away, ly!

simon riley who gets a new neighbour that won’t keep her fucking blinds closed.

he'd seen the moving truck, a pretty bird thanking the movers and hadn’t thought much of it; he wasn’t one to make conversation with his neighbors, so he minded his own business.

or at least he tried, but it was real fucking difficult when he could see through your windows at any god given moment.

at the beginning it wasn’t even intentional, he actually found himself getting annoyed at how exposed you were. did you have no fucking self preservation sense, letting anyone and everyone look into your house? christ, people these days.

but then the fascination creeped in and he couldn’t help but let his eyes travel to you. watching as you sat on the couch on your phone, watching tv, reading, whatever.

he observed as you came home from work, talking on your phone way too loudly for his liking, or laughing like the girls he always found insufferable in school when your friends came over.

after only a few weeks he put a name, and every other thing there was to know, to the pretty face. not like it was hard: you had your name on your mailbox, public social media profiles, and readily available professional and academic information on the first page of his google search.

simon knew it was weird, that he should stop watching, maybe mention your lack of blinds to you, but he couldn’t. not when he saw you undressing in a way that felt like you knew he was watching, like you were doing this on purpose, teasing him.

he tried telling himself that this was a bloody mid-life crisis, that he was too bored after retiring and needed to pull his shit together, but it did little to quell his growing enchantment.

so when he saw you struggling with your ground floor window, a rusted old thing he’d noticed quite a while ago, he exited his home withe the excuse of collecting his mail despite his mailbox being empty and shot a casual, gruff “everything all right?”

you were polite, sweet, assured him it was nothing, just the old house acting up, but he insisted.

he pulled at the old wooden frame with big, calloused hands, your gaze inevitably slipping to his strong, ink covered bicep, the muscle flexing as the window finally budged.

he noticed your look, of course he did, and couldn’t suppress a tiny smirk as he stepped back, “there you go, love”.

you thanked him profusely, then introduced yourself, obtaining his name right back, and offered him a cup of tea, but simon wanted to take his time. he had to think with his head, not his cock, and make sure you were the right one before getting himself too invested.

so, despite every bone in his body wanting to do the opposite, he refused “maybe some other time”

“I’m holding you to that, simon” you smiled and the sound of his name dripping from your lips like the sweetest of honies almost made his knees buckle.

after your interaction simon got more diligent, looking for anything wrong with you, anything to turn him away, to put a stop to this; but he couldn’t.

every bit of information he attained made him fall deeper, fed his growing love for you, validated the idea he had created in his head. you were bloody perfect for him.

so he did take you up on your offer of tea and biscuits, and showed up at your doorstep.

the sight of you greeting him with a soft smile and wearing a pretty sundress almost had him throwing his self control out the window and just telling you how you were made to be his. but he resisted.

he was a little awkward, but in a strangely endearing way. he made you laugh (god, he would die a happy man if your laughter was the last thing he heard), and was respectful, polite.

and obviously you found him attractive, you weren’t being exactly subtle: simon knew he wasn’t that funny and that there was absolutely no need for you to grab his arm as you giggled.

simon held onto every touch, every laugh, every time his name left your mouth like a man starved, his chest warming at the realization that he might have a chance, that you might love him back if he made an effort.

and sure, he might’ve placed a tiny listening device under your coffee table while you made a second kettle of tea, but that was just because he wanted to understand you better. to know how to please you, how to make you happy.

the ego boost he go from it a few days later as he listened in on your phone call was just a bonus. he couldn’t help the smile that decorated his face as you ranted to you friend, “he’s, like, unbelievably hot, build like a fucking tank. and sweet too! i know fucking your neighbour isn’t a good idea but christ”.

so you could imagine his surprise when he saw you come out of a car that wasn’t yours, an arm that wasn’t his around your waist. when the wanker kissed you at your doorstep, practically eating your face off, his fists clenched, blunt nails leaving bloody crescent moons on his palm.

who the fuck was that bloke? what the fuck were you doing? didn’t you like him? hadn’t you said that-

simon took a deep breath. he needed to calm down.

this wasn’t your fault, of course it wasn’t. you didn’t know how he felt, he hadn’t told you yet, how were you supposed to know?

you were his sweet, little bird, you’d never do anything to purposely hurt him. you weren’t like that.

so any ounce of anger towards you disappeared as soon as it appeared. that man, though?

the entire night, simon seethed. he’d closed his curtains but the image of him around you was burned on the front of his brain and he fantasised. fantasised about being the one driving you home, kissing you, pulling you upstairs, tasting you, burying himself into you as you screamed out his name. fantasised about crushing that man’s skull, cutting him up limb by limb, making him eat his own tongue, teaching him to keep it in his mouth instead of letting it slip into yours.

but simon wasn’t one to just steep in his fury, he did something about it.

so in the morning, as soon as he saw you and the asshole go downstairs, he turned the volume up on the laptop hooked to the listening device as he got dressed.

the guy offered to make you breakfast, and simon’s eyes damn near fell from his skull at how fast they rolled.

“that’s…nice, but I have to go to work, micheal” your voice came out static-y from the old computer, but the annoyance in it was unmistakable. simon knew you didn’t work on saturdays and it made him grin: you didn’t even like the bloke, you just needed a shag. and while simon didn’t exactly approve the way about which you went about it (i mean, he was literally across the street, love), he could understand that.

had you thought of him while he fucked you? had you imagined his strong arms around you? his cleft lip against your plush ones?

simon realised something good had come out of your little hook up: it had given him a courage of sorts. you were his, not this man’s who he was sure hadn’t fucked you right, who certainly didn’t love you as much as he did, and who wasn’t even enjoyable enough to keep around for breakfast.

so that same afternoon, he knocked on your door, had another cuppa and finally asked you on a date, being met with the brightest smile you’d given him as of yet, and making you promptly forget about micheal.

which was good because simon really didn’t want you knowing about how micheal hadn’t shown up to work the next day and the police had found his car abandoned, specs of blood on the seat.

#simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #ghost x you #ghost x reader #simon ghost riley #cod #call of duty #cod mw2 #ghost call of duty #simon riley #cod fic #cod fanfic #cod x reader

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julietsf1 · 1 month ago

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For Her - Lando Norris x Reader

summary: She came to support him. Instead, she was met with hate and a paddock full of people who acted like she didn’t exist. But if there was one thing about Lando Norris, it was that he loved out loud (3.2k words)

content: protective boyfriend, public relationship, public displays of affection, romantic grand gesture

AN: happy new season guys!!! what a race, I hope china will be kinder with my heart :') here's another fic for our race winner! muah <3

........................................................................

The first race of the season should have been magical.

It should have been the kind of morning you’d always imagined—walking through the paddock with the giddy excitement of someone witnessing greatness up close, feeling the electricity in the air, the intoxicating mix of tire smoke, adrenaline, and champagne already waiting for its moment in the podium spray. You had thought of how proud you would feel watching Lando, how thrilling it would be to see him in his element, how belonging you might feel in a world that, until now, had existed for you in stories and through screens.

You had not imagined being denied entry.

"Miss, I’m going to have to ask you to step back."

The security guard barely spared you a glance, already moving on to the next person in line, his voice impassive, as if he had done this a hundred times before and you were simply another face in a sea of hopeful girls who had tried to talk their way into the paddock.

You gripped your lanyard a little tighter, your heart skipping slightly. "I have a pass," you said, voice gentle but firm as you lifted it to eye level, the McLaren logo glinting in the sunlight.

The guard exhaled sharply through his nose, unimpressed. "We've had a lot of fans trying to sneak in today. If you don’t have the right accreditation, I can’t let you through."

Your stomach twisted.

"I do have the right accreditation," you tried again, as kindly as possible, despite the heat creeping up your neck. "I’m with McLaren. My boyfriend-"

"Yeah, that’s what they all say."

The words were clipped, dismissive, and spoken with the kind of flat finality that suggested he had already decided you were lying.

Embarrassment coiled in your chest, wrapping itself around your lungs, making it suddenly difficult to breathe.

You stood there, cheeks burning, as people brushed past you, throwing curious glances your way. The seconds stretched endlessly, each one more excruciating than the last.

It wasn’t until a McLaren staff member recognized you—"Oh, she’s with Lando," they had said offhandedly—that the security guard finally stepped aside, not bothering with so much as an apology.

By the time you walked through the gates, the joy you had carried that morning had dulled into something smaller, something fragile.

And then, somehow, it got worse.

...

The McLaren motorhome stood like a beacon in the paddock, its sleek glass windows reflecting the bustle of team personnel moving inside. You exhaled slowly, shaking off the earlier embarrassment, and made your way toward the hospitality lounge, longing for something warm and familiar.

A latte, perhaps. Something to reset the day.

You stepped up to the hospitality counter with a practiced sort of grace, the kind that had been instilled in you from your childhood—shoulders back, chin lifted, a polite smile even when you wanted to disappear.

The woman behind the counter was stunning in a sharp, effortless way, her McLaren uniform crisp, her dark eyes shrewd, assessing. She barely looked up when you stepped forward.

"Good morning," you greeted, your voice light, pleasant. "Could I get an oat latte, please?"

The woman’s gaze flicked to you then, sweeping over you in a way that wasn’t unkind but wasn’t exactly warm, either.

"Are you with media?" she asked, already sounding bored.

You shook your head, still polite. "No, I’m—"

"Hospitality is for team guests only," she interrupted, her words clipped, a polite but unmistakable dismissal.

There was something about the way she said it, the way her lips curled just slightly, that sent something sharp down your spine.

You held up your accreditation again, your expression kind but unwavering. "I am a team guest. It is my first race though! I'm with Lando."

A pause. A flicker of something in her gaze.

And then, a small, almost imperceptible smirk.

"Ah," she said slowly, like she was only just now realizing. "Of course you are."

There was something else behind her tone, something you recognized.

You had met people like her before, in glittering lobbies, at perfectly curated events, in spaces where perception was everything. People who measured others in careful glances and quiet, ruthless judgments.

The woman tilted her head, her smile suddenly saccharine. "I’m afraid we’re only serving certain guests at the moment."

The words landed with the soft cruelty of a velvet dagger.

She wasn’t saying no outright.

She was refusing you while pretending it was about something else entirely.

You stared at her for a moment, your fingers tightening slightly over the strap of your bag.

You could have fought. Could have pointed out that this was ridiculous, that you had every right to be here, that her behavior was as transparent as it was petty.

But instead, you simply let out a soft breath and smiled.

Not the kind of smile that was warm and grateful.

The kind of smile that veiled the frustration you were feeling.

"No worries," you said gently, dipping your head, your voice smooth, graceful. "I wouldn’t want to trouble you."

And with that, you turned and walked away, back straight, head held high, because if nothing else—you were not the kind of woman who begged.

But it still stung.

...

The hotel room is quiet except for the faint murmur of the city outside. The occasional car hums past beneath the window, the distant noises of Melbourne nightlife drifting in through the small gap in the balcony door. Inside, the glow from the bedside lamp casts soft golden light over the pristine sheets, the half-finished cup of tea you abandoned hours ago, and your phone—face-down, untouched, deliberately ignored.

You had set it aside like it burned you.

And in a way, it had.

You don’t need to look at the screen to know what’s waiting for you there.

A photo. You, walking alone through the paddock, caught at an unflattering angle—your hands adjusting the strap of your bag, your gaze flicking off to the side. Out of context, impersonal, just another frame in someone else’s story.

But the caption beneath it?

That made it personal.

The caption beneath it, however, was anything but subtle.

"Classic gold digger. No personality, no job, just another wag looking for a paycheck."

The replies were worse.

"She looks so full of herself. I bet she spends his money like crazy."

"Lando deserves better. She looks disgusting."

"Does she even like racing or just his wallet?"

You had expected something like this eventually. Being seen always came at a cost.

But expectation doesn’t soften the blow.

It doesn’t make the words less sharp. It doesn’t stop them from settling in the quiet places of your mind, the ones that whisper in the dark when the world is still.

You exhale slowly, smoothing your hand over the sheets, willing away the tightness in your throat.

It’s fine.

You were raised to handle things like this with grace, with an understanding that women who stand beside successful men are often reduced to spectators, accessories, footnotes in their own stories.

You know who you are. You know your worth.

And yet, knowing doesn’t stop the sting.

A keycard beeps at the door.

Then, the soft sound of it swinging open, of footsteps—light, easy, carrying a kind of restless energy even now.

"Hi, darling," Lando’s voice fills the space before he does.

You don’t turn immediately, letting yourself blink once, twice, composing yourself in the quiet before offering a small smile as he steps inside.

He looks effortlessly disheveled—his hair still damp from the rain outside, his McLaren polo slightly untucked, the fabric creased like he’d run a hand over it one too many times.

He is still buzzing—from the high of the weekend, from the thrill of being back in the car, from the sheer joy of doing what he loves.

And then he looks at you.

And everything shifts.

His grin falters. His brows pull together.

"Hey," he says again, but softer this time, slower. "What’s wrong?"

You hesitate, fingers brushing against the sheets. "It’s nothing."

Lando stills.

"You’re upset."

It’s not a question.

You exhale, tilting your head slightly, lips curving in something almost amused. "No big deal, this is your weekend."

But Lando doesn’t smile.

Instead, he moves—crossing the room in three long strides, sinking down in front of you, his hands warm against your thighs, his gaze level, intent.

"Tell me," he says, quiet but firm.

All day, you have been ignored, dismissed, treated like an inconvenience. And yet, here he is, giving you his undivided attention, his entire world narrowing down to this moment, to you.

You hesitate. Then, finally, you murmur, "People weren’t exactly kind today."

His grip on your legs tightens just slightly.

"Security thought I was a fan trying to sneak in. Hospitality wouldn’t serve me." You let out a small, humorless laugh, shaking your head. "And now there’s a photo of me online. People saying I’m a disgusting gold digger."

Lando doesn’t move.

Doesn’t even breathe.

Then, slowly, he reaches for your phone, flipping it over with careful precision before scrolling. He doesn’t need you to guide him—he finds it immediately.

His jaw tightens.

And then, in a tone so low and steady that it makes your stomach flip:

"Are you joking?"

You open your mouth, but he’s already shaking his head, pushing himself up, pacing now, running a hand through his curls.

"Such bullshit," he starts, turning sharply, voice too controlled, too even, "that after everything—after how much effort you’ve put into being here, after how much of your life you’ve adjusted for me—these people had the nerve to treat you like that?"

You shift under his gaze, biting your lip. "Lando, it’s not—"

"No, no, hold on," he interrupts, hands in the air like he needs a second to process. He lets out a short, disbelieving laugh, but there’s nothing amused about it.

"Because from where I’m standing, you’re the easiest person to love in any room, and I genuinely don’t understand how anyone could be that dense."

He exhales sharply, shaking his head, jaw tight. "Honestly, I don’t even know whether to be pissed or impressed by their level of dickheadness."

He stops, inhales sharply, then turns back to you.

"Tomorrow," he says, voice steady now, decisive. "We fix this."

You raise a brow. "We?"

Lando tilts his head, giving you a look like you have just asked if the sky is blue.

"Obviously."

...

There are very few things in life that can silence an entire paddock.

Lando Norris walking in hand-in-hand with you is apparently one of them.

The usual morning commotion—the hurried strides of engineers, the murmured strategy discussions, the distant hum of espresso machines—all of it seems to slow, the air shifting as one by one, heads turn.

Eyes follow you as you move through the paddock, curiosity crackling in the air like static before a storm.Conversations taper off, whispers trailing in your wake, phones discreetly lifted, cameras capturing the moment in real time.

Lando, of course, is unbothered.

If anything, he thrives under the weight of their attention. His grip on your hand remains firm, steady, unwavering, his strides unhurried, his smirk bordering on self-satisfied.

He wants them to see.

It’s deliberate—the way he holds you close, the way his fingers brush over yours in soft, thoughtless patterns, the way his head tilts toward you slightly every time you speak, like you are the only thing worth listening to.

There is no question about what this is.

There is no question about where you belong.

He makes sure of it.

And then, with perfect, almost cinematic timing, he steers you toward McLaren hospitality.

Right to the coffee bar.

The barista from yesterday stands behind the counter, the same sharp-cut uniform, the same perfectly applied lipstick, the same calculating gaze.

Only now, it falters.

She sees Lando before she sees you, her posture straightening, professional mask slipping into place like second nature. But then, her eyes flick toward you—toward your hands intertwined, toward the subtle, unspoken intimacy of the way he keeps close.

You watch as realization dawns.

Oh.

Lando leans against the counter, effortless, grinning.

"Two oat lattes," he says, voice bright, easy, amused. "One for me, one for my girl."

The silence that follows is exquisite.

The barista hesitates—just for a fraction of a second, just long enough for you to see it.

Panic.

"Of course," she says, voice smooth but not quite as sharp as before.

And just like that, there are no shortages, no waiting, no excuses.

The coffees are made within seconds.

Lando watches, humming thoughtfully, tapping his fingers lightly against the counter as she slides the first cup toward him. He lifts it to his lips, taking a slow, exaggerated sip before letting out a long, obnoxiously satisfied hum.

"Mm," he muses, shifting his weight, sparing her a glance. "Tastes better today."

His smirk is dangerous.

"Must be the service."

The barista’s lips press together just slightly.

You take your coffee, cradling the cup in your hands, offering her a soft, serene smile.

"Thank you," you say lightly.

You watch as she winces.

And Lando, the ever-efficient instigator that he is, takes it one step further.

"You know," he muses, as if the thought has just occurred to him, "I think I should make this a tradition."

He turns to you then, eyes bright with mischief, voice just loud enough for the surrounding staff to hear.

"Morning coffee," he says smoothly. "Every race weekend. For the foreseeable future."

The barista looks like she wants to disappear.

You, on the other hand, can’t help but smile.

...

The checkered flag had waved, the roar of the crowd still vibrating through the air, but none of it mattered—not the celebrations, not the flashing cameras, not the McLaren team swarming the pit wall in victory.

Because the moment Lando climbed out of the car, eyes scanning the chaos, he found you.

And then—he ran.

Straight toward you, helmet discarded, race suit half-unzipped, curls a disheveled mess from the heat of the cockpit.

You barely have time to react before he collides into you, arms wrapping around your waist, lifting you off the ground like you weigh nothing.

You shriek—an actual, real shriek—as your feet leave the pavement, the entire world tilting as he spins you in circles,laughter spilling from his lips like he can’t contain it.

And then—he kisses you.

Right there, in front of thousands of fans, in front of cameras, reporters, his entire team.

Hard. Fierce. Like he’d won the race and you in the same breath.

The world erupts around you—cheering, chanting, Oscar groaning dramatically in the background.

"Oh my god. You two are disgusting."

None of it matters.

Because Lando is grinning against your lips, breathless, victorious, yours.

When he finally sets you back down, he doesn’t let go.

Doesn’t even try to.

Instead, he beams down at you, cheeks flushed, curls damp with sweat, voice all cocky, all Lando.

"So, did I impress you or what?"

You roll your eyes, fond and exasperated all at once. "Eh. You were alright."

He gasps. Actually gasps.

"You’re joking." He turns toward the cameras, mock-betrayed. "Did you guys hear that? I win a Grand Prix, and she says I’m ‘alright.’"

You bite your lip, pretending to consider. "You were pretty fast, I guess."

"Pretty fast?" he repeats, positively scandalized. "Babe. I am literally the fastest man in Australia right now."

You burst out laughing. "I was kind of rooting for Oscar."

Oscar, mid-drink of water behind you, chokes.

"Lies." Lando pulls you back in, forehead resting against yours, his voice dropping into something softer, something just for you.

"Say you’re proud of me."

You sigh dramatically. "I guess I’m—"

"Say it."

You grin, heart pounding. "Fine. I’m proud of you, Norris."

He hums, satisfied, smug, still absolutely glowing. "Thought so."

...

Lando was still riding the high when he got to the media pen, his race suit unzipped to his waist, curls damp with sweat, and that stupidly charming grin still plastered across his face.

It wasn’t just a ‘first win of the season’ grin.

It was a ‘my girlfriend is here, and I just won a whole-ass race for her’ grin.

The interviewer barely got a word in before Lando pointed directly at you, standing just off-camera.

"Her."

You blink. "Me?"

"Yeah, you!" He turns back to the cameras, nodding enthusiastically. "Let’s just get this straight—I did this for her. Like, entirely. One hundred percent. Full motivation. If she hadn’t shown up, I probably would’ve parked it in a gravel trap on lap ten."

The interviewer laughed. "So, you’re saying she’s your good luck charm?"

"Absolutely," Lando replied, dead serious. "I mean, have you seen her? Look at her."

The camera did not pan to you, thank god. The poor guy running the live feed probably had no idea what to do.

But Lando? Oh, he was just getting started.

"She walked into this paddock today looking like an actual goddess, completely unaware that she is, in fact, the sun incarnate, and people want me to talk about tire degradation? No. I want to talk about her."

The interviewer tried so hard to stay professional.

"You—uh, you had great pace today—"

"Yeah, yeah, whatever," Lando waved him off.

"Lando, I don’t think—"

"Listen, I need to emphasize something." Lando leaned in, tone conspiratorial. "Do you know how lucky I am? Not only is she breathtaking, but she’s also, like, annoyingly smart. Like, did you know she reads all the time? Real books.Not just memes and Twitter threads like me."

He gestured vaguely, suddenly overwhelmed by his own emotions.

"She doesn’t even realize how much people admire her. But I see it. I see everything. And I just think the world needs to start appreciating her at my level."

"That is… very sweet." The interviewer was visibly struggling to keep up.

"Just had to get that out there."

"Well, congratulations on the win, Lando," the interviewer finally managed, skimming over his list of unanswered questions he had prepared.

"Thank you." He nodded seriously, finally letting go of the mic. "And big thanks to the team, of course."

You rolled your eyes from behind the cameras, suppressing a smile.

...

The internet had seen many things, but no one was prepared for Lando Norris using his post-race interview as a full-blown love letter.

"Lando’s race pace was great, but his girlfriend propaganda was even stronger."

"THE WAY HE JUST POINTED AT HER IMMEDIATELY I CAN’T."

"Lando Norris said ‘this win is for my girlfriend’ and proceeded to recite a romantic sonnet on live TV. My standards are ruined."

Later, as the two of you curled up in the hotel room, finally away from the cameras, Lando buried his face in your neck with a content sigh.

"You know," he murmured, voice sleepy, warm, full of love. "I really did win that for you."

You ran your fingers through his curls. "I know."

"I meant every word, too."

You smiled. "Don't you think it was a bit much?"

"I don't think it was nearly enough," he said, already half-asleep, grinning like he had never been happier.

#f1 x reader #lando norris fanfic #lando norris imagine #lando x reader #lando norris x reader #lando norris one shot #lando norris fluff #lando norris #lando norris x you

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earlgreylatte · 2 months ago

Text

Hello, You

(Invincible Variants x Reader) Of course he would come to see you. You’re the reason he’s here, after all.

After hearing the news to stay inside as the attack of Invincible copycats decimated cities across the globe, you hid under your blanket, the light from your phone illuminating your face as you watched the broadcast for any sign of your Mark.

You could only hope that he was alright, that he wasn’t blaming himself, that he knew you were waiting for him to come back safe. He already has enough problems as is.

Your distress is momentarily tempered when you hear your window slide open and your floorboards creek. When you don’t hear Mark immediately greet you or tease you for being bundled up, any concern you felt for Mark becomes overshadowed by fear for yourself as you hear footsteps near your prone form.

You can only tremble, clutching your blanket close to your body until the room goes silent. You shakily exhale, becoming confused when another quiet beat passes. When your breath returns to normal, the blanket is ripped off of you, eliciting a scared yelp.

For a moment you only stare in confusion at the sight of your boyfriend’s estranged father before realizing it’s not Nolan Grayson that stands before you, but Mark clad in a costume similar to his father’s. His face is impassive, mouth a firm line, so unlike the expressive nature of your Mark.

He calls your name. Quietly, yet there was something heavy in his tone. Something you could almost delude yourself into thinking was longing.

His hand brushes against your cheek, moving down your face before resting on your shoulder, a finger pressed against your pulse.

“You sound healthy,” he comments, deceptively neutral in his delivery, but even behind his goggles, you could feel his gaze burning into your face, “In my world, you had cancer. By the time the Viltrumites reinforcements had arrived, it was too late. All that talk about life changing technology and medicine, but it ended up being utterly useless to me.”

Your breath hitches, but he continues, “But here there’s a me that rebelled and an you that never got sick. That got to live past high school. That’s just the way it goes, I suppose.”

His hand travels lower, brushing past your collarbone before resting on your breast, your heart hammering beneath his palm.

“Do you know why I came here?” He wonders, his free hand planting itself on your bed, as he moves his body to hover above yours until the only thing you can see is him.

“No,” you whisper, staring into black lenses.

“Because even after all these years, the only heart I wish to know, to hold, and to cherish is yours. I was willing to play human for you, to tolerate the presence of the idiots that breathed the same air as us, but then they all had the audacity to outlive you. And I can’t move on. So the selfish man that I am, I’m here to take you. To have you by my side again, no matter how much blood I have to spill,” He declares before pressing his lips against yours, muffling your gasp and cries, gripping your wrist when you try to shove at him.

He only pulls away when you start to feel lighthearted, looking down at you as you struggle to catch your breath.

“You can cry and protest all you want. You loved me once, you can do it again,” he asserts, bring your wrist to his mouth, leaving a kiss against your pulse point. “This world was doomed the moment your Mark decided to rebel. I won’t let you die because of his delusions.”

“…I’m not her,” you speak up. “I don’t know you, not really.”

“I know,” he responds, “but every inch of my body is crying out to you, and I’d rather kill everyone on this planet before I let you go again.”

He releases your wrist, instead sliding both hands under your shirt, gloved hands savouring the feel of your skin, your warmth seeping through the fabric.

“…you’re shaking,” he notes, throwing a glance at your discarded blanket on the ground, “I’m sorry, I’ll warm you up. I promise.”

“Mark,” you say, out of instinct more than anything else, your mind coming to a blank.

“Shh,” he hushes you, voice gentle but firm, “Let me take care of you. Like I always do.”

A part of you is relieved that he hasn’t taken off his cowl because you knew you’d crumble under the emotion that would undoubtedly be in his eyes. The same eyes that always held so much love and adoration towards you.

His lips press against yours again, more demanding and heated, as hands travel higher and higher until—

“Looks like I wasn’t the only one that thought to come here,” an amused but familiar voice drawls out, the Mark on top of you pulling away, body covering yours protectively.

Another Invincible sat at your window ledge, black and yellow costume starkly contrasting the rest of your room. He smiles at you when you peak around Mark’s arm.

“Honestly, you were acting so high and mighty earlier, but you’re pretty desperate, huh?” He mocks as the other Mark’s face becomes stonier. “But, really, you should fuck off somewhere else because that’s my girl you’re feeling up right now.”

Before he can respond, another voice interrupts him as you notice yet another Mark, floating behind the one at your window.

“Fucking seriously? How did you even get here before me? I bet you halfassed your locations,” The Mark with a mohawk that has you raising your eyebrow complains, “I literally called dibs on this one! Find someone else!”

Feeling the tension build up, you only hope that Mark checks in and saves you from the bullshit you’re witnessing as they begin to snarl and yap at each other like feral dogs.

Why me, you lament.

Shiesty Mark: hey, babe, it’s Big Dick Friday—why the fuck are you all here??

Why is there no Omni Mark content, he and that shiesty mark were my favourite…

I feel like omni mark is the definition of ‘quite literally hates everyone but you’

Masterlist

#invincible x reader #invincible imagine #mark grayson x reader #invincible variants #invincible #omni mark #yandere invincible #yandere mark grayson #yandere x reader #thriller #sinister mark #mohawk mark #afab reader

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deebris · 5 months ago

Text

Save you from yourself

Silco (from Arcane) x Wife reader

Synopsis: The tender moment between you and your daughter, Jinx, is interrupted by your sudden fainting, and Silco takes control of the situation.

Warnings: Fainting, self-neglect, based on real symptoms of dehydration, the reader is a motherly figure for Jinx, and Silco is somewhat possessive in the end, angst with fluff.

Word count: 2.3k

Zaun tonight was surprisingly quiet. For the first time in a long time, you could hear the water flowing through the windows of your room, and a cool breeze carried the scent of your daughter’s freshly washed hair through the corners. It was an incredibly comforting moment to care for her blue locks; it always brought an inexplicable peace to your mind. You really needed it after the exhausting day you had.

The affection that surrounded those moments, with both of you sitting on your bed, gently running your fingers through her strands and laughing at how Jinx always ended up sleepy, warmed your heart. But tonight, that warmth felt strange and discomforting. You tried to ignore a sudden dizziness and the chills, keeping the window open as you brushed through her long hair to continue braiding it. Was tiring work, but you loved.

“Is it going to take much longer?” she asked impatiently, something you had already expected. Complaining about the time was part of Jinx, but you took it with indifference.

“I’m almost halfway,” you tried to reassure her with a gentle, maternal tone, something she liked. “Just this one left.”

“Ugh, I hate when it takes so long,” she grumbled irritably, throwing herself back into your lap. Her movement made your hands lose the strands, messing up part of what you had done.

“Jinx!” you called her name, annoyed, but softened when you felt her cling to you even tighter, wrapping her arms around your waist and burying her face in your belly. Her body started warming yours even more, pushing the cold away, and you stayed silent, appreciating the closeness.

“Can we do it later?” she asked in a low voice, almost needy. Jinx had a thing with physical contact; it was something she appreciated when it came from the right people. That’s why she was now closing her eyes while you stroked her cheek and the side of her head.

“It’s going to be harder to fix,” you tried to argue, struggling with the duality of wanting to stay cuddled with her or return to the hard work of finishing her hair.

“You’re warm,” she murmured, and you couldn’t see, but she furrowed her brow, feeling your body temperature against her pressed cheek.

“I think so,” your whisper came without weight, not caring about the statement. Or maybe you just didn’t have the strength to think properly anymore.

You felt drained, and your daughter had noticed your lack of energy when she took your hand to play with your fingers, interlacing them in a sort of waltz but seeing how you barely reacted to her movements, letting her have fun on her own. And you always used to play along.

“Let me finish,” you asked with much effort, confused by the new sign of your condition that had just emerged: a sharp pain in your forehead. But it wasn’t common for you to get headaches.

Luckily, Jinx obeyed without further rebellion. She stood up to allow you to finish what you had started. She pulled her legs up to her chest on the bed, pouting with a dissatisfied expression while she felt you place the golden pins.

When you had just finished braiding, your fingers fell, sliding down the braid’s length, as if keeping your arms raised for just one more second was extremely difficult. And it was.

Your dizziness worsened, leaving your limbs weak, and now you couldn’t avoid feeling a hint of nervousness as your breathing became irregular, along with the dryness in your throat.

“My love, can you close the window?”

Your request alarmed Jinx, who turned toward your voice but not enough to look directly at you. Hesitant, she stood up, and when she returned, a look of confusion took over her face.

“What...?” The word got stuck as she quickly approached, placing one hand on your back and the other on your shoulder. “What’s going on?” Her desperate tone cut through you like a blade, filling your chest with guilt.

“I... I think I’m not feeling well.” You tried to hold back the tears, but your trembling voice betrayed the effort. Just a few tears fell, as if they had run out, and the pain in your muscles and joints, which had started as a discomfort in the morning, had become unbearable. The discomfort had been easy to ignore before, but now it seemed impossible to divert your attention from it.

You hadn’t paid much attention to the dizziness that had disrupted your day, but sitting for a moment seemed to amplify all the symptoms. Maybe they had always been there, silently growing, until they reached this point.

“Say something!” Jinx’s voice sounded choked, pulling you out of the haze. You tried to open your eyes, but it was hard. She was scared—you could feel it in the way her hands trembled as she held your face. She shook you gently, the urgency clear in every movement. “Don’t close your eyes!” she screamed, her voice breaking as darkness overtook your vision.

When consciousness started to return, you opened your eyes slowly, blinking to adjust to the dimness of the room. A faint light illuminated the room enough for you to realize you were lying down, now wrapped in a blanket. Your hearing seemed muffled, as if you were submerged, but amid the confusing sounds, Silco’s voice emerged.

He was calling for Jinx, trying to calm her. “Jinx, listen,” he repeated, his voice deep and firm, but filled with concern. His tone seemed to seek her attention, trying to contain the emotional storm that was overwhelming the girl. “Jinx, I told you it is fine. It is nothing serious.”

Silco’s deep voice, usually so controlled, was now filled with a disturbance he could barely disguise. As he spoke, he repeated those words mentaly, as if trying to convince not only her but also himself that this was just a temporary illness.

“B-but...” Her voice broke, and the rest of the words got stuck in her throat. Jinx seemed unable to look directly at her father; her eyes nervously scanned the room, searching for an answer where there was none. “She... she just suddenly got like this.”

“Was not sudden, Jinx.” Silco took a deep breath, trying to remain calm. “We just did not notice before.” He adjusted his tone, seeking a firmness he didn’t feel, hoping to convey some confidence. “It is common. People get sick all the time. She will be fine.”

He continued, repeating the words like a mantra, silently praying they were true.

“Do you promise?” Jinx’s question came loaded with urgency, almost like an ultimatum.

Silco hesitated for a moment, swallowing hard at the weight of that word. Promising meant more than just reassuring her; it meant banishing any possibility of loss or failure. He knew he couldn’t say “yes” lightly, but he also couldn’t imagine denying that reassurance to his daughter.

His gaze shifted behind him, seeking your figure lying down. When he noticed you trying to sit up, despite visible effort, Silco felt an unexpected relief. It was a sign, even if small, that gave him the strength to respond firmly.

“I promise.” His voice came low but firm, as he squeezed Jinx’s shoulders, trying to convey a security he could barely feel.

Jinx followed her father’s gaze, and upon seeing you move, her behavior shifted instantly. With the frantic energy characteristic of her, she ran to you.

“Calm down!” Silco tried to call to her, but she was already on top of you.

You, however, were lost in confusion. Your mind felt like a blur, and the unbearable weight on your eyelids made it impossible to react or understand what was happening. The last thing you felt was Jinx’s hesitant touch, quickly replaced by the touch of calloused hands, before everything went dark again.

Silco watched as your eyes opened and closed again, what seemed like the thousandth time that night. It was as if you were waging a battle against your own consciousness and body, trying to hold onto reality as it slipped through your fingers.

He hadn’t slept. He had spent the night by your side, patiently waiting for that moment when you would finally wake up for real. Making sure you didn’t hurt yourself with the needle stuck to your wrist, connecting you to the IV that kept your body hydrated, had been an exhausting task. Every time you briefly stirred, it seemed like you were compelled to move your arms, as if testing your own strength, and he found himself forced to intervene.

“I thought you were going to pass out again,” he murmured, his voice low and strangely gentle, something rare coming from him. He carefully placed his hand on your forehead, checking the fever that, to his relief, was starting to subside.

“What do I have?” you asked, the words coming out slowly as your mind pieced together recent memories and adjusted to your surroundings.

Silco let out a long sigh, somewhere between irritation and relief. The corner of his lips curved into a dry smile, as if he found the situation so absurd it was almost comical, yet no less serious.

“You spent the whole day without drinking water.” His voice carried a hint of exasperation and he carefully brushed away the hair that was sticking to your face. “Dehydration. How, for the love of everything, did you not feel thirsty?”

His question was genuine, a mix of confusion and disbelief.

“I don’t know,” you whispered, feeling small and stupid under his analytical gaze.

Silco didn’t say anything more right away. Instead, his eyes studied you for a moment longer than necessary before he leaned back in the chair next to the bed.

“Whatever the reason, this will not happen again,” he declared firmly, his voice carrying a tone almost possessive as he crossed his arms, as if imposing his will on the universe itself.

“Sorry,” you said, the weakness still evident in your voice, but there was also a trace of embarrassment, making your words almost a whisper.

He watched you in silence, his gaze fixed as you stared at the pillow. Even pale and visibly fragile, you were still the most beautiful woman he had ever known. The soft moonlight illuminated your face, highlighting a few strands of your hair, and in that moment, something inside him softened. The hard expression he always carried melted away, replaced by a rare tranquility—a surrender to the simple relief of seeing you there, breathing.

You saw the IV, something Singed must have done, and noticing it was almost empty, Silco carefully leaned forward to remove the needle. His movements were almost methodical, but there was an uncommon tenderness. His fingers slid lightly over the skin of your wrist before touching the catheter, and that seemingly small gesture sent a shiver down your spine.

It was as if, in that touch, he wanted to send you a message: I’m here, and I will be gentle.

“Jinx will be on your case the whole week,” he stated casually, though his tone was firm, as if warning you about your foolishness that caused all this.

You laughed, the weakness in your voice softened by the playful tone. “I can handle it.”

Slowly, you pulled his fingers, as an invitation for him to come closer. Silco accepted without hesitation, climbing onto the bed beside you. He positioned himself behind you, wrapping his body around you in an embrace that, though silent, carried a desperate intensity.

His hands tightened around your waist, the fingers interlacing as if he feared that if let go, you might slip away. The warmth of Silco’s breath brushed against your neck, bringing with it the scent of the cigars he always smoked. On anyone else, or in any other situation, the smell would have been overpowering, almost repulsive, but from him, there was something strangely comforting about it. It was a subtle reminder that, despite everything, he was there—solid, present, and, above all, familiar.

Silco squeezed your waist tighter, his deep voice cutting through the silence, almost a controlled growl as he whispered against your ear:

“Do you really think you will achieve something important if you forget the basics? Forget to drink water, to take care of yourself… That is not just foolishness, it is pure recklessness.”

He held you close, his eyes wandering to a distant point in the room, as if searching for something to focus on, while trying to make you understand the weight of his words. Silco knew you had this habit of putting yourself second, neglecting your own needs for what you thought was more urgent or important.

“Stop putting yourself at risk like this,” he continued, his voice firmer, “or I woll not have any choice but to take care of everything.”

His voice, cold and incisive, sounded almost like an attempt at humor, but you knew him well enough to know that he wasn’t one for jokes. Silco didn’t care for casual remarks, and the lightness in his tone was just a mask for the frustration he felt. You worried so much about not overburdening him that you ended up ignoring your own well-being, making his biggest concern a reality: he would have to carry the weight for you.

“I take care of you… even if I have to save you from yourself,” he whispered, almost like a mantra. The words were both a promise and a necessity. He was speaking to himself, trying to reaffirm his own position, and you didn’t dare interrupt him. You just cuddled closer to his body, feeling the warmth and firmness of his words as a protection that, somehow, also felt like a prison.

#imagine #x reader #angst #arcane #lol #x you #silco x reader #arcane silco #silco #silco and jinx #silco arcane #silco x wife reader #jinx #jinx arcane #jinx league of legends #jinx x mother reader

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luveline · 6 months ago

Text

𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐨𝐫 𝐬𝐞𝐞𝐧

Things between you and Peter change with the seasons. [17k]

c: friends-to-lovers, hurt/comfort, loneliness, peter parker isn’t good at hiding his alter ego, fluff, first kisses, mutual pining, loved-up epilogue, mention of self-harm with no graphic imagery

｡𖦹°‧⭑.ᐟ

Fall

Peter Parker is a resting place for overworked eyes, like warm topaz nestled against a blue-cold city. He waits on you with his eyes to the screen of his phone, clicking the power button repetitively. A nervous tic.

You close the heavy door of your apartment building. His head stays still, yet he’s heard the sound of it settling, evidence in his calmed hand.

“Good morning!” You pull your coat on quickly. “Sorry.”

“Good morning,” he says, offering a sleep-logged smile. “Should we go?”

You follow Peter out of the cul-de-sac and into the street as he drops his phone into a deep pocket. To his credit, he doesn’t check it while you walk, and only glances at it when you’re taking your coat off in the heat of your favourite cafe: The Moroccan Mode glows around you, fog kissing the windows, condensation running down the inner lengths of it in beads. You murmur something to do with the odd fog and Peter tells you about water vapour. When it rains tonight, he says it’ll be warm water that falls.

He spreads his textbook, notebook, and rinky-dink laptop out across the table while you order drinks. Peter has the same thing every visit, a decaf americano, in a wide brim mug with the pink-petal saucer. You put it down on his textbook only because that’s where he would put it himself, and you both get to work.

As Peter helps you study, you note the simplicity of another normal day, and can’t help wondering what it is that’s missing. Something is, something Peter won’t tell you, the absence of a truth hanging over your heads. You ask him if he wants to get dinner and he says no, he’s busy. You ask him to see a movie on Friday night and he wishes he could.

Peter misses you. When he tells you, you believe him. “I wish I had more time,” he says.

“It’s fine,” you say, “you can’t help it.”

“We’ll do something next weekend,” he says. The lie slips out easily.

To Peter it isn’t a lie. In his head, he’ll find the time for you again, and you’ll be friends like you used to be.

You press the end of your pencil into your cheek, the dark roast, white paper and condensation like grey noise. This time last year, the air had been thick for days with fog you could cut. He took you on a trip to Manhattan, less than an hour from your red-brick neighbourhood, and you spent the day in a hotel pool throwing great cupfuls of water at each other. The fog was gone just fifteen miles away from home but the warm air stayed. When it rained it was sudden, strange, spit-warm splashes of it hammering the tops of your heads, your cheeks as you tipped your faces back to spy the dark clouds.

Peter had swam the short distance to you and held your shoulders. You remember feeling like your whole life was there, somewhere you’d never been before, the sharp edges of cracked pool tile just under your feet.

You peek over the top of your laptop screen and wonder if Peter ever thinks of that trip.

He feels you watching and meets your eyes. “I have to tell you something,” he says, smiling shyly.

“Sure.”

“I signed us up for that club.”

“Epigenetics?”

“Molecular medicine,” he says.

The nice thing about fog is that it gives a feeling of lateness. It’s still morning, barely ten, but it feels like the early evening. It’s gentle on the eyes, colouring the whole room with a sconced shine. You reach for Peter’s bag and sort through his jumble of possessions —stick deodorant, loose-leaf paper, a bodega’s worth of protein bars— and grab his camera.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m cataloguing the moment you ruined our lives,” you say, aiming the camera at his chin, squinting through the viewfinder.

“Technically, I signed us up a few days ago,” he says.

You snap his photo as his mouth closes around ‘ago’, keeping his half-laugh stuck on his lips. “Semantics,” you murmur. “And molecular medicine club, this has nothing to do with the estranged Gwen Stacy?”

“It has nothing to do with her. And you like molecular medicine.”

“I like oncology,” you correct, which is a sub-genre at best, “and I have enough work without joining another club. Go by yourself.”

“I can’t go without you,” he says. Simple as that.

He knew you’d say yes when he signed you up. It’s why he didn’t ask. You’re already forgiven him for the slight of assumption.

“When is it?” you ask, smiling.

—

Molecular medicine club is fun. You and a handful of ESU nerds gather around a big table in a private study room for a few hours and read about the newer discoveries and top research, like regenerative science and now taboo Oscorp research. It’s boring, sometimes, but then Peter will lean into your side and make a joke to keep you going.

He looks at Gwen Stacy a lot. Slender, pale and freckled, with blonde hair framing a sweet face. Only when he thinks you’re not looking. Only when she isn’t either.

—

“Good morning,” you say.

Peter holds an umbrella over his head that he’s quick to share with you, and together you walk with heads craned down, the umbrella angled forward to fight the wind. Your outermost shoulder is wet when you reach the café, your other warm from being pressed against him. You shake the umbrella off outside the door and step onto a cushy, amber doormat to dry your sneakers. Peter stalks ahead and order the drinks, eager to get warm, so you look for a table. Your usual is full of businessmen drinking flat whites with briefcases at their legs. They laugh. You try to picture Peter in a suit: you’re still laughing when he finds you in the booth at the back.

“Tell the joke,” he says, slamming his coffee down. He’s careful with yours. He’s given you the pink petal saucer from the side next to the straws and wooden stirrers.

“I was thinking about you as a businessman.”

“And that’s funny?”

“When was the last time you wore a suit?”

Peter shakes his head. Claims he doesn’t know. Later, you’ll remember his Uncle Ben’s funeral and feel queasy with guilt, but you don’t remember yet. “When was the last time you wore one?” he asks. “I don’t laugh at you.”

“You’re always laughing at me, Parker.”

The cafe isn’t as warm today. It’s wet, grimy water footsteps tracking across the terracotta tile, streaks of grey water especially heavy near the counter, around it to the bathroom. There’s no fog but a sad rattle of rain, not enough to make noise against the windows, but enough to watch as it falls in lazy rivulets down the lengths of them.

Your face is chapped with the cold, cheeks quickly come to heat as your fingers curl around your mug. They tingle with newfound warmth. When you raise your mug to your lips, your hand hardly shakes.

“You okay?” Peter asks.

“Fine. Are you gonna help me with the math today?”

“Don’t think so. Did you ask nicely?”

“I did.” You’d called him last night. You would’ve just as happily submitted your homework poorly solved with the grade to prove it —you don’t want Peter’s help, you just wanted to see him.

Looking at him now, you remember why his distance had felt a little easier. The rain tangles in his hair, damp strands curling across his forehead, his eyes dark and outfitted by darker eyelashes. Peter has the looks of someone you’ve seen before, a classical set to his nose and eyes reminiscent of that fallen angel weeping behind his arm, his russet hair in fiery disarray. There was an anger to Peter after Ben died that you didn’t recognise, until it was Peter, changed forever and for the worse and it didn’t matter —he was grieving, he was terrified, who were you to tell him to be nice again— until it started to get better. You see less of your fallen, angry angel, no harsh brush strokes, no tears.

His eyes are still dark. Bruised often underneath, like he’s up late. If he is, it isn’t to talk to you.

You spend an afternoon working through your equations, pretending to understand until Peter explains them to death. His earphones fall out of his pocket and he says, “Here, I’ll show you a song.”

He walks you home. The song is dreary and sad. The man who sings is good. Lover, You Should’ve Come Over. It feels like Peter’s trying to tell you something —he isn’t, but it feels like wishing he would.

“You okay?” you ask before you can get to your street. A minute away, less.

“I’m fine, why?”

You let the uncomfortable shape of his earbud fall out of your ear, the climax of the song a rattle on his chest. “You look tired, that’s all. Are you sleeping?”

“I have too much to do.”

You just don’t get it. “Make sure you’re eating properly. Okay?”

His smile squeezes your heart. Soft, the closest you’ll ever get. “You know May,” he says, wrapping his arm around your shoulders to give you a short hug, “she wouldn’t let me go hungry. Don’t worry about me.”

—

The dip into depression you take is predictable. You can’t help it. Peter being gone makes it worse.

You listen to love songs and take long walks through the city, even when it’s dark and you know it’s a bad idea. If anything bad happens Spider-Man could probably save me, you think. New York’s not-so-new vigilante keeps a close eye on things, especially the women. You can’t count how many times you’ve heard the same story. A man followed me home, saw me across the street, tried to get into my apartment, but Spider-Man saved me.

You’re not naive, you realise the danger of walking around without protection assuming some stranger in a mask will save you, but you need to get out of the house. It goes on for weeks.

You walk under streetlights and past stores with CCTV, but honestly you don’t really care. You’re not thinking. You feel sick and heavy and it’s fine, really, it’s okay, everything works out eventually. It’s not like it’s all because you miss Peter, it’s just a feeling. It’ll go away.

“You’re in deep thought,” a voice says, garnering a huge flinch from the depths of your stomach.

You turn around, turn back, and flinch again at the sight of a man a few paces ahead. Red shoulders and legs, black shining in a webbed lattice across his chest. “Oh,” you say, your heartbeat an uncomfortable plodding under your hand, “sorry.”

“Why are you sorry? I scared you.”

“I didn’t realise you were there.”

Spider-Man doesn’t come any closer. You take a few steps in his direction. You’ve never met before but you’d like to see him up close, and you aren’t scared. Not beyond the shock of his arrival.

“Can I walk you to where you’re going?” Spider-Man asks you. He’s humming energy, fidgeting and shifting from foot to foot.

“How do I know you’re the real Spider-Man?”

After all, there are high definition videos of his suit on the news sometimes. You wouldn’t want to find out someone was capable of making a replica in the worst way possible.

You can’t be sure, but you think he might be smiling behind the mask, his arms moving back as though impressed at your questioning. “What do you need me to do to prove it?” he asks.

He speaks hushed. Rough and deep. “I don’t know. What’s Spider-Man exclusive?”

“I can show you the webs?”

You pull your handbag further up your arm. “Okay, sure. Shoot something.”

Spider-Man aims his hand at the streetlight across the way and shoots it. He makes a severing motion with his wrist to stop from getting pulled along by it, letting the web fall like an alien tendril from the bulb. The light it produces dims slightly. A chill rides your spine.

“Can I walk you now?” he asks.

“You don’t have more important things to do?” If the bitterness you’re feeling creeps into your tone unbidden, he doesn’t react.

“Nothing more important than you.”

You laugh despite yourself. “I’m going to Trader Joe’s.”

“Yellowstone Boulevard?”

“That’s the one…”

You fall into step beside him, and, awkwardly, begin to walk again. It’s a short walk. Trader Joe’s will still be open for hours despite the dark sky, and you’re in no hurry. “My friend, he likes the rolled tortilla chips they do, the chilli ones.”

“And you’re going just for him?” Spider-Man asks.

“Not really. I mean, yeah, but I was already going on a walk.”

“Do you always walk around by yourself? It’s late. It’s dangerous, you know, a beautiful girl like you,” he says, descending into an odd mixture of seriousness and teasing. His voice jumps and swoons to match.

“I like walking,” you say.

Spider-Man walking is a weird thing to see. On the news, he’s running, swinging, or flying through the air untethered. You’re having trouble acquainting the media image of him with the quiet man you’re walking beside now.

”Is everything okay?” he asks. “You seem sad.”

“Do I?”

“Yeah, you do.”

“Maybe I am sad,” you confess, looking forward, the bright sign of Trader Joe’s already in view. It really is a short walk. “Do you ever–” You swallow against a surprising tightness in your throat and try again, “Do you ever feel like you’re alone?”

“I’m not alone,” he says carefully.

“Me neither, but sometimes I feel like I am.”

He laughs quietly. You bristle thinking you’re being made fun of, but the laugh tapers into a sad one. “Sometimes I feel like I’m the only person in the world,” he says. “Even here. I forget that it’s not something I invented.”

“Well, I guess being a hero would feel really lonely. Who else do we have like you?” You smile sympathetically. “It must be hard.”

“Yeah.” His head tips to the side, and a crash of glass rings in the distance, crunching, and then there’s a squeal. It sounds like a car accident. Spider-Man goes tense. “I’ll come back,” he says.

“That’s okay, Spider-Man, I can get home by myself. Thank you for the protection detail.”

He sprints away. In half a second he’s up onto a short roof, then between buildings. It looks natural. It takes your breath away.

You buy Peter’s chips at Trader Joe’s and wait for a few minutes at the door, but Spider-Man doesn’t come back.

—

I don’t want to study today, Peter’s text says the next day. Come over and watch movies?

The last handholds of your fugue are washed away in the shower. You dab moisturiser onto your face and neck and stand by the open window to help it dry faster, taking in the light drizzle of rain, the smell of it filling your room and your lungs in cold gales. You dress in sweatpants and a hoodie, throw on your coat, and stuff the rolled tortilla chips into a backpack to ferry across the neighbourhood.

Peter still lives at home with his Aunt May. You’d been in awe of it when you were younger, Peter and his Aunt and Uncle, their home-cooked family dinners, nights spent on the roof trying to find constellations through light pollution, stretched out together while it was warm enough to soak in your small rebellion. Ben would call you both down eventually. When you’re older! he’d always promise.

Peter’s waiting in the open door for you. He ushers you inside excitedly, stripping you out of your coat and forgetting your wet shoes as he drags you to the kitchen. “Look what I got,” he says.

The Parker kitchen is a big, bright space with a chopping block island. The counters are crowded by pots, pans, spices, jams, coffee grounds, the impossible drying rack. There’s a cross-stitch about the home on the microwave Ben did to prove to May he could still see the holes in the aida.

You follow Peter to the stove where he points at a ceramic Dutch oven you’ve eaten from a hundred times. “There,” he says.

“Did you cook?” you ask.

“Of course I didn’t cook, even if the way you said that is offensive. I could cook. I’m an excellent chef.”

“The only thing May’s ever taught you is spaghetti and meatballs.”

“Hope you like marinara,” he says, nudging you toward the stove.

You take the lid off of the Dutch oven to unveil a huge cake. Dripping with frosting, only slightly squashed by the lid, obviously homemade. He’s dotted the top with swirls of frosting and deep red strawberries.

“It’s for you,” he says casually.

“It’s not my birthday.”

“I know. You like cake though, don’t you?”

You’d tell Peter you liked chunks of glass if that was what he unveiled. “Why’d you make me a cake?”

“I felt like you deserved a cake. You don’t want it?”

“No, I want it! I want the cake, let’s have cake, we can go to 91st and get some ice cream, it’ll be amazing.” You don’t bother trying to hide your beaming smile now, twisting on the spot to see him properly, your hands falling behind your back. “Thank you, Peter. It’s awesome. I had no idea you could even– that you’d even–” You press forward, smushing your face against his chest. “Wow.”

“Wow,” he says, wrapping his arms around you. He angles his head to nose at your temple. “You’re welcome. I would’ve made you a cake years ago if I knew it was gonna make you this happy.”

“It must’ve taken hours.”

“May helped.”

“That makes much more sense.”

“Don’t be insolent.” Peter squeezes you tightly. He doesn’t let go for a really long time.

He extracts the cake from the depths of the Dutch oven and cuts you both a slice. He already has ice cream, a Neapolitan box that he cuts into with a serrated knife so you can each have a slice of all three flavours. It’s good ice cream, fresh for what it is and melting in big drops of cream as he gets the couch ready.

“Sit down,” he says, shoving the plates with his strangely great balance onto the coffee table. “Remote’s by you. I’m gonna get drinks.”

You take your plate, carving into the cake with the end of a warped spoon, its handle stamped PETE and burnished in your grasp. The crumb is soft but dense in the best way. The ganache between layers is loose, cake wet with it, and the frosting is perfect, just messy. You take another satisfied bite. You’re halfway through your slice before Peter makes it back.

“I brought you something too, but it’s garbage compared to this,” you say through a mouthful, hand barely covering your mouth.

Peter laughs at you. “Yeah, well, say it, don’t spray it.”

“I guess I’ll keep it.”

“Keep it, bub, I don’t need anything from you.”

He doesn’t say it the way you’re expecting. “No,” you say, pleased when he sits knee to knee, “you can have it. S’just a bag of chips from Trader–”

“The rolled tortilla chips?” he asks. You nod, and his eyes light up. “You really are the best friend ever.”

“Better than Harry?”

“Harry’s rich,” Peter says, “so no. I’m kidding! Joking, come here, let me try some of that.”

“Eat your own.”

Peter plays a great host, letting you choose the movies, making lunch, ordering takeout in the evening and refusing to let you pay for it. This isn’t that out of character for Peter, but what shocks you is his complete unfiltered attention. He doesn’t check his phone, the tension you couldn’t name from these last few weeks nowhere to be felt. You’re flummoxed by the sudden change, but you missed him. You won’t look a gift horse in the mouth; you won’t question what it is that had Peter keeping you at arm’s length now it’s gone.

To your annoyance, you can’t stop thinking about Spider-Man. You keep opening your mouth to tell Peter you talked to him but biting your tongue. Why am I keeping it a secret? you wonder.

“Have something to tell you.”

“You do?” you ask, reluctant to sit properly, your feet tucked under his thigh and your body completely lax with the weight of the Parker throw.

“Is that surprising?”

“Is that a trick question?”

“No. Just. I’ve been not telling you something.”

“Okay, so tell me.”

Peter goes pink, and stiff, a fake smile plastered over his lips. “Me and Gwen, we’re really done.”

“I know, Pete. She broke up with you for reasons nobody felt I should be enlightened right after graduation.” Your stomach pangs painfully. “Unless you…”

“She’s going to England.”

“She is?”

“Oxford.”

You struggle to sit up. “That sucks, Peter. I’m sorry.”

“But?”

You find your words carefully. “You and Gwen really liked each other, but I think that–” You grow in confidence, meeting his eyes firmly. “That there’s always been some part of you that couldn’t actually commit to her. So. I don’t know, maybe some distance will give you clarity. And maybe it’ll break your heart, but at least then you’ll know how you really feel, and you can move forward.” You avoid telling him to move on.

“It wasn’t Gwen,” he says, which has a completely different meaning to the both of you.

“Obviously, she’s the smartest girl I’ve ever met. She’s beautiful. Of course it’s not her fault,” you say, teasing.

“Really, that you ever met?” Peter asks.

“She’s the best girl you were ever gonna land.“

He rolls his eyes. “Yeah, I guess so.” After a few more minutes of quiet, he says, “I think we were done before. I just hadn’t figured it out yet. Something wasn’t right.”

“You were so back and forth. You’re not mean, there must’ve been something stopping you from going steady,” you agree. “You were breaking up every other week.”

“I know,” he whispers, tipping his head against the back couch.

“Which, it’s fine, you don’t–” You grimace. “I can’t talk today. Sorry. I just mean that it’s alright that you never made it work.” You worry that sounds plainly obvious and amend, “Doesn’t make you a bad person. You’re never a bad person, Peter.”

“I know. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. You don’t need me to tell you.”

“It’s nice, though. I like when you tell me stuff. I want all of your secrets.”

You should say Good, because I have something unbelievable to tell you, and I should’ve said it the moment I got home.

Good, because last night I met the bravest man in New York City, and he walked me to the store for your chips.

Good, because I have so much I’m keeping to myself.

You ruffle his hair. Spider-Man goes unmentioned.

—

He visits with a whoop. You don’t flinch when he lands —you’d heard the strange whip and splat of his webs landing nearby.

“Spider-Man,” you say.

“What’s that about?”

“What?”

“The way you said that. You laughed.” Spider-Man stands in spandexed glory before you, mask in place. He’s got a brown stain up the side of his thigh that looks more like mud than blood, but it’s not as though each of his fights are bloodless. They’re infamously gory on occasion.

“Did you get hurt?” you ask. You’re worried. You could help him, if he needs it.

“Aw, this? That’s a scratch. That’s nothing, don’t worry about it. I’ve had worse from that stray cat living outside of 91st.”

You look at him sharply. 91st is shorthand for 91st Bodega, and it’s not like you and Peter made it up, but suddenly, the man in front of you is Peter. The way he says it, that unique rhythm.

Peter’s not so rough-voiced, you argue with yourself. Your Peter speaks in a higher register, dulcet often, only occasionally sarcastic. Spider-Man is rough, and cawing, and loud. Spider-Man acts as though the ground is a suggestion. Peter can’t jump off the second diving board at the pool. Spider-Man rolls his shoulders back in front of you with a confidence Peter rarely has.

“What?” he asks.

“Sorry. You just reminded me of someone.”

His voice falls deeper still. “Someone handsome, I hope.”

You take a small step around him, hoping it invites him to walk along while communicating how sorely you want to leave the subject behind. When he doesn’t follow, you add, “Yes, he’s handsome.”

“I knew it.”

“What do you look like under the mask?”

Spider-Man laughs boisterously. “I can’t just tell you that.”

“No? Do I have to earn it?”

“It’s not like that. I just don’t tell anyone, ever.”

“Nobody in the whole world?” you ask.

The rain is spitting. New York lately is cold cold cold, little in the way of sunshine and no end in sight. Perhaps that’s all November’s are destined to be. You and Spider-Man stick to the inside of the sidewalk. Occasionally, a passerby stares at him, or calls out in Hello, and Spider-Man waves but doesn’t part from you.

“Tell me something about you and I’ll tell you something about me,” Spider-Man says. “I’ll tell you who knows my identity.”

“What do you want to know about me?” you ask, surprised.

“A secret. That’s fair.”

“Hold on, how’s that fair?” You tighten your scarf against a bitter breeze. “What use do I have for the people who know who you are? That doesn’t bring me any closer to the truth.”

“It’s not about who knows, it’s about why I told them.” Spider-Man slips around you, forcing you to walk on the inside of the sidewalk as a car pulls past you all too quickly and sends a sheet of dirty rainwater up Spider-Man’s side. He shakes himself off. “Jerk!” he shouts after the car.

“My secrets aren’t worth anything.”

“I doubt that, but if that’s true, that makes it a fair trade, doesn’t it?”

He sounds peppy considering the pool of runoff collecting at his feet. You pick up your pace again and say, “Alright, useless secret for a useless secret.”

You think about all your secrets. Some are odd, some gross. Some might make the people around you think less of you, while others would surely paint you in a nice light. A topaz sort of technicolor. But they aren’t useless, then, so you move on.

“Oh, I know. I hate my major.” You grin at Spider-Man. “That’s a good one, right? No one else knows about that.”

“You do?” Spider-Man asks. His voice is familiar, then, for its sympathy.

“I like science, I just hate math. It’s harder than I thought it would be, and I need so much help it makes me hate the whole thing.”

Spider-Man doesn’t drag the knife. “Okay. Only three people know who I am under the mask. It was four, briefly.” He clears his throat. “I told one person because I was being selfish and the others out of necessity. I’m trying really hard not to tell anybody else.”

“How come?”

“It just hurts people.”

You linger in a gap of silence, not sure what to say. A handful of cars pass you on the road.

“Tell me another one,” he says.

“What for?”

“I don’t know, just tell me one.”

“How do I know you aren’t extorting me for something?” You grin as you say it, a hint of flirtation. “You’ll know my face and my secrets and even if you tell me a really gory juicy one, I have no one to tell and no name to pair it with.”

“I’m not showing you anything,” he warns, teasing, sounding so awfully like Peter that your heart trips again, an uneven capering that has you faltering in the street.

Peter’s shorter, you decide, sizing him up. His voice sounds similar and familiar but Peter doesn’t ask for secrets. He doesn’t have to. (Or, he didn’t have to, once upon a time.)

“Where are you going?” Spider-Man asks.

“Oh, nowhere.”

“Seriously, you’re out here walking again for no reason?”

“I like to walk. It’s not like it’s dark out yet.” You’re not far at all from Queensboro Hill here. Walking in any direction would lead you to a garden —Flushing Meadows, Kew Gardens, Kissena Park. “Walk me to Kissena?” you ask.

“Sure, for that secret.”

You laugh as Spider-Man takes the lead, keeping time with him, a natural match of pace. It’s exciting that Spider-Man of all people wants to know one of your useless secrets enough to ask you twice. The attention of it makes searching for one a matter of how fast you can find one rather than a question of why you’d want to. It slips out before you can think better of it.

“I burned my wrist a few days ago on a frying pan,” you confess, the phantom pain of the injury an itch. “It blistered and I cried when I did it, but I haven’t told anyone about it.”

“Why not?” he asks.

He shouldn’t use that tone with you, like he’s so so sorry. It makes you want to really tell him everything. How insecure you feel, how telling things feels like asking for someone to care, and half the time they don’t, and half the time you’re embarrassed.

You walk past the bakery that demarcates the beginning of Kissena Park grounds across the way. “I didn’t think about it at first. I’m used to keeping things to myself. And then I didn’t tell anyone for so long that mentioning it now wouldn’t make sense. Like, bringing it up when it’s a scar won’t do much.” It’s a weak lie. It comes out like a spigot to a drying up tree. Glugs, fat beads of sound and the pull to find another thing to say.

“It was only a few days ago, right? It must still hurt. People want to know that stuff.”

“Maybe I’ll tell someone tomorrow,” you say, though you won’t.

“Thanks for telling me.”

The humour in spilling a secret like that to a superhero stops you from feeling sorry for yourself. You hide your cold fingers in your coat, rubbing the stiff skin of your knuckles into the lining for friction-heat. The rain has let up, wind whipping empty but brisk against your cheeks. Your lips will be chapped when you get home, whenever that turns out to be.

“This is pretty far from Trader Joe’s,” he comments, like he’s read your mind.

“Just an hour.”

“Are you kidding? It’s an hour for me.”

“That’s not true, Spider-Man, I’ve seen those webs in action. I still remember watching you on the News that night, the cranes. I remember,” —you try to meet his eyes despite the mask— “my heart in my throat. Weren’t you scared?”

“Is that the secret you want?” he asks.

“I get to choose?”

Spider-Man throws his gaze around, his hand behind his head like he might play with his hair. You come to a natural stop across the street from Kissena Park’s playground. Teenagers crowd the soft-landing floor, smaller children playing on the wet rungs of the climbing frame.

“If you want to,” he says.

“Then yeah, I want to know if you were scared.”

“I didn’t haveI time to be scared. Connors was already there, you know?” He shifts from one foot to the other. “I don’t think I’ve ever thought about it before. I wasn’t scared of the height, if that’s what you mean. I already had practice by then, and I knew I had to do it. Like, I didn’t have a choice, so I just did it. I had to save the day, so I did.”

“When they lined up the cranes–”

“It felt like flying,” Spider-Man interrupts.

“Like flying.”

You picture the weightlessness, the adrenaline, the catch of your weight so high up and the pressure of being flung between the next point. The idea that you have to just do something, so you do.

“That’s a good secret.” You offer a grateful smile. “It doesn’t feel equal. I burned myself and you saved the city.”

“So tell me another one,” he says.

—

Maybe you started to fall for Peter after his Uncle Ben passed away. Not the days where you’d text him and he’d ignore you, or the days spent camping outside of his house waiting for him to get home. It wasn’t that you couldn’t like him, angry as he was; there’s always been something about his eyes when he’s upset that sticks around. You loathe to see him sad but he really is pretty, and when his eyelashes are wet and his mouth is turned down, formidable, it’s an ache. A Cabanel painting, dramatic and dark and other.

It was after. When he started sending Gwen weird smiles and showing up to the movies exhilarated, out of breath, unwilling to tell you where he’d been. Skating, he’d always say. Most of the time he didn’t have his skateboard.

You’d only seen them kiss once, his hand on her shoulder curling her in, a pang of heat. You were curdled by jealousy but it was more than that. Peter was tipping her head back, was kissing her soundly, a fierceness from him that made you sick to think about. You spent weeks afterwards up at night, tossing, turning, wishing he’d kiss you like that, just once, so you could feel how it felt to be completely wrapped up in another person.

You’d always held out for Peter, in a way. It was more important to you that he be your friend. You were young, and love had been a far off thing, and then one day you suddenly wanted it. You learned just how aching an unrequited love could be, like a bruise, where every time you saw Peter —whether it be alone or with Gwen, with anyone— it was like he knew exactly where to poke the bruise. Press the heel of his hand and push. The worst is when he found himself affectionate with you, a quick clasp of your cheek in his palm as he said goodbye. Nights spent in his twin bed, of course you’ll fit, of course you couldn’t go home, not this late, May won’t care if we keep the door open —the suggestion that the door being closed might’ve meant something. His sleeping arm furled around you.

Now you’re nearing the end of your second semester at ESU, Gwen is going to England at the end of the year, and Peter hasn’t tried to stop her, but he’s still busy.

“Whatever,“ you say, taking a deep breath. You’re not mad at Peter, you just miss him. Thinking about him all the time won’t change a thing. “It’s fine.”

“I’d hope so.”

You swing around. “Don’t do that!”

Spider-Man looks vaguely chastened, taking a step back. “I called out.”

“You did?”

“I did. Hey, miss, over there! The one who doesn’t know how to get a goddamn taxi!”

“I like to walk,” you say.

“Yeah, so you’ve said. Have you considered that all this walking is bad for you? It’s freezing out, Miss Bennett!”

“It’s not that bad.” You have your coat, a scarf, your thermal leggings underneath your jeans. “I’m fine.”

“What’s wrong with staying at home?”

“That’s not good for you. And you’re one to talk, Spider-Man, aren’t you out on the streets every night? You should take a day off.”

“I don’t do this every night.”

“Don’t you get tired?”

Spider-Man’s eyelets seem to squint, his mock-anger effusive as he crosses his arms across his chest. “No, of course not. Do I look like I get tired?”

“I don’t know. You’re in a full suit, I can’t tell. I guess you don’t… seem tired. You know, with all the backflips.”

“Want me to do one?”

“On command?” You laugh. “No, that’s okay. Save your strength, Spider-Man.”

“So where are you heading today?” he asks.

There’s a slip of skin peeking out against his neck. You’re surprised he can’t feel the cold there, stepping toward him to point. “I can see your stubble.”

He yanks his mask down. “Hasty getaway.”

“A getaway, undressed? Spider-Man, that’s not very gentlemanly.”

You start to walk toward the Cinemart. Spider-Man, to your strange pleasure, follows. He walks with considerable casualness down the sidewalk by your left, occasionally letting his head turn to chase a distant sound where it echoes from between high-rises and along the busy street. It’s cold and dark, but New York is hectic no matter what, even the residential areas. (Is there such a thing? The neighbourhoods burst with small businesses and backstreet sales, no matter the time.)

“Luckily for you, crime is slow tonight,” he says.

“Lucky me?” You wonder if your acquainted vigilante flirts with every girl he stalks. “You realise I’ve managed to get everywhere I’m going for the last two decades without help?”

“I assume there was more than a little help during that first decade.”

“That’s what you think. I was a super independent toddler.”

Spider-Man tips his head back and laughs, but that laugh is quickly squashed with a cough. “Sure you were.”

“Is there a reason you’re escorting me, Spider-Man?” you ask.

“No. I– I recognised you, I thought I’d say hi.”

“Hi, Spider-Man.”

“Hi.”

“Can I ask you something? Do you work?”

Spider-Man stammers again, “I– yeah. I work. Freelance, mostly.”

“I was wondering how you fit all the crime fighting into your life, is all. University is tough enough.” You let the wind bat your scarf off of your shoulder. “I couldn’t do what you do.”

“Yeah, you could.”

He sounds sure.

“How would you know?” you ask. “Maybe I’m awful when you’re not walking me around. I hate New York. I hate people.”

“No, you don’t. You’re not awful. Don’t ask me how I know, ‘cos I just know.”

You try not to look at him. If you look at him, you’re gonna smile at him like he hung the moon. “Well, tonight I’m going to be dreadfully selfish. My friend said he’d buy my movie ticket and take me out for dinner, a real dinner, the mac and cheese with imitation lobster at Benny’s. Have you tried that?”

Spider-Man takes a big step. “Tonight?” he asks.

“Yep, tonight. That’s where I’m going, the Cinemart.” You frown at his hand pressing into his stomach. “Are you okay? You look like you’re gonna throw up.”

“I can hear– something. Someone’s crying. I gotta go, okay? Have fun at the movies, okay?” He throws his arm up, a silken web shooting from his wrist to the third floor of an apartment complex. “Bye!” he shouts, taking a running jump to the apartment, using his web as an anchor. He flings himself over the roof.

Woah, you think, warmth filling your cold cheeks, the tip of your nose. He’s lithe.

Peter arrives ten minutes late for the movie, which is half an hour later than you’d agreed to meet.

“Sorry!” he shouts, breathless as he grabs your hands. “God, I’m sorry! I’m so sorry. You should beat me up. I’m sorry.”

“What the fuck happened?” you ask, not particularly angry, only relieved to see him with enough time to still catch the movie. “You’re sweating like crazy, your hair’s wet.”

“I ran all the way here, Jesus, do I smell bad? Don’t answer that. Fuck, do we have time?”

You usher Peter inside. He pays for the tickets with hands shaking and you attempt to wipe the sweat from his forehead with your sleeve. “You could’ve called me,” you say, content to let him grab you by the arm and race you to the screen doors, “we could’ve caught the next one. Why were you so late, anyways? Did you forget?”

“Forget about my favourite girl? How could I?” He elbows open the doors to let you enter first. “Now shh,” he whispers, “find the seats, don’t miss the trailers. You love them.”

“You love them–”

“I’ll get popcorn,” he promises, letting the door close between you.

You’re tempted to follow, fingers an inch from the handle.

You turn away and rush to find your seats. Hopefully, the popcorn line is ten blocks long, and he spends the night punished for his wrongdoing. My favourite girl. You laugh nervously into your hand.

—

Winter

Spider-Man finds you at least once a week for the next few weeks. He even brings you an umbrella one time, stars on the handle, asking you rather politely to go home. He offers to buy you a hot dog as you’re walking past the stand, takes you on a shortcut to the convenience store, and helps you get a piece of gum off of your shoe with a leaf and a scared scream. He’s friendly, and you’re getting used to his company.

One night, you’re almost home from Trader Joe’s, racing in the pouring rain when a familiar voice calls out, “Hey! Running girl! Wait a second!”

Him, you think, as ridiculous as it sounds. You don’t know his name, but Spider-Man’s a sunny surprise in a shitty, wet winter, and you turn to the sound with a grin.

He jogs toward you.

You feel the world pause, right in the centre of your throat. All the air gets sucked out of you.

“Hey, what are you doing out here? Did you get my texts?”

You blink as fat rain lands on your face.

“You okay?” Peter asks, Peter, in a navy hoodie turning black in the rain and a brown corduroy jacket. It’s sodden, hanging heavily around his shoulders. “Come on, let’s go,” —he takes your hand and pulls until you begin to speed walk beside him— “it’s freezing!”

“Peter–”

“Jesus Christ!”

“Peter, what are you doing here?” you ask, your voice an echo as he drags you into the foyer of your apartment building.

Rain hammers the door as he closes it, the windows, the foyer too dark to see properly.

“I wanted to see you. Is that allowed?”

“No.”

Peter takes your hand. You look down at it, and he looks down in tandem, and it is decidedly a non-platonic move. “No?” he asks, a hair’s width from murmuring.

“Shit, my groceries are soaked.”

“It’s all snacks, it’s fine,” he says, pulling you to the stairs.

You rush up the steps together to your floor. Peter takes your key when you offer it, your own fingers too stiff to manage it by yourself, and he holds the door open for you again to let you in.

Your apartment is a ragtag assortment to match the one next door, old wooden furniture wheeled from the street corners they were left on, thrifted homeward and heavy blankets everywhere you look. You almost slip getting out of your shoes. Peter steadies you with a firm hand. He shrugs out of his coat and hangs it on the hook, prying the damp hoodie over his head and exposing a solid length of back that trips your heart as you do the same.

“Sorry I didn’t ask,” Peter says.

“What, to come over? It’s fine. I like you being here, you know that.”

All your favourite days were spent here or at Peter’s house, in beds, on sofas, his hair tickling your neck as credits run down the TV and his breath evens to a light snore. You try to settle down with him, changing into dry clothes, his spare stuff left at the bottom of your wardrobe for his next inevitable impromptu visit. You turn on the TV, letting him gather you into his side with more familiarity than ever. Rain lays its fingertips on your window and draws lazy lines behind half-turned blinds. You rest on the arm and watch Peter watch the movie, answering his occasional, “You okay?” with a meagre nod.

“What’s wrong?” he asks eventually. “You’re so quiet.”

Your hand over your mouth, you part your marriage and pinky finger, marriage at the corner, pinky pressed to your bottom lip, the flesh chapped by a season of frigid winds and long walks. “‘M thinking,” you say.

“About?”

About the first night in your new apartment. You got the apartment a couple of weeks before the start of ESU. Not particularly close to the university but close to Peter, your best, nicest friend. You met in your second year of High School, before Peter got contacts, ‘cos he was good at taking photographs and you were in charge of the school newspapers media sourcing. You used to wait for Peter to show up ten minutes late like clockwork, every week. And every week he’d barge into the club room and say, “Fuck, I’m sorry, my last class is on the other side of the building,” until it turned into its own joke.

Three years later, you got your apartment, and Peter insisted you throw a housewarming party even if he was the only person invited.

“Fuck,” he’d said, ten minutes late, a cake in one hand and a whicker basket the other, “sorry. My last class is on–”

But he didn’t finish. You’d laughed so hard with relief at the reference that he never got the chance. Peter remembered your very first inside joke, because Peter wasn’t about to go off to ESU and meet new friends and forget you.

But Peter’s been distant for a while now, because Peter’s Spider-Man.

“Do you remember,” you say, not willing to share the whole truth, “when you joined the school newspaper to be the official photographer, and you taught me the rule of thirds?”

“So you didn’t need me,” he says.

“I was just thinking about it. We ran that newspaper like the Navy.”

Peter holds your gaze. “Is that really what you were thinking about?”

“Just funny,” you murmur, dropping your hand in your lap and breaking his stare. “So much has changed.”

“Not that much.”

“Not for me, no.”

Peter gets a look in his eyes you know well. He’s found a crack in you and he’s gonna smooth it over until you feel better. You’re expecting his soft tone, his loving smile, but you’re not expecting the way he pulls you in —you’d slipped away from him as the evening went on, but Peter erases every millimetre of space as he slides his arm under your lower back and ushers you into his side. You hold your breath as he hugs you, as he looks down at you. It’s really like he loves you, the line between platonic and romantic a blur. He’s never looked at you like this before.

“I don’t want you to change,” he whispers.

“I want to catch up with you,” you whisper back.

“Catch up with me? We’re in the exact same place, aren’t we?”

“I don’t know, are we?”

Peter hugs you closer, squishing your head down against his jaw as he rubs your shoulder. “Of course we are.”

Peter… What is he doing?

You let yourself relax against him.

“You do change,” he whispers, an utterance of sound to calm that awful bruise he gave you all those months ago, “you change every day, but you don’t need to try.”

“I just… feel like everyone around me is…” You shake your head. “Everyone’s so smart, and they know what they’re doing, or they’re– they’re special. I don’t know anything. So I guess lately I’ve been thinking about that, and then you–”

“What?”

You can say it out loud. You could.

“Peter, you’re…”

“I’m what?” he asks.

His fingers glide down the length of your arm and up again.

If you're wrong, he’ll laugh. And if you’re right, he might– might stop touching you. Your head feels so heavy, and his touch feels like it’s gonna put you to sleep.

He’s Spider-Man.

It makes sense. Who else could have a good enough heart to do that? Of course it’s Peter. It explains so much about him, about Peter and Spider-Man both. Why Peter is suddenly firmer, lighter on his feet, why he can help you move a wardrobe up two flights of stairs without complaint; why Spider-Man is so kind to you, why he knows where to find you, why he rolls his words around just like Pete.

Spider-Man said there are reasons he wears his mask. And Peter doesn’t tell you much, but you trust him.

You won’t make him say anything, you decide. Not now.

You curl your arm over his stomach hesitantly, smiling into his shirt as he hugs you tighter.

“I was thinking about you,” he says.

“Yeah?”

“You’re quieter lately. I know you’re having a hard time right now, okay? You don’t have to tell me. I’m here for you whenever you need me.”

“Yeah?” you ask.

“You used to sit on my porch when you knew May wouldn’t be home to make sure I wasn’t alone.” Peter’s breath is warm on your forehead. “I don’t know what you’re worried about being, but I’m with you,” he says, “‘n nothing is gonna change that.”

Peter isn’t as far away as you thought.

“Thank you,” you say.

He kisses your forehead softly. Your whole world goes amber. He brings his hand to your cheek, the thought of him tipping your head back sudden and heart-racing, but Peter only holds you. You lose count of how many minutes you spend cupped in his hand.

“Can I stay over tonight?” he utters, barely audible under the sound of the battering rain.

“Yeah, please.”

His thumb strokes your cheek.

—

Two switches flip at once, that night. Peter is suddenly as tactile as you’ve craved, and Spider-Man disappears.

He’s alive and well, as evidenced by Peter’s continued survival and presence in your life, but Spider-Man doesn’t drop in on your nightly walks.

You take less of them lately, feeling better in yourself. Your spirits are certainly lifted by Peter’s increasing affection, but now that you know he’s Spider-Man you were waiting to see him in spandex to mess with his head. Nothing mean, but you would’ve liked to pick at his secret identity, toy with him like you know he’d do to you. After all, he’s been trailing you for weeks and getting to know you. Peter already knows you. Plus, you told Spider-Man secrets not meant for Peter Parker’s ears.

You find it hard to be angry with him. A thread of it remains whenever you remember his deception, but mostly you worry about him. Peter’s out every night until who knows what hour fighting crime. There are guns. He could get shot, and he doesn’t seem scared. You end up watching videos on the internet of the night he ran to Oscorp, when he fought Connors’ and got that huge gash in his leg. His leg is soiled deep red with blood but banded in white webbing. He limps as he races across a rooftop, the recording shaky yet high definition.

It’s not nice to see Peter in pain. You cling to what he’d said, how he wasn’t scared, but not being scared doesn’t mean he wasn’t hurting.

You chew the tip of a finger and click on a different video. Your computer monitor bears heat, the tower whirring by your thigh. Your eyes burn, another hour sitting in the same seat, sick with worry. You don’t mind when Peter doesn’t answer your texts anymore. You didn’t mind so much before, just terrified of becoming an irrelevance in his life and lonely, too, maybe a little hurt, but never worried for his safety. Now when Peter doesn’t text you back you convince yourself that he’s been hurt, or that he’s swinging across New York City about to risk his life.

It’s not a good way to live. You can’t stop giving into it, is all.

In the next video, Spider-Man sits on a billboard with a can of coke in hand. He doesn’t lift his mask, seemingly aware of his watcher. You laugh as he angles his head down, suspicion in his tight shoulders. He relaxes when he sees whoever it is recording.

“Hey,” he says, “you all right?”

“Should you be up there?” the person recording shouts.

“I’m fine up here!”

“Are you really Spider-Man?”

“Sure am.”

“Are you single?”

Peter laughs like crazy. How you didn’t know it was him before is a mystery —it couldn’t sound more like him. “I’ve got my eye on someone!” he says, sounding younger for it, the character voice he enacts when he’s Spider-Man lost to a good mood.

Your phone rings in the back pocket of your jeans. You wriggle it out, nonplussed to find Peter himself on your screen. You click the green answer button.

“Hello?” Peter asks.

You bring the phone snug to your ear. “Hey, Peter.”

“Hi, are you busy?”

“Not really.”

“Do you wanna come over? I know it’s late. Come stay the night and tomorrow we’ll go out for breakfast.”

“Is Aunt May okay with that?”

“She’s staring at me right now shaking her head, but I’m in trouble for something. May, can she come over, is that allowed?”

“She’s always allowed as long as you keep the door open.”

You laugh under your breath at May’s begrudging answer. “Are you sure she’s alright with it?” you ask softly. “I don’t want to be a burden.”

“You never, ever could be. I’m coming to your place and we’ll walk over together. Did you eat dinner?”

“Not yet, but–”

“Okay, I’ll make you something when you get here. I’ll meet you at the door. Twenty minutes?”

“I have to shower first.”

“Twenty five?”

You choke on a laugh, a weird bubbly thing you’re not used to. Peter laughs on the other side of the phone. “How about I’ll see you at seven?”

“It’s a date,” he says.

“Mm, put it in your calendar, Parker.”

—

Peter waits for you at the door like he promised. He frowns at your still-wet face as he slips your backpack from your shoulder, throwing it over his own. “You’re gonna get sick.”

“I‘ll dry fast,” you say. “I took too long finding my pyjamas.”

“I have stuff you can wear. Probably have your sweatpants somewhere, the grey ones.” Peter pulls you forward and wipes your tacky face. “I would’ve waited,” he says.

“It’s fine.“

“It’s not fine. Are you cold?”

“Pete, it’s fine.”

“You always remind me of my Uncle Ben when you call me Pete,” he laughs, “super stern.”

“I’m not stern. Look, take me home, please, I’m cold.”

“You said it wasn’t cold!”

“It’s not, I’m just damp–” Peter cuts you off as he grabs you, sudden and tight, arms around you and rubbing the lengths of your back through your coat. “Handsy!”

“You like it,” he jokes back, his playful warming turning into a hug. You smile, hiding your face in his neck for a few moments.

“I don’t like it,” you lie.

“Okay, you don’t like it, and I’m sorry.” Peter gives you a last hug and pulls away. “Now let’s go. I gotta feed you before midnight.”

“That’s not funny.”

“Apparently, nothing is.”

Peter links your arms together. By the time you get to his house, you’ve fallen away from each other naturally. May is in the hallway when you climb through the door, an empty laundry basket in her hands.

“I see Peter hasn’t won this argument yet,” you say in way of greeting. Peter’s desperate to do his own laundry now he’s getting older. May won’t let him.

“No, he hasn’t.” She looks you up and down. “It’s nice to see you, honey. And in one piece! Peter tells me you’ve been walking a lot, and I mean, in this city? Can’t you buy a treadmill?” she asks.

“May!” Peter says, startled.

“I like walking, I like the air,” you say.

“Can’t exactly call it fresh,” May says.

“No, but it’s alright. It helps me think.”

“Is everything okay?” May asks, putting her hand on her hip.

“Of course.” You smile at her genuinely. “I think starting college was too much for me? It was hard. But things are settling now, I don’t know what Peter told you, but I’m not walking a lot anymore. You know, not more than necessary.”

She softens her disapproving. “Good, honey. That’s good. Peter’s gonna make you some dinner now, right?”

“Yeah, Aunt May, I’m gonna make dinner,” Peter sighs, pulling a leg up to take off his shoes.

Peter shouldn’t really know that you’ve been walking. He might see you coming back from Trader Joe’s or the bodega on his way to your apartment, but you haven’t mentioned any of your longer excursions, and everybody in Queens has to walk. That’s information he wouldn’t know without Spider-Man.

He seems to be hoping you won’t realise, changing the subject to the frankly killer grilled cheese and tomato soup that he’s about to make you, and pushing you into a chair at the table. “Warm up,” he says near the back of your head, forcing a wave of shivers down your arms.

He makes soup in one pan, grilled cheese in the other, two for him and two for you. Peter’s a good eater, and he encourages the same from you, setting a big bowl of tomato soup (from the can, splash of fresh cream) down in front of you with the grilled cheese on a plate between you. You eat it in too-hot bites and try not to get caught looking at him. He does the same, but when he catches you, or when you catch him, he holds your eye and smiles.

“I can do the dishes,” you say. You might need a breather.

“Are you kidding? I’m gonna rinse them, put them in the dishwasher.” Peter stands and feels your forehead with his hand. “Warmer. Good job.”

You shrug away from his hand. “Loser.”

“Concerned friend.”

“Handsy loser.”

”Shut up,” he mumbles.

As flustered as you’ve ever seen, Peter takes your empty dishes to the kitchen. When he’s done rinsing them off you follow him upstairs to his bedroom and tuck your backpack under his bed.

You look down at your socks. Peter’s room is on the smaller side, but it’s never been as startlingly small as it is when Peter’s socked feet align with yours, toe to toe. Quick recovery time, this boy.

“There’s chips and stuff on my desk. Or I could run to 91st for some ice cream sandwiches if you want something sweet,” he says.

You lift your eyes, tilt your head up just a touch, not wanting him to think you’re in his space no matter how strange that might be, considering he chose to stand there. “I’m all right. Did you want ice cream? We can go if you want to, but if you want to go ’cos you think I do then I’m fine.”

“That’s such a long answer,” he says, draping an arm over your shoulder. “You don’t have to say all of that, just tell me no.”

“I don’t want ice cream.”

“Wasn’t that easy?” he asks.

“Well, no, it wasn’t. Saying no to you is like saying no to a puppy.”

“Because I’m adorable?”

“Persistent.”

“Yeah, I guess I am.” He drapes the other arm over you. The soap he used at the kitchen sink lingers on his hands.

“Peter…?” you murmur.

“What?” he murmurs back.

You touch a knuckle to his chest. “This– You…” Every quelled thought rushes to the surface at once —Peter doesn’t like you as you desire, how could he, you aren’t beautiful like he is, aren’t smart, aren’t brave, no exceptional kindness or goodness to mark you enough for him. It’s why his being with Gwen didn’t hurt; she made sense. And for months now you’ve wondered what it is that made him struggle to be with her. And sometimes, foolishly, you wondered if it was you. But it’s not you, it’s never you, and whatever Peter’s trying to do now–

“Hey, you okay?” he asks, taking your face into his hand.

“What are you doing?”

“What?” He pushes his hand back to hold your nape, thumb under your ear. “I can’t hear you.”

You raise your voice. “Why did you invite me over tonight?”

“‘Cos I missed you?”

“I used to think you didn’t miss me at all.”

Peter winces, hurt. “How could you think that? Of course I miss you. What you said to May, about college being hard? It’s like that for me too, okay? I miss you all the time.”

You bite the inside of your bottom lip. “…College isn’t hard for you.”

“It’s not easy.” He frowns, the fallen angel, his lips an unsure brushstroke. “What’s wrong? Did I say the wrong thing?”

You’re being wretched, you know, saying it isn’t hard for him. “You didn’t. Really, you didn’t.”

“But why are you upset?” he implores, dark eyes darker as his eyebrows tug together.

“I’m not–”

“You are. It’s okay, you can be upset. I just want you to feel better, you know that?” He settles his hands at the tops of your arms. Less intimate, but something warm remains. “Even if it takes a long time.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine.”

“How would you know?” you finally ask.

Peter stares at you.

“I know you,” he says carefully, “and I know you aren’t struggling like you were, but that doesn’t mean it didn’t happen or that you have to be a hundred percent better now.”

“I didn’t realise that I was,” you say, licking your lips, “‘til now. I didn’t get that it was on the surface.”

Peter pulls you in for a gentle hug. “I’m here for you forever, and I’ll make it up to you for not noticing sooner,” he says, scrunching your shirt in his hand.

After the hug, he tells you to change and make yourself comfortable while he showers. So you put on your pyjamas and climb into Peter’s bed, head pounding as though all your energy was stolen in a fell swoop. You press your nose to his pillow and arm wrapped around his comforter, gathering it into a Peter sized lump. The shower pump whines against the shared wall.

Things aren’t meant to be like this. You thought Peter touching you —holding you— was the deepest of your desires, but you feel now exactly as you had before he started blurring the line, needing Peter to kiss you so badly it becomes its own kind of nausea. Why are you still acting like it’s an impossibility?

When he comes back, you’ll apologise. He hasn’t done anything wrong. He does keep a secret, but don’t you keep one too? He’s Spider-Man. You’ve had deep, complicated feelings for him for months. They are secrets of equal magnitude, and are, more apparently, badly kept.

You wish you could fall asleep. Your heart ticks in agitation.

Peter returns as perturbed as earlier.

“Are you sure there’s nothing wrong?” he asks, raking a hand through his hair. A towel hangs around his neck.

“I’m sorry for being weird.”

“You’re not weird,” Peter says, bringing the towel to his hair to scrub ruthlessly.

“It’s just ‘cos things have been different between us.” And, you try to say, that scares me no matter how bad I wanted it. because you’re not just Peter anymore, you’re Spider-Man. I’m only me, and I can’t do anything to protect you.

Peter gives his hair a long scrub before draping the towel on his desk chair. He rakes it messily into place and sits himself at the end of the bed. You sit up.

“Yeah, they have been. Good different?” he asks hesitantly.

“I think so,” you say, quiet again.

“That’s what I thought.”

“I don’t want you to feel like I don’t want to be here. I just worry about you.”

Peter uses his hands to get higher up the bed. “Don’t worry about me,” he says, “Jesus, please don’t. That’s the last thing I want from you, I hate when people worry about me.”

You curl into the lump of comforter you’d made. Peter lets himself rest beside you, his back to the bedroom wall, tens of Polaroids above him shining with the light of the hallway and his orange-bulbed lamp. His skin is glowing like it’s golden hour, dashes of topaz in his eyes, his Cupid’s bow deep. How would it feel to lean forward and kiss him? To catch his Cupid's bow under your lips?

You brush a damp curl tangled in another onto his forehead.

You lay there for a little while without talking, listening to the sound of the washing machine as it cycles downstairs.

“Am I going too fast?” Peter murmurs.

You press your lips together, shaking your head minutely.

“Is it something else?”

You don’t move.

“Do you want me to stop?” he asks.

“No.”

Peter rewards you with a smile, his hand on your arm. “Alright. Let me get this blanket on you the right way. You’re still cold.”

You resent the loss of a shape to hold when Peter slips down beside you and wrangles the comforter flat again, spreading it out over you both, his hand under the blankets. His knuckles brush your thigh.

He takes a deep breath before turning and wrapping his arm over your stomach, asking softly, “Is this alright?”

“Yeah.”

He gives you a look and then lifts his head to slot his nose against your temple. “Please don’t take this in a way that I don’t mean it, but sometimes you think about things so much I worry you’re gonna get stuck in your head forever.”

“I like thinking.”

“I hate it,” he says quickly, a fervent, flirting cadence to his otherwise dulcet tone, “we should never do it ever again.”

“I’ll try not to.”

“Would you? For me?”

You laugh into his shirt, feeling the warmth of your breath on your own nose. “I’ll do my best.”

“Good. I’d miss you too much if you got lost in that nice head of yours.”

You relax under his arm. You aren’t sure what all the fuss was about now that he's hugging you. “I’d miss you too.”

May comes up the stairs about an hour later. To her credit, she doesn’t flinch when she finds you and Peter smushed together watching a DVD on his old TV. He’s holding your arm, and you’re snoozing on his shoulder, half-aware of the world, fully aware of his nice smells and the shapes of his arms.

“Door open,” she says.

“Not that either of us want it closed, May, but we’re adults.”

“Not while I’m still washing your clothes, you’re not.”

He snorts. “Goodnight, Aunt May. The door isn’t gonna close, I promise.”

“I know that,” she says, scornful in her pride. “You’re a good boy.” She lightens. “Things are going okay?”

Peter covers your ear. “Goodnight, Aunt May.”

”I have half a mind to never listen to you again. You talk my ear off and I can’t ask a simple question?”

“I love you,” Peter sing-songs.

“I love you, Peter,” she says. “Don’t smother the girl.”

“I won’t smother her. It’s in my best interest that she survives the night. She’s buying my breakfast tomorrow.”

“Peter Parker.”

“I’m kidding,” he whispers, petting your cheek absentmindedly. “Just messing with you, May.”

You smile and curl further into his arms. His voice is like the sun, even when he whispers.

—

To your surprise, Spider-Man comes to find you after class one evening. A guest lecturer had talked to your oncology class about click chemistry and other molecular therapies against cancer, and the zine book she’d given you is burning a hole in your pocket. Peter is going to love it.

You pull it out and pause beside a bench and a silver trash can, the day grey but thankfully without rain. The pages of your little book whip forcefully in the wind. It’s chemistry, sure, but it’s biology too, wrapping your and Peter’s interests up neatly. If it weren’t for Peter you doubt you’d love science as much as you do. He’s always been good at it, but since you started college he's been a genius. Watching him grow has encouraged you to work harder, and understanding the material is satisfying, if draining. You take a photo of the middle most pages and tuck the book away, writing a quick text to Peter to send with it.

Look! it says, LEGO cancer treatment!!

The moment you press send a beep chimes from somewhere close behind you, all too familiar. You turn to the source but find nobody you know waiting. Coincidence, you think, shaking yourself and beginning the trek to the subway.

But then you hear the tell tale splat and thwick of Spider-Man’s webbing.

You wait until you’re at the alleyway between Porto’s Bakery and the key cutting shop and turn down to stop by one of the dumpsters.

“Spider-Man?” you ask, shoulders tensed in case it’s not who you think.

“What are you doing?” he asks.

You gasp as he hops down in front of you, his suit shiny with its dark web-pattern caught by the grey sunshine passing through the clouds overhead. “Shit, don’t break your ankles.”

“My ankles?” He laughs. He sounds so much like Peter that you can only laugh with him. What an idiot he is for thinking you don’t know; what a fool you’d been for falling for his put upon tenor. “They’re fine. What would be wrong with my ankles?”

“You just dropped down twenty feet!”

“It’s more like thirty, and I’m fine. You understand the super part of superhero, don’t you?”

“Who said you’re a superhero?”

“Nice. What are you doing down here?”

“I was testing my theory. You’re following me.”

“No, I’m visiting you, it’s very different,” he says confidently.

“You haven’t come to see me for weeks.”

“Yes, well, I–” Spider-Peter crosses his arms across his chest. “Hey, you’re the one who told me to take a day off.”

“I did tell you to take a day off. It’s not nice thinking about you trying to save the world every single night. That’s a lot of responsibility for one person to have.”

“But it’s my responsibility,” he says easily. “No point in a beautiful girl like you wasting her time worrying about it. I have to do it, and I don’t mind it.”

“Do you flirt with every girl you meet out here in the city?” you ask, cheeks hot.

“No,” he says, fondness evident even through the mask, “just you.”

“Do you wanna walk me home? I was gonna take the subway, but it’s not that far.”

Spider-Man nods. “Yeah, I’ll walk you back.”

He doesn’t hide that he knows the way very well. He takes preemptive turns, crosses roads without you telling him to go forward. You can’t believe him. Smartest guy at Midtown High and he can’t pretend to save his life.

“Are you having a good semester?” he asks.

“It’s getting better. I’m glad I stuck with it. I love biology, it’s so fucking hard. I used to think that was a bad thing, but it makes it cooler now. Like, it’s not something everyone understands.” You give him a look, and you give into temptation. “My best friend got me into all this stuff. I used to think math was hopeless and science was for dorks.”

“It’s definitely for dorks.”

“Right, but I love being one.” You offer a useless secret. “I like to think that it’s why we’re such great friends.”

“Me and you?” Spider-Man asks hoarsely.

“Me and Peter.” You elbow him without force. “Why, do you like science?”

“I love it…”

“You know, I really like you, Spider-Man. I feel like we’ve been friends for a long time.” You’re teasing poor Peter.

He doesn’t speak for a while. He stops walking, but you take a few steps without him. When you realise he’s stopped, you turn back to see him.

Peter’s gone so tense you could strike him with a flint and catch a spark. It’s the same way Peter looked at you when he told you about his Uncle, a truth he didn’t want to be true. Seeing it throws a spanner in the works of all your teasing: you’d meant to wind him up, not make him panic.

“What’s wrong?” you ask. “Can you hear something?”

“No, it’s not that…” He’s masked, but you know him well enough to understand why he’s stopped.

“It’s okay,” you say.

“It’s not, actually.”

“Spider-Man.” You take a step toward him. “It’s fine.”

He presses his hands to his stomach. The sun is setting early, and in an hour, the dark will eat up New York and leave it in a blistering cold. “Do you remember when we first met, the second time, we swapped secrets?”

“Yeah, I remember. Useless secret for another. I told you I hated my major. It’s not true anymore, obviously. I was having a bad time.”

“I know you were,” he says, emphasis on know, like it’s a different word entirely.

“But meeting you really helped. If it weren’t for you, for Peter,” —you give him a searching look— “I wouldn’t feel better at all.”

“It wasn’t his fault?” he asks. “He was your friend, and you were lonely.”

“No–”

“He didn’t know what was going on with you, he didn’t have a clue. You hurt yourself and you felt like you couldn’t tell anybody, and I know it wasn’t an accident, so what was his excuse?” His voice burns with anger. “It’s his fault.”

“Of course it wasn’t your fault. Is that what you think?” You shake your head, panicked by the bone-deep self loathing in his voice, his shameful dropped head. “Yes, I was lonely, I am lonely, I don’t know many people and I– I– I hurt myself, and it wasn’t as accidental as I thought it was, but why would that be your fault?”

“Peter’s fault,” he says, though his head is lifted now, and he doesn’t bother enthusing it with much gusto.

“Peter, none of it was your fault.” You cringe in your embarrassment, thinking Fuck, don’t let me ruin this. “I was in a weird way, and yes, I was lonely, and I really liked you more than I should have. You didn't want me and that wasn’t your fault, that’s just how it was, I tried not to let it get to me, just there were a lot of things weighing on me at once, but it really wasn’t as bad as you think it was and it wasn’t your fault.”

“I wasn’t there for you,” he says. “And I’ve been lying to you for a long time.”

“You couldn’t tell me, right? Spider-Man is your secret for a reason.”

“…I didn’t even know you were lonely until you told him. He was a stranger.”

You hold your hands behind your back. “Well, he was a familiar one.”

Peter reaches out as though wanting to touch you, but your arms aren’t in his reach. “It’s not because I didn’t want you.”

“Peter,” you say, squirming.

He steps back.

“I have to go,” he says.

“What?”

“I have to– I don’t want to go,” he says earnestly, “sweetheart, I can hear someone calling out, I have to go. But I’ll come back, I’ll– I’ll come back,” he promises.

And with a sudden lift of his arm, Peter pulls himself up the side of a building and disappears, leaving you whiplashed on the sidewalk, the sun setting just out of view.

—

You fall asleep that night waiting for Peter. When you wake up, 5AM, eyes aching, he isn’t there. You check your phone but he hasn’t texted. You check the Bugle and Spider-Man hasn’t been seen.

You aren’t sure what to think. He sounded sincere to the fullest extent when he said he’d come back, but he didn’t, not ten minutes later, not twenty. You made excuses and you went home before it got too dark to see the street, sat on the couch rehearsing what you’d say. How could Peter think your unhappiness was his fault? Why does he always put the entire world on his shoulders?

Selfishly, you worried what it all meant for his lazy touches. Would he want to curl up into bed with you again now he knows what it means to you? It’s different for him. It isn’t like he’s in love with you… you’d just thought maybe he could be. That this was falling in love, real love, not the unrequited ache you’d suffered before.

But maybe you got everything wrong. All of it. It wouldn't be the first time.

—

You and Peter found The Moroccan Mode in your senior year at Midtown. The school library was small and you were sick of being underfoot at home. When you started at ESU, you explored the on campus coffeehouse, the Coffee Bean, but it was crowded, and you’d found yourself attached to the Mode’s beautiful tiling, blues and topaz and platinum golds, its heavy, oiled wooden furniture, stained glass lampshades and the case full of lemony treats. The coffee here is better than anywhere else, but the best part out of everything is that it’s your secret. Barely anybody comes to the Mode on purpose.

You hide in a far corner with a book and an empty cup of decaf coffee, a slice of meskouta on the table untouched. Decaf because caffeine felt a terrible idea, meskouta untouched because you can’t stomach the smell. You push it to the opposite end of the table, considering another cup of coffee instead. It’s served slightly too hot, and will still be warm when it gets to your chest.

The sunshine is creeping in slowly. It feels like the first time you’ve seen it in months, warming rays kissing your fingers and lining the walls. You turn a page, turn your wrist, let the sun warm the scar you gave yourself those few months ago, when everything felt too big for you.

Looking back, it was too big. Maybe soon you’ll be ready to talk about it.

The author in your book is talking about bees. They can fly up to 15 miles per hour. They make short, fast motions from front to back, a rocking motion. Asian giant hornets can go even faster despite their increased mass. They consider humans running provocation. If you see a giant hornet, you’re supposed to lay down to avoid being stung.

You put your face in your hand. Next year, you’ll avoid the insect-based electives.

Across the cafe, the bell at the top of the door rings. Laughter falls through it, a couple passing by. The register clashes open. A minute later it closes.

You don’t raise your head when footsteps draw near. A plate is placed on the table, pushed across to you, stopping just shy of your coffee.

“Did you eat breakfast?” Peter asks quietly.

His voice is gentle, but hoarse.

You tense.

“Are you okay?” he asks, not waiting for your answer to either question. “You don’t look like yourself. Your eyes are red.”

You lift your head. Wet with the beginnings of tears, you see Peter through an astigmatic blur.

“What are you reading?” He frowns at you. “Please don’t cry.”

You shake your head. Your smile is all odd, nothing like his, no inherent warmth despite your best effort. “I’m okay.”

He nudges you across the booth seat and sits beside you. His arm settles behind your shoulders. He smells like smoke and soap, an acrid scent barely hidden. “Can you tell me you didn’t wait long for me?”

“Ten minutes,” you lie.

“Okay. I’m sorry. There was a fire.” He rubs your arm where he’s holding you. “I’m sorry.”

“Will you go half?” you ask, nodding to the sandwich he’s brought you. It’s tough sourdough bread, brown with white flour on the crusts and leafy greens poking between the slices. You and Peter complain about the price. You’ve never had one. He passes you the bigger half, holding the other in his hand without eating.

“I know you’re hungry,” you say, tapping his elbow, “just eat.”

You eat your sandwiches. Now that Peter’s here, you don’t feel so sick —he’s not upset with you. The dull pang of an empty stomach won’t be ignored.

Peter puts his sandwich down, which is crazy, and wipes his fingers on the plates napkin. You’ve never seen him stop before he’s done.

“It was in the apartments on Vernon. I– I think I almost died, the smoke was everywhere.”

You choke around a crust, thrusting the rest of your half onto the plate. “Are you hurt?” you ask, coughing.

He moves his head from side to side, not a shake, but a slow no. “How long have you known it was me?” he asks, curling his hand behind your back again, fingers spread over your shoulder blade, a fingertip on your neck.

You savour his touch, but you give in to your apprehension and stare at his chest. “The night you caught me outside in the rain in November. You called me ‘running girl’. The way you said it, you sounded exactly like him. I turned around expecting,” —you whisper, weary of the quiet cafe— “Spider-Man, and I realised it’s him that sounds like you. That he is you.”

“Was that disappointing?”

“Peter, you’re, like, my favourite person in the world,” you whisper fervently, your smile making it light. You laugh. “Why would that be disappointing?”

“I thought maybe you think he’s cooler than me.”

“He is cooler than you, Peter.” You laugh again, pleased when he scoffs and draws you nearer. “I guess you’re the same person, right? So he’s just as cool as you are. But why would being cool matter to me? You know I like you.”

“You flirted pretty heavily with Spider-Man.”

“Well, he flirted with me first.”

You chance a look at his face. From that moment you can’t look away, not from Peter. You like when he wears that darkness in his eyes, the hint of his rarer side so uncommonly seen, but you love this most of all, Peter like your best memory, the way he’s looking at you now a picture perfect copy of that moment in a swimming pool in Manhattan with cracked tile under your feet. His arms heavy on your shoulders. You didn’t get it then, but you’re starting to understand now.

“I’ve made a mess of everything,” he says softly, the trail his hand makes to the small of your back leaving a wake of goosebumps. “I haven’t been honest with you.”

“I haven’t, either.”

“I want to ask you for something,” Peter says, a fingertip trailing back up. He smiles when you shiver, not teasing, just loving. “You can say no.”

“You’re hard to say no to.”

“I need you to talk to me more,” —and here he goes, Peter Parker, flirting and sweet-talking like his life depends on it, his face inching down into your space— “not just because I love your voice, or because you think so much I’m scared you’ll get lost, but I need you to talk to me. We need to talk about real things.”

We do, you think morosely.

“It’s not your fault,” he adds, the hand that isn’t holding your back coming up to cup your cheek, “it’s mine. I was scared of telling you for stupid reasons, but I shouldn’t have let it be a secret for so long.”

“No, I doubt they’re stupid,” you murmur, following his hand as he attempts to move it to your ear. “It’s not easy to tell someone you’re a hero.”

His palm smells like smoke.

“That’s not the secret I meant,” he says.

You take his hand from your face. Peter looks down and begins pressing his fingers between yours, squeezing them together as his thumb runs over the back of your hand.

“So tell me.”

The sunshine bleeds onto his cheek. Dappled orange light turning slowly white as time stretches and the sun moves up through a murky sky. “You want to trade secrets again?” he asks.

“Please.”

“Okay. Okay, but I don’t have as many as you do,” he warns.

“I find that hard to believe.”

“I don’t. It’s not a real secret, is it? I’ve been trying to show you for weeks, we…”

He tilts his head invitingly.

All those hand-holds and nights curled up in bed together. Am I going too fast? You know exactly what he means; it really isn’t a secret.

“I’ll go first,” he says, lowering his face to yours. You try not to close your eyes. “I’ve wanted to kiss you for weeks.” He closes his eyes so you follow, your breath not your own suddenly. You hold it. Let it go hastily. “What’s your secret?”

“Sometime I want you to kiss me so badly I can’t sleep. It makes me feel sick–”

“Sick?” he asks worriedly.

You touch the tip of your nose to his. “It’s like– like jealousy, but…”

“You have no one to be jealous of,” he says surely. He cups your cheek, and he asks, “Please, can I kiss you?”

You say, “Yes,” very, very quietly, but he hears it, and his smile couldn’t be more obvious as he closes the last of the distance between you to kiss you.

It isn’t the sort of kiss that kept you up at night. Peter doesn’t hook you in or tip your head back, he kisses gently, his hand coming to live on your cheek, where it cradles. It’s so warm you don’t know what to make of him beyond kissing him back —kissing his smile, though it’s catching. Kissing the line of his Cupid’s bow as he leans down.

“I’m sorry about everything,” he mumbles, nose flattened against yours.

You feel sunlight on your cheek. Squinting, you turn into his hand to peer outside at the sudden abundance of it. It’s still cold outside, but the Mode is warm, Peter’s hand warmer, and the sunshine is a welcome guest.

Peter drops his hand. “Oh, wow. December sun. Good thing it didn’t snow, we’d be blind.”

“I can’t be cold much longer,” you confess. “I’m sick of the shitty weather.”

“I can keep you warm.”

He smiles at you. His eyelashes tangle in the corners of his eyes, long and brown.

“Did you want my meskouta?” you ask.

Peter plants a fat kiss against your brow.

You let the sunshine warm your face. Two unfinished sandwich halves, a mouthful of coffee, and a round slice of meskouta, its flaky crumb and lemon drizzle shining on the table. You would ask Peter for his camera if you’d thought he brought it with him, to take a picture of your breakfast and the carved table underneath. You could turn it on Peter, say something cheesy. This is the moment you ruined our lives, you’d tease.

“You never told me you met Spider-Man, you know.”

You watch Peter lick the tip of his finger without shame. “They could make a novella of things I haven’t told you about,” you murmur wryly.

Peter takes a bite of meskouta, reaching for your knee under the table. He shakes your leg a little, as if to say, Well, we’ll work on that.

—

Spring

“Sorry!”

“No, it’s–”

“Sorry, sorry, I’m– shit!”

“–okay! All legs inside the ride?”

“I couldn’t find my purse–”

“You don’t need it!” Peter leans over the console to kiss your cheek. “You don’t have to rush.”

“Are you sure you can drive this thing?”

“Harry doesn’t mind.”

“I don’t mean the car, I mean, are you sure you can drive?”

“That’s not funny.”

You grin and dart across to kiss his cheek, too. “Nothing ever is with us.”

Peter grabs you behind the neck —which might sound rough, if he were capable of such a thing— and pulls you forward for a kiss you don’t have time for. “If we don’t check in,” —you begin, swiftly smothered by another press of his lips, his tongue a heat flirting with the seam of your lips— “by three, they said they won’t keep the room–” He clasps the back of your neck and smiles when your breath stutters. You squeeze your eyes closed, kiss him fiercely, and pull away, hand on his chest to restrain him. “And then we’ll have to drive home like losers.”

Peter sits back in the driver's seat unbothered. He fixes his hair, and he wipes his bottom lip with his knuckle. You’re rolling your eyes when he finally returns your gaze. “Sorry, am I the one who lost her purse?”

“Peter!”

“I can’t make us un-late,” he says, turning the key slowly, hands on the wheel but his eyes still flitting between your eyes and your lips.

“Alright,” you warn.

He reaches for your knee. “It’s a forty minute drive. You’re panicking over nothing.”

“It’s an hour.”

Your drive from Queens to Manhattan is entirely uneventful. You keep Peter’s hand hostage on your knee, your palm atop it, the other hand wrapped around his wrist, your conversation a juxtaposition, almost lackadaisical. Peter doesn’t question your clinging nor your lazy murmurings, rubbing a circle into your knee with his thumb from Forest Hill to Lenox Hill. There’s so much to do around Manhattan; you could visit MoMA, Central Park, The Empire State Building or Times Square, but you and Peter give it all a miss for the little known Manhattan Super 8.

It’s been a long time since you and Peter first visited. You took the bus out to Lenox Hill for a med-student tour neither of you particularly enjoyed, feeling out future careers. It’s not that Lenox Hill isn’t one of the most impressive medical facilities in New York (if not the northeastern USA), it’s that all the blood made him queasy, and you were panicking too much about the future to think it through. He got over his aversion to blood but chose the less hands-on science in the end, and you worked things through. You’re a little less scared of the future everyday.

You and Peter were supposed to get the bus straight back home for a sleepover, but one got cancelled, another delayed, and night closed in like two hands on your neck. Peter sensed your fear and emptied his wallet for a night in the Super 8.

The next morning it was beautifully sunny. The first day of summer that year, warm and golden. The pool wasn’t anything special but it was invitingly cool, blue and white tiles patterned like fish below; you clambered into the water in shorts and a tank top and Peter his boxers before a worker could see and stop you.

It was one of the best days of your life. When you told Peter about it last week, he’d looked at you peculiarly, said, Bub, you’re cute, and let you waste the afternoon recounting one of your more embarrassing pangs of longing. A few days later he told you to clear your calendar for the weekend, only spilling the beans on what he’d done when you’d curled over his lap, a hand threaded into the hair at the nape of his neck, murmuring, Tell me, tell me, tell me.

He’d hung his head over you and scrunched up his eyes. Cheater.

The best thing about having a boyfriend is that he always wants to listen to you. Peter was a good listener as a best friend, but now he has his act together and the secrets between you are never anything more than eating the last of the milk duds or not wanting to pee in front of him, he’s a treasure. There’s no feeling like having Peter pull you into his lap so he can ask about your day with his face buried in your neck, sniffing. Sometimes, when you text one another to meet up the next day, you’ll accidentally will the hours away babbling about school and life and things without reason. Peter has a list on his phone of your silliest tangents; blood oranges to the super moon, fries dipped in ice cream to the world record for kick flips done in five minutes. It’s like when you talk to one another, you can’t stop.

There are quiet moments. You wake up some mornings to find him awake already, an arm behind you, rubbing at your soft upper arm, fingertip displacing the fine hairs there and trailing circles as he reads. He bends the pages back and holds whatever novel he’s reading at the bottom of his stomach, as though making sure you can see the words clearly, even when you’re sleeping.

There are hectic, aching moments —vigilante boyfriends become blasé with their lives and precious faces. You’ve teetered on the edge of anxiety attacks trying to pick glass from his cheek with a tweezers, lamented over bruises that heal the next day. It’s easier when Peter’s careful, but Spider-Man isn’t careful. You ask him to take care of himself and he’s gentle with himself for a few days, but then someone needs saving from an armed burglar or a car swerves dangerously onto the sidewalk and he forgets.

He hadn’t patrolled last night in preparation for today.

“Did you know,” he says, pulling Harry’s borrowed car into a parking spot just in front of the Super 8 reception, “that today’s the last day of spring?”

“Already?”

“Tonight’s the June equinox.”

“Who told you that?”

“Aunt May. She said it’s time to get a summer job.”

You laugh loudly. “Our federal loans won’t last forever.”

“Harry’s gonna get me something, I think. Do you want to work with me? It could be fun.”

You nod emphatically. It’s barely a thought. “Obviously I want to. Does Oscorp pay well, do you think?”

Peter lets the engine go. The car turns off, engine ticking its last breath in the dash. “Better than the Bugle.”

You get your key from the reception and find your room upstairs, second floor. It’s not dirty nor exceptionally clean, no mould or damp but a strange smell in the bathroom. There’s a microwave with two mugs and a few sachets of instant coffee. Peter deems it the nicest motel he’s ever stayed in, laughing, crossing the room to its only window and pulling aside the curtain.

“There it is, sweetheart,” he says, wrapping his arm around you as you join him, “that’s what dreams are made of.”

The blue and white tiled pool. It hasn’t changed.

It’s about as hot as it’s going to get in June today, and, not knowing if it’ll rain tomorrow, you and Peter change into your swim suits and gather your towels. You wear flip flops and tangle your fingers, clanking and thumping down the rickety metal stairs to the pool. There’s nobody there, no lifeguard, no quests, and the pool is clean and cold when you dip your toes.

Peter eases in first. Towels in a heap at the end of a sun lounger, his shirt tumbling to the floor, Peter splashes in frontward and turns to face you as the water laps his ribs. “It’s cold,” he says, wading for your legs, which he hugs.

“I can feel it,” you say, the cool waters to your calves where you sit on the edge.

“You won’t come in and warm me up?” he asks.

You stroke a tendril of hair from his eyes. He attempts to kiss your fingers.

“I’m trying to prepare myself.”

“Mm, you have to get used to it.” He puts wet hands on your thighs, looking up imploringly until you lean down for a kiss. The fact that he’d want one still makes you dizzy. “Thank you,” he says.

“You’ll have to move.”

Peter steps back, a ripple of water ringing behind him, his hands raised. He slips them with ease under your arms and helps you down into the water, laughing at your shocked giggling —he’s so strong, the water so cold.

Peter doesn’t often show his strength. Never to intimidate, he prefers startling you helpfully. He’ll lift you when you want to reach something too tall, or raise the bed when you’re on his side to force you sideways.

“Oh, this is the perfect place to try the lift!” he says.

“How will I run?” you ask, letting your knees buckle, water rushing up to your neck.

Peter pulls you up. He touches you easily, and yet you get the sense that he’s precious with you, too. There’s devotion to be found in his hands and the specific way they cradle your back, drawing your chest to his. “I don’t need you to do a running start, sweetheart,” he says, tilting his head to the side, “I’ll just lift you.”

“Last time I laughed so much you dropped me.”

“Exactly, you laughed, and this is serious.”

The world isn’t mild here. Car horns beep and tyres crunch asphalt. You can hear children, and singing, and a walkie talkie somewhere in the Super 8’s parking lot. The pool pumps gargle and Peter’s breath is half laughter as he pulls you further from the sidelines, ceramic tiles slippery under your feet. In the distance, you swear you can hear one of those songs he likes from that poor singer who died in the Wolf River.

He’s a beholden thing in the sun; you can’t not look at him, all of him, his sculpted chest wet and glinting in the sun, his eyes like browning honey, his smile curling up, and up.

“You’re beautiful,” he says.

You rest an arm behind his head. “The rash guard is a good look?”

“Sweetheart, you couldn’t look cuter,” he says, hands on your waist, pinky on your hip. “I wish you’d mentioned these shorts a few days ago. I would’ve prepared to be a more decent man.”

“You’re decent enough, Parker.”

“Maybe now.”

“Well, if things get too hot, you can always take a quick dip,” you say.

You’re teasing, but Peter’s eyes light up with mischief as he calls, “Oh, great idea!” and lets himself drop backwards into the water. You pull your arm back rather than go with him. You can’t avoid the great burst of water as he surges to the surface.

He shakes himself off like a dog.

“Pete!” you cry through laughs, wiping the water from your face before the chlorine gets in your eyes.

“It just didn’t help,” he says, pulling you back into his arms, “you know, the water is cold, but you’re so hot, and I actually got a pretty good look at them when I was under, and you’re just as pretty as I remembered you being ten seconds ago–”

“Peter,” you say, tempted to roll your eyes.

Water runs down his face in great rivers, but with the dopey smile he’s sporting, they look like anything but tears. “Tell me a secret?” he asks, dripping in sunshine, an endless summer at his back.

A soft smile takes your lips. “No,” you say, tipping up your chin, “you tell me one first.”

“What kind of secret?”

“A real one,” you insist.

“Oh…” He leans away from you, though his arms stay crossed behind you. “Okay, I have one. Ask me again.”

You raise a single brow. “Tell me a secret, Peter.”

He pulls your face in for a kiss. His hand is wet on your cheek, but no less welcome. “I love you,” he says, kissing the skin just shy of your nose.

You’re lucky he’s already holding you. “I love you too,” you say, gathering him to you for a hug, digging your nose into the slope of his neck as his admission blows your mind. “I love you.”

Peter wraps his arms around your shoulders, closing his eyes against the side of your head. You can’t know what he’s thinking, but you can feel it. His hands can’t seem to stay still on your skin.

The sun warms your back for a time.

Peter lets out a deep breath of relief. You lean away to look at him, your hand slipping down into the water, where he finds it, his fingers circling your wrist.

“That’s another one to let go of,” he suggests.

He peppers a row of gentle kisses along your lips and the soft skin below your eye.

You and Peter swim until your fingers are pruned and the sun has been blanketed by clouds. You let him wrap you in a towel, and kiss your wet ears, and take you back to the room, where he holds your face.

“I’ll start the shower for you,” he says, rubbing your cheeks with his thumbs, each stroke of them encouraging your face from one side to the other, just a touch, ever so slightly moved in the palms of his hands.

“Don’t fall asleep standing up,” he murmurs.

Your eyes close unbidden to you both. “I won’t.”

He holds you still, leaning in slowly to kiss you with the barest of pressure. Every thought in your head fades, leaving only you and Peter, and the dizziness of his touch as he lays you down at the end of the bed.

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please like, comment or reblog if you enjoyed, i love comments and seeing what anyone reading liked about the fic is a treat —thank you for reading❤︎

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