#the spy with a grey coat | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

luveline · 3 days ago

Text

𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐨𝐫 𝐬𝐞𝐞𝐧

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

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

｡𖦹°‧⭑.ᐟ

Fall

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sure.”

“I signed us up for that club.”

“Epigenetics?”

“Molecular medicine,” he says.

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

“What are you doing?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“When is it?” you ask, smiling.

—

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

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

—

“Good morning,” you say.

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

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

“I was thinking about you as a businessman.”

“And that’s funny?”

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

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

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

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

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

“You okay?” Peter asks.

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

“Don’t think so. Did you ask nicely?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m fine, why?”

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

“I have too much to do.”

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why are you sorry? I scared you.”

“I didn’t realise you were there.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I can show you the webs?”

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

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

“Can I walk you now?” he asks.

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

“Nothing more important than you.”

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

“Yellowstone Boulevard?”

“That’s the one…”

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

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

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

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

“I like walking,” you say.

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

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

“Do I?”

“Yeah, you do.”

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

“I’m not alone,” he says carefully.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Did you cook?” you ask.

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

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

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

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

“It’s for you,” he says casually.

“It’s not my birthday.”

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

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

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

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

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

“It must’ve taken hours.”

“May helped.”

“That makes much more sense.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I guess I’ll keep it.”

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

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

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

“Better than Harry?”

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

“Eat your own.”

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

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

“Have something to tell you.”

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

“Is that surprising?”

“Is that a trick question?”

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

“Okay, so tell me.”

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

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

“She’s going to England.”

“She is?”

“Oxford.”

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

“But?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I know. Thank you.”

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

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

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

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

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

You ruffle his hair. Spider-Man goes unmentioned.

—

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

“Spider-Man,” you say.

“What’s that about?”

“What?”

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

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

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

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

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

“What?” he asks.

“Sorry. You just reminded me of someone.”

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

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

“I knew it.”

“What do you look like under the mask?”

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

“No? Do I have to earn it?”

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

“Nobody in the whole world?” you ask.

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

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

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

“A secret. That’s fair.”

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

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

“My secrets aren’t worth anything.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How come?”

“It just hurts people.”

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

“Tell me another one,” he says.

“What for?”

“I don’t know, just tell me one.”

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

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

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

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

“Oh, nowhere.”

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

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

“Sure, for that secret.”

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

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

“Why not?” he asks.

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

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

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

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

“Thanks for telling me.”

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

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

“Just an hour.”

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

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

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

“I get to choose?”

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

“If you want to,” he says.

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

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

“When they lined up the cranes–”

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

“Like flying.”

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

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

“So tell me another one,” he says.

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’d hope so.”

You swing around. “Don’t do that!”

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

“You did?”

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

“I like to walk,” you say.

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

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

“What’s wrong with staying at home?”

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

“I don’t do this every night.”

“Don’t you get tired?”

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

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

“Want me to do one?”

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

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

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

He yanks his mask down. “Hasty getaway.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hi, Spider-Man.”

“Hi.”

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

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

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

“Yeah, you could.”

He sounds sure.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You love them–”

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

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

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

—

Winter

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

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

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

He jogs toward you.

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

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

You blink as fat rain lands on your face.

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

“Peter–”

“Jesus Christ!”

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

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

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

“No.”

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

“Shit, my groceries are soaked.”

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

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

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

“Sorry I didn’t ask,” Peter says.

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

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

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

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

“About?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So you didn’t need me,” he says.

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

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

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

“Not that much.”

“Not for me, no.”

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

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

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

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

“I don’t know, are we?”

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

Peter… What is he doing?

You let yourself relax against him.

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

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

“What?”

You can say it out loud. You could.

“Peter, you’re…”

“I’m what?” he asks.

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

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

He’s Spider-Man.

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

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

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

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

“I was thinking about you,” he says.

“Yeah?”

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

“Yeah?” you ask.

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

Peter isn’t as far away as you thought.

“Thank you,” you say.

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

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

“Yeah, please.”

His thumb strokes your cheek.

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hey,” he says, “you all right?”

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

“I’m fine up here!”

“Are you really Spider-Man?”

“Sure am.”

“Are you single?”

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

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

“Hello?” Peter asks.

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

“Hi, are you busy?”

“Not really.”

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

“Is Aunt May okay with that?”

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

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

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

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

“Not yet, but–”

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

“I have to shower first.”

“Twenty five?”

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

“It’s a date,” he says.

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

—

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

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

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

“It’s fine.“

“It’s not fine. Are you cold?”

“Pete, it’s fine.”

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

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

“You said it wasn’t cold!”

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

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

“I don’t like it,” you lie.

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

“That’s not funny.”

“Apparently, nothing is.”

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

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

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

“May!” Peter says, startled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You shrug away from his hand. “Loser.”

“Concerned friend.”

“Handsy loser.”

”Shut up,” he mumbles.

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

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

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

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

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

“I don’t want ice cream.”

“Wasn’t that easy?” he asks.

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

“Because I’m adorable?”

“Persistent.”

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

“Peter…?” you murmur.

“What?” he murmurs back.

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

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

“What are you doing?”

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

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

“‘Cos I missed you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m not–”

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

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine.”

“How would you know?” you finally ask.

Peter stares at you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Peter returns as perturbed as earlier.

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

“I’m sorry for being weird.”

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

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

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

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

“I think so,” you say, quiet again.

“That’s what I thought.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Am I going too fast?” Peter murmurs.

You press your lips together, shaking your head minutely.

“Is it something else?”

You don’t move.

“Do you want me to stop?” he asks.

“No.”

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

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

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

“Yeah.”

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

“I like thinking.”

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

“I’ll try not to.”

“Would you? For me?”

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

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

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

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

“Door open,” she says.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I love you,” Peter sing-songs.

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

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

“Peter Parker.”

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

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

—

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

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

Look! it says, LEGO cancer treatment!!

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

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

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

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

“What are you doing?” he asks.

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

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

“You just dropped down twenty feet!”

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

“Who said you’re a superhero?”

“Nice. What are you doing down here?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s definitely for dorks.”

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

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

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

“I love it…”

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s okay,” you say.

“It’s not, actually.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No–”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Peter,” you say, squirming.

He steps back.

“I have to go,” he says.

“What?”

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Did you eat breakfast?” Peter asks quietly.

His voice is gentle, but hoarse.

You tense.

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

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

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

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

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

“Ten minutes,” you lie.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Was that disappointing?”

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

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

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

“You flirted pretty heavily with Spider-Man.”

“Well, he flirted with me first.”

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

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

“I haven’t, either.”

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

“You’re hard to say no to.”

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

We do, you think morosely.

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

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

His palm smells like smoke.

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

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

“So tell me.”

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

“Please.”

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

“I find that hard to believe.”

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

He tilts his head invitingly.

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

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

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

“Sick?” he asks worriedly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I can keep you warm.”

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

“Did you want my meskouta?” you ask.

Peter plants a fat kiss against your brow.

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

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

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

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

—

Spring

“Sorry!”

“No, it’s–”

“Sorry, sorry, I’m– shit!”

“–okay! All legs inside the ride?”

“I couldn’t find my purse–”

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

“Are you sure you can drive this thing?”

“Harry doesn’t mind.”

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

“That’s not funny.”

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

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

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

“Peter!”

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

“Alright,” you warn.

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

“It’s an hour.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Already?”

“Tonight’s the June equinox.”

“Who told you that?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m trying to prepare myself.”

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

“You’ll have to move.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re beautiful,” he says.

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

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

“You’re decent enough, Parker.”

“Maybe now.”

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

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

He shakes himself off like a dog.

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

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

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

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

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

“What kind of secret?”

“A real one,” you insist.

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

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

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

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

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

The sun warms your back for a time.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

｡𖦹°‧⭑.ᐟ

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

1K notes · View notes

ruthytwoshakes · 4 months ago

Text

team furries twoooo. And scalies. And whatever birds are.

please share and donate to this family of four, the youngest being only 2 1/2 years old. They need funds to safely cross to Egypt. If you donate something, send me a message with proof and I’ll draw you something nice as a thank you :)

Species and concept art under cut!

Sniper: so for some reason I was under the impression that Crocs were native to new zealand. They are not. Uh. Well. yup. 👍 it fits his personality. snappy n dangerous but real easy to get around if you just zig-zag. Why the long fa

Spy: Grey Fox. I was gonna go with a wolf because of his fursona but fox fits better wahhhh. Also means that scout is half fox! I’ll show that in more detail one day. Probably.

Medic: just like his Doves! The tail coat is actual his real tail. Featherrrrrs. Why are his nasty claws out? I don’t know he’s kinda weird like that.

Demo: TIGER!!!!! He’s always kinda reminded me of Hobbes from Calvin and Hobbes :) why did I draw him so cute. Somebody stop me before I draw them all adorable ough.

Engineer: the bulllllerrrrrrrrr. Sorry. He’s a bull, with a nose ring. Epic. Hooves for hands, gunslinger would look like a hoof too, gotta design that later.

Heavy: big badass brown bear. Love him. Instead of bullet he has honey sticks. It costs four hundred thousand dollars to harvest honey… for 12 seconds.

Pyro: fucking dragon. hell yeah. In pyroland they see themselves as a unicorn. Baller.

Scout: Bunny scout truther over here. You can thank @/teamfurtress for that. Please check them out, commissions are open! In my version he’s a hare but that is significantly less fun to say lol. Jackrabbit kinda guy.

Soldier: regular ole dog. ouppy to da max. He’s the most dog of the alol time and I’m tired of pretending he’s not. THE STRAPS ON HIS HELEMT ARE HIS EARS. HIS BIG TEETH AND OPEN MOUTHED SMILE. THE WAY HE MOVES. DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME?!???!??????! That’s a grown man with dick n balls what am I doing

Some designs for the side characters that I couldn’t be arsed to finish. Saxton is kangaroo because of corse he is. Admin is a bat because she never leaves her room, Pauling is mouse because is cute, Zhanna is bear like big brother, Merasmus is praying mantis, and Gray Mann + Olivia Mann are vultures! She’s so fluffy oh my god

Concept time. I fell in love with wrinkly floppy dog sniper. Adorable. Unfortunately I already had a dog so he had to go </3 kangaroo sniper was also axed. rip girl. Lots of diff designs for admin! Curtesy of @stangeranfanficion (thank u for the ideass) eagle soldier because it’s funny. Also zebra Pauling! I really like this one. If I make a horse au she’s going to be a zebra.

2K notes · View notes

tadpolesonalgae · 7 months ago

Text

On The Wrong Side of History: The Queen of Hybern

Azriel x Hybernian!Reader

synopsis: Reader is one of Hybern’s generals, fighting for her freedom after Prythian turned her back. Born with no magic, she was forced to cultivate a different kind of power, one that could prove deadly to the inhabitants of magic-blooded fae of Prythian. But when she’s captured and thrown into the scarred hands of the Spy-master, which side of history will prevail? Will Hybern’s story be told, or will it be covered up and concealed before the suffering of her people ever makes it to the light.

warnings: miscarriage at the end, war, general suffering and grimness, slight torture(?)

a/n: I had this idea yesterday and wanted to write something so fair warning it’s a little rushed! It also lightly brushes over miscarriage which might be a delicate subject for some so please take care of yourselves 🧡💛

word count: 3,810

——————————————————————————————————————————————

The war is coming, and not a single inhabitant of Hybern will stand by and let the chance for freedom pass. It’s been five-hundred years since you were confined to that island, cut-off from the mainland and left to rot and starve. Now is the time to reclaim the ground you were deprived of. War is coming, and she is starving for revenge. Starving like your people have for centuries, and nothing will stand between you and fighting for your right to life. Not even the baby you know is growing inside of you.

The air is fresh and damp, and you take the time to inhale its freshness before hot blood is spilled, turning the ground to a mushy, fleshy soup. The day is overcast, heavy grey clouds that look like the mould on bread swelling in the sky, ready to start leaking, dripping down into the open fields. Grass stomped into a muddy mush as feet frantically fight for ground, desperate to keep steady before they’re trodden down into the dirt, trampled and crushed beneath the weight of an army.

If you fall, you cannot rise. Not with a writhing mass of violence crowding the land, oozing bloodlust so thick it won’t matter which army you fight for. A body shouldn’t rise from the mud, any attempts to would be met with steel slicing down in a frantic jolt.

You turn from the entrance of your tent, making for the bed, moving slowly, peacefully, to the protective coatings you’ll be wearing in a couple of hours. The leather that will stick and slide over your skin, wet with blood and sweat, hopefully some rain, too. Heat gathers quickly in the midst of battle, and between the stink of gore and the sweltering sweat that greases any soldier’s grip, rain and wind are much appreciated for their gentle touches.

Your nose twitches as a breeze passes through the camp, quiet in the early hours of misty, grey dawn. Even beneath the cover of your tent, the smell of the battlefield can reach you—damp and bloody, contaminating the fresh air you’d been treating yourself to.

Something shifts inside of you, and you glance down at yourself, hesitantly raising your palm to your lower stomach. You only found out about your condition mere weeks ago, but even had you only found out this morning, you would still be here, preparing for your freedom.

The baby won’t survive, anyway. Not with what your body has turned into.

————

“You’re ready for today?”

A wry smile curves your lips, settling deeper into the chair that’s been set to one side of his room, the large bed in the centre already made despite him having risen as recently as yourself. Neither of you have ever particularly been ones for sleeping in, having so much to do at all times of day. “I’ve been ready for the past five hundred years,” you answer, leaning your chin on the heel of your palm.

The King of Hybern reflects your smile—the slightest twist of his lips. “Perhaps I made a mistake sending Amarantha to seize control of Prythian,” he muses, slipping the shirt over his head, pulling his dark, shoulder-length hair free of the collar once it’s on, making to tighten the laces that can be used to close the V of the hem. A note of dissatisfaction slides beneath your skin as his amulet is obscured—a hollow iron circle, his crest welded from the dark metal inset to its centre.

“Perhaps,” you agree lightly, watching as his fingers tighten the ties of his trousers, noting the distinct lack of armour—he’ll be watching over the Cauldron today. “Though in that case she might still be alive,” you murmur quietly, a little smile dancing in your eyes.

“You disgrace her,” he chuckles lowly, pulling the thick coat from his bed, leather on its exterior to keep out the bite of wind or the lick of rain, while lined with a warm fleece. “You trained beside her for a good portion of your life, at least honour her memory.” The King of Hybern shucks on the coat, the hem of leather coming down past his knees, and he adjusts the cuffs before making for the large, wooden chest at the foot of his bed.

“There was little to honour,” you counter, straightening in the chair as you watch him decide on which daggers to hide beneath the coat. “She was brash and brazen at the best of times, too quick to grow comfortable on her throne. And I never liked her bedside manner. She was always too grabby and rough for my liking.”

“She was ambitious,” he counters, strapping a small blade to the interior of the coat, hidden away in a pocket on his left side. He pauses, briefly considering something, then glancing over you, how you’re lazily sprawled across his chair, “though her nails could have been a bit shorter. They were an unpleasant surprise, at times.”

Your lips curve at one corner, sharing a look with him, before he returns to selecting his daggers, settling on one with a jagged, serrated edge, a wicked hook to its tip.

It’s then he turns, blades concealed beneath his coat and he silently walks to you, charcoal eyes glittering as you sit straighter. “How long have you been serving me now?” He asks, pausing at your side, so you have to incline your chin to look at him, baring your throat. “Five centuries? Six?”

“Six and a half,” you reply, “if you’re counting foot soldier duties as serving.”

He smiles a strange smile, glittering teeth showing briefly beneath familiar lips. “Loyalties are rewarded,” he says cryptically, his palm settling beneath your jaw, inclining your chin—it would be easy for him to snap your neck with the slightest snap of his hands. “Have you thought about what you want?”

“It seems greedy to ask for something before I’ve even succeeded at winning this war,” you reply.

“Consider it a show of assurance,” he remarks, “I have no doubt you’ll prove instrumental to Prythian’s ruin. Now, what would you like, upon your victory?”

Your eyes gleam with hunger, and you wonder if it’s at all possible he might not already know what you desire, more than anything. And looking at the way those charcoal eyes of his are gleaming, as if goading you on, urging the words to spill like honey from your velvety tongue—you feel it’s impossible. He knows what your request will be. And he’s practically dragging the desire from your throat, with the grip he has on it.

“Make me your queen.”

———

Darkness pounds at your mind, eyes aching as if the blood vessels are bursting, hot pressure building, ready to splash out through your pupils. The air is cool…cold, skin hypersensitive to the slightest shift in temperature, telling you there’s a layer of sweat over your exterior, alerting you to each swish of air.

Your thigh stings, the laceration taking its time to heal, longer than others of your kind would. The small cuts you’d been given the day before—a few inches long—have scabbed over, no longer in danger of leaking blood, but there’s going to be a definite pucker around each cut. A shiver traces up your spine, an involuntary shudder passing through your lungs as coldness sweeps across your skin, like a winter’s breeze.

Slowly, keeping your breathing as even as possible, you crack an eye open, only to be met with darkness. Hesitantly, the other slides open, and you peek at your surroundings but the dark seems impenetrable, thick and absolutely solid. Your nostrils flare, and the faint smell of ammonia and iron waft up along with the sharp tang you associate with stomach acid, the air itself thick and damp, slightly humid. Fertile and rife, perfect for things to start growing.

Casting your gaze downward, you can spot the stitching that’s covering the split in your right thigh, jaggedly stitched up, and from the looks of it you’re quite glad you weren’t conscious for it. You also notice the grime that’s already begun settling on you, dirt and mud and gore still layering your skin, save for the small perimeter that’s been cleaned around your thigh. The thought of how you must smell is a grim one.

“You’re awake,” a voice observes from the darkness, making your ears twitch.

You keep your mouth tightly sealed, waiting to hear what the observer has to say. Let them speak their part first, before you start making your own moves. Already you can tell this one is different from the previous ones—yesterday’s one had a lighter voice, squeaky and dragging. This one sounds like the first roll of thunder before a storm breaks.

“You’ll forgive me for the haphazard stitching. Healers are needed elsewhere.”

So this one’s to blame for the child’s-quilt on your thigh. It’s more than likely it was done intentionally carelessly, rather than simply poorly—poor stitching could lead to further infection, while careless stitching just might leave a trace of a scar. On a regularly healing body, at least.

Straightening in your chair, you try to pick out where the voice is coming from, but the darkness is so thick, and your eyes have barely had a chance to adjust, and with the faelight bobbing above your head there’s little chance they will anytime soon. Keeping them shut would be the quickest way, but it would be leaving yourself open. More open than you already are, that is, with your arms bound at your back. They haven’t bothered to shackle you to the chair itself today, the ties from yesterday are gone, and you can feel the weight of the stone around your wrists: Gorsian shackles—utterly useless on you.

“What do you want today?” You ask into the darkness, stretching your fingers to keep them awake and ready. It’s already been at least three days, and you suspect whoever has come to visit today isn’t just any old torturer. You can tell from the silence they keep, how undetectable they are despite your honed senses, sharper than most’s. They had to be, for you to survive.

“The same thing anyone might want from a prisoner of war,” the voice replies, ghosting through the room, bouncing about in the darkness so it’s impossible to tell its root. “And what is that?” You ask, following the script, familiar with the direction of the conversation—unaccustomed, however, to be on this side of it. “Information,” the voice replies, and there’s less than a second of detectable presence before your hair is wrapped around a fist and dragged back, your throat exposed as you’re positioned over the back of the chair, making it impossible to swallow. The faelight glares down at you, beaming into your adjusted eyes, and you’re forced to squint as your vision blurs from the sting of the light and the grip on your scalp. Cool steel settles just below your jaw, the tip of a blade spiking into the soft flesh just beneath the hollow of your mouth.

Your teeth grit together, hissing sharply at the roughness of the touch, thigh aching from the tension that shot through your body. A laugh forces its way from your chest, ragged and strained as you peer up into the faelight, pupils tightening to slits in the face of the brightness, “give me something in return. I can’t very well go back empty handed, can I?”

Your captor roughly tugs on your hair, your lip twitching a little from the pain but otherwise unruffled. “You might go back with no hands at all, unless you’re careful.”

“Threats already? You haven’t even told me what you’re after,” you bite out, voice heavy and grim.

A beat passes between you, then the steel is flipped away between deft fingers, removed from your throat in favour of pressing to your sternum—a warning before the cuts begin, gradually skinning you alive until they get what they want. Fury simmers quietly inside of you, but you keep it tucked away. That’ll only come in useful once the pain starts setting in. A fuel to fall back on when food would become a problem. But it’s high time you return to your king. You’ve spent long enough here, all because of a stupid, foolish…

“Would you like to hear something interesting, then? In the name of compromise?” The voice asks, low and rasping, and you sit silently, waiting for what they have to say.

“The one who visited you yesterday, the day before that, and the day before that…each one refused to come back the next day. Insisted there was something wrong with you.” The hand tightens on your hair then releases, the presence vanishing like a flame snuffed out, leaving your skin tingling with awareness. “Once is by chance, twice is a coincidence, but three…three’s a pattern.”

Something hisses past your ear, and you jerk in your seat, not foolish enough to stand. You glare into the darkness, peering deep from beneath your lowered brows, lips turned down in the corners as you try to pick out even the faintest shadow, but they all blend together so seamlessly, like one giant, blank wall. Not a single shape to be found.

Something whispers to your left, then cracks to your right, your pulse beginning to pick up involuntarily form the confusing stimulus, attention split between both directions.

A figure steps into the grey shift in light, silent and menacing as it prowls forward, one military-grade boot in front of the other, and you take in the towering silhouette, the great wings looming in deeper shadow. Your eyes follow the light as it glides up his frame, revealing long legs clad in Illyrian leathers, scarred hands within easy reach of visible weapons, a lean waist and broad chest, the Night Court insignia clear over his heart. Cold, cutting hazel eyes, with a glint you recognise. After having spent so many centuries gazing into eyes like that, it would be strange to not be able to place the intense glint of honed reproach, the look that desires utter eradication of the thing that’s causing suffering.

Calm and deadly, he is your exterminator.

“We’ll start with an easy question,” he says, gaze unfaltering as he meets your own.

“What is it that makes all kinds of magic recoil from you, General?”

A slow smile breaks across your lips, delicately curving in a mocking grin. You should have known this would be his question, that they would have figured something was wrong with you by now—the slowed healing, the way their magic leans back from you, as if trying to scuttle away.

“And you?” You ask, a gleam in your eye. “What’s your title?”

His mask doesn’t shift, not even the slightest hint of emotion in his dark eyes. Just silence. Patient, grating, silence.

“Not even the name of my captor?” You push, smile slipping away, settling back into a wall of ice to match his own—you can play that game, too. “Or are you nobody? You don’t seem like you’re nobody, though.” You angle your chin, shifting in the chair slightly, re-flexing your fingers, testing the gorsian shackles. “You’re clearly important, if you were sent in to investigate after three turned away, and considering the insignia you’re wearing, with those wings…master torturer of the Night Court?”

He inclines his head, “Spymaster. Shadowsinger.”

“And how do your shadows like me, Spymaster?” You murmur, able to guess the answer.

His dark eyes narrow on you almost imperceptibly, then his right hand is wrapping around the hilt of one of his blades, inset with strange markings, as dark as obsidian. The hairs on the nape of your neck rise as he thumbs the blade free, a sharp glint in his eye being the last thing you see of him before he steps away into shadow, falling seamlessly back into the darkness.

“How long had you planned to let this war go on for?” He rasps from the darkness, the question bounding in and out, coming from different sides that make it impossible to track his position. All while he’s free to observe from the shadow. “You ask that like we have control over the nature of war,” you reply neutrally, keeping your gaze sharp, but all it looks the same. If you could find a way to put the faelight out, or to lure him to stand before you… Getting some information first would be preferable, though.

“But maybe we had an idea.”

The sound of steel slicing through air comes from your right, and you instinctively follow the familiar hiss of a blade, body tensing, as if expecting it to come flying out from the darkness.

“You’d have to be confident in a victory to have a timeframe in mind.” His rasp echoes throughout the room you’re kept in, whispering in varying volumes as it’s bounced off shadow. “We’ve had a long time to prepare,” you reply vaguely, features remaining blank, despite being unable to so much as feel the weight of his attention. If it wasn’t for the fact you’d seen him, and were having a conversation, you wound’t believe he was in here with you. You hate to admit it, but it’s impressive.

“And I suppose you believed you’d win?” He questions.

“I know we’ll win. Whether I’m in here or not.”

The steel tip of a blade grazes the top of your back, slowly tracing the length of your shoulders, occasionally pressing deep enough to disrupt the skin, but mostly remaining as a taunting reminder—he could choose to cut you at any moment, as deeply or as slowly as he pleases. “What made you believe that? Numbers? Experience? Speeches?”

“We have the cauldron,” you reply, keeping apprehension clear from your voice, the tip of the blade pressing a little too deeply into the back of your left shoulder. “What was it like, by the way? Seeing your soldiers wiped from existence in the blink of an eye?” The blade bites into your skin, probably pushed in to about an inch of flesh, and you grit your teeth as he twists the steel, opening the wound up. “I’m fairly certain we targeted your aerial armies on the first day,” you grit out, remembering the wings at his back. “I’m guessing you knew some of that scum?”

The blade retracts calmly, but he makes no further incisions, walking back around to stand in front of you. He’s strangely under control, considering how badly the war will be going for his side.

“Why are you so repulsive to fae magic?” He repeats. Unruffled by the comment. Good. “Why don’t you come closer and figure it out yourself?” You reply, noting the living shadows that are gliding down from his shoulders. “See if your shadows can answer that question.”

He regards you silently, then slides the blade back into its home at his hip, walking forward until he crowds your space, scarred fingers biting brutally into your cheeks, squeezing as he leans down. “I don’t think I need an answer. Not anymore.” You keep your mouth shut, confused by what he’s saying. “You see, despite your certainty, you were proved wrong. Two days ago. I would like to know what it is about you that makes magic react the way it does, but at the end of the day, it’s ultimately of no importance.”

You glare up at him, muscles tense from the grip he has on your cheeks, squeezing your jaw.

“You lost the war,” he says, quietly. “Your king was decapitated by one of the humans he used as a test subject. Felled by his own creation.”

There’s no falsity in his gaze, just ugly, unforgiving, truth.

And he’s in reach.

You twist your wrists in a snappy movement, harsh enough the already weakened gorsian stone crumbles away, allowing you to launch from the chair, hand seamlessly wrapping around the hilt of his blade, sliding it free with the familiar sing of steel.

He’s caught off guard—it’s impossible to break out of those shackles—his moments of surprise allowing you to use his weight against him, pushing into the frame of muscle in the places you’re familiar with, tripping him up. His wings thrash as they’re caught beneath him, shadows vanishing at your proximity, shoved away to some godsforsaken pocket as you aim the blade for his throat, his own scarred hands wrapping around your wrists to loosen your hold. But fae are made of magic, their very strength dependant on it. Encountering a creature that nullifies any and all types…his muscles tremble beneath you, shaking with the force of keeping you from plunging the blade into his throat.

“I’ll kill you, and your High Lord,” you hiss, leveraging your own weight, so the blade sinks down toward the bare, unprotected part of flesh. “I’ll end every single one of you, and I’ll save that abomination for last,” you snarl, in regard to the human who he’d told you decapitated your king.

His strength is draining swiftly, and he knows you can sense it, can feel the tremble in his muscles, and the steel inches closer, spurred on by his weakness.

The Spymaster grits his teeth as he shifts suddenly beneath you, allowing you to gain precious inches so the steel scratches the swell in his male throat, but in turn allowing him to raise his leg from the ground, stomping his boot into your stomach, sending you flying back, crashing into the chair you’d been sat on, the faelight flickering above.

Your lips part, eyes going wide as nausea rises up swiftly, having only seconds before you’re vomiting onto the floor, heaving up chewed food and saliva, a dizzying feeling sweeping through your entire body.

You’re flipped over not even a second after you get the first clear breath down, the Spymaster over you, dark eyes cold as ice as the steel of that blade glints in the unnaturally pale faelight. The blade hisses down, aimed to slice up beneath your ribs, cutting into your heart, but his eyes have dropped to the hand you have over your abdomen. Nostrils flaring at the slight tang of blood.

His features slack. “You’re—”

You take the chance, knocking the blade from his hand, reaching to wrap your hands around his throat, but something impacts with your temple, a second figure coming from the darkness that you hadn’t noticed, and you feel as the hit registers.

A fresh wave of dizziness slams into you, the world tilting dramatically before you’re slumping, heading for the floor before hands catch you. Making sure you don’t land on your front.

The world goes silent.

——————————————————————————————————————————————

general taglist: @myheartfollower @tcris2020 @mali22 @slut4acotar @sfhsgrad-blog @needylilgal022 @hannzoaks @hnyclover @skyesayshi @nyotamalfoy @decomposing-writer @soph1644 @lilah-asteria

az taglist: @azrielshadows1nger @jurdanpotter @positivewitch @nightcourt-daydreaming @assassinsblade @marvelouslovely-barnes @v3lv3tf0x @kalulakunundrum @vellichor01 @throneofsmut @vickykazuya

#azriel x reader #azriel x you #azriel fic #azriel shadowsinger #azriel x yn #on the wrong side of history

337 notes · View notes

simp-ly-writes · 8 months ago

Text

Suits, Ties, and Thus Spies (pt.3)

Pairing: Spy!Task Force 141 x Handler!Reader

Summary: Its the task force's first mission as Agents at Taylor Tailor's. How will it go- will other agents accept them and most of all- will you be able to handle working with so many agents on the same mission?

Warnings:2500 words, light swearing and teasing, depictions of blood and violence. A/N: sorry for the delay... decided to change the look of these stories too (hope you like the change!). Masterlist | Taglist | edited.

6:00 PM | Autumn | National Museum of Art and History

Agent Whitby grips the back of another man's suit into a fist, slamming his face repeatedly into the brick wall of the storage room. Blood pours out from their nose, a harsh gash forming against their left cheek and forehead- the skin purple and blue as one of their eyes swells shut. “You really are wasting my time here- you’re a waste of time really for anyone so why not just tell me what the code is, make it easy on your looks and my patience- hm?” he challenges, flicking his head back as the man tries to elbow him in the face.

Letting out a tisk, Whitby drops the man, holding him in place with a dress shoe to the chest as he feels the man begin to cough up blood as he cringes, eyeing at the lower fabric of his suit becoming damaged by the liquid. Letting out a sigh, while shaking his head, glass slipping down his face as he reaches into his waistband leveling the barrel of the gun in between their eyes.

“Let us try this again, where-” Whitby pauses at the sound of your voice coming through his earpiece, tilting his head to the side as he continues to stare down at the man, waiting for him to speak the answers he evers-so needs.

“Whitby, do you have a moment?” you ask coated in sweety-coated sarcasm as you watch him through a hidden camera put on his glasses- observing the man on the floor with mocking pity on your features as you turned to Laswell and point to the room Whitby closed himself into as various enemies flooded the floors below him, making their way upstairs and into the ancient egyptian part of the museum.

“All my time is yours, love. Only to ask,” Whitby says lovingly while stepping into the man's chest harder, hearing as he wheezes out from the pressure. “Warming my heart here darling,” you start to say, hands moving across the keyboard as you add the scanned models of your newest agents into the digital model. “Whitby, I am sending my newest agents in to help you as a gage for the training that needs to be done. You are in charge, congrats- you are a new father of four!”

“You’re joking-” Whity begins to say before Handler Jacobs patches themselves into the call, a still image of them setting on your computer screen as soundwaves spike and drop in rhythm to his speech. “Agent, this is Handler Jacobs, you are green to finish him off- passcode is.” You wince as the gunshot rings in your ears- stilling the blood in your body as switch yours and Laswell’s calls over to the boys comms as they arrive at the scene. Their once greyed out figures now bursting with colour and moving in sync to their current actions.

“Alright Agents, give me a sign that you hear me,” you test, watching the surveillance coverage with a nervous smile as you begin to pick at your nail polish, blood pumping and making it way upwards to your head- settling its thundering beat in your ears. Laswell scoots her office chair closer, placing a hand on your shoulder for reassurance as you let out a large breath. “Loud and clear” rings through your comms as you shake Laswells hand off of you, moving to stand and lean over the diagram. “A physical sign please-” you stress as silence is all you receive on the line, watching as they start to whisper to one another and look around, feeling around their suits.

“I don’t think I copy, Dee…” Gaz says, rubbing the back of his head. “I watch your every move boys while on a mission. And that is Handler D, please. Turn left and go through the staff entrance, inside the envelope is a swipe to get through the door. Charlotte has already put your biometrics into the security. You will have to climb up the disabled elevator shaft. Agent Whitby is on the third floor in the Egyptian exhibit awaiting your arrival as we speak.”

“Oh,” Soap responded, waving his hands widely in the hair as you shake your head- looking at Laswell who is struggling to contain her laughter as you grip at the table, knuckles turning white. You watch as the task force makes their way, peering down each corner and into the elevator shaft as they begin to climb the ropes. You watch their technique, writing a few notes on a nearby paper-pad from your desk upon their technique. “We are on the third floor,” John states.

“Walk as I talk please, turn left, left again, open the yellow door to your right there is a card swipe behind the suit of armour. In 10 steps you find a closet door, open it,” you order, falling back into your chair as their digital models work through the space, guns raised as you click your pen on and off, listening as your clicks sound in tune to the digital clock on your screen. You continue your notes as a ping vibrates through your phone. Mouthing a thank you to Laswell, the report you asked for finally in your inbox.

“Well hello there,” Whitby states, picking up the dead man's handkerchief as he cleans his hands before shaking each of the task force’s in a strong grip and tight smile. “Agent Whitby, do follow me,” he commands, dropping the piece of cloth to the floor before ushering the group outside the closet as he starts to jog down the hall and places the code into the staff hallway before continuing to navigate the maze of white tiled floors and beige walls without a blink of worry. Handler Jacobs rattles off directions in his earpiece as the task force remains impressed by his supposed memorization of the building.

“Alright boys, there is one hostile coming up on your west in 5, 4, 3 2, and…” you watch as Johnny tackles the forager into a nearby cart, various vitals of chemicals spill across the floor as they hiss and fizzle amongst one another, eating away at the leather of his shoes. Loosening his tie, Whitby restrains the woman, humming to himself while scanning the rest of the hallway. “Good work, agent,” Whitby compliments, clapping a hand down on their shoulder before continuing to move down the hall and sporadically turning on 90 degrees to slam the door back on another forger, they curse out in pain, dropping to their knees before quickly standing and rushing out into the hall, starting to swing at Whitby.

Dipping down and extending his leg outwards, the man falls over, face slamming into the tile floors below just before they grip his ankle, tackling the agent down with him. Various punches are shared before Whitby has their purple-head in between his thighs- they whimper for air, slamming their fists repeatedly against his thighs while. Whitby signals over for another tie as John wraps the fabric tightly around their wrists. Straightening his jacket one more, Whitby’s chest rapidly rises and falls- needing air he unbuttons a series from his dress shirt before punching in a code back into the door as it creaks in welcome.

Flicking the lights on, Whitby now walks with a limp to his step- observing the various artifacts in the room sat beside the fakes that were to be sold. Pinching the edge of his glasses, he takes a series of photos- uploading them into the system. “Ghost and Soap, right? If you could demolish these fakes.”

“You have 12 combatants coming from the roof, 20 minutes until they reach you all,” you comment, eyes flicking from the model to the surveillance photo as you chew your lip anxiously. “I have already informed Kyle and Price in the hall but the police are on their way- 30 minutes tops you all. Destroy and set the forgers in place. We cannot be seen,” you state, setting a timer to each of their watches.

“Then let the fun begin,” Whitby announces to the room before they all get to work smashing through the various fake vases and statues that were to be sold for profit through these criminals. Porcelain shards fly and rattle against one another, crunching beneath their shoes. Glass cabinets are flung open, mixing with the debris on the floor as Soap sets fire to a fake wooden ship carving. Flicking your vision back to the hall, John and Kyle made their way back into the room, tying the criminals to desk chairs and placing a bat at their feet with a smirk. Just as they shut the door behind themselves, you clicked a button on your console as the ties fell from their hands and the forgers scrambled and scratched against the door for an escape to only find none besides the prison cell that awaits them.

“You are to take your cars back, Whitby is driving to get your gear cleaned before you step back into the facility- safety protocol. Good work today, boys- a few training notes I have for later but other than that, a successful mission is all that matters- management is pleased,” you note watching as they descended from the window, grappling with their belt and buckle before skirting off into the city streets.

A rock station began to bang through the car's audio system just before you shut off communications and watched them drive to the specialty cleaners. Taking a stand and clapping your hands, Laswell rubbed her eyes before announcing her departure. Taking a long hug together you showed her back to the store front before running across the street to pick up a bottle of liquor. Smiling at the black label brand you pay and dash back to the lobby - pouring out a series of cups with ice and phone for Charlotte, Jason, Jacobs, and Samantha to join you all for a debrief.

–

You smile, watching as the boys do their best to flatten out their freshly primed suits and straighten their ties before walking up to you lounging in one of the many chairs in the large living space of the lobby. The leather creaks under each of their weight, each man smiling as you hand over a glass of Tennessee whisky just as Whitby sends you a knowing wink while eyeing up the bottle.

“Interesting choice, sweetheart.” He teases as you roll your eyes, shoving his shoulder with your own playfully before he starts to lean closer to you, lips drifting featherlight words into your ear as your cheeks turn back. Charlotte smiles at the bottom of her glass, emitting an echoing chuckle before locking her ankles with Jacobs sat across from her.

“Are you all dating? Or is this an agent-handler culture thing we don’t understand?” Johnny asks. Eyeing the way Whitby's hands drift across your clothing, finding hidden bits of your warm skin with a small frown as you furiously shake your head. “No, no, no, definitely not. But in this line of work specifically… you only want to get with people who really know you- for you. Not the management-mandated mask externally…” you drift off just as Whitby places a hand on your knee, smiling reassuringly before standing and distributing the rest of the bottle as you each cheer for a successful first mission.

Returning back home, flicking on the bedroom lamp and getting ready for the night and the subsequent morning after. You could only close that night, snuggling into your cold empty sheets of your house- praying that your remaining “favour-missions” go just as smoothly as the last.

But as the cold night air wept its way through the curtains and into your harrowing dreams as you tossed and turned through the night, gripping and digging into your sheets as the streets became lively in the morning light. Your alarm sounded as you felt around to slam it down shut, another day, another mission done and with your bags packed in preparation. It would be a quick training session and the team's first international mission as a kidnapped royal needed your help.

You groaned at the panic voice mail, the personal bodyguard shaking like a leaf before pleading through your home's digital system speakers. You start a voicemail while pouring a cup of coffee, the toaster pops up as you navigate through the kitchen and settle down at the island.

“I have an agent close by to their last known location- they will be forwarded until I can get me and my team into a local base of operations. We will bring them home for the country,” you finish the note with, chugging down the rest of your drink before washing your plates in the sink. Feeling underneath the counter, your fingers dip into crevices- a light flashes red and the floor just beside your slides open.

A fireproof box hisses open to your fingerprint, various foreign currencies and passports from your past missions flood your memories, fingers drifting over each material and number before settling them on the countertop.

Stepping into your pantry you push back on a wall, the surface rumbles for a moment before turning itself and revealing a series of steps down towards your basement. The lights flicker on to your presence, humming slightly above your head as you make your way down the firing range and towards your collection. Gently picking up and cleaning each gun, you place them in their travel safe and locked containers before slamming the door behind you.

Packing your belongings into a bulletproof suitcase- made from the same material as your suit. “X?” you request to your house, “Yes, Handler Daniels?” the AI responds in a pleasant accent back- awaiting your every order. “Please make a suit reservation in one hour, request for beige to be brought out- we are going tropical,” you state. “Very well,” X responds back before going silent once more.

Suiting yourself up, tying up your dress shoes and slinging a shoulder bag on, you look between the car options you have before deciding on an SUV- needing the seating space for their airport trip that awaited you. Checking your appearance one last time in the rearview mirror you rolled out the driveway and down the country roads. Your house is locked automatically with the lack of your detected presence.

Clicking on the radio, Skyfall began to play through the radio as you tapped your fingers against the steering wheel while awaiting a light change. Rolling your eyes as a driver in front of you almost clipped a pedestrian on the sidewalk wishing to cross on their signal. You pulled into the underground garage underneath the building before driving into a specific parking spot off in a dim corner. It scans the bottom of your car, clicking with approval once finding your matching icon before lowering you deeping into the ground. You smile seeing the various sports cars and SUVs already parked in a line- workers busy or some that even worked through the night as you smile at Samanatha as she waves you in from the front desk, settling yourself in the office once more you read through Lasswell's report before sending out the email. Back your bags boys, we are going international.

↳ Taglist: @thriving-n-jiving @cringeycookies @lilliumrorum @brokenpieces-72 @infpt-zylith @kaoyamamegami @ashy-kit @notsaelty @hindi-si-ikay @sleepyycatt

134 notes · View notes

napoleonic-sexyman-tournament · 9 months ago

Text

Benjamin Bathurst

(admin note: even if you don't vote for him, his mysterious disappearance is a fun rabbit hole)

Propaganda: “have you SEEN him? glorious regency-dandy perfection -- that hair, that nose, those lusciously thick sideburns! he was a spy as well, and we all know that spies are magnificently fuckable… and also he disappeared mysteriously, leaving behind only a fur coat and an exciting legend! what's sexier than that!!”

Napoleon I

Propaganda:

a. “It’s the Napoleonic wars! He’s the main guy here!” b. “Everything. Just, everything.” c. “He has something wrong with him (affectionate)” d. “I don’t know how to write propaganda, so I’ll just say this: Napoleon was a cutie, a world soul, a revolutionary emperor, and a great social and legal reformer. On the subject of physical appearance and attractiveness: He could pull off any look. Whether he was wearing a general’s uniform while riding a galloping white horse or wearing a laurel wreath in the Notre-Dame Cathedral or cuddling up in a large grey coat, he was cute af. He was a short king (above average height for the time). People fainted in his presence (I’m not even kidding, this did actually happen). He went so hard they declared war on him. And that’s pretty neat. He had beautiful hands. For some reason, there are multiple sources commenting on how pretty and gorgeous his hands were. And that’s a weird but cool trait to have. He was beautiful. His eyes were very pretty. Described as both crystal-like and fiery during different instances. His smile (which you can’t really see in any painting) was supposed to be one of his most charming features. His voice was described as “musical and deep” (from the diary of Bertie Greatheed). Personally, I think he looks like a fluffy panda or a baby seal. As a person, he was a very sweet, affectionate and unusually forgiving (maybe even naively so). He was also a funny and witty person. He enjoyed telling ghost stories, singing along to opera (badly), reading reports (for fun), taking baths, gossiping with his wife, and going to the library.”

#napoleonic sexyman tournament #to the last person: you wrote perfect propaganda #it's like a dating profile

244 notes · View notes

cockdestroyer32 · 2 years ago

Text

all mine

tangerine x fem!reader

word count: 2304

summary: after the events in the bullet train in tokyo, you and ladybug have a new job in a new place, unfortunately, you're not alone.

a/n: okay so in this reader's codename is sarin. and you're besties w ladybug bc I lov him. title is from brent faiyaz's 'all mine' which has nothing to do with this fic but I didn't know what to name this and I rlly love that song so. also no smut in this.

When I grow up, I wanna be famous I wanna be a star, I wanna be in movies, when I grow up I wanna see the world, drive nice cars, I wanna have groupies.

The song blew out of the car’s speakers, and both you and Ladybug sang each word perfectly (and very obnoxiously, you were practically yelling out the lyrics.) He drove and you sat in the passenger seat, you both swinging your arms around dancing tirelessly as the citizens of Greece who were able to spy inside the moving car judged your shameless partying. You hadn’t seen Ladybug in months, so when you found out you were finally going to be assigned to a mission together again, you both beamed, and got together to plan your entire trip from the cities of New York to the city of Larissa. You went from cackling a little too loudly at comedy movies on the plane, to endless chatter at the airport, to listening to your iconic super duper awesome 2000s hits playlist on a rented Jeep (the playlist title was Ladybug’s decision.) There’s no one you’d rather work with. Except…you weren’t working alone tonight.

This hit wasn’t just any hit, it was a stakeout. So, Lemon and Tangerine were called.

You had walked into Tangerine a few times before; New Zealand, Cuba, Romania, and Tokyo, of course. You’d been the longest with him while in Tokyo, when you had to team up because of a lost briefcase. He was incredibly irritating and the different ways you both did your job clashed immensely, but by the end of the night you two had worked frustratingly well together.

You’d never met Lemon before though, you hoped to God he wasn’t just a Tangerine 2.

“Oh, boo!” Ladybug starts and you join him when you look up.

“Booo!” You yell out at the warehouse as if it’s just told some awful joke at a stand-up show.

The building has the same architectural creativity as a cardboard box. Except that instead of brown, it’s grey and dirty, and instead of holding a gift you just spent the last days waiting anxiously to arrive at your home, it just holds the next gruesome hours you’ll spend planning your hit.

You and Ladybug allow The Pussycat Dolls to finish the last few seconds of their song and turn off BlueTooth before you can be sad about not singing Britney.

You sigh and say, “It’s gonna be a long night.”

“Yep, but the sooner we do it sooner we’re done. Come on, let’s meet the fruit duet.” You chuckle.

The warehouse acted as a lighthouse, the nighttime a sea of nothingness. You can spot the remnants of the trucks that passed by in this area marked in the muddy ground. Tonight smells of wet grass and fancy dinner parties, the ones you should be in right now.

You enter the warehouse, the night’s cold air vanishes and it shifts to a warm, still atmosphere. You take off your coat. Tangerine and two other men are already in the room. Even at such a dead spot in town, Tangerine is still dressed elegantly, sporting a blue striped suit that fitted him perfectly, and smelling of rich men’s perfume. You often wondered if he could fight in those suits. Although you loved a good luxurious suit—God knows your blood money could buy one, your closet was full of Versace, Vivienne Westwood, Dolce & Gabbana and Burberry—you preferred to wear more tactical outfits for the job, you know, in case someone fucked something up and everything went to shit.

“That’s Lemon, by the way.” Ladybug whispers to you, while pointing his head to the man standing in front of Tangerine.

“What? I thought they were supposed to be twins,” Ladybug shrugs.

“Um, I hope we’re not late…you’re Lemon I suppose?” You pretend like Ladybug didn’t just tell you and offer a handshake. He takes it.

“That’s right, and you’re...”

“Sarin.”

You look over to his brother.

“Tangerine.” A nod, no handshake.

“Sarin.”

“You’ve met Ladybug.” You say to the two brothers.

“Yes, we had the pleasure.” The taller man doesn’t hide the sarcasm.

“Accommodating as always, Tangerine.”

“So, shall we?” Says the other man in the room, the one who was managing this whole thing, and you all follow him.

He takes you to a desk where there lie multiple files on different workers and a big map layout of the warehouse. The man shows all of you the place, discussing what approach the team should take for the mission, at what time each one should arrive at the building, the shift times of each warehouse worker, the spots each one should be in…and so on and so forth. Time passes relatively quickly, demanding you and Ladybug a secret high-five, and you all turn to look at the man who’d organized this.

“Yeah. That’s it.” The man repeats.

“Yeah.” You agree, still looking at him.

“You can go home now.” He practically demands.

“Uhh, I’m pretty sure we’re supposed to get paid now,” Lemon adds.

“You’ll get paid after you get the job done.”

“Did you not get the memo lad? We get first half now and second half after the job is done.” Tangerine said.

“Yeah, we’re supposed to get paid now, didn’t our handler message you?” You asked honestly.

“Well I didn’t bring the money, so what do you want me to do?”

“I don’t know, but we’re getting paid.” Tangerine insisted.

“There are lots of ATMs in Larissa…” Ladybug spoke. The man mutters some curse word under his breath,

“Fine. I’ll get you your fucking money, but you’re gonna have to wait.” He disappears from sight, making his way up the stairs in the corner of the building.

“Damn, what a Gordon.” Lemon remarks.

“Thomas the Tank Engine?” You ask.

“Yeah.”

“Nah, I think he’s more of a James, just super cocky.”

“Oh my God, there’s two of them.” Tangerine sighs.

“I’m gonna go get some air.” You say.

With your coat in hand, you make your way to a backdoor on the side of the warehouse. Slipping the garment on as soon as you open it, the chilly air cutting through your skin. You slide your hand into one of the coat pockets, finding a small rectangular box and a smooth metallic item. You fish one of the cigarettes out of the box and light it, inhaling the nicotine, warming your body while letting yourself freeze in the moment. You were so far out of town that you couldn’t hear any of the cars, any of the people in Larissa, your team also seemed to be particularly quiet inside the building. Here, it was silent, save for crickets chirping in the vast nothingness that was the field at nighttime. Tomorrow it’d be full of people, receiving and delivering new packages, trucks coming and going and workers arguing amongst each other, all their chatter overlapping, sounds of life, until you all arrive and the sounds of an active workplace morph into that of an action movie, slashing and yelling (no guns, this was supposed to be a somewhat subtle and more practical job) and then, nothing. The building once again ghost quiet, but this time painted red.

It didn’t bother you. You’d been in this business for way too long to be perturbed by the sounds of the dead now. You knew what you were getting yourself into from the beginning, this is no bombshell. Although the still of a city that’s beginning to fall asleep is much better than one that had its commotion ripped away from it. So you took these quiet moments you had to yourself and held them tightly in your hand, like some old trinket gifted to you by someone special. And for a few moments, as you exhaled the smoke out of your body, you felt outside of space and time, frozen in the moment, your feet planted on the ground, scared that if you move even an inch, you’ll fall off the face of the earth. You melt off the moment when you feel a pair of eyes on you.

Tangerine stands by the back door on your right, looking at you. You’re not sure how long he’s been there, but he has a calm look on his face, a smile on his eyes but not on his lips, by far much different than all of the ticked-off facial expressions you’d seen on him before.

“The fuck are you looking at?” You tease.

“Geez. I’ve just come to get some air.” He walks in your direction. You offer him your cigarette, he takes it. You two breathe together for a while before you ask,

“Do you like this?”

“What? Jobs in the middle of nowhere handled by some fucking dickhead who can’t even pay us right?”

“No. This.” You look around, motioning slightly to your surroundings, “The quiet. We don’t get a lot of it in our job.”

“I suppose we don’t,” He passes the cigarette back to you. “It is kinda nice, I can hear my thoughts for once, don’t have to listen to Lemon yapping about.”

You snort. “He’s nice. I was scared he was gonna be like you.”

“What? I’m nice.”

You stare at him.

“How am I not nice?” He continues.

“How are you not nice? Okay let’s see, you’re impatient, you’re always irritated, you look like you’re constantly on the edge of throwing a fit, you’re always cursing people out and you always got that look on your face of a teen girl who just got her phone taken away by her parents.”

He takes this in for a second, surprised at the speed of your answer, as if you’d been waiting for this moment for a while, and maybe you were.

“Hm…still think I’m nice.” He adds, you smile to yourself, nodding your head in fake disbelief.

You can feel his eyes on you, even as you take another puff on your cigarette and stare at the darkness. You don’t look back, refusing to give him the satisfaction.

“S, Fruit, guy’s back.” Ladybug pops out of the door, and you follow him back into the building, followed then by Tangerine.

The man now holds bags of money, one for you and Ladybug, and one for Lemon and Tangerine. You finally leave the warehouse, each of you making your way to your hotel rooms. And you would’ve been able to wash the night off your body and rest on the hotel’s comfy bed, if it wasn’t for the misplaced amounts of money. See, your bag and Ladybug’s held only his share, not yours. Thankfully, it wasn’t some scam, your money was placed along with Lemon and Tangerine’s. So, now you’re going up an elevator to Tangerine’s room to get your share. You knock on 215 and he opens the door.

“Hey.”

“Hey, come in.” You walk into the room, but only close the door slightly, not shutting it, and you stand next to it, ready to just get your money and leave, not expecting to stay here any longer than you have to. He goes to the back of the room and brings back a bag, “Here.”

“Thanks,” You spy inside the room, the place is quiet, most of the lights are off and it holds only one bed. “Is Lemon not here?”

“No, different hotel, leave no trail and such.”

“Oh.” You’re genuinely surprised. Shit, that’s smart, perhaps you and Ladybug aren’t as great professionals as you thought you were—even if the bar when you two worked together was already pretty low.

“What? Is me delivering your money instead that bad?”

You snort. “No, no, that I don’t mind.”

You look at each other for a second, perhaps you should be on your way-

“Are you staying in Greece after the job?”

“Uh, no. Me and Ladybug are going back to New York right after.”

“Oh.” He looks down, the expression on his face something you can’t quite read. “Are you and Ladybug…”

“No! God, no!” You almost yell. “No, he’s my best friend.”

“Oh, right.”

“Why?”

“Just…curious.”

Hm. Curious.

You stare at each other again, a smile on your eyes but not on your lips.

“Okay, I should get going.” You start opening the door to leave.

“Wait,” He says, grabbing your arm. “I think…you should stay here the night.”

The smile reaches your lips, amused. “Why?”

“You know, you could just stay here the night, if you want…”

“Okay but, why?” You tease. He furrows his brows. “I’m sorry Tangerine, I just don’t know what you’re telling me.” Your words are of someone genuinely confused, but your face and tone tell a different story. He catches on and sighs.

“I’m just saying…you could spend the night here, with me.”

You click your tongue, “Tangerine…you have to speak clearly.”

He squeezes your arm, and approaches his face to yours, changing his tone, “Sarin. I want you to stay. I want you.”

You let your lips fully curve up this time, pleased.

You put both your hands on his face, and close the space between you, only placing a light kiss on his lips, then pulling away to see his reaction. He keeps his eyes shut for a moment, as if still in the moment. Then, he opens his eyes, staring at you for a second, and pulls you in for a stronger kiss. His hands at first cupping your face, then one makes his way towards you back, pulling you in closer, even though you were already as close as you could possibly be right now. You shut the door with your foot behind you, not letting each other go for even one second. Tonight your own bed’s gonna have to wait for you.

#bullet train fanfic #tangerine bullet train #bullet train tangerine #tangerine #tangerine fanfic #tangerine fic #tangerine fanfiction #tangerine x you #tangerine x fem!reader #aaron taylor johnson #bullet train #tangerine x reader

2K notes · View notes

the-spy-with-a-grey-coat · 1 year ago

Note

HELLO !! I NOTICE YOU WORK FOR GRAY MANN. UNPLEASANT !! PLEASE QUIT YOUR JOB !!

- @physically-robotic-medic

"Non, not happening. I rarely listen to the robots, and I especially will not listen to AWOL bots. He pays me well and remembers my birthday (sometimes...), so that is enough for me to stay."

#the spy with a grey coat

6 notes · View notes

a-killer-obsession · 5 months ago

Text

Unspoken [Heat x Reader]

🔞 MINORS DNI 🔞

My own personal headcanon for how Heat got his scars, mixed with some friends to lovers fluff

CW: afab reader, she/her pronouns, graphic descriptions of gore/injury, surgical/medical procedures, descriptions of vomiting, hurt/comfort, friends to lovers, thigh job, cumshot, oral (reader receiving), creampie, pre-anime setting WC: ~6k

Masterlist || AO3

A/N: I'm not a doctor, I don't think this is a procedure that would even exist or work, and I'm also pretty sure they wouldn't keep a mouth wired for that long but PLOT. Fuck it, if Franky can rebuild himself on death's door with the scraps of an abandoned ship then I can make this fictional shit work. I just went with what makes sense to me after hundreds of hours of Grey's Anatomy. It's fiction babey. This whole fic is based on my personal headcanon for how Heat breathes fire and how he got the scars, for those who don't know we don't currently have a canon answer from Oda about them.

Your blood ran cold as you looked at Heat, kneeling in the dirt, his hands desperately clutching at his face, blood dripping in curtains and rivers down his neck and through his shaking fingers. His eyes were wet with tears of pain and fear, mixing with the streams of crimson that ran over him, staining his clothes, catching on the strings of his corset and turning the pinkish cords a dark, wet scarlet. Your legs carried you before your mind could process what you were seeing, cutting down the enemy beside him before they could deliver the finishing blow, dropping your sword to the ground with a metallic clang as the enemy's body hit the ground with a heavy thud. Heat's eyes were dark and full of anguish, and you cupped his face, trying to be careful of his wound but there was so much blood. Despite your delicate approach crimson still ran in rivulets through your fingers and down your forearms, tickling your skin as it snaked over it and trickled off.

“It's okay Heat, it's okay, I've got you,” your voice was hoarse and breaking as you tried your hardest to stay strong for him, to hold back your own tears and fear in order to bolster his strength.

You tore off your loose, flowy shirt, pulling it from beneath your underbust fashion corset, uncaring if it left you in your bra on the battlefield. You held the cream fabric to his face, immediately soaking scarlet as though dipped in a dye bath, pulling his hands to the fabric and encouraging him to hold it fast to quell the bleeding. You scanned the battlefield, the remaining enemies close to being entirely dispatched, as you searched for the tallest member of your crew. Spying him and his red trident that glinted in the sun, his long coat billowing behind him.

“WIRE!” you shouted, throat pulling raw under the force of your call. He ran his trident through another enemy as he turned to you, your face hidden from Heat as you held him to your chest, your eyes running with tears you failed to hold back. You, the to-tough-to-cry doctor of the Kid Pirates, hired for your unwavering strength in the face of blood and gore and death, visibly struggling to contain a sob as you looked to the tall man with fear and anguish written on your face as you held the blue haired man. His long legs carried him fast to you, dropping to his knees and skidding to a stop in front of you, his hand going straight to Heat's shoulder. “What happened?” he asked, his voice stern but threatening to crack.

“Get him back to the ship, now,” you replied, unable to bring yourself to properly answer the question, lest the fragile dam wall inside you break. “I need to find Kid, I'll be right behind you”

Wire nodded and pulled Heat into a bridal hold, the slightly smaller man letting out a whine as he was shifted, blood immediately transferring to Wire's netted shirt as he held him close to his chest and began to run. You searched the dirt for the missing piece of the puzzle you would need to help Heat, scrambling forward to collect the dismembered jaw before anyone could stand on it, his bottom row of teeth on full display, the skin and muscle torn at the edges where the enemy ripped it clean off right in front of you. You gagged but picked it up regardless, returning to scanning the field, this time finding the red haired captain easily as his giant metal covered arms swept through a line of men.

“CAPTAIN!” you called out. He didn't hear you over the creaking and crashing of metal, or the boisterous roar he let out as he crushed skulls in his Punk Gibson arms. Thankfully, the first mate heard, and his striped mask turned to you, noting with concern your lack of shirt and the thick, wet blood that glistened on your chest. He ran to you as your legs threatened to give out, catching you with strong hands as you began to dissociate at the traumatic events and those that would no doubt follow in the aftermath.

“What happened? What do you need?” He asked, overly worried, thinking it was you that was injured given the sheer amount of blood on and around you. You replied by forcing the jaw into his hands, turning, and retching. Your lunch hit the ground with a splash, legs wobbling weakly under you as one hand rested on your knee for support, the other clutching at Killer's button up shirt, turning the white polka dots red under your hand. “What- whose jaw is this?”

“Heat's,” you gagged again, the remnants of your stomach contents and bile coming up, till you were dry retching and there was nothing more to pass. You wiped your mouth with the back of your hand, balling Killer's shirt in your fist as you tried to steady yourself. You needed to get it together, Heat needed you. “I need Kid, I need his metal manipulation. I have no doubt Heat has a significant crush injury to the rest of his face, I need Kid to build him a new set of bones so I can operate.”

“Get back to the ship, I'll get Kid,” Killer pushed you in the direction of the Victoria Punk, pushing the jaw piece back into your hands and giving you a supportive pat on the back before sprinting away. You began your own run, your mind running as well, trying to go through every step in your mind you would need to help Heat. You weren't qualified for this, you weren't an orthopaedic surgeon, hell you were a general practitioner when you were still a law abiding citizen. You were used to common colds and broken arms from monkey bars, not this. In theory you knew how to help him, and Kid being able to manipulate metal into the correct shape would help, but it was still an immensely risky and complicated operation. Jaw surgeries usually only happened in small portions, adding or removing fragments to correct alignment and mobility issues, you'd never even heard of a full replacement. You knew the Strawhats had a cyborg though, how different could this be? You were smart, you just had to figure it out, for Heat's sake. You could only hope that he would survive, and that the prosthetic wouldn't be rejected.

Heat came too with a quiet groan, waking you from where you slept in an uncomfortable metal chair at his side, your head resting against the infirmary cot as you held his hand. His fingers twitched as he came to, your head quickly shooting up and relief washing over you, having been unsure if he would even wake at all after the marathon surgery you'd had to perform. You yourself were exhausted, but the other's could drag your cold dead body from the infirmary. It's not like you were anything more than friends with Heat, but the fear you'd felt seeing him so badly hurt was unlike anything you'd ever felt, you felt your heart in your throat the whole time you operated on him, and now you couldn't bring yourself to leave his side.

“Don't try to talk,” you quickly urged him, squeezing his hand reassuringly, your other resting on his chest as you stood so he could better see you, “I'm right here, you're okay but you're really hurt and I had to wire your mouth shut, don't try to speak”

His hand came to his face, feeling the bandages that wrapped around a significant portion of it - only his nose, eyes and forehead visible beneath the swathes of white cotton strips. His eyes went wide, looking at you with furrowed brows and that same fear you'd seen when you found him on the battlefield.

“I'm gonna tell you everything you need to know, but I need to know first if you're in pain,” you soothed, patting down and stroking the blue hair that stuck out from the bandages. “Show me on your hands, ten being excruciating, how much pain are you in?”

You let go of his other hand so he could lift them, holding up seven fingers for you. You took one hand and kissed it softly, before guiding it back to the bed with an affirming nod. “I'm gonna get you some pain relief okay? I'm not going anywhere, just to the cabinet”

He gave you a small nod and watched you disappear out of his sight line as you gathered items and returned to his side, drawing liquid from a small vial into a syringe and injecting it into the IV line attached to his inner elbow. He hadn't even noticed it, seeing now the half depleted bags of fluids and blood, another spent blood bag still hanging on the hook for later disposal. It was clear to him by your red, puffy eyes that you'd been crying, and it broke his heart to think he was the cause of it. He made a small sigh and closed his eyes as the medication quickly took effect, relaxing as the sharp ache in his jaw turned to a dull throb. You grabbed a notepad from your desk and returned to his side, sketching a quick diagram of a skull.

You waited until his pain was visibly settled and his eyes opened again, the dark irises immediately searching for you. You gave him a soft smile as your eyes met, his brows relaxing and smoothing like he was relieved to see you still there. “I'm gonna explain your injuries now okay? Do you want to sit up for this?” He gave you a little nod in reply and you went to the back of the bed to raise the head, leaving your notepad on his blanket covered thigh as you jacked up the end of the bed and fluffed the pillows behind him to make him comfortable. You sat back down as you took back your notepad, pointing to the diagram with a pen as you began to explain, Heat watching intently, his eyes flicking between you and the paper.

“From your maxilla downwards, as well as parts of your cheekbones, was entirely crushed,” you began, “your mandible was entirely torn off as well. With Kid's help I was able to replace the damaged bones with a metal prosthetic, then I used the skin and muscle I was able to recover from your mandible, as well as a graft from your thigh, to cover the metal. I did my best to leave clean stitches, but the injury was quite dramatic, and you can expect permanent scars from your mouth to your ears, over your cheekbones, and along your jawline as well as where your chin meets your neck. You may also find your face isn't exactly the same, but Kid did his best to replicate how you usually look. Your tongue was thankfully left undamaged but your teeth had to be entirely replaced with metal, as well as the roof and floor of your mouth. You may find your tongue is slightly less manoeuvrable due to losing some of the membrane that connects it to the floor. I imagine right now all you can taste is metal, but I assure you you'll get used to it over time. Given the significance of your injury I wanna keep your mouth wired for six weeks so the muscle can properly adhere to the metal, but it'll take about twelve to fully heal. I went ahead and installed a feeding tube for now, but in a couple of weeks I'll remove it and we'll swap to whatever you can manage to eat through a straw. Killer is already working out a menu for you to make sure you have enough nutrition and variety. Um… I think that's everything. Do you have any questions?”

Heat indicated that he wanted the notepad so you handed it to him with the pen. The man had awful handwriting but you were able to decipher his note. ‘When can I talk again?’

“Not till the wires come off,” you sighed, “but you should still be able to make throat noises, like grunts and stuff. Your voice will probably be a little weak for a bit as well when you can talk again”

He nodded and wrote something else. ‘Everyone else?’

“The other's are all fine,” you smiled, a little teary-eyed that he was so severely hurt but his concern was for everyone else. You took his hand and ran your thumb over the base of his. “You really scared us”

‘Sorry’ he wrote, significantly messier now that you were holding the hand that previously stabilised the paper, and he gave your hand a squeeze.

“It's okay,” you gave his hand another kiss and pressed your forehead against his knuckles, “I'm just so happy you're okay. You gotta rest for a couple of days cos your body went through a lot, but I can move you back to your room when this IV bag is drained okay?”

He gave you a small nod and moved his hand to cradle your face, running his thumb over the tear that'd escaped and trailed down your cheek. You gave him a gentle smile and put your hand over his. It was a soft moment you hadn't experienced with Heat before, but you were just so thankful he was okay, and that he hadn't panicked about his mouth being wired shut. All things considered, he was talking it all really well. He would no doubt be irreversibly changed by this experience, but he was alive, and that's all that mattered right now. “Do you feel up to seeing the others?” You sniffed as you broke the silence, “they're eager to see you. You've been asleep almost a full day”

He gave you a little nod and let his hand fall from your face as you stood. You adjusted his hair so it wasn't in his face and made sure his pillows were good before heading off to find the other commanders. You had to stop in the hall outside the infirmary door to compose yourself before you could head above deck, dam walls dangerously weak as you sniffed and shook your head to pull yourself together.

The first night was the worst for Heat. The other men had helped him to his room, still a little wobbly on his feet from being unconscious for so long. He was out like a light immediately, mostly due to the extra dose of pain relief you gave him so he could sleep comfortably. Unfortunately though, he didn't stay asleep. He woke from a nightmare, a repeat of the event that led to the injury, and he wanted to scream. He couldn't though, and bile flooded his mouth as he clawed at his bandages. His breath was rapid and he felt like he was going to drown in his own vomit. He threw the blankets off and bolted for your room, banging on the door desperately.

You opened the door just as panicked as he was, immediately clocking the fear in his eyes and his hyperventilating. You grabbed his hand and pulled him to the infirmary, which was right across from your room so you could be close to patients under observation, and pulled down the bandages that covered his mouth. You held his swollen lips apart with your thumb and index as you took a pair of wire snips and severed the connection, and he immediately retched and vomited yellow liquid on the floor. He groaned from the pain opening his mouth had caused, and you carefully guided him to a cot, supporting his jaw as you walked with him and encouraging him to sit. Holding his face in your hands you made exaggerated breaths with your nose, a hand on either side of his face and thumbs under his jaw to hold it, his hands firmly grasping your forearms, until he followed your guidance and the rapid panicked breaths finally settled back to a regular pattern.

“You're okay Heat, you're okay,” you cooed. You held him to your chest as he began to sob, his hands balling the fabric on the back of the oversized shirt you'd worn to bed, holding you like a lifeline. “You're okay, you're safe, everything is going to be okay”

You held him for an age until his crying finally stopped, and he sat quietly while you rebound his wires to protect his healing jaw. You inspected him carefully to ensure no damage had been done by the sudden movement before wrapping the bandages back around his face, cooing assurances to him the whole time. You led him by the hand back out of the infirmary, stopping for a moment at the door to consider your options, before ultimately leading him to your own room. He was clearly thankful to not be going back to bed alone, curling up against you immediately, face buried in your bosom despite the pain it must have caused by putting pressure on his wounds. He didn't care, he just needed you right now, and you were happy to hold him as long as he needed. He'd been through something traumatic, it was only natural to need a friend right now. You'd be whatever he needed, as long as he was alive.

A few days later and Heat was given the all clear to go back to a fairly regular schedule. Kid had told him he could be excused from his chores, but other than his face he felt fine. He didn't want to sit around idly while people looked at him with such pity, he hated their forlorn looks, as though they were the ones hurt, while they ate whatever they pleased and talked freely. He carried your notebook in his pocket in case he needed to communicate, but he'd always been kind of quiet anyway, so he mostly made do with grunts and nods. You hovered near him most of the time, but he didn't mind it. You were maybe the only person who's coddling he could handle right now, especially considering you continued to let him sleep in your bed. He'd had a few more nightmares, but with you beside him he was always able to quickly calm before it escalated to needing the wire snips, though you kept them on your side table just in case.

For two weeks Heat woke in your bed, followed you to the infirmary for liquid nutrition via the feeding tube, went about his day, ended it with another feed bag, then followed you to your room. He'd never really asked to keep staying with you, but you welcomed him with open arms every night. As his external wounds began to scab over and heal he was able to get more comfortable in bed, and you often woke up with him on his side spooning you, hot heavy limbs wrapped around you. It gave you butterflies to feel his soft breath against your neck, his hands pressed gently to your stomach, his leg hitched over your hip. You didn't even mind when his morning wood pressed against you, but you never brought attention to it, no matter how much it made arousal pool between your legs. Heat was just your friend, he was just here for comfort, the morning wood was just a natural, unavoidable thing, nothing to do with you. That's what you told yourself anyway each time his semi-hard cock pressed against your ass while he slept.

Three weeks along and the feeding tube was removed, leaving a new wound in its wake that would quickly heal. The wires in Heat's mouth were still there, but you'd loosened them a little to allow for slight movement and space for a straw, and Heat was more than happy to be able to breathe through his mouth. Killer had dedicated himself to providing tasty but nutritionally balanced liquid meals for Heat, while also not making him feel singled out. If the crew was eating spaghetti, Heat got blended meat and tomato soup. If the crew was eating waffles, Heat got a sweet, syrupy banana smoothie. It was wholesome how much effort Killer put into it, he clearly cared a great deal about Heat. Heat was just thankful to be able to taste more than metal, and to feel the satisfaction of something sliding down his throat. It gave him much needed normality, but fuck he would do anything to bite down on a burger.

Now that his wounds were beginning to scab he was able to stop wearing bandages all the time, though you still put one around his head to support his jaw at night. It made him look like one of those cliche drawings of an injured man, with just one bandage tied in a bow on top of his head. He had trouble looking at his reflection, but that was to be expected with the slightly different face shape and new scars. All in all though, things were getting better day by day, and though he hadn't had any nightmares in a while, he still stayed in your bed. His stuff was slowly accumulating in your room, and at some point you caved and cleared a drawer for him. He was just a friend though… just a friend… even if you had started to want more.

In his silence you found yourself missing Heat's gruff voice. You heard it in your dreams, as he pressed his warm body against yours and made slow thrusts, whispering sweet nothings as he made love to you. Calling out his name as he brought you to your peak, bodies covered in sweat as you writhed under him. You were panting when you woke up, entirely oblivious to the open eyes behind you, the raised brows, the sweet sound of his name on your tongue playing on repeat in his head after moaning it so beautifully in your sleep. His hold on you firmed, fully formed erection pressing between your legs, right where you ached for him. You whined as your hips rolled back towards him, seeking friction, aching from the hot and heavy dream, his warm hand running down your front and holding your pelvis against him. His other hand reached between your bodies, freeing his aching cock from his sweat pants and sliding it between your legs, rubbing against the dampening cotton panties that you wore. He could feel your slick soaking through the fabric as he made deep thrusts, pushing against your clothed clit with every motion while your plush thighs applied the pressure to his cock that he so desperately craved.

Your fingers intertwined with his, pressed over your hips as he held you in place, moaning and panting as he fucked your thighs and made wanton whines in your ear. His name fell from your lips in rivers of honey, a mantra repeated over and over as he hooked your panties and pulled them aside, pressing his leaking cock directly between your hot wet folds. Every thrust pressed the fat head directly against your swollen clit, slick leaking from your hole and coating him, lubricating his motions and making sloppy sounds. His hands held your thighs firmly together as his pace increased, electricity building in your abdomen, clit pulsing with need as he bullied against it. His forehead pressed against your shoulder blade and he let out a muffled groan as his seed spilled out and pooled between your legs, coating the space between your labia in thick white globs and dripping down the front of your thigh. You made a choked sob as you convulsed around him, further soaking his cock with your release.

He made no effort to move as he made laboured breaths against your back, holding you tight to him like you might disappear at any moment. You held his hands tight, the occasional aftershock making you shudder as you came down from your high. Too shell shocked and surprised to even discuss it, you both lay in silence. Eventually you heard soft snores behind you and his hold on you naturally relaxed as he fell back asleep, his softened cock still held tight between your cum coated thighs. You couldn't bring yourself to get up to clean them, you didn't want his arms to leave you. So you lay beside him and let yourself be lulled back to sleep, resting easy in the wake of a satisfying orgasm.

Neither of you talked about what happened the next day, well, not that Heat could say anything anyway. Maybe you were just quiet in solidarity. But it felt natural and easy when he took your hand on the way to breakfast, intertwining his fingers with yours and pulling you to sit next to him on the long bench seating. Nobody said anything as he continued to hold your hand through breakfast, and stayed hovering at your side as you made your way afterwards to the infirmary to set to work for the day. He was practically attached to you, hugging you from behind whenever you were still for a moment, nuzzling his nose against your neck and inhaling your comforting scent. Neither of you said anything as his hand wandered down your front to your mound, when you eagerly lifted your skirt for him, when his fingers delved between your wet folds, when he bent you over your desk and fucked you till you were clawing at the wood, or even when he held you softly in his lap on the floor afterwards, running his hand through your hair and pressing his nose against yours.

You kissed him softly, his wounds barely healed enough to allow for the slight pressure, cursing the wires that held his mouth closed and kept your tongue from his. He sighed as your lips quietly pressed against his, and he craved you as much as you craved him, counting down the hours till he could taste you. Neither of you said anything, it didn't need to be said. In that moment, your lips soft against his, his nose nuzzling against yours, quiet sighs and hands wandering over bodies, it was clear how you both felt.

Weeks passed and finally, today was the day Heat's wires would be removed. Everyone was more than excited, and a great feast was planned for the evening, though you had been sure to make sure Killer planned many soft foods for Heat, on account of his muscles being unused and healing for weeks. Heat was more than eager to be promoted to real solid food though, even if he wouldn't have the jaw strength for a crunchy apple for a little while longer. Just the act of chewing was something he was excited for. Not to mention talking. Most of all, he was excited for what he could do with you. Though you'd shared many soft, closed mouth kisses, he longed to taste you.

The whole crew had easily accepted your new relationship with Heat, many commenting that it seemed like a natural fit. He may not have been able to use his mouth, but that never stopped Heat from finding plenty of other ways to pleasure you, many… many… ways. He couldn't help but growl in frustration though whenever he pressed his mouth against yours, tongue fighting against the metal fake tooth barrier to seek you out, but always losing the fight.

He sat on the edge of one of the infirmary cots, knees twitching with anticipation as you gathered your tools. Kid, Killer and Wire all stood nearby, here for moral support but more than eager to hear their long time friend speak again after so long without his husky voice.

“Now, remember,” you spoke as you pulled on gloves and came to stand in front of him, “your jaw will be sore and stiff, and your voice will be a little strained. It'll be like you spent all night deepthroating and screaming.” The other commanders snorted laughs at the joke and Heat rolled his eyes, pulling on your sleeve in a wordless plea to hurry up. “Okay, okay, calm down I'm doing it,” you huffed playfully.

Holding his now well healed, scarred lips apart, you carefully snipped the wires that bound his teeth. While his mouth may now be free to move, you'd already explained the procedure to him, so he continued to sit still and patiently as you took a paste corrosive and removed the hooks that were glued to his metal teeth. You wiped away the excess before putting down your tools and removing your gloves, cupping his face with your hands and giving him a reassuring smile. The way his skin sat over his bones, combined with his new scars, gave him a perpetually sad expression, but you still thought him more than handsome, and your heart was beating fast in anticipation.

“Ready?” You asked. The other commanders couldn't help but step closer in their excitement.

He gave a small nod against your gentle hands, and you released his face, holding his hands in his lap instead as he took a deep breath. First he just worked on moving his jaw, opening and closing it, moving it side to side, testing the limits and gauging the pain levels, refamiliarising himself with the motions. He took another deep breath and closed his eyes for a moment, before opening them and looking right at you. Something dark irises made you swell with affection for him, and you squeezed his hands in support.

“I- I-” he coughed out, making a little frustrated growl at how hard it was to speak.

“It's okay baby, take your time,” you cooed.

“I- l-lov-e yy-ou,” he forced out, his voice scratchy and hoarse, like he smoked five packs a day. Your eyes immediately welled up with tears, mouth wobbling as you threw yourself at him and sobbed, wrapping your arms around his chest and crying into his corset shirt. He rested his head against your hair, stroking your back tenderly as you cried. “I-I love-e you,” he said again, a little smoother now as his vocal chords came back to life.

“I love you too!” You cried against his chest. Kid made a fake gagging sound somewhere behind you, which was followed by the slapping sound of someone smacking him, followed by a pained groan.

“Let's leave the lovebirds to it,” Killer suggested, dragging Kid out by his ear, “I'm sure they have a lot to talk about.” You could hear Kid's protests as Killer dragged him away, about how he was captain and he had a lot to talk about, but Killer and Wire successfully managed to pull him out to the hall.

Your mouth crashed against Heat's the moment the other commanders were gone, tasting your own tears as he was finally able to reply with all the passion that he'd been waiting anxiously to show you, tongues finally meeting for the first time and moans swallowed as you pulled desperately at his shirt, his hands on either side of your head as he held you to him, his own tears mingling with the kiss as he got his first taste of you.

His hands ran down your side, hooking under your ass and pulling you up into his lap as his mouth travelled, running his tongue over your neck and shoulder, pushing aside your shirt to make gentle bites against your skin. Your arms wrapped around his neck, and you ground your centre desperately against the erection you could feel forming in his baggy pants, making him groan against your skin.

“W-wan-tt tt-oo t-as-te you,” he stuttered against your skin, picking you up with strong hands and carrying you to the desk, quickly pulling down your panties the moment your weight was supported on the wooden surface. He pulled you forward by your thighs as he knelt in front of you, making your breath hitch as he pressed kisses along your inner thigh, leaving goosebumps as he trailed them up and up, till he met the apex. He looked up at you with hungry eyes as he ran his tongue between your folds, and he had to pause to get a hold of himself, almost cumming from that single taste of you alone. Your hands dug deep into his hair and held him to you as he gathered the strength to continue, ignoring the ache in his jaw as he ate you out, groaning against your wet flesh and forcing a string of moans from you as you supported yourself with your other hand, watching him devour you. For weeks you'd dreamed of this image, but it was even better in person, his tongue burying inside you and making your thighs quiver as pressed his appendage against your inner walls, trying to claim as much of your honey as he could.

“Ahhhhh Heat~” you whined, “I'm- I'm gonna cum~”

He looked up at you, eager to watch your face as he brought you to climax with his mouth, and he felt the wet release drip down his chin as you shook and gripped his hair harder, calling out for him as you fell back against the desk and shook. He gave you a wide swipe of his tongue as your shaking settled, standing tall again and lowering his pants to free his throbbing cock. Your fingers wove into the cords on his shirt as he lined himself up, using them to pull yourself back up and kiss him hard as he entered you, tasting yourself on him. Your mouths parted only for brief necessary breaks for breathing as he fucked you hard and fast, swallowing each other's loud moans as his fingertips dug into your hips and your hands pulled hard on his hair. The desk creaked and rocked slightly under the brutal pace, and soon you were clamping down around him, thighs squeezing tight against his hips and lips barely leaving his in time to scream his name as your orgasm crashed into you, seeing stars as your whole body shook with an intensity you never thought possible. His teeth sunk into your shoulder almost hard enough to break skin as he groaned and spilled out inside you, making messy, erratic thrusts as he worked you both through your orgasms, till your entire body practically turned to jelly and he had to move his arms to your back to keep you from failing as you went limp.

You had a dazed, fucked out smile on your face as he kissed you softly and laid you back against the desk, one finger hooking in his shirt again as he lowered you, looking at him with such affection that he wondered if he'd actually died on the battlefield six weeks ago to be in such heaven. “I love you,” you mumbled up at him with a half lidded smile. His jaw ached as he smiled back, wide grin stretching across his face as he looked down at you, “I love you too,” he whispered back.

A/N: As for Heat's fire breathing, I think much like Franky, Kid would take advantage of the metal parts to augment them and add the feature. Do I think he'd still burn the shit out of his lips and tongue and basically sizzle his brain on a hotplate? Absolutely. But Franky does it fine and we know he has a normal inside of his mouth, so that's One Piece logic babey!

#one piece fanfiction #one piece smut #heat one piece #heat x reader

60 notes · View notes

jewishevelinebaker · 8 months ago

Text

Have you ever wanted to make the TF2 guys drown in a pool? Or perhaps... kiss? Well, now you can! Here's a list of my TF2 Sims 4 custom content. Playtested, all LODs, all base game compatible. If you come across any problems let me know, but I don't think you should.

I made 3 items for Scout: his cap with headset, shirt with rolled up sleeves (comes in RED and BLU), and a necklace with 2 dogtags.

For Sniper I converted his hat, made a pair of sunglasses with a yellow tint, and added his facial scars. The scars can be found in skin detail, freckles. Also for Sniper I took a vanilla hairstyle and drew on his funky hairline.

Shown with Makesims' Hand Wraps

Here are 3 vests I made by combining and changing some vanilla vests. The one on the left is intended for Heavy, as it has t-shirt sleeves. The two on the right can work for either Demo or Sniper, as both have sleeves rolled up to their elbows. Both contain swatches with and without Demo's long undershirt sleeves. All vests come in BLU and RED.

Also shown here, on Demo and Heavy, are a pair of pants I converted from Strangerville's army career. See, normally when Sims 4 pants tuck into boots, the lower sections of the pants just disappear. But with these, because they include the shoes, the pants puff up over the top of the boots. There are 5 swatches: brown/grey, RED, BLU, and RED/BLU with gradient.

On Heavy and Sniper are black fingerless gloves. There is a swatch with gloves on both hands and a swatch with one glove (for Sniper).

Shown with Pralinesims' eye patch. Also, for Demo I used a white left eye from my Bad Batch CC for when he takes it off.

For Soldier and Engie I made these hats from scratch. Soldier's has two swatches to match his RED and BLU outfits. Engie also gets a pair of goggles.

I made Spy's mask by editing the ninja mask from the Spooky stuff pack and Pyro's by recoloring the inaccurate scuba mask from Island Living. It's not exactly a gas mask, but I really did not feel like making one from scratch and I'm not satisfied with any gas mask CC that already exists.

Pyro's mask also has a version with cat ears. For pary time, of course. Their shirt, while not exactly like Pyro's in-game shirt, has a similar silhouette which is why I chose it. There are white, RED, and BLU versions with and without the balloonicorn graphic.

I also made Pyro's gloves. The second swatch adds a black covering on the neck so that Pyro can wear many shirts without showing skin.

Here are the outfits for the rest of the characters.

Medic has a recolor of the Get to Work lab coat, RED and BLU, with and without gloves.

Spy has a recolor of the base game pinstripe suit in RED and BLU.

For Pyro, in addition to the shirt, I made another pair of pants with gradient, but this time they can go with taller boots. The boots do not come with my CC.

Engie has a recolor of the handyman overalls, in RED and BLU. I also made the gunslinger as a glove. There are two versions, with and without the bulky wrist part, so that it can still work with long sleeves and not clip.

Miss Pauling's dress has 3 swatches with different shades of purple. Please ignore the shading issues in this post's cover image; it has since been fixed but that pic was so hard to get I'm not retaking it.

I have added a few build/buy options. The 2Fort roofs (shown in the 2Fort images earlier) are a recolor of roofs from Werewolves. I also added the gym and meeting room walls from Expiration Date.

Mercenary Career!! Branches for all classes, plus branches for the Administrator and Miss Pauling. Script mods must be turned on and the files for this cannot be more than 1 folder deep in your mods folder.

All items can be found here on Sims File Share.

Recommended: Serenity's 1960s CC and Simduction's Dixie Hair for Ma 💖

My build of 2Fort and my sims can be found on my gallery, username Dadverinee.

#aud.txt #tf2 #team fortress 2 #sniper #scout #pyro #engineer #demoman #soldier #spy #miss pauling #heavy #medic #my ts4 cc #the sims 4 #sims 4 cc

79 notes · View notes

8bitscarlet · 1 year ago

Text

Winter Solstice

Summary: When the sun was taken without notice, your world was plunged into a darkness you almost didn't recognize. But as you sunk deeper into the shadows, you remembered why you'd given it up.

Pairing: Wanda x Reader

Genre/Warnings: Angst (mention of blood, canon fighting, use of knife, mention of torture)

Word Count: 4.1k

A/N: AOU Wanda here because there's no Wanda in this story, since you know ehehe. Here’s chapter 18 of AOP. 😂 Happy Reading everyone! 💕

*please do not repost or translate my material or claim as yours. reblogs, comments and likes are always appreciated!*

_________________________

“I’m having your vest checked before you leave!”

You watch as Stark grabs the tablet from his suit jacket hanging on the coat rack near the door. He came around as soon as the alarms started to blare. What he came home to nearly doubled him over. It took him some time to get back to his joking ways, along with everyone else. Trying to deal with what happened only hours ago.

Everyone except you.

“Whatever,” Yelena rolls her eyes but points towards a gadget on one of the tables she walks past, “Your stuff isn’t even cool, Playboy.”

Her green eyes watching Nat nod that she’ll steal the parts for her. Yel looks over at you, sliding a granola bar across the table. You glance down at the wrapper, a chocolate chip granola bar. She looks at you with a hopeful grin but you don’t eat it. You just spin it around as you wait for her to tell you who you’re not allowed to kill.

“Four mercenaries checked in at that checkpoint,” your eyes wash over the map with numbered outposts scattered around the landscape, “They’re heading to a resting place, assigned to the General’s protection unit. This restaurant,”

Yelena slides all the information she got from her contact casing the business, “It’s a front. A place to grab gear and weapons before they switch positions.”

“They’ll know where that asshole is,” you grumble, smashing the granola bar into the table with every slow stab of your thumb.

“I’m just waiting on Rick to give us information on where they're stopping next. We'll swing in after them and steal some uniforms and codewords,” Yelena gives Natasha a look, ensuring that you see it but you don’t give it a second thought. They can see exactly what you want to do to every one of these soldier's wearing this patch.

They could think whatever they wanted about you now. They knew your true colors. If they’re surprised, it should be over that you’ve hidden them for so long.

Natasha sees how you grind your teeth and turns to Yelena, “What that cost you? Five cases of Stoli?”

“Only four. I’m his favorite Russian spy.”

You ignore their arguing as you flip through the file further. It’s a simple plan. Corner some soldiers and work your way up the pay grades. Eventually someone would know where the General was and he worked closely with Strucker.

“We’ll call you guys when we’ve got a location,” you stand up abruptly and look towards Steve, “Just make sure you have Clint by then,”

The door behind you opens and Stark rushes inside, not bothering to hold it open behind him as you see how wide his eyes are.

“I tried to stall,” he turns on his heels and all of you watch as a greying and mustached man in a crisp suit steps through the door that closed on his face.

Ross clears his throat as he pulls against his sleeves and carefully looks over everyone. Half of the people in the room are weary and exhausted from the mission. The other half stare cautiously, collecting papers behind their backs. Only one stares with a fury that the man has never seen before and because of this, speaks to you .

“You’re not operating.”

Your jaw clenches so tightly, you’re surprised it doesn’t completely shatter. Each paused stare along the politician’s body are places you know would completely ruin the rest of his life. Steve sees the way you roll your wrists, your breath elevating. Your fingers crack beneath his iron vice grip and you grimace as Stark attempts to negotiate with Ross. The words buzz around your head.

Treaties. Agreements. Violations. War.

You chuckle, drawing some attention your way but Stark quickly draws it back to him. You’ve been at war longer than Ross could know. At war with Strucker. With your own mind. But he couldn’t care less about those wars. They weren’t important. Finding and killing Strucker wasn’t important compared to the obscure agreements he had pulled up by an assistant.

They wouldn’t be important to him until it was too late for everyone else.

You didn’t utter a word as you moved past him, your shoulder cracking against his. He slammed into the door with a grunt. One of his guards stepped in front of you and he flew across the room into the railing of the staircase, not realizing how quickly you could move. The second guard half steps away from you as the pistol that was printing against his jacket comes out.

Holding out your hands, you wave your fingers towards yourself, “Go ahead, buddy. Make my day.”

The trigger depresses just slightly and you grin, you just need a reason. There’s movement from your side and Nat stands in front of you, looking at you like you’ve lost your mind. And you can’t deny to her that you haven’t.

“Stop being stupid,” she whispers harshly, grabbing your wrist and whirling you around.

Your face slams into the floor but you don’t struggle. You just watch your breath fog up the tile as your body contorts to Nat’s will. Her apologies to Ross don’t make it past the ringing in your ears. There’s a pressure in your shoulder and your knees come up beneath you, your feet following behind them.

Stumbling towards the back room, you remember this route. It was the walk you made every day back to the holding cells. The cells you tried so hard to convince yourself that the enemy surrounded you. That any day your meal brought by a redheaded witch would be sedated and you’d be taken within inches of your life.

“Don’t be mad,” Nat tells you as you stare down at the same bed you sat and watched Wanda chew on her pens, “This is just for show. Ross is out of his mind, we’re going. I’ll exhaust my Rolodex. I’ve got favors to use up.”

There isn’t much warning and even less for Natasha when the dull numbness subsides. You sink down onto the floor, your back pressing against the frame of the bed and exhale sharply. Pressing your stinging eyes against your knees, you let out an uncharacteristic noise. A wailing sob that burns your throat. Your body shivering with shaking breaths that used to only wake you from nightmares.

And then you realized. Your nightmares had become your life.

_______________________

Your fingers play with the corners of the menu in front of you, eyes scanning words that you don’t comprehend. The only thing on your mind is the number of people inside, the paths around the tables and exits around you. Leaning against the wall behind you, you watch the waitstaff exit the kitchen from your right.

“You know I hate eating out with you. Do you know why?” You pull your eyes away from a man sitting alone at the bartop and glare at the blonde in front of you, “Because you always want to sit next to the kitchen and anytime a plate comes out, I think it’s mine.”

Your grimace grows into a scowl, “You don’t know what you ordered?”

“Of course I know what I ordered,” she almost looks offended, as she crosses a leg over her thigh, “I just think it smells good and I’m starving and you’re making me sit here when you made me rush out of the hotel breakfast.”

You stare in silence before glancing back down at the menu, taking a sip of the odd tasting tap water in your glass. A slow breath gets pulled in across the table and you brace yourself for more complaints.

“Do you ever realize how grumpy you get?”

She’s met with more silence.

“Okay, I’m sorry. You’re not grumpy, you’re pissed off,”

You cock an eyebrow and watch her grumble down into her menu, “Times a million.”

The waiter makes their rounds again, oddly bypassing your table once again. Your brows clench slightly when he stops at the bartop and talks to the lonesome man.

“I’m sorry,”

The words catch you off guard and you look back across the table, “What?”

Yelena fiddles around with the bag on her lap, drawing your attention but holding the conversation with ease, “That you actually listened to my advice. About being vulnerable.”

You sigh and adjust the piece of metal digging into your stomach, “She’s part of the team, Yel. I’d be worried either way.”

She hums and you sigh before looking her way again, “When are you going to stop lying to yourself? You wouldn’t be a part of this team right now if it wasn’t -,”

“We’ve been made,” you stop her from psychoanalyzing you any further and carefully watch more suited men enter the building.

The waiter isn’t as subtle as they keep glancing your way, practically pointing at you. You push your shoulders back, it was inevitable. You weren’t regulars here. The two of you were bound to be noticed. And at least you could say now that you didn’t start the fight.

Yelena stands up, stopping the waiter who just decided to walk out of the kitchen. You hiss at her to stop as she pokes and prods at the food. The three suited men are walking towards you, two already have their hands tucked inside their suits while the other has their knuckles lined with metal.

“Yel!” you whisper at her.

“Don’t bother taking this back to the kitchen, it’s trash!” she yells and whips the tray from his hands and slams it into the group behind her.

You yell, punting the table away from you, knocking a few of the suited men on the floor. A few start stumbling to their feet amongst the shattered plates and sauces. Yel wraps her legs around the unsteady man who was knocked in the head with a ramekin. As she flips him to the ground, your breath is rushed from your lungs as you’re bulldozed back into the kitchen.

Slamming your elbow into the top of his shoulder, you try to loosen the tight hug the man has on you. It loosens. After you back clangs against one of the many stoves in the kitchen. You grunt, shoving yourself down to the floor and frantically slapping your arm.

Your shirt smokes after pressing directly against one of the burners. Your back throbs as you hold up a hand,

“One second,”

The man waves his hand at you, “Thought you were supposed to be a problem. Don’t know why people are so scared,” His knee slams into your face and you’re knocked back onto the ground as the stove door slams between your shoulders, “Get up!”

“Careful,” you cough, trying to move the arm you swear you heard a crack from, “You’ll ruin your dinner,”

Reaching back, you pull yourself up with the help of the stove. Your eyes catch the sight of scallops cooking in oil. With a grunt, you swing your arm and throw the hot oil behind you, feeling it slightly burn your neck with some flyaway droplets.

The man screams, holding his hands against his face as you smack the pan against the top of his head. His screams end as he collapses to the floor. The pan clangs next to him,

“You got something in your eyes,” you say before you grimace from the unyielding pain in your shoulder.

The kitchen door swings open and you see another man walk in. He doesn’t wear a suit like the other men. It’s a dark uniform and you can see the patch on his shoulder. His belt is lined with different knives and you let out a sigh, you really didn’t want to have to shoot anyone today.

He pulls one of the long blades from its sheath and tosses it with a quiet grin from hand to hand. The blade reflects the light in every direction as it spins and flips through the air. You sigh, going to lift up your shirt but stop as the emergency door is cracked open. The talent show in front of you pauses for a moment as Yel waltzes inside, rubbing her reddened knuckles.

“Room for dessert?” she asks, and eyes the man take out another knife with a grin.

“You’re the one who was starving,” you remind her, trying to get feeling down into your numbed fingers.

She sighs, walking forward without hesitation towards the clanking blades. She grabs a simple chef’s knife from a counter she passes, not slowing her pace. The man swings his arm around, going in for a backhanded stab and is only met with air as Yelena sidesteps without a thought. Her foot slides around gracefully as she ends up behind him.

She leans forward as the blade slices underneath his arm, pulling a yelp from his throat and the knife in that hand clattering to the floor. She ducks between his frantic swings, making it look like a dance as you look around for where they keep the ice. Spinning on her knee, Yelena presses the blade to his upper thigh and pulls her arms up without much resistance.

Standing up, she steps around the shocked man and places the knife back where she found it, now dirtied with blood. The man collapses to the floor with grunts, trying to press his hands against the cuts that are profusely bleeding.

“Hit the arteries. He’s got twenty seconds.” she says as she pulls out a bag of frozen peas, “They said always fresh, never frozen. This place sucks,”

Pressing the cold vegetables to your shoulder, you follow her out into the dining area. You see that she fought more than the two suited men that came for you both. The Hydra soldiers you two were waiting for finally arrived and their uniforms were now ripe for the taking. Tearing some of the unneeded clothes, you make a makeshift wrap to keep the frozen peas in place.

As you folded up the uniform you’d be taking, you handed over one of the shirts that would fit Yelena better. She goes to take it but you hold onto it for one second longer,

“Thank you,” you say, watching as her eyes look at you with her mouth slightly agape, “I listened to you and stopped lying to myself. Now I’ve got three people to worry about.”

“We’re going to get her back. Alive and safe. And we’ll make sure Strucker draws his last breath, too.” she tells you, wiping off a mustard stain before looking up at you, “Wait, you worry about me? You know sweets ruin your dinner.”

You grin, “Speaking of, I saw some macaroni in the kitchen,”

“You ever dine and dash? That dude is definitely dead in there, we won’t get caught.” Yelena excitedly jogs back into the kitchen to get some road trip snacks and leave you alone to the thoughts that fill your head as the sham of a smile falls from your face.

You hope both of her promises come true but you know you’ll be lucky to have only one come true. And this unending cycle will continue. Tapping the boots against your thigh as you walk, you wonder how much collateral you have to your name.

________________________

Your fist slams forward, over and over again. Making contact with a fury that leaves his nose cracked and blood to pour from split brows. With a grunt and one more crack, you whip your arm down and extend your fingers. They practically groan from being clenched for so long. You stare at the reddening of your skin, wiping away the blood that isn’t yours. You glance over to the soldier’s friend, waiting patiently in their chair as they stare at the wall. There’s soft mutterings coming from them and you wonder if they’re practicing their lies.

With a sigh, you turn back to the soldier in front of you, his face bleeding and his left eye already swollen shut. You glance down at his dirtied name tag, Fisher.

“Tell me where they are, Fisher. Come on, you were there being a good little soldier. Where is Strucker?” you squat down in front of him, resting your arms on your thighs and attempt to hold onto your patience a little longer this time.

He huffs and puffs but doesn’t give an answer, you grin at how loyal he is to this madman. You sigh, picking up the pipe you had previously ripped from the wall and used to make his arm slightly crooked.

“Listen, I don’t have all this precious time and you’re not the only one I need to talk to so,” you swing the pipe with a strong twist of your hips right into his shin, watching as he conceals his screaming into his shoulder.

“Okay! They, goddamit! I only know where the General is.”

“Keep it coming,” you say, pacing in front of him and manipulating the cold metal between your hands.

You listen to his directions, the description of the hideaway the General uses for all of his vices. You grunt, knowing you’re sure to find the worst bachelor pad of your life. Fisher continues to babble on, telling you where you can find mounds of cash in the walls and all kinds of classified documents. You’re bareilly paying attention until he brings up a certain scientist.

“Strucker… he’s trying to do something. Brainwashing or some crazy magic from this staff. I don’t know, please let me go.”

His voice cracks as he leans as far forward as his tied up body lets him. You stop your pacing and look at his miserable face, his lip now starting to swell. The blood mixes with his sweat and you feel a whole new level of hatred. You know what he’s talking about but you wish you didn’t.

“What?” you ask, making sure you heard him right.

He swallows roughly and you watch his Adam’s apple bob up and down, “You can’t save her.”

You clench your jaw, the metal creaking in your hands as he stares in fear, “What is he doing to her,”

Fisher grimaces and stares past you. He shakes his head, he’s done talking to you. He’s looked into your eyes and knows he’s not getting out of here alive no matter how much he tells you. You wish you could lie to him, stroke his ego that he’ll heal from his wounds and live a normal life. All you do though is shake your head at his decision. He’ll recover from his wounds but his face’s natural color is going to be blue from this day forward. Pulling back, your joints practically creak as you clench your fingers into a fist.

“I’m a nice person,” you whisper and watch him shiver away from your breath, “I’m going to let you think about what you’ve done. And when I come back, we better be on the same page.”

Turning, you replace the pipe with a glass of water and take a sip from it. You realize how thirsty you’ve become and you wonder how much longer you’ll be upright. You’re exhausted and starving but every hour you waste, is another hour Wanda is subjected to hell. You remember clearly what happened when you both were captured. You know it’s only worse with that scientific madman.

Wiping your bloody knuckles against your pants, you walk to the other soldier. They’ve been having a nice time relaxing and dreaming but they forgot to set their alarm. You toss the glass of water at them, shocking them awake. You watch them cough out the water they inhaled with their gasp and casually grab a chair. Pulling it in front of them, they shake at their binds, probably having gotten lost in their happy dreams. Sitting down casually, you’re hoping that this will be a nicer chat.

Price has nothing more to say to you than their pal Fisher over there. They spit at you, your jaw clenching when you feel the wetness smack you on the face. She chuckles as you slowly wipe it from your face, flicking it down to your boot. You don’t let the rage show on your face as you look up at her calmly.

“You feel like talking while your friend takes a rest?” you ask her quietly, crossing your foot on top of your knee.

She stays silent, glaring at you.

“Tell me where the woman is,” you give her one more chance to offer you something useful.

“What woman, asshole? There’s only some freak of nature,” she sneers at you, thinking she can play games.

You look Price dead in the eyes. Your graciousness continues, you won’t kill her just yet, “One last time. Where?”

“Fuck you,” she spats out once again and you groan.

You nod with a smile and don’t blink as you slide the knife from your belt and slam it into her shoulder in one fluid motion. As soon as the blade cuts, her scream fills the cabin and the front door opens. You grab the handle tightly and quickly shake her,

“You tell me where she is or so help me, you’ll never use this arm again!”

“I don’t know!” she screams, gritting her teeth against the pain, “I don’t know!”

Before you can twist the blade, your arm is twisted behind you as you’re shoved towards the front door. You don’t fight against them but you stop your feet to grab the jacket you left on the coat rack.

“She knows. She knows where Strucker is,” you tell Nat, sliding your arms into your coat. Looking up, you see the worry in her green eyes and for a second you freeze.

“Reign it in,” she tells you harshly, “You know how this works. You’re just finding an excuse now.”

You slowly button your jacket, “We need to find her.”

“And you’re not finding her if you’re becoming that,” she slaps the patch on your shoulder roughly, “Again. Go get some air, now.”

Stepping through the door, you slide your hands into the uniform jacket and glance down at yourself. The uniform is filthy, covered in dirt and food from the scuffle you had when you ambushed the place. Dried blood and sweat from the conversation you were having with the two survivors. You climb into the car with a sigh, what the hell was Natasha talking about. She knew as well as you that some things required certain tactics. Maybe you were right all along. She had gotten soft.

Yelena peers back at you from the front seat. She shakes a box of granola bars in front of you but you wave her away, listening to her mumbling about how you’re going to pass out. You run your fingers along your knuckles, feeling a stinging pain you hadn’t felt in a long time. A time you always told yourself you wanted to forget. But here you were, purposely living in the past.

Glancing up, you see green eyes carefully watching you through the rearview. You raise your brows.

“You okay?”

You stare at the front door you were pushed out of, “I’m fine.”

“Y/N,” Yelena sighs.

“What do you want me to say?” you snap, watching the green eyes stare one moment longer and then look away.

There’s a prolonged silence until a noise has you jumping out of your skin, “That you’re scared.”

Nat’s voice carried in from the open window and you watch her climb into the passenger seat, gently closing the car door. You look her over, she doesn’t have a single drop of blood on her and her face isn’t flushed from exertion. She nods quietly to her sister, the car starting to reverse and leaving dust behind all of you.

You stare out the window, not giving her the answer she already knows.

“We’ll find her. The General will know where she is and if he doesn’t, the files on his desk will.”

“Are we going to find her alive?” the real question you’ve been thinking of explodes from your mouth and it’s met with the exact answer you knew it. A heavy silence. “You promise me that and I’ll stand aside.”

“You know we’re doing everything to make that happen. So trust us, she's coming home.”

The car ride quiets until you hear the rumbling of your stomach. With a sigh, you lean forward and grab a few bars out of the box that Yelena had offered you.

“When we get to the General’s safe house,” Nat peers over her shoulder to look at you properly, “Come in after we clear it. Please.”

You look at her, her eyes flashing down to your split knuckles. How hard they shake as you try to open the simple packaging of the granola bar. You think back to what she said to you in the house and realize the night is lasting much longer than you intended. You let yourself hide back into the darkness and you see that there isn’t always a light to rely on. You’d have to be ready for the light.

If it came down to it and only one of you made it out, you wouldn't want Wanda to remember you with the things you did to find her. You didn't want her to remember the person that she met for the first time but the one she ended up loving.

Biting into the chocolate chip, you give a small nod, “Fine.”

______________Ch. 19

#wanda #wanda maximoff #wanda marvel #wanda x reader #wanda maximoff x reader #accidentally on purpose #scarlet witch #scarlet witch x reader #wanda fanfic #wanda maximoff fanfic #wanda fluff #wanda imagine #wanda maximoff fluff #wanda maximoff imagine #wanda x you #wanda x y/n #wanda mcu

166 notes · View notes