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satinestales · 21 hours ago

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❝between truth and desire❞ | armand x fem!reader

pairing: armand x fem!reader, 4k+ words

summary: As you and Armand recount your shared history to your old friend Daniel Molloy, your words falter, and your memories blur under the weight of time and emotion. Later, Armand ensures you remember exactly how it truly happened—or at least, how he wants you to.

warnings: armand's manipulative gremlin ass, sexual tension, mind control?, unrealistic version of top armand, blood play, blood-sucking as a form of oral sex, not proofread, mention of claudia's death, english is not my native english

For the past three hours, you’ve been reminiscing about your life in 1940s Paris with your old friend, now a successful journalist. It’s been surprisingly easy, sharing those memories of joy and excitement, especially with Armand by your side. Daniel’s sarcastic comments make you laugh, keeping the mood light even when the stories dip into something more bittersweet.

Armand’s hand rests on your thigh, his thumb tracing slow, lazy circles. That small, familiar touch pulls you back into the past, and for a fleeting moment, it almost feels like you’re there again—back in Paris, on your very first date.

You shared stories about the Théâtre des Vampires, describing its grandeur and eerie charm in vivid detail. Armand never interrupted, just sat quietly beside you, listening. Every so often, he’d chime in, adding little details you’d forgotten, his voice soft and steady. It felt natural, the two of you piecing the memories together like a story only you could tell.

Every eye in the room was on you, the silence in the mansion broken only by your voice. It was steady, serious, as you recounted those final days in the coven—when the air grew colder and the others fell quiet. You remembered how Louis had sensed it first, even before Claudia or Madeleine. And you remembered it too, that creeping tension, the way it lingered unspoken.

But here and now, you spoke of it clearly, without a single stutter.

"It was a cold night when I woke up," you began, your voice calm despite the weight of the memory. "Louis was already gone, and I couldn’t find any trace of Claudia." Armand’s hand rested gently on your thigh, comforting you, while Daniel’s sharp gaze seemed to pierce straight through you. "I assumed they’d gone out together," you continued, glancing down for a moment, "since I’d spent the last few days with my love."

You felt Armand shift beside you, his lips curling into a faint smile as he tilted his head, studying you with that quiet intensity. Even after all these years, that look still had the power to make you blush.

"About four hours later, there was a knock at our door," you said, your voice wavering between fear and sarcasm. "I hadn’t invited anyone, so I figured it was Armand dropping by for one of his unannounced visits. But when I opened the door..." You paused, your eyes narrowing slightly at the memory.

"Santiago was standing there," you continued, "and behind him were Celeste and Estelle, both wearing those ridiculous judges' wigs." The words spilled out, edged with a dry, bitter humor that couldn’t quite mask the unease curling in your chest.

You couldn’t help but hear Daniel’s chuckle at the mention of the wigs, but it didn’t faze you. You pressed on, even though you felt Armand’s gaze shift, no longer warm or affectionate. It had become something colder, sharper, something you couldn’t quite place.

“I woke up in the theater, on the stage,” you continued, your voice steadier now, the weight of the memory pressing down. “Claudia, Louis, and Madeleine were next to me. Our Achilles’ heels torn, so we couldn’t run.”

You felt the silence stretch, thick with tension. Even Daniel’s amusement seemed to fade as your words lingered in the air, heavy with the truth of what had come next.

Daniel raised an eyebrow, his curiosity piqued. “I assume they put you on trial? For what, exactly? Killing Lestat, I presume?”

You could only nod, the memories flooding back in a rush. You shifted uncomfortably in your seat, trying to push them back, but they lingered like a shadow, heavy and impossible to ignore.

“And where was your love, Armand?” Daniel asked, now turning his gaze to Armand, who hadn’t shifted an inch. He was eerily still, his eyes fixed on you, unreadable and unblinking.

The silence that followed was thick, like a fog that refused to lift. Armand’s presence filled the room, and you could feel the weight of his attention pressing against you, more suffocating than comforting.

"I have to jump in here," Armand’s voice broke the silence, smooth and almost mocking. "I think my love's memory is a little foggy."

You were forced to look at him, his words pulling your gaze like a magnet. His lips curled into a crooked smile, one that didn’t reach his eyes. Those eyes—dull, black, devoid of warmth—stared at you with an unsettling calm, as if he were carefully rearranging the pieces of a puzzle you didn’t fully understand.

"I know how the trial happened," you said, forcing a smile at him, trying to reclaim some control. "You don’t have to speak for me."

Armand’s hand, which had been lightly resting on your thigh, stilled. The tension between you thickened, but he didn’t back down.

"I wouldn’t if it wasn’t important," he replied, his voice smooth, though the undertone of something darker lingered. "But if we want the people to know the truth, we should give it to them. Don’t you think so?"

He tilted his head again, studying you with a gaze that felt both tender and unsettling. He reached up, brushing a stray lock of hair away from your ear. His touch, so gentle, pulled a reaction from you before you could stop it. You leaned into it, feeling the warmth of his hand against your skin, despite the coldness in his eyes. It was a comforting, familiar warmth, but it made your heart skip nonetheless.

"So what exactly happened?" Daniel asked, shifting uncomfortably in his seat as he waited for an answer, his eyes flicking between you and Armand.

Before you could respond, Armand’s voice sliced through the air, gentle but commanding, as though he had already decided the direction this conversation would go.

You wanted to speak, to reclaim the words, but your mouth wouldn’t move. It was as if your mind had sealed your mouth shut, leaving you unable to break the silence Armnd had claimed. You sat frozen, a quiet tension building, unable to shake the feeling that the answer would come from him and not you.

"I want to apologize for the false answer you were given," Armand said, his voice smooth and reassuring, though there was an underlying edge to it. "Nobody can blame her. It’s been a few decades, after all."

His thumb began to trace gentle circles on your thigh, an attempt to soothe the growing tightness in your chest, but his words felt like a weight on your heart.

"I was aware of the coven's plan," he continued, his gaze never leaving you, "and went to warn my dear American friends. But when I arrived, I could find only mon cœur."

He turned to you then, a soft smile curling at the corners of his lips. The warmth of it washed over you, but there was something distant in his eyes, as though he were pulling you into a memory you couldn’t quite grasp.

You didn’t remember the way he described it, not at all. But as he spoke, you couldn’t help but wonder—maybe, after all these years, it was easy to forget.

It took another three hours before Daniel finally asked for a break, suggesting that the conversation continue the next day. You didn’t object; in fact, you welcomed the pause. Armand, as always, was by your side, leading you toward your bedroom.

As he walked behind you, his hand resting lightly on your lower back, the tension in the air was palpable, thick enough that you could almost cut it with scissors. You’d made a mistake today, one that almost painted Armand in a bad light. You couldn’t say you were scared—not exactly—but you weren’t thrilled either.

The quiet weight of his presence behind you was enough to send a shiver down your spine. You weren’t sure what to expect once the door closed behind you, but you knew it wasn’t going to be an easy night.

You expected Armand to speak once the door was closed and locked, but he remained silent, allowing the quiet to settle between you. The stillness wrapped around both of you as you went about getting ready for bed, the only sound was the soft rustling of fabric and the distant hum of the house.

But as you changed into your bedrobe, you felt it—his gaze, heavy and unwavering, burning into your back. His eyes followed the curves of your body, lingering on every movement, never once leaving you. It was unnerving, that constant watchfulness, like he was cataloging each detail of you, and yet, somehow, you couldn’t bring yourself to look back.

It wasn’t until you lay back on the bed, stealing glances from where you sat, that you watched Armand get comfortable in the robe you’d bought him. He didn’t rush, moving with a natural ease that always seemed deliberate, as though every gesture was meant to be noticed.

He was beautiful in a way that never stopped catching you off guard. Like when his hair fell in loose waves, brushing just over his eyes, and even the slight crook of his nose added to his charm, making him seem more real, more human—if only just. You couldn’t help but admire him, even after all this time.

He knew it. Of course, he did. The faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips gave him away. He didn’t need to meet your gaze to know you were watching. He always knew when your attention was on him—and he soaked it in like sunlight.

"The conversation almost got out of control today," Armand said, his voice breaking the silence. He turned to face you, his head tilted in that way he always did, his eyes slowly scanning you from head to toe.

"I'm sorry," you said with a soft chuckle, your gaze warm as you looked up at him. As he stepped closer, his presence seemed to fill the room, his figure towering over you in that quiet, commanding way of his.

"Guess I got the facts wrong," you continued, your tone light but unsure. "Even though... I can’t quite recall the version you described to Daniel."

He stayed quiet for a moment, his dark eyes fixed on you with an intensity that made you shiver. It felt like he was trying to see right through you, to penetrate your thoughts and mind with nothing more than a look.

You knew he could. He was an ancient vampire, after all, with gifts far more powerful than most could comprehend. But even as the thought crossed your mind, you pushed it away. Armand would never take advantage of that, not with you.

You loved him too much to doubt him, even for a second. And perhaps, deep down, you knew that was exactly what he wanted—to be loved without question.

"My dear," he said softly, a small smile playing on his lips as he slowly bent his knees, kneeling in front of you. His hands rested lightly on your ankles, grounding you as you propped yourself up on your elbows to meet his gaze.

"It’s been decades," he continued, his tone gentle, almost comforting. "It’s only natural to forget or mix things up. After all, I was there to correct you. Nothing bad happened." His lips curved into a smirk, the words flowing sweetly, meant to soothe.

But as his gaze lingered on you, you couldn’t help but catch it—the faint spark of coldness in his eyes. It was subtle, almost imperceptible, but it was there, sharp as a blade hidden behind silk.

"I’m always going to be there," he added, his voice barely above a whisper. His hand moved slowly, trailing up from your ankle to your knee, the touch light but unyielding.

He never broke eye contact, his gaze locking you in place. There was something possessive in the way he looked at you, something that sent a shiver down your spine. It wasn’t fear—not exactly—but the weight of his promise, the intensity of his presence, was enough to make you quiver.

"Good," you said with a nod, doing your best to ignore the warmth swirling in your stomach. Even after seventy years, he still had that effect on you. You chuckled, a playful smile tugging at your lips. "Because I’ll hunt you down if you ever dare to leave."

Your tone was light, but the weight behind your words was anything but. You meant it. Armand had his secrets, just as you had yours, but one thing you shared was an obsession—an all-consuming need for each other.

You couldn’t imagine your life without him; in truth, you could barely remember the life you had before him. as though the years before he arrived had been erased. Every memory you held close revolved around him, around the two of you together.

And you were determined to keep it that way. Forever.

"I would never," he said softly, a small smile gracing his lips before he leaned in and pressed them to yours. The kiss was brief but filled with warmth, meant to reassure you, to steady the swirling emotions inside.

As he pulled back, his face lingered close to yours, his breath mingling with yours as he whispered, "I didn’t tell Mr. Molloy the whole truth. When I went to warn you... I left out some things."

Your brow furrowed in confusion, your heart pounding as you hung on to his every word. "What’s that?" you asked, your voice soft, as you reached up to gently place your hand on his cheek.

He looked almost unreal, like a sculpture of a devil—sinful, beautiful. The candlelight bathed him in a warm glow, casting shadows that only deepened the beauty of him. His dark skin seemed to drink in the light as if he were made of something otherworldly.

You had seen angels before, in your long life, but none could compare to the beauty of the devil kneeling between your legs. The one who had always held you in his thrall. The one you could never, ever escape.

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he let his presence fill the space between you, his body slowly overpowering yours. With a gentle but firm push, he guided you onto your back, the weight of him settling above you, dominating yet tender. His lips found the crook of your neck, pressing soft, lingering kisses against your skin, while his hands drifted down to your waist, pulling you closer.

A quiet moan escaped your lips as his lips traveled to your collarbone, each kiss sending shivers of electricity down your spine. His touch was slow, deliberate, and as his fingers slid to the top of your robe, you could feel the tension in the air tighten around you.

"After you opened the door and I came to warn you about the coven’s plans..." His voice was low, almost a whisper, as his hand lingered at the top of your robe, barely brushing your skin. He moved his lips over your neck, your jaw, finally finding yours in a deep, searching kiss. "I couldn't prevent it."

His kiss grew more intense, and you wanted to ask him why—why didn’t he stop? Why hadn’t you left? But before you could, his lips silenced you, pressing against yours as his other hand slipped beneath your waist, pulling your body flush against his. The warmth between you overwhelmed everything else, leaving you breathless and speechless, caught in the weight of the moment.

Your hands instinctively wrapped around his shoulders, pulling him closer as the kiss deepened. You needed him in that moment, more than anything else in the world. Everything else—the journalist in your house, the unfinished conversation, the looming threats and dangers—disappeared. None of it mattered.

The only thing that existed was him—his touch, his lips, the warmth of his body pressing against yours. Your mind raced with thoughts of him, drowning out every other sound, every other thought. Nothing else mattered. Just him. The feeling of him. The weight of his presence. That was all there was.

You felt his hand pull away from your chest, and a soft, frustrated sound escaped your lips in protest. But before you could voice more, he guided his wrist to your mouth. His eyes never left yours, dark and full of unspoken intentions.

You knew exactly what he wanted—what both of you craved. His pulse throbbed beneath your lips, and without hesitation, you sank your fangs into his wrist, the familiar, cinnamon taste of his blood filling your senses. It was intoxicating, overwhelming. The warm droplets fell from your chin, tracing down your neck and chest, as you drank deeply, savoring every drop. His blood was always sweeter than you remembered, more potent, more familiar than anything else.

It felt like home.

You couldn't stop. Every drop of his blood filled you with a rush of heat, the world around you starting to blur as your senses sharpened. Your eyes closed instinctively, your head tilting back as pleasure coursed through you. His blood was intoxicating, and you were lost in it, unable to think of anything else.

The soft moans and whimpers escaping from Armand only pushed you further, each sound making you crave him more. You heard his voice, faint and distant, but it barely registered as you kept drinking, the taste of him flooding your senses. His hands gripped you, but you hardly noticed, lost in the sensation of him.

You wanted more. Needed more. His blood, his presence, it was all that mattered. And for a moment, everything else faded away.

You didn’t know how long it had been—minutes, hours, maybe just seconds—lost in the feeling of his blood coursing through you. All you knew was the way his face shifted when he gently pulled his wrist from your mouth, his breath coming in quick, shallow gasps. His blood still lingered on your tongue, warm and intoxicating, slowly dripping down your chest as you let go of him, your body humming with the aftermath.

He loomed above you, but now his head rested against your chest, seeking solace in the warmth of your skin as his breath steadied. You stroked his hair, fingers threading through his dark curls, trying to ground him as much as yourself.

Your fingers traced the mess on your chest, and without thinking, you brought them to your lips, savoring the last lingering taste of him. The warmth, the sweetness, it felt like the only thing that mattered, and you couldn’t stop yourself.

As Armand rested on you, his breath warm against your chest, the fog in your mind began to clear, just a little. Flashes of the past few hours started to resurface—his visit, the warning about the coven, the tension in the air. It all felt distant, like you were trying to grasp a dream you couldn’t quite hold onto, but there it was. A few more pieces of the puzzle fitting together, the edges blurring into something you could finally begin to understand.

You couldn't remember how many times he'd done this—how many times he'd stepped in to help, to keep you from slipping into that haze, to save you from the things you couldn’t hold onto. Each time, he was there, gently piecing you back together, never asking for much in return. A small knot of guilt twisted in your stomach. Maybe you hadn’t realized how often he’d carried this weight for both of you.

But then you felt his hand tighten around your waist, his presence anchoring you, and that guilt faded away, swallowed by something deeper. It wasn't just about him fixing your memories. It was how, despite everything, he made you feel like you were never truly lost. Like you were still whole, still his.

"Je t’aime chaque jour davantage, Arun," you whispered, the words flowing from your lips like a secret you'd been holding onto for eternity.

Armand lifted his head to meet your gaze, his dark eyes searching yours with an intensity that made your heart flutter. He was so consumed by you, so focused on every word, every look you gave him, that even the smallest detail, the evidence of your connection, went unnoticed. And for some reason, that made you smile.

"Je t’aime moi aussi, mon cœur," Armand murmured, his voice soft, reverent, as he rested his chin against your chest. His eyes, those dark pools of mystery, were half-lidded, and for a moment, you could see the rawness of his desire in the way his flushed cheeks caught the candlelight, his waves of dark hair falling over his forehead like a veil. The world outside of him and you ceased to exist.

You ran your fingers through his hair, losing yourself in the softness of it, in the way he seemed to melt against you. He was so beautiful, every inch of him a reminder of the eternity you'd spent together. He was warmth and darkness, light and shadow all at once—an enigma you couldn’t unravel, no matter how many lifetimes you lived.

Eternity would never be enough, not when it came to him. You needed him, needed to consume him. To become one with him in every sense of the word. Your lips ached to kiss him, not just his mouth, but his very skin, every inch of him, to touch the bones of him.

And he wanted the same.

You could see it in his eyes, feel it in the way his body pressed against yours, as if his very soul was entwined with yours. What you two shared wasn’t just love. It wasn’t just desire. It was an all-consuming need—an obsession that humans could never truly understand. It was a bond that reached beyond anything they could comprehend, an unspoken language of the heart and mind. You didn’t need to say it; you both knew.

There was no end to it. Only the now. Only him.

"I'm starting to remember," you murmured after a few quiet moments, feeling Armand settle closer beside you. His fingers lazily traced the fabric of your robe, a soft touch that made you feel safe, anchored. "When you came to warn me. It's still a little foggy, but it’s there. I’m sorry I doubted you."

You didn’t look at him, but you could feel his gaze on you, calm and steady. The fragments were falling into place, his words reassuring you, reminding you of things you hadn't been able to fully grasp. His version of the events felt so right, so natural, and you couldn't help but let the memories shape themselves around what he had shared. You trusted him completely. And yet, beneath it all, a quiet whisper in the back of your mind wondered how easily you’d forgotten things before. But that thought was fleeting, disappearing as quickly as it came, leaving you only with the certainty of what Armand had guided you to remember.

"I'm glad you're remembering now," he whispered against your neck, his fangs grazing the delicate skin. "But if you ever forget something, I’ll always be here to help restore your memories."

A smile tugged at your lips as his hand slid beneath your robe, his fangs sinking into your neck, tasting your blood. The sensation was beyond anything you had ever imagined, a pleasure that consumed you completely. You leaned into his touch, surrendering to the feeling of his fangs, the weight of his presence, and the rhythm of his hunger.

With each kiss, each bite, your memories grew clearer. You could recall every detail of that night. Yes. He had come to warn you, just as he had said. Santiago was responsible for Claudia's death, and Lestat had helped orchestrate it. The truth was finally clear to you. You could only trust Armand. Everyone else had betrayed you, deceived you. In his arms, you found safety. On his tongue, you found clarity.

You would never let him go. He was yours, and you were his.

For all eternity.

#interview with the vampire #armand iwtv #armand #armand x reader #armand fic #iwtv armand fic #louis de pointe du lac #lestat de lioncourt #the vampire armand #assad zaman

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sinnabarmoth · 1 day ago

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Worthy of Devotion (1/9)

(A/N: This prompt that I had originally intended to be maybe 2 parts got out of hand so fast. So yeah, @effervescent-unicorn, you are to blame for this monster. And I hope you appreciate that my hyper-fixation chose it. All said with love!)

Pairing: Sea God|Rafayel x Worshipper|Reader (fem)

Summary: Reader has left to begin her pilgrimage to the temple of the Sea God in the middle of the ocean. Along the way she ends up in a terrible storm and meets the god himself, Rafayel.

Content warnings: Adult language. Near death experience.

Length: >3k

Chapters: (2)

Read it on AO3

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It was finally happening! After so many years of study and devotion it was time for your pilgrimage.

You had grown up in a seaside city that worshiped the Sea God, Rafayel. At a young age you had been taken in by the city’s grand temple and raised as a devout follower and prospective priestess. At least, you would be a priestess after your pilgrimage to the Pearl Temple.

Growing up you had heard about the beauty and majesty of the Pearl Temple, a grand temple on an island in the middle of the sea that shone like the gleaming alabaster brilliance of a pearl. It was a necessary journey that all expecting priests and priestess of the Sea God were expected to make. You would go, spend time making repairs and cleaning the temple, gather a pearl from its waters, and return home. Now it was your turn.

A boat small enough to be managed by a single person yet large enough to hold needed supplies was made for you and you were off across the beautiful blue of the ocean. The sun was shining, your sail was full, and your heart was hammering as you took off on this long anticipated journey. The city behind you became smaller and smaller before disappearing past the horizon and suddenly you were wholly alone in the middle of the sea.

You were feeling good about your journey and how calm the sea was. Perhaps you were being blessed by the Sea God for a safe journey. Then night came. The ocean turned to pitch black and the moonlight disappeared behind the heavy shroud of dark clouds. The waves became choppier and choppier until they began to roar up and pummeled your boat with ferocity. Years of sailing kicked in and you started running around doing whatever was needed to keep your boat aloft in this terrible storm. But then a wave easily ten times the size of your boat swelled and crashed over you and you were taken under, your ship smashed to pieces.

You kicked and flailed trying to find the surface but everything was too dark. You couldn’t tell up from down and you were running out of air. No! No it couldn’t end like this! It couldn’t!

Then from down in the depths you saw something glowing. A brilliant blue light like sapphires that multiplied and moved together like beads on a string being dragged across the sand. Against the light a silhouette of a shadow in the water could be seen that dwarfed anything you had ever seen. Was it a whale? The lights grew larger and you realized that whatever this was it was coming straight for you. Yet you were not scared. You were mesmerized.

Your breath was gone as you took in a lungful of water and the world started to go dark at the edges. The lights and shadow was still coming but you doubted you’d stay alive long enough to see it for what it really was. If it was anything but a hallucination anyway.

At least you’d die in the ocean. Forever a part of the sea.

Your body went numb from the cold yet in the center of your chest you felt a warmth begin to grow. It filled your lungs until they were burning. The burning burst out, surging up your throat like a volcano and spilling out of your mouth.

Your eyes opened again, struggling to focus as you retched more and more. Salt water and bile painted the ground underneath you as all the water in your lungs and stomach was expelled. Every breath was precious to you but they ached with the effort. By the tides, what had happened? You had thought for sure you were going to die.

You forced your eyes to focus and took in your surroundings. You were on something wet and squishy and--shit it was moving! You reared back as pale appendages rose up around you.

“You have wandered a long way from home, little human.” a voice that bellowed like the raging sea rang loud behind you. It was then you realized what exactly you were on. It was a hand. A giant hand that held you in its palm.

You turned towards the voice and came face to gigantic face with a man taller than any building or tree you had seen. The pale moonlight reflected alabaster skin dappled with large iridescent blue scales that shimmered in the light. All leading to twin eyes the blue of a hot flame that studied you intently. The lights in the water…the shadow…it was him. It was…

“Rafayel…” The mosaics in the temples did not prepare you for this. You tried to breathe but you were struck dumb and immobile. You were in the literal hand of the Sea God. You had imagined a hundred times what you would say if you had ever been given the chance to meet the Sea God but no words came now. You just knelt and stared trying to rationalize that this was actually happening.

His head tilted to the side and you could see the web of fins poking out through his hair where his ears were supposed to be. “What brings you here all on your own?” he asked.

“I--I--” your voice rasped as you tried to speak. “I am on my pilgrimage, Your Radiance. I set out yesterday morning to travel to the Pearl Temple when I got caught in the storm.”

“My temple?” this seemed to intrigue him. “It has been hundreds of years since anyone has been there.”

“Hundreds of years?” you gasped. That couldn’t be right. But if anyone were to know it would be the god who the temple is for. “But then how…all the priests and priestesses…the pearls…what of our sacred journey?” you mumbled to yourself trying to parcel together everything.

“Something is at work in your head, little human. Speak it.”

“I do not understand. To become one of your priests we must travel to the Pearl Temple and retrieve a pearl from its waters. If no one has been there in a hundred years then how has anyone become a priest or priestess? It makes no sense.”

“Humans lie. Shouldn’t you know that, being one of them?”

You felt your heart splitting in two. No. The people who raised, who taught you, they couldn’t have lied. They couldn’t have forsaken such a critical and important part of their faith. And for what? Why had no one gone to the Pearl Temple? What were you missing? “Why? Why would they lie? Why would they let me make this journey if none of them had actually done it? I don’t understand…” tears started to leak from your eyes.

“The answer is simple. The seas are fraught with dangers the further from land you venture. You experienced first hand such dangers there are and it almost killed you. They would rather live a lie than risk death being honest.” Rafayel said. “I would say that makes you braver and more devout than any of them.”

“Thank you,” you bowed your head, pressing your head to his palm. “Thank you for your words and thank you for saving me.”

“What will you do now?” he asked.

“I…” you didn’t know. You looked over the edge of his hand towards the water but saw no sign of your boat. Not that you thought you would see it. The storm had destroyed it beyond repair. “I have no way to get home, though I am not sure I want to return after learning what I have. But I cannot continue on my pilgrimage without my vessel. I do not know what to do.”

“Do you still wish to see the temple?”

“More than anything.”

“Then that is where we will travel.”

“You would take me? Truly?”

“The first follower of mine that has been brave enough to actually attempt the journey? Should I let you drown in my ocean? I do not think so.” he said with a half smile. “You will want to close your eyes for this next part though.”

You did as instructed and felt his hand close around you, cradling you securely before you felt yourself plummeting down into the ocean once more. You kept your eyes squeezed shut, the sound of the ocean rushing past you roaring in your ears. Then all at once it stopped and you felt yourself being deposited on the sand.

“You can open your eyes now.”

You opened them and saw that you were now on a large island. The white sand sparkled in the moonlight like stardust and before you stood the shadow of a large and imposing temple. “I’m really here…” you said in awe.

“I have not been here in some time. Looks worse than I thought.” Rafayel’s voice didn’t sound as loud as before.

You turned to thank him for delivering you to the temple and were shocked not to see the giant you had met but a much more human looking man standing behind you. Unlike in his giant form where he was largely unadorned his human form was bedecked in gold jewelry on his arms and neck, blue, crimson, and gold tattoos were painted across his skin, and he had an elaborately embroidered sarong of linen and gossamer silks around his waist that was pinned together with a gold braided belt. And here you were still waterlogged and in your plainest travel clothes…now your only clothes you realized.

Rafayel saw you studying him and squinted at you. “What are you staring at?”

“You’re small.” Is what came out without thinking.

“Still taller than you.” he ruffled your hair as he walked past you.

“I didn’t mean it like that.” You were quick to amend yourself. “I’m sorry.”

“I take no offense. This is my usual form.” he said. “I rarely assume my true god form as you saw it. You can consider yourself lucky to have witnessed such a thing.”

You followed behind him as he walked towards the temple. “I’ve considered myself lucky since meeting you. If not for you I would have drowned. And now because of you I am at the Pearl Temple, the first person to enter its hallowed halls for the first time in centuries according to you.”

“Hmph,” he scoffed, “It’s crumbling halls more like.”

You got to the large ornate doors that led into the temple and Rafayel shoved them open. In his hand he produced a flame and sent it at a brazier inside the temple. It was then what you saw what he had spoken of. The inside of the temple was indeed grand as you had heard but even in the limited light you could tell it was deep in disrepair. There were cracks in the floor, broken windows, there was debris of broken glass and elements of nature inside, even part of the roof was missing in some areas. All of it because no one had come in so long. It was a wonder it was still standing at all.

“This way.” Rafayel kept walking. “Mind your step.”

You followed him up a staircase and into a new section of the temple that thankfully did not look as worse for wear as the main level. You walked by a few doors before he stopped at one and thrust it open. He had another flame in his hand as he used the light to assess the room. “No broken windows. That was my main concern.” he said and ushered you to enter.

Using his power he sent flames out at the different sconces along the walls. You were in the most lavish bedroom you had ever seen. Gold and gems were inlaid into the walls like a mosaic, the bed was easily three times the size of your small cot at home and five times as thick, the furniture was crafted from a rich and warm colored wood that glowed like bronze in the firelight, the headboard for the bed alone looked as if it had taken years to carve in every detail.

The room had been left untouched by the elements but still had a layer of dust around it that slid against your feet as you walked. You felt yourself glide and slip across the floor and Rafayel caught you by the elbow before you could fall. “If you don’t mind the dust, you can sleep here tonight.”

“Sleep here?” you held your arms close to you. “I do not think I can sleep somewhere so splendid. Aren’t the bedrooms for your followers supposed to be modest? What even is this room? Not even the highest of the priests and priestesses have a room such as this.”

“You may be right, but those rooms are no doubt in as terrible condition as the rest of the temple. This may be the only suitable room left because it had been so meticulously taken care of and boarded before it was abandoned.” he explained.

“I see. Why was this room boarded so carefully but none of the others?” you stepped closer to the bed and gave a gentle pat to the mattress. A puff of dust plumed from the linens. You coughed and turned away. “I’m going to need to air it out first or I may very well choke to death.” You started tearing the blankets off the bed sending up even more dust.

Rafayel unlatched and opened the windows, though they creaked horribly from not being used in years. “Well, to answer your question, the reason this room was probably so well kept even after being abandoned is because it is technically my room.”

You dropped the blankets and stared at him.

“What is it now?” he sighed, collecting the blankets from your feet.

“I can’t stay here!” you rushed to take the blankets out of his arms. “If it is your quarters then I’m definitely not supposed to be here! I have no right!”

“It is an unused room.”

“It’s your room!”

“I never use it.” he snatched the blankets back. “It’s my room technically because all temples are supposed to have a room that belongs to the god that it is dedicated to. But none of the gods ever actually use them. We have our own rooms in our own homes. This is merely a place of dedication. And since it is my room I am giving you express permission to make use of it. Someone ought to use it anyway.” He went to the window and started shaking the dust out of the blankets as if he was not a god doing a menial chore.

“But--”

“Would it make you feel better if I made it a command?” he said with a teasing smirk, “Fine then. As your god I command you to live in this room so long as you are on this island. You will sleep in this room, change in this room, bathe in this room, and so on and so forth. There. Now you have to or else you would be disobeying your god.”

You were flabbergasted. You knew he was teasing you but there was still a part of you that went rigid with complacency upon hearing his command. Even made in jest, you wouldn’t go against him.

You took back some of the blankets and sheets and aired them out at the other window. Once the bed was significantly less dusty you felt yourself relax. Then the toil of the day started beating down on you all at once. You had been running on adrenaline during the storm and then too excited and shocked at having met Rafayel to even think about being tired. But now the storm had passed and your body was weary.

“Go to bed, little human.” he gave you a poke. “You need your rest.”

“But I--” you yawned, collapsing onto the bed. “--I need to pray first. I’m always supposed to pray before going to sleep.”

He sat at the edge of the bed. “Then make it quick before you pass out.”

“Dear God of the Seas--”

“Skip the honorifics. You don’t need to beseech me to listen, I’m already here.”

“Thank you for saving me and looking after me. Thank you for letting me sleep in your room.” your eyes were growing heavier, “I pray you will continue to bless me and protect me.”

“Consider your prayer heard. Now rest.” you felt the blanket be pulled up over your shoulders. “You have nothing to fear so long as you are here.”

And with those final words you fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.

#love and deepspace #lads rafayel #rafayel x reader #lads mc #rafayel x mc #sea god rafayel #lads sea god au

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mooniemilkieway · 7 hours ago

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Laughing Jack Headcanons Part 2

this is literally my character app lmfao I've been coming up with ideas about him since I started fangirling (badly) for him again so let's go.

* . °•★|•°∵ ∵°•|☆•° . *

(gif/animation by @/ijustwannahavefun)

┊͙✧˖*°࿐

★。＼｜／。★

⛧ Laughing Jack is essentially corrupted by Lucifer to be used as a weapon to obtain his vengeance on God for casting him out. When an angel was traveling the Jack-in-the-Box to Isaac, Lucifer sent one of his demons to attack the angel and put a "curse" on the box. This could explain why Laughing Jack-even before Isaac abandoned him-seemed to be murderous as he mutilated a cat when him and Isaac were playing outside.

⛧ LJ does have more of an "virtuous" voice. He has a gentle, almost father like, voice. It's usually for when he wants engage with someone he genuinely likes or if he wants to calm someone down. However, don't let this deceive you as it could be because of manipulation. Once he starts showing his true motives, his voice would become more sinister.

(His "innocent" voice headcanon that being Sebastian Michaelis: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OgBWOTtTp4Q)

(His "malicious" voice headcanon that being Alex Brightman's Beetlejuice: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QMrt9demNeA)

⛧ He takes interest in porcelain harlequin dolls. He was first introduced into making them around the late 1900s when he was targeting one of his victims and their brother was a merchant for harlequin dolls. Obviously LJ killed his victim and the brother because they were scamming and being evil by abusing their nephews and based on his new hobby, he captured their souls and sealed them in two porcelain harlequin dolls he created. They are both in a small, glass display in on of LJ's carnival tents.

⛧ Relating back to the previous one, Laughing Jack doesn't kill innocent children or people for that matter. Sure, he may scare or tease you, but he would never lay a finger on you unless if you are that of vile soul. Especially if you abuse children.

⛧ Laughing Jack loves studying astronomy. Whenever he walks outside on a full moon with stars aligned in the night sky, he would always wonder what it'll be like to travel across the galaxy. He even thought about if there's other life forms on different planets. This can explain why he is more stronger magic wise during the full moon period.

⛧ He is also a writer. When he began writing was as the same time Isaac was still being homeschooled. He learned how to do cursive writing. He would definitely write letters either warning someone about the dangers that lie ahead of them or would write a threatening one to his victim.

⛧ Laughing Jack has photophobia or has sun-sensitive eyes. This is most likely because he has been stuck in a dark, enclosed area for almost 13 years. He can technically be in sunlight but he'll have discomfort. So if you want to get away from him just shine a really bright flashlight in his eyes. One of the people Laughing Jack was protecting noticed this and offered him a pair of their old glasses because they had the same condition. LJ does wear them but only when no one can see his as he doesn't want to seem "vulnerable."

⛧ He is also very...old fashion. He prefers listening to music by a vinyl and a record player and doesn't understand the concept of technology or what the new generation is into. He is also very concerned about the "Get Alpha" slang...

⛧ If Laughing Jack gets stabbed or has one of his limbs cut off he could easily attach it back by sewing that area with just needle and thread and wrap it with his iconic bandages and it'll function like normal.

⛧ He loves the snow. Especially when it's at night. He finds it very magical and would take someone out with him to a snowy forest so they could have a walk and talk to each other about their deepest feelings.

⛧ His scent is that of a victoria sponge cake. It is actually a strong smell that you probably wouldn't even think it came from him.

⛧ For funnies, yes Laughing Jack does know all of the Sanrio characters.

.𖥔 ݁ ˖꩜

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walkintomymystery · 3 days ago

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Fall Into Me

(Set after Sonic 3) Defeated, world-weary, and impossibly lost, Shadow allows himself to be taken back into G.U.N custody. While they decide his fate, he is housed in a secret facility hidden deep in the heart of one of the country's National Parks. Still reeling from the heartbreaks that have shaped his life, Shadow never expected to find the closest thing to a home he'd known in over fifty years.

Pairings: Shadow the Hedgehog x Original Female Character

Warnings for this chapter: none!

Chapter Three

It took all his strength to open his eyes.

Shadow immediately knew that something was wrong, but his thoughts were scattered and impossible to retrieve. He even had to remind himself to breathe.

Time seemed to slow as his consciousness coagulated, and all the while he stared at the floor, just trying to remember who he was, where he was, what he was doing there.

Slowly, his senses came back to him, one at a time. The burning heat beating down on his back. The taste of copper under his tongue. The roar of bullets all around him.

Shadow was bent double, kneeling against cold, hard metal. Finally, instinct kicked in and he tried to move, but his wrists were bolted to the floor. The bracers he’d been shackled with were stuck fast to the ground, as if magnetised.

The noise was deafening now, gunfire and screaming, shattering glass and sparking metal. Shadow tried in vain to pin his ears to his head to block it out but nothing helped.

He tried to move again, groaning with the effort, but he was trapped. He wanted to raise his head but the position he was stuck in meant he could only see a foot or so in front of him. The gnawing in his muscles was starting to grow painful.

Teeth bared in a frustrated growl, Shadow tried to push up, tried to raise his chin to at least see where he was, but his arms were thrust out in front of him, keeping him pinned. His back ached, his muscles searing. And still, that awful noise, screaming and screeching, pain and endless tragedy.

“Shadow!”

His heart dropped in his chest, then surged forward, pushing against his ribs.

Shadow forced his head up as far as he could. In the distance, he saw a familiar flash of pale blue.

“Shadow, help me! They’re almost here! Help, please! I don’t know where grandpa is. Sha-”

A gunshot split the air in two.

Shadow shot up in bed, scrabbling at the sheets. He gasped, pulling in a sharp breath, but the air was so cold, it made his lungs contract.

Panic muddled his thoughts. He practically fell out of bed, staggering like a fawn on unsteady legs. He could still hear gunfire crackling all around him.

Shadow clutched at his chest, trying to ease a pain he still wasn’t used to, and stumbled to catch his balance.

“Ma…” He tried to form the word but it caught in his throat, choking him. “Mari…”

Still gasping for air despite the shocking pain, he shot out his arm and grabbed onto the nearest solid thing, the back of a chair. It was so dark, Shadow could hardly see his own hand in front of him.

It had felt so real. It still felt real.

Pulling in another deep breath, Shadow found a spot on the wall in front of him and fixed his gaze there. Just a dream. Just another bad dream. But Maria’s voice still echoed in his ears. If it wasn’t real, then why did it hurt so much?

Shadow’s grip tightened on the back of the chair. His body had reacted as if he were really in danger. He could feel adrenaline coursing through his blood, awakening every muscle, preparing him to stand his ground or run for cover.

That was twice he’d drifted off now. It was more sleep than he’d gotten in his entire life thus far. He’d never felt the need before. The slow creep of fatigue had always been completely foreign to him. If this was the new normal, he didn’t want it.

Shadow’s gaze dropped to the band around his wrist, outstretched in front of him.

‘Bracers’. That’s what the fox had called them. A neat solution to cut him off from his powers.

Shadow turned his wrist over, studying the brassy ring that completely covered his own. They were heavy and clumsy, he still hadn’t got used to the weight of them. They threw off his balance, and the dull static that rolled through his body from their mechanism was starting to make his jaw ache.

The fox had them on her own wrists. So these people, whoever they were, controlled her powers too.

He’d never seen anyone with that kind of telekinetic control before. The strength in her movement, the flash of fire behind her eyes, was formidable. The fox was a force to be reckoned with. She seemed to mean him no harm, but then, people never did at first.

Shadow slowly unpicked his fingers from the back of the chair. The room had stilled at last.

He took a step back, then another, until the backs of his legs hit the bed.

It was so quiet. How could a base packed full of humans be so silent? Even the ARK used to reverberate gently with the sound of the engines, a low hum of a lullaby for all onboard.

With a sickening lurch, Shadow wondered if the bracers had dulled his senses permanently. There was a time he could feel the planet turn. He could hear whispered voices as clear as a bell and anticipate the moves of others before they themselves had even thought to make them.

Now, he felt as if he were underwater, several feet below the churning surface, reaching and grasping but never getting anywhere. If he didn’t focus, the world felt distant and fragile, like everything was blanketed in a thick layer of snow.

Never had he been so grateful for the power instilled in him at his conception. Now that Shadow knew what it was like to live without it, he would never forsake that gift again. If he ever got it back.

Slowly, Shadow straightened up. His heart had finally fallen into a steady rhythm again.

Still fighting to take control of his breathing, he sat on the edge of the bed. The mattress was firm, it hardly gave way as he sank down, a bed fit for an army base.

But the fox, Kit, she said this was a research centre. A labyrinthine laboratory hidden within the heart of a national forest, miles from any towns, or people, or a way off this awful planet. It didn’t make sense.

With a sigh, Shadow lay down on his side and stared into the darkness.

Outside, thunder rolled across the sky, growling and clawing at the walls of his room. There were no windows, but he could practically feel the rain beating the ground outside, churning up the earth as well as his dreams.

Dreams. He’d hadn’t dreamt for such a long time, not since the ARK. On the rare occasion he did drift off, it was beside Maria’s hospital bed, or while she read aloud from one of her many, many books.

Back then, his dreams left him with a warm feeling of belonging, the safety of family. They were all gone now. He was the only one left. And now that his body craved sleep, there were only nightmares to fill the void.

Shadow gazed around his new room. His eyes had finally had time to adjust, so now he could pick out the squarish shapes of the furniture and a slight sheen off the spines of the books they’d given him.

Know your enemy.

Shadow slipped off the bed and tucked his fingertip over the edge of one of the books. If he was going to be stuck here indefinitely, he should learn all he could.

He flicked on the lamp, then sat down at the table in the corner and began to read.

The first book contained a map of the area. With aching eyes, Shadow studied the landscape, the rocks and the trees, the mountains and the deep blue rivers that snaked through the forests. There was nothing for miles, just endless, empty woodland.

The next book offered information about the history of the border between this country and its neighbour. The next was a heavy tome listing all the flora and fauna that could be found in the National Park. He drank it all in, absorbing all the information he could.

Shadow read all night long, while the storm raged outside.

When morning finally rolled in, Shadow heard muffled movement in the room next to his. His neighbour was getting ready to start their shift.

Shadow could hear footsteps in the hall too, scientists, cooks, guards, all on their way to work. He ignored them, and returned his attention to the passage before him about the history of the park.

The knock at the door shouldn’t have surprised him.

Shadow grimaced. He was having trouble getting used to the dullness of senses. He should have heard his visitor coming long before they got close to the door.

They knocked again. Then a voice called out,

“Shadow? I’m here to take you to breakfast.”

Kit.

He waited with his ears flicked towards the door, his gaze still on the open page before him.

Kit knocked again, louder this time. She was right, she was persistent.

“Shadow?”

He waited in silence, not moving, hardly breathing.

“C’mon, Shadow. We’re not so bad. I just wanna show you around the base. You can come back to your room right after.”

Finally, after a wait that seemed to stretch on for hours, he heard Kit turn and walk back down the corridor.

Shadow hesitated to relax just yet. Perhaps she’d gone to get a couple of guards to break down the door.

He waited there for a few moments, listening intently for any sign that he was about to be hoisted roughly from his room, but nothing came. She’d left him alone, for now.

This went on for three days.

Shadow stayed in his room, in the dark. To keep his mind active, he devoured every book on the shelf, and searched his room from top to bottom for cameras or microphones, but came up empty-handed. He read the books again, from cover to cover. Anything to stave off the creeping, awful lure of sleep.

Sleep meant nightmares. Sleep meant letting his guard down. Sleep was unnatural and unusual to him. He didn’t want it, he knew in his core he didn’t need it, and Shadow would use every last ounce of his remaining strength to keep it at bay.

Every morning, at around the same time, Kit knocked on the door. She called his name, told him it was time for breakfast, waited and waited, then gave up and left.

On the second day, she came back in the evening to tell him that dinner was being served in the dining hall.

Shadow’s stomach growled at the thought, but he stayed silent. He would not give in so easily.

At night, he lay in bed shivering. Shadow had never felt anything like it. Growing up on the temperature-controlled ARK meant he’d never felt the cold before. He was sure he’d still be freezing even if he had his powers.

Shadow tried and tried to resist getting under the covers. So far, he’d managed to keep sleep, and the nightmares, at arm’s length, but the pull of the warm blankets soon grew too strong.

On his third pale, bleak morning, Shadow opened the wardrobe they’d given him. Inside, hanging from a rail, were a number of different clothes in every colour imaginable, as if whoever had left them for him hadn’t dared to guess what he might like.

Shadow huffed. How embarrassing, to be reduced to this.

He pulled down a navy blue shirt, then changed his mind. He pulled on a deep red jumper and slipped it over his head, adjusting and pulling at the material until it sat comfortably over his quills.

He threw the shirt over the bulky, grey box that sat on his bedside table. It had two wide, staring eyes, and a series of buttons at its heart. He couldn’t imagine what it must be for, communication, security, perhaps both. All he knew was that if they were going to plant a camera somewhere, it would be right between its round sockets.

Feeling utterly defeated, Shadow climbed into bed and stared at the ceiling. The blankets and sheets they’d provided barely warded off the cold, but it was better than nothing.

Shadow tucked his nose under the collar of his sweater and closed his eyes, willing morning to come soon.

On his fourth day at The Hill, Shadow watched the door, waiting.

Reliable as ever, he heard the sounds of his neighbour stirring, then the endless drum of footsteps out in the hall. At last, beneath it all, he heard the distinctive step of Kit’s boots.

Shadow opened the door a fraction of a second after she knocked.

He must have surprised her because Kit froze, her hand still high in the air, her knuckles edged towards him.

She recovered quickly though. With an easy smile he recognised from their first meeting, Kit lowered her arm.

“He lives!”

She took him in with a glance, the raw exhaustion in his eyes, the way hunger arched his back, then finally, the jumper he’d pulled on to keep himself warm.

He thought he saw the briefest flash of concern in her face before she plastered a smirk over it.

“Well, don’t you look handsome.”

Shadow stayed silent. Not that it mattered. Kit seemed to have a talent for guessing what he was thinking. That, or she didn’t care, and barrelled on regardless.

“See, I think there must have been some kind of miscommunication,” Kit raised her eyebrows. “I said, ‘I’ll come by tomorrow to show you around’. And you heard ‘lock yourself in your room and starve yourself for three days’.”

Still, Shadow said nothing. Kit was more than capable of filling the silences unaided.

She waited, hoping for a rebuttal, a bit of fight from the most fearsome force in the galaxy, and seemed disappointed when she came up empty.

“Easily done, I guess,” she said quietly.

Shadow let his gaze slip away from her to watch a human emerge from the room opposite his. The man, an engineer by the look of his uniform, merely spared them a cursory glance before heading off to work.

Shadow looked back at Kit when he caught her looking him up and down. She was clearly as curious about him as the scientist that had examined him when he first arrived. He was curious about her too, though where Kit found amusement, he found only exasperation and fear.

“You seem to be under the impression that you’re funny,” he said at last.

Surprised, Kit’s large ears flicked, twitching in his direction.

They truly were ridiculous. Shadow found it hard to hold her gaze, he kept finding his eyes drifting upwards.

“I do, don’t I.” Kit crossed her arms, bunching up the oversized T-shirt she wore to keep herself warm. “Now you’re here, I can give you the tour.”

She turned and headed up the corridor, towards the hubbub of life he’d been avoiding for four days.

Shadow stayed in the doorway, obstinate and calm, though beneath the surface, his patience was already wearing thin.

“I don’t want a tour.”

Kit looked back at him over her shoulder, annoyingly confident, completely at ease.

“Only Santa Clause cares about what you want, Shadow.”

“Who is-”

He stopped, his mind turning over and over as memories sluggishly rose to the surface.

In the last month of the year, Gerald would always make sure to bring seasonal festivities to that tiny corner of the ARK that felt like home. He vaguely remembered a big, jolly man in a red suit through the haze of his early years, and Maria’s wide, excited smile.

Shadow brushed the sickening mist of nostalgia from his vision.

He had to focus, though hunger and exhaustion clawed divertingly at the back of his mind. He needed to eat, he needed a better understanding of his surroundings, and he needed his questions answered. Time to figure out just how much danger he was really in.

Shadow drew in a breath, then closed the door to his room and followed after Kit.

She showed him to the cafeteria first, where she grabbed them both some breakfast. Kit pointed out which foods she generally avoided and which, despite appearances, were actually rather nice. Shadow decided to trust her experience.

The cafeteria was enormous. At least a hundred neat rows of tables and chairs filled the room, and the air was thick with sleepy chatter.

Somehow, he still managed to be the centre of attention. Shadow could feel a thousand pairs of eyes on his back wherever they walked. Kit seemed to pass through without much reaction though. Some of the humans even greeted her warmly by name.

Food in hand, Kit led Shadow through the base, pointing out any areas of interest along the way.

The base consisted of seven floors, all hidden deep within the heart of the mountain.

Ground level, where they were, housed the cafeteria, the mess and some of the sleeping quarters. The floor above, Kit said, was for storage. Beneath their feet was another floor of dormitories, then below that were four levels of laboratories, work spaces, and more storage for all the equipment needed to keep such a large base running smoothly.

Kit spoke easily as she showed him around, enthusiastic and relaxed, as if she really were his tour guide and she’d made the same spiel a hundred times.

Shadow couldn’t get a read on her. Confident and unafraid, Kit spoke to him as if she thought they might soon be good friends.

Shadow said nothing. When in doubt, keep silent. Only speak when absolutely necessary. That was the best way to survive.

But was that something he really needed to worry about? He was always watchful, but Kit had assured him that he would be safe here. No one wanted to harm him, she’d said. She seemed to believe it. But he’d been lied to so many times before.

Shadow thought he might be allowed to slip off back to his room after the tour but instead, Kit led him outdoors, through the same entranceway they brought him through when he first arrived.

In the daylight, the scene was completely different. Once a sparse, black wilderness, the clearing that surrounded the foot of the great mountain range was now glowing with life.

Above him stretched the bluest sky Shadow had ever seen. There wasn't a single cloud. Warm golden light streamed down like water, soaking the grass and warming his still aching muscles.

The air smelt clean and sweet. No acrid smog, no sparking metal, no fear. Just a soft breeze floating through the trees and the smell of flowers he couldn’t name.

He looked round to find Kit had sat down against the mountain’s flank, resting her back against the mossy rock.

Shadow hesitated before joining her. He crossed one leg over the other and carefully sank to the ground, his fingers splayed at his sides.

His heart thumped in his chest as more memories rose in his mind.

One of Maria’s wishes had been to lay in the grass again, to run her fingertips over feathered seed pods and dig her nails into sun-warmed soil. Shadow found himself thinking, not for the first time, that it should be her sitting there instead of him. It didn’t even occur to him that it was the first time he’d ever felt the grass beneath his feet.

“Here.”

Kit passed him one of the pastries she’d chosen for them, holding it aloft in the centre of her palm. When Shadow barely acknowledged it, she sighed.

“Please. For me.”

Shadow could have laughed. He watched Kit rethink her strategy.

“For yourself, then.”

Shadow’s stomach growled. Though a voice in the back of his mind screamed at him to not give in, to just wait it out a few more days, he knew that the only way to stay strong and keep his wandering mind sharp was to eat.

Begrudgingly, he took the pastry, making sure that his fingers didn’t brush Kit’s hand. He took a tentative bite, ignoring the enormous smile that broke across his keeper’s face.

Satisfied, Kit relaxed back against the rock and tilted her chin up to the sky.

She truly seemed to not fear him. Kit had said in their first meeting that she’d read all about him, and seen all available footage of the chaos he caused after he was taken out of stasis, but she wasn’t afraid. Perhaps she thought she was stronger than him, and Shadow supposed she was while his bracers were switched on, but arrogance was something he could use to his advantage.

Kit nodded towards the tree line.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it. Lisa says there are hundreds of National Parks across this country, some are twice as big as this one. Once you’ve been here a little longer, I think she’ll let you come out on patrol with me.”

She took a bite of her own breakfast, then nudged his arm with her elbow, encouraging him to keep eating.

Shadow scowled, but did take another bite. The raspberry danish she’d chosen for him was so sweet, he almost couldn’t bear it. Sickly and chewy, it stuck to the roof of his mouth, and he had to poke it at it with the tip of his tongue.

“There’s a huge river a few miles that way that ends up in a waterfall. I’ve never gone that far but maybe we could hike out and see it sometime. And there’s this meadow I like to go to. The flowers always start to die around this time of year but there’s still grass, taller than me. Even with these ears.”

She grinned at him, but Shadow found her irreverence aggravating.

“Patrol?” he repeated

“Mm?”

“You talked about going on patrol.”

“It’s part of the work we do here. The park is home to hundreds of different species, there’s fish in the lakes, bears, deer, birds, lynx, everything you could think of. But the humans have ruined their own climate. You wouldn’t think it but this ecosystem is dying. Reversing that is part of Lisa’s work.”

Shadow watched a pair of soldiers tramp through the grass in their big, heavy boots. They spoke in hushed voices, stealing glances at him, but didn't dare to meet his gaze. They didn’t seem like conservationists.

“Lisa. She’s a scientist?”

“Yeah, she’s worked here for years. They’ve been studying the biodiversity in the forest. The soldiers work as fire watchers too.”

The sun was still steadily rising through the sky, bathing them in warm orange light.

Kit pushed her arms up above her head, stretching and basking in the sunlight, and Shadow fought the urge to do the same.

“Wildfires are very common in Glacier. I left some books about the park in your room, did you find them? I thought you might like to learn about where you’ll be staying. There’s only one main road in the park but the woodland is dense. People get lost out here easily. We can help them get back on the right track. A lot of important work goes on here. This is a good place.”

Shadow couldn’t resist sneering at that.

Of course, Kit noticed immediately.

“You don’t trust scientists.”

“I can’t trust anyone.”

“Well, you can trust Lisa.”

“She made these?”

He held up his wrists. The bracers still buzzed unpleasantly, a steady, uncomfortable shockwave that turned his stomach and made his head swim.

Kit nodded, her hand coming up to absentmindedly rest against one of her own bracers.

“Her and her colleagues.”

Shadow scoffed.

“This is environmental science?”

“I think we count as ‘environmental’.”

Kit smiled again. She was always doing that. It was infuriating.

Shadow didn’t like the implication that they had anything in common. Just because they were both alien on this planet, it didn’t mean that they were anything alike, just like with Sonic and his friends. There was no ‘we’. Only ‘him’ and ‘them’. The fox needed to decide whose side she was on.

Shadow huffed and tucked his index finger under one of his bracers, trying to ease the ache that it sent shooting through his bones.

“You said I’m free here, that there are no bars and no handcuffs. What would you call these?”

Kit shrugged.

“A precaution.”

“And you’re okay with that?”

“I understand it. We’re allowed wherever we want. We’re given food and warmth and safety. In return, they just ask that our powers are under control.”

“I can control mine just fine.”

A soft breeze swept through the clearing, pooling at the foot of the mountain and rolling over them.

Shadow watched the wind play with Kit’s short hair.

Something seemed to pass between them. Shadow had bared his teeth, metaphorically and literally. Kit could either step back or stand her ground.

Unsurprisingly, she seemed unfazed. Kit just smiled again, though perhaps that was her way of hiding how nervous she really was.

“I knew you’d come round, eventually,” Kit said, sounding almost smug as she deftly changed the subject. “You couldn’t stay in your room forever.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t send your soldiers in after me.”

“They’re not my soldiers. And anyway, I knew you were okay. I could still hear you moving around.”

Shadow’s scowl deepened.

“What?”

Kit flicked her left ear, drawing attention to them again.

“I could hear you.”

Shadow’s teeth clenched together, tightening his jaw till it ached.

Indignity upon indignity. It wasn’t bad enough that they were keeping him here or that they watched his every move and controlled his body, he had been assigned a keeper with hearing so acute, she could pick out his movements from three rooms away.

She really was an odd sort of creature. She was all out of proportion. Kit was shorter than him but her long ears technically made her taller, balanced out by her long, fox’s tail that swayed from side to side as she walked.

A fennec, she’d said. He supposed he’d heard stories of the different species across the galaxy, but Shadow couldn’t remember ever hearing about a tribe like hers.

Inside the base, he’d thought her fur was black like his, but now in the sunlight, he could see it was actually deep purple, apart from the whitish spots that freckled up her nose, between her eyes, to her forehead. He’d seen the same colour in the books she’d left for him, in hyacinths and blackcurrants, violets and figs.

Her eyes were like lavender, bright and expressive, and Shadow found it hard to hold her gaze for too long without feeling like she could see right into him.

Instead, he looked back at the tree line. The pines reached so high, they seemed to brush the turquoise sky. The woodland stretched back until it disappeared into a dark smudge on the horizon. The mountain range they had their backs to was just one of many in the park; he'd read about them in another of the books Kit left for him.

“Listen, I know it’s strange,” Kit went on, her voice much softer now, to the point of earnestness. “But don’t worry about the soldiers. They aren’t always the most trusting but the scientists here are all very kind. They just want to work. And they’re curious about other worlds like mine.”

Foreboding pushed its long, cold fingers into Shadow’s stomach and slowly closed into a fist, gripping him tight.

“Are they curious about me?” he asked, though he dreaded the answer.

“We all are,” Kit shrugged again. “Who wouldn’t be?”

It was an unsettling thought. Shadow still didn’t know what he was doing here. A part of him was too afraid to ask. He’d never backed down from a fight before, but these people had him over a barrel. He was powerless, completely lost, and guarded at all times by someone incredibly powerful but unabashedly interested in him, a worrying combination.

If they wanted his powers, they would’ve taken them already. If they wanted him dead, he wouldn’t be sitting here, eating breakfast and enjoying the sunshine. It was much more likely that they needed him for something, and Kit was their ambassador. But what would she gain from that?

“It really is safe here, Shadow. I know it must be scary but nothing can hurt you here. You could have a purpose. You could use your skills and your power to help people.”

“Why should I?”

His words held more venom than he intended but he didn’t care.

Human beings had brought only pain and suffering to his life. What had they ever done for him except take away the only things he’d ever cared about, the only home he’d ever known? Their selfishness and their greed would be their undoing, why should he stop them tearing themselves apart?

Kit tilted her head at him. She had the audacity to appear confused.

“Isn’t that why you were created?” she asked. “To help people?”

Something sharp twisted in Shadow’s gut. With a low, rumbling growl, he thrust out his hand and grabbed her wrist.

Kit’s other hand instinctively rose up as fire flashed in her eyes, but she did not summon her power to her. She kept it under the tips of her fingers, her whole body shaking with the effort.

Shadow pulled Kit close, her body twisted in towards his, until his nose was mere inches from hers.

“Do not,” Shadow seethed. “Presume for a single second that you know anything about me.”

He could barely get the words out from between his bared teeth. He chewed them up, spat them out, his fist tightening around Kit’s wrist.

She felt so small and snappable in his hand. The perpetual look of self-assured snark was gone, as was her irritating smile. Not so confident now.

“You will never know me. That’s mine. There are some things even humans will not and cannot take from me.”

Kit’s ears flattened against her head, her mouth falling open in surprise. She tightened her free hand into a fist, her eyes beginning to burn with purple fire, but her powers remained beneath the surface, broiling and trembling, but restrained.

“I’m not human,” Kit said, her voice low.

Her warm breath brushed his cheek. Shadow could feel her pulse hammering under his fingers.

He snarled.

“If you help keep me here, you may as well be.”

Shadow tightened his grip on her wrist, curious as to what she would do, but Kit still didn’t summon her powers. What was she waiting for? He was right, he was too valuable to damage. Kit was obviously under strict instructions to not be too rough with him.

His own power lay out of reach. He tried to stretch out to it, call it to him, but the connection had been broken. Shadow felt a chill seep up his back, making his fur stand on end and his chest tighten. He felt lost and angry and frightened, there wasn’t a safe place for Kit, for anyone, to stand.

But then the fire in Kit’s eyes died, and he felt her muscles go slack under his hand. She lifted her head back, moving away from him, and Shadow decided to let her go, allowing her to sit with her back against the rock again.

Her eyes never left him though, wary and watchful, but still not fearful. What would it take for her to finally understand the danger she was inflicting upon herself by trying to get close to him?

Feeling suddenly worn out by the day, Shadow rose to stand. He tapped the toe of his right shoe against the ground three times in quick succession, drawing attention to the battered old sneakers he’d dug out of the closet.

“I want my shoes back,” he said. “And more books.”

He felt Kit’s eyes on his back as he turned to leave but she didn’t rise to follow him.

“What?” she called out, and that irreverent lilt was back in her voice. “You’ve read them all already?”

Shadow didn’t respond. He just kept walking, his head bowed to avoid catching the gaze of any soldiers who passed him by.

Kit was right about one thing, he did appear free to move around wherever he liked. No one stopped him, or spared him more than a second glance as he headed back inside the base, through the winding corridors to his room.

He locked the door behind him and curled up on his bed, tucking his knees up into his chest.

Shadow pulled in shaky breath after shaky breath, his lungs shuddering and flitting like a hummingbird’s wing, until finally, he couldn’t stand it any longer. He began to cry.

Shadow lay there, his body shaking and trembling uncontrollably, until night fell.

Kit watched him go.

Her heart was still pounding like a bass drum, in her wrists, her ears, her neck. She could feel her blood pumping round her body, adrenaline pooling in every nerve. More than anything, she could still feel Shadow’s hand around her wrist.

Kit pulled in a long breath and slipped her hand around the ghost of his. The leather of his gloves had rubbed her fur uncomfortably. She wouldn’t be surprised if she had a bruise there tomorrow. Even without his powers, Shadow was strong, and a disquieting presence to be so close to.

His eyes. Kit couldn’t get them out of her head. Every time she closed her own, she could see scarlet burning through the darkness, the hot glow of a collapsing star, a power unlike anything the galaxy had ever seen.

When she finally felt strong enough to stand, her legs felt uncertain beneath her, and Kit thought she might stumble if she didn’t have the mountainside to lean against.

Not so bad for a first day, Kit thought, trying to keep positive. There was plenty of time for Shadow to warm up to her.

She followed his path back towards the base’s main entrance, but headed for the elevator rather than the sleeping quarters.

Kit travelled down two floors to Lisa’s favourite workspace, a huge array of research labs that filled the entire storey.

Each room was enormous, and consisted of enough stations that everyone had the freedom and the space to work without getting in someone else’s way. Microscopes, boxy computers, sheets and sheets of research pinned together in files, shelves and shelves of equipment, and an all manner of brightly coloured chemicals filled the room.

Kit’s nose immediately wrinkled. Even after all this time, she couldn’t get used to the sharp scents of disinfectant, charred metal, and latex gloves.

She found Lisa at her usual workbench, tying up her long brown hair to keep it out of her face.

When she saw Kit, she smiled, and pushed her round glasses further up her nose.

“Any luck today?”

Kit twisted her mouth, unsure of how to answer.

She hopped up onto one of the stools and leaned over the workbench, propping up her chin on her hand. She supposed in a lot of ways, today had been a success, but she still had so much work to do. Shadow seemed more out of each than ever.

“I finally got him to eat,” Kit offered. “And I showed him where everything is so hopefully he’ll start wandering around on his own soon. He asked a lot of questions, Lisa.”

“Well, that’s okay. So long as you were careful.”

“I was, don’t worry.”

Kit’s gaze dropped to her left wrist.

Shadow’s words rang like a bell in her head. He’d pulled her so close to him, she could feel every ragged rise and fall of his chest, and the power that lay dormant behind his eyes.

He could have snapped her wrist. He could have tried to pin her down, knock her out or worse, and run off into the woods, but he didn’t. Instead, Shadow had warned her to back off, and sharply reminded her that she had no idea what she was dealing with. She’d have to fix that.

”He wants his shoes back,” Kit said.

Lisa frowned.

“He won’t be able to use them. Without his chaos energy, they’re just shoes.”

As she spoke, she took a large white box from under the counter and carefully prised off its lid. Lisa pulled out yards and yards of stark black electrical wire and velcro pads, and began organising them on the bench.

Kit studied the hypnotic movement of her hands, her mind still turning and turning, over and over.

“It might make him more helpful.”

“We’ll see.”

Lisa raised the circular black harness, loosening the buckles between her deft hands. When she thought she’d got it to the right size, she held it above Kit’s head, waiting for permission.

“Ready to start?”

Kit stared at the headset, and considered Lisa’s question.

She felt tired today. Waiting four days for Shadow to emerge had taken a toll on her. Every morning she worried about him, every night she had to explain why she still hadn’t made any progress. And now she’d actually had a conversation with him, she felt as if all the energy had been sapped from her body.

A small part of her wondered if she’d be able to say ‘no’ if she wanted to, but Kit brushed the thought away. That was ridiculous. Lisa just wanted to help her. And if Kit could do anything to repay the kindness she and the other scientists had shown her, she wouldn’t miss a beat to do it.

Kit forced a smile and nodded, lowering her head so that Lisa could place the harness over her head.

“Sure.”

Next Chapter

Master List

#shadow the hedgehog #shadow the hedgehog x reader #shadow x oc #shadow x reader #sonic movie 3 #sth

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soonwoosz · 16 hours ago

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short scenario

chenle x reader = unlabelled chemistry

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You've always had a weird relationship with Chenle.

Ever since the start of first year, you haven't really established your relationship as friends - yet couldn't say you were strangers, being classmates.

Sure, there were a few conversations here and there, but most of the time they were brought together by mutual friends.

Nonetheless, you couldn't say you hadn't realised you stare a little too long - just whenever the sunshine casts on the right spot against his glass skin while studying in class. Or whenever your friends drag you to watch the boys play basketball in the courts, where sweat drips down his neck delicately, paired with the furrowing of his eyebrows or biting on his bottom lip when he threw the ball into the basket out of focus.

On the same frequency, would it be overthinking if you caught him staring a few times in class, always having that feeling when someone looks a little too long in your direction?

Your friends have always teased you about a blossoming relationship whenever you coincidentally wore matching outfits, raving about your compatible personalities, looks, something along those lines all the time.

It was awkward at first, as you could imagine. It was a mutual thought when the both of you started avoiding each other in class, keeping conversations to a minimum, or not looking at all.

It was of no use - being classmates in the same class, afterall.

Years pass by fast. The next thing you know, the bells in the school corridors died down. Instead, cheers of hoorahs erupted in the hall, followed by the tossing of graduation caps to signify the end of school.

You laughed along to the cheers, holding onto the graduation flowers and gifts as you posed for the camera with your favourite people in school.

"Say cheese!" The photographer signalled, a thumbs up to show that he took the photo.

Everyone rushed out the hall, heading for the main gates to take a picture with the school building as memory for the near future.

And just like them, it was mandatory to take as much pictures for this joyous occasion with everyone you cherished.

"Let's take a photo here!" Donghyuck pointed, the school's iconic spiral staircase coming into view.

"Would that be a good idea? The stairs are still wet and slippery from the rain." Hana spoke, using her heels to test the friction on the flight of stairs.

"It's fine, just hold onto the railings!" He pulled us forward before we could even protest.

The stairs were steep, yet narrow in size, making it ten times more difficult to walk in your dresses. Heels clacked against the stone, climbing up just enough to fit a maximum of two persons per step.

Unfortunately, you had landed right beside the dreaded Zhong Chenle, who towered over your figure.

"You're never escaping the height killer agenda, Chenle."

"Not my fault you're the shortest,"

He placed an arm on your shoulder, taking it as a shoulder rest.

"Perfect." His eyes lingered a little longer.

You broke the eye contact, palms a little sweatier than usual.

You shook his grip off.

"Hey!" The photographer caught everyone's attention.

"The image is inproportionate, could everyone please take a seat on the step?"

You exchanged looks with Chenle, who shrugged and took a seat on a dry step behind you.

You huffed, internally whining as you picked the tail of your dress up, trying to find a comfortable position to sit down on.

However, you gasped, feeling yourself fall backwards -

into someone's lap.

"Stop squirming, I just want to get this over with." Chenle whispered in a low voice, wrapping a gentle arm around your waist.

You felt your heart rate thump just a little faster than usual, blood rushing straight into your cheeks.

"Ridiculous." You muttered, just enough for him to hear.

You crossed your legs, sitting comfortably against his chest while posing with the flowers in your hands, along with the others. It was lucky that you borh sat at the very back, with no one caring enough to break their focus on their best looks for the photo.

Though, you wonder what their reaction would be when the photo results came out?

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#kpop #nct scenarios #nct dream #nct #nct chenle #zhong chenle #chenle #nct imagines #nct dream imagines #nct dream chenle #chenle imagines #zhong chenle imagines #chenle scenarios #nct drabbles #nct oneshot

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cheekblush · 2 months ago

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really starting to believe that psychic who claimed i’m cursed

#like absolutely NOTHING goes right in my life #i have no friends no social life no partner have never been in a relationship even though i’m almost 30 #i still live at home my job has horrible working hours and makes me absolutely miserable #like i can’t name you a single thing that goes right in my life i’m so far behind everyone #i wasted so many years studying and i’ve got nothing to show for it i’m a pathetic excuse of a human #i really wish i could give my life to someone who deserves it way more than me someone who really wants to live #the psychic claimed that my ex best friend’s mother cursed me #and i do find it somewhat silly to blame everything that goes wrong in my life on someone else or outer forces #but our friendship ended VERY poorly and her mother absolutely hated me by the end of it #so it honesty doesn’t seem too far fetched #bc ever since we went our separate ways which i never regretted btw i’ve just been struggling to survive #like if i’m honest i’m intelligent i’m capable i’m pretty i’m kind i’m funny but my whole life is a struggle #i know that my depression anxiety and overall low self esteem closes a lot of doors for me #but it’s just insane how unlucky i am like it can’t be a coincidence anymore #it’s just so heartbreaking when all your efforts are in vain like i try sooooo hard but it’s never enough #the psychic claimed the mother put a curse on me that basically blocks all roads for me #and like i said i haven’t had success or happiness in both my personal and professional life #it feels like every time i take step forward i take 3 back #good things never stay for long and bad things are so excruciatingly bad it’s unbearable #i’m just exhausted with everything… life shouldn’t be so fucking difficult wether it’s a curse or not #i know i also have many things to be thankful for but it seems like all the important milestones are eluding me #☁️

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labec99 · 1 year ago

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Seeing La Sagrada Familia made me want to do something dumb like move to Barcelona and do a masters or doctoral thesis on it.

It’s magnificent.

#The architecture in Spain #like goddamn #I missed Europe so much #I never want to come back to American though 🙃#I mean my bachelor’s is in film and media studies #doing an art or architectural analysis of it is entirely in line with that actually #And I feel like I could study it for years and still find more to talk about it #La Sagrada Familia #architecture #Barcelona #Spain

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hippo-pot · 6 months ago

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Btw, re: my opinion that computers are not gonna be able to translate sign languages in our lifetime, it's not that sign languages are necessarily More complicated than spoken/written languages (I truly don't know how you'd measure that but I'd assume they're equally complicated). But video is, in terms of sheer data, much bigger and presumably harder to process than audio. I cannot imagine this happening without *astounding* computational resources which would take far more energy, water, and money than a human interpreter (and, more importantly, wouldn't work as well, at least for the foreseeable future). I assume the computation would happen off site in most cases if it did work, meaning the Internet connection is gonna need to be phenomenal (there is already widespread dissatisfaction with VRS human interpreters used in medical settings because half the time the connection drops). Speech to text, with all the issues it still has, seems like a breeze in comparison to 'understanding' a video.

I also cannot wrap my mind around how a machine would handle depictions. Like, with some practice behind me, my human mind is now able to understand (some) depictions I've never seen before (thank goodness, because there will ALWAYS be new depictions I haven't seen before, bc Deaf people are resourceful and creative), but I don't see how a machine would. That's pure sci fi to me. I also wouldn't expect a machine to do a good job translating stuff it's never heard before in a spoken language (e.g. wordplay, or the way you can sometimes tell the meaning of a new slang word from context, or an uncommon name even), but the thing is I think depiction is a much bigger part of daily life than wordplay is?

#Just wanted to clarify I wasn't like being weird and elevating signed languages above spoken #or i mean. if i still am let me know. it's true that ASL seems more complicated to me than English #but i try to recognize and work around that bias #like of course my native language doesn't seem complicated *to me*. i get that #anyway. I also don't know anything about the tech involved so by all means take me with a grain of salt #But this truly feels like common sense to me #If you time traveled me to the year 2080 and I saw a machine accurately translating ASL into English #My first thought would be 'which ocean is being drained for this right now'#And then 'wtf is the sheer size of this program + the database it's working off of'#I think it's cool to study this stuff. Don't get me wrong. But I don't think we should kid ourselves #It's not gonna be practical anytime soon #All that's without even considering the reverse of translating a spoken language back into a signed language #i think because human interpreters aren't perfect (because the job is hard!!) there could certainly be a temptation #to think that machines could be better than humans one day #but man. do you know what would be a better use of resources for the time being?#supporting hearing and especially Deaf interpreters in their studies and jobs #turns out a great way to improve a human's performance is to give them a teammate #we don't have to jump straight to replacing them with a machine #for anyone who doesn't know: if a particular job requires deep understanding of Deaf culture & deafness & the Deaf community #a hearing interpreter can team up with a Deaf interpreter for much better results #like the Deaf interpreter can interpret the hearing interpreter's signing into signing the Deaf client can understand better #and vice versa #anyway. it makes sense people are excited about machines. but can we stop going around saying 'hey AI is gonna take your job'#for jobs that we don't even understand 🙃#this is where y'all find out that this whole wall of text is directed at a guy who said that to my husband

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anthromimicry · 8 months ago

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#I'VE GROWN INTO A DEEPLY UNLOVABLE ADULT: playlist.#I know this is kind of a weird place to start with misao BUT I swear this song is relevant to her character jsjsj #During the 400 years she spent in Japan after she left home she had actually become acquainted with Japanese Pirates.#And she had joined them on their ' travels ' ( which basically just means raids / illegal exploits JSJSJ ).#But something unexpected happened during her time spent with them. There was one other woman on the ship and of course Misao wanted to try-#to connect with them as a result. And Misao was left being in complete wonder of her as she had never seen someone be so agile with a sword #before that point since the other woman in question ( her name was reika ) was known for being a BRILLIANT swordfighter. and due to her-#bunk being right above reika's they often found themselves have late night convo's with each other. And over time Misao felt this-#overwhelming feeling of warmth within her heart whenever she was around her as they soon began spending pretty much every single waking-#moment of their time together. And because Misao had never experience romantic love before this point she had thought she just held a deep-#admiration for Reika for a while. But then Reika volunteered to show Misao how to sword-fight and that's when she knew that she loved Reika #Because every single time she would physically correct Misao's stance with her hands or show her how to do a move more properly-#Misao felt this uncontrollable desire to kiss her. She just thought that Reika was so beautiful. And she wanted to have the spirit-#of a ' warrior ' just like her. So she reallyyy wanted for Reika to be her gf and after having a nightmare one night-#(because she is unfortunately plagued with them sometimes) and Reika expressed her concern for Misao by telling her that she could sleep-#in the same bed as hers Misao could've sworn that her heart stopped for a second and she was hesitant to at first but crawled in bed next-#to her anyhow in the end and after just laying there for a bit Reika turned to face her + just look into her eyes for a moment Misao asked-#if she could kiss her and Reika laughed and said something akin to ' oh if you only knew how long i've wanted for you to say that. -#of course you can ' and from that moment on Misao + Reika were a couple. And Misao was sooo in love with her that she wanted to find a way-#to make her immortal too. But decided not to when the topic was met with Pity by Reika whenever Misao finally revealed to her what she-#really is. Though the years that Misao spent with her were perhaps the happiest she's ever had. And she still loves Reika to this day.#She is also the reason why Misao wants to perfect her sword-fighting skills. Because she wants to make Reika proud of her.#... wherever she may be.#NO SLEEP OF THE INNOCENT. NOT FOR YOU: character study.

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exopelagic · 9 months ago

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sudden realisation that the thing holding my art back is that I never had an anime phase

#going to find a time machine and get my younger self into death note or smth #I have been driving myself insane for the past few years bc I wanna draw characters but all I know how to do is portraits #I’m trying to figure out how I could recreate smth similar now and tragically I think it does just come down to draw more :/#however! I am also going to try using brushes which will be bad for sketchiness and better for lineart bc I might need to force myself here #I just gotta simplify things down to basic shapes how hard can it be #[has been thinking this exact thing for years and it’s not worked]#I am getting better every time I do stuff I’m just not satisfied bc art is frustrating when you know what you want but can’t get there #god it’s 2am I should not be awake rn but I could draw again tonight so I was taking advantage #endlessly frustrated by hair. why is it so awkward. I need to understand hair better how do I do this #i have a feeling it’s bc I’ve not figured out how to apply the shit I figured out abt volume yet #I’m also getting impatient bc I’ve been trying to do a study thing for some art styles but I decided I wanted to draw ocs instead of that #when I hadn’t gotten to the actually important bit which was. making smth new. but I can still do that #and I ended up doing a different style anyway (someone pls stop me rounding everything make me use high opacity square brush for my health)#the Other problem is I never wanna switch brushes. like I want to use one brush for whole drawing bc the extra clicks annoy me #I wonder if there’s a shortcut to swap brushes #anyway I’m gonna stop complaining bc drawing is fun but god I wish I’d drawn some more pokey mans when I was a teenager yknow #ideally younger. would rlly like to not have to actually think to figure this out rn #I’m probably overthinking stuff anyway honestly and I KNOW I’ll get it if I practice enough but goddamn it is hard to practice #especially when my me insists on making the bad things look better by making it more realistic #instead of figuring out why the shapes aren’t working #OKAY IM DONE WITH THIS NOW. GONNA TRY NEW ART THINGS LATER STOP TALKING <3 #luke.txt

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lesbianbishounen · 2 years ago

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there are some pieces of media that i love a lot for a variety of reasons but most of the content on social media about it is ship related. and a lot of the time i like said ships as well but theyre not the reason something impacted me at all i want other kinds of content. but if i have to read a single analysis post from an online stranger that i disagree with i might start blowing people up with my mind

#moral of the story is to only have serious conversations abt stuff u like with ur friends #ill be fr i was thinking about trigun typing this but i could name other things #like witch hat atelier. almost every single piece of wha art ive seen online is orufrey and i love them but like Damn #kingdom hearts too i feel like thats the fanbase that really made it clear to me that i do not like being engaged w fandoms at large #idk. the constant war between me being like 'damn it kinda sucks that some aspects of things i like arent typically discussed online'#vs that allowing me to live my life in peace and never be at risk of seeing someones wrong opinion #bcus i get so fucking tilted when i do. being really into dbz last year was rough for me i was so fucking mad all the time #trying to find character study fics (dont ask) and constantly being like 'he would not fucking say that.'#feel like this also doesnt really bother me for some stuff like orv. like yes joongdok is literally everywhere but #so much of that novel loops back into them that like. a lot of the fanart u see of them reflects themes of the novel itself.#does this make sense. like i still want more hsy art but it doesnt bother me that much that kdj and yjh are literally omnipresent #anyways i love tumblr i can blab as much as i want in the tags vs on twit i have to make longass threads #which makes it look like im posting for engagement or w/e. im not i just need my thoughts out of my head #chatots

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morningmask27 · 2 months ago

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I have a friend who is very much trying to fix my sleep schedule (telling me to not go to bed too late and whatnot. And the fact that she is a morning person also makes it funnier) but I am left one night to my own devices (no classes the next days just cooking) and I'm back at my nonsense with a little reading session until 4 am. By my current estimates I will fall asleep by 5:30.

Sorry Sweetheart, (let's ignore the fact I also have a crush on her. She's straight. I've tried) but the power of gay cannot save a sleep schedule so terribly broken

#morningtalks #She literally told me today (yesterday) to go to bed at a reasonable time #I am hoping she won't ask or something when she wakes up later #We had some thoughts of travelling together in the future. We knew with our sleep schedules it would get funny #But I still think Rome and Lesbos could be amazing trips for the both of us #Will do some research on if it's doable in the winter. Then maybe we could see in the future if we find some time #But God I love her so much #When I'm explaining the FrostWhistle really devoted friendship stuff that's kinda what I'm alluding to #I cherish every second of the time I spend with her. She's funny and she's kind and we share so many passions and we always find things to #Talk about. Be it the classes we share or classics stuff in general (because we both study Latin)#But we always have more things to talk about.#I am so happy to have met her and that was nearly a year ago #How time flies. I feel like it was only yesterday that we talked for the first time but also like we've known each other for years #So much stuff happened in so little time and now I have this wonderful person as my friend and we hang out together #And study some fucking Latin together to ease the pain with some good company (and snacks)#She knows about my crush. Me being honest about this shit actually helped us become closer #I was honest. Asked for her honest answer and that's how it went. Now we're really open about stuff and I am making a few dumb jokes #Lately too about why the fuck she's straight. Stop being straight.#Gotta stop rambling though. Won't fall asleep until 6 if I do lmao #But I really love her so much and I felt like I needed to share that with the void briefly

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nexus-nebulae · 6 months ago

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i used to like. Never drink milk i think it was my most hated beverage for a while there. and then recently i found out im lactose intolerant and at the same time was noticing i have a tendency to "not like" foods that i didn't realise were making me sick (hating tomatoes or Specifically american soda or most american breakfast foods or specific artificial sweeteners = fructose intolerance! who woulda thought) like i guess i just subconsciously avoided all the stuff my body couldn't digest well (which was great i barely had to change my diet to avoid all my allergens and intolerances) but like. recently i decided to try lactose free milk like just regular milk with the lactose Deleted and. now suddenly i keep craving milk. im actively choosing to drink milk. i think i like milk now. what the hell

#lactose free milk my beloved i guess? now i might not need vitamin d supplements as much #like realising most of my cravings had way more to do with what my body needs/can actually digest was like. a lightbulb moment #and bc one of my spins is biochem. Of Course i started studying what the base components of my foods were #I've been just researching and studying what foods give me what vitamins if I'm craving a certain food what do i need #and It Works somehow? like not 100% of the time but ive been feeling ill a lot less lately #still doesnt stop me from craving cheese but they dont make lactaid cheese and vegan cheese has the Worst texture ever i Cant Stand It #i wish i could get like. more food that didn't have 1000 additives bc a large amount of stuff they add to prepackaged food makes me sick #like soy lecithin what the hell is that and why is it in literally every baked thing ever can i please have one soy free snack #and motherfucking high fructose corn syrup every time i see that added to an ingredient list i feel a little more angry #according to healthline fructose malabsorption affects 1 in 3 people thats fucking insane. and nobody makes specifically fructose free food?#genuinely want to move to a different country bc a lot of food i try from outside the US doesn't seem to constantly make me sick #like i don't want to be one of those 'mehhh american food is so unhealthy' people bc thats just Annoying #but also it is so fucking difficult to find stuff to eat when you have food sensitivities in this country #at least give me a little variety everything is the same here everything that was cool or different abandoned that or shut down years ago

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luveline · 16 days ago

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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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