the one who simps

21 | she/her | hyperfixations include JATP, CM, 5SOS, Marvel, OBX and more

[migilini]

General MASTERLIST

Chosen Family | Sunset Curve

Charlie Gillespie

Roadtrip

So Far Apart

Fifth Time Works A Charm

Not So Secret Anymore

I Do

Give Me Attention

What The Heart Wants

Typical

Owen Patrick Joyner

Crushtok

Favourite Fanfic Lists

Spencer Reid

JJ Maybank

JATP

[love-allthingsmarvel]

Euclid: Part 2~ (p.p x f!reader)

A/N: SOOOOO. i tried to post the whole 22k words for part 2 and it didn't work–so there WILL BE a part 3. it is done, it is completed. it will probably be posted tomorrow night. sorry for the wait–i got carried away hehe. also heads up the only thing from bnd in here is the mutation that is the main focus.

summary: after you find out peter is going through changes alone–you do everything in your power to show him he’s not and will always have you. no matter the circumstances

warnings: violence, stitching, blood, migraines, angst, light fluff ??? (idk what else if there is anything else lmk pls!)

i listened to this song while writing: song

Word count: 10k 

part 1

____________________________

You adjusted your glasses, rubbing tired eyes before forcing them back to the bright glow of your computer screen. The tiny apartment was silent except for the rhythmic clicking of your keyboard and the occasional scratch of your pen across paper. Empty coffee cups littered your desk, textbooks lay open in uneven stacks, and every inch of available space had been claimed by hastily scribbled notes.

It had been two weeks since everything had unraveled in Peter's apartment.

Two weeks since he'd nearly lost himself.

Two weeks since you had watched the boy you cared about become something almost unrecognizable.

He was still suffering.

There wasn't much you could do physically. You couldn't fight whatever was happening inside him. You couldn't take away the splitting headaches or stop the violent tremors that overtook his hands. You couldn't slow whatever change his body had decided to force upon him.

So instead...

You did the only thing you knew how to do.

You researched.

You weren't a science major at ESU for nothing.

Every lecture suddenly felt ten times more important. You sat in the very front row, filling notebook after notebook with anything that even remotely sounded useful. Professors had started giving you curious looks after the sheer number of questions you asked, but you didn't care.

You even managed to schedule a meeting with Dr. Bruce Banner under the excuse of an independent research project. It wasn't much—just enough to get Peter in the same room as someone who might actually understand what was happening to him better than either of you could.

It wasn't a cure.

But it was hope.

And lately, hope was all either of you had.

The second your classes ended each day, you'd practically sprint back to your apartment. Shoes abandoned at the front door, backpack tossed onto the couch, laptop opened before you'd even caught your breath.

Hours blurred together.

Medical journals.

Genetic mutation studies.

Arachnid biology.

Spider venom.

Hormonal evolution.

Anything.

Everything.

Most of it led nowhere.

Until...

Buried beneath article after article discussing different spider species, one recurring detail finally caught your attention.

A spider's life cycle.

Molting.

Periods of rapid growth.

Hormonal shifts that temporarily altered behavior before reaching maturity.

You stared at the screen, rereading the paragraph over and over.

It couldn't be that simple...

Could it?

Something in your gut told you this mattered.

You grabbed the closest notebook and started writing so quickly your handwriting became almost unreadable. Arrows connected random thoughts, scientific terms were circled three different times, and entire sections were crossed out only to be rewritten in the margins seconds later.

It looked like chaos.

But somewhere inside that chaos...There might be an answer–

The past few days had also brought an unexpected change between you and Peter. You'd been spending nearly every waking moment together. Sometimes you worked in silence while he rested on the couch, an ice pack pressed against the back of his neck as he fought through another blinding migraine, or to ice his bruises from another long night as the masked hero. Other times, you'd sit beside him reading your notes aloud, hoping that somewhere between the scientific jargon and your theories, something would finally click. And on the harder days, neither of you spoke at all. You simply existed in the same room, the silence saying everything words couldn't.

When his hands started shaking uncontrollably, you didn't flinch anymore. When his breathing became uneven and his jaw clenched from the pain, you stayed exactly where you were. If frustration got the better of him and he snapped, you'd wait quietly until the inevitable apology came, accepting it every single time without hesitation. You had learned to give him space—not because you were afraid of him, but because you knew he needed room to breathe. A couple careful steps back whenever his instincts became too much. Never farther. Never enough to make him think you were leaving.

Because despite everything...

You never ran.

Not once.

The news wasn't helping either. Clips of Spider-Man's recent fights flooded every social media feed, but one video in particular had your stomach twisting into knots. Spider-Man versus Scorpion.

It wasn't the graceful, controlled fighting style New York had grown used to. Every punch looked devastating. Brutal. Unrestrained. Peter wasn't pulling his punches anymore—he couldn't. Even through a shaky video taken from someone's apartment window, you could see it. Every hit carried enough force to send Scorpion crashing through concrete.

E.V., the AI integrated into Peter's suit, had only confirmed your fears after analyzing his vitals a couple days ago.

"Peter's arachnid hormones are continuing to evolve. Increased aggression, heightened physical output, and intermittent loss of emotional regulation are all consistent with accelerated mutation."

His strength had reached levels neither of you had expected.

Unfortunately...

So had the consequences.

It all clicked into place.

He was experiencing mutation. 

You leaned back in your desk chair, rubbing the stiffness from your neck before letting your eyes scan the sea of papers scattered across your apartment. Research articles, handwritten notes, biology textbooks, diagrams of spider anatomy—it looked like madness.

It wasn't enough.

Not yet.

But it was something.

You gathered every page into one messy stack, stuffed them into your bag, and barely remembered to grab your apartment keys before rushing out the door.

The walk to Peter's apartment felt impossibly long. Your mind refused to slow down, replaying theories and possibilities over and over.

Maybe this explained why his body was changing.

Maybe..It would remind him that he wasn't becoming a monster.

That this pain wasn't forever.

You hurried down the hallway stopping outside his door, your chest rising and falling. Clutching the notebook tightly against your chest, you knocked rapidly.

"Peter?"

Silence.

You knocked again, a little harder this time, the sound echoing through the quiet hallway. You waited for a moment, your eyes fixed on the worn apartment door, but there was still no answer. Letting out a small huff of frustration, you glanced down the hallway before reaching into your pocket.

Pulling out your phone, you scrolled through your contacts until ‘Peter P.🕷️’ appeared on the screen. Your thumb hovered over his name for only a second before pressing the call button.

It rang once.

"Y/N... what's up?"

His voice came through slightly muffled, accompanied by the familiar rush of wind in the background. You immediately recognized the sound. He wasn't home.

He was swinging.

Of course he was.

"Hey," you sighed, rubbing the back of your neck as you leaned against the wall outside his apartment. "Listen... I'm currently standing outside your apartment right now, and I really think you should see this."

There was a brief pause on the other end.

"...More research?"

You couldn't help but let out a quiet laugh.

"So much more research," you replied. "And I think... I think I may have actually found something."

The wind seemed to disappear for a moment, replaced by nothing but silence.

"What kind of something?"

"The kind I don't want to explain over the phone."

Another beat passed before he finally answered.

"I'll be there in five."

The line went dead before you could say anything else.

You lowered the phone from your ear and slipped it back into your pocket, your fingers immediately finding the spiral notebook tucked beneath your arm. You'd read through these pages at least a dozen times today, yet somehow your eyes kept returning to the same section as if it would magically reveal something new.

Highlighter covered nearly every page.

Sticky notes stuck out from every direction.

Half-finished thoughts and frantic scribbles filled the margins wherever there had been empty space.

It looked less like organized research and more like someone desperately trying to piece together a puzzle with half the pieces missing.

Your gaze settled on the sentence you'd circled so many times the ink had nearly bled through the paper.

‘Spiders have three life cycles…’

You stared at the words, absentmindedly tracing the circle around them with your thumb.Maybe this was something Peter simply had to survive.

Every symptom. Every migraine. Every tremor that left his hands shaking so violently he could barely hold a coffee mug. Every moment he looked like he was trapped inside his own body.

This had to all be from the mutation..right? 

Maybe his body was still changing—still adapting to whatever that spider had done to him.

If that was true, then hopefully–eventuallty this would all stop. Right? 

You swallowed hard, your grip tightening around the notebook.

Because if it wasn't temporary...

If this wasn't another stage his body had to fight through...

Then what exactly was he becoming?

The thought settled heavily in your chest, making it difficult to breathe.

You quickly shook your head, trying to force the fear away.

No.

You couldn't think like that.

Not yet.

Not while Peter was still Peter.

Not while he still smiled through the pain and insisted he was "fine" whenever another migraine left him pale and barely able to stand.

He needed answers.

And if those answers were buried somewhere between scientific journals, biology textbooks, and obscure research papers that no one had read in years...

Then you'd keep looking until you found them.

Because someone had to.

And you refused to let Peter face whatever this was alone.

 xx 

Exactly five minutes later—not a minute more, not a minute less—the familiar sound of a lock clicking echoed through the hallway.

The apartment door swung open.

Peter stood in the doorway, still dressed in his Spider-Man suit, the mask nowhere to be seen. His curls were windswept from swinging through the city, a few stubborn strands falling into his eyes. The suit itself was scuffed in places, faint scratches and dirt from whatever—or whoever—he'd run into during patrol.

He looked exhausted.

And somehow...

Still unbelievably handsome.

Your mouth suddenly felt dry.

It was completely unfair.

How was it possible for someone to spend the last several hours fighting criminals, probably getting thrown through at least one wall, and still manage to look like that?

Peter raised an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth tugging into a small smile.

"...You gonna come in?"

Your face immediately warmed.

"Right."

You slipped past him into the apartment, the familiar scent of coffee and old books greeting you as you stepped inside. Kicking the door shut behind you, you turned and held the notebook out toward him.

"I think I found something."

His expression immediately shifted.

The teasing smile disappeared, replaced by quiet curiosity as he took the notebook from your hands without another word.

While he flipped it open, you wandered over to the couch, practically collapsing into your usual spot like you'd done it a hundred times before.

Maybe at this point-you had. 

"So," you started, watching him skim over the first page, "how was tonight?"

Peter didn't even glance up.

"The patrol..." he asked. "...Or the headaches?"

You frowned.

"Both."

He hummed quietly as he continued reading.

"Patrol was... uh... fine."

You could tell he was lying.

There was a fresh tear along one of the blue panels of his suit, and a bruise beginning to darken just beneath his jaw. Whatever "fine" meant in Spider-Man language was clearly very different from everyone else's definition.

"As for the headache..." He paused, flipping to another page. "It hasn't happened yet."

Your stomach sank.

He looked up from the notebook just long enough to meet your eyes.

"...Which means—"

"It's going to be bad tonight, isn't it?"

The question came out quieter than you'd intended.

Peter didn't answer immediately.

He simply gave a small nod before dropping his gaze back to the pages.

That was enough.

You hated that you already knew what that nod meant.

Every time the headaches waited...

They came back worse.

The apartment fell into a comfortable silence, broken only by the occasional turn of a page.

You found yourself watching him instead of the notebook.

Watching the way his eyes moved quickly across your handwriting.

The little crease that formed between his brows whenever he concentrated.

The way he absentmindedly chewed the inside of his cheek while he thought.

You searched his face for something.

Relief.

Hope.

Anything that suggested you were finally getting somewhere.

If you were being honest with yourself, you were looking at him simply because he was Peter.

Because despite everything that had happened over the two weeks...

You still hadn't gotten used to this.

To him.

Not even a month ago, Peter Parker had just been your awkward neighbor.

The quiet guy who apologized too much.

The friend who always offered to carry your groceries upstairs.

The one who disappeared at strange hours and showed up covered in bruises with excuses that somehow became less believable every single time.

Now...

He was Spider-Man.

The realization still didn't feel real.

It felt absurd, but it had become your normal. Sitting on Spider-Man's couch, watching him comb through pages of research you'd spent countless hours putting together, trying to understand what was happening to his own body. It wasn't a life you ever imagined for yourself, but somehow you'd fallen into it without realizing.

You swallowed hard, forcing your thoughts somewhere safer. Because if you let them wander for even a second longer, they'd end up exactly where you didn't want them to. On him. On the way his curls never seemed to stay where he pushed them. On that crease between his brows when he was focused. On the quiet kindness that never left him, even on the days the pain was so bad he could barely stand. On the way he always managed to ask how you were doing before admitting how badly he was hurting.

You couldn't afford that.

Not when you knew his heart still belonged to someone else.

MJ.

He'd told you everything one night after one of the worst headaches yet, when he'd finally been too exhausted to keep everything bottled up. He told you about the spell. About everyone forgetting. About standing in that little coffee shop only a few feet away from the people he loved most, knowing he could tell them the truth... and choosing not to because he believed they'd be safer without him. You remembered the look on his face as he spoke—like he was reliving it all over again. It had broken your heart just listening.

The strangest part was that you had been there too. You'd walked the same halls at Midtown High. Sat through the same assemblies, graduated with the same class, lived what should have been the same memories. And yet, when you searched your mind for Peter Parker, there was nothing. Not a single conversation. Not a shared class. Not even a passing glance in the hallway. Just an empty space where years of knowing someone should have been.

Peter remained silent as he continued reading, his eyes carefully scanning each highlighted sentence and scribbled notes. Without seeming to notice, he wandered over and sat beside you on the couch, close enough that your shoulders nearly touched. Another quiet minute passed before he finally closed the notebook with a soft sigh, setting it gently on the coffee table. He dragged a tired hand through his unruly curls, pushing them back from his forehead as his shoulders slumped.

For the first time since he'd walked through the door, the weight of the night seemed to catch up with him. The mask was off, the notebook was closed, and for just a moment... he looked less like Spider-Man and more like a twenty-two-year-old who was simply exhausted.

"So..." you started quietly, your voice barely filling the apartment.

Peter let out a humorless laugh, one that sounded more exhausted than amused. He kept his gaze fixed on the floor, his hands hanging limply between his knees.

"I'm mutating."

He finished the sentence for you so matter-of-factly that it made your stomach drop.

There was no panic in his voice anymore. No denial. Just complete, overwhelming exhaustion, like he'd already accepted whatever fate was waiting for him before either of you had the chance to understand it.

You stared at him for a moment, your heart aching.

"I think you'll be okay, Peter." You spoke carefully, choosing every word as if one wrong sentence might make him shatter. "You just have to... I don't know... go through it. Whatever this is. Then when it's over you'll be..."

His head snapped toward you so quickly that you almost flinched.

"I'll be what?"

The question came out sharper than you expected.

"A monster?" His jaw clenched as he stood abruptly from the couch, pacing a few restless steps before dragging both hands through his curls. "What if I hurt someone?" His breathing had already begun to speed up. "What if I'm not myself anymore?"

He stopped walking.

Slowly, his eyes found yours.

"What if I hurt you again?"

The words hit harder than you expected.

Not because of what he said—but because of how terrified he looked saying them.

He wasn't afraid for himself.

He was afraid of becoming someone who could hurt you.

You stood from the couch without thinking, closing the distance between you two step by a step.

"Peter, you're not going to hu—"

"I already did, for Christ's sake!"

His voice echoed through the apartment before he turned away, rubbing both hands over his face in frustration.

"This..." He motioned helplessly toward himself. "This is exactly why I wanted everyone to forget me. It's exactly why I stayed away."

His shoulders rose and fell with every uneven breath.

"It's just not worth it." His voice cracked into something quieter. "It's... it's not..."

"Oh my God, Peter."

Your words cut through the room before you even realized you'd spoken.

"Shut up."

His head turned slowly.

There was something almost startled in his expression, like he genuinely hadn't expected you to interrupt him.

"You think I don't know the risks of being your friend right now?" you asked, taking another step toward him. "My God, Peter, you're basically a walking time bomb."

You watched guilt immediately settle across his face, but you weren't finished.

"At any second you could get another migraine. You could pass out. You could lose control and come after me again."

You paused, holding his gaze.

"I know all of that."

The silence that followed was suffocating.

"I don't care."

Your voice was quieter now, but somehow even firmer.

"I don't care."

You could feel your chest tightening, your throat beginning to burn as every emotion you'd been trying to keep under control finally surfaced.

"You spend every single day saving people." Your eyes never left his. "You throw yourself into danger without thinking twice if it means someone else gets to make it home."

Your voice softened.

"You gave up everyone you loved."

The words hung heavily between you.

"You made your best friends... everyone... forget you because you thought it was the only way to keep them safe."

You took another step until barely any space remained between you.

"You've spent four years carrying all of this by yourself."

Your head tilted slightly as you searched his face.

"So let somebody do something for you for once."

Peter didn't move.

"Let someone worry about you."

His breathing slowed just enough for you to notice.

"Let someone be there."

Your eyes stung.

"I don't care what happens to me."

"I do."

His answer came instantly, almost desperately.

"I know you do," you whispered. "But you need someone, Peter."

Your voice cracked around his name.

"And I told you I would be that person."

You offered him the smallest smile.

"So... just let me."

For a long moment, neither of you spoke.

Peter simply stared at you.

There was something in his expression you couldn't quite place. Shock, maybe–Disbelief.

Like no one had ever chosen to stay when things became difficult.

Like he couldn't understand why you were.

"You are so..."

He shook his head, a tiny laugh escaping him despite everything.

Before you could ask what he meant, he wrapped his arms tightly around you. 

The force of it made you stumble slightly before your own arms instinctively found their way around him.

He held you like he was afraid you'd disappear if he loosened his grip.

For several seconds, neither of you spoke.

You simply rested your cheek against his chest, listening as his breathing slowly began to steady.

"So what?" you asked quietly, unable to stop the smile tugging at your lips.

You hear him laugh.

"So stubborn."

You couldn't help but laugh too, squeezing him just a little tighter.

"Oh my God."

You closed your eyes.

"So unbelievably stubborn."

For the first time in days, the apartment didn't feel so heavy.

Neither of you had solved anything.

Peter was still sick.

The future was still terrifyingly uncertain.

But for just a little while...

He wasn't carrying it alone anymore.

Xxx 

A couple of days had passed since you had given Peter the notebook.

After everything that had happened, the two of you had agreed there wasn't much either of you could do besides wait out whatever the mutation had in store for him. Neither of you liked that answer, but it was the only one you had.

So you adapted.

Every day became a routine of constant check-ins.

You brought dinner to his apartment more often than not, refusing to let him live off whatever stale cereal happened to be left in his cabinets. Some mornings, before your first class, Peter would quietly leave a coffee outside your apartment door with a sticky note scribbled across the cup—Good luck today or Don't fail your exam, please. I'd feel guilty.

Throughout the day there were texts.

Migraine's at a three today.

Remember to eat lunch.

How's class?

You sleeping tonight?

Phone calls became part of the routine too. No matter how exhausted either of you were, Peter always called after patrol to tell you how he was feeling.

And when the nights were bad...

You ran to him.

Sometimes that meant sitting on the floor beside his bed while another migraine tore through him. Sometimes it meant reminding him to breathe when the pain became unbearable. Other nights, it simply meant existing in the same room, making sure he didn't have to go through it alone.

You couldn't stop whatever was happening to him.

But you could make sure he never faced it by himself.

Tonight was supposed to be no different.

You sat cross-legged on your couch, surrounded by open textbooks, loose notebook paper, and brightly colored highlighters that had long since stopped being organized. An empty coffee mug sat forgotten on the end table beside you, evidence of the caffeine that had carried you through the last few hours.

Finals were creeping closer by the day, and your life had slowly narrowed into two priorities.

Studying.

And Peter.

You glanced toward the digital clock on your microwave.

10:03 p.m.

Right on schedule.

Peter should be wrapping up patrol soon. He'd probably call in the next ten or fifteen minutes like he always did, complain about some guy trying to rob a convenience store with the world's worst disguise, tell you how the headaches had been that day, and then remind you to get some sleep even though he was the one surviving on maybe four hours a night.

The thought made you smile as you returned your attention to the notes in front of you.

Your playlist drifted quietly through the apartment, filling the comfortable silence while your highlighter slid across another paragraph.

Time passed without you noticing.

Until you happened to glance at the clock again.

10:45 p.m.

Your eyebrows pulled together.

That wasn't right.

Peter was late.

Not by a few minutes.

By over half an hour.

You reached for your phone, checking for a missed call or text.

Nothing.

A knot tightened in your stomach.

Maybe the patrol had run long.

Maybe he was helping someone.

Maybe...

You shook the thought away before it could settle.

Setting your textbook aside, you pushed yourself off the couch. You'd throw on a pair of leggings and walk the few steps to his apartment. If everything was fine, he'd probably laugh at you for worrying.

Your phone rang.

You froze.

The screen lit up with a familiar contact.

‘Peter P. 🕷️’

Relief rushed through your body so quickly your knees nearly gave out.

You answered before the second ring.

"I was just about to head to your apartment."

Silence.

Your smile disappeared.

"...Peter?"

Nothing.

Not even static.

Just an unbearable silence that made every nerve in your body stand on end.

"Peter?" you repeated, louder this time.

Still nothing.

Your heart began hammering against your ribs.

Without thinking, you hurried toward your bedroom, fumbling through your dresser for something warmer than the oversized T-shirt and shorts you'd been studying in.

"Peter!" Your voice cracked as you shoved your phone between your shoulder and ear, yanking on a pair of leggings as fast as you could. "Please answer me. Peter, come on... say something."

For a moment, you thought the call had dropped.

Then...

A shaky breath.

Barely audible.

"...Y/N..."

Your stomach dropped.

His voice was weak.

Painfully weak.

It sounded like every word cost him what little strength he had left.

"Peter," you said immediately, your own breathing beginning to quicken. "I need you to tell me where you are. Give me landmarks. Street names. Anything."

There was another long pause.

Long enough that you wondered if he'd passed out.

Then—

"...Roof."

"Okay." You grabbed your keys from the kitchen counter, your hands trembling hard enough that you nearly dropped them. "Okay, what roof? Peter, look around. What can you see?"

You shoved your feet into your Converse, barely bothering to tie them before pulling your sweatshirt over your head and throwing open your apartment door.

On the other end of the phone, his breathing grew heavier.

"...Sign..."

"What sign?" you urged, already sprinting toward the elevator. "Peter, stay with me."

"...Deli..."

His voice faded in and out, each word weaker than the last.

"...M... Marino's..."

The line went dead.

You stopped in front of the elevator just long enough to stare at your phone.

The call had ended.

"...Fuck."

Waiting wasn't an option.

You threw open the heavy stairwell door and took the concrete steps two at a time from the fourth floor, your hand barely grazing the railing as you flew down each landing. Your heart hammered against your ribs, your breathing already growing ragged before you even reached the lobby.

By the time you burst through the apartment building doors, the cool night air hit your face like a slap.

Marino's.

The name echoed over and over in your head.

It wasn't far.

A block.

Maybe a little more.

You ran anyway.

Walking was not an option.

As you sprinted down the sidewalk, you hit Peter's contact again, pressing your phone tightly against your ear while weaving around the few pedestrians still out this late.

The phone rang.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

"Come on..." you whispered under your breath.

It kept ringing.

No answer.

Your stomach twisted.

Your legs carried you faster than your thoughts could keep up, your ponytail whipping against your back with every stride. Storefronts blurred together beneath the glow of flickering streetlights as your eyes desperately searched every sign you passed.

Then—

Marino's Deli.

Relief lasted less than a second before another wave of panic crashed over you.

"The roof," you muttered.

Without slowing down, you darted into the narrow alley beside the deli. The sounds of the city disappeared almost instantly, replaced by the hollow echo of your footsteps against cracked pavement. You yanked your phone from your hand and switched on the flashlight, the weak beam bouncing across dumpsters, brick walls, and scattered trash as you searched for a way up.

Your pulse was pounding so loudly you could hear it.

Honestly...

You almost pitied anyone stupid enough to try and mug you right now.

Between the adrenaline flooding your system and the sheer panic coursing through your veins, you were pretty sure you could take on a grown man without thinking twice.

The thought barely registered before your light landed on a rusted metal staircase bolted to the side of the building.

"There."

You hurried toward it, only to realize the first step hung several feet above the ground.

"...Seriously?"

You glanced around the alley, searching for anything—a crate, a dumpster, literally anything you could climb onto.

Nothing.

Of course.

You let out an exasperated breath before shoving your phone into the pocket of your leggings and stepping beneath the staircase.

"Alright..."

You bent your knees and jumped.

Your fingers missed the bottom step by inches.

You landed awkwardly, nearly losing your balance.

"Come on."

You tried again.

This time your fingertips caught the edge of the lowest step.

For one terrifying second, you hung there, your feet kicking uselessly beneath you.

"Oh, for fuck's—"

Your free hand found the railing, and with every ounce of strength you had, you hauled yourself upward. Your shoulders screamed in protest as you fought to pull yourself high enough for one foot to hook onto the first step.

The moment your Converse finally connected with the metal, you let out a shaky breath.

"Definitely going to feel that tomorrow," you muttered, rolling one aching shoulder before tightening your grip on the railing.

There wasn't time to complain.

Not when Peter was somewhere above you.

You started climbing.

Each step echoed through the quiet alley as your heart pounded harder with every floor you gained.

Please be okay.

It was the only thought left in your head–and by the time you pulled yourself onto the rooftop, every muscle in your arms and legs was screaming in protest.

Your shoulders burned from hauling yourself up the fire escape, your lungs struggled to catch a full breath, and your heart pounded so hard it drowned out almost everything around you.

You barely noticed.

There wasn't time.

The rooftop stretched out before you, bathed in pale moonlight. A handful of distant neon signs cast faint patches of color across the concrete while the steady hum of rooftop air conditioning units filled the otherwise quiet night.

Your eyes darted across every corner.

"Peter?"

Your voice echoed into the darkness.

No answer.

A fresh wave of panic tightened around your chest.

You quickly pulled your phone from your pocket, switching the flashlight back on as the beam swept across the rooftop. Metal vents. Rusted pipes. More air conditioning units.

Nothing.

"Peter!" you called again, louder this time, your voice beginning to crack.

Then...

A cough.

Weak.

Ragged.

Your head snapped toward the sound.

There.

Partially hidden behind one of the large air conditioning units, Peter was slumped against the metal casing, one hand clutched tightly against his side as he struggled to pull himself upright. His mask had been discarded somewhere beside him, exposing the cuts scattered across his face.

"Peter!"

You were moving before you realized it, practically sprinting across the rooftop until you dropped to your knees beside him.

For a split second...

You hesitated.

Your hands hovered inches from him, terrified that touching him might somehow make things worse.

"Hey," you said softly, forcing your voice to stay calm despite the panic threatening to spill over. "Hey... look at me."

Slowly, Peter lifted his head.

His eyes found yours almost immediately.

They were glossy with pain, unfocused around the edges, as though he was having trouble keeping himself present.

You offered him the smallest smile you could manage.

"I'm here."

Something in his expression softened.

He tried to smile back.

It barely lasted a second before another wave of pain crossed his face, twisting his features into a grimace.

"...Why?" he managed, his voice barely above a whisper.

You couldn't help the breathless laugh that escaped you.

"You called me, dumbass."

Peter frowned weakly, confusion flickering across his face.

"I don't..." His words caught as he suddenly sucked in a sharp breath, his back arching against the metal unit behind him. One hand instinctively pressed harder against his side. "...remember."

Your smile disappeared.

"It's okay," you said quietly, shaking your head. "You don't have to remember right now."

Your eyes scanned him more carefully.

Bruises were already beginning to bloom along his cheekbone.

A cut split his lower lip, fresh blood trailing down his chin.

The Spider-Man suit was torn in multiple places, revealing angry scrapes and darkening bruises beneath the fabric.

Then your gaze landed on his side.

Blood.

Far too much of it.

Your stomach dropped.

"We have to get you home."

Peter gave the smallest nod, though you weren't entirely convinced he'd heard you.

Before helping him move, you looked back at him, unable to stop yourself from asking.

"...Peter."

Your voice was barely above a whisper.

"What the hell happened?"

He let out a slow, shaky breath, his eyelids fluttering as though simply staying awake required every ounce of concentration he had left.

"...Patrol."

Another breath.

"I had..." He swallowed hard. "...one of my episodes.."

The words settled heavily in your chest.

Pieces of your research immediately came flooding back.

When spiders entered certain stages of their molting cycle, they became significantly weaker. Their bodies diverted energy toward the changes taking place internally, leaving them slower, more vulnerable, and far less capable of defending themselves.

Peter hadn't stayed home.

He'd gone on patrol anyway.

He'd probably been in the middle of a fight when another episode hit.

Your chest tightened painfully.

Of course he had.

Because even when his own body was turning against him...

Peter Parker had still gone out to save someone else.

"We've gotta get you back to your apartment, Peter."

He gave the slightest nod before bracing one hand against the rooftop. His entire body trembled as he tried to push himself upright, a pained groan escaping through gritted teeth almost immediately. He barely managed to lift himself a few inches before collapsing back against the air conditioning unit with another sharp inhale.

As he shifted, the torn fabric of his suit pulled away from his side.

Your stomach dropped.

A deep gash stretched across his abdomen, blood soaking through the dark fabric and running steadily down his hip. The edges of the wound were jagged, like the blade that had caught him hadn't been clean. It wasn't just a cut—it was the kind of injury that should have sent someone straight to the grave.

For a split second, you couldn't move.

Then instinct took over.

The moment Peter lifted his hand from the wound to try and steady himself, fresh blood poured freely from the opening. You immediately pressed both of your hands against his side, applying as much pressure as you could without thinking twice. Warm blood seeped between your fingers almost instantly, and you felt your chest tighten.

"Peter..."

Your voice barely came out above a whisper.

He leaned his head back against the metal unit behind him, his eyes squeezing shut as another wave of pain rolled through him. His breathing had become shallow, every inhale sounding like it hurt.

"...It's bad," he admitted quietly, forcing the words out between breaths. "I... I know."

You looked down at your hands. Blood coated your palms, your fingers, even the sleeves of your sweatshirt.

No.

No, this wasn't something you could handle with a first-aid kit.

Your eyes darted around the rooftop, your mind racing through every possible option.

"This time..." Your voice shook despite your best efforts. "This time I think I actually have to call someone, Peter."

His head moved almost imperceptibly.

"No."

Your eyebrows pulled together.

"Peter, look at this." You gestured toward the wound without lifting your hands away. "You're losing too much blood."

Another slow shake of his head.

"Let me go get help. I'll be back in five minutes. Just stay here."

"No."

The word stopped you cold.

It wasn't louder than before.

If anything, it was quieter.

But something about it...

was different.

The tone was deeper. Sharper. More instinct than conversation.

A chill crept up your spine.

Slowly, your attention lifted from the wound to his face.

Your breath caught.

His eyes.

The familiar warm brown you'd grown so used to over the past few weeks had disappeared completely.

They were black.

Not just his irises.

His eyes were completely solid black.

Dark. Endless. Almost unnatural beneath the glow of the moonlight.

For a heartbeat, neither of you moved.

"Peter..." you whispered carefully.

He didn't answer.

He simply looked at you.

Not angrily.

Not aggressively.

Just... intensely.

Like he was trying to focus on your face through layers of static.

Your pulse hammered against your ribs.

"It's me."

You kept your voice soft, refusing to look away from him.

"Stay with me."

His brow slowly furrowed.

You watched something shift in his expression.

Recognition.

Confusion.

Pain.

It all seemed to fight for control at once.

"I..." His voice faltered. He swallowed hard before trying again. "...I know."

The words had barely left his mouth before his entire body tensed.

His back arched violently against the metal behind him as another wave of pain ripped through him. A strangled gasp escaped his lips, and you instinctively pressed harder against the wound, desperate to stop the bleeding.

Then...

Something beneath your hands moved.

Your eyes narrowed.

At first you thought Peter had shifted his body again.

But he hadn't.

The sensation came from underneath your palms.

Almost like...

the muscles themselves were tightening.

You slowly eased the pressure just enough to look.

Your heart nearly stopped.

The blood wasn't pouring out anymore.

It had slowed to a trickle.

You stared at the wound in complete disbelief as the torn edges gradually drew closer together. It wasn't healing completely—not even close—but it was changing. The gash was noticeably smaller than it had been only moments before, the muscle beneath knitting itself together just enough to keep him from bleeding out.

Your hands hovered uselessly over the injury.

You couldn't make yourself touch it.

"...Oh my God."

The words escaped on nothing more than a breath.

Peter's shoulders, which had been rigid with pain, slowly relaxed. His breathing steadied little by little, and when he blinked a few times before looking back at you, the blackness in his eyes had faded.

Brown.

Warm.

Peter's eyes.

He frowned, looking between your stunned expression and the wound at his side.

"What just..."

His voice trailed off.

You barely heard him.

You were too busy noticing everything else.

The cut on his lip was almost gone.

The bruises across his cheek had already begun fading from angry purple to softer shades of blue.

Even the color had returned to his face.

You swallowed hard, still trying to make sense of what you had just witnessed.

"The mutation..."

Your voice was barely audible.

"It didn't heal you completely."

You looked down at the wound again, your mind racing.

"It..."

You shook your head in disbelief.

"It saved you."

For a long moment, neither of you spoke.

The city carried on beneath the rooftop as though nothing had happened. Car horns echoed in the distance, a train rumbled somewhere several blocks away, and a cool breeze swept across the rooftop.

But neither of you noticed.

You were both staring at the same thing.

The wound.

And the terrifying realization that Peter's body had just rewritten the rules all on its own.

“Can you stand?” you asked softly.

Peter let out a tired breath, his head lolling slightly before he gave a small nod. “I mean…” His voice came out rough, barely above a whisper. “…I think.”

He planted both palms against the rooftop, every muscle in his body visibly tensing as he forced himself upright. A sharp hiss escaped through gritted teeth, his face contorting for only a second before he managed to straighten.

He still looked like a disaster.

His curls clung to his forehead with sweat, blood stained nearly every inch of the Spider-Man suit, and dark bruises were already beginning to spread across the side of his jaw.

But...

He looked a little less like he was dying.

The second he attempted to take a step, his knees threatened to buckle beneath him.

“Peter—”

You were already moving before he could hit the ground, wrapping an arm securely around his waist as you caught him. His arm instinctively draped over your shoulders, his weight leaning into you far more than he probably intended. For a moment, neither of you moved.

He stared down at the concrete.

“…I’m sorry.”

You let out an exaggerated sigh, rolling your eyes.

“If I hear you apologize one more time tonight,” you muttered, adjusting your grip around him, “I’m actually going to kill you.”

The corner of his mouth twitched.

It was barely noticeable.

But you caught it.

Your eyes drifted back down to the gash in his side. Even with his mutation healing, fresh blood continued to seep through the gash. 

Your stomach sank.

“It needs stitches.”

Peter gave a small nod, swallowing hard. “My apartment…”

“Peter,” you interrupted gently. “A hospital.”

He was already shaking his head.

“My apartment.” His breathing hitched. “I—I have... supplies there.”

Of course he did.

The realization settled heavily in your chest. A normal person would've gone to the emergency room.

Peter Parker apparently had enough experience patching himself together that he'd built his own emergency kit at home.

The thought hurt more than you wanted to admit.

You wanted to argue. You wanted to tell him this wasn't something he should be handling alone, that someone else, a professional, should take care of him for once.

But one look at him was enough.

He could barely stay standing.

There wasn't a chance in hell he was willingly walking into a hospital dressed like Spider-Man.

Besides...

Between the nursing elective you took in high school, first aid classes, and an embarrassing amount of medical videos you'd watched over the years...

You could probably stitch him up.

Probably.

You decided not to dwell on that.

“Fine,” you sighed. “Apartment first.”

Relief flickered across his face for the briefest moment before he slowly turned his head, scanning the rooftops around the two of you. He squinted as though trying to piece together a memory that refused to come.

“…How the hell did I…”

His brows furrowed beneath the mask.

“…Get up here?”

You followed his gaze around the rooftop before letting out a breath that almost sounded like a laugh.

“No clue,” you admitted. “But I do know one thing.”

Your eyes drifted toward the edge of the building, where the city stretched endlessly below.

“Getting back down is going to hurt like hell.”

Peter glanced over the ledge before quietly groaning.

“…Yeah.”

Silence settled between the two of you for a beat.

You tightened your hold around his waist, looking around until your eyes landed on the rusted metal fire escape bolted to the side of the building.

“Well…” you muttered, nodding toward it. “Unless you've got some secret Spider-Man staircase I've never heard about…”

Peter let out the faintest breath of a laugh before immediately wincing.

“…Fire escape it is.” 

xx

The walk back to Peter's apartment was miserable.

Every step drew another quiet hiss from him, his weight growing heavier against your side the farther the two of you walked. You were just thankful he'd spotted the fire escape. Your shoulder was still screaming from the ridiculous way you had gotten onto the rooftop in the first place, and you were fairly certain you'd be bruised for the next week.

The two of you stayed tucked between buildings and empty alleyways, avoiding the brighter sidewalks whenever possible. Peter had shoved his mask into the pocket of your leggings, but that hardly solved the problem. Even without it, anyone who looked too closely would recognize the unmistakable red-and-blue suit clinging to his body. Neither of you needed that tonight.

By the time Peter finally fumbled his keys into the apartment door and pushed it open, you barely made it two steps inside before his body gave out. His weight slipped from your grasp, dragging you down with him as he collapsed onto the hardwood floor with a heavy groan.

"Peter."

You dropped into a crouch in front of him, one hand instinctively finding his shoulder. "I know it hurts," you said softly. "Believe me, I know. But I have to get you somewhere better than the floor."

Your eyes drifted toward the couch before landing on the dining chair. Honestly... anywhere was better than the hardwood beneath him.

Peter let out a long, exhausted sigh before forcing himself upright, scooting closer to you than either of you had expected. Suddenly he was inches away, his curls falling messily over his forehead as he struggled to catch his breath.

"I..." His voice cracked from exhaustion. "I know. I just..."

"You need a minute," you finished gently. "To catch your breath."

He nodded once, his shoulders finally relaxing. "...Yeah."

"It's okay."

The faintest smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

"...Thank you."

Your own lips curved before you could stop them, but your smile faded almost as quickly as it came.

His eyes drifted from yours... down to your lips.

Only for a heartbeat.

Just long enough for your own breath to catch.

Then they flicked back up again, almost as if he'd caught himself. The silence that settled between you suddenly felt impossibly loud.

A knot twisted in your stomach.

He loves MJ.

Not you.

He's exhausted.

He's probably delirious.

You quickly pushed yourself to your feet, taking a careful step backward.

"I..." You cleared your throat, refusing to meet his eyes. "I'll give you a second."

You barely turned before gentle fingers wrapped around your wrist.

Not enough to stop you by force.

Just enough to ask you to stay.

You looked back as Peter slowly stood, using every ounce of strength he had left. He was close again—close enough that you could feel the warmth of his uneven breathing against your face.

Before you could ask what he was doing, his hand lifted.

His hand cupped your cheek with impossible gentleness before his thumb swept softly across your skin.

"You're bleeding."

Your hand instinctively flew to your face.

"What?"

Peter looked down at the smear coating his thumb.

You shook your head slowly, your voice barely louder than a whisper.

"It's yours."

You swallowed.

"It's... your blood."

His hand lingered against your cheek for another second. There was something in the way he looked at you—something soft, something that made your pulse race so hard you were sure he could hear it.

You were suddenly terrified your own expression looked exactly the same.

Taking a slow step backward, you broke whatever had settled between you. His hand slipped away, falling back to his side.

"I..." You tugged lightly at the blood-soaked fabric of your sweater, forcing yourself to look anywhere but at him. "I need to get this off. It's covered in..." You gestured toward him with an awkward laugh. "...You."

Only then did reality hit.

You were standing in Peter Parker's apartment.

Which meant every piece of clothing you owned was currently somewhere else.

You squeezed your eyes shut for a second.

"I'm borrowing one of your shirts."

Peter gave a tired nod.

"Go for it."

You hurried into his bedroom, shutting the door behind you before your brain had the chance to replay whatever had just happened. The sweater peeled off with a grimace before landing in the corner of the room. Loose strands of hair clung to your face as you quickly redid your ponytail, trying to steady the shake in your hands.

You weren't sure if it was the adrenaline...

Or Peter.

Opening his closet, you grabbed the first clean T-shirt you saw—a faded gray one with some ridiculous math joke stretched across the front.

"...Of course," you muttered, pulling it over your head.

Your reflection caught your eye in the mirror.

Your cheeks were still pink.

"Oh my God, Y/N," you groaned under your breath. "Get over yourself."

Grabbing a pair of sweatpants from one of Peter's drawers for him to change into, you headed back into the living room.

The words died in your throat.

Peter was sitting in one of the dining chairs, his suit already peeled down beneath his hips. Bruises bloomed across his chest and ribs, the angry gash in his side looking even worse under the apartment lights.

Needle and thread rested between trembling fingers.

He was actually trying to stitch himself up.

"Peter!"

His head snapped toward you.

"What?"

"Do you ever relax?" you exclaimed, dropping the clothes onto the floor as you marched toward him. "Give me that."

Without waiting for permission, you reached for the needle.

"You're not stitching yourself up tonight."

Xx

Time seemed to crawl.

Each time you pushed the needle through Peter's skin, your own body flinched right along with him. You wished your hands would stop shaking. You wished you could be gentler. Every stitch felt like you were hurting him all over again.

Still...

Peter never complained.

He knew you were doing your best.

Truthfully, he also knew he would've done a far worse job himself. His head was still pounding relentlessly, every pulse sending another wave of pain behind his eyes. His hands trembled far worse than yours did, and every time he looked down at the needle, his stomach threatened to turn.

You only had a few stitches left.

The apartment had remained mostly silent, save for Peter's occasional sharp inhale whenever the needle caught a particularly tender spot and the soft clink of your supplies against the dining room table.

Finally, unable to ignore the question circling your mind any longer, you broke the silence.

"Do you remember anything?"

You were seated in the dining chair beside him, leaning forward with your face only inches from the wound. Close enough to see every bruise beginning to bloom across his ribs. Close enough to feel the warmth radiating from his skin.

Peter let out a slow breath, his shoulders lifting in a small shrug before he immediately regretted the movement.

"I remember getting there," he said quietly. "They were robbers... I think there were six of them."

You nodded, carefully guiding the needle through one final stitch.

"Anything else?"

He stared toward the apartment floor, his brow furrowing as he searched for memories that refused to come.

"I remember fighting them..." His voice trailed off as another migraine seemed to ripple through him. "...Then I got one of the headaches."

He squeezed his eyes shut for a second.

"A bad one."

Your hands immediately stopped moving.

You looked up at him, concern replacing your concentration.

"The next thing I remember..." he continued after a moment, "...I was swinging. I made it to the rooftop..." He frowned, clearly frustrated with himself. "...Then everything just... blanks."

His eyes slowly found yours.

"And then..."

His voice softened.

"You were standing in front of me."

A small laugh escaped you.

"You called me first," you reminded him. "Scared the absolute hell out of me."

His lips twitched.

"...Sorry."

You pointed the needle at him without missing a beat.

"Don't."

That earned you the tiniest laugh.

You smiled to yourself before tying off the final stitch, securing the knot carefully. After trimming the excess thread with the small pair of scissors resting on the table, you finally leaned back, letting out a breath you hadn't realized you'd been holding.

"There."

Peter looked down at the neat row of stitches before lifting his gaze back to you.

"...Thank you, Y/N."

You offered him a tired smile, shrugging one shoulder.

"It's okay to need saving sometimes, Parker."

Something softened in his expression.

A small, strained smile spread across his face as he slowly reached up, gently brushing a loose strand of hair away from your face.

His fingertips barely grazed your skin.

You froze.

What was happening?

He loved MJ.

You knew he loved MJ.

So why did every look he gave you tonight feel... different?

Your heart pounded painfully against your ribs, but you refused to move, afraid the smallest motion would shatter whatever had settled between the two of you.

"You should get some rest," you whispered.

Peter nodded slowly.

"...So should you."

His eyes flicked toward the microwave clock across the apartment.

"It's after midnight."

Another pause.

"You should be studying for finals."

You rolled your eyes dramatically, letting out a small laugh.

"I'll survive."

"I know."

His answer came almost immediately.

Simple.

Certain.

The words settled somewhere deep in your chest.

The silence that followed felt almost too heavy to carry.

Desperate to break it, you cleared your throat.

"So..." You tilted your head toward the hallway. "Need me to carry you to bed?"

Peter let out an honest laugh.

Not the quiet chuckle he'd been giving you all night.

A real one.

It echoed through the apartment before he immediately clutched his side, groaning.

"Okay..." he winced. "Maybe don't make me laugh."

You couldn't help laughing too.

"I think I can manage," he added once he'd caught his breath.

Slowly, he pushed himself out of the dining chair. Every movement looked like it hurt, one hand instinctively pressing against the fresh stitches as he limped toward his bedroom.

He stopped in the doorway.

Turning back, his eyes found yours once more.

"I'm happy I have you, Y/N."

Your smile softened.

"You've saved my life in more ways than just a couple stitches."

The words hung in the air between you.

Before you could think of anything to say...

Peter offered one last small smile.

Then quietly disappeared into his room, the bedroom door clicking shut behind him.

You stared at Peter's bedroom door long after it had quietly clicked shut, a small smile lingering on your lips despite yourself.

The smile disappeared just as quickly as it came.

Your eyes slowly swept across the apartment.

Blood.

Bloody gauze.

Loose strands of thread.

Medical supplies scattered across the dining room table.

The reality of the night settled over you all at once.

With a quiet breath, you pushed yourself to your feet and began cleaning.

You carefully gathered the blood-soaked gauze before throwing it away, wiping down the hardwood where droplets of dried blood had stained the floor. The dining table took longer. You scrubbed until there wasn't a trace left, your eyes lingering on the faint scratches in the wood where your scissors had scraped against it while stitching Peter back together.

Once everything else was spotless, you made your way to the sink.

You washed your hands once.

Then again.

Then a third time.

The water grew colder with every passing second as you scrubbed harder, your skin turning pink beneath your fingertips.

No matter how much you washed...

You could still feel the blood.

You finally shut the faucet off, gripping the edge of the sink as you let out a long, shaky breath.

Your eyes drifted toward the microwave.

2:02 A.M.

A tired laugh escaped your lips.

You should've been asleep hours ago.

Instead, your body still buzzed with adrenaline, your ears ringing in the heavy silence that had settled over the apartment. Every time you closed your eyes, all you could see was Peter lying on that rooftop... pale, barely conscious, blood slipping through your fingers no matter how tightly you tried to hold the wound closed.

Your stomach twisted.

You were just thankful you didn't have class tomorrow.

After one final glance around the apartment to make sure everything was clean, you grabbed your sweater from where you'd left it and made your way toward the front door.

Your hand wrapped around the doorknob.

You stopped.

Your eyes drifted toward Peter's bedroom.

He could've died tonight.

The thought struck harder now than it had on the rooftop.

He could wake up in more pain.

He could have another migraine.

What if he started bleeding again?

What if he called out...and no one was there to hear him?

You squeezed your eyes shut.

Just go home.

The thought barely had time to settle before another answered it.

Stay.

You let out a defeated sigh.

"...Damn it."

Turning away from the door, you wandered back into the living room and practically collapsed onto the couch. You grabbed one of the throw blankets draped over the armrest, pulling it tightly around yourself as exhaustion finally began to outweigh the adrenaline.

You reached into your pocket for your phone, opening the folder full of lecture slides and photos of your notes you'd promised yourself you'd review before finals.

You managed exactly two pages.

The words blurred together.

Your eyelids grew heavier.

At some point, your phone slipped from your hand onto your chest.

You never even realized you'd fallen asleep.

xx

You shifted beneath the throw blanket, rolling onto your side as the sound of movement drifted through the apartment. Your brain hadn't quite caught up with the fact that you were awake, your body still heavy with exhaustion.

Then—

A loud clang echoed from the kitchen.

Your eyes shot open, your body jolting upright as your heart leaped into your throat. For one terrifying second, panic flooded through you before your surroundings slowly came into focus.

Peter's apartment.

The rooftop.

The blood.

The stitches.

"Peter?" you called, your voice thick with sleep as you rubbed your eyes.

There was a beat of silence.

"I'm okay!"

The tightness in your chest eased immediately.

Another pause.

"...I dropped a spoon. Sorry.."

You blinked before letting out a tired laugh, flopping dramatically back against the couch and pulling the blanket over your head.

"Can you drop a spoon somewhere else, please?"

"I'll do my best."

You smiled despite yourself.

A few careful footsteps approached before stopping beside the couch. Slowly lowering the blanket from your face, you found Peter standing over you with two steaming mugs balanced carefully in his hands. One was already extended toward you.

He'd made you coffee.

You sat up, accepting the mug with both hands as the warmth seeped into your fingers.

"Apology accepted," you mumbled before taking a cautious sip.

Your eyebrows lifted in surprise.

It was perfect.

Just enough creamer. Slightly sweet. Exactly how you liked it.

"You remembered."

Peter shrugged, suddenly far more interested in his own coffee than looking at you.

"You've made it enough times”

A smile tugged at your lips as he carefully lowered himself onto the couch beside you, moving slower than usual to protect his side. Morning sunlight spilled through the apartment windows, catching the bruises scattered across his face. Yellow had begun replacing the angry blues from the night before, and the cut across his lip had already started to scab over.

It was almost impossible to believe that less than twelve hours ago, you genuinely thought he was going to die.

"You okay?" Peter asked quietly.

You blinked, realizing you'd been staring.

"Yeah." You smiled sheepishly. "Just making sure you're still alive."

A quiet chuckle escaped him.

"I think I am."

Without another word, he carefully lifted the hem of his shirt just enough to expose the stitches on his side.

"I wanted to show you."

Your breath caught before you could stop it.

Last night, all you had seen was blood.

Fear.

Panic.

Now, with daylight pouring through the apartment, you couldn't help noticing everything else. The defined muscles across his stomach, the bruises scattered along his ribs, the way the fresh stitches stretched neatly across the wound you'd spent nearly an hour closing.

You quickly forced your attention back where it belonged.

The wound.

It already looked better.

Spider healing.

You'd almost forgotten how ridiculously fast his body recovered.

"The stitches look really good," you said quietly, leaning in just enough to inspect them. "You'll probably want me to take them out tonight... maybe tomorrow morning."

Peter glanced down before pulling his shirt back into place.

"I just wanted you to see."

His eyes found yours.

"...It's healing because of you."

You shook your head with a soft laugh, taking another sip of your coffee.

"I think your ridiculously unfair spider powers deserve most of the credit. There's no way my stitching is that good."

He laughed quietly, the sound filling the apartment before another comfortable silence settled between the two of you.

It wasn't awkward.

If anything...

That was what made it dangerous.

You found yourself stealing another glance at him.

Did he remember looking at you like that?

Did he remember touching your face?

Or had it all disappeared somewhere between blood loss and another brutal migraine?

Maybe you'd imagined every bit of it.

Maybe your exhausted brain had mistaken gratitude for something that just wasn’t true.

"You didn't have to stay."

Peter's voice pulled you from your thoughts.

You looked over to find him watching you over the rim of his mug.

"I know."

The answer came easily.

"But..."

You hesitated.

Because I couldn't leave you.

Because I thought you might die.

Because somewhere along the way you stopped feeling like just my neighbor or a friend.

None of those words would leave your mouth.

Instead, you shrugged, offering him a small smile.

"I just... stayed. In case something happened again."

Peter studied you for a long moment before the smallest smile crossed his face.

"I know."

Neither of you said another word.

You simply sat there, coffee warming your hands as the morning sunlight filled the apartment, both of you pretending there wasn't something quietly changing between you.

______ 

One Month Later

_________

HEHEHEHEHE.

Part 3 is written–and will be posted asap.

oki bye ily.

[reggieslilslut]

the shape of someone missing – part one

peter parker x fem!stark!reader • established(?) relationship • 15k words (total)

not canon-compliant (like at all. sorry not sorry)

requested <3 | masterlist ♡ | read on ao3 | part two

four years after the world forgets him, peter parker becomes very good at speaking hypothetically.

hypothetically, an organism altered by arachnid dna might begin expressing dormant traits years after the initial mutation.

hypothetically, prolonged social isolation could destabilize the balance between the organism’s human endocrine system and its altered genetic material.

hypothetically, the resulting increase in sensory perception might cause migraines, insomnia, irritability, and episodes of defensive aggression severe enough to override conscious judgment.

hypothetically, its eyes might turn entirely black.

peter rehearses the questions until they no longer sound like a confession.

he writes them in the margins of a borrowed physics textbook, disguising molecular pathways between notes on quantum mechanics and field equations. he removes anything that sounds too personal. changes my hearing to auditory sensitivity. changes when someone threatens a person i care about to during a perceived territorial threat.

by the time he reaches empire state university, the questions look almost academic.

the physics building is quieter than the rest of campus in the late afternoon. most of the students have already left, leaving the corridors filled with the low hum of fluorescent lights and the occasional closing door. rain gathers against the tall windows, turning the brick courtyard outside into blurred shades of red and grey.

peter stands outside dr. banner’s office with both hands wrapped around the straps of his backpack.

a typed schedule is taped beside the door.

dr. bruce banneradvanced theoretical physicsoffice hours: tuesday and thursday, 3:00 pm – 5:00 pm

peter checks the time.

4:47.

late enough that there should not be many students left. early enough that approaching him will not look unusual.

he knocks twice.

“come in,” bruce calls from inside.

peter opens the door.

bruce sits behind a desk crowded with papers, three open textbooks, and a ceramic mug filled with pens instead of coffee. equations cover the whiteboard behind him, some written neatly in blue marker and others added in black at angles that suggest they occurred to him halfway through something else.

he looks up from the paper he is grading.

“office hours are almost over,” bruce says, setting his pen beside the page. “but you have a few minutes.”

peter steps inside and closes the door gently behind him.

“thank you, professor,” peter replies.

bruce gestures toward the chair across from his desk. “which class are you in?”

peter sits without removing his backpack. “i’m not.”

bruce’s eyebrows lift.

“not officially,” peter amends, rubbing his thumb across the frayed edge of one strap. “i’ve watched a few of your lectures.”

“from where?” bruce asks.

“the hallway.”

bruce studies him for a moment before leaning back in his chair. the old wood creaks beneath his weight.

“all right,” he says. “what’s your name?”

the answer peter prepared still catches in his throat.

“ned,” peter replies. the name hurts more than he expects.

bruce reaches for a blank sheet of paper. “last name?”

“just ned is fine.”

the pen stops above the page.

peter forces himself not to shift beneath the silence. bruce looks at him, then places the untouched paper aside without asking again.

“what can i help you with, ned?” bruce asks.

peter opens the textbook across his lap. several loose pages sit between the chapters, covered in cramped handwriting and hastily drawn molecular structures.

before he can begin, the cuff of bruce’s left sleeve shifts as the professor reaches for his mug.

a narrow device circles his forearm. 

matte black metal rests flush against the skin just below his elbow, interrupted by a thin strip of green light that pulses once before dimming. the design is too specific to be commercial and too clean to be improvised. peter recognizes the spacing of the contact points, the biometric sensors embedded beneath the casing, and the careful absence of anything that might inhibit movement.

the question leaves him before he can reconsider it.

“can i ask what that is?” peter asks, nodding toward bruce’s arm.

bruce follows his gaze. instead of covering the device, he rolls his sleeve back another inch. the green line brightens beneath the office lights.

“this?” bruce asks.

peter nods.

“it’s an inhibitor,” bruce replies. he says it plainly, as though explaining a wristwatch rather than something designed to hold back enough gamma radiation to level the building.

peter leans forward despite himself. “you built it?”

“i helped,” bruce says, turning his wrist until a small display becomes visible along the inner edge. “a few people contributed.”

peter does not have to ask which people. the precise machining carries traces of stark design, though it is quieter than anything tony usually builds. functional rather than theatrical.

the thought of tony settles beneath peter’s ribs before he can stop it.

he looks down at the device again.

“does it get rid of him?” peter asks.

bruce’s expression changes almost imperceptibly. his thumb rests against the edge of the inhibitor, not activating it, only acknowledging its presence.

“no,” bruce answers. “it isn’t meant to.”

the radiator beneath the window clicks as it cools. outside, a gust of wind sends rain scattering across the courtyard, forcing two students beneath the narrow awning near the building entrance.

“then what does it do?” peter asks.

bruce lets his sleeve fall, though the green light remains faintly visible beneath the fabric.

“it suppresses the physiological cascade that brings him forward when i don’t want him to be,” bruce explains. “it gives me enough time to make a choice.”

peter watches the light pulse once beneath the cotton. 

he expects something different. a cure, a restraint, a prison locked around bruce’s arm. instead, the device looks almost ordinary. something bruce puts on each morning with his watch and removes when he sleeps.

“i spent a long time trying to get rid of him,” bruce says, folding his hands loosely on the desk. “i thought becoming one person meant erasing whichever half frightened me most.”

peter looks up. a small, tired smile touches bruce’s mouth.

“turns out i was already one person,” bruce adds.

the words remain between them.

peter lowers his attention to the textbook, pressing his palm flat against its open pages.

“hypothetically,” he begins.

bruce inclines his head. “hypothetically.”

“if someone wanted to design an inhibitor,” peter says, choosing each word carefully, “but didn’t want to suppress everything the mutation gave them, would the same principle work?”

bruce doesn’t reach for the blank paper again.

“what kind of mutation?” he asks.

“genetic.”

“as are most mutations.”

peter traces one finger beneath a line in his notebook.

“nonhuman dna introduced into a human organism.”

bruce’s face remains neutral. “what kind of nonhuman dna?”

peter hesitates.

“arachnid,” he answers.

the radiator ticks again. bruce glances once toward the closed office door before returning his attention to peter.

“what kind of arachnid?” bruce asks.

“does the species matter?”

“if you want a useful answer, it usually does.”

peter looks toward the rain-streaked window. “a spider.”

bruce remains still.

peter continues before the silence grows heavy enough to become suspicion.

“hypothetically, the mutation initially increases strength, reflexes, healing, sensory perception, coordination, and adhesion,” peter explains. “the subject adapts. everything remains relatively stable for several years.”

“and then it doesn’t,” bruce says.

it isn’t phrased as a question. 

peter tightens his grip on the edge of the book.

“the sensory traits begin increasing first,” he says. “hearing, smell, visual processing. normal environments become difficult to tolerate.”

bruce reaches for his pen but does not write anything.

“how difficult?” he asks.

“multiple conversations become impossible to separate,” peter answers. “electrical currents are audible through walls. subway brakes can be heard from several blocks away. heartbeats…”

he pauses, choosing the least revealing version of the truth.

“heartbeats become distracting,” peter finishes.

“painful?” bruce asks.

“sometimes.”

“headaches?”

peter nods before remembering the conversation is supposed to be hypothetical.

“possibly,” he corrects.

bruce’s gaze lingers on his face.

“what else?” the professor asks.

peter looks down at the diagrams hidden between the textbook’s chapters.

“heightened aggression,” he says.

rain presses more heavily against the windows.

“general aggression?” bruce asks.

“defensive.”

“toward threats against the organism?”

peter’s thumb moves along the edge of the page.

“or people it has bonded with,” he replies.

bruce turns the pen once between his fingers.

“territorial behavior,” he observes.

“not exactly.”

“protective behavior, then.”

peter says nothing. bruce waits.

peter hates how good he is at that. no pushing, no accusation, only a quiet space that becomes harder to hide inside the longer it remains open.

“the response is disproportionate,” peter admits. “the subject doesn’t just want to stop the threat. it wants to eliminate it.”

bruce’s pen becomes still.

“does the subject remain conscious during these episodes?” he asks.

“yes.”

“does he remember them afterward?”

“everything,” peter answers. the word leaves too quickly. 

he looks toward the window.

students cross the courtyard beneath umbrellas. their shoes strike wet pavement. a bicycle chain rattles near the rack below. somewhere on the floor above, someone drags a chair across tile. the elevator motor strains behind two walls, carrying three people toward the lobby while one complains about an exam and another unwraps a piece of peppermint gum.

each sound arrives separately. each one demands his attention.

bruce notices the direction of his gaze.

“how long has the sensory increase been happening?” he asks.

peter turns back toward him. “hypothetically?”

“of course,” bruce replies.

“a few months.”

“and the aggression?”

“more recently.”

“has the subject injured anyone?”

peter presses his thumb into the side of his index finger.

“no.”

“come close?”

the bar mirror flashes through his mind. black eyes. a stranger’s throat beneath his hand. the pulse beating there.

peter remembers how easy it would have been. how little pressure he would have needed. how the man’s friends froze around them because something in peter’s face told them he was no longer the smaller person in the fight.

“yes,” peter answers.

bruce looks down at the untouched paper beside his hand.

“you mentioned physical changes,” he says.

peter’s shoulders tighten. “did i?”

“you said certain traits were becoming more pronounced.”

“right.”

bruce waits again.

peter looks at the green light beneath the professor’s sleeve.

“the eyes change,” he says eventually.

“how?”

“the pupils expand.”

“from adrenaline?” bruce asks.

“past the iris.”

bruce’s expression remains carefully neutral.

“the sclera?” he asks.

peter nods.

“entirely black?”

the question is quiet. peter closes the textbook.

“hypothetically,” he says.

bruce sets the pen on the desk. for several seconds, neither of them speaks. the office continues around them. rain moves down the glass. the radiator releases another soft metallic click. the clock near the whiteboard advances with a nearly inaudible movement that sounds much louder to peter than it should.

bruce leans back.

“what does the hypothetical subject want?” he asks.

peter looks at him.

“an inhibitor.”

“for the mutation?”

“for the increased expression.”

“without suppressing the beneficial traits,” bruce says.

“ideally.”

bruce’s attention drops to the textbook. “you brought something with you.”

peter doesn’t ask how he knows. 

he opens the cover and removes the loose pages, smoothing them once against his knee before placing them on the corner of the desk.

protein structures cover the first sheet. receptor pathways fill the second. the third contains a proposed model for suppressing hormonal expression without interfering with neuromuscular function. equations crowd the margins between tightly packed notes, sections crossed out so many times the paper has gone soft beneath the graphite.

bruce does not reach for them immediately. instead, he watches peter.

the office settles around them. somewhere down the corridor, a classroom door opens, followed by the muffled conversation of students filtering toward the stairwell. the sound fades as quickly as it comes.

only then does bruce pull the first page toward himself. he reads without interruption.

peter watches the movement of his eyes instead of the equations. they slow at the receptor diagrams, pause over the endocrine pathways, then stop entirely at a paragraph written smaller than everything around it.

social isolation as environmental pressure?

bruce turns the page. then another. he doesn’t skim; he studies each line as though the order matters. eventually, he places the stack back on the desk with the same care peter used setting it down.

“you wrote these,” bruce says. it is not a question.

peter rubs his thumb against the worn backpack strap.

“hypothetically,” he answers.

something close to amusement touches bruce’s face.

“hypothetically,” bruce repeats.

the expression disappears almost immediately. he taps one finger beside the note about isolation.

“why this variable?” bruce asks.

peter follows his gaze.

“social species change under prolonged isolation,” he explains. “hormones shift. sleep cycles change. aggression can increase.”

bruce nods once. “they can.”

“some spiders do too,” peter says.

bruce reaches absently for the ceramic mug beside the papers before remembering it is filled with dry-erase markers. he studies it for a second, mildly disappointed, before returning it to the desk.

“what made the hypothetical subject consider isolation?” he asks.

peter watches rain bead along the edge of the window frame.

“because nothing else changed. the mutation was stable,” peter continues. “for years.”

“and then?”

“then the subject spent an extended period alone.”

“how extended?”

peter’s fingers tighten on the backpack strap.

“four years,” he answers.

bruce’s gaze lifts.

“without meaningful social contact?”

the question settles too close to the truth.

peter thinks about the apartment. eating dinner over the sink because there is no one to sit across from. waking to an empty room every morning and returning to one every night. listening to ned’s voice through the wall of a coffee shop without stepping inside. watching mj leave work beneath someone else’s umbrella.

he thinks about you.

your window lit high above the city. your silhouette passing behind the curtains while peter remains crouched on a rooftop three buildings away, telling himself that seeing you alive should be enough.

“mostly,” he says.

bruce looks down at the pages again.

“this inhibitor suppresses everything,” he observes.

peter nods. “that was the idea.”

“was?”

peter’s attention returns to the device beneath bruce’s sleeve.

“i don’t want to get rid of it,” he admits. “the mutation saved the subject’s life. it lets him help people. it lets him reach places no one else can and hear things no one else notices.” his finger follows one of the pathways he has drawn. “it isn’t bad,” peter continues. “just parts of it.”

“the parts that make him stop feeling like himself,” bruce says.

peter looks up. bruce turns the third page around and taps a smaller note peter has nearly crossed out.

selective regulation.

“this is where i’d start,” bruce says.

peter leans forward. “because it leaves the rest intact?”

“because the mutation isn’t necessarily the problem.”

bruce rests one hand lightly over the papers.

“don’t build an inhibitor to erase part of yourself,” he says. “build one that lets you stay yourself.”

peter does not realize he has been holding his breath until it leaves him.

for the first time in months, the hypothetical does not feel impossible.

it feels like the beginning of an answer.

—

the headaches begin with queens.

not the place itself. you have been to queens often enough that the borough should not feel different from the rest of new york—too many cars pressed into streets too narrow for them, voices rising from open storefronts, apartment windows glowing above laundromats and corner markets.

nothing about it should make pressure gather behind your eyes.

still, every time the word appears in a mission report, pain settles beneath your temples.

it starts as a pulse. then a tightening. then the brief, disorienting certainty that you have forgotten something important.

you never remember what.

the first time it happens, you sit beside your father in one of the conference rooms at the avengers facility. a holographic map of the city hangs above the table, blue light washing over scattered files and half-empty coffee cups left from the morning briefing.

“queens took the worst of the damage,” sam says from the opposite side of the table, moving two fingers across the projection to enlarge the eastern edge of the city. “but emergency crews have most of it contained.”

your father hums without looking up from the tablet in his hands.

“friendly neighborhood spider-kid got there before the fire department,” tony remarks.

the pain strikes before the sentence is finished.

you press two fingers against your temple, pretending to study the map while something bright flickers at the edge of your vision.

a rooftop beneath a summer sky.

red fabric moving beside you.

a young voice laughing.

you turn toward him.

his face is missing.

not blurred. not hidden beneath a mask. missing.

there is only sunlight where his features should be.

the memory collapses before you can speak.

the conference room returns with a suddenness that makes your stomach turn. sam is still talking. rhodey taps a pen against his legal pad. your father has moved on to complaining about property damage as though the last few seconds never happen.

you lower your hand. tony notices anyway.

his gaze shifts from the tablet to your face. it lasts only a moment, but you know that look. he has worn it since you were old enough to climb onto his workbench and young enough to believe the arc reactor was a night-light built especially for you.

he waits until the meeting ends.

the others file out in pieces, carrying tablets and cold coffee with them. sam pauses to speak with rhodey near the door. your father remains where he is, one hand resting against the edge of the table while the hologram dissolves into pale fragments between you.

“headache?” tony asks.

you pick up your phone, though there is nothing on the screen worth reading.

“just tired,” you reply.

“you slept nine hours.”

you glance up at him. “are you monitoring my sleep now?”

“friday monitors everything,” tony answers, as though that somehow improves the situation.

“that’s worse.”

“you’ve been getting them a lot.”

“i’ve had three.”

“you’ve had seven,” he corrects.

your mouth closes. tony raises his eyebrows.

“friday,” you say toward the ceiling, “betrayal is an ugly color on you.”

“i’m sorry,” the ai replies, sounding not remotely sorry.

your father circles the table and stops beside you. the sharp smell of coffee clings to his shirt, mixed with metal and the faint smoke that follows him from the workshop no matter how many ventilation systems he installs.

“banner’s gonna looking at you,” tony says.

“absolutely not.”

“that sounded like a challenge.”

“it was a refusal.”

“same thing in this family.”

you slide your phone into your pocket and move toward the door.

“i’m fine,” you insist.

his hand closes lightly around your upper arm before you pass him. not enough to stop you by force. just enough to make you stop yourself.

when you look back, the humor has left his face.

“you don’t have to be dying for me to worry,” tony says.

the words land more gently than you expect. you look toward the empty chairs and the abandoned coffee ring someone has left on the table.

“they’re just headaches,” you murmur.

“then banner tells me they’re just headaches.”

you exhale through your nose. arguing with your father becomes pointless once fear works its way beneath the sarcasm.

“fine,” you concede.

his grip loosens immediately.

“tomorrow,” tony says.

“next week.”

“tomorrow.”

“you’re impossible.”

“it’s genetic,” he replies.

you leave before he can see the reluctant smile pulling at your mouth.

the hallway outside is quiet, emptied by the end of the briefing. sunlight stretches through the tall windows in pale rectangles across the floor, interrupted by the long shadows of support beams and potted plants someone keeps replacing after every attack.

you make it halfway to the elevator before the pain returns.

this time, there is no rooftop. only a voice.

“you always do that.”

young, warm, amused. close enough that for one impossible second, you expect to feel breath against your cheek.

you turn.

the hallway is empty.

—

bruce finds nothing.

he runs the scans twice, then a third time because your father stands behind him with both hands braced against the back of his chair, staring at the monitors as though suspicion alone might force them to reveal something useful.

“neurological activity is normal,” bruce says, enlarging an image of your brain while you sit on the edge of the examination table. “no swelling, no lesions, no abnormal electrical patterns.”

tony leans closer to the monitor.

“you said normal too quickly,” he accuses.

“that’s generally what people want to hear,” bruce replies.

“normal is suspicious.”

“only to you.”

the lab continues around them while they argue. machines hum beneath the counters. a centrifuge turns softly somewhere behind you. rain taps against the high windows, blurring the compound grounds into dull greens and grey pavement.

you rub the small adhesive mark near your temple.

“so i can go?” you ask.

“not yet,” tony answers before bruce can.

bruce gives him a tired look, then turns back to you.

“have you noticed any triggers?” bruce asks.

“lack of patience.”

“helpful,” your father mutters.

you look toward the rain crawling down the glass.

“sometimes places,” you admit. “certain words.”

bruce reaches for a tablet. “what kind of words?”

“queens.”

your father’s expression changes.

you notice because you have spent your entire life learning the small differences between every version of his silence. this one is brief, but not empty. something passes through it—confusion, maybe, or the uncomfortable recognition that a piece of information has failed to settle where it belongs.

bruce notices too.

“anything else?” he asks.

you hesitate.

“spider-man,” you answer.

the name feels strange in your mouth. 

not unfamiliar, but the opposite. too familiar.

the ache begins behind your eyes before you finish saying it. you press your thumb into your temple and wait for the room to steady.

“there,” tony says, pointing toward you as though bruce might have missed it. “that.”

“i see it,” bruce replies.

he steps closer to the examination table and lowers his voice.

“what happens when you hear his name?” he asks.

you close your eyes.

red gloves.

a hand reaching for yours.

the view from somewhere too high above the city.

someone sitting beside you on the floor of a workshop, knees drawn up, face turned away before you can see him.

“flashes,” you admit.

tony straightens. “flashes of what?”

“i don’t know.”

you open your eyes. both men watch you.

“they disappear too fast,” you add.

“memories?” bruce asks.

“they don’t feel like mine.”

that’s not quite true. they feel more like yours than most things do.

that is what frightens you.

—

the question about spider-man settles into the back of your mind and refuses to leave.

you know the story everyone knows.

your father recruits him before the fight in germany. he gives him a suit built with technology advanced enough to make several governments deeply uncomfortable. he brings him into battles beside people with decades of training. he trusts him with civilians, with missions, with you.

but he doesn’t know his name. at least, that is what he claims.

you wait until evening to ask.

tony is in the workshop, bent over the open housing of a damaged repulsor. music plays quietly through the speakers, though he has paused the same song often enough that it hasn’t reached the final verse in nearly an hour.

you sit on the edge of the workbench beside him, moving a screwdriver out of the path of his elbow.

“how did you meet spider-man?” you ask.

he keeps his attention on the repulsor.

“the internet,” tony replies.

“seriously.”

“seriously. the internet has everything. cat videos, conspiracy theories, teenagers committing felonies in homemade pajamas.”

“you recruited him from a video?”

“there were several videos.”

you watch his hands work. he removes a narrow strip of scorched wiring, places it beside the tools, then reaches blindly toward you.

you pass him the pliers before he asks. his fingers close around them automatically.

“did you know who he was?” you ask.

the movement stops. only for a fraction of a second, then he continues.

“the kid wore a mask,” tony answers.

“you gave classified stark technology to someone whose name you didn’t know.”

“i’ve made worse decisions.”

“not many.”

tony looks up at that. you hold his gaze, waiting.

behind him, one of the robotic arms shifts a tray of tools to the opposite side of the room. the low music starts again, filling the silence with guitar before tony pauses it again.

“what’s this about?” he asks.

“it doesn’t make sense.”

“most of my life doesn’t make sense.”

“you don’t trust anyone.”

“i trust people.”

“you ran a background check on my dentist.”

“he had bad reviews.”

“yeah, for parking.”

“patterns matter,” tony says.

you slide off the workbench and lean against it instead.

“you brought spider-man into our lives,” you say. “you trusted him around me.”

tony looks down at the repulsor.

“apparently,” he replies. the word is quieter than the rest.

your chest tightens.

“you don’t remember.”

his jaw shifts.

“i remember recruiting him.”

“do you?”

he reaches for another tool, finds nothing, then looks at the empty space beside his hand as though the absence surprises him. you pick up the wrench near your hip and hold it out.

he doesn’t take it.

“dad.”

“i remember the apartment,” tony says eventually. “i remember talking to his aunt.”

“what was her name?”

the question hangs between you. his eyes narrow, not at you but at something beyond your shoulder. searching.

you know that look. it is the same one he wears when an equation refuses to balance.

“i don’t know,” he admits.

you lower the wrench.

“what did he look like?”

tony’s gaze shifts toward yours.

the workshop feels suddenly too large. every monitor continues glowing. every machine remains where it belongs. still, the air changes around the question, thinning until the smallest sounds become clear—the cooling tick of metal, the ventilation system moving overhead, rainwater slipping through gutters outside.

“i don’t know,” he repeats.

this time, the pain arrives hard enough to make your vision darken. 

you catch the edge of the workbench. your father is beside you before the wrench strikes the floor. one hand closes around your elbow while the other steadies the back of your neck.

“hey,” tony says. “sit down.”

you hear him, but the workshop has already disappeared.

you are somewhere else. somewhere smaller, warmer.

someone crouches in front of you, both hands holding yours between them.

“look at me,” he says.

you try. the memory won’t allow it.

his face is a blur against the light, every feature erased except the shape of dark hair falling across his forehead.

“i’m right here,” he murmurs.

your chest breaks around the sound of his voice.

then the workshop returns.

you are sitting on the floor with your back against the workbench. your father kneels in front of you, one hand cupping the side of your face.

“what did you see?” tony asks.

you try to answer. the memory is already slipping.

“someone,” you whisper.

—

the dreams worsen after that.

they come every night, pulling you through moments without beginnings or endings.

you sit in the passenger seat of a car while someone drums nervous fingers against the steering wheel.

you share cold noodles from the same carton on a rooftop.

you stand in a bedroom decorated with model kits and old science posters while rain strikes the fire escape outside.

you dance badly in a kitchen while someone laughs into your shoulder.

every memory holds the same absence. a boy whose hands you know, a voice your body recognizes before your mind can place it, a face that disappears whenever you turn toward it.

sometimes you wake with tears already cooling against your temples. 

sometimes you wake with your hand reaching across the empty half of the bed.

by morning, the details fade, but the loss remains. it follows you through breakfast, through meetings, through long afternoons spent pretending to read while your gaze drifts toward doors for no reason you can explain.

you begin keeping notes.

red sleeve.

web pattern.

rooftop.

coffee too sweet.

“you’re staring,” pepper says.

you look up from the notebook.

she stands across the kitchen island with one hand wrapped around a mug of tea. morning light catches in her hair and in the thin steam rising between you. she looks tired, though she always hides it better than your father does.

you close the notebook halfway.

“thinking,” you reply.

“dangerous habit.”

“you’ve been spending too much time with him.”

pepper smiles faintly before glancing toward the page.

“more headaches?” she asks.

you nod.

pepper circles the island and sits beside you. she does not ask to see the notebook. she waits, tracing one finger along the rim of her mug while the coffee machine hisses behind you.

“do you ever feel like someone is missing?” you ask.

her hand stills.

“from where?”

“everywhere.”

the answer sounds ridiculous once it exists outside your head. you look toward the windows instead, watching clouds move between the towers beyond the glass.

“i keep having these memories,” you continue. “except they’re not complete. there’s always someone there, but i can’t see him.”

“him?” pepper asks.

you nod. pepper considers that quietly.

“does he feel familiar?”

“more than familiar.” the ache builds beneath your ribs, not your head this time. 

“it feels like i loved him,” you admit.

pepper’s breath catches so softly you nearly miss it. when you turn, she stares down into her tea.

“what?” you ask.

“nothing.”

“that wasn’t nothing.”

she presses her lips together before looking at you.

“sometimes i feel like there are things i should remember too,” pepper says.

your pulse stutters.

“about spider-man?”

pepper’s gaze shifts toward the window.

that is answer enough.

—

peter returns to bruce’s office the following tuesday.

he nearly doesn’t.

the inhibitor design waits in his backpack, changed in twelve places since their first conversation. he removes the global suppression model, isolates the endocrine pathways associated with sensory amplification and aggression, and recalculates the dosage until the numbers blur beneath another sleepless sunrise.

bruce has written three comments in the margin of the paper peter leaves with him.

none ask who he is. peter decides that is why he returns.

he arrives at 4:32 this time. a student is already inside the office asking about an exam, forcing peter to wait near the window at the end of the hall.

the building is louder in the afternoon.

a professor lectures behind the wall to his right. two students argue quietly near the elevator. someone on the floor below drops a metal water bottle, and the sharp impact travels through the building hard enough to make peter’s jaw tighten.

he presses two fingers against the base of his skull.

the headaches start there now.

pressure beneath the bone. heat moving behind his eyes. every sound gaining a sharper edge until the city seems to exist inside his head rather than beyond it.

the office door opens. the student exits with a stack of papers clutched to her chest. she passes peter without looking at him.

bruce appears in the doorway.

“ned,” he greets.

peter pushes away from the window.

“professor,” he replies.

bruce steps aside.

peter hears your heartbeat before he enters.

he stops.

the rhythm is familiar enough that his body recognizes it before thought can interfere. steady, slightly quickened by the stairs, accompanied by the rustle of paper and the scent of rainwater drying in your hair.

four years disappear.

for one impossible second, peter expects to step inside and find you waiting for him the way you used to—one leg folded beneath you, his coffee cooling beside your hand, a complaint already prepared about how late he is.

then he remembers.

you don’t know him.

peter keeps one hand around the doorframe.

“something wrong?” bruce asks.

“no,” peter replies. the lie sounds thin.

he enters.

you sit in the chair across from bruce’s desk with your notebook open against your knee. one of your father’s old hoodies hangs loosely around you, the sleeves pushed above your wrists. you look up when peter crosses the threshold.

the breath leaves you. peter hears it.

he hears the sudden acceleration of your heartbeat. the minute movement of your fingers against the page. the swallow that catches in your throat when your eyes settle on his face.

he knows he should leave.

instead, he stands beside the door with rain dripping from his jacket onto the floor.

“you’re early,” bruce tells you.

“my father tried to follow me,” you reply, though your attention remains on peter. “i took the scenic route.”

“did it work?”

“for now.”

bruce closes the folder beside his elbow.

“this is ned,” he says, gesturing toward peter. “he’s been consulting with me on a research problem.”

the name makes peter’s stomach tighten.

you look at him more closely.

“ned,” you repeat.

“hi,” peter says. his voice breaks slightly around the single syllable.

your eyebrows pull together. pain flickers across your expression, and your hand rises toward your temple.

peter takes one step forward before catching himself.  the movement is small, but you notice anyway.

“have we met?” you ask.

peter’s throat closes. he knows the correct answer. the safe answer. the answer that keeps the spell intact and you alive and the world exactly as it is supposed to be.

“i don’t think so,” he says.

silence settles over the office. bruce looks between you. you don’t move.

“right,” you murmur. the disappointment in your voice does not make sense.

that makes it worse. 

peter forces himself to breathe.

“sorry,” he says.

“for what?” you ask.

he has no answer. for lying, for surviving when you lost him, for every promise you no longer remember he made.

“nothing,” peter replies.

your gaze remains on him.

peter feels it even after bruce gestures toward the second chair. even after peter sits with his backpack trapped between his ankles. even after you return your attention to the notebook on your knee.

“the headaches have become more frequent,” bruce says, turning one of the pages toward you. “but the neurological scans still show no structural abnormalities.”

peter looks up.

you rub the edge of the page beneath your thumb.

“so i’m imagining them,” you say.

“that isn’t what i said,” bruce replies.

“it’s what my father heard.”

bruce exhales softly through his nose.

“tony hears whatever gives him permission to build something,” he observes.

a smile touches your mouth. peter’s chest aches.

he remembers that smile against his lips. remembers causing it across dinner tables and rooftops and the back seat of happy’s car while your father complains from the front.

the radiator beside him clicks. you flinch.

the pain enters your expression before your hand reaches your head.

peter is out of his chair before thought catches up.

he crosses the office as you fold forward, one hand gripping the edge of bruce’s desk. peter closes his fingers around your wrist while his other palm settles against your shoulder.

“easy,” he murmurs.

your body relaxes. not gradually, immediately. your hand turns beneath his and closes around his fingers.

peter stops breathing. bruce notices.

you notice a second later. you hold a stranger’s hand, except it does not feel strange.

peter’s palm fits against yours with the unbearable familiarity of a habit. your thumb rests beside his knuckle. his grip has already adjusted around the small scar near your finger without needing to look at it.

you stare down at your joined hands.

a memory flashes behind your eyes.

christmas lights strung badly across an apartment ceiling. warm fingers linked through yours. laughter against your cheek.

“you taped it to the sprinkler,” you say.

peter goes still.

bruce leans closer. “what did you see?”

you look at peter. the memory disappears before you reach his face.

“i don’t know,” you whisper.

peter releases you. the loss of contact hurts more than the headache.

he retreats until the edge of the desk presses against his hip.

“i’m sorry,” he says again.

you watch him.

“you keep saying that.”

his mouth closes.

bruce removes the sensor from your temple slowly, though neither of you remembers him attaching it.

“ned,” bruce says, keeping his voice even, “could you give us a minute?”

peter nods before the request is finished.

“yeah,” he replies. “sure.”

he reaches for his backpack. one strap catches beneath the chair, and his hands shake when he pulls it free.

you watch him reach the door. something inside you panics.

“wait,” you call.

peter stops with his hand on the frame.

the word has surprised you as much as it has him. you search for a reason to keep him there and find nothing except the deep, shapeless certainty that letting him leave is a mistake.

“ned isn’t your name,” you say.

peter’s shoulders tighten, and he looks back.

“yes, it is,” he lies.

pain pulses behind your eyes.

“no,” you reply. “it isn’t.”

his hand curls around the doorframe.

“you don’t know me.”

“that doesn’t mean i don’t know when you’re lying.”

peter looks at you for another second.

then he leaves.

—

you return to bruce’s office three days later without telling your father.

bruce sits behind his desk with a stack of exams spread around him and the green light of his inhibitor pulsing beneath his sleeve.

“who is ned?” you ask.

he finishes writing a comment before looking up.

“a student,” bruce replies.

“you said he isn’t in your class.”

“he isn’t.”

“so he isn’t your student.”

bruce caps his pen and rests it across the exam.

“he’s someone asking questions,” he says.

you close the office door behind you.

“about what?”

“i can’t tell you that.”

“because it’s confidential?”

“because it’s his.”

you approach the desk. peter’s diagrams no longer sit in view, but one corner of a page protrudes beneath a folder. you recognize the handwriting from the brief glimpse you had during the last meeting—tight, slanted, impatient wherever equations begin fitting together.

“he knows me,” you say.

bruce folds his hands over the folder.

“he reacted to you,” he replies.

“that isn’t the same thing.”

“no.”

you wait. bruce does too.

you understand suddenly why your father hates discussing anything with him.

“you know who he is,” you accuse.

bruce’s gaze remains steady.

“i know he doesn’t want to be identified.”

“is he dangerous?”

the green light beneath bruce’s sleeve pulses again. he considers the question longer than you expect.

“not in the way you mean,” he answers.

“what way do i mean?”

“malicious.”

you look toward the rain-streaked window.

“that wasn’t reassuring.”

“it wasn’t supposed to be.”

you turn back.

“why did my headache get worse when he walked in?”

bruce’s attention drops briefly to the notebook beneath your arm.

“why do you think it did?”

“because i know him.”

bruce doesn’t answer.

you place the notebook on his desk and open it to the first page.

queens.

spider-man.

red gloves.

rooftop.

a boy without a face.

bruce reads the list without touching it.

“my father recruited spider-man,” you say. “he built equipment for him. trusted him on missions. let him into the facility.”

“i remember,” bruce replies.

“do you remember who he was?”

bruce’s expression changes. it lasts less than a second. still, you see it.

“no,” he admits.

“does that make sense to you?”

“no.”

“then why is everyone acting like it does?”

the question leaves louder than you intend. your voice strikes the office walls and settles beneath the rain.

bruce studies you.

“sometimes the mind protects an absence by making it feel ordinary,” he says.

“this doesn’t feel ordinary.”

“no,” bruce agrees. “it doesn’t.”

you close the notebook.

“tell ned i want to speak to him.”

bruce reaches for his pen again.

“i don’t think he’ll agree.”

“then tell him i’ll keep coming here until he does.”

a faint smile touches bruce’s mouth.

“that,” he observes, “sounds like your father.”

“don’t insult me.”

—

peter returns the next tuesday because bruce sends him a photograph of the revised receptor model with three words beneath it.

she knows something.

he considers never going back.

he spends half the night crouched on the roof opposite the physics building, watching the dark office windows while traffic moves below. the city is too loud. sirens overlap across three boroughs. a couple argues through an open window six floors down. someone in the next building snores badly enough to change rhythm every few minutes.

beneath all of it, peter hears his own pulse. slow. wrong.

the spider doesn’t like fear. it converts fear into readiness, grief into vigilance, loneliness into an environmental threat the body must survive.

peter leaves the roof at sunrise. he returns during office hours anyway.

you sit inside bruce’s office when he arrives.

this time, you occupy the chair beside the window with two paper cups on the sill. your notebook rests closed in your lap. late afternoon sunlight breaks through the clouds, catching on rainwater left along the glass.

peter stops in the doorway.

you lift one of the cups.

“coffee?” you ask.

“i’m fine,” peter replies.

“you hate black coffee.”

the statement leaves before either of you can examine it.

peter’s fingers tighten around his backpack strap. 

you look down at the cup.

“i don’t know why i said that,” you admit.

bruce watches from behind his desk.

peter hears the slight change in your heartbeat.

“i don’t hate it,” he says.

you look at him again.

“you drink it when you’re tired,” you reply slowly. “but you put too much sugar in it when you think no one is watching.”

peter cannot move.

a memory flickers through your mind.

a kitchen after midnight.

peter standing beside a coffee machine in a shirt that belongs to your father, pouring sugar into a mug while you watch from the doorway.

his face vanishes before he turns.

you press your fingertips against your temple.

peter takes a step toward you.

“don’t,” you warn.

he stops. hurt crosses his face.

“not because i don’t want you near me,” you add. “because i need you to stop deciding what i can handle.”

peter looks toward bruce. the professor adjusts a stack of papers that doesn’t need adjusting.

“professor banner said you had questions,” peter says.

“i do.”

“i don’t have answers.”

“you have at least one.”

peter remains by the door.

you place both cups on the sill and rise.

“what is your name?” you ask.

“ned.”

“no.”

“you don’t know that.”

“my head hurts every time you lie to me.”

peter’s expression tightens. “then stop asking.”

“that isn’t how this works.”

“it can be.”

“for you, maybe.” your voice softens. “you’ve had four years to decide what this is,” you continue. “i’ve had headaches.”

the number catches between you. peter’s breath stops.

you notice.

“four years,” you repeat. “why did that matter?”

peter looks at bruce.

bruce meets his gaze without offering rescue.

the building shifts around the silence. pipes move behind the wall. footsteps cross the corridor. a phone rings in another office and stops after the third tone.

“i should go,” peter says.

you cross the space before he reaches the door.

your fingers close around the sleeve of his jacket. peter freezes.

the contact sends a memory through you.

the statue of liberty beneath a broken sky.

blood along peter’s cheek.

your hands clutching his wrists while the world tears itself open behind him.

“promise me,” you beg.

“i promise,” he says.

you lose the rest.

your grip tightens.

“you promised me something,” you whisper.

peter’s face drains of color.

“let go,” he says.

“what did you promise?”

“please.”

“what did you promise me?”

a door slams in the hallway.

peter reacts before anyone else.

his head turns sharply toward the sound. every muscle in his shoulders hardens beneath your hand. his heartbeat slows until each beat arrives with measured force.

black spreads across his eyes. brown disappears first, then white.

within seconds, his eyes become entirely dark, reflecting the office lights like polished glass.

you release his sleeve. peter steps between you and the doorway.

bruce rises from his chair.

“there isn’t a threat,” bruce says, keeping his voice low.

peter does not respond. his head tilts by a fraction as he listens beyond the office. the student responsible for the noise laughs nervously, apologizes to someone, and continues down the hall.

the danger does not exist. the spider does not know that.

“ned,” bruce says.

peter’s jaw tightens. the false name does not reach him.

you look into the dark surface of his eyes and see your own reflection.

another memory cuts through you.

peter standing between you and a collapsing wall.

peter carrying you through smoke.

peter’s eyes turning black when a weapon lifts toward your father.

not for the first time.

you step around him. his hand catches your wrist. not painfully, instinctively.

you turn your hand beneath his and close your fingers around his.

“peter,” you say. the name enters the room. 

peter’s grip loosens. his face changes around it, fear breaking through the predatory stillness.

“look at me,” you tell him.

his head turns. you move closer until your reflection fills his eyes.

“there is no threat,” you say.

peter’s breath catches.

“you don’t know that,” he replies, his voice lower than before.

“i know bruce.”

peter’s gaze flickers toward the professor.

“i know this office,” you continue. “i know the student slammed the door because the hinges are terrible, and i know you don’t want to hurt anyone.”

black begins receding from his eyes. brown returns around the pupils first, followed by the whites. peter releases your wrist as though the contact has burned him.

he steps back.

“i’m sorry,” he says. the words sound exhausted.

you look at him.

“peter,” you repeat.

his eyes close.

“don’t.”

“that is your name.”

“not anymore.”

“what does that mean?”

he grabs his backpack from the floor.

“it means i can’t be here,” peter says.

he leaves before you stop him.

—

part two

[alwaystightrope]

unfortunately for everyone, when 5sos finally manages to get their act together and drop a single, im going to become the most insufferable human being ever.

[orlaunderrated]

The Edges of Us: Chapter 1

First Chapter | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Will Lenney x fem reader; George Clarke x fem reader Summary: Y/N has always been close to George—but everything changes when she catches feelings for his sharp-tongued, infuriatingly charming friend, Will. Torn between loyalty and desire, Y/N finds themselves caught in a messy tangle of friendship, secrets, and unexpected love.

Word Count: 1.8k+

Note: Hello!!!! very first chapter of my very first fic!! I hope you enjoy :)

xxx

I fiddle with my safety belt. The seatbelt light hasn’t turned off yet, but I’m itching to free myself from the contraption strapped across my lap.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome to London Heathrow. It is Thursday, January 23rd, local time is 9:47am. Enjoy your stay, or welcome home." My feet are bouncing, my AirPods are almost dead, and I’ve caught up on many, many, many hours of TV. Whilst I swap my SIM card, I let the rest of my row scurry out and collect their bags. I haven’t used this SIM card in eight months, and now it's vomiting up every random notification and text I’ve missed. Through it all, I text George.

As I go to leave the plane, a flight attendant nods at my University of Exeter hoodie. "Welcome home!" I smile politely and answer, "Thanks, it’s been a minute." The flight attendant — Eve, shout out to name tags — looks confused, as my accent betrays the hoodie.

I run a hand through my dishevelled hair, a mess from sitting on the plane for 14 hours. I actually haven’t slept in a real bed for three nights. With the developed world, surely getting from Brisbane to London could be cut down to one flight, not three (it definitely can, but it is so much cheaper to do layovers).

The grey skies of the United Kingdom press down on me like a heavy, suffocating blanket. They aren’t just clouds, they’re a constant weight that seems to swallow up the horizon and dull everything beneath them. Even when I lived in Manchester, I made the journey to London a dozen times, but every time, the skies felt like a mirror — a reflection of the same hollow, endless grey. The city could be bright with lights and energy, but that overcast sky, that heavy weight in the air, is the same across the whole island.

The blanket sky is still heavy, but it still carries a quiet kind of comfort. Maybe it’ll never match the sharp brilliance of the Brisbane sun. But here, beneath this endless grey, perhaps it can offer warmth, not weight.

Customs is a bore. I have nothing to declare and only a small suitcase to my name. Okay, I have a very large and very full suitcase, a small carry-on (also full), and a personal item that’s bursting at the seams. I also have my toothbrush and toothpaste in my back pocket. Not a good look. Still, I get waved straight through, and the waiting in lines was for nothing.

The terminal opens up in front of me. Its bright, busy, full of hugs and signs and little kids dragging tiny backpacks. I scan the crowd, already feeling the weight of my backpack.

"Y/N!" A familiar voice cuts through the low hum of reunions and baggage announcements. I turn. There’s George. I’d seen the mullet and the hint of stubble over FaceTime, it suited him well, maybe too well, but seeing him now in motion was something else entirely. His airport outfit, a sweater and slacks, was nothing crazy, but it was not something the footy-shirt Uni George would wear. He looked older. Calmer. And somehow, seeing him in the flesh stirred something unexpected, a quiet but insistent flutter in my chest.

"George!" I say back. We walk toward each other, arms outstretched. "We live in the same city again!" We embrace, and all those years come flooding back. I can still picture the day we met perfectly.

It was maybe day five of uni. I had actually already calculated how many days were left (not including weekends, bank holidays, and non-term time), the answer was 334. England was not what I thought it was going to be. People did not find my accent cool or endearing, but rather thought I was speaking a made-up language. I had gotten lost finding my Uni Halls, lost finding the Tesco, (wtf is a Tesco btw) and lost finding that very lecture hall.

Because I was late due to getting lost, I sat down hurriedly at the closest chair that wasn’t the front row. I just so happened to sit next to George. His hair was much shorter, his face clean-shaven, and he wore some kind of football shirt. The lecturer was already talking about tendons, and I opened my laptop. It was flat.I let out the kind of sigh you only hear from someone who's jet-lagged, laptop dead, and hopelessly new to a country they barely understand.

George offered to send me the notes, and so we spent the whole lecture giggling together, laughing at the lecturer's choice of outfit and the diagrams in the PowerPoint. From then we were almost inseparable. Even when I changed courses after a year (what was I even thinking, doing Sport and Exercise Science?) we remained close friends. He made Exeter feel like home. His laugh and his jokes could replace the Brisbane sun any day. We even lived together for six months, when his flatmate went travelling and my boyfriend dumped me suddenly. We fit well together. I taught him how to not cause nuclear warfare when cleaning a bathroom, and George taught me how to elevate any ready meal past the packet instructions.

When George graduated, he moved to London, and his lockdown TikToks inexplicably propelled him to fame. I always knew he would do great things. I was always a bit surprised he wasn’t into the drama or acting side of things at uni. He was always so funny and charismatic, so much so that his talents seemed wasted on being a PT, or whatever it is you do with a Sport and Exercise Science degree.

I went the other way. When I graduated, Manchester called me. I was offered a graduate programmer position with great benefits. The city was alive in a way that only big places could be, but after a few years, the relentless pace and the grey skies of northern England got to me. Homesickness hit like a ton of bricks.

So, I packed up and went back to Brisbane.

The months spent at home didn’t heal me like I thought they would. The sun was too hot and the accents too sharp. I was with family again, with the comfort of everything I knew, but the itch to do more, to push forward, kept gnawing at me. Not to mention everyone at home had moved on without me. Half my friends were doing what I did, living abroad, and the ones that were left were too busy getting married or starting families. So, when the opportunity in London came through, an offer I just couldn’t ignore, I knew it was time to pack my life up once more.

The Uber is too warm, the heater cranked up for someone who’s just survived 24 hours in transit. The windows are fogged slightly from the inside, giving the city beyond a muted, watercolour quality. Raindrops trail lazy patterns down the glass, and the windscreen wipers squeak in tired intervals. The car smells faintly of pine air freshener and something synthetic, maybe cleaning spray.

George’s voice fills the space easily. “Oh my god, I forgot how Australian you sound. We’re gonna barbeque some shrimp later, we gotta.”

I laugh, too tired to fully roll my eyes. The awkwardness we maybe should’ve had slips away like the condensation on the window. It’s just us again.

“Really? When I was home, everyone poked fun at how English I sounded. Also, we don’t even say shrimp, you idiot. We say prawn, just like you."

The driver doesn’t say much, just hums along to the soft lo-fi playlist playing through the speakers. Outside, London passes in shades of grey and brown. Victorian terraces, wet pavements, red buses blurred by rain. I lean my forehead against the cool glass for a moment, the city lights bleeding into my peripheral vision like old memories.

Inside the car, it feels safe. Familiar. George taps his fingers on his knee, in time with the music, and for a second I forget the jetlag, forget the toothbrush in my back pocket, forget that I’m technically homeless in a country I haven’t lived in for almost a year.

The rest of the ride was quick and strangely comforting, it was like slipping back into an old jumper, soft in all the right places. By the time we pulled up to George’s flat, we were already trading jabs like no time had passed.

George helps me into the spare room. I already know it’s not going to be empty, he’d warned me it had become a dumping ground for him and his roommates, but I hadn’t expected it to be this cramped. I can barely wedge my suitcases between the broken tripods and half-lit ring lights. The air smells faintly of dust and old extension cords. My bedside table, if you can call it that, is a cardboard box labelled costumes.

I perch on the edge of the camping cot, its frame creaking beneath me, and take it all in. This isn't just temporary mess. It’s the kind of chaos that grows roots. I feel out of place again, like I’ve been slotted awkwardly into a life that isn’t mine.

This isn’t how I pictured 25. Certainly not crashing on borrowed sheets in a friend’s overstuffed spare room, careful not to knock over a stack of prop wigs every time I roll over.

I have to remind myself that I chose this. I chose to move abroad for uni, to live in Manchester, to go home, and to come back again. Every decision led me here. But right now, ‘home’ feels like a word I’ve forgotten the shape of. I try to place my hands around it, to remember the last time it felt solid, close, mine. But the memory slips through my fingers, distant and half-lit.

"Once you're settled, me and the boys are gonna take you out for drinks, get to know everyone in the flat." I smile sweetly at George’s invitation-that-was-not-an-invitation. The jetlag is creeping in, slow and heavy, like fog rolling over my brain. It settles behind my eyes, in my limbs, weighing everything down. But I know better than to give in now. I can’t sleep before bedtime.

"Thanks George, that’s very sweet. I'm gonna freshen up a bit and maybe try to make a bit more space in here? Is that okay?" He agrees that I can move whatever I need, and to ask him before I throw anything away, but it’s probably all good.

The door clicks behind him as he leaves me to adjust. My new job is supposed to be the fresh start I need, but standing in my new 'bedroom', everything around me feels foreign. The dark London sky begins to drizzle again. It always drizzles here. Back home it’s either raining or it isn’t. I sigh and start to unpack, digging for my toiletries.

I’m not sure where my home is anymore.

[captainrikerr5]

"I care about their insight and their opinions so much, I was really hesitant and really nervous to show them, because I respect their opinion the most. And I wanted to make sure that the music was in its final form. I wanted to come to them with the album as a whole.

They were so sweet. They were so amazingly sweet and encouraging, to a point where I'm like, this is not normal for bands to be that supportive of each other. I feel so grateful to be in a group where everyone champions each other. I think I realised how rare and how beautiful that is and that's why we're still together after nearly 15 years, we allow each other to express ourselves creatively inside and outside the band.

Now that the music is done, I'm constantly going to them asking stuff like “How did you feel when you released your first single? How are you feeling doing interviews by yourself?" And I'll get these really insightful notes from them."

– Calum Hood talking about 5SOS members and how they reacted to his solo work!

[lenneygirl4ever]

the alchemy || Will Lenney

“where’s the trophy? he just comes running over to me”

part two of THE ALCHEMY. part one here

pairing: will lenney x fem!reader

warnings & tags: friends to lovers. idiots with tension. idiots in denial. slowish burn. will pov. more will, less football. chrismd gossip bestie.

summary: after seeing the public’s reaction to your performance, you see how your fellow teammate takes to social media after the fact. causing the two of you to reach a breaking point.

a/n: hello!!! this is a long one, so grab a drink lads. thank you for your patience, im a first year college student and the last month has been hectic. for any clarity, this is the gap between the two charity matches! there are either one or two more parts after this. It’s vital to the story, so you don’t want to miss :)

wc: SO MANY!!!

Recently, you haven’t been able to sleep. The thrill of the match still shocks you awake, every time there are new photos released or a new video, you are quick to engage. Slowly, videos are released from your other mates, and you eagerly tune in to see what they say.

It’s exciting. The feedback has mainly been positive, yet you still feel the uneasy flip in your stomach every time you see someone has released a video. It's all you can think about. And when you weren't thinking about football, you watched it on telly. You missed playing, the competition, the simple act of being active. It's given you a new surge of motivation, pushing you into creating.

The only downside of it all is that your phone has been buzzing with notifications today, especially. Usually, your phone mutes any notifications from social media, allowing you to not get sucked in all day. Truly, you do your best to ignore it, to ignore the increasing number you see every time you open Twitter, Instagram, or TikTok. But you're only human, and humans are quite curious.

You try not to think anything of it, occupying your time in the studio to film your own video about the charity match. You had B-roll shots, stills, and close-ups of players when you were benched. It was becoming a combination of all the things you adored, your friends, film, and football.

Once you begin to sit down to film a portion of the video, you review the brief script you had written until you feel your right pocket vibrate. Getting up to turn off the camera, you pull out your phone to see who's calling. And to your surprise, it's Chris. You slide open your phone and put it to your ear as you click the camera off.

"Do you need to tell me something?" Chris asks immediately, making your heart drop. You hadn't been hiding anything, spoke to him frequently, and were sure you didn't need to tell him anything.

"What? I don't think so, do I?" You wonder aloud. Chris groans loudly, making your phone speaker crackle in your ears. He doesn’t often text, matter of fact, Chris is a god-awful texter— and an even worse mate to call in a time of need. You could text him and he would go at least a week without responding, usually replying with “Sorry I thought I responded!”

Which makes you wonder, what could be so important that he called you first? Usually, like Simon, it was to help film, otherwise Chris would call to gossip. The boys loved gossiping, or catching up, as they would say.

"I've just seen Will's video," He starts, and you wait for him to continue, but it seems he's doing the same. "Came out a few hours ago.."

You walk in circles in the studio, a hand tapping the side of your thigh out of nerves. You knew Will was uploading his pov of the charity match sometime later in the week, but he didn't tell you exactly when. You'd be lying if you hadn't wondered what would be kept in your shared interactions, what Will said about you, and what Mikey would deliberately choose to keep in. It was a thought that had plagued your mind since Will had taken the GoPro off when you two returned to the hotel.

"Right, and what does that mean?" You huff, choking down the unease in your tone.

"Oh my god, have you seen it? You haven't, have you?" Chris exclaimed, and you could hear the small giggle he tried to stifle. "You two really are clueless, aren't you? It's ridiculous that our other mates are on Hinge actively trying to not be single, and you two do it by choice!" he joked hysterically.

“You’re a dickhead,” you cut in between his laughter, choosing to ignore the blatant comment about yours and Wills' peculiar relationship.

While Chris continues to make himself laugh, the curiosity is now starting to gnaw at you, causing you to stride over to your desk. Without another beat, your monitor is turned on, and you pull out the chair to get comfortable. You attempt to ignore his laughter as you open up YouTube, typing in Will's second channel name.

"Take a gander for me, will you? When you get the chance, of course," Chris says, and you can hear the wide grin on his face. You freeze, like you had just been caught, the mouse hovering over the thumbnail of the video. You look around the room, just to make sure you're alone.

"I suppose," you say slowly, sitting up straighter than before. Chris then goes on to talk about his latest endeavors, awful dates, video ideas, and the next time you two will see each other. Under other circumstances, you'd be happy to chat. But right now, all you wanna do is watch Wills latest video.

"Hey Chris, I gotta get back to filming this video, mate," you fib, leaning back into your chair, "I want it up by next week, and I'm the only one editing it."

"Oh yeah, yeah, I'm just chatting. Let me know when you watch that video, text me," he responds politely.

"If you even get back to me-" and the phone call ends before you can even say goodbye. You furrow your eyebrows at your phone before setting it down on the desk. You mumble the title to yourself,

SIDEMEN CHARITY MATCH (First Person POV) a bit more willne • 271k views • 3 hours ago

It can’t be that bad, is what you’re trying to convince yourself. You've existed on the internet for a long time now, and there isn't anything you can't handle. Clicking on the video, your heart starts hammering in your chest. You let a few minutes roll by, holding your breath, and then you see the moment when you tapped on Will's shoulder.

"I think I'm gonna shit myself," you let out, and Will watches it back with a soft smile and a tender chuckle.

“Awh poor y/n/n, she was really nervous the entire time, I felt so awful once we split up,” he says over the video.

There it is. The common burn on your face, the shiver down your spine, and the drumming of your heart against your chest. You hit the space bar, pausing the video, to cover your face in embarrassment.

Is it silly to be so riled up by a singular sentence? Are you crazy for wanting to analyze every little thing in the video? You seem to take note of everything. You notice the upturn on the corner of his lips, the way he plays with the ring on his pinky that you got for him-- a nervous tick he picked up, the shifting of his eyes down to his lap when he gets bashful. It's driving you crazy.

So, instead, you watch in complete silence for the rest of the video. It keeps you from pausing frames, reading comments, and feeling lightheaded. But you notice how the GoPro often faces where you're standing on the field, how Mikey left in the bits and pieces of you two interacting that could've easily been cut out. The small waves, subtle smiles, the hug you two shared after you had missed the goal. Half the time Will wouldn't say anything, he would just grin, reliving the moment, occasionally making small comments.

"She really is something, isn't she? Many good assists for her first match,"

and

"Look at that darlin' smile,"

Yet you didn't pause, you remained still in your seat, keeping your eyes glued to the screen as if blinking would take it away. Even though you could feel the air leave your lungs when you appeared on screen.

But then you reach the point where Will makes his goal.

You nervously bite your fingers as he celebrates, telling the audience the same thing he told you on the field, how he had never been a striker and always stayed in the back. The GoPro shot is now playing as Wills words fade into the background. The next few moments play, and it's where Will was screaming something intangible to you.

You aggressively turn up the volume all the way, turning on closed captions to be sure. Your mouse hovers over the timestamp, “most replayed,” and that's when you hear it.

"For you! I did it for you!"

It plays once, then you replay it, and then replay it again. You feel crazy. Taking in his every word, every move, was this okay? A moment that felt so raw and personal was now published for thousands to observe.

“For you! For you!” that’s what Will continues to shout at you on the pitch. And Will doesn’t say much about it, because just before was the clip of you saying he owes you a goal. But when you watch the video you feel like you’re back on the field. Chest heaving up and down, you can barely breathe, and there’s Will running at you shouting something you couldn’t make out. His skin sticking to yours as he embraces you, his hands gripping the side of your body with the proudest smile. A smile, that now says, that was for you.

Just like before, you pause the video, hands gliding through your hair. You don't finish the video. Instead, you step away from the computer and fall back onto the couch that you originally were going to film on.

Okay. It was pretty bad. You understand why your mentions have been blowing up all day and why Chris gave you a call. But it wasn’t like you hadn’t seen this before. Earlier on, you’d often get paired with any boy you came into contact with. It never got out of hand, and most of the time, you were able to ignore it, and the others would too.

But this time it was a little different. The next few days roll by and you aren't able to dodge it. The tweets, the teasing from friends, the edits, god the edits. When filming with friends you were always ready for a joke about Will to make an appearance.

And once you upload your video on the charity match, the comments are bombarded with curiosity and flood in quickly.

StarvxsmWillLoverforever Starting to see why will and y/n can't beat the dating allegations.. 349 likes 17 replies

marriottxmorgan Literally!!!

Admittedly, you feel a little crazy for reading the comments to see if others are picking up on what’s happening. You don’t need to rely on the audiences validation on what’s going— but it does make you feel a little more sane.

Despite it all, Will doesn't bring it up to you, nor does he make any insinuation that he knows about it when he comes by your flat one afternoon.

“Are you coming tomorrow night?” Will asks over your shoulder, his breath fanning the tips of your ears. You turn your head away from the show you're watching and lean back to create space. A chill is sent down your spine as the hairs on your arm stand. He leans over the couch, the sun casting shadows to create definition in the muscles on his arms. Your cat, calamari, follows him, weaving between his arms and purring. A fortuitous combination that focused all the things you loved in one home.

“To what? Watch you prats drink and make a fool of yourselves?” you bantered, turning your body fully to face him. "I have somewhere to be the next morning,"

Arthur mentioned how the lads were hitting the pubs over the weekend, but it seemed he failed to mention that you were meant to accompany them. Will shrugs, arms crossing over one another to lean closer to you.

“Chris said you would,” he insisted, and you could see the smile he was trying to hide. You roll your eyes and lean back onto the couch as Will picks up the feline, cradling her in his arms.

“Why does everyone keep saying I’ll do things before talking to me?” you wondered aloud.

“Because you always end up doing them darlin,” Will teases, kissing your pet before settling down in the open space next to you with Calamari in his lap. "I think Arthur owes Chris twenty quid if you go,"

The silence stretches, reminding you that you're playing house again with Will. There’s leftover takeout on the table, his coat lazily hanging off a chair, and the worn out ball you both had been passing around. The breeze that comes from the open window cools the burn on your face and clears the air of any tension. Your eyes sweep the room, before landing back on Will whose attention is on Calamari.

You awe silently, Will has a habit of adoring every pet he comes into contact with. And often, they end up loving him just as much. Without hesitation, you grab your phone, snapping a picture to save for later.

“I guess I don’t have anything else going on,” you say simply, tucking your phone back under your thigh.

“You don’t disappoint,”

Will stays for several more hours after that, watching telly with you, playing with mari, he watches as you write formal emails, and listens to your phone calls with your manager.

Between all this, you posted the photo of Will and Mari. No caption, no music, no tags, just the photo. You hadn’t thought much of it, a simple photo that was cute. Yet, Wills face wasn’t in it, just the wave of of his hair and the ring on his pinky finger— you weren’t trying to hide him. Either way, it didn’t stop your audience from finding out who it was.

So the hours before you were finally going to get some sleep, were left with you refreshing your phone.

“Fucks sake,” you mumble under your breath, before turning off your phone frustratedly for the night and going to bed.

The music is loud, but the chatter is more audible. You hesitate, not wanting to leave the solace of the cool air. Bars made you anxious, so did large crowds of people, and the only anecdote to that right now—was to drink.

You push open the door, immediately being met with loud cheers as older couples watch the game on the multiple TVs that are displayed. You take a second look at the location you were sent, and you seemed to be in the right place.

Slipping around groups, and bumping into couples, you eventually end up slamming into a familiar face.

“Y/N! Thought you weren’t coming for a second there, mate!” Chris steadies you, yelling over Queen playing on the big speakers. Fixing the pieces of hair that got caught in your lipgloss, you give a shy smile.

“I got wrapped up in editing,”

“We’ve got to get you an editor,” Chip chimes in, appearing with the rest of the lot. You roll your eyes in response, eyeing him.

"Yeah, yeah,” you say dismissively, crossing your amrs over one another. “Where’s Sabina?”

"She was knackered and didn't know if you were coming or not! I'll text her, tell her you are thinking of her," he responds politely, pulling out his phone to text his girlfriend. Gaze sweeping the group, you count six men, minus Will, and that’s when reality to hits you—

"This is awful! I'm stuck babysitting you blokes all night, again," you express, the palms of your hands pressing against your eyes.

"Oh we're not all bad," a voice comes from behind you, warmth radiating on your back. And without even turning around, you know it's Will. One of his hands leans against the bar, outstretching infront of you, while the other holds a half empty glass. You crane your neck to look over your shoulder, and Will is looking down at you, head slightly tilted with a small grin.

It's suffocating, his eyes on you, yours on his, and everybody elses on the both of you. It feels more intimate than when Will has fallen asleep in your bed after a quiet evening. This is a public display, both of you slotting together like pieces in a puzzle, your back pressing into his chest accidentally.

"And when you end up singing down the street and getting carried by George later, tell me that," He laughs lightly, breath fanning your face with tequila and mint. He still has the same smile that looked at you, and only you, with adoration.

"Another pint, anyone?” Stephen asks.

“Oi! Shots in celebration!” Cal insists instead.

“We could just do both, really,” you offer, and the rest seem to rally at the suggestion.

"Brilliant idea,"

The lot of you kill more time with conversations about formula 1, filming, football, and more importantly, shots. You could feel the music in your feet, sending shock waves to your racing heart. The pub continued to get more crowded as time went on, allowing you to sneak away to use the bathroom for a moment of silence and peace. The liquor you drank burned your throat and sat heavy in your stomach, while it eased your anxiety and loosened your joints, it was making you impulsive.

There’s surprisingly no line, and your out in no time, fixing your smudged mascara in the foggy mirror. You reach for your purse, only to realize you don't have it, and you also don't have your phone. Quickly, or as quickly as you can handle, you move out of the bathroom and into the crowded hall.

You must've left it at the booth, or maybe outside when you needed fresh air, or maybe by the pool table? You strain your neck, going on your tip toes to sweep the room. Once, twice, and then your eyes fall on Will. He's on his phone, and theres a black bag that hangs on his shoulder.

You feel a sense of relief wash over, but also your heart skip a beat.

“William, I think you have something of mine,” You say loudly, drawing his attention away from his phone, down to you.

“What? This? I have one of these myself,” he says jokingly, sliding the purse off his arm and onto the counter next to you both. He then digs in his pant pocket, fishing out your phone and sliding it next to your purse. Under the awful lights, his hair is shinning and freshly washed, the hair near his ears is short meaning that it was newly cut.

“You look better without those hats,” you observe aloud. Your hand reaches and brushes through his hair, ruffling it, “Have you ever considered a mullet? You’d suit one,”

Will tilts his head, like a puppy, his eyes big and bright— “Noted,” and only now, you notice how the rest of the lads had scattered, and Will was by himself. You look over your shoulder, then reaching on your tiptoes to search for the boys.

“Were you waiting for me?” You observe, even though you meant to only think that. You couldn’t keep your mouth shut.

Will shrugs, trying to hide the small smile that dared to creep on his face.

“Kinda,”

"You can't kinda wait for someone,"

"I was going to wait for you anyway, but then you left your bag near the pool table, gave me a good excuse." Will's gaze swept the room— their friends nearing on the edge of being plastered, singing and talking to strangers. He was searching for something, not someone, but something else.

Grabbing your attention, the bartender slings two pints your way, "For the couple," he winks, making your face burn. You both don’t say anything at first, the atmosphere shifting to try to mold to both of your comforts.

The air had changed, suddenly gotten so dry and tight that it made Will's body stiffen. Ignoring the comment, Will grabs the glass and inspects it before taking a small sip.

“Are you.. seeing what people are saying?” Will asks as you grab the glass left unattended. "About us,"

His voice was low, eyes fixed somewhere just passed your shoulder, like looking at you directly might unravel something you both aren't ready for.

You shift uncomfortably, of course you did. How could you not? Every day since Will posted the video, when Ieuans' photos were released of both of you, last night's post— you’d been getting tagged in edits, clips, everything. The question was big, pointed, and unexpected.

“Yeah, I’ve seen a few things,” you lie, hiding your unease by squeezing the class tighter.

The look on Wills face, you’ve seen it before. When editing software crashes, or when an unplanned event happens during a video, this time it’s a little different. There’s tension in his brows, his jaw isn’t clenched, instead theres doubt, uncertainty, that strains him.

“It’s okay, Will, I swear it doesn’t bother me.” you reassure, “Unless it.. it uh, bothers you, of course—“

“No! No, that isn’t, no, it doesn’t bother me at all,” he sputters earnestly. Will's eyes meet yours—guarded but still steady—before clamping his mouth shut. Holding back on the words dancing on his tongue.

"Okay," You slowly nod, as if you’re still processing it as you’re responding. You should leave it at that, finish your drink and head back towards the group— “Then why did you bring it up?”

What did they put in the liquor tonight?

In all the time you've known Will, he's not a good liar. He’s also not good at hiding what he’s feeling on his face. His tongue presses against the inside of his bottom lip, face twisting to avoid an awkward grin.

“I thought it would make you uncomfortable,” he mutters, his eyes darting down to look at the foam in his glass. You shift, hesitantly moving closer to Will to capture his attention.

“What? No, it’s never made me uncomfortable before. Should it?” You ask, hand grazing his forearm. Which makes Will look at you before he shrugs, quiet and shy, similar to when you first met him.

"I've seen what it's done to other people, it could have a horrible ending,"

“Doesn’t have to,”

“But it could,”

“That stuff doesn't change anything, we're still..." You begin defensively, before the weight of your words slowly starts to settle. "..where we are,”

You chew at the inside of your cheek, the adrenaline bleeding out of your system. You don’t pick up on the shock on Wills face at first, but after a beat of silence you realize the depth of what you just said. Slowly, you swallow the sip from your drink, giving you enough time to possibly save yourself.

But you don’t say anything.

You both stare at each other incredulously.

“Well, where are we, y/n?" Will probes. He can see it now, the look on your face, the shock, the stature of your posture, the mistake it was saying that outloud. You know he’s asking because he already has an answer in his head, but he wants you to reaffirm it. You know Will, and Will knows you, it’s inescapable.

The silence is telling, even amongst the loud chatter in the pub. You’re convinced you two are the only ones not talking. The look on his face says he’s waiting for you to say something else, but you don’t. You swallow and lick the dry cast on your lips, being the first to break eye contact. Breaking the string tying you two together at this moment.

“Y/n, be honest with me—”

“Hello! What are we standing around for? We’re doing karaoke in the back, George has already had one too many as you can tell,” Chris comes over, his hands clasp Wills shoulders from behind. Chris looks at you first, and then glances to Will, noting the two of you saying nothing. Chris quirks an eyebrow, mouthing something along the lines of “Bad time?”

“Stop sitting around and flirting, will ya? At least when George flirts with him, he shares,” Stephen says teasingly, comes up to join you lot. He doesn’t note the tension between the two of you, or he totally does and just doesn't care. Both of which are completely plausible answers.

“Right, I’ll come on over,” You affirm quickly, seeing this as your only out of the hole you dug yourself into. You give one last glance to Will, and his face is twisted. His eyebrows furrow together, and his lips are slightly parted, it’s a look that reads we’re not done.

But you give him a pleading look that says not right now. 

…⚽️

Will doesn’t say much for the next two hours. He lingers in the back of the group, occasionally sipping on his drink or checking the time on his phone. And you try your best not to stare, knowing that if you look his way— he’ll already be looking at you. He does eventually join the others for karaoke, obnoxiously singing and joining in on music that is playing while you all walk to the next place.

It’s left a pit in your stomach. Knowing that the next time you and Will are alone, you’ll have to be the rawest form of yourself. The part that you’ve been desperate trying to repress and lock away. You’ve never spoken much about how you really feel, afraid that if you start, you’ll never stop. Your feelings for Will are like an oil spill, a match could be dropped and everything would be caught on fire.

You can feel it, the anxiety, it started at your toes and it’s slowly crept it’s way up your torso. The walls are closing in and time is escaping. All because Will doesn’t speak to you, his fingers tapping the table rhythmically, his leg bouncing up and down causing friction to the table. You needed to talk now, even if it was going to ruin you.

Strategically, you get up from the table with a rather forced smile.

“I think it’s time for me to go home fellas,” you announce just after you all had arrived at a new pub. You had been to three pubs already, downed 4 shots, a tequila soda, a couple pints, and a dirty martini. Your shoes were sticking to the wood floors, phone on the verge of dying, and you were tired of having to hover while using the public restrooms.

“Oh not yet, y/n! The night is still young,” George teasingly pleads, and when he leans over to pull you in for a hug you can smell the liquor on his breath. Your nose wrinkles as you pat his back, giving him a small shove after. Unlike Will, it wasn’t as endearing .

“You are so hammered,” you comment, the interaction making the group laugh.

“You aren’t hammered enough,” Cal counters, leaning over to offer you his drink, to which you decline. His eyes are glossed over, and he has this lopsided grin that reads trouble.

“Take care of him won’t you?” You say, pointing at Stephen who shakes his head in response. Regardless, he grabs Cal, and shakes him.

“You stupid, fuckin idiot,” Stephen mutters to Cal, taking the glass between his hands and smelling it. His nose twitches, yet he still takes a small swig, coughing after the fact.

“Drinkin vodka that tastes and looks like medicine, you’re an odd man,”

“Seriously, I’ve got to get going,” Getting up, you shrug your coat on as you briefly say goodbye to everyone.

“We’ll take care of your husband, don’t worry,” Stephen jokes, forcing Cal to sit down in the process.

“You should really work on taking care of yours,” Chris bites back. You roll your eyes, trying to shrug off the overdone comment.

“No one vomit,”

“Will do miss,”

“Can’t promise anything,”

Telling Arthur to tell Chip you said goodbye, smacking Chris on the head for saying you’d come tonight, and finally, you wave to Will.

He nods at you, lifting his drink as acknowledgment. You pause, giving time for more to happen. You expect Will to join you, you hope he does, because you linger for a moment too long that everyone else notices— but he doesn’t. His body still, leaned back into the chair he sat in. Wills eyes flicker back towards the lads, and he doesn’t take a second glance. He’s letting you walk away.

So you walk away.

And once you’re out of the bar, you convince yourself you’ll hear his footsteps from behind. Ones that are hurried and rushed, maybe he was just taking his time to say his goodbyes. Will never let you leave without him, he always accompanied you, eventually going back to each others flat and falling asleep there. But you glance over your shoulder, once, twice, and before you know it, you’re on the train home. It leaves a hollow feeling in your heart, a cold chill that courses through your bones.

You don't remember the last time you left an event, a hangout, or even a video when Will didn't leave with you. You purposefully left thinking he would follow, but he didn’t, so maybe it wasn’t a big deal. Maybe you’re reading too much into it, he had a lot to drink and hasn’t been able to get out very much— he was just having a good time!

Looking at your phone, with 5% left, you go to your messages. Waiting for his text seemed desperate, but he always sent you one after a night out, it was normal. Whatever normal means to you both.

With a loud groan, and a frustrated tug on your hair, your phone shuts off and you let it fall onto your lap. No phone, no company, and no alcohol. What a shit way to end the night.

Now you’re left to wonder on the ride home if that was casual, or if you’re an idiot.

Recently, Will hasn't been able to sleep. Ever since he watched you walk out of the pub a few nights ago, he's felt this lingering regret. He hasn’t seen, texted, or called you since that night. And normally, he sends you a text to make sure you got home safe, but he didn’t even do that. Instead he anxiously turned off his phone the rest of the night and has been avoiding the feeling since.

At first, Will thought it best to keep it to himself, until one morning Will gave James a call in the early afternoon.

“Y/n says rubbish all the time, it could mean nothing,” James comments. 

“No! You knobhead! She had this, this look and she said it like she regretted it,”

“Or it could mean everything, and you’ve completely screwed up–” James continues to mumble to himself.

“Why don’t you just make me feel worse about the situation, yeah?” Will huffs.

“This is why I didn’t want to give you my honest opinion because I’m not involved in the situation. How am I supposed to know what look she had?” James points out.

“You’ve known her just as long as I have,” Will says quietly, picking up the dishes left on his bedside table and bringing them out into the kitchen.

“What, you want me to write a song about it?”

“James!” Will whines. 

“Okay, okay, what else happened?” Will sucks in air through his teeth, trying to recall the rest of the night.

“She left after a couple hours, that’s it,”

“What’s the matter with you?! You let her leave?” James yells over the phone, causing Wills eardrums to pop in response.

“What was I supposed to do? Follow her on the chance that she tells me that it was nothing?” Will argues, setting the dishes into the sink. There’s a silence over the phone before another loud yell,“YES!”

A beat of silence goes by, and then a wave of realization washes over. Will loudly groans, his palm banged against the counter sharply then slaps his forehead.

“..I’m a proper idiot, aren’t I?” Will asks, but mainly to himself. Finding himself leaning against his kitchen counter, pressing his phone to his ear with just his shoulder. He lets out another heavy sigh, using the pads of his fingers to rub circles on his temple and forehead.

“Mate, what do I do?” Will asks defeatedly. James shifts over the phone, drawing his attention back to the phone call. He can hear James footsteps stop, settling down to think about the question.

“Realistically, you talk to y/n. You’ve known her since you were twenty-two, If you don’t talk to her now you’ll be dancing around your feelings until you’re sixty, and by then she’ll have grandkids. You and I both know that this isn’t going away anytime soon,” 

“Why are we being nasty?” Will says, a small exhausted smile making its way onto the corners of his mouth.

"I'm not! But I think it's ridiculous that you have any reason to believe that your feelings aren't reciprocated," James explains calmly. His tone was sure, confident, Will doesn’t think he’s ever heard James be so serious before.

"Have you been watching those edits of her and i recently?" Will tries to steer the conversation where it doesn’t put him in a vulnerable spot. Lightening the mood with a small quip, “They’re quite good, I can see how it would get in someone’s head,”

"Maybe. But regardless, I can still see how obvious it is that you two want to be together. Do us all a favor, Will. Make it happen. I don’t know what you're waiting for, really.” James confesses. As much as it was a weight off Wills shoulders, it was a weight off his as well.

So that's what Will does. After the phone call, he writes and deletes, and rewrites the text he's attempting to send you. Before he knows it, the sun is setting and he’s wasted the day away. So, instead, he gives up and heads towards your flat and arrives at seven sharp. No phone call, no text, just him.

With a small knock at your door, and his nerves making his hands twitch, he waits.

Will hears a few meows from inside, and then footsteps, before you slowly open the door.

“Will, hey,” you say softly, your eyes big with surprise. Will cradles a ball between his arms and a black jumper, rocking back and forth on his heels.

“Sorry for showing up unannounced, I just..” Will trails off for a moment, suddenly forgetting how to breathe. You observe his nervous nature, and stay still, patient.

“Do you wanna go for a walk, maybe?” he asks carefully, trying to give you space if that’s what you need. You lean against the door frame shrugging,

“It’s cold out,”

“I brought an extra jumper,” he says immediately, and your stature seems to soften. He holds it out for you, an expensive black knitted jumper he always wore in videos. From where you stood, you could smell his cologne, it makes you feel giddy. Even though you were still angry at how he disappeared the last few days.

“Alright, let’s go for a walk then,” you decide finally, knowing that Will wasn’t here for just a walk. He knows you know that, but the look on your face makes him feel a little more hopeful than before.

TAGLIST: @dandelionpixels @ooostarwarsfandom501st @melancholicandmessy @migilini @lyssaluvs @alysbaby @kneelforloki @formulaal @f10pc @i-need-to-be-put-down @blu-cuffie @ellouisa17 @marijas-stuff @pianor481 @flashyourgreeneyesatme @whistlef0rthechoir @edgyficuselastica

a/n: again, ty for all the love and patience. some peoples users i can’t tag but i promise i see u all !!!!

[clarkeysbedchem]

will lenney ⋆｡𖦹°⭒˚｡⋆

angst - 𖤐 | fluff - ꪆৎ | smau - ৎ୭

main masterlist

romantic

ৎ୭𖤐ꪆৎ whatever happens, i’m letting it

part one | part two | part three | part four | part five | part six | part seven | part eight | part nine

ꪆৎ d.i.l.f

platonic

no works here yet…

[clarkeysbedchem]

will lenney ⋆｡𖦹°⭒˚｡⋆

angst - 𖤐 | fluff - ꪆৎ | smau - ৎ୭

main masterlist

romantic

ꪆৎ whatever happens, i’m letting it

part one | part two | part three | part four | part five | part six | part seven

platonic

no works here yet…

[supergraphicgirl81]

Favorite Edit - George Edition ⚽️

Titkoks dying, here's my favorite George Clarkey edit that I refuse to lose

need me a man like him

⋆⁺₊❅. ⋆⁺₊❅. ⋆⁺₊❅. ⋆⁺₊❅. ⋆⁺₊❅. ⋆⁺₊❅. ⋆⁺₊❅.⋆⁺₊❅.

TikTok - @clarkvysp

⋆⁺₊❅. ⋆⁺₊❅. ⋆⁺₊❅. ⋆⁺₊❅. ⋆⁺₊❅. ⋆⁺₊❅. ⋆⁺₊❅.⋆⁺₊❅.

[ashtonsunshine]

[smileymoth]

yyyyyay youtubers

[mayfieldss]

i still haven't moved on from netflix cancelling julie and the phantoms btw. that was my show and they took it from me.

[spider-stark]

INFINITELY YOU SERIES MASTERLIST // link to general masterlist here

🕷️ SUMMARY - In every universe, Peter Parker seems destined to fall in love with you. And, in every universe, he realizes it too late. When universes collide and two of them are granted a second chance at rectifying their biggest mistake, neither of them are willing to let the opportunity go to waste–even if you end up not being the person they thought you were.

🕸️ WARNINGS - story will contain mentions of blood, broken bones, weapons, suggestive language, and more. all versions of peter are between the ages of 19-23 in this story. I will try to update warnings accordingly for each chapter, but please read at your own discretion

PART ONE // back at the beginning

PART TWO // crullers & constants

[ur-daily-inspiration]

[moremaybank]

in between 𓂃 ࣪ ˖ 𐦍

pairing bestfriend!jj maybank x fem!reader

summary best friends since the first grade, it was only inevitable that you and jj would fall for each other. however, when a single night suddenly changes things between you, you’re both left wondering if you ever should’ve tried to cross the line at all. [11.8k]

warnings 18+, unprotected sex (sorry, but what else is new?), dry humping, oral (m. receiving), daddy kink, pet names (pretty girl, princess, etc.), dirty talk, body-shaming (not by jj), reader's parents being shitty, drunk jj causing a scene at a party, childhood best friends to lovers, a love confession, i think that's it???

author's note i really hope you guys like this one! kinda nervous bc i haven't posted a full fic in awhile, but i think i'm happy with it. ik it's long, but i think it's worth it! also, enjoy the logan huntzberger (gilmore girls) cameo LOL

in between universe | jj masterlist | playlist | kofi

Amid the raging storm outside, a series of frantic knocks on your front door echoed through your house. You rushed to the door, swinging it open to reveal a drenched and dishevelled JJ Maybank. 

“Oh my god!” You exclaimed in panic, yanking him inside. Your hands quickly found his face, and then his shoulders as your eyes scanned his body for any signs of injury. “What the hell is wrong with you?!” 

“Hello to you, too,” he greeted, smiling down at you. He couldn’t deny the stroke his ego got, nor the fluttering in his stomach he felt when you worried for him. “I’m fine, by the way. Jus’ a tad cold.” 

JJ hoped you’d take the hint and pull him into your arms — the place he always longed to be — but was caught off guard when your hand slapped his chest. “Hey!” 

“What if you catch pneumonia?!”

“I’m fine, Y/N/N.”

“Fine? You could’ve gotten killed!” 

“By what? The gentle breeze outside?” That earns him another slap. “Ow!”

“Don’t smart-mouth me, Maybank.” 

“You love my smart mouth,” he teases, pinching your cheek playfully. 

Once again, his hopes were wrong, because while he was praying for a glimpse of that smile that made his knees weak, your hand came flying at him for a third time. Luckily for him, he was quick, catching your wrist and pulling you to stand right in front of him. 

“You’re gonna wanna be real careful about what you do next, princess.” Powerful blue eyes locked with yours and you knew that he’d won. “Gotta say, this is not the welcome I was expecting. Kinda hoped I’d get a kiss or somethin’.” 

Your heart sang at his comment, but you remained focused on the outside, keeping your face straight. 

“For what? Being an idiot?”

Then, he gave you the face. 

Pouty, and adorable, and JJ, and just like he had planned, you started to fold. 

You couldn’t stay mad at him if you tried. 

Even if he helped. 

“I’m sorry. I’m just worried. You aren’t invincible, you know.” 

He visibly softened at your words, as if he wasn’t soft on you before, and he released your wrist. But he didn’t give your hand back to you. Instead, he kept it with him, mindlessly playing with your fingers so he wouldn’t have to give up the physical contact.

“C’mon. You really think I’m gonna let anythin’ stop me from annoying you for the rest of your life? Not a chance, baby.” 

Baby. Uh oh. Your resolve was beginning to waver. 

“‘N the reason I came is ‘cause I didn’t want my pretty girl alone in this mess,” he murmured, and you detected some shyness in his voice. “Besides, when have we ever spent a storm night apart?” 

Aaand it was gone. 

Vanished. 

He always knew how to get you. Then again, you always let him. 

You tilted your head, fighting a smile and losing miserably when it broke free. “Alright. I guess you’re sweet. Even if you’re an idiot.” 

“There’s my girl,” he grinned. “Now gimme a hug. I’m cold.” He tried to reach out for you, but you backed away, putting more distance between you two.

“No way, you’re soaked,” you laughed, now extremely grateful for the cozy pjs you were sporting.

“Oh, c’mon. You’re really not gonna hug me?” He picked up an old-timey accent when he spoke next, “I ventured through the brave storm to see you, m’lady. The least you could do is offer me a warm embrace.” 

He was so animated with it that it was damn near impossible not to giggle. “My sincerest apologies, sir. You seem to be out of luck.” 

“Alright, that’s it.” 

Before you knew it, JJ lunged at you. You let out a squeal, running as fast as you could with your socks slipping against the marble tiles. 

It took a little bit of time, and you’d covered a lot of area in the house by the time he finally captured you. Strong, brawny arms wrapped around your frame and picked you up right off the ground. He spun you around in the air a few times, relishing in the sun-soaked laughter that escaped you before putting you down. 

You turned around in his grip, looking incredibly earnest when your hands came to rest on his arms. “Thanks for coming to save me. Not that I needed it.” 

He smiled warmly at your statement. “I’ll always come ‘n save you,” he said, capturing your chin between his fingers. His thumb stroked over your chin softly. “You’re my Y/N/N. Nothin’s more important than you.” 

You found yourself stuck in an intense stare with him yet again, your heart thumping loudly at his sincerity and gooey sweetness. 

“Come on. You need to shower before you get sick.” 

You grabbed his hand, but he came willingly with a lovestruck look you couldn’t see. 

“Yes, ma'am.” 

—

After shoving JJ into the shower and practically pouring a hot cup of tea down his throat to ensure he was warm from the inside out, the two of you found solace in your cozy and — in JJ’s words — kooky bed with your backs against the pillows and headboard. 

“Make fun all you want but you and I both know I have to drag you out of here kicking ‘n screaming every time you sleepover.” 

“…Shut up.”

Despite his words, JJ huddled closer to you under the plush covers. The wind howled outside, alongside the occasional rumble of thunder. If it weren’t for the light casting around the room from your TV, and the entirely hilarious sitcom How I Met Your Mother playing in the background, the ambience would’ve made the room feel eerie.

“So,” JJ began, breaking the silence, “you heard from your parents lately? Thought they were supposed to come back this week?” 

Ah, yes. Your parents. 

From a young age, you’d learned not to expect much from the people who had brought you into the world.

The minute they realized they could, they’d handed you off to a nanny and threw themselves back into the lives they’d lived before you had arrived. Your mom went heavy on the scotch and retail therapy, and your dad had re-immersed himself in his work. When he wasn’t doing that, he was squandering his free time away at the country club, playing golf and consuming copious amounts of alcohol alongside your mother.

Anything to get out of the house, and, evidently, away from you. 

The older you grew, the less you saw of them as they travelled the world for business. By the time you were fifteen, you’d pretty much been living in that enormous mansion all by yourself for ten months out of the year. 

Sometimes, even more. 

Not that you’d ever voice your complaints to them. You knew they wouldn’t hear you. They’d simply spew out something along the lines of ‘Sweetheart, you’ve never had to work for anything in your life. if you had, you’d understand that we can’t be there for every silly little dance recital or graduation.’ 

And yes, that included your high school graduation. 

When they did spend time with you, that time would be filled with snarky comments about your appearance and about your sympathy for the pogues. Nothing about you ever seemed to satisfy them.

But somehow, amid the loneliness and abandonment you’d been able to comprehend from far too young of an age, you’d found and held onto the one person who made it all melt away. 

JJ. 

It was the first day of second grade, and all the children in your class were colouring. All of them except for the little blonde boy who sat across the room, by himself, with a blank sheet of paper in front of him, but nothing to colour with. You were only six at the time, but you could sense that he was alone too. And your heart hurt for him because it hurt the same way for you. 

So, you got up from your seat, grabbed your paper and your sixty-four pack of crayons (the pack that every child dreamt of having) and trotted off to his table. You perched yourself in the chair beside his and offered to share your crayons with him. 

At first, he just stared at you. You thought that maybe he didn’t want you there, but then, you saw the tiniest glimpse of his dimple when he gave you a small smile, nodding. 

“Thanks.” 

And now, a decade and a half later, you were just as inseparable as you had been since that very first day. 

Your house was now considered a home, had been since the moment JJ first stepped onto the marble flooring with his boyishly muddy shoes. He filled the aching silence with laughter and excitement and finally, finally, some cherishable memories. 

Like how he’d helped you climb your first tree, and carried you on his back into your house after you’d scraped your knee while doing so. Camping in your backyard and sprinting inside once non-forecasted rain came pouring down on your flimsy little kiddy tent. He’d accidentally stolen your first kiss (and he’d never admit it, but he was and still is overjoyed to have done so). Movie nights where he’d let you pick the film and sit happily while you pushed his hair back and applied a face mask to his tanned skin. 

Anything you wished for, JJ would give it to you without a second thought. Any time you needed him, he’d drop everything to run over to you. He was loyal, sweet, hilarious, thoughtful, and though he was good at hiding it from the light, his heart was pure gold. 

But what had mattered most to you was that in a world where everyone close to you had chosen to leave, he was the one who had stayed. 

Without him, there was noise. 

With him? Quiet. 

Peaceful, and calm, and quiet. 

No one turned your world like him. And that made it that much more inevitable to fall for him. 

The feeling of JJ’s finger tapping against your temple broke you out of your daze. “Hey. You in there?”

“Yeah, sorry,” you replied. “My mom called me a couple days ago to tell me they cancelled their flight. They’re coming back on Monday instead.” 

“So, basically, what I’m hearin’ is that they just didn’t wanna be stuck in the house with you all weekend.” 

“Precisely.” 

You mocked your mother’s voice when you spoke next. “You know I can only take that sorry little island in small doses. Besides, if we come home now, we’ll be holed up in the house during that storm. Why on earth would I trade my penthouse view for that?”

JJ gave you a sad look, obviously upset for you. It wasn’t like he expected much from them either, but he knew that deep down, even if you refused to admit it, it stung. 

They really couldn’t spend one weekend with you? Being with their daughter is that much of a hardship for them? 

“Stop. It’s fine.” And you meant it. These kinds of stunts were nothing new to you. You didn’t think they were gonna race home to you to make sure you were okay. A quick text would suit them just as well. 

“Don’t do that,” he stopped you. “You’re allowed to be upset. Your parents are assholes.” 

Assholes that were so far past unaware of the remarkable person they’d given life to. It shook him to his core, the realization that someone so beautiful both inside and out had come from two cold and selfish people. 

But if they would never appreciate you, who cared, because JJ knew he always would. 

He’d never let a single moment pass without telling you how special you were. How much you’d helped him, given him a safe haven and shoulder to cry on when he needed it. 

Given him peace. 

And, if he ever worked up the damn courage…he’d spend every minute of the rest of his life telling you how much he loved you. 

You just shrugged in response. “It is what it is. I’m luckier than most.” 

He frowned at that. It’d always hurt him to watch you belittle your problems just because you were better off financially. It was almost as if you were numb.

“Well, at least they’ll be here for your birthday. That’s somethin’.” 

“Nah, they’re flying back to New York on Friday.” 

“Are you serious?” He asked, sitting up straight now. “They couldn’t wait one day?” 

“You know how they feel about birthdays, J.” 

That was true. JJ had heard them give you the ‘Why should you be rewarded for being born? That isn’t an achievement,’ talk countless times over the years. They’d just stick a wad of cash into your nanny’s hand and tell her to take you out to the mall as if their missing your birthday would be fixed with a shopping spree. 

As if it would erase the resentment you knew they felt toward you. 

“That doesn’t make it right,” he said, growing frustrated. “Y/N/N, it, like, sickens me to keep watchin’ ‘em treat you like this. You gotta say something.” 

“Like what, J? They’d never listen. Just drop it.” 

He deflated a bit, leaning back into his original position. “Look, ‘m sorry, okay? I just…I don’t get it. You’re amazin’, you’re— you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me. I don’t know how they don’t feel the same.” 

Damn it. There he went again, making it impossible for you to be in a sour mood. 

Gingerly, you turned to him, sitting with your legs criss-crossed. “You’re the only one keeping me going, y’know that? I don’t know what I’d do without you.” 

He sat up once more and cupped your cheek, thumb brushing against the apple of it as he looked deep into your eyes. It felt like he was staring into your soul. 

“I promise you’ll never have to find out.” He looked down then, biting his lip slightly before meeting your gaze again. “I put that on my life.”

The rest of the world faded away while the two of you stayed in that moment, frozen in time as if you were a scene captured in a snow globe. 

It was times like these when you felt yourself start to believe the things Kie was always telling you. 

“I’m just saying, like, how do you not see it?” 

She’d been up your ass ever since the boys had split up from you two and left The Wreck. Kie was working at the counter, filling up drinks and cashing out takeout orders. 

Oh, and pestering you about JJ’s so-called affections for you.

“Maybe because I’ve known him since we were six and I know what it looks like when he flirts with other girls,” you remarked.

“Okay, but, like, you’re not just some random girl to him. You’re you.”

You made a face. “I don’t even know what that means.” 

The groan that emitted from her lips was loud enough to catch the attention of countless customers, but she didn’t seem to care.

“You’re impossible,” she said, placing the lids on three soft drinks. “I’ve known JJ almost as long as you have, and in that time, one thing about him has always been crystal-fucking-clear. He’s in love with you. Always has been, always will be.”

“Whatever you say,” you hummed in response, taking a sip of your Coke and pushing away the warm, fuzzy feeling floating through you at the thought of her words being true. 

Meanwhile, JJ was struggling not to act on his desires. 

It was the perfect moment. 

You were quite literally in his hands — or hand, rather — looking as beautiful as ever. He could kiss you. Right now. Plant one on you, a real kiss, unlike that accidental peck he shared with you at the age of twelve. He’d truly get to taste you this time around and silently convey all his love for you. 

And then, fate helped him out. 

The lights flickered and cut out in time with a rumble of thunder, leaving the two of you in complete darkness. 

JJ took it as a sign. 

He leaned forward, and his lips connected with yours. It was soft, tentative at first to see if you’d back off or push him away. To his surprise, your hand snaked up his front, fisting his shirt and pulling him closer. He took that as permission and kissed you deeper, his tongue stroking against yours in a dizzying fashion. The action made you moan into his mouth, and he pocketed the sound in his mind, saving it for later when he was alone and was thinking about you. 

And not in an innocent way. 

JJ’s hands found your waist, sliding down to your hips before tugging you closer. You took his invitation and clambered your way onto his lap, your lips never leaving his. 

God, kissing him felt good. Too good. It was nothing like you’d ever imagined. No, it was better. He kissed you like he’d stop breathing if he didn’t. Like the world would burst into flames and end right then and there if he let go of you. 

You didn’t know what was happening, and frankly, in fear of the truth, you had no plans of asking him. If this was the only way you could ever have him, you’d take it without a second thought, consequences be damned. 

You were sure that your decision was nowhere near wise, but there was simply no time for wisdom. 

JJ, your JJ, was kissing you. Kissing you and touching you and giving himself over to you, even if it was only for one night. 

And if doing this was wrong, for once in your life, you didn’t want to be right.

JJ’s hands pulled at the hem of your shirt, and you broke the kiss to let him strip you of it. He tossed it carelessly while his eyes landed on your bare tits. 

“Christ,” he whispered, his hands coming up to cup them both. “These are fuckin’ perfect.” 

His thumbs brushed over your nipples and you shivered. “J.” 

“Shh. I gotchu, baby. Relax for me, yeah? Let me take my time?” 

“Yeah,” you breathed. “But can you take your shirt off? Wanna see you too.” 

He smiled. You were so damn sweet, it would nearly give him a toothache. “Yeah, pretty girl. I can do that.” 

JJ shrugged off his beat-up Heyward’s tee, discarding it on the floor. You ogled at him, at least ninety percent sure that huge red cartoon hearts were projecting from your eyes. 

“You’re droolin’ a bit, there,” JJ teased, thumbing at your lip. 

Heat crept up into your face at his comment. “Shut up.” 

On the inside, he loved the way you were looking at him. You handled him delicately, hands cradling his face as if he were an intricate piece of artwork that you wanted to study and commit to memory. 

Every line, every slope, every curve.  

Every last stunning piece of him.

“You’re so beautiful, J.” 

JJ had been loved by you since elementary school. Sure, it was in a best friend's way, but being loved by you had changed his world. Now, with the way you were looking at him, the way you were speaking to him, the way you were touching him…he couldn’t help but imagine that this was what it’d be like to really be with you. 

He turned bashful, his heart still fluttering at your words. “‘M supposed to be sayin’ that to you. Look at you.” 

“Stop that,” you said, looking him right in the eyes. “You deserve to be loved on. Let yourself have this. Let yourself feel loved, J.” 

Those words echoed in his mind. JJ never felt like he deserved anything good, so he always pushed those opportunities away. Ruined them and made them inaccessible. But with you in his arms, pleading with him to let you show him that he was worthy, he started to believe that maybe he did deserve something positive. 

And if it were coming from you? Well, he’d take it without question.

He surged forward, capturing your lips in a searing kiss. He wanted to kiss you until his lips were sore, and even then, he wouldn’t stop. 

With greedy hands, the both of you touched every sliver of skin you could find, your lips never leaving the others for a second. Your hands found their way to JJ’s unruly golden locks, fingers carding through them so you could tug on them a little. A deep rumble of satisfaction came from JJ’s throat, and the noise had been so heavenly that your hips started to roll against his on their own accord. 

The friction was toe-curling, so addicting that you couldn’t stop rutting against him even if you wanted to. He was hard as a rock, and big. So big. You didn’t even need him to get naked to know you were right. 

“F-Fuck,” JJ stammered against your lips, though his hands didn’t stop helping your hips move. “Keep goin’ ‘n I’ll cum before I’m even inside you.” 

“But you feel so good,” you whined. Your brows were pulled together and your jaw was slack, the stimulation already getting you close. “Oh my god.” 

“Baby—”

“Please, J. I need it. Don’t make me stop. P-Please don’t make me stop.” 

You were right on the edge, and all JJ could focus on were your pretty pleas and the desperation written all over your face. He wanted to watch you explode, wanted to watch you go slack as the pleasure rolled through you. Wanted to hear what you sounded like when you came for him.

So he encouraged you. 

“Go ‘head, pretty girl. Make a mess. Get yourself nice ‘n wet for me.” His lips found your neck, nipping and sucking at your skin to leave his mark. He felt you cling to him as your actions sped up, his cock throbbing as he tried to fight off his high. It almost took everything in him not to give in. “Good girl. You got it.” 

You came loudly, chest heaving up and down as your body twitched and went through the motions of your release. You felt JJ leave more wet kisses across your chest as you tried to regulate your breathing, your hand playing with his hair carelessly. 

“That might’ve been the hottest thing I’ve ever seen, baby,” he spoke, his hands rubbing up and down your sides. Goosebumps formed underneath his fingertips, and he couldn’t help himself from realizing how responsive your body was for him. 

It’d never been like this with anyone else. No one could compare to you. He didn’t even have to sink into you for confirmation. 

He was fucking done for.

JJ never thought his complete and utter devotion to you could ever run deeper in his veins, but here you were, proving him wrong. 

He was more than fine with that. 

“Fuck me, J. Need you inside me,” you said, hands running over the planes of his chest. Your lip was caught between your teeth, and JJ could tell that you were feeling shy. 

“How could I ever deny you when you’re askin’ me so nicely, huh?” He thumbed at your bottom lip, trying to break it free so he could kiss you again. He did, giving you a deep kiss bubbling over the top with affection. “How do you want it?” 

“Wanna ride you. Can I?” 

Fuck. 

“You can have whatever you want, princess.” 

You grinned, your hands running down the path of his front before finding the button of his pants with ease. You popped it open, unzipping them and tugging his boxers down. His cock sprang out, beautiful and pink and curved. The bead of pre-cum caught your eye, and your mouth watered instantly, dying to know what he tasted like. You dipped your head down, your tongue sticking out and swirling around his tip gently as you coated your tastebuds with him. You were about to dive in for seconds when JJ stopped you. 

“Please don’t, baby. I won’t last.” 

You pouted. “But I wanna suck you off. Don’t you wanna fuck my throat?” 

Christ. Those sinful words sounded nothing but heavenly, and it was hard to resist you. 

“Promise you can later. But right now,” he paused, hands grabbing you and pulling you to straddle his lap again, “I need to feel that pretty pussy.” 

“Yes, daddy.” 

JJ threw his head back with a groan. “You’re really tryna kill me, aren’t you?” 

You simply giggled in response, before circling your hand around his cock. You slid his tip through your folds, from your creamy slit to your clit — and the whimper you let out when you rubbed it over your bundle of nerves almost sent JJ into shock — then back down to your hole again. You started to sink down on him, letting out a hiss when he stretched you wide. Once his tip was inside, JJ swore he started to drool. He was barely inside you and yet your hot, wet walls felt like ecstasy. 

When you sank down all the way, JJ let out a tortured, “Fuckin’ soaked, fuck.” Your walls fluttered subconsciously, and he groaned. “Move for me before I bust. Please.” 

“No cumming yet, J,” you tutted, slowly beginning to bounce on him and giving in to his wishes. He was so big, it was a miracle that you could fit him completely. The intrusion had you feeling so full, but he was hitting every square inch of your cunt and you were on cloud nine. You picked up a good rhythm, earning praise from JJ as you did so.  

“There ya go, baby. Thaaat’s it,” he rasped, leaning back against the headboard to watch you work. His hands cupped your tits as they bounced, feeling your pert nipples rubbing against his palms. “Fuck. Me. Shit.” 

His favourite girl, the star of every single fantasy he’s ever had, was beautifully bare and in his lap, riding the fuck out of his cock. He denied the urge to shut his eyes, no matter how euphoric he felt, ‘cause he didn’t want to miss a single second.

Lost in the pleasure, your hands migrated from his built shoulders to his chest, and you clawed at him. He hissed but ultimately enjoyed the stinging feeling pricking at his skin. 

You could tell because, within a millisecond, his broad arms had enveloped your entire frame and started bucking his hips upward and taking control.

You gasped his name in shock, your own arms instinctively wrapping around him to hold on for dear life. 

“Shh, baby. Let me do the work. You just keep takin’ this cock like a good girl for me, ‘kay?”  

Oh, that mouth. That perfect, filthy mouth. You could’ve died right there if he let you. 

“Y-Yeah.” 

“Yeah, who? What’s my name in here, angel?” 

“D-Daddy.” 

And the cheeky fucker smirked. “Damn fuckin’ straight.” 

He flipped you onto your back, your bare skin hitting the thick comforter. His hands curled around the backs of your knees as he kept you spread wide open for him. His eyes couldn’t help but drift to where you two were connected, watching you swallow his cock whole. 

“Such a good fuckin’ pussy,” he grunted. “Jus’ keeps gettin’ wetter ‘n tighter f’me.” 

“Yes. Yes. All for you, Daddy. S’all for you,” you called out when he started to fuck you harder. He was animalistic with it, the lust and need for you going into overdrive. It was the sexiest thing you’d ever seen. 

Your excitement only grew when JJ leaned forward, his deliciously carved frame hovering above yours. Thick arms caged you in, and large palms held your head up. His forehead leaned against yours, blue eyes holding yours captive in a hypnotizing fashion.

“Eyes on me, baby. Want your eyes on me when you cum.” 

He knew you were getting there, your cries only increasing in volume as your pussy coated him completely in your slick. Your walls were contracting, tightening around him and threatening to take his breath away.

He also knew that his words would go a long way right now, judging by the way you’d been reacting to them thus far. 

“Tired, aren’t you, baby? Tired of carrying all that weight on your shoulders?” He asked, his breath fanning over your lips as he panted. He littered soft pecks across your cheek when you nodded, an intoxicating juxtaposition from the savoury and harsh pounding he was giving you. “Yeah, I know, babygirl. Always workin’ so damn hard tryna take care of all of us. Jus’ need someone to take care a’you for a change, yeah? Need Daddy to do all the work ‘n make y’feel good? That right?” 

Don’t get him wrong. JJ was a feminist. You’d raised him right. But he always had the crippling need to do whatever he could to make your days lighter, make your life easier. 

And now, apparently, that included fucking the stress out of you until you couldn’t even remember what had caused it in the first place. 

He let out a breathy and proud chuckle when your walls started to clamp down harder on him. He had you right where he wanted you; clinging onto him like a koala and keeping his skin pressed to yours, crying from his gifted hip work, and teetering on the peak of your orgasm. 

“C-Close, J. So close,” you gasped out, chest heaving drastically.

“Let go, baby. Let it all go for me, yeah?” 

One of JJ’s hands snaked down to rub your clit in tight circles, and he watched flames ignite in your eyes at the added stimulation. The wind was knocked out of your lungs when the band deep in your core finally snapped.

“That’s fuckin’ right,” he encouraged, continuing to fuck you through your high. His was creeping up on him, and he selfishly started to go harder, faster. “‘M gonna cum. Where d’ya want it, baby? Your tits? Stomach?” 

“M-My mouth. Promised you’d fuck it, remember?” 

He grinned maniacally. The mere thought of fucking his cum down your throat, hearing your gags and watching more of those pretty tears stain your cheeks…nothing sounded better. 

“I never break my promises with you, angel. Y’know that.” He pulled out from you, lifting you into a seated position so he could reach your mouth. You struggled to keep yourself upright, clinging onto JJ’s thighs. You looked up at him, teary-eyed with your tongue out and waiting. “Could fuckin’ cum just from the way you look right now, swear to God.” 

He smacked his length against your hot tongue a few times before sliding in all the way. A shiver rippled through him in delight. “Fuckin’ hell. Where’s this mouth been all my life?” 

He throbbed wildly, twitching when your tongue slithered against the thick vein of his underside. It didn’t take long for him to start thrusting into your mouth, starting off slow but speeding up as his greed skyrocketed. His hands thread through your hair, holding your head in place. Spit was pooling out around him and down your chin, countless tears were escaping from your eyes. Your hair was a mess. But you’d never looked more gorgeous. 

You moaned around him, sending vibrations and little jolts through his entire body when he announced to you that he was close. You released your grip on one of his thighs, cupping and massaging his balls. He fucked deeper and deeper into your throat and soon, you watched him fall over the edge. A string of groans and curses fell from his lips, and he sounded better than anything you’d ever heard. 

Your favourite song of all time was now dethroned by the pornographic sounds emitting from the gorgeous and hypnotizing man in front of you. 

When he withdrew from your mouth and finally caught his breath, all he could do was beam down at you. His fingers scooped up the string of cum that clung to your lips and stuffed themselves into your mouth. You licked every last drop up and savoured it. 

Savoured him.

“‘N just when I thought you couldn’t drive me any crazier.” 

—

The world was different when JJ woke up. 

He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and noticed the sun was shining, a nice contrast to the horrible weather from the previous night. He could hear birds chirping and the light breeze of wind flowing against the trees. But what was most different was the fact that you were curled up in his arms, smooth, bare skin pressed against his as you slept. It wasn’t like you two hadn’t cuddled before, but after last night’s escapades, the action just felt so much more intimate. He felt the smile growing on his face as the memories played in his head. He couldn’t believe he’d finally gotten to kiss you, let alone partake in any of the other activities you two did. 

JJ looked down at you, his precious girl, watching your chest heave as you tried to regulate your breathing. You were glowing, your hair a little messy, but it made his heart skip a beat when he thought about how it’d gotten to that point. The ghost of a smile played on your lips while you watched him in wonder. 

JJ leaned down, planting a soft kiss on your forehead and closing his eyes as he did so. “Stay here. Gonna grab a towel so I can clean you up.” 

He started to move, but your smaller hand wrapped around his wrist and tugged. “Don’t go. Can you just…lay with me for a bit?” 

The combination of your sulky doe eyes and still kiss-swollen, pouted lips was all too much. He could never say no to you, but at that moment? You’d never looked more vulnerable, and he just wanted to wrap you up in his arms and shield you from anything that would make you look as sad as you did right now. 

“Yeah, pretty girl,” he assured you, getting situated under the covers and opening his arms wide for you. “C’mere. Not goin’ anywhere.” 

You smiled with a shy nod, instantly slotting yourself into his arms and resting your head on his chest. You nuzzled your cheek against his bare skin, closing your eyes as you let his presence envelope you. 

“You promise?” You asked quietly. Your eyelids grew heavy, and you felt yourself slipping out of consciousness when his fingers danced up and down your back. 

“I promise,” JJ said. His head came to lean atop yours, his cheek smushed against your hair. “Couldn’t leave you if I tried, princess.” 

You started to shift in his hold, a small groan escaping your lips. 

“Mornin’, sunshine,” he greeted, sweeping some baby hairs away from your face. How you managed to look so effortlessly beautiful all the time was beyond him. Not that he was complaining. “You sleep okay?” 

“Mhm,” you hummed, unable to stop your lips from curling upward. “You?”

“Slept great.” 

You peered up at him, and he was already looking down at you. The minute your eyes met, it was just as last night when the rest of the world went quiet. It was just you and your favourite boy, stuck in a bubble where for once, everything felt right. Where you and JJ felt so happy, that nothing could put a damper on things.

Until your bedroom door swung open, revealing your mother. Once her eyes landed on a shirtless JJ beside you, steam was coming out of her ears. 

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?!” 

You sat up and held the sheets to your chest, keeping yourself covered up. “Mom, close the door!”

“Get up, get dressed, and get that pogue out of my house.”

“Always a pleasure, Mrs. Y/L/N.” 

She glared at him and slammed the door shut. You didn’t dare to look at JJ, completely mortified and ashamed of her behaviour. JJ sat up then, watching your teeth sink into your bottom lip the way they always did when you were deep in thought or stressed out. Without a second thought, he reached over, thumbing at your lip until it broke free from your teeth. 

“Stop that. Any harder ‘n you’ll bleed, babe.”

You gave him the tiniest glimpse of a smile. “Sorry.” 

You got up before he could respond, wrapping one of your sheets around your body and making your way to your bedroom door so you could lock it. Behind you, JJ also got up, slipping on his clothes before walking over to where you stood. 

“Hey,” he spoke, nudging your chin upward with his hooked index finger. “You okay?”

You nodded, slowly looking at him. “I’m just sorry about her.”

“You don’t need to apologize to me, alright? I don’t care about her, I just wanna make sure you’re good.” 

You nodded again wordlessly. It didn’t put JJ at ease. 

“I won’t go if you don’t want me to,” he told you. “Jus’ say the word ‘n I’ll stay.” 

You wanted to grab him and hold onto him for dear life. He was so sweet, too sweet for his own good. He always thought of you first, put you above everything else. It was nice, having someone do that for you for a change, but you couldn’t be selfish with him. So, you shook your head, looking downward and grabbing both of his hands. Your thumbs swiped over his knuckles as you mustered up the courage to let him go, knowing it was for the better. 

“No, it’s okay. I’ll be fine.” 

It was clear JJ didn’t believe you, but he knew better than to push you when it came to your parents. “You sure?” 

“Yeah.” 

He stayed right where he was for a moment. He didn’t want to go. Didn’t want to leave you to deal with the wrath of your mother alone. But he remembered the promise he’d made to himself; that he’d always do what you wished of him. 

He looked down at your joined hands, ignoring the butterflies in his stomach. His gaze flitted back up to yours, and he nodded hesitantly. Breaking free from your grasp, he gathered his belongings. He walked over to you again, his hand cradling your face. Tilting your head down slightly, he kissed your forehead in goodbye. 

“I’ll come by ‘n see you later, alright?” 

“Okay,” you said. 

He nodded, letting go of you slowly and walking the few footsteps to your door. But then, he turned around, his hand pausing on the doorknob. “Y/N/N?” His chest fluttered nervously, and he took a deep breath. “There’s, uh, somethin’ I wanna tell you. Somethin’ I needa tell you.” 

You watched him intently, and a sense of anticipation bubbled in your stomach. “What is it, J?”

You grasped his hand gently, and his mouth went dry. You were in such a vulnerable place with your parents showing up out of the blue, and that was not how he wanted things to be when he told you he loved you for the first time. 

“Y’know what? It’s nothin’. Forget it. I’ll see you tonight.” 

With that, he exited your bedroom, leaving both you and himself with heavy hearts. 

—

“Well, well. Look who’s finally decent,” your mother commented when you entered the kitchen fully dressed. 

You chose to ignore her comment. “What are you doing here, Mom? I thought the ferry wasn’t running.” 

“We took the jet and flew to the airstrip. Honestly, Y/N, it’s a miracle you can brush your teeth in the morning.” 

You held back your impending eye-roll.

“Is your little friend gone?” 

“Yes, Mom. JJ’s gone.” 

And you’d never needed him more. 

“Good. I knew that boy made you act like a child but I never thought that you’d throw everything we’ve given you away for someone with no potential and a criminal record.” 

And there it was. 

Any time your parents even thought they caught a glimpse of your blonde best friend, they were quick to pick out all his ‘flaws.’ Right off the bat, even as a child, they’d never respected him due to his pogue status. As if it were his fault, like he’d chosen his life himself. As if he’d chosen to be stuck with a father who’d never shown him love a day in his life. 

As if they had room to talk. 

Because the truth of the matter was, everything parents were supposed to do for their children — support them, comfort them, make them believe that they could be any and everything they wanted to be — wasn’t done by your parents. 

They were done by JJ.

If you hadn’t had JJ, you wouldn’t have known what unconditional love was. 

He was the one who reminded you that you could conquer the world. He’d held you through lonely nights, patched up your cuts and bruises when you were clumsy, helped you study (though he didn’t even study himself), and never failed to remind you that you were adored by him. 

So, when your mother dared to speak on JJ as if she had ever really tried to know him, it boiled your blood. “Where do you get off talking about him like that? He’s done more for me than you and Dad ever have.” 

The fire in your tone made your mother get up from her seat at the table immediately. She downed the contents of her glass — presumably scotch — and nearly slammed the glass on the table. 

“Is that so?” She scoffed. Steam practically shot out of your ears when she looked at you. “So he put you up in this house? He paid for all your foolish little dance lessons and bought you that Benz sitting in the driveway?” 

“That’s not what I—”

“I don’t care what you meant. You paint us out to be the villains in your life when we’ve done nothing but support you and give you everything you’ve ever dared to wish for.” 

“Support me?!Areyou delusional? When have you two ever supported me?”

Financially? Yes. Emotionally? Mentally? Likely story. 

“Don’t start. I’m simply speaking the truth. Now, tomorrow night, I expect you to stop acting like a spoiled brat and drop the attitude.” 

Your brows furrowed. “What’s tomorrow?”

“Last night, your father and I were at dinner with some colleagues, discussing the horrible storm and what it’s done to the southside of the island. They said they’d love to help support the people down there, and so your father came up with the brilliant idea to throw a benefit for The Cut.” 

Your parents wanted to help the pogues of the island? Were you dreaming? 

“It’s wonderful publicity for our company. We’ve been looking for an opportunity like this for weeks.” 

Nevermind. You were wide awake. 

“That being said, your father and I have informed the Huntzbergers that their son would be your date. You remember Logan, don’t you? He asked for you. I can’t fathom why, but what does it matter?” 

You’d met Logan many times over the years, the two of you being dragged by your parents to banquets, dinners, golf games, and so on. He was sweet, with a good sense of humour and a very handsome face if you were being honest. You’d always had the suspicion that he liked you, but obviously, those feelings had never been reciprocated. Not when a certain blonde troublemaker had plucked your heart right out of your chest and never given it back. 

A true kleptomaniac. 

“Mom, I can’t be Logan’s date.” 

Her eyes narrowed. “Don’t tell me this is because of the Maybank boy.” Your silence and shifty look were enough to answer her. “Oh, honey. You don’t think that the two of you are together now, do you? He got what he wanted from you. You’ll never be anything more than an easy lay to him.” 

Though the morning had been tumultuous at best, your mind hadn’t even gone there. Not once. In fact, it’d been the opposite. You weren’t foolish enough to believe that JJ would profess his undying love for you, but you certainly didn’t think he’d up and leave now that he’d been with you. 

Would he? 

As the thoughts consumed you, you were once again reminded that every time you’d found an ounce of happiness, your parents were always quick to rip it from your grasp and stomp on it for good measure. 

“So, back to what I was saying. Please do not embarrass us. Wear something slimming.” She moved closer to you, tapping your hip. “You’re looking a little wide. Let’s hope you aren’t pregnant with the poor pogue’s child.” 

Without looking back, she exited the room, leaving you alone to chew on her words in the oh-so-familiar silence. 

—

JJ spent his entire shift at the auto shop convincing himself that tonight would be the night he finally fessed up. It’d always been so difficult for him; pushing his feelings for you so deep inside and ensuring that they’d never escape, but something had changed. Maybe it had been the events that had taken place the night before, or maybe it was the utter disappointment he’d felt in himself all day long after not confessing earlier on. 

He hopped in his truck, swinging down to the pier so he could grab a bouquet from your favourite flower cart. He might not have been a renowned romantic, but his girl was special, and she deserved to be treated as such. Though he stayed there for a while, scratching the back of his neck with a stressed look on his face, he eventually settled on a carefully wrapped set that he thought you’d like. 

A mixture of anticipation, nerves and excitement bubbled in his system. He hoped he wasn’t setting himself up for failure. But with the way you looked at him yesterday, shimmering stars in your eyes and the most gorgeous yet shy smile playing on your lips, it was hard not to let himself begin to trust the impossible. 

Maybe his dreams were within his reach after all. 

He let himself inside your house, skillfully sneaking past your parents (who were busy in planning mode) and making his way up to your empty room. He could hear shuffling coming from the bathroom and could see dozens of dresses littered across the floor accompanied by a few pairs of shoes. Half of him wondered if there’d been a tornado that only hit your closet. 

He was aching to get a glimpse of the girl who had spent the day taking up every one of his thoughts. Seeing you and being with you felt like home. A home someone would have to pry from his cold, dead hands because he’d rather die than ever let you go. 

“Y/N/N? You here?” 

When you emerged from the bathroom, JJ swore the wind was knocked out of him. His eyes trailed down your elegant frame, your curves clad in a dress he hadn’t seen you in before. Your hair was natural, and you were bare-faced, but JJ believed you could walk a damn red carpet looking the way you did and capture the eyes and hearts of everyone in that room. 

“Woah…” he breathed, awestruck. 

“Hi.” 

Your eyes were sad, and your lips were in a pout, but your tone would’ve been enough on its own to tell him that something had upset you. Reaching out for you, his warm hands found your hips and pulled you to him.  

“You make sad look beautiful, princess.” 

You smiled a little at his words before wrapping your arms around his torso and melting into him. “Thanks.” 

He hugged you back, completely void of hesitation. He took the time to drown in your scent. It was incredibly fitting; sweet and hypnotic, just like you. 

“What’s the matter?” 

You shook your head. “Nothing, it’s not a big deal. I’m just being sensitive.” 

“Hey,” he said, pulling away from you a little so he could look you in the eye. “It’s a big deal to me if it’s bothering you.” 

God, how did he do that? He could convince you to unload everything on him with a few words and that look in his eye that made you feel as if he wanted to know every single detail running around in your mind. Pair that with the warm loving touch he was smoothing over you, calloused palms rubbing your sides up and down a few times, and your words came leaking out of you like a faucet.

“Does this dress look right on me? It’s okay, you can be honest. I just need an opinion I can trust.” 

JJ felt a crack in his heart when those words left your lips. You wouldn’t even look at him, you just stared at the floor beneath your feet and smoothed out the fabric around your hips over and over as if you viewed yourself as anything less than perfection. 

You were the most beautiful person he had ever laid his eyes on. There wasn’t a single thing about you that he wasn’t crazy about. 

That he didn’t dream about. 

Tipping your face up by your chin and forcing your eyes on him so you could really hear what he was about to tell you, he spoke. 

“Pretty girl, y’almost killed me when you walked through that door.” 

“Really?” 

JJ couldn’t tell if he wanted to hug you so tight that you’d end up stuck to him, or kiss the daylights out of you when he saw that spark of hope light your face up. “Really. You look perfect.”

You smiled that adorable, bashful smile, the one you always gave him when he calmed your mind and silenced your doubts. 

Little did you know that he’d sell everything he owned to keep that smile there for eternity. If only you would’ve seen the lovestruck look JJ was giving you. There might as well’ve been hearts floating around his head. 

However, your eyes were too busy looking at the splash of springtime colours against the white backsplash of your bedding. You felt your smile grow into a grin at the gorgeous bouquet lying there, and your eyes finally moved back onto the tall blonde in front of you. 

“You got me flowers?” 

“Uh, y-yeah.” 

It was JJ’s turn to be bashful. He scratched his brow, trying to hide his now rosy cheeks as he turned around to grab the bouquet. He handed them to you carefully, and he could hear his heart thumping wildly as you stared down at them adoringly. 

“You got me flowers.”

“It’s not a big deal. Jus’ swung by your favourite shop after work.”

Jesus, had you always made him this nervous?

You cradled the flowers in one arm, and let your free hand grab his. You tugged at it, silently telling him to come closer. You looked up at him, eyes sparkling. 

“You got me flowers, J.” 

The act of getting flowers was out of the ordinary for him. It seemed so…romantic. That’s not to say that he hasn’t bore his heart to you, ‘cause he had, but this…this was different. 

At least, it felt different. 

“Look, I jus’ thought, y’know…a girl as special as you deserves flowers.”

Oh, if you could’ve kissed him, you would’ve done so until you both ran out of oxygen. Maybe even longer. Even if it meant that you’d perish because of it. 

But, you couldn’t, so you settled on pressing a lingering kiss to his cheek. “Thank you.” 

“Yeah,” he breathed. Then, he cleared his throat when he realized he might’ve been staring at you too long. “So, what’s the fancy getup for?” 

“Oh, right,” you spoke. “My parents decided to pimp me out tomorrow night.” 

His eyes almost bulged out of his head. “I beg your finest pardon?” 

You couldn’t help but laugh. Between the look on his face and his tone, he was making it impossible not to. “They’re throwing some benefit here for the Cut tomorrow night, and Logan asked for me to be his date. You remember Logan, right?” 

You spun around, grabbing your empty vase off the dresser and heading back into your bathroom to fill it up. Meanwhile, JJ was stuck in place, his mind buffering. 

Date? Did he hear that right? 

When he came to, he was quick to follow you. “You— Wait— Huh?” 

“Logan Huntzberger? I told you that story about how we snuck onto that boat once with a bottle of champagne and got busted by the owners, remember?”

“That’s not the part I’m confused about, Y/N.” 

His tone was more icy than he intended, but he couldn’t help but feel something like rage boiling and brewing in his core. You didn’t seem to notice, though, and if you did, you didn’t show it. Instead, you unwrapped the bouquet cautiously and placed the flowers into the vase. You were about to pass him and the threshold back into your bedroom when his hard curled around your bicep. 

“You’re goin’ on a date?” 

You gave him a weird look. “He just wants to escort me to this thing tomorrow. And to be honest, there’s safety in numbers. My parents will be so focused on him that they’ll forget about me.”

His jaw clenched, and his eyes darted away from yours as he let go of you. “You coulda just asked me.”

A chuckle escaped your lips as you placed the full vase back where it belonged. “You hate kook shit like this.” 

“I woulda came for you. You didn’t need to say yes to some spoiled rich kid.” 

“I didn’t say yes to him. My mom and dad did,” you reminded him. You walked up to him, arms crossing your arms over your chest, suddenly feeling very open and vulnerable. “Why are you being like this? You know how they are.” 

“‘M not bein’ like anythin’,” he denied. He moved away from you, grabbing his bag off your bed. “I gotta go.” 

He didn’t know what he was doing. He just knew he had to get out of there before he exploded on you and ruined everything. How could you be going on a date with someone else when JJ was ready to tell you that he wanted you forever? 

You grabbed his arm this time around. “Don’t do that. Don’t walk away from me. Just talk to me.” 

JJ couldn’t stay. He felt sick. He felt like he wanted to strangle someone.

Okay, fine. Not just anyone. 

Logan. 

And maybe your dad, too.

“Have fun tomorrow, alright?” 

JJ made his second escape of the day much quicker than he had with his first, practically poofing into thin air right before your eyes. You wanted to chase after him, beg him to just let you in instead of running away from you, but you knew getting him to open up wasn’t that easy. He’d have to want to come to you. So you just stood there, watching the doorframe hoping he’d come back, and growing utterly disappointed when he didn’t. 

—

After the events at your home, JJ had decided to crash at John B’s. He thought being around him and the group would help take his mind off things, but all he could focus on was the void he felt without you beside him. 

That night he had been even worse. He tossed and turned restlessly all night, never the one to be able to sleep without you in his presence. He needed to hear your rhythmic breathing and feel your warmth as you curled into his side in your slumber. It’s like his mind was never at rest unless he was with you. 

The next day had dragged on, your date with Logan being the only thing on his mind from the minute he’d opened his eyes. He went to work, though he was clearly somewhere else mentally. He’d gotten scolded a few times, but he failed to remember why. Then, his bike broke down on the way back home, so he walked to Sarah’s house, hoping to catch a ride. He eventually made it, but was greeted by a party he had completely forgotten the group had planned. 

JJ had half a mind to turn back and just go home. All he wanted to do was slump into a chair on his porch, smoke a joint and try to forget about the shittiest day he’d had in a long while. But he was far too exhausted to make that trip, and why go all the way home when he could get shitfaced instead? It’d help him forget just the same. 

Right?

Wrong. 

As the intoxication began to take over him, so did the thoughts of you. 

Why did he walk away? Why didn’t he just open his mouth and say something? 

‘I love you. I’m in love with you, and you can’t be with anyone else because you should be with me.’ 

That’s all he had to say. 

And he blew it. 

The group groaned around him when he started to rant about you and your date again. He’d been rambling on and on, causing a few people in the circle to leave so they wouldn’t have to hear yet another string of complaints fall from his lips. 

“And it’s jus’ like, of course she’d ch-choose him,” he hiccupped into his red solo cup. “He’s like, rich ‘n loaded ‘n-n stacked.” 

Pope rolled his eyes. “Those all mean the same thing, J.” 

“Well, y’know what ‘m tryna say. He can give her everything. He could prolly buy her the planet. I could never do that.” 

Sarah watched her friend wallow in his drunken sorrows, and she felt saddened for him. She had always known how much JJ loved you. She could see it in his eyes the first time she saw you two together. He’d bleed himself dry for you, and there was never any question about it. 

“Okay,” she cooed, getting up from her seat and plucking his cup from his hand. “Think you’ve had enough, JJ. C’mon. Let’s get you to bed.”

JJ grumbled out a few protests, but Sarah ignored them, asking John B to help her lead JJ to one of the guest rooms. They managed to get him tucked into bed, and when his eyes fluttered shut, they figured they were okay to leave. 

Unfortunately, not even a half hour later, JJ woke up. He was still way past intoxicated, but he stumbled into the kitchen in search of another bottle. He almost came up dry until he saw a bottle of whiskey less than a quarter full. He chugged down the remaining contents, and instantly made a hasty exit, his boots dragging against the pavement as he walked. 

Though he was drunk, his feet led him in a familiar direction. He knew where he longed to be, where he needed to be. 

He arrived at your house, clambering his way to your door and ignoring the nasty looks he’d gotten from your parents friends and colleagues. He pushed the door open, tripping over the threshold but managing to keep himself upright. He made his way through the house, and his mind quieted when his eyes finally landed on you. He was elated for all of five seconds because then he saw Logan’s hand find your waist. He pulled you closer to him, angling his head down slightly. 

Absolutely-fucking-not. 

“Hey! Keep your hands off my damn girl!” 

Your eyes, Logan’s, and countless other partygoers’ all shot over to JJ. He was stumbling and had almost taken out one of the serves as he made his way over to you. 

“J? What are you doing here?” 

JJ ignored your words and your hands on his chest as he pointed an accusatory finger at your date. “Don’t you fuckin’ touch her again.” 

“JJ, stop! You’re drunk!” You shout in a whisper, pushing him back a little now. 

“You don’t know her. You haven’t spent your whole life loving her and making sure she had someone. You aren’t there to remind her to eat when she gets stressed, ‘c-cause she always forgets. ‘N you aren’t there when she cries, ‘n your heart doesn’t break when she does. You’re nothin’.” 

More eyes were now on the three of you, and before you knew it, your parents were making their way over to you. 

“Enough, Maybank. Get out of this house before I throw you out,” your father snarled. 

“Dad, stop it!” 

“You,” JJ said, turning his attention to your parents. “You two are the worst of ‘em all. Throwin’ this bullshit party when you’re never even here. You care about the cut? You don’t even care about your damn daughter!” 

“JJ, enough! Let’s go!” You pleaded, trying to pull him. 

He freed his arm from your grasp. “No, Y/N/N, everyone needs to hear this. They need to know they’re supportin’ two people who think it’s fun to body shame their daughter and remind her time and time again that they couldn’t care less about her. They didn’t even go to your graduation, Y/N/N. You worked your ass off, ‘n they couldn’t even be bothered to send you a damn card! Never mind the last five birthdays of yours that they missed. They’re pieces of shit, ‘n all their friends should know it!” 

“You’re lucky I don’t call the cops!” 

“Go ‘head. Call ‘em. Call ‘em ‘n tell ‘em that you’re arresting me for defending your daughter.” 

“That’s it,” you mumbled to yourself. You grabbed JJ, pulling him hard this time. “Come with me, now.” 

JJ’s voice got quieter the further away you dragged him, but it was clear enough. “‘M not done with you, Y/F/N!” 

Luckily, Logan had come to your aid, helping you haul JJ up the stairs. It wasn’t an easy feat, as JJ had been swatting him away the entire way up. The two of you finally got him into your room, and you told Logan to rejoin the party. JJ sunk into your bed, and you tucked him under the sheets before handing him a water bottle. He pouted, not wanting to drink it, but relented when he saw the look on your face. 

“Are you mad?” 

You ignored his words, continuing to help him get settled. You were trying hard to bite your tongue because you knew that even if you scolded him, he most likely wouldn’t remember a single thing you said. That, and you could tell he was hurting. That’s the only reason he would’ve gotten this drunk. 

“Uh oh. You’re mad. ‘M soo in trouble.” 

“Tomorrow, JJ. Go to sleep.” 

His big blue eyes sulked at you, though they were a tad hazy, and he latched onto your hand after you smoothed some hair from his eyes. “‘M sorry. ‘M just sad.”

You closed your eyes, letting out a deep breath. “It’s okay, J. Now sleep.” 

He tapped his right cheek, silently asking you for a kiss there. You did as he requested, unable to refuse him, but not without an eye roll. Then he repeated his taps on his other cheek. You kissed him there too. The cycle continued with his forehead, and then his nose. When you were done, he tried his luck, tapping his puckered lips. 

To that, you laughed softly. “Nice try, Maybank.”

— 

If you could pay someone to pluck the memories of the previous night from your brain, you’d fork over all the cash you could muster. JJ’s behaviour, your embarrassment, apologizing to Logan profusely…. 

Yeah. 

You’d erase all of it. 

Mad and anxious as you were, though, you couldn’t stop thinking about how your ‘date’ had only made things more abundantly clear; you would forever be in love with JJ. 

All night long, you knew Logan was trying to charm you. He was the perfect gentleman. He helped you down the stairs in your heels, guided you through the crowd, and got your drinks for you. Talked to you about your interests and actually, genuinely cared about what you had to say. But with every touch of his, all you could feel was the ghost of JJ’s and the trails of fire he’d left behind every time his skin brushed against yours. Could smell his familiar scent of weed, sea salt and some high-end cologne he’d snatched from a party on Figure 8, in place of the cologne that Logan had spritzed on himself. And when Logan tried to kiss you, you couldn’t even think about it. Because the truth was, you knew it would never compare to the sliver of heaven you’d ascended to when JJ’s mouth was on yours.  

Your mind moved over to the boy you’d tucked into your bed last night, and a pang of worry hit you. Yes, you were still mad, at least partly, but you couldn’t focus on that. All you could focus on was your concern for him. 

What was he battling? And why did he feel as if he couldn’t approach you about it? Didn’t he know by now that you’d stand by him through anything? 

Didn’t he know by now that he wasn’t alone? 

A loud clang in the kitchen caught your attention, and you decided to head down to investigate. You were also in desperate need of a cup of coffee. 

You hadn’t expected to find JJ moving around your kitchen less-than-expertly during what would probably go down as the worst hangover known to man, but the sight that greeted you was nothing but endearing. 

There he was, your best friend, surrounded by a chaotic array of ingredients and bowls and utensils. Flour dusted the tips of his blonde (now white) strands, there was a smear of what you assumed was batter across the apple of his cheek, and his clothes looked even worse off than his face. 

Still, his tongue was poked out adorably while he concentrated on the soon-to-be-cooked ingredients in front of him. 

“J?” You chuckled softly, unable to suppress your smile at the sight before you. 

JJ’s eyes flit up to yours abruptly, a worried and panicked look spreading across his face. You could see the dark circles, and his voice was slightly hoarse when he spoke. 

“Shit! You’re supposed to be in bed!” He rushed over to you, hands finding your shoulders with ease and trying to urge you to spin back around. “You gotta go back up.” 

Your amusement was clear on your face as you looked around at the mess. “I don’t think that’s wise, J.” 

JJ scratched the back of his neck, huffing frustratedly. His eyes weren’t as bright as usual, noticeably clouded by shame. “I jus’ wanted to apologize for last night. I thought makin’ breakfast would maybe help me get back on your good side.” 

Your heart softened at his sincerity, your annoyance from the previous night now dissipating at his intentions. “You’re always on my good side. I just wish you’d talk to me about what’s going on instead of completely dodging me and getting blackout drunk just ‘cause you’re avoiding things.” 

You’d always known him so well. Most times, you knew him better than himself. That being said, JJ should’ve known that you’d figure him out the minute he showed up at your house. He messed up terribly. He knew he embarrassed you, he knew he might’ve ruined the party and angered your parents beyond belief. But right now, he knew that even after all those things, they’d never stop you from worrying for him and making sure he was good on all fronts. 

He definitely didn’t deserve you, but at that moment, he decided; he was going to keep you anyway. 

“You’re way too good for me.” JJ’s flour-dusted hand cupped your cheek, and he looked down at you with all the love he could muster up, and then some. “You’re way too good for me, and I fell in love with you anyway.”

Your heart skipped a beat as his words hung in the air, and you blinked, momentarily taken aback by the confession you’d spent nearly your entire life yearning for, yet never expected to hear. 

“You’re…you’re in love with me?” You repeated, your voice barely above a whisper. Your eyes searched his, and now, they were as clear and sincere as ever. 

JJ nodded earnestly. “After that night, when I showed up with those flowers…I was gonna tell you. ‘N then you told me about your date with Logan ‘n I jus’ freaked ‘cause I could feel myself losin’ you to this, like, superior guy who could give you everythin’ I couldn’t.” 

“J…” you trailed off sadly in a whisper. 

“It’s always been us, y’know? Two peas in a shitty-parents-pod. But even on my worst days with Luke…it never mattered, ‘cause I had you. ‘N when I thought about you leavin’ me…Y/N/N, I couldn’t even stomach it. Then I kinda went off the deep end.”

You grabbed his hands with urgency. “I could never leave you, J. Never.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah,” you confirmed with a soft voice. “I love you too much.” 

JJ’s gaze searched yours, his eyes mixed with hope and trepidation. “For real?”

“Yes, for real, dummy. I love you. I’ve always loved you.” A smile tugged at the corners of your lips, and your heart pounded in your chest at your confession. But this time, it wasn’t with nerves or fear, it was one hundred percent, wholeheartedly with love. 

“So, does that mean I can finally kiss you again?” 

Even at his most vulnerable, this cheeky boy could still whip out a boyish smirk on command. This only prompted you to toy with him a little, just to get back at him. 

“And what makes you think I’m gonna kiss you, Maybank?” 

His hands surged toward your hips, and he pulled you impossibly closer while licking his lips. “I know you, remember? ‘N after the other night, I know what you look like when you want to.” 

Damn, he was good. 

Your arms looped around the back of his neck, and you threw him a daring look. “So do it.” 

He didn’t have to be told twice. His lips found yours, and you stood there for some time, just drowning each other without anything holding you back this time. Things couldn’t have been more perfect. 

He couldn’t have been more perfect.

Just like that, the two of you were home. And you’d never dare to leave. 

© MOREMAYBANK, 2024

[huffylemon]