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all swinging- john walker

summary: after your last mission, you’ve been avoiding john at all costs. what happens when he confronts you in the gym, late one night?

pairing: john walker x reader

word count: 2.4k

content: reader being a lovesick fool for john, yelena being a menace, feelings are eventually shared. fluff and hint of romance. some swearing.

A/N- this is written as a part two to ‘guns blazing’ which can be found here. may be able to be read alone, but probably makes more sense with the last fic. enjoy!

It had been a week since you last spoke to Walker.

The last time you’d talked, it was in the elevator post-mission, bloodied and bruised, exhaustion hanging heavy in the air.

The distinct ‘ding’ of the elevator had cut through the stillness, announcing your arrival to the top floor of the New Avengers tower. You spared a small glance over at John, who to your surprise, was already looking at you. You couldn’t quite make out his expression, though, his eyes guarded. He gave a smile, tight and calculated before he stepped out. You thought he was going to keep walking then, leave things unsaid. But then he stopped, turning back to you. 

“Look after your side,��� he said, voice low and oddly sincere. “Change the gauze every few hours.”

You nodded, the corners of your mouth twitching into a tired smile. “I know what I’m doing, John.” 

He huffed a quiet breath. “And I know what you’re like. Don’t make it worse.”

And with that, he left. 

Now, you were basically hiding from him. Before, you might’ve searched for him in the hallways, cornering him to tease him about the way he had lost out in training to Bucky, or laugh about the way Yelena had caught him listening to Taylor Swift in his bedroom the week before. But everything felt wrong to you now, your demeanour too forced and fabricated around him. You stopped calling him names, stopped bickering back at him. And slowly, you started to refuse to be alone with him, always finding an excuse to leave when it was just the two of you. 

Simply put, you were avoiding him. Like the plague.

You didn’t know why you were suddenly so enamoured by him. You were supposed to be rivals, after all. You should hate him. You felt pathetic, like a giddy schoolgirl. It was something in the way he had grabbed you without second thought, hands working softly over your bloodied torso- hands you swear you could still feel ghosting over your hip days later. You saw a different side to him, one that didn’t mock you for how you ate your eggs or liked your coffee. It was all-consuming, how much you liked him now. You tried your hardest to push it down, to keep hating him for how much he got under your skin. But whatever you did, it wasn’t enough. Your disdain for him had melted away, simmering into something else entirely. It was driving you crazy. 

And, to make matters even worse, Yelena was beginning to suspect something was up with you and John.

“What is up with you and Walker?” You almost choke on your coffee, coughing violently as you place your mug down on the countertop. You frown, trying to play it cool. “What do you mean?” 

“I mean I’ve seen the way you look at him, when he’s not looking. I thought you hated him?”

“I do.” You answer too quickly, voice not entirely convincing. Yelena nearly laughs in your face.

“You’re a shitty liar. Plus, you don’t even talk to him anymore, you just stare longingly at him. It’s… creepy. Not that I’m entirely complaining, though, because it is nice to sit in the kitchen without your constant arguing.” You roll your eyes, mouth opening to speak. 

“Lena-”

“-And don’t think I haven’t noticed how you dart out of a room when you’re left alone with him. Do you know how annoying it is to be paired up with him in training? He’s insufferable. And throws hard punches. He comes out all swinging.” You swallow, trying and failing to school your expression. “I mean, god. What happened on that mission? Did you finally hate-fuck?” 

You actually spit your coffee out this time, coughing so hard you have to brace yourself against the counter.

“Yelena!” You gasp out, hot coffee dropping down your chin. You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand. “What the fuck?” You feel your cheeks heat up, and it’s suddenly very clear you’ve not been as subtle as you thought about your newfound feelings for John.

“Actually, no. Don’t tell me if you did” She screws her nose up, pulling an over-exaggerated face. “I don’t want to imagine John like that”

“Like what?” 

You freeze. 

John’s voice comes from behind you, all rough and American- his appearance painfully timed. You swear you feel your heart stop, wanting nothing more than the ground to swallow you up whole. You shoot Yelena a look that said ‘If you say a single word, I swear-’

“Nothing” You squeak out, not even attempting to look over at John. If you did, he’d see your bright red cheeks and the embarrassment coating your eyes. You can feel Yelena’s gaze burning into the side of your face, the way her chest heaved with a barely restrained laugh. 

John isn’t convinced by this, though. “You’re a terrible liar, Cupcake.” 

That fuck-ass nickname. He had penned it for you after you had managed to nearly burn the whole tower down when making (what was supposed to be) cupcakes with Bob. You wished you could click your fingers and disappear right about now. 

Yelena, however, was grinning like a Cheshire cat, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Ah, Walker we were just talking about how you two-”

“I have to go”, you blurt out suddenly. Your voice comes out too loud, cutting into Yelena’s teasing tone. “I- I need to talk to Val. Official avengers business, you know.” You couldn’t sound any less convincing if you tried. You didn’t wait for a response, turning on your heel and practically sprinting out of the kitchen into your room. You bang your head against the wood of your door, internally groaning. 

Smooth. Real smooth.

It took you another week to recover from the embarrassment of that interaction.

Another week of avoiding John like your life depended on it, and another week of glaring at Yelena when she made ‘subtle’ off-handed comments to provoke you, like:

“Walker, have you been working out more? You look stronger. Don’t you think so, __?”

Or,

“Your suit looks good today, __. Walker, tell her she looks good” 

It was starting to drive you mad. John didn’t seem to bat an eyelid at Yelena’s behavior though, which made you even more infuriated. You decided you needed a way to release the tension that had begun to build up, hating the way it spread through your body like a wildfire. 

This was how you found yourself in the compound’s gym, late one night. 

It had gone past 1AM, and you hadn’t slept at all- mind on override. You had tried to ignore it, clenching your eyes shut and willing yourself to sleep. Needless to say, it didn't work. You had even considered meditating or praying to whoever was out there, begging for a release from this love-struck wedge you had driven between you and John. This felt stupid, though, so you opted for a different solution: the gym. 

Before all of this, you would usually be in here with John, hair stuck to your face with sweat and breaths coming in quick pants as you dodged his hasty attacks. Now that you sparred with Yelena or Ava, sessions felt different. Flat. There was no thrill, no tension surfacing. You hated how much you missed it. 

You decided to channel your rage into the boxing bag that hung in the corner, fists rebounding against the worn leather. You knew you probably weren’t swinging in the way John had taught you to, or keeping your legs just the right distance apart for ‘optimal damage’, as he had said. You didn’t care though- not with all the images swirling behind your eyes.

His smile. Punch.

His eyes. Punch.

The way his shirt clung to him after training. Punch.

The way you wanted to grab him by the shoulders and ki-

“Your posture is all wrong” 

Your heart nearly fell out of your ass. You spun on your heel, eyes wide. “Jesus Christ, you scared me.” 

There, hovering in the doorway, was John. He was dressed casually, black sweatpants hung low on his waist. It took every ounce of your strength not to gawp at him. His hair was messy in the way it was after he showered, and you could smell his body lotion from across the room. God, he looked perfect.

“What are you doing up? Thought it was past your bedtime” He watches you from where he stood, a smug smile on his face. You rolled your eyes.

“Ha-ha. Very funny” You stepped away from the punchbag, swiping at your water bottle. You tried to ignore the way John was staring at you. 

“Seriously, though. You do know it’s 1:30? Odd time to be working out, don’t you think?” His voice had found that aggravating tone again, seeping with arrogance.

“Yes I’m aware of the time, Walker. I can read a clock, believe it or not” It was uneasy, how quickly you fell back into your old routine- all teasing and sarcastic. It then occurred to you that this was the first time in two weeks that you and John had been in the same room together, talking. You swallowed thickly, moving back to the punching bag. 

You hit at it again, harsher this time. Your knuckles were already red and you could see the skin beginning to peel, but you pushed through it. John hadn’t moved since he appeared, eyes locked onto the back of your head. You felt like a test subject, squirming under his gaze. 

“You’re going to hurt yourself if you keep punching like that” He said matter-of-factly. You bit back another retort, hands continuing their assault on the leather. You heard Walker make a disgruntled noise and suddenly he was behind you, his cologne invading your nostrils. 

“Stop.” It was murmured out, his breath hitting the back of your neck. The hairs there rose, and you faltered. “You know how you should punch. Show me.”

You felt delightfully trapped, his chest only inches from your back. It reminded you of how it felt to be in his arms, his strong hold keeping you tight against his body. You let out a small breath, your body working slower than your mind. Walker seemed to notice this and with an exhale, brought his hands out to help guide your position.

“Here. Your arms should be bent just slightly, and step apart. You want optimal damage, remember.” His fingers danced over your skin, the warmth of his freshly washed body enveloping your own. You could’ve passed out, there and then. You felt dizzy with it all. 

You clear your throat, assuming the position he gave you. You take a few swings at the bag, hits landing better than before. “See? Better. You’re doing good”

His praise was like music to your ears.

“Hold on a second” You stop, twisting your head around. John’s face was mere centimeters from yours, expression unreadable. He steps forward again, now basically pressed up against you. His hands drop down to your hips, grip somehow both strong and soft. He moves them slightly, adjusting your position again. “Go again”

You stutter, unable to even think straight. You could feel your cheeks burning and when you lifted your hand to punch, it shook lightly. John made no effort to step away, however, his big hands still planted firmly against your hips- the very place they had been just two weeks prior. 

“Come on, Cupcake. Don’t get shy now.”

You moved. Again and again, until you were throwing your fists with precision at the punchbag. John was smiling behind you, fingers flexing out over your hip bone.

“Good”

And then, 

“Good girl” 

You stopped then, completely flustered. John moved away with that stupid smug smile on his face. “What? Something I said?” You let out another hard sigh, hands raking over your hair. 

“Shut up, John”

There was a beat of silence, the air thickening between you. 

“Make me.”

Your jaw moves, mouth hanging open slightly. You didn’t know whether to kiss him or swing at him. 

“Fine”. You launch forward, hands connecting with his chest. You use all of your strength to push him back, and he stumbles into the fighting ring. 

“Game on, Walker”

You take a swing at him and he ducks out of the way, arms coming out to grab at your legs. You manage to kick them off, and with a twist, lay him down flat on the floor. You stand over him, chest rising and falling rapidly. He jerks forward, pulling you down with him and flipping you over on your back to straddle your waist. 

“You’ve been avoiding me all week. Why?” You struggle against him, bucking up slightly. He presses his forearm against your collarbone. 

He’s got you pinned down underneath him, his blue eyes boring down into yours.

“What is it, huh? You’ve been weird with me ever since I patched you up” 

“Get off me-” You strain, hands shooting out to punch against his chest. He doesn’t budge. 

“You’ve gotta hit harder than that, Cupcake. Come on, I know you can do it”. 

You grit your teeth, and by some miracle, manage to move him. You flip yourself over him, your thighs locking around his own. 

“Stop calling me that, Walker” He lets out a low laugh and shuffles underneath you and this time you advance forward, pinning your arm against his collarbone. Your face is the closest it’s ever been to his, and you find yourself looking down at his lips. 

Neither of you speak. The room is deadly quiet, only the sounds of your laboured breathing filtering through the air. 

Then, 

You rush forward, pressing your lips against his. It takes him by surprise and you’re certain he nearly stops breathing, hands flouncing against your hips. He presses his lips against you harder, and you reciprocate the action. He’s the first one to pull back, pupils blown wide and chest panting erratically.

“That’s why.” You’re panting too, hands balling into the fabric of John’s shirt. He looks confused for a fleeting second, but then a knowing look falls over his face. “Oh”

You swallow, a sense of dread beginning to build up your spine. Oh good, or oh bad?

John shatters this illusion though, voice coming out raspy. “I was wondering when you were going to do that” And then his hand finds your neck and he pulls you down into another kiss. 

“Too irresistible, huh? If I’d have known all it would take was to patch you up, I would’ve stabbed you myself” 

You snort out, rolling your eyes. 

“Shut up, Walker” 

all work is my own, i do not give permission for this to be reposted elsewhere without credit. you may not copy or claim as your own.

tag- @okbutiambabygorl

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this was so fire ohh my god

the psychology of men (a guide to understanding how they work) — ft. phainon

if nice guys didn’t always screw you over, you’d have an easier time trusting that phainon isn’t the good guy full of bullshit. but he’s still nice enough to patiently wait for you to give him one chance, though

word count. ❤︎ 10.3k words — in literally one day. ONE

before you read. ❤︎ female reader ; college au ; reader has a shitty ex boyfriend and trust issues — she is not perfect but she is human. be nice to her ; strangers to friends with benefits to lovers ; reader has a crush on mydei at first LOL ; mentions of alcohol and drunk sex ; phainon is a YEARNER ; resolved angst, miscommunication, and arguments ; phainon is down bad and reader is simply in denial that she is too ; cunnilingus ; unprotected vaginal sex ; creampie ; not proof read

commentary. ❤︎ i didn’t care about this dude until today. he possessed me so hard i wrote 10k words in less than 24 hours. white hair and blue eyed freaks will do that to you

LESSON ONE: MEN ARE ALWAYS PLANNING SOMETHING. THE NICER THEY SEEM, THE MORE SINISTER THE SCHEME!

You meet Phainon for the first time while you’re freshly out of a relationship, nursing a broken heart. Your ex-boyfriend pursued you with that heartfelt, fairytale sort of devotion, and you thought you’d be telling people at your wedding one day that you knew he was “the one” early on in your relationship. 

And then he dumped you as quickly as he “fell in love” with you. It wouldn’t be right, he’d said, it just isn’t fair to keep you around when I don’t feel the way I used to. He leaves you with not so much as a tear of sorrow, and you’re left with the aftermath of a devastating heartbreak. 

Not the sad, lingering kind—this one is the sort of heartbreak that makes you hate all men. Especially the nice ones—the ones that manipulate you into thinking they’re the good guys who won’t turn on you, but they do. They always do. The nice guys are the ones with the most potential to turn out dangerous. They aren’t upfront about their assholery. That shitty ex of yours is a prime example, and you refuse to fall victim twice. 

Your first impression of Phainon happens in some boring college class you take just for the elective credit and an easy gpa boost. He’s the sort of guy your attention doesn’t instantly latch onto—he’s sweet, sure, and funny but a little too gentle to be real. Too good to be true. Too much of a green flag to be interesting. Exactly the kind of guy you’re avoiding—exactly the sort of person who can worm his way into your heart slowly and lethally and then bite. Hard. (That sort of mindset is too pessimistic to be any good, of course, but you’re only just barely in your twenties as you navigate your dramatic breakup, and your prefrontal cortex is still developing.)

You find his friend a little more intriguing for the longest time, if you’re honest. The brooding blonde next to him always made your eyes linger for a second too long. 

“Hey,” he whispers, poking your shoulder from behind. You turn, slightly irritated by the fact that some guy is interrupting your dissociation in the middle of class—doesn’t he know you have false scenarios to run through your mind while you pass the time? Professor Anaxagoras has a strict no-phones-in-sight policy if you want to keep your participation points up, so the only thing to entertain you is your own head. Sheepishly, as if sensing your irritation, he murmurs, “Sorry. Can I please use your laptop charger?”

“I’m using it,” you blink. 

“Yeah, but it’s almost fully charged,” he practically pleads. The puppy eyes on him are unreal—you feel almost compelled to cave just at the sight of them alone until you realize it’s your charger, and he’s bargaining with you about why you don’t need it. Absurd. “I can see the green battery sign.”

“Are you serious,” you stare at him blandly, “it’s barely twelve pm. Why is your laptop already dying anyway?”

“I charged it,” he pouts, “but she’s old and on her last legs. It doesn’t last if I take the charger out for too long—I forgot to bring it with me. Please. If it dies in the middle of this assignment, it’ll make me start over! It took me an hour to google all these answers.”

Well. He’s convincing in that pathetic sort of way. Just the perfect mix between nice and genuine but still a tad bit needy that just tickles your gut in the right place to loosen you up. Without a word, you unplug your charger with a roll of your eyes and hand it to him as he smiles gratefully. 

“You’re the best!”

“You’re pathetic,” his friend grunts to him from beside him.

“Don’t be rude, Mydei!” he whispers through a wounded voice. 

They continue to bicker back and forth, but you tune it out—there’s only one thought on your mind for the remainder of your time in that room. 

You spend the rest of class thinking about the deep sound of his friend’s voice to care about anything else. Fuck, you think—you’re almost debating that strict no more men rule you’d set for yourself after your break up, ready to throw it all away for the grumpy looking blonde with red tips behind you. He’s hot. And honestly, he seems a bit rude and crabby, so really, he can’t be that bad—and yeah, everyone would think he’s the red flag, but you know how men go. You’ve figured out their psychology. The ones who are prickly on the exterior are actually very soft inside, and they’re not half as bad as the soft, cuddly type of men who turn around and bite you as soon as you’re close enough. 

This guy could be different. He could be worked into devotion instead of smothering you with it early on, only to have ulterior motives and get bored. What was his name again? Mydei? Sounds decently moanable in bed, you reason. He certainly seems like a keeper. 

It’s not long before the lecture ends, and you walk off with all your thoughts consumed by the grumpy blonde guy who said maybe only three words that you properly heard before he possessed your mind like a fucking demon. So much so that you forget to ask for your charger back, and that clever asshole never gave it back on his own accord like a proper human being. 

So, the next time Phainon walks into class, you’re glaring at him right at the entrance of the room with an outstretched hand and an unimpressed curl of your lips. 

“My charger,” you say blandly, “you took off with it last class. I need it back.”

“Oh!” he flushes, quickly digging into his bag and pulling it out—at least he kept it in very good condition. Men are not to be trusted with things you need because they are irresponsible. Case example: not returning what they borrow. “Sorry,” he says earnestly, “I meant to return it, but I forgot. Which, I was thinking…maybe we should exchange numbers—you know…to contact outside of class if we ever need it.”

You blink, seeing right through him. Why else would you ever need it again? “You walked off with my charger just so you could use it as an opening to ask for my number?”

He flushes a deeper shade of red, creeping up to his ears and down his neck like he didn’t expect you to call him out on his so very blatant scheme. “W-well…did it work?”

You contemplate for a moment before you respond, “No.”

“How about if I throw in some assignment answers?”

“…Okay, fine.” You never pay attention in this class—the tests are open notes, and the weekly assignments are easy enough when you have the internet at your disposal. But still, having someone present the answers to you is a much faster route, and you have other non-elective classes to worry about, so all in all, if a semi-annoying guy messages you here and there, it’s not so bad.

And the better part is that his friend is hot, so you can snag the details on him, too. Men don’t really worry about the concept of loyalty—they don’t stay far away from the people their friends show an interest in for something like friendship. You know how they work. Phainon’s number can lead you to Mydei’s, and Mydei can break you free from your awful, terrible descent to madness from heartbreak, and when you inevitably have a happy, healthy, and loving relationship that lasts, you’ll never think about your bastard ex again.

Foolproof.

“Great!” Phainon beams. He hands you his phone, and you type your number in.

And that starts it all. 

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LESSON TWO: SEX DOES NOT EQUAL INTIMACY. WHEN THEY SAY IT’S JUST PHYSICAL, THAT’S TOTALLY FINE. BUT IF YOU SAY IT, YOU’RE OUT OF LINE!

Exchanging phone numbers with Phainon was supposed to be a simple way to have at least one contact for a class—a very important measure you should take for every class you’re in—and perhaps, if you’re lucky, you could also somehow get closer to that hot blonde friend he has named Mydei. 

It was never supposed to become a real friendship.

But, well…shit happens, and things don’t go according to plan. It also doesn’t help that Phainon is a consistent texter—almost to a fault. What sort of man doesn’t text sporadically and with a tone as dry as concrete? Phainon, apparently—which is not like any sort of man you’ve ever known. 

You even start sitting with him in class instead of in front of him—that’s a terribly unplanned development. The bright side of it, however, is that you quickly get over his friend. Mydei is nice, but he’s a little too bored. Or maybe he just isn’t interested in you; you’re not so sure. No amount of flirty comments gets a flush out of him, not a smirk, not even a smart retort back. He is just…bored. (Or maybe he’s secretly just one of those good friends who doesn’t flirt with the girl that his friend is actively trying to pursue, but that option does not align with your very complex understanding of men, so you shove it aside. He’s probably just bored, and that’s just truly unfortunate. He was hot.)

But you grow fond of Phainon. As a friend. Sure, he’s clearly been interested in you since day one, but he’s not pushy, and a hint here and there that you’re still bitter about your previous relationship makes him keep a respectful distance. But he’s definitely smitten—and you? Well, you’re lonely. And he’s a good guy. A good guy who keeps you good company as a good friend and nothing more. He knows that, and you don’t think you’re stringing him along if he’s aware that you’re nothing more than friendly. 

And sometimes, friends go to parties together. And sometimes, they also drink together. And sometimes, they also end up staying at the other’s apartment afterward because it’s closer and safer than trying to get back home alone. And…sometimes, although not a lot of times—but sometimes, they wake up in bed together, nude with no recollection of the previous night and love bites scattered on their necks as proof that something very, very physical happened between them.

It’s not always a common occurrence, but it’s certainly not a rare one. Does it complicate things? For certain—but you think that you and Phainon are good enough friends and mature enough people to know that sex does not equate to intimacy. Most men are super clear about that, anyway—it’s almost ingrained in their nature to say “no strings attached” before they fuck your brains out in every position they can think to try. This should not be a foreign concept to him. 

But it doesn’t make the morning any less awkward. 

“Oh my god,” you say in disbelief, pulling the sheets over your bare chest as you stare at Phainon like he’s grown two heads. He stares back at you like you’re some figment of his imagination—unsure if you’re real but painfully hopeful that you are. And then you take a quick glimpse around his room and realize he’s a space nerd—there’s a poster about Saturn on his wall. “I didn’t think you were into space. You seem a little too air-headed for that.”

“Hey!” he pouts, “you don’t know me! I can be very smart!”

You snort, eyeing him in amusement. Except staring at him for too long means that you are forced to look at the hickey you left on his neck, almost like you were a raging, horny teenager last night and not an adult. You would be more embarrassed if one glimpse down at your chest didn’t tell you that he was even worse. 

“So…” you start awkwardly. 

“So…” he echoes. 

You don’t know where to take it from there. There’s a beat of silence before you say, “We’re good, right Phai?”

He softens, looking at you with those large, round eyes that house every shade of the sky and her beauty before he nods and murmurs, “Yeah. We’re always good.”

“Good,” you breathe, “I’m glad. I want us to be good.”

“Well,” he rubs his neck, “we are, in fact, good. So…yeah.”

In the end, you sheepishly turn around so he can get out of bed, find his scattered clothes and put them on, and leave, and you—once you’re certain he’s far enough in the kitchen and the faucet is running—scream into his pillow before slipping out of bed and putting on your own. You’re pleasantly surprised he doesn’t have only one pillow. But his sheets are navy blue, so you dock a few points for that. Not a good look.

He makes you breakfast before you leave. Something about sitting and sharing pancakes while he has tousled hair feels so natural you almost feel sick at the thought of leaving. But you tell yourself that he’s an easy friend to have and feel comfortable with, and force yourself up and to the door when the time inevitably comes. 

He sees you out with a soft, “See you later?”

“Yeah,” you hum, “later. Bye.”

“Bye.”

—————

You wish so badly that you could be an ideal individual, but you are as flawed as the rest of the humans you share planet Earth with.

You and Phainon fuck again. Sober, this time. Still as friends. Not by accident, or through the influence of alcohol, or by forced proximity, or by anything that you can use to excuse it. You can’t excuse it. It’s entirely an act of free will that you consented to—because he does take consent very seriously, you learn—and it starts to become abundantly clear that sex is beginning to get a little too frequent in your time together.

The first time it happened after the initial accidental night, he was over at your apartment helping you build your new desk. The old one was too small, and you needed an upgraded space badly. He spends the evening hammering and drilling pieces away and fitting them together, and like some cliche joke from the universe, when you slip on the instruction manual on the floor, he catches you as your face hovers dangerously close to his. A kiss later, and suddenly he’s fitting into you and drilling you instead of the wood. 

And then it starts to happen everywhere. 

Sometimes in the back of his car before he drops you off at home after class. Sometimes on your kitchen counter when you’re supposed to be washing dishes after he’s over for dinner to study. Sometimes after he’s got a bad exam grade to blow off some steam. Sometimes when you’re particularly stressed over a busy week with too many assignments due on the same day and too many hours of your part-time job to work. 

Every time it happens, you go back to acting like you always do afterward. Like it never even happened. Never mentioned, or questioned, or brought up. He never questions if something is shifting in your relationship, and you never bring it up. Sometimes, two people can have a physical relationship and still be friends and nothing more. It’s not impossible, and it’s not bad.

If anything, it makes you closer friends. You start to understand each other better. You talk more—really talk. No silly banter, or heated debate, or stressed-out vents. Just you, Phainon, the sheets that cover your bodies and a quiet room that lingers with the scent of sex.

He tells you about how much he misses his hometown. How small it is, and how everyone knows everyone. How leaving home and his young triplet sisters was the hardest thing he did, but a good degree and stable job is even harder to come by where he’s from. He couldn’t pass up the opportunity. 

And you tell him about your ex. About how sweet and nice he was. How badly he wanted you. How good he was at doing things right and reading you for what you craved. How to love you like you always wished. How to spend time with you without burning you out and depleting your social battery. How to know your ticks and know when he’s pushing your buttons too far and when a joke doesn’t feel like a joke anymore. How to make you feel seen. 

No man has ever loved you like that. None have cared to, either. Learning you is a lot of work—you have years and years of life and stories and feelings and fears and everything’s to share. Teaching them is a lot. Learning them is even more. 

You liked to think that boy from your past was a ticket to something good. Some better life for yourself where it’s not just you and yourself, and that’s it—a life where you were you and someone else cared to see it. Have it. Cherish it. Keep it. 

You don’t know how someone could pour in so much time, do everything first, want things all on their own, and still walk away and tell you that they just don’t feel the same anymore.

You think it’s just a man thing. Men bore easily. 

Phainon snorts at that. 

“They do have short attention spans,” he tells you. 

You smile tightly, humming as you blink back tears. “Or maybe I’m just boring.”

“Aw, c’mon,” he gasps dramatically, reaching over to swipe the tears like it’s always been his job to—it feels so natural when he does it. “You’re not boring! You’re at least a step up from boring because boring is Professor Anaxa, and god knows what he drones on about.” 

“Gee,” you huff, but the tears are easier to subside when it’s him. They’re gone quickly like a fleeting reminder that sorrow exists but shooed away like they’re unwelcome when he’s around. He’s around more and more these days. “Thanks. I’m glad to be just a step up from boring. Maybe in a year or so, I’ll be two steps up from boring.”

“Nothing is ever impossible,” he winks. “Some day, with enough hard work and determination, you might even be three steps up.”

“You suck,” you giggle. 

He laughs, and the sound of his voice is enough to lull you to sleep. You sleep good next to him—always do.

—————

One thing you count on is that it’s always easy when it’s you and Phainon. Phainon and you. 

Just two people who exist with each other, and nothing else really needs to be thought out. You don’t worry about what you wear around him or how you look. He doesn’t care too much about what you’re doing or where you’re going. As long as it’s you and him, him and you, and nothing else—it’s okay. He’s good. He treats you good and makes you feel good, too. Inside and out. Physically and mentally. 

He might even be your best friend. You don’t know if you should tell him that—men get weird about definite titles like that. But then again, maybe not Phainon. He’s like an anomaly of sorts, sometimes. 

But you forget sometimes that Phainon was never hoping to just be friends. And you suppose letting him feel you come undone for him more than once is like dangling his desires right in front of his face because it all blows up on you very fast. 

Perfect one second, like the calm before the storm, and a disaster zone the next, leaving you no time to evacuate before the tornado has hit and done its damage. 

“Mydei wants to come with us to try that new cafe you mentioned,” Phainon hums, watching in sheepish amusement as you sigh and mutter under your breath while picking up his dirty socks from the couch and tossing them across the room. (Men are all the same, aren’t they?) “He said something about there being a pomegranate beverage he wants to try.”

“Fine by me,” you shrug, slumping onto his couch, “if he doesn’t find it awkward, then I don’t either.”

“Why would he find it awkward?” he looks at you in bewilderment.

“I think he’d have to be oblivious to miss the way I was flirting with him,” you huff out a snort, “I don’t think most men jump at the opportunity to hang out with a girl they ignored advances of, but maybe he’s just too passionate about pomegranate to care.”

Everything feels like it pauses as soon as the words come out. You thought he’d known this whole time—you could have sworn he’d known. How would Mydei have never mentioned it to him? Aren’t they best friends? Don’t men at least tell their friends when a girl is hitting on them regularly in passing? Is Mydei really that bad at giving life updates, or is he more clueless than you gave him credit for when it comes to romantic interaction? 

Nothing makes sense, and you’re not entirely sure about anything. The only thing you are sure about is that Phainon is staring at you like you’ve been disloyal to the worst degree. 

“You liked Mydei?” he asks in hurt, staring at you with those god-awful puppy eyes. You feel like you kicked one, too, with the way he stares at you. 

“W-well, no,” you stutter, “I mean, yes—but like…not really, you know?”

“No, I don’t know,” he shakes his head, “you’re not making any sense.”

“I liked him for a very short time,” you say quickly, “like…like a small crush, you know? He was attractive, and I am not immune to an attractive man, so it just…b-but it never lasted for long!”

“Did you still like him when we got together?” he asks quietly. Got together—you physically have to stop yourself from flinching at those words. Some part of you feels a little bit bad that he sounds so wounded, but the other part of you feels like this is all so absurd. That he’s starting to get worked up over nothing. He has to know you were never together—you never did anything that implies two people that are…together. It’s always been a good fuck here and there, and that’s what you kept it as strictly. 

(Distantly, your mind gnaws at you and screams that two people who just fuck and nothing else do not do the things that you and Phainon do. Sure, you were friends first, but two people who draw the line at sex don’t seek each other to FaceTime until three am, and they don’t bring each other soup when they’re sick, and they don’t hold each other when they cry, and they don’t, under any circumstances, tell each other about their deepest insecurities that they’ve never voiced before about shoddy exes who ruined their ability to trust and feel loved. You can’t be the closest people in your lives and just have sex—but your mind has never been your number one supporter, so you shove the voice down.)

“No,” you admit, and for a second, his shoulders sag in relief. Like he doesn’t care or feel threatened that you liked his friend as long as it didn’t bleed into your time together—and that’s when you start to wonder if Phainon is too good for you. Too kind and genuine in a way that is not dangerous. Too sweet in a way that doesn’t slowly kill you like poison but just gives you something to look forward to. Maybe he’s a good one—a good guy who is just good and nothing else. Still, you kill his heart anyway with a harsh blow to his chest as you add, “I didn’t like anyone when we started getting physical. And I still don’t, Phainon.”

Getting physical. Whatever that means. You say it like it puts some distance between the sex you have and intimacy. You say it like it rationalizes everything you do with him—you get physical, which is only human nature, and in the mix, if you develop a good, long-standing friendship, then there is nothing wrong with that. 

But are you really okay with just friends? Yes. You are. Are you sure about that? Absolutely. You don’t seem so convinced. This is a positive, for sure, one hundred percent true reality. Phainon is just a friend. You’re shooting yourself in the foot. 

You force yourself to stop arguing with yourself when you notice the way his eyes flash at the words: still don’t. He processes the words that you still don’t like anyone, and the look in his eyes is devastating. Betrayal. Confusion. Hurt. Anger. Something else that you don’t quite understand, but it makes you filled dreadfully to the brim with unease. 

“Every time we’ve been together has just been physical to you?” he asks quietly, croaking out the words as if they’re acrid on his tongue and taste awful. “You’re lying.”

“I thought I made it very clear we were just friends, and I wasn’t looking for a relationship,” you furrow your brows, “you can’t act like I’ve been stringing you along—”

“Before we started, fucking, sure! But I thought it was pretty mutually clear we were slowly turning romantic when you willingly took my dick down your throat every now and then.”

“We’ve never had a ‘hey, what are we?’ discussion,” you cry exasperatedly, throwing your hands up as though this is all…so, so, so absurd—and for a second, you feel like it is. You made it clear that you weren’t trying to date. Not him, not anybody. Sure, that silly blonde friend of his clouded your judgment for a bit, but that was never more than a phase. “Don’t you think it was a red flag to never discuss what we are or what we’re doing if we were getting romantic?”

He falters. Something in his face makes him look so unrecognizable. So fragile and knocked down a peg that you’ve never seen from him. And something about the way he looks at you makes you almost feel like he doesn't recognize you. 

“I thought you were avoiding the conversation on purpose,” he whispers, voice cracking just as he says: you. “I thought…I thought you were just nervous about labels after everything from your last…” he clears his throat, like even mentioning the word relationship kills him, “and…and that I was just waiting for you to be more comfortable…”

You don’t know what to say. And frankly, nothing seems like it’ll make him feel better. He’s fighting the trembling of his lips and blinking back the moisture in his eyes like all he has left in his control is to not shed tears in front of you. 

You extend him that much grace. (Men don’t like being vulnerable, you reason. They hate showing emotions.)

“Phainon, I think I should go,” you murmur softly.

“You want to leave?” he asks, gutted. It’s got two meanings—you know that. You know exactly what he’s asking.

Everything feels wrong when you say, “Yes,” through a soft whisper, “I do.” But you still don’t take it back.

And nothing feels right when he lets out a watery chuckle and lets the first few tears slip. “Well, you know where the door is,” he spits.

He doesn’t walk you out. You’re not sure why that feels so heavy—it’s not because you’re guilty. You know that. It’s something else, and you can’t quite understand it. 

────────────────────────

LESSON THREE: NOT ALL MEN. SURE, MOST HAVE A VERY BAD STREAK, BUT NEVER THE WHITE-HAIRED AND BLUE-EYED FREAK!

You barely last two weeks before you call Phainon. 

At first, you thought being without who is maybe your closest friend at the moment was just eating away at you, and that’s why you missed him. You threw yourself into your social circles, making plans left and right to fill that gaping hole of his presence. It didn’t work. 

And then it slowly starts to click in place. 

Your friends send you a picture of your ex’s new fling, calling him an asshole and how she’s too pretty to be his next victim. You don’t feel even the slightest bit jealous or hollow. In fact, you’re bored by the news—you have more pressing matters. 

Then, you start to see what feels like fucking propaganda for romance everywhere. Every social media timeline is filled with some stupid, cheesy, cringe trend that rubs in your face how painfully in love two people are. You get ads for fucking wedding rings. Your friends are all magically starting to get out of the talking phases and actually have something exclusive and official. Your old high school friends are getting engaged, and invitations are coming in. You’ve RSVP’d one in spring and two in fall already. 

Everywhere you look, it’s something that feels like the universe is promoting a relationship in your face as if it’s a poorly disguised paid sponsorship by some celebrity online, and all you want to do is throw a rock at the sky and hope it lands on whatever divine being is playing tricks on you straight in the face. 

But it slowly becomes clearer and clearer why it unsettles you so much. Why it all makes you bitter and annoyed and tired and…and sad. You’re sad. And it’s because you miss Phainon, and every couple reminds you of the hurt you caused him and why it’s your fault he’s still not in your life. Because you wanted your cake and to eat it, too. Even if it meant taking advantage of his feelings and the heart he didn’t even bother wearing on his sleeve. He just pinned it to yours and let you wear it. 

So you call him. When that doesn’t work, and you get sent to voicemail, you go straight to his apartment. You knock on his door incessantly for two minutes straight (you know he’s home—his car is there) before he opens the door, rubbing sleep from his eyes despite it being three in the afternoon. 

“Mydei, can you at least come bother me to eat a little later in the da—oh.”

He notices you and quickly straightens up, smoothing out his wrinkled t-shirt as best as he can and fixing his ruffled hair (that doesn’t do much but ruffle more) as he looks at you with what is his best attempt at a nonchalant look and clears his throat. “Yes?”

“Hi,” you say nervously, “how are you?” (What else do you say? You’re at a loss.)

“Oh, you know,” he shrugs casually, “nursing a broken heart and trying to integrate back into society as a functioning member. The usual. How about you?”

You flinch at his tone, at the way it’s so clipped yet so emotional at the same time. 

“I called earlier—”

“I know. I ignored that, by the way, if that wasn’t clear,” he says as if being petty and angry is the only thing he has left. (It might just be, and you certainly won’t blame him for it.)

“I know,” you whisper, “but I still wanted to talk. And see you. Which I know I don’t deserve, but I guess I’m clearly not perfect, huh?” you shrug softly, giving him a sad smile. 

“Well,” he says flatly, “you came all this way, and I’ve already opened the door. Might as well say the groundbreaking thing you came to say.”

When Phainon is hurt is the only time he does not know how to be kind. He spends so much time not hurting others, not letting them feel the pain of their feelings being overlooked, that he doesn’t quite know how to handle it. How to stomach that, yes, there are hurt people in this world, and, yes, they do the hurting, too. And he might fall victim to it. And he might even be the cause of someone else’s hurt, too, intentional or not. 

He’s not good at processing pain. He’s too good of a guy to ever have to dwell on how badly his actions have impacted someone. Not because he’s perfect but because he’s gentle enough by nature to avoid the necessity of it while he can. 

“I’m sorry,” you say earnestly. Because you are. You are. “I knew you were interested early on, and having sex as often as we did was leading you on whether I meant to or not, and you got hurt because of it, so I’m sor—”

“Unbelievable,” he scoffs, shaking his head with a bitter laugh. 

You blanch. “What?” you ask, mildly frustrated. He doesn’t have to forgive you, but it’s certainly an honest apology. “You don’t have to forgive me if you don’t want to. But I just felt it was right to tell you that I—”

“I’m not upset because you don’t like me or you that led me on,” he interrupts, making you blink in confusion. He looks at you for a moment—really looks at you, and before you can say anything, he lets out another disbelieving chuckle. “You still don’t get it, do you? Do you even understand it yourself—why you’re even here?”

“To apologize, of course—”

“No.” 

He says it so seriously. 

Phainon is hardly ever so serious. It’s what you always liked about him, even if you hated to admit it. He’s good at taking serious matters and making them feel like they’re not so serious. Not in a bad way—he’s just good at making them feel less soul-crushing with that carefree smile and those light-hearted words. He comforts you without ever letting you feel the shame of needing comfort. It’s nice.

You forget that even he is capable of being solemn. 

“No one apologizes for breaking someone’s heart unless it breaks theirs too—do you see that? Do you see that you care? I’m not upset that you don’t care about me or that you don’t feel the same. That would be easy to move on from. It kills me because you do—you care, and you feel exactly the way I do, and you just won’t admit it—do you know how much that sucks?”

You swallow thickly. It’s getting to that dangerous territory. That fragile, vulnerable place in your mind that you don’t like because then you have to admit that, yes, maybe you fucking fell hard and crashed onto the ground for Phainon. Asphalt and rocks still digging into your arms with raw and bleeding skin. Yes, maybe he’s that nice, kind, genuine guy who you fell for and who has no other motives than to spend his time being nice and genuine to you. And maybe, if you’d met him sooner and not later, you could have loved him and not some other asshole in disguise, pretending to parade around like a good man, like some wolf in sheep’s clothing. 

Maybe that would have saved you the constant fear of it inevitably going all wrong—of giving and giving and giving, and one day, even that’s not enough, and someone doesn’t even want to take from you anymore. That one day, someone doesn’t even find you worth taking advantage of. 

That stings.

It’s this twisted sort of rejection you can’t handle. This sickening sort of feeling makes you think it’s better to be needed for selfish reasons than to be discarded like a useless, meaningless waste of time. And Phainon wouldn’t take advantage of you, right? He’s too nice of a guy—he’d reel you in, make you think he wants you so, so badly, and then when he doesn’t, he’ll play that nice guy trick again and make you think he’s doing you a favor by letting you go. Letting you go so you’re not being used by making it known you’re unwanted and not enough. 

As if he didn’t spend so much time making you want him. Condition you into thinking being loved by him was such a treasure. Convince you into needing the devotion he hands so easily for free. 

But you’re wrong, aren’t you? Maybe he’s not like that at all—maybe he’s just a nice guy because he really is good. Maybe he’s not nice because he needs to be to get what he wants. Maybe he’s nice because he wants to be, and it earns him what he wants the honorable way. Maybe you’ve fallen for Phainon, and maybe you were wrong about that being a bad thing. And maybe you just really fucking hate to admit when you’re wrong. (Your prefrontal cortex is still developing, after all. The men of your past are not very helpful to that slow development.)

“I don’t know how I feel anymore,” you whisper, tears littering your eyes. And god, you feel like a witch—using those sad, doe eyes with the wet, teary gaze that you know will soften him up like butter. Because he does. Even if you don’t do it on purpose, it makes sure he softens right up in front of your face because he hates the sight of your sadness being so tangible that he can feel it on the pad of his thumb in the form of a wet, warm rivulet. 

Like clockwork, he wipes the tears and sighs, and you let out a shaky breath. 

“I don’t know how I feel about anything because every time I think my feelings are right, they’re fucking wrong,” you sob, “I am always wrong, and I don’t know how to stop being wrong.”

His arms wrap around you and pull you close, pressing your body flush against that sturdy chest that feels like a brick wall—strong enough to keep you away from all the harm and cruelty of the world around you as long as he stands in front of you. Sometimes, you think that’s all it takes. Just Phainon standing there, and that’s it. That’s it to be okay. 

“You can only stop being wrong once you’re right,” he hums, giving you a sad, innocent little smile, “isn’t that the whole point of it all? To find the person who’s right? There’s gotta be a few wrong answers here and there, don’t you think?”

“I don’t want to keep crying over the wrong answers,” you sniffle, “it’s dehydrating me.”

He laughs. It sounds good. It feels good, too, with the way his chest rumbles against you. He always does. Everything about him is just good. The way he smells, and feels, and sounds, and just is. Phainon is just good. You like just good—no catches, no curveballs, no fine print. Just good. 

“Hey,” he tilts your face up and presses his forehead to yours, wiping your tears valiantly still, even as they keep coming. And he’s hurt. You did that—you hurt him. But he seems more focused on the fact that your heart is crumbling than his own. “I can’t promise you won’t ever cry because of me—I’m not always the brightest, okay? But I can promise that I’m going to stay and wipe every last tear if I mess up. And then I’m going to keep staying. I will always stay so I can wipe the next round of tears and hydrate you again for your troubles. We’ll figure out the rest as we go. It doesn’t have to be perfect, yeah?”

“You don’t want it to be?” you snivel, “you seem like the type to hopelessly daydream about perfect romances with not much luck.”

“I’m going to let that dig slide because you are emotional right now, and we all say things we don’t mean when we’re emotional,” he rubs your back, rocking you slowly from side to side. 

And…well, you think you’re wrong. About him. About Phainon and now he’s nice in a way that’s too nice and too good to be true. You’re wrong because he’s just nice, and it’s just nice enough that it’s good, not devious—and for once, just this once, you don’t mind being wrong.

Not if it’s for him. 

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, “for being confused and scared and unable to realize I care about you. I will get some help or something to be a functioning member of society.”

“Well, when you find help, hook me up,” he snorts, “because I need it, too. You’ve done a number on me.”

You’re both laughing. And then, at some point, you’re both kissing. His lips are on yours, and yours are on his, and it’s just a mix of each other that feels less like it’s right and more like nothing about it was ever wrong in the first place. Sometimes, it doesn’t have to be right as long as it’s just not wrong. Sometimes, that’s enough to keep things going. Sometimes, they become right along the way, all on their own. 

You cup his cheeks, making him pause his assault on your lips against his will as he lets out a soft noise of protest deep in his throat. You’ll fall hopelessly harder for him because of that later—first, you have more pressing matters. 

“I’m serious,” you whisper, “I’m sorry. You’re right. I do care about you—so much that it scares me. I care about you and I promise this time I’m going to stay and keep caring. So be ready.”

“I’m ready,” he smiles, all wobbly lips and a shaky voice and trembling fingertips. They dig into your hips as his head buries into your neck, and you hold him—latch onto him and clutch his shirt because feeling him is all that ever felt good, and you don’t think you can stomach letting it go a second time. “I am so ready to be the only thing you care about.”

“Maybe not the only thing—”

“Did you hear that? That weird crack sound? That’s the sound of my heart breaking a second time. Any more, and I’ll be collecting shards off the floor.”

“C’mere loser,” you laugh, grabbing him by the shirt and pulling him into a hard, deliberate kiss that knocks the wind out of both of you. It makes your stomach twist and form knots and there’s this weird tickle in your chest that feels like you’re about to implode. Phainon is so good at that—at making you feel so, so unwell but well at the same time. You’re sick and nauseous from how badly you want him, but nothing else feels right until you have him. 

So you wrap your arms around him, pressing nearer, closer, harder up against him and kissing him until both of you are gasping for breath in between every press of your mouths together. Your hands find his hair, carding through it wildly and pulling on the strands when he nips at your lips, and when he groans into your mouth at a particularly harsh tug, you know it’s starting to become a scene that should not be happening at his front door where anyone can pass by.  

“Inside?” he pants, pulling away for just long enough to say the word.

You kiss him hard once more, making him groan again before you decide that, yes, it probably needs to move indoors. “Inside,” you breathe, labored and unsteady, “now—now, please.”

“Whatever you want,” he chuckles, “you don’t have to beg. You always get what you want—don’t I always give it to you?”

“Then quit talking and give it to me.”

That shuts him up really fast. With a dark glint in his eyes, he pulls you in, closing the door swiftly and pressing you against it. You’re caged—nothing but him, you, and the throbbing ache between your legs that seems to be a common denominator between the two of you. 

“I want you so bad,” he groans, kissing your neck, inhaling your scent along your sweet, delicate skin, “want you so bad I never want you gone. Don’t ever leave.”

“I won’t,” you gasp as he bites—and it’s a little hard. A little mean almost, but he kisses it better with a soft peck afterward that you forgive him on the spot and melt. “I won’t.”

“Good,” he hums, nose trailing along the column of your neck before he drags it along your jaw, kissing the corner of your mouth before he murmurs, “but I’ll make it hard to walk away this time just for safe measures.”

It feels like a literal and metaphorical promise. Before you can even respond to his cheekiness, he has your mouth hostage again—kissing and groaning into it enough that you have no choice but to soften and become pliant under him. You swallow up his sounds as the bulge in his pants presses against your own heat, the slow, desperate pressure of him grinding against you, making you shiver against the door. 

Good—he always feels so good. Everything about Phainon is always so damn good. 

“Feel that?” he croons, gasping as you roll your hips in tandem with his own movements, “feel how hard I am for you? You’re telling me anyone else will want you this bad? No one. I’m it for you. I’m not giving you up. Ever.”

His voice is a low, almost dangerous promise—and if you weren’t dripping at your core from the sound of him alone, you’d be less than inclined to admit that you like the sound of that. But you do, don’t you? You want him to want you so badly, so desperately, that the thought of letting you go makes him his own worst enemy. And he does, doesn’t he? He wants you so badly that you’re almost scared. 

But you like it. Love it, even. You fucking love that he needs you, and you want him to need you so badly he might just die without you. 

“Don’t,” you whisper, lifting the bottom of his shirt up to his shoulders. He lets go just long enough to pull his arms up and let you take it off of him, tossing it to the ground before your fingers run your nails along the hard plane of his abs. He shivers, letting out a soft, barely-there sound at the feeling. “Don’t let me go. Ever.”

“Whatever you want, princess,” he grins. Phainon leans in again, kissing you impatiently like being away from you for that short period of time was enough to have him on edge. Maybe it does because he only melts and relaxes when his lips are against yours again. His fingers trail to the edge of your pants, toying with the waistband as you quiver at the feeling of his rough fingertips rubbing against the skin of your belly. 

“Need you,” you whine.

“You got me,” he reassures, “just wanna take my time, yeah? You can handle that, can’t you? Let me have a little fun with you so I cheer up before I fuck you right against this door?”

You whimper. He’s mean sometimes, too. He’s so, so nice, but sometimes, it’s like a switch flips, and he’s mean. Not cruel—just teasingly mean to keep you on your toes and have you falling apart for him. It’s so mean, but it’s so careful and thoughtful and meant just for you—like he thinks only about you. 

“Just hold onto me, okay, baby?” he asks gently, pecking your lips, “I’ve got you. I won’t let you fall.”

Before you can even ask what that means, he drops down to his knees, spreading yours and pulling your pants and underwear down in one go, helping them off your legs as they get thrown somewhere in the back along with his shirt. You realize exactly why you need to hold on as soon as a finger prods your entrance, splitting your folds open as he peers into them and hums at the way you’re wet and slick. You gasp, grabbing onto the nearest thing—which happens to be his hair as he chuckles. 

“Easy,” he murmurs, “I hardly did anything yet. But don’t worry, you can pull if you need—I don’t mind.”

Just like that, his mouth is between the apex of your thighs, tongue tracing your sweet, precious little clit before he licks a stripe along your folds, humming against your cunt and sending vibrations as you mewl at the feeling. 

“Ph-Painon…fuck—”

He hooks a leg over his shoulder, letting you half sit on him as he props you up and devours you. Devours you like you were the only thing on his mind. Like he was starved and dying in this apartment, and the only thing to sustain him is you. His tongue dips past your folds and fucks into you before pulling away just as quickly and flicking over your clit. Two fingers gently prod at your entrance this time—only they don’t tease you. No, instead, they fill you up and slip into you as far as they go, curling into a sweet, sweet spot in your walls that has your knees wobbling. 

You think you will fall for a moment. You think holding onto his hair and tugging him so harshly is not going to keep you steady, and the weight he takes as he props you up on a shoulder, is not going to hold you.

But he makes good on his promise. He doesn’t let you fall or slip for even a fraction, even as your legs get weaker and your orgasm draws nearer. 

“‘M close, Phai—s-so close,” you whimper. 

He pulls away. With a smug, stupid little grin, he looks up at you as you stare down in disbelief. “Say you care about me.”

“What is wrong with you—”

“Ah ah, that’s not what the magic words are!”

“Phainon—”

“That’s not a bad guess, but still not the right answer!”

“Fucking hell,” you hiss, “I care about you, asshole.”

“A little more aggressive than necessary, but I will accept it,” he hums, rewarding you with a soft kiss to your clit. “Now tell me you know I care about you. That I want you, and I want to stay.” 

“Phainon,” you plead, “please, can’t we do this later?”

“No,” he says firmly, “because then it’s just getting physical, and I am not getting physical. I am getting intimate. Tell me what I want to hear so there’s no mistaking things.”

He’s throwing your words right back at your face. And the only way you’re going to get what you want is if you own up to them, even if it’s against your will. So you do. With an exasperated sigh, you tell him what he wants to hear.

“I know you care about me,” you say impatiently, “I know you care, and you want me, and you want to stay, and god knows you’re not good at leaving me alone, so I guess I will just have to get used to you.”

“Atta girl,” he murmurs, giving your clit one more kiss before he’s back to lapping at your cunt like he’s parched. Your slick coats his chin and makes his skin glisten as he traces your clit with his tongue, curling his fingers just right into your heat. They brush against that spot again—he has it perfectly memorized, and just like that, you fall apart, gushing around his fingers and coating his lips with even more of your essence. 

“Fuck,” you sob, grinding against his face as you ride out the shockwaves of pleasure, feeling him groan against you right where you need him. 

He lets you stay like that for just a moment, resting half your weight on his shoulder and half your weight on one leg before he abruptly stands and grabs your waist, hoisting you up as your legs wrap around his hips. You’ve done this before—at that point, you’d considered it just any other step to getting physical with someone. 

Now, you realize you were beyond oblivious to how much you needed it to only be him you were doing all these motions with. It almost feels silly. 

“I’ve changed my mind,” he grins.

“What?”

“I don’t want you against the door anymore. I want you on the bed—my bed. And you’re staying there, and you’re going to like it.”

You laugh, breaking into a fit of giggles as he jogs over to his room with you in his arms. And when he drops you unceremoniously only to the bed, flopping on top of you and attacking your neck with kisses, you can’t help but break into another fit of giggles, feeling his playful nibbles and licks against your skin. It feels so easy. So natural. Only with Phainon, you realize. Only ever with Phainon. 

“Hi,” you breathe when his forehead presses to yours. 

He gives you a bright, toothy grin, murmuring, “Hi, yourself, pretty.”

And then he's kissing you again. His lips are soft and slow this time around. Pressing against your mouth, slotting into the space like it’s his to fit into—and it is. It’s always been his, whether you were willing to admit it or not. His tongue glides against yours languidly, no rush or impatience or desperation like usual. This time, he kisses you like you’re his and always have been—like he knows what you taste and feel like, and he knows it’s always been his and always will be. He kisses you like he’s reminding you of it, one painstakingly slow second at a time. 

“You broke my fucking heart,” he murmurs against your mouth, voice raw and vulnerable but never not soft, “you know that? You broke my fucking heart.”

Your hand presses against his chest, feeling the erratic beating of it under your palm as you whisper, “Seems like it’s working perfectly well to me.”

He chuckles at that. Lets out another toothy grin before he tilts his head back and laughs. It’s cute and precious and so fucking sweet—he sounds just like what he is. Tooth rotting sweet.

“You’re always so smart with your words,” he drawls, pressing wet, hot, open-mouthed kisses along your jaw.

One hand slowly pulls your shirt up, inch by inch, before you slowly help him take it off of you. The bra comes off next, and you’re bare—under him as nothing else but his. Nothing else that covers or keeps what’s his away from him. 

And when you eye his pants with a petulant, pouty look, he chuckles before throwing you an amused look as he takes them off slowly, not taking his eyes off of you.

You and Phainon have fucked. But you’ve never been intimate—not by the real standards, at least. The proper kind where you take the time to really take in each other’s bodies, commit each dip and curve to memory, know it inside out and like the back of your hand. Where that scar starts and ends from his childhood shenanigans, where your little moles scatter along your body in hidden crevices. And when he slowly frees his cock, and you can really stare without having to tell yourself you shouldn't, you take a good look. 

You take a good look at the flush of his pretty cock—pretty, just like the rest of him. A nice, soft, muted pink at the tip that oozes with the beginnings of pre cum, and it’s sensitive as it twitches under your delicate thumb when you smear the dribbling essence along the head of his cock. 

“Mmh,” he makes a soft noise in the back of his throat, fluttering his eyes closed and panting as you touch him. Feel him. Want him. 

You finally want him, and it’s almost enough to make him spill into your hand alone. But he forces himself to composure, grabbing your hand and pinning it over your head—and then goes the other. He holds them in place with one large hand, watching as you squirm under him impatiently. 

“No touching,” he whispers, “first, I’m gonna teach you not to take me for granted. Then you’ll never want to take your hands off of me.”

“If you just ask me nicely, I’ll never take my hands off of you,” you offer. 

He laughs, boyish and charming and so fucking smooth, you feel something flutter at the base of your stomach. Something stirring in your guts and twisting them inside out in anticipation. “Persuasive,” he hums, “but I still have to teach you not to take me for granted.”

When the tip of his cock brushes against your entrance, your wrists struggle against his hands to break free. You need to feel him—to know he’s there against you and real. To feel his hair and tug and hear him groan in response. To scratch along his back and feel his warm, damp skin, the way he shivers under the pain and likes it. To pull him closer and feel him practically melt against you at the gesture. 

You want to feel him. Because you need to know he’s yours. And you never, ever want to take for granted Phainon again. Your Phainon. The nice, sweet, gentle boy who stole your charger for a day to get your number. Who knew before you knew, long before you were ever willing to know, that he would love you. Even when you didn’t want to, he did it from a distance. And when he thought you finally would, that you’d finally let it happen, he still did it quietly, stripped of labels and titles even though he wanted to announce it to the world. 

For you. Everything was always for you. 

“Please, Phai,” you plead, “please, please, please—let me touch you.”

“Yeah? You want that, huh?” he grins, pretending to think for a moment before he hums, “tell me why.”

“So I can feel you and know you’re mine,” you lean up and breathe against his ear, “don’t you want to be mine?”

It’s a silly question. It’s all he’s ever wanted, so he gives it to you easily. Lets your hands go and lets them wander over his sculpted body as he sinks deeper into you—no more taking his sweet time to draw out the teasing. He’s impatient now—just as impatient as you. Maybe even more. He’s been waiting longer than you have to make this happen. To take you and make you his and have you admit that he’s yours, too. 

“Fuck,” he groans as he sinks the final few inches of this thick, girthy length, “fuck you’re so fucking tight. You feel that? Feel me? How deep I am?”

“Yes,” you mewl, “yes—so deep. F-feel so full. You feel so good.”

He groans at that, pulling out almost completely before slamming his hips into yours, cock burying deep into you and burying to the hilt. The tip of his sensitive length kisses against that sweet, delicate spot against your walls—your spot that he knows and memorizes so easily. 

He knows you. Knows your body. He’s felt it so many times under him and made it react for him the way he wants, but finally—fucking finally, it reacts to him and only him. He knows it’s him and only him. Only ever will be if he has anything to say about it. 

“God, you drive me insane. So insane, you know that?” he grunts, rolling his hips hard and fast and drilling into you like he has something to prove. Every slam of his hips and every brush of his cock along your sensitive folds makes you pull him closer, kissing him hungrily—desperately. So needy. 

You need him. You’ve always needed this—someone to want you and need you and find you worth it to stay. How could you think Phainon didn’t want to stay when he was so clearly happy with just pieces of you because you didn’t want to give the full of you? When he stayed and stayed and stayed and happily took the little shards you dropped, even if they were sharp, and cut his fingers because they were pieces of you. When he was just happy to have you whichever way you let him because it was you. 

All he wanted was you. You get that now. You’re not going to forget. 

“‘M close,” you pant, breathing against his mouth, “g-gonna cum. With me…with me, please.”

“Yeah? Whatever you want, princess,” he groans. 

His hand moves to find your clit, rubbing quick circles as his own pace quickens, and you can feel the telltale signs that both of you are not going to last much longer. He lets out a particularly deep, sharp thrust—and you’re gone. 

Plummeting off the edge in a hazy fall. You mewl his name, chanting it over and over and over as your walls constrict around him tightly. Spasm around him uncontrollably. And your fall coaxes him into his own. He falls into his release with a soft, drawn-out moan of your name, hot, thick seed filling you up through quick ropes of cum. His cock twitches with each rope, painting your insides white with him. 

“You feel so good,” he rasps, “so fucking good—you were made for me. Only me. Knew…knew you were perfect for me since the first day.”

You wrap your arms around his neck and pull him as close as he can get without physically merging into your bones. His head tucks into your neck, and you both ride out the aftershocks of your highs. You feel him breathe, and he listens to your soft breaths, and it’s just you and Phainon. Phainon and you.

It always has been.

“Don’t leave,” he mumbles tiredly after a while, sleepy words said through a petulant warning. 

You chuckle, kissing his sweaty forehead as you promise, “I won’t.”

“Good. Won’t let you.”

“Good. Don’t.”

Your own eyes start to grow heavy with exhaustion, slowly fluttering closed until—

“Who’s that?” you look at him in confusion as you hear an incessant knocking on the door. 

He chuckles sheepishly, rubbing his neck. “Ah,” he sighs, “right. That’s…that’s just Mydei. He’s coming to make sure I eat instead of starving to death from sadness.”

You blink, and then you throw your head back, laughing loudly. He watches you for a moment, smiling softly at the sound of you flooding his space. “You’re hopeless, Phainon.”

“Am not!”

“Go tell Mydei to leave and that you’re alive.”

“...Okay.”

Idk what this is. It’s 10k words of pure babbling and hardly a single coherent thought. I’m sorry dfksksjr this isn’t my best work but . I needed to get him out of my system

I also think writing a reader that is younger than me and navigates life and its challenges through a less mature and experienced lens was a fun project. She is not perfect but she is certainly a human who is trying her best and wants to be loved and I think that’s endearing

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i miss tom holland peter parker so bad rn

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if you’re wondering where i’ve been i’ve lost all my confidence as per usual during the summer and i’m watching love island usa and it’s making me want to tear my hair out

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ok i’ll bite haven’t even finished the most recent quest but nettles phainon fic….. do we see the vision someone has to do it bc it was literally ALL FOR HIM

writing a fic based off of nettles (ethel cain) is calling to me like the green goblin mask….but the question is for who

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writing a fic based off of nettles (ethel cain) is calling to me like the green goblin mask….but the question is for who

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if u ever wonder why i am the way i am i’m not being hyperbolic when i say this my entire perception of romance can be traced back to phineas and isabella . the blueprint for me in many ways

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Hi!!! Love this fic of yours I just read and I'm definitely probably about to read all of your luke fics, so can I please be on your luke taglist?

omg of course you can!! thank u so so much for reading i’m glad u enjoy :))

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i’m actually being converted to john walkerism in real time this is crazy but i’m not against it

HI! Congrats on 8k followers:) could I request a John Walker blurb with the prompt, "this is like the fifth time you've yawned in two minutes." Thank you for fueling the John Walker fans!! <3

thank you for your request lovely!!

john walker x fem!reader (umm john is sort of bossy in this… as god intended tbh)

“This is like, the fifth time you’ve yawned in two minutes.”

The flatness in John’s tone is evident. You stop typing mid-sentence to look up from your laptop, blinking blearily.

“What?”

Your boyfriend gives you a look, raising his eyebrows half amused and half unimpressed.

“You’ve been yawning for the past half hour, honey. Are you tired?”

He says it like he knows the answer. You’re exhausted, actually. You’re sick of typing up this assignment, and all you’ve wanted to do since you started it is give up and sit in John’s lap where he’s watching TV.

He’s twisted over the back of the couch now, watching you. You don’t know how long he’s been watching you. Probably a while, if he’s caught your yawning.

“No,” you lie. “M’not tired.”

John sighs and stands up. “Liar,” he says bluntly. “Come over and sit with me, will you?”

He rounds the couch and crosses the room, moving to stand behind you. He pushes a big, warm hand over your shoulder, giving you a squeeze. It takes everything you’ve got not to melt into him right then and there.

“I… have to finish this,” you say unconvincingly.

John huffs. “You can finish it tomorrow.”

“But—“

John sighs. “You can finish it tomorrow, sweetheart. C’mon, don’t be a brat.”

He says it gently, affectionately, but it makes you a bit dizzy, anyway. He moves to stand beside your chair, looking down at you as he takes your chin in his hand. He encourages your gaze away from your laptop, directing your jaw so you’re looking at him instead.

He smiles, tilting his head to one side, thumb slotting under your chin. “I’ll make you a cup of tea?”

You fold. His hands are so warm and he’s got the softest cotton t-shirt on, and you look at his messy hair and firm chest, and your assignment just vanishes from your mind completely. As if it was never there in the first place.

“Okay,” you nod. You reach over and shut your laptop, “What are you watching?”

John grins, tugging you out of your uncomfortable chair and over to the couch.

“Spy movie. You’ll like it, honey, I can rewind to the beginning if you want?”

You let him manhandle you onto the couch and plant a kiss in your hair. You relax into the cushions as he goes into the kitchen to put the hot water on.

He’s right, you decide. Your assignment can wait.

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ok wait i started playing stardew valley for the first time i’m shit and butt at it rn but …. who should i romance…. so many options idk

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the whole time i was reading this i kept tapping twice to like it even though i know i already had but i was somehow hoping the likes would go up anyway…. ur writing + friends to lovers is always always perfect i am so blessed this reader is SOOOO me

You wish your best friend wasn't jacked as hell. You wish that drug dealer, gang member, staircase whatever didn't completely body him. Most of all, you wish that you didn't pray for times like these, because someone has listened a little too well.

like yeah i love this… also when reader said did you even need me my heart cleaved in two UGH this is my kinda food love love love

if i say, i love you — mark grayson.

in sum : 3 times you patch up mark without asking, because that’s what friends do + 1 time things get a little ambiguous 3k

contains : fem reader, hero x medical civvy except they mutually yearn thru casual physical intimacy while being subtly 𝓯𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓴𝔂 about it

notes : title from boynextdoor,, hashtag coping with sports med i literally had to carry my fully grown 200+ lb coach on a spine board

“You could be doing this if you didn’t drop out.”

Mark gives you a look, one brow angled down and mouth half-open. “You sure? I bet you learned this from YouTube and not GE Professor Asshat, or whatever his name is.”

“Well, it’s not like you’d know,” you say, pulling your athletic tape a little too tight. He winces when the folded edge cuts into the web between his index and thumb. “Don’t move.”

“Yes, Doc,” Mark says, ducking his head and looking at you through his lashes, big brown eyes wide. All sullen now, as if he didn’t collapse onto your dorm bed complaining of a big boo-boo. Faker.

“What are you even doing now? Drugs, blackmail?” You take him by the forearm, thumb pressing into the soft part just underneath his elbow. Never mind how warm his skin is—you need to stay focused. 

If you don’t, who knows if you’ll find him half-dead in a dumpster with a shattered wrist instead of a mildly sprained one. 

Mark squeezes his mouth into a white, puckered line. When he lets go, the pink of his lips come back full force, the bloom of petals. “Sure, wanna see my pot? Let’s see: I got some from Jersey” —he counts it off on his free fingers— “another bag from some loser named Pinkman.” 

“Really,” you draw out the syllables, gently holding the body of his hand this time to test his wrist’s mobility. The calluses on his fingertips, burning hot, drag against the delicate skin covering your pulse point. 

“Yeah, grew it in his own backyard. Heard he mighta fertilized it with a dead body, though.” 

You pause, still holding his wrist, that light touch still settled above your veins. “I don’t remember that happening.” 

“I swear it did.” Mark puts up three fingers on his other hand, Scout’s honor. 

It’s funny, the way he still does that when he swears by something, and then does it again when he defends himself after getting it completely wrong. 

“It did not.” 

“Uh-huh.” 

“Nuh-the fuck-uh.” You tear off the last strip of tape, rubbing the end to make sure it sticks. 

Mark watches, a mild look on his face. Dumbass, you think. He probably dove into something headfirst, like the time you dared him to jump off the jungle gym and he actually did. 

(And put his ankle in a cast for five weeks.) 

You turn his hand over, run your nails over the tape covering his palm. Mark shivers and twitches his fingers an inch. 

“You gotta be more careful,” you say. He looks at you with real guilt this time, ears pink. Cute—you almost want to make him blush all the way down to his chest. “I’m not gonna be around forever to fix you up.” 

Your bed makes a sound when you stand up, but it’s not as loud as the pops that crawl up your spine. Mark chuckles, a dry rattle that comes out of his throat. 

“Damn, Doc, I think you need to be fixed up.” 

“I’ll break your wrist right now.” 

Mark follows, standing up and facing you. For a second, the two of you linger, caught in gravity. Maybe it’s the way his mouth parts a little bit. Maybe it’s the way his eyes dart down, then up, then down again. 

Then his beeper—where the hell did he even get one anyway—goes off, and you stumble back in a daze, catching yourself on the edge of your headboard. 

He clears his throat, stumbling toward your window. “I—gotta go.” 

“Taking a one-way trip to the hospital?” 

Mark jerks to a stop. He laughs, stilted, and bumps his palm against his forehead. “Shit, I thought your door was on this side.” 

He gives you a stupid little grin, that one where his dimples peek out to taunt you. Haha, look at me. Haha, you think I’m hot, huh? 

“See ya, Doc.” Mark comes so close, too close for your heart, snaking his uninjured arm around you for a half-hug. 

He keeps you there for—you don’t remember how long, squeezed between his arm and chest and practically tasting the lemon shampoo he shares with his mom. 

“I thought it was urgent.” Your voice is muffled by his shoulder. 

“Right, right.” Mark pulls himself away, fingertips still trailing a wake along your waist. “See you, Doc.” 

“You already said that.” 

“Did not.” He slips toward the door. You want to reach out, pull him back, maybe for a Breaking Bad rewatch or maybe for… 

(A kiss?) 

“Did too.” 

The door closes on Mark just as he sticks his tongue out at you. 

This time, you ask Mark: missed me so much that you jumped in front of a car? 

“No,” he responds with an eye roll. “I fell down the stairs.” 

“If that’s what you wanna believe.” 

He shuts his eyes till wrinkles form when you take him by the chin to inspect the scrape on his hairline. 

There’s another one on his cheek, and a few more beginning to scab on his knuckles. Then there’s the big ass bruise on his side that you got a flash of. 

“Stay still.” You’ve been saying it more often now. Two weeks ago, with the wrist. Last weekend, when you re-taped him and put a bag of ice on his shiner. 

“Y’ur the besht, Doc,” he slurs out. 

“Here comes the alcohol pad,” you coo like a grandmother does to an old, lazy dog. Mark fakes a sob when the cotton touches his cut. “Don’t be a crybaby.” 

“Wah-wah, ouchie.” 

You thread your fingers into his soft hair, holding it back while you plaster a layer of gauze over it. Mark rips a piece of tape for you between his teeth, and you try not to think too hard about it as you take it from him. 

You do his cheek next, leave the knuckles to themselves. No point if they’re scabbing already—cleaning them would just pull the healing parts right back off and hurt him more. You’d never do that, not to Mark. 

“Shirt off, on your side.” 

Mark listens without a comment (wow, what a surprise!). His arms—has he been working out?—stretch overhead, hair falling back in disarray. You want to comb it back for him, until you see that his bruise goes down past his waistband. 

You eke out, “I’m gonna palpate the area, okay?” before pressing a light touch into the edge of the bruise. The red’s already mottling into a dark purple, blooming under his skin. It’s hot to the touch. “Doesn’t look like it’s gonna spread.” 

“Feels nice when you do that,” he mumbles. His abdomen ripples when he says it. “Like, your hands are cold as fuck, but it feels better.” 

You wish your best friend wasn’t jacked as hell. You wish that drug dealer, gang member, staircase whatever didn’t completely body him. Most of all, you wish that you didn’t pray for times like these, because someone has listened a little too well. 

“I’m gonna,” you pause to swallow, a tremor working its way through your hand. It’s just medical treatment, don’t fuck it up. You chicken out anyway—mayday, mayday. “Goes past your waistband,” you say instead. 

“Like, this low?” Mark pins his touch to the bottom hem of your sweats. “Or that low?” Now he’s just below the joint where your thigh meets your pelvis. He kneads his fingertips in a small circle, looking at you with wide, innocent eyes. 

It’s just the tensor fasciae latae, you tell yourself, neurons firing at a million signals a second. Tensor fasciae latae. Tensor fasciae latea— 

“Not the tensor, no. Based on the shape, I’d say it ends at the iliac crest,” you blurt. Mark squints. You poke the bony peak of his pelvic bone. “There.” 

“Oh, I feel it.” He gives you a little smile, all dopey, eyes struck with a little something like fondness. “I only remember the sartorius, from bio.” 

“You sure you’ve got the right one?” 

Famous last words, because Mark pinpoints it exactly. He starts at the inside of your knee, starts dragging up, up, ghosting over the soft, sensitive part of your thigh and ending at your tensor. “That one, right?” 

“I’ll go get an ice pack,” you say instead. Mark protests, swinging off your bed to trail after you. He stands behind you while you peer into your mini-fridge, still shirtless, still driving you nuts. 

“At least tell me if I was right!” 

You wave two fingers in front of Mark’s face. 

“Oh, yeah, that’s definitely…” He trails off, blinking once, twice, then squinting. Maybe you shouldn’t have turned off the lights, but if he does have a concussion like you suspect, it’s a risk worth taking. “Mhm, it looks like four.” 

Mark nods confidently, a smug shape to his mouth. You go over his symptoms—slow pupil dilation, terrible short-term memory, distorted vision. It took him twenty minutes to remember getting slammed into a brick wall. He’s failed every single one of your tests so far. 

“How’s your neck?” 

Mark makes a stunted sound—hmph—closes his eyes and fusses around your bed until his head finds your lap as a pillow. “Much better here.” 

You add potential whiplash to the list. 

“Headache?” 

Shh, I need bed rest. 

He says it mockingly, like an athlete always does when they go out before clearance and break their ankle or something. Mark turns over to press the side of his face against your belly, peering up with one eye at half-mast. 

“You know, I read that the concussed still need light stimulus during recovery. Don’t tell me you’re gonna leave me in a dark room all alone until my brain gets better.” 

“Well, you shouldn’t be thinking too hard about it anyway,” you grunt, hauling the big ass stuffed shark he’d won for you and a couple choice pillows across the bed for back support. You sink into it, one hand coming to rest on Mark’s sternum. 

He takes the other in his, palm fitting over the back of your hand as he guides you to his hair. You click your tongue when he opens both of his eyes, all pleading and pouting this time. 

“Pretty please? With a cherry and ice cream and a free meal on top?” 

You hold up a finger in his face. “Your mom’s kimchi stew, next Saturday.” 

Mark mutters something that sounds like love you, Doc as you start to flex your fingers in his hair. It’s soft in your hands, warmer the longer you work into his scalp. 

Sharing heat like this is...nice. Comforting, for a better word. Butterfly-inducing and almost romantic, if you want to start reaching towards delusion. You pause for a minute and Mark grunts petulantly, cracking an eye open. Bratty, needy, or something along those lines runs through your head, but you want him to get better more than you want to insult him. 

So you restart, hairline to nape and back again, inky strands slipping between your fingers. The hand on his sternum, meanwhile—you start tracing lopsided circles with your thumb, and Mark's lashes flutter for a second. 

His ears start to bloom with pink, and they stay like that even after his breathing deepens and his eyes start flicking back and forth in a dream. 

“Something’s wrong with you.” The whisper is loud in the silence. Mark snores softly in response. “Who said you could give me nervous palpitations. Asshole.” 

It definitely started with that footballer dislocating his ankle. 

You do feel bad for him—obviously, he’ll be out for the rest of the season, and a dislocation in a spot like that means torn ligaments and expensive surgery. 

If he’ll recover and play at the same level, though? Not only did you have to break the news to him yourself, but Invincible—of all hero/aliens!—had to punch a supervillain straight through the fifth floor of the hospital. 

You just want to take a long shower, sleep for twelve hours, and forget all about today. 

So, when the door to your single-occupant dorm opens right as you’re about to slot the key in, you think: okay, I’m ready, just take me now. 

“You should stop putting your spare in the mailbox.” Mark’s outline is on the floor, supported by the wall. He bites off a groan. “And, uh, I might’ve gotten blood on your drywall?” 

You peer into the dark. Yeah, that’s your best friend of an uncountable number of years, wearing khakis and that stupid sweater. You wonder for how many of them has he been lying to you. 

“Got something on your face.” You try to say it as level as you can, but it’s hard to hide the tremor that comes out of your voice. 

“You mean this bad boy?” Mark touches his brand-new shiner on the left, and lets out a long, frustrated groan when he feels the intact goggle on his right. He even bounces his knee upon the realization. “Shit.” 

“Strike two for the second concussion you’ve gotten in a month.” You slam the door and walk right past him, peeling off your jacket and socks. 

“Doc, please” —Mark scrambles up, tries to chase you with a limp— “okay, I should’ve told you, I know, and I’m sorry.” 

You turn and put a palm on his chest. He’s warm, almost a furnace, and his heart is pounding so fucking fast that you’re scared he’ll explode. 

Mark doesn’t move, waiting for your turn. 

“I’m gonna take a shower,” you start. “You’re gonna take off the mask, clean yourself up, and then you’re gonna tell me the truth.” 

You’ve been hearing from William that Mark’s become somewhat of a ghoster. Left on delivered, scuttling away at odd times, disappearing randomly and coming back like nothing happened. It all makes sense, now that you think about it. 

But he’s still here and sitting at your bedside when you come back out, wearing the pajamas you’d learned to keep in your drawers, a bandaid slapped haphazardly over the bridge of his nose. He looks to you, brows knotted, pleading. 

“Did you even need me?” is what you ask first. You’ve seen it on the news—Invincible getting his shit rocked by inter-dimensional aliens, knocking out two teeth, showing up two days later like he’d been scrubbed anew. 

No wounds, no black eyes, maybe a new angle to his nose that always fixed itself back up soon after. You wonder if Mark had just kept you around because he felt bad. Because in the end, he’s a superhero with super healing, and you’re just a college kid playing athletic trainer. 

“No.” He admits it after a second spun razor-thin, meeting your eyes. You hate that look, glassy irises on a puppy face. “But I always felt better when you patched me up. I like being with you.” 

Heartbreaker, this guy. You don’t know if you should pull him in for a punch or a kiss, but it’s jubilance to hear that you make Mark Grayson feel better than an auto-heal. 

You come a little closer, walking the tightrope—how long, you ask, since when did you have powers? 

Since we were seniors. 

So, you’re half alien. 

Like, ninety percent genetically, and then a hundred percent a momma’s boy. 

Don't joke when I’m mad. 

Sorry, Doc. 

You inch closer with every question until you’re curled up on the floor beside him. There’s a little drop of blood darkening on the hardwood next to Mark’s foot, and some more drying on his chin. 

“You should’ve trusted me,” you tell him, turning his face towards you and rubbing the stain off with your thumb. It flakes off quickly, joining the dust that floats around your room. “I had Narcan and tactical trauma kits ‘cause I was so worried you’d show up with an OD or bullet in your back.” 

Mark’s huff comes out as half a laugh. “I’m Invincible, Doc.” 

“That doesn’t mean you can’t die.” 

He softens, rolling his head onto your shoulder. He’s warm enough to feel it in your bones. “And leave you all bored without a guinea pig? No way.” 

“I’m being serious.” You dig your elbow a quarter inch into his side. Mark doesn’t blink twice. “You’re gonna call before you come over. Debrief at the door. You won’t ghost, and you sure as hell aren’t kicking ass with a concussion.” 

“Baby, I have super healing.” He comes off smoothly, grinning sideways in the way he used to before he started practicing his smile in the mirror. 

You hate how your stomach does a kickflip at that. “Wait ‘till you see a CTE brain slice.” 

Mark lets out a low laugh, looks at you from behind his eyelashes. “Can I show you something?” 

He scoots to sit with his back facing you, pulling down his shirt a little. There’s still a cut peeking out from the collar, but it closes by the time you blink again. Running a finger over the smooth skin, you scoff, impressed, and Mark’s shoulders jolt, neck growing hot. 

Two seconds later, you find yourself scooped up and in the air. You bounce on the bed and Mark waddles over, knees sinking into your sheets. You part your legs to let him in and automatically, he wraps his arms around your middle. 

The two of you kind of fit together like mismatched puzzle pieces. You feel the way he breathes in time with you, front pressed together, long inhale, short exhale. In-out, ba-thump, ba-thump. He smells like lemon shampoo and the wood of your wardrobe. 

You’re giving him head scratches and a new side part (oops) when he asks: “Are we still on to see Pinkman fertilizing weed with a dead body?” 

“That didn’t happen.” 

“Scout’s Honor, I swear it did.” 

“You weren’t the best Boy Scout.” You tilt your head to whisper it into the shell of his ear. He shifts, just a little. 

Mark laughs into you, ribs stretching to try and kiss yours through all these layers of muscle and skin and well-worn clothing. “You know I love messing with you.” 

He drums his fingers on your hip while you reach for the laptop on your nightstand; secret language, a song maybe. 

(Tap, tap)  

You hope it means something. You hope that even if it doesn’t, you’ll at least get to have your best friend forever. 

(Tap, tap-pause, tap, tap) 

Maybe this is just you and Mark Grayson. 

(Tap-pause, tap, pause-pause) 

And maybe, this is love. 

notes : yk it's real when your irls freak out during a circle read of the bruise scene LOL

pleaseeee if you have burning thoughts or feedback, share them! i hope you enjoyed <3

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i miss writing for the last airbender lowkey 💔💔 come homeeeee

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hi bff how’s life,,, fyi ur invincible posting reminded me to pick the comics back up after X amount of years so u basically revived my drafts!!

OMG HIII😁😁 i am so honoured ur posting invincible stuff now i’m soooo excited to read it!! i just need to follow in ur footsteps and finish my mark fic i’ve been trying to write for like a month….. other than writing debilitatingly slowly i’m good! i work all weekend and then try to have a sense of purpose during the week it’s a fun little balancing act i’m trying to perfect but mark comes first so

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twin beads playlist and it’s just the entire ABBA gold album

twin beads is summer to me and abba is like the quintessential summer band….how have i never thought of this??? so many songs are so twin beads coded—take a chance on me, the name of the game, THE WINNER TAKES IT ALL💔💔💔

like bye

even knowing me, knowing you, is kind of them i looove this matchup sailor definitely has abba dance parties in her cabin

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omg i loveee this so fun

fav colour: can never really decide but a dark red/brown probably!

last song: hard times by ethel cain 😄

reading: sense & sensibility by jane austen, pachinko by min jin lee (also started listening to 7 husbands of evelyn hugo im a mood reader)

watching: veep, yellowjackets, nathan for you & invincible!

craving: a bicep to bite into

coffee or tea: coffee in the morning tea at night DON’T MAKE ME CHOOSE

no pressure tags :) @tangledinlove @sunsburns @atlabeth

get to know your moots better tag game

tagged by @solardrop my love

favorite color: pastel/baby pink!!!! but i love pastel blue and purple. and yellow. anything pastel really

last song: uhhhh i think edge of seventeen by stevie nicks??? i’m not on my music kick rn

currently reading: still reading yellowface!!!!! i love it sm but i hate the mc so i have to get breaks from it

currently watching: season 15 of supernatural and just started my teen wolf rewatch

currently craving: i was craving these special filled cookies but i got it and ate two like an hour ago

coffee or tea:

it depends on the day or the month, i get coffee kicks where i drink it countless times a day, now i’m more on a tea vibe

tags —

@mayfieldss @ma1dita @gghostwriter @greg-montgomery @pathologicalreid @nereidprinc3ss

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kaeya being albedo’s lawyer in the new genshin quest is so funny to me like yeah let’s get this mysterious guy to defend this other mysterious guy why not