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
「 MCU 」 𓂃 ★ peter parker guesses the flavor of your chapstick . ★ genre / themes 𓂃 kissing ˶ fluff ˶ established rs ˶ drabble ˶ sfw .
peter is currently horizontal on your bed, which is a position he finds himself in more often than he’d like to admit these days. one of your pillows is half under his head, the other is being slowly crushed under his shoulder, and you’re sitting cross-legged beside him with that little tube of chapstick still in your hand, ensuring that the label is covered by two of your fingers.
“guess the flavour,” you’d said, like it was some big challenge and not just a flimsy excuse to get his mouth on yours.
he’s already on his third try.
he leans up, catches the back of your neck with one hand, and kisses you slow. not the polite kind of kiss. nah, he’s past that. it’s the kind where he licks across the seam of your lips first, tastes the sweetness of the flavor there, then does it again because he’s above pretending he doesn’t want to. your mouth opens under his and he takes the invitation, tongue dragging lightly over your bottom lip before he deepens it. he stays there longer than necessary, just feeling the way you melt a little more against him with each kiss.
when he finally pulls back it’s only far enough to murmur against your mouth.
“…strawberry?”
you huff a laugh. “wrong.”
he knows. he knew the second he tasted it. it’s not strawberry. but admitting that would end the game, and peter is many things but he is not a man who willingly ends a good thing early.
so he goes for it again.
this time he doesn’t even pretend to be efficient about it. he tilts your chin, licks into the corner of your mouth, traces the soft curve of your upper lip with the tip of his tongue like he’s mapping it. the chapstick is still there, faintly sweet and a little sticky, and he chases it until you’re making that quiet sound in the back of your throat that always does something stupid to his heart (dick). he kisses you properly after that, deep and unhurried, one hand sliding up into your hair just so he can keep you close a second longer.
when your lips break apart this time his voice is just a tiny rougher. kissing you doesn’t come without side effects after all.
“cherry?”
“peter.”
“what? it’s a fair guess.”
you’re smiling that soft, knowing smile that means you’ve already clocked exactly what he’s doing. he doesn’t care. he leans in for a fifth time before you can call him on it, licking over your lips again but it’s a bit slower this time, like he’s making an effort (no, he’s not). the flavour is something warm and a little tropical, maybe mango, maybe something else entirely, but the exact answer is less important than the way your breath hitches when his tongue sweeps across your bottom lip once more and his teeth dig in just a little bit, tugging as he pulls back.
when he does, it’s just enough to rest his forehead against yours.
“coconut?”
you laugh under your breath, the sound warm against his mouth. “you’re so doing this on purpose.”
“nu uh. i am not,” he lies, already leaning in again with that stupid smile on his face. the one you love oh so very much. “scientific method. gotta be thorough.”
his next kiss is even less subtle. he licks into your mouth properly this time, slow and deliberate, tasting the last traces of the chapstick like it’s the only thing that matters. one of his hands finds your waist, thumb stroking idle circles over the soft fabric of your shirt. he leans you back into the bed so you’re on your back and he’s only slightly above you. his hand moves further into the back of your head, fingers only lightly gripping the hair there. he doesn’t pull away until his lungs start complaining, and even then he only goes far enough to brush another soft lick across your lower lip.
“…passionfruit?”
you’re laughing properly now, pushing lightly at his chest even as you lean into him. “it’s mango. you suck at this game.”
peter makes a thoughtful noise, like he’s considering the data. then he leans down anyway, already angling for another kiss.
“huh. weird. i think i need one more sample just to be sure.”
thought of this concept while i was applying my mango chapstick earlier LMAO
and time, is taking its sweet time erasing you (part two)
part one
pairing: peter parker x fem!reader
word count: 6.2k
warnings: mugging (minor, over quickly), kissing(!)
summary: getting your memories back comes with a lot of feelings, but one thought consumes it all: where is he?
a/n: thought about splitting this into more parts…then decided i didn’t care. thank you for all the love on part 1!! i’ve had the best time reading your comments and seeing all the reblogs!! tried to tag as many people as i could!! don’t hate me if this sucks okay byeeee
Well, would it even be going crazy if you were suddenly having memories that you were sure were yours, and sure had been taken from you somehow? Is that going crazy, or is it going uncrazy?
Whatever.
After your dream, you spend the day with the worst headache you’ve ever had in your life. You think you take about ten Advil to get through the day (screw the warning labels), hating your stupid job and the stupid 90-day policy before you can take PTO because the last thing you want to do after remembering a name that makes your heart feel like it’s flying out of your chest is sit at a desk and look at code for a stupid, dumb app.
On a Friday.
You spend your entire shift staring at the wall in your cubicle where you’d pinned a picture of you, Ned, and MJ from high school. By twelve, you’re one hundred percent certain that there had been someone else there. Someone next to you, arm around your shoulder, a smile that makes you feel jittery just thinking about it. You know what that smile looks like. You know.
Peter Parker, a constant mantra in your head. You’d written it on sticky notes you’d slapped on twenty different things in your room, filled an entire page of your work notebook with it. You would not forget again.
You couldn’t.
By two, you remember his Aunt May and her warmth, the way she’d always feed you and always treat you like one of her own. How she’d always teased Peter but never, ever hesitated to protect him.
By two-thirty, you remember that she’s dead. You look up her obituary on your work computer—screw it—and read through it, sniffling and aching and destroyed when there’s no mention of a nephew anywhere on it.
Peter Parker, you write again on a sticky note, then under it, Aunt May.
By four, your memories of high school have reshaped, the blurry remnants of them you’d had remolding like wet clay, and Peter is everywhere.
The first day of freshman year, debating with you on the subway about who was going to be more popular (neither of you).
Laid across your bed with chemistry textbooks open, wearing sweats and a hoodie and looking so soft. You remember wanting to kiss him, feeling ashamed because of it.
All the times he’d started disappearing, missing classes. When you’d invite him over for dinner and he’d never show. When your study sessions turned from the two of you laughing and not really getting any work done, to just you. Alone.
Following him after school, knowing something was up, wanting to be there for him. Watching him strip to his boxers in an alleyway, tug on Spider-man’s suit and launch himself onto the rooftops.
Sneaking into his window and waiting in his bedroom, so angry he’d never told you. Deflating immediately when he’d slipped in later that night, wide and pleading brown eyes, a bruise on the apple of his cheek, looking so vulnerable in a suit that meant anything but.
Your first kiss. The pink of Peter’s cheeks, the way his breath caught, stuttering through telling you it’d always been you. That he couldn’t imagine another day where you didn’t know. How couldn’t you have known?
Sitting on rooftops, going to dances, learning the ways his body responded to your touch, looking up how to do stitches for when Spider-man would come tumbling through your bedroom window, scaring you to death—that’s how you knew how to do stitches! Dates where he’d hold you to his chest and take you swinging around Manhattan, wind in your hair and laughter in your throat.
God, you’d loved him. You’d loved him more than anything else in the world.
More than anything.
And you still did. Still had, all these years. Felt it in your chest, curled up and ever-present. Felt it expand when you’d seen him again, light you up from the inside without warning.
But how had you forgotten?
By five, when you’re on the subway home, you know.
The memory bleeds against your eyelids. Peter, beaten and bloodied, eyes red from crying and busted blood veins. Your Peter, telling you that you would forget everything, wiping your tears and promising that he’d come find you. That he’d come get you and make you remember.
You telling him you would never forget.
But you had.
And he’d let you.
You’re so angry at the thought that you have to take a lap around your block before you enter your apartment. So angry that you end up going to your favorite bodega on the corner and getting your favorite sandwich even though you're supposed to be saving money. And then you get annoyed on top of that because the second your order leaves your lips you suddenly remember that it had been Peter’s favorite too.
That you both used to split one from Delmar’s on Wednesdays and eat it on the roof of your parent’s apartment.
You must look downright furious, because Jay, the cashier that’s been there every time you’ve come since you moved in, slides you a chocolate bar on top of your finished sandwich and doesn’t charge you for it.
You eat the whole thing while you take the stairs up to your apartment, muttering to yourself.
Then you see all your sticky notes. Peter Parker on your lamp, your closet door, on the coat hanging from your bed frame, on your window and pillow, where you’d scattered a handful of them at 3am.
You were mad. You were pissed.
But you wanted to be mad at him to his face. To see him and yell at him until you lost your voice. To watch the way his eyes would change from your words, so easy to read. To hug him and kiss him and touch him. To throw things and watch him dodge them effortlessly, to let him calm you down, to let him.
You wanted to know if he still had the same sandwich order.
Did he even want you to remember?
You think about the look on his face the night before—he’d been right there next to you after all that time, and you’d let him slip away. The way he’d looked at you when he’d knocked on your door, how he’d held your hand when he’d helped you up, how he’d let you talk to him about the dreams you’d already shared with him in the dark with this calm, serene look on his face.
And you didn’t care if he wanted you to remember him or not.
You were going to find him.
The next day, after a night filled with dreams about calloused hands and hushed whispers, after waking up with tingling lips and a hollowness to your chest, you start your search with a sudden kind of desperation.
Ned had gone to visit his grandma for the weekend, so you plant yourself in his chair and spend hours searching the internet for any trace of Peter Parker.
You even search for Maynard—absolutely ridiculous name—and then spend ten minutes crying over how Peter it was to use a dumb fake name, and how you miss him so much.
You find nothing.
The spell had worked. Peter Parker was nowhere. No one.
You sit back in the chair and try to breathe through your disappointment.
How were you going to find a ghost? How would he ever know that you remembered?
A notification sounds through the computer. Discord, from Ned’s Spidey Tracker server. You silence it absentmindedly.
Then you sit up.
Peter Parker was nowhere.
But Spider-man…Spider-man was everywhere.
And you knew how to track him.
You move so fast you hit your knee on the underside of the desk, and curse your way through pulling up the app files. You’d helped Ned code the app, so you knew it was based entirely on community sightings of Spider-man, constantly taking in reported locations and spitting them back out for the users.
Which meant you knew how to compile a list of his most common locations. Maybe if you could narrow it down enough, you could figure out where he could be.
You make a mental note to talk to Ned about how dangerous this app could actually be, and then you get to work.
You can’t believe how many people have been using the app. There are hundreds of thousands of sightings and photos and videos to sort through. It takes you hours.
Which is definitely attributed to you constantly getting distracted by videos of Spider-man after fights, heaving chest and weak knees, swinging off all alone.
How many wounds had he had to treat by himself?
How lonely he must be.
You don’t narrow it down to a few specific locations until close to midnight. Queens (of course), a five block radius of sightings going back to when Ned officially published the app. You compile the time stamps.
Most of them are in the middle of the night, into early morning.
“God, Peter, when do you sleep?” You mutter to the screen as your code spits the times back at you. You’re almost sick with how much you want to hold him.
It’s late. It’s late and you should wait until tomorrow. At least until the sun comes up. But you dismiss the thought as soon as you have it. You feel like you’ll die if you wait any longer to find him. Plus, it’s the perfect time. The app said so.
And you’ve never been a very patient person.
So you go to your room to get ready, and you hesitate. Should you…look nice? What if you don’t even find him? What if you find him and he says he doesn’t want you—
No. You’re not going there. This is Peter. Yes, you’d forgotten him. You’d forgotten him and the guilt was eating away at you for it. But you knew him. Even through the haze, you know him.
As angry as you are, you know why he did what he did, self-sacrificing idiot.
You hated that it made you love him even more.
In an effort to be quick, you just throw on a sweatshirt, jeans, and sneakers. You grab your mace and make sure your keys are poking through your fingers, just in case. Small crimes have practically disappeared over the past four years, but you were going to a part of Queens your mom and even Peter had once warned you about, so you weren’t going to take any chances.
Plus, a crazy part of your brain whispered, if you get mugged, maybe he’ll come save you.
Yep. Definitely losing your mind a little.
You ride the subway with tunnel vision. Mapping where you’ll go, how long you’ll look, how much it’ll take before you give up. It’s quiet on the subway, only the occasional sleepy passenger and drunk college kids going home in crowds. But once you get to your stop in Queens, you exit alone.
You take a deep breath, and you start walking. Eyeing alleyways and rooftops, ears perked for any movement. Keys in one hand, Spidey Tracker open in the other, map devoid of any spider symbols.
You loop the blocks slowly, one direction then the next. It’s probably the stupidest thing you’ve ever done, being out so late on your own, but you had that feeling. The only one you’d trusted since college Since, now you knew, you’d forgotten everything.
The feeling of being right. Of being sure.
So you keep walking, holding on to hope that the stragglers you avoid on the sidewalks will see something you don’t and set off the app. You keep staring at the screen, at the void of streets with no red icons, urging one to pop up.
Which, in the end, was the thing that actually took first place for the stupidest thing you’d ever done.
Because you hadn’t been paying attention. If you had, you’d have heard the footsteps. You’d have heard the schlick of the pocket knife being cracked open.
You would have been able to close your hand around the mace on your keychain before you’d been pushed into an alley, face pressed hard into the brick wall, until it stung.
The man holding you grunts as he slams your wrist against the wall to get you to drop your phone. You try not to cry out at the pain, to not show them how scared you are as it clatters to the ground.
Your mind goes somewhere very, very far from your body.
Another pair of hands wretches your keys from your grip, and then there you are, defenseless. The one holding your wrist yanks you back around and slams your back against the brick. He keeps one hand firmly on your shoulder and brings the other up to your throat. You feel the prick of the knife against the underside of your jaw, and grind your teeth against the whimper that wants to escape.
You can barely see the man’s face under his hood in this darkness, barely make out the shape of his eyes. He must see the screen of your phone on the ground, because he snorts. “Looking for Spider-man?”
His friend chuckles.
“He’s not here,” He continues, his tone mocking. He runs a finger down the side of your face, and you think you’re going to throw up. “It’s just you. And us.”
Your phone vibrates from where it’d fallen, still open to Spidey Tracker. A notification brightens the screen, then:
New Spider-man sighting! Location: Queens.
The one holding you freezes a second before a web wraps around the knife he’s holding against you and drags it up into the darkness.
“I’m sorry,” A voice calls from somewhere above, hiding where the light doesn’t touch. “Were you using that for something?”
Your body crumples against the brick in relief. It’s him.
The man doesn’t even have time to move before he’s getting jerked back, so hard his body goes flying into the adjacent wall. Before you can even blink he’s encompassed completely in webs, eyes and mouth obscured.
The other one starts running immediately, but a figure swings from the shadows, kicking him straight in the chest and sending him sprawling against a dumpster with a deep clang. You have one second to let out a breath before he’s enveloped, too.
It all happens so fast. Them getting webbed, Spider-man talking through the mask like he’s on a phone call, saying the words mugging and two males, early 20s, she’s safe. Then picking up your phone and keys, pressing a gentle hand into your upper back, and guiding you back out onto the street. The glow of the lights almost blind you, and you blink.
You’re…okay.
You look back into the alley, your attackers groaning into the dark.
Wow, you think.
“Are you okay?” Spider-man—Peter—asks, keeping his distance now that you're safely in the street and can see him fully. Cloaked in red and blue, the white eyes of the suit expanding and contracting as he takes you in. As he, no doubt, realizes who you are.
You know exactly when he does, because his entire body tenses up and goes still, easy to see under the material that hugs every single muscle that has only grown bigger since you’d last seen him this close. You watch, slowly, as his free hand clenches into a fist, and then he’s crossing over towards you, fast.
Fingers on your chin, turning you to face the light, to check for damage. A small, choked off sound when he must see something there. Now that your adrenaline is fading, you can feel the pain against your cheek, the way your knees are shaking, the other hand he’s put against your side to hold you up. He’s so warm, is your first coherent thought, so warm and here.
“I’m okay,” You manage. Your voice sounds breathless, scared.
Spider-man’s fingers leave your jaw, move up as if he means to press them against what you assume is a cut on your face, but then stop. You feel him take a breath, so close to you, then pull away. He takes a step back, two. Your body goes cold. “What are you doing here?” He asks you, his voice desperate and wounded under the mask. You don’t have to see him to know the quiver in his lip, the worry that has to be shining in his eyes. But he clears his throat and backs up even more, almost completely out of the light now. “I mean…uh…why are you out here this late? Alone?”
There’s a roughness on the alone, an anger you know from when you’d tried to help him stop a car jacker in junior year and gotten thrown to the ground, hard. The memories come easier now, a constant stream of pieces that leave you disbelieving that this man loved you. That he’d cared for you and you’d cared for him. Peter Parker. Spider-man.
You hadn’t planned what to say. You sure as hell hadn’t actually planned on getting mugged, despite the real possibility. Your mouth feels dry and your body is buzzing with nerves, battling with the need to touch him. You open your mouth, not even sure what will come out—
New Spider-man sighting! Location: Queens.
You both jump.
Across the street, you see a flash, and a voice yells, “Spider-man!” Your phone vibrates and sounds another notification, and you see the spider icons start popping up, reflecting against the material of his suit where he’s still holding your phone. “Spider-man, could I get a picture?”
Spider-man looks at the person starting to cross the street, then looks at you, then back. The eyes of his suit are impossible to see through, but you can see the indecision in every line of his body.
Whether he should leave you for the police. Whether you want him to.
You think back to the other night, the urge to tell him wait for me despite not knowing him. What had happened when you didn’t do it.
You’re desperate. You have this feeling that if you let him walk away now, you won’t have another chance. That he’ll swing away or the cops will come and you’ll lose him, anyway. You grab at his arm, the hard line of his bicep, and all you can say, all you can whisper, is, “Peter.”
His head whips over to you. Those eyes contract in, out, in, out. He goes utterly, completely still. You wish you could see his face, see what he was thinking. How he was looking at you.
There’s a whoosh of breath from under the mask. He takes a step closer to you and your heart has enough time to jump into your throat by the time he hands you your things, wraps one arm around your waist, and tells you lowly, “Hold on to me.”
So you do. Hands around his neck, so close to the line of his mask, as he shoots the two of you up and away from the pedestrian who throws his hands up, away from the incoming police sirens, and across the rooftops. You feel the wind in your hair for just a moment, enough time for you to smile, to let the part of you that’d forgotten everything remember what it had been like, before you’re on concrete again, however many stories up.
Spider-man lets you go like he’s been burned, pacing a few steps away and running his hands over his mask, where you know he’d be pulling at his curls if he could get to them.
All at once, he turns to you. “What did you say?”
Quiet, nervous, as if he’d heard wrong.
It’s a slow thing, dropping your things to the ground and walking over to him. He tracks your every movement carefully. Tracks it as you bring your hands up, across his shoulders, up to where the mask meets the neck of his suit. You run the pads of your fingers under the material, finally finally against his skin, and he shivers against you.
You wait to see if he’ll stop you, but he’s practically swaying on his feet under your touch. You don’t think he’s breathing, don’t think he lets out a breath until you pull off the mask and your eyes meet.
There’s a scratch across his forehead, right over his eyebrow. A bruise on his jaw. His eyes are glistening as they take you in, running over and over your face, searching. Hopeful.
Perfect.
The mask thudding to the ground sounds like it’s miles away.
“Peter,” you murmur. You press your hand to his cheek, and he leans into it, melts into it.
He laughs, a disbelieving thing. A tear falls from his eye and curls around your thumb as he loops his fingers around your wrist, loose and distracting. “You remember.”
You feel like there are a thousand little stars in your chest, shining and imploding. You nod, and with a sniffle, realize you’re crying, too. Smiling, too. So hard you feel the strain of it. “I remember.”
You look at each other, twin tear-stained cheeks, and then Peter is pulling you close, into his chest. You throw your arms over his shoulders, run a hand into the hair at the nape of his neck. He shudders, ducks his head into your collarbone, and bunches his hands into the fabric at your waist as if he’s scared you're going to disappear.
You stand there for what feels like hours, breathing each other in. The smell of the wind on him, so familiar to you, so similar to how it was before everything happened. Like nothing had changed, like you hadn’t spent four years feeling his absence without knowing why.
But he pulls away from you, sudden. Far enough to look into your eyes. “Tell me you’re okay.” His hand lifts to run against the cut on your cheek. Moves down to your arms, the redness of your wrists. You feel his touch rattle into your bones. “I hate that this happened to you.”
“I’m okay, Peter. Promise.” You can’t stop saying his name, marveling at the feel of it on your tongue after not saying it for so long.
The look he gives you is so pained. “Let me fix this for you.”
You shake your head, even as your stomach twists pleasantly at the tone of his voice. “It’s nothing.”
He grips your chin, and you wish you could feel his fingers without the suit. He makes you look at him, to see the emotion in his eyes. He says your name, low and sweet, and you feel like breaking apart. “Please.”
“Okay.”
You would’ve gotten mugged a thousand times—hell, you’re scared of what you’d be willing to go through—if it meant it would end with you right here, with Peter leading you down into his apartment.
It’s a mess of tech: a line of monitors on a large desk, a fancy-looking printer lasering up something you can’t see, a treadmill shoved into a corner. The bed is a mess of threadbare sheets, and the kitchenette is bare, just a couple of chip bags and protein powder sitting on a shelf by the fridge.
It’s…honestly, it makes you feel unbearably sad.
You’d been going to college, learning about computers and SQL and Python, meeting Ned and MJ to study on the quad, making friends and new memories.
And he’d been here.
“Here,” Peter says, tugging you over to sit at the edge of his bed. He leaves you there, taking off his mask and throwing it haphazardly onto his keyboard, bending to tug out a giant first aid kit from underneath the desk. When he returns, he kneels between your legs, still in his suit, thigh muscles rippling and bulging against the fabric.
A secret you hadn’t even told MJ and Ned: you’d had a crush on Spider-man. Crush sounded ridiculous, but it was the only way you could describe it. Even at MIT, you’d watched any video you could of him swinging around New York, thinking about the man under the mask. Could you be blamed, seeing how he filled out that suit?
It’d made a lot more sense in the past couple of days. Maybe you didn’t remember Peter Parker, but your body sure as hell remembered Spider-man.
It’s a little overwhelming, Peter looking up at you tenderly through his lashes, clad in something almost obscene. Two sides of the same coin.
Very overwhelming, actually.
He gets to work cleaning your cut, standing between your knees. He holds one hand against your jaw, fingers reaching into your hair, as he gently dabs it with alcohol. You sigh into the touch, and wait until he’s finished putting tape on it to say, “I missed you, you know. I might have forgotten you, but I don’t think my body ever stopped wondering where you were.”
He must have been waiting for you to say something first, because he lets out a deep, shuddering breath. He tilts your head up with the hand still in your hair, and with the other, traces the line of your bottom lip. You feel like you’re on fire, hot under the touch. He’s looking at you like he had the other night, like he’s scared you’re going to disappear from right under his hands. “I missed you, too. So much. Every day.”
You want to ask, then why? Why did you let me forget?
But you’ve spent so much of the last forty eight hours angry, and right now, you want to be relieved.
The anger can come later. It will come later.
Peter is doing this half-smile, gaze still caught on your face. “I was always—“ a huff, another graze against your lip that leaves you reeling. “I was always thinking about you. It was distracting. I couldn’t—I couldn’t do anything.”
You run your hand up his abdomen, clad in red. It pulses under your touch, and Peter’s breath hitches like he’s in pain. You stop at the spider on his chest, drag a finger across the surface. “You seemed like you were doing just fine.”
He sighs and shakes his head. “There’s so much to tell you. But I don’t want to drag you back—“
“Do not finish that sentence.”
Suddenly you’re standing, finger pointed at his chest. You clench your teeth against the anger that hits you, white-hot. You’d been doing so good, forgetting it. You try to breathe, breathe through the reality that he’s trying to do this to you again. “Peter,” the way his face crumples under you saying his name again almost gives you pause. “I’ve lived without you for four years. And I’m so pissed at you for doing that to me. Thinking about you in this shithole—sorry—all alone for all that time makes me so angry. Thinking about you leaving me and Ned and MJ in a world where we think you don’t exist is—is so—“
You have to break off to breathe. Peter is following every word you’re saying, even as his eyes grow red with tears again.
“I’m mad, Peter. I’m heartbroken that you did this to me. But now I can tell you that I do know what it’s like to live without you. Whatever life you wanted for me, away from you, from all of this, I got it.
“And I hated it. I spent every second feeling like something was missing. You know the first date I tried to go on, I puked twice before I even made it out the door and had to cancel? Everything was so wrong all the time. You said you were always thinking about me? Well I was always thinking about you and I didn’t even know why.
“Peter.” You touch his face, and you feel your expression shift, recognize it from your dreams. The soft slant of your mouth, the warmth of your eyes. “I’d rather be in danger every day of my life, every second, than to keep living it without you. I can’t do it anymore, and I won’t do it.”
And Peter, through his tears, through the lump in his throat starts to say, “I don’t—“
You cut him off. “Do you love me? Still?”
Even though you’d known the answer, known it since he’d knocked on your door as a stranger, it’s a relief when he immediately nods his head. “Yeah. Yes. You know I—yes, of course. Always.”
Always.
“Do you want to be with me? I’m talking about Peter Parker. No Spider-man, no multiverse bullshit. You.”
You watch, transfixed, as his defenses lower. As he’s left deflated, nothing but messy curls and sad eyes. “Yes.”
“Then be with me.”
“I can’t—“
“If you want me out of your life, you’re gonna have to get Doctor Strange to make me forget again. I mean that. I love Peter Parker, and there is no Spider-man without Peter Parker. And if Peter Parker loves me, and Peter Parker wants to be with me, I’m gonna let him.” For good measure, you add, “Fuck Spider-man.”
It gets a surprised laugh out of him, as watery as it is. The smile stays after, too. Even through it, through how much you’re sure he’s heard you, you know you haven’t completely convinced him. You see the hesitation behind his eyes.
Stubborn, stubborn man. You could get him to change what kind of candy he wanted at the store, but when he came to what he thought protected you, it was like talking to a wall.
And unsurprisingly, you were failing.
“Just,” you touch his hand, revel in how it immediately envelopes yours like second nature. “Be with me. At least for tonight. No Spider-man, no memory curse that I’ll definitely need to talk to you about later, just Peter. You and me.”
He squeezes your hand once. “You and me.”
Your chest feels like it could cave in with the relief. You’d do it. You’d convince him, some way.
For now, you just wanted to see him.
“You want to change out of the suit?” You ask him, “I wanna…feel you.”
It comes out…not how you intended it. You just meant you wanted to feel the skin of his hand when he touched your face, the jut of his collarbone under your touch, the stretch of his bicep.
But he gulps, hard. “I, uh—Yeah. Yeah, I can go—“ He throws a thumb over his shoulder, looking panicked, and honest to God stumbles over his feet. “I have—clothes, bathroom. Yeah. Be right back.”
You laugh into the dark, and you think the lightness of your chest could fill the entire room. The entire city.
When Peter returns in a hoodie and sweatpants—looking so much more like the boy you fell in love with—his cheeks are still red. He comes to stand close to you, chest to chest, and lets out a breath like it'd been hard to be so far from you for that small time.
This was your Peter. Say all you want about Spider-man, but Peter would always be yours, tucked against your ribcage like a secret just for yourself. Whether he liked it or not.
He leans his forehead against yours. Already, being out of the suit has made him softer. More honest. “I’m so happy you’re here. I’m scared I’m dreaming.”
You do what you’ve been dying to do since two nights ago, even if you’d been avoiding the feeling. Run your hands under the bottom of his hoodie, splay them against his lower back. He’s so warm, and just touching him makes you feel too full, a soda can shaken too much just before opening. His content sigh, the way his body slackens the smallest bit, the heavy blink he gives you.
“Me too. It’s how I remembered you—a dream.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. Us on the roof. I was saying your name. I was happier than I’d been in years. When I woke up I just…kept remembering. Stole Ned’s computer to try and find you.”
“Spidey Tracker…you coded it, didn’t you?”
You nod against him, pleased he’d noticed. “Totally dangerous, by the way. Someone could track you down easily.”
“Someone did.” He smiles at you, not at all threatened by someone using it to hurt him, not afraid.
You roll your eyes, and his crinkle at the corners, running over your face, catching on your lips.
Staying there.
“Hey, Peter?”
He makes a humming sound, distracted.
“When are you gonna kiss me?”
There’s a soft, startled gasp in the back of his throat. He looks back at you, eyes a little wide. “I didn’t know if you wanted me to.”
“I’ve been waiting four years to kiss you.”
He licks his lips, blushing at your words. He brings his hand to cradle the back of your head, just how you like it, and keeps the other under your chin to angle you so all you see are his eyes. “Can you say my name again?”
You wonder how long it’d been since he’d heard it. His name, meant for him.
“Kiss me, Peter.”
And he does, groaning softly against your mouth, tightening his grip on your hair just enough to have you sighing into him. He breaks away, tilts your face just the slightest bit, and meets you again, devouring.
This had been one of your favorite things, when Peter shucked off the awkwardness and became a mix of demanding, gentle, and eager.
It’s one of the last memories that come to you, how your body responds to him. Where to touch him so that his breath stutters, his fingers flex against your jaw. You run your hands up the notches of his spine and suck on his bottom lip, knowing the low groan that will come after. Trace your thumbs up the ridge of his abs, knowing his hips will twitch towards yours, knowing it makes him pull your head back to lick deeper into your mouth.
But he knows you too. Knows to put a hand on your lower back to arch you into him. Knows to, when your kisses start to get sloppy, spin you so that he can sit on the bed and pull you with him. Your knees on either side of his hips, him looking up at you.
Kiss-swollen. Dazed.
“I love you,” Hands teasing under the hem of your sweatshirt, he kisses your cheeks, your forehead. His thumbs are white-against the skin of your stomach as he presses his lips to the shell of your ear and whispers, “I’m sorry.”
He tells you twice more, hugging you to him, sucking spots into your neck, the underside of your jaw.
“Peter,” You say his name again just to feel him sigh into your neck. Card your fingers through his curls and tug him where you want him. “I’ll always love you.”
You sound so much like the girl in your dream. The past, happy version of you, with no missing pieces in your brain. This time, just a little breathless.
Feeling Peter’s lips lift into a smile against your skin.
When he pulls back, all heavy lidded eyes looking up at you, hands halfway up your sweatshirt, splayed over your bare ribs possessively, you have an all-encompassing fear that you are dreaming. That there’s no way this is happening, this beautiful man pliant beneath you, absolutely lovely.
But he’s so solid under you, under your mouth. The small sucked and bitten marks on your neck feel real, the coiling warmth in your stomach that spikes the longer he looks at you with those dark eyes, as he runs his tongue over his bottom lip, feels real.
The fondness, the relief threatening to rip you apart feels real.
You put your palm over his heart, just to feel it racing.
The both of you breathe in the dark.
He tucks your hair behind your ear. “You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs. Then, absently, like he doesn’t really mean to say it, “You said you couldn’t live without me.”
“I said I don’t want to live without you.”
He shrugs a shoulder, smirking now. “Same thing.”
You pretend to think. “On second thought—“
He makes a noise that sounds a lot like nu-uh, rolling you onto your back in the bed and blowing air into your neck. It makes you laugh and completely stops you from finishing your sentence. You’re so, blindingly, happy.
He looms over you, arms bracketed on each side of your head. Smiling. “Stay here tonight.”
“Um, was that a question, or?”
He says your name again, slow. Savoring it. “Stay here with me tonight, please?”
And it really hadn’t been a question because obviously you would do it. You didn’t want to let him out of your sight. “I would love to,” you answer. “But I have a question for you, too.”
“Okay.”
You grin at how attentive he becomes, eyes curious.
“Who the hell is Maynard?”
Peter buries his head into your shoulder with a groan.
sharing a stiles thought i keep thinking bc brainrot and sharing bc you’d appreciate it
he would beg you to do the spiderman kiss and immediately fall as soon as it actually happens
i know this wasn't technically a request of any sort but oh boy did it tickle at the nearly nonexistent inspiration in my brain, so.. here we are. just a very short fluffy little thing that made me feel all warm inside. x
You tug at the sleeves of your sweatshirt in an attempt to cover your cold knuckles as you take an overly-cautious step out onto your front porch, hugging one arm around your ribs as a shiver wracks your body all while your grip tightens around your cell phone.
“Stiles, if this is one of your jokes-” A sigh escapes you, a wispy cloud of fog pushing past your lips as you look around for your boyfriend. There's a familiar blue jeep parked at the edge of your driveway, but the owner doesn’t seem to be anywhere in sight. You tut softly into the phone, “I think your pranks are cute, baby. Really, I do, but I need to study-”
Your socked feet carry you that much farther outside, shuffling slow across the smooth planks of wood underfoot while you cautiously scour the yard for his familiar figure.
“I'm right-” There's a scratchy crackle against the speaker just as you hear a scuffle from somewhere to your left. Stiles' yelp meets your ears twice, once from the dark emptiness at the edge of the porch, and then again half a second later through the phone.
It's just as you're just stepping up to the edge of the porch, hand falling to grip the railing as you squint into the darkness, when something drops down from above and makes you flinch back with a small scream.
“Here!” Stiles grins, the momentum of his body still making him sway forward and backward for a moment as he hangs upside down in front of you. He's dangling from the roof overhanging the porch, his torso curled around the edge in a way that can't possibly be comfortable, but he's grinning like he couldn't be more pleased with his current position.
“Stiles!” You scold, reining in the urge to punch his shoulder and instead redirecting the motion to simply grip at his biceps when he reaches out for you. The slow motion of his swinging slows under your steady hold, “Are you insane? You're banned from climbing on the roof! We- We have talked about this-”
“Neh, eh, eh,” He interrupts with a goofy grin, “The rule was that I can't climb on Scott's roof-”
While you don't remember the specifics, you have no doubt that your boyfriend would have been clever enough to worm some sort of loophole into his previous promise. Your nose scrunches up in annoyance while your heart continues thumping wildly in your chest, both from the scare and from the panic pooling in your gut as you watch your boyfriend shuffle and slip another inch or so over the edge of the roof.
“Sti, babe, please,” You whine anxiously, fingers digging into his arms a little meanly, “Stop moving around, alright? You're going to fall!”
“I'm not gonna fall,” Stiles rolls his eyes and he reaches a hand out to brush against your cheek, his pinky brushing the apple your cheek as his thumb presses lightly into your jaw, “Come on, don't you wanna know why I'm up here?”
You sigh softly, a small smile pulling at the corner of your lips while you release him with just one hand so that you can run your fingers through his floppy hair where it hangs loosely beneath his head. Your hand scrapes lightly though the soft strands, your cheek pushing imperceptibly into the warmth of his palm.
“Why are you on the roof, Sti?” You ask begrudgingly.
“Spiderman.”
“Spiderman?” You repeat slowly.
“Spiderman!” Stiles grins, “You know, the first one. The Raimi one-”
“Like.. Andrew Garfield?” You clarify with furrowed brows.
“What?” Stiles scoffs, “No! Toby Maguire! Baby, we watched them together-”
He looks appalled, mouth gaping just slightly in incredulity.
“Well, we watched the Andrew Garfield ones together too-” You defend with a small laugh, amusement filling your chest at just how worked up he seems to be getting by your mistake.
“The first one!” Stiles repeats in a huff, “Because that's the one where it's raining and he saves MJ and he's hanging upside-down in the alley and she pulls his mask down to kiss him as a thank you-”
“Ooh, a wet, New York City alleyway,” You tease, “How romantic.”
Stiles groans woefully, “This was supposed to be romantic. You are totally ruining this for me, right now, you know-”
His words do make you feel a little bad. He'd clearly put some thought into the idea. He'd climbed all the way up onto the roof of your porch, though you're still not quite sure how — there's no ladder in sight.
You plaster a sweet smile on your lips, slipping your feet up onto the rung at the bottom of the railing to boost you up another few inches, until your nose is level with Stiles' chin.
“I'm sorry, Stiles,” You murmur softly, chin tipping toward your chest so you can look into his eyes, “You wanted a big, superhero movie kiss?”
His adam's apple bobs when he swallows, his body reacting naturally to the familiar teasing lilt in your voice, “Uh huh.” He nods.
“Well gee,” You sigh wistfully as you drag a finger up the side of his cheek in a slow trail toward his mole-speckled neck, “You are awfully brave for climbing up there. And you did do it with the intention of wooing me..” Your teeth pull lightly at your lower lip and his eyes track the movement, “Maybe I could show you just how brave and sweet I think you are. Maybe.. I could show you how grateful I am, that you were willing to risk getting hurt for me.”
Stiles is nodding along, eyes wide with anticipation and cheeks flushed dark from a combination of your words and the blood rushing to his head in his current position, “Yeah.” He rasps weakly.
Your fingers curl around the back of his neck, your lips catching against his in just a light brush of skin, teasing. His lips part beneath your own and your warm breath mingles in the narrow space, the scent of spearmint overtaking your senses for a moment.
The hand on your cheek drags you closer in a gentle nudge as he grows impatient, and your mouths meet in a slightly awkward press of lips. Something about the new angle with such a familiar action scratches at the back of your brain, and you tilt your head just slightly when your mouths separate and rejoin only a second later.
Stiles presses his thumb softly into the hinge of your jaw in a silent request for you to open your mouth, his tongue catching on your lower lip before pressing inside and meeting your own.
Your tangle your fingers in the soft hairs at the nape of his neck. Another wet peck to his lips has him shuffling forward to chase your mouth the moment you ease back, and he seems to slip just a little further over the edge of the roof.
“Careful.” You warn softly.
“'m always careful.” Stiles whispers, his upturned nose pushing into your jaw as he kisses you again.
You lean back after allowing him another moment of indulgence. Stiles seems to follow the movement again, pitching forward as you go back like you're two magnets, but this time around he slips just a bit too far to allow for recovery. You can only watch on with wide eyes while he comes tumbling down from the roof and crashes into the bushes below with a small scream.
“Oh my god!” You gasp, leaning over the railing to watch your boyfriend roll into the grass with a groan, “Are you okay?”
“You sure about that, Spiderman?” You tease hopefully as you watch him drag himself to his feet, brushing himself off to free the small bits of branches and leaves and dirt that are now clinging to his clothes.
“Yeah,” Stiles sighs, “Yeah, 'm good.”
“Good,” You grin, beckoning him closer when he finishes ridding himself of yard debris and meets your eye, “You should get yourself a mask though. I hear masked superheroes tend get more than just kisses and I have to admit, I think it's kinda hot-”
“Noted,” Stiles agrees with wide eyes, tripping over his own feet and the porch stairs as he rushes toward you, “Fucking- Shit, I am so on it.”
Queen, I need some married Harvey content immediately 😭 with wife reader where he comes home from a ridiculously long day at the firm, and they end up on the balcony sharing a joint, talking shit, and roasting Louis Litt like it’s their favorite hobby? 😂
this request made me laugh so hard. thank you ♡
⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ 𝐇𝐢𝐠𝐡 𝐑𝐢𝐬𝐞 𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐩𝐲 ˖⟡˚౨ৎ⋆
The sound of the door closing echoed through the apartment. That particular click that meant Harvey was finally home.
"In here," you called from the kitchen, already pouring him a glass of scotch even though you knew he wouldn't touch it. Not tonight.
Harvey appeared in the doorway, and you had to suppress a smile at the sight of him. His tie hung loose around his neck, the top two buttons of his shirt undone, and his jacket was slung over one arm like a defeated opponent.
"Long day?" you asked, though the answer was written all over his face.
"Louis happened," he said simply, dropping his jacket over the back of a chair. "That's all the explanation you need."
You laughed, abandoning his scotch and crossing to him. Your hands went to his tie, loosening it the rest of the way and pulling it free from his collar. "That bad?"
"Worse." Harvey's hands found your waist, pulling you closer as you worked the buttons of his vest. "I need the balcony. And I need you to tell me I'm not actually going to commit murder."
"You're not going to commit murder," you said dutifully, sliding the vest off his shoulders. "Because I'm not visiting you in prison, and you look terrible in orange."
The first real smile of the evening crossed his face. "My supportive wife."
"I'm very supportive. I support your decision to not go to prison." You patted his chest and stepped back. "Go. I'll grab supplies."
By the time you made it to the balcony, Harvey had already claimed his chair—the one on the left that he pretended wasn't "his" but absolutely was. He'd rolled up his sleeves, and the Manhattan skyline was beginning its nightly transformation behind him, buildings lighting up one window at a time like a slow-motion fireworks display.
You settled into your chair, elegantly crossing one leg over the other and produced the joint. "Your therapy, counselor."
"God, I love you," Harvey muttered, accepting it and the lighter you offered.
The first inhale was always your favorite to watch. You could literally see the tension leave his body, shoulders dropping, jaw unclenching. He held it for a moment, then exhaled a stream of smoke that dissipated into the cooling evening air.
"Better?" you asked.
"Getting there." He passed it to you, leaning back in his chair. "Ask me about my day."
"How was your day, babe?" You took your own hit, smaller than his, and let the familiar warmth spread through your chest.
"Well, it started with Louis barging into my office at 8 AM—"
"Eight AM? Louis?" You nearly choked on the exhale. "What happened, did someone threaten Mikado?"
Harvey's laugh was sharp and genuine. "Worse. Someone complimented Mikado, and Louis spent forty-five minutes telling me about it. Forty-five minutes. I timed it. He described the woman's tone, her word choice, her 'aura of genuine appreciation for feline excellence.'"
"Her aura," you repeated, passing the joint back. "Louis detected an aura."
"He's very spiritually connected to cat people, apparently." Harvey took another drag, shaking his head. "But that's not even the best part. The best part is that he then... and I swear to God this happened—he then asked me if I thought he should invite this woman to dinner to discuss Mikado's diet."
You stared at him. "He wanted to use his cat as a dating strategy."
"His cat's dietary requirements as a dating strategy," Harvey corrected. "Very specific."
"What did you say?"
"I told him that if he mentioned cat food on a first date, he deserved whatever happened next." Harvey's eyes glinted with amusement. "He looked genuinely hurt. Like I'd insulted his child."
"You basically did," you pointed out, accepting the joint again. The city was almost fully lit now, a glittering sprawl of ambition and insomnia. "Mikado is his child. His weird, judgmental, probably-plotting-murder child."
"The cat's plotting murder. Louis is plotting... I don't even know what Louis is plotting anymore. Today he also reorganized the break room. Alphabetically. Including the sugar packets."
"The individual sugar packets?"
"The individual sugar packets."
You dissolved into laughter, the kind that felt good in your chest, loose and easy. "Harvey, that's insane. That's actually insane. How long did that take him?"
"I don't know, and I don't want to know." But Harvey was grinning now, really grinning. "Donna said she found him labeling them with a label maker at lunch. He brought a label maker from home."
"He owns a personal label maker."
"He owns multiple personal label makers," Harvey corrected. "This was apparently his 'portable one.'"
You passed the joint back, watching Harvey's profile against the darkening sky. The tension from earlier was gone now, replaced by something softer. This was your favorite version of him—not in the courtroom or the closer in the boardroom, but this. Harvey unplugged. Harvey laughing about Louis's absurdity. Harvey with his walls down.
"You know what the worst part is?" Harvey said, his voice quieter now. The joint had burned down to almost nothing. "The worst part is that I actually feel bad for him sometimes. He tries so hard."
"He does," you agreed. "He tries so hard that he alphabetizes sugar packets."
"Exactly." Harvey stubbed out the last of the joint in the ashtray on the table between you. "He's exhausting and neurotic and I wanted to throw him off the balcony at least three times today."
"This balcony?"
"Any balcony. I wasn't picky." But his tone was affectionate now, the edge completely gone. "But then he'd probably haunt me, and ghost Louis would be even more annoying than regular Louis."
You laughed softly, and Harvey reached across the space between your chairs, his hand finding yours. His thumb traced lazy circles on your palm.
"Thanks," he said simply.
"For what? I didn't do anything."
"You did this." He gestured vaguely at the balcony, at you, at the space you'd created. "You always do this."
You squeezed his hand, feeling the last of the high settling into something warm and comfortable. The city hummed below you, millions of people living their lives, but up here it was just the two of you and the night and the understanding that this—this moment was what made everything else worth it.
"Come here," Harvey said, and it wasn't really a question.
You stood up and went to him. He pulled you down into his lap, and you settled against his chest, his arms wrapping around you. He smelled like expensive cologne and smoke and the day's work, and you buried your face in the crook of his neck.
"Better now?" you murmured against his skin.
"Much better." His lips brushed your temple. "Even if I have to deal with Louis's sugar packet system tomorrow."
"At least it's alphabetical. Very logical."
"You're not helping."
"I'm not trying to help. I'm trying to make you laugh."
And he did, soft and low, the sound rumbling through his chest into yours. Below you, Manhattan glittered and pulsed with life. But up here, in the quiet dark of your balcony, wrapped in Harvey's arms with the taste of smoke still on your tongue, everything else fell away.
Hey love! I just started watching SUITS and I’m OBSESSED. I LOST IT when I saw him in his white pj shirt when he was with Scottie and I’m alsoo GAGGED when I see his protective side. Soo I have a longer, kinda complex request.
He and lawyer!reader are in a relationship. He loves her, she has him wrapped around her finger, but the spicy, heated back-and-forth/banter is alsooo on. He gets her a job at Pearson Specter. She takes on a goddamn serious case that involves some pretty shady guys cuz she wants to prove herself and not be labelled as “Harvey Specter’s girlfriend” (shoutout to tall the girlbosses out there!). These guys are coming after her, threatening her with her job or sg dark from her past, basically sg serious which also jeopardizes the firm. Soo much soo that Harvey’s protective instincts kick in, he loses it, finds those guys, beat the shit out of them, stands up for her against Jessica, then comes back to reader and also figures out a solution that has them coming out on top.
I’d really appreaciate it if you could write sg from this. I share your love for Harvey sooo much and need to have my fantasies out in the wild haha. I also truly admire your writing!!
I've been slowly working away at this one, and it's finally done. A little longer than my other fics. And thank u for the compliment LOVELY ♡
⋆｡°✩ Trial and Territory ✩°｡⋆
The first time you walked into Pearson Specter as an associate, you felt every single eye in the bullpen slide to you and land with the same unspoken conclusion.
There she is. Harvey Specter’s girlfriend.
You’d known it would happen. Known it the moment he called you from his office, that low rumble in his voice saying, “I talked to Jessica. Come in tomorrow.”
You kissed him, hard and grateful, and then you laid awake that whole night wondering if you just made the biggest mistake of your career. If you’d ever be able to untangle your name from his.
Your desk was on the forty-seventh floor. Window view. Better than any first-year associate had a right to.
“Don’t look at me,” Harvey said when you raised a brow. He was leaning in your doorway, arms crossed, that half-smile on his face that meant he knew exactly what he’d done. “Jessica assigns the offices.”
“Jessica assigns the offices you tell her to assign.”
“She asked for my opinion.”
“Your opinion.”
“I’m a senior partner. People value my input.”
You set your bag down, ran your palm over the polished wood of the desk. “I wanted to earn this, Harvey.”
“You did.”
“I passed the bar same as everyone else. I interviewed. I—”
“You got the job because you’re brilliant and Jessica saw it in your file.” He pushed off the doorframe, crossed to you in three steps. His hand found your waist. “I just made sure she looked at the file.”
“Jesus, Harvey.”
“What? I’m not gonna pretend I didn’t. But I didn’t lie about you. I’ve never lied about you.”
You wanted to stay annoyed. You wanted to hold onto the sharp edge of it, the part of you that hated being handed anything. But his thumb was tracing a circle on your hip, and his eyes were soft in that way they only ever got with you, and you felt the fight leak out of you like a slow exhale.
“If I fail…”
“You won’t.”
“If I do…”
“You won’t. Because you’re smarter than everyone in this building except me and Jessica, and I’m biased.” He leaned in, mouth brushing her ear. “Now go charm the associates. I have a deposition.”
He was gone before you could punch his arm.
The first three months were grueling. You worked eighteen-hour days, took the cases no one else wanted, buried herself in depositions and discovery until your eyes burned and your neck ached.
You won. Small cases, mostly. A breach of contract. A landlord-tenant dispute that should have settled but didn’t. Each victory felt like a brick laid in a foundation you were building alone.
But you still heard it. In the break room, when paralegals thought you couldn’t hear. In the way opposing counsel looked at you during negotiations — oh, Harvey Specter’s girl.
The night you won your first major motion, you came home to find Harvey waiting on the couch, a bottle of wine already open.
“Celebration,” he said, gesturing to the glass.
“It was a summary judgment.”
“It was a win. Drink.”
You dropped onto the couch beside him, let him pour you a glass, let yourself sink into the warmth of his shoulder. “They’re still calling me your girlfriend in the conference rooms.”
“Technically accurate.”
“Harvey.”
“Let them talk. Results speak louder.”
“What if I want them to see me before the results?”
He was quiet for a moment. Then his hand found your knee, squeezed. “Then you need a case that makes them shut up.”
You turned, looked at him. “I need a case that makes me shut up.”
He held your gaze. Dark brown. Steady. “I know.”
The case came two weeks later.
A pro bono referral that landed on Jessica’s desk and got passed down the line until it reached you. A small manufacturing company, family-owned, three generations — being crushed by a corporate conglomerate that had stolen their patents, buried them in frivolous litigation, and was now trying to force them into bankruptcy so they could snap up the assets for pennies.
The conglomerate's legal team was a firm called Harrington & Kress. And Harrington & Kress had a reputation.
“They bury people,” Mike said, dropping a stack of files on your desk. “Literally. I looked into them. They’ve got ties to organized crime. Not provable ties. But the kind of ties that make people disappear from witness lists.”
“Good thing I’m not a witness.”
“Don’t be cute. Harvey’s going to lose his mind when he finds out you took this.”
“Then don’t tell him until I’ve won.”
Mike stared at you. “You’re insane.”
“Thank you.”
“That wasn’t a compliment.”
“It was. You just don’t know it yet.”
You buried herself in the case. Every night, Harvey found you at the dining room table, surrounded by documents, your laptop glowing, a half-empty coffee cup cold beside you.
“What time is it?” you asked, not looking up.
“Late.”
“How late?”
“Past the time you should be in bed.”
“Five more minutes.”
He pulled out the chair across from you. Sat. Waited.
You looked up. “What?”
“Tell me about the case.”
“You know about the case. You read the file.”
“Tell me why it matters to you.”
You set your pen down. Looked at him — really looked. He was still in his suit, tie loosened, shirt unbuttoned at the collar. Tired. But watching you with that full attention he gave only to you.
“Because the Gunderson’s have been running this company for sixty years,” you said. “Sixty. And Harrington & Kress is going to take it from them. Not because they have a better claim. Because they have more money and more lawyers and more ways to drag this out until the Gundersons can’t afford to breathe.”
“And you think you can beat them.”
“I know I can.”
He leaned back. Studied you. “Then beat them.”
“I will.”
“Good.” He stood. Picked up your coffee cup. “I’m making you fresh coffee. You have one hour, and then I’m carrying you to bed.”
“I’m not...”
“You have one hour.”
He walked to the kitchen. You watched him go, the broad line of his shoulders, the way he moved through your space like it was his.
You oved him. God, you loved him. But you needed to do this alone.
The threats started small.
An email from an anonymous account. Drop the case, or we’ll make sure the bar association knows about the ethics violation you almost committed in your second year.
You almost laughed. A technicality. A filing you submitted two hours late during a personal crisis. The bar had dismissed it with a warning.
But if it got out... if Harrington & Kress spun it as a pattern of misconduct, it could jeopardize not just the case, but your license. And if they could make it look like Pearson Specter had known about it and hired you anyway…
You deleted the email. Didn’t tell anyone.
A week later, your car wouldn’t start. The mechanic said someone had cut your brake line.
Clean cut. Professional.
You took a cab home that night. Didn’t tell Harvey. Told yourself it was a coincidence.
The night before the first major hearing, you found a note slipped under your apartment door.
Last warning. Drop it or we drop you.
You stared at it for a long time. Your hands were steady. Your heart was not.
You put the note in your bag, went inside, and didn’t mention it.
He found out anyway.
Mike told him. Because Mike was smart enough to notice the car, the way you started looking over shoulder, the way you flinched when someone came up behind you at the coffee station.
Harvey was in your office before you finished your morning email.
“Close the door,” he said.
“Good morning to you too.”
“Close the door.”
Something in his voice made you comply. You watched him stand there, hands on his hips, jaw tight, eyes burning with something you’d never seen directed at you before.
Fury.
“You took the Gunderson case.”
“I told you I did.”
“You didn’t tell me who you were going up against.”
“I told you. Harrington & Kress.”
“And you didn’t think to mention that Harrington & Kress is a front for the Moretti family? That they’ve had three witnesses die under mysterious circumstances in the last five years? That they cut your fucking brake line?”
You went still.
“Mike told me,” he said. “Before you try to lie.”
“Harvey...”
“Don’t.” His voice cracked. Actually cracked. He turned away from you. “Don’t tell me it’s nothing. Don’t tell me you handled it. Someone threatened my girlfriend. Someone threatened you. And you didn’t say a word.”
“Because I knew you’d do this.”
“Do what?”
“Lose your mind. Take over. Turn me back into Harvey Specter’s girlfriend who can’t fight her own battles.”
He turned back. His eyes were wet. That stopped you cold.
“I don’t care about that,” he said. “I care that you’re alive.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not. They cut your brakes. They know where you live. They…” He stopped. Swallowed. “I can’t lose you. Do you understand that? I can’t.”
You felt something crack in your chest. “You’re not going to lose me.”
“You don’t know that. You don’t know what these people are capable of.”
“Then help me win. Don’t take it away from me. Help me win.”
He held your gaze. A long, heavy moment. Then he crossed the room, pulled you into his chest, and held you so tight you felt his heartbeat through his shirt.
“I need to make a call,” he said into your hair.
“Harvey...”
“I’m not taking the case. I’m not taking anything from you. But I need to make a call.”
You pulled back. Looked at him. “What kind of call?”
His jaw tightened. “The kind you don’t ask about.”
You ound out three days later.
It was all over the news. Two men associates of the Moretti family had been found in an alley behind a bar in Hell’s Kitchen. Beaten so badly they’d needed surgery. One had a broken jaw. The other had three cracked ribs and a collapsed lung.
No arrests. No witnesses. No cameras that had been working.
The only detail the police released: someone had left a single business card on one of the bodies.
Harvey Specter. Senior Partner. Pearson Specter.
You stared at the TV in the break room. The associates around you were whispering. Someone said Harvey’s name.
You walked out.
His office door was closed. You opened it without knocking.
He was at his desk, tie off, sleeves rolled up, a glass of scotch in his hand. He looked up when you came in. Didn’t look surprised.
“Tell me you didn’t,” you said.
“You told me to help you win.”
“Not like this. Not—” You closed the door behind you. “Harvey. You could go to prison.”
“I won’t.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I know.” He set the glass down. Stood. Walked around the desk until he was standing in front of you. I know exactly what I did. And I’d do it again. I’d do it a hundred times. I’d do it until my hands gave out.”
You looked down. His knuckles were bruised. Split. Smattered with cuts that were still healing.
You took his hands. Turned them over. Ran your thumbs over the broken skin.
“This is my fault,” you said.
“No.”
“I should have told you.”
“Yes. You should have.” His voice was quiet. Not angry. Just tired. “But I understand why you didn’t.”
You looked up at him. “I wanted to prove I could do it.”
“I know.”
“I wanted them to see me.”
“I know.”
“I still do.”
He pulled one hand free, cupped your face. Thumb brushing your cheekbone. “They will. Because you’re going to win this case. And I’m going to make sure Jessica doesn’t pull you off it.”
“She tried?”
“She tried.” A ghost of a smile. “I told her if she touched your case, I’d resign.”
“Harvey.”
“She backed down.”
“You can’t..."
“I can. I did. And I’d do it again.” His thumb pressed gently against your lower lip. “Now stop arguing and let me kiss you.”
You kissed him. Soft. Careful. His hands slid into your hair, and he held you like you were something precious, something he’d just pulled from a fire.
When you broke apart, you pressed your forehead to his. “We still need a solution. They’re going to come harder now that you hit their guys.”
“I know.”
“I have an idea.”
He raised an eyebrow. “You do?”
“I do.” You pulled back, took a breath. “The Gundersons’ original patent filing. There’s a discrepancy in the conglomerate’s chain of title. A missing signature. If we can prove the transfer was fraudulent, the whole case collapses.”
“That’s a long shot.”
“That’s what they’ll think. Which is why they won’t see it coming.”
He looked at you. Really looked. And then that smile — the real one, the one he saved for you, spread across his face.
“That’s my girl.”
The two of you worked through the night. Harvey beside you, sleeves rolled up, reading through decades of corporate filings while you mapped the chain of title. You fell asleep on his couch at three in the morning, woke up to find a blanket draped over you and Harvey still at your laptop, squinting at a PDF.
“You need sleep,” you said, voice rough.
“I need to find this signature.”
“Harvey.”
“Five more minutes.”
You laughed. Stood. Walked over and pulled him away from the desk by his tie.
“Bed. Now.”
“I don’t have a bed here.”
“Couch. Now.”
He let you drag him to the couch. Let you push him down. Let you curl into his side, your head on his chest, his arm around you.
“We’re going to win this,” you said.
“I know.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I’ve never seen anyone work as hard as you did on this case. Because you’re brilliant. Because you refused to let them break you.” His hand found your hair, stroked gently. “And because if they come after you again, I’ll burn the whole city down.”
You pressed your smile into his shirt. “You’re ridiculous.”
“I’m in love.”
“Same thing.”
The hearing was three weeks later. You stood before the judge, presented your argument, laid out the chain of title with surgical precision. The missing signature. The fraudulent transfer. The pattern of abuse.
The judge ruled in your favor.
The conglomerate’s case collapsed.
The Gundersons kept their company.
You stood in the hallway afterward, trembling, as Harvey walked up to you. He didn’t say anything. Just took your hand and held it, right there, in front of everyone.
Let them see, his grip said. Let them talk.
That night, you found him on the balcony, looking out at the city.
“You’re brooding,” you said, stepping up beside him.
“I’m reflecting.”
“Same thing.”
He smiled. A tired, soft thing. His arm came around you, pulling you close.
“I’m proud of you,” he said.
“I know.”
“I mean it.”
“I know you do.”
You turned in his arms. Faced him. The city lights blurred behind him, a thousand points of gold.
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you,” you said. “About the threats. About what they did to my car. About the note.”
His jaw tightened, but he didn’t pull away. “I’m sorry I went behind your back and beat two men within an inch of their lives.”
“Are you?”
“No.”
You laughed. Shook your head. “I thought you were going to take the case from me. I thought if I told you, you’d turn me back into the girlfriend who needed saving.”
“I know.” His hand came up, cupped your face. “But that’s not who you are. And it’s not who I want you to be. I want you to be the woman who wins a case that should have crushed her. The woman who walks Into a courtroom and makes everyone forget my name.”
“Your name’s pretty hard to forget.”
“Then I’ll have to work harder to make them remember yours.”
You kissed him. Slow. Deep. His hands slid down your back, settled on your hips, pulled you closer oser until there was no space left between them.
“You have bruises on your knuckles,” you murmured against his mouth.
“I have bruises on my knuckles.”
“Your hand hurts.”
“It does.”
“Let me take care of it.”
He looked at you Something soft and broken and whole in his eyes. “Okay.”
---
You led him inside, sat him on the edge of the bed, and knelt in front of him. Took his hand, the right one, the one that had done the worst damage and pressed a kiss to his knuckles.
“You’re an idiot,” you said.
“I know.”
“A reckless, impulsive idiot who solves problems with his fists.”
“I know.”
“I love you.”
His breath caught. You felt it in the way his fingers twitched against your lips.
“I love you too,” he said.
You kissed each bruised knuckle. Slow. Deliberate. Then you pressed his palm flat against your cheek and held it there.
“You don’t have to fight my battles,” you said.
“I know.”
He pulled you up, onto his lap, into his arms. You wrapped herself around him, legs on either side of his thighs, hands in his hair. He held you by the waist, thumbs tracing circles on your hips through your dress.
“There’s something you should know,” he said.
“What?”
“I’d do it again.”
“Harvey.”
“I’d do it a hundred times. I’d burn through every man who looked at you wrong. I’d tear apart anyone who made you afraid.” His voice dropped, rough and low. “I would destroy the world for you. And I’d do it smiling.”
You kissed him.
Hard.
His hands slid up her back, found the zipper of your dress, pulled it down slowly. The fabric loosened around you. You shrugged it off your shoulders, let it fall.
His mouth found your collarbone. Your throat. The space just below your ear.
“Tell me what you need,” he said.
“This. Just this.”
He laid you back on the bed. Followed you down. His body covered yours, warm and solid, his weight a comfort you hadn’t known you needed.
His mouth traced a path down your neck, your chest, your stomach. His hands, even the bruised one, moved over you like you were made of glass and gold. Gentle. Worshipful. Every touch a promise.
You pulled him back up, kissed him deep, wrapped your legs around his waist and held him there, close, safe.
“I’ve got you,” he murmured against her mouth.
“I know.”
“I’m not letting go.”
“Good.”
His hand found yours on the pillow. Fingers laced together. His hips moved against yours slow and deep, a rhythm that felt like surrender.
“You’re the best thing that ever happened to me,” he said.
You couldn’t answer. Your throat was too tight. So you kissed him instead, and held him closer, and let him take you apart piece by piece until there was nothing left but the two of you, tangled together, breathing the same air.
Afterward, you lay in the dark with your head on his chest. His hand, the bruised one, rested on your back, fingers tracing lazy patterns on your skin.
“We made it,” you said.
“The firm’s safe. The case is won. The Gundersons keep their company.”
“All because you didn’t back down.”
You lifted your head, looked at him. “All because you didn’t let me face it alone.”
He smiled. Tired. Real. “That’s what I’m here for.”
You kissed his chest, just over his heart. Settled back against him.
“Next time,” you said, “I tell you about the threats.”
“Next time,” he agreed. “And I try not to put anyone in the hospital.”
“Try?”
“I said try.”
You laughed, soft and warm, and let his arms close around you. His hand never left your back. His lips pressed to your hair.
And in the dark, with the city humming below them, you felt something you hadn’t felt in weeks.
Harvey pretends you're high-maintenance. The truth? He's the reason you're high-maintenance.
He notices things before you do. Your favorite perfume running low? Replaced. The designer heels you kept staring at? Delivered. Your preferred coffee beans? Already ordered.
He keeps a note in his phone with your coffee order, favorite restaurants, preferred salon, clothing sizes, and the exact shade of pink you insist is not the same as the other shade of pink.
"I can buy it myself" is not a sentence Harvey enjoys hearing.
If you're shopping together, he starts the day acting annoyed and ends it carrying every bag while you hold your coffee.
He absolutely complains the entire time.
"Sweetheart, that's the third handbag."
"Fourth."
"That's not helping your case."
You never open a car door when Harvey is around. He simply appears and opens it first.
Expensive date nights are effortless to him. The reservations are made, the table is perfect, and somehow your favorite wine is already waiting.
Harvey loves seeing you dressed up. Not because of what anyone else thinks, because he knows how confident you feel.
If someone gives you bad service, Harvey becomes terrifyingly polite.
"Would you like to try that again?"
He acts inconvenienced whenever you drag him into a luxury boutique.
The sales associates know better than to believe him.
Because thirty minutes later he's saying things like:
"Get both colors."
He keeps a spare hair tie in his desk drawer.
Donna found it once.
Harvey denied everything.
Donna laughed for ten minutes.
He'll sit through your nail appointments without complaint if it means spending time with you.
The first time he accompanied you, every woman in the salon stared at him.
Harvey noticed.
Harvey enjoyed it.
You casually ask for things.
"That necklace is pretty."
Harvey immediately knows he's about to lose money.
His favorite version of you is when you're excited.
That's the reason he spoils you.
He'll never admit that part out loud.
If someone asks who's in charge of the relationship, Harvey says:
"Me."
Then you look at him.
Harvey immediately corrects himself.
"...We're done discussing this."
Mike, Donna, and Louis know exactly who's really in charge.
Harvey knows too.
He just happens to like it that way.
Because at the end of the day, Harvey Specter can have anything he wants.
And somehow, his favorite thing is giving you anything you want.
Summary: A client goes after Harvey Specter's wife for leverage
♡ Requested by @harveyspecterlover
Harvey had always said there were two rules in his world.
Win.
And keep you out of it.
Unfortunately, one very desperate client decided to test the second rule.
── ⋆⋅𖤓⋅⋆ ──
Harvey Specter sat in his corner office at Pearson Specter Litt, the city skyline stretching beyond the glass walls. The day had started like any other—deals to close, rivals to outmaneuver. Then the call came.
A client he had represented in a high-stakes merger, a man named Victor Kane, had uncovered a vulnerability. Instead of negotiating through proper channels, Kane had decided to apply pressure elsewhere. His target: Harvey’s wife.
You worked at Pearson Specter Litt too, part of the legal team, quietly sharp, trusted enough to be around files that mattered but never meant to be in the line of fire. That afternoon, as you left the building for a quick coffee run, a sleek black car pulled up beside the curb.
Two men approached you politely but firmly. “Mrs. Specter, Mr. Kane would like a word. It concerns your husband.”
They escorted you to a private meeting room in a nearby hotel, where Kane waited with a folder of documents. He laid them out on the table: copies of Harvey’s confidential case files, notes on ongoing negotiations, and internal details that should never have left the firm.
“Your husband has been very helpful to my business,” Kane said calmly. “But I need more. A few adjustments to the terms, some overlooked clauses. If he refuses, these files go to the ethics board. Or worse, his competitors.”
You kept her composure, listening without giving anything away. Kane continued, explaining the leverage he believed he held. You asked measured questions, careful, precise, stalling, learning, memorizing everything you could.
Meanwhile, Harvey received a brief text from you:
“Meeting with Victor Kane. Will explain later.”
He recognized the name instantly and was already on his feet before the message fully sank in.
By the time Harvey arrived at the hotel, Kane’s men had already escorted her back toward the firm’s entrance. You met him in the lobby, expression steady but tight at the edges. They stepped aside into a quiet corner.
“He wants you to alter the merger agreement,” you said quietly. “He showed me files he shouldn’t have. I didn’t agree to anything.”
Harvey’s jaw tightened, but his voice stayed even. “I’ll handle it. You okay?”
You nodded. “Just shaken. He didn’t touch me. He thought using me would make you fold.”
Harvey pulled you into a brief embrace, then stepped back with something cold and certain settling in his eyes. “He miscalculated. This ends now.”
Back at the office, Harvey gathered Donna, Mike, and Louis. They reviewed every file Kane had accessed, tracing the breach to a junior associate who had been bribed. Within hours, they had built a counter-strategy: a motion to disqualify Kane’s counsel, a report to the bar association, and a quiet warning to partners at Kane’s own firm.
That evening, Harvey returned home. You were already there, pouring two glasses of scotch like you'd been waiting for him to walk through the door.
They sat together on the couch, the weight of the day settling between them.
“You didn’t have to go through that,” he said.
“I handled it,” you replied. “And now you will.”
Harvey raised his glass. “To leverage that backfires.”
They clinked glasses, the city lights flickering outside. The threat had been identified, the lines drawn. Harvey Specter did not lose, especially not when it came to you.
Tomorrow would bring the next move, but tonight, they had each other and a very clear path forward.
His hand found your wrist first. Steady. Certain. Then he pulled you up like it was the most natural thing in the world for you to end up exactly where he wanted you.
Close.
Too close to think.
His thumb brushed over your knuckles slowly, grounding you in a way that made everything else feel a little further away.
“Harvey—”
You didn’t get to finish.
Not with words.
He kissed you instead, deeper this time, not asking, just taking all the space you’d been holding together since the moment this day started going wrong. Not breaking you. Never that. Just loosening every tight, exhausted edge until you couldn’t hold onto any of it anymore.
Your breath caught against him, the resistance fading in uneven pieces until there was nothing left but him and the quiet between you.
His hand slid to your waist, firm and steady, not rushing, just grounding you in a way only he seemed capable of. Like he was deciding for both of you that the rest of the world could wait.
It was enough to make you focus on him instead of everything else and then he guided you with him, across the room.
No hesitation. No doubt.
Just him leading you like he already knew exactly where you needed to be.
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