#that I would lie to him about something like this??
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Arcane preference reacting to a s/o with a mental health issues (eating)
My disclaimer, as someone with this issue, Iâm sorry if this isnât what you wanted. Iâve actually been thinking about it for a while, but I was a bit cowardly about doing it, so Iâm taking the opportunity now. I donât want to go out of character, so Iâm sorry if some characters come across as harsher than others. Unfortunately, I know I should write the name of the illness, but if I post it that way, Tumblr will take it down.
Jayce:
- Heâs academically intelligent, but it takes him far too long to notice that somethingâs wrong. But you canât blame him, itâs something so far removed from him that he couldnât have understood it sooner.
- When he does realize, his first reaction is panic.
- Jayce canât feel like just a blade of grass; he feels emotions deeply, taking on any blame, especially if something happens to the people he loves. His first thought is that he did something to make you feel that way, inadequate.
- But once the panic phase ends, the responsibility phase begins.
- He does the grocery shopping, he cooks, and his workouts become more regular, where he has you climb onto his back while doing push-ups or holds you in his arms during other exercises.
- He doesnât know why you do it, but the quickest way to show you that your weight isnât a problem is by showing you how easily he lifts you.
- And maybe, if you feel up to it, he can hold you in his arms with one arm supporting you while he cooks, letting you taste various ingredients.
Viktor:
- Unlike Jayce, it only takes two suspicious behaviors in a row for him to understand whatâs happening. Itâs something far from his world, sure, but he recognizes it.
- And he confronts you. He doesnât beat around the bush, doesnât stammer; he might even sound angry because he doesnât understand why youâd hurt yourself like this and willingly give up your well-being.
- I wonât lie, I doubt that an open discussion about something this delicate with him wouldnât lead to at least one hysterical cry.
- But heâs not brutal for the sake of being brutal; his suffering and frustration turn into anger. It takes him a while to calm down, but he wonât accept compromises.
- Youâll have meals together at home, either returning to your rooms together or straight to the house, so no one can see you and you wonât feel bad.
- And he wonât force you, he tries to handle it with as much care as possible, but thereâs no day that goes by without him getting up from the table if you havenât eaten at least two food items per meal.
- He loves you too much to see you hurt yourself in that way, and knowing that he can't do anything about it makes him feel powerless.
Ekko:
- It takes him a weekânot to understand, but to process it.
- Having grown up in total poverty, the idea of giving up food âfor whimâ makes him react in a way that is only human.
- And the whole thing is too distant for him: everyoneâs skin is grayish, 90% of the population of the Lanes has missing limbs and monstrous prosthetics, and everyoneâs goal is to survive as long as possible. What does it mean that youâre against your own survival??
- As unsupportive as he might be regarding the issue, he becomes incredibly vigilant and concerned.
- Heâll always make sure youâre warm enough, that youâre comfortable, and no matter how frustrated he is, heâll always try to stay close to you, even just holding you in bed until you fall asleep.
- Every single comment you make about your body, heâll respond with, âDonât talk about my partner like that,âÂ
- no one can speak badly of you, not even you.
Vander:
- The most understanding: he was young once too, and although in his size meant an advantage, he and Silco snuck into various galas when they were younger, and there, even though he never had these problems, he would feel a strange sensation seeing that he was the biggest in the room or that it was hard to find someone to steal clothes from that would fit him.
- He doesnât lecture you or anything like that, he doesnât get angry despite how he grew up; he just feels sadness for you that you canât see how little that complex matters and how beautiful you already are.
- His compromise is vegetables. If you donât feel like eating every meal every day, it doesnât matter, but at least four days a week, you have to have three meals.
- And for the rest, heâll cook, making sure to prepare the best dishes made from vegetables so that you donât feel guilty and your body doesnât deteriorate.
- But he doesnât support your illness, he simply ensures that you get everything you need and never go below the necessary intake without having you feeling guilty about it.
Silco:
- Hoping that the most attentive and watchful man in the lanes wouldn't notice how, suddenly, meals go from moments of lightness to something you try to avoid at all costs is a bit foolish, but he says nothing.
- He waits for as long as necessary, basically to see how long it lasts and how much you're not planning to talk to him.
- When he realizes you wonât, not anytime soon, he waits for you to be alone in his office, where youâll find a slice of cake on his desk. Sure, itâs a low blow, but itâs also the fastest way to get you to confront the issue without too many escape routes.
- Heâs a big fan of the saying âdirty laundry is washed in the family,â so if you act strange about meals in front of others, he wonât allow questions or jokes, but in private, he wonât accept ânoâ for an answer.
- He has enough problems already without you crying from hunger pains or having psychotic episodes due to sugar deficiency, so as long as you're under his watch, under Zaun's eye, he won't let you live with unhealthy standards.
- During meals, he becomes the strictest. He doesnât say anything, but one look is enough to make you think twice about contradicting him. In the evening, though, when your mental health is most fragile, he becomes gentler, comforting you as much as you need.
Jinx:
- You find fertile ground, but like any good bearer of the same issue: she feels she can do it, but you cannot.
- Being with her or in her space becomes like a live-action version of Thumbelina: sheâll leave sweets, chocolates, things she knows you like to encourage you to eat so you canât hurt yourself.
- She usually forgets to eat herself when sheâs caught up in her studies and work, but if she has someone to care for, it doesnât matter how, sheâll make sure to remember. Even if it means setting a few colorful bombs with timers.
- She feeds you. In the most visible, worst way. Itâs easy that if you turn your head, youâll find a cookie shoved in your mouth unceremoniously.
- And every single tight-fitting outfit disappears from her lair. Magically, whatever clothes you pick up from her pile fit loosely, but if you ask her about it, sheâll claim she doesnât know what are you talking about.
Vi:
- Want to see Vi in a panic, becoming super protective and possessive in a way? Just wait for one episode, and youâll see everything you havenât seen.
- Sheâll check on you at least three times a day, and in the evening, when you have pain or a crisis, sheâll run back and forth from the room, thinking about everything she can do to help you feel better without making you feel guilty.
- During meals, sheâll hold you in her arms and insist that you eat, but not aggressivelyâin a way thatâs almost frightened: sheâs always been used to fighting big, real monsters, but even when it came to her sister, she could never defeat the invisible ones, and the fear of failing or hurting someone she loved again terrifies her in an agonizing way.
- Like Jayce, sheâll also try a more physical way of reassuring you, like body worshipping when youâre alone or working out with you to show you that your weight doesnât matter.
Caitlyn:
- She doesnât know how to react; she realizes it quite quickly but fears that by acknowledging it, she might only make you feel worse.
- One day, she gathers the courage to ask if everything is okay and tells you that sheâs noticed those behaviors. When you open up to her, telling her about the issues, she doesnât respond right away and simply hugs you.
- She becomes more caring, making sure that you donât have to attend banquets or dinners where you wouldnât feel comfortable, bringing you food in your room to eat together, and sometimes even leaving the room so as not to put pressure on you.
- When you mention a craving, she immediately springs into action to get it for you, even if you complain that you werenât serious. Once she understands how your condition works, she orders everything in three portions, so she can eat with you and then be the first to say that she wants more, asking if you want to share the third portion.
- If you have fat accumulated in any area, sheâll knead it with her hands while kissing you, to let you know that she loves every inch of you.
Mel:
- She notices you're having a crisis before you even realize it yourself.
- Sheâs a ruler, but what she learned from a young age is that a leader must appear reliable and look good, so even if unconsciously, she too sometimes experiences small crises when she feels like she isnât looking perfect.
- No conversations, no lectures, just an increase in cuddles, moments of intimacy, and later, she brings home sweets.
- âThey were a gift to me today at the council,â she lies, but sometimes she says she got them for both of you. She doesnât want to make you feel like youâre in the wrong. She knows that when youâre ready and if you want to, youâll bring up the issue with her, but for now, the best thing she can do is help you get through the episode with euphoria, love, and treats that encourage you to listen to your hunger rather than the illness.
Sevika:
- Like everyone in Zaun, the idea that someone would voluntarily give up food is simply incomprehensible to her.
- But she wonât comment on your problems. She doesnât intend to invalidate them, but she also wonât encourage it.
- âAre you sure? Thatâs a bit too little,â will be her comment when you eat something ridiculously small, before making you a proper portion of food herself. If you try to argue, sheâll respond with a smug smile, saying that if you eat that little, youâll end up breaking when youâre in bed together.
- As much as possible, sheâll try to get the best, freshest, and most natural food, to reassure you that you donât need to worry, but sheâll never insist that you eat if you say you donât feel up to it. Sheâll gesture for you to come sit on her lap and keep you there, occasionally offering you things she knows you like, telling you that sheâs really craving them, and if you want them too, sheâll go get them.
- If a crisis is particularly bad, sheâll try to finish her work as quickly as possible to be able to stay with you for the rest of the day and not leave you alone.
#jayce x reader#viktor x reader#ekko x reader#silco x reader#vander x reader#jinx x reader#vi x reader#caitlyn x reader#sevika x reader#mel x reader#jayce talis#viktor arcane#ekko arcane#silco arcane#arcane vander#jinx#vi arcane#caitlyn kiramman#mel medarda#sevika#arcane x reader#arcane headcanon#arcane 2#arcane writing
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Things between you and Peter change with the seasons. [17k]Â
c: friends-to-lovers, hurt/comfort, loneliness, peter parker isnât good at hiding his alter ego, fluff, first kisses, mutual pining, loved-up epilogue, mention of self-harm with no graphic imagery
ïœĄđŠč°â§â.á
FallÂ
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.Â
You close the heavy door of your apartment building. His head stays still, yet heâs heard the sound of it settling, evidence in his calmed hand.Â
âGood morning!â You pull your coat on quickly. âSorry.âÂ
âGood morning,â he says, offering a sleep-logged smile. âShould we go?âÂ
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 doesnât check it while you walk, and only glances at it when youâre 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 itâll be warm water that falls.Â
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 thatâs where he would put it himself, and you both get to work.Â
As Peter helps you study, you note the simplicity of another normal day, and canât help wondering what it is thatâs missing. Something is, something Peter wonât tell you, the absence of a truth hanging over your heads. You ask him if he wants to get dinner and he says no, heâs busy. You ask him to see a movie on Friday night and he wishes he could.Â
Peter misses you. When he tells you, you believe him. âI wish I had more time,â he says.Â
âItâs fine,â you say, âyou canât help it.â
âWeâll do something next weekend,â he says. The lie slips out easily.Â
To Peter it isnât a lie. In his head, heâll find the time for you again, and youâll be friends like you used to be.Â
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.Â
Peter had swam the short distance to you and held your shoulders. You remember feeling like your whole life was there, somewhere youâd never been before, the sharp edges of cracked pool tile just under your feet.Â
You peek over the top of your laptop screen and wonder if Peter ever thinks of that trip.Â
He feels you watching and meets your eyes. âI have to tell you something,â he says, smiling shyly.Â
âSure.âÂ
âI signed us up for that club.âÂ
âEpigenetics?âÂ
âMolecular medicine,â he says.Â
The nice thing about fog is that it gives a feeling of lateness. Itâs still morning, barely ten, but it feels like the early evening. Itâs gentle on the eyes, colouring the whole room with a sconced shine. You reach for Peterâs bag and sort through his jumble of possessions âstick deodorant, loose-leaf paper, a bodegaâs worth of protein barsâ and grab his camera.Â
âWhat are you doing?âÂ
âIâm cataloguing the moment you ruined our lives,â you say, aiming the camera at his chin, squinting through the viewfinder.Â
âTechnically, I signed us up a few days ago,â he says.Â
You snap his photo as his mouth closes around âagoâ, keeping his half-laugh stuck on his lips. âSemantics,â you murmur. âAnd molecular medicine club, this has nothing to do with the estranged Gwen Stacy?â
âIt has nothing to do with her. And you like molecular medicine.â
âI like oncology,â you correct, which is a sub-genre at best, âand I have enough work without joining another club. Go by yourself.âÂ
âI canât go without you,â he says. Simple as that.Â
He knew youâd say yes when he signed you up. Itâs why he didnât ask. Youâre already forgiven him for the slight of assumption.Â
âWhen is it?â you ask, smiling.Â
â
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. Itâs boring, sometimes, but then Peter will lean into your side and make a joke to keep you going.Â
He looks at Gwen Stacy a lot. Slender, pale and freckled, with blonde hair framing a sweet face. Only when he thinks youâre not looking. Only when she isnât either.Â
â
âGood morning,â you say.Â
Peter holds an umbrella over his head that heâs 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 cafĂ©, 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: youâre still laughing when he finds you in the booth at the back.Â
âTell the joke,â he says, slamming his coffee down. Heâs careful with yours. Heâs given you the pink petal saucer from the side next to the straws and wooden stirrers.Â
âI was thinking about you as a businessman.âÂ
âAnd thatâs funny?âÂ
âWhen was the last time you wore a suit?âÂ
Peter shakes his head. Claims he doesnât know. Later, youâll remember his Uncle Benâs funeral and feel queasy with guilt, but you donât remember yet. âWhen was the last time you wore one?â he asks. âI donât laugh at you.âÂ
âYouâre always laughing at me, Parker.âÂ
The cafe isnât as warm today. Itâs wet, grimy water footsteps tracking across the terracotta tile, streaks of grey water especially heavy near the counter, around it to the bathroom. Thereâs 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.
âYou okay?â Peter asks.Â
âFine. Are you gonna help me with the math today?âÂ
âDonât think so. Did you ask nicely?âÂ
âI did.â Youâd called him last night. You wouldâve just as happily submitted your homework poorly solved with the grade to prove it âyou donât want Peterâs help, you just wanted to see him.Â
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 youâve 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 didnât recognise, until it was Peter, changed forever and for the worse and it didnât matter âhe was grieving, he was terrified, who were you to tell him to be nice againâ until it started to get better. You see less of your fallen, angry angel, no harsh brush strokes, no tears.Â
His eyes are still dark. Bruised often underneath, like heâs up late. If he is, it isnât to talk to you.Â
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, âHere, Iâll show you a song.âÂ
He walks you home. The song is dreary and sad. The man who sings is good. Lover, You Shouldâve Come Over. It feels like Peterâs trying to tell you something âhe isnât, but it feels like wishing he would.Â
âYou okay?â you ask before you can get to your street. A minute away, less.Â
âIâm fine, why?âÂ
You let the uncomfortable shape of his earbud fall out of your ear, the climax of the song a rattle on his chest. âYou look tired, thatâs all. Are you sleeping?âÂ
âI have too much to do.âÂ
You just donât get it. âMake sure youâre eating properly. Okay?âÂ
His smile squeezes your heart. Soft, the closest youâll ever get. âYou know May,â he says, wrapping his arm around your shoulders to give you a short hug, âshe wouldnât let me go hungry. Donât worry about me.âÂ
â
The dip into depression you take is predictable. You canât help it. Peter being gone makes it worse.Â
You listen to love songs and take long walks through the city, even when itâs dark and you know itâs a bad idea. If anything bad happens Spider-Man could probably save me, you think. New Yorkâs not-so-new vigilante keeps a close eye on things, especially the women. You canât count how many times youâve 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.Â
Youâre 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.Â
You walk under streetlights and past stores with CCTV, but honestly you donât really care. Youâre not thinking. You feel sick and heavy and itâs fine, really, itâs okay, everything works out eventually. Itâs not like itâs all because you miss Peter, itâs just a feeling. Itâll go away.Â
âYouâre in deep thought,â 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. âOh,â you say, your heartbeat an uncomfortable plodding under your hand, âsorry.âÂ
âWhy are you sorry? I scared you.â
âI didnât realise you were there.âÂ
Spider-Man doesnât come any closer. You take a few steps in his direction. Youâve never met before but youâd like to see him up close, and you arenât scared. Not beyond the shock of his arrival.Â
âCan I walk you to where youâre going?â Spider-Man asks you. Heâs humming energy, fidgeting and shifting from foot to foot.Â
âHow do I know youâre the real Spider-Man?âÂ
After all, there are high definition videos of his suit on the news sometimes. You wouldnât want to find out someone was capable of making a replica in the worst way possible.Â
You canât be sure, but you think he might be smiling behind the mask, his arms moving back as though impressed at your questioning. âWhat do you need me to do to prove it?â he asks.Â
He speaks hushed. Rough and deep. âI donât know. Whatâs Spider-Man exclusive?âÂ
âI can show you the webs?âÂ
You pull your handbag further up your arm. âOkay, sure. Shoot something.âÂ
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.Â
âCan I walk you now?â he asks.Â
âYou donât have more important things to do?â If the bitterness youâre feeling creeps into your tone unbidden, he doesnât react.Â
âNothing more important than you.âÂ
You laugh despite yourself. âIâm going to Trader Joeâs.âÂ
âYellowstone Boulevard?âÂ
âThatâs the oneâŠâÂ
You fall into step beside him, and, awkwardly, begin to walk again. Itâs a short walk. Trader Joeâs will still be open for hours despite the dark sky, and youâre in no hurry. âMy friend, he likes the rolled tortilla chips they do, the chilli ones.âÂ
âAnd youâre going just for him?â Spider-Man asks.Â
âNot really. I mean, yeah, but I was already going on a walk.âÂ
âDo you always walk around by yourself? Itâs late. Itâs dangerous, you know, a beautiful girl like you,â he says, descending into an odd mixture of seriousness and teasing. His voice jumps and swoons to match.Â
âI like walking,â you say.Â
Spider-Man walking is a weird thing to see. On the news, heâs running, swinging, or flying through the air untethered. Youâre having trouble acquainting the media image of him with the quiet man youâre walking beside now.
âIs everything okay?â he asks. âYou seem sad.âÂ
âDo I?âÂ
âYeah, you do.âÂ
âMaybe I am sad,â you confess, looking forward, the bright sign of Trader Joeâs already in view. It really is a short walk. âDo you everââ You swallow against a surprising tightness in your throat and try again, âDo you ever feel like youâre alone?âÂ
âIâm not alone,â he says carefully.
âMe neither, but sometimes I feel like I am.âÂ
He laughs quietly. You bristle thinking youâre being made fun of, but the laugh tapers into a sad one. âSometimes I feel like Iâm the only person in the world,â he says. âEven here. I forget that itâs not something I invented.âÂ
âWell, I guess being a hero would feel really lonely. Who else do we have like you?â You smile sympathetically. âIt must be hard.âÂ
âYeah.â His head tips to the side, and a crash of glass rings in the distance, crunching, and then thereâs a squeal. It sounds like a car accident. Spider-Man goes tense. âIâll come back,â he says.Â
âThatâs okay, Spider-Man, I can get home by myself. Thank you for the protection detail.âÂ
He sprints away. In half a second heâs up onto a short roof, then between buildings. It looks natural. It takes your breath away.Â
You buy Peterâs chips at Trader Joeâs and wait for a few minutes at the door, but Spider-Man doesnât come back.Â
â
I donât want to study today, Peterâs text says the next day. Come over and watch movies?Â
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.Â
Peter still lives at home with his Aunt May. Youâd 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 youâre older! heâd always promise.Â
Peterâs 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. âLook what I got,â he says.Â
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. Thereâs a cross-stitch about the home on the microwave Ben did to prove to May he could still see the holes in the aida.Â
You follow Peter to the stove where he points at a ceramic Dutch oven youâve eaten from a hundred times. âThere,â he says.Â
âDid you cook?â you ask.Â
âOf course I didnât cook, even if the way you said that is offensive. I could cook. Iâm an excellent chef.âÂ
âThe only thing Mayâs ever taught you is spaghetti and meatballs.âÂ
âHope you like marinara,â he says, nudging you toward the stove.Â
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. Heâs dotted the top with swirls of frosting and deep red strawberries.Â
âItâs for you,â he says casually.Â
âItâs not my birthday.âÂ
âI know. You like cake though, donât you?âÂ
Youâd tell Peter you liked chunks of glass if that was what he unveiled. âWhyâd you make me a cake?âÂ
âI felt like you deserved a cake. You donât want it?âÂ
âNo, I want it! I want the cake, letâs have cake, we can go to 91st and get some ice cream, itâll be amazing.â You donât bother trying to hide your beaming smile now, twisting on the spot to see him properly, your hands falling behind your back. âThank you, Peter. Itâs awesome. I had no idea you could evenâ that youâd evenââ You press forward, smushing your face against his chest. âWow.âÂ
âWow,â he says, wrapping his arms around you. He angles his head to nose at your temple. âYouâre welcome. I wouldâve made you a cake years ago if I knew it was gonna make you this happy.âÂ
âIt mustâve taken hours.âÂ
âMay helped.âÂ
âThat makes much more sense.âÂ
âDonât be insolent.â Peter squeezes you tightly. He doesnât let go for a really long time.Â
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. Itâs good ice cream, fresh for what it is and melting in big drops of cream as he gets the couch ready.
âSit down,â he says, shoving the plates with his strangely great balance onto the coffee table. âRemoteâs by you. Iâm gonna get drinks.âÂ
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. Youâre halfway through your slice before Peter makes it back.Â
âI brought you something too, but itâs garbage compared to this,â you say through a mouthful, hand barely covering your mouth.Â
Peter laughs at you. âYeah, well, say it, donât spray it.âÂ
âI guess Iâll keep it.âÂ
âKeep it, bub, I donât need anything from you.âÂ
He doesnât say it the way youâre expecting. âNo,â you say, pleased when he sits knee to knee, âyou can have it. Sâjust a bag of chips from Traderââ
âThe rolled tortilla chips?â he asks. You nod, and his eyes light up. âYou really are the best friend ever.âÂ
âBetter than Harry?âÂ
âHarryâs rich,â Peter says, âso no. Iâm kidding! Joking, come here, let me try some of that.âÂ
âEat your own.âÂ
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 isnât that out of character for Peter, but what shocks you is his complete unfiltered attention. He doesnât check his phone, the tension you couldnât name from these last few weeks nowhere to be felt. Youâre flummoxed by the sudden change, but you missed him. You wonât look a gift horse in the mouth; you wonât question what it is that had Peter keeping you at armâs length now itâs gone.
To your annoyance, you canât 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.Â
âHave something to tell you.âÂ
âYou do?â you ask, reluctant to sit properly, your feet tucked under his thigh and your body completely lax with the weight of the Parker throw.Â
âIs that surprising?âÂ
âIs that a trick question?âÂ
âNo. Just. Iâve been not telling you something.âÂ
âOkay, so tell me.âÂ
Peter goes pink, and stiff, a fake smile plastered over his lips. âMe and Gwen, weâre really done.âÂ
âI know, Pete. She broke up with you for reasons nobody felt I should be enlightened right after graduation.â Your stomach pangs painfully. âUnless youâŠâ
âSheâs going to England.âÂ
âShe is?âÂ
âOxford.âÂ
You struggle to sit up. âThat sucks, Peter. Iâm sorry.âÂ
âBut?âÂ
You find your words carefully. âYou and Gwen really liked each other, but I think thatââ You grow in confidence, meeting his eyes firmly. âThat thereâs always been some part of you that couldnât actually commit to her. So. I donât know, maybe some distance will give you clarity. And maybe itâll break your heart, but at least then youâll know how you really feel, and you can move forward.â You avoid telling him to move on.Â
âIt wasnât Gwen,â he says, which has a completely different meaning to the both of you.Â
âObviously, sheâs the smartest girl Iâve ever met. Sheâs beautiful. Of course itâs not her fault,â you say, teasing.
âReally, that you ever met?â Peter asks.Â
âSheâs the best girl you were ever gonna land.âÂ
He rolls his eyes. âYeah, I guess so.â After a few more minutes of quiet, he says, âI think we were done before. I just hadnât figured it out yet. Something wasnât right.âÂ
âYou were so back and forth. Youâre not mean, there mustâve been something stopping you from going steady,â you agree. âYou were breaking up every other week.â
âI know,â he whispers, tipping his head against the back couch.Â
âWhich, itâs fine, you donâtââ You grimace. âI canât talk today. Sorry. I just mean that itâs alright that you never made it work.â You worry that sounds plainly obvious and amend, âDoesnât make you a bad person. Youâre never a bad person, Peter.âÂ
âI know. Thank you.âÂ
âYouâre welcome. You donât need me to tell you.âÂ
âItâs nice, though. I like when you tell me stuff. I want all of your secrets.âÂ
You should say Good, because I have something unbelievable to tell you, and I shouldâve said it the moment I got home.Â
Good, because last night I met the bravest man in New York City, and he walked me to the store for your chips.Â
Good, because I have so much Iâm keeping to myself.
You ruffle his hair. Spider-Man goes unmentioned.Â
âÂ
He visits with a whoop. You donât flinch when he lands âyouâd heard the strange whip and splat of his webs landing nearby.Â
âSpider-Man,â you say.Â
âWhatâs that about?âÂ
âWhat?âÂ
âThe way you said that. You laughed.â Spider-Man stands in spandexed glory before you, mask in place. Heâs got a brown stain up the side of his thigh that looks more like mud than blood, but itâs not as though each of his fights are bloodless. Theyâre infamously gory on occasion.
âDid you get hurt?â you ask. Youâre worried. You could help him, if he needs it.Â
âAw, this? Thatâs a scratch. Thatâs nothing, donât worry about it. Iâve had worse from that stray cat living outside of 91st.âÂ
You look at him sharply. 91st is shorthand for 91st Bodega, and itâs 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.Â
Peterâs 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 canât 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.Â
âWhat?â he asks.Â
âSorry. You just reminded me of someone.âÂ
His voice falls deeper still. âSomeone handsome, I hope.âÂ
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 doesnât follow, you add, âYes, heâs handsome.âÂ
âI knew it.â
âWhat do you look like under the mask?â
Spider-Man laughs boisterously. âI canât just tell you that.âÂ
âNo? Do I have to earn it?âÂ
âItâs not like that. I just donât tell anyone, ever.âÂ
âNobody in the whole world?â you ask.Â
The rain is spitting. New York lately is cold cold cold, little in the way of sunshine and no end in sight. Perhaps thatâs all Novemberâs 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 doesnât part from you.Â
âTell me something about you and Iâll tell you something about me,â Spider-Man says. âIâll tell you who knows my identity.âÂ
âWhat do you want to know about me?â you ask, surprised.Â
âA secret. Thatâs fair.âÂ
âHold on, howâs that fair?â You tighten your scarf against a bitter breeze. âWhat use do I have for the people who know who you are? That doesnât bring me any closer to the truth.âÂ
âItâs not about who knows, itâs about why I told them.â 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-Manâs side. He shakes himself off. âJerk!â he shouts after the car.Â
âMy secrets arenât worth anything.â
âI doubt that, but if thatâs true, that makes it a fair trade, doesnât it?âÂ
He sounds peppy considering the pool of runoff collecting at his feet. You pick up your pace again and say, âAlright, useless secret for a useless secret.âÂ
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 arenât useless, then, so you move on.Â
âOh, I know. I hate my major.â You grin at Spider-Man. âThatâs a good one, right? No one else knows about that.âÂ
âYou do?â Spider-Man asks. His voice is familiar, then, for its sympathy.Â
âI like science, I just hate math. Itâs harder than I thought it would be, and I need so much help it makes me hate the whole thing.âÂ
Spider-Man doesnât drag the knife. âOkay. Only three people know who I am under the mask. It was four, briefly.â He clears his throat. âI told one person because I was being selfish and the others out of necessity. Iâm trying really hard not to tell anybody else.â
âHow come?âÂ
âIt just hurts people.âÂ
You linger in a gap of silence, not sure what to say. A handful of cars pass you on the road.Â
âTell me another one,â he says.Â
âWhat for?âÂ
âI donât know, just tell me one.âÂ
âHow do I know you arenât extorting me for something?â You grin as you say it, a hint of flirtation. âYouâll 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.âÂ
âIâm not showing you anything,â he warns, teasing, sounding so awfully like Peter that your heart trips again, an uneven capering that has you faltering in the street.Â
Peterâs shorter, you decide, sizing him up. His voice sounds similar and familiar but Peter doesnât ask for secrets. He doesnât have to. (Or, he didnât have to, once upon a time.)Â
âWhere are you going?â Spider-Man asks.Â
âOh, nowhere.âÂ
âSeriously, youâre out here walking again for no reason?âÂ
âI like to walk. Itâs not like itâs dark out yet.â Youâre not far at all from Queensboro Hill here. Walking in any direction would lead you to a garden âFlushing Meadows, Kew Gardens, Kissena Park. âWalk me to Kissena?â you ask.Â
âSure, for that secret.âÂ
You laugh as Peter takes the lead, keeping time with him, a natural match of pace. Itâs 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 youâd want to. It slips out before you can think better of it.Â
âI burned my wrist a few days ago on a frying pan,â you confess, the phantom pain of the injury an itch. âIt blistered and I cried when I did it, but I havenât told anyone about it.âÂ
âWhy not?â he asks.Â
He shouldnât use that tone with you, like heâs 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 donât, and half the time youâre embarrassed.Â
You walk past the bakery that demarcates the beginning of Kissena Park grounds across the way. âI didnât think about it at first. Iâm used to keeping things to myself. And then I didnât tell anyone for so long that mentioning it now wouldnât make sense. Like, bringing it up when itâs a scar wonât do much.â Itâs 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.
âIt was only a few days ago, right? It must still hurt. People want to know that stuff.âÂ
âMaybe Iâll tell someone tomorrow,â you say, though you wonât.Â
âThanks for telling me.â
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.Â
âThis is pretty far from Trader Joeâs,â he comments, like heâs read your mind.Â
âJust an hour.âÂ
âAre you kidding? Itâs an hour for me.âÂ
âThatâs not true, Spider-Man, Iâve seen those webs in action. I still remember watching you on the News that night, the cranes. I remember,â âyou try to meet his eyes despite the maskâ âmy heart in my throat. Werenât you scared?â
âIs that the secret you want?â he asks.Â
âI get to choose?âÂ
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 Parkâs playground. Teenagers crowd the soft-landing floor, smaller children playing on the wet rungs of the climbing frame.Â
âIf you want to,â he says.Â
âThen yeah, I want to know if you were scared.âÂ
âI didnât haveI time to be scared. Connors was already there, you know?â He shifts from one foot to the other. âI donât think Iâve ever thought about it before. I wasnât scared of the height, if thatâs what you mean. I already had practice by then, and I knew I had to do it. Like, I didnât have a choice, so I just did it. I had to save the day, so I did.âÂ
âWhen they lined up the cranesââ
âIt felt like flying,â Spider-Man interrupts.Â
âLike flying.â
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.Â
âThatâs a good secret.â You offer a grateful smile. âIt doesnât feel equal. I burned myself and you saved the city.âÂ
âSo tell me another one,â he says.Â
â
Maybe you started to fall for Peter after his Uncle Ben passed away. Not the days where youâd text him and heâd ignore you, or the days spent camping outside of his house waiting for him to get home. It wasnât that you couldnât like him, angry as he was; thereâs always been something about his eyes when heâs 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, itâs an ache. A Cabanel painting, dramatic and dark and other.Â
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 heâd been. Skating, heâd always say. Most of the time he didnât have his skateboard.Â
Youâd 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 heâd kiss you like that, just once, so you could feel how it felt to be completely wrapped up in another person.Â
Youâd 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 âwhether it be alone or with Gwen, with anyoneâ 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 youâll fit, of course you couldnât go home, not this late, May wonât care if we keep the door open âthe suggestion that the door being closed mightâve meant something. His sleeping arm furled around you.Â
Now youâre nearing the end of your second semester at ESU, Gwen is going to England at the end of the year, and Peter hasnât tried to stop her, but heâs still busy.Â
âWhatever,â you say, taking a deep breath. Youâre not mad at Peter, you just miss him. Thinking about him all the time wonât change a thing. âItâs fine.âÂ
âIâd hope so.âÂ
You swing around. âDonât do that!â
Spider-Man looks vaguely chastened, taking a step back. âI called out.âÂ
âYou did?âÂ
âI did. Hey, miss, over there! The one who doesnât know how to get a goddamn taxi!âÂ
âI like to walk,â you say.Â
âYeah, so youâve said. Have you considered that all this walking is bad for you? Itâs freezing out, Miss Bennett!âÂ
âItâs not that bad.â You have your coat, a scarf, your thermal leggings underneath your jeans. âIâm fine.âÂ
âWhatâs wrong with staying at home?âÂ
âThatâs not good for you. And youâre one to talk, Spider-Man, arenât you out on the streets every night? You should take a day off.âÂ
âI donât do this every night.âÂ
âDonât you get tired?â
Spider-Manâs eyelets seem to squint, his mock-anger effusive as he crosses his arms across his chest. âNo, of course not. Do I look like I get tired?âÂ
âI donât know. Youâre in a full suit, I canât tell. I guess you donât⊠seem tired. You know, with all the backflips.âÂ
âWant me to do one?âÂ
âOn command?â You laugh. âNo, thatâs okay. Save your strength, Spider-Man.âÂ
âSo where are you heading today?â he asks.Â
Thereâs a slip of skin peeking out against his neck. Youâre surprised he canât feel the cold there, stepping toward him to point. âI can see your stubble.âÂ
He yanks his mask down. âHasty getaway.âÂ
âA getaway, undressed? Spider-Man, thatâs not very gentlemanly.âÂ
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. Itâs 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.)
âLuckily for you, crime is slow tonight,â he says.Â
âLucky me?â You wonder if your acquainted vigilante flirts with every girl he stalks. âYou realise Iâve managed to get everywhere Iâm going for the last two decades without help?âÂ
âI assume there was more than a little help during that first decade.âÂ
âThatâs what you think. I was a super independent toddler.âÂ
Spider-Man tips his head back and laughs, but that laugh is quickly squashed with a cough. âSure you were.âÂ
âIs there a reason youâre escorting me, Spider-Man?â you ask.Â
âNo. Iâ I recognised you, I thought Iâd say hi.âÂ
âHi, Spider-Man.âÂ
âHi.âÂ
âCan I ask you something? Do you work?âÂ
Spider-Man stammers again, âIâ yeah. I work. Freelance, mostly.âÂ
âI was wondering how you fit all the crime fighting into your life, is all. University is tough enough.â You let the wind bat your scarf off of your shoulder. âI couldnât do what you do.âÂ
âYeah, you could.âÂ
He sounds sure.Â
âHow would you know?â you ask. âMaybe Iâm awful when youâre not walking me around. I hate New York. I hate people.âÂ
âNo, you donât. Youâre not awful. Donât ask me how I know, âcos I just know.âÂ
You try not to look at him. If you look at him, youâre gonna smile at him like he hung the moon. âWell, tonight Iâm going to be dreadfully selfish. My friend said heâd buy my movie ticket and take me out for dinner, a real dinner, the mac and cheese with imitation lobster at Bennyâs. Have you tried that?âÂ
Spider-Man takes a big step. âTonight?â he asks.Â
âYep, tonight. Thatâs where Iâm going, the Cinemart.â You frown at his hand pressing into his stomach. âAre you okay? You look like youâre gonna throw up.âÂ
âI can hearâ something. Someoneâs crying. I gotta go, okay? Have fun at the movies, okay?â He throws his arm up, a silken web shooting from his wrist to the third floor of an apartment complex. âBye!â he shouts, taking a running jump to the apartment, using his web as an anchor. He flings himself over the roof.Â
Woah, you think, warmth filling your cold cheeks, the tip of your nose. Heâs lithe. Â
Peter arrives ten minutes late for the movie, which is half an hour later than youâd agreed to meet.Â
âSorry!â he shouts, breathless as he grabs your hands. âGod, Iâm sorry! Iâm so sorry. You should beat me up. Iâm sorry.âÂ
âWhat the fuck happened?â you ask, not particularly angry, only relieved to see him with enough time to still catch the movie. âYouâre sweating like crazy, your hairâs wet.âÂ
âI ran all the way here, Jesus, do I smell bad? Donât answer that. Fuck, do we have time?âÂ
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. âYou couldâve called me,â you say, content to let him grab you by the arm and race you to the screen doors, âwe couldâve caught the next one. Why were you so late, anyways? Did you forget?âÂ
âForget about my favourite girl? How could I?â He elbows open the doors to let you enter first. âNow shh,â he whispers, âfind the seats, donât miss the trailers. You love them.âÂ
âYou love themââ
âIâll get popcorn,â he promises, letting the door close between you.Â
Youâre tempted to follow, fingers an inch from the handle.Â
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.Â
â
WinterÂ
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 youâre 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. Heâs friendly, and youâre getting used to his company.Â
One night, youâre almost home from Trader Joeâs, racing in the pouring rain when a familiar voice calls out, âHey! Running girl! Wait a second!âÂ
Him, you think, as ridiculous as it sounds. You donât know his name, but Spider-Manâs a sunny surprise in a shitty, wet winter, and you turn to the sound with a grin.
He jogs toward you.Â
You feel the world pause, right in the centre of your throat. All the air gets sucked out of you.Â
âHey, what are you doing out here? Did you get my texts?âÂ
You blink as fat rain lands on your face.Â
âYou okay?â Peter asks, Peter, in a navy hoodie turning black in the rain and a brown corduroy jacket. Itâs sodden, hanging heavily around his shoulders. âCome on, letâs go,â âhe takes your hand and pulls until you begin to speed walk beside himâ âitâs freezing!âÂ
âPeterââ
âJesus Christ!âÂ
âPeter, what are you doing here?â you ask, your voice an echo as he drags you into the foyer of your apartment building.Â
Rain hammers the door as he closes it, the windows, the foyer too dark to see properly.Â
âI wanted to see you. Is that allowed?âÂ
âNo.âÂ
Peter takes your hand. You look down at it, and he looks down in tandem, and it is decidedly a non-platonic move. âNo?â he asks, a hairâs width from murmuring.Â
âShit, my groceries are soaked.âÂ
âItâs all snacks, itâs fine,â he says, pulling you to the stairs.Â
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.Â
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.Â
âSorry I didnât ask,â Peter says.Â
âWhat, to come over? Itâs fine. I like you being here, you know that.âÂ
All your favourite days were spent here or at Peterâs 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, âYou okay?â with a meagre nod.Â
âWhatâs wrong?â he asks eventually. âYouâre so quiet.âÂ
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. ââM thinking,â you say.Â
âAbout?âÂ
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, âcos 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 heâd barge into the club room and say, âFuck, Iâm sorry, my last class is on the other side of the building,â until it turned into its own joke.Â
Three years later, you got your apartment, and Peter insisted you throw a housewarming party even if he was the only person invited.Â
âFuck,â heâd said, ten minutes late, a cake in one hand and a whicker basket the other, âsorry. My last class is onââ
But he didnât finish. Youâd laughed so hard with relief at the reference that he never got the chance. Peter remembered your very first inside joke, because Peter wasnât about to go off to ESU and meet new friends and forget you.Â
But Peterâs been distant for a while now, because Peterâs Spider-Man.Â
âDo you remember,â you say, not willing to share the whole truth, âwhen you joined the school newspaper to be the official photographer, and you taught me the rule of thirds?âÂ
âSo you didnât need me,â he says.Â
âI was just thinking about it. We ran that newspaper like the Navy.âÂ
Peter holds your gaze. âIs that really what you were thinking about?âÂ
âJust funny,â you murmur, dropping your hand in your lap and breaking his stare. âSo much has changed.âÂ
âNot that much.âÂ
âNot for me, no.âÂ
Peter gets a look in his eyes you know well. Heâs found a crack in you and heâs gonna smooth it over until you feel better. Youâre expecting his soft tone, his loving smile, but youâre not expecting the way he pulls you in âyouâd 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. Itâs really like he loves you, the line between platonic and romantic a blur. Heâs never looked at you like this before.
âI donât want you to change,â he whispers.Â
âI want to catch up with you,â you whisper back.Â
âCatch up with me? Weâre in the exact same place, arenât we?â
âI donât know, are we?âÂ
Peter hugs you closer, squishing your head down against his jaw as he rubs your shoulder. âOf course we are.âÂ
Peter⊠What is he doing?Â
You let yourself relax against him.Â
âYou do change,â he whispers, an utterance of sound to calm that awful bruise he gave you all those months ago, âyou change every day, but you donât need to try.âÂ
âI just⊠feel like everyone around me isâŠâ You shake your head. âEveryoneâs so smart, and they know what theyâre doing, or theyâreâ theyâre special. I donât know anything. So I guess lately Iâve been thinking about that, and then youââ
âWhat?âÂ
You can say it out loud. You could.Â
âPeter, youâreâŠâÂ
âIâm what?â he asks.Â
His fingers glide down the length of your arm and up again.Â
If you're wrong, heâll laugh. And if youâre right, he mightâ might stop touching you. Your head feels so heavy, and his touch feels like itâs gonna put you to sleep.Â
Heâs Spider-Man.Â
It makes sense. Who else could have a good enough heart to do that? Of course itâs 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.Â
Spider-Man said there are reasons he wears his mask. And Peter doesnât tell you much, but you trust him.Â
You wonât make him say anything, you decide. Not now.Â
You curl your arm over his stomach hesitantly, smiling into his shirt as he hugs you tighter.Â
âI was thinking about you,â he says.Â
âYeah?âÂ
âYouâre quieter lately. I know youâre having a hard time right now, okay? You donât have to tell me. Iâm here for you whenever you need me.âÂ
âYeah?â you ask.
âYou used to sit on my porch when you knew May wouldnât be home to make sure I wasnât alone.â Peterâs breath is warm on your forehead. âI donât know what youâre worried about being, but Iâm with you,â he says, âân nothing is gonna change that.âÂ
Peter isnât as far away as you thought.Â
âThank you,â you say.Â
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.Â
âCan I stay over tonight?â he utters, barely audible under the sound of the battering rain.Â
âYeah, please.âÂ
His thumb strokes your cheek.Â
â
Two switches flip at once, that night. Peter is suddenly as tactile as youâve craved, and Spider-Man disappears.Â
Heâs alive and well, as evidenced by Peterâs continued survival and presence in your life, but Spider-Man doesnât drop in on your nightly walks.Â
You take less of them lately, feeling better in yourself. Your spirits are certainly lifted by Peterâs increasing affection, but now that you know heâs Spider-Man you were waiting to see him in spandex to mess with his head. Nothing mean, but you wouldâve liked to pick at his secret identity, toy with him like you know heâd do to you. After all, heâs been trailing you for weeks and getting to know you. Peter already knows you. Plus, you told Spider-Man secrets not meant for Peter Parkerâs ears.Â
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. Peterâs out every night until who knows what hour fighting crime. There are guns. He could get shot, and he doesnât seem scared. You end up watching videos on the internet of the night he ran to Oscorp, when he fought Connorsâ 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.Â
Itâs not nice to see Peter in pain. You cling to what heâd said, how he wasnât scared, but not being scared doesnât mean he wasnât hurting.Â
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 donât mind when Peter doesnât answer your texts anymore. You didnât 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 doesnât text you back you convince yourself that heâs been hurt, or that heâs swinging across New York City about to risk his life.
Itâs not a good way to live. You canât stop giving into it, is all.Â
In the next video, Spider-Man sits on a billboard with a can of coke in hand. He doesnât 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.Â
âHey,â he says, âyou all right?âÂ
âShould you be up there?â the person recording shouts.Â
âIâm fine up here!âÂ
âAre you really Spider-Man?âÂ
âSure am.âÂ
âAre you single?âÂ
Peter laughs like crazy. How you didnât know it was him before is a mystery âit couldnât sound more like him. âIâve got my eye on someone!â he says, sounding younger for it, the character voice he enacts when heâs Spider-Man lost to a good mood. Â
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.Â
âHello?â Peter asks.Â
You bring the phone snug to your ear. âHey, Peter.âÂ
âHi, are you busy?âÂ
âNot really.âÂ
âDo you wanna come over? I know itâs late. Come stay the night and tomorrow weâll go out for breakfast.âÂ
âIs Aunt May okay with that?âÂ
âSheâs staring at me right now shaking her head, but Iâm in trouble for something. May, can she come over, is that allowed?âÂ
âSheâs always allowed as long as you keep the door open.â
You laugh under your breath at Mayâs begrudging answer. âAre you sure sheâs alright with it?â you ask softly. âI donât want to be a burden.âÂ
âYou never, ever could be. Iâm coming to your place and weâll walk over together. Did you eat dinner?âÂ
âNot yet, butââ
âOkay, Iâll make you something when you get here. Iâll meet you at the door. Twenty minutes?âÂ
âI have to shower first.âÂ
âTwenty five?âÂ
You choke on a laugh, a weird bubbly thing youâre not used to. Peter laughs on the other side of the phone. âHow about Iâll see you at seven?âÂ
âItâs a date,â he says.Â
âMm, put it in your calendar, Parker.âÂ
â
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. âYouâre gonna get sick.âÂ
âIâll dry fast,â you say. âI took too long finding my pyjamas.âÂ
âI have stuff you can wear. Probably have your sweatpants somewhere, the grey ones.â Peter pulls you forward and wipes your tacky face. âI wouldâve waited,â he says.Â
âItâs fine.â
âItâs not fine. Are you cold?âÂ
âPete, itâs fine.âÂ
âYou always remind me of my Uncle Ben when you call me Pete,â he laughs, âsuper stern.âÂ
âIâm not stern. Look, take me home, please, Iâm cold.âÂ
âYou said it wasnât cold!âÂ
âItâs not, Iâm just dampââ Peter cuts you off as he grabs you, sudden and tight, arms around you and rubbing the lengths of your back through your coat. âHandsy!â
âYou like it,â he jokes back, his playful warming turning into a hug. You smile, hiding your face in his neck for a few moments.Â
âI donât like it,â you lie.Â
âOkay, you donât like it, and Iâm sorry.â Peter gives you a last hug and pulls away. âNow letâs go. I gotta feed you before midnight.âÂ
âThatâs not funny.âÂ
âApparently, nothing is.âÂ
Peter links your arms together. By the time you get to his house, youâve fallen away from each other naturally. May is in the hallway when you climb through the door, an empty laundry basket in her hands.Â
âI see Peter hasnât won this argument yet,â you say in way of greeting. Peterâs desperate to do his own laundry now heâs getting older. May wonât let him.Â
âNo, he hasnât.â She looks you up and down. âItâs nice to see you, honey. And in one piece! Peter tells me youâve been walking a lot, and I mean, in this city? Canât you buy a treadmill?â she asks.Â
âMay!â Peter says, startled.Â
âI like walking, I like the air,â you say.
âCanât exactly call it fresh,â May says.Â
âNo, but itâs alright. It helps me think.âÂ
âIs everything okay?â May asks, putting her hand on her hip.Â
âOf course.â You smile at her genuinely. âI think starting college was too much for me? It was hard. But things are settling now, I donât know what Peter told you, but Iâm not walking a lot anymore. You know, not more than necessary.â
She softens her disapproving. âGood, honey. Thatâs good. Peterâs gonna make you some dinner now, right?âÂ
âYeah, Aunt May, Iâm gonna make dinner,â Peter sighs, pulling a leg up to take off his shoes.Â
Peter shouldnât really know that youâve been walking. He might see you coming back from Trader Joeâs or the bodega on his way to your apartment, but you havenât mentioned any of your longer excursions, and everybody in Queens has to walk. Thatâs information he wouldnât know without Spider-Man.Â
He seems to be hoping you wonât realise, changing the subject to the frankly killer grilled cheese and tomato soup that heâs about to make you, and pushing you into a chair at the table. âWarm up,â 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. Peterâs 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.Â
âI can do the dishes,â you say. You might need a breather.Â
âAre you kidding? Iâm gonna rinse them, put them in the dishwasher.â Peter stands and feels your forehead with his hand. âWarmer. Good job.âÂ
You shrug away from his hand. âLoser.âÂ
âConcerned friend.âÂ
âHandsy loser.âÂ
âShut up,â he mumbles.Â
As flustered as youâve ever seen, Peter takes your empty dishes to the kitchen. When heâs done rinsing them off you follow him upstairs to his bedroom and tuck your backpack under his bed.Â
You look down at your socks. Peterâs room is on the smaller side, but itâs never been as startlingly small as it is when Peterâs socked feet align with yours, toe to toe. Quick recovery time, this boy.Â
âThereâs chips and stuff on my desk. Or I could run to 91st for some ice cream sandwiches if you want something sweet,â he says.Â
You lift your eyes, tilt your head up just a touch, not wanting him to think youâre in his space no matter how strange that might be, considering he chose to stand there. âIâm all right. Did you want ice cream? We can go if you want to, but if you want to go âcos you think I do then Iâm fine.âÂ
âThatâs such a long answer,â he says, draping an arm over your shoulder. âYou donât have to say all of that, just tell me no.âÂ
âI donât want ice cream.âÂ
âWasnât that easy?â he asks.Â
âWell, no, it wasnât. Saying no to you is like saying no to a puppy.âÂ
âBecause Iâm adorable?âÂ
âPersistent.âÂ
âYeah, I guess I am.â He drapes the other arm over you. The soap he used at the kitchen sink lingers on his hands.Â
âPeterâŠ?â you murmur.Â
âWhat?â he murmurs back.Â
You touch a knuckle to his chest. âThisâ YouâŠâ Every quelled thought rushes to the surface at once âPeter doesnât like you as you desire, how could he, you arenât beautiful like he is, arenât smart, arenât brave, no exceptional kindness or goodness to mark you enough for him. Itâs why his being with Gwen didnât hurt; she made sense. And for months now youâve wondered what it is that made him struggle to be with her. And sometimes, foolishly, you wondered if it was you. But itâs not you, itâs never you, and whatever Peterâs trying to do nowâ
âHey, you okay?â he asks, taking your face into his hand.Â
âWhat are you doing?âÂ
âWhat?â He pushes his hand back to hold your nape, thumb under your ear. âI canât hear you.â Â
You raise your voice. âWhy did you invite me over tonight?âÂ
ââCos I missed you?âÂ
âI used to think you didnât miss me at all.âÂ
Peter winces, hurt. âHow could you think that? Of course I miss you. What you said to May, about college being hard? Itâs like that for me too, okay? I miss you all the time.âÂ
You bite the inside of your bottom lip. ââŠCollege isnât hard for you.âÂ
âItâs not easy.â He frowns, the fallen angel, his lips an unsure brushstroke. âWhatâs wrong? Did I say the wrong thing?âÂ
Youâre being wretched, you know, saying it isnât hard for him. âYou didnât. Really, you didnât.âÂ
âBut why are you upset?â he implores, dark eyes darker as his eyebrows tug together.
âIâm notââ
âYou are. Itâs okay, you can be upset. I just want you to feel better, you know that?â He settles his hands at the tops of your arms. Less intimate, but something warm remains. âEven if it takes a long time.âÂ
âIâm fine.âÂ
âYouâre not fine.â
âHow would you know?â you finally ask.Â
Peter stares at you.Â
âI know you,â he says carefully, âand I know you arenât struggling like you were, but that doesnât mean it didnât happen or that you have to be a hundred percent better now.âÂ
âI didnât realise that I was,â you say, licking your lips, ââtil now. I didnât get that it was on the surface.â
Peter pulls you in for a gentle hug. âIâm here for you forever, and Iâll make it up to you for not noticing sooner,â 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 Peterâs 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.Â
Things arenât meant to be like this. You thought Peter touching you âholding youâ 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 itâs an impossibility?
When he comes back, youâll apologise. He hasnât done anything wrong. He does keep a secret, but donât you keep one too? Heâs Spider-Man. Youâve had deep, complicated feelings for him for months. They are secrets of equal magnitude, and are, more apparently, badly kept.Â
You wish you could fall asleep. Your heart ticks in agitation.
Peter returns as perturbed as earlier.Â
âAre you sure thereâs nothing wrong?â he asks, raking a hand through his hair. A towel hangs around his neck.Â
âIâm sorry for being weird.âÂ
âYouâre not weird,â Peter says, bringing the towel to his hair to scrub ruthlessly.Â
âItâs just âcos things have been different between us.â And, you try to say, that scares me no matter how bad I wanted it. because youâre not just Peter anymore, youâre Spider-Man. Iâm only me, and I canât 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.Â
âYeah, they have been. Good different?â he asks hesitantly.Â
âI think so,â you say, quiet again.Â
âThatâs what I thought.âÂ
âI donât want you to feel like I donât want to be here. I just worry about you.âÂ
Peter uses his hands to get higher up the bed. âDonât worry about me,â he says, âJesus, please donât. Thatâs the last thing I want from you, I hate when people worry about me.âÂ
You curl into the lump of comforter youâd 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 itâs golden hour, dashes of topaz in his eyes, his Cupidâs 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.Â
You lay there for a little while without talking, listening to the sound of the washing machine as it cycles downstairs.Â
âAm I going too fast?â Peter murmurs.Â
You press your lips together, shaking your head minutely.Â
âIs it something else?âÂ
You donât move.Â
âDo you want me to stop?â he asks.Â
âNo.â
Peter rewards you with a smile, his hand on your arm. âAlright. Let me get this blanket on you the right way. Youâre still cold.âÂ
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.Â
He takes a deep breath before turning and wrapping his arm over your stomach, asking softly, âIs this alright?âÂ
âYeah.âÂ
He gives you a look and then lifts his head to slot his nose against your temple. âPlease donât take this in a way that I donât mean it, but sometimes you think about things so much I worry youâre gonna get stuck in your head forever.âÂ
âI like thinking.âÂ
âI hate it,â he says quickly, a fervent, flirting cadence to his otherwise dulcet tone, âwe should never do it ever again.âÂ
âIâll try not to.âÂ
âWould you? For me?âÂ
You laugh into his shirt, feeling the warmth of your breath on your own nose. âIâll do my best.âÂ
âGood. Iâd miss you too much if you got lost in that nice head of yours.âÂ
You relax under his arm. You arenât sure what all the fuss was about now that he's hugging you. âIâd miss you too.â
May comes up the stairs about an hour later. To her credit, she doesnât flinch when she finds you and Peter smushed together watching a DVD on his old TV. Heâs holding your arm, and youâre snoozing on his shoulder, half-aware of the world, fully aware of his nice smells and the shapes of his arms.Â
âDoor open,â she says.Â
âNot that either of us want it closed, May, but weâre adults.âÂ
âNot while Iâm still washing your clothes, youâre not.âÂ
He snorts. âGoodnight, Aunt May. The door isnât gonna close, I promise.âÂ
âI know that,â she says, scornful in her pride. âYouâre a good boy.â She lightens. âThings are going okay?âÂ
Peter covers your ear. âGoodnight, Aunt May.âÂ
âI have half a mind to never listen to you again. You talk my ear off and I canât ask a simple question?âÂ
âI love you,â Peter sing-songs.Â
âI love you, Peter,â she says. âDonât smother the girl.âÂ
âI wonât smother her. Itâs in my best interest that she survives the night. Sheâs buying my breakfast tomorrow.âÂ
âPeter Parker.âÂ
âIâm kidding,â he whispers, petting your cheek absentmindedly. âJust messing with you, May.âÂ
You smile and curl further into his arms. His voice is like the sun, even when he whispers. Â
â
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 sheâd given you is burning a hole in your pocket. Peter is going to love it.Â
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. Itâs chemistry, sure, but itâs biology too, wrapping your and Peterâs interests up neatly. If it werenât for Peter you doubt youâd love science as much as you do. Heâs 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.Â
Look! it says, LEGO cancer treatment!!Â
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.Â
But then you hear the tell tale splat and thwick of Spider-Manâs webbing.Â
You wait until youâre at the alleyway between Portoâs Bakery and the key cutting shop and turn down to stop by one of the dumpsters.Â
âSpider-Man?â you ask, shoulders tensed in case itâs not who you think.Â
âWhat are you doing?â 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. âShit, donât break your ankles.âÂ
âMy ankles?â He laughs. He sounds so much like Peter that you can only laugh with him. What an idiot he is for thinking you donât know; what a fool youâd been for falling for his put upon tenor. âTheyâre fine. What would be wrong with my ankles?âÂ
âYou just dropped down twenty feet!âÂ
âItâs more like thirty, and Iâm fine. You understand the super part of superhero, donât you?âÂ
âWho said youâre a superhero?âÂ
âNice. What are you doing down here?âÂ
âI was testing my theory. Youâre following me.âÂ
âNo, Iâm visiting you, itâs very different,â he says confidently.Â
âYou havenât come to see me for weeks.âÂ
âYes, well, Iââ Spider-Peter crosses his arms across his chest. âHey, youâre the one who told me to take a day off.âÂ
âI did tell you to take a day off. Itâs not nice thinking about you trying to save the world every single night. Thatâs a lot of responsibility for one person to have.âÂ
âBut itâs my responsibility,â he says easily. âNo point in a beautiful girl like you wasting her time worrying about it. I have to do it, and I donât mind it.âÂ
âDo you flirt with every girl you meet out here in the city?â you ask, cheeks hot.Â
âNo,â he says, fondness evident even through the mask, âjust you.âÂ
âDo you wanna walk me home? I was gonna take the subway, but itâs not that far.âÂ
Spider-Man nods. âYeah, Iâll walk you back.âÂ
He doesnât hide that he knows the way very well. He takes preemptive turns, crosses roads without you telling him to go forward. You canât believe him. Smartest guy at Midtown High and he canât pretend to save his life.Â
âAre you having a good semester?â he asks.Â
âItâs getting better. Iâm glad I stuck with it. I love biology, itâs so fucking hard. I used to think that was a bad thing, but it makes it cooler now. Like, itâs not something everyone understands.â You give him a look, and you give into temptation. âMy best friend got me into all this stuff. I used to think math was hopeless and science was for dorks.âÂ
âItâs definitely for dorks.âÂ
âRight, but I love being one.â You offer a useless secret. âI like to think that itâs why weâre such great friends.âÂ
âMe and you?â Spider-Man asks hoarsely.Â
âMe and Peter.â You elbow him without force. âWhy, do you like science?âÂ
âI love itâŠâÂ
âYou know, I really like you, Spider-Man. I feel like weâve been friends for a long time.â Youâre teasing poor Peter.Â
He doesnât speak for a while. He stops walking, but you take a few steps without him. When you realise heâs stopped, you turn back to see him.Â
Peterâs gone so tense you could strike him with a flint and catch a spark. Itâs the same way Peter looked at you when he told you about his Uncle, a truth he didnât want to be true. Seeing it throws a spanner in the works of all your teasing: youâd meant to wind him up, not make him panic.Â
âWhatâs wrong?â you ask. âCan you hear something?âÂ
âNo, itâs not thatâŠâ Heâs masked, but you know him well enough to understand why heâs stopped.Â
âItâs okay,â you say.Â
âItâs not, actually.âÂ
âSpider-Man.â You take a step toward him. âItâs fine.â
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. âDo you remember when we first met, the second time, we swapped secrets?âÂ
âYeah, I remember. Useless secret for another. I told you I hated my major. Itâs not true anymore, obviously. I was having a bad time.âÂ
âI know you were,â he says, emphasis on know, like itâs a different word entirely.Â
âBut meeting you really helped. If it werenât for you, for Peter,â âyou give him a searching lookâ âI wouldnât feel better at all.âÂ
âIt wasnât his fault?â he asks. âHe was your friend, and you were lonely.âÂ
âNoââ
âHe didnât know what was going on with you, he didnât have a clue. You hurt yourself and you felt like you couldnât tell anybody, and I know it wasnât an accident, so what was his excuse?â His voice burns with anger. âItâs his fault.âÂ
âOf course it wasnât your fault. Is that what you think?â You shake your head, panicked by the bone-deep self loathing in his voice, his shameful dropped head. âYes, I was lonely, I am lonely, I donât know many people and Iâ Iâ I hurt myself, and it wasnât as accidental as I thought it was, but why would that be your fault?âÂ
âPeterâs fault,â he says, though his head is lifted now, and he doesnât bother enthusing it with much gusto.Â
âPeter, none of it was your fault.â You cringe in your embarrassment, thinking Fuck, donât let me ruin this. âI 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 wasnât your fault, thatâs 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 wasnât as bad as you think it was and it wasnât your fault.âÂ
âI wasnât there for you,â he says. âAnd Iâve been lying to you for a long time.âÂ
âYou couldnât tell me, right? Spider-Man is your secret for a reason.âÂ
ââŠI didnât even know you were lonely until you told him. He was a stranger.âÂ
You hold your hands behind your back. âWell, he was a familiar one.âÂ
Peter reaches out as though wanting to touch you, but your arms arenât in his reach. âItâs not because I didnât want you.âÂ
âPeter,â you say, squirming.Â
He steps back.Â
âI have to go,â he says.Â
âWhat?âÂ
âI have toâ I donât want to go,â he says earnestly, âsweetheart, I can hear someone calling out, I have to go. But Iâll come back, Iâllâ Iâll come back,â he promises.Â
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.
â
You fall asleep that night waiting for Peter. When you wake up, 5AM, eyes aching, he isnât there. You check your phone but he hasnât texted. You check the Bugle and Spider-Man hasnât been seen.Â
You arenât sure what to think. He sounded sincere to the fullest extent when he said heâd come back, but he didnât, 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 youâd 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? Itâs different for him. It isnât like heâs in love with you⊠youâd just thought maybe he could be. That this was falling in love, real love, not the unrequited ache youâd suffered before.Â
But maybe you got everything wrong. All of it. It wouldn't be the first time.Â
â
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 youâd found yourself attached to the Modeâs 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 itâs your secret. Barely anybody comes to the Mode on purpose.Â
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 canât stomach the smell. You push it to the opposite end of the table, considering another cup of coffee instead. Itâs served slightly too hot, and will still be warm when it gets to your chest.Â
The sunshine is creeping in slowly. It feels like the first time youâve 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.Â
Looking back, it was too big. Maybe soon youâll be ready to talk about it. Â
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, youâre supposed to lay down to avoid being stung.Â
You put your face in your hand. Next year, youâll avoid the insect-based electives.Â
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.Â
You donât raise your head when footsteps draw near. A plate is placed on the table, pushed across to you, stopping just shy of your coffee.Â
âDid you eat breakfast?â Peter asks quietly.Â
His voice is gentle, but hoarse.Â
You tense.Â
âAre you okay?â he asks, not waiting for your answer to either question. âYou donât look like yourself. Your eyes are red.âÂ
You lift your head. Wet with the beginnings of tears, you see Peter through an astigmatic blur.Â
âWhat are you reading?â He frowns at you. âPlease donât cry.âÂ
You shake your head. Your smile is all odd, nothing like his, no inherent warmth despite your best effort. âIâm okay.âÂ
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. âCan you tell me you didnât wait long for me?âÂ
âTen minutes,â you lie.Â
âOkay. Iâm sorry. There was a fire.â He rubs your arm where heâs holding you. âIâm sorry.âÂ
âWill you go half?â you ask, nodding to the sandwich heâs brought you. Itâs tough sourdough bread, brown with white flour on the crusts and leafy greens poking between the slices. You and Peter complain about the price. Youâve never had one. He passes you the bigger half, holding the other in his hand without eating.Â
âI know youâre hungry,â you say, tapping his elbow, âjust eat.âÂ
You eat your sandwiches. Now that Peterâs here, you donât feel so sick âheâs not upset with you. The dull pang of an empty stomach wonât be ignored.Â
Peter puts his sandwich down, which is crazy, and wipes his fingers on the plates napkin. Youâve never seen him stop before heâs done.
âIt was in the apartments on Vernon. Iâ I think I almost died, the smoke was everywhere.âÂ
You choke around a crust, thrusting the rest of your half onto the plate. âAre you hurt?â you ask, coughing.Â
He moves his head from side to side, not a shake, but a slow no. âHow long have you known it was me?â he asks, curling his hand behind your back again, fingers spread over your shoulder blade, a fingertip on your neck.Â
You savour his touch, but you give in to your apprehension and stare at his chest. âThe night you caught me outside in the rain in November. You called me ârunning girlâ. The way you said it, you sounded exactly like him. I turned around expecting,â âyou whisper, weary of the quiet cafeâ âSpider-Man, and I realised itâs him that sounds like you. That he is you.âÂ
âWas that disappointing?âÂ
âPeter, youâre, like, my favourite person in the world,â you whisper fervently, your smile making it light. You laugh. âWhy would that be disappointing?âÂ
âI thought maybe you think heâs cooler than me.âÂ
âHe is cooler than you, Peter.â You laugh again, pleased when he scoffs and draws you nearer. âI guess youâre the same person, right? So heâs just as cool as you are. But why would being cool matter to me? You know I like you.âÂ
âYou flirted pretty heavily with Spider-Man.â
âWell, he flirted with me first.âÂ
You chance a look at his face. From that moment you canât 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 heâs 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 didnât get it then, but youâre starting to understand now.
âIâve made a mess of everything,â he says softly, the trail his hand makes to the small of your back leaving a wake of goosebumps. âI havenât been honest with you.âÂ
âI havenât, either.âÂ
âI want to ask you for something,â Peter says, a fingertip trailing back up. He smiles when you shiver, not teasing, just loving. âYou can say no.âÂ
âYouâre hard to say no to.âÂ
âI need you to talk to me more,â âand here he goes, Peter Parker, flirting and sweet-talking like his life depends on it, his face inching down into your spaceâ ânot just because I love your voice, or because you think so much Iâm scared youâll get lost, but I need you to talk to me. We need to talk about real things.â
We do, you think morosely.Â
âItâs not your fault,â he adds, the hand that isnât holding your back coming up to cup your cheek, âitâs mine. I was scared of telling you for stupid reasons, but I shouldnât have let it be a secret for so long.âÂ
âNo, I doubt theyâre stupid,â you murmur, following his hand as he attempts to move it to your ear. âItâs not easy to tell someone youâre a hero.â
His palm smells like smoke.Â
âThatâs not the secret I meant,â he says.Â
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.
âSo tell me.â
The sunshine bleeds onto his cheek. Dappled orange light turning slowly white as time stretches and the sun moves up through a murky sky. âYou want to trade secrets again?â he asks.Â
âPlease.âÂ
âOkay. Okay, but I donât have as many as you do,â he warns.Â
âI find that hard to believe.âÂ
âI donât. Itâs not a real secret, is it? Iâve been trying to show you for weeks, weâŠâ
He tilts his head invitingly.Â
All those hand-holds and nights curled up in bed together. Am I going too fast? You know exactly what he means; it really isnât a secret.
âIâll go first,â he says, lowering his face to yours. You try not to close your eyes. âIâve wanted to kiss you for weeks.â He closes his eyes so you follow, your breath not your own suddenly. You hold it. Let it go hastily. âWhatâs your secret?âÂ
âSometime I want you to kiss me so badly I canât sleep. It makes me feel sickââ
âSick?â he asks worriedly.Â
You touch the tip of your nose to his. âItâs likeâ like jealousy, butâŠâÂ
âYou have no one to be jealous of,â he says surely. He cups your cheek, and he asks, âPlease, can I kiss you?âÂ
You say, âYes,â very, very quietly, but he hears it, and his smile couldnât be more obvious as he closes the last of the distance between you to kiss you.
It isnât the sort of kiss that kept you up at night. Peter doesnât hook you in or tip your head back, he kisses gently, his hand coming to live on your cheek, where it cradles. Itâs so warm you donât know what to make of him beyond kissing him back âkissing his smile, though itâs catching. Kissing the line of his Cupidâs bow as he leans down.Â
âIâm sorry about everything,â he mumbles, nose flattened against yours.Â
You feel sunlight on your cheek. Squinting, you turn into his hand to peer outside at the sudden abundance of it. Itâs still cold outside, but the Mode is warm, Peterâs hand warmer, and the sunshine is a welcome guest.Â
Peter drops his hand. âOh, wow. December sun. Good thing it didnât snow, weâd be blind.â
âI canât be cold much longer,â you confess. âIâm sick of the shitty weather.âÂ
âI can keep you warm.âÂ
He smiles at you. His eyelashes tangle in the corners of his eyes, long and brown.Â
âDid you want my meskouta?â you ask.Â
Peter plants a fat kiss against your brow.Â
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 youâd 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, youâd tease.
âYou never told me you met Spider-Man, you know.âÂ
You watch Peter lick the tip of his finger without shame. âThey could make a novella of things I havenât told you about,â you murmur wryly.Â
Peter takes a bite of meskouta, reaching for your knee under the table. He shakes your leg a little, as if to say, Well, weâll work on that.Â
â
Spring
âSorry!â
âNo, itâsââ
âSorry, sorry, Iâmâ shit!â
ââokay! All legs inside the ride?â
âI couldnât find my purseââ
âYou donât need it!â Peter leans over the console to kiss your cheek. âYou donât have to rush.âÂ
âAre you sure you can drive this thing?âÂ
âHarry doesnât mind.âÂ
âI donât mean the car, I mean, are you sure you can drive?âÂ
âThatâs not funny.âÂ
You grin and dart across to kiss his cheek, too. âNothing ever is with us.âÂ
Peter grabs you behind the neck âwhich might sound rough, if he were capable of such a thingâ and pulls you forward for a kiss you donât have time for. âIf we donât check in,â âyou begin, swiftly smothered by another press of his lips, his tongue a heat flirting with the seam of your lipsâ âby three, they said they wonât keep the roomââ 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. âAnd then weâll have to drive home like losers.âÂ
Peter sits back in the driver's seat unbothered. He fixes his hair, and he wipes his bottom lip with his knuckle. Youâre rolling your eyes when he finally returns your gaze. âSorry, am I the one who lost her purse?âÂ
âPeter!âÂ
âI canât make us un-late,â he says, turning the key slowly, hands on the wheel but his eyes still flitting between your eyes and your lips.Â
âAlright,â you warn.Â
He reaches for your knee. âItâs a forty minute drive. Youâre panicking over nothing.âÂ
âItâs an hour.âÂ
Your drive from Queens to Manhattan is entirely uneventful. You keep Peterâs hand hostage on your knee, your palm atop it, the other hand wrapped around his wrist, your conversation a juxtaposition, almost lackadaisical. Peter doesnât question your clinging nor your lazy murmurings, rubbing a circle into your knee with his thumb from Forest Hill to Lenox Hill. Thereâs 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.Â
Itâs 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. Itâs not that Lenox Hill isnât one of the most impressive medical facilities in New York (if not the northeastern USA), itâs 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. Youâre a little less scared of the future everyday.Â
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.Â
The next morning it was beautifully sunny. The first day of summer that year, warm and golden. The pool wasnât 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.Â
It was one of the best days of your life. When you told Peter about it last week, heâd looked at you peculiarly, said, Bub, youâre 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 heâd done when youâd curled over his lap, a hand threaded into the hair at the nape of his neck, murmuring, Tell me, tell me, tell me.Â
Heâd 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, heâs a treasure. Thereâs 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, youâll 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. Itâs like when you talk to one another, you canât stop.Â
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 heâs reading at the bottom of his stomach, as though making sure you can see the words clearly, even when youâre sleeping.Â
There are hectic, aching moments âvigilante boyfriends become blasĂ© with their lives and precious faces. Youâve 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. Itâs easier when Peterâs careful, but Spider-Man isnât careful. You ask him to take care of himself and heâs 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.Â
He hadnât patrolled last night in preparation for today.Â
âDid you know,â he says, pulling Harryâs borrowed car into a parking spot just in front of the Super 8 reception, âthat todayâs the last day of spring?âÂ
âAlready?âÂ
âTonightâs the June equinox.âÂ
âWho told you that?âÂ
âAunt May. She said itâs time to get a summer job.âÂ
You laugh loudly. âOur federal loans wonât last forever.âÂ
âHarryâs gonna get me something, I think. Do you want to work with me? It could be fun.âÂ
You nod emphatically. Itâs barely a thought. âObviously I want to. Does Oscorp pay well, do you think?âÂ
Peter lets the engine go. The car turns off, engine ticking its last breath in the dash. âBetter than the Bugle.âÂ
You get your key from the reception and find your room upstairs, second floor. Itâs not dirty nor exceptionally clean, no mould or damp but a strange smell in the bathroom. Thereâs a microwave with two mugs and a few sachets of instant coffee. Peter deems it the nicest motel heâs ever stayed in, laughing, crossing the room to its only window and pulling aside the curtain.Â
âThere it is, sweetheart,â he says, wrapping his arm around you as you join him, âthatâs what dreams are made of.âÂ
The blue and white tiled pool. It hasnât changed.Â
Itâs about as hot as itâs going to get in June today, and, not knowing if itâll 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. Thereâs nobody there, no lifeguard, no quests, and the pool is clean and cold when you dip your toes.Â
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. âItâs cold,â he says, wading for your legs, which he hugs.Â
âI can feel it,â you say, the cool waters to your calves where you sit on the edge.Â
âYou wonât come in and warm me up?â he asks.Â
You stroke a tendril of hair from his eyes. He attempts to kiss your fingers.Â
âIâm trying to prepare myself.âÂ
âMm, you have to get used to it.â He puts wet hands on your thighs, looking up imploringly until you lean down for a kiss. The fact that heâd want one still makes you dizzy. âThank you,â he says.Â
âYouâll have to move.âÂ
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 âheâs so strong, the water so cold.Â
Peter doesnât often show his strength. Never to intimidate, he prefers startling you helpfully. Heâll lift you when you want to reach something too tall, or raise the bed when youâre on his side to force you sideways.Â
âOh, this is the perfect place to try the lift!â he says.Â
âHow will I run?â you ask, letting your knees buckle, water rushing up to your neck.Â
Peter pulls you up. He touches you easily, and yet you get the sense that heâs precious with you, too. Thereâs devotion to be found in his hands and the specific way they cradle your back, drawing your chest to his. âI donât need you to do a running start, sweetheart,â he says, tilting his head to the side, âIâll just lift you.âÂ
âLast time I laughed so much you dropped me.âÂ
âExactly, you laughed, and this is serious.âÂ
The world isnât mild here. Car horns beep and tyres crunch asphalt. You can hear children, and singing, and a walkie talkie somewhere in the Super 8âs parking lot. The pool pumps gargle and Peterâs 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.Â
Heâs a beholden thing in the sun; you canât 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.Â
âYouâre beautiful,â he says.Â
You rest an arm behind his head. âThe rash guard is a good look?âÂ
âSweetheart, you couldnât look cuter,â he says, hands on your waist, pinky on your hip. âI wish youâd mentioned these shorts a few days ago. I wouldâve prepared to be a more decent man.âÂ
âYouâre decent enough, Parker.âÂ
âMaybe now.âÂ
âWell, if things get too hot, you can always take a quick dip,â you say.Â
Youâre teasing, but Peterâs eyes light up with mischief as he calls, âOh, great idea!â and lets himself drop backwards into the water. You pull your arm back rather than go with him. You canât avoid the great burst of water as he surges to the surface.Â
He shakes himself off like a dog.Â
âPete!â you cry through laughs, wiping the water from your face before the chlorine gets in your eyes.Â
âIt just didnât help,â he says, pulling you back into his arms, âyou know, the water is cold, but youâre so hot, and I actually got a pretty good look at them when I was under, and youâre just as pretty as I remembered you being ten seconds agoââ
âPeter,â you say, tempted to roll your eyes.Â
Water runs down his face in great rivers, but with the dopey smile heâs sporting, they look like anything but tears. âTell me a secret?â he asks, dripping in sunshine, an endless summer at his back.Â
A soft smile takes your lips. âNo,â you say, tipping up your chin, âyou tell me one first.â
âWhat kind of secret?âÂ
âA real one,â you insist.Â
âOhâŠâ He leans away from you, though his arms stay crossed behind you. âOkay, I have one. Ask me again.âÂ
You raise a single brow. âTell me a secret, Peter.âÂ
He pulls your face in for a kiss. His hand is wet on your cheek, but no less welcome. âI love you,â he says, kissing the skin just shy of your nose.Â
Youâre lucky heâs already holding you. âI love you too,â you say, gathering him to you for a hug, digging your nose into the slope of his neck as his admission blows your mind. âI love you.âÂ
Peter wraps his arms around your shoulders, closing his eyes against the side of your head. You canât know what heâs thinking, but you can feel it. His hands canât seem to stay still on your skin.Â
The sun warms your back for a time.Â
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.Â
âThatâs another one to let go of,â he suggests.Â
He peppers a row of gentle kisses along your lips and the soft skin below your eye.Â
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.Â
âIâll start the shower for you,â 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.Â
âDonât fall asleep standing up,â he murmurs.Â
Your eyes close unbidden to you both. âI wonât.âÂ
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.Â
ïœĄđŠč°â§â.á
please like, comment or reblog if you enjoyed, i love comments and seeing what anyone reading liked about the fic is a treat âthank you for readingâ€ïž
#tasm peter parker#tasm peter x reader#tasm peter parker imagine#tasm peter parker x you#tasm peter parker x reader#tasm x reader#peter parker x reader#tasm!spiderman x reader#tasm!peter x reader#tasm!peter imagine#tasm!peter parker#tasm!peter parker x reader#tasm! peter parker x reader#spiderman x reader#peter parker oneshot#peter parker blurb#peter parker imagine#peter parker x you#peter parker x y/n#spiderman x you#spiderman fanfiction
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sugar (fic)
ex!jj maybank x ex!fem!reader | set in season 4 without the Blackbeard mystery! (non-canon) | inspiration
content warnings: mentions of/references to sex (m and f receiving; MDNI); drug use; unfaithful relationships
word count: 18k.
blurb: JJ comes back into your life - older, richer and different again from before. Can the past stay the past, and the two of you be friends, or is there too much history there to let it all lie?
Cinnamon Buns
âWhere would you like these?â Someone calls out to you. You turn and take in the tray of mouth-wateringly delicious looking cinnamon buns that a volunteer holds. Smiling, you point to a far table on the grassy field.Â
âAnywhere over there is good! Those look amazing, thank you so much!âÂ
You turn back to the task at hand: organising cans of tinned, chopped tomatoes. To your left is a stack of bags of rice and to your right, bags of pasta. Itâs quick work as you separate them by flavour: garlic and herb; chilli; regularâŠIn the background you overhear chatter of fellow volunteers. Where should I put this? Who had the plastic bags? This was your happy place.Â
âThe Stirring Spoonâ is what you had called it. It was your passion project born out of daydreams. A collaborative, community effort, providing food to anybody and everybody, free of charge. It wasnât a traditional food drive. Instead, it was like a potluck dinner that you hosted every Wednesday in the late afternoon, running into the evening. People brought whatever dish they had prepared, or any ingredients that they had going spare which you and a handful of other volunteers whipped up into mains and desserts. Tomato soup and lentil curry and meatball subs and rainbow brownies and chocolate chip cookies. Youâd even managed to rope a few local establishments into it. Any leftover bakes that they had when the workday was over, or things that were just a smidge out of date by a day or two, you took and offered out. Today? Cinnamon buns that were baked yesterday at a humble cafe in the town centre, just shy of Figure Eight. Food health and safety laws were strict but you could stretch them for The Stirring Spoon. After all, you werenât technically selling a product so no harm done. People were clued in about the supposed âriskâ.Â
You lift up a can of tomatoes and study the âbest byâ date on the metal lid. A month in the safe zone. Perfect. As your mind flicks through recipes of what you could cook up, a voice stood out amongst the chatter nearby. It was like a sirenâs call; distinct and damning. You could pick it out even when deaf.Â
âI gotta delivery here for yïżœïżœall.â
âWhatâs in it?â
âFresh sorta stuff. âTatoes and that kinda thing.â
âOver there, Iâd say.â
As the footsteps approach you can feel your heartbeat quicken. It taps nervously in your ribcage like youâre sixteen all over again. Your focus remains on the task at hand until a slight shadow casts over you, and you know you canât stall any longer. Your hands freeze over a can of tomatoes. Looking up, standing in front of you, clear as daylight and bright as dawn, is JJ Maybank. Heâs dressed in his usual attire of a worn-down t-shirt and shorts; his fingers and wrists decorated with metal rings and beaded bracelets. If you squinted, itâd be like no time had passed at all. He doesnât look all that different from the last time you saw him and yet, heâs entirely changed. In his hands is a large cardboard crate of various fresh produce. You smile.Â
âJJ.â
It comes out in a breath as though youâre seeing something supernatural before you. In a way, you are. How long has it been now? Two years? Nearly three?
His own surprise mirrors yours on his face. But JJ was always better at hiding his emotions, once he had a chance to catch them. It was like a teasing glimpse before he closed the curtains. His recovery is quick as a smile starts to show, and he says your name like heâs practised it everyday.Â
âHey.â
âWhatâre you doing here?â you ask.
âBrought some deliveries,â JJ says, hitching the box. âKiara mentioned something âbout a community kitchen drive yâall do and we thought we could contribute and stuff.â
âWell, thatâs nice of yâall. Thank you,â you reply.Â
You shuffle some stuff out of the way on the pop-up table in front of you to make space for JJâs box. Itâs hard not to watch his arms as he lowers it down, the way the biceps flex and tense beneath the skin. Itâs hard not to think of other times his arms have looked that way, wrapped around your body, tugging you closer. You blink the memories away.Â
JJâs hands slot into his short pockets. He rocks on his feet. âLooks like itâs a pretty popular thing, huh?v This food drive, I mean.â
You glance around at the bustling volunteers. Smiling, you say, âYeah, I guess it caught on pretty quick. Could say the same about yâalls tackle-and-bait shop you got going. Itâs the talk of the town âround here.â
JJ grins with visible pride and it isnât until you see it that you realise how much you missed his smile. You wonder if heâs surveying your face and body the way you are his, as if looking for some inconsistency or change since the last time you saw him.Â
âYeah, itâs coming together pretty nice. Helps having a bunch of us working on it, though.â
âI bet,â you say. Youâd heard the chatter on the island about the Pogueâs latest venture. The sneers of the kooks and the curiosity of the locals. Their bets and wagers on whether the business would sink or float. Youâd wanted to wander down and check it out for yourself but you always chickened out. Truth was, youâd been avoiding JJ Maybank like the flu, and now here he was in front of you, putting all your quarantining to shame. Your eyes flit down at the crate and you gently rifle through the food for a distraction. Tomatoes and potatoes and bunches of fresh berries and fruit.Â
âI, uh, donât know if thereâs much in there that yâall need butââ
âNo, no, this is great,â you assure him, smiling. âItâs really generous of yâall. Every contribution is appreciated.â
âHappy to help. To be honest, itâs Kie and Sarah you should be thanking.â
âYeah, I didnât peg you as the gardening type,â you tease.Â
âWell, only for the stuff that matters,â JJ grins with a wink. You consciously try to fight away the warmth running to your cheeks. Damn it, you werenât sixteen anymore. âSoâŠhow have you been, then? Since we lastâŠyâknowââ
âBaby!â
Itâs a reflex reaction to turn at the sound of Markâs call. He comes bounding over with a wide grin. His shirt sleeves are rolled up to the elbows and flour is dusted on his khakis. Itâs a reflex to close your eyes when he dips his head to plant a kiss to your lips, too. You rub them together after as you prepare yourself for what might be the most awkward interaction youâll ever go through.Â
âJJ,â you say, turning to the blonde haired boy. âThis is Mark. Mark, this is JJ. We used toâŠuhâŠWell, we used to hang out.â
âJJ - pleasure,â Mark says sincerely. He sticks out his hand and for a painful moment you genuinely worry that JJ might never take it. But he does, shaking it.Â
âLikewise,â he says.Â
You feel Markâs spare arm slide around your back, his palm placing itself respectfully on your side. That was Mark: respectful. Righteous but not in an arrogant way. He was kind and caring without judgement, like the sort of Christian boy your nana would want you to bring home. The sort of guy who would bring your mother flowers and play golf with your father on the weekends. The kind of face youâd see flash on the television during the six oâclock news as the reporter relays a daring and heroic tale of saving orphaned kittens from a burning tree.Â
âThis is the guy thatâs started the tackle-and-bait shop. Yâknow, the one with the surf store and stuff,â you say to Mark. Realisation dawns upon Mark and he wags his finger at JJ.Â
âWait, wait, JJ as in JJ Maybank? One of the gang who found El Dorado?âÂ
You roll your eyes at the pure awe in his voice. JJ chuckles somewhat nervously and nods as he says, âyeah, uh, that JJ, I guess.â
âHoly shit! Baby, why didnât you say!? Oh man, I read all about that. It sounded freaking incredible! I have so much to ask you, I mean-â
You place a hand to his chest and laugh, slightly embarrassed by his fangirling. âBaby, baby! Cool it a second, yeah?â
Laughing, you glance at JJ. And you catch it. That emotion he lets slip just before correcting himself. His eyes dart to yours in a second but they were looking elsewhere before. They were looking at your hand on Markâs stomach.Â
âNah man, itâs cool. You guys should stop by sometime and I can tell you all about it. The other Pogues too, yeah,â JJ cordially replies.Â
âOh sick, man. Thatâd be great,â Mark beams. You smile at JJ and nod.Â
âIâd love to see what you guys have done to the place,â you tell him. JJ smiles but it falters, like a flickering lightbulb thatâs fighting to stay on. An awkward quiet passes and you clear your throat and glance around at the voluntary effort. âWell, I should probably get back to work.â
âNo, yeah, course. I oughtâa get back to the shop,â JJ replies.Â
âThanks for the stuff though. We really appreciate it.â
âYou brought this?â Mark wonders, picking a strawberry out of the crate. He pops it in his mouth and hums happily. âDamn, those are some fresh strawberries.â
âYeah, man. All from our local garden we got going.â
âThis place sounds like the dream,â Mark tells you. You smile up at him. He takes the crate in his broad hands and lifts it easily into the air. Being sandwiched between two toned-up guys had you feeling as brittle as candyfloss. âIâll take this over to Nancy. Nice meeting you, JJ.â
âYeah, you too, man.â
You watch him wander off a moment before turning back to JJ. He offers you another smile. âIâll come check out the shop soon,â you promise.Â
JJ points at you, playfully warning, âyou better!â before walking away. You watch him with every step he takes and the moment heâs out of sight your head drops. You let out a breath that you didnât know youâd been holding. Your entire body feels as though itâs vibrating; your heart running laps in your ribcage. And the funniest part of all is the strange thought that races around your mind, heâs real. It had been so long since youâd seen JJ, let alone heard from him, that it felt like a daydream. The memories were so hazy now that theyâd been painted over in sepia and you wondered if youâd imagined the whole thing. But no, here he was, knowing you and recognising you, and talking to you. The two of you back in Kildare, seemingly for good.Â
âBaby! Can you give us a hand?â
The call drags you out of your thoughts. Your eyes fall onto your boyfriend. He stands a good head taller than most people. Heâs almost lanky in build but not ungainly; broad shouldered and slim nosed. His eyes are those of an otter: nearly black with how brown they are; beady and shining, even from over here. Thereâs a smattering of freckles over his cheeks which is adorably boyish in contrast to his stubble on the jawline. Heâs smiling at you in a way that all girls want to be smiled at. Unashamed in his admiration for you. It grounds you from the dizzying interaction with JJ and you walk over to him, ready to help out in any way you can.Â
The rest of The Stirring Spoon passes without a hitch or unexpected visitor from the past. Itâs as popular as always, with locals and tourists stopping by. The lentil and tomato soup that you whipped up disappears within the first half hour, alongside the nearly stale but still delicious cheese bread. Mark stands by your side the whole time, smiling as he serves. He whispers little jokes in your ear that have you giggling in the quiet periods of the food drive. Then came the evening rush, with people stopping by after work. The culmination of it all meant JJ was pushed out of your thoughts and back into the long-term store, where heâd been haunting before. That is, until youâre tidying up.Â
âThat JJ guy seemed nice,â Mark says from the table to your right. You look up from the plastic snack-bags youâre tidying away. âYou said you guys used to hang?â
âWhen we were sixteen,â you reply.Â
âHow come you stopped hanging out?â he wonders.Â
You look down at the bags and obsess over the colours of the labels as you debate how best to word your reply. What do you divulge to him? Thereâs an index of memories labelled JJ and you know not all need to see the light of day, let alone enter the mind of your boyfriend in scarring reenactments.Â
âWe just grew apart. He was going through some stuff, I think, and then he got really into that whole treasure hunting thing,â you tell him. It was true enough to not be a lie. Mark hums in thought.Â
âThatâs a shame.â
You quirk a brow, amused. âWhy? Cause I could have cashed in on the gold too?â
Mark shrugs and you laugh. âWhat!? Iâm just saying, some people are worth staying friends with!â
But that was the thing. You and JJ werenât just friends. Shaking your head, you close the cardboard box of repacked snack-bags and carry it over to the table where heâs working. You held him wrap individual muffins in napkins before placing them in a large tupperware box.Â
âHey, yâknow whatâd be nice?â Mark says.Â
âWhat?â
âIf we took them over some leftovers. I mean, we made most of this stuff with the ingredients they gave us anyway. And thereâs still some of those cinnamon buns going spare.â
You take pause and look up at him. Heâs obliviously working away, head tucked down to look at the muffins. Thereâs an easy smile thatâs permanently etched into his face, as if he came out the womb cheesing away. That wasnât why you fell for him though. No, it was his kindness. His offhand generosity that came so naturally to him it was almost offensive. Pressing up onto your toes, you cup his jaw and press a kiss to his cheek. He chuckles quietly.Â
âYouâre wonderful,â you hum happily. âI think thatâs a great idea.âÂ
âYou go wrap up some cinnamon buns then. Iâll pack up some of these muffins for them.â
You do as he asks and soon enough, thereâs a box of miscellaneous leftovers from your food drive. Mark drives. The sky is a delicate colour of amber and pink warning of soon nightfall. Colours like that always make you feel relaxed. It helps ease the nervousness of seeing JJ again. You werenât sure why it was making you so antsy. It wasnât as if you and JJ parted ways on bad terms. You suppose itâs just a bitter-sweet memory. All memories of JJ came with that sour coating now, like sherbet lemons on your tongue. You wonder if youâd feel the same way if Mark werenât around.Â
But he is, and youâre glad he is.Â
Looking over to him, you reach out your hand to capture his, resting on his thigh. He glances over at you and smiles. âYou okay?â
âYeah. Just happy, sâall.â
âThatâs good,â he says, looking back to the road. Like something from a music video, he raises your interlocked hands to his lips and presses a kiss to the back of your hand. âMeans Iâm doing something right, if youâre happy.â
Itâs impossible not to do a double-take as you pull up to what was formally the Maybank property. Itâs as if new life has been breathed into it. More than just a lick of paint, thereâs two brand new buildings alongside a pretty sturdy looking pier and dock. Thereâs a handmade charm to everything that makes it all the more enticing and impressive. Mark seems to think so too because he whistles as the two of you pull up the driveway. You look to your left and see the Twinkie. A relic from your past, of memories half-naked, rolling around the back with JJ, sharing a blunt in a post-orgasmic haze. Your thoughts shut off with the engine.Â
Mark takes the lead, his hand in yours, and carries the box of leftovers up to the house. You both wander up the porch and Mark knocks twice on the door. Your eyes look at everything, taking it in, admiring every detail, until someone opens the door. Itâs Kiara.Â
âHey. Can I help you?â she asks your monolith of a boyfriend. You poke your head from around his body.Â
âHey Kie.â
âOh my Gosh! Girl, where have you been?â Kie beams. The two of you embrace, laughing and smiling. âWait - did you get the stuff I sent JJ over with?â
âYeah, we did,â you say. âThank you so much.â
âWe actually brought this as a thanks,â Mark adds, offering out the tub. She eyes him almost with suspicion.Â
âSorry, I forgot to say - Kie, this is Mark. My boyfriend,â you explain. Kieâs eyebrows shoot up with that final word but she recovers quick.Â
âNice to meet you, Mark,â she says. She takes the box and glances through the plastic.Â
âJust some leftovers we thought you might like. Muffins and cinnamon buns and things like that.â
âThanks guys, you didnât have to. Weâre happy to contribute,â Kiara tells you. âIn fact, me and Sarah were talking about maybe making it a regular thing. Like every Wednesday we bring some stuff from the garden, or fish that weâve caught?â
âOh my God, yeah, thatâd be amazing,â you nod enthusiastically. âWe can definitely figure out a system.â
âPerfect. Iâll put these inside. You guys want a drink or anything? I can show you around,â Kiara offers, opening the door wider in invitation.Â
You glance over her shoulder into the room and then around the porch, behind you out to the water. Youâre not sure why you were expecting JJ to just appear out of thin air in front of you.Â
âJJâs out on the dock, if you want to catch up,â Kiara posits, as if hearing your thoughts. You look at her and hold her gaze, and - unable to read what her expression means - nod.Â
âI think Iâll go say hi. We didnât get a chance to properly catch up,â you reply. You glance up at Mark. âYou want to come with?â
âItâs alright. Iâll stay here and get the tour,â he tells you with a wink. You smile, press a kiss to his lips, and wander off with a wave to Kie, towards the dock.Â
Feet thudding on the slabs of wood, the structure creaks as you walk to the shop. An American flag waves in the breeze. You run a hand along the thick rope bannister and glance down into the growth of plants and water weeds underfoot. I canât believe they built all of this, you canât help but think as you walk up to the wooden-slatted tackle-and-bait shop. As you walk into the store under the wooden âWELCOMEâ sign, reggae music blesses your ears alongside the smell of incense. Itâs jam-packed with miscellaneous water accessories: fishing gear, surfing gear, refreshments, you name it. Thereâs nobody behind the counter. You glance around and squint, catching onto a spot red through the window. JJ lies outside atop of a vintage cooler, feet crossed one over the other, arms tucked under his head. You canât help but smile. Walking outside, you lean against the doorframe and fold your arms over your chest.Â
âWell, as far as customer service goes, this is pretty crappy.â
He snaps up to sit like he has the joints of a ken doll. You laugh as he blinks his eyes awake, laying them on you.Â
âOh shit,â he says, clearing his throat, running a hand through his hair. âWhenâd you get here?â
âA few minutes ago. You looked pretty comfy there,â you say, amused.Â
âYeah, yeah, itâs a good nap spot,â JJ chuckles nervously, glancing down at where he just lay his head. He straightens his t-shirt and then looks back at you. His brows furrow. âWait, whatâre you doing here?â
âCame by to see the new place,â you reply, gesturing around you. âYou offered.â
âDidnât think youâd be in such a hurry.â
âNo time like the present and all that.â
Youâre acutely aware of how youâre avoiding mentioning Mark and how heâs currently being led around JJâs former house and yard under Kieâs tow.Â
âThis is a pretty sick set-up,â you praise.Â
âYeah, itâs pretty good, huh?â JJ grins, getting to his feet. âHere, you want a beer? Weâre technically closed for business anyway.â
Laughing, you shrug. âSure. Why not.âÂ
Cracking open the cooler, he reaches in and retrieves two ice-cold cans. One is tossed to you and you catch it, and a feeling of deja vu rings through you. JJ, younger, just as handsome, throwing you a can of beer at a kegger. He leans against the cooler and you against a wooden pillar. Cracking cans and the fizz of beer, and you take a refreshing sip. A comfortable quiet comes and the two of you catch one anothers eyes. You smile.Â
âI donât think I said earlier, but itâs really nice to see you again,â you tell JJ.Â
He smiles, small and reserved. âThanks. Itâs nice seeing you too. Even if it is with Joe America over there.â
âJoe America?â you snort. âCome on, he isnât that bad.â
âNo, no, he seemsâŠuh, he seems nice.â
âHe is nice.â
âI believe it.â
âWellâŠgood.â
That marked the end of that conversation. You take a sip of your beer and sigh, looking out to the view of sunset over the marshland.Â
âI wish you couldâve seen it,â JJ suddenly says. You look over to him with a frown, confused. âEl Dorado, I mean. South America. It was beautiful. Like actually fucking stunning out there.â
âReally?â you say, smiling.Â
âHell yeah,â he grins. âLike there was colours out there that I didnât even think existed without, like, LSD, man.â
You laugh and he does too and youâre glad whatever awkwardness that just came passed quick like a seastorm.Â
âI still havenât gone farther than Charleston, so I guess Iâll have to live vicariously,â you lightheartedly remark.Â
âYeah, well, turns out thereâs a pretty big world out there,â JJ grins.Â
âGlad one of us got to see it,â you hum.Â
âNah, youâll see it too. All of it. Even Paris.â
The cityâs name hangs heavy in the air. It was more than just a throwaway comment. It was a secret message, as if JJ was speaking in code. I remember it. I didnât forget. You wash down the adrenaline with another sip of beer.Â
âBut no place like home, huh?â JJ says, clearing his throat.Â
âProbably helps now that John B ainât a fugitive anymore,â you muse. JJ laughs, nodding.Â
âYeah, yeah, no, for sure.â
âWell, Iâm glad you found your happiness, JJ,â you say, smiling at him. âIâm glad you found yourself out.â
âAinât we all?â
The two of you watch one another for a moment. His resting smile lingers on the edges of his thin lips. His round, soft cheeks that add to a boyishness about him that his jawline doesnât allow. You always liked JJâs hair though. A mop of blonde planted atop of his head with sun-bleached highlights and deep-sea lowlights. But heâs taking you in too. You canât take the weight of his stare after a while. Taking a deep breath, pushing away from the beam, you ditch your half-drunk beer atop of the cooler.Â
âWell, I better get going.â
âYou sure? I mean, we can hang out a bit longer, if you like?â
You smile politely and shake your head. âIâm not the one driving, soâŠâ
JJ looks over your shoulder and spots Mark. âAh. Didnât know Dollar Store Chris Evans was here, my bad.â
âJJ! Donât be mean!â
âI ainât being mean! If anything, thatâs a compliment,â JJ defends. You roll your eyes. âLook, Iâll see you around though. Itâd suck to go back to being strangers again when weâre both in the same place for a change.â
Despite the innocence of the offer, something in your gut tells you that you shouldnât agree. You should set a boundary there, draw a line, and leave it in the past. So, really, you have nobody to blame but yourself for saying âIâd like thatâ with a smile in farewell, before walking back across the dock to your boyfriend.Â
Salted Chips
JJ had always been in your life. However, in the past, he was more of a background character, like an NPC in a videogame that creators constantly add in like an Easter Egg. The kind of character youâre curious about, in terms of their past and their present, their wants and their fears, but the kind you never have the privy to get close to in that way. Heâd be at parties, at the surf break, at the shops or at school, but he wasnât in your life. Until he was.Â
Fate came in the form of a seating plan for history class.Â
You and JJ were classmates. Table buddies. At first, the conversation was nonexistent. Sometimes JJ wouldnât show up to class at all, either bunking off or playing truant in the bathrooms to light up a joint. But sometimes heâd come to class, usually escorted by Pope, and youâd share an uncomfortable silence as you worked through the hour. But then came an assignment that needed to be done out of class, and numbers were exchanged and words were shared outside of âwhat did he sayâ and âwhatâs the homeworkâ and âwhat answer did you get for five?â. At your prompting to start on the project, JJ offered up the Chateau to work at, John Bâs house that was a renovated fishing shack on the marsh.Â
To stimulate inspiration for the poster the two of you had to create - outlining the history of the American Civil War - JJ had offered up beers and a blunt, and you were glad to take him up on the offer. If youâre going to be doing schoolwork at the weekend, you might as well get something out of it other than mind numbing boredness. It seems you saying yes to JJâs âgiftsâ put you in his good books. Itâs as if you could see the moment his opinion of you changed. From there, it was as if the two of you had always known the other. Conversation came easy, banter even more so. Time spent together stretched outside of the classroom and instead into lunch breaks and evenings and weekends. Heâd seek you out at keggers and hang with you at the beach. Somewhere in the roots of you friendship grew an attraction from the fondness. You noticed it in his lingering glances, his drifting gaze from your eyes to your mouth to your body. Later, you heard it in his words, finding innuendos in smalltalk, catching compliments like falling stars. Eventually, both slightly intoxicated, it came to a head, about three months into this natural-forming friendship.Â
âYo!â
You turn around, beer in hand, startled by the interruption. Itâs JJ. Heâs wearing a cap, squishing down his beautiful locks of blonde; the muted green pairs well with his t-shirt. His combat boots sink into the ground, damp from the rainfall earlier in the day. Everything smells piney and fresh. You lift a finger to your lips to coax him to be quiet. His brows quirk up, a bemused smile gracing his gorgeous face. God really does have favourites, it seems.Â
âYou good?â
âSh! Youâll scare them,â you whisper. At his cocking head, confused, you fervently gesture for him to come over. He does. His presence by your side is almost overwhelming. The buzz from the liquor makes it difficult to keep your itching hands to yourself and your inhibitions at bay. âYou see them?â
âSee what?â
âThe birds.â
âWhat?â
âLook, here,â you mumble. You lean close to him so you can point clearly with your finger, just along his line of vision. A whiff of JJâs scent dusts your nose. Heâs warm like he creates heat. Through the canopy of leaves, you can make out a single branch of a tree. In the nook, against the trunk, is a nest, and inside is a bunch of baby birds, cawing out for their mother, hungry, blind. Youâd left them some salted chips on the floor, crumbled and scattered, in case the mother wanted to steal some to take up and gift. She probably wouldnât, but something about their cries made you feel the need to do something, and it wasnât as if you could offer up your beer.Â
âWoah.â
âYou see âem?â
âYeah,â JJ breathes. âThatâs sick, how did you see them?â
âI heard them first,â you tell him, keeping your voice low so as to not frighten them. âNeeded some air.â
âThe smoke from the campfire botherinâ you?â
âI swear to God, it targets me,â you sincerely reply, making JJ laugh. You finally retract your finger (still sticky from the Smores made earlier) and turn, looking up at him. He looks down at you. Some strands of hair stick out from under his cap, pressing against his forehead. His brows are almost permanently slanted, eyes bright in the dusk of the evening. His shark tooth necklace sits against his chest. JJâs lips quirk at your staring. âItâs not fair.â
âWhatâs not fair?â
âYouâre so pretty,â you say, shaking your head, smiling. The alcohol has given you too much confidence, it seems. Loose lips. His eyes widen in momentary surprise but he catches it, covers it well. Then, comes his mask of confidence. He gives you a cocky smile.Â
âYouâre not too bad yourself,â he suavely replies.Â
âNah, I mean it. Youâre really something, Maybank,â you smile, doubling-down. In for a penny and all that. Â
His smugness fades into something more real. He doesnât seem to know how to take compliments like that. Then, strangely, something like panic tugs his brows together. âIâm not very good at this sorta thing.â
Your frown of confusion seems to spur him on.Â
âBeing honest. Real. IâmâŠIâm pretty fucked up, yâknow?â
âThe best people are,â you murmur, meaning every word.Â
âNah, I mean it, though. Iâm notâŠI donât wanna hurt you.â JJ says it so quietly, so sincerely, that you get the sense that heâs never said it before. Maybe only thought it on dark nights, when youâre so alone with your thoughts itâs maddening. Smiling, shaking your head, you lift a hand to his cheek. Your heart hiccups at how he relaxes into your touch.Â
âI donât think you have to worry âbout that,â you whisper.Â
Youâre not sure who moves first, whether itâs him or you, but you end up a hair-width apart at the lips. His breath is hot as it fans onto your lips. Risk comes like a lightning rod and you take it, pushing onto your toes, connecting your lips with his. His hand finds yours and squeezes. That small gesture, as innocent as it is, tells you that youâre crossing this boundary together, from friends into something more.Â
Pistachio PastriesÂ
The smell of coffee rouses you from sleep. You hum sleepily into your pillow, nuzzling in the scent of your boyfriend: peppermint and sage. A heavy palm gently pets your hair.Â
âWake up, sleepy,â Mark murmurs.Â
You grumble in protest and he chuckles. The bed dips and the duvet lifts as he climbs back into the cocoon of warmth. Rolling over, you tuck yourself against him. He always slept in pyjamas. It was adorable. Nothing cheesy: just a simple shirt and flannel bottoms. His arm hooks around your waist and holds you against him. You swear to God, you could hide here forever. Mark was safety and security. Mark was the netting beneath a trapeze artist. Mark was the emergency brake in a racing car.Â
âWednesday again,â he says, stroking the skin of your back. âKiara messaged the Instagram page today. Said one of them will drop off an order around one-ish.â
âSweet.â
An alarm blares from Markâs phone and he cusses, breaking apart from you to retrieve it and turn it off. You take the opportunity to sit up and grab your coffee. The steam tickles your nose as you blow on it. Routine. Mornings spent in the mini home Mark had made in his parents backyard, in their old shed. He brought you coffee in the morning and you brought him tea before bed. Youâd be asleep by ten and awake by eight. Your shifts at the smoothie shop typically followed a Monday through Friday routine, with the exception of midweek, with Wednesdays reserved for The Stirring Spoon. Weekends passed in a blink. Then, you reset to continue with the same thing again.Â
But thatâs okay. Routine is okay. Itâs reliable. Monotonous in a way that assures certainty. Besides, you liked your job, and your coffee, and your Stirring Spoon. But maybe it might be nice to stray from it all, just for a change.Â
You carefully place your coffee back on the side table and look over to Mark. Heâs scrolling on his phone, lips set in a line, brows tugged together in vague concentration. A thrill runs through your body at the thought, as you press several kisses to the skin of his neck. You feel him breath beneath you. Then a kiss comes to your forehead, quick like a grandparent to their least favourite grandchild.Â
âBaby,â you hum, lifting a hand to rub your finger along his jawline.Â
âMhm?â
âDo you have any, likeâŠthings you wanna try.â
He takes a moment to think, looking up from his phone. A smile comes to his face and he looks down at you, and your body burns with anticipation. âSurfing. Was never that good at it but Iâd like to try it again, yâknow?â
It fizzles away like water atop of a dying flame. âOh. Yeah, no, yeahâŠthatâsâŠyou should do that.â
He frowns. âYou okay?â
âWell, I just meant moreâŠin the bedroom. Like anything, I donât knowâŠâ Your face burns like youâre a nun stumbling across a Playboy magazine. âKinky?â
âKinky?â
âNot like oh my God, kinky. JustâŠI donât knowâŠâ
He quirks a brow, smiling at you in a teasing sort of way. âYou got some kink youâre not telling me about?â
âMaybe,â you tell him, hoping it comes out seductive.Â
âI donât know,â Mark sighs, resting his head back against the wall. You watch his Adamâs apple bob as he swallows and you lick over your lips. He grins, like something dawned upon him, and he dips his head suddenly to press his lips to yours. âWanna know what Iâve always wanted to try?â
âMhm,â you say, lifting your hands to cup his face and keep him near. Yes, your body practically cries. Tell me, tell me, tell me.Â
âWell,â he stalls, kissing you again. You chase his lips, shortening in breath. âIâve always wantedââ another kiss â-to try-â another kiss â-doing it in the shower.â
Itâs hard not to deflate completely with disappointment.Â
Wow, yeah Mark. Kinky.Â
But when you open your eyes, you come face to face with a nervous, sweet, caring Mark. A Mark who always makes sure you feel good and safe. A Mark who would never walk past an elderly man struggling to cross the road. A Mark who would donate a twenty dollar bill he found on the roadside. And you can see it in his eyes, this burning passion, this shock at his own words, because for him, that was like confessing to watching gangbang porn in a Church. So, you plaster on a smile, feigning excitement. âNo, yeah. Thatâd be fun. We should totally do that.â
âYeah?â
âYeah,â you grin, kissing him again. He sighs, pushing back against you. Your body sparks up again. The feel of his hands on your sides is like static energy. âWe should try it now.â
âNow?â
âMhm,â you nod eagerly, kissing at his lips desperately. âGood way to start the morning, huh?â
âMaybe,â he says. He pulls away slightly, guilty as he adds, âbut itâs been a while since I cleaned the bathroom. And I promised my mom Iâd help her out today, and I gotta be good to go in like ten minutes soâŠâ
âOh.â
He kisses you fleetingly on the lips and then tosses the bedsheets off his lap. You watch him get up. âBut maybe soon? Like Friday?â
Routine with scheduled sex.Â
âOkay,â you say through a false smile. You sink against your pillow and watch him put on his slippers. The moment his back turns, you drop the expression. Youâre so disappointed there doesnât feel much point in trying to get off by yourself now, either. You donât seem to fix your frown quick enough before he turns back around.Â
âOh, hey, baby, I didnât mean to upset you,â Mark frowns. He lowers down so his eyes are level with yours. You pout like a child as you look at him. He pushes some hair off your face. âI swear, if I werenât about to go help my mom, Iâd be all over you right now.â
âMhm.â Maybe you are being a bit selfish. Heâs helping his mother for Godâs sake! Smiling, properly this time, you jokingly warn, âIâm gonna hold you to that, Mark.â
âYou better,â he winks. He kisses you before leaving the room, into the bathroom. Sighing, you roll on your back and blink up at the ceiling. You practise your mantra - Mark is good. Mark is good for me. Mark is good. Mark is good for me - and you get up to start your day.Â
The Stirring Spoon is a good distraction from your whining libido. Itâs hard to think about fucking when youâre comparing shapes of pasta. And yet, you still find a way. Because as you stack packets of spaghetti, you try and recall the last time you and Mark had really good sex. Not sex where itâs soft and nice and satisfying. Sex when you feel like you might cry or scream, just to cope with the pleasure pulsing through your body. Sex when youâre actually scared that you might have a heart attack from how fast your heartâs beating. Was it ever like that with Mark? Was it ever like that with anybody else?
Yes.Â
âHey.â
The very boy who just popped into your mind like a vision stands before you, crate in hand, smile on face, as if you manifested him.Â
âJJ.â
âYou good? You were looking at that spag pretty hard,â he asks, amused.Â
âNo, yeah, Iâm good,â you say. You drop the pasta like itâs incriminating to what you were thinking about. Donât tell JJ about the hot sex I was thinking about with him, pasta, please. âWhatâre you doing here?â
âDelivery from Kildare County Kitchen,â he says, dropping the crate down onto an empty spot on the table. âSome of Cleoâs less deadly version of her gumbo; a few sandwiches that Sarah whipped up; and some fish me and John B caught the other day.â
âDamn, thatâs quite the haul,â you say, glancing into the crate and surveying its contents. âThanks, JayJ.â
As you retrieve the items and lay them out carefully and neatly on the table, JJ shoves his hands in his short pockets and looks around the yard. âSo. Loverboy here?â
âHeâs busy today, helping his mom.â
âAh. You short of a helping hand today, then?â
âWhy? You want to help?â you say, half-joking. But JJ shrugs.Â
âIâm not doing much. Why not?â
âDonât the others need you back at the shop?â
âThereâs five of them, I think theyâll manage,â JJ replies sardonically. He claps and rubs his hands together. âWhere do I start?â
âUmâŠâ You stand upright and scan the area, checking what looks the most chaotic. As if on cue, the local bakery van pulls up. âOh, sweet. Delivery. You can help me unload and log inventory.â
âYes, maâam.â
The two of you walk over to the van, side by side, hands kept politely to yourselves. Small talk sits on your tongue but doesnât make it into the world.Â
âMorning Mr Parker,â you call.Â
âMorning, darlinâ,â he croons in his southern accent. âYou too, Maybank.â
âGood to see you, sir,â JJ nods.Â
âWhat you got for me today?âÂ
âSome good stuff, Iâm not going to lie to yâall,â he grins over his shoulder before opening the doors to the back of the van. Mr Parker pulls out a tray of sealed baked goods. JJ steps in and takes it, and as he holds it you crack open the lid to peer in.Â
âPastries?â
âPistachio pastries,â Mr Parker says proudly. His takes off his cap and brushes a hand through his short grey hair. âMy wife got a bit carried away. People in this town donât have that fancy of taste buds.â
âMaybe not on the Cut,â JJ mumbles, making you smile.Â
âWell, be that as it may, glad I can contribute something to your little venture,â Mr Parker tells you. He squeezes your shoulder sweetly. âYâall doing a good thing, with this here Stirring Spoon.â
âThank you,â you say, overwhelmed by the simple praise. âWell, we appreciate any contribution, especially pistachio flavoured ones.â
With that, the three of you get to work carrying the four trays of baked goods to a spare table. Bidding Mr Parker farewell, you and JJ take pause against the table.Â
âI think Iâve earnt a break.â
âYouâve been here less than an hour.â
âTime flies by when youâre having fun, and all that,â he says passingly as he cracks open one of the bakery tubs. He grabs one of the pastries and tosses it into his mouth. His eyes widen as he chews. âHoly shit. These are so good.â
âJJ, youâre not supposed to eat theââ
â--try one.â A pastry is shoved into your mouth. You glare at him but bite, and holy shit this is really good. It must read on your face cause JJ grins. âYeah, right? So good.â
âOh my God,â you mumble. The two of you smile at one another like youâre stealing cookies from a jar.Â
âYou remember that time we got high and raided Popeâs dadâs fridge?â
You laugh and nearly choke on the flaky pastry. âOh my God, I totally forgot about that.â
âYou were like a fucking racoon,â JJ sniggers.Â
âYou were the one that got me high in the first place.â
âI didnât fucking drug you! You wanted to try it!â
âYeah, I did,â you grumble, unwilling to accept responsibility for completely draining the Heyward fridge.Â
âYouâre cute when youâre high.â
You glance up at him. His smile is coy, like he knows he shouldnât have said that. Because he shouldnât. Rolling your eyes, you play it off as best you can. âCute whilst Iâm stuffing my face with questionable cheese?â
âYeah,â he chuckles, shrugging. âYouâre cute all the time though, so guess itâs not very hard for you to be even cuter high.â
âJJ, stop it.â Your tone is gentle but firm. âI have a boyfriend.â
âOh, Iâm aware,â JJ says. âCaptain Vanilla.â
You hate how he isnât completely wrong. âThatâs not his name.â
âItâs just too easy,â he shrugs, playful as always. âThe guy is a walking textbooked âgood guyâ.â
âWhatâs so wrong with that?â you mumble, picking out another pastry and studying the way itâs rolled.Â
âNothing, I guess. Just find it funny.â
âFunny how?â
âThat youâd go from me to him.â
You glance up from the pastry to meet his gaze. âWe never officially dated, JJ.â
âSame difference,â he shrugs. âBut hey - you know you. You know what you want.â
âExactlyâŠâÂ
You do know you, donât you? It sounds like such a crazy thing to question. But the older you get, the more you think you donât know a thing about yourself. Whatâs your favourite colour? Whatâs your favourite animal? What do you want out of your future? What do you want out of a relationship? Journeying back to the morning, your mind replays the scenes like a horror movie. The worries of when the last time you felt passion in the bedroom feeds into worries of when the last time was that you felt passion, period. Oh no: it feels like an existential crisis might be coming on, about thirty years too early.
âHey.â You snap out of your spiral. JJ forces a smile. âJust wanna know that youâre still living, not just secure. Yâknow. As a friend.âÂ
Funnily enough, that does little to cheer you up.Â
Croissants
JJâs skin is warm against your cheek. Your face rests on his bicep, using it as a makeshift pillow, as you lay skin-to-skin, body-to-body. One of your legs is hooked over his, and his palm rubs large, mindless patterns against the sweat-sticky skin. The room is bathed in moonlight, the curtains drawn closed, and you can hear the sounds of the marsh from outside the Maybank residency. You wonder if JJ might have fallen asleep. His chest is rising and falling rhythmically and you canât see his face from here, to tell if his eyes are open or shut. But then he sighs and you smile against his arm.Â
âTell me about your family,â you request in the quiet of the room.Â
âWhat about them?â
âAnything, really. Like about your mom and dad; if you have any siblings,â you murmur.Â
âNot much to tell,â JJ replies in a hum.Â
âStill. Tell me anyway.â
âTell me about yours,â JJ deflects. You crack a smile.Â
âAlright,â you relent. âI live with my mom and my dad. Sheâs a waitress and heâs a mechanic.â
âYou got any brothers or sisters?â he asks, his thumb massaging your upper leg.Â
âI did,â you say, your voice turning softer. âAn older sister.â
âWhat happened?â
Your lips press together. An image flashes into your mind like a jumpscare, of a coffin dressed in white daisies and lilies. Swallowing thickly, you close your eyes and will the memory away. Itâs then that you decide to confide in JJ.Â
âDo you know who Andy Warhol is?â
âI recognise the name,â he replies after a moment, not questioning why the sudden change in topic.Â
âHe was an artist. Painted a lot of pop-arty things.â
âIs that the freakshow who painted those boring-ass soup cans?â JJ wonders. You laugh quietly.Â
âI wouldnât describe him like that but yeah, thatâs the guy.â
âWhat about him?â JJ asks.Â
âHe was in love with this man, way back when. He kept a diary and this man he was in love with died, and Andy was heartbroken. But he ainât like to say that somebody had died. Instead, he used to write that âthey went awayâ, like on a trip or somethinâ,â you tell him. Your voice trails off towards the end, fearing JJ might laugh at you as you go on to say, âI donât know. I think Iâd like to say that about my sister.â
JJ shifts underneath you until the two of you are lying side by side, now able to see one anotherâs faces through the muggy darkness of the room. His eyes glow in the non-existent light, shining and present, gazing into yours.Â
âWhereâd she go, then? On this trip of hers,â he coaxes. Your lips part in surprise, and for some reason, you want to cry for his small act of kindness. Then, you smile, small and sombre.Â
âTo Paris, in France,â you whisper.Â
âShe go to the Eiffel Tower?â
âEvery day. She eats dinner there at night and watches it twinkle. For breakfast, she buys a croissant and sits by the Seine,â you murmur. Tears wet your eyes as you picture your lost sister, venturing the streets with the wind in her hair, kissing her plump cheeks. Your voice is thick when you continue, âitâs her dream to see all the stuff in the Louvre. She goes every week and keeps a note of where sheâs been and where she wants to go.â
âLike the Catacombs?â
You laugh and sniffle. âNah. Theyâre too creepy for her.â
âDamn straight,â JJ mumbles. âThey scare the crap outta me.â
As a tear lets slip, trickling down your cheek, JJ reaches out his thumb and wipes it away. His hand lingers on your face and you feel yourself lean into his hold. Itâs like heâs holding you up. Heâs holding you together. You open your eyes into his. Thereâs a smile on his face, different to the others. More reserved, less obvious, so different to the JJ youâd known and heard of before. Youâre terrified of losing it entirely or saying something especially stupid, and so instead you mouth two words: âthank youâ.Â
When he kisses you, itâs different too. Thereâs something about it, like a taste that wasnât there before, and it lingers in your mind and mouth. It only grows as JJ deepens the kiss. Your hand traces his jawline and your fingers loop through the locks of his hair, and you tug him closer with a breath. The dance of your lips and tongues and teeth is growing more and more familiar by the day and it terrifies you how easy it has been to become accustomed to it. How easy it has been to become accustomed to JJ. Hands on your hips, JJ lifts you atop of him with a grunt, him rolling onto his back. You shrug the comforter off your back and straddle him. Your hands cradle his face, palms cupping his cheeks. You kiss him like heâs the antidote to all your ailments. Your mouth chases him in the teasing of his lips, breaking apart just to reel you back in. JJâs teeth nip at your lower lip and pull, just so, just enough to have you whining and sighing like some lovesick fool. Maybe you are.Â
âJJ,â you mewl, rocking back against him. He groans as you begin to torture his jawline and neck. Groans louder when you suckle on the tender skin by his ear, painting hickeys like a beautiful landscape. His fingers dig into the flesh of your hips deep enough to leave delicious bruises. You feel him growing hard beneath you as you grind against him like some animal in heat.Â
âFuck, youâre soâŠFuckâŠâÂ
Your lips continue their descent down his body. Kisses are peppered along his windpipe, bridging over his Adamâs apple, and you can feel every breath, every stutter, every sigh. Down his chest, bare and broad, and down his stomach. His hands are now free from your hips and instead they tether into your hair, combing through the strands. You look up at him from between his legs - heâs made space for you - and can make out his lazy smile through your hooded gaze. JJâs looking down at you too. His eyes glow.Â
You ghost a kiss over his boxers and he inhales a long, deep breath, his head tilting back into the pillows, eyes undoubtedly slipping shut. Lips upturning with a smile, your fingers tuck into the band of his boxers, and you pull them down his legs tantalisingly slow. Somewhere in the shadows of the room you hear him mumbling, âplease.â Taking him in hand, revelling in his short gasp, you guide him to your mouth. The smell, the feel - it all consumes you as you go down on him. The brush of bristly hair scratching against your nose, flooding your senses. JJâs hand comes to the back of your head quick, as if guiding your pleasure, wordless praising your ways. Until itâs not wordless.Â
âFuck, thatâs itâŠTaking me so fucking good, huh? Look so pretty like thisâŠâ
You hum around his length and he stammers out a moan. Your eyes flick up to take in the sight of his exposed neck, head thrown back, mouth hanging open as he lets noises slip through, shameless and sinful. And you love it, the way you can bring him to the brink, the way you can manipulate his satisfaction like moulding something out of clay. A finger here, a stroke there. The tip hits the back of your throat uncomfortably. You pull away with a damning pop and a trail of saliva connects the two of you. Resting your head against the apex of his thigh, you jack him off with your hand, almost mesmerised by the way he pulses in your hold. Maybe itâs the sounds he makes. JJ Maybank walks like heâs a God; itâs a power trip to have him weak at your hold.Â
âPlease, please, fuckâŠJusâwant your mouth, baby, please,â he begs through gritted teeth. His hand gently yet firmly pushes at your head, trying to guide you back to him, and you feel a giggle bubble up through your throat. It feels unnatural, this version of you. Sexy, seductive, sly.Â
âYou want my mouth?â you tease, pressing a kiss to his throbbing dick.Â
âFuck - yes, yes, please,â he groans. You glance up at him and meet JJâs gaze. His hair, damp with sweat, hangs over his forehead, dangling over his eyes. A sadistic smile is on your face as you pull away, easing your hand off him too. His brows furrow. Itâs like something snaps inside of him - some restraint he was holding breaking like the overstretching of elastic. His hands are on your in a second, gripping and grabbing at your body like you weigh no less than feathers, and you gasp as he tosses you onto your back. Heâs on top of you, ravishing your throat and collarbone so mercilessly, youâre gaping at the ceiling, eyes wide.Â
âThink thatâs funny, huh? Wanna see how much you like it?â
You stammer something out; you donât even know yourself if itâs a yes or no. All you know is you want him - you need him - on you, in you. Anything. JJ doesnât make you wait. His hands pull your panties away swiftly. A finger slips all too easily through your slit and you gasp, eyes rolling shut. His laugh is deep, crooning, cruel in your ear.Â
âSo fucking wet for me, hm? Such a fucking slut. Wanna see how it feels?â
âP-please.â
The stretch of your walls isnât unpleasant as he eases a finger in. You let out a wanton moan. It pumps leisurely inside, the foreign metal of his ring overwhelming, and the brush of the tip of his thumb against your clit has you panting from the pleasure.Â
âYeah, you like that, huh?â
âFuckâŠâ
âYeah,â he chuckles. Then the torture begins, of the instant movement of his finger, in and out, in and out, before easing away so suddenly itâs like he was never there. After that, the faintest of pressure on the exposed skin at his mercy. His damp finger trailing the inside of your thigh. He repeats this cycle until youâre almost in tears. Your hands clutch the bedsheets in fists, feet writhing uselessly at the head of the bed, kicking at the flimsy pillows. You know heâs gloating from the power he holds. Something tells you he doesnât get this much control in most aspects of his life. Something tells you he gets off this just as much as you. âYou wanna come? Do you?â
âFuck! Please, please, JJ, please. Iâll do anything, please, please,â you blubber. You donât care how embarrassing it sounds; how much it pleases him. All you care about is feeling that hot, blinding, pulsing pleasure consuming your every nerve, every bone, every fibre of your being. His breath is hot against your collarbone. JJ kisses the lobe of your ear in such a tender way you wouldnât be able to fathom the magic he works with his hands below the belt. And as you finally break, tumbling over the edge, letting out a fucked-out sob when you do, you can make out JJâs low voice, his Southern accent thick like molasses.Â
âThatâs it, baby. Make a mess on my fingers.â
SmoresÂ
Despite telling Mark where youâre going, it still feels like sneaking around behind his back as you walk up to the Pogueâs house. But this isnât anything nefarious. This is just you breaking routine. This is you catching up with old friends, current friends, and having fun. Sharing some drinks, smoking a joint or two, sitting around a campfire. Good, old fashioned fun just like when you were sixteen.Â
Yep. Thatâs all.Â
âHey yo! There she is!â JJ hollers the moment you come into view.Â
âHey!â you smile, waving. In your other hand is a bag filled with a six pack of beer, a packet of graham crackers, some chocolate and a bag of marshmallows. You ditch it by the cooler to hug everyone hello. JJâs last. His arms wrap around you like tree vines, secure and strong, and itâs familiar in a way that has you lingering. Mark. You break apart and take a seat on the opposite side of the campfire to him.Â
âWhatâs in the bag, mystery girl?â the girl you now know as Cleo asks.Â
âSome refreshments,â you say, lifting up the six pack. That earns a few whoops and hollers of approval from the already tipsy group. âAnd some snacks.â
âSmores?â Sarah gasps. She takes the bag of marshmallows from you.Â
âJust like old times,â you say. Your eyes catch JJâs. Heâs watching you.Â
âLetâs light these bad boys up,â John B announces. The gang is vocal in their approval. Sticks and twigs are gathered for skewers. Marshmallows dangle over the open flames that lick into the dusky air. A marshmallow shoves at yours and you glower at JJ.Â
âLeave my marshmallow alone.â
âHey, this is America. I got rights, yâknow?â
âSays who?â
âThe constitution,â he retorts, grinning. You roll your eyes, trying and failing to bite back your smile.Â
âYâall better stop it,â Cleo says in her thick Jamaican accent. âI ainât wanting any marshmallows going to waste.â
âYou heard her,â you playfully quip at the blonde haired boy. He rolls his eyes at you. Heâs smiling. The amber of the fire paints his face like an oil artwork. What must it be like to grow up that beautiful?Â
No, no, stop it. Stop it! God, what is wrong with you? This is just because you and Mark have been a bit distant lately. Yes, thatâs all. Youâre getting stuck on nostalgia. Itâs a mindâs trick. It didnât work before with JJ so whoâs to say it will again. The two of you are friends - heâs been a good friend - and you donât need to go muddying the waters. You punish yourself by staring into the flames and trying to make images of Markâs face in the fire.Â
The night spurs on with drinks that wash down the sickly sweet snacks. You listen to the tales of El Dorado and laugh at the reminiscences of youthful madness when you were all in high school. It isnât until youâre back in the bubble of the Pogues that you realise how much you missed it. Itâs like rediscovering your favourite movie from childhood. It brings a certain comfort that few things can match. They ask about The Stirring Spoon and you recount the tale of how you came about with the idea, of how you got it off the ground. Nobody asks about Mark and youâre ashamed that you donât feel the urge to bring him up, either.Â
You go for another swig of your beer to find it empty. The cooler by John B is empty too, upon investigating. You drop the lid.Â
âYou guys got any more beers?â
âProbably some down at the fish and tackle shop,â Kiara tells you.Â
âThanks,â you say, starting towards the dock. The further you walk, the more the vivacious chatter turns into a humming like the crying cicadas and croaking frogs and cooing owls. The water laps at the wooden pillars and you smile, letting your eyes slip shut for a moment as you walk. Nature is so wonderfully peaceful. The cooler is full of bait and chum, but thereâs a small section for the beers. You retrieve one and drop the lid to find JJ standing in your peripheral.Â
âHoly shit!â
âSorry!â
âWhat the fuck, man?â you laugh.Â
âJust wanted a refill too,â he says, shooting you a squiffy smile. His hair is dishevelled. He seems to wear caps less now, you note. Youâre happy about that. In your tipsy state you can admit your attraction with less shame. You chalk it up to appreciating beauty the way one can appreciate a perfect sunset or timeless painting. To stop your staring, you open the cooler and hand him a can. âThanks.â
âHey, cheers,â you say, holding your drink out. He clinks his against yours. âTo old friends.â
The two of you take a drink. Neither of you go to move back to the other Pogues (who are seemingly in some weird charades battle that is far from quiet). JJ gestures over your shoulder. âYou seen the boat yet?â
âThe H.M.S?âÂ
âNah, the new one,â JJ answers.Â
When he walks past you, you catch a whiff of his smell and it reminds you of home. You turn and follow him. He steps up onto the large boat. Itâs painted bright green and in yellow paint, the name reads The Snapper. JJ offers you a hand and you take it, letting him help you up onto the boat. You feel your phone vibrate in the pocket of your shorts but youâre in no mood to check it.Â
âPretty sweet, huh?â
âSo sweet,â you agree, looking around. JJ wanders over to the main console and flicks on an overhead light. He glows beneath it. When he takes a seat on the bench, you do the same, sitting opposite. Sighing, you lean your head back against the brutal plastic. âThis is the life.â
âYeah? You miss the marsh?â
âI miss it all,â you quietly confess.Â
You can hear the rustle of clothes and the flick-flick of a lighter. The smell of cannabis drifts into the air. âHere.â
Opening your eyes, you lift your head to find a joint extended out to you. Smiling, you take it with thanks and have a hit, then a second, then a third. You havenât smoked in what feels like forever. Mark doesnât like the smell; says it makes him feel sick. You wonder why you stopped indulging in something you enjoyed just because of that, even on your own time.Â
âThanks,â you say, passing the joint back. You ditch your beer can to the side. One poison at a time would be best in these sticky situations, you reckon.Â
âWhatâd you mean, âyou miss it allâ?â
âI donât know,â you sigh. You gaze off into the distance; itâs hard to make out much definition in the dark, save for some lights of houses in the far distances and the silhouette of plants and trees. âI feel like my life is soâŠâsameâ now.â
âSame is good.â
âSometimes,â you say. âBut I keep thinking about what you said to me, the other day. About being secure but still living. What ifâŠWhat if Iâm not living?â
âWellââ
â--I mean, look at you guys! You went to El Dorado! You found El Dorado, and the Royal Merchant, and the Royal Merchantâs treasure, and the Cross of Santo Domingo. What did I find? A mouldy tomato in a box of potatoes.â
JJ cracks up and you roll your eyes. âItâs not funny,â you mutter, smiling nonetheless. You take the joint back and have another drag. Relief fills your system. The muscles in your face loosen along with your mouth. âItâs pathetic. Iâm nearly twenty-one and Iâve been as far as Charleston and have about a handful of exciting memories to my name.â
âWoah, come on now,â JJ chuckles, taking the blunt back. âDonât you think youâre being a bit hard on yourself? You heard what Mr Parker said: that Stirring Spoon thing is awesome, and that was all you. Youâre feeding the community, bringing people together. Thatâs way cooler than some shiny fucking stones.â
âMeh,â you shrug. âGuess Iâm just jealous of you.â
âHa! Yeah, donât be,â JJ sarcastically berates. A shadow comes to his face. Foot in the mouth syndrome curses you.
âShit. Sorry, I didnât mean it like that.â
âYouâre good. I sometimes forget how bad it was too, with how things are now,â JJ admits. He smiles at you and takes another hit. âBut I guess I didnât fully let you in then, huh?â
âYou think?â you jest. He laughs, thankfully, and you inhale the sweet scent of the herb. âGuess I just get stuck on the good memories from before. Like all the days skipping school to surf. And how the summers felt like they could go on forever. Or that time we broke into City Hall, or pranked Topperâs house.ïżœïżœ
âDamn, I guess we did get up to a lot of shit, huh?â
âDamn straight,â you grin. Following the dance, you take the joint back.Â
âWell, I can think of some other memories, too,â JJ says. His grin is telling, tongue poking through his teeth. You bite back your smile.Â
âDonât,â you warn.Â
âWhat?â he chuckles.Â
âDonât! Thatâs dangerous territory,â you tell him. You point your joint at him. âThatâs no manâs land.â
âOh man!â JJ groans, tossing his head back. âWhyâd you have to call it that!? You know thatâs like calling a moth to a fire or whatever!â
âWhat?â you giggle, eyeing him.Â
âTelling a guy not to do something is the exact thing to do to get a guy to want to do something,â JJ argues nonsensically. You laugh, shaking your head at him. He holds your gaze and you feel your smile settle into your skin like footprints into damp sand. âThey were pretty good memories, huh?â
âYeah,â you quietly say. âThey were pretty good.â
âRemember that time we did it on the beach.â
âStop it,â you say, but thereâs little conviction in your words. You canât take his eyes anymore, the blue dragging you under like currents in a riptide. You look down at the joint and fixate on the way the embers burn at the paper.Â
âOr that timeââ
âJJ, I mean it,â you say, your tone losing its humour now. You shoot him a look that you hope will put a pin in it. âWe should talk about something else.â
âAlright, alright,â JJ surrenders, holding his hands up and all. He relaxes back against the plastic seat of the boat and you do the same. Your legs outstretch so you can rest your feet on the spot beside him. The two of you catch each otherâs gaze and look away, chuckling bashfully like preteens. You take another hit of the joint and watch the smoke fizzle away into the night. âHowâd you meet Mark, then?â
You glance at JJ. âA few months back. Heâd just moved to Kildare and came by to The Stirring Spoon to help out, and we sort of hit it off.â
âHe seems like a nice guy.â
âHe is,â you smile. But it fades. The weed tickles at your emotions, pulling the wires as if to wreak havoc. JJ seems to take advantage.Â
âWhatâs wrong?â
âNothing,â you lie. You take another hit and shake your head, plastering on a smile. âItâs nothing.â
Sighing, JJ folds his arms comfortably over his chest. âYâknow, just cause I know what you look like naked donât mean we canât be friends now.â
Barking out a laugh, you shake your head. âThere was definitely a better way you could have put that.â
âProbably,â he shrugs, grinning, âbut itâs true, ainât it? We can be friends.â
âOf course we can. We are,â you emphasise.Â
âSoâŠThat means that if you wanna vent about Mr Loverboy to me, you can,â JJ offers.Â
Laughing, you rock your head back and gaze up at the sky. The stars are out. They shimmer white and crystal in the abyss of the night. âThatâd be too weird, I think, but Iâll keep it in mind, thanks.â
âI just got one question. Just one.â
âGo on,â you reluctantly reply.Â
âDoes he say âthank youâ after the two of you fuck?â
You burst into fits of laughter. Itâs so sudden that it has you doubling over. Tears slip from your eyes and you wipe them away, looking at a grinning JJ. God, you missed him and his twisted sense of humour.Â
âHe just looks like the kinda guy who would!â
âOh my God, no!â you laugh, shaking your head. Catching your breath, you manage out, âno, he doesnât say âthank youâ.â
âIs he the sub then? Cause there is no way that guy is laying his hands on you without written permission.â
âJJ stop! Iâm gonna pee myself!â you cackle, kicking your feet. JJ starts laughing too. You open your eyes and make out his face in the lowlight of the pierâs lamp. Wheezing, you catch your breath and calm yourself. âThis is exactly what I was talking about.â
âI can give the guy pointers if he needs them,â JJ jokes. Your eyes nearly fall out of their sockets just at the idea though and you point at him in another warning.Â
âDonât you dare!â you say, trying not to crack up again. ââSides, he doesnât need pointers.â
âEverybody needs pointers,â JJ says with a roll of his eyes. âJohn B gave me one of the best pointers.â
âI find that impossible to believe,â you snort.Â
âHe did! It was a tip for kissing. Works like a fucking charm too, Iâm telling ya.â
âMhm, Iâll bet,â you sarcastically return. You glance at the joint to check if it needs tapping off, take another drag, and then look up to find JJ watching you. He hasnât changed enough for you to forget what that expression means.Â
âYou want me to show you?â
âShow me? How?â you say with furrowed brows. Something in the air shifts with your question. An unspoken thing, an unseeable thing, but something nonetheless. A nervous tickle comes to your throat.Â
JJ doesnât reply but he slowly leans over the seat towards you. Your breath catches in your lungs the moment he enters your bubble, breaking some unspoken barrier, and your smile fades away like day into night. You feel as though youâre stuck in place, plastered to the seat, and youâre ashamed to admit that you donât hate that you are. Youâre ashamed that youâre not pushing him away, telling him to buzz off, laughing at his idiocy. Youâre ashamed that youâre curious as to what heâs going to do next.Â
JJâs close enough now that you can smell him. His cologne mixed with something sweet but tangy, like seasalt and citrus. Something masculine underneath, that has a primal instinct inside of you wanting to claw its way out. Your fingers grip the edge of the seat instead. Your eyes stare into his. You study the laps of green and grey in the sea of blue, mesmerised in the way the night sky reflects in the iris. His gaze darts down to your lips and you have no idea how this happened and how you got here, and everything is blurry but so, so clear from the cannabis as he leans forward, and you canât move but you should move and you want to move but you donât, you never want to move again, as his lips brush against yours just so, just enough for you to know that they have, that he has, that heâs real, but that he hasnât, and that you can take it all back, and that it doesnât count and it shouldnât and you shouldnât butâ
Your hand clutches his jaw and you pull him in. His lips crash against yours in a breath. You kiss him like you wonât ever kiss him again. He sighs against you in the hurried mesh of mouths, groaning as your tongue brushes against his, tasting him for the first time in years. Itâs like finding a childhood toy and it smells like nostalgia. Itâs like eating a baked good and it tastes like a specific holiday. Itâs like smoking your first joint and it feels like floating.Â
Until youâre not.Â
Your body falls back down to earth with a thud. You shove JJ away as if heâs flammable and youâre the deadly spark. Your mouth hangs open in shock, your eyes filling with horror, and the worst feeling youâve maybe ever felt overcomes you so suddenly, you worry you might be sick.Â
Guilt.Â
âOh my God,â you whisper. You lift a hand to your lips and your fingers brush against the damp of his spit that lingers, and it confirms that it was all real. âOh my God.â
JJâs lips move to try and formulate words but nothing happens. He looks just as stunned as you do. His eyes are wide, lips swollen, cheeks pink. Those three words bang about your brain as you take in the sight of him. Itâs not at all unfamiliar.Â
Hot ash from your joint drops onto your thigh and you cuss, brushing it off. You toss the joint into the sea behind you as if itâs the culprit, the plotter, behind all of this. Then youâre on your feet and rambling out excuses.Â
âIâm so sorry. I donât know why I did that. I think it was - it was definitely the weed. I really should go, itâs so late. Iâm so sorry. Oh my God, I have no idea-â
Itâs as youâre about to step off the boat and onto the wooden pier that JJâs hand locks around your wrist. It freezes you in place once more and you want to climb out of your body and scream at yourself. Instead, you look down at him.Â
âYou can stay, yâknow,â JJ whispers. Thereâs a pleading in his eyes, a tenderness that you havenât known before in him, and you finally know how Eve must have felt with that damn serpent in Eden. Temptation at its finest, dressed up in blonde, unruly hair and dreamy eyes and sculpted muscles and a graphic tee.Â
Mark.Â
You shake your head and snatch your hand free. âThis was a mistake. I shouldnât have come here.â
And no matter how vehemently you tell yourself that you mean it as you hurry away from the pier and from the house, you know you donât.Â
Cheap White WineÂ
The tart tanginess of the wine is sharp on your tongue as you take another swig. Itâs late, or perhaps early, and the Chateau is illuminated by amber and orange from lamps. Itâs raining outside as hurricane season rattles on, but you and the Pogues could care less. When you have wine, you really have everything you need.Â
âCome on, come on!â Kiara laughs, egging on you to loop your arm in hers. The two of you line dance together to an old noughties CD in the player. You swing one another around in a tipsy haze to the upbeat tempo. Pope and John B heckle and holler from the pull-out sofa, toasting their beer cans up in approval. Youâre happy here, like this, in your bubble. As the song comes to a close on a major chord, you and Kiara giggle and take joking bows to your audience. You frown when you look around the room, not finding JJ anywhere.Â
âHeâs on the porch,â Pope says, seemingly catching on.Â
âThanks,â you smile, a little embarrassed that youâre that easy to read. Taking the wine, you venture out the door, closing it behind you as another song starts up. Kieâs cheer and begging for John B to dance is muted through the shutters and windows.Â
JJ sits on the sofa, a joint lit up, legs outstretched on the coffee table. He glances up at the sound of someone coming out and smiles at the sight of you.Â
âHey. Can I join?â you wonder.Â
âCourse,â he hums, shuffling a cushion in invitation beside him. You sit and lean against him, hitching your feet up onto the table beside his. He knocks one of his shoes against yours teasingly and you smile. Through the netting of the porch, you can make out the lashing of rain in the yard. Itâs pitter-pattering is soothing like a nursery rhyme. You sigh and let your eyes slip shut. âHaving fun?â
âAlways,â you mumble, making him laugh. âYou got any dreams?â
âLike sexy ones?â
âNo,â you giggle, elbowing him, making him let out a few laughs too. âLike actual dreams. Ambitions. A wish.â
JJ takes a pause for thought. You have a swig of your wine as you wait, revelling in the sound of his heartbeat through his shirt, steady and constant. âI donât know. Maybe.â
Your heart sinks with disappointment. This wasnât the first time this has happened. It felt as though every time JJ came close to pulling back the curtain and letting you see a glimpse, he caught eye of something that scared him and he slipped it shut again. He told you what he wanted to tell you and kept the rest close to heart. You werenât going to pry his cards from his body to see them, but it would be nice if he showed you them once in a while. It felt like the more time you spent with him, the less you knew. You could guess things from small clues as if playing a boardgame. He hardly went home, never mentioned his mother, and his father came into conversation with a shadow. He spoke lowly of himself, presumed the worst before others could, and it saddened you how clearly he believed everything he said. JJ couldnât see himself the way you did.Â
âI do,â you whisper, hoping it might entice him to share.Â
âOh yeah? Whatâs your dream?â
âI want to start a kitchen.â
âHuh?â
âLike a community kitchen thing. Not a bakery or a restaurant, just a place for all kinds of food, for all kinds of people, yâknow? A good thing, like that. My sister used to help out at a soup kitchen andâŠI donât know. I always liked that.â
JJ squeezes your thigh in acknowledgment. âSounds fuckinâ amazing.â
âThanks.â
In the Chateau, John B and Kiara laugh and Pope speaks loudly over them, something teasing, and you smile. The smell of weed fills the air before you and blends in with the notes of your wine and the telling scent of JJ. You wonder if the smell of you affects him in the same way; if the flavours of your perfume haunt him when he canât sleep the way his cologne does for you. Suddenly, somewhere in the serenity of the moment comes a calamitous realisation, like a rumble thunder breaking the rain.Â
You were falling in love with JJ Maybank.Â
Biscuits Â
Food poisoning. Thatâs what youâd told Mark. The heavy sickness that had sat in the bottom of your stomach like a boulder since last night lingered still. You hoped it was a hangover, but that passed with an advil. You knew what this was.Â
You only escaped the guilt in your sleep. The moment you returned home, you climbed under the sheets of your bed like a child hiding from the bogeyman. Sleep was the only reprieve, though it didnât come easy, and the second you came to in the morning, the first thought in your head was the look on JJâs face just before his lips touched yours.Â
Fuck.Â
Your phone pings with another message that is no doubt from Mark and you canât bring yourself to look at it. It doesnât help that thereâs a framed picture of the two of you staring at you from the bedside. It was his gift to you for your one month anniversary, because of course Mark cares about one month anniversaries. You hadnât gotten him anything; you had to make up some lie that it was late in the mail, and then run to the shops that night. Just further proof that you donât deserve him.Â
Hello, hell? Iâd like to reserve my spot in advance. Queen sized bed please, for me and my whorish ways. Much love.Â
When the phone begins to ring you groan aloud and send it straight to voicemail. You bury your head beneath the pillow and close your eyes, but the memories haunt you like flashbacks. JJâs eyes. JJâs lips. The way he tasted, the way he bit your lower lip just so, in that way that only he knows, in the way that he always knew drives you crazyâ
âStop it!â
Hello, hell? Quick update: I think I might be going insane, too. Just thought I should preface you.Â
Somewhere in your self-loathing, you manage to drift off into another restless sleep. Itâs broken by a tapping on your door. Groaning, you force yourself out of the safety of your bed and wander to your door, expecting to find your mom. Instead, your head tips back to see the face of your boyfriend.Â
âHey,â he says. His voice is thick with concern, brows knitted with worry. âHow you feeling?â
âLike shit.â Thankfully, you didnât have to lie with that one. âWhatâre you doing here?â
âI needed to check on you,â he replies. He steps into your room and you make space, sitting on your bed. He closes the door behind him. âI tried calling but you didnât answer.â
âYeah, sorry, uhâŠI was just feeling really frail, yâknow?â
âOh, baby,â Mark sighs. He sits beside you on the bed and places his large palm on your forehead. His brown curly hair sits in perfect ringlets atop of his head. One dangles over his forehead, out of formation, and it reminds you of JJ. Just how you went from me to him, JJ had said. Were they that different, after all? âYou got a temperature?â
âI donât think so,â you say. You gently push his hand off your face. âI think I just need to sleep.â
âWell, Iâm here to take care of you.â
âReally?â You hope the dread in your voice isnât obvious.Â
âCourse. Youâd do the same for me,â he smiles. He lifts a bag you didnât even notice he was carrying and shows you each item. âMamaâs homemade biscuits. Sheâs real worried about you, yâknow?â
âIâm fine,â you insist, âjust a bit sick. I think the worst of it has passed.â
âThatâs good, then. Iâll make you a hot drink, yeah? We can watch a movie or something. You get cosy,â Mark tells you. You nod and try your best to smile. Mark leans forward and presses a fleeting kiss on your lips, and the sickness comes back tenfold. You want to cry the second heâs out of your room.Â
Mark is good. Mark is good for you. But what if youâre not good for Mark?Â
Chocolate Chip Cookies
âI donât understand.â
You sigh, rubbing tiredly at your forehead. Bile lingers in the back of your throat but you swallow it down, alongside the feeling of self-reproach. This was it: the conversation youâd been dreading. The conversation that needed to happen. Youâd rehearsed your words in the mirror like practising lines for a play. Journals and diaries filled with debate, as to whether you stay or bolt. But now was as good a time as any, and you knew in your mind what the right thing to do was. You canât risk getting in the car accident if you step out of the vehicle.Â
âDid I do something?â JJ then asks, his voice weak, naked. You meet his gaze and shake your head firmly.Â
âNo,â you breathe, âno, you ainât do nothing, JJ.â
âThen I donât get it,â he repeats, stronger this time. Frustrated. You knew none of this would be easy.Â
âLook,â you cut yourself off with a sigh. You shuffle your crossed legs, sitting on JJâs bed in the Chateau in a way that you never have before, as if youâve never stepped foot inside his life. âMy parents are heading to Charleston for a couple months anyway, to stay with my grandmother and help look after her, andâŠwell, maybe itâs for the better, that we have this distance sooner rather than later.â
âDistance?â
âYouâve been removed, JJ,â you mumble, hoping not to sound accusatory. âAnd thatâs okay, I know youâre busy. I mean, you told me from the start that you donât do the whole relationship-thing. But I donât think I can stay, not right now.â
âOkay, is this some kinda joke?â JJ snaps. He gets to his feet and paces a few steps in the small throughway of his bedroom. Taking off his hat, JJ rakes his fingers through his hair. He looks at you, eyes fiery, expression hard as if to shield from the hurt that you donât mean to cause. âWhat the fuck are you even talking about? I thought we were fine.â
âWe are fine,â you insist. Sighing, you try and find the best way to explain yourself without giving it all away. âLook, I ainât meaning that youâre a bad guy or that youâre damaged or anything like that. I donât think that, not at all. ButâŠHow can I explain this?â
JJ takes a moment or two to calm himself as you hang your head and clench your eyes, searching for the perfect turn of phrase to make your thought process make sense. You find it. Lift your head, soften your gaze at the hurt on his face, and try your best to smile through the sorrow. This wasnât easy for you either.Â
âYou know when you see a tornado?â
He stares at you for a short while before nodding, urging you to continue.Â
âThings that likeâŠTheyâre always so pretty for afar. So mesmerising, how nature can create something like that. Stunning, really. Epic. But then, you get too close, and you get sucked in. And itâs just chaos and thereâs no way out of it without being broken.â
JJ nods again, pursing his lips.Â
âI think thatâs what might happen here,â you whisper. âIf I stick around.â
âI donât get it. Youâre saying Iâm gonna break you?â
âNo, Iâm sayingâŠIâm saying youâre not in a spot right now to give me what I need. That ainât your fault, JJ, but I canât let myself stay knowing that Iâm gonna have my heartbroken. I wish I could - I wish I could just wing-it like that - but I canât.â
Thereâs a pregnant pause that JJ drags out, staring at you as if trying to see into your head, searching for some lie. Sighing, he must come up empty, as he takes the spot beside you on the bed again. You test the waters, leaning against his chest, feeling the warmth radiate through his t-shirt. One of his hands lifts and strokes your hair, smoothing it down.Â
âI really do care âbout you, yâknow? Like, that ainât fake,â JJ admits in a hushed tone.Â
âI know, JJ,â you reply, just as soundless. âI just think you gotta figure yourself out before you canâŠâ
â...love you?â JJ hesitantly whispers, after you lose nerve. Your eyes squeeze shut.Â
âMhm.â
âYou canât love me âtil then, either?â
Laughing sadly, you shake your head against him. He really couldnât tell how much youâd fallen for him already, could he? âI donât think you gotta worry âbout that ever, JJ.â
A soft kiss is planted on your forehead. âSoâŠJust gotta do some soul searchinâ, huh?â
âSomethinâ like that,â you hum. âBut hey, I tell you what.â
You break apart from the comfort of his hold, tilting your head so you can look up, into his eyes. The pain in JJâs gaze tears you like wrapping paper, and itâs worse to know itâs your fault, but you know that itâs the only way to save you both from further pain. It isnât the right time, and thatâs a shame, and it isnât fair, since youâve memorised the outline of him and drawn him into all your plans and daydreams. But you can hear it when you talk and feel it when you sleep together, this detachment, this removal of himself, that canât come until heâs healed in a way that heâs far away from now. Thereâs something pulling him away from you, an adventure of sorts, and you donât want to keep him from it. You want JJ to love you but you want him to choose you, too. And until then, you donât have it in yourself to sit around on the sidelines, waiting for your heart to be broken. Itâs like sitting a toddler in front of a plate of chocolate chip cookies but demanding them not to touch; the temptation might just kill you.Â
âWhat?â JJ gently prompts, bringing you back from your thoughts.Â
Your smile is sick with inner lamentation. âIf you do figure yourself out, after some soul searchinâ and all that, then chances are Iâll still be here. So, I guess, if you ever feel like fallinâ then lemme know. You can catch me on the way down.â
JJâs smile is beautiful, even when his eyes are wet with unshed tears. You lean up and press a fleeting kiss to his lips, but you donât let yourself linger. If you do, youâre afraid youâll never leave. You murmur some sort of goodbye, making an excuse that you should get going, and JJ doesnât argue. He watches you as you stand, waves farewell with two-fingers as you leave, and you walk home with your heart halfway broken but more whole than it mightâve been if you stayed and tried to make this impossible thing work. JJ wasnât ready to fall in love, not yet, but you already had.Â
Ham and Cheese Sandwiches Â
âAre you sure youâre feeling okay?â
âYeah, I promise,â you reply to Mark, smiling reassuringly. You wonder if it looks like a grimace. It feels like one. Even touching him makes you want to cry, as you brush your hand atop of his on the table. Your feigned food poisoning was two days ago now but Mark was still worried for your health, likely because you were still acting so withdrawn and drained. Itâs hard to sleep when youâre consumed by guilt and confusion. âWhy donât you see if Nancy needs a hand in the kitchen, yeah? I can work on the inventory out here.â
âYou sure? I donât mind helping.â
âIâm sure,â you nod. âI can come get you if I need anything.â
âYou better,â he grins. He dips his head and kisses you and it takes everything inside of you not to pull away like a flinch. Itâs not him. Itâs you. You feel like youâre poison. Like JJâs kiss has infected you and you canât get Mark sick too. His brown curls bounce as he walks back to the building. You busy your mind with counting tins of soup. The Stirring Spoon had never had so many posters, so many new recipes, with how much youâd been trying to keep yourself busy. You picked up extra shifts at the Smoothie Shop to avoid Mark during the daytime, and you submerged yourself in your voluntary-planning work and âearly nightsâ to avoid him during the night. It wasnât fair to him but you didn't know what else to do.Â
Well, thatâs a lie. You know exactly what you should do, but denial is so much easier.Â
Ducking down, you grab another box of leftover soup from a local supermarket. Theyâd recently changed providers and all the old stuff had to go. You were thinking of making toasted sandwiches with soup. Grunting, you lift the box onto the table. The sun beats down on you as if the universe is punishing you. Good, itâs the least I deserve.Â
You can spot him anywhere, even blind. Heâs in the far corner carrying a smaller box than usual, compared to his crate. A sudden wave of panic comes over you and you speed walk over to him. He frowns as you approach.Â
âYou good? Hey!âÂ
You grab his arm and drag him out of sight from the field, behind an overgrown bush. âW hat are you doing here?â you hiss.Â
âBringing sandwiches?â he replies, as if it should be obvious. âAre you okay?â
âJJ, you canât be here,â you snap. âMark is literally in the other building!â
âSo?âÂ
âSo? Do youâŠDo you not remember what happened the other night?â you ask, calming down slightly.Â
JJ sighs and puts the box down on the floor. Shoving his hands in his pockets, he shrugs. âLook, clearly you spun out. I ainât gonna mention it if you donât want me to.â
âWaitâŠReally?â
âJesus Christ, I ainât a homewrecker,â JJ chuckles, trying to lighten the mood. You want to crack a smile but you think your face might be permanently stitched in perpetual concern forever. His laughter dies. âListen, I think you got some stuff to figure out, aâright?â
âExcuse me?â
âDonât get offended! Iâm jusâ sayingâŠâ JJ cuts himself of with a sigh and brushes a hand through his hair. He pinches the bridge of his nose. You missed all his little ticks and quirks. âLook, donât kill me for sayinâ this, Iâm just tryinâ to be honest. I donât think Markâs the right guy for you.â
âI-â
âIâm sorry, aâright? I donât think you want to admit it either butâŠI think you gotta be honest. You donât love him, okay? And thatâs aâright, Iâm not saying heâs a bad guy. I just think you need to make a choice.â
âWhat does that mean? A choice?â you quietly ask, terrified for his answer.Â
His smile is sad as JJ shrugs. âI was an idiot to lose you once, I ainât gonna lose you again - not if I can help it. If Markâs who you want - if Mark makes you feel like youâre living - then Iâll never bring it up again. Hell, Iâll stay away from you forever, if you want. Least, Iâll try to. I donât know if I can be held accountable for when Iâm drunk but- look, now Iâm getting side tracked. The point is:â, JJ speaks with his hands, âif Mark isnât the one for youâŠIâm here to catch you, yâknow?â
You blink at JJ and blink away the tears. Youâre not sure if you can form words right now, not even sure what words they would be, so you try your best to nod. JJ tries another smile.Â
âThereâs some sandwiches from Kie and Sarah for today. I hope it all goes okay. JustâŠlemme know. Or donât, yâknow? Either way,â he trails off with a shrug. You feel cemented into the dirt as JJ backs away. Then heâs gone. Your eyes slip shut. Some weird hybrid of JJ and Markâs faces fill your thoughts.Â
âIf you ever feel like fallinâ then let me know. You can catch me on the way down.âÂ
âIâm here to catch you.âÂ
You need to figure this out and fast. It wasnât fair to anybody, not even yourself. Dragging things out doesnât make it any easier, it only delays the inevitable, like tediously inching a bandaid off the skin. Sometimes you just have to rip. You just have to prepare for the aftermath.
How ironic, how when you were sixteen it was you waiting for JJ to figure himself out, and now itâs your turn. Itâs a shame you were never all that much of a fan of irony.Â
Cinnamon BunsÂ
Baking is therapeutic. The precision of weighing out the ingredients; the cathartic relief from beating together butter and sugar until fluffy like clouds; the tapping and cracking of eggs; the rhythmic folding of flour; the soon-to-arrive reward for your labour. You like baking when life gets stressful. Few things are so systematic, so simple, so quick to resolve, as baking. Life is more complicated than that.Â
Mark and JJ. Two sides of different coins. Neither good, nor bad. Human, just like you.Â
As you prepare the batter for cinnamon buns, you try to make sense of everything. Figure yourself out, as JJ had put it.Â
Mark was designed to be easy to fall in love with. It was as if the universe had a recipe for him, everything the girls crave, the people fawn over in romance novels, the parents pray for in their childâs partner. Responsible; caring; thoughtful; kind; secure; safe. Mark was good. There was no other way to put it. Hell, you met him at a voluntary community kitchen. He gave you stability like a white picket fence. Perfect and practised, like heâd been waiting for that his whole life. But you found yourself restless in the fairytale. Found yourself itching for change, for chaos, for clutter. He was sentimental in a way you werenât. That wasnât to say you were heartless - the two of you just loved differently.Â
JJ Maybank? He wasnât designed for it in the same way, but it was impossible to not fall in love with him. You knew it from the moment your paths crossed, back when you were sixteen and the two of you tumbled through two months together. Thatâs why you left in the first place. To save yourself from the inevitable heartbreak that it would bring, because sixteen-year-old JJ was in no place to commit to anybody. You assumed that with time your feelings would fade away and when you met Mark, you believed they had. You liked Mark - that wasnât false - and you had feelings for Mark. But the love you had for JJ didnât vanish. Like energy, it could only be transferred. It went into the back of your mind as if in hibernation but the moment JJ waltzed back into your world, it was awake. It was impossible to ignore.Â
Mark was the netting beneath a trapeze artist, but JJ was the acrobat. Mark was the emergency brake in a racing car, but JJ was the driver. But JJ was safety too. He made you feel safe, but he also made you feel alive.Â
And you wanted to feel alive.Â
Mark was routine. He was predictable. You could see the next five, ten, twenty years of your life laid out nice and neat with Mark. But did you want that? Did you want to give up the adventure? The chaos? The things you missed so desperately.Â
As you drizzle the topping on top of the cinnamon buns, you summarise your scrambled thoughts into one neat realisation: you wouldnât have kissed JJ if you truly wanted Mark.Â
Your heart feels like itâs in your throat as you walk to Markâs house. The buns sit neat in the tupperware and youâre careful not to shake them. His door looks like a tombstone as you knock on it. Thereâs a noise from inside and the door opens. Mark smiles down at you. Heâs dressed in a baby-blue waffle sweater and itâs so undeniably, so wonderfully him.Â
âHey!â he grins.Â
âCan I come in?â you ask. It sounds ridiculous asking that when you used to sleep in this house almost daily.Â
âCourse,â Mark replies. He opens the door further and you slip inside. It shuts behind you. You place the tupperware on the countertop, taking too much time in letting go. âYou alright?â
âMhm. I justâŠI think we should talk about some stuff,â you say, feeling your voice losing power.Â
âAlright. Come, sit,â he urges. You do as he asks and take the spot on the bed beside him, leaving a gap. âWhatâs up?â
You fumble your fingers together and stare intensely at your hands, racking your mind for the words, for where to start. Youâd practised this so many times in the mirror. Childish.Â
âI did something and I need to tell you, because youâve always been so good to me, and so honest with me, and it isnât fair to hoodwink you.â
âOkay,â Mark faintly replies.Â
You take a steady breath in. Mark is good. He deserves the truth. âI went to see JJ last week, and one thing led to another, and we kissed.â
For a moment, thereâs nothing. Just the sounds of the air conditioning unit humming as white noise. Then,Â
âOh.â
You clench your eyes shut before looking up at him. Heâs detached in his expression. Your eyes fill with tears. âIâm so sorry, Mark,â you whisper, scared your voice will break if you talk any louder. He meets your gaze. âYou donât deserve that. You donât deserve to be treated that way. Youâre such a good, genuine person. I justâŠI donât know why, but I justâŠI canât love you.â
Mark swallows thickly. The tears are warm and sticky on your cheeks. Itâs so selfish to cry when youâre the one who threw the punches. You hang your head with shame and watch the teardrops land on your restless hands.
âI swear I didnât plan it. I didnât even know I still had feelings for JJ untilâŠWell, until then.â
âI did.â
Your head snaps up. Heâs staring at you, but he doesnât look angry. No. Thereâs a shadow of a smile on his lips. A sad smile, no doubt, but a smile nonetheless.Â
âYou did?â
âThe minute you saw him, that Wednesday at the start of the month. I saw it on your face, clear as day. You never used to look at me like that.â
âMarkââ
â--Thatâs okay,â he nods. Heâs crying too, now, and youâre not sure what to think, what to do. But Mark does. Of course, he does. His hands reach out to hold yours, warm in his clutch, and you blubber like a petulant child. âYouâre not a bad person, Y/N. I could tell something was bothering you this past week.â
âI just didnât know how to tell you, and I didnât even know what it meant. But I have to be honest for the both of us, and I donâtâŠI donât think Iâm the girl youâre looking for, Mark,â you say through your tears.Â
Mark smiles solemnly and nods once. The squeeze of your hands tells you everything. I know. I agree. Itâs okay.Â
âDo you hate me?â you ask in a moment of pure patheticness. Mark laughs and shakes his head.Â
âYouâre too pretty to hate.â
âUgh! You canât say things like that!â you whine, throwing your head back. He laughs again, soggy with his sorrow, and he shrugs.Â
âJust got to keep my good-guy rep up.â
Laughing, you shake your head at him and smile. The two of you share a breath and he nods. A conclusion. His smile dwindles.Â
âIâm gonna need time, thoughâŠBefore we can be friends, maybe. Just toâŠYou knowâŠâ
âOf course,â you whisper. âI understand. Whatever you want, whatever you need. Itâs all on your terms, I promise.â
Mark nods. Thanks you. It is so fucking bizarre to have the man you cheated on thank you but here we are. Life is full of strangeness.Â
âCan I give you a hug?â you wonder. Chuckling, he nods, and you waste no time in throwing your arms around his shoulders. Mark holds you in the embrace and the two of you savour the feeling of one another for one last time. Against his shoulder, you murmur, âIâm going to miss you, Mark.â
âIâm going to miss you too,â he tells you into your collarbone. âJJâs a lucky guy. But make sure to tell him I know where he lives if he hurts you.â
You tearfully giggle against him. âIâll pass on the message.â
Bacon Sandwiches
Itâs warm today; bright and brilliant. The critters are happy, chirping in the trees, croaking in the overgrowth by the water of the marsh that lines the Pogueâs house. Your footsteps feel heavy as you walk up the driveway, anticipating weighing you down. You lift a hand to shield your eyes from the sunlight and make out JJ. Heâs at the entrance to the shop, stood a few rungs up a free-standing ladder. Heâs trying to staple something to the walls - a banner of some kind - and you make your way over.Â
âNeed a hand?â
He jumps and you cringe. Oops. JJ looks down at you and his lips quirk at the corners. The muscle tee he wears is grey and hangs loose on his well-kept frame. Heâs armed with a staple gun. âYo. Whatâre you doing here?â
âWant a hand?â you repeat, nodding up at the banner, not quite ready to confess. JJ shrugs and nods.Â
âSure. Thanks.âÂ
You glance around and find something that looks sturdy enough to stand on. Dragging it over, you boost yourself up and hold out your hand to take the other side of the banner. Holding it up against the wall, JJ leans forward and steadies himself with an elbow on the wooden panelling.Â
âWeâre selling bacon sandwiches on weekends now, so thought we oughta advertise it, yâknow? So, anyway, whatâre youââ a grunt and a click of the staple gun, â-doing here?â
You step down from your boost and JJ takes your place. You donât speak, stalling time, as JJ secures the banner. Sighing, taking it in, nodding with contentment, JJ jumps down and ditches the gun. The he stands with his hands on his hips and looks at you, shrugging again.Â
âI, uhâŠI needed to talk you,â you say, clearing your throat.Â
âAâright. What about?â
âJust likeâŠâ You rock your head back, take a breath, and steel yourself. Somewhere in that split second, you find a new mantra. JJ is good. JJ is good for me. Iâm good for JJ. Weâre good for each other. Smiling, you look at him again. âDid you mean it?â
âMean what?â he mumbles.Â
Thereâs a playfulness, a teasing, as you shrug. âThat youâll catch me.â
You can see the words as they process through his head. See the moment he tracks the meaning, parses it altogether. A smile, beautiful and brimming, greets you, and then JJ crosses the gap between you in two large strides. He wraps his arms around you and lifts you up in an embrace. He swings you around for good measure and you laugh, looping your arms around his shoulders, holding him close, smiling against him. This is good.Â
âYou mean it?â
âI mean it,â you whisper in reply. He carefully reunites you with the ground. You smile up at JJ, gazing into his blue eyes, bathing in their depths. Your hand strokes along his jaw, slides down his front until it rests just above his heart. âIt was always you, JJ.â
âYou thinkâŠYou think you can love me now?â he nervously asks.Â
You shake your head with a silent laugh. It feels like breathing, like youâre finally free, as you admit, âIâve always loved you.â
It comes and goes like a comet; the flash of shock in his eyes; the glow of his smile; the burning passion of his lips on yours. And as you kiss JJ, without guilt, without fear, you finally feel at home. When you break apart, short of air, JJ rests his forehead against yours. His thumb smooths along the soft line of your jaw and you smile. He takes a small breathe, shaky, unsure, but JJ's words are sure like bedrock.
"I love you too."
#jj x reader#jj maybank#jj maybank x reader#jj#outer banks#obx#outerbanks#outerbanks fic#outer banks fic#outerbanks one shot#outer banks one shot#obx fic#obx one shot#obx 4#outerbanks 4#outer banks 4#jj one shot#jj x reader one shot#jj maybank one shot#jj maybank x reader one shot#jj fic#jj maybank fic#jj x reader fic#jj maybank x reader fic#fem!reader#jj x fem!reader#jj maybank x fem!reader#jj maybank angst#jj maybank smut#jj maybank fluff
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Hyperventilating over this because Wilson is genuinely fucking psychotic istfg. He never even puts up a fight he's just like "Yeah I'll lie to the cops for you" or "Yeah I'll run away with you for the last 5 months of my cancer-addled life" like he genuinely would do anything for anyone at any point in time just like... for fun or something? Actually I could delve into my opinion on Wilson's psychology but I'm not going to because this post is funny and not wildly upsetting. Wilson is quite literally the only human being to ever match House's freak and I stand by that. He's actually insane. Like his insanity doesn't even stop at people either, it's been shown with animals too. I'd like to call back his cat that's just fucking named SARAH for reference because his neighbor died or smth and he felt bad for the cat so he took it in. That cat was a HUUUUUGE inconvenience for him and he easily could have just brought it to a humane society but he felt bad so he kept it. He's off the walls BONKERS and it's NEVER talked about because it's for the benefit of other people instead of the opposite.
truly nothing about house md prepares you for wilson. he's fucking insane. he's been divorced three times. he's the only person who can scheme just as well as house. he gives a patient his own liver bc he felt bad for him - a patient who didn't even know wilson's name. btw. he noticed a patient had depression bc he never mentioned his grandkids. he starred in a porno. he dosed house with antidepressants for several weeks. he allowed his boybestie and his gf to share custody of him and didn't even try to stop it. house told him to buy a piece of furniture that represented who he was, and he bought a $4000+ organ for house. he was gonna torpedo his career to talk abt euthanasia bc one of his patients suffered longer than he had to. he let house move into his 1 bed apartment bc his therapist thought it'd be a good idea. this man would do anything for anybody if they let him. he'd fucking quit his job to save a snail off the sidewalk. bro is not normal in the slightest
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"intimacy"
characters - katsuki bakugou x fem reader
synopsis - katsukiâs tough facade crumbles as soon as you two are together, and he loves every second of it.
genre - fluff!!! so much fluff đ„č
warnings - none đ«§
katsuki loves intimacy. he definitely wonât show it, but heâs all for it. that boy is so used to being tough and everything, that it makes him crave those tender and gentle moments.
just imagine simple things like making dinner. the world seems silent, the only things you can hear are the shuffles of yours and katsukiâs slippers and the raindrops hitting the roof of your shared home. bakugou is chopping food on the counter, with you sitting beside him on top of the island, swinging your legs and just observing his movements.
your presence brings him so much comfort, though you arenât even doing anything special. just the feeling of domesticity makes katsuki experience some weird warm sensation in his chest. he subconsciously smiles at that. itâs a faint smirk, but you still notice it.
after jumping off the countertop, you wrap your arms around his chest and place your head on his muscular back. he huffs with fake annoyance, but in reality, this gesture makes him incredibly happy.
âwhatcha doinâ, idiot?â he asks.
you roll your eyes at his question.
âiâm showing love to my incredibly strong boyfriend, donât pretend that you donât like it.â
at that moment, katsuki shuts up. he canât lie to your pretty face, that would be cruel, so he just decides to remain silently enjoying your presence and warmth.
some other day, you are lying under the covers with your boyfriend. itâs saturday afternoon, meaning that you two have a day off, just for yourselves. bakugo decided that both of you should watch a movie that just came out, but truth be told, he didnât even pay attention to it. the boy is simply staring blankly at the tv, visibly deep in thought. you quickly notice his weird behavior and decide to bring it up.
âkats?â you start.
his attention quickly switches to you, bright red eyes staring into yours curiously.
âwhatâs wrong?â the question falls from your lips.
his expression changes to one of slight shock. perhaps bakugou didnât realize that he was visibly zoning out, or maybe he just didnât expect you to mention it. after a few seconds of silence, bakugo finally speaks up.
ânothinâ is wrong, why you askinâ?â
you sigh at his words. he is clearly hiding something from you. just when you wanted to scold him for his obvious lie, he speaks again.
âjust thinkinâ⊠âbout how much i love you, i guessâŠâ he starts, but heâs not looking at you anymore; his eyes are fixed on the ceiling. bakugo feels so embarrassed after he says this. the boy silently curses himself for speaking up.
you look at him confused but canât deny the warm, fuzzy feeling in your chest. katsuki wasnât the one to express his love so directly, and that took you aback.
âevery memory i have with you makes me feel⊠weird. like, not bad weird, just⊠puzzled, i guess? iâve never felt that way, so itâs hard to expââ you cut off his rambling before he finishes.
âi know what you mean, kats. every moment, even the simplest and most boring one, stirs up something within you, am i right?â
your boyfriend sends you a shocked look. he didnât expect you to read his emotions so well. you just said everything right! how is that possible? did you read his mind or something? or maybe⊠it was because those were the same feelings you haveâŠ?
âyeah⊠i think youâre rightâŠâ he mumbles, visibly embarrassed by this conversation, so you think itâs time to cut it off.
âbut itâs a good feeling, right? like youâre not⊠overwhelmed?â you ask him worriedly.
katsuki shoots you a look that you think was supposed to be scolding.
âwhat? no, you idiot. itâs⊠itâs good, i like it.â
you smile at his words and tuck yourself closer to him, bathing in his warmth.
âthatâs goodâŠâ you whisper and feel yourself slowly doze off, as bakugou leaves a soft kiss on your forehead.
you sleep soundly, dreaming about every soft and domestic moment you had with katsuki. and there were many more to come.
. Ęâ âč . ĘË . Ę kiraraâs notes . Ęâ âč . ĘË . Ę
thank you for reading this, hope you liked it! likes, follows and reblogs are greatly appreciated đ€đ«§
#âčââĄâ kirarasworks#bakugou x reader#izuku midoriya#mha x reader#mha bakugou#mha#my hero acedamia#my hero academia#boku no hero acedamia#bnha#bnha bakugo katsuki#katsuki bakugo x reader#bakugou katsuki#bnha bakugou#bakugou x you#bakugou fluff
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A TICKET IN YOUR NAME
pairing : tobio kageyama x f!reader summary : the charity auction you're in charge of is closing in, and there's still a ticket reserved in his name. your executives are on your neck about wanting a clear answer if the pro player will be able to attend - with no regards for the fact that you broke up three months ago cw : pro player!kageyama, break up, post-timeskip, reader wears a dress, angst, bittersweet, heavy yearning, regret, slight profanity, lowkey self indulgent lol, no use of y/n word count : 5.8k
âKageyama? Hey, itâs me.â
A ray of cold ran down his spine as your all too familiar voice rang in his ear, tearing painfully at his heart from the first syllable. God, how he had missed those melodic vibrations he now only heard in his dreams.
When the unknown number popped up on his phone screen, his first instinct was to let it go straight to voicemail. But for whatever reason, the voice in the back of his mind told him he should pick it up â he definitely didnât expect to be greeted with the unforgettable tone of your voice, causing his heart to bang against its cage.
And you had called him Kageyama, instantly pulling out the amateur stitching he had applied to the tears in his heart.
It made him feel a little sick, his last name sounding foreign on your tongue. You never did that, because he hadnât allowed it. When it came to you, he wanted to be close, intimate, especially since distance came so naturally to all of his relationships. And one thing that separated you from the rest, you called him Tobio.
Or you used to.
âI hope Iâm not interrupting anything-â
âNo,â he said a little too quickly. âNo, youâre good.â
âIâm just gonna cut to the chase-â the sentence came to an abrupt halt when he swore he heard you take a sharp breath, as if you had to contain deep emotions that threatened to overtake your sense of calm. âManagement keep bugging me about your ticket for the charity auction.â
âRight,â he said it so quietly he wasnât entirely sure the microphone picked it up.
âI donât even know if youâre in town then,â lie â a complete and utter fabrication to try and convince him, but also yourself, that you werenât still hung up on the past â like you didnât have his schedule for the next seven months logged into your phone, knowing very well he was in fact still available that evening. âBut the ticket is still reserved in your name, and I promised my executives I would provide them with a clear answer if you were attending or not.â Again you cut yourself off, a shaky breath traveling the line, something he had learned long ago was a clear indicator that you were fighting back tears. âTold them Iâd have an answer by the end of the week.â
Of course he hadnât forgotten about the auction â you had stressed about it for months even before you broke up, being in charge of putting the whole event together. The red circle in his calendar marking the date kept coming closer and closer, and he had wondered if you would reach out to ask about it â now he had his answer.
âIâm in town,â he muttered simply, closing his eyes as he just waited for your voice to return.
âLook, I donât want to pressure you into attending or anything. If itâll make you uncomfortable, Iâm sure Iâll figure something out-â
âIt wonât make me uncomfortable.â He was a little surprised by how soft his voice came out, but it was true â he would never be uncomfortable around you. âNext Saturday, right?â
âYou remembered?â
âGot it circled.â
âFigured.â Silence swallowed the conversation, and it felt so unnatural. It was only with you he was able to engage in a conversation that flowed like a peaceful stream. He had been deprived of that privilege for so long, and his strangling feelings were slowly piling up inside him, weighing heavy on his heart.
He could picture you so clearly, down to the smallest detail. Right now you were probably sat behind your desk in your office, resting your forehead in the palm of your hand. And if he was still able to interpret your behaviour correctly, simply based on your tone, he suspected there were salty pools welling up in your eyes, threatening to spill over any second.
At this hour, you were probably left alone in the company building, everyone else having gone home already. And he pictured you were longing to go home too, so you could change out of the boring corporate attire he knew you hated with a fiery passion. The second you were to set foot inside your apartment, you would walk straight for your closet to put on your favourite slacks â maybe, if you hadnât thrown them out already, you would wear his old hoodie as well. âThey feel like home,â you always used to say before melting into the piece of clothing that was too big for you.
It was most likely a naive fantasy, but Tobio liked to toy with the image nonetheless.
You stole his attention from his spiralling when you sighed, shifting the entire tension of the conversation into something more serious, deprived from emotion. âBlack tie event. Prepare for press, the company wonât be shy about any notable names. Pro player Kageyama Tobio is one of those names. Just let me know where youâre staying, and weâll send a car to take you to the location.â
The business voice had taken the phone call hostage, barely recognising the voice on the other end of the line. The only time you used it for not work related occasions was when you were mad at him...
âGreat, thank you.â
A beat of silence. âAgain, sorry to bother you. I know itâs late.â
âItâs fine. You couldnât⊠bother me.â
It felt awkward now. The ice was broken, the no-contact had failed, and now neither of you wanted to let go despite not being able to find any words to feed the conversation.
For a split second Tobio was overcome with courage, having to clear his throat before he opened his mouth, âhey, how are you-â
âIâll see you next Saturday.â His attempt was shut down instantly, rushing to hang up after blurting out your goodbyes.
Your phone hit the desk with an obnoxious rattle before your hands came flying to cover your face, aggressive sobs tumbling past your lips.
Even though you missed him, his voice, the comfort he provided, you just did not have the strength it required to indulge in casual conversation with him. It hurt too much.
Time heals all wounds â what a load of bullshit, because here you sat, three months after the most earth shattering heartbreak you had ever experienced and it still served as an aching gash in your life.
Since that horrid night, you had delved head first into work to distract yourself as best as you could. It had been a privilege to be able to fill your time so you could ignore dealing with the issue at hand â a privilege you had taken for granted as your sobs filled the vacant space of your lonely office.
In less than two weeks, you would be forced to look him in the eyes again. You had to paint your face with a smile, smother your sorrows for the sake of the company as he was expected to stay at your side for the evening.
You werenât sure youâd be able to pull this one ashore after all.
As promised, a fancy black car had pulled up exactly at the time you had texted him.
The entire car ride was spent in a one sided conversation, where the driver tried to initiate polite small talk only to be met with quiet sounds that barely confirmed Tobio was even listening.
He was too busy trying to plant his feet back on the ground, nerves traveling his body from head to toe. Every ten seconds he tilted his head to check his phone just in case you had sent him any further information about tonight that he needed to be aware of. He was left disappointed every time when there never appeared a notification with your name attached.
Sooner rather than later, flashing lights surrounded the car and he knew they had reached the destination.
This was a part of the job he had never gotten used to, and some part of him would probably always struggle with the attention that came with his career path.
Reluctantly stepping out of the car, he braced himself for the overwhelming noice of the press shouting to grab is attention.
It was only so much his PR training sufficed. He would wave awkwardly, try to smile and present himself as nicely as possible so his managers wouldnât be on his neck about the bad impression heâd given off â but no amount of training was able to calm his nerves.
Only you did that.
Whenever he had to make public appearances, you were the one to help his feet back on the ground and remind him it wasnât scary. You would lace your fingers with his, gently press your body against his side with such grace. And you would look at him, your eyes whispering quiet affirmations; youâre doing great, okay? Iâm with you every step of the way.
Deprived of your safety, he was overthinking every move he did. Was it obvious how fake the small tilt of his lips were? Who was he kidding, they probably didnât even see what was his attempt at a smile. Was the outfit okay? Had he picked out the wrong outfit, showing up underdressed to your special night? No, he had purposely chosen a safe option, one he knew you liked. Was his steps towards the entrance too slow? No wait, shit- now he was walking too fast.
He couldnât be too sure he had been able to pull off the image his managers wanted, but he had at least gotten himself through the doors of the venue.
He had no time to react before he was approached by a neatly dressed individual with a clipboard in her hands. âMr. Kageyama? Follow me.â
Croaking a quiet âokayâ, Tobio didnât know what else to do than do as she said, eventually ending up in a secluded, yet spacious hallway. There were only a few people scattered about, all seemingly rather busy.
Then his eyes landed on a familiar frame that he would recognise any time and any place, forever burned into his memory. Your bare back facing him, phone to your ear as frustration pulled your shoulders high.
Everything else seemed to disappear when he heard your voice, âno, no, itâs supposed to be four-â you spun around, and the sentence died instantly once your eyes automatically locked with his.
He fell for the temptation, trying to be as subtle as possible as he let his eyes travel you up and down. You were breathtaking, all dolled up in a floor length, satin gown in deep maroon. There was a shy slit in your skirt, and your exposed arms were decorated with the prettiest jewlery.
But what had his breath catch in his throat was the familiar pendant resting right on the centre of your chest â the dainty necklace he recognised as his gift for you for your first anniversary.
âMr. Kageyama, as requested,â the stranger said before hurrying away to attend other tasks.
âJust⊠I trust youâll be able you fix it,â you spoke softly into the phone before hanging up, never breaking eye contact.
He swallowed the lump in his throat that had formed the moment he had seen you again, âhey.â
âHi,â you said weakly, your nerves driving you to pull at your own fingers. The action captured his eyes which instantly had you hide your hands behind your back. You knew all too well what was running through his mind at the moment, having a nearly primal desire to interrupt it.
One could cut the tension with a knife, thick and suffocating, with so many lingering feelings resting in the prolonged eye contact.
You reached within yourself, closing your eyes for a second to force away your uneasiness. Once they opened, and met his again, all evidence of previous sentiments were gone and replaced with business. Your shoulders lowered slightly, arms moving in front of you again and your entire stance straightening with a newfound sense of confidence.
âGreat! You picked a good outfit,â was the nicest compliment you were able to pay him without completely succumbing to the sadness that was walking a fine line, ready to overtake you at any second. âItâs perfect for the evening.â
He tilted his head forward bashfully to hide the small smirk of amusement that formed at his lips because he knew you were being modest in your observations. It wasnât unintentional that heâd put on the all black, three piece suit you had helped him purchase when he was first signed.
It seemed like a lifetime ago now, but he remembered how you had gladly joined him when he was in such a desperate need for a formal wear he could pull out on special occasions. He would never forget how your lips had parted and eyes widened when he came out in that suit, unable to peer your eyes off of him. Heâd watched as you had actively swallowed the lump in your throat before nodding in approval, rather enthusiastically.
âGlad to hear it,â he sighed, stuffing his hands in his pockets. âYou look great, by the way. But thatâs no surprise.â
For a split second your front wavered with a weak smile. You wouldnât allow the fragility to settle â you could not afford that tonight, of all nights.
You spun on your heel, walking down the hall in the opposite direction. Tobio didnât hesitate to follow.
âTheyâre opening the doors for the other guests very soon, and in roughly twenty minutes I have to go up on stage to welcome everyone. The auction will start shortly after that.â You stopped abruptly outside a huge door, nearly causing him to crash into you. Resting your hand on the handle, he watched how it clenched around the metal. âIâll find you after. Youâre technically still my da-⊠my plus one.â
Without sparing him another look, you simply opened the door and entered the ballroom, leaving the word âdateâ hang unfinished in the air.
How had the two of you gotten to this point?
His future used to be so clear â he saw his entire life headed in a direction he had never dared to dream of, based on the fear of its unlikelihood. You brought safety and comfort to his life, which had grown somewhat turbulent after garnering some fame within the world of athletes â no matter how things turned out, it would be okay, because he still had you.
But now he had to control how he didnât let his gaze linger for too long, because it could be crossing a boundary that previously didnât exist. He had to hold his tongue so he didnât bombard you with all the affection he still had for you, because that wasnât his job anymore.
Slowly but surely, the ballroom started to fill up with an assortment of characters, all ready to spend their money on the extravagant auction. Tobio found himself standing awkwardly in the same spot you left him, along the outskirts of the growing crowd, feeling beyond uncomfortable.
And though he knew he should mingle, all he was able to do was let his eyes follow you when you eventually made your way onto the stage. The music came to a slow stop, the crowd calmed down and everyoneâs eyes were on you.
To everyone else, you probably seemed in control of yourself, confident even â but Tobio was still able to read you like a book, rarely having seen you as nervous as right now. Your smile was bright, but very clearly forced as your eyes roamed the audience frantically.
Suddenly you looked at him, meeting his eyes that were always so soft â a feature that somehow always caught you a little by surprise. He was often so stoic, his eyebrows always just slightly tilted in a frown. But his eyes betrayed his cold exterior, conveying a tenderness you had never really seen in anyone else.
With the familiar safety of his gaze, your breathing evened out and shoulders relaxed, which he noticed. He flashed you a small smile before giving you a reassuring nod, telling you there was nothing to be scared of â because after everything, he would still catch you if you were to fall.
Exhaling deeply, you started the welcome speech, your smile now genuine. He followed every single word that fell from your lips with immense professionalism, and every once in a while when your eyes found him in order to ground yourself, his heart would skip a beat.
âOnce again, thank you all for attending and I hope you all enjoy the evening.â The crowd erupted into polite applause while you walked down from the stage gracefully.
âYou did great,â Tobio breathed as you had joined him again.
âThank god,â you sighed. âThat speech has kept me awake all week.â
âNo, it was good. Very professional.â You turned to look at him, a beautiful smile painting your lips as old habits steered your hand for his face.
When you realised what you were about to do, your face fell, hand freezing inches before making contact with his cheek. In all the stress of being up on that stage with everyoneâs eyes glued on you, you had forgotten the nerves caused by your ex boyfriend.
It had just come so naturally to you, to caress his cheek. It was a gesture you always did whenever he would come with one of his simple compliments.
âSorry,â you whispered, quickly retracting your hand.
âNo, no, itâs okay,â he stuttered sadly. Tobio had held his breath from the moment heâd noticed your hand raise from your side.
He had frozen still once he realised what was about to happen in hopes that if he didnât move, you would continue in your trance and heâd eventually feel your flesh pressed against his face. Heâd been deprived of the sensation for so long, and he was left disappointed when the feeling never arrived.
Was this how the evening was going to play out? Standing beside each other for hours in an awkward and unnatural silence, both too scared to do anything in fear of offending the other?
Tobio wanted to say something, but small talk had never been his strong suit â that was always your area of expertise, fill the void with chatter so no one was left feeling uncomfortable.
âYou planning to bid on anything?â It was as if you had been able to read his mind, saving him from his ever spiralling mind.
âNo, not really,â he said simply. âYou?â
He turned to look at you, feeling a sense of relief as you let out a small snicker, observing how the auction was about to start.
âI may be in charge of this entire thing, but that doesnât mean I have the money to get any of the things theyâve put up,â you sighed. âThat trip to the Maldives looking really good right now, though.â
For a split second, Tobio heavily considered putting all his money on that trip for you. He imagined being able to walk beside you along the crystal blue shores of the Maldives, peace and relaxation washing over you to the point where you would finally have the time to take proper breaths.
But it was but a mere dream, only a reality in the depths of his mind where he was allowed to fantasise that you were still his.
For the next three hours, you stood side by side as you witnessed all the luxuries items being auctioned off one by one. Every once in a while you would shoot a casual comment in hopes it would lighten the looming cloud that hung over you â it remained persistent.
It didnât go unnoticed, how the tension in your shoulders never completely evaporated. Even when your bosses came to shower you with praise for all the hard work youâd done, or when you were updated on the insane sum of money that would be donated, your shoulders remained permanently raised half an inch.
He could only suspect it was his presence that caused the strain. Maybe it had been a bad idea of him to attend.
In hindsight he could see how it was nothing short of selfish â because what other reason for attending would he have than only wanting to see you again? He didnât serve any more purpose than decoration. His name wasnât even among the most noticeable, so it wasnât like he brought any more traction to the event than it already had.
Maybe it would be best if he just bolted, let you be able to enjoy what could be considered your evening. You should be proud, celebrate the success of your hard work.
As the auction had slowly evolved into a party, several pairs had decided to move along to the beautiful rhythm that filled the ballroom. Tobio would shoot shy glances towards you, spotting how you were staring longingly at the dance floor.
âYou want to dance?â
âWhat?â
Shit â he hadnât meant to blurt it out. He genuinely thought the question simply floated in his mind to entertain his fantasy. Seemed like his subconscious had more power than he thought when the words slipped past his lips.
And now you were stood ogling him in shock, arms wrapped around yourself as you were visibly trying to comprehend his question.
He cleared his throat, trying to find the confidence he used to have with you once upon a time. âWould you like to dance?â He asked again, voice steadier than he would have anticipated.
You swallowed the lump in your throat as you considered his request. âOkay,â you whispered, his heart skipping a beat.
This was not the time to let his confidence waver, offering his elbow like a gentleman, holding his breath as he waited for you to hook your arm with his.
Stood in the middle of the dance floor facing each other, you tried to calm your rapid breathing as you waited for him to take the lead.
With slight hesitation you placed your right hand on his shoulder. And it seemed like he picked up on the reluctance in your movements, because his right hand grabbed a hold of yours to have it stretched out â reminding you how big they were compared to yours.
But when you felt his left hand make contact with your bare back, you couldnât help but draw a sharp breath, igniting memories you had so sorely tried to forget.
In the dead of night, when it seemed like the two of you were the only people left in the world, he would place his lips tenderly along your back, pulling soft giggles from you as his breath tickled you when it brushed against your skin.
And now his warm hand was resting within the ghost of those kisses, reminding you not only of the private and intimate moments shared together, but also just how gentle he was with you.
To say Tobio was a little rough around the edges was an understatement. He could definitely be crass, tone bordering on cruel when talking to someone, despite having no ill intentions whatsoever. His face was nearly permanently stamped with a frown, seemingly always in a bad mood to the untrained eye.
The Tobio people saw on court was also ruthless. Always giving it his all, whether if it was his calculated sets or his powerful serves â he never showed his opponents mercy.
But the second a match was over, and he was reunited with you, all edge seemed to disappear. Same strong hands that had recently performed fiercely on the court, would now cup your face with utmost care while you shied away from prying eyes.
Same tender touch was pressed lovingly against your back in this very moment â and it felt so safe. The security he always supplied in his embrace came to show so easily. Taking care of you was second nature to him, even now after everything.
âNever known you to be a dancer,â you said carefully as he started to take the lead, moving surprisingly graciously along to the music.
âIâm full of surprises,â he dared to joke with the faintest smirk.
âNever known you to be a guy of surprises either,â you quipped, having his smirk stretch a little wider.
He turned to scan the other couples, leaving you to just admire him.
He really was beautiful, and he didnât even seem to be the slightest bit aware of the fact. When going about his day, he never brought attention to himself so it was easy to forget â until it struck you like lightning from clear skies, suddenly and all at once.
âYouâve outdone yourself tonight,â he breathed, shifting his attention back to your face. It caught you off guard, your cheeks heating up with embarrassment, scared he caught you in your admiration.
âYou really think so?â
âDefinitely. Iâm really impressed.â Again you had his heart skip a beat, when for the first time this evening, you flashed him a wide and genuine grin.
âThank you.â
âThen again-â he began, a little scared to continue when you raised your eyebrows in curiosity. âYouâve always been impressive.â
Finally your stress released. Your shoulders lowered and you relaxed in his arms, a softness in your features he had been waiting to reunite with.
This was Tobio â the person you had shared countless conversations about all and nothing with, who knew you inside out. There wasnât any reason for it to be uncomfortable. Why not make the best out of the situation?
âVolleyballâs going great, I hear,â you breathed, a newfound, though a little unsteady, contentment in your voice.
He nodded slowly, âyeah, you could say that,â a shameless smile of pride curling his lips upwards.
âBet you can see the end of the road to being the best, now?â
âStaring to spot it,â he mused, acting a lot more humble than you were used to.
âOnly Oikawa ahead of you now. Heard heâs still considered to be a remarkable setter-â
âOh, shut up,â he said with a roll of the eyes, your words trailing into soft giggles.
âYou know Iâm just kidding. Iâve known you to be the best all along,â you said softly, slowly melting into his embrace more and more by the second.
And by the way he was looking at you right now, with a sense of safety that would always make you feel some sort of belonging, no matter what, youâd never be entirely lost when with Tobio.
It seemed like he felt it too. So many shared moments was coming back to him when being allowed to gaze into your eyes again, especially after all this time â he was scared he might end up spiralling if he let himself sink too deep in the familiar comfort of you.
You couldnât help but flinch when he broke the eye contact, clearing his throat when he once again observed the surrounding crowd. âDo you thinkâŠâ
âDo I think what?â
âDo you think theyâll write about this?â He scoffed, nodding in the direction of the not so subtle press who had very clearly been snapping pictures of you.
You shrugged. âIâm not worried,â you breathed, âwe were never really public enough to be prolific, were we?â
The soft sound of your nervous chuckle drew his attention right back to you. He shouldnât be too surprised that something as simple as the sound of your laugh and the twinkle in your eye could threaten to have him fall back in again â he knew he was weak. He felt it every day, with every beat of his heart, how it pulled at him to return to you.
You were dangerous that way, both to him and yourself. Your eyes would always betray you when they were staring at him, your devotion clear as day. It was always simmering just below the surface no matter how far apart you were.
âBesides, I mean, I am really just some nobody working behind the scenes in some big company. Iâm no one really cares about-â
A frustrate groan shot past his teeth, spotting how his eyebrows narrowed in the angle he so often sported. âYouâve never been a nobody.â He drew a breath, a distinctly sharp one, his lips drawing in a thin line as he churned what words to say next. âYouâre more than a nobody. Youâre more than a somebody. You matter. Youâre the only one who matters.â His voice was stern, but surprisingly calm â which only made it worse.
You couldnât wrap your head around how he managed to serve such insanely deep and powerful declaration as it was nothing. It was like he had no idea what kind of weight his words carried, no regard for what impact it might have on you.
And there was a very simple explanation to that â because to him it was nothing. It was just the truth, which always came easy to him.
He noticed the inner corners of your eyebrows tighten, painting your face with sorrow as the corner of your lips drooped south.
âThere were reasons, right? Reasons we broke up?â He asked carefully. As his volume lowered, he tilted his head forward, bringing him so painfully close.
Your sad eyes flittered between his, his crystal pools of blue that always enforced the intensity of his messages, and you began to think.
When you could feel his love still pulsating off of him, and his slightly calloused thumb sending sparks throughout your body as it subconsciously moved back and forth in soft swipes along your spine, it was hard to remember any one reason for why things ended at all.
âYeah,â you sighed solemnly, nodding slowly, âyeah, Iâm sure there was.â
The deep breath he took brushed against your face, and you had to swallow the little sob that harboured deep in your throat. âDo you miss it?â
You instantly knew what he really asked â did you miss him â the real meaning wasnât hard to deduce, Tobio had always been horrible at hiding his real intentions.
âSure, some days more than others,â your voice cracked slightly. It was only for a faint second, but it flashed across his face how it wasnât necessarily the answer he wanted, a hint of anger threatening to scrunch his face. But it evaporated as quickly as it had appeared. âItâs not easy, if thatâs what youâre really asking.â
âYou see right through me, huh?â It sounded as he was attempting to pull the mood up, but when there was no rise in his tone nor an optimistic twitch in his expression, he failed miserably.
âWell, still know you better than I know myself.â
Silence fell between you, still letting the safety of his arms guide you along to the symphonies that filled the ballroom. You were so close to falling in, completely surrender to the serenity you knew would come over you if you just gave in.
âYou know, if there was something I did, I am really sor-â
âCan we pretend?â You cut him off. âJust for tonight, can we just forget everything and pretend?â
His lips parted in surprise. Your antsy nerves creeped back into your body when he slowly pulled back, certain he would turn the request down.
And he knew he should. In a matter of seconds, the healing youâd both gone through up until this point would be undone. But he wasnât strong enough, especially after having been at war with that antagonising devil on his shoulder all night. With your request egging it on, he was going to let it win.
âOkay,â he whispered, straightening his posture.
With the blink of an eye, you had turned it all off. A smile adorned your lips before simply inching closer to rest your cheek against his chest, reunited with the sound of his heartbeat that you were so used to falling asleep too.
Your eyes fluttered shut as you felt him rest his cheek on the crown of your head, his limbs squeezing you just a little tighter, as if it was somehow going to prevent you from slipping away when the evening came to a close.
You had expected it to pick up its pace, beat like a hummingbird â but it was steady.
Maybe his heart was finally beating steady, after stuttering in his chest for months, lost as it tried to find back to its purpose. And now it had been reunited with it, instantly recognising the euphoria and quickly settling into its supposed rhythm.
Bittersweet â that was how it felt. You were allowing yourself to completely bask in the comfort of Tobio. You hadnât felt such contentment and rest since the split, and it felt nice to breathe calmly for once.
But he was still your ex, and it would come to an end eventually, again going your separate ways.
Those were sorrows for tomorrow.
You allowed yourself to dance with him, your tears quietly wetting the fabric of his jacket until the evening came to an end.
Looming in the shadow of the auctions success was a sight no one had expected to see.
Sheâs the cute face behind the whole event, having worked countless hours to pull it all together for it to turn out the way it did, and itâs safe to assume she is probably thrilled with the sum they were able to rake in for the sake of a good cause.
However, youâre probably reading her name and finding it awfully familiar â but you canât seem to understand why; thereâs no reason for you to know the name of some random employee at a big shot company. The name probably rings a bell because she is better known as the ex girlfriend of star player Kageyama Tobio, seemingly home in Japan for a visit. Was the reason for his unexpected return solely to attend the big evening of a special ex-someone?
During their time together, they rarely made headlines as they were notorious for keeping their relationship private. But once the handsome Ali Roma setter became available, people were quick to show their interest.
Though we were not lucky enough to be of attendance at the charity auction, weâve gotten our hands on exclusive pictures from the night. Not only were they spotted together for the majority of the evening, these photos show they didnât seem shy when sharing a rather intimate moment on the dance floor.
One can start to speculate if the corporate sweetheart has once again swooned the sought after Kageyama.
Fret not, because we got a rare statement from the woman of the hour, and she says : âI have nothing but respect and adoration for Kageyama, but-â
Tobio shut the magazine, unable to finish the article.
tags : @hiraethwa ïŸ @shouyuus (hope you dont mind i added you love)
an : dedicated to tobio nation <3 lets go with the angst, it is obvi what i love. idk if you guys picked it up, but to me it's sooooo clear where my writers block started to disappear lol comments and reblogs is much appreciated
©hiraethwrote 2024 . all rights reserved. reposting, translating and otherwise plagarisim is prohibited
#â àŹ my creative corner#dividers by saradika#hq#hq oneshot#hq x reader#haikyuu#haikyuu x reader#haikyuu oneshot#kageyama tobio#kageyama tobio oneshot#kageyama x reader#kageyama tobio x reader#kageyama oneshot#kageyama#haikyuu kageyama#tobio kageyama x reader#tobio kageyama#hq kageyama#hq tobio#haikyuu tobio
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Askew
Summary: Terry makes good on a promise.
Pairing: Terry Richmond x Black!OC
Word Count: 2.1k
Warnings: SMUT (18+)
Previous: At Last: Part Two
âIâm gonna fuck the glasses off your face tonight. Okay?âÂ
A simple sentence. No fanfare. No lingering touch or a suggestive look. Not even a repeat of his matter-of-fact declaration despite the words nearly being lost to the pockets of conversation in Coreyâs kitchen during a rowdier than usual Friendsgiving gathering. Terry calmly whispered the plain statement into Patriceâs ear as he passed by on the way out of the door to join the other men in the backyard.Â
Patrice tried to appear unphased while she sipped from her plastic cup of white wine. âNow?â
âIâll let you know.âÂ
Heâd made up his mind to have her babbling incoherent sentences while he bent her over the living room couch before they could make it out of the house, but holding in his little secret had proven difficult. Terry wished he could blame it on the tequila shots or the haze of weed smoke blown out of mouths far too federally employed to still be dabbling with the plant. Either would be an acceptable lie because the truth was too trivial to share. It was the North Carolina A&T crew neck and black cat-eye glasses Patrice had chosen to sport for the night. His mind dreamt up all the times heâd missed her studying for exams in the sweater a hair too large, and glasses that made her look like a professor during office hours while she bounced around the room making small talk with people he hardly recognized. His social butterfly moving her lips a mile a minute when all he wanted to do was feel those lips on every square inch of his body.
Terry needed her in the worst way. The bathroom mightâve sufficed. Maybe even the backseat of his truck. But neither option provided the sound insulation he needed to fulfill his raging desire. Heâd need the privacy of their home and a TV turned all the way up to avoid disturbing the neighbors.Â
The signal to leave came with a quick tap on Patriceâs hip in the middle of a spirited talk with her best friend, Vicky, about something he couldnât care less about.Â
âI guess thatâs my cue, girl,â Patrice laughed, trying to play her role as the chatty wife being called away by her quiet husband. âTalk to you later?âÂ
Their exit featured hurried goodbyes and promises to return for the Christmas game night that they likely wouldnât remember come daylight. Hands fumbled with keyfobs and door handles in their mad dash to somewhere a little more secluded. Blue lights from the dashboard reflected from Patriceâs glasses as they made out in front of their childhood friendâs house like maniacs, too intoxicated with lust to care if someone saw them from the open front door.Â
One hand on the steering and the other middle and ring fingers deep in warm pussy had Terry breaking speed limits and running stop signs to turn a twenty-minute journey into ten if he were lucky.Â
They didnât waste time with light switches or picking up discarded clothing on the clumsy journey to the bedroom. A split second of clarity told Terry to flip on the lamp as Patrice made the descent to his dick one sloppy kiss on his chest and stomach at a time.Â
âWhat you got for me?âÂ
More than heâd bargained for shouldâve been the answer had she taken the time to use her mouth for anything more than making his muscled thighs tense like heâd been tased.Â
With a pillow folded between her legs while she lay on her stomach and eyes looking up at Terry over the rim of her spectacles, Patrice put on an oral demonstration fit for a professional. Her glasses fogged from the cold air and steamy situation unfolding on their marital bed.Â
The corners of her mouth stinging from the stretch of him and the ache building in her core kept her tethered to reality when she wanted to escape into the pleasure of seeing her man so vulnerable from her touch.Â
He hissed and cursed as she ran a flat tongue on the underside of his dick. âFuck, girl. I knew Iâd get all of this up out you one day. DamnâŠâÂ
Gobbsmacked. Astounded. Sucked into oblivion. Terry had transcended time and space once Patrice made a home for him at the back of her throat over and over again. Spit coated her hands, chin, and his lap while she focused on leaving him too stupefied to utter anything that had more than one syllable. She couldâve swiped every dollar from his wallet, bank account, and retirement fund and heâd still thank her for inviting him into her mouth.Â
Low groans and rough requests for more sounded like applause as Patrice went to work on her lover. His approach to the mountaintop matched hers as she desperately searched for friction from the pillow below her.Â
âHell yeah, like that, baby. You know what you doinâ. Shit.â Praise came in heeps. Her silk press had long turned into reigns for Terry to keep her head stable. Tears mixed with saliva for extra lubrication. She looked gorgeous under amber light to her husband.Â
Up and down, up and down. Take it. Gargle it down. Breathe through your nose. Looping mantras played in her head as he took control to finish what sheâd started. Â
His release came in a photo finish. His toes curled from pure ecstasy. Body seized up in beautiful suspension, each bulging muscle in his arms and torso on display. Head thrown back to direct his loud moan to the ceiling. Eyeballs rolled behind fluttering lids. Kids drained down the hatch, never to reach their full potential.Â
She cleaned up the remnants with her tongue, splitting her attention between Terry and the building orgasm as she swiveled her hips against firm cotton. He stared down at her, taking in the way her jaw dropped to form that âoâ he loved so much. Her brow furrowed once her teeth took hold of her bottom lip.Â
âThat feel good to you, baby?âÂ
âMhmm.â Patrice tried to give a more accurate description of her mind state. All she could manage was a slurred hum in the affirmative while he watched her unravel at the seams without his help.Â
âShow me. I wanna watch.âÂ
And watch he did. Dick in hand and back pressed against the headboard, Terry used his refractory period to watch Patrice turn his pillow into her personal fuck toy. Her hips bucked slowly under his attention while she searched for her first eruption.Â
His stroke matched her movements blow for blow while she admired her lone audience member. Siren eyes and a confident smirk, hands kneading bountiful breasts, and his name rolling from her lips kept him engrossed in her one-woman show.Â
The inevitable approached like a crashing wave against a calm shore. âLet me cum for you, Terrence. Can I do that? Tell me.âÂ
Patrice knew the trouble sheâd started. Using his first name, and asking for permission, it was all to elicit the reaction Terry so eagerly provided. He scrambled to his knees for the chance to hover over her with his forehead pressed so tightly against hers that they shared pools of sweat.Â
Intense blue-green eyes peered down at her, wordlessly edging her closer to paradise.Â
âNuh uh, eyes up here,â Patrice instructed when the view of quaking thighs and waxed lower lips became too distracting for Terry. âTell me when, my love. Iâm all yours.âÂ
Her voice climbed, sounding like a symphony to his ears. He waited and watched until she met the brink of too much stimulation. âNow. Right now.âÂ
A rush of emotions forever intertwining two bodies flowed between them through a kiss dominated by silky tongues and Patriceâs swallowed mewls. Terry had perfected the art of kissing. Knowing when to suck at her bottom lip, when to wrap his large hand around Patriceâs throat to keep her head angled upward, and when to pull away for other pursuits.Â
Normally, hickeys were childish evidence of adult activities, but tonight they were trophies for a job well done.Â
âI love you so much.â Even in furious fucking where feelings took a backseat to more carnal desires, Terry refused to miss an opportunity to utter his favorite phrase. He sucked a nipple into his mouth, letting his tongue trace the outline of her areola to his heartâs content before pulling away to show the other the same attention. He listened to her sigh and smiled. âI love the way you sound.âÂ
âWhat else?âÂ
A lick up her sternum before a kiss. âI love the way you say my name.âÂ
âYeah?âÂ
âI love your body. Youâre perfect.â An open-mouthed kiss at the base of her neck as he gripped her waist. âI love the way you take dick. Especially tonight. Think you can take some more for me, pretty?â
Like a magnet, Terryâs fingers found their way to Patriceâs slick inner lips as he gathered wetness to drag skilled digits around her clit. Her breath audibly hitched from the contact, making him chuckle with his lips pressed against her cheek. Slow circles, maddeningly slow and gentle enough to feel like nothing at all had her willing to agree to just about anything to get off.
âWhatever you say, baby.â
Terry didnât say much. It wasnât his nature. Only short, honey-sweet directions for Patrice to press her chest to crumpled sheets and spread her knees wide. He made it so easy to comply. So easy to contort herself into any position he wanted because she knew what awaited her on the other side.Â
He had her at his mercy. Her sat ass high up in the air with her flower on display from a gloriously deep arch. Terry felt an animalistic switch flip to remind him of his promise. Pupils dilated and reinvigorated by the lewd image manifesting at his fingertip, he went to work.Â
A relentless pounding. Punishing strokes that made the bed creak from the stress of it all. The sheer force knocked Patriceâs glasses askew without an opportunity for adjustment. She could only claw at the foot of the bed and push her hips back into his to match the rhythm.Â
The sound of smacking skin and mixed moans created a soundtrack for rabid, desperate fucking. His thumbs left impressions on the delicate skin of her back, turning his knuckles white as he dug deeper.Â
Patrice took every inch like only she could, earning a rough smack as appreciation.Â
âThatâs my girl,â Terry gritted through clenched teeth. âStay with me. I feel you.âÂ
It was all too much. The angle. The vision of Terryâs chest clenching and releasing for exertion as Patrice looked back at him. The way his brows knitted in concentration. The scent of his cologne wafted with every move. His tattoos glistened under dim lights.
âOh my God!âÂ
Early sparks of a white-hot release turned Patrice into putty, forcing Terry to hold her close.Â
One hand between her legs and the other putting soft pressure on the sides of her neck kept Patrice and Terry tethered on their quest for joint waves.
âI love you.âÂ
âI need you.âÂ
âYou feel so good inside me.âÂ
âKiss me. Please.â
âCum for me.â
Terry sank his teeth into Patriceâs shoulder as she clenched around him, no longer able to contain himself as she clenched around him. Shared euphoria. A once in a blue moon experience that neither of them had encountered.Â
Moans became indistinguishable. Eyelids clamped shut as hips sputtered. Glasses tumbled from the bed to the floor, having served their purpose. Bodies wrapped themselves around the other until they were spent, toppled over, and basking in the feel of each other.Â
âGood job, baby.â Terry praised, his voice soothing her mind while his hands rubbed the peaks and valleys of Patriceâs hips and thighs while they lay on their sides. He couldnât bring himself to pull out, too engrossed in the subtle aftershocks deep inside her body. âYou okay? Talk to me.â
Patrice breathed out a delirious laugh as she turned to look at him over her shoulder. âI canât see! I canât believe you fucked me blind. Youâre insane.âÂ
âHow much time you got tonight? I got some shit I been wanting to do to you for a long time.âÂ
âLike what?âÂ
Whispers of new positions and marathon lovemaking made the hairs on her arms stand at attention. A second promise had entered the mix.Â
Theyâd make a baby or spend the rest of the night and into the morning trying.Â
---
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â r. cameron / reader
warnings: DUBCON â rafe roofies and then rapes reader / unprotected PinV / misogyny / mention of drugs (cocaine & roofies) / mention of virginity / inspiration taken from maddy & nate (euphoria)
synopsis: rafe cameron x fem!reader⊠sometimes rafe needs to slip a girl a little something at a party to get some, and whereâs the shame in that if he knows they want him anyway, theyâre just too prudish to admit it.
After youâve successfully been dosed, he makes you sit on his lap for lack of space on the couch so he can rock you on his knee until youâre tired, delirious, and horny enough to be lifted upstairs, legs dangling against his broad back while you hiccup and giggle next to your upside-down view of his chest.
His nose is numb from the coke and his brain heady, one could argue almost as inebriated as you. But the lines make him oversaturated, not cock-dumb like what he slipped you â eager hands already pawing at his zipper and coming to a fumbled close around the metal just before youâre tossed onto a bed, spread aloof like the crumpled sheets.
âYouâre sooo nice to me Rafe.. when all the other guys were sayinâi shoulda gone home,â you end with a belligerent nod of your head, slurring throughout and biting your lip in sexless embarrassment, chewing the skin raw enough to reflect your torn consciousness instead.
Rafe simply smirks, chin protruding outwards while his eyes flit between your thighs peeking through your overridden dress and your tits falling out of the frilly décolletage.
âYou a virgin?â
âMhmâ you lie, despite the reeling dizziness occupying your headspace. Besides, nobody likes a whore â especially not rafe, uninterested in âstretched out pussyâ as you vaguely recall from his earlier conversation crowded around friends.
He approaches closer now, knocking your trembling knees apart with one of his beefy thighs, bulge forward and creasing in his pants as your dialogue gets him hard already, imposing his physicality in all its glory: âWhat likeâ youâve never even been fingered before?â
You shake your head, tousling curls before staring back up at him, âOnly my own.â
To that he chuckles, the noise grating and stunted when he uses it as an excuse to adjust himself in his pants, drawing his chest down further until heâs now hovering above you.
âUh yâknow,â he tongues at his cheek, âI could take care of that for you, practically all spread open anâready huh?â
Like it wasnât his plan to get you dumb and stuffed by the end of the night, even if it meant bringing out his inner brute, he was taller, faster, stronger â he could do it if he really wanted, but he made it easy for you instead. Could feel the roofie worming its way into your consciousness, jamming rationality and flooding you with hedonistic desire that would trigger your sex endorphins and make it so that you would want this, that he could brag about it without you opening your bitch mouth the next day and claiming ârapeâ; an ugly word anyways, coming out harsh in a spit, nothing like what rafe was doing to you, especially not with the way you were looking at him.
Your mouth opens, then closes, seemingly flailing on confirmation when really your jaw is getting slack and numb, and so you feel encouraged to nod instead, the movement making your thoughts go all bubbly, refracting Rafeâs glinting eyes at your âconsentâ.
He wastes no time with prep, shoving your dress up so itâs tucked over your tits, basal temperature remaining warm and stuffy despite the exposure to cool air. A good indicator though, means rafe can tell itâs working, and just how long he has before you might start struggling.
When he pulls himself out of his shorts itâs surprising, of course, everything about him is pretty, one would expect a tangible reflection of the cruelty on his features but instead, his dick looks cutesy, if not for the intimidating size.
Spit trickles harshly down his palm when he wraps a hand around himself, tugging quickly and using both his legs to split you around his midriff, leaking and achy despite the inattention youâve received.
âYou want this dick so fuckinâ bad huh,â he laughs at the puddle of arousal leaking out underneath you, considers swiping a finger into it to stick into your mouth but he doubts youâd be able to breathe right now if he interfered with the half catatonic features on your face, and itâs not like heâs out for that type of violence anyways (or at least not right now).
When he pushes himself inside youâre silent, pupils retreating in favour of a squeal â ironically a very Rafe-esque trait â while Rafe bites down into his cheek and rolls his palm over your chest to ease the pressure of the fit.
âThought the roofie woulda loosened you up a bit..â mumbled out while his stomach clenches, now bracing his entire heavy arm across your abdomen and pinching skin when you involuntarily quiver at the weight, âYou can take it câmon.â
He thrusts hard and uncoordinated, fucking like he knows heâs hot, or at least how many more pills he has left in his stash. Knocking against your insides and entirely focused on the way his dick feels, knowing how easily he could move onto another victim, and just how much he wants to enjoy you in particular before itâs over.
Sweat clings to both your bodies, the slick getting louder when each thrust manages to pound a squelch out of you, spattering against the sheets or catching on Rafeâs balls to stick the both of you together with messy tendrils.
Youâre pliant, let him move your legs so your ankles entwine behind his back, heavy hand locking them together and giving you both little breathing room; just enough for him to spill obscenities straight into your emotionless face with hot, sticky breath â he laughs, manically and seemingly at his own joke, before deciding to share it with you, âjust donât go running âbout me âassaultingâ you right. You wanted this, not my fault my cockâs so good the slut has to go dumb hmm?â mocking you with a teasing lilt and a raised brow.
You pat at his swollen chest, itâs all you can manage to do, urgent to get him off you, give you a little space atleast. He only shoves himself in further, lips puckering to sloppily catch yours, saliva straying down your chin and jaw instead.
Your outright discomfort seems to get him going even more, thrusts increasing in increment despite becoming more careless, tip catching your clit when he slips out and hurries to stuff it back in.
When his face pinches up, brows tensed and nose furrowed, you can tell heâs going to cum, the friction between your bodies almost unbearable with the heat that suddenly envelops him.
A slew of curses are hissed out, casual vulgarity being one of Rafeâs favourite expressions of self, and then heâs pulling out and wrapping a fist around himself to paint your tummy white. Ropes shooting watery on your tummy and painting him a proud picture.
He shakes himself off on you a final time before tucking his wet dick back into his briefs, cleaning himself up entirely unbothered by the dissected mess of you laying drugged and fucked out on the bed.
âMy head feels funny.â
âYeah, thatâs cause I fucked it out of whack.â He says it serious but you can imagine his upturned lips at his own sick sense of humour.
âWhere are you going?â you sit up groggy, chest tight.
âUhh, back downstairs, got some more yayo I needa lay offâ you can stay here or.. wherever, doesnât matter.â
He has the decency to shut the door fully when he leaves, yet youâre still alone and forced to lay in the waste of one of Rafe Cameronâs nights out.
#divider made by me#cw noncon#cw dubcon#rafe cameron prompt#rafe cameron x reader#rafe cameron x reader smut#rafe cameron smut#rafe cameron blurb#obx smut#rafe cameron#rafe cameron imagine
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breaking the silence
lee know x gn!reader
synopsis: after an argument that involves several tears and hurtful words, your boyfriend gives you the silent treatment.
wc: 2060 (,,> Ꭰ<,,)
You had both had a long and tiring day, but it was the silence that had you awake, not the exhaustion. Since the argument earlier in the evening, there had been an unbearable, uncomfortable silence between you and Minho. Really, it had been a dumb approach. It was a small miscommunication that might have been cleared up in a few minutes. Instead, the words had come out of your lips quickly and harshly before you had a chance to think about them, and Minho had snapped, his face tensing in anger. You tried to explain and apologize right away, but he didn't listen. He had turned away without even looking at you, which was an obvious sign that he didn't want to speak with you.
Hours had gone by now, and the tension in the room was intolerable. Your pulse is racing and the knot of anxiety in your chest is getting tighter as you lie in bed and stare at the ceiling. Half expecting him to be there, you reached to his side of the bed, but the room was cold and empty. He was still on the couch. After a moment of hesitation during which you bit your lip, you got up and walked quietly into the living room. With his back to you, Minho sat on the couch and watched the TV without paying much attention. The distance between you two felt like an entire ocean, and his shoulders were stiff.
"Minho," you said softly, your voice tentative. âPlease⊠can we talk?â He didn't answer. The ensuing silence was suffocating. As you waited with your heart pounding faster, he stayed motionless with his back to you and refusing to acknowledge you. In an attempt to calm yourself, you swallowed. "Iâm sorry Minho. I didn't mean to upset you. "Look at me, please." Nothing. He didn't appear to have heard you at all. It felt almost like a physical barrier because of how heavy the silence was between you two. You tried "MinhoâŠ" once more, your voice hardly audible above a whisper, the words suddenly desperate. "I really apologize. Talk to me, please.â
Still nothing.
A part of you wanted to turn away, to give him the space he so obviously needed, to leave him alone. The other side of you, however, couldn't take it. You felt the weight of the unsaid words weighing down on your chest as the silence tore into you. You felt as though the silence was choking you. Gently resting your trembling hand on the back of the couch, you were almost touching him, but not quite. "Please, Minho. I donât want to lose you. When you act like this, I'm not sure what to do.â You thought he may finally say something as his shoulders stiffened. But the words that came out of his mouth were quiet, icy, and far away.
Without even looking at you, he murmured, "I don't want to talk right now." His voice was flat, with a hint of concealed rage boiling beneath. The words hurt more than you thought they would. Tears threatened to spill out of your throat, but you fought them back. "Minho, I'm at a loss for what to do. I hate this. I hate the way you're ignoring me. Tell me what's wrong, please.â When his head finally turned, you could see that his eyes were filled with a mixture of hurt, frustration, and possibly a hint of disappointment.
He repeated, "I don't want to talk about it," this time with more firmness and a clenched jaw that made it clear he wasn't going to back down. "I don't feel like doing this at the moment. Leave me alone, please. It felt like a face-slap. Your breath caught in your throat as the hurt of his words sunk deep in your chest. You felt so tiny and unimportant all of a sudden, and the pain was unbearable. You said, your voice a mixture of despair and irritation, "You've been like this all night." "Will you please just let me in? Why are you afraid to just speak to me?â
After a while, Minho straightened his posture and kept his gaze fixed on the ground. "You don't understand, do you?" The bitterness in his voice pierced you like a knife, even though it was quieter now. "You're constantly trying to fix things and restore everything, but sometimes I simply need space. I don't require fixing. I don't need to hear your apologies again. All I need is time.â The tears you were suppressing burned in your eyes. "Minho, I'm not trying to fix you. I'm just⊠All I want to do is put things right. When you refuse to communicate with me, I'm at a loss on what to do. When you cut me off in this way...â
When his eyes finally met yours, he ran a hand through his hair in irritation, yet there was something cold about them that made your stomach churn. "It's not always your turn to fix things. I need time to reflect sometimes. I need you to leave me alone sometimes.â Your chest tightened under the weight of everything you were suppressing, and the intensity of his remarks caused your heart to shatter. He had never been this detached, so angry, and so unwilling to compromise with you. It seemed like he was getting farther away each time you attempted to close the distance.
You said, "I'm sorry," once more, your voice cracking under the pressure of everything. "Minho, I have no idea how to go about this. All I want is to comprehend. Please don't ignore me. He stayed silent for a long time, and the emptiness between you two felt like an endless ocean that you were unsure how to cross. Then he spoke again, softer but still unpleasant, in a voice that was hardly more than a whisper. He murmured, "I'm not trying to hurt you," as his eyes briefly met yours before averting them. âBut, I'm not sure how to deal with this either. Right now, I'm not sure how to deal with *us*.â
You were left whirling by his quiet, raw words. Even though you were drowning in your own pain, you could sense it seeping from him. Your heart thumping in your chest, you took a step closer. "Please, Minho... I am not planning on leaving. Just don't ignore me. Together, we might resolve this.â He remained silent for quite some time. However, you stayed put. You stayed there, both of you trapped in the limbo of suffering and annoyance, close yet still far away. His hand hesitated as though it would have reached for you, but he stopped.
He sighed at last, his breath trembling, the weight of everything between you two bearing down on him. He made a tiny move, brushing your palm with his, but it was the most subdued apology he could offer. His voice was almost heard, but he was sincere when he said, "I'm sorry." "I just want some time. I'll talk with you when I'm ready. You tried to swallow the lump in your throat as you nodded. "All right. I'll hold off. Just don't be silent for too long. Minho didn't respond, but you could tell he hadn't actually cut you offâat least not entirelyâby the glint of remorse in his eyes. Not forever.
Even if it passed for the time being, the silence between you lingered, serving as a reminder that sometimes the quiet that followed a fight was just as difficult.
â
It seemed like there had been no end to the silence between you and Minho. For days, the room felt heavy, and you both cautiously avoided each other, not knowing how to heal the rift that had developed. However, time was doing its silent magic, and gradually the barriers you had put up between each other started to come down.
It started with the small things.
You noticed that Minho was beginning to leave small signs of himself where he typically didn't. His jacket was carelessly placed on the chair's back, as though he had decided it didn't need to be neatly folded. His shoes kicked off at the door in a hurry, a sign that he was starting to feel like his own home again. Nevertheless, things didn't start to change until you were in the kitchen making coffee one morning. Minho came into the room quietly, his hair a little disheveled from sleep, and he was still dressed in pajama trousers. For a long time, he watched you from the doorframe, his face unreadable.
Although you both understood that the silence between you wouldn't last forever, you kept silent at first. You just continued doing what you were doing because you had to take the initiative and didn't want to push him. He apologized in a low, reluctant voice that sounded almost like he was trying things out. His eyes were on the floor, not looking into your eyes, and his hands were in his pockets. "For everything."
Your heart skipped a beat as you froze. It was there. The first break in the silence: the words you've been waiting for. The weight of all that had been left unsaid made your chest tighten as you turned to face him. You started to say, "Minho," but your voice trailed off as your throat filled with emotion. When he finally looked into your eyes, his face softened and he took a step forward. "I should have spoken to you. "I shouldn't have pushed you away like that," he added in a remorseful tone. "I simply... I shut you out rather than letting you in because I didn't know how to deal with anything.â
You gave a small shake of your head, not because you didn't comprehend, but rather because the pain and suffering of those silent days remained present. You tried to control your emotions as you whispered, "I know you needed space, Minho." But when you refused to communicate with me, I was at a loss on how to make things better. I was really lost. He took tentative but resolute steps toward you. Almost whispering, he replied, "I don't want you to feel lost." "I apologize for making you feel that way. I just want you to understand that it wasn't about you. I was the one. I've honestly been overwhelmed.
The pain in your chest slowly begins to ease as you finally release a breath you were unaware you were holding. "I get it, Minho. Yes, I do. But if you don't let me in, I can't support. At that moment, he extended his hand and lightly touched yours. The tender touch served as a reminder that you were still there for one another despite the stillness. "I'll try," he answered in a quiet but genuine tone. "I swear. I'll let you in more. I don't want to isolate you again.â
Tears welled up in your eyes, not from sadness, but from the relief of hearing him say it. For the first time in days, you put your arms around him and pulled him into a tight hug as you moved closer, your heart overflowing with emotion. After a moment of hesitation, Minho wrapped his arms around you and held you tight, allowing you to both feel as though the burden of the last few days had been lifted. It was a subtle acknowledgment of guilt and a subconscious understanding that although things weren't flawless, they could still be fixed.
You muttered, "I'm here, Minho," against his chest. "I'm not leaving either." His voice was muffled as he talked into your hair, holding you closer. âI know. Iâm sorry for making you feel like you didnât matter. You do. You always have.â
Even though there was still some tension, hurt, and stillness, it didn't matter just now. The important thing was that you were both prepared to start over and, no matter how long it took, find your way back to one another.
Minho then said, "Let's take it slow," while planting a gentle kiss on your forehead and wearing the smallest of smiles. âBut let's do it together.â
From then on, you were aware that you would deal with any challenges together; there would be no more silence, only love, understanding, and patience.
â
niniâs notes 111124
hi everyone! this is my first full length fic & itâs angst! i personally lovee reading angst so i thought iâd try it out, i hope you enjoy & donât forget to leave any feedback that you may have đ€đ«¶
asks are always open if you have a question, concern, or request!
-đ
#stray kids imagines#skz imagines#lee know imagines#lee know x reader#stray kids reactions#lee know x you#lee know x y/n#stray kids x you#stray kids angst#lee know angst#skz angst#skz x y/n#stray kids fanfic#stray kids x reader#stray kids scenarios#kpop imagines#kpop x reader
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ATEEZ GETTING OUT OF THE FRIENDZONE
san x gn reader + mingi x gn reader (separated)
part 2 to ateez stuck in the friendzone! read that part so this makes sense
tw: slow burn + veeery dramatic + angst + fluff
a/n: both have the slowestttt slow burns in history of friends to lovers omg my heart did kinda break a little while writing them lol so keep in mind that both are VERY dramatic. maybe even cliche but honestly i just wrote what i, personally, enjoy reading. iâm just a girl in love with love đ„č
masterlist
SAN
san found himself attempting to hide his smile while you told him about your awful date from a few days ago. you were laying down with your head on his lap as san casually untangled strands of your hair, while you rambled on and on about the misfortunes he secretly thought were fortunes in disguise.
âwho talks about their mother on the first date? like the whole time i mean, of course itâs okay to mention one or two things following the context of the conversationâ you said, moving your hands dramatically to prove your point âbut the whole time? i tried to switch the topic of the conversation towards work and can you believe he told me about what his mother does for a living before telling me what HE does for HIS?â
san couldnât help but let out a loud laugh. you were so cute and he was so happy and relieved that the date had failed.
âhe should go to therapyâ he said, in between giggles. âright?! sigmund freud would have been thrilled to have him as a patientâ you exclaimed, laughing too.
after a few moments of cracking jokes and laughing about the situation, you turned your head to face san. âso what about you?â you asked. he looked down at you, smile on his face still. âwhat about me?â
âhave you gone on dates lately?â you asked. he threw his head back, shaking it slightly âwith what time? iâm too busy with schedulesâ he answered, half lying. itâs true that heâs very busy with his idol duties, but he always managed to make time for you. he knows he could easily use up that time to go on dates, but for obvious reasons that you still were ignorant to, he didnât. to you, he was just an introvert.
âbut are you not interested in anyone?â you pushed, lifting your head and sitting up to face him properly. san chose to avoid your eyes, not trusting himself to keep his own secret. instead, he looked to the city on his right, suddenly finding the building architectures more interesting. he noticed that the air in the terrace got warmer too, and the concrete platform you were sitting on got harder. or was he the one that got warmer and stiffer? âno, i donât think soâ he lied, but you knew him enough to see through it. âliar, youâre blushingâ
âwell it is an intimate questionâ he answered, attempting to smile in order to play it off. you shook your head no âyou blushed and your left eye twitched a bit. that was definitely a lie and as your best friend i want to know!â you exclaimed, grabbing his hands. if only you knew the effect you had on him.
when he came back from tour, he was determined to confess. but now that the perfect opportunity arose, he couldnât open his mouth. questions and different negative scenarios plagued his mind, convincing him that maybe it was a bad idea. he much rather work on moving on than lose you as a friend.
âare they that special to you?â you asked, in a much quieter tone of voice, noticing his silence. he nodded, staring at your eyes, hoping you could notice the love they held whenever he looked at you. but despite his desperation, you didnât. âthey are very lucky then, you genuinely are amazing in every aspect sannieâ. you continued, going back to your original place with your head on his lap, but still holding his hands. he kept staring at you, if only you knew.
âthank youâ san managed to say.
âââ
âhow fast can you come over to help me with something?â you asked san on the phone, as he exited the practice room. it was like the stars aligned, because he had just finished for the day. âi can come over right now, are you okay?â he asked, worried something may be wrong despite you sounding relatively okay. âi canât pick an outfit and- shit my aunt his calling me, invite yourself in when you arrive, iâm in my room and you already know the lock number of the doorâ you said, before hanging up.
outfit for what?
âââ
so thatâs how san found himself sitting on your bed on a friday night, numerous pieces of clothing scattered all over without care. he scrolled through some unread messages while he waited for you to try on a different outfit for your new date. yes, new date. as if his heart havenât just healed from last time.
âi matched with someone on this app and they immediately invited me on a date so now iâm having a fashion crisisâ you had explained to him as soon as he entered your room. why was it so hard for you to realize that your dates have been failing for a reason?
you appeared once again, now wearing an outfit that honestly took sanâs breath away as soon as his eyes landed on your figure. it was nothing too extravagant, actually, it was rather simple, but it was enough to make sanâs head spiral. specially when you twirled around to show the outfit from the back, since your shirt had an open back.
âso? what do we think?â you asked, eyes filled with hope.
san was conflicted: he was 100% sure he has never seen anyone look more beautiful, more dashing, more perfect. but, it wasnât for him. he didnât want anyone else to look at you like that, they would never come remotely close to the way he feels about you.
âsan-?â you started to ask after a few seconds of silence, but got interrupted by him: âdonât go on that dateâ
you looked at him confused, as he stared back with the same surprised face. that really had slipped from his lips before he realized what he was saying. you fucked up big time san, he thought to himself.
âwhy? do i really look that bad?â you asked, turning around to face the mirror in order to examine your body and face. he noticed the way your eyes dimmed, as you carefully traced your eyes over your figure, finding little imperfections that made your face turn into a sad frown. san felt his own heart shatter at the sight, and before he knew, he stood up and quickly hugged you from behind, hiding his face in the crook of your neck.
âsannie?â you asked, startled by his sudden action and making you momentarily forget about the insecurities that started flooding your mind. you looked at him through the mirror: even if he was leaning down on you, he was still much wider, making you feel very small in his arms. unconsciously, you lifted your hand and patted his hair. san lifted his head, looking at you through the mirror as well, and your eyes interlocked.
âyouâre perfect y/nâ he whispered. âiâm sorry if i gave you the wrong idea, you look beautiful and your date is very luckyâ. he was trying to be supportive, but traces of sadness and desperation were evident in his face. enough for you to notice. you turned around, and the same hand that was patting his head went down to his cheek, holding him in place to look at you.
âwhatâs wrong san?â you asked, softly. your thumb traced comforting circles on his cheek, and you could feel his arms tighten around you as he closed his eyes.
âgo on that dateâ he whispered in a shaky voice, before adding âyou look beautifulâ.
you stared at him confused for a few moments, not really knowing what to say. then, he kissed your forehead and, with the little bit of strenght he had left in him, unwrapped his arms, stepping back. he grabbed his jacket and went to the door, but not before shooting you another sad look and saying âlike i said, your date is very luckyâ.
he left, heart in his hands, slowly breaking with each step.
you cancelled the date.
âââ
san couldnât sleep that night, he kept tossing and turning as his mind wandered about what you were doing with your date. were you still having dinner? no, probably not since itâs like 2 am. maybe it went so well that you invited them over for coffee at your place, something that will probably lead to something else. something he didnât even want to imagine, since it wasnât him committing those sins.
maybe it was time to move on, after all. he wants you to be happy, truly, so if your happiness doesnât include him, then he should at least be supportive. and in order to do that from the bottom of his heart, he should move-
*knock knock knock* he heard, coming from the door. he decided to ignore it, thinking that it was probably mingi, so he turned around and closed his eyes, pretending he was asleep.
âmaybe heâs asleep, i should come back tomorrow but thank you soenghwaâ he heard you say from behind the door. he never got out of bed faster, as he sprinted to the door and opened it widely.
there you stood, now dressed in a familiar oversized shirt and baggy pants. completely different from the outfit he last saw you on, but to him you still looked beautiful. you looked at him with wide eyes, as seonghwa smirked next to you.
âiâll leave you aloneâ he said, before he made his way to his room and shut the door behind him.
you stood there awkwardly, avoiding his eyes. you came here with a question, but now that you had san right in front of you, thoughts were scattered all over your mind and you couldnât say a word.
âcome inâ he said, sensing your internal dilemma. you nodded in response, as you entered and made your way to his unmade bed.
âdid i wake you up?â you asked. san shut the door and shook his head âactually i couldnât sleepâ
âme neitherâ you said in a low voice.
âhow was your date?â he asked, unsure of what to say. he sat next to you on the bed, looking at you while trying to decipher your expression. you turned your head to sanâs bedside table, finding the small plushie you once gifted him randomly. you smiled. âi cancelled itâ
âwhat? why?!â he asked, with surprised wide eyes. you turned back to him. âi suddenly didnât want to go, thatâs it really. so while i was tidying up my room i found this shirtâ you said, fiddling with the ends of the shirt that looked a little too big on you âthe one you once lent me after we got stuck in the rain that one time. i told you i would wash it and give it back, but i didnât. why didnât i give it back to you?â
san stared at you in silence.
âso i realized it still had your perfume, and before i knew it, i had put it on. then i started thinking about you, about us. youâre my best friend, you know? but as i was laying down on my bed, i was thinking: what if you were not? what if my dates always failed for a reason?â you continued, as your fingers reached for his. âwhat if the reason they always failed was because i always searched you in them? so again, before i realized i was standing in front of your apartment, but with one question in my mindâ
san could feel his heart beat increase and his breath shorten.
âwhat will happen to us and our friendship if i told you how i feel? how i think i always felt even if i didnât know it?â you asked, looking at him scared.
âyouâre dumbâ he said, loud enough for only you to hear. that didnât surprise you, what did was the way he immediately let go of your hand in order to hug you close, bringing you closer to his body. âwhat will happen? how would i feel? y/n youâre dumb because thatâs how iâve been feeling for a long time nowâ he said, hands leaving your waist and craddling your face. san stared at you, and now you realized that his eyes looked different: they held love in them. something you always searched on random people in dating apps, yet were never able to find. instead, it has been right in front of you this whole time.
âi love youâ he whispered, pressing his forehead against yours. finally, he thought. he finally said the words he has been keeping locked deeply inside him for years. you smiled, as your nose touched his. âi love you too, iâm sorry i just realizedâ
maybe it was time to give you the silver necklace he bought you on tour, since now the timing was right.
MINGI
mingi missed you, a lot. he hadnât heard from you since you stormed out of his house a week and a half ago. he had left you a couple of texts apologizing, and even attempted calling you, but to no avail. you had disappeared, and he didnât blame you, he was stupid enough to let you go. in fact, thatâs the thing he regretted the most about the fight: not chasing after you.
so he did what he knew best: he took his misery and transformed it into work, to be precise, he wrote three songs, all about his feelings, the situation in itself and you.
three different scenarios that made him hear yunhoâs voice calling him dramatic in his mind. to be honest, he knew he was being a little dramatic about the situation. he knew that you probably just needed time to cool down, and that if his apology was good enough you would forgive him in a heart beat, because, in the end, he knew you loved him. maybe not in the way he wished for, but you loved him nonetheless.
mingi stared at the ceiling in silence, wondering what were you doing while he layed on his bed feeling miserable. did you miss him too? were you also thinking about him? he was certain of one thing only: he wanted to see you. it didnât matter to him if you opened the door or not, he needed to at least hear your voice through the door.
he checked the time: 11:47 pm, almost midnight. fuck it, he thought. he stood up and quickly got dressed in a speed record time, tied up his shoes and grabbed his keys and song notebook in the process. by 11:55 pm he was already closing the door of his car.
as mingi started driving, questions also started flooding his mind: will you hate him if he suddenly showed up? what if you had invited someone over? shouldnât he have discussed this with one of his friends first just in case?
questions, questions, questions.
no answers.
soon enough, he found himself standing in front of your apartment door. he could easily ring the door bell, knock on the door or simply use the spare key you gave him once for emergencies. yet, he was unable to do any, frozen in place as he mentally debated on what to do.
mingi decided to do something odd, something he would have probably laughed at if he saw it in one of the movies you usually forced him to watch with you: he took out his pen and notebook, ripped off one of the pages and wrote on it. then, he slid it under the door and left.
âiâll tell you everything -mâ
âââ
you have always been a hopeless romantic, mingi knew that perfectly well. you believed in happy endings, and that love and friendship can win over everything. so why hasnât he heard from you still? did you not get the note? should he leave another one? no, that would be too pushy, it was only two days ago.
questions, questions, questions.
still no answers.
mingi was sulking again, and honestly it started to worry seonghwa and san, who watched as he walked back to his room right after dinner, without saying a word during the whole night. honestly, he was just too lost in his thoughts. their pair exchanged a look, before following him.
âmingi, hold up, everything okay? youâre more⊠distracted than usualâ seonghwa said, carefully choosing his words. mingi hummed in response, nodding as he stopped in his tracks. âyeah, thereâs just a lot in my headâ he answered, not looking at his friends. âlet us hear it thenâ san said, patting his back and leading them towards the living room.
the trio sat down on the sofa they had bought a few months ago, the one you had scolded them about because it seemed very expensive and too hard to clean. they had all laughed, but soon enough realized you were right when mingi spilled a bit of sauce on it. the stain was still there.
âso? whatâs wrong?â seonghwa asked once they all got comfortable. mingi sighed, looking down before he started spilling everything that had happened, from two weeks ago until now. he noticed the eldest nodding along the story, but neither of them said anything until he finished.
âwhen exactly did you leave this note?â san asked, fidgeting with his bracelet. âtwo days agoâ mingi answered. sanâs eyes went wide, as he muttered a small fuck before he sprinted towards the kitchen. seonghwa and mingi exchanged a look, both equally confused at their friendâs actions. after a few moments and very weird sounds that came from the kitchen, san appeared again, with a crumbled up yellow post it in his hand. he handed it to mingi.
âthe hell is this? it has food stains san, grossâ mingi said with a disgusted face as he barely touched the paper. âopen it, i found it this morningâ san said, sitting down next to him again. mingi gave his friends a strange look, before carefully opening the crumbled up piece of paper. as he read, his eyes widened in surprise.
âwhat time is it?!â he exclaimed. â9 pmâ seonghwa answered, checking the time in his phone. mingi muttered a small fuck, before putting his shoes on, and grabbing his bag.
âiâll be back in a whileâ he said, before shutting the door behind him.
seonghwa looked at san, confused. âwhat the hell did the paper say?â he asked. san picked it up from the floor and showed it to him:
â8 pm, our special placeâ.
the hand writing was yours.
âââ
mingi was almost sure he broke one or two speeding laws on his way to the park where he hoped you were still waiting at. he cursed san for not telling him sooner, even if he knew it wasnât really his fault to begin with. the park wasnât far from his apartment though, just a short 10 minute drive. as cliche as it sounds, it was the park were you both met.
at that time, around 6 years ago or so, his mind revolved around perfection, hard work, pressure, debut. so he would succumb to overwhelming feelings pretty often, that forced him to need some time alone. thatâs how he found a park nearby, and specifically, one peculiar tree that caught his attention for some reason. he used to sit down under it, notebook on his lap and pen between his fingers, as he scribbled down some random thoughts that plagued his mind during hard moments. he didnât really plan to turn his words into songs yet, it was just his way to deal with stress. he used to find these little moments very special: it was like he was reconnecting with his inner, truer self, and not the mean facade he wore in front of his soon to be members. yeah, some of them irked him, like that wooyoung guy, but he didnât mean to be that rude all the time. so, to escape the constant pressure kq fellaz was facing in between the company walls, he found solace in a park, but specifically, he found solace under that tree.
he could remember the day he met you like it was yesterday. he remembers all the stress he was feeling, debut date coming closer and closer. everyone was on edge, from the members to the staff. he had also recently come back from morocco after successfully shooting his first music video! but he couldnât deny it: as much as he was excited, he was already feeling a little tired. he needed some alone time, just himself with his thoughts. so he found himself walking towards his favorite spot in the park.
only to find you there, sitting down under the tree. his tree to be precise. and you were writing on a pink notebook with a fluffy pen. mingi felt like he was looking at a reflection of himself, but instead of being comforted by it, he felt annoyed. it was HIS tree after all!
âexcuse me, this is my spotâ he said, coming into your field of vision. you looked up to him, pausing your hand and taking an earphone off. âexcuse me?â
âthis is my spotâ he reiterated, making you chuckle slightly. âthe tree you mean? does it have your name or something?â you asked, finding the situation hilarious. he rolled his eyes in annoyance, why did nothing go his way?! âlisten, i had a shitty day and i need to sit there for a while, so can you leave?â
âno, i got here first. plus there are tons of other trees here, itâs a park after allâ you said, putting your earphone back on and turning your gaze to your notebook. he stayed still in his place in front of you, making you huff in annoyance at his persistence. âlook dude, i am not going to move. you can either sit on the opposite side or leave, i donât care but stop bothering meâ you continued.
mingi really really reaaaally needed to be at his safe place, too overwhelmed to funcion rationally, so he rolled his eyes and sat on the opposite side of the tree.
thatâs how the story started: at opposite sides of the tree. soon enough it got replaced by sitting nearby, and eventually next to each other. some times you would even bring snacks to share in silence, as you both wrote down your thoughts on your respective notebooks. once he debuted, he broke the silence for the first time, urging you to listen to his song. after that, you started talking more, about music, shows, your respective jobs and life in itself. the safe place you both found under the tree, was also found in each other, quickly realizing you often shared the same thoughts and views about the world.
the story started under a tree, and he hoped it wouldnât end there too. he needed you to be there, because he wasnât ready to lose not only his best friend, but also his safe place. even the tree would become stained from the pain. and he would have nothing left, just questions, questions, and more questions about different what ifs.
you werenât there.
but mingi wasnât about to give up anytime soon. he started running towards the direction of your apartment, forgetting that he had parked the car on the opposite direction. his legs were aching, and he felt like he was a bit out of breath, despite all the idol training he has been enduring for six years. but he kept running.
until he spot you in the distance.
ây/n!â he yelled. he saw you stop in your tracks and turn around to his direction, confused at the sudden call of your name. once you spotted him running towards you, you sprinted to him.
his body collapsed against yours, as he hugged you tightly, like you would disappear if he let you go. mingi hid his face in the crook of your neck as you wrapped your arms around his back. you could hear his quick heart beat from how close he held you, and you were sure he could hear yours too.
after a while, mingi lifted his head from your neck, and looked at you. âwhy are you crying?â he asked, wiping away the tears with his thumbs. âi thought you wouldnât come, why are you crying mingi?â you asked, repeating his own actions, but on his cheeks. he giggled, he didnât even realize he was crying. âi thought i lost youâ he said, truthfully.
the park was dark, the only lights came from street lights. so, for outsiders, you probably looked like a random couple having a dramatic moment. definitely not mingi from idol group ateez and his best friend y/n reconciliating.
âiâm sorryâ he whispered, locking his eyes with yours. they still held tears, that threatened to spill depending on your answer. you shook your head âno, iâm sorry mings, i shouldnât have walked away like that. plus i didn't even give you a chance to explainâ.
âiâm sorry for not showing you the songs, for not chasing you, and for being too much of a coward to not face you directlyâ he apologized. you hugged him again, shushing him. âi shouldnât have pressured you to show me, you donât have to do anything you donât want to doâ
mingi looked at you again, and bit his lip. âcan i still show you though?â
âitâs not necessary, mingi, itâs fine real-â you started saying before he interrupted you, taking your hand and leading you towards the same old place from before. âi want toâ he said, determined.
you let him whisk you away.
âââ
back at the peculiar tree that was iluminated enough by a street lamp a few meters away, he sat you down at your usual spot. he sat down beside you, as he pulled out his notebook from his bag. mingi gave it to you.
âmingi, this really isnât necessary-â you started saying once again. âpleaseâ he interrupted, with pleading eyes. so you took his notebook and opened it on the first page. you already read that song, it was the first one he ever wrote a long while back. âread the last onesâ
you turned the pages, until you found them. mingi looked at you nervously, starting to feel fidgety at the thought of you realizing his deepest secret, the only one he hid from you. he just hoped you wouldnât hate him. he scanned your face, puffy eyes filling with tears once again as realization hit you. you turned your gaze back to him with wide, surprised eyes.
âmingi- what? wait, hold onâ you stammered, as tears fell from your eyes. you quickly set his notebook aside to grab your own bag, taking out your new pink notebook, your diary. you handed it to him, saying: âopen it on august 5thâ
he stared at you confused, and slightly unsure too, since youâve always been pretty secretive about what you wrote there. he found the page and read:
âaugust 5th.
so i realized something, that iâm almost too afraid to write even here. iâm scared that if i admit it, iâll have to face a sad reality. i think iâm in love with my best friend, isnât that stupid? thatâs how i feel, at least. i havenât seen him in a while because of his work, and i feel like iâm slowly losing my mind. why do i only feel complete when heâs with me? scratch that, why am i even writing this?
anyways, iâll probably die with the secretâ
ânow turn to september 16thâ you said, avoiding his eyes.
âseptember 16th.
iâm in love with my best friend. i love mingi. how insane is that? and how stupid? he is my best friend, for godâs sake. but i canât help the way i feel, specially when heâs so annoyingly observant. like for example, the other day he noticed my pen was dying, so today he surprised me with a new fluffy pink pen. i hate him for making my heart swell at such gestures. specially because i know I KNOW thatâs what best friends do.
anyways iâm not gonna use his pen because i decided iâm going to preserve it foreverâ
âand now, tun to november 10thâ you muttered. mingi realized it was yesterdayâs date.
ânovember 10th.
i still love him. and i fucked up. but iâm still in love with himâ
he closed your notebook, turning towards you. he found you with your face on your knees, as you hugged your legs, too embarrassed to face him, despite now knowing his feelings. he loves you too, with the same devotion, with the same desperation and intensity. mingi loves you, his best friend.
âlook at me, y/nâ he whispered. you slowly lifted your head, hesitantly looking at him. the way you both looked at each other held more intimacy than ever. mingi slowly reached for you, bringing your face closer to his. his hold was shaky, almost unsure, this was a whole new territory. he took a deep breath and closed his eyes.
âi love youâ he admitted.
too many questions, that finally got an answer.
âi love you tooâ you whispered.
taglist: @yoongles2025 @reallychaoticwoo
(to be added please let me know)
#ateez headcanons#ateez x reader#ateez imagines#ateez scenarios#choi san x reader#choi san imagines#san scenarios#san imagines#san x reader#san heacanons#san fluff#ateez fluff#ateez angst#san angst#mingi imagines#mingi scenarios#mingi x reader#mingi fluff#mingi angst#song mingi x reader#song mingi headcanons#song mingi imagines
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Youâre CuteâŠYet Irritating [s.r]
Post prison!Spencer Reid x sunshine!fem!reader
Summary: Sheâs always humming a tune, dancing, or tapping her fingers. And Spencer canât stand it.
Warnings: Angst with happy ending, irritated Spencer, crying, self doubt, rude comments, self hatred, etc.
Note: I always fidget and I thought this would be cute! Let me know what yâall think!!
Sorry for any errors! I didnât re-read it! :)
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
2,745 times
And yes, he was unfortunately counting.
He bet she didnât even know she was doing it, the repetitive rhythm of her finger nails on the desk. Files piled it, almost all the time, and Spencer always had to walk by with his fist in his mouth to prevent himself from organizing it the way he liked.
He was going to be honest, he kind of missed having that feeling, the urge to clean or organize. It told him, in a way, that his old self was still with him, and that little thing gave him hope that he so tightly held onto.
But his old self was able to focus. His old self was able to dig himself into file folders and never be able to leave, yet the tapping.
Spencer couldnât take it.
His eye twitched every time she breathed particularly loud, his lips pursed when her foot started tapping on the floor, and, worst of all, his head shuttered when her dang finger nails tapped on the deskâs top.
He hated the noise.
And it surprised him that he did, it was such a little thing that was apparently going unnoticed by everyone else. But he just couldnât focus on his work with the practical racket that was doing on next to him.
He wasnât gonna lie, he almost got up just then to go ask Hotch for a desk rearrangement. But he knew that his boss would suspect something and either tease him about it or shake his head about how ridiculous it was.
Spencer agreed as well. He couldnât change seats just because the woman next to him was tapping her fingers.
Gosh, even thinking it sounded absurd.
But he couldnât help but imagine silence.
Silence while his brain could process things.
Spencer couldâve lost it when she started humming a soft tune. She seemed to have a new one in her head every day, each time she sat down, tea in hand, she hummed a different song than yesterday.
He couldnât quite pin point which one it was, but he didnât dare to continue thinking to figure it out.
His head turned toward her, hoping sheâd notice his glare but she didnât, sheâs still stuck on the file she was looking at.
âQuit that, will ya?â
Her head snapped up at the sudden outburst, surprise reflecting in her eyes yet he spotted confusion.
How was she confused to the constant annoying tapping she was doing? And the humming? Spencer was slowly loosing his mind.
He took a deep breath to prevent from lashing out, his hand coming out and wiggling his fingers toward hers.
âT-the tapping, itâs irritating. Quit it please.â
Her face dropped from surprised to hurt, and Spencer somehow hated that it was quiet as soon as he said something.
âRight. Sorry,â she whispered so softly Spencer almost couldnât hear her. She tried to add a little chuckle at the end of her murmur, yet her voice cracked against her own accord.
He watched her fingers stop, instead clenching them in a fist tightly.
Spencer shouldâve been glad that the silence he so wanted was granted, but something unsettling brewed in his chest at her facial expression, her now glossy eyes staring at her computer screen. He also noticed her other hand that wasnât holding the folder was digging into her thigh to prevent it from bouncing out of anxiety.
He didnât know the feeling, regret, maybe, but all Spencer knew was that he wished he hadnât said those words.
But he didnât want to say sorry, something inside him prevented him from doing it. Maybe he was selfish because he ignored the regret in him and took the opportunity to have the ability to focus once more.
âI canât help, falling in love with you,â she hummed softly, just under her breath as she stirred her favorite tea in the mug the next morning.
Spencer had to admit, he missed her singing in the morning. It reminded him that through all the terrible cases theyâve experienced, there was still happiness in the world, still hope, and she clearly found it through music.
But the pounding headache that didnât go away that day prevented him from being kind.
So he couldnât dare to show his wishes of her singing more often, heck no. And the more he thought about it the more irritating it became. He became hyper focused on the breath before each sentence she sang, the cinnamon toothpaste blaring his nose. She was also slightly off pitch every couple seconds, and she sang a couple words wrong.
It got worse when she took forever to mix her tea, blocking his path towards the coffee machine.
He huffed, ignoring the way she flinched. âMove, will ya? Thereâs people who actually want to do their job and not sing songs about sunshine and rainbows; just please let me get some coffee.â
Her once upwards lips turned down, the light in her eyes going out. She cleared her throat. âRight, s-sorry.â
Spencer couldnât help it. The comment spat out before he could control it. âS-sorry,â he mimicked. âYou do know confidence is a key to this job, right? Quit the childish stuttering itâs infuriating.â
He didnât see her reaction, but if he did he would see glossy eyes and a facial expression that represented a shattered heart.
She raced out of the room, tea discarded on the counter and beelined towards the bathrooms. She quickly fumbled with the lock. It echoed throughout the bathroom, somehow making her emotions worsen. The tears went full force, a sob covered by her hands surrounding her.
His words kept repeating themselves in her head, telling her that she wasnât good enough for the job.
Why even apply? He was clearly smarter than her and took things more seriously. What was she thinking? Coming into a field like this and humming and singing all the time? Who does that?
She could feel her makeup smearing, and her black fingers rubbing her cheeks confirmed her suspicions.
She never knew Spencerâs problem with her. Every moment she recalled every encounter, hoping not to come across a moment where she offended him. And she never did.
But now she knew. It was her humming, her tapping, her singing, her stuttering.
She wasnât good enough to be here.
The thought made her cry harder, the type of sob where your breath catches in your throat, your vision blurry as your chest aches.
A soft knock on the stall door made her both flinch hardly and gasp at the same time.
A throat was cleared, an awkward moment of silence shoving its way between them.
âCan I come in?â
The voice on the other side wasnât one she expected. Her heart started going on its own path, thumping quickly within her chest.
Her hand moved on its own accord, though hesitantly, and opened the lock.
Spencerâs hand came into view, opening the door and entering himself, closing and locking the door behind him.
Something about him being so close, the door locked, and them being in a place just for one person made her already beating heart pound harder.
His features, no doubt, were beautiful. His nose was like a button, eyes like chocolate in fresh cookies, lips soft and full like a blooming flower.
His hair, oh his hair. It was like a soft blanket she wanted to nestle her fingers onto, pulling at the roots until he let out a satisfying noise-
No.
He hurt her. The words he said. She was upset. He doesnât like her.
Then why was he having such an effect on her?
Him clearing his throat once more caught her out of her thoughts, eyes meeting his.
âI wanted to say sorry. For what I said,â he whispered, and she noticed his fingers playing with each other. âIt wasnât nice nor professional. And I donât mean any of it.â
His apology was simple and sincere, eyes somehow widening while gazing at her. (Or were his eyes always like that? Full and desperate?)
âAnd in case you were wondering, youâre lovely at your job,â he sounded like he was rambling again, but he also seemed desperate to get the words out. âYour singing brings happiness to the place. Youâre more than good enough to be here. And Iâm sorry I made you doubt your amazing abilities.â
She felt a soft smile come to her lips, cheeks reddening at his complements. She wiped her nose. âReally?â
He nodded, leaning down and grabbing some toilet paper to wipe her cheeks.
Instead of simply giving it to her, he wiped them himself, wiping the damage he did to her away on his own. âI mean it with my whole heart.â
Her heart warmed.
âThank you Spencer,â she whispered shyly.
He gave her a toothless smile, opening his arms for a hug from her.
Her heart pounded, knowing he barely let anyone touch him, but stepped towards him nonetheless.
Her arms went underneath his blazer, on top of his dress shirt (causing him to shiver) and laying her head on his chest.
He embraced her back, far too tall to be over her shoulder so he rested his chin on her head, shampoo filling his nose.
They stayed like that for a couple moments before pulling back to look at each other.
His eyes met hers, emotions swirling around, like they were trying to tell him something.
If it was a warning or an invitation Spencer didnât know, but he leaned forward to find out, nose brushing hers.
Her lips parted, causing his eyes to shoot downward at the movement.
He gave her a moment to push away, to shove him out of the stall for even thinking she had any interest on him.
The rejection never came.
He finally planted his mouth on hers, her hands shooting to his hair to pull at his roots, a small groan leaving his lips.
His lips tasted like coffee and something truly Spencer.
Whatever it was pulled her in more, craving the taste of his mouth.
They finally pulled away, breath fanning each otherâs faces. She was the one who laughed first against his lips, and he copied her before kissing her once again.
Sure, she was irritating at times, but she was cute, heâd give her that.
#criminal minds#criminal minds imagines#spencer reid#spencer reid x reader#spencer reid imagines#angst with a happy ending#spencer reid x fem!reader#Spencer x reader#post prison reid#x reader#criminal minds characters x reader
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jj maybank nswf alphabet (part 1) (minors DNI!)
navigation taglist requests
BEFORE YOU START READING: THERE IS A SPOILER OF SEASON 4 AT THE BOTTOM, SO IF YOU WANT TO AVOID IT, DON'T READ THE AUTHOR'S NOTE BELOW
A = Aftercare (what theyâre like after sex) Before JJ got involved with you, he was hardly the type to pay attention to aftercare. All the girls that came before were either only for one night or he didn't care enough about them to be concerned about what would come after their intercourse. It was the same for their part, so sex alone was enough. However, when he met you and your first intercourse occurred, JJ felt he had to do something more. Since then, he talks to you for a long time afterwards, you go to take a bath together to embrace each other after intercourse, and he is even more clingy than always
B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partnerâs) Oh, JJ is a big fan of his body. He is well aware that he is damn handsome and has a well-sculpted body, so he often shows it off. And in you? JJ appreciates everything, really. He loves your hands, because he can grab them when he wants and intertwine his fingers with yours. He loves your lips, which he could kiss over and over again. He loves your thighs, which he keeps lying on and squeezing them. But you can't take away from the fact that he's pussy drunk. What the heck, but JJ loves your pussy the most and whenever he gets the chance, he's in it or by it. That's it
C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically) Creampie!!! Has anyone heard this? CREAMPIE! JJ loves, adores, well normally he would give up everything just for the sight of you with your combined juices flowing out of your pussy
D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs) JJ doesn't have too many dirty secrets, maybe some kind of triangle? Or I don't know, an orgy? Just kidding. JJ is able to give up everything just for that, until you finally dominate him to the max like that. Mostly he is the one who dominates, but every night he dreams about it until you finally do it
E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what theyâre doing?) Let's not lie to ourselves, JJ is a bit of an Outer Banks man whore, so his experience is quite high. The way he works his tongue, his fingers, let alone his cock, oh god. God of sex, there's no denying it
F = Favorite position (this goes without saying) Cowgirl. JJ loves your breasts and the fact that he has them in full glory in front of him in this position is downright addictive to him. He can touch them, suck them, kiss them. Likewise, he has great access to your face, which he loves to look at and see your face contorted in the pleasure you both give each other. Plus, I've already mentioned how much he dreams of you dominating him. And this position falls a bit under that, especially when he doesn't help you from below and you can lead you to orgasm alone
G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.) This is JJ, everyone knows his being clumsy in life. It's the same in bed. Many things amuse him and his mouth doesn't close during your intercourse. He was even amused by the way the spring in the couch at John B's house flew out when he just happened to be taking you from behind. Well, John B was not amused by thatâŠ.
H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.) JJ has a lot of hair on his head and legs, so I think he's not completely shorn there either. But so that it's not sloppy and kept in order. As for you, I think he would also prefer it not to be thick there. Although too often it lands between your legs to worry about silly hair. As long as it's hygienic and the rest he doesn't care. And I even think that some patterning would excite him
I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect) Yes, as I mentioned - since he is with you, he has seen that being romantic in life is not bad at all. And although he sometimes fails (he almost burned down the Chateau when he tried to make a romantic evening with candles), he still tries. He likes to chic you romantic baths, admittedly in the Jacuzzi, but you don't complain. Bubbles, cheap wine and JJ, who is all over you, is all you need.
J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon) Maybank is still an excitable teenager and often thinks with his dick, so he needs to shake off the feeling that still holds him down. Most of the time then he finds himself immediately around you so you can help him, but when you're really not there and you can't give him yourself, well, he's left to masturbate to your pictures, which he has in a special folder. Or the videos you amateurishly recorded one day for fun
K = Kink (one or more of their kinks) I don't know if you can call it kink, but JJ often likes to have sex with you in public. That is, it's not strange for him to suddenly have sex in the sea or do you good on the boat when you were originally supposed to go âfishingâ
L = Location (favorite places to do the do) Anywhere, really. JJ has the âI can here and nowâ method, really, it's not even a joke anymore. If only you are ready, he is able to do anything just to get inside you
M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going) Just you. JJ sees you and already has a problem in his pants. Well, what can I say? He's totally pussy whipped and all it takes is one nod from you and he's already ready for action. Your presence in the same room already has him even begging so he can have sex with you or at least touch you a little bit
A/N: part two will be here soon! (If anyone wants me to tag them - let me know in the comments) I will be terribly pleased if you reblogged it :) Of course, if you liked it! I want to create a larger Outer Banks community here, because for now I have reached a small number of this fandom
SPOILER: as you already know, season 4 left us in despair and grief after JJ's death. however, I am not going to stop writing about him. love you JJ, rest in peace sunshine :(
please do not copy and translate my works! in case of any issues related to this - I invite you to discuss privately :)
#jj obx#jj maybank#jj maybank x reader#jj maybank imagine#outer banks#obx#obx season 4#obx cast#obx4#outer banks season 4#jj outer banks#jj x y/n#jj x you#jj x reader#jj maybank smut#jj maybank x you#outerbanks#obx imagine#obx fic#jj maybank x y/n#jj maybank x oc#jj maybank x pogue!reader#jj maybank fic#jj maybank fanfiction#jj maybank fluff
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Ok, so- (said with intent to infodump)
Teruteru is such a performance of a person. I think a pretty integral part of his character is his tendency to self-aggrandize, if not outright lie about his upbringing and accomplishments. I often wonder if heâs actually ashamed of his background at all, or if he just knows that a certain subsection of people would think less of him for it. Because, at the moment, it seems they only want him around when heâs providing something for them⊠Food, primarily. And I think he would tell himself that heâs content with that, with embodying this persona and proving himself through his talent, but his desperate bids for attention through his weird and creepy behavior would say otherwise. Heâs fun to dissect, because how much of what weâre seeing is really him? What would you find if you managed to get past that?
His arc in the simulation, short as it is, is very fascinating to me. Primarily because I donât think Teruteru is stupid. Heâs in such deep denial, from the very beginning, and the paranoia heâs doing a piss poor job of pushing down eventually bubbles over until he canât take it anymore. But maybe if he didnât feel the need to hide so much of himself, including his completely understandable levels of terror and concern for his mother, he wouldnât have needed to do what he did⊠I wonder if he couldâve been talked down, if only he wasnât so deathly afraid of emotional vulnerability⊠But then again, I do think he was genuinely looking for a way to get back home to his mom, no matter the cost.Â
His mom seems to be the only person he truly allows himself to be genuine with⊠And, in some ways, the only person he seems to really deeply care for. His dad left him and he openly dislikes his siblings. I donât think he has any friends and his classmates donât seem to care for him too much (in canon, at the start, at least). It adds a whole layer of tragedy to his story both in the simulation and during his time as a Remnant, given that he⊠Well, he very likely killed her himself, if not cooked and ate her too. I really adore this part in his FTEs where heâs asked what his dream is, he gets so confused and just throws out some random answer that he thinks aligns with his persona (âMy real dream is-! Having a cute, sommelier wife⊠maybeâŠ?â). I think the culmination of his FTEs and arc in general is that, in the end, he wanted to make his Mom smile, and I think this desire extends to others too. But he wraps it up in so many layers of grandiosity and bullshit that it can easily come off as arrogant and attention-seeking.Â
He wanted to make people happy, and he still does, but heâs not doing such a good job of it anymore. He hopes his cooking makes up for everything everyone hates about him, and it does, but he canât possibly be satisfied with that. He acts like he is, because he knows itâs better than nothing. And they donât have a choice but to keep him around. But he has to want more than that, doesnât he?Â
Sorry for the extremely long reply! As a massive Teruteru fan of several several years, Iâm probably overanalyzing him a little bit-Â
inauthentic
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Nights Like This: Part Three
Roman x black!oc
Warnings: language, angst
Word count: 1.4k
a/n: guys are we riding at dawn or not lmaoo??? if i forgot to tag you, or if you would like to be added to the tag list please feel free to lmk đ
âTell me what?â
Serena and Roman froze, which angered Zoe to another level, because itâs one thing to screw her over, but its another to play in her fucking face.
Roman turned towards Serena,âGive us some spaceâŠâ His voice was stern, more of a demand than a request. Serena briefly looked at Zoe and sighed, she proceeded to grab her keys and walk outside.
âWhere the fuck is she going, you both seemed to have a lot to say.â Zoe started walking towards the door to confront Serena, but as she was about to reach the door her movements were halted when Roman grabbed her by the waist gently pulling her back.
âBaby we need to talk, just you and me pleaseâŠâ he pleaded. Seconds later she heard a car engine start. This bitch really had the audacity to leave without saying a word.
âOh so now you want to fucking talk? Because you damn sure didnât have shit to say before I found the condoms,â Zoe sneered as she yanked her body away from him.
Roman paused and took a deep breath, slowly rubbing his hand over his beard, âBaby I fucked up, Iâm sorry...â
âYouâre sorry, is that really all you have to say?â Her voice cracked, she could feel her throat begin to tighten.
Roman felt like the biggest piece of shit. Seeing the exhaustion and pain in her eyes, hurt him. He hated to see her cry, let alone being the reason behind it. There was no excuse for what he did, and he knew it. Which is exactly why he didnât want to tell her, but actions have consequences. He made his bed, it was time to fucking lie in it.
âBaby Iââ As he began to speak Zoe cut him off, âRoman Iâm gonna ask you this one time. Did you or did you not, cheat on me with Serena?â
Roman lowered his head, his gaze now shifted towards the floor. He paused in silence for a short moment, she could see his hands were slightly fidgeting. Roman briefly looked up at her, still avoiding making eye contact.
âYes,â his voice was barely above a whisper.
Zoeâs heart felt like it was ripped out of her chest. She knew the answer, but she wanted him to have the balls to actually fucking say it. Tears that she had been fighting back started to roll down her face, sobs escaping her. âFuck you, Roman.â She started to walk away, but was stopped when Roman walked in front of her stopping her in her tracks.
âZo donât leave, please just talk to me.â
âYouâre such a piece of shit, I fucking trusted you. She wiped away some of her tears, which was of no use considering she couldnât stop crying, âMy best friend? Are you fucking kidding me? Youâve only met her a handful of times!â she yelled.
âI want you to tell me why, you wanted to talk, so fucking talk,â she hissed.
Romanâs eyes were glistened with tears, his shoulders were slumped as he inhaled a deep breath, âIâI came to her to help me plan our trip and your birthday dinner. I figured since I don't know shit when it comes to throwing parties, Iâd hire someone who not only works in that profession, but someone who would know what youâd like.â
âYeah it seems she ended up finding exactly what I liked,â she scoffed.
Roman put his head down, his voice getting lower, âI ended coming over at different times over the span of two months to approve some of the planning details. Little by little I noticed she was flirting more than usual, in the beginning I tried to ignore it, but over time IâI began to like the attention.â
Zoe felt sick to her stomach, she listened quietly while angrily wiping away her tears. She wanted to leave to avoid hearing this bullshit, but a part of her wanted to know why. Why would two people who claimed to love her, hurt her in the most disrespectful way possible.
Seeing Zoe silently crying made the pit of Romanâs stomach drop, he was disgusted with himself. How in the hell did he let something so stupid, jeopardize what he had? He loves Zoe, he couldnât give two fucks about Serena. Yet, he let a moment of weakness ruin everything and hurt the one person he loved more than anyone.
He walked towards her, and gently lifted her face. âBaby, please look at me,â Zoe refused, and that fucking killed him.
âI donât need all the details, just tell me what happened...â her lower lip was slightly trembling. She pushed him away, making sure to keep a distance between them.
âBefore my last visit, I let my ego cloud my judgment. I went to the store, bought the condoms and headed over to her house.â Roman paused, he was internally struggling to say the rest, but he knew he had to, he owed her that. âWe kissed, and she ended up giving me head.â
âLet me guess, you returned the favor?â Silence. Just as she expected. âOf course you did because youâre such a generous tribal chief, right?â
He took a deep breath, his chin dipping to his chest. âI went with the intention to fuck her Zo, I did. And I know that thereâs no amount of apologies in the world that will change what I did, but I need you to know that I didnât fuck her.â
âSo youâre telling me the condom unwrapped itself?â
âI was going to fuck her baby, I was. But when the time came, I thought of you, and I justâ I just couldnât do that to you.â
Roman walked towards her, gently moving some of her hair out of her face, he wiped some of her tears away with his thumb. He felt a sharp pang of guilt seeing her so broken, the weight of what he did was fully sinking in his chest.
âBaby please look at me.â
She doesnât know why she actually did, but she felt so numb as if nothing even really mattered anymore. She looked at his big brown eyes, eyes that she once viewed with love and admiration, she now saw with despair.
A few tears slipped down his face. âZoe please understand that she means absolutely fucking nothing to me. I love you baby. Iâm so sorry. Iâm sorry that I lied to you, Iâm sorry that I hurt youââ
âIf it was me that did this to you, how would you feel?â
He sighed heavily, facing down. He couldnât even say a word. What a fucking hypocrite.
âYou knew all the bullshit that I went through with my ex, and you went and did this shit. I opened up to you, and you promised me you would never do what he did to me. I feel so fucking stupid to have actually believed you. The fact that you wouldnât have told me shit had I not caught you makes me sick to my stomach. You want to know what I think Roman? I think youâre a fucking coward.â
Zoe grabbed her keys and headed towards the door. She didnât care about leaving her things behind, that slut seemed to like her leftovers anyways.
âZo, please donât do this to me,â he pleaded. Every single emotion that she tried to hold in was released, she was crying uncontrollably. She ignored him and was able to get in her car.
âYou did this to yourself. You donât have to worry about me anymore Roman, you and Serena can go fuck yourselves.â
Zoe started driving home, but the farther she got the more her anger built. She pulled over at a store to park and try to compose herself, she was so mad her hands were trembling. The memory of Serena letting her cry on her shoulder while being the actual cause of her tears, and leaving without even trying to apologize made her even more pissed. Fuck this. She put her gps back on Serenaâs address, enough is enough. The only thing on her mind right now, was beating this bitchâs ass.
#roman reigns#the tribal chief#otc#roman reigns fic#roman reigns x black reader#roman reigns x black!oc#roman reigns x oc#roman reigns fanfiction
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We Should Stick Together
sanguinius âËâĄ
have a very small sangy blurb that is literally just me braindumping! not proofread and a little fulgrim x reader if you squint :)
sanguinius has very clearly taken interest in someone, and fulgrim is quite tired of watching sanguinius collect offerings for his beloved rather than taking any productive action. through a little teasing and perhaps creating a lie great enough to form genuine jealousy, the phoenician can make something happen.
warnings: n/a
Fulgrim takes yet another sip of his 4th glass of wine, holding back a pout as he draws the glass away from his stained lips. To say he is bored - and also quite clueless - would be an understatement bordering insult. The wine he holds in his hand is absolutely delectable, a fine luxury piece from his own personal collection, smooth on the throat and incredibly enjoyable when not paired with second-hand embarrassment. He sighs as he notices his supply is dwindling rapidly, not feeling even the slightest bit drunk.
Throne, he should have brought something stronger.
"What do you think of these?" His white-winged brother shoved two sparkling stones into his hand, smiling like a childish idiot as he did so.
"They are.. nice..." Fulgrim claimed as he inspected them closely, attempting to hide his annoyance as he swept over the gems with violet eyes. "However, this one seems brittle, like it will crumble the moment it is grinded upon, and this one seems quite lackluster." His voice did not hide his disinterest in the subject, but he was at least honest.
"And what about the color? Do you think she will prefer quartz? Or perhaps red? Ah, but red makes it seem like it's about me..."
"Sanguinius..." Fulgrim whispered, trying to interrupt his brother, or at the very least return him to his senses before he went on yet another incoherent ramble about his potential courtier.
"And its about her, not me. I would hate to bring home something that is to her distaste. I don't wish to put her off, I think I've done well so far acquiring her interest, I really-"
"Sanguinius!" The Phoenician finally exclaimed in more of a yell than a speaking voice, his annoyance with his brother no longer confined behind a glass of chilled wine. He released the tension from his shoulders upon seeing the blond angel's wide, shocked eyes.
Taking in the final sip of his wine, he sighed yet again. "I don't think any number of my wives have had me in as much of a chokehold as this woman does you, brother. You are smitten, and hopelessly so."
Sanguinius' wings betrayed his feeble attempt at releasing his embarrassment. They fluttered at the mention of her, and so he turned away from Fulgrim, his cheeks dusted a light pink and a small amount of his feathers puffed up upon the top of both wings. A body language display familiar of most birds, but unfamiliar to the palatine phoenix. The angel's voice shook the very slightest as he attempted to maintain his composure.
"Hopeless, Fulgrim?" He paused, his shaking irises evident of trying to collect his thoughts. "Has she told you something she has not told me?"
Was there⊠anger? in his tone? Maybe it was jealousy fulgrim had heard, possessiveness even, he could not tell.
Regardless, this sort of reaction from the angel was something he had not heard from his perfect and composed brother before. A piece of him felt confused at the fact that his brother had become so quickly offended in regards to a mere human, and yet another piece felt curious, entertained by the possibility of whether or not he could strike a nerve within the brightest one.
Sanguinius saw a sinister smile creep across Fulgrim's perfect features. His shoulders raised at his brother's gentle laugh. "Defensive, are we, angel? Protective, perhaps?" The phonecian placed his wine glass down upon the rocks next to the two of them, taking note of Sanguinius' clenched fists and slightly narrowed eyes. He could tell the great angel was doing his best to mask his infamous inner wrath, but he simply couldn't at the mention of some mortal woman. "Worry not, I've already told myself that you would be the one marrying this one... Should you not take too long I would not make my move."
With a step toward Sanguinius, he moved closer, brushing a few strands of blond hair behind his brother's ear so that his whisper would fall directly on his ears "That being said, clock is ticking. Drop the stones you wish to bring her, take her your words instead⊠lest i take her my words first.â
The sound of ruffling feathers filled the air alongside a slight expression of jealousy from Sanguinius, brows downturned and eyes slightly squinted. âI know you only tease, Fulgrim."
"And if I don't?" The Phoenician replied, his tone simultaneously teasing and serious. He wished for nothing more than to confirm his suspicion, for the angel to fall from grace and admit the painfully obvious, that he was jealous.
"You best keep your hands off. It is I who loves her. It is I who will see to it that she marries me.â
Sanguinius would be lying if he said he was not slightly afraid of Fulgrim attempting his interestâs hand in marriage.
On one hand, the poor bachelorette had a winged mutant, a man with a pair of massive wings accompanied by two sharp canines and an insatiable thirst for blood buried deep within him.
On the other was a man who was perfect in every way. Silky, smooth, gorgeous white hair cascaded over his shoulders the same way his robes fit the contours of his slender body in a noble shade of purple. His face, in every way, was nothing short of youthful and beautiful and every positive word that a human could conjure from their lips.
In other words, if Fulgrim made it to her first, Sanguinius knew he would stand no chance.
âŠWould he?
Would she choose the man who had experience caring for women? Or the one who she would have to teach? Did she have the patience for him?
"Say it with your chest than, oh great angel."
"I love herâŠâ
âHmmâŠâ Fulgrim smiled, aware that his dear angelic brother was completely lost in thought. He knew how to hit where it hurt, for no one could turn away from Fulrgimâs perfection.
He knew Sanguinius would doubt himself, and he knew that he had to force him to confess before he lost the confidence to do so.
Of course, Sanguinius was a mutant with fatal flaws, but just like Fulgrim did his hair flow off of his shoulders and down his back, framing his chiseled face like a golden halo as piercing amber eyes shone like the sands of Baal under its suns.
Fulgrim had witnessed the girl weaving small and intricate jewels into chains that would drape themselves beautifully over Sanguiniusâ wings, if the two of them had just attempted to replace their distanced pining with the intimacy they both intensely longed for.
âWhat she told me was that she desired you just as much⊠But I told her your eyes were set on someone else.â He smiled deviously at his brother, watching his expression turn into one of horror as he realized Fulgrim had probably shattered her heart into shreds with his false news. âSo she and I made a deal. If you confessed to her within the week, you could have her. But if you failed toâŠâ
The Phoenician raised one of his hands, opening his palm to a ring made in approximately the size of a tiny human finger. Sanguiniusâ expression filled with anger as he fought the urge to strangle his brother right then and there. His teeth were clinched together with enough force to shatter a diamond in two.
Fulgrim's smile spread completely across his face before he turned upon his heels, flicking a head full of white hair toward Sanguinius before he broke out into a full sprint for the imperial palace. "And who is it that will tell her the news, brother?!â
With a single thunderous beat, the angel shot into the air, his speed in flight incomprehensibly faster than Fulgrim was on foot.
He smiled once more, his winged brother gone in the blink of an eye. None of what he said had been true, of course, but he too enjoyed some lighthearted teasing every once in a while. The expression upon the face of the great angel had been priceless. How could one be so jealous over someone they were stuck longing for?
He hoped that the angel would return with positive news and without the urge to slap him, and that he would still be invited to the wedding.
#warhammer 40k#warhammer 40000#primarch x reader#warhammer 30k#warhammer 30000#sanguinius x reader#sanguinius#fulgrim x reader#fulgrim#40k x reader
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patrick taking you to his familyâs lodge up in the mountains for winter break and a snow storm hits overnight.
you had been looking for to this since patrick mentioned it. you grew up in the west coast and had never seen snow in your life. the whole ride there you went on and on about all the things you were excited to do in the snow. patrick watched fondly as you yapped.
by the time you guys got there it was already dark. patrick had been driving for two days and yâall were ready to crash.
while the two of slept in each otherâs arms, the wind outside had picked up. the tree branches rustled and the snow fall got harder. you woke up the next morning to a bed of untouched white snow that covered the ground outside.
âpat.â you whispered. âpatrick, wake up.â you shook his body getting him to hum in response. âitâs snowing.â you were in complete awe as you watched out the window little flakes of snow falling and hit the ground. âwe are in the mountains babe, thereâs gonna be snow.â patrick mumbled. you rolled eyes, getting out of the bed and dragging patrick by the arm with you. âwell get your ass up and letâs go play in it.â you smiled.
patrick would have liked a few more hours of sleep before you woke him up, but he didnât complain.
you paced around the house pulling on two layers of pants at least three jackets, a hat and some gloves. âalright, am i missing anything?â you stopped in front of patrick for a second opinion. he laughed shaking his head. âno, i think youâre more than covered.â he zipped your puffer jacket up to your chin, placing a kiss on your forehead.
the second you stepped outside into the fresh snow you let out a childish giggle. patrick took in your giddy figure as you rolled around and made snow angels. patrick trudged over to you, holding out his for you to grab on to so he could pull you up to a standing position.
âwe have to make a snowman.â you demanded.
the two of you immediately got too work. patrick worked on rolling a big enough bottom while you rolled up the middle. you had patrick pick up the ball you made to attach it to his so you could start on the head. âyou know growing up i was really afraid of snowmanâs after watching frosty the snowman.â patrick randomly blurts out when you were in the middle of placing the hat on the snowman. you look at him out the corner on your eye, smiling at the imagery of a little patrick deathly afraid in the presence of a snowman.
after adding some final touches, you and patrick take a step to admire your work. âthatâs a damn good snowman.â you mumbled to yourself, pulling out your phone to take a picture not noticing how patrick had snuck off. you donât know what heâs up to until you feel it. the impact of something hard yet soft at the same time and the sound of patrickâs laughter. âwhat the hell was that?â you turned around to see him standing there with more snowballs in his hand.
âcanât have a snow day without a snowball fight.â
you gave him a competitive look before picking up some snow and forming a ball for yourself. âitâs on.â
both of you ran around like children. laugh like screams echoed through the trees as you chased after each other throwing balls of snow. it got weirdly quiet as you looked out from your hiding spot. your heart beat and heavy breathing being the only things sounding in your ears.
âpatrick?â you called out. âwhere are youâ you spoke in a singsong manner, looking around. you couldnât see him but he had a perfect view of you. he waiting until your guard dropped before rushing out tackling you to the snow. âow, patrick.â you winced when your back hit the ground. âshit, did i hurt you?â patrick pushed himself up so he wasnât resting on you as much. the real concern in his voice almost had you feeling bad for what you were about to do.
âhmm, no, not really.â patrick looked at you in confusion before he was met with a ball of snow right in his face. âyouâre evil.â he shook off the snow, moving to lie next to you. âiâm sorry.â you laughed. âit was just too easy.â
you guys stayed out there a little while longer, making snow angels all over the yard before you decided to call it a day. your hands were cold and your nose was red and felt like ice, which you complain about promoting patrick to grab your cheeks and push his face towards yours, rubbing your noses together warming you up.
back inside, changed into fresh warm clothes you sat on the couch watching patrick light up the fireplace. âyou have fun today?â he asked, settling down next to you. âyes, thank you for bringing me here.â you smiled up at him. âof course.â patrick placed a kiss on your nose then on your lips before turning on whatever movie you picked.
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