anakin's defense attorney

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[luveline]

𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐨𝐫 𝐬𝐞𝐞𝐧

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

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

｡𖦹°‧⭑.ᐟ

Fall 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sure.” 

“I signed us up for that club.” 

“Epigenetics?” 

“Molecular medicine,” he says. 

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

“What are you doing?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“When is it?” you ask, smiling. 

—

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

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

—

“Good morning,” you say. 

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

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

“I was thinking about you as a businessman.” 

“And that’s funny?” 

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

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

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

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

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

“You okay?” Peter asks. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m fine, why?” 

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

“I have too much to do.” 

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why are you sorry? I scared you.”

“I didn’t realise you were there.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I can show you the webs?” 

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

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

“Can I walk you now?” he asks. 

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

“Nothing more important than you.” 

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

“Yellowstone Boulevard?” 

“That’s the one…” 

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

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

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

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

“I like walking,” you say. 

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

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

“Do I?” 

“Yeah, you do.” 

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

“I’m not alone,” he says carefully.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Did you cook?” you ask. 

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

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

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

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

“It’s for you,” he says casually. 

“It’s not my birthday.” 

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

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

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

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

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

“It must’ve taken hours.” 

“May helped.” 

“That makes much more sense.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I guess I’ll keep it.” 

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

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

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

“Better than Harry?” 

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

“Eat your own.” 

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

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

“Have something to tell you.” 

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

“Is that surprising?” 

“Is that a trick question?” 

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

“Okay, so tell me.” 

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

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

“She’s going to England.” 

“She is?” 

“Oxford.” 

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

“But?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I know. Thank you.” 

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

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

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

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

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

You ruffle his hair. Spider-Man goes unmentioned. 

— 

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

“Spider-Man,” you say. 

“What’s that about?” 

“What?” 

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

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

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

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

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

“What?” he asks. 

“Sorry. You just reminded me of someone.” 

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

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

“I knew it.”

“What do you look like under the mask?”

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

“No? Do I have to earn it?” 

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

“Nobody in the whole world?” you ask. 

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

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

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

“A secret. That’s fair.” 

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

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

“My secrets aren’t worth anything.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How come?” 

“It just hurts people.” 

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

“Tell me another one,” he says. 

“What for?” 

“I don’t know, just tell me one.” 

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

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

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

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

“Oh, nowhere.” 

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

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

“Sure, for that secret.” 

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

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

“Why not?” he asks. 

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

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

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

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

“Thanks for telling me.”

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

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

“Just an hour.” 

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

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

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

“I get to choose?” 

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

“If you want to,” he says. 

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

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

“When they lined up the cranes–”

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

“Like flying.”

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

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

“So tell me another one,” he says. 

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’d hope so.” 

You swing around. “Don’t do that!”

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

“You did?” 

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

“I like to walk,” you say. 

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

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

“What’s wrong with staying at home?” 

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

“I don’t do this every night.” 

“Don’t you get tired?”

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

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

“Want me to do one?” 

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

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

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

He yanks his mask down. “Hasty getaway.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hi, Spider-Man.” 

“Hi.” 

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

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

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

“Yeah, you could.” 

He sounds sure. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You love them–”

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

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

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

—

Winter 

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

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

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

He jogs toward you. 

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

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

You blink as fat rain lands on your face. 

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

“Peter–”

“Jesus Christ!” 

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

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

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

“No.” 

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

“Shit, my groceries are soaked.” 

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

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

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

“Sorry I didn’t ask,” Peter says. 

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

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

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

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

“About?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So you didn’t need me,” he says. 

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

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

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

“Not that much.” 

“Not for me, no.” 

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

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

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

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

“I don’t know, are we?” 

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

Peter… What is he doing? 

You let yourself relax against him. 

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

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

“What?” 

You can say it out loud. You could. 

“Peter, you’re…” 

“I’m what?” he asks. 

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

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

He’s Spider-Man. 

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

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

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

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

“I was thinking about you,” he says. 

“Yeah?” 

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

“Yeah?” you ask.

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

Peter isn’t as far away as you thought. 

“Thank you,” you say. 

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

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

“Yeah, please.” 

His thumb strokes your cheek. 

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hey,” he says, “you all right?” 

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

“I’m fine up here!” 

“Are you really Spider-Man?” 

“Sure am.” 

“Are you single?” 

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

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

“Hello?” Peter asks. 

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

“Hi, are you busy?” 

“Not really.” 

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

“Is Aunt May okay with that?” 

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

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

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

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

“Not yet, but–”

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

“I have to shower first.” 

“Twenty five?” 

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

“It’s a date,” he says. 

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

—

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

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

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

“It’s fine.“

“It’s not fine. Are you cold?” 

“Pete, it’s fine.” 

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

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

“You said it wasn’t cold!” 

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

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

“I don’t like it,” you lie. 

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

“That’s not funny.” 

“Apparently, nothing is.” 

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

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

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

“May!” Peter says, startled. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You shrug away from his hand. “Loser.” 

“Concerned friend.” 

“Handsy loser.” 

”Shut up,” he mumbles. 

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

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

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

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

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

“I don’t want ice cream.” 

“Wasn’t that easy?” he asks. 

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

“Because I’m adorable?” 

“Persistent.” 

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

“Peter…?” you murmur. 

“What?” he murmurs back. 

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

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

“What are you doing?” 

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

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

“‘Cos I missed you?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m not–”

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

“I’m fine.” 

“You’re not fine.”

“How would you know?” you finally ask. 

Peter stares at you. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Peter returns as perturbed as earlier. 

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

“I’m sorry for being weird.” 

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

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

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

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

“I think so,” you say, quiet again. 

“That’s what I thought.” 

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

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

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

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

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

“Am I going too fast?” Peter murmurs. 

You press your lips together, shaking your head minutely. 

“Is it something else?” 

You don’t move. 

“Do you want me to stop?” he asks. 

“No.”

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

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

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

“Yeah.” 

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

“I like thinking.” 

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

“I’ll try not to.” 

“Would you? For me?” 

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

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

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

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

“Door open,” she says. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I love you,” Peter sing-songs. 

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

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

“Peter Parker.” 

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

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

—

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

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

Look! it says, LEGO cancer treatment!! 

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

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

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

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

“What are you doing?” he asks.

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

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

“You just dropped down twenty feet!” 

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

“Who said you’re a superhero?” 

“Nice. What are you doing down here?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s definitely for dorks.” 

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

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

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

“I love it…” 

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s okay,” you say. 

“It’s not, actually.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No–”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Peter,” you say, squirming. 

He steps back. 

“I have to go,” he says. 

“What?” 

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Did you eat breakfast?” Peter asks quietly. 

His voice is gentle, but hoarse. 

You tense. 

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

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

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

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

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

“Ten minutes,” you lie. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Was that disappointing?” 

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

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

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

“You flirted pretty heavily with Spider-Man.”

“Well, he flirted with me first.” 

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

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

“I haven’t, either.” 

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

“You’re hard to say no to.” 

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

We do, you think morosely. 

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

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

His palm smells like smoke. 

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

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

“So tell me.”

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

“Please.” 

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

“I find that hard to believe.” 

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

He tilts his head invitingly. 

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

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

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

“Sick?” he asks worriedly. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I can keep you warm.” 

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

“Did you want my meskouta?” you ask. 

Peter plants a fat kiss against your brow. 

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

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

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

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

—

Spring

“Sorry!”

“No, it’s–”

“Sorry, sorry, I’m– shit!”

“–okay! All legs inside the ride?”

“I couldn’t find my purse–”

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

“Are you sure you can drive this thing?” 

“Harry doesn’t mind.” 

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

“That’s not funny.” 

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

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

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

“Peter!” 

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

“Alright,” you warn. 

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

“It’s an hour.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Already?” 

“Tonight’s the June equinox.” 

“Who told you that?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m trying to prepare myself.” 

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

“You’ll have to move.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re beautiful,” he says. 

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

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

“You’re decent enough, Parker.” 

“Maybe now.” 

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

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

He shakes himself off like a dog. 

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

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

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

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

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

“What kind of secret?” 

“A real one,” you insist. 

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

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

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

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

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

The sun warms your back for a time. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

｡𖦹°‧⭑.ᐟ

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

[morallygreyangst]

His Person In The Chair // Peter Parker x Reader

Synopsis: You've been Spider-Man's 'Person in the chair' ever since he caught you hacking into old Stark Industry files. It was either that or prison. But today he calls you over because he's discovered something new about his spider half.

Basically Peter's arachnid hormones take over and y'all make out

Tags/Warnings: GN! Reader, Webs used as restraints, Bug used as pet name, kissing, making out, Peter is lonley, arachnid! Peter Parker // 16+

Word Count: 1,805

A/N: I was going to post this on august 10th, but I've never posted a fic on here before, so I was a little confused with the formatting... Anyway this is also cross posted on my ao3. So feel free to also go show it some love there.

✩₊˚.⋆🕸️⋆⁺₊✧/  ✩₊˚.⋆🕸️⋆⁺₊✧/  ✩₊˚.⋆🕸️⋆⁺₊✧

You sat on the floor of the apartment, holding Spider-Man’s web shooters in your hands. The room was littered with webs. Most of them had been cleaned, but the majority of the room still had remnants hanging from the ceiling. “So your webbing is… organic now?”

He sat in his desk chair, mask covering his face. He always kept it on around you, even if he was otherwise in a loose shirt and sweatpants. “Yeah, I mean. I woke up hanging from the window so…”

“I’m sorry what?!”

He chuckled nervously. “Uh, yeah.”

“You know, when you asked me to be your ‘person in the chair’ I was expecting something a little more casual than this.”

“Technically, it was an ultimatum. I caught you hacking into old Stark Tech files. It was either jail or this.”

“I still don’t know why you didn’t just turn me in.” You turn his web shooters over in your hands.

He couldn’t explain why. Couldn’t explain that he used to have access to Stark Tech, but he messed up so badly that all traces of him had been erased from existence. That he no longer had the ties to Stark Industries that he used to, that he needed.

And sure, he had built his own tech, and programmed his own AI. But something deep inside him still existed as the old version of himself. The one who had Karen, who worked with the Avengers. Who had Tony…

“Long story.” He examined his wrist.

“Right.” You say flatly. You set his web shooters down and stand up. “Let me see.” 

“What?” He looks up at you, his lenses on his mask blinking in surprise.

“Let me see.” You repeat, holding your hand out. He blinks again before reluctantly extending his arm. You found the vein that ran the length of his arm and gently ran your thumb over it, he shivered underneath your touch. 

“That’s-“ A small thread of webbing oozed out of the flap in his wrist. He tilted his head back. “Jesus…”

 «Elevated heart rate detected»

“Thanks Evie.” He grumbled.

“I mean… this is incredible.” You say, ignoring Evie’s comment. “I mean, your body is producing this on its own.”

“Y-yeah, It's great. Could you please stop touching there-“

«Sudden increase in blood flow to the face and-» 

“Thank you, Evie!” He cuts the AI off.

You pull your hand away, letting it fall to your side. “I don’t get it, you have an AI. Why do you need me?” You glance over at his computer.

He shrugged. “I guess at first it was mostly the hacking into Stark Industry files part, but…”

«He’s grown quite fond of you.» Evie answers. «He talks about you a lot»

“I don’t-“ The lenses on his mask widen. “I mean- I do- not like that!“

You chuckle and let go of his wrist. “Relax, Spidey.” You turn to his computer, reading over the numerous tabs he had open. You drummed your fingers against the desk. “I mean, how do we even research this? It’s not like there’s a website designed for Spider-People.”

He sighed. Peter 2 had organic webs. He should have asked him more about it when he was here, before the spell… He shook his head. He couldn’t think about that right now. He wouldn’t allow himself to.

“I mean… it’s kind of like your powers are evolving, right?”

Spider-Man shrugged. “I guess you could call it that.”

“Evie, can you look up evolution and life-cycles of spiders?” You ask.

«Sure thing!» She replied happily. You turned to Spider-Man, he was still examining the small flap of skin on his wrist. He held his arm out, mimicking the movement of how he normally shot webs. Nothing.

“I’m sure you’ll figure it out. You’re smart.” 

He sighed, roaring his wrists to stretch them. “It’s just… frustrating.”

“Hey,” You moved back over to him, tilting his chin up to meet your gaze. “If you were able to design and successfully execute making your own web shooters and fluid, you’ll figure out how to use it organically.” 

You couldn’t tell, but his face flushed under the mask. He could remember the last time he’d had a moment like this. It felt good to have someone he could be that relaxed Spider-Man with. 

«Here’s everything I found about spider life cycles.» A few new windows popped up on the screen. One being a video. It started playing on its own.

“Spiders have three life cycles, when between cycles it can leave the spider vulnerable to threats.” You both cringed at the video display. “And for those spiders who make it through, it amounts to a kind of rebirth.”

“Uh- Evie, turn off the video.”

«Closing video display.»

You both shudder. But something lingered in your mind. ‘Those who make it through’ Was there a risk that Spider-Man wouldn’t make it through these changes? Would he get killed by the criminals he fights with? Scorpion? Tarantula? 

“You okay there?” He asks, tilting his head to the side.

“Yeah…” You breathe. “Just nervous, I guess.”

“You worried about me?”

It was your turn to blush. Your face heating up slightly. “No.” It was a lie. “I’m just thinking.”

“Right…” 

«They’re lying.»

“Evie?!” You quickly turn towards the computer. 

“Come on, what are you thinking about?” 

You take a breath. “It said ‘for those who make it through’…” 

The lenses on his mask shift. “Hey…” He stands up, resting an arm on your shoulder. “I’m the ‘Friendly Neighborhood Spider-Man.’ You don’t have to worry about me.” Your throat burned, and he could see the tears starting to well up in your eyes. “Hey,” He brought you closer, your face meeting his chest. “It’s okay, I have you and Evie looking out for me.”

You swallowed the lump in your throat. When did you start feeling like this? When had you started caring this much? You didn’t know him, not really. You knew the mask. The hero persona. You knew what he let you know. But you didn’t know him.

“You’re starting to go all soft on me.” He teased. 

“Shut up.” You pulled away, wiping your eyes. 

“Hey, Bug… don’t cry.” He gently brushed his thumb against your cheek.

“Bug?” You blink.

His thumb stilled. “Uh-“ He hesitated, pulling away. Had he let that slip? “Nothing. Sorry.”

“Do you have a nickname for me, Spider?” You tease. 

“I…” 

«Elevated heart rate detected. Are you feeling okay, Spider-Man?» 

“Yeah- yeah I’m fine!” 

«I am also detecting a small spike in your arachnid hormones.» 

You move to the computer. “Is that bad?” Before you can do anything else, a web shoots at your arm. You glance toward Spider-Man. “What are you-” 

He tugs you closer to him, grabbing your waist and tugging you against him. He feels warm against you, it would have been comforting if it wasn’t for the fact you were so concerned.

 “Spidey?” 

His lenses blink. 

“Evie, is he okay?”

«His arachnid hormones have spiked. And I am detecting an increased heart rate.”

“Bug…” He sounded breathless. His lenses focused on you. Your hands moved to his chest, and his whole body shuddered. Your hands trail up his neck, brushing against the hem of his mask. His breath hitched.

“Sorry-“

“Don’t.” His hands gently grab your wrists, placing them on either side of his face. “Don’t apologize…” He moves to lift up his mask, his chin slowly peaking out. 

“Spidey, are you sure you-“

“Shh.” He continues to tug his mask up until his lips are exposed. 

Your breath catches. Sure, he’d done this before to eat around you,  but he always turned around to do so. 

You lift your hands so the fabric can continue to move. Your fingers dip under the hem of his mask, skin touching skin. Your thumbs brushing the hem of his mask, sitting just above his mouth.

His hands find your waist again, his own thumb brushing against the fabric of your shirt.  “Bug…” You watch his lips move. “I really want to kiss you.” 

Your stomach twists. Spider-Man wants to kiss you? You look up at the mask’s lenses, watching them focus on you. “You do?”

He rests his forehead against yours. “Please…” His breathing is uneven. Coming out in small pants. You the inside of your cheek, nervously. “Please.” 

You wanted to. God you’d wanted to for a while now. So why were you hesitating? You take a shaky breath, nodding. “Okay.”

His lips instantly connect with yours. Backing you against his desk. You steady yourself, hands landing on his desk. He takes the opportunity to web them in place. Your stomach flips, heat beginning to build up inside you. “Spidey-“

He cuts you off with a kiss, hungrier this time. And god dammit if you weren’t into it. Your lips meet his, matching his pace, your tongue poking out to tease his bottom lip. He parts his lip, allowing your tongue entrance. You both groan softly against the other's mouth.

You groan when his knee slides between your legs. “Spidey-”

“Peter.” He grumbles. “Call me Peter.”

You tug at the webbing, desperate to feel more of him. “Peter…” His whole body shudders at the sound of your voice saying his name. It had been so long since he heard someone say it, with meaning, with emotion. His fingers digging harder into your hips.

You groan when his hands trail up your sides, under the hem of your shirt. You shiver, your breathing becoming heavier. 

“Peter-“ 

His fingers trace the underside of your ribs, brushing ever so lightly against your skin.

“Peter…” Your voice was weak, muffled against his lips.Your wrists strain against the webs, desperate to do more, hold his face, play with his hair, anything.  His hands wrap around your back, pressing you closer to him. 

Your whole body felt warm. His touch brushing against you, leaving warmth in its wake. He whined softly into the kiss, his grip loosening slightly. He pulled back, resting his forehead against yours, hands dropping back to your waist. 

“Peter” You exhale, catching your breath.

The lenses blinked. Once. Twice. Then they fall to your wrists, still webbed to the table.

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I’m so sorry!” Peter apologies quickly, moving to free your wrists from the webs.

“Don’t apologize.” You tugs your wrists free, examining them. “I’m okay.”

“I really- I don’t know what came over me…” He sounded so embarrassed.

“You don’t… Do you regret it?”

“No! I just mean- I don’t… I guess the arachnid hormones kind of took over…”

You stepped closer, finger brushing along his jaw. “It’s okay. Honestly it was… really hot.”

The lenses blinked. “I- It was?”

“Yeah.” Tilt his chin down slightly. “Do you… want to do it again?”

He nodded, “Please.” And he captured his lips with yours.

[sturniolofreak20204]

Finally remember you.

After 4 years you remember the boy you loved Back in your Highschool years.peter Parker just by one kiss you remember him, you fell in love with him twice.

WARING: making out, fluff, crying, full of love.

the kiss deepened slowly,your hands In Peter hair.

your fingers twirled around the brown curls of his hair like it always belonged there.his hands on your hips like it wasnt his first time his hands on you because it wasn’t you couldn’t just remember.

as you guys continued to kiss, something was happening..

Like something had cracked in your brain, uour head feels fizzy and fluffy..

Then suddenly..

Millions of memories of you and Peter just filled your brain before the erase spell.

You remember everything..

From the start to the last time you guys kissed like this 4 years ago before everything, before everything in your head got erased.

Then you pulled away, your eyes wide as you looked into Peter’s brown eyes, the face you loved before everything happened.

Your breath quickened, your chest going up and down fast, your heart beating , your eyes getting red and glossy..

Peter just looked at you with eyes full of love and softness.The same eyes that cried and become sore since the past 4 years because of you are finally gotten soft..

Tears filled your eyes and you let them run freely down your cheek,

You let out a choked sob.

“Peter..”

He didn’t answer.

“Peter oh my god I’m so sorry ..”

“My Peter..my Sunny ..”

Peter’s eyes widen.

Sunny.

That was the last thing you said to him before the spell,

You sobbed out , full on crying.

Then you hugged him as hard as you could, emotions were full on out, your curls sticking to the side of your face and neck as you cried harder.

“My Peter oh my god-“ you chocked on a sob.

“It’s okay Angel it’s okay.”

He said softly as he put his hand on the back of your head, caressing it like you were some cat,his chin on the top of your head.

You looked up at him, tears all over your face mixing with your hair that is stick to your face.

“I fell in love with you twice..”

OMG HOW DID THIS GUYS OMG 👀👀THEY DID SUCH AN GOOD JOB OMG👀👀👀

lol proud of my self 🤍☹️ and pls let me know if Cinderella is not a love song PLS

[mayhemi]

𓂅 SENSITIVE ⋮ (NSFW)

PETER PARKER is so sensitive, especially when it comes to his organic web shooters.

thinking about running your finger across the vein of his forearm gently, watching the way his breath hitches and he visibly blushes, face a pretty pink all the way to the tips of his ears.

"is that okay?" you ask, voice impossibly soft and caring. your soothing tone only makes his dick twitch in his pants. :(

he hesitantly nods, squeezing his eyes shut at the pad of your thumb running over the barely noticeable flap the webs eject from. "feels-- shit-" he's trying not to get worked up, "feels weird– i-i dunno-" his voice cracks pathetically, leaning into your sweet touch despite himself.

he's not lying either, it's a sensation so strange, like nothing he could've imagined. seeing webs sputter from the slit disgusted him the first time he witnessed it, but it's different with you. how do you manage to make it feel so fucking good?

"s'okay, peter" you purr in that way that has him whining, "let me take care of you, yeah?" you rub slow, calculated circles on the flap, taking notice of the way he bucks his hips up, as if he needs release. "ohgod– s'good-- i- i like it" he chokes out, nodding his head feverishly and squirming impatiently on the mattress.

"oh yeah?" you challenge, curiously deciding to take it further. you start at the midway point of his inner arm, pressing down hard on the vein and dragging your finger up to the flap.

"oh fuck--!" he gasps, the sudden pressure has him humping the air mindlessly, chasing something that's not there. he's trying to be good, to control himself, but how the fuck is he supposed to do that when you're touching him like this?

his dick strains against his sweats as you increase pressure, skin hot under your thumb.

"waitwaitwait!" he cries out as your thumb nears the slit, so close to shooting out that sticky web, his cock so close to shooting out sticky release. "baby– m'sorry, just–" he pants, his heart beating a frantic rhythm, he's right on the edge. your hand pauses completely.

you glance at him, and he looks just gorgeous like this. his eyes are wide and glassy, lips bitten raw, and cheeks wet with a few tears, falling from just how perverted he feels. how is he able to get off from this? is he really that desperate?

"pete." your honey-smooth voice makes him go dumb, makes him nod along to anything you say, lets you do anything you want to him. "just... let me try this, okay?" you lean down to press a reverent kiss to his forehead, making him shudder.

without any warning, you quickly press down and drag your thumb across the vein, forcing a string of webs to shoot across the room.

peter immediately flinches, gasping and rolling his eyes to the back of his head. "oh shit--!" he moans whorishly, his cock shooting out hot release directly after. he didn't think he could cum so quickly, especially in his boxers.

you watch in a daze as he rides out his orgasm, leftover webs bubbling up to the flap and pitifully dripping down his arm.

he glances down at his wrist, gagging at the sight of the white liquid. "god– that's so gross" he groans, arm moving to cover his face in disgust. his chest is still heaving, pink lips slightly parted.

"yeah well–" a giggle bubbles up in your chest, "you're the one who came from me touching it" you point out, moving to kiss his flushed cheek when he groans further in embarrassment.

he peeks out from under his arm, hesitating to speak. "maybe uh– we can do that again? like– not right now, obviously... but y'know–" he stutters, chuckling nervously.

he's such a dork, you think.

you lay down next to him, smiling at his hopeful expression when you nod your head, before speaking.

"only if you ask nicely"

©𝐌𝐀𝐘𝐇𝐄𝐌𝐈

^^ (click on full image) i had this in mind... don't judge me okay.

[yasministration]

love bites

pairing: peter parker x gf!reader summary: you're determined to leave love bites all over peter's neck, but unfortunately for you, his accelerated healing has other plans. peter has a couple of suggestions to lift your spirits. cw: attempts at giving hickeys, dry humping, kissing, allusions to sex, reader is kind of possessive but peter loves it wc: 1k+

Peter sharply inhales, hands tightening on your hips as your teeth softly graze the soft skin of his neck. In the back of the room, Evie calls out “Senses are overriding”, but you couldn’t care less, gripping your boyfriend’s face in one hand and moving it away from you so more space on his neck becomes exposed to you. A pathetic noise leaves Peter’s mouth at the way you handle him, lips reconnecting with his neck to sharply begin sucking again.

A slick layer of sweat coats Peter’s skin for a few reasons. One, you’ve been kissing him for a while now, and not long ago you got the brilliant idea to start leaving love bites on his skin. Two, your hips began moving against his own from where you’ve perched yourself above him a little while ago, and he’s been putting a large effort into not rolling his growing erection into your core. And lastly, you’re growing frustrated, which frankly makes him a little nervous.

You pull back from Peter’s neck with a loud pop, wiping your saliva off his skin with your unoccupied hand, and the second you huff again, Peter swallows thickly. The hickeys you’ve been trying to decorate him with just aren’t settling. In the minutes they take to appear, they already begin healing, leaving his skin unmarked.

“It’s not fair.” You mumble, and Peter truly sympathises with you, taking in the soft pout on your lips as you let go of his face. “What does a girl have to do give her boyfriend a couple of hickeys?” Peter gives you a small smile despite himself, eyes fluttering shut when you lean in again to continue your assault on his neck. God, you’re like a vampire, he thinks, groaning quietly as you press your entire body harder against his, chest flat against his. The hand you had on his face now buries itself in his hair, and Peter’s lips part as you grind down onto his lap.

“Heart rate quickly accelerating.” The robotic voice announces again, and Peter feels heat instantly rush to his face as you hum against his skin, taking in Evie’s words. You move your lips closer to Peter’s jaw, right where his pulse point lies, and he whimpers when your lips stretch into a smile against his neck, feeling the heavy thump of his pulse fighting against his veins. You pucker your lips to kiss the spot, and Peter’s hands snake up from your hips to the curve of your waist, where his fingers can dig better into your plush fat.

You pull away from Peter, seemingly unbothered by the fact that none of his hickeys are appearing, too busy admiring the state you’ve left your boyfriend in this time. Peter risks letting go of your waist with one hand, using it to cradle your cheek and pull you into a kiss instead. Your lips are wet with your saliva, and Peter moans against them, relaxing back into his pillows when you press your hands to his chest. Peter tries breaking the kiss, parting his lips to tell you something, but you’re quick to follow his lips, his open mouth letting you glide your tongue against his with practiced ease.

Peter’s hips twitch below you, bucking up into you in a way that makes the both of you let out a pleasured sigh. You break the kiss as Peter had tried doing mere moments ago, but now you ask him “Pete, why won’t you let me leave hickeys on you?”

Your boyfriend’s face softens at your upset expression, and he tilts his head sympathetically, saying “Trust me baby, I want you to be able to mark me up as much as you do.” The words send a throb to your core, and you try squeezing your thighs together, blocked by Peter’s body between them, and he grins softly. “What if I leave a couple on you, mhm?” Peter asks, fingers brushing up against your neck. He doesn’t wait for your response before bringing his lips there, his nose tickling your neck as it brushes against your skin, even as you reject his offer.

“But I want people to know you’re taken.” You open your mouth to add to your sentence, but what comes out instead is a quiet moan as Peter creates suction on your skin, one of your hands gripping his shoulder harshly. “I have a solution for that.” Peter mumbles, separating from your neck and looking up at you. You lean forward a little, pressing your forehead against Peter’s as you hum inquisitively, and your boyfriend mimics the noise with a slight nod of his head. “All it takes is to have you by my side any time I leave the house, and I’m sure everyone in Manhattan will get the hint.”

You press a short kiss to Peter’s lips, and you pull away for him to find you with a smile on your face. “Like that idea?” He questions quietly, and you nod softly, playing with the hair that hangs in front of his face. He pecks your lips shortly before returning his attention to your neck, grazing his teeth against your skin before sucking harshly on the spot for a long moment. You gasp, arching your body into his, and Peter pulls away to observe his work.

Peter glances up to meet your eyes before his gaze is quickly dipping down to your neck, and he grins, adding “And this hickey on your neck may very well be a sign to everyone that we belong to each other.”

“Already!?” You gasp, fingers coming up to graze the love bite Peter has so easily left on you. He nods, bringing an annoyed groan out of you, and you slump on his chest as you mumble in annoyance “That’s so unfair, I wanted to leave my mark on you, but no, of course Mr. Spider-Man’s accelerated healing has to confiscate his girlfriend’s simple pleasures in life.”

Peter laughs loudly, securing an arm around your waist and carefully rolling you over on the bed so he can hover over you. “Okay Mrs. Spider-Man, since you’re so upset about the hickeys, we can see if something else like back scratches last any longer.”

And of course, it’s all worth it to see the way your eyes light up at his suggestion, even though you demand a couple more rounds when nothing appears on his back the first time around.

taglist: @dream-alittlebiggerdarling, @dearlizzies, @bxuzi, @rory-cakes, @dlljdhsh, , @fandomhoe101, @sharkers00, @paankhaleyaaar, @tea-biscuits-books, @bearymuchso, @princesstiti14, @challengers4ev, @doiki3, @daisylove3, @laufeysvalentine, @veveaq, @nothinlikeuuu, @kneelforloki, @saaucie

[fawnindawn]

letters i can't send.

summary: your cute upstairs neighbour holds many secrets. you're willing to close one eye to his secrecy or the way he looks at you as if you hung the stars, till you accidentally uncover letters upon letters nedpeter’s kept in his apartment—all addressed to you.

pairing: peter parker x reader

content: slight angst, flufff, comfort, no major movie spoilers!!, yes peter fumbled by using ned as his fake name, yearner peter parker!!

Hey! It’s Peter, your Peter.

Peter—clearly, Ned wasn't even his real name. Ned, the friendly neighbour from 28B who was a secretive, genius oddball—whom you suspect to be some sort of undercover agent after catching a glimpse of the ridiculously high-end tech flooding his apartment.

Overly sweet Ned, who never failed to offer a hand with your laundry basket or delivery packages, or dropping off your exact coffee order at the front door before your morning shifts, just because he could. Ned, who snaps his neck up half the time looking around with a widened, hopeful gaze when you do address him in the laundry room—as if looking for some other Ned that meant a greater deal to him than himself.

You had suspected he was likely involved in illegal activities, but when the temptation of finding his laundry basket unattended remained, you finally took the chance to return those little favours. Maybe he was the kindest stranger you've ever known, or maybe he just looked like he could use a helping hand—with how his shoulders drooped low whenever he thought no one was looking in the dingy hallways. He seemed—lonely.

Not like you were one to judge. You had always felt like a piece of you was missing, and that gaping hole behind your ribs didn't magically stitch itself closed when you grabbed your degree with crippling student loans biting at your heels, and a lousy job in the nearest soul-sucking company you could find within train distance to your apartment.

So, maybe Ned's smile that crinkled the corners of his hazel eyes flashed more than once in your thoughts, and you decided it was time to get to know the man who lived one floor above you. You expected his smile to greet you when you climbed up the rickety stairs to his apartment, not his door left ajar with webs sticking out the hinges—or letters all addressed to you scattered across the floorboards.

You didn't know what you had expected when you walked into his mess of an apartment. More so than usual, enough for you to sense the abnormality of webs upon webs coating his furniture. Stepping into what seems to be a genuine crime scene, it's as if the culprit was one massive spider that decided to make its hive in Ned's apartment.

"Ned?" You call out, worry raised in your tone as you look around—catching no sight of him through the thick layers of webbing. His large monitor screens are all left online, files left unclosed on the window tab, with no sign of their user.

You're one step away from the monitor, tempted to call the cops when you catch sight of crumpled papers upon papers scattered on the wooden floors beneath the desk. Brows furrowed, you crouch down, brushing away the loosened cobwebs coating the papers. They are— letters.

Your first instinct as your fingers trace over his handwriting, paper crumpled at the edges, is to leave it alone as it's most definitely personal—before your eyes catch sight of your name. No—you weren't imagining it. The letters were most definitely, addressed to you.

Hey! It’s Peter, your Peter.

Earlier was bad. Like, really bad. I can't believe I said 'Oh no!' to your face, like what kind of idiot does that as their first impression? Well, technically that wouldn't be our first meeting, though I doubt you'll remember me. I was anything but smooth on all the other occurences either.

Just talking with you in the hallway and carrying your boxes—I nearly forgot myself. I still can't decide if it's a curse or some cruel joke of a blessing that you moved into my apartment complex of all places. It's like the world's trying to tell me to just say the truth.

I should be going out there and telling you this instead of writing this stupid note or letter, but a letter should come in one of those fancy envelopes, so I guess I should call this a note? Anyways, I'm getting off track.

I miss being with you, and I’m so scared I’m starting to forget how it iswas between us, and talking to you again like everything was normal just—I had the urge to sit down and write to you, before I did anything stupid. So I could talk to you, in some way, without hiding behind 'Ned'. How stupid can I be, using Ned's name, like was that seriously all I could think of? I don’t know if this note will be worth anything by the end, but I think it’ll hurt worse if I just let what happened simmer in my brain.

I miss you so, so much. It feels like it's killing me sometimes, and I don't know what to do with myself now that you're here, so close to me, for what could be a really long time. I don't know what hurts worse, being apart from you or this, and I don't know what I'm going to do. You'd know what to say, and I wish you could tell me. I miss you ordering me around. I just miss you.

Love, Your Peter.

Your heart thumps painfully against your ribcage, fingers tightening over the crinkled edges, digging deeper into the forming lines. What kind of sick joke was this? Had he known you for longer—since before you moved into this apartment?

His strange reaction when he had bumped into you in the hallway for the first time reformed in your memory, the intensity of a stranger that came off as more than usual awkwardness.

"Sorry for bumping into you—" You huff, a cramped smile peeking through the many boxes you're carrying. "Not my best line of sight right now."

Past the boxes, is possibly the cutest potential neighbour you've ever seen. With wettened curls drooping over his forehead, a towel draped around his neck, in his grey sweats and baggy hoodie—this stranger looks like a dream. Or maybe you're just in desperate help to ease the load on your arms that carries your entire future life in this new apartment complex.

"What are you doing here?"

You blink, stunned by his sudden interrogation. That was—not what you expected. You run faces through your mind, anyone you may have accidentally pissed off in the last four years of your university life, but his doesn't come to mind at all. You would remember that face.

Especially if he's staring at you like the existence of you in this cramped hallway was a signal that the world was collapsing on him and his perfect curls.

"Uhm, I live here?" You answer, shuffling the boxes awkwardly between your two palms. "Well, starting today—I do."

Your words register slowly for him, and you feel it in the strain of your arms under the boxes, as the fact that you're his actual neighbour slowly kicks in to his senses.

"Oh." His lips part in genuine anguish. "Oh no."

"Yikes." You wince. "That's a warm welcome."

He's panicking. The cute stranger looks like he's one miscalculated breath away from passing out in the hallway, and you're in no position to assist him when you're clearly winded yourself.

"No—I didn't mean—" His voice stutters, catching at the tail-ends and running out of breath. "Oh, this is not how it's supposed to go."

"No, I don't think I've ever caused genuine pain to a neighbour just from my mere existence." You snort, offering a lighter tone. "Though Margeret may disagree."

His lips quirk up slightly, involuntary even if he has no idea who Margeret—your old neighbour, is supposed to be. "No, I'm sorry. That was rude of me." He tries again, voice sincerely apologetic. "Can I please help you with the boxes to make up for it?"

You open your mouth to brush off his request, but the boxes tilt right as you make another forward step. "Fine." You oblige. "Just don't start spreading rumours about me taking advantage of your kindness. I really need a new start here."

"Had personal experience with that?" He raises a brow, almost teasing—softer than he had been earlier in his initial shock. His hands come up under your boxes, brushing over your fingers almost tentatively.

The warmth of his touch lingers for a second longer than it should, but you're too focused on the relief of the heavy weight being lifted off your palms as he carries it into his own arms, clearly handling the boxes with more ease than you had.

"Ask Margeret." You shrug, rolling your shoulders to ease the cramping. "Thanks..."

His lips part and close, realising he's supposed to introduce himself. It takes him awhile to gather the syllables of his name, before he offers it. "..Ned."

"Thanks, Ned." Your smile deepens, and he stares at you long enough, gaze tracing over the curve of your lips for it to teeter towards awkward.

He keeps doing that, registering your presence as something otherworldly, as if it was the last thing he expected in his path. Maybe the complex has few new tenants to explain his abnormal reaction.

"Oh, my door's 13B."

"What—oh, right!" He blinks, still looking stunned and turning with such an abrupt motion towards the direction of your new studio—and somehow, you're fond of it immediately.

Fond of Ned, even if your arrival seems to have jumbled his senses into a frenzy, and you have only known him for approximately four minutes.

Hey, it's Peter again!

It's two in the morning, my ribs are aching from Scorpion, and talking with you in the laundry room was easily the best ten minutes of my life since everything changed. My smile refuses to be wiped and it's been nearly an hour, and I can't sleep cause I'm thinking about you. You genuinely work better than painkillers, and I love you. I love you so much that I have never wished so desperately...

I wish I wasn't Peter Parker. That I wasn't the person who took your love for granted, who reassured you that I'd always make it back to you and that I'd help you remember. I can't even protect the people I love, not without ruining their lives just by letting them in. Being able to keep you safe from me, is the only reason that's enough to keep me from barging in and fulfilling my promise. From reminding you of what I used to mean to you, and what we used to be. I am a coward, but I can only hope that I won't be a selfish one. I've created enough reasons for why I can't stand being me, but I refuse to list another which involves hurting you.

That's enough for tonight. I just wish that if the universe ever gives me the chance to make things right, without making everything else much much worse, I just want you to know that I would never take anything for granted ever again. Over anything. Over pineapple on pizza, or the supremacy of rock bands, or the Lego pieces I stuffed under my bed, or me being Spiderman. I miss you so much, and I hope you're having a better night that I am.

Love, Your Peter.

“Ned, are you okay?” You ask, watching as he limped forward towards the washing machine, one hand gripped right at his ribcage.

Your own batch is tumbling along, and you're seated cross-legged across your machine as he slumps forward to sit right next to you, hand going towards the cover of the conjoined machine beside yours.

“Peachy.” The crinkles of his eyes deepen, tossing you a wayward smile with a barely concealed wince. “Tripped and slammed into the washing machine yesterday.”

“That’s like the third time this month.” You raise a brow, expression contorting in concern.

“Is it?” He chuckles self-deprecatingly. “Must be really off my game.”

“Of making amends with the washing machine?” You tease.

“Yeah, I suppose.” His smile softens, gazing up at you.

He does that a lot, go soft at the edges, as if he’s peeling back something fuzzy over his expression—and revealing something honest.

"My advice is to make an offer." You whisper conspiratorially. "Throw in your most favourite shirt or something, and the laundry gods will be kinder on you."

He snorts, and it feels strangely familiar to talk to him this way, under the dim lighting of the flickering lamp, surrounded by the scent of detergent. You barely get to see Ned as is, not like you're expecting a practical stranger to make up much of your socialising hours, aside from the quick friendly nods and occasional 'how's your day's' when brushing past each other in the hallway.

He's a busy guy, and the laundry mat has become a sacred space where the two of you existed in each other's worlds for just a few minutes, till the timer runs out.

"I don't really have anything of mine that'll please the gods." He whispers back.

"I could give you something." You shrug non-comittally.

His gaze widens, staring at you as you dig around in your inner pocket, before tugging something out. One of your favourite scrunchies in hand, you offer it to him.

"Here." You gesture. "Just toss it in with the pile, I guarantee you that the gods will leave you alone."

His gaze flickers between the scrunchie in your hand to you. He's about to say something, brows furrowing together in brief conflict, but chooses not to divulge as his hand reaches for the scrunchie. You note the bruises forming along his knuckles as his fingers loop around the silk, and your lips press together further in concern.

By the time your gaze meets his, he's already turned his head and placed the scrunchie gently on top of his pile of clothes. When he sets the settings and presses the button, the machine runs smoothly, beeping along with yours as his clothes begin to turn and tumble without fault.

"Wow, you really do make everything better." He mutters to himself.

Your smile softens. "It's just a scrunchie."

He shakes his head loosely, his curls falling to his forehead before he turns back to face you. His gaze pours over your features, the crinkles in the corner of his hazel eyes so soft in the dimmed lighting. "No, I think it’s you."

Peter here!

I just wanted to say happy birthday to the smartest, beautiful, kindest, most awesome human to ever exist! I ran out of other big words, but you make up the whole dictionary of synonyms for amazing in every language possible. I’m really sorry I couldn’t be there, you have no idea how sorry. I have many other things to be sorry for, but this week, that’s definitely going top of the list. I should really stop with these letters, but I really wanted to give you a proper wish just this once.

It kills me that I can’t celebrate with you, and I know you’d end me yourself if you remembered my promise with the camera. You always did like the grain. You still look absolutely beautiful even without it. I’m so proud of you—for being you, and existing, and just killing it out there in the world. I did something a little sad, and not even close to what you deserve, but I bought a cupcake from Delmar's earlier, and I even have the candle right in front of me.

I wish for you to live the most happiest, fulfilling life, and that danger will never come close to you. I wish that you will achieve everything you've ever dreamed of, and that you'll have people who will look after you and love you just as much as I do. I wish—that you'll live a life worth remembering.

I love you, and I think this will be my last letter. I think it'll be nearly impossible for me to let you go, but I think it's time I accepted that for you to live the life I wished for, I have to try.

I love you, Your Peter.

P.S. Sorry, just had to add this in one last time. You're always beautiful, and I'm not saying this because I only get to see you from a distance, but because I don't think I ever got to tell you that enough.

"Ned?" Your voice croaked out. "Is that you?"

You hear shuffling, before his left shoulder peeks out from the doorframe, slowly entering into view as he takes the lower step into the laundry room. He's staring down at you as if you've handed him an atomic bomb, and you're a sure mess, nose stuffy and eyebags swollen from crying.

"Hey." His soft call is close to making you lose it. "I didn't know if you wanted me intruding on your—"

"Date with the washing machine?" You huff, amusement dry as you turn back to look at your tumbling laundry. "By all means, join in. This current option isn't really doing it for me."

You spot the turn of his lips into a smile in your peripheral vision, before he eventually drops his weight beside you. His knee brushes against yours, and that contact registers like lightning to your senses, before he pulls back to that appropriate distance he always sets between the two of you.

You have no idea why it frustrates you so, even if you have nothing you should expect from him. Your gaze drops to his hand resting over his knee, bouncing slightly with a restless energy—and you spot your scrunchie over his wrist.

Your breath shortens, pulling your attention to his face only to find him already looking at you with unbridled concern.

"You okay?" He asks gently.

Your lip trembles, and you steady yourself as much as you are able. "Fine, just a real shit week."

"I'm so sorry to hear that." He's honest, you can hear it even without really looking him in the eye. "If you want, you can rant to me. I'm a real good listening ear. No mouthing off, just a still statue for your needs."

Your lips quirk up slightly at his attempt at minimising his presence, without even knowing how much it mattered to you that he came in here—or that he stood by the door for a solid ten minutes before you called him out. That he didn't leave, even if any normal stranger would.

"It's my birthday." You shrug, wiping at the tearstain at your cheeks. "And I just lost my job."

His lips part, brows pulling together—but he doesn't interrupt you.

"I was supposed to have a party today, and my college friends cancelled last minute." You mutter weakly. "Not that we were super close, but close enough that it mattered, y'know? I wasn't their first pick, or anyone's for the matter, so it really shouldn't have come as a surprise."

"No, you're—" His voice raises almost in frustration, and you meet his gaze. His Adam's apple bobs up and down, and his tone softens into an admission. "You're definitely my first pick."

Your laugh bubbles out of you, finding his statement absurd. "For what? You barely know me."

"I know you're extremely kind." He starts. "That you'd offer your favourite scrunchie to a stranger just to please the laundry gods. That you're funny, and beautiful—and my first pick for who I'd always want to run into."

You stare at him, unable to suppress your shock. He just called you kind, and funny, and beautiful—things people who've known you for longer hasn't thought to mention in years.

"That's—the nicest thing anyone's ever said to me in awhile." You confess, licking at your lips. "Thank you, Ned."

"It's only the truth." He presses. "I shouldn't be the only person to see that, and I know I'm not the only one who does."

"I don't know." You shrug uselessly. "My birthday hasn't even ended, and I feel completely unseen in my own life. I know it's a stupid thing, but I wish I had someone to take my picture, at least to comemorate that I've completed another spin around the Earth or something."

"You could use my camera." He offers almost instinctively.

"You have a camera?" You blink, before a slow smile spreads across your lips. "Of course you do. Do I need to be a tech-savvy to use those too, secret hacker?"

You're no stranger to the many monitors that crowd his apartment, courtesy to the many curious glances past the few times he's left his door ajar, into the premises of his own studio of what looked to be a completely different realm.

His smile deepens. "No, you just need to press two buttons. I could teach you how to work it out."

"You're into photography?" You ask.

His expression stiffens, thoughts trailing off. "Yeah, something like that. My aunt used to love taking physical photos, and I sorta inherited that trait. There was someone—who used to love using my film camera too. So, yeah—I guess I have some experience."

"You could teach me photography." You offer, almost tentatively. "Not just for the sad, lone birthday picture, I mean."

"Oh." He stares at you, and you see it then. Conflict—a pure, unmasked internal battle. "I—I don't know if I'm the right person."

You shrink slightly, less confident than you had been a few seconds ago. This really wasn't your day. "Right, sorry. I know you're a really busy person."

"No, I—" He winces, jaw clenching tight. "I would really love to. It's just that I'm—"

He pauses, staring at you with a nearly broken expression. Your brows furrow together, waiting for his answer—heart thumping in what could only be anticipation. Rejection is close at hand, and you hate that you find yourself waiting still, for something different. For him to fulfill something even you couldn't quite understand.

"Busy." He eventually settles on, voice trailing off in defeat.

You can't take it to heart. You don't allow yourself to, because disappointment is the last thing you wanted a taste of on a day like this. Ned was still nice enough to sit down here with you while you moped, and you shouldn't expect anything more. Even if you liked him, and the crinkles in the corners of his warm, brown eyes, and the sweet sound of his voice—more than you'd ever admit to yourself.

"That's not very creative." You mumble, presenting him with a weakened attempt of a smile. "I gave you that excuse, thief."

His own softened smile rises to meet yours, equally shattered. "I'm sorry. I promise I'll make it up to you."

You know he means it, you just don't know why your heart churns so painfully when you hear those words coming out of his mouth. You don't know if you have faith in promises lately. You haven't believed in those for a really long time.

You don't know how many letters you've gone through, flipping through confessions scribbled in secrecy, of mind-spells, and magic, and vigilantes—a life you don't even remember to be a fraction of your world.

A loud crash resounds behind you and you instinctively rise, tripping over your feet—almost frightened, lashes wet at the corner of your eyes when you turn and see Ned. No, Peter—dressed in a black tank-top much too short for his defined torso and… Juicy Couture pants?

He’s clearly disoriented, and you’re not sure if it’s the chronic migraines he usually gets—or something heavier he keeps hidden past the pile of letters that’s just spilled everything. You can barely look at him without feeling like you’re going to burst at the seams, and he hasn’t even noticed your presence in his apartment.

“What is this?” Your voice eventually breaks through.

His head snaps up, expression scrunched in tension—and he freezes. That same tentative smile he always tossed to you, always sweet and somehow all-too-knowing, locks in place as his lips part—assuming you’re talking about his outfit. Or the state of his apartment, there’s just too much about him that you could never quite put a finger on.

“Wrong laundry basket.” He huffs, churning out an attempt of a laugh to play it off. “Fell asleep in the laundry room, and I didn't even think to take a look at what's inside. I promise I'm not a thief.”

“Stop.” Your stern expression is caught by him immediately, and his attempt of a smile falters. Slowly, your hand raises the letters to his line of vision. "Peter."

His gaze snaps to the letters creased between your shaking fingers. You can't remember what breathing looks like, especially not when his own chest stutters visibly beneath the tank top, as if all the oxygen's been sucked out of him.

He knows, that you know.

"Oh—no." He whispers weakly, because that is the only appropriate thing to say. You’re struck with déjà vu, back to the first time you ever crossed paths with him in the hallway, when he had looked you with so much pain—one you couldn’t decipher.

He takes a step forward towards you, both hands raised with his lips parting to come up with an explanation. You instinctively take a step back, not on purpose, but the distance you've created lands all the same.

He flinches as if you've struck him, his expression shattered to pieces of that raw agony you've felt slip up from him once or twice. That same gaping sadness beneath his gaze, that he always covered up with a bandaged smile meant more for show.

"I'm sorry." His voice breaks weakly, hands clenching into a fist before dragging back down to his sides. "I didn't mean to scare you. Oh god, this was not how this was supposed to go."

"How was this supposed to go?" You echo back to him. "From your letters, it didn't seem like you were ever going to tell me."

It didn't mean to sound accusatory, but you're high on the precipice of a reality broken to pieces, and you're unsure if you're left alone in apartment with an actual lunatic, or with a truth you weren't suppose to discover.

"No, I—" He sucks in a breath, desperation seeping into his tone. "I swear I was going to, but then I found you and you looked so—"

His hands that have begun to brush through his curls fall flatly to the sides, defeated. "So peaceful—and safe. I felt so selfish to take that away from you. To drag you back into my world, knowing that all you'd face was danger or worse."

"And the truth is that hurt the people I love." He admits, his eyes squinting together as something wet flickers over his lashes, and you can tell he believes it. This so-called truth he tells himself. "Nothing good comes out of being close to me, and I couldn't lose you."

"I had to be okay with it." His gaze meets yours, broken. "Not being in your life will always be better than a world without you in it. I had to protect you, somehow—even if it meant leaving you alone."

"It was easier before you came." He huffs out, pained. "To keep a distance before I saw you everyday, just out of reach. I can't count the amount of times I nearly told you. I was just afraid, that if you didn't remember me, I don't think I can—live with hearing it. I'm a coward, and I took the only path I knew, which was to pretend. Like everything was fine, and that seeing you from a distance was enough."

You see it, the way his brain registers his actions as protection, but you don't feel protected. You feel isolated, locked out of your own memories and faced with a man you're supposed to know, someone your body is pleading for you to recognise past the fog in your brain.

“Listen—whatever worked worked, and I can’t remember.” You breathe out, exhale shaky from your lips. “I can’t remember what we had, but I know myself. I don't let people make promises to me, not unless I trust them so much that I—If you promised you’d find me, that you’d help me remember.” Your fist clenches tighter around the letters. "You should've known that I'd never be okay with leaving you alone to deal with this—"

"How could you know that?" He snaps.

You blink, stunned.

"I mean—you never had a normal life from the moment you met me." He goes on. "You never experienced a life without hoping I'd make it back home safe, without looking over your shoulder when I became the world's public enemy, or having to deal with stitches and blood and worrying about survival—instead of school!"

"You don't see the difference but I do." He confesses. "You're living a good life now, and I already screwed it up by entering it again."

"Peter." You cut him off, nearly pleading. "Stop it."

His jaw locks, lips clamping shut before he lets out a huff, one closer to a panic attack than frustration. "I'm sorry." He mutters, clenching his jaw. Something wet pries behind his lashes, and he runs his palms over them, covering his face. "I don't want to fight."

Your heart cracks a little, because there's something so heartbreakingly earnest in the way he says it, as if he's beating himself up over a million thoughts you can't uncover. Your steps inch closer, almost instinctively your body knowing the rhythm at the sight of a distraught Peter before you even have the chance to piece together the 'why'.

"We're not fighting, Peter." You reassure him, your hands tentatively lifting to rest atop his palm.

He freezes, unable to comprehend your touch. You peer through the gaps of his fingers, and find his gaze staring back at you, fractured and pained.

"I knew something wasn't right." You sigh. "I felt it this whole time. Like there was an absence of something—someone important. It gnawed at me, that emptiness, and it nearly drives me insane some nights."

He recognises the feeling, you know he does with the way his expression draws tighter—in understanding, in regret.

"I wish you came to me." You whisper. "I wish you told me, so you wouldn't have to go through this alone."

His lip trembles, as if he never expected you to hear the truth and stay. As if you'd pick the exit over him, when he clearly needs you now.

"If I had promised I'd be there for you, you should've let me keep that promise." You scold gently. "Even if it meant starting over. You’re not meant to deal with life alone, much less one as heavy as yours.”

His gaze is shaken, staring at you with his pupils blown wide. Waiting for reality to hit, or for you to take back your words—but you remain. You stand there, close enough for him to feel you. You don't falter.

Something in Peter gives—shatters completely, and it’s a mere blink before his arms are completely wrapped around you, squashing you into his chest. His fingers are shaking, trembling—a relieved exhale pressed against your shoulder blade before he buries himself deep into the crook above your collarbone.

“I missed you.” Wet tears pool at your skin. “So, so much. It felt like I was dying a little inside every single day, knowing I wasn't keeping your promise. I couldn't—I really tried letting go and it didn't work, not when you mean everything to me."

"I know you don't remember me or what happened between us but—" His voice shakes, muffled from his tight hold. "I love you and I’m sorry—I’m so sorry for everything.”

You can't answer him, not with the words he wants or deserves to hear with full honesty backing it, not without the memories you used to share. Yet, the hold of him is familiar, the way you run your fingers through his curls like memory work. His entire body caves in deeper to your touch, as if he’d been waiting this whole time since your arrival to let himself fall into you.

"From the first day I saw you." You admit. "I felt like I was meant to know you, Peter. I wouldn't have given you my scrunchie if it didn't mean something, if I didn't want to tie myself to you in some way."

Pulling back slightly so he meets your gaze, you find yourself mesmerised by the familiarity of him, the way his gaze pours over you automatically as if memorising you is all he wishes to do.

"I want to get to know you, Peter." You confess. "And I want to do it without you pushing me away, pretending like my life is happier without you when laundry nights are what I look forward to the most, because of you."

His breath halts, short-circuiting with your words. Something bright and warm bleeds into his face, and you recognise it to be happiness. Genuine, unconditional relief—before his forehead presses against yours, his lashes fluttering to a close as he embraces you.

"I can do that." He mutters softly. "I'll do anything you ask me to."

It's nice, to be held so tightly and finally feel whole. To have that gap in your chest you've never truly stitched up fade into something mind-numbingly warm and fuzzy, in the arms of the one person your body still commits to memory, past even some stupid mind spell.

“Also.." You murmur, still wrapped in his embrace. "Seriously, what is this outfit?"

A surprised chuckle escapes his lips, a little wet-sounding as he clears his throat. "I wasn't lying about the laundry mishap. I swear I don't dress like this normally."

You hum. "I don't know, I kind of like it."

The silence stretches for a brief second. "I'll buy more if you want me to."

a/n: this movie was everything i needed. much more peter parker fics to come! likes, reblogs, and comments are appreciated! <3333

[fromidnightosunrise]

oh this somehow broke me and healed me at the same time

[yoxiaogi]

⸻ CAUGHT IN SPIDER WEB

spider webs can endure stretches and harsh environments. when you're caught in one, there's no easy way out. cw. fluff/angst, brand new day spoilers an. i watched spiderman and im obsessed..

• Before the forgetting spell, you and Peter were close. Your crushes on each other were known to almost everyone. You knew about his secret identity, just like Ned and MJ did. You supported him when everyone found out that Peter Parker was Spider-Man. Peter was more than grateful for you. You were one of the few people who truly got him. You were smart—even smarter than him, as he often told you. You had a dream, just like him, to go to MIT, and he was more than sure you would get in. You deserved everything you wanted, and if you couldn't get it on your own, he would make sure it happened. He just loved you with all his heart. That's why making you forget him was so hard. It became even harder when, after learning what would happen, you kissed him like he meant everything you he to mean to you. You told him to be strong, that there was no way you could ever forget him. But you did.

• Peter knew it was wrong, but he liked to visit you at work. Watching you work at the café broke his heart. You were supposed to be studying at MIT, but because of his actions, you couldn't. A few days after the world forgot him, your grandpa—your only family—got sick. You couldn't leave him. You had to take care of him and work a minimum-wage job just to cover his medical bills and your living expenses. Peter knew you deserved so much more. If you still knew him, if he was still part of your life, he would have helped. He would've gotten your grandpa all the care he needed. He would've done anything just so you could live your dream. But he wasn't there. He wasn't in your life anymore. He was just an observer.

• Just an observer who, by accident—as he liked to tell himself—rented an apartment only a few minutes away from yours. Just an observer who started pulling you into little conversations whenever he stopped by the coffee shop where you worked. Of course, he came just for the coffee, not because you were working there. Of course. At least that's what he kept telling himself. Just an observer who smiled sadly when you asked if the two of you had met somewhere before because he looked so familiar. Just an observer who secretly wished you would remember him, even if it was selfish.

• You didn't know what it was about this guy named Peter, but he intrigued you. He was nice, funny, and smart in such a casual way. He was attractive—honestly, exactly your type. You didn't want to get involved with anyone when your life was such a mess, but there was something about him that felt familiar. Safe. Like something you'd known before, even though you didn't think you had.

• Peter talked to you every chance he got. He never asked you out; he just kept visiting you at work, always ordering the same coffee. Over time, you started telling him more about yourself, not knowing he already knew everything. You told him about your grandpa and your dream of going to MIT, though you said it wasn't important anymore. You could tell Peter was sad for you—not the kind of "I'm sorry" sad people say when they don't know what else to say, but genuinely heartbroken. The kind of sadness people only feel when they truly care about someone.

He was there when your grandpa died. He came to the funeral. You didn't see him, but he was there. He watched as Ned and MJ held you while you cried in their arms. He wished more than anything that he could've been beside you too, but he couldn't. He was just a guy from the coffee shop.

• After your grandpa died, you moved into another apartment a few blocks away. You also changed jobs. Before leaving, though, you told Peter where you were going and, with quiet hope, asked if he wanted to keep in contact.

Peter knew he shouldn't. He really did. But he couldn't stop himself. He took your number, even though he knew it was a terrible idea.

• The two of you stayed in touch surprisingly well. You texted him often, and he always replied. His guilt never let him text you first, but he could never bring himself not to answer. He just couldn't bear to break your heart like that. He still loved you so much.

He loved you. That's why he couldn't meet up with you. He just couldn't make himself do it.

Okay... maybe he did meet you two or three times, but only because you asked.

The fact that you were still you didn't help at all. He still loved your smile. Still loved hearing you ramble about nerdy things. He still found himself saying that you were much smarter than him, only for you to give him a strange look, as if the words gave you déjà vu.

Peter knew meeting with you was stupid. Irresponsible.

• Jean Grey showed him just how stupid it was.

Peter almost had a heart attack when you suddenly appeared outside his apartment, speaking exactly like Jean while looking at him with your sweet eyes. But he knew it wasn't you.

He listened as she told him she knew how important you were to him. That she could feel you getting closer and closer to the truth. She laughed using your voice as he threatened her, begging her not to hurt you.

She simply smiled. "Don't worry," she said. "She'll be safe... for now."

Peter watched as you suddenly came back to yourself, standing outside his apartment building, completely confused.

That's when he knew he had screwed up.

• He thought long and hard about what to do, but he knew Frank was his only option.

As Spider-Man, he basically broke into your apartment and quickly told you that you were in danger.

You looked at him like he was from another planet, but the moment he mentioned Peter, you agreed to go with him.

During the drive to Frank's place, you asked question after question about the version of Peter he knew. Was he safe? Was he okay? Would Spider-Man protect him?

Peter answered every single one, assuring you that Peter was somewhere safe.

• During all that time, you stayed with Frank. Both he and Spider-Man made you promise not to leave while they were gone.

Still, you couldn't stop worrying. You were worried about Spider-Man. You were worried about Peter.

You didn't even know why you cared so much about the superhero. You just felt like he was important—not in a "he's New York's hero" kind of way, but in a "he's someone I care about, even if I don't know why" kind of way.

Your heart sank when Frank told you what had happened.

You wanted to cry. But why? You barely knew him. You had baerly knew him . So why did your heart hurt so much?

• When Frank brought you to the hospital, saying it was important, you came without question, feeling deep down that you somehow already knew what this was about.

The moment you walked into the hospital room and saw Peter lying there, bruised and beaten, wearing a hospital gown with the Spider-Man suit resting at the foot of his bed...

You weren't surprised. You should have been. You really should have been. But your body refused to react that way.

It just... made sense.

Before you could say anything, Peter told you everything.

How the two of you had known each other. How you, Ned, MJ, and he had been best friends. How he loved you. How he still loved you. How everyone had forgotten him. How, even though he should've stayed away from you, he simply couldn't.

You listened in silence, surprise written across your face, but somehow your heart already knew he was telling the truth, even if your mind couldn't remember it.

He listened as you told him you believed him. That you were mad he hadn't told you sooner. That you understood why he hadn't. That you could feel you'd missed him all this time.

You could feel that you'd missed him. Then you leaned down and pressed a soft kiss against his forehead. Peter felt like everything was back at its place.

"You need to tell me everything about our past," you whispered.

Peter smiled through tears.

Then you laughed softly. "You and Ned being best friends makes so much sense."

[waitimcomingtoo]

Sit By Me

Pairing: Peter Parker x Reader

Synopsis: After dropping out of school due to your mental health, you befriend Peter and he helps you find a way to get back in

Masterlist

Peter typed a few sentences for his midterm paper, and then switched tabs to play The Sims for a few minutes. He returned to his paper and wrote a single word, then opened Google and looked up if a zombie bit a vampire, which one would change. He continued this cycle of procrastination until you caught his eye. You had pushed open the door of the registrar office at Empire State University with such force that Peter had heard it from his spot on a distant bench. He watched you walk with folded arms across campus and felt his heart pick up speed when you plopped down on the bench next to him. You buried your face in your hands and let out a sigh, seemingly unaware that Peter was right beside you. He looked around as he wondered if he should give you space or help a stranger.

“Are you okay?” Peter finally asked you. You jumped a little and picked your head up from your hands to look at him.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to infiltrate your bench. I wasn’t paying attention and thought you were one of those realistic statues.”

“I actually was until like 20 minutes ago when I made a wish to a fairy to become a real boy.” He replied, pulling a smile out of you. You sat up and shook your head at his joke, seeming to be in a much better mood than when you first sat down. You and Peter exchanged a smile and he felt the beginnings of butterflies erupting in his stomach.

“But really, are you okay?” He asked again.

“What gave you the impression I’m not okay?” You asked with an embarrassed smile, knowing he must’ve just watched you sulk across campus.

“I’ve just never seen someone sit on a bench with the level of rage you just did.” Peter said, making you crack another smile.

“Then you must not be native to Manhatten. That’s just how we sit here.” You shrugged.

“Not exactly. I’m from Queens.”

“Yeah? You’re not too far from home then. You should know about the bench culture around here.” You said as you turned your body to face him.

“I guess I’m still learning. But I appreciate the real world example.” He chuckled and nervously tapped his fingers on the sides of his computer.

“I’m sorry. I don’t want to interrupt anything if you’re busy.” You said and gestured to his laptop. Peter’s eyes flicked to his game of The Sims, and then back to you.

“Oh, uh, yeah. I’m pretty busy, but I can write this paper later.” Peter lied and quickly shut his laptop.

“A paper? How’s it going?” You asked him. Peter looked down at his laptop and chewed his lip, knowing damn well he had not written enough to have anything to tell you. But since this was a rare occurrence where he found it easy to carry on small talk, he decided to be honest.

“Can I tell you something?”

“I mean, I’m not gonna stop you.” You said aa you picked at the chipping paint on the bench.

“I wasn’t writing a paper. I made a sim of my high school bully and I put him in a pool and removed the ladder.” He confessed. You stared at him for a while, making Peter fear he had just scared off the pretty stranger he’d hoped to befriend. But to his delight, you burst out laughing.

“Thank you so much for opening up to me.” You chuckled. “That was so vulnerable of you.”

“Sorry.” He laughed shyly. “I’ve been trying and failing to write this damn paper since last night. You’re the first person I’ve talked to all day.”

“It’s okay.” You assured him, and he could tell you meant it. Peter smiled softly at you and had a memory suddenly flash in his head. It was of you sitting in the back of a classroom with your hoodie up and chin resting on your hand. He remembered thinking you had sad eyes amongst the prettiest face he had ever seen. He also remembered when you slowly stopped coming to class until he never saw you again. Your eyes weren’t sad anymore, but he still recognized you.

“I know you.” He told you, making you frown and shake your head.

“No you don’t. I don’t go here.” You said, not meeting his eyes when you said the last part.

“I do. You were in my mathematics and quantum reasoning class last fall.” He insisted. You looked back up at him and studied his face until you were able to place it.

“You’re Peter. Parker. I remember the alliteration.” You smiled when his name came back to you.

“I am.” He smiled back. “I can’t believe you remember that.”

“Because you were the only one who would raise their hand in that class. And the teacher would always say, “Is Peter the only one paying attention?” And I’d think to myself, wow, Peter is the only one paying attention.”

“Yeah.” He laughed softly. “I liked that class. Did you?”

“I don’t know. I wasn’t paying attention.” You shrugged, making Peter laugh.

“You’re Y/n.” He said once his laughter died down.

“Okay, how could you possibly know that? I never raised my hand in that class.”

“No, but you said it on the first day during attendance.”

“And you remember that?” You said doubtfully. “That was over a year ago.”

“Doesn’t matter. I still remember. I told you. I know you.” Peter said with a boastful shrug. The ease he spoke with and the kindness in his eyes was making you feel like a person unattached to their past. You turned all the way to him now, forgetting all about the conversation that brought you to that bench.

“I’m sorry I didn’t believe you.” You chuckled. “It’s nice to see you again.”

“You too. So, what brought you to the registrar office today? Were you having a too good of a day and felt like going somewhere where everyone would have one sided tension with you and tell you if you want to take a required class for your major, you have to wait three years for it to be offered again and carry Madame Zeroni up the mountain and then the class is only offered at 7 in the morning or 9 at night? But you also can’t get in because it’s full?”

“Yes, actually.” You laughed, much to his relief. “I just really like I always leave there with three more problems than I went in with.”

“What problem did you go in there with, if you don’t mind me asking? Maybe I can help.”

“I’m trying to register for classes next semester.” You told him as you looked down at your hands. Peter could see you twisting a ring around your finger over and over, but pretended not to notice.

“Oh, I can totally help you with that. You just have to register online. What’s your student ID number?” He said and opened back up his laptop. You shook your head and started to twist your ring faster around your finger.

“I don’t have one.” You said quietly.

“All students have one. It’s on your student ID card. Do you have that? If you do, I can help you find the number.” He offered. His eagerness to try and help you was making what you had to tell him feel all that more embarrassing to say.

“I don’t have that either. I mean, I do, but they just told me that it doesn’t work anymore. I, uh, I kinda dropped out the semester we had that math class together.” You admitted without meeting his eyes.

“Oh, well, it’s great that you’re coming back.” Peter said as if it was simple as anything. You looked into his eyes to see if he wasn’t judging you, but he wasn’t. Not at all.

“Thanks.” You smiled softly and stopped twisting your ring.

“For what?”

“For not asking me why I dropped out.”

“It’s none of my business.” Peter shrugged, making you smile wider.

“I wish the lovely people in the registrar office felt the same way.” You sighed and looked back at the office.

“Did they give you a hard time?” He asked, already knowing the answer.

“Yes. Apparently I did not drop out the “right way”and if I want to take classes, I have to reapply to the school and go through the whole admission process again.“ You sighed again and started to twist your ring around your finger.

“That really sucks. I’m sorry.” Peter said sincerely as he watched you do it.

“It’s my fault. I should not have dropped out. I should’ve just taken a leave of absence.” You shut your eyes tightly and shook your head. Peter then watched you slowly tap the top of your head, then the side of your eye. You continued tapping down your face and chest, stopping after tapping below your pinky. Then, you took a breath and opened your eyes.

“I’m sorry. I don’t know why I’m telling you any of this.” You said without looking at him.

“It’s okay. I like talking to you.”

“Really?” You asked skeptically. “Why?”

“Is that really so hard to believe?” He laughed at your skepticism.

“Usually, no. But you’re not meeting me at my best self.” You told him with a sad look in your eyes.

“I like you anyway.” He shrugged, something you were coming to find he did a lot. You raised your eyebrows at him and watched his face turn a deep shade of pink.

“I like talking to you, I mean.” He quickly corrected himself.

“You’re not so bad yourself.” You said coyly. “You’re a good listener. Must be why our math professor liked you so much.”

“That, and I was sleeping with the guy.” Peter joked, making you laugh once again.

“Lucky him.” You replied, causing Peter’s breath to catch in his throat.

“Hey, so, I just imprinted on you, if that’s cool.” He warned you.

“Well, I don’t know. I don’t know what that means.”

“No?” He gasped. “Would you be interested in coming to my dorm and watching the greatest movie ever made?”

You squinted at him for a second as you thought about it. On the one hand, he was basically a total stranger. On the other, talking to him made you feel the most normal you’d felt in a long time, and you weren’t ready for that to end.

“Lead the way.” You decided.

“For real?” His eyes widened in delighted surprise.

“You’re not gonna murder me, are you?” You asked as you stood up from the bench. He quickly put his things away and stood up as well before you could change your mind.

“I can’t.” He assured you. “The RA for my dorm is strict as hell.”

“Hate when they’re like that.” You rolled your eyes to play along.

“Right? I can’t have open flames, can’t play music past 8 p.m., and I can’t murder people? It’s like, what can I do then?”

“You’re funny.” You laughed as you followed him towards the dorms.

“That’s a nice way to say “odd”. That’s the word people usually opt for.” He told you, but with no self-pity in his tone.

“I wasn’t thinking that.” You shook your head. “I was just thinking that you’re funny.”

Peter turned his face away so you wouldn’t see the smile you brought to him. He normally wasn’t very good at making friends, especially not after everything that happened when the world forgot him. But with you, he felt like he could be known again.

Peter scanned his ID on his door and let you into his dorm. His roommate was working on the computer at his desk, hardly looking up when Peter entered the room.

“Hey, Nikhil.” Peter greeted. “This is Y/n. We’re gonna watch a movie.”

“Nice to meet you.” Nikhil nodded at you. “Just don’t have sex when I’m in the room, okay guys? I’m leaving in like 15 minutes. Just wait.”

“We were not gonna do that at all, actually.” Peter said with a red face.

“We weren’t?” You asked, making both boys look at you.

“Kidding.” You clarified. “We’re for real watching a movie.”

“Alright. I’m trusting you.” Nikhil said warningly before turning back to his computer and putting headphones on.

“He seems nice. Kinda shy, though.” You said to Peter, making him laugh.

“Great guy.” Peter played along as he walked over to his side of the room. You subtly took in your surroundings, getting to know Peter a little more with everything he chose to decorate his room with. He appeared to be very neat, with the cleanest desk you’d ever seen in a dorm before. He had a few movie posters on his walls, but no personal pictures anywhere. You then looked over at the small bookshelf that Peter was crouching down in front of, which was filled with DVD’s.

“Wow. You have a lot of movies.” You said as you sat on his bed to be next to him.

“Yeah.” He sighed as he looked at his collection. “I’m a bit of a cinephile.”

“What’s that?” You scrunched your nose. “Like, you’re sexually attracted to movies or something?”

“What? No.” He laughed. “It just means I really love movies.”

“Maybe just say that instead.” You chuckled. “What’s your favorite?”

“Stand By Me. The best portrayal of boyhood, in my opinion.” Peter said as he handed you the DVD.

“Hm. I haven’t seen it.” You said as you read the back of it and traced your finger over the pictures of the cast.

“What? You have to. But not today. This is what you need to watch today.” Peter said as he slipped a Twilight DVD into your hands.

“Oh, hell no. You’ve purchased this?” You laughed and held it up.

“Um, of course I did? What else am I supposed to turn to in moments of solace?” He replied. “I’m genuinely asking, because I don’t know.”

“If it means that much to you, ’ll give it a whirl. Maybe it’ll help me in my moments of solace too.” You begrudgingly agreed and scooted back on his bed. Peter kicked his shoes off, so you did the same. He gave you a shy smile as he sat beside you, leaving enough space between you to he respectful. You returned the smile as he pulled an outdated laptop onto his lap and put the movie into the side of it. You couldn’t help but chuckle at the fact that he owned a laptop that could still play DVDs.

“You better not be laughing at my Jurassic laptop.” Peter said as he pressed “play”, making you laugh less discreetly.

“I’m sorry. I just didn’t know they still made laptops that could do that.”

“Oh, baby, they don’t. This is vintage.” He informed you. “And by vintage, I mean it was a hand-me-down and I can’t afford a modern one.”

“I’m surprised the charger still works.” You replied, trying not to let it show how affected you were by him calling you “baby”.

“It does. I just have to hold it at the right angle and not move or breathe or think around it until it’s fully charged.”

“This movie better be worth it, then.” You told him as a playful warning.

“Trust me. Your life is about to change.” He assured you as the film began. As you watched it, his eyes couldn’t help but wander down to your hand. It was lying right next to his and looked ever so inviting. He could feel his fingers twitching as he tried to fight the magnetic pull that your hands were emitting. You noticed where his eyes were and looked down at your hands as well. You made eye contact and Peter felt his entire face go red.

“Eyes on the screen, mister.” You said with no intention of putting your eyes back on the screen.

“Have I ever told you how pretty you are?” He asked you, making the corners of your mouth peak into a smile.

“We met about forty-five minutes ago, so no. You haven’t.”

“Well, you are. You’re really pretty.” Peter said as he unabashedly stared at your face.

“Woah. Twilight movie is making you bold, yeah?”

“I just wanted to tell you in case this ends up being a hallucination from my Jurassic laptop charger electrocuting me and I never seen you again.”

“It’s not a hallucination.” You assured him. “I’m real.”

“How can you be real?” He asked like he genuinely didn’t know the answer. You smiled shyly and playfully turned his face back towards his screen. In a moment of boldness brought on by his compliment, you rested your head on his shoulder. It wasn’t something you’d normally ever do, especially not with a stranger, but it had been a long time since you felt this at peace in your mind and body. Something about him was giving you the serenity you’d been chasing for a long time now.

When the movie ended, you slowly took your head off his shoulder and rubbed your eyes. There was an ache in your neck from the position you’d been in, but you didn’t mind it.

“So?” Peter asked. “What did you think?”

“I still don’t know what “imprinting” means.” You said and he nodded his head.

“So, I realized about 40 minutes in that that wasn’t going to be explained in this movie.” He admitted. “But I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want you to leave.”

“Peter, if I was gonna leave, I would’ve done it as soon as you put on a vampire movie.” You pointed out.

“Did you love it?” He smiled as if he already knew your answer.

“I like that you like it.” You answered, making him laugh.

“Good. Because there’s 4 more. And I own them all.”

“4?” Your eyes widened. “What? As in, one more than three?”

“Yep. And you don’t even want to know how many books got milked out of this.”

“Oh God.” You rubbed your face. “Don’t make me watch another. I beg you.”

“I won’t. But I do want to know some things.” He said as he shut his laptop and turned to face you. Your smile faltered, like you were expecting his first question to be why you dropped out.

“Like what?” You asked as you twisted your ring around your finger.

“Tell me about yourself. Your best self, since you said this isn’t it. Which I am finding hard to believe, by the way.” Peter said instead, causing you to stop twisting your ring.

“I don’t know. What do you want to know?”

“Anything. Foods you like, noises you hate, hobbies. Whatever you feel like telling me.” He shrugged. The sun was beginning to set behind him, making the tips of his hair glow gold. You stared at it for a while, trying to memorize the outline of his silhouette.

“Well, I like pasta with butter. Specifically bowtie pasta. I hate the sound of people snapping and popping their gum. Like holy shit, just chew it. And I don’t really have hobbies.”

“No?” You raised his eyebrows. “Nothing you like to do?”

“I don’t know. I liked to draw. And ride the subway and listen to music.”

“You don’t like that stuff anymore?” Peter asked, taking note of you speaking in past tense.

“I do. I just… I don’t know. Nothing really interests me anymore.”

“That’s okay. Hobbies are just a distraction from what’s really important in life.”

“And what’s that?”

“Screen time.” Peter said like it was obvious, earning a laugh out of you. He laughed too and never took his eyes off you.

“You know, you’re pretty much the first friend I’ve made here.” You admitted to him when your laughter died down.

“Really? But you’re so charming.”

“I’m not. Especially not during….” You trailed off and looked down at your hands. You twisted your ring a few times and then took it off to roll it between your fingers.

“I don’t know. I wasn’t super personable when I was going here. I was kinda going through some stuff.” You said after a beat. You didn’t meet his eyes as you spoke, but you could feel them on you. He didn’t press you for more information, but he picked up on what you were hinting at.

“You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to.” Peter said in a gentle voice. When you thought about that time in your life, you could feel all the emotions charge at you. Peter watched you do the same taps to your face that you did on the bench until you seemed to relax a little.

“I don’t want to talk about that right now.” You said finally. “But I do like talking to you. Something about you, I don’t know. It feels like a fresh start.”

“Maybe it is.” He said, simple as that. You wanted to believe him.

“I wish it could be. But the school rejected me.”

“But they said you can reapply, right?”

“Yeah, but not until the fall semester. That’s almost a year from now. And there’s no guarantee they’ll let me in then. I got waitlisted twice when I applied here the first time around. I’ll be competing with all the freshman and their glowing personal essays.” You explained as you slipped your ring back on and twisted it around and around.

“I could help you, if you want. We could try to appeal to the school. It wasn’t your fault that you had to leave. And it’s amazing that you’re trying to return to finish your education after what you went through. Maybe they can make an exception and give you your spot back.”

“Why would you help me?” You asked him. “You don’t owe me anything.”

“Why do I have to owe you something to help you?Can’t I just help you?”

“But I’m a stranger.” You reminded him.

“You’re not a stranger. You were in my math class.” He replied. You couldn’t help but smile at that, but turned your face so he couldn’t see.

“You’re trying to find a way to argue with my logic, but you can’t. I can tell.” Peter said when you didn’t respond. You rolled your eyes and looked at him.

“Make your case then. How would you help me?”

“Oh, okay. Let me think. Well, we could ask for a meeting with the dean. And we would present your case and tell her how much you want to rejoin the school and continue your education.”

“What if she doesn’t care?”

“Well, maybe we need something to get her attention.” Peter thought out loud. “Like, you and I can organize a club or an event or something to show her what a positive addition to the school you’d be.”

“I mean, I would’ve really like a club where people could talk about their struggles and not give advice or anything. Just listen and learn from each other.” You told him. His face lit up and he clapped his hands in excitement.

“We could start that!” He exclaimed. “You and I could be the co-chairs. I bet Nikhil would join too. And I could put a flyer on the bulletin board in the hallway to let other people know about it.”

He was so excited that it was hard to tell him you weren’t really the kind of person that started clubs and got people together. But if this really was a fresh start, maybe you could be.

“Okay.” You said with a timid smile.

“Okay?” Peter grinned and leaned in to catch your eye.

“Okay.” You confirmed. “But if you change your mind, I can do it by myself. I don’t want to put you out.”

“I’m not gonna change my mind. We are doing this thing. Here, put your number in my phone.” He said as he handed over his phone to you. You felt your face warm up as you made yourself a contact in his phone.

“Hot. Very divisible by three.” Peter said when you gave the phone back to him. You laughed and playfully shoved his shoulder.

“Seriously, though.” You told him. “You don’t have to do this.”

“I know.” He shrugged again. You wondered if he knew how often he did that. Or if he knew how cute it was when he did it.

“I appreciate you, Peter from math class.” You said as you stared deep into his eyes.

“And I appreciate you, Y/n from the bench.” He said back. You both laughed but never broke your eye contact. The sun was fully set behind him now, but you weren’t ready to leave your new friend just yet.

“So that’s how you self regulate? You watch teen vampire movies?” You asked as you played with the DVD case, opening and shutting it over and over to keep your hands busy.

“Doesn’t everyone?” He joked. “What do you do?”

“I have a few things I learned in therapy that help me.” You told him before you could worry about oversharing.

“You tap.” He said, hoping he wasn’t crossing a line. You studied his face to see if he thought it was strange, but he just seemed interested.

“I do. It’s called EFT tapping. It helps me with my anxiety.”

“That’s cool.” He smiled. “When I’m anxious, I count all my fingers. I read once that in dreams you usually have 6 or more fingers. So I count mine to remind myself that I’m present and not dreaming. But maybe you could teach me how to do your taps sometime.”

“I like that.” You smiled back. “And yeah, I could totally show you sometime.”

You stayed looked at each other for a minute, the only light in the room coming from a lamp Nikhil had left on. You knew if you stayed any longer, you were gonna end up in love with him.

“I should probably get going.” You said with a sad smile.

“I’ll walk you.” He offered.

And so he did. Peter walked you back to your family’s apartment while talking about the next three movies he wanted to show you. You were happy to be quiet and listen to him speak, feeling grateful that he wasn’t expecting you to say anything back. When you reached your apartment, you felt sad to end the night.

“I’ve never said this and genuinely meant it, but it was really nice meeting you.” You told him with complete honesty.

“Same here. I hope everything works out for you. It would be nice to have you back at the school.”

“I appreciate you saying that.” You said with coy smile and eyes unwilling to meet his.

“Of course. I really, really mean it.” He assured you. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.” You said back before watching him walk back to campus. You let out a sigh and let yourself into your apartment, finding the urge to text him as soon as you got back to your room. You didn’t, and did your skincare and daily journaling instead. When you finally got into bed after some dinner, the urge was too strong.

“did you notice we didn’t eat for 6 hours?” You texted him without bothering to say who you were.

“I didn’t notice until I got back to my dorm and now the whole dining hall has noticed” He wrote back almost immediately.

“what did you get?” You laughed as you rolled over in bed.

“chicken nuggets and hot chocolate and macking cheese”

“what the hell is macking cheese ?”

“you’ve never had it? like kraft?” He wrote back.

“bruh do you mean mac AND cheese ??”

“what the hell is mac”

“macaroni” You told him and sent a picture of how it was spelled from a google search.

“well don’t you just know everything”

“interesting combination nonetheless”

“I had meatballs and cantaloupe and an enchilada for lunch 😍” He sent back.

“I know your colon hates you”

“that’s a terrible thing to say !!” He replied, making you wish you were still with him.

“my dinner. not that you cared to ask” You wrote and sent him a picture of the bowl of cereal and microwaveable soup dumplings you had made yourself for dinner.

“sick invite” He answered.

“I’ll be sure to invite you next time I make this delicacy”

“do you want to hang out this weekend? we can get your transcripts together and make our proposal for our club” He wrote after a few minutes. Your heart skipped a beat and you were too excited to play it cool and wait a minute to answer.

“I would love to :-)”

“maybe we should eat together this time bc full disclosure I just got some kind of fruit cobbler” He wrote you, complete with a picture of the lumpy looking dessert he had gotten himself.

“it’s a date” You wrote back, hoping it wasn’t too forward. You watched the typing bubble appear on your screen as butterflies flooded your stomach.

“this is even better than my fruit cobbler! and i like that your smily face has a nose :-)” He finally wrote back, making you sigh in relief.

“I think he likes that he has a nose too”

“does Saturday work?” He asked.

“yes! I just have therapy until 1”

“then I’ll be outside your place at 1:01”

“okay zoey brooks”

Peter was sitting at a table by himself in the dining hall with the biggest smile on his face. His paper was long forgotten, and all he could think about now was the beautiful girl he had met on the bench that day.

When Saturday finally came, Peter showed up to your apartment promptly at 1:01. You came down a few minutes later, practically running outside to see him. It had been a long time since you felt excited by something, so you had been looking toward to today.

“Hey! You look really nice.” Peter told you.

“So do you.” You returned the compliment.

“Thank you, thank you. Hungry?”

“Always.” You replied and linked your arm with his. He wasn’t super familiar with the area, so you brought him to a cafe you liked that had big couches for you to sit on. You brought some food to a round table in a secluded corner, giving you some much appreciated privacy.

You took a few bites of food and then discreetly took your medication for the day. You could tell Peter had noticed and smiled in embarrassment.

“Sorry. I didn’t have time for breakfast and I have to take these with food.”

“Don’t apologize.” He said kindly. “As long as you share.”

“My food or the pills?” You laughed.

“Maybe both. What do they do, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“They help me regulate my mood and sleep and stuff.” You explained to him without going into too much detail as to why you were on them.

“Oh, wow. I didn’t know there was medication for that. And here I was just rawdogging my depressive episodes.”

“You’ve struggled with depression?” You asked him in a soft tone.

“Yeah. I struggled with it pretty bad last year. My aunt passed and I lost my friend group at the same time, so I wasn’t doing my best.”

“That must’ve been so hard. Did you have anyone to talk to while you were going through that?” You asked as you placed over his.

“Um, no actually.” He realized. “I didn’t.”

“Well, you have me now. Or we can find a therapist for you if that’s something you’d like to do. Seeing one really helped me, but everyone is different.”

“Yeah. Yeah, maybe.” Peter nodded and rubbed his thumb along your knuckles.

“And, you know, I didn’t know anything about getting medication either.” You told him. “I didn’t realize that was an option I had for a really long time. So maybe that can be one of the features of our club? We educate the members on how to find resources that may work for them.”

“That’s a really great idea. I think this club will do a lot of good on campus. And so will you.” Peter said and gave your hand a squeeze.

“If I can get back onto campus. They still have to let me in.” You reminded him.

“They will. We’re gonna figure that all out today. Did you bring your transcripts?”

You nodded and handed him a folder of your grades that you had printed out the night before. He took a minute to go through them and looked up at you in amazement.

“These are your grades? How could the school not let you back in if you were doing this well?”

“Because I was only doing that well until I wasn’t.” You sighed as you looked at the two semesters worth of grades on transcript. It was difficult to be reminded of what you were once capable of achieving before your mind turned on you. Peter was looking at you, but not as if he was expecting you to say anything. He just had a simple yet understanding look on her face that compelled you to open up.

“When everything got really bad with my mental health, I stopped going to class or turning in my assignments. My professors threatened to drop me from their classes for being inactive, so I panicked and dropped out. That’s why the school won’t just let me back in. They think I’ll do it again, and that would be giving my spot to a student who is more “dedicated” to their studies.” You told him after a beat of silence. Peter listened to you while never letting go of your hand.

“But you are dedicated.” Peter insisted. “You were an amazing student that suddenly stopped turning things in or coming to class. Wasn’t it obvious to your professors that something was going on with you to cause such a drastic change?”

“Colleges don’t care about stuff like that, Peter.” You frowned. “They just want classes filled.”

“I don’t accept that.” He shook his head. “Someone should have helped you. Checked in on you. Anything. I’m sorry nobody did.”

“It’s not really anyone’s responsibility to do that.” You shrugged. “I could have asked for help at any point.”

“It would have taken two minutes to email you and ask why you suddenly stopped showing up to class. Someone should have done something.”

“There are so many students at this school. I can’t really blame my professors for not noticing that I changed.”

“They noticed enough to threaten to kick you out.” He pointed out. You didn’t meet his eye, knowing he had a point.

“Are you sure you want to go back to a place that doesn’t care about their students?” Peter asked quietly.

“Maybe our club will make a difference.” You said as you met his gaze again. He felt his resentment towards his school melt away and turn into hope for how things could be going forward.

“I like the way you think.”

After finishing your food and working some more at the cafe, you walked back to Peter’s dorm to continue planning everything out.

“Okay. This is good. We have your transcripts and a letter to the board of education here to appeal your case and ask for readmission.” Peter said as he looked at the array of papers you had laid out on his bed.

“And I am nearly done with our club proposal.” You added as you looked up from your laptop.

“Right. What should we call the club?” Peter wondered. You thought too and looked around his room for inspiration. Your eyes landed on his movie collection, his favorite standing out to you.

“What about something like “Sit by Me”? Because we’d all be sitting together and talking. It’s like an invitation to be included.”

“I love it. Is perfect. You’re a genius.” He declared. You grinned and added it to the proposal.

“Now we need a classroom.”

“Already covered. I asked my robotics teacher and he said his room is free every Tuesday at 5.” Peter told you. You pumped your fist and put that into the proposal as well.

“I think we really have something here.” You said as you looked up from your computer in excitement. Peter was already looking at you with a love struck smile on his face.

“Yeah.” He agreed. “I think we really have something here too.”

That following week, you and Peter sat outside the deans office and waited to be called in. You had the binder of your club proposal on your lap and Peter had all your academic information on his. You’d seen him every day that week to finalize all the details, all leading up to this moment. When your name was called, he gave your hand a squeeze and went with you into the office.

Hidden under the desk, Peter held your hand while you explained your struggle with your mental health over the past year and how it led you to drop out of school. The dean looked over your grades while you spoke, giving you hope that she would understand your case and let you back into the school. Finally, she looked up from the papers with a tight smile.

“I appreciate you coming in and wanting to resume your education. But we don’t tend to reconsider things of this nature. Like the registrar office told you, you are welcome to reapply in the fall.”

Peter watched your face fall and felt your grip tighten on his hand. You nodded your head in understanding, but Peter wasn’t ready to accept rejection just yet.

“Miss, if I may.” Peter began. “Y/n would be a great addition back to campus. She was an excellent student when she was here. And she helped me create a club that we hope will bring a lot of positive change to campus.”

“Club?” The dean raised a hardly interested eyebrow. You slid the binder towards her and opened it up.

“We want to start a club here that builds peer support for people struggling with their mental health. We would provide a safe environment to talk about our feelings without any judgement. We plan to have monthly guest speakers to educate about mental health and the resources that are out there. The first three months speakers are included in the binder. And we would have events that advocate and spread awareness about mental health issues, like our bake sale that raises money to pay for more resources on campus.”

“That is all very nice, but this doesn’t really align with the schools goals at the time.” The dean said without looking at the binder. Peter was about to step in again, but you had it this time.

“Supporting your students mental health doesn’t align with the schools goals?” You asked.

“Clubs cost money. Your guest speakers will cost money. The school is not in a place to fund another club right now.” She said with a simple shrug.

“The regular meetings won’t cost the school any money.” Peter mentioned. “And if you look at the binder, you’ll see the first three guest speakers agreed to do it for free.”

“And didn’t this school just install a 30 million dollar rehabilitation room for when the athletes get injured?” You added.

“Our athletes are very important to the school community.” The dean stated. “Therefore, recovering from their injuries are very important to us.”

“Sure, but what about the injuries you can’t see?” You asked. “What about the students who bring just as much to the school community who are hurting and have no one to talk to? The art students who paint the murals you guys love to post about? The dancers and the art kids who bring in crowds that help fund your salaries?”

“Or the quiet nerdy kids who like robots and struggle to make friends.” Peter added.

“Yeah.” You agreed. “Don’t they matter just as much?”

“Yes, but-“

“But what?” You cut her off.

“Like I said, a club like this does not really align with the schools goals at the time. I really don’t see how it would benefit the students on this campus. That’s not something student here struggle with.”

“How do you know that?” Peter asked her. “A lot of people suffer in silence. Especially college students.”

The dean stared at you for a moment, then at Peter, and then shut the binder.

“This school cannot create clubs on every new trend.” She said finally.

“Mental health is not a trend.“ Peter said as he stood up out of his seat. You pulled him back down by the arm, not wanting him to cause a scene since he was still a student there.

“It’s not worth it, Peter. She doesn’t want our club. Because if we had a mental health club at this school, the school would have to acknowledge that mental health is important. And that doesn’t align with their “goals”at this time.”

“I’m sorry I can’t give you the response you were looking for.” She said flatly. “My answer is no. As for your readmission, you are welcome to reapply in the fall.”

“Right. Thanks.” You rolled your eyes and grabbed your bag to leave. Peter stood up as well, but didn’t follow you to the door.

“Quick question. Should I tell you now that I’m dropping out, or should I just have Y/n show me?” Peter asked. “Because this school certainly makes it easy to drop out, but pretty difficult to get help when you need it.”

“Peter, no.” You took his arm and shook your head. While you found the gesture incredibly moving, you couldn’t let him throw his education away for someone who was basically a stranger.

“Mr. Parker, I highly suggest you reconsider before making that kind of decision. You are one of the brightest minds here and an integral part of our science center. You should not drop out of this prestigious university on a whim.”

“Yeah, well, I just don’t think this school really aligns with my goals at the time.”

With that, Peter took your hand and pulled you towards the door. You were stunned to silence, never taking your eyes off him as he lead you through the doorway.

“Wait.” The dean said abruptly and stood up from her desk. You and Peter stopped walking to look at her.

“If it means this much to you, we will allow your club. And miss L/n can reapply for this spring semester. We cannot make an exception and just let her back in, but we will take her creation of this club into consideration when viewing her application.” The dean said as if each word pained her. You and Peter turned to each other and had a quick conversation with your eyes that told each other to play it cool.

“Thank you.” Peter said curtly. “We hope to see you at our first club meeting.”

“And I hope to see you in the spring.” You added before closing her door. You walked a few paces away from her office before jumping up and down in excitement. Peter pulled you into a hug and spun around in a circle.

“We did it! We threatened the dean into allowing our club!” He exclaimed as he lifted you off the ground.

“And I can reapply a semester early! It’s no guarantee, but at least it’s a start.”

“I’m so glad. You and I could be talking classes together by January.” Peter sighed happily and set you back on the ground. You pulled apart a little, but kept your arms resting around his neck.

“Would you really have left the school for me?” You asked him.

“Of course. I wouldn’t want to stay at a school that doesn’t care about the wellbeing of their students.”

“I’m really glad I met you.” You grinned and pulled him back into a hug.

“Me too. We make a good team.” Peter replied as he rubbed small circles on your back. When you pulled away, your face was just inches from his.

“A really good team.” He said as his eyes dropped to your lips. He looked back into your eyes for approval, and you nodded your head. Seconds later, he had crashed his lips to yours. You kissed him in front of all the office ladies and passing by students, forgetting their presence entirely.

“I think know what our first club meeting should be.” Peter said when you pulled away. You could feel the warmth from his blush on your face.

“What are you thinking?”

“A dinner.” He smiled. “Just the two of us.”

“Like a date?”

“Date?” He scoffed. “No, this is strictly business.”

“Uh huh.” You playfully rolled your eyes and kissed him again. When you pulled away, you had a more serious look on your face.

“I just hope you know that I’m still on my path to recovery. I’m doing a lot better now, but I will still have bad days. I really, really like you. But I’ll need to take this slow.“

“I know, of course.” Peter assured you. “Recovery isn’t linear. We will go at your pace. You just tell me how I can help you when you have those bad days.”

“I will. But you’ll never be able to “fix” me, if that’s what you’re hoping will happen. This could be something I struggle with for a really long time.”

“You don’t need to be fixed. You need to be supported.”

“You might be too good to be true, Peter from math class.” You smiled and rested your forehead against his.

“Funny, I was thinking the same thing about you.”

Three months later, you sat on Peter’s bed with your laptop pulled on your lap. It was the day you were supposed to hear back from the school about your readmission, so you’d been biting your nails down to the quick all morning as you waited.

“Did you get the email yet?” Peter asked for the sixth time in the last fifteen minutes.

“Not yet. It should be any second now.” You replied as you chewed off another fingernail. Peter took your hand out of your mouth and placed it on top of your head. You nodded and started to do your tapping strategy to calm yourself down. Just as you tapped below your pinky, you got an email. You looked up at Peter with wide eyes and he gave you a reassuring smile.

“Whatever happens, I love you. And we will figure it out together.”

“You love me?” You raised your eyebrows. “Is that a recent development?”

“Did I not mention that?” Peter laughed in embarrassment as his face turned a shade of pink that was pretty unique to him. You laughed too and pulled him onto the bed by his hand to kiss him.

“I love you too.” You told him, making him break into a huge smile.

Before he could say anything else, your laptop chimed with a notification. Your heart raced as you opened the email from the school with Peter watched over your shoulder. You’d barely read the word “congratulations” before Peter was covering your face in kisses.

Resources

Mental Health in College

Numbers and Hotlines

How to Find Support in College

Tag List 🏷️

@thebookwormlife @imanativeofswlondondahling

@whatareyouhidingpeter @takenbyheartstrings

@imyourliquor-youremypoison @andreasworlsboring101

@peterparkoure

@justcallmehitgirl @jackiehollanderr

@emmamarshmellow @unbelievableholland

@sovereignparker @every-marveler-ever @undiadeestos @eridanuswave​ ​

@solarxmoonchild @canyouevencauseicant

@quaksonhehe @lovelessdagger

@thesuitelifeofafangirl @marshxx @nooneinvitedfascistbarbie

@maybemona

@alexxcorona113 @lethal-wisdom

@pandaxnienke

 @officialsimppage @itsemohours

@leysol

@olixerwxxd @leilanixx

@whereismytelephone @so-very-asleep

@spideyspeaches @hihiweezing

@mathletemadison  

@dhtomholland @insomniac-nerd-posts-things @prancerrparkerr

@hallecarey1 @adayasgeorgia @blackwidowisthebest @imawhoreforu

@ciarahollands

@nellabellaa @pinklxmonade @boogywoogywoogy @wordsarelife @caramelfondu

@anonymousprettygirl @roseidol

[capsslutt]

Peter Parker x Reader - Mask On (Smut)

Y/n walks in on her boyfriend Peter soaking in the hot tub with his mask still on, it turns her on more than it should

WC: 1.5k, hot tub sex, unprotected sex, kissing with Peter's mask half off, dirty talk, riding

----------------

The front door clicked shut behind you, the sound muffled by the exhaustion weighing down your limbs. Work had been brutal—double shifts, demanding customers, the kind of day that made you want to crawl into bed and not move until tomorrow. But as you went upstairs and stepped into the apartment swimming pool complex, you noticed the soft glow spilling from the room housing the hot tub, steam curling into the hallway.

Peter's home early. No one else really comes up here.

You followed the warmth, your feet padding softly on the tiles, and found the door slightly ajar. Steam billowed out, thick and humid, carrying the faint scent of chlorine. You pushed the door open wider, and your breath caught.

There he was.

Leaning back against the edge of the hot tub, Peter's bare shoulders and arms rested on the rim, water lapping at his chest. The bubbles obscured most of his torso, but you could see the defined lines of his pectorals, the ridges of his abdomen beneath the swirling surface. His muscles were relaxed, steam rising around him, softening the hard edges of a body that had spent hours swinging through the city.

But something was off.

His face was hidden. Not by shadow, but by the familiar red and blue mask, stretched tight over his features, the white lenses glowing faintly in the dim light.

He'd forgotten to take it off.

You stood in the doorway, arms crossed, watching him. He didn't move at first—just breathed, slow and deep. Then his head tilted, the lenses focusing on you. His voice came out rough, tired.

"You okay, baby?"

You gulped, your throat suddenly dry. There was something about seeing him like this—vulnerable, half-naked, but still wearing that mask. It was intimate and surreal at the same time. His bare shoulders, the veins in his forearms, the way his chest rose and fell—it was all Peter. But the mask made him something else. Spider-Man.

You nodded, a little too quickly. "Yeah. Just… long day. You?"

He let out a low chuckle, the sound vibrating through the steam. "Rough patrol. Some guys with tech I haven't seen before. Got a few bruises." He rotated his shoulder, wincing. "Figured I'd soak before you got home."

He shifted, water sloshing, and then he noticed he was still wearing his mask.

You saw the way his hand moved to the edge of the mask. "I should probably—"

"Don't." The word came out before you could stop it. You stepped closer, your fingers finding the hem of your shirt, pulling it over your head. Your bra followed, then your jeans, until you stood in just your panties, your skin prickling in the warm, humid air.

Peter's breath hitched. You saw the lenses track your movements, the way they dipped down your body and back up.

"You wanna join me?" he asked, his voice lower now, a little rough.

Like he even needed to ask.

You nodded, unhooking your bra and letting it fall to the floor. You stepped out of your panties, then climbed into the hot tub, the water enveloping you, warm and soothing against your tired muscles. You moved between his legs, settling into his lap, your thighs straddling his hips. The water sloshed around you, bubbles clinging to your skin.

You placed your hands on his shoulders, feeling the tension coiled beneath the surface. His muscles were knots of strain—patrol had been rough, and you could feel every tight fiber. You dug your thumbs into the meat of his traps, pressing deep. He groaned, his head falling back against the edge of the tub.

"Fuck… that feels good."

You worked your hands along his shoulders, across his collarbone, down the defined ridges of his pectorals. The mask stared back at you, white lenses unblinking, and you felt a thrill run through you. He was exposed to you—but hidden at the same time. You could see the tension in his jaw through the fabric, the way his lips pressed together as you worked a particularly tight knot.

His hand came up, fingers brushing the edge of the mask. "I should take this off."

You caught his wrist. "No."

He froze, the lenses shifting to meet your gaze.

"Leave it on." Your voice was barely a whisper, but it was firm.

"Y/n…"

You didn't answer. Instead, you shifted your hips, grinding against his length, which was already hardening beneath the water. The movement was slow, deliberate, your slick folds sliding along his shaft. His breath caught, his grip on your hip tightening.

"Fuck," he breathed.

You did it again, a little faster, the water rippling around you. His hands found your hips, guiding the motion, but you were in control. You leaned forward, your breasts pressing against his chest, your mouth close to where his lips would be behind the fabric.

"Peter… just let me."

A shaky breath escaped him. He let his head fall back, surrendering to you. His hands slid down to your ass, kneading the flesh, pulling you closer. You rocked against him, your clit catching on the ridge of his cock, sending jolts of pleasure through your core.

You wanted to see his mouth. You wanted to kiss him.

Slowly, hesitantly, your fingers found the bottom edge of the mask. He tensed beneath you, but didn't stop you. You lifted the fabric, just enough to expose his lips—those full, soft lips that you knew so well. This might be the hottest he's ever looked.

You cupped his face, feeling the heat of his skin, the stubble rough against your palms. He leaned into your touch, his eyes hidden but his gaze palpable through the lenses. Then you kissed him.

It started soft, tentative—a brush of lips, a shared breath. But it didn't stay that way. Your tongues met, hungry and desperate, and the kiss deepened. His hands tightened on your ass, pulling you harder against him, and you moaned into his mouth.

"I need you," you whispered against his lips. "I need you inside me."

He growled, low and animalistic. "Then take me."

You lifted your hips, positioning yourself over his cock. The head nudged your entrance, and you sank down, taking him inch by inch. The water made it slick, the heat making every sensation more intense. He filled you completely, stretching you, and you both groaned as you settled fully onto him.

You didn't wait. You started moving, riding him in the warm water, your hands planted on his chest for leverage. The mask stayed where you'd left it, his lips parted, his breath coming in ragged gasps. The lenses tracked every movement, and you knew he was watching you—the way your breasts bounced, the flush spreading across your chest, the way your mouth fell open as pleasure built.

"Look at you," he rasped, his voice strained. "Taking my cock like a good little slut. Riding me while I'm half-masked. That turn you on, baby? You can't see my face and I'm balls-deep inside you?"

You whimpered, your rhythm faltering. His words pushed you closer to the edge.

"Yeah, you like that. You like that I could be anyone—but I'm yours. I'm your Spider-Man. And I'm gonna fuck you until you can't walk."

He grabbed your hips, taking control, slamming you down onto his cock with brutal, precise thrusts. The water sloshed around you, splashing over the edge of the tub. His lips found your throat, biting and sucking, marking you.

"You close?" he growled against your skin.

"Yes, Peter, fuck—"

"Cum for me. Now. Let me feel that pussy squeeze my cock."

Your orgasm hit you like a wave, crashing through your body. You cried out his name, your walls clenching around him, pulsing in rhythm with your heartbeat. He followed a moment later, his hips bucking up as he spilled inside you, hot and thick, filling you completely.

You collapsed against him, both of you panting, the water settling around your trembling bodies. His arms wrapped around you, pulling you close. The mask was still bunched under his chin, and you reached up, pulling it off completely, revealing his face—flushed, sweat-slicked, eyes dark with satisfaction.

He smiled, soft and tender. "That was…"

"Exactly what I needed," you finished.

He kissed your forehead, then your nose, then your lips—soft, lingering. "Me too. Even if I forgot to take the damn mask off."

You laughed, tracing the line of his jaw. "Best mistake you've ever made."

He hummed, his hand sliding down your back to rest on your ass. "Wanna make another mistake? I'm thinking round two in the bedroom. No mask this time. Just us."

You grinned, leaning in to kiss him again. "I thought you'd never ask."

------------

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[avocad0ess]

I wonder who I would be today if I didn’t develop an obsession with fanficion when I was 11

[darknessisafriend]

Agamemnon x reader imagine/HC

I had to get this idea out of my head, the aura of this guy, a similar pattern to Commodus, my mask kink being teased, I had to write something XD (even if Commodus is THE GOAT)

Imagine you are part of a clan of women, like Amazones, but you are defeated by Agamemnon

The battle is lost. You lie in the mud, the coppery scent of blood thick in the air, your sisters fallen around you. A shadow falls over you, and you look up into the face of the enemy commander.

He doesn't look like a man who has just won a brutal fight; he looks immaculate, his black and gold armor polished, the helmet covering his face. A king. The one who decides of the fate of men but who does not bleed for them. Agamemnon.

He circles you slowly, his gaze appraising, not of your body, but of the quality of your defeat.

"Remarkable." he says, his voice a low rumble that carries over the groans of the dying. "You killed three of my best men before they brought you down." He looks at you from above "Such spirit and skill. It would be a waste to break it on the funeral pyre."

He slightly turns on the side and addresses his men. "She, and any others who can still stand, will not be killed. They will serve." He looks back down at you, a flicker of something predatory in his eyes. "You will serve me. Your strength will be added to mine. Your victories will be my victories. It is the highest honor a defeated enemy can receive." He says it as if it's an undeniable truth. The arrogance isn't in his tone, but in the very fabric of the offer. Agamemnon is pride incarnated.

Your first days are a humiliation. You are not a warrior; you are a trophy. Agamemnon parades you before the other kings, his hand possessively on the back of your neck as he introduces you. "The last of the Amazons of this coast. She now answers to me." He doesn't use your name. You are 'the Amazon', his acquisition.

You rarely sees him without his armor and helmet which makes him look like the god of war. But when he takes them off, he is strangely human. Handsome with his dark curls and full lips. You tell yourself it is a poisonous beauty. Still...

He took you away from your homeland, so why not take what you want? you could have decided to kill him but instead you decided something entirely different. To control a king was much more beneficial.

You find your place at his side during war council. A silent presence to get his interest, perhaps his trust.

It works. He decide's to test your loyalty with a cruel command: "You will lead the vanguard against the Thracians. They were allied with your people. I want to see you break their lines yourself."

"Why don't you fight them yourself for once." you refuse instead. He was cruel, not just pragmatic. But in return you receive a cold smile. "Or I can have your surviving sisters executed for insubordination. The choice is yours, but the outcome is the same."

He respects your skill in a detached way, like a man admiring a well-forged sword. After you single-handedly turn a skirmish, he'll simply say "Good. You've earned your keep today."

But if you offer strategic advice, he cuts you off. "You fight. I think. Do not confuse your function."

You are also prideful, confronting with his ego. Arguments are a daily occurrence between you. "We should take them alive." you argue after a raid. "They know the mountain passes."

He laughs, a harsh, dismissive sound. "We know the passes. They are an obstacle. Obstacles are removed." He steps into your personal space, his presence overwhelming. "You seem to forget your place. You give me your strength, your skill, your body. Is that clear?"

The conflicts often end the same way: with a physical reminder of your position. He'll grip your arm hard enough to bruise, or back you against a pillar, his face inches from yours. "That fire in you... it's why I kept you alive." he might murmur, his voice dropping. "But do not mistake my generosity for weakness. I will break you if I must." The threat is always there, a leash around your throat.

The shift is subtle. He finds himself watching you in training, not just assessing your skill, but noticing the fluid grace of your movements.

You are not ignorant of men being weak to the flesh. You notice his gaze on you, shifting from pure observation of a soldier to the interest of a human being for another. You smile to yourself, this was an advantage that you only had.

You begin to use your body as a tool and a weapon. You serve him wine, letting your fingers brush against his. You stand close to him during councils, a silent, powerful presence that is both his guard and his temptation. He is constantly off-balance, aroused by your proximity but infuriated by your control over the dynamic.

You notice the growing bulge in his tunic when you're near, the way his breath catches when you accidentally brush against him. He finds himself wanting you not just as a spoil, but as a genuine desire, which angers him even as it fuels his obsession.

Late at night, when he is examining maps, you decide to take a step closer. You simply place a hand on his shoulder, letting your touch linger. He tenses, his paranoia gnawing at him. He looks up at you, surprised by the boldness. "I am here to serve, my king." you say, your voice low and husky. "But a warrior knows how to best serve their commander. Call me to your quarters if needed, my king."

That night, he summons you to his tent. He looks at you, knowing what you came more, but not voicing his own desires. He expects you to know exactly what he wants.

As you step in his quarters, you start untying the laces of your tunic. "Victories should be celebrated." you say, your eyes holding his. "And I am your greatest victory, Agamemnon."

The sex is a battle for dominance, but one you are winning. You meet his roughness with your own, his aggression with a fierce passion that matches his own. He tears at your clothes, his mouth claiming yours in a brutal kiss. You respond with equal fervor, your hands tearing at his tunic, needing to feel his skin against yours.

He pushes you onto his bed, his body heavy over yours, his hands pinning your wrists above your head. But you arch against him, your legs wrapping around his waist, pulling him closer. He enters you with a groan, his thrusts hard and punishing, but you meet each one, your hips rising to meet his, your nails digging into his back.

You show him that surrender and strength can coexist. You take your own pleasure, refusing to be a passive vessel for his. You shift your position, rolling him onto his back, straddling him. His eyes widen in surprise, then dark lust. You ride him hard, your head thrown back, your breasts bouncing with each movement. You set the pace, taking control, and you watch as the King of Men falls apart beneath you, his hands gripping your hips as he loses himself in the pleasure you give him. You leave him breathless and confused, his body sated but his sense of control shaken.

After, you don't instantly go back to your tent. You stay. You trace the scars on his chest, your touch gentle. "This one..." you say, your fingers on a deep mark on his side. "A boar?" He is silent for a long moment, then speaks, his voice rough. "A man. In Thrace." It's the first personal thing he has ever shared.

The tension will shift between, you after this first time. The sex remains intense, a physical clash of wills, but now it's punctuated by these moments of quiet intimacy that you initiate. You are peeling back the layers of the king, reaching the man beneath, using your body not just for pleasure, but as a key to unlock the soul of the conqueror who now finds himself conquered by you.

Sometimes, you even witness him at his weakest. One, night, after a nightmare where he dreams of his daughter Iphigenia's face, he wakes with a strangled cry. You, sleeping on a pallet nearby, are the only one who sees it. He doesn't speak of it, but for a moment, in the flickering lamplight, you see not a king, but a haunted man. The next time he takes you, his hands are still rough, but there's a desperation in them, a need to silence his ghosts.

I hope you enjoyed! I certainly had fun writing this imagine, it was a bit chaotic in my head due to high inspiration, hoping it's an enjoyable ride^^

If you want more, don't hesitate to ask ;)

[harddeckstories]

Drawn Lines

Summary : Jake goes through your drawing notebook and finds out why you’ve never ever allowed so much as people approaching it.

Pairing : Jake "Hangman" Seresin x Fem!Reader

Important info : Your call sign is Lightning :)⚡️

Disclaimer : English is not my first language so sorry for any grammatical errors that might have escaped my proofreading. I have no knowledge in the US Navy or military so sorry for any inaccuracies in that department. Also I don’t draw and I do not have a single artistic bone in my body so sorry if this seems unrealistic or badly written !💞

Word count : 4.4k

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“Mickey…” you warned once, feeling him slowly creep up over your shoulder, trying to peek at the traits your hand was steadily tracing on the blank paper of your journal.

“Oh come on, I’ve already seen your drawings, what, is the process secret defense or something ?” Mickey whined out, sounding as petulant as a child.

Momentarily stopping, you kept your journal close to your chest, hiding its content from his view. He whined, finally deciding to leave you be, choosing instead to go slump on the opposite couch, while making it known just how unfair and mean you were for refusing to get him out of his lethal boredom.

Your morning training flight had ended thirty minutes ago, and Maverick had needed to attend some last minute meeting with Cyclone, leaving you in the briefing room, waiting for his remarks on each of your flying. Everyone had found a way to occupy themselves, except Mickey, who kept bothering everyone, trying to find something that he’d deem amusing enough to focus all his attention on.

He’d already gone to Natasha who had quickly sent him packing, choosing this rare free time to catch up on some paperwork the base’s administrators had been begging her to send for three months.

Bob had been kind enough to propose to share his book with him, but he refused, claiming it was too boring. And you suspected that he had actually found something to do, and that that thing was simply to annoy all of you, who were calmly waiting for the return of your instructor.

His next victim had been you.

You should have guessed it, truly. Peacefully sitting on the couch, tracing lines in your drawing notebook, eyes flicking discreetly every so often to the pool table, where Reuben, Javy and Jake were engaging in a pretty wild game of table football.

“Can I just look at one page, please ?” Mickey tried again, putting on the best puppy dog eyes he could conjure.

“No.”

No one had ever even glanced at your drawing notebook. Even though you’d always carry it around, whipping it out if you had a rare moment of rest during your busy life on base, everyone had learned to respect that boundary, no matter how futile it seemed to some.

“Leave her, Fanboy. She just doesn’t want you to see the naked men she draws in there,” Jake snickered from his spot at the table football.

You simply flipped him off, not even rewarding him with a stare.

Despite your notebook being so firmly guarded, everyone knew you drew beautifully. If they were honest, beautifully wasn’t even cutting it.

While your notebook was strictly off limit, you’d let them see when you’d lazily and mindlessly let your pencil graze the paper of a torn up blank page. They never ceased to be amazed at your ‘talent’, and they’d always let you know whenever they had the chance. Which, it’s not that you hated it, but the word ‘talent’ rubbed you the wrong way. This was no talent, it was years of hard work and practice, none of this had come your way the first time you had grabbed a pencil, and yet, the squad always made you out to be some kind of prodigee.

Everyone knew you drew portraits the best.

The first time it truly hit them was during one particularly boring meeting where Cyclone was just up everyone’s asses and complaining about how none of you ever bothered to do the administration work you were required to do. His scolding wasn’t new, you’d at least get one of these meeting every month, so it wasn’t something you all took too seriously. After a few minutes of sketching you passed off as pretending to take notes, you elbowed Natasha, snickering a bit as you showed her the piece of paper on which you had made Cyclone’s angry face come to life.

But the chuckling you had expected never came. In its place, Natasha’s eyes were wide open, in complete awe of the pencil sketch you had presented her. She quickly, and the more discreetly she could, passed it around the table for everyone to see, pointing to you in pride when the other members of the squad would look, equally as amazed as she was.

Ever since that day, Mickey had begged you to draw a portrait of him. You had always refused, not exactly knowing why, maybe simply for the pleasure of seeing him pout at your constant refusal.

He had been greatly offended when one night you had casually handed Penny a sketch of her you had quicky drawn at the Hard Deck.

“She gives me free drinks,” you had justified, a small smirk pulling at your lips.

“I have your life in my hands every-time we’re in the air, is that not enough for you ?”

One year, for his birthday, you had finally decided to grant him the one thing he kept begging you for. Mickey had literally screamed, yes screamed in sheer excitement when you had handed him the portrait you had drawn of him. It now stood proudly on his bedside table, adorned by a beautiful frame.

You drew beautifully, there was simply no other way to put in.

“Please, Lightning, I’ll do your paperwork for a month if you let me see,” Mickey had resorted to bargaining.

“No.” You said again, firmly camping on your position as the movement of your pencil grazing the page could faintly be heard.

“Good morning aviators.” A booming voice made every single one of you jump out.

And then immediately salute when you realized it was your commanding officer. Mickey nearly toppled over from how fast he stood up.

“Captain Mitchell has some other matter to attend to. I reviewed all of your flight footage so I’ll be the one debriefing you today.”

You swore you audibly heard Reuben swallow next to you.

Your commanding officer wolfishly grinned, a terrifying indicator that this debrief wasn’t really about to go as smoothly as when Maverick was directing it.

“Let’s move to briefing room three, shall we ?” He smiled, seemingly impatient to share his mind about the way you all flew.

Reluctantly, you all followed with a dutifully soldier step, though not without dread.

“You’re gonna get chewed up, man.” Javy whispered to Jake, snickering.

And he did. After absolutely destroying him, Maverick would have at least, discreetly, praised the risky maneuver he had pulled off.

But commanding officer Whitman was nothing like Maverick. After words that were anything but kind about his flying style, he was sent back to the main briefing room, like a child sentenced to think about his behavior.

Jake guessed he had maybe grown too accustomed to Maverick being somehow of an older and just as reckless version of him that he had forgotten that most of the moves he pulled could get anyone not only written up, but grounded, for good.

Jake sat down with a sight, the feeling of having been scolded like a child, something that hadn’t happened since the Naval Academy, sitting heavily on his chest. He groaned when he felt that he had carelessly sat down on something, the futile action only serving to upset him more after what he had endured a few doors down.

But all irritation suddenly vanished when he lifted himself to glare at the object daring to pester his sulking.

He froze.

Lying there, rarely unsupervised, was your drawing notebook, Sitting neatly where you must have dropped it when Commander Whitman had walked in.

The light green cover was a little worn out from you carrying it every where you went. He gently picked it up, took it out from under him so he could sit down again. His fingers hesitantly toyed with one corner, debating on opening it.

Why were you so adamant about no one looking through it anyway ?

While he mainly joked about it, Jake was convinced you were actually drawing naked people in there. What other reason would there be for your constant refusal ? You were talented as hell, wouldn’t you want to share that with everyone ?

Jake spent more time than he’d like to admit just watching you, nose buried in that stupid notebook, sketching away God knows what. The little furrow in your brow when you seemed to draw something just a tiny bit difficult, though he knew without seeing it that it’d look effortless no matter how much of a struggle you seemed to display.

His stare was fixed on the notebook in his hands. There would be no way for you to know he had gone through it if he put it back in the same spot, right ? He would just have a quick, harmless look. Besides, it wasn’t like he would be reading through your diary, it wasn’t anything too imitate.

And besides, he figured that if you did find out, it wouldn’t be the end of the world. You’d scream at him, sure, but again, it wouldn’t be different from any other day, no matter how hard he wished it wasn’t the case.

Still, he found himself still hesitating. Even if you never found out, it was basic respect to honor a boundary you had made abundantly clear throughout the years. But just as he was about to, though not reluctantly, put the precious notebook back down, curiosity with a mix of self deprecation, knowing that at least now you’d have a real reason for disliking him, made him open it.

And—

Well.

To say that it was underwhelming would be a tremendous understatement.

The first page greeted him with the beautiful sight of a Lily. Though, perfectly drawn, it seemed to be taunting him. Was this really what he had defied your prohibition for ?

Why would you even hide this ? Oh, what, did you think the flower was out of proportion ? Embarassed because you hadn’t drawn the petals as accurately as Mother Nature had carefully crafted them ? He had a little chuckle to himself, yeah, that was probably why. You thought your work was shit even thought it looked straight out like a Lily seed had been planted in your pages and you had dutifully took care of it to grow it into the beautiful flower staring back at him right now.

Pages after pages, he was met with objects from your daily life, drinks from the Hard Deck, a sunset at the beach, flowers that grew behind the base... One particular drawing of your F/A-18 that looked like one of the engineer on base had themselves drawn it had him staring a bit longer. And he found himself wondering just how many hours you had put into this, into all of this. How many years did it take for you to master life around you so effortlessly ?

He continued to turn the pages, snatched away by the beauty of your work. Jake was almost halfway through it when he suddenly froze.

A mirror was his first thought.

It felt like looking in a mirror.

His own face was staring back at him on the page, the only difference was the serious air he was harboring on the drawing, a huge contrast to his jaw hanging open at the sight of it.

He didn’t even have that fleeting second of astonishment, of doubt, of ‘oh my god is that me ?’. Because there was no place for doubt. It was, undeniably, him.

After the moment of shock had passed, his heart began to pound in his chest to the point it was almost painful. His eyes flicked to the page right next to it, him again. A small smile stretching his lips and a toothpick in between his teeth.

Jake stayed in what felt like a long time just staring at the perfect pencil drawing of his face. The knowledge that you had been the one to delicately trace every line of his face was spreading a warmth all throughout his body. He felt a flush bloom from his neck all the way to his ears and he laughed slightly, embarrassed by his own reaction.

Jesus, these were only drawings, he tried to reason himself. You drew people often, hell you had even drawn Commander Whitman in various state of fury a dozen of times, though his pounding heart didn’t seem to agree.

Willing himself to move on, he turned the page—

His breath got caught in his lungs.

The next page showed three little sketches of him, all different emotions that somehow covered a good part of the wild range of his personality.

On one he was harboring his usual cocky expression, smirk stretching his lips wide, eyebrows slightly raised in a defying air, and there even was a teasing and arrogant twinkle in his eye that made the drawing seem all the more alive.

The one right next to it showed his profile, head looking down at what he guessed was a pre flight checking list. Expression closed, focused, like every pilot ought to be while checking the plane that would bring them up to fifty thousand feet in the air.

The last of the three little sketches showed his upper half, a cue stick in hand, a genuine smile, staring off into the distance, where normally the Hard Deck pool table would be. But there was no scenery, only him. Happiness and relaxation evident in the way he held himself.

His heart wasn’t exactly beating the way it should, a weird mix of a flutter and a stutter that made his whole chest feel tight.

Jake felt seen.

And seen by your eyes, you, was the greatest honor he could think of.

His eyes widen when he saw the next page. Taking up almost the entire paper, he was drawn down to his midthighs. Swimsuit sitting low on his hips, Adonis belt on full view, abs carefully defined, puffed up chest, a grin illuminating his face and sunglasses to hide his precious green eyes from the sun.

Jesus fucking Christ, you had even gotten the mole on the left side of his hips. His flush only worsened, made him feel like his whole body was on fire. The harsh fabric of his flight suit suddenly feeling like too much on his feverish, sensitive skin.

Jake exhaled shakily. It felt overwhelming, and overwhelming wasn’t even cutting it.

His hands acted on their own as he continued to turn the pages. Each filled with images of him. Because to him, they were images. Not drawings. Images you had wanted to capture, keep a piece of. Stolen moments you had wanted to keep ingrained on paper, had wanted to keep him.

Almost half of your notebook was of him. He got to the last page you had drawn on.

A close up on his face from his neck. The brightest smile illuminating his features, the kind that allowed the creases near his eyes to make an appearance. A glint in his gaze that made him look warm, loving, almost tender like.

Writings at the bottom of the page caught his attention. The date was marked, like all the other drawings, he realized.

He frowned reading it.

The date on that last drawing was marked from the day before… which was a Sunday.

….You hadn’t seen each other on Sunday.

Something short circuited in his brain and in his heart.

Did that mean you were able to draw him by memory alone ? That you had every crease, every hair, every mole, freckle, every line of his face so deeply ingrained in your brain that you were able to render them that faithfully without even looking at him ?

It felt dizzying.

Eyes still transfixed on the drawing, steps coming from the hallway got him out of his trance and without thinking, he shoved the notebook into his flight suit.

“How did it go ?” He tried for casual as the rest of you walked in.

“Listen man, he even gave me shit,” Mickey complained, seeming still offended by what had happened, “I don’t even fly the goddamn plane !”

By the look on all of your faces, Whitman didn’t have anything nice to say to any of you.

Jake felt his heart stutter when his gaze shifted towards you, who were engrossed in a conversation with Natasha, most likely bitching about the debrief. It felt weird, to see you like that, knowing how you carefully sketched him every change you got.

You caught his gaze and frowned.

“What are you looking at, Hangman ?”

He smiled, and he wasn’t exactly sure if it turned out like a smirk or a genuine one.

“Nothing, darlin’.”

You rolled your eyes and Jake could decipher the smallest quirk of your lips, the lightest blush on your cheeks and wondered if it had always been there but just been too blind to see it.

You didn’t say anything about your notebook, didn’t seem to notice it was missing, too distracted by the morning’s event.

That night, Jake went home with the notebook. He didn’t quite have the heart to let go of it yet. Lying wide awake in his bed, with what had become a precious artifact, open, he kept staring at that very last page. Carefully, he’d trace the lines out with his fingers, in adoration of the way you saw him. Touch over every brush of the pencil you had evidently, carefully thought about.

He struggled to find sleep, whenever he would finally turn off the light, it would only take minutes before he’d turn it on again, grab the notebook and flip through it. He felt like his insides were melting every time his eyes raked through the pages.

Knowing he had been your secret muse all this time was setting a new desire alight in his chest, burning as fiery hot as a SuperHornet engine. Jake wanted, almost foolishly, to pose for you. Look into your eyes as you’d trace every single line of his face, body and soul, knowing you wouldn’t even have to stare at him to get him perfectly, down to every detail.

When he finally managed to fall asleep, you visited his every dream, and being haunted had never sounded so delightful.

“Where the fuck is it,” you grumbled under your breath, frantically moving the couch cushions around.

It was only when you were already at home that you noticed the very unusual absence of your drawing notebook. The realisation that you had forgotten it on base was scary. But the realisation you had in this instant, as you had come earlier than usual to look for it, that perhaps you hadn’t simply forgotten but downright lost it, was terrifying. You trusted your squadmates enough to believe that they would respect your boundary even without yourself present to firmly remind them of it, but what if any other people found it ?

God, you’d actually have to transfer base.

“You looking for something ?”

You jumped and grabbed at your chest where your heart had a similar reaction as you turned around.

“Jesus Christ, Seresin ! Don’t sneak up on me like that !”

“If I really wanted to sneak up on you, sweetheart, I can assure you I wouldn’t have announced myself quite this loud.”

Your eyes rolled automatically, a reflex you had taught yourself a long time ago whenever Jake spoke.

“Yeah, right, thank you, you can leave n—“

You stopped dead in your tracks. Eyes fixed on Jake’s right hand and what it was holding.

Jake saw you freeze and suddenly he lost the cocky edge. He cleared his throat.

“I think you forgot this yesterday.” He now held the notebook in both hands in front him, but not quite holding it out for you yet.

You didn’t dare to meet his eyes, because you knew, without even him saying anything, you knew. He had gone through it. Mortification couldn’t even begin to describe the feelings going through you as you stayed there, just staring at your notebook in his hands. Somehow, despite this situation being your worst nightmare, in the back of your mind something told you that in between Jake’s hands, the notebook felt at its right place. The muse holding close to him every piece of art he had inspired.

You knew. And Jake obviously knew you knew.

“You’re very talented.” He finally said, trying to break the silence.

“It’s not talent it’s—“

“Hard work,” he finished with a small, endeared, smile. “I know. And it shows, how hard you work I mean. It’s beautiful.”

You gulped. “What is ?”

“All of it.”

A pitt was forming in your stomach. You hated how he was dancing around it, hated how careful he was around the subject and a small part of you wished he could have just laughed at you, made some cocky remark, at least that way you’d have gotten some reaction out of him. You didn’t truly understand his behavior, did he think he was showing you mercy after going through the most intimate item in your life, one that was practically a pathway into your mind and heart ?

You cleared your throat, knowing you’d have to be the one to address the obvious elephant in the room.

“Are you not gonna ask why I draw you over and over again like a maniac ?” You asked, trying to sound jaded and uninterested despite the beating of your heart.

The smile that stretched his lips was soft.

“I don’t need to.”

Something in you bloomed at the way he looked at you.

Jake finally handed you the notebook, which you took with shaky hands that you struggled to hide.

You both stood in silence for a few seconds that felt like an eternity. Dancing on your feet, you chewed the inside of your cheek. What the fuck were you supposed to say ? This felt like too big of a conversation to have at six in the morning just before the morning flight.

“You—“ you immediately cringed at the way your voice was strained and cleared your throat, “do you wanna take one ?” You offered, eyes looking everywhere but directly at his eyes.

His eyes seemed to widen in barely hidden shock before he schooled himself.

“Of course I do, you know I’d never missed an opportunity to have my own face hanging around my place.”

You chuckled, feeling at ease by the way he lifted off a bit of the emotional tension. You handed him the notebook back, him holding it didn’t look as terrifying now.

“Here, choose and just rip it out.”

You’d thought he’d take some time to think about it, ponder about his decision, but no. Jake opened your notebook with a speed and ease that suggested he knew exactly what he was looking for, and he did, landing at the last page. Jake showed it to you.

“Can I ?”

You nodded, temporally surprised by his overly respectful behavior. He laid the notebook down on the nearby table and began to carefully rip the page.

When he finished, he handed it back to you, keeping the page he had ripped for him.

“Thank you.”

Silence filled the room again. And when you finally dared to lift your gaze and look in his eyes, it almost took your breath away. How gently, how patiently he was looking at you, a small, almost encouraging smile on his lips. You realized that he was waiting for you to talk, allowing you to take that next step and you guessed it was only natural. You were the one drawing his face everywhere in your notebook like a psychopath. He didn’t need to ask, he had said. Didn’t mean that in his heart he wasn’t dying for you to say it out loud.

You took in a big breath, and took a step towards him. A small physical reconciliation that you hoped you’d be able to morph into an emotional one.

“Listen, Seresin, I—“

The sudden boom of the door bursting open made both of you jerk back from each other.

“Damn,” Mickey whistled, “you’re here early.”

The rest of the squad followed close behind him, and most of them were barely able to hide the small, knowing smile pulling at their lips. Mickey seemed to be the only one confused.

“Hey, did we interrupt somethi—“

Bob elbowed him before he could finish his sentence, and he only shot his friend a death glare when he loudly exclaimed his pain and whined about ‘what was that for ?!’.

You hurriedly scurried back to your usual spot on the couch, feeling caught red handed even though you had only been standing in front of one another. Jake, much more relaxed than you, settled down next to Javy on the other couch, across the room and facing you.

You feigned a normal behavior by opening your notebook, about to pretend to draw like your world hadn’t shifted on its axis just a few seconds before.

Right as you opened it, something fell right from between the pages and into your lap. Frowning, you picked it up. It was a folded piece of paper, you carefully opened it and felt your heart stutter in your chest.

On the paper were drawn two very simple stick figures. Though, simple, they were very recognizable. It was you and Jake. The fucker had drawn himself with an eight pack and it tear a quiet laugh from you.

The two stick figures were holding hands and their mouth lines were quirked up in happy smiles. Objectively, it looked bad, primary children level. But it was his. He had drawn that while thinking of you.

Warmth bloomed throughout your body and you looked up, searching Jake’s gaze. You didn’t have to search long because he was already looking at you, awaiting your reaction. Truth be told, you don’t exactly know what you did, perhaps you bit your lip, shyly smiled, or even simply stared at him in astonishment, whatever you did, it seemed to please him.

Jake smiled. And he suddenly looked exactly as you had drawn him on that page that now had found a new place in the front pocket of his flight suit. A sight that would have blinded you had you not learned to love its brightness.

And without thinking, almost on instinct, you picked up your pencil.

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Author’s note : omg it felt like such a long time since I’ve written for my babyyyy !! Just some little fluff, hope you like it !💞💞

Also is this projection about me wanting to be any good at any sort of art ? Yes it might. And the title sucks because I couldn’t, for the life of me, find something else.

Alsoooo, I feel like lately my fics have been having very little dialogue and a lot of internal thoughts about feelings and stuff ? Is that annoying to read ? Please be honest guys

Taglist : @football1921 @eroqista @mng0731

[jkkyks]

I ..don’t know

Content : hesitation can ruin everything in a blink of an eye.

Jaafar Jackson x reader.

The question wasn't supposed to start a fight.

It had started with dinner.

The TV hummed quietly in the background while you sat across from Jaafar, stealing fries from his plate as he pretended not to notice. It was comfortable…easy, the kind of silence that only came after years of loving someone.

Until your phone buzzed, you smiled at the notification.

"It's from Layla."

Jaafar hummed, taking another bite.

"She finally got engaged."

He looked up, smiling. "Seriously?"

"Mhm." You turned your phone around so he could see the picture. Layla stood beaming, one hand covering her mouth while her fiancé knelt in front of her.

Jaafar smiled genuinely. "Good for them."

"They've only been together for like….two years?."

"Mhm."

You stared at the picture for another moment before locking your phone. "They look really happy."

"They do."

A beat of silence passed, you twirled your fork between your fingers, trying to sound casual.

"...Where do you see us in a few years?"

Jaafar frowned slightly. "What do you mean?"

"I ..don't know." You shrugged. "Do you ever think about... us? The future?"

He leaned back in his chair. "Sometimes."

"What do you think about?"

"I ..don't know."

You laughed softly. "You don't know?"

"I haven't really thought about it."

Your smile faltered. "Not even a little?"

"I've been busy."

"But... we've been together for almost three years."

"I know."

"So... have you ever thought about us getting married..?"

The room fell quiet, Jaafar looked down at his plate, his fingers tapped against the table.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

"I don't know." It wasn't loud nor cruel.

It was just...I don't know.

Something inside your chest sank. "...You …don't know?"

"I mean—" He sighed.

"Can we not do this tonight?"

Your brows knitted together. "Do what?"

"I'm exhausted."

"I'm just asking you a question."

"And I'm telling you I don't have an answer."

"You don't have one..." You laughed quietly, though there wasn't anything funny about it.

"I've had one for a long time."

His eyes lifted to yours.

"I've always known I'd marry you."

He looked away first and that hurt more than anything.

You swallowed around the lump in your throat.

"It isn't about you."

"Then tell me what it's about."

"I can't."

"Why not?"

"Because I don't even know myself."

"But you're okay with letting me sit here thinking maybe you don't see a future with me?"

"I never said that."

"You didn't have to."

Your voice cracked despite your best effort to keep it steady.

He pushed his chair back with a sigh.

"Why does everything have to be about marriage?"

"It's not!" You stood too.

"It's about knowing we're moving in the same direction."

"I am moving."

"But you're not taking me with you."

The words landed between you, heavy and honest.

Jaafar pinched the bridge of his nose. "Nah, I can't do this right now."

Your heart dropped as he grabbed his keys from the counter.

"I need some air."

You stared at him silently holding your tears.

"I just need to clear my head." He mumbles again.

You smiled sadly, tears already gathering. "You just don't want to have this conversation."

He froze with his hand on the doorknob. "I love you."

His voice was quiet. "So much."

You nodded. "I know." Another tear slipped free.

"But sometimes..." You looked at him with a broken smile.

"...love isn't the part I'm worried about."

He stood there for another second.

Then left.

The click of the front door echoed through the apartment.

The silence afterward was deafening.

An hour later, you sat curled up on the bedroom floor with your back against the bed, phone in your hand.

Your best friend had texted three times.

What happened?

Are you okay?

Call me.

You couldn't.

If you called, you'd sob before she even answered.

So you pressed the microphone instead.

"Hey..."

Your voice came out shaky.

"I just... I need to get this out before I convince myself I'm being dramatic."

You laughed weakly.

"It wasn't even about ..marriage."

A sniffle.

"I don't care if he proposes next year or five years from now."

You wiped your eyes.

"I just wanted to know that when he imagined his future..."

Your voice broke.

"...I was in it."

Silence.

"I keep replaying the way he said, 'I don't know.'"

You closed your eyes.

"And maybe he really doesn't."

"Maybe he's scared because of how his last relationship went."

"Maybe I'm asking too much."

Another shaky breath. "But..."

You pressed the heel of your hand against your mouth, trying to stop yourself from crying.

"I've never questioned spending the rest of my life with him."

"So hearing him question it..."

A tear rolled down your cheek.

"...made me question whether he's ever looked at me the way I've always looked at him."

You laughed bitterly.

"I feel so stupid."

"I know he loves me."

"I've never doubted that."

"But I don't want someone who's certain he loves me..."

Your whisper barely reached the microphone.

"...I want someone who's certain he wants a future with me."

A long silence followed.

Then, almost too quietly to hear “I don’t want to lose him..”

You hit send.

And locked your phone without checking anything else.

Jaafar was sitting alone in his car outside a convenience store when his phone buzzed.

He expected a text message.

Instead, a voice note, from you…?

He put one earbud in and pressed play.

By the time your first tearful laugh reached him, his stomach dropped because he realized you sent it to him by mistake instead of your bestfriend..

He listened to every second, didn’t move or breathe.

When it ended, he stared at the dark windshield for a long time.

Then he replayed it, three times.

Each time, another sentence lodged itself deeper in his chest.

"I just wanted to know that when he imagined his future... I was in it."

"I've never questioned spending the rest of my life with him."

"I don't want to lose him."

He rested his forehead against the steering wheel.

"...God."

It finally clicked.

Tonight had never been about rings, or weddings, or timelines.

It was about reassurance and he'd given you uncertainty instead.

Because the truth, that he'd been too ashamed to say, was that he did imagine a future with you.

Constantly.

He just also imagined every possible way he could fail you, because he promised and failed before after 10 big years.

What if he couldn't provide enough?

What if he wasn't ready, and after 10 years he realizes that it’s the wrong decision AGAIN?

What if he became the kind of husband his own father had been?

Fear had made him silent and his silence had sounded exactly like doubt and it broke the only constant thing in his life at the moment.

You.

A/N : HEAR ME OUT….I DONT KNOW.

[phia-writes]

Hiii i’m not sure how you feel about age gaps but jaafar jackson x reader where she’s like 21 and he sometimes gets insecure about their age gap because he feels like she would be happier with someone closer to her age. And she’s over there just chilling and always flexing how she has a hot (almost) 30 year old boyfriend. I feel like the dynamic would be funny to see too.

for all that you are

Jaafar Jackson x fem!reader, 2.8k

sometimes Jaafar gets a little wrapped up in your age gap, but it never bothers you - little teeny tiny dash of angst, some emotional hurt/comfort, fluff and teasing and good vibes lmao, jaafar is hot send post

It’s not an unusual set up for the two of you: Jaafar finishing up his shower as you scroll through your phone. You sit on the bathroom counter, legs swinging, while Jaafar uses his towel to catch the rivulets of water dripping down his neck, pajama pants already hung low on his hips. Your legs are bare, dressed in just a large t-shirt, and Jaafar can’t help himself from skating his palm along your warm skin.

You look up from your phone, smiling at him, and he’s struck by just how lucky he is for what feels like the thousandth time today alone. He thinks about making a joke, how together you’re wearing a full outfit, but you open your mouth to speak before he gets the chance.

“Don’t forget, Cassie’s birthday is Friday and we said we’d go,” you remind him, and it takes him a second to digest the information because the way you said ‘we’ makes him feel a little dizzy with affection for you.

“How old is she again?” He asks, racking his brain for which one of your friends you’re talking about. You seem to exist in the liminal space of friendships that plagues all recent college graduates. There are your friends from childhood, from your years in college, your neighbors, and work friends from your first ‘real’ job who range in age from twenty one, like you, to almost sixty. So you can’t blame Jaafar for struggling to keep it all straight, to keep names connected to ages and faces of people he barely knows.

“She’s turning twenty three,” you say, glancing down at your phone as a text comes through, “she’s the oldest out of that little group, from that apartment I used to live in.”

You’re still looking down, responding to your text with rapid typing, so you don’t realize the hesitation that flashes in Jaafar’s eyes. Your comment was just a throwaway, a statement to provide context to who Cassie is, and yet, it seems to start Jaafar on a downward, internal spiral.

He knows, in the grand scheme of things, that he’s not old. He hasn’t even turned thirty yet, he’s got his whole life in front of him. And while the gap between you isn’t so severe, sometimes it hits him just how young you are.

Most of the time, it’s never anything major. He’ll ask if you’ve seen a childhood show and you’d shake your head, and he’d remember how it had gone off the air before you were born. He’ll make an outdated pop culture reference, and you’ll look at him blankly because when it was popular on the internet, you were playing with dolls.

“You’re makin’ me feel old,” he’ll tease sometimes, as you get ready for a night out with your friends or you make a reference he doesn’t quite understand.

“But you’re my baby,” you tell him in a sugary sweet voice that makes everything else fade away, “‘my pretty boy.” And he’d grin all boyishly, doe-eyed with affection for you, and the moment passes into something all sweet and soft.

And Jaafar always feels lucky to have you by his side, like you’re the greatest gift the universe has ever given him. The two of you met over a year ago, a few weeks after your twentieth birthday. He’d been enamoured with you from the get go, and things between you just seemed to click. At the start of your second date, you were absolutely certain that Jaafar was your soulmate.

To you, the difference in your ages wasn’t a factor in any way, it didn’t draw you to him or push you away. You made a teasing comment every once in a while, just to see Jaafar get all flustered, but that was the extent of it to you.

And while Jaafar didn’t disagree, and he’d been absolutely smitten with you from the moment you said hello, sometimes he managed to get in his own head about how much younger you were. 

It wasn’t because he didn’t love you, body and soul, or that he found you immature or somehow lacking. He just didn’t want you to waste your youth on him, to spend your early twenties tethered to someone almost a decade older than you, for you to live to regret your time together. It certainly didn’t help that he trended towards introversion on the best of days, never wanting you to feel forced to stay in with him when you could be out at a bar or a club having the time of your life.

And it wasn’t as if he was overly clingy or controlling either. You still went out with your friends when you felt like it, Jaafar watching you get ready with a fondness in his eyes, telling you to call him when you needed to come home and kissing you before you went out the door. You always did call him, and he always arrived with a fond, sleepy smile.

Often, though, you preferred to stay in, the thought of socializing any more after the work week was done feeling the pure torture most of the time. As much as you enjoyed going out with your friends, a calmer night was just as fun to you.

It didn’t seem to click for him that you wouldn’t have the time of your life if he wasn’t right by your side.

Those doubts weren’t constant, and a majority of your time together the age gap never seemed to cross his mind. It certainly helped that you seemed perfectly content to constantly heap affection on him. You know he gets all shy whenever you remind him just how incredibly attractive he was, and that was part of the draw for you, watching the way he struggled to make eye contact as you continually showered him with compliments. 

And it wasn’t only that he was unfairly good looking. Jaafar’s caring and sweet and funny, he’d move heaven and earth for you. He loves you in ways you never thought possible, so the years between you never seem to cross your mind.

Most of the time, when you catch him making comments about his age that he thinks you won’t take to heart, you’re able to remind him just how much you love him. You’ll list your favorite things about him until he’s giggling and pushing you away, all of the negative thoughts dispelled and replaced with affection, with desire, with need.

No matter how often you assuage his fears, though, they always seem to reappear.

For the rest of the week, Jaafar seems weighed down by insecurities. As much as he wants to tell you about it, he doesn’t want you to feel like you’d done something wrong or that you’d made him feel less than. At the end of the day, it was all in his own head, and he knew that. Still, that knowledge didn’t always make him feel better.

Even your own birthday a few months earlier hadn’t sent him into such a spiral. Sure, he had plenty of other things to focus on with planning and making sure everything went smoothly, and after that, all he was focused on was you and ensuring that you had the best time possible. A day centered around how old you are, and the gap between you didn’t cross his mind once.

Now, though, it’s all he can seem to think about. You can tell something’s bothering him, because of course you do, you know him better than he knows himself sometimes. It’s like a pressure nagging at the back of your head, something you can’t seem to ignore but something you can’t really address either. You decide to let it play out, knowing that Jaafar would come to you when he’s ready.

Or that it would all tumble out in the middle of your friend’s birthday.

Your friend, always extravagant, had decided that everyone needed to wear her favorite color for her party, so everyone got dressed up in various shades of pink and her apartment looked like a bubblegum factory explosion. You were dressed in something simple and silky, long enough to avoid any outfit mishaps while dancing even as it accentuated your features.

You looked good, and better yet, you felt good, holding yourself in a way that seemed to radiate confidence and Jaafar felt overjoyed to be by your side. And it certainly helped that you only had eyes for him, pressing yourself against his side as you found a relatively empty area to stand and talk with your friends. 

With the noise levels constantly increasing as guests continued to arrive, Jaafar couldn’t hear a word you said even as you talked right beside him. You were in the middle of telling some of your friends, a pair of girls who lived in the same dorm as you during your freshman year of college that you barely got to see anymore, about the trip you and Jaafar were planning. 

Positively gushing about it, you went on and on about the hotel he’d found, and how you were planning on buying the two of you matching swimsuits from a website you’d found. As always, you couldn’t seem to stop raving about him, even when he was right beside you. It was just as easy as breathing, the praise spilling from your lips for the man you loved more than anything. You could talk for hours if it meant talking about him, or talking to him, and really, you were just perfectly content to think about him.

Here, you seemed to be in your element. You were laughing and talking with all of your friends, accepting every shot glass pushed into your hand or red solo cup passed your way. Beside you, Jaafar felt out of place, even with his hand resting on your hip. You loved the feeling of his warm, solid body beside you, the constant reminder of his presence.

But then he’d whispered something about needing some air for a second, before slipping away. When he didn’t return as soon as you’d expected, worry cleaved through you and you weren’t able to focus on anything besides Jaafar, embarking on a mission to find him and bring him back to your side.

It didn’t take long, pushing through the small, crowded apartment until you found him on the little balcony, elbows resting on the guardrail as he looked over the city. You felt yourself flood with relief, before you took in his hunched stance and the tension in his shoulders. Sliding the door shut behind you, the sounds of the party fade away.

“Hey,” you say softly, ears still ringing from the room you’d just left, the thumping music muffled by the closed door.

“Hey,” Jaafar looks at you over his shoulder before turning back towards the city skyline.

“You wanna go?” You ask as you cross over to him, leaning beside him and pressing your arm against his. “I don’t think Cassie would notice if we slipped away.”

“Not if you’re having fun.” Even wrapped up in his own head, Jaafar thinks of you first. You and your happiness are always his priority, no matter what. 

“I barely ever have fun without you,” you lean into him farther, and just as you’d hoped, he straightens up to wrap his arms around you. You let out a contented little noise, and Jaafar smiles softly as he rests his head atop of yours.

The silence that washes over you isn’t tense, exactly, but you’re waiting for Jaafar to speak. You know something’s been bothering him, and you’re hoping that he’s finally going to get it off his chest. You don’t want to have to pry it out of him, but you will if you have to. His burdens are yours, just as the same is true for him with you.

“I think I’m the oldest person in there,” he says quietly, as if he doesn’t quite want to speak those words out loud. It’s like he’s worried that you hadn’t noticed, that if he brings it to your attention it’s going to ruin everything.

Instead, you just scoff, as if he’s talking crazy.

“So what?” You ask, failing to see how that could possibly be a problem.

“I’m older than you,” he adds, like it’s such a big deal, like the realization has never hit you before.

“By a few years,” you counter, finally turning in his hold to face him. You look at him the way you always have, with love and fierce adoration for everything he is.

“Eight and a half years,” he retorts, and you roll your eyes, a smile playing on your lips at the same time.

“I refer you to my earlier question,” you say lightly, “so what?”

“Doesn’t it ever bother you?” Jaafar asks the question like he’s afraid of the answer. You simply stare up at him, blinking as you formulate your answer, and he practically squirms under the force of your gaze.

“It bothers me that you were too old to watch Mickey Mouse Clubhouse when it came out, since I can quote episodes from memory,” you tease, “and that you don’t understand all of my awesome references to Disney Channel shows and shitty teen movies from 2016.”

You settle your hands on his chest, feeling his heart beating beneath your palm. For the most part, his worries have dissipated, the residual anxiety leaving him feeling exhausted for no reason. Deep down, he always knew what your answer would be, but he’d managed to convince himself otherwise.

“Well, you don’t get my references either,” he jokes, finally cracking a smile that makes his whole face light up. You resist the urge to press your palms to his cheeks, to squeeze his face together the way you would to a baby because you’re simply overwhelmed with affection.

“That’s because you're old and your jokes are outdated,” you tease, and Jaafar stares at you in shocked silence for a moment before the laughter takes over, and he’s practically doubled-over on top of you.

“You’re so mean to me,” he says after he controls his laughter, with so much softness in his words they have no bite.

“Alright, I’ll make it up to you.” You clear your throat aggressively, and Jaafar rolls his eyes. “I think you’re super sweet, and very attractive, and you’re the nicest boy ever. And you’re really talented, and you’re pretty alright at cooking. And you’re super sexy, I mean wow, am I lucky or what?.”

Jaafar gets bashful then, even though it’s just the two of you. He looks like he wants to hide his face, even as he smiles down at you.

“Alright, you can stop, you’ve made your point.” He squeezes your hips in another bid to get you to stop, but you don’t relent.

“Nope, I’ve gotta make my point.” You press yourself closer to him, crowding into his space even more so he couldn’t possibly hide from you and your unending compliments. “I mean seriously, have you seen yourself? It’s a miracle I can get anything done, I just wanna sit around and stare at you all day.”

“Are you done?” Jaafar asks as you slide your hands up from his chest to loop around his neck.

“And you take such good care of me,” your voice gets soft, gently before it grows silky smooth, “really, really good care of me.”

Slowly, Jaafar wets his bottom lip with his tongue, and you watch the motion with unwavering attention. He’s not sure what to do with himself, torn between wanting to kiss you and wanting to bury his face in his hands and hide away.

You decide for him, leaning up to kiss him softly. It’s all loving affection, even though there’s a heat and a keen sense of desire beneath it, because really your goal was just to remind him that there’s nowhere else you’d rather be.

“Wanna go, or wanna get back inside?” You ask as you pull back, moving to rest your hands on either side of his face, thumbs moving in gentle arches along his cheeks.

“Let’s stay,” he says, turning his face to kiss the inside of your wrist. The gesture flusters you, and Jaafar can tell. It makes him grin, even as you shake your head at him.

“You’re trouble, baby,” you tease, and Jaafar laughs softly, dipping down to press a kiss to your forehead.

For the rest of the night, Jaafar stays glued to your side, watching you in your element with your friends and feeling like the luckiest person in the world. You have the same thought whenever you feel his palm at your waist or when he dips to kiss the top of your head, just because he can, because he’s got the most perfect girl in the universe by his side and he’ll be damned if he doesn’t show it.

babe this request was perfecttttttttt <3 literally so me, i turn 21 in like 3 weeks hehehe this was right up my alley!! if you want any more of these two (maybe something smutty perhaps or litterally anything) let me know, this was so fun to write <3

tags: @delictezz @szalipcombo @sometranslationnoteru @melaninjoys

[valeelavvale]

The right place

Lewis Hamilton Masterlist - F1 Masterlist

featuring : Lewis x female!reader!

notes: How could I possibly not celebrate Lewis' victory?

genre: Slice of life, fluff, romance, sweetness

word count : 2957

When the news of Lewis Hamilton joining Ferrari for the 2025 Formula 1 season had been officially announced in 2024, the Scuderia had literally exploded.

Not that Ferrari was new to personalities of his calibre, quite the opposite, but a marriage like that was something you only saw very rarely, and everyone had immediately understood that everything had to be perfect.

Accommodation, logistics, sponsors: everything.

Ferrari's first real problem was its Italianness. Everything in Ferrari was Italian: the food, the schedules, the style and the language. And for someone like Hamilton, who knew absolutely no Italian, a solution had to be found immediately.

"We need someone to follow him around step by step like a shadow and translate everything, from race strategies to the menu," Fred Vasseur had said, and then the entire table had turned towards you while you were still finishing a sentence in your notebook.

"I have a fucking PhD from the Sorbonne. I don't translate anyone's menu," you had replied.

Two months later, in January 2025, you had officially become the shadow of a seven-time world champion.

You had kept your job. No one had taken your role away from you, and no one would have dared to, but on top of that, in every meeting, briefing and event, you had become Lewis' conscience, and whenever the language wasn't English, you were the one translating.

You knew the technical language of engineering because you'd been working there for sixteen years by then. You knew every expression the marketing department used. You knew everyone and everything and, because of that, they had entrusted you with the man of the moment.

Sir Lewis Hamilton had arrived perhaps a little too full of himself, convinced that everyone would bow to him, and in ninety percent of cases that was exactly what happened. He was polite, approachable, but he knew exactly who he was and he didn't mind people being a little intimidated by him.

Meeting him had been incredible. You don't come across an aura like his every day, but when it came down to it, he meant extra work for you, and this twenty-four-seven translator assignment wasn't exactly your idea of fun.

Luckily, after the first few weeks of settling in, he had started to loosen up, and you'd discovered that even Lewis Hamilton knew how to laugh. Not only that, he could take being teased, make sarcastic remarks and... be surprisingly funny.

And so you had found yourself discussing Italian newspaper articles with him, him making fun of your Italianness and you making fun of the fact that he was decidedly too British.

2025 had been a disastrous season in which Lewis had truly lost all confidence in himself, and so you had started helping him, writing statements without necessarily having to ask him first whenever you knew he didn't want to speak, answering for him whenever it was obvious he simply didn't feel like it.

In a strange way, the two of you had become a team during one of the darkest periods of that driver's life.

And he had noticed.

He had noticed how, silently, you had started stepping in for him whenever he needed it, how you understood him without having to ask a thousand questions, how you managed to take a weight off his shoulders at a time he genuinely didn't know how to handle.

It was an evening in October and you were in London for commitments related to Ferrari, though not to him, when Lewis had called you after seeing one of your Instagram posts, acting offended that he'd found out you were in his city through social media rather than from a phone call from you.

He had insisted because, for once, you were on his turf, and so the two of you had ended up having dinner together in one of those places where only Lewis Hamilton can get a table at the last minute.

And you had laughed.

A lot.

More than you had laughed in a very long time.

Without translations, without Ferrari, without anyone getting in the way, you had talked. You had told him about your last relationship ending disastrously, and he had told you how lately he couldn't even seem to start one. You had made fun of mutual acquaintances from the paddock, joked about embarrassing situations you'd ended up in together who knows where...

And before either of you had even realised it, it was two in the morning and you'd finally picked up on the subtle hints from the waiters, who wanted to close the restaurant.

In the car, before you'd even closed the door, he had asked if you wanted to come back to his place and have a drink.

You went.

And, to tell the truth, you stayed at his place that night too, and the day after, and the one after that.

And over the following months, what had started as a professional partnership had become something entirely different: spending Christmas together in the snow, meeting his parents while he met yours and then, in February, literally getting back on track, back at the Scuderia, with a decidedly different spirit... and arrangement.

Nobody knew.

That was the kind of gossip that really wasn't worth making public. People were used to seeing the two of you together all the time and weren't particularly surprised to see you getting in and out of the same car. The fact that you also slept in the same bed was, for the most part, your business.

The 2026 season had started uphill, but Lewis had a completely different mindset from the year before. He was calmer, more focused, he understood the team's dynamics better, its rhythms and even its mentality.

The results were coming: good finishes, a few podiums that had given him his confidence back, until June 14th.

Barcelona.

"Okay, do the last interview and then I've ordered everyone to leave you alone, okay?" you say, closing the door to his driver's room while finishing sending a message.

"Who with?" he asks, turning around.

"DAZN Spain. You're on their home soil, we can't avoid them," you joke with a smile.

It's Sunday morning and there are only a few hours left before the race starts. Lewis is starting from a brilliant second place and he's pumped.

Really pumped.

"Okay, after that, that's it. I want to focus," he says, stretching his arms over his head.

"As you wish, boss," you joke, and he turns around and laughs.

"As if I'm the boss between the two of us," he teases, walking over and wrapping his arms around your waist.

"I find it convenient to let you believe that, Hamilton," you joke, only to be silenced by a sudden kiss.

When he pulls away, Lewis smiles.

"I'm calm today. I think this could go well, you know?" he says, remaining in front of you.

"I think so too," you reply. "Kick Mercedes' fucking ass," you comment, and he bursts out laughing.

"I should destroy my old team?" he jokes.

"At the very least! I can tell you're feeling it today..." you reply with a smile.

"A driver alone isn't enough to win," he comments.

"No, I know, but you never know. Maybe the team and luck will do their part too, right?" you reply, resting your arms on his shoulders.

"You'll be in the garage?" he asks, and you nod.

"I'm not moving from there, I promise. I'm not doing anything else today. I'm just watching the race."

"Good," he comments, satisfied.

The race is a masterpiece.

A perfect combination of driver, strategy and a little bit of luck (thanks, Alonso).

And in the end, everything explodes.

Everything.

When Novak Djokovic waves the chequered flag at Lewis' red car, the Scuderia erupts into a frenzy unlike anything you've ever seen.

The first victory of a legend driving for a legend.

You're in the garage, swept up in the chaos, a kind of chaos that perhaps, in all those years, you've never witnessed.

There's the bitterness over Charles' race ending the way it did, but on the other hand, there's also the awareness that the red car is back in the fight.

Lewis parks his car in front of the number one board, climbs out of the cockpit and throws himself into the sea of red waiting for him, shouting.

Hugs, pats on the back, cheers of encouragement. The whole garage is on a high.

You remain on the left, a little apart.

That chaos belongs to the mechanics, the engineers, to Lewis, who then turns and walks over to the scales to weigh himself before crouching down on the ground, overwhelmed by emotion, as though he didn't already have dozens and dozens of victories behind him, as though this were his first.

When he takes his helmet off, you see him scanning the crowd and then you see him smile when he spots you.

And you smile back, your eyes much shinier than you would have liked, because he looks emotional in a way you've never seen before.

What you don't expect is for him to walk towards you like that, in front of the whole world.

And yet he does.

He comes straight to you and then hugs you as though it's the most natural thing in the world, and maybe it is.

Caught off guard, you hesitate for only a moment before wrapping your arms around his neck.

"You had a feeling, huh?" you say softly, and he laughs, pulling back to look at you.

"Thank you," he says simply.

You look at him in surprise.

"For not letting me stop believing," he adds, before being swept away by the whirlwind of interviews, the podium and everything else that belongs to him in that moment.

-

Lewis: Where are you? Y/N: I'm with the social media team, two minutes and I'll be done. Lewis: Are you coming back to Monte Carlo with me? Y/N: Yes.

-

The terrace of Lewis' penthouse is a dream. It normally is, but that evening, with the table set, the candles, the chefs and waiters there just for the two of you, it seems to have turned into the set of a movie.

"But exactly when did you have time to organise all of this?" you laugh, walking over to him.

"I have a good assistant," he replies. He's leaning against the balustrade, watching the city light up one window at a time.

"Aren't you tired?" you ask, resting your back against the railing and looking at him.

"No. I'm so fired up that..." He laughs and shakes his head. "...I haven't felt like this in ages..."

"You deserved it," you comment, watching him.

"I needed not to feel finished," he admits.

"I never thought you were, Lewis," you reply.

"I know..." he says. "...I don't know why, but you never thought that. Not even when... well, when I thought it myself."

"It's easier to be objective when you're looking at someone else's life instead of your own," you say with a smile.

He pushes himself away from the railing, steps in front of you and kisses you, one of those kisses that isn't in a hurry, that doesn't need any explanations.

"I think you had something to do with it, you know?" he says after a while, resting his forehead against yours.

"Something to do with it?" you ask, not understanding.

"With not letting me give up," he replies. "During the winter break you told me to reset, relax and then start again, as if there hadn't been a before, as if 2025 didn't count for shit. And you were right."

"You were coming from a completely different world. Ferrari is... a world of its own. You have to understand it before you can fit into it, and this year you did."

"I understand Italians better now," he says, amused.

"Do you?" you laugh. "I'll remind you that I'm half English."

"You don't have anything English about you except your father's blood, and I'm pretty sure even that's become Italian by now," Lewis laughs, making you burst out laughing.

"I needed to find some balance," he adds. "To be at peace in one part of my life so I could sort out the other one too."

"I'm not sure how much peace we're going to have from now on. Maybe hugging me in front of the whole world wasn't exactly a clever move," you reply, tilting your head.

"I don't give a damn," he says. "It was my moment, and you had to be part of it."

"Fred literally texted me: Do I need to know something?" you say with a laugh.

"What did you answer?" he echoes, curious.

"That he should ask you. You're the boss," you reply, and Lewis bursts out laughing.

"Oh, is that how you're playing it?" he laughs, pulling you against him.

"Hey, I'm a private person. You're the one who came over to me on live television," you comment, unable to stop smiling as you wrap your arms behind his neck and lean in to kiss him again.

"Do you mind?" he asks softly.

"Hell no..." you reply, and he laughs again. "I love you. I'm proud of you, champ..."

"I love you too..." he replies, looking at you, and he suddenly seems thoughtful.

"What is it?" you ask, tilting your face.

"I don't know," he answers honestly. "It's just that tonight it feels like everything is exactly where it's supposed to be."

"Mmmh... I don't know if we're exactly in the right place..." you comment, and he looks at you, confused. "Could you kindly send all these people away? I'd like to be alone with you..." you add, looking up at him.

"Yes, boss..." he smiles, kissing you behind the ear and then along your neck. "I'll make them disappear in two minutes..." he adds before pulling away and going to give various instructions while you laugh.

Twenty minutes later, the house is empty.

It's nice having someone who spoils you like that, with dinners, drinks and everything else, but in moments like this, an audience is definitely unnecessary.

The door has barely closed behind the last waiter when Lewis walks over to you and lifts you into his arms, making you wrap your legs around his waist.

"So, where were we?" he asks, kissing you.

"We were saying that you and I weren't in the right place..." you reply as he starts walking towards the inside of the house.

You don't even make it to the bed.

And less than ten minutes later, you find yourself pinned between Lewis and the cushions of the sofa, celebrating his victory the way it deserves to be celebrated...

An important victory.

One of those victories that deserve to be celebrated at least two or three times.

-

The next morning, the house is wrapped in complete silence, and you suspect Lewis told everyone not to come in to work that day. No chef, no housekeeper, no one.

He's still asleep.

You got up without waking him and made yourself a coffee. The air is still cool, and you sit down on one of the sofas on the terrace, watching Monte Carlo wake up.

You think back to the Sunday that has just passed, one of those days that will go down in history and that you'll probably never forget, for many reasons.

The victory is the first.

The second is what he said to you while the two of you were still lying there, kissing and laughing.

"You should stay here in Monte Carlo with me more often... Like, all the time..."

For a moment, you'd thought they were just words brought on by the euphoria of the moment, but his expression had been serious.

Very serious.

You hear footsteps behind you and see Lewis step out through the French doors.

White tank top, boxers, hair very much in need of taming.

"Morning," you smile.

"Morning," he replies, sitting down beside you.

You hold out your coffee mug and he gladly accepts it.

The two of you stay there in silence for a while "Any plans today?" he asks at one point, and you shake your head, "Then maybe we can start figuring out how and when to bring your things here," he says.

You stare at him in silence.

"I meant it last night when I asked you to come and live here," he says very seriously, gently stroking your hand.

"I was pretty serious too when I said yes," you smile. "I'll still have to spend some time in Maranello... and some in Milan..."

"...I know," he interrupts. "And me too. And maybe in London as well," he says with a laugh.

"Then we can be nomads together," you joke, and he nods.

"I like that idea. We can be nomads together," he agrees as you curl up against him.

"You're explaining it to Fred, though. That part isn't changing," you say softly.

He bursts out laughing.

"You're the champion nobody can say no to. I'm nobody," you grumble.

"I'll talk to him. I'll tell him you seduced me and convinced me to give in to your advances," Lewis jokes.

"Very believable coming from you, huh?" you reply, lifting your face to look at him.

"You kissed me first," he objects, not without a hint of pride.

"I bet you hated that," you comment, amused. "So much so that twenty minutes later you had me in your bed."

Both of you start laughing.

"Details..." he says, letting his head fall back. "I really do think everything's in the right place now, you know?" he adds after a moment.

"Me too," you agree softly. "I think so too."

[faiology]

my distant lover | michael jackson

you and michael have been in a relationship for months. suddenly, he becomes distant and cold, and there’s only one explanation: the diana ross.

my first michael fic & she’s really long :) also, my dms & asks are finally back open! so ask/suggest away, i hope yall enjoy!

the first time you met michael, was insane. he looked at you like he already knew you. not in a cocky way. not flirtatious, either.

it was softer than that. curious, one might say.

you were standing off to the side at a music industry party you barely even wanted to attend, holding a sweating glass of cranberry juice and vodka, wishing your friend would hurry up so you could leave. the room was packed shoulder to shoulder with celebrities, producers, photographers, assistants. expensive perfume floated through the air thick enough to choke on.

and yet somehow, when michael walked in, everything shifted. people parted for him naturally. heads turned immediately. conversations stopped and restarted in excited whispers.

but michael himself looked uncomfortable underneath it all.

his shoulders curled inward slightly as security escorted him through the room, dark curls brushing against his forehead while flashes from cameras bounced off the gold trim of his jacket.

you looked away quickly. you didn’t want to stare. but you couldn’t help yourself. every woman in the room already was.

your friend eventually returned to your side breathless.

“oh my god,” she whispered, gripping your arm. “that’s michael!”

“i know who michael jackson is.”

“girl, fix your face.” she said as she slapped your shoulder. she had pulled some big strings to get the both of you into the function.

you rolled your eyes, fighting a laugh.

“i’m tired.”

“well wake up because he keeps lookin’ over here.”

“girl, please.”

“i’m serious.”

you turned slightly then and your stomach dropped. because he was. not dramatically. not intensely.

just… watching.

the second your eyes met his, he smiled.

small.

shy.

beautiful.

you looked away first. you had to. he gave you all kids of butterflies you didn’t even know existed.

later that same night, you found yourself trapped near the balcony doors while waiting for valet. you were checking your purse when you heard a soft voice behind you.

“leaving so soon? was the party as boring for you as it was for me?”

you jumped slightly.

michael stood there alone now, hands tucked into the pockets of his black slacks, expression amused.

up close, he looked even prettier somehow. soft brown eyes. long lashes. that smile.

oh that smile.

you blinked.

“i’m sorry?”

“at the party,” he clarified. “you looked bored.”

you laughed before you could stop yourself. “maybe because i was.”

his grin widened.

there was something disarming about him immediately. something warm. michael didn’t talk to you like you were some beautiful mystery to conquer. he spoke carefully, gently, like he genuinely wanted to know what you thought.

you ended up talking with him near those balcony doors for almost an hour. about music, movies, random memories.

he told stories with his entire body, animated hands moving constantly while he spoke. every few minutes he’d laugh suddenly and grab your arm instinctively like he couldn’t help touching you.

and god, his laugh.

soft and bright and completely contagious.

at one point you teased him about a movie he liked, and he looked so fake offended you nearly cried laughing.

“you are mean,” he accused dramatically.

“you have terrible taste.”

“no i don’t.”

“you absolutely do.”

after that night, the two of you became inseparable.

being loved by michael felt intoxicating in the beginning. not because he was famous but because he noticed things. even the little things.

he remembered your coffee order after hearing it once. he noticed when your mood shifted before you even spoke. if you mentioned liking something casually in conversation, weeks later he’d somehow surprise you with it.

he adored making you laugh most of all.

sometimes you’d catch him staring at you while you talked, smiling to himself like he couldn’t believe you were real.

those moments ruined you. because michael loved in such a tender way when he allowed himself to.

he’d call late at night just to hear your voice.

“what’re you doin’?” he’d ask softly.

“trying to sleep.” you joked.

“oh.”

“…why do you sound sad?”

“i miss you.”

simple. honest. and devastating.

sometimes he’d sneak over to your apartment wearing baseball caps and oversized jackets trying desperately not to be recognized, only to end up curled across your couch stealing all your blankets within an hour.

you remembered one rainy afternoon especially vividly.

the temptations played softly from your record player while thunder rolled outside your windows. michael lay stretched across your bed with his head in your lap while you absentmindedly played in his curls.

“you spoil me,” he mumbled sleepily.

“you’re dramatic.”

“no, i’m serious.” his eyes stayed closed. “nobody takes care of me like you.”

your fingers paused briefly. you looked down at him carefully.

“and who takes care of you, michael?”

his eyes opened and for a second, something deeply sad flashed across his face before disappearing.

“nobody,” he said quietly.

your chest ached instantly. you bent down and kissed his forehead without thinking. you wanted him to know that he deserved the world. your sweet boy.

and michael melted.

actually melted.

he grabbed your wrist gently afterward, pressing his lips against the inside of your palm while staring up at you with those soft dark eyes.

you felt yourself falling in love right there.

hard. irreversibly hard.

but even during the good moments, there was always another presence lingering quietly between you both.

diana.

sometimes it was subtle, sometimes it wasn’t. michael talked about her constantly. stories from childhood. memories. phone calls. advice she’d given him.

he lit up differently whenever her name came up. you noticed it immediately, though you tried not to. at first you told yourself you were overthinking.

everybody knew michael loved diana. the entire world knew. but loving someone and being in love with them were supposed to be different things.

right?

still, there were moments that sat wrong with you. like the time you both attended an event together and diana arrived late.

michael had been relaxed all evening beforehand, sitting close beside you with his hand resting against your knee underneath the table.

then she walked in and he changed instantly. his entire face brightened.

“diana!” he breathed.

you’d never heard your name leave his mouth sounding like that.

he stood immediately, already moving toward her before you could even process it. she hugged him tightly and he hugged her tighter.

suddenly you felt invisible.

later that night, after the event ended, michael noticed your silence in the car.

“what’s wrong?”

“nothing.”

“baby.”

you just stared out the window and blamed it on you being tired.

the second time you realized something was wrong, it was quiet. not dramatic. not explosive. just… quiet.

two weeks of quiet to be exact.

two weeks of staring at your phone every night. two weeks of hearing his voice everywhere else except where it mattered. interviews. recordings. rehearsals. television appearances.

everybody else could reach the michael jackson, except you.

and somehow that hurt worse than if he’d just told you outright that he didn’t want you anymore.

you sat cross-legged on your bed one night with your journal balanced against your thighs, tears burning behind your eyes while the television muttered softly in the background.

your pen pressed so hard into the paper it nearly tore through it.

i just get so irritated and i feel so crazy every time i think about this. like it’s just no way. you went TWO whole weeks without talking to me. okay cool. i expressed to you how i was kinda upset about it, not even kinda i WAS upset and i really missed you. then when i do reach out to you to reconcile you just act like i was the issue??? a couple days ago you said that i was annoying you and i turned you off, well THIS is annoying and turning me off. like this disappearing act is so weird. and you calling me annoying actually really hurt my feelings. is there a deeper issue here that i’m not understanding?

your breathing became shaky halfway through. because deep down, you already knew the deeper issue.

her.

always her.

you remembered the exact moment you were writing about in grave detail.

you’d been sitting in your kitchen making yourself a snack at nearly midnight when the television host smiled and mentioned diana’s recent accident that left her slightly injured. nothing too serious.

“and michael was sweet enough to come check on you personally, right?” the interviewer asked.

diana laughed softly.

“of course, he’s always had a real and true love for me.”

real and true love.

you stared at the television so long you’d abandoned your food. because michael had looked you dead in your eyes weeks prior and told you there was nothing going on.

“she’s family to me,” he’d said gently. “that’s all.”

“family.”

but family didn’t make him disappear for weeks while ignoring your messages. family didn’t make his eyes soften that way whenever her name came up. family didn’t make you feel like you were competing with a someone you could never beat.

when things were good with michael, they were embarrassingly good.

that was the problem. he loved softly. dangerously softly.

he’d kiss your forehead while humming unfinished melodies under his breath. he’d tug you into his lap absentmindedly during studio sessions. he’d laugh at your jokes so hard he’d wheeze and cover his face.

and god, his smile. his smile ruined you.

there was one night in particular you kept replaying even after the breakup.

you’d both snuck out onto the balcony of his hotel suite in new york. it was freezing outside, your fingers stiff from the cold, but michael insisted on staying.

“look,” he whispered excitedly, pointing toward the city lights.

you laughed. “baby, it’s literally traffic.”

“no,” he grinned. “it looks like stars.”

you looked over at him instead. the city reflected in his eyes. his curls falling around his face. that stupid beautiful smile. he literally invented the word whimsical. that was him.

your sweet boy.

and he caught you staring.

“what?” he asked shyly.

“nothing.”

“you’re lookin’ at me like i’m crazy.”

“maybe you are crazy.” you joked.

he gasped dramatically. “see? this is why i keep you around. you humble me.”

you laughed so hard you nearly snorted. and michael lit up. completely lit up.

he pulled you against him under his coat, chin resting on top of your head.

“you know i adore you, right?”

your chest physically hurt remembering that now. because maybe he did adore you. just not enough.

but it was the fight that ended everything happened in his living room. you arrived already exhausted. already angry. already heartbroken. nevertheless, you went to see him anyway.

michael sat curled into the corner of the couch in gray sweatpants and a white t-shirt, looking nervous the second he saw your face.

“hey,” he said quietly.

“hey.”

he stood slowly. “you okay?”

you almost laughed.

“am i okay?”

his shoulders tensed.

“i’ve been worried about you,” he murmured.

“worried about me?” you repeated. “michael, you disappeared.”

“I didn’t disappear—”

“you did.”

his jaw tightened immediately.

“i been busy.”

“busy enough to ignore me for two weeks?”

he sighed heavily, already irritated. and somehow that hurt more.

“why’re you makin’ this into somethin’ bigger than it is?”

your eyes widened.

“because it IS bigger than it is!”

“see?” he snapped suddenly. “this is what i mean. you keep pushin’ and pushin’ and it’s annoyin’.”

the room went silent. because there it was. annoying.

you stared at him like he’d slapped you. and the second the word registered on your face, michael regretted it.

you could see it immediately.

“baby—”

“don’t, michael.”

his voice softened instantly. “i didn’t mean it like that.”

“then how did you mean it?”

he rubbed his face hard.

“i just… i got a lot goin’ on.”

“so do i but i find the time to show up for you, michael. i find the time to show up for us!”

“i know that.”

“no,” you whispered, tears rising. “i don’t think you do.”

michael looked exhausted now. cornered.

“what do you want me to say?”

the question broke something in you. because if he loved you the way you loved him, he would’ve known.

you swallowed hard.

“i want to know why she matters more.”

his eyes flickered immediately. there it was again. that hesitation. that tiny tiny pause that told you everything.

“she doesn’t,” he said quietly.

you nodded slowly.

“okay.”

“i’m serious.”

“i said okay.”

“why won’t you believe me?”

your voice cracked. “because you’re lying to me, michael. you abandon me and go out of your way for her. you answer her every call. you never tell her no. there aren’t any boundaries.”

his face hardened defensively.

“that’s diana.”

“exactly.”

silence. thick silence.

you stared at him with tears slipping down your cheeks while he stood frozen across from you. and suddenly you felt tired. not angry. not dramatic.

just tired.

“i can’t do this anymore,” you whispered.

michael blinked.

“…what?”

“i can’t compete with a woman you’ve loved your whole life.”

his face immediately crumbled.

“baby—”

“don’t call me that right now.”

“please.”

his voice cracked so softly it nearly made you fold. he stepped toward you carefully.

“you know how much i care about you.”

“that’s the problem,” you whispered. “you care about me.”

not love. care.

you saw the exact second he realized what you meant.

his lips parted. but no words came out. because what could he say? that he loved you more?

you weren’t sure he did. and he wasn’t sure either. you grabbed your bag before you could change your mind.

michael followed you all the way to the door.

“please don’t leave mad.”

you laughed bitterly through tears.

“that’s the thing, michael. i’m not even mad anymore.”

that terrified him more than yelling would’ve.

“we can fix this.”

you looked at him one last time.

beautiful.

sad.

confused.

still somehow the boy you loved more than yourself. and that made this even worse.

“we can’t fix this, michael.” you breathed harshly. this was hurting you more than it hurt him, “i wish you the best lovey. i really do.”

his eyes watered instantly and you almost stayed.

almost.

but then you remembered the interview. real and true love.

and you walked away.

the breakup destroyed you in ways nobody noticed. because technically, nothing dramatic happened. no cheating scandal. no screaming. no public humiliation.

just grief.

private grief.

the kind that sat heavy in your chest at three in the morning.

you stopped answering friends. stopped going out. marvin gaye songs became unbearable. everything reminded you of him. his laugh. his hands. the way he’d randomly grab your wrist just to kiss your palm absentmindedly while talking.

you wrote instead.

constantly.

you do not care for me in the same way that i care for you. i’m slowly realizing that. well i did know that, i just didn’t want to acknowledge it. i won’t say i didn’t love you, but i cared for you so much and i still do. i’m so hurt & i miss you. i miss your presence. the way you made me laugh. your touch. i miss everything.

your tears smeared the ink.

i just want to scream and blow up your house phone asking why her over me. i want to cry until i can’t anymore. but i wont. i’m better than that.

you paused there.

because were you?

you slept with his sweatshirt every night for nearly a month afterward. sometimes you’d reach for the phone before stopping yourself. sometimes you swore you could still smell his cologne in your apartment.

and the worst part? a tiny cruel part of you wondered if he was hurting too.

are you acting nonchalant or did you cry a million times too?

months later, he still haunted you.

in grocery stores. on radios. on magazine covers.

you’d see a sequined glove in a storefront and your chest would tighten instantly. you hated how deeply he stayed embedded inside you.

one night, unable to sleep again, you opened your journal once more.

hi again. i miss you. a lot.

your breathing shook.

i shouldn’t but i do. i really really do.

outside, rain tapped softly against your window.

i can’t stop thinking about you. i wish i didn’t think about you. i wish i didn’t want you as bad as i do when you’re clearly over me.

you shut your eyes hard. because that was the worst part.

the idea that he’d moved on easier than you.

that maybe you were just another woman he cared for while still secretly loving diana ross forever.

that can’t be true. i refuse to believe this and that’s exactly my problem. i can’t register this in my brain.

your throat tightened painfully.

i’m simply a girl who cared for a boy. things didn’t work out and that’s okay. but i miss you. i think of you every time i hear marvin gaye. i think of you walking to class. i think of you before going to bed. i thought i would be over you by now. but i’m not. i miss you deeply.

my lovey, my michael, my superstar.

then came the worst night of all.

the night he called.

you almost didn’t answer.

almost. but the second you heard his voice, your knees weakened.

“…hey.”

silence.

you sat down slowly on the edge of your bed.

“hi, michael.”

he sounded exhausted. small. “i didn’t know if you’d pick up.”

“i almost didn’t.” you said truthfully.

a quiet breath.

“that’s fair.”

you closed your eyes. his voice still felt like home and that was the tragedy.

“why are you callin’, mike?”

there was a long silence. then quietly he said,

“i miss you.”

your chest caved in. you covered your mouth instantly. because hearing it out loud nearly destroyed every ounce of healing you’d managed.

“don’t,” you whispered shakily.

“i do, baby.”

“please don’t do this to me.” you begged.

“i think about you all the time,” michael continued, “i miss everything about you.”

you laughed bitterly through tears.

“that’s funny.”

“why’s that funny?”

“because i’ve spent months thinkin’ i meant nothing to you.”

“you never meant nothing to me.” his voice sounded horrified.

you wiped your face aggressively.

“then why did you make me feel like i had to compete for you?”

silence again.

heavy silence.

and suddenly michael sounded heartbreakingly honest.

“…because i was confused. i was obsessed with the version of diana i’d created in my head. what i didn’t realize is that i had what i was looking for in front of me the entire time.”

you inhaled sharply.

“that’s not fair.”

“i know.”

“you don’t get to love me halfway because you can’t figure yourself out.”

“I know.” his voice cracked. “I know, baby.”

the tears began to flow even harder. baby. you’d missed that. so so much.

you could hear it. the regret.

real regret all in his voice.

“did you love her?” you whispered.

he took forever to answer.

“…yes.”

your heart shattered all over again.

but then—

“but i loved you too.”

too.

not more.

but too.

and somehow that tiny word told you everything you’d feared from the beginning.

you squeezed your eyes shut.

“that’s the problem, michael.”

he started crying quietly on the other end. actual crying. soft sniffles he was trying to hide.

and god, that hurt too. because part of you wanted to comfort him anyway.

even now. especially now.

“i never wanted to hurt you,” he whispered.

“but you did, mike.”

“I know.”

you pressed the phone against your forehead.

“michael, i’m trying to do this. trying to sit here on the phone with you. trying to be there for you,” you admitted quietly. “i really am, lovey.”

he stayed silent.

“but i can’t.”

his breathing hitched.

“because i don’t want friendship from you.” you cried softly into the receiver. “i wanted you. all of you.”

the silence afterward was devastating. because both of you knew love existed there.

real love.

just not the right kind.

not the complete kind.

and incomplete love destroys people too.

[gh0ulxxc]

𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑔𝑖𝑟𝑙 𝑖𝑠 𝑚𝑖𝑛𝑒 ‎ꫂ᭪݁ 𝗆𝗂𝖼𝗁𝖺𝖾𝗅 𝗃. ⸝⸝

𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖼𝗄 𝗎𝗉 𝗈𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖻𝗈𝗒𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽 𝖺𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗂𝗇𝖼𝗂𝖽𝖾𝗇𝗍 .

『𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗂𝗅𝗅𝖾𝗋 𝖾𝗋𝖺』 𝗑 𝖿𝖾𝗆!𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋 𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ 𓈈 ── .✦ 𝗐.𝖼. 2,000+

𓍯𓂃𓏧♡

The hospital room smelled too clean. Too sharp. Antiseptic and smoke somehow clung together in the air, and every second you stood outside the door felt heavier than the last.

You pressed your trembling hand against the cool metal handle, trying to steady your breathing. The nurse had warned you softly before letting you in.

“He’s exhausted,” she’d said. “Try not to overwhelm him.”

As if you could ever overwhelm Michael.

As if the sight of him wouldn’t completely shatter you first.

The moment you opened the door, your chest tightened painfully.

Michael lay against the white pillows beneath dim hospital lighting, curls carefully pulled away from the bandages wrapped around his scalp. His usually bright eyes looked tired, softer than you had ever seen them. Machines hummed quietly around him, and for one horrible second, seeing him there made everything feel terrifyingly real.

Not a headline.

Not a television report.

Not some horrifying rumor spreading through Los Angeles.

Real.

Your Michael.

Burned.

Hurt.

You covered your mouth immediately, trying to stop the tears already slipping down your cheeks.

His eyes slowly lifted toward the doorway.

And despite everything, despite the pain medication and exhaustion and the injuries, he smiled the second he saw you.

“There you are,” he murmured weakly.

That did it.

You crossed the room so fast the chair beside his bed nearly scraped loudly across the floor. Your hands found his instantly, careful of the IV taped to the back of one of them.

“Oh my God,” you whispered shakily. “Michael…”

He squeezed your fingers weakly. “Hey. Don’t cry.”

“Don’t cry?” you repeated in disbelief, your voice cracking. “Michael, your hair caught on fire.”

“I know,” he said softly, almost apologetically.

You stared at him for a moment like he was insane.

“I watched it happen,” you whispered. “I thought—”

Your voice broke completely before you could finish.

You thought he died.

You couldn’t even say the words aloud.

Michael’s expression immediately changed. The small smile faded into guilt and tenderness all at once.

“Baby,” he whispered.

You sat carefully on the edge of the hospital bed beside him, trying not to jostle anything attached to him. The second you leaned close, he wrapped his arms around you as best as he could.

And that was when you finally broke apart.

You buried your face against his shoulder carefully, sobbing quietly into the hospital gown while his hand slowly stroked your back.

“I’m okay,” he kept whispering. “I’m okay, sweetheart. I’m right here.”

“You scared me so bad,” you cried. “You scared me.”

“I know.”

“You could’ve died.”

He went quiet at that.

You felt his fingers tighten slightly against your back.

“I know,” he whispered again, smaller this time.

The room fell silent except for your uneven breathing.

You slowly pulled back enough to look at him again, your hands immediately rising to cradle his face gently. His skin was warm beneath your palms, eyes glossy from both exhaustion and emotion.

“You should’ve called me sooner,” you whispered.

“They didn’t really let anybody in at first.”

“I would’ve fought security.”

That earned the tiniest laugh from him.

“You probably would’ve.”

“Absolutely.”

His smile grew faintly before fading again as he looked at you more carefully.

“You didn’t sleep,” he noticed.

Neither had he, probably.

You shook your head once.

“How could I?”

Michael’s eyes softened so much it almost hurt to look at him.

“You came as soon as you could.”

“Of course I did.”

You leaned forward before thinking and pressed a gentle kiss to his forehead, right beneath the edge of the bandages. Your lips lingered there carefully.

Michael closed his eyes immediately.

Like your touch alone eased something in him.

When you pulled back, his gaze stayed fixed on you.

“You’re real pretty,” he mumbled sleepily.

Despite the tears still clinging to your lashes, you laughed softly.

“You are heavily medicated.”

“No,” he whispered. “I mean it.”

His fingers brushed weakly against your wrist.

“You always look pretty.”

Your heart ached.

Even now, hurt and exhausted in a hospital bed, Michael still spoke so softly. So lovingly.

You bent down and kissed him properly this time.

Gentle.

Slow.

Careful of the soreness in his face.

The second your lips touched his, he melted into it with a tiny sigh. His hand slid against your cheek while he kissed you back lazily, emotionally, like he needed the reassurance just as much as you did.

You could taste the faint dryness from hospital air and medicine, but underneath that he still tasted like Michael.

Still him.

Still alive.

You nearly cried again because of it.

When the kiss broke, he rested his forehead carefully against yours.

“I missed you,” he whispered.

“It’s been one day.”

“A very long day.”

You smiled weakly through tears.

“You’re unbelievable.”

“And you love me anyway.”

You kissed him again before he could grin too proudly at himself.

This one lasted longer.

His fingers curled gently into your sleeve while your hand rested carefully along his jaw. The kiss deepened slightly, slow and aching and full of relief more than anything else.

When you finally pulled away, Michael looked dazed.

Not from medication this time.

From you.

“You keep doing that,” he murmured softly.

“Doing what?”

“Kissing me like that.”

You brushed your thumb gently beneath his eye.

“You almost got taken away from me. I think I’m allowed.”

His gaze dropped for a moment.

“I’m sorry.”

“Michael—”

“I’m serious.” His voice cracked slightly. “I hate that I scared you.”

You immediately shook your head.

“This isn’t your fault.”

“I still hate it.”

Your expression softened completely.

You leaned closer until your noses brushed.

“You know what scared me the most?” you whispered.

His eyes searched yours carefully.

“The thought that you’d wake up and think you were alone.”

Michael’s face crumpled slightly at that.

Because he would have.

Fame surrounded him constantly, people crowded him everywhere he went, cameras followed him endlessly—but loneliness still found him anyway.

Especially when he was hurting.

Especially now.

“I’m here,” you whispered firmly. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Michael stared at you for a long moment before suddenly pulling you into another kiss.

This one wasn’t sleepy.

It was emotional.

Desperate in the quietest way.

His hand slid into your hair carefully while he kissed you deeply, like he needed to feel something real after the terror of the last twenty-four hours.

You kissed him back immediately.

Slowly.

Lovingly.

Every emotion you’d been holding in poured into it.

Fear.

Relief.

Love.

The overwhelming gratitude that he was still alive.

His breathing became uneven by the time you finally separated.

“You have no idea what you do to me,” he whispered against your lips.

You smiled softly. “I think I have some idea.”

“No,” he murmured, eyes half-lidded. “No, you don’t.”

You brushed curls carefully away from the bandaging around his head.

“Does it hurt a lot?”

“A little.”

“A little?” you repeated skeptically.

He gave you a tiny shrug.

“They gave me medicine.”

“That’s not the same thing.”

Michael watched you fuss over him for a moment before smiling faintly.

“You always take care of me.”

“Someone has to.”

“You like doing it.”

“I do,” you admitted quietly.

His eyes softened again.

You helped adjust his blankets carefully before sitting close beside him again, your hand remaining tangled with his.

For a while, neither of you spoke.

The silence wasn’t uncomfortable.

It was exhausted.

Emotional.

The kind that settles after terror finally passes.

Michael eventually rested his head lightly against your shoulder.

You immediately leaned into him.

“You know what I thought about?” he asked quietly.

“What?”

“You.”

Your chest tightened.

“While everything was happening… I thought about you.”

You swallowed hard.

“What were you thinking?”

“That I didn’t wanna leave yet.”

Tears filled your eyes instantly again.

“Michael…”

“I mean it,” he whispered. “All I could think was that I wasn’t ready to leave you.”

You turned toward him fully then, cupping his face with both hands.

“Don’t say things like that.”

“But it’s true.”

Your lips trembled.

“You’re staying,” you whispered fiercely. “You hear me? You’re staying right here with me.”

Michael looked at you with an expression so full of love it nearly stole the air from your lungs.

Then he kissed you again.

Soft at first.

Then slower.

Deeper.

His fingers gently tightened against your waist as you leaned carefully over the hospital bed to kiss him properly.

You forgot about the machines.

Forgot about the lights.

Forgot about everything except him.

Michael hummed softly into the kiss, completely relaxed for the first time since you arrived.

When you finally pulled back, he looked peaceful.

Actually peaceful.

“You make everything feel better,” he whispered.

You smiled sadly.

“I wish I could take the pain away.”

“You already do.”

Before you could respond, he shifted slightly and winced.

You immediately sat up straighter. “Michael—”

“I’m okay.”

“You are a terrible liar.”

He laughed quietly.

“You sound like my mother.”

“That means I’m right.”

“You usually are.”

You helped him settle more comfortably against the pillows before smoothing your hand gently over his chest.

“You should rest.”

“I don’t wanna sleep yet.”

“Why?”

His fingers intertwined with yours again.

“Because you’re here.”

The way he said it nearly broke your heart.

Like your presence alone anchored him.

Like if he fell asleep, maybe you’d disappear.

You leaned down and kissed the corner of his mouth gently.

“I’ll still be here when you wake up.”

“Promise?”

You stared at him for a moment.

Michael Jackson—beloved by millions, adored everywhere he went—looked at you with quiet vulnerability and asked for a promise like a frightened child.

You kissed his forehead carefully.

“I promise.”

He finally relaxed fully at that.

You stayed beside him as his eyes slowly began to drift shut, your fingers continuously combing gently through the curls untouched by the bandages.

Just before he fully fell asleep, he murmured softly:

“Love you.”

Your throat tightened instantly.

You pressed one last lingering kiss against his lips.

“I love you more.”

And for the first time since the accident, Michael smiled in his sleep.

₊˚⊹ ᢉ𐭩

a/n : when i watched this part in the movie i was literally bawling broo like i felt so sad for my baby ☹️also joe only caring abt when he would get back on stage really pmo like find smth to do 😒btw im currently makin another jaafar fic so stay tuned !! 💕