#i was possessed by something that's for sure

[luveline]

𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐨𝐫 𝐬𝐞𝐞𝐧

Things between you and Peter change with the seasons. [17k] 

c: friends-to-lovers, hurt/comfort, loneliness, peter parker isn’t good at hiding his alter ego, fluff, first kisses, mutual pining, loved-up epilogue, mention of self-harm with no graphic imagery

｡𖦹°‧⭑.ᐟ

Fall 

Peter Parker is a resting place for overworked eyes, like warm topaz nestled against a blue-cold city. He waits on you with his eyes to the screen of his phone, clicking the power button repetitively. A nervous tic. 

You close the heavy door of your apartment building. His head stays still, yet he’s heard the sound of it settling, evidence in his calmed hand. 

“Good morning!” You pull your coat on quickly. “Sorry.” 

“Good morning,” he says, offering a sleep-logged smile. “Should we go?” 

You follow Peter out of the cul-de-sac and into the street as he drops his phone into a deep pocket. To his credit, he doesn’t check it while you walk, and only glances at it when you’re taking your coat off in the heat of your favourite cafe: The Moroccan Mode glows around you, fog kissing the windows, condensation running down the inner lengths of it in beads. You murmur something to do with the odd fog and Peter tells you about water vapour. When it rains tonight, he says it’ll be warm water that falls. 

He spreads his textbook, notebook, and rinky-dink laptop out across the table while you order drinks. Peter has the same thing every visit, a decaf americano, in a wide brim mug with the pink-petal saucer. You put it down on his textbook only because that’s where he would put it himself, and you both get to work. 

As Peter helps you study, you note the simplicity of another normal day, and can’t help wondering what it is that’s missing. Something is, something Peter won’t tell you, the absence of a truth hanging over your heads. You ask him if he wants to get dinner and he says no, he’s busy. You ask him to see a movie on Friday night and he wishes he could. 

Peter misses you. When he tells you, you believe him. “I wish I had more time,” he says. 

“It’s fine,” you say, “you can’t help it.”

“We’ll do something next weekend,” he says. The lie slips out easily. 

To Peter it isn’t a lie. In his head, he’ll find the time for you again, and you’ll be friends like you used to be. 

You press the end of your pencil into your cheek, the dark roast, white paper and condensation like grey noise. This time last year, the air had been thick for days with fog you could cut. He took you on a trip to Manhattan, less than an hour from your red-brick neighbourhood, and you spent the day in a hotel pool throwing great cupfuls of water at each other. The fog was gone just fifteen miles away from home but the warm air stayed. When it rained it was sudden, strange, spit-warm splashes of it hammering the tops of your heads, your cheeks as you tipped your faces back to spy the dark clouds. 

Peter had swam the short distance to you and held your shoulders. You remember feeling like your whole life was there, somewhere you’d never been before, the sharp edges of cracked pool tile just under your feet. 

You peek over the top of your laptop screen and wonder if Peter ever thinks of that trip. 

He feels you watching and meets your eyes. “I have to tell you something,” he says, smiling shyly. 

“Sure.” 

“I signed us up for that club.” 

“Epigenetics?” 

“Molecular medicine,” he says. 

The nice thing about fog is that it gives a feeling of lateness. It’s still morning, barely ten, but it feels like the early evening. It’s gentle on the eyes, colouring the whole room with a sconced shine. You reach for Peter’s bag and sort through his jumble of possessions —stick deodorant, loose-leaf paper, a bodega’s worth of protein bars— and grab his camera. 

“What are you doing?” 

“I’m cataloguing the moment you ruined our lives,” you say, aiming the camera at his chin, squinting through the viewfinder. 

“Technically, I signed us up a few days ago,” he says. 

You snap his photo as his mouth closes around ‘ago’, keeping his half-laugh stuck on his lips. “Semantics,” you murmur. “And molecular medicine club, this has nothing to do with the estranged Gwen Stacy?”

“It has nothing to do with her. And you like molecular medicine.”

“I like oncology,” you correct, which is a sub-genre at best, “and I have enough work without joining another club. Go by yourself.” 

“I can’t go without you,” he says. Simple as that. 

He knew you’d say yes when he signed you up. It’s why he didn’t ask. You’re already forgiven him for the slight of assumption. 

“When is it?” you ask, smiling. 

—

Molecular medicine club is fun. You and a handful of ESU nerds gather around a big table in a private study room for a few hours and read about the newer discoveries and top research, like regenerative science and now taboo Oscorp research. It’s boring, sometimes, but then Peter will lean into your side and make a joke to keep you going. 

He looks at Gwen Stacy a lot. Slender, pale and freckled, with blonde hair framing a sweet face. Only when he thinks you’re not looking. Only when she isn’t either. 

—

“Good morning,” you say. 

Peter holds an umbrella over his head that he’s quick to share with you, and together you walk with heads craned down, the umbrella angled forward to fight the wind. Your outermost shoulder is wet when you reach the café, your other warm from being pressed against him. You shake the umbrella off outside the door and step onto a cushy, amber doormat to dry your sneakers. Peter stalks ahead and order the drinks, eager to get warm, so you look for a table. Your usual is full of businessmen drinking flat whites with briefcases at their legs. They laugh. You try to picture Peter in a suit: you’re still laughing when he finds you in the booth at the back. 

“Tell the joke,” he says, slamming his coffee down. He’s careful with yours. He’s given you the pink petal saucer from the side next to the straws and wooden stirrers. 

“I was thinking about you as a businessman.” 

“And that’s funny?” 

“When was the last time you wore a suit?” 

Peter shakes his head. Claims he doesn’t know. Later, you’ll remember his Uncle Ben’s funeral and feel queasy with guilt, but you don’t remember yet. “When was the last time you wore one?” he asks. “I don’t laugh at you.” 

“You’re always laughing at me, Parker.” 

The cafe isn’t as warm today. It’s wet, grimy water footsteps tracking across the terracotta tile, streaks of grey water especially heavy near the counter, around it to the bathroom. There’s no fog but a sad rattle of rain, not enough to make noise against the windows, but enough to watch as it falls in lazy rivulets down the lengths of them.

Your face is chapped with the cold, cheeks quickly come to heat as your fingers curl around your mug. They tingle with newfound warmth. When you raise your mug to your lips, your hand hardly shakes.

“You okay?” Peter asks. 

“Fine. Are you gonna help me with the math today?” 

“Don’t think so. Did you ask nicely?” 

“I did.” You’d called him last night. You would’ve just as happily submitted your homework poorly solved with the grade to prove it —you don’t want Peter’s help, you just wanted to see him. 

Looking at him now, you remember why his distance had felt a little easier. The rain tangles in his hair, damp strands curling across his forehead, his eyes dark and outfitted by darker eyelashes. Peter has the looks of someone you’ve seen before, a classical set to his nose and eyes reminiscent of that fallen angel weeping behind his arm, his russet hair in fiery disarray. There was an anger to Peter after Ben died that you didn’t recognise, until it was Peter, changed forever and for the worse and it didn’t matter —he was grieving, he was terrified, who were you to tell him to be nice again— until it started to get better. You see less of your fallen, angry angel, no harsh brush strokes, no tears. 

His eyes are still dark. Bruised often underneath, like he’s up late. If he is, it isn’t to talk to you. 

You spend an afternoon working through your equations, pretending to understand until Peter explains them to death. His earphones fall out of his pocket and he says, “Here, I’ll show you a song.” 

He walks you home. The song is dreary and sad. The man who sings is good. Lover, You Should’ve Come Over. It feels like Peter’s trying to tell you something —he isn’t, but it feels like wishing he would. 

“You okay?” you ask before you can get to your street. A minute away, less. 

“I’m fine, why?” 

You let the uncomfortable shape of his earbud fall out of your ear, the climax of the song a rattle on his chest. “You look tired, that’s all. Are you sleeping?” 

“I have too much to do.” 

You just don’t get it. “Make sure you’re eating properly. Okay?” 

His smile squeezes your heart. Soft, the closest you’ll ever get. “You know May,” he says, wrapping his arm around your shoulders to give you a short hug, “she wouldn’t let me go hungry. Don’t worry about me.” 

—

The dip into depression you take is predictable. You can’t help it. Peter being gone makes it worse. 

You listen to love songs and take long walks through the city, even when it’s dark and you know it’s a bad idea. If anything bad happens Spider-Man could probably save me, you think. New York’s not-so-new vigilante keeps a close eye on things, especially the women. You can’t count how many times you’ve heard the same story. A man followed me home, saw me across the street, tried to get into my apartment, but Spider-Man saved me. 

You’re not naive, you realise the danger of walking around without protection assuming some stranger in a mask will save you, but you need to get out of the house. It goes on for weeks. 

You walk under streetlights and past stores with CCTV, but honestly you don’t really care. You’re not thinking. You feel sick and heavy and it’s fine, really, it’s okay, everything works out eventually. It’s not like it’s all because you miss Peter, it’s just a feeling. It’ll go away. 

“You’re in deep thought,” a voice says, garnering a huge flinch from the depths of your stomach.

You turn around, turn back, and flinch again at the sight of a man a few paces ahead. Red shoulders and legs, black shining in a webbed lattice across his chest. “Oh,” you say, your heartbeat an uncomfortable plodding under your hand, “sorry.” 

“Why are you sorry? I scared you.”

“I didn’t realise you were there.” 

Spider-Man doesn’t come any closer. You take a few steps in his direction. You’ve never met before but you’d like to see him up close, and you aren’t scared. Not beyond the shock of his arrival. 

“Can I walk you to where you’re going?” Spider-Man asks you. He’s humming energy, fidgeting and shifting from foot to foot. 

“How do I know you’re the real Spider-Man?” 

After all, there are high definition videos of his suit on the news sometimes. You wouldn’t want to find out someone was capable of making a replica in the worst way possible. 

You can’t be sure, but you think he might be smiling behind the mask, his arms moving back as though impressed at your questioning. “What do you need me to do to prove it?” he asks. 

He speaks hushed. Rough and deep. “I don’t know. What’s Spider-Man exclusive?” 

“I can show you the webs?” 

You pull your handbag further up your arm. “Okay, sure. Shoot something.” 

Spider-Man aims his hand at the streetlight across the way and shoots it. He makes a severing motion with his wrist to stop from getting pulled along by it, letting the web fall like an alien tendril from the bulb. The light it produces dims slightly. A chill rides your spine. 

“Can I walk you now?” he asks. 

“You don’t have more important things to do?” If the bitterness you’re feeling creeps into your tone unbidden, he doesn’t react. 

“Nothing more important than you.” 

You laugh despite yourself. “I’m going to Trader Joe’s.” 

“Yellowstone Boulevard?” 

“That’s the one…” 

You fall into step beside him, and, awkwardly, begin to walk again. It’s a short walk. Trader Joe’s will still be open for hours despite the dark sky, and you’re in no hurry. “My friend, he likes the rolled tortilla chips they do, the chilli ones.” 

“And you’re going just for him?” Spider-Man asks. 

“Not really. I mean, yeah, but I was already going on a walk.” 

“Do you always walk around by yourself? It’s late. It’s dangerous, you know, a beautiful girl like you,” he says, descending into an odd mixture of seriousness and teasing. His voice jumps and swoons to match. 

“I like walking,” you say. 

Spider-Man walking is a weird thing to see. On the news, he’s running, swinging, or flying through the air untethered. You’re having trouble acquainting the media image of him with the quiet man you’re walking beside now.

”Is everything okay?” he asks. “You seem sad.” 

“Do I?” 

“Yeah, you do.” 

“Maybe I am sad,” you confess, looking forward, the bright sign of Trader Joe’s already in view. It really is a short walk. “Do you ever–” You swallow against a surprising tightness in your throat and try again, “Do you ever feel like you’re alone?” 

“I’m not alone,” he says carefully.

“Me neither, but sometimes I feel like I am.” 

He laughs quietly. You bristle thinking you’re being made fun of, but the laugh tapers into a sad one. “Sometimes I feel like I’m the only person in the world,” he says. “Even here. I forget that it’s not something I invented.” 

“Well, I guess being a hero would feel really lonely. Who else do we have like you?” You smile sympathetically. “It must be hard.” 

“Yeah.” His head tips to the side, and a crash of glass rings in the distance, crunching, and then there’s a squeal. It sounds like a car accident. Spider-Man goes tense. “I’ll come back,” he says. 

“That’s okay, Spider-Man, I can get home by myself. Thank you for the protection detail.” 

He sprints away. In half a second he’s up onto a short roof, then between buildings. It looks natural. It takes your breath away. 

You buy Peter’s chips at Trader Joe’s and wait for a few minutes at the door, but Spider-Man doesn’t come back. 

—

I don’t want to study today, Peter’s text says the next day. Come over and watch movies? 

The last handholds of your fugue are washed away in the shower. You dab moisturiser onto your face and neck and stand by the open window to help it dry faster, taking in the light drizzle of rain, the smell of it filling your room and your lungs in cold gales. You dress in sweatpants and a hoodie, throw on your coat, and stuff the rolled tortilla chips into a backpack to ferry across the neighbourhood. 

Peter still lives at home with his Aunt May. You’d been in awe of it when you were younger, Peter and his Aunt and Uncle, their home-cooked family dinners, nights spent on the roof trying to find constellations through light pollution, stretched out together while it was warm enough to soak in your small rebellion. Ben would call you both down eventually. When you’re older! he’d always promise. 

Peter’s waiting in the open door for you. He ushers you inside excitedly, stripping you out of your coat and forgetting your wet shoes as he drags you to the kitchen. “Look what I got,” he says. 

The Parker kitchen is a big, bright space with a chopping block island. The counters are crowded by pots, pans, spices, jams, coffee grounds, the impossible drying rack. There’s a cross-stitch about the home on the microwave Ben did to prove to May he could still see the holes in the aida. 

You follow Peter to the stove where he points at a ceramic Dutch oven you’ve eaten from a hundred times. “There,” he says. 

“Did you cook?” you ask. 

“Of course I didn’t cook, even if the way you said that is offensive. I could cook. I’m an excellent chef.” 

“The only thing May’s ever taught you is spaghetti and meatballs.” 

“Hope you like marinara,” he says, nudging you toward the stove. 

You take the lid off of the Dutch oven to unveil a huge cake. Dripping with frosting, only slightly squashed by the lid, obviously homemade. He’s dotted the top with swirls of frosting and deep red strawberries. 

“It’s for you,” he says casually. 

“It’s not my birthday.” 

“I know. You like cake though, don’t you?” 

You’d tell Peter you liked chunks of glass if that was what he unveiled. “Why’d you make me a cake?” 

“I felt like you deserved a cake. You don’t want it?” 

“No, I want it! I want the cake, let’s have cake, we can go to 91st and get some ice cream, it’ll be amazing.” You don’t bother trying to hide your beaming smile now, twisting on the spot to see him properly, your hands falling behind your back. “Thank you, Peter. It’s awesome. I had no idea you could even– that you’d even–” You press forward, smushing your face against his chest. “Wow.” 

“Wow,” he says, wrapping his arms around you. He angles his head to nose at your temple. “You’re welcome. I would’ve made you a cake years ago if I knew it was gonna make you this happy.” 

“It must’ve taken hours.” 

“May helped.” 

“That makes much more sense.” 

“Don’t be insolent.” Peter squeezes you tightly. He doesn’t let go for a really long time. 

He extracts the cake from the depths of the Dutch oven and cuts you both a slice. He already has ice cream, a Neapolitan box that he cuts into with a serrated knife so you can each have a slice of all three flavours. It’s good ice cream, fresh for what it is and melting in big drops of cream as he gets the couch ready.

“Sit down,” he says, shoving the plates with his strangely great balance onto the coffee table. “Remote’s by you. I’m gonna get drinks.” 

You take your plate, carving into the cake with the end of a warped spoon, its handle stamped PETE and burnished in your grasp. The crumb is soft but dense in the best way. The ganache between layers is loose, cake wet with it, and the frosting is perfect, just messy. You take another satisfied bite. You’re halfway through your slice before Peter makes it back. 

“I brought you something too, but it’s garbage compared to this,” you say through a mouthful, hand barely covering your mouth. 

Peter laughs at you. “Yeah, well, say it, don’t spray it.” 

“I guess I’ll keep it.” 

“Keep it, bub, I don’t need anything from you.” 

He doesn’t say it the way you’re expecting. “No,” you say, pleased when he sits knee to knee, “you can have it. S’just a bag of chips from Trader–”

“The rolled tortilla chips?” he asks. You nod, and his eyes light up. “You really are the best friend ever.” 

“Better than Harry?” 

“Harry’s rich,” Peter says, “so no. I’m kidding! Joking, come here, let me try some of that.” 

“Eat your own.” 

Peter plays a great host, letting you choose the movies, making lunch, ordering takeout in the evening and refusing to let you pay for it. This isn’t that out of character for Peter, but what shocks you is his complete unfiltered attention. He doesn’t check his phone, the tension you couldn’t name from these last few weeks nowhere to be felt. You’re flummoxed by the sudden change, but you missed him. You won’t look a gift horse in the mouth; you won’t question what it is that had Peter keeping you at arm’s length now it’s gone.

To your annoyance, you can’t stop thinking about Spider-Man. You keep opening your mouth to tell Peter you talked to him but biting your tongue. Why am I keeping it a secret? you wonder. 

“Have something to tell you.” 

“You do?” you ask, reluctant to sit properly, your feet tucked under his thigh and your body completely lax with the weight of the Parker throw. 

“Is that surprising?” 

“Is that a trick question?” 

“No. Just. I’ve been not telling you something.” 

“Okay, so tell me.” 

Peter goes pink, and stiff, a fake smile plastered over his lips. “Me and Gwen, we’re really done.” 

“I know, Pete. She broke up with you for reasons nobody felt I should be enlightened right after graduation.” Your stomach pangs painfully. “Unless you…”

“She’s going to England.” 

“She is?” 

“Oxford.” 

You struggle to sit up. “That sucks, Peter. I’m sorry.” 

“But?” 

You find your words carefully. “You and Gwen really liked each other, but I think that–” You grow in confidence, meeting his eyes firmly. “That there’s always been some part of you that couldn’t actually commit to her. So. I don’t know, maybe some distance will give you clarity. And maybe it’ll break your heart, but at least then you’ll know how you really feel, and you can move forward.” You avoid telling him to move on. 

“It wasn’t Gwen,” he says, which has a completely different meaning to the both of you. 

“Obviously, she’s the smartest girl I’ve ever met. She’s beautiful. Of course it’s not her fault,” you say, teasing.

“Really, that you ever met?” Peter asks. 

“She’s the best girl you were ever gonna land.“ 

He rolls his eyes. “Yeah, I guess so.” After a few more minutes of quiet, he says, “I think we were done before. I just hadn’t figured it out yet. Something wasn’t right.” 

“You were so back and forth. You’re not mean, there must’ve been something stopping you from going steady,” you agree. “You were breaking up every other week.”

“I know,” he whispers, tipping his head against the back couch. 

“Which, it’s fine, you don’t–” You grimace. “I can’t talk today. Sorry. I just mean that it’s alright that you never made it work.” You worry that sounds plainly obvious and amend, “Doesn’t make you a bad person. You’re never a bad person, Peter.” 

“I know. Thank you.” 

“You’re welcome. You don’t need me to tell you.” 

“It’s nice, though. I like when you tell me stuff. I want all of your secrets.” 

You should say Good, because I have something unbelievable to tell you, and I should’ve said it the moment I got home. 

Good, because last night I met the bravest man in New York City, and he walked me to the store for your chips. 

Good, because I have so much I’m keeping to myself.

You ruffle his hair. Spider-Man goes unmentioned. 

— 

He visits with a whoop. You don’t flinch when he lands —you’d heard the strange whip and splat of his webs landing nearby. 

“Spider-Man,” you say. 

“What’s that about?” 

“What?” 

“The way you said that. You laughed.” Spider-Man stands in spandexed glory before you, mask in place. He’s got a brown stain up the side of his thigh that looks more like mud than blood, but it’s not as though each of his fights are bloodless. They’re infamously gory on occasion.

“Did you get hurt?” you ask. You’re worried. You could help him, if he needs it. 

“Aw, this? That’s a scratch. That’s nothing, don’t worry about it. I’ve had worse from that stray cat living outside of 91st.” 

You look at him sharply. 91st is shorthand for 91st Bodega, and it’s not like you and Peter made it up, but suddenly, the man in front of you is Peter. The way he says it, that unique rhythm. 

Peter’s not so rough-voiced, you argue with yourself. Your Peter speaks in a higher register, dulcet often, only occasionally sarcastic. Spider-Man is rough, and cawing, and loud. Spider-Man acts as though the ground is a suggestion. Peter can’t jump off the second diving board at the pool. Spider-Man rolls his shoulders back in front of you with a confidence Peter rarely has. 

“What?” he asks. 

“Sorry. You just reminded me of someone.” 

His voice falls deeper still. “Someone handsome, I hope.” 

You take a small step around him, hoping it invites him to walk along while communicating how sorely you want to leave the subject behind. When he doesn’t follow, you add, “Yes, he’s handsome.” 

“I knew it.”

“What do you look like under the mask?”

Spider-Man laughs boisterously. “I can’t just tell you that.” 

“No? Do I have to earn it?” 

“It’s not like that. I just don’t tell anyone, ever.” 

“Nobody in the whole world?” you ask. 

The rain is spitting. New York lately is cold cold cold, little in the way of sunshine and no end in sight. Perhaps that’s all November’s are destined to be. You and Spider-Man stick to the inside of the sidewalk. Occasionally, a passerby stares at him, or calls out in Hello, and Spider-Man waves but doesn’t part from you. 

“Tell me something about you and I’ll tell you something about me,” Spider-Man says. “I’ll tell you who knows my identity.” 

“What do you want to know about me?” you ask, surprised. 

“A secret. That’s fair.” 

“Hold on, how’s that fair?” You tighten your scarf against a bitter breeze. “What use do I have for the people who know who you are? That doesn’t bring me any closer to the truth.” 

“It’s not about who knows, it’s about why I told them.” Spider-Man slips around you, forcing you to walk on the inside of the sidewalk as a car pulls past you all too quickly and sends a sheet of dirty rainwater up Spider-Man’s side. He shakes himself off. “Jerk!” he shouts after the car. 

“My secrets aren’t worth anything.”

“I doubt that, but if that’s true, that makes it a fair trade, doesn’t it?” 

He sounds peppy considering the pool of runoff collecting at his feet. You pick up your pace again and say, “Alright, useless secret for a useless secret.” 

You think about all your secrets. Some are odd, some gross. Some might make the people around you think less of you, while others would surely paint you in a nice light. A topaz sort of technicolor. But they aren’t useless, then, so you move on. 

“Oh, I know. I hate my major.” You grin at Spider-Man. “That’s a good one, right? No one else knows about that.” 

“You do?” Spider-Man asks. His voice is familiar, then, for its sympathy. 

“I like science, I just hate math. It’s harder than I thought it would be, and I need so much help it makes me hate the whole thing.” 

Spider-Man doesn’t drag the knife. “Okay. Only three people know who I am under the mask. It was four, briefly.” He clears his throat. “I told one person because I was being selfish and the others out of necessity. I’m trying really hard not to tell anybody else.”

“How come?” 

“It just hurts people.” 

You linger in a gap of silence, not sure what to say. A handful of cars pass you on the road. 

“Tell me another one,” he says. 

“What for?” 

“I don’t know, just tell me one.” 

“How do I know you aren’t extorting me for something?” You grin as you say it, a hint of flirtation. “You’ll know my face and my secrets and even if you tell me a really gory juicy one, I have no one to tell and no name to pair it with.” 

“I’m not showing you anything,” he warns, teasing, sounding so awfully like Peter that your heart trips again, an uneven capering that has you faltering in the street. 

Peter’s shorter, you decide, sizing him up. His voice sounds similar and familiar but Peter doesn’t ask for secrets. He doesn’t have to. (Or, he didn’t have to, once upon a time.) 

“Where are you going?” Spider-Man asks. 

“Oh, nowhere.” 

“Seriously, you’re out here walking again for no reason?” 

“I like to walk. It’s not like it’s dark out yet.” You’re not far at all from Queensboro Hill here. Walking in any direction would lead you to a garden —Flushing Meadows, Kew Gardens, Kissena Park. “Walk me to Kissena?” you ask. 

“Sure, for that secret.” 

You laugh as Spider-Man takes the lead, keeping time with him, a natural match of pace. It’s exciting that Spider-Man of all people wants to know one of your useless secrets enough to ask you twice. The attention of it makes searching for one a matter of how fast you can find one rather than a question of why you’d want to. It slips out before you can think better of it. 

“I burned my wrist a few days ago on a frying pan,” you confess, the phantom pain of the injury an itch. “It blistered and I cried when I did it, but I haven’t told anyone about it.” 

“Why not?” he asks. 

He shouldn’t use that tone with you, like he’s so so sorry. It makes you want to really tell him everything. How insecure you feel, how telling things feels like asking for someone to care, and half the time they don’t, and half the time you’re embarrassed. 

You walk past the bakery that demarcates the beginning of Kissena Park grounds across the way. “I didn’t think about it at first. I’m used to keeping things to myself. And then I didn’t tell anyone for so long that mentioning it now wouldn’t make sense. Like, bringing it up when it’s a scar won’t do much.” It’s a weak lie. It comes out like a spigot to a drying up tree. Glugs, fat beads of sound and the pull to find another thing to say.

“It was only a few days ago, right? It must still hurt. People want to know that stuff.” 

“Maybe I’ll tell someone tomorrow,” you say, though you won’t. 

“Thanks for telling me.”

The humour in spilling a secret like that to a superhero stops you from feeling sorry for yourself. You hide your cold fingers in your coat, rubbing the stiff skin of your knuckles into the lining for friction-heat. The rain has let up, wind whipping empty but brisk against your cheeks. Your lips will be chapped when you get home, whenever that turns out to be. 

“This is pretty far from Trader Joe’s,” he comments, like he’s read your mind. 

“Just an hour.” 

“Are you kidding? It’s an hour for me.” 

“That’s not true, Spider-Man, I’ve seen those webs in action. I still remember watching you on the News that night, the cranes. I remember,” —you try to meet his eyes despite the mask— “my heart in my throat. Weren’t you scared?”

“Is that the secret you want?” he asks. 

“I get to choose?” 

Spider-Man throws his gaze around, his hand behind his head like he might play with his hair. You come to a natural stop across the street from Kissena Park’s playground. Teenagers crowd the soft-landing floor, smaller children playing on the wet rungs of the climbing frame. 

“If you want to,” he says. 

“Then yeah, I want to know if you were scared.” 

“I didn’t haveI time to be scared. Connors was already there, you know?” He shifts from one foot to the other. “I don’t think I’ve ever thought about it before. I wasn’t scared of the height, if that’s what you mean. I already had practice by then, and I knew I had to do it. Like, I didn’t have a choice, so I just did it. I had to save the day, so I did.” 

“When they lined up the cranes–”

“It felt like flying,” Spider-Man interrupts. 

“Like flying.”

You picture the weightlessness, the adrenaline, the catch of your weight so high up and the pressure of being flung between the next point. The idea that you have to just do something, so you do. 

“That’s a good secret.” You offer a grateful smile. “It doesn’t feel equal. I burned myself and you saved the city.” 

“So tell me another one,” he says. 

—

Maybe you started to fall for Peter after his Uncle Ben passed away. Not the days where you’d text him and he’d ignore you, or the days spent camping outside of his house waiting for him to get home. It wasn’t that you couldn’t like him, angry as he was; there’s always been something about his eyes when he’s upset that sticks around. You loathe to see him sad but he really is pretty, and when his eyelashes are wet and his mouth is turned down, formidable, it’s an ache. A Cabanel painting, dramatic and dark and other. 

It was after. When he started sending Gwen weird smiles and showing up to the movies exhilarated, out of breath, unwilling to tell you where he’d been. Skating, he’d always say. Most of the time he didn’t have his skateboard. 

You’d only seen them kiss once, his hand on her shoulder curling her in, a pang of heat. You were curdled by jealousy but it was more than that. Peter was tipping her head back, was kissing her soundly, a fierceness from him that made you sick to think about. You spent weeks afterwards up at night, tossing, turning, wishing he’d kiss you like that, just once, so you could feel how it felt to be completely wrapped up in another person. 

You’d always held out for Peter, in a way. It was more important to you that he be your friend. You were young, and love had been a far off thing, and then one day you suddenly wanted it. You learned just how aching an unrequited love could be, like a bruise, where every time you saw Peter —whether it be alone or with Gwen, with anyone— it was like he knew exactly where to poke the bruise. Press the heel of his hand and push. The worst is when he found himself affectionate with you, a quick clasp of your cheek in his palm as he said goodbye. Nights spent in his twin bed, of course you’ll fit, of course you couldn’t go home, not this late, May won’t care if we keep the door open —the suggestion that the door being closed might’ve meant something. His sleeping arm furled around you. 

Now you’re nearing the end of your second semester at ESU, Gwen is going to England at the end of the year, and Peter hasn’t tried to stop her, but he’s still busy. 

“Whatever,“ you say, taking a deep breath. You’re not mad at Peter, you just miss him. Thinking about him all the time won’t change a thing. “It’s fine.” 

“I’d hope so.” 

You swing around. “Don’t do that!”

Spider-Man looks vaguely chastened, taking a step back. “I called out.” 

“You did?” 

“I did. Hey, miss, over there! The one who doesn’t know how to get a goddamn taxi!” 

“I like to walk,” you say. 

“Yeah, so you’ve said. Have you considered that all this walking is bad for you? It’s freezing out, Miss Bennett!” 

“It’s not that bad.” You have your coat, a scarf, your thermal leggings underneath your jeans. “I’m fine.” 

“What’s wrong with staying at home?” 

“That’s not good for you. And you’re one to talk, Spider-Man, aren’t you out on the streets every night? You should take a day off.” 

“I don’t do this every night.” 

“Don’t you get tired?”

Spider-Man’s eyelets seem to squint, his mock-anger effusive as he crosses his arms across his chest. “No, of course not. Do I look like I get tired?” 

“I don’t know. You’re in a full suit, I can’t tell. I guess you don’t… seem tired. You know, with all the backflips.” 

“Want me to do one?” 

“On command?” You laugh. “No, that’s okay. Save your strength, Spider-Man.” 

“So where are you heading today?” he asks. 

There’s a slip of skin peeking out against his neck. You’re surprised he can’t feel the cold there, stepping toward him to point. “I can see your stubble.” 

He yanks his mask down. “Hasty getaway.” 

“A getaway, undressed? Spider-Man, that’s not very gentlemanly.” 

You start to walk toward the Cinemart. Spider-Man, to your strange pleasure, follows. He walks with considerable casualness down the sidewalk by your left, occasionally letting his head turn to chase a distant sound where it echoes from between high-rises and along the busy street. It’s cold and dark, but New York is hectic no matter what, even the residential areas. (Is there such a thing? The neighbourhoods burst with small businesses and backstreet sales, no matter the time.)

“Luckily for you, crime is slow tonight,” he says. 

“Lucky me?” You wonder if your acquainted vigilante flirts with every girl he stalks. “You realise I’ve managed to get everywhere I’m going for the last two decades without help?” 

“I assume there was more than a little help during that first decade.” 

“That’s what you think. I was a super independent toddler.” 

Spider-Man tips his head back and laughs, but that laugh is quickly squashed with a cough. “Sure you were.” 

“Is there a reason you’re escorting me, Spider-Man?” you ask. 

“No. I– I recognised you, I thought I’d say hi.” 

“Hi, Spider-Man.” 

“Hi.” 

“Can I ask you something? Do you work?” 

Spider-Man stammers again, “I– yeah. I work. Freelance, mostly.” 

“I was wondering how you fit all the crime fighting into your life, is all. University is tough enough.” You let the wind bat your scarf off of your shoulder. “I couldn’t do what you do.” 

“Yeah, you could.” 

He sounds sure. 

“How would you know?” you ask. “Maybe I’m awful when you’re not walking me around. I hate New York. I hate people.” 

“No, you don’t. You’re not awful. Don’t ask me how I know, ‘cos I just know.” 

You try not to look at him. If you look at him, you’re gonna smile at him like he hung the moon. “Well, tonight I’m going to be dreadfully selfish. My friend said he’d buy my movie ticket and take me out for dinner, a real dinner, the mac and cheese with imitation lobster at Benny’s. Have you tried that?” 

Spider-Man takes a big step. “Tonight?” he asks. 

“Yep, tonight. That’s where I’m going, the Cinemart.” You frown at his hand pressing into his stomach. “Are you okay? You look like you’re gonna throw up.” 

“I can hear– something. Someone’s crying. I gotta go, okay? Have fun at the movies, okay?” He throws his arm up, a silken web shooting from his wrist to the third floor of an apartment complex. “Bye!” he shouts, taking a running jump to the apartment, using his web as an anchor. He flings himself over the roof. 

Woah, you think, warmth filling your cold cheeks, the tip of your nose. He’s lithe.  

Peter arrives ten minutes late for the movie, which is half an hour later than you’d agreed to meet. 

“Sorry!” he shouts, breathless as he grabs your hands. “God, I’m sorry! I’m so sorry. You should beat me up. I’m sorry.” 

“What the fuck happened?” you ask, not particularly angry, only relieved to see him with enough time to still catch the movie. “You’re sweating like crazy, your hair’s wet.” 

“I ran all the way here, Jesus, do I smell bad? Don’t answer that. Fuck, do we have time?” 

You usher Peter inside. He pays for the tickets with hands shaking and you attempt to wipe the sweat from his forehead with your sleeve. “You could’ve called me,” you say, content to let him grab you by the arm and race you to the screen doors, “we could’ve caught the next one. Why were you so late, anyways? Did you forget?” 

“Forget about my favourite girl? How could I?” He elbows open the doors to let you enter first. “Now shh,” he whispers, “find the seats, don’t miss the trailers. You love them.” 

“You love them–”

“I’ll get popcorn,” he promises, letting the door close between you. 

You’re tempted to follow, fingers an inch from the handle. 

You turn away and rush to find your seats. Hopefully, the popcorn line is ten blocks long, and he spends the night punished for his wrongdoing. My favourite girl. You laugh nervously into your hand. 

—

Winter 

Spider-Man finds you at least once a week for the next few weeks. He even brings you an umbrella one time, stars on the handle, asking you rather politely to go home. He offers to buy you a hot dog as you’re walking past the stand, takes you on a shortcut to the convenience store, and helps you get a piece of gum off of your shoe with a leaf and a scared scream. He’s friendly, and you’re getting used to his company. 

One night, you’re almost home from Trader Joe’s, racing in the pouring rain when a familiar voice calls out, “Hey! Running girl! Wait a second!” 

Him, you think, as ridiculous as it sounds. You don’t know his name, but Spider-Man’s a sunny surprise in a shitty, wet winter, and you turn to the sound with a grin.

He jogs toward you. 

You feel the world pause, right in the centre of your throat. All the air gets sucked out of you. 

“Hey, what are you doing out here? Did you get my texts?” 

You blink as fat rain lands on your face. 

“You okay?” Peter asks, Peter, in a navy hoodie turning black in the rain and a brown corduroy jacket. It’s sodden, hanging heavily around his shoulders. “Come on, let’s go,” —he takes your hand and pulls until you begin to speed walk beside him— “it’s freezing!” 

“Peter–”

“Jesus Christ!” 

“Peter, what are you doing here?” you ask, your voice an echo as he drags you into the foyer of your apartment building. 

Rain hammers the door as he closes it, the windows, the foyer too dark to see properly. 

“I wanted to see you. Is that allowed?” 

“No.” 

Peter takes your hand. You look down at it, and he looks down in tandem, and it is decidedly a non-platonic move. “No?” he asks, a hair’s width from murmuring. 

“Shit, my groceries are soaked.” 

“It’s all snacks, it’s fine,” he says, pulling you to the stairs. 

You rush up the steps together to your floor. Peter takes your key when you offer it, your own fingers too stiff to manage it by yourself, and he holds the door open for you again to let you in. 

Your apartment is a ragtag assortment to match the one next door, old wooden furniture wheeled from the street corners they were left on, thrifted homeward and heavy blankets everywhere you look. You almost slip getting out of your shoes. Peter steadies you with a firm hand. He shrugs out of his coat and hangs it on the hook, prying the damp hoodie over his head and exposing a solid length of back that trips your heart as you do the same. 

“Sorry I didn’t ask,” Peter says. 

“What, to come over? It’s fine. I like you being here, you know that.” 

All your favourite days were spent here or at Peter’s house, in beds, on sofas, his hair tickling your neck as credits run down the TV and his breath evens to a light snore. You try to settle down with him, changing into dry clothes, his spare stuff left at the bottom of your wardrobe for his next inevitable impromptu visit. You turn on the TV, letting him gather you into his side with more familiarity than ever. Rain lays its fingertips on your window and draws lazy lines behind half-turned blinds. You rest on the arm and watch Peter watch the movie, answering his occasional, “You okay?” with a meagre nod. 

“What’s wrong?” he asks eventually. “You’re so quiet.” 

Your hand over your mouth, you part your marriage and pinky finger, marriage at the corner, pinky pressed to your bottom lip, the flesh chapped by a season of frigid winds and long walks. “‘M thinking,” you say. 

“About?” 

About the first night in your new apartment. You got the apartment a couple of weeks before the start of ESU. Not particularly close to the university but close to Peter, your best, nicest friend. You met in your second year of High School, before Peter got contacts, ‘cos he was good at taking photographs and you were in charge of the school newspapers media sourcing. You used to wait for Peter to show up ten minutes late like clockwork, every week. And every week he’d barge into the club room and say, “Fuck, I’m sorry, my last class is on the other side of the building,” until it turned into its own joke. 

Three years later, you got your apartment, and Peter insisted you throw a housewarming party even if he was the only person invited. 

“Fuck,” he’d said, ten minutes late, a cake in one hand and a whicker basket the other, “sorry. My last class is on–”

But he didn’t finish. You’d laughed so hard with relief at the reference that he never got the chance. Peter remembered your very first inside joke, because Peter wasn’t about to go off to ESU and meet new friends and forget you. 

But Peter’s been distant for a while now, because Peter’s Spider-Man. 

“Do you remember,” you say, not willing to share the whole truth, “when you joined the school newspaper to be the official photographer, and you taught me the rule of thirds?” 

“So you didn’t need me,” he says. 

“I was just thinking about it. We ran that newspaper like the Navy.” 

Peter holds your gaze. “Is that really what you were thinking about?” 

“Just funny,” you murmur, dropping your hand in your lap and breaking his stare. “So much has changed.” 

“Not that much.” 

“Not for me, no.” 

Peter gets a look in his eyes you know well. He’s found a crack in you and he’s gonna smooth it over until you feel better. You’re expecting his soft tone, his loving smile, but you’re not expecting the way he pulls you in —you’d slipped away from him as the evening went on, but Peter erases every millimetre of space as he slides his arm under your lower back and ushers you into his side. You hold your breath as he hugs you, as he looks down at you. It’s really like he loves you, the line between platonic and romantic a blur. He’s never looked at you like this before.

“I don’t want you to change,” he whispers. 

“I want to catch up with you,” you whisper back. 

“Catch up with me? We’re in the exact same place, aren’t we?”

“I don’t know, are we?” 

Peter hugs you closer, squishing your head down against his jaw as he rubs your shoulder. “Of course we are.” 

Peter… What is he doing? 

You let yourself relax against him. 

“You do change,” he whispers, an utterance of sound to calm that awful bruise he gave you all those months ago, “you change every day, but you don’t need to try.” 

“I just… feel like everyone around me is…” You shake your head. “Everyone’s so smart, and they know what they’re doing, or they’re– they’re special. I don’t know anything. So I guess lately I’ve been thinking about that, and then you–”

“What?” 

You can say it out loud. You could. 

“Peter, you’re…” 

“I’m what?” he asks. 

His fingers glide down the length of your arm and up again. 

If you're wrong, he’ll laugh. And if you’re right, he might– might stop touching you. Your head feels so heavy, and his touch feels like it’s gonna put you to sleep. 

He’s Spider-Man. 

It makes sense. Who else could have a good enough heart to do that? Of course it’s Peter. It explains so much about him, about Peter and Spider-Man both. Why Peter is suddenly firmer, lighter on his feet, why he can help you move a wardrobe up two flights of stairs without complaint; why Spider-Man is so kind to you, why he knows where to find you, why he rolls his words around just like Pete. 

Spider-Man said there are reasons he wears his mask. And Peter doesn’t tell you much, but you trust him. 

You won’t make him say anything, you decide. Not now. 

You curl your arm over his stomach hesitantly, smiling into his shirt as he hugs you tighter. 

“I was thinking about you,” he says. 

“Yeah?” 

“You’re quieter lately. I know you’re having a hard time right now, okay? You don’t have to tell me. I’m here for you whenever you need me.” 

“Yeah?” you ask.

“You used to sit on my porch when you knew May wouldn’t be home to make sure I wasn’t alone.” Peter’s breath is warm on your forehead. “I don’t know what you’re worried about being, but I’m with you,” he says, “‘n nothing is gonna change that.” 

Peter isn’t as far away as you thought. 

“Thank you,” you say. 

He kisses your forehead softly. Your whole world goes amber. He brings his hand to your cheek, the thought of him tipping your head back sudden and heart-racing, but Peter only holds you. You lose count of how many minutes you spend cupped in his hand. 

“Can I stay over tonight?” he utters, barely audible under the sound of the battering rain. 

“Yeah, please.” 

His thumb strokes your cheek. 

—

Two switches flip at once, that night. Peter is suddenly as tactile as you’ve craved, and Spider-Man disappears. 

He’s alive and well, as evidenced by Peter’s continued survival and presence in your life, but Spider-Man doesn’t drop in on your nightly walks. 

You take less of them lately, feeling better in yourself. Your spirits are certainly lifted by Peter’s increasing affection, but now that you know he’s Spider-Man you were waiting to see him in spandex to mess with his head. Nothing mean, but you would’ve liked to pick at his secret identity, toy with him like you know he’d do to you. After all, he’s been trailing you for weeks and getting to know you. Peter already knows you. Plus, you told Spider-Man secrets not meant for Peter Parker’s ears. 

You find it hard to be angry with him. A thread of it remains whenever you remember his deception, but mostly you worry about him. Peter’s out every night until who knows what hour fighting crime. There are guns. He could get shot, and he doesn’t seem scared. You end up watching videos on the internet of the night he ran to Oscorp, when he fought Connors’ and got that huge gash in his leg. His leg is soiled deep red with blood but banded in white webbing. He limps as he races across a rooftop, the recording shaky yet high definition. 

It’s not nice to see Peter in pain. You cling to what he’d said, how he wasn’t scared, but not being scared doesn’t mean he wasn’t hurting. 

You chew the tip of a finger and click on a different video. Your computer monitor bears heat, the tower whirring by your thigh. Your eyes burn, another hour sitting in the same seat, sick with worry. You don’t mind when Peter doesn’t answer your texts anymore. You didn’t mind so much before, just terrified of becoming an irrelevance in his life and lonely, too, maybe a little hurt, but never worried for his safety. Now when Peter doesn’t text you back you convince yourself that he’s been hurt, or that he’s swinging across New York City about to risk his life.

It’s not a good way to live. You can’t stop giving into it, is all. 

In the next video, Spider-Man sits on a billboard with a can of coke in hand. He doesn’t lift his mask, seemingly aware of his watcher. You laugh as he angles his head down, suspicion in his tight shoulders. He relaxes when he sees whoever it is recording. 

“Hey,” he says, “you all right?” 

“Should you be up there?” the person recording shouts. 

“I’m fine up here!” 

“Are you really Spider-Man?” 

“Sure am.” 

“Are you single?” 

Peter laughs like crazy. How you didn’t know it was him before is a mystery —it couldn’t sound more like him. “I’ve got my eye on someone!” he says, sounding younger for it, the character voice he enacts when he’s Spider-Man lost to a good mood.  

Your phone rings in the back pocket of your jeans. You wriggle it out, nonplussed to find Peter himself on your screen. You click the green answer button. 

“Hello?” Peter asks. 

You bring the phone snug to your ear. “Hey, Peter.” 

“Hi, are you busy?” 

“Not really.” 

“Do you wanna come over? I know it’s late. Come stay the night and tomorrow we’ll go out for breakfast.” 

“Is Aunt May okay with that?” 

“She’s staring at me right now shaking her head, but I’m in trouble for something. May, can she come over, is that allowed?” 

“She’s always allowed as long as you keep the door open.”

You laugh under your breath at May’s begrudging answer. “Are you sure she’s alright with it?” you ask softly. “I don’t want to be a burden.” 

“You never, ever could be. I’m coming to your place and we’ll walk over together. Did you eat dinner?” 

“Not yet, but–”

“Okay, I’ll make you something when you get here. I’ll meet you at the door. Twenty minutes?” 

“I have to shower first.” 

“Twenty five?” 

You choke on a laugh, a weird bubbly thing you’re not used to. Peter laughs on the other side of the phone. “How about I’ll see you at seven?” 

“It’s a date,” he says. 

“Mm, put it in your calendar, Parker.” 

—

Peter waits for you at the door like he promised. He frowns at your still-wet face as he slips your backpack from your shoulder, throwing it over his own. “You’re gonna get sick.” 

“I‘ll dry fast,” you say. “I took too long finding my pyjamas.” 

“I have stuff you can wear. Probably have your sweatpants somewhere, the grey ones.” Peter pulls you forward and wipes your tacky face. “I would’ve waited,” he says. 

“It’s fine.“

“It’s not fine. Are you cold?” 

“Pete, it’s fine.” 

“You always remind me of my Uncle Ben when you call me Pete,” he laughs, “super stern.” 

“I’m not stern. Look, take me home, please, I’m cold.” 

“You said it wasn’t cold!” 

“It’s not, I’m just damp–” Peter cuts you off as he grabs you, sudden and tight, arms around you and rubbing the lengths of your back through your coat. “Handsy!”

“You like it,” he jokes back, his playful warming turning into a hug. You smile, hiding your face in his neck for a few moments. 

“I don’t like it,” you lie. 

“Okay, you don’t like it, and I’m sorry.” Peter gives you a last hug and pulls away. “Now let’s go. I gotta feed you before midnight.” 

“That’s not funny.” 

“Apparently, nothing is.” 

Peter links your arms together. By the time you get to his house, you’ve fallen away from each other naturally. May is in the hallway when you climb through the door, an empty laundry basket in her hands. 

“I see Peter hasn’t won this argument yet,” you say in way of greeting. Peter’s desperate to do his own laundry now he’s getting older. May won’t let him. 

“No, he hasn’t.” She looks you up and down. “It’s nice to see you, honey. And in one piece! Peter tells me you’ve been walking a lot, and I mean, in this city? Can’t you buy a treadmill?” she asks. 

“May!” Peter says, startled. 

“I like walking, I like the air,” you say.

“Can’t exactly call it fresh,” May says. 

“No, but it’s alright. It helps me think.” 

“Is everything okay?” May asks, putting her hand on her hip. 

“Of course.” You smile at her genuinely. “I think starting college was too much for me? It was hard. But things are settling now, I don’t know what Peter told you, but I’m not walking a lot anymore. You know, not more than necessary.”

She softens her disapproving. “Good, honey. That’s good. Peter’s gonna make you some dinner now, right?” 

“Yeah, Aunt May, I’m gonna make dinner,” Peter sighs, pulling a leg up to take off his shoes. 

Peter shouldn’t really know that you’ve been walking. He might see you coming back from Trader Joe’s or the bodega on his way to your apartment, but you haven’t mentioned any of your longer excursions, and everybody in Queens has to walk. That’s information he wouldn’t know without Spider-Man. 

He seems to be hoping you won’t realise, changing the subject to the frankly killer grilled cheese and tomato soup that he’s about to make you, and pushing you into a chair at the table. “Warm up,” he says near the back of your head, forcing a wave of shivers down your arms.

He makes soup in one pan, grilled cheese in the other, two for him and two for you. Peter’s a good eater, and he encourages the same from you, setting a big bowl of tomato soup (from the can, splash of fresh cream) down in front of you with the grilled cheese on a plate between you. You eat it in too-hot bites and try not to get caught looking at him. He does the same, but when he catches you, or when you catch him, he holds your eye and smiles. 

“I can do the dishes,” you say. You might need a breather. 

“Are you kidding? I’m gonna rinse them, put them in the dishwasher.” Peter stands and feels your forehead with his hand. “Warmer. Good job.” 

You shrug away from his hand. “Loser.” 

“Concerned friend.” 

“Handsy loser.” 

”Shut up,” he mumbles. 

As flustered as you’ve ever seen, Peter takes your empty dishes to the kitchen. When he’s done rinsing them off you follow him upstairs to his bedroom and tuck your backpack under his bed. 

You look down at your socks. Peter’s room is on the smaller side, but it’s never been as startlingly small as it is when Peter’s socked feet align with yours, toe to toe. Quick recovery time, this boy. 

“There’s chips and stuff on my desk. Or I could run to 91st for some ice cream sandwiches if you want something sweet,” he says. 

You lift your eyes, tilt your head up just a touch, not wanting him to think you’re in his space no matter how strange that might be, considering he chose to stand there. “I’m all right. Did you want ice cream? We can go if you want to, but if you want to go ’cos you think I do then I’m fine.” 

“That’s such a long answer,” he says, draping an arm over your shoulder. “You don’t have to say all of that, just tell me no.” 

“I don’t want ice cream.” 

“Wasn’t that easy?” he asks. 

“Well, no, it wasn’t. Saying no to you is like saying no to a puppy.” 

“Because I’m adorable?” 

“Persistent.” 

“Yeah, I guess I am.” He drapes the other arm over you. The soap he used at the kitchen sink lingers on his hands. 

“Peter…?” you murmur. 

“What?” he murmurs back. 

You touch a knuckle to his chest. “This– You…” Every quelled thought rushes to the surface at once —Peter doesn’t like you as you desire, how could he, you aren’t beautiful like he is, aren’t smart, aren’t brave, no exceptional kindness or goodness to mark you enough for him. It’s why his being with Gwen didn’t hurt; she made sense. And for months now you’ve wondered what it is that made him struggle to be with her. And sometimes, foolishly, you wondered if it was you. But it’s not you, it’s never you, and whatever Peter’s trying to do now–

“Hey, you okay?” he asks, taking your face into his hand. 

“What are you doing?” 

“What?” He pushes his hand back to hold your nape, thumb under your ear. “I can’t hear you.”  

You raise your voice. “Why did you invite me over tonight?” 

“‘Cos I missed you?” 

“I used to think you didn’t miss me at all.” 

Peter winces, hurt. “How could you think that? Of course I miss you. What you said to May, about college being hard? It’s like that for me too, okay? I miss you all the time.” 

You bite the inside of your bottom lip. “…College isn’t hard for you.” 

“It’s not easy.” He frowns, the fallen angel, his lips an unsure brushstroke. “What’s wrong? Did I say the wrong thing?” 

You’re being wretched, you know, saying it isn’t hard for him. “You didn’t. Really, you didn’t.” 

“But why are you upset?” he implores, dark eyes darker as his eyebrows tug together.

“I’m not–”

“You are. It’s okay, you can be upset. I just want you to feel better, you know that?” He settles his hands at the tops of your arms. Less intimate, but something warm remains. “Even if it takes a long time.” 

“I’m fine.” 

“You’re not fine.”

“How would you know?” you finally ask. 

Peter stares at you. 

“I know you,” he says carefully, “and I know you aren’t struggling like you were, but that doesn’t mean it didn’t happen or that you have to be a hundred percent better now.” 

“I didn’t realise that I was,” you say, licking your lips, “‘til now. I didn’t get that it was on the surface.”

Peter pulls you in for a gentle hug. “I’m here for you forever, and I’ll make it up to you for not noticing sooner,” he says, scrunching your shirt in his hand.

After the hug, he tells you to change and make yourself comfortable while he showers. So you put on your pyjamas and climb into Peter’s bed, head pounding as though all your energy was stolen in a fell swoop. You press your nose to his pillow and arm wrapped around his comforter, gathering it into a Peter sized lump. The shower pump whines against the shared wall. 

Things aren’t meant to be like this. You thought Peter touching you —holding you— was the deepest of your desires, but you feel now exactly as you had before he started blurring the line, needing Peter to kiss you so badly it becomes its own kind of nausea. Why are you still acting like it’s an impossibility?

When he comes back, you’ll apologise. He hasn’t done anything wrong. He does keep a secret, but don’t you keep one too? He’s Spider-Man. You’ve had deep, complicated feelings for him for months. They are secrets of equal magnitude, and are, more apparently, badly kept. 

You wish you could fall asleep. Your heart ticks in agitation.

Peter returns as perturbed as earlier. 

“Are you sure there’s nothing wrong?” he asks, raking a hand through his hair. A towel hangs around his neck. 

“I’m sorry for being weird.” 

“You’re not weird,” Peter says, bringing the towel to his hair to scrub ruthlessly. 

“It’s just ‘cos things have been different between us.” And, you try to say, that scares me no matter how bad I wanted it. because you’re not just Peter anymore, you’re Spider-Man. I’m only me, and I can’t do anything to protect you.

Peter gives his hair a long scrub before draping the towel on his desk chair. He rakes it messily into place and sits himself at the end of the bed. You sit up. 

“Yeah, they have been. Good different?” he asks hesitantly. 

“I think so,” you say, quiet again. 

“That’s what I thought.” 

“I don’t want you to feel like I don’t want to be here. I just worry about you.” 

Peter uses his hands to get higher up the bed. “Don’t worry about me,” he says, “Jesus, please don’t. That’s the last thing I want from you, I hate when people worry about me.” 

You curl into the lump of comforter you’d made. Peter lets himself rest beside you, his back to the bedroom wall, tens of Polaroids above him shining with the light of the hallway and his orange-bulbed lamp. His skin is glowing like it’s golden hour, dashes of topaz in his eyes, his Cupid’s bow deep. How would it feel to lean forward and kiss him? To catch his Cupid's bow under your lips?

You brush a damp curl tangled in another onto his forehead. 

You lay there for a little while without talking, listening to the sound of the washing machine as it cycles downstairs. 

“Am I going too fast?” Peter murmurs. 

You press your lips together, shaking your head minutely. 

“Is it something else?” 

You don’t move. 

“Do you want me to stop?” he asks. 

“No.”

Peter rewards you with a smile, his hand on your arm. “Alright. Let me get this blanket on you the right way. You’re still cold.” 

You resent the loss of a shape to hold when Peter slips down beside you and wrangles the comforter flat again, spreading it out over you both, his hand under the blankets. His knuckles brush your thigh. 

He takes a deep breath before turning and wrapping his arm over your stomach, asking softly, “Is this alright?” 

“Yeah.” 

He gives you a look and then lifts his head to slot his nose against your temple. “Please don’t take this in a way that I don’t mean it, but sometimes you think about things so much I worry you’re gonna get stuck in your head forever.” 

“I like thinking.” 

“I hate it,” he says quickly, a fervent, flirting cadence to his otherwise dulcet tone, “we should never do it ever again.” 

“I’ll try not to.” 

“Would you? For me?” 

You laugh into his shirt, feeling the warmth of your breath on your own nose. “I’ll do my best.” 

“Good. I’d miss you too much if you got lost in that nice head of yours.” 

You relax under his arm. You aren’t sure what all the fuss was about now that he's hugging you. “I’d miss you too.”

May comes up the stairs about an hour later. To her credit, she doesn’t flinch when she finds you and Peter smushed together watching a DVD on his old TV. He’s holding your arm, and you’re snoozing on his shoulder, half-aware of the world, fully aware of his nice smells and the shapes of his arms. 

“Door open,” she says. 

“Not that either of us want it closed, May, but we’re adults.” 

“Not while I’m still washing your clothes, you’re not.” 

He snorts. “Goodnight, Aunt May. The door isn’t gonna close, I promise.” 

“I know that,” she says, scornful in her pride. “You’re a good boy.” She lightens. “Things are going okay?” 

Peter covers your ear. “Goodnight, Aunt May.” 

”I have half a mind to never listen to you again. You talk my ear off and I can’t ask a simple question?” 

“I love you,” Peter sing-songs. 

“I love you, Peter,” she says. “Don’t smother the girl.” 

“I won’t smother her. It’s in my best interest that she survives the night. She’s buying my breakfast tomorrow.” 

“Peter Parker.” 

“I’m kidding,” he whispers, petting your cheek absentmindedly. “Just messing with you, May.” 

You smile and curl further into his arms. His voice is like the sun, even when he whispers.  

—

To your surprise, Spider-Man comes to find you after class one evening. A guest lecturer had talked to your oncology class about click chemistry and other molecular therapies against cancer, and the zine book she’d given you is burning a hole in your pocket. Peter is going to love it. 

You pull it out and pause beside a bench and a silver trash can, the day grey but thankfully without rain. The pages of your little book whip forcefully in the wind. It’s chemistry, sure, but it’s biology too, wrapping your and Peter’s interests up neatly. If it weren’t for Peter you doubt you’d love science as much as you do. He’s always been good at it, but since you started college he's been a genius. Watching him grow has encouraged you to work harder, and understanding the material is satisfying, if draining. You take a photo of the middle most pages and tuck the book away, writing a quick text to Peter to send with it. 

Look! it says, LEGO cancer treatment!! 

The moment you press send a beep chimes from somewhere close behind you, all too familiar. You turn to the source but find nobody you know waiting. Coincidence, you think, shaking yourself and beginning the trek to the subway. 

But then you hear the tell tale splat and thwick of Spider-Man’s webbing. 

You wait until you’re at the alleyway between Porto’s Bakery and the key cutting shop and turn down to stop by one of the dumpsters. 

“Spider-Man?” you ask, shoulders tensed in case it’s not who you think. 

“What are you doing?” he asks.

You gasp as he hops down in front of you, his suit shiny with its dark web-pattern caught by the grey sunshine passing through the clouds overhead. “Shit, don’t break your ankles.” 

“My ankles?” He laughs. He sounds so much like Peter that you can only laugh with him. What an idiot he is for thinking you don’t know; what a fool you’d been for falling for his put upon tenor. “They’re fine. What would be wrong with my ankles?” 

“You just dropped down twenty feet!” 

“It’s more like thirty, and I’m fine. You understand the super part of superhero, don’t you?” 

“Who said you’re a superhero?” 

“Nice. What are you doing down here?” 

“I was testing my theory. You’re following me.” 

“No, I’m visiting you, it’s very different,” he says confidently. 

“You haven’t come to see me for weeks.” 

“Yes, well, I–” Spider-Peter crosses his arms across his chest. “Hey, you’re the one who told me to take a day off.” 

“I did tell you to take a day off. It’s not nice thinking about you trying to save the world every single night. That’s a lot of responsibility for one person to have.” 

“But it’s my responsibility,” he says easily. “No point in a beautiful girl like you wasting her time worrying about it. I have to do it, and I don’t mind it.” 

“Do you flirt with every girl you meet out here in the city?” you ask, cheeks hot. 

“No,” he says, fondness evident even through the mask, “just you.” 

“Do you wanna walk me home? I was gonna take the subway, but it’s not that far.” 

Spider-Man nods. “Yeah, I’ll walk you back.” 

He doesn’t hide that he knows the way very well. He takes preemptive turns, crosses roads without you telling him to go forward. You can’t believe him. Smartest guy at Midtown High and he can’t pretend to save his life. 

“Are you having a good semester?” he asks. 

“It’s getting better. I’m glad I stuck with it. I love biology, it’s so fucking hard. I used to think that was a bad thing, but it makes it cooler now. Like, it’s not something everyone understands.” You give him a look, and you give into temptation. “My best friend got me into all this stuff. I used to think math was hopeless and science was for dorks.” 

“It’s definitely for dorks.” 

“Right, but I love being one.” You offer a useless secret. “I like to think that it’s why we’re such great friends.” 

“Me and you?” Spider-Man asks hoarsely. 

“Me and Peter.” You elbow him without force. “Why, do you like science?” 

“I love it…” 

“You know, I really like you, Spider-Man. I feel like we’ve been friends for a long time.” You’re teasing poor Peter. 

He doesn’t speak for a while. He stops walking, but you take a few steps without him. When you realise he’s stopped, you turn back to see him. 

Peter’s gone so tense you could strike him with a flint and catch a spark. It’s the same way Peter looked at you when he told you about his Uncle, a truth he didn’t want to be true. Seeing it throws a spanner in the works of all your teasing: you’d meant to wind him up, not make him panic. 

“What’s wrong?” you ask. “Can you hear something?” 

“No, it’s not that…” He’s masked, but you know him well enough to understand why he’s stopped. 

“It’s okay,” you say. 

“It’s not, actually.” 

“Spider-Man.” You take a step toward him. “It’s fine.”

He presses his hands to his stomach. The sun is setting early, and in an hour, the dark will eat up New York and leave it in a blistering cold. “Do you remember when we first met, the second time, we swapped secrets?” 

“Yeah, I remember. Useless secret for another. I told you I hated my major. It’s not true anymore, obviously. I was having a bad time.” 

“I know you were,” he says, emphasis on know, like it’s a different word entirely. 

“But meeting you really helped. If it weren’t for you, for Peter,” —you give him a searching look— “I wouldn’t feel better at all.” 

“It wasn’t his fault?” he asks. “He was your friend, and you were lonely.” 

“No–”

“He didn’t know what was going on with you, he didn’t have a clue. You hurt yourself and you felt like you couldn’t tell anybody, and I know it wasn’t an accident, so what was his excuse?” His voice burns with anger. “It’s his fault.” 

“Of course it wasn’t your fault. Is that what you think?” You shake your head, panicked by the bone-deep self loathing in his voice, his shameful dropped head. “Yes, I was lonely, I am lonely, I don’t know many people and I– I– I hurt myself, and it wasn’t as accidental as I thought it was, but why would that be your fault?” 

“Peter’s fault,” he says, though his head is lifted now, and he doesn’t bother enthusing it with much gusto. 

“Peter, none of it was your fault.” You cringe in your embarrassment, thinking Fuck, don’t let me ruin this. “I was in a weird way, and yes, I was lonely, and I really liked you more than I should have. You didn't want me and that wasn’t your fault, that’s just how it was, I tried not to let it get to me, just there were a lot of things weighing on me at once, but it really wasn’t as bad as you think it was and it wasn’t your fault.” 

“I wasn’t there for you,” he says. “And I’ve been lying to you for a long time.” 

“You couldn’t tell me, right? Spider-Man is your secret for a reason.” 

“…I didn’t even know you were lonely until you told him. He was a stranger.” 

You hold your hands behind your back. “Well, he was a familiar one.” 

Peter reaches out as though wanting to touch you, but your arms aren’t in his reach. “It’s not because I didn’t want you.” 

“Peter,” you say, squirming. 

He steps back. 

“I have to go,” he says. 

“What?” 

“I have to– I don’t want to go,” he says earnestly, “sweetheart, I can hear someone calling out, I have to go. But I’ll come back, I’ll– I’ll come back,” he promises. 

And with a sudden lift of his arm, Peter pulls himself up the side of a building and disappears, leaving you whiplashed on the sidewalk, the sun setting just out of view.

—

You fall asleep that night waiting for Peter. When you wake up, 5AM, eyes aching, he isn’t there. You check your phone but he hasn’t texted. You check the Bugle and Spider-Man hasn’t been seen. 

You aren’t sure what to think. He sounded sincere to the fullest extent when he said he’d come back, but he didn’t, not ten minutes later, not twenty. You made excuses and you went home before it got too dark to see the street, sat on the couch rehearsing what you’d say. How could Peter think your unhappiness was his fault? Why does he always put the entire world on his shoulders?

Selfishly, you worried what it all meant for his lazy touches. Would he want to curl up into bed with you again now he knows what it means to you? It’s different for him. It isn’t like he’s in love with you… you’d just thought maybe he could be. That this was falling in love, real love, not the unrequited ache you’d suffered before. 

But maybe you got everything wrong. All of it. It wouldn't be the first time. 

—

You and Peter found The Moroccan Mode in your senior year at Midtown. The school library was small and you were sick of being underfoot at home. When you started at ESU, you explored the on campus coffeehouse, the Coffee Bean, but it was crowded, and you’d found yourself attached to the Mode’s beautiful tiling, blues and topaz and platinum golds, its heavy, oiled wooden furniture, stained glass lampshades and the case full of lemony treats. The coffee here is better than anywhere else, but the best part out of everything is that it’s your secret. Barely anybody comes to the Mode on purpose. 

You hide in a far corner with a book and an empty cup of decaf coffee, a slice of meskouta on the table untouched. Decaf because caffeine felt a terrible idea, meskouta untouched because you can’t stomach the smell. You push it to the opposite end of the table, considering another cup of coffee instead. It’s served slightly too hot, and will still be warm when it gets to your chest. 

The sunshine is creeping in slowly. It feels like the first time you’ve seen it in months, warming rays kissing your fingers and lining the walls. You turn a page, turn your wrist, let the sun warm the scar you gave yourself those few months ago, when everything felt too big for you. 

Looking back, it was too big. Maybe soon you’ll be ready to talk about it.  

The author in your book is talking about bees. They can fly up to 15 miles per hour. They make short, fast motions from front to back, a rocking motion. Asian giant hornets can go even faster despite their increased mass. They consider humans running provocation. If you see a giant hornet, you’re supposed to lay down to avoid being stung. 

You put your face in your hand. Next year, you’ll avoid the insect-based electives. 

Across the cafe, the bell at the top of the door rings. Laughter falls through it, a couple passing by. The register clashes open. A minute later it closes. 

You don’t raise your head when footsteps draw near. A plate is placed on the table, pushed across to you, stopping just shy of your coffee. 

“Did you eat breakfast?” Peter asks quietly. 

His voice is gentle, but hoarse. 

You tense. 

“Are you okay?” he asks, not waiting for your answer to either question. “You don’t look like yourself. Your eyes are red.” 

You lift your head. Wet with the beginnings of tears, you see Peter through an astigmatic blur. 

“What are you reading?” He frowns at you. “Please don’t cry.” 

You shake your head. Your smile is all odd, nothing like his, no inherent warmth despite your best effort. “I’m okay.” 

He nudges you across the booth seat and sits beside you. His arm settles behind your shoulders. He smells like smoke and soap, an acrid scent barely hidden. “Can you tell me you didn’t wait long for me?” 

“Ten minutes,” you lie. 

“Okay. I’m sorry. There was a fire.” He rubs your arm where he’s holding you. “I’m sorry.” 

“Will you go half?” you ask, nodding to the sandwich he’s brought you. It’s tough sourdough bread, brown with white flour on the crusts and leafy greens poking between the slices. You and Peter complain about the price. You’ve never had one. He passes you the bigger half, holding the other in his hand without eating. 

“I know you’re hungry,” you say, tapping his elbow, “just eat.” 

You eat your sandwiches. Now that Peter’s here, you don’t feel so sick —he’s not upset with you. The dull pang of an empty stomach won’t be ignored. 

Peter puts his sandwich down, which is crazy, and wipes his fingers on the plates napkin. You’ve never seen him stop before he’s done.

“It was in the apartments on Vernon. I– I think I almost died, the smoke was everywhere.” 

You choke around a crust, thrusting the rest of your half onto the plate. “Are you hurt?” you ask, coughing. 

He moves his head from side to side, not a shake, but a slow no. “How long have you known it was me?” he asks, curling his hand behind your back again, fingers spread over your shoulder blade, a fingertip on your neck. 

You savour his touch, but you give in to your apprehension and stare at his chest. “The night you caught me outside in the rain in November. You called me ‘running girl’. The way you said it, you sounded exactly like him. I turned around expecting,” —you whisper, weary of the quiet cafe— “Spider-Man, and I realised it’s him that sounds like you. That he is you.” 

“Was that disappointing?” 

“Peter, you’re, like, my favourite person in the world,” you whisper fervently, your smile making it light. You laugh. “Why would that be disappointing?” 

“I thought maybe you think he’s cooler than me.” 

“He is cooler than you, Peter.” You laugh again, pleased when he scoffs and draws you nearer. “I guess you’re the same person, right? So he’s just as cool as you are. But why would being cool matter to me? You know I like you.” 

“You flirted pretty heavily with Spider-Man.”

“Well, he flirted with me first.” 

You chance a look at his face. From that moment you can’t look away, not from Peter. You like when he wears that darkness in his eyes, the hint of his rarer side so uncommonly seen, but you love this most of all, Peter like your best memory, the way he’s looking at you now a picture perfect copy of that moment in a swimming pool in Manhattan with cracked tile under your feet. His arms heavy on your shoulders. You didn’t get it then, but you’re starting to understand now.

“I’ve made a mess of everything,” he says softly, the trail his hand makes to the small of your back leaving a wake of goosebumps. “I haven’t been honest with you.” 

“I haven’t, either.” 

“I want to ask you for something,” Peter says, a fingertip trailing back up. He smiles when you shiver, not teasing, just loving. “You can say no.” 

“You’re hard to say no to.” 

“I need you to talk to me more,” —and here he goes, Peter Parker, flirting and sweet-talking like his life depends on it, his face inching down into your space— “not just because I love your voice, or because you think so much I’m scared you’ll get lost, but I need you to talk to me. We need to talk about real things.”

We do, you think morosely. 

“It’s not your fault,” he adds, the hand that isn’t holding your back coming up to cup your cheek, “it’s mine. I was scared of telling you for stupid reasons, but I shouldn’t have let it be a secret for so long.” 

“No, I doubt they’re stupid,” you murmur, following his hand as he attempts to move it to your ear. “It’s not easy to tell someone you’re a hero.”

His palm smells like smoke. 

“That’s not the secret I meant,” he says. 

You take his hand from your face. Peter looks down and begins pressing his fingers between yours, squeezing them together as his thumb runs over the back of your hand.

“So tell me.”

The sunshine bleeds onto his cheek. Dappled orange light turning slowly white as time stretches and the sun moves up through a murky sky. “You want to trade secrets again?” he asks. 

“Please.” 

“Okay. Okay, but I don’t have as many as you do,” he warns. 

“I find that hard to believe.” 

“I don’t. It’s not a real secret, is it? I’ve been trying to show you for weeks, we…”

He tilts his head invitingly. 

All those hand-holds and nights curled up in bed together. Am I going too fast? You know exactly what he means; it really isn’t a secret.

“I’ll go first,” he says, lowering his face to yours. You try not to close your eyes. “I’ve wanted to kiss you for weeks.” He closes his eyes so you follow, your breath not your own suddenly. You hold it. Let it go hastily. “What’s your secret?” 

“Sometime I want you to kiss me so badly I can’t sleep. It makes me feel sick–”

“Sick?” he asks worriedly. 

You touch the tip of your nose to his. “It’s like– like jealousy, but…” 

“You have no one to be jealous of,” he says surely. He cups your cheek, and he asks, “Please, can I kiss you?” 

You say, “Yes,” very, very quietly, but he hears it, and his smile couldn’t be more obvious as he closes the last of the distance between you to kiss you.

It isn’t the sort of kiss that kept you up at night. Peter doesn’t hook you in or tip your head back, he kisses gently, his hand coming to live on your cheek, where it cradles. It’s so warm you don’t know what to make of him beyond kissing him back —kissing his smile, though it’s catching. Kissing the line of his Cupid’s bow as he leans down. 

“I’m sorry about everything,” he mumbles, nose flattened against yours. 

You feel sunlight on your cheek. Squinting, you turn into his hand to peer outside at the sudden abundance of it. It’s still cold outside, but the Mode is warm, Peter’s hand warmer, and the sunshine is a welcome guest. 

Peter drops his hand. “Oh, wow. December sun. Good thing it didn’t snow, we’d be blind.”

“I can’t be cold much longer,” you confess. “I’m sick of the shitty weather.” 

“I can keep you warm.” 

He smiles at you. His eyelashes tangle in the corners of his eyes, long and brown. 

“Did you want my meskouta?” you ask. 

Peter plants a fat kiss against your brow. 

You let the sunshine warm your face. Two unfinished sandwich halves, a mouthful of coffee, and a round slice of meskouta, its flaky crumb and lemon drizzle shining on the table. You would ask Peter for his camera if you’d thought he brought it with him, to take a picture of your breakfast and the carved table underneath. You could turn it on Peter, say something cheesy. This is the moment you ruined our lives, you’d tease.

“You never told me you met Spider-Man, you know.” 

You watch Peter lick the tip of his finger without shame. “They could make a novella of things I haven’t told you about,” you murmur wryly. 

Peter takes a bite of meskouta, reaching for your knee under the table. He shakes your leg a little, as if to say, Well, we’ll work on that. 

—

Spring

“Sorry!”

“No, it’s–”

“Sorry, sorry, I’m– shit!”

“–okay! All legs inside the ride?”

“I couldn’t find my purse–”

“You don’t need it!” Peter leans over the console to kiss your cheek. “You don’t have to rush.” 

“Are you sure you can drive this thing?” 

“Harry doesn’t mind.” 

“I don’t mean the car, I mean, are you sure you can drive?” 

“That’s not funny.” 

You grin and dart across to kiss his cheek, too. “Nothing ever is with us.” 

Peter grabs you behind the neck —which might sound rough, if he were capable of such a thing— and pulls you forward for a kiss you don’t have time for. “If we don’t check in,” —you begin, swiftly smothered by another press of his lips, his tongue a heat flirting with the seam of your lips— “by three, they said they won’t keep the room–” He clasps the back of your neck and smiles when your breath stutters. You squeeze your eyes closed, kiss him fiercely, and pull away, hand on his chest to restrain him. “And then we’ll have to drive home like losers.” 

Peter sits back in the driver's seat unbothered. He fixes his hair, and he wipes his bottom lip with his knuckle. You’re rolling your eyes when he finally returns your gaze. “Sorry, am I the one who lost her purse?” 

“Peter!” 

“I can’t make us un-late,” he says, turning the key slowly, hands on the wheel but his eyes still flitting between your eyes and your lips. 

“Alright,” you warn. 

He reaches for your knee. “It’s a forty minute drive. You’re panicking over nothing.” 

“It’s an hour.” 

Your drive from Queens to Manhattan is entirely uneventful. You keep Peter’s hand hostage on your knee, your palm atop it, the other hand wrapped around his wrist, your conversation a juxtaposition, almost lackadaisical. Peter doesn’t question your clinging nor your lazy murmurings, rubbing a circle into your knee with his thumb from Forest Hill to Lenox Hill. There’s so much to do around Manhattan; you could visit MoMA, Central Park, The Empire State Building or Times Square, but you and Peter give it all a miss for the little known Manhattan Super 8. 

It’s been a long time since you and Peter first visited. You took the bus out to Lenox Hill for a med-student tour neither of you particularly enjoyed, feeling out future careers. It’s not that Lenox Hill isn’t one of the most impressive medical facilities in New York (if not the northeastern USA), it’s that all the blood made him queasy, and you were panicking too much about the future to think it through. He got over his aversion to blood but chose the less hands-on science in the end, and you worked things through. You’re a little less scared of the future everyday. 

You and Peter were supposed to get the bus straight back home for a sleepover, but one got cancelled, another delayed, and night closed in like two hands on your neck. Peter sensed your fear and emptied his wallet for a night in the Super 8. 

The next morning it was beautifully sunny. The first day of summer that year, warm and golden. The pool wasn’t anything special but it was invitingly cool, blue and white tiles patterned like fish below; you clambered into the water in shorts and a tank top and Peter his boxers before a worker could see and stop you. 

It was one of the best days of your life. When you told Peter about it last week, he’d looked at you peculiarly, said, Bub, you’re cute, and let you waste the afternoon recounting one of your more embarrassing pangs of longing. A few days later he told you to clear your calendar for the weekend, only spilling the beans on what he’d done when you’d curled over his lap, a hand threaded into the hair at the nape of his neck, murmuring, Tell me, tell me, tell me. 

He’d hung his head over you and scrunched up his eyes. Cheater.

The best thing about having a boyfriend is that he always wants to listen to you. Peter was a good listener as a best friend, but now he has his act together and the secrets between you are never anything more than eating the last of the milk duds or not wanting to pee in front of him, he’s a treasure. There’s no feeling like having Peter pull you into his lap so he can ask about your day with his face buried in your neck, sniffing. Sometimes, when you text one another to meet up the next day, you’ll accidentally will the hours away babbling about school and life and things without reason. Peter has a list on his phone of your silliest tangents; blood oranges to the super moon, fries dipped in ice cream to the world record for kick flips done in five minutes. It’s like when you talk to one another, you can’t stop. 

There are quiet moments. You wake up some mornings to find him awake already, an arm behind you, rubbing at your soft upper arm, fingertip displacing the fine hairs there and trailing circles as he reads. He bends the pages back and holds whatever novel he’s reading at the bottom of his stomach, as though making sure you can see the words clearly, even when you’re sleeping. 

There are hectic, aching moments —vigilante boyfriends become blasé with their lives and precious faces. You’ve teetered on the edge of anxiety attacks trying to pick glass from his cheek with a tweezers, lamented over bruises that heal the next day. It’s easier when Peter’s careful, but Spider-Man isn’t careful. You ask him to take care of himself and he’s gentle with himself for a few days, but then someone needs saving from an armed burglar or a car swerves dangerously onto the sidewalk and he forgets. 

He hadn’t patrolled last night in preparation for today. 

“Did you know,” he says, pulling Harry’s borrowed car into a parking spot just in front of the Super 8 reception, “that today’s the last day of spring?” 

“Already?” 

“Tonight’s the June equinox.” 

“Who told you that?” 

“Aunt May. She said it’s time to get a summer job.” 

You laugh loudly. “Our federal loans won’t last forever.” 

“Harry’s gonna get me something, I think. Do you want to work with me? It could be fun.” 

You nod emphatically. It’s barely a thought. “Obviously I want to. Does Oscorp pay well, do you think?” 

Peter lets the engine go. The car turns off, engine ticking its last breath in the dash. “Better than the Bugle.” 

You get your key from the reception and find your room upstairs, second floor. It’s not dirty nor exceptionally clean, no mould or damp but a strange smell in the bathroom. There’s a microwave with two mugs and a few sachets of instant coffee. Peter deems it the nicest motel he’s ever stayed in, laughing, crossing the room to its only window and pulling aside the curtain. 

“There it is, sweetheart,” he says, wrapping his arm around you as you join him, “that’s what dreams are made of.” 

The blue and white tiled pool. It hasn’t changed. 

It’s about as hot as it’s going to get in June today, and, not knowing if it’ll rain tomorrow, you and Peter change into your swim suits and gather your towels. You wear flip flops and tangle your fingers, clanking and thumping down the rickety metal stairs to the pool. There’s nobody there, no lifeguard, no quests, and the pool is clean and cold when you dip your toes. 

Peter eases in first. Towels in a heap at the end of a sun lounger, his shirt tumbling to the floor, Peter splashes in frontward and turns to face you as the water laps his ribs. “It’s cold,” he says, wading for your legs, which he hugs. 

“I can feel it,” you say, the cool waters to your calves where you sit on the edge. 

“You won’t come in and warm me up?” he asks. 

You stroke a tendril of hair from his eyes. He attempts to kiss your fingers. 

“I’m trying to prepare myself.” 

“Mm, you have to get used to it.” He puts wet hands on your thighs, looking up imploringly until you lean down for a kiss. The fact that he’d want one still makes you dizzy. “Thank you,” he says. 

“You’ll have to move.” 

Peter steps back, a ripple of water ringing behind him, his hands raised. He slips them with ease under your arms and helps you down into the water, laughing at your shocked giggling —he’s so strong, the water so cold. 

Peter doesn’t often show his strength. Never to intimidate, he prefers startling you helpfully. He’ll lift you when you want to reach something too tall, or raise the bed when you’re on his side to force you sideways. 

“Oh, this is the perfect place to try the lift!” he says. 

“How will I run?” you ask, letting your knees buckle, water rushing up to your neck. 

Peter pulls you up. He touches you easily, and yet you get the sense that he’s precious with you, too. There’s devotion to be found in his hands and the specific way they cradle your back, drawing your chest to his. “I don’t need you to do a running start, sweetheart,” he says, tilting his head to the side, “I’ll just lift you.” 

“Last time I laughed so much you dropped me.” 

“Exactly, you laughed, and this is serious.” 

The world isn’t mild here. Car horns beep and tyres crunch asphalt. You can hear children, and singing, and a walkie talkie somewhere in the Super 8’s parking lot. The pool pumps gargle and Peter’s breath is half laughter as he pulls you further from the sidelines, ceramic tiles slippery under your feet. In the distance, you swear you can hear one of those songs he likes from that poor singer who died in the Wolf River. 

He’s a beholden thing in the sun; you can’t not look at him, all of him, his sculpted chest wet and glinting in the sun, his eyes like browning honey, his smile curling up, and up. 

“You’re beautiful,” he says. 

You rest an arm behind his head. “The rash guard is a good look?” 

“Sweetheart, you couldn’t look cuter,” he says, hands on your waist, pinky on your hip. “I wish you’d mentioned these shorts a few days ago. I would’ve prepared to be a more decent man.” 

“You’re decent enough, Parker.” 

“Maybe now.” 

“Well, if things get too hot, you can always take a quick dip,” you say. 

You’re teasing, but Peter’s eyes light up with mischief as he calls, “Oh, great idea!” and lets himself drop backwards into the water. You pull your arm back rather than go with him. You can’t avoid the great burst of water as he surges to the surface. 

He shakes himself off like a dog. 

“Pete!” you cry through laughs, wiping the water from your face before the chlorine gets in your eyes. 

“It just didn’t help,” he says, pulling you back into his arms, “you know, the water is cold, but you’re so hot, and I actually got a pretty good look at them when I was under, and you’re just as pretty as I remembered you being ten seconds ago–”

“Peter,” you say, tempted to roll your eyes. 

Water runs down his face in great rivers, but with the dopey smile he’s sporting, they look like anything but tears. “Tell me a secret?” he asks, dripping in sunshine, an endless summer at his back. 

A soft smile takes your lips. “No,” you say, tipping up your chin, “you tell me one first.”

“What kind of secret?” 

“A real one,” you insist. 

“Oh…” He leans away from you, though his arms stay crossed behind you. “Okay, I have one. Ask me again.” 

You raise a single brow. “Tell me a secret, Peter.” 

He pulls your face in for a kiss. His hand is wet on your cheek, but no less welcome. “I love you,” he says, kissing the skin just shy of your nose. 

You’re lucky he’s already holding you. “I love you too,” you say, gathering him to you for a hug, digging your nose into the slope of his neck as his admission blows your mind. “I love you.” 

Peter wraps his arms around your shoulders, closing his eyes against the side of your head. You can’t know what he’s thinking, but you can feel it. His hands can’t seem to stay still on your skin. 

The sun warms your back for a time. 

Peter lets out a deep breath of relief. You lean away to look at him, your hand slipping down into the water, where he finds it, his fingers circling your wrist. 

“That’s another one to let go of,” he suggests. 

He peppers a row of gentle kisses along your lips and the soft skin below your eye. 

You and Peter swim until your fingers are pruned and the sun has been blanketed by clouds. You let him wrap you in a towel, and kiss your wet ears, and take you back to the room, where he holds your face. 

“I’ll start the shower for you,” he says, rubbing your cheeks with his thumbs, each stroke of them encouraging your face from one side to the other, just a touch, ever so slightly moved in the palms of his hands. 

“Don’t fall asleep standing up,” he murmurs. 

Your eyes close unbidden to you both. “I won’t.” 

He holds you still, leaning in slowly to kiss you with the barest of pressure. Every thought in your head fades, leaving only you and Peter, and the dizziness of his touch as he lays you down at the end of the bed. 

｡𖦹°‧⭑.ᐟ

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

[aliyahwritings]

THE CONTRACTED HEART — Rafe Cameron (07)

MASTERLIST | Basketball Player & Model!Female Reader

Summary: Rafe Cameron, a basketball star, needs a marriage to fix his image, while Model!Reader needs one for citizenship. They may be the perfect solution for each other.

Warnings: smut, descriptions of violence, jealousy, usage of drugs, talks about body image/ed, angst, and lots of bickering. Reader is confident, a people-pleaser, has a traumatic past, and is a sunshine with an attitude. Rafe is a whore, possessive, cocky, and secretive about his past.

Word Count: 8.1k

Aliyah's Notes: the way i wanted this chapter to be around 5k... but anyw, the ending to that chapter is pretty good so y'all can rest in peace lmaoo but problems are coming hehehehehe

The sound of her heels clicking on the pavement cut through the evening air, each step echoing louder than the last. You barely registered the chill of the evening as her figure came into view—Chiara Romano, arms folded over her chest, her expression a delicate balance of innocence and something unmistakably venomous. A small, mocking smile played at the corners of her lips, her gaze roaming over you with the kind of appraisal that felt like a slap.

Beside you, Rafe tensed, his gaze hardening as he straightened, clearly prepared for whatever barbs she had in store. You forced yourself to stand taller, meeting her gaze with a coolness you could barely muster.

“Chiara,” you said, injecting a polite edge into your voice that you knew was as fake as her smile. “I wasn’t expecting to see you here.”

She tilted her head, her eyes glinting with amusement. “Oh, I just felt like things ended a bit... strange at the party,” she replied, her tone sugary sweet yet laced with something bitter. “Especially after seeing the headlines about you.” She let out a small sigh, as though feigning concern. “I couldn’t help but worry.”

A sharp laugh almost slipped from your lips. The headlines. She was talking about the recent media talking about your “potential” relapse… which were true. News of your recent struggles had been going viral, and she was here to dangle them in front of you. The reality of your relapse was raw, but admitting it—especially to Chiara—was out of the question.

“Did you, now?” You kept your voice light, your smile tight as you watched her closely.

“Of course,” she nodded, her eyes darting pointedly between you and Rafe, her expression softening with feigned empathy. “Us girls have to look out for each other,” she added, a hint of mock sincerity weaving through her words. “I just hope Rafe’s taking excellent care of you. I mean, if he’s able to.”

You fought the urge to roll your eyes or worse—to let your anger slip through. Instead, you returned her smile with a casual shrug. “He is, thank you,” you replied, forcing your tone to stay neutral. “And I’m doing just fine. I haven’t relapsed—.”

“You sure?” she pressed, her voice a touch too innocent. “You look... thinner than I remember.”

You felt a twisted sort of satisfaction creeping in, an internal smile that you kept hidden. It was strange—almost absurd—but her attempt to make you feel small, to jab at your insecurities, did the opposite. She said it to be cruel; she thought her words would cut you deeply. But instead, they landed somewhere softer, failing to sting the way she intended.

Rafe’s voice cut through the tension, his tone sharp and commanding, filled with an authority that even you hadn’t heard from him before. “Alright, that’s enough,” he warned, his words laced with a chill that could silence a room. “Keep talking like that, and you’ll be the one making headlines.”

Chiara’s gaze flicked to Rafe, her lips curling into a sly smile, undeterred by his warning. “Oh, Rafe, always so protective,” she cooed, her tone dripping with mock innocence. “I thought we were past all that. After all, we did come here together.”

You blinked, the words sinking in like a stone dropping into still water, each ripple spreading through you. “You… came here with him?” you asked, keeping your voice steady, though your heart was pounding.

Chiara’s smile widened, a hint of triumph in her expression. “Of course. We just thought it’d be convenient, didn’t we, Rafe?”

Your eyes shifted to him, searching his face for any denial, some sign that this was just another one of her games. But Rafe stayed silent, his expression tinged with guilt, lips pressed together as if he didn’t trust himself to speak.

He had, in fact, come with her.

The air thick, with Chiara’s truth and Rafe’s guilty silence. Every moment he said nothing, the disappointment pooled deeper in your chest, twisting painfully.

You crossed your arms, your gaze hardening as you looked at him. “Convenient?” The word slipped from your mouth, laced with bitter disbelief. “Convenient for who, exactly?”

Rafe opened his mouth, struggling to find the right words, but nothing came out. His jaw clenched, and for a moment, he looked like he might deny it, try to explain. But his shoulders sagged slightly, defeated, as he glanced away.

Chiara’s voice broke the silence, her tone feigning sympathy. “Oh, don’t be upset. It’s not like you’re the only woman in his life, right?” She leaned back with a satisfied smile, clearly relishing the wedge she’d managed to drive between you.

“Alright, you know what?” you said, forcing a calm into your voice that belied the anger bubbling beneath the surface. “I don’t really care what arrangement you two have. But what I’d like to know, Chiara, is why you’re actually here. What do you want?”

Chiara’s smile faltered, just for a fraction of a second, before she recovered, her expression shifting to a mischievous glint. “I’m here to support my father’s event, naturally,” she replied smoothly. “But I couldn’t resist the chance to catch up with Rafe and see how… everything’s going with you two.”

You felt the anger begin to surge again, but you reined it in, straightening and lifting your chin. “Then let’s hope tonight’s as memorable as you’re expecting.” You threw a final look at Rafe, disappointment flickering in your gaze.

With that, you walked toward the car and sat in the passenger seat, forcing yourself to ignore the ache in your chest as you disappeared into the throng of people.

From the corner of your eye, you watched Rafe and Chiara exchange a few heated words. His jaw clenched as he spoke, his eyes narrowed in a way that told you he was holding back the anger simmering just beneath the surface. Chiara, on the other hand, looked anything but apologetic, her expression smug as she responded with an air of indifference. You couldn't hear what they were saying, but every movement, every flash of irritation in Rafe’s eyes only deepened the tight knot of frustration in your chest.

Before long, they finally turned, heading toward the car, and you forced yourself to look away and just focus on the city lights ahead of you. The silence that filled the car was thick, unbearably tense. The engine hummed beneath you, but the weight of everything unsaid made each passing second feel longer. You kept your eyes on the window, refusing to break the silence, even as your exhaustion began to creep in, your eyelids growing heavy.

Just as you started to drift, you felt him lean forward, his breath warm against your ear as he broke the silence, his voice low and soft. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, the apology laced with a vulnerability that caught you off guard.

You exhaled sharply, holding back the initial pang of anger. “You’re sorry?” you replied, your tone dripping with sarcasm as you finally turned to face him, one eyebrow raised. “For what, exactly? For keeping me in the dark? For thinking I wouldn’t notice you driving here with her?”

Rafe’s expression softened, his guilt evident as he held your gaze, searching for the right words. “It wasn’t like that. She… she just showed up. I didn’t think—”

You scoffed, cutting him off. “That’s the problem. You didn’t think. Or maybe you did, and just didn’t care to clue me in.” As his apology hung in the air, you couldn’t help but let out a bitter laugh, shaking your head. “Unbelievable,” you muttered, refusing to look at him. “So what, Cameron? You thought I’d just sit there and take it?”

He shifted closer, his voice strained. “I told you, it wasn’t like that. I didn’t invite her. She just… she knew I was coming here, and it felt easier to—”

“Easier?” You turned in your seat to face him, disbelief and frustration clear in your eyes. “Easier for who, exactly? Because it sure as hell wasn’t easier for me.”

Rafe’s gaze dropped, his fingers tapping nervously on the steering wheel. “Look, I know how it looks, but… she was already in the car before I could even think about it. I didn’t want to make a scene.”

You narrowed your eyes, unimpressed. “So, you thought the best plan was to just go along with her? To let her be seen with you, knowing exactly how that would make me look?”

“Y/N, I know I messed up, okay?” He leaned closer, the regret in his eyes almost palpable. “I was just trying to keep things calm. I didn’t want it to turn into something it didn’t have to be.”

“Oh, so you didn’t want to ‘make a scene’ with her, but now you’re perfectly fine with making me feel like an idiot?” you shot back, folding your arms. “How considerate of you.”

Rafe let out a sigh, rubbing his temples. “Can’t you just trust that I was doing what I thought was right?”

You rolled your eyes, the bitterness evident in your tone. “I don’t trust you.” You turned away, staring at the passing lights outside. "And you’re only apologizing now because you got caught."

He was silent for a moment, the weight of your words settling in. “I don’t want to keep doing this, Y/N,” he said quietly. “I don’t want you to feel like this… like I don’t care.”

You laughed, but it was a hollow sound. “Then stop giving me reasons to feel this way.”

You leaned against the window, arms crossed, eyes fixed on the passing city lights. During the car ride, Chiara, for once, seemed to get the hint and kept her mouth shut, though every so often you caught her glancing at Rafe through the rearview mirror. Rafe, on the other hand, drove with a steady determination, occasionally glancing at you as though he was waiting for you to say something—anything—that might break the unbearable quiet. But you refused to give him that satisfaction, and instead, kept your focus outward, on anything but the two people in the car with you.

As the car rolled to a stop in front of the charity venue, Chiara was quick to jump out, immediately making a beeline for her father, who was waiting near the entrance. The flash of photographers’ cameras lit up the scene, and she threw a gleeful smile their way, basking in the attention as she reached her father’s side.

You took a steady breath and turned to Rafe, letting out a sigh that seemed to carry every ounce of frustration you’d been holding onto. He was watching you, his expression caught somewhere between apology and uncertainty.

“Alright, Cameron,” you began, forcing a professional tone. “Let’s get this over with. We need a story to tell about how we met, so listen to me; we met through a mutual friend at some rooftop party in the city. You were immediately smitten.”

“Smitten?” he repeated, arching an eyebrow. His mouth curved into a playful grin. “Strong word there. Don’t know if I’ve ever been ‘smitten.’”

“Well, you have now,” you said without missing a beat. “We sat at the same table, and you told me some fake, but charming story about how you don’t like crowds and would rather be anywhere else.”

“So, I’m just a liar?” he said with a grin.

“Yes, apparently,” you said, your voice flat as you rolled your eyes.

“That’s deserved, alright,” he shrugged, and leaned closer. “But, let’s make this fun. How about we tweak the story a bit? Let’s say you chased me down after that rooftop party, practically begging for my number.”

“You must be high,” you scoffed, looking at him like he’d just suggested the earth was flat. “No one would believe I’d chase after you. Besides, I’d rather walk across hot coals than let people think I was desperate for you.”

Rafe gave a lighthearted shrug, clearly entertained by your reaction. “Alright, but if anyone asks, I’ll just say I was the reluctant charmer who had to be convinced.”

You couldn’t help the sarcastic laugh that slipped out. “Yeah, because nothing says ‘charm’ like ghosting someone for two weeks.”

He winced but quickly recovered, that easy smirk slipping back into place. “Ouch. Alright, I deserved that one too. But admit it, you’d be impressed if I played hard-to-get. It’d add some mystery to our ‘relationship.’”

You deadpanned, “It’d add some credibility if you remembered the actual story. Try to keep up with the backstory, Cameron. We’re supposed to be in love, remember?”

Rafe placed a hand on his heart, feigning a wounded expression. “So cruel. Here I am, pouring my heart out, and you’re just brushing me off like I’m nothing.”

You stared at him, unimpressed. “How does that feel, huh? To be brushed off?”

His smile dropped immediately. “I’ll stick to the script. Mutual friends, a little bit of rooftop magic, and me falling head over heels. Got it.”

“Good. And try to remember: we’ve been dating long enough that you’d know basic things, like my favorite color and the fact that I don’t like seafood.”

“Got it,” he said with a nod, giving you a mock salute. Then, with a sly grin, he added, “Anything else I should know? Like, if you’ve got a celebrity crush, maybe?”

You rolled your eyes, fighting the urge to smile despite yourself. “This is a charity event, Cameron, not a middle school dance. Stick to the basics, and we’ll be fine.”

He held up his hands in mock surrender. “Alright, boss. Just wanted to know if I’ve got any competition out there.”

You couldn’t help but scoff. “Trust me, you’d know if there was competition.”

The banter fell into a comfortable silence, the tension lifting slightly as you both prepared for the performance ahead. But as you glanced out the window, watching Chiara drape herself over her father’s arm like she owned the place, the humor faded, and a steely resolve settled over you.

Rafe must have noticed, because he leaned forward, his expression growing more serious. “Hey, I know tonight’s going to be… less than ideal,” he said, his tone softening. “But we’ve got this. Just follow my lead if things get tricky, alright?”

You looked at him, skepticism still lingering, but his sincerity caught you off guard. “Let’s just keep this professional,” you replied, but your tone was gentler, almost reluctant.

“Deal,” he said, giving you a small, genuine smile. “Let’s make ‘em believe it.”

With that, he opened his door and walked around to your side, offering you his hand as you stepped out. You hesitated, then took it, maintaining a cool composure as camera flashes went off around you. The crowd erupted in a flurry of clicks and flashes, and you could already hear the low hum of voices speculating about the two of you.

Rafe leaned down slightly, his hand resting lightly on your back as he guided you forward. “Smile like you’re the happiest you’ve ever been,” he whispered, his tone playful but warm. “And maybe… just pretend you don’t want to strangle me for a few minutes.”

You tilted your head, flashing him a fake, overly-sweet smile. “Oh, trust me, that’ll be the hardest part.”

He chuckled, giving the reporters a charming wave as he leaned in, whispering back, “Keep smiling like that, and people might actually believe you like me.”

You leaned in closer, maintaining the smile for the cameras. “Don’t get too comfortable. This is just for show.”

“Right,” he whispered, a teasing glint in his eye. “But if we happen to have a little fun, is that so bad?”

Before you could answer, Chiara’s voice rang out over the crowd, all fake sweetness as she greeted her father, loudly proclaiming her excitement for the event. You caught Rafe’s eye, sharing a look of silent exasperation.

“Stick to the story. Don’t slip up.”

“Got it, boss,” he whispered back, his tone lighthearted as he gave you a quick wink. “Let’s go give them a show.”

You sipped your champagne, feigning interest in the event as your gaze flickered over the crowd, hoping to find something—anything—to break up the monotony. Conversations about Rafe’s latest matches, your recent shoot for Vogue, and even the upcoming Chanel campaign rolled through the evening like clockwork, the same pleasantries exchanged over and over. Rafe played his part perfectly, always flashing that magnetic smile, leaning in as if every word you said was his world. You kept a poised expression, smiling when necessary, but each compliment and question blended into the next, leaving you restless.

Just as you managed to suppress a yawn, a commanding voice sounded from behind. “Y/N Y/L/N, the woman of the hour.” You turned, and there stood Charles Kensington, a CEO of one of the event’s largest sponsors, known as much for his relentless pursuit of younger models as for his cutthroat business strategies. He extended a hand with a smirk that was more predatory than friendly, his gaze sweeping over you with an appreciation that lingered far too long. “I’m Charles Kesington. It’s a pleasure.”

“Likewise,” you replied politely, giving him a polite smile as you shook his hand. “And congratulations on your company’s recent acquisition. Impressive move.”

Charles smiled, clearly pleased. “Ah, you’ve been keeping up, I see. You’re as sharp as they say.” His gaze lingered, a touch too intense, and his hand remained over yours a second longer than necessary. “And I must say, even more beautiful in person. Your upcoming campaign with Chanel is already causing quite a buzz.”

Rafe’s arm tightened around your waist as he turned to face Charles, his smile polite but lacking warmth. “Nice to see you, Charles.”

Charles nodded at Rafe, though his attention stayed firmly on you. “I’ve seen your work everywhere recently,” he said, his voice dropping into an intimate tone. “Chanel made a wise choice—although I’d argue that any brand would be lucky to have you representing them.”

“Thank you,” you replied coolly, catching the faint annoyance in Rafe’s jaw as it clenched. But Charles either didn’t notice or didn’t care.

“You’re too kind, Mr. Kensington,” you replied, ignoring the way his eyes drifted over you. “And thank you. I’m honored to be working with such a renowned brand.”

“Oh, please,” he said, dismissing the formality with a wave of his hand. “Call me Charles. You know, I’d love to see you star in one of our campaigns someday. I’d love to discuss a potential collaboration over dinner,” he added, his voice lowering just enough to feel like a private invitation, despite Rafe’s presence.

You forced a polite laugh, though you felt Rafe’s grip tighten again. “Thank you, Charles. That’s very generous but—”

Rafe cleared his throat, the sound deliberate. “Actually, Y/N’s schedule is pretty packed for the next few months,” he said, his tone friendly but laced with an unmistakable edge. “With the Chanel campaign, her other upcoming works, and our time together, I’m not sure there’s room for much else.”

Charles raised an eyebrow, glancing at Rafe with an amused smile, as if he’d only just noticed him standing there. “Ah, Mr. Cameron. Quite a lucky man, aren’t you?”

Rafe’s jaw tightened, but he managed a tight smile. “I’d say so.”

Charles leaned a bit closer, his attention fixed back on you. “Well, if you ever find a free moment, I’d be more than happy to take you on a tour of our headquarters. You know, just to chat about future opportunities.”

The thinly veiled invitation hung in the air, and you felt a slight discomfort, but you kept your smile in place. “Thank you for the offer, Charles. But as my boyfriend mentioned, I’m quite busy these days.”

Charles’ gaze flicked between the two of you, his smile widening slightly, clearly enjoying the tension he’d stirred up. “Of course. I understand entirely,” he replied smoothly, offering you a final lingering look before excusing himself.

The moment he was out of earshot, Rafe turned to you, his expression thunderous. “What the hell was that?”

You blinked, feigning innocence. “What was what?”

“That guy was practically undressing you with his eyes,” he muttered, his tone low and irritated. “And you didn’t seem too bothered by it.”

You raised an eyebrow, unfazed. “Maybe because I don’t see the point in making a scene over a harmless conversation.”

Rafe scoffed, his hand still firmly around your waist. “Harmless? That guy was two seconds away from asking for your number.”

You rolled your eyes, barely managing to hide your smirk. “Jealous, Cameron?”

Rafe’s gaze hardened, and he leaned in closer, his voice barely above a whisper. “If you think I’m just going to stand there while some old fucker tries to flirt with you, you’re wrong.”

The intensity in his voice sent a flicker of satisfaction through you, though you kept your expression neutral. “Relax, Mike Tyson. It was just a conversation. It’s not like he’s the first man to ever show interest in me.”

“Yeah, well,” he muttered, his eyes narrowing, “he should know you’re off-limits.”

You shot him a sidelong glance, amused by his possessiveness. “Is that right? I don’t recall signing any contract that says I’m ‘off-limits.’”

His grip tightened, his face a mixture of frustration and something else—something deeper, something he was clearly trying to suppress. “You’re my girlfriend and about to become my wife, consider it an unspoken rule, then.”

You felt a thrill at his words, but you kept your tone casual. “If that’s the case, maybe you should make it more convincing.”

He leaned closer, his hand brushed against your cheek, fingers lingering just enough to send a spark through you. “Convincing?”

His eyes never left yours, flickering briefly to your lips, and you could feel the heat building between you, a tension that seemed to stretch out endlessly. The hum of the event around you began to fade, and suddenly, it was as if there was no one else in the room—just the two of you, drawn together by something that felt far more complicated than a simple arrangement.

His breath, warm and steady against your skin, made your pulse quicken. You found yourself instinctively closing your eyes as his face came even closer, the space between you narrowing with every passing second. The moment was electric, charged with an undeniable pull that you could no longer ignore.

For the briefest moment, you forgot all the reasons you’d been upset with him in the first place. His proximity, the way he looked at you, the way his lips seemed so close—it was almost impossible to think about anything else. You ached to feel him again, to taste his lips, to feel the weight of his body against yours. All that mattered was the way your skin burned for him, how every nerve in you seemed to come alive at the thought of him touching you again. You wanted him. 

Desperately.

But just before his lips touched yours, a familiar voice cut through the quiet intensity.

"Y/N! There you are!” Aisha’s voice was bright and unapologetic, carrying her trademark liveliness that filled any room. Startled, you and Rafe pulled apart just in time to see her approach, her arms outstretched and a radiant smile on her face.

You could only laugh as she practically tackled you with a hug, pulling you in tightly. Standing just a few inches taller than you, her warm brown skin glowed against the dark emerald of her satin dress, a color that complemented her deeply curly hair that cascaded freely around her shoulders. Her high cheekbones and almond-shaped eyes sparkled with joy, her makeup accentuating her features with a natural, dewy look and a bold cat-eye makeup.

"Oh my God!" you managed through your laughter. "I had no idea you’d arrived already."

She finally released you from the hug but kept her hands on your shoulders, looking you over with a proud, glowing smile. “As if I’d miss this! You look absolutely breathtaking, girl—that dress was made for you. No one else could do it justice.”

You spun around, letting the fabric fan out as you struck a playful pose. “You really like it?”

“Like it? I am in-freaking-love, are you serious?” she squealed, and the two of you burst into laughter, clapping your hands together with giddy excitement. “I’ve missed you so much.”

You pressed a hand to your forehead, sighing dramatically. “I’ve missed you way more—can you believe it’s only been a year and I’m already involved with a white man? Truly, how crazy is that?”

Aisha’s gaze snapped to Rafe, who stood a little behind you, clearly surprised to be noticed so suddenly. You stifled a laugh as he shifted, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly. Aisha's eyes narrowed slightly as she took him in, her gaze appraising and unblinking, as if she was assessing him for every possible flaw.

“Rafe Cameron, meet Aisha Patel—my best friend,” you said, tugging Aisha closer. “Aisha, this is Rafe, my... boyfriend.”

She didn’t say a word, just let her eyes scan him from head to toe with a critical intensity. You recognized this familiar expression—it was her way of warning anyone interested in you that hurting you would come with consequences. She always put your partners through this silent scrutiny, hoping to rattle them and make it clear they had to earn her approval.

Rafe, though clearly aware of her intent, extended his hand, maintaining an uneasy but polite smile. “Nice to meet you, Aisha.”

For a split second, she didn’t budge, letting the moment stretch just long enough to make him shift uncomfortably. You quickly grabbed her hand, easing it into his before she could escalate the standoff. “She’s usually much friendlier, I swe—”

“My dad has a gun,” she said quietly, her tone so flat it made the tension in the air sharpen. “And he taught me how to use it.”

You laughed a little, trying to ease the weight of her words. “She’s just kidding… right?”

But she didn’t break. Her gaze stayed fixed on Rafe, unwavering. “Only one way to find out, Rafe Cameron,” she replied coldly.

Rafe’s eyes flickered, and after a long moment, he dropped his gaze with a tight nod. “Guess I know where Y/N got her threatening techniques from,” he said with a small grin, the usual smugness back in his voice.

His expression, so casual and light, cut deeper than you expected. It felt like he knew exactly what he was doing, toying with a conversation he’d read from a distance and kept deliberately unanswered. He’d seen your texts, read every one of them, and left them cold and untouched. You felt the hurt creeping up in a way that left you exposed, vulnerable in a way you swore you wouldn’t be around him.

You pulled in a slow breath, forcing your face back to neutral, hoping Aisha wouldn’t notice the flicker of pain in your eyes. She turned to say something to Rafe, and you straightened, pulling your walls up as fast as you could, sealing the hurt beneath a calm you’d mastered. Just one more second, and no one would ever know.

Aisha leaned forward, curious but amused. “So… how’d you two meet?”

You shot Rafe a quick look, and he gave a subtle nod, leaving you to tell the story. “We met a few months back at this party,” you started.

“Rooftop party,” Rafe corrected, unable to resist chiming in.

“Right, a rooftop party,” you agreed, giving him a playful look. “And the second he laid eyes on me, he was enchanted—absolutely down bad,” you teased, letting a smirk cross your face.

Rafe raised an eyebrow, giving a mock-serious nod. “Completely leveled me. Could barely walk straight after that.”

“Completely down bad,” you agreed, tilting your head with a smile. “Apparently, my beauty was just too blinding. He had no choice but to come talk to me, and once he did? Well, he realized I was so much more than a pretty face. He was hooked on how charming, funny, and—”

“And how sassy she was,” Rafe finished, his gaze lingering on you for a beat longer than necessary.

Aisha looked between the two of you, raising an eyebrow. “Sassy with you? Really?”

Rafe laughed, running a hand through his hair. “That mouth of hers—I swear, there’s not a single day where she’s not giving me that attitude,” he added with a soft smile in your direction.

“Interesting… Very interesting.” Aisha looked between you two with a grin, shaking her head. “And, what happened after that?”

Rafe leaned back, crossing his arms as he tried to act casual. "Well, after that, I pretty much chased her down just to get a date," he said with a smirk. "The rest is history."

You rolled your eyes, waving a dismissive hand. "Oh, he’s underselling it. He spent weeks trying to get my number, asking me out every day on Instagram, but I wasn’t having it. I kept hearing all these things about him…"

"Like what?" Aisha leaned in, eyes widening in anticipation.

"That he was a total player," you said, pausing for effect, earning a gasp from Aisha that you matched with a knowing nod. Meanwhile, Rafe just chuckled, shaking his head at your theatrics. "I know, girl!" you went on, shooting Rafe a playful look. "But he finally convinced me to go on a date… and he actually wasn’t so bad. So I gave him another shot, and, well…" You shrugged, glancing over at him with a smile. "Here we are."

Aisha took it all in, folding her arms and tapping her fingers thoughtfully.

“Wow,” she said, eyeing him with newfound curiosity. “I didn’t peg you for the persistent type, Rafe. Especially not with someone like my girl.”

Rafe shot her a confident smile, though there was a quiet warmth in his expression that didn’t quite match the usual cocky bravado. “Yeah, she’s special. Knew it from the moment I saw her.”

You couldn’t help the warmth that rushed through you at his words, a sudden rush of affection you hadn’t expected, especially not in front of Aisha. There was something in the way he looked at you that made the air feel thicker, charged with something unspoken. It sent an unexpected flutter through your chest, a reminder that underneath all the tension, the public facade, and the expectations, there was still something raw between you—something that felt real in a way you hadn’t quite anticipated. 

“Smooth talker, huh?” you teased, nudging Rafe lightly with your elbow. “You’re really laying it on thick tonight, aren’t you?”

Aisha’s sharp eyes flicked between you both, her protective instincts clearly on high alert. “Yeah, I’m picking up on that. But just so you know, Rafe, I’ve got my eye on you. You hurt her, and you won’t just be dealing with me, you’ll be dealing with my dad, too.”

Rafe’s lips curved into a smile, but there was something more guarded behind his eyes now, as though he recognized the weight of her words. “I get it,” he said, his voice low and steady. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

Aisha seemed to size him up for a moment longer, letting the silence stretch just enough to make the air thick with tension. Then, after what felt like an eternity, she gave a slow nod, her stance softening just a little. “Alright, I’ll take your word for it,” she said, her tone easing. “But I’m still watching.”

You felt a strange sense of pride at that. Aisha had always been fiercely protective of you, and while it sometimes grated on your nerves, you knew deep down it was just because she cared. No one had ever had your back the way she did. You weren’t sure if Rafe fully understood that yet, but from the way he glanced at her—slightly uncertain, but respectful—you could tell he was beginning to get the message.

“Enough of the heavy shit,” Aisha said, breaking the tension with a clap of her hands and a sudden bright smile. “This is supposed to be fun, right? I’m here to celebrate, and I’m done with the interrogation. So, let’s have some fucking fun!”

You laughed, the sound light and genuine as you clinked your glass with hers. The champagne sparkled in your hand, and for the first time that evening, you felt a sense of relief. The weight of the conversation had shifted from uncomfortable to just... amusing. Aisha was nothing if not relentless in her approach, but you appreciated the way she could lighten any situation, especially when it felt like the pressure of your fake engagement was hanging over your head like a storm cloud.

“To my best friend and her very determined boyfriend,” Aisha toasted, her grin widening. “May you both drive each other crazy for a long, long time!”

You couldn’t help but roll your eyes, a playful smile tugging at your lips. “Thanks, Aish’. Really. A long, long time,” you echoed, sipping from your glass as she gave you a knowing look.

As the evening wore on, the atmosphere began to shift. The crowd mingled, voices rose and fell in an endless tide of conversation, and the hum of background music seemed to fade into the distance. It felt like the world was in motion, but you and Rafe were standing still, caught in some kind of unspoken orbit that neither of you could quite navigate. 

People came and went, exchanging pleasantries, business deals, and compliments, but you and Rafe couldn’t seem to look away from each other. Even when he was speaking with someone else or laughing at a joke Aisha made, you felt his presence, heavy and undeniable.

You’d told yourself that tonight was about putting on a show for the cameras, about playing the part of the perfect couple, and you had every intention of sticking to the script. But as the night wore on, you realized how hard it was to keep pretending when Rafe’s touch lingered just a little longer than necessary, when his eyes followed you across the room with that possessive intensity you couldn’t quite ignore. There were moments when you caught him looking at you like no one else mattered, and for a brief second, the walls you’d so carefully constructed between the two of you threatened to crumble.

It wasn’t just the way he touched you when no one was looking, or the way he’d half-smiled at you in the middle of a crowd, as if sharing some private joke. It was the small things—the subtle ways he’d let you know he cared, even when he was keeping his distance. How his arm would brush against yours when you stood next to each other, how he’d glance at you in the middle of a conversation, as if checking to make sure you were still there, still paying attention. How he’d subtly reposition his hand on your waist, or how his thumb would brush against your back when you’d lean in close to hear something better.

And then, there were the moments when it seemed like neither of you knew how to deal with the chemistry that crackled between you. You’d both been avoiding it for so long, keeping your emotions buried under layers of professionalism and convenience, but tonight, it was becoming harder to ignore. The closer you got, the more the lines between what was real and what was fabricated began to blur.

A sudden vibration in your pocket startled you, pulling you out of your reverie. You slid your phone out, heart still racing from the interaction with Rafe, and your eyes immediately landed on the name that made your stomach drop: Mom.

Your heart skipped a beat as you unlocked the screen, only to see a simple message that made your blood run cold:

“Y/N, we’ve heard the news. This is a disgrace. This is not how we raised you. You’re nothing but a joke.”

You blinked at the message, trying to process it. News? What news? You hadn’t even talked to them in years. 

Before you could think further, the sickening feeling in your stomach intensified. Without even realizing it, you clicked over to the news app, and the headline that greeted you nearly stopped your heart:

“Rafe Cameron Engaged to Model Y/N Y/L/N: A Surprise Announcement”

Your pulse spiked, your fingers trembling as you scrolled down. The article was filled with blurry images from earlier in the evening, showing you and Rafe sharing moments too intimate for the cameras, your faces filled with a mix of affection and tension. It wasn’t supposed to happen this way. It wasn’t supposed to be this fast.

How could this have leaked?

Your chest tightened as a suffocating wave of panic hit you. You could feel your breath quicken, the world around you suddenly feeling too small, too fast, and you couldn’t catch your breath. You looked around the room, your vision blurring as the walls seemed to close in. The voices around you grew muffled, the lights too bright, too harsh.

“Y/N?”

Rafe’s voice pulled you back to reality, but it was distant, like it came from a far-off place. You tried to focus on him, on his familiar blue eyes, but everything felt off, like you couldn’t quite make sense of what was happening.

The phone dropped from your hand, and before you knew it, your vision went dark. Your breath hitched in your chest as your body trembled with the onset of a panic attack. It felt like everything was spiraling out of control, and you couldn’t do anything to stop it.

And then, in the midst of it all, you felt it—something slipping from your bag pocket, a small metallic sound against the floor. But you couldn’t focus on it. Not now. Not with everything else overwhelming you. Your heart pounded in your ears, drowning out the noise around you as you tried to steady yourself, hands trembling at your sides.

You heard the faint clink again, but you were too far gone, too panicked, to care.

Rafe’s arms were around you before you even realized he was there, his voice low and urgent. “Hey, hey, it’s okay. You’re okay.” His hand was on your back, guiding you gently but firmly as he led you outside, away from the noise and chaos of the event.

“I—I—” Your words faltered, and you gasped for air, trying to calm your breathing, but it was like your lungs had stopped working.

“Shh, just breathe, baby, okay?” Rafe’s voice was steady, guiding you through it like he’d done this before. His hand was pressing into your back in rhythmic motions, trying to ground you. “You’re okay, I promise.”

You leaned against him, trying to steady your frantic breathing, but it was hard. Everything felt so chaotic, too fast. The news. The message from your parents. Rafe. Your relapse. The engagement. The shame. The eyes on you.

“I… I got a message from my parents,” you managed to gasp between breaths. “They already know... the news... I wasn’t ready for this. I wasn’t ready for any of this, Rafe.”

His face softened, but there was confusion in his eyes. He looked like he didn’t fully understand, but he didn’t push it. Instead, he just nodded and gave you a reassuring squeeze, his arms enveloping you in warmth. “Hey, it’s alright. We’ll figure this out. I’ve got you, okay?”

You buried your face in his chest, as if you’ve been doing forever, the tears finally coming, and you didn’t even try to hold them back. Your body shook as the sobs wracked through you. Everything felt like it was falling apart, all the control you’d tried so hard to maintain slipping through your fingers. The fake engagement, the pressure to live up to everyone’s expectations, the constant balancing act—it was too much.

“Shhh,” Rafe murmured again, his voice a steady, comforting presence against the storm inside you. “You’re okay, baby. We’re gonna get through this.”

Still shaking, you pulled away slightly, wiping your face with the back of your hand as you tried to steady yourself. Rafe didn’t push you away. He just stayed close, his hands hovering near you, ready to catch you if you needed him.

“I can’t… I can’t do this. Not like this,” you whispered, your voice breaking as you spoke. “Everything’s happening too fast. I didn’t expect it to go like this, Rafe. I didn’t plan for my parents to know about this. It’s not supposed to be like this.”

He seemed to register the panic in your voice, though he still didn’t fully understand why it was affecting you like this. Still, he didn’t question you further. He just nodded again, that protective instinct rising in him. “Alright, we’ll get you home, okay?”

You nodded quietly as he draped his jacket over your shoulders, the fabric warm against your skin. If you weren’t so caught up in your emotions, you might have found the gesture cute. “Yes, please…” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper.

“Just relax, okay? I’m right here.”

Before you knew it, he was guiding you toward his car, his hand firmly but gently around your arm as he helped you get inside. The drive home was a blur, your mind a chaotic mess of racing thoughts. You tried to fight the exhaustion pulling at you, but it was useless. As soon as you buckled your seatbelt, your body seemed to give up the fight.

You curled up against the seat, closing your eyes, and within minutes, you were asleep. The quiet hum of the car as Rafe drove was the only thing that kept you tethered to reality.

Rafe glanced over at you every few moments as he drove, the concern never leaving his face. He couldn’t take his eyes off of you tonight, not since the moment the tension between you had grown so palpable. He could feel it in his chest—the fear that something would go wrong, that something would happen to make everything fall apart.

As he looked at you now, sleeping peacefully, he couldn’t shake the worry gnawing at him. He didn’t understand it—didn’t fully understand what was happening between the two of you—but the depth of concern he felt for you surprised him. He couldn’t stop thinking about how he’d wanted to protect you, how he’d wanted to be there for you when you needed it the most.

But now, as you slept, he realized something he hadn’t allowed himself to admit before: he didn’t want to lose you. The idea of seeing you hurt, seeing you break down, sent a pang of guilt through him. He hadn’t planned on this feeling, hadn’t planned on the way he’d come to care about you, but it was undeniable now.

Being away from you for two weeks made him come to a few undeniable realizations. He missed you—more than he’d like to admit. He missed the way your smile lit up the room whenever you looked at him, the playful roll of your eyes when you thought he was being ridiculous. He missed the banter, the little jabs you’d throw his way, always keeping him on his toes. Most of all, he missed hearing your voice, the way it grounded him in ways he never expected.

He regretted everything—the distance, the silence, the mess he’d made—and he couldn’t stop thinking about how much he wanted to make it right.

The car approached your apartment building, Rafe slowed down, glancing over at you one last time. You hadn’t stirred for a while, and he didn’t want to wake you up too abruptly, but he knew you needed to get out. He gently reached over and brushed your shoulder, speaking softly.

“Y/N,” he murmured, his voice careful as if not wanting to startle you. “We’re here.”

You blinked a few times, slowly coming to, the remnants of sleep fading from your face as you sat up straight. For a moment, you looked around, trying to get your bearings, and then your eyes landed on him. You offered him a small, grateful smile, and his heart skipped a beat.

“Thanks for the ride,” you said softly, your voice still hoarse with exhaustion. “I really appreciate it.”

Rafe nodded, watching you with a mixture of concern and admiration. “No problem. You okay now?” His voice was gentle, but there was an undertone of worry that you couldn’t miss.

You gave a quiet sigh, nodding. “Yeah… I think I just needed some air.”

He stayed still for a second, waiting, as you unbuckled your seatbelt and started to gather your things. The quiet moment lingered before you stepped out of the car and made your way to the front door of your building. Rafe stayed in the car, just watching you, his gaze never leaving you. His chest felt tight again, but this time, it was different. It wasn’t fear of something going wrong—it was the simple concern of wanting you to be safe, wanting you to be okay.

As you reached the door, you fumbled through your bag, checking the contents. You muttered to yourself, growing more frantic as you checked again. A few seconds later, you pulled your head up in alarm.

“Shit…” you whispered under your breath.

Rafe’s gaze sharpened as he watched you struggle, a sense of urgency in your movements. He opened the car door slightly, ready to ask if something was wrong.

“Everything okay?” he called, his voice laced with concern.

You turned back, your eyes wide with panic. “I—I can’t find my keys.”

His brow furrowed. “You sure you didn’t leave them in the car?”

You shook your head, feeling your heart pound in your chest. “I’m sure I brought them with me. I always check for them before leaving... but I can’t find them. Oh god…” Your voice trailed off as the panic began to rise again, a wave of dread settling in your stomach.

Rafe’s gaze softened. He could see the distress building in you, and for a split second, he wished he could take that weight off your shoulders.

“Hey,” he called, getting out of the car now, taking a few steps toward you. “Maybe you dropped them inside, or—”

“No,” you interrupted, your voice shaking. “I’m sure I had them when we left the event… Oh my god…” You froze, your hands hovering over your bag again as realization hit you like a ton of bricks. “I dropped them,” you whispered, more to yourself than to Rafe, but he heard you clearly. “When I… when I freaked out. I must’ve dropped them at the event. Damn it.”

You turned around, scanning the ground as if your keys might miraculously appear, but you knew deep down they were long gone. You quickly pivoted and rushed back toward Rafe’s car, your anxiety spiking with each step. Rafe watched you for a moment before following closely behind, his own mind racing as he processed the situation.

“Shit,” you muttered again, coming up to his car and looking inside like you could find your keys by some miracle. Rafe sat there, waiting for you to catch your breath before he spoke. “I’m sorry… I know this is a mess. I just—everything’s falling apart tonight. I didn’t expect any of this, and now… now I’ve lost my damn keys. I don’t know what to do.”

Rafe could see the exhaustion on your face, the mental and emotional toll of the evening weighing heavily on you. The last thing he wanted was for you to feel more alone in this.

“It’s alright,” he said, trying to calm you, his voice soft but firm. “We’ll figure this out. Don’t worry.” He thought for a second, his eyes narrowing in contemplation. “I can call a locksmith, or we can check inside the building for a spare key. Maybe someone can help.”

You were already shaking your head, your eyes glossy with unshed tears. “I… I don’t want to bother anyone. And I don’t want to stay out here all night.”

Rafe saw how visibly shaken you were, how overwhelmed you seemed by everything. The night had gone completely sideways for you, and he couldn’t stand the thought of you being alone, stuck in your apartment, still frazzled.

“You could stay at my place tonight…”

chapter eight

[eupheme]

Not to be the little gremlin obsessed with Chappell Roan BUT… reader thinking Logan is too cool to want a proper relationship with them, so when things get physical they insist things are just “casual” in order to protect themselves from getting hurt. But secretly you’re in love with each other, so honestly, neither of you want things to be casual at all… (mutual pining my beloved) please & thank you!! Love you!

ahh hi hi avo I LOVE this song, and this request, and you - I could so see this being a situation that Logan and reader find themselves in. I had so much fun writing this, I hope you like it! (I added a couple winks to the lyrics as well.) 💖 thank you so much for sending this to me!!!

casual | variant!logan howlett x f!reader

1.2k | posessive!logan, fwb(???), use of alcohol, mutual pining, references to oral sex and PiV.

It doesn’t matter that your heart flips when you look at him. It’s Logan. It’s just casual.

It certainly feels like a dream, watching your worlds collide.

The heft of Logan’s palm fitting into your friends as he shakes their hand - the five of you squeezed into your usual booth in the corner of the bar.

You’d say the past couple weeks had seemed that way, as well. A late-night dose of bravery spiraling into something so raw and intense and real, that you feel like you could choke on it.

Even now, there’s heat in your cheeks as your eyes flick his way. Something stirring in your chest at the way his other arm slings across the back of the booth almost possessively.

But like all dreams, there comes a moment where you have to wake up.

Because you know it’s not.

Because you know your feelings aren’t requited. How could they be, when it’s Logan you’re talking about?

A legend.

A lone wolf.

Someone important, someone whose name carries a weight. Who saved the world, from what Wade tells you.

And you’re - you.

So even if you know what he looks like beneath that flannel, know what his mouth feels like when it presses against yours - what he sounds like, when he comes - you know that this is nothing.

It’s casual. A distraction, for both of you.

And if that’s how it has to be, then you’ll do your best to show him you’re cool with it.

You just hadn’t expected this moment to come so soon. It had been a genuine offer, your “you wanna come with?” when the hour rolled around for your weekly trivia night.

Not thinking his head would cock to the side. The look he’d give you - that arched brow, as his fingers splayed out across your bare hip. Still crowded together on your couch, sweat-dewed.

The “sure, sweetheart” that slipped out.

And now you’re introducing him as your friend - that quick history you’ve perfected - rattling off the “you know, Wade from work’s roommate” even though Wade didn’t work at the dealership anymore.

He had made enough of an impression that none of your friends had forgotten.

And you ignore the bitter jolt in your stomach, when all Logan does is hum.

You think you must have assumed right.

He doesn’t correct you.

Logan quickly solidifies himself as an asset to the team. He gets a lot of the history questions that you’ve always struggled with. A shy quirk of his lips when your friends cheer, and you get swept along with it.

His hand ending up on your thigh along the way. Squeezing, when you chime in. Almost as if forgetting - it’s easy to, when you’re having fun like this.

A low rasp in your ear, when the host takes a break.

“Lemme get you another.”

You can only nod, as he eases out - taking your glass with him.

It only takes a second, before MJ’s hand slaps down on yours.

“That’s Logan?” She hisses - leaning forward, “The one who-”

“Yes.” You cut her off, ignoring the sideways glance her boyfriend gives you.

You never should have told her about that.

Had a hard enough time climbing into your car without thinking about it, yourself - the way he had man-handled you in the passenger seat. Thighs thrown over broad shoulders.

Fingers twined in his hair, as he made you moan in the dark parking garage. Too eager to make it up to your apartment.

She frowns, the words petering out, “But I thought-”

Your teeth worry at your lower lip.

“Yeah. Me too.” You sigh.

MJ knows how much you like him.

Really like him - butterflies, and everything. How it’s been years since you felt this way - slipping from you during that rushed phone call at 6 am the morning after your first night together.

Her eyebrows raise, and it’s a look you know well.

“It’s, you know.” Your hand waves, “It’s casual. It’s-”

It’s easier, this way.

Maybe if you keep repeating it, it won’t hurt as much when he moves on.

The look she shoots you is one of pity, just as a drink is set down in front of you.

Your teeth clicking against each other as the words are swallowed. Forcing a smile as Logan slips back in the booth next to you.

The next round starts a moment after, and it’s a welcome reprieve.

You miss the way his eyes narrow, as yours fix firmly on scorecard in front of you.

But you don’t miss the way his hands stay folded on top of the table, for the rest of the night.

You suppose he must have remembered where he was.

“You wanna come up?”

He lingers outside your apartment door, hands jammed into his pockets. That look from the bar is back - all dark, narrowed eyes.

A low sound in his throat, close to a scoff.

“That what you want, sweetheart?”

Your eyebrows raise, “Yeah. I do, I mean-, that’s what we usually do, right?”

He’s spent just about every night at your apartment. His things still scattered across your room. A leather jacket slung across the chair that’s tucked against your vanity.

Logan’s lips twist at the edges, eyes dropping.

“Suppose we do.” Those hands slip from his pocket, crossing over his chest, “Back when I thought we knew what we were doing. But now…”

His head shakes. A tick in his jaw.

Your stomach drops.

“What do you mean?”

Logan huffs, “The bar, baby. Is that how you really feel?”

A step closer, until he’s caging you in. Voice dropping, rough and low - near gritted out.

“Does this,” His fingers flick between your chest and his, “feel casual to you?”

Your heartbeat gallops behind your ribs.

“I thought-,” You manage, “Thought that’s what you wanted.”

He’s too close, now. The dip of his head, those eyes burning in their shades of brown and gold.

“Now, why would you think that?”

You swallow, “Because you’re you, and I’m-”

“You’re?” He prompts, but you go silent.

A sigh, when your head dips.

Unable to say it out loud.

“Driving me crazy all night, you know that?” He rasps, “Giving me those looks. Calling me your friend, when we both know your mouth was around my cock this morning.”

A low rumble in his throat, “When I still taste like you.”

Your breath hitches, as his hand thumbs at your jaw, tilting it up.

“Lemme ask you again.” His mouth is close enough now to ghost against yours, “Is that how you really feel?”

Your head shakes.

“Wanna be yours.”

It’s breathed out, just as he kisses you.

His body pressing flush, as your hands twine around his neck. A palm around the back of his neck, pulling him closer as he deepens it.

Desire thrumming to life inside you, washing out the dregs of insecurity that you’ve been carrying this whole time. Melting them away completely with the hungry sweep of his tongue, the way he swallows your soft moan.

There’s a flash of white when he finally leans back, with the curve of his lips.

“Good.”

His hand closes around the knob. A rough twist, as his another arm wraps around your waist.

Walking you backwards, into the dark.

“The let me show you exactly how I feel.”

thank you so much, again!! 💖

[greengoblinswifey]

All Mine— Fratboy!Nicholas Chavez x Fem!Reader

summary— nicholas gets jealous as you spend more time a guy for a presentation but he shows you, him and everyone else your’e his in the best way possible. based on this request.

warnings— dom!nicholas then sub!nicholas, jealous!nicholas, possessiveness, oral(f), fingering, rough sex, choking, voyeurism, praise kink, daddy kink, unprotected sex, creampie.

Nicholas had never been the jealous type—or so he thought. But the last few weeks had tested that notion in ways he hadn’t expected. You’d been spending hours with Brandon, working on your presentation, and while he trusted you completely, he couldn’t ignore the way it felt seeing you and Brandon talking and laughing together. Brandon was popular in the frat, known for his charm, and Nicholas couldn’t help but feel a pang of frustration whenever he saw the two of you together, his stomach twisting at the thought of anyone else seeing you the way he did.

One evening, Nicholas overheard Brandon talking with some other guys at the frat house. “Man, she’s hot,” Brandon had said, just loud enough for him to hear. “I wouldn’t mind spending more time with her.”

Nicholas felt his hands clench involuntarily, and it took everything in him not to say something or, worse, do something he’d regret. Instead, he walked away, trying to ignore the knot of jealousy tightening in his chest.

Finally, the day of the presentation arrived. You and Brandon presented flawlessly, earning an immediate 95%. But as you wrapped up and turned back toward Nicholas, he was already heading over to you, his expression soft but determined. Without a word, he took your hand and pulled you close, pressing his lips to yours in a deep, passionate kiss right in front of Brandon. It was uncharacteristic of his usual sweet and shy demeanor, but he didn’t care—he needed Brandon to know exactly where you stood.

When you pulled back, slightly breathless, you noticed the look of shock and irritation on Brandon’s face. Nicholas just gave him a calm, steady look before taking your hand and leading you out of the classroom with a “come on baby, excuse me and my girlfriend Brandon.”

Back in his room at the frat house, Nicholas let out a relieved sigh, his hand resting on the small of your back. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, rubbing his neck sheepishly. “I- I didn’t mean to get like that, but seeing him with you—it just, it just made me so fucking jealous.”

You smiled, reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind his ear. “You don’t have to apologize, Nick. I only have eyes for you. Besides,” you teased, “I kind of liked seeing that side of you.”

He blushed, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Good,” he murmured, leaning in to kiss you, it was slow, his touch gentle but filled with the unmistakable spark of all that had been building up over the past few days.

His touch was electric, his hands roaming all over your body. The moved to your breasts, groping you as you moaned into his mouth.

“These,” he breathed, pulling away just a bit as he grabbed your breasts again, “they’re mine.”

You had never seen him so possessive and jealous over you and boy, did it turn you on. He pushed you flat on his bed, his hand around your neck and stripped you of your clothes, roughly.

“N-Nick, are you sure? Everyone’s here—.” He cut you off by pressing a kiss to your lips. He stripped himself of his clothing, his muscles flexing and you bit your lip in anticipation.

Immediately, he leaned down, attaching his lips to your pussy, savoring your taste as you squirmed underneath him and tried to contain your moans. “Fuck, don’t hold back those moans baby, let it out,” he murmured, in between his movements.

You tried to hold on, but the minute he slipped his fingers inside you, curling them to hit that spongy spot inside you, you were unable to hold back. Your moans filled the room as Nicholas lapped at your juices, his palm pressing against your abdomen. The pressure rested on your lower belly and he continued, his fingers speeding up along with his tongue on your clit.

“Cum for me angel, I want you to cum on my tongue and I want to hear you scream.”

Your back arched off the bed and you squirmed under him as your juices spurted from you and onto his tongue.

“That’s my good girl, only I can make you squirt like that. Brandon wishes,” he scoffed.

A soft whimper left your lips as he stood up, pumping his hard and thick cock. He was hard the moment he tasted you.

Before he began fucking you, he lifted you up by your neck, making you look out the window.

“There’s the asshole,” he chuckled, making you look at Brandon walking towards the house, “I’m gonna make sure he hears me fucking you, gonna make sure he hears you fucking scream my name.”

You couldn’t believe the words leaving your sweet Nicholas’ lips. It was like the jealousy overtook him, awakening something feral inside him. It left you absolutely throbbing.

“P-please fuck me,” you whispered so quietly, he almost missed it.

“What’d you say angel? A little louder.”

“Please fuck me, Nick, I need you so bad, I need you to fuck me,” you begged.

“How obedient,” he chuckled, “anything for my sweet girlfriend.”

He pressed you onto the bed by your neck again, his hand remaining around it as he slipped inside you fully, giving you no time to adjust. You gasped at the intrusion, grabbing on to his hand and he immediately halted.

“Are you okay angel? Do you want me to stop? I-it’s okay if you want me to stop,” he said, a panicked look overtaking him as he cupped your cheeks looking into his eyes.

“No, I don’t want you to stop, please don’t stop,” you pleaded, grabbing his hand and putting it back around your throat.

His demeanor shifted again, and he began moving inside you. His hips thrusted fast, pounding inside you with his hand wrapped around your throat. You could barely contain your whiny mewls as each thrust made him press against your clit.

“You fucking like that? You like when I’m fucking you with everyone here? Tell me,” he demanded.

“Yes, yes, yes, yes!” you screamed, your moans surely to be heard across the frat house.

“That’s it princess, that’s exactly how I want you.” He began pounding into you harder, his moans growing louder as your walls clamped around him tightly. You wrapped your legs around him, grinding as he slammed into you.

“I can feel it princess, cum for me, cum for daddy.” He had a shocked expression on his face the minute the word left his lips and so did you. It was quickly replaced my pleasure as you immediately came on his cock. He was shocked he would ever refer to himself as ‘daddy’ the term never seeming to resonate in his sexual encounters with you until that very moment. A part of him was almost embarrassed, but the way your walls clenched around him the minute he said it and you squirting on his cock erased any lingering embarrassment.

“You’re so naughty, you really liked that didn’t you? You want me to be your daddy? Hm?” he asked, still pounding into you.

“Yes, be my daddy,” you cried.

He smirked and lifted you up, hooking his arms under your legs as he stood up and started slamming you on his hard cock.

“Scream for me baby, let that fucking asshole hear that he’ll never have you like this, let him hear that he’ll never have you the way I do,” he panted.

“Daddy!” you cried out, feeling Nicholas slam you harshly on his cock. Your body quivered and you knew before long you’d be coming again.

“You wanna cum angel? The only way you’re gonna cum is if you tell me who you belong to,” he breathed, his hands tightly gripped your ass as he thrusted up into you.

“I’m yours Nick, all yours, I belong to you, please let me cum,” you screamed.

“Good girl, good fucking girl, cum on my cock, cum on daddy’s cock.”

His movements becoming more intense and the air in the room was thick with passion. Lost in the intensity of the moment, you felt yourself reaching the tipping point, his name falling from your lips loudly as the sensation built. When you finally reached that breaking point, a rush of pleasure hit you, pulling a cry from you that filled the room and echoed through the hallway. You clung to him, and he held you close, pressing gentle kisses to your forehead as you caught your breath, completely wrapped up in him as he continued thrusting up into you.

From the muffled laughs and hollers you heard from outside, you realized the entire frat house had definitely heard. Nicholas just smiled, the slightest hint of pride in his eyes as he brushed his thumb over your cheek. “I want them to hear,” he whispered, pulling you into his arms. “You’re mine, and I don’t mind if everyone knows it.”

He lay on the bed, positioning you on top of him to straddle him. “Ride me baby, please,” he whimpered. His demeanor had shifted once again, his eyes growing needy and his lips pouting as his balls were swollen with cum fighting to spurt out.

You smirked, sinking down into his cock as you both gasped. “Fuck,” you moaned in unison, the sound of your pussy squelching loud in the room.

Your knees were on either side of him, bouncing up and down roughly, chasing your own orgasm again and making him chase his.

“I’m yours, yeah? Never forget that baby,” you whispered, snaking your hand around his neck.

He moaned in response, his eyes rolling into the back of his head as you moved your hips in a circular motion, riding him.

“You’re so big,” you screamed, his hips beginning to meet your thrusts as he practically hit your cervix continuously.

You heard muffled cheers outside the room, but you decided to focus on the both of you, making a mental note to cuss them out later for standing outside.

“F-fuck baby, I’m gonna cum so hard,” he cried, the sensitivity becoming too much for him.

“It’s okay baby, cum for me, I’m yours, cum inside your pussy.”

Moaning each other’s names, you held each other close, both your bodies shaking as you came simultaneously.

“You’re filling me up so much,” you moaned, feeling him spurt deep inside you. You stayed like that for a few minutes, his cock throbbing inside you as you both slowly came down from your high.

He lay you down, still holding you close as he kissed you all over your face.

“I’m sorry if that was too much angel, something just— just took me over, I don’t know what—”

You shut him up with a passionate kiss. “I enjoyed that so much sweetheart, that was so hot. Don’t apologize, you had every right to be jealous, but always remember there’s no other man for me but you. Brandon or anyone else could never have me the way you do. I’m yours and yours only.”

“All mine,” he smiled, sweetly.

Snapping you out of your moment, there was a pounding at the door. “Are you guys finished obliterating each other at 3 in the fucking afternoon? Goddamn Chavez, you’re a beast!” the voice yelled, followed by cheers and laughter. Then looking out the window, you saw the flustered figure of Brandon hurrying away.

[botslayer]

I can't imagine what kinda hell my boss is experiencing right now. We all knew something was off when she came back from her little break in October. She was pleasant, sure. Downright personable and charitable to us all. And that was precisely the problem.

Andrea was the furthest thing from pleasant. She conspired to get people fired. Half of us recorded our interactions with her. The other half were already looking for other jobs anyway. Not that the rest of us weren't at least toying with that idea.

But when she came back, not denying people time off for no reason, not redoing consistent schedules without telling us, not randomly dropping overtime she didn't intend to pay in our laps, we knew something was off.

And then, Trish saw it first. Andrea, feeling helpful, loaned her a mascara wand when she couldn't find hers. But when Trish was fixing her makeup, she had to look back in the lady's room mirror of course... And Andrea's reflection was crying. Tears ran down her face in the mirror as it held that same, placid smile. Curiously, though, Andrea's face was dry outside the mirror.

Trish didn't panic, didn't fly off. Didn't mention it in the moment, but when she told the rest of us, we believed her. She didn't make things up, usually. Especially nothing that bizarre. We had to ask ourselves a few serious questions. After that and that one time her reflection began smoking on the day of the full moon. But there were two big ones. "What do we do?" And "Is it worth doing?"

Think about what a bad person you are for waffling on saving someone's immortal soul from what research tells you is demonic possession... But also think about what a bad person you would have to be for others to be waffling on it. None of us had missed a day off we asked for. None of us had to spontaneously cover a shift we didn't have to the day before. She was willing to cover. This thing in Andrea's body was a better boss than Andrea. All there was to it.

I wave at "her," from time to time. Whoever she is. Lucifer himself could be behind those eyes, doing god-only-knows-what to her spirit as it puppets her body like marionette.

And it's the damnedest thing. I just don't care.

It's been over a month since your manager was possessed by a demon. Yet, instead of fetching the nearest priest or throwing a bucket of holy water at them, you and your coworkers have just rolled with it, as the demon is WAY more bearable to work under.

[imaginespazzi]

can we please get a short birthday blurb of them since we basically got a hard launch with the “precious princess” AND how u wrecked us yesterday…

As always with these little blurbs, I wrote this in ~30 minutes (and somehow finished it 10 minutes before Azzi's birthday ended) and didn't edit but hopefully y'all like it and maybe everyone will finally stop yelling at me...

This is obviously fluff but there's a shit ton of underlying sexual tension + alluding to it and also since it's me obviously a warning for swearing lol.

***

"Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you," a soft voice sings in Azzi's ear and she can't help the soft smile it sparks on her face, "happy birthday dear my Azzi," she sleepily giggles at the possessive preposition as she feels herself being nestled into the arms of a warm body, "happy birthday to you."

"Is it midnight already?" she asks groggily, keeping her eyes shut as she breathes in the scent of all things Paige.

Honestly Azzi had tried -as she often did (and failed) the night before her birthday- staying up, had even picked a loud action movie in the hopes that the sound of it would keep her awake. But in between the feeling of her girlfriend's arms blanketed around her and the calming sound of her breathing in Azzi's ear, she'd been too comfortable to not fall asleep.

"Exactly midnight," there's a smile in Paige's voice as she presses a delicate kiss against Azzi's lips, "happy birthday baby."

Azzi finally opens her eyes to find cerulean blue eyes, gleaming with love and adoration, staring at her as Paige gently strokes her cheeks. And she's sure she'll get a thousand gifts today, from friends, from family, from Paige herself. But no present will top the one that fate itself gave her seven years ago; the girl in front of her -with her silly quirks and beautiful kindness- is Azzi's greatest treasure.

"Thank you," she whispers back, stealing another kiss.

She means to keep it chaste but Paige has other plans, pulling the younger girl flush against her body, slipping her tongue past Azzi's lips as she pushes herself on top of the brunette, grinding their hips together. Kissing Paige is all-consuming, like coming home and going on an adventure at the same time and Azzi thinks she'd be perfectly fine doing this for the whole day.

A whine escapes her lips when Paige pulls away, causing Azzi to chase her lips as she smirks, "patient baby."

"It's my birthday," Azzi pouts, "I don't have to be patient on my birthday."

Paige laughs at the childlike sulking, "you're so precious," she giggles, pinching Azzi's cheeks, "my precious princess."

"People's princess," Azzi corrects as she petulantly looks away.

Paige's eyes darken as she captures Azzi's chin between her thumb and her index finger, pulling the younger girl's face back to face her, "no, my princess."

Azzi gulps at the intensity in the older girl's eyes but she stares at Paige defiantly, "don't look at me like that if you're not going to do it."

"Look at you like what?"

"Don't look at me like you want to fuck me if you're not going to do it," they both suck in a sharp breath at the profanity.

"Silly girl," Paige shakes her head, a smug grin on her face, "of course I'm going to fuck you," she says casually ike it's the most obvious thing in the world.

Azzi's tongue darts out to lick her bottom lip and she's mesmerized by the way Paige's gaze follow the path it takes.

"What's taking you so long then?" she asks coyly, bucking her hips up slightly against the older girl's, who practically whimpers at the action and Azzi can't help but be pleased with herself. Seven years and they both still have this impact on each other; seven years later and they've become experts in known which match can start a fire between them.

And then Paige averts her gaze, facial expression morphing into something much shier as she mumbles, "wanted to give you a gift first."

Azzi raises her eyebrows, unsure why this of all things would make her girlfriend nervous. Paige has given her a plenty of gifts before and Azzi has loved all of them.

"Baby you know I'll love anything you give me right?" she says as much as she gently tries to coax Paige's face back up to meet her.

"I know," Paige says quietly, "this one just uh- it means a little more."

Azzi furrows her eyebrows as Paige slips off their bed -well really it's Paige's bed but considering Azzi sleeps in it every other night, it's basically their bed- and begins to rummage through her nightstand. The brunette sits up from her lying position when she can tell that Paige has found whatever she's looking for. She waits patiently as the blonde sucks in a deep breath before turning back towards her girlfriend.

Azzi doesn't notice the present at first, keeping her focus on giving Paige a reassuring no matter what i love you smile first. And then her gaze drifts downwards and she gasps, eyes widening at the sight of a silver infinity band in a red velvet box.

"Paige-"

"Don't freak out," Paige says in a rush, cutting off whatever Azzi was going to say, "I'm not- I'm not asking you to marry me or anything. Not that I don't want to marry you but like you know- I'm just- I'm not asking yet-"

"Paige," Azzi says again, ignoring the flutter in her stomach as she cuts the older girl's ramble off, "can I see it."

Paige nods, nervously handing over the box so Azzi can inspect it. The infinity band itself is simple, encrusted with small silver crystals and it must've cost Paige a small fortune. But its the the encryption behind it that has Azzi's eyes swelling up with tears, for the half that makes me a whole.

"Today is your birthday," Paige begins again, her voice timid and quiet, "but I think it's a little more than that. For me today's the day my other half was born. Today is the day that the person I was meant to find- the person who'd complete me- was born. And so today, is the most special in the world. Because today is the day that you were born."

Azzi's quiet for a moment, letting herself be immersed in the warmth of Paige's words and the sheer sincerity in them. It's the truth, she knows, that Paige is without a doubt her other half, the person who makes her feel complete.

"I love you," she whispers, as she hands the ring back to Paige and then holds out her hand, "put it on me?"

And she thinks if she could memorize one still image of her life, it would be this one -it would be the way Paige's eyes glow brighter than the moon outside as she eagerly fits the ring onto Azzi's ring finger.

"I love you more," the older girl whispers as she brushes her lips against Azzi's knuckles.

"Not fucking possible," Azzi shakes her head as she launches herself into Paige's lap, arms wrapping around the older girl's neck as she pulls both of them back down onto the bed, "now can you fuck me?"

Paige laughs, "you say the sweetest things to me Azzi Fudd."

"I try," Azzi smirks, pressing her lips against Paige's briefly before she pulls away, the silver ring on her hand glinting in the moonlight as she caresses her girlfriend's cheek, "and just so you know, when you do ask, the answer will always be yes."

Paige grins, pulling Azzi back down to kiss her, "happy birthday baby."

[railingsofsorrow]

nothing's gonna hurt you, baby

[jj maybank x reader]

summary: “you don't have to worry about me.” your voice is muffled but he can hear it well. the way his fingertips graze against your back under your shirt almost puts you to sleep right then.  “'course I do.” jj pokes your waist, tone bordering on indignant. “you're my girl, why wouldn't I worry about you?” pairing: jj maybank x f!reader w.c: 1.2k warnings/content: child abuse (implied); description of wounds, blood and violence; hurt/comfort.

A/N: in honor of obx 4, here's a jj maybank hurt/comfort blurb. just fyi, he's alive and happy and he ran off to yucatan in the show, that shitty ending they wrote did not fucking happened. anyways, enjoy my silly writing.

navi

masterpost

obx masterlist

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“ow!” you hissed, leaning away as your forehead stung as soon as the antiseptic made contact with the wound. “it stings.” you provided helplessly, lips tugging downwards. 

watching as jj's mouth quirked up slightly, you glared at him. he looked away to grab another gauze, unaffected by your dramatic behavior. not so dramatic because the cut was fresh so in your defense you had every right to react that way. 

“it's supposed to sting, means it's working.”

you hold back a complaint as he presses the gauze near the cut again. his blue eyes attentively stare back at you, he waits for your whining but it doesn't come.

“so you mean I'm supposed to enjoy pain because it's good for me? it's like we're all condemned to the same fate, aren't we?”

“my pretty little philosopher or whatever,” jj tutted, pressing a kiss to your temple before he stood up to throw the used materials away. the couch was comfortable as you adjusted your body to lay back down, making sure not to turn on your side so jj's job wouldn't go to waste. “should I call pope here? cause I'm not gonna be able to keep up with your existence theories.”

“existencial.”

“yeah, that.” you let out a hum in appreciation as he ran his fingers across your ankles, the coldness of his rings grazing against your skin. that will definitely help you fall asleep. silence stretched on for a few minutes and the room was enveloped with you and jj basking in each other's presence. 

until, well… until he broke it.

“how did you get this?”

“told you, cabinet door.”

“right, which one was it this time? kitchen or bathroom?” 

you felt like a little kid being caught doing what you weren't supposed to be doing. by his tone, you already knew he was onto your lie but you stayed silent, forcing your face to be blank of any emotion. 

jj had caught you with bruises before. the keyword being caught because you'd never willingly show it to him. he already had too much on his plate to deal with, he didn't need you to add to it. 

it wasn't the first time, thus his little gentle jab at your lie.

“cuddle me.” you requested — more like ordered — an outstretched hand in his direction as you ignored his previous question with grace and not all in an unsubtle way. “jayj”

your boyfriend engulfed you in his warmth, arms wrapping around your middle as you settled in his chest, cheek resting against the soft fabric of his jumper.

“you don't have to worry about me.” your voice is muffled but he can hear it well. the way his fingertips graze against your back under your shirt almost puts you to sleep right then. 

“'course I do.” jj pokes your waist, tone bordering on indignant. “you're my girl, why wouldn't I worry about you?”

“your girl?” you placed your chin on the back of your hand, licking your lips contemplatively. “a bit possessive, isn't it?”

something itched in your chest upon noticing the small dimple on his left cheek when he gave you that charming disarming smile of his. “you think so?” he uttered, hands intertwining behind your back as he shrugged when his face twitched in amusement. “but you are, aren't you?”

“am I?” you pretended to be clueless. “not sure... hey.” you squirmed when he threatened to tickle you.

“hey.” he mocked with a slightly annoying voice, warning a slap on his chest. jj let out a deep chuckle. “stop, stop. okay.” he held your hands, lifting your knuckles to his lips so he could kiss them, blue eyes glinting with mischief staring you down. that glint soon tuned down to something serious, it was when you knew he was about to initiate a topic you wanted to run away from.

you were cornered.

jj's thumb touched your cheek, there was also a small yellowish bruise beginning to heal near your cheekbone, besides the cut in your forehead, which was what concerned him more. 

this one is older, he observed the bruise, caressing the spot ever so gently as if you were made of glass. you shouldn't have bruises or cuts or anything that gives you pain. 

“jayj, it's fine—”

“is it bad?” 

you know what his words mean and that proved he didn't believe in your lies. why would he? he went through the same on a daily basis before his dad took off god knows where. you honestly hope he never comes back because if luke maybank ever thinks of laying a hand on jj again, you'd bury him alive. 

but anyway, you admitted the truth, laying out what truly was going on inside your house.

“just when she gets mad.” you offered, looking back at your hands curling together. “really, it's fine, don't worry about me.”

his forehead creases and you think he's about to order you to shut up but instead he squeezes your hand. anger is never his go-to emotion with you.

“I worry, always. can you tell me how this one happened? it's deeper.” he asked, touching the spot in your forehead beside the cut he had cleaned up. 

your eyes followed his carefully but your body was relaxed as it never had been whenever you talked about that subject. 

“I, um... I dodged her slap. kind of. I ducked down— or tried to.” you winced at your explanation and at the memory. “anyways, the cut was because of her ring.”

his jaw clenched but his touch never shifted to anything other than delicate. 

“i'm sorry.”

“don’t be.” you said, smiling up at him. “it’s not your fault, but thanks.”

“you shouldn't be used to this.” jj said firmly, brushing a stray strand of your hair behind your ear, his gaze far away. “you can come stay at the chateau if you want, you know? we always have space.”

“thank you for caring, but I'll be fine.”

“I know.” he shrugged. “but I mean, when you're not, you have a place to run to. you have me.” 

and yes, you knew that, technically. but your fucked brain thought if you shared your home life with him, this would make you a burden, you never ever wanted that. you didn't want him to get tired of you and realize he was better off with someone else who wasn't so complicated.

“I know I have you.”

“do you?”

“I love you.” you offered as if that was supposed to be a strong argument.

jj raised a brow. “I love you too and that's why I want you to open up to me.” he explained gently, thumb running against your cheek. “call me. find me. I'll be there. I'll find you wherever you are, alright?” 

you hummed, agreeing with him in his request. a smile gracing your lips. “okay.”

he shifted in bed, leaning down to kiss your forehead. “if it depends on me, nothing’s gonna hurt you,” he mumbled against your forehead as you wrapped an arm around his middle and basked in his warmth.

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taglist: @hoeshissworld 

[myth1cs]

Bratty (Shin Ryujin & Hwang Yeji x M!Reader)

Part 2 of Troublemaker (Both of these are smut!! Sorry!!!) Y/N is a brat and Ryujin degrades him (Again) to teach him a lesson Word Count: 2,617

As my eighth period class was about to end the professor suddenly made an announcement to the class.

"Before you all leave I wanted to let you all know that you have the option to work with a partner for this assignment."

When he said that I turned to Yeji.

"Hey, want to work on the assignment together?"

"Yeah sure, what's your phone number?"

After we exchanged phone numbers we went our separate ways. I didn't get far as I suddenly felt someone grab my arm and pull me into an empty classroom.

"What was that Y/N?"

"Ryujin? What are you doing?"

"Don't deflect, now tell me what I just saw."

"I was just getting Yeji's phone number."

"For what Y/N? Are you going over to her house?"

"Yes but only-"

Ryujin cut me off and lightly smacked my cheek. She glared at me with eyes that felt like they would pierce my soul.

"Don't go over to her house."

"Why?"

"Don't act dumb Y/N I know what you plan on doing. You're going to shove your face in between her thighs while your over at her house."

"What, No Ryujin I wont't!"

"Yeah sure, Look Y/N you can listen to me or not. But I warn you that if you disobey me you'll pay for it."

Ryujn left and I was alone in the empty classroom.

I felt excitement as I knew my plan was working.

I always wanted Ryujin to be more dominant and degrade me harder so I had started to ignore her and started to act less excited when having sex with her which I guess is why shes been more possessive over me. She might feel like she's doing something wrong which is probably why she thinks I might be looking for other people.

At Yeji's House

I knocked on the door and waited for a response.

After waiting for a few seconds Yeji opened the door for me.

"Hi Y/N are you ready to start working?"

"Sure am Yeji."

Yeji led me to her room and we started working on the assignment. I took this moment and took a photo of Yeji and sent it to Ryujin.

After a few seconds Ryujin sent me a message but I didn't answer her. Ryujin must've not liked me ignoring her messages as my phone started vibrating constantly but I didn't pay attention to it.

"Y/N is that your phone?"

"Yeah why?"

"I think someone's trying to reach you. It sounds important."

"Don't worry about it Yeji."

I went and put me phone on silent.

"Y/N seriously I think it's important. Why would someone message you so much if it wasn't?"

"No it was just a spam message."

"Oh really? Ugh I hate those."

I started wondering about my next move. But I decided upon something I knew would get Ryujin worked up.

"Hey Yeji I know this is a weird time but would you be my girlfriend?"

"Y/N ... where is this coming from?"

"You, your everything Yeji and I want to be able to have you by my side. So will you be mine?"

"Listen Y/N you're a sweet person now and I'll admit you're kinda cute but I can't just look past everything you've done in the past."

"Yeji I swear I've been working on myself. Please give me this one chance."

Yeji sighed and looked at me. I put my hand over hers and gave it a light squeeze.

"Okay fine Y/N I'll give us a shot."

I kissed Yeji and pulled her into a hug.

"Do you want to take a picture to celebrate us Yeji?"

"Yeah sure let's do it."

I took my phone out and took a picture. After I took it I made sure I sent it to Ryujin. She is so going to kill me but I can't wait for it.

"Let's go back to our work Y/N."

Next Day

As I was heading to my eighth period class I got another text from Ryujin.

Ryujin: "Come to my room NOW"

Ryujin: "You little brat stop ignoring me!"

Ryujin: "Y/N I swear you better not have shoved your face in between Yeji's thighs yesterday!"

I kept ignoring her texts and continued on my way.

When I got into eighth period I sat down but not for long as suddenly the principals voice came over the speakers.

"Y/N make your way to room 304."

"Y/N I thought you said you would work on bettering yourself." Yeji said with a disappointed tone.

"Oh no it's not that Yeji I swear, let me prove it, follow me when I leave and Ryujin will tell you."

I walked out of the classroom and waited. I overheard Yeji ask to use the restroom and she came out of the classroom shortly after.

"Glad you decided to follow me."

I led Yeji to Ryujin's room and we both went inside together.

When we walked in Ryujin started speaking and she sounded pissed off "Y/N you little-"

Ryujin looked shocked when she saw Yeji by my side. She probably only expected me to come.

Ryujin quickly cleared her throat "What brings you here with your friend Y/N?"

"Actually she's my girlfriend."

I could see Ryujin was struggling to keep her smile up "Well that's nice to know."

"So why did you call Y/N here anyways?" Yeji asked.

"I just wanted to tell him I was so proud of him. He hasn't been written up and his grades are improving at a rapid rate."

"Thank you Ryujin that means a lot coming from you." I smiled at Ryujin when I said that and I could tell she wanted to have her way with me.

"Come on Yeji let's go back."

After School

As I was walking home I got another text from Ryujin

Ryujin: "Come over to my house. I'll rehabilitate you and knock that bratty behavior out of you."

I knew I had Ryujin where I wanted her so I made my way over to her house. When I arrived I went ahead and knocked on the door. No one opened and I was about to knock again but then I got another text from Ryujin.

Ryujin:"It's unlocked, come upstairs to my room."

I opened the door and made my way to Ryujin's room.

"Hello?"

"Come in!"

When I opened the door Ryujin quickly shoved me into a wall.

"Y/N you better have a damn good explanation for yourself!"

I started giggling and tried to kiss her but Ryujin smacked me.

"I don't want your filthy mouth touching my perfect face. Now tell me what the fuck you've been doing. Was I just a sex toy for you? Do you think you can do better than me?!"

"Ryujin I just wanted you to degrade me more that's all. You're perfect I would never replace you for Yeji."

Ryujin started laughing and looked at me with eyes that I was too familiar with.

"So you want to play that game huh Y/N? Well I'll show you what happens to brats like you."

Ryujin stripped naked and shoved me to the bed.

"I thought you said you were only my slut but it turns out you lied to me. And you should know that I hate liars Y/N."

"W-wait! Ryujin what are you doing!"

Ryujin grabbed a rope she had lying on the floor. She started to tie my hands to the bed frame preventing me from moving.

"Okay Ryujin I get it I won't be a brat anymore!"

"Well that's no fun is it Y/N?"

Ryujin pulled my pants down and my erected cock sprung out. Ryujin spat on it and started to pump it.

"Y/N look at your filthy cock. It's so sad you get turned on so easily. You're nothing but a sad degenerate."

Ryujin put the tip of my cock inside her mouth. She put her tongue all over it and I felt myself about to cum. My cock was twitching inside her mouth but she pulled out before I could cum.

"No. no, no Ryujin please let me cum!"

"Pathetic, My personal slut is nothing but a sex addict. What if I just leave you like this Y/N? Leave you needy all day long. My parents don't come back until tomorrow afternoon so I have plenty of time to toy with my favorite boy toy."

Ryujin sat on me just barely away from my cock. She straddled me and I couldn't help but get even harder from having her weight on me. She startled to lift my shirt and drew patterns on my chest.

"What to do with you Y/N I have so many options. What will take the brat out of you?"

I saw a sparkly in her eyes. This couldn't be good.

Ryujin got off me and went grabbed my pants. She pulled my phone out and took pictures of me.

"No don't it's embarrassing!" But my plea went unheard.

Ryujin started texting someone and looked at me with a smile that felt deadly.

"No! I know who you just texted please delete that message before she sees it!"

"Shh relax boy toy. I promise you'll enjoy what happens next."

Ryujin grabbed her breasts and put my cock in between them. She started to rub them on my cock.

I started moaning. Her breasts were so soft and squishy I wanted to cum all over them.

"Oh you like these? They're just a pair of breasts Y/N they're nothing special. Are you that much of a loser that seeing a simple pair of breasts is enough to get you worked up?"

"Ryujin!"

I couldn't help but whine. Ryujin wasn't letting me cum I felt my balls aching and wanting releases but she kept denying me.

"Please Ryujin!"

"I don't know Y/N does a whore like you deserve it? Maybe if you beg for it I'll consider it."

"Ryujin Ryujin please let me cum! I promise I won't be a brat anymore!"

Ryujin laughed at me and licked the top of my cock.

"My my Y/N I didn't think you would go as low as to beg for it. You're acting like a kid begging his mom to buy him fast food."

"Mommy please!"

My face immediately turned red when I said that. Fuck I accidentally said that out loud now she's going to make fun of me for sure.

"Mommy? Am I your mother now Y/N? Do you want me to hold you lovingly and kiss you goodnight now?"

Ryujin rubbed circles on my thighs and I could do nothing but watch as she rejects my orgasm.

Suddenly I heard the door downstairs open.

"We're up here!" Ryujin yelled.

The footsteps got closer. I was worried Ryujin's parents came home early but then the person entered the room.

"Yeji?! It's not what it looks like!"

"Y/N what the fuck is going on!"

"Yeji isn't this beautiful. Look at Y/N pathetically tied to the bed. Want to show him what happens to brats?"

I looked at Yeji and saw that her eyes had changed.

I knew I only had a few moments before Yeji made up her mind "Ryujin that isn't necessary-" but I was too late.

"Yeah Ryujin I want to teach Y/N a lesson."

"Kiss me."

Yeji got on top of me and started to make out with Ryujin. It was horrible seeing them make out while my cock was still hard.

"Look at Y/N I bet he wishes his pathertic cock was in between our lips." Ryujin looked at me with a smirk as she said that.

Yeji started to suck on Ryujin's breasts eliciting moans from Ryujin. Some of Yeji's saliva fell onto the bed. She didn't stop there though she shoved three fingers inside of Ryujin without warning.

"Yeji damn it your so much better than Y/N's cock ever was!"

"Fuck you Ryujin you literally came all over my cock last time!"

"Did you hear something Ryujin?"

"No must've been the wind."

I was turned on by the sight of both of them making out but I wanted to cum. I was in a state of pain of feeling erected but I didn't have anyway to relieve it.

"Ryujin do you think we should let Y/N cum?"

"Ugh fine we can let our little toy cum."

Ryujin and Yeji got their hands off each other and turned to me. Yeji took off her clothes and let my cock enter her warm pussy while Ryujin sat on my face.

"Go on boy toy make us cum!" Ryujin ordered.

I started to lick Ryujin's pussy and quickly shoved my cock in and out of Yeji's. They both started to make out during this and their saliva was starting to drip onto me.

"Y/N you bastard. How dare you cheat on me with Ryujin. We haven't even been together for a whole week. But you can make up for it if you make me cum hard."

"Yeji I only did it to rile Ryujin up."

"So I was nothing but a tool for you Y/N? I'm going to make you cum so much until you don't have any cum left asshole."

-

The torture had gone on for hours at this point. I couldn't stop my cock from getting hard but I was extremely exhausted. I came so much yet somehow Yeji and Ryujin weren't getting slower.

"Y/N get your filthy cock hard again. You aren't done until I say so!"

"Please Yeji stop I can't take it!"

"Should have thought of that before you used her." Ryujin responded.

I licked Ryujin's pussy so much my tongue started to hurt. Eventually she finally came all over my face again.

"I'm done here Yeji you can take Y/N from here." Ryujin laid down next to me pulling me close. I felt her warm sweaty body press up against me and it turned me on again.

"So your cock does still have some life in it."

"Yeji please no more."

"One more Y/N or should I beat the living shit out of you for cheating on me?"

I groaned and continued to thrust into Yeji. My body felt like it was on fire and I was sweating profusely.

"Ah! Yes Y/N show me how much you love me!"

"Yeji my cock is so sore!"

After a few more thrusts we both came at the same time. Yeji collapsed on me afterwards.

"Yeji I'm sorry I used you."

"It's fine Y/N but you better continue to fuck me like this."

"I don't think I have any cum left in me Yeji you drained everything."

Yeji kissed me softly and we both fell asleep.

-

The next morning we all woke up and out nostrils were filled with the smell of sex.

"It smells like 20 people had sex in here." Ryujin exclaimed, still groggy after she woke up.

"Come on Y/N help me clean up the place loser."

"Why me? Yeji also had sex with us!"

"Well you're the one who used her. So the least you can do is clean up her mess."

I had no choice. I got up and started to help Ryujin with the cleaning.

"You know Y/N I can't let this slide. No sex for 2 weeks."

"What!?

"You said you'd change your behavior and yet you went right back to using people for your own gain."

Ryujin gave me a smug look and I couldn't do anything but continue cleaning her room.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

If you're wondering why it took so long to make part 2 it's because I had to rewrite this story 3 times. I'm so tired

Y/N gets degraded even more cause it's the only thing he deserves. I am never writing Y/N as dom.

[ttenaciousneatfinds]

Mass pollution, mass murder of local wildlife, unlicensed space travel, production of nuclear weapons, possession of nuclear weapons, use of nuclear weapons, starting several wildfires... I am sure something about building a two stories high robot spider and outfitting it with several rocket launchers and having a fish pilot it to kill giant bugs is illegal, but unsure about what, exactly.

[livelaughloveluffy]

first kiss - roronoa zoro

a/n: ahhhhhh!! this is a bit different from the usual fics that i write, so hopefully you guys enjoy it!! for whatever reason, zoro is just on the brain right now, but i'm certainly not complaining about that 😌 versions with the other boys are certainly in the works!!!

nothing but fluff here 💗

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-the first time his lips fell upon yours, was because he couldn't stand the way a certain blonde cook was looking at you. you could taste the jealousy on his lips, and even though you responded by kissing him back, it only spurred him to be more possessive, marking you as his.

-zoro kisses you like it's his main source of staying alive. it's greedy, lustful, and a bit rough. he'll bit your lower lip from time to time, his tongue pushes its way into your mouth, exploring. one of his hands gets tangled up into your hair, pulling your head closer to him. his other hand placed on your hip to make sure your body is flesh against his.

-with the swordsman's lips on yours, you can't help but be utterly consumed by him. you have forgotten what life was like when his lips weren't on yours, the only air you've suddenly ever known is the two you share, you are completely enveloped into him.

-while you may have doubted you relationship with zoro before the kiss, during and after there is not a shadow of a doubt in your mind about the way he feels about you. the yearning and eagerness in his lips is something that could never go unnoticed. and while sometimes words fail him, his kiss will never deny the fact that he is undeniably in love with you.

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a/n: am i writing fics instead of doing my labs? maybe...... should i be doing my labs instead? absolutely..... will i do my labs instead of writing more fics? probably not..... 😭😭😭

a/n: totally accidentally posted this on zoro's birthday, insanely good and lucky timing on my part 😌😌

a/n: enjoyed this fic? here's my masterlist!!

[ssentimentals]

can I have 3+10 w seungcheol pls!!!

hello, love! as i understood it's all from fluffy prompt, so i am going to write it down like that. thank you so much for requesting, hopefully you will like it! 💜

fluff prompt: 'tell me you love me.' 'you're really fucking cute when you're jealous.'

seungcheol is trying his hardest not to laugh, but the way you're pouting makes your cheeks puff up in the squishy way and he just can't really hold it together.

'hey!' you exclaim, hitting him when he rolls down on the floor, laughing.

'i'm sorry babe, i'm sorry.' seungcheol sits up and grabs your knees, looking up at you all smug. 'you're really fucking cute when you're jealous.'

your offended gasp makes him laugh even harder, especially when you decide to attack him with your hands. he vaguely hears your 'i am not jealous!' denials but he knows the truth and you have no idea how much he likes the thought of you being possessive and a bit territorial over him. seungcheol likes it, he wants it; wants you to sometimes stop being so nice and show off your claws, hold on to him to show everyone that he is yours because he is.

'how dare you find this funny,' you point at him, glaring. 'you should be telling me that i have nothing to worry about or something like that, not laughing at my expense.'

seungcheol chuckles and quickly kneels, putting his hands under your knees. your squeal when he lifts you up makes him grin and he comfortably sits on the sofa, making sure you're also cozy on his lap before he speaks up: 'of course you have nothing to worry about. babe, have you seen you? go look in the mirror and you will realize that yes, you have nothing to worry about.'

you're trying to still act like you're mad, but this facade breaks when he leans in to peck your lips. 'tell me that you love me,' you demand, all bossy and perfect.

'i love you,' seungcheol says easily, because saying this is as easy as breathing. 'i love you. i love you. i love you.'

your blinding grin makes him kiss you again, this time fully and deeply till you're melting against him. 'i wasn't jealous,' you mutter into his neck.

'uh-huh.' seungcheol kisses top of your head, smiling. 'of course not babe.'

you look up, narrowing your eyes at him. 'but if i were-'

'then i'd tell you again that you have nothing to worry about.'

you nod, satisfied. god, the things he'd do for you. 'okay. i love you.'

seungcheol sighs, satisfied too. 'and i love you too.'

a/n: request your own here! <3 - nini

[machveil]

Johnny stealing one of Simon’s balaclavas for Halloween - he’s sure Simon knows, but the Brit hasn’t come looking for him. Johnny has a good laugh, grabbing one of his black gym hoodies and a pair of jeans. it gets a good laugh out of you too, a little surprised when Johnny comes out of your room donning Ghost’s signature mask. he tries to walk a little slower than usual, poorly mimicking how Simon stalks around

Johnny who fakes a British accent, it doesn’t sound like Simon’s at all - Simon’s Mancunian accent, rough and deep, is probably turning in its grave at Johnny’s impression. you both giggle over it, cupping his masked cheeks and smiling up at him. he can’t help it, leaning down to kiss you through the balaclava, snorting when you laugh mid kiss. it’s silly, the way his eyes sparkle with mischief when you’re used to seeing Simon’s dark, cold gaze behind that mask

CW: something possessed me to write this, Johnny fucking you in Ghost’s mask, ambiguous relationship dynamic - up to your interpretation

“Think Simon could fuck you this good?”, panting against your neck as he ruts into you, Johnny can’t help but smirk behind the black fabric. he didn’t really know where the question came from, a possessive bite to his words as he snaps his hips forwards, “He wishes— he could be me.”. moaning when you squeeze around him, he can’t be bothered to tug the balaclava up, drool seeping into the fabric as you cry out beneath him, hiccuping as he pulls out

too much, his cock being bullied back into you with a harsh thrust, “Nah, m’better than ‘im, aren’t I?”, he huffs, tears glossing over his pretty blue eyes as he shifts to look down at you. “C’mon, say it, mo ghaol.”, pretty blue eyes, but as you look up at Johnny there’s something unmistakable looking back at you, the way Simon looks at you - a gut wrenching devotion that has your heart thrumming. “What’s wrong? Cannae answer me? Or do you jus’ want Simon to ruin you too?”

[dxmedstudent]

When k started online dating several years ago after a bad patch, I was looking to reconnect with my hobbies - a difficult thing at a time when I was struggling with postgraduate qualifications and 12 hour shifts.

I was keen to start reading some Pratchett - put off repeatedly due to it being a rather mammoth task.

I remember he asked why I had thought to start reading Pratchett as that was really "something for teenagers". Or something to that effect. Tge implication that there was something... unusual in a woman of my age wanting to read his work.

I remember not really knowing what to say. I was a bit baffled, because I'd seen people of all ages talking lovingly about Pratchett's work. I'd read enough excerpts to feel that it gelled with my sense of humor. Good Omens basically got me out of the aforementioned horrible time in my life. And I'd read enough Douglas Adams to not conflate humor or silliness with bad writing.

Now, I unashamedly read manga and I don't think YA is just for kids. I don't think we should feel shame for reading fanfiction. I think we should enjoy a wide range of media.

Maybe this guy was perfectly fine, I'm sure he didnt necessarily mean it pejorativey, but I just didn't feel like hanging out with someone who I'd have to defend seemingly "childish" indulgences to. I'm not saying that's the only reason that we didn't meet again, but the tone of that conversation left me feeling that this was not my person.

I later met another guy, as you do. Right from the start, we talked at length about our favourite media, and I shared some anime recommendations. He offered to lend me his copy of the first couple of Pratchett books and went to look for them. Alas, he couldn't find them, he had a lot of books on his shelves, to be fair. But he was excited to share a series he loved with someone who was new to it and talking about the things I enjoyed and wanted to share was so easy. There was no pretention about what media is "for kids" or "for adults" or what media men are meant to consume.

Reader, I married him.

Now, you might think that marrying him was an unnecessarily convoluted way to ensure I get to have all the Pratchett books, and I'd probably agree.

But I did get a best friend to discuss all the things I like with, so I think it was a good deal overall. Looking back, given how careful he is with his possessions, I feel pretty flattered and amused that he was infatuated enough to offer out his books.

I still haven't gotten very far through the books (residency took priority), but I love that they are sitting by like old friends, waiting for me to pick up where I left off.

One of the weird things about medical training that we don't really talk about is that, in the pursuit of being a competent clinician, you miss out on so much of everything else through simply having little time. There are so many films or series or books I just never got around to enjoying. I used to feel kind of self conscious about all the things I have wanted to do but never gotten around to.

But I love sharing my life with someone who is always delighted to show me a great new thing that I haven't yet enjoyed.

It's never too late to pick up something new. And I hope this will open up Pratchett to a new audience.

Okay so this is a big deal

To me, and to a significant subset of Sir Terry's fans (including most of you who've found this by the tags), his writing is serious commentary on the human condition - politics, prejudice, self-control, revenge vs. justice, religion, idealism, faith in people vs. cynicism, and more - dressed up with fantasy settings and a hefty leavening of humor to make it fun to read. And it is WILDLY fun to read, actual laugh-out-loud or at least a snicker averaging about every page.

But there's this common idea among the "important literature" people that fun and funny books are not also worthwhile or important in the same way.

This is a Discworld book being released WITH ACADEMIC COMMENTARY and AS A PENGUIN CLASSIC. That's a HUGE amount of recognition.

[revelboo]

thank you again for all these wonderful stories 🙏 I was wondering if you'd ever consider writing something for Rumble? I have a big soft spot for the guy and I feel like he'd love finally being bigger than someone

Sure

Alcohol Eyes

IDW Rumble x Reader

• Frag, where’s Frenzy? And why had he let his twin talk him into this stupidity? A soft body brushes against him swaying with the thump of the heavy bass pulsing through the club, the flashing neon lights dazzling his optics. Around him costumed humans laugh and dance, bodies brushing against him, because to them he’s just another organic in a costume. He belongs and it’s such an odd feeling. Especially when little fingers catch his servos and turning he finds a human grinning up at him, a pair of crooked costume wings drooping on your back, one wing partially crushed.

• “Wow, you’re tall,” you laugh, clinging to the stranger’s hand. Somewhere behind you, there’s the sound of your ex calling your name and you tug at your new, big friend slipping between him and the guy hunting for you. As buzzy as you are, your ex is wasted and you have no intention of letting him get his rough hands on you ever again. You have enough scars for a lifetime. No, you’d rather take your chances with a complete stranger in a weirdly elaborate costume. “You went all out, huh?” Reaching up to slide your palm over what feels like metal panels. Wasn’t all that heavy and hot? The guy must be sweating in all that.

• Freezing, his lips part as the little human runs soft hands over him, head craning to smile up at him. And it’s so strange to have to look down at someone. Your expression becomes pinched as someone yells, then you’re reaching up and those unbelievably soft hands are cupping his helm to tug his head down. And a warm mouth suddenly presses against his, electric through him.

• That jerk is right there, bound to see you any moment so you pull the guy down to you and kiss him, praying your ex passes by. That this guy plays along. Not expecting for him to curl an arm around you to cup the back of your head or for the other big hand to grip your butt and drag you flush up against him. And those hands are warm as his mouth moves against yours, taking over the kiss and making it something demanding and hungry and deliciously unexpected.

• Primus, help him as you mold yourself to him, little hands clinging as your mouth opens to let him in, let him taste as his glossa explores, sliding against your tongue. His servos tangle in your hair, his other hand tightening on you to keep you from trying to escape, because whatever this is, he wants it to last. Growling when you break free, eyes hooded. “Slow down, sport,” your voice is lower, huskier as you nip at his bottom lip with a laugh, that sound going straight through him in a flush of need.

• “Don’t go,” he growls, big hands flexing against you as his already rough voice deepens. It’s not a request so much as a heated demand. And oh, it’s tempting. No one’s ever kissed you like that before, hungry and almost desperate. Reaching up, you curl your arms around his neck and his own arms tighten possessively around you. You’d come to the club alone, but if you have your way, your unwitting hero is coming home with you for a real thank you.

Next

[sinsirellaxx]

ok chat my birthday was a day ago so i gota ask.. slytherin boys celebrating ur birthday? (esp tom pspspsps)

Slytherin Boys – how they would celebrate your birthday

Warnings: None – this actually turned out to be rather wholesome?

A/N: Sorry for the long and sudden break – took me a while to find somewhat of a new routine. And I am so sorry anon – I don't know how old this ask his but anyway: happy (extremely) belated birthday! I hope you had an amazing day! Have fun reading ❤️

Enjoy!

Mattheo …

… who would try to bake something just because he knows how much you love chocolate cake.

… who would almost cry because the finished cake looked borderline poisonous before running into the kitchens to threaten ask the house elves to bake him a cake for you.

… who would surprise you in his dorm after kicking the other boys out and threatening them to hex them if they disturbed you.

… who would be laying on his side on the bed with a bow around his hips and the cake in front of him.

… who would lie about the cake – telling you he made it for you. “Happy birthday, babe. I made this for you.”

… who would smirk as he told you that he is your present, while wiggling his eyebrows and pointing at the big red bow on his crotch.

… who would roll his eyes when you raised your brow at that, quickly giving you your real present before calling you his “materialistic queen”.

Theodore …

… who almost forgot about your birthday. He found out when he saw your girl friends sing happy birthday for you loudly in the Hall.

… who immediately skedaddled out of there, pissed at himself for forgetting your birthday.

… who’d skip classes to go to Hogsmeade (he almost got caught) and buy you your favorite things.

… who’d sneak into the kitchens right before dinner to steal food just so he could prepare a picnic for you.

… whose heart hurt when he saw your angry face until you noticed the picnic.

… who’d brag about him being the best boyfriend and telling you he’d “never forget, amore”.

Lorenzo …

… who would plan a surprise party with all of your (and mainly his) friends on the night before your birthday.

… who’d created a list of presents that you might like – to ensure you’d only get things you like.

… who’d whisk you away after the time hit midnight to give you his present in private – he wanted to be the first.

… who’d dance with you in the privacy of his room, kissing you after ending the dance before leading you back to the party.

… who’d roll his eyes when the party guests called him a greedy b*tch for stealing you away

Draco …

… who would make sure to remind you daily leading up to your birthday that it’s your day, so you better let him spoil you.

… who’d sneak into Honeydukes to buy your favorite sweets, because he wants to be the one to treat you to everything you love.

… who’d insist on picking out the perfect dress for you and make sure it fits perfectly, so you’d look flawless on your special day.

… who’d act like he’s so annoyed when you point out his thoughtful gestures, but secretly feels a bit proud of himself.

… who’d give you a gift wrapped in luxurious paper, telling you it’s not something you can ever buy for yourself.

… who’d be way too proud of how good you look in the dress he picked out for you and won’t stop staring at you all night.

… who’d get a little possessive when other guys look at you, making sure to remind them that you’re his with a sharp look or a possessive hand on your waist.

Blaise …

… who’d be the one to organize the most relaxing and intimate birthday evening, knowing that you just want peace and quiet.

… who would definitely take you out to a quiet dinner at one of the hidden spots around Hogwarts that only a select few know about.

… who’d give you a thoughtful gift that was well beyond your expectations, something sentimental that shows how much he listens to everything you say.

… who’d take a walk with you after dinner, talking about everything and nothing, making you feel like you’re the most important person in his world.

… who’d quietly ask you if you liked the gift, and would be slightly insecure until you reassure him you love it.

… who’d smirk slightly when you thank him and call him your "birthday savior," secretly feeling proud he made your day special.

Tom …

… who’d remind you about your birthday days in advance because he doesn’t forget important dates, even if it doesn’t seem like it.

… who’d act like he couldn’t care less about celebrating, but when the day arrives, he’d still find a way to make it unforgettable for you.

… who would make an effort to give you a gift that only someone who truly understands you could choose – something meaningful, intellectual, and thought-provoking.

… who’d take you to a secluded spot in the castle and tell you how much you mean to him in a rare moment of vulnerability.

… who’d whisper softly, “I trust you, more than anyone else,” as you both share a moment in private, far from prying eyes.

… who would give you a small, carefully selected token that’s symbolic of how he feels about you, something with deeper meaning that you’d never expect from someone like him.

… who’d leave you with a kiss on your forehead, a touch of possessiveness and longing in his eyes before disappearing, making sure your birthday is something only the two of you share.

[sheep-from-rad]

breathes, I need to make a masterlist for DC. Writing Batfam is becoming too fun 

*I don't own DC also reader is gender neutral. this could be applied to yandere batfam as well, i think*

Bruce, Batfam and baby! Reader would be fun to watch. This man raised children but apparently having a baby in the house made him realize that he still has a lot to learn. Reader arrives at the estate as a baby after their mom (ex fling) decides that it will be better if they will be with Bruce instead.  

If this man’s sleep schedule was bad before, now it's abysmal. It was so bad that Batfam had to step in. Baby! Reader cries at 3 a.m. and before Bruce can even stand up he sees Jason at the dark corner of the room telling him to go back to sleep because Dick already has it handled. I love the idea of baby reader’s crib being in Bruce’s room because it will be easier to reach the crying baby reader at night that way. 

There’s no such thing as too much clothes. Batfam sees something cute or a baby clothing, they are buying it. Damian is partial towards stuffed animals and he will deny it but Bruce had seen him bonding with by reading animal related baby books. I also see Damian as a possessive brother in the sense that once they have their hands on  baby! reader, they will never let anyone else hold them. Not even Bruce. 

Batfamily had to now pack another shirt whenever they go outside with baby!reader or else they’ll be coming home wet with baby drool. Every Batsibling has their alarm clocks and they’ll always fight each other on who gets to feed the baby reader. Alfred wins most of the time because the siblings get too caught up in the fighting; they just forget about feeding the baby. 

Jason will nonstop troll Bruce for sure. Bruce will be entering the dining hall all tired with baby reader in his arms and Jason will be singing, ‘A single mom who works two jobs’ meme until Bruce glares at him or tells him to stop. Coffee supply on the estate doubles because Tim is not the only one addicted now, Bruce too. 

Superhero themed onesies are banned inside the house because it became a mini competition between the batfam but don’t let anyone know that Bruce kept a Batman bib. Every bedroom is baby proofed because each sibling just loves to monopolize baby readers. 

Galas are now fun. The batfam who previously avoids galas like it’s a plague now from time to time pops in to say that Bruce is gonna be late because either baby reader got into a teeny tiny accident and needed to be changed or baby reader got into Stephanie’s make up kit and needed to be wiped clean. 

The idea of a baby!reader learning how to crawl and walk is funny too. Bruce just constantly stressed out because his little baby just disappears and then comes back in the arms of a sibling who told him that they crawled to their room. Baby reader sees older siblings training and they’ll be trying to replicate it (with the siblings making sure it won’t be dangerous of course). Just imagine Dick’s social media with a picture of him stretching and baby reader (face covered for privacy) next to him replicating it. 

Batfam was overprotective before and it became more protective now. Tim will always be quick to cover baby!reader’s face when the siblings  are out in public say for ice cream or a little shopping trip. Securities are doubled too. If one sibling is taking baby reader out, another one will be following behind and the others are on the roof.  No baby photos because let’s face it, one quick photo can land on a random newspaper and some villains might get their hands on a copy. 

Damian will always be quick to pull away baby!reader on galas especially when Bruce is surrounded by women who try flirting with him using their ‘maternal’ skills. Passing baby!reader around the gala are not allowed unless Bruce himself lets the person hold the baby!reader. 

Imagine one day Batman goes to a Justice League meeting with the baby! Reader trapped on their chest because apparently the batfam is busy and Alfred is on vacation. If Bruce only knew that the batfam lied because the JL wants to meet the baby reader. Did Justice League got overboard with the Christmas gifts the next year? Shhh… we don’t talk about that, the impromptu storage room is still full.