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Things between you and Peter change with the seasons. [17k]Â
c: friends-to-lovers, hurt/comfort, loneliness, peter parker isnât good at hiding his alter ego, fluff, first kisses, mutual pining, loved-up epilogue, mention of self-harm with no graphic imagery
・đŚšÂ°â§â.á
FallÂ
Peter Parker is a resting place for overworked eyes, like warm topaz nestled against a blue-cold city. He waits on you with his eyes to the screen of his phone, clicking the power button repetitively. A nervous tic.Â
You close the heavy door of your apartment building. His head stays still, yet heâs heard the sound of it settling, evidence in his calmed hand.Â
âGood morning!â You pull your coat on quickly. âSorry.âÂ
âGood morning,â he says, offering a sleep-logged smile. âShould we go?âÂ
You follow Peter out of the cul-de-sac and into the street as he drops his phone into a deep pocket. To his credit, he doesnât check it while you walk, and only glances at it when youâre taking your coat off in the heat of your favourite cafe: The Moroccan Mode glows around you, fog kissing the windows, condensation running down the inner lengths of it in beads. You murmur something to do with the odd fog and Peter tells you about water vapour. When it rains tonight, he says itâll be warm water that falls.Â
He spreads his textbook, notebook, and rinky-dink laptop out across the table while you order drinks. Peter has the same thing every visit, a decaf americano, in a wide brim mug with the pink-petal saucer. You put it down on his textbook only because thatâs where he would put it himself, and you both get to work.Â
As Peter helps you study, you note the simplicity of another normal day, and canât help wondering what it is thatâs missing. Something is, something Peter wonât tell you, the absence of a truth hanging over your heads. You ask him if he wants to get dinner and he says no, heâs busy. You ask him to see a movie on Friday night and he wishes he could.Â
Peter misses you. When he tells you, you believe him. âI wish I had more time,â he says.Â
âItâs fine,â you say, âyou canât help it.â
âWeâll do something next weekend,â he says. The lie slips out easily.Â
To Peter it isnât a lie. In his head, heâll find the time for you again, and youâll be friends like you used to be.Â
You press the end of your pencil into your cheek, the dark roast, white paper and condensation like grey noise. This time last year, the air had been thick for days with fog you could cut. He took you on a trip to Manhattan, less than an hour from your red-brick neighbourhood, and you spent the day in a hotel pool throwing great cupfuls of water at each other. The fog was gone just fifteen miles away from home but the warm air stayed. When it rained it was sudden, strange, spit-warm splashes of it hammering the tops of your heads, your cheeks as you tipped your faces back to spy the dark clouds.Â
Peter had swam the short distance to you and held your shoulders. You remember feeling like your whole life was there, somewhere youâd never been before, the sharp edges of cracked pool tile just under your feet.Â
You peek over the top of your laptop screen and wonder if Peter ever thinks of that trip.Â
He feels you watching and meets your eyes. âI have to tell you something,â he says, smiling shyly.Â
âSure.âÂ
âI signed us up for that club.âÂ
âEpigenetics?âÂ
âMolecular medicine,â he says.Â
The nice thing about fog is that it gives a feeling of lateness. Itâs still morning, barely ten, but it feels like the early evening. Itâs gentle on the eyes, colouring the whole room with a sconced shine. You reach for Peterâs bag and sort through his jumble of possessions âstick deodorant, loose-leaf paper, a bodegaâs worth of protein barsâ and grab his camera.Â
âWhat are you doing?âÂ
âIâm cataloguing the moment you ruined our lives,â you say, aiming the camera at his chin, squinting through the viewfinder.Â
âTechnically, I signed us up a few days ago,â he says.Â
You snap his photo as his mouth closes around âagoâ, keeping his half-laugh stuck on his lips. âSemantics,â you murmur. âAnd molecular medicine club, this has nothing to do with the estranged Gwen Stacy?â
âIt has nothing to do with her. And you like molecular medicine.â
âI like oncology,â you correct, which is a sub-genre at best, âand I have enough work without joining another club. Go by yourself.âÂ
âI canât go without you,â he says. Simple as that.Â
He knew youâd say yes when he signed you up. Itâs why he didnât ask. Youâre already forgiven him for the slight of assumption.Â
âWhen is it?â you ask, smiling.Â
â
Molecular medicine club is fun. You and a handful of ESU nerds gather around a big table in a private study room for a few hours and read about the newer discoveries and top research, like regenerative science and now taboo Oscorp research. Itâs boring, sometimes, but then Peter will lean into your side and make a joke to keep you going.Â
He looks at Gwen Stacy a lot. Slender, pale and freckled, with blonde hair framing a sweet face. Only when he thinks youâre not looking. Only when she isnât either.Â
â
âGood morning,â you say.Â
Peter holds an umbrella over his head that heâs quick to share with you, and together you walk with heads craned down, the umbrella angled forward to fight the wind. Your outermost shoulder is wet when you reach the cafĂŠ, your other warm from being pressed against him. You shake the umbrella off outside the door and step onto a cushy, amber doormat to dry your sneakers. Peter stalks ahead and order the drinks, eager to get warm, so you look for a table. Your usual is full of businessmen drinking flat whites with briefcases at their legs. They laugh. You try to picture Peter in a suit: youâre still laughing when he finds you in the booth at the back.Â
âTell the joke,â he says, slamming his coffee down. Heâs careful with yours. Heâs given you the pink petal saucer from the side next to the straws and wooden stirrers.Â
âI was thinking about you as a businessman.âÂ
âAnd thatâs funny?âÂ
âWhen was the last time you wore a suit?âÂ
Peter shakes his head. Claims he doesnât know. Later, youâll remember his Uncle Benâs funeral and feel queasy with guilt, but you donât remember yet. âWhen was the last time you wore one?â he asks. âI donât laugh at you.âÂ
âYouâre always laughing at me, Parker.âÂ
The cafe isnât as warm today. Itâs wet, grimy water footsteps tracking across the terracotta tile, streaks of grey water especially heavy near the counter, around it to the bathroom. Thereâs no fog but a sad rattle of rain, not enough to make noise against the windows, but enough to watch as it falls in lazy rivulets down the lengths of them.
Your face is chapped with the cold, cheeks quickly come to heat as your fingers curl around your mug. They tingle with newfound warmth. When you raise your mug to your lips, your hand hardly shakes.
âYou okay?â Peter asks.Â
âFine. Are you gonna help me with the math today?âÂ
âDonât think so. Did you ask nicely?âÂ
âI did.â Youâd called him last night. You wouldâve just as happily submitted your homework poorly solved with the grade to prove it âyou donât want Peterâs help, you just wanted to see him.Â
Looking at him now, you remember why his distance had felt a little easier. The rain tangles in his hair, damp strands curling across his forehead, his eyes dark and outfitted by darker eyelashes. Peter has the looks of someone youâve seen before, a classical set to his nose and eyes reminiscent of that fallen angel weeping behind his arm, his russet hair in fiery disarray. There was an anger to Peter after Ben died that you didnât recognise, until it was Peter, changed forever and for the worse and it didnât matter âhe was grieving, he was terrified, who were you to tell him to be nice againâ until it started to get better. You see less of your fallen, angry angel, no harsh brush strokes, no tears.Â
His eyes are still dark. Bruised often underneath, like heâs up late. If he is, it isnât to talk to you.Â
You spend an afternoon working through your equations, pretending to understand until Peter explains them to death. His earphones fall out of his pocket and he says, âHere, Iâll show you a song.âÂ
He walks you home. The song is dreary and sad. The man who sings is good. Lover, You Shouldâve Come Over. It feels like Peterâs trying to tell you something âhe isnât, but it feels like wishing he would.Â
âYou okay?â you ask before you can get to your street. A minute away, less.Â
âIâm fine, why?âÂ
You let the uncomfortable shape of his earbud fall out of your ear, the climax of the song a rattle on his chest. âYou look tired, thatâs all. Are you sleeping?âÂ
âI have too much to do.âÂ
You just donât get it. âMake sure youâre eating properly. Okay?âÂ
His smile squeezes your heart. Soft, the closest youâll ever get. âYou know May,â he says, wrapping his arm around your shoulders to give you a short hug, âshe wouldnât let me go hungry. Donât worry about me.âÂ
â
The dip into depression you take is predictable. You canât help it. Peter being gone makes it worse.Â
You listen to love songs and take long walks through the city, even when itâs dark and you know itâs a bad idea. If anything bad happens Spider-Man could probably save me, you think. New Yorkâs not-so-new vigilante keeps a close eye on things, especially the women. You canât count how many times youâve heard the same story. A man followed me home, saw me across the street, tried to get into my apartment, but Spider-Man saved me.Â
Youâre not naive, you realise the danger of walking around without protection assuming some stranger in a mask will save you, but you need to get out of the house. It goes on for weeks.Â
You walk under streetlights and past stores with CCTV, but honestly you donât really care. Youâre not thinking. You feel sick and heavy and itâs fine, really, itâs okay, everything works out eventually. Itâs not like itâs all because you miss Peter, itâs just a feeling. Itâll go away.Â
âYouâre in deep thought,â a voice says, garnering a huge flinch from the depths of your stomach.
You turn around, turn back, and flinch again at the sight of a man a few paces ahead. Red shoulders and legs, black shining in a webbed lattice across his chest. âOh,â you say, your heartbeat an uncomfortable plodding under your hand, âsorry.âÂ
âWhy are you sorry? I scared you.â
âI didnât realise you were there.âÂ
Spider-Man doesnât come any closer. You take a few steps in his direction. Youâve never met before but youâd like to see him up close, and you arenât scared. Not beyond the shock of his arrival.Â
âCan I walk you to where youâre going?â Spider-Man asks you. Heâs humming energy, fidgeting and shifting from foot to foot.Â
âHow do I know youâre the real Spider-Man?âÂ
After all, there are high definition videos of his suit on the news sometimes. You wouldnât want to find out someone was capable of making a replica in the worst way possible.Â
You canât be sure, but you think he might be smiling behind the mask, his arms moving back as though impressed at your questioning. âWhat do you need me to do to prove it?â he asks.Â
He speaks hushed. Rough and deep. âI donât know. Whatâs Spider-Man exclusive?âÂ
âI can show you the webs?âÂ
You pull your handbag further up your arm. âOkay, sure. Shoot something.âÂ
Spider-Man aims his hand at the streetlight across the way and shoots it. He makes a severing motion with his wrist to stop from getting pulled along by it, letting the web fall like an alien tendril from the bulb. The light it produces dims slightly. A chill rides your spine.Â
âCan I walk you now?â he asks.Â
âYou donât have more important things to do?â If the bitterness youâre feeling creeps into your tone unbidden, he doesnât react.Â
âNothing more important than you.âÂ
You laugh despite yourself. âIâm going to Trader Joeâs.âÂ
âYellowstone Boulevard?âÂ
âThatâs the oneâŚâÂ
You fall into step beside him, and, awkwardly, begin to walk again. Itâs a short walk. Trader Joeâs will still be open for hours despite the dark sky, and youâre in no hurry. âMy friend, he likes the rolled tortilla chips they do, the chilli ones.âÂ
âAnd youâre going just for him?â Spider-Man asks.Â
âNot really. I mean, yeah, but I was already going on a walk.âÂ
âDo you always walk around by yourself? Itâs late. Itâs dangerous, you know, a beautiful girl like you,â he says, descending into an odd mixture of seriousness and teasing. His voice jumps and swoons to match.Â
âI like walking,â you say.Â
Spider-Man walking is a weird thing to see. On the news, heâs running, swinging, or flying through the air untethered. Youâre having trouble acquainting the media image of him with the quiet man youâre walking beside now.
âIs everything okay?â he asks. âYou seem sad.âÂ
âDo I?âÂ
âYeah, you do.âÂ
âMaybe I am sad,â you confess, looking forward, the bright sign of Trader Joeâs already in view. It really is a short walk. âDo you everââ You swallow against a surprising tightness in your throat and try again, âDo you ever feel like youâre alone?âÂ
âIâm not alone,â he says carefully.
âMe neither, but sometimes I feel like I am.âÂ
He laughs quietly. You bristle thinking youâre being made fun of, but the laugh tapers into a sad one. âSometimes I feel like Iâm the only person in the world,â he says. âEven here. I forget that itâs not something I invented.âÂ
âWell, I guess being a hero would feel really lonely. Who else do we have like you?â You smile sympathetically. âIt must be hard.âÂ
âYeah.â His head tips to the side, and a crash of glass rings in the distance, crunching, and then thereâs a squeal. It sounds like a car accident. Spider-Man goes tense. âIâll come back,â he says.Â
âThatâs okay, Spider-Man, I can get home by myself. Thank you for the protection detail.âÂ
He sprints away. In half a second heâs up onto a short roof, then between buildings. It looks natural. It takes your breath away.Â
You buy Peterâs chips at Trader Joeâs and wait for a few minutes at the door, but Spider-Man doesnât come back.Â
â
I donât want to study today, Peterâs text says the next day. Come over and watch movies?Â
The last handholds of your fugue are washed away in the shower. You dab moisturiser onto your face and neck and stand by the open window to help it dry faster, taking in the light drizzle of rain, the smell of it filling your room and your lungs in cold gales. You dress in sweatpants and a hoodie, throw on your coat, and stuff the rolled tortilla chips into a backpack to ferry across the neighbourhood.Â
Peter still lives at home with his Aunt May. Youâd been in awe of it when you were younger, Peter and his Aunt and Uncle, their home-cooked family dinners, nights spent on the roof trying to find constellations through light pollution, stretched out together while it was warm enough to soak in your small rebellion. Ben would call you both down eventually. When youâre older! heâd always promise.Â
Peterâs waiting in the open door for you. He ushers you inside excitedly, stripping you out of your coat and forgetting your wet shoes as he drags you to the kitchen. âLook what I got,â he says.Â
The Parker kitchen is a big, bright space with a chopping block island. The counters are crowded by pots, pans, spices, jams, coffee grounds, the impossible drying rack. Thereâs a cross-stitch about the home on the microwave Ben did to prove to May he could still see the holes in the aida.Â
You follow Peter to the stove where he points at a ceramic Dutch oven youâve eaten from a hundred times. âThere,â he says.Â
âDid you cook?â you ask.Â
âOf course I didnât cook, even if the way you said that is offensive. I could cook. Iâm an excellent chef.âÂ
âThe only thing Mayâs ever taught you is spaghetti and meatballs.âÂ
âHope you like marinara,â he says, nudging you toward the stove.Â
You take the lid off of the Dutch oven to unveil a huge cake. Dripping with frosting, only slightly squashed by the lid, obviously homemade. Heâs dotted the top with swirls of frosting and deep red strawberries.Â
âItâs for you,â he says casually.Â
âItâs not my birthday.âÂ
âI know. You like cake though, donât you?âÂ
Youâd tell Peter you liked chunks of glass if that was what he unveiled. âWhyâd you make me a cake?âÂ
âI felt like you deserved a cake. You donât want it?âÂ
âNo, I want it! I want the cake, letâs have cake, we can go to 91st and get some ice cream, itâll be amazing.â You donât bother trying to hide your beaming smile now, twisting on the spot to see him properly, your hands falling behind your back. âThank you, Peter. Itâs awesome. I had no idea you could evenâ that youâd evenââ You press forward, smushing your face against his chest. âWow.âÂ
âWow,â he says, wrapping his arms around you. He angles his head to nose at your temple. âYouâre welcome. I wouldâve made you a cake years ago if I knew it was gonna make you this happy.âÂ
âIt mustâve taken hours.âÂ
âMay helped.âÂ
âThat makes much more sense.âÂ
âDonât be insolent.â Peter squeezes you tightly. He doesnât let go for a really long time.Â
He extracts the cake from the depths of the Dutch oven and cuts you both a slice. He already has ice cream, a Neapolitan box that he cuts into with a serrated knife so you can each have a slice of all three flavours. Itâs good ice cream, fresh for what it is and melting in big drops of cream as he gets the couch ready.
âSit down,â he says, shoving the plates with his strangely great balance onto the coffee table. âRemoteâs by you. Iâm gonna get drinks.âÂ
You take your plate, carving into the cake with the end of a warped spoon, its handle stamped PETE and burnished in your grasp. The crumb is soft but dense in the best way. The ganache between layers is loose, cake wet with it, and the frosting is perfect, just messy. You take another satisfied bite. Youâre halfway through your slice before Peter makes it back.Â
âI brought you something too, but itâs garbage compared to this,â you say through a mouthful, hand barely covering your mouth.Â
Peter laughs at you. âYeah, well, say it, donât spray it.âÂ
âI guess Iâll keep it.âÂ
âKeep it, bub, I donât need anything from you.âÂ
He doesnât say it the way youâre expecting. âNo,â you say, pleased when he sits knee to knee, âyou can have it. Sâjust a bag of chips from Traderââ
âThe rolled tortilla chips?â he asks. You nod, and his eyes light up. âYou really are the best friend ever.âÂ
âBetter than Harry?âÂ
âHarryâs rich,â Peter says, âso no. Iâm kidding! Joking, come here, let me try some of that.âÂ
âEat your own.âÂ
Peter plays a great host, letting you choose the movies, making lunch, ordering takeout in the evening and refusing to let you pay for it. This isnât that out of character for Peter, but what shocks you is his complete unfiltered attention. He doesnât check his phone, the tension you couldnât name from these last few weeks nowhere to be felt. Youâre flummoxed by the sudden change, but you missed him. You wonât look a gift horse in the mouth; you wonât question what it is that had Peter keeping you at armâs length now itâs gone.
To your annoyance, you canât stop thinking about Spider-Man. You keep opening your mouth to tell Peter you talked to him but biting your tongue. Why am I keeping it a secret? you wonder.Â
âHave something to tell you.âÂ
âYou do?â you ask, reluctant to sit properly, your feet tucked under his thigh and your body completely lax with the weight of the Parker throw.Â
âIs that surprising?âÂ
âIs that a trick question?âÂ
âNo. Just. Iâve been not telling you something.âÂ
âOkay, so tell me.âÂ
Peter goes pink, and stiff, a fake smile plastered over his lips. âMe and Gwen, weâre really done.âÂ
âI know, Pete. She broke up with you for reasons nobody felt I should be enlightened right after graduation.â Your stomach pangs painfully. âUnless youâŚâ
âSheâs going to England.âÂ
âShe is?âÂ
âOxford.âÂ
You struggle to sit up. âThat sucks, Peter. Iâm sorry.âÂ
âBut?âÂ
You find your words carefully. âYou and Gwen really liked each other, but I think thatââ You grow in confidence, meeting his eyes firmly. âThat thereâs always been some part of you that couldnât actually commit to her. So. I donât know, maybe some distance will give you clarity. And maybe itâll break your heart, but at least then youâll know how you really feel, and you can move forward.â You avoid telling him to move on.Â
âIt wasnât Gwen,â he says, which has a completely different meaning to the both of you.Â
âObviously, sheâs the smartest girl Iâve ever met. Sheâs beautiful. Of course itâs not her fault,â you say, teasing.
âReally, that you ever met?â Peter asks.Â
âSheâs the best girl you were ever gonna land.âÂ
He rolls his eyes. âYeah, I guess so.â After a few more minutes of quiet, he says, âI think we were done before. I just hadnât figured it out yet. Something wasnât right.âÂ
âYou were so back and forth. Youâre not mean, there mustâve been something stopping you from going steady,â you agree. âYou were breaking up every other week.â
âI know,â he whispers, tipping his head against the back couch.Â
âWhich, itâs fine, you donâtââ You grimace. âI canât talk today. Sorry. I just mean that itâs alright that you never made it work.â You worry that sounds plainly obvious and amend, âDoesnât make you a bad person. Youâre never a bad person, Peter.âÂ
âI know. Thank you.âÂ
âYouâre welcome. You donât need me to tell you.âÂ
âItâs nice, though. I like when you tell me stuff. I want all of your secrets.âÂ
You should say Good, because I have something unbelievable to tell you, and I shouldâve said it the moment I got home.Â
Good, because last night I met the bravest man in New York City, and he walked me to the store for your chips.Â
Good, because I have so much Iâm keeping to myself.
You ruffle his hair. Spider-Man goes unmentioned.Â
âÂ
He visits with a whoop. You donât flinch when he lands âyouâd heard the strange whip and splat of his webs landing nearby.Â
âSpider-Man,â you say.Â
âWhatâs that about?âÂ
âWhat?âÂ
âThe way you said that. You laughed.â Spider-Man stands in spandexed glory before you, mask in place. Heâs got a brown stain up the side of his thigh that looks more like mud than blood, but itâs not as though each of his fights are bloodless. Theyâre infamously gory on occasion.
âDid you get hurt?â you ask. Youâre worried. You could help him, if he needs it.Â
âAw, this? Thatâs a scratch. Thatâs nothing, donât worry about it. Iâve had worse from that stray cat living outside of 91st.âÂ
You look at him sharply. 91st is shorthand for 91st Bodega, and itâs not like you and Peter made it up, but suddenly, the man in front of you is Peter. The way he says it, that unique rhythm.Â
Peterâs not so rough-voiced, you argue with yourself. Your Peter speaks in a higher register, dulcet often, only occasionally sarcastic. Spider-Man is rough, and cawing, and loud. Spider-Man acts as though the ground is a suggestion. Peter canât jump off the second diving board at the pool. Spider-Man rolls his shoulders back in front of you with a confidence Peter rarely has.Â
âWhat?â he asks.Â
âSorry. You just reminded me of someone.âÂ
His voice falls deeper still. âSomeone handsome, I hope.âÂ
You take a small step around him, hoping it invites him to walk along while communicating how sorely you want to leave the subject behind. When he doesnât follow, you add, âYes, heâs handsome.âÂ
âI knew it.â
âWhat do you look like under the mask?â
Spider-Man laughs boisterously. âI canât just tell you that.âÂ
âNo? Do I have to earn it?âÂ
âItâs not like that. I just donât tell anyone, ever.âÂ
âNobody in the whole world?â you ask.Â
The rain is spitting. New York lately is cold cold cold, little in the way of sunshine and no end in sight. Perhaps thatâs all Novemberâs are destined to be. You and Spider-Man stick to the inside of the sidewalk. Occasionally, a passerby stares at him, or calls out in Hello, and Spider-Man waves but doesnât part from you.Â
âTell me something about you and Iâll tell you something about me,â Spider-Man says. âIâll tell you who knows my identity.âÂ
âWhat do you want to know about me?â you ask, surprised.Â
âA secret. Thatâs fair.âÂ
âHold on, howâs that fair?â You tighten your scarf against a bitter breeze. âWhat use do I have for the people who know who you are? That doesnât bring me any closer to the truth.âÂ
âItâs not about who knows, itâs about why I told them.â Spider-Man slips around you, forcing you to walk on the inside of the sidewalk as a car pulls past you all too quickly and sends a sheet of dirty rainwater up Spider-Manâs side. He shakes himself off. âJerk!â he shouts after the car.Â
âMy secrets arenât worth anything.â
âI doubt that, but if thatâs true, that makes it a fair trade, doesnât it?âÂ
He sounds peppy considering the pool of runoff collecting at his feet. You pick up your pace again and say, âAlright, useless secret for a useless secret.âÂ
You think about all your secrets. Some are odd, some gross. Some might make the people around you think less of you, while others would surely paint you in a nice light. A topaz sort of technicolor. But they arenât useless, then, so you move on.Â
âOh, I know. I hate my major.â You grin at Spider-Man. âThatâs a good one, right? No one else knows about that.âÂ
âYou do?â Spider-Man asks. His voice is familiar, then, for its sympathy.Â
âI like science, I just hate math. Itâs harder than I thought it would be, and I need so much help it makes me hate the whole thing.âÂ
Spider-Man doesnât drag the knife. âOkay. Only three people know who I am under the mask. It was four, briefly.â He clears his throat. âI told one person because I was being selfish and the others out of necessity. Iâm trying really hard not to tell anybody else.â
âHow come?âÂ
âIt just hurts people.âÂ
You linger in a gap of silence, not sure what to say. A handful of cars pass you on the road.Â
âTell me another one,â he says.Â
âWhat for?âÂ
âI donât know, just tell me one.âÂ
âHow do I know you arenât extorting me for something?â You grin as you say it, a hint of flirtation. âYouâll know my face and my secrets and even if you tell me a really gory juicy one, I have no one to tell and no name to pair it with.âÂ
âIâm not showing you anything,â he warns, teasing, sounding so awfully like Peter that your heart trips again, an uneven capering that has you faltering in the street.Â
Peterâs shorter, you decide, sizing him up. His voice sounds similar and familiar but Peter doesnât ask for secrets. He doesnât have to. (Or, he didnât have to, once upon a time.)Â
âWhere are you going?â Spider-Man asks.Â
âOh, nowhere.âÂ
âSeriously, youâre out here walking again for no reason?âÂ
âI like to walk. Itâs not like itâs dark out yet.â Youâre not far at all from Queensboro Hill here. Walking in any direction would lead you to a garden âFlushing Meadows, Kew Gardens, Kissena Park. âWalk me to Kissena?â you ask.Â
âSure, for that secret.âÂ
You laugh as Peter takes the lead, keeping time with him, a natural match of pace. Itâs exciting that Spider-Man of all people wants to know one of your useless secrets enough to ask you twice. The attention of it makes searching for one a matter of how fast you can find one rather than a question of why youâd want to. It slips out before you can think better of it.Â
âI burned my wrist a few days ago on a frying pan,â you confess, the phantom pain of the injury an itch. âIt blistered and I cried when I did it, but I havenât told anyone about it.âÂ
âWhy not?â he asks.Â
He shouldnât use that tone with you, like heâs so so sorry. It makes you want to really tell him everything. How insecure you feel, how telling things feels like asking for someone to care, and half the time they donât, and half the time youâre embarrassed.Â
You walk past the bakery that demarcates the beginning of Kissena Park grounds across the way. âI didnât think about it at first. Iâm used to keeping things to myself. And then I didnât tell anyone for so long that mentioning it now wouldnât make sense. Like, bringing it up when itâs a scar wonât do much.â Itâs a weak lie. It comes out like a spigot to a drying up tree. Glugs, fat beads of sound and the pull to find another thing to say.
âIt was only a few days ago, right? It must still hurt. People want to know that stuff.âÂ
âMaybe Iâll tell someone tomorrow,â you say, though you wonât.Â
âThanks for telling me.â
The humour in spilling a secret like that to a superhero stops you from feeling sorry for yourself. You hide your cold fingers in your coat, rubbing the stiff skin of your knuckles into the lining for friction-heat. The rain has let up, wind whipping empty but brisk against your cheeks. Your lips will be chapped when you get home, whenever that turns out to be.Â
âThis is pretty far from Trader Joeâs,â he comments, like heâs read your mind.Â
âJust an hour.âÂ
âAre you kidding? Itâs an hour for me.âÂ
âThatâs not true, Spider-Man, Iâve seen those webs in action. I still remember watching you on the News that night, the cranes. I remember,â âyou try to meet his eyes despite the maskâ âmy heart in my throat. Werenât you scared?â
âIs that the secret you want?â he asks.Â
âI get to choose?âÂ
Spider-Man throws his gaze around, his hand behind his head like he might play with his hair. You come to a natural stop across the street from Kissena Parkâs playground. Teenagers crowd the soft-landing floor, smaller children playing on the wet rungs of the climbing frame.Â
âIf you want to,â he says.Â
âThen yeah, I want to know if you were scared.âÂ
âI didnât haveI time to be scared. Connors was already there, you know?â He shifts from one foot to the other. âI donât think Iâve ever thought about it before. I wasnât scared of the height, if thatâs what you mean. I already had practice by then, and I knew I had to do it. Like, I didnât have a choice, so I just did it. I had to save the day, so I did.âÂ
âWhen they lined up the cranesââ
âIt felt like flying,â Spider-Man interrupts.Â
âLike flying.â
You picture the weightlessness, the adrenaline, the catch of your weight so high up and the pressure of being flung between the next point. The idea that you have to just do something, so you do.Â
âThatâs a good secret.â You offer a grateful smile. âIt doesnât feel equal. I burned myself and you saved the city.âÂ
âSo tell me another one,â he says.Â
â
Maybe you started to fall for Peter after his Uncle Ben passed away. Not the days where youâd text him and heâd ignore you, or the days spent camping outside of his house waiting for him to get home. It wasnât that you couldnât like him, angry as he was; thereâs always been something about his eyes when heâs upset that sticks around. You loathe to see him sad but he really is pretty, and when his eyelashes are wet and his mouth is turned down, formidable, itâs an ache. A Cabanel painting, dramatic and dark and other.Â
It was after. When he started sending Gwen weird smiles and showing up to the movies exhilarated, out of breath, unwilling to tell you where heâd been. Skating, heâd always say. Most of the time he didnât have his skateboard.Â
Youâd only seen them kiss once, his hand on her shoulder curling her in, a pang of heat. You were curdled by jealousy but it was more than that. Peter was tipping her head back, was kissing her soundly, a fierceness from him that made you sick to think about. You spent weeks afterwards up at night, tossing, turning, wishing heâd kiss you like that, just once, so you could feel how it felt to be completely wrapped up in another person.Â
Youâd always held out for Peter, in a way. It was more important to you that he be your friend. You were young, and love had been a far off thing, and then one day you suddenly wanted it. You learned just how aching an unrequited love could be, like a bruise, where every time you saw Peter âwhether it be alone or with Gwen, with anyoneâ it was like he knew exactly where to poke the bruise. Press the heel of his hand and push. The worst is when he found himself affectionate with you, a quick clasp of your cheek in his palm as he said goodbye. Nights spent in his twin bed, of course youâll fit, of course you couldnât go home, not this late, May wonât care if we keep the door open âthe suggestion that the door being closed mightâve meant something. His sleeping arm furled around you.Â
Now youâre nearing the end of your second semester at ESU, Gwen is going to England at the end of the year, and Peter hasnât tried to stop her, but heâs still busy.Â
âWhatever,â you say, taking a deep breath. Youâre not mad at Peter, you just miss him. Thinking about him all the time wonât change a thing. âItâs fine.âÂ
âIâd hope so.âÂ
You swing around. âDonât do that!â
Spider-Man looks vaguely chastened, taking a step back. âI called out.âÂ
âYou did?âÂ
âI did. Hey, miss, over there! The one who doesnât know how to get a goddamn taxi!âÂ
âI like to walk,â you say.Â
âYeah, so youâve said. Have you considered that all this walking is bad for you? Itâs freezing out, Miss Bennett!âÂ
âItâs not that bad.â You have your coat, a scarf, your thermal leggings underneath your jeans. âIâm fine.âÂ
âWhatâs wrong with staying at home?âÂ
âThatâs not good for you. And youâre one to talk, Spider-Man, arenât you out on the streets every night? You should take a day off.âÂ
âI donât do this every night.âÂ
âDonât you get tired?â
Spider-Manâs eyelets seem to squint, his mock-anger effusive as he crosses his arms across his chest. âNo, of course not. Do I look like I get tired?âÂ
âI donât know. Youâre in a full suit, I canât tell. I guess you donât⌠seem tired. You know, with all the backflips.âÂ
âWant me to do one?âÂ
âOn command?â You laugh. âNo, thatâs okay. Save your strength, Spider-Man.âÂ
âSo where are you heading today?â he asks.Â
Thereâs a slip of skin peeking out against his neck. Youâre surprised he canât feel the cold there, stepping toward him to point. âI can see your stubble.âÂ
He yanks his mask down. âHasty getaway.âÂ
âA getaway, undressed? Spider-Man, thatâs not very gentlemanly.âÂ
You start to walk toward the Cinemart. Spider-Man, to your strange pleasure, follows. He walks with considerable casualness down the sidewalk by your left, occasionally letting his head turn to chase a distant sound where it echoes from between high-rises and along the busy street. Itâs cold and dark, but New York is hectic no matter what, even the residential areas. (Is there such a thing? The neighbourhoods burst with small businesses and backstreet sales, no matter the time.)
âLuckily for you, crime is slow tonight,â he says.Â
âLucky me?â You wonder if your acquainted vigilante flirts with every girl he stalks. âYou realise Iâve managed to get everywhere Iâm going for the last two decades without help?âÂ
âI assume there was more than a little help during that first decade.âÂ
âThatâs what you think. I was a super independent toddler.âÂ
Spider-Man tips his head back and laughs, but that laugh is quickly squashed with a cough. âSure you were.âÂ
âIs there a reason youâre escorting me, Spider-Man?â you ask.Â
âNo. Iâ I recognised you, I thought Iâd say hi.âÂ
âHi, Spider-Man.âÂ
âHi.âÂ
âCan I ask you something? Do you work?âÂ
Spider-Man stammers again, âIâ yeah. I work. Freelance, mostly.âÂ
âI was wondering how you fit all the crime fighting into your life, is all. University is tough enough.â You let the wind bat your scarf off of your shoulder. âI couldnât do what you do.âÂ
âYeah, you could.âÂ
He sounds sure.Â
âHow would you know?â you ask. âMaybe Iâm awful when youâre not walking me around. I hate New York. I hate people.âÂ
âNo, you donât. Youâre not awful. Donât ask me how I know, âcos I just know.âÂ
You try not to look at him. If you look at him, youâre gonna smile at him like he hung the moon. âWell, tonight Iâm going to be dreadfully selfish. My friend said heâd buy my movie ticket and take me out for dinner, a real dinner, the mac and cheese with imitation lobster at Bennyâs. Have you tried that?âÂ
Spider-Man takes a big step. âTonight?â he asks.Â
âYep, tonight. Thatâs where Iâm going, the Cinemart.â You frown at his hand pressing into his stomach. âAre you okay? You look like youâre gonna throw up.âÂ
âI can hearâ something. Someoneâs crying. I gotta go, okay? Have fun at the movies, okay?â He throws his arm up, a silken web shooting from his wrist to the third floor of an apartment complex. âBye!â he shouts, taking a running jump to the apartment, using his web as an anchor. He flings himself over the roof.Â
Woah, you think, warmth filling your cold cheeks, the tip of your nose. Heâs lithe. Â
Peter arrives ten minutes late for the movie, which is half an hour later than youâd agreed to meet.Â
âSorry!â he shouts, breathless as he grabs your hands. âGod, Iâm sorry! Iâm so sorry. You should beat me up. Iâm sorry.âÂ
âWhat the fuck happened?â you ask, not particularly angry, only relieved to see him with enough time to still catch the movie. âYouâre sweating like crazy, your hairâs wet.âÂ
âI ran all the way here, Jesus, do I smell bad? Donât answer that. Fuck, do we have time?âÂ
You usher Peter inside. He pays for the tickets with hands shaking and you attempt to wipe the sweat from his forehead with your sleeve. âYou couldâve called me,â you say, content to let him grab you by the arm and race you to the screen doors, âwe couldâve caught the next one. Why were you so late, anyways? Did you forget?âÂ
âForget about my favourite girl? How could I?â He elbows open the doors to let you enter first. âNow shh,â he whispers, âfind the seats, donât miss the trailers. You love them.âÂ
âYou love themââ
âIâll get popcorn,â he promises, letting the door close between you.Â
Youâre tempted to follow, fingers an inch from the handle.Â
You turn away and rush to find your seats. Hopefully, the popcorn line is ten blocks long, and he spends the night punished for his wrongdoing. My favourite girl. You laugh nervously into your hand.Â
â
WinterÂ
Spider-Man finds you at least once a week for the next few weeks. He even brings you an umbrella one time, stars on the handle, asking you rather politely to go home. He offers to buy you a hot dog as youâre walking past the stand, takes you on a shortcut to the convenience store, and helps you get a piece of gum off of your shoe with a leaf and a scared scream. Heâs friendly, and youâre getting used to his company.Â
One night, youâre almost home from Trader Joeâs, racing in the pouring rain when a familiar voice calls out, âHey! Running girl! Wait a second!âÂ
Him, you think, as ridiculous as it sounds. You donât know his name, but Spider-Manâs a sunny surprise in a shitty, wet winter, and you turn to the sound with a grin.
He jogs toward you.Â
You feel the world pause, right in the centre of your throat. All the air gets sucked out of you.Â
âHey, what are you doing out here? Did you get my texts?âÂ
You blink as fat rain lands on your face.Â
âYou okay?â Peter asks, Peter, in a navy hoodie turning black in the rain and a brown corduroy jacket. Itâs sodden, hanging heavily around his shoulders. âCome on, letâs go,â âhe takes your hand and pulls until you begin to speed walk beside himâ âitâs freezing!âÂ
âPeterââ
âJesus Christ!âÂ
âPeter, what are you doing here?â you ask, your voice an echo as he drags you into the foyer of your apartment building.Â
Rain hammers the door as he closes it, the windows, the foyer too dark to see properly.Â
âI wanted to see you. Is that allowed?âÂ
âNo.âÂ
Peter takes your hand. You look down at it, and he looks down in tandem, and it is decidedly a non-platonic move. âNo?â he asks, a hairâs width from murmuring.Â
âShit, my groceries are soaked.âÂ
âItâs all snacks, itâs fine,â he says, pulling you to the stairs.Â
You rush up the steps together to your floor. Peter takes your key when you offer it, your own fingers too stiff to manage it by yourself, and he holds the door open for you again to let you in.Â
Your apartment is a ragtag assortment to match the one next door, old wooden furniture wheeled from the street corners they were left on, thrifted homeward and heavy blankets everywhere you look. You almost slip getting out of your shoes. Peter steadies you with a firm hand. He shrugs out of his coat and hangs it on the hook, prying the damp hoodie over his head and exposing a solid length of back that trips your heart as you do the same.Â
âSorry I didnât ask,â Peter says.Â
âWhat, to come over? Itâs fine. I like you being here, you know that.âÂ
All your favourite days were spent here or at Peterâs house, in beds, on sofas, his hair tickling your neck as credits run down the TV and his breath evens to a light snore. You try to settle down with him, changing into dry clothes, his spare stuff left at the bottom of your wardrobe for his next inevitable impromptu visit. You turn on the TV, letting him gather you into his side with more familiarity than ever. Rain lays its fingertips on your window and draws lazy lines behind half-turned blinds. You rest on the arm and watch Peter watch the movie, answering his occasional, âYou okay?â with a meagre nod.Â
âWhatâs wrong?â he asks eventually. âYouâre so quiet.âÂ
Your hand over your mouth, you part your marriage and pinky finger, marriage at the corner, pinky pressed to your bottom lip, the flesh chapped by a season of frigid winds and long walks. ââM thinking,â you say.Â
âAbout?âÂ
About the first night in your new apartment. You got the apartment a couple of weeks before the start of ESU. Not particularly close to the university but close to Peter, your best, nicest friend. You met in your second year of High School, before Peter got contacts, âcos he was good at taking photographs and you were in charge of the school newspapers media sourcing. You used to wait for Peter to show up ten minutes late like clockwork, every week. And every week heâd barge into the club room and say, âFuck, Iâm sorry, my last class is on the other side of the building,â until it turned into its own joke.Â
Three years later, you got your apartment, and Peter insisted you throw a housewarming party even if he was the only person invited.Â
âFuck,â heâd said, ten minutes late, a cake in one hand and a whicker basket the other, âsorry. My last class is onââ
But he didnât finish. Youâd laughed so hard with relief at the reference that he never got the chance. Peter remembered your very first inside joke, because Peter wasnât about to go off to ESU and meet new friends and forget you.Â
But Peterâs been distant for a while now, because Peterâs Spider-Man.Â
âDo you remember,â you say, not willing to share the whole truth, âwhen you joined the school newspaper to be the official photographer, and you taught me the rule of thirds?âÂ
âSo you didnât need me,â he says.Â
âI was just thinking about it. We ran that newspaper like the Navy.âÂ
Peter holds your gaze. âIs that really what you were thinking about?âÂ
âJust funny,â you murmur, dropping your hand in your lap and breaking his stare. âSo much has changed.âÂ
âNot that much.âÂ
âNot for me, no.âÂ
Peter gets a look in his eyes you know well. Heâs found a crack in you and heâs gonna smooth it over until you feel better. Youâre expecting his soft tone, his loving smile, but youâre not expecting the way he pulls you in âyouâd slipped away from him as the evening went on, but Peter erases every millimetre of space as he slides his arm under your lower back and ushers you into his side. You hold your breath as he hugs you, as he looks down at you. Itâs really like he loves you, the line between platonic and romantic a blur. Heâs never looked at you like this before.
âI donât want you to change,â he whispers.Â
âI want to catch up with you,â you whisper back.Â
âCatch up with me? Weâre in the exact same place, arenât we?â
âI donât know, are we?âÂ
Peter hugs you closer, squishing your head down against his jaw as he rubs your shoulder. âOf course we are.âÂ
Peter⌠What is he doing?Â
You let yourself relax against him.Â
âYou do change,â he whispers, an utterance of sound to calm that awful bruise he gave you all those months ago, âyou change every day, but you donât need to try.âÂ
âI just⌠feel like everyone around me isâŚâ You shake your head. âEveryoneâs so smart, and they know what theyâre doing, or theyâreâ theyâre special. I donât know anything. So I guess lately Iâve been thinking about that, and then youââ
âWhat?âÂ
You can say it out loud. You could.Â
âPeter, youâreâŚâÂ
âIâm what?â he asks.Â
His fingers glide down the length of your arm and up again.Â
If you're wrong, heâll laugh. And if youâre right, he mightâ might stop touching you. Your head feels so heavy, and his touch feels like itâs gonna put you to sleep.Â
Heâs Spider-Man.Â
It makes sense. Who else could have a good enough heart to do that? Of course itâs Peter. It explains so much about him, about Peter and Spider-Man both. Why Peter is suddenly firmer, lighter on his feet, why he can help you move a wardrobe up two flights of stairs without complaint; why Spider-Man is so kind to you, why he knows where to find you, why he rolls his words around just like Pete.Â
Spider-Man said there are reasons he wears his mask. And Peter doesnât tell you much, but you trust him.Â
You wonât make him say anything, you decide. Not now.Â
You curl your arm over his stomach hesitantly, smiling into his shirt as he hugs you tighter.Â
âI was thinking about you,â he says.Â
âYeah?âÂ
âYouâre quieter lately. I know youâre having a hard time right now, okay? You donât have to tell me. Iâm here for you whenever you need me.âÂ
âYeah?â you ask.
âYou used to sit on my porch when you knew May wouldnât be home to make sure I wasnât alone.â Peterâs breath is warm on your forehead. âI donât know what youâre worried about being, but Iâm with you,â he says, âân nothing is gonna change that.âÂ
Peter isnât as far away as you thought.Â
âThank you,â you say.Â
He kisses your forehead softly. Your whole world goes amber. He brings his hand to your cheek, the thought of him tipping your head back sudden and heart-racing, but Peter only holds you. You lose count of how many minutes you spend cupped in his hand.Â
âCan I stay over tonight?â he utters, barely audible under the sound of the battering rain.Â
âYeah, please.âÂ
His thumb strokes your cheek.Â
â
Two switches flip at once, that night. Peter is suddenly as tactile as youâve craved, and Spider-Man disappears.Â
Heâs alive and well, as evidenced by Peterâs continued survival and presence in your life, but Spider-Man doesnât drop in on your nightly walks.Â
You take less of them lately, feeling better in yourself. Your spirits are certainly lifted by Peterâs increasing affection, but now that you know heâs Spider-Man you were waiting to see him in spandex to mess with his head. Nothing mean, but you wouldâve liked to pick at his secret identity, toy with him like you know heâd do to you. After all, heâs been trailing you for weeks and getting to know you. Peter already knows you. Plus, you told Spider-Man secrets not meant for Peter Parkerâs ears.Â
You find it hard to be angry with him. A thread of it remains whenever you remember his deception, but mostly you worry about him. Peterâs out every night until who knows what hour fighting crime. There are guns. He could get shot, and he doesnât seem scared. You end up watching videos on the internet of the night he ran to Oscorp, when he fought Connorsâ and got that huge gash in his leg. His leg is soiled deep red with blood but banded in white webbing. He limps as he races across a rooftop, the recording shaky yet high definition.Â
Itâs not nice to see Peter in pain. You cling to what heâd said, how he wasnât scared, but not being scared doesnât mean he wasnât hurting.Â
You chew the tip of a finger and click on a different video. Your computer monitor bears heat, the tower whirring by your thigh. Your eyes burn, another hour sitting in the same seat, sick with worry. You donât mind when Peter doesnât answer your texts anymore. You didnât mind so much before, just terrified of becoming an irrelevance in his life and lonely, too, maybe a little hurt, but never worried for his safety. Now when Peter doesnât text you back you convince yourself that heâs been hurt, or that heâs swinging across New York City about to risk his life.
Itâs not a good way to live. You canât stop giving into it, is all.Â
In the next video, Spider-Man sits on a billboard with a can of coke in hand. He doesnât lift his mask, seemingly aware of his watcher. You laugh as he angles his head down, suspicion in his tight shoulders. He relaxes when he sees whoever it is recording.Â
âHey,â he says, âyou all right?âÂ
âShould you be up there?â the person recording shouts.Â
âIâm fine up here!âÂ
âAre you really Spider-Man?âÂ
âSure am.âÂ
âAre you single?âÂ
Peter laughs like crazy. How you didnât know it was him before is a mystery âit couldnât sound more like him. âIâve got my eye on someone!â he says, sounding younger for it, the character voice he enacts when heâs Spider-Man lost to a good mood. Â
Your phone rings in the back pocket of your jeans. You wriggle it out, nonplussed to find Peter himself on your screen. You click the green answer button.Â
âHello?â Peter asks.Â
You bring the phone snug to your ear. âHey, Peter.âÂ
âHi, are you busy?âÂ
âNot really.âÂ
âDo you wanna come over? I know itâs late. Come stay the night and tomorrow weâll go out for breakfast.âÂ
âIs Aunt May okay with that?âÂ
âSheâs staring at me right now shaking her head, but Iâm in trouble for something. May, can she come over, is that allowed?âÂ
âSheâs always allowed as long as you keep the door open.â
You laugh under your breath at Mayâs begrudging answer. âAre you sure sheâs alright with it?â you ask softly. ���I donât want to be a burden.âÂ
âYou never, ever could be. Iâm coming to your place and weâll walk over together. Did you eat dinner?âÂ
âNot yet, butââ
âOkay, Iâll make you something when you get here. Iâll meet you at the door. Twenty minutes?âÂ
âI have to shower first.âÂ
âTwenty five?âÂ
You choke on a laugh, a weird bubbly thing youâre not used to. Peter laughs on the other side of the phone. âHow about Iâll see you at seven?âÂ
âItâs a date,â he says.Â
âMm, put it in your calendar, Parker.âÂ
â
Peter waits for you at the door like he promised. He frowns at your still-wet face as he slips your backpack from your shoulder, throwing it over his own. âYouâre gonna get sick.âÂ
âIâll dry fast,â you say. âI took too long finding my pyjamas.âÂ
âI have stuff you can wear. Probably have your sweatpants somewhere, the grey ones.â Peter pulls you forward and wipes your tacky face. âI wouldâve waited,â he says.Â
âItâs fine.â
âItâs not fine. Are you cold?âÂ
âPete, itâs fine.âÂ
âYou always remind me of my Uncle Ben when you call me Pete,â he laughs, âsuper stern.âÂ
âIâm not stern. Look, take me home, please, Iâm cold.âÂ
âYou said it wasnât cold!âÂ
âItâs not, Iâm just dampââ Peter cuts you off as he grabs you, sudden and tight, arms around you and rubbing the lengths of your back through your coat. âHandsy!â
âYou like it,â he jokes back, his playful warming turning into a hug. You smile, hiding your face in his neck for a few moments.Â
âI donât like it,â you lie.Â
âOkay, you donât like it, and Iâm sorry.â Peter gives you a last hug and pulls away. âNow letâs go. I gotta feed you before midnight.âÂ
âThatâs not funny.âÂ
âApparently, nothing is.âÂ
Peter links your arms together. By the time you get to his house, youâve fallen away from each other naturally. May is in the hallway when you climb through the door, an empty laundry basket in her hands.Â
âI see Peter hasnât won this argument yet,â you say in way of greeting. Peterâs desperate to do his own laundry now heâs getting older. May wonât let him.Â
âNo, he hasnât.â She looks you up and down. âItâs nice to see you, honey. And in one piece! Peter tells me youâve been walking a lot, and I mean, in this city? Canât you buy a treadmill?â she asks.Â
âMay!â Peter says, startled.Â
âI like walking, I like the air,â you say.
âCanât exactly call it fresh,â May says.Â
âNo, but itâs alright. It helps me think.âÂ
âIs everything okay?â May asks, putting her hand on her hip.Â
âOf course.â You smile at her genuinely. âI think starting college was too much for me? It was hard. But things are settling now, I donât know what Peter told you, but Iâm not walking a lot anymore. You know, not more than necessary.â
She softens her disapproving. âGood, honey. Thatâs good. Peterâs gonna make you some dinner now, right?âÂ
âYeah, Aunt May, Iâm gonna make dinner,â Peter sighs, pulling a leg up to take off his shoes.Â
Peter shouldnât really know that youâve been walking. He might see you coming back from Trader Joeâs or the bodega on his way to your apartment, but you havenât mentioned any of your longer excursions, and everybody in Queens has to walk. Thatâs information he wouldnât know without Spider-Man.Â
He seems to be hoping you wonât realise, changing the subject to the frankly killer grilled cheese and tomato soup that heâs about to make you, and pushing you into a chair at the table. âWarm up,â he says near the back of your head, forcing a wave of shivers down your arms.
He makes soup in one pan, grilled cheese in the other, two for him and two for you. Peterâs a good eater, and he encourages the same from you, setting a big bowl of tomato soup (from the can, splash of fresh cream) down in front of you with the grilled cheese on a plate between you. You eat it in too-hot bites and try not to get caught looking at him. He does the same, but when he catches you, or when you catch him, he holds your eye and smiles.Â
âI can do the dishes,â you say. You might need a breather.Â
âAre you kidding? Iâm gonna rinse them, put them in the dishwasher.â Peter stands and feels your forehead with his hand. âWarmer. Good job.âÂ
You shrug away from his hand. âLoser.âÂ
âConcerned friend.âÂ
âHandsy loser.âÂ
âShut up,â he mumbles.Â
As flustered as youâve ever seen, Peter takes your empty dishes to the kitchen. When heâs done rinsing them off you follow him upstairs to his bedroom and tuck your backpack under his bed.Â
You look down at your socks. Peterâs room is on the smaller side, but itâs never been as startlingly small as it is when Peterâs socked feet align with yours, toe to toe. Quick recovery time, this boy.Â
âThereâs chips and stuff on my desk. Or I could run to 91st for some ice cream sandwiches if you want something sweet,â he says.Â
You lift your eyes, tilt your head up just a touch, not wanting him to think youâre in his space no matter how strange that might be, considering he chose to stand there. âIâm all right. Did you want ice cream? We can go if you want to, but if you want to go âcos you think I do then Iâm fine.âÂ
âThatâs such a long answer,â he says, draping an arm over your shoulder. âYou donât have to say all of that, just tell me no.âÂ
âI donât want ice cream.âÂ
âWasnât that easy?â he asks.Â
âWell, no, it wasnât. Saying no to you is like saying no to a puppy.âÂ
âBecause Iâm adorable?âÂ
âPersistent.âÂ
âYeah, I guess I am.â He drapes the other arm over you. The soap he used at the kitchen sink lingers on his hands.Â
âPeterâŚ?â you murmur.Â
âWhat?â he murmurs back.Â
You touch a knuckle to his chest. âThisâ YouâŚâ Every quelled thought rushes to the surface at once âPeter doesnât like you as you desire, how could he, you arenât beautiful like he is, arenât smart, arenât brave, no exceptional kindness or goodness to mark you enough for him. Itâs why his being with Gwen didnât hurt; she made sense. And for months now youâve wondered what it is that made him struggle to be with her. And sometimes, foolishly, you wondered if it was you. But itâs not you, itâs never you, and whatever Peterâs trying to do nowâ
âHey, you okay?â he asks, taking your face into his hand.Â
âWhat are you doing?âÂ
âWhat?â He pushes his hand back to hold your nape, thumb under your ear. âI canât hear you.â Â
You raise your voice. âWhy did you invite me over tonight?âÂ
ââCos I missed you?âÂ
âI used to think you didnât miss me at all.âÂ
Peter winces, hurt. âHow could you think that? Of course I miss you. What you said to May, about college being hard? Itâs like that for me too, okay? I miss you all the time.âÂ
You bite the inside of your bottom lip. ââŚCollege isnât hard for you.âÂ
âItâs not easy.â He frowns, the fallen angel, his lips an unsure brushstroke. âWhatâs wrong? Did I say the wrong thing?âÂ
Youâre being wretched, you know, saying it isnât hard for him. âYou didnât. Really, you didnât.âÂ
âBut why are you upset?â he implores, dark eyes darker as his eyebrows tug together.
âIâm notââ
âYou are. Itâs okay, you can be upset. I just want you to feel better, you know that?â He settles his hands at the tops of your arms. Less intimate, but something warm remains. âEven if it takes a long time.âÂ
âIâm fine.âÂ
âYouâre not fine.â
âHow would you know?â you finally ask.Â
Peter stares at you.Â
âI know you,â he says carefully, âand I know you arenât struggling like you were, but that doesnât mean it didnât happen or that you have to be a hundred percent better now.âÂ
âI didnât realise that I was,â you say, licking your lips, ââtil now. I didnât get that it was on the surface.â
Peter pulls you in for a gentle hug. âIâm here for you forever, and Iâll make it up to you for not noticing sooner,â he says, scrunching your shirt in his hand.
After the hug, he tells you to change and make yourself comfortable while he showers. So you put on your pyjamas and climb into Peterâs bed, head pounding as though all your energy was stolen in a fell swoop. You press your nose to his pillow and arm wrapped around his comforter, gathering it into a Peter sized lump. The shower pump whines against the shared wall.Â
Things arenât meant to be like this. You thought Peter touching you âholding youâ was the deepest of your desires, but you feel now exactly as you had before he started blurring the line, needing Peter to kiss you so badly it becomes its own kind of nausea. Why are you still acting like itâs an impossibility?
When he comes back, youâll apologise. He hasnât done anything wrong. He does keep a secret, but donât you keep one too? Heâs Spider-Man. Youâve had deep, complicated feelings for him for months. They are secrets of equal magnitude, and are, more apparently, badly kept.Â
You wish you could fall asleep. Your heart ticks in agitation.
Peter returns as perturbed as earlier.Â
âAre you sure thereâs nothing wrong?â he asks, raking a hand through his hair. A towel hangs around his neck.Â
âIâm sorry for being weird.âÂ
âYouâre not weird,â Peter says, bringing the towel to his hair to scrub ruthlessly.Â
âItâs just âcos things have been different between us.â And, you try to say, that scares me no matter how bad I wanted it. because youâre not just Peter anymore, youâre Spider-Man. Iâm only me, and I canât do anything to protect you.
Peter gives his hair a long scrub before draping the towel on his desk chair. He rakes it messily into place and sits himself at the end of the bed. You sit up.Â
âYeah, they have been. Good different?â he asks hesitantly.Â
âI think so,â you say, quiet again.Â
âThatâs what I thought.âÂ
âI donât want you to feel like I donât want to be here. I just worry about you.âÂ
Peter uses his hands to get higher up the bed. âDonât worry about me,â he says, âJesus, please donât. Thatâs the last thing I want from you, I hate when people worry about me.âÂ
You curl into the lump of comforter youâd made. Peter lets himself rest beside you, his back to the bedroom wall, tens of Polaroids above him shining with the light of the hallway and his orange-bulbed lamp. His skin is glowing like itâs golden hour, dashes of topaz in his eyes, his Cupidâs bow deep. How would it feel to lean forward and kiss him? To catch his Cupid's bow under your lips?
You brush a damp curl tangled in another onto his forehead.Â
You lay there for a little while without talking, listening to the sound of the washing machine as it cycles downstairs.Â
âAm I going too fast?â Peter murmurs.Â
You press your lips together, shaking your head minutely.Â
âIs it something else?âÂ
You donât move.Â
âDo you want me to stop?â he asks.Â
âNo.â
Peter rewards you with a smile, his hand on your arm. âAlright. Let me get this blanket on you the right way. Youâre still cold.âÂ
You resent the loss of a shape to hold when Peter slips down beside you and wrangles the comforter flat again, spreading it out over you both, his hand under the blankets. His knuckles brush your thigh.Â
He takes a deep breath before turning and wrapping his arm over your stomach, asking softly, âIs this alright?âÂ
âYeah.âÂ
He gives you a look and then lifts his head to slot his nose against your temple. âPlease donât take this in a way that I donât mean it, but sometimes you think about things so much I worry youâre gonna get stuck in your head forever.âÂ
âI like thinking.âÂ
âI hate it,â he says quickly, a fervent, flirting cadence to his otherwise dulcet tone, âwe should never do it ever again.âÂ
âIâll try not to.âÂ
âWould you? For me?âÂ
You laugh into his shirt, feeling the warmth of your breath on your own nose. âIâll do my best.âÂ
âGood. Iâd miss you too much if you got lost in that nice head of yours.âÂ
You relax under his arm. You arenât sure what all the fuss was about now that he's hugging you. âIâd miss you too.â
May comes up the stairs about an hour later. To her credit, she doesnât flinch when she finds you and Peter smushed together watching a DVD on his old TV. Heâs holding your arm, and youâre snoozing on his shoulder, half-aware of the world, fully aware of his nice smells and the shapes of his arms.Â
âDoor open,â she says.Â
âNot that either of us want it closed, May, but weâre adults.âÂ
âNot while Iâm still washing your clothes, youâre not.âÂ
He snorts. âGoodnight, Aunt May. The door isnât gonna close, I promise.âÂ
âI know that,â she says, scornful in her pride. âYouâre a good boy.â She lightens. âThings are going okay?âÂ
Peter covers your ear. âGoodnight, Aunt May.âÂ
âI have half a mind to never listen to you again. You talk my ear off and I canât ask a simple question?âÂ
âI love you,â Peter sing-songs.Â
âI love you, Peter,â she says. âDonât smother the girl.âÂ
âI wonât smother her. Itâs in my best interest that she survives the night. Sheâs buying my breakfast tomorrow.âÂ
âPeter Parker.âÂ
âIâm kidding,â he whispers, petting your cheek absentmindedly. âJust messing with you, May.âÂ
You smile and curl further into his arms. His voice is like the sun, even when he whispers. Â
â
To your surprise, Spider-Man comes to find you after class one evening. A guest lecturer had talked to your oncology class about click chemistry and other molecular therapies against cancer, and the zine book sheâd given you is burning a hole in your pocket. Peter is going to love it.Â
You pull it out and pause beside a bench and a silver trash can, the day grey but thankfully without rain. The pages of your little book whip forcefully in the wind. Itâs chemistry, sure, but itâs biology too, wrapping your and Peterâs interests up neatly. If it werenât for Peter you doubt youâd love science as much as you do. Heâs always been good at it, but since you started college he's been a genius. Watching him grow has encouraged you to work harder, and understanding the material is satisfying, if draining. You take a photo of the middle most pages and tuck the book away, writing a quick text to Peter to send with it.Â
Look! it says, LEGO cancer treatment!!Â
The moment you press send a beep chimes from somewhere close behind you, all too familiar. You turn to the source but find nobody you know waiting. Coincidence, you think, shaking yourself and beginning the trek to the subway.Â
But then you hear the tell tale splat and thwick of Spider-Manâs webbing.Â
You wait until youâre at the alleyway between Portoâs Bakery and the key cutting shop and turn down to stop by one of the dumpsters.Â
âSpider-Man?â you ask, shoulders tensed in case itâs not who you think.Â
âWhat are you doing?â he asks.
You gasp as he hops down in front of you, his suit shiny with its dark web-pattern caught by the grey sunshine passing through the clouds overhead. âShit, donât break your ankles.âÂ
âMy ankles?â He laughs. He sounds so much like Peter that you can only laugh with him. What an idiot he is for thinking you donât know; what a fool youâd been for falling for his put upon tenor. âTheyâre fine. What would be wrong with my ankles?âÂ
âYou just dropped down twenty feet!âÂ
âItâs more like thirty, and Iâm fine. You understand the super part of superhero, donât you?âÂ
âWho said youâre a superhero?âÂ
âNice. What are you doing down here?âÂ
âI was testing my theory. Youâre following me.âÂ
âNo, Iâm visiting you, itâs very different,â he says confidently.Â
âYou havenât come to see me for weeks.âÂ
âYes, well, Iââ Spider-Peter crosses his arms across his chest. âHey, youâre the one who told me to take a day off.âÂ
âI did tell you to take a day off. Itâs not nice thinking about you trying to save the world every single night. Thatâs a lot of responsibility for one person to have.âÂ
âBut itâs my responsibility,â he says easily. âNo point in a beautiful girl like you wasting her time worrying about it. I have to do it, and I donât mind it.âÂ
âDo you flirt with every girl you meet out here in the city?â you ask, cheeks hot.Â
âNo,â he says, fondness evident even through the mask, âjust you.âÂ
âDo you wanna walk me home? I was gonna take the subway, but itâs not that far.âÂ
Spider-Man nods. âYeah, Iâll walk you back.âÂ
He doesnât hide that he knows the way very well. He takes preemptive turns, crosses roads without you telling him to go forward. You canât believe him. Smartest guy at Midtown High and he canât pretend to save his life.Â
âAre you having a good semester?â he asks.Â
âItâs getting better. Iâm glad I stuck with it. I love biology, itâs so fucking hard. I used to think that was a bad thing, but it makes it cooler now. Like, itâs not something everyone understands.â You give him a look, and you give into temptation. âMy best friend got me into all this stuff. I used to think math was hopeless and science was for dorks.âÂ
âItâs definitely for dorks.âÂ
âRight, but I love being one.â You offer a useless secret. âI like to think that itâs why weâre such great friends.âÂ
âMe and you?â Spider-Man asks hoarsely.Â
âMe and Peter.â You elbow him without force. âWhy, do you like science?âÂ
âI love itâŚâÂ
âYou know, I really like you, Spider-Man. I feel like weâve been friends for a long time.â Youâre teasing poor Peter.Â
He doesnât speak for a while. He stops walking, but you take a few steps without him. When you realise heâs stopped, you turn back to see him.Â
Peterâs gone so tense you could strike him with a flint and catch a spark. Itâs the same way Peter looked at you when he told you about his Uncle, a truth he didnât want to be true. Seeing it throws a spanner in the works of all your teasing: youâd meant to wind him up, not make him panic.Â
âWhatâs wrong?â you ask. âCan you hear something?âÂ
âNo, itâs not thatâŚâ Heâs masked, but you know him well enough to understand why heâs stopped.Â
âItâs okay,â you say.Â
âItâs not, actually.âÂ
âSpider-Man.â You take a step toward him. âItâs fine.â
He presses his hands to his stomach. The sun is setting early, and in an hour, the dark will eat up New York and leave it in a blistering cold. âDo you remember when we first met, the second time, we swapped secrets?âÂ
âYeah, I remember. Useless secret for another. I told you I hated my major. Itâs not true anymore, obviously. I was having a bad time.âÂ
âI know you were,â he says, emphasis on know, like itâs a different word entirely.Â
âBut meeting you really helped. If it werenât for you, for Peter,â âyou give him a searching lookâ âI wouldnât feel better at all.âÂ
âIt wasnât his fault?â he asks. âHe was your friend, and you were lonely.âÂ
âNoââ
âHe didnât know what was going on with you, he didnât have a clue. You hurt yourself and you felt like you couldnât tell anybody, and I know it wasnât an accident, so what was his excuse?â His voice burns with anger. âItâs his fault.âÂ
âOf course it wasnât your fault. Is that what you think?â You shake your head, panicked by the bone-deep self loathing in his voice, his shameful dropped head. âYes, I was lonely, I am lonely, I donât know many people and Iâ Iâ I hurt myself, and it wasnât as accidental as I thought it was, but why would that be your fault?âÂ
âPeterâs fault,â he says, though his head is lifted now, and he doesnât bother enthusing it with much gusto.Â
âPeter, none of it was your fault.â You cringe in your embarrassment, thinking Fuck, donât let me ruin this. âI was in a weird way, and yes, I was lonely, and I really liked you more than I should have. You didn't want me and that wasnât your fault, thatâs just how it was, I tried not to let it get to me, just there were a lot of things weighing on me at once, but it really wasnât as bad as you think it was and it wasnât your fault.âÂ
âI wasnât there for you,â he says. âAnd Iâve been lying to you for a long time.âÂ
âYou couldnât tell me, right? Spider-Man is your secret for a reason.âÂ
ââŚI didnât even know you were lonely until you told him. He was a stranger.âÂ
You hold your hands behind your back. âWell, he was a familiar one.âÂ
Peter reaches out as though wanting to touch you, but your arms arenât in his reach. âItâs not because I didnât want you.âÂ
âPeter,â you say, squirming.Â
He steps back.Â
âI have to go,â he says.Â
âWhat?âÂ
âI have toâ I donât want to go,â he says earnestly, âsweetheart, I can hear someone calling out, I have to go. But Iâll come back, Iâllâ Iâll come back,â he promises.Â
And with a sudden lift of his arm, Peter pulls himself up the side of a building and disappears, leaving you whiplashed on the sidewalk, the sun setting just out of view.
â
You fall asleep that night waiting for Peter. When you wake up, 5AM, eyes aching, he isnât there. You check your phone but he hasnât texted. You check the Bugle and Spider-Man hasnât been seen.Â
You arenât sure what to think. He sounded sincere to the fullest extent when he said heâd come back, but he didnât, not ten minutes later, not twenty. You made excuses and you went home before it got too dark to see the street, sat on the couch rehearsing what youâd say. How could Peter think your unhappiness was his fault? Why does he always put the entire world on his shoulders?
Selfishly, you worried what it all meant for his lazy touches. Would he want to curl up into bed with you again now he knows what it means to you? Itâs different for him. It isnât like heâs in love with you⌠youâd just thought maybe he could be. That this was falling in love, real love, not the unrequited ache youâd suffered before.Â
But maybe you got everything wrong. All of it. It wouldn't be the first time.Â
â
You and Peter found The Moroccan Mode in your senior year at Midtown. The school library was small and you were sick of being underfoot at home. When you started at ESU, you explored the on campus coffeehouse, the Coffee Bean, but it was crowded, and youâd found yourself attached to the Modeâs beautiful tiling, blues and topaz and platinum golds, its heavy, oiled wooden furniture, stained glass lampshades and the case full of lemony treats. The coffee here is better than anywhere else, but the best part out of everything is that itâs your secret. Barely anybody comes to the Mode on purpose.Â
You hide in a far corner with a book and an empty cup of decaf coffee, a slice of meskouta on the table untouched. Decaf because caffeine felt a terrible idea, meskouta untouched because you canât stomach the smell. You push it to the opposite end of the table, considering another cup of coffee instead. Itâs served slightly too hot, and will still be warm when it gets to your chest.Â
The sunshine is creeping in slowly. It feels like the first time youâve seen it in months, warming rays kissing your fingers and lining the walls. You turn a page, turn your wrist, let the sun warm the scar you gave yourself those few months ago, when everything felt too big for you.Â
Looking back, it was too big. Maybe soon youâll be ready to talk about it. Â
The author in your book is talking about bees. They can fly up to 15 miles per hour. They make short, fast motions from front to back, a rocking motion. Asian giant hornets can go even faster despite their increased mass. They consider humans running provocation. If you see a giant hornet, youâre supposed to lay down to avoid being stung.Â
You put your face in your hand. Next year, youâll avoid the insect-based electives.Â
Across the cafe, the bell at the top of the door rings. Laughter falls through it, a couple passing by. The register clashes open. A minute later it closes.Â
You donât raise your head when footsteps draw near. A plate is placed on the table, pushed across to you, stopping just shy of your coffee.Â
âDid you eat breakfast?â Peter asks quietly.Â
His voice is gentle, but hoarse.Â
You tense.Â
âAre you okay?â he asks, not waiting for your answer to either question. âYou donât look like yourself. Your eyes are red.âÂ
You lift your head. Wet with the beginnings of tears, you see Peter through an astigmatic blur.Â
âWhat are you reading?â He frowns at you. âPlease donât cry.âÂ
You shake your head. Your smile is all odd, nothing like his, no inherent warmth despite your best effort. âIâm okay.âÂ
He nudges you across the booth seat and sits beside you. His arm settles behind your shoulders. He smells like smoke and soap, an acrid scent barely hidden. âCan you tell me you didnât wait long for me?âÂ
âTen minutes,â you lie.Â
âOkay. Iâm sorry. There was a fire.â He rubs your arm where heâs holding you. âIâm sorry.âÂ
âWill you go half?â you ask, nodding to the sandwich heâs brought you. Itâs tough sourdough bread, brown with white flour on the crusts and leafy greens poking between the slices. You and Peter complain about the price. Youâve never had one. He passes you the bigger half, holding the other in his hand without eating.Â
âI know youâre hungry,â you say, tapping his elbow, âjust eat.âÂ
You eat your sandwiches. Now that Peterâs here, you donât feel so sick âheâs not upset with you. The dull pang of an empty stomach wonât be ignored.Â
Peter puts his sandwich down, which is crazy, and wipes his fingers on the plates napkin. Youâve never seen him stop before heâs done.
âIt was in the apartments on Vernon. Iâ I think I almost died, the smoke was everywhere.âÂ
You choke around a crust, thrusting the rest of your half onto the plate. âAre you hurt?â you ask, coughing.Â
He moves his head from side to side, not a shake, but a slow no. âHow long have you known it was me?â he asks, curling his hand behind your back again, fingers spread over your shoulder blade, a fingertip on your neck.Â
You savour his touch, but you give in to your apprehension and stare at his chest. âThe night you caught me outside in the rain in November. You called me ârunning girlâ. The way you said it, you sounded exactly like him. I turned around expecting,â âyou whisper, weary of the quiet cafeâ âSpider-Man, and I realised itâs him that sounds like you. That he is you.âÂ
âWas that disappointing?âÂ
âPeter, youâre, like, my favourite person in the world,â you whisper fervently, your smile making it light. You laugh. âWhy would that be disappointing?âÂ
âI thought maybe you think heâs cooler than me.âÂ
âHe is cooler than you, Peter.â You laugh again, pleased when he scoffs and draws you nearer. âI guess youâre the same person, right? So heâs just as cool as you are. But why would being cool matter to me? You know I like you.âÂ
âYou flirted pretty heavily with Spider-Man.â
âWell, he flirted with me first.âÂ
You chance a look at his face. From that moment you canât look away, not from Peter. You like when he wears that darkness in his eyes, the hint of his rarer side so uncommonly seen, but you love this most of all, Peter like your best memory, the way heâs looking at you now a picture perfect copy of that moment in a swimming pool in Manhattan with cracked tile under your feet. His arms heavy on your shoulders. You didnât get it then, but youâre starting to understand now.
âIâve made a mess of everything,â he says softly, the trail his hand makes to the small of your back leaving a wake of goosebumps. âI havenât been honest with you.âÂ
âI havenât, either.âÂ
âI want to ask you for something,â Peter says, a fingertip trailing back up. He smiles when you shiver, not teasing, just loving. âYou can say no.âÂ
âYouâre hard to say no to.âÂ
âI need you to talk to me more,â âand here he goes, Peter Parker, flirting and sweet-talking like his life depends on it, his face inching down into your spaceâ ânot just because I love your voice, or because you think so much Iâm scared youâll get lost, but I need you to talk to me. We need to talk about real things.â
We do, you think morosely.Â
âItâs not your fault,â he adds, the hand that isnât holding your back coming up to cup your cheek, âitâs mine. I was scared of telling you for stupid reasons, but I shouldnât have let it be a secret for so long.âÂ
âNo, I doubt theyâre stupid,â you murmur, following his hand as he attempts to move it to your ear. âItâs not easy to tell someone youâre a hero.â
His palm smells like smoke.Â
âThatâs not the secret I meant,â he says.Â
You take his hand from your face. Peter looks down and begins pressing his fingers between yours, squeezing them together as his thumb runs over the back of your hand.
âSo tell me.â
The sunshine bleeds onto his cheek. Dappled orange light turning slowly white as time stretches and the sun moves up through a murky sky. âYou want to trade secrets again?â he asks.Â
âPlease.âÂ
âOkay. Okay, but I donât have as many as you do,â he warns.Â
âI find that hard to believe.âÂ
âI donât. Itâs not a real secret, is it? Iâve been trying to show you for weeks, weâŚâ
He tilts his head invitingly.Â
All those hand-holds and nights curled up in bed together. Am I going too fast? You know exactly what he means; it really isnât a secret.
âIâll go first,â he says, lowering his face to yours. You try not to close your eyes. âIâve wanted to kiss you for weeks.â He closes his eyes so you follow, your breath not your own suddenly. You hold it. Let it go hastily. âWhatâs your secret?âÂ
âSometime I want you to kiss me so badly I canât sleep. It makes me feel sickââ
âSick?â he asks worriedly.Â
You touch the tip of your nose to his. âItâs likeâ like jealousy, butâŚâÂ
âYou have no one to be jealous of,â he says surely. He cups your cheek, and he asks, âPlease, can I kiss you?âÂ
You say, âYes,â very, very quietly, but he hears it, and his smile couldnât be more obvious as he closes the last of the distance between you to kiss you.
It isnât the sort of kiss that kept you up at night. Peter doesnât hook you in or tip your head back, he kisses gently, his hand coming to live on your cheek, where it cradles. Itâs so warm you donât know what to make of him beyond kissing him back âkissing his smile, though itâs catching. Kissing the line of his Cupidâs bow as he leans down.Â
âIâm sorry about everything,â he mumbles, nose flattened against yours.Â
You feel sunlight on your cheek. Squinting, you turn into his hand to peer outside at the sudden abundance of it. Itâs still cold outside, but the Mode is warm, Peterâs hand warmer, and the sunshine is a welcome guest.Â
Peter drops his hand. âOh, wow. December sun. Good thing it didnât snow, weâd be blind.â
âI canât be cold much longer,â you confess. âIâm sick of the shitty weather.âÂ
âI can keep you warm.âÂ
He smiles at you. His eyelashes tangle in the corners of his eyes, long and brown.Â
âDid you want my meskouta?â you ask.Â
Peter plants a fat kiss against your brow.Â
You let the sunshine warm your face. Two unfinished sandwich halves, a mouthful of coffee, and a round slice of meskouta, its flaky crumb and lemon drizzle shining on the table. You would ask Peter for his camera if youâd thought he brought it with him, to take a picture of your breakfast and the carved table underneath. You could turn it on Peter, say something cheesy. This is the moment you ruined our lives, youâd tease.
âYou never told me you met Spider-Man, you know.âÂ
You watch Peter lick the tip of his finger without shame. âThey could make a novella of things I havenât told you about,â you murmur wryly.Â
Peter takes a bite of meskouta, reaching for your knee under the table. He shakes your leg a little, as if to say, Well, weâll work on that.Â
â
Spring
âSorry!â
âNo, itâsââ
âSorry, sorry, Iâmâ shit!â
ââokay! All legs inside the ride?â
âI couldnât find my purseââ
âYou donât need it!â Peter leans over the console to kiss your cheek. âYou donât have to rush.âÂ
âAre you sure you can drive this thing?âÂ
âHarry doesnât mind.âÂ
âI donât mean the car, I mean, are you sure you can drive?âÂ
âThatâs not funny.âÂ
You grin and dart across to kiss his cheek, too. âNothing ever is with us.âÂ
Peter grabs you behind the neck âwhich might sound rough, if he were capable of such a thingâ and pulls you forward for a kiss you donât have time for. âIf we donât check in,â âyou begin, swiftly smothered by another press of his lips, his tongue a heat flirting with the seam of your lipsâ âby three, they said they wonât keep the roomââ He clasps the back of your neck and smiles when your breath stutters. You squeeze your eyes closed, kiss him fiercely, and pull away, hand on his chest to restrain him. âAnd then weâll have to drive home like losers.âÂ
Peter sits back in the driver's seat unbothered. He fixes his hair, and he wipes his bottom lip with his knuckle. Youâre rolling your eyes when he finally returns your gaze. âSorry, am I the one who lost her purse?âÂ
âPeter!âÂ
âI canât make us un-late,â he says, turning the key slowly, hands on the wheel but his eyes still flitting between your eyes and your lips.Â
âAlright,â you warn.Â
He reaches for your knee. âItâs a forty minute drive. Youâre panicking over nothing.âÂ
âItâs an hour.âÂ
Your drive from Queens to Manhattan is entirely uneventful. You keep Peterâs hand hostage on your knee, your palm atop it, the other hand wrapped around his wrist, your conversation a juxtaposition, almost lackadaisical. Peter doesnât question your clinging nor your lazy murmurings, rubbing a circle into your knee with his thumb from Forest Hill to Lenox Hill. Thereâs so much to do around Manhattan; you could visit MoMA, Central Park, The Empire State Building or Times Square, but you and Peter give it all a miss for the little known Manhattan Super 8.Â
Itâs been a long time since you and Peter first visited. You took the bus out to Lenox Hill for a med-student tour neither of you particularly enjoyed, feeling out future careers. Itâs not that Lenox Hill isnât one of the most impressive medical facilities in New York (if not the northeastern USA), itâs that all the blood made him queasy, and you were panicking too much about the future to think it through. He got over his aversion to blood but chose the less hands-on science in the end, and you worked things through. Youâre a little less scared of the future everyday.Â
You and Peter were supposed to get the bus straight back home for a sleepover, but one got cancelled, another delayed, and night closed in like two hands on your neck. Peter sensed your fear and emptied his wallet for a night in the Super 8.Â
The next morning it was beautifully sunny. The first day of summer that year, warm and golden. The pool wasnât anything special but it was invitingly cool, blue and white tiles patterned like fish below; you clambered into the water in shorts and a tank top and Peter his boxers before a worker could see and stop you.Â
It was one of the best days of your life. When you told Peter about it last week, heâd looked at you peculiarly, said, Bub, youâre cute, and let you waste the afternoon recounting one of your more embarrassing pangs of longing. A few days later he told you to clear your calendar for the weekend, only spilling the beans on what heâd done when youâd curled over his lap, a hand threaded into the hair at the nape of his neck, murmuring, Tell me, tell me, tell me.Â
Heâd hung his head over you and scrunched up his eyes. Cheater.
The best thing about having a boyfriend is that he always wants to listen to you. Peter was a good listener as a best friend, but now he has his act together and the secrets between you are never anything more than eating the last of the milk duds or not wanting to pee in front of him, heâs a treasure. Thereâs no feeling like having Peter pull you into his lap so he can ask about your day with his face buried in your neck, sniffing. Sometimes, when you text one another to meet up the next day, youâll accidentally will the hours away babbling about school and life and things without reason. Peter has a list on his phone of your silliest tangents; blood oranges to the super moon, fries dipped in ice cream to the world record for kick flips done in five minutes. Itâs like when you talk to one another, you canât stop.Â
There are quiet moments. You wake up some mornings to find him awake already, an arm behind you, rubbing at your soft upper arm, fingertip displacing the fine hairs there and trailing circles as he reads. He bends the pages back and holds whatever novel heâs reading at the bottom of his stomach, as though making sure you can see the words clearly, even when youâre sleeping.Â
There are hectic, aching moments âvigilante boyfriends become blasĂŠ with their lives and precious faces. Youâve teetered on the edge of anxiety attacks trying to pick glass from his cheek with a tweezers, lamented over bruises that heal the next day. Itâs easier when Peterâs careful, but Spider-Man isnât careful. You ask him to take care of himself and heâs gentle with himself for a few days, but then someone needs saving from an armed burglar or a car swerves dangerously onto the sidewalk and he forgets.Â
He hadnât patrolled last night in preparation for today.Â
âDid you know,â he says, pulling Harryâs borrowed car into a parking spot just in front of the Super 8 reception, âthat todayâs the last day of spring?âÂ
âAlready?âÂ
âTonightâs the June equinox.âÂ
âWho told you that?âÂ
âAunt May. She said itâs time to get a summer job.âÂ
You laugh loudly. âOur federal loans wonât last forever.âÂ
âHarryâs gonna get me something, I think. Do you want to work with me? It could be fun.âÂ
You nod emphatically. Itâs barely a thought. âObviously I want to. Does Oscorp pay well, do you think?âÂ
Peter lets the engine go. The car turns off, engine ticking its last breath in the dash. âBetter than the Bugle.âÂ
You get your key from the reception and find your room upstairs, second floor. Itâs not dirty nor exceptionally clean, no mould or damp but a strange smell in the bathroom. Thereâs a microwave with two mugs and a few sachets of instant coffee. Peter deems it the nicest motel heâs ever stayed in, laughing, crossing the room to its only window and pulling aside the curtain.Â
âThere it is, sweetheart,â he says, wrapping his arm around you as you join him, âthatâs what dreams are made of.âÂ
The blue and white tiled pool. It hasnât changed.Â
Itâs about as hot as itâs going to get in June today, and, not knowing if itâll rain tomorrow, you and Peter change into your swim suits and gather your towels. You wear flip flops and tangle your fingers, clanking and thumping down the rickety metal stairs to the pool. Thereâs nobody there, no lifeguard, no quests, and the pool is clean and cold when you dip your toes.Â
Peter eases in first. Towels in a heap at the end of a sun lounger, his shirt tumbling to the floor, Peter splashes in frontward and turns to face you as the water laps his ribs. âItâs cold,â he says, wading for your legs, which he hugs.Â
âI can feel it,â you say, the cool waters to your calves where you sit on the edge.Â
âYou wonât come in and warm me up?â he asks.Â
You stroke a tendril of hair from his eyes. He attempts to kiss your fingers.Â
âIâm trying to prepare myself.âÂ
âMm, you have to get used to it.â He puts wet hands on your thighs, looking up imploringly until you lean down for a kiss. The fact that heâd want one still makes you dizzy. âThank you,â he says.Â
âYouâll have to move.âÂ
Peter steps back, a ripple of water ringing behind him, his hands raised. He slips them with ease under your arms and helps you down into the water, laughing at your shocked giggling âheâs so strong, the water so cold.Â
Peter doesnât often show his strength. Never to intimidate, he prefers startling you helpfully. Heâll lift you when you want to reach something too tall, or raise the bed when youâre on his side to force you sideways.Â
âOh, this is the perfect place to try the lift!â he says.Â
âHow will I run?â you ask, letting your knees buckle, water rushing up to your neck.Â
Peter pulls you up. He touches you easily, and yet you get the sense that heâs precious with you, too. Thereâs devotion to be found in his hands and the specific way they cradle your back, drawing your chest to his. âI donât need you to do a running start, sweetheart,â he says, tilting his head to the side, âIâll just lift you.âÂ
âLast time I laughed so much you dropped me.âÂ
âExactly, you laughed, and this is serious.âÂ
The world isnât mild here. Car horns beep and tyres crunch asphalt. You can hear children, and singing, and a walkie talkie somewhere in the Super 8âs parking lot. The pool pumps gargle and Peterâs breath is half laughter as he pulls you further from the sidelines, ceramic tiles slippery under your feet. In the distance, you swear you can hear one of those songs he likes from that poor singer who died in the Wolf River.Â
Heâs a beholden thing in the sun; you canât not look at him, all of him, his sculpted chest wet and glinting in the sun, his eyes like browning honey, his smile curling up, and up.Â
âYouâre beautiful,â he says.Â
You rest an arm behind his head. âThe rash guard is a good look?âÂ
âSweetheart, you couldnât look cuter,â he says, hands on your waist, pinky on your hip. âI wish youâd mentioned these shorts a few days ago. I wouldâve prepared to be a more decent man.âÂ
âYouâre decent enough, Parker.âÂ
âMaybe now.âÂ
âWell, if things get too hot, you can always take a quick dip,â you say.Â
Youâre teasing, but Peterâs eyes light up with mischief as he calls, âOh, great idea!â and lets himself drop backwards into the water. You pull your arm back rather than go with him. You canât avoid the great burst of water as he surges to the surface.Â
He shakes himself off like a dog.Â
âPete!â you cry through laughs, wiping the water from your face before the chlorine gets in your eyes.Â
âIt just didnât help,â he says, pulling you back into his arms, âyou know, the water is cold, but youâre so hot, and I actually got a pretty good look at them when I was under, and youâre just as pretty as I remembered you being ten seconds agoââ
âPeter,â you say, tempted to roll your eyes.Â
Water runs down his face in great rivers, but with the dopey smile heâs sporting, they look like anything but tears. âTell me a secret?â he asks, dripping in sunshine, an endless summer at his back.Â
A soft smile takes your lips. âNo,â you say, tipping up your chin, âyou tell me one first.â
âWhat kind of secret?âÂ
âA real one,â you insist.Â
âOhâŚâ He leans away from you, though his arms stay crossed behind you. âOkay, I have one. Ask me again.âÂ
You raise a single brow. âTell me a secret, Peter.âÂ
He pulls your face in for a kiss. His hand is wet on your cheek, but no less welcome. âI love you,â he says, kissing the skin just shy of your nose.Â
Youâre lucky heâs already holding you. âI love you too,â you say, gathering him to you for a hug, digging your nose into the slope of his neck as his admission blows your mind. âI love you.âÂ
Peter wraps his arms around your shoulders, closing his eyes against the side of your head. You canât know what heâs thinking, but you can feel it. His hands canât seem to stay still on your skin.Â
The sun warms your back for a time.Â
Peter lets out a deep breath of relief. You lean away to look at him, your hand slipping down into the water, where he finds it, his fingers circling your wrist.Â
âThatâs another one to let go of,â he suggests.Â
He peppers a row of gentle kisses along your lips and the soft skin below your eye.Â
You and Peter swim until your fingers are pruned and the sun has been blanketed by clouds. You let him wrap you in a towel, and kiss your wet ears, and take you back to the room, where he holds your face.Â
âIâll start the shower for you,â he says, rubbing your cheeks with his thumbs, each stroke of them encouraging your face from one side to the other, just a touch, ever so slightly moved in the palms of his hands.Â
âDonât fall asleep standing up,â he murmurs.Â
Your eyes close unbidden to you both. âI wonât.âÂ
He holds you still, leaning in slowly to kiss you with the barest of pressure. Every thought in your head fades, leaving only you and Peter, and the dizziness of his touch as he lays you down at the end of the bed.Â
・đŚšÂ°â§â.á
please like, comment or reblog if you enjoyed, i love comments and seeing what anyone reading liked about the fic is a treat âthank you for readingâ¤ď¸
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Its never too late baby . . . âĄ
(⧠Ë.) PAIRING-> James "Logan" Howlett {A.K.A} Wolverine x Mutant Reader >_<
(⧠Ë.) SUMMARY -> You were always someone who utilized your strengths. Physical and mental, you were a jack of all trades. You were a true hero to the students you taught within the school. Amongst the other X-men, you would always be one of them. But you had this little tick, that always annoyed Logan no doubt. You were a secretive person, too secretive for even his "standards." For others, you were a pillar of nurture and guidance. He saw your well-meaning nature from miles away. It was almost sickening to him how you would stretch your capabilities out to no end. He would never deny that he could be selfish. Sometimes it's more worth it to save your spine, than risk it for someone else. Though with the problems being thrown the team's way as of recent, he always saw you spinning your wheels. You wouldn't reason with him even when he of all people would lend you a shoulder to cry on. Even the students at the school could see it. With their childish snickers and big-eyed looks at your comfortable banter with Mr. Howlett whenever he helped with class. You were in love with the Wolverine. Again, out of all the Canadians - him? It wasn't something like a schoolgirl crush. It was an infatuation sort of deal. You burned for him mind body and soul. You would pretty much follow this scoundrel to the ends of the earth, even the end of your life if prompted. Which causes something to break between you two after you risk your livelihood for your family. The people that made up your heart, including Logan.
(⧠Ë.) AUTHORS NOTE -> hi party people!! I saw so much of the sweet reception for my first ever logan piece , so tysm!! Genuinely from the bottom of my heart the love means so much. As Iâm currently going through my x-men marathon time if you will , Iâve had this idea brewing for a while. Thankfully the resurgence of logan content has given me the push needed to formulate this yk! This isnât a part two to my previous logan post. That will be coming very shortly, but this is its own thing. Timeline wise... erm.... idrk a good place to put this SIGH. I'm thinking like in between x2 and the last stand. also one last final note , the title I took from Chemtrails over the country club. specifically the one lyric - "it's never too late baby so don't give up." felt like an appropriate whimsy title, nd I have been hearing that song everywhere lolz. Anyways, toodles!!! á˘áᢠ(⧠Ë.) CWS (?) -> Descriptions of blood and graphic injury , they/them pronouns for reader !! , mentions of major character deal , Logan cares too much ... which could mean nothing , ur comatose for like the good first chunk of this , Jean and u have LORE!!!!! (not rlly but u and her have backstory beefers/her "passing" affect reader 100%) , mourning/grief, And that's on having no healing powers!! Buh-dun-csh!!
Your fall from grace was quick on the battlefield. This was supposed to just be any regular mission. You were using it as a way to clear your head after all. But you took a leap too far and now here you were, plummeting. The issue at hand was apprehended, sure. But you didn't leave the fight unscathed. Your vision grew too spotty for you to even make out your surroundings. Your hearing too even started to fog. Looking down, somehow or some way a large-sized piece of shrapnel metal had made it into your torso. Right in the sweet spot that was not in the lungs. Your legs began to wobble, losing your footing slowly but surely. You didn't realize your body was falling to the ground. The warm feeling rushing through you was the blood exiting from your hefty wound. It was ironic the last thing your eyes met before collapsing. Logan turned back around immediately once he noticed you weren't clamoring to the jet. His heart sunk to his stomach as he immediately sprung over to you. By the time your head had smacked against the ground, you went out. Your fingertips began to buzz, your fatigue lifting all of a sudden. All of the hurt and weight on your shoulders lifted? You felt freer than before, with a piece of debree stuck inside of your body no more. Even if some people regarded mutants as the next step in human evolution, a majority were still stuck with fleshy bodies. If only you were made out of steel. In this momentary unconsciousness, you thought about everything that went wrong. Your existence as a whole, joining the school. Moving up from student to teacher at Professor Xavier's school, like Scott and Ororo you were one of the first. Regarded as maybe one of the most useful of the bunch. No one could ever compete with Storm, the literal incarnate of a goddess. You thought of her as your eyes closed, embraced with the warm memories of your early days within the school.
The professor was never one to play favorites among his students. But when he searched you out and arrived with a less conniving Magneto at your door, it was clear you were special to him and his cause. From that day forward you were seen as a pillar of hope to a lot of the students. To some, you were like a mother, to others a guardian who would save them no matter the risk. To Logan Howlett - "The Wolverine", you were a coward. A coward that he admired. A coward he respected due to the ways you handled... stress in the simplest of terms. From the day he met you, he wandered around the halls of the mansion bewildered and confused. Something about you stuck out. He would've done something with this urge sooner if his eyes weren't honed in on another.
From day one you were not surprised how fast he fell and yearned for Jean. The woman you saw as your confidant, your best friend, she was magnificent. Smart and poised all in one with a strong set of mutant abilities. She was on the same power level as the professor, which made sense for their connection.
For living in Jean's shadow, you didnât hate it. You were her right-hand man. Your balance was comforting, she was like your sister. The professor in small quiet moments of honesty to you liked to compare you to him and Magnus. When times were simpler they werenât at opposing ends of the mutant kind spectrum. Yours and Jean's dynamic made you feel at ease with yourself. How could you worry? Your identity became a part of hers a long time ago. Logan saw more to that with you. Sure you could nag a lot of the time, and you always barked up his tree whenever he found ways to smoke on school grounds. But you just had this pull for him. He'd always find his way to see you first whenever entering a room. His brash and gritty attitude always got all mushy around you. He over time grew a lot more fond of the smallest details when it came to you. He was an amnesiac, his past only bits and pieces. But you made him feel grounded. You cherished his growth in ways no one else had. You were the reason why he was so drawn to the "now" of life. He needed that in times like this. He couldn't keep up for long after the realization that Jean was gone finally sunk in. Drowning at his one-sided attraction, the longing that he could've done more, you pulled him right out from that rut. Thank god that the two of you combined had horrible sleep schedules. His nightmares still stirred while you were suddenly afflicted with these with the memories of being on that jet when it wouldn't take off. That same pain rocketed through you every night as you were haunted by the sight of Jean finally swept into the oncoming flood. The feeling of grief ricocheted throughout the entire school. But you found your way to stay afloat. It was Logan, which you never thought of yourself admitting. But truth be told it was him. He was the most anchoring thing around you. Ororo distanced herself for the first month, while Scott cracked under the pressure of grief. Late nights dashing around the campus halls to the kitchen, out to the court where you two just talked. You had never seen him talk so much until you two became each other's support. It made you feel better seeing him smile more. Especially when it was at you. Again, you would never utter that truth EVER. At least that's what you thought. But his smile was a nice reminder of all of the light he held inside of him. As much as he despised ... everything, he was still so nurturing in his own ways. Nightmares were an excuse for him to be next to you. Nightmares were his excuse to hold you tight to his chest. The pain of loss was a collective "excuse" between the two of you to just .. be close.
Soon though, this ideal predicament between you both started to crack. Because even though she was dead, you still knew you would always be inferior. It may be all in your head but the hate kept you driven. It kept you driven but also mad. Small things would set you off soon enough. You knew deep down whenever he'd look into your eyes, it was a nice reminder of Jean. Even with how much he denied it when you came to him in tears, your bitter pain and grief clouded your judgment.
Logan saw that even with his help you were still hurting. He didn't want to get involved in it entirely as some of it was your own demon. But he saw how bad your spiraling was and still wouldn't accept his help. Not even from Ororo or Scott, not even the professor. Neither of you would admit who started the argument. It was late, and you were tired from pushing yourself to grade papers. Logan couldn't sleep and wandered his way to your classroom of course. The conversation was fine until he mentioned the problem. Your problem which you didn't want to deal with right now. As you were only running on a few hours of sleep. But even with Logan's usual "take and give no fucks" attitude, he knew he needed to push. You were slowly shutting yourself off this time, and he didn't expect himself to be a part of that mix. It was all a misunderstanding, but the two of you were angry and fire was thrown.
Your shared feelings were complicated. This whole ordeal with him brought out the "worst parts" of your love for him. He too was dealing with his internal dilemma. How could he move on from Jean and you were still latched onto the idea of her? It was a stupid question that was brought up in a Logan way, which of course caused the spat to escalate. His poor mistake was what he shouted. Already with the fear of waking one or even all of the students, you hated what he even dared to utter. "We're friends, you need to calm down about this whole obsession thing bub!" Originally you were thinking of just heading to bed. You were too tired to continue on with this constant bickering. But that's when you exploded on him. You regretted every last word you said to his face. Because it was you speaking your honest truth. About what you felt for him, about your hurt and your pain. How Jean was practically your lifeline. Losing her was like losing a piece of yourself. Especially since you rubbed it in about the kiss he and her shared. That you had seen and that made you sick to your stomach. A couple hours later she was dead. Your heightened emotions make you feel almost dizzy. The more you talked the more you realized his expressions distinct shift. As he was reaching out for you, you immediately swatted his arm askew. He didn't realize he hated to see you cry as much as he did until now. With broken sobs, you ran out of your classroom. The papers once stacked neatly were now laid messily all over your desk. You made sure to keep quiet. What broke your heart even more was a half-awake Rogue you ran into. She looked even more awake seeing your distraught state. Her feet tip-toed against the wooden floors of the hall before she looked at you. A big reason you and Logan were so close too, was because of Rogue. She was a good kid, he always rubbed off on her. He told you everything about how he and Rogue met. You were so enamored hearing him recount even the foggiest of memories. It could even be arguments with Scott he had, you'd just sit there with wide eyes as you listened. His word became your gospel. It warmed you to your core hearing him almost sound like a dad. He had looked out for her from the beginning. You always tried to do the same even when he left for Alklai Lake for answers.
It was so silly when she had practically pushed you and Logan to talk. She was just a kid and you two took up the almost suto role of her protectors. Friend or parent, she too found two trusted people to confide in. So you immediately went into "teacher mode" as soon as she saw you with watery eyes. She looked puzzled when her face met yours. You calmed down her storm of questions as she sputtered on and on. What's wrong? , is something happening? Are you okay? The hug you shared was one of the last meaningful hugs you had with another living being. You practically cradled her in your arms as you helped her calm down. She looked up at you, her larger brown eyes almost like the ones of a puppy. "Please don't be lying to me... y'know ah don't like liars." She whispered softly, her bubbly southern accent quiet. Your heart broke into a couple more pieces as you lied through your teeth. With a content nod, you bidded her a goodnight. Turning back to your room to drown your sorrow in god knows what. It had only been a good couple of months after Jeans' death that a mission arose. The X-men were laying low after everything at the base. For the school's and students' sake. But it was always on time when something bad happened for the team to fix. Old enemies came a-knocking and this time it wasn't Magneto. It was all supposed to be an in-and-out operation. You immediately clamored to get your hands dirty once again. You and Logan hadn't been talking for the last couple of days. Not even meeting in the dead of night to speak to another. You longed to hear about his afternoons subbing with Storm. This was your chance to regain some well-needed level-headedness. The thrill of doing what's right for a better tomorrow always made you feel better The mission even got Scott to come out of his puddle of mourning. Making you feel even better seeing your good friend so triumphant as he quickly clamored for his uniform. You and Logan didn't even brush shoulders as Storm and Scott dashed off to prepare the jet for takeoff. Everything should have gone fine. You should have all made it out alive. Every single one of you, that's what you had planned. Your lapse in judgment will always be your curse. Because now here you were, in the lap of the man that made your stomach churn. That made you feel LIKE that silly schoolgirl feeling you despised. Snapping back to reality, you realize where you are currently laid. Logan's eyes eased from his previous panicked look of fear as he saw you conscious. You were still bleeding but it seems that with quick medical attention either one of them got it to lessen. Your heart raced as you felt the warmness of his hands as they pressed against your cheeks. "Come on, there you go. Just focus on me." He cooed to your heaving chest. In the far back of the jet, you couldn't see Ororo or Scott. What you could see though was the remnants of blood on Logan's suit. He must have carried you off of the rubble and into the X-jet. Your smile was nothing compared to the horrid wince that left you. Finally, after this long moment of ease, the pain set in.
Going down to hold your gut, you shuddered as your vision all of a sudden wavered. You took in a sharp breath as finally, you noticed how in bad shape you were. Red filled your palm as you shuddered. Thankfully Logan noticed you and your shaky breath and immediately gripped your hand. Even in this state, you were currently in, you would always be able to focus on him. "I know, I know it's scary. You got hit pretty bad, but it's okay. Just focus on me and you'll be okay? I have you." He encouraged softly with that comforting rasp in his throat. His eyes were shaken and his lip was firm. Though his mood lightened somewhat because at least now you were awake.
You tried to speak but you were so weak. That same fatigue stung you as you stumbled over your words. He cradled you in his arms as he kept his eyes only on you. Your weary mind still around belittling you, another one of your eerily humane curses. He saw your chest quicken and lip quiver as your eyes began to lull, you were struggling. "Hey .. don't strain yourself - what is it?" He too began to worry as you saw his vulnerability bloom. Finally your chest steady as you took in one big breath of air. You let out the one thing keeping you from slipping back into rest in one huff. "Don't let me die, asshole." The asshole part came out more garbled from you after you coughed out your last words. Your last words before your eyes fell closed. For some reason, your hearing stayed for just a while longer. In and out, you could hear him cursing under his breath. The last thing you hear is Logan's panicked shouting at Scott, "Can this hunk of metal go any faster?!"
Finally, after so much pain, there was quiet. Peace and quiet after your constant heartache. You felt freed from the chains of reality. From birth to now, now seemed like your death. You left your current reality with a bitter-sweet smile as you felt consciousness swarm over you.
You couldn't feel how long you were out. Oh, but Logan could. Six weeks you lay in the infirmary. With some sort of miracle and hope, Ororo was barely able to stabilize you. The team rushed back into the mansion in panic as your wounds were assessed. But no, you couldn't feel the panic that coursed through your loved ones as you lay so peacefully. You didn't know your heart rate was being tracked. You were stable but anyone could guess it'd take you a while to re-reach consciousness. That your accident broke the barely well Scott Summers. But most of all it affected Logan to the core. He felt his world shake under him as he finally realized what had just happened. Something snapped in a man so stuck in his ways. Those words you said to him before you went back down. They were short but in the moment meant so much. Not to mention the fact that even Logan, so careless and free, was guilty. Every time he came back just to see you, he wanted to curl over and into you. Just like how he mourned Jean, he mourned you. Though .. he couldn't because you were technically still here. He may have not noticed it but everyone else could. The lack of your presence hindered him the worst. He missed the way you'd bother him out of the blue during the quiet time around the school. He missed you telling him about your life. He missed the shitty snort you did when you laughed too hard at one of his bad jokes. He missed seeing you happy. He missed seeing you move around. Pestering students for turning in assignments late or cheating. He missed the feel of your lips against his forehead when his nightmares of Jean flared up. He missed the way you looked at him. The way you saw him not only as a man but as himself. He didn't know how to admit it but he.. missed you. He missed you so bad and it was eating away at him. He spent hours out of his day visiting you. Like what you two always did when you were alone, he talked. About his day, what he ate, and even the lessons he overheard. The school got even quieter with you gone and he hated it. He felt bitter and broken, he didn't want to feel like that. He especially missed the way he felt with you. Almost like being on cloud nine. He finally understood the pain you felt when Jean died. This time on a more intimate level than he'd like to admit. He felt like the moon was ripped away from him after the sun. Now he was just the lonely tide, washing away against the shore until you returned. Ororo did all she could to help. All she could do was maintain your physical well-being as your body healed with rest. Logan hated the wait. The time you spent not walking around the halls of the school was maybe one of the worst times in his life. Since it hit him so deep on a real level. In this array of pain and even more guilt, he felt something dawn on him as you were still comatose. He was in love with you, Logan was in love with you. He felt like an idiot but the realization would always stay true. No matter how stupid he felt. As much as he wanted to deny it, he knew. In the middle of his thought process, he heard the swift slide open of the infirmary doors.
Right now he was standing over you. The one thing that kept his spirits high about your recovery was the gentle rise and lower of your chest. He didn't have to look behind him to know it was Storm. She too had taken her time checking in on your unconscious form. He sighed as she walked up right beside him. She gently cupped the examination table where your body would lay. She looked down at her hands with a bitter-sweet smile on her lips. She looked over to Logan, who was at a pause with himself. She decided to finally break the long silence. "You know they'll be fine, right?" She hummed as she glanced up to look over you. He chuckled softly as his brow pinched. His chuckle came out more like a rugged scoff. "I know, this just feels weird." He sucked in a breath of stale air. "It was funny the first night you arrived at the mansion.." Storm drew up a memory of that fateful night. "As soon as I and Scott brought you in, they immediately volunteered to help Jean down here with your examination. They were always enamored with your set of abilities. You were one of a kind to them especially, I suppose." Now his hands gripped into the sides of the examination table. He looked down, in pity of you and himself. How could he be so blind? Storm butted in once more as she noticed his demeanor shift. "All I'm saying is, they'd be happy to know how much you worried." He nodded in response, reminiscing when things were good. From your first encounter to now, his heart warmed. "I'd do it for anyone else." He gritted out as he bit back a smile. The truth was he was still in agony about Jean's loss. It felt wrong to love you as he had longed for her after all of this time. But you felt like a whole different story. He didn't have to sit in agony knowing that no matter what his love would always be with another. You always gave him the time and day, hell even down to the minute to just be honest. He needed you at his side no matter what you were to him. Maybe you were more than a friend, maybe he was crazy about you, but you understood him. In a way maybe Jean never had. Ororo knew he needed more time so she complied with the awkwardness in the air. "I'll give you some more time. Rest easy Logan, they'd want that." She insisted before making her way out of the infirmary. He immediately looked down back at you, before looking back at the monitor tracking your heart. He sighed, biting into his lip. He stuttered the only thing that had been keeping him sane since he last felt your eyes open. "Don't fail me now dimples... I need you." He gritted as his teeth were practically ground into his gums. It has become a regular part of his routine now. Once the students were back in their dorms for the night, down to the infirmary he goes. He could never be tired of seeing you at rest. Seeing you okay and not in pain. He just wished he could hear you speak. He hoped that you could hear his pleas for you to wake.
As much as he longed for you he just bided his time. Like the fool he was, like the idiot he felt like when you made him so weak. You made him feel the most human he ever could feel.
That day was supposed to be a normal day. Classes had been more and more brief. After the loss of Jean and you being "put out." But he did not expect to see what he did next. Going into the elevator to head downstairs, to of course see you as always. He was ready to talk about what you missed away and so on. His chest tightened once he saw what was right in front of him. It was you, you were walking? You were awake and on your own two feet. Your midsection was still bandaged but at least you were standing up straight. But then it finally clicked. Wait, you shouldn't even be walking around right now?!
He immediately ran to steady you once your expression went more absent. "Welcome back to the land of the living." He roughly inquired with a small, pleased grin. "I feel like shit, so don't start with me Wolvie." You gritted out with that smile that made him too feel all good on the inside. Quickly, his arms calmly wrapped around you. He longed for your embrace for too long. It wasn't like you were fighting him when he enacted this. You wrapped your arms around him too. He made sure not to squeeze too tight with your bandages and all. A gentleman must stay mindful, he could recall you poking at him as he had a beer bottle half hidden in his jacket.
Your head gently rested in the crook of his neck. That quiet he hated so much before when seeing you in the infirmary was warmer now. He liked the peace and quiet between the two of you when you were there WITH him. After some minutes passed, you met him back face to face. You eyes lingered as you watched the way he swallowed in with composure. You had longed for him to see you. Finally, all the puzzle pieces were clicking, and with your luck all at once. You knew before this would have never happened. It felt wrong and almost hurtful for you to be doing this. But go big or go home I guess. It was you who initiated it, and he gratefully complied. Still keeping you steady, once your lips met his hand immediately went to cup your cheek. In the bliss shared, all of a sudden it felt right. The tender embrace of your lips with his felt good. It was hungry and it was liberating. You could feel his heart beating out of his chest as quick gasps for air were taken. "I'm sorry." He uttered out, forehead against yours. "I know." You said with a sanguine look in your eye. "I love you." He uttered again at a rapid pace. "I know." You purred, your eyes looking back into his hazy ones. Things would always be complicated between the both of you. But deep down you had hope. Maybe not now, someday things could just be normal between you and The Wolverine. That's all you wanted and that's all you dreamed of. Yours and his timing by all means was horrible. So it wasn't surprising this delightful moment got interrupted by Scott of all people. You and Logan looked back, hands immediately darting off of one another. Time to address THAT later.
Scott's mouth fell agape as he began to regret coming down here in the first place. He readjusted his glasses with a small scowl. "Well hello to you too, and Logan." He turned his head to give him that same look. "Wanted to check on you but clearly -" He made sure to put a specific emphasis on 'clearly.' "That job has been overtaken by him.. I'll get Ororo." Before either you or Logan could interrupt him, Scott was already pressing buttons up to the main floor. Now that it was just the two of you bubbling laughs were shared. You felt finally okay. You felt like yourself after those months of nothing but remembrance. You and The Wolverine wormed back into conversation as you could finally talk BACK to him. Another thing you wouldn't ever admit was that yes, you did hear him. His gentle words would always be your favorite secret. After that display of affection though, your and Logan's bond never stayed just a little secret after that. Even after all the trial and error, and the more soon to come, you finally had another moment. Another moment that you could look at when you are older and with more grays on your head. Logan Howlett was yours, no matter how much the universe wanted to throw you around a loop. You'd always have him by your side, till the end of time. Nothing would stop you from cherishing this connection. Not even the burning phoenix crackling over the horizon. You and Logan against time baby.
ęŤâ reblogs/interaction is appreciated <3
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one of the best parts about working at a movie theatre is when iâm really starting to hate my life, i can just walk into one of the theatres and see Joseph Quinn on the big screen
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God Only Knows
Angus Tully x fem!Reader
summary: being in love with your best friend is hard, and another date fails at trying to distract you from your feelings for Angus. feeling alone and ashamed, you run to him for comfort. (hurt/comfort, best friends to lovers)
warnings: none really... (let me know if i missed any)
requested: yes | no
word count: ~1.3k
A/N: first angus fic!!!! this actually took so long to write but i'm decently proud of it. let me know what you thought and send me requests!!! <3
masterlist! / request!
ââ ââ
ââ
â ââ
You hadnât meant to develop feelings for Angus. Truthfully, you wished it would go away as quickly as it was brought on. But with every moment you spent together you could feel yourself slipping further and further into the hole youâd dug yourself. He was a major pain in the ass, but he was also sweeter to you than anyone else had ever been. There was never a moment with Angus that you didnât feel completely loved and cared for. He listened to all your problems, offered advice when you asked, cheered you on in all aspects of your life, and had always been there for you. You did all the same things for him gladly, and it created a beautiful friendship that cultivated your growing romantic love for him.
You and Angus met when you were twelve years old. You both attended the same private school for junior high and you had become fast friends. You were truly inseparable: walking to and from school, eating lunch, walking to class, hanging out after school, all the way down to your extracurriculars, you did everything together. When high school came around, you were devastated by the news that you would be attending different schools. You were shipped off to an all-girls boarding school and him to an all-boys school. However, with each school that he was sent to after being kicked out, you managed to keep in touch. Writing letters, spending all your dimes at the payphones, sneaking out: you refused to let distance break apart you and your very best friend.
When you realized your feelings for him last summer, you decided your best course of action was to bury them away. You had no reason to believe he felt the same way, so you figured if you never did anything about them, they would fade away and you wouldnât risk losing him. However, burying your feelings only served to make them stronger. Suddenly, every time he touched you it felt like all your nerves lit on fire. Your heart raced in his presence and nothing else seemed to matter but him.
In an attempt to forget about your feelings for Angus, you begged your girlfriends at school to set you up on blind dates with other boys. You desperately wanted to just meet a half-decent boy that would fix the situation you had gotten yourself into. Unfortunately, though, all of the boys were either terrible people or just didnât feel right. Even the nice ones you managed to find flaws in. In your mind, although you hated to admit it, nobody else was as good as Angus.
Another date in which the boy talked all about himself and barely let you get a word in led you to this moment. You stand at the window of your longtime best friend's dorm and knock just loud enough for him to hear. The chilly December wind sends a shiver through your body, and you hug your arms closer to your body.
Angus shoots his head up from the magazine he was half-reading. His eyes meet yours and he clumsily stands up from his tiny dorm room bed. He rushes over to the window and slides it open, beckoning you in from the cold. A record is spinning on the player, and you can hear the Beach Boys singing âGod Only Knows,â one of your favorites.
"What the hell are you doing here? I thought you had that date with what's-his-name?" he asks, surprised but still visibly happy to see you. It's then that he notices your expression. Your features are laced with sheer disappointment and exhaustion. His face softens and he guides you over to his bed and sits down next to you.
"Didn't go so well." you say simply, eyes cast down to the floor. You shrug the heavy jacket off your body and sigh.
"I thought you liked this guy?"
"I thought so too. He was so nice to me when we met, but he was horrible when we went to dinner." you groan.
"I'm sorry. You wanna talk about it?" he asks. You shake your head. "Okay then." He takes your hand and interlaces your fingers comfortingly. You mindlessly rub your thumb over his knuckle as a means of grounding your swimming thoughts. Your spirit feels crushed from the failed attempt at making something work with the stupid boy you thought might distract you from whatever you feel for your best friend. Overwhelming feelings of failure and frustration cause emotion to rise in you. Your chest feels heavy, a lump forms in your throat, and tears begin to well in your eyes. Angus notices you becoming upset and turns his body to face you more directly.
âHey, hey, itâs okay.â he comforts, pulling you into him and wrapping his long arms around you. A sob racks through your chest.
âIâm so sick of it, Angus.â you cry. Angus feels his heart crack. Unbeknownst to you, Angus hated it when you went on these dates. Every time you told him about a new guy you were going out with, his blood boiled. At first, he couldnât quite figure out why it made him so upset. He chalked it up to protectiveness over his best friend, or even just being sad you wonât be around him as much. But as time went on, it became increasingly obvious that these theories were not the whole story. He was jealous of those boys.
He didnât think anyone could ever know you as well as he did, or care for you the way he wanted to.
Angus had enough. He knew in this moment that he never wants to see you hurt like this again, even if it means breaking his own heart. He takes a deep breath before taking the leap of faith.
âY/N, none of these guys youâre going out with are even close to good enough for you. You deserve the best the world has to offer." He pauses slightly to think of how to tell you his feelings. "Youâre hilarious, youâre wicked smart, youâre way too clumsy for your own good, youâre goofy, your smile lights up every room, youâre beautiful, youâre caring and loving even when I donât deserve it." He stops, smiling at his next words. "Youâre perfect.â You pull your head away from his chest, staring into his eyes, tears still stained on your cheeks.
âI love you.â he says, almost whispering. Your eyebrows raise a little with bewilderment and hope.
âLike, you love love me?â you ask.
âYeah. Love love.â he confirms.
Another tear spills from your eye, but this one is joyful. Your heart swells with happiness and you give a genuine and bright smile. Butterflies flutter in your stomach and relief washes over you.
âI love you too, Angus. God, I feel so silly right now. I only went out with those other guys to get you off my mind.â you laugh. He smiles back at you, a rare wide smile gracing his usually sour appearance. He wipes your tears away, his face only inches away from yours. Heâs looking at you with more love than youâd ever seen.
âCan I kiss you?â he asks, shyly.
âOf course.â you respond, feeling nervous but dizzy with excitement. His hands cup your cheeks, and he gently moves forward, closing the gap between you. Your lips finally meet and itâs everything you ever dreamed of. His lips are slightly chapped, but they fit so perfectly with yours. Every nerve in your body is buzzing with exhilaration. You both grin like idiots through the kiss.
Eventually but reluctantly, you both pull away from the kiss. He smiles and pulls you back into him, laying you both down on his teeny bed. Your head is resting on his chest, and he has both arms wrapped around you. He places a gentle, loving kiss to the top of your head.
The record is still spinning across the room, and itâs nearing the end of the song.
God only knows what Iâd be without you⌠the Beach Boys croon.
Suddenly, youâve found that one of your favorite songs has taken on a new meaning.
God only knows what youâd be without him.
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Moon River
(And me)
No matter how annoying, rude, or diabolical he is, he's still Angus Tully, your best friend and the boy you've been in love with since you learned how to.
Angus Tully x Reader
Warnings: swearing
Moon River - Frank Ocean (Cover)
"I wanna go to Boston."
Angus Tully was a wildcard. He's rude. He doesn't think before he speaks. He can be a hell of a pain in the ass. One second, he's quiet and all by himself in a corner, then the next he's spewing out words from his mouth that'll make you wish you were currently six feet under.
But he's really thoughtful. All those times he spends by himself, he thinks. About life. About school. About people. How we came from where we're from. How we breathe air and feel the soil in our feet.
No matter how many failed classes, how many times he was set back, Angus Tully is a smart boy with loads of potential. You just wish he saw himself that way.
"Why?" You ask, flipping the magazine between your fingers.
You were almost the exact opposite of Angus.
You studied hard, aiming for Ivy League schools and doing as much extracurricular activities as you could. You prioritised school, your work, your reputation. You rarely get in trouble, only getting called in offices for the reports you've sent.
So, why out of all the people in Barton, the only girl there ends up being his closest friend?
To put it simply; when you heard about Barton accepting girls for the new school year, you wanted to go. One, because, as your mother said, "It would do your reputation good for being a part of the first batch of girls in Barton," and two, because your best friend Angus Tully studied there.
Yes, you got in the school. Yes, you're part of the first batch of girls in Barton ever. What they didn't mention was the fact you were the only girl in Barton.
"You know why."
Angus's dad was put in a hospital after something happened in their home. Apparently, he was sick. At least, that's what Angus's mom said.
"We can't exactly leave. Hunham's gonna kill you." You finally put your magazine down, folding the corner of the page you were in to bookmark it.
"Not unless he doesn't find out."
"You know for a fact he'll find out."
"He'll find out too late. I know that for a fact."
You roll your eyes, sighing. You shuffle to your side of the bed to his. You pushed both your beds together. The excuse Angus used was that it gets cold at night. You didn't really mind.
You settle your head on his chest, arm wrapping around his slender waist. You exhale deeply when his arm lowers to rub your back. It felt nice in moments like this; The dark room illuminated by the orange hue of a streetlight outside. The wind howling and blowing snowflakes towards the west.
"I know it sucks we didn't get to go with those guys to ski, but they're jerks anyway. I'd rather spend my entire Christmas with you." You tuck your head into his neck, closing your eyes as your tiredness encapsulates you, as well as the warmth of Angus's hold.
"Well, we're not exactly doing that." Angus clicks his tongue. "Wish it was just me and you. No Mary, and no stupid fucking walleye."
You groan. "You gotta stop calling him that. He seems to be trying his best, even when his "best" is annoying." Angus adjusts underneath you, lying both of you down and draping a blanket over your bodies.
"Yeah, whatever." He relaxes onto the bed, eyes closing as well. His breathing is still manual, you can tell he can't sleep just yet. There's something in his mind.
"Angus... you okay?" He moves a bit, arm still wrapped around you. He doesn't answer right away, but when he does, his voice is a bit strained.
"Don't you ever get tired of me? Even just a little?" You wouldn't have heard him if it weren't for your proximity right now. You stay still.
"Of course I get tired of you. Almost all the time." He scoffs when you giggle a bit. You open your eyes and peek up at him, seeing a small smile on his face.
From the light that barely lit the room, you could see his eyes were glassy. You sit upright, cupping his face. His hand goes up to hold one of your wrists, his cheek leaning into your touch.
"How do you put up with me?" He sniffles, leaning his head down. "I can't even put up with myself sometimes."
There was only one answer to his question. You knew well in your heart what it was. Maybe it was time to tell him.
"Angus." You whisper, caressing his face your thumb. "Look at me."
He looks up, eyes a bit damp from tears. You wipe them away gently, keeping your eyes locked on his pretty brown ones.
"You're my best friend, Angus. But I see you more than that." You can see the emotions shift on his face, but he stays quiet, so you continue.
"I'm serious about what I said. I'd rather spend my entire Christmas with you. Over anybody in the world." You smile softly, taking your hands off his face to hold on his own.
"I'd also spend spring break with you, summer, the weekends. It's gotten to the point that I'd spend the rest of my life with you."
"The thing is, I'm never gonna leave. No matter how annoyed I am, no matter how fed up. Because I love you, Angus. I've loved you ever since I learned how to. And I learned from you."
He only stays quiet after. You're afraid you said the wrong things. Maybe you shouldn't have told him that. He's simply staring off into space, eyes glued on you. You try to take your hands back.
"Wait." Angus says. He keeps his eyes on you. There's this spark in them, and you can't tell what it is. You've only ever seen it in times like this; when you're alone with him.
This is a lot more different, though. There was so much intensity that-
His lips felt plump against yours. They were so soft. You could even somehow taste the pink in them. You couldn't get enough.
The moment you lean in, his hands cup your cheeks, just like you did to him moments ago. You bet he could feel how warm they were.
He tilts his head to kiss you more, adding a bit of force that just highlights his hunger.
Your hand finds his lap, and you rest them there. He pulls away, hovering a centimetre off your lips. You feel the way he breathes against you.
"If you wanted to take my pants off, just ask." He laughs, trying to ease the heat of the room.
You lean in just a bit, lips brushing. He tries to lean in too, but you pull away only slightly.
"If you wanted to kiss me, just ask." It was your turn to laugh as he rolls his eyes.
"Well, can I kiss you again?"
You didn't even need to say a word. A curt nod was enough for him to go back to kissing you silly.
A best friend is someone you hold dearly in your heart. Your best friend is already far above that.
The love you hold for someone close is something you never let go of. You can make a choice of holding that feeling a little while longer or giving it to them with everything in your being. Trust me when I say the second option is better.
HOLA CHICAS I FINALLY WROTE SMTH FOR ANGUS!!! If u followed me way b4 yk i was talking abt this man and saying how them white boys r ruining me (tbh they still are but im not complaining) i love this boy sm I WANT HIM SOOOOOO BAD UGHH. Anw this is short asf but its all i got for now đ¤ˇââď¸đ¤ˇââď¸đ¤ˇââď¸ HOPE U GUYS LIKED IT!!!
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Ëâşâ§âË⌠navigation! Ëâşâ§âËâŚ
ââ ââ
ââ
â ââ
about me!
â hi, iâm v! iâm 18 and i use she/they pronouns. i love watching movies, listening to music, playing video games, guitar, and my dog.
masterlist!
currentlyâŚ
obsessed with:
â x-men, the holdovers & dominic sessa, spiderman, keanu reeves
liking:
â marvel, dc, detroit: become human, criminal minds, stranger things, one direction, 5 seconds of summer, the hunger games, one piece, the last of us
watching:
â the OC, gilmore girls
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reworking my blog rn and i think i might be changing the peter parker theme :( rip my og babygirl. anyways, iâm hoping to get back into writing, i have tons more inspiration now :)
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âin a world of boys, heâs a gentlemanâ is soo peeta mellark by the way!!
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First Blushes : a Monkey D. Luffy x f!reader oneshot
Summary: Shy teenage reader and Luffy are gently coerced into admitting their feelings for one another.
"You know, you could just tell him."
You jumped and stared up at Sanji, who had found you in your hiding spot, behind the mast but still able to see Luffy perched up high on the figurehead.
"Tell who what?" you blurted out, eyes wide.
He smiled gently at you.
"Luffy. Tell Luffy you like him."
You felt your face burn.
"I don't -"
"Honey" Sanji interrupted. "Everyone sees the way you look at him and listen to every crazy word that comes out of his mouth. We know. It's about time the boy does, too."
You bit your lip and chewed, thinking hard. Then you looked up at Sanji again, eyes big and wide.
"What if he doesn't like me?"
Sanji ruffled your hair.
"Only one way to find out, love."
"How do I tell him?"
"That's up to you. Sing it, shout it, vandalise his beloved Jolly Roger with it. Your choice."
You glowered at him.
"Well, he'd never believe me if I did that, genius" you retorted. "Or like me back."
Sanji grinned at you.
"Tell him. You might be surprised" he urged.
You snorted.
"Yes, surprised by how much heartbreak and rejection hurt."
Sanji rolled his eyes and gently pushed your shoulder.
"Are all teenagers so dramatic?" he sighed.
You sidled out of his reach and shrugged.
"Probably."
You blinked fast, something else suddenly occurring to you.
"Does Zoro know?"
"Zoro knows!" Nami called to you as she wandered past. "Zoro wants to lock you both in a room until you come to your youthful senses."
You dragged a hand down your face, groaning.
"Perfect."
You made a beeline for your bedroom, not even looking up when Luffy passed you on his way to the deck and smiled, his whole face lighting up. His smile fell, though, when you didn't look at him, your gaze fixed on the floor, and he stopped to watch you disappear, your bedroom door slamming at your back.
He made his way out into the light and bounded over to Sanji.
"Is she okay?" he asked, glancing over his shoulder again in case you had returned.
Sanji shrugged, one corner of his mouth quirking up slightly. From the opposite end of the ship, he caught Zoro's eye and raised his voice.
"I'm not sure, Luffy. Perhaps you had better go and check on her. I think she was heading to her room."
Zoro put down his sword and stood up, heading down to them and casually following Luffy at a short distance as he spun on his heels and hurried back to your room at a trot.
From inside your room, you heard Luffy calling your name and knocking hard on your door.
"Are you okay?" he hollered through the wooden barrier. "You seemed sad!"
"I'm fine!" you yelled back, face down on your bed.
On the other side of the door, Luffy turned to Zoro and shrugged.
"She said she's fine."
Zoro rolled his eyes.
"She's not fine. That's just what girls say."
He reached around Luffy, opened the door and shoved him through the gap, then locked it from the outside and leaned against the wood, looking bored.
Inside your bedroom, you glanced up, shocked, when Luffy stumbled in and the door shut with a loud thud. The telltale sound of the lock had you off the bed and on your feet in record time.
"Roronoa Zoro, let us out!" you shouted, barreling past Luffy and hammering on your own door.
His voice came back through muffled.
"Not until you confess!"
Luffy stared at the back of your head, puzzled.
"Confess what?" he asked, reaching out to touch your arm.
At the brush of his fingers on your skin, you recoiled and he stepped back, dark eyes wide. You stiffened, then turned slowly to face him again, your expression contorted with guilt.
"Luffy, I didn't mean to" you said, agonised. "I'm sorry..."
He shook his head and avoided your eyes.
"I don't get it" he told you, still not looking. "You're never...icy with me. Why now? What did I do?"
"Nothing" you sighed uncomfortably, closing your eyes. "You have done absolutely nothing wrong, Luffy. You are always good."
He blinked rapidly at that admission.
"Then...why?" he asked again.
You glanced longingly at the closed bedroom door then back at Luffy. You sat down on the end of your bed and beckoned to him. He caught the movement out of the corner of his eye and looked at you again, his mouth set in a slight pout. But he sat next to you, keeping his hands folded in his lap, careful not to touch you again.
On the other side of the door, you could hear Zoro's shoulders shifting against the wood, his shirt rustling. The air in the room felt warmer than it should be, clogging your lungs and making it harder for you to breathe.
"Monkey" you said quietly, addressing him by his given name.
His eyebrows rose at the sound of it; you never called him Monkey. He murmured your name and tentatively reached for one of your hands, clasping it loosely in his on the cloudy duvet between you.
You took in a deep breath, unconsciously squeezing his hand. Then you very slowly turned to face him.
"I like you, Luffy" you said solemnly.
A broad smile spread across his face, his sunny eyes brightening.
"I like you, too!" he exclaimed, delighted.
You bit into your lip, shaking your head, heart in your throat.
"No" you said softly.
His eyebrows furrowed and another frown replaced his smile.
"What do you mean, 'no'?" he asked.
"No, I like like you" you admitted at last.
Luffy's hand tightened on yours and your eyes closed again.
"Um. Like Usopp likes Kaya?"
His voice was softer than usual and trembled a little in your ears. You nodded and then stood up off the bed, leaving his hand behind, empty on the duvet. Without glancing back at him, his jaw loosened, you walked over to the door and banged on it with both fists.
"I did it, Zoro! I confessed! Now let me out!"
You listened for the click and bolted past him, barely affording him a glance at your face before you were gone. Zoro leaned in through the doorway and eyed Luffy still sitting on the bed.
"She finally tell you?" he asked, eyebrows arched.
Luffy suddenly shoved off the bed and slammed through the open doorway, his brown eyes burning. Zoro flattened his back to the wall and watched him run.
You might have been light on your feet, but Luffy was faster, much faster, and he caught up to you just as you stepped onto the ship's deck. He snatched at your wrist, but you were both still moving forward and the momentum sent you both tumbling down, falling towards the deck.
You shut your eyes tightly, anticipating the blunt impact, but it never came. Luffy stretched and wrapped around you, landing on his back, your forehead jouncing off his collarbone. You stayed there for a little while, allowing yourself to soak in the feeling of his arms around you and his breath in your hair.
Time whipped by, though, and you forced yourself to push away from him, cheeks burning as he stared hard at you, his beautiful eyes darker than usual.
"I like you how Usopp likes Kaya, too" he said quietly, his hands sliding from your shoulders to your elbows.
Your eyes widened again and you stared back at him, surprised.
"You do?"
Luffy nodded, biting his lip.
"I do, yes."
You just continued to stare at him for a while longer and he started to squirm, scooting slightly away. You shook yourself out of it and reached for him; Luffy eyed your hands warily as your fingers closed around the brim of his straw hat. Your grip tightened as you grabbed hold of every bit of courage you possessed and dragged him forward until your lips met.
It was quick and uncertain contact, a swift brush of lips and warm breath mixing, and you withdrew like you'd been burned, lips tingling.
You crawled back off Luffy and rose to your feet, aware now of your audience of crew members. Your whole face on fire, you turned your back, but a quiet voice and a hand on yours stopped you.
"Please don't go."
You turned halfway around, eyebrows raised, but before you could say anything at all, Luffy kissed you back, hat tipped up on his head so it wouldn't get in your way. His mouth was eager and warm, with all the unbridled enthusiasm he gave to everything. You grabbed at his arms, searching for something to keep you on your feet.
When he pulled back to breathe, there were loud cheers and clapping. You glanced around at your friends, feeling hot and embarrassed but thrilled down to your toes.
"About damn time" Zoro said from the doorway.
You smiled shyly up at Luffy and the corners of his eyes crinkled.
"Can we do that again?"
Tagging: @elizabeth-karenina @writingmysanity
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iâm just a girl crushing on live action luffy
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my favorite boy and my favorite band <3
evan peters as tate langdon // american horror story // teeth by 5sos
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begging the duffer brothers to give mike a personality other than liking el
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#no thoughts, just Dustin and his two dads.
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iâm so obsessed with this, thank you so much @trouble-in-space !!! <3
hi hey! could i get a stranger things and a marvel ship if itâs not too much trouble?
i use she/they pronouns, am a cis female, and identify as bisexual. i like playing electric guitar, playing video games, watching 80s and 90s movies, and i love all different kinds of rock music. classic, indie, pop, punk, new wave, goth, you name it. my favorite color is green, i have super curly and long dark brown hair and brown eyes (someone once told me they were almost like a sienna brown). iâm also super short :/. i have some anxiety problems, so i can come across as a little judgy or standoffish at first. but once i get to know people iâm super friendly. iâm a total theatre kid, Iâve been doing plays since i was 8 and i love listening to musicals.
i hope youâre having a great day/night!
Hi hon! Thanks for submitting!đ
Stranger Things:
Steve Harrington. Like immediately got Steve vibes. Right off the bat he just loves that youâre shorter than him, and heâs like totally obsessed with your hair. Heâll do whatever he can to help you work through your anxiety and help you find coping mechanisms if youâd like. And once you guys get close and youâre able to open up to him heâll be like the happiest man in the world, heâd feel so special. (aka it would give his ego a huge boost lmao) Heâs obsessed with your guitar playing and will come to every single play youâre in, and every time heâll have a bouquet of your favorite flowers to give you after the show.
Marvel:
Wanda:) I think she would understand your anxiety because sheâs had to work with her own, so sheâd always be there for you if needed. Would always offer her help to you when youâre rehearsing for your theatre projects, literally will do whatever you need just ask her. Will always watch you play guitar, and eventually would ask you how to play video games because she wants to play them with you.<3
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Dear Eddie Munson fanfic writers,
Please, please keep writing your fanfics about Eddie for as long as possible.
Itâs the main thing keeping me sane rn.
I love you guys. Thank you â¤ď¸
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¡
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