a collection of fics i’ve read and thoroughly enjoyed all in one spot! read each warning before diving in and please give writers some appreciation for all their hard work by reblogging and/or commenting! ꨄ
fly me to the moon I @scarletmika I F I The entire school knew how close you and Ryland Grace had become since you'd joined Grover Cleveland Middle's staff a year prior. That knowledge only fueled the rumor mill, that one that ran between the staff and students alike, on just how close the two of you were. It didn't help that you were definitely head over heels for the slightly awkward and endearing science teacher.
your love is a threat I @sinsilk I A I ryland falls hard but is scared of being left behind. but there are consequences to avoiding what is right in front of you.
infected I @lostinwildflowers I S I You and Ryland are both given the amnesia serum so the primary crew has scientists on the Hail Mary. When you wake up 12 light years from Earth, neither of you remembers anything except for an unsettling dislike for the other person. An interaction with alien life has Ryland infected with a disease neither of you have seen before. What are you going to do?
grace have mate, question? pt2 I @rockyhatemark I A I rocky and grace talk about the mates they left behind. grace finally gets around to making a video log for her
nook rivalry I @/rockyhatemark I F I when your little piece of heaven in the library is threatened, you take it personally aka your relationship with ryland has a rocky start
doctor visit pt2 I @/rockyhatemark I F + S I you find it harder and harder to ignore the cute scientist that always sits next to you during your meetings
my place is among the stars (w/you) pt2 I @heartburriedintauceti I A + F I In which the government (Eva Stratt) shows up at your door and gives you no choice but to join the Petrova Taskforce. The reason? Ryland Grace recommended you, your old friend (or whatever you were) from college. And for some reason, you said yes.
double vision I @fullof-ryland-grace I F I you find out your close friend and coteacher has a stuntman twin.
baby I @surturedberries I F I when ryland grace calls you "baby"
rockblock I @matt-murdockk I F I You and Ryland have a moment... almost.
the love thing I @redwinelewis I F I after watching notting hill, rocky has come up with a conclusion that you and ryland should "mate", since you both are single.
medical emergency I @appletreat I F I you accidentally hit your head and ryland needs to fix you up
the message and the messenger I @/appletreat I A I stratt comes to ryland with some videos from the hail mary mission
human connectivity I @/appletreat I F I you can’t fall asleep but it seems ryland can’t either
the marker dealer I @/appletreat I F I ryland needs the art teacher’s help with some illustrations
blurb I @/appletreat I H
mr and mrs. grace pt2 I @iamaya03 I F I you're the medic on the hail mary and come across a photo that must've slipped from your personal supplies which changes the entire dynamic between you and who you thought was your co-worker.
far vs near sighted I @gracerockyadastra I F I You and Ryland both wear glasses, but for drastically different reasons.
i almost lost you I @amessofstarsense I H/C
coma berenices I @romanticgumchewer I F I you cut grace's hair so he looks like himself again.
champagne supernova pt2 pt3 pt4 pt5 pt6 I @effloradox I F + A
nightmare I @attemptedrandomwriting I C I Rocky is watching over Grace sleep while you work. Rocky comes running in, scared for Grace, and needs your help.
puppet show I @moonlight-in-the-sea I F I you and grace put on a puppet show for rocky at his request so he is able to understand human culture better. little do you know, the engineer is setting you both up.
oh, you’re not…! I @/moonlight-in-the-sea I F I your boyfriend has an identical twin, and while you can easily tell them apart by now, you've had your mix-up moments in the beginning.
save the date I @inksgoosiefolder I F + S I You need a date to the wedding you foolishly agreed to attend, luckily your co-worker is a willing sacrifice. Extremely willing.
fertile land I @binchidavinci I H/C
good girl pt2 I @lemmesayimyourbiggestfan I F + S I in which Dr. Grace uses the wrong vocabulary, and the Hail Mary gets a lot hotter
pushing it down and praying I @rockylandphm I A I in which, you keep looking for your lost love in colt’s eyes, and colt keeps pretending it doesn't break his heart
both AO3 I anonymous I S I ryland walks in on you and colt in their apartment. things take a turn.
eridian logic! I @bibigo-lover I F I your heart-to-heart with rocky leads to a lot of unnecessary teasing targeted towards grace. you can't help it—he just makes it so easy
love hypotheticals pt2 pt3 I @/bibigo-lover I A + F I after stratt hires you on as a documentation specialist for project hail mary, you find yourself being more and more drawn to one dr. ryland grace.
well, this is awkward I @irlr0gue I F I You and Ryland have a small…incident, leading to a broken bed that a very curious Rocky has to come and fix.
to move slowly from side to side I @harbours-lighthouse I H/C
4th project crew pt2 I @justmine-lindstrm I A + F + S I After months of wandering the space to study Tau Ceti, Grace found out that there’s another crew on board. It was only revealed when Rocky corrected him on how many people the ship has. Grace got hope for him to recall his pieces of his memories back on Earth. You must be an answer for him. “Happy. Happy. Grace has woman now. statement.”
stress relief I @bbuttonnn I S I Ryland needs to relieve some stress while he’s on the ship and conveniently thinks about his work crush
co-worker!ryland grace I @forozren I F
clumsy I @hotdogcatalogue I F
jealous!ryland I @cloudytimelapse I F
overworked I @stargirl-meltdown I S I ryland grace may be able to carry the weight of the world, but not without breaking somewhere. Luckily, he has someone who knows exactly how to bring him back.
✦summary: You know Steve doesn't see you like that. You know because you asked him, and he said no. So it's not really fair, that he'd reject you and keep making you love him after, is it. ✦
✦warnings/tags: steve rogers x female!reader, modern!au, no use of y/n, pining, rejection (at the start, off page, and steve's a liar about it), no description of reader (pictures for aesthetic only), fluff, angst, love confessions, some plot to get to all that porn, feral level smut, (dry humping, teasing, making steve lose control, fingering, light spanking, praise kink, manhandling, big dick steve, squriting, p in v sex, creampie, breeding kink, soft!dom steve), soft!steveoutside of smut✦
✦wc: 10.9k✦
✦Author's Note: this one hit ME too hard bc i based it on real life too much. oops. all the better for the horny ig. Enjoy!✦
You’re not looking for him in the crowd. And if anyone says you are, they’re a big, fat liar.
Active scanning is not looking. It’s a part of the job, to see who’s here. What kind of interviews you’re going to be able to get, who’s already closing in on who, who’s snuggled up and gossiping and might not notice you eavesdropping. If you’re smart about this—and you always are—you’re going to walk away from tonight with a comment from Secretary Ross, Pepper Potts, or even an Avenger themselves.
But not him.
You have no interest in walking away with a comment from him.
“They’re here.” Your coworker Stacy bumps your shoulders, her eyes wide and fixed across the room. “Holy shit, they’re actually here-“
“It’s their fundraiser.” You mutter, keeping your attention on a senator bumbling about near the drinks. “It would be crazy if they weren’t here.”
“Yeah, but- It’s all of them. I’ve never seen all of them-“
“Yes, you have.”
Stacy glares at you. “Well, not so close.”
You glance over, pointedly only looking at their feet. “They’re not that close.”
“I could touch one.” Stacy breathes, and you snort.
“You should go try that.”
That earns you another glare, and a smack on the arm. And you deserve it, but you just laugh and look back to your target. The tipsy, red-eyed senator who’s going to have a few more drinks, and tells you all about that bill congress is trying to pass about the Enhanced. You’ve read it three times, and it’s a disgusting invasion of privacy, but those documents were off the record. If you can get a Senator, talking about how he wants to force all superheroes to either be sterilized or record their sex lives-
Stacy pinches your arm, and you squeak so loudly it echoes off the domed, ballroom ceiling. Some attention darts in your direction, but everyone quickly loses interest when they realize it’s nothing all that interesting. Your face is burning as you smooth your dress, and it doesn’t stop burning. It feels like someone is tending to the hot embarrassment, fluttering in your tummy and restless in your fingers. Like someone is looking right through you, monitoring you, watching you-
“He’s looking at you.” Stacy hisses in your ear, buzzing with so much excitement you’re sure she’s about to turn into glitter and explode like fireworks, and you’re going to throttle her.
“He is now, because you,” you shove her shoulder. It doesn’t do anything to stamp out her thrill at your worst nightmare. “Fucking made him notice-“
“No, he was looking before-“
“No, he wasn’t-“
“Yes, he was-“
“No, he wasn’t-“
“Who wasn’t what.”
You freeze, and Stacy looks over your head with a fawning, dazed expression. You’re going to kill her. You’re going to cut her up into tiny pieces and burn them all in separate furnaces, and then you’re going to steal her dog and make it forget all about her, and marry her husband and make her cute little kid your Cinderella as bloodline punishment-
“Hi, Mr. Captain Sir.” She giggles, looking back down to you with a wide-eyed it’s him expression.
I’m going to kill you. You mouth. She doesn’t seem all that bothered by the threat.
“Uh- Hi. You don’t have to-“ You hear him shift on his feet behind you. “Steve is alright.”
You can picture him rubbing the back of his neck, trying to look smaller. More humble and approachable, when he’s a modern walking Hercules. A better version, who doesn’t kill his wife and kids. Who gets you drinks and tries to be your friend and is so stupidly polite and kind and you hate him, you hate him so much-
He says your name. You plaster on the widest, most plastic and sickly sweet smile you can manage. You want him to feel like you’re a bit of plastic that’s stuck between his teeth. To give up talking to you, because it’s not fair.
Steve’s just as handsome as the last time you saw him. And the time before that. And the time before that. If anything, he’s more handsome. You don’t know how he does it, changing absolutely nothing about his appearance and looking hotter every time you get eyes on him. His hair is styled the same as always, but it looks so soft. You could run your fingers through it and it would probably feel like a cloud. His stupid, sharp jawline is slack as you glare up at him, and he’s so tall it makes you dizzy, and he’s fixing you with that puppy look that makes you feel like you’re important to him.
And you’re not. You know you’re not.
You went down that road once. You tried to be important to him, and he said no. And he’s Steve, so he was sweet and perfectly kind about it, and still wanted to be your friend, and you’d thought you were already over it so you’d said yes.
You thought you could just be his friend. He hadn’t made anything weird. Neither of you had ever even brought up your failed attempt to ask him out again. And at the time, you’d thought you were over it.
But Steve is Steve. And he’s got some titanic hold over your heart that’s left finger marks dug in through the landscape. There’s a depression over the cavity of your chest, and your ribs have molded to fit it, and now it’s far too late to go back. You only know how to have feelings for him. You’ve tried to get over it. To ignore it. To forcibly re-mold your love into something platonic, or clawed your way through some relationships in the hope they’d help you move on.
They don’t. They won’t. Nothing can.
The big stupid boy-scout standing over you owns you completely, and you can’t even tell him without making it a problem.
Your new strategy had been to ignore him. Stacy ruined that.
She thinks he secretly has feelings for you. You tune her out every time she starts to crow and preach about it, because you know your heart is going to take it as gospel and not parody, and you can’t afford false faith. All you have is what’s grounded between your fingers.
Steve’s right here. He’s smiling at you, all pretty and nice, and you have to smile back or else it will make him feel bad. He’s got a drink in his massive hand for you. You’ve had a million wet dreams about that hand around your throat or cupping your pussy.
You’re aching thinking about it. In an ideal world, this would be the part where you ran without looking back.
In an ideal world, you’d be standing on his arm right now, instead of all stiff and weird in front of him.
You need to get a fucking grip.
“Hi.” You say, and it’s sounds lame and idiotic and pathetic-
Steve’s face splits into a big, happy smile. “Hi. How’s the night going for you, do you have your victim picked out?”
You scowl. “It’s not- They’re not victims-“
“You treat them like they’re victims.” His grin widens. “Sometimes I feel like I should be saving them.”
“They’re all fine. It’s not like I’m drugging them or something.”
Steve’s brows raise. “That makes me think you are drugging them.”
“Nuh uh.” You stick out your tongue, and he laughs under his breath.
“One day you’re gonna say something that actually gets you in trouble, you know.” He holds out the drink he brought you.
It’s your favorite. It’s always your favorite.
You told him what your favorite drink was, the very first time you attended one of these parties. He’s never forgotten since, and it makes you love and hate him all the more.
“I don’t think I will.” You mumble, both trying and desperately failing not to brush his fingers. His skin is warm. He’s warm. He’s like a walking furnace, and you’d like to just bury your face in his pecs and breathe him in and-
“Kid, you already have.”
Steve looks at you like you’re the only thing in the room. His eyes are sparkling, and in the background you think Natasha Romanoff is circling like a shark, trying to get his attention, but if he notices he pretends he doesn’t. He just looks at you and calls you kid, and the word plummets like a cold stone into your gut.
Kid. That’s all you are to him. Kid.
“But if I got in trouble, you’d save me.” You take a long sip of your drink, and you like to torture yourself.
With his presence. His closeness.
How fast he nods. How certainly he answers.
“’Course I would. Already saving you by pretending I don’t see you getting all those Senators drunk.”
You laugh softly, but the sound hurts. When you look over your shoulder, Stacy’s abandoned you for the food table. You catch her eye, and she shoots you an excited thumbs up. She probably thinks this is going great.
“Are you feeling alright?” Steve says suddenly, and he sounds like he really, really cares. “You been looking kind of sick- Not that you look bad- You look good, uh- Really good, but-“
“I’m fine.” You turn back to Steve, and you wonder if he can see it.
The pain, leaking down like a toxin from your eyes. Everything kind of blurry. You’d throw up, if you didn’t think he’d take care of you after.
“Everything’s fine.”
Steve’s lips twitch. You’re not sure he believes you.
But it doesn’t really matter anyway. You’re not his to get an answer out of. He decided that.
And you’re just doing exactly what Steve wants, all the time.
“You do look nice.” He mumbles, taking a sip of his own drink, as if it could even do anything to him.
You smile, and there it is again. The shameful, unrelenting heat in your stomach. “Thanks.”
I dressed up for you.
“I think he’s in looove with you.” Stacy says, spinning around in her chair. You flip her off, not looking up from your computer.
“Is the printer out of paper still?”
“I don’t know, you print everything for me.” She pokes your chair with her foot. “Pay attention to me, I said Steve’s in love with you-“
“No, he’s not.”
“Yes, he is.”
“No, he’s not-“
“Yes, he is-“
“Is this the same thing you were fighting about last time?” Steve’s voice comes from over your shoulder, and you freeze. “Or is that just… How you two talk.”
Stacy looks awfully fucking pleased with herself for a dead woman. “It’s the same fight as last time.”
“Oh.” He pauses. You can hear his concern, and it makes you want to vomit. “Is everything okay?”
“Mhm.” Stacy beams. “Hi, Steve.”
You glance up, and Steve looks properly bemused and adorable about her whole demeanor. It makes you want to hold his face and kiss the tiny, pouting frown off his lips. You smack yourself internally. Get it together.
“Hi, Stacy.”
She almost glows. “You remember my name?”
“Yeah.” He glances down at you. “I try to remember most people’s names.”
Stacy swoons. “Of course you do.”
Steve blinks, and you clear your throat.
“What are you doing here?”
“Uh-“ He rubs the back of his neck, giving you a small smile. “Lunch, remember? We planned it last week.”
Oh. You did do that. “I told you to wait outside, my boss is going to try to interview you-“
“Oh, she already did.” He laughs. “But I’m here for you, not a front page.”
You flush, and Stacy giggles like she’s watching TV.
“So…” Steve shrugs. “Lunch?”
Right. Lunch.
“How’d you even get in the building.” You grumble, grabbing your jacket as you stand. He shrugs sheepishly.
“I took a photo with the guards.”
“Steve, I told you to stop doing that-“
“It made them really happy, okay? And I went through all the metal detectors, same as everyone else-“
“I know, but you hate taking the photos, you can tell them no.”
Steve frowns. “It’s not that big an inconvenience for me-“
“But you hate it.”
“I don’t hate it-“
“Steven Rogers.”
You glare at him, arms crossed over your chest. Steve sighs, slumping like a scolded child.
“I don’t love them.” He mumbles, and you nod.
“Next time, tell them no.”
“But then I can’t come upstairs.”
You shrug, starting at the door, your shoulder bumping against his. “You can text me. Like you’re supposed to-“
“Or I can just do the photos-“
“No-“
“Bye, guys.” Stacy calls from behind you, and you look her with wide eyes. You’d forgotten she was there.
“Um… Bye.” You wave awkwardly, and she grins.
He’s here for you. She mouths, and you roll your eyes.
No hope. It just makes everything else harder.
If Steve wanted you, he’d say something. And you’re a big girl. You can handle just being his friend, because he won’t leave you alone long enough for you to properly avoid him. You can handle it.
His hand finds your lower back, when he opens the door for you. You almost trip over your feet from the dizzying touch.
You can’t handle this at all.
The most annoying part about having undying feelings for Steve Rogers is that it’s Steve Rogers. Captain America. Golden Boy Number One. Mr. Perfect Specimen.
You’re in love with the little blond boy with abs and a dopey smile and sweet blue eyes. You’re obsessed with Mr. Muscles. You lose sleep over the guy who looks like he could crush you in a headlock then kiss you to sleep after.
Incredibly original. Groundbreaking, even. The love of your life is the masculine celebrity who’s respectful and kind. Never before heard of stuff. You’re really shattering glass ceilings with that one.
You want to shoot yourself in the face.
It’s impossible to avoid even thinking about him, when he’s everywhere. You go out to the corner store, and he’s on the little TV mounted in the corner. Avengers brand yogurts line the grocery store, and you glare at Strawberries and Cream and Justice until your head hurts. He told you about that. He was pretty proud of how all the proceeds were going to charities.
“It’s a stupid name, though.” You’d said, and he’d shrugged.
“Tony says the name doesn’t matter, as long as it’s got our faces on it. Apparently that’s what people are buying for.”
He’d frowned at that, and you’d given him an affectionate smile. He hates the glory of all of this. You know he does, and you’d told him gently you’re sure people will also buy for charity.
You’d been lying through your teeth, though. When you grab the yogurt and shamefully shove it into your basket, it’s not for cancer research or orphans or to save the bees. It’s because Steve’s face is smiling at you from the plastic, and you’re no better than the fangirls who get all doe-eyed over his every breath.
Not that you’re much better about that, either.
“I could give you an interview.” Steve offers on day, when you’d been complaining to him about slow news. “It can be about whatever you want-“
“I don’t want your pity journalism, Steven.”
He frowns. “It’s not pity. I’m trying to help you.”
You shrug, wrapping your arms around your stomach. “Well, I can’t accept your help.”
“Why not-“
“It’s unethical.”
“I… don’t think that’s true-“
“Well, I didn’t earn it.”
“You don’t have to earn it.” He says, all earnest and sweet and kind, and you want to die. “You work hard, I know you work hard, and if this can help you- Here, we can do it right now-“
“I don’t have questions ready.” You cut in quickly. Flatly.
Steve just shrugs. “Make some up. I know you can.”
You wish he’d stop believing in you. It makes your heart flutter.
“I have nothing I want to ask you.” You mumble hopelessly, and he frowns.
“I don’t believe that.”
“Why not?”
“Because you always have something to ask me. To ask anyone.”
You flush, turning to the side to avoid his gaze. “Maybe I just know everything about you,” you mutter, and he snorts.
“No. You don’t.”
That gets your attention. You snap your head in his direction, and he smiles at you. Like he already knows he won.
“There she is-“
“Shut up.” You lean across the table, and his smile widens. “What don’t I know about you.”
“A lot.”
“Like what-“
“You have to ask me to find out.”
You narrow your eyes. He keeps fucking smiling.
“You suck.” You grumble.
He shrugs. “I know you think that.”
You’re both leaning across the table. If you reached up, just an inch, you’d be able to trace the line of his nose. He’s so handsome. It’s unfair, and you can feel a smile tugging at your lips in response to his.
“I’m going to punch you in the face-“
“I’d like to see you try, kid.”
Kid.
You lean back, ice water feeling like it was poured through your veins. Steve notices the shift. He frowns, but you don’t give him the chance to question it. You just push on.
“I need a napkin.” You mutter., leaning back into your seat. “To write questions.”
“Yeah. Right.” He rubs the back of his neck. Opens his mouth, then closes it again, shaking his head slightly. “I’ll go get that for you.”
Of course he will.
And when he’s talking to the waitress—paper and a pen in his hand—she twirls her hair and giggles. Same as you would, if you got to know him where he didn’t know you. Where he might just find you pretty, and give you a chance, because you were friends first and you think that’s where you all went wrong.
This all might’ve been easier, if he really was just a celebrity crush. If you loved him because he was Captain America and not Steve. Your Steve. Who brings you back two pens in case you don’t like the first, and shares his food with you while you gloss through the interview—feeling little detached from your own body, like he’s a million miles away—and touches your lower back again when you finally leave lunch.
You might’ve gotten to touch him more, if he didn’t mean something to you.
But you wouldn’t trade knowing him for the world.
And that just makes it all hurt even more.
Steve’s been trying to get you out with his team for years. You’ve said no, over and over and over. You don’t need to feel even more mortal than you already are. Don’t need the reminder that he probably rejected you because you’re not even a quarter of what he and his friends are.
Not that you think Steve would think you’re any less because you’re not enhanced. You know he wouldn’t.
Consciously.
But that doesn’t change the reality of it. He wouldn’t want you, when he’s surrounded by other Gods, like he himself, far more worthy of his attention. You can be mean and sharp, but you don’t have the cool, collected, deadly beauty of Black Window. And you’ve heard the rumors about them.
You’ve heard all the rumors. About Steve with everyone, because people like to talk. There isn’t a pair of people on the Avengers that the public hasn’t theorized about secretly dating.
And you know none of it’s true. Steve’s told you himself.
But that doesn’t make it hurt any less, when you think about him with someone else more worthy. Someone he wants.
Which is why you didn’t want to do this. And Steve had always respected that—because he’s perfect, and he respects everything—so you’d thought you’d never have to. He asks. You say no. He doesn’t push it, or demand to know why. He waits months before asking again, and you know he only does that because he thinks you’re just too busy to go out the other times. That you’re saying no because you simply don’t have the energy, and not because the idea makes you feel itchy. And you don’t want to tell him. You like that he asks you. It makes you feel important.
But you still kept saying no.
Until Stacy overheard him ask you, and said yes for you. And Steve beamed, and you couldn’t stand to burst the delicate little bubble of his joy, and now you’re here.
Huddled in the corner of a bar with the fucking Avengers all around you. Hawkeye and Thor are throwing darts in the corner. Hulk, Black Widow, and Falcon are playing pool. The Vision is eating onion rings, and everything feels like a very, very bizarre dream.
Steve hasn’t left your side since you got here. It’s been the only anchor you have. You’d been able to hide in his shadow and duck under his arm, avoiding pressing questions and conversations you don’t really want to have. It’s not too weird for him to bring a civilian friend, at least. None of them have commented on it, besides throwing you passing looks. Steve mentioned that they all do it, from time to time.
But you’re the only one here right now. And if you could, you’d sew your hand into Steve’s so he couldn’t leave you alone.
And that’s always a little true. You want that all the time.
More than usual right now. But all the time.
“I’m going to get drinks.” He mutters, and you grab his bicep like a scared child.
“Wait- I’ll come with you-“
“Don’t worry, I’ve got it.” He grins down at you, patting your head like you’re a dog or something. “You don’t have to stand up.”
You want to shout at him that this isn’t about him being a gentleman, it’s about him not leaving your sight. But you’re weak. And pathetic. So you just nod, and Steve smiles at you before walking away.
You try to hide in the shadows, avoiding any attention. It doesn’t work.
“You’re the journalist.” A cool, lazy voice cuts through the air, and you look up to find Tony Stark standing over your table.
“I’m a journalist-“
“No. You’re Roger’s journalist.” Stark drawls, sliding into the booth. You stiffen, but don’t dare to move away.
That’ll make it seem even more obvious, when Steve comes back and you don’t inch away from him.
“I understand what he’s been going on about.” Stark continues, looking you up and down slowly. “Didn’t know they made them like you anymore.”
Your eyes narrow. “Like me?”
“Mhm.” Stark smirks, and you raise your chin.
“What am I like, Mr. Stark?”
He chuckles, leaning back. “Little spitfire, aren’t you-“
“Only to people who deserve it.”
That makes him laugh louder. Everything feels more and more like a fever dream by the second.
You look out to the bar, trying to find Steve. Internally begging him to come back. He’s by the bar, your drink already in his hand. It’s the same one you always get. He’s holding it close to his chest, like it’s something priceless.
There’s a woman standing next to him. Just another random girl, in a tiny dress with some pretty good makeup, giggling and batting her lashes at him.
And Steve’s entertaining her. smiling at her.
The same way he smiles at you.
You don’t want to be here. You didn’t want to be here. You don’t want to see how it’s not even the Avengers that he’d want more than you, it’s everyone else. She’s getting the same attention you try to drown yourself in, but you’re not the one who might go home with him. His grin is a little tighter with her, because he’s probably restrained and trying to play his cards right. She looks like she’s talking sweet, and he’d probably want that more than you, poking and mocking him all the time. He’s a God. He’ll say he’s not but he is, and what kind of god would want to be worshipped by someone who shows love with insults and eye rolls.
There’s a tight feeling, around your throat like rope. Your eyes are burning, and the world is blurring, and you don’t want to see this. You can’t see this.
You tried to be his friend. You really tried.
But you can’t.
“What’s wrong with you?” Stark asks, and you look over to find him watching with a strange expression.
“Nothing.” You clear your throat, fumbling for your bag. “I just- Remembered something. That I have to go do.”
You glance over to Steve again. He’s laughing at something she’s saying without shaking his head and tipping his head back, without looking away from her. Like he does with you.
“Right now.” You mumble. “I have to go do it right now.”
Stark hums, tapping his fingers on the table. “Right now, huh.”
“Yep.” You stand up, and he gives you an almost amused look.
“What is it? If it’s so urgent.”
“Stuff.” You snip.
Stark chuckles, shaking his head. “Jesus, he’s batting in a whole other sport with you.”
“What the fuck does that mean-“
“Nothing.” Stark smirks again. Like he knows something. “Go on. I’ll tell Cap you had stuff.”
You scan over his relaxed features, and he just keeps grinning, lazy and unworried. You could get an answer out of him, if you tried.
But you look up, back to Steve. And he’s grabbing his own drink from the bar. Still chatting with the girl. If he brings her back to the table, you’re going to vomit.
You have to go now.
“Thanks.” You mutter, giving Stark a tight grin. “Have a good night.”
And Stark laughs, as you turn away.
“Oh. I’m sure I will.”
You avoid Steve for a week.
Properly avoid him.
He calls ten times, just the night you leave the bar. He texts almost every hour for the days after that, and you mute him. If you look at the messages, you’re going to respond to them. If you respond to them, he’ll convincing you to talk to him. If you talk to him, or see him, or even stand near him, you’re never going to get over him.
You’re going cold turkey on him, like he’s a drug.
To you, he is. And you need to get clean. You need to move on.
Steve doesn’t come into the building to steal you for lunch, but he calls you every day. Your fingers fidget, still trying to pick up the phone.
You don’t know how you manage not to, but you do. When you ask the guards downstairs, they say he’s walked through the door and walked back out five times. You force yourself not to think about it, and somehow manage to do that too. And you’re going to be able to do this. You’re finally going to move on.
Moving on means moving. Not staying in the same little pit, waiting for his sun to change its path and shine on you. You have to climb out, and find a new place to be. Someone new to want.
You’ve done this part before. The whole dance of downloading the apps and going on the dates and telling yourself you want them, even though they aren’t Steve. But this time is going to be different. If you tell yourself that enough, it will feel more and more true.
There’s a guy you’ve been chatting with all week, and he seems sweet. He compliments you, and he was polite when you met for coffee, and he’s far from bad to look at. And it’s not like you’re going to marry him. You just need someone to be close to you that isn’t Steve.
And maybe this guy—you can’t really remember his name, but you’ll learn it—is blond haired and blue eyes and broadly built. Maybe you swiped through photo after photo, looking for a phantom of him, but that’s nobody business expect yours, and your pillow’s. It knows better than anyone that there’s only one way you can fake it.
Which is exactly what this game is. Faking it until you make it. Until you’re over Steve, and there’s never any temptation to look back.
You dress up, telling your brain you’re going on a date with Steve himself so you put in all the effort. Another thing that’s nobody’s business. You’re doing what you need to, and it’s going to get you over him. You’ve got lashes and glossy lips and heels that are going to hurt in the morning, and this guy doesn’t seem strong enough to carry you like Steve would, but that’s where you need to shut your brain up. There’s not going to be anyone who’s like Steve. This guy looks like him enough to get you out the door, but it’s not him, and that’s okay. That’s good. It’s going to help you move on. You’ve got your jacket, and your purse, and you’re going to do this and move on-
You yank the door open, and freeze.
Steve stares at you, hands his pockets, mouth hanging open.
This is usually the part where one of you says hi, but you can’t remember how to speak. He’s here. Why is he here. He’s been giving you space, because he’s amazing and polite, and it had been so much easier to pretend it was just because he didn’t care when he wasn’t right in front of you. Looking like you’d just punched him in the face, all pale with sagging shoulders and sad, dull eyes. As if he’s lost sleep.
He scans over you. Over your revealing outfit and makeover. His throat bobs, and you could swear he slouches further. When he meets your gaze, he doesn’t smile. It makes you want to cry.
“Steve-“
“You’ve been avoiding me.” He mutters, the words thick and low. “And- I’m not here to fight about it. I didn’t think you were going to open the door, I didn’t- I wasn’t going to bother you. Just- Never mind.”
You blink. “I- What are you-“
“You got a date?” He nods to your outfit, and something in his pockets shift. He’s fisting his hands.
“Um-“ You glance to his pockets again, then back to his weighted gaze. “Yeah. I do.”
“With whom.”
Shit. You still can’t remember. “Someone I met on an app. Steve, what are you-“
“On an app.” He echoes, the words sounding hollow. He chuckles under his breath. “You know, Stark made me try those once.”
You swallow. You don’t want to hear about his dating life. “How did that go.”
“Bad. And I tried, I just…” He trails off, shaking his head, and you think you can feel his stare burrowing into your heart, shaping it even further in his name.
This is exactly what you were trying to avoid. Seeing him makes you love him more, think about him more, need him more. He’s got a gravity over you, and he doesn’t know it, and why is he here.
“Is he nice.”
Steve’s voice is low. Pained. You don’t understand the question.
“Who?”
“Your date.” He grunts. “Is he nice to you.”
“Oh.” You forgot about that part. “Yeah.”
“Good.”
Neither of you speak for a second. Steve stares at you so hard our head spins, and you can’t look him in the eyes.
“What did I do?”
His voice breaks suddenly, and you feel the crack in your ribs. It yanks your gaze up, and you’ve never seen him so sad. Frustrated and annoyed, sure. Tense, all the time. But never just… Sad. Defeated. Like even he isn’t sure what to do. It feels wrong. Like the world is bleeding together and caving over itself.
“You didn’t do anything-“
“I must have.” He scans over your features, his own so openly aching. “You’ve never been mad at me before, and- Now you’re-“
He waves to your outfit, and you frown.
“It’s just a date-“
“Just a date.” He mutters under his breath, and your mouth falls open.
“I’m allowed to date, Steven-“
“I know you are!” His voice raises for a second, but he quickly pushes it back down. “I- I know, but that’s not- Why are you avoiding me?”
He’s pleading. It’s almost bleeding out of his voice, staining all over you, and you wrap an arm around your stomach like you can stop yourself from bleeding back. This isn’t fair. Steve’s not stupid. He can’t have just forgotten your mistake of expressing your feelings, he’s not nearly oblivious to be unable to put two and two together, and he certainly can’t be dense enough to not tie together that you’re avoiding him, and going on a date. You don’t go on dates. You’re usually too busy trying to steal some love from his shadow.
Yet here he is. Looking at you like he really doesn’t understand. Being so nice about it, when it’s clearly been bothering him. No demanding to understand. No shouting about how hurt he was. Just pleading.
Because he’s golden and perfect. All respectful, like you’re just another lady to him.
Like you’re not worth enough for him to fight a little dirtier for.
A lump is pressing up your throat. It’s a battle to hold his gaze.
“Why do you think I’ve been avoiding you.” You mutter, and he shakes his head.
“I don’t know, that’s why I’m asking.” Steve rubs his face, working his jaw. “I can’t fix it if you don’t tell me what I did-“
“Steve-“
“And I’ll fix it, whatever I did, I’ll fix it-“
“You can’t fix it!” You shout.
He stumbles back like you slapped him, and tears burn at your eyes.
“You- You can’t fix it, Steve.” You whisper, staring down at his shoes. “Just- Stop.”
“Stop what?” He rasps. “I- I know I messed something up, but-“
“Stop being so nice to me.”
He’s silent for a moment. You don’t even know how to justify that one. It sounds pathetic to your ears.
“I... I’d rather not.” He mutters, and you sigh.
“Then please leave me alone.” The words hurt, but you push them out like an apple lodged in your throat. “I- I tried, okay? I really tried, but I can’t.”
“Can’t-“
“Can’t be your friend.” You whisper. The tears burn on your cheeks. “I can’t be your friend, Steve, it’s too hard. I- I-“
You sniff, and Steve rasps your name. You have to shake your head. He can’t talk right now. It’s already too hard.
“I love you.” You say, barely a breath. It doesn’t matter. He’ll hear anyway. “I love you too much, and- It’s not your fault that you don’t- That it’s not the same. But please.” You shift on your feet, hugging yourself tight. “I- I need space.”
Steve doesn’t say anything. There isn’t anything he could say to make it better, not anymore. But something in you still fractures, when he just steps to the side. Giving you a path out.
Letting you go.
You think it’s hope. The hope that one day he might feel the same, the dream that you’d tried so hard not to feed, but tended to bloom on its own. That one day he’d look at you and realize he made a mistake.
But he steps to the side. And that’s all it’s ever going to be.
A dream.
You bow your head and shuffle past him, face burning and skin crawling with shame. You’re going to go on this date and pretend like everything is fine, if you can even make it out of the hallway without breaking down. Your knees are wobbly and tears are coming faster than you can wipe away, but you just need to get out. Out of this hallway with its suffocating air.
Away from Steve, and your heart, broken at his feet.
You’ll get over it. You’ll get over it. It’s hard to breathe right now but you’ll get over it-
“God- Screw it.”
A strong hand wraps around your wrist. It takes you by such surprise you don’t even think to fight.
Steve spins your around, grabbing your jaw and picking you up in a single movement. You gasp as his lips slam over yours, sudden and demanding. He kisses you like he doesn’t know he’s already got a claim on you. Like he’s trying to brand your lips with a bruising, hungry desire. All you can do is breathlessly kiss him back, scraping at his shoulders and trying to keep up with what’s happening. Steve tastes a little like honey and salt, and you’re sure he ate something earlier but you don’t really care what. His hair is just as soft as you thought, and you’re being crushed under the force of him but it’s intoxicating and exhilarating and you feel like you’re being remade-
It’s over. Just as fast as it started. Steve stumbles back, fumbling with his hands like they’re still trying to reach you against his will. He braces them on his hips, staring at you with wide eyes.
You gape at him, trying to catch your breath. You reach up to brush your own lips, trying to make sure the tingly feeling there is real. Maybe press it deeper in, until you can feel it forever.
Steve clears his throat. You blink at him through the slowly drying tears, not really sure what’s happening.
Neither of you dare to speak. Or move. You’re breathing shallowly, like anything too big is going to tip the whole world over, and it will all slip through your fingers.
He takes an uncertain step forward, and you should take one back.
But you’ve never been all that good at moving away from him before. You have no interest in learning that skill now.
This time, you grab him at the same time he grabs you. You stumble into each other, uncoordinated and desperate, unbothered by bumping noses and smushed limbs. You just need to be close to him. To feel him as much as possible, as fast as possible.
He’s never been a drug. You’d been getting a secondary high, but this-
This is a hit.
And you need to have more.
You grab at his collar, pressing up to meet his every kiss, and you’re quickly making out with teeth and tongue in the middle of the hallway. Steve’s arm wraps around your ass, lifting you effortlessly off your feet, and you moan into his mouth.
He trips as he walks back into the apartment, and you end up pressed against the wall at least three more times before you make it through the door. Every time Steve slams you back, devoting all his attention to kissing you until you’re drooling and sloppy and just trying to push further into his open mouth. At one point he slots his knee between your thighs, and you start to shamelessly grind down as he sucks your lower lip between his teeth.
You giggle, dazed and sore with overflowing need for him. He kicks the door closed behind you, and you think you’re going to end up riding his thigh against the wall, but he starts down the hall. To your bedroom.
He makes it about five steps before you rake your nail through his hair and start kissing over his jaw. Steve moans into your ear, lagging a little sideways, and you shriek as you both topple down onto the couch.
It takes you a second to catch your breath, and that’s all Steve needs to get the upper hand. He grabs your jaw, tipping your head back as he starts to suck and nip at your neck. You squeak, grabbing his head, and he moans against your skin. His knee pushes back between your thighs, and this angle is even better than before. You can’t help the roll of your hips, down onto the muscle of his thick leg.
“St- Steve-“ You voice is high, and he hums, licking up your throat before making out with a soft spot under your jaw. “Jesus fucking- God-“
“I know.” He mutters, dragging his hand down your thigh and grabbing under your knee. He squeezes gently, hiking it up to your chest, pushing his knee down even harder than before.
“Fuck- You-“ You gasp, your pussy clenching around nothing as your clit gets rubbed through his jeans, through your panties.
At this angle, you’re almost exposed to him. Your dress pooling around your tummy, the wet spot on your underwear growing bigger and bigger. You grasp at the skirt, trying to tug it down a little. It’s one thing to be riding his knee, another for him to see you.
Steve grabs your wrist, pushing the fabric further down than it had been before. Your eyes almost cross when he starts to rub his knee back and forth, the pressure overwhelming and perfect. You didn’t think you could cum like this, but there’s a familiar pressure building up in your stomach, and you have to bite your tongue to stop a wanton moan from escaping your lips.
He sits up to look at you, and you’re sure it’s a shameful, lewd sight. Your makeup smudged, your hair ruined, a picture of depravity and sin as you chase pleasure on his leg. This isn’t the kind of thing you thought he’d be into. He’s too perfect, too good, and maybe you’ve wanted to be put in a headlock and manhandled and used, but Steve’s all about honor. You’d been so sure that, even if you got to have him, it would be lovely, vanilla sex that was filled with such emotion it would make up for the simpleness.
But that’s not what you see in Steve’s eyes. They’re hooded and black with lust. His jaw is clenched as he watches you, and he pushes your leg further up with a gentle squeeze.
“Oh-“ You gasp, trying to reach up to grab him.
Steve grabs your second wrist without letting go of the first. Holds him in one hand, and leans over you as he pins them both over your head. Your mouth falls open, breathing fast and needy.
His own chest is heaving. He looks down to his knee against your core, and a deep sound rumbles from his chest. You’re wound so tight you’re certain you could snap, sudden and fast like a rubber band. You strain against Steve’s hold, and his attention snaps back up.
“You’re good, doll.” He coos. “Relax for me.”
You blink at him, shaking your head. You can’t stop grinding against him, but you need him close. Need to be under the pressure of his body, to feel like there’s nothing else in the world.
Steve picks up the speed of his knee, almost drilling it down into your cunt without touching you at all. You gape, head lolling to the side, and he grunts.
“Look at me.”
His voice is deep. Not a suggestion. An order.
You blink up at him, almost drooling, and he leans down until his lips are ghosting over yours.
“I don’t want space.” He mutters. “I want you.”
You swallow, still rubbing your pussy up into his knee. “You- You can’t just-“
“Shh.” He pushes further down, until it feels like he’s almost inside of you. You snap your mouth shut. “Is that all I did?”
“Wha- Oh-“
He drags his knee in slow circles, and you make an incoherent, starved sound. Steve doesn’t even break a sweat.
“You and me.” He mutters, studying your every expression. “That’s it. That’s what was gonna make me lose you.”
“You- You didn’t lose me-“
“Almost did.” He squeezes your knee. “You walked.”
You glare up at him. “You let me-“
“No, I didn’t.”
Steve’s lips slam back over yours, and you can’t really argue with that. Your eyes flutter as you give into the kiss, your body sparking with a million, delighted nerves. Steve groans against your lips, fucking his knee against your core, and he’s hitting your clit just right, the fabric soaked and filled with rough friction.
Your back arches off the couch as you cum, and Steve lets go of your wrists. You grab his face, trying to pull his lips closer, and he wraps around your back, holding you up. Your toes curl, body shaking as the pressure becomes sensitive, your pussy gushing and clenching around nothing.
Steve rubs your spine, kissing along your shoulder, up your neck, over your cheeks. You hum softly, floating down and tucked into his arms. He leans back against the couch, taking you with him. You slump over his chest, burying your face in his neck as his hand slips under your dress. Thick, calloused finger pads gently graze your hips and waist, and you squirm.
“I- I didn’t want to ruin something.” He murmurs in your ear, and you pause.
“Ruin…”
“Us.” Steve’s face presses into the curve of your neck, warm breath tickling your skin. “You were my friend, we work in a lotta the same places, and I just- I didn’t want to risk that.”
You swallow, leaning back and waiting until he meets your glossy, sad gaze. You take his face between your hands, and he covers them with his own.
“I was willing to risk it.” You whisper, and he sighs.
“I know. But-“ He looks away, words choked and low. “I thought it was a crush. That you’d get over.”
You laugh weakly. “Well, it wasn’t.”
“I know.” He sighs. “Mine wasn’t either.”
You lips part with a sharp breath, and Steve looks back to you with nervous, hopeful eyes.
“I love you.” He squeezes both your hands, guiding them to his lips. “It is the same. So- Tell me that fixes it. Please.”
It does.
Just as fast as they’d shattered, your dreams weave themselves back together. They’re clearer than before. More colorful. It’s no longer like looking through a mist, or watching a reflection in the water. When you touch Steve, he doesn’t ripple away. And that’s more than enough.
You lean down and kiss him. It’s slower than the other kisses. Steve grabs your hips, but lets you press his head down. You wrap your arms around his neck, tracing his lips with your tongue, and he hums in content. Drags you further forward in his lap.
Something thick and hard presses right against you, and you almost go limp. Like your body is already trying to get ready to take it. To take Steve’s cock that can’t be as large as it feels, straining against his jeans and twitching when you drag yourself slowly back and forth.
“Hey.” Steve grunts, grabbing your hips firmly. You hope he’s holding tight enough to leave a bruise. “Easy.”
You snort, leaning back to give him a pointed look. “Easy?”
“Yeah, that’s what I-“
“I just came on your knee.”
His ears turn a little pink, and he coughs. “I, uh- Fair.”
“Mhm.” You hum, smiling smugly, and you take all the strength in your jelly legs and grind right now onto his clothed cock.
Steve hisses, his fingers digging into your soft skin. “Jesus- Baby-“
You brace your arms on either side of his head, dragging back and forth as slow as you can. Steve’s eyes flutter, his tongue darting over his lips as he watches you move on him. His muscles flex with the effort not to grab you.
You’d very much like to see him give up.
“Does that feel good?” You whisper, making your voice sweet and innocent.
Steve grunts. You’re going to have handprints on your body in the morning. The thought just makes you move faster.
“I don’t want to go slow, Stevie.” You purr, and his chest heaves under you. “I want you to fuck me. Pleeease.”
You whine dramatically, thrusting forward, and Steve’s face drops against your chest.
“Jesus, woman.” He lips graze over your breast, and you moan. “Come on, ‘s not playing fair-“
“Don’t wanna play fair.” You hum, slowly reaching between your bodies. “Wasn’t fair how you turned me down.”
“’M sorry about that-“
“You should be.” You kiss under his ear. “Hurt my feelings.”
“Thought-“ He grunts as you palm his balls through his jeans. “Thought I was helping-“
“You weren’t.”
“I got that now-“
“But you know what would make it better?” You lean back up, holding Steve’s gaze with a lazy smile.
He nods quickly, and you giggle, wiggling down onto his bulge.
“Fucking me.”
Steve looks down, and a rumble echoes through his chest when he sees it.
You’d peeled off your ruined underwear without him noticing. Leaving your bare, sweet and soaked pussy pressed against him. You moan, watching him as you grind down, and he’s so close to snapping. You can see it in the tension of his jaw, feel how his fingers keep twitching on your hips. You smile at him, licking your lips, and that dark look flashes over his features. The same one from earlier, that had him overtaking you like a storm.
Steve’s a good boy. A sweet boy.
He also doesn’t like things that he can’t account for. Used to pick fights in alleys as a kid, always wanted to be the person everyone looked to for help.
You’re sure that, between the two of you, you can let him have a little fun without compromising his moral compass.
He has to, if you’re begging him for it. Not very chivalrous, to ignore a lady in need.
“Pleaseee.” You whine again, ghosting your lips over his. “Fuck me, Stevie, fuck me until I can’t walk-“
He mutters your name under his breath, and you just pout at him.
“Make me yours, make me cry, fuck-“ You throw your head back, the teasing him going straight to your own core. “God, fucking- Please, Steve-“
That does it. The explicit, wet cry of his name seems to snap something in Steve’s resolve, and he’s on you in a blur of hands and lips. Grabbing a fistful of your ass before hauling you up his chest, kissing you breathless as he stands. He keeps carrying like you weigh nothing, and you want to be trapped in his arms forever.
“Steve- Shit-“ Your jaw drops he tosses you over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. “Fuck, slow down-“
“You said you didn’t want to slow down.” He reminds you in a deceptively soothing voice, big hands rubbing on the back of your thighs. “Said you didn’t wanna play fair.”
“I- Um- Ooooh-“
You drop your head against Steve’s shoulder, biting at his shirt as thick, strong fingers tease the lips of your pussy.
“Wet fuckin’ pussy.” He muses, spreading you open so the cold air hits your cunt. “Knew you got soaked for me, princess. Didn’t know it was this bad.”
“You- You-“ He needs to stop humiliating you and touching you at the same time. It makes you feel like you’re burning alive in the best way possible. “You knew?” You squeak, and Steve chuckles.
“Always knew. Told you, thought it was a crush.”
You try to twist and glare at him. “And you didn’t tell me-“
“Like you would’ve wanted me to tell you I could smell how badly you wanted my cock.” Steve smacks your ass with a scoff, and you flop right back over his shoulder.
“Fuck-“ You whimper. He’s right. You can barely even stand that right now. “Steve, please- Please-“
You’re not even sure what you’re begging for anymore. Mercy, maybe. More mocking attention. Anything he can fucking give you, because you feel like you’re about to explode.
Steve spanks you again, this time on the other cheek, and you moan.
“’Course you like that.” He mutters. “Dirty girl, testing me every fucking day.”
He drags his thumb through the mess between your legs, and your pussy clenches, trying to drag him in. He laughs, pushing down for half a second before dragging down to your clit and rubbing in quick, tight circle. You gasp, pushing uselessly at his back, already overstimulated and still needing more.
“Felt that.” Steve flicks your clit, and your whole body shakes. “Greedy, princess. You’ve been waitin’ this long, you can hold it a little longer.”
“Ca- Can’t-“ You gasp, pressing your cheek against the broad muscle of his back. “Can’t, Steve- Can’t wait-“
“Yeah, you can.” He grunts. “Christ, you’re dripping all over my hand. Going to take me no problem, aren’t you, baby.”
He’s playing with your clit like it’s just a little button for his whims, and you have to bite your inner cheek to stop yourself from falling apart all over his hand.
“Steve- I- I’m going to- Oh my god-“
Steve slaps right over your pussy, the wet sound echoing in your ears as he shoves those two fingers right into your pussy. He finds your G-spot in a second, crooking his fingers and dragging them over your sensitive walls. You cum with a cry of his name, sudden and harsh. White dancing at your vision, your body seizing up as Steve dumps you down onto the soft mattress.
He presses his wrist further, folding your body up. You grab his neck for an anchor, and he kisses your wrist as he slides a third finger into your dripping mess of a pussy.
“Getting you ready.” He mutters, wiping some hair from your face. “It’s okay, babydoll, you’re doin’ real good.”
You whimper, the orgasm still shaking through you. You’re struggling to breathe when Steve finally pulls his hand away, and the loss makes you whimper.
Steve laughs softly, leaning down to kiss you all sweet and loving, like you haven’t been turned to a puddle under his hands.
“Breathe.” He murmurs, squeezing your breast gently, and you take a loud, stuttering gasp. Steve kisses your nose, smiling like he’s being offered ice cream, and you watch him in a starry-eyed daze.
You hear the click of his belt, and as much as you’d like to reach down and feel him, you can barely manage to hold onto his shoulders right now. Steve pulls slowly up with one last chaste kiss on your lips, and your breath hitches in your throat.
He’s massive. That’s the kind of dick you’ve only seen in cartoons, because even the porn industry can’t replicate it. You’re not sure how he gets around so easily in his tight suit, with that fucking horse cock acting like a third leg. Thick and veined, already beading with pre-cum as he strokes it slowly in his hand, a sheepish expression on his face.
“I was… Endowed.” He mumbles, ears red. “Before the serum. Then…”
He nods to his cock, and you laugh breathlessly.
“Jesus, Steve-“
“It won’t hurt you.” He says quickly. “I know there are those rumors ‘bout be being a virgin, but-“ He sighs, pouting slightly. “God forbid a man tell Tony Stark he doesn’t want to talk about his sex life, suddenly he’s never even touched a boob-“
“Dude.” You smile up at him, and he cuts himself off. “Look me in the eyes and tell me if I still think you’re a virgin after that.”
You tilt your head to the hallway, but Steve just frowns.
“Dude?”
“Um-“
“Don’t call me dude when I’m about to fuck you.” He grumbles, and you’d laugh at him if that didn’t make your heart skip. e
“Sorry, sir.”
You say it half to mock him, half to test something.
Steve’s jaw ticks, and his already rock-hard cock twitches in his hands. You giggle as his eyes narrow, and you’re still laughing as he prowls over you, that dark, hungry look back on his face.
“You think something’s funny?” He grunts, and you shake your head.
“No, sir.”
Steve groans, dropping his face between your breasts.
“Gonna be the death of me.” He mutters under his breath, and you’re still laughing softly.
“Sorry.”
“No, you’re not.”
You laugh again, because you’re really not. It’s hilarious, and he’s adorable, and this is going to yield some fantastic results.
Steve assesses you like you’re a mission to be accomplished. And you know him.
He never does anything halfway.
“Alright, princess.” He mutters, tapping the head of his cock on your clit. “Open.”
You squeak, still giggling, and spread your legs slowly.
The last laugh is pushed from your chest as Steve slowly starts to sink himself into your heat. Your mouth falls uselessly open as you bow off the bed, your body almost unable to rationalize how full you are.
Steve splits you open, his cock slowly driving through you and hitting spots you didn’t even know you had. He grinds slowly down into your pussy, bullying you further open, and you think he’s found a button inside you that just makes you a limp, sensitive fuck-doll, because you whine out his name but it takes everything you have.
“I know.” He grunts, the tip of his cock pressing into your cervix. “You’re taking it, baby, there you go.”
“Steveee-“
“Feels good, doesn’t it.” He presses at sweet kiss to your lips as he bottoms out. His fingers lace slowly through yours, and you nod.
You’ve never had so many pleasure points being hit at once. Steve’s still got a hand on your breast, rolling your nipple between his fingers as you try to breath around him. He’s patient. You don’t want him to be.
“More.” You push out, and he raises his brows.
“Sweetheart-“
“More.” You roll up into him, moaning loudly as he hits even deeper. “Fuck me, Steve- Mmm-“
He kisses you, passionate and messy, and you almost scream in satisfaction as he starts to move.
He’s unrushed. Completely in control of you, and aware of it. His dick pulls almost all the way out before slowly pushing back in, the torturous pace making you feel like a live wire.
“Yeah, that’s it.” He coos, pressing a sweet kiss to your lips. “Pretty girl, you like being stuffed up with my cock, don’t you.”
“Ye- Yes-“ You tip your head back into the pillows, your free hand grasping at the sheets. “Yes- Oh my god, yes-“
Steve’s started to grind against your g-spot whenever he hits it, letting his thickness press and drag over the sensitive, gooey spot until you’re moaning and writhing around him.
“Feel that, don’t you.” He mutters, pushing in a little harder than last time. “Feel my dick inside you, baby, feels so good, doesn’t-“
“So good.” You babble, but who can blame you. “So good, Steve, you’re so-“
Your words turn into a broken moan as Steve drives back into you, and he’s going harder and harder every time. Still pulling almost fully out slowly, letting your arousal gather and drip down your thighs and ass, but then slamming back into you so hard it makes you think the world is shaking.
A breathy sound escapes your lips, maybe a plea, and Steve moves your tangled hands between your bodies, pressing you down into the mattress as he rises up for a better angle.
“You’re so fuckin’ wet.” He growls, pounding into your cunt like he owns it. “If I’d know you wanted me this bad I woulda had you all over this city.”
You whine, squeezing around him. Steve chuckles.
“Oh, you like that. Like the idea of being my good little cockslut, letting me play with you wherever I want.”
Big, steady hands press your knees up, letting Steve hit even deeper than before. A strange, tight feeling is building in your gut, but it feels good. All of this feels so good. You’re spent and cockdrunk, but you feel used in the best possible way. The filth Steve is drawling in your ears makes your brain go all quiet. You’re just a happy, humming bundle of pleasure, Steve’s massive body draped over yours, and you’d probably do anything he wanted, if he just fucked you like this after.
“You were made for me.” He groans, lips wandering all over your face as his cock drills into you. “I’m gonna take such good care of you, baby, swear it, just sing for me, come on-“
You moan, long and loud. Steve grins, kissing under your ear.
“Good girl.” He coos. “There you go, just like that. Come on, doll, I know you’re getting close.”
You are. You’ve been close the whole time, but this feels more and more different by the second. There are wet, sinful sounds filling the room as your skin slaps together, and Steve’s breath is hot in your ear as he starts to lose a little control of himself.
He moans when you start mindlessly humping up to meet him, forcing his cock into the tightest spot into you that makes everything all colorful and hazy. You gasp softly, chasing up from a little more, and Steve wraps and arm around your back.
“Fuck- Fuck- You feel so good,” he groans your name in your ear. “So good, it’s- Christ-“
That strange pressure in your tummy is going to burst. It feels like Steve is driving right against it, daring it come undone.
“Steve.” You breathe out. “Steve- I- I’m gonna-“
He growls, deep in his chest and rolling through you. Steve grabs you and wrestles you down into the mattress, pushing your legs up to your chest and fucking you fast and brutal.
It’s a sight above you. Steve, panting and moaning as your pussy sucks him in, glistening arousal shining all over his cock when he pulls out and smearing on your tummy. Your tight walls are starting to contract, and he doubles over, groaning your name as his thrust become shallow and unmeasured.
Tears start to stream down your face. Steve looks at you like you’re an angel, fucking you like you’re just a toy, and you can’t even remember how to tell him how good it feels.
“Steve…” You wiggle below him, crying out as he just fucks you hard. “Steve- Ooooooh-“
Your eyes roll back, the tears burning on your cheeks from the impossible to handle pleasure. Steve leans down and kisses them off your cheeks, the softness in such contrast with how he’s turning you into a bundle of nerves and tears.
“My pretty girl.” He mutters, kissing your lips sweetly. “Close. We’re so close. You can make it. Make it for me.”
You nod, almost hypnotized into agreeing. And Steve’s abusing that spot inside of you. Sensitive and overwhelming, making your toes curl and eyes cross.
“Steve- I- I can’t-“
“Yes, you can.” Not a suggestion. Steve’s thumb finds your clit, rubbing it back and forth as he ruts into you. “Come for me, now.”
The command rolls through you, and that pressure bursts. Heat washes over you, making you bow off the bed as a funny, wet feeling gushes out between your thighs. Steve groans, slamming his mouth back over yours, groaning your name as you start to milk his cock.
“Fuck,” he groans, and you wrap your arms tight around his neck. Tight enough to strangle him, if he was a normal man. But Steve just splays his hand possessively over your back and moans against your lips, driving home into your cunt as his release rippling through him.
It’s almost as good as your own orgasm. You’re tucked into a shaking, flexing heat of muscle, his deep voice moaning your name in your ear, his cock still thrusting and twitching inside you. Over, and over, and over-
You can barely breathe in the best way. You’ve never had a man cum so much. It starts just hot and sticky, then it’s drooling out, down your ass and onto the sheets. You can feel it in your throat, almost taste it, and even after Steve pulls out it’s everywhere. Painting your pussy creamy and white, branding your abdomen, your tits, your thighs.
Steve stares down at you with a gaping mouth as you both come down from the high. You laugh, hoarse and breathy.
“Woah.”
“Shit.” Steve mutters, grabbing at the remainder of the clean sheets and wiping them over your body. “I- I didn’t- I usually pull out, you just-“
“Steve-“
“We need to get you in the shower, it’s everywhere-“
“Steve-“
“I’m so sorry-“
“Steven.” You smack his shoulder, and he stops dead.
You’re already bridal style in his arms, naked and covered in his cum, some of it dripping all over the floor. You’re going to need to hire a cleaner. Or invest in really, really big buckets that you’ll keep next to the bed.
“Does that happen every time?”
He swallows, and nods.
“Uh- Not that much.” He mumbles. “But yeah.”
Pride glows in your chest. You get the most of him. “Okay.”
Steve blinks. “Okay?”
You nod, and he shakes his head.
“I ruined your room-“
“I liked it.”
He stares. You smile.
Steve rolls his eyes, and presses a kiss to your brow.
“You’re impossible.” He mutters, and you giggle.
“Yeah, but you love me. And you can’t take it back now, you already said it-“
He grabs your chin, turning it so he can fully capture your lips.
“I do love you.” He mutters against your lips. “And no one could make me take it back if they tried.”
You smile. You have no plans to do that.
Steve is somehow more than you ever dreamed. And there’s no way you’re letting him go now.
✦End note: this was so fun for me to write i love a puppy dog man. i hope you enjoyed it!✦
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summary — you and remus lupin have become really good at stealing each other away from parties.
or but if you're too drunk to drive and the music is right, she might let you stay but just for the night....she might want a kiss before the end of this song.
note — this is inspired by lovers rock by tv girl!!! i think this is the longest thing i've ever written. I do very much like it as of right now. that'll probably change in a week.
word count — 12.4k
“Thank Godric, you’re here,” Mary groans from her position on the front porch, Marlene leaning into her side. Both are clearly enjoying a cigarette away from the din of the party. You can tell what type of night it’s going to be already. Not that you’ve arrived two hours late anyway.
“I’ve never seen you so happy to see me, Mary,” you giggle, crossing the threshold of Sirius’s front lawn, careful not to trip on his collection of stolen garden gnomes.
“I’m always happy to see you, lovely.” She extends her hand, the cigarette between her lovely red nails on offer.
“You know who’s going to be even happier?” Marlene coughs, as you take the smoke thankfully, taking a few calming puffs.
You pretend like you have any idea who she’s referring to, “Jamie? Haven’t seen him in a while. Miss that boy,” you laugh, voice strained through the thick smoke you exhale.
“No, you idiot.” Mary pipes up and you hand the smoke back, “Remus. He hasn’t shut up about you all night.”
“That’s if he’s sober enough to even notice you’re here,” Marlene laughs and so does Mary. You smile, small enough to not show how happy you actually are that you get to see him. It’s been too long.
“He’s drinking?”
“Absolutely hammered. We were hoping you’d get here earlier so he wouldn’t drink too much. Please go look after him.” Mary throws her arm around Marlene and she snuggles in closer. They both look content enough to fall asleep right there in the cool summer breeze.
“I’m sure he’s doing okay.”
“I’m sure he will be when you get inside.”
You move to toe your shoes off at the front mat, kicking them away so they’re not a tripping hazard.
“When has Sirius ever done that at your house, Y/N?” Mary laughs, looking down at your socked feet
“Oh, no. This is for me. Don’t want to get my shoes dirty.” You laugh when you grab the handle of the flyscreen, swinging the door open.
The girls’ laughter becomes a distant murmur when you enter the kitchen, met with mostly everyone sitting around the dining table. A deal of cards in everyone’s hands, and piles of coins and sweets sat in the middle.
James and Lily laughing and glowing under the downcast of the orange lighting, appearing to seemingly be winning. Sirius and Frank having their own side bets, throwing coins around before both calling tails. Then, there's Remus. You try to ignore the hitch in your breath when your eyes land on the sandy-haired boy.
He really does look drunk, eyes droopy but still bright when he hiccups a laugh at something James says. A quiet, airy chuckle that has his mouth creasing and eyelashes kissing his cheeks. A smile so pretty, you have to fight your own.
His head is propped up on the table by an elbow that looks like it’s about to slip off the edge, so you sneak up behind him and place your hand against his arm to stop him from falling face-first into the wood.
He looks up at you, a little startled for a second, and you can see the moment it clicks in his head when he realises who he’s looking at. He smiles, all surprised but content and you melt. The last time you had seen him was only for the third time ever at another one of Sirius’s parties. You hate to admit that the only thing you look forward to now is when you receive an invite from your workmate and you have another excuse to see his lanky best friend.
“Y/N! When did you get here?” Sirius chants, flicking his last remaining coin at Frank. He shoots him a well-deserved glare.
“About thirty seconds ago,” you smile.
Sirius looks down at your socked feet and frowns, “You took your shoes off again. How many times do I have to tell you, you don’t have to do that.”
You roll your eyes, “You’re gross, Sirius.”
Remus looks down too, the top of his head pressing into your side, a crush of his curls tickling the bare skin of your arm and you almost shiver. “Cool socks.” Is the first thing he says to you. You giggle.
They’re a dark cornflower shade, moons scattered across the material at random. They crease when you wriggle your toes, “Thanks. Got them from mum for my birthday.”
“She has good taste.” He moves off of you, slouching down in his chair until his knees are pressing Lily’s legs.
His head lolls backwards, neck bared under the warm light. You think you feel dizzier than he does. Even when he squeezes his eyes shut.
“What have you done to him?” you laugh, hand flat against his forehead to brush away his loose hair. He keens, sighing deeply under a hiccup.
“He’s very awful at poker,” James laughs, flicking a pastille across the table. You look at his high pile, and then Sirius and Franks’ which are almost of equal height. Then you look in front of Remus, the table almost bare. You laugh.
“We like to play a little differently,” Franks states over the rim of his bottle.
“Basically, you take a shot every time you lose,” James says, sober as ever. You think maybe he hasn’t lost yet.
“And Remus has lost every hand,” Sirius adds to the chime of details.
“Have not!” Remus finally pipes up, finger pointed at James instead of Sirius, too distracted staring at the ceiling. “Frank lost the first.”
“Anyways, Moons. You just lost and I think you owe us another.”
Remus groans, but sits up to reach for the bottle of Sambuca sitting in the middle of the table. You gently swat his hand and push him back into his chair.
“I think you’ve had enough,” you say, turning to place the bottle on the kitchen bench, along with the empty bottles.
“C’mon, one more,” Remus giggles, making hands for the bottle in the air. A child, you think.
“Yeah, Y/N! One more!” Sirius agrees, smiling boyishly.
“You’ll make yourself sick,” you chide with a small frown. Remus slumps against you, much defeated. He might fall asleep on you if you stand there any longer. You poke his cheek where it’s pressed into your clothes.
“He already is sick.” Sirius is smug when he speaks and you fret about what else he’s about to say, “Sick in love.”
You laugh. Could’ve been worse. But it still has your heart skipping in your chest. You really do hope Remus shares the feelings you hold for him. But then again, Remus is drunk and Sirius, is well, he’s Sirius. Despite the name, he hardly ever is.
“Boo. Awful.” You frown in faux offence, ignoring him when he winks at you. Sickening, really.
You lean down so your mouth is in line with Remus’s ear, “You wanna go lay down?” You realise you’re in quite a predicament. Coming over to parties to see Sirius’s best friend. Looking after him when he’s drunk. You’d hoped he would do the same.
“Please, no sex in my house,” Sirius states, standing to grab another drink. James guffaws.
You roll your eyes, “He’s drunk.”
“So, you do want to have sex with him?” he adds.
You almost choke on your tongue, “No, it’s just. He- Stop it.” You have to stop yourself from saying something wrong. It wasn’t a lie, you did want to. But you wanted much more than that.
“Leave her alone,” Remus chides, leaning back off your stomach. “You’ll scare her off and I’ll never see her again,”
He was right, his friends did intimidate you. But you’d hoped it would take more than not yet warming up to them to get you to never see Remus again.
Remus stands and you’re surprised he doesn’t stumble when he takes your hand to lead you away from the table and out into the lounge room. You poke your tongue out over your shoulder when you hear James make some sort of crude comment to Frank. Lily smiles warmly at you as an apology.
He sits down with all the gracefulness of a baby elephant and you have to bite back a laugh. He looks up at you, pretty eyes all droopy and a lopsided smile, and you feel like you’ll never come back from these feelings ever.
Before you can overly admire him for too long, he’s patting the space next to him with a floppy hand. “C’mon.”
You oblige probably too willingly, flopping yourself down next to him with a small oomph, your thigh pressing into his. He shuffles down the lounge to rest his head atop your shoulder, neck craned a little to reach it. You can’t find it in yourself to mind. His face is warm and it presses into your collarbone that’s peeking from out the top of your shirt. His light stubble tickles your skin and it’s weirdly soothing. God, you know you’re in deep.
“You smell good.”
You breathe in subconsciously, “You do, too.”
Under the strong scent of stale beer and sambuca, you can think you can discern a hint of his cologne. Woody and something like cinnamon. Mixed in with the light scent of his laundry detergent, like fresh linen and lavender. He's dizzying.
“I smell like beer,” he groans, hand finding its way between both of your thighs, your skirt tangled in his fingers.
“You smell nice,” you laugh.
You watch the doorway where James gets up to turn the dial on the vinyl player. The current song now loud enough to be heard where you’re sitting.
Humming along, you say, “I love this song.”
Remus gawps, “Me too. S’my favourite, actually.”
Remus having the exact same favourite song as you makes your head spin. “No way.”
“Yes way.” he smiles. If he were soberer, you’d gush to him over this. It’d have to wait.
He shifts his head from your shoulder and startles for a moment, eyebrows raised, “I didn’t even ask if you wanted a drink.” You get whiplash from the change of subject.
You sigh, very amused at his intent to be nice to you, despite being half-cut, “I’m okay. I wasn’t really planning on drinking tonight.”
He frowns, wrinkles his nose and you want to kiss it. God. “Why did you come, then?” The fact he thinks you came to get drunk and not just to see him makes you want to laugh.
The smile you’re still trying to fight every time he speaks makes your cheeks ache, “To see Sirius.”
He frowns even more and you think he wants to shift away from you. He roughly scratches at his face and you almost regret messing with him.
“Sirius?” He hiccups.
“I’m kidding.” You poke his bicep, “I came to see you.”
There’s a silence and then Remus is breaking out into one of the biggest grins you’d ever seen. You’d have the decency in you to blame it on being drunk. Nothing else.
“Me?” He hiccups, again. You place your hand atop his thigh and trace the thick seam of his pants.
“Yes, you.”
His smile dials back but doesn’t fade and his face relaxes. He leans down to place his head back against your shoulder, cheek all smooshed.
“Oh.”
“Oh?”
“Thank you.” he hums, hooking his elbow behind yours, completely squished against you. He thinks you must be cold in a skirt and a small T-shirt. “I like it when you’re here. You make it bearable.”
You want to accept his compliment, but when he hiccups for the third time, you remember he’s drunk. “That’s a bit mean, Remus. Will I tell your friends you can’t bear them?”
Remus stiffens and you stop rubbing his leg. Drunk Remus is very gullible. Sweet, but gullible all the same.
“Stop it. You know what I mean.” He pushes further into your shoulder and you feel yourself dip down against him, head almost falling against his. You wouldn’t mind if it did, but it wouldn’t be very comfortable, you assume.
“I don’t think I do,” you tease and Remus pinches your side, which results in a stifled yelp.
“Don’t be cruel.” He strains.
“I would never.”
When you shiver in your spot, Remus wonders what your answer would be if he offered you his jacket. He thinks he should test his theory.
“Are you cold?” he asks but doesn’t move his head from your shoulder.
“A little,” you yawn. Which then causes Remus to yawn. You laugh animatedly.
“Do you,” Remus blinks slowly, eyelashes kissing his cheeks as he attempts to keep his eyes open. “do you want my jacket?”
You’re glad Remus’ head is still propped on your shoulder lest he sees the blush creeping across your cheeks. Drunk Remus is gullible. But drunk Remus is still just as kind as he is when he’s sober.
“Then you’ll be cold,” you reply, giving his thigh a squeeze. You crane your neck to look at him. He looks tired.
“Better me than you.” He moves to take it off and before he can even get one arm out, you sit forward and place your hands on his chest. Fingers twisted in his cotton shirt, your turned knee pressing into his.
“Remus, I’m okay.” You give him your most reassuring smile. Being cold is no one’s fault but your own. You don’t want to be an annoyance.
“You sure?”
“Positive.”
Remus sits back, albeit begrudgingly, hands wrapped around the zipper of his jacket. The further he pushes back into the lounge, the more he looks like he’s about to fall asleep.
“Remus?” you murmur. Voice quiet under the din of the party. Sirius is a loud drunk, his laughter roaring at something stupid James is doing.
His head begins to dip into the edge of the cushion, headed for the arm of the chair. If he kept this up, he’d have a crick in his neck in no time.
He hums and you pat his cheek to encourage him to sit up. It’s bemusing how quickly he can drift off. You’re very envious. Maybe it’s just the alcohol.
“What’s up?” he murmurs in return, peeking from one eye, the other scrunched up. He’s adorable and you’re in too deep.
“You seem tired.” You poke his face this time and he beams, all warm and dozey under the mellow light of Sirius’s living room. A line of curls falling into his eyes and the apples of his cheeks a tinge of peach.
He hums again, much thicker than last. “M’not.”
You hold out your hand, all five fingers spread. “How many fingers am I holding up?”
He struggles, but pulls his hand from his lap and holds it up to yours, tangling your fingers. Palm flush against yours and much warmer in comparison. “Feels like five.” He pulls your entwined hands back down and you laugh.
You try not to shy from his actions, pretending like it doesn’t make your heart skip, and then almost stop completely when his thumb rubs circles into the top of your hand. You can feel the warmth seeping from his into your own and your fingertips tingle.
“Do you want to go home?” You twist so you’re completely on the edge of the lounge, hand still wrapped in his. You stop, “Or are you staying here tonight?”
He brings his arm up - with yours still tangled - and rubs his face with the back of his hand. Dragging you up and down. You giggle at his tired actions before pouting.
“I think.'' You can tell he’s trying to stay alert enough to hold a conversation with you.
When he wakes up in the morning he won’t remember being so tired here and will think you both had the best conversation. You’ll be okay with this. “I think Sirius was supposed to take me home, but he’s too drunk now.”
“You’ll sleep on the couch?” You frown and he blinks.
“I think I might have to.” He throws his head back and sighs. Strained and raspy.
You look at the size of Sirius’s two-seater and then Remus’s stupidly long legs. It wouldn’t work, and he’d end up with either a sore back or a worse-off neck than whatever it was he was doing right now. You don’t even really think before you say, “I can walk you home.”
Remus looks a little more alert, “You can’t sleep on this.” You prod the squeaky leather and it bounces back with absolutely no recoil. You’ll be sure to scold Sirius next time for having a horrendous couch, though enough money to buy everyone in the room ten of them. You know he won’t appreciate the exaggeration. But it’s for the sake of his friends’ backs.
“You don’t have to do that.” He sits up properly now and tries to situate himself to look convincingly comfortable. “I’ll make do.”
“It’s no big deal.” You shrug. “I’m walking home anyways.”
Now he’s sitting forward, his knees pushing into your leg and you almost stumble off the seat, grabbing his arm for purchase. “You just got here.” He almost frets and then coughs to hide his worry. He’s not very good at achieving a smooth, cool demeanour when half-cut. Not that he ever achieves it sober, he thinks.
“No, but I think you need to go home and sleep.” You look out into the kitchen that’s now surprisingly quieter. Lily looks like she’s about to fall asleep, leaning on James’s shoulder, who’s trying to play a horrible game of go fish with Sirius and Frank. Absolute party animals.
“I live too far away, anyways,” he says, leaning down to tie his shoelaces. “You’ll have to walk me home and then walk back, you’ll be walking for at least an hour and a half.” Why Remus is so afraid to suggest you can stay the night at his, he doesn’t know.
You squeeze his shoulder as he struggles to loop his lace through his fingers. He decides to go for the simpler, bunny-ear option. “That’s okay. You can stay at mine. I only live ten minutes away.”
When Remus sits back up after tying his laces too tight, his face is pink.
-
Remus Lupin has never been one for sitting comfortably, ever. With long, lanky limbs, he always has his legs sprawled out and his arms thrown over something. Anything he can take up comfortably, with enough space to spread, he’ll sit willingly.
On one hand, he’s thankful you convinced him not to sleep on Sirius’s couch. He didn’t need a repeat of New Year’s. Though, on the other hand, he could’ve made do.
Nothing was like sitting in your bedroom. He wouldn’t say he was uncomfortable, though deep down he was a little, a pit of anxiety creeping up his chest. He felt like he had little room to move - despite you owning a double bed - because he didn’t want to look stupid. He could take up space and not notice it.
Remus has trouble not taking in every detail he can in your room. Like your little trinket dishes filled with miscellaneous items, signet rings and seashells. The stuffed rhino toy in the middle of your pillows that you had told him - shyly at that - was named Clarence. Not before giggling at the poster of Twilight that you swore had been there since you were young. Your current read splayed open on the end of your bed, along with the stack of records in a blue milk crate in the corner, were things he promised himself he would ask you about when he wasn’t half tipsy and could hold a proper conversation.
In his admiration, one that was making his anxiety spread into warmth that seemed to be seeping from his bones. He’s too busy pretending like he isn’t taking in every small detail one shouldn’t when they’ve only known someone for only a month, and doesn’t notice that you’ve changed.
He looks over at you, in a pair of shorts littered with tiny daisies and a shirt that almost eats said shorts. Your hair pulled back and your face still sort of wet from where you obviously washed off the day's grime, causing the hairs around your face to curl. He doesn’t know if it’s the fading alcohol that’s causing him to hiccup even more, or if it’s seeing you all fresh and content from being at home that has his breath catching.
Remus Lupin is still a little drunk but he is also quite clearly growing to like you even more. That doesn’t change. He thinks he's done everything backwards. Meeting you, then seeing you now but too inebriated to say something redeeming, and then seeing you in the comfort of your own home before he even gets to ask you on a date. He also thinks he wouldn’t have it any other way.
“Remus?” Your voice is as calm as you look when you speak and he melts.
“Hm?” He blinks, shaking his head.
“You okay?” Warm light washes over you and paints you amber as you patter across the room, the moon socks that are still on your feet pressing into the white fabric of your rug. “You’re not feeling sick?” He thinks he should blame his daze on a fake sickness, but he doesn’t want you to worry even more, so he decides against it.
When you press the back of your hand to his cheek, that’s only warm because he’s a little overwhelmed, not because he’s feeling poorly, he can’t find it in himself to hold your gaze. “I’m okay.”
“I was saying I don’t think I have any clothes for you to change into.” You remind him after it felt like you were talking to a brick wall a minute earlier.
Remus pushes his hands into the rough material of his black jeans. He doesn’t see himself sleeping in anything else. “That’s okay.”
“You’re not going to sleep in those are you?”
What else would he sleep in if you have no other clothes? “Uh.”
“You wear boxers?” you grin.
“Yeah. Yeah, I do.” He wishes he was still a little drunker so he could blame his bumbling words on the effects of downing half a bottle of sambuca. Now he’s realising that’s just how he sounds when he’s overwhelmed by you.
“Sleep in those. I don’t mind.”
Your confidence, and your confidence only, is how he ends up pantless and under the covers of your bed. He doesn’t feel uncomfortable at all. You have a lovely way of making him feel at ease. He thinks that’s why he likes you so much.
You smell different than earlier in the night when your shirt tickles his arm. Like fresh face wash and night creams, and maybe even roses. He’d hate to think of what he smelt like in comparison to you. Probably still like beer, and maybe like sweat. He should’ve asked if he could’ve showered. That might’ve been too much, he’s definitely overthinking.
“You’re very quiet,” you say into the dimness of your room. He’s lucky your bedside lamp is so muted, lest you see the goosebumps raised over his skin and how his cheeks haven’t returned to their normal colour since he crossed the threshold of your room.
“M’thinking,” he returns, just as quiet. It feels wrong to disturb the calmness blanketing the room.
“I can tell.” He can hear you grin, “What about?”
He swallows and he wouldn’t be surprised if you heard it, “You.”
You huff a small laugh and push down into the pillow behind you, “Me?” Your voice is a little strained, and not louder than before. Maybe even quieter.
“Yeah. Thinking about the next time I’ll get to see you.”
“You haven’t even left yet and you’re thinking ahead to the next time we’ll see each other,” you tease, getting comfortable underneath your plush quilt and sheets. Probably too much for a summer night but there’s still a chill in the air, flowing through your open window.
“I’m just hoping I won’t be so drunk,” he admits, hating how he still actually does sound drunk.
“Hopefully,” you smile, “But that’s okay, we can blame it on James.”
“If only I wasn’t so shit at poker,” he laughs in a strained and animated voice, trying to hold back a yawn.
He finally gets comfortable, hands fisting the sheets around his body and head balancing restfully against the plush of your ivory pillows.
You can see his eyes flutter in an attempt to stay awake. You think it’s endearing but you also think he needs to sleep. “Remus,” you say, firm but caring at once.
“Hmm?” he mumbles, eyebrows pinched.
“You should sleep.” You push itchy locks away from his forehead and he sighs at the caring touch of your fingers.
“Don’t wanna.” He scrunches his nose, “I think I’m finally sobering up. Wanna talk t’you.”
You smile at his absolute urgency and think he’s adorable. Truly. “Please, sleep. We’ll talk in the morning.”
“You’ll be here?” This, you actually laugh at.
“Of course, Remus. You’re in my room.”
He closes his eyes, eyelashes kissing the freckles of his cheeks and his tired, darkened skin, “M’kay.”
When you wake up in the morning, almost midday, Remus plagued by the effects of alcohol, you too content to wake whilst being next to him, you both have separate texts from Sirius.
Your own chat log reads, aren’t U glad you came out? You don’t reply, not wanting to encourage him in any way.
Remus’s phone, on the other hand, reads,
uncle pads has a ring to it don’t you think? xxxx
He does in fact reply, too used to Sirius being a twat.
Nothing happened. Ur disgusting and I hate you.
what do U mean nothing happened?
I was drunk. She helped me basically stumble home.
U both stumbled. in her sheets.
Fuck off. Idiot.
Neither of you mention any of Sirius’s messages to each other the entire morning. Too busy enjoying each other's company.
-
The week spent after Remus had drunkenly stayed the night, you could pleasantly, though maybe even with a smidge of embarrassment, admit that he was all you thought about since.
It was a new feeling. You’d never felt it before. The endearment, but also the nerves, of realising you actually like someone. Some days it made your cheeks ache from smiling, and filled your chest with warmth. On other days, the warmth cracked your chest open, an aching chasm pleading to be filled and a head clouded with apprehension.
You were eager and scared all at once. But you were happy either way because Remus made you feel things. Good things.
You had spent the morning, forcing him to eat something, telling him it would make his hangover feel much better. He’d argued for no longer than two minutes before agreeing. Saying, who am I to argue with a girl like you?
“Like me?” you’d replied, mouth full of half-eaten pancake, pushing his own plate across the marble of your kitchen bar.
“Smart,” he smiled, picking at a blueberry, “Pretty.”
And after it was your turn to babble like a fool, he’d eased you open. Asked you about the record collection in your room (he was proud of himself for remembering). You’d rambled off your favourite artists, a lot similar, and he knew he’d be an idiot if he didn’t give you his number before he left.
And he did. Wrote his number on your hand as you stood at your doorway and he thanked you for breakfast. And for walking him home, drunk. You kissed his cheek and watched him press his fingers into his skin until he rounded the corner.
You wrote the number down on a piece of paper, magnetising it to your fridge as soon as you shut the door. Though your hands were sweaty - obviously because you were around Remus - and the last number had smudged. Was it a 3? Or an 8? Or a weird looking 5? You couldn’t tell and told yourself that was a problem you could deal with later.
It was later. A whole week later and you still hadn’t called him. If it was due to your nerves or the fact you had a missing number, that was your business only. You left the last space blank, the empty spot a blinding reminder of your stupidity. You’d just have to try every number until you found Remus. It would take no more than ten attempts.
Numbers zero through four were all wrong numbers. You were only met with a piercing tone before the line went dead. When you got to five, you were met with, what sounded like, a grumpy old lady. You tried to hang up straight away, well aware it wasn’t him, but she screeched and persisted that if she had a prank call one more time, she would phone the police!
Turns out, it was a 6 after all. The lovely tone of Remus’s voice rings down the line and you sigh in relief.
“It’s you.” Your voice is airy and Remus isn't sure he knows who it is.
There are only a handful of people who have his number. His friends, most of them called and checked in regularly, except Mary, who's always one to stop by instead. His parents and his neighbour had it too. But he seriously doubted the latter, unless his flat had been ransacked.
And then he remembers he'd given it to you and he laughs. All these thoughts happen within the span of two seconds. He hopes it's you, he's been anticipating a call all week. He was beginning to maybe think you didn’t actually want to hear from him. That he'd embarrassed himself in his drunken stupor. But then he remembered how nice you were to him.
You’ll make yourself sick.
“It is?” he laughs, still hoping it is in fact you. The image of his flat turned upside down, the spot on his mantle where his small TV is, now empty, flashes across his mind.
“Remus. It’s me!” you chirp and he pushes his phone closer to his ear as if it’ll make him hear your pretty voice even clearer.
”Me? I don’t think I know any me’s” he teases, fighting back an eager smile. Teasing you could be fun. Could become a constant. He’s imagining the warmth of your cheeks, and hopefully a small smile.
“Y/N,” you correct and he can almost hear the roll of your eyes.
“Oh. I know an Y/N,” he smiles, leaning against the lip of his kitchen bench. “She’s very pretty,” he pauses, wanting to drag it out, “and she’s super-”
“Remus,” you plead. Half wanting him to continue, half wanting him to stop to save your phone splitting in half where you’re holding it too hard. “Stop.”
Hearing your smile isn’t enough for him, “Super cool. Actually probably way too cool for me and…”
Remus sighs, very happy with himself.
“You done?” you ask.
“Maybe.”
“You’re a nuisance.”
Remus decides to not argue, you’re half right anyways. “I’m sorry. What’s up?”
You pause, thinking. You’ve forgotten why you called him for a moment. Too happy with just listening to him talk. You think you could do it all day if he let you. “I was wondering if you were coming out tonight? Drinks?” You feel silly asking now. It was drinks for James, he’d gotten a promotion, but of course, Remus is coming, they're best friends.
“Are you?”
You grin, “Yes. Yeah, I am.”
“Great. Me too.”
The excitement you feel when you know you’ll be seeing him again is palpable. Giddiness mixed with a number of nerves is always there whenever you think of him. He makes you feel like a schoolgirl again and you know he’ll be the cause of your undoing.
“Great.”
A face-splitting smile erupts across Remus’s features. If only you could see each other.
-
The amount of time you spend getting ready in the afternoon for James’s get-together is silly. After what's an almost stupid amount of time rustling through your closet to find something, the final thing you settle on you hope isn’t stupid. A red skirt that ends mid-thigh, a white tee and a leather jacket. Boots that you hope actually do your legs justice, not just how they look in the mirror.
You know exactly why you're making such a fuss with your appearance. Spending an extra amount of time making sure loose hairs are sprayed down and a fresh coat of nail polish that's applied probably a little too late before you make your way out your front door.
You think that maybe if you didn’t know if Remus was attending or not it'd be a lot easier on you. Or maybe worse. God, you're a mess. You just really want to make him like you.
Arriving at the pub a little early is probably a bad idea in the long run. You greet James and Lily with equal delight. You hadn’t seen them since his shindig at least two weeks ago. Sirius, pint in hand, greets you loud enough to let the entire pub know of your arrival. Frank and Alice are absent. In-laws. You feel as though you had finally found the perfect group of friends.
James had told you that Remus was probably going to be late.
Which gives you too much time to down an inappropriate number of vodka-cranberries, much to Sirius’s delight. Pressed into a corner booth, settled next to James and Sirius who have now also transitioned to fruity drinks.
When Remus finally arrives, the sun now set, you're at least five cocktails deep. The pub is a little loud now, though you’d never struggle to hear any of your rambunctious friends. They're probably half the noise. You're a giggling mess, warm from the effects of alcohol. You feel ridiculously happy like you expected to, but you haven’t even seen Remus yet.
When you sip back the last dregs of your drink, the rim pressed into your nose, determined not to waste a single drop, your eyes finally settle on Remus who's selfishly been admiring you from afar. Your eyes light up like a delighted puppy and he has to bite his tongue to stop himself from smiling like an idiot.
He walks to the edge of the table, wet and sticky wood pressing into his jeans and he grimaces. “Finally he arrives,” James cheers, mojito raised in the air.
“Moony! Looking as ravishing as ever, my boy!” Sirius cheers with equal flare.
Remus ignores both of them with a tiny smile, too used to their words it’s like second nature to ignore them. “Sweetheart,” he smiles at you and you light up even more.
“Remus! You’re here.”
Sirius gets up and slides along the wall to make room for Remus next to you, “He looks ravishing, wouldn’t you say, Y/N? Good enough to eat,” he repeats
“I am hungry,” you admit with a giggle as Remus settles down next to you, only enough room for a sheet of paper to fit between your thighs.
“Having a good time, lovely?” Remus gestures to the empty glasses taking up the table in front of you. Your lips are stained red and he has to lick his own.
“Amazing!” You lean into his side and your hair tickles his neck. Your warmth seeps through Remus’s skin and he doesn’t have a single problem with how close the two of you are sitting. He’d be kidding himself if he said he did.
“I’m glad,” he says, hands settling atop the table.
“Are you?” You blink, eyes bright and welcoming. He has to avert his attention to your nose instead. Feeling as if you’d swallow him whole.
“I am now,” he grins.
Distracted, the half-empty glass in your hands spills when you twist its stem a little too quickly. A puddle of cosmo seeps into the half-polished tabletop and you cringe.
“Oops.” Quick to act, despite how sapped you feel from the cocktails, you grab a too-big handful of napkins from the dispenser in front of you.
With little to no flare, you push the entire pile of paper into the split drink and probably make it worse. The napkins almost turn to pink sludge and you only spread the drink further. A cold, sticky mess.
Remus laughs and grabs your wrists, pulling them up from the mess, “What have you done, hmm?” He puts your hands in your lap and you slouch, defeated.
“Accident,” you huff. You watch Remus’s hands swipe across the table, much better at cleaning up your mess. Like it wasn’t even there in the first place.
Upset that your drink is now empty, when Sirius isn’t looking, too distracted talking quidditch with James, you reach forward and snatch his mojito. Cheering internally, too happy with yourself, you sip slowly.
“He won’t be too happy with that,” Remus laughs, pushing the serviettes to the side.
You shrug, pushing further into the leather of the booth seat, “Accident.” you repeat.
Remus chuckles. You scull back the last of Sirius’s drink and Remus braces his hand on the skin between your shoulder blades, with a gentle “Take it easy,”
You turn to him and wipe the line of drink from your chin with the back of your hand. Smiling before gently slamming the now-empty glass back to the table, a ring of condensation splashes across your palm.
You wipe it across Remus’s leg unthinkingly and he wrinkles his nose. A dark stripe up his thigh. He takes your hand by the wrist again and grabs another napkin. Dabbing your palm gently and you act unaffected by his attentions when you trace the water on the table with your free hand.
“Am I the one who’s going to be doing the babysitting, tonight?” Remus counts the glasses that hadn’t been collected yet. Five. Six, now counting the one you stole.
You nod, gleefully.
“Saves me, then.” Lily takes another swig from her Pimm's, very happy. James presses into her side and throws his head back.
“Merlin, I’m tired.” he huffs.
“Boo. No fun,” you pout, eyeing only his third drink that he hadn’t touched in way too long, “You drink too slowly, that’s your problem.”
He snorts, “I don’t have the drinking problems, lovely.”
You gasp, hand to your chest, sticky fingers pressing into your skin, “Just because I’m having fun!”
You notice the beginnings of a frown across Sirius’s face, clocking the glass in front of you, green to your past pink drinks, “You little sneak.”
You pout, “Okay, I’m sorry, let me get the next round.” You move to stand and when you’re upright, the room spins. You grab Remus’s shoulder for purchase and he grabs your forearm. His grip is grounding, flesh between his slender fingers.
“Okay, let me get the drinks,” he says, standing. The love-hate relationship you have with his height hurts sometimes.
“No, let me.” You rummage through the purse over your shoulder, through sickles and spare tampons, and pull out a measly fiver. You hold it up to him with a frown, paper crumpled in your hand.
Remus chuckles and places his hands on your shoulders, “Sit.”
You do what he says and ignore the warmth in the pit of your belly.
As Remus stands at the bar to wait for the drinks, he turns to watch you with a content smile on his face and a warmth spreading up his chest until it begs to swatch his cheeks. He watches as you cover your face with your hands, giggling madly at something James is telling you.
He thinks his heart is messing with him when it skips in his chest. When you throw your head back, neck bared and your eyes squinted, your shoulders raise like it’s the funniest thing you’ve ever heard (it could be but he doubts it), he thinks his heart has an actual fault. Almost halting completely when your eyes meet his and he thinks he’s been caught, but you smile contently and he has to look away before it jumps out his throat.
He knows he’s truly done for.
He returns with a tray of drinks, mojito’s for his friends and a pint for himself, a packet of crisps pinched between his teeth. If he doesn’t choose to drink cocktails with everyone else because he wants to be sober to keep his eye on you, that’s completely his business.
He places the drinks down, a hum of thank yous and cheers follow, he opens his mouth to let the crisps fall into your lap. You startle and look up at him, bemused.
“You said you were hungry.” He smiles.
You beam, hiccuping what he thinks is thanks.
“Where’s my fuckin food?” Sirius calls, voice very clear above the din of the pub. He throws a cube of ice at Remus and misses.
“Up your ass.”
Sirius goes to reach for a crisp and you clutch the foil bag close to your chest. He doesn’t try again, thinking you might bite him. “Fuck, I need a cig.”
He stands and stops Remus from sitting as he climbs over you. Squeezing past with almost zero care. You laugh, he seems hangry.
When he almost steps on your toe, “Look out, you prat.” Remus scolds.
“C’mon. Outside.” Sirius drags him away before he can even protest.
-
“You gonna ask her out, or what?” Sirus leans against the wall of the smoking area and flicks his ash.
Remus groans, “Don’t say it like it's easy or some shit.”
“Is it not?” Sirius laughs like it’s obvious. Remus envies his natural charm some days. He wished it came easy to him.
“No. She doesn’t like me like that.” Remus toes the gravel beneath his boot with a crunch. Watches as it skips across the ground and to the firepit. A distraction from the scolding that he’s expecting he’s about to get from Sirius.
Sirius coughs on a thick exhale of smoke, pushes himself off the wall. “You’re fucking with me, right?”
“What? No.” In some delusional, fucked up way, no, Remus is fucking with Sirius. Not since 7th year, anyways.
“She's mad about you,” Sirius laughs around the filter of his cigarette, “It’s sickening really. I mean she’s gotta be half dumb or something.” After another exhale he flicks more ash to the ground.
“Fuck up.”
“Whatever.”
There’s a beat before Remus says, “She doesn’t feel that way about me.” His head rests against the red brick behind him and wishes it would swallow him up. He wishes this was easier.
“What, you think she wears her best red skirt for people she doesn’t love?”
He lifts his head and glares at Sirius, “You really are a fucking twat, you know?” He steals the cigarette from between Sirius’s fingers and ignores his grunt as he inhales deeply. As deep as he can until Sirius swats his hand.
“I’m fucking kidding.” He takes it back, grimacing at the butt of what’s left.
“Still a twat,” Remus grunts.
Sirius flicks the orange filter to the ground and squashes it under his leather boot. “Seriously, Moons. Make a move already, it’s starting to get sad.”
He sighs, and Sirius almost wants to slap some sense into him. He doesn’t, remembering how he’d reacted last time he did. “I can’t. I’m not ruining anything.”
He decides to pat his shoulder instead, a gentler approach, “You’re a miserable sap.” He squeezes his sad friend, “She likes you, a lot, and she’s really good for you, y’know?”
“She is, isn’t she?” Remus sighs, lovelorn and dizzy, “Fuck, she’s so amazing. I don’t know what I’m gonna do. Have you seen her when she laughs? Fuck sakes.” He has to stop himself before he rants too much.
The both of them start to make their way back into the pub. “Alright, put your fucking cock away.”
Remus opens the door to the bar, “Get inside,” he laughs.
“If you don’t make a move soon, fuck I might.” Remus’s face goes slack and he pushes his dickhead of a friend towards their table with a little too much force. He stumbles with a hearty chuckle.
Left alone in the middle of the bar, a little incensed, he turns to look around and spots what looks like your aforementioned red skirt, standing in front of the claw machine.
Bemused, but more intrigued, he beelines for you with slow strides. When he stands behind you he places his hand to your shoulder. You turn around and smile warmly. You’re standing, more like swaying, with both hands inside your purse.
“What are you doing, dove?” he asks and squeezes your shoulder. You push back into him, probably for the stability you lack. He braces you with his thigh behind yours.
“You smell like a chimney.” You wrinkle your nose and he laughs. It reverberates through your chest and you have to blink away the way it makes you feel. Sleepy.
“Sirius is a horrible influence,” he says with an equally wrinkled nose.
“I’m looking for a coin,” you answer his question, looking back down into your purse. “Want to win you something.” Remus’s heart swells tenfold.
Before he can pull one from his pocket as an offering, you bend over and tip your entire purse to the paisley carpet, contents spilling everywhere. Wizard money, bright pink tampons, chapsticks and gum wrappers sit in a pile and Remus steps back with a disgruntled sigh.
You turn and crouch down to sort through everything, Remus looks down and gawps for a second. Half amused, half displeased. He bends down with you and helps as well.
“Do you think it'll take sickles?” you question, moving bandaids to the side. It’s looking like a lost cause.
Remus shakes his head with a laugh, “I don’t think so, honey.”
You frown.
“Here,” He handles a few items and places them in your purse, “I’ll help you clean this up and I’ll win you something, hm?” Remus thinks you’re a bit like Mary Poppins with how much stuff you have. He’d say this to you because you probably would understand the muggle reference, but you seem too upset over your lack of coins.
“Was gonna win you some chocolate,” you laugh, picking up more stuff.
The last few items fall back in with little organisation and he stands. You take his outstretched hands and let him gently tug you back up with a ruffle of your hair.
He pulls a coin from his pocket and slots it into the machine. You stand around to the side with your hands pressed to the glass like a little kid. The flow of colours washes you fluorescent as you point to a cherry ripe in a perfect spot.
He grips the joystick and moves it to where he thinks it hovers right above it.
“More to the left,” you say with your finger smooshed against the machine.
“You’re drunk,” he says before he pushes the red button on top of the stick, not moving it to where you’d said.
You laugh as it doesn’t even graze the chocolate. Claw coming back up with nothing. “Whatever.” He has two more chances at grabbing it and he’s determined.
The second time he does listen to you but still misses by the width of a hair. You both hold your breath as the claw gets lowered for the final time. You bend over to get a better view and watch as it gets picked up, not cheering until it gets dropped in the chute.
You clap as Remus cheers, taking the chocolate thankfully, opening it immediately with a crinkle of red foil. “Thank you, Remus.”
“Anytime.”
You break the chocolate in half and offer him the bigger portion. You both stand there, chewing on cherry and coconut and chocolate. You look at your sticky fingers and the worst of the after-effects of six cocktails suddenly hits you in a wave of nausea. Not enough to make you want to throw up, but enough for you to groan and grab your stomach.
“I think I should go home,” you whine, placing your half of the chocolate back into the wrapper and into your purse, probably just to melt and make a mess. A later problem, you think.
“Feeling okay?” he asks, turning to check you over. Etebrows pinched in concern already.
“I think I had too many cocktails,” you laugh, weakly at that.
“How are you getting home?” he asks.
You laugh, having flashbacks to your last encounter. “That’s my line.”
“It’s a good one.”
“I don’t know how I’m getting home,” you say.
“I’ll call you a taxi.”
You sigh, “That’d be lovely.”
-
After saying goodbye to the rest of the group, after they’d moaned about your fifteen-minute disappearance with Remus, Thought you’d gotten stuck in the cubicle! James had laughed. Drunkenly, you’d missed the joke. Remus had smacked him up the back of the head. But now, the both of you were making your way to the front entrance.
Remus has to drag you out the door, holding you upright as you stammer and trip on things that aren't there.
“Be careful,” he tuts, holding you closer under his arm.
“There was a frog!” you explain, very much exasperated.
“No there wasn’t,” he laughs.
“Was so!” you strain, fisting his shirt behind his back, sure to stretch the cotton.
“You just want me to hold you tighter.” He’s smug when he says it and can’t really help it. He has Sirius’s words ringing in the back of his head.
You stop at the gutter and kick a stone with your boot, “Maybe.”
Your knees ache, wanting nothing more than to crouch down to the ground. You think it would probably be a bad idea. Though with sore knees and a spinning head, bad ideas turned to the best.
You pull yourself from Remus' hold and bend your legs to crouch in the gutter. Remus’s eyes blow wide and he looks down at you. Not again, he thinks.
Before he can ask what you’re doing, thinking you've passed out, you look up, “Head rush,” you giggle with a huff of air. He sits down next to you, knees almost pressed into his chin.
Remus tugs your knee so you turn towards him, legs pressed together. He keeps his large palm over your thigh because being crouched in a gutter leaves little to the imagination to the drunks walking past and he’s not going to ask you to get up if you’re dizzy.
“You okay?” he murmurs.
You rest your head on his shoulder much like he had the last time you saw him. He hopes he had more care than you do with your cheek cruelly smooshed into his skin. “I’m just a little drunk.”
Lucky for Remus, before he thinks you’re about to fall asleep on his shoulder, your taxi is pulling up. He helps you stand, opens the back door and ushers you in.
Listening to your murmur of thanks Remus before he clicks you in.
“What’s your address, dove? So I can tell the driver.” You give him your address and he passes it off.
Before he can close the door for you, you grab his wrist.
“When can I see you next?” you ask brightly. Hopefully.
“Call me when you’re not hungover,” he laughs, brushing his fingers across your arm. Your grip hardens.
“You’ll answer?” He almost laughs again at how drunk you sound. Of course, he’ll answer.
“Of course, sweetheart.”
You lean across your seat, seatbelt pulling taut as you press a kiss to his cheek. Warm and buttery-soft just like last time, but maybe even worse now that his feelings for you are stronger. It burns.
“Thank you, Remus.”
“That’s okay, lovely.”
-
You in fact did call Remus, a couple of days after your night out. Expected, you were hungover so you waited a day after to talk.
Remus hadn’t really been expecting you to call him, despite how eager you seemed, he had talked himself out of believing you had any feelings for him. Like he’d imagined it or something.
So, when his phone rings, he’s not expecting it to be you at all. He answers with a sigh, thinking it’s James or Sirius.
“What do you want?” His voice is void of any excitement or joy you’d been selfishly expecting. You were also expecting a more welcoming greeting.
“Remus?” you say, and his hand stills in his cupboard where he’s distractedly putting clean dishes away.
He shuts the cupboard’s door a little too abruptly and cringes, clears his throat so he can speak, “Y/N! Shit, sorry. Hey.” He cringes even more at his stupidity.
“Expecting someone else?” you laugh.
He nods like you can see him, “Yeah, sorry.” He swallows and tries to fix himself, “How are you?”
“I’m good,” you say with a little sigh, “Really, really good.”
“That’s great!”
“Yeah, how are you?” you question.
Remus’s voice goes quieter, “Amazing.” Then there’s a small beat like you’re both thinking, “So, what’s up? Everything okay?”
In his mind, his stupid, paranoid mind, there’s a possibility that all you’ve done is pocket-dialled him. Or, accidentally pressed his name in your contacts, maybe mistaken the name Moony for Mum.
Is his name Moony in your phone? Or is it just Sirius’s friend? God, he wants his thoughts to shut up.
“I wanted to ask you something!” When it sounds like you actually want to talk to him, what almost feels like relief washes over him. Paints him bright as he settles on his sofa, beaming like a schoolboy when he says,
“Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah!” Your excitement is dizzying. “Are you free this weekend?”
He has to swallow before he speaks, eagerness bleeds through his skin. His foot taps and he picks at a loose thread on his battered shirt. “Yeah, I am.”
You chirp a happy noise, “Awesome! Cool. Um, there’s that gig on at The Red Lion if you wanted to come?”
Remus doesn’t see himself as a cool person and it definitely doesn’t show when he says, “Yeah! I’d love to.” in a tone pitched higher than normal.
“Great. I think Sirius is coming too, I told him about it the other day and said he should invite the others. I wasn’t sure if he had asked you yet.”
Oh.
Remus feels like the biggest idiot ever. You weren’t asking him out, why would you?
He leans down between his legs until all the air is forced from his lungs, he covers the receiver with his hand and groans, long and suffering in self-pity.
Is coughing to clear your throat and hide your disappointment a good thing? Because his voice is a little squeaky when he replies. When he sits back up his head spins. “Sounds great.”
He hears some shuffling on the end of your line before you say, “Amazing. I’ll see you then. Sorry, gotta go. Bye Remus!”
“Bye, sweetheart.”
Remus has about thirty seconds of wallowing in self-pity before his phone is ringing again. He wants to shove it in between his sofa cushions and forget about everything. But he sees Sirius' name flash up on the screen so he answers.
“Moony!” Sirius’s voice pierces the phone line and Remus cringes. “Remus, my good friend.”
“Did you just get lucky or something?” Remus gruffs.
“Huh?”
“You’re too happy. Calm it down.”
Sirius groans, “You’re so content with being miserable, Remus. Just because you can’t get your dick wet.”
Remus wished his stupid friend could see the displeasure on his face, “What do you want?”
“You’re free this weekend, aren’t you?” He questions and Remus hums a yes, expecting to hear the exact same question you had just asked him only three minutes ago.
“Well, you, me, the gang, and a few pints at The Red Lion. Sounds like a plan?” Remus detests his friend's happiness. Or envies it. He feels miserable and doesn’t think Sirius is deserving of his lack of enthusiasm just because you didn’t ask him out.
“Yeah, Y/N already asked me,” he replies.
“Well, don’t get too excited.” Sirius huffs a laugh.
“No, sorry. It’s just I thought she- never mind. Sounds good.”
“Awesome. I’ll send you the deets.”
Remus almost laughs, “The deets? Wait until I tell Marls you talk like that.”
“Shut up.”
“Bye, Sirius.”
Sirius hangs up before he can.
-
Remus spots you before you do, again. Watches where you lean against the bar on your tip-toes, talking to the bartender about something. He’s making you laugh and he feels the stupid need that it should be him instead.
He does what he always does; walks up behind you and presses his shoulder into your back. You chirp and turn around. Then, your eyes do that thing that they always do that makes him bite the inside of his cheek. They squint, confused, and then light up when you realise who you’re looking at. Remus could swear that they sparkle, but that’s just something he imagines in his lovesick head.
“Remus!” You smile, mouth upturning until the apples of your cheeks swell. You wrap your fingers around his bicep and pull him into your side. He lets you, willingly.
“Y/N,” he says probably a little too quietly for the setting. The pub is starting to fill quickly while the band does sound check, the general hubbub of the patrons mixes in with the strumming of guitars and the feedback from the mics.
“You’re all wet,” you giggle, pressing your fingers into the underside of his arm.
“Yeah, it’s starting to rain out there,” he says.
“You walked?” You frown, pulling your hands from his arm. He can still feel where your fingers were wrapped. A burn against his wet skin.
“From the bus stop.”
“You know there’s this thing wizards can do, I’m not sure if you heard of it. It’s called disapparition,” you quirk, mouth upturning into a teasing smile.
Amused, Remus says, “I don’t usually like muggles to watch someone appear out of thin air.”
You reach forward to grab some napkins from the dispenser on the bar, probably too many. “I would’ve picked you up,” you say matter-of-factly.
He doesn’t reply, just stops still when you reach up to brush away the damp hair from his eyes. There’s water bunching in his hair and falling in tiny beads down his face, over his top lip. You laugh when he licks it away before you dab across his forehead and then his cheeks.
“I missed you,” you say, bunching the paper into a ball.
Remus smiles, too hard he thinks. “You saw me last weekend.”
You think he might be teasing you, though you’re not sure. You feel like you’ve overstepped. Demure, your eyes widen at your error. “Sorry,” you laugh, airy and quiet.
Remus pokes you in your side, “I missed you too,” he laughs.
You nod your head and bite your lip. You feel eased. But embarrassed in the first place. Scrunching the ball of damp napkins in your hands until it pinches. Still, you’re overjoyed.
“What are you drinking?” you ask, splaying your hands over the bar, leaning where it comes up to your chest. You try to ignore everything. The way Remus is making you feel, the busy pub that’s teeming with rowdy people.
“Not sure,” he quirks, eyeing the taps at the end of the bar. “What about you?”
“I think I might just stick to squash,” you laugh knowingly.
“You’re on it tonight,” Remus laughs, splaying his fingers around your shoulder.
“I’m not having any repeats of last week.”
“Damn,” he pouts, “Drunk Y/N is cute.”
You warm, “Drunk Y/N is messy.”
He squeezes you, a funny pinch. “I think you can be both.”
You lean into his side while he orders your drinks. His hand doesn’t move and you don’t want it to. It’s warm and grounding and feels too good to be true. How touchy he is and how you love it. You imagine a world where he doesn’t just touch your shoulder. Imagining what he’d do if you were together. How ruining he would be.
Distracted by his grip on your arm, before you can even reach into your purse to grab your money, he’s paid.
“Remus,” you scold, pushing yourself off the bar.
“Dove,” he smiles, placating. He grabs both of your drinks, in one hand, fingers twisting. The other snakes down to grab your hand to guide you through the crowd of people.
“Stop paying for my drinks.” Someone bumps into you and Remus digs his elbow into your side to stop you from tripping. You smile thankfully.
You let him weave you through patrons, your hand flexing around his until you get to your table. Once you've sat down, he says, “Sorry, didn’t think a fiver would cover it.”
Faux scolding, you shove his arm. “I have more money on me this time.”
“Good,” Sirius pipes up, “you can buy me that cocktail you owe me.”
“I’m sorry, Sirius.” You act like it genuinely does upset you. Though the thought of how you acted when you were drunk last week, is worse. “I’m a really annoying drunk.”
“Sirius is being dramatic,” Remus sighs, leaning back against the booth. He throws an arm behind you, pressing it up against the wall. You stay sitting forward, not sure if it’d be too much to lean into him. Despite him making the first move. “You got your cocktail.”
“Yeah, you bought it,” Sirius faux scoffs. It’s hard to believe that he actually cares about a stolen mojito, easier to believe he’s determined to tease you until you die. “Doesn’t count.”
“I’ll buy you a cocktail if you really want me to, Sirius,” you lilt, happy to get him to shut up. It works when Remus shoots him a look you don’t understand. Sirius bites his tongue and sits back in his seat.
By the time James and Lily get back from the bar, the band has started their set and you’ve had enough time to think too much on whether or not you should lean into Remus’s side. His weight behind you feels like a magnet. The more you want to pull away the stronger the urge is to just give up and fall against him.
Much like everything is with Remus. The more you allow yourself to think you really do like him, the harder it is to keep to your regular ways. You’ve never allowed yourself to be so openly affectionate and loving towards someone without second-guessing every single thing you do.
Not that you don’t. Every time you speak to him, touch his arm for too long or allow yourself to wrap your own arm around his back, there’s that voice in the back of your head that’s screaming at you. Telling you that you’ve let your guard down too much for a boy you’re not even sure likes you as much as you do him and you’ve embarrassed yourself.
It’s totally overwhelming and constantly feels like a back-and-forth battle. Because, sure, it's no secret anymore to anyone who isn't Remus, that you like him. You just wished it were easier.
As if he can hear your head reeling, or he’s just noticed how quiet you’ve suddenly become, he nudges your leg where it’s crossed with his own jean-clad one.
“You okay?” he asks. His face is soft. Too soft for your dismissive and relentless thoughts to ebb. It’s suddenly painful to even be looking at him and you’ve only been around him for no less than twenty minutes. He’s always had that ability.
The nod you give him is unconvincing and your smile is even worse. His eyes flicker and you open your mouth to speak before he can, “Yeah, jus’ thinking.”
“I can tell.”
“You can?”
You chance another look back at him and regret it instantly when he’s smiling like he knows something you don’t. “Yeah.” He nods, “You’re making that face you always do when something’s eating at you.”
Hating being read for filth, you turn to take a sip from your drink, filling your mouth with your straw lest you say something stupid. You drink it too quickly, and once it’s down to its last dregs, your head aches. Brain freeze. You squeeze your eyes shut and try to distract yourself when you say, “What face?”
“Your lips part and your eyebrows pinch. Sometimes I have to double-check you’re not crying.” Remus is a lovely, horribly attentive boy. And if he keeps saying things like that, things that let you know he does actually pay attention to you, you’re not going to last. When you said you wondered how ruining he would be, this isn’t what you had in mind.
Remus says something to you again, but you don’t catch it. The band transitions into a much louder song and his words fall on deaf ears. You do, however, catch the look he shares with Sirius again over your shoulder.
Confused, you suddenly think fresh air would be better than to pain yourself through whatever’s happening around you. “I’ll go get that mojito,” you mumble.
You weave yourself over Remus’s lap, careful where your shoes and hands land, careful to also ignore where he stables you with his own hand on the back of your knee. You try to make it discrete as you beeline for the bar, taking a small turn to head for the back doors.
The warm air cast from the setting sun slowly dwindles away and you cross your arms over your body, leaning against the railing to the left of the smoking area. When the door shuts behind you, the music from inside slowly dies down and you’re grateful to be the only one out here.
The fear you have been feeling throughout your entire friendship with Remus does its best to claw its way up your throat. Makes your breathing staggered and your palms itch. You suspect if you spent any more time with him inside you would’ve only embarrassed yourself more than you feel like you already have. Best you do it out here instead.
The muffled music slowly grows louder when you hear the door open and you pay it no mind. Not until there’s a hand on your shoulder. You flinch and turn around, pushing yourself against the railing.
“Shit, sorry. Just me,” Remus smiles, pulling his hand from your shoulder.
“Remus,” you breathe, hand to your chest, “You scared me.”
“Sorry,” he frowns.
You pause. Trust him to notice your departure. You hope he doesn’t ask you any questions, you don’t expect yourself to hold anything in anymore if he soothes you over.
“You okay?”
Fuck sakes.
“Um, yeah.” You nod. Remus moves to your side, arm pressed up against the railing and you follow him. Turning so you’re face to face.
“You sure? You just kind of up and left.” he laughs weakly, stopping when he notices you don’t join in.
“Sorry,” you apologise.
“What for?” he asks kindly. You once more detest his kindness and his ability to get you to open up.
“I don’t know,” you sigh, leaning further into the railing and it rattles, “I’m being weird.” You’re not opening up like you’d expected, though the words you want to say to him are at the back of your mind, where they were once pushed away, slowly crawling forward. If he keeps looking at you like that, they might spill.
“You’re not.”
“I am. I’m thinking too much and it,” you heave a calming breath. You want to tell him how you feel, not ramble, “it hurts.”
“Hey,” He traces a line over the hinge of your elbow, “what’s going on in that head of yours, hm? Care to let me in?”
You swallow, “That’s the problem. I can’t find the words.”
“That’s okay.” He squeezes your arm, “Take your time.”
His gaze is soft though it still burns where it’s settled over your face, his grip on your arm is worse. Still, it’s grounding. You blink and take a few calming breaths.
The door opens up again and the band’s music spews back outside. It’s the same song that was playing the night you sat on Sirius's couch and you’d freaked about how it was both your favourite. In some cheesy, cliche way, you take it as a sign.
“I’ve never been one for showing, let alone telling someone how I feel about them,” you begin, “I’m not sure if that’s the most obvious thing ever, or if I’ve gotten really good at hiding it but…”
Remus is smiling widely, more smug than anything. It makes you nervous and you advert your gaze to the ground. Over the ash-strained brick tile under your sneakers, “Stop looking at me like that or I won’t be able to finish what I’m trying to tell you,” you sigh.
“Like what?” he asks like he’s oblivious. Like his mouth isn’t now upturned into the slyest smile.
“That!’’ Your face grows warm and you have to press the backs of your hands into them. You can feel the thrumming of your heart in your fingertips.
“Sorry, you were saying,” he chuckles.
“God, where did you get all this confidence from, Remus?” you ask, a little dazed. Maybe it’s the setting or the fact you’re both finally sober together that brings out a different side of him, though you can’t be sure.
Remus shakes his head, “I’m sorry, you just look so cute when you get flustered.”
Your mouth parts, a shocked, demure gasp slips past them. Gawping, you say, “You’re not drunk, are you?” It’s not the first time he’s said it, but it's the first time it feels different.
“Not this time. For once,” he laughs knowingly.
“Right,” you pause. Taking in a shuddered breath. In what world you would ever expect this to be easy, you’re not sure. You’re also not sure that doing this with Remus makes it easier. Easier, because he makes you feel secure and appropriately worked down to tell him anything; harder because it’s him you have to let your emotions go with. It’s him you have to let know of your heartachingly, sore feelings you have. He can’t just be there on the sidelines guiding you through it.
Remus watches you slip away into your shy, quiet self again. He can almost hear your thoughts reeling, “God, you’re worse than me.”
You giggle nervously, all pitched up and light, “You make me nervous,”
He steps forward and if your eyes weren’t stuck on the ground, you wouldn’t have noticed it. He’s smooth. “Do I now?” He hooks a knuckle under your downwardly pointed chin and gives it a tap.
You look back up, catching his gaze, “I hate you,”
“No you don’t,” he says matter of factly. Like its the most obvious thing ever. You’re sure it is.
“I don’t?” You blink slowly.
He closes the gap between you some more and suddenly you’re overwhelmed by him. The smell of his laundry detergent, something familiar and heady, mixed in with the cologne that you swear follows you home. Where the toe of his boot almost touches your sneaker and where the sleeve of his sweater catches on your bracelet because he’s as close as possible. Though you still think he’s not close enough.
His voice mixes in with the same song that’s playing inside and you can barely hear him when it builds to a crescendo and he says, “You weren’t about to go on some rant about how you love me?”
“Remus…” you murmur, quieter than the thumping of your heart in your chest,
“No?”
You bite your tongue, but it does nothing to stop you from saying, “God, yes. Just- kiss me, please.”
“What?” he asks, more shocked than you’ve been this entire interaction.
“Kiss me, Remus. Before the song ends.” You lean into him, up on the balls of your feet and pull your hands between your bodies.
Face to face, lips hovering over yours, he murmurs, “You sure?”
“Completely,”
It’s the last thing you say before Remus kisses you so hard, so deep, that you forget how it was even possible to form words in his presence before now. Snakes his arms around your back and holds you so close your shirt rides up until your skin presses into the soft material of his sweater.
He tastes of stout, a weird mixture against the lemon on your tongue. You can’t find it in you to mind when he hums into your mouth. A desperate, pleading sound that has you squeezing the flesh of his hips. Compared to the reserved and diffident relationship you’ve held with Remus up until now, the kiss you share is nothing alike. It’s passionate and heated. Longing.
The song ends and with a final tug of your bottom lip, he pulls away panting. Eyes skipping over your face, a little glassy and bouncy. “Fuck,” he murmurs.
Tugging on the hem of his sweater, you say, “What?’' with a light chuckle.
“If I…” Remus has to compose himself lest he says something embarrassing. Completely forward. “If I knew kissing you would’ve been like that…I would’ve done it ages ago.”
“I think I’ve wanted you to kiss me for a really long time,” you confess, giddily rocking back and forth on your feet. Canvas sneakers crushing into the ground.
“Yeah?” he hums. Smugness still ever present.
“Yeah.”
“Thoughts on me kissing you again?” he asks, still not letting you go where you’re held against his torso.
You look over his shoulder, “I think if you kiss me again, Sirius’s jaw might fall to the floor.”
Remus turns and spots Sirius and James almost pressed to the glass window. James doesn’t look as pleased, shoving a crumpled note into Sirius's palm. Turning back to face you, he rolls his eyes, “I think they had a bet going.”
“Should we give Sirius his money’s worth?” you giggle.
“I’m going to kiss you. But, not for Sirius.” Remus says, “Only because you look insanely beautiful right now and if I don’t do it again, my brain might go numb.”
summary: after Christmas Eve at Remus' flat, thick snowfall prevents you from going home. He's more than happy to host you
cw: mentions of alcohol, smut mdni, p in v, oral (fem receiving), praise, inexperienced reader, shy little idiots in love
Remus Lupin x fem!reader ♡ 11k words
Remus isn’t sure entirely how he’d gotten strongarmed into hosting Christmas Eve at his flat. James and Lily usually host, but James claimed that this year their house was in too much a state of “baby mayhem” to have any hope of being tidied enough for a gathering. He’s said it in such a lovesick voice Remus couldn’t push back for long, his friend’s happiness so potent it was like looking into the sun. Sirius had begged off quickly, saying that his “bachelor pad” was too small to have a group over. As usual, when Remus spoke last, the matter was settled before he’d gotten the chance to have much of a say.
He’s made an effort to live up to the hosting legacy passed down to him by the Potters, but it’s a flimsy attempt at best. Thankfully, the snowfall outside is doing a fair amount of the work for him. Remus’ street is coated in fresh, gleaming powder, enough that the trees look weighted down with it and his neighbor had put her little dog in a knit sweater to go into the yard and do its business. It’s still coming down, the snowflakes visible in crisp contrast against the darkening sky as they drift lazily to the earth.
Inside Remus’ home, the Christmas tree is nearly covered in tinsel to make up for his scant supply of ornaments, he’s run out of stockings to put up above the fireplace and has had to use one large sock (that one will have to be for Sirius), and he’s still stringing up popcorn when a knock sounds on the door.
Remus is surprised (he’d told everyone to come at six, but that was only because he didn’t think anyone would actually show up until a couple hours after), but that dies away when he unbolts the door and opens it to find you on the other side.
“Hi,” you say, teeth nearly chattering as Remus ushers you inside. “Sorry I’m late, traffic was worse than I expected.”
“It’s hardly quarter after six.” Remus takes your coat, tsking. “People do seem to become worse drivers around the holidays, don’t they?”
“Well, I suppose not everyone on the road tonight might be used to driving in the snow,” you allow, ever forgiving.
Remus smiles. “Merry Christmas, love.”
Your lashes kiss as you smile back at him, unwrapping your scarf. “Merry Christmas.” You’re merry as can be, cheeks dimpling and eyes sparkling under the twinkling lights Remus is suddenly very glad he decided to purchase for the occasion. “Where is everyone?”
“Well,” Remus says, heading back for the couch, “Sirius is hitching a ride with James and Lily, so if I had to guess I’d wager that James is just putting the finishing touches whatever food he’s decided to bring while Lily tries to rush him out the door. And then they’ll go to Sirius’ place and have to wait for him to finish wrapping the presents he undoubtedly just remembered today.”
You sit beside him with a half-exasperated laugh. “I was thinking I’d be the last one here,” you admit, “but I’d forgotten how they can be when it comes to these things.”
Remus shrugs. “Easy to forget.” Lily is usually able to marshal James (and by extension, Sirius) most places on time these days, but the frenzy when they actually have things to prepare is inevitable; Remus has learnt to account for it. He reclaims his half-finished string of popcorn, clumsily stabbing the needle into another kernel and wincing when it goes through easier than expected, pricking his finger.
“Oh no, did you hurt yourself?” you lean over, trying to see his hand.
“No, just a scratch.” Remus has about a billion of them by now. He’s far from coordinated on a good day, but the unwise decision to have coffee earlier has resulted in shaky hands that make working with a needle somewhat hazardous.
You watch him try again, and it’s really the distraction of your cute frown more than anything else that messes him up. His needle goes through the fluffy edge of the popcorn, stabbing him and giving the string hardly anything to hold onto in the process. The flake falls to his lap for his efforts.
“Remus, your hand’s not a pincushion,” you say, and you weren’t yourself he’d almost think you were chiding him. You reach over, taking the needle and thread from him. “Here, let me do that.”
“I didn’t mean for you to come here early so I could put you to work,” Remus protests, watching as you string up the next piece of popcorn with nimble fingers. Jealousy wars with admiration, but his esteem for you wins out. “You’ll never come back for New Year’s if this is what you have to look forward to.”
You smile down at your hands. “Sure I will. You’ll still be there, won’t you? And I really don’t mind helping, it gives me something to do.”
Remus smiles back even though you’re not looking. “Alright, well I guess that means I can start rolling out the gingerbread dough. Thanks, love.” He touches his hand lightly to the crown of your head as he stands, letting the urge to press a kiss there pass as quickly as it arises.
He goes into the kitchen. A second later, you decide to follow. Popcorn swishes against the floor behind you as you make your way over to the bar counter, sitting on a stool with your string trailing all the way back to the couch.
“You’re making gingerbread cookies?” you ask, watching with eager eyes as he plops the dough onto the floured counter, rolling it flat.
“Mhm. You like them?”
“Never had one.”
Remus feels his eyebrows inch upwards. “Seriously?”
You look almost sheepish, as though this is a crime which you expect to be held against you. Honestly, you’re not far off; had James been here, you would have been questioned and scolded to hell and back, and then he would’ve made Remus give you some dough to try, salmonella be damned.
“No,” you answer him. “We made ornaments out of them in school, once, but we weren’t allowed to eat any. I always thought they were so cute, though, with the little people cutouts.”
“They’re the best,” Remus agrees, pressing out the shapes and laying them on the baking sheet. “If you finish that quickly enough, I might even let you help me cut out a few.”
“Yes!” you cheer. He laughs when you start working quicker with the needle.
“Don’t hurt yourself. The privilege of cookie cutting is not actually contingent on your labor.”
“I know,” you say, but your hands don’t slow. Remus has barely finished filling his second baking sheet before you’re done, having made more progress in the last twenty minutes than he had over nearly an hour.
Remus’ hip touches yours as he shows you how to give the cookie cutters a little shake in the dough, freeing the shape before lifting it and placing it on the sheet. It’s not a painfully difficult task, and still he’s impressed by how quickly you catch on. You’re a machine of efficiency. You seem to enjoy rolling out the dough almost as much as pressing out the shapes, falling into a quick, happy rhythm. Before long you’ve pushed Remus out of the way (Lily would be proud, he thinks), urging him to go and hang up the popcorn garland before everyone else arrives.
You haven’t seen each other in over a month, both of you caught up in the hustle and bustle of the season, and you catch up as you work on your separate tasks. Remus talks to you about his job, the students who plague him and the ones he wishes he could take home after work each day, and how none of them had liked the film he’d put on the day before break. (“Mister Magoo’s is a classic!” you protest as Remus shakes his head. “They’re too young to get it,” he says. “Our classics are just old to them.”) You tell him about your new cat, and the sweater you’d crocheted her for the holiday which she despises above all else, and he promises to come over sometime soon to meet her.
You’ve poured yourselves spiked eggnog and sampled a few ginger cookies (“They’re twice as good when they’re fresh,” Remus says. “Don’t let the others’ tardiness rob you of the experience.”) by the time the door bursts open again, Sirius of course not bothering to knock.
“Hello!” he calls from somewhere behind a tower of presents. “Merry holiday to you, Moony!”
You get up to help, and so Remus is compelled to do so as well, taking a couple of sloppily-wrapped boxes from Sirius’ arms.
“Merlin, it smells good in here,” James declares as he comes through the door, Lily carrying a beaming baby Harry on her hip behind him. James’ eyes fall on you. “Awe, you beat us here?”
Remus scoffs, setting down the gifts by the tree and leaving you to arrange them as you see fit. “Not very difficult, when you’re over an hour late,” he says. “You’re lucky Y/N’s good company, or I’d be more cross with you.”
“Sorry,” says Lily as Sirius makes a dismissive sound, flopping onto the couch. “We had some trouble fitting everything in the car with Harry’s seat, and then Sirius—” she shoots him a glare, and he grins like she’s sweetly cooed his name “—wouldn’t leave without his hat, even though he’d lost it.”
“One only gets to wear one’s elf hat every so often,” Sirius justifies, unperturbed. “I wasn’t going to miss the occasion even if it took me all night to find it.”
“It nearly did,” Lily shoots back, but then James is at her side, having discarded his load of food and presents and now vying to hold Harry.
“Come here, my handsome little guy.”
“Used to call me that,” Sirius quips with his mouth full of gingerbread cookies, a heaping plate seeming to have found its way into his lap.
Remus isn’t going to smile at that poor attempt at a joke, but once you laugh he can’t help it.
“Only on special occasions,” James replies, taking Harry under the arms and hoisting him into the air. Harry laughs, and it’s probably the most contagious sound Remus has ever heard. Everyone smiles; James most of all, grinning ear to ear as he does it again.
“He never lets me hold him,” Lily complains fondly.
“Because I know how much you like seeing me with him,” James says breezily, making a face at Harry above him. “You’re mad with lust right now, Evans, don’t try to deny it.”
“Sleaze,” Sirius says to him, the bell on his hat jingling when he tilts his head.
“I know you are, but what am I?”
“I,” Remus cuts them off, “am hungry. And I’ll bet Y/N is too, since she’s very politely refrained from snacking much while we waited for you lot.”
James' attention actually leaves his son for half a second to look at you and see if what Remus says is true, and you go instantly bashful. It doesn’t seem to matter how long you’re friends with them; having attention drawn to you will always find you avoiding everyone’s eyes. Lily comes to your rescue, ushering you into the kitchen like she needs somewhere to channel her mother hen urges while James is monopolizing Harry.
“I hope you really are hungry,” she says, “because James has made enough bhaji to feed us all for a month.”
❆ ❆ ❆
Soon even James is stuffed and you’re all a bit tipsy on eggnog. Some of your natural anxiety fades as everything starts to feel slower and more fluid, your insides warm and soft as wax.
“No, because it was so obvious,” Sirius says. He’s telling a story about a girl he’d seen at a coffee shop that he’s sure was enamored with him. James, naturally, agrees completely, but Lily and Remus aren’t so sure. “She did the—the thing. Y/N, back me up. When a girl makes eye contact with you and then looks off to the side, it means she’s not interested, but when she looks down, it’s because she’s nervous, right?”
You raise your eyebrows. “I think you made that up,” you tell him, tiny bits of laughter running in between your words. “Anyway, is her being nervous necessarily a good thing?”
“She was nervous because she’s obsessed with me,” Sirius insists.
“Or,” Remus says, “she was nervous because you were staring at her, and she thought you were going to follow her home.”
“And probably kill her,” Lily agrees.
James’ eyebrows shoot up. “Merlin, you two are dark. Our Padfoot’s not putting out murderous vibes. He’s got too much boyish charm.”
Sirius nods appreciatively, but Lily only shrugs, careful not to jostle Harry where he’s sleeping on her lap. “Girls have to think of those things.”
“Bleak.” James looks slightly troubled as he kisses the side of his wife’s head. “Well, I think she was in love with you, Pads.”
“Yeah,” Remus rolls his eyes, “he should show up at her house and find out. It’d be romantic.”
“And on that note,” James goes on, ignoring him, “shall we do presents?”
You all agree, and Sirius looks at James with an older brother’s entitlement. “Go ahead and distribute them, Prongsie.”
James, well used to this, doesn’t even question it, scampering back and forth between the tree (which you can’t help but notice is somewhat lacking in the ornament department but quite sparkly) to deliver your presents at your feet. After a few rounds of this, you can’t stand it anymore and get up to help, laughing through the protests of your remaining three friends. (“He’s got it, love,” Remus says, and Sirius adds, “He’s got energy he needs to run off.”) Between the two of you, the bottom of the Christmas tree is bare within a couple of minutes, small piles of presents next to each of your friends. You go to sit back by the pile meant for you, touched at the fact that you seem to have something from every person there.
“S’not fair that James and Lily get to do couple’s presents now,” Sirius complains. “I’m going to start buying gifts for you like you’re one person, see how you like it.”
The biggest pile is obviously for Harry, and you all start there, no small amount of eagerness in James’ expression as he tears open the first box. “The Velveteen Rabbit,” he reads aloud. “Wow, this is kinda hefty for a children’s book.”
“Who’s it from?” Lily prompts, as if you don’t all already know.
“Shit, I forgot to check.”
“And that’s why we read the box,” Lily says, and you get the sense this is a conversation that’s happened more than once, “before we start ripping, love.”
“It was me,” Remus volunteers, lips pulling into a half-smile.
“Course it was,” James says, taking a break from sticking his tongue out at his wife to smile at Remus. “Thanks, Moony.”
“You had the opportunity to get him Goodnight Moon,” Sirius tsks, “and you just let it pass you by.”
Remus rolls his eyes, but then Lily says, “He already has that one, it’s his favorite,” and you watch as he tries and fails to suppress the shy smile that takes him. It shifts the scars on his cheek and lights his eyes with a warm tenderness.
He looks especially pretty under the Christmas lights, you think. The warm glow suits him, bringing out the amber in his eyes and richening the various brown shades of his hair. It makes his skin look softer too, smooth even where you know he has stubble around his jawline. You want suddenly to reach out and touch it. You’re glad you’re sitting too far from him to act on the urge.
You’ve noticed Remus over the years, of course. It’d be impossible not to. You’ve always harbored a tiny crush on him, but you keep it shoved deep down in your gut where it can’t hurt anyone. You think the world of him, but you love your little group of friends more than anything else. You’re not unaware of the fact that Remus is a more crucial fixture in it than you are; if anything happened between you and it made things awkward for everyone, you’d be the one to go.
“Oh, is this a hat?” Lily pulls something tawny brown from a box, and you realize they’ve gotten to your gift. “Oh my god, it has little antlers!”
You try not to smile too hard as she shows it to James and he coos, taking it from her hands.
“No way, he’ll be like our little Prongsie! I’m going to put it on him.”
“Don’t wake him,” Lily warns, but James waves her off.
“He can sleep through anything,” he says, settling the baby beanie on Harry’s head. Sure enough, he doesn’t stir.
“That’s so darling.” Lily presses a hand to her chest. “Y/N, where’d you get this?”
You feel your face heat and hope the lighting is hiding the bashfulness in your smile. “I made it,” you admit. “I know we’re already well into winter, but I hope he can still use it a little.”
“Um, he’s never taking it off. Like, ever.” James leans around Lily to press a smacking kiss to your cheek. You laugh, trying not to shrink in on yourself from all the attention. “Thanks, love.”
Once all the cooing over Harry’s presents is done, the rest of the gift opening proceeds with decidedly less fanfare, though no shortage of gratitude. You get a bunch of purple eyeliners from Sirius (you’d complained to him a few weeks ago that they’d stopped selling your old one, and he’d been thoughtful enough to find you options to help decide upon new one), a cookbook from James and Lily (“Now you can stop eating all those frozen meals,” James tells you with a meaningful look), and a set of mittens from Remus (“They’re alpaca,” he explains. “Supposed to be extra warm, and your hands are always freezing.”). The rest of your gifts are received happily too, and then Remus’ living room is covered with the wrapping paper Lily had tried but eventually given up on getting everyone to put in piles as they went and you’re all starting to yawn.
“Alright,” Lily says after a while, “it’s well past Harry’s bedtime, and ours, and I’m sure Remus would like his flat back.”
“Booo.” Sirius lays back on the couch, letting his head loll over the edge of the armrest. “Domestic life has made you lame, Evans-Potter.”
“Yeah, yeah,” James drawls, gathering Harry against his chest, “I saw you yawning, Pads. Let’s go.”
You stand with the rest of them, going to find your shoes by the door. “Thanks for everything, Remus,” you say. “It was great.”
“For a first time hosting,” James allows, jokingly prideful, “I suppose you did a pretty decent job. Big shoes to fill, and all that.”
Remus smiles, but it falters when his gaze settles on something behind you. “Are you all going to be alright getting home? It looks like it’s really picked up.”
You follow his stare out the window. He’s not wrong. The unusually thick snowfall you’d arrived in has morphed into something that looks more like a blizzard, the wind whipping white across the black backdrop of sky outside Remus’ flat.
James looks between the scene outside and his family once before seeming to make a decision. “Yeah, we’ll be alright,” he says, watching Lily as he talks. She nods her approval, and James’ voice becomes more solid. “We don’t have far to drive.”
Remus nods, still looking worried. His brows furrow as he turns to you. “What about you? Are you gonna be okay?”
“Yeah.” It’s the only answer in these situations, though you’re sure Remus would be alright with the alternative if you felt very strongly. “It doesn’t look too bad out there.”
Remus casts another dubious glance out the window, and a particularly loud gust of wind whooshes past as if to spite you. “Are you sure? It looks fairly bad to me.”
“Yeah,” James says, “don’t you live rather far?”
“It’s not that far,” you fib, at the same time as Remus says, “She does.”
You laugh awkwardly, pulling on your coat “It’s not. Anyway, I’ve driven in a lot worse than this.”
Lily gives you a small smile. “That’s not very reassuring.”
“You can stay here,” Remus offers, but you’re shaking your head before he’s even gotten the words out.
“That’s sweet of you, but I can make it home.” You give him your most competent smile. “If I end up driving off the road and have to camp in my car, at least I’ll have fantastic mittens to keep the frostbite from my hands.”
He gives you a deadpan look. “While I’m glad you’re excited to use my gift, I’d rather if it didn’t come to that.”
“You can’t get in a crash and die on Christmas,” Sirius says. “It’d be, like, a massive downer for us every year.”
“I’ll be fine,” you insist.
“Babe, I don’t care if we have to lock you in here,” James says, frowning in a way that doesn’t look particularly formidable when he’s swaying back and forth to rock Harry on his chest. “There’s no way you can drive all the way to your place in this.”
You roll your eyes good-naturedly, wrapping your scarf.
“Okay, you know I would never usually say this,” Lily says, gnawing on her lip as she watches the snow blow past outside, “but I think you should listen to the boys. It looks too scary out there to drive that far.”
“It’s…” You look between them, your argument dying of fruitlessness on your tongue. James seems prepared to blockade you inside Remus’ flat, and even Lily’s giving you a stern look. Your gaze lands on Remus, and the last of your resistance melts away.
“You really should stay here,” he says kindly. “Actually, I’d feel a lot better if you did. Alright?”
You sigh, slipping your scarf back over your head. “Alright.”
“Phew!” Sirius says, pulling you into a one-armed hug. “Glad that’s settled. See you all soon, thanks for Christmas Moony!”
“He’s so tired,” Lily says after Sirius is out the door.
“Wiped,” James agrees, adjusting his grip on Harry so that he can wrap one arm around Remus’ neck. Remus leans down into the awkward hug, begrudgingly fond as he pats his friend on the back, then kisses Lily on the cheek when James moves to you.
“Thanks for the gifts,” James says, grinning down at Harry’s knit antlers after he releases you. “He’s never taking this off.”
“He means it.” Lily sends her husband a look as fond as it is weary as she hugs you. “I’ll probably have to bathe Harry while James is asleep so he doesn’t catch him without it.”
Your face is feeling hot again. “I’m glad you like it,” you say with a little shrug, but your friends are used to your shyness and only smile and wave on their way out.
And then the door shuts, and you and Remus are left alone in the quiet.
“Are you tired?” he asks you, moving back into the living room. Lily had sneakily taken care of a good deal of the cleanup, but there’s still a few half-empty glasses of eggnog strewn about which Remus begins gathering.
“Not really,” you answer honestly, beating him to the sink and forcing him to hand you the glasses to wash. “Are you?”
“No,” he agrees. The look he shoots you has to be the gentlest form malice has ever taken as he takes up the dish towel and stations himself beside you. “Fancy a film?”
“Mm, a Christmas film?”
“Obviously.”
The dishes are finished quickly thanks to Lily’s interference, and Remus makes you some hot cocoa while you scroll through movies, calling out possibilities. The only conflict between you is your equal complaisance to whatever the other prefers, and you eventually settle on the first one you’d seen just to put an end to it. You take your cocoa gladly when Remus passes it to you, blowing gently while he settles a blanket over the both of you. Your knees are curled towards him and he has one leg crossed over the other, angling him towards you.
The first few minutes of the film are spent in that contented quietude that the two of you so often fall into when you’re alone together, but then Remus asks you, “What is it?”
You look over at him. “Hm?”
“You’re frowning.”
“Oh.” You laugh. “I’m just thinking about snow.”
His lips quirk. “It is kind of the bane of your existence tonight, isn’t it?”
“No.” You smile down at your hands, hoping it's not obvious how not unpleasant you find your circumstances at the moment. “That’s not it. I was thinking, I kind of hate how it always has to snow in these movies. It makes any Christmas where it doesn’t snow feel like it’s not up to par. Or not quintessential enough, or something.”
“Mm, I see.” Remus looks back to the screen, considering. “Does that make this your quintessential Christmas, then? Are we living up to the movie standard?”
You watch him while he watches the TV, blue light cast over his handsome features. “I guess so,” you say.
The longer you sit there, the closer you get. You blame it on the late hour, your bodies relaxing towards each other on the couch. Remus’ arm brushes yours when he lifts his mug for a sip, and your knees dig into his thigh under the blanket. Soon you’ve drooped enough that you’re leaning nearly entirely against him. You don’t notice until Remus puts an arm around you to encourage your head to his shoulder. You tense but don’t sit up, and eventually his head comes to rest atop yours.
“Are you crying?” he murmurs during a scene near the end.
Your reply is equally soft, not wanting to jostle either Remus’ head or his shoulder with your speech movements. “I really like this part.”
“You know how it ends. It’s going to be okay.”
“I know.” You sniffle, bringing a hand up to wipe your face now that you’ve been caught. “I know it is. It’s just really profound.”
“Sure it is.”
“It’s the spirit of Christmas, Remus. Goodwill to man.”
“Okay.” He rubs your shoulder, and you pretend not to feel his shaking with quiet laughter. “Okay, I agree with you.”
A while later: “You’re tired,” he accuses.
You hum a denial.
“Sweetheart” —your stomach flutters, and there’s a jolt somewhere behind your ribcage; you ignore it— “you’re practically falling asleep right here.”
“Are you tired?”
He shifts slightly, stubble tickling your forehead. “No. But you are.”
“I want to finish the movie.”
He seems to debate this for a moment, then his shoulder relaxes beneath you. “Alright.”
Soon the credits start. Neither of you move.
You let your head slump more heavily onto his shoulder. “Your place really does look lovely. Thanks for having me.”
“Of course, love.” You can feel his smile squish up against the top of your head. “Would you go so far as to say my hosting measures up to James’?”
You chuckle, gesturing to yourself. “I’d say you’ve gone above and beyond, for sure.”
Remus laughs too. “Perfect. Tell him so, would you?”
You’re going to agree when a great yawn takes you. You keep it quiet, but there’s no avoiding the way your chin digs into Remus’ shoulder, your shoulders rising with the prolonged inhale. He moves away from you.
“Ready for bed?” He smiles down at you as you run a knuckle under your eyes, collecting tears from your lashes.
You shrug an admittance. “Sort of. But I don’t want to kick you out of your own living room if you’re not tired yet.”
“No, I’m pretty wiped too,” he says. “Anyway, I’m the one kicking you out. You’re staying in my room.”
You had a feeling he would say something like that. You grab a throw pillow, getting situated with your head near the armrest. “No, I’m not.”
His laugh is disbelieving. “Yeah, you are. You’re my guest, I’m not letting you sleep on the couch.”
You tug the blanket off his lap, curling up with your pillow stubbornly. “I’m not going to steal your bed. You’ve already done so much. You’ve helped me try gingerbread cookies and given me nice mittens and hosted an amazing Christmas. Let me sleep on your couch, please.”
“While I appreciate all that,” he says, “no.”
“Remus.” You’re near pleading at this point. “Your back will hurt.”
“Your back will hurt.”
“Not as badly as yours.” You give him a hard look. “I’m not taking your bed.”
There’s a brief silence, terser than your usual ones but no more awkward for it. You stare each other down.
“Right,” Remus says, reclaiming the remote from where he’d set it on the coffee table. “I suppose we’d better start another movie, then.”
“Remus, come on.” You sit up, giving his shoulder a gentle nudge. “You’ve just said you’re tired. Go to bed, please.”
The TV flickers back on. “I’m not leaving this couch.”
“Well, neither am I,” you laugh, completely serious.
He rolls his eyes, then snuggles up to you under the blanket. You take this as a sign that he’s not really very cross with you.
“You’re much more argumentative than usual tonight, you know that?”
You huff, laying your head back on his shoulder. “I could say the same about you.”
“True, but I know I’ll win out in the end.”
“You can think that if you like.”
“Want to watch this one next?”
“Sure.”
❆ ❆ ❆
Remus watches as your eyes drift closed, then twitch back open, over and over again. He thinks his bony shoulder is the only thing keeping you from falling over the precipice of sleep. If he were James Potter, he’d simply pick you up with ease and carry you to his bed, but Remus can’t say he’s entirely sorry for this extra time with you, even if neither of you are awake enough to make much conversation.
Silly as it sounds, he enjoys just sitting here with you nearly as much as talking. Your cheek squished into his shoulder, your legs curled up atop his. You’re warm and weighty against him.
He should have known it would be a hopeless endeavor trying to get you to agree to take the bed. You’re a gentle thing by nature, but stubborn in your selflessness. Even if you had gone, Remus knows he wouldn’t have slept all night anyway, too preoccupied with thoughts of you all wrapped up in his sheets, your face pressed to his pillow, getting your shampoo smell on the pillowcase. He doesn’t know if it smells like him (does he have a smell?), but he would have wondered all night if it does, if you were noticing.
Your head nearly rolls off his shoulder, and a pitying sound escapes Remus when you jerk awake to set it right. He lets his head rest on yours so it doesn’t happen again. Your eyelids droop closed almost immediately, and Remus begins dragging his thumb across your shoulder blade, a nice, slow back-and-forth. You’re quiet for a long while.
“Are you trying to put me to sleep?” you murmur, words all sloshed together.
It’s a conscious effort not to let his thumb slow. “No,” he says.
You hum.
“Unless you mean it’s working.”
Another long silence. “It’s not,” you reply, head growing heavier on his shoulder.
He chuckles. “Come on, sweetheart. Let’s get you to bed, hm?”
“You go to bed,” you mumble, and if he thought you were capable of it he’d say there was some bitterness lining your words.
Remus sighs. “You’re too nice for your own good,” he tells you.
“No,” you reply, softly, plainly, like it’s a fact, “that’s you.”
He picks his head up off of yours to see your face. “Yeah?”
“Mhm.” Your eyes are closed. You don’t know he’s looking. Your face is wholly relaxed, no hint of pretense about you. “You’re the best I know.”
Something warm and wheedling works its way through Remus’ ribs to the soft gooey core of him.
“Well,” he tells you honestly, “you’re the best I know.”
You seem unconcerned. “Another impasse for us.”
He actually laughs at that, instantly guilty when it jostles you on his shoulder and your eyelids peel apart. He can’t regret it, though, when you look at him the way you do. You’re glowing in the light coming off the tree, soft and warm and lovely, and yet you’re looking at him like he’s the only place your eyes want to go. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
You come gradually more awake, eyebrows twitching towards each other just slightly. “Remus,” you murmur, and he finally does what he’s been wanting to since you’d shown up at his door hours ago. He kisses you.
Your lips are pliable, parting for his almost instantly, like you’d been waiting. His hand coasts from your shoulder to cup the back of your head, keeping you close as your nose slides against his. You both all but fall back onto the bed you’d made yourself on the couch. He’s careful not to put too much of his weight on you, but when his tongue brushes across the inside of your lip and you inhale, he draws back.
“I...” He pants into the space between you. “Sorry. I’m sorry. I didn’t—”
You make a sound that’s half hum, half whine, and bump your chin up into his.
Remus loses himself again with frightening quickness. It’s even better now that you seem more sure, your mouth asking, coaxing against his. You taste like gingerbread. A low, embarrassing sound pries free from the back of his throat when you wind your fingers into the hair at his nape, and he slips his free hand beneath your back, getting as close to you as he can. Your legs make room for him automatically, knees tipping open so he can slot between them.
“Do you—” you breathe when his attentions move downward, tilting your head to the side to grant access as he mouths at the skin just under your jaw. “Do you want this?”
The word leaves him in a soft exhale, muffled against your skin. “Yes.”
You swallow. He feels the movement in your throat. “Are you sure?”
His eyelashes brush your jaw as his kisses slow, become more tender, more intentional. “Lovely girl,” he murmurs. “You’re silly, you know that?” His mouth meanders it’s way over to your pulse, getting stuck there and sucking at your skin lazily. “I mean, you’re smart.” The words are all mushed up against you. Noticeably amused. Remus quit the eggnog hours ago, yet he feels half drunk. “You’re really smart, honey, but you can be so oblivious sometimes.”
You don’t respond, and as much as he loves the sound of your voice, he’s hoping your silence is in his favor right now. He wants you wrapped up in him, wants to engross you so completely you forget how to form your lips around speech.
“Do you want to move to my room?”
You take a breath. Fuck, even the sound of you breathing is nearly enough to undo him. He moves back to your mouth as if to intercept it, nipping at your lower lip.
“Is this a ploy to get me off the couch?”
“You’re relentless.”
Your lips curve against his, and he mirrors them without thinking. You stay quiet.
“Fine. I promise it’s not, okay?”
Your laugh is fizzy like champagne, and it warms Remus’ chest like it too. “Okay,” you say in that lovely voice. “Okay, let’s go.”
❆ ❆ ❆
You always thought Remus was all softness. He’s made up of soft looks, soft colors, and hair that you can now confirm is soft as dandelion fluff. But this night has defied your expectations in a thousand ways. And your Remus, soft, gentle, kindhearted Remus, is scraping at your throat with his teeth.
You have to suck your lip between your teeth to keep from making a humiliatingly desperate sound when he passes his tongue over his work, another crescent moon that’s sure to be purple by morning. Your hands are beseeching in his dandelion fluff hair, keeping him close while his hands are busy lower, one gripping the fat of your hip while the other drags tantalizingly slow up and down your side. He’s kissing you like you have all the time in the world, sometimes rough but no more urgent for it, and you’re breathy and molten and useless beneath him.
You’re brimming with adoration and something else too. Something that you think you could almost identify—you’ve felt it before, but never like this.
“What do you want to do?” There’s a raspy quality to Remus’ voice that would send you to your knees if he hadn’t already taken them out from under you. He dots leisurely, open-mouthed kisses up the column of your throat, soothing over spots he’s already nipped and sucked into oblivion. Your head feels fuzzy. “Sweetheart?”
Christ, is he trying to send you into cardiac arrest? Remus doesn’t stop kissing you even at your silence, finding your lip still held between your teeth and encouraging it free with his own. You try to remember what he’d asked you. What do you want to do? You have no idea. Where would you even start? You want him to keep talking to you in that raspy voice, that’s for sure. You want…you want to keep kissing him, to know what his hands would do if you let them beneath your clothes. You want to keep investigating this warm feeling in your gut. See where it takes you.
Remus’ kisses slow, then stop. He pulls back to look at you. In the dim street light coming in through the window, you wonder what he sees.
“You alright?” His voice is soft, gentle, saying it’s okay if you’re not without saying it.
You take a breath. It shakes a little on the way out, but you don’t think he can tell. “Yeah, I’m good. Just nervous. But not in a bad way.” Nervous-happy.
“Don’t be,” he implores, lips brushing your cheek. “It’s only me.”
Exactly, you think. It’s you.
“What do you want to do?” You turn his own question back on him.
His smile is tinged with bashfulness. “I mean, whatever you’re alright with.” There’s a tentative quietness to his voice. “Have you…”
If it were possible for you to get any warmer, embarrassment would do it. “No,” you say, shrinking away from him though there’s nowhere to go. Whatever the end to that question might be, the answer is no.
“That’s okay,” he says quickly, dropping another kiss on the corner of your mouth like a cure-all remedy. “That’s okay, you just tell me if you want to stop, yeah? If you don’t like something, or you want to slow down—anything at all, you let me know.” He kisses you again, further up on your burning cheek. “Okay?”
You swallow. “Okay.”
“Don’t be nervous.” He says it like a promise, hand stroking your side again as if to soothe you. His lips find your shoulder, nosing the fabric of your sleeve. “Can I take this off, lovely?”
You nod, words all stoppered up in your throat, then realize he can’t see you and do it yourself. He has to pause as it comes off, taking the opportunity to do away with his own sweater. He tosses it onto the floor beside the bed. You do the same, and your bra quickly follows. You’d always thought (largely influenced, admittedly, by trashy novels) that this was the part where the guy stops what he’s doing and openly oggles the shirtless woman in front of him, but Remus has seen tits before and wastes no time in getting his mouth back on yours, pressing you into the mattress.
His skin is as heated as yours, the areas where you touch deliciously warm despite the cold still whipping past his bedroom window. You allow yourself one sweeping, appreciative pass over the muscles on Remus’ back before your hands go to your bottoms, shimmying them down your legs. A long-fingered hand finds the exposed skin of your thigh and kneads reverently. You swallow Remus’ groan. He kisses you more deeply, long, savoring passes of his tongue along the inside of your mouth until his lips move downward.
One hand stays at your hip while the other strokes up and down your thigh, spit cooling in a path down your stomach. You try to relax as he passes your navel, but the anticipation is hard to shake. You’re nearly trembling when he kneels between your legs, kissing the sensitive skin of your inner thigh.
“Is this okay?” he murmurs.
It’s all you can do to nod, gasping when his teeth drag over one of the stretch marks there. You clutch at the sheets above your head like a lifeline.
“We can stop anytime you want.”
You inhale raggedly. “No,” you manage. Your breathlessness is obvious in the quiet room. “I want—I want to keep going.” You pause. “Do you?”
You can hear the smile in his voice. “Yeah, love, that sounds good to me.”
Good, you’re about to say, but Remus’ next kiss lands on your slit, and your voice withers and dies in your throat. He uses a hand to push one of your legs out further while bringing the other over his shoulder, spreading you open. His breath fans hot over your cunt.
You’re writhing at the first broad stroke of his tongue. He wraps his fingers around the outside of your thigh, keeping you still while placating you at the same time.
Remus takes his time, lapping experimentally at your entrance before making his way upwards. You gasp as his tongue skims over your clit, burrowing your hand in his hair before hesitating.
“Is this okay?” you ask.
His hummed assent has you tightening your grasp. He brushes over your clit one more time, and when this gets a similar reaction from you, begins sucking on it gently. You’re panting, and Remus has to move his grip to your hip to hold you in place, squeezing indulgently at the fat there while he narrows in on what you like. Before long you’re trembling all over, tugging feebly at his hair as you squeeze your eyes shut against the odd sort of bliss that’s taking you under.
“Remus,” you breathe, and it’s a miracle that he hears you but he does, raising his head with a lewd suctioning sound.
Remus looks at you questioningly with eyes almost all pupil.
“Come here,” you plead.
He obeys, crawling back up you to peck at your bitten lips. “Doing alright?” he asks you.
“Yeah,” you promise. You cup his head in one hand and wrap your leg over the back of his as if to prevent him from leaving. “Just wanted to kiss you.”
You feel him smile against your lips. He slots his mouth over yours, and you dedicate yourself to his top lip. He tastes like sex, braver now as he explores your mouth. He drags your bottom lip between his teeth, and you make a high, breathy sound. His grip on you tightens.
“Do you think—can we—”
He hesitates, kissing softly at the corner of your lips. “Are you sure?”
“I want to. Do you?”
Remus actually laughs, muffling the sound against your cheek. “Yeah, I fucking want to. I’ve wanted to forever.”
You can’t think about that. Think about that and you’ll fall to pieces.
He noses affectionately at the underside of your jaw, slipping down you once again to stand at the end of the bed. He steps out of his pants and grabs a condom from the drawer of his nightstand. “You’ll tell me if I do anything you don’t like, yeah?”
“Mhm,” you promise, anticipation coiling up snugly with that other thing in your stomach. They don’t feel all that distinct from one another.
“Alright,” he says, palm slipping under your thigh. “Can I lift this up, love?”
You nod, and he grasps the soft underside of your knee, bringing your leg up to your stomach as he lines up. You gasp as he pushes in slowly, watching your face to make sure you’re doing okay. You’re already slick and worked open from his mouth, but it’s still a bit shocking.
His thumb strokes beside your knee as your walls adjust to the size of him. “How’s that feel?”
“Good,” you say honestly. There’s a note of desperation to your voice. “I can—more, please.”
He’s quick to accommodate you, pushing deeper as he folds himself over you to recapture your lips. Your breaths shallow. His free hand moves to your breast, kneading gently at the soft flesh. He gives it a firm squeeze at the same time as he moves inside you, and you nearly bite Remus’ lip off, a half-suppressed keening sound escaping you.
“So good,” he mumbles. “You’re doing so good, sweetheart. Taking it so well.” He lifts his head, kissing your temple. “Think you can handle a bit more?”
Your response is barely more than breath, but he catches the affirmation, pressing another firm kiss to your forehead before he bottoms out inside of you. Your head lolls back, fuzzy with the strange pain and even stranger pleasure. Remus tightens his grip on your leg to keep it up, dotting kisses down the side of your face.
“Good girl,” he says hoarsely. “Still doing okay, lovely?”
“Yeah,” you say, somewhat dizzy. “Remus, it feels so good.”
“Good,” he croons. “It should feel good, love. Ready for me to move?”
“Mhm.”
He pulls out slowly, dragging against your sensitive walls. He starts mouthing at your neck again before he pushes back inside you, filling you up all over again. A slew of expletives roll out of your mouth, unbidden and entirely unlike you, as Remus begins pumping your breast again, the rhythm matching that of his thrusts. He sucks the flesh of your neck between his teeth, and you bite down hard on your lower lip to repress what promises to be a high-pitched and deeply mortifying sound.
Remus praises you amply, soft kisses and reverent touches and a raspy “Fuck, sweetheart, just like that.” Your head floats or swims or both, your body tensed all over and yet completely plaint to Remus’ touch. He moves back to your mouth, discovering your bottom lip held captive between your teeth.
“Come, don’t do that,” he chides, easing it free with gentle kisses. “Let me hear you, bet you sound so pretty.”
The Welsh accent that’s grown faint after years of living away from home is emerging now, as is the crude vocabulary it's tied to in memory, a host of barely comprehensible profanities spewing from Remus’ lips when you clench on him again. His grip tightens on your tit, and a moan tears from the back of your throat.
“That’s it,” he praises, head dipping to kiss the soft spot he’s found underneath your ear. “There you are, lovely girl.”
The coil in your core grows impossibly tighter, your thighs quivering as you approach a peak you’ve never known before. Remus feels it, cooing softly even as he drives into you harder.
“You gonna cum, sweetheart?” You nod dazedly. “Good, good, just let it happen, I’ve got you.”
“Come here,” you demand again. He wastes no time in obliging you.
He kisses your lips sore as you dig your nails into his shoulders, pulling his body flush against yours, the feeling inside you growing so great you don’t know where to put it, don’t know if you can contain it. You can’t remember ever feeling this close to someone, Remus’ touch the only thing keeping you from hurtling off some unknown precipice.
“Let go,” he urges, and you do. You trust him to catch you.
It’s bliss like you’ve never known. You cry out, and Remus’ hand slides down from your breast to spread wide and flat against your ribs. Steadying. He kisses soothingly at your jaw as you gasp and pant your way back to him, grip slackening on his shoulders.
“Good girl,” he murmurs, though you really haven’t done much at all.
“Are you—” You swallow, choking on the emotion that’s risen unbidden in your throat. “Are you close?”
Remus smiles, coming back to your lips like he can’t help himself. He pecks you once, twice. “Sweetheart, I’m more than close. I’ve barely been holding myself together since you kissed me.”
Well, he’d actually kissed you, but you’ll take the compliment anyway.
“Do you think you’ll be alright if I move again?” he asks. “It’s alright if not.”
“You can,” you say, leaning up on your elbows to see him better. “Is there…anything I can do to help?”
The smile fades from Remus’ face, leaving something far more tender in its wake. “Just, keep looking at me like that?” He says it almost like he’s embarrassed, voice quiet with supplication.
You want to tell him you’d never needed asking to look at him, but you don’t, keeping your eyes on his obediently as he pumps into you. He really must have been close, because he’s cursing again not long after, accent twisting his syllables with a gruff pleasure. Your walls contract at the movement, still sensitive, and that’s all it takes. Remus digs his fingers into your waist and makes sounds you’re sure you’ll dream about, panting, breathy moans you sit up to smother against your lips. He follows you back down onto the mattress, mouth slotted against your own. You hold him to you until his breaths even and his grip on you loosens.
“Was that alright?” he asks, some of the rasp still lingering in his voice.
You can’t help the laugh that escapes you, dizzy with affection. “Yeah, it was good,” you promise him. Understatement of the year. “Really good, Rem.”
“Good,” he echoes, lips brushing the skin under your eye. You don’t know how you know, but you can feel the amusement building in him just before he asks, “Tired yet?”
You guffaw. The force of it jostles him on top of you, and his lips curve against your cheek.
“A little bit, yeah.”
Actually, you hadn’t realized how exhausting sex would be. If it didn’t mean having to take your eyes off Remus, you’d have closed them and passed out by now.
“Good,” he says again, hands sliding down your waist as he moves to stand again. You make a small sound as he shifts, and Remus shushes you, slipping out from inside you. You watch fascinatedly as he removes the condom, sticky with cum. He tosses it in the wastebasket under his desk and walks away from you.
“Hey,” you protest. “You’d better not be sneaking off to sleep on the couch.”
His chuckle echoes in the bathroom, followed by the sound of a cabinet opening. “So mistrustful,” he says when he comes back in with a damp towel. “What’ve I done to arouse such suspicion?”
Your fuzzy brain gets stuck on the word arouse in his teasing tone, and it takes you a second to answer. “Well, I’m here and a blink away from falling asleep, so you tell me.”
“Fair enough.” He rolls his eyes good-naturedly, taking your thigh in his grasp to move it aside. “Alright if I clean you up, love?”
You startle, coming up on your elbows to see where Remus is holding the towel between your legs. “I didn’t realize it’d be so messy,” you admit. “You don’t have to, though, I can do it myself.”
“I don’t mind,” he says, thumb soothing over your knee. “S’my mess anyway.” He seems to have not quite agreed with himself to say that last part aloud, a blush spreading over his cheeks.
“Sure,” you say, mostly to alleviate his embarrassment. You let your weight lean more heavily on your elbows, trying your best to look relaxed. “Sure, if you’re alright with it.”
“Might be a bit sensitive,” he warns. You’d guessed as much, but it's worth it for all the praises he rains down upon you as he works, finishing with a kiss to the side of your knee.
You miss him humiliatingly when he goes to the bathroom again to discard the towel. It’s all you can do not to reach for him when he comes back, but luckily Remus reads your mind anyway, slipping under the covers and tugging you to him until his lips rest against your forehead.
“That was really great,” you tell him.
“I thought so too.”
“You’ll stay here, right?”
A low laugh. “Yeah, sweetheart. I’m staying here.”
❆ ❆ ❆
Remus hasn’t known anyone to sleep in longer than Sirius, but you seem to be vying for his title. The sun has long since passed above his windows when Remus wakes, and still he has time to spend idle hours marveling at the closeness of you. His nose is cold above the covers, but everywhere your bodies are pressed together is warm, your palm flat against his chest and one of your legs wormed between his own. Your fingers twitch as you dream.
It has to be early afternoon by the time he rises, slipping his hand carefully from beneath you and plodding into the kitchen. The blanket is still on the couch where you left it, throw pillow creased with your indentation. Your mugs are discarded on the coffee table with globs of once-hot cocoa stuck to the bottom. Bright light refracts off the snow outside and into his kitchen, making everything look shiny new.
Remus puts on the kettle first, letting that warm up while he rifles through the cabinets for his big mixing bowl and starts whisking together ingredients. A bird chirps outside as the kettle gurgles, and somehow the peace of Remus’ kitchen feels more complete knowing that you’re sleeping just down the hall.
Until, apparently, you’re not. Your footsteps are so silent he startles when you appear, still blinking yourself awake as you cross your arms over the sweater you’ve thrown on with your bottoms from the night before. Remus’ sweater. And Remus had thought he’d come to terms with the idea of you here, in his apartment like the best Christmas gift of all time, but apparently not, because his heart stutters and stops at the sight of you.
He’d thought you’d looked adorable in the soft glow of the Christmas lights the night before, and again tucked into his sheets this morning, but you’re almost ethereal now. Sunlight bathes the planes of your face and gleams off your hair, making you appear almost like you’re emanating the bright light rather than standing in it. You smile at him, seraphim.
“Morning. Sorry I didn’t ask,” you say, fingering the hem of Remus’ sweater. “I was cold and you were gone, I hope you don’t mind.”
Mind? Remus can’t even think.
“Course not,” he manages, but just barely. It’s more an exhale than a statement. “Did you sleep alright?”
“Really well,” you say. His sleeves cover your fingers as you rest your elbows on the counter, and your gaze has gone a bit shy again, but Remus can hardly blame you. You both seemed to have experienced unusual nerve the night before. He only hopes you aren’t regretting your part in it. And now that he’s had some time to think, he hopes even more that you’d truly wanted it in the first place. “Did you?”
“Yeah, thanks.”
You lean a bit closer in a way that he doubts either of you are even slightly unaware of, peering into the mixing bowl. “What’re you making?”
“I’m experimenting,” he says, though he wishes now he weren’t. He wanted to make you something good, but his confidence in his adaptation is waning now that you’re in the room. He should have gone with something basic, tried-and-true. “Or, I’m attempting. Gingerbread pancakes?”
His voice crawls up into a question, as if he really has no idea what it is he’s trying to make (maybe that’s closer to the truth), but Remus’ regrets vanish instantly at the genuine elation that lights your expression.
“Really?”
A laugh startles out of him, giddy. “Yeah, does that sound alright?”
“More than alright,” you declare with full seriousness, seating yourself at the bar counter. “That sounds amazing, Rem, thank you. Merlin, I owe you so big for all of this.”
“I think you’ve more than made it up to me.” It slips out without permission, Remus too high on the flow of your conversation to filter the words through his brain before they reach his mouth. His loathsome, traitorous mouth. “I mean, I’m sorry—fuck, that sounds awful—I only meant that I’ve had a really good time with you here. I’m glad you stayed.”
Your eyes have widened. Remus expects his face is about five shades pinker than normal.
“Not that I’m only glad because of—or, I’m always glad to have you. As a friend, too.”
There’s a tiny pinch in your features, gone before he can diagnose it. Somehow, you seem even more uncomfortable. “Right.” You give him a thin smile. It’s a hearty attempt, but you’re too genuine a soul to fake it. Remus hates himself for it. “As a friend.”
They’re his own words, but hearing them from your mouth and with that piss-poor smile feels like having a fire poker jammed between his ribs.
With his track record this morning, Remus really should be taking a vow of silence, but he can’t seem to stop himself. “Just friends, then?” Hesitance makes his voice sound quiet even in the silent kitchen. He looks down, stirring the batter to avoid watching the answer take form on your face.
“I mean,” your tone is a match to his, “is that what you want?”
A short, soft laugh escapes him. “I think I made what I want fairly clear last night.”
There’s a short silence. “I thought I did, too.”
It’s a conscious effort to keep stirring. Had you? Remus had kissed you, he’d brought you to his room, he’d been the one to ask if you wanted to do more. And you’d been game for it all, sure, but he can’t help but wonder if you were just going along with him. If maybe you’d thought it was just a fuck, something to pass the time while you were both snowed in, no strings attached. Remus could understand that. He could disentangle the strings from last night if it’s what you want. But he’s liked you for years. He could love you oh so easily. He’s practically teetering on the edge of it already, though you’ve only been friends all this time.
Remus spoons some batter into a waiting pan on the stove. He’s debating asking what exactly it is that you thought you’d made clear when you speak again.
“I understand if it’s too much for you.” Your voice is quiet. He looks up, and your shoulders are hunched as if you’re trying to hide yourself. You shrink further under his gaze. “We can stay just friends if it’s…if that’s what you want. I want whatever’s easier for you.” Your next words are so impossibly soft, Remus has to strain to hear them over the low sizzling of the pancake batter. “I really want you to stay in my life.”
“What?” It’s a staccato, loud enough that it surprises you both, Remus stepping toward you while you nearly flinch back. “Sorry.” His hand goes up, reaching into the space between you as if he can soothe you from feet away. He lowers his volume. “Sorry, I just—I didn’t realize that was even on the table. I would never want to not be in your life.”
“I just mean that I don’t want to make things weird for you, or for everyone else—”
“Hey.” He manages to cross the distance this time, his hand landing on your wrist atop the counter. Remus isn’t sure why he needs it there so desperately, but he suddenly feels much better. “There is nothing that could make any of us not want to be friends with you. I can speak for everyone in that regard. Okay?”
You look at him consideringly for a moment. Remus holds your stare, letting you see his certainty.
“Okay,” you echo, sounding unsure. He’ll deal with that later, he decides.
“Okay,” he says once more, and it’d almost be firm if it weren’t so gentled by the tenderness he can never seem to get rid of around you. Even so, what he says next doesn’t sound particularly tender. It’s not very kind to you, he knows, but Remus is selfish, and he feels (selfishly) like he’s done his part already. He tries to phrase it as nicely as he can. “Can you tell me what it is that you want, please?”
You try to shrink again, and Remus’ grip tightens on your wrist instinctually as if to keep you from running off. He swipes his thumb over your skin apologetically.
“Remus, come on.” You sound almost upset, but it’s hard to tell with your voice so quiet. “I know I’m not that good at—at covering myself up. I must have hearts in my eyes half the time I look at you.”
Remus would give a month’s rent to know what you can see in his eyes right now. Even if he’d been hoping for an answer something like that, he hadn’t expected it. And for you to act like it’s been obvious…he does his best to think back.
You’ve always been a shy thing. It had taken James months to get you to be remotely yourself around them, and though you’d seemed to warm to Remus first, you’d always retained some of your bashfulness when you were alone together. He’d chalked it up to the result of two people, quiet by nature, with no wildly extroverted James or Sirius or Lily to run interference.
You’ve always been kind to him, but you’re kind to everyone. How is anyone supposed to suspect favoritism from a soul as indiscriminately sweet as yours?
He recalls your voice last night, thin and reedy and fragile as the cattails that had bordered the creek behind his house as a kid. Wary of getting swept along by the current, but willing to go if Remus would take you. Do you want this?
He’d called you oblivious for asking. How could you wonder, when he’d been the one to kiss you and has probably been looking like he wanted to for years? He’s certainly been thinking about it for as long. But perhaps your obliviousness is another congruity between the two of you.
So much for opposites attract.
“I think I’m an idiot,” he says, and mercifully, a smile far more real than the last sneaks onto your face.
“You are not,” you reply, ever forgiving.
“Don’t tell Sirius,” he warns, “but I really think I am.” His voice drops to a more earnest register. “I had no idea, love, I’m sorry. Maybe you’re better at hiding things than you thought. But if you don’t want to be friends, I don’t want to either.” Remus hesitates. “Or, I always want to be your friend, just—”
“Remus?”
Finally. Someone needs to stop him. “Yeah?”
“Your pancake…”
He turns to find a thin spire of smoke rising from the pan. “Oh, fuck.” He grabs a spatula and quickly flips the pancake, but there’s no saving it. The bottom side is completely blackened. It’s inedible. “Sorry, I…I’m not sure I have enough batter for much more.”
“It’s fine.” There’s laughter in your tone, and that’s more than enough to make up for it. “It was a really sweet thought, that’s what matters anyway.”
Remus turns to find you’ve slipped out of your seat and are standing uncertainly on the threshold of the kitchen. His heart warms with incandescent, aching fondness.
“Would you come here?” he asks.
You comply with an eagerness he wonders how he’s never noticed before, stepping forward to let him fold you into his arms. Your wrists cross over his mid back and the tip of his nose mushes into your hair as he touches his lips to the top of your head. He can’t believe he could have been holding you like this all along if only he hadn’t been so thick. He supposes he’ll have to make up for it now.
“Let’s do away with asking about want, does that sound alright?” He rubs lightly between your shoulder blades, wonders if you like the feel of his breath on your forehead. “How about you tell me if anything comes up that you don’t want, and I’ll do the same.”
“Yeah.” Remus knows he likes the feel of your voice on his skin, your chin moving against his chest. “Yeah, that sounds good.”
“Good.” He smiles, pressing another kiss to your head. “Okay, should we venture out to find something for breakfast? Or lunch, I suppose it is by now.”
You ease out of his arms. “I really should go home.” There’s an apology already embedded in your tone, but you add one anyway. “Sorry, but my cat’s been there all night by herself, so…”
“Right.” Remus ignores the dull throb behind his sternum, which is really a bit dramatic. He’ll see you soon, surely. “Yeah, that makes sense. Think you’ll be able to drive?”
“I mean, I looked outside.” You shrug, backing towards where you’d hung your coat the night before. “The roads here are cleared, which I hope means they’ve gotten to most of them already.”
“That’s good,” he says, though he feels the opposite. Your poor cat, he’s pitted completely against her now. She’s done nothing to deserve the resentment he’s directing at her, almost petulant in his malcontent. “Good, good.”
You’re both silent as you put on your shoes, your scarf. It’s not unusual for the two of you, but it lacks its usual easy contentedness. Your eyes flit up as you pull on your new gloves, a silent thanks in them that you know Remus won’t let you voice aloud again. Despite the upset in his chest, he smiles.
“I…listen, I have to go home,” you tell him, looking down as you wriggle your fingers more snugly into the gloves. “I have to feed my cat. But that doesn’t necessarily mean I want to…leave.”
Remus can’t see how that changes anything, but he recognizes it for the olive branch it is. You’re both so uncertain, and you’re trying to alleviate his worries about what you leaving right now means. He can return the favor.
“I don’t want you to leave either,” he says, “but I get it. She seems important to you, best to keep her fed.”
“Exactly.” You smile, relieved. “But, I mean, if you’re not doing anything, you could come meet her? We could pick up breakfast on the way. Or I could make you something there.”
Remus can’t believe his luck. And, once again, his stupidity in not getting there himself. Why is it that all of a sudden, everything that has to do with you seems so absurdly difficult? At least one of you is thinking clearly.
“Yeah, that would be fantastic.” He’s grinning hugely, totally unlike him but liking it very much. “Let me grab my coat.”
“Wait.” There’s a newly familiar breathless quality to your voice, and when Remus turns you’re already coming forward to meet him. Your palm slides against the stubble along his jaw as you stretch your neck, kissing him sweetly on the lips. “There,” you say, timidity shrouded beneath a good layer of happiness, “now we’re even.”
Remus laughs, loud and startled. He wants to be generous with you, he really does, but he still thinks you’re far from even. “I’m not sure about that, sweetheart,” he says warmly, pressing a brief kiss to the corner of your eyebrow, “but we'll get there.”
summary | late nights listening to music lead to late-stage realizations (aka, jonathan finally realizes you have a thing for him)
warnings | childhood best friends, reader likes pop music, minor steve harrington slander if you squint, don't fact check my 80s pop culture references, got this idea while listening to dizzy on the comedown by turnover, fluff
word count | 2.6k
Your gasp rivaled the too-loud volume of The Clash's latest album spinning in Jonathan's record player, sat up on the old vinyl shelf that always looked to be one ill-timed breath in its direction from collapsing.
Jonathan was on the floor beside you. He sat with his back against the side of his messily made bed, your socked feet resting in his lap as he read some comic Will had asked him to check out.
At your gasp, he immediately looked up.
You shot him a toothy grin from over the top of this month's Teen Beat. "You'll never guess what happened."
The corners of his mouth twitched upwards. "Try me," he dared.
Flipping the magazine around, you tapped excitedly at a blurry photo of Cher and Val Kilmer, caught locking lips in the back of a limo after some glitzy Hollywood party.
"They're dating!"
Jonathan dropped the comic, putting on his best I Love Gossip voice. “You're kidding."
You cut your eyes and flipped the magazine back around. "Don't mock me, J."
"Does that sound like something I would do?"
"Indubitably," you announced, dramatically turning a page.
"No," said Jonathan. "It's just, it's exactly like you said." It was obvious he was trying hard to stay serious, to keep that shy smile of his from taking over. "I can't believe it."
Laughing, you tossed the magazine at his face.
He dodged, but only barely, too busy laughing right along with you.
If Joyce was home, now would've been when she'd knock on Jonathan's door. Exhausted, yet kind as ever, she would've reminded you both that it was quarter past nine and she had work in the morning. Just...try to keep it down, okay?
If Will was home, then approximately five minutes ago would've been when he'd invited himself inside, settling on Jonathan's bed to hover sweetly over the top of you and Who's dating? while craning his neck for a better view of the magazine.
But they were both out right now. Joyce working a closing shift at Melvald's, and your favorite drama queen playing D&D at a friend's house.
It was only you. Only Jonathan.
And The Clash, of course.
"You're insufferable," you eventually told him, still glaring playfully.
Jonathan squeezed your foot. "Says the one obsessed with crappy magazines."
"Oh I'm sorry, J — am I too lame for you? Is my love for pop culture ruining your street cred?"
Another laugh framed his pretty brown eyes with the most precious crinkles. "Who says street cred?" he asked incredulously.
"Lame-os, apparently."
It was his turn to cut his eyes. "If either of us lame," he contended, "it's definitely me."
The urge to frown was unbearable, but you tried resisting it.
Jonathan talking down on himself was a frequent occurrence. He'd always been insecure, even back in elementary school when you were both too young to know why older kids picked on him for his too-big coat and out-of-style sneakers.
High school had made it worse, though. A lot worse.
Sometimes you wished all of Hawkins High could see Jonathan the way you saw him. Understatedly funny with impeccable music taste; a photographer NYU would be lucky to teach; smarter than half this damned town and caring to a fault.
Other times — selfish, greedy times — you were glad they didn't.
Hawkins didn't deserve Jonathan, anyway.
Gently, you nudged him in the stomach with your foot. "If you're lame, then I'm lame by association," you told him. "Which actually means you're not lame at all, because I—" you laid a hand on your chest "—am the coolest person to ever exist."
"Didn't you just call yourself a lame-o?"
"Have you never heard of a joke, J? A bit of witticism? An old chestnut, even!"
With a groan that was both embarrassed on your behalf and thoroughly amused, Jonathan tossed his head back against the bed. "Great," he said to the ceiling. "So we're both lame."
You had full intent to argue for argument's sake, to make some exuberant claim as to why you were the furthest thing from lame (as if you weren't spending a Saturday night on your best friend's bedroom floor raving over celebrity romance while wearing fuzzy socks with cat in rainboots on them) when the room went totally silent.
The album had ended.
Jonathan lifted his head.
The two of you shared a look.
And then—
You shrieked when Jonathan shoved your feet of his lap, both of you scrambling to get off the floor. His room became a flurry of limbs and shouts and shoves, each fighting the other to cross the mere feet that separated you from the decrepit vinyl shelf.
Jonathan beat you.
"No fair," you whined. He was already lifting The Clash record off the platter and sliding it back into its sleeve. "You picked the last two albums. It's my turn, Byers!"
"You know the rules," he teased. "You snooze you lose."
"We should play rock-paper-scissors for it."
He dragged a finger over the records on his shelf, deciding which to play next. "You wouldn't say that if I was the one who lost."
"It's not losing if the competition's rigged!"
This whole Race to the Record Player thing was an unfair challenge. Not only were his legs longer than yours, but he had home-field advantage! His room was in such disarray that if you ran too fast, you were likely to twist your ankle on a lone Converse living under a denim jacket.
Jonathan turned his head to smile at you. It was so boyish and sweet, so unknowingly adorable, that you almost forgot to stay mad at him.
"You know," he said, "no one likes a sore loser."
An Oh, phooey! was already halfway up your throat when he slid a record out and showed it to you for approval.
One look at the cover and your Oh, phooey fizzled into a gasp.
"You're kidding!"
Jonathan's taste was eclectic but leaned into post-punk rock territory. Talking Heads, Joy Division, The Psychedelic Furs. Spending so much time with him meant you had come to love all those bands too — but unlike him, you weren't immune to the bubblegum bite of the pop-music bug.
Cyndi Lauper was your new favorite artist.
And now — in Jonathan's beautiful, beautiful hand — was her first ever studio album, She's So Unusual.
Released less than a week ago, there was no way he'd gotten it without spending a pretty penny. A valuable penny. One that could've been given to Joyce for extra groceries or put aside to replace the starter in his car. He could've even bought himself a new record, instead of spending hard-earned money on an album he wouldn't even listen to outside of your presence.
"Remember when I called you insufferable?" you asked.
He tipped his head to one side, pretty brown eyes crinkling as he pretended to think. "Vaguely."
"Well consider this my apology."
Before he could react, you lifted onto your toes and grabbed his face in your hands, pressing a sweet kiss to his cheek. His skin was soft, a little prickly where he'd missed a few spots shaving. He turned red so fast you felt warmth bloom under your lips. When you pulled back, admiring his new cherry complexion, you decided you liked making Jonathan blush.
Trying to seem unfazed, Jonathan busied himself with putting the record on. "I'll take it under consideration," he said, but the awkward way he cleared his throat before speaking made it obvious: you were definitely forgiven.
He lowered the needle. Money Changes Everything floated through his room, a lively beat that made your bones tingle.
You flopped backwards onto his bed, sighing comfortably. It smelled like him, bar soap and laundry detergent. If he hadn't turned to face you, you probably would've buried your nose in the sheets.
"So." You needed to talk. Otherwise you'd spend too much time admiring how cute he looked, unsure what to do with his hands, unable to hold your gaze but incapable of looking away. "Will," you said.
Concern took him immediately. "What about Will?"
You laughed. "Calm your engine, sports car. I was just gonna ask if he was going to the Snow Ball."
The infamous middle school dance was next weekend. An old teacher of yours had reached out to ask if you'd help with snacks for it, and you maybe promised to bake and ice two hundred cupcakes by next Friday — a venture you fully planned on wrangling Jonathan into.
Jonathan shrugged. "I don't know...I think so."
"Good," you chirped. Because if he'd said no, you would've had to conjure a last-minute plan to convince Will that school dances were So Cool and not Life Ruining Awful. "What about you?"
He gave you a look. "I'm pretty sure I aged out of middle school dances."
You chucked a pillow at him. "Not the Snow Ball, dummy. Our dance."
Winter's Dream, they were calling it. They being Hawkins High's budget friendly planning committee consisting of cheerleaders and theater kids. According to the fliers, the whole gym would be transformed into an ethereal frozen paradise — cotton ball clouds strung from the ceiling along with papier-mâché snowflakes; plenty of twinkle lights; fake snow covering the linoleum.
They had made crowns, too, for whichever lucky students were voted to be the Winter King & Queen. Everyone was gossiping over who would be crowned queen.
There was no doubt who would be king.
Jonathan edged towards the bed. Sat, and immediately started fiddling with a stray thread on his black jeans. "I don't know. Probably not."
"Trick question." You shot up straight, knocking your shoulder into his. "You're definitely going. So, onto our next question: who are you gonna ask to be your date?"
You expected him to say 'I don't know' again.
Instead, he reluctantly replied: "Who's your date?"
You bit your lip against a smile. "No one."
"No one's asked you?"
"No one worth saying yes to." Truth was, there was only one person you'd say yes to. "Connie heard that Steve Harrington's gonna ask me on Monday, but you know Connie. You'd be better trusting a call-in psychic."
"You love call-in psychics."
"But I don't trust them," you said, bumping his shoulder again.
Jonathan kept picking at the thread on his jeans.
On accident, he snapped it right off.
"Well...if Steve asks," he started, still focused on his lap, "will you...I don't know, say yes, or..."
Do you want me to say yes?
"I'm offended," you said solemnly. "Honestly, you're supposed to be my best friend, J! If you don't know that I'm gonna tell Steve Harrington where to shove it, then who will?"
He forced a chuckle. "I don't know...I mean, it wouldn't so...strange, I guess, to think maybe you'd actually want to go with him."
"Why? Because he's got nice hair and a BMW?"
Brown eyes flicked to yours in a sidelong look that said Uh, yeah?
Your jaw fell. "Don't tell me you really think that a BMW is all it takes to win me over."
"Of course not," defended Jonathan. Then, with a too-shy smile: "I think nice hair is all it takes to win you over."
You reached back for his other pillow and whacked him in the face with it. He burst out laughing, stole the pillow, and tossed it clear across the room.
That didn't stop you.
You swatted his arms, his chest, shouting I can't believe you! and Take it back, dummy! Jonathan just kept laughing, dodging hits and trying to catch your wrists, failing and resorting to tickling your sides.
You didn't know how you ended up on top of him. Only that you were, both of you smiling and breathless, your hands pinning his wrists to the bed on either side of his head.
In the background, Time After Time hummed so softly you worried he could hear the sound of your heart fluttering wildly in your chest.
"I take it back," you mumbled, making his brow furrow. "Turns out you really are insufferable."
"Because I don't think you're immune to King Steve's charm?"
"Because you're an idiot." You let go of one of his wrists. His chest froze mid-breath, your fingertips grazing just above his eyebrows, brushing a strand of hair to the side. "Steve Harrington's not the only boy with nice hair, y'know."
Pretty brown eyes were blown wide, his throat working around a swallow. "My hair is...bad."
"To you, maybe." He never complained, but you knew he'd never liked that they didn't have enough money for his hair to be anything but a product of love and kitchen scissors. "I think it's perfect," you whispered, when what you meant was I think you're perfect.
Because he was, wasn't he? Always playing along with your silly Hollywood gossip, buying records he wouldn't like because he knew it'd make you happy.
How could I ever want Steve Harrington, you wondered, when Jonathan exists?
Stupidly, you murmured, "Hey."
He said it back, just as stupid.
"I've got an idea," you said. "What if we go to the dance?"
You weren't sure his eyes could get any wider. "As...friends?" he asked.
"Or a date," you suggested too quickly. "Unless you think it'll hurt your street cred, being spotted with some pop culture lame-o."
"What happened to being the coolest person to ever exist?"
"Depends on the moment." And right now, you certainly felt like a lame-o.
Jonathan considered a long moment, gazing at you all the while.
Finally, he said, "I don't have anything to wear."
"I'm sure we could find something."
"I don't have a BMW, either."
You cut your eyes and leaned in so close that the tips of your noses nearly touched. "If you allude to Steve Harrington even one more time," you threatened, "I promise to smear blue icing all over your face."
His brow furrowed. "And you just...keep icing on you, or...?"
"Did I not tell you?" you asked, knowing full well you hadn't. "I signed us up to bake two hundred cupcakes for Will's dance."
"Two hundred?!"
"Oh, c'mon! It's for your brother," you told him. "I'll even let you lick the whisk!"
"Is that supposed to convince me?"
"Convincing implies choice, which last I checked, I didn't give you."
An easy laugh tumbled from his lips. Without thinking, he brought the hand you'd freed up to your waist, squeezing light enough to make you squirm at the tickling sensation. "Have you ever considered that maybe you're the insufferable one?" he asked.
You shook your head. "Not even once."
His gaze flitted to your lips. You thought of all the times you'd wanted kiss Jonathan over the years, imagining what it'd be like to feel the warmth of his mouth and taste his toothpaste on your tongue, and wondered if maybe, just maybe, he'd been wanting to do the same.
He brought his hand to your face. Grazed his knuckles along the curve of your cheek, so soft you could barely feel it.
He swallowed. Asked, "Can I—"
The door swung open.
Will stood in the doorway, one hand on the doorknob, a cheerful "I'm home!" cut short when he caught sight of you straddling his older brother.
None of you spoke.
Then Will darted back into the hallway, slamming the door shut behind him as he shouted, "ABOUT TIME!"
You immediately started laughing.
"This isn't funny," Jonathan protested, cheeks flushed. "You know he can't keep a secret. He's gonna tell Mike, who's gonna tell his sister, who's probably gonna tell the whole school and then—"
You shut him up by running your fingers through his hair.
"So. About that dance," you said. "Are we going?"
He looked at you like you were crazy. Like he was so sure this was all some mistake, a prank gone too far. You couldn't actually want him to be your date, and any minute now he was counting on you to remember that, to say so and send all the surreal beauty of this moment crashing down around him.
But that never happened.
So he gave you a faint teasing smile and said, "Pick me up at eight."
// masterlist // send me your thoughts // comments & reblogs appreciated! //
a/n | don't mind me, just thinking of all the ways the Winter's Dream dance could go (+ making cupcakes with Jonathan). ugh.
mike wheeler makes a valentine’s mixtape for his best friend and absolutely does not plan on confessing anything. unfortunately, feelings are harder to organize than cassette tracks.
wc:4,1k ‧₊ ♪˚⊹
contents: mike x reader, no use of y/n, valentine’s day timingg!, mike is an idiot who just wants to make you happy, dustin is a MENACE that’s my evil baby, mutual emotional pinning but mike and reader are both idiots🚬, mike trying to be a dj/playlist master but we all know he sucks, eventual kissing, FLUFF!
the tape looks harmless.
that’s the first thought mike has, which is stupid, because it’s a tape. it’s a rectangle of plastic with two visible reels and a cheap paper label. it’s not capable of harm. it cannot ruin his emotional stability or permanently alter the trajectory of his friendships or make him feel like he swallowed a live wire.
and yet.
he’s been staring at it for ten minutes.
the desk lamp throws a yellow circle across his room. everything outside that circle feels far away and unreal. the house is quiet in the heavy late night way where every sound feels like it’s being personally judged. the heater clicks. the pipes answer. somewhere a board creaks.
he presses eject. the tape pops up. he presses it back down again.
“you’re being dramatic,” he tells himself under his breath.
he presses eject again.
he doesn’t even like valentine’s day. that’s the thing. it’s corporate and weird and full of pink cardboard and public humiliation. last year someone sent lucas a singing balloon and it followed him through the cafeteria like a curse.
this has nothing to do with valentine’s day.
this is unrelated.
completely separate.
unfortunately, his brain does not agree.
because three days ago you were in his basement, flat on your stomach, feet kicking lazily in the air while you flipped through his cassette case like it was a record store bargain bin. you weren’t even looking at him when you said it.
“mixtapes are the most romantic thing ever, by the way.”
he had laughed. casual. normal. safe.
“yeah, okay.”
“no, seriously,” you said. “if someone actually made me one, like picked songs and recorded it and everything, i’d fall in love a little.”
you said it like trivia.
like weather.
like it didn’t matter.
he hasn’t known peace since.
he drops his forehead to the desk now with a soft thunk.
“great,” he whispers. “awesome. fantastic. emotional sabotage.”
he sits back up and shoves a tape into the deck before he can lose his nerve again.
play.
music spills out low and fuzzy through his headphones. warm analog hiss. soft guitar.
he makes it twelve seconds.
stop.
“too much,” he mutters. “that’s like… immediate confession energy. that’s track five, minimum. maybe side b.”
he rewinds. ejects. tries another.
this one gets further. thirty seconds. forty.
it reminds him of last summer when you both biked too far past where you meant to go and pretended it was intentional. you sat on the curb drinking warm vending machine soda and inventing fake histories for random houses. you said the blue one belonged to a retired spy who only trusted raccoons.
he smiles without meaning to.
“okay,” he says quietly. “you stay.”
he presses record.
immediately becomes aware of his breathing.
he jerks backward.
“why am i like this,” he whispers, rubbing his face between his two palms.
second attempt. quieter. the red light holds. the reels begin to turn.
his stomach flips.
there it is. commitment. irreversible action. documented evidence.
“this is fine,” he tells himself. “this is a normal thing best friends do. extremely normal romantic audio gestures between platonic individuals.”
he pauses.
“…that sounded fake even inside my own head.”
an hour later his floor is covered in open cases and rejected options.
he’s built and rebuilt the track order four times because the emotional arc feels wrong, which is not a sentence he ever thought he’d think about music. but it matters. it has to build. it has to say something without saying it.
every song is dangerous now.
this one is the one that was on the radio the night you fell asleep against his shoulder in the car and he didn’t move for twenty minutes because waking you felt like a crime.
this one is the one you sang completely off key just to make dustin mad.
this one is the one that was playing quietly during a late night campaign session when you leaned over his map and your hair brushed his wrist and he forgot what he was explaining mid sentence.
he records that one and has to swallow twice.
he nearly ruins side a when he forgets the mic is live and mutters, “that lyric is basically a confession,” directly into the recording.
he stares at the deck in horror.
rewind. record over. bury the evidence.
if anyone ever hears the outtakes, he’d have to move states.
the walkie on his nightstand crackles and he nearly launches out of his chair.
he grabs it.
“hello?”
“important,” you say immediately, voice soft with static. “urgent scientific question.”
he laughs under his breath. tension drains out of his shoulders.
“go ahead.”
“if a dragon hoarded vinyl records instead of gold, is that cooler or worse?”
“cooler,” he says. “obviously cooler.”
“correct. okay. you pass. continue your late night nerd ritual.”
he hesitates. “how do you know i’m doing a nerd ritual?”
“because it’s midnight and you’re awake on a school night, mike.”
click.
he keeps holding the walkie anyway.
“night,” he says quietly to the empty hiss.
he sets it down slowly and looks back at the tape deck.
“yeah,” he murmurs. “this is happening.”
mike wakes up late because he fell asleep with his headphones still on and the tape deck still armed with a blank side b.
the first thing he feels is the cord against his neck and the second thing he feels is panic. smaller, more embarrassing, panic. the kind that lives behind the ribs and taps.
today is the drop day.
he sits up too fast, knocks a cassette case onto the floor, and spends a full ten seconds staring at it like gravity personally wronged him.
“okay,” he says hoarsely. “you’re fine. you’re normal. you’re a person who does normal things like secretly produce emotionally revealing music compilations.”
he drags a hand through his hair.
“wow. that sounded worse out loud.”
the tape is still in the deck. side b empty.
he checks the clock and swears, then lunges out of bed and hits record before he can talk himself out of finishing it. he doesn’t even reevaluate the track list this time. if he does, he’ll start cutting songs and then there won’t be a tape and then none of this will have happened and that somehow feels worse.
side b is riskier. he knows it is.
side a is safe memories and soft signals. side b is where the lyrics start getting a little too specific. a little too honest. a little too close to things he’s never said out loud without disguising them as jokes.
the first track rolls. he sits very still so he doesn’t ruin the sound with movement.
he thinks about your laugh without permission.
about the way you look at him when you’re trying to decide if he’s being serious or not. about how you always sit on the arm of the couch instead of the cushion like you’re ready to spring up at any moment.
he wonders if you do that at other houses.
he hates that thought immediately.
“jealousy is stupid,” he tells the tape under his breath. “we’re not doing that.”
he nearly talks over the intro and clamps his mouth shut just in time.
the reels turn. the song records. something in his chest tightens and stays that way. when it finishes, he doesn’t rewind to check it. that feels like tempting fate.
he ejects the tape with ceremonial care and holds it in his hands like it’s fragile, which is ridiculous, because it’s plastic. but it doesn’t feel like plastic. it feels like a message in a bottle that could come back with consequences.
he prints your initial on the label. small. neat. tries not to make it look like he practiced.
he did practice.
twice.
he shoves the tape into his backpack before he can rethink the handwriting.
commitment achieved through panic. again.
the bike ride to school is colder than expected. his gloves are too thin and the wind sneaks through the cuffs of his jacket and up his sleeves. the chain clicks in a rhythm that usually calms him. today it just sounds like a countdown.
he keeps mentally replaying possible outcomes.
you laugh and think it’s sweet. you get uncomfortable and things get weird forever. you never mention it. you figure it out instantly and he dissolves into dust.
“stop,” he tells himself out loud at a red light. “you’re spiraling.”
a car full of seniors looks at him like he’s nuts.
“mind your business,” he mutters.
he pedals harder when the light changes.
first period he hears nothing the teacher says.
second period he writes the same word three times in his notes and doesn’t remember writing it once.
third period he checks his bag and makes sure the tape is still there, then panics because he checked too obviously and now it looks suspicious even though no one is looking.
by the time he reaches your locker between classes, his pulse is loud enough to be its own soundtrack.
you’re there, arguing with lucas about whether time travel would ruin birthdays. your hands are moving, your eyebrows raised, fully invested.
you bump mike with your shoulder without looking and keep talking. he feels it like an electric current.
“you’re wrong,” you tell lucas. “if you time travel you get more birthdays. that’s math.”
“that’s not math,” lucas says.
“it’s emotional math.”
mike laughs before he can stop himself.
you turn and grin at him. “back me up.”
“i’m not getting involved in time birthday politics,” he says. “too dangerous.”
“coward,” you say warmly.
that word, from you, sounds like affection.
he has to look away for a second.
dustin appears behind you and stage whispers, “he’s been weird all morning.”
“i have not,” mike says instantly.
“you stared at your backpack like it insulted you,” dustin says.
“i was thinking.”
“you said ‘oh no’ out loud.”
“that was unrelated.”
you look between them, amused. “you guys are so suspicious.”
mike feels like his heart is trying to escape.
the drop window opens when you and lucas detour to the water fountain. hallway loud. lockers slamming. bodies everywhere. perfect cover.
he moves on instinct before courage can fail.
your bag is open. front pocket unzipped.
slide tape in.
done.
he turns to leave and walks directly into a senior built like a refrigerator and bounces backward.
“s-sorry,” he blurts, voice cracking in betrayal.
he keeps walking. does not look back. does not breathe until he hits the stairwell. his hands are shaking again.
“okay,” he whispers. “okay. done. that’s it. you can’t undo it now.”
he feels lightheaded. like after running too hard.
he also feels weirdly proud.
and deeply terrified.
mostly terrified.
lunch detonates the plan.
he knows something is wrong before he sits down because he can hear your laugh across the cafeteria and it’s the kind where you can’t breathe between bursts.
someone has a tape player out.
alien screeching noises echo off the walls. it makes mike freeze mid step.
“no,” he whispers. “no way.”
he sits slowly.
“what is that,” he asks, aiming for casual and landing somewhere near fragile.
you’re wiping tears from your eyes. “my secret admirer is apparently a comedian.”
dustin is glowing like a guilty sun.
mike connects the dots instantly.
“you didn’t,” mike mutters.
dustin grins. “i absolutely did.”
“you’re going to die,” mike says calmly.
“worth it.”
“what is happening,” you ask.
“nothing,” both boys say at once.
the tape continues: burp sound effects layered over sci fi music.
you laugh again.
mike feels relief first. that is not his tape. good. excellent. he is not publicly emotionally exposed.
then dread.
because now there are two tapes.
and if you never find the right one, or worse, if someone else takes credit, he might actually lose his mind.
he stares at his lunch tray and doesn’t taste any of it.
“you okay,” you ask him softly.
he looks up too fast. “yeah. why.”
“you’re chewing like you’re solving a crime.”
“i always chew like this.”
“no you don’t.”
he shrugs. drinks milk he didn’t want.
“maybe i’m evolving.”
you smile at him like that’s a real answer. it almost kills him.
that night the walkie crackles while he’s pretending to do homework.
he grabs it instantly.
“yeah?”
“i found the other tape,” you say.
his chest goes tight.
“other tape?”
“yeah. the real one. it was in the small pocket.” a pause. softer now. “i listened to it.”
he sits down slowly on the edge of his bed.
“oh.”
“it’s really good, mike.”
he stares at the wall.
“whoever made it,” you continue, “they know me. like actually know me. it’s kind of unfair.”
he swallows. his voice comes out lower than expected.
“yeah?”
“yeah.” a small breath through static. “it sounds like you.”
he could lie. but he doesn’t.
“maybe,” he says quietly, “you’re right.”
static hums between you like shared air.
“come by tomorrow?” you ask. “i want to talk about it.”
his pulse jumps.
“okay,” he says. “yeah. okay.”
click.
he keeps holding the walkie long after the channel goes quiet.
“okay,” he whispers to the empty room.
then, after a beat,
“oh no.”
mike doesn’t oversleep.
he wakes up early, like he always does when something matters. his eyes open and the thought is already there, fully formed.
she knows it was me.
he lies still for a minute, staring at the ceiling, tracking the faint crack that runs from the corner toward the light fixture. he’s traced that line a thousand times after nightmares, after arguments, after long nights building campaign notes.
today it feels different.
“okay,” he says quietly to the empty room. “fine. we’re doing this.”
he sits up.
no dramatic spiral. no flailing. just nerves sitting low and steady in his stomach like a coiled wire.
he can handle nerves.
he handled monsters. alternate dimensions. government lies. he can handle talking to his best friend about a mixtape that accidentally turned into a confession device.
probably.
he bikes slower than usual.
not stalling. thinking.
there’s frost at the edges of lawns, sun low and pale, the kind of morning where everything feels like it’s holding its breath. his tires hum against the pavement. the cold air keeps him sharp.
he replays last night carefully, like reviewing game footage. you listening. you going quiet. you saying it sounded like him.
he doesn’t build fantasy outcomes. he’s learned better than that. hope is good. assumptions are tactical errors.
still, there’s a steady warmth under his ribs he doesn’t try to kill.
he meant what he put on that tape. and if he’s going to be caught, at least it’s for something true.
your house looks the same as always.
that helps.
he props his bike against the rail and takes a second before going up the steps, just breathing, steadying. not psyching himself up. just getting centered.
“you’re not on trial,” he mutters. “you’re visiting your best friend. who maybe knows you’re in love with her. normal day.”
he knocks.
the door opens fast, like you were already near it.
you’re in his old campaign sweatshirt, sleeves pushed up unevenly, hair loose, face a little pink from the cold air inside the house.
he notices all of it at once and pretends he doesn’t.
“hey,” you say.
“hey.”
the word lands solid. good. usable.
no voice crack. small victory.
you step back to let him in, and your shoulder brushes his arm as he passes. familiar contact. still hits different today.
he files that away and keeps moving.
the living room is quiet. no tv. no radio. intentional.
the tape player sits on the coffee table. the cassette beside it.
he recognizes his own handwriting on the label and feels a strange mix of embarrassment and pride.
“you.. made cocoa?” he says, spotting the mugs.
“yeah,” you answer. “felt like a sitdown topic.”
he huffs a soft breath. “that sounds ominous.”
“it’s not,” you say. “well. maybe a little.”
you both sit. angled toward each other, not straight on. like you always do when conversations matter.
no one hits play.
that’s interesting.
“i listened all the way through,” you say.
“both sides?”
“both sides.”
he nods once. trying to visually keep himself together. barely.
“okay.”
you study his face for a moment, like you’re checking whether he’s going to dodge. he doesn’t.
“were you ever going to tell me,” you ask, “or was the tape supposed to do all the talking.”
he considers that honestly.
“i was going to tell you,” he says. “i just didn’t know when yet.”
“so the tape was… what. reconnaissance?”
he almost smiles. “more like controlled disclosure.”
that gets a real laugh out of you.
good. tension breaks a notch.
you pick up the cassette, turning it slowly between your fingers.
“you’re not subtle,” you say.
“i know,” he answers calmly. “i didn’t want to be.”
that shifts the air.
you glance up at him. searching. he holds the look, steady, no flinch.
mike doesn’t run from eye contact when it matters. he learned that the hard way.
“why music,” you ask softly.
“because you actually listen,” he says. “not just hear. you listen to lyrics, tone, all of it. i figured if i tried to say it out loud first, i’d rush it. music keeps me honest.”
you absorb that. he can see it land.
“some of those songs are… specific,” you say.
“yeah.”
“like, extremely specific.”
“also yeah.”
a beat.
“were you worried it would scare me off.”
he thinks about it.
“no,” he says. “i was worried it would change things.”
“that sounds the same.”
“not to me.”
you tilt your head slightly. inviting the distinction.
he gives it to you.
“scaring you off means i misjudged you,” he says. “changing things just means it mattered.”
you go quiet at that. but he doesn’t look away.
“i thought,” you say after a moment, “that if you ever liked me like that, i’d know.”
he shakes his head once. small.
“not necessarily.”
“why not.”
“because you’re important,” he says simply. “i don’t gamble important things on hints.”
you swallow, eyes dropping briefly to the tape again.
“i liked you first,” you say.
he blinks. not because it’s unbelievable, but because it hits clean and direct. he also feels like a massive idiot.
“how first,” he asks quietly.
“months,” you say. “i just decided not to act on it.”
“same strategy,” he says. “different execution timeline.”
you smile. there’s relief in it. and something warmer.
“so.. what changed?” you ask.
he doesn’t dodge.
“i got tired of pretending the category fit,” he says. “best friend didn’t feel big enough anymore.”
your breath catches slightly at that. he still notices.
he always notices.
“and the tape,” you say, “was you stopping pretending.”
“yeah.”
your knees are almost touching his. neither of you adjusts.
“i’m glad it was you,” you say quietly.
he studies your expression to make sure you mean it. you do.
“good,” he answers. “because it was definitely me.”
that earns him a soft laugh.
“you’re not even embarrassed,” you say.
“i am,” he replies. “i’m just not ashamed.”
the distinction hangs there, solid and real.
you reach out without thinking and rest your fingers briefly against his sleeve near his wrist. grounding touch. familiar. new meaning.
his pulse jumps but he doesn’t pull away.
“you always do that,” you murmur.
“what?”
“feel things all the way through.”
he shrugs lightly. “partial feelings seem inefficient.”
you grin. “that’s the most mike answer possible.”
“yeah,” he says. “i know.”
and the way you’re looking at him now is different than yesterday. not shocked. not uncertain.
open.
he recognizes it because he feels the same way. like the tape didn’t create anything. it just turned the lights on.
the room feels different after the tape stops. not quieter exactly. just… closer. like the air itself moved in.
mike is very aware of your hand still in his. not loosely. not by accident. your fingers are still threaded with his like they belong there, like you forgot to let go or decided not to.
he doesn’t move it. doesn’t even adjust.
if he shifts too fast he might break whatever this is and he doesn’t want to find out what happens if it breaks.
you’re closer than you were ten minutes ago. he doesn’t remember either of you leaning in, but the space between your knees is gone now. your shoulder rests against his arm. warm. solid. real.
he keeps thinking: this is happening. this is actually happening.
then, right behind that thought:
don’t mess it up.
“you’re thinking too loud again,” you say softly.
he blinks. “what.”
“your face,” you smile a little. “you do that thing when your brain goes into overdrive.”
“i do not.”
“you absolutely do.”
he huffs a quiet breath, embarrassed and fond at the same time. “i just don’t want to say the wrong thing.”
“then don’t perform,” you say gently. “just talk to me.”
“okay,” he says quietly. “truth, then.”
you nod once.
he swallows. his thumb shifts against the side of your hand without him meaning to, just feeling the fact that you’re still there.
“when you said you liked mixtapes because they’re more honest,” he says, “i couldn’t get it out of my head. it felt like a test i didn’t know i was taking.”
“a test?” you echo.
“yeah. like if i didn’t do something, someone else would. and they’d say it better. faster.”
“mike…”
“i know that sounds stupid.”
“it doesn’t.”
he looks at you then, really looks, and you’re not smiling at him like he’s being cute. you’re listening like he’s being real. it steadies him enough to keep going.
“i kept telling myself it was just because you’re my best friend,” he says. “that’s why it mattered. but that explanation stopped working a while ago.”
your breath catches just slightly. he hears it.
“when?” you ask quietly.
“i don’t know,” he admits. “there wasn’t a moment. it was like… background noise turning into the main track. one day i realized everything felt louder when it was you.”
your eyes go soft in that way that always undoes him a little.
“i thought you didn’t see me like that,” you whisper.
the sentence lands straight in his chest.
“i always saw you,” he says immediately. “i just didn’t label it right.”
“that matters, you know,” you say. “being seen like that.”
“i know that now.”
your thumb brushes once over his knuckles. absent. affectionate. it sends a clean line of electricity up his arm and he has to breathe through it without looking like he just forgot how lungs work.
“can i tell you something kind of embarrassing?”you ask.
“most likely,” he says softly.
you bump your shoulder into his. “be serious.”
“i am serious. go.”
you glance down, then back up at him through your lashes.
“i liked you first,” you say. “by a lot.”
his brain stutters.
“..what?” he barely whispers.
“i just figured you didn’t. so i tried to act normal about it. which did not help my confidence, by the way.”
he actually frowns. not at you. at the idea.
“that’s not fair,” he says.
“feelings aren’t.”
“no, i mean it’s not fair you thought you weren’t… pickable.”
you laugh softly. “pickable?”
“you know what i mean.”
“i do.”
he shakes his head, earnest, a little flushed. “if i made you feel invisible, that’s on me.”
“you didn’t make me feel invisible,” you say gently. “you made me feel important. just not chosen.”
that one hurts in a precise way.
so he answers it the only way he knows how. directly.
“i’m choosing you now.”
your eyes widen a fraction. your fingers tighten in his.
“yeah?” you breathe.
“yeah.”
you kiss him before he can overthink it.
soft at first. tentative. your hand lifting to his jaw like you’re checking whether this version of him is solid.
he is.
he turns into it instead of freezing, because this is you and he knows you and this isn’t a risk, it’s a step.
your lips are warm and a little nervous and he can feel that you’re trying not to rush it, which somehow makes it more intense, not less. his thumb presses into the back of your hand. grounding. answering.
his chest feels too full. like emotion without a container.
oh, he thinks distantly. so this is why people write songs.
when you pull back you’re flushed, eyes bright, breathing a little uneven.
“i’ve wanted to do that for months,” you admit.
“you should’ve filed a request,” he murmurs, still close. “i could’ve scheduled it.”
you laugh against his mouth and kiss him again, and this one is less careful. still gentle, but surer. like you’re done asking permission from the universe.
he smiles into it, helpless and happy.
when it breaks, your foreheads rest together.
“we’re okay?” you whisper.
he nods once, immediate. “we’re more than okay.”
“good.”
“good.”
neither of you moves away.
the tape clicks as the empty reel spins. the sound is small and steady and weirdly perfect.
“best valentine’s day i’ve had,” you say.
“it’s not even technically valentine’s day yet,” he answers.
“still counts.”
he squeezes your hand once. agreement logged.
“next time,” he says quietly, “i’m not using a secret identity.”
“next time?”
he meets your eyes, open and certain now.
“next time i just knock on the door.”
you smile like that was the only answer you wanted.
and he thinks, with a calm he’s never had about this before,
Shy!reader and post prison Spence - the first time he calls her a pet name? I love that your Spencers always use “honey” or “dove” or “love” and we know she’d be a mess.
P.S. completely agree with how much I love the gentleness of your characters. The way you write Spencer in love is literally my favorite
ty for requesting <3 fem
“Are you sure it’s okay?”
Spencer holds a hanging strap. You hold your own, core tense with the movement of the train. “I think I would’ve mentioned it before you got on the train if it weren’t.”
You nod, glancing around the traincar at the other passengers. There's a stout lady wearing a large fluffy sweater, turquoise with two white kittens at her chest nuzzling one another in knit. A man with three bags of groceries sits just beside her. Further down, a teenage girl listens to music through leaking headphones, her phone reflecting blue light on her cheeks.
“But are you sure I won’t be an imposition?”
“You aren’t usually. I guess we won’t know until we get there.”
“Maybe I should just find a hotel for the night.”
“Y/N, I’m kidding. You’re not an imposition, it won’t be a problem. There’s enough room at my apartment for you to stay however long you want. Between all the books, that is.”
It’s just not something you pictured asking him for. Your kitchen flooded in your apartment and the landlord had to put you up in a hotel until he could get someone in to make sure the stove wasn’t about to explode or catch light. But the idea of a hotel is rough torture —somewhere unfamiliar, living out of a suitcase, surrounded by people you don’t know without a door that locks properly. Spencer caught you sweating over it at your desk, pulling the story from you in reluctant drags with a hand on your shoulder.
It’ll be okay, he said, you can just stay with me.
Which is relieving and somehow a new can of worms to deal with. At least at a hotel there was no chance of seeing Spencer in a towel. Spencer seeing you in a towel, in your pyjamas, without your formal office protections.
The worst part is the excitement.
Terrified he’ll see it on your face, you stare at your shoes next to his. Spencer… Everyone told you he was a dork. When you joined the team in his absence, not once did you get the impression that the man who’d be coming back was like this. You feel like he’d been infantilised. Which isn’t to say he isn’t a dork, he is, he tells you the strangest things, facts or statistics to accompany each topic of the day, and he has all the manners and chivalry of someone who knows what it’s like to be as painfully shy as you are. But he isn’t shy.
Autistic, he’d confided once. Probably. I’m better at dealing with it now.
“You okay?” he asks.
“Nervous.”
“I know.” He grasps your arm as the train screeches on tracks, turning a tight bend. You’re grateful, but immediately flushed with heat.
“I don’t want to embarrass myself.”
“You couldn’t. I think I know you too well already.”
“You’ve known me for less time than the rest of the team, but you were the first person to offer me a place to stay.” You clench the rickety handle of your suitcase. “Thank you.”
“That’s okay, angel.” He says it simply and softly, like you really are an angel. Something breathless to wait with.
Angel, you think, heart skipping a beat, pulse slow and then suddenly ramped.
His arm slips behind your back. “I don’t want you to stay in a hotel if it’s going to scare you. Besides, it’ll be fun. Like a sleepover.” He laughs. And you, despite your flush, heat sinking across your chest like a bruise, manage to laugh back. “I’ve never had one before.”
“What?”
“Never had a sleepover. I didn’t have any friends in school, and I haven’t had a girlfriend stay the night before.”
You look up at him with wide eyes, expecting a retraction. Not that you’re my girlfriend, not that you’re anything like that at all.
He smiles at you. “Should we get takeout?”
“What were you thinking?”
“There’s an Indian restaurant between the station and my apartment? We can stop in. Or we can order something to come. Or I can cook, if you want home cooked.”
“No, it’s fine, you don’t have to cook–”
His lips turn to a quizzical pout. “I don’t mind.”
You want him to call you angel again. You want him to take you home, make you dinner, and you want to sleepover. Like a girlfriend, you want to wake up in his bed.
“Sorry,” you breathe, “I think I’m just tired.”
“Are you sure?” You nod. “Alright. I was worried you didn’t like the pet name, but your pupils dilated when I said it–”
You can’t escape him. One hand in the hanging strap above, the over on your suitcase handle, you have no choice but to stand there with his arm around you to keep you from falling, face so hot with it that you’re sure you’d be feverish to the touch. “It’s fine,” you say, too afraid to look at his face that you end up staring at the nice shape of his throat, his black and purple tie. “Call me what you want. Um, I think we should get Indian.”
no good, worn through and on fire (god’s country) • jud duplenticy
pairing: father jud duplenticy x f!housekeeper!reader
synopsis: after monsignor wicks’ mess, the church gets popular real fast. you assumed this housekeeping job would be easy enough, but nobody thought to tell you about the hot priest on site.
content: nsfw, 18+ minors dni, wake up dead man spoilers, pre-one year later, tension, lust in the house of god, f!masturbation, religion kink (probably), hand kink (god bless), teeniest mention of blood, college grad reader
notes: RAAAA part 2 is here! thank you guys for the love on part 1 i am shy LOL i’m so scared the motivation will disappear before i get them to fuck LMFAOOOO apologies if the smut is short i am rusty and insecure! this was also written at 3am sorry for any and all typos xx
word count: 1.6k
read part one of 《 god’s country 》 here!
masterlist
as always, this is an 18+ blog, minors dni!
our lady of perpetual fortitude becomes like a second home to you. that’s a sentence you never imagined you’d say, but with the hours you’ve been pulling, it may as well be.
father jud had possibly, maybe, slightly underestimated how much really needed to be done around the church (and rectory) when he’d first posted the listing. he’d been so caught up with monsignor wicks from the moment he arrived, and martha and samson had kept the place together like a well-oiled machine – he honestly hadn’t given it much thought.
jud kind of regrets that lack of foresight now, though, considering everywhere he looks, there you are.
he’ll enter the nave first thing in the morning to find you already putting away the vacuum cleaner, a soft smile on your lips when you catch him through bleary eyes and call a quiet “good morning, father jud” across the aisle.
by the time he gets to the kitchen for his midday indulgence of a third coffee, you’re drying your hands off on the towel at the sink. the stack of dishes he’d left haphazardly in the sink last night sits in the rack, squeaky clean. he doesn’t know why his face burns at the idea of you cleaning up after him (as if that’s not what you’re basically paid to do), but something compels him to tell you, to let you know that the place isn’t usually this messy, he’s just been so damned busy–
you turn as he stutters by the door, “you didn’t have to do that–”
but you’re already waving him off, chest just barely brushing past his as you squeeze through the narrow doorway. is it his pesky imagination or do you normally bite your lip like that?
“it’s no problem at all, father,” you say, pausing when he turns to face you, like he’s being pulled to follow. “it is kind of my job.”
jud huffs a soft laugh, a shoulder leaning against the doorframe. “right,” he nods, eyes trained on the floor instead of the little wisps of hair that fall in front of your face. “it’s just… i’d hate to give you more work to do, ‘s all.”
it should be illegal – he should be illegal. to be a priest, looking like that, and to be so kind on top of it all. it makes you gnaw your bottom lip even harder, eyes squinting as you smile up at him. “that’s real sweet, father. but honestly, i don’t mind.”
“you can call me jud. just jud,” he says before he loses the nerve, and honestly looking down at you like this he’s surprised he hasn’t already. “if you want,” he adds.
he watches you pretend to think about it, as if you haven’t rolled the word around your head a hundred times over already. your chin dips in a slow nod, and when you finally step away to flit off to your next task, you tell him over your shoulder, “there’s fresh coffee in the pot, jud.”
by your third week at the church, jud ropes you into deciphering martha’s filing system. that’s how he’d describe it, but truthfully you come into the office before leaving for the night and find him hunched over the desk, face buried in his hands, sighing deep and heavy.
the only light comes from the desk lamp and the barest slivers of moonlight coming through the window, but you can see the papers scattered over the top of the desk. his plastic collar sits discarded to the side and you can see his brown hair sticking up at odd angles in protest of relentlessly running his hands through it.
“is… everything okay?” you ask, low and quiet so as not to spook him, but the man is skittish as a horse, and jolts in his seat hard enough to ram his knee against the wood.
you wince. he swears, quick and sharp, cupping his knee with a hiss as he leans back in the rolling chair. then he freezes, remembering himself and his widened blue eyes flicker to yours, as though waiting to be scolded.
instead, you’re rooted in place, lips parted as you replay the way those sounds had left his lips. are priests allowed to swear? you think he should do it more.
“sorry, i’m sorry–” he winces, “y’got me good.”
clearing your throat, you shake your head in hopes to dislodge the image of him, leaned back in his chair, throat bared and groaning.
“my bad,” you chuckle softly, coming closer to peer curiously at the contents on his desk, “are you okay?”
jud exhales as a hand runs over the scruff on his jaw. “yeah, yeah, it’s just– a lot going on in here,” he pats the metal drawers behind him. one rolls out on its own, hinges squeaking amidst the quiet. your lips twitch, fighting to keep the amused grin from showing.
“would you like some help?”
jud’s brows raise, and he hates the fact that his stomach lurches at the offer. yes, stay. here, with me. please. mentally slapping himself when his mouth opens to enthusiastically agree, until he catches the time on the wall just behind your head.
“i… it’s late, and you’re off the clock. you’re probably exhausted too–”
he knows to drop his feeble attempts of keeping you at a distance (honestly, was he even trying?) when you drop your bag on the floor and round the corner of the desk so you’re next to him now.
he can smell your perfume, light and sweet as you lean over his shoulder to scan over the papers. his eyes flutter shut while you busy yourself reading, and then studying the filing cabinets.
“so, what’s the system here, father?” you ask, and he smiles at the hint of challenge surfacing in your voice as you bend at the waist to read the labels.
rising to his feet, he nudges the rolling chair aside to make room for you. like this, he towers over you and when you straighten to full height, again, you find yourself pressed awfully close to jud with nowhere near enough room for the holy spirit.
he’s warm in his black sweater, and turns away before he can start staring, because god knows once he starts he won’t ever stop.
“uh– so i figured martha would’ve alphabetised, or colour-coded or something, which should’ve been simple enough, but–” he pulls out the first drawer, flicking through the various files to show you and– oh.
oh, no.
jud’s pushed his sleeves up, and you really should be listening, but he’s got another tattoo on the inside of his forearm, and his fingers slip between the openings of the folders, dancing along the edges.
you can see the corded muscles in his forearms flexing as his hands move and god, you might actually be salivating.
jud is rambling, mindlessly thumbing the files now, and it’s almost upsetting how attractive he is while going on about ideal filing methods.
a heat starts to simmer in your core as he talks through which drawer he suspects he needs, so engrossed he misses how you shift your weight and squeeze your thighs together.
when he finally turns back to you, you’ve bitten your lip hard enough to draw blood. his eyes on you are expectant and only a little bashful. even in the dim light you can see the dusting of a perpetual blush over his cheeks.
your lips part, willing your brain to come up with something, anything – but he’s just so pretty and he looks at you so intently like he genuinely wants to hear what you have to say – and when his head tilts at your silence, you resort to huffing a pitiful laugh.
“i’m sorry, jud. i must be more out of it than i thought,” you say hastily, eyes dropping to your shoes. but then he’s placing a hand on your shoulder, big and warm, and it’s all you can do to not audibly gasp.
“‘s okay,” jud murmurs down at you, squeezing just once, but it’s enough, and he’ll never know it. the hand is gone too soon, and you’re mourning the loss already. “i shouldn’t have kept you so late, anyway. c’mon, i’ll walk you out.”
later that night, in the dark of your own bedroom, as your hand travels under your waistband, you see flashes of strong hands and scarred knuckles that guide you lower, and lower to where you’re hot and aching.
you part your folds with the same pressure you’d seen from the man just hours earlier. if you concentrate hard enough, you can smell the lingering scent of laundry detergent and coffee. your hands are smaller, but your head goes light just thinking about how his bare skin would feel on yours.
circling your clit, your eyes flutter shut on the tail end of a quiet whimper. how would he touch you? you’ve only ever seen jud at his most gentle, and whenever you picture him, you see that toothy smile always directed at you.
but you’ve also seen the video floating around online with the late monsignor, and the sharp, resolute determination with which jud had spoken. so unlike your sweet father jud. there were whispers, too, among the congregation of jud’s history as a boxer.
you picture him and an anger you’ve yet to witness, sweating and bloodied in the ring, so different to the man you know — does this version of him still exist?
your walls clench at the image, and when you think back to his grunts of pain, head thrown back, you can only whimper into your palm as the desire to sink your teeth into the tattoo on the side of his throat becomes unbearable.
when you cum, there’s only one name rolling off your tongue in a choked out gasp. you wonder if he can hear it, all the way on the other side of town.
Pairing: Jimmy Olsen x afab!Reader
Synopsis: You’re a journalist at The Daily Planet, assigned to investigate a high-profile case involving a corrupt tech mogul. To get the inside scoop, you need to go undercover, and Jimmy Olsen, eager and secretly smitten, volunteers to pose as your partner. What is the worst that could happen?
Word Count: ~10k
Tags: fluff, coworkers to lovers, undercover mission, fake relationship, jimmy is a cutie, no spoilers for superman 2025!
Warnings: alcohol consumption
A/N: i swear as soon as i saw jimmy in superman, my eyes went heartshaped. i need more fics!!
Swinging open the doors of The Daily Planet, you nearly lose your grip on the precarious stack of papers in your arms. Another hectic day, no doubt filled with hours hunched over a keyboard but today feels different. Today, you finally had a breakthrough.
For the past two months, you’ve been investigating a high-profile tech mogul. When whispers of corruption began to circle the company, you were the first to dig deeper. What started as rumour quickly unravelled into something much bigger: through tireless research, you uncovered disturbing inconsistencies in their so-called charity foundation. Massive donations were being made, yet no meaningful change followed. You had the paper trail. You had the motive. Now, all you needed was the final piece; a confession.
You dropped the papers onto your desk with a satisfying thud, then spun on your heel and made a beeline for Perry White’s office. The familiar click of your shoes echoed over the newsroom’s chaotic soundtrack, the clatter of keyboards, the buzz of urgent phone calls, the ever-present aroma of too-strong coffee. It was your daily backdrop, your battlefield.
The sound of your footsteps must have given you away, because a familiar voice cut through the din.
“Hey, ____!”
You barely turned in time before Jimmy Olsen appeared in front of you, nearly colliding with your shoulder. His freckled face lit up with his usual boyish energy.
“I got you a coffee!” he said, holding it out with both hands like an offering.
He’d been doing that a lot lately, showing up with your favourite order, always perfectly made. Like clockwork. Like he knew your schedule better than you did.
You took it with a small smile, already grateful for the warmth in your hands. “Thanks, Jimmy.”
Your eyes flicked back to Perry’s office door, your mind already rehearsing what you were about to say.
Jimmy falls into step beside you, coffee in hand, talking before you can even process what he’s saying.
“So, I passed by that bookstore you like, you know, the one with the weird cat in the window that hates everyone except you? Yeah, that one. Anyway, they’re having some kind of midnight poetry reading this Friday. I almost went in to grab you a flyer, but I didn’t want the cat to bite me again. It’s totally personal at this point.”
You hum distractedly, gaze fixed ahead. Perry’s office looms, the weight of your evidence heavy on your mind. The pieces are there, but the risk of misstepping still knots your stomach.
Jimmy keeps going, unbothered.
“Also, I found this podcast about unsolved corporate scandals, and not to brag, but I think you’d be a better host than the guy running it. Like, ten times better. You have this voice when you talk about stuff that matters… not that I listen too closely or anything. I mean. I do. But not in a weird way.”
You blink, barely registering the shift in his tone.
“I just mean,” he continues, voice softer now, “you’re really good at what you do. And people notice. I notice.”
That makes you pause, your steps faltering just slightly. You glance over at him.
He shrugs one shoulder, cheeks tinged with the faintest blush. “Anyway. The world’s ending, journalism is chaos, your inbox probably hates you, but I got you coffee.”
You stare at him for a second longer than necessary before taking the cup from his hand.
“Thanks, Jimmy,” you say, quietly this time.
He gives you a small, genuine smile, not the cheeky grin he usually throws around the newsroom, but something a little more careful. Like he’s waiting to see if you noticed what he really meant.
You turn back to Perry’s door and knock.
The heavy door creaks open and shuts behind you with a thud. Perry White barely glances up from behind his cluttered desk, a cigarette smoldering between two fingers, sending a slow curl of smoke toward the ceiling. The scent of it mixes with stale coffee and aged paper, the perfume of stress and decades of deadlines.
He finally looks up. “You look like hell.”
“I’ve been working on something big,” you reply, stepping forward, paper stack tucked under your arm, heart thudding.
Perry leans back, exhaling smoke through his nose. “That supposed to impress me?”
“No,” you say, placing the papers on his desk with a satisfying slap. “This is.”
He stubs out his cigarette with a grunt and flips through the pages. His brow furrows as his eyes scan the printouts, bank statements, fake invoices, donation receipts that lead to nowhere.
“LexTech’s foundation,” you say, pacing slightly as you explain. “Huge donations coming in, but nothing substantial going out. No programs, no funded research, no infrastructure. It’s a shell, and I have sources saying the money’s being funnelled to offshore accounts tied to military-grade tech.”
Perry whistles low, eyes still on the evidence. “That’s one hell of a claim.”
“I’ve got the records. I just need the proof on-site, something from the inside. They’re throwing a gala next weekend. Closed invite list. Black tie. Press isn’t welcome, but… they’ve got a thing for power couples. I can get in. If I have a partner.”
Perry raises an eyebrow, cigarette bobbing between his fingers. “Undercover?”
You nod firmly. “Just long enough to confirm what I already suspect. Catch someone talking, take a few photos—”
“Photos,” Perry cuts in, stabbing a finger toward the papers you’ve laid out on his desk. “That’s what I need. Proof people can see. I want eyes on the inside. Real pictures. Crisp, clean, incriminating. None of that blurry, half-lit garbage you get from hiding behind a ficus with a telephoto lens.”
And as if the words themselves were a summoning spell—
Click.
The office door swings open with its usual old-hinge groan, and Jimmy Olsen leans halfway inside, camera slung around his neck like it was sewn there at birth. His hair is a little mussed, cheeks slightly pink from the wind outside, and he’s holding a takeout cup in one hand like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to drink it in here.
“Hey, boss, you wanted—oh.” His eyes land on you. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to interrupt.”
Perry glances up at him, then smirks, that knowing, predatory grin that always means trouble for somebody. This time, apparently, it’s trouble for you.
“Olsen,” Perry says, leaning back in his chair. “How do you feel about tuxedos and tech billionaires?”
Jimmy blinks. “Uh… neutral? Slightly intimidated?”
“Perfect,” Perry says, jabbing the air with his cigarette. “You’re going undercover with her. Couple’s gala. I want photos, the kind that make front pages and ruin reputations.”
Jimmy’s gaze snaps to you like a magnet, eyes lighting up in pure, unfiltered excitement. “Wait — with ______?”
You give him a sidelong look, keeping your expression neutral even as heat creeps up the back of your neck. Perry, naturally, bulldozes right through the moment.
“Yes. As a couple,” he says flatly. “That’s how these high-society snakes operate. No press badges, no plus-ones. You’re going in together, smiling, sparkling, and blending in.”
Jimmy’s eyebrows nearly vanish under his fringe. “Oh.”
“Cover names,” Perry continues. “Something glossy but forgettable. I’ll have Carla book you a room at the hotel where the event’s being held, two nights. The place is crawling with security, and I don’t want you driving in and out like amateurs. You stay on-site, play the part, and get me the shots I need.”
Jimmy’s mouth opens, then closes, then opens again like he’s buffering. His gaze flicks between you and Perry, then back to you, the corner of his mouth twitching in a way that makes him look almost giddy.
You narrow your eyes. “A hotel room?”
Perry doesn’t even glance up from lighting another cigarette. “It’s a suite. I’m not a monster.”
Jimmy nods too fast, too many times. “Right. A suite. Cool. Yeah. We’ll, uh, blend. Totally blend.”
You cross your arms. “You’ve never blended a day in your life.”
He grins, boyish and shameless. “That’s why I’ve got you. You’re, like… stealthy. And composed. And smart. And you make me look… you know… less obvious.”
Perry exhales a long stream of smoke, already done with the back-and-forth. “You’ve got forty-eight hours. Don’t waste it. And no funny business. If I hear about either of you climbing out a window or crashing a chocolate fountain, I’m sending Lois next time.”
Jimmy straightens like he’s just been sworn into office. “No windows. No fountains. Got it.” Then, quieter, to you: “This is gonna be great. I mean, dangerous. Obviously dangerous. But also… great.”
His grin is so open and hopeful you almost forget how much work this is going to be.
The moment Perry waves you both off, you’re already reaching for the doorknob, wanting fresh air before the smell of cigarette smoke burrows into your clothes. You step into the bustling newsroom, but you don’t get more than three paces before you hear quick footsteps right behind you.
Jimmy’s trailing so close he could be your shadow.
“This is gonna be amazing,” he says, falling into step with you. “I mean, for the story. And for you. And for Perry. And, okay, maybe a little for me.”
You keep walking, flipping through the mental checklist of what you’ll need to prep before the gala. “We’re not there to have fun, Olsen.”
“Yeah, I know,” he says, grinning so wide it’s almost suspicious. “But still. It’s undercover! We’ll have fake names. Fake jobs. Maybe even a fake backstory. Ooh, I could be, like… a retired race car driver.”
You glance at him. “You don’t even own a car.”
“Right, okay, maybe that’s too much,” he says, undeterred. “What about a millionaire cheese tycoon? My grandfather invented string cheese. That explains my wealth and my approachable charm.”
You sigh, pushing open the swinging door that leads to your desk. He follows without missing a beat.
“I’m thinking something simpler,” you say. “Names we can remember. Professions that won’t collapse under basic questioning.”
Jimmy hums thoughtfully. “So not ‘Lord Jimothy of Camembert’?”
You shoot him a look over your shoulder. “No.”
He chuckles, but then his voice softens just slightly. “Still… I’m glad Perry picked me for this. I know you could’ve done it with Lois or Clark, but… you got me instead.”
It’s said with that same earnest warmth you’ve learned is 100% genuine, and it makes you look away before you’re tempted to respond with anything that might sound too sincere.
He’s still talking as you reach your desk. “Oh! And the hotel, two nights! I mean, that’s practically a mini vacation. Except, you know, with black-tie criminals. And possible security chases. But, like, the vibe is there.”
You drop your bag onto your chair and start gathering your notes. “You’re exhausting.”
Jimmy just smiles, leaning against your desk like he’s perfectly at home there. “You’ll thank me when I get you the perfect shot.”
Your apartment is quiet except for the muted swish of fabric and the clink of hangers. A half-zipped suitcase sits open on your bed, spilling formalwear across the comforter. Your heels are lined up neatly on the floor like soldiers, and next to them is a smaller bag full of your equipment, notepads, voice recorder, spare batteries.
You’ve been in a rhythm for the past hour: fold, pack, check list, repeat. The hum of the city outside your window is background noise now, muffled by the evening air drifting through the cracked pane. You’ve just started rolling up a dress to fit into the corner of your suitcase when a quick, eager knock rattles the door.
“Come in!” you call, expecting maybe a neighbour.
The door swings open, and Jimmy Olsen steps in like a burst of fresh air. He’s wearing his usual flannel, sleeves rolled to his elbows, and his ever-present camera bag slung across his torso. His grin is instant, wide, and boyish.
“You’re packing!” he announces, stating the obvious as if it’s breaking news. “Oh man, this is really happening.”
Before you can respond, he’s halfway into your room, his gaze flitting everywhere. He’s not snooping, there’s no malice in it, but there’s an open curiosity in the way his eyes linger on your bookshelf, the stack of mugs on your desk, the photographs pinned above your workspace.
“Wow,” he says under his breath, smiling like he’s just stepped into an exhibit. “This is… very you.”
You straighten up from your suitcase. “That’s either a compliment or a very polite insult.”
“It’s a compliment,” he says without missing a beat. Then his eyes land on your bed, more specifically, the small stuffed animal propped up against your pillow.
“Oh-ho,” he says, and before you can protest, he’s already walking over. He picks it up gently, cradling it in both hands. His voice softens. “You sleep with this?”
“It’s just—” You stop yourself from getting defensive, but he’s already smiling down at it.
“It’s cute,” he says simply, turning it over like it’s fragile. “Totally makes sense for you. I like it.”
You clear your throat and pluck it from his hands, tossing it back onto the bed. “Focus, Olsen. We have a fake life to invent.”
“Right, right,” he says, though he takes a slow spin in your room like he’s memorizing it. “So… cover names, fake jobs, fake how-we-met story. We could say we met at a gallery opening. Or on a train. Or maybe at some swanky charity luncheon where you dropped your program and I heroically picked it up for you.”
You give him a flat look. “We’re not doing the rom-com version of this.”
“We’re supposed to look like a couple,” he insists, grinning. “Rom-com rules apply.” He stops pacing, suddenly thoughtful. “You should be an art curator. And I’m your rich benefactor who fell for your impeccable taste in paintings. Or maybe I’m a world traveler who—”
You cut him off with a raised hand. “Keep it simple. Easy to remember.”
He tilts his head, studying you for a moment. “Okay, but… there’s still one thing we need to work out.”
You’re halfway through folding another dress when you glance at him. “Which is?”
He hesitates, scratching the back of his neck. His voice drops a little, almost shy.
“So… um… can I touch you tonight?”
You blink, caught off guard. “Jimmy—”
He waves his hands quickly. “Not like that! I mean for practice. You know, for the gala. We’ve got to look like we’re used to it. If I wait until we’re surrounded by suspicious billionaires to put my arm around you, you’ll tense up and we’ll look fake. But if we get used to it tonight… it’ll feel natural tomorrow.”
His words tumble out in a rush, but his gaze stays steady, earnest. “I just want us to look convincing. And… I dunno, it might be kind of nice, too.”
“Fine,” you reply, zipping up your suitcase. “But don’t annoy me.”
Jimmy grins like you’ve just promised him front-row seats to the world’s greatest concert.
“Me? Annoy you? Never.”
Jimmy’s arm hasn’t left your shoulder since you stepped out of the cab. Not once. Not in the lobby, not while checking in, not while waiting for the elevator. He’s practically leaning his whole weight into you as the bellman leads you both down the carpeted hallway toward your suite.
You shoot him a look from the corner of your eye. “You do know you can let go now, right?”
He tightens his grip just slightly. “We’re in character. Gotta commit.”
“You’ve been committing for twenty straight minutes.”
“And it’s working,” he says with a smug little tilt of his head. “We look like the picture of young love.”
You snort. “We look like you’re afraid I’m going to run away.”
He gasps in mock offense. “Would you?”
“Depends how long this arm thing lasts.”
The bellman, a tall man with a perfectly pressed uniform, keeps a straight face, but you’re almost certain you catch the faint twitch of a smile. Jimmy, completely unbothered, gives him a cheery nod like they’re already friends.
The bellman stops at the end of the hallway, sliding the keycard into the door with a practiced flick. The lock clicks open, and he pushes the door wide, gesturing for you to step inside first.
Jimmy’s arm is still welded to your shoulder as you walk in, and it takes effort not to trip over the ridiculous plush carpet.
The suite is… gorgeous. Cream walls, soft golden lighting, a little sitting area by the window with a view of the city skyline glittering in the dusk. The air smells faintly of lavender and something expensive you can’t quite place.
The bellman wheels your suitcases in, setting them neatly near the foot of the bed. Then, with a polite nod, he slips out, shutting the door behind him.
It’s only then that your eyes land on the bed.
The one bed.
King-sized. Perfectly made, the duvet folded just so. Rose petals scattered across the pillows.
You blink. Slowly. “What…?”
Jimmy follows your gaze, and his mouth drops open. “Oh.”
“This is…” you begin, taking a cautious step toward it, “…the honeymoon suite.”
Jimmy freezes, eyes wide. “They… Perry… Carla… they booked the—” He laughs nervously, rubbing the back of his neck. “Well. That’s… something.”
You turn to him, brow arched. “Something?”
“I mean—” he waves his hands, stumbling over his words “—hey, silver lining, right? Big bed! Uh… really big bed. And, uh, romantic lighting for… photos?”
You just stare at him.
“Strictly professional photos,” he adds quickly, holding his palms up. “Very… uh… cozy… professional photos.”
You drop your bag by the dresser, still eyeing the bed like it’s a live grenade.
“Well,” you say finally, “we’ll just… split it.”
Jimmy perks up instantly. “Split it? Yeah. Totally fine with that. You can have, uh, whichever side you want. Or both sides, if you’re the starfish sleeper type. I can just…” He makes a vague motion, “…cling to my little edge.”
You cross your arms. “Or you could take the couch.”
Jimmy’s face falls like you just suggested throwing him out into the alley. “The couch? It’s, like… six feet away from the door. What if there’s a break-in? Or a fire? Or, worse, what if you need me to grab something from the minibar?”
You give him a flat look. “I’ll risk it.”
“I’m just saying,” he continues quickly, “for realism’s sake—”
“You are not sleeping next to me for realism’s sake.”
He grins. “Well, maybe a little for realism, but also because the couch is tiny and my spine is already a mess from carrying camera gear all day.”
You sigh, glancing at the couch in question. It’s more decorative than functional, all stiff cushions and narrow arms. He’s not wrong, he’d be miserable after an hour.
“Fine,” you say at last, pointing at the bed. “But I get to pick my side.”
Jimmy’s grin is immediate and far too pleased. “Deal. I’ll even promise not to steal the covers.”
“You’ll break that promise in your sleep.”
“Probably,” he admits cheerfully, already tossing his bag onto the bed like it’s his. “Oh, by the way, I call dibs on the side closest to the coffee machine.”
You groan. “We’re not here for the coffee, Olsen.”
He smirks, flopping back onto the mattress and sinking into the ridiculously plush duvet. “No, but it’s a nice perk.”
The bathroom is warm with steam from the shower, your dress hanging neatly on the back of the door. It takes you longer than you’d like to get ready, smoothing your hair, applying just enough makeup for the “effortless” look, slipping into the sleek black gown you’d chosen for the gala.
You tug the zipper up your side as far as your arm can reach… and stop. No amount of twisting or contorting gets it any further.
You let out a slow sigh, staring at yourself in the mirror. The thought of calling him in here makes your stomach knot, not because you don’t trust him, but because… well. You know Jimmy. And Jimmy will make this a thing.
But there’s no way around it.
You open the door and step into the suite. He’s at the table fiddling with his camera lens, wearing his tux jacket unbuttoned, bowtie hanging loose around his neck.
“Jimmy?”
He looks up, ready to answer casually, but the words stop dead in his throat. His eyes widen, sweeping over you in stunned silence.
“Oh—uh—wow.” He blinks rapidly, as if trying to reboot. “I mean. You—uh—wow.”
You shift your weight, trying not to feel self-conscious under his gaze. “I can’t zip the back. I need help.”
“Right! Yes. Totally. I can… I can do that.” He pushes back from the chair so fast it nearly tips, straightening his bowtie like that will somehow make him more qualified for this job.
As he steps closer, you can see the pink dusting his cheeks. He swallows, eyes darting anywhere but directly at your bare back. “Okay, um, just—just stand still. I’ve got it.”
His fingers brush the zipper, and you feel the lightest touch of his knuckles against your skin. His breath hitches almost imperceptibly, but he keeps going, carefully pulling the zipper all the way up.
“There,” he says softly, almost to himself. “Perfect.”
You turn to face him, and he quickly steps back, clearing his throat. “You, uh… you clean up really well. Not that you don’t always look—uh—good. You just… tonight you look… like…” He waves his hands helplessly, grinning at his own inability to finish the sentence. “…yeah.”
“Spit it out, Olsen.”
He gives a little laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “You look incredible.”
The hotel elevator hums quietly as you descend, Jimmy still sneaking glances at you like he can’t help himself. By the time you both step into the lobby, the sleek black town car Perry arranged is already waiting at the curb.
Jimmy rushes ahead to open the door for you, gesturing grandly like a chauffeur from an old movie. “Your carriage, m’lady.”
You give him a look, but slide inside. He follows a beat later, the door shutting with a muted thunk. The driver merges smoothly into the evening traffic, city lights flashing past the tinted windows.
For a few seconds, it’s quiet — then Jimmy clears his throat.
“So… just to be clear,” he says, fiddling with his cufflink, “when I said you look incredible, I meant like… top-tier, jaw-dropping, people-are-gonna-think-I-hit-the-dating-lottery incredible.”
You arch an eyebrow. “You’re still on this?”
He shrugs, a sheepish grin tugging at his lips. “I’m just saying… it’s going to sell the cover story. No one’s gonna doubt we’re together when you walk in wearing that.”
Before you can reply, he slides an arm around your shoulders, casual but deliberate. “Speaking of selling the story…”
You glance at the arm now resting across your gown. “You’re doing this already?”
“Realism,” he says, the word sounding much too pleased in his mouth. “Gotta keep the practice going.”
You roll your eyes but don’t shrug him off, which only makes his grin widen. He shifts slightly so your sides press together, and you can feel the warmth radiating from him.
The driver turns a corner, the skyline glittering against the dark. Jimmy tilts his head toward you just enough that his voice drops. “You know… if we keep this up, people might start thinking we’re actually—”
“Don’t finish that sentence, Olsen,” you warn.
He chuckles, leaning back with the most satisfied look you’ve seen all day, his arm still exactly where he wants it.
The car slows in front of the gala’s entrance, a gleaming stretch of marble steps and gold-trimmed doors. Paparazzi cameras flash in a staccato rhythm, catching every glimmer of sequin and silk that passes by.
Jimmy is out of the car before you can reach for the handle, opening your door with a flourish. “Careful,” he says softly, offering you his hand like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
You take it, more for balance than anything, but his fingers curl around yours with a surprising steadiness. The warmth lingers as he helps you up the steps, his palm resting lightly on the small of your back.
Inside, the air is perfumed with champagne and expensive cologne. Crystal chandeliers throw prisms of light across the room, and waiters weave through the crowd with silver trays of hors d’oeuvres.
Jimmy leans in, his voice low near your ear. “Okay, game faces on. We’re the charming power couple everyone wishes they knew.”
You smirk. “And you’re sure you can pull that off?”
“Watch me,” he says, a little too confidently.
Within minutes, he’s introducing you to strangers with a smoothness you didn’t expect. “This is my partner,” he tells one sharply dressed woman, his tone dripping with easy pride. “She’s brilliant. Changed the way I think about, well… everything.”
The woman smiles politely, but you catch the way Jimmy’s eyes linger on you even after the conversation moves on.
He guides you through the room like you’re the only person he needs to keep track of — fetching you a champagne flute without asking, leaning in to murmur quiet jokes between greetings, brushing his hand against yours every time you drift apart.
It’s all part of the act. It has to be.
And yet… the way his gaze softens when he looks at you doesn’t feel like acting at all.
As you sip your champagne, you spot him. You see him just past the champagne fountain, tall, perfectly coiffed, his smile the kind you only get from knowing the law can’t quite touch you. The CEO.
And he’s not alone. Flanking him are two other heavy-hitters in the tech world, their suits custom-cut, watches worth more than your yearly salary. They lean in close to each other, talking in low, conspiratorial voices.
You nudge Jimmy lightly with your elbow. “Got eyes on the prize.”
He follows your gaze, and his expression shifts, the eager grin melting into something sharper, more focused. “Alright. You get in close, work your magic. I’ll circle, make it look casual, get the shots.”
“Remember,” you say quietly, “I need the whole group together. Faces clear, no one blocking anyone.”
He taps the camera hanging from his neck. “Trust me. I’ve been waiting for this all night.”
You split up, you toward the hors d’oeuvres table that just happens to be in their orbit, Jimmy drifting into the crowd like a man with nothing more than champagne on his mind.
You time your approach carefully, weaving through conversations until you’re close enough to overhear snippets. Words like contract, quietly transferred, and offshore pepper their conversation. Your pulse kicks up. This is it.
Slipping your hand into your clutch, you tap the voice recorder hidden inside and angle yourself so your bag faces their little circle.
Across the room, Jimmy is in motion, the picture of an affable party guest, greeting people, “accidentally” wandering into frame. His camera clicks in slow, measured bursts, each one timed to catch the CEO and his friends mid-laugh, mid-handshake, mid-whisper.
Through the shifting crowd, your eyes meet briefly. He tilts his head, the subtle signal you agreed on. He’s got them in frame. All of them.
The conversation in front of you grows more animated, one of the moguls gesturing with his drink. You lean ever so slightly closer, feigning interest in the food display, the recorder drinking in every word.
“…wire transfer will clear by Friday… not on the books… foundation keeps the press happy…”
Bingo.
You glance toward Jimmy again, he’s stepping back now, pretending to admire the chandelier as his camera captures one final, perfect shot: the CEO, flanked by his allies, their glasses raised in a silent toast.
You’re just about to melt back into the crowd, recorder safely capturing every damning word, when someone steps into your path without warning. You bump hard into a shoulder, the impact jostling your clutch.
“Whoa there,” a smooth baritone says, steadying you with a hand that lingers a little too long.
You look up — and it’s him.
The CEO.
Up close, his tailored suit is even more immaculate, his cufflinks gleaming under the chandelier light. His cologne is sharp and expensive, the kind that’s meant to impress but sits heavy in your nose. And his smile is just as polished as it was from across the room, but now you see the thin layer of smugness beneath it, like he’s sizing you up for ownership.
“My apologies,” you say quickly, stepping back to reclaim your space.
“No harm done,” he replies, voice dripping with charm that feels rehearsed. His gaze takes a slow, uninvited sweep from your hair to the hem of your dress. “I haven’t seen you here before… and I would remember a face like yours.”
The urge to roll your eyes is almost overwhelming, but you keep your expression polite, professional. “First time at one of these events.”
“Well, I hope it won’t be the last,” he says, taking a small step closer, his hand finding the back of your arm as if testing the waters. “I enjoy meeting interesting people. Perhaps you’d like to join me for a private tour of the wine cellar? We could… talk business. Somewhere quieter.”
Every instinct in you is screaming No. You open your mouth to excuse yourself—
And suddenly there’s a familiar warmth pressed against your side.
“Sweetheart, there you are,” Jimmy’s voice cuts in, all lightness on the surface but with a steel thread running underneath.
You glance up to see him already sliding into place beside you, his arm wrapping firmly around your waist. His hand rests just at your hip — steady, sure, and warm. He doesn’t squeeze, but there’s a subtle pull that places you slightly behind the line of his body, a subtle claim of space you didn’t realize you wanted until now.
“I was wondering where you’d wandered off to,” he adds, looking down at you with a smile so convincing you almost believe it yourself.
The CEO’s expression twitches, just for a second, before recovering into something cooler. “And you are…?”
“Her partner,” Jimmy answers without hesitation, extending a hand to shake. The smile on his face doesn’t reach his eyes, and you can tell from the faint shift in his arm that the handshake is firm enough to send a message. “We were just about to grab some champagne together.”
There’s a pause, not long, but long enough for you to feel the CEO measuring the situation. His gaze flicks to where Jimmy’s thumb is moving in a slow, unconscious circle at your waist, the ease of the way you lean into his side, the way his body angles protectively toward you.
“Of course,” the CEO says at last, stepping back with that same practiced smile. “Enjoy the evening.”
He turns, melting back into the group of moguls without a backward glance.
You let out a slow breath you didn’t realize you were holding. “Well. That was—”
“Creepy?” Jimmy offers, still not moving his arm away.
“Very,” you agree. You tilt your head to look at him. “Thanks for the save.”
His grin comes easy, but his eyes still have that faint edge to them. “Anytime. Part of the job… and maybe a little not part of the job.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Not part of the job?”
He shrugs, finally, reluctantly, letting his arm drop from your waist. “Just… couldn’t let some guy think he could swoop in like that.” Then, softer, almost to himself: “Especially not with you.”
Your heart skips, but before you can answer, Jimmy speaks up, “Let’s stick together for the rest of the night, huh?”
And for the first time since you arrived, you don’t feel like arguing with him.
“So… what do we do now?” you ask, glancing back toward the cluster of moguls. The night is far from over, the gala still humming with polite laughter and the clink of crystal.
Jimmy follows your gaze, then tilts his head, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Well, we might never be at one of these parties again… might as well enjoy it?”
You try, really try, to keep your expression neutral, but you feel the corner of your mouth curve upward. “I guess… it could be fun.”
That’s all the encouragement he needs. His grin lights up like you’ve just given him the best idea in the world.
Before you can blink, he’s turned, intercepting a passing waiter with flawless timing. Two champagne flutes are plucked from the tray with a flourish, and he pivots back to you like some overly charming movie extra.
“Madam,” he says, offering one with a little bow.
You take it, shaking your head, but there’s no hiding the smile now. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Ridiculously good at blending in,” he corrects, taking a sip from his own glass. “Besides, Perry said we had to act like a couple, and couples enjoy the party, right? Dancing, mingling… maybe stealing a macaron tower when no one’s looking?”
You laugh, the sound surprising even you. “That’s not a thing.”
“It could be,” he says, eyes sparkling. “Come on. Let’s make the most of it. No one’s looking at us like reporters right now. We’re just…” His gaze softens, lingering on you for a second longer than necessary. “…us.”
Something about the way he says it makes you sip your champagne just to break eye contact. Still, the warmth in your chest has nothing to do with the drink.
Jimmy polishes off the rest of his champagne in one smooth sip, then holds out his free hand.
“Dance with me.”
You arch a brow. “We’re here for work, remember?”
“Exactly,” he says, undeterred. “Nothing sells the happy-couple cover like a slow dance in the middle of a fancy party.”
You glance toward the parquet floor in the center of the room, where a live quartet plays something low and elegant. Couples sway together, all glittering gowns and sharp tuxedos under the warm glow of the chandeliers.
“Jimmy…” you start, but he’s already grinning, hand still extended like he’s daring you to refuse.
You sigh, setting your glass on a nearby table. “Fine. But if you step on my foot—”
“I won’t,” he promises instantly, eyes bright. “Probably.”
He leads you onto the floor with surprising confidence, one hand finding yours, the other settling lightly at your waist. At first, his movements are a little stiff, the rhythm hesitant, but within a few steps, he finds it — guiding you gently through the turn of the music.
“You’re… not bad at this,” you admit.
His grin widens. “Don’t sound so surprised. I’ve got hidden talents.”
“Like lurking with a camera and photobombing billionaires?”
He laughs, the sound warm and genuine. “That’s one of the less romantic ones, yeah.”
The music swells, and for a moment, the crowd around you blurs. Jimmy’s hand at your waist is steady and warm, his thumb brushing lightly against the fabric of your gown. He leans in just enough for his voice to reach your ear.
“You know,” he murmurs, “if I didn’t know better, I’d think this part wasn’t acting.”
You glance up at him, his face is flushed, but his gaze is steady.
“Careful, Olsen,” you say lightly. “You’re starting to sound sincere.”
He smiles, softer this time. “Maybe I am.”
The music drifts toward its final notes, and neither of you rush to break the hold.
The music fades into something livelier, and the dance floor fills with laughter and clinking glasses. You and Jimmy drift back toward the mingling crowd, blending easily among sequined gowns and polished cufflinks.
He’s in his element now, greeting strangers with an easy smile, nodding along to half-stories about stocks and golf clubs, all while keeping you in his periphery like you’re his anchor in the chaos.
You pause near a table stacked with champagne flutes, taking a moment to sip and scan the room. That’s when you feel it, a subtle shift, like someone’s watching you.
You glance across the floor and spot him. Jimmy. Camera raised, lens glinting under the chandelier light, angled right at you.
The shutter clicks.
Your eyebrows lift, and his eyes widen like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. He lowers the camera a little too quickly, rubbing the back of his neck.
“What was that?” you call softly when he comes closer.
“What was what?” he says, all innocence, except for the faint flush creeping over his cheeks.
“You took my picture.”
He shrugs, avoiding your gaze in a way that’s almost comical. “It was… uh… part of the cover. Couples have pictures of each other, right? Totally normal.”
“Uh-huh.” You tilt your head. “And you needed to take it when I wasn’t looking?”
“That’s when people look the best,” he mumbles, then seems to realize what he’s said. His ears go pink. “I mean… for authenticity. For the story. Just, real moments, you know?”
You can’t help the smile tugging at your lips. “Sure, Olsen. For the story.”
He tries to grin, but it comes out sheepish, his fingers fidgeting with the strap of his camera. And yet, you can still feel the way his eyes linger on you — even without the lens.
The champagne keeps coming. Neither of you are exactly counting how many glasses you’ve had, but you know the room has softened, the gold light feels warmer, the music richer, the people less intimidating.
You’re leaning against a tall cocktail table, laughing at something ridiculous Jimmy just whispered in your ear about the CEO’s bowtie looking like “a very angry bat,” when the next song kicks in, something upbeat, brassy, and entirely too tempting.
Jimmy’s eyes light up. “Ohhh, we have to dance to this one.”
You shake your head, smiling. “You just want an excuse to make a fool of yourself.”
“Exactly,” he says, already setting his champagne down and holding out his hand.
You let him pull you back onto the floor, where the slow elegance from earlier is long gone. Now it’s a whirl of clapping, spinning, and laughing couples. Jimmy throws himself into it with zero shame, trying out moves that are equal parts swing dance and something he probably learned from a YouTube tutorial at 2 a.m.
You can’t help it, you laugh, doubling over slightly when he twirls you with way more enthusiasm than finesse.
“You’re ridiculous,” you say, breathless, as he does a dramatic dip that nearly takes both of you down.
“Ridiculously charming,” he corrects, grinning wide. His hair’s gone a little messy, his bowtie is askew, and you think maybe he’s never looked more like himself.
At one point he spins you so you’re back-to-back with him, then leans around to grin at you before pulling you in again, your hands clasped, both of you laughing like you forgot why you were here in the first place.
By the time the song ends, you’re both flushed and breathless, grinning like idiots. He hands you your champagne back with a little bow.
“See?” he says between breaths. “Blending in can be fun.”
And you have to admit — it really can.
You’re still catching your breath when you notice it. Two men in dark suits lingering near the edge of the crowd, their eyes locked on Jimmy.
At first, you think maybe you’re imagining it. But then one murmurs something into a discreet earpiece, and the other starts moving toward you.
You lean toward Jimmy, keeping your smile in place. “Don’t look now, but I think we’ve got admirers.”
He tilts his head just enough to catch a glimpse over your shoulder. “Security,” he mutters, all the lightness in his voice gone. “And I’m guessing they’ve figured out I’m not on the official photographer list.”
“Uh-huh,” you say, lifting your champagne to your lips in the most casual move you can muster. “So what’s the plan?”
Jimmy’s eyes dart toward the side exit near the band. “We… dance our way out?”
Before you can argue, he sets his glass down and takes your hand again, launching you both back into the crowd. From an outsider’s perspective, you’re just another couple laughing their way through the music, but every turn, every spin he gives you edges you closer to that side door.
You’re halfway there when one of the security guys calls out, “Sir! Sir, could I see your—”
Jimmy twirls you so you’re facing him again, his hand warm at the small of your back. “Kiss me,” he whispers quickly, eyes darting to the guard now threading through the crowd.
You blink. “What?”
“Cover,” he says, before leaning in and brushing a quick, innocent kiss to the corner of your lips. You can feel him smiling against your skin. “Now we’re just that annoying couple.”
It works, the guard slows, rolling his eyes and muttering something under his breath, clearly unwilling to wade into a romantic moment in the middle of the dance floor.
The second he turns away, Jimmy’s hand finds yours again. “C’mon,” he says, grinning as you both slip out the side door, the night air hitting you like a cool splash of water.
Once you’re safely around the corner, you stop, catching your breath.
“That was… reckless,” you say, though you can’t help the small laugh that escapes.
“Recklessly brilliant,” Jimmy corrects, pushing his hair back and flashing you that boyish grin. “Besides, you have to admit, that was kind of fun.”
You shake your head, but your smile gives you away. “You’re impossible.”
“Impossible to catch,” he says, winking.
The walk back to the hotel isn’t long, but the cool night air feels like a relief after the press of the gala. The adrenaline that had you buzzing moments ago is ebbing now, replaced with a comfortable, shared silence.
Somewhere between the side door of the venue and the corner by the hotel, Jimmy had managed to coax your heels off you. You hadn’t even realized how much your feet hurt until you were padding along the sidewalk in your stockings, his polished shoes clicking steadily beside you.
He’s carrying the shoes in one hand, your clutch tucked under his arm, and you’re wrapped in the warmth of his tux jacket. The sleeves are too long, the shoulders broad, and the faint scent of his cologne, warm, clean, with a trace of something sharp, clings to the fabric.
By the time you step into the hotel lobby, you’re both smiling in that tired, unguarded way that comes after a shared adventure. The elevator doors slide open with a chime, and you step inside together.
The doors close, soft music humming through the speakers. For the first time all night, there’s no crowd, no cover story, no need to keep up the act.
Jimmy glances down at you, the corner of his mouth lifting just a little. “You okay?”
You nod, adjusting the jacket around you. “Better than okay. Just… tired. And my feet may never forgive me.”
He chuckles, glancing at the shoes in his hand. “Guess I earned some points carrying these, huh?”
You give him a sidelong look. “You did alright, Olsen.”
For a moment, the only sound is the quiet hum of the elevator. He shifts his weight, leaning one shoulder against the wall, still holding your shoes like they’re the most natural accessory in the world.
“I like this,” he says quietly.
You blink. “Like what?”
“This,” he gestures between you, the jacket draped over your shoulders, the shared quiet, the soft hum of the ride up. “It’s… nice.”
The elevator doors glide open, and you both step into the hallway. Jimmy still has your heels in one hand, the other stuffed into his trouser pocket, his steps slow to match yours. Neither of you speak as you make your way to the suite, the soft carpet muffling your movements.
He unlocks the door and steps aside to let you in first. Inside, the suite feels warmer than you remember, maybe it’s the faint buzz of champagne still in your veins, or maybe it’s just the quiet, the way the city noise fades behind the thick glass windows.
Jimmy sets your shoes gently by the dresser, shrugs off what’s left of his tux jacket from his own shoulders, and drops it on the back of a chair. You’re still wrapped in the one he’d given you, and you don’t feel like taking it off just yet.
You glance toward the bathroom, but the thought of moving all your things in there feels exhausting. You’re tipsy enough that the idea of making it halfway across the room in your current state seems like a chore.
“Just… turn around,” you say, your voice light but not joking. “I’m going to change out here.”
Jimmy blinks once, then nods immediately. “Yeah. Of course.” He pivots to face the window, hands sliding into his pockets, posture deliberately still. You can tell, just from the way his shoulders are set, that he’s taking this seriously.
You reach up, tugging at the zipper of your dress, but your fingers fumble uselessly. “Ugh. Jimmy?”
He turns his head just enough to glance at you over his shoulder. “Need help?”
You nod, and he crosses the room without hesitation, his expression soft and focused. He takes hold of the zipper, careful not to touch more than he has to, guiding it slowly down until the fabric loosens around your shoulders. His knuckles brush your skin once, lightly, and you feel his breath catch, but he says nothing.
“Got it,” he murmurs, stepping back.
You watch as he turns away again without you having to ask, eyes firmly on the city skyline outside. It’s the kind of small, wordless trust that makes your chest feel unexpectedly tight.
“Thanks,” you say quietly.
“Anytime,” he replies, his voice just as soft.
You pull the dress off, trading it for the soft comfort of an oversized T-shirt and a pair of loose shorts. The moment the cotton hits your skin, you feel lighter, no tight zippers, no pinching heels, no layers of gala formality weighing you down.
“All clear,” you call.
Jimmy turns around, eyes flicking over you once before he gives a little grin. “Wow. From movie star to… extremely cozy in under a minute.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Are you saying this is a downgrade?”
He lifts his hands in mock defense. “Nope. Just saying you pull off both.” His smile turns lopsided. “But I think this version of you is the real one.”
You roll your eyes, but there’s something about the way he says it, gentle, unguarded, that keeps your lips from pressing into a full smirk. “You’re ridiculous.”
“And yet, somehow, you keep me around,” he says, kicking off his shoes. He’s already loosened his bowtie and shrugged out of his vest, leaving him in just his crisp white shirt and slacks.
You sit on the edge of the bed, stretching your legs out with a groan of relief. “I can’t feel my feet.”
“Probably because I carried your heels like a hero,” Jimmy teases, walking over to plop himself on the other side of the bed without asking. He bounces a little as he lands, the mattress shifting under both of you.
“You really are like a golden retriever,” you say, leaning back on your hands.
He grins. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
Somehow, and you’re not entirely sure when it happens, you both end up stretched out on top of the duvet, lying side by side. The city glows through the window, painting the room in soft amber light.
The conversation meanders easily, from the absurdity of the party to ridiculous hypotheticals about what your cover identities would do on a Sunday morning, to laughing over the time Jimmy got locked in a supply closet with Clark for three hours.
At one point, you’re both laughing so hard you have to catch your breath, and when the laughter fades, there’s a quiet that feels… different. Not awkward, not tense, just full.
Jimmy’s lying on his side now, propped up on one elbow, his gaze tracing your face like he’s memorizing it. “This is nice,” he says softly.
You swallow, your heart thudding a little harder than you’d like. “Yeah. It is.”
And neither of you move to change that.
The room feels suspended in amber, warm light from the city seeping in through the curtains, the faint hum of traffic far below, the both of you stretched out on top of the duvet like you could stay here forever.
Jimmy’s lying on his side, propped up on one elbow, and there’s something in his expression you don’t see often, not his usual easy grin or playful spark. This is quieter. More careful.
He takes a slow breath, his fingers drumming lightly on the duvet before going still. “I’ve been meaning to tell you this for a while.”
Your brows lift. “Tell me what?”
He smiles a little, almost shy, but there’s determination in it. “That I like you. A lot. More than I probably should for someone I work with.”
You open your mouth, but he keeps going, words tumbling out like he’s afraid if he stops, he won’t start again.
“I don’t even remember when I realized it. One day you were just… you — smart and stubborn and impossible to keep up with, and then suddenly, I couldn’t imagine the newsroom without you. I mean, I’ve always thought you were pretty. That was the easy part to notice.” His grin tilts, fond and a little embarrassed. “But then I started noticing all the other stuff. How you don’t let anyone push you around. How you’re… scary in a good way, but you still remember how people take their coffee. How you’re always ten steps ahead but never rub it in.”
He glances down at his free hand, flexing it against the sheets like he’s grounding himself. “People at work joke that I’m your puppy dog. And they’re right. I follow you around because… well, because I like being around you. And I thought maybe I was hiding it okay, but… I don’t think I was.”
His eyes lift to yours again, earnest and warm. “I’ve almost told you a dozen times. Like when we were working late last month and you fell asleep at your desk, and I covered you with my jacket. Or when you chewed out that city official and I thought, ‘Yep, that’s the woman I’d get in trouble for.’ Or the time you were on the phone with Perry, pacing in those ridiculous socks with the cartoon cats, and I realized I was just… grinning at you for no reason.”
His voice softens, steady but full of something raw. “I don’t know how you didn’t know. I thought it was obvious. Every coffee I brought you. Every stupid errand I volunteered for if it meant sitting at your desk for five minutes. Every time I made you laugh and pretended it wasn’t the best part of my day.”
Jimmy lets out a slow breath, his gaze still locked on yours. “I don’t expect anything from saying it. I just… couldn’t keep it in anymore. Not after tonight. Not after… this.” He gestures vaguely to the two of you, the bed, the shared jacket, the quiet.
For a moment, it’s just you and him and the soft thrum of your heart in your ears.
For a second, you can’t quite find your voice. His words hang in the air between you, warm and steady, and you feel them like the echo of a heartbeat in your chest.
You push yourself up onto one elbow so you’re facing him fully. “Jimmy…”
He’s watching you carefully, like he’s trying to read every flicker of your expression, bracing himself for whatever’s coming.
“You’re an idiot,” you say softly.
His eyes widen just a little, but before he can protest, you go on. “You’re an idiot for thinking you had to keep that to yourself. For thinking I wouldn’t notice.”
His brow furrows, confusion flickering there. “Wait, so you did know?”
You shake your head. “Not exactly. I mean… I noticed the coffee. And the errands. And the way you always somehow ended up next to me in meetings. But I told myself you were just… being Jimmy.” You pause, your voice dropping. “I didn’t want to hope for something if it wasn’t real.”
A small, incredulous smile tugs at his lips. “It’s real.”
You nod once, and for a long moment, you just look at each other. It’s not tense, not awkward, it’s charged with something warm and unspoken, something that’s been quietly growing for months.
You reach over and rest your hand over his where it’s splayed on the duvet. His fingers curl around yours almost instinctively.
“I like you too, Olsen,” you admit, and the weight that lifts from your chest feels almost dizzying. “Always have. I just didn’t know how to… say it.”
His grin is small but impossibly genuine, and it lights up his whole face. “Guess we’re both idiots, then.”
“Guess so,” you echo.
For a while, neither of you move, your hands still linked, the quiet wrapping around you like a blanket. And then, almost shyly, Jimmy shifts a little closer, close enough that you can feel the warmth of him even through the layers of clothes.
The air between you feels different now, softer, heavier, like every word has pulled you closer without either of you realizing. Jimmy’s eyes drop briefly to your mouth, then back up to meet your gaze, as if asking a question without speaking.
You don’t answer out loud. You just give the smallest nod.
He leans in slowly, giving you every chance to stop him, his hand loosening from yours only so it can skim up to rest against your cheek. His palm is warm, a little rough from years of handling cameras, his thumb brushing gently along your skin.
When his lips meet yours, it’s not hurried or demanding. It’s careful, a soft, tentative press, as if he’s still making sure this is real. You feel him exhale against you, the tension in his shoulders melting the longer the kiss lingers.
You lean into it, tilting your head slightly to deepen the connection just enough, the warmth of him seeping into you. It’s not the kind of kiss that burns, it’s the kind that anchors, the kind that says all the things you’ve both been carrying for too long.
When you finally pull back, you’re both smiling, small, a little breathless, but steady.
Jimmy keeps his hand on your cheek for a moment longer. “Been wanting to do that for… way too long,” he admits, voice low and a little shaky in the quiet.
You smile back, just as softly. “So have I.”
And this time, when the silence settles in again, it’s comfortable in a way you’ve never felt before.
Neither of you moves for a while, still caught in the softness that lingers between you. Jimmy’s thumb traces a slow line along your cheekbone before his hand drops, only so he can close the small space between you completely.
You shift so you’re lying on your side, and without hesitation, he mirrors you. His arm slides easily around your waist, pulling you in until your forehead rests against his chest. You can feel the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath the thin fabric of his shirt, faster than normal, but evening out the longer you stay there.
The duvet is still beneath you both, but his warmth is enough. He tucks his chin slightly, his breath ruffling your hair. “This okay?” he murmurs.
You nod, the motion brushing your temple against him. “Yeah. More than okay.”
One of his hands stays at your waist, the other resting lightly against your back like he’s afraid if he lets go, you’ll disappear. You don’t bother closing your eyes right away, you’re too aware of the quiet rise and fall of his breathing, the way his hold on you tightens whenever you shift.
Minutes stretch into something softer, heavier. Your thoughts blur, the champagne and the long day settling in your limbs. Eventually, your eyes drift shut, and the last thing you’re aware of is the faint press of Jimmy’s lips against your hairline, a barely-there kiss meant more for him than for you.
When sleep finally takes you, you’re still tangled together, neither of you letting go.
The newsroom is buzzing as usual, phones ringing, keyboards clacking, voices trading deadlines over the noise, but for once, you take your time walking in. The smell of fresh coffee greets you, mingling with the familiar scent of newsprint and ink.
When you reach your desk, you stop short.
There, front and center, is the latest edition of The Daily Planet. The headline sprawls across the top in bold letters:
“LEXTECH FOUNDATION EXPOSED: MILLIONS FUNNELED OFFSHORE”
Beneath it is your byline. Your story.
A grin spreads across your face before you even realize it. Every long night, every lead chased, every tense moment at that gala, it’s all there, printed in black and white for the city to see.
But that’s not all.
Sitting neatly beside the paper is a coffee cup, your coffee cup. The exact order you always get, just how you like it. No note, no explanation. Just there, waiting.
You pick it up automatically, warmth spreading through your fingers, and glance across the room.
Jimmy’s at his desk, pretending to be absorbed in whatever’s on his computer screen. But what really catches your eye is the corkboard behind him.
Pinned among press passes, ticket stubs, and random clippings is the photo: the candid he took of you at the gala. You hadn’t even realized he’d kept it. In the picture, you’re mid-laugh, champagne glass in hand, the lights behind you turning the whole scene golden.
Your grin softens into something quieter, something just for him.
When Jimmy finally looks up, you’re already watching him. He gives you that same boyish smile, the one you’ve been seeing differently ever since that night. And it’s all you need.
You lift your coffee in a silent toast. He winks in return.
And in that quiet, wordless exchange, something between you has shifted, and there’s no going back.
Things between you and Peter change with the seasons. [17k]
c: friends-to-lovers, hurt/comfort, loneliness, peter parker isn’t good at hiding his alter ego, fluff, first kisses, mutual pining, loved-up epilogue, mention of self-harm with no graphic imagery
｡𖦹°‧⭑.ᐟ
Fall
Peter Parker is a resting place for overworked eyes, like warm topaz nestled against a blue-cold city. He waits on you with his eyes to the screen of his phone, clicking the power button repetitively. A nervous tic.
You close the heavy door of your apartment building. His head stays still, yet he’s heard the sound of it settling, evidence in his calmed hand.
“Good morning!” You pull your coat on quickly. “Sorry.”
“Good morning,” he says, offering a sleep-logged smile. “Should we go?”
You follow Peter out of the cul-de-sac and into the street as he drops his phone into a deep pocket. To his credit, he doesn’t check it while you walk, and only glances at it when you’re taking your coat off in the heat of your favourite cafe: The Moroccan Mode glows around you, fog kissing the windows, condensation running down the inner lengths of it in beads. You murmur something to do with the odd fog and Peter tells you about water vapour. When it rains tonight, he says it’ll be warm water that falls.
He spreads his textbook, notebook, and rinky-dink laptop out across the table while you order drinks. Peter has the same thing every visit, a decaf americano, in a wide brim mug with the pink-petal saucer. You put it down on his textbook only because that’s where he would put it himself, and you both get to work.
As Peter helps you study, you note the simplicity of another normal day, and can’t help wondering what it is that’s missing. Something is, something Peter won’t tell you, the absence of a truth hanging over your heads. You ask him if he wants to get dinner and he says no, he’s busy. You ask him to see a movie on Friday night and he wishes he could.
Peter misses you. When he tells you, you believe him. “I wish I had more time,” he says.
“It’s fine,” you say, “you can’t help it.”
“We’ll do something next weekend,” he says. The lie slips out easily.
To Peter it isn’t a lie. In his head, he’ll find the time for you again, and you’ll be friends like you used to be.
You press the end of your pencil into your cheek, the dark roast, white paper and condensation like grey noise. This time last year, the air had been thick for days with fog you could cut. He took you on a trip to Manhattan, less than an hour from your red-brick neighbourhood, and you spent the day in a hotel pool throwing great cupfuls of water at each other. The fog was gone just fifteen miles away from home but the warm air stayed. When it rained it was sudden, strange, spit-warm splashes of it hammering the tops of your heads, your cheeks as you tipped your faces back to spy the dark clouds.
Peter had swam the short distance to you and held your shoulders. You remember feeling like your whole life was there, somewhere you’d never been before, the sharp edges of cracked pool tile just under your feet.
You peek over the top of your laptop screen and wonder if Peter ever thinks of that trip.
He feels you watching and meets your eyes. “I have to tell you something,” he says, smiling shyly.
“Sure.”
“I signed us up for that club.”
“Epigenetics?”
“Molecular medicine,” he says.
The nice thing about fog is that it gives a feeling of lateness. It’s still morning, barely ten, but it feels like the early evening. It’s gentle on the eyes, colouring the whole room with a sconced shine. You reach for Peter’s bag and sort through his jumble of possessions —stick deodorant, loose-leaf paper, a bodega’s worth of protein bars— and grab his camera.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m cataloguing the moment you ruined our lives,” you say, aiming the camera at his chin, squinting through the viewfinder.
“Technically, I signed us up a few days ago,” he says.
You snap his photo as his mouth closes around ‘ago’, keeping his half-laugh stuck on his lips. “Semantics,” you murmur. “And molecular medicine club, this has nothing to do with the estranged Gwen Stacy?”
“It has nothing to do with her. And you like molecular medicine.”
“I like oncology,” you correct, which is a sub-genre at best, “and I have enough work without joining another club. Go by yourself.”
“I can’t go without you,” he says. Simple as that.
He knew you’d say yes when he signed you up. It’s why he didn’t ask. You’re already forgiven him for the slight of assumption.
“When is it?” you ask, smiling.
—
Molecular medicine club is fun. You and a handful of ESU nerds gather around a big table in a private study room for a few hours and read about the newer discoveries and top research, like regenerative science and now taboo Oscorp research. It’s boring, sometimes, but then Peter will lean into your side and make a joke to keep you going.
He looks at Gwen Stacy a lot. Slender, pale and freckled, with blonde hair framing a sweet face. Only when he thinks you’re not looking. Only when she isn’t either.
—
“Good morning,” you say.
Peter holds an umbrella over his head that he’s quick to share with you, and together you walk with heads craned down, the umbrella angled forward to fight the wind. Your outermost shoulder is wet when you reach the café, your other warm from being pressed against him. You shake the umbrella off outside the door and step onto a cushy, amber doormat to dry your sneakers. Peter stalks ahead and order the drinks, eager to get warm, so you look for a table. Your usual is full of businessmen drinking flat whites with briefcases at their legs. They laugh. You try to picture Peter in a suit: you’re still laughing when he finds you in the booth at the back.
“Tell the joke,” he says, slamming his coffee down. He’s careful with yours. He’s given you the pink petal saucer from the side next to the straws and wooden stirrers.
“I was thinking about you as a businessman.”
“And that’s funny?”
“When was the last time you wore a suit?”
Peter shakes his head. Claims he doesn’t know. Later, you’ll remember his Uncle Ben’s funeral and feel queasy with guilt, but you don’t remember yet. “When was the last time you wore one?” he asks. “I don’t laugh at you.”
“You’re always laughing at me, Parker.”
The cafe isn’t as warm today. It’s wet, grimy water footsteps tracking across the terracotta tile, streaks of grey water especially heavy near the counter, around it to the bathroom. There’s no fog but a sad rattle of rain, not enough to make noise against the windows, but enough to watch as it falls in lazy rivulets down the lengths of them.
Your face is chapped with the cold, cheeks quickly come to heat as your fingers curl around your mug. They tingle with newfound warmth. When you raise your mug to your lips, your hand hardly shakes.
“You okay?” Peter asks.
“Fine. Are you gonna help me with the math today?”
“Don’t think so. Did you ask nicely?”
“I did.” You’d called him last night. You would’ve just as happily submitted your homework poorly solved with the grade to prove it —you don’t want Peter’s help, you just wanted to see him.
Looking at him now, you remember why his distance had felt a little easier. The rain tangles in his hair, damp strands curling across his forehead, his eyes dark and outfitted by darker eyelashes. Peter has the looks of someone you’ve seen before, a classical set to his nose and eyes reminiscent of that fallen angel weeping behind his arm, his russet hair in fiery disarray. There was an anger to Peter after Ben died that you didn’t recognise, until it was Peter, changed forever and for the worse and it didn’t matter —he was grieving, he was terrified, who were you to tell him to be nice again— until it started to get better. You see less of your fallen, angry angel, no harsh brush strokes, no tears.
His eyes are still dark. Bruised often underneath, like he’s up late. If he is, it isn’t to talk to you.
You spend an afternoon working through your equations, pretending to understand until Peter explains them to death. His earphones fall out of his pocket and he says, “Here, I’ll show you a song.”
He walks you home. The song is dreary and sad. The man who sings is good. Lover, You Should’ve Come Over. It feels like Peter’s trying to tell you something —he isn’t, but it feels like wishing he would.
“You okay?” you ask before you can get to your street. A minute away, less.
“I’m fine, why?”
You let the uncomfortable shape of his earbud fall out of your ear, the climax of the song a rattle on his chest. “You look tired, that’s all. Are you sleeping?”
“I have too much to do.”
You just don’t get it. “Make sure you’re eating properly. Okay?”
His smile squeezes your heart. Soft, the closest you’ll ever get. “You know May,” he says, wrapping his arm around your shoulders to give you a short hug, “she wouldn’t let me go hungry. Don’t worry about me.”
—
The dip into depression you take is predictable. You can’t help it. Peter being gone makes it worse.
You listen to love songs and take long walks through the city, even when it’s dark and you know it’s a bad idea. If anything bad happens Spider-Man could probably save me, you think. New York’s not-so-new vigilante keeps a close eye on things, especially the women. You can’t count how many times you’ve heard the same story. A man followed me home, saw me across the street, tried to get into my apartment, but Spider-Man saved me.
You’re not naive, you realise the danger of walking around without protection assuming some stranger in a mask will save you, but you need to get out of the house. It goes on for weeks.
You walk under streetlights and past stores with CCTV, but honestly you don’t really care. You’re not thinking. You feel sick and heavy and it’s fine, really, it’s okay, everything works out eventually. It’s not like it’s all because you miss Peter, it’s just a feeling. It’ll go away.
“You’re in deep thought,” a voice says, garnering a huge flinch from the depths of your stomach.
You turn around, turn back, and flinch again at the sight of a man a few paces ahead. Red shoulders and legs, black shining in a webbed lattice across his chest. “Oh,” you say, your heartbeat an uncomfortable plodding under your hand, “sorry.”
“Why are you sorry? I scared you.”
“I didn’t realise you were there.”
Spider-Man doesn’t come any closer. You take a few steps in his direction. You’ve never met before but you’d like to see him up close, and you aren’t scared. Not beyond the shock of his arrival.
“Can I walk you to where you’re going?” Spider-Man asks you. He’s humming energy, fidgeting and shifting from foot to foot.
“How do I know you’re the real Spider-Man?”
After all, there are high definition videos of his suit on the news sometimes. You wouldn’t want to find out someone was capable of making a replica in the worst way possible.
You can’t be sure, but you think he might be smiling behind the mask, his arms moving back as though impressed at your questioning. “What do you need me to do to prove it?” he asks.
He speaks hushed. Rough and deep. “I don’t know. What’s Spider-Man exclusive?”
“I can show you the webs?”
You pull your handbag further up your arm. “Okay, sure. Shoot something.”
Spider-Man aims his hand at the streetlight across the way and shoots it. He makes a severing motion with his wrist to stop from getting pulled along by it, letting the web fall like an alien tendril from the bulb. The light it produces dims slightly. A chill rides your spine.
“Can I walk you now?” he asks.
“You don’t have more important things to do?” If the bitterness you’re feeling creeps into your tone unbidden, he doesn’t react.
“Nothing more important than you.”
You laugh despite yourself. “I’m going to Trader Joe’s.”
“Yellowstone Boulevard?”
“That’s the one…”
You fall into step beside him, and, awkwardly, begin to walk again. It’s a short walk. Trader Joe’s will still be open for hours despite the dark sky, and you’re in no hurry. “My friend, he likes the rolled tortilla chips they do, the chilli ones.”
“And you’re going just for him?” Spider-Man asks.
“Not really. I mean, yeah, but I was already going on a walk.”
“Do you always walk around by yourself? It’s late. It’s dangerous, you know, a beautiful girl like you,” he says, descending into an odd mixture of seriousness and teasing. His voice jumps and swoons to match.
“I like walking,” you say.
Spider-Man walking is a weird thing to see. On the news, he’s running, swinging, or flying through the air untethered. You’re having trouble acquainting the media image of him with the quiet man you’re walking beside now.
”Is everything okay?” he asks. “You seem sad.”
“Do I?”
“Yeah, you do.”
“Maybe I am sad,” you confess, looking forward, the bright sign of Trader Joe’s already in view. It really is a short walk. “Do you ever–” You swallow against a surprising tightness in your throat and try again, “Do you ever feel like you’re alone?”
“I’m not alone,” he says carefully.
“Me neither, but sometimes I feel like I am.”
He laughs quietly. You bristle thinking you’re being made fun of, but the laugh tapers into a sad one. “Sometimes I feel like I’m the only person in the world,” he says. “Even here. I forget that it’s not something I invented.”
“Well, I guess being a hero would feel really lonely. Who else do we have like you?” You smile sympathetically. “It must be hard.”
“Yeah.” His head tips to the side, and a crash of glass rings in the distance, crunching, and then there’s a squeal. It sounds like a car accident. Spider-Man goes tense. “I’ll come back,” he says.
“That’s okay, Spider-Man, I can get home by myself. Thank you for the protection detail.”
He sprints away. In half a second he’s up onto a short roof, then between buildings. It looks natural. It takes your breath away.
You buy Peter’s chips at Trader Joe’s and wait for a few minutes at the door, but Spider-Man doesn’t come back.
—
I don’t want to study today, Peter’s text says the next day. Come over and watch movies?
The last handholds of your fugue are washed away in the shower. You dab moisturiser onto your face and neck and stand by the open window to help it dry faster, taking in the light drizzle of rain, the smell of it filling your room and your lungs in cold gales. You dress in sweatpants and a hoodie, throw on your coat, and stuff the rolled tortilla chips into a backpack to ferry across the neighbourhood.
Peter still lives at home with his Aunt May. You’d been in awe of it when you were younger, Peter and his Aunt and Uncle, their home-cooked family dinners, nights spent on the roof trying to find constellations through light pollution, stretched out together while it was warm enough to soak in your small rebellion. Ben would call you both down eventually. When you’re older! he’d always promise.
Peter’s waiting in the open door for you. He ushers you inside excitedly, stripping you out of your coat and forgetting your wet shoes as he drags you to the kitchen. “Look what I got,” he says.
The Parker kitchen is a big, bright space with a chopping block island. The counters are crowded by pots, pans, spices, jams, coffee grounds, the impossible drying rack. There’s a cross-stitch about the home on the microwave Ben did to prove to May he could still see the holes in the aida.
You follow Peter to the stove where he points at a ceramic Dutch oven you’ve eaten from a hundred times. “There,” he says.
“Did you cook?” you ask.
“Of course I didn’t cook, even if the way you said that is offensive. I could cook. I’m an excellent chef.”
“The only thing May’s ever taught you is spaghetti and meatballs.”
“Hope you like marinara,” he says, nudging you toward the stove.
You take the lid off of the Dutch oven to unveil a huge cake. Dripping with frosting, only slightly squashed by the lid, obviously homemade. He’s dotted the top with swirls of frosting and deep red strawberries.
“It’s for you,” he says casually.
“It’s not my birthday.”
“I know. You like cake though, don’t you?”
You’d tell Peter you liked chunks of glass if that was what he unveiled. “Why’d you make me a cake?”
“I felt like you deserved a cake. You don’t want it?”
“No, I want it! I want the cake, let’s have cake, we can go to 91st and get some ice cream, it’ll be amazing.” You don’t bother trying to hide your beaming smile now, twisting on the spot to see him properly, your hands falling behind your back. “Thank you, Peter. It’s awesome. I had no idea you could even– that you’d even–” You press forward, smushing your face against his chest. “Wow.”
“Wow,” he says, wrapping his arms around you. He angles his head to nose at your temple. “You’re welcome. I would’ve made you a cake years ago if I knew it was gonna make you this happy.”
“It must’ve taken hours.”
“May helped.”
“That makes much more sense.”
“Don’t be insolent.” Peter squeezes you tightly. He doesn’t let go for a really long time.
He extracts the cake from the depths of the Dutch oven and cuts you both a slice. He already has ice cream, a Neapolitan box that he cuts into with a serrated knife so you can each have a slice of all three flavours. It’s good ice cream, fresh for what it is and melting in big drops of cream as he gets the couch ready.
“Sit down,” he says, shoving the plates with his strangely great balance onto the coffee table. “Remote’s by you. I’m gonna get drinks.”
You take your plate, carving into the cake with the end of a warped spoon, its handle stamped PETE and burnished in your grasp. The crumb is soft but dense in the best way. The ganache between layers is loose, cake wet with it, and the frosting is perfect, just messy. You take another satisfied bite. You’re halfway through your slice before Peter makes it back.
“I brought you something too, but it’s garbage compared to this,” you say through a mouthful, hand barely covering your mouth.
Peter laughs at you. “Yeah, well, say it, don’t spray it.”
“I guess I’ll keep it.”
“Keep it, bub, I don’t need anything from you.”
He doesn’t say it the way you’re expecting. “No,” you say, pleased when he sits knee to knee, “you can have it. S’just a bag of chips from Trader–”
“The rolled tortilla chips?” he asks. You nod, and his eyes light up. “You really are the best friend ever.”
“Better than Harry?”
“Harry’s rich,” Peter says, “so no. I’m kidding! Joking, come here, let me try some of that.”
“Eat your own.”
Peter plays a great host, letting you choose the movies, making lunch, ordering takeout in the evening and refusing to let you pay for it. This isn’t that out of character for Peter, but what shocks you is his complete unfiltered attention. He doesn’t check his phone, the tension you couldn’t name from these last few weeks nowhere to be felt. You’re flummoxed by the sudden change, but you missed him. You won’t look a gift horse in the mouth; you won’t question what it is that had Peter keeping you at arm’s length now it’s gone.
To your annoyance, you can’t stop thinking about Spider-Man. You keep opening your mouth to tell Peter you talked to him but biting your tongue. Why am I keeping it a secret? you wonder.
“Have something to tell you.”
“You do?” you ask, reluctant to sit properly, your feet tucked under his thigh and your body completely lax with the weight of the Parker throw.
“Is that surprising?”
“Is that a trick question?”
“No. Just. I’ve been not telling you something.”
“Okay, so tell me.”
Peter goes pink, and stiff, a fake smile plastered over his lips. “Me and Gwen, we’re really done.”
“I know, Pete. She broke up with you for reasons nobody felt I should be enlightened right after graduation.” Your stomach pangs painfully. “Unless you…”
“She’s going to England.”
“She is?”
“Oxford.”
You struggle to sit up. “That sucks, Peter. I’m sorry.”
“But?”
You find your words carefully. “You and Gwen really liked each other, but I think that–” You grow in confidence, meeting his eyes firmly. “That there’s always been some part of you that couldn’t actually commit to her. So. I don’t know, maybe some distance will give you clarity. And maybe it’ll break your heart, but at least then you’ll know how you really feel, and you can move forward.” You avoid telling him to move on.
“It wasn’t Gwen,” he says, which has a completely different meaning to the both of you.
“Obviously, she’s the smartest girl I’ve ever met. She’s beautiful. Of course it’s not her fault,” you say, teasing.
“Really, that you ever met?” Peter asks.
“She’s the best girl you were ever gonna land.“
He rolls his eyes. “Yeah, I guess so.” After a few more minutes of quiet, he says, “I think we were done before. I just hadn’t figured it out yet. Something wasn’t right.”
“You were so back and forth. You’re not mean, there must’ve been something stopping you from going steady,” you agree. “You were breaking up every other week.”
“I know,” he whispers, tipping his head against the back couch.
“Which, it’s fine, you don’t–” You grimace. “I can’t talk today. Sorry. I just mean that it’s alright that you never made it work.” You worry that sounds plainly obvious and amend, “Doesn’t make you a bad person. You’re never a bad person, Peter.”
“I know. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. You don’t need me to tell you.”
“It’s nice, though. I like when you tell me stuff. I want all of your secrets.”
You should say Good, because I have something unbelievable to tell you, and I should’ve said it the moment I got home.
Good, because last night I met the bravest man in New York City, and he walked me to the store for your chips.
Good, because I have so much I’m keeping to myself.
You ruffle his hair. Spider-Man goes unmentioned.
—
He visits with a whoop. You don’t flinch when he lands —you’d heard the strange whip and splat of his webs landing nearby.
“Spider-Man,” you say.
“What’s that about?”
“What?”
“The way you said that. You laughed.” Spider-Man stands in spandexed glory before you, mask in place. He’s got a brown stain up the side of his thigh that looks more like mud than blood, but it’s not as though each of his fights are bloodless. They’re infamously gory on occasion.
“Did you get hurt?” you ask. You’re worried. You could help him, if he needs it.
“Aw, this? That’s a scratch. That’s nothing, don’t worry about it. I’ve had worse from that stray cat living outside of 91st.”
You look at him sharply. 91st is shorthand for 91st Bodega, and it’s not like you and Peter made it up, but suddenly, the man in front of you is Peter. The way he says it, that unique rhythm.
Peter’s not so rough-voiced, you argue with yourself. Your Peter speaks in a higher register, dulcet often, only occasionally sarcastic. Spider-Man is rough, and cawing, and loud. Spider-Man acts as though the ground is a suggestion. Peter can’t jump off the second diving board at the pool. Spider-Man rolls his shoulders back in front of you with a confidence Peter rarely has.
“What?” he asks.
“Sorry. You just reminded me of someone.”
His voice falls deeper still. “Someone handsome, I hope.”
You take a small step around him, hoping it invites him to walk along while communicating how sorely you want to leave the subject behind. When he doesn’t follow, you add, “Yes, he’s handsome.”
“I knew it.”
“What do you look like under the mask?”
Spider-Man laughs boisterously. “I can’t just tell you that.”
“No? Do I have to earn it?”
“It’s not like that. I just don’t tell anyone, ever.”
“Nobody in the whole world?” you ask.
The rain is spitting. New York lately is cold cold cold, little in the way of sunshine and no end in sight. Perhaps that’s all November’s are destined to be. You and Spider-Man stick to the inside of the sidewalk. Occasionally, a passerby stares at him, or calls out in Hello, and Spider-Man waves but doesn’t part from you.
“Tell me something about you and I’ll tell you something about me,” Spider-Man says. “I’ll tell you who knows my identity.”
“What do you want to know about me?” you ask, surprised.
“A secret. That’s fair.”
“Hold on, how’s that fair?” You tighten your scarf against a bitter breeze. “What use do I have for the people who know who you are? That doesn’t bring me any closer to the truth.”
“It’s not about who knows, it’s about why I told them.” Spider-Man slips around you, forcing you to walk on the inside of the sidewalk as a car pulls past you all too quickly and sends a sheet of dirty rainwater up Spider-Man’s side. He shakes himself off. “Jerk!” he shouts after the car.
“My secrets aren’t worth anything.”
“I doubt that, but if that’s true, that makes it a fair trade, doesn’t it?”
He sounds peppy considering the pool of runoff collecting at his feet. You pick up your pace again and say, “Alright, useless secret for a useless secret.”
You think about all your secrets. Some are odd, some gross. Some might make the people around you think less of you, while others would surely paint you in a nice light. A topaz sort of technicolor. But they aren’t useless, then, so you move on.
“Oh, I know. I hate my major.” You grin at Spider-Man. “That’s a good one, right? No one else knows about that.”
“You do?” Spider-Man asks. His voice is familiar, then, for its sympathy.
“I like science, I just hate math. It’s harder than I thought it would be, and I need so much help it makes me hate the whole thing.”
Spider-Man doesn’t drag the knife. “Okay. Only three people know who I am under the mask. It was four, briefly.” He clears his throat. “I told one person because I was being selfish and the others out of necessity. I’m trying really hard not to tell anybody else.”
“How come?”
“It just hurts people.”
You linger in a gap of silence, not sure what to say. A handful of cars pass you on the road.
“Tell me another one,” he says.
“What for?”
“I don’t know, just tell me one.”
“How do I know you aren’t extorting me for something?” You grin as you say it, a hint of flirtation. “You’ll know my face and my secrets and even if you tell me a really gory juicy one, I have no one to tell and no name to pair it with.”
“I’m not showing you anything,” he warns, teasing, sounding so awfully like Peter that your heart trips again, an uneven capering that has you faltering in the street.
Peter’s shorter, you decide, sizing him up. His voice sounds similar and familiar but Peter doesn’t ask for secrets. He doesn’t have to. (Or, he didn’t have to, once upon a time.)
“Where are you going?” Spider-Man asks.
“Oh, nowhere.”
“Seriously, you’re out here walking again for no reason?”
“I like to walk. It’s not like it’s dark out yet.” You’re not far at all from Queensboro Hill here. Walking in any direction would lead you to a garden —Flushing Meadows, Kew Gardens, Kissena Park. “Walk me to Kissena?” you ask.
“Sure, for that secret.”
You laugh as Spider-Man takes the lead, keeping time with him, a natural match of pace. It’s exciting that Spider-Man of all people wants to know one of your useless secrets enough to ask you twice. The attention of it makes searching for one a matter of how fast you can find one rather than a question of why you’d want to. It slips out before you can think better of it.
“I burned my wrist a few days ago on a frying pan,” you confess, the phantom pain of the injury an itch. “It blistered and I cried when I did it, but I haven’t told anyone about it.”
“Why not?” he asks.
He shouldn’t use that tone with you, like he’s so so sorry. It makes you want to really tell him everything. How insecure you feel, how telling things feels like asking for someone to care, and half the time they don’t, and half the time you’re embarrassed.
You walk past the bakery that demarcates the beginning of Kissena Park grounds across the way. “I didn’t think about it at first. I’m used to keeping things to myself. And then I didn’t tell anyone for so long that mentioning it now wouldn’t make sense. Like, bringing it up when it’s a scar won’t do much.” It’s a weak lie. It comes out like a spigot to a drying up tree. Glugs, fat beads of sound and the pull to find another thing to say.
“It was only a few days ago, right? It must still hurt. People want to know that stuff.”
“Maybe I’ll tell someone tomorrow,” you say, though you won’t.
“Thanks for telling me.”
The humour in spilling a secret like that to a superhero stops you from feeling sorry for yourself. You hide your cold fingers in your coat, rubbing the stiff skin of your knuckles into the lining for friction-heat. The rain has let up, wind whipping empty but brisk against your cheeks. Your lips will be chapped when you get home, whenever that turns out to be.
“This is pretty far from Trader Joe’s,” he comments, like he’s read your mind.
“Just an hour.”
“Are you kidding? It’s an hour for me.”
“That’s not true, Spider-Man, I’ve seen those webs in action. I still remember watching you on the News that night, the cranes. I remember,” —you try to meet his eyes despite the mask— “my heart in my throat. Weren’t you scared?”
“Is that the secret you want?” he asks.
“I get to choose?”
Spider-Man throws his gaze around, his hand behind his head like he might play with his hair. You come to a natural stop across the street from Kissena Park’s playground. Teenagers crowd the soft-landing floor, smaller children playing on the wet rungs of the climbing frame.
“If you want to,” he says.
“Then yeah, I want to know if you were scared.”
“I didn’t haveI time to be scared. Connors was already there, you know?” He shifts from one foot to the other. “I don’t think I’ve ever thought about it before. I wasn’t scared of the height, if that’s what you mean. I already had practice by then, and I knew I had to do it. Like, I didn’t have a choice, so I just did it. I had to save the day, so I did.”
“When they lined up the cranes–”
“It felt like flying,” Spider-Man interrupts.
“Like flying.”
You picture the weightlessness, the adrenaline, the catch of your weight so high up and the pressure of being flung between the next point. The idea that you have to just do something, so you do.
“That’s a good secret.” You offer a grateful smile. “It doesn’t feel equal. I burned myself and you saved the city.”
“So tell me another one,” he says.
—
Maybe you started to fall for Peter after his Uncle Ben passed away. Not the days where you’d text him and he’d ignore you, or the days spent camping outside of his house waiting for him to get home. It wasn’t that you couldn’t like him, angry as he was; there’s always been something about his eyes when he’s upset that sticks around. You loathe to see him sad but he really is pretty, and when his eyelashes are wet and his mouth is turned down, formidable, it’s an ache. A Cabanel painting, dramatic and dark and other.
It was after. When he started sending Gwen weird smiles and showing up to the movies exhilarated, out of breath, unwilling to tell you where he’d been. Skating, he’d always say. Most of the time he didn’t have his skateboard.
You’d only seen them kiss once, his hand on her shoulder curling her in, a pang of heat. You were curdled by jealousy but it was more than that. Peter was tipping her head back, was kissing her soundly, a fierceness from him that made you sick to think about. You spent weeks afterwards up at night, tossing, turning, wishing he’d kiss you like that, just once, so you could feel how it felt to be completely wrapped up in another person.
You’d always held out for Peter, in a way. It was more important to you that he be your friend. You were young, and love had been a far off thing, and then one day you suddenly wanted it. You learned just how aching an unrequited love could be, like a bruise, where every time you saw Peter —whether it be alone or with Gwen, with anyone— it was like he knew exactly where to poke the bruise. Press the heel of his hand and push. The worst is when he found himself affectionate with you, a quick clasp of your cheek in his palm as he said goodbye. Nights spent in his twin bed, of course you’ll fit, of course you couldn’t go home, not this late, May won’t care if we keep the door open —the suggestion that the door being closed might’ve meant something. His sleeping arm furled around you.
Now you’re nearing the end of your second semester at ESU, Gwen is going to England at the end of the year, and Peter hasn’t tried to stop her, but he’s still busy.
“Whatever,“ you say, taking a deep breath. You’re not mad at Peter, you just miss him. Thinking about him all the time won’t change a thing. “It’s fine.”
“I’d hope so.”
You swing around. “Don’t do that!”
Spider-Man looks vaguely chastened, taking a step back. “I called out.”
“You did?”
“I did. Hey, miss, over there! The one who doesn’t know how to get a goddamn taxi!”
“I like to walk,” you say.
“Yeah, so you’ve said. Have you considered that all this walking is bad for you? It’s freezing out, Miss Bennett!”
“It’s not that bad.” You have your coat, a scarf, your thermal leggings underneath your jeans. “I’m fine.”
“What’s wrong with staying at home?”
“That’s not good for you. And you’re one to talk, Spider-Man, aren’t you out on the streets every night? You should take a day off.”
“I don’t do this every night.”
“Don’t you get tired?”
Spider-Man’s eyelets seem to squint, his mock-anger effusive as he crosses his arms across his chest. “No, of course not. Do I look like I get tired?”
“I don’t know. You’re in a full suit, I can’t tell. I guess you don’t… seem tired. You know, with all the backflips.”
“Want me to do one?”
“On command?” You laugh. “No, that’s okay. Save your strength, Spider-Man.”
“So where are you heading today?” he asks.
There’s a slip of skin peeking out against his neck. You’re surprised he can’t feel the cold there, stepping toward him to point. “I can see your stubble.”
He yanks his mask down. “Hasty getaway.”
“A getaway, undressed? Spider-Man, that’s not very gentlemanly.”
You start to walk toward the Cinemart. Spider-Man, to your strange pleasure, follows. He walks with considerable casualness down the sidewalk by your left, occasionally letting his head turn to chase a distant sound where it echoes from between high-rises and along the busy street. It’s cold and dark, but New York is hectic no matter what, even the residential areas. (Is there such a thing? The neighbourhoods burst with small businesses and backstreet sales, no matter the time.)
“Luckily for you, crime is slow tonight,” he says.
“Lucky me?” You wonder if your acquainted vigilante flirts with every girl he stalks. “You realise I’ve managed to get everywhere I’m going for the last two decades without help?”
“I assume there was more than a little help during that first decade.”
“That’s what you think. I was a super independent toddler.”
Spider-Man tips his head back and laughs, but that laugh is quickly squashed with a cough. “Sure you were.”
“Is there a reason you’re escorting me, Spider-Man?” you ask.
“No. I– I recognised you, I thought I’d say hi.”
“Hi, Spider-Man.”
“Hi.”
“Can I ask you something? Do you work?”
Spider-Man stammers again, “I– yeah. I work. Freelance, mostly.”
“I was wondering how you fit all the crime fighting into your life, is all. University is tough enough.” You let the wind bat your scarf off of your shoulder. “I couldn’t do what you do.”
“Yeah, you could.”
He sounds sure.
“How would you know?” you ask. “Maybe I’m awful when you’re not walking me around. I hate New York. I hate people.”
“No, you don’t. You’re not awful. Don’t ask me how I know, ‘cos I just know.”
You try not to look at him. If you look at him, you’re gonna smile at him like he hung the moon. “Well, tonight I’m going to be dreadfully selfish. My friend said he’d buy my movie ticket and take me out for dinner, a real dinner, the mac and cheese with imitation lobster at Benny’s. Have you tried that?”
Spider-Man takes a big step. “Tonight?” he asks.
“Yep, tonight. That’s where I’m going, the Cinemart.” You frown at his hand pressing into his stomach. “Are you okay? You look like you’re gonna throw up.”
“I can hear– something. Someone’s crying. I gotta go, okay? Have fun at the movies, okay?” He throws his arm up, a silken web shooting from his wrist to the third floor of an apartment complex. “Bye!” he shouts, taking a running jump to the apartment, using his web as an anchor. He flings himself over the roof.
Woah, you think, warmth filling your cold cheeks, the tip of your nose. He’s lithe.
Peter arrives ten minutes late for the movie, which is half an hour later than you’d agreed to meet.
“Sorry!” he shouts, breathless as he grabs your hands. “God, I’m sorry! I’m so sorry. You should beat me up. I’m sorry.”
“What the fuck happened?” you ask, not particularly angry, only relieved to see him with enough time to still catch the movie. “You’re sweating like crazy, your hair’s wet.”
“I ran all the way here, Jesus, do I smell bad? Don’t answer that. Fuck, do we have time?”
You usher Peter inside. He pays for the tickets with hands shaking and you attempt to wipe the sweat from his forehead with your sleeve. “You could’ve called me,” you say, content to let him grab you by the arm and race you to the screen doors, “we could’ve caught the next one. Why were you so late, anyways? Did you forget?”
“Forget about my favourite girl? How could I?” He elbows open the doors to let you enter first. “Now shh,” he whispers, “find the seats, don’t miss the trailers. You love them.”
“You love them–”
“I’ll get popcorn,” he promises, letting the door close between you.
You’re tempted to follow, fingers an inch from the handle.
You turn away and rush to find your seats. Hopefully, the popcorn line is ten blocks long, and he spends the night punished for his wrongdoing. My favourite girl. You laugh nervously into your hand.
—
Winter
Spider-Man finds you at least once a week for the next few weeks. He even brings you an umbrella one time, stars on the handle, asking you rather politely to go home. He offers to buy you a hot dog as you’re walking past the stand, takes you on a shortcut to the convenience store, and helps you get a piece of gum off of your shoe with a leaf and a scared scream. He’s friendly, and you’re getting used to his company.
One night, you’re almost home from Trader Joe’s, racing in the pouring rain when a familiar voice calls out, “Hey! Running girl! Wait a second!”
Him, you think, as ridiculous as it sounds. You don’t know his name, but Spider-Man’s a sunny surprise in a shitty, wet winter, and you turn to the sound with a grin.
He jogs toward you.
You feel the world pause, right in the centre of your throat. All the air gets sucked out of you.
“Hey, what are you doing out here? Did you get my texts?”
You blink as fat rain lands on your face.
“You okay?” Peter asks, Peter, in a navy hoodie turning black in the rain and a brown corduroy jacket. It’s sodden, hanging heavily around his shoulders. “Come on, let’s go,” —he takes your hand and pulls until you begin to speed walk beside him— “it’s freezing!”
“Peter–”
“Jesus Christ!”
“Peter, what are you doing here?” you ask, your voice an echo as he drags you into the foyer of your apartment building.
Rain hammers the door as he closes it, the windows, the foyer too dark to see properly.
“I wanted to see you. Is that allowed?”
“No.”
Peter takes your hand. You look down at it, and he looks down in tandem, and it is decidedly a non-platonic move. “No?” he asks, a hair’s width from murmuring.
“Shit, my groceries are soaked.”
“It’s all snacks, it’s fine,” he says, pulling you to the stairs.
You rush up the steps together to your floor. Peter takes your key when you offer it, your own fingers too stiff to manage it by yourself, and he holds the door open for you again to let you in.
Your apartment is a ragtag assortment to match the one next door, old wooden furniture wheeled from the street corners they were left on, thrifted homeward and heavy blankets everywhere you look. You almost slip getting out of your shoes. Peter steadies you with a firm hand. He shrugs out of his coat and hangs it on the hook, prying the damp hoodie over his head and exposing a solid length of back that trips your heart as you do the same.
“Sorry I didn’t ask,” Peter says.
“What, to come over? It’s fine. I like you being here, you know that.”
All your favourite days were spent here or at Peter’s house, in beds, on sofas, his hair tickling your neck as credits run down the TV and his breath evens to a light snore. You try to settle down with him, changing into dry clothes, his spare stuff left at the bottom of your wardrobe for his next inevitable impromptu visit. You turn on the TV, letting him gather you into his side with more familiarity than ever. Rain lays its fingertips on your window and draws lazy lines behind half-turned blinds. You rest on the arm and watch Peter watch the movie, answering his occasional, “You okay?” with a meagre nod.
“What’s wrong?” he asks eventually. “You’re so quiet.”
Your hand over your mouth, you part your marriage and pinky finger, marriage at the corner, pinky pressed to your bottom lip, the flesh chapped by a season of frigid winds and long walks. “‘M thinking,” you say.
“About?”
About the first night in your new apartment. You got the apartment a couple of weeks before the start of ESU. Not particularly close to the university but close to Peter, your best, nicest friend. You met in your second year of High School, before Peter got contacts, ‘cos he was good at taking photographs and you were in charge of the school newspapers media sourcing. You used to wait for Peter to show up ten minutes late like clockwork, every week. And every week he’d barge into the club room and say, “Fuck, I’m sorry, my last class is on the other side of the building,” until it turned into its own joke.
Three years later, you got your apartment, and Peter insisted you throw a housewarming party even if he was the only person invited.
“Fuck,” he’d said, ten minutes late, a cake in one hand and a whicker basket the other, “sorry. My last class is on–”
But he didn’t finish. You’d laughed so hard with relief at the reference that he never got the chance. Peter remembered your very first inside joke, because Peter wasn’t about to go off to ESU and meet new friends and forget you.
But Peter’s been distant for a while now, because Peter’s Spider-Man.
“Do you remember,” you say, not willing to share the whole truth, “when you joined the school newspaper to be the official photographer, and you taught me the rule of thirds?”
“So you didn’t need me,” he says.
“I was just thinking about it. We ran that newspaper like the Navy.”
Peter holds your gaze. “Is that really what you were thinking about?”
“Just funny,” you murmur, dropping your hand in your lap and breaking his stare. “So much has changed.”
“Not that much.”
“Not for me, no.”
Peter gets a look in his eyes you know well. He’s found a crack in you and he’s gonna smooth it over until you feel better. You’re expecting his soft tone, his loving smile, but you’re not expecting the way he pulls you in —you’d slipped away from him as the evening went on, but Peter erases every millimetre of space as he slides his arm under your lower back and ushers you into his side. You hold your breath as he hugs you, as he looks down at you. It’s really like he loves you, the line between platonic and romantic a blur. He’s never looked at you like this before.
“I don’t want you to change,” he whispers.
“I want to catch up with you,” you whisper back.
“Catch up with me? We’re in the exact same place, aren’t we?”
“I don’t know, are we?”
Peter hugs you closer, squishing your head down against his jaw as he rubs your shoulder. “Of course we are.”
Peter… What is he doing?
You let yourself relax against him.
“You do change,” he whispers, an utterance of sound to calm that awful bruise he gave you all those months ago, “you change every day, but you don’t need to try.”
“I just… feel like everyone around me is…” You shake your head. “Everyone’s so smart, and they know what they’re doing, or they’re– they’re special. I don’t know anything. So I guess lately I’ve been thinking about that, and then you–”
“What?”
You can say it out loud. You could.
“Peter, you’re…”
“I’m what?” he asks.
His fingers glide down the length of your arm and up again.
If you're wrong, he’ll laugh. And if you’re right, he might– might stop touching you. Your head feels so heavy, and his touch feels like it’s gonna put you to sleep.
He’s Spider-Man.
It makes sense. Who else could have a good enough heart to do that? Of course it’s Peter. It explains so much about him, about Peter and Spider-Man both. Why Peter is suddenly firmer, lighter on his feet, why he can help you move a wardrobe up two flights of stairs without complaint; why Spider-Man is so kind to you, why he knows where to find you, why he rolls his words around just like Pete.
Spider-Man said there are reasons he wears his mask. And Peter doesn’t tell you much, but you trust him.
You won’t make him say anything, you decide. Not now.
You curl your arm over his stomach hesitantly, smiling into his shirt as he hugs you tighter.
“I was thinking about you,” he says.
“Yeah?”
“You’re quieter lately. I know you’re having a hard time right now, okay? You don’t have to tell me. I’m here for you whenever you need me.”
“Yeah?” you ask.
“You used to sit on my porch when you knew May wouldn’t be home to make sure I wasn’t alone.” Peter’s breath is warm on your forehead. “I don’t know what you’re worried about being, but I’m with you,” he says, “‘n nothing is gonna change that.”
Peter isn’t as far away as you thought.
“Thank you,” you say.
He kisses your forehead softly. Your whole world goes amber. He brings his hand to your cheek, the thought of him tipping your head back sudden and heart-racing, but Peter only holds you. You lose count of how many minutes you spend cupped in his hand.
“Can I stay over tonight?” he utters, barely audible under the sound of the battering rain.
“Yeah, please.”
His thumb strokes your cheek.
—
Two switches flip at once, that night. Peter is suddenly as tactile as you’ve craved, and Spider-Man disappears.
He’s alive and well, as evidenced by Peter’s continued survival and presence in your life, but Spider-Man doesn’t drop in on your nightly walks.
You take less of them lately, feeling better in yourself. Your spirits are certainly lifted by Peter’s increasing affection, but now that you know he’s Spider-Man you were waiting to see him in spandex to mess with his head. Nothing mean, but you would’ve liked to pick at his secret identity, toy with him like you know he’d do to you. After all, he’s been trailing you for weeks and getting to know you. Peter already knows you. Plus, you told Spider-Man secrets not meant for Peter Parker’s ears.
You find it hard to be angry with him. A thread of it remains whenever you remember his deception, but mostly you worry about him. Peter’s out every night until who knows what hour fighting crime. There are guns. He could get shot, and he doesn’t seem scared. You end up watching videos on the internet of the night he ran to Oscorp, when he fought Connors’ and got that huge gash in his leg. His leg is soiled deep red with blood but banded in white webbing. He limps as he races across a rooftop, the recording shaky yet high definition.
It’s not nice to see Peter in pain. You cling to what he’d said, how he wasn’t scared, but not being scared doesn’t mean he wasn’t hurting.
You chew the tip of a finger and click on a different video. Your computer monitor bears heat, the tower whirring by your thigh. Your eyes burn, another hour sitting in the same seat, sick with worry. You don’t mind when Peter doesn’t answer your texts anymore. You didn’t mind so much before, just terrified of becoming an irrelevance in his life and lonely, too, maybe a little hurt, but never worried for his safety. Now when Peter doesn’t text you back you convince yourself that he’s been hurt, or that he’s swinging across New York City about to risk his life.
It’s not a good way to live. You can’t stop giving into it, is all.
In the next video, Spider-Man sits on a billboard with a can of coke in hand. He doesn’t lift his mask, seemingly aware of his watcher. You laugh as he angles his head down, suspicion in his tight shoulders. He relaxes when he sees whoever it is recording.
“Hey,” he says, “you all right?”
“Should you be up there?” the person recording shouts.
“I’m fine up here!”
“Are you really Spider-Man?”
“Sure am.”
“Are you single?”
Peter laughs like crazy. How you didn’t know it was him before is a mystery —it couldn’t sound more like him. “I’ve got my eye on someone!” he says, sounding younger for it, the character voice he enacts when he’s Spider-Man lost to a good mood.
Your phone rings in the back pocket of your jeans. You wriggle it out, nonplussed to find Peter himself on your screen. You click the green answer button.
“Hello?” Peter asks.
You bring the phone snug to your ear. “Hey, Peter.”
“Hi, are you busy?”
“Not really.”
“Do you wanna come over? I know it’s late. Come stay the night and tomorrow we’ll go out for breakfast.”
“Is Aunt May okay with that?”
“She’s staring at me right now shaking her head, but I’m in trouble for something. May, can she come over, is that allowed?”
“She’s always allowed as long as you keep the door open.”
You laugh under your breath at May’s begrudging answer. “Are you sure she’s alright with it?” you ask softly. “I don’t want to be a burden.”
“You never, ever could be. I’m coming to your place and we’ll walk over together. Did you eat dinner?”
“Not yet, but–”
“Okay, I’ll make you something when you get here. I’ll meet you at the door. Twenty minutes?”
“I have to shower first.”
“Twenty five?”
You choke on a laugh, a weird bubbly thing you’re not used to. Peter laughs on the other side of the phone. “How about I’ll see you at seven?”
“It’s a date,” he says.
“Mm, put it in your calendar, Parker.”
—
Peter waits for you at the door like he promised. He frowns at your still-wet face as he slips your backpack from your shoulder, throwing it over his own. “You’re gonna get sick.”
“I‘ll dry fast,” you say. “I took too long finding my pyjamas.”
“I have stuff you can wear. Probably have your sweatpants somewhere, the grey ones.” Peter pulls you forward and wipes your tacky face. “I would’ve waited,” he says.
“It’s fine.“
“It’s not fine. Are you cold?”
“Pete, it’s fine.”
“You always remind me of my Uncle Ben when you call me Pete,” he laughs, “super stern.”
“I’m not stern. Look, take me home, please, I’m cold.”
“You said it wasn’t cold!”
“It’s not, I’m just damp–” Peter cuts you off as he grabs you, sudden and tight, arms around you and rubbing the lengths of your back through your coat. “Handsy!”
“You like it,” he jokes back, his playful warming turning into a hug. You smile, hiding your face in his neck for a few moments.
“I don’t like it,” you lie.
“Okay, you don’t like it, and I’m sorry.” Peter gives you a last hug and pulls away. “Now let’s go. I gotta feed you before midnight.”
“That’s not funny.”
“Apparently, nothing is.”
Peter links your arms together. By the time you get to his house, you’ve fallen away from each other naturally. May is in the hallway when you climb through the door, an empty laundry basket in her hands.
“I see Peter hasn’t won this argument yet,” you say in way of greeting. Peter’s desperate to do his own laundry now he’s getting older. May won’t let him.
“No, he hasn’t.” She looks you up and down. “It’s nice to see you, honey. And in one piece! Peter tells me you’ve been walking a lot, and I mean, in this city? Can’t you buy a treadmill?” she asks.
“May!” Peter says, startled.
“I like walking, I like the air,” you say.
“Can’t exactly call it fresh,” May says.
“No, but it’s alright. It helps me think.”
“Is everything okay?” May asks, putting her hand on her hip.
“Of course.” You smile at her genuinely. “I think starting college was too much for me? It was hard. But things are settling now, I don’t know what Peter told you, but I’m not walking a lot anymore. You know, not more than necessary.”
She softens her disapproving. “Good, honey. That’s good. Peter’s gonna make you some dinner now, right?”
“Yeah, Aunt May, I’m gonna make dinner,” Peter sighs, pulling a leg up to take off his shoes.
Peter shouldn’t really know that you’ve been walking. He might see you coming back from Trader Joe’s or the bodega on his way to your apartment, but you haven’t mentioned any of your longer excursions, and everybody in Queens has to walk. That’s information he wouldn’t know without Spider-Man.
He seems to be hoping you won’t realise, changing the subject to the frankly killer grilled cheese and tomato soup that he’s about to make you, and pushing you into a chair at the table. “Warm up,” he says near the back of your head, forcing a wave of shivers down your arms.
He makes soup in one pan, grilled cheese in the other, two for him and two for you. Peter’s a good eater, and he encourages the same from you, setting a big bowl of tomato soup (from the can, splash of fresh cream) down in front of you with the grilled cheese on a plate between you. You eat it in too-hot bites and try not to get caught looking at him. He does the same, but when he catches you, or when you catch him, he holds your eye and smiles.
“I can do the dishes,” you say. You might need a breather.
“Are you kidding? I’m gonna rinse them, put them in the dishwasher.” Peter stands and feels your forehead with his hand. “Warmer. Good job.”
You shrug away from his hand. “Loser.”
“Concerned friend.”
“Handsy loser.”
”Shut up,” he mumbles.
As flustered as you’ve ever seen, Peter takes your empty dishes to the kitchen. When he’s done rinsing them off you follow him upstairs to his bedroom and tuck your backpack under his bed.
You look down at your socks. Peter’s room is on the smaller side, but it’s never been as startlingly small as it is when Peter’s socked feet align with yours, toe to toe. Quick recovery time, this boy.
“There’s chips and stuff on my desk. Or I could run to 91st for some ice cream sandwiches if you want something sweet,” he says.
You lift your eyes, tilt your head up just a touch, not wanting him to think you’re in his space no matter how strange that might be, considering he chose to stand there. “I’m all right. Did you want ice cream? We can go if you want to, but if you want to go ’cos you think I do then I’m fine.”
“That’s such a long answer,” he says, draping an arm over your shoulder. “You don’t have to say all of that, just tell me no.”
“I don’t want ice cream.”
“Wasn’t that easy?” he asks.
“Well, no, it wasn’t. Saying no to you is like saying no to a puppy.”
“Because I’m adorable?”
“Persistent.”
“Yeah, I guess I am.” He drapes the other arm over you. The soap he used at the kitchen sink lingers on his hands.
“Peter…?” you murmur.
“What?” he murmurs back.
You touch a knuckle to his chest. “This– You…” Every quelled thought rushes to the surface at once —Peter doesn’t like you as you desire, how could he, you aren’t beautiful like he is, aren’t smart, aren’t brave, no exceptional kindness or goodness to mark you enough for him. It’s why his being with Gwen didn’t hurt; she made sense. And for months now you’ve wondered what it is that made him struggle to be with her. And sometimes, foolishly, you wondered if it was you. But it’s not you, it’s never you, and whatever Peter’s trying to do now–
“Hey, you okay?” he asks, taking your face into his hand.
“What are you doing?”
“What?” He pushes his hand back to hold your nape, thumb under your ear. “I can’t hear you.”
You raise your voice. “Why did you invite me over tonight?”
“‘Cos I missed you?”
“I used to think you didn’t miss me at all.”
Peter winces, hurt. “How could you think that? Of course I miss you. What you said to May, about college being hard? It’s like that for me too, okay? I miss you all the time.”
You bite the inside of your bottom lip. “…College isn’t hard for you.”
“It’s not easy.” He frowns, the fallen angel, his lips an unsure brushstroke. “What’s wrong? Did I say the wrong thing?”
You’re being wretched, you know, saying it isn’t hard for him. “You didn’t. Really, you didn’t.”
“But why are you upset?” he implores, dark eyes darker as his eyebrows tug together.
“I’m not–”
“You are. It’s okay, you can be upset. I just want you to feel better, you know that?” He settles his hands at the tops of your arms. Less intimate, but something warm remains. “Even if it takes a long time.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine.”
“How would you know?” you finally ask.
Peter stares at you.
“I know you,” he says carefully, “and I know you aren’t struggling like you were, but that doesn’t mean it didn’t happen or that you have to be a hundred percent better now.”
“I didn’t realise that I was,” you say, licking your lips, “‘til now. I didn’t get that it was on the surface.”
Peter pulls you in for a gentle hug. “I’m here for you forever, and I’ll make it up to you for not noticing sooner,” he says, scrunching your shirt in his hand.
After the hug, he tells you to change and make yourself comfortable while he showers. So you put on your pyjamas and climb into Peter’s bed, head pounding as though all your energy was stolen in a fell swoop. You press your nose to his pillow and arm wrapped around his comforter, gathering it into a Peter sized lump. The shower pump whines against the shared wall.
Things aren’t meant to be like this. You thought Peter touching you —holding you— was the deepest of your desires, but you feel now exactly as you had before he started blurring the line, needing Peter to kiss you so badly it becomes its own kind of nausea. Why are you still acting like it’s an impossibility?
When he comes back, you’ll apologise. He hasn’t done anything wrong. He does keep a secret, but don’t you keep one too? He’s Spider-Man. You’ve had deep, complicated feelings for him for months. They are secrets of equal magnitude, and are, more apparently, badly kept.
You wish you could fall asleep. Your heart ticks in agitation.
Peter returns as perturbed as earlier.
“Are you sure there’s nothing wrong?” he asks, raking a hand through his hair. A towel hangs around his neck.
“I’m sorry for being weird.”
“You’re not weird,” Peter says, bringing the towel to his hair to scrub ruthlessly.
“It’s just ‘cos things have been different between us.” And, you try to say, that scares me no matter how bad I wanted it. because you’re not just Peter anymore, you’re Spider-Man. I’m only me, and I can’t do anything to protect you.
Peter gives his hair a long scrub before draping the towel on his desk chair. He rakes it messily into place and sits himself at the end of the bed. You sit up.
“Yeah, they have been. Good different?” he asks hesitantly.
“I think so,” you say, quiet again.
“That’s what I thought.”
“I don’t want you to feel like I don’t want to be here. I just worry about you.”
Peter uses his hands to get higher up the bed. “Don’t worry about me,” he says, “Jesus, please don’t. That’s the last thing I want from you, I hate when people worry about me.”
You curl into the lump of comforter you’d made. Peter lets himself rest beside you, his back to the bedroom wall, tens of Polaroids above him shining with the light of the hallway and his orange-bulbed lamp. His skin is glowing like it’s golden hour, dashes of topaz in his eyes, his Cupid’s bow deep. How would it feel to lean forward and kiss him? To catch his Cupid's bow under your lips?
You brush a damp curl tangled in another onto his forehead.
You lay there for a little while without talking, listening to the sound of the washing machine as it cycles downstairs.
“Am I going too fast?” Peter murmurs.
You press your lips together, shaking your head minutely.
“Is it something else?”
You don’t move.
“Do you want me to stop?” he asks.
“No.”
Peter rewards you with a smile, his hand on your arm. “Alright. Let me get this blanket on you the right way. You’re still cold.”
You resent the loss of a shape to hold when Peter slips down beside you and wrangles the comforter flat again, spreading it out over you both, his hand under the blankets. His knuckles brush your thigh.
He takes a deep breath before turning and wrapping his arm over your stomach, asking softly, “Is this alright?”
“Yeah.”
He gives you a look and then lifts his head to slot his nose against your temple. “Please don’t take this in a way that I don’t mean it, but sometimes you think about things so much I worry you’re gonna get stuck in your head forever.”
“I like thinking.”
“I hate it,” he says quickly, a fervent, flirting cadence to his otherwise dulcet tone, “we should never do it ever again.”
“I’ll try not to.”
“Would you? For me?”
You laugh into his shirt, feeling the warmth of your breath on your own nose. “I’ll do my best.”
“Good. I’d miss you too much if you got lost in that nice head of yours.”
You relax under his arm. You aren’t sure what all the fuss was about now that he's hugging you. “I’d miss you too.”
May comes up the stairs about an hour later. To her credit, she doesn’t flinch when she finds you and Peter smushed together watching a DVD on his old TV. He’s holding your arm, and you’re snoozing on his shoulder, half-aware of the world, fully aware of his nice smells and the shapes of his arms.
“Door open,” she says.
“Not that either of us want it closed, May, but we’re adults.”
“Not while I’m still washing your clothes, you’re not.”
He snorts. “Goodnight, Aunt May. The door isn’t gonna close, I promise.”
“I know that,” she says, scornful in her pride. “You’re a good boy.” She lightens. “Things are going okay?”
Peter covers your ear. “Goodnight, Aunt May.”
”I have half a mind to never listen to you again. You talk my ear off and I can’t ask a simple question?”
“I love you,” Peter sing-songs.
“I love you, Peter,” she says. “Don’t smother the girl.”
“I won’t smother her. It’s in my best interest that she survives the night. She’s buying my breakfast tomorrow.”
“Peter Parker.”
“I’m kidding,” he whispers, petting your cheek absentmindedly. “Just messing with you, May.”
You smile and curl further into his arms. His voice is like the sun, even when he whispers.
—
To your surprise, Spider-Man comes to find you after class one evening. A guest lecturer had talked to your oncology class about click chemistry and other molecular therapies against cancer, and the zine book she’d given you is burning a hole in your pocket. Peter is going to love it.
You pull it out and pause beside a bench and a silver trash can, the day grey but thankfully without rain. The pages of your little book whip forcefully in the wind. It’s chemistry, sure, but it’s biology too, wrapping your and Peter’s interests up neatly. If it weren’t for Peter you doubt you’d love science as much as you do. He’s always been good at it, but since you started college he's been a genius. Watching him grow has encouraged you to work harder, and understanding the material is satisfying, if draining. You take a photo of the middle most pages and tuck the book away, writing a quick text to Peter to send with it.
Look! it says, LEGO cancer treatment!!
The moment you press send a beep chimes from somewhere close behind you, all too familiar. You turn to the source but find nobody you know waiting. Coincidence, you think, shaking yourself and beginning the trek to the subway.
But then you hear the tell tale splat and thwick of Spider-Man’s webbing.
You wait until you’re at the alleyway between Porto’s Bakery and the key cutting shop and turn down to stop by one of the dumpsters.
“Spider-Man?” you ask, shoulders tensed in case it’s not who you think.
“What are you doing?” he asks.
You gasp as he hops down in front of you, his suit shiny with its dark web-pattern caught by the grey sunshine passing through the clouds overhead. “Shit, don’t break your ankles.”
“My ankles?” He laughs. He sounds so much like Peter that you can only laugh with him. What an idiot he is for thinking you don’t know; what a fool you’d been for falling for his put upon tenor. “They’re fine. What would be wrong with my ankles?”
“You just dropped down twenty feet!”
“It’s more like thirty, and I’m fine. You understand the super part of superhero, don’t you?”
“Who said you’re a superhero?”
“Nice. What are you doing down here?”
“I was testing my theory. You’re following me.”
“No, I’m visiting you, it’s very different,” he says confidently.
“You haven’t come to see me for weeks.”
“Yes, well, I–” Spider-Peter crosses his arms across his chest. “Hey, you’re the one who told me to take a day off.”
“I did tell you to take a day off. It’s not nice thinking about you trying to save the world every single night. That’s a lot of responsibility for one person to have.”
“But it’s my responsibility,” he says easily. “No point in a beautiful girl like you wasting her time worrying about it. I have to do it, and I don’t mind it.”
“Do you flirt with every girl you meet out here in the city?” you ask, cheeks hot.
“No,” he says, fondness evident even through the mask, “just you.”
“Do you wanna walk me home? I was gonna take the subway, but it’s not that far.”
Spider-Man nods. “Yeah, I’ll walk you back.”
He doesn’t hide that he knows the way very well. He takes preemptive turns, crosses roads without you telling him to go forward. You can’t believe him. Smartest guy at Midtown High and he can’t pretend to save his life.
“Are you having a good semester?” he asks.
“It’s getting better. I’m glad I stuck with it. I love biology, it’s so fucking hard. I used to think that was a bad thing, but it makes it cooler now. Like, it’s not something everyone understands.” You give him a look, and you give into temptation. “My best friend got me into all this stuff. I used to think math was hopeless and science was for dorks.”
“It’s definitely for dorks.”
“Right, but I love being one.” You offer a useless secret. “I like to think that it’s why we’re such great friends.”
“Me and you?” Spider-Man asks hoarsely.
“Me and Peter.” You elbow him without force. “Why, do you like science?”
“I love it…”
“You know, I really like you, Spider-Man. I feel like we’ve been friends for a long time.” You’re teasing poor Peter.
He doesn’t speak for a while. He stops walking, but you take a few steps without him. When you realise he’s stopped, you turn back to see him.
Peter’s gone so tense you could strike him with a flint and catch a spark. It’s the same way Peter looked at you when he told you about his Uncle, a truth he didn’t want to be true. Seeing it throws a spanner in the works of all your teasing: you’d meant to wind him up, not make him panic.
“What’s wrong?” you ask. “Can you hear something?”
“No, it’s not that…” He’s masked, but you know him well enough to understand why he’s stopped.
“It’s okay,” you say.
“It’s not, actually.”
“Spider-Man.” You take a step toward him. “It’s fine.”
He presses his hands to his stomach. The sun is setting early, and in an hour, the dark will eat up New York and leave it in a blistering cold. “Do you remember when we first met, the second time, we swapped secrets?”
“Yeah, I remember. Useless secret for another. I told you I hated my major. It’s not true anymore, obviously. I was having a bad time.”
“I know you were,” he says, emphasis on know, like it’s a different word entirely.
“But meeting you really helped. If it weren’t for you, for Peter,” —you give him a searching look— “I wouldn’t feel better at all.”
“It wasn’t his fault?” he asks. “He was your friend, and you were lonely.”
“No–”
“He didn’t know what was going on with you, he didn’t have a clue. You hurt yourself and you felt like you couldn’t tell anybody, and I know it wasn’t an accident, so what was his excuse?” His voice burns with anger. “It’s his fault.”
“Of course it wasn’t your fault. Is that what you think?” You shake your head, panicked by the bone-deep self loathing in his voice, his shameful dropped head. “Yes, I was lonely, I am lonely, I don’t know many people and I– I– I hurt myself, and it wasn’t as accidental as I thought it was, but why would that be your fault?”
“Peter’s fault,” he says, though his head is lifted now, and he doesn’t bother enthusing it with much gusto.
“Peter, none of it was your fault.” You cringe in your embarrassment, thinking Fuck, don’t let me ruin this. “I was in a weird way, and yes, I was lonely, and I really liked you more than I should have. You didn't want me and that wasn’t your fault, that’s just how it was, I tried not to let it get to me, just there were a lot of things weighing on me at once, but it really wasn’t as bad as you think it was and it wasn’t your fault.”
“I wasn’t there for you,” he says. “And I’ve been lying to you for a long time.”
“You couldn’t tell me, right? Spider-Man is your secret for a reason.”
“…I didn’t even know you were lonely until you told him. He was a stranger.”
You hold your hands behind your back. “Well, he was a familiar one.”
Peter reaches out as though wanting to touch you, but your arms aren’t in his reach. “It’s not because I didn’t want you.”
“Peter,” you say, squirming.
He steps back.
“I have to go,” he says.
“What?”
“I have to– I don’t want to go,” he says earnestly, “sweetheart, I can hear someone calling out, I have to go. But I’ll come back, I’ll– I’ll come back,” he promises.
And with a sudden lift of his arm, Peter pulls himself up the side of a building and disappears, leaving you whiplashed on the sidewalk, the sun setting just out of view.
—
You fall asleep that night waiting for Peter. When you wake up, 5AM, eyes aching, he isn’t there. You check your phone but he hasn’t texted. You check the Bugle and Spider-Man hasn’t been seen.
You aren’t sure what to think. He sounded sincere to the fullest extent when he said he’d come back, but he didn’t, not ten minutes later, not twenty. You made excuses and you went home before it got too dark to see the street, sat on the couch rehearsing what you’d say. How could Peter think your unhappiness was his fault? Why does he always put the entire world on his shoulders?
Selfishly, you worried what it all meant for his lazy touches. Would he want to curl up into bed with you again now he knows what it means to you? It’s different for him. It isn’t like he’s in love with you… you’d just thought maybe he could be. That this was falling in love, real love, not the unrequited ache you’d suffered before.
But maybe you got everything wrong. All of it. It wouldn't be the first time.
—
You and Peter found The Moroccan Mode in your senior year at Midtown. The school library was small and you were sick of being underfoot at home. When you started at ESU, you explored the on campus coffeehouse, the Coffee Bean, but it was crowded, and you’d found yourself attached to the Mode’s beautiful tiling, blues and topaz and platinum golds, its heavy, oiled wooden furniture, stained glass lampshades and the case full of lemony treats. The coffee here is better than anywhere else, but the best part out of everything is that it’s your secret. Barely anybody comes to the Mode on purpose.
You hide in a far corner with a book and an empty cup of decaf coffee, a slice of meskouta on the table untouched. Decaf because caffeine felt a terrible idea, meskouta untouched because you can’t stomach the smell. You push it to the opposite end of the table, considering another cup of coffee instead. It’s served slightly too hot, and will still be warm when it gets to your chest.
The sunshine is creeping in slowly. It feels like the first time you’ve seen it in months, warming rays kissing your fingers and lining the walls. You turn a page, turn your wrist, let the sun warm the scar you gave yourself those few months ago, when everything felt too big for you.
Looking back, it was too big. Maybe soon you’ll be ready to talk about it.
The author in your book is talking about bees. They can fly up to 15 miles per hour. They make short, fast motions from front to back, a rocking motion. Asian giant hornets can go even faster despite their increased mass. They consider humans running provocation. If you see a giant hornet, you’re supposed to lay down to avoid being stung.
You put your face in your hand. Next year, you’ll avoid the insect-based electives.
Across the cafe, the bell at the top of the door rings. Laughter falls through it, a couple passing by. The register clashes open. A minute later it closes.
You don’t raise your head when footsteps draw near. A plate is placed on the table, pushed across to you, stopping just shy of your coffee.
“Did you eat breakfast?” Peter asks quietly.
His voice is gentle, but hoarse.
You tense.
“Are you okay?” he asks, not waiting for your answer to either question. “You don’t look like yourself. Your eyes are red.”
You lift your head. Wet with the beginnings of tears, you see Peter through an astigmatic blur.
“What are you reading?” He frowns at you. “Please don’t cry.”
You shake your head. Your smile is all odd, nothing like his, no inherent warmth despite your best effort. “I’m okay.”
He nudges you across the booth seat and sits beside you. His arm settles behind your shoulders. He smells like smoke and soap, an acrid scent barely hidden. “Can you tell me you didn’t wait long for me?”
“Ten minutes,” you lie.
“Okay. I’m sorry. There was a fire.” He rubs your arm where he’s holding you. “I’m sorry.”
“Will you go half?” you ask, nodding to the sandwich he’s brought you. It’s tough sourdough bread, brown with white flour on the crusts and leafy greens poking between the slices. You and Peter complain about the price. You’ve never had one. He passes you the bigger half, holding the other in his hand without eating.
“I know you’re hungry,” you say, tapping his elbow, “just eat.”
You eat your sandwiches. Now that Peter’s here, you don’t feel so sick —he’s not upset with you. The dull pang of an empty stomach won’t be ignored.
Peter puts his sandwich down, which is crazy, and wipes his fingers on the plates napkin. You’ve never seen him stop before he’s done.
“It was in the apartments on Vernon. I– I think I almost died, the smoke was everywhere.”
You choke around a crust, thrusting the rest of your half onto the plate. “Are you hurt?” you ask, coughing.
He moves his head from side to side, not a shake, but a slow no. “How long have you known it was me?” he asks, curling his hand behind your back again, fingers spread over your shoulder blade, a fingertip on your neck.
You savour his touch, but you give in to your apprehension and stare at his chest. “The night you caught me outside in the rain in November. You called me ‘running girl’. The way you said it, you sounded exactly like him. I turned around expecting,” —you whisper, weary of the quiet cafe— “Spider-Man, and I realised it’s him that sounds like you. That he is you.”
“Was that disappointing?”
“Peter, you’re, like, my favourite person in the world,” you whisper fervently, your smile making it light. You laugh. “Why would that be disappointing?”
“I thought maybe you think he’s cooler than me.”
“He is cooler than you, Peter.” You laugh again, pleased when he scoffs and draws you nearer. “I guess you’re the same person, right? So he’s just as cool as you are. But why would being cool matter to me? You know I like you.”
“You flirted pretty heavily with Spider-Man.”
“Well, he flirted with me first.”
You chance a look at his face. From that moment you can’t look away, not from Peter. You like when he wears that darkness in his eyes, the hint of his rarer side so uncommonly seen, but you love this most of all, Peter like your best memory, the way he’s looking at you now a picture perfect copy of that moment in a swimming pool in Manhattan with cracked tile under your feet. His arms heavy on your shoulders. You didn’t get it then, but you’re starting to understand now.
“I’ve made a mess of everything,” he says softly, the trail his hand makes to the small of your back leaving a wake of goosebumps. “I haven’t been honest with you.”
“I haven’t, either.”
“I want to ask you for something,” Peter says, a fingertip trailing back up. He smiles when you shiver, not teasing, just loving. “You can say no.”
“You’re hard to say no to.”
“I need you to talk to me more,” —and here he goes, Peter Parker, flirting and sweet-talking like his life depends on it, his face inching down into your space— “not just because I love your voice, or because you think so much I’m scared you’ll get lost, but I need you to talk to me. We need to talk about real things.”
We do, you think morosely.
“It’s not your fault,” he adds, the hand that isn’t holding your back coming up to cup your cheek, “it’s mine. I was scared of telling you for stupid reasons, but I shouldn’t have let it be a secret for so long.”
“No, I doubt they’re stupid,” you murmur, following his hand as he attempts to move it to your ear. “It’s not easy to tell someone you’re a hero.”
His palm smells like smoke.
“That’s not the secret I meant,” he says.
You take his hand from your face. Peter looks down and begins pressing his fingers between yours, squeezing them together as his thumb runs over the back of your hand.
“So tell me.”
The sunshine bleeds onto his cheek. Dappled orange light turning slowly white as time stretches and the sun moves up through a murky sky. “You want to trade secrets again?” he asks.
“Please.”
“Okay. Okay, but I don’t have as many as you do,” he warns.
“I find that hard to believe.”
“I don’t. It’s not a real secret, is it? I’ve been trying to show you for weeks, we…”
He tilts his head invitingly.
All those hand-holds and nights curled up in bed together. Am I going too fast? You know exactly what he means; it really isn’t a secret.
“I’ll go first,” he says, lowering his face to yours. You try not to close your eyes. “I’ve wanted to kiss you for weeks.” He closes his eyes so you follow, your breath not your own suddenly. You hold it. Let it go hastily. “What’s your secret?”
“Sometime I want you to kiss me so badly I can’t sleep. It makes me feel sick–”
“Sick?” he asks worriedly.
You touch the tip of your nose to his. “It’s like– like jealousy, but…”
“You have no one to be jealous of,” he says surely. He cups your cheek, and he asks, “Please, can I kiss you?”
You say, “Yes,” very, very quietly, but he hears it, and his smile couldn’t be more obvious as he closes the last of the distance between you to kiss you.
It isn’t the sort of kiss that kept you up at night. Peter doesn’t hook you in or tip your head back, he kisses gently, his hand coming to live on your cheek, where it cradles. It’s so warm you don’t know what to make of him beyond kissing him back —kissing his smile, though it’s catching. Kissing the line of his Cupid’s bow as he leans down.
“I’m sorry about everything,” he mumbles, nose flattened against yours.
You feel sunlight on your cheek. Squinting, you turn into his hand to peer outside at the sudden abundance of it. It’s still cold outside, but the Mode is warm, Peter’s hand warmer, and the sunshine is a welcome guest.
Peter drops his hand. “Oh, wow. December sun. Good thing it didn’t snow, we’d be blind.”
“I can’t be cold much longer,” you confess. “I’m sick of the shitty weather.”
“I can keep you warm.”
He smiles at you. His eyelashes tangle in the corners of his eyes, long and brown.
“Did you want my meskouta?” you ask.
Peter plants a fat kiss against your brow.
You let the sunshine warm your face. Two unfinished sandwich halves, a mouthful of coffee, and a round slice of meskouta, its flaky crumb and lemon drizzle shining on the table. You would ask Peter for his camera if you’d thought he brought it with him, to take a picture of your breakfast and the carved table underneath. You could turn it on Peter, say something cheesy. This is the moment you ruined our lives, you’d tease.
“You never told me you met Spider-Man, you know.”
You watch Peter lick the tip of his finger without shame. “They could make a novella of things I haven’t told you about,” you murmur wryly.
Peter takes a bite of meskouta, reaching for your knee under the table. He shakes your leg a little, as if to say, Well, we’ll work on that.
—
Spring
“Sorry!”
“No, it’s–”
“Sorry, sorry, I’m– shit!”
“–okay! All legs inside the ride?”
“I couldn’t find my purse–”
“You don’t need it!” Peter leans over the console to kiss your cheek. “You don’t have to rush.”
“Are you sure you can drive this thing?”
“Harry doesn’t mind.”
“I don’t mean the car, I mean, are you sure you can drive?”
“That’s not funny.”
You grin and dart across to kiss his cheek, too. “Nothing ever is with us.”
Peter grabs you behind the neck —which might sound rough, if he were capable of such a thing— and pulls you forward for a kiss you don’t have time for. “If we don’t check in,” —you begin, swiftly smothered by another press of his lips, his tongue a heat flirting with the seam of your lips— “by three, they said they won’t keep the room–” He clasps the back of your neck and smiles when your breath stutters. You squeeze your eyes closed, kiss him fiercely, and pull away, hand on his chest to restrain him. “And then we’ll have to drive home like losers.”
Peter sits back in the driver's seat unbothered. He fixes his hair, and he wipes his bottom lip with his knuckle. You’re rolling your eyes when he finally returns your gaze. “Sorry, am I the one who lost her purse?”
“Peter!”
“I can’t make us un-late,” he says, turning the key slowly, hands on the wheel but his eyes still flitting between your eyes and your lips.
“Alright,” you warn.
He reaches for your knee. “It’s a forty minute drive. You’re panicking over nothing.”
“It’s an hour.”
Your drive from Queens to Manhattan is entirely uneventful. You keep Peter’s hand hostage on your knee, your palm atop it, the other hand wrapped around his wrist, your conversation a juxtaposition, almost lackadaisical. Peter doesn’t question your clinging nor your lazy murmurings, rubbing a circle into your knee with his thumb from Forest Hill to Lenox Hill. There’s so much to do around Manhattan; you could visit MoMA, Central Park, The Empire State Building or Times Square, but you and Peter give it all a miss for the little known Manhattan Super 8.
It’s been a long time since you and Peter first visited. You took the bus out to Lenox Hill for a med-student tour neither of you particularly enjoyed, feeling out future careers. It’s not that Lenox Hill isn’t one of the most impressive medical facilities in New York (if not the northeastern USA), it’s that all the blood made him queasy, and you were panicking too much about the future to think it through. He got over his aversion to blood but chose the less hands-on science in the end, and you worked things through. You’re a little less scared of the future everyday.
You and Peter were supposed to get the bus straight back home for a sleepover, but one got cancelled, another delayed, and night closed in like two hands on your neck. Peter sensed your fear and emptied his wallet for a night in the Super 8.
The next morning it was beautifully sunny. The first day of summer that year, warm and golden. The pool wasn’t anything special but it was invitingly cool, blue and white tiles patterned like fish below; you clambered into the water in shorts and a tank top and Peter his boxers before a worker could see and stop you.
It was one of the best days of your life. When you told Peter about it last week, he’d looked at you peculiarly, said, Bub, you’re cute, and let you waste the afternoon recounting one of your more embarrassing pangs of longing. A few days later he told you to clear your calendar for the weekend, only spilling the beans on what he’d done when you’d curled over his lap, a hand threaded into the hair at the nape of his neck, murmuring, Tell me, tell me, tell me.
He’d hung his head over you and scrunched up his eyes. Cheater.
The best thing about having a boyfriend is that he always wants to listen to you. Peter was a good listener as a best friend, but now he has his act together and the secrets between you are never anything more than eating the last of the milk duds or not wanting to pee in front of him, he’s a treasure. There’s no feeling like having Peter pull you into his lap so he can ask about your day with his face buried in your neck, sniffing. Sometimes, when you text one another to meet up the next day, you’ll accidentally will the hours away babbling about school and life and things without reason. Peter has a list on his phone of your silliest tangents; blood oranges to the super moon, fries dipped in ice cream to the world record for kick flips done in five minutes. It’s like when you talk to one another, you can’t stop.
There are quiet moments. You wake up some mornings to find him awake already, an arm behind you, rubbing at your soft upper arm, fingertip displacing the fine hairs there and trailing circles as he reads. He bends the pages back and holds whatever novel he’s reading at the bottom of his stomach, as though making sure you can see the words clearly, even when you’re sleeping.
There are hectic, aching moments —vigilante boyfriends become blasé with their lives and precious faces. You’ve teetered on the edge of anxiety attacks trying to pick glass from his cheek with a tweezers, lamented over bruises that heal the next day. It’s easier when Peter’s careful, but Spider-Man isn’t careful. You ask him to take care of himself and he’s gentle with himself for a few days, but then someone needs saving from an armed burglar or a car swerves dangerously onto the sidewalk and he forgets.
He hadn’t patrolled last night in preparation for today.
“Did you know,” he says, pulling Harry’s borrowed car into a parking spot just in front of the Super 8 reception, “that today’s the last day of spring?”
“Already?”
“Tonight’s the June equinox.”
“Who told you that?”
“Aunt May. She said it’s time to get a summer job.”
You laugh loudly. “Our federal loans won’t last forever.”
“Harry’s gonna get me something, I think. Do you want to work with me? It could be fun.”
You nod emphatically. It’s barely a thought. “Obviously I want to. Does Oscorp pay well, do you think?”
Peter lets the engine go. The car turns off, engine ticking its last breath in the dash. “Better than the Bugle.”
You get your key from the reception and find your room upstairs, second floor. It’s not dirty nor exceptionally clean, no mould or damp but a strange smell in the bathroom. There’s a microwave with two mugs and a few sachets of instant coffee. Peter deems it the nicest motel he’s ever stayed in, laughing, crossing the room to its only window and pulling aside the curtain.
“There it is, sweetheart,” he says, wrapping his arm around you as you join him, “that’s what dreams are made of.”
The blue and white tiled pool. It hasn’t changed.
It’s about as hot as it’s going to get in June today, and, not knowing if it’ll rain tomorrow, you and Peter change into your swim suits and gather your towels. You wear flip flops and tangle your fingers, clanking and thumping down the rickety metal stairs to the pool. There’s nobody there, no lifeguard, no quests, and the pool is clean and cold when you dip your toes.
Peter eases in first. Towels in a heap at the end of a sun lounger, his shirt tumbling to the floor, Peter splashes in frontward and turns to face you as the water laps his ribs. “It’s cold,” he says, wading for your legs, which he hugs.
“I can feel it,” you say, the cool waters to your calves where you sit on the edge.
“You won’t come in and warm me up?” he asks.
You stroke a tendril of hair from his eyes. He attempts to kiss your fingers.
“I’m trying to prepare myself.”
“Mm, you have to get used to it.” He puts wet hands on your thighs, looking up imploringly until you lean down for a kiss. The fact that he’d want one still makes you dizzy. “Thank you,” he says.
“You’ll have to move.”
Peter steps back, a ripple of water ringing behind him, his hands raised. He slips them with ease under your arms and helps you down into the water, laughing at your shocked giggling —he’s so strong, the water so cold.
Peter doesn’t often show his strength. Never to intimidate, he prefers startling you helpfully. He’ll lift you when you want to reach something too tall, or raise the bed when you’re on his side to force you sideways.
“Oh, this is the perfect place to try the lift!” he says.
“How will I run?” you ask, letting your knees buckle, water rushing up to your neck.
Peter pulls you up. He touches you easily, and yet you get the sense that he’s precious with you, too. There’s devotion to be found in his hands and the specific way they cradle your back, drawing your chest to his. “I don’t need you to do a running start, sweetheart,” he says, tilting his head to the side, “I’ll just lift you.”
“Last time I laughed so much you dropped me.”
“Exactly, you laughed, and this is serious.”
The world isn’t mild here. Car horns beep and tyres crunch asphalt. You can hear children, and singing, and a walkie talkie somewhere in the Super 8’s parking lot. The pool pumps gargle and Peter’s breath is half laughter as he pulls you further from the sidelines, ceramic tiles slippery under your feet. In the distance, you swear you can hear one of those songs he likes from that poor singer who died in the Wolf River.
He’s a beholden thing in the sun; you can’t not look at him, all of him, his sculpted chest wet and glinting in the sun, his eyes like browning honey, his smile curling up, and up.
“You’re beautiful,” he says.
You rest an arm behind his head. “The rash guard is a good look?”
“Sweetheart, you couldn’t look cuter,” he says, hands on your waist, pinky on your hip. “I wish you’d mentioned these shorts a few days ago. I would’ve prepared to be a more decent man.”
“You’re decent enough, Parker.”
“Maybe now.”
“Well, if things get too hot, you can always take a quick dip,” you say.
You’re teasing, but Peter’s eyes light up with mischief as he calls, “Oh, great idea!” and lets himself drop backwards into the water. You pull your arm back rather than go with him. You can’t avoid the great burst of water as he surges to the surface.
He shakes himself off like a dog.
“Pete!” you cry through laughs, wiping the water from your face before the chlorine gets in your eyes.
“It just didn’t help,” he says, pulling you back into his arms, “you know, the water is cold, but you’re so hot, and I actually got a pretty good look at them when I was under, and you’re just as pretty as I remembered you being ten seconds ago–”
“Peter,” you say, tempted to roll your eyes.
Water runs down his face in great rivers, but with the dopey smile he’s sporting, they look like anything but tears. “Tell me a secret?” he asks, dripping in sunshine, an endless summer at his back.
A soft smile takes your lips. “No,” you say, tipping up your chin, “you tell me one first.”
“What kind of secret?”
“A real one,” you insist.
“Oh…” He leans away from you, though his arms stay crossed behind you. “Okay, I have one. Ask me again.”
You raise a single brow. “Tell me a secret, Peter.”
He pulls your face in for a kiss. His hand is wet on your cheek, but no less welcome. “I love you,” he says, kissing the skin just shy of your nose.
You’re lucky he’s already holding you. “I love you too,” you say, gathering him to you for a hug, digging your nose into the slope of his neck as his admission blows your mind. “I love you.”
Peter wraps his arms around your shoulders, closing his eyes against the side of your head. You can’t know what he’s thinking, but you can feel it. His hands can’t seem to stay still on your skin.
The sun warms your back for a time.
Peter lets out a deep breath of relief. You lean away to look at him, your hand slipping down into the water, where he finds it, his fingers circling your wrist.
“That’s another one to let go of,” he suggests.
He peppers a row of gentle kisses along your lips and the soft skin below your eye.
You and Peter swim until your fingers are pruned and the sun has been blanketed by clouds. You let him wrap you in a towel, and kiss your wet ears, and take you back to the room, where he holds your face.
“I’ll start the shower for you,” he says, rubbing your cheeks with his thumbs, each stroke of them encouraging your face from one side to the other, just a touch, ever so slightly moved in the palms of his hands.
“Don’t fall asleep standing up,” he murmurs.
Your eyes close unbidden to you both. “I won’t.”
He holds you still, leaning in slowly to kiss you with the barest of pressure. Every thought in your head fades, leaving only you and Peter, and the dizziness of his touch as he lays you down at the end of the bed.
｡𖦹°‧⭑.ᐟ
please like, comment or reblog if you enjoyed, i love comments and seeing what anyone reading liked about the fic is a treat —thank you for reading❤︎
You begin to have intimate dreams about your roommate, Spencer. [9k]
c: pining roommates, dreams, tipsy non-confessions, spencer being a sweetheart. fem!reader. this fic was requested!
｡𖦹°‧⭑.
i. a dreamt bruise
“What are you doing?”
Your chest lists slightly forward as a body warms your back. Arms wrap around you, solid but gentle, arms you’ve been held by a thousand times.
You cover them with one of your own. “What does it look like I’m doing?” you feel yourself ask.
The room is golden, gaussian, better now he’s behind you.
“I don’t know, dove. That’s why I asked.” His voice is soft in your ear. His hair presses to the side of your face as he hugs you —you’ve never felt love like this. It’s palpable. It’s in his hands.
Nobody’s called you dove before, but he is, he has. It might feel strange if it weren’t for how softly he said it, affection in the very marrow of the word, warmth of it kissing your cheek as he holds you. He says ‘dove’, and it feels like he loves you. Feels like you’ve done something beautiful to earn it, but that’s the beauty of it: you didn’t do anything.
The room turns narrow, sunlight on the dining room table of your apartment. A table usually crowded thickly with books, or your work. A space has been cleared away and filled with pieces of a jigsaw.
“I thought you were going to do this with me,” you say, dragging a piece across the table with your fingertip.
“Maybe later.”
“You can’t stand there all night.”
Are you sure? you think he says, but things are hazy, and he’s turning you toward him suddenly, you’re standing, the puzzle forgotten. “How’s your bruise?”
“What?” you ask, almost sleeping as a big, kind hand drags up the front of your shirt, holding it to the underside of your breast.
“Does it still hurt?”
His thumb brushes over your contusion, skin on your side, your back. It’s tender. Any breath is lost, any sense of breathing at all. You’re not a girl so much as something being touched with care, warm joy and love and a contrasting ache wedged under your heart as he draws a circles into your skin.
He hums sympathetically, the weight of him ebbing as he leans away, letting your shirt fall back into place.
The dream stretches on for a lifetime, the two of you standing in your living room, dining table behind you, couch and TV opposite. Your life in one room, his life, his books, his furniture, but your home. You know it all well, just, in the light, you can’t see the stitching.
He takes your face into his hand. Nobody’s ever touched you like, turned your face up like they were moving through honey, staring at you with eyes that shade of brown. Brown, brown… so big. So melting.
Spencer holds your face gently.
His nose touches yours. He tips his forehead into yours, his breath skimming lips he’d just warmed as he says, “Don’t worry, alright? You’ll be okay. Just take it easy,” he says, the last of his pleading lost to your mouth.
You wake up with a caught breath.
Your eyes are glued together, eyelashes threaded, gummy. You turn into the pillow beside you, slightly deflated and cold where you’d turned away in the night.
The room is dark when you manage to pry your eyes open. You close them just as quickly, begging your body to sleep, to plunge back into the dream. Just five more minutes of golden colour, hugging your pillow, love in somebody’s hand, in Spencer’s hand… five more minutes…
Your eyes open again.
Spencer’s hand on your cheek, guiding you carefully upwards for a kiss.
You raise your hand, feeling along the swell of your bottom lip with your thumb and index finger. They tremble with the weakness of having just woken up. With having something torn away from you.
What was that? you think, the hook of sleep lodged in your throat as you struggle to sit up. Your face tips forwards heavily, but your back doesn’t hurt like it tends to in the early mornings before work. There’s no ache there —your body slept well. You use your hands as anchors and drag yourself foot first from the bed. Your sheets fall to the floor with a quiet shush.
It felt so real that for a moment you’re wondering where Spencer went.
He was touching you, he was caressing your waist. You rush to the door of your room, every night left ajar, pushing it open and beelining for the bathroom. You flick on the light and stop in front of the mirror, staring at yourself, wondering if you’re foolish enough to do this, before peeling your shirt from your stomach to analyse your bruise.
It’s not there.
You turn and contort yourself to catch the light. Maybe it was further back? But no… there’s no bruise, nothing for Spencer to check. Your torso is a stretch of unharmed skin to run your hand down without pain.
Your head whirs.
From somewhere in the apartment, Spencer puts down a mug. You flush with heat at the realisation that he’s home, and panic flares when his footsteps move in your direction. Your bedrooms are on opposite sides of the apartment, and there are two bathrooms —the bath and toilet near your room, and the en-suite to his room— meaning Spencer’s coming to see you specifically.
“Hey, Y/N?” he says.
It’s been a few days since he was home, and you aren’t just roommates, Spencer’s your friend. He sounds happy that you’re awake, pausing at your bedroom door.
“I’m in the bathroom!” you say, your dry throat turning your voice to fractures.
“I just wanted you to know I’m home. Are you working?”
“It’s Saturday.”
He laughs. “Oh. I know, I forgot. Well, can I make you breakfast? I was gonna have oats and sliced bananas and stuff.”
“Okay.” You clear your throat. “I’ll be right there.”
“Sorry,” he says, like he’s just remembered where you are. “This is harassment. I’ll be in the kitchen.”
You wash your face and brush your teeth. You head back into your room to change from your pyjamas into loungewear that’s just as soft. The flavour of your dream follows you around, you’d like to call it sweetness, saccharinity, but it doesn’t fit the bill. The feeling you’d woken with wasn’t a sugar high but contentedness, like a warm evening meal. You’d felt utterly sated, your arms reaching out for a body that wasn’t there.
A heaviness takes your heart. Suffocating longing, you carry it to the kitchen with you to find Spencer’s already made you a cup of your tea. He’s warming oatmeal on the stove, blueberries and bananas on the countertop. You sit at the island. You should hug him. If you hadn’t dreamt of his hands on your waist what felt like mere moments ago, you would’ve.
“Did you go shopping?”
“I did, I went to Leaven last night. You were already sleeping at ten.” He peeks at you from over his shoulder. “Long day yesterday?”
“I get too tired by Friday,” you say, averting your gaze to stare down into your mug, steam twirling up to kiss your chin.
“No, I get it. Me too. Are you feeling any better today?”
You were sick when he left. “I’m fine.”
“Okay, good. I’m gonna put the blueberries in with the oatmeal, is that okay?”
“Sure.”
“Okay.” Spencer’s gaze lingers on you. He turns back to the counter.
He cuts two bananas. You realise he has strawberries, too, watching as he cuts them, wetness leaking from their punnets where he must’ve rinsed them in the sink. He slices out the stems and cuts the strawberries in clean halves like hearts.
“I missed you,” he says.
You can’t read his tone, but you aren’t cruel, even feeling shy as you are. “I missed you too. How was the case? Everyone made it home in one piece, right?”
“Everyone’s fine. Emily got into a car accident and it was pretty bad, but she’s okay now. Recovering from her concussion at home with Sergei.”
That’s good. You’ve met Spencer’s boss, Agent Hotchner (very scary), and Emily, JJ, and Penelope (who aren’t scary at all). You’re glad to hear they’re all okay, because they’re good people, and they risk a lot to keep others safe. You forget sometimes how much Spencer puts on the line whenever he leaves.
You poke at him for details of the case, though legally there are things he has to keep from you, and you don’t mind either way. Nothing personal can crop up while talking of murder, and for now you’d like the conversation to stay far away from you and your bed and your sudden dream.
You assume you’re safe, but then Spencer mentions the bruise one of the sergeants got from their weapon’s kickback and you’re flushing nervously all over again.
Spencer grabs two bowls from the cabinet, dark brown ceramics he got from Koreatown, the perfect size for each helping of oatmeal. The purple from the insides of the blueberries bleed into the oats as he pours.
He lays each bowl with a curve of banana slices, strawberries, and covers half with a drizzle of dark fudge sauce. “Salt?” he asks.
“Yes, please.”
Spencer grabs two spoons from the cutlery drawer. He grins when he finally turns, bowls held aloft, making his way to the stool beside you. He puts his own down first, then the cutlery, standing ever so slightly behind you as he lays your breakfast down in front of you. “What have you been doing while I was away?” he asks softly.
You can’t look at him. Can’t think.
What are you doing?
What does it look like I’m doing?
I don’t know, dove. That’s why I asked.
You lean away from his presence, desperate to have him follow, and ashamed. Spencer’s a friend, a good one, he’s kind and loving and handsome beyond description, but you’ve never thought of him like that. Each time your mind slips wondering what he might be like in love, you’ve let the thought go. But now...
You shrug, grabbing your spoon. “Not much, Spencer. This looks amazing, it’s really pretty. Thank you for cooking.”
“No problem. Are you sure you’re feeling better? You don’t look so good.”
You take a quick bite of oatmeal, the spoon scalding your tongue, “Ah,” you say, breathing harshly around it, “I’m fine. Woke up a little wrong, that’s all.”
Spencer sits in the seat next to you with a soft smile. “Good. I don’t know what I’d do if something happened to you.”
Oh, no, you think, reading way too much into how he says it. No, no, no.
—
ii facts
We should explore the city, Spencer declares after breakfast, before we forget what it’s like to be outside!
You were outside yesterday before you got home, and everything sucked as much as it usually did —it’s the weekend, and the point of it is to stay home resting and or lazing, but you wouldn’t usually say no to Spencer so you can’t now. He can’t ever know about your dream, so he can’t know how you’re feeling, so you have to be the friends you’ve always been.
Spencer analyses people for a reason, but you have practice. You’ve successfully hidden what it was that morning that made you feel cagey and tender. He knows something is wrong regardless. He attempts to fix it the best way he knows how: Spencer talks.
“Cheese production globally outshadows coffee, tea, tobacco, and chocolate, over twenty two million metric tons of it every year, with almost half of that made in Europe alone, which is only a half million metric ton more than what’s being eaten. The average American eats forty two pounds of cheese a year, but I don’t really like cheese that much? So I’m bringing the average down. Besides, every time I eat cheese I get strange dreams. There’s actually a chemical in cheese called tyramine which is linked to nightmares. Hey, you okay?”
“Cheese gives you weird dreams?”
“Why, have you been eating a lot of it lately?”
“No,” you say resolutely. “I hate cheese. I’ve never eaten cheese before.”
“That’s a lie.”
“Let’s get donuts.”
Spencer is easily swayed. You glance around the square for the McDonald’s and follow that to the street with the bakery, landmark to landmark, until the smell of sugar and oil is strong enough to follow. “Do you wanna know something about donuts?” he asks, crushing in behind you as you pass through the heavy wooden door of the bakery and join the line.
“Sure.”
“They were first called oily cakes.”
“I knew that,” you say, “you’ve told me that, Spencer. That’s the first fact anybody thinks of.”
“Okay, don’t be rude,” he says, giving you a playful poke in the ribs, right into the bruise that isn’t a bruise.
You look over your shoulder at him, catching his eye. You share a long look that’s daunted on your part and confused on his, brown eyelashes tangling in the corners the longer he looks at you. “What?” he asks, squinting.
”Nothing.”
“Okay,” he says, his voice lowering, quiet to match the hush of the bakery and its humming fridges, “don’t tell me. I’ll work it out eventually.”
“Dude!”
“What?” he asks with a laugh.
“Boundaries!” you laugh back. “Stop trying to figure me out.”
“But there’s something to figure out?”
He’s evil when he smiles like that. His pride is adorable, giving his sweet face an even fresher look. You’d pinch his cheeks if they weren’t already pinking in the October cold. His scarf hasn’t saved him, his coat buttoned tightly no match for the winds. Not to say it’s a bad day. The weather is fine if you keep your fingers in your pockets and your nose in the depths of your coat.
“What do we want?” you ask rather than answer.
They have white icing, chocolate with sprinkles, jelly middles, smiley faces. They have donut holes by the bag. “Hazelnut spread,” you say, pointing at the side of the case. “That looks good.”
He enters in conspiratorial whispers with you. “Apple cider doughnuts with cinnamon sugar,” he says, pointing at the row below. “What about a double chocolate chunk cookie? They look good. Hey, there’s cake in the fridge.”
You let him lean into your side. His hair kisses your cheek.
“Pick whatever you want, okay?” he asks, offering a smaller smile than before. “I’m buying.”
“You can’t, Spencer Reid, I want so many things.”
“It’s fine, I missed you, I dragged you out when you wanted to stay in bed.” He stares at you. “Let me,” he mouths.
You ignore the hot twist of your stomach and nod. Okay.
Spencer buys the baked goods you’d admitted to wanting and the three others you’d eyed, as well as a cookie and two fat slices of red velvet cake. He asks you to carry the box while he pays. The woman behind the counter gives you a knowing look and a flick of her head, as if to say, Lucky you. You can’t quite smile back, distracted by the insinuation. You haven’t thought of it before, but you and Spencer, naturally, look like a couple. You could easily be one. And the idea that she thinks so fills you with a shocking amount of smugness.
You and Spencer head home before dinner. On the walk back, he pulls the cookie apart and offers you half.
—
What if, when you fall asleep tonight, you dream of Spencer again?
You lay on your back with your hand on your chest, drawing circles. The cold of the evening is explained by the rain lashing your window, distant winds coming forceful now. A thunderstorm. You tap the middle of your chest in an attempt to be idle, rather than restless.
It isn’t a dream you’d like to have again, you decide. Spencer had been soft. You’d been familiar with each other.
What would it really feel like to have him touch you like that? Is Spencer confident, when he’s comfortable? Is he imposing?
My stomach, you think slowly, is never going to stop spinning.
“Y/N?” Spencer asks.
You can hear him all the way from the kitchen.
“Yeah?” you ask, raising your voice so it carries.
“Can I come and sit with you?”
It’s an odd request. You know Spencer’s like you, no social butterfly, quiet and content to spend time by oneself because being with others hasn’t always been an option. He isn’t timid, however, and his asking shouldn’t shock you, but it does. “Sure,” you say, shifting onto one side of the bed.
Spencer arrives at the ajar door and lets himself in. He carries two bottles of water and a heat pack, which he likes to use when the weather allows it. A creature comfort, you assume. Something soothing and constant, like the sound of a fan at night, or rain on a window.
“I can’t sleep,” he says, “which doesn’t make much sense.” Spencer sits on the empty side of the bed, his lips pulled into a grimace. “I like the rain.”
He’s more handsome when he’s smiling, but there’s a charm to him as he passes you a bottle of water and crosses his legs. The plaid slacks he’s wearing are rough with age, dark blues that seem black in the low lighting.
“Maybe it’s because of work,” you say.
“Maybe, but I’m pretty used to getting woken up.”
“Right. It’s not easy, though, the stuff you do. It would keep me up at night if I did your job.”
“I think sometimes doing my job is the only reason I can sleep.”
“It's hard. Sounds hard, Spence.” You relax into your pillow, turning to see him. Spencer’s eyes run along your hip for a millisecond, just long enough to remind you that he’s a boy, that he could see you in a different light.
“It’s okay,” he says.
“Was it hard, this time?” you ask.
“No,” he whispers. “I don’t know, it was bad when Emily got hurt, but she’s so stubborn. If Morgan didn’t strap her down she would’ve kept going like nothing happened.”
You and Spencer have lived together for so long that you remember a time before he even knew Emily. You answered his ad in the paper —you hadn’t realised people still put ads in the paper— looking for a roommate. His apartment was already furnished and he didn’t want to change much, but the second bedroom was spacious and the bathroom could be monopolised. As a girl, you’d been a little dubious reading about a single male looking for any gender, but his self-description was inviting. Twenty-two, just finished a doctorate, working for the FBI and expected to be away from the state at least once a month.
You’d met Spencer and felt even less intimidated. He was awkward and dorky but friendly, too, with his glasses he apparently didn’t want to wear, but would eventually give in (before choosing contacts), and his big red sweater fit for a grandpa. “I can make more room for you but I can’t get rid of the books,” he said, “so I don’t expect you to pay a neat half.”
How could you pass it up?
“I can’t believe I’ve never met them,” you say.
“Do you want to?”
He sounds so surprised. “They’re your friends. I’m your… friend.”
“You’re my best friend. I’ll arrange something, or try to. It’s hard to get us all in one room when that room isn’t the conference room,” he says.
“You look nice in a t-shirt,” you say, not thinking as the words come out.
Spencer leans in to whisper, “Thanks. You like this one?”
His t-shirt says, I may be NErDy, but only periodically. The NErDy is made up of elements from the periodic table. It’s a bad pun.
“I love it.”
He reaches for you. Tentative, he squeezes your elbow. “Is there something wrong? All day it’s like… I don’t know, did something happen when I was gone?”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“But…”
“Please,” you say, as he catches the last bit of light from the hallway, every eyelash illuminated for the counting. “I don’t wanna talk about it, Spencer. But thank you.”
He, in a move that’s almost uncharacteristic, pushes your arm into the mattress and leans over you. “I wanna be the first one to know when you do wanna talk,” he says firmly, holding your gaze.
How’s your bruise?
You nod mechanically. Spencer recedes. “Okay, good,” he says, grinning.
“Good,” you echo, thinking of Spencer in the dream, his hand on your hip and climbing up your sore ribs. “Let’s watch TV.”
—
iii. scared of snow
“You’re being weird.”
“I’m not,” you refute.
“You are.”
Spencer frowns at you, a show full downturn of the lips. A dusting of snow lands in his hair and you both look up to catch it, a drift of it from the marquee as you pass. You don’t remember when it started snowing, but it feels like it’s been coming down for days. It’s in his eyelashes. Your sleeves are wet with it.
“The snow’s making you strange.”
You hold out your hand with fingers parted, feeling his laugh travelling down his arm and into yours as he takes it, intertwining your fingers tightly. He doesn’t feel cold.
“It’s making you strange,” you mumble.
You and Spencer walk down a cobbled road. Snow crunches under your shoes, turned to slush in the high traffic spots by vendors booths left curiously empty of shopkeepers, though their festive wares still line the insides, carved cuckoo birds and metal ornaments, glass balls made to be personalised for mantles. You can smell orange oil and chocolate fudge, crepe carts and churros and cinnamon, and then suddenly any hint of your olfactory sense is gone.
“It’s so quiet.”
“It’s the snow,” he says, pulling your arm against his chest as you walk and walk, your footsteps the only sound. “It acts as a sound absorber when it’s fluffy like this. The sound waves get caught.”
Caught. You think, or say, not sure if it makes it out of your mouth.
“Like you,” he says, stopping in the middle of the road.
“What?” you ask.
Snow lands in his eyelashes. “You’re caught,” he says.
You wake up thinking his hand is on your cheek. Like a nightmare, you start, still picturing his lips moving around the words. Caught, you think again, heart a hummingbird in your chest. Your mouth is dry. The heat is up —Spencer must be home again.
You suck in a deep breath and sit up, curling over yourself protectively.
You dream about Spencer more often than ever, and half the time they’re normal dreams, which is to say, they follow no rhyme or reason, with no discernible plot. Spencer loses all his teeth, or he takes you to the movies to see one of his long Swedish films, or he’s an afterthought, a bystander. The main plot of your dream doesn’t involve him at all.
But the other half of the time is ruining your life. You dream of Spencer holding your hand like you had been, or touching your shoulder. Never again do you dream of that tender bruise, but Spencer lifts your shirt in other scenarios. He pulls your pyjamas off, his hand inching between your legs but never touching, or he helps you out of your bra. And every time you think, why is this happening to me? Perhaps a sex dream could be explained away by want and Spencer’s proximity, but all these constant intimacies weigh heavy in your head.
You head to the shower and picture Spencer helping you out of your bra, and all of you goes hot, so you turn the water to lukewarm and stand until you’re cold to the point of misery. You clamber out and shiver into a towel, then your robe.
Spencer’s humming in the kitchen.
You honestly wish that the dreams made you like him less, that the sound of him might send you running back into your room, but you poke your head out of the bathroom and wait until he enters the living room. He sees you waiting, his face splitting into a smile. “Hey, good morning, did you sleep better?”
You can’t explain the discombobulation of your dreams. Spencer had become convinced you have insomnia. You may have let him assume.
“Slept fine,” you croak.
“Okay, well get dressed and I’ll make you some coffee.”
“‘Kay.” Your stomach pangs with nerves seeing him, reminded of tonight’s big event. “Are we still, uh, on, for tonight?”
“Nervous?” he asks.
You feel like you're about to be a fish in a pool of sharks. “Of course not.”
“Yeah, still on, even JJ.”
Awesome. Spencer turns around to make you your cup of coffee and you go to your room, dressing quickly, two pairs of socks. You tone your face and moisturise, fanning yourself slowly. You don’t hurry to the living room, but you aren’t slow, and it’s not Spencer, you tell yourself. Not Spencer. You’re just craving the warmth of a cup of coffee.
You spend the morning together on the couch. Spencer reads and occasionally chats to you about whatever tome it is that specific half an hour. You make sandwiches at lunch time, he showers in the early evening. You get dressed and primped while he’s gone, and at 6PM, Spencer knocks your bedroom door to ask if you’re ready to go.
“Could I fake an illness?” you joke nervously.
Spencer’s hand falls on your handle. The door is ajar as usual, but he doesn’t tread any further inside.
“Come in,” you say.
Spencer takes a single step inside before stopping. He looks you up and down without the hunger you crave from him, a more clement, familiar appreciation to him as he says, “You look pretty.” He traces your arm, leaving the skin tingly in his wake. “Really pretty.”
“Thank you. I didn’t want to overdress.”
“It’s perfect, don’t worry. And no, you couldn’t fake an illness. They all know when I’m lying, especially Hotch. And Emily, actually.”
You squeeze your hands together tightly at your stomach. “I don’t know why I’m sooo nervous.” You lick your lips. “I feel like I can’t stop fidgeting.”
“They’re used to it, I promise. They know that they’re gonna make you nervous, but they’ve sworn to be on their best behaviour, and besides, you’re not the only plus one. JJ’s bringing Will, and Morgan’s bringing his sister, I’ve only met her once. The focus won’t be all on you.” He lowers his voice. “After two drinks they forget they’re supposed to be scary.”
“What if I say something extremely stupid to your boss and get you in trouble?”
“What are you going to get me in trouble for?”
“I don’t know. What if I accidentally tell him that that sick day you took a few weeks ago was to help me make brownies?”
“Everyone lies about sick days.” He deliberates. “Maybe not Hotch. But I’m pretty sure he knew I was lying, and it’s explainable. I felt… irate.”
You raise your eyebrows. “What?”
“Staying home with you made me feel better. Which made me a better worker the next day, it’s fine.” His phone rings from somewhere in the apartment. “That’ll be JJ. Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“Yeah?” He grins. “Okay. You’re wearing a coat, right? It’s cold. The forecast says snow. It’s thirty degrees out.”
You layer a coat onto your jacket and a scarf to make him happy. You and Spencer get a taxi, black leather gritless under your hands, though you squeeze the seat like it’s gonna stop the car the whole time. Spencer doesn’t talk much, but he looks at you unapologetically, and he smiles, and the quiet is as severe as it was in your dream that morning. If this were a dream he’d be leaning over to cradle your ear. He’d ask in whispers if you were alright, and he’d let his hand rest kindly on your knee.
“What?” you whisper.
His lips part like he might answer. The car comes to a crunching stop outside the bar, and whatever it was he was going to say is kept for later. “I’ll tell you after,” he says.
He pays for the taxi before you can work it out and you say thank you to the driver. The sidewalk is clean, broad, and glowing with the last bit of light. The sun sets behind you. The bar beckons in front.
Your fear is daunting.
You have years of practice fooling Spencer. You know that he knows your tells, so you’ve changed them, and Spencer cares about you enough to ignore obvious truths if he thinks you might not want to share. His colleagues, FBI agents trained to detect deception, are going to take one good look at you and know you’re lying about… this.
You’re plagued by dreams of Spencer, but nothing can touch the real thing.
You feel the space between you like it’s aflame. Spencer checks you’re with him and opens the door.
The bar is busy even for a Saturday. You aren’t expecting the volume, the boisterousness of the patrons already slumped together over tables and waiting at the bar to get their drinks. It’s smaller than you’d pictured too, but its size is made up for with a patio at the back, smokers haunting the door, wary of the cold.
You know what his friends look like already, yet seeing them in person is odd. Hotch is taller than you’d thought, Emily more startlingly pretty. JJ’s frowning, and her partner Will looks like he’s about to fall asleep despite a lazy grin.
Hotch notices you first. He taps Emily on the elbow, who pauses in a thought to follow his gaze. Her face breaks into a smile, and if you weren’t in love with Spencer Reid, you might take a tumble for his pale coworker.
“Hello,” Spencer says, ushering you to the table with an arm behind your back.
“Hi,” you say.
“He-llo,” Emily says, leaning into the table, a strand of her hair dangerously close to a short glass of juice. “I can’t believe we’re finally seeing you in person. I’m Emily.”
“Y/N,” you say.
“Aaron,” Hotch adds. (Aaron! He’s far more intimidating casually than as a boss, it seems.)
“Derek was just here,” JJ says in way of greeting, while Will drawls from over her shoulder, “I’m Will, it’s nice to meet you.”
Spencer pulls out a chair for you and promptly sits in the one beside Emily. “Sorry we’re late. I forgot my wallet and we had to go back up to the apartment and the cab I called got so angry about it that he left.”
You slide between the table and your chair, looking to Spencer for guidance, but he’s distracted taking his coat off and you have to look at Aaron instead.
His smile is immediately knowing. Read for filth in seconds. “We don't bite.”
“Not so early in the evening,” Emily says.
You take a shuddering breath, thankful they can’t hear it over the sounds of the bar.
—
“I’m caught!” you exclaim.
Spencer hugs you under the arms. “I know,” he says gently.
“Caught!”
He holds back a laugh as your arms react, practically flung behind his head in a hug that threatens to cut off the oxygen supply to his brain. “I think you’ve caught me, instead,” he says.
You laugh in his ear. There’s gin on your breath and the sweeter smell of orange juice. It’s not bad, but weird to know it’s from your mouth. Or not weird. It gives Spencer a feeling like seeing the soft curve of your hip when you’re lying on your side. Like watching you bite your bottom lip when you’re distracted by the TV and worrying to yourself, which you do more often than not lately. They’re private things that Spencer shouldn’t know about.
“I’m not trying to,” you say, and Spencer can smell the shot of vodka you did too, which is less pleasant. “Not trying to catch you. Not… I’m sorry.”
“What for?”
“It’s hard to explain.”
Over your shoulder, Spencer spots Hotch’s entertained gaze. All the team has done since you sat down together was pick on Spencer and his obviousness. Boyfriend? they’d asked you. Looking? Sights set on someone? All while JJ nudged him under the table.
Things are falling apart now. JJ’d departed to hold Emily’s hair back, and Will with her. Hotch caught the eye of a woman across the way, and they sit chatting amicably at the bar with more peanuts than drinks. Derek, when he did appear, stayed for an hour with Desiree, recounting to you his most embarrassing stories of which Spencer had taken care to shield you from, and laughed at his subsequent blush.
He never wanted you to know about his run in with anthrax, and he especially didn’t want you to know he’d been stripped nude afterwards and hosed off like a muddy dog.
You’d turned to him with wide, worried eyes. “You were poisoned?” you’d asked.
It’s stuff like that that makes this difficult.
“I don’t know if you know this,” he says now, rubbing your back, “but I’m good with difficult concepts.”
“I did not mean to be like this.”
“You didn’t eat much.” Spencer helps you stand on your own two feet. “They kitchen’s still open. I can get you food, how about a burger? Or we can go find you something.“
“What kind of burger?” you ask, poorly concealing your excitement.
Spencer gets you back to the table. “I’ll be right back.”
“Wait, don’t go.”
“I’m gonna get food. Do you want fries?”
“Spencer, what if I throw up?”
Spencer shrugs. “I can rub your back?”
“I don’t want to throw up.”
“Then drink that,” he says, sliding his glass of coke toward you. “Alcohol irritates the lining of your stomach and increases the production of stomach acid. If you drink,” —he flinches as you knock the cup back— “slowly you can dilute your stomach contents without upsetting it. Slowly,” he says, squeezing your hand, “I’ll order food.”
“No, wait.” You drop the glass and grab him. “Please don’t go. I don’t want to throw up by myself.”
“You won’t throw up.”
“Please,” you say, holding his wrist in both hands, your eyes shiny. “Spencer, don’t go.”
“I won’t.” He doesn’t know how true it is and then suddenly he’s sat down. He won’t go. He wouldn’t leave your side ever again if that’s what you asked of him.
He puts your chairs together, entertaining your tipsy thoughts with light conversation and the occasional slight of hand. You have an aura about you, like Spencer’s doing more than close-up magic, hanging on his every word. Your nervousness had you gasping like a fish, not so subtly downing one drink, then another, but now that you’re feeling the effects of them (and a few extras), the tightness you’d held in your fingers is gone. You’re leaning against the back of the chair with all the ease of you on the couch at home, but the easy fondness you’d usually wear while he speaks is replaced by a bright and shining awe. A sweetness like he’s remarkable. The soft line of your lips and your widened eyes.
You’re not the sort of drunk that leaves you listless and ready for bed. This is giggly and fun, and so long as you don’t push it you’ll be alright. It wasn’t enough alcohol to leave you inebriated all night, anyhow. In a few hours the giddiness will wear away, leaving you with a headache and a deep longing for your missed dinner.
“I’m glad you didn’t let me fake food poisoning,” you say.
“Is that what you were thinking? That’s a terrible excuse. You need something with sudden onset symptoms, like an asthma attack, or pneumonia. An acute illness.”
You take his hand. “I love that you know that stuff.”
Feeling as in love with you as ever, and sorry for you drunken state —he could’ve stopped you, he just didn’t think— he folds your hands together, both of his, rubbing the hills of your knuckles with his thumb. Your hands look right together.
That’s what Spencer likes to think, anyway.
You slow like you’re tired, hand lax in his grips. Your mouth opens but nothing follows, no sigh or gripe or conversation.
“You okay?” he asks softly.
“I think I’m having one of those dreams again.”
“You’re awake,” he says.
“I don’t know about that. They’re all like this.”
He hums, smoothing his thumb down the back of your hand. “If this were a dream, you wouldn't have control over what you’re doing. Why don’t you do something you wouldn’t do in a dream?”
“Like what?” you ask.
“There’s a ton of stuff you can’t do in dreams. People find they have a poor memory, but I can’t ask you to recall anything. You might not remember regardless. How about temperature?” he suggests. “Most people can’t feel warm or cold in their dreams. Do you want to feel something cold?”
You watch him for a few seconds, your eyebrows pulled together unhappily. “Your hands are warm,” you say.
“Right.” He suspects they’ll feel warmer in just a few seconds when the hot flush in his face manages to work its way down. “I’m warm. So are you.”
“Sometimes I feel like you’re warm in the dream, though. You make me feel warm.”
“It’s remembered, maybe.”
You don’t look any happier. “Sometimes I wish I could stop having them, but…” You duck your head. “Sorry, Spencer.”
“What are you sorry for?”
Your head ducks lower. With a start to his chest, your shoulders shake, like you're inhaling the first half of a sob.
“Hey, hey,” he says, reaching for your cheek, ducking his own head to see you, “what’s wrong? It’s okay, you don’t have anything to be sorry for!” he whispers emphatically. “You have nothing to be sorry for, why would you think that?”
“I keep having these dreams, all the time, and– and I– I’ll mess everything up. Everything we have, I’m going to–” You hiccup, eyes turned glassy, imploring him to forgive you for something you haven’t done. “I don’t feel good.”
“You haven’t done anything wrong,” he says, his hand sliding back to your ear, down to your neck, “you’re just drunk. You’re confused.”
“But the dreams–”
“What dreams?” he asks gently.
You blow out a daunted breath. “Where you love me.”
“I do love you.”
“But more than this. You love me more than this,” you say, shaking your head. “I really don’t feel okay… Do you think we could go home?”
You’re so sorry and frowny that Spencer would attempt, in all his unfitness, to climb Mount Everest for you should you ask. “Yeah, we can go home,” he says, rubbing your arm up and down and up again, a line of affection from shoulder to wrist. “I’ll take you home. It’s okay, Y/N. You don’t have to be upset, I shouldn’t have asked.”
He’s not sure what he asked, really, but the answer upset you. His heart’s racing like he just sprinted the length of the bar and you’re close to tears, this strange weepy sullenness about you as you say, “It’s okay. Let’s just go.”
—
It’s cold to be sitting out by yourself, though the snow stayed its hand another night while the temperature fell again. Your coat poses a weak defence against the chill, nipping at your nose, burning the insides of every breath, and your feet are stiff like ice in your shoes. Yet, the idea of returning to the apartment is a leaden stone in your stomach.
Spencer could barely look at you that morning. You hadn’t given him much of a chance, slipping out of the apartment with little more than a call to say you’d be back later. Your groceries freeze in a paper bag by your feet.
You’re not too embarrassed about getting tipsy. It was drinks with Spencer and his friends, not dinner. Emily had been twice as drunk, and Derek had encouraged you to drink with a round on him. You’re mortified, however, by what you’d said. Your memory is clear enough to know you’d told Spencer about your dreams.
He’d been confused at the time, but he’s a smart boy. He’ll figure it out.
“This headache,” you mumble, tipping your head into your hand morosely. You rub your brow, fingers against the ache, the cold getting worse.
Why did it take a dream for you to realise you had feelings for Spencer? And why did you have to realise at all? If you’d never had that dream, never had that phantom bruise, his hands careful and caring and touching up to the band of your bra, you wouldn’t know now what it is to want him. The dream gave you a bruise, and Spencer presses against it real or otherwise every time he looks at you. You were wrong thinking that it never happened; it’s still there, a purple lash against your ribs.
Every time he makes you breakfast, or he texts you from a different state, or he sits down on the couch just to talk to you. Every time he says something smart, or he tilts his head back as he laughs, or he draws a smiley face on the mirror by the door–
“About those dreams?”
You rub your eyes hard. Of course he’d come to find you. “Please don’t.”
“Please,” he says. You see him through your fingers. His thick scarf is unravelled at his neck, his hair ragged around his face like he’s been raking it repeatedly behind his ears.
You straighten.
“I don’t get it,” he says, “you’ve been dreaming about me? Why is that such a big deal?”
“It’s embarrassing.”
“I dream about you all the time,” he says. “We’re in each other's lives, we live together, it makes sense that your hippocampus would use me. You have a lot of memories with me.” Spencer crosses his arms in front of you. “It’s freezing.”
“I’ll be home in a bit.”
“I’m not gonna go back without you,” he says, like that’s a given.
You move across the bench to make room for him. Spencer sits.
You settle. The occasional bus trundles past, a limited rota for an early Sunday morning. Spencer shoves his hands into his pockets. His lips are already turning blue.
“I know you know what I mean,” you say.
Spencer presses his knees together. “Even romantic dreams where I’m… where we’re together, it’s all easily explained away by brain science. You can’t control what you dream, and I’m not going to hold you to it.”
Silence, silence. You tip your head back to see a horrible grey cloud closing in on you both, the sun a white and gauzy memory behind it. Spencer’s right about control, but he doesn’t get that you like them. It’s not fair to him that you’ve somehow rallied a second life when you’re sleeping, where he’s your mind’s puppet, hugging and holding you, pressing his cheek to the side of your face. Saying things you wish he’d tell you now.
“Well, I like you.”
“What?” you ask, coughing.
“Not to make things awkward or anything, but I like you. Romantically.” Spencer’s voice takes a sharp veer into high-pitched freneticism. “Does that help at all?”
“What?”
“It’s far more embarrassing that I like you on purpose than your accidental dreams, right?” He thumbs at the inside of his wrist. “You don’t have to say anything, or think anything, and I’m not going to change, but I have feelings for you.”
You feel like you’re standing at the top of a very tall building. “Oh?”
“I kind of thought you knew.”
“How could I know that?” you ask, cringing as a cold gust of air bites at your face.
Spencer takes his scarf off and pushes it into your hands. “I don’t know. I guess we know less about each other than we thought.”
The way he says it.
Spencer wraps his scarf around you when it’s clear you aren’t going to do it yourself, and he touches your cheek briefly, a brush of his fingers like he thinks he’s doing something he shouldn’t be allowed to.
“I dream about you all the time,” he says quietly.
A bus passes by and shines headlights at your feet. The wind blows, your ears roar, and just above you, in a cold front to mark the season, snow begins to fall.
You look up simultaneously. A snowflake gets caught in Spencer’s eyelashes.
Just one.
“This is so weird,” you mumble.
Spencer wipes at his eye. “Could you tell me why?”
“I had a dream just like this.”
He laughs warmly. “Of course you did. Forget all reason, then. You’re prophetic.”
“I don’t think I could’ve predicted this.”
“Why? It’s only snow. Virginia gets an inch of snow most Decembers.”
You laugh. In a dream, this is where you and Spencer would kiss or hold hands, or rest your cheek on the other’s shoulder, but neither of you are brave enough. And, as the snow turns to a sleet below freezing, you can’t ignore the cold.
—
iv. the end
The longest anyone has ever slept in recorded human history is eleven days. Two hundred and sixty four hours, or nearly sixteen thousand minutes, just shy of one million seconds of sleep.
The first pillow was invented in Mesopotamia more than nine thousand years ago, in a time where the amount of pillows a person had directly correlated their personal riches. The history of pillows is tumultuous and eclectic. Headrests made of wood, stone, or jade. Curved neck holders worn soft with use.
And, of all Spencer’s gifted facts, you find yourself circling back to the same one as you wait for him to wake: most dreams are no longer than twenty minutes. However, it’s important to note that the longest dream ever officially observed was in 1994, when a man managed to be in REM for just over three hours. You’ve had dreams that felt like they lasted for hours, but likely took place for just twenty minutes. If you could dream for three hours a night, you could live an entire life of longing in a pocket of time.
Thankfully, you have no need to hide from reality anymore. Spencer sleeps beside you and you don’t want to sleep, you just want him to wake up.
“Good morning,” you whisper, drawing your fingertip across his cheek to encourage the hair that’s fallen there back in line.
He doesn’t stir. It’s alright, you hadn’t meant to wake him.
“I love you,” you whisper, shuffling across the sheets to feel the heat and weight of his body against your own. He doesn’t move for a while, snoring gently, his breath kissing the top of your head as you burrow into the slip of space under his chin. Then, as if he were awake, he wraps his arm around you and drags you in further. His face angles down and his nose finds your forehead, and a hum of what you’d personally say is content kisses your brow.
You tuck your hand behind his back and rub a circle.
Spencer didn’t last long after the initial realisation of requited feelings. In a day he’d asked if you wanted to be his girlfriend (vaguely apologetic, still worried about scaring you, though you’d already come clean about wanting him as you’d warmed your cold hands by the stove). A week later he kissed you on a date outside of the cosiest Indian restaurant in Washington, D.C, and things have been nothing but smooth sailing from there.
Now, when he’s feeling romantic, he brings home butter chicken and turns your face up for kissing, fork in hand. Every night before bed, he tells you to have good dreams, a self-satisfaction in his eyes that you dearly love.
You knew he was a dork and you liked him because of it, but the sheer increase in him is amazing. Yesterday he sent you Close to You by Carpenters over text claiming they wrote it about you. When he got home, he tried to make you dance with him in the living room. After two or three kisses, you’d let him pull you to your feet.
Spencer has turned loving one another into an everyday spectacularity, and not some mystical dream you ached for.
He squeezes the skin of your shoulder as he wakes. Heavy in the hands of sleep, Spencer rubs the tip of his nose to yours, nudging your face up, and waiting there with your lips a few millimetres apart as he finds his bearings. You don’t open your eyes. There’s no need.
“Time?” he mumbles.
“I don’t,” —you clear your hoarse voice, his hand flattening protectively behind you— “know, um. Maybe seven. The sun was rising…”
“You could have woken me up,” he says, and kisses you slowly. It’s almost gluttonous, how he does it. Not chaste at all. His hair falls into your face and tickles your cheeks, his nose smushes your own with his easy depth.
You hold his face and kiss him twice, following a line under his chin, where you pause, smelling yesterday's cologne on his skin. “I was hoping I’d fall asleep again,” you confess.
“Oh, no, don’t do that.” He scoops you against him and turns onto his back as you laugh. “Angel. Let’s stay up now. Let’s just… stay here.”
If you stay here he’s going to waylay you with a smattering of his voracious kisses, and he’s going to turn you on your back and kiss your neck. He’ll touch that place on your ribs where you’d once dreamt a bruise. It’s a secret you couldn’t keep. He likes to kiss you there when he remembers, but most of the time his hands run along it without mention. A slow caressing.
You push your face against his shoulder and sigh as his arms close in around you. With a little effort, you get your arms around him in turn, and you hug him for as long as you can stand the pins and needles in your fingers.
“You smell so good,” you mumble.
He pats your back absentmindedly.
Today, you’re going to make Spencer oatmeal with banana and chocolate. You’re going to shower, maybe together if the small space can handle it, laughing at the soap in his eyebrows and the way he squeals when you touch his hips. You’re going to drape yourself across his lap as he reads, and he’ll lean down to kiss the tip of your nose or some other strange part of you unused to affection. The top of your ear, the palm of your hand, maybe the crook of your elbow. He’ll ramble through dinner or creep up behind you to sniff your shoulder, and it’ll all be choices you’ve made. Nothing left to want or wanting, but being in love while wide awake.
“Are you tired?” you ask him.
He takes a deep breath of your hair. “No,” he says, drawing a light line up your side, “I’m okay. There are worse faces to wake up to.”
You try not to fluster noticeably. He’s always been a good roommate. You’re still getting used to the boyfriend part, the intimacy of being complimented, but Spencer seems to have slipped into the part easily.
“Sorry, that was mean. There’s nothing I’d rather wake up to.”
“Thanks,” you mumble.
You’re tired, suddenly. The minutes pass in heavy blinks —you don’t want to sleep now that he’s awake, but being here with him is warming you from the inside out. You doze and wake and Spencer doesn’t say a word. His breaths come evenly against your cheek.
Eventually, he clears his throat, asksing, “Did you dream at all?” His voice is hewn. He rubs your chest, right over your heart.
”I’m not so sure that this isn’t one,” you say, your heartbeat a crawl under his touch.
“That’s corny.”
“Mm, the Spencer in my dreams is usually kinder.”
“Does he ever get to hold you like this?” he asks, letting his hand fall from your chest to wrap it back around you again.
You take a sleepy breath in. “No,” you say slowly, “he doesn’t.”
｡𖦹°‧⭑.
thank youuuu for reading!! please like comment or reblog if you enjoyed!! thank you❤️
this fic was requested! I usually link to the request I was sent at the top, but I lost the post for this one, but this is what the request said:
“hi angel! i have a request for roommate!spencer where r has a very romantic dream about him and starts avoiding him because she's really embarrassed but spencer is so confused as to why his roommate suddenly can't even look him in the eye. maybe one of them realizes their feelings aren't entirely platonic in the end? love you!!!”
contents: spencer reid x fem reader. childhood best friends who are idiots in love!!!!! and a brief mention of clothes sharing bc im weak
notes: you will never guess who i just childhood best friendsified… also i picture mid seasons spencer during this but i just had to use this gif hes sooo cute
The second Penelope steps out of the bar, her hands fly desperately to her phone. She needs to text the only person who would enjoy the new information she has as much as she does.
ARE U HOME???? Sent 10:34 pm.
Spencer’s contact photo smiles back at her. It’s one of him from his early college days, which places him at about fourteen. He smiles sweetly at the camera from behind thick frames. It looks like he’s ready to correct someone who’s said something stupid.
Reid’s response doesn’t come nearly as quickly as she had hoped, seeing as she’s already standing outside his front door, her spare key in hand.
Yes, why? Are you ok? Received 10:40 pm.
It would be proper to knock and ask to be let in, but Penelope is a little past tipsy, and… it’s just Spencer. He trusted her enough to give her an extra copy of his house key, and with the information she has that’s just waiting to be freed from her mind… she knows he won’t mind.
It takes her a few tries to get the key into the slot, scratching the doorknob a few times before she can finally turn it. But then she’s spilling into Reid’s apartment, squinting into the darkness.
All the lights are off, and Penelope is just about to shoot him a very angry text about lying about being home when she picks up on the sound of the TV. She ditches her favorite pink pumps by the front door and hurries quickly into his living room.
During her rather difficult trip to the next room over, Penelope decides she’s going to have a serious talk with him about keeping the hallways clear. His house is a very clear health hazard.
With the serious lack of light, she bumps into what feels like a suitcase and nearly trips over a pair of sneakers before she even catches sight of the television.
The outline of Reid’s frame sticks out very quickly against the brightness of the TV. She doesn’t recognize the movie playing, but can hear him mumbling quietly to himself, and she giggles a little.
Reid makes commentary on movies out loud even when he’s all by himself. How cute.
Penelope grows sick of the darkness very quickly. Grumbling under her breath, she taps around the wall before flicking on the light.
“Reid, you’ll never guess who I just— Oh!”
The one big blob that Penelope had assumed was Reid comes into focus. Now bathed in the bright overhead lights, she watches in horror as the blob splits into two different people.
Penelope shrieks.
The blob on the left — the one that’s actually Reid — turns to face her, confusion and slight fear on his face.
“Garcia!” he says, his voice cracking up half an octave. “What are you doing here?”
The words pass in through one ear and out the other. Rubbing her dreary eyes, she squints at the half of the blob that’s sitting on the right.
It’s… a girl.
A girl. In Spencer Reid’s apartment.
Alone. With him!
The lack of space in between you both becomes very obvious the longer she stares. Spencer’s side is against the arm of his couch and you’re sitting next to him, leaning half against his chest. A patchwork blanket is thrown haphazardly over your laps, barely an inch of space between you.
“I— oh!” Penelope's eyes nearly bulge out of her head when she sees the arm he has wrapped around your shoulders. “Hi, hello, Reid. I didn’t know you had a guest.”
He gives her a sheepish smile, and the two of you untangle from each other. Spencer goes to greet her while you search for the remote to pause the movie.
Penelope stares without shame. You give her a sugary sweet smile while you fold the blanket up on the couch, looking exceptionally cute in what looks like Reid’s pajama pants.
“Garcia?” Spencer says, waving a hand in front of her face after what’s probably a moment of silence. “Are you okay?”
She swats him on the shoulder, whispering in what she hopes is a quiet tone. “Spencer Reid. Introduce me to your girlfriend!”
The blood rushes to his face. “My what? No… um. She’s not my girlfriend, Garcia—”
Spencer gets bowled out of the way when you nudge him to the side, a wide smile on your face.
Penelope almost awws out loud. You seem amused at his embarrassed stuttering but come to his rescue nonetheless. So cute.
You give her your name and your hand to shake, and she takes it in her own, shaking you around wildly.
“Are you Penelope?” you ask, ten seconds into the handshake Garcia still hasn’t stopped. Reid plucks your hand free from her grip, and you squeeze his wrist once before letting your hand fall down to your side. “Spencer talks about his team all the time. It’s really nice to meet you.”
Penelope soaks up every single detail of the way you interact with Spencer.
Spencer Reid, always so finnicky with physical contact doesn’t seem bothered by your closeness at all. The two of you are standing so close together your sides brush while you breathe. You’re wearing his pajamas and Reid’s hair is messy and unbrushed.
She’s never seen Spencer look so… domestic.
“Reid,” she says, turning to face her friend. “I think I’m hallucinating.”
She ends up on his armchair some time later, a tall glass of water in her hands given to her by Spencer in an attempt to sober her up. The both of you also assure her that you’re not a hallucination, and you even let her pull you into a hug just to make sure.
“Did you walk here from the bar by yourself, Garcia?” Spencer asks, the two of you blinking at her from his couch. He looks awfully concerned.
She waves him off, taking a nice sip of water. “Oh, relax. It’s barely a block from here, you know!” He doesn’t look too comforted, but she continues on. “I just— I had to come and tell you who I saw on a date there. And I know I should’ve knocked, so I’m sorry for that, but…” She points at you. “I didn’t realize you’d be on a date, too, Spencer!”
He scratches the back of his neck awkwardly, and you snicker from your spot next to him.
“This isn’t a date,” you say, prodding at Spencer’s side. “Me and Spencer are just friends.”
Penelope is far from convinced. “But… you were cuddling on the couch when I walked in.”
The two of you exchange a look.
“Cuddling?” you repeat. Penelope can’t tell if you’re a great actor or if there’s genuine confusion on your face. “We weren’t cuddling.”
“We were watching a movie.” Spencer shakes his head, his big brown eyes going comically large. “Definitely not cuddling.”
Are you two… trying to gaslighting her?
“But the blanket! And the hugging and the touching! I saw it. I am seeing it,” she insists frantically, water threatening to spill over the rim of the cup. “Why else would two people need to sit that close during a movie?”
Spencer gestures to the TV screen, still lit up. “I was just translating the movie for her. It’s in Korean and it’s only just been released, so it hasn’t been subtitled yet. We were sitting close because I don’t like translating too loudly during movies. I enjoy listening to the actors speak.”
His quiet mumbling earlier hadn’t been him talking to himself. It’d been him talking to you.
Ohh, Penelope thinks, and she says it aloud too.
There’s beeping from the direction of the kitchen and you get up, but not before squeezing Spencer’s shoulder on the way out. His eyes follow you until you turn the corner, like he’s reluctant to let you go ten feet to the next room.
When he turns back to face Penelope, she’s grinning.
“Just friends,” she muses, taking another long sip of water. “Are you sure?”
Spencer raises an eyebrow. “Yes, I’m sure, Garcia. Why?”
“I don’t know about you, Boy Genius, but I don’t keep any of my friends a secret.” Penelope is sure her eyes are gleaming with excitement. She has a real life love story on her hands, whether Spencer wants to admit it or not. “I also don’t look at any of my friends like that!”
He smiles at her ribbing, looking at his lap. “I don’t look at her in any particular way, Garcia. And she’s—she’s not a secret. I just haven’t had the need to bring her up.”
“‘Cause you have a big fat crush on her?” she offers, wiggling her eyebrows suggestively. “And you’re too scared to talk about her because you get all starry eyed and mushy whenever you do?”
“No, I do not have a crush on her. She’s visiting from Vegas. We’re close because she’s my childhood best friend.” He says it so quickly the words mesh together.
Penelope gives him a disbelieving mhm, and he rushes to defend himself.
“It’s not like any of the team talks about their friends from when they were kids. It wouldn’t make sense to bring her up.”
If Penelope was sitting close enough, she would swat at him again. “Well, you should’ve, since the two of you are absolutely not just friends—”
“Penelope, do you wanna stay for the rest of the movie?” you ask, appearing in the doorway with a big bowl of popcorn in your hands. “It’s almost over, but Spencer says the ending is crazy good.”
When you sit down on the couch again, you lean into Reid’s side and his arm goes around your shoulder almost automatically.
For translation purposes, she’s sure.
The two coworkers exchange a very loaded look.
This conversation is not over, Penelope’s eyes say.
We are not bringing this up ever again, Spencer’s silence replies.
Penelope gives you a wide grin. “Oh, I’d absolutely love to stay!”
She’s already looking forward to the future conversation between Derek and Spencer about his secret girlfriend who’s definitely, totally not his girlfriend.
notes: me giving spencer the childhood best friend he deserves because i cant imagine him going through all That alone…. my baby my baby….. also i fear i may be rusty at writing!!!!! lmk if u enjoyed !!!
winter love (all i want for Christmas is you) -- Hotch x Fem!Reader
Hi hi hi!! I have literally been writing this on and off since September, and now I finally get to share it!! A few quick things: this fic has very much Hallmark vibes but does have a good dose of angst too; for the sake of this fic, Aaron was born and raised in Virginia; and Jack was never born (sorry buddy!).
I listened to Michael Bublé’s songs “All I Want for Christmas Is You” and “Cold December Night” a lot while writing this, so feel free to play those while you read! xx.
(The gif is from google because once again, my gif search is broken on here because apparently this post is too long?? Rip me)
Summary: You’ve returned back to your hometown after leaving to get your education, but you didn’t expect to run into your childhood best friend (and first love).
Word count: 9.4k
HOTCH MASTERLIST || MAIN MASTERLIST
If you told yourself a few months ago that you’d be moving back to Virginia, you would’ve scoffed and probably laughed – loudly. Your mom, on the other hand, would’ve been elated, and swore she knew it.
Like she’s doing now.
“I’m just so excited to have you home again,” she gushes, helping you carry boxes of your clothes up to your old childhood room.
thank you to all of these lovely writers, your works have helped me more than you know <3 also i think i'll start doing monthly fic recs after this, bc this list is so long haha
CRIMINAL MINDS
link to seperate list here
HARRY POTTER
LIGHTNING ERA
fred weasley
anything @ibbythebee
since never @emeritusemeritus
george weasley
fifth times the charm @myysaints
more than friends @girl-next-door-writes
pretending is a gateway drug @writesowhatnext
harry potter
harry potter and the long lost beach episode [ao3] @ordin-arily
draco malfoy
isn't it? @moonlightspencie
MARAUDERS ERA
remus lupin
i'd love to love you @benedictscanvas
↳ coat stays on
by tired hands @luveline
↳ glown-up!reader x remus
↳ heart shaped imagine
↳ remus taking care of drunk!reader
oblivious!reader x remus @moonstruckme
reader with a huge crush @theemporium
mouse @siriuslovebot
over the influence @bruisedboys
the way i see you @g1rld1ary
sirius black
yapper sunshine!girl x sirius @luveline
james potter
king of my heart @pretty-little-mind33
PERCY JACKSON
luke castellan
the killerverse series @tangledinlove
one year with luke castellan series @tangledinlove
i won't say (i'm in love) @calliopeslyrics
true colours @supercutszns
STRANGER THINGS
steve harrington
no more lonely nights @sanguineterrain
make it easy @appocalipse
(it's not like) he's my boyfriend @luveline
↳ losers and the supernatural
strawberry lip gloss @irndad
i would've read your love letters every night @forevermoreharrington
eddie munson
eddie rescuing drunk!reader @luveline
↳ topaz, lime, ruby red
↳ is it getting too much?
↳ dark matter
grand gesture @appocalipse
LOCKWOOD & CO
anthony lockwood
bloody genius @g1rld1ary
↳ just blurry
between colleagues @atlabeth
↳ you're beautiful
love @givemea-dam-break
you look like shit @lewkwoodnco
got love-struck went straight to my head @tangledinlove
the complications of a fake engagement @novelizt
masterlist @tangledinlove note: all of her works are just too good!!
hi!!! here for a request. can we have a imagine where reader has a wound from surgery or whatever on like in a rib and she hides to change the bandages but then spencer sees her and he’s like ‘lemme help you’ and…
you do you for the rest!
in which spencer helps BAU fem!reader change her bandages in the bathroom at work. it's intimate, and he's adorable and awkward, and it only fuels her terrible, terrible crush.
warnings/tags: fluff, talk/description of wound, brief talk of being stabbed (does not actually occur in this fic lol), reader wears a bra, spencer undoes said bra but not sexually, lots of suggestive humor and teasing, a TINY sprinkling of angst but not really, idiots in love
a/n: i'm picturing early seasons spencer and it is filling me with so much unbridled joy. I. LOVE. HIM. thank you for the request!! and lets not talk about how inconsistent my formatting for requests is pls and thanks!!
It’s not like you meant to bend down so quickly that your wound reopened—but here you are, suffering the consequences of your actions in the women’s bathroom at Quantico as you try to assess the injury before you re-bandage it. And your shoe is still untied.
Unfortunately, the fact that you had quite literally been stabbed in the back last week makes it hard to reach said injury—especially when you’re at work and so can’t take off your shirt like you normally would. And all this struggling means it’s taking longer than it should, so now you’re focused on the wound and its scabby, wet edges and all the things it’s secreting rather than hurrying to give another statement of the entire event to Hotch since the first one had apparently been too sparse on the details.
A knock sounds on the open door. Spencer calls your name.
“You in there?”
The angle of your neck has your voice slightly strained as you call back, “yeah, what’s up? Is it Hotch?” you pause to hiss as you accidentally scratch at the wound with a nail. You don’t even want to know how much bacteria you just introduced to it. “Tell him I didn’t forget our meeting, I’ll be there in—”
“It’s not Hotch. I just wanted to make sure everything was okay with your back? I know you said you were going to check on it, but you’ve been in there a while.”
You sigh, dropping your sore arm as you continue to hold up your shirt with the other and regarding the reflection of your back in the mirror.
“Actually—could you come in here?”
There’s a pause.
“You want me to come into the women’s restroom?”
“Yes, Spencer. It’s fine. There’s nobody else in here. I just… I need some help, I think.”
The last part is admitted quietly, with an air of defeat. To admit to needing help, is, by your standards, the same as failure. Spencer knows this, which is probably the only reason he puts aside his hesitations and shuffles uncertainly into the tiled room. If you’re asking for help, it’s because you really need it.
“What do you need help with?” he asks, sweeping his gaze suspiciously around the lavatory as if you were lying about there not being any other women present and this whole thing might be a trap of some sort.
“It’s gross, and you can totally say no.”
He raises his brows expectantly, before spotting the weeping wound on your back. Unconsciously he steps closer, leaning forward. It’s not your fault, and the gore is not specific to you—anyone’s body would react this way to being stabbed. But you still feel embarrassed by the close attention to such an ugly marring, which nobody besides you and your doctors has actually seen up close.
“That doesn’t look good,” he mutters. The expression on his face is irritatingly familiar—the drawn brows, tightened eyes, barely parted lips—but it takes a moment before you realize what it is.
“Reid,” you complain. He’s still stooped over slightly to examine the wound, and looks up at you through dark lashes with those infuriatingly warm puppydog eyes.
“What?”
“You’re looking at me the way you look at a dead body on the slab.”
His nose scrunches.
Some might say it scrunches adorably.
“No, I’m not. That’s just my face.”
“Okay, well stop. It’s freaking me out.”
He pouts—actually pouts. Subtle, but bottom lip jutted out and all. It’s ridiculously endearing.
“My face freaks you out?”
“Wh—no! That’s not what I said! You have—you have a great face! I didn’t mean—”
You manage to claw yourself out of the hole you’re digging when you see the dopey smile growing on his face.
Oh. He was fucking with you.
He never used to do that. It’s unnerving to be the fucked with instead of the fucker for a change. Especially when it’s Spencer.
“What did you need me for?” Spencer asks by way of peace offering. You close your eyes and sigh, attempting to collect your thoughts without his presence re-scrambling them.
“Um—I just need you to put this bandage over it. I can’t reach without taking my shirt off.”
And now you’re forced to wonder if he’s thinking about you shirtless as much as you’re thinking about you shirtless.
“Yeah—don’t do that,” he says absentmindedly, stepping again closer to get a better look before turning to the nearest sink.
For some reason, this offends you.
“Why not?”
Spencer pulls another face as he washes his hands—you love the constant flow of expressions he always seems so unconscious of. Even when they’re not pleasant and directed at you.
“Are you asking me why shouldn’t you take your shirt off?” he clarifies.
“I know why I shouldn’t take my shirt off, but I want to know why you think I shouldn’t take my shirt off.”
“Because we’re at work?” he observes astutely. You frown deeply at his completely logical reply. Spencer chuckles as he dries his hands and approaches once more, taking the square of gauze pre-lined with medical tape from your hand. “I mean, I can’t stop you. But it would be kind of a weird choice.”
“Oh, so me shirtless is weird?”
Cool fingers meet the comparatively hot skin of your back—where everything is still sensitive because the wound wreaked havoc on your nerves there. You flinch slightly.
“Sorry,” he murmurs gently. Though his touch is so incredibly light it doesn’t really hurt—it hurts much less than when you’re tending to the wound, anyway. It’s almost soothing. After a moment he continues, a bit louder. “And that is not what I was saying. But I am completely comfortable asserting that it would be weird for you to be shirtless at work.”
The gentle touches contrast with his teasing words and serve to disorient you as you’re shaken back in to your usual dynamic. Which is markedly more sarcastic.
“Well—”
Before you have to think of something to say, Spencer interrupts you.
“Your, um—I think your… brassiere… is in the way.”
As soon as he says it you burst out laughing. It echoes through the room.
“My brassiere? Are you actually 70 years old?”
His brows knit even tighter and his face gets very pink very quickly. He can’t meet your eyes over your shoulder.
“That’s what it’s called.”
“Spencer, you may be the first person to use that word since 1952. Say bra.”
“I don’t want to,” he complains. Your laughter only grows as your head tips back.
“Why? How is brassiere better than bra?”
“It’s—it’s too colloquial! I’m trying to be professional!”
“Call it a bra or I’m going to rub my dirty hands all over my back,” you threaten, adopting a poker face so he knows you mean business. His eyes widen immediately.
“Oh my god! Bra! Do you want to introduce staph and meningitis and g—do not do that!”
“See? How hard was that?”
“I hate you,” he mumbles, face still flushed and adorable. “And you still have to take it off.”
“Excuse me?” you grin, pretending to be affronted because you know he didn’t mean it like that but it’s fun to pretend he did. Fun for you, of course. Not so much for him. He's utterly flustered by this point.
“Or at least undo it! It’s in the way.”
With a deeply bored sigh, you go to unclasp your bra—but as you go to do it your shirt drops down. You grimace, humor briefly forgotten as the fabric brushes the damaged skin.
“I can’t—”
“Okay, just—I’ll do it,” Spencer says. “Just move your shirt again.”
So you do, watching his reflection as he works.
And you have not one joke to break the heavy silence with as you feel his knuckles gently pressing into the middle of your back, as he unclasps the bra with his characteristic tenderness and a surprising amount of agility. It’s quiet except for your pulse in your own ears as he carefully pushes it out of his way, holding it down with a hand to your rib cage and fingertips slipping just under the fabric of your shirt—unintentionally and certainly non-sexual, no doubt, but skimming under your heart in a way that still feels so intimate you’re realizing how touch-starved you are.
“You do that often?” you find yourself asking, because you’re stupid, and you need to cool the tension before it chokes you, and you can’t help yourself even though you don’t actually want to know the answer.
“I,” he begins, voice quiet as rustling paper, tongue darting over his lip and eyes narrowed. The sentence stalls as he focuses on placing the patch just so. “Do not think that is an appropriate workplace question.”
Something aches in the pit of your stomach.
Something resembling jealousy.
It was not the timid evasive linguistic maneuver of someone who is insecure about the thing they’re discussing. It was not the awkward fumbling no but I don’t want to tell you that which you were expecting from Spencer Reid.
Nor is it an easy yes—an admission between friends. He doesn’t want to tell you.
You swallow and try to act like yourself.
“Yet here you are, in the woman’s restroom at our place of employment, undoing my bra. I think we’re past professionalism.”
“When you decontextualize it like that it sounds like something it’s not. This is professional, because I’m helping you with a wound you sustained on the job. I’m being a good colleague.”
Your lips twist into a smile he can’t see.
“A great colleague would kiss it better.”
“It's almost like you want me to file a sexual harassment complaint with HR," he says through a little smirk as he smooths the bandage over. Before you can snip back, he steamrolls over his own teasing—you’ve both been speaking in almost reverent tones since he started but his voice loses the sarcastic edge from a second before and reverts back to concerned and sweet. “Does that feel okay?”
You rotate your shoulders best you can without letting go of your shirt or flashing the good doctor to check if it feels secure.
“It’s good. And hey—if I were going to sexually harass you I would do a lot better than that. You think that’s my best material? That’s just the tip of the iceberg. I keep so many inappropriate comments to myself. You’d be shocked by some of the things I have almost said to you.”
He laughs, secures the band of your bra and begins fitting it to the clasp you’d had it on—and at that precise moment Emily walks in.
“H—woah.”
“It’s—I’m—I was helping her!” Spencer panics, immediately removing his hands from you like his palms are burning and holding them up defensively.
“Oh, you helped me alright,” you tease, pulling your shirt back into place.
“Don’t say it like that!” And then, to Emily, “I was changing out her bandage!”
“Changing my bandage,” you emphasize, winking more than is advisable.
“That’s—this is a hostile work environment! I feel unsafe!” Spencer almost yells, half laughs, as he scampers towards the door. “I’m going to HR!”
“Shut up! You love it!”
His laughter audibly travels farther away for several moments as he presumably goes back down the hallway to do his actual job.
You have the stupidest grin on your face, but you wipe it off when you notice Emily staring.
“What?”
“Nothing,” she says, shaking her head and looking away, moving toward a stall. “You’re just… you guys are funny.”
“What do you mean funny?” You demand, standing right outside her stall as she closes it.
“Wh—I mean funny! Are you going to listen to me pee, you weirdo?”
You frown.
She makes a good point.
Unfortunately, giving Hotch a more detailed statement is just as bad as you’d thought it’d be. Despite how cheery you’ve tried to remain about the whole situation, despite the way you insisted that the wound was so shallow you didn’t need more than a few days off work, despite the jokes you make about forgetting it’s even there because it’s on your back—it’s hard not to remember exactly how the glass felt twisting under your skin, how you’d felt suddenly so hot and lightheaded and sick to your stomach and the way Morgan hollered because he didn’t know how deep it had gone after you crumpled quick from shock, when you’re asked to describe it all in excruciating detail.
It only takes ten minutes, but they seem to drag on and on and by the time you’re leaving Hotch’s office you feel utterly drained. You hurry back to your desk, covertly wiping away moisture that you refuse to allow to become tears. Once seated, and having dodged sympathetic looks and avoided any do you want to talk about its, you allow yourself a few deep breaths with your eyes shut.
When you open them, you realize there’s a fresh cup of your favorite tea on your desk, in the Snoopy mug the team is always fighting over. Now his little black nose is covered by a square of yellow paper. You’re already smiling as you peel away the sticky note and hold it closer.
On it is an adorably odd smiley-face, and a note in familiar, messy looping scrawl.
I would never report you to HR beautiful
That would be a stab in the back!
You snort loudly and clap a hand to your mouth—but you’ve already drawn the attention of almost everyone in the bullpen.
When you turn to look at Spencer, he’s not looking back. Instead, his eyes are firmly trained on his computer screen. But he’s got his chin propped on his fist over the desk, and his knuckles are doing a poor job of concealing a giant self satisfied grin. He is the only person on the team who knows you well enough to make such a distasteful joke. And he also knows you well enough to know that it would make you feel so much better after your meeting with Hotch than all the well-meaning sincerity in the world ever could.
Funny.
Maybe that is the right word for what you two are.
