#and i wanted to throw up for the rest of that day AND the next day

[blue-jisungs]

okay so tae + blanket and I was thinking abt how he slept in an extra hour in the new to do x txt spinoff and then even when he woke up he just sat there for a few mins slowly blinking his eyes open RKJFKSS HES SO CUTE anyway him being clingy in the morning and not wanting to get out of bed :((

⋆ ˚｡⋆౨ৎ˚ LAZY DAYS OFF🧸ྀི — sleepy taehyunnie <3 ( wc 585 )

ੈ✩‧₊˚ note ! HIYA ZANNIE ! sorry its so short :( but i hope u like this:(( i also strayed off a lil but but sleepy cozy fluffy tae:((((((((((((((( what if i just cry.

@kstrucknet

the bed is warm and fluffy, like a softest cloud. 

with a quiet groan your fingers look for the edge of the blanket and you pull it over your shoulders, not wanting any warmth to escape. 

this sheer feeling of comfort is enough to lull you back into sleep. 

suddenly, there’s an extra weight on you. not too strong, yet it was enough to crack your eye open.

in an instant you were met with an adorable sight: taehyun’s face squished onto your shoulder, his cheeks puffed slightly. it was his arm that you felt - he threw it across your waist, as if holding a plushie. his dark brown hair was shuffled from all the moving in his sleep, locks long enough to cover his closed eyes. 

despite the cold temperature outside and snow blazing, the warm sunlight peeks through the window, leaving a morning glow on his face. 

you can’t control the way your hand travelled to cup his cheek, causing his lips to pout from the subtle squishing. you just grinned and stared at taehyun’s sleeping face. 

your heart was at ease, seeing him like that. knowing that he’s resting – safely and next to you. it did feel a little strange to have him besides you while waking up, only because you were so used to the hastle and bustle of his busy life. 

you felt his fingers brushing against your side, drawing a giggle from you. 

“what’s so funny…” taehyun mumbled, not caring to open his eyes just yet. 

“you tickled me” you hummed and felt his lips forming into a mischievous smirk under your palm. “don’t even think about it” 

taehyun just fixed his hold and now his fingers wrapped around your side fully, pulling you closer. not knowing from where, his other hand came and landed at the back of your head. now you were fully nuzzled into his chest, your hair tickling his chin. 

“you’re just like a personal teddy bear, you know?” he murmured, voice a bit raspy from slumber. you just scoffed and fixed the blanket, closing your eyes.

“i figured” 

taehyun peeked an eye open and frowned. 

“wait, actually, i don’t like this position…” he sighed and shuffled again, dragging you along. 

“but i was getting cozy…” you whined when for a moment the covers slipped off. the coldness of the room made you shiver dramatically. 

“here we go” he purred with satisfaction, like a cat receiving chin scratches. 

now you were laying on his chest, his hands still glued to you. 

“i can see you a little better. that was what i needed, really” he hummed and brought the blanket over to your neck. 

you sighed softly, turning to his side and wrapping your hand around his torso. throwing your leg on his, you nuzzled even closer. not a single space between your bodies.

“i wish we could stay like this forever” he slurred sleepily and you weren’t sure if he’s not gonna drift away again any second now. 

“who said we have to get up?” you asked quietly. 

taehyun stayed silent, his fingers that were drawing circles on your side slowly stopping. 

“for a moment i forgot i have a day off” he finally answered, a cute giggle leaving his lips. the gesture made his chest shake, leaving you smiling. 

“wake me up when you wake up” you just hummed, fully embracing the coziness of his warmth and layers of blankets. 

“see you in my dreams” taehyun whispered before falling into slumber once again.

m.list <3

taglist. @primoppang ,, @mirxzii ,, @laylasbunbunny ,, @slytherinshua ,, @kazmura

 @nicholasluvbot ,, @ameliesaysshoo ,, @weird-bookworm ,, @mon2sunjinsuver ,, @ocean-minho ,, 

@eternalgyu ,, @haecien ,, @nonononranghaee

[julietsf1]

Crushes and Cortados - Franco Colapinto x Reader

summary: as a barista you see a lot of weird customers in a day, and this one Argentinian boy who keeps coming in every day is definitely one of them.

content: meet cute, fluff, Barista!Reader

AN: As a Francaise, I am beyond happy Franco is with Alpine this season! Finally some reason to root for my own country lmao

_________________________________

Madrid in the fall was pure magic. The late afternoon sunlight painted the streets gold, filtering through rustling plane trees as locals bustled past in their scarves and coats. Inside the café, the air was warm and rich with the scent of espresso, the quiet hum of Spanish conversation mingling with the soft strumming of a flamenco guitar on the radio.

You stood behind the counter, wiping down the espresso machine, relishing the peaceful moment before the next customer walked in.

And then, he appeared.

The door swung open with a soft chime, and you glanced up to see a boy who looked like he belonged in a Polaroid picture—slightly tousled dark curls, ridiculously green eyes, and the kind of smile that could probably get him out of trouble more often than not. He wasn’t overdressed like a tourist, but he didn’t look like a typical local, either. Too comfortable, too at ease—like he had already decided he liked this place.

And then, he spotted you.

His smile turned into something more mischievous, and before you could even process it, he was walking straight to the counter with way too much confidence for someone who had never been here before.

“Hola,” he greeted, voice smooth and unhurried, as if he had all the time in the world.

You blinked at him. “Hola.”

He stared at the menu for exactly two seconds, tilting his head as if contemplating some deep, existential question. Then, his eyes flicked back to you.

“What do you recommend?”

There was something off about the way he asked—something too casual, too charming. You had worked in this café long enough to know when a guy was genuinely lost and when he was just trying to start a conversation.

You leaned against the counter, unimpressed. “You mean… coffee-wise? Or in general?”

His smile widened. “Both.”

You exhaled a laugh, tilting your head. “For coffee? A cortado. Classic, strong, doesn’t waste your time.”

“And in general?” he pressed, as if this was an actual conversation we were having and not him blatantly flirting.

You narrowed your eyes at him. “Find better ways to flirt than pretending you don’t know what to order.”

That caught him off guard. He blinked, then let out a genuine, delighted laugh, like you had just won a game he hadn’t even realized he was playing.

“Damn,” he muttered, shaking his head. “Okay, that was good.”

You smirked, already moving to make his drink.

When you slid the cortado across the counter, he reached for it—but not before his fingers brushed yours.

You didn’t react. Not outwardly, at least.

But when you glanced up, he was already watching you, eyes flickering with something teasing yet soft.

“Gracias,” he murmured.

And then, as if he hadn’t just weirdly flirted with you for no reason, he took his cortado, walked to a table by the window, and sat down like he had been coming here for years.

You exhaled, shaking your head.

Weird.

…

After that day, he came back.

And then he came back again.

And again.

It became a thing.

Same time. Same cortado. Same grin that made you want to throw a dish towel at his stupidly cute face.

And he was always talking to you.

He asked about your classes, your favorite part of Madrid, whether you preferred cats or dogs. He teased you when you were grumpy, made you laugh when you were exhausted, remembered little things you told him without you realizing.

And the flirting?

Oh, it never stopped.

One day, he leaned across the counter, chin resting in his hand as he watched you make his drink.

“You know,” he mused, “I read somewhere that people who drink cortados are very mysterious.”

You snorted. “You just made that up.”

“No, really,” he insisted, trying to sound serious but failing because his eyes were sparkling with amusement. “It means they’re deep thinkers, passionate, probably a little misunderstood—”

“Have you heard yourself yap, darling? You are far from mysterious.”

“Wow.” He placed a hand on his chest in mock offense. “And here I thought we were friends.”

You smirked. “We’re not friends. You’re just a strange guy who orders the same coffee every day and refuses to sit anywhere except that exact same table.”

“Ah,” he clicked his tongue. “Or maybe I just like the view.”

Your hands froze mid-wipe.

He was too pleased with himself, watching your reaction like it was his favorite part of the day.

You rolled your eyes hard enough to injure yourself and turned away, pretending to organize the espresso cups.

Behind you, you heard his quiet chuckle, followed by the familiar sound of him picking up his cup and heading to his usual seat.

Damn him.

…

At first, it was nothing. Or at least, that’s what you told yourself.

Franco was just a customer. A customer who happened to flirt a lot. A customer who smiled at you like he knew something you didn’t. A customer who remembered little details you barely recalled telling him.

A customer you found yourself thinking about—just a little too often.

It started with small things.

One afternoon, you were making someone’s latte when the café door chimed, and—without even thinking about it—you glanced up.

Franco.

Hair slightly messier than usual, backpack slung over one shoulder, already grinning before he even reached the counter.

Your stomach did this annoying little flip, and it took you a second to realize why.

You had been waiting for him.

And that wasn’t even the worst part.

The worst part was that, when you realized it, you smiled.

It only got worse from there.

One day, after your shift, you were walking home, tired, your mind fogged up with school assignments, deadlines, and the general exhaustion of life.

And then, out of nowhere, you found yourself laughing.

It was one of his dumb jokes. One so profoundly stupid, you’d barely managed a blink when he’d said it. Something about how drinking cortados every day was “building his immunity” in case he was ever kidnapped. He’d even added, “It’s all about preparation, you know. Survival of the fittest. And right now? I’m basically the Usain Bolt of caffeine endurance.”At the time, you had rolled your eyes.

But now? Now, you were walking through Madrid laughing to yourself like an absolute idiot.

That’s when it hit you.

You liked him.

Not just in a he’s-funny-and-charming kind of way.

Not even in a he’s-cute-and-flirty kind of way.

No.

You liked him in a this boy has somehow become the best part of my day, and I didn’t even notice it happening kind of way.

And that realization?

Absolutely terrifying.

…

The next afternoon, you tried to act normal. Tried being the key word.

When Franco walked in, you were ready—arms crossed, expression unreadable, the picture of total indifference.

He approached the counter, completely unaware of the internal crisis you were currently battling.

Then, as always, he leaned against the counter, tilting his head in that ridiculously smug way.

“Buenas,” he said, flashing his signature grin.

And that’s when you knew.

You weren’t going to fight it anymore.

You weren’t just warming up to him—you were already lost, and the only thing left to do was even the playing field.

So, for the first time, you mirrored him.

Leaning against the counter, resting your chin in your hand, mimicking the way he always did it.

His eyebrows lifted—curious, amused, interested.

“Let me guess,” you said before he could speak. “Cortado?”

His grin widened immediately, like he had been waiting for this moment.

“You really know me.”

You tilted your head, tapping your fingers against the countertop. “More like you’re predictable.”

“Ah,” he clicked his tongue, shaking his head. “Or maybe I just know what I want.”

Your stomach flipped before you could stop it.

But instead of panicking, instead of letting him win, you tilted your head further, just slightly, and raised an eyebrow.

“Right,” you mused, voice light, teasing. “And what else do you want, Franco?”

For the first time, he blinked.

Just for a fraction of a second, as if he hadn’t expected you to actually challenge him.

And then—he laughed.

Head tilting back, genuine amusement spilling into his smile, a hand rubbing the back of his neck as if he had just been caught off guard.

“Oh,” he murmured, shaking his head. “You’re trouble.”

You shrugged, smirking. “I learn from the best.”

His eyes crinkled at the edges, full of something warm, teasing, dangerously fond.

And that was it.

That was the moment.

Because from then on, everything between you changed.

…

It was a slow afternoon, the kind where the café hummed with a lazy warmth, the scent of espresso lingering in the air, blending with the sweetness of pastries cooling on the counter. Outside, the sun dipped lower, stretching golden light through the wide glass windows, making everything glow.

Franco had been here for nearly an hour, which was longer than usual. He sat in his usual spot by the window, tapping his fingers idly against his empty cortado cup, gaze flickering between the street outside and—you.

You could feel it.

The weight of his attention, the way he kept watching you as if he had something to say, but every time you caught his gaze, he looked away, chewing on his lip, pretending to check his phone.

Which was weird.

Because Franco never hesitated.

His presence in the café had always been effortless, his flirty remarks sliding into conversation like second nature, his teasing confidence something you had grown accustomed to. It was his thing—leaning against the counter with that knowing smirk, making some ridiculous comment just to see you roll your eyes. It was a routine, a pattern, one you had started to enjoy way too much.

But today, something was different.

You glanced at him again.

He was still staring at his cup.

Still not walking up to the counter.

It took another few minutes before he finally stood up, slipping his phone into his pocket, stretching his arms over his head like he was shaking off whatever thoughts had been keeping him rooted to that seat. He made his way toward the counter a little slower than usual, his steps lacking their usual lightness, as if he was deliberately dragging them out.

When he reached the counter, he didn’t lean against it like he usually did. Didn’t rest his chin in his hand, didn’t flash that effortless grin.

Instead, he hesitated.

You raised an eyebrow, already reaching for a cup. “Another cortado for you?”

Franco exhaled a laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Uh… no. Actually.”

You blinked. That was new.

He hesitated again, shifting his weight slightly, his fingers drumming against the counter before he finally looked at you properly.

“Actually… I was thinking maybe I could see you sometime.” He paused. “Some place that’s not here.”

The words hung between you, heavy and sudden, but not entirely unexpected.

Because deep down, you had been waiting for this moment.

You had felt it coming.

Felt it in the way he lingered a little longer each time he came in, in the way his teasing had softened into something fonder, in the way his eyes flickered to your lips sometimes when you laughed.

And yet—hearing it aloud still sent a jolt of something sharp through your chest.

Your first instinct was to deflect, to act like this wasn’t a big deal. Because if you let yourself think about it too much, you might just start realizing that your stomach was doing things and your heart was beating faster and—

You smirked, crossing your arms. “There’s this really cute café on the other side of town—”

And then—he laughed.

Like, really laughed.

Not his usual amused chuckle, not one of those half-smirks he usually gave when you tried to banter back. This was a proper, head-tilted-back, actual laughter, the kind that made his shoulders shake slightly, the kind that caught you completely off guard.

You frowned, confused. “What?”

Franco wiped at his eye, still grinning. “I need to be honest with you. I don’t actually like coffee.”

Silence.

You blinked at him. Once. Twice.

Then, finally, you leaned forward, elbows against the counter, staring him down like he had just spoken in another language.

“You’re joking.”

He held up his hands in surrender, grinning like a guilty criminal caught in the act. “Nope.”

“You—” You gestured at him wildly. “You have been drinking cortados every single day for weeks?”

Franco shrugged, completely unbothered. “What can I say?” He flashed that infuriating, ridiculously boyish smile, the one that had always made you a little weak in the knees. “You make terrible coffee taste good.”

You stared at him, processing.

Then—you burst out laughing.

“For what?” Your hands flailing as if you could somehow pluck the answer from the air. “For this? For me?”

“Well, yeah.” He shrugged like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

You blinked at him, utterly dumbfounded. “You drank all that… espresso and milk, knowing full well you didn’t like it?”

“Every last drop,” he confirmed, looking far too proud of himself.

“You’re insane.”

“Maybe.” He leaned on the counter, resting his chin in his hand as his grin turned softer, more teasing. “But it worked, didn’t it? You’re talking to me now.”

You threw your hands up. “Oh my God. That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard! You could’ve just… I don’t know, asked for tea! Or water! Or literally anything else!”

“And miss out on the best cortado this side of Madrid?” Franco shook his head in mock disappointment. “No, no. That would’ve been a tragedy.”

You couldn’t help it—you snorted, covering your mouth with your hand to muffle the laugh that slipped out.

“See?” He pointed at you, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “You’re laughing. So I must be doing something right.”

“You are—” You shook your head, still laughing, pressing a hand to your forehead. “You are really weird.”

Franco only grinned wider, looking pleased with himself.

“And yet, you like it.”

“I don’t,” you shot back, even though the warmth creeping into your cheeks said otherwise.

Franco raised an eyebrow, his grin growing impossibly smug. “You sure about that?”

You narrowed your eyes at him, crossing your arms over your chest. “You know, there’s a fine line between charming and annoying.”

“Maybe,” he admitted. “But I’d still like to take you out.”

Your laughter slowly faded, but the warmth in your chest stayed.

You pretended to think about it, tapping your chin, letting the moment stretch out just a little longer, just to make him wait.

Then—you smiled.

After a moment, you rolled your eyes, though your smile was now completely unguarded. “Fine. But if this date is awful, I’m making you drink two cortados next time.”

“Deal.” He grinned, his green eyes sparkling with so much boyish delight that you couldn’t help but laugh again.

You sighed, shaking your head, but the smile stayed on your face long after Franco walked out of the café that day.

[promptedwordsmith]

Might I HUMBLY request Xavier x reader where he’s all pouty because you’ve been busy with work and ignoring him and you accidentally raise your voice at him because he keeps trying to speak to you but ur busy and he starts crying. Yup. I’d like to order that meal please I live for crybaby Xavier 🏃🏽‍♀️💨

Hi! I love this I put my spin on crying Xavier because he is my no.1 pookie and he seems to me like the type that cries whe he annoyed or feels wronged (because I do)

Xavier sat on the couch, arms crossed over his chest, glaring at the back of your head as if he could will you to turn around and finally look at him. He had been patient—remarkably patient, in his opinion—but after hours of watching you hunched over your computer, completely ignoring his presence, his patience was wearing dangerously thin.

He had tried everything to get your attention. At first, he’d settled for subtle tactics: stretching exaggeratedly, sighing loudly, shifting on the couch in a way that made the leather creak just enough to be noticeable. When that failed, he moved on to more obvious methods, like standing behind you, resting his chin on your head, and wrapping his arms around your shoulders in what should have been a distraction too sweet to ignore.

But you hadn’t even flinched.

So now, he was pouting.

Xavier would never admit to pouting, of course, but that was exactly what he was doing. His lower lip was slightly pushed out, his silver brows were drawn together in a frown, and he was sinking lower and lower into the couch, his entire body exuding sulky displeasure.

How long had it been now? Two hours? Three? He was certain it had been at least half the day.

His fingers drummed against his knee. Maybe he should just grab your laptop and toss it across the room. That would get your attention. Or maybe he should act like he was in grave distress—clutch his chest, groan dramatically, collapse onto the floor. Surely that would get you to look at him.

Instead, he settled for the next best thing.

With all the grace and stealth he possessed, Xavier slid off the couch, crawling onto the floor until he was sitting directly beside your chair. His head tilted up as he stared at you, waiting for even the smallest reaction.

Nothing.

He scowled. "Are you planning to stare at that screen all night?"

"Mmhm," you hummed, not even sparing him a glance.

His frown deepened. "You do realize I’m here, right?"

Another vague noise of acknowledgment.

Xavier narrowed his eyes. He had been ignored before, sure, but this was just unfair.

And now, he had made it his mission to break your focus.

Xavier, determined as ever, let out a small sigh before lifting his hand. His Evol hummed to life, and the glow of your laptop screen flickered, dimming until it was barely visible. Then, with a subtle flick of his fingers, the display distorted, the text shifting and swirling like ink in water.

You let out a frustrated groan. "Xavier!"

He blinked up at you innocently. "Yes?"

"Please! I need to get this report done. I'm not getting behind on work because you want attention!"

In your frustration, you snapped the laptop shut with more force than intended before throwing it open again, fingers immediately resuming their frantic typing. Your words were sharp, harsher than you meant, but at that moment, all you could focus on was meeting your deadline.

You didn’t notice the way Xavier's eyes widened slightly, the way his usual playful demeanor stiffened ever so slightly. You didn’t notice how he stared at you, as if seeing something he hadn’t expected.

What you did notice was the quiet click of the door.

Not a slam, not an angry exit—just a calm, deliberate departure. The sound, barely loud enough to be distracting under normal circumstances, echoed in your mind like a deafening crack.

Your fingers froze on the keyboard.

Oh.

You exhaled, a sharp pang of guilt settling in your chest as the weight of your own words replayed in your mind. You hadn’t meant to snap. You hadn’t meant to push him away.

But you had.

Xavier was never demanding. He was persistent, sure, but never unreasonable. And now, instead of arguing or pouting, he had simply… left.

You swallowed, glancing toward the door.

Would he come back if you waited? Maybe he just needed air. Maybe you were overreacting.

But then you thought of his expression before he left—the quiet hurt hidden beneath the usual calm.

With a sigh, you pushed your chair back, standing up. Work could wait. Xavier, however, shouldn’t have to.

You hesitated outside Xavier’s apartment, the weight of the cookie container in your hands suddenly feeling heavier than it should. The trip up here had felt longer than usual, your own guilt dragging your steps.

You took a breath. Just apologise.

Slipping inside, you expected to see him sprawled out dramatically on the couch, maybe with a pillow over his face, sulking like a cat deprived of attention. Instead, what you found made your stomach twist.

Xavier was sitting on the couch, his body angled toward the window, bathed in the cold glow of the city lights. The usual warmth he carried was nowhere to be found. He was still, too still.

You stepped closer, keeping your voice light despite the nervous flutter in your chest. "Okay, okay, I get it. I was a little harsh, but you were being insufferable—"

You stopped.

Even in the dim lighting, you could see the quiet tears slipping down his cheeks. He wasn’t sobbing, wasn’t making a sound, but the sight was somehow worse. He looked like he wasn’t even aware he was crying, like his emotions had bled through before he could stop them.

Your breath caught in your throat. "Xavier…"

You surged forward instinctively, placing the cookies on the table with a soft clatter before cupping his cheeks in your hands. His skin was warm beneath your fingertips, but he didn’t lean into the touch like he usually would.

Instead, he turned his face slightly, firmly ignoring you.

The rejection, soft as it was, stung.

"Xavier," you tried again, thumbs brushing over the damp trails left by his tears. "Talk to me."

Nothing.

His jaw tensed under your touch, and his hands, usually so quick to grab onto you, remained clenched in his lap. The Xavier you knew, the one who teased and pouted and wormed his way into every aspect of your life, felt so distant now.

You swallowed. "I didn’t mean to snap at you," you whispered, your voice softer now, less desperate, more honest. "I was frustrated, not with you—well, okay, maybe a little with you—but mostly with myself."

His shoulders twitched, barely a reaction, but enough for you to see you were getting through.

You took a breath, shifting so you were kneeling between his legs, forcing him to either look at you or go on stubbornly ignoring your presence.

"You can be a pain, you know?" You smiled a little, trying to coax something, anything, out of him. "But you’re my pain, and I was an idiot for pushing you away like that."

Still, silence.

Then, finally, a breath.

"You always do that." His voice was quiet, rough in a way you weren’t used to. "Always throw yourself into things and forget that someone’s waiting for you to look up."

You blinked.

Xavier exhaled sharply, shaking his head as if he was annoyed with himself. "I don’t even know why I…" He trailed off, hands finally moving—but not to hold you. Instead, he wiped at his own face as if frustrated that he had let himself cry in front of you at all.

You felt your chest ache.

There was something heavier in his words, something unspoken. A kind of familiar grief that didn’t make sense in the context of one small fight.

But that was a question for another time.

Right now, you just wanted him to know he mattered.

So you leaned in, pressing your forehead gently against his. "I’ll look up more," you promised, closing your eyes. "I’ll pay attention. I swear, Xavier."

For a moment, neither of you moved.

Then, after what felt like an eternity, his hands finally reached for you.

Not playful, not teasing—just holding on.

Like he was afraid of something.

Like he was afraid of losing you.

Xavier didn’t speak right away. He just held onto you, his hands gripping your arms, thumbs brushing over your skin as if reassuring himself that you were really there. His forehead was still pressed against yours, warm and steady, but there was a hesitance in the way he held you—like he wasn’t sure if you’d pull away again.

You weren’t going to.

Slowly, he exhaled, finally shifting back just enough to look at you properly. His blue eyes were still damp, still heavy with something unsaid, but there was a quiet resolution there now. He lifted your hands from where they rested against his chest, cradling them carefully between his own.

Then, with a gentleness that made your breath catch, he brought them to his lips.

His lips brushed over your knuckles, lingering in a way that made your heart ache. "I need you to be serious about this," he murmured, voice low, but firm. "Not just saying it to make me feel better."

You swallowed, guilt tightening in your throat.

"I mean it," he continued, pressing another soft kiss to your fingers. "I want to spend time with you, and if you’re too busy, then fine—just let me help. If it’s your report, I’ll help you with it. If you’re stuck, I’ll be there." He squeezed your hands gently, his expression open, unguarded in a way you weren’t used to. "I just want to be with you. However I can."

Your heart clenched.

You’d been so focused on your work, so lost in the constant cycle of getting things done, that you hadn’t even considered how Xavier might feel about it. He didn’t just want attention—he wanted to be with you. He wanted to be a part of your world, not just something on the outside waiting for a moment of your time.

You lifted your hands, cupping his face once more, smoothing your thumbs over his cheekbones. This time, when he leaned into your touch, there was no resistance.

"I promise," you whispered.

Then, before he could say anything else, you leaned in and kissed him.

It was sweet, slow—not rushed or desperate, but full of warmth. A promise sealed with something softer than words. Xavier made a quiet sound against your lips, his hands sliding around your waist, pulling you closer.

When you finally pulled back, he exhaled, his usual smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. "You sure you won’t need me to break your screen again?"

You laughed, pressing your forehead to his. "No breaking my laptop. But…" You smiled. "I wouldn’t mind your help next time."

His smirk softened into something fonder, something real.

"Good," he murmured, pulling you in again. "Because I’m not going anywhere."

And this time, you believed him.

[gojoest]

this was supposed to be a ramble post but i went on and on ;-; i might fw this idea some more in the future! tried to be as eloquent as possible but failed

royal au, crown prince!gojo satoru, f!reader (she/her), you reject him but that ain’t stopping the king to be from pursuing you, wc: 1.5k

crown prince gojo satoru, predictably, was the most desired man in the kingdom.

along with his royal heritage — the simple fact of being the next in line to the throne — his highness was undeniably a well-favored, handsome man that no other could hold a candle to. naturally, ladies would often throw themselves at him — some charmed by power, others harboring genuine feelings. he could see through them all and he would politely, and sometimes not so — depending on the intention — would turn them down.

his highness found no thrill in the concept of love. he saw no challenge in it and in someone dolling up for him and speaking to him of all the things that he, supposedly, wanted to hear. he deemed it boring. thus, he’d often sneak out of the castle (jumping off his balcony, unharmed) when the ladies arrived to visit him. other times he’d send the servants to deliver the unfortunate (and very much untrue) news of his highness being sick and needing rest to recuperate his strength. he truly could not be bothered while there were other things that piqued his interest more.

the battlefield, he admired it.

he grew up as — what others considered — a problematic child. ditching etiquette lessons to go into the forest and climb the trees, hunt animals and pick up branches to practice swordsmanship by himself. other times he’d simply act up in inappropriate ways, purposely so, that would inevitably bring punishment upon him, resulting in him being locked in his room to reflect on the unfitting of a royal behavior he displayed that day.

yet, nobody knew how agile and flexible he was, that he had learned how to climb and land safely after jumping from dangerous heights.

hence why, to this day, his highness uses his balcony as an exit when faced with unwanted guests. and to this day, nobody knows to where the crown prince has perished when the noble ladies line up in the castle to meet him.

truly, a problematic man.

his father, the king, was not having it. he thought, maybe, if he were to actually send his son the battlefield in order for him to come face to face with the harsh truth of it, that it was not as the fairy tales told so, that it was bloody, merciless and brutal, filled with death and decaying corpses — he would, maybe, come to his senses.

but, unfortunately so, that did not do it.

so far, everything was going the way the crown prince had desired — he had learned, early on, how to manipulate his environment to get what he wanted, through mischief. he had become a self-taught knight by his own means. he had caused enough havoc in order to be sent away to the most desired of places he wanted to be. the battlefield.

he conquered lands. each time he returned to the royal capital, he brought victory.

the neighboring countries were growing wary, avoiding conflicts and easily agreeing and bowing to the demands of the kingdom in order to prevent wars from breaking. the army’s strength, led by none other than the crown prince gojo satoru, was unheard of.

soon, the entire world knew of it. the clashes and conflicts seized. nobody dared oppose the kingdom anymore.

the prince returned to the capital, back to his boring days.

the days once filled with dull etiquette and history lessons were now replaced with the constant nagging to review a list of candidates in order to pick a bride to be the next crown princess.

it was a bothersome activity. his only challenge now was finding new excuses every day to avoid it.

but alas, there was only as much he could do to run away from his royal responsibilities of continuing the bloodline.

it was after the king had threatened to have the head of his right arm in combat and best friend, the glorious knight geto suguru, that the crown prince caved and considered looking at the portraits of the candidates presented to him.

in front of him were a list of the big families and the portraits of their daughters sent in.

“say, suguru”, satoru lifts a curious brow. “the lady of this house”, he points at the paper, “i can’t see her portrait”

suguru chuckles. “i am afraid, she did not send in one”

the prince scrunches up his nose. thinking. “i don’t understand?”

suguru, covering his mouth, tries to hold his laugh back. “she did not send in a portrait”

“did she forget?”

“i don’t think so”

“then? why?”, satoru stares. clueless.

suguru, with his entire willpower, is earnestly trying to fight the laughter climbing up his throat. the crown prince might be his best friend, but he didn’t really know how this man would react when faced with rejection for the first time in his life.

“in my humble knowledge”, he clears his throat before continuing, “when a lady refuses to send in a portrait to the royal palace, it only means she is politely withdrawing from the list of the candidates, your highness”

silence.

and then, a stretch — of lips, into a smile. a smile of disbelief. one that resembles the smile he shows when faced with a challenge on the battlefield that his audacious opponents throw at him.

“is she rejecting me?”

“i am afraid so”

intriguing. it’s been too long since he felt that kind of thrill, and to think he’d experience it while flipping through mere portraits of his wife-to-be’s. perhaps, he should’ve listened to his father sooner, huh?

he chuckles to himself. “good. i want her”

from that day on, the crown prince, who was once apathetic and uninterested in banquets held by the nobles, attended every one of them that was rumored to have you as a guest.

sadly, you rarely showed up. during the times you were present, you obviated his approach in a crafty and tactful manner.

he started sending you gifts — luxury gems and stones, hairpins, foreign cloths and dresses that were considered hard to obtain even by the big noble families. you sent them all back to the royal palace.

but unfortunately to you and very fortunately to the crown prince, this uncourteous gesture of yours intrigued him even further. he already had a hunch from your previous encounters, that you were not one to be bound by etiquettes of high society nor were you one to be easily blinded by opulence. but just in case, he wanted to test you. he wanted to see more of your deviant nature.

yet, he almost felt defeated, ashamed of taking you so lightly — as if tarnishing and trampling on your character — every time upon seeing the gifts delivered back to him in the same state that he had sent them, unpacked. not even touched out of curiosity. spotless as they were — as a sign of unambiguous rejection.

maybe, he shouldn’t have acted so carelessly with you.

it was during a banquet hosted by the royal palace in honor of the visiting diplomats from the neighboring countries when satoru finally got the chance to strike a more private conversation with you.

eyes glued to you all night, watching as you danced and socialized with other nobles, he was waiting for the right moment to approach you.

and just as you happened to leave the ballroom and walk toward the balcony to catch some fresh air, he excused himself and followed behind you.

“don’t tell me you’re already bored and want to leave, my lady?”

you turn around, visibly unfazed by his presence.

“good evening, your highness”, you politely greet, bobbing a curtsy to him. “although it is not to my liking, i wouldn’t call such a fancy banquet objectively boring. i was merely getting some fresh air after dancing”

there she goes again with that witty tongue of hers, he chuckles. “i see. you find it subjectively boring, if i may assume?”

“you may and that wouldn’t be far from the truth”

he lets out another chuckle, wiping a hand across his face as if at a loss of words. you truly are one intriguing woman.

“i will be very frank with you, my lady”, he speaks. “i think, i might’ve fallen for you”

you remain unamused, not even a single feature on your face flinching at his very confession.

“love is not something you think, but rather something you feel, your highness. curiosity, on the other hand, might pick at your brain and make you think and ponder”

he chuckles. “they’re not mutually exclusive, i believe. can’t love start from curiosity?”

you crack a soft smile. “perhaps”

“may i assume this is you giving me permission to pursue you further?”

“excuse my impertinence, your highness, but — do you have a thing for getting rejected?”, you tilt your head, an impish grin on your lips. “how long are you going to keep this up for?”

he steps closer, “i promise i’ll stop”, taking your hand into his and courteously going down on one knee before kissing it — “when you stop rejecting me, my lady”

[sunshinehaze1]

Too Sexy for This

Pairing: Javi P x wife!reader

Summary: You’ve been encouraging Javi to refresh his 70s wardrobe. He decides 1994 will be the year he finally makes the change, but is this a resolution he can keep?

Warnings: 18+, MDNI. post-s3 Javi. established relationship, smut, oral (m), unprotected PiV, creampie, reader has hair that can be pulled into a messy bun

a/n: this was written for @beefrobeefcal New Year, Same Peña Challenge. I’m so sorry I’m late to post, but I wanted to throw it into the void anyways. obvs “posting on time for fic challenges” was NOT one of my NY resolutions.🫣 Thank you @80ssong for the beta! ❤️ I hope you enjoy! Fun Fact (maybe?): the runner-up for my fic title was “JCPena” 😏

word count: 2,889

ao3 | ml

Javi watches as the mirrored ball descends in Times Square, the cheers of the crowd echo on TV, and Dick Clark officially proclaims the start of 1994—a year brimming with opportunity and fresh beginnings. You and Javi chose to enjoy a relaxed evening at home to ring in the new year. Work has been particularly taxing for both of you and late nights navigating rowdy drunk crowds lost their charm long ago. 

You've already passed out, sleeping for the last hour or so with your head resting in Javi's lap. He gently brushes your hair away from your face and whispers sweetly in your ear, "It's time for bed, baby." 

Javi helps you settle into bed, and you quickly fall back asleep. He isn't as fortunate. Thoughts race through his mind about his intentions and resolutions for the new year ahead. Reflecting on conversations you've had with him regarding his "dated" wardrobe and the need to "refresh" it to be more "on-trend," Javi scoffed, dismissing the idea that his current style of tight bootcut jeans, collared shirts, yellow aviators, corduroy blazers, and Members Only bomber jackets wasn't still fashionable. 

He feels confident in his clothes; they worked for him in Colombia and in attracting you. When you first met Javi, you always commented on how tight his jeans were and how sexy he looked. Why does he need to change how he dresses now? Just because we're in a new decade, and fashion magazines dictate what's in and what's out? Nevertheless, your encouragement was persistent. Your stubbornness was something he loved about you; you challenged him. 

With six years to go until the new millennium, Javi decides to take the plunge and revamp his wardrobe. What matters most is that It will make you happy. Happy wife, happy life. 

The next day, Javi finds himself at the mall, navigating the JCPenney clothes racks. As he sifts through silk button-ups adorned with abstract patterns in rich jewel tones and coordinating pleated baggy pants, he pulls a few outfits from the rack and heads to the fitting rooms. 

One by one, he tries on each outfit. They all conceal his slim frame. The flow of the shirts cascades over his broad shoulders, billowing at the waist with the excess fabric tucked into his pants. A shiny leather belt highlights his waist. He examines himself in the mirror, turning left and right to inspect the outfit from every angle. The pants make his lower half appear like a balloon. Javi shakes his head. How is this fashionable?

He tries on the last few outfits, still unsure whether this style suits him. However, he'll give it a try for your sake. Hesitantly, Javi gathers the outfits. As he heads to the cashier, he pauses at a rack of sunglasses and selects a pair of wire-framed glasses with oval lenses. He figures he might as well go all in.

As he approaches the register, the young woman's eyes scan Javi's body. His shirt buttons strain at their limits, and his jeans cling to his hips, revealing a prominent outline of what lies hidden beneath the coarse fabric. Somehow, in 1994, this '70s style suits him. She wonders why he's buying all these loose-fitting clothes. Then she notices the gold band on his left hand; it all makes sense now. You assume his wife must have encouraged him to update his wardrobe. With a friendly smile, she greets Javi, "Did you find everything you needed today?" 

"Yes, thank you. I just hope my wife approves," he jokes.

You greet Javi as he walks through the door with his hands full. You finished your errands an hour ago and were surprised to find the house empty. Reading the store branding on the bags, "Sooo," you tease, "What were you up to today?" 

"I thought I'd finally get with the times." He lifts the bags up with a shrug.

You chuckle and lean in for a soft peck on the lips, "Alright then, show me what you got!"

You follow Javi into the bedroom, where he sets the bags down on the bed. He takes out each item, holding them against himself. You nod in approval for every piece. Anticipation builds as you look forward to seeing how the clothes will fit him, thrilled that he has finally embraced contemporary styles. 

Just a couple of weeks into the new year, Javi still isn't sold on this change. He's been working at a private firm since retiring from the DEA and his co-workers have been giving him shit, surprised that he's made such a drastic shift. He's starting to sense that you aren't as thrilled with his new wardrobe, either. 

Usually, you can't keep your hands off each other. You practically jump on him the moment he walks in the door; you rarely go more than two days without being intimate. But it's been nearly two weeks since he's had you, and he's beginning to think you no longer find him as attractive.

He sighs and contemplates whether this resolution is a good idea; he's trying so hard to stick to it. "I am NOT a quitter!" he thinks to himself. He steels himself with the same grit and determination that helped him take down the Cali Cartel, and he's sure he can see this through. 

Another week and a half passes, and Javi isn't sure how much more he can handle. His confidence is shattered. His coworkers aren't taking him seriously. He isn't receiving the attention he craves from you. When he asks you if everything is okay, you brush him off with the cliché excuse that you're "just tired." 

You feel guilty; after all, this was your idea. However, you know Javi is stubborn and doesn't give in easily, but these baggy clothes just don't work for you or him. They look great on the models in fashion magazines, so you thought they'd suit Javi as well. But his build is better suited for 70s fashion. His lean frame, broad shoulders, and tapered waist deserve denim that hugs his hips and thighs so tightly that he has to forego underwear. 

You can tell his confidence is at an all-time low—something you've never seen in your man before. You miss your cool and confident Javi. It's time to talk to him so he knows he no longer has to keep up the charade and decide to bring it up over dinner. 

"Baby, I know you're not into this new wardrobe." 

Javi doesn't want to let you down. "No, no, it's fine. I'm just still getting used to it." 

"Javi, it really isn't your style. I appreciate you making the effort, and I'm sorry I pushed you so hard to change."

Your admission relieves Javi, who wasn't sure how much longer he could tolerate this ridiculous wardrobe. Not only did it shake his confidence, it impacted his swagger. He felt as if he walked more slowly, the resistance of the billowy pants and tops hindering him. 

The following day, Javi returns to his old wardrobe, thankful that he did not get rid of anything. He packs the new clothes and drops them off at the donation center on his way to work, hopeful they'll find a new home. 

You're lying on the couch reading the latest issue of Cosmo when Javi walks through the door. You've been busy reading up on the latest ways to satisfy your lover in bed—storing away ideas to try with Javi. When he enters the room, you peek over the couch and see that your old Javi is back. Since you left the house before him this morning, you hadn't seen what he wore to work today.

Your gaze travels up and down his body, landing on his bulge, visible and on display for you in his tight jeans. Oh, how you've missed it. Your mouth starts to water, and Javi catches you staring, "My eyes are up here, honey." He winks.

Lifting your gaze to meet his eyes, you tug your bottom lip between your teeth and admire your handsome husband. How you ever thought he'd look better in anything other than the clothes he feels the most comfortable in is something you could kick yourself for. 

The hunger in your eyes sends warmth up his body, and his cock twitches in his jeans. He walks over to the front of the couch to get a better look at you. You're wearing his DEA t-shirt, which has been washed and worn so often that it's practically tissue-thin. Your perked nipples protrude through the fabric. You may as well not have bothered with the soft shorts you have on, which barely cover your shapely thighs. You are a vision with your hair in a messy bun, tendrils falling along your temples. 

You sit upright to take him in, placing your hands on his hips as he stands between your legs. With an eager smile, you slip your fingers into his belt loops and pull him down toward you, capturing his lips in a passionate kiss. You let out a muffled whimper when he catches your bottom lip between his teeth. The kiss is so intense that it knocks Javi off balance, causing his knees to buckle and him to collapse on top of you. You both burst into laughter as he shifts his weight onto his palms, sinking into the couch cushion to avoid crushing you. 

In a fervor, you pull him closer to you, comforted by his weight. He begins to grind his hips into you, your slick arousal sticking to your shorts as his cock grinds into your core. His length strains against the front of his jeans. Beads of precum coat the zipper's teeth without the barrier of underwear. You move your hands down his body to unfasten his jeans and release his cock from the rough confines. Swiping the precum that leaks from his tip, you coat his thick head and slowly slide the foreskin up and down. With his eyes fluttered shut, his head lolls back, emitting a heavy groan. The ministrations of your delicate fingers along his most sensitive area overwhelm him, especially after weeks of not experiencing your touch.

He peppers your cheek and nose with kisses while one hand travels underneath your shirt, lifting it enough to expose your gorgeous tits. He cups the soft mounds in his palm and captures your hardened buds between his fingers, tweaking them gently, making you squirm at the sensation as it roils through your body down to your core. "I need to see you, baby," you moan. 

You're desperate to see all of him. In your haste, you pull apart his shirt, causing the buttons to fly across the room and bounce around the living room floor. You press your palms flat against his tanned chest, smooth and strong, and lift your head up to trace along his collarbone and down his sternum with your tongue. Flicking the tip of your tongue around his nipple and then attending to the other with the same care. 

You coax Javi to sit back against the couch and relax. Bending over to kiss him, you make your way down his body, leaving gentle kisses, slowing down as you approach the patch of hair that is neatly trimmed above his cock. You take a deep breath, inhaling his heady musk, which is uniquely Javi. He emits an exasperated sigh while you gaze up at him through hooded eyes, palming his cock. He's getting antsy, desperate for you to take him in your mouth.

His large palm cradles the back of your head. With his fingers tangled through your hair, he gently encourages you to move your attention lower. Your soft hand wraps around his length as you take languid strokes along his shaft before wrapping your lips around the tip, teasing the seam with kitten licks. 

"Oh, fuck. I've missed your mouth.." Javi tilts your face up to look at him, his dick still between your lips. "Go on, take all of him."

You nod and take his entire length into your mouth until the tip hits the back of your throat. Your eyes watering, you take breaths through your nose so you can hold him there. Savoring the heavy weight of his cock on your tongue. Javi's breathing increases with heavy pants as he watches you take him, all of him. He gently swipes away at a tendril that has fallen over your face, obstructing his view of your eyes. 

You pull off of him to catch your breath, drool leaking from the corners of your mouth. Javi thumbs away at the stray tear falling down your cheek. You thank him with a wink and begin to lap kitten licks over his tip before running your tongue down his length and then taking him again in your mouth. Bobbing up and down, hollowing your cheeks at a steady pace. Javi pulls you off of him abruptly, "You keep that up, baby; I'm not going to be able to fill up that pretty pussy of yours."

Smugly, you smirk and move to your feet, grasping Javi's face between your hands and leaving a chaste kiss on his lips, "Fucking fill me up then!"

Javi whips you around, one of his hands wrapped around both of your wrists. He rips off your sleep shorts with his other hand and swiftly bends you over the couch arm. Pleased to see your pussy on full display, as you weren't wearing any panties. He strokes his cock while his other hand palms over your lush cheeks. His fingers make their way to your weeping center and swipe through your folds. You buck forward as his fingertip brushes over your clit, already so sensitive to his touch. 

"You're always so fucking wet for me."

"Always, Javi."

Javi pulls your hips high in the air, balancing on your tip toes, and presses your chest down into the cushions. He runs his cock through your seam to coat it with your arousal, eliciting a moan when the tip catches your clit. 

"Are you going to keep teasing, or are you going to fuck me, Javi?"

With that, he notches at your hole and thrusts into you until his pelvis slams into your ass. "Is this what you want?"

The pleasurable sting of his cock plunging through your walls has left you speechless, and all you can do is nod into the couch. "hmm? I couldn't hear that."

You muffle a "yes" into the downy cushion. 

"That's my girl!"

He begins a relentless pace, pounding into you. "You're so fucking tight. Fuck!" 

His balls slap against your clit with each thrust. The combination of Javi's cock and the brush of your nipples against the soft faded fabric of your t-shirt sends immense pleasure throughout your body. You feel warmth roil in your core, your arousal increasing with every pass of his cock through your walls. His hands grip your hips, fingertips digging into the soft flesh, as he pulls you back into his hips with each thrust, the tip of his cock hitting that sweet spot deep inside you. 

Javi feels your walls tightening around him; he bends forward over you, the weight of his body pushing you further into the cushion. His hot breath against your ear, "I can feel you, baby." he reaches around your front and begins to thumb your clit, "You going to cum for me?"

"Fuck…" you gasp, "Yes, Javi! Yes! Yes! Yes!" 

Wailing as your body shudders through your orgasm. Your pussy grips his cock so tightly it only takes a few more thrusts before Javi's cum floods your pussy. 

He leaves soft kisses along your shoulder and neck, gentle nibbles along your earlobe before a husky whisper, "Your pussy hugs my cock as tight as my jeans." 

You chortle and playfully smack his shoulder with the back of your hand, "Javi!"

He chuckles, smacking more kisses along your cheek before he pulls himself off of you. Begrudgingly, he removes his softening cock from your warmth. He'd stay inside you forever if he could.

As his thick head exits your hole, he admires your combined arousal leaking out of you and onto your thighs. You are his, and he is yours. 

Stlll in your fucked out haze, you hear the faucet turn on in the bathroom and then Javi's heavy footfalls, followed by a gentle wet warmth of a washcloth. He moves slowly, careful not to arouse your oversensitive clit. After he wipes his cock, he discards the washcloth on the floor between the couch and the coffee table. 

You shift to your side, and Javi squeezes in behind you. Both of you bare; he wraps his arm around your stomach, warm skin pressed against each other. You tilt your head to face him with a sly smirk stretching across your lips, "Mmm, I'm so glad you didn't get rid of your old clothes." 

"There was no way I was going to get rid of those. Not when my ass looks THAT good!" Laughing, he snuggles his nose into your neck, inhaling your post-sex scent, mixing with your perfume. 

Your breaths begin to steady in tandem as you drift off to sleep, and Javi thinks to himself, "Better luck next year." 

Thank you so much for reading! I'd love to hear your thoughts. Reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated. 🫶🏻

tagging a few folks who may be interested in reading: @baronessvonglitter @almostempty @ak-vintage @peepawispunk @half-moon16 (let me know if you'd prefer I not clog your notifs)

[fortunekookie07]

Dance with Me - Caleb

Finally the day had arrived. You walked to the den and found Caleb sitting at the table working quietly. His back is bent over his current project. You never really understood his fascination with putting together these models when he flew the real thing. But it made him happy to assemble the tiny versions.

Sometimes, you loved to sit and watch him work. The concentrated look on his face was so cute. His eyes would be narrowed, and his brow would be furrowed as he carefully put the small pieces together.

You call his name softly and wait until he turns around before presenting him with the box you were holding.

Placing the small box in Caleb's hand with a grin, you sit next to him. "Didn't we agree, no gifts this year?" He asks, setting down the wrench. The pieces of his model are scattered across the table.

You kiss his cheek. "This is one gift you don't want to miss." He eyes you and then the box before grasping the ribbon and tugging. The simple bow knot comes undone. Pulling the lid up, he stares down at a black and white picture.

Confusion furrows his brows as he picks it up and stares at the image. Slowly, a smile stretches across his face. "You mean?" He asks, looking at you with pure joy. "Mhh hmmm." You nod vigorously.

He pulls you up with him and starts dancing around the kitchen and into the living room. You laugh as he spins you around in a crazy rhythm.

"Caleb, what are you doing?" He brings you in close, and you can hear the thumping of his heart. "Dance with me!" He can't contain his enthusiasm. Finally, you collapse on the couch, but it seems he still has energy to spend.

"I'm going to be a farher!" He shouts and then runs to the door and throws it open before shouting the same sentence from the open door.

You shake your head at your childish husband. Eventually, he comes back to where you're seated and sits down before laying his head in your lap. Turning to face your still flat stomach and wrapping his arms around your waist. "How far along are you?" He mumbles into your stomach. Whether he is asking you or the growing baby, you're not sure.

"Almost ten weeks." You brush your fingers through his hair. You can feel his smile against your stomach. Is this why you've been weird with food lately." You know it's a rhetorical question.

Having grown up together your whole life, Caleb is more than familiar with your eating habits. "Yeah, Tara went with me to the doctor for a checkup last week. She was almost as excited as you were. Don't worry, you are the first to find out."

Caleb gets up and then pulls you up and into his arms. "Ca-Caleb! Where are we going!" You laugh as he waltzes over to the bedroom and throws the door open with his evol.

"There's still time! We might be able to make them twins!" You laugh at this man, with his vast understanding of sciences, saying something so absurd. But he won't hear of it and so you end up spending the rest of the day in your bedroom. He hardly let you up to eat or use the bathroom.

You stroke his bare back, listening to him snore softly as you lay tucked into his arms.

The path to your current relationship had been incredibly difficult. With all the secrets he'd tried to keep from you on his desperate and somewhat deranged path to keeping you safe. Then there was the aftermath when those secrets had come to life.

His mental health had hit an all-time low, and he'd come close to calling these life quits. It was honestly a miracle that you'd made it to today.

"This life isn't easy, but I hope you'll help me take care of your daddy." You say softly stroking your stomach.

Being with Caleb wasn't easy. Despite having known him your whole life, he felt like a stranger when he came back. A strange pretending to be the protector you'd always known.

When everything came to light and all his secrets, pain, and suffering were laid bare, it had been brutal.

Caleb was willing to end it all. If he couldn't have you, he didn't want anything anymore.

You still remembered the desperate look on his face that day. The raw fear in his eyes as he thought you were going to walk away from him. You hadn't been sure of what you wanted until that point.

But when you sank to your knees in front of him and hugged him, all had seemed right, like you just knew it was all going to be ok. You knew you didn't want to lose your best friend, and you found the strength and courage in your heart to save him.

Caleb had stood trial, and people were ready to throw the book at him. It was only when evidence came to light that he hadn't been acting of his own free will that changed everything.

He'd gone from the monster seeking to destroy the city to a victim. Forced to act against his will and better nature. The looks of pity they gave him had been almost as bad as their anger.

He still suffered from that time. His nightmares were terrible. Sometimes, he would cry in his sleep. Only holding onto him and assuring him he was not alone helped.

So, to say it had been a difficult year was an understatement. It has taken months to get Caleb reinstated in the DAA. His friends and fellow pilots had welcomed him back with open arms. Ready to have him at their side once more. Some friends really would stand with you through hell and high water.

Picking up pieces of a broken life was worth it in the end. When you got the news, the first person you wanted to tell was Caleb. You'd even sworn Tara to secrecy until you could break the news

Unconsciously, Caleb holds you closer, and you drift off to sleep.

****************************************************

Here we go with story 2!

Caleb was difficult for me to write, in that I struggle with adding depth to this story for him. I knew I wanted to have a theme for all five guys and I started with a thought, making very sure no story is the same and I believe I have succeeded, a you'll find out in thevdays to come.

I know Caleb was introduced near the beginning of MCs story, but his character is still very unknown to me. Hence my great struggle with keeping to what I do know.

So please don't come for me! I did put my best effort into this.

[mgu-h]

What are your top 3 moments of Max and Lando from 2024? A little late, but I’m quite curious lol

Or in general, what are your favorite moments of them of all time?

my chronological study is not yet caught up, so i can't really do 2024 justice, but i've covered a lot of ground from 2013 to early 2023, and there's just so many things that stand out!!! not just moments but like.. idk. whole parts of their lives. i'll check some dates {edit: and add 20 gifs and a video}, but otherwise, off the dome, my favorite moments lmao let's do this:

max's story about seeing lando driving his kart at 9yrs old, the small details about the location and lando's helmet that he remembered, the fondness in his tone of voice as he talked about it, and calling himself a day one fanboy of lando

there's this old old post on max's insta where he's just starting out, with lando commenting on it in a supportive or teasing way... just seeing how long they've been friends, all the footage of them karting, sharing podiums, and goofing off in tiny race suits together, it's not one moment that i love but the pool of shared experiences and competition

jumping forward in time a bit, that time max said that lando had taken care of him after he stopped racing and wasn't sure what to do, it's just important to me that max showed up just playing on lando's twitch first. lando opened up this whole path for him, ultimately hiring him, shaping the trajectory of the rest of his life

there's some deeply notable streaming early on in lando's house, a favorite being the absurd bathrobe tech support, with lando fresh out of the shower and all up in max's personal space. and then idk it's a small detail but there's times where max and lando are wearing the same glasses and i love that

i can't pick a favorite of the quadrant videos filmed in summer and fall 2021, there's so many deeply endearing and iconic moments, like the hot sauce video, the lie detector (big reaction), the pink 'how well do you know' video (max's absurdly fond tone of voice saying "useless" is my first memory of him, from years ago), the outtakes of the part of the elgato video where they kick niran out of their house

there's connor's august twitch stream from holiday with them all tipsy and topless and deeply tanned on a boat. lando hovering around max's back, making max smell his underarm when he complained. it reminds me of pics i saw of lando shirtless in a paddling pool which i assume were taken by max.

the way they were wearing each other's golf shirts on the course in that one fall golf stream, i think it was shortly after sochi. the whole recurring bit with them sharing a wardrobe, the "whose shoes are those?" "whose joggers are those? "whose hoodie is that?" bit, the fact that it kept going even after they moved apart

those key december 2021 streams, the loooong halo stream where chat called max both lando's dog and his wag. just the wild argument they had about max moving to monaco, with max saying lando'd get lonely, offering to be a house husband almost, and 'joking around' like 'he doesn't want me, we're done, etc..

then the sweet sad energy of the last stream in the house, where lando picks a fight about who's better at golf and uses his keyboard clicking to annoy max. for some reason i love this fight the most out of everything, i've listened to it dozens of times probably, i even transcribed it to see what the sentence length looked like before i started writing rpf. it's just like the perfect quintessence of their dynamic.

max showing up on the mclaren tiktok account in lando's hotel room in dubai the next month jan 2022, having gone on the trip with lando and his gf

quadrant leaving a small cardboard cutout of max in lando's office, after lando was a pest while max tried to plan the office remodel surprise for him. then lando using it to tease max, and lying about throwing it out, keeping it around, and still having it in 2025

the infamous and perfect moment in july where max covered up lando's head after the rally car passed by because lando fully didn't do it himself and max either saw that or knew that he wouldn't do it and that he needed to do it for him

lando being a dj on max's twitch, the sleepover vibes, the way they support him in his new hobby and validate him

max's 2022 singapore trip and the incredible tikok where lando answers the hotel door wearing the exact same clothes as max but in inverted colors, where he slaps max very hard on what looked like the inner thigh, where max bites his knuckle with nerves and is proud of lando's p4

[i've got the winter and spring content to go through in detail, i don't really know what happened here]

the march 2023 max twitch stream with lando in the blue hoodie (kitten, max smelling his underarm, lando losing his mind about a memory of max when he was drunk). i'm pretty sure in that stream, max's dad comes in and asks if lando is staying the night, in a way that communicates he's done it a hundred times before and is welcome to do it a hundred more

the april 2023 twitch streams where lando wanders around, laying with bare feet kicked up on the bed, massaging his back (each others' backs, max returns the favor), lint rolling himself. around this time P says on stream that max is lando's boyfriend, she also calls him his slave and labels what they share as an addiction(!!!)

i know they go to motogp together in the summer of this year, i remember the adorable almost kinda matching outfits. there's also that footage of max looking at lando asleep in that egg pod thing from around then too

[i don't really know yet if/what nortrell happened in late 2023]

then like, 2024, i have so much to catch up on, but i was aware of him by the end of the season. obviously the infamous post disaster races had that gentle parenting from max about eating and sleep while playing tarkov, which was lovely, and then the way max defended him at crucial parts of the season and like asked 'where's the backing' and got angry on his behalf was good too.

2025...... so much so far. the "you said my name so I know you're lying." the "stop fucking kissing her max and hurry the fuck up." connor's "his brother and his boyfriend" comment. the fact that i got jumpscared by max streaming from lando's office again. the pushups. watching the super bowl. just so much.

that was more than i expected to remember lmao anyway, nortrell rights

[kingpreciouswrld]

Spare Me (College!AU) Ch.2

Summary: Old flames die hard, yours is especially stubborn. However, when your rides to and from the practice fall through, you take up a sweet offer. Meanwhile you meet the rest of the coaching team on the second day of practice but not without some clashes.

A/N: Again, don't know what this is-- never written a multi-chapter fic before so I really don't know what I'm doing. Uhm...read if you want? It seems long but that's just cause there's a lot of one-liners...anyway, enjoy? Feedback is encouraged (cause...help...plz)

Your dorm room was definitely your little home away from home. It was currently a mess due to taco trash and you couldn’t bring yourself to care.

After you and Sam ate your winning tacos, you decided to do some…research…on your coach. It wasn’t weird or anything, you just wanted to know more about her, see if she was as interesting as you thought she was. No, it wasn’t weird, you just needed to know more about this woman…you just–

“Is that–”

You slammed your laptop shut, “Nothing!” you cleared your throat and tried again, “It was noth–”

“You’re looking her up?!”

“NO! No no no no, I was just looking at the school’s athletic page–”

You two started a tug-of-war with your laptop, “You were looking at google pics Y/N/N! Just let me seeeee!”

“SAM! Stop! You’re going to break my laptop!”

“Then stop fighting me and let me see what you found!”

Letting the dirty blonde win the tugging, you groaned in frustration. Sam just smirked at you and patted your head as she sat down next to you on your bed, “Don’t worry, your creepy little secret is safe with me.”

You huffed and rolled your eyes, laying on your back with a grunt.

“You know, it's kinda normal to cyber-stalk your crushes.”

“I do NOT have a crush on coach Calderu, she’s just…”

“Just, what?”

You grumbled before throwing a pillow over your face and screaming into it. It was so embarrassing that Sam caught you red-handed. You didn’t know what pulled you in to the other woman, she was just so…beautiful…and you couldn’t get her out of your head! Her short hair, her big doe eyes that could turn into a wicked glare, her bright smile that could turn into a knee-buckling snarl when she got snappy.

Coach Calderu was an enigma and you desperately wanted any information to help you piece together the kind of woman she was.

“What about this?” Sam shifted the laptop back onto your lap.

Slightly perking up, you moved to sit back up, “What is it?” you asked as you scrolled the page.

“It’s where she works, you know, when she’s not a college coach.”

“Yeah, no shit Sherlock, but what even is this place?”

“Some weird little shop, looks like it might even sell those cards you like to hog. It’s not that far from campus, we could always take a look?”

“But what if she’s actually there?” You really didn’t need to embarrass yourself in front of her. The season just started and you wouldn’t be able to take it if something happened that would make it even harder to face the older woman.

Sam rolled her eyes and got up, grabbing her jacket in the process.

“So what? We’ll just be looking for your weird cards anyway, it doesn’t need to be awkward. Just be cool about it, yeah? Come on.”

The dirty blonde grabbed your jacket and threw it at you. Your eyes widened as you felt your nerves come alive, “N-Now?!”

“I’m not going to be waiting Y/N/N!” She said as she left, leaving your dorm door open.

“Goddamnit….Sam! Wait up!”

– – – – – – – – – –

The sun was just a few hours away from setting. Although you despised Sam for being so impulsive, you knew you wouldn’t have followed through with seeing your coach outside of practices.

The walk to the shop didn’t seem too long and although it was a bit chilly, it was a nice walk.

“I can hear your mommy issues screaming from here.”

You rolled your eyes and huffed.

Sam held her hands up in surrender, “I’m not judging, I just think this would actually be good for you.”

“What? Why would you say that? She’s our coach, Sam. I highly doubt anything would happen.”

“That’s not what I meant…It’s just, after Agatha, I think you need a good distraction and if making up scenarios in your head about older women will help you, I’ll feed into your delusions!”

“Y/N!”

“Speaking of the devil…”

You didn’t know who started, but both you and Sam started to quicken your pace. You could hear heavy footsteps approaching you from behind before they fell into stride next to you.

“Please, Y/N, just hear me out–”

“Can’t you fuck off? She doesn’t want–”

“It’s alright Sam,” you sighed before linking your arm with the dirty blonde. 

Your action made Agatha stop in her tracks. You could’ve guessed that Agatha assumed you moved onto Sam but you two were just good friends, you considered her a sister even. But that didn’t mean you wouldn’t feed into Agatha’s insecurities.

“You coming or not, Harkness?” you asked, not looking behind you.

You could hear hurried footsteps approach you again before you heard them match your stride again.

“Where are we going?”

“There’s this shop we wanna check out before they close for the night, Y/N needs a new card deck.”

“They’re tarot cards Sammy,” you could practically hear Sam’s eyes roll in her head, “I didn’t know you still practice Y/N…”

“You lost the chance to know.”

As you three turned around the corner, the shop came into view.

Madame Calderu’s Psychic Readings.

Despite your nerves, you were pretty excited to get a new deck. You haven’t touched any of yours since your breakup with Agatha. Maybe Sam was right, having someone else to think of could be good for you.

When the shop came closer, both Sam and Agatha raced to see who could open the door for you and to your luck, Sam won. Rolling your eyes at their antics, the door opened, making the bell above it ring out into the small shop.

Agatha fell to the back of the group and let out a low whistle as she looked around, “Well isn’t this a swanky lil place…” she murmured.

As Agatha was caught up with the crystal ball on the main display, you were focused on the tarot cards on the wall.

“Well isn’t this a lovely surprise!”

You all whipped your heads towards the front counter to find coach Calderu in all her glory.

“Coach! What...are you doing here?” Agatha asked in surprise.

The older woman smirked, “Welcome to the curious.”

Coach Calderu walked around the counter to stand in front of you three.

“And what brings you three to my humble abode?”

Your eyes widened and you discreetly slapped Sam on her back, “Y-You live here too?”

“Well don’t seem excited by it, by all means! Is it that bad?”

“N-No! That’s not what I– I mean–”

The older woman chuckled and patted your shoulder, “I’m just pulling your leg hun, but yes! I do live here. Don’t touch that.”

Agatha, once again, snapped her hand back to her side with wide eyes, “Sorry coach, I didn’t mean–”

Coach Calderu waved her off, “No harm, no foul, just be careful, hm?”

As you turned to continue looking through the selection of tarot cards, you could smell her perfume before she draped her arm around your back, “Ohh do we have a little cartomancer in our midsts?”

You blushed and chuckled nervously, “I’m just an amateur really, I haven’t done a reading since high school…plus I’d only do personal readings or do a few readings for Sam.”

Your coach hummed, looking at the decks on the wall, before she picked one and handed it to you, “Well then I think this is what you’d like.”

The Cozy Witch Tarot Deck

It was cute and although tarot could be intimidating, the card deck looked anything but. You smiled and looked towards the older woman, “Thank you, it’s really cute. I like the aesthetic of the pictures.”

“Of course hun, only the best for my girls,” she winked.

You looked down at the deck in hand, pretending to read the packaging to hide the redness in your cheeks. In response, your coach just chuckled lowly and squeezed your arm as she moved to talk to Sam.

Oh you were definitely going to take up tarot reading again.

“Are you girls ready for practice tomorrow?”

“Oh, actually, I’ll be a little late.”

You whipped your head towards Sam with a confused look on your face. What did she mean? She was your ride to and from practice tomorrow and you sure as hell weren’t going to lug your bowling balls down 4 blocks to get to the bowling alley.

“I have family in town visiting and my grandma wants to take me to breakfast before practice. Where they’re staying is a bit out of the way so I might be late but I’ll do my best to be there on time.”

“Wait, but Sam, what about–”

“Same here actually.”

It was your turn to face Agatha with wide eyes. Well there goes your second option. Yes, asking Agatha for a ride would’ve been a stretch but you really didn’t want to walk around with your bowling balls in public.

“I also have plans for breakfast with an old friend of mine, but they’ll take me to practice from the diner. I’ll let them know that it’s important to get me to practice on time.”

“And what about you Y/N? Any plans for breakfast?” Coach asked with a raised brow.

“Uh– no, but I should say that I’ll try my best to get to practice on time…”

“Oh? And why would you need to try?”

“Because someone–” you glared at Sam who smiled innocently, “was supposed to be my ride to practice.”

The older woman looked at you two with amusement.

“Well if you need a ride hun, you just need to ask,” she said with an encouraging smile.

“Oh! I– I wouldn’t want to impose–”

Coach Calderu waved her hand, “Nonsense, I’ll be more than happy to give you a ride. You’re living on campus, right?”

“Mhm,” you nodded, still not believing you were about to spend even more time with the woman.

“Give me the name of your hall and I’ll be there bright and early.”

– – – – – – – – – –

When you finished shopping around, you ended up arguing with Agatha about who would be paying.

You honestly didn’t know what was wrong with the younger woman. Maybe she wanted to get back together and was trying to weasel her way back into your life somehow or maybe she wanted your forgiveness? You really couldn’t tell what she wanted from you.

Agatha ended up paying for your things. You got a few candles, the tarot deck that your coach had picked out, and a big dream catcher. Since Agatha paid for you, you made her carry your things too, not that she complained though, she seemed happy to help much to your annoyance.

Coach Calderu sent the three of you on your way with a wink and a wave goodbye and then the three of you started to make your way back to campus.

Sam nudged you with her shoulder, “You’re welcome by the way.”

“Why would I want to thank you? You’re ditching me AND you lied! All of your family lives within thirty minutes of campus!” 

“But now you have time with coach, so, you’re welcome.”

You punched Sam in the shoulder.

“What?”

Oh shit. You forgot Agatha was with you guys.

“It’s nothing you need to worry about Harkness,” Sam mocked. “Well would you look at the time, I want to get to the cafeteria before they run out of cheesy bread. See ya!”

And now you were alone.

With Agatha.

Sometimes you hated Sam with every fiber of your being.

“Come on superstar, I’ll walk you back to your dorm.”

You let out a sigh and reluctantly walked the rest of the way with Agatha.

The sun had set just as you and Agatha got to your dorm. The younger woman was still carrying your things as you unlocked your door.

You walked in and sighed as you took off your jacket before turning towards the open door. To your amusement, Agatha was still out in the hall. She was looking around your room but kept herself from crossing the threshold.

“You can just set those down on my desk.”

Agatha nodded before she came into the room, setting the bags down on your little desk.

“So…I– well, Y/N, I just wanted to say–”

“I didn’t say we were talking.”

“It’s been a few years, I’ve changed! Just– hear me out, please?”

You rolled your eyes before you hopped up on your bed. You gestured towards Agatha for her to continue.

“Thank you,” she sighed, “I just– well…I just want you to understand that what I did wasn’t because you weren’t enough for me, or that I don’t love you–”

“You said ‘don’t’...Ag–”

“I love you, Y/N, I still love you with all that I am and–”

“I think you should go.”

“Y/N–please, I– we need to talk this ou–”

You shook your head and let your head fall forward, your hair covering your face, “No”

“Wha–”

You whipped your head up, your eyes glossed over with fresh tears, “We don't ‘need’ to talk about anything! You threw everything out of the window when you decided to sell yourself out for some stupid-ass scholarship! Why are you even here? The head of the athletic department said he only scouted Sam and I from that Pepsi Tournament! Why choose this school? Why fight for an anchor spot when you don’t even care where you’re put in the lineup? Just– why?”

Agatha seemed shocked. She couldn’t form any words, her own eyes glossing over as she watched your tears fall silently.

“I think you should go.”

Agatha just looked at you with pleading eyes, “Y/N, please–”

“You heard her Harkness, beat it.” Sam came back from the cafeteria just in time.

You couldn’t face Agatha or Sam. You guessed that you looked a mess. It’s been a while since you cried over the younger woman. She couldn’t even answer your questions. She just stood there looking like she was the one who was hurting. She didn’t have the right to feel sorry.

The door clicked shut before you took a sharp inhale. Meanwhile, Sam looked at you with soft and understanding eyes.

“Do you want cheesy bread?”

– – – – – – – – – – – 

Last night’s sleep was rough. The talk with Agatha, if you could even call what happened a talk, still played in your head. You were obviously overthinking everything and second guessing yourself. Maybe you should’ve heard her out the first time, maybe you two would have stayed together. You didn’t know anymore.

You went around the dorm as you got yourself ready for practice. Sam was already gone when you got up and so you took a shower, got dressed, and pulled your bowling gear together. After grabbing your headphones, you headed out. The weather was nice enough that you decided to wait outside for your coach.

Putting your music on shuffle, you set the volume to the highest setting, drowning out your own thoughts. You bobbed your head along the music, your fingers subtly playing piano keys as you mouthed the lyrics.

A tap to your shoulder made you let out a startled yelp. Throwing your headphones off of your head, you turned to look at whoever dared to interrupt your little moment.

“I’m sorry to startle you, but I’ve been calling your name for a good few minutes.”

Your cheeks immediately reddened as you found coach Calderu standing behind you with an amused smile. You immediately scrambled to look at your phone. Apparently, you missed her texts and one call. 

You winced and looked back up at her, “I’m so sorry coach, I didn’t realize how much time has passed since I came downstairs.”

The older woman just chuckled, “It’s alright, I did enjoy the little show you put on,” she teased with a wink.

You didn’t know if your cheeks could turn any redder and you put your hoodie up despite it being a sunny day out. Coach Calderu watched on in amusement as you quickly placed your bowling bag into her trunk before you moved to sit in her passenger seat.

The sunglasses that were atop the woman’s head was placed over her eyes as she pulled out of the parking lot.

“Are you alright hun? You aren’t too cold or anything?”

“I’m good, coach, thank you. And thank you for the ride, I really do appreciate it.”

“Don’t mention it,” she said as she patted your knee.

You turned to look out the window, your eyes practically bugging out at such a small gesture.

You felt like a very hormonal teenage boy that hasn’t even touched his first pair of boobs yet. Why did she have such an effect on you? She was literally just a woman. A woman who happened to be the most beautiful person you’ve seen in the universe. A beautiful woman who happened to be your bowling coach. A beautiful woman who was still touching your knee.

After coach Calderu let her touch linger long enough, she returned her hand to the steering wheel. “You said you liked listening to music right? What kind of music do you listen to?”

“Hm? Oh, I– a little bit of everything.”

“That’s what people say and then they completely disown two or three genres.”

“I– okay well you’re not wrong…I’ll say my top music styles would be pop, songs from the 70s, and then songs that I call ‘static oldies’ just because in some of the recordings, you can hear the scratches of the original recording.”

“Not what I expected of a 23 year-old, you do seem like an old soul.”

You just nodded in response. You had a quip on the tip of your tongue but decided to hold back due to the fact that it was a pretty dark quip and you definitely didn’t want to give your coach the wrong vibe about you.

– – – – – – – – – –

The rest of the ride was just filled with small talk; learning about the small things about each other and such. Coach Calderu asked you about your ambitions, your likes and dislikes, what made you embrace bowling, etc. It was refreshing if you were being honest and despite the crude rumors about the older woman, you couldn’t see why she easily made enemies. 

Once she parked, she let out a sigh before turning to you with a smile, “I accept debit payments. The title will say ‘Lilia’s Lyft’ but that’s just my side hustle,” she teased.

“How about just a five-star rating?” you giggled.

“As long as I get a five-star rating for both trips, then we’ll be set hun,” the older woman winked at you before she exited the car.

She unlocked the trunk and you grabbed your bowling gear before setting it on the ground so you could roll it.

“Calderu!”

You heard your coach heave a big sigh before she turned on her heel to face the voice, “Vidal, how…nice…of you to finally join us for practices.”

You weren’t paying attention to the other woman, you were paying attention to the younger woman following on Vidal’s heel.

It was Agatha, and as soon as she made eye-contact with you, you could see the panic and guilt begin to appear in her eyes.

It wouldn’t take a genius to pin together why Agatha and you guessed, the assistant coach Vidal, were together. You guessed VIdal was the one Agatha was texting during your senior year in high school and that’s how Agatha got into this school.

“Ah, and who did you bring with you? Another one of your pets? She’s a bit young for you, Calderu.”

“This,” Coach Calderu hissed, “Is Y/N, one of our team anchors for the season,” she glared at the younger woman.

Coach Vidal just raised a brow with an amused smirk before giving you a once over, “Ah, the famous Y/N L/N then…I gotta say, you give other girls a run for their money.”

You sent the assistant coach a tight lipped smile, “It’s nice to meet you Coach Vidal,” you turned towards your other coach, “I’ll head inside, I think Sam is here already.”

After turning on your heel, you trekked inside the alley, scanning the lanes to find the familiar dirty blonde.

“Y/N/N–”

The familiar husky voice made you walk away immediately.  Deciding to head to the kitchen area to grab an energy drink, you found your dirty blonde savior.

Sam was in line to get a drink and you left your bowling bag by the front desk before joining her, your arm hooking into hers.

“Witch at five o’clock, I’ll tell you what happened after practice,” you whispered to her.

Sam, the ever so helpful friend, just brought you in closer and held your hand in reassurance. It was only eight in the morning and you were already spiraling out.

The two of you got your drinks and walked over to the designated lanes for practice.

The coaches were standing and talking quietly amongst themselves while the girls were sitting at the settee area putting their shoes on. As you put on your own, you couldn’t help but glance at Coach VIdal every so often. Why would Agatha meet up with her? Were her words last night false?

On one of the glances, you saw that Vidal was already looking at you. You quickly broke eye contact and went back to tying your shoes.

It was going to be an interesting practice day.

[blackjackkent]

All right, time to finish out the final bits of Rakha's story. <3

Kicking off our remaining epilogue adventures with something a little lighter. HI SCRATCH!

Narrator: There's something strange in your old friend's mouth. What is it?

"What have you got there, Scratch?"

"*BARK!*"

Narrator: A familiar invitation. He wants you to throw the object he's dropped. But it isn't a ball. It's the Astral Prism.

"Where the hells did you find this, boy?"

Narrator: He whines. Less talk, more throw!

As with Hector, I choose to believe Rakha has kept Scratch with her during these six months, rather than her seeing him here now for the first time since the brain. (Technically I think there are rules about dogs in Baldur's Gate, but we literally see one running around in Bloomridge Park, so I am choosing to ignore this fact completely. XD

Scratch (and Buddy, who we'll talk to shortly) were critical parts of Rakha's support network during her darkest periods. Petting them, or curling up next to them to sleep, could be a tonic against some of the darker thoughts that her godspawn blood drove her to; it wasn't perfect peace, but it was notes of it, and sometimes that was enough.

These days, Scratch tags along with her to her various rebuilding jobs in the city. Sometimes he helps haul materials or carry things, and sometimes he just entertains the workers or their children, and sometimes he just watches. He seems to have appointed himself Rakha's unofficial guardian.

And he sleeps on Rakha's bed in her little home by the docks, and when she wakes with a shout at some lingering nightmare, he curls a little closer to her side and licks her face and helps her calm down.

Good boy, Scratch.

Best boy.

-----

On to our much larger companion! HI BUDDY!

"*Hoot. HOOT!*"

Pet him.

"It's good to see you," Rakha says quietly, scritching underneath the giant owlbear's chin.

And it is. She hasn't seen him since the brain and is less sure what he's been up to, but he was also one of her great comforts in dark moments and it brings a little extra softness to her mind just to see him again.

Narrator: He looks coyly at the ground, suddenly shy.

"What have you been up to since last we met?"

Narrator: He snaps the air and wiggles. He's either miming fighting a many-limbed creature, or dancing. It's unclear. He is, however, exhausted. He's had plenty of adventures without you.

(A/N: I do love sending Buddy with Shadowheart, but Hector did that, so we'll mix it up a little.)

Rakha smiles slightly. She is no stranger to exhaustion, in herself and in others. The cub should be allowed to rest, as she has, as the others have. But unlike with Scratch, she can't hope to keep a giant owlbear in her house in Baldur's Gate.

Perhaps she can help him settle somewhere else, though. She cocks her head, thinking - and remembers that strange loneliness in Halsin when she spoke to him earlier, and his tales of the children he is taking care of. She remembers how Buddy would often sleep curled up near Yenna and Grub, protecting them, comforting them with his warm, solid bulk.

And Reithwin is a place with life being brought back into it, and wide open spaces around the settlement where an owlbear could roam.

"You look tired. What say we find you a home?" she asks quietly. "How about with Halsin?"

"*Hoot HOOT!*"

Narrator: The joy in the owlbear's eyes is clear. He longs to have a home, and Halsin is perfect.

Better go make sure Halsin's okay with this.

-----

(A/N: The in-game line here is "I may have volunteered you for something, if you'll forgive me. Might your new community have room for a well-behaved owlbear?" But realistically - while Rakha has come a long way in many regards, I don't think she has in any way shed her usual clipped-off and short speech patterns and her general habit of directness.)

"Halsin," she says, approaching him so suddenly that he jumps where he is sitting at the table. "The owlbear needs a home. Would you take him to Reithwin?"

"Do you truly even need to ask?" Halsin smiles from ear to ear. "Of course! Who could not open their home to a befeathered hero of Baldur's Gate?" He laughs. "And I did promise the children I would bring them back a surprise. Imagine their faces!"

Narrator: The owlbear's eyes are alight with excitement - he can't wait to go home with Halsin.

Aw. <3

[let-roman-bite-someone]

the sides and their favorite horror movies

virgil: final destination. and then he keeps thomas up at night, telling him that any of the horrible deaths in the movie could easily happen to HIM, did he turn the stove off???

patton: hocus pocus. that's the extent of "horror" he's willing to put himself through.

logan: alien. he’s not the biggest horror fanatic either because fantasy doesn’t really scare him, but horror combined with sci-fi? that’s his jam right after crofters, of course.

roman: black swan. the ambition? the theatricality? the desire of wanting to be the best, the most perfect, wanting to be loved and admired by everyone? destroying oneself entirely if it means being recognized and validated for once? come on.

remus: the human centipede. self-explanatory tbh, thomas hates that remus keeps bringing up that movie when he's trying his best to forget it.

janus: ??? someone help me out here, i know that janus would be a fan of the horror genre but idk what movie would be his favorite.

[baepsays]

BTW I AM A FREE MAN EXAMS ARE DONE WOOOOOOO I AM FREEEEEE

[c4toru]

jerking an exhausted nanami off from behind

“s’too much sweetheart— h-hah..” you’ve been overstimulating him for the past 30 minutes, your right hand covered in your husbands slick. he’s laying in between your legs, head resting in the crook of your neck as his hands latch firmly onto your plump thighs.

he had come home from work clearly frustrated with whatever went on inside his workplace, you just wanted to give him somethin’ to cool off after a hard day at work! “nuh uh.. s’not enough, you’re being soo good for me kennnn.” your free hand threads fingers through his silky hair as your sultry voice throws him for a loop. he truly underestimated how filthy his little wife was.

he’s planting delicate kisses on your neck while he’s huffing out shallow breaths, you continue to jerk his lengthy cock, milking whatever he has left inside of him. “f-fuck nngh m’gonna cum again- mmf,” he’s moaning out — pleading even, you’ve put a hand tightly over his mouth, silencing his loud moans. “yeah? you’re being so loudd.. heh- c’mon give it to me kentoo” you giggle, fisting his cock while his leaky tip oozes out beads of pre-cum.

his hands are gripping your thighs while he bucks his hips into your hand, chasing his orgasm. the room is filled with obscene noises and muffled moans, you move your hand from his mouth upwards to his eyes, blinding him. “mmngh- please p-please yeah.. d-don’t stop shiiit!” he groans, tilting his head back as the coil deep in his stomach unwravels.

your hand is jerking him up n down, squeezing him tightly. his cum is pouring out, dripping all over your hand as you focus your strokes onto his sensitive tip. “o. . . oh fuuuuck fuck fuck hnghh ah!” he whines while his cum flows out his slit in large spurts. he’s made a mess all throughout your hand, cum dripping down to his balls.

“feel better big boy..?” you giggle, removing both your hands from his body causing him to wince out of overstimulation. “hah.. almost killed me y’know” he glares at your smitten facial expressions, you roll your eyes before landing a big kiss onto his parched lips. “whateverrr, you liked it!” you reply, only thing on your mind is the next time you’ll be able to help your husband ‘cool off after work’

who knows.. maybe this will become a little routine you guys have

a/n : can you tell i like sub nanami.. ermm ; got lazy at the end loll likes & reblogs appreciated <3 kisses from c4toru !!

[sideeve]

⠀⠀⠀“WHAT?! SEX BAN?!”

﹅ contains ;; gojo satoru , kento nanami , choso kamo , toji fushiguro , ryomen sukuna , geto suguru

﹅ alt title ;; how long the jjk men can withstand the sex ban

﹅ warnings ;; sorta sub!choso , whiny!choso , toji's part is more explicit than the others , this is my first time writing for some of the character so i'm sorry if i didn't describe them well

GOJO SATORU (3 days)

“are you serious?” gojo groans, slumping forwards. gojo watched in disappointment as you crossed your arms, looking away from him. "you did it so you have to pay." for weeks, you've been trying to tell gojo to separate the colors from the whites while doing laundry. him just wanting to get it over with, he dumped them all in the same load, ruining some of your favorite pieces of clothing.

"baby, please. i won't do it again," he begs, kneeling in front of you. but to no avail, you stood your ground.

it only took him 3 days to convince you to wave your white flag, surrendering to his seduction. "you look good in my shirts." gojo's hands caress your hips as he presses his chest to your back. "i would be in my clothes if you would just listen to me." you huff, "i never said i was disappointed." gojo whispered, his hard-on pressing on your ass.

“please. just drop the ‘sex ban’. i said i was sorry.” his lips make a trail of kisses on your neck. you needed him too. whenever he wasn’t around, you would use your toys, trying to not let gojo know you were sexually needy. but they didn’t work.

RYOMEN SUKUNA (not happening!)

no. just no. it’s funny that you even thought about putting that in motion. sukuna was too desperate for sex but never wanted to admit it.

“no,” he stood above, crossing his arms, making himself seem bigger than you (as if he even needed to do that). “you can’t deprive me of sex, woman.” he grunts. “but i can, kuna. that’s what you fail to realize.” you tut, standing up to walk away.

one of his four arms wraps around your waist, throwing you back on the soft surface. "you're not going through with this." he growls in your ear, crawling go top of you.

how dare you even think such a thing? you were his woman, his twin flame. you were the only person he showed the littlest respect to and you decide to do some foolery like this.

he tugs your shirt over your head, your bra coming next. his rough hands slide over your chest. "such beauty..." he whispers. "i'll make sure you never think of this again.

KENTO NANAMI (it was on accident)

his job was taking him away from you. between being a jujutsu sorcerer and a businessman, he couldn't find time to be a partner for you.

due to the lack of attention you were receiving, you became sexually pent up, having the urge to pleasure yourself at the worst times. the feeling of neglect was creeping up on you. some days, you forgot nanami even lived with you.

"love, i'm home." nanami tugs off his tie, tossing it to the side. "i don't know how long i can take of this." he rubs his temples, deeply sighing as he led himself to your shared bedroom. before his hand touched the cold metal knob, he heard your muffled moans and the squelching of your cunt.

he slowly opens the door, peeking in the room before fully entering. "it seems i've neglected you." he watches as you quickly cover yourself as if he hasn't seen you naked many times. he unbuttons the top of his shirt as he saunters to the edge of the bed, removing the covers off you.

"seems like i have some things to make up for."

CHOSO KAMO (not even a day)

"please." he whines, his head resting on your lap as he looks up at you. ever since you shared your first time with choso, he's been going at it with you like rabid dogs. if he wasn't inside you, his head was squished in between his thighs.

"choso, i need a break." you sigh, trying to remove him from off you. his grip on your legs was tight as he put his face in between your thighs, shaking his head. he was acting like he couldn't survive without your cunt somehow being involved.

"i swear, i'll leave you alone after. just please," he whined. you couldn't resist him for much longer. you hated when he got all whiny like a baby. he was spoiled because of you.

"fine." you undo the tie of your sweatpants before his hands swatted yours away, tugging your pants and panties off. "i promised you." he kisses your inner thigh before his tongue began flicking away.

TOJI FUSHIGURO (mans was balls deep in you the second you said it)

"you really think so?" he darkly chuckles, rubbing himself on you. "toji, i'm sorry. please." you whine, wiggling your ass on his cock. "i don't think you are." he teases, stepping away from you.

you whine, following him. "it was a joke." you press your hand on his chest. "did i laugh?" he tilts his head, smirking at you. you sigh, "toji, i'm sorry." you press yourself against him, your chest touching his.

"fuck." you knew he couldn't resist the feeling of your chest on him. it was like heaven to him. "turn around." he grunts, gripping your hips to turn you around, bending you over.

he easily slid inside of you due to how wet you got over time. "don't say stuff you don't mean, baby." he laughs, thrusting into your backside. it was worth it.

GETO SUGURU (you gave in after implementing it)

you wanted to test geto's limits, giving him an extra nnn moment which made you realize something. it was always you initiating sex. "geto, please. i give up." you whine, following him around the house.

he chuckles, "everyone must deal with their consequences, my love." he turns to you. he plastered a sinister smile, taunting you. he saw how much you needed him but he wasn't caving in until he heard you say it.

"i'll do anything. my hand isn't even working anymore." you simper. it was starting to become frustrating seeing how calm he was about all of this as you were suffering.

"i need you! is that what you wanted to hear?" you shout, earning a grin from him. he walks closer to you, his finger tracing your jawline, "why didn't you say that sooner, love?" he chuckles.

[trannykong]

Wanting to upgrade my computer so I can more reliably play games w/ friends is a feasible goal which is awesome ‘cause for the last few years my main goal has been “don’t kill yourself” so having this as a goal shows improvement in that I actually want something other than to simply not die by my own hand

[nochepsicodelica]

"Really?" Toji asks, nudging your shoulder to wake you up, when he gets a good look at your back turned to him. His voice is slightly raspy with sleep, low in volume from its lack of use.

"Mm..." you hum in response, eyes shut as you try to ease back into slumber. You're in a curled position, your limbs wrapped around one of your extra pillows.

"Really?" Toji repeats, pawing at your shoulder, again.

"Yes, Toji," you say, quietly, not understanding what he's talking about, but agreeing just so that you can get back to sleep.

"Be serious, ma. Really?"

"What?" You ask, your tone somewhat laced with irritation, now.

It goes quiet for a few seconds, and then out of nowhere you hear the sheets rustling and the bed feels lighter. You're thinking there's no way he's so upset that he's leaving the room to sleep on the couch. He's the one who seemingly didn't want to cuddle, so you made do with what you had and grabbed a pillow.

You're snapped out of your attempt to go back to sleep when you feel your pillow trying to be yanked out of your arms.

"Let go of it," Toji mutters.

"What-" you grunt as you pull back and attempt to keep the pillow in your grasp. "What are you doing? Get back in bed, Toji." You hold on as tight as you can to the pillow that is slowly being torn out of your hands. "You're not gonna like when I let go and you're flung towards the wall."

"And you're not gonna like the punishment you earn if that happens. Let go of the pillow. Now."

You stare Toji down, holding your own against him. You know this isn't all of his strength and that he can easily rip the pillow out of your clutches, if he really wanted to, but like a dog with something it shouldn't have in its mouth, you're unwilling to do what he says.

"Listen up, doll, if you don't let go in the next five seconds, you're in for it."

"You're the one who pushed me away."

"Five."

"I need to hug something to sleep comfortably."

"Four."

"It's a pillow, Toji," you say, incredulously.

"Three."

"You're gonna take away my source of comfort?"

"Two."

"Toji."

"One. Let go."

"Oh my god," you groan, irritatedly. "Fine." You release the pillow, allowing Toji to take it away. You watch in disbelief as he throws it at the door so you can't get it without leaving the bed. You huff and scoot as close as you comfortably can to your end of the bed without falling off, before he returns to his side.

"Geeet back here." An arm is thrown over your waist, dragging you closer towards the center of the bed, until your back meets his front and his legs are tangled with yours. "Where are you going, huh? Still chasing after that pillow?"

"All of a sudden you wanna be close to me?" You scoff, in disbelief.

"So much attitude," he murmurs. His hand goes under your shirt, gliding up your warm skin to rest on your tummy. "Need me to give it to you all seven days, now?"

"No," you grumble.

"Well, that's what it's sounding like, to me." A kiss is planted on your shoulder. "Fix that tone, mama."

"You're so unfair. You're the one who didn't want to be held, but as soon as you noticed that I wasn't holding you, you took away my source of comfort. What did you want me to do, Toji?"

"I didn't even push you away, I rolled away in my sleep. It doesn't count."

You just hum in response, no longer in the mood to bicker about something so trivial when you could be working on getting back to sleep. A few seconds of silence go by, a spark of tension formed due to your lack of words.

"Ma?" He calls, barely pinching your soft, warm skin.

You sigh, blinking your eyes open. "What?"

"You mad?" His hand flattens on your tummy, rubbing slowly, as he waits for you to respond.

"No," you say, quiet and icy, even in its subtlety.

"That's a lie," Toji says, chuckling. "Come on, doll. What's got you all hot?"

It's hard not to melt into his touch. The kisses he presses to your shoulder only add on to the difficulty.

"Doesn't matter," you say, still trying to remain stoic.

"Yeah, it does. Now, tell me," he insists. "You're really gonna make me beg at almost two in the morning?"

"I was sleeping, and you woke me up 'cause you were butthurt over me hugging a pillow. There. Does that satisfy you?" You respond, and Toji has the audacity to laugh. You want to laugh too, but your stubbornness and pride will not easily allow you to.

"Poor baby," he coos, a mocking lilt to his tone. "You wanna tell me how to make it better?"

"You're an ass," you bite, no sharpness in your tone whatsoever.

"Ooh, I can hear that pout. You want a kiss? 'Cause I can give you one," he whispers, in your ear.

"Shut up," you mumble, trying not to give away the curling of your lips.

"You want a baby in here?" He asks, gently pressing into your stomach with his index finger.

"No! What?" You say, your giggles finally beginning to surface.

"Gotcha. Made you laugh," he says, pressing his face into the nape of your neck. He presses a kiss to the area before squeezing you in his arms, tight enough to make you groan until he eases up. "Now, tell me how to make it better. Come on, ma. It's not good to go to sleep mad."

You sigh, not wanting to argue with this annoying, yet, charming man, anymore. "Just help me get back to sleep," you mumble.

"Oh, I can do that," he says, a low chuckle homing into your ears. His hand lifts your shirt up more, aiming to get more access to your chest.

"Not like that, you perv!" You chide, pinning his hand on your mid-center. "Can you do that thing you always do?" You guide his hand down, until it rests just above your navel. He knows what you mean, and if this is what it takes for you to not be mad at him, he'll do it.

"You're like a baby that needs to be soothed to sleep," Toji murmurs, as he begins caressing your tummy, drawing little shapes on your skin that fuel your tiredness.

You huff out a laugh. "Acting like you don't drool and snore the second I start playing with your hair when you lay your head on my chest."

[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❤︎