☾︎ Summary - After the events of the battle of the Gullet, reader is plagued by nightmares and the fear that Jace died in her arms. But Jace is the only one that can bring her back to reality, and show her that he's truly alive.
Jacaerys Velaryon x Targaryen!fem!reader
☾︎ Authors notes - ahhh, I'm so excited!!! This is a part 2 to carry out bodies safe to shore 🥹 I just couldn't leave the fic at that so I had to make another one, I made this one ANGSTY (I'm sorry, I'm a hoe for angst lol) but don't worry I made it fluffy at the end 🫶 I literally love them sm, lowkey I want to make more parts 😭 btw I made alot of parallels, I hope y'all notice them <3 comments, reblogs, and likes are extremely appreciated! :)
I would DEFINITELY recommend you read part 1 before reading this!
☾︎ Word count - 3,785
☾︎ Warnings - Jace does NOT die in this, Targaryen!fem!reader, reader has white hair, no specified relation to Jacaerys, Jace and reader are betrothed, Vermax isn't dead, but is not mentioned 😭, ANGSTY ANGSTTTT, fluff towards end, hurt/comfort, panic attack (at beginning), self blame (reader), guilt, (reader) nightmares, mentions of blood, they finally kiss 🥹 hopefully I got everything lmao.
translations: Nuhys qēlos - my star. Avy jorrāelan - I love you. vēzos ñuho - my sun.
❥・・┈┈┈༚༅༚˳.୨୧.˳༚༅༚┈┈・・❥
This can't be right. I got him home. He's safe.
Panic and confusion clings to my bones. My gaze is hazy yet strangley clear as I look down at Jace in my arms. We're up in the air, just like before, when we were going home. When I was trying my hardest to save him.
"It's not your fault," He whispers, trailing cold fingers across my cheek. They catch a stray tear—when did I start crying? His touch feels muted. Muffled and far away, as my stomach churns.
I brush a trembling thumb across his cheekbone.
He's too cold.
Too cold.
Too cold.
"You're okay." My tongue feels heavy. I can see his breathing stutter in his chest. "You're going to be okay. I'm here. I'm here."
He smiles. Barely there. Barely visible. His fingers slowly slide off my cheek, and my eyes widen as bile rises in my throat.
"No. No, no, no, no." I mumble frantically. "No. No! Jace, look at me! Stay with me."
I shake his shoulders, but it does no good. For a second, I think he's staring at me, but no. He's staring past me, farther than I can see.
His brown eyes glaze over.
"Fuck! No, Jace!" I push back his curls as I cradle his face in my hands, rubbing my thumbs across his skin as if I could coax him from a slumber.
"You're okay, Jace. Come back to me. Look at me." My voice cracks. My stomach feels heavy as I shake my head over and over. My jaw trembles.
It's silent for a few agonizing seconds. Then the disgusting reality finally sinks in.
"Fuck. Fuck."
I swallow harshly. Nausea grips my stomach like a vise as I look anywhere but at his vacant gaze. The gaze that used to look at me with warmth is now lifeless and cold.
I was too slow.
The sobs that tear out of my chest are ugly and rough. I gag on the air that I try to breathe in. I squeeze my eyes shut, refusing to look at him. I raise my face as high toward the sky as I can, as if I can out run this.
I'm such a coward—
I feel like my soul has been ripped out of me, leaving me hollow and thin.
"You were supposed to come back with me!" I wail into his wet curls, hugging him tightly to my chest.
No one deserves to have their soulmate die in their arms.
I hum a pathetic, weak lullaby from when we were children, blindly—naively—hoping it will wake him. Like he just fell asleep. Just asleep. I sob the words out as I rock him from side to side, rubbing a hand down his back as if it will comfort him.
This isn't fair. It's not fucking fair.
He was supposed to be alive.
I got him home. I got him home—
I flinch awake.
I exhale sharply through my nose as my heavy gaze darts frantically around the room before landing on Jace. I try to swallow past the lump in my throat as I sit up in the soft bed. The red blanket pools around my legs as my body trembles. I frown and wipe at the tears that have crusted on my cheeks.
The room is too dark. I can barely make out the outline of his body.
Panic creep into my chest, squeezing tightly. I reach out with a trembling hand, fumbling around until I find him. I grasp the soft skin of his arm before sliding my hand to his chest.
I feel his chest rise and fall steadily beneath my palm, I let out a shaky breath. I squeeze my eyes shut, pressing a hand over my mouth. Sobs threaten to spill past my lips, but I swallow them down, careful not to wake him.
Or the castle, I suppose.
He's okay. It was just a dream. Just a dream.
"You're safe," I whisper, almost to myself. "You're safe now."
I attempt to calm my racing heart as I sit on the edge of the bed. My body spasms violently as I force myself to breathe more slowly. Fear sits heavy in my gut like a stone, sinking. I fear I will drown in the ocean of horror and grief for something I could have lost.
I almost did. If I had been even a second too late, I would be holding his corpse. Cold. Lifeless. I was almost too slow—
I shake my head, as if it will rid me of those horrible thoughts.
I stand on shaking legs as I curl my fingers into fists, my fingernails leaving tiny crescent-shaped marks in my skin. I focus on the pressure and the sting. I feel disgusting. I feel his blood on my skin. Crimson and sticky, and I need to wash it off.
Get it off.
I scrub my arms harshly with a cloth. The water in the tub has long since gone cold. Not even the warmth of the water earlier felt like his skin. I can still feel his blood caked beneath my nails.
Just keep breathing.
The ache between my ribs is unbearable. I feel like there are dents and cracks in my skin. As if, I make one wrong move or turn, I will shatter like stars that burst and crash into the ocean. Despair pours from the invisible wounds that mark my skin.
But I dont speak aloud about what happened. Or what could have happened. Because if I do, I know I'll break. And I won't be able to pick up the pieces without them piercing me, my blood leaking onto the floor.
I stare at the cold ceiling for what feels like hours. My eyes are dry, vacant, as I force myself to rise from the tub.
I sink back into the soft bed in clean clothes. My nerves are still jittery as I rest my head against his chest. I close my eyes and focus on his gentle breathing. He hums softly in his sleep and curls an arm around my waist.
The soft sunlight filters through the glass window, warming the room as I slowly shift awake. It's warm. So impossibly warm. As sink into it, I let it fend off the chill lingering in my bones. I let it wrap around my skin and settle in my stomach. I feel a gentle caress brush reverently across my cheek, back and forth. I chase the soothing touch as I hear a soft laugh.
I open my eyes to find brown ones watching me. His gaze drifts around my face, unhurried. Soft.
"Why are you looking at me like that?" I mumble, my voice raspy as I look back at him with tired but loving eyes.
He smiles. It's so incredibly bright that it makes my heart ache. He presses a kiss to my forehead, then my temple.
"I can't look at my betrothed?" He whispers, his nose nudging mine, making me crack a smile.
"She's too pretty to not admire, hm?"
Warmth skitters beneath my skin and down my spine, the sensation prickly but undeniably pleasant as I brush a stray curl from his forehead. I say nothing as I look past him, to find a tray laden with sweet cakes and different kinds of fruit.
Sweet cakes that I denied last night.
When he was almost dead—
I shake my head, as if that alone could banish the thought.
"What's this?" I ask instead.
He grins. He attempts to sit up in bed, his face pinched with pain and effort as I immediately adjust his pillows and help shift him into a more comfortable position.
He thanks me by pressing his lips to my cheek.
"Breakfast. I thought we could share a morning meal together, if you would like that?"
He doesn't command me to eat with him. He doesn't order me about. He asks. The miniscule gesture makes my throat tighten as I nod slightly.
"Yes, I would like that. Very much." I barely speak above a whisper. "Thank you."
"You changed your clothes."
I chew slowly, avoiding his gaze until I swallow.
"I took a bath last night," I say quietly, shrugging slightly.
He frowns, clenching his jaw.
"What was wrong? You could've woken me—"
"Nothing was wrong. And you were sleeping peacefully. I did not want to wake you."
We eat in silence. I force myself to eat a few bites of fruit as I watch Jace carefully. Solemnly.
I watch his throat move when he swallows, his fingers when he picks up a grape, his hair falling into his eyes. I watch his chest rise and fall with every breath.
He's breathing.
His skin isn't ash.
He's fine.
Everything that proves he's alive. Alive and breathing.
I dont fully realize I'm analyzing him until he asks:
"Now you're staring." He's amused. His smile is almost teasing.
I shift in the bed, wary that I was caught doing something I hadn't even realized I was doing. I don't answer, and he notices.
He holds his arms out, a silent invitation.
I almost immediately sink into his arms.
I shift in his hold, scooting impossibly closer. He lets out a grunt of pain—barely audible—when my head presses against his injured shoulder.
My whole body immediately locks up, tensing. A sick feeling sinks into my gut as I begin to pull away.
His brows immediately pinch together, his expression softening into something close to sadness. He shakes his head, catching my arm before I can stray too far.
I avoid his gaze.
Guilt gnaws at my chest, shredding through my skin until I'm bare and vulnerable. How could I forget he is injured? How sick am I?
Stay away from him before I hurt him further—
"Dont do that."
I blink. I stare at the dark red blanket, as if I might find answers within the silk fabric.
Could it have been his blood that stained it?
No. That couldn't be. I need to stop.
Just stop.
"You're doing it again."
His tone isn't accusing. Nor is it cruel.
It's gentle.
And I relish in all that is him, even when I feel like I don't deserve it. I force my gaze to meet his. His warm brown eyes are watching me carefully.
His beauty makes my heart ache every time I see him. He has ruined everything beautiful in this world because nothing can compare to him. He puts the moon and stars to shame. Flowers seem duller. Sunsets and sunrises don't hold a candle to him.
His smile is sunlight itself.
And even if the realm froze over, he would be the one thing that could keep me warm for eternity.
"Doing what?" I murmur.
He gives me a knowing look, I swallow harshly as I look out of the window to avoid his piercing eyes.
I watch the clouds drift by. Occasionally a dragon's wing comes into view before quickly disappearing.
"Disappearing. Getting lost in your mind." He murmurs back. His thumb brushes across my skin, his hand warm around my arm as he gently tugs me closer.
"Come here, my love."
It's silent for a few moments.
But I don't let myself give in.
Instead, I get off the bed and stand abruptly. I dont want to look at the pity in his stare as I move to open the curtains a little wider, letting more light into the room.
"How are you feeling? Are you still in pain? I could fetch the maester—"
He whispers my name. Just once.
My chest wants to cave in. I want to bury myself in his arms and sob into his hair.
But I don't.
"Are you still hungry? I could bring some more food, unless you are feeling ill."
I bring the water basin from the small wooden table near his bed. I pour him a glass and set it beside him.
He says nothing. Nothing at all.
I fear I must have upset him.
But that fear fades away as quickly as it came when his hand finds mine. His slightly rough fingertips brush over my knuckles before he presses his lips against the back of my hand.
My body almost instantly relaxes as I exhale quietly.
He looks up at me through his lashes. He smiles against my skin.
"You're hair is glowing in the light," He says softly, as if speaking any louder it would break this fragile moment.
My lips twitch slightly. Barely a smile. But still there.
He notices. Because, of course, he does.
He smiles back. Gods, he's pretty.
I let the warmth of his hand in mine settle into my skin. The crease between my brows softens as he tugs me closer.
I shake my head, still resisting.
He makes a soft sound, coaxing me closer as his hand slides up my forearm.
"Jace."
He ignores my protests.
My eyes travel across his sharp features, my demeanor slowly eases. He says my name in an equally stern tone, though it carries a hint of playfulness.
"I want to hold you, Nuhys qēlos."
The statement catches me off guard.
I swallow harshly, my nerves burning and left on edge.
"I don't want to hurt you," I finally whisper after what feels like ages. He frowns.
I don't meet his gaze as I force myself to breathe so I dont fucking break.
"You won't."
"You dont know that," I finally grit out, my tone harsher than I anticipated.
It's silent for a few agonizing moments.
"Fuck, I just hurt you moments ago!"
"You didn't mean to," He says calmly. Too calmly.
Something about his even tone makes me clench my jaw, as though he wasn't on fucking death's door yesterday.
I'm... angry. And I'm not sure at whom. The men who shot at him? This war? The gods?
I'd burn everything to the ground if I could.
Traitorous tears sting my eyes as I rub my hands harshly down my face.
The sounds of guards and maids walking past and working outside fill the tense, silent air.
"Just... just stop."
My voice is wobbly. My heart constricts harshly.
"I don't want to fight. I-I can't. Fuck, Jace, I can't—"
My words are begging. I curse myself for sounding so weak.
Get a grip. You're fine. He's fine.
He shakes his head repeatedly, his eyes wide as he reaches for me.
"Hey, hey. We're not fighting," He says quietly.
So quietly that I can barely hear him through the waves of noise crashing in my head.
My mouth feels dry, and I feel like I'm back in the Gullet.
I can feel the wind rushing in my ears.
I can feel his heartbeat fading in my arms.
I don't want to go back.
I don't understand why I can't make leave my head. He says my name gently through the fog in my mind.
No. No, no, no. I'm going to cry.
I don't want to cry, because if I do, I might never stop. I swallow harshly. I breathe in sharply through my nose, choking back everything that threatens to spill from my lips.
"Jace..." I whimper. I'm so unfathomably infuriated and I just want him to hold me.
To whisper sweet nothings to me. To keep me from darkness and pain. I dont want to see the heartbreak on his face. I don't want to feel the grief coiling around my ribs.
I don't want to feel so fucking scared all the time, waiting for him to disappear around every corner.
I let out a pathetic sound when he grabs my forearm and pulls me against his chest.
This feels all too familiar. Him comforting me when it's supposed to be the other way around.
I hold back my sobs as he holds me tightly. So tightly I fear for his wounds, but he doesn't move an inch.
I wrap my arms around his neck, burying face into the crook of his good shoulder. My body trembles as he holds me impossibly close.
He doesn't say anything for the longest time. He only trails a gentle hand down my back.
"You don't understand what it was like holding you all the way back to Dragonstone."
My voice is high. I choke on my breath as my chest heaves.
How can I say that? That's so selfish—
"I thought you would die in my arms. Fuck, seeing those arrows pierce you—"
I cut off my own sentence when a sob breaks past my lips. He keeps his lips pressed against my head, his eyes filled with tears.
"And I've had nightmares, and they feel so real, and I feel like if I look away for one moment—"
He shushes me gently. I shake my head vigorously.
Gods, I can feel my body collapsing.
I feel as if my heart has been ripped from my chest, stabbed repeatedly, and shoved back in. Like I'm supposed to fucking risk loving again, knowing that he could be taken from me for good.
He whispers my name, mumbling sweet words in High Valyrian near my ear. His soft tone breaks through the terror tearing at my skin.
My fingers are clenched into fists against his neck. I sniffle harshly as he runs a soothing hand down my head.
"I don't want to lose you, but my mind is acting as if I already did." My words are barely above a whisper.
His hand freezes against my lower back before he resumes his soothing caresses.
"I'm alive," he says quietly.
His thumb brushes gentle circles against my skin. I focus on his breathing. His hair tickling my forehead. His warm breath across my cheek.
"The gods would have to drag me from your arms before I would leave willingly."
My breathing calms slightly. I hiccup as tears continue to stream down my cheeks, making my skin and Jace's neck sticky.
"Nuhys qēlos," he says lovingly, yet so quietly.
My fingers brush over his shoulder blades. His skin is cold. The pit in my stomach churns as I let out a quiet sob. I rub his back gently, moving up to the back of his neck, hoping to bring some warmth back to him.
He's cold, like death.
I need to warm him.
"Oh, love," He whispers, holding me tighter. He buries his face into my neck.
"I won't leave you. Not by the Greens, not by war. Not even by the gods."
Slowly, bit by bit, I begin to calm.
My breathing is still uneven, still sharp, but I let Jace hold me together. I let him soothe me. I let him press gentle kisses across my skin.
I pull away from the safety of his neck and press a kiss—as an apology? I'm not sure—against his cheek before settling back against his chest.
My legs tangle with his. He cradles me against him. It's silent for a few moments. Almost achingly so.
"When you were holding me, I thought you were a goddess." His words are slow and murmured against my forehead, almost as though he's speaking to himself. "You could've rivaled the stars. You do."
He tilts my chin up with gentle fingers. His thumb brushes across my skin as he cradles my face in his hands, like I'm fragile.
His brown eyes meet mine.
and I just... calm.
"And I would kneel before you, and worship you until my hands and knees bled. And I would've died at peace, knowing that you were holding me in my death."
I don't stop the tears this time. I let them trail down my cheeks.
He presses his cheek against mine, holding us there, as he wipes away the silent tears while my chest burns.
Burns with pain. With love.
I weep into his chest. And he lets me.
I would give him my air, my heartbeat, just so he could have peace. The love I have for him is crushing.
Loving him is warm and safe. Like him.
"Breathe," He says in a hushed tone, but it echos in my chest. "Breathe, Nuhys qēlos."
He kisses the side of my head again and again.
I exhale quietly, leaning into him. My breathing slowly falls into rhythm with his, albeit slowly.
Because if he died, I would weep.
I would weep, and my tears would fill thousands upon thousands of oceans.
And my tears would never dry. Sorrow would cover me like a cloak and cling to my bones. I would know no peace. My heart would ache for a heart that no longer beats.
So I Iet myself love him.
I let myself hold him and kiss him. I soak in his warmth and light, and I let him do the same.
"I could be killed by blade or dragonfire, but losing you would be worse than death," I say quietly, as I take his face in my hands.
His pretty eyes are tired.
"Avy jorrāelan," He says simply, but it means so much more.
Tears prick my eyes again. He turns his head to the side and presses a kiss to the palm of my hand, making the corners of my lips lift.
"Avy jorrāelan, my love," I say softly.
His hand slides up my waist, pulling me closer. My nose bumps against his, making us laugh quietly.
"May I kiss my betrothed?" His voice low, almost teasing, but so tender and soft that I just want him to hold me until the realm turns to ash.
"You may," I murmur. Warmth skitters beneath my skin.
He doesn't waste a second, he presses his lips against mine.
The kiss isn't rough or full of lust. It's gentle, as though if he pressed too hard, I might shatter.
His lips are slightly chapped but oh so warm as his hands travel down my neck. He tastes of honey and sugar from the cakes we shared earlier.
I savor everything that is him.
When we pull away, he tucks me into his chest once more. I close my eyes as I squish my cheek against his bare skin. His fingertips brush my temple.
"I will prove worthy of your love. Every dawn and dusk, from the tide and to the moon. I will love you until the moon fades and the sun fizzles to dust."
I open my eyes as I raise my head. My eyes meet his as a lump forms in my throat.
"Stay?" I whisper. My voice is small.
He's quiet for a moment, his thumb brushing beneath my eye. His eyes meet mine. Our faces are close, so close as he brushes his fingers across my cheekbone.
I'll stay."
Throughout the day, we remain in bed. We hold each other close. We soothe one another. I hold his hand tightly when the maester comes to check his wounds and when his mother visits.
When the sun begins to set, I push back his curls repeatedly. Lovingly. His eyes are watching me as I raise a brow.
"Hm?"
"I love you." He whisper the words.
"I love you too."
I rest my head in the crook of his neck, I kiss his jaw, my lips barely brushing his skin. I close my eyes, shifting closer.
"vēzos ñuho," I hum against his skin.
"Nuhys qēlos," He says back softly.
He begins to hum quietly. A soft tune.
It takes me a moment to recognize it. When I do, I close my eyes, letting our old lullaby lull me to sleep. He rocks me gently, side to side. He joins me soon after, his humming growing slower until stopping fully.
I might have nightmares forever. I might convince myself day by day he's dead.
But I know he'll be there to wake me and hold me. He'll be there to remind me that he's here. Alive. That he won't ever leave me.
And that's enough to comfort me.
please do NOT steal my writing in any way or rewrite it. don't post it on other sites or feed it through ai, I WILL find you if you do.
summary - The game is simple. Two players. One gun. One bullet. One winner. When an investigation into a sadistic serial killer takes a devastating turn, both you and BAU Unit Chief Aaron Hotchner find yourselves trapped in a subterranean nightmare, chained by your ankles to the floor of an abandoned swimming pool. As the killer broadcasts your capture live to a horrified Quantico bullpen, days of freezing cold, psychological degradation, and impossible choices force the professional barriers you’ve maintained for years to completely shatter. Stripped of rank, authority, and any hope of easy rescue, you must navigate a sadistic game of survival where refusing to pull the trigger means risking everything, and where surviving the darkness requires finally facing the feelings you’ve kept buried for far too long. The choice is yours, Agents. Kill. Or be killed.
word count - 9.2k
content warnings -bau!reader, kidnapped reader and Aaron, forced nudity, humiliation, descriptions of injury and blood, s3 characters, physical violence. I always write Hotch with an age gap in mind but I don't think it actually makes a difference.
The first sensation was sensory violence, the sharp, metallic tang of dried blood in your mouth, the excruciating ache of a bruised ribcage, and the smell of ancient water, stagnant, laced with pulverised lime and dry rot. Your eyelids felt clamped shut by dried sweat and filth. When you dragged them open, the world was a smear of dark grey and sulfurous yellow. You were lying flat on your stomach against grit strewn concrete, your right cheek pressed into cold tile that smelled faintly of dead algae. A brutal, rhythmic throbbing hammered against the inside of your skull, matching the ragged cadence of your pulse. You pushed yourself up with a weak groan, your hands scraping against slick, granular concrete. Your vision swam, blue spots dancing across the shadows of a massive, cavernous space.
Tiled walls, discolored by decades of black mold and mineral streaks, stretched upward into a high ceiling of skeletal steel trusses. High overhead, narrow windows held broken panes of glass, letting in faint, sickly shafts of moonlight that sliced through clouds of suspended dust motes. You were in the deep end of an abandoned indoor swimming pool. The steep incline of the floor rose up behind you, leading toward a shallow end that was completely swallowed by shadow.
A sharp, heavy metallic clank echoed through the basin, the sound ringing off the hard walls like a gunshot. "Don't move too fast. You have a concussion." The voice was rough, gravelly, and stripped raw, but the underlying cadence, even in a rasping whisper, belonged to Unit Chief Aaron Hotchner.
"Hotch?" You whipped your head around, a sudden spike of motion that sent a nausea-inducing ripple through your brain.
Aaron sat roughly fourteen feet away, his back pressed against the sloped wall of the pool’s deep end. The sight of him was unnerving. His dark hair, usually parted and immaculately styled, fell across his forehead in damp, dark clumps. His suit jacket was gone, his crisp white dress shirt was ripped at the collar and heavily stained with oil, dirt, and a thick smudge of dried blood along the left shoulder. Yet despite the physical devastation, his dark eyes were focused, and moving over you with relentless, mechanical precision. "Check your limbs," he instructed softly, his baritone vibrating through the damp air. "Are you bleeding anywhere else? Any major fractures?"
"I... I don't think so," you breathed, your throat feeling as though it had been scrubbed with raw wire. "My head. My ribs."
You instinctually scrambled to cross the floor toward him, but a violent, unyielding jolt ripped through your right leg, snapping your heel back and slamming your body hard onto the tile. A sharp, lightning-hot spike of agony shot up your shin. You gasped, clutching your lower leg as a heavy, sickening rattle echoed off the tile floor. Wrapped firmly around your right ankle was a thick, industrial iron shackle. The metal was cold, biting directly into your skin. Attached to the collar was a dense, heavy-gauge steel chain, its links welded together and anchored directly into an iron eye-bolt sunk six inches into the pool wall behind you.
"Don't pull," Hotch ordered. His voice dropped into its familiar, stern register, the voice he used when de-escalating barricaded suspects, grounding subjects in shock, or commanding an operating room. "The edges are sharp. If you yank against the anchor, it’ll tear through your Achilles." He flexed his own right leg, pulling back the hem of his dark trousers to reveal not only that he had also been stripped of his shoes, but a matching iron cuff clamped around his ankle, its heavy chain stretching back to a secondary anchor bolt in the wall. “Ask me how I know.”
"Where are we?" you whispered, your fingers tracing the biting edge of the iron ring around your skin. "How long?"
"I woke up twenty minutes ago," Hotch said, his eyes scanning the steep, featureless tiling above your heads. "Based on the drying state of the blood on my shoulder, we've been unconscious for at least six hours. We were taken from the staging area outside the warehouse in Maryland."
Panic flared, a hot, suffocating burn in your throat. You dragged yourself to your feet, the chain clinking loudly, dragging through the dirt like a lead weight behind you. You rushed to the absolute limit of its slack. The heavy iron links went taut with a sharp ping, pulling your ankle back. The smooth, tiled pool walls rose at least twelve feet directly above your head, slicked over with a wet sheen of moss and mineral crust. The stainless-steel rungs of the ladder had been sawed off near the lip, leaving only rusted stubs embedded in the concrete above.
"There's no grip," you gasped, your nails scraping uselessly against the glazed tile. "It's completely smooth."
"Look at the floor angle," Hotch said smoothly, standing up. Even filthy and restrained, his posture was rigid, commanding space through sheer force of will. "The chain length gives each of us roughly an eight-foot radius. Our reach overlaps by about three feet in the center near the drainage grate."
"Hotch, look up there," you breathed, pointing toward the high rim above his side of the wall. "If I can get onto your shoulders, I might be able to reach the top of the pool floor, pull myself up, and find something to anchor a rope to."
Hotch didn't waste breath debating. He immediately dragged himself to the threshold of his chain's reach, stretching every link until the metal creaked and bit viciously into his skin. "Step on my knee first," he gritted out, bracing his palms flat against the cold tile wall, flexing his frame. "Then my shoulder. Drive your heel up, don't lean back."
You crossed the small circle of space where your two chained territories intersected. The moment your skin brushed his, your hands steadying against the solid, warm mass of his back, a surreal, sharp shock cut through the cold terror. For months at Quantico, between late-night case reviews, coffee runs, and shared silences over file folders, there had been an unspoken tension, a rigid line neither of you crossed due to protocol, rank, and fear of what lay beyond it. Now, stripped of rank and trapped in dark concrete, the physical proximity felt explosive.
You placed your bare foot on his thigh, then shifted your weight up onto his shoulder. Hotch exhaled sharply through his teeth, his shoulder muscles locking beneath your weight as he pushed upward, hoisting you higher into the gloom. "Can you reach?" he rasped. Warm breath fanned against your leg through the tear in your pants.
You stretched your arms until your shoulder sockets burned, your fingertips desperately scraping at the curved concrete lip of the pool deck. An inch. Just two inches more. You strained upward, your foot slipping slightly against his damp shirt. "I can't get a grip!" you gasped, your fingers slipping over smooth, algae-slicked tile. "It's slipping, there's no edge. I can't hold on!"
"Push!" Hotch commanded, his voice strained as his legs trembled under the uneven weight. "One more inch!"
You pushed onto your toes, the balls of your feet digging into Aaron’s shoulders as you desperately reached towards safety. Your fingers slid completely off the slick lip. Your center of gravity failed, and you slid down his back, falling heavily onto the concrete floor. Hotch turned instantly, catching you by the waist to break your impact, taking the brunt of your fall as you both crashed into the grit.
For three ragged heartbeats, you were pinned against his chest. His arms wrapped firmly around your waist, his heart hammering like a trapped bird against his ribs, his breath hot against your neck. His fingers tightened into your shirt, not like an officer holding a subordinate, but like a drowning man clinging to a lifeline.
Then, the cold reality of the room crashed back down. Hotch slowly let his hands fall away, his jaw clenching as he pulled back, instantly rebuilding the invisible wall between you.
You were trapped. Completely, utterly, and structurally trapped.
Before the terror could fully settle into your bones, a deafening, high-pitched screech tore through the cavernous space.
It was feedback, a violent, high-decibel audio crackling through a hidden horn speaker high up in the rafters. You both winced, slamming your hands over your ears as the sound ricocheted off the hard tiles, rattling through your teeth. Then came a voice. It was electronically altered, shifted down into a heavy, gravelly rasp that sounded synthesised and metallic, yet underlined by an unmistakably mocking, sing-song cadence.
"Oh, look at you two," the voice purred from above, dripping with cruel amusement. "The great FBI profilers. The intellectual elite from Quantico. You spent three weeks reading my crime scenes. Analysing my pathology. Writing little notes on your glass whiteboards about my insecurities. And now... look at you. Scrambling in the dirt like rats in a bucket."
Hotch stood up instantly, putting himself half an inch in front of you, his body instinctively forming a barrier, his eyes searching the dark rafters for the lens of a camera.
"You like games, don't you, Aaron?" the speaker crackled, followed by the wet, clicking sound of someone chewing tongue-in-cheek. "You study human behavior. You think you know what people do when they're pushed to the edge. So let's test your little theories. Let's see how noble the BAU really is when the light goes out."
A harsh, mechanical clunk echoed near the center of the pool, followed by the metallic skittering of something heavy sliding across the concrete incline.
Your eyes snapped down to the drain at the lowest point of the floor, right in the center of your overlapping reach. Resting squarely over the rusted iron grate was a sleek, matte-black Glock 19 pistol. Next to it, glinting dull yellow in the pale shafts of moonlight, lay a single brass 9mm cartridge.
"The rules are so very simple," the unsub’s voice crooned, mocking and light, as if explaining a children's board game. "Eeny, meeny, miny, moe... catch a profiler by the toe. One gun. One bullet. One door that unlocks when the scale is balanced. One of you leaves alive. The other stays behind to rot. Who lives and who goes? I'll let you two draw up the profile on that." The speaker cut out with a sharp, static pop.
Silence rushed back in, heavy, cold, and suffocating.
The profile screamed through both of your minds simultaneously. This was the unsub's exact MO from the regional cases you had been tracking, forced psychological cannibalism. He didn't execute his victims himself, he captured pairs, partners, siblings, lovers, and forced them into a zero-sum nightmare where survival required murder, leaving the survivor destroyed by guilt.
Hotch’s dark eyes locked onto the black metal weapon on the floor.
"Don't move," Hotch said softly. The tone was no longer that of a trapped victim. It was Unit Chief Aaron Hotchner, cold, absolute, terrifyingly composed. "Stay where you are."
"Hotch-"
"That is an order," he said, turning his head slightly, his gaze sharp enough to cut glass. "You do not touch that weapon."
"We aren't in a briefing room!" you yelled, the fear and adrenaline finally boiling over, your voice echoing off the damp tiles. "You don't get to pull rank down here! Look at us! We are chained in a hole!"
"Which is precisely why you need to listen to me!" Hotch snapped back, his stoic veneer cracking, his voice dropping into a harsh, desperate whisper. "You take the gun. You load it. You shoot me."
A cold, nauseating shock hit your stomach. "What?"
"You heard me," he said, stepping as far toward the drain as his chain allowed, his eyes burning into yours with a terrifyingly clear resolve. "You pick up the round, you load the magazine, and you put a bullet through my heart. You walk out of here."
"Are you insane?!" you whispered, your voice cracking. "I am not shooting you!"
"Listen to the math!" Hotch demanded, his jaw clenching so hard the muscle twitched wildly beneath his pale skin. "It is a cold, tactical reality! Jack needs a father, yes, but more than that, I cannot allow you… a member of my team to die on my watch while I stand here and survive it! I won't do it!"
"So you think your life automatically means less than mine?!" you countered, tears of rage burning behind your eyelids as you stepped right up to the limit of your chain, mere inches from his chest. "You think you're just some noble sacrifice? 'The Unit Chief dies so the subordinate lives', is that the script you wrote in your head?!"
"It isn't a script, it's my responsibility!" Hotch shouted back, the sheer volume of his voice shocking you into silence. His chest was heaving, his breathing jagged. "My responsibility is to keep you safe! If one person walks out of this pool, it has to be you!"
"I am not letting you commit suicide by cop through me, Hotch!" you sobbed, the tears finally spilling over, cutting clean tracks through the grime on your face. "You have a son! You have Jack! He lost his mother! Do you have any idea what it would do to him to lose you too?! Do you think I could ever look that little boy in the eye, knowing I pulled the trigger on his father just so I could keep breathing?!"
"You wouldn't have to look him in the eye," Hotch whispered, his voice fracturing, a raw, bleeding edge of agony showing through his brown eyes. "You would live.”
"I am replaceable! The Bureau can assign another profiler to your unit by next Monday. Morgan is your muscle, Reid is your brains, Garcia is your tech. I-...The team can find another generic agent! But Jack cannot get another father! You have a life waiting for you out there! I am not trading your life for mine!"
Hotch stared down at you, his breathing shallow, his face inches from yours. Something deeply buried in his eyes broke, a floodgate of emotion he had kept locked behind steel doors for years.
Without another word, Hotch suddenly lunged downward toward the drain.
"NO!" you shrieked, diving forward, but your chain snapped taut, jerking your leg backward and slamming your knees into the harsh tile.
Hotch snatched the Glock off the concrete. With terrifying, practiced muscle memory, his hands worked in a blur, he slammed the single 9mm cartridge into the magazine, slapped the baseplate into the magwell, and racked the slide back with a sharp, heavy clack.
He didn't point the weapon at you.
He reversed his grip, turned the muzzle inward, and pressed the heavy steel barrel directly against the skin underneath his chin. His thumb rested firmly over the frame, slipping off the safety.
"NO! Stop! Please, Aaron, stop!" you screamed, dragging yourself through the dirt, reaching out your arms, but you were three agonising feet short of reaching his hands.
"Tell Jack I loved him," Hotch whispered softly, his fingers tightening against the trigger, his dark eyes fixed on yours with a cold, devastating peace. "Tell him I’m sorry."
"AARON, NO-!"
A high-pitched, mocking buzzer blasted through the horn speaker, cutting through the cavernous pool like a knife.
"Tsk, tsk, tsk... oh, Aaron. How predictably melodramatic," the unsub's electronic voice purred, practically dripping with sarcastic disappointment.
Hotch froze, the steel barrel still pressed hard against his jaw, his breath catching in his throat.
"Did you really think I didn't profile you?" the voice mocked, laughing softly, a cold, wet sound. "I knew you’d try the hero routine. martyr complex. 'I'll just shoot myself and save the girl.' How noble. How utterly boring."
A pause stretched over the tannoy, heavy and malicious.
"Let me clarify the rules for the hero," the voice continued, dropping into a low, vicious whisper. "If you pull that trigger and blow your own brains out, the game doesn't end. The door stays locked. And your precious little agent will sit down there in the dark, chained with your decaying corpse, listening to the flies, until she dies of dehydration over the next five days."
The speaker let out a final, taunting chuckle. "Choose wisely, profiler. Your death doesn't save her. It just guarantees she suffers longer."
Click. The tannoy went completely dead.
The silence that followed was suffocating, heavy enough to crush bone.
Hotch stood motionless in the center of the floor. The weapon trembled slightly in his hand. The horrifying, mathematical reality of the unsub's trap settled over him like a shroud, self-sacrifice stripped away. Suicide was not a rescue, it was a slow, tortured execution of the person he was trying to protect. Slowly, his fingers shaking, Hotch eased his finger off the trigger. He engaged the safety, pulled the slide back to catch the unfired cartridge as it ejected, and let the empty pistol and single brass bullet fall back onto the iron grate between you with a dull clatter.
He sank to his knees in the dirt. Moving slowly, as if carrying the weight of the entire world on his shoulders, Hotch dragged himself across the concrete until he reached the absolute limit of his chain, mere inches from where you sat curled with your knees against your chest, weeping on the floor.
Reaching out a trembling, dirt-stained hand, Hotch gently cupped the side of your face. His skin was cold, but his thumb was unbelievably soft as it swept across your cheekbone, wiping away a streak of tears and grime. "I'm sorry," he breathed, his voice breaking into a quiet, fractured whisper. He leaned forward until his forehead rested lightly against yours, his dark eyes searching yours with an unbearable, heartbreaking vulnerability. "I'm so sorry... you're not replaceable. Not to the team. Not to me."
Your fingers curled into the ripped sleeves of his shirt, pulling the fabric taught around his arms. Your breath hitched in your throat, a sob that echoed off the vast tiles. As Hotch’s fingers curled around the back of your head, a single red LED light began to blink slowly high up in the dark.
–
The atmosphere inside the BAU bullpen was suffocating.
Twelve hours.
Twelve harrowing hours had passed since you and Aaron had missed your mandatory morning check-in while following up on a local lead in rural Maryland. Twelve hours of silent cell phones, dead GPS trackers, and a cold case file sitting open on the glass round table in the conference room.
Penelope Garcia sat at her primary console, her usual bright, eccentric clothing replaced by an oversized black cardigan. Her eyes were bloodshot, mascara smudged down her cheeks, her fingers flying across her glowing keyboards in an absolute, frantic blur of desperation. Derek Morgan paced the perimeter of the bullpen like a caged predator, his leather jacket discarded, his sleeves rolled up, his hands clenched so tightly into fists that his knuckles were stark white.
Spencer Reid stood near the central glass board, staring blankly at the tactical map of your last known cell tower ping, holding his notebook so tightly the covers ripped.
JJ stood near the glass wall of the briefing room, her arms wrapped tightly around herself, her phone glued to her ear, listening to an automated voicemail for the hundredth time.
"Give me something, Garcia," Morgan growled, his voice dangerously low, stripped of all its usual humor. "Anything. A traffic camera, an ATM sweep, a credit card hit, give me a direction."
"I'm trying!" Garcia choked out, her voice cracking as a fresh tear spilled down her face. "I'm scrubbing every closed-circuit feed within a sixty-mile radius of the dump site! They vanished off the grid! Their state vehicles were wiped clean! There’s no-"
A sharp, piercing digital tone chimed through the bullpen's main audio array. The entire room froze. The click of keyboards stopped instantly.
"What was that?" Spencer asked, taking three long strides toward Garcia’s desk.
"An incoming high-priority network packet..." Garcia whispered, her hands trembling so violently she could barely hit the spacebar. "It bypassed the FBI gateway security... it’s an auto-executing socket connection routed through a darknet proxy."
"Trace it," Morgan snapped, instantly leaning over her shoulder, his jaw set like iron. "Isolate the node before you execute-"
"I can't block it!" Garcia cried out, burying her face in her hands for a brief second before pulling back. "It’s an auto-launch video stream! It's forcing itself onto the main bullpen display!"
The massive glass screen mounted on the wall of the bullpen flickered. A line of corrupted red code scrolled across the top, followed by a harsh burst of static. Then, the picture resolved. It was a high-definition, crisp video feed. There was no audio, the stream had been intentionally muted at the source, but the visual clarity was nightmare inducing. A dimly lit, abandoned indoor swimming pool. The steep concrete floor of the deep end, covered in dirt and dried water stains. Two figures sitting in the center of the frame, heavy iron shackles wrapped tight around their ankles, chains anchored into the solid wall.
And lying directly between them, resting on a rusted iron drain grate, sat a black Glock pistol and a single, brass bullet.
"Oh, God..." JJ gasped, slamming her hand over her mouth, stumbling back against the glass wall.
Morgan stepped back as if he had been physically hit in the chest, his eyes wide, his chest heaving. "Hotch..."
On the wall display, the team watched in agonising, silent terror as the drama unfolded in real time.
They saw Hotch on his knees, reaching out to gently, desperately cup the side of your face. They saw the raw, unshielded tenderness in his body language, a soft, disturbing vulnerability that none of them had ever seen on their stoic, unyielding Unit Chief in all the years they had worked beside him. They watched you weeping, reaching for him, your foreheads pressed together in the dark hole, locked in a silent, desperate exchange of words the team couldn't hear.
"He didn't just take them," Spencer whispered, his voice dropping, his dark eyes locked onto the black gun on the screen. "He's making them play his game."
"And he's forcing us to watch," Morgan gritted out, his knuckles popping as his hands balled into fists.
Garcia looked up at the screen, her heart breaking into a thousand pieces as she watched her boss, the man who held the entire team together, hold your face in his hands like you were the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth.
"Find them, Garcia," Morgan demanded, his voice cracking with lethal intent. "Find them right now."
–
The metallic echo of the unsub’s voice slowly dissolved into the vast, cavernous silence of the abandoned pool. The air remained dead and heavy, thick with the stench of stagnant dampness, pulverised mortar, and the lingering, sulfurous bite of industrial chemicals. In the dim light, the matte-black glock lay undisturbed atop the iron drain. It was no longer just a weapon, it was a physical monument to your helplessness, a cruel centerpiece around which your captivity revolved.
Hotch remained kneeling in the grit, his breathing slow and measured, though the muscles along his jaw were locked so tight they twitched. His eyes hadn't left yours. The thumb that had wiped away your tear lingered against your skin for a second longer than protocol ever allowed before his hand slowly, reluctantly dropped back to his side.
"We need to preserve our energy," Hotch said softly, his voice returning to that low, steady baritone, though the raw strain beneath it was unmistakable. "Dehydration will set in within twenty-four hours. Shock and blood loss will accelerate it. Every unnecessary movement, every rise in heart rate, consumes resources we can't afford to waste."
You nodded numbly, the reality of your predicament settling like lead in your chest. You looked up into the dark rafters, your eyes scanning the heavy iron trusses and ruined skylights. The cavernous ceiling was swallow-whole by shadow, completely obscured by decades of soot and dust. There was no visible glass, no glint of metal, nothing to indicate where the speaker had been placed, or that a hidden lens was tucked deep within the dark scaffolding above, silently capturing every breath, every flinch, every involuntary touch, and transmitting it directly to the horror-struck bullpen in Quantico.
To you and Hotch, you were completely alone in the dark.
"Come here," Hotch murmured, gesturing to the narrow strip of concrete floor where your two chains overlapped. Moving with a weak slowness to spare your throbbing head and bruised ribs, you dragged yourself across the gritty floor. The iron shackle scraped loudly against the concrete, a dull, harsh clank that made you wince. Hotch shifted his weight, backing up until his broad spine pressed flush against the damp, mold-stained tile wall of the deep end. You settled beside him, pulling your knees up toward your chest to trap what little body heat remained in your shivering frame. The concrete beneath you was mercilessly cold, seeping through your clothes and settling deep into your bones. Hotch didn't hesitate, he shifted closer, closing the small gap between you until his shoulder pressed firmly against yours, providing a solid, unyielding anchor of warmth in the freezing dark.
For a long time, neither of you spoke. The silence stretched, filled only by the distant, rhythmic dripping of water somewhere in the upper pipes and the synchronised cadence of your breathing.
"How is your head?" Hotch asked softly, breaking the silence without looking over. His eyes remained fixed on the far wall, vigilant, constantly calculating.
"It throbs," you admitted, your voice small, swallowed by the vastness of the room. "Feels like someone’s squeezing my temples. But I can focus. I don't think my skull is fractured."
"Good," he murmured. "And the concussion?"
"Manageable. I'm not nauseous anymore." You turned your head slightly, looking at the dark profile of his face, the sharp line of his jaw, the dark circles bruising the skin beneath his eyes, the grime smeared across his cheekbone. "What about you? Your shoulder..."
"Soft tissue damage from the impact when they took us," he replied dismissively, classic Hotchner, brushing aside his own pain as if it were a minor inconvenience. "Nothing broken. I'll survive it."
You let out a faint, dry breath that was almost a laugh, though there was no humor in it. "You always say that. I'll survive it. Like it's just an administrative task on your desk."
A faint, almost imperceptible tilt appeared at the corner of his lips, a shadow of a smile that vanished as quickly as it came. "It's a necessity."
"We're off the clock, Hotch," you whispered, leaning back against the cold tiles, your eyes tracking the pale moonlight drifting through the broken skylight above. "You don't have to put on the armor down here."
The silence returned, heavier this time, carrying all the unsaid things that had piled up between you over months of late-night file reviews, shared flights on the jet, and longing glances across crowded rooms.
Hotch exhaled, a long, shuddering breath that rattled faintly in his chest. "I should have seen the counter-surveillance," he said quietly, his tone dropping into a rare, painful register of self-reproach. "When we went to verify the secondary warehouse address in Maryland. The vehicle parked two blocks back... I logged it, but I didn't push for local backup before we breached the perimeter. I broke protocol."
"Stop," you said firmly, turning your face toward his. "He ambushed us with a localised flash-bang and CS gas in a closed hallway. You didn't break protocol. He set a trap, and we walked into it together. Profilers aren't psychic."
"It's my job to foresee the variables," he insisted, his voice laced with guilt. "My job is to bring every single member of my team home alive at the end of a case. And right now... I have put you in a position where survival depends on a monster's whim."
"You didn't put me anywhere," you said softly, reaching out to catch his arm. Your fingers gripped the rough, torn cotton of his sleeve, feeling the rigid, tense muscle beneath. "I'm here because I chose this job. Because I chose this team. Because I chose to follow you into that building."
Hotch slowly turned his head. In the dim moonlight, his dark eyes met yours. The stoic, unyielding chief of the Behavioral Analysis Unit was gone, replaced entirely by a man stripped raw, exhausted, and utterly terrified, not for himself, but for you.
"I can't lose you," he whispered. The words were so quiet, so devoid of his usual authority, that they sounded almost fragile. "I've lost... I have lost too much. If I lose you like this..." He swallowed hard, his throat working as he cut himself off, unable to voice the end of the thought. Your chest ached with a physical, crushing tightness. Without thinking, without care for protocols or boundaries or the professional distance you had maintained for so long, you let your head drop sideways, resting it firmly against the crook of his shoulder.
Hotch stiffened for a single heartbeat, his breath catching in his throat at the sudden, intimate contact. Then, with a long, trembling exhale, the tension bled out of his frame. He let his head tilt slightly, his cheek coming to rest lightly against the crown of your hair.
Slowly, deliberately, Hotch brought his hand down. His large, calloused fingers brushed against your wrist, tracing the sensitive skin before his palm encompassed yours. His fingers laced through yours, his grip firm, steady, and unyielding, a human anchor tethering both of you to reality in the middle of a nightmare.
"I won't let him break you," Hotch murmured into your hair, his voice fierce, low, and absolute. "I promise you. Whatever comes next... I won't let him break you."
You squeezed his hand in response, burying your face deeper into the solid warmth of his shoulder, letting the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest steady your own frantic heart. “I know.” You murmured gently.
High above you, hidden deep within the black lattice of the ceiling trusses, the tiny red lens of the concealed camera continued to blink silently in the dark. And miles away in Quantico, projected in sickening, high-definition clarity across the main monitor of the bullpen, the entire team stood frozen in total, breathless silence, watching their boss hold your hand in the dark, tethered to a cold concrete floor, waiting out the night together.
–
Your eyes flickered open to a heavy, suffocating darkness, broken only by the faint, icy shaft of moonlight filtering down through the broken skylight above. Your body was rigid with cold, every muscle aching from the relentless chill of the concrete floor. But you weren't lying flat against the grit. Your head was resting in the soft fold of warm, coarse fabric. A heavy, comforting weight on the crown of your head as Aaron’s palm cradled you, his fingers lightly curled around the strands of your hair. You shifted slightly, wincing as a dull spike of pain throbbed behind your eyes. Above you, the steady, rhythmic rise and fall of a chest vibrated against your temple. You looked up into the gloom.
Aaron was leaning back against the cold, mold-stained tiles of the pool wall. His chin was resting against his collarbone, his dark eyes closed, his breathing long and deliberate. His face was a mask of pale exhaustion, deep dark circles bruised under his eyes, grime and dried blood smudging his cheek. Yet his jaw was tight, his body tense, a man locked in a state of hyper-vigilance even while motionless. He hadn't slept. He couldn't.
Your movement caused his eyes to snap open instantly, dark and piercingly sharp in the gloom, instantly assessing your surroundings before dropping down to lock onto yours. "Don't move too fast," Aaron whispered. His voice was raw, a rough rasp stripped down by hours of cold air and zero water.
You didn't move away. The warmth radiating from him was the only thing keeping the shivering in your limbs manageable. "How long was I out?"
"Roughly four hours," Aaron murmured, moving his hand to rest on the concrete inches from your head, his fingers twitching slightly before he pulled them back, keeping a rigid handle on himself. "It's close to four in the morning."
You let out a soft, dry breath, your throat feeling like it was lined with glass. "You didn't sleep at all."
"Someone needed to stay awake," he replied simply. His voice carried that familiar, immovable weight, standing guard even when chained by the ankle to a floor. "The temperature dropped significantly around midnight. If I let you slide onto the bare concrete, hypothermia would set in faster."
You slowly pushed yourself up, sitting beside him against the tiled wall. The heavy iron shackle around your right ankle clinked softly, a cold reminder of the iron ring binding you to the concrete floor. You pulled your knees to your chest, shivering violently as the damp chill seeped back into your clothes.
"Any sign of him?" you asked softly, your eyes scanning the dark, cavernous rafters overhead.
"No," Aaron said, his gaze fixed on the matte-black Glock sitting in the middle of the floor atop the rusted drain, its solitary brass round gleaming dully in the dim light. "He’s watching. But he hasn't moved. He's letting the environment do his work for him. Hunger, dehydration, isolation, sleep deprivation. He wants our cognitive functions to degrade until impulse overrides judgment."
"He doesn't know us very well then," you murmured, resting your side against his broad shoulder for warmth.
An almost imperceptible exhalation escaped Aaron, a phantom of a laugh. "No. He doesn't.” He paused, his lips setting into a straight line again, his eyes trained on the gun, unmoving and deep in thought. “If it comes to that-”
“No.” You cut him off, sensing the direction of his conversation. “No.” You repeated, watching as his eyes moved to you, registering the clarity in them, the unmoving stubbornness that he admired so much. His throat worked as he swallowed, and he bowed his head in a single nod before leaning it back against the tile again.
Silence settled between you again, heavy and thick, but no longer suffocating. In the dark, stripped of Quantico's glass walls, case files, and tactical vests, the silence felt remarkably soft.
"What were you thinking about?" you asked softly, watching the faint rise and fall of his breath. "While I was asleep."
Aaron was quiet for a long moment. His eyes remained fixed on the shadow-draped incline leading up to the shallow end. "My first year at the Bureau," he murmured, his baritone dipping into a lower, introspective register you rarely heard. "I spent six months convincing myself I was entirely prepared for the weight of the job. I thought logic, procedure, and emotional detachment were absolute shields."
"And were they?"
"No," he said gently, turning his head to look at you in the dim light. "They're just tools to keep you moving forward. But the weight never leaves. You learn to carry it, or it crushes you." He paused, his dark eyes searching your face with unbreakable intensity. "I was thinking about how much of that weight I've watched you take on since you joined the unit. You carry it well. Too well, sometimes."
Your chest tightened, a strange, bittersweet ache blooming behind your ribs. "I learned from the best."
"Don't copy my mistakes," Aaron murmured, his voice dropping an octave, laced with an undeniable sincerity. "I spent years building these walls because I thought it protected the people around me. It didn't. It just left me alone."
You reached out, your fingers finding his arm, lightly resting against the torn, filthy sleeve of his dress shirt. "You're not alone down here, Aaron."
Aaron looked down at your hand on his arm, his expression shifting, a subtle, vulnerable crack in his iron composure. He didn't pull away. He turned his palm upward, his large, calloused fingers gently wrapping around yours, squeezing with a grounding strength.
"No," he whispered, his eyes meeting yours in the dark. "I'm not."
–
The BAU bullpen was bathed in the harsh, sterile glow of overhead fluorescent lights and computer monitors. Nobody had slept. Coffee cups, cold and abandoned, littered the desks alongside maps, property deeds, and tactical schematics. On the massive glass monitor at the front of the room, the silent feed continued to stream.
On the screen, Aaron and you sat side-by-side against the dark wall of the pool. To anyone else, it was a picture of two hostages freezing in the dark. But to the team who knew Aaron Hotchner better than anyone, the way his body was angled toward you, shielding you from the cold draft of the room, holding your hand in the dark, was a silent, heart-wrenching revelation.
Morgan stood in front of the board, his eyes red-rimmed, staring at a map of Maryland with a marker gripped so tightly in his hand that his knuckles were white.
"He took them from a secondary site in suburban Baltimore," Morgan gritted out, his voice hoarse from hours of shouting and endless phone calls. "We found their abandoned SUV three miles out. Tires slashed, comms jammed. He had a two-hour window before we even flagged them missing."
"Look at the masonry in the background of the feed," Spencer said, walking up to Garcia’s desk, pointing a laser pointer at the top left corner of the live stream. "Garcia, zoom in on those structural beams above the pool deck."
Garcia’s fingers flew over her keyboard, her face pale, her eyes rimmed red with dried tears. The image enlarged, grainy but readable. "Okay, zooming in. What am I looking at, Reid?"
"Those aren't standard residential trusses," Spencer observed, his voice cold and analytical. "They're reinforced steel beams with rivets used in late 1920s civic construction. This isn't a private mansion or a gym. It's a municipal pool built during the public works administration era."
"Public works... public works..." Garcia muttered, her fingers becoming a blur across her glowing light-board. "Filtering closed municipal facilities, high schools, and recreational centers built between 1930 and 1940 within a fifty-mile radius of the snatch site..."
"Cross-reference with properties foreclosed or abandoned after the county water treatment in the 1980s," JJ added, leaning over Garcia’s chair, her voice tight with suppressed fear. "The unsub needs an isolated facility with industrial drainage,somewhere he could set up heavy chains and a closed-circuit stream without drawing power grid spikes."
"I've got seventy-four potential sites," Garcia gasped, her screen lighting up with a dizzying list of addresses.
"Filter it further!" Morgan snapped, slamming his hand onto the edge of the desk, his eyes darting back to the live monitor where Aaron was gently adjusting his position to cover your shoulder with his frame. "Look at him down there! They've been in that hole for over twelve hours without food or water! We don't have time to knock on seventy-four doors, Garcia!"
"I'm working as fast as I can!" Garcia cried, tears spilling over her lashes. "He's running the feed through seven bouncing proxies in Eastern Europe! I can't reverse-trace the IP without triggering an auto-kill switch on the stream! If I mess up, the feed goes black and we lose line of sight entirely!"
Rossi placed a firm, steadying hand on Garcia's shoulder. "Breathe, Penelope. Look at the feed. Look at Hotch. He’s keeping her alive. He’s keeping her focused. They are buying us time. Now let's do our job and buy them theirs."
–
Down in the deep end, the stillness was broken by a sudden, harsh, high-pitched squelch of electronic static.
The sound exploded out of the darkness like a physical blow. You both flinched violently, Aaron instantly shifting his body in front of yours, his arm extending to push you back against the wall as his eyes snapped up toward the hidden speakers in the dark ceiling.
The static smoothed out into the wet, sickeningly cheerful rasp of the unsub’s electronically pitched voice. "Good morning, my dear profilers," the speaker crackled, dripping with cruel, sing-song mockery. "Did we sleep well? Oh, wait... of course you didn't. The concrete is so very cold, isn't it? And look at you two, curled up together like stray dogs in an alley. How sweet. How thoroughly touching."
Aaron didn't say a word. His face hardened into a mask of pure stone, his dark eyes cold, calculating, searching the shadows of the ceiling for any glint of hardware or movement.
"You know," the voice continued, chuckling softly, a wet, clicking sound that echoed off the tiles, "I’ve been watching your little team back at Quantico. They are running around like ants in a flooded nest! Oh, if you could see them, Aaron! Agent Morgan is practically vibrating with rage. And the blonde one... poor girl looks like she’s about to throw up."
Your heart hammered against your ribs.
"They can see you, you know," the unsub purred, his tone shifting into a malicious, delighted whisper. "Right now. High definition. Muted audio, of course, I like to keep some secrets, but they can see every pathetic, desperate little detail. They saw you holding her hand, Aaron. They saw her resting her head on your chest in the dark. So very romantic for a Unit Chief and his subordinate."
Your breath hitched. A sickening spike of heat flushed through your skin despite the freezing cold. The thought of the entire bullpen watching you trapped down here, watching the vulnerable moments you had shared.
"So," the unsub snapped his fingers, the sharp sound popping loudly through the speaker, "let's give your audience a real show. Let's see how much dignity the BAU has left when forced to strip away the uniform."
"Whatever you're planning, it ends with you in a cell," Aaron said, his deep baritone cutting through the cavernous room, loud, firm, and entirely devoid of fear. "You want a psychological reaction. You won't get it."
"Oh, I think I will, Aaron," the voice sneered. "Because right now, you two still look like federal agents. You still think you have control. You still hold yourselves like you're above the mud. Let's fix that."
A heavy mechanical latch clicked somewhere near the top of the pool incline.
"In that little hole in the wall… you see it Aaron, don’t you? there is a silver tin and a full bottle of fresh water," the unsub crooned. "Inside the tin is a single ration of thick, medical-grade antibiotic salve and fresh gauze. Your poor agent's ankle shackle is already chafing, isn't it? By nightfall, without treatment, the open sores against that rusted iron will turn septic. And without water... Well, neither of you will last another twenty-four hours."
You looked down near the drain. Sitting inside a hole in the wall, behind a locked grate, was a small silver tin and a clear plastic bottle filled with pristine, clean water.
"To get the water and the medicine, there is a small price," the voice whispered, dropping into a dark, intimate purr. "Aaron... I want you to strip her of her upper clothing."
Your stomach dropped.
"What?" you breathed, your voice barely a rasp.
"You heard me," the unsub laughed, the sound twisted and distorted through the speaker. "The shirt, the undershirt…. The bra. All of it. I want you, Aaron, to undo every button, pull the fabric off her skin, and toss it up over the pool lip where neither of you can reach it again. Leave her exposed to the freezing cold, sitting in nothing but her trousers in front of that camera."
"No," Aaron said immediately, his voice dropping into a register so dark and lethal it vibrated through the concrete floor. "I will not."
"Think carefully, Aaron," the unsub taunted. "If you refuse, I leave the water where it is and turn off the air circulation. She dehydrates, her wound rots, and she suffers while you watch. But if you comply... if you violate protocol, if you strip down your subordinate in front of her colleagues, in front of the entire FBI hierarchy watching this stream... you both drink. She gets the medicine. She survives the day."
The speaker let out a wet, mocking chuckle.
"I want to see the unshakeable Aaron Hotchner unbuttoning his subordinate's clothes like a petty predator. I want your team at Quantico to watch their boss reduce you to bare skin in a concrete hole. I want you to look each other in the eye afterward and pretend you're still professional colleagues. You have two minutes."
Click.
The tannoy went dead.
The silence that returned was thick, suffocating, and vile. You sat frozen against the wall, your skin crawling, tears of pure humiliation burning hot behind your eyelids. It wasn't about physical pain, it was about psychological violation. It was designed to strip away every layer of professional boundaries, to force Aaron into performing an act of forced vulnerability upon you, and to broadcast that humiliation to everyone who respected you both back home.
Aaron stood rooted to the spot. His face had drained of all color, turning a ghostly, deathly pale. His hands were clenched into tight, violent fists at his sides, trembling with an uncontrollable, silent fury.
"No..." Aaron whispered, his voice cracking, raw as scraped iron. "No. I won't. I won't touch you."
"Aaron..." your voice trembled, dry as ash in your throat.
"I won't do it!" Aaron suddenly roared at the dark ceiling, his baritone tearing out of his chest, echoing violently off the tiles like a wounded animal. "DO YOU HEAR ME?! I WILL NOT TOUCH HER!"
"Aaron, stop! Look at me!" you demanded, dragging yourself forward as far as your chain allowed, ignoring the torturous bite of the iron against your swollen ankle. "Aaron, look at me!"
He turned his head slowly, his breath coming in ragged, shallow gasps. The unshakeable Unit Chief of the BAU looked completely destroyed. His dark eyes were wide, filled with a suffocating, unbearable horror.
"We need that water," you whispered, your hands trembling violently as you reached for him, grabbing his wrists. His skin was burning hot against your freezing fingers. "Look at my leg, Aaron. It's already infected. If we don't get that water and that salve, we won't last long enough for them to find us."
"I can't," Aaron breathed, a single tear slipping past his lashes, cutting a clean track through the grime on his cheek. "I can't do that to you. I won't strip you down... I won't violate you like this. Not in front of them. Not in front of anyone."
"It's not a violation if I'm asking you to do it." you argued, your voice as calm as you could muster as you pulled his hands toward your chest. "It's just fabric, Aaron. It's just clothes, he wants to break your spirit, he wants to make you feel dirty so you give up, don't let him win."
"No-”
"Do it, Aaron." you said, pressing his trembling hands flat against the top buttons of your shirt. "Please. I need you to do it. We need that water, Jack needs you to come home… Please."
Aaron stared down at your hands holding his against your chest. His jaw twitched, his teeth grinding together so hard a muscle flared violently in his cheek. He looked into your eyes, seeing the terrifying blend of humiliation, terror, and despite everything… trust shining through your tears.
"I'm sorry," he choked out, his voice a broken, agonising whisper. "I'm so sorry..."
His hands, usually so steady and precise, trembled fiercely as his fingers fumbled with the top button of your shirt. He kept his eyes locked firmly onto yours, refusing to look down, refusing to give the hidden lens overhead the satisfaction of seeing him treat you as anything less than sacred.
One by one, the buttons slipped free under his calloused fingers. The cold air hit your bare skin like a physical slap, making you gasp and shiver uncontrollably. Aaron’s hands were gentle, heartbreakingly so, as he peeled the ruined fabric off your shoulders, his fingertips barely brushing your skin, careful not to touch you any more than necessary.
With a ragged breath, he pulled your shirt and undershirt away, before gently placing his hands on your shoulders to turn you. With your back to him, his fingers lowered to the hooks on the clasp of your bra. The fabric fell from your chest, your nipples peaking in the cold. His jaw pulled taught as he let out another breath that fanned across the bare skin of your back before turning and hurling the fabric high up onto the pool deck out of reach. You stood exposed in the freezing dark, clutching your arms around your ribs, shivering violently from both the cold and the sheer, crushing humiliation of the moment. The grate that the water and tin were hidden behind lifted with a metallic clunk as the lock disengaged.
Without a word, Aaron lunged toward the drain. He snatched the silver tin and the water bottle, scrambling back to you in a frenzy. He uncapped the bottle with shaking hands and held it to your lips, steadying your chin with one warm hand while you drank greedily, the cool water rushing down your parched throat.
"Save half," you gasped out, pushing the bottle back toward his chest. "You need to drink, Aaron. Take it."
Aaron didn't argue. He threw his head back and swallowed the remaining water, his throat working as he emptied the plastic bottle. He immediately cracked open the silver tin, scooping out the thick antibiotic salve with his fingers. He knelt at your feet, his hands trembling as he tenderly applied the cold paste over the raw, bleeding skin around your chained ankle, wrapping it swiftly in the clean gauze.
When he finished, Aaron didn't move away. He immediately pulled off his own torn dress shirt, leaving himself in his undershirt, and wrapped the warm fabric around your bare shoulders. He pulled you hard against his chest, wrapping his broad arms entirely around your frame, burying his face into the crook of your neck to shield your exposed skin from the camera's view.
"I'm sorry," Aaron breathed into your skin, his body trembling with a mixture of rage, exhaustion, and fierce protection as his arms locked around you like iron bands. "I've got you..."
You buried your face into his shoulder, sobbing quietly as the warmth of his body seeped back into yours, the taste of clean water still on your tongue.
The silence that followed the ordeal was hollow, heavy, and thick with the scent of stale water and raw humiliation.
You sat pressed firmly against Aaron's chest, wrapped in his dress shirt. His broad arms remained locked around you like iron bars, his chin resting against the crown of your head, shielding your shivering frame from the cold air and the invisible eye of the camera overhead. His heart hammered in a hard, erratic rhythm against your ear, a wild contrast to the steady, unyielding mask he presented to the world.
For a long time, neither of you spoke. The water was gone, the empty plastic bottle crushed beneath Aaron's heel near the drain, and the cold paste on your ankle throbbed with a dull, manageable ache.
High above you, hidden deep within the dark rafters, the tiny red lens of the camera continued to blink silently in the dark. And miles away in Quantico, standing in front of the silent, high-definition display screen, Derek Morgan covered his mouth with a trembling hand, Rossi turned his face away in sickened, helpless fury, Spencer kept his eyes firmly locked on the floor, his jaw so tight his teeth could crack, JJ’s fingers dug into Emily’s arm and Garcia sobbed into her hands, watching their unshakeable leader hold you against his chest in the dirt, wrapped around you like a shield.
–
Time in the pool lost its meaning, measured not by hours or minutes, but by the slow, struggling decline of your bodies. The chill of the concrete floor had settled deep into your bones, a constant, dull ache that made every breath feel heavy. Your skin was cold, covered by Aaron’s ruined dress shirt. Aaron himself sat in his pale undershirt, his posture rigid despite his obvious exhaustion, his arm locked around you to share what little body heat he had left. His knuckles were still red from where he’d balled his hands into fists during the ordeal, his jaw set in a line of grim, unyielding determination.
The silver tin and the empty water bottle lay discarded near the drain. The water had taken the sharpest edge off your thirst, but it was a temporary mercy. Dehydration and shock were steady, silent enemies, wearing down your resolve bit by bit.
Then, the silence of the deep end was shattered.
A loud, ear-splitting screech of static ripped through the dark, bouncing violently off the damp, mold-stained tiles. You both flinched, Aaron instantly shifting his weight to pull you tighter against his chest, his body instinctively positioning itself as a barrier between you and whatever was coming.
High above, deep within the black lattice of the roof trusses, the speaker crackled to life once more.
"You've been very resilient," the unsub’s voice rasped, the electronic distortion giving it a flat, mechanical tone that made the words even colder. "You've survived the cold. You've survived the indignity. You've held onto each other like children in a storm. But patience is a luxury I am no longer inclined to extend."
A heavy, mechanical thunk echoed from the shadows above the pool deck, followed by a dull, rhythmic clicking sound.
On the tiled wall opposite your position, high above the reach of either chain, a bright red LED display flickered to life. Crimson numbers glowed in the darkness, sharp and unforgiving:
06:00:00.
With a soft, electrical hum, the numbers shifted. 05:59:59.
"Six hours," the speaker crooned, the unsub’s tone dripping with dark, theatrical satisfaction. "Six hours to make your choice. The gun is still where you left it. One bullet. One trigger pull. If one of you is dead when that clock reaches zero, the survivor walks out. I will unlock the heavy steel doors at the top of the incline, and you may return to your lives."
The red light from the digital timer cast a long, bloody glare across the dark concrete floor, reflecting off the matte-black finish of the Glock resting on the rusted drain grate.
"And if the clock reaches zero while both of you are still breathing?" the unsub continued, his voice dropping into a sinister, low purr. "Then I will come down into that pit myself. And I will execute you both. The decision is yours."
A final, sharp click signaled the end of the broadcast, leaving only the relentless hum of the digital clock as it ticked down the seconds.
Can i request one where reader starts dating peter after everybody forgot about him and he miss mj and reader thinks he still likes her but its not the case? Angst with happy ending please 🙏 thank you!!! English its not my first language sorry
Don’t You Want Me?
BRAND NEW DAY SPOILERS!!!
Summary: When Peter’s powers start acting up you can’t help but wonder if it’s anything to do with his past.
Warnings: mentions of a needle and stitches (I can make a needle-free edition if anyone wants it), brief mention of stalking, Peter is partially influenced by the arachnid changes before the party
Pairing: Peter Parker x Reader
Word Count: 2.9k
ao3 link
There was nothing simple about dating Spider-Man. With the moments he’d run off in the middle of a movie or suddenly cancel on date night, it didn’t exactly make you feel secure in the relationship.
You didn’t blame Peter. After-all, the whole ‘crime fighting’ and ‘saving the world’ gig was far bigger than you, but sometimes it got to you having to always chase after time with the man you love.
This pile of complexity was only added to by that cursed spell that some wizard had cast four years ago. Although this was before you met Peter, you knew how important this was to him. It had changed his life entirely.
You didn’t realise how much more it would change until one night.
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺
“Come with me.”
“To the party?” You looked at him incredulously. “Peter, this is borderline staking. I understand you follow people for your spidey purposes, but this…”
On another occasion your moral concerns would’ve hit him and knocked him out of this determined haze, however something was different. He seemed more intense than usual, eyes still trained on Ned’s fading figure, set on moving forward.
“I need to see them. Just once.”
His voice ached with a desperation and grief that took you aback.
This meant something to him, more than you could understand. You let him continue.
“Besides it’s a party, anyone’s invited.” He tried to rationalise his actions as his hand interlocked with yours, pulling you forward with him as an accomplice.
As you wondered through the streets, you couldn’t help the sinking feeling settling in your stomach.
Each corner Ned turned you weren’t far behind and it felt so obsessive?
Peter wasn’t like this.
He’d watch a few instagram stories and visit a few coffee shops, but he wouldn’t do anything like this so spontaneously.
“I’m not so sure about this.” You murmured, as you approached the building.
Even in his focused state Peter noted your anxiety.
“Hey, we don’t need to stay long.” He reassured, turning towards you and finally meeting your eyes.
He seemed different in this light.
“I just want to see what their lives are like now. Then we can move on.” The gentle certainty of his tone provided some relief.
Moving on was exactly what you needed. Maybe this would provide some much needed closure.
You let out a resigned sigh, keeping a firm grasp on his hand as you walked up the stairs.
You could hear the party bellowing nearby. It was busy enough that the two of you entered unnoticed by the array of drunk college students.
That was until Peter had the bright idea to walk directly into Ned’s room, carried by emotion rather than rational thought.
As you stepped inside, he dropped your hand in favour of exploring the room.
He didn’t make it far before Ned walked out of his bathroom, startled by the strangers in his room but pleased to share his spiderman studies.
“Oh I see you’ve stumbled across my board. I’m not one of those weirdos, I swear.”
You hadn’t met Ned before, but you’d heard plenty about him. Enough to know that the Lego figure Peter picked up meant more than just a childish toy to him.
“I’m only looking for spiderman because I want to thank him in person. Not to tell anyone or make it a newsworthy thing. He saved me a few times in high school. I remember it well.”
Not well enough.
“Oh.” Peter’s expression softened.
“I even made an app!”
“Spidey tracker.” A small smile adorned his face.
“Oh you know it?” Ned beamed at Peter’s shared awareness.
The two spoke like the closest of friends, even now, and you felt almost as if you were watching the interaction from afar.
“Do you want to see my main spiderman suspects?” Ned seemed so eager to share his theories.
You had to admit, you were a bit intrigued to see the possibilities, all whilst knowing you were already stood next to spiderman himself.
When Ned unveiled two random guys, you noticed a flicker of acknowledgement in Peter’s expression. It was somewhere close to a bittersweet laugh.
He seemed so overcome with a new joy and sorrow all at once.
As you turned to check up on him, a voice interrupted you.
“Hey I need help in the kitchen, some guy is throwing up. I still don’t know why we invited so many people…” She murmured, unimpressed with the turnout of the night.
“We can clean it up, it’s bound to happen at a party.” Ned replied shrugging, yet all you could notice was the way Peter’s focus was trained on the woman. His lips parted as if words had escaped him, and all he was staring at was a ghost he longed to reach.
That’s when you knew it was MJ.
“Who are you two? I don’t think I’ve seen you before.” You could see her analysing you both intensely.
“You don’t know them?”
“Um, we’re just…” You started to try and find an explanation, but Peter cut you off abruptly.
“May- Maynard and June.”
You couldn’t help but grimace at the atrociously obvious fake names, wondering why Peter would cut you off to offer such a terrible cover. He was supposed to be good at this secret identity thing!
“Yep. Maynard and June. We’re new here.” You forced yourself to back him.
Peter was stood like a fool, still clutching May’s flowers, half-frozen in place aside from his few unhelpful additions to the conversation.
“Are those flowers for someone?” She questioned. “Or do you just walk about with them?”
“Oh- oh! Here, they’re a housewarming gift.” He fumbled with the bouquet as though he’d suddenly remembered it existed.
You tensed as he handed her the flowers.
Her eyebrows raised in acknowledgement of the alternative gift. “Oh thanks, most people just brought alcohol.”
After offering the polite reply, she looked back at Ned, still needing his help. “Anyway… I better go stop any more mess from being made. Ned?”
“Can we go now? I think they’re busy.” You murmured to Peter, barely loud enough to hear amongst the noise of the party.
“We’ve just got here.” He lightly protested, but was evidently still dazed from the conversation.
You sighed as he followed them out into the kitchen a few moments after they’d left.
“Peter.” You grabbed his hand once more, trying to stop him, but forgot his inhuman strength as you did nothing more than stumble forward with him.
He instinctively caught you mid-fall and grasped your waist to stabilise you.
“We’ll leave soon. I promise.”
You couldn’t help but believe him as his eyes met yours with a quiet pleading.
“I don’t think this is helping you.” You admitted.
As he went to protest, he caught sight of a man with MJ, cozying up to her in a familiar fashion. When he kissed her, you felt Peter’s grip on you tighten, causing you to look in the direction of his focus.
He was so preoccupied he didn’t spot your distaste.
You shook your head, a sigh turning into an emotion-filled huff.
“I’m going. You can leave with me if you want, but I’m going back to my apartment. Alone.” You pursed your lips together, restraining yourself from saying anything more.
“Wait-”
His pleading voice faded out into the atmosphere as you passed through the drunken crowd. You caught sight of the happy couples, making out in corners and dancing to the music, as you sped away from your boyfriend.
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺
The next few days weren’t great for spiderman as you watched his life through the news.
The Daily Bugle reported a police officer in critical condition at his hand, but you knew they weren’t the most reliable news source when it came to “SPIDER-MENACE”. What you did notice in the footage was the smaller details that the untrained public wouldn’t have considered: the absence of his usual webshooters; the slowness of his spidey senses; and the force with which he fought.
It wasn’t right.
That’s when you finally gave in and found your way over to his apartment, letting yourself in with the key he’d given you months ago.
It was in a worse state than last you’d seen it, as though a few too many of his web-bombs had exploded. Sketches were littered across his desk as his machine worked away, evidently having tried (and failed) to create many prototypes of this device you’d never seen before.
That meant it was new.
Something had changed in the last 48 hours.
In all the chaos, the weird technology wasn’t the strangest thing you spotted - lying on his laundry basket were another woman’s clothes, a crop top and some “juicy” sweat pants.
As you went to observe them, you heard the twist of the door handle revealing a battered, beaten-up Peter, looking the worst you’d seen him in a long time.
His eyes widened as he spotted you, immediately springing into a frantic explanation despite his exhaustion.
“I swear there’s a reason for those clothes- You see I sort of fell out of a web cocoon half-naked and they were all I could find in the laundry room-”
Your concern for him had already overruled your frustration.
Your words left you with an urgent worry, simultaneously loud yet weak.
“It’s fine, Peter.” You blinked, eyes scanning up and down his form for the injuries.
“Just get out of that suit and sit down-”
He froze, before cracking a small forced smile.
“Do I really look that bad?” That playful laugh left his split lip in a way that made your reluctant heart melt.
“Yeah idiot.”
You matched his mood, rolling your eyes as you reached for the conveniently placed first-aid kit in his room.
If you didn’t laugh along, you worried the other emotions would rise to the surface. Your many fears - for his safety, of his love, of his past - they were consuming you recently.
Once he was undressed and planted comfortably on his sofa, you approached with the medical equipment. It wasn’t an infrequent practice, but the circumstances were different.
You’d missed a lot in a short time it seemed.
“So, you gonna tell me what happened to get you all scraped up?” You asked, eyes meeting his for a moment before you started deciphering which injury needed attention first.
“You know the job. This isn’t the first time.” He looked bashfully away and you noticed his unusual embarrassment.
“Peter.”
He should’ve known that explanation wouldn’t suffice.
“It’s difficult to explain- I don’t really understand it myself still.” He winced as you applied pressure to his most recent wound, voice becoming more strained in his attempt to keep composure.
“Try.” Was all you encouraged gently, needing an answer but not willing to argue with an injured man.
He nodded in resignation, knowing he couldn’t avoid the situation forever. “My DNA is changing in a way. The arachnid hormones are taking over sometimes and I can’t control it.”
You paused your movements.
That wasn’t what you’d expected.
“When did it start?”
“The morning before yesterday. That’s when I woke up outside in the web cocoon and why I have those clothes.” He pointed at the basket you’d been looking at earlier, forgetting his injuries for a moment before but being reminded by the sudden pang.
“You didn’t call me.”
“I didn’t know how to tell you.”
“Bullshit. You tell me everything.”
You frowned, trying to refocus on patching him up. “From fighting aliens to free churros from a stranger on the street. You tell me. You always do.”
You sighed, keeping your composure as well as possible as you continued on. “Why has it all changed now that she’s showed up again?”
The sentence was more of a heavy breath than a question.
“You need stitches.” You murmured, interrupting your own grievance to search for the medical needle.
Peter tilted his head at your evident discomfort. His senses were strong enough to hear what you said even if you didn’t intend it.
“Hey, stop that for a second.” He reached out to slowly place his hand on your shoulder.
“Stop helping you?” You raised an eyebrow before ignoring his instruction.
“I mean it. We need to talk without all the distractions.” Peter’s tone was nothing but kind, yet in the haze of your anxiety it all sounded wrong.
‘We need to talk’ clearly meant he wanted to break up. You wouldn’t let that happen until he was at least stitched up.
Once he realised you weren’t stopping, he decided to speak on anyway.
“I didn’t tell you because I was ashamed. I’ve had full control of my powers for years and then suddenly web fluid is spewing from my wrist? I found it gross enough without showing my partner.” He admitted, inhaling sharply as your needle pierced his skin.
Although you believed him on that, it didn’t answer everything.
One question kept running through your mind.
“Do you still like her?”
You blurted out abruptly before you could stop yourself, squeezing your eyes shut when you realised you’d spoke it aloud.
“Who, MJ?” Peter frowned as if the idea of you thinking that had never crossed his mind.
The question worsened your frustration because who else would you be referring to? It wasn’t like he had many notable exes you’d be talking about.
You tried to stay focused on his wound to ground your irritation as you replied.
“Yeah, everything’s gone all haywire since you saw her.” You noted, laced in an undertone of insecurity. “Seems a strange coincidence.”
All of these changes to Peter were seemingly happening because of her.
He paused, unsure of how to address the matter. The pain didn’t help him think clearly.
“You can’t function without her. Your body’s literally telling you it, like it’s in your blood or something.” Your words tumbled out as you thought over and over about the recent events.
“I don’t think that’s why this is happening-” He tried, attempting to placate the worry, but failing to do so fast enough.
“Well I do. You may not have seen it but I have. That look in your eye you’ve had recently… it’s different. It flickers for a moment and then suddenly you’re chasing your old life.” You pointed out.
“A life that I wasn’t a part of.” You mumbled uncomfortably as you finished the final stitch.
The words revealed your true dispute with this and Peter finally understood the complexities of what you’d been feeling.
He spoke your name to snap you out of your mental spiral.
“What I feel for MJ, it’s not love.” Peter’s hand found yours, guiding you to place down the needle and focus on him. “Or not the romantic kind at least. It’s not like what I feel for you.”
You looked away, struggling to meet his eyes. He reached to tilt your face towards his gaze.
“I want the friendship back where I spent all of my high school years by their side. But then we go to college, and I meet this incredible person at Aunt May’s charity and we spend all our time together.” He assured.
“You’re a part of my story. No matter how I write it.” Peter emphasised every word.
“I’m not trying to get MJ back. That’s not what made me so… distressed. The emotion is in what I lost: we were meant to live together; go to M.I.T. like Mr Stark wanted all those years ago; build those damn star wars legos together. All those things we’d planned - that’s what I mourn. And that’s why everything’s gone haywire. Not because I’m planning on cheating on you with someone I haven’t seen in four years.”
He finally let the feelings he’d been trying to hard to ignore out.
You fell silent, mentally replaying every word he’d just said.
“When you left the party the other night you thought I felt something when I saw that MJ has a boyfriend, but the feeling wasn’t jealousy. It was a reminder that everything changes and that no matter how I try, Aunt May was right. I can’t see the future.” He struggled through her name. “And I worried if something like before could ever happen to you.”
The emotion in his voice tore through any doubt you had.
“It’s not safe to love me.” He reiterated his point.
“I’ve always known that. It’s not some new threat.”
“It’s worse now. There are darker forces at play, I’ve seen possession and mind control just within the last week.” He hadn’t told you that part before either.
“Hey nobody would want to be up there in my head.”
You offered him a moment to laugh beyond the obvious concern, satisfied when you heard the light chuckle before his seriousness returned.
“I just don’t want to see you hurt.”
He spoke in a pained desperation that you’d seen far too much of in the past few days.
“Ironic coming from the man who won’t let me finish patching him up…” You tilted your head at him, eyes meeting his intently. “I know you’re being serious, but I know what I’m getting into.”
You leaned in to kiss him, careful of his split lip. He didn’t seem so concerned, eagerly accepting the offer - injuries be damned. As you pulled back to breathe, you spoke once more.
“Besides, even the worst that could happen wouldn’t be enough for me to stop loving you.”
summary: during one of your weekly movie nights with the gang, peter has a nightmare and accidentally hits you while you try to wake him up, knocking you out cold.
wc: ~1.4k
cw: peter hits reader and it bruises, though this is more of a crack fic than anything! hope you think it's funny, i cracked myself up while writing it (hah)
masterlist and taglist!
long after the credits had rolled on the empire strikes back, you woke to the soft snoring of peter next to you on ned's bedroom floor. the clock on the dresser announced a tired 2:32am, and the only light that crept into the room flooded from the heat lamp of ned's aquarium tucked in the corner.
sitting up and rubbing your eyes to get a better sense of your surroundings, you look down towards the bedheaded brunette lying beside you, soft murmurs escaping his tired lips. you leaned down to try and hear him better, but the effort was fruitless. the mumbling seemed harmless — something you'd heard plenty of times before during your weekly movie nights, so you began to settle back into the warm blankets on your makeshift bed.
that was until you felt peter twitch against you, barely audible gasps accompanying each unconscious movement. you turned to look at him, noticing his trembling body. clearly, he was having a nightmare, you thought as you leaned closer and put a hand on his shoulder.
you shook him gently, his name forming into a whisper: "pete?"
he flinched as he heard his name, though he was definitely still dreaming. you watched as his face contorted into something of fear, and you shook him harder, raising your voice to a regular volume, despite the other two still sound asleep in the room.
"peter, wake up. hey, pete-" SMACK! peter responded to your touch with brutal force, eyes still innocently closed as he lunged forward and swung, a grunt falling from his lips as his unconscious self grew breathless. the contact against your skin stung his knuckles, the pain response immediately waking him up in time to watch your limp body fall back against the floor. though he hadn't even fully woken up, he felt a tingle through his body as he darted forward to catch your head before you hit the ground.
"(y/n)!" peter yelled as his system finally woke him up, panic flooding his senses.
he clung to the sides of your face, instinctively checking for a pulse as you lay completely motionless on the ground. he stared at you for a moment, then down at his throbbing hand and put the pieces together with wide eyes. "no, nonono, no, come on,"
peter shot a web towards the light switch, immediately flooding the once-sleepy ombionce with stark white adrenaline.
"i need you to wake up, (y/n). please." he tried to shake you again, getting a better look at the forming bruise on your jaw.
fuck.
the sound of his heavy breathing became drowned out with annoyed groans as ned and mj began to stir, waking up from the harshness of the overhead light.
"yo, could you not?" mj spat in peter's direction through squinted eyes.
ned slowly sat up from his bed, rubbing his eyes as he drifted between mj on his couch and peter hovering over you on the floor. "what's going on?"
"yeah, parker. you better have a good excuse for-"
"guys, she won't wake up,"
the pair stared back at peter with the same roused expression he had moments ago.
"i-i-i, i dont know. i think i... hit her...?" peter trailed off almost in a question, like he was hoping it wasn't the case.
"what?!" ned reacted immediately, jumping down to join peter on the floor and take his turn trying to shake you awake. mj sat up on the couch to get a better view of the situation, though, that was all the more concern she expressed.
ned's breathing grew even more erratic than peter's. "what the hell happened?!"
"i-i dont know! i was having a bad dream, and i was fighting sandman, a-and, she must have been awake, because she was sitting up, and then..." peter looked down to your unmoving grame and visibly cringed. "and then she wasn't."
mj gave a sharp snort at the admission, and both boys whipped around to give her horrified looks.
"what? it's kinda funny."
ned gave her a glare while peter began to panic again, reaching down to hold your limp hand. "ned, i don't know what to do."
"okay, okay. people pass out all the time; there's like, jobs centered around it. let me google it," he ran to unplug his phone, frantically typing as peter stayed by your side.
"is she breathing? shit, she's breathing, right? holy shit, peter, did you kill (y/n)?"
"what? no!"
ned shook his head slowly, pacing in front of his bed. "listen, dude. you know i'm your guy in the chair, but i am not going down for a non-spider-man related murder-"
"ned, she's not dead! how do i fix this?!" peter ran his hands through his hair in frustration.
"okay, okay!" he made his way back next to peter, a wikihow article pulled up on his phone. "it says to perform a sternum rub."
peter gave him a bewildered look. "you want me... to rub..."
"her chest!" ned exclaimed, proud he even knew where the sternum was.
"WHAT?!" peter nearly yelled back, only to be shushed by ned and earn another snort from mj. "ned, i just physically assaulted her, i am not adding sexual to the list too."
"no, dumbass," mj perked up. "you rub her with your fist on her sternum, on the center of her chest — above anything. you're trying to elicit a pain response, to wake her up."
peter looked like he was going to throw up. "i don't want to hurt her either! that's what caused this mess!"
mj rolled her eyes and shuffled back under the covers. "you guys are freaks, i'm going back to bed."
"no!" the boys shouted in unison.
"you have to help us! you come do it!" ned nearly pleaded, his eyes flickering between you and mj.
"i'm not the one who knocked her out! this entirely seems like a peter problem."
peter's face dropped to his hands, a frustrated groan rumbling deep from his chest. "it was an accident."
"your accident."
"mj!" ned yelled, a hand on peter's shoulder to help calm him down. "it's okay, pete. she'll be okay. you're spider-man, you save people all the time!"
"yeah, when they're still conscious!"
"guys?"
"i can see the headline now, spider-man hurts an innocent civilian: was this his motive all along?" mj gave in her best jj jameson voice.
"mj!" the boys shout at her again.
"um, guys?"
"one sec, (y/n)." ned responds, disappointed eyes still trained on mj.
everyone immediately whipped their heads around to see you slowly sitting up and touching your jaw, a wince falling from your lips as you grazed the bruised skin. peter was at your side the second he saw you awake, his hands covering your own and his eyes examining every inch of your face.
"oh my god, are you okay?!"
you rubbed your eyes harshly, the light only adding to your growing headache. "what's going on?"
"peter decked you." mj answered, the smirk evident in her voice.
"mj!" the boys scowled for who knows how many times that evening.
you looked towards the curly-haired boy with shock written on your features. "you... excuse me?"
the look of guilt peter gave you was enough of an answer. "okay. maybeihityouinthefacewhilesleepingandknockedyouout."
"oh?" you let out, more confused than anything.
"(y/n), i'm so sorry. i'm so so sorry, i was having a nightmare, and i-i don't know what came over me, i'm so sorry, you have to believe me." he rambled on.
mj cut him short, though. "i think this means you get to hit peter now."
"what?!" peter whipped towards her in shock, and it was ned's turn to offer a snort in response.
"i mean, it's only fair." mj shrugged.
"(y/n) is far more classy than that," ned said, almost in reassurance to peter.
"y-yeah, she doesn't stoop to your- OOF" peter was cut off as you swung as hard as you could at his right cheek. it was nothing in comparison to the villains he fought on a daily basis, and it definitely hurt your hand more than his face, but you smiled while craddling your now bruised knuckles as peter held his cheek in his palm with utter stupor radiating from the look he gave you.
If I didn’t remember actually reading this in an actual Calvin and Hobbes book as a child I’d think it was ironically photoshopped like those comics where Mickey Mouse and Goofy talk about how reality is an illusion but this comic strip was actually just……. already………… like that……………
Dean being the kind of bf who gets way into playing with your LPS with you
CONTENT talks of infidelity and family/marriage drama
A/N idek what this is, it came to me in a vision
“Did you think I wouldn’t find out?”
The air in the room is thick with tension.
“I mean, really?” You scoff. “My sister?”
Dean looks down shamefully. “It wasn’t like that,” he murmurs.
“Bullshit. That’s exactly what it was and you know it! While I was at home, taking care of our children, you were out fucking my sister!” You seethe. “What am I supposed to tell them, huh? That Daddy’s not coming home anymore because he’s too busy playing happy family with Auntie Carol?!”
Dean looks up at you finally, his eyes filled with anger. “Maybe you should tell them that Daddy couldn’t take being in a loveless marriage anymore! You wanna know why I slept with Carol? At least, she was there for me.”
“That’s not—!”
“Admit it. You’ve resented me ever since I got laid off. You don’t even look at me like I’m a man anymore!” Dean shouts.
From the kitchen, Tucker glances at Logan, his voice a low whisper. “...What is going on right now?”
You and Dean are sitting on the floor of the living room, pinned between the couch and coffee table—where a handful of Littlest Pet Shops are sitting in a pile. The head of a grey cat is pinched between your fingers as you twist it wildly to match the words you’re saying to the brown and tan border collie in Dean’s fingers.
Logan lets out a tired sigh, rubbing his eyes. “They’re playing house.”
“—If you want me to treat you like a man then act like one, Lewis!”
“Don’t act like I’m the only one making mistakes here.” Dean wiggles his dog at you accusingly. “You think I don’t know what’s been going on? Why you always have to ‘stay late at the office’?”
You let your cat take a dramatic step forward. “We have a giant proposal coming up, I told you—,”
“I didn’t realize that involved having sex with your coworker! I smell his cologne on you when you come home, don’t even try to deny it. I mean, God, is there even a proposal at all or was that just a lie too?”
The two of you fall into silence, before Dean shakes his dog’s head sadly. “I think I should stay at Carol’s tonight.”
“Oh yeah, you do that.” You laugh bitterly. “Just run away from your problems. Classic Lewis.”
“That’s not fair—,”
“Just say goodbye to the kids and go, I can’t even look at you right now.” You turn your cat around dramatically and lift it up and down on the table to walk away.
Your other hand moves to the pile of LPS and you pick through the different toys. “Hey, Tuck?” You call out without looking up.
“Yeah?”
“You wanna be the kid or the divorce attorney?”
“...Divorce attorney, please.”
“Okay, you can be mine and Logan can be Dean’s.” You nod in agreement.
Dean lets out an indignant squawk. “Wait, that’s not fair! Why do I get stuck with Logan?”
“Fuck you, asshole.” Logan swats him on the back of the head as the two other guys move to sit down next to you on the living room floor. “It’s not my fault you didn’t sign a prenup.”
Everyone forgot who spiderman is—including his girlfriend Y/N. But her body remembers something her head can't. She wakes up in the middle of the night craving something she never knew she had. Peter ensures they find their way back to each other (very smutty)
WC: 16.4k, unprotected sex, restrained by Spiderman's webs during sex, dirty talk, kinda Dom!Peter, sex dreams (memories), reader is horny af, casual mentions of sex throughout the entire story, this is the same as my NCT Donghyuck story, this is a MCU ver! Part 1, part 2 at the end
----------------
Spiderman slips onto the fire escape outside Ned's apartment, the city humming below him like a heartbeat he can't quite feel anymore. He's not here to spy—he tells himself that. He's just checking. Making sure she's safe. That's what he does now: patrols her life like a ghost, invisible and aching.
But then he hears Ned's voice through the cracked window, and Y/N's laugh—that soft, familiar sound that used to be for him—and he can't tear himself away.
He crouches low, listening.
"So you're telling me you haven't gotten laid in, what, three months?" Ned's voice is teasing, light. He's sprawled on his couch, a beer in hand, grinning at Y/N like they're having the most casual conversation in the world.
She's curled on the other end, legs tucked under her, a throw pillow hugged to her chest. "That's not what I said."
"That's exactly what you said. You said you're 'too wound up, stressed, can't sleep.' That's textbook horny, babe."
"Ned!"
"What? I'm just saying." He takes a lazy sip of beer. "You're way too tense these days. You need to hook up with someone. Let off some steam."
She gasps, swatting at his leg. "I absolutely am not."
He grins, eyes glinting. "Yes you are. I can't put my finger on it, but you just seem so restless lately. Like you're crawling out of your skin."
"It's just stress over work." She pulls the pillow tighter. "Writing for the New York Chronicles is a lot of work. Deadlines, interviews, fact-checking—"
"Uh-huh. And when's the last time you got properly fucked?"
"Ned!"
He laughs, full and unbothered. "I'm serious. Maybe some good dick will help you. Relax those shoulders, clear that head of yours. You're practically vibrating."
On the fire escape, Peter's hands tighten into fists.
She's mine.
The thought crashes through him, possessive and raw. His jaw aches from clenching. He watches her through the window—her flustered expression, the way she hides her face in the pillow, the way she doesn't deny it. She's restless. He knows. He's seen her pace her apartment at 2 a.m., seen her press her thighs together in the bathtub, heard the soft, frustrated moans she thinks no one can hear.
And he knows Ned is right. She needs release. But the idea of her finding that release in someone else—some stranger's hands, some stranger's mouth, some stranger's cock inside her—makes his stomach twist with something dark and violent.
"You're impossible," she mutters, throwing the pillow at Ned.
He catches it easily. "And you're in denial. But okay. Keep telling yourself it's deadlines."
She stands, smoothing her shirt. "I'm leaving before you say something even more embarrassing."
"Text me if you change your mind! I know a guy—"
"Goodnight, Ned!"
The door clicks shut. Ned chuckles to himself, shaking his head.
Peter stays frozen on the fire escape long after she's gone, her scent still lingering in the air, her laugh still ringing in his ears.
He knows what he has to do.
He has to reintroduce himself. Casually, carefully. Slide back into her life before she finds someone else to release those frustrations on. Before some other man touches what's his.
But not tonight.
Tonight, he watches her walk home from a rooftop three blocks away, her silhouette moving under the amber streetlights. He watches her pause at her door, glance over her shoulder like she feels something watching her. She hugs herself, shivers, and disappears inside.
Soon, he tells himself, pressing a hand over his chest where his heart used to belong to her. Soon I'll make you remember. Or I'll make you want me again.
But for now, he waits.
Peter stands outside the coffee shop, his reflection staring back at him from the glass door. He checks his hair three times—runs his fingers through it, smooths the front, tucks a stray strand behind his ear. The black shirt hugs his shoulders just right, and the glasses frame his face in a way that used to make Y/N bite her lip and look at him twice.
She loved these glasses, he thinks, adjusting them once more. She used to say I looked like a secret librarian. A hot one.
He takes a breath, pushes the door open, and walks in with a confidence he's been practicing for weeks.
The bell above the door chimes. Y/N looks up from the counter where she's been scribbling in a notebook—probably working on another article for the New York Chronicles. Her hair is pulled back in a loose ponytail, a few strands escaping to frame her face. She's wearing a simple apron over a cream sweater, and when she sees him, she smiles.
It's polite. Professional. The same smile she gives every customer working at her parent's cafe.
But it's still her smile, and his heart stumbles.
"Hi," she says, setting down her pen. "What can I get started for you?"
He steps up to the counter, leaning an elbow on the polished wood. "Hey. I'll take an iced americano and a chocolate donut."
She nods, writing it down. "Anything else?"
"No, thanks. That's perfect."
She turns to prepare the coffee, and he watches her movements—efficient, practiced. The way she scoops ice, pours the espresso, reaches for the donut with a tissue. When she turns back and hands him the cup, their fingers brush.
It's barely a second. Just a whisper of contact.
But she pauses, her eyes lifting to his face. A flicker of something—recognition? Curiosity?—passes through her gaze before she blinks it away.
"Here you go," she says softly.
He takes the cup, letting his fingers linger just a moment longer than necessary. "Thanks."
She smiles again, a little different this time—warmer, a hint of confusion. Then she turns back to the sink where a few dishes are waiting, rolling up her sleeves.
Peter takes a seat by the window, sipping his americano, watching her from behind his glasses. She's humming softly, something he doesn't recognize. From the back room, he hears Ned's voice, humming some pop song, the clatter of boxes being moved.
Over the next few weeks, he becomes a regular.
He comes in every other day, sometimes every day. Always orders the same thing—iced americano, chocolate donut. Sometimes he grabs a table and pretends to work on his laptop, but really he's watching her. The way she tucks her hair behind her ear. The way she bites her lip while reading. The way she laughs at something Ned says, bright and easy.
Their interactions are casual. Limited.
"Morning Peter." She learns his name.
"The usual?" She asks.
"You know it."
A smile. A quick exchange. Then she's busy, and he's left with the ghost of her attention.
It's not enough.
So one afternoon, when the shop is empty and Ned is in the back, he makes his move.
He walks up to the counter, coffee in hand, and as he reaches to pay, he lets his wrist go slack. The cup tips. The lid pops off. Brown liquid splashes across the floor, a puddle spreading near his feet.
"Shit," he mutters, a little too loud.
Y/N spins around from the espresso machine. "Oh no! Don't worry, I'll get it—"
She grabs a roll of paper towels from under the counter and moves to crouch down, but he's already there. He takes the roll from her hands, his fingers closing over hers for a brief, deliberate second.
"It was my fault," he says, meeting her eyes. "Don't worry about it."
"Really, I can—"
"Nope. I got it." He kneels, wiping up the mess quickly, ignoring her protests. "You have enough to do. Let me take care of this."
She stands there, hands on her hips, watching him clean up her floor with an expression caught between amused and impressed.
"You're not going to let me help, are you?" she asks.
"Nope." He finishes, tosses the wet paper towels in the trash, and straightens up. "See? All good."
She shakes her head, a smile tugging at her lips. "You're stubborn."
"I prefer determined."
"A determined mess-maker."
He laughs—a real laugh, not the careful one he's been using.
They stand there, the air between them easier now, the tension cracked open. She leans against the counter, crossing her arms, studying him with fresh eyes.
"You come here a lot," she says.
"I do. Good coffee. Good donuts." He pauses, letting his voice drop just a fraction. "Good company."
Her cheeks flush. She looks down, then back up, a spark in her gaze. "You're not from around here, are you?"
"Born and raised. Just... been away for a while."
"Ah. A returning native."
"Something like that."
She tilts her head. "What do you do, Peter? Besides cleaning up your own messes?"
"I'm a freelance photographer. I take pictures of the city, the people. Try to capture moments that don't last."
Her eyes light up. "That sounds beautiful."
"It has its moments." He holds her gaze. "Maybe I could show you sometime. If you're interested."
The offer hangs in the air, soft and deliberate. She bites her lower lip, considering, and he feels his pulse quicken.
"I'd like that," she says quietly.
A bell rings from the back—Ned calling something about a shipment. The moment breaks, but it doesn't shatter. It settles into something warm, something potential.
"I should let you get back to work," Peter says, stepping back. "But I'll see you tomorrow. Same time?"
"Same time," she confirms, her smile lingering.
He walks out of the coffee shop, heart hammering, a grin threatening to break across his face. He doesn't look back, but he doesn't need to.
He knows he has her attention now.
Ned slides up beside Y/N the moment the door swings shut behind Peter. He nudges her shoulder with his, a knowing grin already spreading across his face.
"Okay, so that guy? Exactly your type."
Y/N rolls her eyes, but she can feel the heat creeping up her neck. "Peter?"
"Obviously Peter." Ned leans against the counter, crossing his arms. "Like, I get it. He's attractive in that nonchalant way. The whole I just rolled out of bed but I'm still hotter than you vibe. And that confidence? It's practically dripping off him." He wiggles his eyebrows. "Makes you horny, doesn't it?"
"Ned!" She smacks his shoulder, but she's laughing. "Shut up. He's just a nice guy."
"A nice guy who you've been staring at for three weeks straight."
"I have not—"
"You literally watched him walk to the door just now. Like a sad puppy."
She opens her mouth to argue, but nothing comes out. Because he's right. She did watch him. She always watches him.
Ned groans, shaking his head with mock exasperation. "When you two finally hook up, I'm going to be right there to say I told you so."
"He's just a customer, Injun."
"Mhmm. Sure." He pats her shoulder and heads toward the back room, already humming again, leaving her standing there with her thoughts.
She bites her lip.
He's just a customer, she tells herself. But her mind drifts anyway, unbidden.
His voice—low and warm, with a teasing edge that makes her stomach flip. The way he carries himself, relaxed but aware, like he knows exactly what he's doing at all times. His baggy clothes, the way they hang off his frame, hiding and revealing at the same time. The silver rings on his fingers. That little smirk he gives her sometimes, like he's in on a joke she hasn't heard yet.
Her exes were... fine. Nice. Respectful. Boring.
They held doors open and said please and thank you. They kissed her forehead and asked if she was comfortable. They never made her pulse race. They never made her wonder what it would feel like to be pushed against a wall and taken.
Peter does.
He gives her mystery. Maybe even a little danger. The way he looks at her sometimes, like he's holding something back—something intense.
She shakes her head, physically trying to dislodge the thought. Crazy. You don't even know him.
But the thought lingers, hot and stubborn, all the way through the rest of her shift. It follows her home, past the subway, up the stairs to her apartment. It settles in her bones the moment she closes her door.
---
She's restless.
The apartment is quiet, dark except for the lamp by her bed. She changes into a tank top and shorts, lies down, tosses, turns. Her body feels tight—a coil wound too tight, needing release.
She gives in.
From the nightstand drawer, she pulls out her vibrator—a sleek pink thing she's had for years. She lies back, spreads her legs, and lets the hum of the motor fill the silence.
Her mind drifts to him.
To Peter. To his hands. Those rings. What they'd feel like gripping her thighs. His voice, low in her ear, telling her exactly what he's going to do to her.
She presses the vibrator harder against her clit, her breath hitching. She thinks about his smirk, his confidence, the way he holds her gaze a second too long. She chases the image, lets it build—
And then she comes.
A sharp, quick release. A gasp. The tension snaps, but it doesn't dissolve. It just... scatters. Falls apart unsatisfyingly.
She sighs, letting the vibrator drop onto the mattress. Her body feels hollow. Empty. Like the orgasm barely scratched the surface of what she actually needs.
"Fuck," she whispers to the ceiling.
She lies there, staring at the dark, her skin still buzzing with unresolved heat. She wants more. She wants him. But he's a stranger. A customer. Nothing.
She rolls onto her side, pulls the blanket up, and tries to sleep.
---
Outside her window, perched on a fire escape three buildings over, Peter watches the dark shape of her bedroom through the gap in her curtains.
He didn't look. Not directly. He swung toward her building on instinct, drawn by the familiar pull of her presence, and he landed on the adjacent rooftop just in time to hear it.
The buzz of the vibrator. Her soft, breathy moans.
His name. She whispered his name—Peter—on a desperate exhale.
And then the sigh. That disappointed, hollow sigh at the end.
He heard it all.
His fingers curl into a fist against the brick wall beside him. A smirk spreads across his face, slow and predatory, mixing with the ache in his chest.
You're not satisfied, are you, baby?
He knows the feeling. He's been unsatisfied too—in a different way. Hungry for her touch, her voice, her warmth. But that hunger is about to be fed.
He pushes off the ledge, letting the night air rush past him as he swings into the darkness.
Soon. I'll take my rightful place soon.
Below him, the city blurs. Sirens wail somewhere in the distance. Another night of crime waits for him—thugs to stop, civilians to save. The usual.
But tonight, for the first time in weeks, he feels something close to hope.
———
It starts slowly.
A whisper of warmth against her skin. The weight of a body behind her, pressed close, solid and familiar. She can't see his face, but she knows him—or rather, her body knows him. Her back arches into his chest instinctively, seeking more contact.
His hands. God, his hands. Calloused palms sliding up her thighs, fingers digging into her hips with just enough pressure to bruise. She feels the cool bite of metal rings against her overheated skin. A low chuckle rumbles against her ear.
"You've been so good for me, baby. But I'm gonna take what's mine now."
She opens her mouth to respond, but he's already rolling her onto her stomach, pulling her hips up, positioning her on her knees. The sheets are soft beneath her palms. She can feel his cock—thick, hard, pressing against her soaked entrance—and she whimpers, pushing back against him.
"Please," she breathes. "Please, I need—"
He cuts her off with a sharp thrust. He slams into her to the hilt, and she screams, her body clenching around him immediately. He doesn't stop. He fucks her like he owns her, like he's been waiting for this, each stroke deep and punishing, hitting a spot inside her that makes stars burst behind her eyelids.
"That's it. Take it. Take all of it."
His voice is low, rough, almost unrecognizable through the fog of lust. She can't think. She can only feel—the stretch, the burn, the relentless pounding. He wraps a hand around her throat, not choking, just holding, tilting her head back so he can whisper directly into her ear.
"You missed me, didn't you? Your tight little pussy missed me. Say it."
"I—yes—fuck—I missed you—"
He groans, a sound so raw it vibrates through her bones. His pace quickens, his grip on her hip bruising. She feels the coil building, tighter and tighter, her moans turning into desperate sobs—
And then she wakes up.
---
Gasping.
Y/N bolts upright in bed, her tank top soaked with sweat, her thighs sticky with arousal. The sheets are twisted around her legs. Her pussy is throbbing, clenching around nothing, so empty it almost hurts.
She blinks at the ceiling, panting.
What the fuck was that?
The dream is already fading, slipping through her fingers like water. She remembers heat. A deep voice. Being pinned down and fucked senseless. But the face—she can't remember the face. Just a blur of dark hair, broad shoulders, a cruel smirk.
She presses her palm against her cunt, gasping at the sensitivity. She's soaked. Her thighs are slick. Her hole flutters, desperate to be filled.
"Fucking hell," she mutters, flopping back onto the pillows.
It's been like this for almost a week now. Every night, another dream. Some nights she's on her knees, sucking a thick cock while a hand tangles in her hair. Some nights she's tied to a bed, spread open, being fucked so slowly she can feel every inch drag against her walls. Some nights it's just a voice—a low, possessive voice—calling her filthy, desperate, mine.
She always wakes up the same way: wet, aching, unsatisfied.
She reaches for her vibrator on the nightstand, but even as she presses it against her clit, she knows it won't be enough. It never is anymore. She comes—hard, fast, grinding into the plastic—but the release is hollow. An echo of what her body actually craves.
She doesn't know what that is.
Her exes were boring. They never made her feel claimed. They never made her scream.
But her body wants something more, something she's never experienced. Or so she thinks.
She sighs, tossing the vibrator aside. Her cunt still throbs, still clenches, still weeps for something she can't name.
Why does this feel like grief?
---
Across the city, perched on a water tower overlooking her block, Peter watches the distant glow of her window with a dark, hungry expression.
He knows.
He's been watching her sleep through the gap in her curtains. He's heard her moans, her whimpers, the desperate sounds she makes when she's lost in a dream he put there—not consciously, but through the lingering threads of the spell that binds them. She can't remember him, but her body can. Her body is a traitor, whispering his name in the language of her muscles, her slick, her trembling thighs.
He clenches his fists, his cock hardening painfully in his suit.
He lets out a slow, shaky breath.
I'll give you what you're craving soon.
He pushes off the water tower, swinging into the night, leaving his mark on the rooftops like a promise.
But he doesn't go far. He lands on the fire escape just outside her window—close enough to hear her frustrated sigh, the rustle of sheets as she rolls over, the quiet, desperate whisper she thinks no one hears:
"What do I need? What's wrong with me?"
He presses a hand to the glass, his rings glinting in the moonlight.
Nothing's wrong with you, love. You just need me.
————
The morning rush at the coffee shop had been mercifully slow, leaving Y/N and Ned with nothing better to do than wipe down the already-clean countertops in a lazy, synchronized rhythm. The TV mounted in the corner murmured in the background—some local news broadcast about a bank robbery in Midtown. The anchor's voice was tinny, almost an afterthought.
"...and witnesses report that Spider-Man intervened just moments after the robbers entered. No casualties reported. The web-slinger made a quick escape as usual—"
Y/N didn't look up. Neither did Ned. It was New York. Spider-Man stopping a robbery was as routine as a subway delay. They'd both heard the name so many times it barely registered anymore—a ghost in red and blue, flickering across screens, saving lives, disappearing.
Ned hummed a tune under his breath, rubbing a smudge off the granite with his thumb. Y/N's mind was elsewhere. Still half-lost in the hazy aftertaste of another dream from last night—the echo of a deep voice, the phantom weight of hands on her hips, the ache between her legs that hadn't fully faded even after she'd come twice this morning.
She bit her lip, grip tightening on the rag.
Focus. Work. Coffee. Normal stuff.
The little bell above the door jingled.
She looked up.
And there he was.
Peter stepped inside, and she felt the air shift. He was breathing hard, his black t-shirt clinging to his torso like a second skin, dark patches of sweat spreading across his chest and under his arms. His hair was damp, plastered to his forehead in messy waves, and a thin sheen of perspiration glistened over his neck and collarbones.
He looked exhausted. But also... good. Really good.
"Hey," Y/N said, her voice coming out a little too breathy. She cleared her throat. "You okay?"
He offered a tired smile, wiping his brow with the back of his hand. "Yeah. Just tired. Killed it at the gym today." He let out a huff of laughter, rolling one shoulder like it ached. "Didn't realize I pushed myself that hard."
She nodded, already moving to make his usual ice americano. Her body went through the motions automatically while her eyes trailed down his frame. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, revealing forearms corded with muscle, veins visible beneath the tanned skin. The sweat highlighted every contour—the arch of his biceps, the column of his throat, the way his chest rose and fell with each controlled breath.
Shit. She felt heat creep up her cheeks.
Her gaze dropped lower, catching a glint of silver at his wrist. A bracelet—woven black cord with a small metallic charm, a roughly shaped star. It looked handmade, well-worn, the edges smooth like it had been touched a thousand times.
She slid the cup across the counter toward him. "That's pretty," she said, nodding at the bracelet.
For a split second, something flickered in his eyes. A flash of emotion too fast to name—hope? Pain? He opened his mouth, and she could've sworn she saw him about to say something, his throat bobbing with a swallow.
Do you remember that you gave this to me?
But the words didn't come. He just watched her as she pulled away from the counter, already turning back to the rag in her hand.
Of course she didn't remember.
"Thanks," she said over her shoulder, already distracted, moving toward the back to restock napkins.
Peter stared at the bracelet on his wrist. The star charm. She'd made it for him on their six-month anniversary, clumsily braiding the cord while sitting cross-legged on his bed, laughing about how she'd never made jewelry before. "So you don't forget me," she'd said, pressing it into his palm. "Wear it even when you're being Spider-Man. I want to be with you, always."
He clenched his jaw, forcing the ache down his throat.
She doesn't remember. Of course she doesn't. You knew that.
Ned slid off his stool and walked over, holding out a napkin. "Hey," he said, his voice soft but pointed. "Your forehead's bleeding a bit."
Peter blinked, reaching up. His fingers came away with a smear of red. Shit. Must've caught a stray piece of debris during the takedown. He'd been too focused on getting there fast—on changing out of the suit in that alley, on making it to the shop before she closed—that he hadn't bothered to check for damage.
"Ah, that." He took the napkin with a casual shrug, pressing it to the cut. "Tripped on the way here. Almost ate pavement. Stupid, I know."
Ned's eyes lingered on him a moment too long, a quiet skepticism behind his gentle gaze. He didn't say anything, but Peter could feel the weight of his unspoken question.
That's a weird place to trip. And you're too banged up for just a fall. And you showed up right after Spider-Man was seen.
But Ned just nodded, taking a slow sip of his own drink. "Be careful," he said simply, and walked back to the counter.
Peter exhaled slowly, pressing the napkin harder against his temple. He watched Y/N move behind the counter, her hair tied in a messy bun, a few strands escaping to frame her face. She was beautiful. She was his. And she didn't even know it.
He took a long sip of the coffee she'd made him, letting the bitterness ground him.
He smiled against the rim of the cup, eyes fixed on the curve of her back as she bent down to grab more cups from the low shelf.
The bracelet gleamed on his wrist like a promise.
The morning air in Manhattan carried the usual cocktail of exhaust fumes, pretzel cart steam, and distant sirens. Y/N walked with her messenger bag slung across her body, earbuds in, a playlist of lo-fi beats keeping her grounded. The New York Chronicle skyscraper loomed ahead, all glass and steel, reflecting the pale winter sun. She was running a little early today, which meant she could grab a decent coffee from the lobby cart before heading up to her desk.
She was two blocks away when the screaming started.
At first, it was distant—a ripple through the crowd ahead. Then it grew, a wave of panic rolling toward her. People began sprinting in her direction, faces twisted with fear, elbows knocking pamphlets and coffee cups out of the way. A woman clutching a toddler nearly collided with her.
"What—" Y/N pulled out her earbuds, heart lurching. "What's happening?"
No one stopped to answer. The tide of bodies pushed past her, and she stumbled sideways, grabbing a lamppost to steady herself. Then she saw it: a column of smoke rising from the base of the Chronicle building. Orange flames licked at a collapsed awning. Glass littered the street like crushed diamonds.
Oh god. That's the lobby.
Her feet started moving before her brain caught up. She had to get in there. Had to see if her coworkers—her editor, the layout team, Maria from HR who always gave her extra granola bars—were okay. Her phone buzzed in her pocket. She ignored it.
"HEY!"
A blur of red and blue dropped from above, landing in front of her with a soft thud that cracked the asphalt. She yelped, skidding to a halt.
Spider-Man.
His lenses narrowed, body angled like he was about to grab her.
"What the hell are you doing?" His voice was modulated, sharp with urgency. "There's a gas leak—could blow again any second. Get back."
"I have to see if the people in that building are okay!" She tried to sidestep him, but he moved with her, a wall of spandex and muscle.
"I'll check. You stay here." He pointed a gloved finger at the sidewalk behind her. "Don't move."
She barely registered that she'd just been ordered around by a superhero. Her heart was hammering. The smoke stung her nostrils. "I'm not just going to—"
He was already turning, preparing to leap. She took a step forward, following him.
A sharp thwip sliced through the air.
Something snapped around her right wrist—a rope of white webbing, sticky and warm, yanking her arm sideways. She stumbled, grunting, and found herself anchored to the handle of a police cruiser parked at the curb. The web held fast, elastic but unyielding.
"What the hell?!" She yanked at her wrist, but the webbing stretched and held. "Are you serious right now?!"
Spider-Man paused, tilting his head. She could almost hear the smirk behind the mask. "Nope. Wait here. I'll free you after I'm sure it's safe."
And then he was gone, a red streak disappearing into the smoke-filled doorway.
Y/N stood there, arm stretched awkwardly toward the cop car, jaw hanging open. People were still running past her, but the immediate panic was thinning. She looked at her wrist, at the white strands wrapped snugly around it, and felt a jolt—not of anger, but of something else.
The texture. The pressure. The slight give when she pulled.
Her breath caught.
She was in her bedroom. The lights were dim. Her wrist was bound to the bedpost with...not a rope...not a scarf...something else entirely. Her arms stretched above her head and a dark figure hovered over her. She couldn't see his face, but she could feel his weight, his heat, the deep rumble of his voice against her ear.
"Stay still, baby. I'm not done with you yet."
The memory dissolved as quickly as it came, leaving her gasping on the sidewalk, knees weak.
What the fuck?
She shook her head violently, pressing her free hand to her flushed cheek. "I'm starting to feel like a fucking sex addict," she muttered under her breath. Of all the things to think about right now—tied to a car by Spider-Man—her brain was conjuring erotic flashbacks? With...Spider-Man? For all she knew, the guy was a forty-year-old accountant underneath that suit. He could be balding.
But he didn't move like a forty-year-old. And his voice, even through the modulator, had a certain quality—young, confident, teasing.
She shook her head again, harder. Stop it. Focus. The building.
A few minutes passed. The fire trucks arrived. EMTs started setting up a triage zone. Y/N strained her neck, trying to see if anyone was being carried out. She pulled at the web again, frustrated, but it held true.
Then Spider-Man emerged from the smoke, walking casually now, hands on his hips. He jogged over to her.
"Building's clear. No casualties. Gas leak was contained before it got worse. Minor injuries, but everyone's out." He reached for the web on her wrist and gave it a sharp tug setting her free.
She rubbed her wrist, red and slightly raw. "That wasn't cool. You could have just asked me to stay."
"I did. You didn't listen." He shrugged, the motion exaggerated by the suit's padding. "You should be more careful. People get hurt when they run toward explosions."
"I work there." She glared at him. "I was worried about my friends."
He was quiet for a second, his head tilted. She could feel his gaze through the white lenses, studying her. There was something familiar about the angle of his jaw, the set of his shoulders.
Then he straightened. "Bye."
And with a single leap, he was gone, swinging between buildings, disappearing into the Manhattan skyline before she could even respond.
Y/N stood there, mouth half-open, hand still rubbing her wrist. The phantom sensation of the web lingered—soft, taut, possessive. Her skin tingled where it had been wrapped.
Why does that feel like a memory I can't reach?
She stared up at the empty sky, the smoke still curling into the gray clouds.
And for some reason, her thighs pressed together.
Get a grip, Y/N. He's a stranger in a mask.
But her body didn't believe that. Not for a second.
The evening air did nothing to cool the heat lingering beneath Y/N's skin. After the chaos at the Chronicle building, after being webbed to a police car like some disobedient puppy, after the shredded remains of her dignity scattered across Sixth Avenue—she'd gone through the motions. Talked to her editor. Confirmed everyone was safe. Filed a preliminary report on the gas leak. Smiled at Maria's thanks.
But all the way home, her wrist tingled. The ghost of that webbing refused to fade.
Now she stood in her apartment, shoes kicked off, coat thrown over the armchair. The city lights bled through her window, painting amber stripes across her wooden floor. She should shower. Eat something. Answer the three texts Ned had sent asking if she was okay.
Instead, she grabbed her laptop and collapsed onto her bed, flipping it open.
YouTube.
Her fingers moved before she could talk herself out of it. She typed in the search bar: Spider-Man New York 2024.
The results flooded the screen. News clips. Fan edits. Compilations titled "Spider-Man's Top 10 Saves" and "Spider-Man Being a Menace for 12 Minutes Straight." She clicked the first one—a news report from two months ago, shaky cell phone footage of Spider-Man webbing a falling construction beam before it crushed a bus.
She watched it twice. Then a third time.
The comments section was a battlefield.
"whoever is under that suit is DEFINITELY packing i'm not taking questions"
"imagine getting railed by spider-man... the grip?? the stamina???"
"he literally fights crime every night and still has time to help old ladies cross the street... husband material"
"plot twist: he's actually a 50 year old dude with a beer belly and we're all just simping for spandex"
"even if he is 50 i'd still let him web me to the bed 🥴"
Y/N snorted despite herself, scrolling deeper. The thirst was real, embarrassingly real. These women were out there, posting paragraphs about what they'd let Spider-Man do to them. What they'd do to him. She felt a pang of something—not judgment, because who was she to judge—but recognition.
She'd felt that web around her wrist. She'd felt the possessiveness in that single thwip.
And God help her, she wanted to feel it again.
She clicked on another video. This one was different—a street interview, low-budget, filmed by someone's phone. The camera focused on Spider-Man, standing casually beside a hot dog cart, and standing next to him was a little boy—maybe eight years old, holding a notebook.
The interviewer says, "We've got a special guest today—this is Liam, and he wanted to ask Spider-Man a few questions."
Spider-Man crouched down to the boy's level. His lenses softened, tilted—the body language of someone genuinely engaged. He reached out and patted the kid's head, a casual, affectionate gesture.
"Go ahead, Liam. I'm all ears."
And he laughed—a low, warm chuckle that cut through the modulator like a blade through silk.
Y/N's breath hitched.
That laugh. She knew that laugh. It tickled something deep in her chest, a phantom sensation, like a voice calling from underwater. Her fingers tightened on the laptop. She replayed it. Once. Twice. Three times.
"I'm all ears."
The way he said it—teasing, gentle, familiar.
She shook her head, hard. You're projecting. Every guy laughs. It's not him. You don't even know who "him" is.
But her skin was prickling. Her thighs pressed together under the laptop.
She kept scrolling.
There was a Reddit link. r/SpiderManFantasies (NSFW). Her thumb hovered over it for a full ten seconds before she clicked.
The forum was a treasure trove of desperation. Women (and some men) posting photos they'd taken of Spider-Man mid-swing, or perched on a rooftop, or standing in the middle of a street after a rescue. The photos weren't explicit—they couldn't be, he was fully suited—but the captions were anything but.
"If I ever meet him I'm dropping to my knees immediately. That suit does NOT hide what he's working with."
"Imagine him pinning you down after a fight, all that adrenaline still pumping... you'd feel the bass in his chest."
"I don't even care what he looks like. I just want one night. ONE. NIGHT. With whoever is under that mask."
One post showed a blurry shot of Spider-Man crouched on a fire escape, his legs spread, the suit stretching taut across his thighs. The caption read: "I want to sit on his face and never get up."
Y/N closed the laptop so fast the screen clicked shut.
Her heart was hammering. Her cheeks burned. She pressed a hand to her forehead, groaning.
"I'm not above this," she whispered to the empty room. "I'm so far below this it's embarrassing."
She threw the laptop aside and flopped onto her back, staring at the ceiling. The city hummed outside—distant sirens, a neighbor's TV, the low bass of a car passing by. Her skin felt too tight. Her cunt ached, a dull, persistent throb that had been living in her bones for weeks now.
The clock on her nightstand read 11:47 PM when Y/N finally collapsed onto her bed, still wearing her jeans and a thin camisole.
Sleep came heavy and reluctant.
---
She woke with a gasp, thighs pressed together, a dull throb between her legs.
The clock read 2:47 AM.
Her skin was damp with sweat. Her nipples were hard, rubbing against the cotton of her shirt. She'd been dreaming again—fragments of a body above her, weight pressing her into the mattress, a warm mouth trailing down her stomach. She couldn't see his face, but she could feel his hands. Strong, calloused, knowing exactly where to touch.
"I've got you, baby. I've always got you."
She threw an arm over her eyes, breathing hard. She was wet, aching, clenching around nothing. She slid a hand down her belly, into her underwear, her fingers finding her clit swollen and desperate.
She rubbed herself slowly, trying to chase a release that never came. She imagined the web wrapped around her wrist again. Spider-Man's lenses staring down at her. The low laugh from the video.
"Fuck," she whimpered, fingers moving faster. But it wasn't enough. It was never enough. She could feel a shape just out of reach.
Her body remembered. Her mind didn't.
She pressed her palm harder, hips bucking, but the orgasm hovered like a mirage, untouchable. She let out a frustrated sob, pulling her hand away, her chest heaving.
Outside, on the fire escape, a shadow shifted.
Peter pressed his back against the brick wall, his own breathing uneven. He'd heard her whimper through the glass. Heard the wet sound of her fingers working. The whine of her frustration when she couldn't finish.
His cock was hard, straining against the suit. He'd come here to check on her after the explosion—to make sure she was safe, to watch her sleep like he did most nights. He hadn't expected this.
But he couldn't leave. Not while she was aching.
Not when he was the only one who could fix it.
He pressed a palm against the cold glass of her window, the mask hiding the anguish on his face. Soon, he told himself. Soon I'll find a way.
But for now, he just listened to her breathe, and hated the spell that kept them apart.
———
The knock that rattled Ned's door at 11 PM was frantic—three sharp, pounding hits, then a pause, then another. He barely had time to unlatch the lock before Y/N pushed past him into his apartment, her eyes wild, her hair a mess, her chest heaving like she'd run the whole way.
"Okay," she said, hands on her hips, pacing his narrow living room. "You were right. You were fucking right."
Ned closed the door slowly, crossing his arms. He was in sweatpants and an old band tee, clearly winding down for the night. "Right about what, exactly? Because I'm right about a lot of things."
She whirled on him, jaw tight. "The sex thing. The needing-to-get-laid thing. The I'm crawling out of my skin thing." She raked her fingers through her hair, tugging at the roots. "It's not just being horny, Ned. It's like—" She stopped, struggling for words. "It's like my body is craving something specific. A specific touch. A specific rhythm. A specific person. But I don't know who or what. I don't remember. I just feel this ache that nothing fills."
Ned's teasing demeanor softened. He gestured to the couch, and she collapsed onto it, head in her hands.
He sat beside her, voice careful. "An ex? Someone you dated before? Maybe your brain locked away a breakup that hit you harder than you think."
She looked up, rolling her eyes so hard it was almost audible. "No. It's not an ex. I don't have any traumatic breakup memory. It's—" She groaned, frustrated. "I don't know. It feels like a ghost. A phantom limb."
Ned was quiet for a moment. Then he said, slowly, "Maybe you don't need to find that specific person. Maybe you just need to try someone new."
She blinked at him. The idea hung in the air, fresh and foreign.
"Someone new," she repeated, tasting the words.
"Someone who doesn't come with baggage or memories. Someone who can just—" He made a vague gesture. "Fuck you into forgetting whatever's haunting you. A clean slate. A hot body. A night of no strings."
She stared at him. Then, slowly, a nod. "Maybe you're right."
His grin spread wide. "I am right. And I know exactly how to start." He pulled out his phone, already scrolling. "There's that new nightclub in midtown. Opened last week. 'Velvet Underground.' It's got black lights, VIP booths, and supposedly a very attractive bartender who does body shots. I've been dying to go."
"A club," she said flatly.
"A club where you can find a guy—or girl, no judgment—who will take you home and fuck you until you forget your own name. That kind of club."
She chewed her lip. The idea terrified her. Thrilled her. She thought of her empty bed, the wet sheets, the incomplete orgasms. She thought of the phantom hands in her dreams.
"Okay," she whispered. "Okay. Let's do it."
Ned clapped his hands together. "Yes. I'll text you the details. Wear something slutty. I'm talking a dress that says 'I'm here to get railed.'"
She laughed—a real laugh, shaky but genuine. "You're such a bad influence."
"Someone has to be."
They spent the next hour planning. What time to arrive. Which drinks to order. An exit strategy if the guy was a creep. Y/N felt lighter than she had in weeks, a fragile hope blooming in her chest.
---
Outside, pressed against the brick wall of the adjacent building, a figure in red and blue watched through the sliver of curtain left uncovered.
Peter's hands curled into fists.
His jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached.
Someone new.
The words echoed in his skull, each syllable a knife twist. She was going to let some stranger touch her. Some random guy from a club. He'd put his hands on her skin, his mouth on her throat...
A low, guttural sound escaped his throat, muffled by the mask.
No. Absolutely fucking not.
He pushed off the wall, landing silently on the fire escape below. His mind raced. He couldn't stop her—not directly. He couldn't reveal himself, couldn't break the spell. But he could intercept. He could follow. He could make sure that no one—no one—got close enough to touch what was his.
Even if she didn't remember it.
He swung into the night, a plan already forming. The club. He'd be there. Not as Spider-Man—too obvious. He'd ditch the suit, put on something tight, something that would make her look. He'd find her on the dance floor, buy her a drink, let the night unfold.
The hunt was on.
The strapless bodycon dress was a weapon, and Y/N knew it.
Black velvet hugged every curve from her collarbone to mid-thigh, the hem riding up just enough to make men's eyes glaze over. She'd paired it with strappy heels that made her legs look miles long and a thin silver necklace that caught the light. Her hair fell in loose waves, makeup smoky and deliberate.
Ned let out a low whistle when she stepped out of her bedroom. "Holy shit."
"Too much?" She tugged at the neckline nervously.
"Not enough. You're going to break necks tonight. Possibly some hearts too, but who's counting." He offered his arm. "Shall we?"
She took it, laughing. "Let's get me laid."
---
The Velvet Underground lived up to its name. The interior was all dark burgundy and dim gold lighting, with a massive dance floor pulsing under black lights that made white fabrics glow. Bodies moved together in a haze of sweat and bass, the air thick with perfume and alcohol.
They claimed a spot at the bar, and Ned ordered them both shots of tequila. "Warm-up," he shouted over the music.
Y/N downed hers, grimacing at the burn. A second followed. Then a third.
By the fourth, the edges of her anxiety had blurred into a pleasant haze. The bass thrummed through her bones, and she found herself swaying, scanning the crowd. Potential candidates everywhere—sharp jawlines, broad shoulders, confident grins.
None of them made her stomach flip.
But then the door opened.
And he walked in.
Peter had planned this.
Tight black jeans that hugged his thighs and sat low on his hips. A simple white T-shirt, thin enough that the outline of his chest was visible when he moved. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, exposing the veins in his forearms. He'd styled his hair messy, like he'd just rolled out of bed, and he wore that lazy half-smirk that had always made her knees weak.
Her favorite outfit.
He remembered the first time she'd seen him in it. They'd been dating for a few weeks, and he'd shown up at her door looking like this. She'd pulled him inside by his collar, pinned him against the wall, and kissed him so deep he'd seen stars. Her hands had tangled in his hair, pulling, while the other roamed down his stomach to palm him through the denim. She'd broken the kiss just to whisper against his lips, "You look so good it should be illegal. I want to ruin you."
And she had. For hours.
He carried that memory in his bones as he pushed open the club door, scanning the crowd with practiced casualness. His eyes landed on the bar.
There she was.
Strapless black dress. Hair loose. Cheeks flushed from alcohol. She was even more beautiful than he remembered—which was saying something, because he remembered every detail.
He pretended not to see her at first. Ordered a drink. Leaned against the bar, letting the black lights catch the contours of his arms.
Then Ned spotted him.
"Hey! Peter!"
Peter turned, feigning surprise. His eyes landed on Y/N, and he let them widen slightly—just enough. "Oh. Hey. Didn't expect to see you guys here."
Y/N's breath caught. Her lips parted, a soft gasp escaping. "Hi."
Just that. Hi. But the word came out breathy, almost involuntary.
Ned gestured him over. "Come join us. We're just warming up. Y/N's on a mission tonight."
"A mission?" Peter raised an eyebrow, sliding onto the stool beside her. Close enough that his knee brushed hers under the bar. "Sounds intriguing."
She opened her mouth to respond, but the words came out slurred. "M'sion... find someone... hot..."
Ned sighed. "I think the tequila hit faster than expected."
Peter smiled knowingly. She always did get tipsy fast. Three drinks and she'd be clinging to him, whispering dirty things in his ear. Four and she'd be begging to go home. Five and she'd be asleep before they hit the door.
"I can help you get her home," he offered, voice steady. "If you want."
Ned looked relieved. "God, yes. I was not looking forward to carrying her six blocks in those heels."
They helped her off the stool. Her legs wobbled, and she stumbled forward—
Right into Peter's arms.
Her palms landed flat on his chest. Her head tipped up, eyes glassy and unfocused. She blinked at him, a dopey smile spreading across her face. "Wow. You're... strong."
His hands caught her waist, steadying her. The velvet of her dress was soft under his fingers, her skin warm beneath the fabric. He could feel the rapid flutter of her pulse.
He lowered his voice, letting it dip into that husky register she'd always loved. "Oh yea?"
She nodded, earnest and drunk. "Mmhm. Like... hero strong."
If only you knew.
Ned was already heading for the door, waving them along. Peter kept one arm around Y/N's waist, guiding her out into the cool night air. The city hummed around them, taxis honking, distant sirens, the buzz of neon signs.
The walk to her apartment was slow. She kept tripping on cracks, leaning into him, her fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. At one point she looked up at him, squinting.
"You smell... familiar."
His chest tightened. "Good familiar or bad familiar?"
"Good." She nuzzled into his shoulder. "Really good."
Ned shot him a look—half curious, half amused. Peter just shrugged, playing it casual, though his heart was hammering.
They reached her building. Ned held the door while Peter helped her up the stairs. At her apartment door, she fumbled with her keys, nearly dropping them twice.
When she finally got it open, she turned around, throwing her arms around both of them in a messy group hug.
"Thank you," she mumbled into Ned's shoulder. "You're the best."
She pulled back, swaying slightly, and turned to Peter.
Her eyes met his.
The air between them thickened.
"You..." She reached up, touching his cheek with drunken clumsiness. Her thumb brushed his jawline. "You look so good tonight."
The words came out soft. Barely a whisper. Heavy with something she couldn't name.
Peter's throat tightened. He wanted to grab her, pull her inside, pin her against that door and remind her exactly what she was missing. He wanted to kiss that drunk confession off her lips and replace it with moans.
But not yet.
Not yet.
He smiled, gentle and aching. "Get some sleep, Y/N."
She blinked slowly, then ducked inside, closing the door with a soft click.
The lock turned.
Peter stood there for a long moment, hand pressed flat against the wood. He could hear her on the other side, shuffling, probably kicking off her heels.
"She say something?" Ned asked from behind.
"Just saying goodnight."
Ned hummed, unconvinced. "You know, for a guy who just met her, you're pretty invested."
Peter turned, keeping his face neutral. "She's a friend. I don't like seeing friends drunk and alone."
"Uh huh." Ned didn't push. "Well, thanks for the help. I'm gonna crash. See you around, Peter."
"Yeah. See you."
When Ned disappeared down the stairwell, Peter let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.
He pressed his forehead to the door, listening. On the other side, he heard her humming—off-key, sleepy—as she padded toward her bedroom.
Soon, he promised himself. Soon she'll know.
But for tonight, he'd settle for knowing that even drunk and confused, she still thought he looked good.
That was enough.
For now.
The door clicked shut behind him, and the silence of his apartment swallowed him whole.
Peter stood there for a long moment, forehead pressed against the wood, listening to the echo of her voice in his head. You look so good tonight. Drunk, slurred, honest. She'd meant it. Even without knowing who he was, her body remembered. Her eyes had traced the lines of his shoulders, the curve of his jaw, and something deep in her gut had stirred.
But she was inside, alone, probably already curled up in bed, dreaming of strangers.
And he was out here. Alone. Again.
He pushed off the door and walked to his kitchen, grabbing a glass of water he didn't want. The apartment was too quiet. Too empty. The walls seemed to press in on him, carrying the weight of every night he'd spent like this—restless, aching, watching the clock tick toward dawn while the city hummed outside.
It's hard when no one loves you and the ones you love can't remember you.
He set the glass down harder than intended. It cracked. Water spilled across the counter.
"Fuck."
He stood there, dripping, staring at his own reflection in the dark window. A stranger in his own life. Spider-Man saved people. Peter saved no one. Not even himself.
He loved being Spider-Man. Loved the rush of swinging between buildings, the wind in his face, the sound of sirens fading as he swooped in to help. Loved the gratitude in strangers' eyes when he pulled them from wrecks, the way kids pointed up at him with awe.
But Peter deserved his own life too. A job he didn't have to hide. Friends who called him by his real name. A girl who looked at him like he was the only man in the world.
He closed his eyes, and there she was. Y/N. Laughing. Touching his face. Whining his name in that breathless way she used to when he was inside her.
"You're so good, Peter. Fuck—don't stop—"
His hand curled into a fist.
Then his spider-sense flared.
Sharp. Urgent. Something wrong.
He sighed, heavy and resigned, and reached for the suit.
---
The city was cruel tonight.
He swung from rooftop to rooftop, the wind biting at the exposed skin of his face and hands. Below, the neon lights of Manhattan bled into puddles on wet asphalt. Somewhere, a woman screamed—he veered toward it, landing on a fire escape to find a mugger wrestling a purse from an elderly lady. He webbed the guy to a lamppost in seconds, returned the purse, and was gone before the woman could finish thanking him.
Two blocks over, a car crash. He helped pull a family out before the fuel line sparked.
A domestic disturbance. He talked a man down from a balcony ledge.
A break-in at a convenience store.
A fire on the Lower East Side.
He kept moving. Kept saving. Kept pretending that each life he touched filled the hole inside him.
But it didn't.
Because the whole time, in the back of his mind, he was thinking of her. Her safety. Her smile. The way she used to trace the scars on his shoulders after a bad fight, her voice soft with worry: "You can't keep doing this, Peter. One day you won't come back."
And he'd kissed her forehead and promised he'd always come back to her.
Now she didn't even know to wait.
---
He landed on a rooftop overlooking her building.
The lights were off in her apartment. She was asleep, probably still drunk, tangled in sheets that smelled like her perfume. He imagined her lips slightly parted, hair fanned across the pillow, the slow rise and fall of her chest.
He pulled out the photo he kept tucked inside his suit. Polaroid, edges worn from handling. Her smiling at the camera, hair messy, wearing his hoodie. She'd taken it one morning after they'd spent the whole night tangled together. He'd been making coffee, and she'd grabbed his phone, snapped the picture just as he turned around.
"So I can look at you even when you're gone," she'd said.
He didn't know she'd end up being the one gone.
He pressed his thumb to her face, tracing the curve of her smile.
Soon.
Soon, he'd find a way. Something drastic. Something that would break through the spell's hold and make her remember—or at least make her feel it, even if she couldn't name it.
Soon, he'd be inside her apartment. Inside her. Reminding her exactly what she was missing.
But for now, he tucked the photo back, turned toward the next siren, and launched himself into the night.
For her. Always for her.
The bell above the door chimed, and Peter walked in like he owned the place.
Y/N looked up from the register, head pounding, eyes barely open. Her hair was pulled into a messy knot, and she was pretty sure she still smelled like last night's cheap perfume and regret. The hangover was a dull throb behind her eyes, a punishment for every shot Ned had convinced her to take.
She squinted at him. Him. The guy with the dangerous smile and the bracelet she didn't remember giving him.
"Morning," she grumbled, not even trying to sound pleasant.
He grinned. Actually grinned, like her misery was the highlight of his day. "Someone had fun last night."
"Someone regrets everything."
He laughed—that low, easy sound that did something annoying to her stomach—and walked past her to the counter. "Just the usual, please."
She turned to make it, moving slow, her head throbbing with every step. The espresso machine hissed, and she winced.
Behind her, she heard the door open again—a small commotion, a child's voice. She glanced over her shoulder.
A little boy, maybe seven or eight, had run in too fast, his backpack swinging. He collided with the table where Peter had set his bag, sending it toppling. But before it could hit the ground, Peter's hand shot out, catching it mid-air with reflexes too fast, too precise.
"Sorry, mister!" the boy said, eyes wide.
Peter just smiled, crouching down to the kid's level. "It's okay, buddy. No harm done." And he reached out, ruffling the boy's hair with an easy, affectionate motion.
Y/N froze.
The gesture. The way his fingers moved through the dark strands, the gentle mock-scolding in his tone. It was exactly how Spider-Man had ruffled that kid's hair in the interview she watched online. She'd watched the clip multiple times, her body heating each time—the way those gloved fingers had been so careful, so human, beneath the mask.
She blinked, shaking off the thought. No. That's ridiculous. Lots of people ruffle kids' hair.
But something nagged at her. The precision of the catch. The casual confidence. The way he moved.
Peter straightened, catching her stare. His eyebrow arched. "Something wrong?"
She realized she'd been staring. Heat crept up her neck. "No. Nothing. Your coffee."
She shoved the cup toward him, maybe a little too aggressively. He took it, amused, and leaned against the counter instead of leaving like a normal person.
She needed to get this over with.
"Listen," she said, forcing herself to meet his eyes. "About last night. I was... a lot. I know I was all over you, and I'm sorry. I don't usually—I mean, I was drunk, and Ned was being an ass, and—"
"Cute."
She stopped. "What?"
"You were cute." He took a sip of his coffee, watching her over the rim. "Not 'a lot.' Cute."
Her face burned. She opened her mouth, closed it, opened it again. No words came out. Just a stupid, flustered silence.
He smiled—that knowing, crooked smile that made her knees weak—and pushed off from the counter. "See you around, Y/N."
He walked out, the bell chiming behind him.
She stood there, heart hammering, watching him disappear down the street.
Fuck.
She touched her cheek. It was hot. She was blushing like a teenager. And worst of all, she was thinking about him—the scent of his cologne, the strength in his hands when he'd caught that bag, the way his voice had dipped when he said "cute."
She shook her head, turning back to the register.
But as she wiped down the counter, her mind wandered. To Spider-Man. To Peter. To the way both of them made her feel seen in a way she couldn't explain.
Maybe I have a crush on him.
She bit her lip.
Or maybe I'm just that desperate.
But even as she thought it, she knew it wasn't true. There was something about him. Something familiar. Something that pulled at the edges of her memory, just out of reach.
And somewhere across the city, swinging between rooftops, Peter smiled to himself, her blush burned into his mind.
Soon, he thought. Soon, you'll remember.
The city was settling into dusk, streetlights flickering to life as Y/N walked home, her bag slung over one shoulder. The hangover had faded to a dull ache, replaced by the restless energy that had been gnawing at her all day. She was thinking about Peter—the way he'd laughed, the way his hand had caught that bag, the way he'd called her cute.
She was so lost in thought she almost missed the commotion.
A sharp cry. An old man's voice, cracked with panic. "Help! Someone help!"
Y/N's head snapped up. Across the street, a figure in a hoodie was sprinting away, an old leather bag clutched under his arm. Behind him, an elderly man stumbled, reaching out helplessly.
"Hey!" Y/N didn't think. She ran.
Three blocks. Her lungs burned, her legs pumping, the thief weaving through pedestrians. She was fast—she'd always been fast—but he was younger, more desperate. He ducked into a narrow alley, reeking of garbage and stale urine.
She followed without hesitation.
The alley was dark, shadows pooling like liquid. She could hear his footsteps echoing, slowing. He was cornered. She rounded a corner, ready to tackle him—
And then he was gone.
No. Not gone. Pinned.
A figure in red and blue dropped from above, landing silently. The thief was already webbed to a wall, the bag dangling from Spider-Man's hand. The hero turned to her, the white lenses of his mask catching the faint light.
"You really need to stop running into danger," he said, his voice modulated, teasing.
Y/N's heart pounded—not from the chase, but from him. From the way he stood, the way he moved.
She tried to step forward, to get a better look at the thief, to see where he'd gone into the darkness—
A thwip. A strand of web shot out, catching her wrist, yanking it to the brick wall beside her.
She stared at her hand, pinned by the familiar white silk. Again.
"Are you kidding me?" she snapped, yanking at the web. It held firm. "You can't just—"
"Watch and learn," Spider-Man said, and in two quick moves, he had the thief subdued, the bag retrieved, a police call tapped into his comm—all while she stood there, helpless, a memory flickering in the back of her mind.
Webs. Restraint. A voice whispering in the dark. Hands on her wrists, pinning her down. A body pressing against hers, the rough texture of a suit, the heat beneath it.
She blinked, the image dissolving like smoke.
He was in front of her now, the old man's bag tucked under one arm. He reached up and flicked the web on her wrist. It dissolved instantly, dropping her hand.
"You're free," he said. "Now go home. It's not safe."
She rubbed her wrist, glaring at him. "You can't just do that whenever you want! I was helping! I could have—"
She stepped forward, jabbing a finger at his chest plate. "You don't get to decide when I'm in danger! You don't get to just—"
She pushed him. Hard. He didn't move, but she kept going, frustration boiling over, her hands flat against his chest—
And then her foot caught on a loose piece of asphalt.
She stumbled forward, off-balance, straight into him.
Her body collided with his, her hands instinctively grabbing his arms to steady herself. Her fingers wrapped around his biceps, the fabric of his suit smooth and textured beneath her palms.
And something clicked.
The feel of it—the tight compression, the subtle ribbing, the exact way the material hugged the muscle underneath—sent a shiver through her. Her eyes widened. She didn't know why, but her hands began to move, sliding down his arms slowly, almost reverently. She felt the curve of his shoulders, the strength of his forearms, the way his muscles tensed under her touch.
She looked up.
The mask stared back at her, white lenses unreadable. But she could feel him watching her, feel the sudden stillness in his body.
Her breath caught. She could see him beneath the mask. Not his face, but something else. A feeling. A memory just out of reach.
I know you. I've felt you before.
She lifted a hand, reaching for his mask, her fingers trembling—
He stepped back.
Just one step, but it was enough to break her hold. Her hand hung in the air, empty.
"I have to go," he said, his voice tighter now, less playful. He set the bag down. "The police are on their way. Stay safe."
And before she could say another word, he was gone—a blur of red and blue vanishing into the night sky, leaving her alone in the dark alley, the old man's bag at her feet, her skin still tingling where she'd touched him.
She stood there, heart racing, frustration and confusion twisting in her chest.
Why does he feel so familiar?
She clenched her fists. It was like a word on the tip of her tongue, a name she couldn't remember, a face she couldn't see.
And yet, he's a stranger.
She bent down, picked up the bag, and walked out of the alley, her mind churning.
Who are you?
The question echoed in the empty space where Spider-Man had been. And somewhere, high above, hidden in the shadows, Peter watched her go, his hands shaking, his heart aching with the weight of everything she didn't remember.
——————————
The bell above the café door chimed, and Y/N's heart did a little flip she immediately suppressed.
Peter walked in, all easy confidence in a loose black t-shirt and those worn jeans that hung just right on his hips. He ran a hand through his hair—still slightly damp, like he'd just showered—and gave her a small smile as he approached the counter.
"Morning, Y/N."
She should have said something. She should have smiled back, asked for his usual order, made some casual remark about the weather. But her mind was still reeling from last night. The alley. The webs. The way her hands had traced the suit's texture like her fingers remembered what her brain couldn't.
Instead, she just nodded, her movements mechanical as she punched in his order. "Americano."
He blinked, clearly noticing her clipped tone. "Yeah. Thanks."
She turned to make the coffee, her back to him, feeling his gaze on her. She could sense the question in his silence—what's wrong?—but she couldn't bring herself to address it. She didn't know what to say. Hey, I think you might be the superhero who's been haunting my dreams and my subconscious sex life, but I can't be sure, so just pretend everything's normal.
She slid the cup across the counter. He took it, their fingers almost brushing. She pulled back too fast.
"Thanks," he said again, slower this time, searching her face.
She just nodded and turned to wipe down the counter, even though it was already clean.
The café was quiet—a lull between the morning rush and the lunch crowd. Ned was in the back, restocking cups, humming something under his breath. Y/N busied herself with meaningless tasks, acutely aware of Peter settling into his usual table by the window, pulling out his phone.
He didn't look at her again. Or maybe he did, in brief glances she pretended not to notice.
After a few minutes, he stood up, stretching his arms above his head. The motion pulled his shirt up just slightly, revealing a sliver of his stomach. Y/N's eyes tracked it before she forced them away.
"Bathroom," he said, more to announce it than anything, and disappeared through the back hallway.
The moment the door clicked shut, Ned emerged from the stockroom, his eyes gleaming with mischief.
"Okay. Now's my chance."
Y/N frowned. "What chance?"
Ned didn't answer. He darted to Peter's table, where the worn leather messenger bag sat propped against the chair leg.
"Ned, what the hell—"
"Shh." He was already crouching, unzipping the bag with practiced ease. "He's so mysterious. I just want to snoop a little. See if he's hiding anything interesting."
Y/N's heart lurched. "Stop! Put that back." She hissed, crossing the café in three quick strides. "What are you doing? That's his private stuff—"
"Relax, I'm just looking." Ned's hands moved through the bag's contents—a wallet, a phone, a protein bar wrapper, a small notebook. "Boring, boring, boring. How does this guy have no personality in his bag?"
"Ned, I swear to God—"
He pulled out a crumpled piece of fabric. Dark red and blue, folded into a rough square.
His eyebrows shot up. "Oh, he's a fan."
He unfolded it, and Y/N's breath caught in her throat.
It was a mask. A Spider-Man mask. The white lenses stared up at her, empty and familiar.
Ned held it up, smirking. "See? Fanboy. Probably wears it to bed or something." He scoffed, tossing it carelessly back into the bag. "Guess even mysterious guys have heroes."
But Y/N wasn't listening.
She reached down, her fingers trembling, and picked up the mask. The fabric was cool against her skin. She ran her thumb across the surface—the subtle ribbing, the tight weave, the exact texture that had pressed against her palms last night.
The same texture.
Her blood ran cold.
She remembered the alley. The way her hands had slid down Spider-Man's arms. The way the suit had felt beneath her fingers. The way her body had known it, even when her mind couldn't.
This was the same mask. The same fabric. The same—
She looked up. Ned was staring at her, his smirk fading into confusion. "You okay? You look like you've seen a ghost."
She couldn't speak. Her throat was tight, her heart pounding so hard she could hear it in her ears.
She was holding Spider-Man's mask.
Peter's mask.
Peter is Spider-Man.
The realization hit her like a freight train, knocking the air from her lungs. She stood there, frozen, the fabric clutched in her hands, the truth burning through her.
He's the one who saved me. He's the one who webs me to walls. He's the one who watches me from the shadows.
He's the one I've been dreaming about.
She thought of the dreams—the vivid, explicit dreams where Spider-Man's voice had whispered filthy things in her ear, where his hands had pinned her down, where his body had moved inside hers like he knew every inch of her. The dreams where she had arched into him, moaning, pleading, coming undone.
Her face flushed, her thighs pressing together involuntarily.
Oh God.
She had been dreaming about him. About the man who had been coming into her café, smiling at her, teasing her, touching her—and she hadn't known.
But her body had.
Her body had remembered.
"Y/N?" Ned's voice was sharper now. "Put it back. He'll be out any second."
She forced her hands to move, folding the mask roughly and shoving it back into the bag. She zipped it closed just as the bathroom door creaked open.
Peter emerged, wiping his hands on his jeans. He glanced at them—Ned standing awkwardly by the table, Y/N frozen behind the counter—and his brow furrowed.
"Everything okay?"
"Fine!" Ned said, too quickly. "Great. Just—telling Y/N about a thing. A thing I saw. Bye."
He scurried back to the stockroom, leaving Y/N alone with Peter.
He walked to the counter, picking up his coffee, his eyes studying her. "You sure you're okay? You seem... off today."
She couldn't look at him. She stared at the counter, at the espresso machine, at anything but his face.
"I'm fine," she said, her voice flat. "Just tired."
He didn't push. He just nodded, taking a sip of his coffee. "Alright. I'll see you later, then."
He turned and walked out, the bell chiming behind him.
Y/N stood there, her heart pounding, her mind racing.
Peter is Spider-Man.
And she had been dreaming of him fucking her senseless.
She pressed a hand to her chest, feeling the rapid thrum of her pulse. A strange mix of fear, confusion, and something else—something hot and hungry—coiled in her stomach.
She had questions. So many questions.
But more than that, she had a need.
A need to find out if the dreams were somehow real.
----------
Want early access to part 2 already posted (smut + ending)? Subscribe to my Marvel Patreon here OR access the FULL story here!
Will be released on tumblr at a later date (tbd), please comment if you'd like to be tagged when part 2 is posted!
Summary: Being best friends with Jules, you’ve always been a part of Logan’s life. But what he hasn’t realized is that you are violently in love with him. While he grows closer to Hannah, he loses you. Will he come to his senses fast enough or will you be the only archer left standing?
Word Count: 1.6k
Content Included: John Logan x f!reader, figure skater reader, angst, happy ending(?), swearing, drinking, maybe a bit of smut (MDNI) later, ruthless yearning, reader with hair (sorry bald people)
Author’s Note: high key wrote this half awake so please excuse if it’s bad or not right lmfao
"Dean, c'mon you chose the movie last time!" You groaned, reaching, and failing, to grab the remote as Dean held it high above his head.
Dean chuckled, eyes sparkling with mischief as he navigated to Twilight, while continuing to dangle the remote over your head.
It was your favorite night of the week—Sunday movie night at the off campus house, i.e. your weekly chance to see Logan.
Every Sunday evening, the group would gather for a weekly movie seeing, usually one that ended up in popcorn on the ground and a very adorable, sleepy Logan—your personal favorite part of the experience.
You reached for the remote, standing on your tippy toes as Dean continued to laugh while jiggling the remote above your head.
Suddenly, the remote was snatched from Dean's hand and tossed straight at you.
"Here," Graham chuckled, patting Dean on the shoulder. "It's killer's turn to choose the movie, and I think it's safe to say that no one is up for another twilight marathon so soon."
"Soon? More like ever again…" Tucker muttered under his breath, sitting on the floor while tossing a handful of popcorn into his mouth.
Dean had the audacity to look offended before settling on the couch with Allie.
"Where's Logan?" You asked, scrolling through the movies on Netflix as Jules plopped down next to you on the couch.
"Mm, showering. Said he got grease all over himself this afternoon." Jules add absentlmindedly.
You hummed, pulling your hoodie sleeves further down your hands to make a border between the chill of the air and your skin.
Just as you selected a movie, you heard steps.
"Ay, spider-man huh." Logan chuckled, hopping over the couch to sit… right next to you.
"Great pick, killer." He added, before smiling that perfect John Logan grin at you.
Gosh, with his hair wet and those eyes… he looked straight out of a dream, a dream that you could live in forever-
Except, his eyes were still on you.
You fiddled with your sleeve, trying to focus on the screen and not the fact that Logan was still very intently watching you.
Jules, on the other hand, was eating up the way her brother was looking at you.
His eyes were bright and more alive than she had seen them all week, even compared to when he was on the ice.
His gaze roamed over your face.
You'd always been so pretty. That was the reason Logan had to fend off all those boys from asking you out all the time. You were way beyond their league, and there was no way that he would let you get shacked up with some loser.
It was his job to protect you and take care of you.
That's why before he'd left for college, he'd given one of his friends the job of making sure that no guys asked you out.
He'd done it his whole high school career, and he certainly wasn't going to let it go in the arguably most probable year of guys thinking they had a chance with you.
He still remembers the lengths he had to go to keep Jules quiet after she'd found out. It took exactly one tray of rice krispy treats, three packs of marshmallows, five books, and some other small favors. But alas, it'd worked and you never found out about it, so his job was well done.
You had always been a tad oblivious, which was why Logan was always so worried about you.
It was like you had this special glow that everyone could see but you.
Even now, sitting on the couch next to him, eyes set on Peter Parker swinging through queens, you were beautiful.
Your face was relaxed, your eyes crinkled in the little way they did when you were happy, and your lips quirked up just enough to count it as a smile. Your hair was messy in this perfect way that made you look stunning and warm.
Logan had never questioned the fact that you were beautiful.
Finally, his eyes moved down, catching on your choice of attire.
You had absolutely no idea what was going on in this movie, nor had you known since it started. All you could focus on was Logan's gaze that never left, and the warmth of him literally centimeters away.
You blinked quickly as he scootched closer to you, his leg brushing yours.
He leaned in, his mouth stopping centimeters short from your ear.
He was so close you could feel his warm breath on your neck.
"Is that my hoodie?" He whispered, his voice in a teasing tone.
You blinked quickly, recollecting your thoughts.
You glanced down at yourself.
Holy shit. You were wearing his hoodie.
A hoodie he did not know you even had.
It was a habit for you to steal some of his clothes every now and then in the past.
It'd started small—taking his jacket or hoodie when you got cold. But as time went on, it evolved into borrowing his shirts or sweats when you hadn't brought over sleepwear for Jules and your unplanned sleepover.
This was in fact a hoodie you'd stolen from his closet during your senior year after he'd left for college. You told Jules you were chilly, and since all her clothes were in the wash, she sent you to grab one of his.
Safe to say, the hoodie never made it back to that closet.
The smell of Logan was on it, and that was something you'd deeply missed after he left. The bundle of fabric had brought such comfort to you that you'd never given it back, and Jules never said a thing about it.
You cleared your throat, head running through a million different options of what you could say.
Yeah, I stole it from your closet because it smells like you.
Sometimes I sleep with it on because it helps me fall asleep.
It makes me feel a little closer to you.
Instead, you setttled on,
"Uh yeah, it is."
Great, so now he was going to think you're a creep he stole his hoodie from his room.
Wait, he's not screaming… he's laughing?
"Cute." He said, patting you gently on the head.
"Keep it, killer." He mutters, smirking at you before leaning in again and adding smugly, "It looks better on you anyways."
You can feel your heart racing and the blood that is going up to your neck, cheeks, and ears. You blink quickly, trying to maintain a state of calm composure like your crush of basically forever didn't just call you cute and tell you to keep his hoodie with the most rom com of rom com lines.
Jules nudged you with her elbow, eyes twinkling with mischief and common knowing.
"Babe, you've gotta calm down. I can read everything on your face right now." She giggled, passing you the popcorn.
You gave her a look in response, narrowing your eyes at her. In response, she raised her eyebrows, giving you her "we're definitely talking about this later" look.
It was going to be a long night.
~~~~~
It was around 1am now and just about everyone had went up to sleep, everyone except Graham and Logan who were currently cleaning up.
The only sound in the room was the soft rustling of the trash bag when they threw something in, until Garrett broke the silence.
"So, you never mentioned that she was your "killer."" Graham mentioned softly, a smirk growing on his face as he continued to throw away cans and napkins.
Logan paused, glancing up at his best friend.
"Yeah, she is. What about it?" Logan replied easily.
Garrett narrowed his eyes at Logan, taking in the lack of tension in his body that had been there all week, until now.
"She's good for you, Lo. And with the way you're looking at her, you might as well just confess already." Garrett chuckled, thinking to himself about the looks he had shared with Hannah, Allie, Dean, and Tucker after all noticing the lovesick look Logan had been giving you all night.
Logan froze.
"No, you've got it all wrong. She's uh…"
You were like his little sister. Someone he'd taken care of alongside Jules for basically his whole life. He didn't have those kinds of feelings for you.
"She's like an extension of Jules to me, like a little sister."
Right?
Garrett cocked a brow at Logan.
"Really?" He prompted. He wasn't a relationship god, but he'd have to be as dumb as a rock to miss how Logan was looking at you, especially as his best friend.
"Yeah," Logan replied, sweeping nothing in particular.
"She's been there my whole life and she's Jules best friend. I've always taken care of her. I know her family and she knows mine, and we've just always run into each other…" Logan spoke quickly, trying to justify his reasoning.
Graham put his hands up in mock surrender, tying up the trash bag. "Listen man, I didn't mean to push you or anything. I'm just saying, maybe it's worth considering if you could think about her in that way." Garrett added softly.
"You might be surprised." Graham finished, beginning to head up the stairs. "Anyways, night man." Graham stated with a yawn as he left up the stairs, leaving Logan to his thoughts all by himself in the kitchen.
Was it possible that Logan's love for you wasn't as familial as he'd always thought it was?
He didn't know.
You were Jules' best friend, strictly off limits in his head.
But what if you weren't?
Then what did that say about his feelings about you? And where did that leave his feelings for Hannah at?
I've had my Borderlands AU for a while now, and I've been working on a lot of things dedicated to it.
It's a passion project of mine that combines everything I love and crave in media: an old-fashioned cartoon look, 2D animation, Atlantis- and Sinbad-inspired visuals and storytelling, and characters and dynamics that I personally enjoy. My dream is to create an actual cartoon one day, but for now, that's too much work for one person xD
I started learning animation because I wanted to bring Vaughn, Hedwig and my other characters to life, and I'm slowly getting there 🐸 I haven't posted everything here, and there's a lot more on my Patreon, take a look if you're interested.
I’ve also spent most of this summer struggling with my health after being diagnosed with an autoimmune disease, which is why I haven't posted in a while. I'm slowly getting better now, though. Working on this project gives me life and helps take my mind off things 💀💅
P.S. The three-eyed mutant frog is supposed to search the ground for truffles and other edible things, like chicken-flavored larvae, lol. That was my idea.
Don't forget to look for more frogs hidden in some of the artwork!
hi !!! could you write a logan x reader where they’re just watching a movie in his bed and he just fell asleep halfway through it, all passed out on her and she’s just absentmindedly scratching his head and his phone keeps getting notifs and she checked and it’s the boys gc and she sent a selfie with him knocked out on her chest and it’s so cute. she’s all friends with the group, they adore her btw. thank you so much 💕🫶
Knocked Out
Pairing: John Logan x Reader
Word Count: 643
Request open!
Off campus masterlist
John Logan fell asleep like he trusted the world too much.
It was one of the cutest things you had ever discovered about him, and also one of the most dangerous, because once he was out, he was out.
The two of you were in his bed, the room dark except for the soft glow from the TV across from you. The movie had been playing for nearly an hour, though neither of you had been paying much attention by the end. John had started the night with his arm around your waist, then gradually shifted until he was lying half on top of you with his head tucked against your chest like he had simply decided that was the best place to be.
You had not complained.
Now, with your fingers sliding absentmindedly through his hair, you realized he had completely gone slack against you sometime during the last scene.
“John?” you whispered.
No answer.
You looked down.
He was fully asleep.
His mouth was slightly parted, one arm wrapped loosely around your middle, the other tucked beneath your side. His breathing was slow and even, and his face had gone soft in the way that only happened when he was completely comfortable.
You smiled automatically.
One hand kept scratching lightly at his scalp while the other held your phone beside you because the buzzing on the nightstand had gotten persistent enough to be annoying.
John’s phone was lighting up too, just beside his pillow.
You glanced at it out of habit.
The notification preview was from the boys group chat.
You frowned and picked it up carefully so you wouldn’t wake him.
There were a lot of messages.
garrett: is he dead
dean: probably
tucker: he fell asleep on her again, didn’t he
garrett: send proof
dean: if she sends proof i’m reporting both of them for being sickening
You snorted softly and looked down at John, who had not moved even a little.
Then you had a thought.
A very silly thought.
You raised your phone, angled it carefully, and snapped a selfie of the two of you. John, completely passed out on your chest. You, smiling a little and looking very much like you had won an argument nobody knew you were having.
Then you sent it straight into the group chat.
Your phone immediately exploded.
garrett: OH COME ON
tucker: he’s literally unconscious
dean: i hate all of you
garrett: she’s rubbing it in
dean: i can’t believe this
tucker: actually no I can believe this, he’s like a cat around her
You bit your lip to keep from laughing too loudly.
John made a soft little noise in his sleep and shifted closer, his cheek pressing more firmly against your chest.
You went instantly still, then smiled when he settled again.
The boys kept texting.
garrett: i need everyone to know this is the most pathetic he’s ever looked
dean: that’s his favorite place in the world and he knows it
tucker: honestly fair
garrett: send another one
dean: no, let them be gross in peace
You laughed silently, then locked your phone and set it back down. John was still asleep, still completely dead to the world, and you couldn’t stop yourself from brushing your fingers through his hair again.
He looked so peaceful.
So safe.
So very, very gone.
That made your chest feel soft in a way you couldn’t explain.
A few minutes later, his phone buzzed again.
Then again.
Then a final message came through from Garrett that read:
he better not wake up before i’m done being annoyed
You smiled, shook your head, and gently scratched John’s scalp a little slower.
He sighed in his sleep, nestled closer, and you decided that the boys could be as obnoxious as they wanted.
↳ Warnings/Themes: Mature (🔞). Smut. Oral (F!receiving) Only a sliver of plot. Not proofread.
↳ Pairing: John Logan x F!Reader
↳ Words: 1378
↳ Summary: your boyfriend is insatiable.
☁️: wrote this in like an hour cause i #needdat. can you really blame me for this? logan is teeewww fine and is a certified munch and so here we are. Requests are open! ❤︎ (esp for munch!logan hehe)
Requested: No. General Masterlist here. Logan Masterlist here.
There are several things that Logan is known for, and, unfortunately for you, subtlety wasn’t one of them. The party had been going for not even an hour before Logan was trying to catch your eye from across the kitchen.
“No,” you mouthed to him, turning back to your conversation.
It lasted maybe a minute or two before you were checking to see if he was still looking at you. He was.
He was laughing with Garrett over something, beer bottle hanging loose from his fingers, but his eyes were still on yours. The second he notices you looking, he mouthed, “Upstairs?”, tilting his head towards the stairs.
“No,” you mouthed again.
This time, you moved from his line of sight, away from temptation and to the makeshift dance floor in the middle of the living room. It was a useless effort, not even two minutes passed before Logan followed you to the dance floor. His hands found your waist as your hips moved to the music.
“Logan,” you warned, even as you ground back into him.
“Let’s go upstairs,” he begged, warm breath tickling your neck. “I’m so thirsty.”
“Then have a glass of water.”
The world blurred for a dizzying second as he spun you around so you could face him.
The corner of Logan’s mouth pulled up into a wicked smirk. “I’m not that kind of thirsty.”
You wrapped your arms around his neck. “You’re insatiable.”
“And that’s entirely your fault,” he said it solemnly, as if it were a rational thing. “I think I deserve compensation.”
You let out a soft laugh, the vibration caught between your chests as the bass from the living room speakers thudded around you. “Is that so? And what exactly does compensation look like, Logan?”
“You know exactly what it looks like,” he murmured. His hands shifted from your waist, to the strip of bare skin exposed by your short skirt. The touch sent a familiar rush through you, enough to make it harder to remember why you'd been saying no in the first place. “Upstairs.”
“This would be like the fourth party I’ve missed,” you pointed out, though your fingers were already tangling into the short hairs at the back of his neck, betraying your own words.
“I’ll be quick,” he promised, though his voice lacked a shred of sincerity.
You knew he was lying. Logan had been finding excuses to eat you out every chance he got lately and he always took his time. It was like he'd somehow forgotten that he'd already won you over, and was trying to prove his worth.
Without waiting for a third no, Logan tugged at your arm, and you easily followed. Dean and Tucker let out a loud ‘Woop!’ as Logan hauled you past them and up the steps. He ignored them, entirely focused on getting you into his room, but you felt a warmth flood your cheeks.
The bedroom door had barely closed before Logan pinned you against it, boxing you in.
He kissed you like a man starved, and like he hadn’t just finished doing so two hours ago. A low and needy groan rumbled deep in his throat when your hands scrambled up his chest, clutching at the fabric of his shirt just to keep your balance.
His knee slid in between your legs as he continued kissing you and you shamelessly ground yourself down on it. For all your protesting downstairs, heat pooled at the bottom of your belly quickly, panties dampening. It wasn’t long before the throb between your legs became unbearable, desperate for real stimulation.
“Logan,” you gasped against his lips. “How do you want me?”
“Bed,” Logan grunted.
The best was yet to come, but that didn’t stop the soft whine that left you as he removed his leg from between your legs and pulled back. A second later, his hand was slipping underneath your skirt, hand on the waistband of your panties. He impatiently tugged at the fabric, tutting loudly when it got caught on your thighs.
“Let me,” you laughed. Batting his hand away, you pulled your panties off and stepped out of them, leaving them on the floor.
Anticipation, and impatience, clung to Logan like a second skin, mouth practically salivating as he watched you settle on the edge of the bed and spread your legs wide.
Kneeling on the floor at the foot of the bed, he hiked up your skirt further, eyes hungrily tracking the way your arousal glistened on your pussy lips.
“I’ve been waiting all day for this,” he murmured as leant forward, pressing his nose where you ached most.
“You literally ate me out this morning.” Your voice came out breathily as he used his nose to circle your throbbing clit.
“It’s not enough,” he sighed. His warmth breath fanning your pussy had your hole clenching around nothing.
Calloused hands came to the backs of your thighs, pushing them slightly wider so you were even more exposed to him. The cold air hit your pussy, and your hips shifted on the bed.
“You promised to be quick,” you whined.
At that, Logan’s tongue darted out, licking at your clenching hole. It took everything you had to contain your moans to a reasonable level as he circled your hole with his tongue. All the while his nose kept bumping against your clit.
Your back arched off of the mattress as his tongue plunged into your hole.
“Fuck~.”
“Feel good, baby?” He asked, tongue vibrating against your hole as he spoke.
You responded with another moan, lewd and loud as your fingers slipped between your legs. With two fingers, you spread your folds wider for him, toes curling as his nose nudged your exposed clit.
It was almost overstimulating how his nose rubbed against where you were most sensitive again and again. You cried out, back arching off of the mattress. The sounds coming from your mouth only encouraged him to move harder and faster against you.
“I’m too close,” you gasped. The pleasure felt too good, and you so desperately wanted to prolong it. “I don’t want to come yet.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Logan pulled his tongue from your hole and begun licking flat and long stripes up your pussy. He paused on your clit, sucking it into his mouth before moving back down your pussy again.
“Yes~ Loge. Yes~!” You purred.
Blunt nails dug into the flesh of your thighs as he pressed you back further, lifting your hips higher off of the bed. Logan hummed and cooed around you, loudly slurping and sucking up your slickness. He was purposely messy with it, letting your juices coat the lower half of his face.
“Mmmm, delicious, baby,” he groaned against you. “Wish I could bottle this up, have a taste whenever I want.”
“How much more do you need?” you laughed, only half-joking though. In the past week alone, you couldn’t remember how many orgasms he’d pulled out of you from just his tongue alone. most times, he didn’t even want anything in return, entirely content to get high off of your scent.
“24/7, baby.”
He emphasised that by pressing an all to chaste kiss to your pussy lips. Raising your head, you looked down between your legs, watching as he continued pressing delicate kisses and soft licks between your legs. For some reason, that turned you on more than anything and your clit throbbed.
“Need to come. Now,” you said, head falling back against the mattress.
Logan got to work immediately, tongue flicking against your clit relentlessly and sloppily as he eased two fingers into you. the room was filled with his soft moans of delight and the sounds of his fingers squelching within you.
Your eyes rolled back as you felt the orgasm build up, starting as a knot in your stomach before tightening and exploding electric pleasure throughout your body. You came with a loud cry of his name, hips gyrating on his tongue.
His mouth stayed on you the entire time, licking up every drop that you could give him.
Despite his promises that he’d be quick, he’d make you cum several more times before he had his fill, and it was yet another party that you missed because your boyfriend was insatiable.
If you enjoyed, please consider leaving a comment, ask, reblog etc. it means a lot x
↳ Warnings/Themes: Mature (🔞). Smut. PWP. Unprotected P in V. Spread Eagle. Not-proofread.
↳ Pairing: BND!Peter Parker x F!Reader
↳ Words: 2851
↳ Summary: Your boyfriend returns from patrol beaten and bloodied and with a new attitude.
☁️: Walked out of the movie wet as hell. The scene that this picture is from... yeahhhh. So, here we are. First time writing for Marvel / Spidey so be nice pleaseeee. There's no real spoiler warning, as the fic is based on the image from the trailer. ❤︎
General Masterlist here.
Through the noise of the New York night moving below, something hits your bedroom window hard enough to rattle the glass and drag you out of your sleep. Another loud tap follows before the room falls quiet again. The traffic outside carries on as though nothing happened, and the silence inside your room stretches on long enough that you being to wonder if you'd imagined it.
Still caught somewhere between sleep and consciousness, you instinctively reach for your phone. It takes a couple of seconds of blinking against the harsh glare of the phone before the numbers come into focus. 03:17. No missed calls or texts.
You let your head fall back against the pillow, your eyes already drifting closed as sleep begins to pull you back under again. It's only then, just as you're comfortable, that the next sound tears through your bedroom.
Your bedroom window, old and creaky, is slid open. The curtains stir as something, a big something, slips past them. There are no footsteps or creaks of the floorboards to prove it happens, just the rustle of the curtains as more breeze flies through.
"...P–Peter."
The name slips from your mouth before your mind has even fully caught up. It has to be him, he's the only person reckless enough to slip in at three in the morning, and the only one who would consider your fourteenth story window as a perfectly reasonable front door, despite having a key.
There's no response, so you reach for the lamp. A soft, yellow glow fills the bedroom, your eyes taking another second to adjust before immediately settling on the wall.
Peter's halfway up your bedroom wall, crouched close to the ceiling with his weight resting on his feet. He has one hand on the opposite wall, as if he needs it to keep him balanced.
He's still not turned to look at you, opting to watch the city through the gap the wind creates in the curtains. One shoulder in his suit has been ripped almost clean off, exposing bruised skin beneath streaks of drying blood. There's more dried blood along the side of his face, disappearing beneath his jaw and into the collar of his suit. Fresh crimson still trickles from a cut above his eyebrow, his curls clinging damply to his forehead.
You chew your bottom lip as you take him in. It's become the norm for him to crawl through your window at night after patrol, but never this late and never looking this banged up. Dating Spider-Man has its perks but now it brings you an uncomfortable swirl in your stomach.
"Pete?"
When he finally looks over to you, the breath in your throat catches. His eyes, usually so soft and brown when they look at you, are gone, replaced by darkness. You blink a few times, as if that will reset your sight and give you something more familiar.
It doesn't and your brow furrows. You've spent enough time looking into Peter's eyes to know every shade of brown that they could be in a different light. This wasn't that. The colour has been swallowed whole, replaced by a black glossy enough to catch the light from your bedside lamp.
Over time, you've learnt to just roll with the things that happen to and around Peter. Now, for the first time really, he's beaten, he's bloody, his eyes are pitch black, and he just stares at you.
It's probably one of the most unsettling things you've ever seen, which makes it deeply irritating that your first coherent thought is still 'God, he's attractive'.
"That's... new," you finally say.
His head tilts ever so slightly, the movement smooth enough that it reminds you he isn't entirely human, as if him clinging on your wall without a regard for gravity wasn't reminder enough.
"What happened, handsome?" You ask softly.
One corner of his mouth twitches at the nickname, it's barely a smile, but it's enough to loosen the knot that has been tightening in your chest from since you turned the light on.
"Suit yourself," you say.
The silence feels wrong on him. Usually, Peter feels silence the way other people breathe. He apologises, makes terrible jokes, and talks himself into circles until you have to interrupt him just to get a word in. Even after the worst patrols, he somehow finds the energy to ramble on about the criminal who threw a microwave at him or complain about New York's pigeons' vendetta against him.
Tonight, he just watches you. His gaze follows you as you kneel beside the bed and pull out the first-aid kit you stashed there for times like this. It tracks the movement of your hands while you sort through gauze and antiseptic, placing them on the bed.
"Come here."
This, he obeys immediately. Usually there's some sort of protest, "I'm fine." "You don't need to fuss." "It's not even my blood."
But today, he walks down the wall, each step carrying him lower until both feet settle quietly onto the carpet. He walks the short distance over to you, stopping close enough that you can smell the rain and city dust beneath the metallic tang of blood.
There's tiny cuts scattered across his jaw, already looking like they're healing. "You really got beat up, huh?"
He nods in response.
"The other guy look worse than you?"
Another nod.
"Good."
It's your turn to watch him, your eyes trailing down from where his hair is still damp to the way his muscles bulge out of his suit. A hum of approval slips past your lips, and the corner of Peter's mouth lifts again.
"Missed you." His voice is rough, quieter than usual, as though he hasn't spoken in hours. Knowing Peter, that is unlikely.
"I missed you too." You reach for the antiseptic. "Suit off, sit down."
It's a routine you've done time and time again. He's out of the suit in no time, then on your bed in only his boxers. His chest and stomach is no better than his face, scrapes and bruises littered across him.
You kneel between his open legs, soaking a cotton pad with antiseptic before lifting it towards the cut above his eyebrow. "This is going to sting."
Normally, he'd flinch before you'd enough touched him, already complaining about your bedside manner despite being the one who'd shown up at your window and begging you to take care of him with those puppy-dog eyes.
But, the antiseptic touches raw skin without so much as a wince or bad joke about how it hurts worse than anything he fought as an Avenger.
The furrow in your brow deepens for the second time today as you carefully clean his face. "Peter."
His black eyes flick briefly to your mouth before returning to your eyes. "What?"
"You've been staring at me for the past... I don't know. Like five minutes."
"I know." Is his simple response.
There's something in his voice that somehow manages to sound not quite like Peter but also entirely like Peter at the same time. A hint of brown peaks through his eyes as you study him.
You find yourself looking away first, pretending to concentrate on cleaning the cut along his jaw even though you've already wiped it clean.
When your thumb accidentally brushes against the corner of his mouth, any hint of brown disappears, replaced by pitch black again as there's a faint hitch in his breath.
The effects of his reaction rolls through your body in a way that you're not sure you can admit out loud. Although he doesn't show it, he's probably in pain, and the worry you'd had initially is very quickly being replaced by a burning desire.
"I think we're done."
You stand to throw the used cotton aside. The moment you try to leave, warm fingers close around your wrist. It's not tight enough to bruise, but it's enough to stop you in your tracks, to stop you from even thinking of pulling away.
The tug on your arm is done with hardly any force at all, but it still has you tumbling forward. Your hands land on his shoulders to steady yourself, and he lets go of your wrist only to settle one hand against your waist.
Lifting you with ease, he puts you on his lap.
For a brief second, he looks almost puzzled by the contact, as though some part of him is only catching up to what the rest of him decided several seconds ago.
As your fingers trace down the lines of his chest, over the faint bruising, his eyes drop to your chest, watching how your chest begins to rise and fall faster as your heart thuds in your chest.
His nipples are already erect, so perky and tempting and you can't help but slide your thumbs over them. It's as if the touch sparks something within him, his hands tighten on your waist, drawing you closer until there's barely any space between your bodies.
The streets of New York sound even more distant as the sounds of ragged breathing fills the room, it's all consuming and desire pools in your stomach without even being touched.
"Pete," you moan, and the restraint snaps.
Peter's hand cups the back of your neck, pulling you down to crash his lips to yours. It's not really a kiss, it's too messy and too desperate, and he groans in your mouth as your teeth accidentally catch the cut on his lip. Still, he doesn't pull away. In fact, he craves more.
His hands run over your back and then down to cup your ass, tilting your hips forward in an attempt to press you harder against him. He hums quietly against your mouth, the sound vibrating somewhere deep in his chest.
Somehow, he calms down enough that his lips move against yours in a way more resembling real kiss, his tongue sliding over yours. The motion has heat prickling under your skin and a throb blooming between your thighs. Your nails scratch at his back, adding to the collection of marks there.
Without breaking the kiss, Peter eases you both backwards. You barely notice you're being moved until you suddenly feel him, all of him, press against you. He arranges you so he's flat on his back, your knees on either side of his hips.
The thin fabric of your panties is damp in a way that you're sure he can feel through his boxers. He's done nothing so far to
"Fuck," you groan against his mouth as you shift against him. The friction sending little sparks of pleasure through you, but not enough to satisfy the ache.
He pulls back just enough to look up at you. You could always tell what he was thinking through his eyes, but they're still black, probably darker than before if that's possible. But, the expression on his face gives you all the reassurances that his eyes can't.
"My senses are going crazy." It's the first sentence that was more than two words he's pulled together all night, so you sit up straight, looking down at him. He closes his eyes, drawing in a deep and ragged breath. "Fu-. You smell so..."
The praise went straight to your core, more wetness dampening your panties and Peter whimpered.
He didn't open his eyes immediately, taking another long, shuddering breath of air as if your scene was an intoxicant he couldn't get enough of.
Shifting in his lap, you grind down against him with as much pressure as you could manage. His hands on your hips twitched, his fingers digging into your skin with enough pressure that you knew it would bruise tomorrow. Good.
His eyes lock on to yours, the void in his gaze terrifying in a way that only made you ache more. "I can hear your blood rushing. I can feel... no, I can smell how warm and wet you are."
Leaning forward, you drag your chest against his bare skin until your noses almost brush.
"So, then you know I'm ready for you." You kissed the bottom of his jaw, where a bruise has formed. "I'm begging for it." Another kiss and shift against him. His full body tremors underneath you. "I need you."
Before you can blink, his hand flies up to wrap around the back of your neck, and then the room spins. Peter's over you in an instant, pressing his erection against your core.
There's a wet patch on his boxers where his precum has pooled and each roll of his hips coats his boxers as it glides over your damp panties.
"Fuck... Pete."
Your nails find their way to his back again, leaving him with marks that you know he'll appreciate in the mirror in the morning.
Peter whimpers, hair flopping over his face and eyes half-lidded as he moves faster against you. You reach up, thumb flicking over his nipples in time with his grinds against you. Electricity runs through his veins at every wipe.
"I-I'm not- I'm close already," he stutters, his dick twitching in his boxers.
"But I want you inside of me," you all but whined.
"Okay, yes."
If you weren't as aroused as you are now, you would have laughed at the unnecessary acrobatics as he jumps back to pull your panties off in one swoop. The cold air hits your soaked folds, and his throat bobs as he watches the way it glistens in the light.
"Hurry up," you begged, legs closing slightly. It was a silly thing to feel so self-conscious in front of the man who's been between your legs more times than you could count, but he's also not seen you this desperate before.
He stands to pull his boxers down, a soft moan escaping his lips as the fabric catches on his sensitive tip. He turns to look at you as you swallow hard. His dick is beautiful, slightly curved and thick in a way that fills you up completely every time. It's flushed a pretty pink at the tip. Your tongue moves in your throat, craving the feeling of how heavy it would feel on you.
Settling between your legs again, Peter spreads your legs wide. He rubs the tip of his length through your slick folds, his precum and your arousal mixing. He uses the tip to circle your clit with extra pressure, and you cannot help the grind of your hips.
Peter taps his dick on your clit once, then once again, running it through your folds again.
Your hands hook under the backs of your thighs, pulling them to your chest and exposing yourself to him. "Peter, please."
"I'm sorry, baby," he coos.
Just the tip is eased past your hole, and it's enough for your mouth to go slack, eyes rolling back as the stretch burns so well. He continues to push in slowly, face scrunched as your walls wrap around him like a specialised glove.
Every ridge, every vein, and every pulse drags hits against the walls of your pussy. He fills you up completely, thick and veiny, and neither of you move for a moment, too lost in the feeling.
"Won't last long," he grits out.
Sweat already beads at his forehead. Sex with Peter is usually a stamina war, he goes rounds and rounds before even tiring. But whatever's happened to him has heightened his senses in a way that he cannot yet control, the feelings overwhelming him to the point of almost overstimulation.
"That's okay, take what you need."
He begins to move, pulling out so just the tip is left in before pushing back forward. He finds the right angle immediately, hitting against your spot and making your toes curl.
Without missing a thrust, Peter grabs hold of your ankles, using them to spread your legs further. The new angle has you both sighing, moans mixing in the room with the sounds of his skin clapping against yours.
"Feels s'good, s'tight," he groans. "Touch... self."
Three of your fingers immediately find your clit, circling with the pressure that you know you like. It only takes a few tightly pressured circles for the first waves of your orgasm to shake through your body.
Peter watches your body arch as your orgasm hits you in full force. You clench around him and that combined with the pure ecstasy on your face has him burying himself deep inside of you, giving you a few more frantic thrusts before he's whimpering and groaning, his nerve endings going haywire.
Seconds later, he's shooting hot, ropey cum into you. He falls forward but keeps his body hovering over yours. Your hands cup his cheeks, pressing kisses to his face as you both come down from your highs. He mumbles praises to you between kisses, making your heart squeeze.
"Feeling better, Pete?" You ask.
"Yeah, thanks to you," he sighs. He sits back on his heels, still buried inside of you.
As you watch him, his eyes slowly clear of the black, his soft brown eyes finding yours.
If you enjoyed, please consider leaving a comment, ask, reblog etc. it means a lot x
☄︎ Warnings: logan puts reader in a headlock (not during smut). smut. alcohol drinking. both being oblivious af. nipple play. reader needy af. missionary (legs on shoulders)
☄︎ Pairing: F!Reader x John Logan
☄︎ Rating/Genre: Mature (🔞). Smut.
☄︎ Words: 6175
☄︎ Summary: Logan’s been your best friend for two years now. And it takes you way too long to realise that you both want more.
💭: john ‘closed cans are safer’ logan. i love you bad! i'll come back to readover this one again as it's a long one and i feel like i missed sth! if you enjoyed, please consider leaving a comment, ask, reblog etc, it means a lot xx
Original request here. 〣 Off Campus Masterlist here. 〣 Logan Masterlist here.
If you were asked to explain your relationship with John Logan, you’d probably tell people that he’s your best friend. Your person. The Mark Sloan to your Callie Torres, without the sex and baby part, of course...
The point is; he was a true friend. You supported one another through messy breakups, study meltdowns, hockey losses, and family drama all throughout your Freshman and Sophomore years. Sure, there were a few alcohol-induced kisses scattered across the past 24-months, but you did that with all your friends. It was Briar culture. It didn’t mean anything.
You were just best friends.
You didn’t believe in blurring boundaries. However, tonight, the foundations you’d spent the last two years building felt like the were being held together by nothing more than scotch tape and silly string.
The Hawks’ house smelt like a mixture of sweaty men, cheap citrus air freshener, and the greasy takeout that you and Logan had half-eaten and left on the kitchen island hours ago. You were slouched down on the sofa, scrolling through TikTok on your phone. Sprawled out next to you, with his heavy head resting on your lap, was Logan.
It was a position you’d found yourselves in a thousand times before. He was exhausted from the last practice, and you were his designated safe zone. The hand that wasn’t holding your phone was buried in his thick curls, your fingers absentmindedly massaging his scalp in the way that always got him to relax. His legs were dangled off of the opposite armrest, his eyes closed and breathing slow.
You glanced down at him. His eyelashes were annoyingly long, “why are men always blessed with long eyelashes?” you thought to yourself. There were faint bags under his eyes from a week straight of college essays, early morning ice time, and his shifts at the garage.
Without thinking, your thumb brushed the edge of his cheekbone, sweeping away a stray eyelash.
He smiled faintly but didn’t open his eyes, his breathing still calm and measured and you turned back to your phone screen.
The next video on your for you page had you snorting. You took your fingers out of his hair to forward the video to your group chat with a message.
That had Logan’s eyes cracking open. He blinked against the dim light coming from the lamp in the corner, his dark eyes looking up at you from your lap. “What’s so funny?” he grumbled.
“Nothing,” you smiled, looking down at him. “Just a funny video.”
Logan grunted and reached up, his calloused hand gently wrapping around your wrist to pull the phone down closer to his face. “Let me see.”
Angling the phone so he could watch, you cringed internally. He was not going to get this. The text on the screen read: “When he knows how to handle you”. In the video, the guy had his massive forearm around a girl’s neck, trapping her into a headlock while she giggled. Logan watched the video loop twice, then he looked up at you, his brow furrowing before he looked back at the screen and watched it loop once more.
“What the fuck are you watching?” Logan asked, a genuine chuckle rumbling in his chest.
“Don’t judge,” you said as you gave him a light slap on his shoulder. Your fingers then slid back into his hair, resuming their massage of his scalp. “It’s actually really hot.”
“Girls like being put in a headlock?” He scoffed.
“Yeah, it’s hot,” you retorted, standing your ground. “Especially when a man has like... thick arms.”
The sleepy look in Logan’s eye was completely gone. He slowly sat up and swung his legs around to face you.
“Why do I feel like you’re giving me dating advice that’s going to get me arrested?”
You scoffed, rolling your eyes. “I didn’t tell you to go and find a random girl on the street to tackle, Jonathon.”
It annoyed the hell out of him when you called him that, which is precisely why you called him that when he annoyed the hell out of you. you got the reaction that you were hoping for. His eyes squinted at you, his jaw clenching as his lips pressed together in a tight line.
“Anyway,” you continued as you tried to suppress your laugh. “It’s obviously only hot when you trust the man.”
“You trust me.”
It wasn’t a question, so you didn’t answer him. You turned back to your phone, suddenly hyper aware that he was still looking in your direction.
Logan just stared at you, a serious expression settling over his face as he contemplated your words. The gears were turning in his head, his gaze dropping briefly to your neck before snapping back to your eyes.
“Right,” he said, abruptly standing up from the couch. “I still think you’re weird, but okay.”
“It’s not nice to kink shame, Jonathon.”
He paused mid-step, turning back to look down at you. “If you call me that again, I’m going to pull you into a headlock.”
“I’ll run,” you challenged, shifting your weight to the edge of the cushion.
“I’ll chase you.”
“You are not going to chase me around this room.”
“Try me.”
He looked serious. Really serious. And you had no reason to believe he was bluffing. But, looking up at him and that challenging glint he had in his eyes, you found a reckless part of yourself desperate to test him.
You stood up slowly, backing away a step. “I don’t believe you ... Jonathon.”
The last syllable of the name had barely gotten out before he essentially pounced on you.
Your shriek dissolved into laughter as you bolted around the couch. But, as fast as you were, he was faster. He closed the distance with barely any effort. Before you could reach the edge of the living room, two pairs of heavy hands clamped around your waist.
He manhandled you with ease, pulling you back and flush against his chest.
In the next second, his forearm slid over your shoulder, hooking dominatingly around your neck. You could feel his chest rising and falling against your shoulder blades.
His face buried in the crook of your beck, his warm breath brushing against your ear as he whispered, “I told you I’d chase you.”
A sharp gasp caught in your throat. You were locked against him. Even if you wanted to move, which admittedly, you didn’t, you wouldn’t have been able to.
The moment your body collided with his, Logan lost all sense of self. He had honestly expected this to be a joke, a stupid thing he did where you’d both laugh it off and you’d go back to scrolling on your phone as he napped. But, the second your back hit his chest, the second your hips pressed firmly against his crotch, his brain basically shut down.
You shifted against him slightly, trying to find your footing and get comfortable in his tight grip. The friction of the movement sent an aggressive jolt of heat right below his stomach.
‘Oh,’ Logan thought, a wave of panic flooding through his system even as his grip subconsciously pulled you closer against him. “This is bad. Really, really bad.’
Despite the alarm bells ringing in his head, he didn’t let you go. He couldn’t. in fact, he leant in slightly closer, taking a deep breath and inhaling the scent of you. It filled his lungs, making his chest ache with a wave of possessiveness that he had absolutely no right to feel over a ‘best friend’.
Underneath his arm, you were frozen.
You had hugged Logan a thousand times. You had leant on him during late night study sessions, had fallen asleep on his shoulder during road trips, you’d even shared a bed with him after varous movie marathons. It had never, ever felt like this.
You could feel his heart beating frantically against your back. It was racing. You hand went up to his forearm, your fingers wrapping it. You held onto him, not even attempting to pull his arm away, even though every rational bone in your body told you that you should.
In a normal friendship, this is the part where he would laugh, call you a loser, and let you go. But he was holding you for far too long for it to be a joke. His forearm was pressed firmly against your collarbone, his fingers curling tightly into the fabric of your shirt at your shoulder. He had zero intention of letting you go.
‘Since when were his arms THIS big?’ you thought, mind dizzy and overwhelmed.
A knot of heat coiled deep in your stomach. You felt an ache in between your thighs. The kind that was desperate and dizzying and you had no right to be feeling towards your ‘best friend’.
‘’Get it together!’ you screamed at yourself internally.
“Ummm, Logan,” you choked out, your voice coming out embarrassingly breathless. “You should probably let go now.”
“Oh. Right. Yeah.”
Logan’s breath was ragged as he slowly, almost relucatantly, unraveled his arm from your neck. He immediately stepped back, clearing his throat roughly and refusing to meet you eyes as he rubbed the back of his neck.
“I guess... I get the hype,” he muttered awkwardly.
“Ha! Awesome,” you replied, just as awkwardly.
You practically sank back down onto the couch, your knees feeling like jelly, while Logan moved toward the kitchen island. He began aggressively clearing up the food containers, his back turned to you as his shoulders tensed.
The silence that was in the living room now was no longer comfortable. It was heavy, dripping with something you were too scared to contemplate about now. the invisible boundary had been crossed and you weren’t sure if you could even go back now. or, if you wanted to.
⋆꙳⛸❅*‧
The shift was almost immediate. For the next two weeks, even being in the same room as him sent you into a panic. It was made much worse by the fact that that was also his reaction. You tried to be normal, chilling in the hockey house as you usually did. But, when you both reached for the remote at the same time and your fingers brushed, Logan pulled his hand back as if he’d been brunt.
When you sat on the coach, Logan stayed on the opposite end. When you turned to speak, Logan kept his eyes on his book, even though you’d noticed that he hadn’t turned a page in almost 30 minutes.
But then, there were times where you’d catch him staring, watching your mouth as you spoke. When you caught him, he would look away immediately.
You felt like you were losing your mind. You couldn’t tell if he was acting like this because he felt awkward, or if he was just reacting to your awkwardness.
You looked at yourself in the bathroom mirror, trying get the imagines of him that kept flashing up out of your mind. It mostly involved his biceps wrapping around you as he fucked-.
“Okay, no, I’m obviously just sexually oppressed,” you muttered to yourself. It had been a while since you’d last been with someone, longer than you realised until this moment. “Logan is objectively hot and my brain is just playing tricks on me.”
That was the lie you told yourself. And, to prove it, you finally said yes to Lyle.
He was... nice. He had bright blonde hair, played lacrosse, and had been asking you out at nearly every party you went to for the last few months. You never really turned him down, and he took that as encouragement to keep asking. Truthfully, you hadn’t much minded the attention, even if you had previously never planned to do anything with it. But now, he was the perfect, and safe, distraction you needed from your newfound fixation on your best friend.
The following Thursday afternoon, you walked into the hockey house to drop off a textbook that you had borrowed from Tucker. You weren’t even sure if Logan would be there, as he hadn’t exactly been texting you much.
When you turned the corner, Logan was sitting at the kitchen island, shaking a protein shake in one hand as he scrolled through something on his iPad.
“Hey,” you said, making an effort to keep your voice casual. You tossed the textbook onto the counter.
Logan’s head snapped up instantly. The second his eyes took you in, his posture straightened. At least he was looking at you now. “Hey. You’re dressed up.”
You swallowed hard, suddenly feeling very self-conscious in your ‘dressed-up’ clothes. “Yeah. Um. I actually have a date in like, twenty minutes so I need to go–.”
“A what?” Logan froze; the protein shake in his hand stopping halfway to his mouth. “A date? What do you mean a date? With who? Sorry, what?”
Logan’s voice didn’t even sound like him.
“It’s just with Lyle. From class,” you said. Despite how your heart was currently doing backflips in your chest, your voice was steady. “We’re just getting drinks downtown. It’s no big deal.”
Slowly setting the shake on the island, Logan stood up. You blinked in surprise as you realised, he looked... angry?
“Lyle?” Logan scoffed, the name tasting like poison on his tongue. He stepped around the island and walked over to you, the closest he’s willingly come in months. “The lacrosse guy? The one that wears his cap backwards on his head like an absolute douche.”
You wanted to respond that Logan also wore his cap backwards on his head, but now didn’t seem like the right time to bring that up.
“He’s not a douche, Logan!” you defended instead. You weren’t even sure why you felt the need to defend Lyle this hard. But you did. “He’s nice, and I’m allowed to go on dates. You’re supposed to be happy for me, as my friend.” You emphasised the last word. He was being incredibly selfish right now.
“Well, I’m not. I’m not fucking happy, okay?” he snapped.
“Why?” Your voice trembled, your eyes watching him take deep breaths. “Why are you not happy for me?” you pressed.
Logan closed his eyes for a brief second, inhaling sharply. When he opened them again, you saw the old Logan, your best friend who had beautifully brown doe eyes. But then, it’s like he pulled the walls back up.
“Because he’s... an idiot.” Logan deflected. “He’s just trying to get you into bed.”
“Okay, and who says I’m not trying to get him into bed?” You fired back in a tone you weren’t proud of, the frustration boiling over inside of you.
Logan flinched, jaw tightening. “I just think you deserve better.”
“Well, that’s not your call to make.”
“Yeah. Clearly it isn’t,” Logan growled. “Go have fun.”
You stood there for longer than you should have, before you turned and practically bolted out of the door.
The date with Lyle was a, for lack of a better word, disaster.
It wasn’t even his fault. He was funny and charming. He listened to you when you spoke, and actually asked you questions. But, every time Lyle smiled, you wondered why his eyes didn’t shine like Logan’s did. Every time he laughed, you missed the sound of Logan’s.
He did nothing wrong, except not be Logan.
The date forced you to face that fact that you were becoming hopelessly in love with your best friend. and that it was ruining your life.
⋆꙳⛸❅*‧
By the time the next hockey party came around, you still hadn’t spoken a word to Logan. Nor had he reached out to you. you were too stubborn, too deeply afraid of your own feelings, to break the silence first.
When you walked through the front door of the crowded house, your hand casually looped through Lyle’s arm, your eyes instinctively scanned the room for Logan anyway. You hated yourself for it. Hated how looking for Logan in any crowded room was still your default.
It took you an embarrassingly short amount of time to find him.
He was leaning back against the kitchen counter, a red cup in his hand. He wore a flannel shirt with the first few buttons left undone, the parted fabric showing some the top of his toned chest. His thick curls were framing his face in a way that made him look effortlessly, infuriatingly, handsome.
He was locked into a conversation with a notorious puck bunny who was practically throwing herself at him. And he was eating it up. Logan was listening to her, his head tilted down, his dark eyes locked onto her face with a focused stare that made your stomach violently turn over.
You froze, watching as the girl leant further into him. Her manicured hand slid up his bicep, her fingers scratching lightly against his arm as she whispered something into his ear. Her lips inches from his neck.
It infuriated you that Logan didn’t pull away. Instead, his eyes began to scan the room, clearly searching for something, or someone. His eyes stopped on you when he spotted you, still stood by the front door. The smile on his face vanished instantly. He pulled back from the puck bunny, his posture freezing as he took in the sight of you standing beside Lyle.
You gave him the coldest look you could muster before turning away. You pulled Lyle over to the makeshift bar, immediately pouring you both a heavy drink.
For the next two hours, you put on the performance of a lifetime.
You dragged Lyle to the living room floor and danced on him. You laughed way too loudly at a stupid joke that Garrett had made. You let Tucker convince you to line up a row of tequila shots, intentionally standing directly in Logan’s line of sight so he could see how much fun you could have without him.
But it was a miserable victory. He still didn’t approach you and he didn’t even look that bothered.
Eventually the heat of the house was too much. Ditching Lyle on the sofa, you slipped out into the cooler air of the backyard, heading toward the secondary bar area. You grabbed a bottle of water, pouring yourself a fresh drink, trying to stop your hands from shaking.
The sound of deep laughter had your shoulders squaring. You knew that laugh better than you knew your own name.
Logan and Dean walked over to where you were standing. The moment Logan noticed you there, alone, his laughter died. While he went silent, Dean got louder, shouting your name and pulling you into a hug.
Dean looked between the two of you. “So,” he drew out. “I take it we’re still going this miserable silent-pining thing then?”
Both you and Logan snapped your heads toward him, glares locking onto him.
“God, even your reactions are the same,” he laughed. “I don’t know why you guys are looking at me like that.”
“Shut up, Dean,” Logan mumbled.
“Look, you two either need to fuck and get it out of your system or just confess how you feel about each other. It’s painfully obvious at this point.”
“Dean. Shut. Up,” Logan practically begged.
It wasn’t lost on you that he didn’t deny anything to Dean.
“You’ll thank me for that later,” Dean laughed, patting Logan’s shoulder before turning on his heel and walking back inside, leaving the two of you there.
You stared at Logan, waiting for him to say something, anything. to apologise. To clear the air. But, he didn’t. he just stood there, his eyes burning into yours.
You let out an annoyed sigh and turned to walk past him, done with the games.
His hand shot out, his finger clamping around your wrist. “Wait, don’t go. Can we walk?”
“About what, Logan?” you snapped, trying to pull your hand back.
“Don’t be like that.”
“If you don’t like the way I’m ‘being’, you can go back to your girl.” You gestured toward the house. “You seemed real interested in her.”
Logan looked down at you. You were stubbornly looking away, your jaw set, and you probably would have had your arms crossed if he didn’t have a vice grip on your wrist.
“How much have you had to drink tonight?” He asked suddenly.
“Excuse me?”
“I saw you at the kitchen island with Tucker,” he said, his grip firm but careful. “I saw the tequila. How much have you had?”
“Why are you asking me this?”
At this point, you weren’t even being purposely defiant, you were just genuinely confused at the sudden shift in conversation.
“Please, it’s important.” For the first time in a long time, he really looked at you. You saw the plea in his eyes.
“Fine, if you must know. I had like one drink, plus those shots.”
“So, how do you feel? Tipsy? Drunk?” his eyes scanned your face, checking the focus of your pupils, needing to be absolutely sure.
“I’m not drunk, Logan. Why are you asking me this?”
A visible wave of relief washed over him, his shoulders dropping slightly. “Good, come with me.”
Without waiting for your response, his grip slid down from your wrist to capture your fingers. His palm felt cold against your warm one. He dragged you back toward the back door of the house, navigating the way through the crowd, and all the way up to his room.
Logan let go of your hand and stepped back, running a frustrated hand through his curls. He began to pace the length of his floor. “I need to say something and I just... I want you to hear me out.”
“Okay...” you said softly, going to take a seat on the edge of his mattress.
“I need to... I want to apologise to you.” Logan stopped pacing to look down at you. “I didn’t realise I was hurting you.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Well, you did know. You knew exactly how he’d hurt you, but you couldn’t admit that.
“With Sarah,” Logan explained, stepping closer to you. “I was flirting with her because I was trying to get over you. I wasn’t purposely trying to make you jealous. Although, I won’t lie and say I’m not enjoying it just a little.”
“I wasn’t jealous,” you lied.
Your brain was choosing to ignore all the other things he said. While you weren’t drunk, you also didn’t have the brain capacity to try decipher what he was saying. What he really meant by ‘trying to get over you’.
He laughed, and God you’d missed that sound.
“I think you were jealous,” he said. “And that’s good cause it might mean you’ll hate me a little less when I say this.”
“Logan, I–.”
“Please, just let me finish,” he interrupted softly, taking another step until he was towering over where you sat on the edge of his bed. “Remember in freshman year, you told me that story about the guy who got close to you in high school only cause he wanted to sleep with you?”
You nodded, not a pleasant memory.
“I swear to you on my life, that’s not what this is,” Logan whispered. He sank down to his knees on the floor directly in front of you, bringing his face level with yours. “You’re my best friend. The most important person in my life. I didn’t plan for this, it just happened. I just–.”
“You what?” You asked as he trailed off.
“I didn’t plan to fall for you,” he confessed. “It was so easy. Too easy, actually.”
When you were silent, he continued rambling, “And I’ve been thinking about what I would do to you if I had the chance. Every single night, I think about it. So... that’s why I was with Sarah. I’m trying to block it out so I can be there for you how you need me to. I’m sorry I couldn’t just be the friend you needed.”
There was too much to process, your mind scrambled. It felt too good, too terrifying, too much like a fantasy you’d conjured up in the middle of a touch-starved night.
“Logan... how much have you had to drink?” It was like you were trying to find a loophole, a reason to protect yourself just in case this was all a joke.
He smiled up at you. “Unfortunately, I am extremely sober. I could do with a drink, honestly.”
You let out a deep breath. So, this was real?
“I think you should lock the door,” you said, your tongue felt like lead in your mouth. “Quickly.”
He scrambled up from the floor and practically ran to lock the door. When he turned back around, his breath caught in his throat.
You were sitting on the edge of his bed, your eyes locked onto his as your fingers slowly slipped the straps of your dress down over your shoulders, letting the fabric pool around your waist.
“Show me,” you commanded softly. “You have the chance, show me what you’ve been thinking about.”
Standing up, you stepped out of your dress and shoes, the fabric pooling on the floor. You were about to take your bra off when Logan stopped you.
“No,” he said, voice thick with need. “I want to do that. Lie back on the bed.”
Doing as you were told you, you got comfortable on the bed. You tugged your bottom lip between your teeth in anticipation as you watched him strip down to his boxers, his eyes never leaving yours.
Once bare, he climbed onto the bed and sat between your open legs. He leant over you, his palms resting flat on the mattress on either side of you. He looked down at you, his eyes filled with lust and adoration.
“I’ve thought about this for so long,” Logan whispered, his voice trembling slightly. “There are so many things I want to do to you.”
You reached up to rest your hands against his shoulders. It should have felt weird, the shift from being his friend, to thinking about him, to being here, under him. It didn’t. He looked down at you with the same expression he had been for a while, and you were sure your expression mirrored his. Maybe Dean was right, it was painfully obvious.
“Can I kiss you?” Logan asked.
“Yes, please,” you plead.
He leant down slowly, so slowly that you wrapped your arms around his neck and pulled him down into you. While his every movement so far was dripping with patience, his kiss was anything but. The transition from his gentle hesitation to starved desperation was instantaneous.
As soon as your lips parted, he groaned deep in his chest as he swept his tongue along with yours. He caught your tongue between his lips, sucking on it heavily. His tongue slid back into your mouth, tangling with yours over and over as he demanded more from you.
Logan’s hand found your jaw, tilting your head to deepen the kiss.
Your fingers knotted deep into his curls, pulling him down closer, matching his desperate pace as a spark ignited deep in your stomach.
“Shit,” he shuddered, as you wrapped your legs around his waist and ground up into him, desperate for the friction.
You whined as he sat up and unwrapped your legs from him. “If you keep grinding into me, I’m going to cum in my boxers. Is that what you want?”
Too dazed on the feeling of him, you couldn’t even tease him for the confession. “No.”
“Right,” he said, “then be patient.”
“Yes, Jonathon.”
You giggled softly under him as he leant down again. His nose brushed slowly against your neck, inhaling deeply as he found the exact spot where you were the most sensitive. He parted his lips and bit down on the soft slope of your neck. Not hard enough to draw blood, but hard enough.
A loud whine was dragged from your throat, your fingers digging into his thick biceps, as he bit down on you. his tongue swept over the bite before his lips locked onto the skin, sucking deeply enough to leave a semi-permanent mark.
Your head fell back against the pillow as he moved to the other side of your neck, feeling happily helpless against the marks he was bruising into your skin.
With one last kiss to the marks he’d etched into your skin, his kisses drifted downward. Logan took his time, his jawline grazing your collarbone as he pressed a kiss to the base of your throat. He used every touch, every kiss, to show you how badly he wanted you.
“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured between the trail of wet kisses he was leaving across your chest. “How lucky am I, that I get to learn exactly how you like to be touched?”
“Logan,” you said breathily. You raised your chest slightly, a silent and desperate plea for him to keep going.
His hands slid up from beneath your waist. His palms were no longer cold; they blazed against your skin as he traced up your ribs, his touch leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake. His hands then moved to your back, his fingers finding the clasp of your bra.
Logan stopped, he kept his eyes on yours as he asked, “Is this okay?”
When you nodded, he moved to unhook the clasp. It took him a few attempts to get it, not helped by the awkward angle with your back flat against the mattress and the way his fingers were shaking with anticipation. His nervousness only made this hotter for you. Once undone, he pulled the straps down over your shoulders, peeling the fabric off of you and throwing it onto the floor.
His gaze raked down your torso, taking you in completely.
For a split second, you wanted to wrap your arm over yourself, a sudden wave of vulnerability hitting you when you remembered that Logan’s never seen you like this before. But the way he looked down at you with breathless awe filled you with an intoxicating confidence.
With your bra out of the way, he leant down, this time his warm mouth closed over one of your erect nipples. He sucked softly at first, his tongue swirling in a slow and deliberate circle. Your nails dug into his back, scratching at the skin there as he rolled your other nipple between his fingers.
He hummed in satisfaction, encouraged by your reaction. He increased the pressure, his lips pulling at your nipple in tight suction as his thumb grazed over your other nipple in synch with his mouth.
“Logan, I’m so wet.” You loved this, loved the attention, but he was talking his time and, between your legs, you were aching for him. “I need you now, Logan. Please.”
“Oh, but there’s so much more I need to do with you.” Logan would be lying if he said he wasn’t right there with you, his dick was painfully throbbing between his legs, straining against the constraint of his boxers. He had ignored it, wanting to give you the attention you deserved.
“Next time,” you whimpered.
“Okay, baby, whatever you need.” Logan shifted slightly so he was straddling one of your legs. He kept his mouth on your nipple as he pressed his thumb to your clit through the cotton of your panties. He dragged his thumb down over your clothed folds, earning a loud moan from you.
“Fuck, you are soaked.”
Reaching down, you tugged at the waistband of his boxers. He helped you pull them down, wiggling out of them before he helped you wiggle out of your panties.
A thick lump in his throat formed as he spread your legs. “You’re even more beautiful here than I imagined.”
You felt your cheeks heat at the compliment, but he didn’t give you much time to think about it as his dick edged at your hole. He eased himself into you, only giving you a bit more once you fully stretched to accommodate him.
“Is this still okay?” He said through clenched teeth as he bottomed out.
You hadn’t ever been stretched like this, the burn so good. “Yes, Loge, feels so good.”
With your confirmation, he began to move. He pulled out just as slowly as he went in, then drove his hips back into you. he did that a few times, relishing in the feel of your walls around his dick as he moved.
He manoeuvred you so that both of your legs were resting against his shoulders. The new angle had him reaching deeper into you with every thrust. Pulling back slowly, he watched your face as he thrust back in. his dick twitched within you as he watched you sharply inhale, your mouth falling partly open.
“Talk to me,” he rasped. He could see you were enjoying it, but he needed to hear how wrecked the words were when they came out of your mouth. “Keep telling me what feels good.”
There was so much you wanted to say, but instead you settled on, “This. You. Everything.”
He let out a dry chuckle as his thrusts increased in pace. His hand slipped between your legs, coating his fingers in your arousal before moving to your clit. Your hips bucked into his touch.
“Yeah? You like that?”
“I do,” you sobbed.
All you could hear was the sound of your heart pounding in your ears as your vision faded to black. Every thrust now was hitting that soft spongy wall within you.
“Yes! Right there~ don’t stop, Loge,” you begged.
It felt like too much and not enough at the same time. He gasped, feeling you slowly expand and then tightly contract around his length.
You felt his hips falter, his orgasm quickly approaching. “Your pussy is perfect, baby. I’m gonna–.”
“Fill me up, Loge,” you begged, interrupting him so he didn’t even think about pulling out. “Cum in me, please.”
He let your legs drop from his shoulders as he pressed himself onto you so that you were chest to chest. He kissed you as he came into you, his thrusts turning into slow grinds of his hips.
As he came down from his high, he wiggled his hand between your bodies to circle at your clit again.
“I’m so close,” you muffled into his shoulder. “Keep doing exactly that.”
He listened, keeping the same pressure and intensity. You bit into his shoulder, nails digging into his back as you became a mess under the force of your orgasm. Your entire body buzzed as pleasure rippled through you.
Logan groaned against your neck as you squeezed around his softening dick. He lifted his head, eyes still dark and heavy, and pressed a quick kiss to your lips before he slowly slid out of you.
He rolled over, lying flat on his back with a deep exhale. Your body mourned the loss of him, already feeling cold without him surrounding you. a second later, he reached out and pulled you flush against his side.
“As first time’s together go... that was pretty...” you trailed off, tracing a lazy circle on his chest.
“Mind-blowing?” He finished for you, a smug smirk playing at the corner of his lips.
You both laughed then. The sound was bright and easy. it felt so good to just laugh with him again.
“Yes, mind-blowing. Round of applause to you.”
You laughed again as you both started clapping in synch.
“We can never let Dean know he was right by the way,” Logan said as he turned his head to look at you.
“I mean, he probably knows. Knowing him, he was listening through the door the whole time,” you retorted.
You were only half-being serious, but the thought made you both freeze. You simultaneously held your breath, eyes darting to the locked bedroom door, listening to see if you could hear the creak of the floorboards over the bass of the music.
When you heard nothing, you laid your head back on his chest, you knew you should get up and go to the bathroom, but you just wanted to be in this moment for a bit longer.
“We should probably talk about this.” He gestured vaguely between the two of you, his hand moving to rest on your waist. “Like... what this means. For us. For our friendship. Are you okay with everything that just happened?”
“I’m more than okay, Logan,” you whispered. “And we will talk about all of it. I promise. But can we do that tomorrow?”
“Yeah,” he breathed, “tomorrow is fine. I just want to say that I’ve been your best friend for two years, and I’m going to keep being your best friend if you’ll have me. I’ll just also be the guy who loves you.”
You lay in his arms for a little while longer, wanting to just stay in a world where John Logan loved you.
୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ summary: logan has always been her biggest supporter, but when you get injured, he shows her just how far he’ll go to take care of her.
pairing: john logan x figure skater! fem! reader
warnings: probably incorrect figure skating terminology, cussing, depiction of an injury
notes: ANOTHER john logan fic but this time nothing to do with the series i just started!! once again send any requests if you wanna and i hope you guys like it!!
୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ masterlist
Practice had been going completely fine. Well as fine as it could go when you and your pairs partner, August, had been working on the exact same lift entry for what felt like two years. In reality, it had only been about forty-five minutes.
Every single attempt ended the same way.
August would go to lift you, you'd both start the rotation, and somewhere in those first few seconds everything would fall apart. His hands weren't quite where they needed to be, your timing would end up compensating for it, and instead of flowing smoothly into the lift, the two of you would awkwardly reset before trying again.
Or, in the worst-case scenario, you'd nearly eat ice. Again.
You knew you probably sounded a little cocky, but if you were being honest it really wasn't you.
After another failed attempt ended with your blade catching awkwardly underneath you and your hands shooting out to stop yourself from face-planting onto the ice, you finally let out an exasperated groan.
"Auggie, come on." You sighed, planting your hands on your hips while your skates continued to slowly glide across the ice. "We've talked about this like... a million times."
August rubbed the back of his neck, looking just as annoyed with himself.
"I know, I know." He sighed. "I'm gonna get it. I swear."
"I know you will," you said, your frustration softening almost immediately. "It's just... your grip keeps ending up too low. By the time you adjust, we're already behind."
"I know."
"Alright!" your coach called from the boards before either of you could spiral any further. "Take five. Then we're trying it again. We've still got a couple weeks before competition."
You let out one last dramatic sigh before skating toward the boards.
Your coach leaned over and handed you your water bottle so you didn't have to climb off the ice, something he always did during practices. August rolled over beside you and grabbed his own bottle, both of you standing there in tired silence while catching your breath.
Then...
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
All three of you looked toward the sound. Standing behind the glass near the rink entrance was Logan, his hockey bag slung over one shoulder after finishing his own practice.
The second your eyes met, his face immediately broke into a grin. He lifted a hand and waved. You couldn't help smiling back.
Looking toward your coach, you silently asked if you could go over for just a second.
He sighed dramatically. "Make it quick."
Despite the words, the corners of his mouth twitched upward. You pushed off the boards immediately.
"Thank you!" you called over your shoulder before skating across the ice toward Logan.
By the time you reached the glass, you stopped yourself with both gloved hands against it, shaking your head before rolling your eyes dramatically.
Logan laughed the second he saw your expression.
"Uh-oh."
"What?"
"That's your 'I've had enough of everyone today' face."
"I do not have a face."
"You absolutely do."
You narrowed your eyes.
"I've been dating you long enough to know all your faces."
A reluctant smile tugged at your lips.
"We've been doing the same lift entry forever," you groaned. "Auggie still isn't getting it."
"Is that the one you were showing me earlier?" Logan asked, glancing over your shoulder toward August and your coach.
"The one where you said I looked like I was being launched into space?"
"I stand by that statement."
You laughed despite yourself. "Yes, that one."
"What keeps happening?"
"I've got my part down." You shrugged. "I had it last week. It's just... every time he goes to lift me, his hands end up in the wrong position. Then I have to adjust in the air, which throws off our timing before we can even get into the actual lift."
Logan frowned slightly. "So you're having to compensate for him."
"Pretty much."
"And that's why you almost ate shit five minutes ago?"
You winced. "...Maybe."
Logan's expression immediately changed. The teasing disappeared almost instantly.
"You okay?"
You blinked. "Yeah."
"You sure?"
"I'm fine, Lo."
He looked you over anyway, his eyes lingering on your wrists before dropping to your knees, as though he could somehow tell whether you'd gotten hurt through the glass.
"You hit your head?"
"No."
"Twist an ankle?"
"No."
"Hurt your wrist?"
"I'm literally fine."
"You would've told me if you weren't, right?"
You smiled softly. "I would've told you."
He held your gaze for another second before finally nodding. "Good."
"You worry too much."
Logan snorted. "I date someone whose sport involves getting thrown into the air while standing on the sharpest blades imaginable."
You raised an eyebrow. "And I date someone whose sport involves getting slammed into the boards at twenty miles an hour."
He opened his mouth.
"Oh, and," you continued with a grin, "your sport literally lets you get into fights."
"They're not—"
"On purpose."
"They're strategic."
"They're fights."
"They're... hockey fights."
"They're still fights."
Logan stared at you for a long second, clearly trying to come up with some kind of defense.
Finally, he sighed.
"Yeah..." He pointed at you. "I got nothing."
You laughed, resting your forehead against the glass.
For a moment, neither of you said anything. Logan simply watched you, his expression softening.
"You know," he said quietly, "you're being pretty hard on yourself."
You looked up. "I'm not."
"You are."
"I'm frustrated."
"Yeah." He shrugged one shoulder. "Because you care."
His voice stayed gentle. "But every time I've watched you skate, you've figured it out eventually."
You smiled faintly. "You've watched me, like... twice."
Logan looked almost offended.
"That's not even close to true."
"It isn't?"
"I've been at every competition I could possibly make."
Your heart melted a little. "You don't always see me."
"I don't have to." He smiled. "I know exactly where to look."
You felt your cheeks warm.
"You don't quit until something works."
He nodded toward August.
"So if you're saying his grip's off..."
He watched your partner talking with your coach for a second.
"...he'll fix it."
"And if he doesn't?"
A slow grin spread across Logan's face. "I'll come teach him."
You burst out laughing. "Oh yeah?"
"I've given lifts before."
"In hockey?"
"I've picked Tucker up."
"That is not the same thing."
"It's pretty close."
"It's... really not."
He shrugged confidently. "I think I'd be a natural."
"You'd get us both banned from competition."
"Worth it."
You rolled your eyes, unable to stop smiling.
"There it is," Logan said.
"What?"
"The smile."
"I was smiling before."
"No."
He shook his head. "This one's real."
Before you could argue, your coach called your name from across the rink.
You both turned.
"Looks like break's over," Logan said.
You groaned dramatically.
"I don't wanna."
"You'll nail it."
"You sound very confident."
"I am."
He reached up and rested his hand against the glass where yours still sat on the opposite side.
"I know how stubborn you are."
You lined your palm up with his through the glass.
"And I know you."
The corners of Logan's mouth lifted. "Go show them why you're the better skater."
You laughed. "I am not repeating that to Auggie."
"No," Logan agreed with a grin. "Probably keep that one between us."
Shaking your head, you slowly pushed away from the glass.
"What time does your practice end?" you called.
Logan adjusted the strap of his hockey bag on his shoulder.
"Like... six-thirty, I think."
"Dinner?" you yelled as you skated backward toward center ice.
His smile widened immediately. "Oh, you know it!"
"You buying?"
He pointed at himself in mock offense. "When do I ever make you pay?"
"...Last week."
"That was one time!"
"It was literally last week."
"I was broke!"
You laughed, throwing him a thumbs-up. "I'll forgive you!"
"I knew you loved me!"
You rolled your eyes before finally turning back toward your coach.
"Love you!" Logan called before you got too far away.
Without even looking back, you lifted a hand over your shoulder and waved.
"Love you too!"
Logan stood there for another moment, watching until you rejoined August and settled back into position for another attempt. He saw that you looked a bit more relaxed and in turn that made him relax and finally move to make his way into the locker room to get changed for his own practice.
—
"Okay, this is gonna be the one! I can feel it!" your coach called from the boards as you and August took your starting positions at center ice, ready to run the program from the beginning.
Perfect timing, Logan thought to himself as he stepped through the tunnel that connected the locker rooms to the rink.
He leaned against the wall, one skate crossed casually over the other, his stick resting beside him as his eyes immediately found you.
The opening of your program was beautiful. Every edge was clean. Every turn was perfectly in sync. The music echoed through the nearly empty rink as you and August moved effortlessly together.
"How the hell does she do this shit?" Garrett muttered as he walked over in his skates, leaning against the opposite wall of the tunnel.
Without taking his eyes off you, Logan let out a quiet laugh. "I have no fucking clue, dude."
Garrett watched as you effortlessly flew across the ice.
"I would've broken every bone in my body by now."
"You would've fallen before the music even started."
"Probably."
Both of them laughed before their attention returned to you.
The program continued flawlessly.
Until Logan recognized the setup and subconsciously straightened. His eyes locked onto you.
There it is.
The lift.
"Here we go!" your coach shouted from the boards. "You got it, Auggie!"
August reached for your hips. Your timing was perfect. You stepped into the entry exactly the way you'd practiced dozens of times.
For half a second it looked like this was finally going to be the one.
Logan actually felt himself relax.
Then everything went wrong.
August's grip shifted. One hand slipped just enough to throw off the lift before it was fully established. Your body tilted awkwardly in the air.
"Oh, shit," Garrett breathed.
Before anyone could react, gravity took over. You hit the ice hard, instinctively throwing your arm out to brace yourself. The crack of your body hitting the ice echoed through the rink.
Your cry of pain followed almost immediately. You curled onto your side, clutching your arm tightly against your chest as tears sprang to your eyes.
August froze. His face went completely white. "Oh my God."
"Fuck," Logan muttered.
His stick hit the concrete with a loud clatter before he'd even realized he'd let go of it. His gloves followed a split second later.
He vaulted over the boards without a second thought, landing cleanly on the ice before skating toward you as fast as he could.
He barely noticed everyone else rushing toward you too. All he could focus on was you.
He dropped to his knees beside you, sliding the last few feet across the ice. One hand immediately cradled the back of your head to keep it still while the other hovered uncertainly, not wanting to touch your injured arm.
Your entire body shook as you cried.
"My arm..." you whimpered over and over. "My arm..."
Logan felt his stomach twist. Seeing you cry like this made his heart feel like it had stopped beating altogether.
"Hey, hey..." he said softly.
His voice stayed remarkably calm despite the panic threatening to claw its way into every word.
"Baby."
His thumb gently brushed a few damp strands of hair away from your face.
"Look at me."
Your eyes squeezed shut for another second before finally finding his.
"There you are," he murmured.
"I'm right here."
You let out another broken sob. "It hurts."
"I know."
His chest tightened at the sound of your voice cracking.
"I know it does."
He kept one hand carefully against the side of your head, making sure you stayed still while your coach was already calling for the rink's athletic trainer.
"Can you tell me where it hurts the most?"
"My arm," you cried again, barely able to get the words out. "I—I couldn't catch myself..."
"I know."
He nodded gently, refusing to let his own fear show on his face.
"Don't try to move it, okay?"
You gave the tiniest nod.
"Good. You're okay." he squeezed your uninjured hand.
Even though he had absolutely no idea if that was true yet.
"I'm not going anywhere."
You were squeezing Logan's hand so tightly that he was pretty sure you'd leave marks.
He didn't care. If holding onto him gave you even the smallest bit of comfort, you could squeeze as hard as you wanted.
Logan felt completely helpless.
He'd taken hits before. Broken bones. Concussions. He knew how to deal with pain when it happened to him. But seeing you lying on the ice, crying in front of him...
He hated it.
He hated every second of it.
"Oh my God, Y/n..." August's voice shook. "I'm so sorry."
Logan looked up.
August stood frozen a few feet away, both hands covering his mouth, his face completely drained of color. He looked horrified.
Logan knew. He knew it wasn't intentional. August would never purposely let you fall. He was your partner. Your friend. But none of that stopped the hot flash of anger that shot through Logan's chest.
For just a second, his jaw clenched. His eyes locked onto August. The look on his face was enough that Garrett immediately noticed.
He skated over before anything could be said.
"It's alright, man," Garrett said calmly, resting a hand on August's shoulder. "Go help Coach get the trainer, okay?"
August swallowed hard, still staring at you. "I... yeah."
He didn't need to be told twice. He pushed off toward your coach almost immediately, desperate to do something to help.
The second he was gone, Logan's attention snapped right back to you. Nothing else mattered.
You were still crying, your breathing uneven as you held your injured arm against your chest.
His heart cracked all over again. He carefully adjusted his grip on your hand, rubbing slow circles across your knuckles with his thumb.
"Hey..." he said softly, lowering his voice so only you could hear him.
"Hey, baby."
Your watery eyes slowly found his. Another tear rolled down your cheek. Logan reached up with his free hand and gently brushed it away with the pad of his thumb, careful not to move your head.
"Talk to me."
Your lower lip trembled. "It hurts."
"I know."
His own throat tightened hearing how small your voice sounded. "I know it does."
You squeezed his hand even tighter. "I think... I think something's wrong."
His stomach dropped. Even though he had a feeling you were right, he refused to let the panic show on his face.
"Okay," he said evenly. "That's okay. The trainer's coming."
He gave your hand another reassuring squeeze.
"And I'm staying right here until they get here."
You sniffled, trying to steady your breathing. "You promise?"
Logan didn't hesitate. "I promise."
Not for a second did he even consider leaving your side.
"Hey, Logan!" your coach called from the boards, his phone still pressed against his ear as he spoke with the athletic trainer. "We need to get her off the ice and into the trainer's room!"
Logan immediately looked over but didn't let go of your hand.
"Can she stand?" your coach asked.
Logan looked back down at you, lowering his voice again.
"Hey, baby." His thumb rubbed gently across the back of your hand. "Do you think you can stand up?"
You nodded, another wave of tears spilling down your cheeks.
"I think so."
"You sure?"
You took a shaky breath. "Yeah... I got it."
"Okay."
He didn't rush you. "Nice and slow."
Still cradling your injured arm against your chest, you carefully shifted yourself into a sitting position.
The second you pushed off the ice, a sharp pain shot through your arm. You couldn't stop the cry that escaped your lips. Logan's hand was immediately on the middle of your back.
"Easy," he murmured. "You're okay."
You sat there for another few seconds, trying to steady your breathing while Logan stayed beside you, refusing to hurry you. Whenever you're ready.
Finally, you looked over at him. "...Can you help me up?"
"Yeah."
The answer came without hesitation. "Of course I can."
Logan climbed to his feet before skating carefully behind you.
"So I don't bump your arm," he explained quietly.
He placed one hand carefully around your waist and the other against the middle of your back, making sure to avoid your injured side completely.
"Don't use your left arm," he reminded gently. "Just lean back on me."
You nodded.
"Ready?"
A shaky breath escaped your lips. "...Yeah."
"Okay."
His voice stayed calm.
"One..."
He adjusted his grip slightly.
"Two..."
You planted your skates beneath you.
"Three."
With most of the effort coming from your legs, Logan steadied you as you rose to your feet.
The second you were standing, your knees wobbled.
"I got you."
His arm instinctively tightened around your waist before you could lose your balance.
"There you go."
You leaned against him for a second, tears still streaming down your face as you tried to catch your breath.
"You did great."
You let out a shaky laugh that immediately dissolved into another sniffle.
"It hurts..."
"I know."
His voice was impossibly gentle.
"I know, baby." Logan brushed another stray tear away from your cheek. "Let's get you to the trainer, alright?"
You gave a small nod. "Okay..."
Keeping one arm securely around your waist, Logan waited until you had your balance before the two of you slowly started skating toward the boards.
He never took his eyes off you. "You doing okay?"
You let out a shaky breath. "It really hurts."
"I know."
His grip around your waist tightened just enough to steady you.
"I've got you."
As the two of you approached the bench, several of the Briar hockey players had gathered along the boards after seeing the fall.
They'd all seen injuries before. Too many of them. The joking and chirping that usually filled the rink had completely disappeared. Instead, everyone watched quietly as Logan helped you through the gate and carefully off the ice.
"You gonna be okay, Y/n?" Tucker asked, genuine concern replacing his usual grin.
You managed a small smile despite the tears still clinging to your lashes. "I hope so."
"You'll be alright," Tucker said reassuringly. "The trainer'll take good care of you."
"Thanks, Tuck," you murmured.
Garrett stepped aside to clear the narrow hallway, giving Logan plenty of room to support you.
"Need any help?" he asked.
Logan shook his head. "I've got her."
Garrett simply nodded. "Alright."
The moment you stepped onto the rubber flooring, your knees threatened to buckle.
Logan reacted instantly. His arm tightened around your waist, steadying you before you could stumble.
"Easy," he said softly.
You leaned into him without thinking, resting your head briefly against his shoulder as another wave of pain rolled through your arm.
He glanced down at you. "Still with me?"
You nodded weakly. "Mhm."
"Good."
Together, the two of you made your way through the tunnel, Logan matching every one of your slow, careful steps. He didn't rush you once.
The trainer's room was just around the corner.
You barely noticed the people passing by anymore. All you could focus on was the steady warmth of Logan's arm around you and the quiet reassurance in his voice every few steps.
The athletic trainer was waiting by the time you and Logan stepped into the room.
The second she saw the tears still streaming down your face and the way you were cradling your arm against your chest, she immediately got to work.
"Let's get you sitting down."
Logan carefully helped you over to one of the padded treatment tables before making sure you were steady enough to sit.
"You got her?" he asked quietly.
"I've got her," the trainer assured him.
Only then did Logan reluctantly take half a step back. Not far. Just enough that he wasn't in the trainer's way.
The second you were settled on the table, he reached for your uninjured hand. His fingers laced through yours almost instinctively. You squeezed them without even thinking.
The trainer knelt in front of you. "Can you tell me where it hurts the most?"
"My arm," you sniffled. "Mostly up here."
You carefully nodded toward your upper arm and shoulder without trying to move it.
"Okay," the trainer said calmly. "Don't move it unless I ask you to."
She gently examined your shoulder first, comparing both sides before carefully feeling along your collarbone and upper arm.
"Let me know if anything I do makes the pain worse."
You nodded. "Okay."
For a few moments, the room was quiet except for your uneven breathing.
Then, all at once, something hit you. You turned to Logan, your eyes widening.
"Logan..."
He immediately looked at you. "What?"
"Your practice."
A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth despite everything.
"It's fine, baby."
"No, it's not."
"It is."
"You'll get in trouble."
He gave a lazy shrug like it was the least important thing in the world. "So?"
"So?"
"You think I'm leaving because Jensen might yell at me?"
You frowned. "But—"
"I don't care."
His thumb brushed across the back of your hand. "I'm exactly where I need to be."
Your expression softened. "But I don't want you getting in trouble because of me."
Logan let out a quiet laugh.
"If Jensen has a problem with me making sure my girlfriend's okay..."
He shrugged again."...then I'll deal with Jensen."
"You say that like it's no big deal."
"It isn't."
You looked at him for another second before shaking your head. "You're stubborn."
The trainer smiled to herself before speaking up.
"Okay, Y/n."
She gently supported your forearm.
"I'm just going to move your arm a tiny bit. I need you to tell me the second anything hurts."
You nodded nervously. "Okay."
She barely rotated your arm a few inches. A sharp, searing pain shot through your shoulder.
You gasped. Your entire body tensed as your fingers clamped around Logan's hand. Instantly, he squeezed back.
"Okay, okay," the trainer said, immediately stopping the movement. "I'm done."
Logan's eyes never left your face.
"Hey."
His voice was quiet.
"Look at me."
You did.
"You did good."
He rubbed slow circles across the back of your hand.
The trainer carefully lowered your arm back against your side before reaching for a sling and an elastic wrap.
"I don't want you moving it any more than you absolutely have to," she explained gently. "Nothing I'm seeing is screaming emergency, but based on where your pain is and how limited your range of motion is, I want you to go get an X-ray as soon as you can. It could be anything from a bad sprain to a fracture, and we don't want to guess."
You swallowed hard before nodding. "Okay."
She began wrapping your arm against your body to keep it supported before carefully positioning it in the sling.
"I know it's uncomfortable, but keeping it still is going to help."
You hissed quietly through your teeth. "It already feels a little better."
"Good." The trainer smiled reassuringly before reaching into the freezer beside the treatment table and pulling out a large ice pack.
"This is going to be cold."
She gently rested it over your shoulder.
You flinched. "Yep... definitely cold."
A soft knock sounded on the open trainer's room door. Everyone looked up.
Dean stood there, your practice bag hanging from one shoulder.
"You forgot this."
Without another word, he lightly tossed the bag toward Logan.
Logan caught it with one hand. "Thanks."
Dean nodded once. "No problem."
His eyes flickered over to you. "You good?"
You gave him the smallest smile you could manage. "I've been better."
After one last nod, he quietly disappeared back toward the rink.
Logan set your bag beside the treatment table before he dropped into a kneel in front of you.
The trainer continued explaining what signs to watch for while adjusting the sling.
"If the pain suddenly gets significantly worse, you notice numbness in your fingers, or your hand starts changing color, I want you to head straight to the emergency room."
You nodded as best you could. "Okay."
Meanwhile, Logan had already started loosening the laces on your right skate. His movements were slow and careful. Once the laces were loose enough, he gently slid the skate off your foot.
"Better?"
You flexed your sock-covered foot. "So much better."
He smiled faintly. "I figured."
He repeated the process with your left skate, taking even more care not to jostle you as he worked.
The trainer secured the last piece of the wrap around your shoulder. "I'd also stay off the ice until you've been cleared by an orthopedic specialist."
You let out a dramatic sigh. "I knew you were gonna say that."
She laughed. "I know. It's not what any athlete wants to hear."
By the time she finished talking, Logan had reached into your bag. He immediately found your fuzzy tan Ugg boots.
"Got 'em."
He set one on the floor before carefully lifting your foot just enough to slide it inside.
"There we go."
You watched him with watery eyes.
"You know..."
"What?"
"I could've done that."
He glanced up at you. "I know."
"You don't have to."
"I know."
"You know I'm perfectly capable of putting my own shoes on."
"I know."
A smile tugged at your lips despite everything. "Then why are you doing it?"
Logan finished pulling the second Ugg onto your foot before looking up at you.
"Because I want to."
Your heart melted.
He stood back up, brushing imaginary dust off his hockey pants before resting a gentle hand against your knee.
"Besides..."
A crooked grin spread across his face.
"I've always wanted to see what all the hype about these boots was."
You laughed through your sniffles. "They're very comfortable."
"I believe it."
He gave one of the boots an approving nod. "...They do look cozy."
The trainer looked between the two of you before giving a small nod.
"Alright. I want you to go home and rest. Keep the sling on, ice your shoulder for about twenty minutes at a time every couple of hours while you're awake, and try not to move that arm unless you absolutely have to."
You nodded carefully. "Okay."
"And first thing tomorrow morning, I want you getting X-rays."
"I will."
The trainer turned her attention to Logan. "And you're taking her home."
Logan didn't even hesitate. He gave a quick thumbs-up.
"She won't leave my sight."
The trainer laughed quietly. "I had a feeling that would be your answer."
Logan glanced back at you. "I'm gonna go change, then I'll be right back, okay?"
You nodded. "Okay."
"I'll be like... ten minutes."
"I'll survive."
"Barely."
That earned him the smallest laugh you'd managed since falling.
Satisfied, Logan gave your knee one last reassuring squeeze before jogging out of the trainer's room toward the hockey locker room.
True to his word, he was back less than ten minutes later. Gone were the hockey pads and skates. Instead, he was back in his usual outfit: baggy jeans, a hoodie, and a worn flannel thrown over the top. His damp hair suggested he'd rushed through the world's fastest shower.
The first thing he did when he walked through the door was look at you.
"You ready?"
You nodded.
Before you could even think about reaching for your practice bag, Logan was already grabbing it.
"Nope."
He effortlessly swung it over one shoulder. "I got it."
"It's not even that heavy."
"I know."
"So I can carry it."
"I know."
"Logan."
"What?"
You gave him a look.
He simply smiled. "Humor me."
You rolled your eyes. "...Fine."
"I knew you'd come around."
You couldn't help smiling.
The trainer chuckled as she watched the exchange. "Take it easy for the next few days."
"I will," you promised.
"And call me after the X-rays."
"I will."
"Thank you," Logan added sincerely.
The trainer smiled.
"Take good care of her."
Logan looked over at you before answering. "Always do."
The walk out of Briar Arena was slow. Logan matched every one of your steps without saying a word, occasionally glancing over just to make sure you were doing okay.
By the time you reached his truck, he was already fishing his keys out of his pocket. He opened the passenger door before turning back toward you.
"So..."
He waited until you were settled into the seat before continuing.
"I'm thinking we stop at the store."
You looked up at him. "Oh?"
"Ice cream."
A tiny smile tugged at your lips. "Ice cream?"
"Mhm."
He closed the door gently before walking around to the driver's side.
"I figured that's doctor's orders."
You laughed quietly. "I don't think that's what she said."
"It was implied."
"Oh, was it?"
"Absolutely."
He climbed into the driver's seat and started the truck.
"Then we go home..." He looked over at you. "...and spend the rest of the night on the couch."
"Couch?"
"Mhm."
"Doing what?"
"Cuddling."
Your smile widened. "And?"
"And watching Sixteen Candles."
You blinked. "You're gonna sit through Sixteen Candles?"
Logan looked almost offended.
"Baby..."
He reached over and gently squeezed your knee.
"I'd sit through all sixteen candles if it meant you felt better."
You laughed, shaking your head.
"That's... not how the movie works."
"I know but it sounded good."
Another laugh escaped you. It quickly faded into watery eyes again.
Logan noticed immediately. "Hey."
He shifted the truck into park before they'd even left the lot.
"What?"
You looked down at your lap. "Thank you."
"For what?"
"For taking care of me."
He frowned like the idea confused him. "You don't have to thank me."
"I do."
"No."
He reached over, gently cupping your cheek with one hand.
His thumb brushed away the fresh tear before it could fall.
"I love you."
He leaned across the center console, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead first. Then another to your lips. When he pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours for just a second.
"I was always gonna take care of you."
His voice was barely above a whisper. "That's kind of the job."
You smiled through your tears. "I don't remember asking you to apply."
He grinned. "Too late."
He stole one more quick kiss.
"I already got the position."
Your laugh finally came without another wince. Logan smiled to himself.
Mission accomplished.
He reached for the gearshift. "Now..."
He pointed toward the parking lot exit.
"Let's go get you that ice cream."
"I get to pick the flavor?"
"You get to pick two."
"Now that's true love."
He laughed. "Don't push your luck."
As he pulled out of the parking lot, his hand found yours on the center console. He held it the entire drive home.
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