a mutation led you to the path of a vigilante. you expected to run into spider-man at some point. what you didn’t expect was that you’d fall in love with him.
CW/TW: fem! reader, reader is a bat mutant, mentions of mutations, being bitten by a bat, mentions of rabies, blood, injuries, reader stitches peter up, brief mentions of nausea and a concussion, medical inaccuracies, slow burn, not proofread lol, lmk if i forgot anything!!
dividers from @hatoslay
it began with the sensitivity to light. you started to wonder if the rabies shots were administered too late, or if you developed some other disease from the mammal. a small bat, no larger than your hand, decided to sink its teeth into your shoulder blade one night. the pain was minimal, like a pin pricking your flesh. yet, you still went through with the standard procedure of getting rabies shots and monitoring the symptoms.
while the terrifying hydrophobia never occurred, you did notice other things beginning to arise. aside from light sensitivity, you realized you were able to “see” in the dark. the noise you were now able to produce would echo back in your overly keen ears, and you’d easily locate anything you were searching for. you’d even been able to find the pesky fly that hadn’t left your apartment in a week.
these symptoms never bothered you, until they became a physical condition. you swiftly took notice of the aches in your jaw, your ears, even your arms. the aches grew, and in time, changed your body. your teeth grew long and sharp. it forced you to nearly relearn speech and adjust to eating with what appeared to be fangs. your ears shifted to be more rounded in the center and pointed at the tips, matching the creature who inflicted the changes upon you. the worst of it was your arms. the pain erupted one night, searing and hot beneath your skin. from dusk to dawn, the process nearly killed you as wings slowly sprouted from your limbs. they ripped through flesh and splattered blood onto hardwood floors as they expanded. once they were finally grown out, your vision went dark.
it was an agonizing process that you proceeded to go through on a nightly basis, until you learned how to cope. you learned the feeling of when they’d appear, and you eventually learned how to halt the transformation. it was controllable, something you could manage without inflicting more pain.
with your newfound abilities, you began researching. you were no stranger to mutations, especially when you lived in the same area as spiderman. however, you weren’t at all familiar with the details and what it meant for you. in the end, you decided to be similar to spiderman, yet completely different.
the spider helped at all times of the day, zipping by in a flashy blue and red suit. you only emerged at night. you were always clad in black, with your face completely covered by a mask matching your animalistic features. you managed to coexist with the spider, never crossing paths and remaining a whisper among the public. you never stuck around long enough to be spotted, and you weren’t friendly enough to be a topic for those you saved. you enjoyed the simplicity of it, until he finally got you in his web.
“oh, uh, i didn’t realize someone else had it covered,” came a boyish voice in the night.
you were atop a roof, stopping a man who was clearly attempting to pry open a window on a fire escape. you’d dragged him to the rooftop, given him a flurry of punches you’d deemed appropriate for whatever he was attempting to do to his potential victim, and tied him up for the police to find. just as you were about to take your leave, the unitard clad man appeared beside you.
“don’t worry about it,” you mumbled, voice slightly distorted by your mask and modulator.
“don’t bats eat spiders? should i be worried?” he joked, although the awkward back and forth on his feet showed he wasn’t too sure how to navigate the conversation.
you tilted your head at his comment. you thought the neighborhood spiderman was friendly, not a dorky man who clearly had no clue what to say.
“bats typically don’t eat something so small. besides, there’s species of spiders that eat bats, too,” you couldn’t help the knowledge that spewed from your mouth. “anyways, if you want to hand him off to the cops, be my guest. you can have the credit for it.”
before you could take off, a hand came to wrap around your wrist. you let out a disgruntled hiss, which caused the grip to immediately vanish.
“sorry, sorry! didn’t mean to touch you without asking. i just, uh, didn’t want you to go yet,” he shrugged in a sheepish manner.
“and why is that? i’m sure we both have better things to do,” you said. you were apprehensive, to say the least. just because he was the neighborhood hero didn’t mean you had any desire to hang around him. spiderman brought the public eye, something you purposely avoided.
although you couldn’t see it, you were sure he was grinning beneath the mask. “well, it’s not every day i find someone in the same line of work.”
you huffed, “i guess. i just do this for fun, not to play hero for everyone.”
“well, you’re someone’s hero. you just saved a person from whatever that guy had planned,” he jerked his thumb towards the unconscious figure of the perpetrator. you scoffed at his cheesy line, but couldn’t deny the truth in it. rather than acknowledge his statement, you decided to scope out the area. being reminded of the man you just detained also reminded you of what comes next.
you let out two chirps, startling the hero beside you and informing you of the approaching police cruisers way before their sirens could.
“yeah, sure. is there anything else? i’m trying to get out of here before the cops show up,” you grew antsy at the thought of being seen.
“seriously? you expect me to ignore that? you have echolocation! c’mon, you gotta tell me more, are the wings real too?” he practically jumped for joy at the discovery.
his childish behavior would be more amusing if not for the sound of footsteps ascending the stairs of the apartment building.
“look, i gotta go. nice meeting you, spider,” you approached the ledge of the roof, moving to step off completely.
“wait, wait! what’s your name?” he called out.
you hesitated for a moment. nobody had ever really asked you before. you either vanished before they could, or they were too panicked from their ordeal to bother asking.
“i don’t really have one,” you replied.
once again, you could feel the smile on his lips. “well, see you around, echo.”
you blinked at the nickname. it was awfully obvious, even a bit stereotypical, but it fit. it almost made you grin in return. it was oddly comforting to be acknowledged for once.
the moment was quickly brought to an end at the sound of pounding at the rooftop door. the shouts of “NYPD!” gave you your cue, and you allowed yourself to fall from ledge. you spread your wings, rapidly flapping them in order to take off. you looked back briefly, just in time to see spiderman offering a sly wave.
unfortunately for you, the gesture did cause a little stutter in your heartbeat.
it had been a couple of weeks since that day, since you’d met spiderman himself. you were thankful he never told the police about you. your name stayed out of any articles and reports about the incident. apparently the man you’d captured had been on police radar for quite some time, so it was a relief for all that he’d been captured. it was an even bigger relief that you’d manage to escape unknown despite the publicity surrounding the capture.
you’d continued on with your vigilante work, capturing smaller scale criminals and laying low. you found yourself resting on yet another rooftop to take a small break from your nightly activities. the last perpetrator did a number on you, causing you to stop earlier than you normally would. he was a well built man and fought well despite the liquor in his system. he definitely busted your lip and you could feel the bruises forming across your skin. you definitely injured something in your ankle during the scuffle, but you were reliant on your decent ability to recover.
a series of chirps left your lips, mostly to ensure the surrounding area was safe and that you could actually afford to rest for the time being. a distinct shape became known to you as the sound waves reached your ears. it was a figure you’d only seen once, and partially hoped you wouldn’t see again. your hopes dwindled as the noticeable red and blue spandex appeared beneath the moonlight.
“hey, echo! i was hoping i’d find you again. we didn’t exactly get to chat much last time,” his excitement was obvious even beneath his masked facade.
you grumbled indignantly, not exactly wanting his presence or attention. wherever spiderman went, the eyes of many followed. it was something you desperately wanted to avoid.
“you’re aware you’re very noticeable, right?” you asked.
“so you noticed me?” he chuckled.
your eye twitched at the response. was that the only thing he picked up from your question?
“as in, you draw a lot of attention from people. attention i don’t want,” you explained.
he waved you off, even taking it upon himself to plop down right beside you on the ledge.
“spiderman is currently off duty. all crime has been solved, for now, so the only attention i should be getting is yours,” he smiled. “isn’t that why you’re taking a break up here?”
you shook your head at his words, “i guess so. you try to get the attention of every vigilante you meet?”
“hm, no. just the ones i find interesting,” he grinned, but there was a hint of nervousness in his voice.
you chuckled at that. “i thought you said you don’t know many people in this line of work.”
“I don’t! which makes you all the more fascinating to me,” spiderman confessed.
it was almost endearing how he bounced between confident and nervous. it felt like you were getting two sides of him, two sides that didn’t fully match up.
“well, ask away, i guess. just don’t expect me to spill my guts to you,” you opted to indulge him for the time being.
his posture immediately straightened and you swore you could see the fireworks going off in his eyes. suddenly, you weren’t so sure about opening up the conversation to him.
“amazing! so what are you, exactly? was it a mutation from a bite or were you born like this? are the wings real? how does the echolocation work? do you have advanced hearing? are you a vampire bat or a fruit bat?” he rattled on, making your head spin.
you held up a hand before he could continue. “relax, spidey. one thing at a time,” you nearly faltered at the way he deflated like a sad puppy.
“look, to make a long story short, it’s a mutation. i was bitten by a bat about a year ago, and here we are. the wings are attached to me, they’re part of the mutation. they’re retractable. same with the echolocation and it functions like a normal bat’s would. i do have increased hearing, so your heartbeat is much louder than it should be, are you okay?” you attempted to answer all the questions he threw at you.
spiderman perked back up at your willingness to answer him. “wow, that’s incredible. you’re incredible! i’ve met a few other mutants, but none that were willing to talk about it. usually i just end up being forced to hand them over to the cops. i never get to sit and talk with them.”
he neglected to answer your own question, but you let it slide. you’d seen spiderman’s feats online, whether it be saving a cat from a tree or stopping a mutant from destroying the city. you figured it was pretty interesting to meet another mutant, even if it wasn’t the biggest deal to you.
“well, does yours function the same?” you asked.
“not exactly. i got mine from a spider bite, but i don’t get to make natural webs. they’re artificial. it would be a lot cooler if it was a natural ability like yours,” he explained.
that caught your attention. “you make your webs?”
“uh, yeah! took some trial and error, but we got there,” he extended his wrist, giving you full access to the gear he made.
you gently took his wrist in your hand, eyeing up the web shooter attached to it. the contraption was fascinating, to say the least. while you were busy examining the piece of equipment, he was occupied with you. his eyes flickered over your entire being, from the scuffed, clawed boots on your feet to the bat themed mask covering your face. spiderman found himself wanting to know the story, and the woman, behind all of it.
the sound of a distant scream and a gunshot seemed to catch both of your attention at once. you shared a glance, along with a mutual chuckle. the two of you stood, though not without a slight struggle on your part. your nearly forgotten injuries reared their ugly heads at the movement. it would’ve been imperceptible to anyone, except for him.
“if you don’t mind, I’ll take this one. i think you deserve the rest of the night off. i’ll see you around, right?” he asked.
this time, you agreed. “yeah, i’ll see you around.”
with that, spiderman shot his webs and he was off. you chirped, feeling his presence fade, but something else rapidly approaching. you shot a hand out to catch whatever projectile was sent your way. a paper bag, sticky with web residue, appeared.
you looked down at the contents of the bag in your hand.
tylenol, along with a very cheesy spiderman themed pack of bandages.
a smile tugged at the corner of your lips and you knew there was no way you weren’t going to see him again.
it became a bizarre habit for the two of you. during the lulls in the night, spiderman and you would meet atop the same abandoned building in queens. it started small. you’d discuss simple things, such as your abilities, stories of your vigilante activities, and basic information about one another. over a few months, something shifted. you began sharing personal details with each other. you’d talk about your lives outside of your vigilantism. spiderman shared stories of his family, his day job, and his interest in photography. you’d tell him about your own life, bits of your past, and your passion for drawing. the two of you bonded, despite your initial hesitation. the constant of spiderman in your life became something you looked forward to. you could feel something developing in your heart, something that both excited and scared you. it was a feeling you weren’t ready to name or explore, too afraid to taint the friendship you somehow established.
continuing your usual routine, you sat down beside spiderman on the ledge of the roof. he’d gotten there before you, which was not a common occurrence. it made you uneasy, as he only got there before you on days he was struggling. during those times, he’d disclose to you about his family, the loss of his parents, the death of his uncle, and the toll being a hero took on him.
a beat of silence passed before you chose to speak up. “hey, you alright, spidey?”
he glanced at you then, and you could feel his eyes boring into you through the mask. “it’s not spidey.”
for another moment, neither of you spoke. you weren’t sure what to say. was he considering dropping his role as spiderman? did he no longer want you calling him by that name? did he want to put distance between the two of you? the uncertainty caused your heart to race.
spiderman reached out gently, almost hesitantly, and placed his hand on your wrist. he rubbed small circles on the area, burning your skin through the material of your suit. his eyes remained there, even when he began to speak again.
“i think we’ve known each other long enough,” he said. “my name is peter.”
a smile you couldn’t help immediately spread across your lips.
“peter,” you repeated back.
spiderman, or peter, visibly relaxed at the sound of his name in your voice.
it was then you decided to say your name. he repeated it just the same, and you could feel a shift in the relationship you’d built over the last few months.
“peter, please hold on,” you begged.
a noise of confirmation came from his mouth, immediately followed by a pained whimper. his body was battered, his suit was ripped, and his consciousness was fading in and out. you’d never seen peter like this. he was spiderman. he felt almost untouchable, until he wasn’t. now, he was just peter. he was just an injured man being cradled in your clawed grasp. you carried him to the only place you could think of, your home. it was a boundary that hadn’t been crossed between the two of you, but there was no time to consider that now. you knew you had to get peter cleaned and stitched up as soon as you could.
you practically barreled into your home at the speed you were flying. you set peter down as gently as possible on your couch, though not without flinching at his groans from the sudden movement.
“stay awake, i’ll be right back,” you reassured him as you scurried off to grab your medical supplies.
upon returning, you were able to get a good look at peter’s injuries. the most notable were the gash across his chest and the one splitting the side of his head. blood was soaking into the spandex of his suit, and swiftly spreading to the fabric of your couch.
“peter, i have to take this off, is that okay?” you asked, patting the non-injured space on his arm.
a nearly imperceptible nod was all the confirmation you needed. you cut away at the material, removing it from his upper half entirely. you unfortunately had to shift him once again to fully rid him of the suit, causing another wave of pain to course through peter’s body. hushed apologies were whispered in the air as you worked. you were now able to see the cut in its entirety. it sliced from his collarbone all the way to the opposite side of his ribcage. while it wasn’t life threatening, he’d need stitches.
“hey, peter, stay with me, please. i have to stitch this up. we don’t really have time for medication. please, please forgive me,” you tried to explain yourself.
a gut-wrenching cry left his mouth as you began sealing the wound. you couldn’t help the flurries of apologies spilling from your lips. you continued on, despite the guilt of inflicting more pain, and stitched the wound closed. you cleaned the area before neatly wrapping it in gauze. with that injury out of the way, you were forced to address the next one.
“i…peter, can we call your aunt or your friend or something? your head injury looks bad,” you explained.
“take it off,” peter whispered.
you froze. you were sure you heard him right, but the pain must be making him delirious. “what? peter, just give me your phone. i’ll call one of them over here.”
“no,” he groaned. “no time. please, i trust you.”
your heart skipped a beat at his admission. peter trusted you. he trusted you enough to reveal his face and his identity. had it not been for the panic and anxiety coursing through your veins, you’d be enamored with his faith in you.
with his permission, you slowly peeled away the mask. you hesitated, giving him enough time to stop you if he wanted. yet, he nodded, giving you the go ahead to continue. the mask was finally removed, giving you a full view of peter’s face.
he was beautiful. with fluffy locks of brown hair and chocolate eyes that rivaled the prettiest amber stones, he was an absolute beauty. your admiration was short-lived, as you were forced back to the task at hand. a nasty gash extended from the back of his skull to his jaw. it looked a lot worse than it truly was, although you were sure the force used to make the cut gave him a concussion. you unfortunately had to snip away at some of his hair surrounding the slice, and began the process of stitching him back together.
after another round of agonizing cries, peter was fully stitched and cleaned up. you’d attended to any other superficial injuries he’d received, along with forcing him to comply with a concussion test.
you finally allowed him to rest after taking medication for his headaches. only when you were sure he was asleep did you finally breathe a sigh of relief. you stepped away, leaving him in the darkness of your living room. meanwhile, your own mask was stripped away in the privacy of your bathroom. upon looking in the mirror, you couldn’t help but allow a choked cry to escape. the tears came faster than you could anticipate, and you sobbed quietly in the safety of that little room.
never did you think you’d see peter so vulnerable, and you absolutely despised it. you never wanted to see him that injured again. you never wanted to be the one to inflict pain on him in order to heal him. and yet, you’d do it all over again in a heartbeat. his trust meant the world to you. being able to help him, to help peter, meant everything to you. it was never, and would never, be about spiderman. this was about peter, and the love you had for him.
with a startled gasp, you realized it. you truly loved peter. you never even needed to see his face to fall for him. you loved the man beneath that mask regardless of what he looked like. he was kind, intelligent beyond belief, and selfless to a fault. he was an enigma, and the first person you felt truly saw you. you saw the real people beneath the masks without ever needing to take them off.
after breaking down and coming to this realization, the fatigue finally caught up to you. you quietly checked on peter before curling up in your arm chair beside him. you’d be there whenever he needed you. for now, you allowed yourself to escape into much needed sleep.
a resounding groan woke you out of your sleep.
“peter..? peter, don’t move. what do you need? i can grab you more water, more medicine. hold on,” you scrambled at his sudden awakening.
before you could go anywhere, a gentle hand wrapped around your wrist.
“please, don’t go yet,” his voice was barely a whisper.
“i’m here, i’m here,” you reassured him.
“your mask,” he mumbled.
you reached up to touch your face, only to be greeted by skin. you’d fallen asleep without putting your mask back on. now peter could see you, the real you. it caused your mouth to go dry. fear plagued your heart, although it was different than the fear you experienced hours ago. you were afraid peter would regret his decision to show you his face. you were afraid you crossed a line showing your own face. most of all, you were afraid of his reaction to you.
“let me grab your medicine, i’ll be right back,” you skittered away like a feral cat.
out of fear and what was deemed a necessity, your body went on autopilot. you grabbed all the necessities for peter and made your way back to the couch. you didn’t say a word as you forced him to open up and knock back two tylenol pills. you encouraged him to drink up and eased him back to rest on the bloodied cushions. his eyes followed you the entire time. the warm irises never left you for a second as you tended to his needs. neither of you spoke until you tried to make your escape. you were attempting to scurry off again, but his voice stopped you in your tracks.
“you’re stunning,” peter said.
“what?” you couldn’t help but spit out.
he chuckled, even though it caused a wave of nausea to course through his skull. “you’re stunning. even prettier than i imagined.”
“peter,” you whispered.
you sat back down beside him, drawn in by those honey eyes and the genuine emotion behind them.
“thank you. thank you for saving me, and being here for me. thank you for showing me your face,” peter’s voice was still light, but the weight behind it remained the same.
“no, thank you for trusting me,” you replied.
peter shook his head slightly. “i’ve always trusted you. i was just afraid to push you away.”
you laughed in disbelief. “peter, you could never push me away. i..”
it almost slipped out, but you hesitated. so much had happened within the last few hours. you didn’t want to overwhelm him, or push him into something he wasn’t ready for. showing yourselves beneath the masks was enough of a breakthrough for one day. you’d save your confession for another time, when he was fully recovered.
“thank you for everything,” peter grabbed your hand and squeezed it lightly.
“always,” you squeezed it back. “now get some rest. i’ll be here when you wake up.”
he agreed. as much as he’d love to continue the conversation, and to explore this newfound territory with you, his fatigue still weighed on him. peter reluctantly laid back down in the comfort of your couch.
“peter?” you asked.
he hummed, staring up at you with something you couldn’t put a finger on.
“you’re beautiful, too.”
you smiled, and he gave you the sweetest smile in return.
i hope you guys enjoyed :) please like, reblog, and comment if you’d like a part 2!!
Things between you and Peter change with the seasons. [17k]
c: friends-to-lovers, hurt/comfort, loneliness, peter parker isn’t good at hiding his alter ego, fluff, first kisses, mutual pining, loved-up epilogue, mention of self-harm with no graphic imagery
｡𖦹°‧⭑.ᐟ
Fall
Peter Parker is a resting place for overworked eyes, like warm topaz nestled against a blue-cold city. He waits on you with his eyes to the screen of his phone, clicking the power button repetitively. A nervous tic.
You close the heavy door of your apartment building. His head stays still, yet he’s heard the sound of it settling, evidence in his calmed hand.
“Good morning!” You pull your coat on quickly. “Sorry.”
“Good morning,” he says, offering a sleep-logged smile. “Should we go?”
You follow Peter out of the cul-de-sac and into the street as he drops his phone into a deep pocket. To his credit, he doesn’t check it while you walk, and only glances at it when you’re taking your coat off in the heat of your favourite cafe: The Moroccan Mode glows around you, fog kissing the windows, condensation running down the inner lengths of it in beads. You murmur something to do with the odd fog and Peter tells you about water vapour. When it rains tonight, he says it’ll be warm water that falls.
He spreads his textbook, notebook, and rinky-dink laptop out across the table while you order drinks. Peter has the same thing every visit, a decaf americano, in a wide brim mug with the pink-petal saucer. You put it down on his textbook only because that’s where he would put it himself, and you both get to work.
As Peter helps you study, you note the simplicity of another normal day, and can’t help wondering what it is that’s missing. Something is, something Peter won’t tell you, the absence of a truth hanging over your heads. You ask him if he wants to get dinner and he says no, he’s busy. You ask him to see a movie on Friday night and he wishes he could.
Peter misses you. When he tells you, you believe him. “I wish I had more time,” he says.
“It’s fine,” you say, “you can’t help it.”
“We’ll do something next weekend,” he says. The lie slips out easily.
To Peter it isn’t a lie. In his head, he’ll find the time for you again, and you’ll be friends like you used to be.
You press the end of your pencil into your cheek, the dark roast, white paper and condensation like grey noise. This time last year, the air had been thick for days with fog you could cut. He took you on a trip to Manhattan, less than an hour from your red-brick neighbourhood, and you spent the day in a hotel pool throwing great cupfuls of water at each other. The fog was gone just fifteen miles away from home but the warm air stayed. When it rained it was sudden, strange, spit-warm splashes of it hammering the tops of your heads, your cheeks as you tipped your faces back to spy the dark clouds.
Peter had swam the short distance to you and held your shoulders. You remember feeling like your whole life was there, somewhere you’d never been before, the sharp edges of cracked pool tile just under your feet.
You peek over the top of your laptop screen and wonder if Peter ever thinks of that trip.
He feels you watching and meets your eyes. “I have to tell you something,” he says, smiling shyly.
“Sure.”
“I signed us up for that club.”
“Epigenetics?”
“Molecular medicine,” he says.
The nice thing about fog is that it gives a feeling of lateness. It’s still morning, barely ten, but it feels like the early evening. It’s gentle on the eyes, colouring the whole room with a sconced shine. You reach for Peter’s bag and sort through his jumble of possessions —stick deodorant, loose-leaf paper, a bodega’s worth of protein bars— and grab his camera.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m cataloguing the moment you ruined our lives,” you say, aiming the camera at his chin, squinting through the viewfinder.
“Technically, I signed us up a few days ago,” he says.
You snap his photo as his mouth closes around ‘ago’, keeping his half-laugh stuck on his lips. “Semantics,” you murmur. “And molecular medicine club, this has nothing to do with the estranged Gwen Stacy?”
“It has nothing to do with her. And you like molecular medicine.”
“I like oncology,” you correct, which is a sub-genre at best, “and I have enough work without joining another club. Go by yourself.”
“I can’t go without you,” he says. Simple as that.
He knew you’d say yes when he signed you up. It’s why he didn’t ask. You’re already forgiven him for the slight of assumption.
“When is it?” you ask, smiling.
—
Molecular medicine club is fun. You and a handful of ESU nerds gather around a big table in a private study room for a few hours and read about the newer discoveries and top research, like regenerative science and now taboo Oscorp research. It’s boring, sometimes, but then Peter will lean into your side and make a joke to keep you going.
He looks at Gwen Stacy a lot. Slender, pale and freckled, with blonde hair framing a sweet face. Only when he thinks you’re not looking. Only when she isn’t either.
—
“Good morning,” you say.
Peter holds an umbrella over his head that he’s quick to share with you, and together you walk with heads craned down, the umbrella angled forward to fight the wind. Your outermost shoulder is wet when you reach the café, your other warm from being pressed against him. You shake the umbrella off outside the door and step onto a cushy, amber doormat to dry your sneakers. Peter stalks ahead and order the drinks, eager to get warm, so you look for a table. Your usual is full of businessmen drinking flat whites with briefcases at their legs. They laugh. You try to picture Peter in a suit: you’re still laughing when he finds you in the booth at the back.
“Tell the joke,” he says, slamming his coffee down. He’s careful with yours. He’s given you the pink petal saucer from the side next to the straws and wooden stirrers.
“I was thinking about you as a businessman.”
“And that’s funny?”
“When was the last time you wore a suit?”
Peter shakes his head. Claims he doesn’t know. Later, you’ll remember his Uncle Ben’s funeral and feel queasy with guilt, but you don’t remember yet. “When was the last time you wore one?” he asks. “I don’t laugh at you.”
“You’re always laughing at me, Parker.”
The cafe isn’t as warm today. It’s wet, grimy water footsteps tracking across the terracotta tile, streaks of grey water especially heavy near the counter, around it to the bathroom. There’s no fog but a sad rattle of rain, not enough to make noise against the windows, but enough to watch as it falls in lazy rivulets down the lengths of them.
Your face is chapped with the cold, cheeks quickly come to heat as your fingers curl around your mug. They tingle with newfound warmth. When you raise your mug to your lips, your hand hardly shakes.
“You okay?” Peter asks.
“Fine. Are you gonna help me with the math today?”
“Don’t think so. Did you ask nicely?”
“I did.” You’d called him last night. You would’ve just as happily submitted your homework poorly solved with the grade to prove it —you don’t want Peter’s help, you just wanted to see him.
Looking at him now, you remember why his distance had felt a little easier. The rain tangles in his hair, damp strands curling across his forehead, his eyes dark and outfitted by darker eyelashes. Peter has the looks of someone you’ve seen before, a classical set to his nose and eyes reminiscent of that fallen angel weeping behind his arm, his russet hair in fiery disarray. There was an anger to Peter after Ben died that you didn’t recognise, until it was Peter, changed forever and for the worse and it didn’t matter —he was grieving, he was terrified, who were you to tell him to be nice again— until it started to get better. You see less of your fallen, angry angel, no harsh brush strokes, no tears.
His eyes are still dark. Bruised often underneath, like he’s up late. If he is, it isn’t to talk to you.
You spend an afternoon working through your equations, pretending to understand until Peter explains them to death. His earphones fall out of his pocket and he says, “Here, I’ll show you a song.”
He walks you home. The song is dreary and sad. The man who sings is good. Lover, You Should’ve Come Over. It feels like Peter’s trying to tell you something —he isn’t, but it feels like wishing he would.
“You okay?” you ask before you can get to your street. A minute away, less.
“I’m fine, why?”
You let the uncomfortable shape of his earbud fall out of your ear, the climax of the song a rattle on his chest. “You look tired, that’s all. Are you sleeping?”
“I have too much to do.”
You just don’t get it. “Make sure you’re eating properly. Okay?”
His smile squeezes your heart. Soft, the closest you’ll ever get. “You know May,” he says, wrapping his arm around your shoulders to give you a short hug, “she wouldn’t let me go hungry. Don’t worry about me.”
—
The dip into depression you take is predictable. You can’t help it. Peter being gone makes it worse.
You listen to love songs and take long walks through the city, even when it’s dark and you know it’s a bad idea. If anything bad happens Spider-Man could probably save me, you think. New York’s not-so-new vigilante keeps a close eye on things, especially the women. You can’t count how many times you’ve heard the same story. A man followed me home, saw me across the street, tried to get into my apartment, but Spider-Man saved me.
You’re not naive, you realise the danger of walking around without protection assuming some stranger in a mask will save you, but you need to get out of the house. It goes on for weeks.
You walk under streetlights and past stores with CCTV, but honestly you don’t really care. You’re not thinking. You feel sick and heavy and it’s fine, really, it’s okay, everything works out eventually. It’s not like it’s all because you miss Peter, it’s just a feeling. It’ll go away.
“You’re in deep thought,” a voice says, garnering a huge flinch from the depths of your stomach.
You turn around, turn back, and flinch again at the sight of a man a few paces ahead. Red shoulders and legs, black shining in a webbed lattice across his chest. “Oh,” you say, your heartbeat an uncomfortable plodding under your hand, “sorry.”
“Why are you sorry? I scared you.”
“I didn’t realise you were there.”
Spider-Man doesn’t come any closer. You take a few steps in his direction. You’ve never met before but you’d like to see him up close, and you aren’t scared. Not beyond the shock of his arrival.
“Can I walk you to where you’re going?” Spider-Man asks you. He’s humming energy, fidgeting and shifting from foot to foot.
“How do I know you’re the real Spider-Man?”
After all, there are high definition videos of his suit on the news sometimes. You wouldn’t want to find out someone was capable of making a replica in the worst way possible.
You can’t be sure, but you think he might be smiling behind the mask, his arms moving back as though impressed at your questioning. “What do you need me to do to prove it?” he asks.
He speaks hushed. Rough and deep. “I don’t know. What’s Spider-Man exclusive?”
“I can show you the webs?”
You pull your handbag further up your arm. “Okay, sure. Shoot something.”
Spider-Man aims his hand at the streetlight across the way and shoots it. He makes a severing motion with his wrist to stop from getting pulled along by it, letting the web fall like an alien tendril from the bulb. The light it produces dims slightly. A chill rides your spine.
“Can I walk you now?” he asks.
“You don’t have more important things to do?” If the bitterness you’re feeling creeps into your tone unbidden, he doesn’t react.
“Nothing more important than you.”
You laugh despite yourself. “I’m going to Trader Joe’s.”
“Yellowstone Boulevard?”
“That’s the one…”
You fall into step beside him, and, awkwardly, begin to walk again. It’s a short walk. Trader Joe’s will still be open for hours despite the dark sky, and you’re in no hurry. “My friend, he likes the rolled tortilla chips they do, the chilli ones.”
“And you’re going just for him?” Spider-Man asks.
“Not really. I mean, yeah, but I was already going on a walk.”
“Do you always walk around by yourself? It’s late. It’s dangerous, you know, a beautiful girl like you,” he says, descending into an odd mixture of seriousness and teasing. His voice jumps and swoons to match.
“I like walking,” you say.
Spider-Man walking is a weird thing to see. On the news, he’s running, swinging, or flying through the air untethered. You’re having trouble acquainting the media image of him with the quiet man you’re walking beside now.
”Is everything okay?” he asks. “You seem sad.”
“Do I?”
“Yeah, you do.”
“Maybe I am sad,” you confess, looking forward, the bright sign of Trader Joe’s already in view. It really is a short walk. “Do you ever–” You swallow against a surprising tightness in your throat and try again, “Do you ever feel like you’re alone?”
“I’m not alone,” he says carefully.
“Me neither, but sometimes I feel like I am.”
He laughs quietly. You bristle thinking you’re being made fun of, but the laugh tapers into a sad one. “Sometimes I feel like I’m the only person in the world,” he says. “Even here. I forget that it’s not something I invented.”
“Well, I guess being a hero would feel really lonely. Who else do we have like you?” You smile sympathetically. “It must be hard.”
“Yeah.” His head tips to the side, and a crash of glass rings in the distance, crunching, and then there’s a squeal. It sounds like a car accident. Spider-Man goes tense. “I’ll come back,” he says.
“That’s okay, Spider-Man, I can get home by myself. Thank you for the protection detail.”
He sprints away. In half a second he’s up onto a short roof, then between buildings. It looks natural. It takes your breath away.
You buy Peter’s chips at Trader Joe’s and wait for a few minutes at the door, but Spider-Man doesn’t come back.
—
I don’t want to study today, Peter’s text says the next day. Come over and watch movies?
The last handholds of your fugue are washed away in the shower. You dab moisturiser onto your face and neck and stand by the open window to help it dry faster, taking in the light drizzle of rain, the smell of it filling your room and your lungs in cold gales. You dress in sweatpants and a hoodie, throw on your coat, and stuff the rolled tortilla chips into a backpack to ferry across the neighbourhood.
Peter still lives at home with his Aunt May. You’d been in awe of it when you were younger, Peter and his Aunt and Uncle, their home-cooked family dinners, nights spent on the roof trying to find constellations through light pollution, stretched out together while it was warm enough to soak in your small rebellion. Ben would call you both down eventually. When you’re older! he’d always promise.
Peter’s waiting in the open door for you. He ushers you inside excitedly, stripping you out of your coat and forgetting your wet shoes as he drags you to the kitchen. “Look what I got,” he says.
The Parker kitchen is a big, bright space with a chopping block island. The counters are crowded by pots, pans, spices, jams, coffee grounds, the impossible drying rack. There’s a cross-stitch about the home on the microwave Ben did to prove to May he could still see the holes in the aida.
You follow Peter to the stove where he points at a ceramic Dutch oven you’ve eaten from a hundred times. “There,” he says.
“Did you cook?” you ask.
“Of course I didn’t cook, even if the way you said that is offensive. I could cook. I’m an excellent chef.”
“The only thing May’s ever taught you is spaghetti and meatballs.”
“Hope you like marinara,” he says, nudging you toward the stove.
You take the lid off of the Dutch oven to unveil a huge cake. Dripping with frosting, only slightly squashed by the lid, obviously homemade. He’s dotted the top with swirls of frosting and deep red strawberries.
“It’s for you,” he says casually.
“It’s not my birthday.”
“I know. You like cake though, don’t you?”
You’d tell Peter you liked chunks of glass if that was what he unveiled. “Why’d you make me a cake?”
“I felt like you deserved a cake. You don’t want it?”
“No, I want it! I want the cake, let’s have cake, we can go to 91st and get some ice cream, it’ll be amazing.” You don’t bother trying to hide your beaming smile now, twisting on the spot to see him properly, your hands falling behind your back. “Thank you, Peter. It’s awesome. I had no idea you could even– that you’d even–” You press forward, smushing your face against his chest. “Wow.”
“Wow,” he says, wrapping his arms around you. He angles his head to nose at your temple. “You’re welcome. I would’ve made you a cake years ago if I knew it was gonna make you this happy.”
“It must’ve taken hours.”
“May helped.”
“That makes much more sense.”
“Don’t be insolent.” Peter squeezes you tightly. He doesn’t let go for a really long time.
He extracts the cake from the depths of the Dutch oven and cuts you both a slice. He already has ice cream, a Neapolitan box that he cuts into with a serrated knife so you can each have a slice of all three flavours. It’s good ice cream, fresh for what it is and melting in big drops of cream as he gets the couch ready.
“Sit down,” he says, shoving the plates with his strangely great balance onto the coffee table. “Remote’s by you. I’m gonna get drinks.”
You take your plate, carving into the cake with the end of a warped spoon, its handle stamped PETE and burnished in your grasp. The crumb is soft but dense in the best way. The ganache between layers is loose, cake wet with it, and the frosting is perfect, just messy. You take another satisfied bite. You’re halfway through your slice before Peter makes it back.
“I brought you something too, but it’s garbage compared to this,” you say through a mouthful, hand barely covering your mouth.
Peter laughs at you. “Yeah, well, say it, don’t spray it.”
“I guess I’ll keep it.”
“Keep it, bub, I don’t need anything from you.”
He doesn’t say it the way you’re expecting. “No,” you say, pleased when he sits knee to knee, “you can have it. S’just a bag of chips from Trader–”
“The rolled tortilla chips?” he asks. You nod, and his eyes light up. “You really are the best friend ever.”
“Better than Harry?”
“Harry’s rich,” Peter says, “so no. I’m kidding! Joking, come here, let me try some of that.”
“Eat your own.”
Peter plays a great host, letting you choose the movies, making lunch, ordering takeout in the evening and refusing to let you pay for it. This isn’t that out of character for Peter, but what shocks you is his complete unfiltered attention. He doesn’t check his phone, the tension you couldn’t name from these last few weeks nowhere to be felt. You’re flummoxed by the sudden change, but you missed him. You won’t look a gift horse in the mouth; you won’t question what it is that had Peter keeping you at arm’s length now it’s gone.
To your annoyance, you can’t stop thinking about Spider-Man. You keep opening your mouth to tell Peter you talked to him but biting your tongue. Why am I keeping it a secret? you wonder.
“Have something to tell you.”
“You do?” you ask, reluctant to sit properly, your feet tucked under his thigh and your body completely lax with the weight of the Parker throw.
“Is that surprising?”
“Is that a trick question?”
“No. Just. I’ve been not telling you something.”
“Okay, so tell me.”
Peter goes pink, and stiff, a fake smile plastered over his lips. “Me and Gwen, we’re really done.”
“I know, Pete. She broke up with you for reasons nobody felt I should be enlightened right after graduation.” Your stomach pangs painfully. “Unless you…”
“She’s going to England.”
“She is?”
“Oxford.”
You struggle to sit up. “That sucks, Peter. I’m sorry.”
“But?”
You find your words carefully. “You and Gwen really liked each other, but I think that–” You grow in confidence, meeting his eyes firmly. “That there’s always been some part of you that couldn’t actually commit to her. So. I don’t know, maybe some distance will give you clarity. And maybe it’ll break your heart, but at least then you’ll know how you really feel, and you can move forward.” You avoid telling him to move on.
“It wasn’t Gwen,” he says, which has a completely different meaning to the both of you.
“Obviously, she’s the smartest girl I’ve ever met. She’s beautiful. Of course it’s not her fault,” you say, teasing.
“Really, that you ever met?” Peter asks.
“She’s the best girl you were ever gonna land.“
He rolls his eyes. “Yeah, I guess so.” After a few more minutes of quiet, he says, “I think we were done before. I just hadn’t figured it out yet. Something wasn’t right.”
“You were so back and forth. You’re not mean, there must’ve been something stopping you from going steady,” you agree. “You were breaking up every other week.”
“I know,” he whispers, tipping his head against the back couch.
“Which, it’s fine, you don’t–” You grimace. “I can’t talk today. Sorry. I just mean that it’s alright that you never made it work.” You worry that sounds plainly obvious and amend, “Doesn’t make you a bad person. You’re never a bad person, Peter.”
“I know. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. You don’t need me to tell you.”
“It’s nice, though. I like when you tell me stuff. I want all of your secrets.”
You should say Good, because I have something unbelievable to tell you, and I should’ve said it the moment I got home.
Good, because last night I met the bravest man in New York City, and he walked me to the store for your chips.
Good, because I have so much I’m keeping to myself.
You ruffle his hair. Spider-Man goes unmentioned.
—
He visits with a whoop. You don’t flinch when he lands —you’d heard the strange whip and splat of his webs landing nearby.
“Spider-Man,” you say.
“What’s that about?”
“What?”
“The way you said that. You laughed.” Spider-Man stands in spandexed glory before you, mask in place. He’s got a brown stain up the side of his thigh that looks more like mud than blood, but it’s not as though each of his fights are bloodless. They’re infamously gory on occasion.
“Did you get hurt?” you ask. You’re worried. You could help him, if he needs it.
“Aw, this? That’s a scratch. That’s nothing, don’t worry about it. I’ve had worse from that stray cat living outside of 91st.”
You look at him sharply. 91st is shorthand for 91st Bodega, and it’s not like you and Peter made it up, but suddenly, the man in front of you is Peter. The way he says it, that unique rhythm.
Peter’s not so rough-voiced, you argue with yourself. Your Peter speaks in a higher register, dulcet often, only occasionally sarcastic. Spider-Man is rough, and cawing, and loud. Spider-Man acts as though the ground is a suggestion. Peter can’t jump off the second diving board at the pool. Spider-Man rolls his shoulders back in front of you with a confidence Peter rarely has.
“What?” he asks.
“Sorry. You just reminded me of someone.”
His voice falls deeper still. “Someone handsome, I hope.”
You take a small step around him, hoping it invites him to walk along while communicating how sorely you want to leave the subject behind. When he doesn’t follow, you add, “Yes, he’s handsome.”
“I knew it.”
“What do you look like under the mask?”
Spider-Man laughs boisterously. “I can’t just tell you that.”
“No? Do I have to earn it?”
“It’s not like that. I just don’t tell anyone, ever.”
“Nobody in the whole world?” you ask.
The rain is spitting. New York lately is cold cold cold, little in the way of sunshine and no end in sight. Perhaps that’s all November’s are destined to be. You and Spider-Man stick to the inside of the sidewalk. Occasionally, a passerby stares at him, or calls out in Hello, and Spider-Man waves but doesn’t part from you.
“Tell me something about you and I’ll tell you something about me,” Spider-Man says. “I’ll tell you who knows my identity.”
“What do you want to know about me?” you ask, surprised.
“A secret. That’s fair.”
“Hold on, how’s that fair?” You tighten your scarf against a bitter breeze. “What use do I have for the people who know who you are? That doesn’t bring me any closer to the truth.”
“It’s not about who knows, it’s about why I told them.” Spider-Man slips around you, forcing you to walk on the inside of the sidewalk as a car pulls past you all too quickly and sends a sheet of dirty rainwater up Spider-Man’s side. He shakes himself off. “Jerk!” he shouts after the car.
“My secrets aren’t worth anything.”
“I doubt that, but if that’s true, that makes it a fair trade, doesn’t it?”
He sounds peppy considering the pool of runoff collecting at his feet. You pick up your pace again and say, “Alright, useless secret for a useless secret.”
You think about all your secrets. Some are odd, some gross. Some might make the people around you think less of you, while others would surely paint you in a nice light. A topaz sort of technicolor. But they aren’t useless, then, so you move on.
“Oh, I know. I hate my major.” You grin at Spider-Man. “That’s a good one, right? No one else knows about that.”
“You do?” Spider-Man asks. His voice is familiar, then, for its sympathy.
“I like science, I just hate math. It’s harder than I thought it would be, and I need so much help it makes me hate the whole thing.”
Spider-Man doesn’t drag the knife. “Okay. Only three people know who I am under the mask. It was four, briefly.” He clears his throat. “I told one person because I was being selfish and the others out of necessity. I’m trying really hard not to tell anybody else.”
“How come?”
“It just hurts people.”
You linger in a gap of silence, not sure what to say. A handful of cars pass you on the road.
“Tell me another one,” he says.
“What for?”
“I don’t know, just tell me one.”
“How do I know you aren’t extorting me for something?” You grin as you say it, a hint of flirtation. “You’ll know my face and my secrets and even if you tell me a really gory juicy one, I have no one to tell and no name to pair it with.”
“I’m not showing you anything,” he warns, teasing, sounding so awfully like Peter that your heart trips again, an uneven capering that has you faltering in the street.
Peter’s shorter, you decide, sizing him up. His voice sounds similar and familiar but Peter doesn’t ask for secrets. He doesn’t have to. (Or, he didn’t have to, once upon a time.)
“Where are you going?” Spider-Man asks.
“Oh, nowhere.”
“Seriously, you’re out here walking again for no reason?”
“I like to walk. It’s not like it’s dark out yet.” You’re not far at all from Queensboro Hill here. Walking in any direction would lead you to a garden —Flushing Meadows, Kew Gardens, Kissena Park. “Walk me to Kissena?” you ask.
“Sure, for that secret.”
You laugh as Spider-Man takes the lead, keeping time with him, a natural match of pace. It’s exciting that Spider-Man of all people wants to know one of your useless secrets enough to ask you twice. The attention of it makes searching for one a matter of how fast you can find one rather than a question of why you’d want to. It slips out before you can think better of it.
“I burned my wrist a few days ago on a frying pan,” you confess, the phantom pain of the injury an itch. “It blistered and I cried when I did it, but I haven’t told anyone about it.”
“Why not?” he asks.
He shouldn’t use that tone with you, like he’s so so sorry. It makes you want to really tell him everything. How insecure you feel, how telling things feels like asking for someone to care, and half the time they don’t, and half the time you’re embarrassed.
You walk past the bakery that demarcates the beginning of Kissena Park grounds across the way. “I didn’t think about it at first. I’m used to keeping things to myself. And then I didn’t tell anyone for so long that mentioning it now wouldn’t make sense. Like, bringing it up when it’s a scar won’t do much.” It’s a weak lie. It comes out like a spigot to a drying up tree. Glugs, fat beads of sound and the pull to find another thing to say.
“It was only a few days ago, right? It must still hurt. People want to know that stuff.”
“Maybe I’ll tell someone tomorrow,” you say, though you won’t.
“Thanks for telling me.”
The humour in spilling a secret like that to a superhero stops you from feeling sorry for yourself. You hide your cold fingers in your coat, rubbing the stiff skin of your knuckles into the lining for friction-heat. The rain has let up, wind whipping empty but brisk against your cheeks. Your lips will be chapped when you get home, whenever that turns out to be.
“This is pretty far from Trader Joe’s,” he comments, like he’s read your mind.
“Just an hour.”
“Are you kidding? It’s an hour for me.”
“That’s not true, Spider-Man, I’ve seen those webs in action. I still remember watching you on the News that night, the cranes. I remember,” —you try to meet his eyes despite the mask— “my heart in my throat. Weren’t you scared?”
“Is that the secret you want?” he asks.
“I get to choose?”
Spider-Man throws his gaze around, his hand behind his head like he might play with his hair. You come to a natural stop across the street from Kissena Park’s playground. Teenagers crowd the soft-landing floor, smaller children playing on the wet rungs of the climbing frame.
“If you want to,” he says.
“Then yeah, I want to know if you were scared.”
“I didn’t haveI time to be scared. Connors was already there, you know?” He shifts from one foot to the other. “I don’t think I’ve ever thought about it before. I wasn’t scared of the height, if that’s what you mean. I already had practice by then, and I knew I had to do it. Like, I didn’t have a choice, so I just did it. I had to save the day, so I did.”
“When they lined up the cranes–”
“It felt like flying,” Spider-Man interrupts.
“Like flying.”
You picture the weightlessness, the adrenaline, the catch of your weight so high up and the pressure of being flung between the next point. The idea that you have to just do something, so you do.
“That’s a good secret.” You offer a grateful smile. “It doesn’t feel equal. I burned myself and you saved the city.”
“So tell me another one,” he says.
—
Maybe you started to fall for Peter after his Uncle Ben passed away. Not the days where you’d text him and he’d ignore you, or the days spent camping outside of his house waiting for him to get home. It wasn’t that you couldn’t like him, angry as he was; there’s always been something about his eyes when he’s upset that sticks around. You loathe to see him sad but he really is pretty, and when his eyelashes are wet and his mouth is turned down, formidable, it’s an ache. A Cabanel painting, dramatic and dark and other.
It was after. When he started sending Gwen weird smiles and showing up to the movies exhilarated, out of breath, unwilling to tell you where he’d been. Skating, he’d always say. Most of the time he didn’t have his skateboard.
You’d only seen them kiss once, his hand on her shoulder curling her in, a pang of heat. You were curdled by jealousy but it was more than that. Peter was tipping her head back, was kissing her soundly, a fierceness from him that made you sick to think about. You spent weeks afterwards up at night, tossing, turning, wishing he’d kiss you like that, just once, so you could feel how it felt to be completely wrapped up in another person.
You’d always held out for Peter, in a way. It was more important to you that he be your friend. You were young, and love had been a far off thing, and then one day you suddenly wanted it. You learned just how aching an unrequited love could be, like a bruise, where every time you saw Peter —whether it be alone or with Gwen, with anyone— it was like he knew exactly where to poke the bruise. Press the heel of his hand and push. The worst is when he found himself affectionate with you, a quick clasp of your cheek in his palm as he said goodbye. Nights spent in his twin bed, of course you’ll fit, of course you couldn’t go home, not this late, May won’t care if we keep the door open —the suggestion that the door being closed might’ve meant something. His sleeping arm furled around you.
Now you’re nearing the end of your second semester at ESU, Gwen is going to England at the end of the year, and Peter hasn’t tried to stop her, but he’s still busy.
“Whatever,“ you say, taking a deep breath. You’re not mad at Peter, you just miss him. Thinking about him all the time won’t change a thing. “It’s fine.”
“I’d hope so.”
You swing around. “Don’t do that!”
Spider-Man looks vaguely chastened, taking a step back. “I called out.”
“You did?”
“I did. Hey, miss, over there! The one who doesn’t know how to get a goddamn taxi!”
“I like to walk,” you say.
“Yeah, so you’ve said. Have you considered that all this walking is bad for you? It’s freezing out, Miss Bennett!”
“It’s not that bad.” You have your coat, a scarf, your thermal leggings underneath your jeans. “I’m fine.”
“What’s wrong with staying at home?”
“That’s not good for you. And you’re one to talk, Spider-Man, aren’t you out on the streets every night? You should take a day off.”
“I don’t do this every night.”
“Don’t you get tired?”
Spider-Man’s eyelets seem to squint, his mock-anger effusive as he crosses his arms across his chest. “No, of course not. Do I look like I get tired?”
“I don’t know. You’re in a full suit, I can’t tell. I guess you don’t… seem tired. You know, with all the backflips.”
“Want me to do one?”
“On command?” You laugh. “No, that’s okay. Save your strength, Spider-Man.”
“So where are you heading today?” he asks.
There’s a slip of skin peeking out against his neck. You’re surprised he can’t feel the cold there, stepping toward him to point. “I can see your stubble.”
He yanks his mask down. “Hasty getaway.”
“A getaway, undressed? Spider-Man, that’s not very gentlemanly.”
You start to walk toward the Cinemart. Spider-Man, to your strange pleasure, follows. He walks with considerable casualness down the sidewalk by your left, occasionally letting his head turn to chase a distant sound where it echoes from between high-rises and along the busy street. It’s cold and dark, but New York is hectic no matter what, even the residential areas. (Is there such a thing? The neighbourhoods burst with small businesses and backstreet sales, no matter the time.)
“Luckily for you, crime is slow tonight,” he says.
“Lucky me?” You wonder if your acquainted vigilante flirts with every girl he stalks. “You realise I’ve managed to get everywhere I’m going for the last two decades without help?”
“I assume there was more than a little help during that first decade.”
“That’s what you think. I was a super independent toddler.”
Spider-Man tips his head back and laughs, but that laugh is quickly squashed with a cough. “Sure you were.”
“Is there a reason you’re escorting me, Spider-Man?” you ask.
“No. I– I recognised you, I thought I’d say hi.”
“Hi, Spider-Man.”
“Hi.”
“Can I ask you something? Do you work?”
Spider-Man stammers again, “I– yeah. I work. Freelance, mostly.”
“I was wondering how you fit all the crime fighting into your life, is all. University is tough enough.” You let the wind bat your scarf off of your shoulder. “I couldn’t do what you do.”
“Yeah, you could.”
He sounds sure.
“How would you know?” you ask. “Maybe I’m awful when you’re not walking me around. I hate New York. I hate people.”
“No, you don’t. You’re not awful. Don’t ask me how I know, ‘cos I just know.”
You try not to look at him. If you look at him, you’re gonna smile at him like he hung the moon. “Well, tonight I’m going to be dreadfully selfish. My friend said he’d buy my movie ticket and take me out for dinner, a real dinner, the mac and cheese with imitation lobster at Benny’s. Have you tried that?”
Spider-Man takes a big step. “Tonight?” he asks.
“Yep, tonight. That’s where I’m going, the Cinemart.” You frown at his hand pressing into his stomach. “Are you okay? You look like you’re gonna throw up.”
“I can hear– something. Someone’s crying. I gotta go, okay? Have fun at the movies, okay?” He throws his arm up, a silken web shooting from his wrist to the third floor of an apartment complex. “Bye!” he shouts, taking a running jump to the apartment, using his web as an anchor. He flings himself over the roof.
Woah, you think, warmth filling your cold cheeks, the tip of your nose. He’s lithe.
Peter arrives ten minutes late for the movie, which is half an hour later than you’d agreed to meet.
“Sorry!” he shouts, breathless as he grabs your hands. “God, I’m sorry! I’m so sorry. You should beat me up. I’m sorry.”
“What the fuck happened?” you ask, not particularly angry, only relieved to see him with enough time to still catch the movie. “You’re sweating like crazy, your hair’s wet.”
“I ran all the way here, Jesus, do I smell bad? Don’t answer that. Fuck, do we have time?”
You usher Peter inside. He pays for the tickets with hands shaking and you attempt to wipe the sweat from his forehead with your sleeve. “You could’ve called me,” you say, content to let him grab you by the arm and race you to the screen doors, “we could’ve caught the next one. Why were you so late, anyways? Did you forget?”
“Forget about my favourite girl? How could I?” He elbows open the doors to let you enter first. “Now shh,” he whispers, “find the seats, don’t miss the trailers. You love them.”
“You love them–”
“I’ll get popcorn,” he promises, letting the door close between you.
You’re tempted to follow, fingers an inch from the handle.
You turn away and rush to find your seats. Hopefully, the popcorn line is ten blocks long, and he spends the night punished for his wrongdoing. My favourite girl. You laugh nervously into your hand.
—
Winter
Spider-Man finds you at least once a week for the next few weeks. He even brings you an umbrella one time, stars on the handle, asking you rather politely to go home. He offers to buy you a hot dog as you’re walking past the stand, takes you on a shortcut to the convenience store, and helps you get a piece of gum off of your shoe with a leaf and a scared scream. He’s friendly, and you’re getting used to his company.
One night, you’re almost home from Trader Joe’s, racing in the pouring rain when a familiar voice calls out, “Hey! Running girl! Wait a second!”
Him, you think, as ridiculous as it sounds. You don’t know his name, but Spider-Man’s a sunny surprise in a shitty, wet winter, and you turn to the sound with a grin.
He jogs toward you.
You feel the world pause, right in the centre of your throat. All the air gets sucked out of you.
“Hey, what are you doing out here? Did you get my texts?”
You blink as fat rain lands on your face.
“You okay?” Peter asks, Peter, in a navy hoodie turning black in the rain and a brown corduroy jacket. It’s sodden, hanging heavily around his shoulders. “Come on, let’s go,” —he takes your hand and pulls until you begin to speed walk beside him— “it’s freezing!”
“Peter–”
“Jesus Christ!”
“Peter, what are you doing here?” you ask, your voice an echo as he drags you into the foyer of your apartment building.
Rain hammers the door as he closes it, the windows, the foyer too dark to see properly.
“I wanted to see you. Is that allowed?”
“No.”
Peter takes your hand. You look down at it, and he looks down in tandem, and it is decidedly a non-platonic move. “No?” he asks, a hair’s width from murmuring.
“Shit, my groceries are soaked.”
“It’s all snacks, it’s fine,” he says, pulling you to the stairs.
You rush up the steps together to your floor. Peter takes your key when you offer it, your own fingers too stiff to manage it by yourself, and he holds the door open for you again to let you in.
Your apartment is a ragtag assortment to match the one next door, old wooden furniture wheeled from the street corners they were left on, thrifted homeward and heavy blankets everywhere you look. You almost slip getting out of your shoes. Peter steadies you with a firm hand. He shrugs out of his coat and hangs it on the hook, prying the damp hoodie over his head and exposing a solid length of back that trips your heart as you do the same.
“Sorry I didn’t ask,” Peter says.
“What, to come over? It’s fine. I like you being here, you know that.”
All your favourite days were spent here or at Peter’s house, in beds, on sofas, his hair tickling your neck as credits run down the TV and his breath evens to a light snore. You try to settle down with him, changing into dry clothes, his spare stuff left at the bottom of your wardrobe for his next inevitable impromptu visit. You turn on the TV, letting him gather you into his side with more familiarity than ever. Rain lays its fingertips on your window and draws lazy lines behind half-turned blinds. You rest on the arm and watch Peter watch the movie, answering his occasional, “You okay?” with a meagre nod.
“What’s wrong?” he asks eventually. “You’re so quiet.”
Your hand over your mouth, you part your marriage and pinky finger, marriage at the corner, pinky pressed to your bottom lip, the flesh chapped by a season of frigid winds and long walks. “‘M thinking,” you say.
“About?”
About the first night in your new apartment. You got the apartment a couple of weeks before the start of ESU. Not particularly close to the university but close to Peter, your best, nicest friend. You met in your second year of High School, before Peter got contacts, ‘cos he was good at taking photographs and you were in charge of the school newspapers media sourcing. You used to wait for Peter to show up ten minutes late like clockwork, every week. And every week he’d barge into the club room and say, “Fuck, I’m sorry, my last class is on the other side of the building,” until it turned into its own joke.
Three years later, you got your apartment, and Peter insisted you throw a housewarming party even if he was the only person invited.
“Fuck,” he’d said, ten minutes late, a cake in one hand and a whicker basket the other, “sorry. My last class is on–”
But he didn’t finish. You’d laughed so hard with relief at the reference that he never got the chance. Peter remembered your very first inside joke, because Peter wasn’t about to go off to ESU and meet new friends and forget you.
But Peter’s been distant for a while now, because Peter’s Spider-Man.
“Do you remember,” you say, not willing to share the whole truth, “when you joined the school newspaper to be the official photographer, and you taught me the rule of thirds?”
“So you didn’t need me,” he says.
“I was just thinking about it. We ran that newspaper like the Navy.”
Peter holds your gaze. “Is that really what you were thinking about?”
“Just funny,” you murmur, dropping your hand in your lap and breaking his stare. “So much has changed.”
“Not that much.”
“Not for me, no.”
Peter gets a look in his eyes you know well. He’s found a crack in you and he’s gonna smooth it over until you feel better. You’re expecting his soft tone, his loving smile, but you’re not expecting the way he pulls you in —you’d slipped away from him as the evening went on, but Peter erases every millimetre of space as he slides his arm under your lower back and ushers you into his side. You hold your breath as he hugs you, as he looks down at you. It’s really like he loves you, the line between platonic and romantic a blur. He’s never looked at you like this before.
“I don’t want you to change,” he whispers.
“I want to catch up with you,” you whisper back.
“Catch up with me? We’re in the exact same place, aren’t we?”
“I don’t know, are we?”
Peter hugs you closer, squishing your head down against his jaw as he rubs your shoulder. “Of course we are.”
Peter… What is he doing?
You let yourself relax against him.
“You do change,” he whispers, an utterance of sound to calm that awful bruise he gave you all those months ago, “you change every day, but you don’t need to try.”
“I just… feel like everyone around me is…” You shake your head. “Everyone’s so smart, and they know what they’re doing, or they’re– they’re special. I don’t know anything. So I guess lately I’ve been thinking about that, and then you–”
“What?”
You can say it out loud. You could.
“Peter, you’re…”
“I’m what?” he asks.
His fingers glide down the length of your arm and up again.
If you're wrong, he’ll laugh. And if you’re right, he might– might stop touching you. Your head feels so heavy, and his touch feels like it’s gonna put you to sleep.
He’s Spider-Man.
It makes sense. Who else could have a good enough heart to do that? Of course it’s Peter. It explains so much about him, about Peter and Spider-Man both. Why Peter is suddenly firmer, lighter on his feet, why he can help you move a wardrobe up two flights of stairs without complaint; why Spider-Man is so kind to you, why he knows where to find you, why he rolls his words around just like Pete.
Spider-Man said there are reasons he wears his mask. And Peter doesn’t tell you much, but you trust him.
You won’t make him say anything, you decide. Not now.
You curl your arm over his stomach hesitantly, smiling into his shirt as he hugs you tighter.
“I was thinking about you,” he says.
“Yeah?”
“You’re quieter lately. I know you’re having a hard time right now, okay? You don’t have to tell me. I’m here for you whenever you need me.”
“Yeah?” you ask.
“You used to sit on my porch when you knew May wouldn’t be home to make sure I wasn’t alone.” Peter’s breath is warm on your forehead. “I don’t know what you’re worried about being, but I’m with you,” he says, “‘n nothing is gonna change that.”
Peter isn’t as far away as you thought.
“Thank you,” you say.
He kisses your forehead softly. Your whole world goes amber. He brings his hand to your cheek, the thought of him tipping your head back sudden and heart-racing, but Peter only holds you. You lose count of how many minutes you spend cupped in his hand.
“Can I stay over tonight?” he utters, barely audible under the sound of the battering rain.
“Yeah, please.”
His thumb strokes your cheek.
—
Two switches flip at once, that night. Peter is suddenly as tactile as you’ve craved, and Spider-Man disappears.
He’s alive and well, as evidenced by Peter’s continued survival and presence in your life, but Spider-Man doesn’t drop in on your nightly walks.
You take less of them lately, feeling better in yourself. Your spirits are certainly lifted by Peter’s increasing affection, but now that you know he’s Spider-Man you were waiting to see him in spandex to mess with his head. Nothing mean, but you would’ve liked to pick at his secret identity, toy with him like you know he’d do to you. After all, he’s been trailing you for weeks and getting to know you. Peter already knows you. Plus, you told Spider-Man secrets not meant for Peter Parker’s ears.
You find it hard to be angry with him. A thread of it remains whenever you remember his deception, but mostly you worry about him. Peter’s out every night until who knows what hour fighting crime. There are guns. He could get shot, and he doesn’t seem scared. You end up watching videos on the internet of the night he ran to Oscorp, when he fought Connors’ and got that huge gash in his leg. His leg is soiled deep red with blood but banded in white webbing. He limps as he races across a rooftop, the recording shaky yet high definition.
It’s not nice to see Peter in pain. You cling to what he’d said, how he wasn’t scared, but not being scared doesn’t mean he wasn’t hurting.
You chew the tip of a finger and click on a different video. Your computer monitor bears heat, the tower whirring by your thigh. Your eyes burn, another hour sitting in the same seat, sick with worry. You don’t mind when Peter doesn’t answer your texts anymore. You didn’t mind so much before, just terrified of becoming an irrelevance in his life and lonely, too, maybe a little hurt, but never worried for his safety. Now when Peter doesn’t text you back you convince yourself that he’s been hurt, or that he’s swinging across New York City about to risk his life.
It’s not a good way to live. You can’t stop giving into it, is all.
In the next video, Spider-Man sits on a billboard with a can of coke in hand. He doesn’t lift his mask, seemingly aware of his watcher. You laugh as he angles his head down, suspicion in his tight shoulders. He relaxes when he sees whoever it is recording.
“Hey,” he says, “you all right?”
“Should you be up there?” the person recording shouts.
“I’m fine up here!”
“Are you really Spider-Man?”
“Sure am.”
“Are you single?”
Peter laughs like crazy. How you didn’t know it was him before is a mystery —it couldn’t sound more like him. “I’ve got my eye on someone!” he says, sounding younger for it, the character voice he enacts when he’s Spider-Man lost to a good mood.
Your phone rings in the back pocket of your jeans. You wriggle it out, nonplussed to find Peter himself on your screen. You click the green answer button.
“Hello?” Peter asks.
You bring the phone snug to your ear. “Hey, Peter.”
“Hi, are you busy?”
“Not really.”
“Do you wanna come over? I know it’s late. Come stay the night and tomorrow we’ll go out for breakfast.”
“Is Aunt May okay with that?”
“She’s staring at me right now shaking her head, but I’m in trouble for something. May, can she come over, is that allowed?”
“She’s always allowed as long as you keep the door open.”
You laugh under your breath at May’s begrudging answer. “Are you sure she’s alright with it?” you ask softly. “I don’t want to be a burden.”
“You never, ever could be. I’m coming to your place and we’ll walk over together. Did you eat dinner?”
“Not yet, but–”
“Okay, I’ll make you something when you get here. I’ll meet you at the door. Twenty minutes?”
“I have to shower first.”
“Twenty five?”
You choke on a laugh, a weird bubbly thing you’re not used to. Peter laughs on the other side of the phone. “How about I’ll see you at seven?”
“It’s a date,” he says.
“Mm, put it in your calendar, Parker.”
—
Peter waits for you at the door like he promised. He frowns at your still-wet face as he slips your backpack from your shoulder, throwing it over his own. “You’re gonna get sick.”
“I‘ll dry fast,” you say. “I took too long finding my pyjamas.”
“I have stuff you can wear. Probably have your sweatpants somewhere, the grey ones.” Peter pulls you forward and wipes your tacky face. “I would’ve waited,” he says.
“It’s fine.“
“It’s not fine. Are you cold?”
“Pete, it’s fine.”
“You always remind me of my Uncle Ben when you call me Pete,” he laughs, “super stern.”
“I’m not stern. Look, take me home, please, I’m cold.”
“You said it wasn’t cold!”
“It’s not, I’m just damp–” Peter cuts you off as he grabs you, sudden and tight, arms around you and rubbing the lengths of your back through your coat. “Handsy!”
“You like it,” he jokes back, his playful warming turning into a hug. You smile, hiding your face in his neck for a few moments.
“I don’t like it,” you lie.
“Okay, you don’t like it, and I’m sorry.” Peter gives you a last hug and pulls away. “Now let’s go. I gotta feed you before midnight.”
“That’s not funny.”
“Apparently, nothing is.”
Peter links your arms together. By the time you get to his house, you’ve fallen away from each other naturally. May is in the hallway when you climb through the door, an empty laundry basket in her hands.
“I see Peter hasn’t won this argument yet,” you say in way of greeting. Peter’s desperate to do his own laundry now he’s getting older. May won’t let him.
“No, he hasn’t.” She looks you up and down. “It’s nice to see you, honey. And in one piece! Peter tells me you’ve been walking a lot, and I mean, in this city? Can’t you buy a treadmill?” she asks.
“May!” Peter says, startled.
“I like walking, I like the air,” you say.
“Can’t exactly call it fresh,” May says.
“No, but it’s alright. It helps me think.”
“Is everything okay?” May asks, putting her hand on her hip.
“Of course.” You smile at her genuinely. “I think starting college was too much for me? It was hard. But things are settling now, I don’t know what Peter told you, but I’m not walking a lot anymore. You know, not more than necessary.”
She softens her disapproving. “Good, honey. That’s good. Peter’s gonna make you some dinner now, right?”
“Yeah, Aunt May, I’m gonna make dinner,” Peter sighs, pulling a leg up to take off his shoes.
Peter shouldn’t really know that you’ve been walking. He might see you coming back from Trader Joe’s or the bodega on his way to your apartment, but you haven’t mentioned any of your longer excursions, and everybody in Queens has to walk. That’s information he wouldn’t know without Spider-Man.
He seems to be hoping you won’t realise, changing the subject to the frankly killer grilled cheese and tomato soup that he’s about to make you, and pushing you into a chair at the table. “Warm up,” he says near the back of your head, forcing a wave of shivers down your arms.
He makes soup in one pan, grilled cheese in the other, two for him and two for you. Peter’s a good eater, and he encourages the same from you, setting a big bowl of tomato soup (from the can, splash of fresh cream) down in front of you with the grilled cheese on a plate between you. You eat it in too-hot bites and try not to get caught looking at him. He does the same, but when he catches you, or when you catch him, he holds your eye and smiles.
“I can do the dishes,” you say. You might need a breather.
“Are you kidding? I’m gonna rinse them, put them in the dishwasher.” Peter stands and feels your forehead with his hand. “Warmer. Good job.”
You shrug away from his hand. “Loser.”
“Concerned friend.”
“Handsy loser.”
”Shut up,” he mumbles.
As flustered as you’ve ever seen, Peter takes your empty dishes to the kitchen. When he’s done rinsing them off you follow him upstairs to his bedroom and tuck your backpack under his bed.
You look down at your socks. Peter’s room is on the smaller side, but it’s never been as startlingly small as it is when Peter’s socked feet align with yours, toe to toe. Quick recovery time, this boy.
“There’s chips and stuff on my desk. Or I could run to 91st for some ice cream sandwiches if you want something sweet,” he says.
You lift your eyes, tilt your head up just a touch, not wanting him to think you’re in his space no matter how strange that might be, considering he chose to stand there. “I’m all right. Did you want ice cream? We can go if you want to, but if you want to go ’cos you think I do then I’m fine.”
“That’s such a long answer,” he says, draping an arm over your shoulder. “You don’t have to say all of that, just tell me no.”
“I don’t want ice cream.”
“Wasn’t that easy?” he asks.
“Well, no, it wasn’t. Saying no to you is like saying no to a puppy.”
“Because I’m adorable?”
“Persistent.”
“Yeah, I guess I am.” He drapes the other arm over you. The soap he used at the kitchen sink lingers on his hands.
“Peter…?” you murmur.
“What?” he murmurs back.
You touch a knuckle to his chest. “This– You…” Every quelled thought rushes to the surface at once —Peter doesn’t like you as you desire, how could he, you aren’t beautiful like he is, aren’t smart, aren’t brave, no exceptional kindness or goodness to mark you enough for him. It’s why his being with Gwen didn’t hurt; she made sense. And for months now you’ve wondered what it is that made him struggle to be with her. And sometimes, foolishly, you wondered if it was you. But it’s not you, it’s never you, and whatever Peter’s trying to do now–
“Hey, you okay?” he asks, taking your face into his hand.
“What are you doing?”
“What?” He pushes his hand back to hold your nape, thumb under your ear. “I can’t hear you.”
You raise your voice. “Why did you invite me over tonight?”
“‘Cos I missed you?”
“I used to think you didn’t miss me at all.”
Peter winces, hurt. “How could you think that? Of course I miss you. What you said to May, about college being hard? It’s like that for me too, okay? I miss you all the time.”
You bite the inside of your bottom lip. “…College isn’t hard for you.”
“It’s not easy.” He frowns, the fallen angel, his lips an unsure brushstroke. “What’s wrong? Did I say the wrong thing?”
You’re being wretched, you know, saying it isn’t hard for him. “You didn’t. Really, you didn’t.”
“But why are you upset?” he implores, dark eyes darker as his eyebrows tug together.
“I’m not–”
“You are. It’s okay, you can be upset. I just want you to feel better, you know that?” He settles his hands at the tops of your arms. Less intimate, but something warm remains. “Even if it takes a long time.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine.”
“How would you know?” you finally ask.
Peter stares at you.
“I know you,” he says carefully, “and I know you aren’t struggling like you were, but that doesn’t mean it didn’t happen or that you have to be a hundred percent better now.”
“I didn’t realise that I was,” you say, licking your lips, “‘til now. I didn’t get that it was on the surface.”
Peter pulls you in for a gentle hug. “I’m here for you forever, and I’ll make it up to you for not noticing sooner,” he says, scrunching your shirt in his hand.
After the hug, he tells you to change and make yourself comfortable while he showers. So you put on your pyjamas and climb into Peter’s bed, head pounding as though all your energy was stolen in a fell swoop. You press your nose to his pillow and arm wrapped around his comforter, gathering it into a Peter sized lump. The shower pump whines against the shared wall.
Things aren’t meant to be like this. You thought Peter touching you —holding you— was the deepest of your desires, but you feel now exactly as you had before he started blurring the line, needing Peter to kiss you so badly it becomes its own kind of nausea. Why are you still acting like it’s an impossibility?
When he comes back, you’ll apologise. He hasn’t done anything wrong. He does keep a secret, but don’t you keep one too? He’s Spider-Man. You’ve had deep, complicated feelings for him for months. They are secrets of equal magnitude, and are, more apparently, badly kept.
You wish you could fall asleep. Your heart ticks in agitation.
Peter returns as perturbed as earlier.
“Are you sure there’s nothing wrong?” he asks, raking a hand through his hair. A towel hangs around his neck.
“I’m sorry for being weird.”
“You’re not weird,” Peter says, bringing the towel to his hair to scrub ruthlessly.
“It’s just ‘cos things have been different between us.” And, you try to say, that scares me no matter how bad I wanted it. because you’re not just Peter anymore, you’re Spider-Man. I’m only me, and I can’t do anything to protect you.
Peter gives his hair a long scrub before draping the towel on his desk chair. He rakes it messily into place and sits himself at the end of the bed. You sit up.
“Yeah, they have been. Good different?” he asks hesitantly.
“I think so,” you say, quiet again.
“That’s what I thought.”
“I don’t want you to feel like I don’t want to be here. I just worry about you.”
Peter uses his hands to get higher up the bed. “Don’t worry about me,” he says, “Jesus, please don’t. That’s the last thing I want from you, I hate when people worry about me.”
You curl into the lump of comforter you’d made. Peter lets himself rest beside you, his back to the bedroom wall, tens of Polaroids above him shining with the light of the hallway and his orange-bulbed lamp. His skin is glowing like it’s golden hour, dashes of topaz in his eyes, his Cupid’s bow deep. How would it feel to lean forward and kiss him? To catch his Cupid's bow under your lips?
You brush a damp curl tangled in another onto his forehead.
You lay there for a little while without talking, listening to the sound of the washing machine as it cycles downstairs.
“Am I going too fast?” Peter murmurs.
You press your lips together, shaking your head minutely.
“Is it something else?”
You don’t move.
“Do you want me to stop?” he asks.
“No.”
Peter rewards you with a smile, his hand on your arm. “Alright. Let me get this blanket on you the right way. You’re still cold.”
You resent the loss of a shape to hold when Peter slips down beside you and wrangles the comforter flat again, spreading it out over you both, his hand under the blankets. His knuckles brush your thigh.
He takes a deep breath before turning and wrapping his arm over your stomach, asking softly, “Is this alright?”
“Yeah.”
He gives you a look and then lifts his head to slot his nose against your temple. “Please don’t take this in a way that I don’t mean it, but sometimes you think about things so much I worry you’re gonna get stuck in your head forever.”
“I like thinking.”
“I hate it,” he says quickly, a fervent, flirting cadence to his otherwise dulcet tone, “we should never do it ever again.”
“I’ll try not to.”
“Would you? For me?”
You laugh into his shirt, feeling the warmth of your breath on your own nose. “I’ll do my best.”
“Good. I’d miss you too much if you got lost in that nice head of yours.”
You relax under his arm. You aren’t sure what all the fuss was about now that he's hugging you. “I’d miss you too.”
May comes up the stairs about an hour later. To her credit, she doesn’t flinch when she finds you and Peter smushed together watching a DVD on his old TV. He’s holding your arm, and you’re snoozing on his shoulder, half-aware of the world, fully aware of his nice smells and the shapes of his arms.
“Door open,” she says.
“Not that either of us want it closed, May, but we’re adults.”
“Not while I’m still washing your clothes, you’re not.”
He snorts. “Goodnight, Aunt May. The door isn’t gonna close, I promise.”
“I know that,” she says, scornful in her pride. “You’re a good boy.” She lightens. “Things are going okay?”
Peter covers your ear. “Goodnight, Aunt May.”
”I have half a mind to never listen to you again. You talk my ear off and I can’t ask a simple question?”
“I love you,” Peter sing-songs.
“I love you, Peter,” she says. “Don’t smother the girl.”
“I won’t smother her. It’s in my best interest that she survives the night. She’s buying my breakfast tomorrow.”
“Peter Parker.”
“I’m kidding,” he whispers, petting your cheek absentmindedly. “Just messing with you, May.”
You smile and curl further into his arms. His voice is like the sun, even when he whispers.
—
To your surprise, Spider-Man comes to find you after class one evening. A guest lecturer had talked to your oncology class about click chemistry and other molecular therapies against cancer, and the zine book she’d given you is burning a hole in your pocket. Peter is going to love it.
You pull it out and pause beside a bench and a silver trash can, the day grey but thankfully without rain. The pages of your little book whip forcefully in the wind. It’s chemistry, sure, but it’s biology too, wrapping your and Peter’s interests up neatly. If it weren’t for Peter you doubt you’d love science as much as you do. He’s always been good at it, but since you started college he's been a genius. Watching him grow has encouraged you to work harder, and understanding the material is satisfying, if draining. You take a photo of the middle most pages and tuck the book away, writing a quick text to Peter to send with it.
Look! it says, LEGO cancer treatment!!
The moment you press send a beep chimes from somewhere close behind you, all too familiar. You turn to the source but find nobody you know waiting. Coincidence, you think, shaking yourself and beginning the trek to the subway.
But then you hear the tell tale splat and thwick of Spider-Man’s webbing.
You wait until you’re at the alleyway between Porto’s Bakery and the key cutting shop and turn down to stop by one of the dumpsters.
“Spider-Man?” you ask, shoulders tensed in case it’s not who you think.
“What are you doing?” he asks.
You gasp as he hops down in front of you, his suit shiny with its dark web-pattern caught by the grey sunshine passing through the clouds overhead. “Shit, don’t break your ankles.”
“My ankles?” He laughs. He sounds so much like Peter that you can only laugh with him. What an idiot he is for thinking you don’t know; what a fool you’d been for falling for his put upon tenor. “They’re fine. What would be wrong with my ankles?”
“You just dropped down twenty feet!”
“It’s more like thirty, and I’m fine. You understand the super part of superhero, don’t you?”
“Who said you’re a superhero?”
“Nice. What are you doing down here?”
“I was testing my theory. You’re following me.”
“No, I’m visiting you, it’s very different,” he says confidently.
“You haven’t come to see me for weeks.”
“Yes, well, I–” Spider-Peter crosses his arms across his chest. “Hey, you’re the one who told me to take a day off.”
“I did tell you to take a day off. It’s not nice thinking about you trying to save the world every single night. That’s a lot of responsibility for one person to have.”
“But it’s my responsibility,” he says easily. “No point in a beautiful girl like you wasting her time worrying about it. I have to do it, and I don’t mind it.”
“Do you flirt with every girl you meet out here in the city?” you ask, cheeks hot.
“No,” he says, fondness evident even through the mask, “just you.”
“Do you wanna walk me home? I was gonna take the subway, but it’s not that far.”
Spider-Man nods. “Yeah, I’ll walk you back.”
He doesn’t hide that he knows the way very well. He takes preemptive turns, crosses roads without you telling him to go forward. You can’t believe him. Smartest guy at Midtown High and he can’t pretend to save his life.
“Are you having a good semester?” he asks.
“It’s getting better. I’m glad I stuck with it. I love biology, it’s so fucking hard. I used to think that was a bad thing, but it makes it cooler now. Like, it’s not something everyone understands.” You give him a look, and you give into temptation. “My best friend got me into all this stuff. I used to think math was hopeless and science was for dorks.”
“It’s definitely for dorks.”
“Right, but I love being one.” You offer a useless secret. “I like to think that it’s why we’re such great friends.”
“Me and you?” Spider-Man asks hoarsely.
“Me and Peter.” You elbow him without force. “Why, do you like science?”
“I love it…”
“You know, I really like you, Spider-Man. I feel like we’ve been friends for a long time.” You’re teasing poor Peter.
He doesn’t speak for a while. He stops walking, but you take a few steps without him. When you realise he’s stopped, you turn back to see him.
Peter’s gone so tense you could strike him with a flint and catch a spark. It’s the same way Peter looked at you when he told you about his Uncle, a truth he didn’t want to be true. Seeing it throws a spanner in the works of all your teasing: you’d meant to wind him up, not make him panic.
“What’s wrong?” you ask. “Can you hear something?”
“No, it’s not that…” He’s masked, but you know him well enough to understand why he’s stopped.
“It’s okay,” you say.
“It’s not, actually.”
“Spider-Man.” You take a step toward him. “It’s fine.”
He presses his hands to his stomach. The sun is setting early, and in an hour, the dark will eat up New York and leave it in a blistering cold. “Do you remember when we first met, the second time, we swapped secrets?”
“Yeah, I remember. Useless secret for another. I told you I hated my major. It’s not true anymore, obviously. I was having a bad time.”
“I know you were,” he says, emphasis on know, like it’s a different word entirely.
“But meeting you really helped. If it weren’t for you, for Peter,” —you give him a searching look— “I wouldn’t feel better at all.”
“It wasn’t his fault?” he asks. “He was your friend, and you were lonely.”
“No–”
“He didn’t know what was going on with you, he didn’t have a clue. You hurt yourself and you felt like you couldn’t tell anybody, and I know it wasn’t an accident, so what was his excuse?” His voice burns with anger. “It’s his fault.”
“Of course it wasn’t your fault. Is that what you think?” You shake your head, panicked by the bone-deep self loathing in his voice, his shameful dropped head. “Yes, I was lonely, I am lonely, I don’t know many people and I– I– I hurt myself, and it wasn’t as accidental as I thought it was, but why would that be your fault?”
“Peter’s fault,” he says, though his head is lifted now, and he doesn’t bother enthusing it with much gusto.
“Peter, none of it was your fault.” You cringe in your embarrassment, thinking Fuck, don’t let me ruin this. “I was in a weird way, and yes, I was lonely, and I really liked you more than I should have. You didn't want me and that wasn’t your fault, that’s just how it was, I tried not to let it get to me, just there were a lot of things weighing on me at once, but it really wasn’t as bad as you think it was and it wasn’t your fault.”
“I wasn’t there for you,” he says. “And I’ve been lying to you for a long time.”
“You couldn’t tell me, right? Spider-Man is your secret for a reason.”
“…I didn’t even know you were lonely until you told him. He was a stranger.”
You hold your hands behind your back. “Well, he was a familiar one.”
Peter reaches out as though wanting to touch you, but your arms aren’t in his reach. “It’s not because I didn’t want you.”
“Peter,” you say, squirming.
He steps back.
“I have to go,” he says.
“What?”
“I have to– I don’t want to go,” he says earnestly, “sweetheart, I can hear someone calling out, I have to go. But I’ll come back, I’ll– I’ll come back,” he promises.
And with a sudden lift of his arm, Peter pulls himself up the side of a building and disappears, leaving you whiplashed on the sidewalk, the sun setting just out of view.
—
You fall asleep that night waiting for Peter. When you wake up, 5AM, eyes aching, he isn’t there. You check your phone but he hasn’t texted. You check the Bugle and Spider-Man hasn’t been seen.
You aren’t sure what to think. He sounded sincere to the fullest extent when he said he’d come back, but he didn’t, not ten minutes later, not twenty. You made excuses and you went home before it got too dark to see the street, sat on the couch rehearsing what you’d say. How could Peter think your unhappiness was his fault? Why does he always put the entire world on his shoulders?
Selfishly, you worried what it all meant for his lazy touches. Would he want to curl up into bed with you again now he knows what it means to you? It’s different for him. It isn’t like he’s in love with you… you’d just thought maybe he could be. That this was falling in love, real love, not the unrequited ache you’d suffered before.
But maybe you got everything wrong. All of it. It wouldn't be the first time.
—
You and Peter found The Moroccan Mode in your senior year at Midtown. The school library was small and you were sick of being underfoot at home. When you started at ESU, you explored the on campus coffeehouse, the Coffee Bean, but it was crowded, and you’d found yourself attached to the Mode’s beautiful tiling, blues and topaz and platinum golds, its heavy, oiled wooden furniture, stained glass lampshades and the case full of lemony treats. The coffee here is better than anywhere else, but the best part out of everything is that it’s your secret. Barely anybody comes to the Mode on purpose.
You hide in a far corner with a book and an empty cup of decaf coffee, a slice of meskouta on the table untouched. Decaf because caffeine felt a terrible idea, meskouta untouched because you can’t stomach the smell. You push it to the opposite end of the table, considering another cup of coffee instead. It’s served slightly too hot, and will still be warm when it gets to your chest.
The sunshine is creeping in slowly. It feels like the first time you’ve seen it in months, warming rays kissing your fingers and lining the walls. You turn a page, turn your wrist, let the sun warm the scar you gave yourself those few months ago, when everything felt too big for you.
Looking back, it was too big. Maybe soon you’ll be ready to talk about it.
The author in your book is talking about bees. They can fly up to 15 miles per hour. They make short, fast motions from front to back, a rocking motion. Asian giant hornets can go even faster despite their increased mass. They consider humans running provocation. If you see a giant hornet, you’re supposed to lay down to avoid being stung.
You put your face in your hand. Next year, you’ll avoid the insect-based electives.
Across the cafe, the bell at the top of the door rings. Laughter falls through it, a couple passing by. The register clashes open. A minute later it closes.
You don’t raise your head when footsteps draw near. A plate is placed on the table, pushed across to you, stopping just shy of your coffee.
“Did you eat breakfast?” Peter asks quietly.
His voice is gentle, but hoarse.
You tense.
“Are you okay?” he asks, not waiting for your answer to either question. “You don’t look like yourself. Your eyes are red.”
You lift your head. Wet with the beginnings of tears, you see Peter through an astigmatic blur.
“What are you reading?” He frowns at you. “Please don’t cry.”
You shake your head. Your smile is all odd, nothing like his, no inherent warmth despite your best effort. “I’m okay.”
He nudges you across the booth seat and sits beside you. His arm settles behind your shoulders. He smells like smoke and soap, an acrid scent barely hidden. “Can you tell me you didn’t wait long for me?”
“Ten minutes,” you lie.
“Okay. I’m sorry. There was a fire.” He rubs your arm where he’s holding you. “I’m sorry.”
“Will you go half?” you ask, nodding to the sandwich he’s brought you. It’s tough sourdough bread, brown with white flour on the crusts and leafy greens poking between the slices. You and Peter complain about the price. You’ve never had one. He passes you the bigger half, holding the other in his hand without eating.
“I know you’re hungry,” you say, tapping his elbow, “just eat.”
You eat your sandwiches. Now that Peter’s here, you don’t feel so sick —he’s not upset with you. The dull pang of an empty stomach won’t be ignored.
Peter puts his sandwich down, which is crazy, and wipes his fingers on the plates napkin. You’ve never seen him stop before he’s done.
“It was in the apartments on Vernon. I– I think I almost died, the smoke was everywhere.”
You choke around a crust, thrusting the rest of your half onto the plate. “Are you hurt?” you ask, coughing.
He moves his head from side to side, not a shake, but a slow no. “How long have you known it was me?” he asks, curling his hand behind your back again, fingers spread over your shoulder blade, a fingertip on your neck.
You savour his touch, but you give in to your apprehension and stare at his chest. “The night you caught me outside in the rain in November. You called me ‘running girl’. The way you said it, you sounded exactly like him. I turned around expecting,” —you whisper, weary of the quiet cafe— “Spider-Man, and I realised it’s him that sounds like you. That he is you.”
“Was that disappointing?”
“Peter, you’re, like, my favourite person in the world,” you whisper fervently, your smile making it light. You laugh. “Why would that be disappointing?”
“I thought maybe you think he’s cooler than me.”
“He is cooler than you, Peter.” You laugh again, pleased when he scoffs and draws you nearer. “I guess you’re the same person, right? So he’s just as cool as you are. But why would being cool matter to me? You know I like you.”
“You flirted pretty heavily with Spider-Man.”
“Well, he flirted with me first.”
You chance a look at his face. From that moment you can’t look away, not from Peter. You like when he wears that darkness in his eyes, the hint of his rarer side so uncommonly seen, but you love this most of all, Peter like your best memory, the way he’s looking at you now a picture perfect copy of that moment in a swimming pool in Manhattan with cracked tile under your feet. His arms heavy on your shoulders. You didn’t get it then, but you’re starting to understand now.
“I’ve made a mess of everything,” he says softly, the trail his hand makes to the small of your back leaving a wake of goosebumps. “I haven’t been honest with you.”
“I haven’t, either.”
“I want to ask you for something,” Peter says, a fingertip trailing back up. He smiles when you shiver, not teasing, just loving. “You can say no.”
“You’re hard to say no to.”
“I need you to talk to me more,” —and here he goes, Peter Parker, flirting and sweet-talking like his life depends on it, his face inching down into your space— “not just because I love your voice, or because you think so much I’m scared you’ll get lost, but I need you to talk to me. We need to talk about real things.”
We do, you think morosely.
“It’s not your fault,” he adds, the hand that isn’t holding your back coming up to cup your cheek, “it’s mine. I was scared of telling you for stupid reasons, but I shouldn’t have let it be a secret for so long.”
“No, I doubt they’re stupid,” you murmur, following his hand as he attempts to move it to your ear. “It’s not easy to tell someone you’re a hero.”
His palm smells like smoke.
“That’s not the secret I meant,” he says.
You take his hand from your face. Peter looks down and begins pressing his fingers between yours, squeezing them together as his thumb runs over the back of your hand.
“So tell me.”
The sunshine bleeds onto his cheek. Dappled orange light turning slowly white as time stretches and the sun moves up through a murky sky. “You want to trade secrets again?” he asks.
“Please.”
“Okay. Okay, but I don’t have as many as you do,” he warns.
“I find that hard to believe.”
“I don’t. It’s not a real secret, is it? I’ve been trying to show you for weeks, we…”
He tilts his head invitingly.
All those hand-holds and nights curled up in bed together. Am I going too fast? You know exactly what he means; it really isn’t a secret.
“I’ll go first,” he says, lowering his face to yours. You try not to close your eyes. “I’ve wanted to kiss you for weeks.” He closes his eyes so you follow, your breath not your own suddenly. You hold it. Let it go hastily. “What’s your secret?”
“Sometime I want you to kiss me so badly I can’t sleep. It makes me feel sick–”
“Sick?” he asks worriedly.
You touch the tip of your nose to his. “It’s like– like jealousy, but…”
“You have no one to be jealous of,” he says surely. He cups your cheek, and he asks, “Please, can I kiss you?”
You say, “Yes,” very, very quietly, but he hears it, and his smile couldn’t be more obvious as he closes the last of the distance between you to kiss you.
It isn’t the sort of kiss that kept you up at night. Peter doesn’t hook you in or tip your head back, he kisses gently, his hand coming to live on your cheek, where it cradles. It’s so warm you don’t know what to make of him beyond kissing him back —kissing his smile, though it’s catching. Kissing the line of his Cupid’s bow as he leans down.
“I’m sorry about everything,” he mumbles, nose flattened against yours.
You feel sunlight on your cheek. Squinting, you turn into his hand to peer outside at the sudden abundance of it. It’s still cold outside, but the Mode is warm, Peter’s hand warmer, and the sunshine is a welcome guest.
Peter drops his hand. “Oh, wow. December sun. Good thing it didn’t snow, we’d be blind.”
“I can’t be cold much longer,” you confess. “I’m sick of the shitty weather.”
“I can keep you warm.”
He smiles at you. His eyelashes tangle in the corners of his eyes, long and brown.
“Did you want my meskouta?” you ask.
Peter plants a fat kiss against your brow.
You let the sunshine warm your face. Two unfinished sandwich halves, a mouthful of coffee, and a round slice of meskouta, its flaky crumb and lemon drizzle shining on the table. You would ask Peter for his camera if you’d thought he brought it with him, to take a picture of your breakfast and the carved table underneath. You could turn it on Peter, say something cheesy. This is the moment you ruined our lives, you’d tease.
“You never told me you met Spider-Man, you know.”
You watch Peter lick the tip of his finger without shame. “They could make a novella of things I haven’t told you about,” you murmur wryly.
Peter takes a bite of meskouta, reaching for your knee under the table. He shakes your leg a little, as if to say, Well, we’ll work on that.
—
Spring
“Sorry!”
“No, it’s–”
“Sorry, sorry, I’m– shit!”
“–okay! All legs inside the ride?”
“I couldn’t find my purse–”
“You don’t need it!” Peter leans over the console to kiss your cheek. “You don’t have to rush.”
“Are you sure you can drive this thing?”
“Harry doesn’t mind.”
“I don’t mean the car, I mean, are you sure you can drive?”
“That’s not funny.”
You grin and dart across to kiss his cheek, too. “Nothing ever is with us.”
Peter grabs you behind the neck —which might sound rough, if he were capable of such a thing— and pulls you forward for a kiss you don’t have time for. “If we don’t check in,” —you begin, swiftly smothered by another press of his lips, his tongue a heat flirting with the seam of your lips— “by three, they said they won’t keep the room–” He clasps the back of your neck and smiles when your breath stutters. You squeeze your eyes closed, kiss him fiercely, and pull away, hand on his chest to restrain him. “And then we’ll have to drive home like losers.”
Peter sits back in the driver's seat unbothered. He fixes his hair, and he wipes his bottom lip with his knuckle. You’re rolling your eyes when he finally returns your gaze. “Sorry, am I the one who lost her purse?”
“Peter!”
“I can’t make us un-late,” he says, turning the key slowly, hands on the wheel but his eyes still flitting between your eyes and your lips.
“Alright,” you warn.
He reaches for your knee. “It’s a forty minute drive. You’re panicking over nothing.”
“It’s an hour.”
Your drive from Queens to Manhattan is entirely uneventful. You keep Peter’s hand hostage on your knee, your palm atop it, the other hand wrapped around his wrist, your conversation a juxtaposition, almost lackadaisical. Peter doesn’t question your clinging nor your lazy murmurings, rubbing a circle into your knee with his thumb from Forest Hill to Lenox Hill. There’s so much to do around Manhattan; you could visit MoMA, Central Park, The Empire State Building or Times Square, but you and Peter give it all a miss for the little known Manhattan Super 8.
It’s been a long time since you and Peter first visited. You took the bus out to Lenox Hill for a med-student tour neither of you particularly enjoyed, feeling out future careers. It’s not that Lenox Hill isn’t one of the most impressive medical facilities in New York (if not the northeastern USA), it’s that all the blood made him queasy, and you were panicking too much about the future to think it through. He got over his aversion to blood but chose the less hands-on science in the end, and you worked things through. You’re a little less scared of the future everyday.
You and Peter were supposed to get the bus straight back home for a sleepover, but one got cancelled, another delayed, and night closed in like two hands on your neck. Peter sensed your fear and emptied his wallet for a night in the Super 8.
The next morning it was beautifully sunny. The first day of summer that year, warm and golden. The pool wasn’t anything special but it was invitingly cool, blue and white tiles patterned like fish below; you clambered into the water in shorts and a tank top and Peter his boxers before a worker could see and stop you.
It was one of the best days of your life. When you told Peter about it last week, he’d looked at you peculiarly, said, Bub, you’re cute, and let you waste the afternoon recounting one of your more embarrassing pangs of longing. A few days later he told you to clear your calendar for the weekend, only spilling the beans on what he’d done when you’d curled over his lap, a hand threaded into the hair at the nape of his neck, murmuring, Tell me, tell me, tell me.
He’d hung his head over you and scrunched up his eyes. Cheater.
The best thing about having a boyfriend is that he always wants to listen to you. Peter was a good listener as a best friend, but now he has his act together and the secrets between you are never anything more than eating the last of the milk duds or not wanting to pee in front of him, he’s a treasure. There’s no feeling like having Peter pull you into his lap so he can ask about your day with his face buried in your neck, sniffing. Sometimes, when you text one another to meet up the next day, you’ll accidentally will the hours away babbling about school and life and things without reason. Peter has a list on his phone of your silliest tangents; blood oranges to the super moon, fries dipped in ice cream to the world record for kick flips done in five minutes. It’s like when you talk to one another, you can’t stop.
There are quiet moments. You wake up some mornings to find him awake already, an arm behind you, rubbing at your soft upper arm, fingertip displacing the fine hairs there and trailing circles as he reads. He bends the pages back and holds whatever novel he’s reading at the bottom of his stomach, as though making sure you can see the words clearly, even when you’re sleeping.
There are hectic, aching moments —vigilante boyfriends become blasé with their lives and precious faces. You’ve teetered on the edge of anxiety attacks trying to pick glass from his cheek with a tweezers, lamented over bruises that heal the next day. It’s easier when Peter’s careful, but Spider-Man isn’t careful. You ask him to take care of himself and he’s gentle with himself for a few days, but then someone needs saving from an armed burglar or a car swerves dangerously onto the sidewalk and he forgets.
He hadn’t patrolled last night in preparation for today.
“Did you know,” he says, pulling Harry’s borrowed car into a parking spot just in front of the Super 8 reception, “that today’s the last day of spring?”
“Already?”
“Tonight’s the June equinox.”
“Who told you that?”
“Aunt May. She said it’s time to get a summer job.”
You laugh loudly. “Our federal loans won’t last forever.”
“Harry’s gonna get me something, I think. Do you want to work with me? It could be fun.”
You nod emphatically. It’s barely a thought. “Obviously I want to. Does Oscorp pay well, do you think?”
Peter lets the engine go. The car turns off, engine ticking its last breath in the dash. “Better than the Bugle.”
You get your key from the reception and find your room upstairs, second floor. It’s not dirty nor exceptionally clean, no mould or damp but a strange smell in the bathroom. There’s a microwave with two mugs and a few sachets of instant coffee. Peter deems it the nicest motel he’s ever stayed in, laughing, crossing the room to its only window and pulling aside the curtain.
“There it is, sweetheart,” he says, wrapping his arm around you as you join him, “that’s what dreams are made of.”
The blue and white tiled pool. It hasn’t changed.
It’s about as hot as it’s going to get in June today, and, not knowing if it’ll rain tomorrow, you and Peter change into your swim suits and gather your towels. You wear flip flops and tangle your fingers, clanking and thumping down the rickety metal stairs to the pool. There’s nobody there, no lifeguard, no quests, and the pool is clean and cold when you dip your toes.
Peter eases in first. Towels in a heap at the end of a sun lounger, his shirt tumbling to the floor, Peter splashes in frontward and turns to face you as the water laps his ribs. “It’s cold,” he says, wading for your legs, which he hugs.
“I can feel it,” you say, the cool waters to your calves where you sit on the edge.
“You won’t come in and warm me up?” he asks.
You stroke a tendril of hair from his eyes. He attempts to kiss your fingers.
“I’m trying to prepare myself.”
“Mm, you have to get used to it.” He puts wet hands on your thighs, looking up imploringly until you lean down for a kiss. The fact that he’d want one still makes you dizzy. “Thank you,” he says.
“You’ll have to move.”
Peter steps back, a ripple of water ringing behind him, his hands raised. He slips them with ease under your arms and helps you down into the water, laughing at your shocked giggling —he’s so strong, the water so cold.
Peter doesn’t often show his strength. Never to intimidate, he prefers startling you helpfully. He’ll lift you when you want to reach something too tall, or raise the bed when you’re on his side to force you sideways.
“Oh, this is the perfect place to try the lift!” he says.
“How will I run?” you ask, letting your knees buckle, water rushing up to your neck.
Peter pulls you up. He touches you easily, and yet you get the sense that he’s precious with you, too. There’s devotion to be found in his hands and the specific way they cradle your back, drawing your chest to his. “I don’t need you to do a running start, sweetheart,” he says, tilting his head to the side, “I’ll just lift you.”
“Last time I laughed so much you dropped me.”
“Exactly, you laughed, and this is serious.”
The world isn’t mild here. Car horns beep and tyres crunch asphalt. You can hear children, and singing, and a walkie talkie somewhere in the Super 8’s parking lot. The pool pumps gargle and Peter’s breath is half laughter as he pulls you further from the sidelines, ceramic tiles slippery under your feet. In the distance, you swear you can hear one of those songs he likes from that poor singer who died in the Wolf River.
He’s a beholden thing in the sun; you can’t not look at him, all of him, his sculpted chest wet and glinting in the sun, his eyes like browning honey, his smile curling up, and up.
“You’re beautiful,” he says.
You rest an arm behind his head. “The rash guard is a good look?”
“Sweetheart, you couldn’t look cuter,” he says, hands on your waist, pinky on your hip. “I wish you’d mentioned these shorts a few days ago. I would’ve prepared to be a more decent man.”
“You’re decent enough, Parker.”
“Maybe now.”
“Well, if things get too hot, you can always take a quick dip,” you say.
You’re teasing, but Peter’s eyes light up with mischief as he calls, “Oh, great idea!” and lets himself drop backwards into the water. You pull your arm back rather than go with him. You can’t avoid the great burst of water as he surges to the surface.
He shakes himself off like a dog.
“Pete!” you cry through laughs, wiping the water from your face before the chlorine gets in your eyes.
“It just didn’t help,” he says, pulling you back into his arms, “you know, the water is cold, but you’re so hot, and I actually got a pretty good look at them when I was under, and you’re just as pretty as I remembered you being ten seconds ago–”
“Peter,” you say, tempted to roll your eyes.
Water runs down his face in great rivers, but with the dopey smile he’s sporting, they look like anything but tears. “Tell me a secret?” he asks, dripping in sunshine, an endless summer at his back.
A soft smile takes your lips. “No,” you say, tipping up your chin, “you tell me one first.”
“What kind of secret?”
“A real one,” you insist.
“Oh…” He leans away from you, though his arms stay crossed behind you. “Okay, I have one. Ask me again.”
You raise a single brow. “Tell me a secret, Peter.”
He pulls your face in for a kiss. His hand is wet on your cheek, but no less welcome. “I love you,” he says, kissing the skin just shy of your nose.
You’re lucky he’s already holding you. “I love you too,” you say, gathering him to you for a hug, digging your nose into the slope of his neck as his admission blows your mind. “I love you.”
Peter wraps his arms around your shoulders, closing his eyes against the side of your head. You can’t know what he’s thinking, but you can feel it. His hands can’t seem to stay still on your skin.
The sun warms your back for a time.
Peter lets out a deep breath of relief. You lean away to look at him, your hand slipping down into the water, where he finds it, his fingers circling your wrist.
“That’s another one to let go of,” he suggests.
He peppers a row of gentle kisses along your lips and the soft skin below your eye.
You and Peter swim until your fingers are pruned and the sun has been blanketed by clouds. You let him wrap you in a towel, and kiss your wet ears, and take you back to the room, where he holds your face.
“I’ll start the shower for you,” he says, rubbing your cheeks with his thumbs, each stroke of them encouraging your face from one side to the other, just a touch, ever so slightly moved in the palms of his hands.
“Don’t fall asleep standing up,” he murmurs.
Your eyes close unbidden to you both. “I won’t.”
He holds you still, leaning in slowly to kiss you with the barest of pressure. Every thought in your head fades, leaving only you and Peter, and the dizziness of his touch as he lays you down at the end of the bed.
｡𖦹°‧⭑.ᐟ
please like, comment or reblog if you enjoyed, i love comments and seeing what anyone reading liked about the fic is a treat —thank you for reading❤︎
-> synopsis: and when you whisper i love you, it’s not a plea. it’s a promise.
one he doesn’t say back—but he stays. and that’s enough.
it was love before anything else. you met him in the spring with the rain on your lips and the sun warm on your skin, and all you could think was that he was the most beautiful thing in the world. you looked at him and thought ‘i would die for you.’ before you even knew his name.
and oh, you would have it no other way.
you’ve never been in love until now. in romance novels, they say something about the way the world goes still when you fall in love, but that wasn’t how it played out for you. your life started moving faster, faster, faster, with the way your heart raced when you saw him and your breath caught when he met your eyes.
it became like this; you, and him, with the world as an afterthought.
your feelings have always been intense, strong and burning, like you can’t help but feel everything all at once, to the greatest extent you can. and it was like that with him, too. it was love, a kind of intensity that left you reeling and almost dizzy, with the way it consumed you. as if you had lost all other thoughts beyond him.
it didnt happen all at once. it was a slow unraveling, thread by thread, until you looked down one day and realized you were already stripped bare. he started showing up with blood on his knuckles and bruises blooming down his arms, and you stopped asking where he'd been. there were unspoken rules between the two of you—don’t ask, don’t follow, don’t name what this is.
still, you learned the rhythms of him. the way he knocks twice on your window when he needed somewhere to sleep. the way his eyes flicked to the side when he was trying to hide the truth. the way he touched you, hesitant and trembling, like he’d never been allowed to want something before. and you let him have you. every part, every inch, without asking for anything in return.
you started locking your front door out of habit, but leaving your window open on the nights you thought he might come. sometimes he didn’t. sometimes you’d wait for hours, curled under a blanket with the lights off, listening for any sound that might be him. and when he did come, he’d slide under the covers like he belonged there, like he never left. he’d press his face to your neck and breathe you in like you were the only safe place he knew. he’d never say thank you, never say he missed you, but he’d stay until the sun began to rise.
and this is how it goes; you leave your window open at night, even on the coldest nights. sometimes he will come in, slip under the sheets with you in the darkness and bury his face in your neck like he hates you. except he won’t hate you. it’s never hateful, the way he touches you. his hands find your waist, your ribs, your thighs. he touches your body like it’s the most delicate thing in the world, like he’s afraid of breaking you despite it all. and all the while his hands are on you, he will pretend he’d rather be anywhere else.
he returns to you on the nights when the world becomes too much for even him. after the bloodletting, after the screaming, after he’s played god again; deciding who gets to keep breathing and who doesn’t. he doesn’t always kill, but sometimes you wish he did. because what he leaves behind is worse. heroes without hands. without hope. men who will never step outside again for fear of the shape in the shadows.
and yet, he knocks on your window like a boy coming home from school. crawls into your bed with silent feet and a lowered gaze. he never says what he’s done, and you never ask. but there are nights when he doesn’t bother to clean up first. his hands are still damp. his shirt clings to him, stained dark. he holds you like he didn’t just tear someone open. presses kisses to your spine like you’re holy, even as blood from another man soaks into your sheets.
you don't want to know the number of names he’s taken or the ways he made them beg. you only know that when he comes to you, his body is sore and his knuckles are raw, but his touch is always soft. his violence never follows him into your room.
or– at least, not always.
there are nights he slips under your sheets and you smell it on him before you see it. copper and iron and something hot. blood clings to his shirt, soaks into yours, pools faintly between your bodies like a secret neither of you dares speak aloud. and you never do. you let him curl around you as if he’s clean. you run your fingers through his hair like it isn’t sticky. and he will sigh, tremble, maybe press a kiss to your collarbone. you let him hold you. you let him sleep. you tell yourself it’s still him, underneath it all.
you will wake up with the sun. the space next to you will be empty, an indent where he used to be. but he would have left with the covers kicked off and your skin littered with bruises. he slips out before the first bird can sing, always vanishing before the sun crests the skyline.
when you reach across the bed, his side is cold. he never fixes the sheets. he never wipes away the stains. sometimes, you’ll wake to brown, blooming patches on the pillowcase or the faint outline of his body in red on the sheets. he never means to leave a mess, but he always does. still, you never wash them right away. sometimes you lie there, breath held, and pretend he’s just gone to the kitchen. that he’ll come back. that he won’t disappear like smoke the moment your eyes are closed. once, he left his shirt. you folded it and placed it under your bed, like a relic, like a sin.
even when he leaves in the early hours of the morning when the sun is just starting to rise, even then you love him. you pretend to be asleep so he won’t realize you hear him putting his clothes back on, the soft sound of his footsteps as he goes. you pretend not to hear as he leaves, pretend you don’t know that he never sleeps whenever he’s in your bed. you pretend not to feel that deep hurt in your chest, the hollow kind of heartbreak that never really leaves you.
and every morning, you lie there for a while, watching the blood dry, telling yourself you’d do it all again.
the next time he comes back—and he will return, he always does—you will see the same tiredness in the way he moves. the weariness that sits heavy on his shoulders. and you will reach out, take his scarred hands in yours, and pull him to your bed once again.
it’s only been three months. it’s too early for love, but you’re falling so hard that you stop thinking it matters. or maybe it’s early enough for love because the first few months are served on a platter. it’s everything you ever wanted and more. and you know it isn’t perfect love - but at the time, none of that stuff seems to matter. at the time, none of it matters as much as the thought of being with him all the time.
you know its wrong. of course it is, why wouldn't it be? but you couldn't find it in yourself to care. a dragon, maybe even a god level threat, taking shelter in a civilian’s house. slipping into your bedroom when the sun sets and leaving before it rises.
you know it’ll never be anything more than this. you know he’ll never settle down, that he’ll never let you have him how you want. but you tell yourself it’s enough to have him in any way. you’re a desperate mess, and you know he knows it, too.
one would think it would be terrifying, the thought of a monster in your house, in your bed, the thought of something that could kill you at any second. but the thought is just as exciting as it is terrifying. it makes your heart flutter at the thought of his hands on you, his mouth, the way he only touches you under the cover of the dark. you shouldn’t want it. but you do. you do, you do, you do.
it’s not normal, you know. you know you should feel trapped, you should be screaming and calling for help, but you’re not. you’re looking forward to night, looking forward to the moment your window will creak open and you’ll wake up to the feeling of hands on you, dragging you out of your bed and into his. you’re looking forward to being in love with a man no one should want.
and you wonder sometimes; is the danger something he wants to be close to, does he feel some kind of perverse joy at the thought of it? or is he simply using you to run away from it, some way to forget about everything. is your body something to use, or is it a safe haven. you wouldn’t be mad if it was the former, and at the same time, you want desperately for it to be the latter.
in an ideal world, you could pretend that you were only a bystander. caught in the crossfire, held against your will. but you both know better. you leave your window open for him every night. cook an extra meal, and leave a blanket or two for him.
and you know that even something like this could end your life. if the hero association ever so much as catches an inkling of an idea of what you’ve been doing—housing the hero hunter— you’d be eviscerated on the spot. they'd make you disappear, ruin your image so bad you'd never want to step foot out of the house. or, if they were feeling merciful, kill you dead on the spot.
but garou still comes to you every night is a secret of the most delicate caliber, the kind that, if it so much as brushed the edge of their attention, would make both your lives hell.
but it didnt stop you the first time. and it wouldnt stop you now.
it would be easy to call it stupidity, to say you let your heart lead you. but what garou is to you goes beyond that. it will never be easily defined, what he means to you. all you know is that the moment you saw him, you knew he was it for you—the moon, the stars, and the sky that held them.
you can see it in the way he looks at you—that fire in his eyes, the way he holds your body under his like it’s his to keep. it’s impossible, the way he looks at you. it fills your chest, makes heat rise to your throat.
keep me safe, garou, you want to say, keep me with you.
the words never make it to your tongue. the same way he can’t say it, you can’t either. this is just another of the secrets you keep, this thing between the two of you.
the first time you kiss, it’s after a fight. he’s soaked in blood, both his own and someone else’s. his hair is messy and dirty, his clothes are torn, his hands are clenched into fists. he smells like copper and dirt and sweat and all you can think, all you want, is the warmth of him in your arms and his mouth on yours.
and as you look at him through half-shut eyes, garou glances over at you and away quickly. he is a man who does everything with intent, every step and gesture carefully chosen. except, somehow, when he looks at you. he will take you in unabashedly, openly, like he is starving and his only salvation is seeing you.
it is love, and foolishness, and everything in between.
you can never get enough of his hands in your hair. his mouth against your neck. the way his eyes never leave yours in the rare moment that he lets his guard down enough to show the truth behind all those walls. you can’t get enough of the way he wants you, the selfish, greedy thing inside of him that can’t help the way you consume his thoughts, the way he comes back to you time and time again.
you see that part of him, that you see him behind all the sharp angles and harsh edges he tries to hide behind, is something he cannot bring himself to give to anyone in this world except you. something about the way your hands fit in his, the way you meet his eyes without fear, the way you seem to know him without him needing to say anything—it breaks him apart and builds him back just a little softer every time you let him close to you.
you know, for all he is worth, could kill you instantaneously, if the hero association doesnt first. wrap his fingers around your throat and squeeze until you go purple. plunge two fingers into your arteries until you bleed out. dismantle you limb by limb while you're fast asleep, and dispose of your body parts in whatever backwater place he came out of. kill you every which way he so pleases, and do it again.
this is never the man that comes to you at night. the man that climbs under the covers with you and touches you with careful hands is a different person to the one the world knows. because he changes. he softens, and the hands that could kill are suddenly gentle, the mouth that could maim is instead pressing soft, reverent kisses into your skin. the monster turns into something else when he’s with you, into something you find yourself loving more and more. the thought of all that power, all that strength, all of it under your control, it’s intoxicating. it makes the fear worth it.
the world knows a wolf, but it’s a dog that lays his head in your lap.
the heroes call him a monster, a killer, a threat to peace. and maybe they’re right. he’s their worst nightmare come to life—rage in motion, vengeance in human form. every time he walks out your door, you know someone won’t be walking back through theirs. sometimes you hear about it on the news, sometimes you don’t. but he always comes back.
and when he does, he drops the snarl, the fangs, the fury. he sets them all at your feet like offerings, like he’s begging to be seen for something more than the blood beneath his fingernails.
you sit him down and cradle his jaw in your hands like he isn’t the most dangerous thing in the world. like he doesn’t smell like iron and ash and rot. you wipe away the blood—his or someone else’s, you rarely ask—and kiss the cuts left behind. he lets you. sometimes, that’s the most love he knows how to give.
there’s always a question lodged between your ribs: why you? why does he keep coming back? you’ve asked him before, in the quietest hours of the morning, while the sheets still smell like steel and skin. he never answers. just stares at the ceiling like the stars might spell it out for him.
maybe he doesn’t know. maybe he does. maybe it's something in your eyes, your voice, the way you let him in when you shouldn’t. you never ask again.
you only know this—he is something feral made human by your touch. he bows his head when you kiss his knuckles. he goes still when you touch his back, like he's afraid you'll pull away. he never says thank you, but he never stops coming.
you try not to think too hard about what it means, what it says about him that he stays, about you that you let him. maybe you’re just as lost as he is. maybe you’re both fools, clinging to each other like driftwood in a flood.
and still, you try to keep him close. you memorize the planes of his face, the weight of his body against yours, the roughness of his voice when it drops to a whisper. he gives you almost nothing, but you take what you can. you trace the long scars carved into his arms, his chest, his ribs. press kisses to the wounds time forgot. press yourself into the empty spaces no one else dared to fill.
he watches you sometimes like he’s waiting for you to leave. like he's daring you to. but you don’t. you stay, again and again and again.
it’s like you’re playing house together. you know, like children pretending to be their parents and playing at having a family. you pretend this is a real relationship. you pretend he belongs to you, and you to him, and that’s the way things should be. he pretends he can’t stand you, and you play along with the charade like you don’t know any better.
you make believe you’re his, and he’s yours, and that this is love in the ordinary way.
he plays along. pretends your touch is a nuisance. pretends your voice doesn’t steady him. pretends he doesn’t fall apart when you whisper his name like a prayer.
neither of you are particularly good at pretending.
your hands are the only soft thing he’s ever known. and when you touch him, it isn’t out of mercy. it’s out of choice.
he’s not easy to love. his moods turn like weather. his eyes never settle. he shies from affection like it burns. but you’re patient. you’re constant. you give him the kind of love that doesn’t ask to be returned, that waits, and waits, and waits.
and he fights it. god, he fights it. he snarls and flees and comes crawling back, like loving you is a war he cannot win and cannot bear to lose.
but still you offer. your hands. your home. your heart. every inch of you, piece by piece, night after night.
you give, and give, and give, until he cannot help but want.
Anyways, can you write a Garou x reader where the reader is Saitama’s sister, older or younger doesn’t matter.
(guys like a little bit of heated tension iykyk)
GAROUUUUU MY LOVE 👅👅👅
And yes I did base the reader off of Saiki K deal with it 😈
Tags: Fem reader, SFW and fluff
You’ve never asked for attention. Honestly, you’d rather be invisible - melt into the background, let your overpowered brother handle all the hero nonsense. If it weren’t for your impossible psychic powers and your irritating sense of conscience, you’d have perfected the art of doing absolutely nothing by now.
But fate had other plans.
Being Saitama’s younger sister meant two things:
1. People assumed you were his sidekick.
2. One guy with silver hair and way too much unresolved fury took that assumption way too seriously.
Garou. Self-proclaimed “Hero Hunter.” He’s decided Saitama’s his ultimate rival - and by extension, you’re apparently some sort of “support character.” A background extra in his delusional hero-slaying saga. You’d try correcting him, but it’s hard to get a word in when he’s ranting about “balance” and “the natural order” while punching through a street sign.
You don’t want trouble. You don’t want headlines. You just want your quiet apartment, a stocked fridge, and zero property damage for at least one week. Too bad the universe seems to have you on some cosmic entertainment plan - because peace never lasts long when Garou’s around.
If your life had a genre, you were pretty sure it would be “cosmic comedy with unnecessary side characters.”
Today’s episode opened with you sitting on a convenience store curb, a half-melted popsicle in one hand and a discount flyer in the other. Saitama had wandered off to hunt for sale tags like they were mythical artifacts, leaving you to guard the groceries from… absolutely no one.
Perfect. Quiet. Boring.
You took a slow bite of the popsicle and let your gaze drift over the street. Cars rolled by. A couple argued about takeout. A kid cried because his balloon floated too high. Completely normal. Completely safe.
You could feel everything if you wanted to. Thoughts. Emotions. The faint vibrations of power and killing intent across the city like distant radio stations. You kept your mental “volume” turned down to a whisper.
Peaceful. Contained. Controlled.
Then a spike of violent intent flared at the edge of your awareness.
You sighed before you even looked up.
Cries erupted from down the block, followed by the crashing of metal and the distinctly familiar sound of someone getting launched into a vending machine. You closed your eyes, counting silently.
Three… two… one…
“YOU CALL THAT A HERO MOVE?!”
Garou’s voice cut through the air like a knife dipped in ego and irritation.
You swung your legs off the curb and stood, brushing crumbs from your pants. The peaceful option was to ignore it. Let the heroes handle it. Let the association send someone. Pretend you didn’t notice.
But the fear you sensed from the nearby civilians pressed against your mind like a weight. Panic. Helplessness. The static haze of people on the verge of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.
You clicked your tongue.
“So much for a quiet afternoon,” you muttered, lifting the grocery bags with a thought and sending them to hover safely on a nearby rooftop.
You turned the corner just in time to see him: Garou, standing in the middle of a shattered sidewalk, shirt torn at the sleeve, eyes lit up with that feral, obsessive energy you’d come to recognize. At his feet, a C-class hero lay groaning in a crater, costume ripped, pride thoroughly annihilated.
Civilians hid behind cars and signs, phones out, options limited to “record” or “run.”
“C’mon!” Garou snapped, cracking his neck as the hero tried and failed to stand. “That all you heroes got? Where’s the challenge? Where’s SAITAMA?!”
You exhaled slowly through your nose.
There it was.
He noticed you a heartbeat later. His eyes flicked up, narrowed, then widened with recognition.
“Oh. It’s you,” he said, like he’d just spotted a side quest. A lopsided grin tugged at his lips. “Baldy’s psychic support. Guess he finally sent his little sidekick to stall me, huh?”
You stared at him.
Sidekick.
You could already feel the headache forming behind your eyes.
“I’m not his sidekick,” you said flatly.
Garou waved a dismissive hand, already walking toward you, boots crunching over broken pavement. “Yeah, yeah. ‘Independent hero,’ ‘not officially registered,’ whatever. You hang around him, you’re part of his roster. So.” He jabbed a thumb at himself, that feral grin stretching wider. “You here to defend his honor or just clean up the mess after I break his reputation?”
The injured hero tried to crawl away. A piece of rubble started to topple toward a nearby civilian.
You flicked your gaze toward it.
The rock froze in midair, rotated, and settled gently back onto the ground like a feather.
Garou blinked.
You didn’t bother looking at him. “I’m here,” you said, voice calm, “because you’re scaring people. And because I was in the middle of a popsicle.”
The crowd went quiet. A breeze moved through the street, pushing dust and loose wrappers aside. You felt dozens of eyes on you. Phones recording. Attention. Exactly what you hated.
Garou scoffed. “That’s it? No big hero speech? No moral lecture? Tch.” He rolled his shoulders, dropping into a stance, eyes sharpening with interest. “Fine. I’ll beat you first. Then Baldy. Two-for-one special.”
You stared at him for a long, silent moment.
You hadn’t wanted a fight.
You hadn’t wanted an audience.
But you also couldn’t stand there and let him keep going, not when the fear in the air brushed so loud against your mind you could practically taste it.
You lifted your hand lazily, fingers barely curling.
Streetlights bent. Manhole covers rattled. The dust at your feet rose in a faint, invisible breeze that didn’t match the wind.
Garou’s grin faltered for just a second.
“Garou,” you said, eyes finally meeting his, your voice calm, almost bored. “You’ve got the wrong idea about a lot of things.”
His pupils narrowed, instincts screaming at him even if his pride refused to.
“But if you want to treat me like a sidekick…” You tilted your head, psychic pressure rolling out in an invisible wave that made the air itself feel heavier. “…you should probably make sure you’re not out of your league first.”
Garou was already mid-lunge before you could even sigh. He moved fast - faster than most heroes you’d met - but to you, his speed was something between “slow-motion training exercise” and “slightly aggressive pigeon.”
You flicked your wrist.
He stopped in midair.
“Oh, come on,” he complained, dangling horizontally like some furious action figure caught in invisible glue. “Don’t tell me you’re another one of those esper types! You people are cheating! That’s not real fighting!”
“You jumped at me,” you pointed out. “In the middle of the street. While people were filming.”
There was a collective gasp from the crowd. Garou twisted his head, noticing for the first time the small audience pressing in, watching carefully, camera phones gleaming like tiny judgmental eyes.
“Oh, great,” he muttered. “Now they’re gonna call this a loss.”
“You attacked a person eating a popsicle,” you said. “I’d say that’s already a loss.”
You lowered him slowly to the ground, still hovering a few inches above the cracked concrete. His legs kicked once. “Put me down!”
“Promise not to scream something dramatic?”
He paused. “…Depends on your definition of dramatic.”
You gave him a flat look. He sighed. “…Fine. No screaming.”
You released the telekinetic hold.
He immediately struck a pose, sweeping his arm to the side, hair catching the sun like a shampoo commercial on steroids. “THIS ISN’T OVER!”
You rubbed your forehead. “There it is.”
“Don’t roll your eyes at me!” he snapped, stabbing a finger in your direction. “I wasn’t at full strength! You caught me off guard, that’s all. Your psychic tricks won’t save you next ti-”
A can of soda - one you had finished an hour ago - floated from the trash and lazily bopped him on the forehead.
He froze mid-rant.
“Language,” you said. “There are kids watching.”
The crowd laughed quietly, someone even clapping. Garou’s expression flickered between rage and embarrassment, his cheeks barely tinting pink. “You think you’re funny, huh? Acting all calm, all smug - just because you’re Saitama’s psychic intern or whatever-”
“That’s it,” you interrupted. “Next time you say ‘sidekick,’ I’ll make you float upside-down for thirty minutes.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“Test me.”
A pause. He squinted. “…You and Baldy are exactly the same,” he finally muttered. “Smug, lazy, no fighting spirit, pretending you’re above it all.”
“That’s because we are,” you replied.
He blinked. “…you just admit it?”
You shrugged. “Why lie?”
For someone who loved fighting, Garou looked like he’d just been punched with logic instead of fists. His brain visibly short-circuited trying to come up with a comeback.
You turned, retrieving your groceries from the rooftop and catching the faint familiar voice of your brother calling from down the street.
“Hey, sis! They’ve got pudding on sale! Two-for-one if we- oh.” Saitama squinted. “Who’s that guy in the hole?”
Garou, lying flat on his back now after tripping on his own shoes mid-retort, lifted an arm weakly. “Don’t… talk to me.”
Saitama’s head tilted. “Did you fight him?”
You sighed. “He fought me. Big difference.”
Saitama nodded in understanding, then frowned. “Is he okay?”
You glanced at Garou - the future “Hero Hunter,” glaring up at the sky like it had offended his pride. “He’ll live. Mentally… undecided.”
Saitama rubbed his chin. “Huh. I should fight him next time.”
You picked up your grocery bags and started walking. “Yeah, sure. Add him to your collection.”
Behind you, Garou sat up, pointing after you both. “You haven’t seen the last of me! Next time - I’ll win! I’ll become the ultimate - hey, are you two walking away?! Don’t just- !”
“See you around,” you called back lazily, not even turning.
Saitama waved. “Good luck with that.”
Garou’s frustrated yell echoed down the street, mixing with the laughter of onlookers as you and your brother disappeared around the corner - the undefeated champions of indifference.
Garou did not, in fact, “let that loss go.”
If anything, it festered.
A few days after the popsicle incident, your life returned to its usual rhythm:
• Wake up.
• Make breakfast.
• Ignore Saitama’s complaints about discount fatigue.
• Avoid using world-ending psychic powers unless absolutely necessary.
You were halfway through sipping cheap tea and pretending not to hear your neighbors arguing through the wall when a familiar, yelling-shaped presence flared at the edge of your awareness again.
You closed your eyes.
No.
Absolutely not.
You floated your mug a little higher, trying to focus on the steam instead of the incoming chaos stampeding straight toward your building.
A second later, the front door to your apartment complex slammed open downstairs.
“HEYYYY! BALDY’S SIDEKICK!” Garou’s voice echoed up the stairwell. “GET DOWN HERE!”
You stared at the ceiling.
Saitama, sitting across from you and flipping lazily through a hero ranking booklet he didn’t care about, blinked once. “You expecting someone?”
“No,” you said immediately.
Garou’s footsteps thundered up the stairs. “I KNOW YOU’RE HOME! I CAN SENSE YOUR ANNOYING PSYCHIC AURA OR WHATEVER!”
You grimaced. “…I should’ve turned the ‘volume’ lower.”
Saitama scratched his cheek. “He sounds mad.”
“He sounds awake,” you replied. “Which is worse.”
Before you could mentally barricade the door, it flew open with a violent kick - only to bounce off the invisible barrier you kept around the apartment like a security system.
Garou’s heel connected with thin air.
There was a beat of silence.
Then he slipped and ate the floor face-first.
You sipped your tea.
Saitama tilted his head. “You gotta watch your step. Gravity’s tricky.”
Garou peeled himself off the floor with a snarl, eyes blazing as he pointed at you. “YOU! We’re settling this. Right here, right now.”
You finally looked up. “No shoes in the apartment.”
He blinked. “Wha-?”
You flicked your fingers.
His boots unlaced themselves, slid off his feet, and stacked neatly beside the door.
Garou stared. “Stop doing that.”
“Then stop kicking my door,” you said. “What do you want?”
He straightened, trying to salvage what was left of his dignity. “I’ve been training.”
“Congratulations.”
“I’m serious!” he insisted, crossing his arms. “I realized your power isn’t just some cheap trick. You’re serious business. A true mid-boss.”
Saitama frowned faintly. “Mid-boss?”
You blinked slowly. “…Mid?”
Garou continued, completely missing the insult he’d just thrown at himself. “So I’ve upgraded my routine. I simulated your psychic nonsense. Mental endurance, mobility drills, reflex training while imagining I’m being thrown around like a ragdoll. Do you have any idea how many times I’ve voluntarily fallen down stairs? For science?”
You stared at him in secondhand pain.
“Why?” you asked.
“So I can resist your telekinesis,” he declared. “Obviously.”
There was a pause.
Saitama closed the booklet. “That’s not how that works.”
Garou ignored him. “Anyway. I’ve adapted. Evolved. You won’t catch me off guard like last time. I now understand your fighting style.”
You raised an eyebrow. “Do you?”
Garou lifted a finger, launching into a dramatic explanation. “You rely on distance. On control. On making your opponent feel helpless. It’s all psychological warfare. You want them to doubt themselves. To feel small.”
You thought about it.
Mostly, you just wanted them to stop breaking things.
“Sure,” you said. “Let’s go with that.”
“So,” Garou went on, eyes narrowing, “I, Garou - the future ultimate monster - have devised the perfect counter-strategy: I will ignore your tricks. Mind over matter.”
You traded a glance with Saitama.
“He’s gonna get thrown into a wall again,” Saitama said.
“Probably,” you answered.
Garou pointed to the hallway. “We fight. Now. No crowds, no distractions. Just me, you, and the unshakeable will of a man who refuses to be someone’s tutorial boss.”
“You downgraded me,” you said.
“I upgraded myself,” he shot back.
You weighed your options:
• Say no and risk him yelling outside your building for an hour.
• Say yes, end it in ten seconds, and maybe get back to your tea while it was still warm.
You sighed.
“Fine. Five minutes. No property damage. And if you break the railing again, you’re fixing it manually.”
Garou smirked. “Deal.”
Two minutes later, you stood in the mostly empty parking lot behind the complex. A single plastic bag fluttered by like a miserable tumbleweed. Saitama leaned on the railing above, watching like this was mildly more interesting than TV.
Garou dropped into a stance, eyes laser-focused. “No holding back this time. I’ve rewritten my instincts, reforged my body, and hardened my resolve. Mind over matter, remember that.”
You nodded once. “Okay.”
You didn’t move.
The silence stretched.
Garou twitched. “Well? Aren’t you going to attack?”
“You came to me,” you said. “You first.”
He clicked his tongue and lunged, faster than before, movements sharper, footwork tidier. For a normal human, it would have been overwhelming. For you, it was… slightly faster pigeon.
You didn’t flick your wrist.
You didn’t lift a hand.
You just looked at him.
Garou swung - only for his fist to gently veer away at the last second, like an invisible hand had nudged it off-course.
He stumbled.
He growled and spun into a kick; the same thing happened. His heel slid past your shoulder harmlessly, redirected by the tiniest tweak of telekinesis.
“You’re-!” he panted, going in again, “ - messing with my trajectory!”
You blinked. “I’m barely touching it.”
He attacked again. Punch. Kick. Elbow. Each one missed by less than an inch, pulled aside like a magnet refusing to connect. To the crowd, it would’ve looked like an intense, high-level spar.
To you, it was like watching someone fight a forcefield made of boredom.
Finally, Garou jumped back, chest heaving, sweat beading on his forehead. “Hah…! See? I told you. I adapted. You can’t stop me like before. I’ve overcome-”
You tilted your head.
His legs gently floated two inches off the ground.
Garou looked down.
“No,” he whispered.
You raised him another foot.
“No.”
He spun slowly in the air like a rotisserie martial artist, arms flailing uselessly as Saitama leaned further over the railing.
“Oh,” Saitama said. “Now he’s a ceiling fan.”
You crossed your arms. “Garou. You voluntarily fell down stairs to ‘train’ for this.”
“SHUT UP!” he yelled, rotating. “THIS IS A STRATEGIC SETBACK!”
“You broke into my building,” you continued. “Dragged me outside. And called me a mid-boss.”
“THAT WAS A COMPLIMENT IN CONTEXT!”
You let him spin once more for emphasis, then gently lowered him until his feet touched the ground.
He swayed.
You tapped his forehead lightly with one finger.
He fell backward like a tower.
Saitama clapped once. “Nice. Very energy efficient.”
You dusted your hands. “I’m going back inside now.”
As you turned to leave, Garou’s hand shot up weakly, grabbing your ankle.
You paused.
His eyes burned, humiliated but stubborn. “This… doesn’t count.”
You stared down at him. “What?”
“This,” he rasped, refusing to let go, “was… data collection. Next time, I’ll be ready for… whatever this was.”
You sighed. Somewhere deep in your chest, behind all the layers of apathy, something that might have been reluctant respect twitched.
“You’re unbelievably annoying,” you said. “In a persistent way.”
Garou grinned, teeth flashing. “Good. That means you’ll remember me when I win.”
You floated his hand off your ankle.
“We’ll see,” you muttered.
You walked away, Saitama trailing behind you, mumbling something about how stubborn martial artist types were all the same.
Behind you, flat on the asphalt but grinning like a man who’d just discovered a new purpose, Garou stared up at the sky.
“One day,” he promised the clouds, “I’ll beat the bald one… and the psychic mid-boss.”
He paused.
“…maybe not in that order.”
Garou did not, under any circumstances, consider himself “demolished.” In his mind, he was in a very intense, very advanced training arc that absolutely, definitely did not look like him getting bullied by psychic minimal effort.
Unfortunately for you, that meant he kept showing up.
Your week developed a pattern you never asked for:
• Morning: breakfast, minimal psychic usage, pretend to be normal.
• Afternoon: errands, grocery runs with Saitama, avoid hero gossip.
• Random intervals: Garou, appearing like a side quest you couldn’t decline.
Sometimes he’d stalk you from a rooftop, “analyzing your habits.” Sometimes he’d march right up to you in public, ranting about power gaps and psychological intimidation. Civilians started recognizing him as “that weird martial arts guy who keeps getting casually shut down by the esper.”
You hated it.
Not because he was dangerous - if anything, he was getting weirdly less reckless around civilians - but because he was loud.
And persistent.
And weirdly… routine.
It happened again at the supermarket.
You were in the snack aisle, staring at instant ramen, trying to calculate exactly how much you could buy before Saitama used the word “variety” in a sentence. Your basket floated beside you, items neatly arranged by type, weight, and expiration date.
Peaceful. Quiet.
Then the automatic doors at the front slid open so hard they almost bounced.
“FOUND YOU!”
Half the aisle flinched.
You didn’t even turn around. “No yelling in the grocery store.”
Garou strode into view, hands in his pockets, hair spiked and dramatic like he’d styled it specifically for confrontation. “You think you can hide behind discount labels and fluorescent lighting? Think again.”
“I’m buying noodles,” you said. “Calm down.”
He jabbed a thumb at his chest. “I’ve upgraded again. Version 3.0. Adapted to psychic interference. Mind, body, and soul-”
A floating price tag peeled itself from the shelf and stuck to his forehead.
He stopped.
The tag read: “CLEARANCE: 70% OFF.”
You nodded. “Accurate.”
A couple down the aisle snorted. Garou ripped the sticker off, cheeks flushing. “Stop- doing that!”
“Then stop announcing yourself like a seasonal sale,” you replied.
He sucked in a breath. “Fine. No more jokes. This is serious. I’ve been observing you.”
“Creepy,” you said.
“Strategic,” he corrected. “You only really go all out when people are in danger. When civilians are involved. You hate chaos around them.”
You blinked once.
That… was not wrong.
Garou smirked like he’d just solved some impossible riddle. “So. I figured it out. All I have to do to force you to fight seriously is put them in danger.”
You turned your head slowly.
The psychic pressure in the aisle dropped, then focused.
Garou lifted both hands defensively. “WAIT-relax! I didn’t actually do it. I’m not a maniac. I just thought about it.”
You stared.
He cleared his throat, eyes darting to the nearby shoppers, then back to you. “What I mean is- I could use that. But I won’t. Not my style.”
You studied him for a long moment, then went back to comparing ramen flavors.
“So… you came here to tell me you discovered a weakness you refuse to exploit.”
He hesitated. “…Yes?”
“That’s not the win you think it is,” you said.
“IT IS,” he argued. “It means I’ve ascended. Morally.”
A child peered around the corner of the aisle, clutching a bag of chips, eyes wide. “Mister, are you a bad guy or a good guy?”
Garou froze.
The question hung in the air.
You glanced between them, mildly curious.
Garou opened his mouth. Closed it. Scratched his cheek. “…I’m… complicated.”
“You scare heroes,” the kid said.
“Good,” Garou muttered automatically.
“You scare them,” the kid repeated, “but she doesn’t look scared at all.”
Tiny index finger: pointed directly at you.
Garou’s eye twitched.
The kid continued, matter-of-fact. “She always saves people. You always yell and break stuff and then lose.”
You coughed into your hand to hide a laugh.
Garou wheeled on you. “HOW MANY TIMES HAS THIS HAPPENED?!”
“More than statistically necessary,” you said.
The kid beamed at you. “Thank you for stopping him, miss! Mommy says you’re like a guardian angel.”
You hated that sentence more than almost anything.
Garou looked… genuinely offended on your behalf. “Angel? Seriously? Are we looking at the same person? She’s a smug psychic with zero work ethic.”
You sighed. “Stop describing me accurately.”
The kid scampered off, leaving you and Garou in a weird pocket of silence between discounted snacks and crushed pride.
Garou leaned against the shelf, voice lower. “You really hate the attention that much, huh?”
“Yes,” you said simply.
He stared at the ground for a second, then straightened. “Fine. New rule. I won’t start anything when there are kids around.”
You blinked. “…That was already a rule.”
“Yeah, but now I said it,” he countered. “So it’s official.”
You resisted the urge to point out that nothing about him was “official.”
Later that evening, somehow, you ended up on the roof of your building.
Again.
Garou had followed you home under the flimsy excuse of “needing neutral ground,” and you were too tired to redirect him into a trash can telekinetically.
The sun was setting, painting the sky orange. Saitama leaned against the door, plastic bag of sale pudding dangling from his wrist, half-interested in the scene.
Garou dropped into a familiar stance. “All right. New approach. No civilians, no buildings, no stairs. Just reflexes. If I can land one clean hit on you, I win.”
“And if you don’t?” you asked.
He glanced at Saitama. “Baldy has to admit my potential out loud.”
Saitama blinked. “Huh?”
You shrugged. “Fine.”
You didn’t warn him.
The instant he moved - a blur of motion, faster, sharper, that relentless will to improve burning through every step - you flicked your thoughts outward, not grabbing, not freezing, just… rearranging.
He lunged at you.
Reality politely stepped aside.
He blinked - and found himself three steps to the left, fist punching empty air.
He tried again.
You did it again.
And again.
And again.
From Garou’s perspective, it must have felt like the world was lagging exclusively for him. His vision, his sense of distance, his momentum - everything betrayed him by a fraction of a second. He got close, impossibly close, but never quite there.
He slid to a stop, chest heaving. “You’re - warping something. Distances. Angles.”
You tilted your head. “You said you wanted reflex training.”
“That’s not-” he gritted his teeth, then laughed once, breathless and infuriatingly thrilled. “Fine. FINE. This is great. This is awful. I hate this. Don’t stop.”
You raised an eyebrow. “You’re enjoying this.”
“Of course I am,” he said. “I’m growing.”
You stared at him for a moment, then let your shoulders drop the tiniest bit.
“…You’re an idiot,” you said quietly. “A stubborn, deranged idiot.”
Garou grinned. “And you keep showing up to prove it.”
Saitama yawned. “Are you two done? The pudding’s getting warm.”
“It’s refrigerated,” you said.
“It’s the principle,” he replied.
Garou exhaled, rolling his shoulders, gaze still locked on you. “Next time, I’ll land that hit.”
“Sure,” you said.
You didn’t say: you were already adjusting less. Giving him more space. Letting his movements get closer than they had any right to be.
You also didn’t say: you were starting to track the rhythm of his visits the way one might track the weather. Mildly annoying. Slightly predictable. Weirdly… expected.
As you headed for the door, Garou called after you, voice annoyingly confident.
“Hey, psychic mid-boss!”
You glanced back.
He smirked. “You’re still not my final goal. But I’m not skipping you, either.”
You rolled your eyes. “Congratulations. You’ve unlocked ‘recurring nuisance’ status.”
Garou’s grin widened like you’d just handed him a trophy.
“I’ll take it.”
Training Garou was never on your to-do list.
In fact, if someone had suggested it even a week ago, you probably would have thrown them into low orbit on principle.
But life, apparently, had a sense of humor.
It started on another rooftop.
By this point, Garou showing up uninvited was about as surprising as your brother forgetting laundry day. You sat cross-legged near the edge, watching the city lights flicker on, a faint breeze tugging at loose strands of hair. Your psychic field hummed quietly, tuned low and comfortable.
Garou dropped onto the roof from the next building over, landing in a crouch that would’ve looked cool if you hadn’t seen him do it five times this week already.
“There you are,” he said, like you lived anywhere else.
“You know this is stalking,” you replied.
He ignored that. “I’ve been thinking.”
“Dangerous,” you muttered.
He walked closer, hands in his pockets, eyes sharp despite the casual posture. “Every time I fight you, I get stronger. I see more. Things make more sense. You’re annoying. But you’re also… useful.”
“Flattery won’t get you telekinetic upgrades,” you said.
“I’m not flattering you,” he snapped. “You’re infuriating. You barely try, and I still can’t touch you. That’s exactly why I want something from you.”
You narrowed your eyes. “If you say ‘power’ or ‘your secret technique,’ I’m leaving.”
Garou inhaled, then forced the words out like they physically hurt. “I want you… to train me.”
You stared.
The wind pushed a stray plastic bag across the rooftop, rustling against the concrete.
“No,” you said.
He threw his hands up. “You didn’t even think about it!”
“I did,” you said. “Very quickly. Still no.”
He stepped in front of you, blocking your view of the skyline. “Listen. You hate it when civilians get dragged into things, right? You don’t like property damage. You want less chaos.”
“That’s an oversimplification,” you replied.
“But not wrong,” he pressed.
You clenched your jaw.
He pointed at his chest. “I keep fighting heroes. I keep getting stronger. If I’m going to keep clashing with them anyway, wouldn’t it be better if I understood where your line is? If I could read situations before they turn into a mess?”
You squinted. “Are you trying to sell this as… public safety?”
Garou crossed his arms. “Look, I’m not trying to become some shiny registered hero. I still hate the system. But I don’t like pointless casualties either. So either I keep winging it until something goes bad…” He shrugged. “Or you help me not screw it up.”
You hated that he had a point.
Worse, you hated that he knew he had a point.
“You’re asking an esper who wants no attention,” you said slowly, “to publicly associate with the ‘Hero Hunter’ and improve your skills.”
“I’m asking you to quietly bully me into being stronger and smarter,” he corrected. “If people think that’s ‘training,’ that’s their problem.”
You opened your mouth to refuse again-
Then felt it.
A small spike of fear three buildings over.
Then another.
Then three at once, sharp and sudden, like static pricking at the back of your mind.
You turned your head, eyes unfocusing.
“Monsters,” you murmured.
Garou perked up. “Where?”
You didn’t answer out loud. Your consciousness stretched, brushing over alleys and streets, until you found it: a low-level monster trio cornering a group of civilians near a parking structure. Panicked thoughts. Trapped bodies. No heroes nearby.
You clicked your tongue.
Garou watched your expression shift, something knowing flickering in his eyes. “You felt something.”
You stood up, dusting off your clothes. “Field trip.”
By the time you arrived, the monsters had already done what monsters do best: trap civilians behind overturned cars, smash windows, and scream about dominance while being profoundly unimpressive.
Garou landed ahead of you, eyes lighting up like a kid in a candy store. “Perfect timing.”
“Remember what you said,” you warned.
He rolled his shoulders. “Yeah, yeah. No pointless casualties. I got it.”
You stayed back initially, letting your awareness spread across the scene. Heartbeats. Breathing. The ragged edge of fear. Garou surged forward like a blade, weaving between claws and teeth with ridiculous efficiency.
You watched carefully.
He was definitely stronger. Movements cleaner, reactions tighter. He went for disabling blows instead of flashy finishers, subtly shifting threats away from civilians instead of toward them.
For someone who insisted he was a “monster,” he fought like someone who didn’t actually want anyone innocent hurt.
One of the monsters tried to rush a trapped civilian behind him.
You didn’t move your body.
The creature’s foot hit your psychic barrier with a sickening jolt, sending it tumbling back into Garou’s incoming kick. He took the opening without question, following through with a brutal strike that ended things cleanly.
He didn’t even look surprised.
When the last monster hit the pavement, unconscious and half-buried in a crater, you loosened the invisible walls around the panicked humans. They stumbled out, wide-eyed and shaken but unharmed.
Garou straightened, wiping a smear of blood from his cheek. “Well?”
You scanned the area one more time, then let your shoulders relax a fraction. “Minimal collateral. No injuries beyond bruises. You timed your attacks around their panic.”
He smirked. “So? Passing grade?”
You hesitated.
A mother clutched her child nearby, whispering shakily, “It’s okay, it’s okay, they’re gone, you’re safe.” The kid glanced at you with that same wide awe you hated, then at Garou with wary confusion.
“Are they… heroes?” the kid asked.
Garou opened his mouth.
You cut in. “We’re leaving.”
You wrapped a thin veil of psychic pressure around both of you, blurring the edges of your presence, bending attention away. In seconds, the civilians’ focus slid off you like water off glass. They saw the aftermath. They remembered shapes, not faces.
Garou blinked. “You wiped us from their attention.”
“Soft redirect,” you said. “Not a full erasure. Too risky. They’ll remember they were saved. They just won’t fixate on who did it.”
He looked down at his hands, then at you.
“That’s… useful,” he admitted.
You exhaled, long and slow. This was exactly what you wanted - safety, minimal chaos, no headlines.
Annoyingly, the one person who kept disturbing your routine was also the one person willing to adapt to that goal.
“Garou,” you said.
He met your eyes.
“This is not a partnership. Or a contract. Or a promise. Or anything you’re going to dramatically shout at heroes later.”
He grinned. “Sounds like the start of a training arc.”
You glared. “…I can still drop you into the ocean.”
“But you won’t,” he said. “Because you’ve already started. You’re watching me. Correcting me. You’re invested.”
You hated that word.
You also hated that it wasn’t entirely wrong.
Back on the rooftop, you sat on the low wall, legs dangling over the edge. Garou paced in front of you, too energized to sit still.
“Ground rules,” you said.
He stopped instantly. “Hit me.”
“First rule,” you began, “no dragging kids or civilians into situations just to ‘force growth.’ You see danger, you respond. You don’t create it.”
“Fine,” he said. “Wasn’t planning to anyway.”
“Second. No yelling my name in public. No calling me ‘Baldy’s sidekick,’ ‘mid-boss,’ or ‘mentor’ where anyone can hear.”
He winced. “…I’m keeping ‘mid-boss’ in my head.”
“You can keep your delusions in your head,” you said. “Nowhere else.”
He smirked. “Deal.”
“Third,” you continued, “I’m not teaching you how my powers work. No ‘how do I counter this’ lectures. I’ll point out openings. Bad habits. Situational awareness. That’s it.”
“So,” he said slowly, “you’re not teaching me how you fight. You’re teaching me how to fight around people like you.”
You paused.
“…Yes.”
He nodded, satisfaction settling over his features like a second skin. “That works for me.”
“And fourth,” you finished, “if this becomes too loud, too public, or too much of a hassle, I’m done. No discussion. No dramatic rooftop speeches. I disappear.”
He studied your face for a moment, seriously for once.
Then he extended his hand.
You stared at it.
“Come on,” he said. “I’m not asking for a blood pact. Just… call it a temporary truce. Teacher-student. Sort of. Reluctantly.”
You looked away, weighing consequences, potential noise, probable headaches.
Then you took his hand.
“Fine,” you muttered. “Temporary. Quiet. Low-profile.”
Garou’s grin went wolfish. “You’re going to regret this.”
“You’re going to regret this more,” you said. “Training starts tomorrow.”
He opened his mouth. “Why tomo-“
You flicked a finger.
He vanished from the rooftop with a startled yell, caught mid-sentence as you teleported him neatly to the alley three blocks away.
You lay back on the concrete, finally alone, staring up at the sky.
Peaceful?
Not anymore.
But maybe… manageable.
From far below, faint but unmistakable, Garou’s voice echoed up between the buildings.
“THIS ISN’T REAL TRAINING YET, RIGHT?!”
Months pass before you realize you’ve started scheduling your peace around him.
Not officially, of course. You would sooner admit to enjoying public attention than admit Garou had become part of your routine. But the pattern is there, obvious in hindsight - certain evenings left open, certain rooftops chosen on purpose, your telepathic “volume” tuned just enough to notice when his familiar, stubborn presence flares somewhere in the city.
Training, as it turns out, looks suspiciously like bullying with structure.
• You “accidentally” drop him from slightly higher heights each week, just to test his landing control.
• He tries to surprise you with new techniques, and you redirect them into trash cans, laundry poles, and the occasional unfortunate signpost.
• You start pointing out his habits aloud: the way he overcommits on follow-through, how his stance shifts when he’s secretly excited, how he always angles himself between monsters and civilians even when no one told him to.
At first, he takes every comment like a challenge.
“You’re predictable,” you say.
“Predictable enough to win,” he shoots back.
“You drop your guard when you smell an advantage.”
“Only because I am the advantage.”
“You flinch when kids scream,” you add.
He pauses.
“…That’s not a weakness,” he mutters.
“I never said it was.”
Over time, the edge of defensiveness dulls. He still bristles, still snaps back, but there’s a shift - less fight for the sake of fighting, more genuine processing. Sometimes he goes quiet after you say something, disappears for a day or two, and comes back sharper.
You pretend not to notice that, too.
Some evenings, training barely happens at all.
You sit on the edge of a high-rise, legs dangling over neon-lit streets, your psychic field stretched thin but lazy. Garou leans back on his hands a few feet away, sweaty from some earlier scuffle, breathing evening air like it’s his reward.
“Why do you even care so much?” you ask once, eyes on the horizon.
“About what?” he says.
“Heroes. Monsters. This whole… system you rant about. You could’ve just been some strong martial artist who keeps to himself. Fights in tournaments. Becomes a local legend. Quiet life.”
He scoffs. “Quiet is just another word for ‘nothing changes.’ I’m not built for ‘nothing changes.’”
You hum. “You’d hate my ideal world, then.”
“Yeah,” he says. “Probably.”
He tilts his head, studying your profile. “Why don’t you care more? With your power, you could rewrite everything. Flip the board. You’re more terrifying than half the monsters they classify as disasters.”
You shrug. “That sounds like work.”
“That’s your answer to everything.”
“Because it’s accurate.”
He rolls his eyes, but they’re softer now. Less hostile, more… familiar annoyance.
This sort of conversation crops up again and again, in fragments. Between fights, between lessons, between rooftop sunsets and convenience-store walks.
You learn little things about him you never asked for:
• He hates wasting food, even if it’s terrible.
• He pretends he doesn’t care about praise, but you can feel his emotions spike and twist when someone thanks him, even indirectly.
• He sleeps badly, like his brain never really shuts down, always replaying fights in his head.
He, unfortunately, learns things about you too:
• You like things lined up in perfect rows: snacks in your pantry, books on your shelf, floating grocery bags arranged by weight.
• Your telepathy is always “on,” and your control is perfect enough that you still jump at sudden loud noises - not because you’re surprised physically, but because your mental field aggressively files them as “unnecessary.”
• You never walk through the most crowded streets if you can help it.
One night, as you two walk side by side down a quieter road, plastic bags floating invisibly behind you, Garou glances at your expression.
“Too loud?” he asks.
You consider lying.
“Yes,” you say instead.
He doesn’t say anything clever back. Just shifts a half step closer, posture angled slightly between you and the sidewalk, absorbing some of the passing glances with his intimidating aura. To most people, he looks like a problem walking.
To you, for once, he’s a very mobile, very loud buffer.
You don’t thank him.
He doesn’t ask you to.
Training stops being one-sided somewhere along the way.
You notice it during a mid-level monster attack that should have been simple.
A hulking creature with too many limbs and a shriek like a broken siren tears up part of a commercial street. People run. Glass shatters. You appear instantly, psychic pressure locking debris in place, redirecting projectiles, cushioning falls. Garou dives into the fight without hesitation, as usual.
But this time, he doesn’t chase the thrill blindly.
He tracks your focus.
Every time your attention spikes toward a cluster of civilians, he pivots, intercepting threats before you have to move them. Every time you lock a limb in mid-swing, he’s already there, using the opening like it was choreographed.
You realize, mid-battle, that he’s no longer just adapting to you as an enemy.
He’s syncing with you as… an ally.
“Left,” you say once, almost without thinking.
He doesn’t question it. Just moves, ducking under a sweeping limb as you rip up a chunk of pavement and pin the monster’s foot at the same time.
Afterward, while heroes arrive late to secure the scene, Garou and you lurk on a nearby rooftop, watching from the edge of the building.
“You’re faster,” you say.
“Obviously,” he replies, but there’s no bite in it. Just quiet satisfaction. “You’re giving clearer instructions.”
“I wasn’t trying to,” you say.
He smirks. “Could’ve fooled me.”
You don’t bother explaining that your brain has slowly filed him under “variables to protect.” That his movements now register in your mind alongside civilians, debris, and structural weak points - as something to account for, not avoid.
You also don’t explain that when he pushes himself too far in a fight, your telekinesis reaches just a little farther than necessary to catch his fall.
He notices anyway.
With closeness comes… unfortunate habit.
Garou starts treating your apartment like a gym he refuses to pay for.
You find him:
• Sleeping on your couch after a long night, one leg hanging off, a bag of convenience-store snacks balanced on his chest.
• Using your balcony as a stretching area before “rounds,” even though you’ve never invited him.
• Bickering with Saitama in your kitchen about who deserves the last pudding, like they’ve been siblings for years.
“Why are you here?” you ask one morning, not looking up from your cereal as Garou rummages through your fridge.
He holds up a half-eaten rice ball. “Carbs.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
He shrugs. “You said training is also recovery. I’m recovering.”
You glance at the faint bruises on his knuckles, the way he’s favoring one side as he leans on the counter.
You sigh and slide a small container across the table using only your mind.
He squints. “What’s this?”
“Salve,” you say. “For your ribs. Put it on before you sleep.”
He stares at it, then at you. “You could just heal me with your powers, couldn’t you?”
“Yes,” you reply.
“Then why don’t you?”
“Because pain is educational,” you say.
He snorts, but he pockets the container.
Later, as he dozes off on the couch, you flick your fingers once, easing the worst of the ache in his side without fully erasing it.
Just enough to make rest possible.
Not enough for him to notice.
Months in, the city doesn’t feel different from above - but your view of it does.
You sit side by side on yet another rooftop, no training scheduled, no monsters nearby, no immediate threat humming at the edge of your mind. The rare, fragile type of silence you used to crave alone.
Garou stretches his arms behind his head, gaze on the stars dulled by city light. “You know,” he says, “if someone told me my ‘monster evolution’ would involve regular lesson plans and nagging supervision, I’d have punched them.”
“Same,” you reply. “If someone told me I’d willingly let a walking catastrophe into my routine, I’d have erased their short-term memory.”
He laughs under his breath. “Why didn’t you?”
You think about all the times you could’ve erased, rewritten, redirected him. The way your power hums, bright and effortless, under every interaction. The temptation to solve problems by deleting their messy parts.
Then you think about him:
Bleeding, but upright.
Defiant, but listening.
Wrong, but adjusting.
“You’re more interesting like this,” you say at last.
“Like what?” he asks.
“Unsimplified.”
He frowns. “That’s not a real word.”
“It is now.”
He studies your face for a moment, eyes narrowed like he’s trying to read something you’re not broadcasting. You keep your mind deliberately blank, out of respect if not habit.
“…You’re less annoying than when we met,” he says.
“That sounds like extremely high praise,” you answer.
“Don’t get used to it,” he snaps.
You don’t point out that you already have, in a way. That when your telepathy sweeps over the city at night, you unconsciously check for his familiar signature - not to correct it, but to confirm it’s still there.
You just lean back on your hands, matching his posture, letting the night air move around you both.
Below, life goes on: heroes patrol, monsters scheme, civilians sleep and dream without ever knowing how many times they almost became collateral.
Up here, a lazily overpowered esper and a self-proclaimed future monster sit shoulder to shoulder, their strange, reluctant orbit solidifying into something not quite friendship, not quite alliance.
Something ongoing.
“Same time tomorrow?” Garou asks, casual.
You consider claiming you’re busy.
“Yeah,” you say instead.
“Don’t be late,” he adds.
You flick him lightly in the forehead with invisible force.
“No promises.”
You ignored it at first. That strange, heavy awareness whenever Garou was too close. The way your telepathy picked up the edge of his focus and refused to file it under “enemy,” “civilian,” or even “nuisance” anymore.
Unfortunately, tension doesn’t care about your preferences.
It started with distance.
You had always liked space: between you and crowds, between you and noise, between you and other people’s expectations. Being near someone meant feeling more - more thoughts, more emotions, more static. It was easier to keep everyone at arm’s length, literally and psychically.
Garou, however, had no concept of personal space.
During training one evening, you were correcting his stance. He kept overextending on a particular counter, opening his center line for a clean hit.
“Your weight’s wrong,” you said.
He scowled. “No it’s not.”
You moved before thinking about it - stepping in close, your hand hovering just above his shoulder, the other near his hip, adjusting his center of gravity with the slightest telekinetic nudge.
“Here,” you murmured, “and here. Stop leaning like you’re trying to intimidate gravity.”
He froze.
You noticed the tension in his shoulders first, the way his breath caught just slightly. Then, because your powers hated you, you felt the flicker of emotion under his usual relentless focus - something sharp, hot, and badly contained.
You went still.
He swallowed. “You, uh… done?”
You took a step back like you’d been burned. “Yes.”
The air between you felt wrong - too dense, too charged for the simple correction you’d just made. You watched him roll his shoulders out, ignoring the faint flush at the tips of his ears.
“Tch,” he muttered. “This is why I hate espers. You get right in someone’s head and then act like nothing happened.”
“I didn’t read your mind,” you said quietly.
“Yeah?” He glanced at you, eyes hooded. “Felt like you did.”
You didn’t answer.
Because the truth was worse: you hadn’t needed to.
The tension didn’t explode all at once. It slipped in sideways, corrupting familiar patterns in small, irritating ways.
You noticed when he cut his hair shorter and pretended not to.
He started bringing an extra drink when he met you on rooftops - never asking, just tossing the bottle in your direction like it was nothing.
Your telepathy, which had always filtered him out as “loud background,” began flagging his emotional spikes with annoying clarity.
One night, after a messy fight with multiple monsters and a very uncooperative building, you both ended up in your apartment - Garou with a split lip and fresh bruises, you with a migraine from controlling too much debris at once.
“Sit,” you said, pointing at the chair.
“Don’t talk to me like I’m a dog,” he grumbled, but he sat anyway.
You floated the first-aid kit over, hands moving automatically: cleaning the cut on his cheek, checking his ribs with practiced distance.
He stared at you.
“You’re good at this,” he said.
“I’ve had practice,” you replied. “Saitama forgets he’s not made of concrete sometimes.”
“That tracks,” Garou muttered.
You stepped closer to reach the cut near his mouth, your fingers brushing his jaw as you tilted his head toward the light. His skin was warm under your touch, pulse just a little faster than resting. Your powers flared instinctively, brushing against the surface of his thoughts.
You snapped your mind back before you could slip.
He hadn’t looked away.
“You really don’t peek?” he asked quietly. “Not even a little?”
Your voice came out flatter than usual. “You think I want to know what goes on in your head?”
“Yes,” he said.
You blinked.
Garou held your gaze, expression oddly serious. “You don’t read people unless you have to. You hate it. You act detached, like none of this gets to you, but you still remember every face you’ve kept alive. Every building you’ve kept standing. Every time I almost messed up and you fixed it before I could.”
He swallowed, jaw tightening under your hand. “You can pretend you’re above all this, but you’re not.”
His words sat heavy in the air.
You realized your fingers were still on his jaw.
You stepped back like the floor had shifted. “You’re bleeding on my chair.”
He huffed a laugh through his nose, tension cracking for a second. “Right. Tragic.”
But his eyes lingered on you, and the silence felt… dangerous.
You both started avoiding certain situations without saying why.
You stopped correcting his posture with touch unless absolutely necessary.
He stopped casually leaning against you after fights, even when he was exhausted.
You both pretended not to notice the way your conversations lingered longer on rooftops now, the city below just an excuse not to go home yet.
One evening, rain drizzled quietly over the city, turning streetlights into blurred halos. You and Garou waited it out under a covered ledge, hoods up, clothes damp from the run.
“This is stupid,” he muttered. “We could just keep going.”
“You’re dripping on my floor if we do,” you said.
You could have teleported. You could have forced the rain away from both of you with a thought. Instead, you let it fall, the sound a steady curtain between you and the rest of the world.
Garou’s shoulder brushed yours.
Not hard. Not deliberate.
Just enough.
You didn’t move away.
He angled his head toward you, eyes catching faint light. “You ever think about leaving?”
“Leaving what?”
“This city. The heroes. The association,” he said. “The mess. You could disappear and no one would find you unless you wanted them to. You’re strong enough to erase your existence and start over anywhere.”
Your reply came quicker than you expected. “I’d still hear it.”
He frowned. “Hear what?”
“The fear,” you said. “The screaming. The chaos.” Your gaze stayed fixed on the rain. “Distance doesn’t fix volume. Not for me.”
He went quiet.
Then, softer, “And me?”
You hesitated.
“Could you tune me out?”
You could have lied.
“Yes,” you said. “If you were gone long enough. If I worked at it.”
He huffed a humorless laugh. “You didn’t have to answer that honestly.”
“I don’t sugarcoat.”
“I know,” he said.
His shoulder stayed against yours. You felt the unspoken question hanging between you, huge and fragile.
If you could tune him out… why hadn’t you?
The real fracture came during a fight that went wrong.
Not catastrophically. Just… close enough.
A higher-level threat appeared without warning - something fast, intelligent, and fond of targeting weak points. You were used to juggling too many things at once: debris trajectories, civilian routes, structural integrity.
You weren’t used to juggling those things while your mind kept flagging one specific presence over and over.
Garou moved smoother than ever, reading your cues, responding to your unspoken adjustments. But the monster adapted too, faster than expected. It feinted toward you, then twisted at the last second, aiming a brutal strike at your blind side.
You didn’t flinch.
You didn’t have to.
Garou was already there.
He took the hit meant for you, intercepting it with a brutal block that still sent him crashing into concrete. The impact rang through your field like a bell.
Your control slipped.
For a second - a heartbeat, a breath - you stopped filtering.
The monster froze mid-attack, crushed under a sudden, impossible gravity that threatened to turn bone to powder. The air warped around your power, space bending like glass under heat. Cars lifted off the ground. Windows spider-webbed without shattering.
You could have erased everything in that instant. Threats, witnesses, structures. Your power pressed outward, hungry, limitless, ready.
Then you felt it.
His presence.
Sharp. Alive. In pain.
But still thinking.
“Don’t,” Garou’s voice rasped across the field, not spoken out loud but projected accidentally through your proximity. His thoughts bled into yours without you actively listening - just raw instinct and stubborn, desperate intent.
If you lose control now, you’ll regret it.
You pulled back.
Piece by piece, you forced gravity to normal. You lowered cars, released pressure, let time unfreeze around the scene. The monster hit the ground in a broken heap, no longer a threat but still technically existent.
Your chest heaved.
Garou stumbled to his feet, one arm hanging wrong, blood on his lip. He looked at the restrained monster, then at you.
“You could’ve deleted it,” he said.
“Yes.”
“But you didn’t.”
“No.”
His gaze burned into you, searching for something.
“You stopped because of them?” he asked, chin jerking toward the civilians huddling behind cover.
You didn’t look at them.
“No.”
He understood anyway.
The tension shifted - no longer just sharp, awkward, unexplored, but undeniably mutual.
You hated it.
You also didn’t deny it.
Later, back on a rooftop away from everyone else, you sat with your back against a vent, exhaustion making your limbs heavier than usual. Garou leaned beside you, one arm in a sling you’d telekinetically stabilized.
“You almost lost it,” he said.
“Yes.”
“You scared them.”
“I know.”
“You scared me,” he added.
You closed your eyes. “Good.”
He huffed a quiet laugh. “You’re really bad at comfort.”
“I’m not trying to be comforting.”
Silence stretched.
Then, softer, “Why did you pull back?”
You opened your eyes, staring straight ahead. “Because you asked me to.”
“You weren’t reading my mind.”
“I didn’t have to,” you said. “You were loud.”
He shifted closer, the movement small but deliberate. “You trust me that much?”
“I trust you to be unbelievably annoying even while half-dead,” you said. “And to be very, very stubborn about what kind of person you want to be.”
“That’s not an answer,” he muttered.
“It’s the only one you’re getting.”
You felt his frustration spike - then twist into something else. Something tangled and hot and too close to the emotions that made your powers dangerous in the first place.
He turned his head, eyes fixed on you.
“This is a bad idea,” he said quietly.
“Yes,” you agreed.
“We’re not built for… whatever this is.”
“That’s an understatement.”
He exhaled, jaw clenched. “If I get closer, it’ll make things messier. Harder to control. For both of us.”
“I know,” you said.
“You should push me away.”
You forced yourself to meet his gaze. “I tried.”
“And?”
“It didn’t work.”
The words hung between you, heavier than any psychic field you’d ever generated.
Garou laughed once, low and disbelieving. “You really are terrible at lying.”
“I don’t lie,” you said. “It’s inefficient.”
He shifted, closing the last inch of distance between you until his shoulder pressed solidly against yours, his thigh brushing your leg. Not a casual bump this time. Not an accident.
“Tell me to stop,” he said.
Your heartbeat thudded against your ribs, annoyingly audible in your own head. You could feel his - steady, determined, slightly too fast.
You could have said it.
You should have.
You didn’t.
Instead, you answered with the one thing you’d always had iron grip over and suddenly, dangerously, didn’t.
Nothing.
No push. No retreat. No words.
Just… staying.
His hand slid along the rooftop, fingers stopping just shy of yours. Not touching. Not quite.
Tension crackled in the space between them.
“If we do this,” he said, voice rough, “it doesn’t magically fix anything. I’m still me. You’re still you. I’m not becoming a hero. You’re not becoming public.”
“I know,” you said.
“I’ll still make people nervous,” he went on. “They’ll still call me a monster. I’ll still fight them. I’ll still drag chaos with me wherever I go.”
“I know.”
“And you’ll still hate noise. And attention. And dealing with my drama.”
“Correct.”
He turned fully toward you now, eyes darker, unreadable even without your powers.
“Last chance,” he said. “Tell me no.”
You looked at him.
At the bruises you’d half-healed. At the fatigue he never admitted. At the infuriating, unwavering will that had turned from enemy to trainee to… something else.
Your fingers shifted, closing the tiny gap to brush against his.
Static shot up your arm - not from power, just contact.
“I’m not saying yes, either,” you said softly.
He smirked, humorless but genuine. “That’s the worst answer possible.”
“It’s the honest one.”
His fingers curled, lacing with yours, grip warm and firm and utterly, dangerously real.
“Fine,” he said. “We’ll figure out the answer later.”
You leaned your head back against the wall, staring up at the sky, his hand solid around yours.
“Later,” you agreed.
For now, tension sat between you like a live wire, uncut and humming, equal parts threat and promise.
And for the first time, you didn’t try to silence it.
Warnings; Canon-typical threat (specifically asphyxiation) and violence, Maul’s somewhat erratic/contradictory actions are a sign of his trauma.
Pairings; Maul (Star Wars) x Reader (gender neutral as always)
So what if the reader tried to wake Maul up from a nightmare? I fully believe that he would be devastated to think he had hurt his partner, however accidentally. Hope you like this one!
Masterlist
-
Maul’s screaming was terrifying. You flew awake, heart pounding in your chest as you scoured the room with a human’s typically dismal night vision for what could possibly scare him to such as extent. But quickly, you realised there was nothing real. He was thrashing around beside you in bed, cranial horns tearing into the pillows and the sheets tangled around his cybernetic legs. He threw out an arm and hit you in the shoulder with enough force to send you sprawling against your own pillows.
You groaned, more in tired complaint than actual pain, and fumbled around until you got the bedside lamp on. The light seemed to still some of Maul’s movement, but it didn’t wake him up.
“Please… please,” he mumbled, more than clear enough for you to hear his terror, his desperation.
Your chest ached. You ran a hand up his arm, onto his bare shoulder. The muscles beneath his black and crimson skin were tense. He pushed against the covers like he was trying to get away from whatever horror was plaguing him, still no closer to consciousness. You faltered. Maul might not have his lightsaber in hand at that moment, but that hardly mattered when he could call it to him with the Force over just about any distance. Besides, he was a ruthless, efficient fighter. He needed neither his weapon nor the Force to kill you, even if it was just an accident because his sleep addled mind didn’t recognise you.
But still. You had sworn, to yourself if not in words to him, that you would always be there for him. You weren’t going to leave him on his own now.
You ran your touch across his collarbones to his other shoulder, so that you could have a hand on each side of him. Then, you knelt above him just enough to have some leverage, thumbs massaging his skin.
“Maul?” You tried, to no avail. “Maul, come on. Wake up.”
Still nothing.
So you shook his shoulders one time. His blazing amber eyes snapped open instantly and he lurched forward before you could so much as take a breath.
He flipped you onto your back and dropped his weight over your hips, both hands wrapped tight around your neck. He was somehow completely free of the sheets which had been trapping him. And he wasn’t just squeezing your throat and arteries, he was pressing your neck down into the mattress with all the fury he could muster burning through his veins. Your vision was already darkening – you had a couple of seconds before you were out. You used them to claw your nails into the insides of his wrists, to try and drive your knee into his back.
Head spinning, you saw the exact moment his expression changed into one of recognition. He flew back like he had been burned. You gasped for air, your head tilting a little from how woozy you felt. Your heart thundered as you brought your hands to your throat.
When your vision cleared enough, it was to see an expression of utter horror on Maul’s face. He was holding his hands aloft as if he didn’t know what to do with them, a line or two of blood running down his forearms from damage you had dealt him. He seemed frozen in place. You made efforts to steady your breathing, then went to lay a hand on his thigh. A motion you thought would be comforting while you got around to speaking.
Instead of that, it spurred him into action. He leapt to his feet and began to slowly back away from you, hands still raised in front of him in a display of placation, to make himself seem less threatening. His chest was heaving.
“I… I…” His voice was rough, barely above a whisper. “My darling, I…”
Fighting off the lingering dizziness, you sat up and got your feet on the floor.
“Maul, I’m alright,” you rasped.
Your voice gave you pause – you sounded anything but alright. Maul stopped too, his face a mask of devastation. You touched your throat gingerly, determining how hurt it felt. The ache below the skin said it was definitely going to bruise. But the longer you sat there, the worse Maul looked. So you dropped your hand back to your side and, convinced you weren’t going to pass out, stood up. The Zabrak looked like a wild animal ready to bolt, one which would lash out with claws and teeth if its exits were compromised. And in his haste, he had backed himself towards the floor to ceiling windows instead of the door.
Thinking that having him hear your damaged-sounding voice again would make things worse, you raised your own empty hands a little and took a step towards him. That was a mistake.
Maul shot past you, hugging the walls to stay as far away from you as he possibly could. His posture was once again immaculate, his shoulders and back cutting hard lines in the half-dark. He snatched up his shirt from the back of his desk chair without missing a stride, ignoring you as you began to follow after him. You jogged a few steps across his bedroom when he flung the door open and you realised he was just going to leave without a word. The Zabrak extended a hand behind him and called his lightsaber to him without first needing to check where it was, walking into the pitch black corridor running through his quarters seamlessly. You, of course, couldn’t see a thing.
You scrambled to follow him, flicking on lights so you didn’t trip over your own two feet.
Maul crossed the main living space with a grace befitting any predator, utterly surefooted. You were almost woozy again by the time you got the main lights on.
“Maul, please wait,” you called as best you could, because clearly just following him wasn’t going to help.
He gave you a fiery glare over his shoulder, though he refused to turn to face you. You stopped before you were close enough to touch him.
“Please just stay alright? Please,” you muttered, but his only response was a harsh scoff. “Maul,” you tried again, growing almost a little desperate. He stopped punching in the keycode to unlock his door.
“Stay?” He mocked slowly, sneering. His words were venomous. “You want me to stay with you, after what I’ve just done.”
The hand which he had been resting over the keypad dropped back to his side. You tried your best to make your voice sound more normal, to stay collected in case this was the calm before he lashed out. The only way he could deal with anything unexpected was through anger.
“We can just talk,” you offered quietly, “or not. I could make tea.”
“Tea,” Maul hissed, as if the very idea was abhorrent. “Do you realise, are you even capable of comprehending how close to death you just came by my hands? Do you have any understanding whatsoever of what I could have done? Of what I would have been responsible for and then carried with me for the rest of my own life? When I swore to protect you, it was inclusive of myself. Yet I am nothing other than what my Master carved me to be-”
“I am not afraid of you-”
“Well you should be!” He roared, his eyes wild.
He spun to face you, finally, but now he had his lightsaber in hand and he was advancing on you with his teeth bared, every line of his body rigid with the drive to fight. The fury radiating off him was actually enough to make you back up, and he didn’t stop until you were pressed against a wall on the opposite side of the room, his towering, muscular frame caging you in. But even through his temper, he never once lost concentration on his weapon. It was angled perfectly so that if the blades were to be ignited, neither would come anywhere near you.
Maul’s gaze caught on your throat, where a ring of bruises was no doubt already starting to form. He began to reach towards you, but suddenly realised what he was doing and went to drop his hand; you caught it before he could. With both of your hands wrapped around his own, Maul became very, very still. He grew even more tense, hardly breathing. You manipulated his fingers to lay flat, and he let you, but barely. Wordless, you started raising his hand towards your own throat. He realised what you were doing immediately and pulled away sharp, but despite the new distance, you still kept a hold of his hand.
“Maul,” you murmured, watching as fear and fury warred across his face. “Let me.”
You bowed your head when you brought his hand up this time, so you could begin laying featherlight kisses on the backs of his knuckles. You decided he probably hadn’t stopped you yet because he couldn’t believe what you were doing. You gently turned his hand over and frowned when you saw the wounds you had inflicted on his wrist. The bleeding had already stopped, but you had raked your nails deep into his flesh.
“I’m sorry,” you whispered, pleased to find your voice was improving.
You weren’t brave enough to look up and see Maul’s expression, but his unnatural state of stillness told you everything you needed to know. You placed another kiss just below his palm, just above the start of the first scratch. An apology, even if you would make the same choice over again. It was clear that your attempts to kick him hadn’t been all that successful.
With your head still bent over his hand, you turned it again and laid it over your throat in a single motion. Your only indication of anything at all from your partner was a single intake of breath, only just audible. But he didn’t pull away this time. You made sure his hand went exactly where his grip had been before. You knew how deeply rooted Maul’s fears and prejudices were, even if he never spoke to you about very much at all. Words weren’t nearly enough to reassure him; he needed physical proof of what you were saying. You had to show him you weren’t afraid of him, prove to him that things really were alright. Even then, he would still struggle to believe you.
When you looked up again, still keeping his hand on your throat, Maul’s anger had cooled to its usual simmering frustration. He couldn’t wrap his head around what you were doing, or why you would put yourself at such risk. You offered him a small smile, your thumb stroking over the back of his hand.
“I almost killed you,” he muttered, voice harsh. “I didn’t – when I dream, I do not always immediately recognise my surroundings upon waking. This is why I didn’t want you to share my space at night. I will have the next suite across converted into something you can use instead. You will have your own door to access my quarters, if you wish, but I cannot allow-”
“No.”
Maul stared at you, incredulous.
“No?”
You shook your head.
“I’m not afraid of you, and I am absolutely not going to start hiding from you. You’re the person I trust and care about most in the galaxy Maul, I’m not going to let you push me away.”
Maul was back to staring. For once, he seemed speechless, though you knew that wouldn’t last for long. So you took the opportunity to grab his other hand and lead him back towards his bedroom. He let you, but again, probably only because he was struck by utter disbelief. You flicked lights off as you went, eventually leaving you both in the dark once again. You could barely see the Zabrak’s outline, just the hard glint of his eyeshine reflecting what little light was seeping through the open bedroom door into the hallway.
“Come on,” you told him, “it’s really late. I want to go back to sleep.”
That was when he dug his heels in.
“I will not permit you to risk-”
“Then we’re both going to be standing out here for a really long time,” you challenged.
His lips might have pulled back into a silent snarl, but you couldn’t really see well enough to tell.
“You are impossible,” Maul growled, but it wasn’t really you he was angry at.
Sensing you were winning this particular argument, you sauntered closer to him until you could press a kiss to his shoulder. He watched you in a way which you guessed was supposed to be impassive, but that was hardly the truth.
“I get worse when I’m sleep deprived.”
You smirked at him, because you knew he could see perfectly well even if the reverse was not at all true. Another tug on his hands made him start walking again.
Maul complained incessantly when you insisted he at least run some water over the wounds on his wrists if he wasn’t going to treat them properly. He eventually conceded, however, because it meant he got to watch you tend to him – though on pain of death, he would never admit it.
When you finally got back into bed and he tried to confine himself to the very edge of his own side, you all but draped yourself over him and tucked your head against his chest when he tried to make you move. After a good long while of considering what he wanted to say, Maul finally admitted, in a sense, what was worrying him so much.
“I don’t want to hurt you again,” he murmured against your hair, so quiet you could barely hear him.
You snuggled in closer, pleased when he lightly laid his hands on your back.
“You won’t,” you said with absolute certainty, eyes already starting to close.
“You don’t know that.”
You cupped his jaw and the side of his face, hoping he might find it a little soothing.
“It was only because of how I woke you up. If I’d left you alone, it would’ve been fine.”
Maul seemed largely satisfied by that. He was going to have to talk to you about what you had been thinking, to try waking him up from a nightmare at all. But the conversation would have to wait for the morning. Your weight was already growing heavier against him where sleep was pulling you under.
⊹ ࣪ ˖ a wolf, a sanctuary, and the quiet that holds them both..
a.n. graphic depiction of injury, injury recovery, sutures (incorrect sutures) and everything else . not for the squemish and not for me
⤷ masterlist ; requests open ; 6.3k
the morning whispered, soft as breath, the sky painted in aching hues of lavender and gray. clouds hung low over the mountain, their bellies full, the scent of rain lingering just out of reach. the cottage stood small and forgotten, its wooden bones tucked beneath ivy and the creeping embrace of moss, as though the earth itself had begun to reclaim it. inside, shadows stretched thin beneath the early light, spilling across weathered floors where books lay half-open and herbs dangled, brittle and dry from their hooks.
outside, the air clung damp against your skin, cool despite summer’s promise. the watering can felt heavier than it should have, but you welcomed the weight, the ache that made your arms burn with something solid, something real. droplets sang against the soil, the rhythm steady, comforting. green tendrils reached toward you, leaves trembling beneath the touch of water, as though the earth itself leaned closer in quiet gratitude.
you moved barefoot through the garden, watering can heavy in your hand, the rhythm of water a hymn against the soil. and then—there, a rupture in the stillness.
a body.
you dropped the watering can. the sound barely registered, drowned out by the harsh, ragged breath you didn’t know you were holding. he lay crumpled, twisted awkwardly on his side, blood seeping from gashes torn deep across his chest, his arms. violet bruises bloomed against skin pale as frost, the kind of bruises that didn’t come from accidents but from violence, raw and merciless.
he was sprawled among the tender green, staining it red. pale skin mottled with violet blooms of pain, blood crusted at his lips, his chest barely stirring.
a storm, broken.
and yet, you knelt.
the man’s lashes trembled, fluttering against his cheek. a soft sound, barely a whimper, a protest against pain. something tight and anxious coiled inside your chest, threatening to spill over.
carefully, you reached out. fingers trembling as you reached for his head, carefully cradling it in your hands as if he were a newborn fawn. a small, shaky breath caught in your throat, eyes tracing the violent streaks across his chest, the gashes that wept red into the soil. you forced your voice soft, not allowing the fear that convoluted cold and sharp in your belly to show.
“can you… hear me?” you murmured.
his head lolled, heavy in your hands, as you pressed slender fingers through his tangled hair. the strands were damp and matted, the faint scent of blood and sweat clinging to his skin.
the man stirred again, a faint shudder. the shadows beneath his eyes looked almost like bruises, dark as the forest cast across his face, sweat-damp hair sticking to his brow. a small, soft sound, and then his eyes slowly opened, half-lidded, uncomprehending.
for a long, horrible moment, he didn’t move. and then - a flutter of the lashes, the sharp intake of breath through parted lips. he jerked, eyes widening slightly, one hand coming up to curl around your wrist, grip weak and trembling.
his breath came sharp and wheezing. pale, slender fingers trembled against your wrist, thin and delicate despite the obvious power in each sinew, each bone. but his eyes were soft, as if the gods themselve hid inside them, hazy with pain. he looked half dead, a pale, porcelain doll in your arms. a broken and bloodied thing.
you wouldn't lie and say you weren't scared. there was a man you’ve never seen in your life, collapsed in your garden. he was massive, nearly six feet tall, with broad muscles and stark white hair. his top was torn in places, and as much as you tried to ignore it, you couldn't help but notice the pure muscle that strained against the thin material. you were sure that he could be able to snap your wrist in half without breaking a sweat.
he tried to speak, the sound broken and weak. his hand tightened on your wrist, shaking as he attempted to speak again, voice rasping - “water.”
at first you didn’t react, frozen, eyes on the way his chest seized when he spoke, the way his grip trembled, fingers wrapped taut around your wrist. you forced yourself to move, gaze flickering over the watering can lying beside you, discarded.
without thinking, you grabbed it, pressing the cool metal to his lips.
he drank, throat bobbing as he swallowed, the sound harsh in the quiet. he drank as though he couldn’t get close enough, water trickling down his chin and throat, staining his top darker. you held his head up as for him not to choke, and when his eyes held yours, you felt, suddenly, a wave of fear wash over you. they were pale as frost, inhumanly cold, and it made your pulse quicken.
when the watering can was empty, you set it aside. he’d slumped back slightly, head lolling to the side in your grasp once more, gaze fixed on you. something twisted in your chest at the look in his eyes, the way they searched yours, as though looking for something.
you shifted, moving closer without thinking. his fingers hadn’t let go of your wrist, hand still curled tightly around it as if he were afraid you would disappear as soon as he let go. you knelt there, torn between the urge to pull away and the need to stay, to soothe the strange, trembling tension you could almost feel beneath his skin.
slowly, he spoke, his words slightly slurred as though he was struggling to form them. “where..” he started, voice rasping with pain. “where–? ” his eyes slid over your face, unfocused, confused. he tried to sit up and you tensed, instinctual, one hand reaching out, pressing him back down onto the barren earth. you were sure he had a concussion, at the bare minimum, if not multiple broken bones and open wounds.
“don’t move,” you murmured. “you– stop– you’re hurt–!”
surprise flickered across his face at your touch. his gaze fell to where your hand pressed against his shoulder, keeping him still. for a moment, he just looked at your fingers, then at your face. his eyebrows furrowed slightly, the shadows under his eyes darkening.
a breath shivered through him, a shudder that wracked his entire body as though he were cold, even in the warm summer air. he closed his eyes, eyelashes shuddering against pale cheek. a low, pained sound escaped him, a whimper that seemed unlike him.
“just…” you faltered, easing up to sit on your haunches. “stay– stay still, okay?” you felt as if you were trying to calm a wild animal, a wild animal that could tear you into shreds in the blink of an eye.
god, you couldn’t leave him there.
something sick twisted in your gut at the thought of leaving him there, lying shattered and trembling on the ground, his lifeblood pooling in the soil. you bit your cheek, hesitating for a moment before speaking.
the thought struck hard, a knot of dread curling in your stomach as you stared down at him—pale, bloodied, so heavy with pain he looked more corpse than man. but his chest still rose, shuddering. the hand on your wrist quivered, fingers trembling through the fabric of your shirt. his gaze dropped, falling to the dark red staining his fingers. some of it stained your sleeve as well, the stark color a brutal contrast to the pale skin of his hand.
he was too heavy. every attempt to lift him left you breathless, arms shaking beneath his dead weight. he was built from sinew and muscle, all coiled strength despite the ruin carved into his skin. so you did what you could—kneeling lower, slipping your arms beneath his, dragging him inch by inch through the damp grass, crops you’ve spent months growing being pulled out from underneath him.
blood smeared the earth beneath him, a vivid scarlet trail painting the garden. it clung to your hands too, warm, sticky, seeping into the creases of your skin. you hated how small you felt beneath him, how he could break you in half if he wanted. and yet, he stayed limp in your arms, head lolling back, eyes closed as if he’d already surrendered to the pain.
the door shut behind you with a click! the scent of rain-damp earth lingering in the air as you half-dragged him across the worn wooden floor. the blood clung to your hands, your clothes—warm and sticky, staining the fabric as you struggled to bear his weight.
with a small gasp of breath, you managed to stagger over to the sofa. the legs of the old, ragged couch groaned in protest as you pushed him down, half-laying, half-sitting against the threadbare cushions.
he exhaled, the sound shuddering and pained, his body a tangle of limbs and torn cotton. you stood for a moment, breathing hard, blood still covering your arms, the front of your shirt. you didnt dare look down at your hands.
the couch was small, too small, but it was all you had. you yanked the old quilt from the backrest, spreading it out beneath him, desperate to keep the blood from seeping into the cushions. it was patchwork—hand-stitched, fraying at the edges, pale blue and cream now soaked red where his body sank into it. you didnt want to think about getting the stains out.
your fingers trembled, fumbling with the fabric, struggling to keep it from slipping. the quilt felt too small, too thin, completely and utterly useless. it bunched up under his body, thin lines of blood immediately staining the pale fabric a dark, wet crimson.
you kneeled next to him, trying to gather your wits. his eyes were closed, lips still parted, and for an instant, you thought he’d passed out. the breath shuddered through him again, so faint you would’ve missed it altogether if not for the rise and fall of his chest.
he sprawled there, too large for the space. broad shoulders pressing into the worn fabric, legs too long, tai chi slippers dangling over the armrest. he looked... wrong. so out of place among the softness of your quiet home, all muscle and ruin, violence stripped bare beneath bloodied skin.
you studied him, your gaze tracing over the torn shreds of his shirt, the tangled mess of white hair splayed against the faded couch. violet bruises bloomed across his cheek, the lines of an old scar crossing his jaw.
the man’s hair scattered across the couch, stark white against the pale blue of the quilt. he was pale and slender beneath the torn clothes that clung to him, skin marked with dark, mottled bruises. his hands were slender, knuckles slightly bloody, as though he had been using them to crawl through the underbrush.
his chest heaved in shallow, uneven bursts. breath catching like something broken, raw and wet with each exhale. sweat beaded along his temple, tangled white hair plastered to his pale skin, lips parting on a sound too faint to be a word. you knelt beside him, hands hovering, useless, uncertain where to touch.
god, what do i do?
you didn’t know how to fix this—this ruin of flesh and blood spilling so freely, the tremble in his limbs like his body was fighting itself, every muscle taut and twitching in pain. the smell of iron hung thick in the air, clinging to everything.
you were shaking a bit, skin sticky with blood and sweat. the thought of leaving him alone - even for a second - made your stomach twist, but the need to get something - anything - to help him was too strong to ignore.
the house was small, just a single-room cottage, the small kitchen separated from the living area by a counter. the pantry held what limited medical supplies you had - most just supplies to take care of small cuts and scrapes. nothing that could have helped you in a situation like this. the closest hospital was miles away, all the way down the mountain. you could barely drag him a few feet to your couch, much less down such a steep incline.
forcing yourself to move, you stood up. not thinking, just acting— quickly grabbing the damp cloth from where it hung near the kitchen sink. the water was icy cold and you flinched at the temperature, trying not to notice the way your hands trembled. it didn’t take long for the water to grow pink as you slowly soaked the old towels.
your fingers shook as you hurried back to the couch, sinking to your knees beside him. your heart hammered in your chest, the silence broken only by the soft sound of your breath and the thunder of your own blood in your ears.
his eyes flickered open as you approached, tracking your movements. the pain was still there, a sharp edge in his gaze, but he didn’t protest when you began to slowly, carefully, press the cloth against the wound on his chest.
a sharp, ragged breath tore from his throat, teeth bared in a grimace as his hand jerked, weakly pushing at you, flinching violently away from your touch.
“stop,” his voice—broken, hoarse, more breath than sound. “’m fine…”
“you’re not.” the words left you before you could stop them, trembling. “you’re—” you swallowed hard, the burn of it sharp. “you’re dying.”
his fingers twitched, curling briefly into the fabric of the quilt beneath him. he didn’t answer.
you didn’t have time for his stubbornness.
he hissed out a breath, body tensing as the cloth touched his bare skin. you flinched, instinct urging you to draw back, but you pressed down again, your hand shaking against his wounded chest.
blood stained the rag, blooming pink and red as you cleaned the deep lacerations, each shallow gash and bruise slowly coming into view. the edges of his shirt were torn, ragged. blood smeared across the fabric, staining it a dark, rust-red.
your hands moved on their own, peeling back what was left of his torn, blood-soaked top, the fabric sticking to the gashes torn into his chest. your teeth sunk into your lip, bile bitter and sharp in your throat. the gashes ran across his chest, staining his pale skin in livid scarlet. more dark purple and green bruises splotched his skin, like the aftermath of a brutal beating. the wounds were ugly—deep, angry, the kind that should’ve killed someone. torn skin, flesh pulled apart like something feral had ripped into him. you had nothing for this. no training, no salves strong enough.
you pressed the cloth against the worst of it anyway.
a shuddering wince, his muscles going rigid as the cold cloth pressed against the bloody cuts. his jaw clenched, eyes screwing shut. for a moment you thought he might scream, cry out, strike you, but he didn’t. he just lay still, tremors shuddering through him, the only sound the pained sound of his breathing.
the blood was warm, staining your hands, the couch, the air thick with copper. it just kept coming, soaking the towel, dripping onto the quilt, warm and sticky on your fingers as you tried your best to keep the wounds clean. he closed his eyes, jaw clenched tightly shut, and you knew he was trying desperately to hold back any sound of pain.
he opened his mouth, as if to speak, but nothing came out, the sound strangled on a broken breath. he reached for you, fingers shaking, and you instinctively caught his trembling hand. you wanted to cry, to scream, to throw up. but you couldn't. not while he was still here. so, instead, you pressed a kiss to his knuckles. they were rough, calloused, most likely from years of abuse.
his breath caught in his throat, gaze flickering to where you clutched his hand. his skin was pale, almost grey, the tremors moving through his frame so intense you could feel them through his hand and up your wrist, sending tremors through your own.
he stared at you, confusion mingling with the pain in his eyes, though he didn't try to pull his hand back from your grasp. his fingers were long and slender, cold, trembling in your own.
this man, this monster of a man, in your own home, looked so small for once. skin pale, expression so vulnerable, eyes staring up at you as though he could scarcely believe you were there. it was as if he had never experienced the touch of another in his life. not even from his own mother.
your breath caught, the reality of the situation crashing down on you, the weight of everything pressing against your chest. he was bleeding, still, despite all your attempts to stop it. the pale skin of his chest and arms still gleamed wet and red, stained with blood and water from the cloth. his breathing was too fast, too shallow, his frame shaking so violently you feared it would break him.
the blood wouldn't stop.
you pressed harder, hands trembling, trying to remember something—anything—about what you were supposed to do in a situation like this. pressure. keep pressure on the wound. that was right, wasn’t it? but how much pressure was too much? could you make it worse? the blood just kept welling up, soaking the cloth, seeping between your fingers, warm and relentless.
his breathing was labored, each ragged exhale leaving his body in a shudder that wracked his entire frame. he was pale, so pale, like the faint light from the nearby window washed out the color in his skin, leaving only a thin layer of ashen grey behind.
he was shivering, his fingers trembling in your grasp, the tremors from his body passing through his hand and up your own arm. you clutched his fingers all the harder, trying to keep both him and yourself steady.
“please,” you whispered, voice barely audible. please stop bleeding.
the towel was already crimson, useless. you needed something clean. sterile. but your cottage was just that—a cottage. not a hospital, not even a clinic. the closest thing you had was a spool of gauze tucked beneath the sink, half-forgotten, along with an old bottle of antiseptic, unopened but past its date.
“i’m so sorry,” you whispered, grabbing the bottle with blood-slick hands, twisting the cap off with teeth bared in frustration when it stuck. the sharp, chemical scent filled the air as you poured it over the gash. “im so sorry.”
the pain was instinct. wild. his body, all sharp angles and raw wounds, moved before his mind could catch up—an elbow catching your jaw hard enough to send you reeling back.
the force of the blow sent you sprawling, the bottle of iodine clattering to the ground, forgotten. your head spun, vision blurred, pain exploding across your jaw. you stumbled back, landing on your behind, one hand flying to your face as you tried to blink the stars from your eyes.
everything spun, your breath torn from your body, your heartbeat suddenly loud and thunderous in your ears. your cheek ached, your jaw already tender beneath your fingers as you tried to grasp what had just happened.
the taste of blood bloomed on your tongue, copper bitter and startling. and in front of you you, he shuddered, his body coiling like a wounded beast. breath ragged, pale eyes wide and half-wild, unseeing.
you held out a hand, hesitantly, as though trying to calm something wild. he stilled at the movement, gaze snapping to focus on you. his chest heaved, his expression still so sharp and feral that for a moment, you thought he might strike you again.
dont run. dont startle him.
you forced yourself to stay still, trying not to let fear show on your face. his fingers gripped at the edges of the quilt, knuckles white, and for a moment the air felt thin, charged, as though the slightest movement might set him off.
he was still staring at you, gaze wide and sharp and burning, looking at you as though you were some small, fragile animal, something to be hunted and devoured. and you were, you knew it, felt the weight of it settling as heavily on your chest as the fear in your veins. you were weak, small, fragile. so easily torn apart by something so much stronger than you. no match for this wild, feral thing you’d somehow allowed into your home.
your eyes flicked to the open window, but you dismissed the thought immediately. there was no way you could make it past him. no way you could reach the door. his gaze was tracking your every movement, feral and intense, and some ancient, primal instinct warned you not to try.
“hey,” your voice wavered, soft, careful, speaking as though to calm something with teeth. your hand rose, slow enough not to threaten, trembling as you touched the edge of the quilt beneath him tentatively. “it’s—i’m not going to hurt you. i’m just… just trying to help, okay?”
there was tension in his shoulders, his muscles coiled like a snake preparing to strike. his breath came in fast, shallow pants, the tremors still wracking through his frame so violently you wondered how he was even still conscious.
he said nothing, only watched you with those unnerving, feral eyes, like the predator he was, as though calculating whether you were a threat, a meal, or something else entirely.
you reached for the gauze once more with careful fingers, trying to ignore how your pulse pounded loud in your ears. the drumming had slowed but not enough. your hands trembled as you reached for the gauze, wrapping the last, dry piece around his wound. his skin was cold and slick, the tremors in his frame making the task that much more difficult. despite your best efforts, your fingers still brushed over his skin, his breath hissing through his teeth as you did so. your clumsy attempts had done nothing to stop it. you needed to be better. to think.
he needed stitches. a hospital. a surgeon. things you didn’t have.
what you did have was a sewing kit, too small, too lackluster needle, thread, alcohol. antiseptic, trembling hands.
you didnt know what you were doing.
you tried again, pouring more of the antiseptic over the wound, watching the way his muscles seized, the shudder rippling through his entire body. a hiss escaped his lips, jaw clenched so tight you swore you heard teeth grind.
his head tipped back as the antiseptic ran over his skin, the tendons in his neck standing out in sharp relief, his hands–claws?–tearing your couch apart. the tremors returned, stronger than before, wracking through his entire body as he tried to stifle the instinctive cry of pain. but through it all, he didn’t try to push you away, not even as you applied as much pressure as you dared to the wound itself.
the needle felt foreign in your fingers, the sterile thread too thin, too fragile to hold together something so broken.
the thought coiled, cold and sharp, twisting in your chest as you pressed the gauze down again, knuckles white. you weren’t strong enough. you weren’t trained.
you cursed yourself for your inadequacy. you’d never been good with blood, had never even received any real medical training to speak of. you had no supplies for stitches, no medical expertise. nothing that would help him.
staring at the needle in your trembling hand, you watched as the fine steel caught the low light. you’d stitched a thousand things—soft fabric, delicate patterns of thread woven into the quilt beneath him, tiny blossoms embroidered into the edges of scarves when your hands needed something to do on the quiet winter nights.
but this wasn't fabric. this was flesh. this was skin, and bone, warm and trembling beneath your fingers. this was a person, a thing that could die under your clumsy, trembling hands. this was a responsibility you’d never had to face before.
you didn’t have a choice.
the needle hovered in your hand, a sliver of cold steel trembling between blood-slick fingers. the liquid didnt go away no matter how much you wiped it on your shirt. it felt heavier than it should, though it was nothing but a tool—an extension of yourself, like it always was. except this wasn't soft cotton or fine silk beneath your touch. this was skin, torn open and bleeding, and you were the only thing standing between him and the quiet, creeping end.
the world seemed to slow then, the moment drawn out into something so still and quiet that the only sound was that of your own breath. the needle trembled in your hand, your heart beating so fast that it almost hurt, your mind screaming for you to run, to flee, to take your life away from this creature that you had stupidly allowed into your home.
you threaded the needle on the third try, the fine white blooming with pink thread trembling, nearly invisible against the pale stretch of his chest. your hands shook so badly you almost dropped it. the skin around the wound was ragged, edges uneven where flesh had been ripped, the deep split red and glistening under the low light. the antiseptic had slowed the bleeding, but it hadn't stopped.
“i’m so sorry,” you whispered, the words a mantra as you pressed the needle’s tip against the torn skin.
the first puncture was the worst.
the needle sank into his skin with more resistance than you expected—flesh tugging against the intrusion, warm and too real. he jerked, a sharp inhale, the cords of his neck standing out as his fists curled tighter into the quilt, and you flinched at the loud tear of his hands against your couch. blood welled around the needle as you pushed it deeper, your stomach twisting when it finally broke through the other side of the gash with a sickening pop.
the flesh resisted. it wasn’t like fabric at all—tougher, warmer, trembling beneath your touch. you fought the urge to gag, pressing on, forcing the needle through again. the thread looped tight, binding flesh where it had been torn. there was something brutal about it, the needle dipping in and out, blood seeping with every pull.
the thread followed, trembling as you pulled it through, tugging the edges of the wound closer together with a grotesque wet sound. his breath hitched. you could feel the way his body flinched under your touch, every shudder, every strained inhale like the threat of a breaking point. the thread cut pale lines against your fingers as you drew it taut, knotting it with a clumsy, desperate twist of your wrist.
there was too much blood. it coated your hands, sticky and warm, soaking into the quilt you had stitched so carefully months ago.
he made no sound beyond the ragged pant of his breathing, the occasional shudder when the pain must’ve burned too sharp. you kept going, focusing only on the rhythm—pierce, pull, tie. each stitch a prayer. each knot a plea. a hope that you would not be the cause of a death. when the worst of the chest wounds were closed, you moved to his arms, hands still shaking, though steadier now. the cuts there were shallower but still demanded care.
you forced yourself to keep working. the next stitch was just as hard—skin resisting, the needle tearing through layer by layer with awful precision. the thread was already red, slick where it passed through, sticking to your fingers. it was hard to tell what was blood and what was sweat anymore, your pulse roaring so loud you could barely hear his ragged breathing.
you thought of all the things you'd stitched before—delicate floral patterns on the hem of a dress, the patchwork flower you’d embroidered onto the very quilt beneath him. you thought of how simple it had been then, how quiet, how safe. this wasn't safe. this was a body tearing at the seams, and you were sewing it shut with nothing but trembling hands and the frantic hope that you weren’t making it worse. you weren't even using the proper thread for sutures, just some twenty yen poly thread you found at the konbini.
the wound was closing, that was a given. jagged, ugly, but closed. you cut the thread with the blade of a paring knife, wiping your shaking hands against your pyjamas though it did nothing but smear the blood further.
you could still feel his pulse beneath your fingertips, weak but there, as though his body hadn’t quite decided if it wanted to keep holding on.
it had sealed, a rough, uneven path of now-red thread snaking across a pale, mottled expanse of skin. you held your breath as you cut the thread, wiping your hands against your clothes—though it was a pointless act, the blood staining your hands and your clothes both. the tremors had faded from his frame, and in the soft light through the open window, he looked older than you’d originally thought. worn.
your mind swam, your breath shallow and trembling, staring at your work. you’d done this. you’d stitched his skin back together with your hands, mended his flesh, put him back together. it was shoddy work, nothing like the careful, even sewing you did on fabric, but it was, at the very least, done.
but the blood was still there. thick under your nails, drying in harsh, cracked lines along your wrists where it had soaked in too deep. you rubbed at it again, frantic, but it had already begun to cling. already a part of you.
you tried to scrub more of the blood off your skin, but like you had known it would, the blood stayed. it stuck, stubborn and viscous, beneath your fingernails and across your shaking hands, refusing to go no matter how desperately you tried to remove it. your skin was stained red from the force of your efforts, raw and aching and red.
still, you didn’t stop, frenzied now with the need to remove the blood, refusing to touch anything else, refusing to accept that you couldn’t go back to the way things were. before, when you hadn’t known this creature, when you hadn’t helped him. back to the soft, safe way you had lived before.
but that was gone now, stolen in a moment of weakness and foolishness. you’d been too nice, too caring, had reached out when you should have run away. and now he was here, in your home, and you’d touched him, had helped him, stained yourself with his blood until it was part of your very skin.
your gaze drifted back to him. his chest still rose and fell—too shallow, too weak, but moving. the worst of the bleeding had stopped. it should have felt like a victory. it didn’t.
he looked worse now that the worst of the damage had been sealed shut. the pale stretch of his skin was littered with scars, some faded into silver lines, others fresher, jagged, just barely healed over. each one told a story you didn’t have the answers to. brutal, violent history carved into flesh.
and now you’d added your own thread to the tapestry.
you felt like you were going to be sick.
your eyes blurred again, the copper tang in the air making your stomach twist tighter. he hadn’t made a sound in a while—too quiet now, his head lolling to the side, cheek pale where it pressed into the bloodied quilt. you wanted to check his pulse again, to know for certain he was still alive. but your hands wouldn’t stop shaking.
you could feel your stomach roiling, nausea like a living thing rising in your throat, acidic and bitter. your head was spinning now, your limbs trembling with an adrenaline you hadn’t realized you had. the world felt strange, almost surreal, as though you were seeing it through a haze, and you couldn’t stop yourself from staring at the wounds, at your own work, at the monster in front of you. you’d done that. you’d been the one to close the wound, the one to help him, the one to care. and now, he was here, in your home, and he wasn’t going anywhere.
and, worst of all, you wanted him to stay. somehow, someway, you didn’t want him to leave.
instead, you forced yourself to move. the basin of now-pink water beside you had long since cooled, the rag floating limp on the surface. you dipped it in again, wringing it out too tightly, and began wiping the blood from his skin with delicate, trembling strokes.
the water only spread it at first. thin, pink streaks over his ribs, between the dark ink lines of old bruises already beginning to bloom. your hands trembled as you wiped the blood from his skin, your every movement slow and cautious, your breaths coming harsh and short. your eyes were fixed on the movement of the rag, the way the blood came off in thick, slow rivulets, as you tried to keep your gaze from lingering on the scars that peppered his skin
there was something out there big enough, strong enough, to do this to someone like him.
the thought sent a shiver down your spine, your eyes still fixed on his skin as you carefully cleaned the last, smears of blood from his stomach. the marks on his skin, so many of them, told a story of pain long drawn out, of fight and violence.
he was strong, clearly, to have lived through such things. his muscles were like carved stone, lean but strong, his skin smooth and pale, his frame lithe like a feline predator.
and all of that strength, all that power, had almost gotten him killed. something out there, somewhere, had hurt him, something that could have destroyed him. and it could return again.
your hand brushed lower, along his side, and he stirred—barely, just a twitch, a low, broken sound dragging from the back of his throat as his body instinctively flinched from the touch.
his breath hitched, a low, pained sound escaping him as your hand brushed against his side, his muscles tensing and shying away from the touch, almost instinctively. your eyes snapped to his face, watching as pain twisted his expression, his body going rigid as the touch stung against already fragile, wounded flesh.
“hey,” you whispered, soft. a lullaby voice, the way you spoke to frightened things with wings too fragile to hold. the sound barely carried in the stillness of the room, fragile as a breath, and yet it felt too loud. “shh… it’s okay. you’re safe now.”
the words tasted foreign, like something borrowed. heavy in your mouth, weighted with doubt, each syllable dragging behind it a truth you couldn’t believe. because it wasn’t okay. not really.
he wasn’t safe. and neither were you.
his body lay broken and battered, but there was nothing weak about him. you saw it even in his stillness—the tension in his frame, the faint quiver in his muscles. a coiled spring ready to snap. you caught sight of his hand then, pale knuckles locked around the edge of the quilt like a lifeline, trembling as though he was anchoring himself to something, anything.
those hands could kill you. he could kill you.
even like this, fragile in a way that defied logic, he was strong. his strength wasn’t something that could be stripped away by wounds or exhaustion; it was something that lived inside him, something carved into his bones. beneath the ruin of him, that power still hummed, restless and wild, waiting to tear free.
but he hadn’t. not yet.
your pulse thundered, a frantic rhythm that filled the room, filled your head, filled the fragile quiet between you. you couldn’t shake the thought, circling like a predator: he could kill you. the knowledge settled in your chest like a stone, cold and heavy. but it didn’t stop you from reaching for him.
you set the rag down, fingers stiff and clumsy, and shifted to adjust the blanket draped over his frame. it wasn’t much, just a simple thing patched with years of wear, but it was all you had to give. you pulled it higher, careful not to disturb the crude stitching that barely held his wounds together. the fabric brushed his chest, and for a moment, you thought he flinched.
he didn’t stop you.
the thought should’ve brought comfort. it didn’t. it only made your hands shake harder, the weight of your choice bearing down on you. what had you done? what were you doing?
you hadn’t saved a man. you’d let a wolf into your home.
and now, you were trapped.
you could feel it in the air—something thrumming, something electric, something just shy of snapping. he wasn’t awake, not really, but his presence filled the room like a storm on the horizon. and you, so small, so soft, were nothing more than a mouse. trembling, helpless, guarding something you didn’t understand. something with teeth sharp enough to devour you whole.
your eyes lingered on his face, hollowed and bruised, still twisted with defiance even in sleep. you wondered if his dreams haunted him.
you wondered if he dreamed of blood.
you hadn’t saved a man. you’d let the wolf into your home. and now you were trapped, trembling, nothing more than a mouse standing guard over something with teeth sharp enough to devour you whole.
and part of you feared, deep in your bones, that once he was strong enough again—he would remember what he was.
Rating: M (will evolve)
Warning/Tags: angst; comfort; touch-starved; feelings but everyone is bad at feelings
Word count: 4.8k
Summary: After an intense fight against Devon Izara and her Master Eeko-Dio Daki, Maul finds himself injured and separated from his crew. He has no choice but to pay a visit to an acquaintance of his in order to get patched up. And perhaps a little more...
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It had been a slow day at the repair workshop so you had decided to go home early. You straddled your modest speeder and took the usual route. As the vehicle started to pick up speed, you threw a quick glance down at the spaceport, located just a couple blocks away from your workplace.
The docking bays were buzzing with people, spaceships of all sizes coming and going. With a recent regain of violence and crime syndicates becoming more daring, some people in Janix City had feared that trade and business would be impacted. Not dramatically, but enough to disrupt the economy in the capital at least.
However, business was booming, by the look of the traffic this evening. You smiled as you stirred the speeder higher in the air. Like most mechanics in the city center, you got paid per unit. More ships coming in meant more work. Not to mention, the atmosphere around Janix was difficult to manoeuvre, especially for newcomers. Their ships would often get minor damage just from flying in, making the repair shop their first stop on the planet.
As you often did before dipping into the lower levels, you admired the skyline and neons glowing around you, the hovering skyscrapers reflecting the last lights of the day. While one half of the city prepared to retire for the evening, the other came to life. Casinos, races, fighting rings—some of them more legals than others—there was plenty enough to entertain oneself from dusk till dawn.
Like all planets, Janix had its issues, but at least it remained mostly untouched by the Empire. You’d only heard a couple stories from nearby systems. Censorship, abuse of power, mass surveillance; nothing that sounded too appealing. Sometimes you wondered if the mid-rim planet had just escaped their notice or wasn’t deemed profitable enough. A part of you feared that this tranquility wouldn’t last, but each passing day with a sky devoid of imperial ships proved you wrong, and you were certainly not mad about that.
The door to your modest apartment in the lower level slid shut behind you and you leaned against it with a thud, rolling your sore neck and shoulders. The job was fine and you were good at it, but it definitely took its toll on your body after a few years. A sigh escaped you as you pushed yourself off the door and walked to the small kitchenette. Perhaps you were just getting old.
There was some cold caf left on the counter, and you didn’t feel like cooking at this hour. Besides, there wasn’t much to look at in the fridge. It would have to do. As you went to pour yourself a cup, there was a movement on the other side of the room. It was minimal, but you definitely saw it in your peripheral. With the speed of someone used to handle weapons, you grabbed your blaster from under the counter and aimed it at the shadow in the corner of the room. Two bright yellow eyes were fixed on you, unmistakable. You slammed the blaster down as you flicked the light on.
He was sitting in your armchair, seemingly unphased by the fact that you had just pointed a weapon straight at him. You pinched the bridge of your nose. There went your quiet night. It was not often that the zabrak showed up on your doorstep, but when he did, it was rarely for Corellian brandy over a game of dejarik.
"Kriffing hells, Maul. You could’ve—"
"Knocked?" He interrupted in that insufferably calm voice of his. He wasn’t wrong, knocking wasn’t really his style. If you were being honest, this was one of the most acceptable entrance he’d ever made. The first time you had met him, he had quite literally flown through your window and threatened you with his lightsaber until he had deemed you trustworthy enough.
All things considered, this wasn’t so terrible. Regardless, he expected to be reprimanded some more. Seeing it wasn’t happening, he continued on.
"I require some assistance." You looked at him without saying a word. Truth is, there wasn’t much to say. After multiple encounters with Maul, you had come to understand just how powerful he was. Powerful enough to never have to ask for anything. What he wanted, he took, and even though he never had had to force your hand for anything, you had no doubt this rule applied to you as well.
For a brief moment you wondered what he would do if you said no. Not that you wanted to. After your first encounter, he had always been decent with you, respectful of your time and space, thankful even, but the thought creeped into your brain anyhow. You made nothing of it, and waited for him to elaborate.
Maul pushed himself out of the arm chair with visible effort and began to limp towards you. Electric sparks flickered from his right leg, accompanied by a faulty mechanical whine your trained ears recognised instantly. Reflexively, you pulled a chair out for him and crouched down to have a closer look.
Maul had grown used to your presence by now, comfortable enough that you no longer needed to ask for permission to touch him. Still, there was something oddly fragile about the closeness. Not unfamiliar, but not entirely easy either. You were aware of him in a way that went beyond the task itself.
You noticed because you were used to the opposite—a quiet, solitary life here on Janix, working alone all day on machines. It had never bothered you. And yet, you had noticed that every time Maul came back, there was this strange warmth in your gut. You found yourself waiting, hoping for his visits more often than you cared to admit.
Because of that, you felt the proximity twice as strongly now. A part of you wondered if he felt it too. You suspected that the closeness was as novel to you as it was to him. But the progress was undeniable. You had vivid memories of how difficult it had been at the beginning: his stubbornness, the way he resisted, how he had practically refused the help he had come here to seek. Things had changed, but you couldn’t quite tell whether the line of necessity had been crossed on his end.
Better to focus on one problem at a time.
The cybernetic legs had always seemed very high quality to you, very sturdy and heavy. But after a quick glance and feel, there was no doubt. The wires had been disconnected, if not severed, and the complex mechanism inside completely busted. Whatever hit him there had struck true and hard, harder than should be humanely possible. That, or his leg had been crushed under something big. Either way, you were gonna need some tools to fix it.
You rose with a huff. There was something you were curious about.
You had never tempered with his cybernetics before, but you had had the opportunity to have a good look at them. It was clear that someone operated maintenance on those on a regular basis. With material as intricate and expensive, it was not only recommended, but mandatory. His presence here more or less confirmed that Maul left the tech part in the hands of someone else. So why come to you?
"I assume you have people somewhere, people who could fix this," you said nonchalantly. A poor attempt at fishing information from him, one he didn’t fall for.
In your defense, he never gave you much. If his recurring injuries were any indication, you imagined him to be part of a gang of some sort; stars know there were plenty operating on Janix. That or a pit fighter perhaps. You had heard of multiple events taking place clandestinely in the bowels of the city. Apparently they were quite popular in the underworld.
Maul cleared his throat. "My people and I were…separated." Well that was a kriffing start. "Hence my presence here." He searched your eyes, uncertainty passing briefly through his own. Could it be that you truly were his last resort?
"Can you fix it?" He asked, his voice less assertive than usual.
You nodded, "Yeah. Yes, of course, just give me a minute." He watched you disappear in an adjacent room as he pulled two extra chairs from under the kitchen table. One to extend his leg on, and one for you. He unclipped his lightsaber from his belt and placed it carefully on the table.
Maul would never admit it, but he had indeed come here a little out of desperation, and frankly, he didn’t have a plan B. That Jedi master got him good, he had felt it as soon has the kick had landed. Walking all the way to your apartment had hurt, and he couldn’t remember the last time he had felt this vulnerable. He hated it. He didn’t tolerate weakness, and that extended especially to himself.
You came back with a little tool bag under your arm and a pocket lamp. A light smile pulled at your lips seeing how quietly and patiently he waited for you, hands in his lap. You sat down and leaned towards his leg. First you got a good feel of it, the durasteel cold in your palms. Your fingers slid along the alloy, searching for a slider or a screw. There had to be a way to get a look inside this thing.
Sure enough, you found a panel on the inside of the upper calf, so seamless you almost missed it, and clicked it open.
Without a word, you pressed the pocket lamp into his hand and guided it over the open panel to get a clearer view. Your physical forwardness surprised him a little, but what unsettled him the most was the lack of instinctive pull to shake you off. And when your fingers closed tighter around his wrist to adjust the beam, he let you.
The content of the panel was fairly standard; actuators, wires, and servomotors, though the materials were very high quality as you suspected. You pulled the essentials out from the bag: pliers, calibrator, screwdriver, soldering tool, and a data-probe for good measure.
Once the probe was plugged in the output, you read the information on the small reader connected to it. From the corner of your eye, you could tell that Maul was leaning over to look at the data as well. Whether he could understand it was a mystery to you; either way, he didn’t ask.
You picked up the soldering tool and gave it a moment to warm up before getting to work. Every so often, you asked Maul to move the light closer, higher, or at a different angle. He complied silently each time, eager to assist you. You glanced up at him every now and then, only to find his attention fixed on your hands, assessing. He caught you looking a couple times, his eyes flicking up to meet yours before dropping again.
It was difficult to know what went through his mind most times. The man was a complete wall and gave nothing away. On the rare occasion you had managed to draw something out of him—if one could call it that—he had shut down just as quickly as though he regretted the lapse. It unnerved you. Not that he owed it to you, but you had saved his life, for kriff’s sake, more than once; would it really kill him to talk to you. There was no use dwelling on that right now, you focused back on the task at hand.
Some of the wires would need to be replaced entirely. Luckily for him, you had plenty lying around. The rest was straightforward enough. A few recalibrations here and there, and a little soldering to finish the job.
Sparks flew as you sealed the connections, and a little smoke and smell of heated alloy escaped from the panel. As you got closer to the central interface, you felt Maul starting to tense up, which was curious. Before you got to ask any questions, a zapping sound emerged from the circuitry.
Without warning, Maul’s leg spasmed between your hands and his arm snapped out to grab at something, probably to ground himself, but he only ended up knocking his lightsaber from the table. You jerked back instinctively, heart pumping, holding your tools up firmly. Your eyes flicked towards Maul, then to his leg. He let out a curse you did not understand. His hand was still half-curled where it had struck out, fingers tense, like he hadn’t fully come back from the reflex.
Your brows shot up at the realisation.
"You can feel that?" You exclaimed, surprised, but mostly curious. So this conveyed much more than just mechanical feedback. Fascinating indeed. Maul simply shrugged.
"Well, I suppose it must be connected to something."
"Right, right. Your nervous system," you nodded enthusiastically. "Can you feel this?" You zapped him on a random wire this time, right below the knee joint, and he flinched again, slightly less intensely.
"Must you—" he groaned, more out of exasperation than actual pain.
"How about this?" You cut him off, poking at his ankle now. Part of you was genuinely interested in the circuitry and technology. And another guilty part of you enjoyed seeing him react.
You wouldn’t claim to know the man, as it were, but you had interacted with him enough times to suspect that he was the strong silent type. Even when you had cauterised a wound and offered him nothing more than spice rum to dull the pain that one time, he hadn’t said a word. And had refused the drink too. Something about staying lucid he had said. At least now you had proof there were things he could actually feel.
"I did not come here to be experimented on." There was a little fury in his voice now, one that you’d seen before and that urged you to stop playing around.
"Which brings up a very interesting question, why do you come here?" He blinked. If he wanted to play cold shoulder with you, then that was exactly what you were going to give him. "You walk into my home uninvited, occasionally bleed out on my floor, let me patch you up and then disappear for weeks without so much as a sign of life. Rinse and repeat."
"And I appreciate that," he said through greeted teeth.
"Oh, I’m sure you do." You sneered, not really believing a word of it. "You can lie back, I won’t poke you. Not more than I need to anyways." You added purely out of pettiness, and enjoyed the annoyance painted all over his face.
He did relax eventually, and extended his arm to retrieve his lightsaber. The object flew directly into his waiting palm, and you watched in quiet awe just like you had the first time he’d done that in front of you.
Once you were satisfied with your work, you clicked the panel back into place. Then, you gave the knee joint a quick inspection. In order to test it, you guided his leg in a slow circular motion. Each time you bent it to a ninety-degree angle, Maul grunted and clenched his fists tight. If he wanted you to stop, he gave no indication.
You grabbed your calibrator and worked your magic. After a few minutes of surprisingly cooperative work—you making the adjustments, him letting you know how they felt—you finally got to the point where he couldn’t feel any pain at all. You finished the repairs in silence after that. Sound of servos twitched and adapted until the movement became smooth and natural.
"There. Should be good as new." You said with assurance as Maul kept moving his ankle in all directions.
"So…how did that happen?" You asked tentatively, gesturing towards his leg. You were genuinely curious, but asking also felt like the right thing to do—the normal thing to do. After all, you had been spending more and more time with him, repairing his body, tending to the organic parts first and now the mechanical ones. For better or for worse, you had come to care. The frustrating part was that he didn’t. Or didn’t seem to.
What bothered you was not that he didn’t care for you, it was that he didn’t care about himself. Sure, he payed you a good sum for good service each time but that was purely transactional; it had nothing to do with actually taking care of himself. Someone who so willingly and repeatedly placed himself in harm's way couldn’t possibly give a damn about what happened to him. Perhaps Maul found it particularly easy to be so cold and detached; you most certainly did not.
"Did you fight a gorog or something?" You tried one last time before he would inevitably rise from that kitchen chair and disappear through your window again. His eyes were fixed on you, head lightly tilted to the side, but he said nothing still. You smiled bitterly to yourself, defeated once again.
"Right. I don’t even know why I keep bothering with questions. Might as well be talking to a faulty protocol droid."
"Why are you being difficult?" He said out of the blue, seemingly irritated as well. That struck a chord, that he would only speak to you to scold you. He had no right.
"Difficult? I’m the difficult one?" You shot up to your feet, taking a step back and away from him. Not out of fear, but necessity. Every time you tried to get close, it came to smack you right back in the face.
"You wanna know something? Last time you came here, you lost consciousness right here on the floor. Long enough for me to consider what I should do with your body. And I didn’t kriffing know because you don’t tell me anything. You come here and place your life in my hands for reasons that—" you scoffed, "are frankly beyond my comprehension. You give me a reason to care and then act like it don’t mean shit to you." Your voice had risen significantly louder, and you could feel your heart thrumming in your chest.
"You don’t get to walk in and out of my life and then treat me as a stranger, Maul. You don’t get to do that. I have tried to give you space, I’ve tried to be patient, but every attempt just ends up with you shutting down even harder. And maybe I’m doing something wrong, but if I had even a little help from you, I—"
You sighed, the words dying on your tongue as you realized none of them would reach him. It all felt so pointless.
"In case you haven’t notice, I’m not good at this. I fix things, that’s what I do. Not people. And, holy fucking shit, you have a whole lot that needs fixing… and I don’t just mean physically." By then, you were out of breath, pacing the room without even realising it. Maul remained ever silent.
So that was it then, back to square one. Screw that, and screw him, there was no use making this last any longer than necessary. Without so much as a glance in his direction, you began shoving your tools back into the bag. You zipped it up, ready to sling it over your shoulder when you heard the scrape of his chair against the floor.
Maul stood up, very slowly, and took a step closer. You kept your gaze down, avoiding his stare. To you, there was nothing more to say.
He hovered over you for a moment before reaching for your hand, clenched tight around the bag’s straps. His gloved fingers brushed yours, the touch gentle, urging you to let go. It was an odd feeling. Until now, you had always been the one to touch him, never the other way around. You had long assumed those hands served only violence; Maul had never given you reason to think otherwise. The unease it initially sparked quickly dissipated into one of comfort. Enough for your grip to loosen, the bag slipping from your hold.
Was this what he was doing, comforting you? It was hard to tell with someone like him. Honestly, you had half expected him to get up and leave after your little berating. It had been positively reckless to speak to him like this, now that you thought of it; who knows how he could have reacted. You didn’t think he would go as far as hurting you, but then again, there was much you ignored about Maul. Maybe the passive reaction was a good thing in his book. He had always been very economical with his words around you, which is why what happened next surprised you. Both.
"Trust." He said as he removed his hand from yours, but remained exactly where he was. Immediately, you felt the loss of his touch and mentally slapped yourself for it. Were you so alone these days that you had come to crave the touch of a man you hardly knew. He was still standing so close, close enough that you felt his breath brushing your neck.
Usually, it wasn’t difficult for Maul to spill a yarn when he needed to. He had grown quite good at it over the years, actually, and it had served him well in his many endeavours. After all, he had been taught by a master of deceit. At the moment, however, he found it incredibly hard to get the words out. It wasn’t that he didn’t mean them—he did, more than he cared to admit. But he was exposing himself to a degree that scared him.
In hard times, he had only the force to turn to, meditating in silence for long hours in the dark. When that failed, he unleashed his wrath upon whatever unfortunate soul crossed his path. And that worked. He never spoke on his concerns or fears. He acted on them. Turning to others had never been an option. Until now.
If there was ever a time for Maul to speak plainly, this was it. You had given him the opportunity—the question was whether he was ready to take it. Truthfully, there were many things he wished to express, many feelings that needed to be addressed. More than that, you deserved honesty from him. But how to proceed? Where to even begin. His brain was nothing but a blender of pain, and quiet torture, of hatred and repression—yet beneath it all lingered a desperate need to be heard, to be understood. If even he couldn’t make sense of those thoughts, then how would they sound to you?
He had to start somewhere.
Trust.
"That is why I come here," he continued, confidence slowly building within of him. "I feel…at ease in this place. Around you. A rare occurrence, I assure you." Your palms still lay flat on the table, your gaze fixed on them. But you were listening, that was the important part.
"It is why I have kept coming back ever since. Often times when other options were presented to me. I did not want the other options. Not after you made it clear that you were comfortable with all of this. That you weren’t afraid… of me." He paused, searching for the proper way to express what he truly wanted to say.
"I can sense that there is more you wish to know about me. I simply—" he shook his head, hoping you would see that the frustration was aimed only at himself. Why was this so kriffing complicated?
He raised a hand hesitantly towards you, stopping just inches away, terrified at the thought of you flinching away again. When you didn’t, he let it rest fully on your shoulder, gently turning you so that you finally looked at him.
"Listen to me. The things I do… they put me in precarious situations, with dangerous people. I hurt them and they try to hurt me in return. Given the opportunity, they would no doubt come for the people who—" He stopped himself, as he always did when the confessions became too personal. "I don’t wish to involve you."
As the words left his mouth, he heard them clearly, and practically winced. By all accounts, it sounded like a patronising cop-out, an excuse to remain avoidant. The easy way out.
You lingered on his words, turning them over in your head, and realised just how bittersweet the truth was. He cared, the poor fool, even if he didn’t know what to do with it. And at the same time, there was this self-imposed duty to keep you at arm’s length, because his was a life of violence, with death lurking at every corner. You saw it every time he came to you, in the severity of his injuries. To take offence would make you the greater fool.
You chose to be understanding. This was abysmal progress for Maul, and that was what mattered.
Maul both saw and felt your body relax slightly, an encouraging sign that brought some relief in him too.
"For what it’s worth… I believe you’re quite good at fixing people." He said with a hint of caution, as if trying to win you back over.
Maul wanted you to know that he was grateful. Grateful for your care, but mostly for your patience with him.
Over the years, he had come to understand that people did not trust him, wanted nothing to do with him, unless he threatened them with death or have them work for him. Every alliance he’d ever attempted, every peace offering, had been batted away—sometimes agreed upon only to end in betrayal.
Building this…companionship with you had taken months. It had required patience, occasional head-butting, and genuine effort from both sides. He didn’t want to lose that.
There was a more burdensome and unsettling truth beneath all this. One Maul didn’t want to name. The way he felt when you put your hands on him, caring, mending what could be mended. To him it was so much more then simply treating his injuries. It was a true refuge from anything else he knew.
You were right. There were wounds inside him that simply would not heal. Not unless he faced them instead of trying to place them in your hands. It had been selfish of him, to ask for so much while giving so little in return. It had almost costed him this. Nearly cost him you.
You responded to his shy compliment with an equally shy smile, and briefly covered his hand with yours. A language, you both understood.
"How’s the leg?" You asked as a way to break the palpable tension—which Maul was grateful for.
He walked around a bit, testing his balance. He crouched down, then stood back up, relieved to find no lag or malfunction. Every movement felt like his own again.
"It’s…good. Very good. Thank you." He looked as though he remembered something and reached for some credits in his tunic to place them on the table. With one glance, you could tell there was much more than usual.
"Maul," you said with intent. "This means more than credits to me." Your eyes held his, you truly needed him understand that.
He exhaled longly, then mirrored your earlier smile.
"For me as well." He answered, and this was the most open he had allowed himself to be around you yet. Sometimes, he needed the reassurance too, you were starting to see that.
Usually, this was the point where he bid you farewell and you went back to your very ordinary life. But you stood there facing each other in comfortable silence. In the span of a few minutes, you both had spoken more than you ever had during all your encounters, it had certainly knocked down a few necessary walls; some you had trouble navigating around before.
"You can stay the night if you need," you offered, suddenly remembering his predicament. If he hadn’t been able to reach out to his crew, then he probably couldn’t go back to wherever it was they stayed. "The couch’s not much to look at but it’s, um…" you scratched your head has your eyes landed on the tired old piece of furniture.
"It’s perfect," Maul finished for you.
You brought him a light cover, just in case, and told him there were a couple of rations left in the cupboard if he was hungry. Then you bid each other goodnight—and it felt strange, and so natural all at once. Funny how things unfolded. A couple hours ago, this would’ve sounded impossible.
Maul waited until you had retreated to your bedroom before laying on the couch. He folded the cover under his head to protect the cushion from his horns, then starred at the ceiling. He had really opened up tonight, and, strangely enough, he didn’t feel weaker for it. It was a nice feeling, albeit foreign, like a weigh had been lifted from him.
He allowed himself another smile, warm this time, and flicked the light off with a wave of his hand.
Next chapter: more hurt but also more comfort! And, yes, smut.
Thank you for reading, hope you enjoyed it. Let me know what you think, I love reading your comments!
Everybody say thank you to @carnally-mauls for the wonderful banner!
꒰ ᴄᴏᴏʟᴇʀ ᴛʜᴀɴ ʏᴏᴜ ꒱ ˎˊ˗ you’re so much cooler than enjin and he’s about to lose his mind.
most people found enjin intimidating.
he was tall, broad shouldered, outspoken - too fucking outspoken. people stepped out of his path without thinking. his tattoos alone were reason enough to make new recruits hesitate before speaking to him
yeah, he had a reputation.
unfortunately for said reputation you existed.
also unfortunately, you were so far out of his league it was borderline humiliating.
you didn’t try to look cool. you just were. that was the worst part of it.
you walked into a room with effortless confidence. black coat draped perfectly over your shoulders. boots heavy against the floor, and your expression calm enough that people instinctively lowered their voices when you passed.
your aura alone made people nervous.
even rudo once whispered, “why does it feel like the temperature drops when she walks in?”
but don’t get them wrong. you’re a lovely person. once people got to know you they liked you. it was just the first impression.
however — enjin was completely gone. yearning wouldn’t even scratch the surface of how badly he needed you.
in a room with thousands girls his eyes would always find yours. always. it was almost embarrassing how obvious it was.
“stop staring,” follo muttered once embarrassed.
“‘m not.”
“you haven’t blinked in like ten seconds,” rudo pointed out.
so, enjin blinked once and then continued staring.
across the room you leaned casually against the wall, arms folded while you talked to semiu. a casual conversation between two friends.
no big deal for enjin.
then gris joined them. he asked something, said something. whatever. you smiled.
big fucking deal for enjin.
immediately he straightened to, yeah, getting involved. gris was good looking, and good looking men should stay away from you.
“relax,” follo sighed. “he’s just asking about the mission tomorrow.”
“i am relaxed.”
“you’re gripping your umbrella like you consider stabbing him with it.”
enjin loosened his grip… a tiny bit. and because the universe worked that way you glanced over to him, and your eyes met instantly.
the fainted curve of amusement graced your features, like you had caught him doing something mildly embarrassing. which, to be fair, you had.
rudo groaned softly, “great, she knows.”
of course you did. you always knew.
you pushed yourself off the wall and walked over, coat shifting around your legs as the room subtly parted for you. conversations quieted, and people stepped aside without being asked.
you stopped right in front of him. up close the coolness of your presence was even worse.
okay, that was a fucking lie.
enjin could see the kindness behind your eyes, and the soft flush on your cheeks because of the alcohol you had.
still your gaze flicked over him slowly, then you tilted your head. “why are you staring.”
it wasn’t even a question.
enjin cleared his throat slightly. “I wasn’t.”
you looked at rudo and then at follo who raised both hands immediately. “we’re not involved.”
your eyes returned to enjin. “you were.”
“was not.”
you leaned closer and enjin stopped breathing for a second.
“your pupils get bigger,” you said calmly. “when you stare.”
behind you someone choked on a laugh. but enjin didn’t laugh as his ears turned faintly red.
“you’re imagining things.”
“am i?”
you reached out suddenly, fingers catching the front of his shirt collar and tugged him down slightly until he was forced to lean closer to you.
the entire room froze. rudo mumbled something about sweets. follo covered his face.
“you’re embarrassing yourself again,” you murmured quietly to enjin.
his brain stopped working. you smelled like something subtle and expensive. maybe a perfume. your expression remained perfectly composed while his pulse jumped like he had just been thrown into a fight.
“you could at least pretend to be subtle.”
“i am subtle,” he muttered.
“you were staring like a kicked puppy.”
“was not.”
your lips twitched, and it was the biggest win for enjin. he might was down bad, but he was affecting you too.
you released his collar, and for a brief moment he thought it was over. (un)fortunately for him - you were not finished.
your hand slid up instead, fingers lightly brushing his jaw before flicking his forehead. a tiny tap.
“focus,” you hummed.
enjin stood there, completely stunned. you had already turned away again, completely unbothered.
halfway across the room you glanced over your shoulder, and your eyes met his again. this time your smile was a little bit more obvious - teasing, a tiny but soft.
he was so obvious, and you were very aware of the effect you had on him.
“you’re so down bad it hurts to watch,” follo clapped enjin on the shoulder.
enjin didn’t respond, because this time you were across the room, watching him. despite the humiliation, despite the secondhand embarrassment radiating from everyone nearby his chest felt suspiciously warm.
for him you were terrifying, untouchable and too fucking cool for him. and apparently very entertained by the fact that he could barely function when you were around.
here is my esteemed collection of darth maul, savage opress, as well as feral archives. feel free to take your time whilst reading through them, & let me know which work is your favorite! works that are starred are meant for those eighteen & beyond, as they are mature content.
enjoy reading about my favorite character of all time, as well as my beloved sith <3
Summary: You are strong in the force, but horrible in wielding a lightsaber. In the heights of the Clone Wars, the Council sends you on a mission alone, despite still being a Padawan. You encounter a Sith and realize that you are not strong enough to fight him. So why not join him?
Tags: Clone Wars Maul, Jedi Readder, slow burn but also not really lovers? it'll be complicated alright! Platonic but with feelings?? violence and trauma fitting a Sith
8274 words
You woke late but well rested. Maul wasn't on the ship. You had felt him leave about an hour ago, his absence had allowed your body and mind to rest. The day started with inspecting your wounds. They had healed well and except for the bruise on your side and some scratches on your hands, you were in good condition. Breakfast consisted of a rations box and the rest of water from your canteen. It would need refilling, but that was an issue for later. Maul was returning, you felt it through the force. There was something ominous about it, like watching an oncoming storm come closer and anticipating the downpour. Not a drizzle, but a torrential rain that floods streets and uproots trees. Then, you remembered his whimpering last night and asked yourself if that made him more or less intimidating.
Quickly, you gulped down the last of your breakfast and walked out of the freighter to meet your new master outside. He carried a stick about the length of a double bladed lightsaber, though only half as thick. There were no trees or bushes around as far as one could see, he must have tracked to a swamp to get it. Two lightsabers dangled from his hip.
Had it been a mistake to surrender yours, you wondered.
"Come," Maul commanded and you followed wordlessly.
He led you a couple of feet away from the freighter. You stood on top of a rocky plateau, it was a fairly high point in comparison to the rest of the moon. Vaguely, you remembered how exhausting it was walking up the cliff after your fight with Maul. It wasn’t a special sight that this position revealed. Just rocks as far as the eyes could see. This was to be a training fight, you felt it. The only cover you’d have was a loose boulder and the freighter.
"You will show me how you fight without the force," Maul said calmly.
An involuntary groan slipped out and your stomach clenched, "Must I? You have seen me fight with a lightsaber while using the force. You can take my word for it that not using the force will not improve anything."
Maul had considered your situation. Having you as an ally could prove valuable, but he'd much prefer you were more able in weapon combat. Jedi were so awfully delicate when it came to anything combat related. In Maul’s eyes, Jedi were less suited fighters than artists. He could appreciate a beautiful lightsaber fight, but you being seemingly unable to wield a lightsaber with any form of coordination was strange.
Jedi were such feeble things. A little anger could unbalance their fighting style. So, Maul thought, maybe you had outgrown your lightsaber. Standing a couple feet away from you, Maul tossed you his lightsaber.
You caught it with ease and inspected it. It weighed unusually heavy in your hands. A sense of dread washed over you. You didn't dare to ignite the red blade. This blade had been used to kill innocent people. And Jedi. Something told you that it is the saber that killed Master Qui-Gon Jinn. You had been so young when you heard what had happened on Naboo. How old had you been back then? Eight? Maybe nine years old. You had liked Master Qui-Gon, at least the little you saw of him when he instructed younglings.
"I cannot fight with this blade," you announced.
Maul had observed your hesitancy with great curiosity. He couldn't read your mind but felt how unsettled you were while holding his saber.
“Sensitivities of Jedi,” he mumbled dismissively to himself.
You tossed the saber back to Maul, who clipped it back onto his belt.
"Tell me, my apprentice, what is the force to you?" Maul asked with feigned patience. He was slightly annoyed that he had to start at the very beginning, but also excited at the prospect of shattering your beliefs.
You repeated what the Jedi had taught you and what you had experienced to be true, "It's like a stream of water. Always in motion. It has the power to shape whatever it touches. It's the energy that permeates all living things.”
"Really?" Maul asks flatly, "And where are you in that little picture?"
"I'm part of the force like everything else. Like...wading through the water, maybe," you shrugged.
Maul disappointedly clicks with his tongue and remarks, "Such a Jedi answer."
His dismissive attitude made you squirm. What did he expect? Your new master looked at you as if you were an innocent, incompetent child. It brought back uncomfortable memories of your Jedi masters. You couldn’t shake the feeling that history was repeating itself.
"The force, my apprentice, is a weapon you can yield. Only people strong enough can bend it to their will and use it to their advantage. The light side of the force is…” Maul exhaled dramatically, “…a feeble notion. It is not a reliant ally. Only the dark side is.”
Chewing on the inside of your cheek, you let those words sink in. Your first instinct was to disagree. You had always found the light side of the force a trustworthy ally. It is only when dark thoughts, dishonest desires or strong feelings came to the surface that you felt unbalanced.
Maul twirled the stick as though it were a lightsaber.
"Try not to use the force when you fight me," Maul warned and sprinted towards you.
Fight how?! You panicked. With neither weapon nor force, how would you keep out of harm’s way?
Somehow, you dodged Maul’s first strike and were horrified as the stick hit the ground next to you. He did not hold back in strength, the stick hit the ground hard, flinging soil and pebbles into the air as it shuddered on impact. The stick bent but did not break. Ducking to evade the second strike, you were in a horrible position to dodge Maul’s next move. It missed you.
"DO NOT USE THE FORCE!" Maul snapped. He had felt you misdirecting his swing through the force. With even more vigour, he kept attacking.
"I don't use it consciously! It just happens," you explained only to be cut short when Maul aimed at your head. You saw the move before it happened and dodged with plenty time to spare. This pattern repeated. Any time the stick was close to hitting you, it missed you. Maul grew frustrated. Seeing you dodge in such a timely manner and missing every swing that should have grazed you, Maul grew frustrated. When he missed the fifth hit in a row, he grabbed you through the force and carelessly tossed you aside.
"I can't help it!", you scrambled to your feet, quickly trying to explain yourself, "It's like telling me to stop breathing the air around me."
"That is not how the force works!", your Master responded with a strained voice, swallowing down some of the anger that you had provoked.
"But it is!"
Maul growled and your heart dropped as you feared you had overstepped a line. He observed you angrily before he finally unclenched his jar and loosened his tense shoulders. Only just yesterday he had told himself that training you properly might break you. Now, he didn’t care. If what he had planned for you would break you, you were not worthy to begin with. There was so much about the force that you needed to learn.
“Don’t be so certain, my apprentice,” he uttered.
Maul walked back to the freighter, leaving you standing alone and confused.
Maul returned, the stick in one hand and a waterskin in the other. He tossed you the waterskin.
"Drink up."
A hunch told you to not drink whatever liquid was in there. You pulled off the cork and tried to assess what you were dealing with. It was too dark to see the liquid that sloshed around in the bottle, neither did it smell suspicious. Looking back to your Master, standing in front of you, his hands that held the stick crossed behind his back. His intense gaze only worsened the doubts you had. You did not trust the Sith. You might have pledged allegiance and accepted him as your Master, but you did not trust him not to hurt you. Quite the opposite. A hint of a smirk painted his features as if he could read your thoughts.
Yet, you supressed your suspicions and swallowed the liquid. It tasted like water but stung bitterly in the aftertaste.
"Now," Maul directed your attention back to him, "try to not get hit."
The fight resumed as before. You dodged masterfully, always aware of his next step. The first indication that something wasn’t right hit you when you jumped a corkscrew to avoid the stick smacking your legs, and landed on wobbly feet, your balance feeling just slightly off. With every passing moment, your body started to react more slowly than usual. You wanted to twist out of the way but weren’t quick enough and one end of the stick grazed your arm. Maul aimed for your head and struck your shoulder.
All of a sudden, twisting out of the way made you feal nauseous. It caught you off guard that you couldn’t react as the stick came crushing down on your legs. Hissing and nearly falling to the ground, you pushed Maul away through the force. This had been pure instinct, the rules framing this training session completely forgotten.
Maul halted for a moment, watching with satisfaction as you panicked in front of him.
Everything was spinning. There was a pounding in your head that became so loud and distracting, it was impossible to form a coherent thought. Similarly to a migraine, only twice as horrible, it overshadowed the pain in your legs. You felt sick and disoriented. You blinked, but it made your misery worse as you found your vision to grow blurry and patchy.
Concentrating on the force was, all of a sudden, quite beyond you.
There was no warning when Maul struck again. You barely managed to throw your arms up to protect your face. The stick left an angry red streak on your forearms. There was no time nor enough coherent thoughts left in your brain to wonder what would have happened had you not managed to protect your face.
You stumbled out of the way as he attacked again. There was no grace in it, only sheer panic and reacting to his movements as they came. You were slow in reacting and quick to lose balance.
Your own movement almost made you throw up. You jumped out of the way and had to close your eyes for your motion sickness to calm down. Closing your eyes during battle barely mattered when you still felt your surroundings, your enemies and allies and could predict their next attacks through the force. But now...there was nothing.
As the stick painfully lashed against your back, you were reminded that you were still in a fight. You whirled around without opening your eyes, trying to grab the stick that had been there moments ago. It was long gone, now poking the back of your knee and making you buckle.
Maul had no difficulty in dodging your aimless attacks, he only needed to step away when you lunged towards where he had last attacked you. Your efforts were pitiful; face scrunched in agony whenever the wood made contact with your body. Despite looking genuinely scared, Maul was impressed with how bravely you took the beating. Only when he scratched the spot on your side that he had already bruised and you let out a howl, Maul stopped hitting as hard. He needed you frustrated and in agony, and he figured your squirming and groans were proof enough that you already were. It's supposed to hurt.
"This will get you nowhere," Maul teased, put out his foot and easily tripped you. You fell to the ground and stayed there, whimpering.
If the force was a stream of water, like how you had described, it had dried up. Your limbs sluggishly reacted to the commands that you gave them, commands that had managed to fight their way free from brain fog and the constant beating and ringing that tyrannized your senses. You coiled up, protecting your stomach and face by burying it in your hands. There was no reason to struggle to your feet and keep fighting. You had no chance.
"Get up," Maul growled and poked you with his boot. As response, you hissed and twitched in pain. When you didn't make any signs of getting up, he tried to kick you. This time, you clung to his leg and attempted to wrestle him to the ground. But your grip was weak and your attack didn’t have any coordination. The stick came crushing down on your back and you let go again.
Had you ever truly felt so forsaken?
Where were you?
Who were you?
You didn’t quite know.
Did you deserve being beaten by this alien? With a stick, nonetheless. He didn’t even have the mercy to kill you with a lightsaber.
Vaguely, you registered that you pressed your face into the earth. Bloody saliva, dust and tears mixed in your mouth for an unpleasant taste. The ground was cold and barren. So was the void in your body. Too many feelings were fighting for dominance and there was no force, no meditation, no clear sense or thought to keep them down and controlled. You were on a rocking ship on the edge of throwing up. Like frostbite eating away your limbs. And blinded by the sun. Burning with fever, dripping sweat on your entire body. Or was that blood?
If you moved – as much as blinked – you’d throw up.
Suddenly, there was more searing pain, which origin you couldn’t place anymore.
Then you felt it. The force isn’t a stream of water. It is a rapid current, gathering speed and intensity. You could hear the waterfall it mounted in. You could hear its rushing currents. You stood with your back to the water. Slowly, you edged backward. Then you let go, trusting it to catch you. You were swooped up by the current. You drowned, you gurgled, you fought for control.
There is no control.
This force didn’t isolate life forms. You couldn’t push Maul specifically away, because you didn’t know where he was. But you were so disoriented, so afraid and furious. The fear of his next strike grew, and you didn’t feel the need to isolate or control any longer.
Three things happened at once. Maul was hurled backwards into the air with unexpected intensity. It left him gasp for air and had him try to anchor himself to the ground before he was thrown off the cliff. At the same time, the freighter groaned under the pressure and the boulder, about twice your size and a hundred times your weight, rolled over.
As soon as Maul had solid ground under his feet, he sprinted towards you again. You were now standing, eyes shut and face scrunched in anger. You shot smaller stones and pebbles that had been lying in your vicinity into all directions. Maul had to deflect them, and as he did, your head snapped into his direction. Eyes closed and head still feeling like a muddy soup, thinking and concentrating was still impossible. But you were one with the force, with the rapid current, and even while being swept away by it, you could tell where there was resistance.
You delayed just a moment to let him come closer. Then you crushed. It hailed wood splinters as the stick that Maul had been ready to swing over your head crumbled to wood chips. Just because you knew where he was, didn’t mean you had control to isolate what you crushed. You crushed everything. Everything needed to be destroyed for you to be save.
Groaning. Rumbling. Someone was saying something, but you couldn’t make out the words. There was only rushing in your ears and throbbing in your head.
A balled fist met your stomach, and you staggered, ripped out of the current and put on dry land again. You lost it all. The power. The triumph.
You bent forward, gripped your stomach and groaned. Before you knew what was happening, your head was yanked back by the hair and fingers were shoved down your throat. You gagged, were tossed aside and threw up.
With the first wave of nausea dissipating, you collapsed to the side.
The first words you heard after your head stopped throbbing was Maul’s praise.
“You did well, apprentice.”
The sickness hadn’t stopped bothering you quiet yet. Somewhere in your stomach, you still felt the current, the powerful rapid that had almost drowned you. That is the dark side, you decided for yourself, glad that thoughts were again within your grasp. With your ability to concentrate, so came your ability to feel others again through the force. You rolled onto your back, which hurt terribly, and blinked to the sky. Maul was close, watching you. You couldn’t see him. A cramp made your body convulse.
“Do you see now how weak the light side is compared to the dark, my apprentice?”, Maul coaxed from somewhere.
“You know,” you slurred as your tongue regained the ability to speak, suddenly tasting the dirt, blood and sick in your mouth, “I have a fucking name!”
You didn’t quite know where that came from, but you had grown sick about hearing “apprentice this”, “apprentice that”. You had just taken a beating and had your notion about the force turned upside down. You craved some comfort. At least, you wanted to be addressed like a person. A person with a name.
He murmured your name. You couldn’t place its intonation. Was that hate or contempt? Pride? Apathy? Nevertheless, it felt like he was gutting you, shoving a spear down your spine. You should never give the devil your name. But he had called you. How did he know you name anyways? You never formally introduced yourself. You were scared.
You whined. Crawled to your knees and threw up again.
Exhausted, you forced yourself to sit upright instead of rolling back down to the ground. With your wits returned also a sense of dignity and you wanted to preserve it. You sat in your favourite meditative position. Slowly, your started to feel your own again. Your fear quieted and your headache subsided. What remained was the pain from the beating. Your back was beaten sore, your leg screamed and your forearms tingled painfully. You didn’t know how much time passed as you sat there, meditating and celebrating that your mind worked again the way it should. You wiggled your fingers one by one, cracked your neck and finally blinked your eyes open. Motion didn’t make you sick anymore.
Your gaze fell on Maul who was sitting in the distance on the cargo ramp of the freighter. He was watching you. You wanted to ask so badly why he had sat there all this time. At least half an hour must have passed since your fight had…ended ungraciously for you.
“Ah…at last,” Maul commented your recovery.
You nodded silently and stood up with weak knees. There was no headache, no stomach ache or nausea. The only thing that stung were the areas of skin where the stick had hit you repeatedly. But even that was barely a bother, after you didn’t feel sweaty, cold and hot anymore.
“Good. You endured the poison.”
You stared at him, shocked. It had been quite obvious that whatever he had given you to drink wasn’t exactly good for you. But poison?
“Was there a chance of me…not enduring?”
Maul looked at you coldly. Of course there had been a chance. You had dropped your guard completely. He could have killed you. But not just by whacking you too hard over the head, but the poison could have been too potent for your body. Great. And this is the guy you willingly had surrendered to.
“’Peace is a lie. There is only passion. The force shall free me’”, Maul quoted. You recognized what the words mirrored. ‘There is no emotion, there is peace. … There is no passion, there is serenity.” Words that had been drilled into every Jedi at the temple.
“Is that what you’ve been taught?”, you asked, suddenly very curious about how Sith are trained. You had an uncomfortable feeling that beating someone with a stick was barely the tip of the iceberg and you probably came away pretty well.
Maul huffed, “It is the truth. You’ve just experienced it yourself.”
Peace didn’t get you very far today, agreed. Maybe your notion of what the force was needs to be revised. Right now, however, you were at peace. So was your mind and you were quite glad about it. Dabbling in the dark side of the force was a rather…excruciating experience. You still felt it though…the rushing, the power.... Maybe there was a way for you to control the current.
Maul intensely looked at something in the distance, luring you to follow his gaze. There was the boulder. A lump formed in your stomach. The boulder had rolled over and, even more striking, it had split into four parts, the cracks crumbling. You had been the cause for this.
It was slightly disturbing.
Maul had walked back into the freighter, leaving you to bask in awe a little longer. Then you jumped at a realization.
“I haven’t hurt you, have I?”, you worried, running after him.
Maul turned around, frowning.
Sensing his irritation, you rambled, “I mean…the rock? That was me, wasn’t it? I didn’t know what I was crushing while I was doing it. It was sort of overwhelming. And if I did that to a huge piece of stone it must have affected you somehow? I didn’t want to hurt you…”
Your master scoffed, “What was your alternative? Keep scrambling in the dirt like a disoriented insect and wait to be crushed?”
“You told me to avoid getting hit. Not to attack.”
“Sometimes,” he had come awfully close, making a point of towering over you…though it was less in height than in presence, “offense is the best defence.”
Taking a step back, you scanned his body. You couldn’t hold eye contact for long and you decided to look for injuries instead, as he seemingly dodged answering your initial question.
“Do not underestimate me,” your head jerked upwards, held in place by the force Maul was using on you. There is no need to protest against your restricted movement. It is scary to hold eye contact with Maul, especially when he is angry or dominating…which he had been most of the time you’d spent face to face with him. This time, you let it happen and challenged yourself to look as unbothered and as little terrified as possible.
“Remember this lesson. Remember the power it grants you. Pain is the only way to access it. I have gone through enough to not let your force abilities bother me. Go lick your own wounds,” he said harshly and released your head, “and think on what you just learned.”
You mumbled a, “Yes, Master”, managed a little bow and got on your way. He couldn’t have been honest with you. He was hurting. But why should he confide in you?
There was still one spare robes and pants stored in your Jedi starfighter. You took off in it and cruised for a couple of minutes, locating a spring in which you could wash yourself and your robes. Your back had taken a solid beating; some streaks of blood had seeped through your robes. The cold water and some meditation made you forget the pain. Then you tried to recall it again, as you made a point in taking your master’s words literally and reflected on what he had called “a lesson” and the words of wisdom he had given you; ’Peace is a lie. There is only passion. The force shall free me’. Those words were difficult to reconcile with what you had ben taught by the Jedis and what your common sense told you to be true. But thinking back on how the concentration and peace had been stripped away from you, you accepted how passion and the force can play a role in freeing oneself. Afterall, if it weren’t for your force abilities, Maul would have killed you two days ago. It was thanks to the force that you had freed yourself from the Jedi order.
Your mind drifted. How dark a mind must be that has ensured training like this since childhood. Never would you have survived or accepted this training without years of building the mental strength and stability through meditation and the Jedi’s teachings. Maul wanted to make you strong, so you can be a useful ally to him. You accepted his methods because you trusted him in doing what he thought best. Maturity and experience told you that you shouldn’t be so quick define your worth by how the most recent training session turns out. But subject a child to those training methods and you will break its soul. They would soak up those words, ‘peace is a lie’, like their life depended on it. Because they never knew different. You did.
You flew back feeling, again, compassion for Maul. You neither expressed those feelings, nor tried to show them, knowing he would oppose. Yet, as you laid awake at night, your sore back making it hard to fall asleep, you heard him pace around in his room for hours. Silence was always followed by whimpers, which sometimes resulted in words being mumbled. You didn’t dare to listen too closely. The force was unbalanced. It woke you often and it was more difficult finding rest tonight. It wasn’t just Maul’s force signature that was imbalanced, it was yours too. You had to meditate to coax yourself to sleep.
The next couple of days passed quickly. Maul took you for a walk, not talking until you reached a cave. A family of Anoobas, canine-like desert mammals, seemed to live there. You recognized their form as similar to the carcass rotting in the freezer. Your master had commanded you to kill the youngest. You tried but couldn’t get more than a yelp out of it before you felt too indecisive to end an innocent creature’s life. He tried to talk you into it, but you couldn’t gather the rage necessary to crush the puppy. After a disappointed sigh, he did it instead. “Through Passion, I gain Strength. Through Strength, I gain Power”, are the bits of the Sith codex he told you accompanying to this lesson.
You had to carry the dead puppy back to the freighter. At least its death had not been for nothing, you told yourself, because you had to swap it with the almost finished and unappetizing, mangled body in the freezer – meaning that, essentially, it was just food for your master. It relieved you to know that this meant your rations would last you for the end of your stay.
Though you had failed his lesson that day, Maul still decided to let his new apprentice in on his operations. He saw that you were eager to learn and not too opposed to follow his commands. After only three days, it might have been rash to ask a Jedi to kill an innocent puppy. He appreciated that you had been willing to try. To be fair, he had almost been convinced you’d fly off after the training and never look back. You had stayed, and thus, Maul was ready to hold you to some higher expectations.
At night, Maul gave you a datapad. It revealed the grandness of his plans. His affiliation and deal with deathwatch, the crime syndicates forced into submission and operating under the name of the Shadow Collective. It contained blueprints of how the assault on Mandalore will be carried out and how the rule of Duchess Satine Kryze will be overthrown. You read most of it in the crew area of the freighter. Maul was in his chambers, but you heard him pacing and knew he wouldn’t go to sleep as long as you sat awake and studied the plans.
When your eyes grew tired of reading and you made yourself ready for bed, a sense of threat overcame you. Every chance of just flying off into the galaxy was gone. Now, you knew too much. You held the pieces to an elaborate plan and revealing it too soon to the enemies could destroy the effort entirely. You recognized that revealing the plan was a sign of trust on Maul’s side. You had pledged loyalty and now had to prove that you had meant it. Never before had you been entrusted with so much knowledge and power. Heck, never before had you been part of something so great: Seizing power over Mandalore.
The next two days you received the mission of mapping Zanbar and finding locations suitable for a hideout. It was a lot of time you spent away from your new master, flying over the moon and investigating caves and swamps for suitable locations. At first, you couldn’t shake the thought that this might be some sort of test to see if you would just fly off into the galaxy, but you felt no desire to do so. The work itself was meditative and actually quite interesting. It was a freeing experience: exploring the new biotopes and looking into caves, while still returning to the freighter after the sun had set and having Maul acknowledge your efforts after a short debriefing.
With every night, you grew more accustomed to Maul’s force signature and the darkness it brought over everything in its vicinity. You started to doubt that this man ever had gotten a night of proper rest and it started to affect your concentration too. You had to meditate a lot throughout the day to get rid of your tiredness. On the third day around noon you had finished mapping the moon. It was, after all, a rather small one. Proudly, you had accumulated a proper list with ample possibilities for hideouts.
You had mustered up the courage to approach Maul that afternoon and ask him for a lightsaber session, as you wanted to try something. You were anxious to prove your worth and Maul must have had doubts. You were strong in the force but didn’t readily use the dark side…years of Jedi training made it difficult to just let your emotions take control. Yet, there was something you had wanted to try. You had done it often in duels, but never this openly, and never to an ally.
“I think I can direct your lightsaber,” you announced as you stood opposite of Maul.
“I know that much,” Maul eyed you curiously, crossing his arms.
“I’ve only ever done it to an opponent to make them miss. I never had the opportunity to try to support an ally,” you explained.
“Very well…,” Maul took his lightsaber from his belt. He’d play along for now and see if you had some trick hidden up your sleeve, “What is it you want of me?”
He wanted to spit out the last line in a more derogatory manner. He wasn’t satisfied with how curious and intrigued it came out in the end. A tinge of shame scratched the back of his throat. He coughed quietly.
You stood opposite him, at a comfortable distance where no strike would hit you if he didn’t make a proper jump forward.
“Could you run through a combat routine? Make some moves that you’d make in a fight. Or just…replay and old fight, without the enemy.”
Your Master paused, considering. You took a deep breath, concentrating on the force that surrounded the two of you. You felt a strong connection between you and your Master, and he must have felt it too, because he was suddenly sprang into action. He ignited his blade and started to fight the air in front of him.
His cuts were precise and despite lacking an opponent’s saber to clash off on, you recognized the fight sequence after the third swing. Every youngling was taught this duel as soon as they were ready to hold a saber. It was Darth’s Maul fight against Obi-Wan Kenobi. You started to slightly direct Maul’s saber, blocking his cuts more precisely where they would have ended, had there been an opponent.
It looked a little silly. Your master fighting the air while you stood at the side, concentrating and watching. But you were more active than it looked like, and Maul started to feel your touch more clearly when he, out of curiosity what you’d do, made a move that hadn’t been part of his duel against Obi-Wan. You felt what he wanted to do before he had even started the execution. Still, your touch on the force helped him precisely direct his hits to a clean stop, Maul also noticed that his blade moved slightly faster than he actually intended to. But this didn’t happen through an effort of his own, you were the one that sped up the action without making him lose any of the precision.
Maul started to go completely off course and combine moves that came to his mind at the very moment. You never failed to support his movements. Randomly, Maul decided to leap into the air, corkscrewing, he felt his fingers lose grip on the hilt, nevertheless, it stayed put where it should be. He could reinforce his grip when he landed, the hilt not having budged an inch from where he usually gripped it comfortably. He spun and then threw the lightsaber at you. The blade remained lit, but you immediately noticed that Maul had merely thrown the saber, he wasn’t directing it with the force. It whizzed past your head, missing you, as Maul had intended.
You strengthened your force grip on the saber and directed it back into Maul’s hand, which he held ready and expecting above his head. To you, it was no different from tossing someone a ball, if not easier. Maul caught the lightsaber and then you deactivated the blade through the force. You had felt Maul’s intention of deactivating it, felt the twitch his thumb had made for the button, his intent being so clear to you that you couldn’t hold back and deactivated it for him.
This foresight surprised your master. Despite the trials he had made you go through a couple of days ago, now, Maul finally understood what a good choice it had been to keep you alive. He hadn’t expected this kind of expertise and mastery of the force. However, it was a bit unsettling to Maul, that you predicted his every move and thought so well.
You were in synch. Maul didn’t feel it the way you did, but the last couple rotations taught you a lot about your new master. You had seen his harsh sides and his weak sides. His nightmares. His fears. You hadn’t just spent the last couple of days co-existing, you had been soaking up his very essence. And you genuinely enjoyed how you shone beside him.
“We will keep this ability of yours a secret, for now,” Maul declared. Naturally, you acquiesced.
It was the last evening you’d spend on the moon. You had read up on everything there was to know about the Shadow Collective. Maul had tested you on some key points. He was eager to rejoin the army on Concordia. The possible location for hideouts on Zanbar had been mapped and categorized. You would leave your freighter base significantly cleaner than you’d first entered it, in some free moments, you had repaired faulty tech and banished every speck of dust out the hangar door.
You were eager to get some rest, because you wanted to impress tomorrow. There would be eyes on you, as Maul’s new apprentice. Sceptic eyes, because of the access you had been granted to critical information despite being basically an outsider. Wary eyes, because you were a Jedi. Nobody would expect much from you, of course. You were just a new accessory that Maul had acquired, there would be no decisions you had a say in, no forces to lead. Maul had stressed that for the assault on Mandalore, your place was by his side as a silent shadow. The operation had already been planned without you, and everything should go according to plan. Maul had hinted that you might play a more important role after Mandalore has been taken over, but didn’t give away any details. With no real responsibility except not making a fool of yourself, the pressure wasn’t too much to handle. Still, a good night’s rest would heal all injuries you suffered this week and would give you more confidence.
Sleep didn’t come. Your master was in a bad mood. Consequently, the shifts of the force kept you awake. The air around was suffocating with dark energy. Every time you closed your eyes and drifted off to sleep, nightmares would scare you awake. They weren’t clear dreams, just random visions and feelings that didn’t feel familiar, but utterly painful and lonely. After waking up for the third time in the course of two hours, you forced your mind to idle on the last dream a little longer. Memories of fuzzy images returned. Rotting caves, blazing fires and a feeling of madness that unsettled you physically. The visions mixed with Maul’s words that reached you through the force.
I’m fear.
I’m nothing.
Kenobi.
Revenge.
You snapped out of it, left your bed and walked out the freighter on tiptoes. In all of the ramblings your Master had during the nights, this was the first time where he thought of Kenobi explicitly. He sometimes cursed out the Jedi and made you feel like you had to run or he’d cut you down for the sin of having been one, but not his hate was focused on one person. You felt his need for revenge, and it scared you. Having felt the dark side of the force and having used it, you knew of its power,… you also knew of the demise it could bring.
Barefoot, you walked a little until your heart felt lighter, but there was only so much that physical distance could do to loosen the grip of the dark side. You thought that you had gotten used to your Master being like a gushing spring for the violent current of the dark side, but it turns out he has good and bad days. And previous nights had been peaceful in comparison to this. Or maybe you hadn’t been so adamant of getting some sleep the nights before. Being woken this often made you more irritated than the nights before and couldn’t quite place if those are your own emotions or still Maul’s influence.
Illuminated only by the reflecting light of the planet Mandalore, the freighter stood quietly. It didn’t feel quiet to you.
With some big breaths you gathered yourself. You recalled some beautiful and peaceful memories and walked back when you felt strong enough. As you walked to your quarters, you heard your Master whimper again.
You lied down with the intent of meditating yourself to sleep. It didn’t work. The influence of the dark side was too strong. It amplified your fear of the nightmares and it took significant concentration to ignore Maul’s whimpers and ramblings. Physically and through the force. After an hour, you gave up trying and left your bed again, taking a meditative position in the middle of your room.
There was a decent chance your Master would kill you for what you are going to try.
Closing your eyes, you braced yourself. Then, you opened your mind entirely to the influence of the dark side. Anger, sadness, fear, pain, frustration overcame you and swept you away like a wave. The visions you had seen in your nightmares returned. The code of the Sith was recited like a mantra, but it was barely background noise over memories of fights and reprimands and lectures and so, so many self-deprecating thoughts.
If there hadn’t been this sense of pride and power that the dark side granted you, those emotions would have drowned you. But you knew you were able and strong in the force, so you banished those feelings.
Emotion, yet peace. Passion, yet serenity.
You reached out to your master through the force and grabbed the first thought that seemed to plague him.
“I am nothing,” he told himself. His dreams, his memory, his experience had told him that. Somewhere, somehow, Maul felt it to be true…
“You are something,” you said back through the force. And you meant it, with all your heart.
“I am…nothing,” Maul repeated with hesitancy.
“You are a Lord. You are a master. A leader,” you replied, “That is not nothing.”
What you were doing was a simple Jedi mind trick. Just with someone a few rooms away and either sleeping with nightmares or consumed by thoughts.
“You are somebody,” you tried again, with more urgency. And empathy.
“I am somebody,” you received back.
You pushed further, trying to convince your master to calm down and let his guard down. You expected him to resist. But you had controlled his thoughts before. You made him kneel. Whispering some good intentions to banish the nightmares shouldn’t be much more difficult.
The force shifted, got stronger and more focused. Then, clanking steps bolted towards your room. A fist slammed the button to open the door.
“Stop it!”, Maul demanded harshly. He gripped your collar with both hands, the tight grip choking you as you balanced on your tippy toes. Not losing concentration, you opened your eyes slowly.
“WHAT are you doing?”, he was angry. And maybe a little scared. His eyes were more blood-shot than usual as he searched your face for answers.
You were a bug to be squished, but somehow, Maul couldn’t shake the grip you had on his thoughts. How you smoothed over the edges and made his anger fade. Now, that he was closer to you, he felt your touch even stronger. Stuck between the sense of gratefulness of being woken from a bad dream and the frustration that he had been deemed too weak to fight his own battles. Your abilities made you more significant than a bug to be flicked away. His new apprentice was a threat.
And yet, Maul started to feel ready to let somebody else take the lead just once. He had trusted you thus far, had he not? Maybe not entirely trust, but he had put faith in you. Why not trust you a little further? He was so exhausted. Only his hate kept him alert, and your presence seemed to brush that away as if it was the dust you had banished from this ship over the last couple of days.
The manipulation of his mind took fruition, you saw your master’s eyelids relaxing, his eyes no longer flitting about your face but coming to rest at some eye contact that you did not perceive as uncomfortable for the first time this week. Some time ago you’d have considered practicing mind tricks on a master, or even a friend, as an invasive breech of privacy. But if your taste of the dark side had taught you anything so far, it’s that your means justify your methods.
“I’m soothing you,” you admitted calmly, “It’s okay, Master. You deserve some rest.”
“Rest is for the weak. Do you know what is at stake? I need to stay alert,” every word sounded less condescending. His hissing voice got quieter and the grip on your collar weakened. You stood safely on your feet again.
“I have everything under control”, you smiled, “Get some sleep.”
Maul’s head lulled on his neck like a weed in the wind. For a moment longer, you hesitated. Then, you put one hand on his cheek. It was hot and clammy, but his skin was smooth. The muscles spasmed under your touch. But Maul barely reacted to the touch. He was on the brink of unconsciousness, only his instinct resisting sleep.
“You can trust me,” you whispered and reached out again in full force. Finally, Maul stopped resisting. His force signature wavered. The ramblings, the chaos…you subdued it, you quieted it down until it was only an uncomfortable throb in the background of both of your minds.
Your master’s body started to collapse. His cybernetic legs were the first to give out. You snaked one arm around his torso, the other hand still resting on his cheek, and lowered both of you to your knees.
“Just for tonight,” you whispered, observed how his eyelids grew heavy, “I’ll keep watch. I’ll be here. You have seen my power, you don’t need to fear anything. You can let go.”
As commanded, Maul closed his eyes. His body swayed a little back and forth. With your hand on his cheek, you directed his head to the crook of your neck, where it stayed motionless. Your hand wandered to the back of his head, keeping him secure in place.
Your heart skipped a beat and the breath caught in your chest. No. You couldn’t allow any of your excited thoughts to take over. There was embarrassment at the touch. So intimate, that you had never shared it before with anyone else in your life. There was the pride you took in the responsibility. The absurdness of the man who you would have titled a monster when you first saw him now collapsed and weak in your arms.
I’d have to meditate on that later, you thought. Now, your concentration was needed to ward off his nightmares.
Only after you were sure that he was fast asleep, you carefully manoeuvred him into a lying position. Now, that he wasn’t consciously fighting you, it was easier to keep his dark thoughts subdued. But you still felt them lurking, waiting for the first second that your mind drifted. You wouldn’t let that happen.
You put your thin pillow under the zabrak’s head, put a blanket over his body and then took seat by his side.
You will spend the entire night sitting there and meditating, alert of your surroundings – but the small planet was quiet and asleep – careful of not letting nightmares disturb your master’s rest. It was a little challenging at first, finding the balance between calmness and subduing, but after a couple of hours you got the gist and fell into a meditative state yourself.
It was neither pain nor dreams that woke Maul. Sun had been shining through a window for a while now, he had felt the warm licks move across his face without it having bothered him. But they slowly brought him back to consciousness. He blinked once. Twice.
It was so quiet in his mind. Sleep usually didn’t restore him. Over the years he had become used to chronic pain that was eating away at his body caused by more injuries that he cared to remember. At this moment, however, those injuries were only a dull ache that didn’t compare to the agony he was used to. Turning his head, he saw his new apprentice sitting by his side. If he moved his hand, he could touch your knee. Your eyes were closed in meditation, but just as he had awoken, you now moved for the first time in hours.
The corners of your lips twitched up in a slight smile as you opened your eyes, finding your Master’s staring right back.
A crimson ring around his iris frames his otherwise amber-gold eyes. The red veins usually streaking across the whites of his eyes had disappeared. Maul was relaxed, and his features reflected that.
You, on the other hand, were exhausted. The upright position you upheld for meditation had become strenuous. You rested your aching back against the wall and closed your eyes again. Sleep took you before Maul sat upright. With your soothing on Maul’s mind collapsing, he started to hear it again. The voices, the hate, the pain. But his body was well rested and it didn’t grind him down like usual.
Maul crawled to the wall opposite of you and took sat, watching you.
You let them subdue your strength. They have so much power over you already.
Feel ashamed.
They are danger.
You are nothing without them.
It was the first time in a long, long while that Maul looked at a stranger and didn’t simply feel the urge to kill, to dominate. This feeble human had somehow caught his attention. How he could break your body, how he could destroy your mind. Torturing you to stay awake, like he had often spent weeks without sleep as his master’s apprentice. Oh what a sight it would be to see tear streaks crossing your cheeks. What a sweet sound you’d make when you begged, pleaded and suffered. He should punish you for the audacity to control his mind, lure him into your quarters and put him into a slumber.
The remains of the smile you had given him when he opened his eyes were still visible. Maul stood up. He stuffed the pillow into the window to block out the light. Then he threw the blanked over your body and walked out to prepare for the return to Concordia.
warnings -> HURT + COMFORT, blood, slight angst, cursing, injuries, medical equipment, mentions of violence, mentions of death, slight canon divergence
a.n. -> you can tell jesus that the bitch is back. anyway. first maul fic in years. hope y’all like it. i missed y’all so much. <3
“you’re an idiot.”
"i thought that i would be—"
he tsks, shaking his head.
"there it is. that word."
you huff, rolling your eyes ever so slightly.
"what word, my lord?"
his lower lip twitches, curling into a frown.
"you 'thought' that you would be able to handle the mission by yourself when you clearly you were not capable of doing so. you required reinforcements, yet did not dare ask for them. why?"
exhaling, your shoulders loosen, the tightness wound up in your chest dissipating. the adrenaline from hours prior is starting to wear off, the beat of your heart slowing as he settles beside you, almost perching in the chair to your right. before him lays your arm, resting on the sterile metal of the armrest.
there's a burning sensation that begins to creep in, searing throughout your hands, licking at your fingers. a scarlet stream trickles down, spilling onto your wrist. it plunges, gathering into a bead before it falls to the floor. your jaw clenches, the discomfort starting to make itself known.
your lip quivers, a shaky breath tumbling out.
"i-i don't know why."
his nostrils flare, eyes narrowing into slits.
swallowing thickly, your gaze flickers to the left, in a feeble attempt to avoid his probing stare.
it was no use, though.
resistance was futile.
he was already inside of your mind.
you could feel it. the sheer weight of his signature as it poked and prodded, infiltrating every corner and crevice. tearing cleanly through the walls you fought so desperately to keep intact.
"m-maul," a whine rises in your throat, the burning transitioning into fiery agony, "p-please. it hurts."
the zabrak shakes his head, putting up a finger.
"not yet. i'm not finished."
squeezing your eyes shut, you grit your teeth, shallow breaths tumbling from your lips, "h-hurry up. please. i'm begging."
he hums, a rumble thundering in his chest. the corners of his mouth twitch, curling into a smirk. in the low light, you catch the gleam of canines, the rumbling in his chest flowing into a chuckle.
"so, you deliberately avoided asking for reinforcements because you were afraid i would have thought you were weak?"
exhaling, you groan, heat billowing into your cheeks, "i-i mean, something like that, yeah."
the zabrak tsks, shifting his torso toward to his left. plucking a needle from the tray, fingers nimbly secure a thread to the needle, knotting it. he moves on to stimshot, inspecting the syringe. flicking a few drops from the tip, you can't help but feel the shame rise.
it wasn't like the mission went awry. if anything, it was a huge success. singlehandedly, you were able to fend off a group of smugglers and secure a port on nar shadaa, a remote moon in hutt space. since it was on the outer rim, it was not carefully surveilled by the empire. it would serve as a port for fuel, trade, and shipment.
sure, it was risky, as it was previously inhabited by some of the hutt's men. there were a couple of losses, but nothing worth future repayment. in your mind, the hutts actually benefited, as the men who ran the post were practically useless in gunfight.
sure, you probably did need a few reinforcements. scorn and icarus could have accompanied you. what was hours of your time could have been reduced to a few minutes. they could have loaded some spices and weapons onto the ship as future collateral. you could have returned with a few bumps and scrapes rather than the deep gouge in your hand.
but where was the satisfaction in that?
"i know your intentions were in the right place," your throat tightens as he speaks, the words barely audible, "but you need to learn there are times that you must rely on others. that mindset of yours is going to get you killed."
the syringe plunges into your arm, the zabrak's thumb unwavering as the fluid drains from the barrel. not a second passes before relief ripples in your veins. yet you remain still, head level with his.
"i understand, my lord."
he tuts, "do you?"
you nod, perhaps a little too fervently.
“i do.”
“good.”
there’s a beat of silence before he gets to work.
a tender hand, swathed in leather, wraps around your fingers, applying pressure. you assume it’s to keep you you from recoiling or fidgeting, although he had administered the stimshot moments ago. the other hand reaches for the needle and thread for the suture, his voice filling the room once again.
it was gentler that his normal cadence.
almost soft.
“are you ready? it may pinch you a little.”
dipping your head, you give him the signal to proceed. his head tilts a few degrees as he inspects the wound, tongue running along his lower lip. he pauses momentarily, grabbing a cloth and wetting it with an unknown liquid.
carefully, he sweeps the cloth over your wound, cleaning away bits and pieces of grit or sand. it’s endearing almost, how delicate he was being.
it was not often that he was like this.
if anything, it was rare.
“how did this even happen?”
you shrug, wincing as he inserts the needle, “don’t ask.”
the response earns a chuckle. one that you had never heard before.
it erupts from deep within his diaphragm, hearty and authentic, reverberating off the walls. it is almost boyish. like he was youngling once again, up to no good on dathomir, surrounded by his brothers, eyes glittering with amusement, devious smile plastered to his face.
your heart skips a beat.
as the air thickens, every movement becomes surgical, brimming with intention. he is almost finished with his work now, the stitching neat and precise. for a second, your mind wanders, pondering how many times he has done this before. not only to others, but himself.
fingers weave in and out, tying the final knot. the hand that once held yours tightens, lifting your wrist, bringing it to his mouth. lips wrap around the loose thread, teeth clamping down.
the thread snaps, your heart thudding against your rib-cage as his mouth envelops your palm, pressing a kiss to the heated skin.
“there. all done.”
the zabrak’s gaze floats up to you, and for the first time, you can make out the wispiness of eyelashes. the space between you dissipates as he inches closer, an emotion you couldn’t quite decipher swimming among his amber depths.
fingers caress your cheekbone, wandering down your jawline. he swallows, the apple of his throat bobbing.
“tell me something.”
“a-anything,” you stumble over the word, “anything you desire, my lord.”
“tell me there won’t be a next time.”
your eyes widen, a gasp bubbling up in your throat, “i-i, uhm, there won’t be a next time. w-why are you asking me to say this?”
he leans in, the flurry of his breath intermingling with yours. blood roars in your ears, the warmth spreading down into your neck. sweat clams up in your palms, the zabrak murmuring against your lips.
“you are making a promise to me that you will never go on another mission alone.”
warnings -> HURT + COMFORT, blood, slight angst, cursing, injuries, medical equipment, mentions of violence, mentions of death, slight canon divergence
a.n. -> you can tell jesus that the bitch is back. anyway. first maul fic in years. hope y’all like it. i missed y’all so much. <3
“you’re an idiot.”
"i thought that i would be—"
he tsks, shaking his head.
"there it is. that word."
you huff, rolling your eyes ever so slightly.
"what word, my lord?"
his lower lip twitches, curling into a frown.
"you 'thought' that you would be able to handle the mission by yourself when you clearly you were not capable of doing so. you required reinforcements, yet did not dare ask for them. why?"
exhaling, your shoulders loosen, the tightness wound up in your chest dissipating. the adrenaline from hours prior is starting to wear off, the beat of your heart slowing as he settles beside you, almost perching in the chair to your right. before him lays your arm, resting on the sterile metal of the armrest.
there's a burning sensation that begins to creep in, searing throughout your hands, licking at your fingers. a scarlet stream trickles down, spilling onto your wrist. it plunges, gathering into a bead before it falls to the floor. your jaw clenches, the discomfort starting to make itself known.
your lip quivers, a shaky breath tumbling out.
"i-i don't know why."
his nostrils flare, eyes narrowing into slits.
swallowing thickly, your gaze flickers to the left, in a feeble attempt to avoid his probing stare.
it was no use, though.
resistance was futile.
he was already inside of your mind.
you could feel it. the sheer weight of his signature as it poked and prodded, infiltrating every corner and crevice. tearing cleanly through the walls you fought so desperately to keep intact.
"m-maul," a whine rises in your throat, the burning transitioning into fiery agony, "p-please. it hurts."
the zabrak shakes his head, putting up a finger.
"not yet. i'm not finished."
squeezing your eyes shut, you grit your teeth, shallow breaths tumbling from your lips, "h-hurry up. please. i'm begging."
he hums, a rumble thundering in his chest. the corners of his mouth twitch, curling into a smirk. in the low light, you catch the gleam of canines, the rumbling in his chest flowing into a chuckle.
"so, you deliberately avoided asking for reinforcements because you were afraid i would have thought you were weak?"
exhaling, you groan, heat billowing into your cheeks, "i-i mean, something like that, yeah."
the zabrak tsks, shifting his torso toward to his left. plucking a needle from the tray, fingers nimbly secure a thread to the needle, knotting it. he moves on to stimshot, inspecting the syringe. flicking a few drops from the tip, you can't help but feel the shame rise.
it wasn't like the mission went awry. if anything, it was a huge success. singlehandedly, you were able to fend off a group of smugglers and secure a port on nar shadaa, a remote moon in hutt space. since it was on the outer rim, it was not carefully surveilled by the empire. it would serve as a port for fuel, trade, and shipment.
sure, it was risky, as it was previously inhabited by some of the hutt's men. there were a couple of losses, but nothing worth future repayment. in your mind, the hutts actually benefited, as the men who ran the post were practically useless in gunfight.
sure, you probably did need a few reinforcements. scorn and icarus could have accompanied you. what was hours of your time could have been reduced to a few minutes. they could have loaded some spices and weapons onto the ship as future collateral. you could have returned with a few bumps and scrapes rather than the deep gouge in your hand.
but where was the satisfaction in that?
"i know your intentions were in the right place," your throat tightens as he speaks, the words barely audible, "but you need to learn there are times that you must rely on others. that mindset of yours is going to get you killed."
the syringe plunges into your arm, the zabrak's thumb unwavering as the fluid drains from the barrel. not a second passes before relief ripples in your veins. yet you remain still, head level with his.
"i understand, my lord."
he tuts, "do you?"
you nod, perhaps a little too fervently.
“i do.”
“good.”
there’s a beat of silence before he gets to work.
a tender hand, swathed in leather, wraps around your fingers, applying pressure. you assume it’s to keep you you from recoiling or fidgeting, although he had administered the stimshot moments ago. the other hand reaches for the needle and thread for the suture, his voice filling the room once again.
it was gentler that his normal cadence.
almost soft.
“are you ready? it may pinch you a little.”
dipping your head, you give him the signal to proceed. his head tilts a few degrees as he inspects the wound, tongue running along his lower lip. he pauses momentarily, grabbing a cloth and wetting it with an unknown liquid.
carefully, he sweeps the cloth over your wound, cleaning away bits and pieces of grit or sand. it’s endearing almost, how delicate he was being.
it was not often that he was like this.
if anything, it was rare.
“how did this even happen?”
you shrug, wincing as he inserts the needle, “don’t ask.”
the response earns a chuckle. one that you had never heard before.
it erupts from deep within his diaphragm, hearty and authentic, reverberating off the walls. it is almost boyish. like he was youngling once again, up to no good on dathomir, surrounded by his brothers, eyes glittering with amusement, devious smile plastered to his face.
your heart skips a beat.
as the air thickens, every movement becomes surgical, brimming with intention. he is almost finished with his work now, the stitching neat and precise. for a second, your mind wanders, pondering how many times he has done this before. not only to others, but himself.
fingers weave in and out, tying the final knot. the hand that once held yours tightens, lifting your wrist, bringing it to his mouth. lips wrap around the loose thread, teeth clamping down.
the thread snaps, your heart thudding against your rib-cage as his mouth envelops your palm, pressing a kiss to the heated skin.
“there. all done.”
the zabrak’s gaze floats up to you, and for the first time, you can make out the wispiness of eyelashes. the space between you dissipates as he inches closer, an emotion you couldn’t quite decipher swimming among his amber depths.
fingers caress your cheekbone, wandering down your jawline. he swallows, the apple of his throat bobbing.
“tell me something.”
“a-anything,” you stumble over the word, “anything you desire, my lord.”
“tell me there won’t be a next time.”
your eyes widen, a gasp bubbling up in your throat, “i-i, uhm, there won’t be a next time. w-why are you asking me to say this?”
he leans in, the flurry of his breath intermingling with yours. blood roars in your ears, the warmth spreading down into your neck. sweat clams up in your palms, the zabrak murmuring against your lips.
“you are making a promise to me that you will never go on another mission alone.”
hunter x fem reader
summary: hunter overhears everything, including the things he'd rather not (kinda fwb situation)
warnings: sexual content
hunter is always tracking you in the back of his mind. it's second nature for him to make sure you're close, whether it's the soft trace of perfume you leave behind or the distant echo of your laughter. even when his back is toward you, his head is tilted just slightly in your direction. he stirs as certain words grab his attention more than others, but he doesn't react more than he should. he clenches his jaw in disdain, stares sharply with warning, but he doesn't lose his temper. he's controlled, carrying all that tension in his shoulders as he focuses on the one thing that's important—you.
"so, what's going on between you and the sarge?"
hunter leans forward in his seat. his earlobes tingle with anticipation for your reply. despite being all the way across the bar, he almost feels your breathy giggle skim over the nape of his neck. such a tease, he thinks to himself as he closes his eyes.
"we're just friends," you brush off, "swear."
wrecker's noises of skepticism and the rest of cid's customers aren't enough to drown out the overwhelming tide suddenly crashing over hunter's senses. some glasses rattle across the bartop when he slams his drink down harder than intended, earning a strange look from the rest of his brothers. and although they might suspect what's gotten him in such a mood in such a short span of time, they'll never wrestle the truth out of him. the words and thoughts that make hunter feel volatile, he keeps to himself. even away from you, sometimes.
sure, you're just friends. you flirt, you fight, you fuck, but both of you forget to put a label on all of it. now, you've made him regret this.
"fuck, hunter, just like that," you whine, clawing at his back as he drives harsh thrusts inside of you. his hips snap with bruising precision, like he's promising you'll feel him everywhere when this is over. and you know he never breaks a promise.
"fuck, you're so tight," hunter grunts, his voice low in your ear, "need you to relax for me...c'mon..."
"i—" you throw your head back and cry out, forgetting the words that were just on the tip of your tongue. hunter squeezes your thighs and sinks into you, groaning as your warm cunt swallows him up with a desperate, wet clench. it's music to his ears, all the little sounds your body makes for him. his rough callouses dig into your skin unapologetically, and he rolls his hips forward to pin you completely against the wall. you both gasp at the same time from this deep angle, your mouths lazily slotting together when he drops his forehead to yours, panting into a slow, dirty kiss. he swallows your moans as he slides in and out of you, gripping your hips firmly to move them against his. you writhe and squirm and wrap your arms around his neck, unable to do anything but cling to his strong figure.
"you think i'm fucking you like a friend?" he whispers in your ear. you shake your head and whimper, "i didn't mean—" but he raises his eyebrows, tilting your chin to get a better look at your hazy eyes and disheveled hair. you stare up at him with a sultry, fucked up pout that weakens him to the core. there's nothing friendly about the heat in your shared gaze, the way it wets your lips with hunger—a magnetizing force, inevitably slamming your mouths together, hot, heavy, and open to invite the ravenous stroke of his tongue.
"i'm not," he thrusts into you harder, "your damn. friend."
"prove it," you moan.
hunter's eyes narrow as he spreads your legs wider, folding you like a pretzel in his arms. you arch your back and meet his thrusts halfway, a frenzied chase of this rougher side to him. he bites your bottom lip and tugs it back before driving into another kiss, losing himself to your taste, the sound of your pleasure sobbing through his thrusts. he loves keeping it all to himself. that's the only way it should be.
"mm, fuck..." he murmurs, a needy little noise that slips out when he feels your pussy stretch open for him, squeezing around him like it doesn't want to let him go every time he pulls back just to go back inside deeper, harder. your nails rake down his back in unfriendly marks that are sure to sting later, but he just groans and goes in for more. you don't need to tell him when you're close—he's memorized your breathy gasp, the familiarly hoarse pitch as your body jerks and your hips buck before your cunt flutters around his cock with a pulsing, squeezing pressure. he buries his face in your chest and comes quickly after with an exhale, like it's all pulling out of him and into you. his frustrations, his desires, everything. he gives you his body, all that he is. not because he's your friend, but because he'll always be something more.
"i didn't know," you break the silence quietly. you run an absentminded hand through his hair, soft as you stroke through his messy curls. "i didn't know it meant something to you."
hunter meets your eyes with surprise in his own, like he could never fathom the thought of what you just said. like there isn't a possibility in any universe where this—you and him—couldn't mean anything.
he takes a ragged breath and gently touches your foreheads together. you stare at him through your lashes, hyperaware of how his fingertips press into your hips almost rhythmically. you know he feels your heartbeat thrashing in your chest, a vulnerability he'll always have in his grasp, but never truly exploit. and when he whispers back to you, you're reminded of why your faith in him never falters.
"you mean the world to me."
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