#I have no evidence for this I just feel like it

[luveline]

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. 

｡𖦹°‧⭑.ᐟ

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❤︎

[spideyjimin]

Wait for your love | jjk (teaser)

—  pairing: firefighter!jungkook x female reader 

—  genre: kind of exes to lovers, parents au, angst, fluff, and smut 

— rating: 18+ 

—  summary: sixteen years ago, your life was turned upside down when you surrendered to the temptation — none other than jungkook, the star basketball player on your school’s team. today, after all that time, you reunite under tragic circumstances; a car crash where he saves your life.

—  words: 577

—  author’s note: here you have the teaser of the fic i’m currently working on 🤗 you have a tiny little teaser below & i hope you’ll enjoy it ❤️

—  tag list: let me know in any way if you want to be tagged when i post this and if you are part of my permanent taglist, you will automatically be added ✨

Jungkook and his team got called for a car accident involving several cars, and when they arrived, the scene was horrific.

There are probably five cars pressed and smashed one against the other. There are people injured and bleeding walking around the scene. Paramedics are already taking care of them, but Jungkook is walking to the cars to retrieve the people stuck inside. His captain screams orders and tells him which car he should go to.

His eyes look around, his heart breaking when he sees everyone involved and still stuck in their cars. Visions like this are quite common for him, it doesn’t happen all the time but it’s still recurrent. At the end of the day, his job is to save people in this type of situation.

When he reaches the car, he was assigned to, he takes a look at how many people there are inside. There’s just one person, a woman behind the steering wheel. She has her hand on her head, clearly showing that she might have a headache. She doesn’t really move. Instantly, Jungkook tries to open the door, but it’s showing a bit of resistance.

It feels impossible to open the door, but Jungkook sees the woman’s head falling. He’s getting worrier; she’s slumping into sleep which isn’t a good sign as she was holding her head barely seconds ago. He then proceeds to break the window so he can try to open it from inside. There are other possible ways, but it would be harder and more dangerous to get her out of the vehicle.

“Ma’am,” he says with urge.

Eventually, he manages to open the damn door from the inside. A good part of the car’s front is crashing into her. Before even thinking of taking her out, he places a cervical collar to protect her neck and spine.

“Ma’am,” he repeats. “Can you hear me?”

She doesn’t answer at all. Jungkook gets closer, his fingers brushing the hair from her face, but when he finally gets to properly see the woman’s face, his heart skips a beat. This woman is none other than you. His mind can’t start to get lost in the past right now. He needs to focus on taking you out of the car.   

You’re in pretty bad shape.

There’s blood on your forehead, you most probably have a wound on top of your head. There’s also blood at the level of your stomach, turning your green shirt into a very dark color. He can distinguish a big fragment of glass shoved into your belly. It doesn’t look good. Your legs are also completely smashed by the front, causing the steering wheel to be very close to your body.  Hopefully, your legs aren’t too injured. He doesn’t even want to start thinking about all the bruises on your body.

Slowly, he places one hand behind your back while his other hand slowly pushes your legs. He’s trying to be as careful as possible to avoid causing any other injury.  His strong arms hold you once he manages to fully remove you from the car. His eyes look down at your face with evident pain. He notices how you’re trying to open your eyes which makes him think that you’re trying to fight the urge to fall asleep.

“Yn,” he says while walking to an ambulance. “Please, stay with me,” he whispers with despair. “I’ve finally found you, and I can’t lose you right away.”

[shomatoriashi]

11/10/24; 09:04am

{ 18+ drabbles / headcanons }

[ when you try to break up with them, and they convince you otherwise ]

featuring: sylus, zayne, xavier, rafayel

queued post; published time 02:50pm

[ minors don’t interact; by choosing to interact with this content, you have consented to viewing something n-fw despite the warnings. ]

sylus no longer had the time to be with you, filling his days with various meetings and conferences while you were left to your own devices back at home.

and when your text messages were left unread, coupled along with how your calls would always end up going straight to voicemail-

you decided that enough was enough.

knowing that he had just returned from a business trip last night, you take quick strides towards his office with your suitcase in tow. you had every intention of showing just how tired you were of being neglected by him, and that you were through with being a mere afterthought.

not even bothering to announce your arrival, you grab at the door's handle and fling it open, allowing them to slam against the walls. sylus quirks an eyebrow at you, looking away from the gun he was currently polishing.

"what's this? is my kitten throwing a little tantrum?"

"i'm not your kitten- not anymore." you hiss at him, tossing back your hair while meeting his crimson gaze. "i'm leaving you, and that's the end of it."

a flash of annoyance was seen in his gaze, and he trails his eyes downward, finally noticing the suitcase in your hand.

"is that so?" with a click of his tongue, sylus pushes aside his gun, taking casual strides toward you. when he stands before you, his smirk seems to widen before placing his hand beneath your chin-

yet what you weren't expecting was for sylus to pin you against the wall, tossing aside your skirt while sliding down your panties with his teeth, revealing your soaked entrance to him. as he inserts a finger within your slick heat, thrusting that single digit in and out of you to draw out even more moisture from you, you could no longer resist him-

could no longer ignore just how much you had missed this intimacy with him.

the sensation of it all was enough to make you toss your head back in response, nails gripping at his hair when sylus manages to hold you by the back of your thighs, keeping you upwards using his strength alone before diving into your honeyed sweetness with his tongue. you gasp and unconsciously began moving your hips-

riding his face as your pushed your aching cunt against sylus's eager mouth. using his skilled fingers, he keeps thrusting it in and out of you, drawing out even more of your breathy moans as you felt your abdomen clench in response to your incoming release. within mere seconds, you felt a rush coursing through your veins, climaxing within sylus's awaiting mouth as he groans at there pure taste of you, swallowing all that you had to offer him.

feeling like your legs had effectively turned to jelly, you nearly fell to the ground had it not been for sylus. he keeps you pressed against the wall, using his free hand to unbuckle his belt before pulling his cock out of it. you tremble, seeing the way his lips were still shining from the evidence of your release briefly before crying out to him the moment his cock impales you.

"heh, as if you could ever live without me." sylus speaks to you in harsh tones, fucking you against his wall when his hips harshly met with yours in a series of passionate thrusts. "i won't let you leave me, not when everything i have done was for the sake of your happiness."

even while he was speaking, you couldn't bring yourself to understand him, feeling his cock filling you so well that you gripped him with your walls almost greedily. as if reading your mind, sylus gives you a shit-eating grin, leaning closer to whisper hotly in your ear,

"as if you could live without this cock."

you knew that zayne was a busy man that had big dreams of becoming the best cardiac surgeon in the world-

however, you felt like you were getting in the way of zayne achieving his dreams.

it wasn't like zayne was ignoring your calls, or remained unavailable because he was ignoring you. that was never the case when it came to him. in fact, you understood that he spent most of his days performing surgeries that would save lives-

and he shouldn't have to deal with you when you felt like you were nothing more than a distraction for him.

when evening came, you arrive at akso hospital with a solemn expression on your face. in your hand was a bag filled with various dishes you had prepared for him. this would be your final act of love and kindness for him before you broke it off with him.

arriving at his office, you felt your throat clench up with anxiety, knowing that what you were about to do was by far your hardest feat yet.

taking a moment to gather your thoughts, you breathe in deeply before knocking at his door. a faint 'come in.' was heard coming from the other side when you invited yourself inside his office.

zayne was settled in front of you, remaining seated at his desk all while appearing worn out. his hair was messy, like he had run his hands through them many times throughout the day. once you shut the door, zayne sees your figure approaching and gives you a tiny smile, "hello darling... what brings you here?"

you couldn't bring yourself to meet his gaze, settling the packed meal off to the side before admitting to him, "z-zayne, you deserve better than me."

shock was written all over his face when he stands from his seat, "what do you mean?"

you shake your head while clenching your eyes shut, "i mean- you're someone who surpasses me. you save lives with what you do, a-and i just feel like a distraction to you and your dreams. that's why, i'm break-"

however, your words were cut off when zayne grips at your chin before pressing his lips against yours in a searing kiss. it was enough to make your mind go hazy, forgetting all about what you wanted to say to him when he delves his tongue into your mouth. your respective tongues fought for dominance, and you were losing this battle against him.

"z-zayne, stop, i-i can't think clearly when you do t-this."

zayne let's out a sound between a grunt and a groan, "then don't think, just feel."

and just feel you did.

all forms of coherency were lost the moment zayne places you on top of his desk, shoving aside all of his paperwork before kneeling before you. with your pants off, zayne spreads your legs all while pocketing your panties, wasting no time when he shoves his face within your slick heat.

his tongue was felt tracing at your pussy lips, making you cry out as your hands automatically delve themselves into his hair. you tried to bite down at your bottom lip, not wishing for anyone to see you in this compromising position with your exboyfriend.

knowing the ins and outs of your body intimately well, zayne was able to curve his fingers and swirl his tongue within the depths of your walls. he expertly draws out your honeyed arousal with a groan, and with a final pinch felt at your bundle of nerves, you released yourself completely into his hot mouth.

the intensity of your orgasm kept you in a daze, making you dimly aware of the sounds of shifting fabric before something hot and velvety was felt pressing against your entrance. a single grunt of your name was all the warning you were given when zayne pushes his cock inside of you, not stopping until he was completely sheathed.

zayne sets a steady pace, gripping at your clothed chest while ramming his cock in and out of you. he was panting, unable to ignore the sensation of your tight walls gripping him so sweetly when he tells you-

"i won't let you leave me... not when you're the only thing that keeps me grounded in this world."

you knew that your boyfriend's life was not only busy, but filled with danger as well.

it wasn't easy, working as a hunter while coming home exhausted nearly every single day. and despite how lonely you felt without him by your side, you figured it was best to end things now before it got too serious.

your heart was still a wreck at the thought of it all, because really, could you break things off with someone sweet like xavier? could you bear the thought of seeing his innocent, blue eyes filling with tears as you broke it off with him?

but at the same time, wouldn't he be better off without you? where he wouldn't need to think about your happiness-

your heart jumps within your chest when you heard the sounds of the door unlocking, revealing xavier as he alerts you of his return. tired, blue eyes met with your panicked gaze, and you felt so anxious that you simply blurted out-

"let's break up."

the sleepy quality of his eyes were gone now, with xavier standing up rigidly, "what?"

you refuse to meet his gaze, afraid that you would turn into a coward and back out. choosing instead to ignore him, you began to ramble all while gathering your belongings together, "it's just, well, you work all the time, and it wears you out. it feels unfair of me to take away all of your time and i just- you deserve less stress in your life, and i'm certainly not helping, being a burden and all, a-and-"

your rants were cut off when xavier stands behind you, wrapping his arms around your front before picking you up. a flustered expression was seen on your face, and you tried to wiggle yourself out of his embrace-

only to feel xavier's arms tighten around you, ignoring your protests when he enters the bedroom before placing you on the bed.

"we are not over." xavier speaks to you in a matter-of-fact tone. "and just to prove that you're wrong..."

he hums, eyes never once looking away from you even as he places his hands down the waistband of your pants, making you gasp when you feel his calloused hands touching at the border of your entrance. "you're not a burden to me... you never were, and you never will be."

you end up gasping while arching your back against the bed, feeling xavier's slender fingers dip inside of you. he thrusts his fingers in and out of your slickness all while pinching at your clit. unable to stop him, you were only able to grip at his biceps, your back arching against the bed as xavier thrusts his fingers in and out of you. the overwhelming sensations of pleasure were almost too much for you to handle-

yet xavier refuses to stop.

he keeps on toying with your aching core, drawing out even more moisture from you when you suddenly released yourself against the palm of his hands just mere seconds later. letting out a hum of your name, xavier extracts his hand from your now soaked panties, admiring the shiny quality of his fingers as evident of your release.

curious blue eyes admire his stained fingers for a moment before putting it in his mouth to lick it clean. "hng... so sweet..." he meets your flustered gaze, blue eyes now eclipsed with darkness as evident of his desire. "i need more..."

filled with desperation and need for you, xavier grips at your clothes, seeming to rip them away from your body before tossing it in a pile on the ground. with both of your bodies left bare, xavier wastes no time when placing his face between your legs, devouring your soaked core a man starved-

and when he manages to thrust his cock within your silken walls, let's just say you both forgot about your talk of breaking up.

"let's forget all this talk about us being over... and have you ride my face instead."

your eyes go wide upon hearing rafayel's bold words, and you found yourself at a standstill now.

knowing rafayel's passion for art, you felt like you had gotten in the way of his work. there were times where you felt like you were a nuisance to him, especially when he had to stop working on a commission each time you came over, or even called him, voicing your desires to be with him.

despite how rafayel never minded sharing his time with you, your anxieties kept telling you otherwise, the scathing voice in your mind filling your heart with doubt.

like how you were simply an unnecessary distraction for him-

that you were someone that got in the way of his work and dreams-

that rafayel never needed you.

deep down, you knew that your boyfriend never viewed you in such a manner because of how much he loved you-

yet in the end, you allowed your deprecation to win, convincing both your heart and mind that rafayel was only with you out of pity.

but when you tried to break things off with him-

rafayel simply met your gaze while demanding that you ride his face instead.

were you missing something?

"rafayel, didn't you hear what i just said? we're ov-"

"oh i heard you loud and clear, alright. i just refuse to do it." the young lumerian purposely cuts off your words all while giving you a come hither movement with his hand, "now, why don't you be a good girl and ride my face instead?" rafayel was practically purring at you, "i know my princess just feels a little stressed, and she didn't mean to say all those mean things to me."

your traitorous body clenches in response to his seductive words, with your heart racing out of his chest the moment rafayel takes off his shirt. seduction was seen in his gaze when he pulls down his pants and boxers, not stopping until he was utterly bare for you. your eyes immediately see the way his cock slowly became erect for you, making your mouth water at the sight.

swallowing thickly, you could do little than to allow rafayel to grip at your hand, leading you back towards the bed. giving you a wink, rafayel grips at your backside before giving it an audible smack, "you know what you want to do, princess."

your boyfriend was smirking at you, letting out one last hum of your name before laying down in bed. your heart begins to skip its beats as you trail your eyes down to his cock once more, your cunt clenching at the sight of how it twitched in anticipation, waiting for you.

with trembling fingers, you shakily unbutton your blouse, allowing the thin fabric to fall to the ground as your shorts and panties follow suit. when you were left in your bra, you sigh and unclasp it, tossing it to the ground before climbing on top of the bed.

rafayel's gaze turns hungry when he sees your figure approaching him. "that's it, that's my girl." he grips at your wrist, pulling your body toward him as he slides you until your soaked entrance was directly over his face.

"fuck, such a pretty little flower..." you nearly fell on top of him when his finger traced at your pussy lips, teasing you as a rich chuckle escapes from his lips. "all wet and ready for me... come on, princess, you know what you want to do."

unable to resist him any longer, you bite down on your bottom lip and land on top of his mouth, rubbing your slick walls over his mouth. you shiver upon feeling his groan vibrating through you, tossing your head back as his tongue manages to travel inside of you, massaging at your slickness.

"hah..." you felt breathless, your thighs already squeezing rafayel's head as you tried to chase your high. no longer thinking about anything that wasn't rafayel's face buried within your sweet cunt, you continued to ride him, tossing your head back each time his tongue tried to reach even deeper inside of you.

your moans and his muffled grunts were all that you could hear, and when you tried to quicken your pace-

you found yourself needing something bigger to help with assuaging the painful ache between your legs. looking behind, your eyes widen upon seeing the way rafayel's hand desperately gripped at his cock, giving it quick and fast strokes while his tongue kept delving into your core.

not even fully comprehending your actions, you lazily got off of his face, purposely rubbing your wet heat down his chest as rafayel struggled to sit up, "princess? why'd you stop?"

but you ignore his question, not stopping your slow descent across his body until your slick walls gripped at the underside of his cock. you bask in the way the veins seemed to pulse against you, making you let out a dreamy sigh when you gently gripped at his shaft.

"b-baby-"

a low hiss was heard coming from rafayel when you slap his cock against your entrance for a few brief moments before holding it in place, allowing yourself to sink down on him. the young artist ends up tossing his head back at the sensation, letting out a string of curses, "fuck yes! that's it princess, that's it... my pretty girl..."

rafayel was left a babbling mess now, praising you in an almost drunk manner the moment you kept bouncing yourself up and down his cock. "that's my good girl, such a good girl f'me...- fuck!"

you loud cries and whiny moans echo throughout the room, and you rode rafayel's cock with a reckless abandon, earning a smirk from him when he manages to tell you,

"this is where you belong, princess, right here, bouncing up and down on my cock."

end notes: my thirst for my fave lads men have returned 🫠 i swear i had this in my drafts since early october, so im happy that i was able to think of a good plot for it just now ;A;

all stories are written by rei; please do not repost, plagiarize, or translate my works!!

[scribeofmorpheus]

Dragon Age Veilguard: Love, Wisdom and Pride

A very long Dragon Age post!

Warnings for: Veilguard Spoilers, Solavellan spoilers.

Okay, so I will preface this by saying that this ‘analysis’ primarily focuses on Solas’ arc; both romanced and unromanced. It isn’t intended to be a romanticised analysis, though it is very much enamoured with how a romanced Solas and his relationship with Lavellan foils (and informs my reading/reception of) that of Solas and Mythal’s relationship in Veilguard. There is a relationship I will address that I feel does parallel Solas and Mythal! Scroll down to “Reading Between the Lines” if you wanna skip my little intro below. Spoilers follow.

Truth be told, I wasn’t ever expecting much in terms of actually getting a sequel to Inquisition. The game dev market went through a tumultuous reshuffle before the remake madness breathed life back into many studios. Bioware game sequels (Mass Effect Andromeda) were underwhelming and not as fleshed out since the EA acquisition. I absolutely believe Bioware would have been shunted had Mass Effect Legendary Edition not been so successful. EA’s reputation was always lacklustre and underhanded, but laying off or losing several head writers attached to Bioware with almost two decades of work under their belts was the biggest red flag. Trevor Morris not being asked to return in exchange for a ‘bigger name’ was also a grave warning that returning to the atmosphere, ambience and world of Thedas that we knew was getting further and further away from a plausible reality. And on top of that, there’s the fact Solas was never intended as a romance interest during early development of Inquisition.

Solavellan seemed doomed!

Despite this, I still held out hope for a sequel, but I feared we’d always be in permanent Solavellan/developmental hell. Heck, I’m still waiting for a Beyond Good and Evil sequel—the game released in 2003! So, actually witnessing people play Veilguard, seeing reactions to it, seeing memes and gifs and essay pieces (like this one), it’s like my community has awoken again, and I never thought I’d see the day. Yet I am not blind to the fact we were robbed of so much potential. I knew thing’s wouldn’t live up to re-emerging expectations when Dragon Age: Dreadwolf was rebranded to Veilguard—the shift seemed to imply less of a primary focus on Solas (and apparently, according to the artbook, the early concept art proves this implication correct).

Things seemed even more dire when the devs revealed there was no tapestry mechanic. I had only one hope: that with the Inquisitor’s confirmed return, we’d get at least some form of catharsis for our Inquisitors (Lavellans and otherwise), if we couldn’t get the conclusions to so many storylines present in each of our worldstates. My main fear was that they’d go the clichéd Ultimate Sacrifice route (which happens anyway, but in a way that makes thematic sense given the stakes and heavily blighted worldstate).

Suffice it to say, there was a lot of evidence that Veilguard would disappoint me in the end. But it hasn’t. It hasn’t lived up to the many expectations and marks of excellence that the Dragon Age world built itself into with the first three entries, that’s for sure, but I am also just so deprived of conclusions, of endings (whether it be because TV doesn’t exist in a sustainable format anymore or that comicbook movies are made with a sequel in mind, never letting anything just “Exit Stage Left” gracefully; or the fact we live in a regurgitating content cycle with late-stage-capitalism where anything remotely profitable gets turned into a caricature of itself: Squid Game, Star Wars, etc.). The cycle is so exhaustive that I am actually at a point where I can say I am content with the ending we were given (on a Solas/Solavellan front), Veilguard gave me relief, and beautiful, achy pain to boot. Though I would absolutely be disappointed by both the "non-romanced Solas" endings, given that Solas winds up either "dying alone, forever" or turns to Tyranny.

Now onto the actual review of that Solavellan ending, Mythal and themes of Love!

Note: I have only gotten the ‘best’ ending in my first playthrough, but I also thought the consequences of not maxing factions would be more… dire? Another note, pls, if your romanced Inky swore to stop Solas, how does that ending differ, if at all? Let me know, I’m dying here!

Sidenote: I’m working on writing another review about my views on the ‘sanitised’ worldstate, the new companions (and why I think Varric was the wrong choice to have as an advisor in the game, given that the Inquisitor or Morrigan would have been more impactful; and not to mention that Cole or Briala should have been companions), removal of the tapestry and what it means for the future of stories in Thedas (The Story We Lost is such a poignant compilation of the sheer volumes of lost lore and depth that I honestly think I won’t go as in-depth on that review as this one), and why I think Veilguard is my final entry into Dragon Age.

Reading Between the Lines: What Pride Hath Wrought

One thing is for sure, Trick Weekes flourishes when writing within the ambiguities and complexities of meaning. This makes every word uttered by Solas so great to dissect, he's a god of lies not because he 'lies' but because he's so careful with how he phrases things, what he holds back, and what he reveals.

For instance, the famous Trespasser exchange where Solas mocks his own follies with sarcasm by saying:

“What is the old Dalish curse? May the Dread Wolf Take you.”

Then a softer, more saddened and beaten-down Lavellan replies:

“And so he did.”

This irks him. Because he then realises in that moment that he absolutely did take advantage, but for some reason he frames it around sex rather than power because that’s easier to address than the latter. And he rejects the notion, even though he brought up the expression he knows to mean nothing close to a sexual inuendo for being ‘taken’, and yet he has the gall to try and derail the conversation by pivoting and saying:

“I would not lay with you under false pretences.”

When I first had this dialogue exchange, I was baffled, because did this mean that there was another meaning to ‘Dread Wolf take you’ that Dalish clans lost through the years, or was it more of a self-deprecating joke Solas had with himself because he, the Dread Wolf, romanced (took) a Dalish Inquisitor (away from her people’s beliefs, histories, past), and he found irony in the saying?

On the surface, “wouldn’t lay with you under false pretences” could simply mean “we didn’t sleep together” or “we did sleep together, but I wasn’t taking advantage as the Dread Wolf, I was simply Solas in your presence”. But I have recently thought of a more… ambiguous reading.  Lay could have been used in a milder, more vulnerable way; to mean to be at peace, to be completely vulnerable, as if to sleep. In that sense, the phrasing becomes: “I could not be at peace with you because I was living a half-truth”.

I absolutely think the moment he feels he is truly beyond hope is when we see his expression of abject horror as Lavellan shouts: “I would have had you trust me!”. He realises then that he did fuck up, he did take the choice away from her because he thought he knew better, him and his pride led to a decision that hurt someone close to him, and he could finally see how wrong he was, how alike the entire situation became to Mythal’s treatment of him. Especially if Lavellan asks to go with him. Because he can see that despite the hurt, the lies and the betrayal on his part, Lavellan still wishing to join him draws too close to his first regret: following Mythal.

Whether he likes it or not, Solas’ love which could burn like a bonfire was directed at a powerful woman—a Herald, an Inquisitor—and inspite of her greatness of character, it still shaped her into someone willing to follow him on his dinanshiral out of love, much like he left the Fade and took physical form for Mythal. So now whenever I hear Lavellan shout “Var lath vir suledin”, Solas replying with “I wish it could, Vhenan,” changes drastically with the Mythal reveal, knowing he always walks away from the Inquisitor in Trespasser.

“I wish it could, Vhenan” sounds heavily like: “You would regret me, as I regret Mythal, and I cannot bear for that to happen us.” More poetically, it could read as: “I wish our love could overcome a duty that has lasted an incomprehensible amount of time, I wish I could change my nature, but then I’d be twisted into a demon, like the spirit of Wisdom in the Dales; and yet again, I would become your regret.” These two readings are very, very romantic. Realistically, given what we know of his kinship with Felassan, and how they were comrades and friends for centuries (“A story unfinished. His back turned!”), and given what we know of the complexity of Mythal’s will that presides over the creation of his very being, and yet he was still able to muster the strength to kill a fragment of her to fulfil his mission,  “I wish it could” was most probably a lament: “Do not ask me to hurt one of the two women I’ve loved on this journey, because if it ever came to it…” he would.

Knowing what I know of Solas, of how he was able to convince himself that Varric’s death (avoidable as it was) was just another necessary step, that it was just another sacrifice, another loss that would be worth something only if he completed his ritual, I have no doubt that Solas would also be able to rationalise hurting Lavellan (which is why in his mind, turning away from her, breaking her heart, leaving with no explanation and aiding her in Trespasser so she could live whatever few years remained in “relative peace” is actually an act of preserving that love). I partially think the reason he reveals the truth in Trespasser (especially for a romanced Lavellan) is in the hopes his ‘truths’ will push her away. But on a deeper note, I think he also thinks of it as some twisted form of repaying her for loving him to the point that he could have almost forgotten what it was to be the Dread Wolf, to just be with her as Solas, that night at Crestwood. Maybe his harsh truths would push her to the point where she’d give up her love for Solas, now that she knew he was the Dread Wolf, freeing her from the shackles of their love. He’s very self-flagellating, all about self-sacrifice for the ultimate goal, the ends always justify the means, he will endure any pain and punishment as long as Arlathan returns in the end.

What is his love of a mortal compared to the despair and loss of an entire empire? Solas views himself as selfish for falling for her, and that nearly broke him, if he was selfish enough to leave the dream of Arlathan behind for her, what would that do to his spirit then?

In his way of thinking, perhaps telling the Inquisitor the truth is a way out, a rationale they can use to justify stopping him or to make it easier to hate him as the Dread Wolf rather than love him as Solas (someone he hasn’t been in so long).

‘Masking’ as the Dread Wolf

During Trespasser, the Inquisitor has every right to despise Solas after all they’ve learned, and I think he half reveals the truth as a tactic so the Inquisitor can have an excuse to hate him, to be driven to anger and have less pull over his choices, once they learn the truth. Solas is particularly skilled at making other’s play the role that makes his own choices seem inevitable, he orchestrates a lot of events to play out in a manner where it's easier for him to talk himself into bringing down the veil.

He goads Elgar’nan to anger easily. He inspires the spirits to fight for him to the death as a necessary distraction during the war. He absolutely allows the Inquisitor to speak to him one last time so he can offer insight, yes, but also so he can easily frame his actions as just and inevitable. But, Oh boy does he get in for a shock if the Inquisitor shows empathy towards him, it scares him because he’s become accustomed to being seen only as the Dread Wolf. To be understood? That gives way to remorse. And remorse gives way to doubt. And he cannot doubt his purpose, twisted as it is, it is all he has left of his former self. Without it he would most likely change into something different. Someone he doesn’t recognise.

This fear intensifies more so if a romanced Lavellan asks to go with him, and in that case, he takes command and distances himself away (rejecting the help of someone close to him; the chance for a possible betrayal; the chance at another Felassan or Mythal [x]; the chance to twist Lavellan outside of her purpose, in this case, the purpose would be love/empathy) but not without showing remorse at having sacrificed yet another relationship for his crusade.

“Ir abelas.”

Sorrow for what cannot be is at the heart of why the Solavellan romance is so powerful, especially because even though both Solas and Lavellan love each other passionately, love alone cannot be enough when faced with regrets. Love would ultimately be stifled. Corrupted into something else over time. And so, for Solas, having loved and lost tragically is better than having loved and corrupted.

He will not do to Lavellan what was done to him, even if it is her choice, because she knows so little, her naivete cannot close the distance of a millenia’s old sea, and it would hurt him immensely to take advantage of her kind heart [x].

By leaving, he keeps her heart pure. And the yearning! Knowing the love is there, but on its own it cannot be invulnerable to corruption, so it is better to lose it than twist it. Ugh! Him leaving Lavellan is the ultimate show of love! IT IS A WISE DECISION. A rare glimpse into pure wisdom. Which is why he kneels beside Lavellan in Trespasser, he does not “Stand Tall” in the face of Wisdom’s heart. He kneels beside her. And when he stands tall again, he is Solas once more, filled with regret, and once through the eluvian, he returns to masking as the Dread Wolf.

Sidenote: It’s especially confounding that Veilguard allows Rook to push the Inquisitor to save or stop him after you’ve reached act 2 despite your world state choice (I think this was done in case they feared the Inquisitor wouldn’t stand by Solas after everything he was revealed to be responsible for in Veilguard, however it doesn’t work because the Inquisitor wasn’t an advisor, Rook never told them what they learned from the wolf statues, so having a stranger hold the ability to make Lavellan keep her promise or not rings hollow). Personally, I wish the Inquisitor’s presence had more weight in the non-Solavellan endings, too. I wish the Inquisitor could end up being the last friend/former love that Solas destroys (if you don’t collect the wolf statues) which then prompts Rook to fight him because Solas’ last tie to empathy failed to redeem him, that the Inquisitor falling is the last straw and Solas snaps, choosing to be a villain in the hopes of being stopped because he can’t stop himself, and not the ‘I am a God’ ending they gave us. Same for if your Inquisitor vows to stop him. I also wish the Inquisitor was the one to do the wolf statue missions. Would have been a nice secondary protagonist mission like the switching perspectives between Kratos and Atreus in GOW: Ragnarök (the old guard and the new; Inquisitor and Rook). I would have loved if they dedicated more dialogue to Inquisition days too, which is why I think Cole should have been a companion (if he wasn’t recruited, he could simply be a compassion spirit that ‘follows’ the greatest pain in the Fade that yearns to be healed, giving a compassionate viewpoint to Solas’ folly; recruited Spirit Cole could have a greater connection to Solas than even Varric, seeing as Cole was most likely a literal representation of Solas rewriting his own history by preventing a spirit from becoming too ‘real’; Human Cole would have a deeper connection to the world of Thedas, and could have been a great tool to prove how change was inevitable, not always a bad thing, and inevitably out of even Solas’ control. But alas, we live with what we are given! Even Imshael could have served in this role! Spirit/Demon of choice and it wasn’t incorporated into the game that supposedly asks you to make the greatest world-changing choice ever; redeem the Dread Wolf or end the age of the Evanuris entirely?!

Now onto the next segment: I want to talk about Solas’ regrets and how I read the ‘love story’ between Solas and Mythal, and why Lavellan (and what she represented) wasn’t enough to get through to him (and that’s a very believable thing, that’s what makes their love both tragic and epic!).

The High Price of Redemption

A romanced Lavellan has the most agency to see through his guises, if she resolves to save him, but even she cannot undo the shackles that still bind him to Mythal—the binds that twisted Wisdom so far from its purpose it became Pride, even when he burned (Mythal) from his face. (Likewise, A close friend Inquisitor who promises to save him is most likely a parallel to Felassan, again, they cannot undo the shackles of regret either.) I fully believe the vallaslin had a deeper magic than simply marking one as being committed/devoted to an Evanuris, I think it linked them magically, and since Solas was the first to burn the vallaslin away, he probably wasn’t as good at severing the link on himself as he was for other elvhen, so maybe a part of Mythal’s will still lingers in him, twisting him to Pride still.

In Veilguard’s final confrontation, I love the intention of showing how Lavellan approaches Solas slowly, as she doesn’t know who she’ll be faced with up those steps, Dread Wolf or Solas. But when she speaks to him, trying to get him to change his mind yet again, forgiving him for his wrongs, we are reassured that Wisdom hasn’t been completely consumed by Pride despite everything we’ve witnessed in the game because he bows his head at her in reverence as he apologises.

He shows humility towards her. He elevates her and her enduring love as worthy of his respect, but he does not consider himself worthy of hers. Thus, Lavellan pries open the door to acceptance but his heart is still not enough. Which is why love alone cannot turn the tide. He’s too broken to accept it. He doesn’t think he deserves it, so the only way out is through; to continue the ritual, to prove he was right. The shackles persist. Varric’s death weighs on his conscience now more than ever. Possibly members of Rook’s team too if they died on his crusade. But he is vulnerable enough for Morrigan to approach, and now Rook can use Mythal’s essence to make the final push. The only way he could be with Lavellan, the only way he could atone for the past and shed the weight of his armour (his crushing duty to the Elvhenan) is as Wisdom, fully restored, unbound by mistakes.

“Ar lasa mala revas.” He could only find absolution once Mythal (the angered and more brash essence of Mythal, the one unchanged by Flemeth and all the human women’s lives she’s been shaped by, but the closest iteration to that of Mythal in Arlathan, the version that he perceives as having every right to be angry at him for turning his back on her, for not going that last final stretch with her and subsequently, not being by her side when she died) severed the final connection: facing his regrets, showing humility and apologizing, while not taking away the blame but sharing it.

What is Benevolence without Wisdom if not Hubris?

We know Elgar’nan was twisted to Tyranny during the war, and I saw a post somewhere where someone wondered what led to his corruption, and what he was before (leadership/command). Likewise, Mythal was not above corruption.

So far, I’ve seen a lot of takes on Solas’ ties to Mythal, the power dynamic of being a student/disciple enamoured (could be romantic) with the benevolence of Mythal, but not how Mythal’s purpose was possibly also twisted towards hubris the moment she asked Wisdom to turn physical and build weapons from its knowledge, twisting it to Pride. Without Elgar’nan’s tyranny to rally against after the war with the Titans, Mythal would most likely turn a similar route, seeing her ruling as “necessary” for the people: “If not me then who?”. And that is a very short stop and quick drop to “I am your all-powerful ruler, I liberated you, and only I can guide the way”. Benevolence twisted by hubris can easily turn to Tyranny too, only one more subtle, a kind of cultish indoctrination compared to violent subjugation. If Solas had not turned his back on Mythal when she chose to be Evanuris (a god over her people) then they most likely would have made the worst (best) pair in the Evanuris. Pride is the Seventh Deadliest Sin. But imagine Pride next to Godhood?! That is frightening. So, when Solas burns the vallaslin, walks away and works against the Evanuris, I believe that he also inadvertently stops Mythal from becoming a corrupted version of herself. The sorrow at having lost her closest confidant and “love” grounds her, keeps her saintly in Solas’ mind, and in some ways, perhaps saves the Elvhen empire from a worse fate than him erecting the veil to begin with. But neither of them ever consider this. And I think that sort of self-blindness perfectly encapsulates how flawed both Mythal and Solas are. Now onto love.

Solas and Mythal – a Love too complex to simply classify as mortal ‘Love’.

There’s no doubt Mythal and Solas shared a deep bond, one that definitely had love in it, when we hear Mythal calling him ‘love’, without the possessive ‘my’ in front of it, it’s easy to misconstrue what type of love they share. A small nitpick, but like a thorn, it applies sometimes just enough pressure to change a perspective. Not calling Solas “My love” but instead choosing to simply use “love” works within those wonderful ambiguities/complexities that Weekes thrives in.

If one started out as a spirit, it’s safe to say concepts like familial bonds, romantic bonds, and blood ties mean little to nothing. There is no one type of love and there is every kind of love all at once. It is only once physical bodies are introduced, that physical touch, the ability to stab someone in the back, to kiss out of affection, to hug out of empathy, to strike out of anger, that love now becomes this twisted thing too. There are no spirits of love because spirits always possessed love, but there are demons of Desire (Gluttony) and of Rage (love denied).

I believe, from DGL’s acting skills, his soft whisper, his almost submissive smallness in the breadth of Mythal’s already soft voice, that Solas was in love with Mythal, devoted as a student, beguiled by her benevolence, content even in her shadow, and possibly star-struck. He was in love with someone who doesn’t have the possibility to love him back the same, it is not in her nature to love those beneath her in the same intensity that those who look up to her do. It’s like a priest being in love with God. The priest can devote themselves, sacrifice everything, but a God will always love their flock equally, but they can still play favourites.

Benevolence cannot be enamoured with Wisdom because to be truly benevolent they must possess Wisdom but there is also Pride to be had in walking beside benevolence, but they can never be on equal footing. Likewise, Solas’ love is not reciprocated entirely by Mythal, but she does love him back in her own way. While Mythal is definetly Solas’ first love, layered and complex, it is also strangled by regrets and twisted by uneven scales of power. It would never be a nurturing love, only a consuming kind.

When he speaks of Mythal during the Solavellan ending, he calls her his “oldest friend”, much like what Mythal says, (paraphrasing) “would you have me be angry at my oldest companion whose experienced so much with me”. Because friendship is perhaps the easiest way to describe their companionship. They went through many iterations, one certainly holding romantic tensions (specifically from younger Solas), but ultimately, with that much time shared, kinship/friendship becomes the easiest to surmise. You can love your friends, fall in love with them, fall out of love with them, only to love them again, be disappointed in them, etc.

Media today is flushed with romance as a linchpin for driving a hero to make dire choices, and that has warped our perception of how a platonic/non-romance-based relationship can be all-consuming, and sometimes more impassioned than strict romance. But, to make it easier for people to understand Solas’ motivations, it's easier to see their love in the light Taash sees it (an unreliable, somewhat “still juvenile” narrator, in that they are still growing into themselves and their culture and the world): “They were doing it”.

However, Bellara, a companion whose entire companion story is linked to her strong, deeply character-driving relationship with her brother (platonic love) refutes that reading by saying (paraphrasing here): “We don’t know if their ‘love’ is the same type of love we tend to think of in a masculine and feminine relationship.”

Felassan’s letter after the Mythal Dragon fight alludes to Solas having been in love with Mythal, but nothing about how she felt. This is why I consider the Solas/Mythal relationship to be more of a one-sided romantic love, but a requited ‘love’ relationship for them both.  

A parallel I find so compelling: Solas and Mythal vs Briala and Celene. Solas and Briala both hold deep emotions for people in great power with the ability to end a tyrannical cycle of subjugation, enslavement and classism, yet for both of these ruler’s charisma and well-meaning intent, they often are swayed to side with tyranny. For Mythal, that was Elgarnan, the Evanuris who made all the other’s worse tyrants; as well as her own hubris for believing her presence alone could dampen the ravenous hunger for power that the rest of the Evanuris held at the small prospect of leading the Elvhen in a time of confusion (being a North Star is hard when all the other lights around you aim to blind the flock into submission). For Celene, this is more about the nuances of retaining favour, pull and power over other noble families, their backing (be it financial, political or simply cut-throat), and their support so she can be the ‘lesser of two evils’ compared to Gaspard’s warmongering personality and Florianne simply being a puppet with no backbone. Both Briala and Solas are turned to pawns despite their immense strength and compassion for their respective elven plights; Briala is rendered a fangless lion (for lack of a better metaphor) if she is reunited with Celene, whereas if she is chosen to puppet Gaspard, there’s every likelihood her story could parallel a ‘power-mad’ Solas if he’d been tethered to Rage (at betrayal) and not Regret (at having not rejected Mythal when she asked him to take a physical body) throughout his tenure as the Dread Wolf.

Solas and Lavellan – a Heart that was never intended to be Given/Taken

Now I will compare the lack of possessives in front of Mythal’s “love” to Solas declaring Lavellan as ‘Vhenan’ and then ‘Ar lath, ma Vhenan’ vs ‘Ar lath ma vhenan'; again, the coma is the thorn, the pause that shapes the quiet unsaid things we can deduce. In the Trespasser cutscene DGL puts the pause after “Ar lath”, even though the subtitles construct the sentence with Vhenan as a proper noun since it’s a nickname often used by Solas: “Ar lath ma, Vhenan”. But I believe Solas actually says “Ar lath, ma Vhenan”.

With “Ar lath, ma Vhenan” the stressor is after the pause, so the line reads: “I love [you], my heart.” And with “Ar lath ma, Vhenan” it makes even less structural sense but can be inferred to mean: “I love you, Heart”.  

The possessiveness of “My” is what definitively differentiates the love Solas feels for Lavellan as one more of the romantic side, it is a love of yearning and desire and a wish to have one last good thing that is pure and incorruptible. The one thing he had left to give. His heart. But that does not mean his heart is enough! The rest of him is still bound to the love of Mythal that was twisted through the ages. That changed him. And given how Pride often comes before a fall, I absolutely understand why Solas is actually very brash and ill-considering when he’s romancing Lavellan (“The kiss was ill-considered”/”It would be kinder in the long run”/”I wanted to show you what you mean to me”). He's on a precarious cliff during Inquisition. His first plan failed. He's allowed ancient elvhen magic to fall into a blighted Tevinter magister's hands. Literally everything the Inquisition did could have been for nought if the Mark had fallen to the wrong person. Things could have easily fallen apart for Solas too, so why not indulge in something trifling and fleeting? Execpt it wasn't trifling. Nor was it fleeting. And when he saw that the fall could potentially not happen, that the Inquisitor could do it, save Thedas and retrieve the orb, he was struck by the gravity of his brashness, of letting impulses control him instead of acting according to a plan. But it was too late. They'd both fallen for each other.

Solas didn’t expect to form entanglements within the Inquisition. He was committed. He was angry at the world, “walking through a sea of tranquil”, called flat-ear by the Dalish that later chased him from their village when he proved he was the Dread Wolf. He was despised by people who looked like him. Spirits were constantly being abused and turned into demons. People erected monuments to heroes who slew demons. Mages were caged. Elves were subjugated. The empire fell. Humans razed the lands with their wars and petty squabbles of succession. The darkspawn tainted the land. The dwarves would never dream. Solas awoke to the worst possible fate; in his eyes, it was all his fault.

So when he kisses Lavellan in the Fade, impulsively, he isn’t kissing her there because it is less ‘real’ than if they kissed while she was awake, it makes it so much more real. He’s kissing her in the space where he is most himself. Where he can shed the body he was forced to build and trap himself within, the body of Pride. He is acting on the impulses of an enlivened Wisdom spirit that does not consider tomorrow, for the first time in a long time. It isn’t a long game with Lavellan, like so much of his life has been about always thinking to the future, always considering the outcome, machinating, scheming, the wiles and woes of every trickster god in mythology. It’s being in the moment with her that is all-consuming. It lowers his guard, leaves him vulnerable, and when she enquires about the Fade or spirits or histories, he gets to be useful as pure Wisdom again.

Lavellan challenging him when he first shows animosity or irritation towards the Dalish (a prideful act), and then him being taken aback when she explains that maybe the Dalish could be shown another way (making him consider her words, being given a morsel of wisdom back, reminding him of his old self), these are all small moments where Solas can begin to see springs of hope in the broken world. And that’s terrifying. It means he’s destroying not just himself, but the memory of Mythal and Arlathan too, all for the love of a woman who fell for an apostate.

The best, most genuine unmasking of Solas for me is during Wicked Hearts, when he’s tipsy on wine, has no inhibitions, and revels in the intrigue, the gossip, the dancing, the music (something we now know is important enough to have an entire music room in the Lighthouse), the sex! He is at his most relaxed, and then he asks Lavellan to dance, not caring about how it would look for the “Inquisitor’s serving man, Solas” to be intimate in a fucking Orlesian palace with the Herald of Andraste, right after stopping an assassination attempt! He finds comfort in the world of Thedas at that moment. Something he rarely shows so outright.

When he takes Lavellan to Crestwood to confess, I believe removing her vallaslin wasn’t entirely just for her, it wasn’t just to free her from slave markings or to simply reveal a form of a truth he wanted to tell her, it was to resolve himself of what his first purpose was supposed to be, what she distracted him from. Removing the vallaslin had been something he’d done for the slaves of Arlathan, it was what earned him the mantle of Dread Wolf. When he removes Lavellan’s vallaslin, he resets.

Thedas cannot allow Wisdom to truly exist without fear of corruption to Pride, Thedas the world he was responsible for shaping, literally the Maker of the Veil, and he falls for a woman Heralded as Andraste’s Chosen One, Mythal’s incarnation in the South. The irony. The cruel, cruel irony. The Inquisition is tied to his past, every Andrastian he meets, every Dalish person with vallaslin on their face, every slave or city elf. Tevinter worshiping the dragons that still have the essences of the Old Gods. His heart alone cannot withstand all of the punishing, gruelling, oppressive weight that is Thedas. Even for Lavellan. So he frames their romance as this tragic, short-lived tale that was beautiful but ultimately destined to end. He expects it to pass for her, she’s mortal after all. But he also leaves his heart with her, literally giving her power over the last uncorrupted part of himself. Think Will Turner and Elizabeth Swann at the end of World’s End, but metaphorically. He gives her his heart to safe keep as he goes on a journey that could corrupt a heart, turn it cold and bitter, destroy it.   

Ar lasa mala revas. You are free.

He frees his heart.

Lets it go.

Twice!

So only once he is relinquished of his regrets, once Mythal does the same for him, only then is there “Nothing left except their love”. Because Lavellan still held his heart there was still something left after. Something beyond despair and regret and loss. He had given his heart to her to safekeep. And she did. Lavellan returns his heart to him when he is freed. What Mythal had to break so Solas could heal right again (like a bone), Lavellan casts a splint around so it can be set and heal properly. This is the difference between Mythal’s love and Lavellan’s. Both Mythal’s love and forgiveness broke him, but Lavellan’s love gives him the strength to Stand Tall one last time.

Solas, before Pride alone, as Wisdom (perhaps Solas always meant both Standing Tall and Wisdom, for Wisdom can grant one pride to stand tall for what they believe in), finds contentment with the rare and marvellous spirit that endured (his Vhenan). Wisdom endured because of humanity, something benevolence is beyond.

Bellanaris

When Lavellan offers to go with him, to continue on the dinanshiral that she already considers herself a part of, Solas is legitimately taken aback. His expression is soft yet full of disbelief and awe. He actually stops walking a few frames before Lavellan says this, as if hoping Lavellan would say something to him!

And then she basically proposes to him! “Bellanaris!” I absolutely adore the fact that Lavellan promises them eternity. A vow as sacred as a death right, as protected as an ancient, elvhen, undisturbed burial ground in the face of Orlesian colonialisation. They endured and now they will have an eternity. For once, we have an elvish tale that is not a curse, it is a love story with reunion at its core, where both elves reclaim something precious that was denied them.

Lastly, i am absolutely frothing at the mouth that Solas and Lavellan primarily speak in elvish! And even more feral at the fact Solas does not try to talk her out of joining him (because this sweet talker very well could!). He simply tells her where he is going is terrible. And she shuts that shit down immediately. No repeat of Trespasser. She's standing beside him, the South has all but fallen, whatever ties yet survive are strained, and she has fought the good fight for 8 years. I think the Inquisitor was about ready to leave Thedas behind.

The last decisions Solas makes are of his own volition. Entering the Fade for atonement. Stepping into the Fade with Lavellan (It was confirmed by Weekes that Lavellan’s presence in the Fade prison would fundamentally change it in a way we haven’t seen!). Thanking Rook for giving him one last shot at getting happiness. All his own!

This is the look of a man finally reunited with his wife! So much emotion in ONE frame. God! There’s never been a character like him. A love story like theirs! I’m so happy I got to see this ending. Full circle!

P.S. If you read this far, woah nelly! That’s crayyzeee, so here are some more great pieces: Why it was important for Lavellan to kneel for Solas as he knelt for her in Trespasser in the Solavellan ending [x], and here’s a great deep-dive on Solas as a spirit of Wisdom [x].

[tinythebunni]

perv!stebro!Rafe Cameron <3

you had to know what you were doing. there was no way you were this fucking dense that you couldn’t see what you were doing to Rafe. walking around in those tiny fucking skirts and thinner than a piece of paper crop tops and baby tees. and you never wore a bra. Rafe was 90% sure you were sent up here by the devil herself to punish him for something. but it really was just the fact his dad happened to wanna fuck your mom more than just as a one night stand.

you always seemed to be tanning outside right when he was about to leave for the country club. as if you were trying to tempt him into staying and fucking you into his mattress and bruising your throat. you wore low cut tops almost everyday and it made him fantasize about leaving hickies there. how you’d whimper and lift your hips to try and get some kind of friction. how you’d try and make him touch you but he wanted to spend his time making you wait. making you feel as insufferable as you acted.

the first thing that made him lose his cool was when you came downstairs while Topper and Kelce were in the living room. now sure Rafe was still getting used to you being in the house with him since the wedding. but you had come downstairs in the tinies bikini top known to man. with a barely there skirt that didn’t even cover the swell of your ass. he was sure his eyes were bugging out of his head.

“nah. who the fuck do you think is letting you out the house like that?” you tried changing his mind, jus bc you really wanted to go to the pier and shop! but he wouldn’t budge.

“you look like a whore, go change. ‘not dealing with bullshit while i’m sober.” you cried all the way up to your bedroom and slammed your door. while Rafe only sat back down in his chair, manspreading and rubbing his jaw.

“jeez man you were kind of harsh” Kelce tried to defend you but he didn’t get far.

“nah y’don’t know the shit i gotta deal with here. fucking teasing me all the time.”

the second time he almost lost his cool was when you decided you were going to go to one of Barry’s parties, which Rafe was not at all gonna let fucking happen.

Barry always threw crazy ragers that basically turned into fucking or orgies all night. you’d never been to one of his parties but Rafe knew some bitch ass little boy probably invited you, trying to get into your panties.

once again you tried your hardest to get him to let you go but he didn’t let up. “not letting you go to some party just so you can get roofied and traumatized for the rest of your life. ‘r too sweet for all of that and i don’t feel like having to kill anyone today.”

you stomped your foot and pouted up at him. “this is so not fair! you’re not even my daddy!”

hearing that name come out of your mouth had Rafe groaning and looking up at the ceiling for some kind of strength to grasp onto, so he didn’t choke you or fuck you against this door. he gave you one last look and reached behind you to lock the door. he could hear your breath hitch as his head was right by yours, locking his eyes onto yours as you heard the click of the lock.

“stay in the house. ‘m not fucking with you bambi.” he chastised, walking back to the couch without even glancing your way. you looked at him a little longer, watch as he palmed himself through his jeans and slid back in the cushions. you let out a sad sound and slouched back upstairs. crying all your pretty heart out into your heart shaped pillow.

the last time, Rafe couldn’t take it anymore. you finally started to notice his attraction to you. and boy were you happy. you’d been wanting to fuck him for months now! fingering yourself and rubbing your clit raw to the sound of his voice and the feeling of his hands on you. you were basically in heaven!

Rafe didn’t know what changed but all of a sudden your teasing got more evident. you’d drop the remote and bend over to pick it up, giving him a view of the plump lips you had hidden behind cotton underwear. sometimes you’d leave the bathroom door open so he could see you shower behind the steamy glass.

in the present day you asked him to bake cupcakes with you. something innocent and sweet, what could it hurt? but when you asked him to try it, that’s when it all went downhill. Rafe dipped his finger in the batter and brought it to his lips, sucking the flavor off and deciding if it was done.

“taste perfect bunny, now you try it.” and you did. you looked up at him, taking two steps forward, and grabbed his right wrist. He looked at you with a confused glint in his eyes, as you dipped his finger in the batter and wrapped your lips around it. tenderly kitten licking the tip of it and suckling as you let it pop from between your lips.

“sweet and creamy, just perfect!” you smiled, like a cheshire cat. he only stared at you, pupils blown and cheeks flushed. you began to get a little bit nervous. you wanted to turn around and rgo to your room to sleep for all eternity!

as you frowned and turned to walk away, he grabbed you by the wrist and pulled you to him, and as you skidded to a stop he wrapped his hands around your waist and flipped you over his shoulder. he walked away from the oven preheating oven, turning it off of course, and up to his room.

“Rafe what are you doing! come on put me down!” you yelled at him. he only slapped your ass, effectively shutting you up. you felt shame, arousal, and nervousness creep into your gut as you could only watch his backside walk up the stairs and away from the kitchen.

you saw him walk into a room and when he turned around to lock the door, you saw he was in his room. you heard the lock click and felt him start to walk towards the bed, finally putting you down.

“do you know how much self control i’ve wasted trying not to fuck you against every surface of the house, just for you to kiss me in the goddamn kitchen?” he asked pacing with an angry look on his face. you shook your head with your lips parted slightly and eyes glossy. you felt like a bunny in front of an angry wolf. you couldn’t tell if it was sexy, scary, or both.

“i’ve tried so fucking long to convince myself that maybe, just maybe, you didn’t know how much of a fucking nuisance you were. how everytime you walked out the house in those tiny outfits, i’d go up to my room and jerk off to the thought of ripping them off of you.”

you were sure you looked stupid as fuck right now, only glancing up at him between your lashes and biting your lip. “say something bunny. speak up.”

“m sorry.” you whispered, choked up a little. he stopped pacing suddenly and turned to you. kneeling in front of you he brushed the single tear that fell from your eye off your cheek.

“oh baby, i’m not really mad at you. i’m sexually frustrated from the teasing you’ve been doing but i could never be mad at you sweet girl.”

he kissed both your cheeks and held your face in his hands. “lighten up baby. can’t give you what we both want if your sad.” he whispered, making you look up at him with only need in your eyes.

“what we both want?” you asked, albeit dumbly. “don’t play. i know you want me to fuck you. i can hear your moaning through the fucking walls bunny.” he began to mock your moans and whimpers as your whole face turned red and your chest flared with embarrassment. you finally stood up on your tip toes and kissed him. letting your lips collide in a feverish dance.

he kissed you at first, tenderly, tentative even. as if he was scared to break you. but the slight noises you’d let out as he applied pressure slightly made his thoughts go into a frenzy. he couldn’t keep up with his mind. his hands going from your waist, your ass, your neck, your back, and back to your waist.

he walked you backwards until you fell onto the bed where he crawled over you. “is this okay baby?” he asked as he kissed down your tummy between each word. you nodded with slight anxiety from what comes next.

as he slid your skirt up you yelled out a “wait!” he immediately pulled back as if he was burned.

“did i do something?” he asked, slight worry in his eyes.

“no no, not at all!” you replied, relief flooding through his veins. “i just, i haven’t shaved.”

he stared at you like you were dumb. “i don’t give a fuck. baby i’m a grown man, ion care about a little bit of hair.”

he kissed your clit through your panties after dat sentence and slowly pulled the down to your ankles. he tugged them off and wrapped them around your wrist to keep you still.

pulling a leg over each shoulder he licked one long stripe up your slit, kitten licking to wear he saw fit. this was what he was waiting for. drowning between your thighs. he could feel your arousal gushing out of you and mixing with the saliva on his tongue.

he laps at your cunt as if it’s his last meal, savoring everything he can. he’s mumbling gibberish, pussy drunk almost. babbling about how he needs this, how he wants to become full off of your juices and nothing else. he pushes his tongue inside of you and flicks at your g spot with his tongue. it’s a stretch but it’s worth the reaction it pulls out of you.

your back arches and your hands pull at the sheets next to you, looking for something to ground you. Rafe pulls a hand to your hip to hold you down, his dominant one going towards his pants. you can barely register the clink of his belt.

He pulls himself out of his confines and rubs his tip with b his thumb, spreading his precum around as lube. he tugs his cock in tandem with his long and steady licks of your cunt. he cums right before when you do. the groaning and moaning of his orgasm rushing through him vibrates on your cunt, making you hit your peak with a flame alight inside your whole body.

your orgasm rips through you and it’s blinding almost. you come to after he kisses your neck and lets his half hard cock sit on your tummy as he rubs your head trying to get you to come back to him.

“come on sweet girl, don’t tell me you’re sleep.” you drearily respond, barely there. he smiles starting a bath for you, grabbing a snack, and getting ready to take care of his best girl. only you.

[crescenthistory]

Where Padfoot Lays His Head

Summary: Inspired by @thewriterghost's reblog of my last animagus!reader fic, this is just a sweet drabble of Whiskers comforting Padfoot:,)

Words: 1.7k

Warnings: not proofread, fem!reader, your marauders/animagus name is whiskers, walburga black, black family dynamics and trauma, vaguely implied abuse, sirius spiraling into self-loathing, platonic physical affection, romantic!regulus x reader but platonic!sirius x reader is the main focus, background platonic!moonwater

Note: this is based on the same reader from Feline Touches, Sweet Like Honey and Padfoot vs. Whiskers, sirius' beloved almost-sister-in-law that he has frequent (loving) sibling squabbles with

Sirius pretended he didn’t feel the humiliation burning through his veins from his friends’ worrying looks.

Stop looking at me, stop caring so sodding much.

His internal begging was all for naught; this was apparently what he signed up for when he strolled into the train compartment that housed the largest smile Hogwarts had ever seen and his pack of make-shift slightly-fucked-up-but-lovable friends.

Most days, Sirius was grateful to the bone for the family he had been able to assemble at Hogwarts, stretching from his boyfriend to his boyfriend’s childhood best friend to his biological brother and the boys that became his brothers. However, on days that Walburga Black, the hag to end all hags, sends him a Howler berating him for leaving home over the summer, few sentiments besides anger, self-loathing and isolation remained in the young boy’s body.

When he eventually stops reeling and wallowing, all this attention would make him feel warm once more, especially when he sees they didn’t stop showering him in it even as he retreated perhaps a bit rudely from it. Right now, though, it just kept the wound open and Sirius was sure the infection would kill him this time around.

He was sure of that every time.

It became evident quickly that he would not be able to get away from his friends. James was practically glued to his side from the moment he left the Great Hall after Walburga ruined everyone’s lunch. His brown eyes were so wide beneath his glasses and Sirius was sure he could almost see tears in them as he swung his arm around Sirius’ shoulders and kept telling jokes like his life depended on it. Remus was not much better. He had learned by now not to soften his touches when Sirius was in these moods – on the contrary, harsh, direct touches helped ground him – but his hands rarely left his being, as if he would fall apart without him. Even Lily tuned down her playful banter with him, swapping it for concerned questions and checking in on him throughout the day. Sirius loved them all, but he hated it.

Even Regulus showed him more compassion than normal, though he didn’t say much. His entire being seemed to radiate I get you, I understand more than anyone, because frankly he did. Even as hearing Walburga’s voice must have rattled Regulus too, he didn’t show it, instead holding space for Sirius, carrying what was supposed to be his burden.

Humiliating. 

All of which to say, Sirius did what Sirius does best; he ran from them all, in the one form none of them would be able to hold a conversation with him in.

Padfoot had turned out to be a blessing that way. Sirius picked up on it from you, who only ever was in your animagus form when you felt particularly well or horrifically poorly. Difficult to ask how a dog is feeling, yeah? 

He laid in front of the common room fireplace, stretched out in a position that showed he was ready to pounce should anyone try to pet him. Around him, his friends were cuddled up on the sofas and armchairs, chattering lowly amongst themselves and playing the occasional game of wizarding chess. Padfoot had his head placed on his front paws as his gaze flickered all over the room, unable to settle. His nerves always seemed to transform with him, manifesting as the most anxious dog Gryffindor had seen.

Their stares were still on him, penetrating and with downturned frowns over their faces. Stop it, stop it, stop it. He couldn’t string too long sentences together in his dog brain – part of its fantastic appeal right now – but that sentiment remained steadfast.

You were sat in Regulus’ lap opposite the fireplace, murmuring something in his ear as you both intermittently looked at Padfoot. Your hands were playing with his hair, lips almost grazing his skin as you talked, even pressing the occasional kiss to his cheek, his jaw, his ear. Love. Padfoot loved love and he loved his little brother getting to experience it so wholly, even as he laid here, destroying the moment with the same misery that hunted any children raised by the Black family. He felt as if he was sucking the joy out of the room with his wallowing, yet he couldn’t stop himself.

Padfoot couldn’t help the low whine that escaped him at the darkness swirling around inside him. Upon fearing having to meet the gazes of anyone who caught the noise and see the goddamn sympathy and pity in them, he brought his paws up to cover his eyes, pathetically hiding within himself.

Bad, bad, bad, bad, bad.

In his internal chanting, he didn’t notice when the chatter died down a bit, nor did he see the glances exchanged. He felt the footsteps reverberating through the floorboards, suggesting somebody was walking away, but he didn’t register its true implications. Leave, was all he could think. Good, leave. Go.

What he did notice to its fullest extent was when a few moments later, soft fur collided with his own as something was rubbing against him.

A bit too quickly, almost too violently, Padfoot’s head snapped up from beneath his paws to see what this intrusion was – only to come face to face with a white-and-grey cat, blinking slowly at him. His mouth fell slightly open, and he thought a complaining bark may be on its way out, but then you – Whiskers – butted your head against the side of his neck, caressing him with your feline body.

The adventures of Whiskers and Padfoot were a running joke, especially one Remus and Regulus loved to team up to tell. Whether it was chasing each other around, hunting rats – preferably Wormtail, but any would do – and mice or playing with the house elves, you two loved to conduct mischief together in the one form you could never be properly caught in. There had been the occasion where you cuddle or pet one another, but it was rare and usually unspoken, attachment growing deeper and softer without either properly addressing it. 

So, this was not necessarily out of left field, but it surprised him nonetheless. He couldn’t say it wasn’t quite welcome, though.

You had started purring as you walked up and down his body where he was laid in front of the fire, soaking up the warmth he was bathed in and oddly calming the vibrating nerves within his own body. Whenever you reached his head, you bumped your snout against his, rubbing the space between your ears all over his face.

Cats are weird, Padfoot thought. Like it.

Mere minutes ago Sirius had been surveying his friends and his effect on them intently, digging himself deeper into his self-inflicted hole. Now, his attention was captured by the much smaller animal beside him, and he didn’t see how most conversation had stopped to witness the interaction. Lily and James looked at them in almost shocked awe, both having been snapped at and ran away from when they attempted to pet Padfoot themselves. Regulus and Remus, however, sat there with soft, knowing smiles – seeing the girl they loved most go for it with no fear and comforting their favourite dog. Remus would deny it to anyone who asked, but there were tears in his eyes.

The next time Whiskers came up beside his face, you stayed there, leaning yours against his. You laid your body down over the paws Padfoot had previously rested his own head on and made yourself comfortable in a position no one but a cat could possibly conjure up. From there, you began cleaning his fur like you were his personally-assigned cat mother, licking the strands in their correct direction. When his face was too far away, you lightly brought your paw up to his snout to bring him further towards you.

Despite being placed in front of a fire, warmth didn’t truly spread through Sirius before now. When he brought his head down, he laid it on top of you and let it rest there across your midsection, careful not to hurt you, as your upper body curled around his head. You continued cleaning up his fur as you purred loudly, easing the tension from Padfoot’s poor body.

A cuddle only animals could come up with, an embrace Sirius would deny anyone today, yet like this, it just worked.

When his eyes became heavy, Sirius let them fall. You continued your ministrations without hesitation, carefully and slowly tending to Sirius face, only stopping occasionally to nuzzle your forehead further into his fur and purr even louder. 

He didn’t quite fall asleep, he rarely did as Padfoot, too alert and awake in this form, but he let himself fall into a place of tranquillity. Walburga’s harsh words seemed almost funny in their anger now, and Sirius’ own spiral was becoming a thing of the past. 

Would he still be red-cheeked tomorrow and avoid his friends’ eyes for the first half of the day? Perhaps, but they would reel him into their arms and hearts regardless. Would he sputter and fall back into his evil cycle of thoughts if anyone brought this specific moment up? Without a doubt, but that’s why they would not, at least not before he settled. 

Padfoot was suddenly safe in the Gryffindor common room. He was safe with this warm weight over his paws and beneath his head, he was safe with love being quite literally carded into every strand of fur on his body. He was safe with the hearth behind him and his pack in front of him, quiet voices further lolling him further into a state of peace.

Padfoot was safe – maybe even loved.

Across the room, Remus and Regulus had gravitated further towards one another, as theirs were the only eyes who never left the scene of cat-dog-solidarity displayed before them. 

Regulus bumped into Remus’ arm with his elbow and whispered, “He doesn’t like cats, he says?” with a knowing smirk.

The other boy huffed a laugh at that, lips remaining softly upturned. “I believe he has an exception or two to that rule.”

[foggycreekfarmboy]

I think of this as "showing my work" or "citing my sources." I always want to show someone that I empathize or sympathize or understand, and I say how the situation relates to me to prove that I actually can relate to their situation in some way and that my sympathy is not just performative.

Only semi-related but honestly this is how I talk about a lot of things, because I feel like I have to go over all the evidence to show I know what I am talking about, but people often think I'm just trying to make things about myself or mansplain to people. No I'm not mansplaining, I'm just autistic.

[claudiafrankie]

Pick a Card: How They See You

DISCLAIMER: TAROT IS NOT AN EVIDENCE-BASED PRACTICE. YOU ARE IN CHARGE OF MAKING YOUR OWN DECISIONS.

Pile 1: The Dog

This person sees you as having mastered the earth element. I think you are pretty detached with the way you approach your goals and it like doesn't compute in this person's brain that this is how you get the things that you want and build the world around you that you have.

They see you as someone who revels in the simple pleasures in life - sitting in the grass on a sunny day, stretching your body in the morning, a delicious seasonal coffee creamer. You are rich in the ways that count pile 1. You take good care of yourself and because of this you kind of exude a nurturing quality to those around you. Whether you intend to or not, you help other people get to where they want to go. You build people up and show them that they are capable of achieving their goals. I think you have a good eye for material goods and know what to splurge on and what to buy generic brand. Maybe you invest in nice cookware and knives because you know you'll use those for years to come, or in a high-quality bed spread or mattress. You take care of your body and appearance, you understand this to be an art form. But you also know that it's not everything. And this down-to-earth quality of taking good care of yourself but also not taking it too seriously or to extremes is really sexy to a lot of people. I think this person thinks that other people see you as husband/wife material. If you're single they're scratching their head like "how the hell are they not wifed up yet"

I think they see you as someone who doesn't stay in people's lives for very long, and they are worried that this is going to be the case for your relationship with them as well. They think you are in tune with the rhythms of nature and aren't afraid to let go and move on. You enjoy the good times when they come knowing they won't last forever, and you don't let the hard times beat you down when they come because you know they will pass.

I think they see you as someone who has learned all this the hard way. As someone who has been through many highs and lows, someone flexible in the circumstances you can thrive and survive in. You know when a tree lifts up the concrete of a sidewalk? That's you. Pavement be damned, you are going to keep growing and growing. You understand setbacks are part of progress. You don't let the hiccups hangups and obstacles sway you from steady movement forward.

I think they think that you are very loyal to those you care about, perhaps to your own detriment at times. I think this person sees you as someone who feels easily caged and needs a lot of space to try new things and be your own person. They see these two sides of you being at odds with each other at times, whether that is true or not.

This person sees you as being perhaps at times unwilling to open up emotionally. I think they respect you for your stoic disposition, but they think that sometimes you take this position/approach when it isn't necessary and that you actually hold yourself back a little bit in this way. Like you are a little blocked in your self-expression. Again, this is how they see you. It doesn't mean that this is actually who you are.

Pile 2: The Moon

This person thinks that you are in an incredible amount of pain underneath a calm surface. The card you picked, I just really tried to sense what it would be like to be there. Sitting next to a lake on a cloudy night. You have that smell of the freshwater and grass, and the sound of maybe a frog or two. Some light wind ruffling the surface of the lake... sitting in that setting depicted on the card it has the vibe of "something happened here and there's this weight hanging over the whole place." Like the trees are clinging to the ground so tightly because they are afraid of a strong wind knocking them down, and maybe there's a dock with a small boat that has rusted over from getting no use anymore and with no one around to take care of it or store it properly.

That's how they see you, as someone who has been through something, or maybe a series of things, that have deeply impacted you. And it's like you're still processing and aren't quite sure what the you that comes out the other side of all this processing is going to look like yet. This goes beyond sadness, this person sees you as grieving. Who or what I don't know, but they see you as dealing with some kind of loss. I think it could have to do with your family. Maybe you have been dealing with family troubles or grieving the loss of a family member or a family friend. Or, if it's not a literal death that you are processing, it could be that you are beginning to understand your family in a different way, a deeper way. Maybe your perspective on your family is expanding, you are understanding the pain and wounding that they have been through, and you're angry. You could be reconciling feelings of bitterness or anger towards your family with feelings of sympathy for the difficulties they have faced in their own lives.

I think this person sees that you are holding on to this pain and struggling to let it go. Maybe they sense a despondency in you, a subtle hopelessness. Not detachment so much as fear of encountering the same lessons with different people, of being hurt in the same ways again. They can feel a deep anger in you, seeing you as someone who is looking for their place in the world, wanting more than anything to feel like you belong.

This is really sad pile 2. You are so strong and this person wants to help you but they know that you have to want to get better, and they think that you don't even see the sadness, anger, and longing in yourself. They won't offer unsolicited advice, so for the time being I think they are taking the role of being a supportive friend and willing to give advice should you go to them for it.

There is some judgment coming from them. Like "why can't they just get over it" or "they are so stuck and don't even realize." It's weird, they want to help you, but they do kind of want you to lean on them as some sort of savior/hero/rescuer figure. I think they believe that you really want someone like this to come along and sort of take care of you. I'll say it again, this is how this person sees you not necessarily who you actually are, so don't get too fixated on their perspective - especially if it is not accurate. You know yourself best.

I think this person is equally invested in making you feel better as they are making themselves feel better. Maybe they think that your well-being is what they're concerned about, or this is what they're telling themselves, but really they are dealing with their own insecurities and need to feel like the hero to be worthy of love. Maybe this person is an overachiever, or highly successful for their age. They could come from a family where this was expected of them - to win.

So yeah they see you as a little bit of a damsel in distress pile 2. I don't think you need anyone to save you or are trying to signal this to people, but I do think that this person thinking that you deep down want someone to come along and sweep you off your feet has some truth to it. And I feel like I should tell you that wanting to be saved and taken care of is totally normal and human. We live in a world where it's difficult just to be a person. Dealing with deeply rooted pain while navigating the mayhem of daily living is incredibly difficult. You are doing a good job, pile 2. Maybe no one has said that to you in awhile. Keep up the good work. And, while there's nothing wrong with wishing for a knight in shining armor, remember who it is that has been saving your ass this whole time in their absence. ;)

Pile 3: The Broom and Whip

Hey pile 3! Lets get into it

This feels like someone that you had or have a romantic connection with but there was a falling out. They see you as someone who is defensive and in a lot of pain. They know that you are not the type of person to lash out and take your hurt out on other people, but they almost wish that the two of you could have it out - I just don't think that you are expressing your anger to this person. I think they could be concerned that this is eroding you mentally and emotionally, that you aren't expressing to them how you really feel.

I think you guys aren't talking right now and they are feeling this separation big time. They really want to work this out and come back together. You literally got the Lovers and the Two of Cups side by side - whoever you are asking about sees you as a soulmate, as their endgame. They are worried that this won't work out and they are trying to plan how to fix things with you, possibly asking about you to their friends or asking their own friends for advice on the situation.

This person sees how naturally cooperative you are with the people around you, how you are so willing to work with others and put your own interests aside if it benefits the majority - it's like this is just how you operate, you don't even have to think about it. They could see you as working on some kind of skill and gaining notoriety for it, gathering some attention for your diligence, attention to detail, and team-oriented attitude.

Yeah dude this person just thinks that you're it for them. The Lovers and the Two of Cups??? Come on. I think that even though this person is upset they see whatever upset is currently going on is temporary. It's like they aren't even entertaining the option or possibility that things are over over between the two of you. It will not compute in their brain.

I think this person thinks that you're pushing them away. They think that you are retreating into yourself where it's safe and keeping them at arms-reach. I think the way you are interacting with them now compared to the way you used to interact with them is very different - I think right now you are giving them friendly, polite energy but it's just a way to maneuver around them so you can keep them away. You are relying heavily on your manners to protect yourself in this situation and they can tell. They hate that you used to have so much vivaciousness when you used to talk to them and now they don't get that side of you anymore.

I do think that there is part of this person that enjoys the suspense and tortured waiting of what's going on. I think that they want to comfort and soothe you, to coax you into their arms and hold you while you hang onto them. I think this is part of a sexual fantasy of theirs as well, where they are the one to console you and then fuck the sadness out of you. They could be into BDSM type stuff, or if it's not that heavy/intense, they just want to test your limits a little bit. They like the idea of being the one to inflict some pain on you and then show you that they can make it better, that they can make you feel even better than you did before the pain even occurred.

It's hard to explain but it's not really an exotic fantasy or unusual I don't think, I'm just having a hard time putting it into words. They want to like........ stretch you? LMAO Like yeah just see... what you can take. And when they're done having their way with you, being the one who you collapse into. They want to be the person with the power to harm and to heal you. Not sure if that's your vibe but that is what I'm getting from this person. Very intense and steamy, if this is your situation then please write smut about it or something so the rest of us can live vicariously through you lol.

Take care pile 3 :)

[nastybuckybarnes]

Rat in the Mouse Cage

Pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Reader

Summary: There's a rat on base, and all evidence seems to be pointing to you.

Warnings: lowkey mean!soap, angst, language, angst, ptsd, angry!ghost, more of mouse's backstory??,

Word Count: 5.5K

A/n: here it is, the angsty one. I had SO much fun writing this and I reaaalllly hope you guys enjoy! The next few parts are in progress but you should see them soon!

~*~

Soap opens the door to the boardroom, a room you've never been in before, and you follow him when he motions you into the room.

Captain Price is seated at the table, his eyes focused on a file in his hands.

The air is tense, and you're immediately on edge.

"Have a seat," Soap says, his voice hard.

You comply, sitting across from Price anxiously.

"Is... everything okay?" You finally ask, looking between the two men.

Price sighs and sets his paper down, finally lifting his gaze to yours.

"No. Everything's not okay."

You feel dizzy with how quickly the blood leaves your face.

"Ghost... is okay?" You ask after a long moment, squeezing your hands together as you prepare yourself for the worst.

"Yes, Ghost is fine."

You frown, glancing around.

"Where is he?"

Price and Soap exchange glances, the latter standing at the closed door with his arms crossed tightly over his chest.

You've never seen him look so... angry before.

"Listen, I'm gonna give you this one chance to come clean. Don't make this any harder for yourself than it already is," Price warns softly.

"Who do you work for?"

The question catches you off guard, and you cock your head to the side.

"I... I don't work."

Price scrubs a hand over his face, the language barrier only adding to his anger.

He glances over at Soap, and the Sergeant takes that as his cue to clarify.

"We know you've been sellin' information. We need to know exactly who it is you work for. Who your buyer is."

Your mouth drops open in shock at the accusation, but he's speaking again before you have a chance to defend yourself.

"We've already caught you, so don' bother tryna lie your way outta this."

You shake your head so hard you make yourself dizzy.

"No, no! Not me! I-I don't talk to anyone! I don't give any information, I have no money I don't sell anything! Where is Ghost?" If Ghost is here, he'll listen. He can help you. He'll trust you.

You just need Simon.

"He's not here," Soap says coldly.

"I want Ghost, please!" You all but cry.

"Well he doesn't want you!" Soap shouts, slamming his hands on the table. "No one wants a filthy rat!"

The words are spat with enough malice to cut you deeper than a knife ever has.

"Ghost already knows the truth. Had to keep him away or he'd kill ya before we get answers."

The two men watch as Soap's words have the desired effect, your shoulders slumping forward and tears welling up in your eyes.

It hurts them to have to do this, to have to hurt you. You seemed so sweet, so innocent. But if it's what protects the team, so be it.

"I'm gonna ask you one more time," Price says, "Who do you work for?"

You bring your teary eyes to his and shake your head once again.

"I don't work. I don't sell anything and I am not rat."

You're innocent, and this is a hill you'll die on if you have to.

Price heaves out a heavy sigh then nods at Soap.

He walks around the table to you, ignoring the way you shake your head and try to rise up out of your seat to get away from him.

You raise your hands in surrender when he reaches you, not fighting him as he zip-ties your wrists together in front of you.

"Please, I just want Ghost, please," you beg tearfully, trying your hardest to hold back sobs as he marches you out of the room.

Soap says nothing, only leads you down a hallway that you've never seen before.

"Wh-where do you take me?"

He stops outside of an elevator, hand firmly holding your bicep as he waits for it to arrive.

"Holding cells. A cage fit for a rat like you."

Cage. Another cage.

You can feel yourself start to hyperventilate.

You can't go back in a cage. You won't.

The elevator doors open and he pushes you inside, following after and quickly pressing the button marked 'B'.

You stare at the back of his head as the doors close.

"I didn't do it," you whisper once again, your voice soft and full of tears.

Soap swallows his feelings, the regret carving a hole in his heart.

He truly thought you were good, that he knew you, could trust you.

He can only imagine how angry Ghost will be when he finds out who he's been sharing his bed with.

"You may have Ghost fooled, but I can't deny the facts, and they all point to you," he says stiffly.

Your heart hammers painfully in your chest as the elevator walls begin to close in on you.

You can't go back in a cage. You can't. It took you forever to break out of the first one, the one you called home. Now, you've found something good. A real home, a family.

Only for them to turn on you.

Before you're fully aware of what you're doing, you sweep Soap's feet out from under him. You then straddle his waist and knock your fist against his head, wincing when his head rocks back against the ground with a dull 'thud'.

It hurts you to hurt him, but you don't have time to dwell on that.

Instead, you rise to your feet and hit the STOP button, then grab his knife from his belt and slice your wrists free.

Tears cloud your vision as anxiety eats you, and you scrub your hands over your hair. You throw your head back as you struggle to breathe, only for your escape route to hit you right in the face.

Glancing between Soap's unconscious body and the roof opanels, you cringe internally at what you're about to do.

It takes a lot more effort than you thought it would to hunch him over where you need him to be, and then you're stepping carefully on his back and pushing the ceiling tiles aside.

You climb up and out, crouching on top of the elevator for a long moment as you try to figure out your next steps.

~*~

"Simon, a word," Captain Price says, intercepting the man as he returns to base.

Ghost tenses slightly, but falls into a step beside his superior.

"I wanted you to hear it from me first. We've taken your little mouse into custody for now. Soap brought her downstairs for detainment while we investigate further. All our intel shows that she's our rat."

His head snaps to his Captain and he stops walking.

"What are you talking about?"

Price sighs and extends a file for Ghost to read, but the man only stares down at it.

"I know how heavily you're... involved with her, which is why I wanted to be the one to tell you."

"Let me talk to her."

Price doesn't get to give him an answer, he's already marching toward the elevator.

"Simon, this isn't up for debate. She's guilty, and she'll be punished for what she's done. That's the way of the world, son. I hate that you got your feelings wrapped up in this, but-"

"We need to explore all other options before we continue with this. How could she be the rat? She never leaves my quarters unless she's accompanied by Soap or Gaz."

"That you're aware of," Price corrects, coming to a halt beside the man as he waits for the elevator.

"You can't be on this, Simon. You wanna talk to her, you can this once, but after that this is out of your hands. You're too involved."

Simon grinds his teeth together but remains silent.

He just needs to talk to you, that's all. Somehow, he'll prove you're innocent, and this will all be dealt with.

After what feels like an eternity, the elevator doors open, and Simon's heart drops into his feet.

"Soap!"

Price is at the man's side in an instant, helping him into a seated position and checking his pulse.

His hard gaze turns to the Lieutenant.

No words are spoken. They don’t need to be. Simon knows exactly what’s going through the man’s head.

If you’re innocent, why run?

While Price checks on Soap, Simon steps into the elevator, looking up to where the tiles have been moved.

Your escape route, no doubt.

Through there, he's sure you've found a way out through the vents or into the ceiling, but either way he knows you're probably long gone. Lost now somewhere in the hidden areas of the base.

Rather than dwell on that, he's quick to help his Captain bring Soap to the medical wing, silent the entire time.

He knows you're not the rat. Deep in every fibre of his being, he knows. He can feel it in his bones. But his gut feelings aren't enough to sway his Captain.

"I want her found and I want it done quick. We keep this under wraps, no one is to know she's on the loose. The last thing we need is anyone in a panic."

"Let me just talk to her. She'll listen," he tries.

Price shakes his head, "what part of 'you can't be on this' do you not understand? You're dismissed, and if I catch you trying to involve yourself, I'm gonna hafta take it above my head," he threatens.

Ghost says nothing, only grinds his teeth together, turns on his heel, and marches out of the medical wing.

He's not sure where to go, spends a good amount of time pacing angrily through the halls as he tries to figure this out, folder from Price held tightly in his hands.

He hasn't read it yet, he can't.

Though he knows it's not you, he can't shake the fear, the ill feeling gripping his spine at the idea of you being capable of something like that.

Eventually, he discards the file on the desk in his office then heads up to the roof to smoke a pack or two.

He doesn't feel your presence until his third cigarette.

Trying to stay nonchalant, he takes another drag.

"I know you're here," he finally says, blowing out the smoke and looking down at the ground.

His mask is pushed up around his nose, and he doesn't bother adjusting it.

"I'm not going to tell them where you are or... bring you to them. I just... I just want to make sure you're okay. Please."

You stand in the shadows, eyes on his back as you weigh his words carefully before slowly stepping forward.

He turns to you, his heart breaking when he sees your puffy tear-stained face.

"Why do you want me to be okay? Why see me?" You ask, your voice hoarse from all the crying.

His brows pull together and he longs to reach for you.

"Why wouldn't I? All I've ever wanted is for you to be okay."

Your bottom lip wobbles and you shake your head, crossing your arms over your chest as he steps toward you.

"Soap told me... what you really think," you begin, "that you... you don't want to see me. You-you think I'm rat, too."

"He's lying." He says the words immediately, without a moment of hesitation or a shred of doubt.

You glare up at him, taking a half-step back when he reaches for you.

"I'm not going in cage."

"I know." He takes another step forward.

"I didn't do it." You take another step back.

"I know."

"I didn't do it and they-they don't believe me. I save Soap's life! I do everything I can to help! To be good, and they don't believe me! Why don't they believe me?!" Your eyes blur with unshed tears and you suck in a hiccuping breath.

"I don't know," Ghost whispers.

His heart aches for you and he feels anger simmer deep within him at the lies spewed in a pathetic attempt at drawing a confession from you.

"They tell me you will kill me," you whisper, shaking your head as tears slip down your cheeks.

"I could never, Mouse." He takes another step forward, and he's almost close enough to touch you.

"If I don't go with them... they don't trust me. But if I do go with them... they still don't trust me. I am in cage... or they kill me."

Finally, he reaches forward, tilting your chin up and forcing you to look at him.

"I won't let that happen," his voice is harder now. "I won't let any of them touch you."

Your breathing gets quick again and he holds your hand, squeezing tightly.

"Breathe with me," he whispers.

You obey, following his breaths and successfully calming yourself down.

He nods, satisfied, then gently takes hold of your wrists, inspecting the angry red marks left by the zip-tie.

His eyes lift back up to yours and it's like you're seeing him for the first time that night.

"I didn't do it, Simon. Please, I didn't."

His eyes soften and he nods, cupping your cheek softly.

"I know, love. I believe you."

You finally nod, exhaling heavily as if a weight is lifted off of your chest.

He believes you. You knew he would. You knew you could trust him.

"But someone else did, and now they're trying to frame you for it."

It takes a minute for his words to process in your brain, but when they do you're frowning up at him.

"Why me? Who... who would do that?" What kind of horrible monster would do something like this?

"I don't know, little one. But I'll fix this. I just need you to trust me."

You blink your wet eyes a few times at him.

"How will you fix?"

"Just trust me." That's easy enough. You've been doing it since the moment you met him, and you have no intention of stopping anytime soon.

"What do I do?"

He pushes your hair away from your face and presses a sweet kiss to your forehead, then pulls you into a tight hug.

You relax instantly, melting into his arms and snuggling your head against his chest.

He rests his chin atop your head and sighs heavily.

"Just give me time, Mouse, I promise. I won't let them touch you."

Your hands ball his shirt into your fists.

"Where do I go?"

He sighs one more time and closes his eyes, trying to figure that out as well.

Eventually, he settles on telling you the truth.

"I don't know."

~*~

His fist is knocking on Price's office door later that evening.

"Come in."

He's inside the office before the words are fully out of his Captain's mouth.

"I know you said not to get involved," he begins, holding back an eye-roll when Price sighs.

"Simon," he warns.

"And if you tell me one more time then fine, I won't get involved on your side of this," he continues as if Price hasn't said a word, "but there's a rat here, and you need all the help you can get if you wanna flush them out."

Price rubs his forehead and squeezes his eyes shut.

"We already know who the rat is."

"No, you think you know who the rat is," Simon argues.

"All the evidence points to your mouse. Are we supposed to deny the facts because she warms your bed at night?" He snaps, growing tired of this.

"The facts are that you didn't even properly talk to her. You cornered her, ambushed her, threw vile accusations and lies at her to try and get some fake confession from her, and you're surprised that she ran. Those are the facts."

Price leans back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest.

"So, you've talked to her."

Simon places his hands on the desk, leaning forward.

"Let me help."

Price shakes his head, "nothing comes between me and my team."

"Then let me help and nothing will."

Price's thick brows raise.

"Are you threatening me, Lieutenant?"

Silence hangs long and heavy between the two of them and neither man makes an effort to break it for a good few minutes.

Finally, Price speaks.

"The safety of my team comes first before anything else."

Simon nods slowly and straightens back up.

"If that's the case, then it's in the best interests of everyone involved if you let me find the rat. The real rat. Because I'm not lettin' a single one of you touch a hair on her fuckin' head."

It's quiet again for a few minutes, but this time Simon is the one who speaks.

"Three days," he says quietly. "That's all I need."

Price looks at him warily for a long while before huffing out a sigh and shaking his head.

"If you don't have the rat in front of me in three days, regardless of who it is, I'm gonna gas the building with your Mouse hiding in it. Best way to flush out a rat."

Simon grinds his teeth together but nods his understanding, turning on his heel and marching out of the office.

He doesn't go far, only down the hall to his own office where the folder lies.

He plops down in his chair and flips it open, ready to pour over every word until he finds something to work with.

He's only reading for about half an hour before he hears it, soft creaking coming from the ceiling above him.

He knows it's you, but before he can say anything, theres a knock on his office door.

"Come," he barks, tossing he file back on his desk as Soap pushes the door open.

Simon's eyes narrow at the man, the lies he spewed still tumbling around in his brain.

"Heard you visited Price... and you've met with yer Mouse," the mohawked man says, his eyes scanning the room.

"She's not in here."

Soap's eyes snap to Ghost's, the latter leaning back in his chair.

"How's your head?"

Soap nods, looking down for a moment.

"M'not concussed, wasn't her hit that got me, it was the bounce against the floor."

Ghost only shrugs, "can't say you didn't deserve it."

Sighing, Soap leans against the doorframe.

"Are we really gonna do this, Lt?"

"You're the one standing in my office, Sergeant," he counters, crossing his arms over his chest.

They're quiet for a moment, and he knows Soap is going to speak his mind.

"Everything points to her. S'only reasonable."

"And that's reason enough to lie? To spew nothin' but bullshit through your teeth? To scare her? You were tryna get her to confess to something she didn't do to make things easier for you."

Soap steps into the office, his own anger rising.

"That's not true. I tried to do my job. You find out there's a rat, you see the pile of evidence, and any rational person would follow the trail. S'not my fault you're shaggin' the broad 'n now you can' think for your bloody self."

Ghost is on his feet before the man is finished speaking, stalking toward him.

"That's enough, MacTavish," He growls, glaring down at the man.

"You're dismissed. Get outta my office."

Clenching his jaw, Soap turns and leaves without another word.

Sighing, Ghost sits back down and puts his face in his hands.

He knew his teammates had their doubts, but he never realized how deep that distrust went.

After a moment, Simon glances up at the vent in his office where he knows you sat listening to the entire exchange.

"I'll fix this, Mouse. I promise," he whispers.

Flipping the folder open again, he pours himself back into it, reading over everything. Every name, every date, every location, and every piece of information that got leaked.

Finally, after what feels like hours, he finds a comonality other than you.

"Mouse? You still with me? Knock once for yes, twice for no."

He listens patiently, and eventually, you knock once on the vent.

"Perfect. Now, I want you to follow the sound of my feet, okay? We're leaving my office."

Again, one knock greets him.

He rises from his desk and leaves his office, walking slowly and making just enough noise for you to be able to follow him from your place in the ceiling.

He leads you this way and that, finally coming to a halt in a utility closet.

Pushing the ceiling tiles out of the way, he climbs up on a few boxes and sticks his head into the ceiling, his heart easing when he catches sight of you again.

"You okay?"

You nod, crawling toward him.

"Come down here."

You obey, slowly climbing out of the hole in the ceiling and gasping when his strong arms wrap around you.

He holds you in an embrace far longer than he normally does, then tilts your chin up and presses a firm kiss to your lips.

"I think I've figured it out, little one. But I need something from you in order to prove it."

You nod eagerly, desperate to clear your name.

He sighs and nods once, then opens the door to the utility closet, looking both ways to make sure no one's around before motioning for you to follow him.

You do, staying only a half-step behind him as he leads you through a door and into a stairwell.

"This way."

You follow closely behind him as he leads you down a flight of stairs, looking around as much as you can as you try to figure out what his plan is, where he's taking you.

Finally, he leads you down another hallway and stops just outside of a door.

He looks at you, his eyes suddenly serious, far more serious than you've ever seen them, and you can't help the nervousness that chews at you.

You pick at the skin around your nails absentmindedly as he places a hand on your cheek, cupping it gently.

"'M'gonna ask you to do somethin'... somethin' that I know you're not gonna wanna do. But I just... I need you to trust me on this, okay?"

Your brows pull together at his words.

"Okay..."

"Do you trust me?" He asks his free hand on the door handle.

He doesn't open it. He needs you to confirm out loud to him and to yourself before he opens the door.

You nod, looking between him and the door anxiously.

He grips your chin more firmly and forces your eyes to stay on his.

"I need you to look at me when you say it. Do you trust me?"

Your stomach flips and you need to wet your lips before speaking. Your skin crawls at this, at the intensity of his gaze, the unknown behind the door.

"I do. I trust you," you finally confirm.

He lets out an audible breath of relief, and then he's pushing open the door and your heart is falling into your stomach.

Immediately, you shake your head and take a step back, only for him to catch you and halt you in your tracks.

"No."

Simons sighs, tugging you forward gently. "Mouse, please."

You shake your head more firmly this time.

"No," you repeat, "I-I can't. I won't. No more cage."

Simon looks over to the holding cells with a heavy heart, then pulls his eyes back to yours.

"I know. But this... this is the only way. You need to trust me."

You yank free from his grip and take a step away from him as tears cloud your vision.

"I-I didn't do it. Why do you bring me here?"

You look at the cells then back to his eyes and shake your head once more. You thought you could trust him. You thought he trusted you.

"Please, Simon..."

He reaches for you, tries to pull you into an embrace, only for you to step away once more.

Where you'll go, you have no idea. You just know that you can't... you won't go back in a cage.

"Mouse, I promise you. Three days is all I need. And then I'll come let you out and you'll never have to look at this place again. I swear it."

"No."

He sighs, rubbing a hand over his forehead. He doesn't want to do this to you. If he could prove your innocence without this, he would. But he knows his team, his captain. He knows what it'll take to get the truth out.

"If we don't do this, they're gonna gas the building with you inside, and you'll die."

Your fiery gaze finally returns to his and for a moment he wishes it didn't.

"I'd rather die than go back in cage."

His heart cracks in his chest.

"Please, Mouse. For me. Please. Trust me, just this once."

Your bottom lip quivers as you stare at the cell, eyes getting distant as horrible memories of a past you long to forget creep up on you.

Finally, you suck in a sharp breath and turn to look at him again.

"Three days?"

He nods immediately, his shoulders relaxing while his eyes soften.

"Yes. Three days at most, I promise. I swear, on the memory of my nephew, three days."

Reluctantly, you walk forward, looking at every cell before stepping into the one in the corner. The largest and the darkest.

Your shoulders are tight by your ears as you look around.

It has a thin mattress on the ground and a toilet in the corner. Over half the cell is shrouded in darkness, and the other half is in direct view of the door.

It's bigger than the cage you grew up in, but the sick feeling doesn't leave your stomach as your freedom is brutally ripped from you once again.

Simon squeezes his eyes shut as he closes the door behind you, his heart hurting.

Knowing what he does about you, about your past, this feels like the ultimate betrayal. Arguably one of the worst things he could put you through.

But he needs to.

You flinch at the sound of the lock clicking, not turning to face him even as tears start to trickle down your cheeks.

"Mouse..."

You shake your head, wrapping your arms around yourself in a pathetic attempt at comfort.

"Go," you whisper.

You don't want him here, watching you like some caged dog.

His hands wrap around the bars of your cell as he tries to get you to understand.

"It's not permanent, I swear."

"Go!" You snarl, a hiccuped sob following your words.

And just like that, the floodgates open.

You press your hand to your mouth to muffle the sound, but you can't hide the shake of your shoulders, the way you curl in on yourself.

It breaks his heart.

Silently, he takes a step back, then another, and another, pausing when he reaches the door.

"I'll be back for you. I promise."

~*~

Somewhere, somehow, between blinks, you fall asleep.

One moment you're closing your eyes to blink, the next you're waking up groggy and stiff.

Ghost stands at the door to your cell, a tray of food and a bottle of water in hand.

He needs to swallow the lump in his throat before he speaks, his heart breaking seeing you like this.

"I brought you food... thought you could use some company."

You're curled up in a ball in the corner of the cell, eyes teary and red as you glare at him.

He put you here.

It kills what's left of his soul to see you like this.

"Things are coming together, won't be much longer now, I promise."

You say nothing, only keep your icy cold glare focused on him as he sets the food down and slides it through the opening at the base of your cell.

The sound of your sniffles plagues him, and he wishes none of this happened in the first place.

He watches you for a moment longer, his eyes sad, before turning and leaving you alone once again.

When he finds out who's framing you, he's going to have his fun with them.

You're alone for only a few moments before the panic sets in once more.

Your chest rises and falls rapidly as you struggle to suck in short gasps of oxygen, nails scratching at your neck as you search desperately for your necklace, for the one item that's ever made you feel safe.

Tears run like rivers down your cheeks and you moan out your sorrows.

What would your mother think if she saw you?

She sacrificed everything, everything, for you to leave one cage only for you to willingly walk into another.

You shake your head at yourself, at your foolishness.

This was probably their plan all along. They probably know your father, they've probably gone to get him.

Scrambling to the tray of food, you grab the knife and desperately try to pry at the lock of your cell. When that proves fruitless, you jam the blade into the hinges, sobbing hopelessly.

The knife slides against the metal and finds its way to your thigh, slicing you nice and deep.

You hiss at the pain and drop the blade, stumbling backward then sliding down the wall.

It's useless. There's no escaping.

You start to feel dizzy as your thoughts overwhelm you, and before you know it you're whispering soft apologies and prayers in your mother tongue. Begging for peace, for freedom.

As you whisper the words, something dawns on you.

From the moment of your birth, you were promised nothing but pain. And life was only too eager to oblige; bestowing upon you torment after torment, loss after brutal loss.

Until finally, you broke free. You found your salvation, your Ghost, only for him to be another painful reminder that freedom is not something you were ever meant to taste.

~*~

Price meets Ghost in the boardroom at a ripe 0500hrs the following day, a steaming cup of coffee in a paper cup held tightly in his grasp.

Soap follows shortly after, on high alert.

Gaz trickles in last, the least tense of the three and possibly the most innocent in Ghost's eyes.

"So?" Price asks, looking around the empty room.

"Where's my rat?"

As if on cue, there's a firm knock on the door.

Ghost slaps the tablet he was holding against Price's chest and makes his way to the furthest corner of the room, content to spectate.

"Come in," Price says gruffly, eyes dropping down to the tablet in his hands.

His brows draw together, and then he's looking up at the newcomer.

"Corporal Matthews."

The young man salutes his superiors, then steps into the room, looking around curiously.

"What's going on?"

Price has already pieced it together, giving a short nod to the masked man in the corner.

"Why don't you tell me?"

Gaz and Soap exchange glances, the former shutting the door and leaning against it, blocking any form of escape.

The Corporal chuckles nervously and looks between the three men before swallowing hard when Price steps forward.

"So... you think it's funny what you've been doing? Care to explain to me what exactly you find so fucking funny about this?"

Soap clenches his jaw, dread bubbling in his stomach.

A sick part of him hopes Ghost is wrong, that Matthews isn't the rat, if only to absolve him of the guilt he's sure will eat him alive after all he did to you. All he said.

"What are you talking about?"

"Enough with that, son. We know it was you. Don't make this more difficult than it already is," Price whispers. In his eyes is none of the anger that was there when he spoke to you. No, instead there's nothing but disappointment.

Simon's anger will be enough to cover the whole team, and then some.

"Well, what about the Lieutenant's whore? Huh?" Matthews defends, glaring at the men. They bristle at the words, eyes darting to the hulking man hiding in the shadows in the corner.

"Funny how you knew exactly what we were talkin' about," Soap says, stepping forward and squaring up with the man.

So it's true. He was wrong about you. And he has no idea what he's going to do to fix it.

Price hands the tablet to Matthews and watches as realization dawns on him slowly.

On the screen is live video footage of the holding cells where a familiar mouse is curled up in a ball, rocking back and forth.

"She's been in there for days. This latest leak? Happened last night. Couldn't've been her. We set you up, and you took the bloody bait."

"Well it's her fault anyway!" Matthews suddenly explodes, tossing the tablet onto the table angrily.

"If she wasn't fuckin' the Lieutenant then Jacobs would still be alive! If he didn't have his face in her snatch every night, he'd see that she's a fuckin problem!"

Silence hangs heavily in the room for a long moment as Ghost rises to his feet and slowly approaches the other man.

"You wanna tell 'im that?" Price asks, nodding over the Corporal's shoulder.

He glances back then does a double take, spinning around and backing up only to run right into Soap.

Ghost stops right in front of him, glaring down at the man.

Corporal Matthews tries to hold his ground, to not be intimidated by the huge man in front of him, but he's seen firsthand what this man -this beast- is capable of.

"Didn't get to have my fun with Jacobs, prick died quick. But you can bet 'm'gonna take my time with you."

[moonstruckme]

jilly x reader where the reader gets hypothermia

cw: symptoms of mild hypothermia, (implied?) freezing water, non-sexual nudity

poly!Jily x fem!reader ♡ 1.2k words

James half carries you back to the cabin. This is partly because you’re shivering too hard to walk as quickly as you’d like, and partly because your legs simply won’t move the way you tell them to. Your wet lashes feel heavy with the ice crystals you imagine forming on them. 

He passes you off to Lily while he unlocks the front door. She rubs one hand uselessly over your arm through your soaked coat, using the other to unstick a frigid piece of hair from your face. 

They both help you inside. Set you down on the couch, and James makes a sound close to a laugh when you protest about getting wet on his mother’s cushions. 

“Start a fire, please?” Lily is all business, panic making her stern. Or maybe not stern so much as resolved. Her features are set, green eyes alternating between worried and determined, but her hands are characteristically gentle as they unzip your coat and pull you out of it one arm at a time. 

“Love?” 

You realize she’s been talking to you. “Hm?” 

Delicate brows pinch in either concern or relief. “How do you feel, sweetheart?” 

“Oh. Um.” Your chittering makes your words come out jolting and stilted. “Cold.” 

“Tired?” she asks. You put your arms up when she motions for you to, letting her lift your jumper over your head. The thought that you’re the only one getting undressed between your partners doesn’t occur to you; you only know that Lily seems urgent, and you trust her. 

“Ye—yeah.” 

“I think we have an electric blanket around here somewhere,” says James. He’s poking at a log in the fireplace, trying to provoke a bigger flame. “Get her closer to here, love.” 

“I’m still trying to get her out of her wet clothes. Can you help me?” 

James helps you to stand so Lily can tug your trousers off. They stick to your legs but crinkle oddly, stiff with ice. James kisses your temple and murmurs something you can’t quite make out. You feel guilty for ruining what was meant to be a fun afternoon of ice skating on the pond near James’ family cabin. You’ve never heard Lily shout like she did when the ice broke beneath you. 

They wrap you up in an electric blanket and put your hair up in a towel to get it off your neck, and you let James massage warmth into your fingers while Lily makes something warm for you to drink. 

“Jamie,” she calls from the kitchen, “do you all keep a thermometer here?” 

“Um, I’m not sure,” replies James. “If we did, it’d be in one of the drawers in the bathroom.” 

You hear your girlfriend whizz off in that direction. 

“How are you, angel?” James presses a couple of firm, warm kisses to your face, squeezing your hands. “Do you still feel tired?” 

“A little,” you admit. Your shivering has lessened, though. “Is it okay that we left our skates by the pond?” 

“What?” He gives a little laugh. “Yeah, it’s fine. That’s not really the top concern right now, you know?” 

You frown. It’s supposed to snow again tonight. “I don’t want them to get buried…” 

“I’ll go get them later,” James reassures you. He kisses your nose. “Don’t worry about that, lovebug. Just try to get warm, okay?” 

“I sort of feel like you guys are doing all the work for me.” 

James’ laughs as Lily comes to sit beside you. 

“Here, can you keep this in your mouth for me, please?” You nod, but when she slips the thermometer under your tongue she evidently makes a last-minute call to hold it herself instead. Lily’s thumb drags heavily over your cheek. You notice her bottom lip looks colored and bitten. 

“I think I’m okay…” you try to tell her, but stop when she shushes you gently. 

“That’s good, lovely, but don’t talk with this in your mouth.” She gives you a terse smile. 

James transfers both of your hands to one of his, using the other to squeeze her elbow consolingly. Both of your partners watch you intently as you wait. 

When Lily deems it's been long enough and looks at the thermometer, her posture slumps with relief. 

“Oh, it’s—that’s not so bad.” 

James grins, reading over her shoulder. “It must be coming up,” he says confidently. 

You offer your girlfriend a smile. “I told you, I think I’m fine.” 

Lily makes a soft, strangled sound, eyebrows pinching in the moment before she throws her arms around you. You see some of your own surprise reflected in James’ expression as you catch her, bringing her into the heated dome of your electric blanket with you.

“I didn’t know…I was really scared,” she confesses tearily, squeezing you around your neck. 

You rub her back in an attempt to reassure her. Behind her, James is doing the same. He gets his arms around the both of you, holding your shoulders through the blanket. 

“It’s alright,” he says. “We must be doing something right, yeah? Or she wouldn’t be getting better so quickly.” 

Lily exhales a shaky breath. “I am never, ever going ice skating again.” 

“Yes, you are,” you tell her fondly. 

“No. And you shouldn’t either! In fact, I hope our skates do get buried, and neither of you can ever find them.” 

You make a sound of protest, but James speaks over you, “Alright, lovely. We can let nature roll the dice tonight, if that’s what you want.” 

“But James—” 

“Angel, you weren’t witness to your own blue lips,” he tells you, rubbing your shoulder pacifyingly. “I think we’re permitted a bit of overreaction right now. I say bury the skates.” 

You give a little laugh. “You’re both taking this too far. We don’t have to use them, but there’s no reason to leave perfectly good skates out there in the snow.” 

“Mm, let’s say we return to that debate when you’re no longer shivering.” 

You all sit there for a while, holding each other while the fire crackles and warmth seeps into your fingertips. Lily’s hands are actually quite cold around your neck, but you refuse to tell her lest she spring away from you. When the kettle starts to whistle, she sniffs and pulls away anyways, wiping under her eyes. 

“I’ve got it,” says James, standing with a kiss to each of your heads. “What are we having?” 

“Hot chocolate.” She takes a breath, collecting herself. “She needs something with sugar. Thanks, Jamie.” 

You smile at her. “You’re so brilliant. How do you know that?” 

Lily’s lips tilt slightly in response. “I read it somewhere.” 

“So brilliant,” you repeat, kissing her softly on the lips. They’re noticeably warmer than yours, but you feel much more yourself than you had when you first got back to the cabin. “Thanks for helping me.” 

She makes a scoffing sort of noise. It doesn’t sound terribly derisive when it’s bent by fondness like this. Lily touches the backs of her fingers to your cheek, caressing. “You don’t have to thank us. Either of us,” she says. The tears have cleared from her eyes, leaving a raw caring in their wake. “We love you. A lot.” 

Your heart feels more than sufficiently warmed as you close the gap between you again. “I love you a lot, too.”

[r3leee]

OKAY FINE YOU HORNY SLUTS

you get smut 😒😒 this is the last time i'm installing on this tho

pairing: dom!billie eilish x sub!fem!reader

summary: part 2 to this fic, which is based off this ramble (idk why this is such a rabbit hole omfg)

warnings: RPF!! don’t like, don’t read, THIS IS MY FIRST TIME WRITING SMUT bear with me 😭🙏🏻, established relationship, hickeys, oral, overstimulation, i guess a little bit of cum play??, pet names (mama, ma, sweet girl, baby), strap + strap sucking, aftercare (all r receiving)

word count: 1,757, should take about thirteen and a half minutes to read

listen to: needy by ariana grande

finneas walked back to his room without a second glance. and as soon as the door shut, your girlfriend took the blanket off you. "come here. we're good now."

IT TOOK ONLY a matter of seconds for her to pounce on you. you'd only ever seen her like this a few times before. but every time it happened, you would try your best to ravish the feeling. because when billie was like this, you were getting treated right until you were ruined.

your back lay flush against the fluffy hotel pillows while your girlfriend grabbed your face and kissed you. rough. hard. almost with a force that knocked the wind out of you. oh ya, you were getting fucked.

she didn't stay near your face for long. but instead of reaching for your neck like she usually did, she instead reached for the top of your dress. since it was strapless, she was going to have a relatively easy time getting it off. "arms up."

you commanded to her words, putting your hands up as she pulled the shiny dress over your skin. what she found excited her even more. "no bra? oh, baby, you know what you're doing." the nickname. baby. it rolled off her tongue so well, so sultrly. it gave you goosebumps.

"and your nipples are hard?" accentuating her words, she wrapped her hands around your chest and rubbed the buds over her thumbs. not with any pressure, though. just so you could feel it there. "this is evidence, sweet girl. you found that hot and you know it."

suddenly, you felt a sharp pinch on your right nipple. it made you gasp. she just smirked and leaned down, quickly using her tongue to soothe the pain. you threw your head back as she started to rub your left nipple like previously.

after a while, when she was satisfied, she pulled away and switched nipples. it was like a game to her to see how much you could take. she, at some point, started to suck so hard you swore it would leave marks.

one she felt she had enough, she took her mouth off you. she stuck her tongue out, running a line down your cleavage. she went slowly, her tongue trailing down your body feeling like fire. her tongue quickly dipped in the trench of your belly button before reaching just above your clit.

right as she reached your pussy, she looked up at you. there were no words exchanged, but you could tell what she was asking you. if this was okay. that’s the thing you loved about your girlfriend. no matter how desperate she was, if you told her to stop, she would. but, as you nodded, her soft gaze got thrown away.

today wasn’t a teasing day. hell, barely even a prep day. almost immediately, she was on you like a prisoner eating their final meal.

billie left no mercy as she ate you out. her tongue took on different patterns, too spontaneous with her movement to care.

she seemed to do something new every few seconds. it transitioned from licking up and down your folds to sucking your clit to sliding her tongue down and into your entrance in such a way it made tears form in the corner of your eyes.

you whined and pulled her hair, making her chuckle into you. the action made you seem to fall even harder, the vibrations easing just the right ache.

billie was relentless. it was often she got engulfed in your pussy, not wanting to stop pleasing you until you were begging her not to. but this was different. it was feral the way she was licking up your arousal that was spilling onto her tongue. it was almost like she wanted to completely clean you out, not wanting a single part of you untouched.

once you’d finally announced you were close with a high pitched moan, she didn’t even seem as if she heard you. she just kept up, sucking your sensitive bud and rolling her tongue around it.

when you did cum, it was fuzzy. it felt like laying on a cloud. well, only for a bit. until you realized billie was nowhere near done with you, licking up her reward.

“ billie, bills! oh my god, bills, i came, i came!” your voice was high pitched as you squirmed, trying to get out of her iron clad grip on your thighs.

for whatever reason, which you didn’t expect, she released, making a little “pop!” as if she was just sucking on a lollipop. to her, it was candy either way.

she quickly wiped her mouth with her sleeve before taking her pointer finger and sticking it back inside. you jolted, but she quickly took it out before you could whine again.

it was jarring the way she licked your release off her finger. but it was hot. it made you feel warm all over again, wanting her to devour you again and again and again.

billie crawled back up to kiss you lips. you could taste yourself on her tongue, making you reel. she pulled away quickly, a string of saliva connecting you. “i’m gonna get the strap,” she mumbled frantically.

you nodded, not at all complaining. you laid on your back, eagerly waiting as your girlfriend hopped off the bed and toward her suitcase. of course she brought the strap to a different country. of course she did.

you watched with hungry eyes as she undid the buckle on her belt, shimming her pants down to harness the fake dick around her waist.

as she walked back to the bed, she stopped right at the foot of it. you tilted your head in confusion. “come here, mama, suck on it.”

you obeyed to her request, hopping off the bed and settling on your knees on the floor. you didn’t immediately take the whole thing in at once, instead just going for the tip.

you hollowed your cheeks as if billie could feel the thing (which she always swore she could.) “mhm, just like that, baby, just like that.” she gently pushed your head forward, seeing just how far you could take the indigo dildo.

once she’d decided you’d had enough, she commanded you off. immediately, you got on your back, easing into the pillows.

billie crawled on the bed to get into position. she cupped your face, giving you one more kiss, before grabbing the strap. she ran the tip of the dildo up and down your folds, collecting your slick. “you ready for it, ma?” she asked as she lined it up with your entrance.

“yes.” she didn’t need to be told twice. immediately, she sunk into your pussy, bottoming out. although you had a few different dildos that you two used, this one was the one you used the most. so, it was no surprise how your pussy immediately engulfed the silicone, almost like it for perfectly.

you groaned and threw your head back as billie drew tight circles on your clit with her finger. “just tell me when i can move,” she spoke in a tone so soft it almost wasn’t like she didn’t just put 7 inches of silicone inside you.

after a while, you nodded.

billie didn’t need to be told twice.

her thrusts started off gentle and calm, moving her hips to only take an inch out and put it back into your waiting hole. the slow speed of these thrusts made it so you could feel everything: the gentle touch of billie’s thighs against yours, the dildo pressing so nicely on your walls.

you were content with this. but, billie wasn’t. at some point, it seemed she got bored, as she strung on of your legs over her shoulder and went faster.

the new angle made her be able to penetrate that spot all the way in the back that made you see stars. and with the speed and hardness she was going, the pleasure only multiplied.

“oh, fuck, billie, yaaa, right there,” you encouraged her. she only laughed and nodded in response.

it didn’t take long for the sound of skin slapping on skin to take over the room. well, if you could even hear that over your moans. billie was fucking you with a rawness she hadn’t shown in a while.

you swore you could feel the strap kissing your cervix with every thrust, making you unable to stop letting out sounds. little “uh, uh, uh, uh”s filled the room every time she thrust.

but, who could blame you? the strap was so deep you swore if you looked down, you could see it peeking through your stomach. but you couldn’t even lift your head. the pleasure was too good.

your tits bounced as billie pounded into you, causing her to reach down and take your nipples between her fingers. “oh, you like this?” she teased you. “ya, you like me fucking you like this? like you deserve? ya, i know, i know, it just feels so good…”

the feeling of your hard nipples being played with combined with the damage your girlfriend was doing to your pussy was starting to make you feel overwhelmed. like you were about to fall off the edge.

“billie, shit, i-i’m close,” you said out. “can i cum? please, can i cum, please please please…” that made her smile.

“you don’t gotta beg me, baby. just let go.”

and let go you did. you slapped a hand over your mouth as your back arched off the bed. white hot was all you could see as billie slowed down, letting you ride out your high.

once you were done and could feel the seepage dripping out of you, you took your hand off your mouth, heavily breathing.

billie leaned down to kiss your lips. she smiled into it before pulling away. “you doing okay?” she asked. you nodded. “i’m gonna pull out now, okay?”

in a few seconds, the strap was out of you, leaving you clenching around nothing. she quickly undid the harness and threw it somewhere across the room for her to wash later.

she pulled you into your arms and kissed your head, rubbing your back. “you did so good for me, sweet girl. thank you for letting me do that.”

you hid your face into her neck and spoke. “of course, bills.”

she grinned and kissed your forehead. “okay, you go pee, then i’ll run you a shower, ya?” she proposed. you nodded and went to crawl off the bed.

“hey!” she called out one more time. you turned your head back to look at her.

“i love you.” you beamed.

“i love you, too.”

[ninguitar]

SUGAR TALKING, 𓈒𓈒 ningning as ur gf with a twist.

pairing. ning yizhuo x f!r genre. fluff wc. 900+ notes. ningning ver of this fic as per request !! ( MASTERLIST. )

now playing ⋆ sweet by cigarettes after sex

AMIDST YOUR LONG SCHEDULE FOR THE DAY was a box shaded in blue highlighter on your calendar, marking "TIME TO CALL NINGNING."

to balance your guys' relationship and one-another's respective responsibilities and duties, the two of you arranged specific times each week to call each other—to ensure that you two wouldn't miss each other too much while she was away.

and as much as ningning would tell you they were sufficient enough, both of you knew she was evidently lying. the chinese girl couldn't help but miss you, barely able to think of anything coherent without you popping up in her head.

plopping onto your bed, you're met with a black screen, the call between the two of you successfully connecting. confusion litters your face, as you stare at your reflection, waiting for ningning.

while it was still the afternoon for you, it was midnight for the chinese girl, and as much as you didn't wanna call so late for the girl—who had promotions and concerts early in the morning—she insisted, wanting to make it comfortable and easier for you.

"hello?" her voice barely audible, with the screen still pitch black.

"ning, i can't see you," you whisper against your phone, your voice hushed and quiet, afraid that the chinese girl could get caught.

ningning moves her phone closer to her face, the light from your end on the call illuminating her features. any time the chinese girl felt bored, tired, or upset, she always found refuge in you; you were her safety net, and vice-versa.

your eyes trace her features, barely able to fully see them, but nonetheless, you couldn't help but admire the girl's sheer beauty. heat curls at your cheeks at the way despite her features barely on-screen, she was still ultimately gorgeous.

"why's it dark? i thought you were rooming alone this time," you ask, confusion washing over your features.

"aeri's already asleep," the chinese girl whispers, cautious as she does so.

usually, the members were all in different rooms, so you raise an eyebrow at the way it suddenly changed.

"shit, sorry—we can always call tomorrow," you blurt out, not wanting to bother ningning, as your finger hovers over the hang-up button.

"no- no, it's fine, baby," she interjects, her voice gentle and soft, making a small pout form on your face. your knees buckle a bit at the way her voice is reassuring, almost alluring, even. if she said anything in that same gentle tone, you were sure you would be compliant with whatever she said.

"i missed you anyway," she murmurs against her phone, her voice barely above a whisper. with her cheeks obviously flushed, you couldn't help but poke tease at her.

"'m just so amazing, aren't i, huh? makin' the ning yizhuo fold so easily," you tease, your quiet tone matching her volume, despite the chinese girl already wearing airpods anyway.

even through the phone, you could feel the way ningning scoffs, already picturing her face distorting in audaciousness. your eyes scrutinize her features—from the top of her head to her neck—noticing her tousled dark hair, to the eye-bags painting her face.

and by then, you couldn't help but find her to be a divinity, regardless of her disheveled appearance.

to ningning, it was merely a dystopian idea to her that, it felt like she couldn't breathe or think properly without being near your presence.

"yeah, maybe you are," the girl plays along to your jokes, making you turn your head away for a brief moment to hide your flushed cheeks.

adorned with a wide smile, you chuckle, a lovesick look in your eyes. "i must be in heaven then, aren't i? what have i done to deserve a girl like you?"

ningning shakes her head, a toothy grin playing on her face, as she drawls, "well, you're gorgeous—that's for one." you can feel the girl's grin, especially with the way her voice was tender.

"are you trying to flirt with me, ning yizhuo?" you ask, exaggerating your shock, raising an eyebrow in suspicion.

"so what if i am?" she coaxes, a shit-eating smirk adorning her face. propping her phone up against the bed's headboard, ningning yawns, carding a hand through her hair.

you scoff, incredulous, "you looked just so fuckin' good for whiplash," you drawl out, sighing.

before she could tease you again, the chinese girl is interrupted by a yawn from herself. rubbing her eyes, a sigh drifts from her lips, making you remember the late hour for ningning.

"shit, i should be lettin' you get to sleep now, shouldn't i?" you mumble, earning you a frantic ningning shaking her head, as you pout at your girlfriend's persistence to not sleep. you roll your eyes, noticing the way the girl is struggling to even keep her eyes open.

"no- no, c'mon. 5 more minutes—tops," ningning whines desperately, "i'm more than awake; i'm so lively." though, her body betrays her words, as a yawn erupts from her breath at the end of her sentence.

you run your hand through your hair, as a series of giggles escape your breath. tilting your head in disproval, you scoff, "you have performances tomorrow, baby, c'mon—just listen to me."

she huffs, trying to compromise with you, "fine, but stay on call till i fall asleep. i promise i'll sleep."

you nod begrudgingly, before the two of you hold your pinkies toward your guys' screen, making a promise that she'd fall asleep while you stayed on call. the chinese girl falls asleep rather hastily, proving you right.

"sweet dreams, ning."

it's so sweet, knowing you love me

though we don't need to say it to each other, sweet

[honey-on-your-tongue]

FWB

Part two Logan Howlett x fem!reader Series masterlist

You and Logan avoid each other for as long as you can. If you know he's in the kitchen or in the simulation room, you will go around the entire mansion just so you don't run into him. If he hears or smells you're in a room he's about to go into, he won't. He'll leave and wait until you go somewhere else.

A few weeks come and go like this. You and Logan don't even look at each other and it's all fine.

Until you go on a mission. There's no avoiding each other now.

It's not even necessary for the two of you to go. Most likely, Storm could handle it on her own. But she needs backup and Scott is too out of it, so you both have to go with her.

You understand Scott. Really, you do. But you kinda wish he'd be in condition to go with Storm and Logan so you wouldn't have to.

That's the only thought that adds bitterness to your day as you get in the jet. And then you see Logan, sitting in his seat, and your mind goes blank.

You remember him, lying in his bed, hard cock in his hand, precum on the tip. You blush at the memory and glance away.

Flustered, you rush to your seat, sit and buckle up and make a point out of staring out the window. You can feel Logan's eyes on you, but you refuse to react at all. Last thing you need is him getting the wrong idea.

But what is the wrong idea? You can't deny that you felt strangely flattered, and also extremely turned on. You'd had to touch yourself that night before you even considered getting any sleep.

You try not to think about it as Storm takes the jet into the air.

The thing is, you and Logan work together and if things go too far, it'll either end real good or real bad.

Most likely, real bad.

You push the idea away and instead try to focus on the mission at hand. You're supposed to find a group of mutants gone astray, wreaking havoc around a small town. Supposedly, their headquarters is in a warehouse, the remnants of an abandoned factor in a long-since forgotten part of the woods. It's in the middle of nowhere.

Storm lands the jet far from where the warehouse is located and glances back at the two of you. “We'll camp here for tonight. We'll move in on them tomorrow morning, the earlier the better,” she says.

You each get to work, setting up your tents, readying your suits, preparing yourself mentally for the coming day.

Night falls. You're in your tent, reading by the light of a flashlight, when you hear something outside. At first, you worry that maybe the trouble-making mutants have found you, but then Logan's head pops in through the flap of your tent.

-

He'd spent hours debating on whether or not to approach you. He knew it would be easier to let the whole thing blow over, but you two wouldn't be able to work if this doesn't get resolved.

So. What better way to resolve things than by sneaking into your tent long after he knows Storm is asleep?

He didn't think it through. He realizes that when he sees the look on your face at his sudden appearance.

“You scared me,” you tell him, huffing softly.

“Sorry,” he mumbles sheepishly as he crawls into the tent, zipping the flaps closed. He sits across from you, awkward both because he's a rather large man in a tent and also because of the situation. “Didn't mean to scare ya. I just...wanted t'talk.”

“Oh,” you say quietly, a soft blush rising on your cheeks. “Yeah. I guess we...we do have to talk.”

He nods. “Okay. I'm...Look. I'm sorry. Really. About...the other night. I didn't mean—It was disrespectful of me. And I definitely didn't mean to make you uncomfortable. I really am sorry. And, for what it's worth, I think you're gorgeous, in case that wasn't, y'know, evident.”

You hold his gaze for a moment before laughing softly. “It's okay. It's...Yeah, it's alright. I guess I should've knocked too, I just didn't imagine you'd be...doing...that.” You nod softly, another blush covering your cheeks.

“So we're...good?” he asks softly.

You nod. “We're good.”

He hums, a weight lifted off his shoulders. He glances at his lap before looking up to meet your gaze. He studies your face, your soft lips, your beautiful eyes, the perfect curve of your nose...

He's gawking without realizing it. He only comes to his senses when you laugh and bashfully ask, “What?”

He shakes his head, somewhat embarrassed, and says, “Nothin'. Just...you really are gorgeous.”

You giggle, a soft smile on your lips, and before he can stop himself, he reaches for you, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear.

You slowly fall silent, your eyes on his.

Logan takes a soft breath. “Let me kiss you, bub. Please, you have no idea how much I need it,” he whispers, his gaze falling to your plump lips.

You open your mouth to refuse, to remind him that you two work together and to tell him that you don’t want things to get weird. Instead, you hear yourself plafully say, “Only if you promise to never tell.”

Logan smirks and before you can proces your own fucking answer, he’s tugging you a little closer. “I promise,” he whispers before his lips crash onto yours.

He kisses you hungrily and demanding, his mind whirling from the taste of you.

He knows it's a bad idea. You know it's a bad idea. But the way he kisses you, the way his hands grab onto your body and tug you closer…

How are you supposed to resist?

He shamelessly shows you he wants you in the way his hands trace your body, the way he's basically panting.

He licks your neck, kisses it softly before sucking to leave a hickey. And you let him. God, you let him. How could you not? He's everything a girl could ever want.

He maneuvers you with ease, laying you down on the thin mattress before crawling on top of you. His fingers trace the skin of your waist, your hip, while his other hand holds him above you.

“This okay?” he asks you as his hand slips inside your pants, rubbing at your cunt through your panties.

You nod, breathing hitching. “Yeah.”

“’f you wanna stop, just lemme know,” he says, his mouth focusing on your neck as his fingers work your pussy until you've soaked through your underwear.

He's grinding his hips against your thigh meanwhile, his cock aching for more.

He pulls away for a moment to pull your pants off, then your panties. His eyes fall on your cunt, all slick with arousal, and his cock twitches.

Your scent is so sweet, so strong. He runs two fingers up through your folds, gathering the wetness before bringing them to his lips. He tastes you on his digits and loses whatever was left of his rational mind.

His head is between your thighs in a second, his mouth devouring your cunt like he's never gonna eat again.

You gasp, back arching, pretty mouth open in ecstasy, and Logan just has to watch.

He groans, his large hands moving your thighs to rest on his shoulders as his tongue slips up to your clit, flicking it a couple of times before replacing it with his nose. His tongue traces your entrance, licking up all your slick arousal.

Your fingers tangle in his hair and you don't pull at first, afraid of hurting him. But the more the pressure builds in your womb, the more you lose awareness of being gentle and pull his head where you want it.

Logan groans as you tug on his hair, his fingers digging into your thighs. He traces your clit with his teeth, relishing in the tremor that washes over you.

Smirking slightly, he does it again and again and again until you're pushing him away, moaning as you come on his mouth.

He helps you down from your high before pulling away, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“You good, bub?” he questions, hand gently caressing your thigh.

You nod, breathing heavy, body boneless from your orgasm. “’m fine.”

Logan adjusts his hard cock in his pants, his breath hitching at the little bit of friction. He's never wanted it this bad…

He stares at you, all spread out, half-naked, blissed out, and he loses it.

“Lemme fuck ya, bub,” he begs, eyes wild, pupils dilated. “Need to put my cock in that pretty cunt ‘f yours.”

You hold his gaze, cheeks flushed a pretty pink. “Do you have a condom?”

He grins. “You bought some f’r me, remember?”

You giggle softly. “I—Yeah, I did, huh?”

He licks his lower lip. “Does that mean I can fuck ya?”

You nod. “Yes.”

He almost growls in relief, his hands quickly undoing his pants. He tosses them aside, then grabs a condom from the pocket of his jacket. He takes the jacket off as well, his chest rising and falling with heavy breaths.

He rolls the condom onto himself, his cock hard, the tip an angry red as precum drips from it.

He kneels in front of you, grabbing your legs and tugging you closer to him, making you gasp. His eyes darken at the sound and he jerks himself once, twice, before aligning his cock with your sopping entrance.

“You tell me if you want me to stop,” he says firmly.

“Okay,” you reply, breathless.

He holds your gaze for a moment before he thrusts into you, filling your sweet pussy smoothly.

You cry out, gasping, eyes fluttering shut.

He grunts as you clench around him tightly, his eyes rolling back. “Fuuuuuck, bub. Such a good pussy.”

He glances down as he starts thrusting, watching your cunt stretch to fit him. He grabs one of your legs and moves it onto his shoulder, allowing him to go deeper.

You squeal, eyes wide. “Fuck! Fuck!”

He fucks you hard and deep, the sound of skin on skin loud. He's grunting and groaning like an animal, his dog tags clinking with each thrust.

“Look at ya, bub. So pretty. Such a good girl for me,” he says, voice low and rough. “Look at that cunt. She's so greedy, look how she clenches around me.”

You whine, tears of ecstasy in the corners of your eyes. “L-Logan! Logan!” you moan, thighs quaking.

He chuckles. “Such a pretty slut f’r me. You enjoying yourself, bub?”

You whine, eyes rolling into the back of your head. “Logan!” you squeal.

His hand slips between you, thumb finding your clit and rubbing it in messy circles. He laughs lowly when your pussy tightens around him in response.

“Yeah, you're enjoying yourself.” He smirks, proud of himself, and he fucks you harder.

You begin to mumble, blubbering incoherently, unable to form words. You're just a gasping, sobbing, moaning mess and he's loving it.

“Gonna come already?” he mocks. “I just started with ya. Has no one ever fucked you this good?”

You squeal, gasping. All he can make out is a chorus of please please please please please that you repeat over and over again.

Eventually, he caves. “Yeah, alright. Go on, bub, you can come.”

His words are the final straw. Your orgasm hits you with so much force that you're left seeing starts for a minute or two. Your ears are ringing and your body is weak.

Logan wasn't prepared for how gorgeous you looked as you came. The sight of you along with the way you tightened around him sent him over the edge beforehand, making him gasp and grunt as he spills into the condom.

“Fuck,” he gasps, body shaking as he recovers from the climax. He glances down at you, watching you regain your breath.

Slowly, he lowers your leg from his shoulder before pulling out of you gently.

“You alright there?” he asks you, his knuckles rubbing your cheek tenderly.

You manage a weak nod and he smiles. “Can you talk, bub?”

You open your mouth to try and decide you cannot. You shake your head and he chuckles.

“Fucked dumb. ‘m gonna have a lotta fun with ya, bub. A lotta fun.”

---

Taglist

@nerrivm @rosiahills22 @d3vils-adv0c8 @thychuvaluswife @18lkpeters @daddy333 @e-nonsense @ch3rryblossms @ayamenimthiriel @thesecretlifeofmo @simming4sims @raideaters-blog @1cam8 @angelicbbsblog @giuliahowlett @lemonsquaredd @meadow-field @secretpandaconnoisseur @givenoutlaw @wunder-blunder @aredheadednerd @fictionalmen-dilflover @insanesociopath @m1cky-y-y @fictional-hooman

---

Blog masterlist

[2bu]

OP, I hope this is okay to add - I recently spoke in depth about the topic of AUs where Anya keeps the baby here... more specifically ONE AU where the artist tried to be respectful and realistic.

What I do want to say here is a few things:

We have no idea how Anya really felt about the baby and keeping it. We can infer, but there's little to no evidence or dialogue we get to have about her feelings about this child, though we can use context clues to infer. This is not me defending these AUs inherently, or thinking they're good. I am just trying to gently point out that there were potentially more than just the one reason she ended her life. We don't get her POV or thoughts or feelings thanks to Curly and mainly Jimmy's POVs being the forefront focuses.

This is really important, far more important for me to say because with the current climate surrounding women's rights when it comes to abortions and the real reality of being a victim of SA and experiencing pregnancy as a result... I am begging people to please watch what they say about the topic of Anya keeping the baby period. The reality is: rape victims more often than not, for multiple reasons, DO keep their babies. This doesn't make them or their children bad people. I am speaking from personal experiences and after having spoken to beloved, long term friends who kept their babies after their assaults. I implore a LOT of you to rethink how you've responded to AUs like the one I specifically linked about because the shit you say does have a real impact. You can't say you're speaking for victims or defending victims if you show disdain and disgust about a very real reality for many people IRL. You can't be prochoice and then show disgust when a parent keeps their child.

I do agree with everything else you have said and do not really condone the treatment of Anya in the fandom or just generally speaking. I do believe people lack nuance in many areas when it comes to this game, especially with what I said here.

I genuinely think Mouthwashing fandom is a good example on how real life misogyny is very wired on people brains and influenced how they engage with fictional misogyny.

You have a story about a woman being assaulted and telling a man he trusted but being dismissed because he is friends with the attacker, and people fixate on shipping her with either of those me.

You have a story about how men that downplay their male friends violence, assume neutrality is the safer option, unintentionally help create an environment that's unsafe to vulnerable people, at a risk becoming a victim themselves. And people make it about toxic yaoi.

You have a character kill herself because she didn't want birth the child of her abuser. And people make AUs where she happily keep the baby.

Misogyny isn't just "I hate this women", it's also downplaying their trauma, defending those who caused it, and reducing them to mothers or wives against their wished under this idea of what womanhood is about.

I don't think we can separate fandom misogyny from it's real world influence, not yet.

[goblin-jr]

And then i go and spoil it all by saying something stupid like i love you.

part 5 of 12

Synopsis: Morning confrontations bring afternoon coffee showers? Dealing with the aftermath of the bonfire

Pairing: unrequited JJ x Reader, Eventual Rafe x Reader

Warnings: luke being a shitty dad

masterlist

----

The morning sun filtered through the wide-open windows of the Chateau, casting lazy golden beams over the worn but welcoming space. Y/N had woken up early, unable to sleep much after the emotional rollercoaster of the previous night. The sound of waves crashing against the shore was distant but soothing, a sharp contrast to the unease she still felt in the pit of her stomach.

She had wandered into the living room of the Chateau, the place the Pogues often gathered, now quiet after the chaos of the bonfire. The remnants of last night's party—the beer cans, half-empty bottles, and scattered towels—were strewn across the floor, evidence of the good times they’d shared. But the joy from last night felt distant now.

Y/N settled into one of the couches, looking out at the ocean. She was lost in her thoughts when she heard the soft creak of footsteps behind her. Turning, she saw Kiara walking in, wearing her usual calm expression, though Y/N could tell her friend had already sensed something was off.

“Hey,” Kiara said gently, taking a seat beside Y/N. She looked out at the water, then back at her. “You alright?”

Y/N hesitated, unsure how to start. She had been so caught up in her emotions last night, trying to laugh it off, but now, in the quiet aftermath, the weight of it all was harder to ignore. She bit her lip, looking down at her hands.

“I just… I don’t know,” Y/N started, her voice quieter than she intended. “Last night, the way they all were talking… I mean, it’s nothing new, but I can’t stop thinking about it.”

Kiara’s expression softened. “The jokes about you not hooking up with anyone?”

Y/N nodded. “Yeah. It’s like, they don’t see me as a girl at all. Just one of the guys. And I know I’ve always been… the bookworm, or whatever, but it’s different now. I don’t know why, but it just hurt last night. I wanted to be seen, you know? I’m not just ‘one of you.’”

Kiara let out a sigh, clearly understanding the struggle Y/N was dealing with. “You’ve always been one of us, Y/N. The Pogues, we’re a family. But that doesn’t mean you don’t deserve to be treated like more than just the ‘girl version’ of one of the guys. You’re allowed to feel that way.”

Y/N turned to Kiara, her eyes searching for reassurance. “But why does it feel like I’m always in the background? Like no one really notices me for who I am, just… who I’ve always been to them.”

Kiara gave her a small, knowing smile. “Because it’s easier to see you as the bookworm, the one who’s always steady and reliable. It’s easier than admitting that you might want something more. But you deserve that, Y/N. More than anyone else.”

Just as Y/N was about to respond, the door to JJ's honorary bedroom opened, and JJ walked in, his hair still messy from the night before, his signature carefree grin on his face. He paused for a moment when he saw them, then sauntered over to the couch, plopping down beside Kiara with a playful look.

“Good morning, ladies,” JJ said, his voice light and teasing. “I see we survived the bonfire chaos.”

Kiara rolled her eyes. “You look like you survived a tornado.”

JJ chuckled. “The waves were rough last night. But I made it through, don’t worry.”

Y/N couldn’t help but give a small laugh, but the knot in her stomach tightened again when she remembered the night before. She glanced at him briefly, her heart still doing that strange flutter whenever she saw him, even though she’d tried to shake off her feelings for him.

“Did you have fun last night?” Kiara asked, her voice casual, but Y/N could sense there was a little more to it.

JJ grinned. “Yeah, met a tourist. She’s cool. Gonna show her around today.”

Y/N’s heart skipped a beat, and she felt a sudden pang of jealousy that she couldn’t ignore. Of course, JJ would find someone else to hang out with. He always did.

She didn’t say anything, though. Instead, she glanced out the window again, her mind racing. As if on cue, the door to the spare room opened, and a girl Y/N didn’t recognize stepped out. She was smiling, stretching as she made her way toward the kitchen, clearly in no rush to leave.

Y/N’s eyes narrowed instinctively. That was the tourist. The one JJ had been flirting with last night. She felt her chest tighten as the reality of her situation hit her harder than before.

Kiara must have noticed the change in Y/N’s expression because she shot a quick glance between her and JJ. “Everything okay?” she asked softly, but there was an underlying understanding in her voice.

Y/N didn’t trust herself to speak. Instead, she just nodded, trying to hold back the hurt and confusion she was feeling. JJ was already looking toward the door where the girl had gone, clearly not noticing the subtle shift in Y/N’s mood.

But then, he turned to her and noticed her distant expression. He gave her a questioning look, and for a moment, their eyes met. Y/N wasn’t sure what to do with the way his gaze lingered on her—whether it was concern or curiosity—but it only made her feel even more unsure of where she stood.

The awkward silence was broken when Kiara spoke up again, her voice a little firmer than before. “You should talk to him, Y/N. If there’s something you need to say, now’s as good a time as any.”

Y/N’s heart pounded in her chest. The words Kiara had just spoken hung in the air, and she felt a surge of emotion bubbling up inside her. She didn’t know what had changed in her since last night, but it was like something inside her had cracked open—something she had kept buried for a long time.

She glanced at Kiara, whose expression was a mix of concern and encouragement. It was like Kiara could see right through her, and in that moment, Y/N realized she didn’t have the luxury of keeping things in anymore. She had to say something. She couldn’t keep playing along like everything was fine when it clearly wasn’t.

Taking a deep breath, Y/N stood up, the muscles in her legs tense. She turned to JJ, who was still lounging on the couch, seemingly unaware of the storm brewing in the room. She had to get this out, had to make him see.

“JJ,” she started, her voice shaky but determined. “Can we talk?”

He looked up, his grin faltering slightly as he met her eyes. “Sure, what’s up?”

“Outside. Now” Y/N and JJ made their way out to the hammock. Taking a step closer, her eyes narrowing as she fought to keep her emotions in check. “What the hell, JJ?” The words slipped out before she could stop them, her frustration and hurt now spilling over.

JJ blinked, clearly taken aback by her tone. “What are you talking about?”

“The way you act like you’re in love with Kiara, but you’ll hook up with anyone who’s not her.” The words were sharper than she meant, but she couldn’t stop them. “It’s like you get to keep her on this pedestal and pretend that she’s the one, but you don’t treat her like that. You treat her like… like she’s just another girl to play with.”

JJ, who had been about to make a joke, suddenly went silent. He straightened up on the couch, his expression turning more serious, but Y/N didn’t let up.

“I’m sick of it,” Y/N continued, her voice shaking with emotion. “I’m sick of being the ‘good girl,’ the one you all forget is… well, a girl. You make these jokes about me, like I don’t care. But I do. I just don’t understand why you keep doing this—acting like you’re so into Kiara when you’re out there with anyone else who shows up. What about her? What about me?” Her breath hitched, the words coming out in a rush.

JJ’s expression shifted from confusion to defensiveness. He leaned forward slightly, running a hand through his messy hair. “Look, Y/N, I didn’t mean to—”

“No, don’t,” Y/N cut him off, her voice rising. “I’m not asking for an apology, I’m asking for you to think for once. Maybe stop acting like you don’t have feelings for Kiara when you clearly do. And maybe, just maybe, think about how I feel when I see you with someone else, acting like I’m just… background noise.”

There was a heavy pause. JJ’s eyes softened slightly, and for a moment, Y/N thought he might say something—anything—to try and fix it. But then he stood up quickly, a nervous laugh escaping his lips as he pushed past her toward the door.

“Look, I’m just trying to have a good time. Maybe you’re overthinking this,” he muttered, clearly uncomfortable with the intensity of the conversation.

Y/N’s heart sank. It was like he didn’t even understand what she was saying, like he was so caught up in his own world that he couldn’t even recognize the hurt in hers.

Without another word, Y/N turned on her heel and stormed off, her pulse racing. She didn’t want to be in this space anymore. Didn’t want to feel like this anymore.

As she made her way back to the house, JJ called after her, but Y/N didn’t stop. She needed air. She needed to get away from all of this for a moment.

The front door swung open just as she stepped onto the porch, and she stopped, breathless, seeing the girl from the night before leaving the kitchen with a carefree smile. JJ’s tourist. Y/N felt a bitter sting in her chest as the girl waved goodbye to him before heading out, not even sparing a glance at Y/N.

The jealousy coursed through her, but it was more than that—it was the feeling of being unseen, of not being enough. And in that moment, the weight of it all felt unbearable.

—

Later, Y/N started her shift down at the country club. The rhythmic clinking of glasses and soft hum of the lunch rush kept Y/N focused, the kind of steady routine she needed to distract herself after everything that had gone down last night and this morning. Cleaning the bar, wiping down counters—anything to keep her mind from wandering back to the bonfire and the sting of the Pogues’ comments.

But just as she was about to grab a fresh cloth to wipe the countertop, the door to the club swung open, and in walked Rafe Cameron.

Her eyes widened slightly. Rafe was looking like he’d just had the worst day of his life—frazzled, hair a little more messed up than usual, and his eyes wide with some mix of panic and annoyance.

“Y/N!” Rafe’s voice was a little too loud for the low-key atmosphere of the club, and he made a beeline for the bar. “I need your help. Like, right now.”

Y/N leaned back slightly, trying to hide her grin. “Cameron, here? What’s up? Your dad cut you off already?”

He shot her a look that was somewhere between exasperation and helplessness. “I wish. No, listen, my dad invited me to sit in on some huge business meeting today, right? It’s a big deal, but I—” he glanced down at his pants and then back up at her, “—I spilled coffee all over my pants. It’s bad, Y/N. Really bad.”

Y/N couldn't help herself. She burst out laughing, the image of the Kook prince—immaculate and untouchable—standing there with a coffee stain on his fancy pants was just too much. “You spilled coffee on your pants? Really?”

Rafe scowled, clearly embarrassed but too proud to admit just how serious he was about the whole situation. “This is a huge deal, alright? I’m meeting with some important people, and I can’t go in looking like this. I need help, please.”

Still trying to stifle her giggles, Y/N nodded. “Okay, okay. I’ll help you. But you owe me one.” She grabbed a towel and motioned for him to follow her. “Come on, we’re going to the bathroom. We’ll try to clean them up. Don’t get too hopeful.”

“Anything,” Rafe muttered, following her through the back of the club.

The bathroom was quiet, and Y/N could already feel the light tension between them as they stepped inside. She motioned for him to wait by one of the stalls. “Alright, take a seat in there. Let’s see what we’re working with.”

Rafe shot her a doubtful look but did as she said, squeezing himself into the stall. Y/N was left with his coffee-stained pants, feeling both amused and slightly sorry for him. The stain was big, but not impossible to fix with some elbow grease.

As she worked on scrubbing the stain out, the silence between them stretched on, and after a while, Y/N broke it with a quiet sigh. “You know, I took your advice last night,” she began, her tone soft, almost uncertain. “The whole ‘don’t hold back’ thing. But… it kind of bombed.”

Rafe’s voice came from the stall, more serious than she expected. “What do you mean? I thought it was good advice.”

Y/N shook her head, her hands still moving over the fabric. “I mean, I told them exactly what I was thinking, and it didn’t go over well. They just made fun of me more. I thought maybe it would feel good to get everything off my chest, but instead, it just made things worse.”

There was a long pause before Rafe finally spoke, his tone softer than she had ever heard it. “I’m sorry. I was drunk, and honestly, I didn’t really think through what I was saying. I guess it’s not as easy as just throwing everything out there without consequences.” He let out a small, almost rueful laugh. “I wasn’t really thinking, was I?”

Y/N smiled slightly, feeling the weight of her own frustrations lift just a little. “No, you weren’t. But it did feel good to be honest, even if the timing was… well, off.” She looked at him over her shoulder, finding him still in the stall, his face partially visible, eyebrows knitted in concern.

“You know, I never really thought about it that way,” Rafe admitted, his voice quieter. “Like, yeah, I’m always the one telling people to do whatever the hell they want. But sometimes you gotta be careful what you say. Especially when it’s about people who matter.”

Y/N felt a flicker of understanding between them—something unspoken but real. “Yeah, I get that.”

She finished cleaning the pants, carefully checking to make sure the stain was almost gone. “Alright, I think we’re good. You might still look like you’re working overtime at a coffee shop, but it’s better than it was.”

Rafe finally emerged from the stall, straightening up and looking down at his pants. He sighed in relief. “You saved me. I owe you one, big time.”

Y/N shrugged, brushing her hands off and turning to face him. “Don’t worry about it. Just—next time, maybe don’t go around giving relationship advice while drunk.” She grinned, teasing him.

Rafe laughed, shaking his head. “I’ll keep that in mind.” Then, after a beat, he added, “But seriously, thanks. I didn’t think you’d even care to help me with this.”

Y/N smiled back at him, feeling lighter than she had in days. “What are friends for, Rafe?”

—

The evening sun was beginning to fade, casting an orange glow over the island, but Y/N’s shift at the country club wasn’t over just yet. The events of the day had played out in such a whirlwind—Rafe’s unexpected visit, the heart-to-heart they’d shared, and the awkward tension that still lingered between Y/N and the Pogues. It was a strange mix of emotions she couldn’t quite shake off.

She wiped down the bar one last time, scanning the room. The club was quieter now, the steady flow of people dying down as dinner hour approached. She could already feel the exhaustion setting in after an emotionally charged day, but it wasn’t over yet.

The phone behind the counter rang, jolting her out of her thoughts. She answered it quickly, as she always did in the quiet moments.

“Hello?” she asked, her tone soft from the fatigue she’d been carrying all day.

“Y/N?”

Her heart skipped at the familiar voice. It was JJ, and there was something in his voice that made her stomach tighten.

“JJ? Everything okay?” she asked, glancing around the bar to make sure no one needed her attention.

“I don’t know,” he said, his voice shaky and strained, like he’d been holding something in for far too long. “My dad… he—he had another outburst. And it was bad, Y/N. Really bad.”

Her chest tightened as she set the rag down on the counter. “JJ… are you alright?”

There was a pause on the other end, and then a sharp, almost hollow laugh. “I’m fine, I guess. Just… it’s the same shit, you know? But this time, I… I don’t know. I just don’t want to be alone right now.”

Y/N’s heart ached for him, the weight of his words settling heavily in her chest. She had seen him at his worst, but she knew how much it meant when he opened up like this.

“I’ll be there in a few,” she said without hesitation. “Just… stay where you are. I’ll come to you.”

“Thanks,” JJ muttered, the relief in his voice barely audible. “I knew I could count on you.”

The line went dead, and Y/N immediately grabbed her bag, rushing to clock out. She wasn’t about to let him go through this alone, not after everything he’d confided in her before. Even if she didn’t know what to say to fix it, she’d be there.

When Y/N arrived at JJ’s house, she wasn’t sure what she’d find. The atmosphere felt different, heavier, as she stood at the front door, glancing at the dim lights flickering through the windows. There was no sign of movement from inside, but she knew he was there. He had to be.

She knocked softly on the door, the sound echoing in the quiet of the evening. The door creaked open, and there stood JJ, looking like he hadn’t slept in days. His shirt was wrinkled, his hair messy, and his eyes were bloodshot.

Without a word, he stepped aside, letting her in. The silence that followed spoke volumes—no words needed to be exchanged, as Y/N understood exactly how he was feeling. She had seen this before, the way his father’s outbursts left him fragile and raw. She just didn’t know how much longer he could keep holding it all together.

“Where is he?” Y/N asked, glancing around.

“Out,” JJ muttered, running a hand through his hair. “He left after… after everything. I don’t even know where he went. Doesn’t matter.”

Y/N nodded, understanding that he was just trying to hold himself together. She stepped closer to him, placing a hand on his shoulder. “You don’t have to do this alone, JJ.”

He looked down at her hand on his shoulder, then back up at her, his eyes searching hers. “I know. I just… I don’t want to drag you into my mess.”

“You don’t get to decide that,” she replied quietly. “We’ve been through too much for me to walk away now.”

JJ let out a shaky breath, then nodded, his eyes lingering on hers for a beat longer than necessary. “I don’t even know how to thank you for always being here. You… you’re the only one who gets it.”

Y/N felt a lump form in her throat. She had always been there for him, but sometimes, it felt like she was the one who needed to be saved. She gave him a small smile. “It’s not about thanks. I’m here because I want to be.”

“Let’s get you cleaned up,” Y/N said, breaking the silence. “You’ve been through enough today.”

JJ didn’t argue. He simply nodded, allowing her to guide him toward the small couch where he’d likely been sitting alone, stewing over everything that had happened.

–

The air in JJ’s house was heavy with unspoken thoughts. Y/N had helped him clean up, patched up the immediate mess his father’s outburst had left on him, but the emotional damage was still raw. JJ, sitting on the worn-out couch, looked every bit like a kid who’d seen too much too soon. His shoulders were slumped, his face shadowed by exhaustion, but Y/N knew better than to push him. They’d both been through enough for one day.

She sat down beside him, the room quiet except for the occasional hum of the old fan in the corner. No words were needed right now; sometimes, silence was the best comfort. They didn’t have to say much to understand each other.

Y/N glanced over at him, her voice gentle when she finally broke the silence. “You know, when we were kids, I never imagined things would turn out this way.”

JJ shifted slightly, his eyes downcast. “Yeah, me neither,” he muttered. “But I guess the world doesn’t give a shit about what we imagined, huh?”

Y/N let out a quiet, sad laugh, knowing that was the bitter truth. “Nope. We get what we get, and we have to figure out how to make it work.”

They both sat in the quiet for a moment longer, the weight of everything they’d been through growing heavier. She’d known JJ for so long, seen him go through so much, but tonight it felt different. There was a certain vulnerability in his eyes that hadn’t been there before, something raw and unspoken.

“Did you ever think about leaving?” Y/N asked suddenly, the question hanging in the air before she could stop herself.

JJ met her eyes then, his expression guarded. “I think about it all the time. But I know I’d never make it far. It’s just easier to stay and pretend like it’s all fine.”

Y/N nodded, the truth of his words cutting deeper than she expected. She’d always admired JJ’s ability to keep going, even when everything seemed to be falling apart around him. But she knew, like he did, that sometimes the hardest part was pretending it didn’t hurt.

“I’ve thought about leaving too,” she said quietly, her gaze falling to her hands in her lap. “Not for the same reasons, but… sometimes I wonder if there’s more out there for me than this island. Than everything that’s tied to it.”

JJ’s lips twitched upward in the smallest smile. “You’re one of the only ones I know who can get away from this place, Y/N. You could actually make something of yourself, get outta here.”

Y/N chuckled softly, but there was no humor in it. “Maybe. But every time I think about leaving, I remember that everything I want is right here. Even if it’s all a mess.”

“You really think that?” JJ asked, leaning back slightly, a new kind of curiosity in his voice.

Y/N met his gaze, her tone steady. “Yeah. I think I’ve spent so much time thinking about leaving, I forgot what it means to stay. To fight for something that matters. Even if it's messed up and broken, at least it’s real.”

JJ looked at her for a long moment, his eyes softer than they had been all night. “I get that. I think… Maybe I just don’t know what it means to stay. Not with how things are.”

Y/N’s heart twisted at the words. She’d known about Luke’s temper, the violence that simmered beneath the surface of the man JJ had called father for so long. But she was the only one who knew how bad it really got. The others saw the bruises, the scars, the broken things, but they didn’t know how much of it was a product of a man who couldn’t control his rage.

She sighed, her voice quiet but firm. “You don’t have to carry this alone, JJ. I’m here. You know that, right?”

JJ glanced at her, the walls he’d built up over the years starting to crack. He opened his mouth, but the words didn’t come out. Instead, he just nodded, as if the weight of everything was finally getting to him. He let out a breath, a shaky laugh escaping him.

“Thanks, Y/N,” he said softly. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Y/N smiled, though the ache in her chest didn’t fade. She knew she was the only one who truly understood what he was going through. And maybe, just maybe, that’s what kept her coming back—being the one person who could hold the pieces together, even when everything seemed to fall apart.

JJ shifted slightly, his tone quieter now. “You ever wish you could’ve had a different childhood? A different family?”

Y/N let the question sit for a moment, knowing it wasn’t easy to admit. She leaned back against the couch, thinking back to her own complicated relationship with her parents. It wasn’t as bad as his, but it had never been simple either. They’d always been distant, more focused on their own lives than on her. She shrugged, her voice soft.

“I think about it sometimes. I wonder if things would’ve been different if they’d been different. But then I remember… you and me, and the way we survived this island. Maybe that’s all we need. To survive.”

JJ let out a dry laugh, the humor in his voice soft and weary. “Yeah. We’re good at surviving.”

The silence stretched between them, and Y/N realized they were both carrying the weight of things they couldn’t change. But at least they had each other. At least they had someone who understood. And for tonight, that would have to be enough.

Eventually, JJ shifted on the couch, pulling the blanket over both of them. He laid back, his head resting against the worn fabric, while Y/N curled up beside him as they’d done when they were kids. The tension in the room, in both of their hearts, started to ease as they settled into the familiar rhythm of being together—no words needed, just the warmth of shared history and unspoken understanding.

Eventually, JJ shifted on the couch, pulling the blanket over both of them. He laid back, his head resting against the worn fabric, while Y/N curled up beside him as they’d done when they were kids. The tension in the room, in both of their hearts, started to ease as they settled into the familiar rhythm of being together—no words needed, just the warmth of shared history and unspoken understanding.

As the night grew darker, Y/N felt the weight of her eyelids heavy, the exhaustion from the day, from everything, creeping in. It had been a hard day, a hard week, but for now, in the quiet of JJ’s house, with him by her side, it felt like they were just two kids again—no worries, no pain, just the comfort of each other’s presence.

“Hey, Y/N?” JJ whispered into the stillness, his voice thick with sleep.

“Yeah?” she murmured, her eyes already half-shut.

“I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Y/N’s lips twitched into a sleepy smile, her voice soft as she responded, “Same, JJ. Same.”

And with that, they both drifted into a peaceful, familiar sleep, the kind that only comes when you know, deep down, that no matter how hard life gets, you’ll always have each other.

Before fully drifting off, Y/N thought to herself, Once we graduate... we’re leaving. Together. No more broken families, no more staying behind. And with that, they both let the quiet of the night pull them under, dreaming of the future they would build away from the island and all that had hurt them.

And with that, they both drifted into a peaceful, familiar sleep, the kind that only comes when you know, deep down, that no matter how hard life gets, you’ll always have each other.

---

Next up: a return to how it was, more or less

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Taglist:

@hockeybabe87

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A/N: last one for night.. wish me luck for my presentation in the morning!!!!

[jaal-ama-daravv]

dissecting the emmrich romance scene (lich path)

dissecting the graveyard scene dissecting the alternate romance path dissecting the argument scene (lich path) mortal vs lich romance path emmrich x rook cinematic

Emmrich Volkarin - Dissecting the Lich Romance Scene fair warning you're in for an emotional rollercoaster

first, i wanna touch on this from our previous dissection (argument) -

"What if I can't bear that for eternity?" Oh, Emmrich. his entire soul aches over the inevitable future that awaits rook. i think this line is so important for emmrich because 'bear that for eternity" implies Emmrich will either, a) go rogue trying to bring rook back c) live with so much grief over his lost love it changes his soul forever in a dark, yet unknown way. and quite frankly, all of these are incredibly sad, and that just hurts. i thoroughly, full heartedly believe that there is no concievable way that emmrich just 'moves on' and 'accepts' the death of rook as previously stated in the lichdom scene. sry bioware, but youre wrong on that one as if he was 'fine' with it, he wouldn't of had a massive panic attack over rooks death and his grief. COUGH, the eternal flame. i could rant for hours and HOURS about how emmrich in the lich path is absoloutley devastating if rook were to pass on, because he is so compulsively, irrevocably in love with them. and not only is he in love with them, he has the love he has yearned for, for over 20 years. its huge for him which is evident given how both romance paths have him terrfied of how much he loves you.

anyway, to the SCENE -

immediately we are hit with this, to which Emmrich replies stating that he did it not to scare the citizens. what a load of huff. youll see why thats a straight deflective lie soon -

don't you worry handsome man, youre not alone emmrich expressing his fear of losing rook, and/or losing eachother, continues to be a major dynamic between these lovers

oh rooky, im so proud of you for opening up about your feelings. (remember the argument they had prior, it was fort knox up in here)

rook expresses clear fear and gratitude that they were able to escape the fade. I do believe that the line "I was afrad I'd be there forever" is a parrelle to emmrichs lichdom - as they would of spent eternity without eachother. hence why this next line, hurts so much -

the raw emotion, the crack in his voice when he says this line tells you everything you need to know. he is so grateful to have rook back with him. I do believe in this moment that emmrich has a moment of realisation of his love for rook, and just how immensed and attached he is with her. which is why he later vows that nothing will part them ever again, "not in this, nor any other world" (cough, soulmates). idk man, i have a feeling that emmrich would find rook's spirit in the fade (or any other world) if they passed on, and he'd never leave.

I also want to touch on the "you're here with me" line. this, this is important considering what happens directly afterwards - remember how i mentioned desire a few posts ago? lets break it down, "you're here with me." Emmrich has held a consistent view throughout the whole romance that "its gratifying a fresh-faced adventure took any notice in me at all", does emmrich also possess the belief that the love he so dearly desired may not of been possible in his life time due to his age? i think so. which is why desire and the "wow, you're here with me" is so, so important. Now watch closely -

he looks defeated, ashamed - "why would someone like her be with someone like me? let alone, desire me."

the pose, how he is holding his chest and his body up against the coffin, the disbelief and sadness that is pained over his face. he is heavy with angst. this man wants rook, body and soul. he is SO in love with her. god my heart breaks typing this. he is so in love with her, but is so afraid that she doesnt want him now that he is undead - I will add in here to think back to when he was mortal, 3 flirts lines in total were regarding his looks. UGH, just stab me - ps the music in this scene rips out my heart, stomps on it, and shoves it back into my chest bloodied and bruised.

when rook touches him, his face unstiffens and his body relaxes. he looks at her nervously, but before he can address her or admit his pain, rook has NOTICED (YAY - take that argument scene rook) what is bothering emmrich, because she loves him so much, maybe even more, regardless of his undead figure. "You don't have to hide your face from me" is just a perfect way of phrasing that you are made for eachother. rook reassures emmrich of her undying love for him.

its that gomez and morticia dynamic, unwavering, obsessed dedication to eachother. a bond that strengthens the other. for emmrich and rook at least, theri dynamic is so strong I wholeheartedly believe the death of one, would break the mind and soull of the other.

there is so, so much emotion in this scene and most of it is written into the facial expressions and movements of the characters. watch how the fear of death becomes easier now that emmrich knows that rook loves him truly -

im not crying, you are -

this WRECKED me. because there is a slimmer of hope in his voice and particularly the words he chose. "I will let nothing part us again, my love" emmrich is a lich lord, with powers we dont understand just yet (cmon sequel with rook & emmrich), it is safe to say though that emmrich and rook would fight for and protect eachother to the death so that they may not be parted. This also takes me back to my original point of not letting anything part them, nothing - not even death. hence my belief that emmrich would do anything to find rook in the fade or any other world.

"Not in this nor any other world" - do i need say more? the hope seeps through, its not alot, but its there. don't get me wrong, he still has a crippling fear of death, but its, different. different in the sense that if rook was to pass or trapped somewhere, he would get them back and find his way to them, at all costs, one way or another.

the rest of the scene is very, very sweet and shows them being happy for the extra few hours they have together before facing untold danger - by either rook being able to see the fade through emmrichs eyes, or them boning again. actually i think both lead to boning.

this scene has me in absolute tears everytime I witness it because it is so powerful. it is hopeful. it is pure committment of their relationship and bond to eachother. combining this with the knowledge of the argument scene and having played through the mortal romance path, this - is extremely emotional.

Both romance scene are emotional and touching in their own regard - however, I do think the lich romance scene is more deep due to the dynamic. It is not about simply coming to grips with mortality, it is coming to grips with mourning your lover for eternity, and if you cant bear it for eternity, (which he wont, cmon) he is afraid. afraid of losing, rook. his heart. his dearest heart, and of losing himself because rook is, and I quote, "the most magnificent thing to ever happen to me."

mourn watch rook and emmrich are on a whole other level, and that level is something that is told in the minute details, the edging looks. the tone of voice. there is hope in this scene and a sense of overwhelming love and acceptance, but, there is also impending grief. which makes this story so real.

you can feel emmrich yearning for rook throughout the entire romance path because of the fated connected they share, in this and any other world. you can feel it. but this, in the lich scene? there is yearning, acceptance, hope, grief, joy, and melancholy all in one. without a doubt in my heart, these two, are made for eachother, in every world.

I shall break down the mortal romance scene next ♥ see you soon