#be a sign of something i should have checked out

[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❤︎

[rafesapologist]

wise man ─ jj maybank

summary: jj is suddenly spiraling.

warnings: unedited, angst, plot twist, violence, blood

author's note: this plot is also not the exact same as season 4, just inspired by it so some things have been changed

This was the worst you'd seen JJ spiral in the 12 years you'd known him.

After being gone all night, he finally returned to the chateau, nothing short of maniacal and fuming. He burst through the front door, ignoring the confused looks plastered on his friends' faces. Instead of sparking up his usual conversation about whatever unusual discoveries he'd made, he made a beeline straight to his room.

"Uh, what the hell was that?" John B asked, his voice tinged with perplexity. Everyone exchanged glances, their faces mirroring the same confusion.

"No idea," Pope replied, just as uncertain as the rest of them.

You sat there in silence, a fretful look etched across your face. JJ had left early that morning without saying where he was going or why. You figured it was better not to ask, given the frantic way he’d left. You thought maybe he’d gone off to blow off some steam or handle errands, but based on his state now, you knew something far graver was at play.

You fidgeted with your fingers in your lap while your friends continued tossing around theories about what was wrong with JJ. But you couldn’t focus on their words—your own mind was too busy, running through the worst possibilities. Their voices blended into a distant echo, drowned out by the rush of your thoughts. It wasn’t like JJ to return so heated, especially without acknowledging any of his friends. Especially not you.

"Y/n?" Sarah’s voice cut through the fog of your mind, soft but urgent.

"We thought maybe you should go check on him," she suggested plainly, her eyes fixed on you, the others waiting for your reaction.

You swallowed hard, the lump in your throat making it difficult to speak. Your gaze flickered nervously across the room, desperately trying to read everyone's expressions, searching for some answer in their eyes.

"Why me?" you asked rather anxiously. Everyone exchanged glances, the answer written plainly on their faces: you know why. It was no secret that you and JJ had grown closer over the past two years, teetering on the edge of something more than just friendship. If anyone could get through to him and find out what was wrong, it was most likely going to be you.

You knew they weren't going to let you refuse—partly because they wanted answers, and partly because they were just plain nosy. They were all looking at you expectantly, waiting for you to be the one to break the ice. You sighed, feeling the weight of their pressure as you pushed yourself up off the couch.

"Alright, I'll go talk to him," you muttered, more to yourself than anyone else. You could feel their eyes on you as you made your way toward JJ's room, uncertainty following you with every step.

"Jayj?" You knocked softly, pressing your ear against the door. "It's just me."

The silence on the other side was deafening, so quiet you could practically hear the pounding of your own heartbeat. Seconds stretched into what felt like hours as you stood there, holding your breath, waiting for any sign of acknowledgment—a word, a movement, the creak of the door opening.

But there was nothing. Just that heavy, unbearable silence.

You knocked again, this time with a bit more urgency. The fear of what might be happening on the other side gnawed at you. "JJ, I just need to know that you're okay," you said softly, your voice tinged with a pleading desperation.

You held your breath, straining to listen for any hint of movement. The silence felt like it was swallowing you whole, the anxiety building with each passing second. Just as you were about to turn away, convinced he wasn't going to respond, you heard it—the faint creak of the door opening.

JJ stood in the doorway, his hair disheveled, his eyes clouded and unreadable. He looked like a shadow of himself, the usual spark in his gaze replaced by something darker and more distant. For a moment, neither of you said a word. The silence between you felt heavy, filled with all the things you wanted to ask but didn't know how to.

You shifted uncomfortably under his burning stare, your mind racing to find the right thing to say, but coming up empty. "Are you... okay?" you finally managed to cough out, your voice barely above a whisper. Your eyes flicked away from his, unable to hold his intense gaze for long. You found yourself staring at the floor instead, the tension between you nearly suffocating.

JJ let out a low, sinister chuckle, the kind that made your stomach twist. It was the kind of laugh that told you everything was anything but okay. He ran a hand through his hair, tugging at the ends as if trying to ground himself. The motion was tense, almost frantic.

You looked at him with furrowed brows, the unease settling deep in your chest. Without saying another word, you took a step forward and slipped inside his room, gently shutting the door behind you. The soft click of the latch seemed to echo in the tense silence.

Turning to face him, you found JJ still staring at you, his expression blank but his eyes filled with a storm of emotions he was barely holding back. You took a slow, steady breath, trying to keep your own voice calm despite the worry gnawing at you.

"Tell me what's going on, Jay," you said, your voice gentle but firm. You met his gaze, refusing to look away this time. Whatever it was that had him spiraling, you needed to know. And you weren’t going to leave until he let you in.

"This has to stay between us, Y/n," JJ said, his voice frantic, barely above a whisper. His eyes locked onto yours, the sincerity and desperation in his gaze making your chest tighten. "If I tell you, you can't tell anyone else. Please."

You nodded slowly, swallowing hard. "Okay, I won't," you responded flatly, keeping your tone steady. You didn’t want to push him any further, not when he was so close to the edge.

JJ’s hands trembled slightly as he ran them through his hair again, a shaky exhale escaping his lips. He looked at you like he was searching for something—maybe reassurance, maybe the strength to say what he needed to say.

"Luke isn't my dad," he blurted out, his voice cracking on the last word.

The room fell into a heavy silence. For a moment, you weren't sure if you had heard him correctly. You half-expected him to take it back, to say he’d worded himself wrong. But he didn’t. He just stood there, his shoulders tense, waiting for your reaction.

Your eyes widened as you absorbed the weight of his confession, struggling to process it. "How do you know?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper. You forced yourself to stay calm, fighting to keep the shock from seeping into your tone. The last thing you wanted was to set him off even more.

JJ let out a shaky breath, his eyes darting away, unable to meet yours. It was as if the truth was too heavy to hold onto, slipping from his grasp now that it was out in the open.

"He told me," JJ muttered, his voice breaking. "He told me he wasn't my real dad."

The room felt like it was spinning around you. The shock of his words hit you like a wave, and you struggled to keep your expression neutral, not wanting to add to the storm already brewing inside him. "When did he tell you?" you asked gently, taking a cautious step closer.

"Last night," JJ admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, trying to fight back the tears threatening to spill. "I pushed him. I kept asking why he was like this, why he treated me the way he did. And he just snapped. He said I wasn’t his problem—that I never was. That I wasn’t even his kid.”

You winced at his revelation, the pain of Luke's words hitting you as if they were directed at you. Hearing them through JJ's voice, raw and broken, made it feel like a knife twisting in your chest. Your expression softened, filled with a deep, aching pity. The urge to pull him into your arms, to somehow absorb his pain and take it away, surged inside you.

"Oh, Jay..." you muttered, almost to yourself, your voice barely above a whisper. You reached out a hand but hesitated, unsure if he’d let you touch him in the moment of vulnerability. "This isn’t your fault," you continued, your tone weary. "You were just a kid. None of this is on you."

JJ’s reddened blue eyes shimmered with unshed tears, one almost slipping free before he hastily wiped it away, as if even a single tear would break the fragile control he clung to. He shook his head, almost violently, as though he could shake off the truth itself. His jaw clenched tight, the muscle in his cheek ticking with every beat of his fraying composure.

"It doesn’t matter now," he spat, his voice brittle and sharp, tinged with a bitterness that made your heart twist painfully in your chest. "My whole life has been a lie, Y/n. Everything I thought I knew—it’s all bullshit. The guy I thought was my dad? He’s nothing but an abusive piece of shit who took out his rage on me because he could. And now… I can’t help but wonder if things could’ve been different. If I’d known my real dad, maybe I wouldn’t have spent my whole life thinking I was the problem. That I was the reason I was never good enough."

His words cut through the silence like shattered glass, sharp and jagged. You could see the rage roiling in his eyes—the deep-seated hurt and betrayal, tangled with a rage so fierce it almost felt like it could set the room on fire. His lip quivered, and his hands curled into tight fists at his sides, as though he could crush the pain away with sheer force.

"I hate him," JJ muttered, his voice low, trembling with a fury that seemed to burn him from the inside out. "I hate that he lied to me. That he made me believe I was his son, only to turn around and make me feel like I was nothing. Like I didn’t matter. And now I’m stuck with this... this gaping hole in my chest. All I’ve got are these questions I can’t answer and a childhood I can’t get back. Nothing can change that. No words can erase what I’ve been through."

The anger in his eyes was raw, searing, but behind it, you could see the deep, aching hurt. He was trembling, his whole body taut like a bowstring about to snap. He looked like he was holding back a flood, desperately trying to keep himself from crumbling under the weight of it all.

Your heart ached at the sight of him standing there, so broken yet still holding onto the frayed edges of his pride. You took a step closer, moving slowly as if approaching a wounded animal, afraid that even the smallest movement might push him over the edge. Gently, you placed a hand on his arm, feeling the tremble of his muscles beneath your fingers.

"Jay," you whispered, your voice gentle but laced with a tinge of fear. You could feel the tension radiating off him, like he was barely holding himself together. "I know nothing can change what's been done," you continued softly, your words careful and deliberate. "And Luke... he was a horrible father. But what he did to you—that doesn’t define who you are. If anything, it only shows how fucked up he is, not you."

You watched JJ’s expression falter, the anger dissolving into something far more vulnerable—defeat. For a moment, you feared he might push you away, retreat behind that wall of bravado and anger he often used to protect himself. But instead, he looked at you, his eyes clouded with exhaustion, his shoulders slumping as if the weight of his revelation was finally too much to bear.

“What’s worse,” he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper, “is who my real dad is.”

Your breath hitched, a wave of unease creeping up your spine. You swallowed thickly, bracing yourself for whatever he was about to say, though you knew nothing could have prepared you for this moment. “Who?” you asked, the word slipping out almost involuntarily, like you had to hear it from him to believe it.

JJ’s gaze darted away, his eyes fixing on the floor as if he couldn’t bear to meet yours. He let out a shaky breath, running a hand through his already disheveled hair. “Chandler Groff.”

The name struck you like a lightning bolt, leaving you stunned. Chandler Groff—the man who had been nothing but a shadowy figure in your and your friends' latest troubles. You had met him just once, in that cobweb-covered mansion, where his strange demeanor and intense fixation on the cursed amulet had left you all feeling uneasy. It was hard to believe that the same man pushing so relentlessly for your friends' to complete Wes' mission, the same man who insisted on the curse’s reality, was JJ’s biological father.

Your mouth went dry as you tried to process the new connection. “Chandler Groff?” you repeated, more to yourself than to JJ. The pieces began to click together—the urgency, the obsession with the amulet, his strange behavior after Wes’s sudden death. It was as if a curtain had been lifted, revealing a truth far more twisted than you could have imagined.

“Yeah,” JJ spat bitterly, his eyes filling with a mixture of pain and fury. “The guy who’s been trying to manipulate us into handing over that stupid amulet. The same guy who’s got the cops breathing down our necks over Wes’s death. That’s who my real dad is.”

You took a step closer, feeling the gravity of JJ’s emotions pull you in, the betrayal and anguish radiating off him like a palpable force. Your chest tightened at the sight of him, broken and raw in a way you had never seen before. “I can’t believe this,” you whispered, your voice thick with sorrow. “I’m so sorry, Jay.”

JJ’s face twisted in frustration, his jaw clenching as he shook his head vehemently. “No,” he snapped, his tone sharp but wavering. “No more sorries. I don’t want your pity or anyone else's. I’m done thinking about it, done feeling sorry for myself.” His voice cracked, revealing the thin line between his anger and despair. He took a deep breath, his fists curling at his sides as he forced himself to look at you.

“We’ll find that bastard,” he continued, his voice low but filled with a burning resolve. “Chandler’s up to something, and whatever it is, it can’t be good. He’s been playing us from the start. All that crap about Wes’s mission and the curse—it was all just a setup. We need to figure out what he really wants before he makes his next move.”

You nodded, a determined look crossing your face. “Then that’s what we’ll do. We’ll get to the bottom of this together, Jay. Whatever Chandler’s planning, he’s not going to get away with it."

For a fragment of a moment, JJ's expression eased. He took in a deep sigh as though your words breathed life back into him, exemplified by the way his fists unclenched themselves and the veins in his neck disappeared.

"I'm sorry if I worried you earlier," he mumbled an apology, his voice full of regret, "I wasn't thinking. As soon as I heard the news I.. I just saw red." His confession was candid, as if he was slowly coming to terms with everything he had just learned in the past 24 hours.

You took a sigh of relief mentally, giving JJ a faint smile of approval. "It's okay, I don't blame you for it. I think I would've done the same," you reassured with buoyancy in your voice, "maybe worse."

JJ replied to your sentiment with a faint chuckle and a tenuous head shake, appreciating your wit in the wake of the chaos plaguing his life.

"Y/n?" JJ muttered, his voice nearly mute.

"Yeah?"

"I don't know what I'd do without you. I don't think I could handle this if you weren't here." He admitted with of tone of gravitas that you had never heard from him before. You knew that what he was saying was vulnerable for him to confess, which made your heart flutter in your chest.

"I don't think I deserve that much credit," you joked, trying to break up the tension that filled the room between the two of you. You wanted to be raw and honest with him, to tell him you look for him in every man you meet, but it didn't feel like the right time to do so. Not when he was still processing the news about his father.

"You don't even realize how much you do for all of us, for me." This was a side of JJ you hadn't seen much before, maybe in glimpses, but never fully. He was standing in front of you, his eyes still adorned with sorrow but masked by the veneration he had for you. You felt small under his burning gaze but he held his eye contact, although you swore he secretly knew how you were crumbling beneath his stare.

"Jay—"

"Will you just stay with me tonight?" JJ softly implored, his desperate eyes making it hard for you to say 'no'.

"But what if they ask why I was in here all night? You know they're nosy."

"Let them ask," he shrugged, lying down on the bed next to you, "c'mon. Just for tonight."

He was convincing, but it didn't help that you already had a burning penchant for him. You stood there for a moment as you took in his figure, tragically beautiful and maimed by malice in an unjustly harsh life. His eyes felt haunting to look at as they painted a picture of the grief he so desperately tried to run away from, but he couldn't hide it from you.

"Okay," you silently replied.

You slid off your shoes and delicately climbed your way next to the empty spot in the bed next to JJ. A pair of cerulean eyes stayed glued to you as you nuzzled carefully under the covers. You dare not look over as he watched you in fear that you would make things awkward if you acknowledged his glance.

Once you felt situated, you closed your eyes in hopes that you would quickly fall asleep and get through the night, but before you could drift off you felt an arm drape over your waist and pull you in. JJ gently placed your head into his chest, letting you feel the beating of his heart in the dead of silence. You didn't move. You wanted to take in the moment and capture it in your mind, knowing that one day you'd look back at where you were and admire whatever happened right then.

—

"Okay, this is a lot to take in," Pope interrupted, his voice breaking the heavy silence that had enveloped the room. "But we need to stay focused. Chandler’s part in all this—his connection to JJ—it complicates everything. We can't just let it slide."

You looked over at JJ, his frustration and sarcasm evident in his posture as he leaned back against the couch, arms crossed over his chest. "Tell me about it," he scoffed, his tone sharp, the sarcasm almost like a shield to deflect the rawness of what he had just shared.

Kiara leaned forward, her brow furrowed in thought as she looked between you and JJ. "So what do you suggest we do?" she asked, her voice steady, but the urgency was clear. "Because this... this whole thing is a mess."

JJ sat back against the couch, running a hand through his disheveled hair as he stared at the floor, his eyes distant. "I don't know," he muttered, frustration creeping into his tone. "I just... I need answers. We all do. Chandler Groff—he’s been playing us this whole time. And I don’t care what it takes, we’re going to find out what the hell he really wants from us."

Kiara exchanged a glance with Pope, then turned her gaze back to JJ, her expression serious. "We have to be careful. If we push too hard, we could end up walking right into his trap."

JJ nodded slowly, his jaw clenched, the tension radiating off him. "I know. But we need to find out what he's planning before he fucks us over." His voice was tight with anger and desperation, as if the weight of everything was finally hitting him.

Kiara gave a sharp nod, her expression resolute. "We can’t let him get away with whatever this is. But we need a plan. We can’t just go in blind."

Pope crossed his arms, clearly deep in thought. "Agreed. If we’re gonna do this, we need to stay one step ahead of him. Maybe we start by finding out more about Chandler’s connection to that amulet. The whole curse thing doesn't add up."

You looked between them, your mind racing. "And we need to figure out who else he’s been talking to, who’s been helping him. We might have enemies we don’t even know about yet."

JJ glanced at you, his eyes softer now, but still burning with that same fury. "Exactly. We need answers, and we need them fast." His tone dropped as he added, "I don’t know how much longer I can keep pretending everything's normal."

"So we'll go find him," John B stated flatly, joining in on the commotion. His voice was steady, but there was an underlying edge to it that matched the intensity in the room.

JJ looked at him, eyes narrowing with determination. "Yeah. We find Chandler, get answers, and make him tell us exactly what the hell he’s after. No more games."

"Alright," Pope sighed, shaking his head but with a hint of resolve creeping in. "Then let’s do this."

He stood up, adjusting his shirt, the weight of the decision hanging in the air. Kiara let out a quiet breath, glancing at each of her friends as if to make sure they were all on the same page.

"Alright," she said, her voice firm despite the tension. "We stick to the plan—find Chandler, get answers, and stay smart about it."

JJ, now more determined than ever, stood up, the raw emotion in his eyes still burning, but his posture more focused than before. "We’ll go in, we’ll make him talk, and we’re walking out with answers. No one’s leaving empty-handed." His tone was cold, cutting through the room like a sharpened blade.

John B, always the one to lighten the mood, gave a half-grin, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. "Let’s just hope Chandler doesn’t decide to pull some crazy stunt. I’d prefer a calm confrontation over a full-out brawl."

You couldn’t help but chuckle lightly at John B’s attempt to inject some humor into the moment. But as you glanced at JJ, you saw the weight of everything he was carrying on his shoulders, and it was clear that this wasn’t just another adventure to him. This was personal.

"We’ve got your back, Jay," you said, your voice soft but steady. "We’re in this together."

JJ looked over at you, a quiet acknowledgment in his eyes. "I know. Thanks."

—

The old house loomed in front of you, its once grand façade now cloaked in shadows. The mansion, still as eerie as ever, seemed to exhale a quiet menace. You stood there on the porch, a knot of anticipation tightening in your chest. Beside you, JJ's presence felt like a comfort, but the tension radiating off him was evident.

He gave the door a pointed look before knocking again, this time louder, more forceful, as if demanding an answer rather than simply waiting for one. It felt like an eternity before you heard the shuffling of footsteps from inside.

The door remained firmly shut, and just when you thought Chandler might not answer, the heavy locks rattled. The door creaked open, revealing Chandler standing in the doorway, his face unreadable. His cold blue eyes scanned you both for a moment, then his gaze flickered to the group standing a few steps behind you.

"Why are you here?" His voice was low, measured, though there was an edge to it that made it clear he wasn’t exactly thrilled by the visit.

JJ didn’t waste any time. His voice came out flat but with an undercurrent of something darker, something more urgent. "We need to talk. There's things we need to ask you about."

Chandler's eyes flickered over you both, sizing you up, his lips curling into something like a half-smile. He didn’t speak right away, his gaze lingering just a little too long, as if trying to decide whether to let you in or slam the door shut. The silence stretched, thick and suffocating, before he finally stepped back, motioning for you to enter.

“Alright,” Chandler said, his voice low and gravelly. “But we do this inside. The last thing I need is anyone overhearing this conversation.”

You exchanged a glance with JJ, his eyes full of fire and frustration. He wasn’t backing down, and neither were you. Together, you stepped past Chandler into the dimly lit interior of the mansion. The air inside was heavy with dust, and the smell of old wood and stale air lingered. The house was just as you remembered—huge, but strangely empty, like something had been hollowed out long ago.

“What do you two want?” Groff asked, his gaze shifting to the both of you.

JJ didn’t give him a chance to say anything else. He took a step forward, his jaw tight with suppressed fury. “Are you my real dad?” he asked, the words coming out sharp, cutting through the silence like a knife.

Chandler’s expression flickered for a moment, a brief flash of something unreadable crossing his face. He didn’t immediately answer. Instead, he stood there, a wall of silence between them.

“Are you?” JJ repeated, his voice growing louder, insistent. “Are you my real dad?”

The words hung in the air, heavy and suffocating. For a moment, the world seemed to stop. JJ stood frozen, his eyes wide with disbelief and anger, his fists clenching at his sides as if the truth were too much to process.

JJ shook his head, almost in disbelief, his voice tight with emotion. “Why didn’t you tell me?” he demanded, stepping closer, his chest rising and falling with barely contained rage. “Why didn’t you just tell me the truth? Why all the games, all the lies?”

Chandler didn’t seem to flinch. He took a step back, crossing his arms over his chest. “It wasn’t the right time,” he said coldly, his tone flat. “And, quite frankly, you wouldn’t have been ready to hear it.”

JJ’s face twisted with anger, his eyes flashing with hurt. “You’re fucking unbelievable,” he muttered under his breath, the weight of years of manipulation and deceit crashing down on him.

You stepped closer, watching the exchange unfold, feeling a mixture of sympathy and anger for both of them. “So this whole time, you’ve been using us?” you asked, your voice low and edged with disbelief. “This whole thing—Wes, the amulet—was all part of your plan?”

Chandler’s gaze sharpened, his expression unreadable. “Plans don’t happen overnight,” he said smoothly, a slight smile tugging at his lips. “Everything has its purpose. And now you’re part of that purpose, whether you like it or not.”

JJ looked like he was about to explode, his body shaking with barely contained rage. But instead, he took a deep breath, forcing the words out through clenched teeth. “We’re done being your puppets. Whatever your plan is, we’re stopping it.”

Chandler’s smile widened, but it was thin, like a wolf’s grin. “You think you can stop it?” he said, his voice dripping with arrogance. “You don’t even know what you’re up against.”

“We’ll find out,” JJ snapped. “And when we do, you’re going to wish you never dragged us into this.”

"Not so fast," Chandler warned, stepping forward, his eyes never leaving JJ’s. "You have something I want."

JJ didn’t flinch. His blue eyes were burning with defiance, his chest rising and falling with quick breaths. “I’m not handing over shit, Groff,” he growled, voice low and filled with venom. “You want something, you’re gonna have to earn it.”

Chandler’s lips curled into a cold smile, his posture never wavering. He looked almost pleased with the reaction. “Oh, I don’t think you fully understand yet, JJ. I’m not asking for permission. I’m telling you—you will give it to me.”

There was a brief pause, the tension in the room so thick it could be cut with a knife. Chandler’s gaze flicked to you, then back to JJ, as if trying to gauge the next move.

"You have no idea what you're dealing with," Chandler continued, his tone dangerously calm. "That amulet you’re holding onto? It’s not just some trinket. It’s mine. And I’ll do whatever it takes to get it back."

Before you could even process what was happening, Chandler’s hand shot out like lightning, grabbing you by the wrist with an iron grip. The surprise hit you all at once as he yanked you forward, his movements swift and precise. Your breath caught in your throat, panic flooding your senses.

You struggled instinctively, but Chandler’s hold was unyielding, his fingers digging into your skin as he jerked you closer. “Stay where you are,” he ordered, his voice cold and commanding.

JJ took a step forward, eyes widening in shock as he lunged to get closer. “Let her go, Chandler!” His voice cracked with a mixture of rage and fear, but Chandler didn’t release his grip.

“You think I’m going to play fair?” Chandler sneered, his hand moving to his jacket pocket with casual menace. “No. You’re going to give me what I want, or she dies.”

You barely had time to process the words before Chandler’s knife was suddenly there, pressed against your throat. The cold metal against your skin made you freeze, heart hammering in your chest. You could feel the danger now, the raw, visceral threat. Chandler’s voice was a whisper in your ear, almost playful in its cruelty.

“Hand it over, or I’ll carve her up right here.”

Your pulse thundered in your ears, and you could barely breathe. Everything around you seemed to slow down, the tension rising with every passing second. Chandler’s grip on you tightened, the knife at your throat a constant, terrifying reminder of how quickly everything had shifted from a confrontation to something far worse.

“JJ,” you gasped, your voice trembling despite yourself, “don’t... don’t do it. Just—”

JJ’s eyes flicked to yours, the pain and conflict written plainly across his face. He looked as if every muscle in his body was screaming at him to fight, to do anything but give in, but there was no room for error now, not with the knife pressed so dangerously close to your skin. He swallowed hard, his chest rising and falling in shallow, rapid breaths.

“Okay, I’ll give it to you,” JJ finally agreed, his voice barely more than a whisper, each word sounding like it was being dragged from his throat. His hand reached into his pocket, pulling out the small, worn bag that held the amulet. He held it up, fingers trembling as he slowly raised it for Chandler to see.

“No, JJ!” you protested, your voice a strangled cry, tears welling in your eyes. The thought of him handing it over to Chandler, of giving in to the man who had already caused so much pain, twisted something deep inside of you. But the sharp edge of the blade pressed harder against your throat, silencing you, forcing you into a terrifying stillness.

Chandler’s lips curled into a satisfied smirk, his eyes gleaming with a sinister triumph. “Good choice,” he cooed mockingly, his grip on you tightening as he stretched his other hand out towards JJ. The sight of him, so confident, so sure he had won, made your blood boil despite the fear gripping your heart.

JJ's hand trembled as he extended the bag towards Chandler. His eyes stayed locked on yours, searching your face for any sign of fear or pain. Your breath hitched when Chandler’s cold fingers grazed the bag, snatching it away. He wasted no time, pushing you forward with a force that sent you stumbling straight into JJ’s arms.

You collided into his chest, his embrace closing around you in an instant. His body curled protectively over yours, shielding you from Chandler's reach as he held you close. “It’s okay,” JJ whispered into your ear, his voice ragged with relief. “I’ve got you.” He didn’t even look back at Groff, all his focus on you, as if the danger had passed the moment you were in his grasp.

But behind him, Chandler's expression shifted as he opened the bag and peered inside. The smirk on his face vanished, replaced by a scowl of rage. The amulet wasn’t there. It was nothing but a ruse. He’d been tricked, and it didn’t take him long to realize who had played him.

With a deadly calm, Chandler called out, “JJ.”

The sound of his name, dripping with cold malice, made JJ's spine straighten. He pulled back just enough to look at you, a fleeting moment of confusion in his eyes. Then, he turned around, his gaze narrowing as he faced Chandler.

But it was already too late. In one swift motion, Chandler lunged forward. The blade gleamed in the dim light for a split second before it drove into JJ’s stomach. The impact was sickening, a hollow thud as the knife sank deep.

Your scream tore through the air, raw and filled with terror. JJ’s eyes widened in shock, his breath hitching as the pain hit him like a wave. He staggered, his arms instinctively clutching his abdomen as blood started to stain his shirt, dark and spreading fast.

Chandler’s face was a mask of fury, his hand still gripping the hilt of the knife. He twisted it slightly, a cruel sneer curling his lips. “You thought you could fool me?” he spat, his voice dripping with venom. “Did you really think I wouldn’t notice?”

JJ’s knees buckled, his body sagging as the strength drained out of him. You lunged forward, catching him before he could collapse completely, your hands desperately pressing over his wound in a futile attempt to stop the bleeding.

“JJ, stay with me,” you begged, your voice breaking as you looked up at him, tears streaming down your face. His blue eyes were clouded with pain, but he managed to meet your gaze, a weak, rueful smile tugging at his lips.

“I’m sorry,” he choked out, his voice barely a whisper. “I thought... I thought I could protect you.”

You shook your head, your hands trembling as you held him. “No, no, JJ, don’t say that. You’re going to be okay. We’ll get you help. Just stay with me, please.”

Chandler ran off into the darkness, leaving you holding onto JJ as he slumped against you. Panic surged through your veins, and you looked down at his wound, your hands trembling as you pressed down in a desperate attempt to stop the bleeding. The warm, sticky blood coated your fingers, and you could feel his pulse weakening beneath your touch.

"This isn’t happening," you whispered frantically, shaking your head in denial. Your wide-open eyes darted around the room, searching for anything you could use to help. "No, no, no," you muttered under your breath, your voice thick with desperation.

You glanced up at JJ’s face, his eyes half-lidded and unfocused, the pain written all over his features. “Stay with me, Jay,” you begged, tears streaming down your cheeks as you cradled his head in your hands.

"John B! Pope!" you screamed, your voice raw as it echoed through the old house. The sound reverberated off the walls, mixing with the eerie silence that followed Chandler’s exit. The urgency in your call felt like a knife in your chest, twisting deeper with each passing second.

JJ's voice was barely a whisper, strained and breathless as he looked up at you, his eyes half-lidded but still so intensely blue. “Y/N, I never got to tell you… but I love you.” His words came out fragile, like he was using his last bit of strength just to say them. The raw, unfiltered emotion behind them made your heart lurch in your chest.

Your breath hitched, the tears you’d been holding back finally breaking free, streaming down your cheeks in an unrelenting flow. You shook your head vehemently, the desperation clear in your voice as you clutched his face between your trembling hands. “No, JJ, no," you choked out, your voice thick with emotion. "This isn’t what’s happening. You’re not going to leave me. You can’t—” You could barely get the words out, your chest heaving with sobs.

His gaze softened as he looked at you, his lips curling into the faintest of smiles despite the pain. He reached up weakly, his hand brushing against your cheek, wiping away a tear with his thumb. “It’s okay,” he murmured, his voice a hushed whisper, barely audible over the pounding of your heart. “I just needed you to know.”

You leaned into his touch, your tears wetting his hand as you pressed your forehead against his. “Don’t do this, Jay. Don’t say goodbye. We still have so much to do, so many plans. You promised me we'd get out of this together.”

He closed his eyes for a moment, as if soaking in your presence, before opening them again, his gaze full of a love and longing that broke your heart into a million pieces. “You’re my everything, Y/N,” he admitted, his voice cracking with the weight of his words. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner.”

“You’re going to tell me every day for the rest of our lives,” you insisted, your voice pleading as you squeezed his hand tightly, trying to ground him, to keep him here with you. “You hear me? You’re staying with me. I can’t do this without you, Jay. Please, don’t leave me.”

He gave a small, shaky nod, like he was trying to hold on, but you could see the light starting to fade from his eyes, the pain overtaking him. You felt his grip on your hand slacken slightly, and it sent a jolt of pure terror through you.

“No! No, stay with me, JJ. Please!” you begged, pressing your forehead against his, your sobs turning into broken, gasping cries. You could barely see through your tears, your entire world narrowing down to just the two of you, in this moment, as you clung to him with everything you had.

You shook him frantically, your hands pressing against his chest, trying to force his heart to beat beneath your trembling fingers. It felt like you were grasping at the wind, like the very essence of him was slipping through your hands. The sticky warmth of his blood covered your skin, a horrifyingly vivid reminder that time was running out, slipping away with every breathless second.

“JJ, wake up,” you begged, your voice raw and broken, cracking under the weight of your anguish. It felt like you were underwater, drowning in the reality of what was happening, each sob choked out like it was your last. His face, once so full of life, now looked pale and ghostly, his blue eyes shut as if he was already slipping away to someplace you couldn’t reach.

“You can’t die here. You can’t leave me!” The words tore from your throat in a strangled scream, filled with a desperation that felt like it could rip you apart from the inside. Your hands pumped his chest with a rhythm that faltered, each push driven by a frantic hope, a silent prayer, as if sheer willpower could bring him back. Tears blurred your vision, but you couldn’t stop, wouldn’t let yourself believe that this was the end.

You could feel the life draining out of him, like the color bleeding from a watercolor painting washed away by rain. His skin grew colder beneath your touch, and you leaned over him, pressing your forehead to his, your tears mingling with the blood staining his shirt.

“Please, JJ, please,” you whispered, your voice breaking into a thousand tiny shards, each one sharper than the last. It was a fragile, fractured sound, more a plea to the universe than a call to him. “I need you,” you breathed, pressing your trembling lips to his forehead, the coldness of his skin like ice against your warmth. “I need you to stay, for me.”

The room felt like it was caving in, the air heavy with an unbearable weight. Your hands pressed against his wound, blood seeping through your fingers, warm and sticky, like the life was slipping away from him and into the cracks between your knuckles. The world outside seemed distant, muted, as if it no longer mattered. It was just you and him, suspended in a moment that felt like it was slipping away, stolen by time’s unforgiving hands.

Tears blurred your vision, painting the scene in watercolors of red and black, smearing his face into something unrecognizable. You choked on a sob, the sound raw and ragged, your body trembling with the force of your desperation. “JJ, don’t do this,” you pleaded, your words spilling out in a rush, your voice laced with a pain so deep it felt like it might consume you. “You can’t leave me. Not now. Not like this.”

His chest barely moved, the rise and fall so faint it was almost imperceptible, like the flicker of a candle about to be snuffed out. His eyes fluttered, half-open, clouded with pain, but still searching for you, trying to hold on to whatever sliver of light he could find in your gaze. The silence between you was deafening, filled with everything you wished you had said, every moment you’d taken for granted.

“Please,” you sobbed, your voice cracking, raw and exposed. “I love you. I love you so much, JJ.” Your words were a desperate confession, one you wished you’d said a thousand times before but had only found the courage to say now, when it felt like it was already too late. Your fingers curled into his shirt, clinging to him like he was the only thing anchoring you to this world.

You could feel him slipping away, the light in his eyes dimming like the last rays of a setting sun. His lips parted, a shallow breath escaping, but no words came out. Just a faint, ghostly smile, the kind you’d only ever seen when he was hiding something, some quiet secret he held close to his chest. It was haunting, the way he looked at you, like he was already seeing something beyond this world.

“No,” you whispered fiercely, shaking your head as if you could defy reality itself. “You’re not dying here. Not now. Not like this.” Your hands cupped his face, willing him to stay, to hold on just a little longer. But his eyes slipped shut, the last vestiges of life draining from his features, leaving behind a stillness that was more terrifying than anything you’d ever faced.

Before you could utter another word, the door burst open, and your friends rushed in, their faces twisted into expressions of pure horror. They stopped short, frozen by the scene before them—JJ’s lifeless body cradled in your arms, blood pooling beneath him, and your own face streaked with tears. The room fell into an eerie silence, filled only with the echo of your sobs, the kind that tore from deep within your chest like a howl into the void. It was a silence laced with a devastating realization, a shared understanding that this was Groff's doing—that he had orchestrated this final, cruel act.

You couldn’t bring yourself to look up, couldn’t face the shock and grief in their eyes. Instead, you pressed your forehead against JJ’s, as if in some desperate, final attempt to connect with whatever piece of him might still linger. Your body shook violently, your cries filling the space, haunting and raw. It was the sound of a heart breaking, of a love being ripped away far too soon.

"JJ," you whimpered, your voice barely a whisper, a prayer to whatever force could undo this nightmare. You ran your fingers through his hair, your touch gentle, like you were afraid to break whatever fragile illusion still held him close. His skin was already turning cold, the warmth you had known and loved fading away, replaced by a chilling emptiness.

You kissed his cheek, your lips trembling against his skin, tasting the salt of your own tears. The bitter taste of grief washed over you as you whispered, "I love you," words you had said so many times before but had never felt this heavy, this final. The love of your life lay still in your arms, his spirit gone, leaving behind only a hollow shell.

The others stood by helplessly, tears streaming down their own faces as they bore witness to your agony, each of them shattered in their own way. But none of them dared to interrupt. This moment, this unbearable pain, belonged to you. It was a sorrow too deep for words, a loss that hung heavy in the air, sinking into the very bones of the room.

You held onto him tighter, refusing to let go, as if by sheer will alone you could pull him back from the abyss. But deep down, you knew it was too late. JJ was gone, and you were left with the echoes of what could have been, the cruel, jagged edges of a future that would never come to pass.

[batboyblog]

Hey, do you have any organizing tips for rural/suburban (rust belt) areas? I keep seeing posts about how we all need to build community for the coming 4 years, but, like, how? I join what existing groups I can (including non-political things like DnD), but there’s not many considering my citys population has declined every year for like 60 years. There’s no pride group in my county, nor is there a DSA presence. I do what I can running a political group, but I’m not the most charismatic and can’t seem to get people to show up regularly. (I’ve seen you talk about canvassing and dude- mad respect. I suck at it, even though I’ve knocked doors for years)

you'll have to forgive me, I'm a little sick today, low grade fever, so if I'm a little on the fuzzy side thats why.

first off being consistent and organized is far far FAR more important than charisma when it comes to organizing and leading any kind of group

any ways right now there's a lot of phone banking to "cure" ballots, chasing people who cased provisional ballots, there are a lot of very close House and Senate races that may well come down to these ballots, everyone can check Mobilize for info on that

from there I'd say look up your state's Democratic Party and there should be county parties for every county in the state, start going volunteer for whatever needs doing you'll be amazed by how a willingness to say yes will push you up the party, I'd also look to see if there's a local PFLAG chapter, that might be a jumping off spot for organizing a local pride

I always push people to look into Run For Something you might find a candidate running in your area you can help and support, or you can make calls and help local progressives all over the place, also check out the NDTC which is focused on training, while a lot of its stuff is for candidates it also has stuff for volunteers and people helping on campaigns, I'd sign up for Swing Left, Sister District, and MoveOn.Org

hope any of that was helpful.

[georgiapeach30513]

Peach! Mrs. Pasta here...checking in for the second time in a few days!

Normally I just lurk in and smile to myself when I see your posts and banters with your followers. But tonight I just couldn't resist...

Ramen, bless him, is getting really good at the non-specific, vague-turnaround, deflective answers to personal questions! I'm impressed.

Also...Nobody keeps their hands more to themselves than Ramen does when he's around a lot of salty things. Is he on a low-sodium diet? Is that why he exercises such great self-control when it comes to these things? TBF, he's very gentlemanly when it comes to being around women, especially costars/colleagues.

I can see (most) people on here are either tired, upset, tired, over it, or a combination of both. I can understand that, especially for the mods that run these blogs. I notice that for a lot of people, separation of professional and personal for their favorite celebrity can be a difficult task. I don't blame anyone for feeling that way, it can be hard to "not think about THAT" when you just want to enjoy "THIS". I will say this though.

Something I have found time and again to be true, is that IF something/someone/someplace is meant for you, things will fall into place. If something is NOT meant for you, no matter what you do, things tend to fall apart. You can try and put it back together, but then something else falls. This has happened to me personally recently, where I was in a situation where I wanted to make something work because I thought I had no other choice and I didn't really want to rock the boat further and go searching for something else. Unfortunately, the more I tried, the more I compromised and kept on staying, the worse it got. I'd fix one thing, another would break. I'd get over one hurdle, another inconvenience would pop up. Finally, I decided to take matters in my own hands and started actually listening to what the universe was trying to guide me towards. It was very hard for me to do this, as I'm more of a logical/rational person, than a spiritual one (I don't really like reading signs or feeling energies to tell me what to do)...But I tried a different approach, and started asking the universe, "If this isn't right, what should I do?" And I would listen and wait, and then tangible things would happen, and then I started making different decisions and taking different approaches. Almost immediately, things started changing for the better. I'm in a much better place now (figuratively and literally).

Just some food for thought: Let things play out. They will. And hindsight is always 20/20. Think about it. I believe Anne's blog has a library that can be helpful for those interested. If all else fails, keep coming to Jen's blog where she posts stories, baking, and general hilarity to keep everyone's spirits up. You are truly a beautiful soul, Miss GeorgiaPeach! <3

Mrs. Pasta! Welcome back. Clearly, your presence has been much needed this past week. Which I do say that there is a reason one shouldn’t consume too much sodium. I suppose were all bloated, and now need to fast.

Ramen is quite smart. He’s playing it coy and vague, non-definite answers. He’s doing good, despite a quick facial change with some questions. It’s funny to watch.

For someone that is quite a gentleman and claims to love PDA his hands do seem quite to himself. But it is a family movie after all, wouldn’t want to be too obvious, I suppose.

I think a lot of people are tired, and more so tired of ongoing arguments that suck the life out of the fandom, much like an overly salted diet. So maybe it’s just the influx of salt that has everyone red in the face? But this is why I implore anyone to curate the space that you want. Filter tags, block blogs, unfollow blogs, create the space that you watch to see with personalities that jive well with your own.

The universe is quite a tricky lady. She usually makes way for things that are for you. Usually when you try to fit a square peg in a round hole, you’re met with resistance. You can sit there, and smile you’re doing it, but others around you will eventually be able to see that you are in fact creating a bigger problem with an impossible task. I’m glad you were able to get to a better place once you listened, and were aware that what you’re forcing isn’t for you.

I do think that hindsight is 20/20. There always seems to be something poking around that pops up at the last minute. Eventually things either fall into place, or you’ve created a big mess. @anneslibrary is a great well of information. And of course @annislittleshopofhorrors herself is a peach in her own right. You are a beautiful soul from the inside out as well, Mrs. Pasta. Take care, and never feel afraid to pop on by when you can.

[korrasera]

Like I said, this is a good example. When you're arrogant you tend to think you know everything despite being uninformed about the topic you're talking about. People who are like this also tend to either react really poorly or retreat into their talking points when called on it.

As an example, aside from the fact that Israel isn't a vassal state just being obvious on its face, you can also look at that talking point up there about Biden sending smaller amounts to bypass Congress, which is just straight up not what happened.

It's because people like the above don't understand what the congressional bypass is or how it works.

The US sends aid to Israel every year. Period. We've done it since the country was founded. The power to send that aid, in the form of military sales, is invested in the office of the US president. Congress has a 15 day period to review such sales before they go through. If Congress wants to block the sale, they can pass a joint resolution to do so, but no Congress ever has.

In the case of what Biden did, he didn't choose smaller amounts to bypass Congress, he used a waiver that's also part of his powers to send aid in situations where it's deemed a special case, something Biden did to provide aid to both Israel and Ukraine. If he'd sent smaller amounts of aid he wouldn't have needed the waiver at all because Congress wouldn't even get a chance to review it.

So, as you can see:

These arguments try to convince you of is that Biden is some sort of genocidal cowboy that's bypassing the checks and balances meant to keep deals like this from moving forward. That's not just propaganda, it's not just false, it also demonstrates that the person making the argument doesn't know anything they're talking about.

Also, this aid is the aid that was delayed, by years, by Biden, as a political poker chip.

Oh, sorry Bibi, we approved the aid but you know it's just going to take forever and also why don't you listen to all of the military advisors we sent over telling you that you should stay the hell out of Gaza?

As an example, the last time that I know of where the US did something even remotely like this was when Reagan banned the sale of cluster munitions to Israel because the Israeli government had been using them to strike civilian targets. And apparently even Reagan had a limit.

Is the US complicit in Israel's genocide? Absolutely. Unfortunately, it's just part of being an American. We've been fighting constantly to tear out the authoritarian warmongering parts of our society and this is as far as we've gotten.

Is the US a fascist genocidal state? No, not literally and not figuratively. We are very much a people working to build a better tomorrow, built on unthinkable bloodshed and crimes against humanity.

We have not yet won that fight, but it is absolutely going in our direction, and the work the Biden administration has put in to oppose Netanyahu's government is a sign that it's gotten better. His administration is the first one that's taken meaningful steps to rehabilitate our foreign policy towards Israel.

It really sucks that all of that progress is going to be lost when Trump takes power, but we've been knocked down by setbacks before. We're not done fighting.

Don't listen to propaganda. Don't let people tell you it's hopeless. They're just scared and looking for you to be scared with them.

Be brave instead. Fight.

We tried to warn you, and you wouldn’t listen to us over the sound of your own self-righteousness. You must be so proud of yourselves.

[gemharvest]

Hmmmmm I might be developing facial hair. Which like, the gender euphoria of that aside, I might have to bring this up to my mom cuz idk. Idk if this is a sign of something I should have checked out or not.

[thefirstknife]

The destiny reddit is an absolute warzone right now. Do yourself a favor and avoid it like the plague

Oh no. I saw a lot of negative comments overall and while I understand where they're coming from, I think at some point, some people should calm down.

I mentioned some of the issues I had with the campaign and I stand by them, I think some of this stuff definitely felt rushed and that we're sorely lacking basic information to understand the plot. But I can get over that if it's fairly reasonable to believe we'll find out eventually (and it is) and if the rest is solid. And to me, the rest is solid.

I know people have issues with strand taking too much time from the campaign, and I get it. But also to me, strand being such a huge part of the story made the campaign feel more personal and invested for US, the Guardian. To me, that was the point. I do wish the campaign was a bit more expansive, perhaps another mission or two would've been perfect imo. An extra mission could've delved into the history of the Veil and what it means. It's a legitimate complaint that I share, but also some people online have been expressing it... rather explosively.

I'd also add a counter to my own complaint; when it comes to the plot about the Veil and the Witness and the Traveler, it's clear that this isn't the end; it's a setup. Everything that happened here we can learn about retroactively in a month or six months or a year. It may suck because it's content for THIS expansion so we want to know now, but it CAN be explained later.

But strand? Strand can't. We have to learn it NOW. We can't get strand and then have a really cool personal discovery quest about mastering it in a month or six or a year. So if they didn't have time to fit another two missions into the campaign, it's fairly obvious what is being cut.

Is it clumsy? Yeah, definitely. I definitely feel like some crucial information has been deliberately cut away and removed, possibly waiting to be delivered during the year to prepare us for The Final Shape. I'm not a fan of that method, I would prefer a solid chunk of lore about the current story to be delivered in the current story. If anything, then for clarity. Especially because the majority of the players will not be waiting around to read 15 lore tabs during the year to figure out what's the Veil. A major expansion should be self-contained.

But for the love of god, some of what I've seen online is basically some players acting like we have E.T. (1982) on our hands. Like, I agree that there's issues and I've spoken about them and I can do it again at any point, but at the end of the day, I had fun and the good stuff was good. Literally my only true complaint is that it feels like a mission or two are missing. Pretty much every problem I have would've been solved with that. But that's an unknown amount of extra time of work so I cannot make a comment whether they could've done that or not. I will assume they couldn't so they didn't. Generally don't like assuming that they did it maliciously because then we go into dev harrassment territory.

[momentomori24]

My mom friend turned out to be an anti-abortion, religious conservative trump supporter NOOOOOOOO

[vaugarde]

really not beating the possible ocd allegations tonight when looking at past behavior specifically

[hyperfixation-or-death]

random thing i just noticed:

Episode 1: "Romane would never do that. Not without her sister, anyway. Never." - Vanessa, about the possibility of Romane having run away.

Episode 6: "And, listen. If you send him away, I'm going too." - Sam, about his parents' plans to send Victor to boarding school.

something. about. the two duos of siblings in Parallels. do not separate them.

[opens-up-4-nobody]

...

[lavender---sunshine]

girls will watch their mothers struggles and then be like Wow im never going to be like her, only to end up like their father instead

[leefsnakesnake]

There's an EU initiative going on right now that essentially boils down to wanting to force videogame publishers with paid games and/or games with paid elements such as DLC, expansions and microtransactions to leave said games in a playable state after they end support, or in simpler terms, make them stop killing games.

A "playable state" would be something like an offline mode for previously always online titles, or the ability for people to host their own servers where reasonably possible just to name some examples.

I don't think I need to tell anyone that having something you paid for being taken from you is bad, which is a thing that routinely happens with live service and other always online games with a notable recent example being The Crew which is now permanently unplayable.

Any EU citizen is eligible to sign the initiative, but only once and if you mess up that's it. You can find it here. (https://eci.ec.europa.eu/045/public/#/screen/home)

Even if you're not European or you signed it already, you can share this initiative with anyone who is, even if they don't care about videogames specifically because this needs a million signatures and there is different thresholds that need to be met for each EU country for their votes to even count and could also be a precedent for other similar practices like when Sony removed a bunch of Discovery TV content people paid for. EDIT: There are also some things people outside the EU can do, as well as additional things some people in specific EU countries like Germany and France can do that aim to solve this same issue as well. You can find that here. (https://www.stopkillinggames.com/)

(Note: There was a petition for UK people but the recent politics stuff there means it's on hold and has to be resubmitted and that may take some time.)

Additionally if you want to keep up with this you can check out Ross Scott (Accursed Farms on youtube or his website) who has been posting monthly about this and deserves a lot of credit for all this work.

(I hope that's all the stuff I missed)

EDIT 2: I changed the link to go directly to the form instead, this SHOULD work!

[shithowdy]

this is your periodic reminder that for all the artifacts and errors and "tells" one could possibly list, the only reliable way to actually determine if an image is ai generated is to investigate the source. it is becoming increasingly common for "fake classical paintings" to circulate around curative aesthetic blogs, and everyone should be using this as an opportunity to not only exercise their investigative skills but also appreciate art more in general. you're all checking out the artists you reblog, right? 🫣

so what are some signs to look for? let's use this very good example.

what a lovely late-impressionist piece blended with evocative leyendecker-esque themes! why haven't you ever heard of this artist before? surely tumblr would be all over an artist like this. who is justin brown?

your two options from here are to do a search for the name, or a reverse image search. i prefer reverse image searching, particularly when it comes to a common name like "justin brown". so what does that net?

Immediately, without looking at any text, something is wrong: it barely exists. an actual historical piece would turn up numerous results from websites individually discussing the piece, but no such discussions are taking place. Looking at the text, though, does show the source-- and at least in this case, the creator was honest about their medium.

But let's also look at the "exact matches", in case a source doesn't make itself apparent in the initial sidebar results like this.

This section will often tell you post dates of images, and here it can be seen that the very first iteration of the image was posted 15 days ago. It did not exist online prior to that.

Seeing how long an unsourced image has been floating around is a skill applicable to more than just generative images! See a cool image of an artifact or other intriguing item with a vivid caption? Reverse search it! If all the results are paired with that caption and only go back a few months, you might just have viral facebook spam.

Sometimes generative creators are dishonest about their medium and do not tag it like in the example, so that's when establishing "jpeg provenance" becomes important. While it can be a little trickier to determine if someone is using generative images and not admitting to it if they aren't trying to pass it off as a classic, something to consider is the age of their account and the frequency with which they post. Here are some account red flags:

-Did they only start posting art after 2022, or if they did before, did their style/skill level WILDLY change? Not gradual improvement-- I'm talking amateur graphite portraits straight into complex digital renders. Everyone starts somewhere, newness is not a red flag alone; it's newness combined with existing in a vacuum away from any community.

-Do they post fully-finished paintings several times a week? -Do many of these paintings seem iterative of a similar theme or subject matter ("three well-dressed young men face each other under shade and dappled sunlight")?

-Does their style change in inconsistent ways? An artist that can swap between painting like Drew Struzan and Hokusai should be pretty well known, right? Why is no one hyping this guy?!

-Do they have social media besides the source instagram? If so, what are they posting about? Are there any WIPs? Doodles? Interactions with other artists? Gallery dates? 3am self-doubt posts? Or is it all self-promo? Crypto? Seemingly nothing art-related at all for someone pushing out 3 weekly paintings?

Basically, if it's important to you to omit this stuff when you curate, please don't just smash reblog if the source doesn't seem to be the OP themselves. Seeking out sources was important even before this became an issue, now it is more than ever.

peace n love

[diltonsstrangescience]

Words cannot express my joy at having this data! This is valuable characterization information!!!

As someone relatively new to the fandom, without a very clear picture of the comic’s evolution over the years, it’s very cool to see the changes of a character’s personality laid out like that. Like watching one of those time-lapse videos of plants growing.

Except instead of a plant, it’s a time lapse of a somewhat annoying yet confident and capable kid evolving into the poster child for perfectionism and anxiety. Which is kind of sad, but also a little funny when it’s literally represented with an arrow plummeting downwards with no sign of stopping. He’s just going to get more neurotic. There’s no end in sight.

Honestly, relatable.

"The most smug and pretentious looking Dilton" like thank god we found him, my crops were dying (also Archie stop making fun of Dilton cos he wants to learn how to sew)

dilton’s smugness has changed so much over the years. like i’m still amazed by his evolution from Boy Genius to Boy Genius But With Human Emotions. 

i sketched out a graph of his smugness as a function of time:

[avaantares]

Fanfiction Authors: HEADS UP

(Non-authors, please RB to signal boost to your author friends!)

An astute reader informed me this morning that one of my fics (Children of the Future Age) had been pirated and was being sold as a novel on Amazon:

(And they weren't even creative with their cover design. If you're going to pirate something that I spent a full year of my life writing, at least give me a pretty screenshot to brag about later. Seriously.)

I promptly filed a DMCA complaint to have it removed, but I checked out the company that put it up -- Plush Books -- and it looks like A LOT of their books are pirated fic. They are by no means the only ones doing this, either -- the fact that """publishers""" can download stories from AO3 in ebook format and then reupload them to Amazon in just a few clicks makes fic piracy a common problem. There are a whole host of reasons why letting this continue is bad -- including actual legal risk to fanfiction archives -- but basically:

IF YOU ARE A FANFIC AUTHOR WITH LONG AND/OR POPULAR WORKS, PLEASE CHECK AMAZON TO SEE IF YOUR STORIES HAVE BEEN PIRATED.

You can search for your fics by title, or by text from the description (which is often just copied wholesale from AO3 as well). If you find that someone has stolen your work and is selling it as their own, you can lodge a DMCA complaint (Amazon.com/USA site; other countries have different systems). If you haven't done this before, it's easy! Here's a tutorial:

HOW TO FILE A COPYRIGHT COMPLAINT FOR STOLEN WORK ON AMAZON.COM:

First, go to this form. You'll need to be signed into your Amazon account.

Select the radio buttons/dropdown options (shown below) to indicate that you are the legal Rights Owner, you have a copyright concern, and it is about a pirated product.

Enter the name of your story in the Name of Brand field.

In the Link to the Copyrighted Work box, enter a link to the story on AO3 or whatever site your work is posted on.

In the Additional Information box, explain that you are the author of the work and it is being sold without your permission. That's all you really need. If you want, you can include additional information that might be helpful in establishing the validity of your claim, but you don't have to go into great detail. You can simply write something like this:

I am the author of this work, which is being sold by [publisher] without my permission. I originally published this story in [date/year] on [name of site], and have provided a link to the original above. On request, I can provide documentation proving that I am the owner of the account that originally posted this story.

In the ASIN/ISBN-10 field, copy and paste the ID number from the pirated copy's URL. You'll find this ten-digit number in the Amazon URL after the word "product," as in the screenshot below. (If the URL extends beyond this number, you can ignore everything from the question mark on.) Once this number has been added, Amazon will pull the product information automatically and add it to the complaint form, so you can check the listing title and make sure it's correct.

Finally, add your contact information to the relevant fields, check the "I have read and accept the statements" box, and then click Submit. You should receive an email confirmation that Amazon has received the form.

Please share this information with your writer friends, keep an eye out for/report pirated works, and help us keep fanfiction free and legally protected!

NOTE: All of the above also applies to Amazon products featuring stolen artwork, etc., so fan artists should check too!