Plsss write some smallville Clark Kent x girlfriend angst with a happy ending
Clark Kent - smallville
Note: we’re really lacking Clark Kent fics on this app
Plot: angst with happy ending.
Note: I feel like I’m horrible at writing angst
Clark had been distant for days. It started with cancelled dates, Then unanswered texts, Then disappearing for hours with nothing more than a quiet, “I’m sorry.” Every time you asked if he was okay, he’d smile that soft Clark smile. “I’m fine.” He never was.
“You forgot.” You deadpanned, not looking at him in the eyes.
Clark looked up from his desk at the newsroom. “Forgot what?”
Your heart sank. “Today’s our anniversary.”
The colour drained from his face. “No….”
You gave him a sad smile. “It’s okay.”
“It isn’t.”
“It kind of is.”
He stood so quickly his chair nearly tipped over. “I swear I knew.”
“I believe you.”
“I had everything planned.”
“I know.”
He stared at you. “You know?”
“I found the restaurant reservation in your jacket.”
His shoulders fell. “And the movie tickets.” Another blow. “And the little note you’d written.” His eyes closed. “I even found the necklace.”
Clark couldn’t bear to look at you. “I’m sorry.”
“So am I.” You swallowed hard. “I miss you.”
That sentence hurt more than any shouting ever could. Because it was true. Even when Clark was standing right in front of you it felt like he was somewhere else.
Martha found Clark sitting alone in the barn. “You look terrible.”
“I am terrible.”
She sat beside him. “You forgot her anniversary and you’ve barely spoken to her since.”
“I know.”
Martha sighed. “You know, for the smartest man I’ve ever met” Clark looked over. “you can be spectacularly stupid.”
He laughed weakly. “I keep telling myself I’m protecting her.”
“Protecting her or protecting this.” She said, pointing to his heart.
Clark didn’t answer because lately he wasn’t protecting you, he was protecting himself for the inevitable hurt, but was hurting you in the process.
That evening, there was a knock at your door, opening the door you see a familiar figure in the doorway. Clark, again. Only this time He looked different, No excuses, No nervous smile, Just complete honesty.
“I can’t tell you everything.”
You looked away. “I know.”
“But I can tell you this.” He took a shaky breath. “You are the best thing that has ever happened to me.” He paused. “I’ve been trying so hard to keep you safe that I forgot to make you feel loved.”
Your eyes filled with tears “I don’t need perfect, Clark.”
“I don’t need expensive dates.”
“You don’t?”
“I just need you.”
His voice cracked. “I’m here.”
“Not always”
He stayed silent, words feeling to small for the depth of this conversation.
“And I don’t want to keep wondering if you’ll turn up to anything we plan”
Clark nodded. “You shouldn’t have to.” He reached into his pocket. Not for a gift. Instead, He handed you a folded piece of paper.
It was his work schedule. Every day he already knew he’d be busy. “I can’t promise emergencies won’t happen.” He looked you in the eyes. “But I can promise you’ll never wonder where I am again.”
You frowned. “What if you can’t tell me?”
“I’ll tell you as much as I can and if I have to leave” his voice softened. “I’ll call.” No matter what. No disappearing. No silence. No making you feel forgotten.
You stared at him for a long moment. Then quietly asked, “Is this really you trying?”
“It’s everything I know how to do.”
The sincerity in his voice broke the last of your resolve. You stepped forward and wrapped your arms around him. Clark held you like he’d been afraid to for weeks. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered into your hair. “I love you.”
You smiled through your tears. “I love you too.”
For the first time in a long while, the weight on Clark’s shoulders eased. He still carried the world’s biggest secret. He still couldn’t explain every bruise, every disappearance, or every impossible excuse. But he could stop making the person he loved feel alone.
Hey guys, I just wanted to ask that if you do send me a request on something to write please please please be more detailed in your request, it helps me with writing quicker and gets the story out quicker for you all <3
Bullshit repeats itself / Is that how the saying goes? / Been here a thousand times / Selective memory though
You say we're drifting apart / I said "yeah I fucking know" / Big deal we've been here before and we'll be here tomorrow
Overview: A headass couple: people acting in a "slightly delusional, somewhat cheesy bubble," oblivious to how cringy or ridiculous they appear to others.
For some reason, you'd thought yourself to be the untouchable exception to the rule that all relationships eventually hit a rough patch. Peter and you were perfect, best friends first, and then dating. There wasn't a better match than the two of you. Except, of course, until there was. Your perfect image is shattered as you realize he's hiding more from you than you'll ever know. After a rough breakup, only one person seems able to cheer you up. A certain webbed viglinate. But, wait... why does his voice sound so familiar?
a/n: There will be the occasional ridiculous name/reference; if you catch them, they're all real (including Jumbo’s Clowns)
wc: 10.0K
They say that the best foundation for a relationship is built on friendship. And you used to believe that. When you first met Peter, it was like coming together with a missing piece of yourself. Even before the romance, the dates, the sex. When it was nothing more than something wonderfully platonic, you thought everyone was right.
But you were delusional. Your head had been too far up your ass to realize the truth of your relationship. You weren’t soulmates. You weren’t any more special than anyone else dating their best friend.
You would think, though, that being friends with someone for years would build enough respect for them not to blatantly mistreat you. To not lie to your face when they hide where they are at night. Sure, maybe other couples who didn’t know each other lied. But not you and Peter.
That’s what you thought, at least. Shows what you know.
Two Months Earlier
“Hi,” Peter rushes into your apartment, breathless and flustered as always. You get a firm kiss to the cheek before he disappears into your bedroom.
Laughing slightly, you peer around the corner and try to get a glimpse of him. “Everything okay, Petey?”
You get a slight hum of acknowledgment before he goes back to what sounds like rustling through papers. Shaking your head, you bring the popcorn bowl over to the couch and wait for him to reemerge.
It doesn’t take longer than a few minutes until he’s strolling back toward you, a slightly cocky pep to his step. You narrow your eyes at him but fail miserably at holding back a grin. “Whatcha up to, Parker?”
“Who, me?” He shrugs, playing dumb as he jumps over the back of the couch, landing on the cushion beside you. You spot something folded in his hand before he tries to hide it.
With little warning, you lunge forward, reaching for his hand. “Hey!” He jumps back, unable to hold in his laughter. “That’s cheating, you know?”
You don’t acknowledge him, grunting in frustration as he holds his hand further and further away from you. “Alright, well, what happened to no secrets?” You push, slightly embarrassed at how breathless you sound.
“Oh, wow,” his hand comes up, cupping your jaw as he pulls your face closer to his. “That’s playing dirty,” he whispers. You can’t subdue your smile, inching closer until your noses are brushing.
“You like it when I play dirty.” Peter’s eyes widen, a visible flush on his face as your lips just barely brush together. The whisper of a kiss. He was so focused on that, he failed to notice you ripping the paper from his hands.
He groans as you lean back on the couch with a triumphant grin. “You’re too easy, Parker,” you tease.
He props his chin on your knee, “Only for you.”
“Oh God, you are so cheesy.” He opens his mouth, a stupid grin on his face. You pinch his lips together and laugh, “Don’t say it again. For the sake of our relationship, please.”
You release him and he presses a quick kiss to your hand before leaning back. “Well,” he nods toward the paper in your hand. “Don’t you want to see what you’ve won?”
Excitement bubbles inside you as you unfold the small piece of paper. The print’s slightly smudged from your wrestling match, but when you bring it closer, you can’t help the sharp gasp that escapes you.
“Peter!” He’s smiling widely, posture relaxed and completely smug as you gush. “I can’t believe you managed to get tickets.”
“One of the guys in my lab knows someone at the museum. He owed me a favor,” he shrugs it off like it’s not a big deal. Like he didn’t just get you into one of the most exclusive exhibitions in Queens.
He lets out a slight grunt when you toss yourself at him, arms wrapping like a vice around the back of his neck. You can feel the exhale of a laugh as he buries his head in the crook of your shoulder, arms quick to wrap around your waist.
“Thank you,” you whisper, pulling back slightly to get a proper look at him. He keeps his grip firm, reluctant to let you get much further.
“You know I’d do anything for you,” he tells you and he has all the conviction of a man who really believes it.
“That’s a big promise,” you smile. “Sure you can keep it?”
“‘Course I can.” When you lean in to kiss him this time, you make sure it's real. Not the whisper of a touch, but something deeper as he pulls you into his lap completely. You don’t think you’ll ever get over how wonderful it is to be loved by Peter Parker.
“Christ,” you blow into your gloved hands and hope some of the warmth bounces back to your face. You knew it was going to be cold today, but you hadn’t thought it would be a problem. Peter had said he was going to meet you outside the museum, but it’s already been fifteen minutes and you’re losing feeling in your nose.
He does have a mind going 100MPH most days. Usually, you like to give him a leeway on timing. But it’s absolutely freezing today and snowflakes have just started falling. If you were with your boyfriend, this would be like a scene out of a romcom.
Instead, it’s about to be a nature documentary on wild stood-up girlfriends freezing in Queens tundra.
Pulling out your phone again, you bite the thumb of your glove and tug it off. You’ve sent Peter about twenty messages, none of which have even so much as gotten a ‘read.’ You try calling him this time, tucking the phone between your shoulder and ear as you hurriedly tug your glove back on.
“Hey, this is Peter, you know what to do.”
You roll your eyes at his voicemail. “It’s your girlfriend, Pete. But, I swear, if you make me wait any longer in this damn snow, I’m going to be your ex.”
“Good thing you don’t have to wait.” With a squeak, you whip around to find Peter standing behind you. You slap his shoulder and he bounces back with a laugh. The tip of his nose has been nipped red by the cold and his cheeks aren’t much better.
“You’re lucky I like you,” you snap.
“Extremely,” he agrees, not an ounce of sarcasm in his voice. It softens you slightly. When you can feel your fingers again, you’ll consider forgiving him. He throws his arm over your shoulder, struggling slightly with the scarf triple-wrapped around you.
Glancing down to hang up the call, you see a little news notification pop up.
Spider-Man & Molten Man Spotted in Times Square
“What’re you looking at?”
You shake your head, tucking your phone away. “Nothing.”
You send him a smile that he returns eagerly. He passes the staff your tickets and opens the door for you as you step into the museum. You’d like for the first thing you appreciate to be the gorgeous mural on the wall in front of you. But you are far more interested in the blast of heat coming from the vents above.
“Oh, thank God,” you grumble, blocking the door as you greedily soak up all the warmth you can.
“Come on, bug,” Peter laughs, tugging you along so the line of people can get by. “We’ll get you an overpriced coffee at the cafe.”
“You’re paying,” you tell him sternly. “I still can’t feel my nose.”
“Deal.” Peter doesn’t hesitate, just leans down and presses a quick kiss to the tip of your nose. It’s the type of thing you used to see others do in public and gag.
You’d think about how you would never be one of those touchy-feely couples. Peter makes it feel so natural, though. As if you’ve been together all your life and this is just another one of your daily routines.
The giddy smile on your face is wide and can’t even be hidden behind your scarf as you lean into him. He chuckles as he pulls you closer, taking you toward the cafe. “What do you want to see first?”
“I read online that they’ve got a bunch of Monets by the south entrance, we’ll go there and then circle back to the front.”
“You’ve had this planned since you saw the tickets, haven’t you?”
You laugh and shake your head. “Since I read about the exhibit. Remind me to thank you again when we get home.”
Peter glances down, brows raised with a cheeky look on his face. You snort and push his face away. “What? I didn’t say anything.”
“Your face did,” you tease. Peter laughs, pressing a kiss to the top of your head as you get in line for a coffee. You don’t even feel like you need it anymore. You’ve been warmed inside-out just by Peter’s presence.
God, when did I become such a cliche?
9:50
where the hell are you
they keep talking about distillation columns and thermo-something
you know I don’t understand nerd
Checking the time on your phone for the nth time, you feel your leg begin to bounce. Something uncomfortable has tied itself around your stomach, squeezing until you can’t stand one more sip of your beer.
Peter’s labmates celebrate around you. They keep jostling each other’s shoulders, talking in technobabble. You have never felt as stupid as you did when Marcy asked you what your thoughts were on a plug flow reactor. Whatever the hell that is.
You’d just said, “Oh, yeah, they’re great.” She’d smiled and slowly backed away, eagerly jumping into the next conversation.
It’s not that they’re not nice people, but this clearly isn’t where you’re meant to be. Not without Peter, at least. You’d promised to come thinking, oh, you know, that your damn boyfriend would be here.
10:30
Peter
Please
I feel so stupid
Nausea is thick in your throat as you hunch over the bar. Peter’s friends have all moved to a table, but you didn’t feel like following. It’s not like they were talking to you anyway. They didn’t know how and you didn’t either.
“This is so stupid,” you mutter, dragging your hand down your face. You push away your empty beer and find yourself drawn to the TV, looking for any sort of distraction.
It’s the news and, of course, Spider-Man’s swinging around the city again. His suit is bright against the night sky, and there’s an odd shape on his head that’s catching the snow. Leaning forward slightly, you snort when you see he’s wearing a red beanie.
“Of course, New York gets the weirdo for a hero,” you mutter. You grimace as you watch Spider-Man get punched down by a man who looks like he’s made himself a megazord. Pulling back the sleeve of your blouse, you sigh at the time.
There’s a tight pinch in your chest as you slide off the barstool.
11:02
I’m going home
You debate saying anything else but decide not to. Tugging on your winter attire, you stop by the others’ table and bid them all goodnight. They’re nice enough to say bye, but you’re pretty sure they thought you had already left.
The wind pushes against the bar’s door as you make your way outside. Snowflakes are quick to whip at your cheeks, landing in your lashes and melting into your scarf. You pull the scarf tighter and trudge forward.
The cold isn’t bothering you any more than your absentee boyfriend is. You’ve always been gracious with Peter about being late. It’s a chronic sickness for him at this point and you’ve been around it the majority of your life.
But it feels different now that you’re dating. Waiting outside an arcade or a restaurant for a friend isn’t a big deal. But when you’re sitting on your own at a table in a crowded restaurant, that’s absolute humiliation.
He’s been dropping the ball a lot more lately and that hurts. But he hasn’t given you any other reason to worry about the state of your relationship. So, despite the sting, you’ve resolved to just swallow down the embarrassment and keep on going.
You hear a small thud behind you and your hand instinctively goes to your purse. Swallowing thickly, you keep walking, hoping it’s nothing more than your paranoia. Then you hear the crunch of snow behind you, the clear footsteps matching your pace. Your hand wraps around the mace Pete bought you and you whip around on them.
To your absolute horror, Peter’s standing behind you. He throws his hands up and lets out a nervous laugh. “Okay, an hour late is really bad, but please don’t mace me.”
You tilt your head and give him a flat look. “Two hours, actually.”
His face screws up and you cross your arms. “Sweetheart, I am so sorry.”
You shake your head and turn back around. “Forget it, Pete. Just go celebrate with your friends.”
Peter jogs to catch up with you and darts in front of you, a frown on his face. “Wait, no, come on. Why don’t you head in with me?”
You let out what can only be described as a guffaw and push past him. “And suffer through more questions about plug flow-whatever’s? Pass.”
“Plug flow reactors?”
You glare at him over your shoulder and he fails horribly at hiding the amused look on his face. “Trying to speak nerd with them was humiliating, Peter.” His face softens at that and he reaches forward to pull you closer.
Out of pure stubbornness, you should resist. But standing outside in the cold is making you desperate for Peter’s insane body heat. “Come inside, just for a little while,” he brushes a hair off your cheek and smiles softly. “I swear, I’ll teach you all our science jargon.”
You roll your eyes, but he knows he’s won when you sink into him. “You’re way too persuasive,” you snap. Peter does his best to lace your mittened hands together as he turns you back toward the bar.
“Yeah, but you love me.”
“Unfortunately,” you glare at him, but your smile gives you away.
For once in your relationship, you’re the one running late. Something you know Peter is about to take far too much joy in. He’s already sent about fifteen texts. The majority of them bemoan being all alone and then asking if this is how you always feel. Those were followed by an influx of apologies.
You’re not thinking about the texts, though, as you jog down the street. You spot Peter waiting outside the diner, leaning against the wall. He’s got his phone in his hands, fingers moving rapidly across the screen.
Sure enough, you can hear your phone ding with yet another passive-aggressive text. “Would you quit it?” You demand, completely out of breath, as you stop in front of him.
He tosses his head back dramatically and groans. “God, finally. I thought you were just going to leave me out here to freeze.”
“Would serve you right,” your brows furrow. “When’d you get this?” You flick the edge of the red beanie shoved over his hair.
Peter shrugs and readjusts it. “I dunno, I’ve had it forever.” You frown, biting your lip as you think. You swear to god you know it from somewhere, but you must’ve just seen Peter in it before and forgot.
He holds the door of the diner open for you and lets out a relieved breath as you both step into the warmth. You would feel bad for him if he hadn’t done this to you five times within two weeks.
“How come you wanted to…” The go to this place so bad trails off into a laugh. You should have known when he kept badgering you about coming here.
Plastered floor to ceiling are comic book characters, clips from the stories, and various forms of memorabilia. You’re absolutely surrounded by a hundred different fandoms, and you’re honestly surprised Peter hasn’t had a heart attack yet.
“I really should have seen this coming.”
Peter laughs and leads you over to an empty table. A busty woman with a purple leotard stares you down from where she’s painted on the wall. You give Peter a flat look and he flushes.
“I mean… the name is Strips.”
“Oh, seriously, Parker. Why would my mind immediately go to comics? I was worried you were taking me to a strip club or something.”
Peter wrinkled his nose and frowned. “That’s way too on the nose. I’d take you somewhere classy like Jumbo’s Clown Room.”
Your lips part and you just shake your head. “I don’t want to know if that’s a real place. And if it is, I don’t want to know how you found out about it.”
“Blame Flash,” he mutters as a waitress comes over with a coffee pot.
You smile and thank her as she walks away. “Oh, I don’t think I’ve gotten a chance to tell you about this, yet.” Peter perks with interest and a wide smile blooms on your face. “You know how I was trying forever to be Professor Beeter’s TA. The position never opened but,” you trail off slightly as the people behind you start getting loud.
“Oh my god, he is wrecking this place!” Frowning, you glance over your shoulder and take a look at what they’re watching. Someone’s phone is propped in the middle of the table and you see yet another ridiculous villain punching through the Chrysler building.
Rolling your eyes, you settle back in your seat. “What was I saying?”
“Um,” Peter’s leg bounces under the table and his gaze shoots toward the door. “I’m not sure.”
You frown, watching him warily as he grows more antsy. “Oh, it’s about Professor Beeter. He offered me a-”
“Sweetheart,” he interrupts you and jumps to his feet. “I’m so sorry, but I just remembered I promised I would help May today.” He presses a kiss to the top of your head.
“What? Peter! You wanted to come here!” He’s already running out the door. You watch, astounded, as he races past the window like hell’s nipping at his heels. You sink back into your seat with a stunned expression and your heart aching.
Clearing your throat, you look up to find your waitress giving you a pitying look. She offers you a sympathetic smile that only makes you sick to your stomach. Grabbing your bag and coat, you jump out of the booth, rushing outside.
What the hell is going on with him? You think, glaring down the street where Peter had gone. Pinching the bridge of your nose, you swallow down a lump in your throat and decide to just head back home.
After his abrupt exit, you haven’t heard from Peter all day. You’ve sent him a few texts, checking in on him and asking about May, but you only got one answer before he went AWOL.
You:
Everything good with May?
Petey:
Yeah
Her pilot was out had to make sure she had heat
After that, you’ve gotten nothing from him. Also, as far as you’re aware, May doesn’t use gas for heat. Peter hooked her up with better appliances forever ago.
It’s as you’re dialing May’s number that you have to try and convince yourself you haven’t gone total psycho girlfriend. It’s perfectly normal to want to check on your boyfriend. Especially after how he was acting today. The line only rings a few times before she picks up.
“Hello?”
“Hey, May.”
She says your name and you practically hear the smile in your voice. “Hey, sweetie. How are you?”
“Fine,” you answer quickly. “I just wanted to be see how Pete’s doing?”
She’s silent for a moment too long. She clears her throat and you frown at the pitch of her voice. “Oh, yeah, Pete’s fine. I’d let him talk to you, but he’s busy right now.”
You hum, fingers twisting your hoodie (Peter’s hoodie) strings as your stomach ties itself into a knot. “Right. Uh, what’d he say he was helping you with, again?”
“Cleaning out the gutters. Apparently, it can be a fire hazard or something, I’m not sure.”
Your body goes cold while something venomous rushes up your throat. “Okay,” you can barely hear your own voice. “I’ll let you go, then.” You hang up before she can respond, phone slipping from your hand and clattering to the ground.
“Oh, my god,” you let out a panicked whisper, smoothing your hands over your hair as you try to think of a reasonable explanation. But there are no anniversaries, no birthdays, nothing special coming up that he might be lying about for a surprise.
You’re honestly more shocked that May would lie to you. Growing up, she’d always seemed like the type of woman to protect a girl from sleaze-bag boyfriends.
So maybe that means Pete isn’t doing anything bad. Maybe she’s covering for him for a good reason.
So, why can't you think of one damn reason May would lie to you?
You don’t want to start spiraling for no reason. People lie, not just boyfriends, and not always for insidious reasons. Plucking your phone off the floor, you call Gwen. She’s usually good at pulling you out of your head when you start getting bad.
The phone rings a few times before she finally answers. “Hey, what’s up?”
You frown and cross your arms across your stomach, trying to keep the nausea down. “Why do you sound so out of breath?”
“What?” She clears her throat but that only makes her sound worse. “No, I’m not. Did you need something?”
“Uh,” slightly taken aback by her tone, you struggle to find the right words.
“Gwen!” Your heart beats ruthlessly against your ribs as your entire body stills.
“Is that Peter?” You know it is. You could pick his voice out of a crowd if you were blindfolded.
Gwen lets out a tense hum. “Yeah, it is. Uh, he was helping me with some chem stuff. So, I gotta go. Call me later, yeah?”
She’s hanging up before you can say anything else. Your hands are trembling as you set your phone on the table. Squeezing your throat to try and keep the lump back, you shake your head.
There’s a reasonable explanation for everything. Right?
The nausea’s still coiled tight around you by the time Peter gets to your apartment. Your eyes are staring blankly at the wall, the only light coming from your window. You’re not sure how long you’ve been lying there. Trying and failing to sleep as you consider all the reasons Peter might have lied to you.
Why he would be with Gwen instead of you.
You hear him padding through the hall and shut your eyes, tugging the blanket slightly over your head.
“Bug?” He calls softly. He’s quiet as he approaches the bed. He brushes a hair off your cheek and leans down to press a kiss to your temple. “You awake?”
Part of you wants to tell the truth. She wants to spring up and start laying into him, demanding to know why he lied. And the other half, she’s a coward. So, you stay curled into a ball, eyes closed, and pretending like you’re not falling apart.
Peter lets out a low groan as he settles in your bed behind you. It takes everything in you not to jerk away when he wraps his arm around your stomach, pulling you into his chest. The last thing you want right now is to have him touching you. But saying that requires being awake.
And that’s more painful than a sleepless night.
Peter wakes up slowly, his body aching after last night. He’s not sure who decided a “living robot” was a good idea. But his ribs are paying the price.
Stretching, he ignores the twinge of pain along his side. His arm gropes blindly along the sheets, searching for you, for your warmth. When his fingers brush against the wall, he reluctantly opens his eyes.
He frowns when he realizes you’re not in bed beside him. Turning toward the rest of the apartment, he doesn’t hear you. You’re not in the shower or humming in the kitchen.
With something cold settling inside him, he gets out of bed. “Sweetheart?” He calls out, hoping to hear you answer. It’s Saturday, and while it’s never been something you’ve both spoken aloud, traditionally, you spend all day in bed together. Just crashing from stressful weeks and overloaded uni schedules.
“Bug?” He tries again, wandering through your apartment. He already knows, deep down, that you’re not in here. But he doesn’t want to accept it. He’s barely had any time for you this week and he was really looking forward to just being lazy with you all day.
In the kitchen, pinned to your fridge, he finds a pink note with his name on it.
Prof. Beeter asked me to come in. Someone messed up last week’s research log
Should be home for lunch <3
The only thing stopping him from spiraling is the little heart at the bottom of the note. He knows it’s silly, but he’s slightly worried that you’re mad at him. He can’t explain where the feelings are coming from, but it's gnawing along the back of his mind.
Peter glances at the clock and groans. It’s only 9, and lunch to you is usually 2 O’Clock. He’s not sure if he’s patient enough to last that long. Peter glances at the note again and leaves it on the counter to go get dressed.
He had Professor Beeter last semester and they got along pretty well. He’s sure the older man wouldn’t mind Peter bugging you for a little while.
Still heavy with the feeling that he’s done something wrong, Peter brought along your favorite sweet treat from the cafe on campus. Hopefully, that will soothe his worries and give you a boost for the day. He knows you look forward to Saturdays just as much as he does.
Peter’s heading toward the lecture hall when his brain finally catches up with the rest of your note. What research were you talking about? You hadn’t told him you were a part of any projects.
He’s always yapping to you about his labs. He figured you would do the same. Maybe it’s new, he thinks.
Pushing open the door, he spots you immediately. You’re at a desk, papers and books piling all around you. There are three other people with you, each of whom he has a vague recollection of.
“I mean, I don’t even know how we’re supposed to salvage this.” Your voice sounds strained, completely pulled taut. Peter frowns, wishing he could just take your problems and shoulder them for you.
“It’ll be okay,” one of the girls assures you.
You finally lift your head from your hands. “Twelve pages with zero references, we’re going to be at this all damn day.” Peter draws back slightly, suddenly wondering if this is such a good idea.
He knows how testy you can get about school. Especially major projects. Sometimes just leaving you alone seems to work better than smothering. But, then, before he can back out, one of the girls, he thinks her name’s Mila, catches sight of him.
“Peter?” She calls out. Your eyes instantly snap to him. If he thought you were angry at him before, he does not feel any better now. Your gaze is sharp, lips in a flat line, and there’s absolutely nothing on your face except perpetual irritation.
“What’re you doing here?” You snap and your voice is way sharper than he was expecting. Holding his hands up slightly, he approaches slowly. He doesn’t want to treat his girlfriend like a stray dog, but you look ready to go for someone’s jugular.
“I thought you might want something to eat. Figured you didn’t have any time before you left to get something.”
Mila and the other girl both aw over him and it gives him the briefest amount of hope. But then you’re shoving out of your chair and storming toward him. Peter swallows roughly as you approach. He almost wishes he were fighting that living-fire guy right now.
You snatch his sleeve in your hand and drag him back toward the door. “Peter, why are you here?” You demand, voice lowered so the others can't hear.
He frowns and shrugs helplessly. “It’s Saturday, we always spend Saturday together.”
You cross your arms, a sharp, derisive look on your face. Okay, definitely mad. “Oh, so you can remember dates now? What’s next? Are you going to show up on time for once?”
“Hey,” he objects, hoping to lighten the mood. “I was on time yesterday.”
Your eyes narrow and something on your face goes blank. He can’t place it exactly, but it’s like there’s a wall where he can usually read you so well. “Yeah, doesn’t count if you ditch me ten minutes later, babe.”
The venom in your voice makes him take a step back. He looks down, knowing you’re right. But he doesn’t want you any more mad than you are, instead of addressing it, he nods toward your desk.
“What’s going on here?”
“We’re working on the dementia research project with Professor Beeter.”
Peter wants to light up, to hug you, and congratulate you for finally getting an in with the professor you’ve been trying to work with since last year. But you deliver him the news so flatly he feels like you’d only get more mad.
“You didn’t tell me about that,” he says instead. Which is very clearly the wrong answer, by the way you back off with a sharp scoff.
“I’m not sure when I would have, Peter. I got placed two weeks ago and I haven’t seen you for more than an hour since then. Besides, when I tried to tell you yesterday, you fucking bolted to May’s.” You pause, and your lips curl up into something cruel. “Or was it Gwen’s place? Sorry, I can’t remember which lie you bullshited your way through.”
Peter feels his heart drop to his feet. It’s like a film goes over his eyes as his mind scrambles for any explanation that isn’t ‘I was busy beating up a robot with a weird, creepy human brain in it.’ Because he’s pretty sure that would be grounds enough for you to dump him right now.
You really don’t give him a chance, either way. You snatch the bag from his hand and the smile drops from your face. “Thanks for the visit. You can go now.” You turn back toward your teammates without another look at him. “Hungry?” You call out to Mila.
She gives a hesitant nod and you toss Peter’s pastry at her. “Dig in.” Even when you sit down, you don’t look up from your books. Not even a twitch as he opens the door.
Peter walks out, still slightly numb from the whole… argument? Did that even count as an argument? Or was that just you finally calling him out?
You’ve let him get away with a lot and maybe he took advantage of that, but he’s worried you might have the wrong idea. He doesn’t know why you would bring up Gwen, but the tone of your voice was so accusatory that he feels sick to his stomach.
Yes, he was at her house last night. But that’s because he needed to be stitched up. She’s known about Spider-Man since high school. It was either bleed out or have her use her beginner's sewing kit.
Peter lets out a shaky breath and runs his hands through his hair restlessly. You’ve both gotten into worse fights before. It’s not like you were a perfect couple. Surely, you could find a way to get over this. He just needs a half-decent excuse for his lying.
Peter perks up as he hears you step into the apartment. He glances at the clock and grimaces. You’re going to be pissed that you had to stay there until 6, fixing someone else’s screwup. When you round the corner and see him, he hears you let out one of the most exhausted noises he’s ever heard from you.
“Peter,” he finally turns to meet your eye. “Why are you here?”
His chest clenches as he forces a smile. “I figured you would be hungry.”
You pinch the bridge of your nose. “Are you ever at your own place?”
Ouch. “I just wanted to make you dinner. I’ll be out of your hair as soon as it’s done, bug.”
You shrug off your jacket and take a seat at the kitchen island. Peter takes your silence as agreement and goes back to stirring the pasta. When you speak again, his ears practically touch his shoulders. This dreadful feeling in his stomach has just been mounting all day. He feels ready to vibrate out of his own skin.
“Peter, where were you last night? I want the truth.”
Peter’s hand clenches around the spoon and he keeps his back to you. “Went over to May’s to help around the house and then I saw Gwen.”
You let out a loud scoff and your hands slap against the counter. “Did you all get your stories straight? Am I hearing the right lie, now?”
Peter drops the spoon and turns to face you. He expects anger, maybe sadness. But you’re not giving him anything. You’re just… cold and Peter hates it. He’s seen you use that look before. It’s always been directed at people you don’t care about. You don’t hate them, you don’t love them, you just… don’t care. He doesn’t want to be someone you don’t care about. He can’t be.
“Look me in the eye,” you command. “Tell me the truth.”
Peter takes in a steadying breath, doing his best not to make it obvious. “Sweetheart, I swear, I went to help May with the heat and the gutters. Gwen called and she needed my help on her chemistry project. I’m sorry that I got home late-”
“I can’t,” you clear your throat and the way your voice cracks makes his heart ache. “I can’t believe that you’re just going to stand there and lie to me.”
He shakes his head and takes a desperate step forward. “No, bug, I’m-”
You hold your hand up and his jaw snaps shut. “You’ve talked Peter, now it’s my turn. I have put up with a lot from you. If anyone treated me the way you do, you know what you would tell me?”
He opens his mouth and you shoot him a look that makes him shrink into himself. “Do not answer that, I am still talking. You would tell me to cut them out. If someone doesn’t respect my time, my dates, if they lie straight to my fucking face, then that’s not someone who deserves to be in my life. You are never on time, if you even show up at all.”
He wants to object, he really does, but he knows you’re right. Still, you must sense his apprehension. “Scroll through our texts from the past two months. It’s just a block of me asking where you are and telling you how stupid I feel. Then you show up, make everything better, and I just let you get away with it. Because I have known and loved you for so long, I let you disrespect me. I can handle missing dates, I can handle not being on time, always being at my place and never letting me over at yours. But I can’t do this, I can’t just swallow down you lying straight to my face. Getting your aunt and my best friend involved in this is sick, Pete. What do you expect me to think when Gwen’s lying about why you’re at her place?”
“No, sweetheart,” he finally speaks, rushing toward you, voice breaking on something desperate. He reaches for you, but you jerk back and he swears something cracks open inside him. “I would never.”
“Yeah,” you whisper. “Why would I ever believe you?”
Peter flounders. He tries to think of anything. Anything that isn’t a lie and isn’t the truth about who he is. But his mind is blank. The panic flooding through him is overriding anything that might get you back, might get you in his arms again.
You suck your teeth and give him a jerky nod. “Why do I feel like I’m losing you?” He whispers, afraid that if he speaks any louder, he might actually cry.
“I think this has been happening for a long time, Peter. It’s just your first time realizing it.”
No, no, he can’t handle that. He can’t handle knowing that this awful, barbed feeling ripping through him is how he’s made you feel for so long. But he can’t just spill his guts and tell you everything.
Right after Gwen had discovered him, it was like the bad guys had a missile lock on her. She kept getting thrown into danger, nearly dying, because of him. He can’t be the reason you get hurt. He can’t live with that.
But he’s hurting you either way and for once, he can’t think of a way to make this all smooth over.
You take in a sharp breath and turn away from him. You walk to the stove, turning off the burner as the food begins to smoke. “I think you should go, Peter.”
“Bug,” but he doesn’t have anything to say and you still won’t look at him. He just wants you to look at him. He feels as if you did, if you saw how sorry he was, something here might be fixed.
“I’m going to take a shower. When I’m done, I expect you to be gone.” You toss the pot in the sink and head down the hall, not another word spared for him. And Peter…
He just spirals. Every mistake, every time he showed up late, just pummels into him as he realizes this is all his fault.
You turned off your phone yesterday. The missed calls and texts from Peter were bordering on obnoxious and you couldn’t take it anymore. Even Gwen kept trying to call you. Kept texting you that it’s not what you think.
But did they ever offer any other explanation?
No, they fucking didn’t.
So, not only did you lose your boyfriend, the man you’ve been in love with as long as you’ve known him. You also lost your best friend.
Best. Week. Ever.
Sick of being sad in your bed, you decide to go be sad outside. Maybe just grab a pint of ice cream from the bodega and lock yourself inside your apartment for the rest of your life. That sounds like a decent plan.
Leaving your phone, you grab your keys and some cash. It’s still cold outside, though the snow has calmed down a little bit. It soaks through your tennis shoes, now, seeps along the hem of your sweatpants. No part of you can be bothered to care about that as you trudge toward the shop.
It’s unusually quiet as you walk inside. Usually it’s a lot busier this time of night. Maybe the universe decided to give you a break.
Digging through the freezer section, you frown when you don’t see your favorite flavor. You turn toward the shop owner, Al, who has gotten used to you coming down here the past few days. “You guys don’t have any more Turtlesaurus Rex?”
Al’s silent and you frown, finally turning to fully face him. A man in a black jacket lingers by the counter, hands stuffed deep in his pockets. Al gives you a tense smile, and your brows furrow as dread picks at you.
“All out. Maurie down the street might have some.” There’s something about how wide his eyes are that’s making you think you probably should have brought your phone. Especially because you definitely just saw the handle of a gun in that man’s jacket and you really need to call the cops. (Even though they probably won’t do anything.)
“Yeah, I’ll go check over there.”
“Have a good night.”
You try not to sound stiff as you return the sentiment. But you’ve barely made it to the door when you hear the distinct sound of a hammer being pulled back.
“You think I’m stupid?” What a wonderful time this would be for a freak in red and blue spandex to show up.
You turn slowly and shake your head, absolutely zero idea how to defuse this.
“I think the lady’s just being polite. Personally, I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone encapsulate the term ‘mouth-breather’ so well.”
Your eyes widen, and you whip around to see Spider-Man standing at the entrance of the bodega. What the fuck is your life?
“Hey, jackass,” you hiss, and his head whips toward you. “Who’s he pointing the gun at?”
Spider-Man shrugs, “What gun?” You barely have a second to blink before a thick white string is twhip-ing past you and jerking the gun out of the man’s hands.
“Smartass,” you mutter under your breath.
“I think you mean, ‘thank you, Spider-Man for saving my life,’” you shoot him a flat look and walk out of the bodega. Maybe it’s time to just accept that you’re not meant to be in the outside world. You’re better off cocooned in your bed.
There are no robbers there. No cheating boyfriends and conniving best friends.
About a minute later, you hear rapid footsteps approaching. “I don’t have a purse, phone, or wallet.”
“Wow, great mugger-deterrent. I totally don’t want to rob you now.”
You plant your feet in the snow and hear Spider-Man let out a sharp breath as he skids around you. “I thought you were the friendly neighborhood Spider-Man. Not the quippy, neighborhood pervert who follows girls around at night.”
Spider-Man lets out a noise that can only be described as a guffaw. “I’m making sure you get home safely. Since clearly you don’t care. I mean, who walks around this late at night without mace at least?”
“Me,” you tell him flatly.
“Pretty girls shouldn’t be walking around here on their own.”
Your lips curl and you gag as you continue toward your apartment. “Okay, first of all, totally not helping with your creep angle.” He groans and you almost laugh at the defeated sound. “Also, I’m fresh off a break-up, so keep the compliments to yourself.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Spider-Man quickly jumps in front of you and you frown as he blocks your way. “Breakup,” his voice is pitched so high, you swear it almost sounds familiar. “You broke up with someone?”
“Uh… yeah.”
“R-really?” He tries to lean against a lamppost, slips, and then straightens awkwardly like he meant to do that. “Because you know sometimes people think that it’s just a break and not a breakup, you know? Big difference. Are you sure this isn’t just a break?”
He’s talking so rapidly you can barely understand him. It doesn’t help that he’s got that mask on, so you can’t try to catch the words on his lips to decipher them. You think you might have gotten half of that word-vomit.
“Well, I’m the one who did it. I feel like I should know.”
“Does he?” He holds up his hands, quick to correct himself. “Or she? Spider-Man doesn’t judge.”
“Oh, good to know, he’s a pervert, but at least he’s an ally.” You push past him. “Look, if he doesn’t know, then he’s a lot stupider than I gave him credit for.”
You hear a low, “Ouch,” behind you and figure you might be being a tad harsh about Peter. But what the hell would Spider-Man care?
“You know,” Spider-Man continues after you.
Jesus, he’s like a damn dog.
“I’ve always believed that everyone deserves a second chance.”
You glare over at him and swear you see the eyes of his mask turn down. You’ve never seen a mask emote before; it’s incredibly bizarre. “Do they deserve a second chance after sleeping with your best friend?”
Spider-Man shrugs, throwing his hands in the air. “Do you have evidence that it happened, though?”
“Dude,” you snap. “What do you care? And what other evidence would I need besides the fact that he wouldn’t tell me the truth? If there was nothing to hide, why would he continue to hide shit?”
You hear his inhale of breath and shake your head, holding your hands up. “No, you know what, no. Alright? I didn’t get my Turtlesaurus Rex and I am not going to listen to some weirdo in a unitard give me relationship advice.”
“Unitard?” He scoffs. “I’m not a weirdo.”
“Oh, yeah?” You call over your shoulder. “Then stop following me home!” It takes a few minutes to believe he’s actually gone and you can finally breathe again. What weird ass fever dream was your life turning into?
You sit on the ledge of your roof’s building, a blanket wrapped around your shoulders. You’re scrolling through all the texts Peter’s sent you in the last three hours. There are at least fifty of them. But it’s the one at the end that really catches your eye.
Is this really it? Are we done? Bug-
You stop reading at the nickname and put your phone down. Reluctantly, Spider-Man’s words from the other night pop into your head. Some people think it's a break, not a breakup.
How could Peter not have gotten the message by now?
“Fancy meeting you here.”
You let out a screech and jolt forward. Arms winding wildly as you try to regain your balance. The city tilts below you until something’s latched onto the back of your shirt and you’re suddenly being pulled into a firm chest.
“Why would you sit on the edge?” Again, his voice gets an impressively shrill pitch.
Shoving away from him, you whip around and slap his shoulder. “Why would you scare someone sitting on the edge?”
You can hear his sharp intake of breath before his argument fizzles out. “That’s what I thought Spider-Boy-”
“Man.”
“Whatever.” You walk back to the edge and rewrap yourself in your blanket. With a pointed glare over your shoulder, you hop right back on your perch. Spider-Man lets out a world-weary sigh before he jumps up beside you.
“You know,” he drawls. “Most people say thank you when a superhero saves you.”
“Oh,” you laugh. “Is that what you are, now? A superhero?”
“Dude. What is your problem?” His voice goes so flat, all humor sucked out of it, that, for some weird reason, it’s the first thing he’s said to get a real laugh out of you. He seems just as confused as you are if the way he tosses his hands up means anything.
“I cannot figure you out.”
You shake your head and brush a stray curl from your eyes. “It’s not you, Bugboy-”
“Rude.”
“It’s life,” you spread your palms out, gesturing to the sprawling city across from you. “Just broke up with the love of my life. Lost my bestie. The research project I’ve been trying to join for a year is falling apart at the seams. Oh, and I almost got shot yesterday.”
You point your face to the sky and let out a dramatic sigh. “God hates me.”
There’s a light nudge on your arm and you look over to see that Spider-Man’s moved closer to you. “God doesn’t hate you.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah. Because I didn’t let you get shot. I’d say that’s pretty damn lucky.” You snort and from the mask, you think he’s… pleased? It’s really hard to tell.
“I guess that’s fair.”
Spider-Man lets out a satisfied hum as he turns to the city. “You gotta stop being so hard on yourself, bug.”
Your entire body goes still. Your eyes widen as they stare down at your lap, adrenaline rushing through your blood as you turn toward Spider-Man. “What’d you say?” You ask, voice so low you’re surprised he even registers it.
He shrugs, “I said to stop being so hard on yourself.”
“No, you called me something. What’d you call me?”
“Bug,” Spider-Man drawls and you swear you’re going crazy because that voice is painfully familiar. “You called me Bugboy, I thought it would be fair.”
It’s too hard to distinguish whether this swooping feeling in your stomach is relief or disappointment. And you hate yourself for not knowing which one you want it to be.
“Right,” you scoff and rub your eyes. “I’m going crazy, now.”
Spider-Man lets out a long sigh as he watches you. “You kind of seem like you’re having a mental breakdown. Maybe, I don’t know, get off the edge of the very tall building.”
“Oh, don’t tell me Bugboy’s got a crush.”
Your lips curl at his scoff. “You’re impossible.”
Feeling only slightly guilty for the hell you’ve given him, you slip off the edge and get your feet planted firmly on the ground. “Better?”
He surveys you suspiciously before nodding. You pick your phone up off the ledge and, for some reason, are compelled to open up the texts with Peter. You should have guessed how nosey Spider-Man was going to be about it.
“That the ex?”
You shoot him a flat look as he kicks his legs over the ledge. “Yeah. That’s the ex.”
“So, what are you going to tell him?” He motions toward the last text. “Break or breakup?” Your mind snags on how Peter called you bug and Spider-Man’s weird slip-up before you force yourself to dispel the thoughts.
“Breakup. I guess I should have made it more clear.” Your fingers hover over the keyboard before you shoot Spider-Man a look. His back has gone weirdly tense and you frown. “Hey, you’re a guy. How’s the nicest way to tell him it’s done.”
“Don’t.” His voice is clipped, almost angry. “He’ll get the hint. Trust me.”
Your brows furrow as you eye him warily. “Are you okay?”
“Gotta go. Superhero business, you know?” You shrug, but he doesn’t seem to care. He’s already leaping off the ledge, thwip-ing his way to the building across from yours.
“Weirdo,” you scoff.
You figured that after Spider-Man’s abrupt departure on the roof, that would be the end of it. But, no, it’s only gotten worse for you. He’s everywhere now. He’s somehow more consistent than your ex ever was.
Walking home from late research sections, look who wants to be a walking buddy.
Heading to the bodega for a midnight snack, somehow, Spider-Man had the same idea.
Your life is now a Sunday comic strip in the paper. It’s like there’s some sadistic artist out there exploiting your misery for humor. It’s not just him, either. It’s the month. In all your drama with Peter, you’d failed to keep up with the dates.
Now, freshly single for the first time in a couple of years, you sit alone preparing yourself for the next week. Valentine’s Day is Saturday, which means suffering through pink streamers all over campus and girls walking around with gift baskets lovingly curated by their boyfriends.
“I don’t like how often I find you on this ledge.”
You spare a glance over your shoulder and smile. “I don’t like that you still haven’t learned not to scare me.”
“Touche,” Spider-Man breathes out, taking quick strides toward you. “You seem tense. Feel like sharing? I’m a great listener.”
“Nothing big, just Valentine’s Day. I’ve had a boyfriend for so long I forgot how bitter and annoying it is for single people.”
“Tell me about it,” he sighs.
“Really? The Spider-Man is single?”
“I appreciate the surprise in your voice, no matter how forced it is.” You let out a wry chuckle and you swear you can hear a smile in his laugh.
“Probably a good thing, though. I can’t imagine any girlfriend would be happy with the amount of time you spend on this ledge with me.”
“No,” he agrees, “probably not.” The next noise he lets out is soft, tired in the kind of way that resonates with you. For the most part, your interactions are shallow. There’s banter, stupid quips, and then he’s off. You don’t usually hear something so real from him.
“Freshly single?” You ask. His head whips toward you and you shrug. “I recognize the misery of your sigh. It resonates within my withered heart.”
Spider-Man swats your shoulder lightly and you grin. “Yeah, it’s fresh. I still don’t think I’ve accepted it.”
You prop your chin in your hand and smile at him. “What level of not accepted are we talking here? Stalking? Or just crying over Instagram posts?”
Spider-Man goes quiet and you pull back. He recognizes the suspicion on your face and waves his hands. “No, no, no, this doesn’t count as stalking. Not really. I mean, it’s consensual?”
He sounds more unsure of himself at the end than you did. “Let's just not talk about that,” you offer. “I don’t think I want to know what your idea of consensual stalking is.” Spider-Man snorts and you shake your head.
A billboard across from you catches your eye. It’s Gwen’s favorite band, an announcement that they’ll be coming through soon. There’s a sharp ache in your chest when you remember you can’t just text her about stuff like that anymore.
“Gwen would love that,” you say, almost without thinking.
But what’s worse is when the man beside you doesn’t think either. “Oh, yeah, she would.”
Consensual
Stalking
Oh. My. God.
Your entire body stiffens as you turn to Spider-Man/maybe your ex-boyfriend. He doesn’t seem to realize his slip-up and that just makes you freeze up. You don’t know what to do. You can’t just blindly accuse him of being Peter. If you start hinting at secret identities, he might stop talking to you.
Loathe as you are to admit it, you’ve begun to enjoy his company. The main reason being he reminded you of how it was with Peter before you guys started dating.
Oh, Jesus, you’re gonna throw up off the ledge of your building. When the pavement below seems to swim up to you, it’s time to slip off the ledge. Slowly, fighting off the vertigo of your discovery, you drop back to safety.
Spider-Man watches you, head tilted in question. “Um, I have to go.” You search for an excuse, but none comes. “Yeah, I have to go.”
“Oh,” he seems taken aback, but doesn’t comment. “Alright. I’ll see you later?”
You let out a noise between a hum and a squeal as you rush back into your apartment building. Your mind is racing while you scramble through the door of your apartment. Like a detective, you flit through different memories, red string connecting each one as you start to line up Peter’s disappearances with Spider-Man's greatest hits.
Every missed date, every time he showed up late, it was all right there. But you never thought to connect it because… Well, why would you? Peter is Peter. He’s not a superhero. He definitely doesn’t have webs. Please, don’t let him have webs.
Scrambling for your phone, you dial the first number you can think of. It’s barely ringing before it’s getting picked up. “Gwen,” your voice is incredibly shaky as you try to calm yourself down. “I’m going to ask you something and if you don’t tell me the truth, we’re never talking again.”
Spider-Man/Peter Parker/ex-boyfriend-
No, no, too many titles. Peter has not been around in the past week. Not as his alter ego, and not at his lectures. Unfortunately, a lot of your schedule seems to intersect and the majority of your day is spent hiding in a hoodie and trying not to make eye contact.
But there hasn’t been any of that at all this week.
Maybe Gwen told him you know. He’s probably losing his mind right now.
But, no, she swore she wouldn’t and you know she’s not going to risk hurting your friendship again. Though you did profusely apologize for ever thinking that she could do that to you. And then she berated you about thinking she would ever be attracted to Peter.
Which… Ouch.
It’s Saturday, which used to mean days spent with him. Instead, it now means watching people get all mushy on Valentine’s Day. That used to be you, disgustingly in love, kissing way more than you should in public.
Now, you watch it all on the subway with that same old glare you used to have before Peter. You’re thinking about him a lot more than you want to. Especially given that he’s supposed to be an ex.
After your long speech on respect and boundaries and honesty, you should be completely over him. But it sort of makes sense now. Especially after Gwen told you what happened to her when she found out about him.
Peter wanted to protect you. You can understand that. But it doesn’t just erase all of the pain you felt while you were in the dark. You let out a low groan, ignoring the people around you as you walk home. You just keep going in circles over and over again.
The streets around you begin to thin out the closer to home you get. You’re still so deep in thought, you don’t notice the man dangling in front of you until your forehead is smacking into his.
“Ow,” you hiss, pressing your palm to the bruise that’s probably already forming. Backing up, Spider-Man, Peter, is dangling from the small overpass, upside down, as he waits for you.
“Dude,” you drawl. “How long have you just been hanging out here?”
He shrugs, “An hour, maybe.” Only in Queens would people pass by a dangling man in spandex and not question a thing.
One of his hands is tucked behind his back, and the other is holding onto his webbing. “Here,” he says. “I’ve got something for you.”
He untucks his free hand and passes you a bright pink, smothered in glitter, Valentine's Day card. You can hear his proud smile as he asks, “Be my Valentine?”
Narrowing your eyes at him, you shake your head with a low laugh. This is the dork you fell in love with. The boy you swore you would follow anywhere. It’s not his fault he’s such an idiot, not really.
Something soothes the ever permanent ache in your heart as you imagine the smile he’s probably got plastered on face. God, you bet he’s so proud of himself for this silly little Valentine.
A deep longing echoes through you and you reach up, going for the edge of his mask, when he reels back. “What’re you-”
“Relax, Parker,” you whisper. He goes completely still and you take hold of the mask.
“Did Gwen tell you?”
“You did, dumbass. You know, you’re really bad at the whole secret identity thing when it comes to consensually stalking your ex.” He lets out a low groan as you peel down his mask, just enough for his lips to be visible.
Pulling back, you take his face in your hands and smile. “Do you want me as your Valentine, or not?”
“What do you think, bug?” With a soft laugh, you lean forward and press your lips to his. It takes a second to get the angle right, what with his chin brushing your nose and all. But you don’t need perfect, you just need him.
Pulling back, he’s got a goofy grin on his face and you smirk. “Parker?” He hums as you fix his mask. “If you ever lie to me again, I’ll cut a hole in the crotch of your unitard. Or, worse second option, I’ll tell Jonah Jameson where you live. Got it?”
He goes still and you raise a brow. “You’re not joking?” You shake your head, expression flat. “Yeah, I got it, sweetheart.”
Smiling, you press a kiss to his cheek and step back. “Be home by six,” you tell him. “And bring some takeout.” You walk around him as he swings himself back up to the top of the overpass.
“I love you!” He calls after you.
“I know you do, Bugboy!”
𝘞𝘦 𝘈𝘭𝘮𝘰𝘴𝘵 𝘉𝘳𝘰𝘬𝘦 𝘜𝘱 𝘈𝘨𝘢𝘪𝘯 𝘓𝘢𝘴𝘵 𝘕𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵
𝘚𝘢𝘣𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘢 𝘊𝘢𝘳𝘱𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳 ♥︎
⇄ ◁◁ I I ▷▷ ↻
⁰² ⁰⁸ ━━━━━━━━━●━ ⁰⁰ ²⁵
💿 We've been here before and we'll be here tomorrow 💿
a/n: this was meant to be angstier but, well, I started writing him in the Spider-Man “voice” and folded like a wet paper towel
i should've known joey was there when i heard the sounds of leaves brushing against the side of my house, but id figured it was just another windy night in ballylaggin.
i also shouldve known joey was at my window when i heard the small clicks that sounded an awful lot like my lock being picked.
maybe i was just trying to deny the fact that he was really here. after the fight wed just had i don't really want to speak to him, not until he decides what he really wants.
only if has come to a decision will it really be worth interrupting my useless attempt at sleep.
finally, he knocks on the window. about damn time.
"your shiner doesn't look much better than it did two hours ago," the retort came as quickly as it was to open my window, "you didn't ice it like i told you to, did you? looks swollen."
"got room for one more in that cozy looking bed?"
thinking it over for all of three seconds, my heart gets the better of me. moving back to my normal place on my bed so he can join.
"you locked the window on me..."
"yea well, i didn't really trust myself to turn you away. clearly for good reason," god it was so hard to be mad at him. he looks so vulnerable and its worse knowing im the only one who sees him this way.
his shoes dropped to the floor before he laid next to me, curling into my shape likes hes made for it and its devastating.
"im sorry baby, i told you i wasn't gonna be seen around shane again. i promise."
"i know joe... i know what you say every time we have this talk. just... go to sleep okay?"
i could feel his arms tighten around me, not in the way that says he wants me closer, no. he's still tense, tighter the a coiled wire. i could feel the fear radiating off of him and tore me up inside.
"just..." i turned so i could look him in the eye, my thumb tracing the edge of his black eye, "im scared for you, of what you're doing to yourself. i just want you healthy okay? and happy? and you have to trust me when i say this baby, you'll be happier without those drugs."
he didn't say anything, probably because he had no fight against that. not one that id understand at least. because that's where we always left off. him hurt buy the poison he puts in his body, and me wondering why im not enough for him.
"please don't leave me," it was whispered, barely audible, but i heard it come from him.
"oh joe..."
"i know i fuck up a lot, trust me i know it very well. and i also know that you're way too good for me, that i don't deserve these chances you give me. but baby you got to know by now how much i love you. how much you mean to me."
leaning forward i press his cheek to mine a flutter my lashes against his skin.
"when i was little, and i was scared, mom would do that to me. called them butterfly kisses. because it feels like their wings flapping against your skin."
by the minute i could feel joes muscles relaxing.
that's it baby, know im never leaving you. you're stuck with me for worse or for better.
" i mean it baby, im gonna get clean i promise," he pressed a kiss to my cheek, a real one.
"i know you can joe. i believe in you, i always have and i always will. that's why im never going anywhere. okay? im staying right here."
i wrapped my arms around his middle pressing myself into him like a physical manifestation of my promise to him. and in return he pulled me closer, but this time he was soft to the touch.
Hi can you do Patrick feley with a very bubbly, extroverted girlfriend.
Patrick feely - boys of tommen
Note: I’m very proud of this one!!
Plot: established relationship, extrovert reader, introvert Patrick.
Note: I’ll try get this out for his birthday
Patrick Feely wasn’t shy. He just preferred listening over talking. His girlfriend, y/n? She’d happily strike up a conversation with a brick wall if it looked lonely. It was one of the many reasons Patrick adored her.
“patrick!” He barely had time to look up before you jumped into his arms. He caught you automatically, laughing quietly as you wrapped your arms around his neck.
“i missed you”
“You saw me this morning.”
“I know.”
“So… six hours?”
you nodded seriously. “It was awful.”
Patrick smiled, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “I’m sure you survived.”
“Barely.”
As they started walking through town, you waved enthusiastically at almost everyone they passed.
“Hi, Mrs. Murphy!”
“Oh my God, Liam! Love the haircut!”
“Morning!”
Patrick leaned closer. “Do you know all these people?”
“No.”
“You don’t?”
“I’ve just seen them before.”
Patrick blinked. “So… you’re waving at strangers?”
“They’re only strangers until someone says hello.”
He shook his head with a smile. “You amaze me.”
Patrick had somehow ended up sitting on a park bench while you played tag with three little kids she’d met less than two minutes ago. One of the mothers walked over, laughing.
“Is she always like this?”
Patrick watched as you dramatically pretended to lose a race against a six-year-old. “Every day.”
“You must have a lot of energy to keep up with her.”
Patrick chuckled. “I don’t.”
“So how do you manage?”
He smiled to himself. “I just… let her be her.”
Almost as if she’d heard him, you came sprinting back over. “Patrick!”
“Hm?”
“I’ve been invited to a birthday party next Saturday.”
He frowned. “…Whose?”
She pointed proudly at one of the little girls.
Patrick stared. “You’ve known her for four minutes.”
“Five.”
“y/n…”
“Their mum said I seem fun.”
Patrick couldn’t help laughing. “You’re unbelievable.”
She beamed before taking his hand. “Come on.”
“Where are we going now?”
“The bakery!”
“Weren’t we just there?”
“Yes.”
“So why are we going back?”
you gasped dramatically. “Patrick Feely…”
He already knew that tone. “…what?”
“I forgot to buy the lemon slice.”
Patrick looked at you for a long moment before standing with a resigned smile. “Of course you did.”
you kissed his cheek. “You’re the best boyfriend ever.”
“I know.”
“You don’t even mind when I drag you everywhere.”
Patrick intertwined their fingers as they walked.“I don’t have to talk much.”
Note: I’m so sorry this took a while to get out!!!
Plot: Clark misses a date but makes it up to you!!
Note: 2 uses of y/n
Stood up.
You had just been stood up by your own boyfriend. Clark had you sitting on your front porch waiting in the cold for hours and never showed. How could he embarrass you like that?
He hadn't even had the decency to call or cancel, he just decided not showing up would be enough of an explanation.
Seriously, how can boys be so stupid sometimes?
you had always thought that clark had been hiding something from you, yet, you always brushed it off as something people do when they love someone too much.
but maybe your paranoia was finally right.
You stared at your homes shared phone for what felt like the hundredth time. No missed calls or voicemails. Just silence.
The tiny spark of hope you’d cling onto all night had finally died down.
“Unbelievable.” You muttered, standing from the kitchen table. Your legs ached from sitting in the cold for so long.
You had spent nearly two hours getting ready. Made sure your hair looked perfect, outfit perfect, makeup perfect. All for nothing.
You marched inside, kicked your heels off by the front door, and flopped dramatically onto the couch “If he thinks I’m forgiving him,” you mumbled into a cushion, “he’s got another thing coming.”
Almost on cue, three knocks echoed through the house. Your heart skipped. Then immediately hardened. No. He didn’t get to disappear for hours and then just show up. Another knock.
“Y/n?” Clark’s voice called through the door. “Please.”
You folded your arms tighter. Silence. Then.
“I’m not leaving until you hear me out.”
You let out a frustrated sigh before yanking the front door open.
Clark Kent stood on your porch looking… awful. His flannel was torn at the shoulder. There was dirt smeared across one cheek. His usually neat hair looked like he’d run a marathon through a wind tunnel. Most concerning of all… He looked guilty.
“You’ve got some nerve,” you snapped.
“I know.”
“You stood me up.”
“I know.”
“You didn’t call.”
“I know.”
“I was sitting out here for two hours.”
“I know.”
Every answer was the same. Quiet. Ashamed. Your irritation only grew.
“So?” you demanded. “What’s your excuse this time?”
Clark opened his mouth. Nothing came out. Because there wasn’t an excuse he could give. Not one you could understand. Not yet.
“I…” He looked down at the ground. “I can’t explain.”
You laughed bitterly. “Of course you can’t.”
“It’s not because I don’t want to.”
“Then why?”
His jaw tightened. “I just… can’t.”
Your eyes burned. “Do you have any idea how embarrassed I was?”
“I know.”
“My parents kept asking where you were.”
Clark winced.
“I kept making excuses for you.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I told them traffic.”
Another apology.
“I told them you probably got caught helping your parents.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I even defended you.”
“I know.”
You shook your head.m“I looked stupid.”
Clark’s shoulders slumped. “No,” he said quietly. “You can’t look stupid for believing in me”
That hurt more than anything. Because he was right. You had trusted him. Completely. You looked at him for a long moment before speaking again. “If this relationship is ever going to work” Clark met your eyes. “then stop making me feel like I’m the last person to know what’s going on in your life.”
The words hit him like a punch. Because she wasn’t wrong. She never had been. He stepped forward carefully. “I can’t tell you everything.”
“Then tell me something.”
He hesitated. Finally. “I missed tonight because someone needed me.”
You frowned. “What does that mean?”
“It means” he swallowed. “if I had chosen our date instead” He looked away. “someone might not have made it home.”
You stared at him.The sincerity in his voice caught you off guard. He wasn’t making excuses. He genuinely believed what he was saying.
“I know that doesn’t make tonight okay,” Clark continued. “I know I hurt you. And if you’re angry, you have every right to be.” He reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out a small, slightly crushed box. “I was going to give you this before dinner.” Inside was the silver bracelet you’d pointed out in a shop window weeks ago. “I went back the next day and bought it,” he admitted with a nervous smile. “I wanted tonight to be perfect.”
You looked from the bracelet to him. The gift wasn’t enough to erase the hurt. But it was enough to remind you that the Clark standing in front of you wasn’t careless. He was carrying something impossibly heavy. You just didn’t know what.
As its his birthday today maybe a fic where he does a birthday party! Perhaps hes dating one of lads sister (reader) !
Patrick feely - boys of tommen
Note: I love making fics set at a birthday party
Plot: established relationship, gibsie’s sister (gibs knows of the relationship!)
Note: happy birthday to my husband
By seven on the 4th of July, Patrick’s farm was full of all the people he loved most.
Music echoed through the garden, fairy lights hung from the fence, and his friends were already arguing over who had cheated at beer pong.
You had only just stepped through the gate, with your brother, Gerard, when Patrick spotted you.
“There she is!” Before anyone could stop him, he was weaving through the crowd, a grin spreading across his face.
“You came.”
You rolled your eyes. “You invited me.”
“Yeah, but you actually came!”
“Patrick!” you laughed. “Put me down!”
“As the birthday boy, I can do what I want.” He smiled.
“You’ve been eighteen for three hours.”
“And already wiser.”
“Debatable.”
He smiled before quietly slipping his hand into yours for a brief second. No one noticed. Well… Almost nobody.
“Oi!” Your older brother, gibsie, appeared beside the pair of you, folding his arms. “You two think you’re slick?”
You froze. Patrick looked guilty for exactly half a second before sighing. “…How long have you known?”
Your brother snorted. “Since Christmas.”
Both of your jaws dropped.
“Christmas?” you repeated.
“You thought sneaking off to ‘look at the stars’ was subtle?”
Patrick rubbed the back of his neck. “We thought it was.”
“You were gone for forty-five minutes.”
Silence.
“So…” Patrick said cautiously. “You’re not angry?”
Gibsie looked between the two of you before shrugging. “I would’ve been if you kept lying to me.”
You blinked. “That’s it?”
He nodded towards Patrick. “I’ve known him since we were kids. He’s a good lad.”
Patrick let out the breath he’d been holding.
“But…” he continued. “If you ever make her cry…”
Patrick didn’t even hesitate. “I won’t.”
Your brother held his stare for a moment before breaking into a smile. “Good answer.”
He clapped Patrick on the shoulder. “Now stop standing around and come cut your cake before the lads eat it.
As your brother walked away, you looked at Patrick.
“That went… surprisingly well.”
Patrick laughed softly. “I genuinely thought he was about to punch me.”
Instead, your brother called from across the garden.
“And Feely!”
“Yeah?”
“If you’re dating my sister properly now…”
Patrick looked over.
“…you’d better dance with her when the music starts.”
Patrick’s cheeks flushed pink. He looked back at you, smiling. “I think that’s an order.
You squeezed his hand. “For the birthday boy?”
“For the birthday boy
When the slow song came on later that night, Patrick didn’t care that half the team whistled and teased him. He simply wrapped an arm around your waist and smiled. Because turning eighteen was great. But getting to spend it with his favourite person made it unforgettable.
hii could you do johnny kavanagh smut & fluff if you’re up to it? thanks xx
Cherry Wine | johnny kavanagh
summary: 1,4k. in the quiet of his room, with the door locked and the world fading away, johnny takes his time loving you the way he always does: gently, attentively, like there’s nowhere else he’d rather be.
cw: estabilished relationship, fluff, soft intimacy, could be considered a college!au, suggestive content, gentle johnny, english is not my first language xx.
author’s note: there’s not much smut to this but i hope you enjoy it :) sorry for the delay!
currently playing: cherry wine (live)
Johnny’s dorm room smells like laundry detergent and aftershave and something unmistakably him. The desk is cluttered with notebooks and rugby tape, his hoodie thrown over the back of the chair like he never really learned how to put things away.
You’re perched on the edge of his bed, legs crossed, watching him pace while he pretends not to be nervous about the exam he swears he didn’t study for.
“You’re gonna be fine,” you say, amused. “You say this every time.”
Johnny stops mid-step and looks at you, brows raised. “I do not.”
“You absolutely do.”
He scoffs, walking over until he’s standing between your knees. “You’re exaggerating.”
You tilt your head. “Am I?”
He stares at you for a beat, then breaks into that familiar grin — the one that always means he’s about to be annoying on purpose. “You just like arguing with me.”
“Not true,” you say lightly. “I like winning.”
Johnny laughs, low and warm, and reaches out to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. His thumb lingers at your cheek, gentle, grounding. “You already won,” he murmurs. “You’re here.”
Your chest tightens a little at that — not in a sad way, just in the Johnny way. He has a talent for saying simple things that feel bigger than they should.
He leans in, forehead pressing to yours, noses brushing. “You always distract me before exams, you know that?”
You smile. “I take my job seriously.”
His hands slide to your waist, warm and familiar. He doesn’t rush it — Johnny never does with you. He just sways you slightly, like there’s music only the two of you can hear.
“Sit back,” he murmurs.
You obey, lying back against his pillows as he follows, bracing himself above you. His eyes flick down to your lips, then back up, teasing.
“You gonna kiss me,” you ask, “or just stare?”
He grins. “Impatient.”
But he kisses you anyway — slow, unhurried, like he has nowhere else to be. It’s soft at first, then a little deeper, just enough to make your toes curl. His hand cups your jaw, thumb brushing your lip in a way that makes your breath hitch.
You tug lightly at his t-shirt. “Johnny…”
“Yeah?” His voice is already rougher.
You don’t answer — you just kiss him again, this time with intent.
He chuckles quietly against your mouth and pulls back just enough to look at you.
“You’re dangerous, you know that?”
“Learned from the best.”
He shakes his head fondly and kisses down your jaw, lingering at your neck, slow and teasing. Every touch is careful, like he’s savoring you, like this is something precious and not just heat.
The world narrows to his bed, his hands, the sound of his breath when you tug him closer.
Johnny presses his forehead to yours again, voice soft. “Door locked?”
You nod.
“Good,” he murmurs, smiling. “Come here.”
Johnny pulls you closer, his body warm and solid as he settles over you, the mattress dipping beneath his weight. His hands are familiar on you — confident, gentle, like he knows every place you like to be touched because he does.
“Still distracting me,” he murmurs against your mouth, smiling when you smile back.
“Seems like a you problem,” you whisper.
He laughs softly and kisses you again, slower this time, deeper. The kind of kiss that makes time stretch. His hand slips beneath the hem of your shirt, fingertips tracing lazy lines over your skin, warm enough to make you shiver.
“You’re cold,” he notes quietly.
“Mm, maybe you should fix that.”
He hums in agreement and shifts closer, pressing you into the bed as his forehead rests against yours. His thumb brushes over your collarbone, then lower, unhurried — teasing on purpose. Johnny has always loved taking his time with you, loved the way you react when he’s patient instead of rushed.
“You do this thing,” he says softly, almost fond. “Where you pretend you’re not affected.”
“And you do this thing where you call me out,” you reply.
He grins and kisses the corner of your mouth, then your jaw, then your neck. Each kiss is deliberate, lingering, like he’s memorizing you all over again. Your hands slide up his back, feeling the familiar strength there, grounding and reassuring.
The room feels smaller now. Warmer.
The sounds of the dorm fade away until it’s just breathing and quiet laughter and the rustle of sheets as he shifts closer.
He smiles — soft, real — and presses another kiss to your lips, one hand cradling your face as the other stays at your waist, anchoring you there with him.
Johnny’s kiss deepens, slow but intent, like he’s making a decision and committing to it fully. His hand slides from your waist to your thigh, thumb brushing back and forth in a way that makes your breath catch immediately.
“There it is,” he murmurs, smiling against your mouth. “That little gasp. Every time.”
You push at his shoulder lightly. “You’re insufferable.”
“And you love me,” he replies easily, kissing you again before you can argue.
He shifts, settling more comfortably between your legs, his weight solid and grounding. You can feel the warmth of him everywhere now — the press of his chest, his thigh nudging yours apart, the way his body fits against yours like it always has.
Like it always will.
Your fingers curl into his shirt, tugging him closer. He hums softly, hands roaming with slow confidence, touching you like he has all the time in the world. When his palm finally presses more firmly against you, you exhale his name without meaning to.
Johnny stills just slightly. “Hey,” he says gently, forehead resting against yours. “Look at me.”
You do.
His eyes soften instantly. “You good?”
You nod. “More than good.”
That’s all he needs.
He kisses you again — deeper, warmer — and the bed creaks quietly as he shifts, the blankets tangling around your legs. His touch grows surer, more purposeful, but never rushed. Everything about him says I want you, not I need to take.
Your hands slide under his shirt this time, palms smoothing over his stomach, up his back. He shivers at the contact, a soft laugh escaping him.
“Fair warning,” he says quietly, breath warm against your ear, “you keep doing that and I’m not gonna be very focused.”
“Weren’t you supposed to be studying anyway?” you tease.
He presses a kiss to your neck, smiling. “You’re a menace.”
The room feels impossibly warm now, filled with soft sounds — breathing, fabric shifting, the occasional quiet laugh when you bump elbows or knock knees. Johnny moves with you, guiding without forcing, making sure you’re right there with him every step of the way.
When you finally come together fully, it’s unhurried and close — more about the way he holds you than anything else. His forehead rests against yours, noses brushing, breaths mingling as he moves slowly, deliberately, like he’s savoring every second.
“God,” he whispers, barely audible. “I love you.”
The words settle into your chest, heavy and warm.
Your fingers tighten at his back, grounding him as much as he grounds you. The rhythm between you builds naturally, easy and familiar, until the world narrows to nothing but the two of you — the way he murmurs your name, the way you smile when he kisses your cheek mid-motion, the way it all feels safe and right.
When it’s over, Johnny doesn’t pull away.
He collapses beside you instead, tugging you into his chest immediately, arm draped over your waist like it belongs there. His fingers trace absentminded patterns against your side, slow and soothing.
“You okay?” he asks quietly, voice soft with affection.
You smile against him. “Yeah. Perfect.”
He presses a kiss into your hair, already half-asleep. “Good. Stay here with me.”
You shift closer, legs tangled with his, heart steady.
“I wasn’t planning on leaving,” you murmur.
And wrapped up in him, in his dorm room, with the world quiet outside — you don’t.
Arguing with Patrick Feely felt like standing on the edge of a cliff during a thunderstorm—one moment it was all wind and the scent of salt in the air, thrilling and alive, and the next you were being hurled into crashing waves below. It always started quietly, cautiously. Like two people trying not to wake a sleeping giant. But inevitably, one word—just one—would send everything spiraling.
You had been standing in the middle of his bedroom when it happened. The place was dimly lit, only the soft golden glow of the old lamp on his nightstand throwing pools of light on the deep navy walls. His guitar leaned lazily against the edge of the bookshelf, schoolbooks were strewn across the desk in his usual half-chaotic fashion. It smelled like sandalwood and something sweet—his cologne. Familiar, comforting, even when everything else felt sharp.
“You’re being crazy!”
There it was. The word. That word.
You froze. Your body stiffened like you’d just walked into icy water. You blinked once, then again, like if you did it enough times, the sting behind your eyes would go away.
He realized it the moment it left his mouth. His expression shifted, regret flickering in his dark eyes for just a second. But then, as always, pride got in the way.
“Oh, I see. Sorry for trying to be enough for Patrick fucking Feely,” you said, voice trembling like the air before a storm. You folded your arms tightly over your chest, more to keep yourself from shaking than anything else.
“Maybe stop trying so hard,” he snapped, tone sharp. “It’s suffocating. You’re suffocating.”
You flinched. Your lip trembled before you could stop it. “That’s mean, Pat. You’re being mean.”
“No, I’m not being mean. I’m being real,” he said, taking a step away, as if distance would soften the blow. “Ever since you came back from Dublin, you’ve been… different. I can’t deal with this right now. I should go.”
Oh, that’s how it is…
“Yeah,” you whispered, though your heart was roaring. “Yes, you should.”
He didn’t look at you again. Just turned, grabbed his jacket off the back of his desk chair, and left. The door slammed behind him, vibrating through your bones.
For a few moments, you just stood there, staring at the space he left behind. His scent still lingered in the air. His hoodie was still draped over the edge of the bed. There was an empty mug on the nightstand—he’d made you tea that morning. That version of him, the one who made tea and sang you songs when you couldn’t sleep, felt like a ghost now.
You dropped onto the bed, knees folding in, your back curling like a dying leaf. Then the tears came. Not the pretty kind. The ugly, heaving, choking kind. The kind that leaves your face blotchy and your chest hollow. You weren’t even crying over the fight—you were crying because you believed him. Because deep down, that small, cruel voice in your head had been whispering the same thing for weeks: You’re too much.
The next day at Tommen was a blur. The school looked the same, but everything felt different. The halls were filled with laughter and chatter, but it passed over you like smoke. You kept your head down, eyes fixed on the floor tiles like they held all the answers.
In class, you sat next to Shannon, who was practically glowing as she spoke about her weekend in Dingle with Kav. Her fingers twisted through her curls as she described the seaside cottage, the firelit dinners, the moonlit walks on the shore. You nodded along, offered smiles in the right places, but your mind was elsewhere. Stuck on that moment in Patrick’s room. That word. Crazy.
You didn’t look behind you, because you knew. You could feel him. That strange gravity Patrick Feely always carried—his stare burning holes in the back of your neck. But he didn’t approach. And neither did you.
The walk home was miserable. A thin drizzle coated the streets in a slick sheen, and the grey sky seemed to mirror your mood perfectly. The route along the canal was usually your favorite—lined with cherry trees and little stone benches—but today it felt too open, too exposed. Like the world was watching you unravel.
That night, sleep never came. You lay in bed staring at the ceiling, counting the rotations of the fan, your thoughts spiraling faster than the blades. You didn’t eat. You skipped your meds. You drowned yourself in schoolwork, hoping to quiet the noise.
But Patrick’s voice kept echoing.
The third day after the fight, something snapped. You grabbed your coat, pulled on his hoodie—you hadn’t been able to stop wearing it, no matter how much it hurt—and left your house with no real destination in mind. Your feet just… moved.
You ended up at the lake.
It was raining again. Not a drizzle—proper Irish rain, coming down in sheets. The kind of rain that soaked you through no matter how fast you ran. But you didn’t run. You walked slowly, letting the cold water seep into your shoes, your hair plastering to your face, your fingers trembling.
The lake was surrounded by trees, dark and wild, the kind that seemed to hold secrets. You’d come here with him before. Once, after a particularly bad anxiety attack, he’d brought you here. Sat you on a blanket, wrapped you in his arms, and talked about nonsense until you smiled.
Now you stood on the edge, arms wrapped around your own body, sobbing so hard it felt like your ribs might crack. “You said you’d never leave when it got hard,” you whispered to no one, voice raw.
“I didn’t,” came a voice behind you.
You froze.
Slowly, you turned.
The rain came down harder now, like the sky itself was falling apart. Cold water streamed down your back, soaking Patrick’s hoodie clinging to your frame, and yet you barely noticed. Every nerve in your body was locked on him.
Patrick stood just a few feet away, chest rising and falling beneath his drenched T-shirt, jaw tense, fists clenched at his sides like he didn’t trust his own body not to reach for you.
“I didn’t leave,” he said again, hoarse.
You blinked at him, raindrops mingling with the tears on your cheeks. “You walked out, Patrick. You let me fall apart. You let that word leave your mouth and then you just… left.”
“I know,” he whispered, as if even saying it caused him physical pain. “I’ve never hated myself more than I do right now. I’ve been carrying it around since I closed that fucking door. I wanted to turn around the second I left.”
“Then why didn’t you?”
His eyes searched yours, helpless and hollow. “Because I’m a coward. Because loving you means seeing parts of myself I don’t like. Because sometimes you look at me like I’m the only thing holding you together, and it scares the hell out of me. Because I didn’t think I deserved to be your person. Not when I couldn’t fix what was hurting you.”
“I didn’t ask you to fix me,” you said, voice cracking. “I just needed you to stay. Even if I was messy. Especially because I was messy.”
“I know. I know that now. And I am so—” he stepped forward, his voice breaking—“so sorry I made you think you weren’t enough. You’re not suffocating. You never were. I was drowning in my own fear and I lashed out like a bloody coward.”
Your bottom lip trembled, and you bit it hard to keep it from fully quivering. You hated how much you wanted to believe him. How even now, after everything, you still wanted to run to him and bury yourself in the comfort of his arms.
But he saw it—the flicker of hope in your eyes—and that’s all he needed.
He stepped closer. One step. Then another. Slowly, like approaching a wounded animal.
You didn’t stop him.
“I miss you,” he said, barely above a whisper. “I miss you so much it physically hurts. I miss your laugh. Your weird obsession with that ridiculous cardigan. The way you whisper my name when you’re half asleep. I miss us, and I know I don’t deserve to ask you to forgive me but—”
You reached out before he could finish.
Your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, dragging him the final inch toward you until your foreheads touched. His breath hitched as he leaned into the contact, eyes fluttering closed.
“I hate how much I love you,” you whispered.
A single breath passed between you.
Then your lips crashed into his.
It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t soft or pretty. It was desperate. Like kissing him was the only way to stop the ache in your chest. Like if you didn’t kiss him now, your bones might shatter from the weight of missing him.
He groaned into your mouth, one hand flying to the back of your head, fingers tangling in your soaked hair as he kissed you like he’d been starving. His other hand found your waist, pulling you tightly against him, like he couldn’t stand even a millimeter of distance.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured against your lips between kisses. “I’m so fucking sorry.”
You kissed him again, harder, your hands framing his face. “You hurt me,” you whispered against his skin.
“I know,” he said, eyes red, voice barely holding it together. “I’ll never forgive myself for that.”
You pulled back just enough to look into his eyes, your fingers tracing the edge of his jaw. His breath hitched under your touch.
“I don’t want promises,” you said. “I just want you. Real. Scared. Messy. But here.”
“I’m here,” he breathed. “God, I’m so here.”
And then you kissed again slower this time. Painful in its tenderness. His lips moved like he was trying to memorize the shape of yours all over again, like every second he’d gone without you was being rewritten in that moment.
He kissed your cheek. Your jaw. The corner of your mouth. Your eyelids. Reverent. Apologetic. Devoted.
“I love you,” he whispered. “Even when I’m the worst version of myself. Even when you can’t see it. I love you.”
You let yourself fall into him completely, arms wrapping around his waist as he buried his face in your neck, holding you like he was afraid the wind would tear you from him if he let go.
And there, standing in the rain by the lake—two heartbreaks stitched together with saltwater and apologies—you knew you were choosing each other again.
Note: I didn't have much to work with here, so if it's not what you want please tell me!!!
Plot: losing a child in a store
Note: lets ignore that I had to look up the meaning of ditzy😭
Johnny had been halfway through rugby practice when his phone started ringing. He ignored it, thinking that it would go away, but when the ringing didn't stop he checked the name flashing on his screen and saw yours, he immediately answered.
“Hey, baby, what's wrong?” he asked, worry bleeding into his tone,
“Johnny.” you whispered dramatically “I think I've committed a crime.”
Johnny dropped the ball he was carrying “what?”
“I accidently stole a child.”
There was along pause after you said that.
“You what?”
“There was a little boy in aisle three at Tesco who was crying, so I bought him a chocolate bar and carried him out while I looked for his mam.”
Johnny pinched the bridge of his nose, “okay.. So where is his mam now?”
“I don't know”
“Y/n”
“I only turned around for, like, two minutes! Then he saw the toy section and ran away. So technically, I lost the child after stealing him.
“Stay where you are. I'm coming.” johnny sighed.
Twenty minutes later, johnny walked into the store to find you sitting in a bench beside a smiling little boy, both eating ice cream.
“Johnny!” you beamed. “Good news, I didn't steal him.”
Johnny took a moment to look at the small boy “how do we know that?”
“Because his mam found us.”
That moment, a woman waved nearby sheepishly. “Sorry about this. My son refused to leave her side after the chocolate she give him”
Johnny laughed despite himself.
as they walked back to the car, you slipped your hand into his.
“You thought I was serious didn't you?”
“I've been dating you for two years. You got lost in your own neighbourhood once.” johnny said.
“I was taking the scenic route.”
“You were gone three hours.”
You gasped. “And yet, I found my way home.”
Johnny shook his head, smiling as he wrapped an arm around her shoulders.
Note: I've lost track of how many times I've written johnny now✌️
Plot: you have johnny on a tight leash
Note: a couple uses of y/n (maybe)
Johnny kavanagh knew exactly what he was getting into the day he started dating y/n y/l/n.
He just hadn't realised how chaotic it really would be.
“Johnny!” you called out from upstairs.
Johnny looked up from the assignmenthe was trying to finish. “Yeah, baby?”
“I have a problem”
Johnny immediatelystood up. With y/n, a problem could mean anything from a bad hair day to an actual dangerous situation. (both were reasonable in his eyes)
He found her standing in front of her closet, hands on her hips, looking stressed.
“What's wrong? Talk to me”
“I have nothing to wear anymore”
Johnny stared at the large walk in closet. “Baby, there are literally millions of outfits to choose in here”
“They all started looking stupid on me today” you exclaimed, panic lacing your tone, which, he found adorable.
“You could wear a garbage bag and still look absolutely gorgeous.” he said, trying to make you feel better.
“But none of these are right”
“For what?”
“Dinner with your family tonight?” you said it like it was obvious.
Johnny frowned. “You've had dinner with my family hundreds of times”
“Exactly, but your mother has seen all these outfits, I have to impress her with my fashion”
Johnny couldn't help but laugh.
“This isn't funny, johnny. Your mam is effortlessly gorgeous and I have standards to maintain.”
He walked over to you, wrapping his arms around your waist. “Mam adores you. She wouldn't care if you showed up in a tracksuit”
You looked horrified. “Jumpsuit? Johnathan kavanagh, how could you suggest that?”
“Alright, noted.” johnny grinned.
————
An hour later, after six different clothing stores, they were finally in the car to his place.
“You know” johnny said as he drove “most people just wear what's in there closet”
You adjusted the diamonds earrings johnny had bought you for your birthday.
“And most people don't have photographs taken of them everywhere they go”
“Fair point.”
You smiled smugly before leaning over and kissing him on the cheek. “Thank you for taking me shopping, means a lot”
“You spent more money in thirty minutes than I've made all summer.”
“Love is priceless, johnny”
He snorted. “Funny, my card disagrees.”
You laughed, lacing your fingers together over the center console.
Sure, you were dramatic, demanding, and had expectations he didn't think existed.
But you also supported him at every match, never forgot to tell him she was proud of him, and somehow made ever normal day special.
