#because they stayed. their whole lives they stayed

[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. 

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please like, comment or reblog if you enjoyed, i love comments and seeing what anyone reading liked about the fic is a treat —thank you for reading❤︎

[pallanophblargh]

Apologies, I’m justifiably livid and will be for… who knows how long.

Before I can find a way to put that to good use, here’s an equally angry sketch.

Rage against the dying of the light.

[queer-things-and-stuff]

you know, as a trans masc NB, it’s hard to acknowledge so many parts of my past self, solely because of the way people see me. i’m greatful to have developed the self respect to be able to say i miss being a little girl, cause that’s who i was back then, that’s what i was, and it was nice, it was wonderful really. it was simple and easy and i never realized how far away from me it would become. i never hated myself, i never wanted to be someone different, i just wanted to be me without the restrictions brought by the countless labels placed on me.

all of this is to say me too, OP. I miss laying on my belly and playing with barbie’s and listening to Pink, feeling like the og underdog. imagining a beautifully crafted future. one that was perfect for me, i’d have a nice big house, and a puppy, and i’d be a super famous singer, and i’d be happy.

i keep finding myself wondering where that person went, when my capacity for, and my belief in the happiness I had, and hoped for, got capped. when it all became too much to pretend I’d ever find myself awake in that little girls dream.

i know when i realized I’d never be a singer (i heard a recording of my own voice and it was enlightening to say the least), i have an idea of when i realized I’d never have a nice big house (around the 2rd or 3rd time being homeless, sleeping in hotels and shelters) i know when i realized I’d wouldn’t be getting a puppy (when i had no choice but to live with the deadbeat “father” who’d kept promising me one over phone calls and during visits, and he never brought it up once in the whole year i stayed with him)

i know when i realized i wasn’t happy just to be there anymore, to be alive. when i realized how sad I really was. like a switch had been flipped, the person i was before dissolved and the person i would become began to grow. the first time i felt depression, the first time i idealized suicide, the first time i realized i could feel so alone, even when surrounded by people who were supposed to love me.

i didn’t mean for this to get so long, i just… hope, and joy, and dreams, where have they gone? will i ever get them back? to finally stop questioning whether or not the person who previously heald that hope, and that joy, and those dreams, was me, means to wonder why they left me so desolate when i became the person i am today.

i miss being a little girl full of hope and joy that plays alone in her room dreaming about her future

[itsmrshamilton]

No Apologies | LH44

summary: tensions between fem!reader and Lewis rise to an all-time high, forcing one of them to make a very important decision about their relationship. (Angst galore!)

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Y/n was falling asleep on the couch when she heard the keys jingle and the door handle turn. She jolted upright and moved to find the remote to the tv. It was playing a romance movie that she'd been looking forward to watching in theatres but hadn't found the time. When it was released in HD she gave up trying to plan the outing and instead picked a quiet evening to watch, except now she'd missed the whole thing. She sighed in defeat as the end credits began to roll and turned the tv off. She'd have to try again in two weeks when her schedule cleared.

The door was pushed open and in shuffled her husband with a tog bag and rolling suitcase. He froze when he noticed her disheveled state in the dimly lit living room. She stretched out her back then stood up to face him.

"Hey." He whispered, still rooted to his spot. He took in her unruly hair, tired eyes, pursed lips, and wrinkled satin pajamas. She looked like she should have been in bed. And she could have been if he had arrived home at the time he said he would.

"It's 1 am." Is all she said. Arms hanging loosely at her sides, pedicured toes pressing hard into the floorboards to prevent her from doing something she'd regret. She needed answers first.

He didn't reply immediately and the silence grew as her patience diminished.

"1 am, Lewis! I've been up worried because I expected your car in the garage by 10 last night- Is your phone off?!" She whispered harshly at him. Her toes began to hurt and cramp.

Lewis let out a deep sigh and looked away from her watering eyes. He felt bad but he really couldn't do this now. His back was aching and he still had to work tomorrow.

"I couldn't get out of a dinner and the drinks kept coming."

"You're drinking again?" Her hands clenched.

"No, Y/n. Of course not." He huffed in annoyance and removed his jacket.

He looked back at her when he heard her scoff. She glared at him for a second before walking off to the stairs in the corridor. She wanted to talk to Lewis properly. Have a sit down and truly open up but he made it so hard for her to sit and listen when he did things like that.

Lewis sighed once more when she left the room. He was used to her walking off mid argument but this time he was upset that she accused him of drinking again. He thought she knew him better than that. He locked the front door and moved his suitcase to the corner of the room then took his duffle bag upstairs. In their shared master bedroom, Y/n was already under the covers. He wasn't sure if she was awake or not so he took his belongings to the en-suite bathroom to shower and get ready for bed. Upon returning to the room, he was very sure that she was asleep. Her pillow had been abandoned and her small face was smooshed into the mattress. The sight made him feel more guilty. She must have been really tired before she decided to wait up for him.

He climbed in beside her and pulled her close. Her features scrunched in disagreement as her head rested on his tattooed chest, while his big arms wrapped around her figure. She let out a soft snore when he stopped moving and began to stroke her back. He hated fighting with her but it had become a part of their daily routine.

He pressed a soft kiss to her forehead. "I love you, Y/n."

And stared at the ceiling until he fell asleep.

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Y/n woke up to an empty bed with the sun high in the sky which meant that they both slept in - Lewis probably because he was out so late and Y/n because her son was at a sleepover with a friend from school.

She stretched and took a second to think about last night. At the moment she felt tired and cranky from running errands yesterday then staying up to wait for him. Thinking about it all made the frustration bubble up again but her growling stomach reminded her of her priorities. Sighing, she got up to get ready for the day, splashing her face with water and brushing her teeth before making her way downstairs in her pjs.

It smelt faintly of pancakes and there were loud sounds of doors being slammed. When she got to the large pink and white kitchen she saw a plate of pancakes on the island, along with a small bowl of yoghurt and fruit. Her husband was crouched, digging furiously through one of the lower cupboards. She took in the state of the rest of the kitchen - sink filled with utensils, fruit peels all over the cutting board, sticky cupboard handles everywhere. She felt very confused by the scene before her, so much so that she began to feel a bit of anger deep down.

"What's going on?" She asked.

He jumped at the sound of her voice and faced her with a frown. She frowned in return, not liking the energy he was giving from the get-go. He let out a loud sigh, leaning back against the counter and gestured half-heartedly to the plate on the island in front of her.

"I was making you breakfast to, uh, apologise," he rubbed his beard. "But I couldn't find the juicer to make orange juice so now it's gone cold."

Her face softened at his admission and her anger slowly dissipated. He was trying to please her.

He slapped his hands on his thighs then straightened up. His face still held the frown but was quickly darkening in frustration, transforming into something more mean. "I would have made you coffee but I couldn't find the coffee machine either."

"I gave it away." She stated calmly. His eyebrows raised in surprise.

"And the juicer?"

She pulled the yoghurt salad closer. "On one of the shelves in the storage room."

"Would have been nice of you to mention that earlier." He grumbled, looking away in annoyance. She stiffened.

"Oh? How? By calling you on the £900 phone you don't use?" Her tone was clipped. The calmness she had earlier fading away very quickly. She was tired of this dance with Lewis - creating a new problem to get away from the consequences of the old one.

"Nothing is where it's supposed to be in this kitchen!" He gripped the edge of the counter.

"Because I don't want things that I don't use in my kitchen, Lewis!" She slapped the island counter nearly knocking the bowl over but managed to straighten it.

He stared at her, in disbelief of her tone and the volume of her voice. She eyed him back taking careful breaths.

"Your kitchen." He repeated. She started picking off the fruit from the yogurt and eating it slowly.

"Yes, my kitchen. I am the one who makes breakfast, lunch and dinner in here every day, all week." She replied bluntly. The fruits were now finished but they had taken the edge of the hanger she had felt when she woke up.

Lewis just looked at her in silence. The disbelief wiped off his face and replaced with a neutral look. A poker face he used when he tried to find appropriate responses for difficult interview questions. He looked at his wife leaning against the marble island she'd picked, in the kitchen she'd decorated when they first moved in, and he realised that he had no response to her statement. He didn't want to fight today. He'd planned to wake up earlier than her and prepare her favourite meal then spend the rest of the day showering her with kisses and attention in order to make up for coming home late. But then he couldn't find the juicing machine he'd bought for her last Christmas and when he went to look for the coffee machine he'd received as a gift from a business partner, he couldn't find that either and it just set him off. He wanted just one thing to go right.

It had been such an exhausting week, and all he wanted was to come home on Friday evening and crawl into bed. Instead, one of the executives at the meeting suggested they go out for dinner to discuss any final details before the contracts for the films were signed. They wouldn't stop ordering drinks, he'd missed his flight and by the time he landed in England, it was already 12am. He would've called Y/n to update her on his times, but he knew it was her night off and thought she was already asleep. He really didn't mean to keep her up.

He sighed softly as he took her in. Bonnet sitting slightly askew, satin pajamas wrinkled and her usual jewelry sitting all pretty on her dark skin. She looked down at her plate.

"Thank you for the pancakes." She said softly. He pushed off the counter and held her face in his hands, tilting her head up to look at him. "I wasn't in the mood for orange juice anyways."

He smiled softly at her comment, taking in her big brown eyes with dark circles, broad nose, and her full lips. He pressed a couple of kisses to her lips and she smiled against him.

She couldn't be mad at him now. He was trying, and that's all she felt she could ask for. She took his hand feeling the cold metal of his wedding ring and led him upstairs to their bedroom. He was silent all the way so she looked back to see him smirking at her. She smiled slyly knowing that he thought he was going to get rewarded for his actions but really she had something else in mind. Once they entered the large bedroom she walked over to the messy bed and grabbed a pillow only to thrust it at his chest and lean in.

"Do you mind making the bed while I get ready, my love?" She whispered with a smirk. The eager look on his face fell away, and he rolled his eyes as she walked off giggling.

"I'm pretty sure we pay people to do this!" He called after but still carried on with the task.

She was getting ready in their walk-in closet when she heard him come in to change as well.

"So tell me about your week, seeing as you've been at work since last Monday." He eyed her warily. She tood her ground.

"Lew, I just worry that you work too much and that it'll strain you. I know you have business ventures, but what happened to taking a break after retiring from F1?"

He stood up abruptly and moved to get a t-shirt out of his drawers. He was tired of this conversation coming up every week. "I need to do something to keep your lifestyle going." He muttered lowly, but she heard him and stood shocked with her hands on her hips.

He did not just say what she thought she heard. To her face. She felt her neck heat up from anger.

"Are you calling me a gold digger, Lewis?"

He didn't turn around to look at her but stood with his head bowed. His lack of reaction made her angrier.

"When I met you, you had more luxury than any man your age needed, and you're talking about supporting my lifestyle?!" She felt like screaming but chose to march out of the closet instead.

"How do I know that you're actually working and not off with women, huh? Finding a better gold digger to replace me with?" She yelled. He followed after her and they stood on opposite sides of the neat bed.

"Are you out of your mind?" He hissed. "I dont go out galivanting. I do all I can to come home on time to you and our son." He was so tired of these fights at the most inconvenient moments.

"And I'm tired of that!" She threw up her arms. "I'm tired of being home all day cleaning up, taking care of Leo, always waiting for you. I want to do more. I want to finally start a life of my own and have something in the world that I can call my work."

He stared at her as she swung her arms around in an attempt to get her point across. The room was beginning to feel like it was too small for the both of them and their words. He felt like he was being choked.

"But this is what we agreed to. What about the rest of the plan to have more kids and then move my parents closer so we could have more support?" He replied, confused about what she was saying.

"I don't want that plan - that life, anymore. It's not going to work for me." She looked away.

"How can we be together if we can't even follow a simple plan?" This conversation was scaring him a little. They had had arguments, yes, but none addressed the topics like this. This sense of defeat that he felt was new. He ran his hand through his braids, and her eyes softened when she recognised his panic.

"You haven't even asked what I want to do yet. Somehow, everything always ends up being about and for you. Like our marriage." She whispered that last part.

"I don't need to know what you want because it's not what you said last time - what we agreed on right after we got married."

She threw her head back and let out an outraged cry. He wasn't listening to her at all. He didn't want to hear what she was trying to say. "Is our entire marriage just based on this plan of yours?!"

"Our marriage is built on trust! Trust that we'll both make it work." He was yelling at her now, and she was not impressed.

"What about the time I trusted you to be there for me and our son? I wouldn't doubt the original script if you stuck to it in the first place." She sat on the big bed with her back to him. She could still hear his heavy breathing.

"Y/n, if nothing I do for us works for you, then go. Start your new life. Leave all we've created behind." He shot back.

She froze with her gaze on the tiled floor. "Go?"

He confidently continued. "Yeah, but if you step out, I sue you. For everything, custody and all. I won't have you disrupting Leo's life because you want to live in some fantasy world where everything goes your way and abandon our family."

She whipped her head around at this. The audacity of this old man to speak to her like this. After she had given her all to him and made his retirement plan possible. She had stuck with him through everything. Her life falling apart, his following suit, then through the rebuilding of his while hers stayed stagnant. She was so angry she could quite literally see red.

"Sue for custody? You're fucking with me, Lewis. Who's going to look after our son while you're out entertaining fat men and their fatter wallets - your parents? Your dad who raised you so well by pushing you so hard you lost the little emotional connection you two had? Hm? Is that the man you want raising my child??"

He looked away with hurt written on his face.

"Or maybe your mum? The woman who left you with your father to have more kids with another man and raise them better. She probably saw that Hamilton men are nothing but work."

He felt his heart hammering loudly in his chest. He couldn't believe the words coming out of Y/n's mouth. She was his best friend at some point in their relationship, but somehow here she was, insulting at him from their marital bed.

He sniffled loudly before looking her in the eye. "Like your parents are any better. You're forgetting they barely contact you since you moved out."

"They don't like you, and you know that. I moved out to marry you, and they didn't approve. It's cruel of you to bring that up."

He scoffed at that. "And what? You don't think my relationship with my father is a touchy subject?"

There was a never-ending silence in the room. All they had ever worked for sat between them in that silence. Their first kiss, first night together, their vows, the birth of their son. All of it felt fake after the words they had exchanged. It was hurting them both, yet neither one wanted to apologise. This was unlike the other arguments, he realised. It was starting to look like there was no coming back from this fight.

She looked away from him and wiped at her eyes quickly. His heart was sore it felt like he couldn't breathe properly.

"I wish I had noticed earlier on that you don't care about me. Definitely not in the ways you said you did." She said softly.

Tears slowly roll down his face. When he opened his mouth to respond, he was interrupted by the sound of the buzzer, indicating that someone was at the gate.

"That's Nathan's mother dropping off Leo from the sleepover." She stood up to leave.

Lewis left the room before she could and made his way downstairs. Outside, he took a second to wipe the tears and took a deep breath, then opened the gate to let Nathan's mother drive in. She was a pale woman with short red hair and a warm smile. One of Y/n's close friends around here.

"Lewis! It's good to see you." She opened the back door for his boy and moved to the boot to get a small bag. "Thank you for letting him come over."

Leo ran over to Lewis to wrap his small arms around his father's legs. "Dad!"

"Hello, my boy!" He received the bag from the woman. "Thanks for having him, Casey. I appreciate you dropping him off."

She smiled once more but took a second to eye him properly. He could see her questioning his red eyed and wet lashes. Finally, she waved and got into the car.

"Goodbye, Leo! See you Monday!" Shouted a ginger boy from the backseat.

"Goodbye, Nathan!" Returned Leo at equal volume. Once the gate rolled to a stop, Lewis lifted the small boy over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

"I've missed you, Champ. Look how much you've grown!"

Leo squeeled in excitement, happy to have his dad home to play with. His mum was fun to hang around, but she was often too tired to throw him around like his dad when they played. He laughed loudly when his dad bounced him with every step he took towards the house.

Lewis felt the tension leave his body now that his boy was in his arms. He'd spend the weekend making up for the week he wasn't home. He began thinking of all the things they could do as he ducked through the doorway but froze as soon as he spotted Y/n. She stood in the middle of the foyer with two large bags beside her.

"Y/n ..." Lewis whispered. She eyed him silently. Her face not giving away her emotions. He lowered his son to the floor and watched as he ran to his mother.

"Mum!" She crouched down to receive one of his sweet hugs. "Nathan got a new pet bunny and it has its own room and its so big and-"

"Oh, wow, that's all so interesting, my sweets, but mummy needs you to use the loo then grab your favourite toys before we leave." She smiled at him so as to not scare him. He smiled right back at her and ran off to complete the tasks.

"Y/n, what are you doing?" Lewis asked her. She straightened up and glared at him silently. She could barely keep it together and was afraid of exploding angrily in front of Leo. She began to hoist the bags onto her body as Leo came downstairs. His arms were full of teddies and toy cars. He walked over to Lewis and raised them up as a gesture for his father to help him carry a few. Y/n saw Lewis' face crumble further.

"Leo love, dad won't be coming with us. Say goodbye so we can leave for Aunt Sofie's house." Leo looked at his mum with confusion, and she felt her heart ache. His big eyes bounced between his parents, trying to process the words.

"Dad's not coming?" He mumbled.

"Aunt Sofie has been asking to see you!" She tried to cheer him up but he wasn't having it and pursed his lips. "We'll call him at bedtime for a story, yeah?" He nodded at this and she breathed out a sigh of relief.

"Bye, dad."

Lewis crouched to receive a hug and kiss. "Bye, Champ. See you soon, yeah." He slowly released Leo.

"Okay, go climb into mum's car." She said and moved to follow behind him.

"Y/n-"

She turned to face her husband. He was teary-eyed and pale. Eyes red and braids a mess. That didn't phase her, though. He was lucky to get a proper goodbye from Leo because she should have left long ago during one of his trips.

"You can go ahead and sue me now, Lewis. Let's see how that plays out."

With that, she packed the bags into the boot and got into the driver's seat.

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Wow🙊Whose side are you taking? Part 2 soon?

I do not consent to altering my work, theft, copying, or reposting onto other sites.

Thanks for reading this far. Please interact before you leave🫶

[leandra-kinard]

I'm in no way invalidating this post, as I assume it's US-centric. But it's a stark reminder how vastly different the work cultures are there and in Germany where I live and work.

Yes, you don't have to tell your boss everything, and in some instances it's a good idea to say less, but if you have any kind of long-term illness or condition, it actually is a good idea to talk about it with your boss (and HR + the work's council, if you have one). Good employers in Germany will then do their best to accommodate for your needs so they can keep you and make things work out for you. They tend to have a more long-term mindset where they want to help the employee get better or find better ways to be a happy (and yes, with that productive) employee.

That's not always the case either; especially internationally operating corporations here are a bit more cut-throat, so it's a good thing to know the company's mindset well, but it's a tendency.

Also, there are actual laws that prohibit them from firing you for something like that. There are limits, for example if you're actually sick (off work) for too long repeatedly with no prospect of improvement that can be a just cause for termination, but the employer has the duty of proof in that instance. If they cannot prove that your absences are too detrimental to the company's well-being for them to tolerate it, you can sue for reinstatement or damages.

At my current company, I've been immensely lucky, because even for German standards the mentality there is extraordinarily understanding and supportive. When I told my boss that I was burned out and had to take a week or two off (on fully paid sick leave, mind you), he said "Two weeks might not be enough. Take as long as you need." So I took four.

I was in the process of switching departments, so I had a conversation with my next boss too and asked if I could work from home completely for a while. He seemed very understanding, and I then told him the whole story - because he also needed to have some kind of prospect and know how long it was gonna take etc - so I said I was in the process of being diagnosed for ADHD and that I just couldn't manage also having to go into the office.

Now that I have the diagnosis and will soon hopefully get my meds, there's that prospect, and we said for now, I was gonna come in one day a week (usually 2 is mandatory) for a while until I feel ready to be there two days again.

That was only possible because I explained what was going on with me; the transparency also gave the employer a positive outlook and a feeling of trust, and when your company's mentality is built on those kinds of values, it makes for a million times more pleasant AND productive working environment. I mean, just by how this all was handled I do feel very loyal to my company now. (I'd be stupid to leave, frankly, lol).

And from many other cases I know how they reacted too. A colleague had to stay at home because she had pregnancy complications - no problem. Another one sometimes has to leave early or work from home because she has frequent and heavy migraines. Sometimes people have to do the same because of something to do with their kids. Everyone is usually fully transparent about it and it really helps create an atmosphere of openness and trust.

TL;DR: Err on the side of caution, yes. But do inform yourself of your legal rights in your country, and the mechanisms in such situations. Suss out the company's approaches to various issues and know their policies. Sometimes, when the outside conditions are in your favor, being transparent about your situation can be the better choice.

Hey here is your friendly reminder to not tell your nice boss stuff.

I’m at the executive management level for my very small company and I have 4 people who report directly to me. I am a nice boss. I’m friendly with my employees, I treat them like professional adults, I actively try to create a positive work environment, and I mentor them and make sure they’re advancing in their careers. I do my best to shield them from the rest of management doing stupid shit. My employees like working for me.

The other day one of my employees came to ask if she could change her hours on Mondays. I said yes immediately because it’s helpful for me to know when she’s here and when she’s not, but as long as she gets her work done I don’t care when and where she does it. She then proceeded to tell me that it was so she could attend therapy and like … I will never use this information but … as a general rule don’t fucking do that.

Do not tell your employer shit about your mental or physical health except for the bare minimum needed to request a reasonable accommodation. Even your nice boss can fire you, even your nice boss can unfairly change your working conditions, and even your nice boss at some point is probably going to face pressure from their superiors.

I’m not saying don’t trust your boss with anything ever. I’m just saying that anytime you are in the workplace you need to keep your private information private. You can still have a good relationship with your boss. Your workplace can still be pleasant. But if it ever feels like disclosing private information is required in order to have a good relationship with your boss, please see that as a red flag.

[soapssuds]

Gojo x Fem!Pregnant!Reader pt. 3

He comes back, but at what price?

pt.2

@awthem @just-lilita @aesztik @yozora7154

You fretted with your hands, your body all curled up on the couch as you waited for Nanami to bring Gojo back here, back home. You needed time to gather yourself, but both Shoko and Nanami were insistent that you get this over with. That Gojo needs to know the truth.

You were nervous and it could only worsen when you heard the front door open.

“And here I thought I would be living in a flat by myself, but no I got myself a whole house!”

His voice echoed in that excited manner he always seemed to have, it made you smile.

“I wouldn’t say by yourself, Gojo,” Nanami’s voice rings out.

“You mean…?’

You didn’t hear Nanami say anything else, but he probably nodded towards the living room where you were at (where you promised to stay and not run off somewhere). And all too quickly did you see a flash of white pop right through the entryway of the living room. His eyes directly on you, his blindfold haphazardly pulled off and hanging around his neck as he looked at you.

“Y/n-?”

His voice sort of choked out your name.

“But I thought- you- someone else-“

His mind was seemingly at work as Nanami decided to leave you both alone.

“I’m sorry, Gojo…”

His nose crinkled at his name as he walked up to you, his form seemingly towering over you as he stood in front of you. You couldn’t meet his eyes.

“We’re married?”

“yes,” you managed to say, your voice small.

“You’re pregnant with my kid.”

You nodded this time, not once trusting your voice.

“And you…weren’t going to tell me…”

“We… got into a fight. You said how it was probably best that we never got together, and when you said you didn’t remember anything I just- I just thought that maybe this was a way of you not wanting this.”

You knew how Gojo was. He was quick to anger. Always lashing out. Especially when he was younger. You saw it when he was arguing with Geto, the higher ups, sometimes with you when you both were too stubborn to admit to being wrong.

Something like this… how could he not get angry?

So you prepared for it. Both mentally and physically.

You were ready for him to yell at you. Ready to be told that “you were really going to walk away because of a single fight.” But it wasn’t just a fight. At least, that’s what you thought.

And instead of being yelled at, Gojo merely fell to the couch beside you. The action made you jump as he captured you into his arms, “fuck…”

His arms pulled you close so his face could fit into the crook of your neck.

“G- gojo?”

“Don’t call me that,” he muttered, his breath fanning your skin, “call me Satoru or Toru like you did back in school.”

“A- alright, Toru.”

Your voice was still shaky but you could feel Gojo smile against your neck.

“Have we sat like this before?”

You looked down at him, the urge to run your fingers through his hair becoming strong, “yeah… though, lately, before the fight, you have been laying your head on my stomach.”

The moment you said those words, Gojo was already moving causing you to gasp when you felt him lay his head onto your stomach, his body slightly adjusting so he was more comfortable.

“Toru?!”

He looked up at you then, that same charming smile that you fell in love with adorning his lips, “what? I’m only doing what I used to.”

His voice was teasing, his charming smile soon turning cheeky and all too quickly it felt like you both were young and in love teenagers instead of two married adults about to have a baby.

What broke you out of your thoughts was his hands reaching up to caress your cheek.

“Y/n?”

“Yeah?”

You leaned into his touch.

“I’m sorry for what I said, all of it. The fight, I mean. It’s hazy and I don’t really remember it, but…I know I was wrong. I mean, how could I ever not want this life with you?”

[puck-luck]

luke x older reader anon again! congrats on 1k! submitting the same request, with hearts and prompt 25 🫶🏻

warnings: unprotected p in v, age gap (not major.), religious themes & motifs, pining, childhood friends to lovers vibes, best friend's brother ofc, jealousy, occasionally insecure statements from luke, really just the sweetest sex you can imagine. i LOVED writing this. hence... the length.

WC: 4,351

You’ve been friends with the Hughes boys as long as you can remember. The first time you met Quinn, it was during your first pee-wee skate. 

Your dad was a big hockey fan, so he wanted to teach you how to skate. The debate had been between figure skating and hockey– your mom loved gymnastics, dance, and figure skating, having been an artistic athlete herself. Your dad wanted you to skate regardless, but hockey felt more suited for your talents. You were a competitive child– and territorial over your toys– so your dad thought it would translate well into a hockey environment. 

He took you to the Olympics in Salt Lake when you were three years old. You went to see figure skating and two of the United States hockey games– one for the men and one for the women. To your dad, it wasn’t a surprise how your eyes grew into saucers when you watched your first live hockey game.

He’d enrolled you in peewee skate the following week. There were no girls-only leagues, so you were put into a coed league. Quinn was in the same league. You became very fast friends– you liked to talk, your new little buddy liked to listen, and then you finally got him out of his shell midway through the season and your friendship was fully cemented. Actually, the second you learned his last name was Hughes– like Sarah Hughes, who won the Olympic Gold in single’s figure skating when you were in Utah– he was stuck with you. Just because you’d preferred hockey didn’t mean you didn’t love ice skating, too. It just wasn’t your passion.

You and Quinn stayed in touch after that peewee hockey season, enrolling in the same league and requesting to be on the same team until you both graduated into the boys- and girls-only leagues. You still remained friends, staying in contact as best you could when he moved to Toronto. You’d send letters back and forth and you became a pro at interpreting Quinn’s boyishly terrible handwriting. He’d tell you about his brothers, his parents, his school, and his hockey teams. You’d keep him updated on home, but then it stopped being home to Quinn. Soon enough, you were only talking about hockey and family. ‘Did you see that Crosby won the Hart Trophy?’ ‘Yeah! Ovi got the Calder though, so we’re still on even playing field. Canadian boy.’ ‘Hey, Ovi is Russian. Choose a real American and get back to me.’

It wasn’t long until you secured an invitation to visit the Hughes during the summer. You and your family went up to Toronto to visit them and you got to play with the Hughes boys for a whole week. It was so much fun, so the next summer, you begged to invite them to your place for a week.

The tradition continued for years, alternating houses and hometowns. You and Quinn both applied to Michigan– he played hockey, you did not. You were a good player, but you’re more of a beer league girl. You weren’t recruited to play college hockey– which, for a while, you thought was weird, because there are so few female hockey players in America. You’re hoping that your lack of recruitment means that there are hundreds of amazing women who are better than you at the sport, and that helped you accept your fate. After all, Quinn would sometimes bring you to the rink when it was empty. You’d get to play for a little while– and it was nice, in college, to have someone who knew you so well.

A lot of people assumed that you and Quinn were together, but that couldn’t be further from the truth. Quinn was like your brother. There was that weird month when you were thirteen and you’d gone to visit him over the summer and you’d thought, maybe… but it turned out that you were just thirteen and confused because of your rampant hormones and puberty. Quinn is just your friend, your best friend. 

All of the brothers were pretty off-limits. You’d seen the way girls had started flirting with Jack as he’d entered his teens. You’re able to admit that he’s a cute boy. Luke was an absolute sweetheart, always trying to play with Quinn (and, by extension, you) as you’d grown up. You felt so fond of Luke in a ‘look at how precious he is, I need to protect him’ sort of way.

And then, last night at the lake house, he’d helped you line up a shot in pool and kept his hand on the small of your back when you bent over the table, and your mind had been spinning ever since. 

You can’t tell Quinn, obviously. That’s his baby brother. You’re not even sure how you feel about it– Luke’s always been your little buddy. Now, he’s over half a foot taller than you, so he’s not so little anymore. Still– he’s four years younger than you and Quinn. It’s the equivalent of a freshman hooking up with a senior and you feel icky. 

Regardless, you can’t keep your eyes off of him. He likes to twirl his fork between his fingers when he’s done eating dinner. He’ll spread his legs and sit forward when he’s playing video games with his brothers. An absent-minded, crooked smile falls on his mouth every time he’s only half-listening to you or the other boys. It’s paired with a look in his eyes that you can only describe as warm and content. In twenty-four hours, you’ve noticed more things about Luke than you’ve ever seen before. 

He’s grown up. It’s still a little weird to you, but he’s 21. You’re still 24, even though your 25th birthday is slowly creeping forward. You find yourself justifying the three year age gap, persuading yourself that it’s fine to look at Luke like that, but then you catch yourself and look away. You’re pushing the idea out of your brain.

But he’s goofy, and cute, and so sweet. He’s the same Luke as always, but you’re seeing him in a brand new way.

You’re able to keep yourself at bay for over a week. The boys throw a party and invite some girls over. Normally, you’re not jealous. You’re calm. You don’t care. 

Across the room, there’s a girl flirting with Luke. She’s got a hand on his arm and you’re nursing a drink, seeing red. You’re using Jack as a shield, but you’re still able to look over his shoulder. You think you’re being slick, but it turns out… you’re not.

“What are you looking at?” Jack laughs, tilting his head at you exaggeratedly before turning.

Unfortunately, you know you’ve been found out. There’s only one thing that would have you glowering in such a way. Nothing else in sight is nearly as interesting as Luke and the girl beside him. Jack clocks it right away.

He turns back to you with a tight, knowing smile, like he’s trying to hold back laughter. He pushes his tongue into his cheek and quirks his eyebrows at you. 

“Interesting,” Jack says, swirling his drink in his solo cup and then bringing the rim to his mouth. He maintains eye contact as he sips. 

You pop the bottom of the cup, making the drink splash into Jack’s face. “Fuck off.”

He wipes his mouth and crosses his arms, cradling the drink in the pocket of his elbow. “You and little Lukey?”

You grind your teeth and glare at him in the most menacing way you can. Jack has known you for too long to be intimidated by your glares. He also never really cared that much in the first place– he’s too shit-eating to be concerned about the repercussions of his words.

Jack smirks some more. “Don’t worry,” he says, popping his jaw like he’s turning a piece of gum over in his mouth. “Your secret is safe with me.”

You clench your teeth and continue glaring. You suck your cheeks in and bite down on the inside of your mouth, lips curling with annoyance. 

“You know, he wouldn’t mind if you went over there and staked your claim,” Jack says with a one-shouldered shrug. “I don’t think he’d be upset at all.”

“Fuck off,” you repeat again. 

“C’mon, Y/N.” Jack pushes your shoulder lightly, jokingly. “You’re being obvious.”

“Quinn’ll kill me. And– it’s Luke, Jack.”

“So what? It’s not weird. We all grew up together. We’re all around the same age. It’s not a big deal. He’s had a crush on you forever.”

“It’s different,” you sing-song. “He’s younger than me.”

“Let’s go, Cougar,” Jack teases, reaching up to high-five you. 

You don’t take it, instead deciding to punch his stomach. 

Jack doubles over like you actually wounded him, but straightens up smiling. “You oughta go make him jealous.”

“You’re pissing me off.”

“Dude, I’m serious. Let’s go flirt with Trevor or something. Someone who Luke thinks you’re better than– I guarantee he’ll be over here in a second.”

Jack actually tugs you toward Trevor and explains the plan before you can even get a word in. So much for keeping your secret. Trevor, to his credit, is a very willing subject. He keeps a hand on your waist during the whole conversation and you do your best to ignore the niggling desire to look over your shoulder at Luke. 

Turns out, you should’ve been worried about Quinn.

“Get your hands off her, Zegras,” Quinn snaps, pushing Trevor’s hand off of your waist and stepping between you. “You’re not allowed to fuck my friend.”

If that’s how he feels about one of his friends touching you, then you feel a bit faint at the idea of Quinn’s reaction to Luke getting together with you. That might seal the deal– you really can’t fuck Luke.

“I’m not fucking her,” Trevor says. “We’re working an angle here, Quinn.”

Quinn scoffs. “Yeah? What angle is that, Trevor?”

“We’re trying to make Luke jealous, hello?” Trevor says like it’s obvious. 

“Oh my God,” you groan, covering your face in your hands. “Trevor, you fucking moron.”

“What?” Quinn demands, but his look turns into sheer bewilderment. “You’re doing this for Luke?”

“I’m going to bed,” you announce, stomping away. 

Trevor, somehow, is free to follow after you. Quinn hasn’t stepped in to stop him. You wish he would. He’s probably too confused. “This is good,” he says. “He’s definitely going to see us going upstairs together. Hold my hand.”

“No.”

“Dude, it was working. Luke was looking over at us the whole time.”

“I don’t care, Trevor.”

“Don’t you want him?”

“Not like that,” you hiss between your teeth. “I don’t want to make Luke jealous. I want him to come to me because he wants to, okay? Go downstairs. I don’t want to be with you right now.”

Trevor holds up his hands in surrender. “Alright. I’ll go. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”

You disappear into your bedroom, changing into pajamas and climbing into bed. It’s nice to have your own bedroom in the lake house that Jack and Quinn bought with their NHL salaries, but tonight it’s bittersweet to be able to hear the party going on as you lay in bed. It’s not at all like when you fall asleep during a holiday party and your parents put you to bed, and you can still hear the laughter of the guests in your dreams. Now each bout of laughter reminds you of her, the girl whose hand was on Luke like she already owned him, and you wonder if he’s making her giggle with his stupid corny jokes.

God, last week you didn’t even like Luke. Now you’re burning with jealousy– or maybe it’s the fires from Hell, because you’ve got a completely inappropriate crush on your best friend’s little brother. You can never come back to the lake house like this, at least not until you’ve gotten over this shit. Why are you so affected? It’s Luke, for fuck’s sake.

It’s Luke again when someone comes knocking at your door. You thought it would be Quinn, ready to chew you out or question you extensively about this crush. To your surprise, the problem himself appears. 

“You okay?” Luke asks, hovering awkwardly in the doorway. His silhouette is burly and big and you have to close your eyes to shake the pang of emotion that penetrates your chest.

“Just tired,” you reply quietly. “Couldn’t stomach the party anymore.”

“Did Trevor say something to upset you?”

Quieter: “No, Luke.”

He hovers silently. You can hear the cogs in his brain turning. His pitch matches yours when he speaks next, although his tone is much more melancholic than despondent. “Are you mad at me?”

You hesitate for a second too long. You’re not mad, but you’re certainly taken aback by the uncertainty in his words. “No, Luke,” you say again, but this time the pang that goes through your chest is more familiar. You don’t want to upset him. You’ve always wanted to protect Luke from the world, but now you’ve made him unsure and insecure. “I’m sorry.”

“Why?” Luke asks, and you have to take a shaky breath. He sounds so small. It’s like the time that you didn’t let him ride bikes with you and Quinn to the store, even though he begged, and then he cried and ran to his mom. After seeing Luke’s puffy red eyes and resolute determination to ignore you for the rest of the night, your soda and candy bar didn’t taste as good. In fact, they tasted a bit like cardboard. You ended up throwing half of the bar away and going home early. You swore you’d never make sweet little Luke feel that way again.

“You wouldn’t get it, I don’t think,” you tell him quietly, pushing yourself up in bed and resting on your elbows. You take a deep breath and look at him, sure that he can see the way your chest rises and falls. 

Your eyes have adjusted enough that you can see the way Luke’s mouth opens, as if to say something, then closes with a shake of his head. You notice his eyes fluttering towards the corner of your room, removing you from his line of vision. “Okay. You don’t have to tell me,” Luke says, biting his lower lip in a dejected and heartbreaking way. “I get it. I’ll go.”

“Luke,” you sigh. “Don’t be like that.”

“No, it’s fine. You don’t wanna talk to me,” he says with a shrug. “We’re not friends like that. I’m not Quinn.”

“Luke.” You push yourself up further, pushing the covers down and criss-crossing your legs. “It’s not that.”

“It’s always that. And if it’s not that, then it’s that I’m not Jack. I just– I don’t want to hear that from you.” Luke shrugs again, always defaulting to that motion when he’s deflecting because he’s big and awkward and he doesn’t know what to do with his hands. As if he’s thinking the same thing, you watch him shove his fists in his pockets and keep his shoulders tense.

“Come here,” you request, head tilted and mouth turned down with sadness. You shift your position so that both of your knees are under you and you’re sitting back on your heels. “Luke, please.”

You hold your arms out for a hug, not for the first time in your life, and Luke shuffles over. He takes his time and he refuses to meet your eyes, just stooping down so that he can wrap his arms around your middle. It’s a weird position, given that you’re kneeling on the bed and he’s half-bent over. You can feel the pout and doubt all over Luke’s face, so you reach a hand up to his curls and run your thumb over one of his more perfect spirals. He’s letting it grow out a bit and you like how messy it looks.

“Jack told me something,” you reveal softly, still petting through his hair. Luke stiffens in your arms, but doesn’t pull away. “He said you like me.”

Luke groans and struggles in your grip, even sinking to his knees to try and get out of your grasp. He’s kneeling beside the bed, and you bring your legs around so that he’s situated between them. You keep a hand on his shoulder, the other still playing with his hair. He’s evading your eyes again, looking stoutly at the floor.

“I have feelings for you, too,” you whisper, the admission feeling heavy and wrong and like a knife to the gut. Admittance is the first step, but you just feel silly. “And I don’t really know how to deal with those. You’re– I’ve known you since we were so little, Luke.”

“That doesn’t matter,” Luke says bluntly, a hint of a complaint in his sentence. “You’ve been acting weird because you like me, too?”

“I was upset that there was a pretty girl talking to you,” you say sheepishly. “And I just didn’t want to go along with Jack’s plan. He wanted to make you jealous. Thought that would work.”

“I’m always jealous when you talk to another guy,” Luke tells you like it’s obvious. “I just, kind of, gave up. I didn’t think you’d ever feel that way about me. I thought I’d get over it. Stupid childhood crush, you know.”

“Yeah,” you agree, understanding that you yourself just experienced a similar line of thinking. You said you’d get over it, but you don’t really want to. Not right now, at least, when Luke’s sitting in front of you and he’s got a tentative hand on your calf, rubbing his thumb over the muscle and staring up at you with big eyes. You bite your lip, trying to think logically about this, but all you can do is examine Luke’s features like you’ll never get to see them again. Maybe you won’t– not like this. Not in this liminal space between something and nothing. This is one of those moments that you know won’t last– because the next one will change everything. So, for a moment longer, you just reach out and run your thumb along Luke’s cheekbone, eyes flickering between his cheek, his lips, and his eyes. 

“What do we–” Luke loses his words and presses his lips together, looking up at you, expression completely tortured. He turns his head and kisses the side of your knee, which makes your heart split a bit more.

“I don’t know,” you admit. You wish you had a better answer for him. You truly aren’t sure what you can do from here. There are too many things to consider– so you won’t consider them at all.

“Can I sleep with you tonight?” Luke asks. 

A fond burst of laughter escapes from your chest. “Lukey, this is a twin bed. We can’t both fit.”

A pout comes over Luke’s face again. “We can too,” he insists, furrowing his brow a bit. “I’ll prove it. Move over.”

He’s climbing into your bed before you can tell him no. His long and spindly limbs are coaxing you to lay back, then warming you as he holds you tight. It’s a tight squeeze, but that just means that you’re touching him everywhere. It’s nice and you suddenly wish you were facing him, so you roll awkwardly in his arms until you’re face to face. Your noses are nearly touching and Luke is staring at you, really taking you in. 

Your eyes find his lips… and then he’s leaning in.

It’s charged with tension and electricity, but it’s soft and hesitant. Neither of you want to test the boundaries and you don’t think this feels quite real. Your stomach is swooping with bats, not butterflies, and it’s exactly what you wanted. This is what you expected when you found yourself imagining kissing Luke this past week, even if you shook yourself out of it because it felt inappropriate. Here, it feels so right that you swear you could start crying from relief. You’ve never felt that way before from just a kiss. Your chest could burst.

When he pulls away, you feel frozen in time. Your eyes are closed and his lips are right there, a hair’s breadth away. You swallow, touching his chest, palm flat. 

“Was that okay?” Luke asks.

You nod, then slide your lips over his again. 

You come together in a way that can’t be described as anything other than desperate. Your hands touch him in any way they can and Luke’s do the same. You move in tandem like you’ve got a language of your own– an indignant hum from you followed by a sweet “I know” from Luke before he touches you exactly the way you want.

Kissing the whole time, Luke gets you on your back. Your lips only part to remove your shirt, then his. Luke’s big hand cradles your jaw and neck, keeping your head and mouth exactly where he wants them. He guides you with a surprising amount of experience and sureness, although maybe he’s fueled by the same feeling of rightness as you are.

He opens you on his other hand, snaking his hand into your pajamas shorts because he can’t be bothered to remove them. His hips roll against your thigh, his long torso displacing your pelvis from his as he kisses you. He’s big– you knew it height-wise, but now you can feel him against your leg, and you want him to fill you. You want him to claim you, to take you– you want to give all of yourself to Luke. It’s madness and though you’re sure you’ve lost your mind, the crack in your chest that pours out love for Luke has taken control of your body.

After three fingers and a lot of whimpering from you, clutches at Luke’s hair and bruising kisses working in tandem with your noises, Luke works your shorts down. He breaks from your lips so that he can take you in beneath him. He touches your waist and the curve of your stomach, the one that you cringed at for so many years as a teen but finally accepted in your grown age. 

“You’re so beautiful,” he says reverently, eyes portraying nothing but sincerity.

You can’t say anything to that, nothing that can match his utterly genuine sentiment or portray how grateful you are that he took the time to say those words, so you kiss him again. You muster up an embarrassingly wanton ‘please,’ which you draw across his lips like a paintbrush. 

You can’t get enough of saying his name as he presses into you, his heavy body blanketing yours. You can feel his every muscle move as he works into you and you’ve never felt more like a masterpiece. There were times when you made fun of the phrase ‘making love,’ but sex with Luke feels intensely like you’re creating something tangible by coming together in this way. 

The moans and cries that you’re trying to stifle so that no one comes barging in should be enough to convince Luke that this is everything to you. Sweet, sweet Luke– he seems choked up when he says, “They can’t fuck you like I can.” He says the sentence like he has to prove it to you, like you’re not falling apart under his touch. He pleads with you between the words, in the spaces where you can see his breath hitch in his throat.

You’re still not sure where this night will leave you tomorrow morning. Everything, everything has turned on its head. Somehow, you feel a bit like you’ve been leading up to this for a while, not just in the past week. Luke knew it before you did.

“No,” you agree, touching his cheeks and keeping his eyes on yours. “They can’t.” You kiss him briefly, feeling his tongue swipe into your mouth before you pull away. “I’m yours.”

Luke actually keens at that, his arms straining as he shifts his weight to fuck into you harder. Because you’re so close, the bed isn’t moving enough to bang against the walls or creak on its boxsprings, and you’re glad. This is a moment for just you and Luke– you don’t want anyone hearing. You don’t want anyone to be around. You hope that they’ve all miraculously disappeared and you and Luke are the last people in the house, maybe even on Earth.

“I’m yours, I’m yours,” Luke repeats, his forehead meeting yours. You squeeze your eyes shut and inhale, his breath automatically syncing with yours. You’re overwhelmed, but deep in the back of your mind, there’s a voice reminding you about an ancient tradition in Polynesian culture where forehead-to-forehead contact and breathing together is sacred, like you’re sharing the breath of life– like there’s some power in the universe, a god or many, clicking things into place.

He unravels first, fucking you through his release with urgence akin to the sentence he said before. Always trying to prove himself– but Luke has always been enough for you. Maybe not always in this way, but now, there’s nothing he can do to shake your favor. All of the feelings in your heart have been poured out, shared and mixed with his own, and it’s created a puddle– or a bubble– around the pair of you. 

It’s been written that sex is when two people come together as one. You finally understand what they mean, joining Luke in the seas of ecstasy.

Sweet nothings and touches like worship follow. Your hands can’t get enough of Luke’s strong figure. He runs his fingertips along your body like he’s in awe of your figure, like he gets to touch a statue so lifelike and beautiful that he can’t believe it was ever a block of marble at all. 

The concerns about what will happen tomorrow don’t exist here, in your dark bedroom with Luke stuck to you like glue. For now, it’s just you. Together, breathing, touching, loving– there’s nothing else that could matter. This is it.

note: i have to work on my grad school app in the coming days, so this will probably be the last blurb/oneshot until i finish the application. but, i might get bored of writing that and could pop in to do another smut piece here and there ;) hopefully i'll chat with y'all soon! but i don't want to rush this grad school app LOL

[angelofwintersky]

snowy night - oneshot

summary: satoru and you are about to go home after your unsuccessful first date, but the car breaks down, making you stay there on a winter night, with no heat and angry glances.

tags: gojo x reader, fluff, winter fic

warnings: none, just swearing

word count: 1.7K

awkward, painful silence sat in the car as you and gojo were driving home from the unsuccessful date you two just had. outside the snow wasn't just gently falling, but pouring from the sky, clouding the windows too, the sun was setting on the horizon, pinkish light illuminating the landscape before you.

your arms were crossed, your gaze looking through the window with slightly narrowed eyes as you try to ignore the white-haired boy sitting next to you with the wheel in his hands and pout on his lips.

you barely even remembered what exactly started the arguement between you two, but you were certain that it was his fault and without an apology, the date shouldn't continue. him acting like the annoying, stubborn person he is, just continued the bickering further, not thinking it would really end the whole date.

well it did.

"going on a date together was a stupid idea to begin with" you think with a quiet huff as your grip on your coat tightens.

all your friends were nagging you to go on a date already, shoko stating that she could see the 'chemistry' between you. well it seems like she's blind, because even when you all are spending time together, you and gojo just cannot get along. never.

could he make you ever smile? yeah that happened sometimes. did you notice that sometime's he's acting like he wants to catch speifically your attention? of course you did. did some of your conversations live rent-free in your head? perhaps.

but.

does that mean that you have to go on a whole ass date just to continue the endless cycle of pushing eachothers buttons? absolutely not.

"are you thinking about how you want to apologise?" he looked at you from the corner off his eye, a suppressed smile tugging on his lips.

"are you?" you glare back. "because if one should apologise that is you and you only."

he just looked back at the road, not ready to admit defeat, but deep down knowing that maybe he shouldn't have tried to make you jealous. at least not on the first date.

"i have nothing to apologise for" he then answered with a shrug, immediately regretting the descision. why was it so hard to just apologise to you? he didn't understand.

"nothing?" you scoff. "you know-"

before you could continue on with your scolding, a loud, sudden sound comes from the front of the car, making you jump a little. the vehicle started to slow down on the snowy road until it eventually stopped, gojo pulling in over just in time.

"what happened?" you glance at him as he's trying to start the engine again, without any success whatsoever.

"no idea" comes the not so helpful answer before gojo opens his door, getting out of the car. "stay inside."

you watch him open the car hood, looking into the car. you follow him, standing next to him in the ankle-deep snow and staring at the vehicle. you place your hands on your hips and lean forward in the hope of seeing something.

"what are we looking at?" you ask.

"i told you to stay inside, it's cold here" he says grumpily, not answering your question.

"oh, so you're suddenly now worried? or just missing that waitress?" you say with a scoff which makes him grin a little.

"so you did become jealous! i knew it!"

"i did not. now stay silent and fix the car, make yourself useful!"

he hums, looking into the vehicle like he is concentrating on something, then back at you.

"i have no idea how this works" he says.

"are you telling me that we're stuck here?" you say every word slowly, frustration penting up in you.

"exactly!" a big smile spreads on his lips. "don't worry, i already told shoko to come and get us."

you narrow your eyes a little bit. the wind was blowing hard, your hair blowing in your face, you felt like you're about to become a snowman if you stand there for more than two minutes.

"then why are we even standing here gojo??"

a dramatic gasp escapes his lips, hand on his heart theatrically.

"c'mon love, not the last name!! did this date mean nothing to you?" he whines.

"you didn't answer my question!" i cross my arms, looking around. we really are in the middle of nowhere. not even street lights were around, it was starting to get dark.

"it's adorable to watch as your cheeks turn red from the cold" he finally answers, not surprising you the least.

"i can't help but feel like you're still trying so hard!"

"and the problem with that...?" his smirk widened, making you a little angrier. if he could've just apologised for flirting with the waitress, you two would be in a so so much better situation, but no that's where he draws the line!

you just leave him there before he could say anything, you get back into the car on the backseat, shivering as you already feel the temperature of the car lower drastically, windows becoming somewhat icy, the seats feeling hard and cold too.

you look around for any blankets but get interrupted by the white haired annoyance, dropping himself on the seat next to you.

a sigh of frustration leaves your lips, crossing your arms as an attempt to warm yourself up while staring outside through the window once again.

the car was pulled over in a quite pretty area, a forest covered in soft snow, the lonely branches of the trees holding the weight quietly, a few crows sitting on them before all of them opens their wings, flying away and only leaving two behind. the restaurant he brought you to was higher on the mountain, making the landscape from there even more beautiful.

of course he had to fuck it up.

the moments were slow, every second lasting decades as you two sat in silence, cold running on your body, the shivering was now undeniable.

you glanced at him, he didn't make any effort to warm himself up, he even took off his coat. suddenly unwanted thoughts started to invade your mind, talking about how warm his body must be.

"aren't you cold?" you ask after a few minutes.

gojo's blue eyes meet yours, at first, for a teeny tiny second he seems like he'll smile but then just pouted instead, his hands fiddling with his clothes. if he just held your hand in his, that would probably make the cold more bearable.

"why? you worried?"

you huff, turning your head away again. you knew that your worry was exactly what he wanted at that moment.

"you're just crazy" you answer, expecting the conversation to continue but he doesn't say another thing.

you look at him again, but as soon as you do, he wraps his black coat around you, trapping you with it and pulling you into his arms, your head against his chest, a small yelp leaving your lips.

his body felt warm, but yours started to feel a little bit warmer somehow. the stiffness leaves you seconds later, even though you try not to melt into the hug too much.

his arms were holding you close, his head rested on top of yours, his heartbeats seemed to speed up even if just a little bit.

"gojo-"

"don't even start a sentence like that" he interrupts you with an almost childish frown on his face.

"you have three seconds to say that before i push you away and drag you into that forest." your voice is threatening but somehow he still managed to hear the smile in your tone that you tried to hide with every fiber of your body.

"c'mon, don't be cruel!" gojo whined, glancing down at you.

"two..."

his grip around you slightly tightened as if he was afraid that you'd really pull away.

"one-"

"fine, i love you!!" he said as fast as he could, his gaze turned away.

your breath hitches, eyes widen at the sudden confession, you feel like you've been slapped in the face, in the best way possible.

"you what?" you ask, trying to steady your voice.

at least being cold definetly wasn't your number one problem anymore.

"isn't that what you wanted to hear??" he questions dramatically, raising his voice a little.

"i wanted a fucking apology!" disbelief in your voice as you match his tone.

a few moments of silence comes as he is just staring at you, blinking slowly. you had to admit he looked quite adorable like this, big blue eyes looking at you, a small blush creeping on his cheeks.

"oh!"

you can't help but chuckle at his reaction, a grin appearing on your face.

"so you love me?"

"and if i do?" he huffs.

"then, satoru" you start out, already seeing his expression light up when you finally say his first name. he just loved how it left your lips so effortlessly yet with so much kindness. "you're extremely lucky because i may be feeling the same way."

"i knew it!" he says smugly, trying to forget that he ever questioned it. of course you love him. "from day one."

you raise one eyebrow, glancing up at him once again.

"day one i wanted to strangle you."

he pouts again.

"and now?"

"i still want to strangle you" you say. "but now with a little affection."

he chuckles, pulling you so close that you're basically sitting on his lap at this point. he hides his face in the crook of your neck, his hair in his face, arms around your body as he is still trying to warm you up.

big snowflakes started to fall from the sky, the storm quieting down. all you could feel was his body hugging yours warmly, his scent filling your mind, fogging your rational thoughts as you melt into his embrace.

time slowed down but you couldn't been happier.

"say it" he mumbled eventually.

you sigh, eyes closing while a smile is spreading on your lips.

"i love you too."

after those words, you slowly start to feel like your eyelids are becoming heavier, all the adrenaline from the frustration leaving your body. your breathing becomes relaxed and before you drift into sleep, you have to admit, maybe shoko was right about this whole thing after all. maybe it could work out.

haii!! i hope you had a good time reading this, it's the first fanfic i've ever written so sorry if it's not that good! also, english is not my first language so if i made a mistake feel free to correct me (^-^)

[coolsketchablestuff]

Welcome to my atrocious shipping chart, I apologize in advance

Their opinions on eachother:

Headcanons below:

I've been having a story going on in my mind and it's just progressively evolved over time and this is the culmination of that specifically, so I'll try to explain the context of it here:

MAIN THING HERE IS THAT THE BEASTS (for the most part) "GET ALONG" WITH THEIR OTHER HALF

In my au thingy once they get along both half's get stronger, as if the soul jam becomes more whole (yes the ancients still ascended and reclaimed their soul jams as the rightful owners)

Burning Spice:

Got defeated by golden Cheese Cookie, after she left and he awoke from under the rubble of his castle he went to seek her out, to continue the battle, he wanted to be defeated, to be bested by the only worthy opponent, it was his DESTINY to crumble to her hands, he desired it so much. When he found and re-challenged her, she originally did fight him, but upon seeing how badly he wanted to be destroyed she decided to make him one of her treasures. At first he HATED it and would remind her how he could destroy all of it if he wanted to, but after months of slowly wearing him down he's now her right hand cookie and personal guard, very quick to fight anyone who gets to close to her radiance, he is referred to by the kingdom as "his anarchist".

Shadow milk cookie:

(because his actual story will be coming out soon I'm so paranoid about having to retcon this in the future) he has defeated pure vanilla cookie, finally! After so long!!! But wait, why didn't this victory feel right..? Why was the soul jam not reacting properly? Upon vanilla cookie crumbling should it not go back to him? Spoiler alert, no, no it did not as he was not worthy of it and the light was actively fading, as he began to slowly feel weaker with the progressive fading, having to think fast and make a decision he was not sure if he'd regret, he put all of knowledge to use and revive pure vanilla, centuries of being the representative of knowledge sure does come in handy! Ever since that day and discovering if the light fades so would he, he's tried to stay close to pure vanilla out of convenience, over time it becoming an actual friendship, though he is still overly protective/possessive of him to make sure no one hurts him.

Explanation of the relationships:

Golden cheese

- appreciates how Pure Vanilla's kindness is not conditional and relishes in the praise, though she's worried over him slowly spending less time with White Lily

- loves how loyal Burning Spice is, she is aware he's obsessed with her but she interprets it as him being greedy for her attention (it kinda is ngl)

- has fun doing stuff with shadow milk cookie, they like going to events together like parties and just messing around, they can joke with each other comfortably

Burning Spice

- kinda obsessed with Golden Cheese, seeing her as the only cookie allowed to be stronger than him, he doesn't let other cookies fight her as they're "not worthy"

- mostly sees pure vanilla as one of Golden Cheese's treasures and feels an obligation to her radiance to protect him. Is too uncomfortable to get closer to PV because he reminds him so much of pre-corruption Shadow Milk

- the new shadow milk cookie is definitely more lively, and ever since SM got along with PV his pranks have become more harmless which is enjoyable, one of his oldest buddies

Pure Vanilla

- Golden Cheese is one of his oldest friends, after everything that has happened he doesn't want to lose his friends again, he's slowly spending more time with her as White Lily is busy with other stuff and after everything he just wants to spend time with his friends

- after learning to get along with eachother, shadow milk is actually enjoyable to be around! They can talk about intellectual magic stuff, enjoy food and drinks, play games like chess, or just spend time together in comfortable silence

- does not have any strong opinions on burning spice as they do not talk much, though he isn't sure why considering how often they hang out, PV is confident he's seen BS looking at him sometimes when he thinks he isn't looking

Shadow milk

- pure vanilla is calming, when they feel worked up over something he's always there, PV is helping him get along better with cookies

- Golden Cheese Cookie is (currently) his best friend, they jokingly got along under the pretense on not being huge on WL but their friendship kept improving

- it's too much fun to prank burning spice, like SURE he could just find something they both find fun but as long as BS doesn't how actual disdain towards them he's not gonna stop! He loves to tease him too :)c

If I think of anything else I might add It? Idk, genuinely I just like having good guys in media make the bad guys nice, I enjoy "I can fix him" so much, THE ANCIENTS FIX THE BEASTS I SWEAR

[pinklemonslices]

little tiny fic, a missing scene of sorts? just after niko outsmarts the night nurse near the end of episode 7 🫶

—

“Oh, did you guys know, zombies are real,” Niko says, and Charles is sure he would be more intrigued by that if she had said it at any other time, after any other event. He’ll have to ask her about that later. For now, he settles for a little sound of astonishment.

His mind is more occupied with what she did just before that, having managed to buy him and Edwin more time on earth — together — via outsmarting a literal transdimensional being.

“Thanks,” he breathes out, shock still bouncing around inside him like a pinball. Niko might really be an angel, he thinks. There should really be a halo floating above her head, to match her inhuman kindness.

Edwin shifts beside him, “Yes, thank you, Niko.” His voice is shaky. Charles looks over, and Edwin meets his gaze. The sight alone could kill Charles a second time, if that were possible. Despite being back in his nice, unbloodied clothing, Edwin looks just as broken as he did on the stairs, with watery eyes and an expression of clear exhaustion.

He makes a face, which Charles realizes is a sorry attempt at a smile, and his heart aches. “And thank you, Charles. For coming to get me.”

Without saying anything, Charles makes a move toward Edwin, pulling him into the tightest hug he can manage. Edwin tenses for only a second, before he wraps his arms around Charles in return.

“Always, mate.”

Charles feels Edwin melt into him, like butter in a saucepan. His head finds a place to rest on Charles’s shoulder, as he releases an unsteady sigh.

And god, Charles means it when he says ‘always.’ He couldn’t live (figuratively speaking, anyway) without Edwin beside him, Edwin sighing in his arms, Edwin rolling his eyes fondly when he cracks a bad joke, Edwin solving cases with that clever brain of his. He wouldn’t be able to stand it. Maybe he would just dematerialize, or something.

He would go to Hell a million times, if he had to. He’d run up and down that staircase a million times and throw however many molotov cocktails it took to get Edwin out safe.

There’s not one thing he wouldn’t do to stay with Edwin.

Charles holds him a little tighter. He’s not sure he’ll ever be ready to let go. Hopefully Edwin won’t mind; it might be a little hard to solve cases this way, but they could make due.

They will have to, because Edwin is solid and real against him, and they are not in Hell anymore, and it’s all Charles ever needs. Since he died, he has not wanted Death or The Night Nurse’s Heaven. He found his thirty-four years ago, and it is greater than anything they could offer.

With mild difficulty, Charles manages to pull back just far enough to make good eye contact. Edwin’s eyes are gray and green and they hold the whole world in them; Earth, Heaven, and Hell displayed in hues fit for an angel, a holier trinity than anything the bible could ever fathom.

Edwin takes a shuddering breath, and Charles wants to cry — wants to go back in time and take Edwin’s place.

“I’m glad you guys are okay,” Crystal says, after what feels like years. Charles tears his attention away from Edwin in his arms, to look at her. He thinks he should probably feel bad for not allowing her to go to Hell with him, but it was no place for her.

No place for Edwin, either.

“Me too.”

Niko nods, “Me three.”

Charles cracks a smile. “Glad we’re in agreement.”

Edwin squeezes Charles’s arm tightly before letting go of him and taking a small, singular step backward, and Charles mourns the loss instantly.

They have time, thanks to Niko, he reminds himself. Literally forever.

He hugs Niko next.

[kinichval]

hello hello hello! i’d love for you to write something similar to the pic below with kinich, plus any other characters if you like. you can also add your own style to make it even better. love your works! i’ll definitely be sticking for more. 🫶

I ADORE KINICH SO MUCH > . < and i adore u too thank u so much for loving my writing !!

kinich is a fully-booked saurian hunter and commissioner, working his ass off for mora the moment he wakes up until the last hour of night. by the time he arrives home, he's exhausted and wants nothing more than to rest. this is why you're often at his place, his tired state makes house chores look like a big inconvenience and a hindrance to his well-deserved slumber; so in order for him to maintain a tip-top state of mind and body, you cook meals for him and clean his place.

kinich is grateful to have an angel like you in his life, you didn't ask for any return and insisted that you do these things for him simply because you love him. it warms his heart and feels an embrace that he learned to realize that this is what love is supposed to look like. although, sometimes he can't push away the thoughts that he may not be loving you enough.

instead of swallowing him up, he takes it as an open doorway to learn how to love you better. to grow with you and love the changes that come with growth.

and how kinich makes up for his busy schedule is through his now-not-so-secret morning routine.

time check, it's 4:30 in the morning, the first alarm blares through his ears and shoots vibrations that wake him up. "mornin'" he mumbles, leaning closer to close the gap between your bodies and wrapping his arms tighter around your waist.

sometimes you wake up, sometimes you don't. but you know that right after he pulls you in a cuddly embrace, he kisses the back or top of your head, forehead, or your cheeks; in the days you are awake, you smile, feeling warmth in the morning as you lean in closer (if that's still possible) to your lover, your kinich.

just for a few minutes, he wants to hold you a little closer the first thing in the morning. you are his sunshine, his reason for living.

and then, the next alarm rings at 4:35, this is the moment when kinich has to get out of bed. most times, he wishes he could stay in and be with you until you wake up as well, having his arms around you as you cook breakfast or converse with you as you both do household chores together on a lazy sunday afternoon.

at least kinich gets his daily dose of affection that helps him thrive the whole day of back-to-back missions and duties.

the domesticity of it all hugs kinich's heart and reminds him of your promise to stay, to choose him in all ways, always.

[yowumi]

Hotshot surgeon Gojo x Medical Student Reader Ft. Hotshot Surgeon Suguru [ modern au ] TW. Pregnancy & Love Triangle

shotgun wedding CH. 02 | Diagnosis

summary. Satoru Gojo, The states #1 Neurosurgeon, known for his wealthy clan. He was known for his success, parties, and his willingness to fuck anybody and everybody in a 10 mile radius. Unfortunately, one unlucky night, you make the wise decision to do what any hard working young medical student would do when faced with a sexy doctor…you sleep with him in which changes your life forever.

.

.

.

warnings. Accidental pregnancy, no protection (wrap it before you tap it), love triangle, roommates (they all live together), arranged marriage, satoru is a bit of a meanie, plot twists, angst, smut, you only end up with one.

A/N. this is my first time writing a fanfic, although i’ve always wanted to! i’m always open to take constructive criticism or any tips to make my writing better! I hope you guys enjoy and definitely lemme know if you have any suggestions, read well luv <3

keep up! // ch. 1 // ch. 2 // ch. 3 (coming soon)

─── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ ─── ─── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ ─── ─── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ ───

getting used to Satoru’s house wasn’t easy, for all the woman dreaming to be feet away from him at all times should think again.

one of the major problems was the noise. he must have some type of superhuman strength on his dick or something because whenever he was home, he was using it like there was no tomorrow.

from the room over you could hear the moans from the room across the hall, soft chants almost religious screaming ‘Satoru’ and lewd comments you wish you had forgotten.

on top of that, he hated wearing clothes around the house. his poor maid is probably traumatized from the things she has seen because he is allergic to clothes when he’s at home, constantly walking around shirtless or in his boxers.

just the second day in, the creek of his door was open and you caught a glimpse of his bare ass just out in the open.

never in your life did you think a man’s ass would look edible…

although, not even Hercules himself could get that information out of you.

Suguru on the other hand was a great house mate, constantly cleaning up behind you, offering to cook for you and do your laundry.

he didn’t make noise and wouldn’t bring woman home, although he definitely used to considering satoru’s life concerning comments on how suguru has changed his habits of being a man whore since you’ve moved in.

“I wouldn’t want to cause noise for the woman, she doesn’t need more extra stress, she already has to deal with you as the baby father, satoru” he grins at his cheeky remark as satoru pouts.

one thing you couldn’t complain about though was how spacious and comfortable everything was in the house. it was no secret satoru was rich and came from money but seeing his wealth in person almost felt overwhelming.

you wake up to vomiting once again, the whole stress of the situation now has been a bit overwhelming and you can’t deny pregnancy is taking a toll on you.

your maid is holding back your hair as you vomit straight into the toilet, perhaps maybe it was from all that thinking of satoru.

“Ms. Y/n L/N, Mr. Geto has suggested you stay home from work until you feel better” she says while patting a hand on your back comfortingly.

“I should be fine, it’s nothing i can’t handle and besides, i’m in a hospital so if push comes to shove, i’m in the same building as the two of them, although i doubt anything horrible would happen. it’s nothing more than pregnancy sickness” you say reassuring her seeing the worry across her face.

you give her a comforting smile and she seems to relax just a bit.

“hey, you’ve worked her for quite some time right?” you ask

she replies with a nod, “yes ma’am”

“well…i have some concerns, i don’t know satoru or geto too well before all of this and i would like to know your thoughts on them, they are obviously playing a huge role in my life now that i’m carrying satorus child and staying here, i would just like another persons opinion on who they really are.”

she pauses for a second almost surprised you would ask her that question out of all people but to be fair, you didn’t have much options to choose from, it was either her or megumi.

[ megumi would have said to run for the hills ]

“well, i was hired by satoru when he was just barely an adult so i would have known him for about a decade by now, but my personal opinion is that he really does mean well, he’s a good person and has a big heart, he can be a handful but he means well deep down, to be fair, he is letting you stay in his house rent free-“ she catches herself in what she’s saying and she lets out a gasp,

“oh i’m so sorry miss! i didn’t mean to offend you or anything-“ she starts apologizing frantically as she bows down in apology.

you giggle at her motions and stop her from bowing “haha it’s okay, i suppose you do have a point”

she blushes at your understanding of her behavior, “when i first moved her, i didn’t have much money and made my living off of being a maid, i’ve dealt with many house owners but satoru is by far the most generous. he has helped me pay for my child’s schooling and has helped me more times i could count, i don’t know what kind of father he will be or person he will be towards you but i know he will try his best at whatever it is you need him to be…for you and your child.” she says giving you a light hearted smile, you can tell she truly means what she says.

“and suguru…?” you almost forgot, you almost feel embarrassed asking about him. after all, you didn’t really need to know about him but you were still interested…just as any other person who lives with someone new would be…right?

“oh yes, suguru! he’s a very kind man, he has lived here for about 5 years with satoru, the two seem to get along very well. he’s a generous man and very friendly although it’s hard to see his interior..” she says

“interior?” you ask now curious.

what did that mean?

“well…it’s almost like an empty smile, it’s warm and gentle and it makes you feel welcome but something about him almost feels unreal, like it’s a mask he uses to perhaps hide how really feels. even when him and satoru argue, he seems to keep his good attitude but it makes you wonder what’s really going on, you know?” she is now seeing the worry in your face as she says this and continues,

“oh but i’m sure it’s nothing to be worried about, he is a generous man and very helpful, he seems to care about you a lot nonetheless! his intentions seem very pure and kind hearted, i was just stating that he seems like he has more depth underneath his smile” she says patting your hand in comfort and you smile.

you appreciate her advice towards the boys, it almost helps you have a better understanding of the two.

*knock knock

you hear a deep voice echoing behind the door, “mind if i come in”

satoru.

your maid turns towards you looking for your approval and you nod as she opens the door for satoru to come in and he sees you on the bathroom floor.

“is everything alright in here? don’t tell me you’ve thrown up again?” he asks walking closer to bend down to speak to you.

“it’s just morning sickness, i’ll be fine” you say as your maid passes you a glass of water from your nightstand.

“hmmm” is the sound satoru makes as he thinks to himself, “you’re taking the day off today, i’ll let shoko know for you, i’ve gotta go in anyways to sign some stuff anyways” he says making a groaning noise at the mention of signing papers all day.

“yeah yeah i get it dad” you say rolling your eyes as you get up off the floor, satoru offers out his hand so you can use it to help you stand.

“will you be okay for the rest of the day, should i bring you anything back? do you need ibuprofen or something”

“some gummy bears would be nice” you say and he shoots you finger guns as he makes his way towards the gun

“you’ve got it” he says as he makes his way out with a light wave goodbye as he walks out.

a small alarm beeped from your maids watch as she seemed startled by the noise, “oh that’s lunch, i will be back here in the afternoon, if you need anything Mr. Suguru should be home soon, i suggest some rest for now” she says as she sees her way out.

this gave you time to rest up today before going back to work where you’ll have to work up the courage to tell nobara, yuji and megumi about the news.

you’ve been dodging their messages, there was probably about 200 messages from nobara and yuji themselves meanwhile there was no text or anything from megumi.

maybe he was pissed about the whole gojo thing?

after a long needed nap you wake up and the sun is already going down, no sign of gojo or suguru as the house seemed unusually quiet.

you make your way towards the kitchen and scramble for a pot to make yourself dinner on, although it seemed impossible considering satoru had a million cabinets.

you groan as your finding no sight of the pans growing frustrated before a large arm comes up behind you reaching up at one of the top cabinets that you hadn’t even acknowledged until now revealing tons of pans.

you look up and see suguru put on his signature smile as he pushes his long black bangs behind his ear, the rest being held in a bun.

“oh” you say as you look towards the pans like an idiot.

“this what you were looking for?” he says with an amused grin,

you nod and put your head down in embarrassment,

“well go on, get what you need” he leans back with arms against him as he is eager to watch you grab the pan

you then realize how high it was, that dick.

you step on your tippy toes hoping he wouldn’t notice your struggle as he lets out a soft chuckle behind you as you’ve now retorted to climbing the counters.

“you need some help over there?”

“shut up…yes”

he lets out a laugh as he brings the pan down from the cabinet.

“so that dumbass knocked you up, hm? how are you feeling about that?” he asks in a playful tone although the concern was still there.

“oh you mean how much of an honor it is to carry THE satoru gojo’s child is? just amazing, brilliant” you say sarcastically.

before you knew it time flew by in an instant talking to suguru, you guys talked about work, life and satoru.

it was dark out and you both were comfortably sat across from each other of the couch that laid in the middle of the living room, the dim light lit down on the both of you, it felt homely almost.

you and suguru were mid conversation when you heard the chaos coming from the opening front door with a loud drunk satoru with a blonde wrapped around his arm, satoru not paying attention to him nearly leaning his whole body weight on her as they walked in.

they both must have came from some sort of party because they were both dressed in fancy clothing, their outfits had to be worth someone’s house.

satoru stumbles across the kitchen searching for the alcohol in one of the cabinets, “hey suguru, where did we leave that whiskey we got back at that one party shoko threw a few years back”, he stutters over his words.

“left top cabinet above the oven, but go easy on it”

“why? you feeling greedy suguru” satoru says in a teasing tone as he finds his way back towards the woman he walked in with

“perhaps, but shoko said that’s some strong stuff, you get all bratty when your hungover darling” he remarks back at him.

satoru let’s out a laugh

your eyes turn towards the woman he’s s with in which you come eye to eye with as she’s already staring at you, she seems almost disgusted and you feel a sense of intimidation.

you weren’t jealous or anything but it was no secret that you clearly didn’t belong, they were both dressed nicely and suguru’s house clothes themself are well kept meanwhile you look like a mess

you didn’t bother to care since suguru was the only person here but being around satoru just felt…

humiliating.

you’re interrupted by your thoughts when it’s almost as if suguru reads the uncomfortable situation and places a soft comfort hand to your back, rubbing it slowly

you’re brought back by satoru’s voice once again, “hey suguru, wanna join me with this one”

it was like you weren’t even there.

the woman carrying his child and he hasn’t looked at you once let alone acknowledge that you were even in the same room as him.

the woman next to him laughs and gives suguru bedroom eyes, you look towards him to see that his eyes were staring down at his cup with a hint of annoyance as if he was embarrassed by the way satoru is acting as of now

he places a firm hand now still on your back.

“nah. she ain’t my type” he takes a sip of his coffee now grabbing the side of your waist gently, protective like

you see satoru let out a frown before noticing suguru’s hand placement, staring directly at you now.

the first time he has the whole night.

“ahhh i see. hey there” he greets you with a wave,

a wave? why the hell is he greeting you as if he hasn’t seen you before, as if you don’t live in his house, carrying his baby.

satoru continues, “is this one of your girls? damn you must’ve messed her up real bad, she looks a little beat. you alright sweetheart?” he teases but leans down to look at you examining your face.

you look down, not answering him

suguru notices your upset expression and squeezes your hand softly before standing up to look at satoru

“Satoru, why don’t you show your companion the guest house, i’m sure she would find it much more amusing” he says as he starts to lead satoru out of the house

“haha i get it, want some alone time with the lady, i wouldn’t go to hard on her, she already looks worn”

satoru says nothing as he walks them to the door before satoru turns around towards you again, “oh right, where are my manners, nice to meet ya darling”

and he left.

suguru comes back you, now kneeling in front of you

“are you okay, y/n?” he asks looking up at you for any sign of anger or tears

you nod, “yeah, think i’m ready to sleep, night” you say as you get up to walk towards your room without looking back at suguru

that night, as you lay in bed with tears staining your pillows, you wonder how you ended up here.

could you have had a child the right way? with someone you love?

why did the father have to be satoru gojo.

06:25

beep beep

the alarm goes off on your phone, not bothering to scroll down at the concerned messages sent from nobara and yuji.

still nothing from gumi.

today would be the day you would have to face them, still having no clue what to tell them exactly

the morning was quiet, not bothering to talk to anyone as you make your way out in your own vehicle as you go to work.

you are faced with yuji when you walk in, noticing your face he lets out a smile and big wave motioning for you to come his way

“hey yuji” you say as you walk up to him

“hey l/n, where the hell have you been, kugisaki has been like losing her marbles and has been taking her insanity out on me! she hits so hard” he frowns at the thought

you laugh, “sorry i’ve just been really busy lately and it’s a long story but i’ll make sure to explain to all of you when i find the time to sit down and talk with all of you today, that way she doesn’t end up shaving you in your sleep”

yujis eyes widen playfully holding a shushing finger to your mouth, “shhh! you never know when she’s listening, don’t give her ideas!” he says looking around paranoid

you’ve got to admit, you missed hanging out with the gang again, it reminded you that you were still young and distracted you from the fact that you would become a mother soon.

you made small talk with yuji as he caught you up with how things were at the hospital and with the gang,

“how is megumi? has he said anything?” you ask

“surprisingly not, i thought he would’ve made some comment by now about how you ran away to per-sue a life of becoming homeless and popping pills from the stress finally breaking you but he has been unusually quiet!”

“oh, uh-“ you were interrupted by being tapped on the shoulder behind you as you turn around being met face to face with familiar white hair,

asshole.

“hello Mr. Itadori, would you mind if i borrowed Ms. L/N from you?” he gives yuji his signature persuading smile and yuji nods

“yeah sure, my break is about over anyways but nice talking to you y/n- I MEAN UH MS. L/N!!!!” he says as he waves you off and walks away,

you turn your attention to satoru and without a word he grabs your hand to pull you

“where are we going? the hell do you want Gojo!” you ask annoyed

he pulls you aside to an empty closet and locks the door behind him with a key he had in his pants,

“what the fuck satoru? why did you lock us in here?!” you grow angry at his lack of communication.

the anger doesn’t last long because moments later you are faced with the white haired man on his knees now hugging your hips,

“i’m sorry y/n, i’m so sorry. suguru told me what happened last night and i was hammered and wasn’t thinking at all and i’m so fucking sorry, i promise i wont be bringing any of my ‘friends’ to the house anymore.” he says as he catches his breathe, leaning against your stomach leaving a small kiss on your stomach that held his baby.

“i don’t care if you bring your fuck buddies to the house, you’re a grown man, that isn’t my problem” you say not looking at him as you keep your hands to your side,

you were trying your best to keep your composure, satoru has a habit of getting exactly what he wants so his affection wasn’t gonna work on you.

“then why wont you look at me? i know we aren’t together or anything but i mean you’re carrying my child so the least i can do is respect you, and the drinking thing isn’t a thing that happens a lot i swear…i’ve just been a little stressed and worked up because this is all new…”

the way he acted wasn’t okay but you did understand this was a lot, it’s a lot on you too so you couldn’t really blame him for having a drink, you would too if you could.

“It’s okay, satoru” you say helping him get up from his knees so he can stand again and you help him fix his composure and he looks at you with a smile

the smile that could always make you forget how much of a dick head he can be sometimes.

but he meant this one.

his walkie talkie goes off as he hears his co worker stating that he’s needed in for last minute surgery

“gotta go” he says as he gives you a soft pat on the head

“be careful, if you need anything you can come to my office” and he rushes off.

work was pretty slow today, most of the patients had very minor injuries thankfully, it’s nearly the end of your shift before you get a last minute patient

“hey listen y/n, i know this is so last minute to ask but can you stay a little late today and take this last patient, i’ve got an emergency back at home, good news though! you’ll be working with kugisaki, i know how close you two are” shoko says as she smiles, “thanks again”

nobara stares at you and waits for shoko to leave,

“y/n where have you been, i’ve been texting you like a million times, i thought something serious happened to you”

“I know, i’m sorry just- i need to tell you something, i was going to wait til everyone is all together but i’ll just say it now” you say and this catches nobara’s attention as she looks at you with worry

“spill the tea, what is it?” she asks

“i’m pregnant..”

nobara pauses and you think she’s upset before her jaw nearly drops to the floor

“WHAAAAAAATTTTT???? BY WHO? OH MY GOD DID YOU HOOK UP WITH ONE OF THE MEN AT THE EVENT??? OH MY GOD I BET IT WAS SUGURU” she says invested as she begs to hear more details dying to know who the father is

“i would rather not say who but that’s why i haven’t been answering you guys texts, it’s just been a lot to take in lately” you say

and she finds her composure and hugs you

“don’t worry about it girl, i just wish you would have talked to me sooner, i wish we could’ve helped you” she says

you smile and let her know it’s okay before you make your way to meet your next patient,

you read over the information listed in your check board about the patient, the patient was minority injured in a car crash but needs to be checked for concussion

this shouldn’t take long

you look up to meet eyes with the woman from last night that was around satoru’s arm.

nobara now takes the clipboard, writing things down as she watches you examine the woman

“oh so you’re that one girl who looked sick last night with suguru, wow never would’ve guessed you would work in a place like this” she cockily laughs and nobara looks up at you with a slight hint of confusion and excitement at the mention of you being with suguru last night

“don’t know, you probably have me mixed up with someone else.” you say trying to stop this conversation before nobara gets any ideas.

“oh no i never forget a face. you know…” she scoots in closer to try and get under your skin, “i’ve never seen you around before and trust me i’m over there a lot”

you can tell she’s lying but you don’t really care enough to correct her.

“listen, i saw the way you were looking at satoru all lost puppy like and shit and i know you want him and all but me and him are kinda a thing and know each other really well and he was telling me last night about how he can’t wait til i get all swell with his kids and birth his baby, so you should probably pregnancy test me, you never know!” she says

it’s obvious she’s trying to get a reaction out of you and nobara is obviously catching on to a hint of annoyance from you but she knows not to push on or ask more, especially from a bitch like the woman sitting in front of you.

nobara figures it’s better to ask you yourself than some delusional woman who probably has a concussion.

“Ms. L/N I think we should discuss these papers, we will be just a moment, you just sit tight!” she gives the woman a fake smile before leaving the room with you

she grabs your arm and pulls you to the side,

“what am i hearing about! oh my god..geto??!!…ughhhh hes such a sweetheart! and doctor save a hoe? oh my god what about all this? you never told me you moved in girl!”

“keep your voice down nobara” and nobara giggles,

“so it’s true then!” she might as well start jumping from excitement, “oh my god this is like the stuff you see in movies, i’m high key jealous of you rn!” she says as she pokes your arm and you roll your eyes playfully at her

“yeah yeah whatever, what about the woman’s results?”

“oh yeah, she doesn’t have a concussion although she may be a tad bit delusional” she says and you both laugh

“could you walk her out? yuji has been waiting in the parking lot for like an hour complaining”

“yeah, no problem” you say

you both go your separate ways as you are now walking the woman to the entrance as she blabbers on about the details of satoru gojo, as if you cared to know more about the famous satoru gojo. not like you were carrying his child or anything

you both make your way to the checkout desk when you see satoru walk towards you both in his formal work attire rather than the scrubs he was wearing earlier, hes wearing black shoes and dress pants with a blue button up shirt, leaving the top buttons undone

the classic sexy doctor get up

the woman next to you waves at him trying to get his attention and he formally waved at her as he would any patient

“hey Mr. Gojo, last night was amazingggg!” she draws her words out and satoru looks confused and nods and waves her off wishing her a nice day

did he not remember her?

“Y/n, when does your shift end? we should ride home together, suguru and i came together but he left early so do you mind?” he asks turning his attention fully towards you

you see the woman give off a small scoff of jealousy as she marches away

“my shift ends now and yeah sure” you say bluntly

as you both walk silently to the car. watching his tall shadow trail behind you, your curiosity gets the best of you.

“did you uh get her pregnant” you stop in your tracks,

he stops to stand in front of you and gives you a look of confusion, “huh? uh i got you pregnant if that’s what you mean but you know that already obviously so..” he lets out a nervous laugh,

“no uh i mean the girl just now, like um did you uh…finish inside of her…?” you don’t know why you felt so nervous asking about this, was it really your place to ask if he got another woman pregnant? “she said y’all are a thing and you were talking to her about how you can’t wait for her belly to get swell and for her to birth your baby? did you get her pregnant?” you continue, not being able to hold eye contact with him

“oh uh i had no clue who that girl is, must have been a one time thing, pretty sure i just picked her up from a bar, but uh no i didn’t finish inside, pulled out..” he sounds nervous and a little embarrassed.

you nod somehow relieved, maybe you just didn’t wanna live with her, you thought to yourself

“okay…good then, uh let’s go home”

“mhm” he hums

he follows you like a dog as you grab your things and he takes them out of your hand to hold. the car ride home is silent and he places a gentle hand on your stomach softly pinching your hips, you feel a little awkward at first before you let yourself embarrass his touch. you can feel satoru’s eyes on you as you doze off, leaving satoru watching you with a hint of a soft smile across his lips.

.

.

.

A/N. this took forever to write but im excited on writing the next chapter, which will hopefully be done by thanksgiving, i hope you enjoyed luvs <3

let me know if you want to be on the tag list for this series!

tag list: @jeannieboys @maskedpacific @muimuiwisteria

[lunarnightt]

Answer this ― Hayden Christensen

summary: Being a smaller actress and being chronically online is all fun and games until you're very much famous and older boyfriend comes into the background of your Instagram live so you make him do a Q and A.

cw: fem!reader, age gap mentioned, nothing smutty just pure fluff

req: this was requested by @jameskellysgirl! I hope you enjoy mama

Word count: 2159 words

You watched as the chat moved quickly on the screen, trying to read out someones comment while you quickly blended in the foundation on your face.

It was five p.m. and your boyfriend of a year and five months was taking you to your favorite Italian restaurant for the evening for your usual date night even though you insisted on staying in for the night and ordering a few pizzas but your lovely boyfriend wanted to spoil you.

You called yourself lucky because you were dating the infamous Hayden Christensen who was a much bigger and well known actress then you.

The two of you met at an after-party for an event that you were invited to as a plus-one with one of your friends. The two of you instantly clicked and immediately started flirting which led to quite romantic dates and then eventually; he asked you out and you said yes.

You knew that this was a different kind of relationship since he never really dated someone much younger than him and you never dated someone older then you before either so it was new for the both of you but the two of you made it work and you both had a happy healthy relationship.

You are chronically online, as your friend would say, but you respect your boyfriends wishes and rarely posted him unless you had permission too.

Hayden was a private person and didn't have social media nor did he talk about his private life outside of acting. He just preferred to stay on his farm in Canada and build ponds to eventually watch the wildlife formed around it.

He loved to stay at home and cook you a home meal but sometimes he would just rather take you out and spoil you like you deserved because in his eyes; you and his daughter were his whole world.

So, as you sat in front of your phone doing a Instagram live stream while putting on your makeup, you were surprised when you noticed your boyfriend come into view.

Hayden was wearing his signature Carhartt hat, a black shirt, a black button-down shirt over it, black jeans, and his Adidas Oswego. He looked good, per-usual and you couldn't help but smile as you saw him appear behind you on your phone screen.

"Hey bab- Oh I didn't know you were streaming" He spoke sheepishly as he gave the phone a little wave which sent your comments going wild. You smiled at him, motioning him to come closer as he stood in the doorway. "Babe, come here" You said confidently and his cheeks turned a soft shade of red.

Hayden didn't understand much about Instagram lives but he understood that it was live and there was at least over hundred people watching him in the comfort of his own home. He didn't mind it of course because he loved to hear you read out the comments about him but that was only because he was off camera.

He walked over to you nervously, placing his hands on your shoulders and gently massaging them. You smiled, feeling the warmth of his touch. Tilting your head back to look up at him, you murmured, "Say hi to the camera."

"Hi everyone" He flashed the camera a nervous smile before turning his attention back on you. "You look beautiful by the way" He whispered in your ear which made you blush vigorously.

When you looked back at the screen, you saw the truckload of comments begging and pleading for a Q and A between you and Hayden but mostly for him. It wasn't a bad idea since he had been coming more and more out of his comfort zone recently and you knew wouldn't be opposed to a few questions.

"Do you wanna do a little Q&A for all your depraved fans?" you teased, watching as he gave you a thoughtful look. After a moment, he shrugged, a playful smile tugging at his lips. Grabbing a chair, he pulled it up beside you and settled in, resting his hand on your thigh.

"Sure, what's the harm in that?" he replied with a grin.

You giggled, looking at the screen to find a first question to ask him. One of them caught your attention so you turned your head to look at him. "Who's you're favorite character in Star Wars?" You asked him which made him let out a chuckle before smacking his lips together/

"Well, I always liked the characters in masks when I was younger, so it’s probably Boba Fett," he responded, his eyes softening as he looked at you with a loving smile, clearly appreciative that you were continuing the conversation.

"Who's yours?" he asked, and you couldn’t help but blush, the question catching you slightly off guard.

"I always liked Anakin," you replied, your voice a little more confident than you felt, though the warmth of your blush didn’t go unnoticed by your boyfriend. His laughter filled the air, light, and teasing, as he grinned at your response.

"Really?" He asked, slightly in disbelief that you, his girlfriend, favored the character he played. You sheepishly nodded your head, before burying your face into your hands as a way to hide the blush forming on your face.

Hayden quickly noticed this and grabbed your hands, pulling them away from your face and lacing his fingers with one of them as he moved the other one to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. "Why are you so embarrassed? It's cute" He reassured you and you just rolled your eyes, desperately wanting to move on to the next question.

You glanced at the screen, scanning through the fan questions until one caught your eye. Smiling to yourself, you finally settled on it. "How would you feel about owning a cat?" you asked, unable to stifle a soft laugh.

Hayden, of course, knew you were a cat person. He knew you’d been wanting one for ages, so it wasn’t a surprise when that particular question popped up. He chuckled softly, shaking his head at you with a knowing smile, then ran a hand over his face.

"Y'know, I’ve thought about it because you keep asking me," he admitted, glancing to the side for a moment before meeting your eyes again. "I’ve considered it. They’re great pets, and honestly, I think Briar would love having one around, too."

"Plus, we can always get a barn cat" You spoke with a confident smile and he nodded his head at you, agreeing with you in that moment. "We could but were are not getting those hairless cats," He said and you made an offended expression at him before crossing your arms over your chest.

"Why not?! They are so cute-" you playfully jabbed at him, knowing that this would start a playful banter between the two of you.

"They are ugly!" He argued back which made you laugh and double over in your chair, placing a hand on his shoulder before straightening yourself back up and shaking your head at him.

"They are an ugly cute." you remarked and he couldn't help but shake his head at you while you searched for another question for him to answer.

"Okay... Have you thought about getting social media?" You asked, bitting down on you're bottom lip as you watched him think of a response.

Hayden chuckled, leaning back a bit as he considered the question. "Ah, social media... you know, I get asked that a lot," he said with a smile. "Honestly, I’ve thought about it. I get that it’s a great way to connect with fans and share a bit more of, well... real life."

He paused, scratching the back of his neck, looking thoughtful. "But I kinda like being a bit of a mystery. Besides, you know how bad I am with technology—I’d probably end up posting the same thing five times or something," he laughed. "Maybe one day... but for now, I’ll just live vicariously through your account!"

You shook your head, looking down at the groan as you played with the necklace around your neck. "So no social media?" you responded, looking up at him with a raised eyebrow.

He shrugged with a playful grin, "Yeah, I think for now, no social media. I like keeping things a bit more low-key." He paused, giving you a knowing look. "But who knows? Maybe I'll surprise everyone one day and join. I'll just need you to give me a crash course on how to post the right thing without embarrassing myself."

He laughed softly, his usual laid-back charm shining through. "Until then, I'll stick to enjoying all the posts you share instead."

"I feel like when you do join, you'll break the internet" You joked before looking back at the screen to see the time. it was almost time for you to leave since you had a reservation but you had time for one more question so you looked at the comments again while Hayden caressed your thigh.

"When are you gonna propose?" you asked him and he just gave you a look. Sometimes you're boyfriend was difficult to read and maybe that was because he liked to keep things private but you also wanted to know how he would respond to your question.

Hayden gave you a small smirk, his eyes glinting with a mix of amusement and something deeper. He leaned back slightly, as if considering how to respond. He was always a bit of a mystery, especially when it came to things that mattered most.

After a brief pause, he looked at you with a knowing smile, though his gaze was soft, almost tender. "You know me too well," he said, his voice low and teasing. "I like to keep a little suspense, don’t I?"

He reached out, brushing a lock of hair behind your ear, his hand lingering near your face. “But… when I do, you’ll know. It’ll be everything you deserve.”

His tone was serious, but there was still that playful edge. "Until then, I think you’ll just have to keep wondering."

You rolled your eyes, gently pushing his shoulder as you pouted at him slightly. "You're no fun" A laugh escaped past your boyfriend's lips when you said that, making him just shrug your shoulders before you turned your attention onto the camera.

"Alright, I'm ending the live since Mr. Supense over is taking me out. Night" You quickly spoke into the camera before finally ending your live. Once the live ended, you turned your attention to your boyfriend who was just staring at you with a loving expression on his face.

You really did wonder if he thought about it; being married to you. You knew you wanted that life with Hayden and you also knew that Hayden wanted to have another kid, to give Briar that opportunity to be a big sister so you really did want to know if that was in the cards of your relationship.

"Are you gonna propose one day?" You asked seriously, tilting your head to the side as you wanted for him to respond.

Hayden met your gaze, his expression softening as he sensed the seriousness in your question. He didn’t rush to answer, instead taking a moment to look at you with that familiar, thoughtful expression he often wore when he was being sincere.

“Of course I am,” he said quietly, his voice steady but full of warmth. He reached for your hand, gently squeezing it. “You’re everything to me. When the time is right, I’ll ask you. You’ll know it, I promise.”

His gaze lingered on you, his smile tender but knowing. "I want it to be something special—something that feels right for both of us."

You couldn't help but smile back at him. Hayden was always like that, you remembered your first date with him and how he wanted the moment to be special for both of you which ultimately led to you spraining your ankle because you decided to wear heels and him having to carry you up to your apartment.

It was definitely memorable despite the sprained ankle. It was special and something you often talked and joked about.

"You are always keeping me on my toes" You replied jokingly as the two of you were seemingly leaning closer to each other for a kiss.

Hayden chuckled softly, the playful spark in his eyes growing as he leaned in closer, his lips just a breath away from yours. “I can’t help it,” he teased, his voice low and warm. “It’s fun keeping you guessing.”

The space between you seemed to shrink as you both leaned in, the anticipation hanging in the air. His hand gently cupped your cheek, his thumb brushing over your skin as he smiled, just before closing the distance for a kiss. The moment felt like a quiet promise, an unspoken understanding that whatever was ahead, you’d face it together.

A/N: Hello my babies! I hope you all enjoy this and espically the person who requested this! I actually had a lot of fun writing this and I am really proud of my work! This is also my first ever Hayden Christensen content on this app so feel free to like or reblog! I love you all!

[wilcze-kudly]

Something I've always loved about atla is how it handled scars, particularly Zuko's facial scar and Aang's lightning scar.

I've probably spoken before about how, as a burn victim with a ton of skin grafts on my legs, torso and hand, Zuko really was the first character "like me" that I saw on TV. It was, as you can guess, quite a momentous moment for kid me. Which is probably why I'm so disheartened on the live action show shrinking and toning down Zuko's scar significantly.

Too often scars, especially burn scars are seen as gore or body horror and too graphic to be seen on TV that isn't horror or related genres. And often scars, especially facial scars are reserved purely for villains and are used as a signifier for 'evil'. A trope that you'll find is still alive and kicking even today even in big franchises.

And while Zuko does reinforce this trope to some extent, I think it was subverted enough for it to have irs own merit. Atla also steers away from the scars=evil narrative, by having a lot of "good" characters have scars too like Bato and Song. This helps destigmatise scars as a whole, making Zuko's 'scarred villany' seem like a more individual case.

In Atla, scars are more the trademark of victims rather than villains and this rings true for Zuko too.

Zuko is a victim of the Fire Nation in the sense that the Fire Nation's values of war, strength and honour facilitated Ozai's abuse of him, particularly the scarring.

Zuko's scarring does follow a very established trope of a son being scarred by a father, which is surprisingly prevalent, especially with burn victims. Seriously I collect these men like pokemon. This tropiness isn't a bad thing, since I think it leads to us very quickly sympathising with him. I certainly did, since his experience mirrors my own.

The scene of Zuko's scarring is also particularly special, due to it being rather unique, because it isn't quick or an action scene, nor is it shown as an overly gory horror scene, despite it being, well, horrific.

It's... tasteful. Or at least, as tasteful as the scene of a child getting scarred by their father can be, I suppose. It doesn't linger on the violence, but also doesn't sugarcoat it. The scene of Zuko's scarring, and the events leading up to it also give us a good exposition to his better qualities, like his compassion, and a good explanation for why these qualities stay buried.

I can understand why some people in the fandom believe that Zuko's scar symbolises his 'worse side', but I actually believe its the opposite. Very often, when a character has a 'split down the middle' type of scar, their scarred side represents their worse half, like with Two Face from DC.

Because Zuko's scar doesn't symbolise his allegiance to the Fire Nation, it symbolises the fact that he failed to live up to the Fire Nation's standards. It's a physical reminder of the time Zuko actively defied the Fire Nation's standards and mindset.

We get a lot of nods to Zuko's scar aymbolising disgrace and failure to uphold ehat the Fire Nation expected of him. It's literally a physical blemish upon his 'honour'.

This is especially noticeable when Zuko's appearance is contrasted with Ozai, who exists as sort of the human stand in for the Fire Nation's imperialism. For most of the show, we are not shown any of Ozai's features, his face being obscured by shadow or out of frame.

We finally see Ozai's face, it's when Zuko is seeing hik for the first time in years. And Ozai looks so similar to Zuko. An unblemished, perfect, complete Zuko, so to speak. In Zuko's fever dream, where we see an unscarred Fire Lord version of Zuko, he looks exactly how I imagine a younger Ozai would look. I also love that Zuko's adult design seems to lean into this similarity.

Furthermore, Zuko's scar is used time and time again as a way he connects with victims of the Fire Nation. People who don't know him, like Song and Jet, assume him to be another victim of the Fire Nation, citing his scar as the reason why. Which is half true, Zuko is a victim of the Fire Nation, just not in the way they think.

Jet: I think Lee would make a good Freedom Fighter. He's just trying to find his way in the world, like us. Smellerbee: You don't know anything about him, Jet. Jet: I know he didn't get that scar from a waterbender.

One person who doesn't connect to Zuko over his burn scar is Katara. I love the scene of Katara and Zuko in the crystal catacombs. It's a profound scene and one that always makes me a bit emotional, especially in the wider context of atla, a subject I've touched on in this post.

However, the handling of Zuko's scar in this scene is especially dear to my heart. I strongly remember that, when Katara offered to heal Zuko's scar, I actually got scared and upset. I was terrified of Zuko's scar being erased, of the connection I felt to him snuffed out and one of the best parts of his characterisation being erased.

But that's not what happened, and the scene is amazing on that front and all others.

We learn that Katara asscociates Zuko's face with the Fire Nation, which makes sense, since he's been kinda clingy for the entire 1st season. Katara denies it having to do with anything with Zuko's scar.

Katara: It's just that for so long now, whenever I would imagine the face of the enemy, it was your face. Zuko: My face? I see. [He touches his scar.] Katara: No, no, that's-that's not what I mean.

The Katara lover in me believes her. As a a member of the Sothern Water Tribe, she probably has seen many burn victims. And her pursuing healing would also probably lead her down the route of normalising and understanding burn scars.

However, I would not be surprised or disconcerted if the scar did have something with Katara perceiving him as a villain. After all, to a lot of people, scars and "ugliness" denote moral ugliness. The very obvious fire asscociation probably doesn't help someone traumatised by the Fire Nation too. It is a sad fact of life that even those who know better subconsciously react to people with scars and other "deformities" with disgust and distrust.

We also see Zuko explicitly give us the rundown of his previously unspoken struggle with feeling like his scar is defining him as a person.

Zuko: It's okay. I used to think this scar marked me. The mark of the banished prince, cursed to chase the Avatar forever. But lately, I've realized I'm free to determine my own destiny, even if I'll never be free of my mark.

This is something I can relate to as someone with prominent scarring and I'm sure we all sometimes feel defined by things outside of our control. Sometimes It's hard to seperate your identity from your appearance. And it's even harder to seperate yourself from events that influenced you so harshly.

As I previously highlighted, Zuko's scar relates strongly to his failure to adhere to the Fire Nation's ideals and conventions, his failure to be the perfect prince of the nation. And while to us, that is a good thing, to Zuko, at least at first, that is a very, very bad thing.

To Zuko, the scar is a symbol of his flaws, and a just, if not harsh punishment for his percieved transgression. He sees it as a brand, denoting his mistake and shame. He sees it as the physical manifestation of what his banishment and scorn from Ozai means.

It's only when he begins growing as a person away from the Fire Nation's influnece, that he starts to realise that the scar is just a scar. It holds no power over him. And while he relapses for a moment, "demystifying" his scar allows him to do the same to the event of his scarring. It allows him to look back at that moment and not see righteous discipline, but rather see it for what it was and go "hey wait a minute that was actually fucked up.". Which allows him to look at The Fire Nation's conquest of the world and go "hey this is also fucked up.", when the lessons he's learnt in the Earth kingdom finally click.

I believe this is why we see Zuko almost purely from the side of his scar in the scene where he confronts Ozai, especially when it's contrasted with Ozai's unscarred eyes.

Zuko's scar, like many scars in fiction, symbolises imperfection. But rather than an "objective" imperfection, as most fictional scars do, Zuko's scar symbolises his imperfection through the skewed and biased eyes of the Fire Nation. It's a nice subversion of the trope that usually encourages us to equate beauty with goodness and ugliness with evil.

Side note, I know I've been using the terms "ugly" and "ugliness" to talk about scars. I just wanted to note that I don't think scars automatically mean someone isn't attractive/scarred people are ugly. But in a lot of media, scars are seen as gross and ugly, which is why I've been using these terms.

I like that Zuko defies this trope by being drawn as very attractive with his scar, and even being seen as desireable in canon.

Even though it does loop back to the 'attractive=good' symbolism, I don't think it totally invalidates the story Zuko's scar is telling. Plus it WAS an ego boost to child year old me who thought no one whould ever love me bcs I looked like a burnt chicken nugget. So I'll let it slide.

I love Zuko's scar, and I love how it seamlessly fit into the story, while also subverting tropes and invalidating stigmas towards scarred people. It's probably one of my favourite, if not very personal aspects of the character.

I do however, also want to analyse and go over Aang's scar from Azula's lightning and I plan to go over it at a later date, since this post is getting a bit long and overwhelming.

Toodles!

[sirhamburrger]

how haikyuu captains would react to... sharing a pocky stick with you only for you to bite your end off before you can kiss

characters: daichi sawamura, tetsuro kuroo, tooru oikawa, wakatoshi ushijima, kotaro bokuto, shinsuke kita

content warnings: none! just pure fluff <3 this is for 11/11 pocky day - a little late but it has to still be nov 11 somewhere in the world... right...

daichi sawamura .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

rolls his eyes because you always pull this type of stuff on him

it’s been a long and tiring day, though, and he’s just happy to see you, so he lets it slide just this once

but he still makes sure you guys do it properly when he next gets the chance

you guys end up getting through a whole box before he gently reminds you it's 2a.m. and you won't be able to fall asleep on a sugar high

tetsuro kuroo .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

tries to play it cool but he’s actually devastated

how could you betray him like this?? he can and will sob over it for weeks 

you live for his wet cat + down-bad loserboy energy, but take pity on him eventually and give him lots of kisses

he forgives you in the end because he just can’t stay mad at you

tooru oikawa .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

is a melodramatic diva. is not afraid to get all pouty about it in front of the thousand-plus people watching you two on his instagram live

will actually sulk in the corner of the room until you say sorry, then he's all smiles again

the chat overflows about how good of an actor he is as you kiss him on the nose and wipe his tears away

they were real tears. (he is that good of an actor)

wakatoshi ushijima .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

the second you put one end in his mouth he bites down

then you try to do it by putting it in your own mouth first and getting him to put the other end in his mouth

but he doesn't get it then either so you just stand there in front of him with a strawberry pocky sticking out of your mouth

he feels so bad when you explain it to him, and you can't contain your smile when your lips finally meet his

kotaro bokuto .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

he knows immediately!! chomps down on that pocky like his life depends on it just so he can kiss you!!

he loves the matcha ones so you go through a whole box of those, and some chocolate as well

you’re a little surprised because he isn’t nearly as chronically online as you are

“how did you know about this?” “oh i used to do it back in high school with kuroo” “you WHAT”

shinsuke kita .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

“oh.” then he goes back to his book. you are genuinely flabbergasted for a second

you kinda just sulk there for a little while because you were expecting some sort of reaction from him

but then out of the corner of his eye you see him putting a matcha pocky in his mouth while he approaches you

you smile at how sweet he’s being, but then he bites off his end

let this man be a little silly and goofy!

haikyuu masterlist || general masterlist

© sirhamburrger 2024

[alessabriel]

And it didn't.

Summary: with the scars left by civil conflict, of broken relationships and shattered bridges the years passed, and she was finally caught up with the consequences of what she did.

Cw: NO CAITVI, angst for Caitlyn, post arcane 2 and my soft imaginings, Vi x Reader.

✄ — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

Caitlyn had lost herself and neither time, nor regret could bring back the people she lost what was important to; I saw the one she pushed away so many times because of that stupid instinct to see her down for being from Zaun who contaminated and infected her, Jayce who even though I told her everything was resolved I still saw that resentment in her eyes and did not blame, her father still loved her and was there for her but in his eyes at times there was a disappointment so palpable that it hurt to see her because she had destroyed what her mother worked so hard for costing lives in Zaun. She knew that her owner and suffering was not justification, it would never be, just as she knew that she had made many decisions that were wrong and even today, at 35 years old, they still haunt her, stalking her in every free moment to think, in every corner of her psyche and heart, it is a curse that would never leave her and she accepted it, she let the remorse bite her skin, scratch her bones fragmenting them until it reached the organs underneath and stay there forever. Not that all Zaunites' looks at her were better or let her forget what she had done in the past, they all looked at her with a well-hidden and civilized rancor, which, in contrast to what happened years ago showed that Zaunites were not animals.

"It's in your blood, it will always be in your blood!"

These are words that still to this day follow her relentlessly, spoken to a woman who stood by her side unflinchingly, daring to wear the uniform of the very beings who murdered her parents, who oppressed her for years and who were part of Zaun's continuing misfortune. Vi wore the uniform and became an enforcer for her, and a with it at that moment, after a shared kiss hurt her and it was not the blow that hurt the most, but hearing Vi cry at the bottom of the well and left her without looking back, at that moment she never regretted it and thought she deserved it for not letting Vi go, she herself pushed her away. Now, as Sheriff with Piltover restored and Zaun in better condition after joining forces to drive away Noxus and his threat, she is surprisingly alone. She had managed to catch Jinx and served her sentence, helped restore Piltover as part of that sentence but even with everything Jinx was never left alone but was supported by all of Zaun and, to her own selfish pain; For Vi, Vi was in the process of Jinx's improvement and her mental treatment, when she was imprisoned and released by herself, she watched as Vi received her and although there was an uncomfortable air Vi saw her with a filial love and bright, shy accompanied by Ekko, Sevika, Isha and another person who did not hesitate to embrace Jinx. Even Jinx even with all the crimes on her list, she had so many people surrounding her and she on the other end just and Sheriff was alone, she knew it was her own fault.

There was a sea of guilt that was always at her feet, threatening on her worst days with a huge swell, monstrous waves that threatened to swallow her whole and sometimes she wished they would but, it would be selfish not to bear the consequences of her actions.

The council had been renewed for the sake of progress since they all had such archaic and cruel ideas by the next leaders of those same houses who were young, people who saw beyond prejudices and painted a difference, a before and an after. A renewed council, like Piltover, with Jayce and Mel at the head, but there were two representatives of Zaun who never showed up leaving two chairs together empty in their name. They had all changed, Piltover finally after seeing how hundreds of Zaunites risked themselves to drive Noxus away without caring about coming back alive showed them how much damage they inflicted on their twin city.

Damage she contributed to, added to, and how it tainted her mother's contribution so that the Zaunites could breathe.

She hated herself but dared not ask for forgiveness, because she did not deserve it and she knew it.

She lives each day mechanically in the Enforcers base office, and with documentation up to her neck, in a cold and monotonous rhythm until that day came, a day where Loris was coming to visit her as she had not agreed to stay in the Enforcers corps with the others but rather, was sentinel in Zaun an organization created by two people in Zaun along with other creations that Zaun did not have before.

"Wow, you're still dating the paperwork Sheriff?" questions Loris, walking into the office with a lazy smile looking at the paperwork by the pile.

"Let's just say they're nice dates" replies Caitlyn, inviting him to sit down, it's the little visits and sincere interactions he has that let him see that he kept too good people away from his surroundings because even Seb kept her at a distance, Maddie walked away from her after he had used her to forget Vi; spoiler he never could, Vi as soon as the conflict ended and the trials came she didn't return to Piltover, so Loris was the only one who still maintained some pleasant air between the two "Something going on? You usually come over on Fridays when I go out for a drink together."

Caitlyn looks at her former partner and notices it, a nervous uneasiness almost shy about how she keeps herself hidden and how Loris tries to keep the air light, jovial and pleasant. Loris was a very short time active part of the Enforcerd but damn but he was a good element and the Sentinels would take a good element. She watches silently as her former partner takes a seat, but it never goes unnoticed the conflicted eyes of the man in front of her and she honestly can't blame him as Loris is one of Vi's best friends and continuing to talk to her feels like some sort of betrayal, or so Caitlyn assumes.

"Well, I'm not wasting your time with my humble visit Sheriff" she concedes, lightening the mood and tension, pulling out a simple envelope sealed with wax and a unique flower that only grows in Zaun "Consider coming, she asked me to deliver it to you."

Caitlyn with that, spends the rest of the day dreading opening the letter leaving it on her office bookshelf as if it has the toxic and poisonous in it, so at the end of her day with the evening light streaming in through the glass she plucks up her courage. She sits up from her chair and takes the letter, it is made of a soft and in plain sight recycled paper but it has a fresh floral scent, with some fear creeping up her joints she opens it using the letter opener seeing how the black wax falls on her desk next to the small single flower of Zaun that she takes and keeps it, inside the envelope is a paper folded in three and when she opens it something stirs in her gut with such force that she feels her organs pushed into her bones and the physical exterior of her body, she restrains herself and swallows the bile to start reading, though she knows that doomed her because she suspects it is.

† Violet and [R] †

Just reading that line generated an immense, monumental dismay in him, had he stopped loving Vi? She didn't want to know the answer because it would hurt, because when she pushed Vi away, making her feel guilty for everything, guilty for not being able to stop loving her sister in spite of everything, what was she thinking back then? Making her choose implicitly only served to further establish the imbalance and mistrust in whatever it was they had, and lo and behold the consequences years of loneliness and minimal, if any interactions with Vi that were for matters merely concerning both cities. At the very thought, the very image of it tightens her chest.

Vi was getting married and he was inviting her to his wedding, with a +1.

She dropped into her chair, tossing the pretty invitation on the desk before scrunching up her face, stressed, hurt, regretful and with an amalgam of feelings of self-pity and cruelty towards herself for the past, for the hatred her being since she was a child had harbored towards Zaunitas which only incubated until it exploded that fateful day where she took it out on Vi, took it out on a woman who knew how to read her better than she did herself and prevented her from doing something she would regret more. He knew he could not give, if he would fail as Vi said but his pain did not allow him to see, understand, or comprehend. His hands tremble running it over his face in an attempt to get rid of that mutilating feeling in his chest, and he feels the pain climb up his bones, Vi was going to marry someone and by name it's a woman; [R]. A short, concrete text, a wedding which will be held in the newly opened temple of Janna, signed below in sweet, flowing calligraphy in Violet's name, next to another straighter, linear calligraphy signing with [R]. They sure did that cute thing of writing each other's name would Vi love her? Would that unknown woman love Vi? How long had they been in a relationship? Did they love each other? Why was Vi inviting her?

She doesn't want to go.