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[indecisivemuch]

fun fact

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Reader

Summary: You came in to work every day with a fun fact, determined to catch the BAU's genius with one that he wouldn't know (friends to lovers, co-workers to lovers, mutual feelings, fluff, confession)

Note: my spencer reid debut fic <3 sorry if there are any inaccuracy, just started rewatching after 3 years

Word count: 10.9k (sorry) 

“Small facts lead to great knowing” - Patrick Rothfuss (2011)

“I can’t believe anybody would do something like this,” you commented whilst looking down at the two documents in your hands—your thoroughly highlighted case dossier and your finished report. Every new case always exhibits unimaginable horror and unfortunately, there will always be something worse than your current worst. 

You turned to Spencer whilst perched cross-legged on the edge of his table.

The corner of the genius’s mouth curled at your words. They were the very same ones that sprouted daily despite the nature of your job. But to Spencer, there was a strange comfort in such small repetitive murmurs of disbelief.

“I gotta agree with Rossi. This job really includes some of the worst lunatics out there.” You sighed before straightening up at a sudden thought. “Actually, fun fact…” You noticed the way your words peeled Spencer’s attention from his report. He finally glanced up, eager for the second half of that sentence. 

“The word lunatic was invented based on the belief that mental illnesses were affected by moon phases.” You beamed at the idea of potentially providing your genius friend with new knowledge. 

“Yeah, and it actually originated from the Latin word ‘lunaticus,’ which means moonstruck or influenced by the moon. The word was first used for conditions like epilepsy or overall just madness,” Spencer replied, perking up at the thought of a potential conversation about this.

The excited smile on your face instantly faltered and you groaned in feigned annoyance. Perhaps you should have known better than to think you could out-fact Spencer and say something he had not already known.

“Is there anything you don’t know, Spence?” you glowered jokingly.

“Well, it’s hard when you’re a child prodigy and genius.” You let out a scoff-like laugh at Spencer’s cocky admission, but you knew he was joking. Despite his IQ of 187, Spencer rarely ever announced himself a genius. It was a title dubbed by those around him. You knew if you had Spencer’s brain, though, you would hardly ever stay as humble as him.

“I’ll get you someday.”

Your declaration drew a snort from another work desk and you twisted around to face the source of such a faithless sound.

“You don’t believe in me, Derek?” You arched a brow, your competitiveness rising to the surface.

“Sweet girl, I believe in you for many things, but this is just not one of them.”

“But surely there is one single fact out there that Spencer doesn’t know about.” Penelope piped up from next to Derek, defending you.

“We’re talking about the same Spencer, right? Spencer Reid? Three PhDs and an IQ of Einstein?” JJ spoke as she made her way down the bullpen.

“Actually, there is no way of measuring Einstein’s IQ as he never took the test, so to say that—” Derek quickly interrupted Spencer.

“Come on, pretty boy. She’s backing you up.”

“Sounds like grounds to start a betting pool going,” Rossi spoke up as he approached the whole group, briefcase in one hand, car keys in the other. “$20 says she’ll do it within four months.”

“I think she can do it within three months.” Emily chimed up from her desk.

“I’m placing my bet on eight months,” Penelope added confidently.

“Alright, and if she can’t do it within one year, JJ and I will split the win,” Derek announced before directing his next words to you, “Stakes are on, sweetheart.” He winked.

“Yeah, yeah. I got it.” You rolled your eyes before turning towards Spencer, declaring to him with exaggerated cockiness, “I’m gonna get you real soon, just wait.”

“You’re welcome to try.” The challenging glint in Spencer’s eyes met your own. Again, you knew better than to think that you would know something Spencer did not already know. He was practically the master of facts. But, unfortunately, you were incredibly bad at quitting.

So, let the challenge begin.

﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏

“Did you know that Australia is wider than the moon?” you questioned the second you saw Spencer enter the office the next morning. “Fun fact.”

“Yes, diameter-wise. Australia is almost 4,000 kilometres wide, while the moon’s diameter is nearly 3,500 kilometres. However, in terms of their masses, the moon is still larger.” You sighed dramatically at Spencer’s reply before spinning your chair towards your computer, turning the device on.

“And day one status: unsuccessful,” you grunted to yourself, catching Spencer’s grin from your peripheral vision.

“Oh? It’s gonna be daily?”

“You bet your ass it’s gonna be. There’s a betting pool and I’m unfortunately too competitive for my own good.” You caught the amusement dancing in Spencer’s gaze. 

“Well then, good luck.”

“Won’t need it.”

﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏

“Did you know a cloud can weigh like a million pounds?” You crossed your arms while peering at the cotton candy-like objects floating amidst the bright blue summer sky. “Fun fact.”

Both of you had your bulletproof vests on, leaning against a car while waiting for JJ to finish speaking to the press before driving back to the precinct. Another case wrapped. Another unsub locked up.

Under the nice weather, you had your cap and Spencer’s sunglasses on, having forgotten yours. He had heavily insisted so, even after you had declined a handful of times.

You turned and looked at Spencer briefly. Though, for a split second, your body stilled as the sun played in his favor, casting nice highlights to his woodsy colored locks. The light crinkle of his nose and his squinting eyes made your lips curl, cause once again, it showcased just how self-sacrificing Spencer can be when it came to the people close to him.

“Yeah, because they contain different states of matter like trillions of condensed water droplets and ice crystals. Its weight is equivalent to the world’s largest aircraft working at full capacity. Though despite its heaviness, clouds have lower density in comparison to the dry air around them, enabling them to float in the same way as oil floats on water.” Spencer tried to maintain eye contact with you despite the blaring sun shining into his eyes.

“Hmm…” you pursed your lips before removing your navy blue cap and placing it on your friend’s head. This cast a shadow over his eyes, blocking the harsh sun from blinding his vision. “Beautiful weather to fail at winning this fun fact thing again.”

Spencer didn’t reject the clothing item.

Some time in the history of human beings, the act of sporting others’ clothing items—especially of the opposite gender—had been made to seem important. Spencer has never understood the significance in such a small exchange. But as your hat landed on his head, Spencer felt an added weight that was beyond the small clothing item. 

Neither did he have it in him to adjust how you had left the cap on him, even if it didn’t sit on his head perfectly.

“I still have time to get you,” you continued after a moment of silence.

“359 days left.”

“More than enough.”

﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏

The clock was close to hitting 11pm. The whole team was taking a short break for a fresh perspective. Most were on their phones or taking a quick nap, but Spencer and you were playing a round of cards.

“Did you know ketchup used to be medicine? Fun fact.”

Both Emily’s and Derek’s watchful gaze panned from you to Spencer, anticipating his reaction to your daily shot at winning the bet.

“Around the 1830s, yeah. They marketed it as a cure for various ailments such as indigestion and diarrhea.” 

Emily instantly groaned at Spencer’s reply while Derek snickered. Once again, Spencer already knew the information you provided, just like the 13 previous times.

“See? Not a single thing he doesn’t know,” Derek chirped up, earning him a glare from the co-worker beside him.

You finally placed your next card down, instantly eying Spencer, wanting a read of his reaction to your play. There was a distant look in his eyes, a clear indication that he was taking this game just as seriously as you were.

Your eyes swept over the rest of your opponent. The un-neat edges in his usually tidy work attire and the way his hair stuck in different directions had your lips curling. They were details that only unveil during late work hours after a long day. But strangely enough, there was something endearing about the slight tiredness in his eyes and the way his cardigan hung disheveledly on him. 

“I won.”

Your eyes snapped to the pile of cards on the table at Spencer’s declaration.

“What?! No way. You must have cheated.”

“Now, now, don’t be a sore loser just because pretty boy over here won,” Derek teased you, despite also highly suspecting that Reid had cheated.

“Are we talking about the same pretty boy who is banned from many Vegas casinos because of his expert skill in counting cards?” JJ countered, placing her phone down. 

Your co-workers’ discourse began fading out of your focus as Spencer took out a ticket from his bag and handed it to you with a cheeky grin. With hesitation, you took the paper begrudgingly. You knew you had to hold your end of the deal. You had lost, after all.

You glanced back at the winner of the card game, catching his toothy grin at your sulking manners. Against all maturity, you poked your tongue out in petulance, but such childish action had Spencer laughing quietly in his spot, eyes gleaming with fondness.

“Sore loser.”

“Cheater.”

﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏

Hotch halted in his tracks upon spotting you and Reid in the break room.

Both of your heads were side by side, just a hair short from touching, fighting to have adequate sight of the newspaper that the two of you were sharing. Each of you also sported a pen in hand, scribbling hastily onto the delicate paper with vigorous competitiveness.

The unit chief entered to refill his coffee, though his eyes continued investigating you two. In the narrow gap between your heads, Hotch caught sight of Spencer rapidly filling out a crossword puzzle. Meanwhile, just as fast, you were solving a Sudoku piece that resided on the same page.

“Did you know, like fingerprints, people also have unique tongue prints?” you murmured, eyes still glued onto the puzzle in front of you. “Fun fact.”

“Yeah, humans have unique color, tongue shape, and textural features, therefore making it a great form of identification. However, we currently do not have the suitable technology to capture intricate surface details of tongue prints. Also, switching costs are high partially because the idea of having to stick one's tongue out in public for authentication can be seen as rather awkward, unhygienic, and undignifying.”

You pursed your lips at another unsuccessful day. But such expression vanished when you dropped your pen on the table and declared with unadulterated joy:

“Done!”

Your victory drew a defeated noise from Spencer.

“Imagine though, having to stick your tongue out at airport immigration and place it onto a public scanner or something like that.” You cackled at Spencer's grimace and the way his body slightly shivered from such a mental image. Eventually though, your laugh reduced to a teasing smile.

Spencer’s gaze lowered to the little crinkle that appeared around your eyes as you smiled, before holding eye contact with you. Spencer knew there was no such thing as “eyes twinkling,” but you had him doubting that scientifically established truth for a second. It was lighting and he knew that, but he had to admit that he could finally somewhat understand why poets and writers were so obsessed with dedicating lines towards such a tiny detail. 

Because even though there was no reason for him to, his own lips began to curl, mirroring the smile on your face.

From behind you both, Aaron Hotchner took a sip of his coffee before departing the room. Though on his way out, his eyes glinted a knowing look, while his lips lifted just the slightest bit before schooling back to a neutral expression again. 

﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏

“Did you know that back then, when raising a toast, people would literally drop a piece of toast into their wine?” you blurted out the second you slid yourself into the empty seat opposite Spencer at his breakfast table. Never have you ever skipped free hotel breakfast and today was no exception.

“Well, hello to you too.” Spencer grinned at your straight-to-business behavior. 

He carefully placed the coffee he made for you into your hand—a casual daily routine. You took a good whiff of the comforting aroma before humming at the first taste. It was exactly how you liked it: a dash of milk along with two and a quarter teaspoon of sugar.

To date, Spencer has never asked how you liked your coffee. 

He simply has always gotten it right.

It was not hard to guess that he had learnt your preferences from watching you make your coffee in the past. But you could not help but wonder if he took mental notes on others the same way he did with you. However, like every other time, you dismissed it as an occupational habit. Every member has been trained to be observant and notice little details. Spencer probably knew everybody’s coffee preferences.

“It actually originated from Ancient Rome, and back then, toast was an act to honor the gods and people would pour wine onto the floor. However, the custom evolved in many ways over time, depending on geographic regions. Around the 1600s, it became a common custom in England and this is where people would put a piece of spiced toast into their wine. They did it to improve the flavor of their beverage and also to “toast” to good health.”

Spencer caught your hum of satisfaction at the coffee and instantly felt pleased.

Science has long documented humans as naturally validation-seeking creatures. Your existence often humbled him from thinking he was not a recurring participant in that particular human instinct.

His eyes fell from you to your coffee—a particular mix that has ingrained itself into his memory since your first meeting. Funny that some time since then, he could no longer look at the beverage without ever thinking of you.

Neither could Spencer for the life of him recite the coffee order of anybody else at the BAU.

“36 days down…” you murmured, already picturing yourself rummaging the internet for more fun facts tonight.

“Maybe tomorrow.” The words came out softly, almost encouragingly. You hummed before matching his tone.

“Maybe.”

﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏

“Flies rub their hands as a sanitizing act, rather clean for an insect commonly associated with dirty places, no?” you murmured before peering up from your book whilst curled up in your seat on the BAU’s jet.

“Yes, it’s a self-grooming act. They do this primarily for two reasons. First and foremost, it’s because their legs are their flavour receptors, so they rub their front legs to ensure they can taste when eating. The other motivation is to remove dust and debris, therefore, ensuring survival.”

Your bottom lip jutted out slightly at another unsuccessful attempt.

“I’ll get you tomorrow…” you murmured with a teasing smile before re-immersing yourself in the fantasy world of your current novel.

Reading has become your escapism and method of self-grounding prior to any case. You tried to plunge into fictional worlds while flying to prepare yourself for the terrible realities that accompanied upcoming cases. Though at one point, Spencer started joining in. But instead of having his own book, he would lean over and scan your current page with unrealistic speed while you leisurely let each letter sink in. It became a routine that occupied your journey from Quantico, whereas on the way back, Spencer and you maintained your tradition of engaging in chess matches. 

Spencer spotted your finger flipping the page once more and his eyes instantly swept over the printed words hastily.

Twenty thousand words per minute. That was Spencer’s known reading speed, which meant in merely two seconds or three, he was already done with the two pages in front of you both. As always, you were still reading at your own pace, unhurried. He knew he could adopt a slower speed to enjoy your chosen fictional literature. But lately, he found himself in a hurry, rushing himself to finish pages in a way that made him think maybe he was now above his previously established reading speed. 

Why?

His gaze flicked over to you, mulling over the familiar details that made you, you. He studied the way your fingers trace the fore-edge of the book mindlessly, lingering on the way you tease your lips with your teeth as you registered the adventure that the story was taking you on. Spencer caught the slight shift in the space between your eyebrows and how they slightly twitch according to plot progression, displaying your commitment to your reading content.

Spencer would not classify himself as a people watcher, despite his necessary observant and analytical traits as a profiler. Yet, somehow, watching you had become one of his favorite quiet activities. In your little habits were his comfort. In moments when cases were overwhelming, his eyes have made a tendency to land on you. The spike in his heartbeat would normalize, whilst rapid thoughts would regulate. It was only in moments when Spencer would get caught by you that he would tear his gaze away sheepishly, before attempting to pretend that he was looking elsewhere instead.

The sound of paper rustling pulled Spencer out of his mind, and he instantly plunged himself into the same self-established cycle again.

And despite his fondness for literature, for once, it did not hold a candle in his eyes.

﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏

“Cows have best friends, how great is that?”

Spencer stopped eating his ice cream the second he spotted someone passing the two of you in a cow onesie, giving away why you decided on that particular fun fact. His eyes fell back on you, glimmering with amusement. 

“Yes, cows do have a ‘best friend’ who they tend to share spaces and rest side by side with. Research shows that when separated, these cows would show signs of stress and anxiety with higher heart rates.”

You hummed at that. By now, you were used to his immediate expansion on your facts, no longer surprised or disappointed every time he added onto your words. 

In fact, you fondly looked forward to hearing what he had to say about whatever fact you would sprout. There was a deep sense of appreciation that you have grown for this challenge. You felt like, intellectually, your general knowledge had expanded immensely, both from researching fun facts to tell Spencer and also from the informative responses that you would receive from him.

“You know, cows also can develop what some may refer to as ‘accents.’ Research observed variations in their moos based on different regions and herds.” Spencer leaned closer to you before adding cheekily, “Fun fact.”

“Nuh uh, don’t go stealing my line. You’re not allowed to put me out of business.”

This tore a laugh out of Spencer, and you immediately bit back a smile at such a sound. 

If humans have the ability to bottle noises for keepsake, you know now what sound you would try to capture.

Surprisingly, this was only the second time that Spencer and you had spent time together one-on-one out of work. 

With the working hours at the BAU that forced you and all your co-workers to be in close proximity for an extensive amount of time, you tend to allocate your scarce free time to those who were outside of your work circle. But something about spending time with Spencer today had struck you with an epiphany:

You really, really wanted to see Spencer outside of work more often.

Both your phones started ringing at the same time.

“Penelope, is everything okay?” you answered quietly.

“Emily?” Spencer whispered at the same time into his phone.

After a few seconds, you both ended your respective phone calls before slowly turning to face each other again. You scanned yours and Spencer’s outfit before sighing.

“There’s not enough time to go home and change.” The devastation in your voice was imminent.

“I know.”

A few minutes later, both of you entered the office, and almost instantly, the noise level declined significantly as the whole team paused their actions. You winced, knowing immediately that you two were about to be the butt of many incoming jokes.

“Whoa, what time period did you guys travel back from?” Emily teased.

“We were at a convention, okay?” You huffed, picking up your go-bag from under your desk for a change of clothes.

“And you two are dressed up as…?” Rossi crossed his arms, undoubtedly amused.

The team scanned over both of your outfits. Spencer was wearing a brown fedora hat, an oxblood colored corduroy jacket, and grey pants. Despite the only semi-chilly weather, he also sported a colorful striped knitted scarf around his neck. As for you, you were in an all pink attire, but what stood out was your long pink coat, high pink boots, and long white scarf.

“The fourth doctor and Romana II, from Doctor Who,” Spencer answered, grabbing his go bag.

Derek’s eyes comedically bulged out at that, and he immediately spun his chair towards you. “Blink twice if Reid is blackmailing you with something to make you go to this convention with him.” You laughed at his remark.

“Listen, remember the card game I lost two months ago? That’s why I had to go, but when I actually started the show, I really enjoyed it.” You raised your hands in surrender.

“Oh, we lost another one. She got Reid-ified,” Derek exclaimed dramatically before placing a hand on his chest in jest heartbreak, grinning at your eye roll.

By now, Spencer had returned to your side with his go-bag. Though just as you two turned around to head off and change, an abrupt flash halted you both in your steps. Blinking away the after-effect of the blinding light, you saw Penelope with her phone facing you two and a cheeky grin on her face.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Delete that,” you immediately instructed, hands on your hips while your brows furrowed in fussiness. You then sucked in a deep breath and used your hand to comb through your hair before a smile broke your feigned annoyed expression. “I was not ready.”

Then, with dramatic flair, you posed properly for the camera, grabbing Spencer’s scarf exaggeratedly with both hands while tugging him lightly. 

Spencer was unsure if his knees had buckled due to a slight loss of balance or from your proximity. He glanced at the camera, face slightly flushed, before witnessing another flash go off, evidencing his blush and putting it on record.

Your hands were gone from his scarf like a breeze. 

“Alright, I’m gonna go change now.” By the time Spencer registered your words, you were already gone. All that was left at the spot you previously occupied was his attention. Spencer's eyes eventually moved when he heard a quiet giggle from Penelope, who was indescribably entertained by the dazed look on his face.

The tech expert slowly angled her phone towards Spencer to show what she had captured, and she carefully observed Spencer’s contemplative gaze. His eyes landed on you first, and they softened at the sight of your beaming face. They then traced the slope of your smile and the crinkle of your eyes before reluctantly trailing down to your hands and the way they bossily clung onto his scarf. 

The sentiment of pictures has always been just a concept to Spencer Reid. He does understand the logic behind people’s attachment to colored captures of moments and why people have ‘important’ photos in their wallets or have framed physical copies. But personally, he rarely ever practiced it. Yet, in this precise moment, he suddenly wanted to begin.

Without even looking at himself in the photo, Spencer murmured to Penelope:

“Can you send that to me, please? Thank you.”

﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏

“Where is she?” Derek’s gaze darted up to his friend. One glance at Spencer and the man already knew who he was referring to.

“Garcia said she called in sick this morning. Why?”

“Nothing.”

Derek scanned over Spencer from head to toe properly this time. Realisation flashed through his eyes before the man smirked as he looked back down at his work. 

Ah, the perks of being a profiler.

“Sure, pretty boy.”

“What was that loo—” 

The sound of Spencer’s phone ringing interrupted his question. He took the device out of his pocket, and the phone almost flew out of his hand when he saw your name flashing on the screen. He immediately picked up and placed the device beside his ear, breathing out your name in greeting.

Instead of your usual cheery tone, Spencer was met with a muffled voice and snifflings.

Immediately, his body stiffened.

“Are you okay?” He was by his desk within seconds. His fingers grazed over his jacket, as if prepared to scoop the clothing up and dash out of the office if your answer indicated any distress. 

“My nose is blocked. Both sides. It’s horrendous,” then came a dramatic sigh, “I’m becoming a mouth breather, Spence.”

Your melodrama tore a laugh from Spencer’s throat.

Derek’s lips curled discreetly at the noise.

“Anyway, don’t think you can escape your daily fun fact just because I’m not physically in the office.” Spencer was glad you were not physically with him, because if you were, you would have seen the idiotic grin stretching his face. But how could he not smile at your stubborn resilience, and the cute sound of your nasally voice that was slightly more high-pitched than normal. 

“You’re sick, and you took a day off work, but not off the fun fact thing?”

“In sickness and in health, as they say.”

Spencer accidentally snorted at your words and immediately cleared his throat in an attempt to cover it.

Derek’s brows scrunched at that.

“Apparently, while wired to specific scientific machines and whatnot, two lucid dreamers can have two-way communication in real time. How cool is that?” Spencer hummed fondly at your words before sitting down, his plan to flee from office hours long gone.

“That’s quite a recent fun fact. The study was recently concluded just about two years ago,” his voice came out soft as he focused on any sound that the technological device beside his ear could carry over from your end. 

He caught your hum, though the sound resembled the same one you always did while sitting next to him on the jet as the team flew back to Quantico. The noise that often preceded the soft landing of your head on his shoulder and the way he’d sit straighter up to accommodate you entirely despite his germaphobia-led touch aversion.

“You should sleep and rest,” he whispered, despite wanting to hear your voice for longer. But selflessness came easy when you were in consideration.

Spencer carefully began listing all the things you ought to do later to get better. But halfway through, he noticed the lack of noise from the other end, except for your rhythmic breathing, signaling your sound asleep state. Spencer sighed before removing the phone from his ear. He stared at the device in long contemplation before clicking the end call button.

Finally placing down the device that signified his only contact with you today, Spencer flipped open today’s case dossier. However, he found himself re-reading the first sentence over and over again. His eyes kept scanning over the same words, and he felt the way they slid past his comprehension the same way small external details occasionally would escape his notice whenever he spent time with you. 

Spencer’s mind kept trailing back to the phone call and to you.

It’s familiarity—he tried to tell himself. Humans were, afterall, creatures of habit, and considering you have been swirled into his daily routine like a necessity, it made sense that the lack of your presence had set him off balance. 

Eventually, Spencer got up and went to the break room for coffee. But the second he opened the cupboard and his eyes landed on your mug, he felt his mouth run dry. 

For the past one and a half years, he has always made two cups of coffee instead of one at the start of each day.

His eyes darted to his mug right next to yours. The idea of separating them sent some sort of ache in his heart, even if logically they were just ceramic vessels.

Perhaps he had mislabeled what missing someone meant all along, because your absence was bringing a hollowness that nobody had managed to carve out of him before. It was the kind of emptiness that made him feel incomplete, as if a piece of himself was not with him. Yet, as opposed to the expected numbness that often accompanied such a feeling, Spencer felt every second of your absence with a constant stinging ache that felt too akin to withdrawal symptoms. 

Eventually, Spencer shut the cupboard and returned to his desk, coffee-less.

That evening after work, Spencer made a detour instead of going straight home, missing the way his friends huddled together, exchanging hushed whispers about his departure.

﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏

Twenty two hours, forty eight minutes, and thirty one seconds.

Spencer witnessed as time quietly slipped through the cracks of his remaining strength. 

The whole bullpen lacked the life his work family usually colored in. The janitor had long shut off the main lights, so the only thing illuminating the space near Spencer was his desk lamp. Everybody else had gone home except for Hotch, but the unit chief was in his office, leaving Spencer as the last man standing in the bullpen.

After a few more ticks, Spencer finally tore his gaze from the timing instrument and glided his vision back down to the pen in his hand, forcing it to ink his unfinished report, but words refused to string together. 

Spencer’s free hand began tapping his desk rhythmically in a pathetic attempt to comfort himself.

Twenty two hours, fifty one minutes, and twenty one seconds.

Spencer wanted to say that it didn’t matter. Why should it? But he knew damn well that the answer was because the team mattered to him. 

However, perspective was truly a funny thing. Someone could be your number one priority, and you barely just made it in their list.

Spencer averted his gaze from the unfinished report to the brand new photo frame on his desk, where a captured version of the recent memory of you two as Doctor Who characters resided.

It did not take a genius to see that you two were closer to one another than with others on the team. However, the fun fact challenge had truly unlocked another level of bond. It was the kind of connection that meant he had started placing you above the others, a position that implied he also expected more from you, cause perhaps he thought you had also valued him just as much as he treasured you in his mind. 

So as much as the whole team was the source of his dismay, there was a spotlight reserved for your absence, one that was beyond glaring and punched his guts in ways that others could not.

His eyes traced your face in the photograph again, like they had done every morning since he had gotten the picture framed. 

Oftentimes, you could never be absolutely sure where you stand in someone’s life.

Twenty two hours, fifty nine minutes, and ten seconds.

A resigned breath escaped the narrow gap between his lips.

With more effort than it usually took, Spencer got on his feet, hoping that another cup of coffee would be the cure for his inefficiency. He slowly placed more weight on one side of his body to turn around. At the same time, Spencer began rubbing his face in hopes that exhaustion and melancholy would push themselves aside for a brief moment so that he could finish this impending task. 

When Spencer finally reopened his eyes to navigate the darkness, he froze at the sight that was once behind him.

Eight steps away was you, looking like a deer caught in headlights. 

Then came your escaped nervous laughter, like you were scared of screwing up, but that was only because you were unaware that you could almost never do wrong in Spencer’s eyes. His heart—which Spencer’s brain has been having a harder time controlling lately—provided you with a much larger margin for error than anybody else.

Your gentle tone filled the fragile silence that was intertwined with suspense.

“Fun fact, birthday cakes are traditionally round as an Ancient Greek tradition to resemble the moon for the goddess Artemis.” Your eyes crinkled as your lips curled into that familiar smile that had previously held Spencer powerless on numerous occasions. “Happy Birthday, Spence.”

There you were, cake in hand after a long day of work on a gruesome case.

There you were, with a homemade cake after a long day of him thinking everybody had forgotten his birthday, or more importantly, that you had forgotten.

But maybe his probability was not entirely against him. 

“I know I’m quite late, but trust me, there’s an explanation. When I got to the office this morning, I realized that I had forgotten your cake at home. I was planning to grab it after work, but the case kept us all back so late, and then traffic was super bad because of a concert today. But hey, I got the cake now, and I really hope you like it.”

You peered down at your own baking product and the slightly wonky penmanship before turning your eyes back onto Spencer.

“Also, since it’s your birthday, I’ll give you a bonus fun fact. There are roughly 30,000 people who have their birthdays on October 12th in the States, but…” 

Your voice fell quiet as your eyes diverted back to the cake again. 

“You’re my favorite October 12th.”

And right at that second, all of Spencer’s previous attempts at rationalising his feelings via scientific explanations collapsed. For once, science could no longer shield him, because as much as it was a field built on facts of concrete evidence, there was also an undeniable truth: he liked you.

It might not be rational, but it was still a fact, and that alone terrified Spencer. 

And while he was your favorite October 12th, you were his favorite every day.

Spencer glanced down at the handmade cake and the singular purple candle pierced in the center. The tiny flame provided just enough light for the space between you both. His eyes then flicked back onto you, and they softened.

God, you were so clueless about the effect your actions have on him and his whole world.

One breath extinguished the fire, and grey smoke fluttered into the air.

Then, for the first time since he saw you five minutes ago, Spencer managed to form the only words he felt were worthy enough of your time.

“Thank you.”

Even if the significance behind those words didn’t reach you today, it was okay. But they carry the weight of his whole heart and every unspoken reason behind his gratefulness. 

Thank you for not forgetting about him today. Thank you for always being so kind and paying attention to the details about him. Thank you for being such an important part of his life. Thank you for choosing the exact career path that you did to lead you to him. Thank you for existing. 

And someday, maybe Spencer Reid will gather enough courage to tell you all of this.

﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏

You halted in your step, and almost immediately Spencer followed suit. His eyesight followed yours, and he instantly knew what you were gonna ask from him.

“Come on, can you play for me? Please?” you urged, and it didn’t take more than your pleading face to make him approach the instrument that lay abandoned in the corner of the hotel where the whole team was staying.

Saying “no” became a significantly harder task for Spencer ever since he realised what kind of position his feelings were in when it came to you. It especially felt like an impossible task when your words came in that pleading tone and the smile that had him wishing stopping time was one of his abilities.

You followed Spencer and leaned against the instrument eagerly. You observed as he lightly cracked his knuckles, eying the mixture of ivory and ink-dark keys with a calculative gaze before placing his fingers delicately on them while his foot pressed gently on one of the pedals at the base.

For a moment, you wondered what Spencer would play. Maybe one of the classical pieces he liked a lot. Perhaps Bach? Or—  

A familiar tune overtook the pleasant quietness in the empty hotel lobby, and recognition struck you with every flawless execution of each note.

First off, you knew he was a liar, saying he only dabbled in piano. But what caught you off-guard was hearing the piano version of your favorite song. 

It was things like this that made you conclude that Spencer Reid was one of the sweetest individuals you have ever had the privilege to know. From making you coffee daily to hunting down first editions of your favorite books (the most recent one in which he handed over along with soup the day you got sick and were off work). Now, he was learning your favorite song on the piano. 

Lucky felt like an inadequate word to describe your position in life when Spencer was in the equation.

Only when he finished the very modern composition did you speak up.

“I thought you only listened to classical?”

“I…did,” was all that came out of Spencer’s mouth, but it was enough for you to catch his implication that he had learnt this song specifically on the piano for you.

Spencer sniffled, diverting his gaze from you shyly as he inspected the keys in front of him again.

Ever since his birthday, Spencer could constantly feel the urge to confess right on the tip of his tongue while his lips trembled in self-control to keep them to himself for now. According to the internet and its various articles, he should try to ‘woo’ you first, and hence these actions instead of confessing right away. He wondered if you got his message. He wondered if you could tell this was his version of flirting. However, Spencer also knew that he had accidentally portrayed himself as an extremely sweet friend from your perspective, so thoughtful actions with the aim of impressing you romantically were most likely ruled as platonic gestures. 

You began toying with the ring on your middle finger, the flattery from his sweet action manifested itself through the heat beneath your cheeks. For the first time in your almost three years of friendship with Spencer, you were struck by a minor nerve-wracking sensation. There was also a fleeting stutter in your chest that you decisively ignored.

You moved on with a quiet murmur.

“You know, humans owe squirrels a lot. They have planted at least thousands of trees.” You gave him a soft smile when his eyes met yours again. “It’s accidental, but no less a noble act contributing to the environment.”

“Yeah, they would bury nuts for later usage, but forget their locations. Many forgotten nuts can grow into trees, therefore, contributing to forest regeneration.” 

“Anddd another fun fact failure.” You groaned, though your expression melted into a smile when you heard Spencer chuckle at that. 

“We should head up. It’s getting late.”

You nodded in agreement and began walking, but looked back briefly at Spencer. “But it’s not too late for an episode of Doctor Who, right?”

An outstretched grin spread across Spencer’s face at your words.

“Never.”

﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏

“No way.” You were speechless as you made way out of Spencer’s car, staring at the building in front of you in disbelief. “Don’t tell me…”

“Yeah, it’s for your favorite film,” Spencer confirmed your suspicion.

“So, it didn’t matter that I had lost, huh?”

Shortly after your Doctor Who convention together, Spencer had invited you to this event that was two and a half months after. Though he insisted on keeping the details a secret, relaying only the dress code—smart casual, but whatever you were most comfortable with.

The secretive factor of the whole ordeal had you guessing in suspense for the entire two months, but now that you were here, you fully understood why.

This was the event that you both would have gone to instead of the Doctor Who convention if you had won that game of cards.

An orchestra movie concert of your favourite movie.

Spencer sucked in a deep breath, fingers toying with the loose threads of his cardigan. There he went again, attempting to present to you that he was an option—the best one, at that—and giving signals that he was pursuing you. He has read at least five hundred online articles on the art of flirting in the past week alone. If Derek ever found his online searching history, Reid would never live it down.

“God, this is the best thing ever.” Seeing how pleased you were with his action made Spencer want to physically preen with pride.

Once you two had settled down inside, you took a couple of photos and observed your surroundings. You looked around at your neighboring audiences before averting your gaze to the empty chairs that were soon to be filled by instrumental experts. Your body was flooded with excitement at the prospect of finally being at this event. 

You decided to chime in with your daily fun fact just minutes before the concert was due to start.

“Did you know that there’s a planet that is ⅓ made of diamonds?” you whispered.

“55 Cancri e, right?” he matched your volume, shifting in the chair beside you to make himself comfortable.

“Yeah, that one,” you confirmed, turning your head back to him. “Go on, I know you have details on it.” You encouraged, shifting yourself into a comfortable position as well.

“55 Cancri e is a super-Earth exoplanet, approximately twice the size of Earth, though roughly eight times heavier in terms of mass. First sighted and discovered in 2004, scientists have found that it is a very hot and rocky planet with a molten lava ocean surface due to its incredibly close orbit to its star…”

You were leaning into your palm while listening to him, clinging onto every word as they absorbed into your brain. The space you left in between you both out of consideration for Spencer gradually lessened as he leaned in closer the more he talked. His tone, too, grew more quiet as he went on, as if the information he was telling you did not exist in some cyclopaedia, but a secret passed in full trust. 

The corners of your lips curled at the twinkle in Spencer’s eyes as he detailed out knowledge that previously sat in the corner of his brain, collecting dust.

Spencer’s intellectual rambling will always be one of your favorite things about him. You loved hearing him talk and the way he enunciated each syllable so clearly, as well as his wordings and his tonal patterns. You should have gotten used to it by now, but it marvelled you every single time that you had the chance to listen to him talk about things you would rely on an internet search to know. Just like usual, today was no different.

Spencer Reid was remarkable. It was almost impossible to take your eyes off him when he talked. He was a bundle of many things that made him an individual worth a lifetime of getting to know.

You wondered if you were looking at him a little bit too fondly right now. But how could you not when he was whispering sweet facts to you as if he only wanted you to know of it? It felt almost as if this fun fact challenge had turned into a sacred tradition between you two. 

“Even though it is widely said that the planet is ⅓ of diamond, this is actually still only a theory and yet to be proven. So, to dub it the Diamond Planet when they’re not even sure if there are diamonds on the planet itself is like…suspecting you are a quarter or half French and then introducing yourself as French to people anyway.”

Your laughter burst out unfiltered, and you instantly grounded yourself by clearing your throat and pulling yourself away from Spencer slightly, putting yourself on timeout.

That was kind of embarrassing. 

The joke was slightly funny, but nowhere close to warranting that kind of laughter.

It sort of reminded you of the videos you have seen on the internet about the kind of laugh that people would let out in reaction to their crush’s jok—

Oh.

You subtly slid deeper into your chair as thoughts shot in your mind at a hundred miles per second. Your fingers immediately curled into your palms to dig at it. You could not look back at Spencer in fear that he would notice that something was wrong. 

Oh God. 

But were you really surprised though? 

A part of you had seen it coming, because as much as you adore all your co-workers, you knew in the bottom of your heart that Spencer was the only one you were willing to lessen your sleeping hours to prolong hanging out and conversing with. Also, to be immune to such sweet actions, you would have to be some statue made of stone. For years now, Spencer had intently taken time to know you and go out of his way just to make you happy. If anything, you were grateful that your heart had picked someone so kind and worthy to give itself away to.

You glanced at Spencer from the corner of your eyes, and just the sight of him alone had your heart hiccupping in a way that you had become familiar with for the past month. It was the kind of stutter that you had outright been trying to ignore and written off as nothing. But unlike all the previous times, you knew you could no longer deny that man next to you was the reason for such palpitations.

And maybe it was also time to face it: you like Spencer Reid, your genius of a friend and very much also a profiler.

Your eyes snapped away from him the moment you realized the significance of playing it cool. You could not have him picking up the signs and figuring out that you have feelings for him. But then again, you have seen how clueless he was around women who were hitting on him and failing to pick up their signals. So, maybe he would not notice your current body language either.

Before you could think more on the matter, the lights dimmed and instruments began stringing together in a well-rehearsed manner. It was only then that you began breathing again, relieved that you had two hours to collect your thoughts and come to terms with the newly attained knowledge about yourself.

﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏

“Alright, what’s the fun fact of today?” you heard Spencer’s voice before peering up and seeing him behind your chair, hands on the back of the furniture, looking down at you with a shy smile. The sight of his adorable expression made your cheeks heat up, and you had to avert your gaze to prevent him from spotting signs of your flustered state.

The other members just boarded the jet as well, settling into their own spots after a tiring case. You were much less the same, sporting the now more noticeable eye bags that matched Spencer’s. Yet, that does not deter his gaze from the warmth they hold.

You gestured to Spencer’s usual seat right next to you. Once he had settled down, you made your next move on his chessboard, resuming your current ongoing match with him. You could see the instant way the cogs in his brain started spinning. At that, you provided your fun fact of the day, hoping it would serve as a distraction.

“You know, I read that there are more possible variations of chess games than the number of atoms in the universe.”

“Yeah, it’s known as the Shannon number—the number of possible chess games, I mean, which is 10120. Meanwhile, the estimated number of atoms in the observable universe is 1080to 1082.”

He made his move, catching your discreet yawn in the corner of his eyes.

“Fascinating, isn’t it?” The weight behind your eyes turned them half-lidded. They landed on the chessboard, trying to formulate the next best move, but your brain refused to cooperate as a fog of sleepiness overclouded your judgments.

“You don’t have to play now, you know. We can just play next time.”

“No, no. Give me a second, I’ll make my move.”

“You’re tired.”

You slowly turned your head towards Spencer, and there it was again. You caught the concern leaking from his gaze, and it instantly reminded you just how caring Spencer was to those in his life and especially you. Your mouth formed a tired yet grateful smile at his expressed worry.

You felt sorry for those who have never had the opportunity to be the subject of his affections.

For a split second, you pondered the kind of doting that Spencer would do if he were pursuing someone romantically. You have never seen him express interest in any woman during your time at the BAU, despite the advances he has gotten from various good-looking women. But if he was already this sweet platonically, you were fairly certain your heart would give out at what he had in mind as romance.

Your shoulders finally slumped before a truthful sigh escaped from you. “Yeah.”

Unlike usual, where you would fall asleep and land on his shoulder while you were knocked out, he outright shifted to sit up straighter for you, offering his shoulder.

Spencer never admitted it out loud, but he had foolishly started wanting the friction of your skin against his or the fabric of his belongings. It was an impossible he thought would never occur, but here he was, anticipating the next rare moment of physical touch beside the one where his shoulder would become your pillow. 

Of course, he had noticed it—your lack of touch when it came to him. He was devastatingly aware of your mindfulness of his germaphobia, and Spencer was grateful, he really was. However, your reservation to accommodate his tendencies had begun feeling like deprivation. In fact, Spencer could count on one hand the amount of times you had ever touched him deliberately, with the last one being one hundred and sixty three days ago.

But it was that particular initiative factor that Spencer deeply yearned for. He craved and awaited for a touch made with purpose. 

He wanted you to mean it.

You stilled at such a small action, gaze stopping on his shoulder. You did not want to over-interpret such a simple movement, but knowing Spencer, there were implications and significance in that little offering. 

You knew it had become a recurring thing. As embarrassed as you were, you could not help the fact that you were the type to move around a lot in your sleep. You had tried using an airplane pillow, leaning against the wall, and so many other methods. However, most of the time, you would still wake up on Spencer’s shoulder before instantly jolting up and freeing him from the physical touch.

But the certainty on Spencer’s face left your rejection stuck in your throat.

Hesitantly, you began shifting closer, giving Spencer just enough time to retract the offer if he wanted to. But he stayed confidently still as your head started leaning down before finally landing on his shoulder.

One single small action had Spencer questioning how much longer he could go on like this. How much longer could he keep these feelings tightly locked and concealed? Because Spencer was utterly gone for you. Gone in the kind of way where one casual compliment from you about the cardigan he was wearing had him immediately putting the item into his clothing rotation a lot more frequently.

“I’m gonna get you some day, Spence…” Spencer watched as you drifted to sleep before closing his own eyes, all while he wished the flight back would last forever.

Unbeknownst to you both, the team exchanged knowing looks and discreet smiles at the sight they were witnessing. There had been nothing more obvious to them than this, but instead of intervening, they decided to let things play its course. 

Because, despite the uncertain nature surrounding the occurrence of events in life, this was the one thing everybody was sure was inevitable.

﹏ ﹏ ﹏

The jet finally arrived back at Quantico around 11pm. Spencer had finished his report a few minutes before you did, but lingered behind as usual to wait for you. About two weeks ago, he had established a new routine between you both. 

“Ready?” Spencer carefully peeled your bag from your hand, checking his watch to see that it was already past midnight, marking a new day.

“Yeah…” you breathed out tiredly, eager to collapse in bed. “More than ready.”

You like to think you have kept it cool well, in general. But Spencer’s new routine of walking you to your car after work had you a nail tip away from laying all your cards bare and revealing your feelings. Even on days when you finished your report first, he would walk you to your car before returning to the office. But the thing was:

Spencer Reid rarely ever drove to work, which meant he was going to the employee parking lot every day with you for no reason. 

Well, for no reason but you.

The elevator began making its descent from the sixth floor with both of you inside. You were listening carefully as Spencer discussed an academic paper he had read last night. The doors soon jerked open, revealing the fairly empty parking lot. At the sight of your car, you subtly began slowing down your steps, biting back a smile when you noticed him mirroring your change of pace. 

You observed as he animatedly gushed about the methodology of the research paper, paying particular attention to the tiny detail of his body language. The way his hands were passionately waving around, exaggerating certain points Spencer was trying to make. The flutter of his eyelashes as he blinked a bit faster than he usually would—a habit that often occurs when he speaks quickly, as you have learned. The smooth movements of his lips as his mouth tried to rush out words to match the pace of his incredibly brilliant brain.

Now that you were looking at his lips, you have to admit that it was kind of hard to look away.

Suddenly, an idea brewed in your mind, and it felt like the holy grail had finally landed in your lap. Who would have known that a random Thursday would be the day you ought to finally win this challenge and put Spencer in checkmate.

“Spence?” Your lips curled mischievously, observing the way Spencer halted in his steps at your tone. 

God, despite being subjected to harsh and unflattering parking lot lights, Spencer still had the audacity to look good in a way that tugged at your heartstrings. The sight had you questioning if he was capable of ever looking bad. His warm eyes colored with interest as he eagerly awaited your next words. You took a couple more steps forward, wanting to hide the plotting expression on your face. 

“Fun fact…” You paused before peering back at him. At those two words, you instantly caught the anticipation rolling off him. There was also a subtle confidence from him that signalled he was sure he already knew whatever you were planning to tell him. But you knew that this time, things would be different. 

With a competitive glint in your eyes, you finally divulged today’s fun fact, your voice calm and stable.

“I like you.”

Just as you predicted, Spencer froze while his mouth fell agape. No words fell out of those talkative lips, a stark contrast to how fast he was speaking a couple of seconds ago. You practically beamed in victory at such a reaction. You wanted to celebrate, you really did. But you decided not to gloat about your win yet. Instead, you prioritised the better option: teasing your friend.

“I recalled you mentioning once that kissing spreads fewer germs than shaking hands?” You winked playfully, expecting nothing from it. It was simply a joke to make Spencer flustered for your entertainment, and there was zero expectation that he would somehow miraculously confess that he had been secretly liking you too and would actually kiss you at your workplace’s parking lot at 1am.

Because there was no way Doctor Spencer Reid liked you, right?

You observed as his lips slowly curled up in amusement as your words sunk in, and that partially made your shoulders relaxed. Well, at least your joke landed, and your friendship would make it out intact despite your confession.

But then, out of nowhere, that closed-mouth smile stretched into a full-on grin before a chuckle of disbelief escaped from Spencer. 

Now, you were on alert. Instantly, you tried to read his reaction—was he in disbelief that he was finally stumped by a fact he had not yet known of? Was he amused by your clever trick of using your own feelings as a fun fact? But the elation on his face and the awestruck look in his eyes hardly aligned with someone who had just lost a long-term challenge.

Your lips parted as you continued assessing the man, but you caught the way his eyes flickered down at that small movement before he sucked in a deep breath.

Oh…?

Suspicion crept in, but confirmation came quicker.

In the blink of an eye, Spencer had completely eliminated the two steps between you both, sealing you two in a proximity that was closer than you had ever been with him. His palms found your face, and they cupped your cheeks in a careful yet certain way.

Spencer’s eyes darted all over your face, searching for all the clues that you were okay with what he had next in mind. He could see that your pupils were slightly dilated, as well as feel the way you were leaning into his touch and the heat that was transferring from your cheeks to his hands. Though it was only when you did not pull away and instead, had your tongue dart out to wet your lips, did Spencer kill the remaining space between your faces.

His lips slanted against yours in a desperate manner that outmatched his need for oxygen, kissing you like it was long overdue. He swallowed the gasp escaping your throat and the surprised noise that followed. There was an urgency he could not hide as his straining self-control snapped from your green light. 

You began kissing him back just a second or two after, and almost instantly, you heard a sigh of relief. Your lips curled, but any trace of smugness vanished when his thumb began rubbing your cheek fondly. Suddenly, you were aware of just how close you two were. Every point of contact was sending a searing heat through your body, because despite his fears of germs, Spencer was touching your skin like it was a need, rather than an obligation for moments like these. 

You pressed your lips harder against his.

Good lord, Spencer could do this forever. 

He might have been able to count the number of times you have touched him on one hand, but even with the whole team, there were not enough fingers to account for the number of times he had glanced at your lips this week alone.

Your own hands touched the sides of his waist, and you instantly caught the longing noise that escaped from Spencer’s throat, echoing onto your lips. At such an encouraging sound, you curled your hands to the back of his body and snaked them up his back. Your lips smirked against his at the way he arched into your touch. 

One hundred and sixty three days—Spencer reminded himself again, humming in utter satisfaction at the way those numbers spun down to zero. Finally, you were touching him on purpose and with purpose. He practically melted at the way your hands roamed so confidently without any trace of guilt that he was uncomfortable, because he was far from that.

In fact, he eagerly wanted to keep the number of days since the last time you touched him at zero permanently. 

You picked that precise moment to pull away, documenting the way his eyes fluttered open and dawned into existence the unadulterated glimmer of yearning in them. 

You have always thought he was gorgeous, but how he looked right then rendered the word inadequate. It was a vision exceeding all your daydreams, and to be the reason behind the look made you feel like you were an award winning fashion designer who had just invented a magnificent masterpiece. But unlike most, you had no intention of sharing this artwork with the world or with anybody else.

Spencer felt his heart squeeze at the sight of you again. Was it possible to miss someone so badly from not having a visual on them for approximately a minute? Maybe he was more screwed than he thought.

Breathlessly, he finally whispered the confession that he had long to say for a month.

“Despite all the facts I already know and have learnt during my whole entire life, you’re my favorite thing to study and know more about, and have been since you stepped into my life. Nothing I learnt after felt like it could outrank anything I learnt about you.” It was true.  Every speck of information about you gets the forefront of his memory’s line-up, taking priority over every other knowledge. Spencer licked his own lips for remnants of you before continuing, “You’re my favorite fun fact, you know that?”

Your heart tugged at his words. You had no idea how you managed to compete with the vast amount of interesting information that existed in the world, but under Spencer’s stare, you truly could see he meant every word.

“But…” The smile on your face instantly dropped at that single word from Spencer. Good rarely ever followed that three-letter conjunction.

“But?”

“I do have to admit that, uhm…” The familiar sheepish glint in his eyes had one of your eyebrows shooting up. “I kinda already know that fun fact already, that you liked me.” Your hands on him stilled their movement before falling onto your sides in disbelief.

“Oh, come on. You can’t be serious.” He resisted the urge to whine at the lack of physical touch from you. “But you looked shocked.”

“I was shocked you actually said it. I didn't think you’d do it today…or tomorrow…or maybe ever–” You slapped his arm, but he gladly welcomed that contact. Anything was better than nothing.

“I thought you’re like highly oblivious to romantic signals? I’ve seen you being completely clueless and not picking up on the fact that women were flirting with you.”

“I think I wasn’t clueless when it came to you because my eyes were always on you.” Those words came out shamelessly. In fact, Spencer almost sounded proud of himself. You tried not to let his words make you flustered.

“When did you figure it out?”

“That you like me? At the orchestra.”

“How? I barely figured it out myself that I liked you then.”

“Yeah, I could tell.” Your huff drew a chuckle from him.

You finally peeled yourself completely away from Spencer, grabbing your bag from his hand before making your way to your car. As you unlocked the vehicle and swung the driver’s door open, you could hear his footsteps following. You crouched to lean into your car and place your bag onto the passenger seat. You could feel Spencer’s presence stopping just behind you, standing much closer than he had ever before tonight.

As you bent back up and leaned against your car, you didn't miss the way Spencer’s fingers twitched, giving away his urges for physical contact. You crossed your arms before tilting your head back teasingly.

“I’m still gonna get you someday.”

Spencer’s gaze melted to an even softer look than before at your declaration. There was a freeing component in his eyes, showcasing the joy from being able to openly look at you in the way he had really wanted to for a while. His voice lowered to a sweet, promising whisper.

“I’m counting on that.”

With that, Spencer leaned in again, wanting a second run of things before the two of you had to part ways for the night.

You grinned into the kiss and quickly wrapped your arms around him again. Quietly, your mind logged in today’s score. 

Day 187 status: unsuccessful. 

But it hardly matters when you think you’ve already won something a lot better.

・┈・┈・┈・┈・┈・

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[emjayewrites]

after ever • sydluca

SUMMARY: After Ever's "funeral" service, Sydney hosts an afterparty at her new place, but she never thought that this is how her night would end.

PAIRINGS: Sydney Adamu x Luca

WARNINGS: cursing, sexual situations, usual chef b.s.

TAGLIST: @wakandamama, @justabovewater20, @a-lumos-in-the-nox, @ihyperfixateoncharacters, @kdoxkeic, @oceanfanatic06, @motivation-idontknowher, @blowmymbackout@superhoeva @barefoothighlander, @soufcakmistress @celestianstars @suckthatskittlebiiitch @sarcasticmrfox @zeeader @geekyfer @retrouvailles-film @stargirlfics @spellbinding10 @blckgrl-sunflower @iamcurlycubana @shar74nett @creativitybeware

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Takes place in Season 3, Episode 10. Enjoy!

Sydney wasn't drunk.

Not exactly.

Buzzed, maybe. That particular kind of floaty that came after a night like tonight—after sitting at a table with some of the most respected chefs in the world, after being introduced as someone worth knowing, after feeling like maybe she belonged in those conversations about legacy and inspiration and what it meant to create something that mattered.

Until she saw the clipping.

Her apartment was packed with bodies and voices and the lingering energy of celebration. The chefs from Ever had actually shown up after the "funeral"—Luca with his easy charm, some of Adam's team who'd been curious about the girl everyone kept mentioning. The Faks had arrived with a literal keg, because of course they had. Marcus was grinning wider than she'd seen in months, and even Tina was letting loose, teaching someone's college friend how to properly fold a dumpling.

The party had moved from Ever to her place after Chef Terry—Andrea, she'd corrected with a laugh—had taken down the "Every Second Counts" sign and told everyone to get the fuck out of there. Someone had brought expensive wine that tasted like it cost more than her rent. Someone else was making frozen waffles with caviar, because apparently that's what happened when fine dining chefs got drunk in your kitchen.

Everything felt celebratory and chaotic and overwhelming in the best possible way. Sydney was having a hell of a time with her Bear family, laughing at stories, dancing to music that was too loud for her neighbors, feeling lighter than she had in weeks.

Then she went to the fridge for more ice and saw it.

Taped to the door, slightly wrinkled from humidity and time: the newspaper clipping about The Original Beef. The old review. Four stars. Glowing praise.

Her mind flashed through images—Marcus, Tina, Natalie, the Faks, Carmy. All the people she'd grown to love, all the chaos and brilliance and dysfunction that had become her chosen family. And then Andrea's words from earlier: "It's the people they remember."

But what if she was remembering wrong? What if this whole time, she'd been fooling herself about where she fit in all of this?

Adam's offer echoed in her mind. CDC at his new restaurant. Her own kitchen, her own menu, her own chance to tell the stories she wanted to tell without having to fight for every ingredient, every technique, every moment of creative control. Earlier tonight, he'd pulled her aside again, asking if she'd made a decision, his urgency barely concealed behind professional politeness.

She still hadn't told Carmy. Hadn't even signed the partnership agreement he'd offered her. How could she, when every service felt like a battle and every suggestion she made seemed to disappear into his relentless pursuit of some impossible standard?

The room suddenly felt too small, too bright, too loud. Everyone was celebrating, raising glasses and sharing stories about the incredible dinner they'd just experienced. But all Sydney could think about was the weight of the decision she'd been avoiding, the conversation she'd been too scared to have, the future she was too afraid to reach for.

Her chest tightened. The familiar sensation of walls closing in, of air getting thicker, harder to breathe.

She could almost feel whatever had haunted Carmy all these months entering her—flashes of her best and worst moments at The Bear, the constant push and pull of wanting to stay and needing to grow.

"Syd?" Marcus's voice filtered through the noise, but it sounded far away now, underwater.

She mumbled something about needing air, about being back in a minute, but she was already moving toward the door. Past the coat pile, past her coffee table cluttered with empty bottles and someone's forgotten phone. She grabbed her keys from the hook and slipped out into the hallway.

The building's stairwell was cooler, quieter. She made it halfway down before her knees buckled, hands braced against the concrete steps as she gasped for air that wouldn't come fast enough.

She had a panic attack in the hallway, hyperventilating over the decision she knew she had to make but couldn't bring herself to voice.

This was supposed to be a celebration. A perfect end to a perfect evening where she'd felt like she belonged at that table with those chefs, where people had actually listened when she spoke, where for once she wasn't just "Carmy's sous chef" but Sydney, a chef worth knowing.

And here she was, falling apart in a stairwell because she couldn't figure out how to want something for herself without feeling like she was betraying everyone else.

"Sydney?"

The voice was warm, familiar, tinged with that slight accent that made her name sound different than when anyone else said it.

She looked up to see Luca coming down the stairs slowly, concern evident in his blue eyes. He was still holding a beer, his shirt slightly rumpled from the party, hair falling into his face.

"What are you doing here?" she managed, voice rougher than she intended.

"Saw you leave pretty quickly," he said, settling onto the step beside her but leaving enough space that she didn't feel crowded. "Looked like you might need some company."

She almost laughed, but it came out more like a sob. "Everyone else is having a good time and I'm out here having a breakdown. Great look for the chef everyone thinks is so promising."

"Promising doesn't mean you have to be perfect," he said quietly. "Tonight was a lot. All those conversations about legacy and mentorship and what we're building toward. Makes sense you'd need a minute to process."

Sydney wiped at her face, surprised to find tears. "It's not just tonight. It's everything. Adam wants me to be his CDC. Carmy wants me as his partner. And I don't know what I want because I don't know if I even know who I am outside of trying to keep up with him."

She gestured vaguely toward the party sounds filtering down from above.

Luca nodded like this made perfect sense. "Been there. Success is fucking terrifying because suddenly everyone's watching to see if you can do it again. And making your own choice means disappointing someone."

"How do you handle it?" she asked. "The pressure. The expectations. Knowing that whatever you choose, someone's going to get hurt."

"Badly, most of the time," he admitted with a self-deprecating smile. "But I've learned that the only person who has to live with your choices is you. What do you want, Sydney? Not what Carmy wants for you, not what Adam's offering you. What do you want?"

She was quiet for a long moment, listening to the muffled sounds of the party above them—laughter, music, the clink of glasses.

"I want to cook food that matters to me," she said finally. "I want to tell stories that are mine to tell. I want to work with people who see me as an equal, not as someone who needs to prove herself every single day." She paused, voice getting smaller. "But I'm scared of leaving what I know, even if what I know is... complicated."

"Carmy," he said. Not a question.

She nodded. "We work well together in the kitchen, when he's not spiraling about reviews or costs or whatever David Fields did to his head. But I can't keep being his safety net while he figures out how to be a human being."

"David Fields was there tonight," Luca said quietly.

Sydney's head snapped up. "What happened?"

"Carmy followed him to the bathroom. Had it out with him, from what I could see. Came back looking like he'd seen a ghost, but also... lighter, maybe? Like he'd finally said what he needed to say."

They sat in silence for a while, the weight of the conversation settling between them.

"You know," Luca said eventually, "whatever you decide, those people up there love you. That's not going to change because you choose your own path."

Sydney looked up toward her apartment, where shadows moved against the warm light and laughter still spilled out into the hallway.

"Will you come back up with me?" she asked. "I'm not ready to face all the questions yet, but I don't want to be alone either."

Luca smiled—genuine and warm and completely without expectation. "Course. We can help clean up, open another bottle of wine, and you can tell me more about this CDC offer. If you want."

She nodded, feeling steadier. "Yeah. I'd like that."

_______________________________________________

By the time they made it back upstairs, the energy had shifted from celebration to the comfortable exhaustion that came after a really good night. A few people were gathering coats and calling cars, thanking Sydney for hosting and congratulating her again on how well she'd held her own at that table of culinary legends.

Adam caught her eye as he was leaving. "Think about what we discussed," he said quietly. "No pressure, but I'd like to move forward soon."

She nodded, aware of Luca standing close enough to hear but far enough away to give her space.

Once the last guest had gone, Sydney surveyed the damage. Empty bottles lined her kitchen counter, someone had spilled red wine on her coffee table, and there were plates and glasses scattered throughout the apartment like archaeological evidence of a really good time.

"Right," she said, rolling up her sleeves. "Time to face reality."

Luca was already moving, collecting abandoned glasses and stacking plates with the efficiency of someone who'd closed down plenty of kitchens. They worked in comfortable silence, falling into an easy rhythm—she scraped plates while he loaded her dishwasher, he wiped down surfaces while she swept crumbs from under the couch.

"You know," he said after a while, "Adam's not wrong about your potential. But neither is Carmy. You're ready for whatever you choose."

Sydney paused in her cleaning, looking at him. "How can you be so sure?"

"Because I watched you tonight," he said simply. "The way you talked to those chefs, the way you listened to their stories and added your own. You weren't trying to impress anyone or prove you belonged. You just... did."

She felt heat rise in her cheeks. "I was terrified the entire time."

"I know. Made it more impressive, not less."

Her stomach flipped in that particular way compliments always triggered—equal parts pleasure and discomfort, like being seen was both exactly what she wanted and the last thing she could handle. But from him, with his steady gaze and the way he said it like simple fact rather than flattery, it hit different.

More honest. More real.

"I don't know what I'm doing next," she admitted, voice low enough that she almost hoped he wouldn't hear. The words felt dangerous in the quiet of her apartment, like saying them out loud made them more true.

"Carmy wants to make me his partner. And Adam offered me CDC at his new restaurant. I—I haven't told anyone that."

The admission hung between them. She'd been carrying the weight of that secret for weeks now, letting it sit heavy in her chest every time she looked at Carmy's unsigned partnership agreement, every time Adam texted asking for an update.

Luca wiped his hands on a towel, movements deliberate and unhurried, then leaned against the counter. His blue eyes were serious now, focused entirely on her in a way that made her feel like the only person in the world.

"What do you want?" he asked simply.

Three words. No pressure, no agenda, no attempt to steer her toward the answer he thought she should give. Just genuine curiosity about what she actually wanted, separate from everyone else's expectations.

"I don't know," she answered truthfully, the honesty scraping her throat raw. "That's the thing. I don't know what I want without it being tied to him. Or the restaurant. Or…" She gestured vaguely, the motion sharp and tired, encompassing all the ways her desires had become tangled up with other people's dreams.

"You don't have to decide tonight."

"I know," she said quickly. But the pressure sat heavy on her chest anyway, a familiar weight that had been building for months. The partnership agreement sitting unsigned on her dresser. Adam's increasingly frequent texts and calls. The way everyone at The Bear looked at her like she held the key to something important, something that could make or break all of them.

They moved to the couch once the last plate was stacked in the dishwasher, the apartment restored to something resembling order. Sydney dimmed the lights and curled her feet beneath her, the wine making everything feel softer around the edges. Luca sat beside her, close enough that his knee bumped hers when he settled into the cushions.

The wine bottle was nearly empty between them, condensation rings marking her coffee table. The city hummed outside her windows—distant traffic, the occasional siren, the low murmur of other people's Saturday nights bleeding through thin walls.

"I ever tell you about the time I got this?" he said, pushing up his sleeve to reveal the pale scar along his forearm, thin and curved like a question mark amidst his many tattoos.

Sydney shook her head, leaning closer to get a better look. The scar was old, faded to silver against his skin.

"Mandoline," he said with a rueful smile. "Second year in. Thought I was invincible. Cut clean through the meat and most of the pride."

Sydney laughed despite herself, then pointed to the inside of her wrist where a small, star-shaped mark caught the lamplight. "Steam burn. First line job. Tried to open a combi too fast."

"Ah, the classics," he said, grinning. "We all have those."

They compared more—knife slips and fryer burns, scars from kitchens that had made them and broken them and taught them that the price of excellence was written on their skin. Luca's stories came with charm, embellished just enough to make her laugh. His voice was smooth, low, with that slight accent that made even mundane kitchen disasters sound romantic.

Sydney found herself relaxing in ways she hadn't in months, laughing even when she tried not to, even when her cheeks hurt from smiling.

"I like this version of you," he said at one point, his gaze warm and appreciative.

"What version?"

"The relaxed one," he murmured, leaning a little closer. Close enough that she could smell his cologne mixed with the lingering scents of service—butter and herbs and something uniquely him. "Tipsy. Honest. Funny."

"I'm always funny," she muttered, trying not to smile and failing completely.

"You're also stubborn."

"And you're arrogant."

He grinned, unrepentant. "You noticed."

Their shoulders brushed again as he reached for his wine glass. And neither of them moved this time. The contact was warm, deliberate, loaded with possibility.

"Are you staying in Chicago long?" she asked, her voice softer now, more intimate in the dimmed light of her living room.

He nodded. "A few months. Maybe longer. My sister's got the baby now. Wants help."

Sydney smiled, remembering the way his face had lit up when he'd mentioned his niece earlier. "You finally got to meet her?"

"Mm." His expression softened completely, the cocky chef persona melting away to reveal something more genuine underneath. "She's loud. Gassy. Looks exactly like me, poor thing."

She laughed, full and unguarded, the sound filling the quiet apartment. "Bet you're wrapped around her tiny finger already."

"Of course. I'm pathetic," he said easily, no shame in the admission. "Got her a miniature apron yesterday. She can't even walk."

The image of him shopping for baby cooking gear was so endearing it made her chest tight with affection. Here was this accomplished chef, confident and skilled and slightly arrogant, completely undone by a baby who probably couldn't even hold her head up yet.

Silence stretched between them again. But this time, it hummed with possibility. With the weight of everything unsaid, everything building in the space between them.

Luca's eyes flicked to her mouth. Just once, quick enough that she might have imagined it if she hadn't been watching him so carefully.

He leaned in, just a little, just enough to test the air between them. His hand found hers where it rested on the couch cushion, fingers intertwining in a gesture that was both tentative and sure.

"Can I kiss you?"

The question was soft, honest, giving her every opportunity to say no. His thumb brushed across her knuckles as he waited for her answer, patient in a way that made her heart skip.

Sydney didn't answer with words.

Instead, she closed the distance between them, her lips finding his in a kiss that tasted like wine and the kind of choice that was entirely her own.

The kiss was soft at first. Warm. Her lips parted easily under his, and his hand found her jaw, gentle and sure. It was careful at first, exploratory, both of them learning the shape of this new thing between them.

Then not.

His tongue slipped against hers and her hand found the collar of his shirt, fingers curling in the fabric to pull him closer. He exhaled into her mouth, a soft sound that sent heat shooting straight through her. Her pulse stuttered, everything suddenly hot and dizzy and electric.

They broke apart for air, but not distance. His forehead rested against hers, both of them breathing hard.

"Fuck," he whispered, voice rough with want. "You good?"

She nodded, heart hammering against her ribs. "Yeah. You?"

"Absolutely not," he said with a breathless laugh.

That made her laugh too, but then he kissed her again, harder this time, more urgent, and the laugh turned into a sigh that dissolved between their mouths. Her hands slid under his shirt, fingertips finding the warm skin of his back, mapping muscle and bone and the slight roughness of old scars.

His fingers gripped her waist, then her thighs, pulling her into his lap before her body sank into the couch cushions with him hovering above her. The movement was fluid, natural, like they'd done this a hundred times before.

And Luca—careful, reverent, watching her face for any sign of hesitation—whispered, "Tell me if anything's too much."

Her breath hitched at the tenderness in his voice, the way he made space for her comfort even in the heat of the moment.

She nodded, unable to form words around the want building in her chest.

But it wasn't too much. It was just the beginning.

Sydney’s hand slid up the back of Luca’s neck, pulling him closer, and his tongue met hers in a slow rhythm, unhurried but electric. His weight gently pressing into her, but he didn’t crowd. He just… lingered. Let her breathe. Let her want.

They broke apart with a shared breath. Foreheads resting against each other.

"We can stop," Luca said, voice thick, accent wrapping around the syllables like a velvet ribbon.

Sydney blinked. "I don’t want to."

"Yes, chef."

Her fingers clutched the front of his shirt, already wrinkled from the night, and started pushing it up. They both laughed—quiet, nervous. There was something so teenage about the moment. Giddy. Clumsy. Still, they couldn’t stop.

"Your hair is…" Luca said, pausing as his eyes trailed over her boho braids, fingers lightly brushing a few of the curly strands. "Beautiful."

She rolled her eyes, but she was smiling widely. "Shut up."

He kissed her again. And then again. Lower, slower, trailing along her jaw, down the slope of her neck. She shivered as his mouth found that spot just beneath her ear, and her fingers tugged his shirt until he helped her get it off completely.

She leaned up to kiss his collarbone and murmured against him, "You’re warm."

"So are you."

They giggled again—awkward, tipsy, too aware of everything but still caught in the pull of it. His hands moved to the hem of her dress.

"May I?" he asked.

Sydney nodded, her throat tight, but she raised her arms anyway. The fabric slid over her head, catching on one of her braids, and they both fumbled to fix it, laughing again when it popped free and the dress landed somewhere behind the couch.

She was left in her underwear, lacy and dark, probably the nicest pair she owned but definitely not put on with this in mind. Still—Luca looked at her like she was the only thing in the world worth staring at.

"Jesus," he whispered.

Her hands went to his belt.

Then froze.

"I haven’t done this in a while," she admitted.

Luca smiled, warm and patient. "Me neither."

That surprised her, but she didn’t ask. She didn’t need to. She leaned in, kissed him softly, then undid his belt with slow fingers, fumbling slightly until he helped. The zipper went next. Pants gone. Socks too, kicked off clumsily.

And then he stood, just briefly, to step out of the last of his clothes. When he turned back to her in his boxers, the low light of her living room cast him in soft amber, and his erection was quite obvious.

Sydney’s eyes widened. Blinked.

"Oh."

Luca smirked, amused but a little shy himself. "Too much?"

"No," she said quickly. "Just… okay. Wow."

That made them both laugh again, and when he sat back beside her, she reached for him first this time. Kissing him deeply, pulling him against her.

Her fingers mapped out the lines of his back, the slope of his shoulder blades, the indent of his spine. His hands found the clasp of her bra, hesitated, then unhooked it gently, sliding it from her arms. He touched her like she was fragile. Like he didn’t want to rush anything.

The air between them shifted. Hotter now. Buzzing.

His mouth moved lower, kissing the slope of her breast, the center of her sternum, her stomach. She arched into his touch, breath catching, fingers tangling in his curls. And when his hand brushed between her thighs—softly, testing—she gasped.

"Yes," she whispered, already breathless.

They moved slowly. With nervous hands and burning cheeks. More clothes dropped to the floor one by one. Luca’s boxer briefs. Her panties. More kissing. More touching. Her leg hooked over his hip, and he accidentally shifted—

click.

"Ow—what the hell—" he hissed, jerking sideways.

"What?" she blinked.

He reached under them and held up her remote. "I just… laid on the fucking Roku remote."

Sydney burst out laughing, chest shaking. "Oh my God."

"I nearly turned on Guy’s Grocery Games with my ass," he muttered, tossing it across the room.

They both laughed until they were out of breath. Then, quiet again.

Tender again.

Luca kissed her slowly, like he wanted to remember the taste of her. Her hands moved to his shoulders, his chest, trailing down—

And then paused again as he sat up, reaching for his discarded pants.

"Condom," he murmured, fishing through his wallet.

Sydney sat up too, helping him with trembling fingers. He tore the wrapper open—too fast—and fucked it.

"Shit," he muttered, laughing again.

"Here, let me—" she offered, but that only made them both clumsier. Her hand brushed his dick and they both froze. He was hot, heavy in her hand, and she looked up at him, wide-eyed.

"You okay?" he asked.

She nodded. "Yeah. Just…"

"Yeah."

The condom finally rolled on. He kissed her again, easing her back down against the couch. Her knees parted, thighs trembling as he settled between them, propping himself up on his forearms so he wouldn’t crush her.

She gasped when he first pushed in—slow, careful.

"Wait—wait—" she whispered, one hand on his shoulder, the other gripping the couch cushion. "Just a sec."

Luca froze, buried only halfway. "Too much?"

"It’s just… a lot. You’re—" she made a face. "You’re a lot."

He kissed her cheek. Her jaw. "We can stop. We can always stop."

"No. Just give me a second."

He kissed her again and waited. Let her breathe. Let her body adjust.

Eventually, she nodded. "Okay. Move."

The first few thrusts were slow. Careful. She winced a little—tight, unfamiliar—but then her hips started to move with his. Finding it. Matching him.

And it started to feel good. Really good.

Luca cursed under his breath, leaning in to kiss her again, his hand cupping her breast, thumb brushing her nipple until she gasped. Her fingers slid into his hair, nails dragging gently along his scalp.

They moved together like that, tangled limbs and muffled moans, until the awkwardness fell away. Until it was just them.

Breathless. Hungry. Laughing when their legs knocked against the coffee table. Gasping when his hand slipped between them to touch her clitoris—and she cried out, clinging to him tighter.

She bit his shoulder. He kissed her collarbone. Her name fell from his lips like a prayer and when they came—one after the other—it felt like falling. Flying. Drowning. Home.

Afterward, they stayed tangled. Sticky. Warm. Her leg draped over his hip, her face pressed to his chest.

"I think your remote is broken," he mumbled.

Sydney huffed out a laugh against his skin. "You crushed it with your ass."

He smiled into her hair. "Worth it." Luca’s fingers trailed lazily along her hip. "I don’t know, I quite liked the chaos. Made it… realistic."

"Is that the word?" she teased, turning her face into his shoulder to hide how wide she was grinning. Her body still hummed, tingled, like the sensation of him was stitched into her skin now. Her lips tingled. Her thighs ached. And still, she wanted more.

He tilted her chin gently with his knuckles, blue eyes soft but playful. "Unless you’re done. I’m happy, of course. Fulfilled. Enlightened."

She laughed again. "Shut up."

"I’m just saying,” he murmured, his mouth near hers, "could be fun. If you… wanted to be on top this time."

Sydney blinked. "Oh. Shit."

Her stomach flipped. Not because she didn’t want to—god, she did—but it was a new level of exposure, a new kind of vulnerability. She bit her lip.

"You don’t have to," he said quickly, brushing a boho braid away from her cheek, tucking it behind her ear. "Just a suggestion. You’ve already made my night unforgettable."

She let her breath out slowly. "No, I want to. I just—let me… give me a second."

He helped guide her as she moved, straddling him awkwardly. One knee slipping. Hands bracing on his chest. He was still hard—impossibly so—and the look in his eyes made her forget her hesitations.

"You sure I’m not gonna fall over?" she asked.

"I’ll catch you."

He tugged her close again, fingers smoothing up the backs of her thighs. "Tell me if anything feels too much," he whispered, already kissing her jaw, her neck, her collarbone.

"I will," she whispered back.

His hands were everywhere—her hips, her ass, the small of her back. Touching her with reverence but also hunger. She leaned in and kissed him, letting it build again slowly. They moved against each other like the first time wasn’t enough. It wasn’t.

Then he paused. "Condom—hold on."

He reached over the couch, fumbling with the wallet on the coffee table. The foil slipped from his hand. Twice.

"Are you still nervous?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.

"No," he said. "Yes. A little. You’re intimidating."

She snorted. "Please."

He finally got the wrapper open, removed the used condom, rolled the new one on, and when she sank down onto him, slow and steady, they both gasped.

"Okay?" he asked, voice tighter now.

"Yeah," she said, breath shaking. "Just… let me adjust again."

Luca’s hands were firm on her thighs, guiding her, meeting her rhythm. His head fell back against the couch, lips parted.

"You feel—fuck, Syd."

That lit something inside her. She grinned, caught off guard by the wave of confidence she felt from his words. She rolled her hips again and watched the way his abs tightened.

"You’re doing—shit—amazing," he whispered, fingers digging into her skin.

Sydney giggled, half embarrassed by the praise, half thrilled by it. She leaned in to kiss him, open-mouthed and slow, her hands gripping his shoulders. His hands were everywhere again—up her back, under her thighs, gripping and guiding and holding her like he didn’t want her to stop.

Her pace quickened, grew messier, more desperate. The friction, the slide of their bodies, the heat curling in her belly again. She couldn’t believe it—she was close. Again.

He seemed to sense it, his mouth finding hers again, then her jaw, her throat. "That’s it, sweetheart," he whispered against her skin. "You’re right there, yeah?"

She nodded, panting. "Fuck—Luca—"

"Let go."

And she did.

This one hit harder than the first—sharper, messier. Her body tensed and then trembled, and she clung to him like he was the only solid thing in the world. He came seconds after her, groaning low into her shoulder as he held her to him, their bodies locked together in heat and breath and sweat and sensation.

They stayed like that, tangled up and panting, for a long while.

"I’ve never—" she started, and then stopped. "Jesus Christ."

And that was when she realized—she’d just had two orgasms in one night.

From a real person.

Not her vibrator.

Not her imagination.

Just Luca.

"Good?" he asked, hands still lazily running down her back.

She looked up at him, flushed and grinning. "Record-breaking.”

He grinned back, pressing a kiss to her temple. "We should break more records."

"I usually don’t…"

"What?" he murmured.

"Twice. I don’t usually… get there twice."

Luca grinned against her forehead. "You’re welcome."

She smacked his arm but moved to kiss him again anyway. He caught her bottom lip gently with his teeth.

The couch creaked beneath them as they shifted. Sydney laughed—nervous, breathy. "Sorry," she murmured. "I think I just… elbowed you in the ribs?"

"You did," he chuckled, nudging his nose against hers. "But I liked it."

"You're weird," she whispered, but she didn’t move. Didn’t pull away.

His mouth found hers again. Slower this time. Less frantic. Their lips moved like they were still learning each other—soft bites and tongue, the occasional bump of teeth that made them both laugh again. Their bodies were warm, skin damp in places, and every brush of his chest against hers made her head spin a little more.

_______________________________________________

The sunlight peeked through the sheer curtains of Sydney’s living room, painting long, golden stripes across the floor. The wine glasses on the coffee table stood like empty witnesses to the night before, catching the light just enough to glint. One of them teetered precariously on the edge.

Sydney stirred first. Her brow furrowed slightly before her eyes blinked open, lashes fluttering against Luca’s bare shoulder.

He was warm beneath her, still asleep, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm. His arm was slung across her lower back, anchoring her close, and one of her legs was tangled between his.

The ache between her thighs came slow and satisfying. The pleasant soreness made her body feel used in a way that wasn’t degrading or transactional—it felt… earned. Shared.

She breathed in deeply, the scent of him mixing with leftover wine and sex and the faint remains of whatever candle she lit last night.

For a second, she didn’t move.

Then Luca stirred. Just slightly. A low, sleepy groan rumbled in his throat.

Sydney tensed, instinctively—but he didn’t let her go.

"Are you awake?" she asked, voice rough with sleep.

"Mmhm," came the reply, muffled. "Just... pretending I’m still dreaming."

She laughed softly against his collarbone. "That good, huh?"

He shifted, eyes still closed but a crooked smile playing on his lips. "Two orgasms," he mumbled. "You said it yourself. Record-breaking."

"Shut up," she said, biting back another laugh, burying her face against him.

They lay there for a few minutes, still tangled, her boho braids splayed over his chest and the pillow. No rush. No pressure. Just breathing.

Eventually, she pulled back, blinking fully into consciousness.

"I should make coffee," she muttered.

"You should," he agreed, stretching with a groan. "I’ll assist. Like a good sous."

"Please don’t call yourself that ever again," she said, climbing out from under the blanket and instantly wincing at the chill in the air. She grabbed the blanket to wrap around herself and padded toward the kitchen.

Luca watched her go, grinning as he leaned back on the couch, gloriously unbothered and still very naked.

In the kitchen, she moved on autopilot—grinding beans, filling the pot, avoiding eye contact with the empty wine bottles and one lone heel by the fridge. She tried not to overthink.

He joined her a few minutes later, now in his boxers, and immediately looked like he belonged there, leaning against her counter with sleepy eyes.

"I’ve never done that," she said without looking up.

"What?"

"Brought someone back. Not for..…anything casual."

Luca nodded. "You’re not casual."

The words settled between them like soft flour dust, quiet and heavy in the best way.

They ate toast. Drank strong coffee. Cleaned up wine rings from her glass coffee table. The sun climbed higher. Eventually, Sydney handed him a damp cloth and motioned to the floor.

"I think the remote’s under the couch."

Luca dropped to his knees, fishing around. "If it’s broken, I’m not sorry."

She shook her head. "You’re definitely not."

He found it—dusty and slightly dented—and handed it back to her with a sheepish grin.

Later, as she sat on the edge of the couch with a new mug of coffee, Luca came up behind her, rested his hands on her shoulders.

"You gonna tell Carmy?" he asked softly.

She stared ahead. The room suddenly felt quieter. The high of the night had faded, and reality waited patiently outside the door.

"I don’t know. Not yet."

He nodded. "You don’t owe him anything."

Her eyes flicked up to his in the mirror above the console. "Thanks."

"You should still do whatever’s best for you," he added, squeezing her shoulder gently. "Even if that means saying no to both."

"I’ll figure it out," she whispered.

"I know."

The silence lingered again, this time not uncomfortable. Just full.

Then Luca leaned down and pressed a kiss behind her ear. Gentle. Purposeful.

"I’ll shower," he murmured. "Unless you want to go for round three."

She laughed, tilting her head back against him. "You are so cocky."

"Confident," he corrected, disappearing down the hall.

Sydney watched him go. Hair a mess. Legs sore. Heart full.

And somehow, impossibly, she didn’t feel overwhelmed. Not yet. Just… open.

She sipped her coffee and let herself feel it.

Whatever "it" was.

[bodhiscurls]

packing it up. ( chef luca )

i'd love to complete you, hope that you get all that you ask for. cause i swear that i wasn't looking for much but that's when you happened. (based on the gracie abrams song) chef luca meeting his match in the quiet little pastry chef (carmy's best friend) at the bear and working up the courage to confess his feelings to you.

pairing: chef luca x pastry chef fem! reader (no use of yn)

themes: fluf, more fluff (very soft and slow paced and just cute like luca) mentions of insecurity and not feeling enough.

luca doesn't know if you yourself would ever class the two of you as friends. he acts with his heart who tells him that you're the love of his life, and also with his mind that whispers to him that you've barely spoken a word to him outside of the restaurant even though its been a few months since he's taken a liking to chicago.

you're one of carmen berzatto's friends which surprised him at first. the renowned chef matched his chaos with his brazen choice of friends that all shared familiar quirks. however you preferred to linger in the back. you didn't laugh too loudly or obnoxiously, you didn't spin jokes to grab attention even at the expense of others. what surprised him the most was that you hadn't cursed infront of him once- working in fast paced places with egos running the expo, it was normal to hear a violet stream of words but around you, everything was softer- gentler, as if the air and the world bent and moulded around your being.

he remembers the first time he saw you. carmen had asked if he could step in as a pastry chef to help the shortfall. when he walked into the kitchen of the bear expecting to find carmy he found you: staring up at him with an inquisitive tilt. there was no snarky sharpness, no edge sizing him up, just rounded curious eyes that stumped him for a moment. and for the first time in a long while, it was refreshing to be looked at nothing more than a human.

"and who are you?" you asked slowly, not because it was calculated or measured but because that was how the natural drawl of your words landed. he detected a hint of a northern accent that whispers a little too like home warming his blood. a smile tugged at his lips- one that he failed miserably to rein in in fear of coming on too strong but you just made it so easy for him to just exist.

"luca," another grin and a boyish blush at the fact that you did not know who he was or his entire culinary achievements and experience by heart. though for a second, he wished you did. maybe it would've impressed you somehow, given him a stepping stone into your good graces. but by the slow nod and dimpled smile flashed his way, god he would have never needed it. his brain photographed that very moment the earth bent to your will and hangs it portrait in his head in the areas where thoughts of you have stretched and taken up free residence.

he got to know you in the small moments. at four am to the sounds of a soft tune of billy joel hummed through the chill kitchen air that then drowned out to the boil of the kettle for your favourite peppermint tea. "for the morning breath" you once joked and it still brings a grin to his lips anytime he sees it.

at the sound of lindt wrappers crunching in their foil where you've cleaned out the entire box of white chocolate in days where you need the extra comfort. he now keeps a spare box for emergencies in the top cupboard for the tough times you'll need it.

at the disapproving sigh you sent his way at the remenants of flour spilled when luca had rushed to hit a timer, he learns that you hate mess more than you hate carmy's mother- who he learns in return also hates you back. its also why he spent an extra hour cleaning his station sparkling clean whilst prying into carmen about your past and friendship.

you told him little bits yourself anyways, you grew up with carmy and both left to pursue culinary education outside the prison walls of chicago- you trained in edinburgh, hopped from establishment to establishment within the UK, earning your first michelin at 25. and somehow, by the grace of carmen fucking berzatto you found yourself back in chicago- a place you swore you'd never return.

"i feel shitty, i brought her back here to this bag of ass," carmen once told him that night as luca scrubbed till his fingers bled with soap suds. "she's got a fuckin' star twice! the fuck she need this place for, i tried to fire her but the smartass brought up some employment law or somethin' i don't know," he chuckles. and at the brazen words spoken, the smile of fondness from carmy is hard to miss. its all luca needs to know that you're someone who holds such high value to carmen's life and for someone who's stayed that long, loyalty runs deep.

"why you askin?" carmy cuts him off and luca doesn't show his hesitation, he just continues cleaning his station. "matter of fact, why the fuck you still here? go home, chef. tomorrow starts in a two hours we need you."

tomorrow comes with a satisfied hum as your fingers run along the sparkling counter "you did such a good job" you smile. and luca's heart stutters violently, he wonders what those fingers would look like running through his hair, at his jaw and down his chest. what those words would feel like under him in the middle of the night in the embrace of your home.

"luca?" you break free his train of you, smile wobbling at the edges. "you okay?"

"yeah," he clears his throat, "yes, chef" he confirms, remembering the sanctity of the kitchen and his responsibility here, to you. and you nod, not entirely believing him but not exactly prying further. instead you place a hand on your heart to tell him i'm here if you need the time.

and you carry on. you both direct, you fire, you shout for hands multiple times and when you don't get the help you need, it's the first time he sees you lose control.

"christ," you mumble in agitation, "walking now," and you wipe your hands quickly, taking the dish out the door.

the entire back of house halts at your disappearing frame. it's absolute silence as they watch your back, the lingering looks from carmy and syd- the hostile exchange shared between stares and unspoken words until multiple beepers go off like sirens in the distance. the chaos of the kitchen returns and in the midst of shouts at the expo, luca still watches the door waiting for your return.

it takes a moment longer than needed but you present at the table, you walk the elder woman through her dish, laughing as she counteracts your storytelling with her own memories before bidding her a goodnight and heading back to your station. your heart races slightly as you enter the doors again with a violent push and the kitchen comes to a standstill once more.

"chef?" carmen is the first to break the silence. "need a moment?" he carefully treads and the familiarity in his stance gives luca the impression that this is not the first time you've left the kitchen at your own orders nor will it be the last time.

"no, chef" you level, "what i need is hands when i ask for them," you glance across all the staff and make your way back to your table. the hustle and bustle of culinary masterpieces continue but in the midst of the chaos, luca can hear the tiny exhale that escapes from your lips.

"chef?" he quietly asks, trying to find your gaze and when its painstakingly obvious you're avoiding eye contact with him, he pushes just a little further. "peppermint," he tries your nickname and you glance up, nothing in your expression. there's a delicate layer of softness still in your chocolate eyes that alleviates some worry from him and you nod.

"thanks, chef," you whisper and he nods, you both continue in silence, working in that familiar routine again finding your balance.

luca decides that no matter the storm or chaos, he'll always find you to bring you back to the surface.

the night ends with a silent success. they had overbooked but call it a champagne problem, guests were satisfied, the kitchen was highly complimented and everyone was exhausted. signs of a well oiled machine at work.

luca catches your frame just in time to see you leaving. your tote is arched onto your shoulder as a thick knitted scarf is knotted around your neck under the giant black puffer zipped up. he watches at you place a hand on carmy's shoulder in comfort before he places a kiss to your hair when he wraps you in a hug. its rare to see affection from carmen but luca calm his jealousy with a objective analysis instead; there's something about the two of you that he can't pinpoint as lovers- maybe long lost siblings is the furthest he'd go.

because if luca was your lover, he'd take the train (even if it stretched an extra half hour to his commute) with his hand firmly gripped on your waist not only for protection and to have you in sight but because there's nowhere on earth he'd want you to be unless glued at his side. he'd have your tote perched on his shoulder baring the weight of your world and free hand in yours, holding both your hearts close in every step. he'd walk you to the door, leaning into your embrace and kiss you right on the lips for the world to see. there would be nothing friendly in the fire he's willing to burn, he'd scoop you in his arms to take you inside.

he'd do it every single day of his life if you'd want him to, if you gave him any inclination that you'd want him too.

but instead he takes the train with you, sat with an inch gap of respectability and boundaries. he walks by your side, hands swinging itching under the cold to hold yours but keeps them at bay. he walks you to your door, shoulder bumps yours with a soft nudge goodbye and doesn't leave until he's seen you click the door shut and at the sound of the locks turning too.

he turns with a heavy heart and sigh as he makes his own way home, leaving his feelings in the chill of the chicago air where no one but him knows how he feels about you.

carmen berzatto absolutely knows how luca feels about you.

its in the way luca sat on his stool at your station, brows furrowed chasing the clock and then the door where he expects to see your frame. its in the glare where your name isn't clocked in and focuses its way onto carmen when he delivers the debrief for the morning.

"last night, we had an unexpected guest," carmen starts and the room stills. he throws a newspaper article down onto the table for all the see, pointing at their establishment printed on the crisp white paper. "she came in unrecognised, unattended, waited for a table and her food was almost delayed," the word almost is delivered with a slight twitch of his eye. "we were so focused on who might the critic delivering us a star might be that we almost missed one just equally as important," carmen stresses the words with pointed agitation.

"we need to be better chefs, every person who comes through that door gets royal treatment or nothing. do not make it nothing," his voice is so crisp and lethal that even richie himself cannot find a joke to lighten the air. "luckily, one of our chefs noticed something suspicious and had her meal out without delay, saving us from another embarassment. not that we have a shortage of those," he bitterly chuckles. sydney shoots him a pointed glare and cuts him off.

"chefs we work together," she softly reprimands. where carmen is burning fire, sydney is all about calming waters for the team, "this does not work unless we all do. let's listen, let's grow, let's make this thing happen. understood?"

a chorus of "yes chef" litters the air but luca can't find it in him to focus not when he has no idea where you are. he pulls his phone out of his pocket to check for the millionth time but still no sign of you; no return of his thousand voicemails.

carmen and sydney are already on their way to the office when he stops them abruptly.

"yes chef?" carmen asks, brows raised at lucas large frame blocking the door.

"she's not in, hasn't been in since last night, uh," he stumbles, "where is she?" sydney elbows carmen who fights back the lazy smirk working its way up on to his features.

"day off," he shrugs and makes his way into the office.

"day off?" his echo sounds outrageous, you've never taken a day off in the months he's worked here. its like clockwork, when you start, how you work, when you leave, when you work with him. its never been nothing but routine and luca cannot wrap his head around the missing puzzle piece.

"is there a problem?" carmen asks and syd shifts her gaze between the two of them, trying to detect any underlying feelings.

"no, chef." luca returns and makes his way back to his station. its cold, practised and rehearsed how he lives today, reminding him for the first time in a long time of how lonely working in a restaurant can feel. he hasn't felt this way before he moved to copanhagen to escape the stitled atmosphere of his former restaurant. he glances over and is met with your absence again, the clean slate of your station. eerily untouched, not like its been lived in before in your presence. it unsettles him, when he looks over youre not there as his equal; he's struggling alone and he's lonely.

he finishes up his shift with exhaustion heavily laced through his bones, his jokes falling flat with marcus and sydney and not bothering to wish carmen goodnight. he grabs his things swiftly and stares back at your station longingly as if he'd look hard enough, you'd somehow just appear and make it right for him again.

it's two am and he takes the long way home, the nerves and sheer dire need to see you keeping him awake whilst the city of chicago sleeps before him.

the knock that lands at your door is tentative. it almost doesn't land but it does and you pause the music playing through your apartment. the sweet sounds of "cherry wine" by hozier stopping gently in the breeze as you check the time.

it's late, you think. too late for anyone you know to be here. with a butter knife in your hand you reach for the door slowly and pull back just an inch. crystal blue eyes pierce your soul and you immediately pull back the door to its full length.

"peppermint," he breathes before the door is even properly open, the second he's gotten a glimpse. like he's sucking your being in, memorising the way you exist as if you've been lovers deserted by war.

you don't answer at once, instead you blink. you stand there for what feels like forever as he takes you in. your curly hair is throws up into a high bun at the top of your head, static frizz curling at the edges as a few tendrils escape the makeshift mess. sleep is etched into your features and he guesses that you've probably spent today napping and making up the sleep you've missed from the last decade of your life. you're dressed in a matching plaid set of pyjamas, the buttons opening with the wind working its way between you and he is hit with the flash of your skin peeking out.

he's never seen this version of you, so relaxed yet so poised, so perfectly you. like being out of the pressure of the restaurant has lifted a thousand kilos off your body. you're glowing, he marvels just when he thought you couldn't possibly get any more beautiful.

"luca," its not exactly a question or a greeting, you're unsure of what's going on entirely and-

"you didn't show today," he cuts off your train of thought and nods to himself, a small smile of relief playing on his lips knowing that you're okay and you're safe.

"i had the day off," you cross your arms and lean on the wooden door frame, staring back at him. in this light, his blonde hair looks a shade too brown, his skin casts shadows of the night under his ocean eyes. "did you want to come in?" you ask, small.

for a moment he thinks he should be smarter than this. it's late and he's never even been inside your apartment before and the feelings he feels that are too large and too big for his body do not need to explode right now when you look far too peaceful in your home. he's also got the early shift and needs to be back at the bear in the next few hours, only this time he hopes you'll be there with him. and yet, he finds himself waiting, lingering with a soft and gentle

"please" its like he's scared to let it sit there to long, and you nod with a smile, waiting to the side till he's standing in your small walkway and shut the door with a thud, locking it twice.

the smell of vanilla hits him instantly at first, a deep velvet layer entangled with the sweetness of strawberries. they dance along with notes of sugar and butter and it just feels so right, he thinks.

wordlessly you help him shrug out of his outer layers, hanging them on your rail as he stands there suddenly shy, aware of all your space he is currently taken up. you don't say anything just motion for him to follow you through the dimly lit apartment into your kitchen- all the lights are off save for a small lamp at your workstation. sometime between when he arrived and to now standing at your kitchen worktop, the gentle rush of music has started again. guitar chords strumming along to the beat of his heart as he stands by your side.

you go back to placing the strawberries so delicately on top of the shortcake pastry on a layer of fresh cream and luca salivates at the sight of it. its such a basic dish compared to what the two of you create in the kitchen of the bear that it softens something in him to see something so simple yet divine.

"strawberry shortcake?" he asks from behind you, he's so close in proximity that you can feel his warm breath pinched from his british accent tickle your neck. his hands come to hold the edges of the surface and they gently hold you in an embrace you can escape easily. he's there in your space but still waiting for your indication. you turn slightly to face him and upclose he can see the specks of flour that dust your cheekbones; a layer of snow over the natural rosy blush tinting your face.

you pick up a small piece that you weren't going to plate and reach it up to his lips, nodding in encouragement. he savours the taste of it, flavour and sweetness exploding on his tongue. he's messy with it and his tongue accidentally swipes alongside the finger you feed him with and you pull away slowly, acting as if the touch hasn't burned something new inside of you.

"i make it every year for my birthday," you whisper and recognition hits him fast. he pulls apart slowly in disbelief and a million curses flow through his mind.

"i didn't know it was your birthday," he admits bashfully, staring at his feet unsure. you smile at him softly.

"it's okay, lucky," the nickname slips out so easily and he melts, "no one really does, except carm of course. i'd rather spend today at the bear but he insists on taking the day off," you share, carefully shifting your focus back to your dessert.

"why would you spend it at the bear?" his brows wrinkle in confusion. i mean sure he loves the place and he loves carm but the bear? on your birthday?

"i don't really have anyone," you feel so small and shy right now but something about luca wants you to bare your whole soul out for him to see, "the bear is where all my family is," and you swallow the lump of vulnerability settling in the air.

luca inhales and takes a step closer to you, he picks up the knife from your grasp and plants it down on the desktop surface before holding your hands in his and god they feel so warm and so damn soft.

"i uh," he starts, meeting your gaze and continuing seeing your nods of encouragement. "i'd like to be there for you if you'd let me."

your smile widens and in the soft light of your kitchen you lean your head onto his chest. he holds you in his big arms, swaying the two of you back and forth as the hums of hozier fill the apartment air. it feels like heaven, such peace that luca's sure he hasn't felt this way about anyone before and it feels like a weighted blanket covering his soul.

"can i ask you something?"

"anything," you breathe and look up to him, its a strain on your neck but you manage.

"how did you know about the critic yesterday?"

"oh," you shove your head into his chest with a groan and he's confused, he chuckles at the force you've hit him with and places his fingers under your chin to bring you back to his planet. "she's an old mentor back from scotland, i thought i'd escape her but here she is haunting me all over," you mumble. "i couldn't possibly give her something else to lecture me about, god knows ive heard years of it." and luca laughs, he understands completely more than anyone what it means to do your best and still be knocked down. living on a scale that only gets larger and each movement doesn't feel as big as it does in your head.

"well angry old ladies aside, you really saved our ass, she was very nice about you," he whispers into your hair.

"really?" your voice is tiny and he softens, wrapping his fingers around some of your free tendrils, tugging on them slowly.

"yes really," he swears and you breathe a sigh of relief.

"i feel like i've been in this business long enough to stop looking for validation but sometimes oh god it gets me luca, it makes me lose control it makes me nasty like ive been lifted from the ground and god," you sputter with a shiver, "i hate being that way."

"i understand," he softly shares, "and sometimes i feel like i'll never outrun that young boy who was never enough in those big scary kitchens. its mainly why i came to help out carm, change of scenery, change of boss, change of everything."

"i thought the same but it wasn't carm or the bear or being around family again after so long," you lean up on your tip toes, lips inches away from each other. "it was you, who kept me grounded, kept me smiling, kept me from feeling like the world was spinning too far for me to keep up-"

he lets you finish barely before pressing his lips into yours and its soft, its slow, its deep, its filled with the months of longing stares and passion. its filled with the capacity of love he knows he can give and you will return tenfold. its filled with chaos in the kitchen and of these moments in the quiet of the night.

he can taste the strawberry on your tongue and groans against you before you break apart. there's a rosy dust coating your cheeks and tinting the tips of your ears.

"wow," you squeak and his chest rumbles in loud laughter, shaking you in the vibrations of his embrace. "stay the night?" you ask, leaning up to him again.

"always," he promises.

note: if you made it this far ugh i wish i included more of his tats, next time fo sho. hope you liked this, let me know! first time writing for chef luca ahh how exciting i hope i did him justice <3

[ravcnism]

PERIAPSIS. — RYLAND GRACE x Male!READER

Summary: When the Hail Mary reaches the halfway point to Tau Ceti, only two crew members remain: you, the mission's pilot-commander, and Ryland Grace, the chief scientist who doesn't remember being appointed chief scientist.

# # TAGS: Semi-Canon-Adjacent, Long Form, Male!Pilot Reader, Eventual Rocky (No Rocky Here Yet), Surprisingly Domestic Space Fluff, Ryland Falls First, Reader Falls Harder, Slowburn-ish, I'm Still Bad at Tags, Part 1 of ???

# # WARNINGS: Canon-typical Space Dread, Mentions of Dead Bodies, Mentions of Isolation, Nothing Too Crazy, Author is Nowhere Near An Astrophysicist And Most of the Science in This Fic was Either Googled or Ripped Directly From the Book

NOTES: A dash of book-canon here and there, some minor divergence from the film timeline. There are no specifications of reader's height nor form. Reader's pronouns are he/him. No use of 'Y/N'. 5.6k words.

“What’s two plus two?” 

Thinking shouldn’t have hurt as much as it did, but the cold feminine voice — once it broke through the ringing in your ears — heralded a throbbing headache and an instant stinging behind your eyes. You couldn’t remember the last time you had felt pain like that. And to your concern, it didn’t seem like you remembered anything at all. 

“What’s two plus two?” 

You groaned. The second thing you identified was the desert that was your throat. You shifted in place, only to be restrained by both fatigue and what felt to be a myriad of plastic wires and tubes. 

“What’s two plus two?” repeated the persistent voice. A machine’s, you deducted. 

Though your tongue felt like a dry stone in your mouth, you felt your lips move. The action resulted in a hoarse voice that you later registered to be yours. 

“F… Four.” 

“Correct.” 

You heard a shuffling beside you, like someone was trying to scurry away. 

You groaned again. Your face was scrunched up into a pained frown. It took a worrying amount of effort to pry your eyes open. And when you did, it wasn’t much help. White blurriness blinded you and elicited a hiss. 

“Eye movement detected. What’s the cube root of eight?” the machine asked. 

As your vision and hearing properly adjusted, you caught sight of one robotic arm. It spun and whirred as it attempted to touch and pry at your body. You regained control of your head and neck, which was achieved by your evasion of its metal claw. 

“What’s the cube root of eight?” 

“Fuck. Off.” 

“Incorrect. What’s the cube root of eight?” 

After a few harsher blinks, your eyes seemed to return to their functional state. You breathed through your dry mouth as you observed the space around you. LED lights, cameras, more robot arms. A monitor next to your bunk began to beep as your heart rate elevated. You couldn’t recognize anything. And when you searched your mind for some semblance of a name, none made itself known. 

The voice kept at it, desperate to know the cube root of eight. You were about to raise your hand to smack it away when another voice said, 

“Just try to answer it. It’s not gonna stop until you do.” 

Your breath hitched. That voice was no machine. It was entirely human, shy and hesitant and far away. You furrowed your brows. ‘What?’ you wanted to ask. Instead what came out was a confused, 

“Huh?” 

“What’s the cube root of eight?” The machine again. 

You groaned. Though you felt like you’d just been run over by a semi-truck, the answer came easy to you. 

“Two.” 

The robotic hand backed off. The answer seemed to satisfy both the machine and your disorientation. For all the agonies your body housed, you felt the strength to sit up. It was exhausting to do so, but you managed. You raised your hand to touch your forehead. Tubes followed uncomfortably. You lifted your eyes and took the rest of the room in. It was as foreign as it was familiar. 

In the corner, a man was on his knees, hiding behind a desk. You frowned as you made the mess of his sandy blond hair and bespectacled blue eyes. He looked ridiculous, cowering like you might get up and punch him. 

“Are… Are you awake?” he asked.

You looked at yourself, at your half-dressed body, the machines and monitors you were hooked up to, then back at him. 

“What’d’ythink?” Responding with more than one syllable was apparently difficult. Your words, though clearly sarcastic, came out slurred. 

The stranger sighed in relief. 

The rest of the process was odd and obtrusive, but you had managed to retain some of your dignity; which was a fragile thing in that cold and sterile room. The robotic arm continued its methodical work, its movements precise and impersonal as it detached the last of the monitoring straps from your chest. 

The blond stranger — no longer hiding behind the desk — anxiously waited for the procedures to finish. 

“What is your mission designation?” the synthetic voice asked. 

You hesitated. The words felt slippery, buried under layers of drug-induced fog. Remembering proved troublesome, but an answer came regardless.

“Hail Mary… Pilot-Commander.” 

The blond man gasped. You frowned at him, but returned your attention to the machine. 

“Correct. What is the destination star system?”

“Tau… Ceti.” The name came slower that time. You could picture the star charts from training, the long elliptical transfer orbit, the Astrophage-fueled spin drive pushing you to a fraction of lightspeed. But the details felt distant, like someone else’s memory.

The arm retracted with a soft whir, leaving you floating in the gel residue. You gripped the edge of the bunk to steady yourself, muscles, which were impressively intact, protesting the sudden demand for coordination. 

The stranger bit his fist. “Careful, careful!”

You scowled. “Who the hell are you?” It felt slightly easier to talk then. Your words were cohesive, but the corners of your mouth were still relatively numb. 

His name was Ryland Grace, and he had little to no idea who he was, or why he was there. 

“I woke up two weeks ago,” he said. “Same coma situation, only Armando wasn't as nice to me. And I didn't wake up as well as you did. God, I thought you were dead.” His voice cracked near the end, like he was on the verge of tears. You looked up at him to realize that he actually was. “I-I was just waiting for you to wake up. Your monitors were looking after your vitals and keeping you in the coma because your body wasn’t ready.” He sniffled. “At least that’s what it told me.”

Ryland Grace wiped at his eyes with the heel of his hand, clearly embarrassed by the display. His shoulders trembled once before he forced them still. In the dim med-bay lighting, the tears made his sharp features look younger, more vulnerable than the brilliant scientist you were slowly starting to remember from pre-launch briefings. You didn’t intend to look as indifferent as you did, but you felt too exhausted to sympathize, still slightly drowsy from your years of sleep. 

Your eyes drifted past him to the floor beside your bunk, where a haphazard pile of spare blankets and a single pillow made for a makeshift bed. A small tablet lay nearby, its screen still glowing faintly with medical readouts. Next to it sat a half-empty water bottle and a crumpled wrapper from one of the emergency ration bars.

He noticed where your gaze had landed. He shifted his weight and cleared his throat. “Oh, that. Yeah… I wanted to make sure I’d be here the second something went wrong with your vitals. I’m not entirely sure what half of the charts mean, but I figured it was smarter to stay close in case the robot glitched or your readings spiked.” 

Your brow twitched. “Are you the only one here?”

Grace nodded slowly. 

That wasn’t right, you thought. He shouldn’t be the only one. Wasn’t there supposed to be more of you? Four? No, three? You looked at his tired eyes and saw the restless nights he’d spent staring at you, listening to the constant drone of your machines, uncertain if you would ever wake up. He was alone, and lightyears away from home. He must have been so afraid. You knew you would have been. Finally, an emotion other than tired confusion surfaced from your chest; guilt. 

“Olesya.” The name left your lips before you could think of it. 

Ryland caught his breath. He knew the name, too. Except he didn’t know it because he knew the woman it belonged to— he knew it because it was the name of the corpse he hadn’t yet moved from the airlock. 

Sensations flooded you without warning, the sharp sound of her laugh burning the brightest. Olesya Ilyukhina was the chief engineer of the Hail Mary. She’d snuck three bottles of vodka into the ship. You had spent a summer in Russia. She’d attempted to sneak into the Kremlin. You kept her from getting arrested. The sudden wave of grief told you that you knew her well, but you hadn’t the memory to support it. You knew her, and now, she was gone. 

You stayed seated on the edge of your bunk for a long time, head bowed, fingers pressed against your temples while the med-bay’s low lights hummed overhead.

“It’ll come back,” Grace told you. “It just takes a while.” 

For all his worries, it was clear that he was relieved. He might have been stranded on a ship in space with no clear recollection beyond his name, but at least he was no longer alone. 

And what a wonderful thing it was, not to be alone. 

Olesya’s body had remained in the airlock since Ryland’s own awakening. The state of her face, the deep circles under her eyes, and the hollowness of her cheeks, told you that she’d been dead for quite some time. Her body could not survive. The experimental hibernation had always been a gamble, even for the rare individuals who carried the gene that made it possible in theory. For years, the ship’s medical system had kept her stable, suppressing her metabolism to a fraction of normal as the Hail Mary burned toward its destination. But somewhere along the way, her body began to fail in ways the automated systems could not correct. There was only fate to blame. 

Your recovery lasted for a few days. A good percentage of your strength was impressively intact, and it was mostly just a matter of relearning how to have it. You walked (or climbed) the expanse of the ship, familiarizing yourself with the areas, a good exercise for both your mind and body. And when you knew you could move without the numbness in your joints, you set out to give Olesya a proper burial. 

You cycled through the inner door without thought. The airlock was cramped, utilitarian in the way its walls lined with emergency EVA suits and tether lines. Olesya lay secured against the far bulkhead. You had dressed her in her uniform. You took her calloused hands, held them together, and pressed photos of her family into her palm. You kept one to remember her by: a polaroid picture of her 28th birthday. Cake had been smeared across her grinning face, her eyes bright with laughter. You tucked the photo into your breast pocket.

Ryland stood just a little ways beyond the archway, silent, his hands clasped loosely in front of him. He feared to intrude, but then you invited him in. “She was your crewmate too,” you said, wiping a tear with your fist.

He took his place beside you, rueful.  

You spoke no grand words, for there wasn’t any need to, and Olesya would have mocked you to death for ‘being such a cornball’. The memories of her that returned were enough: her laugh cutting through tension in the ready room, the way she’d sneak alcohol and call you “flyboy” with that sharp Russian edge. She had kept her promise to keep the ship singing if you kept it pointed true. Now it was your turn to send her on.

Together, you positioned her near the outer door. Ryland keyed in the sequence on the control panel. The inner door sealed with a heavy thunk. The airlock’s atmosphere vented in a controlled hiss, the sound fading to nothing as vacuum took hold. Through the small viewport, the stars waited, indifferent and eternal.

You gave the final command. The outer hatch slid open. Olesya drifted out slowly, pushed by the last puff of residual air, her shrouded form turning gently in the void. You watched until she became another point of light against the black.

Not even the worst medical-induced coma could take your intelligence from you, it seemed. While some memories were blurred, your skills came naturally. Instinctual, second-nature. 

“This is the Control Room,” said Grace, who’d been trying not to appear obvious in his concerned hovering. He remembered how he felt the first few days since he’d woken up. He couldn’t fathom how you were moving so much.

You glanced at him with a quirked brow. “I know.” 

You sat in the chair that was quite obviously yours. The ship lit up in response. ‘Pilot detected,’ it chirped. You leaned back and sighed. Even the arm rests seemed tailored to your size. It felt good to be there. Cohesive, in a way. Like sliding two puzzle pieces together. Finally, something unequivocally, and undeniably right. 

And your memories did come back to you; better than Grace’s. It wasn’t perfect or entirely whole, but by the third day of your resurrection, you were showing him around. You walked Ryland through the control room, the lab module, and the narrow corridors, explaining redundancies and emergency procedures mostly just to hear them out loud— as though to check if it sounded right. The relief on Grace’s face was unmistakable. The tension in his shoulders eased with every system you named and every checklist you ran from memory. At least one of you knew what you were doing. 

As Olesya was the engineer, you were the pilot; which left the role of scientist to Grace. You would have come to the conclusion regardless. He had an obvious knack for the field. And whenever he stood in the Lab, it felt as right as when you sat in the Control Room. Some things just happened to fit. But it took you a while to understand what to make of him. It felt odd that it appeared easier to regain memories of Olesya than it was of Grace. If the three of you were the designated crew for the Hail Mary, wouldn’t you have spent an ample amount of time pre-launch? The gap felt unsettlingly deliberate, and the thought of it often kept you awake. 

There’d been other things you had to explain to him. He didn’t know how to access the ship’s confidential logs. Of course he had a passcode that would get him through, but he’d be damned if he could manage to remember it. The amnesia was normal, you assured him. Though it was slightly troublesome that it was taking him longer to recover. You gave him access to the specifics of the mission, the details of the Petrova Line, the trip to Tau Ceti, the need to understand what makes one star different from the rest. Ryland knew most of what you were telling him, but hearing it from another voice made it seem as though he was digesting it all over again. 

“It just doesn’t feel right,” he said. “I’m not– I’m not that kind of scientist.” 

You’d eat with him in the mess hall trying to resurrect his life on a small whiteboard. You wanted to remember him as much as he wanted to remember himself. 

He told you the helpful details: he knew he was a school teacher, and that he had a PhD in molecular biology. He had bits and pieces of a woman named Eva Stratt. He knew the specifics of Astrophage. He knew the sun was dying, he knew the world was ending. And then there was the less helpful stuff: like his favorite icecream flavor, and why the Marvel Cinematic Universe should have stopped at Endgame, and how he ‘felt like a big Beatles guy’, which he’d topped off with a handful of fun scientific facts. 

“Do you remember picking your shirts?” you asked him one simulated morning, ducked beneath one of the consoles and ensuring everything was operational. “I’m just trying to wrap my head around it. It’s the night before liftoff: you’re packing your things. You’re going to spend the next decade saving the universe and you think, hell yeah,these shirts will do.”

Ryland was drinking a cup of warm tea. He was sitting on the threshold that separated the Control Room from the corridor. “I don’t remember packing them,” he said. He looked down at the lame scientific pun printed across his chest. “But sadly, yes, these are very much my shirts.” 

He liked having you around. He lingered in your space, finding excuses to sit on that same threshold or lean against the console while you ran diagnostics. His shoulders would loosen whenever you entered a room, like the simple sound of another human voice or another set of footsteps eased something tight in his chest. When a small alarm chirped (for something as minor as fluctuation in the thermal regulator,) he would whip his head toward you like a deer that heard a twig snap. It didn't matter if it was a weird noise, a loose panel, or a faint creak of the hull under deceleration thrust. His eyes would find yours every time. And in them, he'd search for the calm confirmation that it was nothing. 

“Do we panic? Is that something we should be panicking over?” 

“Even if a hole is blown through our fuel tanks, Dr. Grace, the last thing we should do is panic.” 

You found it amusing. You were fairly certain that he was at least a little bit smarter than you. Yet there he was, the man who named and bred the star-eaters, looking to the pilot for reassurance over a rattling bolt.

You had a week before your arrival to Tau Ceti. There was time to kill. 

You'd explored and catalogued every nook and cranny of the ship. Which, ideally, you would have recognized from the start. But with the amnesia you were still actively recovering from, you couldn't risk not relearning the Hail Mary like a forgotten mother tongue. 

In your efforts, you discovered a couple of things. One: that Eva Stratt had somehow managed to supply the ship with an impossible amount of media. (from music, to films, to games, to electronic novels.) Two: that you had some involvement in the engineering of the ship itself. (Your name was credited on the lower-right portion of the main blueprint.) And three, that you had a polaroid of Ryland Grace wedged between one of your notebooks. The latter, you told him over dinner.

Ryland choked on his ramen, which he’d been having for the third night in a row. “You what?” 

“Yeah, right here.” With no elevated emotion, you placed the photo on the metal table. “That’s you, isn’t it?” 

Slightly creased in one corner, the polaroid was of a charmingly disheveled Ryland Grace, dressed in a lab coat over a faded university shirt, goggles pushed haphazardly against his hair. His glasses hung in a uniquely awkward way, clinging to his ear and jaw. He wasn’t looking at the camera and was instead beaming at the person behind it. It was candid and blurred in a way that made its edges soft; like it was taken without thought nor warning. He seemed to have been distracted from peering at a microscope. The photo caught him mid-smile. 

Ryland’s cheeks turned pink. He had never seen a picture of him like that in his entire life. “W-Where did you say you found it?”

You showed him your notebook, that battered old thing. You raised it up like you were presenting your license to a patrolling officer. It was a navy-blue moleskine with the NASA logo embossed on the cover. It was decorated with a few tattered stickers of your favorite band. There was no one reason you kept it. Some pages had aerodynamic computations while others had your grocery lists. It seemed you had it for anything.

Ryland put his ramen cup down. “And what page was it on?” 

You shrugged. You flipped it open, pages fluttering until your thumb pressed to a stop. You turned the notebook towards him to show a spread of what looked like an engine. It was covered in your handwriting, words and numbers scribbled about. It was an early concept of the ship’s cable separation system— which was the mechanism that allowed the upper section to detach from the fuel module and spin on Zylon tethers for centrifugal gravity. But it might as well have been written in Chinese for Ryland. And to his surprise there actually was some Chinese text in there. 

“Huh.” Grace sheepishly scratched the back of his head. “So you've got a polaroid of me bookmarked on some sort of astrodynamic floor plan… why?” 

You shrugged again, snapping the notebook shut. “Beats me, Doc.” 

Grace cleared his throat. “You… don't remember taking the picture?” 

“No.” 

“Maybe we're closer than we remember.” 

“Maybe.” You sat across from him. You tilted your head at his nervous expression. “Maybe you asked me to hold onto it.” 

“Hold onto what?” 

“The picture.”

“Oh.” He nodded. “Why would I do that?” 

You shrugged a third time. “It's a good picture.” 

A second whiteboard was born that day. It accompanied Grace's, housing its own questions, bulleted by fragmented facts. It was clear that there were plenty of things you were yet to remember yourself. You knew the flesh of things, the shape of them, but you couldn't see the bones. You'd spend hours staring at the board, chewing on the cap of your marker as though you could will those missing memories to return. 

“Any luck over there?” You peered over to Grace's side of the room. His was messier than yours. 

He whipped his head around so fast that his chair spun a little. “Huh? Oh. No, just the usual.” 

You leaned over to catch a glimpse of his whiteboard. You'd unintentionally grown familiar of his handwriting. He had written questions about who you might be to him. He'd listed the possibilities in red ink: 

Then, at the very bottom, faint and hidden beneath a thin layer of erased ink, you could make out the ghostly outline of the word: 

Friend? 

Neighbor? 

Labmates?

Hung out with on Taskforce? 

Always known as crewmate? 

Boyfriend? 

You turned back to your own board and smiled. 

“Uh, let's try this.” Grace clapped his hands once. “How ‘bout we just throw rapid-fire questions at each other and see how well we can answer them? Theoretically that should jog our memories.” 

You nodded your head. It beat staring at a wall. “Alright.” 

Grace grinned. He didn't expect you to agree. “Okay, uh– I'll go first: where'd you grow up?” 

You took a slow breath in. Your eyes narrowed like you were trying to see something far away. “Too long ago, can't remember.” 

“Oh, sorry.” Grace nodded. “Okay, what about where you lived? Before launch, I mean.”

“I moved around a lot.” The faint image of bags and suitcases fluttered in your mind. Five different house keys, seven different addresses. “I went where the work took me.” 

Grace raised his brows. “Okay. Good. That's something.” 

You made a sound between a scoff and a laugh. “Alright, MacGyver. Your turn. Where'd you teach?” 

He tapped the top of his whiteboard with his pen. “Grover Cleveland Middle School. Remembered that a little while back.” 

You whistled. “Not bad.” 

“Hold your applause. Where'd you graduate?” 

You leaned back, arms crossed over your chest. “You're giving me the hard ones.” 

Grace laughed at the accusation. “Am not!” 

“I wanna say… MIT.” 

“Is that a guess?” 

“I'm saying what feels right. Do you play any sports?” 

“No, and I don't need to be recovering from amnesia to know that.” 

Your questions went on, quick exchanges tossed back and forth while you worked, ate, or sat in the dimmed mess hall. Some were easier to answer than others, some made your head hurt if you thought about it too long. But for what it was worth, it did help. Being prompted to think about things acted as a sort of trigger. It didn't matter how mundane. Were you a morning person or a night person? What was your favorite food? Favorite color? What shows did you like? What books did you read? Were you allergic to anything? Did you like coffee or tea? It went on for days. 

“What do you miss most about Earth?” Grace's voice was soft and tired, muffled by the arm he leaned his cheek against. He was slumped over a table. You had accompanied him in the lab. He said he wanted to familiarize himself with the equipment. 

You hadn't caught his question right away. You were leaning on the doorway, staring at one of the viewports. It was the night before your arrival to Tau Ceti and you were running calculations in your mind. “What?” 

“Miss most about Earth,” he repeated. His eyes were closed. 

You smiled. You thought long and hard for an answer, rummaging through memories as though you were searching for a wrench in a tool drawer. None came up. 

“I think you should clock out, Grace.” 

He hummed and mumbled what might have been a protest, but got up and dragged his feet back to your dormitory anyway. 

You didn't have the luxury of getting your own rooms. The shared sleeping area was made to be efficient with space. With Ilyukhina's quarters vacant, you and Grace had three bunks between you. There was some privacy to spare, but it wasn’t often that you were present in your dorm together. The two of you slept in shifts, knowing it would be better if one of you was awake and could easily act on an issue. 

“Good night, Captain.” 

“Good night, Doctor.” 

You spent the rest of the evening in the Immersion Node. It was a room of average size, wrapped in large LED screens that showed you virtually anything you could come up with. Grace had taken upon calling it the Don't Go Crazy Room, which was technically what it was. He spent more time in there than you did. He seemed particularly fond of the beach scene. 

But you, you missed the fields. 

The screens, in all their artificial brightness, projected a warm rural afternoon. A soft breeze passed over a long expanse of wheat. It didn't look like it would take long before they were ready to harvest. Clouds speckled the bright blue sky, moving in a gentle crawl, obedient to the direction of the wind. Your chest felt heavy. There was a lump in your throat. You took a deep breath. You sat on the ground with one knee propped up, your wrist resting against it. 

When you woke, the field was gone. You opened your eyes leaning against one of the screen-walls. There was a sign blinking at you. Warning: Engine Cutoff. Action Needed. 

“Cap!” It was Grace's voice. He was shaking you awake. His hair was a tousled mess and it looked like he'd just gotten up, too. “She's counting down!” 

You shook your head. “What?” 

“Mary! She's counting down! There's something about the engine shutting off? What do we do?!” 

His frantic questions did not go well with Mary's cold and mechanical counting. You got up, wiping your eyes with your thumb and forefinger. Grace followed you with clumsy speed. You climbed up to the Control Room, where you sat in your seat, checking the screens. 

“Ten, nine, eight… Pilot detected… seven, six…” 

Your brows furrowed in focus. Grace anxiously took the seat next to yours, watching your face, waiting for you to give him permission to panic. “What's gonna happen at zero?” 

“Calm down, this is supposed to happen. We're approaching Tau Ceti's orbit and the engine is about to stop.” 

“W-What do I do?” 

“You give me a minute to think is what you do.” You frowned at one of the gauges. “I'm making sure everything's in optimal condition. Sit tight, Grace.” 

He did not sit tight. In fact, he had been freaking out so much that he didn't notice you buckle your seatbelt in. “I just feel like we should be–” Mary stopped talking. The counter had finished. There was a noticeable absence in the ship, like a fan had been turned off. The silence only scared him more. “Okay, what's–” 

“You are now orbiting Tau Ceti.” 

Grace started floating. He squealed an impressively high-pitched scream and started floating. He grabbed the closest thing he could, which had been the backrest of his seat, but his grip loosened and he was wriggling on the ceiling. The Control Room was thankfully small, and there were not many places he could float off to, but there were plenty of buttons for him to accidentally press. 

“Grace. Alright– Grace, calm down.” 

“What the heck! What the fudging heck!” 

“Give– stop that. Look, breathe. Give me your hand–” 

He managed to get himself spinning somehow. He'd kicked a stray pack of peanuts off somewhere and he was hovering further away from you. You clicked your seatbelt off, shaking your head. Grace helplessly called for your name. You pushed off your chair. You caught him, miraculously. But gravity was a tricky thing and the force sent you both spinning for a while. Like a pair of dancers on a music box. Grace clung onto you. He buried his face in your neck as you used your arm to brace yourself against one of the control panels. 

“We trained for this,” you grumbled, straining to keep yourselves steady. 

“I don't remember that!” His legs were floating up behind him, dragging you both. One of his knees bumped your thigh, then his elbow caught you in the ribs. He immediately tried to apologize and only made it worse by pushing off you too hard, sending both of you drifting sideways in a slow, lazy spin.

“God–” You were getting frustrated. “Grace!”

“I’m sorry, I'm sorry!” He yelped when his back bumped gently against the ceiling. “Mary, turn gravity back on!”

“Request unclear.” 

“What? I want down!” 

You managed to hook one foot under a handrail and pulled both of you closer to the console. You had bunched up a fistful of his shirt and grabbed him towards you. The motion swung Grace around and he ended up facing you, chest to chest, his nose only inches from yours. His blue eyes went wide.

“You’re doing great,” you said dryly, one arm looped around his waist to keep him from drifting away again. 

“I don't appreciate the sarcasm,” he muttered, but his grip on your jumpsuit tightened anyway. 

Grace swallowed thickly. There was barely any distance between you by then. He could feel the rising and falling of your chest. Were his ears getting hot? When was the last time he had gotten this close to anyone? It was a jarring feeling and an explosion of sensations. Grace didn't dare name them. 

You braced your other arm against the panel and gently pushed off, guiding both of you back toward the pilot’s seat in a slow, drifting arc. Ryland’s legs kept trying to find purchase and only succeeded in tangling with yours. At one point his knee bumped your hip and he apologized so sincerely you almost laughed again. 

“I'm gonna sit you down now,” you whispered, for he was so close that there was no need to raise your voice. You were unaware of the chill it sent down his spine. 

You turned so that he was beneath you as you floated down. You sat him on his chair, one hand holding his shoulder as the other strapped his seatbelt in. Your eyes were focused on locking the buckles, but Grace was looking directly at your face. Your knee bumped his thigh as you anchored your foot against the deck to keep from drifting away. And when your hands snaked to the back of his waist to secure the strap, his breath hitched. 

“Uh.” Grace blinked. He was safe in his seat then, no longer floating. To his horror, he was still holding your shoulders. “Thank you, Captain.” 

You laughed. His heart stuttered. “Hopefully that pre-launch training kicks in sometime soon.” 

Grace laughed too, but it was soft and nervous. He moved his hands from your shoulders to the armrests of his seat. “Yeah, I hope so.” He cleared his throat. He watched you move to buckle yourself into your chair with ease. “Can we turn the gravity back on?” 

Your eyes were on the monitor. Your hands glided across the haptic interface, checking the parameters, one eye on readouts. The ship was still settling into its new path around Tau Ceti, the big main screen showing the slow, graceful curve of the planet below.

“Gravity's not something you turn on,” you said. Your tone was calm again and it soothed him. “We’re in microgravity now because the main drive cut out for orbital insertion. The ship has a centrifuge mechanism, but we only use that when we need stable conditions for lab work. And we need to conserve energy.” 

You glanced over at Grace, then threw him a smile.  “Besides,” you added, returning your attention to the panel as another status light blinked green, “we’re still adjusting to the new orbit. Spinning the whole section right now would throw off the stabilization thrusters. Give it a few hours. You’ll get used to floating.”

Grace let out a shaky breath and tried to nod, but the motion only made him drift a little in the harness. He caught himself on the armrest, ears flushing darker. “Right. Centrifuge. Cables. Lab work. Got it.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I think I do remember something about a centrifuge, actually. Did you know they used it to make butter in the Civil War?” 

You laughed again, which pleased him. And for the shortest while, he thought dying in space might not be as bad as he thought. 

[doctor-ryland-grace]

Biodome, Sweet Biodome. ( Ryland Grace x Reader. )

*pulls up to the party with a banger after saying i wasn't going to post today. * so uh yeah.

Title: Biodome, Sweet Biodome. Pairing: Heavily Implied - Ryland Grace x Reader. ( Gender Neutral. ) Rating: K. ( WAY FLUFFY ) Words: 2.6 K. Summary: It's your first night in the Biodome, apart but together. It doesn't stay that way for long.

Ryland Grace Masterlist.

Sleeping felt like such a foreign concept to Ryland’s overly-tired body. All the key elements were there. He was laying on his back, blue eyes staring up at the ceiling as if he were able to pick out the minute details that laid within the smooth surface. The blonde was counting in his head - right along with the faint and rhythmic tone of the biodome engines that kept the Eridian pressure outside and the Earth pressure, simulated just perfectly, on the inside. 

The bed… Was relatively soft for what it was, just a re-work of what was on board the Hail Mary with a few modifications to make it more comfortable. It’s unnerving how constructed it felt against his body weight to the point where it felt almost hollow. 

The silence beyond the biodome itself was the worst part. It wasn’t just the actual absence of noise in the air, but the absence of… Presence. No low, vital hum of the Hail Mary’s life support, no more faint and reassuring vibrations of a hardworking ship that had lasted beyond its years into the Eridiani system. It was the sort of silence that would wrap Ryland up and cause his mind to go on a tangent just to fill the empty void, and he was right on that cusp as he turned his heady body onto his side, the sheets barely a whisper against his smooth skin and then, without much thought put behind it, he flipped onto the other side. The shifting was doing nothing for him. There was too much in his brain to turn off and he was suffocating beneath them.

Ryland began playing it all back in tedious detail instead of counting sheep. The terrifying moment he was sentenced to death without permission, the improbable joy of Rocky’s first melody hitting his ear, the discovery of predators on Adrian, becoming Earth’s Hero from lightyears away.

And… You. Something dropped in his stomach like a brick as his blue eyes fell shut, thinking about things that he never really had time to indulge in given the proximity you and he shared up onto tonight. 

Your first night apart in… Years. Your laugh came to the forefront, always a welcome tune, the easy slump of your shoulders when things weren’t serious and you weren’t in a life-or-death dance with the idea that Earth’s fate rested solely in the anxious hands he owned and your more secure grasp.

For some reason, Ryland lingered on the thought of your shoulder brushing against his, not even skin to skin, just… Your mission jumpsuit grazing against where his shouldercap curved into his bicep when you leaned in to look at the console screen. 

On the Hail Mary, closeness like that was a necessity, a survival mechanism that both of you were aware of but never brought up. Here, on Erid, it felt like a forgotten language and the silence that it brought was screaming into the void between you.

So, instead of doing anything about it, Ryland found himself squeezing his already shut eyes to the point where stars began to blister behind his eyelids. It doesn’t block out the feeling of unnerving gravity and the terrible thought of being utterly alone. “Yeah, great. Cool.” His voice spoke into the air faintly like someone were there to hear his gripe, “Love this for me.” Ryland slid his eyes open and stared out the cascade of xenonite windows that were to the left of his bed. The Biodome crew did their best at recreating an Earth night, mimicking the shadowy play of the moon against the surface of rocks, the faint shuffle of waves finally capsizing into the room. 

Knock, knock, knock. Well, that’s exactly what you want to hear your first night inside your new biodome on a planet that wasn’t your home planet, but was still home. Ryland startled a bit, shifting just enough to raise himself on his elbow and glance at the door through the small living space, still void of personal affects at the moment, and waited, his heart thudding once and hard against his ribs like he was a scared kid, afraid of whatever the dark had hidden for him. For half a second, he’s sure…. That he’s just imagined it. A phantom auditory artifact of a lonely brain! Yeah!!! That makes sense!

Ryland mentally slapped his forehead. Knock, knock, knock.

Soft. Hesitant almost in the pauses between. Definitely Human. If it were Rocky or any other Eridian, there would be no hesitance or cautiousness. 

Knock, knock, knock. 

There’s a little more confidence to it this time, or maybe it’s urgency and Ryland’s tired brain was getting the emotion put behind it misconstrued. That… Was not the point! Ryland grunted, shoving the sheets aside and de-tangling him from the mess that his tossing and turning caused, almost slipping on the floor paneling as his socks collided hard against it. And honestly? He’s not even thought this entire thing through as he trailed towards the door where the noise was bustling from. Ryland freezes there, staring at the doorknob. 

God, hopefully it’s not some Eridian serial killer who was waiting for a Human to step foot on this planet before planning its utmost secret attack. Or, worse. A pack of wild Eridians who wanted his guts. Oh yeah, Ryland nodded to himself, shuffling his feet a bit against the cold floor despite his cozy socks and grasping the doorhandle. He was a goner. 

It fell open with a staggering amount of silence, so unusual for any sort of door. They usually needed copious amounts of WD-40 to keep even remotely quiet, and the action felt almost unnatural as you came into view. Ryland blinked a few times. You were… There. Standing. At the front of what he would consider to be home sweet home. And in order for that to happen, you had to transverse solo from your own bungalow to the south. 

The scientist could see in the faint fake-moonlight the tangle of your hair, a soft mess that he felt a sudden draw to, fingers twitching at his side. Your expression… Ryland was having a hard time reading it as you met eyes with him. They looked almost… puffy? 

He squinted, forgoing his glasses like an absolute buffoon. Then, in a wash of suddenness and like his eyes finally decided to say ‘Hey, we know how to work in the dark’, his eyesight adjusted just enough to see the sheepish expression and almost… weariness on your face. 

You were wearing one of the mission sweaters and navy sweatpants, almost matching Ryland aside from the punny science t-shirt he wore. And despite seeing each other in similar attire aboard the ship many times in your years together, this felt… Oddly intimate.

Ryland would be lying to say that he didn't feel a literal wave of relief hit him as he looked at you, leaning against the threshold as it left him feeling minorly lightheaded like a pressure valve releasing, a decompression of air he didn't even know he was holding in. 

Whatever tiny ache that lingered in his chest due to loneliness was lifted, replaced by an odd sensation of warmth that started in the pit of his stomach, down his legs, and up his throat.

“Oh… Thank god.” Ryland exhaled, the words slipping out before he had the chance to even beat his brain into submission for lacking a filter.  

But, hey. He was tired. And you were standing at his doorway at the equivalent of 2 AM.

You moved from foot to foot, the air outside almost thick and distasteful as if there were still lingering traces of the Eridian air clinging around the crevices. “Uh… Sorry… Were you asleep? I didn't mean to---” “Hey, hi.” Ryland finally kicked it into some semblance of gear. Just crossing into slight functionality.  “N-no, don’t worry, I… Uh…” He rubbed the back of his head, bicep shining in the dim light at it caught your tired eyes for just a second before drawing back into his gaze. “Was already awake. Is everything okay?” 

Ryland scrambled a bit, pushing himself around the doorway and opted to straighten his shirt out like that would reset the last five seconds. He could almost sense the nerves coming off of you as your eyes darted behind him into his empty space and then back to his eyes. His… Space. His lips parted and he sucked in a little cool air that floated in from outside. “I couldn’t… sleep.” You whispered, almost ashamed as you dropped your head. “It’s like… Have you ever stayed at a hotel back on Earth?” 

Ryland nodded silently, letting you explain without an interruption because he… liked the sound of your voice late at night and his eyes were ravishing what little they could from your lips forming words. 

“It’s like that. Familiar enough, but it’s not what you’re used to so it just feels.. off.” It’s like you realized how silly it must have sounded for you came to a rather slow stop and glanced over your shoulder at the beach. 

“I understand.” Ryland said immediately, instinctive understanding resonating through him and almost shattering his bones. What you were talking about was the exact same gnawing restlessness that had been making his chest weighed down with imaginary bricks and his mind to go a thousand miles an hour. “I… I get it. It’s uh… I’ve been having a hard time too.” A small smile is sent his way and Ryland finds himself looking away at that, following your previous gaze towards the beach as you murmured gently, “It’s just so weird… Being alone again, y’know…” You glanced down at your feet and kicked a small pebble with the tip of your shoe. It cascaded down the side of the cliff where Ryland’s space sat.

“Well, we did spend a lot of time watching each other sleep.” There was a deep stricken sincerity to Ryland’s voice and it was a delectation to your ears as it caused your heart to clench a bit. And there it was. Out in the open, the truth of you showing up here lands a clean and direct hit against the target. Because being alone isn’t the state of being by oneself. It’s the absence of another. There was a sanctity of the familiar heartbeat of another person just a wall, or just a grasp away. Ryland stared at you for a moment, the soft halo-light illuminating your face just enough that he could see your eyes meet his more honestly. And there it was, even more… He recognized the same off-kiltered tilt that had been consuming his world was also eating away at yours. Ryland can see the tenseness in your jaw as it clicks into place, as your fingers playing at the fabric of your sleeve like it was your anchor to the planet. 

“This uhh…. Might sound dumb…” “It won’t, I promise.” Ryland whispered gently, vocal tone dropping into a very soft register and subsided any frantic energy he was desperately known for. Ryland… Deep down already knows where you’re going with this, because he’s having the same thought and there’s no way for himself to stop his body from leaning a bit towards you in anticipation. There’s definite heat against your cheeks as you inhaled hard, almost smothering your lungs in excess as you gathered the courage to mumble. “Would you maybe…. Want to sleep in the s-same room tonight?”

The question is asked and the unspoken reality laid vulnerable and bare between the two of you. And to Ryland, it wasn’t… A complicated mess. In fact, in his exhausted haze, it was gloriously, breaktakingly simple. And there’s no filter in his sleepy mind to hold back his immediate, wholehearted and almost desperate response. “Yes.” Ryland exhaled, the scent of his minty breath against your face a relief as a smile finally flinted across his face. “Yeah, I was… Not to sound like a total loser, but I was kind of hoping that’s why you were here.”

Your eyes widened just a bit. “R-really?” Ryland straggled a bit in front of you like a cat trying to push out a hairball before a quiet, self-depracting laugh hit your ears. He reached up again, t-shirt riding with the movement up his torso just a bit so he could rub the back of his neck where his skin was still warm against his touch. 

“I wasn’t exactly uhm…. Thriving here by myself. Sorta regret telling Rocky to let us have our own space,” He shut his eyes. God, that sounded… Yikes…. “But, I made friends with the ceiling tiles. We’re not on speaking terms anymore, if anyone asks.” That earned Ryland a real, but very drawn out and sleepy laugh from you. And in his lethargic state, it was one of the most beautiful sounds he’d heard since arriving on Erid. The warmth and allure pull him in like a blanket. It feels like… Home.

With one surprisingly fluid motion, Ryland stepped aside and gestured you in with his right arm. “C’mon. We can… Implement a highly advanced co-sleeping protocol.” “Rocky would be proud.” You smiled at Ryland, tangling into the idea of dreams now as you step inside, the brush of your arm against his sending a pleasant joint through his nervous system and lingering on the tiny hairs that trailed down his entire body. “I think every Eridian would.”

“Oh, absolutely.” Ryland stays behind to shut the door, no sense in locking it considering there was no lock yet. What? Like Armondo was going to rob him at gun point? It wasn’t really… Needed. 

As soon as he turned on his feet, it felt like the entire world outside shrunk into just this one space, now shared by the only two of their kind on Erid. There was… An elegant simplicity to that, Ryland liked a lot more than his conscious mind was willing to admit as he followed you to the cove that served as his bedroom. It was time to settle in, his blue eyes watching intently how your body moved onto his bed, almost elated in the way that you drew against the sheets and clumsily, he followed, sliding in on his own side and for a few seconds, there is a tired dance of figuring out the pillow situation and adjusting the thin blanket.

Whatever hard and heavy, staticky energy that was clinging to the air began to dissipate as you rolled onto your side, facing him and he followed suit, only about 10 inches between the two of you. It wasn’t just about having another person here, another body in the room. It was about the familiarity of your breathing pattern, something Ryland watched many times, counting the space between inhales and exhales, the soft and living sounds that had been missing from the dead-silent room before as you nuzzled a bit more into the pillow, lips parting as a small noise escaped you. Your eyelids fell shut in one fluid motion. 

Ryland… Stared at you for a good minute. His fingers moved on their own, he had no idea what they were doing as they reached up, letting them float above your temple momentarily before tucking back a stray piece of your hair. You shuffled at that, sleep already overcoming what little senses you had left. 

“Hey…” His voice was a touch above a whisper. “Hmm?” Was your soft response. 

“You sleep, I watch. Okay?” Ryland doesn’t need a verbal response. He can feel you move closer to him even if the motion is imperceptible to the eyes. It’s the divot in the mattress, it’s the heat radiating from you that caused his eyelids to fall shut for a few moments. He can feel your answer in the way that your breathing evened out, settling into a peaceful and all to blissfully familiar cadence. He didn't need to spend his night staring at the ceiling. 

Ryland just needed you here, with him. And he had the feeling you felt the same way. 

Taglist:@strigiform-titan @whats-my-hyperfixation @negativefoursanity @everythingismadeofchaos @gnomebutch @t0nystank @greenlalianime @my-cat-can-slay-dragons @gardenavenve @whore-msc @goslingcore @rivercattail @ambertiger5 @starsbelongtotheworld @emmyishere77 @wayward-avenging @rocktthehouse @unabashednightmarepizza @lowbudgetdoll @lastminutescience @anixszci @lov3lanuage @newagecassandra @allthelittlethingsssss @sl13-ce @nicassie @emblunt46 @cemeterystardust @ckq-fics @writingforrhys @brunomarzbootylicker @icomewithpeace @theemeraldcorporalnik @kusogeki@starsbelongtotheworld@s4turn3st@astroangel-3000 @electro-elemena@poopoopeepeesupreme@bigsloppycrush@exactlyelectronicstudent @sayadinaa @lorraine-ackerman @sixtiessongs @introvertathome @petersluvbug @moon-trash1507

[bibigo-lover]

love hypotheticals.

summary: after stratt hires you on as a documentation specialist for project hail mary, you find yourself being more and more drawn to one dr. ryland grace. (part ii here!)

pairing: ryland grace x reader

word count: 4.5k

tags: (set on stratt's vat, pre-tau ceti) meet-cute, strangers-to-lovers, forced proximity, workplace relationship, idiots in love, fluff, will they/won't they, documentation specialist!reader

cross-posted to ao3

What would you do if the apocalypse started?

It’s a stupid hypothetical that you make up when you’re trying to get to know somebody. Something you say at two in the morning at a sleepover, or at work in the break room with absolutely nothing to do. It isn’t serious—never that—until the Petrova line. Until the pending death of the Sun. Until Eva Stratt comes knocking on the door of your high-rise apartment, asking you—really, telling you—to abandon your day job and leave for overseas.

She has you document everything. You take notes on all the major classified meetings. You transcribe conversations between officials, especially the particularly tense ones. When you’re not writing, she has you in front of a printer-scanner, making copies for the bi-weekly organizational debriefings. You went to school for technical writing, and now, it appears that you’ve been placed into the absolute life-or-death version of a dream job. It could be worse. You could be at home, knowing that the next thirty years will spiral into world crises and war over rations. At least you’re doing something.

Her latest project for you—and, allegedly, the most important—is technical writing regarding astrophage. For the past few weeks, you’ve done nothing but compile information from Stratt’s several global microbiologists. It isn’t until the big breakthrough—the “great American scientist” who figured out how to breed the little things—that the ball starts rolling. You’ve been hearing all about him, no matter how unwillingly. There’s plenty of reserved comments from Stratt about how reclusive he seems to make himself. From the scientists, who praise his findings. From the agents, too—a schoolteacher, he’s a schoolteacher, and he dresses like one, too. 

The first time you meet him truly is ultimately… gratifying. Dr. Grace lives up to expectations. You’re at the other end of the table when Stratt leads him in: a mousy, blonde-haired thirty-year-old man. Glasses askew, and dark-blue eyes blown wide. It takes a lot of will for you not to tilt your head at the sight of him—the way his eyes dart around the room, his unsuccessful attempt to back himself out of it. It’s… amusing–like watching a baby bird get coaxed out of the nest. What comes next is rather productive. You type fast on your laptop: astrophage, single-celled, Venus, high-CO2, breeding, replication by mitosis. You aren’t able to focus much on him, per say. It’s more his words, his cadence when he talks about the discovery—and the following queries that come with debriefing him on Project Hail Mary. He’s cute. And there isn’t enough time in the world for you to think that.

—

The next time you see him is in the mess hall a couple days after. Clearly, Stratt has him settled in—probably placed him in a nice bunk with another one of the old scientists. He sits mulling over a bowl of cereal, looking almost identical to the way that he did in the meeting room. The greatest change, clearly, is his choice in clothing. He’s got a knit cardigan on, over some punny science t-shirt that you can only vaguely read. Dr. Ryland Grace sits alone. And, he’s in your spot.

Your imagination runs its course. Maybe, he likes solitude. Maybe, he’s still facing the fact that this ship is filled with some kind of Sisyphean effort to try and save the planet. You’re very sure, looking at him stirring his spoon pointlessly in the bowl, that this situation is too big for him. He wants to go home. You’ve got your own tray of breakfast—oats and bottled juice. Clearly, you’re not used to the barrack-like quality of the ship quite yet, or else you’d be able to sit down with just about anyone else. The only downside of your job is that you don’t have very much time to talk—buried in screens and stacks of files. You sit alone, too, most of the time, in this very spot that Grace has decided to occupy for himself.

You approach him slowly, waiting for him to notice your presence on the other end of the table. It’s regrettable that he doesn’t, so caught up on the swirling quality of his cereal. You have to knock your knuckle on the edge of the tabletop. “Dr. Grace,” you hum. He retracts his hand from his spoon like it’s red-hot and stands up to greet you.

“Hi,” he says, pulling his own tray back to make room for yours. “Please, please sit down.” You wonder if he’s going to try and reach out to shake your hand—but he’s back down as soon as you swing your leg over the bench. You follow suit, giving him a polite, tight-lipped smile. Grace hums, eyes squinting as he taps his fingers across the tabletop. “I recognize you,” he says, “You had the, uh, fast hands.” The observation comes out of his mouth disjointed and awkward—but, straight to the point.

“Stratt hired me on as a documentation specialist. Fancy title for making sure that everything gets dated and down on paper,” you tell him. You almost want to light up at the thought of him picking you out in that stuff-full room—but you’ve got to keep your cool. “I’ve been assigned to record all research regarding the astrophage.” Which means you’re going to spend a lot more time together.

“Important work. Historians will love you if everything turns out how it’s supposed to,” Grace nods. In truth, you’d never considered your job in that light. In your head, Stratt had simply wanted documentation as a contingency. If all Hell broke loose, there’d still be the logs that you maintained of all the work of the scientists, the engineers, the researchers… You hadn’t been able, in the rush of it all, to consider what it meant long-term.

“Right,” you chuckle, “And molecular biology’ll make a pretty shrine for you, too.” It’s a silly thought—Father of the Astrophage, on a platinum plaque. The flattery makes him shift in his seat, index finger coming up to push up his glasses higher up the bridge of his nose. You have to soak it in a little bit, his nervousness up-close. It’s charming.

The two of you sit in silence for a moment, making ample use of your food by using it to keep quiet. Grace has his cereal, and you your oats. It’s easy. You feel like a little kid again, trying to make a friend in the cafeteria; you’re sure that’s what it looks like, too. You take a moment to crack open the lid of your juice, and Grace takes the opening. “Is this where you would’ve wanted it to end up?” he asks, “When… everything, you know—”

“Went to shit? No, not at all,” you huff. It comes up again. What would you do if the apocalypse started? Except, this time, it’s very clear that neither of you have much of a choice. Yes, it’s definitive now. Grace doesn’t know how he got here, still, despite the briefings. He’s in the middle of the ocean, and so are you; he wants advice. “I think most people hope for a conservationist sort of end. Like, in the middle of the redwoods, in a tiny cabin with a stone chimney, or something.”

He lets out a dry chuckle and stifles it quickly with the back of his hand. “Is that what you wanted?”

“No. I mean, I think I’m where I’m supposed to be now. It’s this or slow, slow death.” For an unquantifiable amount of people, you could add. You find it better not to.

“And, your family—?”

“—knows I’m here, if you can believe it. Stratt’s act of kindness. They think I’m doing administrative work for the U.N., which isn’t a complete lie,” you murmur under your breath. He can only nod solemnly. Carefully, you recall: “She told me that you didn’t… have anyone to contact.”

He doesn’t seem phased at all by the inquiry. “No, no. My parents passed away before I finished doing my doctorate. They were older. I moved to the Bay for my tenure track after that. It was the easiest decision I could’ve made, considering—” He doesn’t have to spell it out for you: he bombed his own career with a single dissertation—it was teaching or nothing at all. And, all things considered, Grace really loved to teach. “I lived alone in the end. No dog, one ex.”

Ex. You think it’s probably too soon—and, too much pressure—to tell him that you don’t have anyone else waiting for you at home, either. In some twisted way, you might want him to be curious about it. To wonder if there’s someone waiting for you at the shore, or if you’re hooking up with one of the pilots on-deck. It’s all a bit of harmless fun. Vaguely, you explain, “I had an apartment, too. Nice place. Took forever to hunt for it, lock down the lease, decorate—and then, nothing. Had to surrender the keys after Stratt made it clear she wanted me on-board.”

—

It’s all been a little bit less lonely since Grace’s boarded the ship. You practically have to be glued together on account of Stratt’s orders. “He should rarely leave your sight,” she tells you over dinner one night, in a cleared navigational deck, “It’s imperative that you have his calculations recorded down to the decimal and uploaded to the database.”  Really, it isn’t the hardest task. After that first breakfast, he seems generally comfortable in your company. He floats towards you, seemingly, more than you do him. The greatest tell is his punctuality. Grace makes it early enough to morning meetings so that he can position himself right beside you.

When there’s much more dull conversation being held about different nations providing staff or material, you notice that he has the tendency to get more… distractable. Beneath the table, you can feel his knee brush against yours as he bounces his leg—sole of his sneaker scuffing against the floor. Of course, he doesn’t have nearly as much reason to listen when the conversations turn more diplomatic and less scientific. And, while you’re supposed to pay attention heartily and take your extensive notes, Grace is on the less helpful end of the spectrum.

He likes to pass notes. They vary in topic and seriousness. There’s one particular morning when he chooses to be heavy-handed with them. It starts as soon as the representatives begin to argue. With nimble fingers, Grace slips the note right next to the trackpad of your laptop. Britain is a tool. Britain being the politician from Britain, an older man with too-tight trousers who dissented to almost everything Stratt had to offer. You take the card and slip it between the front cover and the first page of your notebook.

More chatter, and you can already see him scribbling out the next one behind his walled-up hand. You peek over, and he slides it determinedly towards you. Hope they do something other than eggs today at caf. Yes, they’d served it five days in a row. You decided to keep your complaints about it in for the first three days, and broke on the fourth. Grace had heard the bulk of your argument—the grittiness of powdered eggs, and how you’d kill for a stack of pancakes. This note, you slide back over to him. It’s not nearly as taboo as the first, which means he can have it back.

The last one Grace has for you comes a whopping ten minutes later, after he gets pulled into a conversation about laser tech for the breeding tanks. Once that devolves into yet another disagreement, he turns his attention back over to you. This new note, he makes sure to fold in half before lodging it beneath the keyboard of your computer. It takes you another five minutes of conversation lulling for you to open it. You pry the two edges open to read it: What do you do with sick chemists? Helium. What do you do if they die? Barium.

This one makes you snort to yourself too loud for your liking. You brush the index card into your lap with your nose scrunched in realization of how much of a slacker you must look like. This routine of yours is beginning to set itself in most morning meetings, and you’re beginning to wonder if you should start giving him the silent treatment. Grace appears rather proud to have made you laugh, chest puffed out; he tries to hide his smirk by looking down at his lap. If Stratt has an opinion about it, she doesn’t say anything. 

—

You’re staring, and you really can’t help it. Grace has his cardigan shedded and strewn across the nearest lab chair. He’s doing an awful lot of calculations, something on astrophage power output that you’ll have to ask him to spell out for you later. The graphic, of course, is no better than the rest of the shirts he’s worn all week. But, the real kicker is the way that the fabric of his short-sleeves are hugging around his biceps. You couldn't have guessed that Grace would be so… fit. 

You can’t take your eyes off him now, as he takes a black Expo marker to the surface of the whiteboard. The shirt’s tight. You’re checking him out. It isn’t until he peeks over his shoulder at you that you become all the more conscious of it. It’s a fleeting moment; unwillingly, you peel your eyes off of his and onto your laptop on the desk in front of you. You’re supposed to be compiling a folder to send out to the Payload Systems team. Not… this.

“Sorry,” you shoot out mindlessly. You make an exerted effort to examine the inventory list on your screen and cross-check it with another spreadsheet on the tab over. Busywork. It’s better to look like you’re doing literally anything else.

Grace doesn’t take his eyes off the board as he continues scribbling across it. He lifts the marker off the board a moment: “What for?”

You suck in a deep breath. An apology implies that you’ve got something to be sorry about.  You want to leave now—but there’s really no good excuse to. Stratt is off-site, which means that you’re only doing busywork ‘till she’s back with new news. So, you elaborate with an empty “…Nothing.”

“O-kay,” he enunciates. You can’t do anything but return back to your screen with an attempt at dutifulness. Grace stays at the board, head tilted to write some undecipherable combination of greek-letters at the upper-right corner, and you can go back to your previously abandoned work. It’s almost machine-like, the way in which he scrawls the information from left to right, without any hesitation. You write several lines down on the notepad to your left: Hermle centrifuge machine needs replacement. Polypropylene for containment units — CNPC bulk load. And, messily, at the corner of your page, In love with Grace?

It’s difficult to tell. You’re together ninety-percent of the time. You’re clearly attracted to him and his square frames and his dad clothes. He makes you laugh, lets you use his old iPod to listen to Oasis. And maybe it’s  the close proximity speaking, but you feel deeply about Grace in a way that you aren’t sure how to describe. Like now, as he caps the white board marker and slides it into his back pocket, before coming over to check on you with quick steps.

“On a scale of one to ten, how illegible is that?” he asks you. You try not to cave as he rests both of his hands on the edge of your desk, toned arms straining right beside you. You squint as you stare at the board, trying to make sense of the numbers.

“I think I can get everything down except for that bottom-half. It’s not your handwriting, just the formulas,” you admit. You’d never been one for complex mathematics, and you need to make sure you can get the equations recorded exactly as they are.

He hums, “That isn’t bad at all. For now, just note the biomass—circled and labeled it wet weight, in tons. If you need to, you can send the number out to DuBois, see if I got the match right, and I…” Grace trails off, picking up the mug that he has set on the desk next to you. He makes an additional effort to peer into your own empty mug, before picking it up with his other free hand. “Will be right back.” He carries them out of the room without another word. Another plus: he fetches you drinks without any asking.

It’s more quiet when he’s out of the room, presumably at the espresso machine just down the hall. In Grace’s absence, you can actually think more clearly about the situation. You know that Shapiro and DuBois have their own version of a relationship—albeit, more or less casual. At the end of the world, nobody really bats an eye about it. All things considered, it’s actually better for morale. You have to wonder if that’s in the cards for the two of you.

It isn’t long before he comes back with the two mugs. First, he places his a safe couple of inches away from your computer. Then, he makes a slow gesture for you to take your mug out of his hands. “Careful. It’s hot,” he tells you softly, running his hand beneath the bottom of the cup to swipe off the possibility of a wet ring. As he gingerly passes the handle into your hands, your fingers brush against one another comfortably. You note, eyes glancing up from the steaming cup, that there’s a faint blush littering his cheeks. But, he’s too intent on the handoff to take his eyes off the coffee to look up at you. Yes, you think, In love with Grace.

—

Once you figure out that fundamental fact, you start to think it over too much. There’s nothing necessarily wrong with your finding. It’s natural, and probably inevitable, for you to have fallen for him. What’s more anxiety-inducing is what you’re supposed to do about it. Under any other circumstances, you’d be okay keeping your mouth shut and letting the opportunity pass you up. But, considering the timeline of the Earth at present, it seems like there’s no time to waste. At the end of the world, it isn’t the sort of thing you should keep to yourself. You should tell him. And still, you’ve been sitting on the idea of it for weeks.

You really hope that Grace hasn’t figured it out, as observant as he is—but it’s really very clear to everyone else on Project Hail Mary. You can tell by the way they watch you both, like it's morning television. Grace rambles on about astrophysics, and you listen. He goes off on tangents about old and wrong college professors, and you laugh. You talk about your life before the project, and he listens with his chin resting on his hand. He asks you questions about what you used to do, where you used to go—like you’re another thing to learn. And everyone fawns.

It’s a good night when you hole yourself in your bunk room. All the engineers and specialists and to-be cosmonauts are all gathered together for drinks and a movie. The simple act of slipping away, letting people assume that you’ve got a migraine or an extra load of paperwork, is easy. It’s in the comfort of your tiny twin bed that you get to listen to the ocean and wailing ship creaks, window propped open to let in the fresh air. It’s strange to think that this room has been yours for so many months; the gunmetal ceiling of it is familiar now.

You get to enjoy this for upwards of an hour, until footsteps come clunking down the hall. You’re sure you know who they belong to. There’s a couple of soft, metal knocks on your door. “Hey, buddy. You sleeping?” It’s Grace’s muddled voice on the other side of the door. “Dinner’s up and everybody’s wondering where you’re at.”

You raise your head off of your pillow, “Door's unlocked. Just come in.” It’s a quick scramble for you to sit up and toss your legs over the side of the bed. As soon as Grace makes it through the doorway, you give him a sheepish smile and a wave.

“Jeez, it’s freezing in here.” Grace’s cardigan is hanging on his right hand. Another tight tee tonight, vintage tour shirt for The Beach Boys. You have to look away as he tosses it on the desk chair adjacent to your bed and as he comes up to sit right beside you. “You know,” he starts, lowering onto the hard mattress, “If you’ve been feeling overworked, I already told you I’d tell Stratt I could handle my own documentation for a week. It’s lab standard, anyway—”

He’s not making it any easier for you. “No, it’s fine,” you insist. It isn’t very easy to tell him that you’re not overworked, that you just have stupid feelings for him. Your refusal only makes him work harder.

Dismissively, he continues, “You can just sit there and watch me work. Read a book or something. A little bit of downtime isn’t going to be the end of the world. And, yes, I know how it sounds given the current circumstanes—but I think you definitely deserve it with the amount of running around that you do.” He’s getting rather impassioned about you resting, so much so that when you mumble out his name—a soft-spoken “Grace”—he doesn’t even pick up on it. He only marches on, “When you think about it, it’d help my research, too. Because if you’re stressed, I’m stressed. And that’s just no good.”

“Ryland,” you blurt. He halts, lips parting and closing. You never call him that, and now he seems very, very dazed. You explain, “I’m not overworked. I just needed a bit of time to think. Alone.”

“Right,” he cedes. “I’m sorry.” You can see his shoulders slump in the slightest, all guilt-ridden about having disturbed you. Grace leans weight onto his sneakers, clearly in an attempt to get off your bed and dismiss himself. Too easily, you reach for his arm to hold him in place.

“No, I want you,” you retract it just as quickly with a blurted, “Here. I want you here.” Grace looks more puzzled than before, but sits himself more comfortably on the end of your bed. Open to listen. You clasp your hands together, “Okay. I’m going to give you a hypothetical… Say, you have a decent life, nothing crazy. Good job at a library. It’s modest, and you’re happy with it. Go You have a good place, good friends. No… partner.” Maybe, the two of you are more similar than you realize. “And that’s okay,” you add, paying no mind to the way Grace’s eyes soften behind the lens of his glasses.

You carry on: “You’ve been okay with that for a decent amount of time. Then… apocalypse starts. You find somebody by chance, who you’d probably never cross paths with otherwise, and you realize that you like being with them. And, suddenly, because the apocalypse has started, you probably won’t have another opportunity to like another person like you do this one. And you really like the one.” You can feel your palms clam up at the confrontation of it all, the vulnerability.

He blinks slowly once. Then, twice. Grace raises a slow index finger up towards himself, eyes peering just over the frame of his glasses, “That’s me.” He states it out like an educated guess, cut-and-dry.

“No, it’s Yao,” you shoot back. “Yes, it’s you, obviously. Who else would it be?”

“Okay,” he says, hand reaching up to take his glasses off. Grace stands up with a deep breath, hand ruffling through his spiky-blonde hair as he walks further away from your bunk. Again, he mutters out a soft, “Yeah, okay,” not far off from how he looks trying to expand out a calculation. Grace taps his foot on the floor, paces left, then right, rubs his palm over the scruff on his face. A torturous lack of response. Then, finally, he turns around. “So, the whole time you weren’t just really into microbiology?”

You have to gawk at him. “Are you being serious?” He looks completely serious, glasses hanging off of his chin, blue eyes inspecting the irked look on your face with doe-like curiosity.

“Well, can you blame me? You’re gorgeous, and you’re also impossible to read.” Gorgeous? He thinks you’re gorgeous. That’s nice. You can feel the warmth bloom in your chest at the implication—but you can’t help but scoff out of pure offense. He puts his hands up in a haphazard shrug. “I mean, now that I know, it makes a lot more sense why you look at me like… that. I wasn’t totally sure.” Now, it seems that he’s making a bit of a game out of it. You don’t care to ask him to elaborate on what “that” looks like.

Stubbornly, you tut, “I’m taking it back. I’m taking it back, and it was completely hypothetical!” You stand up from your spot on the bunk, walking narrowly past Grace to your desk. Briskly, you pick up his cardigan—disposed of on your desk chair—before bunching it up and shoving it towards him. 

“No, no, no—you can’t take it back. Cat’s out the bag,” Grace insists teasingly, hands clinging to the cardigan. Before you can completely let go of the woollen fabric, he makes sure, next, to grasp his hands over yours. They’re significantly larger and warm, too warm; with your hands plastered to his chest, there isn’t really anywhere for you to go. You think he must feel the nervousness practically radiating out of you, because he seems to slow down: “Okay, I’m being difficult. I can grovel if you want me to.” Grace’s voice lowers down into a rasp.

There’s a cockiness about it that you haven’t exactly seen from him before. You can’t tell if it’s making you flustered or annoyed—both, likely—and in some bout of courage, you get on your tiptoes to press your lips against his. The cold, metal frame of his glasses nudges against your face as the two of you kiss. Grace takes one hand up to cradle your jaw, and you can hear a quiet, satisfied hum come out of him. It does live up to hypothetical expectation, the way his body melds against yours clumsily around the barrier of the cardigan. It’s very him, and it’s very you. 

Grace can barely be convinced, with your hands pushing back against his chest, to let you take a breath of air. Once the two of you split, Grace has a sideways smirk. “I really like you, too. Not sure if I made that clear,” he murmurs. “So, would you come grab dinner with me?”

[jstshhdmcmjkcmrgm]

Ryland Grace Series Masterlist

SPOILERS!

summary of series: Reader and Ryland are best friends. Have been forever. They both teach at Cleveland Middle. Reader teaches physics and english. Their students ship them a lot. So basically, the thesis, Ryland and Reader wrote together when they were younger and thats why one day they're held back after school and they get recruited together by Stratt. Later on, on the ship, once they settle into their predicament, and Rocky is on board (reader builds the language translation thing because linguistics) and Rocky is very fond of reader. He's also pivotal to the final push for Ryland to realize his feelings. MAIN: Ryland also finds a ring in his stuff which jogs his memory exponentially. Basically he always wanted to do it and didn't want to be in space with the love of his life and never confess his truth because he's a coward.

disclaimer: ALL CREDITS TO ANDY WEIR!! the only sort of original character is the reader as she is majorly self indulgent especially with the teacher subjects lmao. This is just a piece of fanfiction. Pictures from Pinterest. man im sorry i tried really hard to find a picture of a female astronaut without her hair colour visible but you can see the brown. Its okay its just for aesthetics. ENJOY!!

warnings: firstly, obviously MAJOR spoilers. Talk about *not returning from mission.* no pronouns used from chapter 2. Use of Y/N. Will be updated along the way if necessary <3.

GRACE Y/N ROCKY SAVE STARS

timeline entirely arbitrary while still trying to pertain to all facts

Number of Chapters Posted: Updated as posted.

currently: 3 (will probably have one out by tonight <3)

Chapter 1: Recruitment and Waking Up

Mr. Grace and Ms. Y/N are teaching (correction: trying to while their students won't stop getting off topic onto all kinds of tangents) a joint class. After school that day, the two teachers are made to stay back and a life-altering, mind-melting, solar-system-concerning meeting awaits them.

Also: You both wake up nearly twelve light years away in a spaceship that shouldn't exist with no memories.

Chapter 2: GPAs, Geopolitics and Goodbyes (full version)

A flashback of Y/N and Ryland from their college days. (Part 1)

Also: Ryland and Y/N investigating the astrophage (Part 2)

Also: Ryland and Y/N cannot place their own names and have no memory of how they got there but are somehow irreversibly far from home with not a third human for miles except the lifeless husks in the coma room they wish they could give a proper burial. (Part 3)

Chapter 3: Blip-A and a Few Feelings Detected: amid new memories resurfacing l, an interplanetary neighbour knocks on your door.

updated as we go!!!!

[stevebabey]

the four steps between (best) friends and lovers

summary: Long-time best friends, it's not a surprise that it's you Steve comes to when he needs a fake girlfriend. One little white lie, one perilous family dinner, one evening of pretending to be a couple.

How hard could it be?

[ 12k + best friends to lovers + fake dating + fem!reader]

STEP ONE: THE PROPOSAL

"Be my girlfriend."

The glass held between your fingers slips and makes a loud bang as it hits the sink. The water from the tap pours over it, unaware of the incredibly unusual change in the universe that just occurred.

You tilt your head up, ignoring the lost glass, and raise your eyebrows high. "Come again?"

Steve huffs a little, as though you're the one being rather dramatic, and leans further forward across the island. His hands are planted firmly, his hazel eyes wide as he all but pouts at you. You're still grappling with where the hell that came from.

"Be my girlfriend. Please." He says. "For just one dinner, I promise. I swear I wouldn't be asking if I wasn't actually desperate."

You blink, clearly having missed a beat somewhere.

Frowning, you finally shut off the tap and rescue your abandoned glass from the bottom of the sink. You pick up and give it a quick once over for any chips. Scot-free, luckily.

"Okay, back up." You say, giving a small shake to clear your head. You make a face. "First of all, Harrington, ouch."

Steve sags a bit. "C'mon, you know that's not what I mean."

Not even a hint of a smile at your dig — which tells you he's probably pretty serious then.

"Secondly, what dinner is this? What could be so important that you have to show up with a faux-girlfriend on your arm?"

Steve properly slumps this time, a loud groan accompanying the languished movement. His forehead presses against the counter-top and you bite your tongue to avoid making an unhelpful, teasing comment about it. Instead, you refill the glass in your hand and wait patiently.

"I…" Steve begins, his voice muffled against the counter-top.

"MybrotherisintownwithhisfiancéeandI—"

"Steveeee," You interrupt as you give in to the urge, leaning over and poking him in the head. "If you want my help, please stop mumbling into the counter and tell me the problem."

He doesn't move for a moment, still face down, but you can see the rise and fall of his back as he sighs deeply. He shifts, twisting so his face is no longer hidden. It's noticeably pinker than it was a minute ago.

"My brother is in town next week." He explains. "With his fiancée. And my parents really love to kick up a fuss whenever he gets brought up, whether it's, yanno, like, about jobs and shit or whatever."

Steve waves a careless hand out. He rises from his slumped position, tucking his chin into the palm of his hand.

"And, like, this time it was about relationships. It was all," Steve's voice pitches up, whiny and nasally. "When are you going to get a serious relationship like Brandon, Steve? When are you going to settle down, Steve? When are you going to stop being a disappointment, Steve?"

He huffs another sigh, this one tinged with more defeat. You feel your face twitch in sympathy.

"So, just to get them shut up I…" Steve averts his gaze to study the counter-top suddenly. He draws an idle circle with his free hand. "I said that I was actually dating someone."

You take in his words. "But you're not."

"Thank you, genius. I had no idea." Steve straightens up with a scoff, throwing his hands out. Dragging them down his face, another groan warbles out of him.

"But now they're expecting me to show up to this dinner with someone — someone I'm dating — and I cannot admit I lied. So, please, be my girlfriend for one night."

You snort. His distress, a disaster of his own making, is just a tad bit funny. Just a little. A smidge. "Dude, chill. Just say your girlfriend is sick and she can't come."

Steve laughs mirthlessly. "That's like the adult equivalent of saying oh you don't know her, she goes to another school. No, I can't do that! C'mon, please."

His hands clasp together, raised in a plea.

"Think of it as one hugely, massive favour."

You take a moment to think it over.

"When is it?"

"This weekend, Saturday, 5 o'clock."

"Dress code?"

"Formal. Duh."

"How many people?"

"Uh, my mom, my dad, my brother, his fiancée. Maybe my uncle? Four or five."

Saturday was only a couple days away. He'd left it awfully late to ask—and you're not exactly sure who else would step up for the job if you said no. For the first time since he threw out the insane suggestion, you properly consider it — and feel your face screw up instinctively.

You? Pretending to be Steve's girlfriend?

Sure, to some girls that probably sounded like a dream come true, but it hadn't ever been like that between you and Steve.

You weren't even sure if you could picture it, being tucked under his arm, receiving delicate kisses on the head instead of noogies. Your nose wrinkles again at the oddity.

It wasn't like people didn't like to speculate — men and women can't just be friends, after all — but getting on Steve Harrington's kiss list had never really been a priority to you. Would you even be able to pull it off?

Your mind casts out to the girls that Steve tends to date, nit-picking as you try to think of what separated you from them. While Steve would certainly vehemently deny it, you're pretty sure you can pick a pattern out from the array of girls. A type that you certainly wouldn't see yourself fitting into.

Steve just… doesn't go for girls like you.

Steve, watching you closely, sees the hesitation sink in. He leans forward again, bargaining face on.

"You can veto every movie we watch for the next month."

You squint at him. Raise your chin an inch, forcing yourself not to smile too obviously. It's not often you get to see Steve looking ready to actually grovel for something.

He narrows his eyes, catching onto your deviousness. "Fine. I'll pay for your shakes for the next month, too."

You take another moment to think it over, exaggerating the hmmm sound you make. You tap your finger against your chin, indicating you're not quite convinced yet.

Steve leans further forward, his expression inching toward a bitchy disbelief. A muscle in his jaw twitches.

He looks as though he might start another slew of scoffing, his tongue pressed into his cheek, before he seems to re-evaluate what's at stake here.

He says, "I will drive you up to Indianapolis on—" He holds up one finger. "—one occasion when you ask."

Grinning, you stick out your hand for him to shake.

"You've got a deal, mister."

Steve sighs, his shoulders sagging in relief as he drops his hand to rest in yours. You give it a firm shake and just when you can see the thank-you forming on his lips, you tug his hand forward. You grin wider, almost taunting.

"I would've done it just for the shakes, just so you know."

Steve does scoff this time, ripping his hand back from yours. "You're an awful friend."

You bite down your smile, already dreaming of the free shake you'll be sipping all the way out to Indianapolis. You take a sip of your water and raise your brows at Steve over the lip of your cup.

"Hey. Don't you mean awful girlfriend." You wiggle your brows, not failing to see the hint of pink that colours Steve's cheeks.

Despite the colour in his face, Steve manages to deliver a long, unimpressed stare at you.

His eyes flick down your figure, clearly turning your words over in his head, then back up. As though he's actually realising what he's asked you to do.

He huffs another sigh, running his hand down his face. "Jesus Christ. This is an awful idea."

"Hey, it's your idea, not mine."

—

A stray blouse flies from the closet, landing in an unceremonious lump at the foot of your bed.

You toe at it gently, narrowed gaze travelling from the murky colour up toward the closet, to the perpetrator currently tearing your wardrobe apart. He doesn't even pause, hands still digging, almost resembling a dog burying a bone.

Sighing, you drop your head back, hair splaying against your pillow. The water-stain on your bedroom ceiling greets your sigh with silence.

You had thought that, while sure, yeah, the Harrington's are a fancy bunch, it ultimately wouldn't be that much of a hassle to step in as Steve's date.

You'd have to dig through your closet for the nicest thing you owned (and seldom wore) and you and Steve would concoct a ludicrous story that could be the next John Hughes film.

It would take an hour, tops.

A severe underestimation. Maybe the promise of one hugely, massive favour should've tipped you off.

"Are you being serious right now?" You moan from your place on the bed. You shift your head forward again, eyeing your best friend across the room.

Steve, still buried in your closet, makes a loud harumph in answer. His voice comes out muffled against the clothes, too swamped amongst the fabric. "—Y'know, this wouldn't be so hard if you actually had anything wearable in here—"

You make a noise of indignation, tipping your head further forward. Your necklace shifts, the pendant sliding down the chain and hitting the comforter beneath you.

"And just what are you trying to say?"

Steve pauses for a moment, his hands halted on a pair of coat-hangers. He leans out from the clothing and lets his head loll back, his hazel eyes forming a flat stare.

"Har har." Steve says sarcastically. He turns back to the closet, the coat-hanger in his hand scraping as he pushes it along, assessing each piece with quick, attuned eyes. "I'm just saying you have a lack of clothing that my mother deems acceptable."

He turns back for a second. "Which is a good thing, by the way."

You hum in agreement, letting your head flop back onto your pillow. You've seen the pantsuits Cynthia Harrington wears.

Steve continues his barrage through your wardrobe, making a noise of disapproval every couple of seconds.

You also can't say you had expected to get started so soon; as in immediately post fake-girlfriend proposal. It occurs to you that perhaps you've said yes to something bigger than you expected.

"You're taking this really seriously." You comment.

"Yeah, well," Steve reaches in and tosses another blouse, this one pale-blue, on the bed by your feet. "I know you've met my parents before but they're, like, different when Brandon comes around."

"Different?"

"Like worse. Way, way worse." He draws a line with a flat hand. "Brandon makes them just so—"

His hand curls up, forming a fist. He sighs, dropping it to rest on his hip. For a long moment, he stares into your wardrobe.

You push up on one elbow, brows knitting together. "Steve?"

Steve jolts lightly at your voice, torn out of his thoughts. He reaches out and plucks another blouse from your wardrobe, a maroon pleated one that you'd sworn you had thrown away. It's horrendous and definitely picked out by your mother. He turns and chucks it on the bed, crumpling atop the others and looks up at you, hands perched on his hips.

"Just, like, the smoother this dinner goes, the better, okay?"

You sit up completely, catching the seriousness leaking into Steve's voice. Damn. He actually sounds pretty worked up about the whole thing.

You smile, aiming for comfort. Even if you hadn't quite grasped what you had said yes to, Steve was still your best friend.

His parents were… difficult on the best of days. It was clear he was going for the least eventful, head-down approach as he could for this.

You could do that.

"Okay." You nod, more serious this time, eyeing the blouses on the end of the bed. You miss the relief that shutters across Steve's face. "We got three days til Saturday. What do you need me to do?"

"You can start," Steve says, spinning back to face your chest of drawers this time. His eyes flash over, with a hint of mirth. "By telling me if you even own a skirt that goes below your knees, you scandalous woman."

You laugh and get to your feet, wandering towards your drawers to pull open the bottom most one. Fishing around, you try to recall if you have anything church-worthy, tongue poking out your lips.

A hideous woollen skirt gifted to you for Christmas a couple years ago springs to mind. You shiver.

"Below the knee, huh?" You say. "You better start telling me about the role I'll be playing if I can't even turn up as myself."

You're only half joking. Your fingers curl around the scratchy fabric and you wrinkle your nose in recognition. Tugging it forward, it escapes the confines of your drawers and splays out with a sudden poof. You get the joy of remembering just how ugly it really is.

Twisting, you hold it up to Steve who has taken your place on your bed, laid back.

"Think this'll do?"

Steve's head perks up and he locks onto the skirt in your grasp. "Ugh, it's awful. Perfect."

You drop the skirt, abandoning it to take your place next to Steve on the bed. The springs creak slightly as your weight joins Steve's, the bed dipping and forcing you closer together. A smile sneaks onto his face.

"Okay, but for real," You jab a finger into the softness of Steve's side and he makes a little noise of complaint. "You've gotta tell me what I'm expecting for this, dude. It would be, like, catastrophically mean of you to send me in there blind."

Steve sighs — something he's really doing that a lot recently — and rolls toward you, propping his head up with one arm. The edges of his polo stretch as his bicep bulges. He frowns down at your comforter as he thinks.

"I don't know if I actually can prepare you for it." He admits, raising his gaze to look at you through his lashes. "Like, I think we're gonna have to just come up with a story and fend off the questions as best we can."

Another thought occurs to you. You frown. "Wait, don't your parents, like, know about me already?"

Steve's gaze darts away, this time staring at your comforter with a greater intensity. He gives a mirthless chuckle. "Yeah, well, that's why it'll work. They basically already ask me when we'll be getting together."

Your brows jump. A teasing grin taunts your mouth but you forsake it for a more helpful approach.

"Alright, then," You say. "Then let's do better than fending off the wolves. If I'm gonna be your fake girlfriend, I'm not gonna half-ass it. Let's knock the socks off your parents."

Steve's eyes jump up, meeting your stare and it takes another moment before he realises you're being genuine. You grin, poking him in the side again.

"And Brandon."

"Yeah?" Steve smiles. He sounds a tad awed at your dedication, his eyes roaming over your face gently. After a moment, he shakes his head, as if clearing his thoughts. "Okay. Uh, we have to come up with a backstory first."

"And it has to be one that your parents will believe too."

Steve nods, then pauses, a frown knitting together his eyebrows. "Wait, when did we get together? We can't have just started dating that's— like, almost as bad as showing up without a girlfriend."

You blink, perturbed. "What?"

"Oh, hey mom and dad." Steve says, his tone sardonic and flat. "Oh yeah, this is my girlfriend who I somehow started dating just one week ago, coincidentally just in time for this family dinner."

You cringe a little. He does have a point.

"Fine." You say. A little worry burrows into your brain — the longer you make your 'relationship', the more details you have to construct, to remember, and recall correctly.

You worry your bottom lip. "How long is long enough though? If it's too long, we have to remember more things."

Steve's mouth twists in thought. He gives a hmm.

"I think the last time you saw my parents was… sometime around New Year's Eve, right? They had that party, d'ya remember?"

You wrack your brain and find a memory with glittering fireworks and greasy hot-dogs. Steve had too much champagne and emptied his stomach into a bush. Faintly, the memory of passing by Mr and Mrs. Harrington fits in there— only for a moment.

"Yeah," You say.

Combing over the last years' events, you try to think if there's anything else you would've seen them at.

Graduation? You try to smooth out the wrinkles of that memory too; sunny day, sweltering gown. You hadn't remembered seeing Steve's parents there. "'Cos they didn't come to graduation, did they?"

"Nope." Steve says, popping the p. He rolls back to lie flat on your bed, folding his hands to rest on his chest. "What about after one of my basketball games? The final one of the season." He proposes, eyes tracking back to you.

You laugh without meaning to, spurred on by Steve's surprise.

"Really? At your basketball game? That's when the sparks went flying and we got together?"

Steve's mouth drops open an inch in offense. He throws his hands up. "What? That's, like, totally romantic." He defends. "Besides, it's a good reason for our friendship to have changed."

"You lost that game."

"I still scored!"

"Fine." You appease, laughing lightly. "We got together after you lost the last basketball game of the season."

Steve wrinkles his nose again. "Well, don't put it like that."

You laugh again, soft and light.

"Who asked who?"

"I asked you." Steve says.

You nod, carefully trying to commit the detail to memory. Your head spins as you try to think up the variety of different questions you might get asked at the dinner.

What sort of questions might his parents ask? Or his brother? They'll probably want to know the basics — how you got together, how it's going. You might get a shake-down to see if you're worthy of dating a Harrington.

Then, of course, there is the matter of ensuring you're a convincing couple. In love enough to be brought along to an exclusive family event.

That means… getting touchy. The thought sends a jolt through your stomach— will you have to kiss?

You bury the thought. You'll cross that bridge and have it's subsequently unavoidable, awkward conversation when you get to it.

You're not sure who'll you will have more trouble convincing; Brandon or Steve's parents. But from what you know of Steve's family, you'd bet none of them know him that well.

For all you know, this could well be a walk in the park. Maybe the easiest free trip to Indianapolis ever earned.

"What's Brandon like?" You ask, trying to get a better sense of who you'll be fooling. "Do you think he'll ask many questions?"

"He's…" Steve's eyes shift from you to the ceiling, his mouth forming a flat line. "An asshole, like my dad. He's got this amazing talent for getting under my skin. Which usually includes undermining just about anything I have going for me in my life. Or—" He gestures to you with a sigh. "—what I actually don't have going."

He rolls his head in your direction, his mouth twisted into a bitchy frown.

"He used to always rat on me to our parents when I was kid. He once got me in trouble for going to see Tommy just because he didn't want to walk me over. Said I disobeyed authority." Steve makes quotations with his fingers.

Your brows raise in disbelief. "Isn't he, like, fifteen years older than you?"

Steve huffs a mirthless laugh. "Yep. Told you, asshole. So, yes, he'll probably ask questions but I don't think he'll expect I'd do something as desperately pathetic as faking a girlfriend so hopefully we'll fly under his radar."

Reaching out, you whack Steve on the arm, relishing in his annoyed ow!

Eyes narrowed, you wait til he's looking at you with his what gives? face before you say, "What you're doing is not pathetic, nor is it desperate. It is an act of survival against your shitty family, okay?"

Steve stares at you for a moment before his shoulders seem to melt, the tension leaking from them. He flops his head back.

"Okay." He murmurs in agreement.

"Alright," You say. "Now, let's get this story straight. We got together at the final game of the season, which would mean we've been together for nearly…"

STEP TWO: THE ACT

Your legs itch and you fight the urge to readjust your tights for the umpteenth time.

Steve, in the driver's seat beside you, drums his hands against the steering wheel too rapidly to be casual. He keeps darting one hand to his mouth, teeth worrying at his thumbnail.

You'd reach out and smack him to get him to stop but you're beginning to feel the lurch of nerves yourself. The drive from your house to Steve's has never seemed so, so entirely too short.

"Okay, uh," Steve's throat clicks, clammed up from his silence for too long.

He hadn't spoken much when he had picked you up, other than to laugh at your joke at the mismatch of yourself and your prim outfit.

You'd ended up finding a double-breasted blazer in your mom's closet and you look almost ready to run as the local mayor. You're even wearing tights.

"We got together the 20th—"

"—of June, last year." You finish for him.

Steve nods, his face still facing forward. His eyes look a tad unfocused, even as he reaches out to adjust the collar of his dress shirt. "Right. So we've been together for, uh, about ten months."

You nod encouragingly, checking the details in your head. "You asked me out. Our first date was—"

"—at The Hawk." Steve cuts in, parroting off your memorised answers. "We saw Labyrinth and, uh, then I drove you home."

That part isn't technically untrue. You and Steve had gone to see Labyrinth together back in June of last year, but it certainly hadn't been a date. You find the details lend themselves quite easily regardless.

"That's when we had our first kiss." You remind him, even if it makes your face heat minisculy. "What did you get me for Christmas?" You quiz.

"Uh," Steve's hand rabbits against the steering wheel, nerves evident. He finally breaks his stare from the road to glance at you, his brows furrowed together, eyes worried. "Fuck, I can't remember."

"It's fine," You stress, waving a hand. "You got me tickets to Billy Joel and we drove out to Indianapolis for the concert in April."

Steve nods a bit too manically, his perfectly coiffed hair coming a bit loose. The houses flashing by the window gradually get bigger, fancier. He bites his thumbnail again and this time you do reach out and tug his wrist away.

"Thanks." He murmurs.

He turns the wheel, the engine droning as the car takes the corner to enter his street. Your nerves hike a mile higher and you tug at your tights fruitlessly again. The street is lined with nice cars — not unexpected for Steve's neighbourhood.

What is unexpected is the sheer volume. You and Steve peer out the car windows, eyes wide, as you take in the full street. When you swallow, your throat feels particularly dry.

You turn to Steve. "I thought they said it was a family dinner?"

Steve, his eyes darting from car to car, either trying to find a park amongst the packed sidewalk or maybe just panicking like you are, takes a moment to meet your eyes. He looks a lovely shade of chalky white.

"They definitely did."

There's a free space down the end of Steve's street, the driveway already full with two cars, neither you can recognise.

Steve's foot hits against the brake too abruptly and the car jerks to a stop, rocking forward. You grip the edges of your seat tightly as Steve kills the engine. For a moment, neither of you make a sound.

"What if there's more than just family in there?" Steve croaks, turning slowly to face you.

The paleness in his face has pitched toward something greener. He swallows heavily, twisting back to stare out the windshield and his hands on the wheel tighten. "Oh my god, this is— this isn't gonna to work."

"Steve."

"Valentines, we did Lover's Lake," Steve mutters to himself, eyes still out the window. "Fuck, this is so stupid."

"Steve," You try again. His own panic is worsening your own and if he continues to spiral, you fear you might never make it out of the car and you did not wear itchy tights for that to happen.

"You got me the Michael Jackson record for my birthday," He rattles off again, almost absentmindedly, as though his mind can't pick between panicking about trying to remember all the details or the apparent extra guests.

"This is— oh my god, we're never gonna convince them."

"Steve." You say firmly. His head snaps around, broken from his mutterings. He blinks at you.

You take a deep, exaggerated breath in. Steve follows instinctively, his shoulders rising as he inhales.

"We will convince them." You insist earnestly.

Offering out your upturned hand, you wait for Steve to shift to place his bigger hand in yours. When he does, your fingers curl around it, cradling it.

You can feel the rabbit of his pulse at your fingertips and you meet his eye as you say, "We know each other—really well. We're best friends. We've practised, we look the part, okay? Now, all we have to do is… be a couple for an evening. It's going to be fine."

Steve swallows and for a moment, he doesn't say anything. Then his breath bursts out in a release of tension, his hand finally squeezing yours back. "God, what would I do without you?"

"Crash and burn, probably." You tease, thankful when unease hanging on his frame is replaced by something more familiar.

Steve makes an appalled noise, tightening his grip on your hand so you can't pull it back. His other hand moves, his fingers dancing across the ticklish skin on the inside of your arm til you shriek out in laughter, yanking your hand back.

Your laughter seems to have dimmed the nervousness a bit. You glance over your shoulder, down the street, and track an older couple dressed primly entering the Harrington home. As you turn back to Steve, you swallow to gather your nerves.

"Ready?"

Steve doesn't look like he is, his shifting, unsure eyes and stressing hands. He pushes his palms against his slacks and takes a sharp inhale, before meeting your eyes. "Ready as I'll ever be."

You count the steps up to the doorway without even meaning to, arriving at the Harrington doorstep in approximately 47 steps. The maroon double doors before you seem taller than usual. Steve raises his hand to knock and then halts, his attention shifting to his upraised hand.

He quickly tucks it back against his side, except this time with his elbow held out for you.

A faint pang of surprise in your chest, coloured with something softer, nicer. You’ve seen somewhat what Steve’s like on his dates and you’ve certainly heard plenty of the aftermath. But you’ve never been on one, of course.

As you loop your arm to nook in his, you find yourself unexpectedly eager to find out exactly what it’s like to be Steve Harrington’s date.

Steve knocks on the door, then twists the knob and lets himself in.

Despite seeing the earlier guests, there’s little to prepare you for the room full of people that stand on the other side of the door. Moving on instinct, clinging to Steve’s arm, you step through the threshold and into the lion's den.

Your nerves fry. Never mind lion's den; you feel more like a fly caught in a web. Frog boiling in a pot? No, that doesn't work because you know exactly what you were signed up to when you said yes to Steve.

Well, not precisely. You survey the crowd, counting at least three times as many people as you were expecting with nervous eyes.

Your little white lie with Steve just graduated to having an entire audience. No pressure, right?

“Steven.”

The croon of Cynthia Harrington greets the pair of you.

You feel Steve stiffen up beside you, his shoulders rolling back, his entire body straightening up. His throat bobs as he swallows nervously.

“Mom,” Steve says. His voice is a bit dry and he swallows again. “You didn’t say there were going to be this many people here.”

He’s polite enough to not word it as an accusation. His niceties don’t work, bouncing off the painstakingly sculpted smile of a businesswoman.

“Please, it’s a networking event, I’m not sure what you expected.” She adjusts her diamond earring, swaying and heavy, as she speaks dismissively. “I told you this, Steven.”

You never hear anyone call Steve Steven other than his parents.

“No, Mom, you didn’t.”

There’s a barely restrained bite in his words.

That catches Cynthia’s attention. She stops her roaming gaze to focus on her son, not even glancing at you. After a moment, she gives an exasperated huff.

“Well, why else would we be back, Steven? Your father is trying to close business with Mr. Collings.”

The sting isn’t even for you — in fact, you don’t even think she realises she’s dealt it — but you feel it all the same. Steve’s arm looped with yours tightens, a minuscule motion.

Though you know he thinks they’re all assholes, it doesn’t stop Steve from hoping they’ll come back for him.

“Right.” Steve says, voice tight. “Sure. Of course.”

You’re just thinking about dragging him away from this barbed conversation, clearly pricking all his sensitive spots, when Cynthia’s sharp gaze slides over to you.

Her eyes gleam in recognition and her posture changes.

“Oh, is this the girlfriend you’ve spoken of?”

This time you’re the one who stiffens up. It’s momentary. You know that Steve’s likely freaking out too and at least one of you has to pull yourself together.

The most winning smile you can manage glides onto your face.

“That’s me.” You squeeze Steve’s arm with your hand. It's half in genuine comfort, half in show.

Cynthia regards you for another long moment before she manages to straighten up further, as though pinched.

“Oh! Yes, I recognise you. Remind me of your name, dear?”

It’s a struggle not to grit your teeth. Steve and you have been friends for nearing ten years now.

Still, you relay it politely for her. Your smile feels a bit wooden now.

“Oh, Steven. How nice.” Cynthia says, a touch of patronisation in her tone. Her beady eyes slice back to yours. “He had such a crush on you for the longest time, it’s—”

“Mom.” Steve hisses, cutting her off. Another unexpected jolt of something warm in your chest. Wait, really?

You chance a glance up at Steve. His ears are tinted pink.

You’re not entirely sure what to make of how that makes you feel, so you shelve it for later. Maybe when you’re not being thrown to the sharks by Steve’s awful parents.

Okay, too many animal metaphors. Falling asleep to the Discovery Channel last night is definitely taking its toll.

“We’re gonna mingle, find Dad.” Steve says hurriedly. He moves forward, past his mother, and tugs you with him. Your legs itch with the reminder of your scratchy tights.

“Alright, Steven. Make sure you say hello to your brother!”

Steve huffs, loud enough that you hear it, and you let him lead you through the throngs of middle-aged people. He stops when he reaches the kitchen, finally unwinding his arm with yours.

He does it so he can shove his hands in his hair, a stressed motion from Steve if you’ve ever seen one.

“God, okay, that went well.” He says sarcastically.

“Stop. You’re ruining your hair.” You reach up and rescue his lochs from his harsh grip, fingers around his wrists to tug his hands away. You’re far too aware of how long it had taken him to do.

Steve lets you. When you focus on his face, you notice the pink from his ears is also on his cheeks.

The question jumps off your tongue, unbidden.

“Was she telling the truth? About… the crush? Or was she just trying to tease you?”

The pink dips closer to scarlet. Steve sighs, his eyes closing for a moment.

“I— she- yes,” He admits. Your heart shudders at the revelation. Steve’s eyes open and he twists his hands so he can hold yours in them. “But, like, not now. In the past. Years ago, I promise.”

For his sake, you do your best not to take it too seriously. Even if you wanted to pry, now is not the time nor the place to do so.

However, you can’t resist a small, teasing grin. Steve catches it and his embarrassment gives way to exasperation instantly.

“You likeeed me,” You say in a sing-song voice.

Teasing is not unfamiliar in your friendship with Steve and getting to joke around, even at this strange party, feels nicer. Steve groans dramatically, his eyes closing and his hands pushing against your hands to shove you away.

A new voice interrupts.

“Liked? I sure hope he likes you now, being his girlfriend and all.”

You and Steve both snap out of your easy joking, remembering that you’re supposed to be presenting as a couple. Head turning to who had spoken, it only takes a couple of seconds for you to place who it is.

He looks a little bit like Steve, but not really.

The eyes are different, not as slanted and he hasn’t got any of Steve’s beautiful moles. But the nose, the mouth, put together with matching brown hair and tan skin, you know who this is without having to ask.

“Brandon.” Steve says. The name is stilted in his mouth.

Brandon smirks, his same hazel coloured eyes dragging a long, scathing once-over of his younger brother. He doesn’t look impressed, if his disinterested expression is anything to go by.

Then he does the same to you.

It’s almost tangible, the prickly feeling of his gaze raked over your body. Searching, hunting, nearly making you want to perk up to gain his approval.

God, Steve was right on the money. This guy is like his father but worse.

“The eye-candy of the month, huh?” He says to you, chuckling as if he’s made a joke.

You consider, then make the decision to throw all pleasantries out the window. You don’t smile back.

“Actually, Steve and I will be coming up on one year soon.”

Tangling your hands back together as you say it, you lean into Steve’s side. It’s warm, smells of his cologne. Only when you gaze up at him, do you let a smile grace your lips. It’s soft and genuine.

Steve smiles back down at you, crooked and lovely.

“I’m surprised anyone could settle him down,” Brandon continues and you turn back to him, fighting the urge to narrow your eyes. It doesn’t escape you how he’s jumped from one slight dig to the next.

He’s clever with it. Polite enough that Steve can’t exactly bring it up as an issue.

Brandon continues, swirling his crystal tumbler of whiskey idly. “Surprised he wanted to. Little bro always seemed like such a womanizer. Didn’t think he’d want just one chick.”

He leans in and socks Steve on the shoulder, hard, when he says the word womanizer. He’s grinning.

You have to admit, Brandon’s far too good at this — good at getting under your skin. If you hadn’t been forewarned of his behaviour, if you actually were Steve’s girlfriend, it would certainly rub you the wrong way. He’s certainly doing his best to sprinkle grit and strife between you two.

And you know it hurts Steve to hear — Sure, maybe when he was a thick-headed freshman, with no clue about the world, he had acted that way.

Nowadays... Anyone who knows Steve, even a little bit, knows he wants the real deal, more than anything.

“Not anymore,” Steve says, though it’s not nearly as confident as he usually is. He clears his throat and casts his gaze around. “Where’s Ariel?”

“Ah,” Brandon hums, looking around himself. He takes a long sip of his whiskey. “Not sure. I think I left her in conversation with the Erickson’s from across the street. She’s been pleading with her eyes to be saved but hey, she’s gotta learn sometime, right?”

Your lip curls up in distaste before you remember yourself. Fingers intertwined with Steve’s, you clutch them tighter for some semblance of strength.

You’ve got to get the two of you out of here before you start outright sneering at this man — which is very much not the heads-down approach Steve had asked for.

“Babe,” you say, effectively dismissing Brandon’s comment as you look up at Steve. He looks down at you and squeezes your hand. “Can we grab a drink, please? I’m feeling thirsty.”

Steve murmurs his affirmation and you both turn back to Brandon to bid a polite goodbye. His left eye twitches just once, the only indication that he’s put off by your subtle rejection.

“Well,” Brandon fixes his features, his smirk sliding back into place. “Don’t let me keep you. What was your name again, sweetheart?”

“I didn’t say.” You say, forcing the politest, more nonchalant expression on your face. You let him stew in the awkwardness, waiting for him to break and ask.

He doesn't. Brandon just smiles, though this time it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He holds out his hand and despite how you don’t want to, you place your own in it to shake it.

“Well, it’s been real nice getting to meet you. I hope I’ll see more of you later tonight.” He smiles like a promise. His grip tightens in the handshake.

You grip his hand tighter, matching his strength, and for the first time in the whole conversation, you match his perfectly fake smile.

“Not if I see you first,” You say, spoken pleasantly enough that the meaning of your words doesn’t sink in until you’ve pulled back. You urge Steve somewhere, anywhere that’s not here.

“C’mon, let’s get that drink.”

There’s a punch-bowl out in the living room, thankfully. Displayed next to it is a large jell-o mould, arsenic green, and jiggling gently whenever someone bumps the table. Rich people stuff, you assume.

You eye it curiously as Steve quietly ladles a cup for you, then himself.

The punch is pineapple flavoured but peachy in colour. You sniff the cup Steve gives you hesitantly before you take a small sip. It’s nice. Mostly juice.

You peer up at Steve over the next sip and the cup hides your near hiccup of surprise when his hand slides along your waist. His hand, warm and large, settles on the small on your back and urges you closer.

“That was— wait, this is okay, right?” He pulls his hand back an inch, hovering over your waist. You nod without having to think about it.

“Okay,” He sighs in relief, resting it back down. His thumb moves, soothing along the fabric almost absentmindedly.

He grins at you, “That was, like, amazing to watch. The whole —not if I see you first— just, god, his face. Amazing.” His hand on your waist squeezes lightly. “You’re amazing. I didn’t know you could be so snobby.”

He says the last word slightly too loud and you laugh, worriedly stealing a glance around the room. No one’s paying you much mind. You do notice, however, that Brandon’s meandered into the living room now.

You sidle closer, tucking up under Steve’s arm.

Surprise touches Steve's features; his brows raising a bit, lips parting, and cheeks colouring that ruby colour once more.

It’s as if, despite all your previous agreements, he’s forgotten that you’re supposed to be acting like a couple.

As if he’s forgotten that couples act like this. In love, that is.

“Are you finding this weird?” He murmurs, volume control on this time. It’s said just to you, muffled into your hairline.

From afar, you think it might look like he’s kissing your forehead.

You take another sip of the punch, peering at his dress shirt, and consider his question. It’s not weird, per se. You tell him as much.

“I think it’s just new,” You look up at him — closer than you usually ever see him. His lashes are long and spidery. His hazel eyes are lighter under the lights. “Just different to what we’re used to. It’s… nice, I think.”

“You think?”

You expect Steve to tease you for your own unexpected soft answer but instead, his response comes out with a strange reverence.

If you had to pick a word, something traitorous would maybe call it hopeful. Wait, traitorous? Wait, hopeful?

"Yeah," You shrug a little, no big deal. "I mean it's not that much different from how we already are, right? Just a little more..."

Steve's thumb swatches along your back, more intentionally this time.

"Touchy?" He provides.

You nod and pretend the strange acknowledgement isn't making you feel a tad more flustered.

The touchiness is really quite nice. It’s sweet to have an anchor in this freaky social situation, very much unlike the aforementioned and abandoned Ariel. Steve’s hand on you is a grounding touch, a constant soft reminder of the person who has your back—literally.

And the person is Steve — which, again, isn’t really that different from what you’re used to. He sorta always has your back anyway.

You suppose it hasn't really crossed your mind before, not in depth at least, the small changes that would occur if you and Steve really did date.

How different would it really be?

Chin tilting up, you slyly steal a look at him as Steve scans the party. He's probably planning escape routes, jaw clenched subtly. He's clean-shaven, not a whisper of that stubble that you think suits him rather well.

Would you still be friends, if the two of you dated?

The question feels silly the moment you think it, even if it's only spoken in your mind. You wrinkle your nose lightly and hide it behind another sip of punch. There's an easy answer to that.

Of course you would. It's like you just said: not that different from how you are now. Same teasing dynamic, same loyal history, same sharing embarrassing secrets and same driving around doing nothing, loving it.

Just more. More of this.

Steve squeezes your side warmly, his head twisted to look back down at you. He's asked you a question you realise.

"Hm?"

"I was asking how long do you think it's acceptable to wait to fake a heart-attack to get us out of here?”

Amusement draws your eyebrows up. You grin up at Steve. "A heart-attack? At your youthful, healthy age? C'mon, Steve, they'll never believe it."

Steve's expression twitches closer to bitchy as he considers your rebuttal. You take another sip of punch. He relents.

"Fine. What else? I’m not above faking haemorrhoids.”

The punch in your mouth comes back out in a surprised splutter, thankfully landing mostly back in your cup. A drop of it streaks down your chin.

Your surprise quickly morphs into a glare, eyes shifting up to deliver it to your best friend.

The shit-eating grin on Steve’s face tells you that his timing was not accidental.

“You’re unbelievable,” You hiss because what happened to the polite, head down, and not eventful approach that Steve had all but pleaded from you?

He reaches for a napkin for you without asking — and then tugs you in closer with the hand around your waist, brings the napkin up to your face. He hovers, giving you a moment to realise what he’s doing, before he dotingly swipes away the streak of juice.

“Careful now, honey,” He says, giving the petname a teasing intonation.

How he managed to pick the petname that does actually make your heart perk up in your chest is beyond you. Maybe he knows you better than you think.

“Oh, that’s how it’s gonna be?” You ask, brows raised, pretending to be annoyed. Your bitten-back grin gives you away. “Making me spit my punch and then just sprinkling in a petname—”

“—like you didn’t do that first, with Brandon in the kitchen.” Steve interjects. He crumples the napkin and drops it back on the table.

“Okay," You say. "Fair."

"We forgot to discuss that, actually," Steve says. He sounds casual but he looks away, studying the punchbowl rather intently. "What... like, do you like to be called? In a relationship?"

It is an oversight both of you managed to miss, which makes you feel a little foolish now. You focus on the question.

"I like honey," You admit gingerly. A tepid smile threatens at your lips and when you look up at Steve, he's already turned back to watch you closely. "It's a bit old-fashioned. Sounds more like something you say if you're married but...I think it's nice."

"Yeah," Steve says softly. "Me too."

Something hums brightly in your chest at his gentle expression, his fondness zeroed in only on you. You break his gaze to swallow, your mouth suddenly dry.

"What about you?"

Steve chuckles. "Don't like babe."

"Too late."

“Yeah, well, obviously.”

There’s a beat and you think if you’ve ever had this conversation before. Sweetened preferences didn’t usually make it into your gossip sessions. This is new territory.

“I like sweetheart too,” Steve says, somewhat offbeat. As if he’d thought for too long if he’d say it or not.

He peers down at you, a scrunch in his nose. “Not like Brandon says it though. He might’ve ruined that one for me.”

“He can ruin this dinner, but not that.” You decide for him. “C’mon, sweetheart. We look like we’re stealing all the punch.”

Using your hand in his, you lead him away from the punch table and weave through the people milling about the living room. A touch of resistance makes you glance back. You can see a pink glow painted on Steve’s cheeks.

Your feet come to a halt, twisting back to properly face him. You can’t resist the urge to tease. “Oho, you weren’t kidding- you do like that one.”

“Oh, shut up,” Steve murmurs, his tongue pressed into his cheek and his eyes narrowed.

“I don’t believe I raised you so poorly as to address a lady like that, Steven.”

You jump at the intrusion, realising you’d unluckily managed to stop right beside Mr. Harrington. Fuck, why are all of Steve’s family so good at sneaking up on you? You chalk it up to their snakeish tendencies.

“Dad.” Steve says hurriedly. Then, with a quick swallow, he corrects himself. “I’m sorry, sir.”

Mr. Harrington is not what you’d call an impressive man. Sure, his suit is tailored to fit and you have no doubt his overwhelming cologne costs more than three paychecks combined — but in substance? He lacks. Severely.

You’ve met him thrice.

Every time, you wonder how someone as wonderful as Steve, can come from someone like him.

Though, it certainly explains the god-awful ‘King Steve’ phase Steve had gone through in his freshman and sophomore year. You shiver at the memory.

“It was warranted, Mr. Harrington, believe me,” You jump in to move the attention of Steve’s father back to you, easily shouldering the blame. A smile, cool and collected, graces your face. “I was teasing him, after all.”

Mr. Harrington grunts in disagreement. “Hardly an excuse to speak so crudely, especially in front of guests.”

Opening your mouth to defend him again, Steve speaks first. “You’re right, sir. I apologise, it won’t happen again.”

Steve still shoots you a thankful glance. You clamp down your half-formed response and squeeze his hand instead. He squeezes back.

Maybe the two of you should’ve learned morse-code with all the squeezing you’re both doing. You hadn’t anticipated holding his hand for this long.

You could let go. You don’t really want to — and you’re pretty sure, neither does Steve.

You can’t remember the last time you held his hand.

“Your new girlfriend, I presume?” Mr. Harrington nods to you.

Steve barely gets a moment to respond when his father is waving him forward, stepping back to open a circle of middle-aged men behind him.

“Come, there’s a few associates I’d like you to meet, Steven.”

There’s no question, only a demand. Despite how it feels like stepping into a pit of vipers — damn you, Discovery Channel — you and Steve join the circle.

“Gentlemen,” Mr. Harrington addresses the four men before you, a wry smile on his face. “My son, Steven.”

Then, as an afterthought, with a glance your way. “And his girlfriend.”

“Oh? Not fianceé?” One of the men speaks up. He’s balding, his hair combed over in an attempt to cover his ruddy coloured scalp.

“I’m afraid you’re thinking of my other son, Brandon.” Mr. Harrington says, words suddenly imbued with a proud tone. Steve’s hand grows rigid in yours, though you don’t think he’s even noticed. You send a squeeze back.

A different man speaks up. This man has all his hair, but also has a pot-belly that threatens to send buttons on his dress shirt flying.

“Ah, well, fianceé to be, I bet.” He says, speaking directly to Steve and ignoring you. “Soon it’ll be the ol’ ball and chain. Enjoy your freedom while it lasts, son.”

Then the fucker winks at you—as if you’re in on some big joke. A deep, miserable pity dawns in you for their wives.

“Actually,” Steve begins. There’s an edge in his voice.

You glance up at him concernedly — sure, these guys are douchebags, but you know that. Throwing in the polite and heads-down approach in front of his father might be the worst timing ever.

“I’m not sure what you mean.” Steve says. The bite in his voice has receded and instead, he sounds calm. Polite. “My girlfriend is one of the best things in my life. She’s smart, talented, beautiful— and why she chooses to waste her time with me is a mystery to me.”

He speaks as though he believes every word he’s saying, a hundred percent. You realise you’re holding your breath when Steve turns to look down at you. His hazel eyes are soft, genuine.

“She makes me a better person. She’s… She’s my best friend.”

The line between your genuine friendship and this fake concocted act blurs entirely — and suddenly, you can’t tell what is real and what is not.

Worse, you’re not sure which you'd prefer more.

Does he really think all those things about you?

Steve, who should probably, definitely take up an acting gig after this, plants a quick, nimble kiss on your forehead to sell his loving words.

He turns back to his father’s business friends.

“Believe me, if I ever get so lucky as to marry her, I’d be the ball and chain.” He chuckles. “Not the other way around.”

You’re still holding your breath, heart stuck somewhere halfway up your throat. The businessmen before you show varying amounts of surprise and annoyance—none more of the latter than Mr. Harrington himself.

It doesn’t matter. Steve’s said it all in that perfectly polite way that’s so often been used against him. Something within you glows hotly with pride.

“Now, gentlemen, if you’ll excuse us,” Steve says politely. He drops your hand to re-link your arms once more, then nods to them. “I need to reapply my haemorrhoid cream.”

You’re pretty sure Steve turns you both away from the conversation as fast as he does, knowing that you’re gonna laugh. You do, his last sentence so unexpected it turns your laugh into this foul half hacking, half coughing noise.

Steve pats your back, expecting it, raising his voice as he walks you forward, “There, there.”

There’s a little smugness in his tone. You wait until you pass back into the front hall — now Cynthia Harrington free — to unlink your arms and smack him on the chest.

“Asshole!” You exclaim, but you’re already laughing. Steve’s laughing too, the sound bright and honeyed amongst the dull murmur of the event. God, the looks on their faces.

“I didn’t think you would actually do that.”

“Hey, it got us out of the conversation, didn’t it?”

“Yes, but,” You worry your bottom lip between your teeth, gaze falling from his for a moment. “I mean, won’t your dad…?”

Steve sighs and then shrugs. “I think I’m done trying to impress people like that. If you’re not up to standard to them, why the hell would I care about their opinion of me?”

Your heart feels a little wobbly at that. Steve has always been devastatingly earnest; it’s just less often directed at you. The two of you are used to teasing.

You fall back on it. “Awww,” You coo, gripping his forearms and leaning forward with a coy grin. “You got haemorrhoids for me, honey? That’s so romantic.”

Steve narrows his eyes, trying and failing to suppress his own smile.

“Hey. Fake haemorrhoids, thank you very much.”

“Eh, what’s the big difference?”

“One is my bleeding heart, the other is my bleeding ass, is the big difference.”

He can barely get through the sentence before his laugh takes over. You dissolve into laughter too, cheeks beginning to ache with the force of your grin.

“Steve? Leaving so soon?”

The sweet bubble of laughter around you and Steve pops at the sound of Brandon’s voice. He’s in the doorway that leads to the kitchen and at your attention, he steps toward you, slow and deliberate.

“Yeah, actually,” Steve says. His eyes track Brandon with every calculated step his brother makes til he stops, a few metres from you both.

“Y’know, I heard that hasty exit in front of dad. Did you know that was in front of Mr. Collings? Y’know, the one guy dad’s trying to close a deal with?”

Shit. You swallow heavily. You didn’t know that. You know neither did Steve.

Beside you, Steve grows tense. When he swallows, you hear his throat click from dryness.

Brandon watches and revels in the tiny reactions, his smirk growing. He tucks his hands into his suit pockets casually.

“I talked with mom, too. Learned some interesting stuff, especially about your pretty lady here.”

He nods to you, hazel eyes slicing across to meet yours. Your nerves start to stand on end, something threatening in his calm demeanour setting you off. You grip Steve’s forearms tighter.

“That she is the best friend you’ve been mooning over all these years. And I just thought—” Brandon clicks his tongue. “Man, what are the chances that we don’t hear a thing about you two getting together until this conference? Crazy timing, if you ask me.”

He tilts his head to the side, examining the two of you closely. His smug nature is far, far too much like that of a predator toying with its prey.

“It’s like- wait, no—”

Brandon cuts himself out, fishing a hand out his pocket to gesture to you, grinning smugly like something is funny.

“Is he paying you?”

You recoil back, so baffled and taken aback by the cruel mockery Brandon jumps to make of his younger brother. To make of your best friend.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” You snap.

Brandon blinks, surprised, and a bit of his smugness dries up. He draws his hand back, holding it up defensively.

“C'mon, like it's not just the kind of pathetic move he’d pull. I haven’t even seen the two of you kiss.”

He chuckles as if the idea is ludicrous.

STEP THREE: THE KISS

You act without thinking — turning back to Steve, your hands reach up to tightly grasp the collar of his dress shirt.

You see Steve’s hazel eyes widen ever-slightly, then you’re pulling him down, pressing up on your toes, and kissing him.

And… oh.

He’s not half bad at that, you think. It takes Steve a moment, but then his arms circle your waist and after a tentative moment, he kisses back gently, deepening the kiss. Not bad at this at all.

For one brief, precious second, you’re kissing your best friend.

And it's entirely incomparable to any kiss you've experienced before—immeasurable in passion and utterly undoing in a thousand ways.

Steve breathes a little heavier, his cheeks flushed, when you break away. You sink back down off your tiptoes, hands dragging off Steve’s rumpled collar to rest on his chest. You turn to face Brandon.

He doesn’t look so smug anymore. He looks ticked off. Good.

“Brandon, you’re an asshole.” You state plainly. “I hope one day, soon, your fiancée realises what a cruel and shallow bully you really are. And I hope she leaves you for it. Truly.”

The ticked off expression on Brandon's face veers closer to aghast and offended—as if he can’t believe you have the gall to speak to him that way.

“I hope you realise what a stain you are on other people’s life and I sincerely hope that I never have the displeasure of meeting you again.”

Moving to grip Steve’s hand in yours, you move towards the door without a goodbye.

STEP FOUR: THE AFTERMATH

It’s bright outside. Stepping out feels a bit like waking from a stress dream, where in reality, the sun is shining and things that were driving you nuts aren't really problems you actually have.

You stall on the front doorstep, where you were just an hour or so ago.

Well, that didn’t go… awfully, you think. In fact, you’re feeling quite happy with serving Brandon a perfect brand of his own medicine.

You’re about to open your mouth and say as much when Steve drops your hand, brushing past you to head down the stairs, “C’mon, let’s go.”

Your stomach drops at the tone of his voice, a prickly disappointment draped over his words. You’d think you’re reading into it — if Steve wasn’t currently heading for the car, not even waiting for you to catch up. A dead giveaway.

Tights itching from the hasty movement, you quickly follow him and puzzle for a moment. He’s mad. But at what? It takes only a moment to hazard a pretty good guess.

Before the dinner, the awkward conversation of how touchy you two would be had been breached. You and Steve both agreed; no kissing. Even with how close the two of you were, it felt like strange territory to cross into. An unspoken line not to cross.

By kissing him, you’d broken that rule.

Guilt wells up within you. Your moment of telling Brandon to suck it suddenly feels tainted by the sliminess of kissing Steve without permission. You pull at your tights uncomfortably, trailing behind Steve on the sidewalk.

As you reach his car, you swallow the lump in your throat, and speak up.

“I'm sorry, okay?"

Steve, who's reached the driver's side door, looks up and over the top of the car. Then furrows his brow.

"What?"

"For..." The word gets stuck in your throat like wet paper. "Kissing you when we said we wouldn't do that. That was-" You inhale sharply and study the trim along the edge of the car window.

"I just really couldn't stand how he was talking to you. And I thought that would shut him up."

You glimpse back up at Steve. He's softened a little at your words, the crease between his brows gone now. His eyes dart away, a muscle in his jaw working tightly.

"Yeah, well, you were right. It worked."

Steve seems to hear how short his words sound right after he says them, especially as you rear back an inch. He gives a sigh, his eyes falling shut for a moment. "Look, I'm not mad about the kiss, okay?"

His particular wording isn't lost on you.

"But you are mad." You press.

"I'm not."

You step closer to the car, desperate to understand. He is mad but he's not mad about the kiss? Does that mean he is or isn't mad at you?

"You sound mad."

Steve makes a sputtering noise, like he's torn between denying it or not. You catch it, pressing your hands against the car window to lean in even closer.

"So, you are mad. At me? Are you sure it's not because of the kiss?"

“Yes. No." He's furrowing his brow again, confused between how to answer your question correctly. He pinches the bridge of his nose with another sigh. "It’s- no, I'm not mad at you.”

Still not an exact answer. You eye him warily, your guilt still lingering at the front of your chest, aching painfully. It forces out your next words, reminiscent of a rambling apology. You take a step back from the car and begin to pace.

"It's okay if it is the kiss, Steve. I- I mean, we said we wouldn't and I broke that- and I don't want you to ever feel like—"

“I just— I didn’t want our first kiss to be like that!”

That halts your pacing, feet quite suddenly rooted to the spot. You turn rapidly back to Steve, your eyes wider than they were a moment ago, heart jammed back up your throat. Did he just say...?

Steve realises what's escaped him a moment after you do. His hand leaps to cover his mouth as if he can smother the secret he's just let slip.

His eyes crush closed. He smushes his hand against his face more forcefully as though he's trying to push the words back into his mouth.

"What does that mean?" You ask softly. "Steve?"

He clears his throat, dragging the hand down and off his face sluggishly. "That, ah, no- nothing!" He deflects, hands making a crossing motion. "It means—zilch. I just, ah, you know- it's—"

He's thought about it before—about how he'd want a first kiss between the two of you to go.

A glow in you dissolves, the saturated sweetness of it riding through your veins like a sugar rush. You have a sudden wish you weren't wearing such a ghastly outfit for this conversation.

"Steve," You interrupt him. You round the front of the car slowly, stopping with still some distance between you. Let him meet you in the middle. If you're right about all this, that is.

"If there's even a small part of you that wants to do that again," Your breath shudders at your inhale. "You need to tell me."

"A small part?" Steve echoes your words, his tone incredulous. He rounds the car to meet you, his hands out in front of him, flexing into fists. "Don't— don't say what I think you're going to say, if you don't mean it."

He pauses in front of you, eyes blazing with a fierce emotion as he stares down at you. He studies your face and then groans, tipping his head back and burying his hands in his hair.

"It's a big part, y/n. A huge fucking part of me wants to kiss you again and has wanted to for awhile." Steve stresses. His hands sag down from his mussed hair to hang off his neck before he gestures back to the Harrington house.

"What I said in there? About my crush on you being ages ago? I lied. I've had a crush on you for years and I don't think I ever stopped and so if you don’t mean what I think you mean, please don’t… Don’t give me hope.”

There's desperation in his final plea.

A thousand emotions course through you, all competing for your attention. You squint incredulously at Steve, half tempted to sock him for the feeling of a kept-secret. You're best friends for gods sake. Years. Years, he said.

A tremble takes your heart. You open your mouth and try to find the right words.

"Wha... You never said anything."

It comes out a little insulted.

Steve stares at you, flabbergasted. "You never seemed interested!"

"I didn't think I was your type!"

Though it seems impossible, Steve's eyes widen further, his hands shifting to hold out before him, fingers spread wide.

"Are you saying you've thought about it before!?"

"No!" You exclaim, suddenly stressed. You run your hands across your face agitatedly. "I mean, yes. Of course, I've thought about it before!”

Your fingers splay against your cheeks, pulling an expression not unlike the painting The Scream. You're not sure you've ever been this stressed, this undone before.

“Every day through fuckin' high school someone asked me if we were a thing. I just... hadn't, like, considered it til today. Properly."

"Okay, okay," Steve breathes in deeply.

He brings his hands together, clasping them, and he rests them against his forehead. For a second, he stares at the ground before he meets your gaze, dropping his hands.

"And... now?"

Fuck. Right. Cards on the table, you guess.

"Like," You don't know where to put your hands now. They drop off your face and hang loosely at your side. "I told you, I hadn't really, like, thought about it — but we were in there and it just wasn't that different!"

It's a heavy effort to keep yourself looking at Steve. There's no decoding the expression on his face, not when you're already frantically trying to unscramble your own feelings.

"If we did actually, yanno—" You stumble over the words, a fierce and bumbling heat flaming your face. "—date and be—I don't know—boyfriend and girlfriend, like, I guess what would actually change? And now I think we've just been one step removed from dating this whole time!"

Steve takes an almost quivering breath in and takes a step forward, bringing you both closer. He asks the million-dollar question.

"Would you... want that?"

"I," You flex your hands anxiously. "I don't think we can go back to the way things were." You say truthfully.

Something crestfallen ripples across Steve's face. It's hidden away in the next second. You gulp involuntarily. You feel so nervous you can feel it's fizzing inside you, bubbling like a freshly carbonated drink.

But more than that, it feels like you're balancing on the precipice of something good. Like waiting for news on whether you get something you desperately want.

And there it is; the true revelation.

"And I don't think I want to."

The admittance hangs between you, strung out and tinged with your apprehension and Steve's disbelief. He stares at you, brown hair tousled and messy, pink lips parted in his surprise.

He's your best friend and he's been waiting all this time. Holding the torch quietly, the flame flickering low sometimes, but always burning, always for you.

How the hell did you miss it?

"You..." He croaks. He reaches up and tugs at his tie as if it's suddenly too tight around his neck. "You mean that? You'd want to, like, date me?"

What you really want is to kiss him again. To chase away the tender look of disbelief in his eyes with a passionate press of your mouth against his. But you won't kiss him without asking twice in one day.

"I would like to try," You say. It takes a lot of courage to not lose your nerve. You rock up onto the balls of your feet to let out some of the rampant nervous energy.

Steve clocks it, some part of his brain that knows you, and all your tells well, finally coming back online. You're as nervous as he is, and maybe just as unsure.

But you want to try.

That's about all Steve's ever wanted. A chance for more between you.

He closes the distance between you, his hands shifting up and sliding along your neck to cup your jaw. It's ticklish enough to make you shiver and Steve smiles at the motion. He draws your faces closer and you push up on your toes to reach properly, magnetically drawn in.

He pauses just before your lips can touch.

Your eyes scan his face and he does the same to yours, both of you drinking in the intimate closeness. This close, you can see the tiny quiver hidden in his lips.

Fondness percolates between you, sweeter than sunlight and softer than a daydream. You can't resist the smile that toys at your mouth. Steve smiles too.

You're excited.

His pupils are blown wider than usual, only a ring of hazel around them. It might be your new favourite colour.

"I imagined," Steve murmurs lowly, his eyes now trained on your lips. "Our first kiss would be more like this."

The kiss is different from the one in the hallway. There's no surprise in it, no hesitance — Steve cradles your face between his hands preciously and kisses you so fiercely you ache.

He kisses with painstaking reverence. With an unfaltering adoration. Steve kisses you as though he envies anything that's ever touched your lips.

You grapple to find purchase on his suit jacket, your fingers curling around the material and pulling him closer without breaking the kiss. Steve hums into your mouth, his nose pressing against yours. You're both trying to pull each other closer.

"That was-" You breath heavily against his mouth as the kiss breaks. Your eyes open. Steve's gazing at you through his lashes, honey-eyes doting.

"You-" You try again, realising you haven't finished your sentence. You can barely get a word out, a relentless grin overtaking your lips. "I mean—you thought it- like that?"

"I hoped." Steve whispers. He's grinning too, not yielding any of the nearness between you. His thumbs on your jaw swatch softly across your skin.

God, he'll undo you entirely. This newness, this intimacy, it's ruining you. You capture your bottom lip with your teeth and bite it meanly to try to contain your grin.

"So, like, you wanna try? For real?" You say, matching his whisper. Speaking too loud feels like it breaks the moment—and you want to savour it as long as you can.

You can't even imagine how Steve must be feeling, waiting all those years. You take your feelings and multiple them tenfold. It's dizzying. It only endears you even more.

"Like, being boyfriend girlfriend?"

Steve's eyes crinkle in happiness as he scrunches them closed for a moment. His nose scrunches a little too at the motion. He takes a deep inhale and opens his eyes.

"Dating, boyfriend girlfriend, sweethearts, I don't care what you call it." He breathes. "Yes. Yes, to all of it."

Then he kisses you again, stealing the affection off your lips with an ardour that threatens to make your knees weak.

You kiss and kiss until you and Steve are both smiling too much to properly continue.

Only a couple days ago he'd asked the same question you had asked him, except as a begged request to help his ruse. He's the only one you'd have said yes to, you know now, the only exception.

One can only wonder how the two of you would have carried on if you had said no — never gone along with his frankly ridiculous plan, never showed up on his arm to fool an event full of people, never kissed him just to piss off his brother.

Never known the true depths of affection Steve held for you.

As you crowd in closer — your lips skimming across his gently, hearing the hitch in Steve's breath before you kiss him once more— you're thankful you'll never really know.

taggin some peeps below! @illyrianbitch @headkiss @brettsgoldstein @spideystevie @djotime

@katsu28 @inthehystericalrealm @djarinova @cheugyphobe @sunshinesteviee

@sunlitide @citrinesparkles @bigfrogs

just ppl that either expressed interest in the preview or i thought would enjoy! <3 i don't know what possessed me to pick this draft up and straight up like double the word count and finish it in one day but whew,,, i enjoyed that sm

[stevebabey]

nine facts, one lie

summary: It didn’t matter that your best friend Robin claims he’s changed, you do not like Steve Harrington. He used to be egotistical, a player, an asshole — and you’re not in any hurry to believe he’s changed his ways.

Never mind that he seems terribly kind now, compliments here and there, or even that he’ll pick you up from a date gone horribly wrong… [16.5k]

[one sided enemies to lovers — you hate steve and by god, does he want to change that] dedicated to my dearest kenny

Fact #1: You did not, under any circumstance, like Steve Harrington. 

It doesn’t matter what Dustin says nor the smug roll of Robin’s eyes, you knew it yourself even if no one else believed it; you did not like Steve Harrington. 

From everything you’ve ever heard about the guy, it was a surprise that he still had any friends — especially with the likes of your friends, a fact that makes you gag when Robin brings it up.

Robin, lovely best friend Robin, who completely betrayed you by associating herself willingly with Steve.

Since the beginning of high school, the two of you had been thick as thieves. Gossip was spilled between the two of you frequently, juicy enough to make even Carol Perkins’ head spin — you talked often enough that it got you split up during class time constantly, giggles too loud to be contained. 

Being at the bottom of the social food-chain —or maybe worse, completely unseen to your peers— there was nothing like sharing snarky remarks between you and Robin about the dunderheads who ‘ruled’ the school through idiotic popularity. 

Robin had a particular dislike for Tina Burgess ever since she’d started the rumour that girls in band were freaks in the sheets and would put out to anyone who would ask. You weren’t sure what had been worse: the obvious dig that Robin wasn’t getting any or the slimy guys who believed it and had the guts to ask. 

You, however, distinctly despised the likes of King Steve.

Keep reading

[galaxy-siren]

Flufftober Day 26

Prompt: "I'm Cold" "Here, have my jacket" (alternative prompt 25)

Pairing: Steve Harrington x GN!Reader

Summary: You and Steve take the kids to the fair

Word Count: 1.3k

Warnings: fluff (obviously), friends to lovers, food mention, first kiss, this is meant to take place after the main events of season 2 (pre Snow Ball)

“Guys look! The Tilt-A-Whirl is running again!” Dustin shouted to the others with giddy excitement.

“No! We said we were gonna go on the Gravitron.” Lucas crossed his arms over his chest, an annoyed look on his face aimed at Dustin.

Will hung his head and released a sigh, “Guys, I’m really hungry, and you said after the bumper cars we could go get food.”

Dustin placed his hand over his heart and spoke with earnest, “Will, I promise, we will get food after the Tilt-A-Whirl.”

“You’ll want to wait until after, trust me.” Steve whispered to Will.

“How about this,” you clapped yours hands together to get everyone’s attention, “I think Steve and I can trust all of you to go do your own thing, as long as you don’t leave the fair, don’t wonder off by yourself, so use the buddy system, and you meet us at the entrance at nine, okay?”

“Aren’t you supposed to be watching us?” Mike looked over at Steve with a furrowed brow.

Max slapped his arm causing him to wince, “Shut up!”

“Ow!”

“We are not being watched?” El asked, looking to Mike for confirmation.

He nodded as he rubbed his arm, “Yeah, just stay with me though, okay?”

She nodded and took hold of his hand. The blush that spread across his cheeks made you smile.

“Great, go have fun!” Steve waved them off. As they went on their way, splitting off into two groups, Steve took a seat on one of the tables and groaned, burying his head in his hands, “I am so tired of being the goddamn babysitter.”

You sat down next to him, “I know, that’s why I suggested they can take care of themselves.”

“Thank you.”

You could have melted at the small smile he gave you, “You’re welcome.”

You had no plans to go to the county fair. It wasn’t really your cup of tea. You would much rather spend your time at home with a book or watching a movie, but when Steve called you and practically begged you to come with him and the kids you couldn’t bring yourself to say no.

Steve Harrington was your weakness, when he called for you, you came running, no questions asked. It was almost laughable how head over heels you were for him, but he was too oblivious to notice, which made you equally annoyed and grateful.

Steve sat up and ran a hand through his hair, you always admired how his hair seemed to effortless fall back into place after he would run his hand through it, almost like it did it on purpose, like his hair knew the role it played in Steve’s life.

“So, now that we ditched babysitting duty, what should we do?”

You shrugged, “I don’t know.”

“What do you mean you don’t know?” Steve chuckled, “What do you usually do when you go to the fair?”

“Well, dingus, not all of us go to the fair on the regular.” You pushed his shoulder playfully.

“Alright, alright,” he stood up and offered you his hand, “come on.”

“Where are we going?”

“Trust me, it will be fun.”

With the way he was looking at you combined with the string of lights above you reflecting in his eyes, how could you deny him?

You took his hand and smiled, “Alright.”

~

Steve took you all around the fair, the two of you did what felt like everything, the carousel, the cheesy haunted house, the Ferris Wheel, everything. You were surprised Steve didn’t want to go on more “intense” rides, but you figured he didn’t want to risk messing up his hair, though you thought that would be impossible.

After the Ferris Wheel, you decided to grab some food. Steve told you to go find a table and he would get the snacks. You found a relatively clean table under more of the string lights from earlier with a view of the rollercoaster. You looked over and saw some of the kids getting in line and waved to them, but they were too focused on the ride to see you. You chuckled to yourself and looked down at your watch, a quarter to nine, time really had flown by.

A cold breeze blew past you, sending a chill down your back and into your arms and legs. You cursed yourself for not bringing a jacket. It was surprising you hadn’t needed one until now, it had been chilly most of the evening, but you suspected spending most of the night with Steve’s hand in yours had kept you warm. Another breeze caused you to shiver; you rubbed your hands up and down your arms, but it didn’t seem to help.

“You okay?” Steve asked as he approached the table, a tray piled with food in his hand.

“I’m cold.”

“Here,” Steve set the tray down and shrugged off his coat, “have my jacket.”

“No, Steve. It’s fine.”

“I insist.” He didn’t offer the jacket to you; he simply walked around you and placed it on your shoulders.

His jacket was warm. So warm that it instantly banished the chill from your body. You pulled it tighter around you, savoring the feeling of having a piece of him wrapped around you. It smelled just like him, woodsy with a hint of vanilla.

“Alright,” Steve plopped down next to you, “so I got us the fair staples, you got your corndogs, kettle corn, loaded fries, nachos, and, of course, fried Oreos.”

“Fried Oreos? Seriously?” You didn’t know if you should be disgusted or intrigued.

“Listen, I know what you’re thinking. Why mess with the perfection that is an Oreo, but I am telling you these babies are incredible,” he grabbed one and took a bite, letting out an overdramatic moan, “Delicious!”

“I don’t know, Steve. Maybe I’ll just stick with normal fried food, like potatoes.”

“Come on, just one bite.” He held one up to your mouth.

Once again, you couldn’t bring yourself to say no to him. You leaned forward and took a bite.

“So, what do you think?”

You looked at him with a frown, “I think you have terrible taste in snacks, Steve.”

“What?” There was slight offense in his tone, but mostly amusement.

“I said what I said.”

Steve slid closer to you, “Well, I think you’re full of shit.”

“Oh, no, you’re full of shit.” You quipped back.

As your amused laughter died down, you realized how close Steve was, his shoulder was brushing against yours, you could feel the warmth of his leg pressing against yours, and you felt his fingers ghosting over your hand. He was impossibly close, you couldn’t stop your eyes from drifting down to his lips, only for a second, but he noticed. Steve smiled and leaned in, but he didn’t close the distance. He waited with bated breath for you to respond, to lean in and close the gap.

And you did.

Kissing Steve Harrington was everything and nothing like you imagined it would be. Soft yet firm, gentle yet passionate. You enjoyed the way his hand found its place at the nape of your neck, pulling even closer, as if he were trying to fuse your bodies together. You finally got to run your fingers through his perfect hair, and it was just as soft as you thought it would be.

“I’ve wanted to do that for so long.” Steve admitted when you pulled apart to breathe.

“Really? You have?”

He leaned his forehead against yours and whispered breathlessly, “I really have.”

“So…does this me you like me?”

“Why else would I have asked you to come to the fair with me?”

You both chuckled softly before leaning back in for another kiss.

“Hey! Lovebirds! It’s three minutes to nine, stop sucking face and let’s go!” Dustin yelled as he, Mike, and El passed by.

You busted out laughing while Steve glared after Dustin.

“I really hate that kid.”

“No, you don’t.”

He released an irritated sigh, “You’re right, I don’t.”

Tag list: @spider-starry

[webslingingslasher]

Unknown Sender

happy valentine's day!

MONDAY: 13:52 

‘hi.’ Peter squints at the message, then the unsaved number. He's not sure how, but it’s a scam. 

‘i’d like to have your attention, please.’ Peter rolls his eyes, swiping left to not only delete but report the number as junk. No doubt it was a bot or someone with a flair for sextortion. 

A new number. ‘that was actually so rude of you, parker.’ 

‘unblock me right now.’ 

Peter shifts in his seat, he does a slow look around the room and finds nothing off putting or alarming. 

‘Who is this?’ 

Green bubbles pop up. ‘unblock me and i’ll tell you.’ Peter was right to guess about extortion. Another swipe, blocked and reported. Peter wasn’t participating in any games. 

A new number. ‘oh, now you’re just being cute.’ 

Peter feels his heart pick up a bit, it’s a tad threatening and now he’s overthinking it a little. What if someone has it out for him? Is there a mark on his back? ‘Please leave me alone.’ 

‘no.’ 

‘can we play 21 questions?’ 

Peter’s face scrunches up, he spins his head around one more time, someone is fucking with him. He has no clue who has time for something like that in university, but he’s not a willing participant anymore, not since high school. 

‘Leave me alone. Go torment a freshman.’ 

‘i don’t like freshmen. i like you.’ Peter chews at his bottom lip, there was a second of hesitancy but he knows the truth deep down. ‘I’m blocking you.’ 

‘sure. i’ll keep texting you, too.’ 

‘I’ll change my number.’ 

‘noooo please don’t do that. i had to work hard enough to get it the first time.’ Peter doesn’t respond. He blocks the number and moves on, and they don’t try to text him again.

Until the next day and Peter knows two things for certain. There is a note in his backpack, and it wasn’t there before his econ lecture. He remembers pulling that pocket open before he started notes, then when he went to zip it up, a note. 

This upsets him. What good was any sense when someone could get that unnoticeably close to him without him knowing? Second, it’s a little frustrating not to know who this person is and how it most likely is connected to the texts he had a few days ago, and that it’s an extremely long played joke that’s mostly boring. 

‘Peter Parker- 

You’ve been secretly admired. It might not be very secret, because I think you’ve caught me staring at you a thousand times. I like you a lot. 

Hopefully liked back, 

-X’ 

But a part of him believes it’s true. He’s trying to think of who’s in his lecture, if he’s caught them staring then they’re either to the side or behind him. There are too many faces, too many times he’s been looked at, he’s almost centered, it’s his fault for choosing a focal point. 

Instead of throwing it away, he refolds the pink handwriting and puts it back into place before hitching a strap over his shoulder and sliding behind chairs. One, two steps up he glances at your face, you have a weak smile, he returns the same kind, it’s more like a polite nod. Peter’s always thought you were pretty and he thinks you're nice. 

But really, he’s wondering who left the note. 

10:30

‘did you get my note?’ Peter does his normal scan across campus, again, his fault for being out in the open. This person could be anywhere, he’s on a picnic bench with a group of friends. If he’s smart, he’d start limiting himself to contained spaces and make you show yourself. 

‘Yeah. Who is this?’ Peter’s thumbs dance around the screen waiting for a reply, it comes quick. ‘i told you. x.’ He stops himself from rolling his eyes, he doesn’t know anyone with an ‘X’ anywhere in their name. 

‘Is that an initial?’ 

‘actually, i’m pretty sure it’s british for kiss.’ 

‘That’s a wild take. Are you saying the UK is responsible for XOXO’s?’ 

‘i’d like to make you responsible for my xoxo’s.’ Peter chews his bottom lip, he won’t play into anything in writing. He doesn’t believe this for a second, everything about this feels off. Someone’s fucking with him and they’re also in his class, or they have someone in on it in his class. 

But this is too advanced.

‘sorry. i don’t mean to like harass you or anything. you’re really hot but you scare me, i don’t think you would like me so idk, maybe if you talk to me you’d like me for me or something.’ 

‘i just think i’m punching wayyyy above my weight class here and i may be making this worse because there is no doubt you think im weird.’ 

‘i am weird. i should leave you alone now. i’m sorry.’ 

Peter reads his screen four times, it’s still not clicking. He’s nothing special and he doesn’t mean that in a way to dog on himself, he’s just nerdy and quiet. It seems a little too authentic to be fake, but he’s got to make sure. 

‘How’d you get my number?’ 

‘your friend. they have been sworn to secrecy but they know what i’m doing and they are in full support. take that as you will.’ 

‘Depends on the friend.’ 

‘i’ll tell you when you find out who i am.’ 

‘I’m going to find out? You’re not going to tell me?’ 

‘i don’t think i’ve been hiding it. you just haven’t been paying attention and now i want you to.’ 

‘Oh, but you’re shy?’ 

‘i’m about to pass out on the lawn behind this fucking screen, don’t play with me parker.’ A slip, you’re around him and you just admitted it. ‘Tell me, admirer, what are you wearing?’ The more detail the better, but he could work off of just a color. 

‘nice try. but you’re looking mighty handsome in the blue.’ A glance down, he suddenly feels watched. ‘Are you stalking me?’ 

‘oh no! no no no. i PROMISE you i’m not that fucking psychotic.’

‘i’m just a “sneak a note into your backpack” level of crazy. i’m here with my roommate and her boyfriend. i saw you and just wanted to know if you got it, i promise.’ 

‘You do understand that this situation makes you seem psychotic, right?’ 

‘yes. but i am not.’ 

‘That sounds like something a crazy person who got my number from a third party would say. Especially after I blocked you six times.’ 

‘it was three and you didn’t understand my intentions but okay. you have a fair point and i extend the olive branch of brett. he gave me your number and he knows me pretty well.’ 

Brett? Easy enough, he nods his head towards him and slides his phone across the table. “Explain.” His friend scrolls through the thread, a trustworthy smile spreads. “Yeah, I gave her your number.” Her. Okay, it’s something. “Who is she?” Brett shrugs, “you know her. She’s kind of a firecracker, you just make her nervous.” 

“That gives me nothing, Brett.” His friend blinks, “she’s not crazy. She likes you a lot for whatever fucking reason and has no idea how to approach you.” Peter’s letting his words soak in, “don’t believe me? Ask her about the grilled cheese, and make sure you tell her that I told you about how she went on for five fucking minutes about the grilled cheese.” 

“What grilled cheese?” Brett slides Peter’s phone back, he’s telling him to ask you. Something tells Peter it’s enough to embarrass, or it might be Brett being the ultimate wingman.

‘I’ve been told to ask you about the grilled cheese.’ 

‘oh god. there is no need to ask about the grilled cheese, did brett tell you about the grilled cheese?’ 

‘He told me to ask you. And to specify that you went on for five minutes about it.’ 

‘five is excessive, it was more like three. second, there is nothing to speak about.’ 

‘I would like to hear about it.’ 

‘i’d prefer if you didn’t.’ 

‘But you’ll do it for me?’ 

‘i’m weak for you and you know it. it’s sicking, parker.’ 

‘i heard you talking about making one in class and you said something about the crust and i really fucking love grilled cheese’s so i had a trip to fantasy land where you made me one and how it’s probably the best thing i’ll never get to taste.’ 

‘Wow. Five whole minutes on that?’ Peter won’t admit it made him feel a little warm on the inside, the most mundane of things to have someone so squirrely makes him feel unworthy. 

‘three.’ 

‘Tell me who you are and I’ll make you a grilled cheese.’ 

‘you have no idea how much that almost worked.’ 

‘What’s the plan then, master manipulator?’ 

‘i don’t know yet. i’m hoping you show me how smart you are and figure me out, then you can do all the hard questions.’ 

‘Hard questions?’ 

‘you know, do you wanna go on a date, do you wanna be my girlfriend, do you want to take my hand in marriage and have a summer home in the french alps? that kind of stuff.’ 

‘Totally not psychotic.’ Peter tucks his bottom lip between his teeth to hide the smile that wants to spread. 

‘mostly not.’ 

WEDNESDAY: 13:57

Peter doesn’t know who X is, but they’re clever and have zero effect on his sixth sense. He doesn’t know if that’s a good or bad thing. Either way, he’s reading a note scribbled in blue pen and as he studies the words he knows it was rushed. It’s proof that he wasn’t being followed everywhere, instead you saw an empty table and an opportunity. 

‘Peter- 

You use mostly gender neutral pronouns. I think that’s very cool. Is it weird that I notice those things about you? Also- what is it that you’re always drinking from Nuthouse? Asking for a friend… 

Have a good day! 

-Your not so secret admirer, X. 

‘Not so secret,’ Peter isn’t sure about that. You’ve done a good enough job at not trying to be obviously known, he might have looked up your number last night to find dust. One was from an app, but the one you’ve been using is a burner phone. 

What he’s really not understanding is how you’re able to get so close to him without him noticing. You had to have been millimeters away when you rested the letter on his backpack, he was gone for less than two minutes and he had zero awareness. 

Peter folds up the note and sticks it in the same pocket as the other one, his back slung around one shoulder as he moves up the stairs for the library. At the same time, you come down the opposite side, Peter gives a friendly acknowledgement. 

You choke down the lump in your throat. “Hi, Peter.” He’s already past you, it’s echoed behind his shoulder. “Hey.” It’s something. You’re trying, you’re trying to be bold for him. But he’s not going to notice, he’s never going to notice you and if you tell him who you are you’ll never live past his disappointment. 

Your phone vibrates, the other phone. Your heart picks up, Peter texted first. 

 14:02 

‘Dirty chai.’ 

‘best of both worlds. how fitting. you’re such a nonconforming king.’ 

‘I don’t even know what that means.’ 

‘But thank you?’ 

‘you’re welcome!’ 

‘anything fun on the roster today?’ 

‘Roster? Who are you?’ 

‘idk you make me nervous. blame yourself.’ 

‘Well, coach. Nothing fun on the roster, just some math. Wanna swap places with me?’ 

‘gross. i hate math so if you like it that’s good with me. one of us has to be smart and it’s not me.’

‘Smart enough to use a burner phone.’ 

‘oooooh, someone tried to find meeee.’ 

‘Can’t blame a guy for being curious, can you?’ 

‘were you disappointed when you found nothing?’ 

‘A little bit. But, you know, it keeps the imagination alive. A little unfair advantage on your side though, you already know what I look like.’ 

‘if it helps, you already know what i look like too.’ 

‘I do?’ 

‘yeah. we’ve talked before.’ 

‘Wait, so I know who you are?’ Brett said he did but Peter thought he meant you’d be familiar, not that he actually knew you. This just opened the floodgates to a million more possibilities. 

‘not really but yeah i guess. you know i exist but we’re not friends or anything.’ 

‘I’d like to think we’re friends, but okay.’ 

‘not outside the texting.’ 

‘That’s your decision.’ 

‘HATER.’ 

‘Anymore hints?’ 

‘.... no.’ 

‘HATER.’ 

FRIDAY: 12:15

You’re about to spill hot tea everywhere but it’ll be worth it to see his face. You ignore your pounding heart and stand in front of him. He’s got no clue you showed up, zoned out looking at the clock on the wall across from him. 

“Hi, Peter.” 

Full frontal attention, he’s looking at you. He’s perceiving you, he’s smiling at you. “Hi,” your eyes expand, he knows your name and it sounds so nice coming from his mouth. Sure, you’ve chatted with each other- even shared a few highlighters, but nothing serious. You’ve always been too scared to try anything else but maybe your fear has been mistaken for indifference. 

“I um, I lucked out today at Nuthouse so if you like dirty chai’s I got an extra one.” Your knees feel weak at his bright eyes, “my favorite. I’d love one, thank you.” You pass over the paper cup, your fingers brush and you think you’re about to collapse. 

“Yeah,” a weak laugh. “I had a feeling.” Peter tilts his head at you funny, you wonder if you pushed a little too far. “Okay, um, I’m gonna… have a good… lecture.” Peter nods and watches you go two rows up, he’s finally got a gut feeling. And it tells him to keep an eye out for you. 

TUESDAY: 12:10

Not that Peter was reliant on your attention, he was used to it. So when the texts stopped for three days and he was unable to find any letters he assumed you had lost interest and moved on. That felt fair to him, no harm no foul, at least he never really got to know you. 

Nevermind, there’s a folded notebook page on his miniature desk and his heart speeds up. His next task, put eyes on you. Bottom level, book and pencil in hand. He makes sure to note it’s a pencil and not the green ink that’s spread across the page. 

Peter thinks it’s a mind game, you were smart enough to know he’d look. Unless he was totally wrong on his guess. 

‘Peter- 

I ran out of minutes on my phone and I’m having a broke college kid moment. However, a friend took pity and donated a twenty to the campaign. I hope you’ve been good- I’ve missed talking to you. 

- Your not so secret admirer, X’ 

ps. stop keeping your backpack so close to you.’

It wasn’t anything personal, you just ran out of minutes. Peter smiles so wide he has to drop it, he almost clutches the paper to his chest in a thank you. Eyeing his backpack, he nudges it a little further behind him, following instruction. He’s kept it close in hopes to catch you, but instead he’s pushing you away. 

Peter’s committing the writing to memory as if he’s going to find you by the handwriting alone. A quick glance at footsteps, you’re three steps away when you smile. “Hi, Peter.” He nods, “hey.” You pause for a moment, mind racing for words. 

“Did you, um- did you do anything fun this weekend?” You’re about to crawl into a hole and die, it takes a moment to click that you were speaking to him. He went as far to look behind himself, then he spewed the answer to try and make up for the lost time. 

“Oh, uh not really. My aunt got a new bed so I had to lug the old one down seven flights of stairs.” Your eyes widen, you feel your mouth go dry and your tongue go thick. “By yourself?” Peter crosses his arms over his chest, a boyish grin swept over and you feel heart eyes form. 

“I’m a good nephew.” You want to pat his head and tell him you’re sure he is, then maybe hold him at gunpoint and tell you more stories about how he’s a perfect humanitarian. But you act like a normal human and smile back, “you sound like it.” 

Peter thanks you and you return to your seat with wobbly knees and a weak stomach, it’s silent torture to tease yourself like this with him. But you can’t help it and it’s only in effort to go after what you want. Even if it blows up when he figures out who you are. 

12:13

‘you’re looking mighty handsome today, mr. parker.’ 

‘I’m wearing a hoodie, but thank you.’ 

‘i said what i said.’ 

Boldly, ‘i see someone had another dirty chai. can’t stay away from them, can you?’ 

Another tick in Peter's stomach, he almost looks behind his shoulder at you, but he doesn’t. ‘It was a generous donation from a classmate.’ 

‘oh? pray tell, peter. pray tell.’ 

‘What? You don’t have a clue about who gave it to me?’ 

You swallow thickly, before you could get something out he sent another message. ‘No chance you didn’t see it go down?’ 

‘how could i? I was still on my way.’ 

‘... or was i?’ 

‘Tell you what, X. It one of the best teas I’ve had in a while.’ 

And you’d be damned if that didn’t make your entire chest flutter. 

FRIDAY: 15:29

“Here,” Peter’s hand clasped over the paper slapped into his chest. A hint of a syllable, Brett cuts himself off. “She asked me to give this to you.” Peter quickly read it and stared down before confiding in his friend for a second. 

‘Peter- 

Roses are red, violets are blue, all that I think about is you. 

It’s sweet in a cringy way, right? Boo on you for skipping class today, if you want, I could get you some notes. 

I hope I’ll see you Tuesday. 

-Your (really) not so secret admirer, X

ps. A pen exploded in my pocket. 10/10 chance my thigh will be stained.’

“I think I might know who it is.” 

“Uh, huh.” 

“But, she’s way out of my league.” 

“Correct.” 

Peter raised his eyebrows, “so it’s her?” He clarified with your name, Brett shrugged back. 

“I won’t be confirming or denying.” Peter knows what that means, “the lack of a no usually means yes.” 

“Bro,” Peter starts sputtering, “oh, c’mon! You know what I meant, I just meant that, I just- c’mon, Brett. Is it her?” 

“I have no idea who that is.” Peter wants to call bullshit, he has a gut feeling and he swears it’s you. You’re right, it’s not so secret. In fact, you’re painfully obvious. 

FRIDAY: 23:14 

‘you are soooooooo cute’ 

‘like your hair is so cute’ 

‘i looooove curly hair on guys and you have that!!!!!!!!!’ 

‘and you’re really funny cause like it’s so quick and witty like you have such good one liners’ 

‘also you’re really fucking hot and i KNOW you’re hiding something under those fucking sweaters and the second i see skin i WILL go feral.’ 

‘Something tells me you’re at the Kappa party.’ Peter’s pretending he doesn’t have a searing blush. If he’s got an inkling this could be you… then he might have proof for the non-believers that god exists. 

‘yes!!! are you here?? i should come see you.’ 

‘I hate to disappoint you, but I’m currently at a friend's house playing a Mario Kart drinking game.’ 

“But it’s nice to know that you’d give me your identity that quick.’ 

‘oh i can tell you who i am.’ Peter frowns at the text, he’s been doing nothing but crave the answer to who’s behind the love letters but it feels wrong. It’s not satisfactory enough for him, it’s also not what you want, you’re just drunk- and Peter’s going out on a limb here- horny. 

‘Save it for later.’ 

‘And maybe drink some water.’ 

‘i’d do anything for you cause you have the world's prettiest brown eyes’

‘Thank you for the compliments.’ 

‘you’re super welcome i try to hold them back because i’m a good girl but you’re just so cute i had to let you know’ 

‘I think you’re going to super regret this in the morning.’ 

‘false. maybe fact idk’

‘i should trust you tho because you’re super smart and you’re a nerd.’ 

‘I fear this is taking a turn for the worse.’ 

‘and that is so fucking HOT’

‘Oh. Back to compliments. Thank you.’ 

‘if you were here i’d give you a kiss’

‘IGNORE THAT!!!!’

‘I DIDN’T MEAN TO SEND THAT!!!! IGNORE IT’ 

‘Not ignored. How cute.’ 

‘screaming crying throwing up’ 

‘i really didn’t mean to send that it was a joke ha ha funny.’ 

‘Idk, sounded authentic to me.’ 

‘peter?’ 

‘Yeah?’ 

‘i’m a little drunk rn. and you should know how cute you are.’ 

‘Oh, I’m talking about record breaking levels of regret. This is amazing.’ 

‘i have to pee but i do not reget this!!!!!!’ 

SATURDAY: 09:54

‘i stand by my claim and do not regret a thing.’ 

‘correction. i regret this hangover and the way my previous texts are not very cool girl of me.’ 

‘but i would like to know if you won mario last night.’

‘also, who’s ur fav character?’ 

11:12

1. Proud of you for owning it, that’s very cool girl of you. 

2. I did not win. 

3. Petey Piranha. 

‘who tf is petey piranha.’

‘Mario Kart Sunshine. Came out in 2002. (Originally on GameCube but recently released on switch.) (Hell yeah.)’ 

Your heart thumps, he’s such a nerd and you wanna kiss the air out of his lungs. ‘out of all the characters and u choose him. why petey piranha’ 

‘One guess.’ 

‘PETEY PIRANHA.’ 

‘OH MY GOD.’ 

‘you’re petey piranha <333’ 

Peter fights a grin, ‘I am.’ 

‘you’re so cute. i love that.’ 

‘Personally, in the past 24 hours I don’t think I’ve heard enough about how cute I am.’

‘you’re insufferable and it’s sexy.’ 

‘Oo, new one to the mix. You’re making me blush.’ You really are. He’s never been considered sexy before and it feels really nice. 

‘and i bet you look super cute.’ 

‘Super true.’ 

TUESDAY: 12:34

‘white t shirt white t shirt white t shirt WHITE T SHIRT.’ 

‘You like?’ 

‘i’m about to cry i’m biting my fist so fucking hard.’ 

‘:)’ 

‘you’re so ubuibabeyia.’ 

‘Bless you.’ 

‘?’ 

‘Sorry, I assumed you sneezed.’ Peter never whipped his head around so fast at an audible laugh behind him. It was short, it had escaped without being thought about. He’s looking for you, but it doesn’t seem like it was you who laughed. You’re engrossed in chatting to your neighbor. 

On the other hand, you almost blew it by clasping your hands over your mouth. Instead you looked next to you and said, directly and with a burning gaze, “I need you to pretend we’ve been talking this whole time.” 

‘Someone’s losing their edge, you’re just begging to be caught.’ 

‘oh, i’m begging all right.’ 

‘can you hear me whimpering too?’ 

‘Easy, killer. Let’s not start sexting at noon on a Tuesday.’ 

‘are you saying there is a time for it?’ 

‘Give me a little wave and we’ll see.’ 

‘too late, i’m passed out on the floor. the only thing that can resuscitate me are those thick arms wrapped around me.’ 

‘Let these strong arms sweep you off your feet, all you gotta do is come talk to me after lecture…’ 

Peter says that, but he doesn’t mean it. He’ll definitely eat his words when he sees it’s you, then he’d be coming up with a thousand ways to back out of it. He’s so much more than you deserve, you feel so safe behind a keyboard but in person you can barely say a sentence. 

It’s stupid and a little humbling because you’ve never felt this way about a guy before. 

‘trust me, i’m better in your imagination.’ 

WEDNESDAY: 14:22

‘Peter- 

You know a little about a lot and I think that is one of my favorite things about you. Or maybe it’s your voice. I could listen to you talk forever. 

-Your not so secret admirer, X’ 

A note under his textbook, if he follows his hunch then he’d be looking for… you. Conveniently three tables away and to the right of his own, you’re not looking for his reaction, you’ve got your focus on your own textbook but he swears you’re retaining none of it. It’s a distraction, or maybe it’s a diversion. 

Peter doesn’t mind. He’s going to wait. He has all the time in the world today and he’s going to sit here with his eyes on you until you look up at him because he knows you’re going to and once you do, he’s going to have his answer. 

If he’s right, and he swears he is, he’s going to absolutely lose is shit because what do you mean you like him and are intimidated? You boldly lied when you said you were punching above your weight class. Does it make him a jerk to say he wasn’t even thinking of you as a suitor and maybe a girl with a much more average look?

 Peter counted to sixty twice, you glance up, eyes shooting to the note you left on the table. The next stop, Peter’s face. And oh, you were not prepared to have him looking right back. Panic, you shoot a wave, a desperate attempt to pretend you’re seeing a familiar face. 

Peter waves back but he looks much more satisfied than you did, you wonder if the jig is up. Did he crack the code? Was he just trying to find a friendly way to let you down? Deny til death, he has no proof it’s you. You pack your things up, a hurried scramble before you could lose your cool. 

On the way out you almost stop breathing, your forearm caught in Peter’s hand. You’re staring down at it, he’s not removing it. It burns in the best way. “Hey,” you wait, you can’t stop looking at his hand, the muscle, the subtle flex, his fingertips paler to show his grip. “Hi, Peter.” 

It’s breathless, you think you’re about to die. If he asks, you don’t know how you’ll lie your way out. 

Guess who’s got a stained pocket? The corner edge darkened with black ink that would never be washed out. Peter has his answer. You’re her. You’re X. “Thanks again for the tea.” 

 Maybe you wanted more, you feel a bit deflated when it’s all you receive.

“You’re welcome.” Your arm feels cold when he drops his touch, you linger for a second too long, you’re not sure when you’ll be this brave again. It was too much of a close call. “I hope the rest of your day is good.” 

Peter’s got a charismatic grin, he feels settled now that he knows you’re the anonymous lover in his life. Even more so when you find yourself shy and reserved in person, it almost makes him giggle to think of the stark changes in confidence.

“You too.” Your body engulfs into flames when your arm is caught again, you’re struggling to keep calm at his boyish smile. “Quick question,” you nod slightly, trying to show zero paranoia for the following words. 

“Do you have a boyfriend?” 

Short circuiting. You see black spots, you think you’re about to pass out. There is only one thing that means, no guy asks that if they weren’t interested in changing that, right? 

“No.” It’s anything but graceful. It sounds like you’ve never had a boyfriend before. It makes you sound like you’re scared he asked it. 

But, Peter doesn’t take it like that. He smiles wider, like he already knew the answer before he asked it.

THURSDAY: 16:37

A new letter, stuffed under the top handle of his backpack. Peter listened and stopped setting it next to him, in return he was rewarded. He can’t stop the small smile, you make it involuntary at this point. Peter’s never felt so special in his life, a little part of him wants this to never end. But he’d much rather look you in the eyes. 

‘Peter- 

I had a dream with you in it last night. Don’t worry, you had your clothes on. I’m not sure what we were doing but you were across from me at a diner and we were sitting in those super thick booths and our friends were there. 

I don’t know who these friends were, and I don’t think you do either. But I knew them as our friends. 

It felt really nice. I’m happy to know you, even if I just get this little piece. 

-Your not so secret admirer, X’

Peter’s been wrong a lot in his life but this time he really thinks he has it figured out. He’s much more bold now, this letter tells him it’s not infatuation, it’s love. 

You love him and he thinks he could love you too. 

FRIDAY: 20:08

‘Hey.’ Peter could be making the worst decision of his life here, he could be reading everything wrong and ruining this for himself. 

‘hi peter!’ But he really thinks he’s got it right.  

‘I really, really liked talking to you for the past few weeks but I think I should tell you that I like someone else.’ 

Gut wrenching despair. You knew it was too good to last, you knew he’d find someone more in his league. Someone who’d be willing to show him their face. There was no reason to respond because what would you say to that? 

‘thank you for letting me know that opening up to you was all for nothing!’ 

‘thanks for making me doubt love!’ 

‘hope you and her are so fucking happy together!!!!!’ 

Fuck it all and fuck Peter. He just liked the attention until it came from somewhere else. You don’t think you like him all that much anymore. You think you’re lying, too. Before you can give into the desire of hurting him just as bad, you calmly turn the phone off and stuff it in the back of a desk drawer to never be uncovered again. 

You slowly sit in bed and tug the blankets over your head. And only then, do you allow yourself to sob. 

Peter chewed on his bottom lip and waited an hour with constant phone checks before he realized a response was never coming. It really set in during the weekend but even further when he got no note or letter on monday. Not even when he left his backpack unattended for five minutes. 

TUESDAY -he was able to see you and how you avoided his eyes. How you pretended you didn’t see him send a small wave. How you had pulled back from him. 

And if he hadn’t hurt your feelings, or X’s feelings, why would you do that? 

You look up at a two fingered knock at the corner of your desk. “Hi.” You blink and ignore the white noise buzzing in your ears at the sight of Peter standing in front of you. “Hi, Peter.” 

“How was your weekend?” Bitter. Terrible. Lonely.

“Fine. Nothing exciting.” Besides you breaking my heart. 

Watching his fingertips dance on the edge of the plastic, you feel everything in you brighten. “You look sad.” There’s a burn in your stomach, he’s the reason for both the sting and the sadness. 

“Do you need something? Or are you just doing a friendly check in?” Peter bites back the grin when you snap at him, he’s so, so, so right and it feels so, so, so good. “Neither. I’m just confirming my suspicions.” 

“Suspicions?” 

“Yeah. You passed.” Your eyebrows furrow, before you could try to question further Peter was giving half a wave, saying bye, and skipping a step to his aisle. 

FRIDAY: 12:08

You stop breathing for a solid second before feeling your brain spark back to life. It could be anything, it could be from anyone, but you know there’s only one person who would’ve left a note on your desk. 

Your fingers slightly shake when you unfold the graph paper, little squares bled through with black sharpie. 

‘X-

Am I right?

Hopefully, 

-  Peter’ 

You can’t breathe, you can’t talk, you can’t move and you definitely can fucking not look at him. No, no, no. You can feel his eyes on you, you know he’s watching for your reaction. Peter figured you out and had his own fun along the way. 

You were the girl he liked. Oh, wow. Is this how special you’ve made him feel? Something just for your eyes, from him. A secret you both shared between lines. 

You spin and swear you can feel his gaze running over your back, he’s aching for the answer. You almost scream at a tap on your shoulder, a peek lets you know it’s the person you’re hiding from. 

Another note, folded up just like the other one. It’s pushed into your hand, Peter doesn’t say a word, he just offers and leaves. He’s not watching this time, he’s sitting and focused on the front, you feel air leak back into your lungs. 

Full on panic shaking, you’re so happy he’s not watching. 

Your name is addressed on the front, just like you do for him. 

‘I like you. 

I think you not so secretly like me too. 

We could talk more about it at dinner tonight. Will you let me take you out?

Circle yes or no. 

- Peter.

PS. XOXOXO now you’re responsible for mine, too.’ 

[love-hs28]

You have to be more careful.

Summary: Your roommate Peter comes home to your shared apartment late one night, more beaten up than you've ever seen him before. You patch him up and give him a lecture about being more careful; a conversation that leads to you confessing more than you had meant to. CW: Peter has some cuts & bruises and what not. Mentions of blood. gn!reader x tasm!Peter Parker (could be any Peter, just pictured it w/ Andrew's) Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Happy ending! 3.3k words masterlist

a/n: this is my favorite thing I have ever written. please enjoy, feedback is always appreciated :) <3

It was a cold and cozy October night; your bedroom window was cracked open to let in a nice breeze, and there was a fall-scented candle burning on your nightstand. You’ve spent the last hour or so at your desk, hunched over the English essay you have been working on for weeks, now at the final point where all that’s left is to go through and check your grammar, substitute some words, and finalize your conclusion. You’ve been stuck trying to find a more essay-appropriate word for ‘weird’ for the last few minutes, and are now just about ready to give up and let tomorrow-you deal with it. You drop your pencil and let out a frustrated sigh, running your hands through your hair.

It’s a Friday night and you had spent the afternoon with Peter cleaning out the fridge and kitchen cabinets. You were glad to have a roommate that didn’t make you do all the cleaning yourself; Peter never complained about your insistent need to make sure the apartment was clean at all times. 

You lift your head up from your hands to glance at the digital clock on your desk, only to find that it’s almost 2 am. A pang of anxiety dissipates from your chest; Peter should be home by now. 

You decide to ignore the worry before it can grow any larger, trusting Peter and his ability to stay safe, and pick your pencil back up to try and get this damn essay done and over with. 

“Eccentric!” You whisper-yell to yourself, the word you've been searching for the last 10 minutes finally coming to you. And with that, your essay is complete (at least, until you decide at the last minute to re-read it and change just a couple more things...) 

You smile to yourself, proud that you got done what you wanted to and happy that you could finally get back the book you’ve been itching to finish all evening. 

Right as you sit on your bed, after grabbing the book from your backpack, you hear a rustling noise outside your window. 

That’s odd, you think to yourself, knowing that it could be Peter, but also confused, because he usually comes in through his own bedroom window. 

Once again, you decide to ignore the distraction and blame it on a possible squirrel, but right as you open your book to the dog-eared page, a knocking sound comes from your window. This time, you know for certain it’s Peter. 

Your eyebrows pinch in confusion, but you get up to go unlock the window nonetheless, forgetting until you reach it that it’s already open. 

“It’s open, you can come in,” You say and squint, struggling to see Peter no thanks to the dim moonlight. His face is difficult to make out, but you can just barely see the pained expression painted on it. 

Peter nods and moves to open the window wider, lifting a leg up to maneuver his way inside. Before he can though, his hand that’s rested on the windowsill slips and he nearly falls flat on his face into your room. 

“Whoaa,” you laugh slightly, gently grabbing his arms to help him get the rest of his body inside. He lets out a wince as your fingers make contact with his shoulder, but is able to set both feet on the floor. 

Now that he’s in the slightly-less dim lighting of your room, you can make out his face - or rather, you can make out the countless scrapes and bruises littering his face and body. 

Your hand instinctively shoots up to your mouth to cover a gasp, Peter sliding down the wall and to the floor, unable to hold himself up. You crouch in front of him and hover a hand to the side of his face. 

“Holy shit, Peter, what the hell?” 

He lets out a soft laugh, immediately wincing at the pain it causes. “You should see the other guy,” he grunts, his head falling back as he brings a hand to rest above one of the larger gashes on his abdomen. 

Your hands hesitate in front of you, not sure whether it would help to touch him, or where.

“Peter,” you decide on letting one of your hands brush just below a slash on his upper arm, but immediately pull back when he sucks in a breath. “I- um, we need to get you to the bathroom. Can you stand?” 

He nods slightly, moving his hands to the ground to push himself up, but quickly losing his balance and leaning into you for support. 

“Oh my god,” you whisper to yourself; Peter has come home beaten up before, but it’s never been this bad. 

“Here,” you say to Peter, cautiously moving your arm around his waist, “Um, put your arm around my shoulder. Come on.” 

You do your best to help him to the bathroom across the hall, stumbling a few times on the way and having to pause just once so Peter could lean against the wall and catch his breath. He’s really beaten up and you can see that he’s clearly out of it. 

Once in the small room, you lead him over to the closed toilet seat and help him sit down. When you’re sure he’s situated and know he isn’t going to fall over, you rush to the sink cabinet to find the first aid kit you had stashed the day you discovered his secret identity, knowing that it was bound to come in handy to either one of you at some point. 

Crouching on your knees in front of the toilet, you lay the bag open on the floor and turn your attention back to the wounded boy sitting in front of you.

Peter’s eyes are closed, one of his hands holding his stomach and the other arm trying to brace himself against the wall. His breathing is ragged, and you worry that he’s going to pass out from exertion. Or blood loss, honestly. The only parts of his body that are visible to you are the ones that have been exposed by the massive gashes on his sides, and you’re scared to see what else the red and blue suit might be hiding. 

“Peter,” you say softly, bringing a hand to brush some of the fallen hair out of his face. “I need you to take your suit off. I can’t clean you up with it in the way.” 

He nods, raising his head to look at you. The panicked expression on your face isn’t hidden as much as you would like it to be, and Peter feels guilty about making you see him like this. 

You get up once again to help him stand, and he holds himself up using the wall and the cabinet next to him. You gently begin to remove the suit from his shoulders, working down to his waist and finally helping him step completely out of the torn up material. Peter hisses and holds his breath every time the dried blood on his suit is peeled away from his skin, you whispering strands of apologies the entire minute it takes to rid him completely of the spandex. Once his body is completely uncovered aside from his boxers, you help him sit back down, Peter shivering when his skin makes contact with the cold ceramic. 

You sit on your knees once more and are finally able to take in the severity of his wounds. Tiny scrapes and cuts litter almost every inch of his skin, but even worse are the places where his already scarred skin has split open from whatever monster he was fighting barely fifteen minutes ago. You bite your bottom lip to stop it from quivering and for the first time, doubt your ability to help your best friend. 

“Peter,” your voice cracks and comes out barely above a whisper. You don’t know what you could possibly say to comfort him. There was no way, even with his spider-given abilities, that Peter wasn’t in the most excruciating pain of his life right now. 

“I’m okay,” He whispers back, reaching to hold one of your shaking hands. You let him, and he brings it up to his busted lip, softly pressing a kiss to your palm. “I promise, these’ll heal in a few days. Week tops. Just needs a little cleaning up for now.” Peter looks into your eyes and tries to give you a reassuring smile. 

You nod, sniffing and wiping off the few tears that have fallen from your worried eyes. You find the cleaning wipes from the first aid kit and begin wiping away some of the excess blood around the probably hundreds of cuts. Peter tries, but fails, to hold in the gasps and near whimpers that escape his mouth. 

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I know, I know, I’m almost done. I’m so sorry.” You try to find whatever words you can to comfort Peter and hide how nervous you are, but you’re ultimately unable to hold back the tears that have been threatening to spill since he came through your window. 

Peter tries to distract himself from the stinging pain of your cleaning by keeping his eyes on your face, but another type of pain invades his chest when he sees you crying and notices how much your hands are shaking. He knows how hard it is for you to see anyone like this, let alone your best friend. He whispers your name and tilts his head to force your teary eyes to meet his own.

“Hey, I need you to know that I’m okay. I’m going to be okay.” Peter’s hand comes to hold the side of your face and you lean into his touch, nodding but avoiding his eyes. “I’m sorry, I never wanted you to see me like this. I just didn’t know what else to do.” His voice breaks at the end of his sentence and you finally look up to meet his eyes and see him crying just as much as you are. It’s your turn to bring a hand up and wipe the tears from his bloody cheeks. 

“It’s okay. Don’t apologize. I’m sorry, I just-” You sigh and bring your hands to your own face with a short, dry laugh. “You have no idea how much you worry me, Peter.” 

You look into his eyes, and you start to feel a strange and unwelcome anger and resentment towards him for not being more careful and causing you to constantly have to worry this much. You shake your head in an attempt to rid the thoughts and continue cleaning off a gash on his chest, knowing now is definitely not the time to get mad at Peter, and try and focus on ridding him of blood, at least as much as possible. 

“You really just have to be more careful, Pete. And I know that you know your limits, but this,” you say, taking a deep breath and gesturing to his whole body, “it- it cannot be a constant recurrence. What if you get hurt so bad that you have to go to the hospital? I can only help you so much, how do you think you’re going to be able to explain getting this badly beaten up to a bunch of random nurses and doctors?” 

You finish cleaning the last wound and take out your frustration on roughly setting aside the wipes, moving onto bandaging as many of the injuries as you could. 

Peter can tell you’ve become a bit frustrated with him now. He runs his fingers through his hair, finally feeling his strength start to come back, both physically and mentally.  

“Y/n, I know that. I promise you, I am careful. This guy just came out of nowhere and I couldn’t leave the fight without making sure I was positive that he wouldn’t come back. You gotta trust me, I know what I’m doing.” 

You hold back a scoff and look Peter in the eyes again, shaking your head. “I want to believe you, Peter, I really do. But this thing you’re doing is so dangerous, and I’m scared you won’t realize just how much until it’s too late.” Your voice wavers at the end of your sentence, and you try to focus on how tight to wrap the gauze instead of how much your hands are still shaking. 

It’s Peter’s turn to hold back a scoff, despite feeling guilty and a bit embarrassed for the situation he put himself in. “You don’t think I know that? ‘This thing’ that I’m doing is not something I can just give up on, there are people counting on me.” He winces when a piece of gauze catches on a cut on his stomach, and you instinctively whisper an apology. 

You breathe in a sigh, finishing up with the wrapping and moving onto the smaller lacerations on his arms. 

“I know, Peter.” Your voice is coming out in a whisper now, not feeling up to arguing this late and with these circumstances. “But I- a lot of people are counting on you to stay safe, too.” 

Peter sighs once more, knowing you have a point. “I know,” his volume matches yours. “I’m sorry. I need you to know that I’m trying my best, though. I’m just- I’m not some little kid that you have to watch over, or like, constantly worry about. I can handle myself.” 

Peter’s words stung more than they should have, and you felt an odd pang of embarrassment for caring this much about him. He clearly didn’t need it, and maybe this… relationship the two of you had didn’t mean as much to him as it did to you. 

You could feel your face flush as you let out a frustrated sigh, setting the now empty bandage box on the floor next to your knee and trying your hardest to not roll your eyes. You decided to use the frustration you felt towards him to cover up your embarrassment, even though you knew he didn’t mean any harm by his words. 

“Whatever, Peter.” You stand up, picking up the wrappers and gauze mess that you had made on the floor. “Sorry I care,” you mutter, knowing you’re acting a bit rude, but not caring. How could he not see how much this shit affects you? Worrying about if he will make it home every night, wondering what will happen when he inevitably gets hurt so bad that he needs to be taken to the hospital, thinking about what will happen if he gets so badly hurt that even his healing abilities won’t save him. 

Peter sighs at your words, hearing you even though your voice was quiet. “Come on, don’t be like that,” he braced himself against the wall and stood up, finally getting enough strength back to not need your help. “You know that’s not what I meant.” 

You shake your head and crouch down to put the first aid supplies away, aggressively shoving the contents into the cabinet under the sink before closing its door a bit harshly.

“I just don’t get how you don’t see that this shit affects more than just you,” You stand up, looking Peter in the face, your mouth moving too fast, knowing you’re about to say something you regret. “And yeah, maybe that’s a selfish thing to say, but I don’t care anymore! I lie in bed, every single night, worrying that you’ve gotten yourself into something so terrible that even you can’t handle it. And no, that’s not a stab at your abilities, because believe me Peter, I know you can take on a lot. I know you can handle yourself and don’t need me to babysit you. But one of these days, if you keep this shit up, you’re going to get so badly hurt that I won’t be able to help you. Rubbing alcohol and bandaids only go so far, and I know you know that, so what the hell do you expect me to do when that day comes?? You leave me here to worry about you and then come home beaten up almost to the point of being unconscious and expect me just to patch you up and not bat an eye or have an opinion about it. I care about you so fucking much Peter, more than you know, and I’m sorry if this is the wrong time to be saying this, but I don’t know what I would do if I lost you. I-” Your voice broke at the end of your rant, only stopping to breathe in a short gasp, and you turned away from Peter to lean on the sink, forcing your gaze to the floor. You were right; your mouth had moved too fast to stop it from saying the words you had been keeping to yourself for almost a year now. And while a part of you felt awful for yelling at Peter, especially in his current state, you knew if you didn’t speak your mind soon you would go insane. 

Peter just stared at you, mouth slightly open like he wanted to say something, defend himself or make up an excuse, but he was at a loss for words. This… confession came as a total surprise to him, and he didn’t know what to think. 

“Y/n, I-” He cut himself off, trying to find the right words to say. “I had no idea you-. I’m sorry,” Peter spoke softly, a stark contrast to the volume you had spoken at, but he was too stunned to give a proper response. Too stunned to say what he really wanted; too shocked to confess that he cared about you too and never meant to make you feel like this- unappreciated and alone. 

You shook your head, sighing before running your hands over your face as if trying to erase all of the emotions you were feeling right now. Embarrassment, anger, sadness, fear, hurt. And, to make matters worse, you had started crying again without even realizing it. Just another thing that made you wish you could crawl into a hole and never speak to anyone ever again. 

“It’s fine, Peter. I’m- I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to-” Again, you shake your head, too ashamed to meet Peter’s eyes. “I’m sorry. I’m just- I’m gonna go to bed,” voice barely above a whisper, you reach for the doorknob. The mortification of what you just confessed to your best friend was beginning to wash over you all at once. 

You blew it. Your whole friendship with Peter? Gone. Might as well have never existed. All because you had to have a stupid fucking crush. God, how could you be so stupid?? You knew he didn’t mean to make you worry. And Jesus, he was literally out saving lives every night and here you are complaining that you have to take care of him when he’s hurt. 

“Y/n, wait-” Peter’s voice was still soft, but had a new urgency to it that you almost couldn’t ignore. Still, you kept your gaze down, softly shutting the bathroom door and walking as quickly as possible to your room, leaving Peter stunned and helpless in the cold and empty bathroom. 

Once inside your room, you leaned against your closed bedroom door and covered your face with your hands. It took everything in you not to scream and throw something, anything, at your wall, but of course that would only make things a million times worse - Peter would think you were even more crazy than your speech had shown. 

Utterly mortified and unable to think about anything else, you turned off your lights and went to bed. Or rather, lied in bed for 2 hours, rerunning your entire conversation with Peter a million times and wishing that you could go back and never say any of the things you did.

a/n: okay!! sorry, that was a long one. I am currently in the process of writing a part 2, let me know of any suggestions you might have :)) It will be a happy ending though, of course, and will hopefully be done within the next few weeks!! If anyone would like to be tagged when part 2 is posted pls lmk!! I LOVE YOUUU thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed! I am very proud of this one!! xoxo

[uhhhj13iguess]

four eyes

quick peter parker x reader rant about both of you wearing glasses. because LOOK at peter in glasses. like you have to be kidding

masterlist and taglist!

peter parker, who always used to be so insecure about his glasses, painfully aware that they only helped solidify the critiques on his freak intelligence.

who complained for weeks when he realized that vision is not one of spiders strong suits — despite having eight of them — and that he wouldn’t be ditching the four eyes allegation anytime soon.

peter parker, who suddenly couldn’t wait to put on his pair every morning once you made a comment about them looking cute on him, your own matching his.

who couldn’t stop the blush from creeping on his cheeks whenever he reached out to fix the crooked frames on your face — the closest he’d yet gotten to touching you.

who started buying specifically soft teeshirts after you’d made a comment about how well his shirt cleaned your lenses off one day, always making sure he was available when you needed him for a quick wipe.

peter parker, who was hopelessly falling for you, watching the way your glasses slid down your nose as you studied, painfully controlling the cuteness aggression that spread throughout his body.

who hoped a glare had caught his lenses as he recklessly stared at your lips, desperate for his wandering eyes and true desires to be hidden behind his frames as he listened to you talk on and on about something, he wasn’t quite listening.

peter parker, who finally worked up the courage to ask you on a real date, holding your hand as he walked you home down the snowy, winter streets of new york. who stopped you in front of your building, the air visible between the two of you as you stood face to face, his chilly demeanor melting away at the sight of you.

peter, who hesitantly leaned forward to press his lips against yours, cautious to your reaction and if he was going too fast or overstepping a boundary.

peter, who groaned into your mouth the second he felt you kiss him back, hands sliding up to grasp the sides of your face as he tilted his head to deepen his hold on you. who kissed you like he was starving, like it was the last time he’d ever get the chance to again. and you, who kissed him back with just as much fervor, only breaking apart when your lungs screamed for air.

peter, who gave such a belly laugh when he pulled back to see both of your glasses fogged from the heat between you two in the cold new york air.

[ravcnism]

DUE DATE. — JONAH SIMMS x Male!READER (COLLEGE AU)

Summary: Business School is more about learning to carry the weight of the work than it is about making friends. So when you get paired with thee Jonah Simms, you assume you're on your own. What you don't expect is that he’d keep showing up... Or that you’d start wanting him to.

# # TAGS: College AU, "Canon-Adjacent" in the Sense That Jonah Dropped out of College At 28, Slice of Life-ish, Fluff, Beach Date, Friends to Lovers—sort of, Sorry About the Weird Tags, Slow Burn, Part 1 of 2,

# # WARNINGS: Some Mature Language, Mentions of Alcohol, Making-out, Writer is not American and is Very Poor at Visualising Direction

INCLUSIVITY NOTES: No mentions of "Y/N", no specifications of reader's height nor form.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Here we go, Part 1 of 2 for Jonah Simms. Love me a classic college love story. I need this man carnally. 4.1k words

It began with a seating chart and a professor who believed in “organic collaboration.” The incomprehensible machinations of the universe, under the guise of an uneventful announcement, led to being paired with Jonah Simms for a semester-long research project that counted for thirty percent of your final grade.

You didn’t protest. That would’ve required caring. And there would have been no point in doing so when you already knew how this worked. Midterm presentations, annotated bibliographies, a ten-page report on market behavior, and someone inevitably ghosting halfway through. Odds were, that someone wouldn't be you.

Getting paired with Jonah Simms earned you a handful of pitying glances, as though you'd drawn the short straw in some campus lottery. His reputation was known; once a golden boy, now a cautionary tale, dimming at the edges. He wasn’t the first prodigy to flame out mid-semester, and he wouldn’t be the last. This was business school, after all. Collapse came standard. No one said it out loud, but everyone knew the type: too much promise, too fast, followed by a spectacular nosedive into mediocrity.

And now, he was your problem.

You turned your head to look at him, his tired eyes meeting yours. He had his head resting on his fist, shoulders slumped, suit wrinkled, shirt inside out. The pathetic smile he tried to give you made it clear that he was nursing a hell of a hangover. And if that didn't give it away, his missing sock would have. You returned the smile, of course. For manners’ sake. Even if you were already scaling all the work you'd have to do without him.

“Hey,” he said, leaning over.

You were surprised to hear his voice. It was harsh and broken and clearly strained from overuse, but it was something as opposed to the silence you had initially expected.

“Hey,” you replied, nodding slightly.

“So, uh, partners, huh?”

You pressed your lips together. “Yep.”

Jonah made a sound between a scoff and a sigh. “Yeah.” He sat back, wincing like it hurt to do anything. “If I could just get your number, that'd be great. We could brainstorm things when you're vacant?”

There was a sort of unspoken rule around these things. Everyone should get a chance to at least pretend that they care. So you set a date. You sent him your calendar and marked down the days where you planned to meet. You opted he'd show up for at least 2 meetings before you'd be left to do the work yourself. Which, again, was fine. There was no harm in sharpening your micromanagement skills. Especially in your eventual line of work.

Jonah made a vague, satisfied noise when you sent the calendar link. Like he'd just accomplished something deeply heroic. Then he promptly shut his laptop and announced he was going to get coffee, as if caffeine would contribute to the assignment he hadn’t started.

You watched him go, mostly to confirm that he was leaving. He walked, carrying the weight of wasted potential on his back. There was a half-hearted swagger to it—like someone who used to try very hard at being charming could now flirt on autopilot.

The first meeting came.

You arrived five minutes early with a color-coded outline and three printed rubrics. Jonah showed up twenty-two minutes late with a half-eaten croissant and a loosely stapled packet of something that might have been a case study or a takeout menu. You didn’t ask.

“I had to help my roommate,” he said, like that explained everything. “His ex locked herself in our bathroom. It was a whole thing.”

You nodded, took a sip of your drink, didn’t ask about the ex, or the bathroom, or the nature of the "help" provided. You simply pointed to the outline.

He blinked down at it. “Wow. You’re, like... serious about this.”

“Well, it’s only thirty percent of our grade,” you replied.

Jonah smirked as he leaned back, wordlessly telling you that if that thirty percent mattered to him once, it no longer did. "Oh, yeah, totally."

You made a mental note to lower your expectations one notch further.

The second meeting was scheduled for 4:00 PM sharp. You arrived at 3:57 like a normal person. By 4:17, you had updated the agenda, restructured the deliverables timeline, and resigned yourself to the slow and inevitable process of doing the entire project alone.

It wasn’t tragic. It wasn’t even new. You had long since accepted that college was less about collaboration and more about learning to carry the dead weight of someone else’s tuition. You were already drafting slide titles in your head, balancing passive-aggressive phrasing with enough polish to keep the professor from noticing the quiet academic divorce taking place mid-project.

You’d gotten halfway through your fourth bullet point when the door swung open.

Jonah Simms stumbled in at 4:26 PM, breathless and damp from the light rain outside, holding a smoothie in one hand and a phone charger in the other like trophies from two unrelated quests.

“Hey.” He panted like he'd sprinted half a block before deciding it wasn’t worth it. “Sorry. I had a—thing.”

He offered no follow-up. You didn’t ask.

Instead, you clicked your pen once, sharp, declarative, and said, “I’ve got most of the foundation done. You can take the financials section. It’s the most straightforward.”

Jonah blinked. “Wait, we’re doing the consumer behavior one, right? Not the comparative pricing thing?”

A pause.

The kind of pause where you could hear yourself age a little.

You stared at him. Then at the agenda. Then back at him.

“I sent you three emails,” you said calmly. “And a Google Form.”

“Right,” he said, nodding as if that helped. “No, yeah, I saw it. I just... thought I dreamed it?”

You closed your laptop with the finality of a judge slamming down a gavel. “Okay. So here’s what’s going to happen. I’m going to finish the project. You’re going to nod at the presentation. And then you’re going to buy me coffee every morning starting tomorrow so that I have enough energy to get it done. And then, we're going to get a good grade— an amazing grade— and it's going to save your sorry ass from failing this class. Then you'll owe me. Which, I haven't decided what yet, but you'll owe me. And then I'll lord that debt over you for as long as you're on campus.”

Jonah opened his mouth.

“No, Simms,” you cut in. “This isn’t a negotiation. This is resource allocation. I didn't ask for your opinion, I didn't ask if this is what you wanted to do. I am telling you what to do and I fully expect you to do it.” You smiled at him, cold and strained.

A beat. Then, to your great and bitter annoyance, he laughed, though not in a mocking way. It was warm. Amused. A small, annoyingly adorable kind of laugh that made it sound like you’d surprised him. Like he was impressed.

“Okay,” he said. “You’re kinda terrifying.”

You didn’t reply. But you did allow yourself the quiet satisfaction of watching him awkwardly try to figure out where to sit. There was only one chair left, and it wobbled.

Perfect.

“So, uh.” Jonah's hands fidgeted. “Hot or iced?”

There was a knock on your door. With one bleary eye cracked open, you managed to make out the numbers on your digital clock.

2:36 AM.

A second knock, more urgent than the last. It wasn't a panicked "something’s-on-fire" knock. But it was, nevertheless, wanting to be heard. You stared at the door from the safety of your bed. Statistically, it could only be one of two things: something was on fire, or you were about to get murdered and this was the last night of your life. You’d already imagined the obituary. Tragically slain in his prime. Left behind a flawless GPA and an unfinished presentation.

When the knocking continued, you decided that death wouldn't have been so terrible.

You opened the door, clad in sweatpants and a faded graphic T-shirt of a childhood interest.

Jonah Simms stood on the other side, breathing like he’d taken the stairs too fast, eyes gleaming with a manic mix of inspiration and sleep deprivation. His hair was doing something that could only be described as avant-garde. “Hey,” he said, like you were two friends meeting for brunch. “Are you awake?”

You stared at him.

He stared back, still smiling. “Okay, good. So—I’ve been thinking.”

That, apparently, was your cue to let him in.

He brushed past you like it was his dorm too, and he was paying the rent just as ardently as you were. He cleared space on your desk, sliding his arm across it to move three textbooks and a bag of chips you’d forgotten existed. “Oh,” he said, glancing around. “Where's your roommate?”

You shut the door behind you. “I killed him.”

“Haha!”

“What are you doing here, Simms? Actually—” You held up a finger. “I'll do you one better: how did you know this was my dorm?”

His bag hit the floor with a thud, followed by his laptop, a USB stick, and what looked like a Red Bull can he’d rinsed out and refilled with iced coffee.

“I was trying to sleep,” he said, already opening slides and disregarding your last question. “but my brain was like, ‘What if we structured the project around brand identity instead of pricing elasticity?’ You know? Like—who even cares about elasticity. People like vibes. Vibes sell.”

You sat down across from him, purely to protect your GPA.

He had color schemes. Bullet points. A theoretical framework he had almost entirely plagiarized from an article behind a paywall. But damn it, he was talking fast and making some kind of sense, and you’d spent enough hours staring at this godforsaken project to recognize a breakthrough when you saw one.

An hour passed. Then two.

At some point, he stole your hoodie and you stopped correcting his grammar. At 4:11, he tried getting your coffee machine to work and failed. By 5:03, your shared slide deck was looking suspiciously competent.

“I think this might actually work,” he said, voice a little quieter now. He was slouched in your desk chair, legs sprawled like a man who owned the floor. “This is the most productive I’ve been in months. Kinda scary.”

“Mhm.” You didn’t look up from your screen. “Terrifying.”

He laughed, small and sleepy. “I’m glad you didn’t slam the door in my face.”

You shrugged. And though you were lightly dazed and feeling tipsy from your night of no sleep, you found yourself grinning back at him. “Still an option.”

Jonah stretched like he was trying to dislocate something, humming contentedly. Then, without warning, he launched himself toward your bed. The rusty springs of the mattress creaked in protest as he bounced a few times before landing on his stomach. “I'm just gonna rest my eyes for a bit, then.”

“You can’t fall asleep here, Simms.”

He groaned into your pillow. “Right. Your roommate.”

“No. I told you, I killed him.”

He chuckled weakly, voice muffled in flannel. “You’re funny, man.”

“Get off my bed.”

“Mmm,” he said, neither an agreement nor an apology… nor a sentence.

You stared at him. He was already halfway unconscious—one shoe off, one still on, your hoodie twisted like he’d been tackled by it. His hair had fully betrayed him, and his phone had slipped from his pocket and now lay screen-up beside his splayed arm, glowing quietly with unread notifications and zero urgency.

You considered kicking him out. You really did.

Instead, you sighed, loudly. Pointedly.

Jonah snored.

You turned back to your laptop. “If you drool on my comforter, you'll be joining my roommate.”

The next few weeks passed by in a blur. And then, before you knew it, you had been at your project for two months.

You hadn’t really noticed Jonah before. Of course you knew him, everyone did, but only as that vague, cultural background-noise sort of thing, like campus Wi-Fi or the guy who kept playing Wonderwall near the quad. He wasn’t someone you thought about. But now he was everywhere, in that casual, quietly consistent way that starts to matter. He’d wait for you outside class if you had the same lecture, or text you about grabbing burgers from that one diner that never changed the grease in their fryer. And somehow, that became normal. Expected. He had a lot of personality—maybe too much of it. He could turn any minor inconvenience into a TED Talk. But he wasn’t performing. Jonah Simms was exactly who he was, all the time, and the strange part was how easy it was getting to like him for it.

Against all logic—and most available evidence—Jonah kept showing up.

He didn’t knock at 2 a.m. again, thankfully, but he did start texting ideas at the worst hours. You’d wake to notifications like “What if we reference that HBR article on emotional branding???” or “Consumers are basically children, right?” followed by a string of emojis you never asked for. He’d show up to your dorm with sources, notes, and highlighted PDFs.

Then one thing became clear: he wasn't in this university for nothing.

Not in the smug textbook-reciting way most business majors did. Jonah understood things sideways. He’d look at a case study, tilt his head like it was a painting, and somehow find the emotional architecture underneath. He talked about brand identity like it was a person’s nervous system. About consumer behavior like it had feelings.

And you’d sit there, blinking across the desk at him, wondering how this was the same guy who once used the phrase “vibes sell” with complete sincerity.

He made charts. Actual, readable charts. One night, he explained the difference between affective and cognitive persuasion strategies using a sandwich metaphor, and for the first time, you actually remembered it the next day.

By the end of the month, your shared slide deck was not only coherent—it was good. Annoyingly, miraculously, start-believing-in-God-again good.

You caught yourself rereading Jonah’s sections and thinking, Huh. That’s not terrible.

You didn’t say anything about it though, in fear of startling him off like some grazing gazelle. You still rolled your eyes when he monologued and tossed crumpled paper at him when he got dramatic. But you didn’t kick him out when he found himself knocking on your door again, sleep deprived, and buzzing with another idea. When he made a mess of your notes, you let him stay long enough to clean it up.

It wasn’t what you were used to. But somehow, it was working.

So, you stuck to it.

Then, another week passed.

It took a few days for the pattern to click into place, and even longer for you to admit that it was a pattern. At first, you gave him the benefit of the doubt—midterms, burnout, life happening offstage. But by day five, it became harder to ignore: Jonah wasn’t showing up.

Not physically, nor digitally. He still made eye contact when you passed him on campus, still offered those strained, placeholder conversations about coffee lines and crowded lecture halls, but the easy rhythm you’d built had fractured. He didn’t mention the project. Didn’t ask to meet up. And slowly, you began to realize that he was still doing exactly what everyone had expected from the start. He was ghosting. Not dramatically, or in the way that made you think about him when a sad song came over the radio. But gradually, fading out the way group partners always did when the shine wore off and the work felt too much like work. And the part that annoyed you the most—more than the silence, more than the indifference—was how disappointed you were. Like some part of you had started believing this time would be different.

You told yourself it didn’t matter. You weren’t friends. You were research partners. You expected this, remember? It wasn't like he didn't hold up his end of the bargain. He did, in fact, buy you coffee every single day. You wanted to do the work alone.

You reminded yourself of that again the next day.

And the day after that.

And then, the semester was a week away from ending.

You realized, (with horror,) that you'd learned how Jonah knocked.

It was 3 AM. You were lying on your bed, sleepless. One leg up, reddish eyes staring blankly at the ceiling. You were recalling something about the Pavlovian Response. Some Russian physiologist who'd trained his dog to salivate at the sound of a bell. It was, from what you remembered, how they fleshed out the concept of classical conditioning. And from this train of thought came the realisation that you, like that dog, had been conditioned to react to Jonah's knocks.

You couldn't be blamed. For the majority of the time you'd spent on your project, he was always at your dorm. And though he had taken your advice not to visit too late in the night nor too early in the morning anymore, his visits were still constant. Then he'd knock in such a way that was so distinguishable, you didn't have to guess who it was. Two quick taps, a pause, then a softer, more tentative trifecta. It was almost like morse code. Jonah never failed to knock in that same way. It would have been impossible not to notice that it was his, and his alone.

So when you heard it again, on that quiet Tuesday night, it was as though your body knew before your brain did. In an instant, you were sitting up, staring at the door, waiting to hear it again.

Two quick taps.

A pause.

The hesitant trifecta.

You were on your feet way faster than you'd like to admit. You swung your door open.

Jonah Simms stood in the hallway looking like he'd wandered into Hell, found the exit, but forgot his wallet in the bathroom and had to trudge his way back. His hair was a perfect mess, cheeks flushed and pink, eyes dazed and half-lidded. He reeked of alcohol—the expensive kind, and had a look on his face that said he didn't let a single dollar go to waste. His tie was undone and hung loosely over his shoulders. His button-up was wrinkled, showing more chest than you were used to, and stained with what might have been three different lipstick shades.

He was a wreck. He was beautiful. And he was looking up at you like you were, too.

“Hey, handsome.” he said, blinking slowly. Something about the way he swayed told you that he was seeing four of you. “Roommate.. locked me out.”

Your brows furrowed. “Where are your shoes.”

His eyes fell to his bare feet. “Huh,” he murmured, like he didn't realize until you pointed it out. “Not there, apparently.”

Reluctantly, you stepped aside. His cue to come in.

Jonah smiled at you before attempting to enter your dorm, only for his hand to miss the doorframe and have him landing face-first on the floor. “Ffffuck,” he moaned.

You sighed, long and tired. The worst part was that you were barely mad at him.

An earlier version of you would've had his ass hauled away by security. An even earlier version wouldn't have opened the door to begin with. But somewhere between the third late-night work session and the fifth time he showed up with fries instead of research, some traitorous part of you had started to like him. It wasn’t planned. It wasn’t smart. But it was there, like lint that clung no matter how many times you brushed it off. Even if Jonah had started to slip, or fade out the way everyone expected he would, you couldn’t quite find it in yourself to feel anything sharp about it. Only something slow, and soft, and stupid.

It didn't take much effort to get him off the floor. Though his weight felt doubled due to how his limbs had ragdolled, he didn't fall that far from your bed. The springs in your mattress squeaked again, but sounded somewhat accustomed to Jonah's mass.

“Alright,” you mumbled. “Stay, I'll get you water. But when you're sobered up, I'm gonna call your roommate and tell him to open the door for you.”

Jonah whined your name. “No,” he said. He rolled onto his back, eyes closed, actively losing a battle between staying awake and blacking out. “He has his girlfriend over and you know what it means when roommates have their girlfriends over.”

You scoffed. “Yeah. Some late-night furniture rearrangements.”

Jonah made a sour face. “They’re loud.”

“Right. So instead of suffering through that, you came here to ruin my night instead.”

“Your night was lonely.”

You paused, caught off guard by the way he said it. Sleepy, half-laughing, but not wrong. It wasn't like you to have been so speechless, but you had nothing to retort against his drunken claim. He had said it how he saw it: your night was undeniably, and inexplicably, lonely.

“Water,” you managed, tone flat though flustered. It was either that or acknowledging his words.

You stepped over to the mini fridge, hearing the rustle of fabric as he shuffled behind you. When you returned, he was already half-asleep, one arm draped across his forehead like some sickly victorian princess. You put the cup on the nightstand beside him and stood there for a beat too long.

The streetlamp outside your window casted a pale amber glow, spilling in a gut-wrentchingly perfect way that caught Jonah’s face where he laid. His curls were flattened on one side, wild on the other, and his lips were parted like he’d been caught mid-sentence in sleep. There was the faintest wrinkle in his brow, like even in unconsciousness, something inside him was restless. There was no other word for him other than… pretty. It got worse the longer you looked. Something was curling inside your chest. Something so sweet it made you want to vomit.

This was temporary. This was academic. This was not supposed to mean anything, and yet, there he was: taking up space in your bed. And, slowly, in places that had nothing to do with coursework.

You'd lost count of how many minutes you had let him sleep. But for all that time, you watched him, concealing a plethora of unsaid things behind your lips. You should hate him. You really should. If only it weren't so difficult.

He stirred, eventually. And you did, too. You looked up from your spot on the floor, hearing him groan against his headache.

“I've got an Advil in my drawer,” you offered, voice soft as not to intrude.

Jonah was just coming to. “Sorry,” he said, the moment he got the chance. “God, I–” he sighed, pressing his palms against his eyes. “I don't even know what I’m doing here.”

Silence hung over the both of you, thick and weighted. It made you uneasy. Any form of quiet between you was foreign. There was usually something to fill it: Jonah’s voice, mostly. His endless, half-baked ideas about your project, or the marketing potential of vending machines that sold warm socks, or his unsolicited opinions on captilasm and discrimination in the workforce. He talked like he thought out loud and lived in parentheses. And over time, those irritating and initially exhausting conversations became a comfortable background noise to you.

So now that there was no sign of it, you found yourself fidgeting where you sat.

“Do you want to go for a walk?” you asked, voice still low, hoarse from sleep, or the lack of it. “Get some air. Maybe something greasy enough to knock the vodka out of your bloodstream?”

Jonah peeled one hand away from his face, squinting like you were too bright. “You’re offering me a hangover cure that involves walking?”

“Hard labor builds character.”

He gave you a raspy laugh, then winced like the sound offended his headache. “Do I get to complain the whole time?”

“That’s half the experience.”

He blinked at you, slow and pained, but the corner of his mouth twitched. “You are so terrifyingly nice to me.”

He sat up, carefully, every movement heralding both nausea and regret. His shirt had ridden up on one side, exposing a sliver of skin and the waistband of boxers you refused to look at directly. His hair was the pretty aftermath of ugly decisions and bad habits. You didn’t tell him he looked good like that.

You didn’t tell him anything.

Instead, you tossed him a jacket from your chair. “Come on, Simms. I don't want your vomit in here.”

He laughed, weakly, making no promises. He buried his face into your jacket and sighed. “Chivalry's not dead, huh?”

“No, but if you puke, you will be.”

[toothcereal]

World Wide Web (Spideypool social media au) Masterlist

All completed parts:

1 | 1.5 | 2 | 3

Notes/Tags: friends to lovers, fluff crack and plot, twitter au, university student!Peter Parker, Photographer!Peter Parker, Jewish!Peter Parker, Disabled!Wade Wilson, mostly image based, updates sporadically

Cosplayer photo creds (subject to be updated): cashicious on IG and pinterest, spiderling_cos on twt, wens.1998 on IG/1998Wens on twt

Read it on AO3!

Meet the characters:

Peter Parker:

secretly Spider-Man

mid to late 20s

getting his masters in biochemical engineering, sells photos to the Daily Bugle, AND finds time to hero. very overworked

is known as the spidey photographer, has a little clout for it

Spider-Man:

secretly Peter Parker

very popular

uses perfect capitalization and grammar on this account

MUCH bolder with the mask on. shameless flirt and attention whore

quite fond of Deadpool despite himself

sort of mentors Miles/Black Spider

Deadpool:

mid 30s

not family friendly

HUGE crush on Spidey that he’s not even trying to hide

doesn’t kill anymore, but will maim

jealous of the attention spidey gives to everyone else

chronic pain, whines about it publicly

overuses emojis

Miles Morales/ Black Spider:

still in high school

rookie, helps Spidey out when needed, sometimes takes over patrols

pretty chill, likes to laugh. sometimes riles up JJJ for fun (but tbh, who doesn’t)

J. Jonah Jameson:

40s

head of the Daily Bugle and runs the twitter like it’s his personal facebook

barely technically literate

hates vigilantes even though it’s mostly just a grudge/principle at this point

employs Peter Parker, thinks he’s alright but will never admit that

[gatorbites-imagines]

Andrew Peter Parker x male Deadpool reader, jus headcanons

TASM Peter Parker x Deadpool male reader

Headcanons

I always love when Peter is extra spidery. Been a while since I watched the amazing spiderman movies ngl.

I imagine this takes place after Peter comes back home after the No Way Home movie, so he has a deeper understanding of just how broad and different his universe is.

He keeps being spiderman like he’s always been, but at maybe you show up as a coworker at his job, or just during the night when he’s patrolling, but soon you two are spending a lot of time together.

Seeing as Deadpool is conscious about being inside a comic or media, I have the idea that you to some degree know this too, meaning you make jokes about the multiverse, or memes that don’t exist in your universe.

You would crack jokes about Peter having gone to a different dimension too, and make comments about villains that don’t exist in your universe, which would be what really caught Peters attention.

The white and yellow voices you have are all for you flirting with peter, as peter and as spiderman, and it leads to you guys having a relationship kinda like comic spiderman and Deadpool.

In the beginning Peter isn’t really sure what to do about you, especially seeing as you kill people, but you are super friendly, affectionate, and call him your soulmate.

Youd grow on him over time, and Peter would start looking forwards to seeing you around. He would even start getting worried if you don’t show up for a bit, even though he knows you taken contracts as an assassin and a gun for hire.

Cue you guys teaming up more and more, and you killing less when he’s around. You can’t fully stop, it’s just not in your nature, but you’ll try for Peter, which he appreciates.

Patrol always ends up with you guys eating something, sitting on the edge of a building, masks pushed up over your noses as you guys talk about whatever it is you can think of. If you have scars like most versions of Deadpool, Peter would be surprised at first, but would never judge you or look down on you for having them.

It takes Peter a while to realize he’s got feelings for you, as there’s part of him that scared to lose you like he did Gwen. Sure, you could heal from an atomic explosion, but that doesn’t keep the guilt and anxious thoughts from existing.

Your always very verbal about being in love with Peter, as he’s your other half and perfect partner, in your own words. Your flirt with him, bring him gifts, ask him on dates after every patrol, or ask him for a kiss when you’ve gotten hurt even though you’re healing.

Imagine your surprise when one day, after you had gotten impaled by a lamppost or something, you have your mask tucked up over your nose. And when Peter asks if there’s anything else he can help you with, after he’s patched you up, you pucker your lips and tell him he could kiss you better.

And for once, instead of scoffing and laughing, he actually leans in and kisses you. You immediately bluescreen, eyes wide as saucers as he gives a little grin and salute before he swings off into the night.

After that you crank your advances even more, and you guys share many more kisses before anything becomes official. You’re both dancing around the subject, but there are clear sparks and feelings between you.

Peter still struggles with the fear of losing you and not being enough, and deep down you have many insecurities of your own, but at some point you guys finally become official.

That’s also the first time you get to see him without a mask, if you don’t know each other during your day life. You swoon, flopping down on the ground with an arm over your eyes and a hand on your heart, gushing about how handsome he is.

Peter leaves you completely flustered when he compliments you in return when you take your mask off, especially if you have the usual Deadpool scars. Your yellow and white voices both agree Peter was the right choice.

You guys start officially dating, and going out during the day as much as you do during the night.

You shower him in gifts, since you have a lot of money doing your gun for hire job, compared to his job of the moment. You have a much better finance than he does, since you can work whenever you want compared to him trying to work a day job and also be spiderman.

Some of his coworkers, or most honestly, think you’re weird when you stop by his workplace if he forgot his lunch, or to bring him something.

But they can also see just how smitten you guys are. They’re more likely to be jealous, since their own partners won’t look at them with as much look as you do when looking at Peter.

When you guys move in together, it’s in a brand-new apartment. Peters isn’t big enough for the both of you, and people who want you dead know your current address.

The apartment is kind of a mess, with all your different accessories, weapons, webshooters, suits, the likes, all over the place. But its perfect for you two and just what you need.

Theres just some kind of peace to be with someone who knows the others’ secret identity, and someone you don’t have to worry will get hurt because of your hero, or antihero, work.

Peter still struggles to hold a day job, since you are as scatterbrained as him, or since your own schedule is super wack, so you don’t notice if he’s late or missing work. You could easily finance the both of you, but Peter being Peter won’t accept being a freeloader in his eyes.

Sure, you still kill people for money and just because you feel like it, but it’s a lot less than you use too, and there are moments Peter needs to step in and reel you guys’ in. But it doesn’t lessen the love you guys have for each other in any way, and when things get tough, you always have one another when it matters.