#you’ll think you won’t get through it

[luveline]

𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐨𝐫 𝐬𝐞𝐞𝐧

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

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

｡𖦹°‧⭑.ᐟ

Fall 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

��Sure.” 

“I signed us up for that club.” 

“Epigenetics?” 

“Molecular medicine,” he says. 

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

“What are you doing?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“When is it?” you ask, smiling. 

—

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

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

—

“Good morning,” you say. 

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

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

“I was thinking about you as a businessman.” 

“And that’s funny?” 

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

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

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

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

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

“You okay?” Peter asks. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m fine, why?” 

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

“I have too much to do.” 

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why are you sorry? I scared you.”

“I didn’t realise you were there.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I can show you the webs?” 

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

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

“Can I walk you now?” he asks. 

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

“Nothing more important than you.” 

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

“Yellowstone Boulevard?” 

“That’s the one…” 

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

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

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

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

“I like walking,” you say. 

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

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

“Do I?” 

“Yeah, you do.” 

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

“I’m not alone,” he says carefully.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Did you cook?” you ask. 

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

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

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

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

“It’s for you,” he says casually. 

“It’s not my birthday.” 

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

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

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

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

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

“It must’ve taken hours.” 

“May helped.” 

“That makes much more sense.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I guess I’ll keep it.” 

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

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

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

“Better than Harry?” 

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

“Eat your own.” 

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

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

“Have something to tell you.” 

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

“Is that surprising?” 

“Is that a trick question?” 

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

“Okay, so tell me.” 

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

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

“She’s going to England.” 

“She is?” 

“Oxford.” 

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

“But?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I know. Thank you.” 

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

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

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

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

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

You ruffle his hair. Spider-Man goes unmentioned. 

— 

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

“Spider-Man,” you say. 

“What’s that about?” 

“What?” 

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

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

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

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

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

“What?” he asks. 

“Sorry. You just reminded me of someone.” 

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

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

“I knew it.”

“What do you look like under the mask?”

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

“No? Do I have to earn it?” 

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

“Nobody in the whole world?” you ask. 

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

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

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

“A secret. That’s fair.” 

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

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

“My secrets aren’t worth anything.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How come?” 

“It just hurts people.” 

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

“Tell me another one,” he says. 

“What for?” 

“I don’t know, just tell me one.” 

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

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

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

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

“Oh, nowhere.” 

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

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

“Sure, for that secret.” 

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

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

“Why not?” he asks. 

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

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

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

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

“Thanks for telling me.”

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

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

“Just an hour.” 

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

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

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

“I get to choose?” 

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

“If you want to,” he says. 

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

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

“When they lined up the cranes–”

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

“Like flying.”

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

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

“So tell me another one,” he says. 

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’d hope so.” 

You swing around. “Don’t do that!”

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

“You did?” 

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

“I like to walk,” you say. 

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

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

“What’s wrong with staying at home?” 

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

“I don’t do this every night.” 

“Don’t you get tired?”

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

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

“Want me to do one?” 

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

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

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

He yanks his mask down. “Hasty getaway.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hi, Spider-Man.” 

“Hi.” 

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

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

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

“Yeah, you could.” 

He sounds sure. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You love them–”

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

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

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

—

Winter 

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

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

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

He jogs toward you. 

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

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

You blink as fat rain lands on your face. 

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

“Peter–”

“Jesus Christ!” 

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

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

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

“No.” 

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

“Shit, my groceries are soaked.” 

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

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

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

“Sorry I didn’t ask,” Peter says. 

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

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

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

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

“About?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So you didn’t need me,” he says. 

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

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

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

“Not that much.” 

“Not for me, no.” 

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

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

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

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

“I don’t know, are we?” 

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

Peter… What is he doing? 

You let yourself relax against him. 

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

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

“What?” 

You can say it out loud. You could. 

“Peter, you’re…” 

“I’m what?” he asks. 

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

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

He’s Spider-Man. 

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

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

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

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

“I was thinking about you,” he says. 

“Yeah?” 

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

“Yeah?” you ask.

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

Peter isn’t as far away as you thought. 

“Thank you,” you say. 

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

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

“Yeah, please.” 

His thumb strokes your cheek. 

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hey,” he says, “you all right?” 

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

“I’m fine up here!” 

“Are you really Spider-Man?” 

“Sure am.” 

“Are you single?” 

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

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

“Hello?” Peter asks. 

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

“Hi, are you busy?” 

“Not really.” 

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

“Is Aunt May okay with that?” 

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

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

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

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

“Not yet, but–”

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

“I have to shower first.” 

“Twenty five?” 

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

“It’s a date,” he says. 

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

—

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

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

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

“It’s fine.“

“It’s not fine. Are you cold?” 

“Pete, it’s fine.” 

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

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

“You said it wasn’t cold!” 

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

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

“I don’t like it,” you lie. 

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

“That’s not funny.” 

“Apparently, nothing is.” 

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

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

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

“May!” Peter says, startled. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You shrug away from his hand. “Loser.” 

“Concerned friend.” 

“Handsy loser.” 

”Shut up,” he mumbles. 

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

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

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

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

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

“I don’t want ice cream.” 

“Wasn’t that easy?” he asks. 

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

“Because I’m adorable?” 

“Persistent.” 

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

“Peter…?” you murmur. 

“What?” he murmurs back. 

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

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

“What are you doing?” 

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

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

“‘Cos I missed you?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m not–”

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

“I’m fine.” 

“You’re not fine.”

“How would you know?” you finally ask. 

Peter stares at you. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Peter returns as perturbed as earlier. 

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

“I’m sorry for being weird.” 

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

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

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

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

“I think so,” you say, quiet again. 

“That’s what I thought.” 

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

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

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

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

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

“Am I going too fast?” Peter murmurs. 

You press your lips together, shaking your head minutely. 

“Is it something else?” 

You don’t move. 

“Do you want me to stop?” he asks. 

“No.”

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

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

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

“Yeah.” 

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

“I like thinking.” 

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

“I’ll try not to.” 

“Would you? For me?” 

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

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

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

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

“Door open,” she says. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I love you,” Peter sing-songs. 

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

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

“Peter Parker.” 

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

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

—

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

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

Look! it says, LEGO cancer treatment!! 

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

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

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

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

“What are you doing?” he asks.

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

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

“You just dropped down twenty feet!” 

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

“Who said you’re a superhero?” 

“Nice. What are you doing down here?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s definitely for dorks.” 

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

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

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

“I love it…” 

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s okay,” you say. 

“It’s not, actually.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No–”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Peter,” you say, squirming. 

He steps back. 

“I have to go,” he says. 

“What?” 

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Did you eat breakfast?” Peter asks quietly. 

His voice is gentle, but hoarse. 

You tense. 

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

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

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

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

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

“Ten minutes,” you lie. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Was that disappointing?” 

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

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

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

“You flirted pretty heavily with Spider-Man.”

“Well, he flirted with me first.” 

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

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

“I haven’t, either.” 

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

“You’re hard to say no to.” 

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

We do, you think morosely. 

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

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

His palm smells like smoke. 

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

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

“So tell me.”

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

“Please.” 

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

“I find that hard to believe.” 

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

He tilts his head invitingly. 

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

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

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

“Sick?” he asks worriedly. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I can keep you warm.” 

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

“Did you want my meskouta?” you ask. 

Peter plants a fat kiss against your brow. 

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

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

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

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

—

Spring

“Sorry!”

“No, it’s–”

“Sorry, sorry, I’m– shit!”

“–okay! All legs inside the ride?”

“I couldn’t find my purse–”

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

“Are you sure you can drive this thing?” 

“Harry doesn’t mind.” 

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

“That’s not funny.” 

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

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

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

“Peter!” 

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

“Alright,” you warn. 

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

“It’s an hour.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Already?” 

“Tonight’s the June equinox.” 

“Who told you that?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m trying to prepare myself.” 

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

“You’ll have to move.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re beautiful,” he says. 

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

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

“You’re decent enough, Parker.” 

“Maybe now.” 

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

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

He shakes himself off like a dog. 

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

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

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

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

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

“What kind of secret?” 

“A real one,” you insist. 

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

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

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

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

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

The sun warms your back for a time. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

｡𖦹°‧⭑.ᐟ

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

[mandarinmoons]

This blurb was written with @incognit0slut in mind <3

Spencer was always fascinated by you whenever you got ready. He watched you as you slipped into your clothes, finding the fitting accessories and him always offering to help put something on. Every time he helped secure your necklace his breath got caught in his throat as he saw your reflection in the mirror, you seemed to be even more beautiful every day and with it it seemed like you had him even more wrapped around your finger, which he didn’t mind at all.

One particular night, Spencer was sitting on the bed as he watched you put the finishing touches on your makeup. Swiping the finishing coat of lipstick on your lips, you had a sudden idea which both you and Spencer could get joy from.

“Spence, can you come here?”

Spencer stood up and walked over to you, his hand quick to find your waist and bring you between his legs. Your hand went to his cheek, tilting it to the side and kissing his cheek a few times, making sure to get the excess lip product off.

Spencer’s eyes went wide with the amount of affection, even you felt his cheeks heat up and it only made you kiss him even more. Knowing your reservation at the restaurant was soon, you backed up to look at the masterpiece.

“You look so pretty.”

“Do I?”

Your thumb brushed over the skin of his cheek as you took in your work, the light pink color was soon to be disguised by the red hue creeping through.

“I don’t think you’ll have to clean it off as your blushing seems to cover it up pretty well.”

“Then let it be that way, let the world know that I’m loved by the most beautiful girl in the world.”

“Keep saying things like that and we won’t make it to our reservation.”

“Maybe that’s the point.”

You can find my masterlist here!

Let me know your thoughts in the comments and like & reblog to support <3

[heesimp]

how would hyung line be with a younger gf who was a virgin ? :p

• heeseung is the one most excited that his girlfriend’s a virgin. probably knew about it since before they started dating and has secretly wanted to take it for so long. will also try to coax you into having sex with him when he’s eating you out or fingering you but ultimately waits until you’re ready, and he’s so smug about it too.

you’ll probably ask him to take it slow and to not make it hurt but he just laughs in your ear and says something like, “I can’t promise that” which makes your pussy clench. teaches you how good sex can feel.

• jay is ever the respectful gentleman but won’t tell you he’s excited that he’s gonna be the one to take your virginity. he builds it up too (I don’t think he would make a huge thing out of it but when you tell him you’re ready, jay wants to make sure he draws out your pleasure for as long as possible.

would probably be praising you the entire time, especially if you whine so much. lots of “hang in there, okay?” and “you can do it, honey. my cock’s gotta make you feel really good.”

• I think jake is also somebody who’d try to keep his cool and help you through it, but his eagerness shows up somewhere between heeseung and jay. jake would kinda rush through foreplay and would not allow himself to cum unless it was inside you.

he pushes his cock inside of you a little too early and loves it when you yelp and try to reach out and touch him. “so cute taking my cock like that,” he’d say when you squirm around him.

• sunghoon I could see either very sweet and patient or very filthy. on one hand, he loves you so much that he never wants to make you feel like you need to give it up for him until you say you’re ready, and he’s going slow by prepping your pussy with him mouth and fingers before sliding into you. hoon would say things like “you’re everything” and “breathe for me, baby.”

on the other, sunghoon would get so hard every time he remembers you’re a virgin. the first time he ever got the chance to stick his dick in your pussy was like a wet dream. the sight of his cock disappearing into your pussy was too much. lots of “my cock was made for you” and “can’t believe you’re not a virgin anymore” as if to mock you while he slides his dick in and out of you.

[eternal-evergreens]

｡⁠*ﾟ⁠+*⁠.⁠✧"Into the looking glass - III"｡⁠*ﾟ⁠+*⁠.⁠✧

Part I Part II Part III Part IV

Post format: Multipart series

Pairing: Yandere!Male!DoL x Fem!Isekai!Reader

Word count: 5.1k

Synopsis: You gain the chance to wake up in the world of one of your favorite games. Unfortunately, the 'favorite game' happens to be one about rape, violence, and stalking. Not only that, but the game seems to be rigged against you. All you want is to find a way home and put this all behind you, but is that even possible...?

Warnings: Sexual Assault, Attempted Non/Con, Drugging, Attempted Kidnapping, Stalking

Excellent Good Decent Okay Poor Bad Terrible

No, no. Not happening. Never.

You need money. But you won’t get it through unscrupulous means. You still have your morals, and you’ll abide by them. That’s why you saved Kylar. That’s why you’d save him again, should it happen in the future.

You push the thought out of your mind and exit the temple. As you pass by Danube Street, a thought hits you. 

The spa. Why haven’t you been working at the spa? 

It’s not really an early-game option due to the stat checks required, but those shouldn’t be a problem for you. With your hand skill at C by default and your beauty over the max, working as a masseur is as simple as walking up and asking for work. 

You head over and ask for work, and the lady at the front desk takes one look at your hands and gasps. Her bored demeanor quickly melts away into an excited one as she quickly shows you the ropes. You get the basics down pretty quickly and soon take your first client, a trim woman who looks to be in her early 30s.

“Hello, I’ve not done this before. Do I just lie down?” That makes two of us, you think to yourself. 

“That’s right! Just lie down, and I’ll take care of the rest,” you say, smiling. The trim woman seems reassured and quickly lies down on the table. You get to work on her shoulders and neck first, cautiously looking for knots and tension as you knead her muscles. The woman relaxes under your touch and begins to make small talk. She tells you about her family, how her kids are both bright young boys, and her husband brings her flowers every month. She seems really happy. -Trauma -Stress

She leaves you a tip. You make £75. 

Your next client is less friendly, but you manage to massage her without incident. She leaves you a tip. You make £80 and decide to take a break, feeling a little worn out from standing on your feet for nearly two hours straight. After fifteen minutes, you get up and head back into the spa, where you take on another two clients. They both leave tips, and you make £120. The spa closes after that, and you head outside. 

Someone throws a water balloon at you from a nearby car, soaking your shirt and leaving it near-invisible. You hear cheers as they speed away, leaving you soaked out in the open. +Stress

You look around, but luckily, no one is around to see your predicament. You cover yourself with your arms as best as you can and head home. You take the alleys to avoid passersby seeing you, walking quickly in hopes of getting home sooner. You don’t watch where you’re going and end up walking right into someone. 

“Watch where you’re going, you—!” You look up, about to apologize, when you see icy blue eyes staring back at you. It’s Whitney, his face, only inches from yours, changes from anger to a smug smile.”Well, what do we have here? A slut all out on her own?” Whitney’s friends giggle. 

“Why is she walking around so exposed?” One delinquent asks. “Is she a pervert?” They giggle, crowding around you.

“I wanna get a picture!” Soon, all the delinquents are pulling out their phones. Suddenly torn between the desire to cover your face and your chest, you end up hiding behind the thing closest to you, which ends up being Whitney. He seems taken aback but soon wraps an arm around you protectively. +Love

“Fuck off,” he says, arm still around your waist. “Get your own slut.” The others seem disappointed but comply regardless. When everyone’s phone has been put away, Whitney releases you and shrugs off his jacket. 

“Can’t fuck a sick person,” he says, throwing his jacket over you. “Make sure to give it back. Now fuck off.” He shoves you out of the alleyway, leaving you stunned. Did that really just happen? 

You check your phone.

Whitney The Bully  Whitney wants to own you.       Fascination: 50% Love: 5% Devotion: 0% Dominance: 40%       Jealousy: 0% Lust: 100% 

You walk home with his jacket wrapped around your shoulders. It smells like smoke.

—————————

It is Thursday, the 8th of September, 2022. -It has been 4 days since the game started. -The game started in autumn.  -It is autumn. -School term Finishes on Friday the 2nd of December. Current Funds: £729 Pain: You feel okay Arousal: You feel cold Fatigue: You are alert Stress: You are calm Trauma: You are uneasy Control: You are insecure Allure: You look like you need to be ravaged

After waking up and finishing your morning routine, you go to Robin’s room and play video games with him for an hour. Some of the games remind you of those you used to play back home. +Love -Trauma +Stress 

“It’s almost time for school,” he says. “Do you want to come with me?” You smile and nod. Robin stands up from the bed and puts his controller away. He holds the door open for you as you leave, and you notice a faint blush on his cheeks as you pass. You swear you saw him glance down. +Lust

You’re suddenly reminded that you’re in a yandere game and that Robin is a target character. ++Stress

You grimace as you round a corner and resist the urge to cover your butt as Robin walks behind you. Your skirt is so short he can probably see your underwear as you walk. +++Stress

You see Bailey holding a mousy girl by the arms, a bundle of rope in his other hand. 

“You owe me £200 this week,” he says. The girl is holding back tears but still manages to keep a strong look about her. Robin looks away. The other orphans do the same. They all look…resigned. You step forward. 

“I’ll pay,” you say. “Let her go.” Bailey raises an eyebrow but releases the girl. You hand over the £200 without fuss. It’s only after parting with the money that you remember you could have just pepper-sprayed him and gained some catharsis. You don’t really need to be stingy with it, after all. Bailey counts the money and leaves, leaving the mousy girl to dust herself off.

“Thank you,” the mousy girl says. “I was really scared.” 

“Will you be okay?” You ask her. She nods. She seems genuinely okay. 

“Yes, thanks to you. I promise I’ll pay you back for this,” she says, running off. 

“You don’t have to!” You call out after her, but she’s already gone. 

You did a good thing today. -Trauma -Stress

“That was really impressive,” Robin says. “It’s not often people stand up to Bailey.” You shrug, and Robin cracks a smile. +Love

You and Robin chat on the way to school, mostly about the games you played earlier. There’s a certain glint in his eyes when he looks at you that wasn’t there before. You have to suppress a shiver every time you accidentally meet his gaze. +Stress

“I just don’t understand why they’d make a tutorial so difficult,” Robin says, shaking his head. “Maybe-” He’s cut off by something, eyes widening. You follow his gaze and see two hooded figures approaching rapidly from the alleyway you just passed. You reach for your pepper spray as the figures get closer, unhooking it from its keychain and holding it at the ready. 

“It’s her,” one says. You waste no time and spray them both, then grab Robin’s arm and sprint to safety with him. ++Crime (Assault) ++Crime (Assault) +Stress +Fatigue

You don’t stop running until you reach the school gates and are safely behind them. You and Robin pant heavily as you struggle to come down from the adrenaline. 

“Where did you get that?!” Robin whisper-yells. 

“A kid in my English class makes them,” you say at a normal volume. Robin’s look of concern only grows, and he spends a few minutes lecturing you on the dangers and illegalities of pepper spray. You mostly tune him out. 

The bell rings, finally putting an end to Robin’s monologue, and you head to class. You focus on the lesson, and Sirris calls you up to the front of the class. A student uses a ruler to flash your panties to everyone. To make matters worse, Sirris wanted you to undress for the demonstration. You comply, feeling humiliated as the class leers at your body. +++Stress

The bell rings, and you rush out of the classroom. You feel your heart pounding in your chest as you walk. Your ears are ringing, your heartbeat is too loud, the world is spinning, and—

It’s all too much for you. You pass out. 

—————————

It is Thursday, the 8th of September, 2022. -It has been 4 days since the game started. -The game started in autumn.  -It is autumn. -School term Finishes on Friday the 2nd of December. Current Funds: £529 Pain: You feel okay Arousal: You feel cold Fatigue: You are wearied Stress: You are distressed Trauma: You are uneasy Control: You are insecure Allure: You look like you need to be ravaged

You wake up with something soft yet firm under your head and Sydney right above you. 

“You’re awake!” He says. “I was worried. I wasn’t sure what to do, so I brought you back to the library.” “Not the nurse?” You say, getting up. You realize that you’ve been lying on Sydney’s lap. Sydney looks sheepish. 

“I didn’t think of that,” he says, not meeting your gaze. He looks genuine, but you get the feeling he’s not being honest. +Awareness 

Sydney insists you stay with him for another ten minutes so he can monitor your condition. When you ask about going to the nurse again he makes an excuse of not knowing if you’re good to walk. You decide not to push it any further and spend the next ten minutes chatting with Sydney. When the ten minutes are up, he looks hesitant to let you go but relents regardless. +Love +Lust -Sydney’s purity

By the time you leave, it’s already lunch. You missed two classes. ++Deliquency

Feeling stressed from everything, you decide to sit alone in hopes of relaxing. You should have known better, however, as a group of students soon come by to make your day harder. The second they start jeering at you, you unhook your pepper spray and blast them all in the face. ++Crime (Assault) ++Delinquency +Status

The students are screaming and hurling insults, but the ringing in your ears makes it impossible to hear them. You finish your lunch in silence. 

You spend the rest of school zoning out, hoping your stress will subside. It works, kind of. 

You have detention, but you don’t feel like going. Considering all the shit you pulled today, Leighton is probably going to take off your clothes and smack you or something. You don’t have good enough grades to know where the tunnel from school is, so you walk out the front. Leighton tries to stop you, but you pepper spray him. ++Crime (Assault) ++Delinquency +Status 

A group of students say they’re going to the lake. You could use a change of scenery. You join them. +Status

Hanging out at the lake is fun enough. No one tries to grope you after what happened at lunch, so you end up having a somewhat enjoyable time. 

Then they start bullying another student, who thankfully isn’t here to listen to them shit-talking them, and what little fun you were having quickly melts away. You stand up and walk away, deciding to go for a swim instead. You think about retrieving the lichen for your science project but push the thought out of your mind. 

You swim for about an hour, and when you exit the water, the sun is already beginning to set. Your fellow classmates are still hanging out, but you don’t really feel like joining them, so you put on your clothes and go for a walk, planning to head back after you’re done.

You hear a bullet firing from afar. Something is hunting you.

Fuck. You whip around, trying to locate the source of the bullet. You heard it shoot from behind you, but you don’t see anyone. Going back the way you came might mean running straight into their arms. You glance around one last time, but a second gunshot has you running on your feet in no time.

You dash through the woods, not bothering to look behind you as the gun fires off in the near distance. You don’t think they’re shooting at you, and running zig-zag like you were taught as a kid just means slowing down. So, you run straight ahead with no clear plan in mind. You unhook your pepper spray again (you should probably thank Kylar), just in case, but you don’t know how much good it will do in a gunfight. Still, something is better than nothing, so you hold onto it, keeping it close to your chest as you run, run, run.

Your foot hits something strange and loses balance. You don’t even have time to process it until you’re lifted upside-down by your heel, face to inverted face with a plant person. 

“I caught one!” The plant girl exclaims. “This one’s wearing lacey panties!” You spray her, and she falls, her vines releasing you instantly. It’s only when you see sap pouring out from a hole on the side of her head that you hear the gunshot and realize it wasn’t you that took her down.

“Got you,” Eden says, a hand on your shoulder. You try to turn around, but the second you move, you’re on the ground, nose pressed into the soil, and arms pinned behind you in a painful grip. You feel your pepper spray being torn from your hand and thrown next to a bush. 

Shit. Shit!

He’s got you in a submission hold. There’s nothing you can do but go along with it and wait for an opportunity. It takes everything in you not to thrash and scream against his hold, but you know that would only make things worse. Eden runs his hand down your back, stopping when he gets to the hem of your skirt. He flips it up, taking a moment to admire it before giving it a light slap. You jump when he hits you, though it’s more about the surprise than the pain.

“You’re hurting me!” You cry, trying your best to sound helpless. “Please let go!” You weakly struggle against his grip for good measure. 

“Sorry, sweetheart,” he says, voice gruff. “Can’t do that. You’ll run away.” 

“I’ll be good! I’ll be good! Please, please, let me go!” You wiggle around, pretending this is as much strength as you can muster up. Eden leans down and studies your expression for a moment. You can feel the outline of his cock on your back as he leans down to look at you. The scrutiny in such a position is near-unbearable, but he releases you without a word. 

You force yourself to be still for a moment, not to do anything that would alert him. Then, slowly, you turn around and, mustering up every bit of courage you have, lean up and kiss him. He seems taken aback but soon reciprocates the gesture. You press into him, stroking and massaging his skin as you cautiously lean him back into a more desirable position. 

Though it costs you your dignity, you’re eventually able to get on top of him, grinding against him through his pants as you lower him to the ground. When you’ve got him completely below you, and you’re straddling his hips, you break the kiss and pull yourself up. 

“I think it's time we get rid of these,” you say, grabbing your panties and lifting your hips, then swaying them suggestively. You shift your weight to one knee and lift your other leg up, then, in a sudden, adrenaline-charged burst of speed, you throw yourself off of him and stagger to your feet. You kick him in the crotch and run towards the bush where your pepper spray landed. 

Eden catches your foot, and you nosedive towards the ground. You fall, but pepper spray is just within reach. You grab it and go limp. Eden drags your body closer to his, and you use it as an opportunity to spray him. He grabs his eyes and recoils, and you quickly gather yourself and run back the way you came. 

Your clothes snag on bushes and branches as you run, but you pay it no mind as you force yourself to run. You can’t hear anything but the wind in your ears, so you have no idea if Eden is chasing you or not. 

Silly you, it shouldn’t have been Eden you were worrying about. 

You feel yourself hit the ground before you even register being knocked down. There’s a growling above you and two hands on either side of your body. You twist around, barely even registering the wolf ears and sharp teeth of the man on top of you. You spray him, and he staggers back. You rush to your feet and keep running until you’re safely out of the forest. Your clothes are practically in scraps by the time you’re out, and at this point, you think it’ll be cheaper to just buy new clothes instead of fixing them. 

Then, it hits you. The pain and exhaustion. 

You drop to your knees, suddenly aware of every scratch, scrape, and bruise you acquired while running through the forest, suddenly aware of the strain on your muscles from the fatigue. You stay sitting for a few minutes, waiting for your muscles to stop hurting or for you to stop caring. When you notice the sun is starting to set, you pull yourself up and drag yourself back home, where you run a bath and then go straight to bed. 

—————————

It is Friday, the 9th of September, 2022. -It has been 5 days since the game started. -The game started in autumn.  -It is autumn. -School term Finishes on Friday the 2nd of December. Current Funds: £529 Pain: You are upset Arousal: You feel cold Fatigue: You are wearied Stress: You are distressed Trauma: You are nervous Control: You are anxious Allure: You look like you need to be ravaged

You get up and check your socials on your phone.

Excellent Good Decent Okay Poor Bad Terrible Primary relationships:  Robin The Orphan Robin wants to be your best friend.              Fascination: 100% Love: 5% Devotion: 30% Lust: 40%         Confidence: 0% Trauma: 0% Jealousy: 5% Whitney The Bully  Whitney wants to own you.       Fascination: 50% Love: 10% Devotion: 0% Dominance: 40% Jealousy: 0% Lust: 100%  Kylar The Loner Kylar is obsessed with you.       Fascination: 100% Love: 9% Devotion: 55% Jealousy: 55%        Lust: 90% Sydney The Faithful ? Sydney is conflicted.       Fascination: 70% Love: 8% Devotion: 25% Purity: 20%        Jealousy: 0% Lust: 70%  Avery The Businessman Avery thinks you’re cute.     Fascination: 55% Love: 1% Devotion: 0% Jealousy: 0%     Dominance: 0% Lust: 30% Rage: 0% Eden The Hunter Eden wants you back.     Fascination: 80% Love: 0% Devotion: 0% Jealousy: 0%     Dominance: 0% Lust: 100% Black Wolf The Alpha Black Wolf wants to see you again. Reputation:  The police consider you a person of interest, and have enough evidence for an arrest. The atmosphere in the orphanage is calm. You are considered a normal student by teachers. Your fellow students desire you. Lust: 100% Status: 60% Sex: Unknown. Prostitution: Unknown. Rape: Obscure. Beastiality: Unknown. Exhibitionism: Obscure. Pregnancy: Unknown. Combat: Low-key. Kindness: Obscure. Business: Unknown. Socialite: Unknown. Overall: Notorious. The townsfolk call you Darling. Those in the criminal underworld call you Darling.

Your eyes hover over your police reputation. You sigh. You’ll have to visit Landry after school. You throw your covers off of you and climb out of bed, groggily going to your wardrobe. 

Right. Your clothes got torn. You pick up an undamaged skirt and shirt, tossing the tattered garments into the trash. You put on your clothes and pick up your bag, not bothering to stop by Robin’s room this morning. You take a bus to the shopping center, where you do what you should have done on day one: buy clothes that actually cover you. You browse for a few minutes, looking for something as pervert-proof as possible. You settle on a school blouse, shorts, a sports bra, suspenders, and a pair of work boots. 

The shorts provide you protection against people lifting your skirt, the suspenders (which you’ll have to sew on) keep you from being pantsed, the sports bra can’t be unclipped and provides support in case you need to run, and the work boots will help you keep your footing when you need to go to the moor or the woods. 

You buy what you’re wearing as well as a few backups of the shorts and shirt, totaling £215. You pay and leave, arriving at school just in time for your science class. Today’s Friday, so you have a chance to improve your grades if you do well on the tests. 

The lesson pace is a little different from usual. It’s just a review of everything you’ve learned this week. Nothing new is being covered, so you don’t bother to take notes. Not that you’ve had any time to study your notes since coming here.

The test is easy enough, despite your terrible study habits, and you manage to improve your grade to a D. -Stress

The rest of the day continues similarly, and soon you have D’s all across the board. --Stress

You go to the pub after school, looking around for a thin man or woman with black hair and a grey sweater. You feel a hand on your shoulder and turn your head. It’s a tall man you’ve never seen before. He’s covered in tattoos.

“You’ve been busy,” he says, booze on his breath. “Don’t think I don’t recognize you. You’re the talk of the town. Bit surprising not seeing you being fucked raw, though.” His grip on your shoulder tightens. “I reckon it’s time I got my slice of the pie. You like it rough, right? That’s what I’ve heard. Come ‘ere, sweetheart.” 

“Am I interrupting?” You hear a man’s voice, and the tall man’s hand on your shoulder loses it’s grip. You look over to see the face of your savior and realize it’s the very person you were looking for. Your face shifts to one of relief. -Stress

“Yeah,” he says. “Piss off.”

“I recognize you.” 

“You should, I come here more often than I-” 

“March 3rd, 2009. Nightingale Street.” The tall man pales. “So you know what I’m talking about. I wasn’t there myself, but I’ve heard the stories. You were the talk of the town.” 

The tall man stutters. “Y-you’re not with the fuzz. You won’t turn me in.”

“You don’t know that. And either way, we both know you’re not hiding from the police. So how about you let her go, and I won’t tip off the Elk about your latest haunt.” The tall man looks at you, then Landry, then you again. Landry smiles. He throws his hands off of you.

“Fine. Shit, fine. You her lover? You picked a damn slutty one.” Landry waits until the man is out of earshot before turning to you. 

“Come with me,” he says. “I want to talk to you in private.”

“Reputation isn’t always a good thing,” Landry says as you sit down. “Word’s spread about you. You’re notorious. That’s why that drunkard went for you. You remember what he said, right?” 

“I haven’t even done anything,” you say. 

“No, but you’re pretty while doing it,” Landry retorts. “Not hitting on you,” he says. 

“Thanks?” 

“It’s not a good thing. You attract attention wherever you go. Where a normal person might have to fuck a hundred people to start getting known as a slut around town, you’d only have to fuck one.” 

“Oh,” you say, slinking in your seat. “So, what can I do?” 

“I think I can help you,” he pauses. “Well, not me. But I think I know someone. This orphan at the home on Domus Street. A computer whiz. Mickey, or McKay, something like that. Best hope is to find this orphan. If you can get them to come work with me, they’ll be able to hook you up. There’ll be some money in it for you, too. Just don’t step on Bailey’s toes.” You nod. 

“Thank you,” you say. Landry smiles.

“There’s another thing, too,” he says. “I’ll be frank. I know you need money. Don’t ask me how I know, word gets around. I think I can help you. If you come across any jewelry or other items you don’t know what to do with, I can take them off your hands. I’ll pay well.” He looks over your shoulder. “As well as can be expected, anyway.” 

“Can you help me get the police off my trail?”

“I can help you,” he says, reclining. “But I need you to do something for me. And no, it’s not about money. I was expecting a package, but it never arrived. Good thing I know where to find it, it had a GPS tracker. It got lost somewhere deep in the moor. Get it for me, and I’ll prevent any of your past misdemeanors being pinned on you. It’s a small black box.” You nod and stand. 

“Oh, and do be careful,” Landry says. “I don’t believe the tales of monsters, but there’s a sensible reason behind some superstitions.” 

You’re already wearing work boots, but you want to wear something that you can afford to tear, too. Preferably something resistant that can protect you. But you don’t have the money for that, so you head back to the orphanage and wear the only other outfit you have, a sundress. You put your pepper spray keychain on your bookbag and take it with you, hoping you won’t run out during this trip. 

After double checking everything is in order, you leave the orphanage and begin to make the long trek to the moor. 

Several people attempt to pick you up along the way. By which you mean literally every person who passes by you has slowed down to talk and ask where you’re headed. Not willing to risk anything, you turn them all down, running when they get too persistent. By the time you finally make it to the farmlands, you’re exhausted. So you sit down near the entrance to rest, knowing you’ll need your energy for the moor. 

“You alright there?” Someone asks. You look up to see a suntanned boy under a straw hat, looking concerned. He looks around your age, with red hair and a boyish appearance. He must be Alex, you realize.

“It was just a really long walk to get here,” you admit sheepishly. 

“You walked all the way from town?” You nod. “Well, Jesus! No wonder you’re so tired. Come in and get some water, my place isn’t far.” 

“Do you own the farm?” 

“Yeah, I do! It’s a work in progress, but it’s home.” You smile. 

Alex is right, and it doesn’t take long to reach the cottage, where he offers you a glass of water. You thank him and gulp it down. +++Drugged

…Huh?

You stare at your phone. The screen seems to shift.

Pain: You feel okay Arousal: You feel cold Fatigue: You are wearied Stress: You are calm Trauma: You are nervous Control: You are anxious Allure: You look like you need to be ravaged A lewd warmth fills you Your perception is altered

You look back up to Alex, who’s staring at you with a grin. You stand up but nearly fall. Alex stands with you, his hands on your shoulders. 

“Easy, there,” he says as if you’re a horse that needs to calm down. You shove him off of you and  run, reaching for your pepper spray, but in your altered state, you can’t figure out how to unhook it. 

>Try again (Skullduggery: Impossible) >Rip it off (Athletics: Challenging) >Spray without unhooking (Dance: Very Difficult) 

You rip it off, but the fabric holds firm. Alex is close behind you.

>Try again (Athletics: Challenging) >Spray without unhooking (Dance: Very Difficult) 

You try again and the fabric doesn’t yield. Alex is right behind you.

>Try again (Athletics: Challenging) >Spray without unhooking (Dance: Very Difficult) 

This is taking too long. You spray without unhooking, managing to get Alex, but in your flailing, also manage to spray yourself. +++Pain ++Willpower

You run, you don’t even know where you’re going you just run.

You can’t open your eyes, but you know they wouldn’t be of much help in this state, anyway. You run until you hit what feels like tall grass, then slow. You’re in the moor now. 

You try to quiet your breathing as you listen for anything that may be chasing you or lying in wait. You hear nothing. You go a little further in, just enough to be hidden among the grass and wait. 

Eventually, the pain subsides, and you open your bleary eyes. You still feel unsteady, though, so you wait longer. It takes another forty minutes for you to regain full balance and control of your body. When you do, you trudge deeper into the moor, relying on the map on your phone to guide you to the box. After what feels like two hours of searching, you finally find the box across from some water. 

You grimace as you step in, your shoes and socks instantly soaking with dirty water. The water is about knee-high, so not enough to touch your sundress but just enough to make movement heavily uncomfortable. You hobble over the box, just about to reach it, when you feel something suck you in. 

You look behind you and recognize the thing as a lurker. You waste no time and spray it, freeing yourself and grabbing the box before leaving. 

Of course, nothing is ever that simple, and just as you leave the water, you see a terrible shadow overhead. You look up and notice a harpy in the sky. You are being hunted.

You start to run. Your pursuer approaches rapidly. ++Stress

You run faster, pushing yourself to your limits as you sprint across the moor. But luck is never on your side, and your foot sinks into something as you land. You look down, and it’s a fucking foxhole. Not big enough for you to run through or hide in. You pull yourself out, but it’s too late. 

“Found wife,” he says. You spray him and keep running. That should keep him out of commission for a while. 

Eventually, you feel safe enough to walk the rest of the way out of the moor. You sneak around the farmlands and begin to walk the rest of the way home. You’re too tired to make it very far, however, and soon pass out on the road. You feel yourself being lifted onto a stretcher before passing out again.

You’ve unlocked a fragment.

<Prev Next>

[twirlyleafs]

“Reckless.”

Charles Leclerc x driver! Reader

TW: mention of death, fighting

~~~~

“What the hell was that?”

Charles’ angry voice cut through the hum of your garage like a whip, startling you enough to make you spin around to face him. You hadn’t expected him to be here this fast, you’d barely gotten out of the car, but then again maybe you should have. You knew he’d be angry considering the intense qualifying session where you’d wrung every last bit out of your car—and yourself. In those final two laps, you’d driven with reckless precision, pressing Alonso so hard in the corners that he’d had to back off to not risk contact. It wasn’t exactly clean racing, but it had earned you a spot on the second row. Fourth on the grid, your best start all season. The best you would probably be able to get out of your car. But as satisfying as it was, you knew that Charles would have something to say about it.

“Keep your voice down, Charles.” You muttered while unzipping the top half of your suit, hoping you could brush this off before it turned into a scene. Charles wasn’t having it. Out of the corner of your eye you could see him, jaw clenched, his hands slicing through the air as he spoke, disbelief radiating off him.

“Keep my voice—are you serious? What’s your problem? That overtake was reckless. Fernando was barely an inch away from accidentally sending you flying into the wall!”

“Calm down.” You shot him a look as you brushed past him, hoping he’d drop it if you just kept walking. But Charles scoffed, immediately following you, his tone hard and unforgiving.

“Don’t tell me to calm down! I was right behind you! I saw the way you went in—God, you’re just lucky it was Alonso and not one of the rookies. That could’ve been a disaster.” Charles was relentless, his words chasing you all the way to your driver’s room. Your fists were clenched, nails digging into your palms as you worked to keep your own frustration under control. You knew his worry came from a place of love, but right now, it felt like he was questioning you as a driver, as if he didn’t trust you to know what you were doing. And that stung more than you cared to admit. Once the door shut behind you both, his words softened, though they still held an edge. “What were you thinking out there?”

You let out a heavy breath, finally turning to meet his gaze. “I was thinking about getting a decent starting position. I wanted-“

“You don’t risk everything for a good position!” he interrupted, throwing his hands up in exasperation. “Have you talked to Fernando? He’s probably fuming! If that had been me in his shoes, I would’ve lost it—”

“Good thing it wasn’t you, then.” You snapped, turning your back on him as you began unzipping the rest of your suit. It felt safer to face the wall, where he couldn’t see the raw mix of emotions that tightened your throat and threatened to spill over. “You don’t get it, Charles. You have a team, a car, a contract. You have a future. A name. I’m fighting for scraps, like every shot is the last one I’ll get.”

He fell silent and for a moment you thought he might back down, let you have this small victory. But his voice cut through the quiet, low and sharp. “Maybe I don’t get it. But I do get that you’re pushing yourself too far. And one day it won’t just be a scare. You’ll get hurt.”

“Yeah, well, I can handle myself.” You retorted as you turned to face him, your gaze defiant. “I knew what I was doing with Alonso. I wouldn’t have tried it with one of the rookies, I knew they couldn’t handle that.”

“Can you?” His eyes held a look you rarely saw, a mixture of frustration, fear, and maybe even doubt. “Can you handle it, Y/N? Because from where I’m standing, that looked less like confidence and more like…like desperation.” His words hit you like a slap, hurting more than you wanted to admit. Was it desperation? Maybe there was some truth in that, but you weren’t about to let him see you flinch. Not when he didn’t understand what it was like to constantly have to prove yourself, to feel every race could be your last if you didn’t show results.

“Are you calling me a bad driver Charles?” You asked, the challenge clear in your tone. He ran a hand over his face, sighing in exasperation.

“I’m calling you reckless. Stupid, even. You could be amazing, I know you’re amazing, but you keep pulling moves like this and I’m just scared it’s going to end in disaster.”

You swallowed, ignoring the sting of his words. “I can’t afford to play it safe, Charles. You wouldn’t get it, you don’t have to get it. You’re in a car that could win a championship. I’m just trying to prove I belong here.” For a moment, he looked as if he was about to argue, his eyes narrowing with the usual stubbornness you knew too well. But instead, he just shook his head, stepping back, disappointment flickering in his gaze. He lingered for a moment, his gaze softened, as if he wanted to reach out but held himself back. Then he turned, leaving the room as quickly as he’d entered, his words hanging in the air, heavy and unshakable. You stood alone, the silence pressing down on you, and no matter how much you wanted to brush it off his words kept echoing in your mind.

The hours dragged on, the buzz of qualifying still lingering as you were pulled from one interview to the next. You smiled for the cameras, deflected the sharpest questions, and managed to shrug off any mention of that heated moment with Alonso. But under the surface, your mind churned with the memory of your earlier fight with Charles. His words still echoed in your head, gnawing at you in a way you couldn’t shake. Reckless. Desperate. You’d been called a lot of things, but hearing it from him hurt like hell. It was late when you finally reached the hotel, the quiet of the lobby a stark contrast to the noisy paddock. The tension in your shoulders was nearly unbearable as you made your way up to your room, the thought of sleep the only thing keeping you moving forward. When you unlocked the door and stepped inside Charles was there, sitting on the edge of the bed, his gaze flicking up from his phone when you entered. He looked worn, the earlier fire in his eyes now replaced with something gentler, but equally intense. You felt your heart skip, torn between relief and irritation as the weight of your argument settled heavily in the air between you.

“Hey,” he said quietly, watching you as you set down your things.

“Hey.” You shrugged off your jacket, avoiding his gaze, the room feeling too small, too charged. Silence hung thickly for a moment before he spoke again.

“I’m sorry,” he began, a slight hesitance in his voice. “For showing up like that. I shouldn’t have come into your garage and… yelled at you. That was out of line.”

You nodded, acknowledging his apology but not yet ready to let go of the frustration simmering beneath your skin. Slowly making your way across the room you stopped by the dresser to remove your jewelry, plopping your watch and bracelet down on the cold surface before turning around to look at him again. “You still think I’m reckless? Stupid?” Your voice was calm, even as your heart pounded in your chest. Charles looked down, rubbing his hands together as he seemed to weigh his words.

“Yes. I do. I think you’re incredible out there, but sometimes…” He paused, looking up at you, his eyes soft yet resolute. “Sometimes it scares me. Seeing you push so hard, knowing one wrong move could just, you know, just end everything.”

You sighed, crossing your arms as you leaned back against the dresser. “Charles, I’m fighting for my career. Every weekend, every race—it’s not just about points or a title chance. It’s about proving that I belong here, that I’m not just some driver filling space at the back of the grid.” You hesitated, struggling to put into words what you’d felt for so long. “I don’t have the luxury of playing it safe.”

“And you think I don’t get that?” His voice rose, a hint of frustration slipping back in. “I know what it’s like to fight, to have to prove myself. You think Ferrari didn’t make me feel like I had to earn my place every damn time I got in that car?”

You scoffed, feeling a flicker of bitterness as you met his gaze. “It’s different, Charles. You still always had the team behind you. A car that can get you to the podium on strategy alone. I don’t have that. I have to be better. I have to take risks.”

“I’m not saying you shouldn’t fight.” His voice was softer now. “But not at the cost of your safety. There’s a difference between fighting and driving like there’s nothing left to lose.”

You felt a flash of anger, his words hitting a raw nerve. “Maybe I don’t see a difference because I don’t have anything to lose, Charles. I’m already at the back. Already being picked apart by the media trying to prove women don’t belong here. That I don’t belong here. A good result like this might be the only thing keeping me on the grid next season.” Your voice wavered as you continued, the weight of your own words settling heavy on your chest. “Maybe I can’t afford to think about what I have to lose.” At that Charles expression softened, his eyes searching your face.

“And what about me? What if I lose you? Maybe you don’t see it that way, but to me you are the most important thing in this equation.” His words struck you like a blow and for the first time you felt the edges of your anger soften, giving way to something deeper and more vulnerable. You let out a breath, your gaze dropping to the floor as the truth of it all began to settle between you. You swallowed, feeling the prick of tears in your eyes but refusing to let them fall.

“You have to let me fight. Even if it scares you. Because I can’t be the driver I need to be if I’m holding back just to make everyone else feel safe.” Even with your eyes trained on the floor you noted Charles getting up, moving across the room towards you. The ache in your chest reached its peak when his hands carefully found your arms, slowly stroking down them until he could grip your hands in his. He sighed, his thumb rubbing gently over your knuckles.

“I don’t want you to hold back. I’d never ask that of you, I just-“ he paused and you slowly lifted your gaze to meet his. “I just want you to be careful. To remember that you can get to where you wanna be without dying on the way. Baby I want you to have everything, I think you deserve everything and I’m here for you, as long as you don’t disappear on me.” The last of your frustration melted away as you let out a shaky breath, leaning into his embrace. The second Charles noticed you moving closer he dropped your hands, wrapping his arms around you instead. Tucking your head against the crook of his neck you let out a deep sigh, nodding slowly.

“I get it. I get what you’re saying. It’s just hard to think like that when I’m out there, seeing my chances slip away.”

“I know.”

“But I’ll try.” You whispered, the words more of a promise to yourself than to him. “I’ll try to be careful. But I need you to understand that sometimes, this is just how it has to be. It’s the only way I know.” You felt Charles nod, his lips pressing soft, reassuring kisses against the top of your head. You shuffled closer, letting your arms wrap around his torso as his tightened around your frame, grounding you in the warmth and steadiness of his embrace. “You won’t lose me.” You murmured against his shoulder, the words both a promise and a hope. Charles held you close, his lips pressing gently to your temple as you both stood in the quiet of the room, letting the tension and hurt melt away. And for a while, neither of you said anything more, content just to hold each other, finding a fragile peace in the shared silence. Tomorrow, you’d be back on the track, fighting just as hard. But tonight, you were simply here, together.

[derealizationns]

"am i your wallpaper...?"

characters - ryomen sukuna x gn reader

synopsis - sukuna starts feeling unknown, scary emotions when he sees your lock screen wallpaper.

genre - fluff

warnings - sukuna might be a bit ooc, bc its so hard for me to write him...😭

from prompt special request (prompt #10) <3

"get off me, you insolent human." sukuna grumbled the moment that you threw yourself on his lap, whining about your exhausting day.

despite his harsh words, you still stayed in your place on the couch. you knew that man very well, and it wasn’t difficult to notice his smirk (though he tried really hard to hide it). that’s how you ended up with your head on his thighs, playing with the material of his shirt. in the meantime, sukuna was showing the not-so-obvious side of him—he was gently brushing his hand through your hair. even though he shows himself as an intimidating and fearful man, your lover has a soft spot for you. some people that are close with you could even say that you have him “wrapped around your finger," and that wouldn’t be a lie. right now, you’re just relaxing while the pink-haired man scrolls through his phone. he suddenly looks up at you when you start shifting and lift yourself from him.

“where are you going? i did not permit you to leave my side.” he complained, confused by your actions.

you rolled your eyes at his clinginess.

“i’m going to the bathroom; stop acting like you’ll die if i leave your sight, kuna,”you sigh with a smile. he was so cute.

you get up from the sofa and start heading towards the restroom. the moment you were away, sukuna’s smile widened. It was a brief while when he could show that he’s truly pleased by your closeness. suddenly, the king of curses hears something vibrating on the couch. he looks around in search for the source of the noise. that’s when he notices your phone lighting up. he squints his eyes, looking towards the device.

“no, that cannot be right.” your partner mumbles to himself, seeing the picture on your lock screen.

it looked like the one that you took after your last date, when you both were lying in bed. he can swear he’s seeing things, because why would you have this picture there? what was the purpose? sukuna’s chest is full of weird feelings; he’s shure he never felt before. why is he happy? Is that... the thing humans call “excitement”? ... no, that’s wrong. after all, he is the most powerful of all curses; he does not feel those trivial things, right? all of a sudden, he’s thrown out of his thoughts by quiet steps from the bathroom. your lover immediantly switches his attention from your phone to you. as soon as you see sukuna, you can tell that something is bothering him. you already know that he won’t tell you whats wrong, so you decide to bring it up yourself.

“hey, what’s got you so annoyed? you look like you just ate a lemon.” you try to start carefully and a bit playfully, but sukuna does not buy it.

“you, human. what were you thinking when you did that, huh?! i demand an answer.” pink-haired man ordered.

now you were seriously confused. you got him annoyed? but weren’t you just explaining to him that it’s just a quick trip to the bathroom, not a whole ass journey across the world? now you’re getting mad.

“the hell you’re talking about idiot?" you bark at him.

sukuna’s mouth opens but closes a second later.

“come on, spit it out already; you got something to say, then go on.” you force him to explain himself. your partner takes a deep breath and closes his eyes, like he’s bracing himself for an impact.

“am i your wallpaper...?” he almost whispers.

when you hear him, you almost choke on your saliva. what?! he acts all annoyed and everything because you have him on your lock screen?

“wha-...kuna, is that why you looked so dissatisfied earlier? i mean, i can change it if you want,  but...”

“did I say I want you to change it?” he asks loudly.

now he looks at you like you offended him. this man is truly a confusing one.

“no, but...” you try to continue, but he doesn’t let you.

“so be quiet. can’t listen to your rambling” sukuna cuts you off. you can’t help but start giggling. your man’s face is all red from embarrassment. he—ryomen sukuna, the king of curses—is blushing because his partner has him on their wallpaper. you jump back at the couch beside him, taking his face in your hands and squeezing his cheeks. his eyes widen at your action.

“you...how dare you... insolent human, you have the audacity...” he stutters, and you laugh more at him.

“you’re so cute, kuna… so incredibly adorable.” you teased and placed a soft kiss on his lips. when you pulled away, the curse man still had pink cheeks, but additionally a smile on his face.

“i like that picture.” he whispers. 

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ kirara’s notes . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

hi, hello, it’s me again! this is my first work from that prompt special request 🤍 i tried really hard to write sukuna as much in-character as i can, but it’s reallt hard for me to do it correctly 🥹 feel free to leave reviews! likes and reblogs are greatly appreciated <3

and thank you for reading this ~

[locomoqo]

Could we get something related to gun trying to convince the reader who he loves to stay with him. Reader is conflicted with her feelings because she loves him but she’s aware of his job and how dangerous it is for the both of them. Angst & comfort please!

love me like a sailor

— gun park x reader

details: angst with comfort, established relationship

A/N: 1.2k words whewww, also i hope i did gun's personality justice here🥹 i rlly do believe he'd soften around someone he loves (i have a feeling this didnt come off as angsty as i wanted it to be bleh)

The room is dimly lit, shadows stretching long across the floor as the evening light fades behind heavy curtains. Gun stands in front of you, his usually impassive face softened by an emotion he rarely shows—vulnerability. The tension between you both is almost suffocating, a thick silence hanging between breaths. Your heart is heavy with the weight of a decision you don’t want to make.

“I don’t know if I can keep doing this,” you murmur, your voice barely a whisper. You clutch your arms, holding yourself together because you’re afraid that if you let go, you’ll fall apart. You look up at him, eyes filled with the conflict that’s been tearing at you for weeks. He’s been distant lately, lost in the chaos of his work, and you can’t pretend any longer that it doesn’t scare you.

Gun’s jaw tightens, his usually stoic expression cracking for a brief second. There's a flicker of something fragile in his eyes. He steps forward, a little too quickly, as if he's scared you might vanish. “I’m here now, aren’t I?” he says, his voice quiet and distant—just like it always is.

You meet his gaze, your eyes brimming with unshed tears, hating that he makes it sound so simple. “But for how long?” you ask, your voice breaking. “You’re always chasing danger, always fighting, always risking everything. I can’t... I can’t keep pretending it doesn’t tear me apart every time you walk out that door.” The words spill out of you, each one a stab to your own heart. You hate how weak you sound, how vulnerable. But you can’t help it. You can’t stop loving him.

Gun’s brows furrow, his usual mask slipping as he takes a step closer. He towers over you, but there’s a gentleness in his eyes that contradicts his imposing presence. His hands tremble slightly as he reaches for you but stops, hovering with uncertainty as if he’s not sure he has the right to touch you anymore. “I don’t know how to be different,” he admits, his voice raw and low, twisting your heart. It's true, fighting has become part of who he is, it's all he's ever known. “This is who I am. But if it means losing you, I’ll—”

“No,” you interrupt, shaking your head, feeling tears sting at the corners of your eyes. “I don’t want to be the reason you lose your edge. I don’t want to be your weakness.”

You see frustration flare in his eyes, the helplessness he fights so hard to conceal. His hands drop to his sides, curling into fists as he takes a shaky breath. “Do you think I want to be this way?” he asks, his voice suddenly fierce, desperation cutting through his words. “Do you think I don’t know what it does to you every time I leave? I’m trying, damn it, but I can’t just walk away from who I am. I’ve built my life around this, and I can’t change it, not overnight.”

He stretches his hand out, catching yours before you can pull away. There's an urgency in his grip—an unspoken plea hidden beneath his cold facade. The anger fades from his face, replaced by something hollow and broken. “You’re not my weakness,” he insists, his hold firm but gentle. “You never have been. You’re the only person who makes me want to be better. For you.” He swallows, eyes locked on yours. “I know it’s dangerous. I won’t lie to you about that. But I can protect you. I will protect you.”

Your heart aches at the sincerity in his voice, but you know it’s not enough. You pull your hand back, wiping away a tear before it can fall. “What if something happens to you?” you ask, your voice cracking. “What if I lose you?”

Gun’s expression tightens, and he reaches for you again, his hands settling on your shoulders with surprising gentleness. “Nothing’s going to happen to me,” he says firmly, his voice steady, as if daring fate to contradict him. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He almost adds, “Not if it means leaving you,” but the words die in his throat.

“...I don’t want to leave,” you say, your voice hoarse, and it’s the truth. You don’t want to lose him. You don’t want to be without the man who’s somehow become the most important part of your life, the one who knows you better than anyone else. “But I don’t want to watch you destroy yourself either.” Your voice wavers, and you turn away as a sob escapes before you can choke it down.

Gun’s fingers gently tilt your chin back, his touch tender in a way that takes you by surprise. “Look at me,” he commands, his tone softer than you’ve ever heard. You meet his gaze, and for the first time, you see the raw fear in his eyes—the fear of losing you. “I’m not asking you to ignore the danger. I’m asking you to stay with me.”

Your chest tightens, and you shake your head as tears finally spill over. “I don’t know if I’m strong enough for this,” you admit, your voice barely audible.

Gun’s hands come up to cup your face, and this time, he doesn’t hesitate. His touch is achingly gentle, his thumb brushing away the tears that fall down your cheeks. “Then don’t watch,” he says, his voice teetering on desperation. “Let me be the one who takes the risks. I’ll handle it. I’ll handle everything if it means I can keep you by my side.” His voice is so soft, so uncharacteristically vulnerable.

“Isn’t that enough?” His eyes, usually so cold and distant, search yours, desperate for any sign that you might stay.

For a moment, all you can hear is the pounding of your own heartbeat, each thud echoing in your ears. The tears come faster now, and you let yourself lean into his touch, feeling the warmth of his palms against your skin. There’s a sadness in his gaze that cuts you to the core, but there’s also hope—a fragile, flickering flame that refuses to die.

Your hands tremble as you cling to the fabric of his shirt, your fingers curling into the material. “I love you,” you whisper, your voice breaking, “but I’m scared, Gun. I’m so scared.”

His arms wrap around you, pulling you against his chest. His hold is firm and unwavering, like he’s trying to shield you from the world itself. “Then be scared,” he whispers into your hair, his breath warm against your temple, “but don’t go.”

It's the first time you’ve ever heard him beg, and it shatters something inside you. You stay there, wrapped in the security of his embrace. He’s far from perfect, and so are you, but in this moment, you find a sort of peace—a hope that, maybe, love is enough.

Gun pulls back slightly, his hands still cradling your face as he stares at you with an intensity that steals your breath. “Stay,” he whispers, his voice rough and desperate. “I promise I won’t let anything happen to us.”

You don’t know what the future holds, or if his promise is one he can keep, but in this moment, as his thumb gently brushes your cheek, you find yourself nodding, your resolve crumbling in the face of the man you love. Gun exhales shakily, a soft, relieved sound, and pulls you closer, burying his face in the crook of your neck. For the first time in a long while, you feel like maybe—just maybe—everything will be okay.

[robinbuckleyluvr]

⊹˚˖⁺ our childhood is gone - steve harrington

masterlist | requests

pairing: steve harrington x platonic fem!reader

summary: reader and steve end tied up in the secret russian base, where the reader turns to anger and finally confronts steve after he threw out their friendship just for popularity.

warnings: none

notes: i love angst long live angst

word count: 864

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When she first walked into her new job and saw Steve Harrington, she could not believe it. How could Steve, the most entitled and pretentious guy at Hawkins, end up with a crappy job at an ice cream parlor?

A bit hypocritical to say, seeing as though she had the same job. 

They exchanged a polite ‘Hello’ that first day, but no words were spoken. There was no acknowledgement of their past, of their friendship they once cherished, ever since they were 9 years old. High school had completely turned Steve into a jerk, and she resented him for it. Him and his ‘friends’ would stare and laugh when she’d walk by, just like they did with anyone they deemed ‘uncool’.

What hurt most, was making eye contact with him.

She never once saw an apologetic look from him. Not then, not now, not ever.

Scoops was a dead-end too, as she pretended not to know him, and he did the same.

How they ended up in an underground Russian base, tied to chairs sitting back-to-back with each other, was a question neither could answer. They sat in silence, waiting and fearing whoever was due to come in the room to question them.

“So…” Steve began, attempting to light up the dreary mood.

“So what?” Y/N snapped. Not a single bone in her wanting to be kind to him.

“I just, you know… quite the situation we’re in here.”

“Cut the shit, Harrington. Don’t act like you want to make small talk with me right now.”

Steve sat quiet. They both did for a few minutes. Taking in the gravity of the situation they faced, and the uncomfortable silence that filled the room.

“You know,” Y/N laughed, sarcasm lacing her words, “You really are the same person you were back in high school. When I first saw you here… I cannot believe I really thought you’d changed. But of course, you didn’t. You’re still the same douchebag you used to be… pretending not to know me. You’re an ass.”

Steve was at a loss for words, “Oh, don’t act like you’re a saint,” He snapped, “You ignored me too. I guess you’re a douche too, then.”

“It takes one to know one. I wasn’t the one who went prancing around to the ‘cool’ kids as soon as we entered high school just because I wanted to be ‘someone’.”

“At least I was someone.”

“Harrington, I think you’ll be happy to know, making fun of people doesn’t make you ‘someone’. It just makes you an asshole.” She shot back.

“Oh, for crying out loud,” He muttered under his breath.

“You are fucking unbelievable.”

He rolled his eyes in response, “For the love of God, I’m sorry, okay?” 

“You don’t even know what to be sorry for, Harrington.” She hissed, “A half-assed apology won’t get you anywhere after the hell you made me go through these past 3 years. You know, when I first started high school, I foolishly thought ‘How cool! I have my awesome, cool, friend, Steve Harrington in the grade above me! What could go wrong?’”

Steve laughed, “You did not say that–”

“Of course not, asshole, I was being sarcastic.” She sighed, “I still did not think you and your fucking ‘friends’ would make it hell to walk through those halls. Never had a single day of peace. If you weren’t making fun of the books I carried, it was the way I walked. Or the way I wore my hair. How does doing that to so many people not haunt you, Steve?”

He stared at the floor. His expression dropping with each word she spoke, hurt and sarcasm never leaving her voice.

“Do you not regret it, Harrington?”

They both reflected on the words exchanged, the minutes dragging out before they spoke again. Their minds raced and dwelled in the hurt and regret filling the air.

“I do. I never thought it was going to go that way. I never thought…” He paused, “I never wanted to hurt anyone. But I sat with them on my first day. And suddenly I was part of it, I finally… belonged somewhere. I started playing basketball with them, and before I knew it, I was in too deep. I never planned to make fun of people in the halls, but when you stand there with them, careful not to laugh too loud and… they turn to you and wait for you to make a comment, you just do. ”

“Please,” She huffed, “You’re not getting any pity from me with that fuck-ass story. You threw away years of friendship to make fun of people and shoot balls up at the ceiling? Fuck you.”

“I’m sorry.” Steve responded quietly. “You’re right. I was a coward, an asshole, and a douche. Everything you said,” He sighed, “You are correct about it all. I hurt a lot of people, and I do wish I could un-do that damage. I wish I hadn’t thrown our friendship away either.”

“You were my best friend,” She spoke, her voice breaking, “I wanted to believe in the 9 year old Steve I once met. But you made me feel invisible.”

[redislazy]

Deadly Attachments, Chapter 05

<< Chapter 04

[EVENTUAL SMUT] - Minors DNI > ao3 <

Pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley x female!Reader

Word Count: 7,318

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Summary: As a skilled mercenary, you've navigated countless high-stakes missions—until one job puts you in the crosshairs of Task Force 141 and the elusive "Ghost." Now forced into an uneasy alliance, you’re drawn into a dangerous game of shifting loyalties and hidden motives. But as the stakes climb higher, one question lingers: how close can you get to the man who was meant to be a shadow in your path?

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Content Tags: Enemies to Lovers, Military Action & Romance, Mercenaries, Soldiers, Non-Canon Antagonists, Eventual Smut, Military Inaccuracies, Slow Burn, Will add smut-specific tags later as the story goes

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"Do you know who the leader of Aegis is?” Price asks, his voice low and direct.

You're seated with Task Force 141 in the main room of your makeshift base, the air thick with the smell of strong coffee and tactical gear. Maps and intel reports are strewn across the table, the faint rustling of papers filling the silence. Price leans forward, a serious glint in his eyes as he waits for your response.

You shake your head, feeling a pang of frustration resurface. “No one really does. The leader’s kept their identity hidden, even from most of their own people. Only a few high-ranking lackeys know anything, and they’re the ones who dish out orders to the mercs under them. It’s… compartmentalized.”

Price exhales sharply, leaning back in his chair as he considers this. “Figures. Bastard’s running a whole operation from the shadows.”

Soap’s brows knit together as he glances around at the team. “So what? We take down a few agents, and they just keep popping up like cockroaches. We’d be at this forever.”

Gaz nods in agreement. “The only way to cut them off for good is to go after the one running the show. Take out the leader, and Aegis would crumble from the top down.”

A heavy silence falls over the room as the reality of it sets in. Ghost’s eyes flicker toward you, his gaze unreadable. “You’re saying we need to hit the head of the snake,” he says, tone even but grim. “Find whoever’s pullin’ the strings and make sure they stop for good.”

You swallow, feeling the weight of their words. They make it sound simple, but the truth gnaws at you. Aegis’s leader is more than just a face or a name—they’re a shadow, always out of reach. Tracking them down would be like chasing smoke through the dark, nearly impossible. But it’s what you’ll have to do if you want the target on your back to disappear, if you ever want a chance at being a free, independent mercenary again.

You sigh quietly, thinking over the task ahead. “It won’t be easy. They’ve built their whole operation on staying hidden, letting others take the heat and make the moves.”

Price’s gaze softens, a rare moment of understanding. “We’re not saying it’ll be easy. But you’ve got an advantage the rest of us don’t—you’ve been inside their system, seen how they work. You might be our best chance at getting close enough to flush ‘em out.”

You nod slowly, feeling both the pressure and the strange, growing sense of resolve. This mission was more than personal survival now; it was a matter of closing a chapter that’d haunted you, taking down the very organization that once counted you as their own. It would be hard, maybe harder than anything you’d done—but the path ahead is clearer, and for the first time in a long while, you have a sense of purpose.

“So,” Price says, a determined look passing over him as he glances around at the team, “we go all in. Aegis’s leader is our endgame. Let’s find this threat hiding in the shadows.”

Gaz clears his throat, breaking the determined silence that’s settled over everyone. He leans forward, eyebrows knit together in a frown. “Alright, but where do we even begin with this?” He looks to Price, then over to you. “If she worked with Aegis for ten years and still doesn’t know who’s running the show… it’s like we’re chasing a ghost.”

Price crosses his arms, his gaze fixed on the wall for a moment as he thinks. “You’re right—it won’t be easy. But every organization, no matter how secretive, has a trail. It’s just a matter of finding the cracks, the weak spots in their setup.” He glances over to you, his expression firm but steady. “And you might know where to start looking.”

You shift uncomfortably, feeling the weight of their eyes on you. “They’ve always kept the hierarchy vague, even for those working in it for years. Only the most trusted agents deal directly with whoever’s at the top. Orders trickle down through a few of those loyal yes men, but they don’t leave much of a trail.”

Ghost’s voice cuts through, calm but edged with skepticism. “So we’re sifting through shadows. Fine. But if we know who their high-ranking lackeys are, maybe we can press them hard enough to get to the top.”

“Problem is,” you reply, feeling the familiar frustration at Aegis’s elusive nature, “even their lieutenants aren’t easy to track down. They’re careful, and most of them use proxies or intermediaries. Aegis is designed to protect the leader’s anonymity at all costs.”

Price nods, absorbing the information. “Then we take it one layer at a time. Start with any connections we can find. Places Aegis is active, recurring contacts, anything that can get us closer."

Gaz sighs, running a hand over his face. “Even with that, it could take months, years even, to get anything solid. And if they know she’s working with us against them, they’ll close ranks tighter than ever.”

You clench your jaw, knowing he’s right. Aegis’s leader wasn’t just running an organization—they’d crafted a fortress of secrecy, one that you never even questioned back when you were part of it. The odds feel almost impossible. Yet, a part of you feels a strange, stubborn determination settling in.

“If we want to dismantle Aegis for good,” you say slowly, meeting each of their eyes, “we’ll have to be as relentless as they are. I know it’s hard to track them down, and I know it seems hopeless. But if there’s one thing I learned in all those years, it’s that they get comfortable in their own secrecy. And that… that’s where we’ll find them. Somewhere they think we’ll never look.”

Soap grins slightly, trying to lighten the mood. “So what you’re saying is, we go on the world’s hardest game of hide and seek?”

Ghost rolls his eyes, but there’s a spark of agreement there. “Something like that,” he mutters. Then, to you, he adds, “Just don’t think you’re going at this alone.”

You nod, taking a steadying breath. For the first time, you have allies—ones willing to dig as deep as it takes to uncover Aegis’s secrets. You’d spent a year running from them, dreading the target on your back. Now, with Task Force 141, it’s different. Now, you’re not just trying to escape—you’re going to hunt them down, piece by piece, until there’s nowhere left for their leader to hide.

Captain Price looks around at each of you, a steady resolve in his gaze. “We may be staring at a pile of scrambled intel right now, but HQ’s got the resources and expertise to make sense of that damned hard drive. Once they break through these files, we’ll have a clearer picture of what Aegis is planning and where they’re vulnerable. This hard drive’s our way in, so we sit tight, let them do their part, and be ready to move the second we have actionable intel. We’ve got the edge now, so let’s use it.”

A quiet determination settles over the team, and you feel a renewed sense of purpose, knowing the next step is coming into focus.

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A week after the intense mission in Istanbul, everyone gathers in the briefing room, pouring over the latest intel reports the team itself has gathered while waiting for HQ's findings. The progress is disappointing—Aegis has gone quiet. Their network seems to have retracted, pulling resources and high-ranking members out of sight. It’s almost as if their encounter with Task Force 141 spooked them into hunkering down.

Price studies the map in front of him, a frown etched deeply into his face. “Looks like Aegis is trying to play it safe. They’ve pulled back any valuable assets. Istanbul’s gone cold.”

Soap leans back in his chair, letting out a low whistle. “Almost like they’re on to us, yeah? As if they know we’re here sniffin’ around.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Ghost says, crossing his arms. “They’ve always been good at keeping just out of reach.”

Price nods slowly, looking at each of you in turn. “This isn’t getting us anywhere. We’ve scoured every lead we had in Istanbul, but if Aegis is keeping low, we’re just spinning our wheels here.”

“So we pull out?” Gaz asks, sounding a little reluctant.

Price’s jaw tightens before he lets out a resigned sigh. “Aye. We regroup back at the main HQ, review the intel, and see what we can dig up once we’re back on our own turf. If Aegis resurfaces, we’ll be ready.”

You feel a mix of relief and frustration. On one hand, the thought of leaving Istanbul without a clear victory is disheartening; on the other, the relentless days and nights have worn you thin. You catch Ghost watching you from the corner of his eye, and you know he hasn’t forgotten your exhausted misstep on the last mission. Maybe pulling back isn’t the worst idea.

Price stands, dismissing the team. “Pack it up. We're flying in two hours.”

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Back on British soil, the familiar surroundings of the main base bring a strange sense of comfort. The hallways are quieter than the bustling streets of Istanbul, and the air feels less charged with tension. Still, the unresolved mystery of Aegis hangs over you all like a dark cloud.

You spend most of your first day back debriefing and sifting through what intel you gathered in Istanbul. While the team disperses to their respective quarters that evening, Price calls you into a conference room where Ghost is already waiting.

“We’re going to regroup, assess what we’ve got,” Price begins, looking between the two of you. “But while we’re back here, I want you both digging into anything that could link to Aegis. Old contacts, forgotten leads, even whispers you’ve heard from your past. We can’t let them slip through our fingers just because they’ve gone quiet.”

Ghost nods, his gaze focused and unreadable as ever. You feel his presence beside you, a constant reminder of the grudging partnership you’re both locked into. He’s quiet as Price outlines the plan, but you can sense the intensity beneath his stoic exterior.

When Price finally dismisses you, Ghost falls into step beside you in the hallway.

“You know what this means,” he says, his voice low and measured.

You glance up at him, raising an eyebrow. “What?”

“No more running on empty.” His tone is pointed, and you feel the weight of his earlier frustration still lingering in his words. “If we’re going after Aegis, I need you sharp, not half-dead from a lack of sleep.”

You open your mouth to argue, but his stare holds steady, and for once, you’re out of comebacks. Maybe he’s right. Istanbul was close, too close. If you’re going to face down Aegis, you need to be ready, fully prepared.

With a resigned sigh, you nod. “Fine. I’ll be ready.”

Ghost’s eyes linger on you for a beat longer than necessary, as if assessing whether you’re being sincere. He gives a curt nod, satisfied. “Good. Then let’s get to work.”

The hunt isn’t over yet—far from it. But with Task Force 141 at your side, and your resolve steeled, you feel a strange flicker of confidence. Aegis can try to hide, but they can’t run forever.

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When you’re shown to your quarters, a small, amused smile tugs at your lips. It’s the same room you were kept in last year, back when Kozlov’s case threw you headfirst into the chaos of the SAS and Task Force 141. Back then, this room had been a cage, a place where they held you in custody as both a suspect and a temporary asset, neither trusting you nor willing to let you walk away.

But now, stepping inside, the feeling is… different. It’s strange how much can change in a year. You’re still an outsider, technically speaking—still a mercenary with your own agenda and your own grudges to bear. But here, under the weight of the memories of that tense alliance with the SAS, you feel the difference. You’re no longer here out of necessity or suspicion. You’re here because you’re needed, a part of something that, in its own way, feels like it might actually have your back.

You drop your bag on the bed and scan the room, a flood of memories filling the empty space. The walls feel less confining now, less like they’re pressing in to remind you of every questionable choice that brought you here. There’s a strange warmth in knowing you’re trusted enough to roam freely this time, not a captive but an ally.

Leaning against the doorframe, you let out a quiet laugh. If someone had told you a year ago that you’d be willingly working with Task Force 141 again—especially Ghost, of all people—you’d have called them insane. But here you are, and even though the threat of Aegis looms just as dark and dangerous as before, you feel a sense of resolve settling in your bones. For the first time, the title “ally” doesn’t feel like a chain; it feels like a choice.

With that, you toss yourself onto the bed, letting yourself sink into the familiarity of it, not as an outsider or a prisoner but as someone who has fought with them, earned her place beside them—even if, at times, it feels like you’ve only just managed to keep up.

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Days slip by in a steady rhythm, quiet and uneventful—a rare stretch of calm that you hadn’t anticipated but can’t help appreciating. There’s no immediate mission, no dire orders waiting in the wings. You almost don’t know what to do with yourself without the constant pressure of survival and strategy weighing on your shoulders.

It’s a welcome change, really. For once, you have time to simply exist in one place without fear of attack or the ever-present anxiety that Aegis might be around the corner. Here, in the heart of the SAS base, you know they won’t get to you. Not with the layers of security, the trained eyes watching every corner, and the presence of Task Force 141 keeping things in check. You hadn’t realized just how exhausting it was to live with that constant threat on your back—how much it had worn you down until now, when you could finally breathe a little easier.

And the days of rest are doing their work. The wound on your shoulder, a stinging reminder of that reckless call during the last mission, is healing steadily. At first, the pain had flared up with every movement, a sharp reminder of the risk you’d taken for Ghost. Now, though, the ache is dulling, settling into a faint throb that only bothers you when you forget it’s there. You’ve been able to patch it up, tend to it properly, and let your body rest—something you haven’t allowed yourself in far too long.

In a way, it’s ironic that the safest you’ve felt in years is here, surrounded by soldiers who were once ready to interrogate you, in a base that was once meant to hold you captive. Yet, with each day that passes, you feel yourself easing into this strange routine, letting down your guard little by little. The thought of Aegis creeping closer doesn’t linger as it once did; for now, you know you’re out of their reach. As long as you’re here, protected and hidden within these walls, they can’t touch you.

Every so often, you catch yourself almost… enjoying it, this sense of quiet security. It’s unfamiliar, this feeling of not having to look over your shoulder or map out an escape plan. For once, you can simply heal, both in body and mind, without the shadow of Aegis looming close. And as strange as it feels, you allow yourself to embrace it, even if it’s only for a little while.

You’re making your way through the base, aimlessly wandering to pass the time, when the low thud of weights and the soft hum of grunts from the training area catches your attention. Curiosity gets the better of you, and you follow the sounds, your steps quieter as you approach.

And there, across the room, is Ghost—his focus entirely on the barbell in front of him as he lifts it with practiced strength. He’s shirtless, a rarity you’ve never quite had the opportunity to witness, and for a second, you’re almost stunned into place. The soft sheen of sweat glistens on his skin, tracing the defined lines of his muscles as he moves, each lift accentuating the raw strength in his arms, chest, and shoulders. He’s a fortress of a man, each muscle honed and cut, but it’s not just the sheer size of him—it’s the quiet, unwavering power in the way he works, every motion controlled, almost methodical.

Your gaze trails from his shoulders down to the faint scars that mar his skin, stories etched into his body that you know only hint at what he’s seen. His biceps flex with each lift, veins standing out against his forearms, and you can’t help but let your eyes linger. There’s a pull to him, this silent allure that makes it hard to look away. You’re drawn in by the way he moves, powerful yet careful, as though he’s attuned to every shift in his muscles, every beat of his own strength.

And the mask—he’s still wearing it, a reminder that even here, stripped of nearly everything else, he still keeps part of himself hidden. There’s something strangely endearing about it, almost funny in a way, that he’s still clinging to this one piece of armor. But it adds to the enigma of him, this contrast of being both revealed and guarded, and the sight makes your stomach flutter in a way you hadn’t anticipated.

Your eyes wander over the expanse of his shoulders, tracing the lines of his tattoos that weave across his skin. They’re intricate, dark swirls of ink that curl over his biceps and up along his forearms, striking against his skin in a way that only adds to his mystique. You can’t help but feel a sense of awe at how the designs accentuate the muscle beneath, each tattoo seeming to carry its own story—a past he never talks about but is forever etched into him.

The ink follows the contours of his arms, slipping beneath the mask of sweat and shadow as he moves, and you realize how each mark, each line, only amplifies that unapproachable air he carries. The tattoos make him look even more dangerous, more untamed, yet there’s an undeniable allure to them, a kind of dark art that keeps you captivated. You’re struck by how fitting they seem on him, how seamlessly they blend with the person he is—enigmatic, guarded, and quietly powerful.

As he lowers the barbell and finally catches sight of you, you feel yourself snap back to reality, heat rising in your cheeks when you realize just how openly you were staring. He tilts his head slightly, and you catch the faint glimmer of amusement in his eyes, half hidden behind the shadows of his mask.

“Somethin’ interestin’?” he asks, his tone low but edged with a challenge.

Your heart skips a beat, but you somehow manage to keep your cool, shrugging as casually as you can. “Just admiring the…artwork,” you reply, unable to stop the hint of a grin from tugging at your lips.

He huffs softly, grabbing a towel and running it over his arms, brushing over those very tattoos you were just admiring. “Didn’t peg you for a fan,” he mutters, but there’s a spark in his eyes, as if he finds it amusing that you’re drawn in by something so personal to him.

You feel a flicker of nerves as you meet his gaze, aware of the way he’s watching you now, the barest suggestion of a smirk pulling at his lips. It’s like he knows exactly the effect he’s having on you, and there’s something undeniably thrilling about it.

Caught off guard by your own thoughts, you can’t help but let out a soft chuckle under your breath at the absurdity of it. Here you are, shamelessly ogling the one person who’s probably lectured you the hardest about staying sharp. And yet, there’s something about seeing him like this, so intensely alive and real, that makes it hard to think about anything else.

You raise an eyebrow, recovering just enough to give a smirk. “Didn’t mean to intrude.”

“Always do,” he replies, a faint challenge in his eyes. He grabs a towel, running it over his arms and chest before casually throwing it around his shoulders. His gaze stays on you, unreadable, and you feel a pang of nerves twist in your stomach.

“Well, I’d hate to disturb your… intense routine,” you manage, trying for a light tone even as your pulse quickens.

He only grunts, but there’s a slight twitch in the corner of his mouth that suggests a smile. “Could use a spotter next time,” he says, deadpan, though his eyes hold a hint of mischief.

It’s a simple moment, laced with more tension than you’d expected, but there’s something unmistakable in the way he looks at you—something that leaves your heart thudding a bit faster as you return his gaze.

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Later in the day, you and Ghost are in the operations room, pouring over files and databases, the air thick with tension. Hours have passed, and the list of potential Aegis operatives and higher-ups sprawls across the screen. You’re deep in focus, building a list of names when Ghost leans over your shoulder, his usual presence looming a little closer than necessary.

“Gonna check the background on each name?” he remarks, voice laced with skepticism. “Doesn’t do us much good if they’re not active in the field anymore.”

You close your eyes for a moment, suppressing the urge to sigh. “Yes, Ghost, I know what I’m doing. This is just a preliminary list. I’ll get to backgrounds in a second.”

“Preliminary doesn’t mean sloppy,” he mutters, and you swear he’s leaning even closer. “Miss one detail, and we’re back at square one. We can’t afford any mistakes.”

You turn to glare at him, trying to ignore how close he is. “I’m not being sloppy. I’m gathering leads. You could always give me five minutes to breathe without hovering.”

He raises an eyebrow, crossing his arms with that infuriatingly stoic expression. “Not hovering. Just making sure we don’t waste time on mistakes. Aegis doesn’t let anything slip, so neither should we.”

“Oh, I get it.” You sit back, crossing your arms with a smirk. “You’re just this nitpicky with everyone, yeah?”

Ghost’s gaze narrows. “If you’re looking for me to tell you ‘good job’ for half-finished work, you’re gonna be disappointed.”

You roll your eyes, leaning in with a playful, challenging grin. “You know, you’re awfully invested in how I do my job. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were just trying to spend more time with me.”

For a second, he looks taken aback—just for a split second before he schools his expression. “If that’s what you need to tell yourself to focus, go right ahead.” He steps back, but his eyes are still fixed on you with that intense, unyielding look. “This isn’t about me, it’s about doing it right.”

You let out a small laugh, tilting your head at him. “Uh-huh. So you’re hovering because you don’t want to spend time with me. Got it. This is about quality control, not about you caring so much about what I’m doing that you can’t stay away. Makes sense.”

He doesn’t reply at first, just lets out a low, exasperated sigh, but you catch the hint of a smirk tugging at the edge of his mask. “Believe what you want, but if you screw this up, I’m not pulling you out of the mess.”

“Because you’d just hate to see me fail, wouldn’t you?” you tease, leaning back in your chair with a challenging grin.

“Failing’s not your issue,” he replies, his tone smooth. “Getting distracted is.”

“Oh, really?” You mirror his expression with a raised brow. “Last time I checked, you’re the one causing the distraction.”

Ghost huffs, crossing his arms, and his gaze is unwavering. “If you spent as much time working as you do trying to rile me up, you might actually get something done.”

“Maybe I just work best under pressure,” you reply, shrugging with mock innocence.

“Then consider this a performance review.” He pauses, his voice softer but still with an edge. “For the record, I’ll be watching.”

You chuckle, rolling your eyes but feeling the lingering warmth of his gaze. For all the back-and-forth, the tension between you doesn’t feel quite as sharp. It’s there, but lighter, laced with something almost fun, a reminder that even amidst the mission, you’re not just rivals but two people with a shared drive.

Just as the tension between you and Ghost reaches a lull, Soap bursts into the room, a mischievous glint in his eye.

“Oi, lovebirds, wrap it up!” he announces, leaning against the doorframe with a smirk. “We’re headin’ out tonight. Pub in town. Price gave the go-ahead, so consider it an order to blow off some steam.”

You blink in surprise, barely processing Soap’s words before he adds, “Come on, we’re all going—no excuses.”

“Pub night, huh?” Ghost’s voice has a rare note of interest, and he actually seems…enthusiastic? His gaze flickers to you, the edge in his expression softening. “Been a while since we had a proper night out.”

You raise an eyebrow, trying to picture him in a more casual setting. “Didn’t peg you for someone who’d enjoy a pub crawl, Ghost.”

He shrugs, crossing his arms. “I don’t mind a pint every now and then. Especially after dealing with you.”

A smirk tugs at your lips. “Well, the feeling’s mutual,” you retort, but there’s a warmth to it. Maybe it’s the idea of seeing a different side of him outside the usual grind.

Soap grins, nodding approvingly. “That’s what I like to hear. Now go on—get yourselves outta those uniforms and into something halfway decent. We’re out the door in an hour.”

As he leaves, you catch a flicker of amusement in Ghost’s eyes. “Guess we better not keep them waiting,” he says, his tone almost teasing.

You tilt your head, still a bit surprised by his openness to the idea. “Guess I’ll have to see what ‘relaxed Ghost’ looks like.”

He chuckles, a low, rumbling sound. “Don’t get your hopes up. But maybe you’ll see me a bit more…human.”

It’s a surprising statement from him, one that lingers as he gives you a nod and heads off to get ready, leaving you with a sense of anticipation you hadn’t expected.

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The pub is warm and bustling, a far cry from the quiet and regimented SAS base. The dim lights, hum of chatter, and scent of wood polish mixed with spilled beer create an atmosphere of easygoing revelry. You’re seated with the team at a table near the corner, where Ghost and Price lean back in their seats, both relaxed yet observant. You glance at Ghost, surprised by how much more at ease he seems here. There’s still an edge to him, but he doesn’t look like he’s on guard in the same way.

Soap, on the other hand, has made it his mission to kick off the evening with as many pints as he can get his hands on. He slams his drink down on the table, letting out a dramatic sigh. “Right, here’s a thought for you lot,” he says, his Scottish accent thickening with each drink. “If a merc like you could get Ghost to crack a smile, that’d be somethin’ of a miracle.”

Gaz raises an eyebrow, grinning. “I’d say we’ve got better odds of winning the lottery.”

You smirk, nudging Soap’s shoulder. “Please, I think I’ve done that already. He’s just hiding it under that mask of his.”

Ghost narrows his eyes, though there’s a hint of intrigue. “Careful what you wish for. Smiling from me might send you running.”

Soap grins mischievously, leaning in as if he’s about to share a grand secret. “You know, mate, I reckon you’d look downright charming if you let loose a little. Flash those pearly whites, give the ladies a thrill.”

Ghost shakes his head, deadpan. “The day I take advice on charm from you, Johnny, is the day hell freezes over.”

Price chuckles, raising his glass. “Don’t think there’s anyone here who’d survive if Ghost suddenly turned on the charm.”

Soap raises his glass in agreement, a wicked glint in his eye as he points it at you. “Oi, what about our resident mercenary? Bet you’ve got a right bloody wild side we haven’t seen yet, eh? All that time sneakin’ around with Aegis—you must have some stories.”

You roll your eyes, pretending to think. “Wouldn’t you like to know?"

Gaz smirks, chiming in. “What, afraid to tell us? Must be some top-secret stuff. C’mon, give us a little taste.”

You shrug with a mischievous smile. “Only if Ghost spills his secrets first.”

All eyes turn to Ghost, who gives the barest shake of his head, clearly unimpressed. “Secrets? You lot wouldn’t last a minute with half of ‘em.”

Soap snorts. “Oh, big man’s too mysterious for us, is he?”

Ghost glances over, voice low but steady. “If you’re keen to learn, there’s plenty I could teach. But somehow I don’t think you’ve got the spine for it, Johnny.”

The table erupts into laughter, and Soap throws his hands up in mock surrender. “Easy, Ghost! I’ll pass on the torture sessions, thanks.”

Grinning, you look over at Ghost, raising an eyebrow. “I don’t know, Ghost. You think he could handle it?”

Ghost meets your gaze with that intense stare, and there’s the faintest flicker of mirth behind it. “Not a chance.”

Price chuckles, taking a sip of his drink. “Here’s what I’m curious about,” he says, looking at you. “You keep trading barbs with Ghost like it’s second nature. Takes a special kind of person to keep up with him.”

You tilt your head, a playful glint in your eye. “What can I say? I like a challenge.”

Soap cackles, slapping the table. “Oh-ho! Listen to that, Ghost. She’s got your number.”

“Is that right?” Ghost replies, his tone dry.

You lean in, unphased. “You can try and intimidate me all you want, but I’m still here, aren’t I?”

Ghost looks at you, one corner of his mouth tugging up in the faintest hint of a smirk. “For now.”

Gaz laughs, clapping a hand on your shoulder. “See, I knew it! We’ve got ourselves a real daredevil here.”

“Right,” Soap says, raising his glass high. “Here’s to this mad lot—ain’t a soul here with sense, and thank God for it.”

Everyone raises their glasses, and even Ghost gives a small nod of approval as he lifts his drink. You clink glasses, the laughter and ribbing reminding you that, somehow, you’ve found a place among this group of misfits.

As the night goes on, the drinks flow and the banter gets bolder. At one point, you lean back with a mischievous glint in your eye, glancing over at Ghost. “Alright, I’ve got a question for you. Be honest—is Ghost really your name? Or is it just to keep everyone guessing?”

There’s a pause as the whole table goes quiet. Soap nearly chokes on his drink, barely containing his laughter as he looks between you and Ghost. “Oh, aye, that’s a good one!” he says, slapping the table. “Imagine his ma callin’ him Ghost. ‘Time for supper, Ghostie boy!’”

Gaz bites back a grin, chiming in. “That's sounds a little bit too accurate, no?"

Price chuckles but keeps his face straight. “You’re barking up the wrong tree there,” he says in a low, amused tone, glancing knowingly at Ghost.

Ghost just stares back at you, his expression as closed-off as ever, though you could swear you see the faintest flicker of amusement in his eyes. “You’re asking all the wrong questions,” he replies coolly. “Keep dreaming, though. Might even let you think you’re getting close.”

You roll your eyes, leaning back in your seat with a half-smile. “Fine, keep your mystery,” you say, as if you’re letting him win the round. “But one day, I’ll get it out of you.”

The table erupts in laughter, and Soap shakes his head, giving you a sympathetic pat on the shoulder. “Good luck, lass. Took me years to even learn his favorite color.”

You laugh along with the others, but as the night settles, it hits you: they know things about Ghost that you’re nowhere close to finding out. If you want to be someone he trusts, someone he’d share even the smallest parts of himself with, it’s going to be a long journey.

But, sitting here with the team, sharing laughs and drinks, you think maybe, just maybe, that’s a road you’re willing to travel.

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The walk back to base is quiet, the night air crisp and cool after the warmth of the pub. The team trails off one by one to their respective quarters, with Ghost hanging back to make sure you make it to yours. You’re a bit buzzed, not quite unsteady, but everything’s a touch softer at the edges, and you can’t help but notice how large his presence feels next to you as he walks silently, hands in his pockets.

When you finally stop at your door, you fumble a little with your keycard, squinting as you try to slide it into the card reader. You can feel Ghost watching, arms crossed, probably waiting for you to admit defeat and hand him the keycard, but you’re determined to manage it on your own.

Of course, in your tipsy state, your balance betrays you. You stumble, and before you even realize it, Ghost’s hands are on your shoulders, steadying you as you fall back against him. His touch is firm and unyielding, but there’s something… soft in the way he keeps you close, ensuring you don’t lose your footing completely. You blink, surprised by the solidness of him, and he doesn’t step away immediately. His expression is unreadable, eyes shadowed beneath his mask, but his hands don’t move from your shoulders.

Without thinking, you tilt your head back, squinting up at him. “Oh, look at you, all grumpy as usual.”

“Grumpy, huh?” he replies, one brow arched beneath the mask, his tone teasing but laced with something else.

“Yeah, always brooding, always scowling. What’s your deal?” You poke lightly at his mask, as if you were trying to pry something out of him. “You’re always hiding something, aren’t you?”

His hand moves to your face, cupping your cheek gently, his thumb brushing lightly over your skin. His gaze drops to your eyes, studying you more intently now, like he’s taking in how badly you’re buzzed, how off-kilter your thoughts are. His fingers linger there for a moment longer than you expect, his touch gentle yet possessive. For a heartbeat, it feels like the world has shrunk to just the two of you, his presence overwhelming and solid, his mask hiding everything but the emotion in his eyes. It’s an unspoken understanding, but it also feels like something more.

You don’t pull away. Instead, your eyes stay fixed on his, and the alcohol loosens your tongue even further. “Why do you always look so grumpy?” you murmur, half-joking. “You really think you’re that scary, huh?”

He chuckles, low and rough, breaking the tension. “Maybe it’s just how I look,” he answers, but there’s an amused gleam in his eyes now, something different from earlier.

You shake your head, not letting him off the hook so easily. “No, you look like you’re hiding something. But you don’t need to, you know?”

There’s another long pause between you, his thumb still brushing against your cheek, and the closeness has your breath catching in your chest. You can’t quite place what it is, but something shifts in the air, something that makes your heart race faster.

Leaning in just a little, you murmur, “You know… you’re actually really handsome, Ghost.”

His eyes widen just the slightest bit, the expression behind his mask shifting into something unreadable, but it doesn’t stop him from holding you there, his hand still cupping your face. “Is that so?” he murmurs, voice deeper now, amused and almost… pleased?

“Yeah, you’ve got that whole mysterious, dark vibe going for you,” you say, your gaze drifting down to his chest as you sway slightly on your feet. “Don’t let it go to your head, though,” you add with a half-smile, trying to lighten the moment, “but it’s true.”

There aren’t many moments you’ve seen Ghost without his mask—just enough for you to count with your fingers. Mostly, it’s been during meals, those rare occasions when he’s forced to shed the barrier between him and the world. You can’t help but notice each time he does; how could you not?

The first time you saw him without the mask, you felt a jolt of surprise. His face was striking in ways that you hadn’t expected—strong, sharp features that seemed carved from stone. His jawline was all hard angles, his eyes intense and deeper than they seemed when half-shaded by the mask. But what drew your gaze more than anything was the scar on his left cheek, a thin, pale line running down just shy of his jaw. It looked like a relic from some old battle, faded but unmissable, giving his face a harsher, almost haunted edge.

And yet, that scar softened something too. It hinted at a history, at moments he’s endured that you could only guess at. You’ve never asked him about it—he’d probably shut down if you tried—but each time you’ve seen his face, you’ve memorized it just a little more. His gaze always flickers away when he catches you looking, but you can’t help noticing the smallest details: the faint crease between his brows when he’s deep in thought, the way his mouth barely tilts when someone cracks a joke he finds halfway amusing. He always brings the mask back up quickly, as if remembering the distance he needs to maintain.

Each time he lifts that mask, you feel as if you’re glimpsing something guarded, something that only a rare few have ever seen. And even though he never lets you linger on it for long, the memory of his face—scar, guarded eyes, the subtle but undeniable humanity there—lingers with you.

His fingers tighten just a fraction, his grip still gentle but more assertive now, like he’s grounding you in this moment. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he replies, the playful edge to his voice now tinged with something else. Something closer to appreciation, or maybe… curiosity?

Before you can say anything else, his thumb drifts slowly, tracing the line of your cheekbone, then gliding downward until it rests just at the corner of your mouth. You feel the warmth of his skin through the fabric of the glove, so close you can almost imagine his bare touch, imagine the weight and warmth without the barrier.

He studies you with an intensity that makes your pulse race, his gaze drifting from your eyes to where his thumb hovers over your lips. His gloved hand is careful but certain, as if he's savoring each detail. Slowly, his thumb meets your bottom lip, light enough to make you shiver, but there’s a sense of restraint in the gesture, like he’s letting himself test boundaries. He brushes along the edge of your bottom lip in a slow, careful sweep, almost as if he’s mapping it out, savoring the softness beneath his touch. He’s close enough that you can see the way his gaze darkens, focused entirely on you, on the way his thumb drags so gently across your lip. Each pass is deliberate, his touch achingly slow, as if he’s caught somewhere between curiosity and something deeper—something he won’t admit, not out loud.

His fingers trace down your jaw, but his thumb stays at your mouth, brushing with a gentleness that makes your heart pound, your breath catching just slightly at each delicate movement. You feel his eyes watching the way your lips part under his touch, as though he’s fascinated, as if each soft curve and line of your mouth is something he’s committing to memory.

The air between you is thick with the weight of things unspoken, a tension you can’t ignore. His touch remains tender but holds a barely restrained intensity, his thumb finally pausing at the center of your lip, resting there like he’s weighing his next move. His gaze is fixed there, as if you’re some intriguing mystery he can’t help but explore. You stand frozen, unable to process the moment. Nobody has ever touched you like this, like you’re an enigma trying to be deciphered. Nobody ever bothered to.

You close your eyes, accepting the strange intimacy of his touch. Your heart beats fast, your hands almost clammy, but you don’t want to pull away. Almost instinctively, you let your lips press softly against his thumb, giving it a light, chaste peck.

You slowly open your eyes, searching his face for a reaction. Did that small gesture bother him? Make him angry? Maybe you went too far. But the moment your gaze locks with his, your doubts crumble. His eyes are dark, intense, almost... possessive. Longing. This isn’t the Ghost you know—the one who watches you with cold, calculating eyes, ready to nitpick your every move, sometimes even with a hint of regret, as if he thinks bringing you back here was a mistake.

Right now, he’s looking at you differently. He’s looking at you like you’re somebody. Like you mean something. Like you’re not just a piece on this chessboard that everyone else is playing.

He’s seeing you.

And it terrifies you.

As if snapping yourself from a dream, you take a quick step back, chuckling awkwardly to break the tension. “Remind me never to drink with you lot again.”

Ghost seems to snap back to reality at the same moment you do, but there’s a flicker of frustration in his eyes, a strain in how his jaw clenches. He doesn’t say anything, and neither do you. Instead, you take a slow breath, grounding yourself as best you can, then slide the keycard through the reader with a soft beep.

Before you step inside, you glance over your shoulder at him, catching that dark, unreadable look he wears all too well. “Thanks… for walking me to my room,” you murmur, trying to sound casual, like nothing strange just happened.

He nods, barely a movement, but there’s something in his silence that feels heavier than usual, as if he’s holding something back. He lingers for a split second before turning, walking back down the hallway, his steps fading into the distance.

Once the door shuts behind you, you let out a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding. You lean back against the door, then slowly sink down to the floor, pulling your knees up and resting your forehead against them. Your face is practically burning. Just a few simple touches, a look, and yet here you are, feeling like everything you thought you knew has shifted. It’s hard to explain what exactly happened, even to yourself. But whatever it was, it’s left your heart pounding and your mind spinning with thoughts you can’t quite put into words.

A soft, bewildered smile plays on your lips as you sit there, alone in the quiet, feeling both terrified and somehow… happy.

[quarterlifekitty]

Midsommar!AU

cw: Midsommar spoilers, dark romance/obsession, Cult! König, implied death/murder, indoctrination, author’s König’s thinly veiled breeding kink

König has dreamed of you since he met you. A beautiful, perfect girl. He can already see the flowers woven through your hair as you dance in the sun, linen hugging your waist. A perfect May queen.

There’s the matter of your boyfriend. He wants to leave you behind, the bastard. Probably thinks he can get his fill of local women— he’s been dying to break up with you anyways. Ungrateful prick. If König had a woman like you… you’d be cherished. Never want for anything. So caring and sweet— you’re wasted on that boyfriend of yours. His family would love you. Appreciate you. Take you as one of their own.

If they didn’t, König would die in a fire like his parents did. But his intuition hasn’t led him astray yet. He just has to take the appropriate measures to make sure that you’ll come along…. And that there won’t be anything left to bring you back from his sunlit valley. When he’s done, you won’t even remember what life was like before.

He has to hold himself back quite a lot when he’s with you. From holding you. Comforting you the way the man he lives with— the one who has fucked you and yet spurns your embrace— has never done. He has to stop himself from going after you when he cry as he needles you, subtly, sympathetically, about your loss. The seed is planted.

When you arrive at the valley, the time blows by like blades of grass carried by wind. One event flows into the next. Your doubts festering as König takes every opportunity to hold you, to give you everything you’ve been denied while he leads you along. Until you know exactly where your happy ending will be, and exactly who is in the way of it coming true. Later, he will great pleasure in being the one to knock your boyfriend down and paralyze him.

For now, you are crowned. His may queen. You’re the one that makes the flowers come alive. He knows no greater happiness than what he feels seeing you in the garb of his home, pulled about and giggling by the other young women as they dress and decorate you, as they sing with you, and make you one of them. A soft, pretty, unburdened thing. Fit to be held, to be wed, to indulge. You appear even more weightless than you had in his dreams. He feels every pulse and tingle of blood beneath your skin as he holds you by your cheeks and kisses you as if he’s always known you, as if he’s just been waiting all of his life for the chance.

He’s awarded his own laurel for his unclouded intuition. Not nearly as bright and beautiful as yours, but he’s quite happy for you to be the sun. König is the flower that cannot help but bend towards your rays. When the festival is complete, he will ask the matriarch for her blessing. That is— assuming that she doesn’t match you together before then. The sooner you’re coupled to him, the sooner the two of you can go about making a spring baby, very auspicious.

And as the flames dance in your eyes, the screams echoing around you, the sweet smell of fresh and yew and hay filling the air, you smile. Unburdened. In that moment König knows that his life has all lead to you, to bringing you home.

[girlishwhimsies]

OMG YES YOU GET NATIVE JOHNNY!!!!!!! its the disconnect from his culture, never feeling like he belongs anywhere, knowing little to nothing about his family and past... YOU GET IT i would love to hear more of ur thoughts omg

THANK YOU FOR GETTING IT I THINK ABOUT IT EVERY DAY!!!!!

the disconnect from his cultureeeeeeeee sighhhhhhh. no cause like. besides the fact he doesn’t have any connection to it since no one taught him about it, the only person who could have taught him about it would have been his dad, and his dad hates his guts and he ain’t a huge fan of the guy either so he has so many conflicting feelings about his culture since in his mind it’s so connected to his dad. it’s one more thing that makes him like his dad and he hates that, almost making him grateful for the distance sometimes.

but also he wants to know about his culture and family so bad. like where are they from, why aren’t they visiting, what knowledge do they have, what history is running through his veins? he doesn’t get these answers and he knows he won’t. the only thing he has is a tiny bracelet his auntie gave him that he barely remembers getting. she never visit again and he doesn’t get to ask her any of the questions he was too young to have back then

stuck in an in between place where he doesn’t think himself native enough to truly claim that but he doesn’t have anything else to be. messing with his bracelet trying to decipher something from it but he can’t.

this isn’t even mentioning how he would be treated in tulsa due to his background. haliwa-saponi johnny you’ll always be famous to me

[colourstreakgryffin]

Are your requests open? If so, can you write for yandere Qin Shi Huang with an S/O who's very rebellious and lazy? It's okay if you don't want to 😭 I barely see any Qin Shi Huang fic here.

My requests are definitely open, just slowly getting through everything! But anyway. Yes, I absolutely can since I like Qin too. He’s actually quite the good boy AND he’s hot so golden. We’re an emperor/empress! Damn, I’m jealous!

Qin Shi Huang- My Deadweight

Qin Shi has expectations of you. Just because you’re the new powerful and influential emperor [/] empress of China via your unwanted marriage to him, doesn’t mean that you get to be so… immature and vile in front of his people and in front of Valhalla itself. He is aware that you’re not much of a fan of him but he’s giving you a luxurious life millions dream of without asking for so much from you

Is giving your love and loyalty and passion to him, in exchange for all this, so hard for you? He has learnt that it is clearly is…

He’s displeased, watching sharply and disgusted from behind his white mahogany red-centipede detailed blindfold as you relax on you and his velvety expensive bed whilst shooing off all the palace’s servants to give you privacy… he suspected better from you. Why are you behaving so childish?

Qin Shi genuinely believes that living like a powerful royalty of one of the World’s most mighty countries has gotten to your head and you believe you’re above everything, even the responsibilities and requirements you have as his Emperor [/] Empress. You’re stubbornly disregarding them all to laze around and rest about like a sloth…

The Chinese emperor is outraged you’re daring to behave like this. He spent so much time and resources into kidnapping you, obsessing over you, moving you from your designated living quarters built into the Valhalla to his magnificent palace, to marry you to him and fulfil his intense love for you. Become his and make you his permanently, even through this death battle tournament and here you are, dismissing it all for your own comfort

He won’t let this slide at all. He may love you deeply but he loves you more when you’re not being a disrespectful slacker… and he wants that person back. He’ll get you back, even if he has to use extreme measures

Qin Shi has zero limits on what he’ll do to make sure you’ve been modelled to the most perfect ruler to work together with him to maintain China, do you think he does? He is fully aware that you’ve missed up by being rebellious and selfish like this. And he doesn’t plan to let you stay this way, he needs you better for his beloved nation

Qin Shi’s around the corner of you and his shared suite of a bedroom, thinking. He doesn’t want to hurt you, he’s already quite strained any chance you’ll love him but then again, he’s providing you with the life of a royal. You’re not anywhere near related to a royal family but still, you’re gonna birth him a heir one day and you SHOULD love him for that

Especially for how amazing of a husband he is!

No other man can be a better husband for you so there is no reason you should be a lazy rebellious brat when you’re literally a King [/] Queen. Do not be so greedy, love. He’d let this go if it was only occasional but it’s not, you’re constantly rejecting everything to sleep all day. Pathetic

That is what his twisted lovesick mind tells him. That it’s your fault you’re behaving this way when it’s just your attitude. It’s just who you are, but to Qin Shi, it’s a purposeful stab to him as your husband. That you’re acting out, when you were so obedient and calm only a few days ago, to spite him…

He is just so unhappy… he really suspected better from you and he was hoping you’d stay that timid silent sweetheart from before. That is his favourite version of you, when you do everything for him— but he fails to realise you only behaved that way because you were terrified for your life but you long learned he’d never truly put his hands on you

Your rebellious nature is just apart of you but your laziness, whilst also somewhat natural, is kinda fulled by your depression since being forced in this situation after you had shown respect to Qin Shi passing by him one time in the many halls of Valhalla by helping direct him to the correct Lounge for Einherjar’s champions

Had lead to him stalking you, sending his servants to give you gifts, until it lead up to your kidnapping under the cover of midnight. All because he fell hard for your elegant and witty demeanour, the way you behave in public and he got addicted to it quickly. So much, he ignores Alvitr’s advice altogether

Qin Shi quickly bared a charming smile, he’s such a charismatic comforting figure as the King of Kings he is that he buries away all his inner rage and humiliation so expertly that he seems as if he’s had a absolutely wonderful day. He pretends to walk away from the wall hiding off the open golden-lined door of the bedroom before walking up to it, in order to trick you into thinking he wasn’t listening in

You look up bored and irritated from being so engaged in a fascinating book that you’ve gathered amongst the big nearby bookcase in this big beautiful artistic suite of a bedroom, meeting the hidden eyes of your forced husband. Your finger shining by the opulent gold and diamonds of your earring ring

Qin Shi, radiating elegance and strength effortlessly, strolls over to you with his loving smile. He may be furious at your rebellious lazy demeanour but he can’t help but soften up at how beautiful you are and his extensive possessive obsession flares up almost instantly. He makes it besides the silky thin blanketed clad bed before sitting down on it politely

Speaking up after admiring you openly for a few long seconds with you barely even responding as you’re quite use to him gawking you all the time like you’re the Mona Lisa within a deluxe gallery, he is internally planning on how to properly meld and form you into the correct ruler for his vast territory

His hand reaches over for yours, his middle and ring fingers sheathed in shining golden nailguards, which is slightly sharp so it kinda grazed against your silky soft skin as he grabs your hand in his much bulkier and veiny palm. Showing his love via the intimate connect, feeling your own cute golden dual nailguards on your index and middle fingers

Qin Shi hopes you give him a minute or two of your time to hear him out. He deserves your time as his husband whilst you couldn’t be more excited for him to leave you alone. You never wanted to be bombarded with the duties of being the secondary ruler of fucking China itself… you never asked for this and you know he does not care about your opinion at all. He only cares about himself!

His hand holding yours is uncomfortably tight as his clingy protectiveness is kicking in. He doesn’t want to lose you, he doesn’t want anybody looking at you. You’re his and only his

“Qīn'ài de… I’ve noticed that you’ve been rather unmotivated. Unmotivated to improve for the sake of our empire and I want to fix that issue. C’mon, up you get. Let’s go outside together, let’s talk”

[nicoline1998enilocin]

Sunflowers at sunset

PAIRING || College Student! Young! Tony Stark x College Student! Female! Reader

WORDCOUNT || 1.4K

SUMMARY || Ever since you went on your first date with none other than Tony Stark, you haven't been able to stop thinking about one another. As he plans a beautiful date where you cycle through sunflower fields before having a picnic, you can't help but fall even harder for this man. When you two finally share a breathtaking kiss, you can't help but wonder what life with him by your side will be like, but you're happy to find it out sooner rather than later.

RATING || Teen (T)

TAGS || College AU, young!Tony Stark AU, mutual pining, reader is described as tattooed.

A/N || Hi, all! And welcome to my first fill for the Under The Sea Bingo. I hope you will enjoy the stories coming out to fill my card, and I can't wait to see what you all think. I want to give a massive thank you to @ccbsrmsf1 for being just as excited as me during it all, but especially the proofreading! 🩵

EVENTS @fictionaldelightsbingo Under The Sea || Renting a bike + Cycling together + Fields filled with sunflowers + Covering their face with their hands from being flustered + Feeling warm just be being next to them

Photo: @ccbsrmsf1 || All the other graphics are made by @nicoline1998enilocin

Main Masterlist || Tony Stark || Young! Tony Stark || Under The Sea Bingo

“Nat! Nat, where are you?!” you exclaim as you run into your dorm room. The excitement from the message you just got is still evident as you smile broadly. Ever since you went on a date with your classmate, Tony Stark, you two haven’t been able to stop talking and texting, and now he’s asked you out on another date, for which you’ll need your roommate's help.

“What’s going on, Detka? Is the building on fire or something?” she says as she exits the bathroom, her fiery red hair half curled and half straight. You can barely supress a chuckle as you look at her, but you manage to do so long enough to show her the text you got from the guy you’re crushing on. Her features soften at the sight of the message, and you can’t help but smile as it does.

Sunshine, I can’t stop thinking about when I will see you again. Meet me at the coffee shop where we first met at 6.30 PM, and I promise to give you a night you won’t forget.

x Tony

“A night you won’t forget, huh? So, he’s going to take you somewhere very special and make love-”

“Nat, stop! He’s not going to ‘make love’ to me, as you call it. We’re just going out on a date and nothing else. If anything, we might kiss again, but I can reassure you nothing else will happen,” you tell her with a glare, and she shrugs before turning around, getting ready to finish her hair. As she does, you turn to your closet, getting ready to pick the perfect outfit for tonight, as you’re looking to make another impression on him.

“What do you think? Shall I wear a jumpsuit or a dress?” you ask Natasha, and she quickly answers with the word jumpsuit. You recently bought a black one with small sunflowers all over it that show off your tattoos beautifully, and ever since that moment, you’ve been looking for the perfect moment to put it on. Tonight is that moment, and you quickly put it on before admiring yourself in the mirror.

“You look stunning, Detka; I have a feeling Tony might not be able to keep his hands off you tonight when he sees you like this,” she says with a wink, and you can feel the heat surging through your cheeks as she does. It’s not like you haven’t fantasized about it, of course, but you and Tony aren’t even together yet, so for now, it will have to be nothing more than a fantasy.

Once you’re dressed, you put on your comfy sandals before putting on a light layer of make-up and putting your hair in such a way that it’s out of your face, and you’re ready to go. After one last greeting - and one more comment about you staying out as long as you want - you’re out the door, prepared to meet Tony at the coffee shop where you two met when you forgot your wallet on your first day of school.

Tony arrived a few minutes earlier, unable to wait any longer than he had to before meeting you, and you’re met with a beautiful sight as you’re walking towards him. He’s dressed in tight shorts that show off everything, paired with a button-up and some comfortable sneakers, with his glasses and usually messy hair, and he looks adorable with his flushed cheeks.

“Sunshine, hi,” he says when you’re in front of him, his arms wrapping you in a much-needed hug. As your arms wrap around him, you take a slight whiff of his cologne, and it’s like you’re on cloud nine all over again at the smell of it; your mind immediately wanders to your first date.

“You look beautiful tonight,” he says after he pulls away, his gaze slowly roaming over your outfit and the tattoos you’re proudly displaying. His fingers glide over a set of flowers on your arm, and goosebumps form everywhere he touches. Your entire body feels warm as you’re standing before him with a smile, rivaling the stars in the night sky for their beauty.

“Thank you, Tony,” you whisper shyly, and when he interlaces his fingers with yours, you happily let him as he guides you to your first stop of the night: a bike rental service. During your first date, you expressed how much you would love to go cycling in the evening to watch a sunset between a bunch of flowers, and that is precisely what he has planned - together with a picnic.

“Tony, are we doing what I think we’re doing?” you ask as you get on the bike he rented for you, and he nods excitedly as he gets on his own.

“That’s exactly what we’re going to do, Sunshine. I’ve been dreaming of watching the sunset with you, and I think I know the perfect place for it, where we will have a gorgeous view. Though none of the things we’re going to see will be as beautiful as you,” he says shyly, his cheeks turning bright red at his words, and you cover your face with your hands to hide how flustered his words make you.

“Hey, please don’t hide from me! I enjoy looking at you,” he admits, smiling widely when you remove your hands. He grabs one of your hands, kissing it softly on the back before letting go, ready to go cycling together to where you two will have a romantic picnic during the sunset. The entire way there, you and Tony are cracking jokes and sharing more serious moments, and when you cycle through the many fields filled with sunflowers, you can’t help but feel right at home.

“Here’s our stop,” he says eventually, and the sun casts a beautiful golden glow over the fields as you get off the bike, parking it next to the road so it’s not in anyone’s way - though not many people come here to begin with. Tony extends his hand, gently interlacing his fingers with yours before leading you to the picnic that Bruce had prepared not too long ago.

“I- wow,” you say softly as you look at the view, it being one never to forget, just as he promised. Then, you get an idea as you grab your phone from your bag and ask Tony if taking a few selfies in this lighting is okay. He happily agrees, and you two take a few selfies with the sunset in the background, the sunflowers, and a few where he kisses your cheek, which sets your entire body on fire.

Once you’re comfortable on the picnic blanket, Tony grabs a few pieces of fruit you love before feeding them to you, and of course, he eats a few himself, too. During the picnic, you and Tony keep scooching closer until you’re both sitting side by side, his arm wrapped around you while your hand traces abstract figures on his knee, a comfortable silence between you two.

Your head is lying in the crook of his neck, and he places a few kisses on the top of your head as you enjoy the view. Only one thing could make it better: a real kiss. As if he can sense the thoughts in your mind, he puts one of his fingers under your chin to lift your head, meeting your gaze as he leans in to kiss you.

His pink, soft lips make you feel like you’re floating outside your body, his hand gently cupping your cheek while his thumb rubs gently over your cheekbone. Neither of you is in a hurry, and the kiss seems to last forever as the sun sets. This is one of the best dates you have ever been on, and to kiss the man you’re crushing on between the sunflowers at sunset is a dream come true.

“Sometimes, I pinch myself to ensure I’m not dreaming with you, Sunshine. It’s an absolute honor that I have met you in this lifetime, and I hope that we will find each other in all lifetimes after this one, too,” he whispers with his forehead pressing gently against yours. You smile up at him before surprising him by kissing him gently on the tip of his nose, making him laugh in a way that makes your heart sing.

“I hope so too, Tony, because I know that none of those lifetimes will be complete without you in it,” you tell him, and this time you pull him in for a kiss. You never thought you’d experience falling in love, but now you realize that you haven’t been in love with anyone, only the idea of that person. Now that you are with Tony, however, you’re learning the meaning of true love, and you want to experience this for the rest of your life with him.

[hb-writes]

Hide and Seek

Summary: 1923 in the Little Lady Blinderverse. When Clara hides herself away at a charity event, Isiah is tasked with finding her and bringing her back to the party.

Characters: Isiah Jesus & Clara Shelby (OC)

Peaky Blinders (Little Lady Blinder) Masterlist

Comfy-vember 2024 Masterlist

—

Clara and her book were hiding, something she had taken to doing with a certain regularity at these charity events. The people who attended were always far too posh, and while Clara felt pretty in the clothes Grace picked out for her, she didn’t feel a bit like herself while wearing them. 

The clothes also made her feel like a little kid, all variations of something she would have loved to wear years ago. Back when she didn’t care about looking like a baby, or being treated like one, but Clara was halfway to an adult as far as she was concerned, and she didn’t need any childish frills to help her with looking young.

Clara managed that on her own because she had yet to experience the growth spurt that had Finn towering over her and she still had the very same face she’d had since she was practically a toddler, or at least that’s the way it seemed. Everyone was always commenting on how young she looked, surprised to learn she was an adolescent.

“Your brother is looking for you.” 

She glanced up at Isiah. Clara knew he was talking about Tommy. None of the others bothered, preoccupied with the food and the alcohol and the opulence, but because Grace was likely thinking about presentation, and whispering about Clara’s notable absence in Tommy’s ear, Clara assumed he’d sent Isiah to pull her out of hiding so she could mingle. 

Clara tired easily of such interactions, reminded by the guests of the posh girls who attended her school, and worse yet, Clara was sick of being told she looked like such a beautiful mix of her mother and her father. 

She hadn’t heard it yet tonight, but Clara assumed it was just a matter of time. 

She had Tommy’s eyes, but with Grace’s fair hair. Quick witted and sweet with a proper set of manners on her. That’s what some well-intentioned guest always pointed out. 

There was a tune when it hadn’t bothered Clara that people assumed Tommy was her father. A time when a part of her liked it, in a way, because he was the closest she had ever really had to one, but it only bothered her now. 

“Tell him to come find me himself, then.” 

Isiah snorted as he sat down beside her on the steps.

“Can’t imagine that will go over well.”

Clara shrugged, It had been a while since she had properly cared how things went over where Tommy was concerned, but Clara still held a modicum of concern because they were in a public place and she had no interest in being chastised with an audience. That would really get people thinking she was a child, Tommy and Grace’s at that. 

“I want to go home,” she finally offered, cooperative as Isiah pulled the book from her hands and started skimming through the pages.

“Just you and this book, eh?” 

Clara shrugged. “You could come if you want.” 

Isiah snorted again, not because he didn’t want it, but because it was an unlikely outcome.

“Or you could just leave me here and tell him you couldn’t find me.” 

“I tell him that and your brothers’ll have half of Birmingham out looking for you.”

And once they found her, Clara would have an earful off of him. 

“Come on, Clara,” Isiah said, squeezing her knee before he stood, stepping away. “It won’t be so bad.” 

“Isiah?

“What is it, love?”

“Can I have my book?” Clara said, holding her hand out for him to return it. 

“If I give you this book, you’ll never leave that step.” Isiah shook his head as he pocketed it within his jacket. “Come with me now and you can have it later.” 

Clara took Isiah’s outstretched hand, allowing him to help her up, the momentum of his tug pulling her into his chest. Clara stayed there a minute, letting Isiah hold her against him. 

“And you and Finn’ll come out to Warwickshire this weekend?” 

“Sure, love.” He shrugged. “Why not.” 

“Great,” Clara said as she extracted herself from Isiah's arms, the book safely in her grasp as she pulled away and returned to her spot on the stoop. "You can tell Tommy I'll be out once I finish this chapter."

Clara was unsurprised when Isiah chose not to go relay the message to her brother, but instead to sit back down beside her, allowing Clara to continue reading her book in peace as the posh party continued down the hall.

—

Peaky Blinders (Little Lady Blinder) Masterlist

Comfy-vember 2024 Masterlist

[loveindomitable]

Henry grinned, rather pleased with himself for getting Alex to blush like that. He did always look rather pretty with pink cheeks and he made a mental note to try for that with him more often. Henry squeezed onto Alex’s hand, feeling like he should say the same in return. However, he knew it would be harder for him to drop things so quickly to be at Alex’s aide, yet he found himself saying it anyway. “I hope you know I’ll be there for you too, in whatever way you need me to be.”

The prince made a noise of protest low in his throat, as if to say he wanted to give Alex everything. He certainly felt that the other man deserved it. “I’ll admit that I’m … I’m afraid this won’t work. That you’ll have enough of waiting around, that I won’t be enough for you. I wish I could be someone who could be there through everything for you, but I just … I can’t. And I worry.” Henry didn’t have much faith in their relationship lasting. Did he think they’d still be friends even after? Of course. He would try at any rate. He knew that he shouldn’t doubt, but he couldn’t help it. Henry had always been the more pessimistic sort anyway.

Henry had always found ways to make Alex blush that no one else ever had, and those damned sincere compliments were no exception. But Henry was complimenting him, not kicking him out, and Alex had to believe that was a good sign. "Even before we started this, I hope you know that was true, even back when we were just friends, H... but yes. You can always count on me." He didn't ask if the same was true in return, he didn't want to pressure Henry into saying something he didn't mean, and Alex didn't know if he could take a second heartbreak.

"I don't need you to give me everything," He promised, wrapping an arm carefully around the Prince, as if he thought he might change his mind and high-tail it out of there. "I just... I need you to tell me if something isn't working." I just need you not to leave like that ever again.

[gregmarriage]

I love baby gwen. she's got so much to look forward to.

i love her too. and that’s something that’s been hard for me to say over the years. but if the years since that video have told me anything, it’s that we are the only ones we have at the end of the day. we only have one body, and mind, and soul, and we have to take care of it