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hola-didi · 5 days ago

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Y/N survives her first day in New York with deli sandwiches, all-around love, lore drops, & a ✨ near-death alley encounter ✨ that ends with Spider-Man swinging her across Brooklyn on a whim.

Fact: She's only met a certain teen for an hour, but if anything happened to him, she'd kill everyone in NYC and then herself.

Also, Harry Osborn might be hot & attractively literate??

Warnings: Some swearing, lots of feelings, attempted kidnapping, angsty platonic fluff. NOT proofread because HG is tired and impatient, my b.

ONE: (Another) Brand New Day (That Goes)

There is nothing that can beat me

If I have you behind my skin

You’re filling me with light

That grows towards the south

– RBD

·:*¨༺ ♱🕷♱ ༻¨*:·

The bell above the deli door gave a dull, rusted chime as you stepped in, announcing your presence with the lethargy of something that had long given up trying to “sound” cheerful. The air smelled like fresh bolillo rolls, deli meats, and the comforting musk of old linoleum—a blend of time and age that would soon soak into the tile, like memories settling in grout.

“¡Estella, mija! ¿Cómo estás? Who’s your friend?” called the man behind the counter, his voice rich and familiar, like it had once narrated neighborhood stories across folding chairs and barbecues.

Estella grinned. “¡Ella es mi prima, Sr. Delmar!” she replied in that rapid, polished Spanish you’d always known her for—fluid and sure.

You smiled sheepishly and gave a small wave from behind her shoulder.

“Heard a lot about you,” you said, stepping forward. “Estella tells me you and her mom used to get all the neighborhood gossip here during the summers.”

Mr. Delmar barked out a laugh, deep and delighted, like it came from some part of his lungs untouched by the city’s exhaust. “Ah, so you are related,” he said, tapping the counter. “What can I get you two?”

Estella ordered with the ease of someone reciting a poem by heart—“Salsalito turkey, cheddar, lettuce, mayo, honey mustard, salt, pepper, and oil.” You watched her with quiet awe, wondering if you’d ever sound that at home here.

You, on the other hand, stared at the menu like it was another language to you. It wasn’t like Tito’s back home—where the choices were familiar, where everything on the board reminded you of something your dad once ordered with a grin. Here, the options looked foreign in the way a dream does when it turns dark just before waking.

“I’ll do the Cuban,” you said cautiously. “Grilled—ham, cheese, French bread, mustard.”

Mr. Delmar perked up. “Solid choice! You want pickles in it? Pressed flat?”

You blinked. “Is that, like…a thing?”

He hesitated. “I—uh—maybe I’m thinking of someone else’s order.” He chuckled, flustered, scratching the back of his head like even he didn’t buy that excuse. “Guess I got you confused.”

You smiled anyway. “You know what? Sure. Press it flat. Throw the pickles in. Might as well start trying new things, right?”

And it turned out to be insanely good. Possibly the best thing you’d eaten since the move, which wasn’t saying much, but still. The warmth of it curled in your stomach like something trying to anchor you, just enough to say, stay a little longer.

You half-listened as Estella and Mr. Delmar traded local gossip. Someone from an apartment down the street hadn’t been seen in days, apparently. Which reminded you of the airport flyer.

People went missing all the time, back home. You let your eyes wander, not ready to take on new mysteries, not when you still didn’t know the names of the streets around you yet.

That’s when you noticed the blur of movement under the table.

A small, scruffy cat darted between your legs and sat as if it lived there—its presence neither earned nor questioned. It purred, the sound more vibration than voice.

“Oh, hello,” you murmured, crouching to scratch behind its ear. “So you’re the bodega boss.”

It meowed once, as if confirming.

You and Estella left shortly after a nice farewell to the owner, sandwiches in hand, sunlight reflecting off aluminum foil. The street outside was a mosaic of cracked pavement and storefronts with sun-faded awnings. You bit into your sandwich again, savoring it like a souvenir.

“He’s nice. His sandwiches are only nicer by a percent,” you said.

Estella snorted. “Only you would say that.”

As you walked, you observed the city like a newcomer trying to memorize a language of a new terrain. Tall buildings, some newer, some old and stooped, leaned into one another with quiet intimacy. Every window looked like a glimpse into a book you flip through quickly. New York was another world. While familiar in some ways to any average city, like yours, it was its own self-crafted image.

You were loving everything about it.

“So…where should we go to get groceries and other utilities?” You blinked yourself back into the present, the question anchoring you again in the reality of living here—not just arriving, not just floating, but living.

Estella tilted her head, ponytail bouncing, and shrugged like the city was a buffet she’d memorized. “Countless places—BUT—I know a spot called Stile’s where we can get veggies and fruit! Real cheap too, if you flirt with the cashier.”

You pulled out your phone to type the name into your notes—something you’d only recently decided to start doing. A habit not originally yours. One you’d watched your older sister do: little lists typed between tasks, grocery names, songs she liked, things she'd meant to say but didn’t.

You paused.

Stop it.

The thought struck like a wrong key in an otherwise lovely song. You cleared your throat and stuffed the phone back into your hoodie.

The last bite of your sandwich went down slower than the others, less out of hunger and more out of something else—an ache that didn’t start in your stomach. You tossed the wrapping into the nearest bin and turned toward the street, where the air had cooled slightly, tinged with exhaust and the vague warmth of the sun rising behind clouds.

Eventually, you found yourself at the steps of 71st Avenue Station, the subway humming like a belly beneath the earth. As you waited for the train, you let your gaze drift. An old couple leaned into each other, a bag of groceries between them. A mother held her toddler’s hand in one palm and her phone in the other. A young man in business slacks rubbed his eyes like sleep was still chasing him.

And a middle school girl—maybe twelve, maybe thirteen—sat cross-legged near the pillar, applying lip gloss in a tiny pink mirror. The color was clear, probably sticky. She pressed her lips together with too much force, then did it again. It tugged at something in you. That girl, maybe unknowingly, was performing the first rituals of a softness she hadn’t fully grown into. Like femininity was a secret club she was trying to sneak into by wearing its gloss as a statement.

You remembered being that age. You remembered trying, and not knowing what, exactly, you were trying for—other than the fact that you wanted to grow up. Now, you wanted to go back.

“You wanna come with me to work?” Estella asked.

The question broke gently across your thoughts. You perked up slightly.

“To the hospital?”

Estella nodded, adjusting the strap of her tote. “Yeah, I mean, just for a bit to see where I work and what I do! I just gotta drop off some paperwork before my shift officially starts. Then we can chill in the lobby for a bit. Or the break room, if it’s empty. Then you can go run errands while I work until the day’s all done with.”

You hesitated. The original plan had been to drop her off then pick up school supplies, maybe walk aimlessly through some stores, and then meet up again to go home. But that could wait.

The truth was: you didn’t feel ready to be alone. Not yet.

“Yeah,” you said softly. “I’ll come with.”

The admission made you feel like a preschooler on their first day—anxious, wobbly, hoping the rules might bend just enough for someone, like a parent or older sibling, to hold your hand.

The subway was half-empty. You boarded with Estella and sat beside her, your head leaning against her shoulder with unsaid established permission to rest there. A man in the corner smelled faintly of tobacco. Somewhere, you could smell metal—like pennies and train grease and something clinical.

By the time you stepped off at the nearest station to Brooklyn Medical Center, the city had shifted into its mid-morning lull. Too late for sunrise, too early for bustle. It was a quiet kind of busy—people in motion. The light turned the sidewalk a soft, washed-out gray, like someone had painted over everything with watercolor.

You followed Estella through two automatic doors and a hallway that smelled like hand sanitizer, coffee filters, and something you couldn’t name but knew well—disinfected urgency. Inside the lobby, the world moved differently. A woman at the front desk nodded. A janitor whistled as he passed, mop bucket squeaking beside him. Somewhere deeper in the building, monitors beeped in perfect, detached rhythm.

You wondered who could hear them. And whether that sound comforted them. Or terrified them.

Estella tapped her badge onto a scan of some sort and signed a paper at the nurse’s station. You hung back, arms crossed over your chest like they might hold you together. You rocked slightly on your heels without realizing it. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, too bright in that way all hospitals are.

Your head throbbed, a dull ache behind your eyes. Not from dehydration. Not from fatigue. But from something else. The kind of headache that came from the loss of appetite because the environment surrounding you was enough to put you on guard. Not in an anxious way, but in a cautious one.

“You okay?” Estella asked, glancing back over her shoulder.

You nodded, too quickly. “Yeah. Just…thinking.”

Estella smirked as she scribbled something down. “Don’t do too much of that. This place’ll do it for you.” You were about to ask what she meant when a voice nearby beat you to the punch—warm, fast, and lightly accented.

“Estellita, no me digas que estás cubriendo para Jenny, again.”

You turned.

The nurse approaching looked like she’d already handled four crises this morning and didn’t plan on stopping anytime soon. Her hair was twisted into a quick, imperfect bun—just neat enough to pass as intentional—and her stethoscope hung over her neck like a medal earned through endurance. In her hand was a to-go coffee gripped like it was a transfusion. Her badge read R. Morales.

She looked to be in her early forties—kind, weatherworn, and unshakable. Her eyes were sharp in that maternal way that didn’t pierce, but read. Estella let out a dramatic groan. “Ugh, Rio—don’t remind me. That woman owes me at least three lattes and a full weekend of uninterrupted sleep.”

Rio chuckled, that sort of dry nurse’s laugh—equal parts exhausted and endlessly capable. She looped Estella into a one-armed hug, familiar and automatic, before glancing at you with a grin.

“And this is..?”

“Oh! Mi prima,” Estella said, nudging you forward with the same pride people used when showing off a rare thrift find. “Y/N. She just moved in with me. I’m showing her the ropes.”

Rio turned her full attention on you. Her once-over wasn’t cold, or formal. It was...maternal. As if she was cataloging your stress levels, sleep debt, and heartbreak index with one sweep of her gaze.

Then she smiled—genuinely, if a bit tired. “Welcome, mija. I’m Rio.”

You smiled back, cautious but grateful. “Nice to meet you.”

“She’s starting classes at ESU soon,” Estella added, grinning as she bumped your arm. “But I dragged her around first, this morning. Orientation, but with better food.”

Rio took a long, practiced sip of her coffee. “Well, just don’t let her near the ER on her first day,” she said, mock-stern. “That’ll scare her right back into her shell.”

You laughed lightly. “No promises.”

Rio turned back to Estella, already eyeing her tablet like a second brain. “Hey—I’m clocking in, but if you need backup, text me. I’m in 3C today.”

Estella gave a lazy salute. “Always.”

With one last nod—more warmth than farewell—Rio disappeared down the hallway, already mid-scroll. You watched her go.

And for reasons you couldn’t quite explain, she stuck with you. Not in a dramatic way, just…something about her presence lingered. Maybe it was the tone in her voice. Maybe it was the way she said mija like it belonged to you.

Or maybe—

It was because she reminded you of your own mother. Not in appearance, but in essence. In the way she took up space like a woman who’d had to hold other people’s panic in her hands and keep it from spilling.

You felt something throb gently behind your eyes. You dared yourself not to cry at the realization.

Estella bumped her hip against yours again. “Come on. Lemme take you to the break room before I drop these off.” You nodded and blinked hard, clinging to your bag like it might stabilize you. She led you down a quieter hallway, her steps echoing faintly in the linoleum silence. The room she stopped at wasn’t quite an office, not quite a break room—just a tucked-away cluster of cubbies and desks, made warmer by the clutter of personalization. The walls were painted a dull, medical blue—like a dentist’s office trying not to look like one.

“Oh my god, wait—lemme just fill something out real quick,” Estella said, already halfway to her workstation. She dropped her floral tote on the arm of a rolling chair and gestured for you to sit.

You did, watching as she flipped through clipped paperwork and scribbled with practiced speed. “I like your workstation,” you said after a beat, noticing the carefully arranged pens, a mini bottle of hand sanitizer with glitter inside, and an entire row of Daiso stationery that looked like it belonged in a study-with-me video.

Estella grinned like she’d been waiting for you to notice. She tapped the bobblehead perched near her monitor—one of those Sonny Angels with tiny wings and a ridiculously adorable fruit hat.

“I upgraded this year,” she said proudly. “Worked my ass off. Totally worth it. I feel like a big girl with bills and everything.” She said it like a joke, but her pride ran under the words like thread. You smiled, warm and quiet, as she finished up her forms and shoved the clipboard into its tray.

“Okay,” she sighed. “Done. Want tea? We have the best.”

You giggled. “Always.”

The break room was just a few doors down, and you could hear the soft mechanical whine of a vending machine before you even turned the corner. The scent of something slightly burnt lingered in the air—probably from a forgotten microwave meal—but it wasn’t unpleasant.

“Hey, you!” Estella called, stepping through the doorway.

You followed her in and paused. There, half-obscured in the corner by the window glare, was a boy. Maybe fifteen. Maybe younger. Curled over a tablet drawing. He wore a red hoodie, basketball shorts, and Air Jordans with scuffed soles. His stylus moved quickly, paused, moved again. The furrow between his eyebrows made him look older. But something about the way he sat—legs half-angled under the table, headphone cord tucked behind one ear—was unmistakably identifiable as an early teenager. You thought you sounded patronizing, considering you were not far from those past years.

“Ey, Estella! ¡Qué tal!” he said, looking up with a grin. They fist-bumped in the exact same rhythm people use when they’ve done it a hundred times before. Estella jerked a thumb towards him, looking at you. “Rio’s kid. Miles,” she introduced.

You nodded, offering a small wave. “Hi. I’m Y/N.”

Miles’s gaze flicked to you, sharp for just a second, and then sat straighter. “Yo,” he said with a toothy grin.

Estella gave him a look. “She’s new. Be nice.”

Miles shrugged—like he wasn’t entirely sure what “nice” looked like today—but there was a glimmer of something in his smile. He gestured to the open seat across from him.

“You can sit if you want,” he said, thumb tapping the edge of his screen. “I was just sketching.”

“Woah, not even a minute in and you’re already trying to have a way with the ladies, Miles?” Estella laughed, making him tense but chuckle nervously. You shook your head with a playful roll of your eyes, recognizing the nature within Miles: that jittery kind of bravado teens get when they’re not sure if they’re being charming or just embarrassing themselves. You’d seen it before—endured it—the straightening up, speaking more carefully, pretending not to care while clearly caring a lot. It wasn’t aimed only at you, specifically. Or maybe it was. But either way, it was sweet in the same way baby birds trying to puff up their feathers are sweet. Loud, awkward, endearing. As if watching a younger sibling show show off.

You sat with your elbow on the table, facing him. You noticed he was rather dedicated and focused on whatever he was sketching and it tugged your curiosity. “Can I see?” Your voice was soft and evident of curiosity. He turned the tablet so you could view his unfinished concept. It was a comic panel, still rough—shading not finished, some lines repeated for motion—but you could tell what it was.

A figure in mid-air. Leaping rooftops. Some parts of the joints drawn as if they’d been smudged—mirroring a comet’s tail motion.

“That’s really good,” you said, genuinely.

Miles blinked, caught off-guard. “Oh. Uh—thanks.” He scratched the back of his neck. “It’s...not done yet.”

You tilted your head. “Doesn’t need to be. I already get it.”

That made him pause. He looked at you again, like he was trying to figure out whether or not that was the weirdest—or best—compliment he’d ever gotten. From her spot near the coffee pot, Estella watched the two of you with the quiet satisfaction of someone who had successfully introduced two kids at a birthday party and now got to sit back and let it happen.

“Alright,” she said, glancing at the clock. “I’ve got five minutes to turn in paperwork and fifteen clock in. Don’t corrupt each other while I go do that.”

“I’m a good influence,” Miles said, too quickly.

“That’s exactly what bad influences say,” Estella called, already halfway out the door.

And just like that, you were alone with him. Miles didn’t say anything at first. Just turned back toward his tablet, stylus tapping quietly. But after a beat, he looked back up.

“You draw much?” he asked.

You nodded your head. “Writing, mostly.”

He nodded like that made sense. “Cool. That’s where the story starts anyway.” You didn’t know what to say to that. But something about it stayed with you. Outside, somewhere above the rooftop line, something flickered in the sky.

A shadow.

Then a blur.

And then the sharp hiss of wind slicing past the window.

Miles leaned forward slightly, eyes narrowing like a birdwatcher spotting a rare shape. “He’s early.”

You turned to him. “Who?”

“Who else?” he said, tilting his head toward the window. “Spider-Man. He’s usually not in Brooklyn this time of day. He makes rounds based on crime heat maps or something—my dad says it’s not much of a difference, I say it’s pretty smart.”

You moved toward the glass like something was pulling you—drawn by instinct or awe or just the ache to witness something real.

Sure enough, just as Miles said, a streak of red and blue cut across the skyline like paint flicked by a hand too fast to follow. The figure flipped once, webline taut, the motion impossibly fluid—graceful in a way no human body should be; like the insect of his namesake. He caught a ledge, swung again, and disappeared behind a building.

You didn’t say anything. Just watched until there was nothing left to see. Miles chuckled behind you. “You really are new, huh?”

You stayed at the window, unmoving, like you were afraid the image would dissolve if you turned around. “Fresh out of Cali. We don’t have a Spider-Man where we’re from. Yesterday was my first time seeing him—my first impression of this place,” you murmured.

Miles tilted his head, curiosity blooming again, but about something else. “Where in California?”

You finally turned, lips curving into the kind of grin that belonged to someone talking about a place they used to know by heart.

“South El Monte.”

His eyes lit up. “Wait, like—is that close to Hollywood?”

You laughed softly. “Depends. Maybe twenty, thirty minutes with no traffic—which is never.” You shrugged. “We don’t really bounce from hotspot to hotspot like people think. But yeah—I’ve got stories. From there. From San Diego, too.”

That opened something in him.

Miles rolled his seat forward, elbows on the table now, asking questions like he was cataloging a brochure—sunsets, skate parks, freeway art, whether you’d ever seen a celebrity at a gas station.

And you answered. Slowly at first, then with more ease. You talked about heat waves, corner stores, and your neighbor who swore he once saw Mookie Betts in Pasadena.

It wasn’t much. But it was the first real conversation you’d had in days.

Not polite. Not performative. Just…softly honest. Steady. Easy to hold. Perhaps maybe not every part of your old life had to stay buried or glamorized. Maybe some real and good memories could survive the move.

Miles told you his favorite artist lived in San Diego. That he’d been following his work since middle school and wanted to be like him one day—create art that meant something.

There was something wide-eyed and bright about him. Like he hadn’t been dulled by life, yet. And you found yourself hoping, silently and fiercely, that he never would be.

Miles tapped his stylus against the tablet, then paused. “You miss it?”

You blinked. “California?”

He nodded.

You considered it. “Yeah. I guess I do. Not in the way people assume, though. It’s not what people think it’s like: palm trees and perfect weather. I miss the dumb little things. Like watching how insanely excited everyone gets when rain comes around, or grabbing In-N-Out after a concert at 2 a.m.”

Miles laughed, then perked at the last statement. “Yo, wait—that’s real? You do that?”

“Religiously.”

You smiled, and the corner of his mouth tugged upward too. Then he said, “That’s how you know you’re homesick. When you miss stuff that annoyed you or didn’t matter much while you were still there.”

You nodded, slower this time. “Exactly.”

He turned his screen around again. A new sketch. Messier. Looser. A girl standing under a streetlight—just pencil for now. She looked tired. But strong. Embodied by standing where she didn’t want to be, but did so for a purpose.

“That one’s from this morning,” he said. “I was waiting for my mom and saw this girl arguing on the phone about someone she knew in the hospital. Sounded like she was talking about some medical insurance. Thought she looked cool, though.”

You studied the drawing for a long beat. “She does look cool.”

“You ever thought of writing about real people?”

This kid is insightful. You hesitated. “All the time. I just don’t reach out to them. Some people don’t want to be turned into stories.”

He nodded like he got it. “Some people need to be, though.”

The two of you sat in a beat of shared understanding—the kind that only comes when two people recognize the other’s quirk without having to name it.

Miles rolled his eyes and swatted her hand away with mock annoyance. You both giggled at his reaction, already in sync.

“So your mom told me you started last week?” Estella asked, leaning back.

Miles nodded. “Yeah. Moved in and everything. Still think it’s a mistake, though.”

You frowned. “Why?”

He shrugged, eyes focused somewhere past the table. “Won the lottery to get in.”

“—Which you still had to pass an entrance exam for,” Estella shot back, giving him a playful look.

“You sound like my parents,” he muttered.

“Wow, Miles,” you said, genuinely impressed. “That’s, like...super lucky. Don’t downplay that. Use it.”

Estella nodded, giving you a look that said thank you—as if she and others have had this conversation a hundred times, but it finally meant something coming from someone else.

Miles leaned back in his chair, the stylus still spinning absently between his fingers. “I mean, it’s cool. I’m grateful, for real. But it’s just...different. I room there now. It’s a whole other world. Feels like everyone already knows what they’re doing, and I’m just...figuring it out.”

You exchanged a quiet glance with Estella, something weighty passing between you both. You knew that feeling. That exact feeling.

“I get it, Miles,” you said, softer now. “Really. But maybe just...keep going with it. Sometimes normal doesn’t show up right away—it sneaks in. Shows up in stupid things like how certain sounds become white noise or the way the stairwell smells. I mean, I’m on day two in New York and I still feel like I left a limb back home.”

“Exactly,” Estella added. “It doesn’t mean you can’t visit or sleep over at your folks’ place now and then. You just…adjust in your own time.”

Miles gave a small nod, but it was the kind of nod people give when they’re grateful but tired of hearing advice. So you shifted your tone. Softer. More personal.

“Tell you what,” you said, already pulling your phone from your hoodie. “Why don’t we swap contacts? You’re homesick. I’m homesick. We can be homesick together—maybe help each other through it. Trade memes. Rant about comicsnor books. That kinda thing.”

Miles blinked, then smiled—slow and genuine. “For real?”

You nodded. “For real.”

He handed you his phone almost instantly. “Can I send you my art for feedback?” he asked, voice half-hopeful, half-shy.

“Absolutely.”

Estella leaned against the back of her chair, watching the two of you with something like pride. She didn’t say it, but you could feel it in her gaze—this wasn’t just about a kid she loved meeting her cousin. This was about you seeing someone who reminded you of yourself when you were younger. And deciding, without needing to be asked, that you’d protect him however you could.

After exchanging socials, the three of you chatted for a bit longer—about school, about what bagels were overrated, about how Rio once yelled at a vending machine because it took her quarters and gave her Cheez-Its instead of ChocoRoles.

Then Estella’s smartwatch let out a cheerful chime that undercut the moment.

“Welp! That’s my cue.” She stood, brushing imaginary dust off her scrubs. “Y/N, I’ll send you the routes for your shopping stuff. If you wanna stop somewhere random, just shoot me a text. I’ll tell you which places have clean bathrooms.”

You laughed, rising to hug her quickly. “Thanks, Stelly.”

She kissed your cheek and grabbed her clipboard. “Miles, go to school. Say bye to her and your mother.”

Miles gave a lazy salute. “Aye aye.”

Once Estella disappeared down the hallway, the room felt quieter—but not in a lonely way. Just...softer.

You turned to him. “I should go too. Stuff to get done before I forget everything.”

Miles stood when you did, the stylus still tucked between his fingers like a nervous habit he didn’t know he had.

“Hey,” he said. “If you want, I can show you my favorite mural next time you’re around. It’s kind of hidden, but...it’s good. My uncle and I made it.”

You paused, touched. “I’d like that.”

He smiled. “Later, Y/N.”

You turned toward the hallway, bag slung over your shoulder.

“Later, Miles.”

·:*¨༺ ♱🕷♱ ༻¨*:·

The air outside hit you with a kind of sharp warmth—humid and alive, full of distant taxi horns and that ever-present scent of city exhaust. It wasn’t fresh, not by any stretch. But somehow, it felt...cleansing.

You exhaled.

Something about the interaction with Miles stayed curled inside your chest, tight and tender. It made your throat ache—but not in a bad way. It was the kind of ache that whispered: you’re not as alone as you think. You squared your shoulders, tugged your hoodie sleeves over your palms, and finally set off.

The day had errands waiting. You had made a list—nothing fancy, just a scribbled series of checkboxes in your Notes app: school supplies, toothpaste, possibly overpriced candles you absolutely did not need. But who could blame you? It was your first time living with someone who wasn’t a parent or a sibling. A roommate situation. A soft-launch into adulthood.

Estella had sent you a color-coded subway loop the night before—highlighted, screenshot, and marked with shapes. E train toward Midtown then get off at 34th–Penn. Followed by a subtext: Don’t get too upset if you get honked at. It’s just New York saying hi.

You’d laughed when you read it. Now, replaying it in your head, you weren’t so sure she was joking. The subway was crowded, but not as hostile as you assumed. You were learning the trick: look unapproachable. Hoodie up. Headphones in, even if the battery had died halfway through a podcast. Half the game was the illusion of privacy. The other half was convincing yourself you belonged here.

When you emerged onto 34th Street, the sky was its signature blank gray—as if the sunlight was never there from this morning. You pulled your hoodie tighter on instinct.

The shop was easy to miss.

Ratted Out was tucked between a bubble tea place and a Korean fried chicken spot. Its name was painted in tiny serif letters on the glass—almost too shy to announce itself. But the windows glowed gold, and that was enough. It looked like the kind of place that had a personality, not just inventory. And that kind of warmth was rare.

Inside, the scent hit you first. Cedar, wax, and something like ink—ink the way it smells before it dries, when it still clings to the spine of a new book.

You moved slowly through the store. Not browsing, exactly. More like drifting. Letting your fingers trail over the edges of notebooks you weren’t sure you needed. One had a linen cover in soft gray. Another was golden around the edges similar to a bible. You picked up a pair of pens—metallic green, marigold orange—and turned them over in your hand as though inspecting them.

There was soft music playing quietly. The soft mechanical hum of something behind the counter was louder than the melody. You’d glanced only slightly to see. That’s when you noticed it.

A flyer.

Taped low on the far end of the checkout counter, tucked behind a cup of complimentary mints and a small handwritten sign that said “Support Small Artists: Venmo tip jar ┈➤ @StationeryRat.”

You hadn’t meant to stop, but you did..

The woman in the photo was maybe late twenties. Round cheeks. Hair pulled back. Hoop earrings that glinted even in the flatness of print. The kind of person who, in another context, might have rung you up at a CVS or walked past you on the street—someone real. Familiar. The text said she’d last been seen near Columbus Circle. Possibly wearing green scrubs.

You didn’t know her.

But your eyes snagged on the details anyway. The same flyer format as the one from JFK. Same gravity between the lines.

“You know her?”

The voice was easy. Worn-in. Not startled, not startling. Just…present.

You looked up to find the guy at the counter watching you. He had that exact sort of face you expect behind a register in the city: tired, but not unkind. Dark hair tucked under a slouchy beanie. One eyebrow ring. A name tag that read ARLO, in all caps, with a little doodle underneath—a rat holding a pen like a sword.

You shook your head. “No. I’ve just…I saw one just like this before. Same layout. Different person.”

He nodded slowly. Not surprised. “Yeah. They’ve been popping up a lot lately. Like, a lot-lot. It’s creeping people out.”

You glanced at the photo again. “Was she a nurse?”

“Vet tech,” he said, leaning an elbow on the counter. “Pretty sure I read that somewhere. Last seen near Columbus Circle. She went on break and never came back.”

Something about the way he said it—not dramatic, not performative—made your gut sink. There was a pause. Comfortable, but strange. The definition of two strangers standing in the same puddle, wondering how deep it went.

“Sorry,” he said, with a faint smile. “Didn’t mean to bring the mood down. You need a basket or anything?”

You looked down at your two pens and notebook. “No, I’m good. Just these.”

He rang you up slowly, like he’d done it a thousand times and didn’t mind doing it again. You glanced once more at the flyer, then back at him. “Have any of them come back?”

His hand hovered over the receipt printer. He didn’t answer right away. “Some,” he said. Then, after a beat: “But reports say that despite no evidence of any assault or substance abuse—they’re traumatized from something.”

“What?”

“Yeah, I know. Fucking crazy—oh shit—oh, my god—I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be speaking like this.”

You giggled but waved your hand to show you didn’t mind.

“Nice shirt,” you said, finally reading the fine print on his chest: Stationery Is Not Boring, You Are.

He grinned. “Glad someone gets it.”

Then he looked back down, already sorting coins into a drawer like he hadn’t just said something that would replay in your head for the rest of the day—minus the small outburst of language. He handed you the little paper bag. “You want a receipt?”

You shook your head.

He nodded as if reassured. “Cool. Have a good one.”

“You too.”

You turned to go and waved as you opened the door. You stepped out into the street with the little bag crinkling in your hand, your hoodie pulled tighter than it needed to be.

Some conversations were built like paper cranes—simple, folded with care, and tucked into the back of your mind until you reached in to examine it. You felt like this conversation would become one of those times. The day hadn’t changed. But something in you had shifted just slightly, like a chair nudged back into place.

You walked on.

Your errands had now expanded over the course of a few hours. You’d left the hospital around ten, and for the last six hours you were exploring the city while looking for specific books, supplies, necessities, and occasional snacks.

ESU Empire State’s Manhattan campus was last, where you’d read that you could get your ID printed and ask about class schedules before the start of the semester. It was a twenty-minute walk from where you were, but you didn’t mind. Walking meant thinking. Or not thinking. Whichever you needed most. After this you figured you could buy incense or a nice candle for your room.

The building itself was tucked between bigger, shinier neighbors. Inside, the student services office was quiet, occupied by exactly two staffers and the humming whine of a printer.

You gave your name. Explained that you were new. The receptionist smiled without asking too many questions. You answered a few yourself—confirming your student ID number, accepting a temporary schedule printout, standing for the camera that would snap your new school ID, your eyes a fraction too wide and your shoulders not quite squared.

The printer whirred, coughed, spat it out. She handed it over with a cheery “Welcome!” and a little wave.

You nodded, too soft to match her cheer. “Thank you.”

It felt strange to receive a small credit card-like object that declared your presence in a place you hadn’t fully accepted as your own yet. Stranger still to hold proof you belonged when your sense of belonging hadn’t caught up to your body. Still, you tucked the card into your wallet. You’d learn to believe it later, you thought.

The weight of the day had begun to seep into your limbs—a kind of gentle fatigue, not exhaustion but something adjacent. Like being dipped in watercolor, then left to dry. You stepped out of the building with a kind of gentle deliberation, the way one does after a doctor’s appointment or a museum visit—carrying something unseen.

4 Park Avenue had thickened with foot traffic. The buildings felt taller now as if they grew an inch per hour. You checked your phone, maybe to anchor yourself with a timestamp, maybe to prove to no one that yes, you were alright with how you spent your time. And still moving forward.

Your thoughts began to scatter—like maybe you’d go get a candle now. Or find a library just to sit for a while. Or maybe—

Then—

You turned the corner, walking too close to the edge of the building, your bag loose on your shoulder, your attention a second too late—

And collided.

Hard.

The kind of bump that forces sound out of your mouth before you have time to filter it. Your tote slipped off. Notebooks hit the concrete. The corner of your knee struck the jagged sidewalk edge and sparked a sharp, immediate throb.

“Oh—shit, sorry!”

The voice was fast, light, not unfriendly. Apologetic. Polished, but with a rasp underneath like he hadn’t slept well in a few days. You crouched on instinct, already reaching for the pens that had clattered away like startled insects. A shadow dropped beside you—he was crouching too.

“I got it, I got it,” he said quickly, holding out your schedule sheet with one hand. “Seriously. That was entirely my fault. Wasn’t looking. Are you okay?”

You finally looked up.

He was beautiful in that slightly infuriating, editorial spread in magazines but in a way that also evoked fascination. Tousled dark curls framed a long face, all cheekbone and sharp jaw, green eyes that contrasted and complimented him. His coat fell around him like a drape—tailored perfectly. A vest and collared shirt. Ink smudged faintly on the side of his finger. If poetry looked like a person, you think it’d look just like him.

“Yeah,” you said, your voice soft and unsure. “Just caught off guard.”

You took the notebook, your fingers brushing his for half a second too long.

He gave a grin, crooked and sheepish. “Same. Story of my life.”

He handed you the sheet. Your fingers brushed. Brief, static-soft.

For a moment, he just looked at you—like he was reading something you weren’t saying. Then he stood and offered his hand—not flippantly, but deliberately. As if this was a handshake meant to mean something.

“I’m Harry. Harry Osborn,” he said. Nothing more. As if that alone was the business card.

You took it. “Y/N.”

His fingers were warm. Ringless. Steady. You let go too soon and wished you hadn’t.

“Empire State?” he asked, gesturing behind you.

You nodded.

“Good,” he said. “Would’ve been worse if I’d bowled over someone from Columbia.”

You laughed, tired but amused. “Why?”

“They always take it personally. At least, all the ones I’ve unfortunately run into.”

He had the kind of accent that wasn’t one. That east coast prep-school flattening. A vague old money tint. Every syllable clipped without being harsh. You could picture him in the kind of seminar class where only six people talked—and his voice would cut through like butter. He’d be perfect as a character in The Secret History, you thought,

“Do you crash into people often?” you asked smugly.

“Only the interesting ones,” he said dryly, then immediately looked like he regretted it. “Sorry. That sounded smoother in my head.”

You smiled anyway.

He bent to pick up your pen—the metallic green one, the one you’d chosen without a reason—and handed it back without a word. Then he stepped back, but not too far. Just enough to respect the space now shared.

“History and business,” he said after a beat. Bingo, your inner monologue cheered. “That’s what I’m in. Which basically means I read about rich dead people and try not to become one.”

You blinked. “Rich or dead?”

He gave a small, real laugh. “Both, ideally.”

His coat shifted as he slid his hands into the pockets. He leaned slightly back, in that way boys do when they’ve never been knocked down by life too hard. But something about him made you think he’d seen it anyway. Maybe from a window. Maybe from inside a car parked too long in a bad part of town.

“And you?” he asked.

“Undeclared,” you replied. “Day two in the city.”

He tilted his head like he was trying to line that up against your posture, your tone, your shoes, your eyes. “And how’s it treating you so far?”

You paused. “Loud. Weird. Kind of like being tossed into a washing machine, but slower.”

He smiled. “That’s accurate. It’ll bleach you. But you come out softer in the end.”

Wow. How was that both not funny and amusing at the same time.

You chuckled lightly and continued to look at him. Not because he was charming. But because he didn’t seem to care whether he was or not. There was something unfinished in him. Some bruise or hush he hadn’t named.

“Well,” you said, hoisting your tote back onto your shoulder. “Thanks. For helping. And not fleeing the scene.”

He gave a half-bow. “Tempting. But I have a reputation for being...mildly decent.”

You took a step back. Then stopped. The street noise pressed around you. Your throat itched—not from emotion, just space. Something between you and him wasn’t quite closed.

“Can I ask something?” you said.

He nodded.

“If you could be anywhere else...why here? Why this school?”

His gaze flicked to the street, then back to you.

“Well, being surrounded by people you can relate to, in the sense that they don’t know what they’re doing, feels better than being surrounded by people who pretend they do,” he said. Then added: “Take Yale or Princeton, for example.”

You laughed—too loud, too honest.

Then, because something in you cracked open like a door someone forgot to lock, you blurted: “You wanna grab a coffee or something?”

It caught him off guard.

Not in a bad way.

He tilted his head, like you’d just recited a line from a poem he half-remembered.

“I’d like that,” he said it like it was obvious. Like yes, of course, grabbing a coffee with a girl he just ran into—literally—was the next natural step. You weren’t sure if that made him smooth or just incredibly practiced. But you nodded anyway. Because you didn’t feel awkward. And that was rare.

He gestured with a subtle tilt of his head. “C’mon. I know a place.”

Of course he did.

You followed, nonetheless.

He didn’t talk much at first, which was weirdly comforting. A lot of people filled the silence like it was a leak. He let it stretch. Let you catch your breath. He walked half a step ahead with his hands in his pockets like he knew the exact pace the city moved at and didn’t need to prove it.

The two of you turned down a narrower street, then another—past a bodega that smelled like too-ripe fruit and wet cardboard, past a fire hydrant that had clearly been tagged and cleaned more than once. You passed a girl sitting on a milk crate selling wire-wrapped rings and a guy with a boombox balanced on one knee like it was 1997 and no one had told him to catch up to date otherwise.

Then he stopped.

It didn’t look like a coffee shop. It looked like a basement door. But Harry knocked twice, then once more. A few seconds later, the door clicked open. No one greeted you. Just a creaky hinge and a narrow stairwell leading down into soft light.

“Is this where I die?” you asked, only half-joking.

He glanced back, a little smile tugging at his mouth in amusement. “Nah. You’d hear screaming if it was that kind of place.”

You blinked. “That’s not reassuring.”

“Fair.”

But you followed him anyway, because something about this felt less like a setup and more like an invitation. A test of sorts. Not if you were brave. Just if you were willing.

At the bottom of the stairs, the city fell away.

The air was warm and smelled like cinnamon, coffee beans, and candle wax. A vinyl record was playing somewhere in the corner—crackly, like someone had pulled it from an old crate and never returned it. The light was dim and gold. There were tapestries pinned to the ceiling. Polaroids taped to the bar. Mismatched chairs around scuffed wooden tables. A corkboard full of poetry contest flyers and show dates no one had updated since June, and a desk next to it with pens, papers and sticky notes to “write a thought on,” as said on the little sign there.

It didn’t feel like a shop. It felt like someone’s living room that had gradually evolved into something communal and strange and good.

Harry didn’t hesitate. He stepped up to the counter like he came here often enough not to explain himself but not so often that he felt entitled. You hovered behind him, quietly scanning the menu—which was handwritten in chalk, and slightly out of order.

He turned and asked, “Sweet or bitter?”

You blinked. “Uh—slightly sweet, I guess.”

He nodded and ordered for you before you could overthink it. Something with cinnamon and oat milk and a name that sounded made up. You didn’t protest. The guy behind the counter looked like someone who only wore sweaters even on a hot day.

You sat down near the corner, at a table that had a flower drawn into the grain in black ink. You didn’t ask if Harry picked it on purpose. He sat across from you, legs loosely crossed, leaning back like he had all the time in the world.

“You alright?” he asked, watching you with that half-squint some people do when they’re not trying to be flirty, just curious.

You nodded. “Just…a long day.”

He hummed like he understood, even if he didn’t ask for details. You liked that about him. No forced questions. Just space to answer if you felt like it.

“I like it here,” you said, meaning the place, but maybe also the moment.

“It’s a good hideout,” he said. “I found it my second week of school. Wandered in when I couldn’t handle my dorm and just…stayed.”

He didn’t elaborate. You didn’t press.

The drinks arrived a few minutes later. Yours was warm in your hands, the lid slightly sticky from the foam topped with cinnamon powder, the kind of temperature that slows your thoughts and lets your heart settle.

Across from you, Harry peeled back his coffee sleeve, throwing it into a nearby bin. He pulled out one of the papers you recognized from the desk and began folding it into a shape. Absent-mindedly. Almost like he did this often. Like his hands needed something to do.

You sipped your drink. It was perfect. Familiar and strange.

He didn’t ask what you were thinking, but you answered anyway.

“Everyone keeps saying I’ll get used to it,” you said. “New York. Empire State. Being away from everything I thought I needed.”

Harry didn’t nod. He just looked at you for a second longer than necessary.

“You will,” he said. “But not in the way some people say.”

You blinked. “What do you mean?”

“You don’t get used to the noise or the pace or the fact that everything costs six dollars more than it should. You get used to yourself in it. You start recognizing who you are when no one’s watching. When no one expects anything.”

You didn’t respond right away. Just held his words in your chest like warmth in a trapped space.

“I think I’m still figuring out who that is,” you said.

“Good,” he said. “People who already know scare me.”

You smiled at that.

The next stretch of silence wasn’t awkward. It was the kind that draped over both of you like a soft sweater. Outside, the city continued—sirens, laughter, someone dragging a metal chair across the pavement. Inside, it felt like you’d cracked a small opening in the noise. A pocket of calm.

Harry tilted his head.

“You seem like someone who remembers everything,” he said.

You furrowed your brow. “What makes you say that?”

He shrugged. “You look at people and listen to them like you’re memorizing them. Like what they look like or say might matter later.”

You didn’t know what to say to that. Because it was true. And no one had ever noticed before. You sipped your drink again, suddenly more aware of how much space you took up in the world.

“Is that a bad thing?” you asked.

He shook his head slowly. “No. I think people like you are the reason why important things are still relevant.”

You looked down at the coffee cup between your hands. Cinnamon foam clung to the inside of the lid. When you looked back up, he was already watching you. Not with expectation. Not even with interest in the conventional way. Just—still.

You said nothing. Let the moment stretch.

Eventually, Harry sat forward, elbows on the table.

“Okay,” he said, finally. “Top three books.”

You laughed. “That’s your move?”

He grinned. “Better than astrology.”

You paused, then answered. And he actually listened.

And that’s how the rest of the hour went.

Books. Movies. Teachers you both hated. What kind of villain you’d be if you had to pick. What it means to be tired even when everything or nothing’s wrong. You didn’t know how long you’d been sitting there. The coffee had cooled slightly. Harry was still folding the sleeve into what looked like a lopsided crane. It leaned too far left. One wing was longer than the other.

He looked up. “You okay?”

You hadn’t realized your fingers had stilled on the cup. Your grip was tighter now, knuckles faintly pale against the cardboard. There was a tremor under the stillness—barely there, but yours.

You nodded. Then, without thinking, you said:

“I used to have a big family.”

Harry didn’t speak. He didn’t flinch either. Just leaned forward a bit like he knew—somehow—that this wasn’t casual.

You kept your eyes on your drink.

“I was the youngest. I mean…still am. Technically.” You gave a soft breath of a laugh. “My brother’s twenty-two years older than me, now. My sisters were younger. Much younger.”

You let your thumb trace the edge of the lid. Around and around and around.

“It got complicated,” you said. “Before and after the Blip. One of my sisters got sick before it happened. And then when I came back—my parents and other sister were gone, too. Her three kids and husband came back to world without her in it. And my parents, well, they left everything onto my brother, the oldest.”

You didn’t cry. You didn’t even blink too fast. You said it like you were describing a storm you had to walk through barefoot. You had. You were still picking gravel out of your skin. Harry’s expression didn’t change. Not in a way that made it about him. Just enough to let you know he was still with you.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly.

You shrugged like it barely brushed you, but your eyes were watery. “Me too.”

You watched a couple squeeze past your table, their laughter echoing too loudly for the softness of the room. It broke something about the moment, but only at the surface.

“I didn’t mean to dump that,” you said, blinking everything away and finally looking at him again.

“You didn’t dump anything.”

You studied his face, trying to decide if you believed that. He didn’t look overwhelmed. Just...present. Steady in a way you hadn’t realized you needed.

“My cousin’s been letting me stay with her,” you added, a little quieter. “She’s loud, and chaotic, and basically the reason I didn’t end up just—imploding. She and her family were gone too. Same time as me. We got lucky. Or whatever the word is for that kind of luck.”

Harry tilted his head. “The surviving kind.”

“Yeah.”

You swallowed the lump in your throat before it formed again.

“There’s a lot of family around,” you said. “Uncles, cousins. But everyone’s got two or more people to lean on, you know? My sister’s kids and my brother-in-law moved away to live with his family in Arizona. So, all I had was my ghost town of a home and a shell of a brother I used to know. That was it.”

It was the first time you’d said it like that. Out loud. Counted it. Realized how small the number was. You shook your head like you could clear it.

“I’m not trying to be dramatic,” you said. “Diego was used to being alone. And all of this piled onto him wasn’t easy for either of us. He knew I needed someone who was an equivalent to a sister, so this was the solution. Starting fresh where nothing reminded me of this new world I needed to catch up with,” you exhaled and took a sip of your coffee. “It’s just—I think I’ve been walking around pretending it didn’t happen. Like if I keep learning new things or hacks, it’ll make everything else feel manageable. And some days it works. And some days it doesn’t.”

You smiled, but it didn’t quite reach your eyes.

“You know what’s dumb?” you asked, not waiting for a reply. “Sometimes I think about things like…how I can’t remember if I left my bedroom light on before I blipped. Or if I returned the shirt or shoes I borrowed from both of my sisters. Or if I said ‘goodnight’ to my mom. Or if the last thing I told my dad was that I liked the dinner he made the night before or that the joke he told was corny.”

The words weren’t rehearsed. They were just loose. Spilling out in a steady pour, like you’d been carrying them around in a cup with a crack.

You looked away again. Not from shame. Just to get through it. Harry didn’t jump in. Didn’t offer some advice about grief or time or how “strong” you were. He just sat there. Still. With you. The way someone might stay next to a fire—not to feed the flames, but to tend to it.

“I don’t tell people that,” you said, voice lighter now, like you were trying to ease it back.

He nodded once. “I won’t ask more.”

Something loosened in your shoulders at that.

“Cool,” you said. “Thanks.”

A beat passed.

Outside the window, the sky had shifted again—darker now, all steel and navy and sidewalk gleam. A cyclist zipped past too fast. Someone behind you ordered a turmeric latte with oat milk and said “please” like it was an afterthought.

You took another sip, even though the drink was definitely past its prime temperature. Across from you, Harry finished his coffee and set the empty cup down, folding the paper crane so its wings almost aligned.

“You’re stubborn even when you don’t like something, aren’t you?” he said.

You blinked. “What gives me away?”

He chuckled. “You told me you liked slightly sweet drinks. But you would’ve preferred it sweeter. You haven’t finished it yet.”

You looked down at the cup. He was right.

You smirked a little. “Okay, Sherlock.”

“Just observant,” he said, shrugging. “Takes one to know one.”

You looked at him longer.

He was still all coat and posture, still leaning back like the world couldn’t reach him. But he’d listened. Carefully. Kindly. And somehow that mattered more than anything clever he could’ve said.

“I should probably go,” you murmured, though you didn’t stand right away.

He nodded. “Want me to walk you?”

You hesitated. “No, It’s okay. You’ve done enough damage today.”

He cracked a grin. “I live to impress,” then a more sincere smile, “Please let me walk you to wherever you’re going. It’s the least I can do for a newbie.” You giggled at that. “Alright, fine, then. Lead the way, maestro,” you joked halfheartedly.

He rose with that same unbothered ease—like gravity answered to him only when he let it. His coat settled around him as he picked up both cups and dropped them off at the bin near the counter. You followed, slinging your bag across your shoulder, the folded crane tucked carefully inside like it was something fragile.

You stepped back into the evening like you were surfacing from a warm bath—every sound sharper, colder, more immediate. The sidewalks had started to fill again with the after-class crowd and early dinner rush. Music bled from somewhere above—a faint bassline and a woman’s voice, maybe Etta James, maybe someone trying to sound like her.

Harry didn’t ask where you were headed. He just walked next to you like he’d been doing it all day, like the two of you had always moved in tandem like this—half in conversation, half in quiet. You wondered if he always matched people’s paces or if you were the exception.

The sun had finished its descent, leaving the sky painted in gray-lavender light, dusk easing its way in.

“Where are you currently staying?” he asked after a while, not nosy, just curious.

“Don’t stalk me,” you joked, and he laughed. “Midtown Manhattan, almost close to Rockefeller Center,” you said. “With my cousin, of course. I’m still figuring out the trains, so—if I vanish into the wrong borough, please avenge me.”

Harry chuckled. “Got it.”

You snorted.

As the walk stretched on, you found your thoughts drifting. The city had that effect—pulling things loose from you when you least expected. You passed a pizza place that reminded you of the one your dad used to take you to after swim meets. A bodega with a neon OPEN sign that flickered exactly like the one outside your elementary school. A kid walked past wearing a backpack that looked like the one Diego had when you were five, the one you used to borrow when yours ripped.

It was like the whole block was stitched together with old threads, fraying at the edges.

“You ever feel like you’re chasing a version of yourself that got lost somewhere?” you asked.

Harry turned to you. “All the time.”

You nodded like that answer wasn’t surprising. Because it wasn’t. He said it the same way you might say, yeah, I get seasonal allergies—not theatrical. Just a fact.

“I think I was a different person before,” you said quietly. “Before all of it. Not just the Blip. But the…in-between. The stuff no one really talks about.”

Harry didn’t reply right away.

Then: “You probably were. But that doesn’t mean the version of you right now is any less real.”

You exhaled slowly, the air leaving your lungs like it had been sitting there too long.

“I’m still trying to like her,” you admitted. “This now-version.”

“You don’t have to yet,” he said. “She’s still figuring herself out.”

There was a stretch of silence after that. Not heavy. Not quite light, either. Just a moment being carried.

Then Harry pointed up ahead. “This way, yeah?”

53rd Street station, which is where you were headed. You glanced at your phone to double-check, but he was right. He probably knew the city better than you ever would. Still, you appreciated the ask.

“Yeah,” you said. “That’s me.”

“Want me to wait with you?”

You hesitated. Not because you didn’t want him to. But because you weren’t used to people asking. Most people in your life had stopped offering somewhere between grief and survival.

“…Sure,” you said.

You stood together near the turnstiles, watching people shuffle in and out like they were on autopilot. The kind of New Yorkers who moved without looking. Who knew how to navigate space like it was muscle memory.

Harry leaned against the tiled wall, arms loosely crossed.

“You don’t talk like someone who’s eighteen,” he said.

You raised an eyebrow. “Is that a compliment or a concern?”

“Compliment,” he said easily. “But maybe also a bit of concern.”

You laughed softly. “I’ll take it.”

He pulled out his phone and handed it to you with his phone app already in view. You looked up at him. “Unloading my baggage doesn’t mean you have to feel obligated to—”

“I like you.”

He softly placed his mobile into your palms. You’d never heard anyone say it like that out loud. “You’re a good person, Y/N. Baggage and all. I need good people as friends,” he smiled. You nodded slowly as if agreeing. Nonetheless you let out a grin and typed in your number. You handed your own device and he mirrored you, as well. The screech of an approaching train filled the tunnel. A gust of wind curled around your ankles. You checked the number. Yours.

You turned to him.

“Thanks. For not freaking out.”

He shook his head. “You didn’t give me a reason to.”

You half-smiled. “Not yet.”

“Looking forward to it,” he said, but the joke was gentle. He reached for the folded crane in his pocket and stretched his hand in the space between you.

“For the subway ride,” he said.

You stared at it for a second. Then smiled—small, real.

“Thanks.” You stepped onto the platform. Just before you passed through the turnstile, he added:

“Hey—Y/N?”

You glanced back.

“I hope this version of you gets to stay,” he said. “She’s interesting.”

You didn’t say anything. Just nodded once, something caught in your throat, and let the train take you before the tears could come.

·:*¨༺ ♱🕷♱ ༻¨*:·

After your stop—you took a quick detour for toiletries at a Duane Reade on Flatbush Ave. It wasn’t far. 20 minutes at max. You liked the sound of your steps on the sidewalk. The city had gotten colder. Windier. Your hoodie wasn’t doing much, and the hem of it kept flipping up. You tugged it down.

The pharmacy was almost empty. Fluorescent lights. A middle-aged cashier in a Mets cap scrolling through her phone. You grabbed what you needed—cheap cotton pads, toothpaste, one of those sheet masks shaped like a panda—and took your time in the aisle, like wandering would delay the moment when the day had to end. The kind of ending that reminded you the world was still the same one you woke up in.

By the time you left, the streetlights had deepened their glow. Brooklyn hummed around you in soft pulses—muffled conversations, car tires rolling over asphalt, neon signs buzzing like flies. Cars blurred past in slow waves, headlights trailing like ghosts. A man on a bike cursed under his breath as he swerved around someone too slow to notice. Somewhere nearby, a car alarm hiccuped once—then stopped.

You adjusted your bag and started the walk back towards where you were headed to begin with.

You weren’t scared. Not really. Not yet.

But the thing about grief is that it sharpens you in weird ways. You learn to catalog things automatically.

Footsteps behind you.

That’s the one. That’s what did it.

At first, you ignored it.

You passed a guy leaning against a closed-up newsstand—hood pulled low, hands buried in his coat, like he was trying to look like scenery. You clocked him. Didn’t break stride. Didn’t show it.

Half a block later, you heard the second set of footsteps again.

Closer now.

A rhythm just off from yours.

Just enough to catch your attention. It was the same kind of off you had a handful of experiences whenever you ran errands with Diego in shady neighborhoods.

You told yourself it was fine. That New York did this. That people shared sidewalks in typical “sharing is caring,” fashion—despite how ridiculous you knew you were and sounded. That he had somewhere to be too. That it was a coincidence.

But you veered gently left. Not enough to panic—just enough to angle across the street at the next crossing. You waited for a lull in traffic, then moved through it with calm precision.

Behind you…

A beat.

Then the same scuffed footsteps crossed, too. Your stomach dropped like a missed step on a stair.

Okay—Sharing was not caring.

You didn’t look back. Not really. Just enough to register the blur of a figure still behind you—hood still up. Still too close. Still trailing you like a shadow just slightly out of sync. You adjusted your bag again—this time tucking it toward your front. Grip tighter. Jaw clenched.

The block you were on wasn’t unfamiliar. But it wasn’t crowded either. Not this late. The bookstore you passed earlier was shuttered now. The laundromat lights were dimmed, signifying it was closed. The bar on the corner had music pouring out of it, but the windows were fogged and the door shut.

You tried to calculate it.

How far to the next lit area? Could you duck into a store? No. Too late. Too dark.

You heard the scuff of sneakers again—too close.

And then a hand grabbed your shoulder.

“Hey,” he said. A voice like canned syrup. Too sweet, too flat. “You dropped something.”

You spun, fast, yanking yourself away on instinct. “I didn’t—”

But before you could finish, his other hand was already reaching—too fast, too rough. You staggered back, elbow swinging. You missed.

The street felt suddenly narrower. Like it had collapsed into this one awful moment.

You dropped your bag.

He lunged.

You backed away on instinct—too slow, too jagged, like your legs were trying to remember how knees worked. Your shoulder clipped a mailbox. Metal against bone. You hissed but didn’t stop.

His arm snatched forward again—clumsy, desperate, trying to look casual but coming apart at the edges. Almost as if he hadn’t planned this. As if he thought it would be easy.

You ducked. Ran.

Not fast enough.

His fingers scraped against the back of your hoodie—caught fabric, but not you. You twisted, hard, and the sleeve slipped from his grip.

Your thoughts didn’t move linearly. They never did in moments like this. They fractured. Catalogued. Looped.

You remembered the feel of Diego’s hand on your backpack when he walked you across the school parking lot. You remembered your sister shouting “Ready or not, GO!” during hide-and-seek when you were eight. You remembered every time your mom had said, “If it feels wrong, it is. Don’t be nice. Run.”

You weren’t nice.

You ran.

Your brain tracked everything too fast and too slow. The way the streetlights flickered in pairs. The color of the gum on the sidewalk. The buzz of neon in the laundromat window that you couldn’t read, but memorized anyway. The man’s breath behind you. Labored. Damp.

You wanted to scream. But your throat wouldn’t open right. You hated that. That locked feeling—like your vocal cords didn’t trust the moment.

It was the kind of pressure that made you want to make any sort of sound but you couldn’t. Your energy was in running.

You counted your steps instead.

One. Two. Three.

Corner. Streetlight. Curb.

There was a noise in your head like a siren that only you could hear. A high-pitched ring you remembered from fire drills in middle school—too loud, too shrill, always too much.

He was still behind you. Not close enough to grab now, but still there. Heavy footfalls.

You turned a corner. Fast.

Your fingers slipped on the building’s edge as you grazed it, nails scraping brick. N

Another block.

Another thought.

If you make it to the bodega you saw earlier, maybe they’ll help.

Or maybe not. What if it’s closed? What if it’s empty? What if—

You almost tripped.

Caught yourself.

The bag bounced against your hip like it was scolding you for dropping it. You kept moving. Even when your vision tunneled. Even when your hands felt numb. There was a bus up ahead. Stopped. Hazard lights blinking. A woman stepping off. You aimed for her like she was a lighthouse.

But then—

a shadow darted out from the side street.

Your pursuer. He had cut across the block. Your heart slammed. The kind of slam you felt in your wrists. He reached for you again. Closer.

This time you screamed. Finally. But it came out thin. Warped like static. You weren’t sure anyone heard it. The woman was already walking away. Earbuds in. The man’s hand latched around your arm. And your brain broke into loops.

His fingers are cold.

His nails are short.

There’s something sticky on his coat—gum? blood? Coffee?

The sound of your name once when your mom said it softly in the morning.

A commercial jingle.

A book title.

The feel of your comforter at home.

Don’t freeze. Don’t freeze. Don’t freeze.

You jerked backward. Then forward. Twisted your wrist in a direction that felt wrong. The grip slipped. You elbowed him—not hard enough to hurt, but hard enough to shock.

He cursed. Loud. Ugly.

Something along the lines of “Stupid girl, don’t make me—”

You didn’t wait to hear the end of the sentence. Bags bouncing. Your breath tearing in and out of your throat like it hated you. The wind stung your eyes. Shoes slapping pavement. You were running again. You didn’t know where, anymore. Just away.

But he was smarter than before.

He cut the sidewalk sharp—too sharp. And you didn’t see the side street until he rammed you into it. An alley. Dim, wet. Trapped between a bodega and a locked steel gate. Your shoulder slammed the wall hard enough to echo. You gasped. Stumbled. The world tilted. The alley swallowed sound. The street was close but distant now—just beyond the edge of the building, just far enough away to make you irrelevant. Forgotten.

He stepped into the alley after you. No rush. As if he knew.

“Shouldn’t have run.”

Like a prompt. Like something rehearsed. Like this was always going to end here. It wasn’t a warning. It was like a script. The way sleep-talkers murmur things that don’t belong to them. You couldn’t see his face, not really—hood drawn low, scarf pulled high on his neck, but the mask beneath caught the streetlight for a second. His stance wasn’t right, either. Too symmetrical. Too measured. A display that appeared as someone playing human. Mimicking it. There was no stagger in his weight, no real motion in his limbs unless he was moving toward you. Every step was controlled. Contained. It appeared like something was pulling the strings inside of him, just beneath the skin. The kind of mannequin you always hated passing in department stores. Plastic, with painted eyes that didn’t blink, didn’t shine, but felt like they saw. And this “living-mannequin” in front of you was moving.

Your pulse spiked. You tried to scream again—but it came out thin, shredded. Your vocal cords barely cooperating. No one heard. No one was coming. Your stomach turned. A wave of nausea rolled through you so fast it almost overpowered the pain flaring at your wrist. You scrambled, shoulder stinging, but got to your knees. Tried to stand. He lunged again—so fast it shouldn’t have made sense. You shrieked, backpedaling, and you did get loud. It cracked out of your chest like something breaking loose.

And then he paused. Stuttered. His head cocked. Tilted. Too slow. Too puppet-like. His eyes—behind the mesh—glowed faintly. Not brown. Not blue. White. Flickering. Backlit. Artificial. Your stomach turned. Something wrong built behind your ribs like a scream held in. You didn’t need to understand it. You just needed to escape. You reached into your hoodie—found nothing. Just receipts. Pens. The facemasks you bought at the pharmacy. You didn’t cry. You didn’t blink. You only kept breathing. You curled in on yourself. And still, the footsteps came.

You thought of Estella.

Of Miles.

Of the paper crane in your pocket.

Of how you had been soft for one goddamn day. Your fingers clutched the concrete like it could open up and save you. Your breath caught.

Then—

THWIP!

He was yanked off his feet. Straight back. Slammed into the opposite alley wall with a metallic crack. His limbs twisted midair like a doll being thrown. You blinked and saw a figure land between you and the man in one impossibly fluid motion—like the wind had molded itself into muscle and reflex. Voice sharp.

“Hey!” Spider-Man barked, “This isn’t how we treat ladies in Brooklyn!”

He didn’t pose. He didn’t pause. He just moved—because the man was already lunging again, jerking up from the impact like it hadn’t mattered at all. The first punch missed. Spider-Man ducked, pivoted, drove a knee into his attacker’s side. The man didn’t even flinch. He turned. Swung. Fast and brutal. The alley rang with the sound of fists and sneakers scraping asphalt.

You couldn’t catch your breath. You couldn’t look away. Your palm burned where it had scraped the concrete, and your wrist was already swelling, but you forced yourself to crawl back behind a bin. Just far enough to breathe without being in the line of fire.

Spider-Man flipped backward with practiced ease, but the guy kept coming—head low, arms flung wide. No yelling. No anger. Only movement. Like a machine built for one task. Another webline snapped forward and caught the man’s wrist. He slammed down. Hard. But again no pain, no voice. Simply motion. Empty and unrelenting. Spidey’s breath came heavy now.

The man didn’t blink. Just turned to you again—too fast. Your body reacted before your mind did. You curled tighter into the wall, hands shaking. You didn’t have time to think. You tried to stand. Your knees shook. Your hands scraped the floor again for balance—knocking over the metal bin. The sound caught the man’s attention. He snapped toward you.

Not looked. Snapped. The same effect of someone pressing a button. His limbs jerked. Eyes glowing faintly again. You couldn’t scream. Only backpedal, your body moving on sheer survival. But Spider-Man saw it.

“Uh-uh,” he growled. “She’s off-limits.”

Another web—center mass—sent the guy flying backward into a trash bin. It crumpled. Sparks flew. You flinched. Somewhere, a window light flicked on. The man didn’t cry out. He twitched. Hissed. Then his body convulsed—once, then twice. Spidey stepped toward him, slow. “You’re not gonna get off easily,” he said, voice low and edged.

The man twitched again—and then suddenly jerked upright in a spasm of movement. His head snapped to the side. “Bye, bye for now!” he said in a way you only deemed possible in nightmares. Then smoke. Not from him. From under him. A sudden hiss—like something chemical had triggered in his coat. Spider-Man flinched back just before the smoke burst outward in a heavy cloud.

“What the—!”

And then he was gone. Silence. Only the smoke remained. Spider-Man stood, dazed and then turned toward you—quick but gentle. He was right there, lowering his hand—slowly, carefully—like a deer approaching someone else’s wound.

“You okay?” he asked. And for the first time, the voice under the mask wasn’t cocky or quippy. Just concerned.

You were still breathing hard, your hand splayed against the brick wall like it might root you to the present.

You nodded. Barely. “I think so.” Your hands were trembling. Your knees buckled again, and then—

He was already there, catching your elbow. “Whoa—hey—easy.”

You looked up at him. Really looked. Spider-Man wasn’t just a costume. His mask was slightly scuffed, one lens cracked at the corner. He smelled like sweat and city air. His hands were firm but careful—like he’d learned how to touch without hurting. He was younger than you expected. But his posture said he’d been carrying things for a long time.

“Do you need a hospital?” he asked. “I can call backup.”

You shook your head. Then: “My cousin. She’s a nurse. Brooklyn Medical.”

He nodded. “Perfect.” Then, softer: “Can you walk?”

You nodded again, slower. “I think.” But when you tried, your ankle buckled slightly. His hand caught your waist—steady.

“Whoa, okay, okay! Maybe let’s just take it easy for a sec.”

You nodded and groaned. Not even a week in and you were already on the verge of becoming a disappearance statistic. He tilted his head slightly, like he was trying to comfort and assess at the same time.

“You were easy for a second there.”

“I’m overstimulated,” you said automatically, voice soft. “Or maybe suffering the consequences of being emotionally repressed. I don’t know. Jury’s still out.”

The words left your mouth like steam—soft, absurd, dissipating in the wake of what just happened. At least the humor was still there, buried under the rubble. Probably a survival instinct. Something old and inherited, like a reflex passed down from people who had to laugh before they cried.

Spider-Man laughed—small, surprised. Not loud. Not performative. Just a breath behind the mask. The kind that says thank God your humor is still intact. The adrenaline didn’t vanish, but it pulled back like tidewater. Enough to let you breathe without shaking apart.

His hand was still wrapped around yours, grounding. The other hovered near your back, unsure whether you needed pressure or just presence. You nodded your thanks and tucked a loose piece of hair behind your ear—not because it was in the way, but because your hands needed something to do. Some gesture to fill the space your nervous system hadn’t caught up with.

And then—your knees gave out.

“Gimme a minute,” you breathed, almost casually, like you were about to sit at a picnic and not collapse from adrenaline overdose. You crouched, palms on your thighs, forehead to your knees. “Just—just need like...sixty to ninety seconds.”

“Copy that,” he said, kneeling beside you again, voice softly above a whisper. “You’re okay.”

“I was okay,” you mumbled into your sleeves. “Then Discount Slender Man decided I looked easy to abduct.”

You felt him chuckle more than heard it. A soft vibration in the air between you.

“Yeah, that guy was...not normal.”

“Understatement,” you said, peeking up at him. “On a scale of one to gaslighting myself, how real was that glowing-glitchy-weirdness situation?”

“Very real,” he said, offering a hand again. “I was watching him for a bit, and then he vanished. Then I saw you running about a minute later.” He spoke like a detective relaying a cold case. “New York’s bad guys’ tech has been advancing these days, but nothing insane to worry much about. As for you, you wanna get some air?”

You blinked. “...Is this the part where you say something dramatic like ‘I know a place’ and then parkour us into the sky?”

He tilted his head. “Wow, way to shut down my opportunity to show off.”

You scoffed but nodded. “As long as it’s not a rough swing from here to there, then yeah. I could do with some air.”

Then he scooped you up. Not dramatically. Not bridal-style. Just efficient—arms secure, hold careful, like he was used to carrying people. You let your cheek rest in the crook of his shoulder, not trusting your legs just yet.

The webline snapped, and you rose.

Wind tore past you, but not in the exhilarating way you feared. It felt like those times when you were little pretending to be asleep in the car for your parents to carry you to bed. Moments later, your feet hit gravel. A rooftop. Quiet. Unlit, except for scattered windows and the hum of a neon sign across the block. He set you down gently. You took a step. Then another. Then doubled over, hands on your knees, exhaling like you’d just run a marathon.

“Okay,” you said, voice still shaky. “Okay.”

A beat. Then you let yourself go:

“When people said moving to New York would be thrilling, THIS IS NOT WHAT I MEANT!”

Spidey looked at you for a beat—taken aback—then let out the most baffled snort-laugh you’d ever heard, like he didn’t know he could laugh until that moment.

“Yeah? What were you expecting?”

“I don’t know! Coffee! Jaywalking! Overpricing of everything!” You flailed your arms. “Not nearly getting kidnapped by a mannequin-possessed rave demon!”

He laughed harder. It was boyish. Surprised. That part got you—because for a moment, it reminded you of your friends back in high school. You turned to him, catching your breath, and even through the mask—you could tell he was smiling.

“The city’s not usually that messed up,” he said. “Maybe this is a lucky streak for you.”

You stared at him, then deadpanned: “Can I return it?”

He shrugged. “Exchange only.”

A quiet fell between you. Not heavy. Not awkward. Just the kind of stillness two people who've brushed death can sit in comfortably. You both stared out over the cityscape. It looked deceptively calm now. The skyline blinked with aircraft lights and illuminated signs. Somewhere below, traffic kept humming. Life didn’t pause. Not even after this.

“You know what sucks?” you murmured.

“Other than the whole attempted kidnapping?”

“That. And also...I was actually starting to feel like I belonged here.”

He didn’t respond immediately. Then he moved to sit beside you, legs stretched out, arms resting on his knees. “That doesn’t go away,” he said. “That feeling. Even for people who’ve lived here forever. Belonging isn’t about the city. It’s about how you navigate it.”

You looked over. “That’s suspiciously poetic for a dude in spandex.”

“Hey,” he said, mock-wounded. “It’s a compression suit. I’m not a fast-fashion kind of guy.”

You snorted. “Dork.”

“Mmhmm,” he said, tipping an imaginary hat. Then, gentler: “But seriously, are you okay?”

You nodded, now reflecting on everything like it was some lore-drop for your future kids. “I’m fine. Really. Just shaken up. I think the aftershock’ll hit later.”

You pulled your hoodie tighter. It was still warm. You looked up and found him still gazing at you. It warmed your chest a little.

“Thanks,” you murmured.

He leaned back on his hands. “You handled that pretty well, by the way.”

You looked at him. “Pretty well? I almost couldn’t scream.”

“But you ran. You got out. You stayed alert. That takes guts.”

You swallowed. It didn’t feel like courage. It felt like survival.

“Do you want me to walk you to your cousin? Or...”

You hesitated. “Maybe not yet. I don’t want to show up like this.”

“Like what?”

“All shaken. I told her I could handle myself. If I show up like this, she’ll think I can’t. She’ll think I’m weak.”

He tilted his head. “You think being shaken is weakness?”

“Don’t you?”

He paused. “No. It’s normal—especially after what you just went through, which wasn’t normal.”

You didn’t answer. Just crossed your arms. The rooftop was still.

Not silent. You could hear the city below—car horns, sirens, a kid yelling into the wind about losing a bet. But up here, it was muted. The chaos had turned down just long enough to let you breathe.

You hadn’t moved much. Just shifted your weight, arms crossed tight like your ribcage might fall apart. Spider-Man hadn’t said anything either. Just stood nearby, letting the silence do what it needed. Eventually, he glanced over, curious. “You good?” he asked softly.

You nodded. Then shook your head. Then shrugged.

He chuckled under his breath. “Understandable.”

You sat down with a sigh. Gravel pressed into your jeans. Grounding. “I’m trying not to freak out,” you said. “But also...I think my brain is buffering.”

He nodded sagely. “You wouldn’t be the first.”

You let your eyes wander again. Past the rooftop’s edge, where the view of the buildings gave you that familiar rush of euphoria you always felt standing high above the ground. You pulled your sleeves over your palms, trying to ground yourself in something simple—texture, sensation, the press of your fingers against fabric.

He didn’t interrupt. Just reached into one of the compartments on his suit and pulled out something small. A wrapped peppermint. You blinked.

“It helps with the adrenaline crash,” he said, holding it out.

You took it, fingers brushing his glove. “Thanks,” you exhaled. You didn’t even like peppermint that much, but right now? It was the most thoughtful thing anyone had done for you all week. You popped it in your mouth and let the cold sweetness anchor you. Your mind settled just enough to notice: he hadn’t moved much. Maybe he was waiting for you to say something else.

“Do you always wait with people after?” you asked.

He paused, then tilted his head. “Not always. But I figured you might not want to be alone just yet.”

You gave a slow nod. “I appreciate it.”

You didn’t know how to explain it. How the rooftop light, the quiet, the way the peppermint melted too fast on your tongue—how all of it reminded you of standing outside your house during a power outage. When everything was dark except the sky, and all you could do was look up.

“You grew up here? Before becoming Spider-Man?”

He hesitated. “Around here, yeah. Long enough to know where not to mess around.”

You laughed softly. “That sounds like someone who learned the hard way.”

“You wouldn’t believe how often that happens.”

There was something familiar in his tone now. Less superhero, more sleep-deprived college kid with finals on Monday. You felt yourself relax into it, letting the gravity of the moment ease up.

“I’m trying to decide if I like it here yet,” you admitted.

He didn’t answer right away. “That’s fair,” he said at last. “Some days, I don’t like it here either.” That surprised you—not because it wasn’t believable, but because most people didn’t say it out loud.

“But you’re still here,” you said.

He nodded. “It’s home. Even when it’s broken. Even when it gets loud or mean. You stay. Because sometimes staying is the right thing.”

You didn’t say anything. Your throat tightened.

Still quiet, you glanced over at him. “You’re more relatable than I thought.”

He turned slightly, unsurprised. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you said, shifting your legs. “I thought you’d be more...I don’t know. ‘Zing-pow.’ One-liners and catchphrases. Like a walking action figure.”

He snorted. “Sorry to disappoint.”

“No, it’s good,” you said, picking at a loose thread on your jeans. “It’s...better.”

Another pause. Your breath came easier now. The peppermint had melted into the back of your throat, and a strange calm was settling in your bones.

You looked at him again—really looked. Not the suit. Not the mask. Just the shape of him in the dark. Knees bent. Arms draped over them. Shoulders slightly hunched, like someone used to carrying guilt like a backpack.

“Do you ever get scared?” you asked before you could stop yourself.

A quiet beat.

“More than I let on,” he said.

You nodded, like it answered something you hadn’t even realized you were asking. Your shoulders dropped, just enough for your lungs to fill all the way.

He tapped his fingers against his knee once. Twice. Then: “What’s your cousin like?”

The question caught you off guard. Not because it was strange, but because it was normal. Soft. The kind of thing people ask over coffee or while parked at night, engine off.

You blinked and answered without thinking.

“Loud. Bright. Smarter than anyone gives her credit for. One of those people you’re scared of until you realize she’s not scary at all—just fiercely protective.”

He laughed. “Sounds like a good nurse.”

“She’s the best,” you said. “Doesn’t take crap from anyone. She once cussed out a guy on the subway for looking at me weird.”

“He probably deserved it.”

“She’s probably gonna murder me for almost dying.”

You paused. Then added, “But she’d also wrap me in a blanket burrito, put on my favorite movie, and feed me, so...you know. Balance.”

“Love that for you.”

You smiled—genuinely this time. The kind that reached your eyes. Wind swept across the rooftop again. He leaned back on his palms. You leaned back too. Your shoulder barely brushed his. Neither of you moved. And for one long moment, the world didn’t ask anything of you.

“Okay,” you said after a while. “I think I can face her now.”

He nodded, standing up slowly and offering a hand. “You sure?”

“No,” you said, taking it anyway. “But that’s never stopped me before.”

He helped you up. This time, your legs didn’t wobble. The city didn’t feel quite as sharp around the edges.

There was a silence. You looked down, about to let him hoist you. Then you shuddered. “Wait—” you gasped, stepping back and clutching your bag.

You needed to get to Estella, but the thought of walking after everything that happened made your skin crawl. Spider-Man huffed, like he was doing mental math.

“I’m sorry,” you said quietly, staring at your feet.

“No, no, no—don’t apologize!” he said quickly. “We’ll think of something.”

You nodded, still unsure. “It’s not that I’m scared of heights or getting down,” you said, and he looked back at you. “I just...don’t want to walk. Even though he’s gone—I don’t feel safe.”

He nodded. Tilted his head, making him look like he was forming a theory. Then—his eyes lit up behind the mask.

“So,” he said, a little brighter, “you’re not afraid of heights?”

You gave him a suspicious look. “No. Not really.”

“What about rollercoasters? You like those?”

“I mean...I get on them.”

He perked up. “Perfect! Solid reference point.”

Your eyes narrowed. “Why do you need a reference point?”

“No reason,” he said too quickly.

“Oh my god,” you groaned, already backing up. “Don’t you dare ask—”

He held up both hands innocently. “What? Me? Ask what?”

You folded your arms. Glared.

Then: “Wanna swing there?”

I knew it! Still, you blinked. “What?”

“I could swing you there,” he said casually, definitely watching your reaction. “Get you there in no time! Might even change your mind to see this place more positively.”

“Hell no,” you said immediately, standing straighter.

“You said you liked rollercoasters!”

“I said I’m not scared of them! I still get nervous! Besides—flying through a city is how people die in movies.”

“Technically, it’s swinging. And it’s how I save people.”

“Absolutely not. I’ve had enough trauma for one day, thanks.”

He shrugged. “What if I told you it’s the fastest, dumbest, most glorious way to ride in style?”

You squinted. “One: corny. Two: still not compelling.”

“Really?” he said, mock-offended. “Okay, okay. I’ll revise. I’ll take you the scenic route. Just a few arcs through Brooklyn. You can close your eyes. Or cuss me out. That’s also allowed.”

You scoffed, amused—but hesitated. The city buzzed below. Sirens, subways, noise. But up here, none of it could touch you. And for the first time in weeks, maybe longer, you felt something stir. Not dread. Curiosity.

“What if I scream?”

“I’ll take that as a good sign. Screaming means you’re still alive.”

“Wow. Deeply unhelpful.”

“But not untrue.”

You gave him a long look. “You’re serious.”

“Deadly.”

You bit your lip. Looked at your shoes. Then the skyline. Then back at him. “...Will I regret it?”

“Probably,” he said cheerfully. “At first. But it’ll make a great flex to tell your friends.”

You laughed, full-bodied now. Shook your head slowly. Pause. Then— “Fine. But only if I don’t throw up or drop my bag...then you can do a stunt or two.”

“Deal.”

Then his arm slipped under your knees, another around your back. You went stiff at first—not because you didn’t trust him, but because physical contact was still weird sometimes. Still loaded. Still something that had weight. You looked at him. Really looked. Something in the way he stood. In the curve of his shoulders. The softness behind the mask. But he waited. No rush. No pressure.

His arm was solid with a grip, holding onto you as your arm looped around his neck and gripped as hard as you could and careful not to hurt him. The suit was textured—not cold, not warm. Just steady.

“You ready?” he asked.

“Not at all.”

“Perfect.” He adjusted his hold on you for a second.

“Hold tight,” he said, like it was nothing.

And then the ground dropped away. You yelped. Wind roared past your ears. The city blurred. Your heart slammed against your ribs as the world tilted—buildings slanting, streetlights streaking past like meteors. he wind punched your chest in a full, laughing gasp as the ground dropped and the skyline spun. You weren’t flying, not exactly. You were flung. Swooped. Carried. The wind slapped your hoodie back and pulled your hair loose.

You shrieked once—more in shock than fear—and buried your face into his shoulder without meaning to. “Oh my god,” you wheezed.

“You’re doing great,” he said over the roar of the air.

“Are we upside down?!”

“Only briefly!”

“You said it was close!”

“It is!” You opened one eye as the city blurred around you. Rooftops. Billboards. Water towers. The occasional pigeon startled mid-flight. He arced over a street and then dove low—low enough to see the reflection of traffic lights in the windows. The city was gold and red and blue. Fast. Fast like a flash of memory. Fast like grief. You laughed again—part terrified, part giddy. He caught the sound.

“You okay?” he called over the wind.

“Better than okay!” He grinned behind the mask. You couldn’t see it, but somehow you knew. As bizarre as the last few minutes had been, you weren’t scared. Because he was holding you. Not like something fragile. But like something real. Brooklyn spun below. Spider-Man swung above it, carrying you in an arc of weightless motion, and for the first time in hours, the air didn’t feel suffocating. It felt clean. And you felt alive again. Truly alive.

Brooklyn Medical Center came into view. The glass-fronted entry lit up the sidewalk like a stage. Spider-Man slowed. Swung to a lower fire escape, then down again. He landed with a controlled slide that barely jarred you. Your feet hit the ground a beat later, your legs shaky but intact. You took a breath. Then another. Then you laughed again. Disbelieving.

“That was insane.”

“That was New York,” he said.

You hummed, amused. Your breathing was still uneven, caught in that jittery rhythm it always found after a rollercoaster. Blissful adrenaline still buzzing in your fingertips.

When you glanced back at him, you noticed he was holding your bags. Both of them. Like it was nothing, that he hadn’t just swung you halfway across Brooklyn.

You giggled—slightly breathless, slightly unhinged—as he handed them over.

“Thanks,” you said, taking them from his hands. He gave a dramatic little bow, and you returned it with a half-curtsy, which made you both chuckle. It was ridiculous. It helped.

But when you straightened again, something in your expression shifted.

“So...should I be worried about him?” you asked.

His head shook once, deliberate. “No. Not while I’m around.”

His voice had that calm tilt again—the kind people use when they’re trying to be a blanket instead of a person. Like a parent saying there’s nothing under the bed, even when they’re checking twice just to make sure.

“I’ve already got tabs on what it could be,” he added. “Like I said...that’s for me to worry about.”

You nodded anyway. You weren’t fully convinced, but you didn’t need to be.

“Um...cool. So that settles it then?” you said, voice light and a little too chirpy. A soft deflection.

He chuckled, then made a vague little gesture like ta-da. “Yeah, pretty much. Look, I know you’re probably still gonna feel paranoid for a while—shaken up or...haunted or y’know. Just don’t keep it all in, okay? Talk to someone if you need to. Like, seriously.”

You hummed in acknowledgment, then grinned, sharp-edged. “Believe it or not, this isn’t the worst thing I’ve seen.” The words came out dry. A little too casual. Your usual defense mechanism wearing its usual mask.

You weren’t sure if it landed. Couldn’t see his expression behind the lenses. But the white eyes narrowed slightly—subtly dilating. Turns out the suit didn’t hide as much as you thought.

“I’ll seek counseling, don’t worry,” you added, more gently this time.

That seemed to satisfy him. He gave a small nod, then glanced over his shoulder like he was hearing something you couldn’t. Which wouldn’t surprise you.

“Right, well...I should get going,” he said. “Get home safe, yeah?”

And just like that, he aimed a web at some far-off building. Your heart lurched a little, like something had just been snatched from you before you’d had the chance to name it.

“Wait—!” you called, louder than intended. He paused mid-motion. Turned back just slightly. One hand still raised, ready to vanish into the skyline.

His eyes were unreadable, but his attention was yours.

“Thanks,” you said again, quieter now. “For real.”

A beat. You could’ve sworn you felt him smile.

“Anytime.”

And almost like an afterthought, like something he hadn’t decided until right that second—

“Maybe we’ll bump into each other again,” he said. “Preferably not in an alleyway.”

You smiled. “Preferably.”

And then—

He was gone. Up the side of the building, like wind, like a myth, like he’d never been there at all. You stood there a second longer. The city rumbling beside you. Wind tugging at your sleeves. Your chest still rising a little too fast.

You looked down at your phone. Seventeen minutes past Estella’s shift. You were about to text her when it hit you—She’d seen everything.

You didn’t even get the chance to turn around before you heard it:

“What the fuc—”

A/N: Hey girly pops! Long time no see! Once again, tysm for reading and hope you guys like it! I know there might be some grammar and whatnot (please don't come for me) and I did some plot tweaks that were edited from the prologue so if you want to re-read it for clarity, it's edited DW ! Other than that, hope you enjoyed this!

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echoes-of-a-dream · 4 months ago

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you can tell what i’ve been watching lately from the ratio of matt to not matt

#howard stark x reader #daniel sousa x reader #jack thompson x reader #tasm!peter parker x reader #matt murdock x reader #daredevil #daredevil x reader #flash thompson x reader

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hugs4lifesworld · 2 years ago

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Never mind - Peter Parker x Stark! reader

Former relationship between peter and reader but it has been bad since Tony died. Reader is friends with Flash and met him before Peter from galas, charity things, and other events. In some ways he knows her better than anyone else. Very little of Peter.

"I can't believe you're really making me go." I grumble to Happy as he half drags, half guides me into the airport carrying my luggage given my refusal to even going on this trip. Happy having heard my complaints, bargaining, and weak threats the whole way continues to ignore me which he has done for the past half hour after simply arguing "Maybe this will be good for you." We make it to the large group of teenagers I call classmates where I am finally released only to be surrounded by my friends. As they chatter away I catch a glimpse of Happy speaking to the two teachers who are chaperoning before leaving. I roll my eyes and sit down beside Michelle knowing I won't get far if I even try to escape.

Before long the last member of the class comes and we go through to our gate. After that we board our plane. Out of habit I follow Flash to the first class area where we both have seats reserved, should we choose to use them. I laugh at him when the stewardess takes the drink from him when Michelle rats that he was blipped and therefore not 21. The two of us are instructed to sit with the rest of the class until after take off. We comply and I end up by Brad and Flash is a few rows back. In the seat across from me is Michelle with Betty beside her. The crew begins their safety demonstration and then we take off.

Flash and I decide to stay with the rest of the class for the time being and he sleeps while I continue the book I have been reading. Roughly half way into the flight I finish the book and am not tired. The cabin crew is also making rounds, checking on everyone so it would be pointless to even attempt to sleep. Looking around the cabin I catch Peter's eyes already looking at me, feelings I have been pushing down bubble and overwhelm me and I have to rip my eyes away. Sighing, I divert my gaze onto the screen in front of me so they don't gravitate back to Peter. 'Might as well' I think before grabbing the headphones and putting them on. I reach forward flicking on the screen and pushing the listening option. Scrolling through I find only audiobooks about The Avengers, some older books about Steve and one on the blip.

I simultaneously feel angry, annoyed, and get a lump in my throat and my eyes burn. Quickly switching to the in-flight movies I hope and pray that it's something different. I quickly find that they are different but this is worse, so much worse.

All I see are "documentaries" on my dad. My breath hitches and the more I scroll through the less I seem to be able to catch my breath. I am startled when I feel a hand on my arm and look to see it's Flash giving me a questioning look and I nod. I know he doesn't believe me but he, thankfully, lets it go for now. I switch the screen off, practically ripping the headphones off. Michelle looks over at me while Betty gasps "Y/n!" causing several members of our class including Brad, Ned, and Peter to look at me which I try my best to ignore.

Just then a stewardess walks by, "Excuse me." I say to the blonde woman who has an incredibly fake smile plastered on her face. I think I catch the end of an eye roll as she turns to me answering, "Yes, how can I help you?". "Do you happen to have any other movies?" I ask her hoping I don't have too much emotion in my voice. Because Ned, Flash, MJ, and Peter are all focused on me but I can tell I failed. "I'm afraid we don't, Miss. I'm sorry." she answers and goes to walk away "How about a book then?" I ask her. With a barely concealed sigh she answers "I'll check." and she leaves. She is back in a few minuets with 3 books. Glancing at the spines I read the titles. Once again they are about the Avengers and the blip, Steve, and my father. This time I don't bother to hide anything, with a heavy sigh and a seemingly exasperated tone I ask. "Do you have anything that's NOT about Tony Stark? A magazine, anything?" I stress. "No, Ma'-" I interrupt "Fine, a sleeping pill then?" I ask snapping at her trying to keep from crying. she scoffs and straitens wiping the fake grin from her plump red lips and narrowing her brown eyes at me. "What is your problem?" She questions me and I shoot back "I just don't want to read or listen to anything about Tony Stark!" I exclaim thankful the two teachers are sleeping and I easily ignore everyone else.

She gapes at me looking indignant "How dare you. Tony Stark was an amazing man who sacrificed everything." she practically yells at me. "Never mind." I huff out sitting back in my seat "I don't want to hear about it. Okay?" I tell her in a clipped tone.

"Tony Stark was the founder and leader of the Avengers! He housed S.H.E.I.L.D. He was an incredibly selfless man who died for the world." She raises her voice slightly becoming more frantic as she speaks. I only hold my tongue for a few moments before I burst. Jumping to my feet "Okay. First, he was not the founder of the Avengers. That was Nick Fury who came up with the original idea and Phil Coulson and Maria Hill helped execute said idea. Second, He was not the leader. Steve Rogers is," I pause "Was. Captain America was the leader. Tony did however pay for everything. Third, He never housed S.H.E.I.L.D, only gave former agents new jobs. Finally, He was an incredibly selfish man." I list off, finishing emotionally and scornfully before rushing away only barely taking notice of Flash angrily send her away to get the head steward and not come back.

Leaning on the sink I heave, trying to catch my breath and not let the sobs out but one escapes.

Then another...

And another.

Crap.

Next thing I know I'm in the hallway between coach and first class and Peter is kneeling in front of me telling me to breathe. The black at the edges of my vision slowly recedes and I can hear Flash shouting at who I assume is the head stewardess. I gather myself and push Peter away and stand. "I'm fine. You can go." I tell him making my way back to Flash and our seats to gather my things before he can say anything. "You and your staff should read the manifest." Flash states as I shoulder my bag. "I'm sorry, sir, but your friend was belligerent and Mr. Stark was a hero." She says trying to dismiss the issue. "If you had read the manifest you would have seen that Y/N Stark was on this flight. If anyone has the right to be selfish, it's her." He bites to her and snatches up his bag, I assume from the sound.

The last thing I hear before passing through the curtain to first class is "She is his daughter after all." and him stomping after me. Throwing ourselves in our new plush seats we sigh and Flash silently reaches over putting his hand on mine and we sit that way in silence for a while until he squeezes my hand. "What's going on in that head of yours?" He asks. My first response is a simple shrug but he gives me a look and I can't help sighing again, "I just still can't believe they made me come on this stupid trip." I tell him. "Maybe they thought it would be good for you." He tells me. "Yeah, right." I reply with a scoff.

"They get five years with him and I ... lost five. Sure, I'm not the only one in the world. No one else got blipped, came back, had to fight, and then watch their dad sacrifice himself." Feeling the tickle of the tears I angrily wipe my face and sniff before continuing, "Then I go home and find my dad married Pepper, which is great and I love her, she is the only mom I've ever known and on top of it I have a little sister." Flash just lets me rant. "Then, I have to go to work helping everyone else. I didn't even get to hug him or tell him I love him." I finally burst and Flash pulls me into a hug, holding me as I cry. Eventually succumbing to my emotions and exhaustion and falling asleep in one of my best friends arms.

A few hours later I'm lightly shaken awake by Flash so he can tell me we will be landing soon. I sit up staring at the floor before whispering "Thank you." to Flash who squeezes my shoulder as if to say "no problem" while holding out my make up bag out to me in the other. I raise an eyebrow at him and he simply said "Parker brought it.". I grab it with a huff and stand knowing I'm going to have to talk to him ... eventually. I make my way to the restroom I had previously tried to gain control in with a new determination but find the door locked. I stand and wait for only a few seconds before the door swings open to reveal Peter. Once he sees me his eyes widen and he slams the door. Okay I think and see Brad coming so I decide to try another restroom to fix my make up so when we land I will appear to be all together, just in case.

It only takes me about seven minuets to redo my makeup and make sure my hair is presentable. Once I finish that I go back to my seat, buckle my seat belt, and wait for the plane to land. "Your teachers want you to disembark the plane with the rest of your class." The head steward appears and instructs Flash and I and I simply roll my eyes while Flash gives a simple nod and she disappears.

"So, why are you pissed at Parker?" Flash asks as the plane slowly descends. "I'm not." I say. "That's bullshit and you know it." He shoots back. With a sigh I try again, "I'm not pissed at him. Why do you think that?". He gives me a look and answers "You two were good together. As much as I hate it. You were happy and now you'll barely even look at him." He points out. "We both have a lot of things to work out ... with my dad and stuff. You know the internship." I shrug. "So talk to him." "It's not that easy." I answer. He just looks at me as we land on the tarmac.

The plane finally comes to a stop and Flash and I join our class to disembark. Somehow I end up by Peter, MJ, Ned, and Betty. It is quickly revealed that Betty and Ned are dating. After a few awkward interactions between peter and I, the whole class exits the airport. With that our trip officially begins.

#peter parker #peter parker x stark!reader #peter parker x reader #peter parker imagine #mcu #mcu spiderman #michelle jones #ned leeds #flash thompson #spiderman no way home #quentin beck

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janetsboys · 2 years ago

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X readers list

heyyy here are all the characters i can write fanfics about if you’d like to request something (⚠️read my bio)

i’m a she/her and i don’t really feel comfortable writing with other genders than female because i can’t really know what they feel if you understand what i mean? thank you for your comprehension <3

- mike schmidt (five nights at freddy’s)

- carl gallagher (shameless)

- finnick odair (the hunger games)

- thor odinson (mcu)

- lo’ak sully (avatar twow)

- rafe cameron (outer banks)

- gally (the maze runner)

- flash thompson (the amazing spider-man)

- arne johnson (the conjuring 3)

- harry osborn (spider-man)

- alex summers (x-men)

i know this is very specific lmao but i have to do this cause they’re the only ones i have inspiration about😭

#mike schmidt #mike schimdt x reader #carl gallagher #finnick odair #finnick x reader #thor odinson #lo’ak sully #lo’ak x reader #rafe x reader #rafe cameron #tmr gally #gally x reader #flash thompson #arne johnson x reader #harry osborn #alex summers #x reader #x you

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iridescentparkers · 1 year ago

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vanilla palm trees → three - late night talking

summary ⇢ it’s been years, he should get over it, right? but, peter just can’t. he looks up, he sees her. he goes to bed, he dreams of her. he wakes up, he can smell her. he goes out one night and he sees…her. no, not gwen but his ticket to stop moping around on the anniversary of her death. what is meant to be one quick night of putting sadness on the back burner, is now a blossoming new love that feels all too perfect for peter. was this new woman in his life meant to be? or was this just another set of poorly dealt cards that would leave him walking away empty handed. all or nothing, right? ↝ college!au ↝ one night stand gone wrong trope | masterlist

parings ⇢ tasm!peter parker x female reader

warnings ⇢ alcohol use and sexual themes

a/n ⇢ THANKS FOR 500 AAHAHAHAHAHAHHHAH LFG! love y'all. answer my poll if you can, i wanna write something new. also this one is kinda short!

HE WATCHED as his windows clouded with condensation and fog, making his New York City apartment a bit dreary. Lighting the match on his old gas station matchbox, Peter saw Y/N’s tired reflection stare back at him in the window.

“You look exhausted,” he remarked as he lit candles around the room. “You should get some sleep. Take my bed. I’ll sleep out here.”

“I’m fine,” she remarked, followed by a stifled yawn. “Don’t worry about me. I just hope nothing too bad happened to your circuit.”

“It’s all good,” he assured. “My roommate texted and said the powers' out on the entire block.”

He saw her shiver under her blanket, rubbing her hands quickly back and forth, “If the hand warmers aren’t working, there is always a beer.”

“I know we aren’t that far in age, but I cannot drink like I used to in college,” she informed, pulling her blanket close to her body.

He laughed, grabbing a blanket nearby, moving to his couch, and opening one of the beers on the table, “We were both barely drunk.”

“I was barely tipsy, but my tolerance is still not as good as it used to be. I went to USC. The parties here are tame compared to the LA lifestyle.”

He lifted the bottle to his lips as she spoke, Y/N's eyes watching his hands. “I’ll take one.”

“You sure, don’t feel pressured-

“I don’t, I promise." She began. "You already have me in three layers of your clothes. If this isn’t working, what else will.” She stated.

“You miss it?”

“What? LA?” She asked, and he nodded.

“Sometimes. I grew up here though. I left to get a drastic change of scenery.” She mentioned, watching him as he took a swig of his drink.

“What part?”

“Manhattan. My parents owned a gallery for years, both art curators, and when they need me to, my brother and I plan to run the whole thing.”

“Which one?”

“My Mom’s family gallery, we’ve had it for years.”

"There is more than one?"

"A couple here and there. That's the biggest one."

“What’s the name ?”

She hesitated, glancing around his apartment before meeting his eyes again, “The Trenton.”

That was his favorite gallery, the curations changing every month with local artists that people come from all over the world to see. Peter spat out his beer, the words making him choke, “Holy shit-”

She pressed her lips firmly together, pushing her hair away from her face, “Sorry.”

Peter had apologized. Y/N waved a gentle hand, “You’re not the first.”

“That’s my favorite gallery,” he lit up, drinking more of his beer.

She smiled, her leg drawing closer to his. “I should take you some time.”

“I’d love that.”

Y/N shrugged her shoulders as she sipped her beer, leaning back further on the couch. Peter mirrored the position, placing his body even closer to Y/N, “What do your parents do?”

“My Aunt and Uncle raised me,” he informed. “My Aunt May runs a non-profit and my uncle passed years ago, a mechanic.”

“Peter, I’m so sorry,” she stated, placing a gentle hand on his thigh, rubbing her thumb along his kneecap.

“It was all a while ago. I’ve been healing for years.” He smiled, Y/N removing her hand from his leg. The ghosts of her gentle hand lingered and he slowly looked down and back up at Y/N as she took another sip of her drink. Peter watched as Y/N moved her lips to the bottle, swiping her thumb along her bottom lip. He looked back up at her eyes, watching as they quickly jolted back and forth. She leaned into him, kissing him hard. After placing her beer aside, him doing the same, she crawled into his lap. She grinded onto him, Peter grabbing her ass as she wrapped her arms around him. She pulled from him, narrowing her eyes at Peter.

“It’s almost 3, and I’m feeling warm,” she whispered, getting out of his lap. “I’m going to get some sleep.”

“Yeah, go ahead. Take my bed.”

She quickly ran to Peter’s room, letting the door crack behind her. Peter followed her down the hallway, slowly peering inside of his room. He watched as she pulled back his neatly made sheets, folding them forward as she got under the covers. He stepped closer inside, veering towards the edge of her bed.

“If you need anything Y/N, let me know.”

She shifted to sit on her knees, eyeing Peter in his stance. Ending the space between them, she crawled closer, grabbing his hand as he stood before her. “Stay with me.”

She was glowing, the same way as she did in the bar, even like this. There was something so angelic about her touch, hell her entire being. He wanted nothing more than to fall into her and see all of her, but he couldn’t.

“Please.” She asked, placing a warm hand under his shirt, and moving her fingers along his abdomen.

“Please.”

She put her other hand along his cheek, her face almost touching his. “Okay.”

He nodded, looking down at her lips. She pressed her lips on his gently, slowly pushing herself further into him. Peter broke the kiss stating, “We shouldn’t, I’m not that intoxicated.”

“I’m not either, I swear.” She assured, kissing along his neck.

“Still, just to be safe.”

He grabbed her hand, holding it to his chest before moving her to one side of his bed. Lying down, he moved her hand around his torso, allowing her to tuck her head into his neck.

“Peter?”

“Hmm?”

“Did you blow out all of those candles?”

In the morning, Peter awoke before Y/N, his body now to her backside. The apartment was still chilly but it felt amazing. The warmness between them was so natural and comforting that it left Peter not wanting to let go.

“Good morning.”

With her eyes closed, Y/N greeted Peter, her words still mumbled with sleep.

“Morning,” he greeted back, kissing the back of her neck. “How are you feeling?”

“Warm,” she smiled, running her hand along Peter’s arm. She turned over, her face about an inch from Peter’s to place a lazy kiss on his lips. She drew her hands up and down his back as he gripped the side of her face. Her tongue moved lazily in his mouth, and his response muffled in moans of pleasure.

“Woah there bossman!” A voice yelled, “You’re breaking roommate rules It's 10 AM.”

The two broke apart and Peter jolted from his lying position, “Shit.”

“Who’s that?” Y/N asked, sitting up.

“My roommate.”

“Alcohol, candles, blankets, pillows,” Harry noted, his voice growing closer to Peter’s door. “Parker! I’m so proud of you!”

“Parker? Who’s Parker?”

“It’s my last name,” He hurried, getting out of bed. “Listen I-”

With his hand over his eyeballs, he walked up to Peter’s door, “Now I’m not coming in, but I would just like to say, this is a monumental event that will go down in Osborne and Parker history.”

“After years, Parker’s got his groove back!"

“Harry!”

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thefriendlyferretwriter · 2 years ago

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A new side of you: Waltz of emotions

Pairing: Eugene 'Flash' Thompson x reader

Summary: Surprised, again and again.

Warning: 13k words, Tension, tension, tension, angst, a bit of fluff, OCs, don't know what else to warn you about.

A/N: I feel like this is standard by now but sorry again for being such a slow writer, I hope the fic is enough to be forgiven for my usual tardiness. Might have edited but I'm not a native speaker so get ready for plenty of mistakes, enjoy!

Tags: (Don't hesitate to tell me if you want to be added or removed, and thank you again for your feebacks ❤️) @loxerclu8 @wheelerzluv @ray-of-sunrise @m00nkn1ghts

People's view of the costume is accurate. The fabric is thin and flexible but unfortunately, it is quite a cold way to fight crimes during the chilly nights of New York.

"That was awesome! I wonder if it'll end up on the internet?"

"I doubt it. If it does end up there it'll be out of frame and shaky. The police were quite insistent when they were shoving people to safety," I say feeling the breeze as I swing around at full speed.

Landing with a huff I realize I'm out of breath, "Ned." I pant, "Remind me to get a custom binder, this one is killing me."

"I told you! You can't just buy any binder from the internet. It's like corsets, of course they are uncomfortable if they are not tailored for you!"

Your vendetta against Hollywood has reached another level," I say taking another deep breath.

With a leap I swing from the American Museum of Natural History and land on a school's rooftop.

A buzz makes me pause and crouch to check my phone and see a second call coming in from May.

"I got to go May is on the other line."

"Okay, 'night."

"'Night."

Swiping on my phone I wait for the inevitable.

"Where are you?!"

I try to defuse the damage as I look around, "I am at the park close to the flat," I draw out slowly.

"…Which park?"

…

"Do not tell me you're close to Central Park which is on the other side of the city."

"Okay, I won't say it."

"Damnit! you know I don't want you farther than Long Island at night!"

"I know, I know!" I whine, "But there was this guy with a huge Scorpion armor and he was doing mass destruction! The police couldn't do it alone they needed help!" I protest.

"Before being Spiderman you're my niece and my niece will obey the very few rules I put in place for her safety."

"Don't you think the fact that I can knock out people 3 times my size should allow me a bit of indulgence on those rules?"

"No young lady I read a ton of books on this and I know how this ends."

"How?" I ask curiously.

"Mostly teen pregnancy."

"Wow! Okay let's not be dramatic now, shall we?"

"And juvie," May continues her list.

"May I fight crimes, I don't commit it."

"Listen we have a system and it works, I don't get sarcastic with my boss and you don't go farther than Long Island past 11 PM."

"In retrospect, I think we should've thought harder on those rules."

"Too late, the system works and it's flawless. Now swing your ass back home before Spiderman gets grounded."

"Yes ma'am."

"Love you," she says smugly.

The line dies and I breathe out the annoyance I feel to then breathe in the fresh evening air.

Tearing off my mask I try to crack my neck and let it hang down to massage and release the night's tension when my eyes catch a familiar sigh.

Flash?

He sits on a bench with his phone in hand looking perplexed.

It's been a week since we last saw each other, or even talked. I didn't want to bother him and I have the feeling it's the same for him.

I look down at my wrist and fumble with the different settings before I find and activate the voice modificator.

Swinging down, I drop on the cemented ground and accidentally startle him as he jumps and stumbles to the floor.

"Oh shit, sorry I didn't mean to scare you," I say genuinely with my voice coming out deeper thanks to the device.

Stumbling around to step back up, Flash looks at Spiderman with wide eyes and his jaw on the floor.

A torrent of curses comes out of his mouth along with an excited laugh of disbelief.

"I can't believe it, it's you!" he says and motions to me up and down.

"Oh yeah, it's me!" I say rethinking my decision to offer guidance disguised as Spiderman in front of Flash Thompson.

"Oh my god I was having such a bad night and now I'm talking to Spiderman!"

"Yeah, that's awesome! Listen, I saw you from up there and you looked troubled and honestly a bit underdressed," I point to his light shirt.

"Oh yeah," he says more calmly looking down at his outfit, "I just needed to take a walk to think about-"

He hesitates.

"No that's not important."

"No way, tell me, that's why I came down here," I say sitting on the bench inviting him to join me.

It's not the first time that Spiderman has a sit-down with someone in distress; words being as useful as a handful of punches.

He sighs and sits down, "There's this um-Charity thing and my mom told me I had to bring a date and I told her I would but let's say it's easier said than done."

"Why's that? Having trouble finding a date?" I tease.

"No," he chuckles, "No actually I already know who I want to invite, but I don't know if she would say yes, and even then I don't really know where we stand. Inviting her could compromise everything," he says sliding his hands down his face with a pained sigh.

Is it me?

Who am I kidding? It's not because we kissed once that I'm his only date choice.

"Alright, so you have an idea. Why not ask her?"

"Because she could say no and I really do not want to have the conversation that would follow after that."

"What conversation?"

"You know the conversation!" he shouts full of frustration as he stands up from the bench, "The one a girl gives you when she's not interested in you. The one that goes 'It's not you, it's me' or the 'We're just friends' except in this case I'm not even sure we're friends to begin with!" he finishes his rant pacing left and right.

"That seems complicated," is the only thing I can say after a few moments of tense silence.

"Yeah and also what kind of date would be a charity event?"

"A date?" I choke out.

"I just-I've always been good at reading people, I know whether they hate me or they tolerate me. But recently it's been hard to read her."

I listen silently nodding my head from time to time.

"Before, she just rolled her eyes or would just snap back at me but now she listens to me and she worries about me and I just-I like being around her. I just worry it is all just a front and she's simply gonna drop me or tell me we're not actually friends and she just had pity on me and took me for some sort of charity case."

He finishes sitting back down his head in his hands.

"It's my fault. I shouldn't have kissed her." he groans.

I'm thankful for the mask covering my flushed face.

So it is about me.

It couldn't be anyone else. Flash Thompson is a lot of things. Sometimes an idiot, an asshole, even a jerk at times but what everyone always seems to agree on is that Flash Thompson is no player.

"You could always invite her as a friend," I loudly blur out after an awkward pause.

Flash frowns.

"You ask her to be your date and you precise it's as friends," I precise my thought.

"I guess I could try but what if she says no?"

"Well, best case scenario she says yes and you do have a friend. Or worst case scenario, she does pity you and says yes allowing you to hang out with her and convince her to see you as more than that."

He stays silent staring out into the void before snatching his phone out of his pocket.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm calling her right now before I chicken out."

Oh shit!

"Wow! Hey there how about we think about it before we make any rash decision," I say standing up from the bench in a hurry.

"What do you mean? you just told me to ask her."

"Listen," I panic and rack my brain for any last-second plan, "Here's what I propose. You walk back home and think about what you're gonna say to her on the way there, and then you call her once you get there."

He pauses, "Yeah okay, that makes sense."

A buzz startles me and reminds me of my curfew.

Trying to stay calm I hurriedly try to bid my goodbyes.

"O-Okay well, I got to go. Hope it works out for you!" I say carefully stepping backward, "As for me I'm expected somewhere so I'm gonna head there!"

"Oh yeah for sure. That's crazy man, I've always wanted to meet you, and now that it's the case you've just helped me!"

He looks back down at his phone's contact and slowly takes a few steps back nodding to me as a goodbye.

"You know what they say. I'm just your friendly neighborhood Spider-Man, emotionally and physically!" I shout jogging back.

When I'm sure he's far enough, I leap into the air and swing away.

"Wait! Can we take a picture-?!" his demand fades as I shoot my next web.

Answering the phone I reassure May I'm on my way and get a few more calls from Flash that I cannot answer.

The last swing sends me to my bedroom window with a thud as I slide the glass panel up and throw my phone in first before climbing inside in a hurry as my cell buzzes again.

"Is that you?!"

"Yeah, I'm home!" I say sliding my mask off before trying to unzip my suit as I stomp around attempting to slip out of the gear.

Jumping on one foot I try to snatch the blue and red material off my feet and trip falling on the cool wooded floor.

"What was that?"

May's panicked tone and the incessant buzz coming from my phone is overwhelming.

Out of breath and my head still on the floor, I raise my hand and blindly pat around my covers before they brush against the device.

I sit myself up with a grunt and bring the phone to my ear.

"Hi!" I say enthusiast and breathless.

"Hi," he answers back abruptly.

"Everything okay?" I ask dipping my elbow amongst my blanket and burying my hand in my hair to ground it.

"Yeah!" he says back quickly with a lighter tone, "Sorry I just thought I would end up leaving a voicemail and now I just don't remember what it is that I wanted to say," he awkwardly confesses.

"Oh yeah sorry about that I was taking a shower," I skillfully lie.

"You often run out of breath after a shower?"

"No! it's just, I left my phone in my room and I heard it in the shower and started panicking the third time it rang I thought something horrible happened," I spew out.

I'm getting really good at this.

"Oh crap, my bad I didn't think it would-" he sighs, "Of course you would think that, I shouldn't have called at this hour I'm sorry I didn't think."

"No! Really it's nothing. What did you call about?"

Silence on the other line. I let it run until I start thinking he must've hung up and asks if he's still there.

"Yeah um, okay so here I go. There's this charity event that happens like every year and it's kind of badly seen to go alone."

My heart speeds up and hammers against my ribcage. It feels like my blood skyrockets through my body leaving an ice-cold feeling behind that gives me chills. This feeling gets stuck in my throat making me believe I'm struggling to breathe.

"And you'd like me to be your plus one?" I attempt to finish the sentence for him.

"Not like a date or anything like that! More like as…friends?" he ends his sentence with hesitation.

Leave the blood impression right now it feels like I was punched in the guts as the air escapes my lungs in a swift.

"Friends?" I repeat meekly to make sure he is comfortable with the term.

"Yeah if you're up to it?" he asks anxiously in return.

I feel frozen for a moment before my eyes are drawn to my wardrobe.

"Yeah of course. I'd love to go with you," I say putting my phone on speaker before laying it down on my bed.

Standing up with a grunt and newfound confidence, I skip to my closet and push stuff back and forth.

"So what type of event is it exactly?"

"Well, it's a charity but it's a charity on the Upper East Side so…there's going to be a lot of snobby people," he says with an awkward chuckle, avoiding talking about our apparent new friendship.

"So," I draw out, "Dressed up."

"Yup," he confirms.

I sigh pushing a few hangers back, "Well I don't think they'd be much impressed with me," I chuckle embarrassed, "When is the event exactly? Maybe I could go grab something that won't cause a public humiliation," I chuckle throwing yet another hanger back with a huge cling.

"That's where you hate me," he says with a pained voice.

Frowning I look at my phone still lying on my bed.

"The event is tomorrow."

My eyes bulge. I don't feel angry, I'm more surprised than anything else.

"Oh, so that really was a last-minute decision to invite me," I try to say light-heartedly.

'Actually, I already know who I want to invite.'

"It wasn't," he replies softly.

I'm getting better at making him open up. A fact that makes me smile, but I realize that I can't push my luck at the risk of going too far and having him close back up in a blink.

Trying to brush off his confession I decide to joke.

"You know Flash, when people invite you to events they tell you days beforehand," I laugh, "Now I don't even have anything worth wearing to your fancy charity!"

"I'm sorry."

"No I'm not mad it's just-I don't want to walk in with a summer dress on," I chuckle trying to reassure him, "And it takes more than a few hours of shopping to find a dress that looks expensive but is not."

"You don't own a black dress?" he asks confused.

"No."

"Not to generalize but I'm ready to bet every girl owns at least one plain black dress."

"I mean I do but it doesn't fit me anymore," I say putting the black dress at least three times too small against my much-grown self.

After a few moments of silence, I start thinking the invitation is gonna be retracted.

"I might have a solution."

"What is it?"

"Can't tell you."

"And why is that?" I frown trying to conceal my offense with a teasing tone.

"Can't tell you either."

"I'm not liking this."

The other line stays silent for a moment.

"Does that mean you don't want to come anymore?"

"No, that's not what I said," I clear up.

"Good, I'll take care of it, and thank you again. Would you like me to pick you up? Tomorrow I mean."

"Oh no, thank you but I'm sure I can find my way around."

"Okay," I wouldn't bet on it but I think I hear the hint of a smile in his words.

"Hum, when does it start? When do I have to arrive exactly?"

"Oh well you know, there is no designated time but people generally arrive later and leave earlier so no pressure."

"Okay so let's say around 9 PM? How does that sound?"

"Awesome."

"Cool," I smile.

I look around my room sheepishly waiting for a goodbye or any other signs he would like to continue the conversation.

Walking to my bed I spin around and let my ankle bump into my bed's rail letting myself fall back on my covers.

"Cool," he repeats.

"Cool," I reiterate chuckling.

"Thanks again, really."

"It's no big deal I'm sure I'm gonna have fun anyways," I say with a smile.

"Well you know it's a charity event so people are gonna do a LOT of talking."

"Why are you making it sound bad," I chuckle.

"I wouldn't say bad, I'd say boring," he says nonchalantly.

"I think I can handle boring for a night."

"I'll take you on that one," he says almost as a challenge.

My door creaks open and May's frown makes my smile drop.

"Hum I'm sorry but I have to go, see you tomorrow."

"Yeah, see you tomorrow."

"Bye."

When the line goes silent I awkwardly sit up waiting for a scolding or a rant or anything else.

"So?" she asks with her brows raised.

I know she's waiting for an explanation but the news is too important, "I might've been invited to an event tomorrow."

The warmth is too much and in the heat, I throw my cover to the side with the help of my feet to turn around and try to go back to sleep in my haze.

Having opened my blinds and window during the heated night to let in the fresh breeze, the sunlight shines through and highlights my cluttered mess of a bedroom.

The usual New York rumble is accompanied by a merry voice.

"Wakey wakey night owl!"

"May," I whine sleepily, "It's the last days of summer, can't you let me oversleep?"

"Nope because you have a package and I've been trying to guess what's in it for about twenty minutes now."

"Huh?" I say with a hoarse voice.

"Come on, stand up!"

"I don't remember buying anything," I try to reason.

"And I don't remember buying anything either so come on up, up!" she says jumping up and down.

Sliding off my bed a box is thrown onto it. A huge white rectangular box closed and flattered by a black bow wrapped around it like a Christmas present.

I groan.

"I know what it is."

"What?"

"I have nothing to wear for the charity and Flash proposed to help but I thought it would just be a quick drop off not…that," I say with a gesture to the box.

"How nice."

"I guess but I'm uncomfortable getting a dress from him. If it wasn't so last minute I would've bought one for myself but-"

"Didn't you say it was a fancy event?"

"Yeah?" I answer not getting her point.

"Rich people smell a fraud it's better if he's the one dressing you up for tonight."

"Dressing me," I bark a laugh, "Flash would not dress me, maybe his mom helped or-"

I'm cut off by the phone going off in the other room.

As May walks out to reach it I admire the simplicity yet classiness of the box. I smile as I fidget with the bow before tugging on it and letting it loose.

Half-listening to May's phone call I push off the ribbon and lift the lid.

"Holy fuck!"

I throw the lid back on top of the box the corner not fitting back properly and let it slide aside.

"I'll call you right back-what?! What happened?!" May says in a hurry with the phone still glued to her ear.

I face her with my back turned away from my bed where the dress is sitting, "I can't wear that."

"Can't wear what?" she asks walking to my bed and opening the box back.

"Oh wow."

"I know."

"This is gorgeous."

"I know, I can't wear that."

"Wait-why not?"

“It’s too much. It’s the kind of dress you wear to attract attention, not just to walk around at a charity event,” I spit out at full speed as May puts the phone back to her ear and asks the person who is on the other line and who has not bothered to hang up to come forward and open the front door which is not locked.

"I think you're overreacting a little bit. It's just a pretty dress."

Listening to her I gather up the courage to turn back around and have another look at the black glittery dress.

"It's too much! He told me it's an event full of snobby rich people and you know what's gonna happen if I wear this around snobby rich people?"

May straightens up and takes a posh accent, "What a promiscuous little lady you are," she scolds before laughing.

"I'm serious!" I whine taking the dress out of the box.

The dress's length reaches the ground and the long sleeves hang loose. As the front of the dress faces Aunt May, the back view horrifies me.

I choke on my gasp and swiftly turn the dress around.

At the view of the open back of the dress May's eyes match mine as they widen like sausages.

"Oh wow now that's promiscuous," she says with no accent or tease this time.

"What was he thinking?!"

"Nothing. I doubt Flash handpicked this dress himself," she speculates feeling the fabric of the dress.

Her observation is followed by the front door shutting and a voice calling out to May.

"We're in here Happy!"

With a frown, I watch as Happy Hogan appears at the threshold of my bedroom.

"What is he doing here?" I question as I point to him with the dress still in my hands.

"Your aunt said you're going out tonight and she didn't want to stay alone so I proposed to stay with her," he says all the while analyzing the dress up and down before pointing to it, "Where did you get that?"

"It's a gift," May explains.

"No! No no no no no, it's temporary, a temporary borrowed and very expensive looking dress."

"Not just looking," Happy informs me.

My body proves that it is in fact possible to get even more tense.

"What do you mean by that exactly?" I ask with a meek voice.

Seeing my distressed face Happy makes eye contact with May, gauging the situation.

"Well I mean," he draws out walking up to me and grabbing the dress raising it to examine the fabric, "It looks like the kind of dress Tony makes me pick up for Pepper so I figured-"

"Oh my god!" I shout throwing the dress back on my bed.

I walk to my nightstand and reach for my phone.

"What are you doing?" May ask.

"I'm canceling," I say hurriedly.

"What? No!" she protests.

Flash's number is already dialed and the phone is placed at my ear as I shoo both of them out of my room.

Hurrying May out I close the door as the fourth dial rings in my ear.

Somehow the sound of his voice allows me to breathe out.

"Hey, what is it?"

"What the fuck Flash!"

The warmth leaves his voice and worry takes its place, "What is it?"

"The dress!"

"What? what's wrong with it, you don't like it?"

"It's too much!" I exclaim.

"Oh crap, I'm sorry."

"What were you thinking?" I said feeling a little guilty knowing he couldn't have guessed that I wouldn't like the dress.

"Hey in my defense I didn't choose the dress."

"Then who did?!"

"Well I wasn't sure so I kinda asked Lea to choose," he hesitates to say.

My brain freezes and a headache is right around the corner, "Wait, isn't she supposed to be on her honeymoon?" I ask pinching my nose and scrunching my eyes closed.

"She was but she's a big part of the charity so she is flying back for tonight and is gonna finish her honeymoon here in New York."

"Oh and so you let her choose a dress for me not thinking that our way of dressing up might be way different?" I ask incredulously.

"You make it sound bad."

"It is Flash!" I shout hyperventilating, "She's a model and this type of dress is made for the runway, not charity, and not on me."

"Wait so the problem is that it doesn't fit?"

"No!" I groan falling back on my bed beside the same dress that is making me break down.

"I'm sorry but I'm having a hard time understanding the problem right now, do you hate the dress is that what it is?"

"No, I don't hate the dress," I say.

It's true I like the dress, it's a pretty dress.

"Have you tried it on?"

I pause and answer 'no' in a tone that says it should be obvious to him that I would never try on a brand-name dress.

"So what's the issue exactly? You don't dislike the dress and you haven't tried it on so you can't complain that it doesn't fit, so what's up?"

"It's not a normal dress," I explain as a matter of fact.

"A normal dress?" I can hear the tease in his tone.

"Yes, a normal dress." I reiterate.

"And what is a normal dress exactly?"

"A dress that doesn't look like it was made in a studio in a fancy part of Beverly Hills!"

"Okay, I understand, Lea has a particular style."

"And Lea knows how to walk around with people's eyes on her!" I shout convinced that he now understands my point of view, "I just-" I sigh, "I don't want to walk in there and have people looking at me and judging me, especially rich snobby people."

"Oh if that's what scares you I can reassure you right now and tell you that no one will pay you any attention."

"You haven't seen the dress," I say as a matter of fact.

"No, but I can tell you that standing beside me as my da-my plus one, everyone will obviously be too busy admiring me to be paying you any mind."

I snort and try to muffle the noise by cupping my mouth but the unflattering cackle reaches the other end of the phone.

I know he's reassured now that I laughed but it doesn't erase my worry.

I calm down and weigh my request before verbalizing it.

"Could you drive me to the event?" I decided to just come out with it hoping for the best.

"What happened to taking the bus?" He asks genuinely.

"Again, you haven't seen the dress and I'd rather not travel around Queens dressed to the nines. I just want to be safe, you know?"

I know that my safety isn't at risk but dressed like that, a judging stare would be as dreadful as a wandering hand.

I can't hear him but I'm certain he nods agreeing with me.

"Well, it would be an honor to be your knight in shining armor for the night knowing you're actually my savior," he jokes, "But sadly there isn't any carriage available so we will have to settle for my car, I hope that's alright."

"Oh what a shame, I expected nothing less than the fanciest vehicle," I chuckle.

"Sorry Cinderella but fairy godmother only managed to get the dress."

"And I still wonder how she managed to do that," I say turning on my side and feeling the fabric.

"That's a secret…Try the dress on and call me back to tell me how it fits. Or better yet text me, It's kind of crazy around here today."

It is only now that I realize there is noise around him, a lot of noise and that makes me gather that he must already be over there helping to set everything up and I'm here having a meltdown and calling him having a tantrum about a dress.

"I'm so sorry I didn't, I mean if I knew you were busy I would've-"

"No no, it's alright really-" He tries to chime in.

"No I mean you're probably busy, I can't believe I didn't think of that-" I ramble before he cuts me off.

"No really, you're a life-savor Parker. Those events are old-fashioned and you're like forced to have someone with you and I really didn't want to spend my entire night answering the same question over and over again-"

It's his turn to ramble and I find myself listening on liking the idea of him opening up to me.

It is not every day that I get to listen to Flash Thompson ramble, let alone to me.

"It's annoying when people crowd you and ask why you don't have a date with you and they end up dissecting what must be wrong with you to not have a girl on your arm."

"Sounds annoying."

"It is. Sometimes I manage to avoid that kind of event but for this one my family is in charge so," He finishes dragging his word.

"You are forced to participate."

He confirms and gets interrupted by another voice. I frown trying to listen and make up a bit of the conversation going on before he comes back to the line with a sigh.

"I'm sorry it's a bit crazy right now. My mom always goes nuts the day of these events," he says as I can hear Mme.Thompson shouting in the back.

"Okay, that's my cue. Try the dress on and text me okay?"

"Sure," I say with a smile.

"Bye," he says along with another sentence that I cannot decipher, presumably aimed at someone else before the line dies and I'm left lying on my bed retracing the conversation.

I look at the dress once more. The sparkles look more and more inviting instead of revolting and I stand back up fixing myself before I open the door to face both May and Happy.

Making awkward eye contact I see that they are half bent toward my door before they stand straight up and cough to ease the tension.

After a moment of silence where my gaze is enough judgment, I speak up and ask for help.

"Can you help me do my hair?"

Meddling with the final strand of my hair May stands back to admire her work as I add the final touch to my makeup applying the red lipstick with precision.

Closing the cap I stand up and have an overall look at myself as May squeals and hands me my jacket. She asks a few more questions when I head to the door and check if I have everything I need placed in the pouch she lent me for the night.

My brain barely has time to register the questions before I hum and give a half-assed answer as I put my jacket on and try to exit the apartment.

I turn around to hear her give me rule after rule for the night.

"Flash drives you to the event, you stay at this event," she points out referring to the birthday incident where the only reason I wasn't grounded was the fact that my exit saved me from a potential wound from the blowout of fireworks.

"You have your fun and you come home at 1 AM. Not 2, not 3, 1 AM, got it?"

I nod.

"And Flash drives you back, no one else, Flash."

"Yes," I say a bit exasperated.

"And you stay glued to him all night."

"Yes, Aunt May I promise! Can I go now he's waiting for me outside," I lie.

He's not waiting for me outside, as a matter of fact I haven't even sent him a message informing him I'm ready for him to pick me up.

"Okay be careful-And text me both when you arrive and when you're coming home."

I nod at her as I walk backward to the elevator and watch as she smiles before closing the apartment door. I huff loudly and turn around to look down to my phone texting Flash that I'm ready and will be waiting for him outside.

It's when I'm halfway down the elevator that my phone rings.

"Yes?"

"Hey, I just got your text and huh," he draws out.

I don't answer and just let him bask in the silence of the line.

"I'm sorry things were crazy. I'm just now getting ready."

"Wait you're getting ready?! Then when are you coming to pick me up?" I ask walking out of the elevator and pushing the door of the apartment building open letting the New York ambiance bask me in its hurriedness.

The breeze reaches me and I rub my arm getting used to the weather slipping up the back of my jacket and biting at my open back when I notice a…no way.

"Flash what did you do?"

"What-what do you mean what did I do?" he stutters.

"I mean why is there a guy looking at me waiting by a car that looks like it's worth more than the neighborhood," my question is more of a statement.

I hear him curse under his breath.

"I'm really sorry. She told me she would be subtle."

"Who?" I ask taking my eyes off the supposed driver.

"My mom. I told her I had to come to get you but she still needed me around so I insisted and even said I'd call you to push back our meeting but she said it would be disrespectful and that she would send someone."

I stay silent processing all of it.

"I'm sorry I wanted to call and tell you but I just got to my room."

I look back up to the driver and make eye contact before we exchange hasty smiles.

I sigh thinking of this all over walking down the stairs one by one slowly.

"Okay, I guess it wasn't really in your power. But you better be here when I arrive I will not show up and walk around alone." I say firmly.

"Of course," he says in all seriousness.

Telling him I'll see him soon, I hang up and focus my gaze on the driver as I approach him.

"Miss Parker?"

I nod before confirming my identity verbally.

He then motions to the car before opening the door and gesturing for me to step in.

When it clicks shut I am left with the silence of the empty vehicle.

As the buildings go by and I get closer to the venue my stress level rises and I start fidgeting and falling into a cycle of grabbing my phone, second-guessing texting Flash, and then abandoning the idea and letting my body fill up with more anxiety.

The arrival doesn't stop that nagging feeling that causes goosebumps to rush down my spine, that or the wind nipping at my back through my coat.

Walking up the stairs my nerves run wild through my body as my legs shake walking up the stairs.

Reaching the top, I make eye contact with a man standing in front of the doors. Approaching him carefully, I struggle to find my voice and I am cut off in my stutter as he guesses my last name.

Confused, I confirm his guess and my frown must ring a bell for him as he turns to the door, "I was informed that one of Mme.Thompson's guests would arrive alone and I'm guessing it's you," he says as he buzzes me in.

I nod to him as a thank you and continue to walk ahead this time on a soft and long red carpet instead of stone.

The voices, which were mere mumbles turn into booming voices coming from every corner of the room and my coat is starting to make me sweat reminding me that I'll have to discard it soon.

The thought makes me sweat even more.

Like fate, my eyes scan my surroundings and immediately fall on him standing in front of the counter right beside Lea.

He's fidgety and I see Lea receiving a glass of alcohol before making eye contact with me as she nods in my direction.

I feel hands on my shoulders and jolt stepping aside to see who touched me. I see a man who stumbles back apologizing and realize he is trying to gather my coat to let me join the crowd and a cold sweat replaces the regular sweat.

As the fabric leaves my shoulder my voice stays stuck in my throat and instead, a small squeak manages to slither out.

Still looking for my voice, I turn to him walking away with my coat.

I'm left standing there helpless.

When I see the man disappear I turn back to my previous position to look back at Flash when I see him getting hit behind the head and scolded by Lea. I also notice the glass now empty on the counter as I hear his voice more distinctly dismissing Lea with a 'Whatever' as he rushes to my side.

"He took my jacket," I husher panicked but still trying to be subtle.

"I'm sorry," he says sincerely taking off his jacket.

"I feel naked," I whisper.

"I'm so sorry," he reiters putting his jacket on my shoulders before ushering me to walk ahead leading us towards Lea at the bar.

His hand is placed on my back flaring shiver with the new sensation of his hand on my back, or maybe it is just the fresh jacket on me?

My brain focuses back and sets on Lea greeting me.

With her asking how I've been I let my hand play with the jacket and nod along with the conversation. Flash himself messes with the blazer by first securing it over my shoulder and then playing with the sleeves that hang loosely.

When my mind stops fixating on him, I blink in surprise when my ears register an apology coming from Lea about the dress. I try to protest and instead thank her for the last-minute save when Flash's mother appears to join and inform us that we need to scatter around.

I stand clueless for a moment before I feel his hand on my back gently pushing me to walk alongside him.

Led around once more I decide to stop being dragged around like a clueless puppet and tug the hand placed on my back to entertwine our arms and walk together instead of letting him direct me around.

I don't talk much. I mostly nod and answer small questions here and there.

The evening runs along pretty smoothly as each interaction the two of us have only lasts few minutes before Flash skillfully finds a way to bid our goodbyes and walk us to yet another couple beckoning us over.

"Oh no."

"What is it?" I ask him trying to glance in the direction he was looking at to see an older lady standing there motioning us to join her.

"That's Garret's grandmother."

"And she's a mean old lady," I deduct.

"No worse, she's a passive-aggressive bitch."

I'm taken aback by his name-calling and look back at the woman waiting impatiently for us.

"I think she's waiting for us," I suggest.

"Okay, don't talk and stay close to me," he instructs.

"You mean like I've been doing for the past hour and a half?"

My teasing provokes a smile to appear on his face for a moment but it quickly disappears when his head turns back to the lady as he walks us toward her.

I hug his arm getting closer to him as he uses his opposite hand and brings it to our linked arms as a sort of comfort I'm guessing.

"Eugene," she beckons us over with a honeyed voice.

Her mask falls for a moment and I can see a glimpse of irritation before, like any other influential figure, she morphs her face into a more pleased expression.

"Madam Pennington," Flash says with an edge.

I first think that his tone might've been hesitation, but that changes when the woman gets that sour look back on her face and I realize his tone is subtly bitter.

Without trying, my brain does the math in a matter of seconds and I realize that if Flash refers to her with another last name than Garret's it must mean she is divorced.

She makes eye contact with me as my face must've shown that I figured Flash's comment out and her burning stare drives me to get closer to him for protection.

He clears his throat driving her murderous stare back to him as I abandon the idea of nodding along to their conversation and instead subtly look around the room.

The buffet, the people, anything other than the two of them.

"My grandson seems to be upset. When I tried talking to him about it he refused to speak but I did overhear that you two fought over a girl," she ends her sentence looking at me up and down.

"And by overhear you mean that you snooped around against your grandson's wish," his argument is aimed not only at defending himself but McCoy's privacy as well which surprises me.

"Excuse you?"

Her voice getting louder I notice McCoy himself standing just a few feet away from us looking at his grandmother about to blow a fuse and I decide to diffuse the tension.

"I believe your grandson is looking for you," I say nodding toward him standing there frozen, "And Flash your mother is looking for us over there."

Pushing him into motion I look back to see Garret approaching his grandmother but decide to not dwell on the talk they're about to have.

"Are you okay?" I ask as we hurry away from them.

He doesn't answer and just nods with a hum. He does however ask where his mother is and that's when I frown.

"You know I made it up so we could flee the conflict, right?"

He stops in his tracks before turning to me and I can see the gears turning in his head.

"Oh, yeah."

We keep eye contact and it must take a toll on him because he then avoids my stare and decides to look forward, all stiff.

I'm guessing the only reason he doesn't flee is the fact that our arms are still tangled together but I don't want to let go.

Maybe it's selfish but since the last time we talked, or more precisely the last we talked and I was not in gear, he ran away and ghosted me.

I want an explanation.

"This place is beautiful," I say looking around at the structure trying to pry a conversation out of him.

"I have something to tell you."

His tone is particular and I can't make out if he's hopeful or desperate.

My own tone embarrasses me as I egg him on full of anticipation.

"There's this type of dance and-" he cuts himself off and stares behind us.

Turning around, I spot McCoy staring right back at him.

"Not again," I hear him say under his breath.

I want to ask him if he's gonna be okay or if he'd like me to stay with him to talk to Garret but he shakes my hands off his arm and grabs it before taking off in the direction of the stairs.

"Come on follow me."

I can only let out a small squeal of surprise before catching up with his footing as the previous noisy venu dies down when we reach the second floor.

Once up there he doesn't stop and continues to sprint down the hall before taking a turn and tugging me to a corner away from McCoy.

My back is placed against the wall and I rearrange the jacket on my shoulders as I see Flash look around the corner to see if Garret is following us.

I suppose he gave up the idea as Flash visibly relaxes and turns back to me.

The proximity reminds me of that night at the laser game and the sudden look on his face tells me he must reminisce as well.

He knows that I know what we're both thinking about because we avoid eye contact and I let my eyes bounce between the multiple decors as a decoy.

"This place is beautiful. I wonder what it would feel to go to sleep in a place like that," I try to deflect from the tension.

"It's like any other place, you go to bed and you fall asleep," he brushes off trying to avoid the tension as well.

The simple statement makes me turn back to him and make eye contact as the realization slowly sets in.

"No."

"No, what?" he frowns.

"You slept here before?" my question sounds more like a statement.

"Yeah."

"But you live like 20 minutes away."

"Oh so now you know where I live Parker?"

My eyes widen at his insinuation.

I'm not a stalker!

"Well after you pointed out that I didn't know where you lived I was curious. If anything you're the one who told me I should know where you lived."

"Yeah and by that I meant coming over not googling my address."

"I did not Google your address!" I lie, "You're making me look bad!"

My restlessness makes him laugh.

Still chuckling he points ahead silently asking me to follow him.

"It's more of a tradition. My mom wants us to stay and sleep here every year," he says walking peacefully beside me.

It's a change compared to his erratic running just a few minutes ago.

"So you also slept at the fairytale mansion?"

"Fairytale mansion?"

"Yeah, the one where Lea got married."

Confused, it takes him a few seconds before his frown disappears and his mouth opens with an 'Oh'.

"Yeah," he simply says opening a door as I stand here frozen.

I know he probably wants me to enter but I'm confused and look at him waiting for an explanation.

He doesn't answer and instead walks inside reaching the other side of the bed to retrieve something.

With hesitation, I take a cautious step in looking around as if the room is full of boobie traps when I hear a dull thump and look back to see him throwing a gym bag on the queen-sized bed.

It must be the glamour of the night inhibiting my ability to be logical at times because it takes me a few seconds before my confusion turns into curiosity.

"Is that your bag?"

"No, I just love going through other people's stuff."

I don't answer or laugh and just raise my brows.

"Yes Parker, It's my bag."

I relax and close the door behind me before walking toward the bed warily and sitting down softly as the mattress sinks under me.

"I thought if I have to run away from Garret, why not pause before going back out there?" he explains throwing a book on the bed covers.

He dives back into his bag as I grab the book.

"Hey, I know that book!" I note joyfully.

I see him stop scrambling through his bag and look back up at me.

"Really?" he hesitates.

"Yeah I talked about it with Susan on your birthday. Usually, she's not into these kind of books but she's been watching a show similar to it so I mentioned it to her."

When he doesn't answer and doesn't make a move to dive back into his bag, another question comes troubling me.

"By the way, how did you hear about this book?"

"Oh um, someone told me about it," he says fumbling with the clothes inside the bag.

"Really? Who?" I ask knowing this isn't his type of book.

He doesn't answer and I assume it must be Garret who told him about the book and he simply doesn't wanna talk about him.

"You know as much as I don't like Garret, he's been your friend for years," I tip-toe around the issue and remember that he must not know about the video I saw where he's going off on McCoy and his clique.

"And?"

"And. With such a great taste in books, how could you not forgive him?" I try to turn the tension into something lighter with a chuckle gesturing to the book.

His frown turns into surprise, "Oh yeah, yeah! It's Garret who told me about it a few weeks ago."

"I never thought Garret would be the kind of guy who reads outside of school," I try to say without sounding mean.

A flash of red in my peripheral vision attracts my attention to turn away from the papercover and fills me with excitement when I recognize the sight.

"You brought him!" I say gripping the plushy and letting the book fall back on the covers.

He seems satisfied with my reaction and tugs his bag to fall back down before he too takes a seat beside me.

I lean down with my feet dangling as my back makes contact with the lavish bedding.

I take a look over at the Spiderman plushy wondering if in the small period of time any harm came his way. My detective work comes out dry as the plush doesn't seem to have been put under any distress when I hear him lay down as well.

I turn my gaze to him ready to make another joke and congratulate him on the plush's wellbeing when I see him already looking back at me and lose my smile as the memories flash back.

The muffled music, the way his curls were laying on his bed. He's been growing them out.

I like his hair long.

I like his lips too.

The calmness I feel is cut short when the bedroom door swings open and the sound of heels thud on the carpeted ground.

I raise up in my seat in a rush and grip the plushy hard against my chest in a panic as if I had just been caught having sex.

"Jee! Ever heard of knocking?!" he shouts sitting up after me.

"Coming from you?" Lea says looking up and down at him with an incredulous expression.

He sighs. I don't know if it comes from annoyance or relief from the previous scene.

"I've been looking for you two, your mother sent me to get you, come on now it's about to start," she says turning back on her heels and pulling the door behind her to leave it half closed waiting for us to join her.

"What's about to start?" I wonder looking at him after admiring her walk away.

The face I find makes mine fall. The paleness and distress plastered on his face makes me feel like I'm about to be the butt of the joke.

His blank stare angers me and figuring out I won't get any explanation from him I jump on my feet straightening the jacket on my shoulder to run after her.

Any other day it would've been to get an autograph but right now my only hope is to get reassured that all of it is just a huge misunderstanding.

Surely 'It's about to start' cannot be that bad? Maybe just a toast, or a speech?

"What's about to start?" I say trying to catch up to her but my question goes unanswered when we reach the top of the stairs and I see the Thompson matriarch taking the venue by storm as she speaks up in the middle of the stairs with her voice reasoning through the immense space.

"Ladies and gentlemen!"

I hear her call out before my arm is engulfed and my gaze is redirected to him.

"I'm sorry, I wanted to tell you really, but I kept being interrupted and then there was Garret and then we had a moment of calm and we started to talk and-"

"This evening has been fulfilling and I enjoy each and every one of your presence-"

My ears cannot keep up in between the two speeches. I'm even more overwhelmed when I realize that Lea has left us at the top of the split stairs, walked beside Aliyah, and joined her newlywed husband down the stairs.

"The time has come, and I know you enjoy it as much as I do," she says with a cheeky smile and a look of knowledge across the room sending the surroundings into a fit of chuckles.

"So now. I invite you to take your partner by the arm, and let's join each other in the other room so the waltz can take place."

The end of her speech sends a cold sweat down my back and I turn back to him unable to scream.

I'm speechless and incapable of voicing my anger and frustration.

The words want to come out but my brain is mushing together my two arguments, the one where I tear him a new one for not warning me or the one where I yell that I don't know how to dance.

Why didn't he think of inviting someone who knows how to dance?!

"A waltz?! I don't even know how to dance!" I say loudly enough to share my panic and frustration without attracting any looks.

His newest excuse gets cut off by his mother reaching us at the top of the stairs, " What are you two still doing here, come on chop chop," she finishes clapping her hands to drive us to hurry downstairs.

Another gasp fights its way into my lungs when I realize I'm about to disappoint her as well.

It's only logical for her son to dance in an event she organized.

I'm standing here looking like an idiot with my mouth wide open when my own voice surprises me, "I don't know how to dance!" I say point-blank.

"Of course you do! You went to the same elementary school and I distinctly remember your grade took ball lessons," she says proudly.

The new information confuses me and I doubt the woman's memory.

Maybe she's confusing me with another girl.

Not knowing how to question her or flatly deny her version of the event, I start to babble as I notice Lea walking back up the stairs with her arm under her husband's.

"No-I. I don't. I mean-I never," I ramble, any argument dying on my tongue leaving me a stuttering mess.

I don't know how to word my sentence when my eyes notice Flash's face getting sour the more his mother insists.

"Mom she said she doesn't want to," he says dryly.

I don't know if it's out of annoyance or out of shame but both possibilities are taking a toll on me and I feel the tears coming alongside the lack of oxygen.

"Well, what do you propose we do? Your father isn't here so I can't dance and one of us needs to!"

"We've been hosting this event every year for 5 years now I think we can sit this one out," he says somewhat confidently.

"I would've liked a bit of a heads up Eugene," Aliyah scolds him through her teeth.

Yeah, me too.

"They're waiting for us. Flash come on, come dance with me," Lea says extending her hand to him and taking a look at her proposal I see Mme.Thompson's bulb light up atop her head.

"You didn't even tell her there would be a dance?!" Her accusation seems rhetorical as the deep frown on her face doesn't seem ready to welcome any excuses.

He scrunches his eyes close and rubs them but doesn't answer and opens them back up to look at me.

I see regret and wonder if he regrets inviting me. A ball clogs my throat and I try to stay as stone-faced as possible instead of making a scene by dropping on the stairs and starting to ball like a baby.

He breathes in before following Lea's lead and I stop him. Placing my hand on his chest, I then shrug off the jacket he gave me and hand it back to him, my subconscious somehow realizing he would need it to look put together.

He walks down the stairs as his mother softly takes my arm under hers.

"I'm sorry, I would think my son would have the decency to tell you about this," she sighs as we walk down the stairs.

"But then again I should have known better with how different he's been acting lately."

I didn't intend to answer but that last bit of rant resonates with me and the wave of embarrassment and sadness I feel take a step back to leave place to my curiosity.

"Yeah I think Lea made a comment about it," I say looking at his back.

He suddenly turns his head around and looks at me following him before he turns back around and walks ahead taking his place with Lea in the middle of the room with the others.

Mme.Thompson stops us to stand around the crowd around the room and leave enough space for the others to dance in the middle of it.

Taking her attention away from me, she nods away seemingly to someone before music starts resounding in the area.

"I shouldn't burden you with that," she says with a warm smile while she rubs my arm in comfort.

"Oh no it doesn't burden me. I just hope he gets better."

My well wishes widen her smile.

"I'm glad he has you to hang out with," she says warmly.

"You're a good influence on him. and I can only hope you two stay close, it's not every day my son doesn't complain about this event."

"Yes, he told me about that. He was very thankful for saving him from those stares about him not having a date," I remember our conversation.

"Stares? Why would anyone stare at him fo not having a date?"

I frown, "You know. The rule about having a date for this charity in fear of being the talk of the night," I say trying to nudge her to remember.

"There was never such a rule. Who told you that? Eugene? Léa?"

I'm left speechless and with my mouth hanging open as the frown orning my face doesn't subside.

Her own frown is quickly replaced by a smile before she abruptly apologizes when a woman motions her over.

The loss of her arm is like a warm blanket has been ripped away making me notice the stares I was previously blind to.

A couple stares at me while another switches their stare back and forth between me and Flash, probably wondering why his date is not the one in his arms.

I look at him and see he's arguing with Léa while they waltz around and the sight would impress me if I wasn't confused as to why they look like they're ready to bite at each other's throat.

Another peep and I see that same man watching me with a nasty look before not-so-subtly whispering to his wife who makes eye contact with me before she answers him with a snarky smile.

I look around trying to convince myself I'm being tricked by my own paranoia when I start hearing my own intakes of breath and know it's a sign that it's all getting too much.

In my panic and without Ms.Thompson around to take my mind off things, I search for his face and find him already looking at me.

The panic sets in my chest and I know I need to step out for fresh air but I hesitate to do so in worry of the scene looking bad to the public.

Feeling the meltdown creeping up closer and closer, I look around and notice an arch under the stairs leading to a hallway and remember seeing multiple people passing through during the night and I conclude it must be the path towards a bathroom.

Sending a tense smile his way, I turn around to walk away.

Getting closer to my goal I step aside to let someone exit before walking in and locking the bathroom door behind me.

With the door shutting off most other noise from outside, I stand in front of the mirror and take a deep breath filling my lungs and trying to shake my head off those thoughts before hanging my head down and blowing out.

I raise my head and look at myself in the mirror to see the tears pricking my eyes and silently scold myself before reaching for a towel and trying my best to chase away the tears without messing up my mascara.

Another breath in and I take in my appearance one more time giving myself a pep talk before straightening my dress and deciding to go back out there before anyone starts to whisper about a possible date on the run.

I wouldn't want him to be surrounded.

Or maybe he'd like me to go.

I remember his face, the one he had on those damn stairs where I wondered why I accepted his invitation and why I let myself believe it could be that easy.

I violently shake my head off those thoughts and unlock the door ready to indulge the rest of this night before cutting all contact with Flash Thompson as I hear the distant music flooding back in my ears.

Lost in my thoughts I run straight into someone.

"I'm so sorry I-" My automatic response is cut short when I recognize him and the words get stuck in my throat.

"Hi," he blurs out.

I can only say hi back coldly as I believe any other response would send me back into the bathroom to place another tissue under my eyes.

"I swear I was gonna tell you."

His voice breaks the silence and when my ears register his words, I can't respond and instead walk around him to the other side of the hallway with my mind fixed on the idea that tonight was a mistake.

"No need to say sorry Flash-" I say nonchalantly, done with this poor decision of mine to accept his invitation.

"But I want to!"

I mess with a bust displayed on a table and let my finger slide on the statue trying to avoid his stare.

"Listen, it's completely my fault and I'm an idiot for not telling you. I was freaking out when I asked you to come here with me and I had my mind set so hard on you telling me you wouldn't come that when you said yes I was taken by surprise and the dance completely slipped off my mind."

I listen on with a frown. I stop messing with the bust and turn around leaning on the table as I look down avoiding his stare.

"My mom was the one who reminded me of it and then you called freaking out about the dress so I focused on that and I forgot again and then you walked in with your dress and then there was Garret's grandma and then Garrett and everything else followed so when there was just the two of us I just couldn't remember. And then Léa came in and you looked so sad and scared and angry I didn't know what to do."

I stand there listening to him spit out everything weighing on him before he suddenly breathes in for the first time and looks at me.

"I'm so sorry. I really am."

His gaze traps me and the remorse drowning his irises drains the anger out of me.

"You also lied about the date rule," I say, my voice barely able to convey any emotion.

I don't even find it in myself to yell at him, any scolding coming to mind being one he already gave himself.

"I'm an idiot and a coward and I completely get it if you never want to talk to me again."

At that I don't even know what to answer.

I did say I'd cut all contact with Flash Thompson after tonight but just a few weeks back I would've also said I'd never talk to him outside of schoolwork.

"Okay," I say after a while of silence trying to set us back in a way we can both be comfortable discussing with each other.

"If we're going on an apology spree I think I should be apologizing as well."

"What could you possibly have to apologize for? I'm the one who invited you last minute, so last minute that you didn't even have anything to wear."

I hear his step closing up on me before I put distance between us and walk back and forth down the hall.

"You invited me here to be your partner and I couldn't even participate in the important part of the night. Then there were the stairs and then people were talking and looking at you and Lea and then at me and it was all just so-"

My apology turns into a ramble and the simple retelling of the event produces that same panic inside of me.

Getting ready to excuse myself to go to the bathroom a second time, I turn around to see him standing right behind me. I can't look at him and instead focus my gaze on the floor trying to breathe properly when I feel his arms gently wrap around me and pull me in for a hug.

My finger messes with the fabric at the back of his jacket as my face is buried in the front of it trying to hide my face and not make eye contact.

I fool myself into thinking if I avoid eye contact with him we will stop talking in circles or better yet stop avoiding each other like the plague.

I also hope this way he won't see me on the verge of crying for the second time tonight.

"If anything," he says using my words as I feel his hand come up to stroke my hair, "I'm the one who should've thought better than to think you would still remember those dance classes," he says in a lighter tone.

I recognize his attempt to lighten up the situation and change the topic.

His comment makes me frown and against the warm feeling blossoming in my chest, I lift my face from the depth of his jacket to look at him.

"Yeah your mom talked about that but I don't think I ever took any dance classes, I think she mistook me for someone else."

His face, previously relaxed, falls and a sympathetic smile appears, "No you did," he says quietly, matching the hushed hallway.

My knitted brows are enough indication for him to continue his explanation.

He exhales through his nose and looks down messing with my hand to avoid making eye contact, "It was back when we were…around six? Seven?"

My confusion only deepens as I'm unable to rack my brain for a memory when I feel him tug on my hand gently drawing me closer to him and my frown turns into a muted gasp.

I don't have time to ask what he is doing when he laces our hands together and asks me in the quietest voice if he can.

It is then I realize he's asking to put his hand on my bare back to, I assume, teach me how to waltz.

I can't find my voice, the situation taking me aback so much so that instead of voicing my consent I decide to instead nod and place his hand myself to reassure him of my agreement.

I did not realize that my back was cold, most likely due to getting used to the lack of coverage but I feel it now as his hand feels hot against it.

My full attention is on him before my eyes are drawn down as I see him taking a step forward driving me to respond and step backward.

The motion has me uncontrollably giggling as my left foot follows his right to step to the side.

"Why exactly are we doing this right now?" I ask with another titter.

"Doing what?"

"Dancing Flash," I laugh, "Waltzing in the hallway."

"Dusting up memories. Proving to you that you do know how to dance or if you're right, to teach you how to waltz to apologize for not telling you there would be a dance."

My previous smile falls and I tilt my head back with a loud sigh.

"I apologized again," he awkwardly notices.

"Yes Flash, stop apologizing," I say looking at him straight in the eyes and raising my brows to emphasize my demand.

"I can't, I feel bad."

I reposition my hand on his shoulder with a light stroke as I squeeze our hands letting us continue swaying gently.

I find myself frustrated at his confession when my brain clears up and suddenly remember our last time together.

He feels bad about not telling me about the dance but he doesn't feel bad about running off the last time we saw each other?!

I remember waiting an entire week for a call or even a text. Jumping to my phone at every notification hoping it was him giving me an explanation for running off on me.

I force myself to brush it off when the feeling of his thumb stroking my back envelops me in a daze I want to hold onto until the night inevitably ends.

"Let's call it even then. You didn't tell me about the dance and I couldn't fulfill my side of the bargain."

"It wasn't a bargain, you just did me a favor."

I can't argue back and decide to look away.

"See, you're doing it."

I look back at him with panic thinking he's going to call me out on my avoidant stare and start a new argument when I see him smile before I notice that he's talking about us dancing and it is then that I look down and realize I'm naturally mirroring his movements.

I laugh impressed at myself before looking back at him as we acknowledge my accomplishment.

Our shared smile diminishes as he stops our dance.

"I didn't invite you because I was desperate," he confesses, "I just really wanted to hang out with you."

I stand there frozen before he gently nudges me sending us back into a soft waltz.

His honesty stuns me and I follow his lead again.

"I think it might be the first time you've been honest with me," It's my turn to confess.

"I don't always lie," he defends himself.

"No, but you never opened up like that before."

I see him trying to avoid eye contact and I silently scold myself as my words seem to drive him away once again.

"I like that," I quickly follow up.

That does it. his eyes raise back to meet mine.

"Why don't you do it more often?"

At that, he seems to hesitate as we gently sway side to side.

"You know friends share their feelings," I remind him of our conversation yesterday where he invited me to come here as a friend.

I can see that the memory rings a bell as he stops our movement once more.

I see his eyes desperate to say something but he's struggling with himself to find the right words as I witness his mouth open and close over and over again.

"See, like riding a bike. It comes back naturally," he manages to say stepping back trying to avoid the subject.

"You're doing it again," I say trying my best to not sound frustrated.

He huffs and slides his hand down his face.

He huff?!

How is he the one pissed off right now?!

I cross my hands taking a harsher stance.

"Okay, you said open so I'm gonna be open," he says fidgeting around.

"If you want us to be friends, you can't expect me to just tell you everything that goes through my head at every moment."

I sigh, "I guess it's fair."

My response appears to relax him.

"But," he interjects, "I guess I could make an effort."

I smile despite myself and look away to try and hide the fact that he turned the situation around once again.

My attempt fails when he looks for my face to catch me smile.

I turn away but he walks around me trying to catch me.

In a last attempt, I hid my face on the verge of laughter.

"Hey wait, you're cheating!" he protests with a chuckle.

I feel his hand on my wrists and yet he doesn't use force to uncover my face.

We stay like this for a moment before I muster the courage to slide my hands away from my eyes and meet his.

He smiles back and that feeling comes again, the one where I feel electricity run through my body.

Like the night he kissed me.

I feel frozen in space like I'm only able to breathe and blink.

He gets closer, so close that our forehead touches and I instinctively close my eyes waiting to feel his lips on mine like that night.

He's so close and yet doesn't make a move to close the distance between us. It makes me groan internally when I remember he's probably waiting for me to make a move.

He's literally two inches away from me and I'm still here what more does he need? for me to swing a flare in the air? Scream at him at the top of my lungs to kiss me?

The tension is suffocating and it's cut short when I feel a breeze of air where I should feel him.

"Thank you, I really wanted to dance with Lea. And don't be mad, I promise, you'll get a dance too," he says cheekily as I stand there completely confused.

He's quick to hold my shoulders and push us to the side. It's when I get my senses back and see a man walk past us to access the bathroom.

I get the answer I'm looking for when I look back at him and see him smile at me.

That's when I have to hold back my laugh with him as the bathroom door closes.

Placing my hand on my mouth, I snort before I see an arm presented to me and look up to see Flash waiting for me.

With the tension now gone I happily hold his arm as he directs us away from the lonely hallway to the booming evening when we cross paths with Mme.Thompson.

"There you are!" she says joyfully.

"I was talking to a few colleagues and they were adamant that I at least ask you to join us."

I open my mouth trying to find the words to politely decline when her son beats me to it.

"No Mom I think it's time for her to go home. Her aunt will kill me if I don't drive her back before 1."

Sharing her chagrin, Mme.Thompson bids me her goodbyes before she shares a look with Flash and tells him to come back as soon as possible telling him he'll be spending time with Garret.

The end of her sentence isn't met with agreement or joy but silence as I'm ushered outside with the cold temperature that doesn't get to reach me before I feel his jacket engulf my shoulders once again.

Another gesture he makes is to offer his hand to help me walk down the stairs of the building. I pause and look down at my heels and conclude like him that it's going to be harder to step down the stairs than it was to climb them.

The thought makes me laugh to myself before I accept his hand and carefully make my way down with another set of giggles.

"I'm never borrowing heels from May ever again," I manage to let out in between giggles.

"Miss Parker forgot to calculate the probability that those heels were gonna be a problem?"

The remark takes me by surprise and makes me stumble.

I crouch to make sure I don't end up face-first on the concrete and my position makes me snort as I hide my face behind my hands and kneel in the middle of the stairs to ground myself.

From any other perspective, I look drunk and I'm being chaperoned by Harrison Thompson's son.

My laugh turns into a fit and I'm left laughing out loud, gripping my aching stomach and praying the feeling doesn't kill me.

"Okay I think I got it, sit down," he says laughing about my situation.

Lost in my euphoria I barely manage to sit up on one of the stairs waiting to see his plan to help me down.

I try to calm myself down when he stands in front of the stairs and places my hands on his shoulders. I finally understand his idea when I'm lifted in the air by my hips and grip his shoulder in a reflex as I'm left gasping when I land on the ground.

I gaze at him and his previous smile falls a bit as he stands there with a blank expression.

I'm almost sure I see his eyes switch to my lips.

"Sorry," he apologizes for his sudden plan to get me down those stairs with a small smile trying his luck at diffusing the tension.

I reassure him before he gently directs me to his car.

The silence is calming and comfortable and I notice I had never been in his car before.

I bask in the comfort, all giddy as I look outside the window admiring the city I love to swing in so much.

He chimes in with small talks here and there and in my new feeling of serenity, I mindlessly make one-word answers.

After a while of admiring the scenery, I look back inside the car when I notice him fidgeting around looking tense.

"Is everything okay?"

"Are you mad?" he asks as his hand tightens up on the steering wheel.

"No, why do you ask?" I return the question fidgeting in my seat to get more comfortable.

"I don't know, you don't talk much. Usually I can't get you to stop talking," he says scratching his face before returning his focus to the road, his side eye gauging my reaction.

I guess the comfortable silence wasn't shared and so I rattle my brain to find a topic we could discuss to fill the apparent discomfort he feels.

Trying to take the attention away from the topic of 'us', I remember the look he and McCoy shared and decide to ask hastily.

"Are you gonna reconcile with Garret?"

"Is that what you're mad about?"

"No Flash, I'm not mad. I'm just trying to make conversation since you seem to think my silence means that I'm angry."

"So you're not mad," he affirms one more time.

"No, I'm not mad."

"Cool," he finishes before he falls himself into silence.

"So? Garret?" I ask after a few beats of silence.

"Let's not talk about Garret."

"Too late, now I'm curious," I say turning on my side to give him my full attention.

"I reminded you how to dance cut me some slack," he whines.

"No," I laugh, "You taught me how to dance. I told you I didn't take dance courses."

His own laugh is short-lived, "Yes, you did."

"When?" I challenge him.

He pauses and takes a deep breath as we reach a red light, "It was during that time you moved to your Aunt May's."

The confession throws a cold in the vehicle.

"Oh," is all that manages to come out of my mouth.

"I remember," he says messing with his steering wheel waiting for the light to turn green, "You looked out of it during that time. It was what? 1st grade? 2nd grade?"

I wish he wouldn't pause in between bombs because the multiple aspects of the current situation make everything point to us being forced to look at each other.

I audibly exhale and wait for anything to come and fill the heavy silence of the car.

I even think about reaching over and turning on the radio.

"Why would we talk about my friendship with Garret?" he tries to distract from the conversation with a new topic.

"Oh, so there IS a friendship," I point out jumping on the occasion to step away from the previous topic, proud we have succeeded in shifting the subject.

In a streak of luck, the light turns green, and new chatter fills the car with a newfound lightness.

He sighs, "I don't know. Would that be a problem?"

"Why do you ask me? I don't manage your friendships."

"I don't know. I thought about just leaving that friendship behind but who knows," he says glancing at me with a teasing glint in his eyes, "If you root for him I could find it in myself to grace McCoy."

I chuckle as I change my position deciding to hug the headrest with my arm to rest my head on it.

"Sounds to me like you're afraid to choose for yourself."

He scoffs and laughs it off, "No, I'm just asking for someone else's opinion. Second opinions are important too."

It's silent as he shifts gears and I realize we're getting closer to my neighborhood.

"I thought about just ghosting him for a while. And with what happened last time, it feels like he's never gonna change," he confesses, "And maybe that's how it's supposed to end between us two."

"Ghosting?"

"Yeah, I don't think a discussion could get us anywhere useful. Garret is not the type of person to apologize anyways."

His demeanor is nonchalant but his expression shows a rare vulnerability.

"Some people just don't grow up," I barely manage to hear him mutter.

I hesitate but the observation kills me.

"That's very wise of you," I notice out loud.

He realizes I must've heard him and chuckles mostly at himself.

"I am wise," he proudly states as he turns the car again.

"That's just something Léa said," he adds.

He notices when I frown, "Believe it or not but my problems with Garret started before his attempt on your life," he jokes as he parks.

With the car now off I place my hand on his shoulder as a silent encouragement, squeezing and smiling at him before letting go of the headrest and looking out the window to see my apartment building.

I don't think much of it and open the car door to slip out of the vehicle.

"You know I'm supposed to be the one that opens the door for you, right?"

I turn my focus away from the building to see him getting out of his car, his head poking up from his car's roof.

He gets closer and stands right beside me at the bottom of the paved stairs.

He faces me and with newfound courage, I try my luck.

"Didn't you say we were going to this event as friends?"

"Opening a car door doesn't mean anything. It just says I have manners."

I hum impressed by his quick answer and see his hand already out for me to take.

Frowning, his smile turns my grimace into a bright smile when I recall the stairs incident.

I chuckle and grip his hand as he leads me up the stairs.

"See," he says as we reach the top of the stairs, "Just a gentleman."

My laugh dies down as we face each other with an awkward silence that I break when I slip his jacket off of my shoulder and hand it back to him.

He grasps it and looks down at it. He seems to hesitate before he looks back up at me clutching the fabric in his hands.

"School starts back tomorrow. See you there?" he asks.

"Yeah," I let out, my voice softer than it should be, "See you there."

I end the night with a kiss on his cheek, taking the risk of letting it last longer than it should.

The silence isn't tense or awkward and I know this time it goes for the both of us as we share a smile and I grip his shoulder squeezing it one last time.

"Good luck with McCoy."

His serene expression turns sour as he scrunchs his eyes shut and rolls his head back.

"You didn't have to bring up McCoy," he whines as I let a quick laugh escape me one last time tonight.

"Good night," I say with a smile, satisfied with how fulfilling this evening has been.

"Good night."

I let go of him and step back towards the door before I have to inevitably turn around and leave him there.

My last view of him is his figure standing right there looking back at me with a charming smile.

I'm not sure but I could swear he grazes his cheek where I kissed him goodbye in-between the smallest gap of the building's door as it shuts close.

#flash thompson imagine #flash thompson x reader #flash thompson x oc #flash thompson fanfic #flash thompson #spiderman homecoming #spiderman: no way home #spiderman far from home #spiderman: far from home #fanfic

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rattyshipss · 2 years ago

Note

reader having killer social anxiety, and Flash taking care of all the social interactions 🫶

he would definitely give both his and the reader’s order when they go eat outside, or pass calls for them. If reader has to talk in front of the class (for a presentation or something) Flash obviously can’t do it for them, but he so helps them through it and reassures them that they did good right after :’)

Of course!🥰 I relate to this on a DEEP level omg (G/n reader)

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

You and Flash were heading out of class as it ended when you were stopped by Brad. "Hey guysss, wanna come over to my place after school? I'm throwing a party but you two obviously get early access and I'm totally not just saying that so you guys can help me set up."

Flash was busy on his phone so Brad looked towards you for a reply. Eyes wide as you gestured with your head towards Flash, nudging him as subtly as possible to get his attention, he immediately knew what that meant. "Oh, uhm... maybe, we'd love too man but we might just be too busy but if we're able to we'll totally come!" Brad nodded, content with the answer. "Alright cool, I'll save you guys some pizza just incase!"

Brad exited the classroom, leaving you and Flash to finish gathering your stuff. Flash looked towards you, rubbing your arm to help comfort you. "I figured this way you'd have time to decide if you wanna go or not and if not we have an easy out." Flash smiled before grabbing your hand and leading you out of the classroom.

This was just one of the moments he helped you out with for your anxiety, and he was more than happy to.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Whenever you and Flash went out to eat together, which was often because as much he loved taking you out to the fanciest most high end places he also loved you out for cute little fast food dates, he always ordered for you. He had no problem with it, if something he did could help you feel better in any way he'd do it, he didn't care what it was.

The epitome of the "They asked for no pickles" meme. Flash would just automatically do it at this point, knowing how awkward it can feel to have to ask for him to order for you with the server staring at you expectingly. Sometimes he'd even get you comfortable in a booth before he goes up to order so the server doesn't look to you and ask for your order before he can get it out.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

As much as he wanted to say some dumb joke when he answered the phone for you he knew better than to do that, not wanting to upset you he remained mature until the phone call ended before updating you on what they said.

A similar rule applied when you had to be involved in public speaking, although he couldn't do it for you he's help you prepare in any way he can, only throwing out a few jokes here and there to take your mind off of it. The day of the presentation he's your rock, letting you ramble to him as much as you need about your fears, reminding you of how well you're gonna do and how once it's over all you have to do is come relax with him. Purposefully trying to sit near the back of the class so he can give you a giant hug without the prying eyes of your classmates and tell you how proud of you he is.

He'd never ever diminish your anxiety, although he doesn't personally struggle with it to the same extent you do he knows it's very much a real thing and an incredibly tough thing to deal with and he's honestly so impressed at how strong you are for getting through all the effects of it. He's so so proud of you for living with anxiety. He just hopes his dumb jokes don't annoy you too much.

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

@lxsm2 I hope you like it!🥰 Anxiety/social anxiety is the absolute devil so I hope this can help even a little bit🥺💖

#request #requests #ask #asks #flash thompson #spiderman #flash thompson imagines #flash thompson imagine #flash thompson x reader #eugene thompson #eugene thompson x reader #eugene thompson imagines #eugene thompson imagine #imagines #imagine #x reader

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lovelyypythoness · 2 years ago

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Need some more tasm!Flash Thompson x reader fics plssss

#fic request #marvel #x reader #x reader requests #tasm #flash thompson #tasm flash Thompson

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substantial-exposure · 2 years ago

Note

I’m begging you to write more tasm!Flash Thompson x reader🙏🙏😭😭

I'm happy to announce that I do have another fic in the vault that I'm slowly getting done thank you for your patience everyone 🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤

#flash thompson #flash thompson x reader #the amazing Spider-Man

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atlabeth · 4 months ago

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bend an ear

pairing: peter parker x fem reader

summary: your boyfriend doesn't listen to you. good thing your friendly neighborhood spider-man does.

a/n: there's just something about him idk. andrew garfield spidey bc of course! look at him! this came from me playing the spider-man game after it went on sale and yearning for peter parker (will prob have to rewatch the movies bc of this) anyways hope you like it

wc: 3.6k

warning(s): reader's bf is shitty -- they argue for a while and he lowkey slut shames her. but this is basically all fluff otherwise bc childhood best friends to lovers babby!!! real yearning loverboy hours!!!

Peter just wants to go home.

It’s been… a day. He got his ass kicked by an English test (he doesn’t have time to do the readings when he’s fighting crime), got his ass kicked by Flash Thompson (it’s not like he can fight back with his super strength and pulverize his ribs), and has spent every second since his final class ended fighting petty crimes around the city.

Stopping ATM thefts and minor muggings feels good, sure, but on days like these, it doesn’t really make up for failing intro literature classes and getting absolutely zero sleep. He’s just thankful May is still letting him live with her while he studies at ESU—if he had to do all of this in addition to trying to make his rent? He doesn’t really want to think about it.

So he swung his way to the roof of some random building, and he’s taking a break. Sue him, but Peter thinks he deserves it. What’s the point of living in a city like New York if you can’t have a second to yourself every once in a while?

He’ll go home soon. Grab a bodega sandwich, maybe stop another crime, and then get home for some much needed rest. But for now, he’s just going to sit on this rooftop and relax for a second. Even Spider-man needs some peace and—

“Babe—”

“Why are you following me?”

Peter winces as the door slams open, an argument following close after as a girl storms out onto the roof followed by a guy speeding to keep up with her. His first instinct is to swing away as soon as possible, but for some reason, he stays.

“Because I want to talk!”

“God, do you even hear yourself?”

“You keep talking over me, so I really—”

“You don’t get to babe me right now!”

As if his day hadn’t been bad enough, now he’s accidentally made himself privy to some couple’s dispute. He’s about to web himself out of this third wheeling nightmare when the girl turns around with a groan, revealing her face, and Peter realizes who it is.

It’s you.

This is your apartment complex. Peter came here without even realizing it, but can he really be surprised? Your name is synonymous with peace in his brain. Comes with the territory of being friends for so long—it still calms him, even when you’re being the opposite of peaceful.

“I don’t get why you’re acting like this!” the guy exclaims, frustration clear in his voice.

Of course. Why wouldn’t your shitty boyfriend be here too? The only reason you live here is because you scored this place together; said he didn’t want you living on campus anymore. Ethan Frey might be the bane of Peter’s existence after two and a half years of him being your boyfriend.

“Because you and your posse are acting like complete jags in front of all my friends!” you shout back.

He laughs in disbelief. “I’m just being myself, babe. Besides, you’re the one who said I could invite them!”

“Because you complained about it just being my friends,” you grind out. “You weren’t even supposed to be here, Ethan! You just can’t handle the thought of me being around guys that aren’t you!”

“Well, what the hell am I supposed to think, huh?” He gestures wildly. “You spend every second with that geek and I’m supposed to believe you’re not into him?”

And now he’s eavesdropping on a conversation between you and your boyfriend about him. How could this get worse?

“God, it isn’t like that at all!” you exclaim with a mirthless laugh. “Peter is my friend— my best friend since elementary school. You knew when we got together that wasn’t going to change.”

“Yeah,” he says, nodding lazily, “but that was before I knew how obvious his hard-on for you was.”

Peter feels his face heat beneath the mask, wants to wipe the sweat off his palms. That’s how it could get worse.

Your nostrils flare as you turn away, your hands flexing while you shake your head. “Get out of here, Ethan.”

“Oh, of course that’s where you draw the line,” Ethan mocks. “When I bring up fuckin’ Peter Parker.” He pauses then chuckles. “You’d love that, wouldn’t you?”

Peter nearly intervenes right then and there, wanting to stop this mess before Ethan does anything to hurt you. But revealing himself sounds like the worst possible thing to do, so for once he listens to the rational part of his brain over the emotional.

“He’s not even here!” you retort. “I live with you, not him. I’m dating you, not him. Why are you bringing him up?”

“Because I’m not blind.” Ethan crosses his arms. “Y’know, I thought you’d get over this little thing after you let me take you out, but for some reason, it’s exactly the same. I swear you spend more time with him than me.”

Your hands clench into fists. “Get out of here.”

He scoffs. “You want me to leave you up here?”

“Yes,” you nod.

“God, you’ve been acting crazy this whole night!” he complains. “You’ll freeze up here. Just get over it—we’ll go back down, I’ll get you a beer—”

“I hate beer.”

“Then I’ll get you a fucking apple juice,” he spits. “Just stop being so dramatic.”

“You’re not listening to me!” you shout. “I want you to leave me alone!”

This time he says your name, and you shake your head.

“Go back to the apartment,” you interrupt. “Because if I have to spend another second with you, our relationship might not make it through the night.”

For once, Ethan is silent as he stares at you. You stare back with no sign of giving up. Eventually, he just huffs and shakes his head.

“Whatever.” He starts walking towards the door. “You better cool off up here, because I’m not dealing with this shit when you come back down.”

You stare at the door for a good twenty seconds once he closes the door—slams it, rather—before you angrily kick a stray soda can. Your childhood days of rec soccer must still be in you, because you get an arc on it. Just before it can go over the side of the building, Peter shoots a web to catch it wholly on instinct.

Your eyes widen as you dart around, and Peter is finally spotted from his place on top of the roof door building thing. What is that even called? He doesn’t really have time to think about it. The aluminum can crunches as it flies into his hand, and you stare at him in complete shock.

“Uh,” his mouth suddenly feels very dry, but he has to make some excuse for why he’s up here, “littering is bad.”

Good one, Parker.

“You’re Spider-man,” you say, eyes still wide.

“The one and only,” he nods.

“Oh my god,” you mumble, finally seeming to break out of your shock as you cover your mouth and turn away. “Oh my god, Spider-man just heard my relationship falling apart.”

“I didn’t hear anything!” Peter exclaims. “I—”

You shoot him the withering look he loves so much, that was able to get his bullies to shrink on the spot in high school—it feels weird being on the receiving end of it.

“I’m not stupid,” you say.

“I kn—” He has to stop himself from saying I know, because realistically Spider-man has no idea who you are. “I’m sorry.”

You huff and cross your arms. “Do your superhero duties include eavesdropping on failing couples?”

“It was an accident,” Peter says. “I was up here before you were. So technically, you were eavesdropping on my actual superhero duties.”

You laugh, and he smiles just at the sound of it. One benefit to wearing the mask, because it would expose him right on the spot. “Oh yeah? And what are those?”

“Patrolling the streets,” he says. “I’ve got a very good vantage point from up here.”

You hum, your mood turning a bit more morose as you glance away. “Well, I’m sorry you had to hear all that during your patrol.”

“I’m sorry you had to go through it,” he says. “Your boyfriend sounds like an asshole.”

You roll your eyes. “He’s fine, most of the time. Just had a little bit too much to drink.”

Peter will never understand why you defend Ethan so much. You’ve been together since freshman year and he’s only gotten worse since then—maybe he hides how he is around you, because he hasn’t really shied away from showing Peter how much he hates him this past year.

“He looked pretty sober to me,” Peter says. “And trust me, I have plenty of experience fighting guys that have had too much to drink.”

You huff. “What are you, a spider-therapist?”

“I’m good at a lot of things,” he says. “And I’m always good for bending an ear.”

“Surely you have better things to do than listen to me complain.”

Peter shakes his head. “My schedule’s pretty clear right now, actually.”

“Really?” you marvel. “There’s no crime in New York City at,” you check your watch, “11:37 pm?”

“Absolutely none,” he says. “I solved it all. At least for now.”

You laugh again at that and gesture with your head as you walk over to the edge of the roof. “Then I guess I’ll take you up on that offer.”

Peter jumps down and follows you over. You hoist yourself on top of the wall, legs dangling over the edge, and he feels himself frown as he leans his back against the wall and looks up at you.

“Isn’t that a little dangerous?”

“You’ll catch me if I fall,” you say.

“Obviously,” Peter says. “I’m supposed to encourage safe behavior in New Yorkers, though.”

You laugh and tilt your head up towards the night sky. The moonlight reflects in your eyes and Peter knows he could get lost in them forever. “Just this once, then.”

“I think I can let it slide.”

“Good.”

A comfortable beat of silence passes between the two of you, and Peter finds himself smiling. No wonder he ended up at your place out of instinct. There’s nothing else like your company.

“I always think it’ll be different,” you murmur. Peter glances up at you, your expression shifted to something more melancholic. “We’ll have a good day, which’ll turn into a good week and a good month, but he always does something to mess it up. It’s like it’s in his DNA.”

He stays silent as you think. Most of the time when you rant to Peter, you just want to be heard, not given advice. At this point, he’s an expert at listening to you. It’s not like he minds.

“I want things to work out. I— I still love him. I mean, I think I do. But everything is a fucking struggle with him. If I don’t do things the exact way he wants, if I try to do something for me instead of him, if I can’t read his fucking mind, then he loses it and we argue. And I’m so fucking tired of arguing!”

Your voice has risen by now, and you bite down hard on your cheek. Peter doesn’t realize he’s started reaching towards you to comfort you until you look back down at him, and he runs his hand over his head in an effort to cover it up.

“I’m sorry,” you sigh. “I promise, I’m a much nicer person than this. You just caught me at the worst time.”

“Don’t worry,” he says. “I know.”

Your brows rise. “Spider-man knows I’m a nice person?”

“I can just tell,” he rushes, trying to save himself. He’s doing a real good job at not revealing his identity. “I’m good at reading people.”

You chuckle and shake your head, then adjust your position so your back is towards the open air. It makes Peter nervous, he can’t lie, but it’s not like he’s not a superhero.

“So, spider-therapist,” you say. “Any advice?”

So this is one of the rare times you do want answers. Peter wonders if you’ll leave your boyfriend if Spider-man tells you to.

“He doesn’t sound great,” Peter says, inclining his head. “How many times have you argued this week?”

“Four,” you say. “Five, if you include tonight.”

He whistles. “And it’s only Wednesday.”

You tip your shoulder. “We’re efficient.”

“And unhappy, it sounds like.”

“We’re not unhappy,” you defend. “We’re just…”

“You’re up here talking to me instead of down there with him,” Peter says wryly. “That doesn’t exactly scream ‘happy couple’.”

You shake your head with another sigh. “It’s because he can’t get over Peter.”

He tries to act as nonchalant as possible when you bring him up. Is this an invasion of privacy? Letting you talk to him about all this when you have no idea who Spider-man actually is?

Instead of floundering over moral qualms, he just clears his throat. “And who’s he?”

“My best friend,” you say. “The one person who’s been by my side since the second I moved to New York. He means everything to me.”

Peter feels his heart skip a beat. “Yeah?”

“He’s like— like the opposite of Ethan, and it’s wonderful. I guess that’s why Pete irks him so much. Y’know,” you pull out your phone and start typing in your password, “maybe I should call him. He always knows what to say.”

“No!” Peter exclaims with a bit too much force, causing you to give him a look. “No— I mean, it’s late. He’s probably asleep. And— and it’s a school night?”

You tilt your head, and Peter exhales when it seems to work. “True. He’s probably studying for that biochem test.” You grimace. “I should be doing that too.”

He watches you type out a few texts and send them, and Peter’s never been more thankful to have his phone on silent. What a way that would be to blow his cover.

You shove your phone back in your pocket with another sigh. “I just hate that my boyfriend and my best friend don’t get along. I love them both—why can’t they like each other?”

“I mean…” Peter trails off when you look at him, and he gestures with his head. “It seems pretty obvious why they don’t get along.”

“Yeah,” you say dryly. “Because Ethan thinks Peter likes me, and he probably thinks I have some secret crush on him too. I swear, he’s always looking for a reason to fight.”

God, could the universe be calling him out any more? It’s honestly ridiculous how this is going.

“Do you?” Peter asks, because he can’t help himself. “Like him, I mean.”

“I don’t know,” you murmur. “I love Pete, I do. It’s always been the two of us no matter what. But I…”

He holds his breath as he tries not to look at you, tries not to make it too obvious that he might have stumbled his way into his simultaneous dream and nightmare scenario.

He’s had a crush on you for what feels like forever. Since you stood up for him against his bullies in elementary school, honestly, and it’s only grown over the years as the two of you have grown. From recesses spent together and bike rides through the city; spending the night in Peter’s apartment because it was easier for your sister to let it happen than try and drag you back home; endless nights with heads bent over textbooks trying to study for tests, over college applications trying to get into the same place, and now studying and researching near every damn weekend together because you’re both unfortunate enough to try for ESU STEM degrees.

You were there when Ben died. He’s there on every anniversary of your parents’ accident. Without knowing it, you were there when he got bit and his whole life turned upside down.

You and Peter have been there every step of the way for each other, and it’s why he’s content with just friendship—Peter wants you in his life no matter what. But he can’t lie and say he doesn’t hope.

No, actually. He yearns. He’s doomed to be a yearner for the rest of his life because he’ll never stop loving you. How could he?

“I’m not sure,” you finally say with a sigh. “All I know is that I’d rather be with Pete tonight than Ethan.”

Peter wonders if your chest compressions are still as good as they were in high school, because he feels like he’s about to have a heart attack.

You’d rather be spending tonight with him than your boyfriend of two years and seven months, and Peter isn’t even supposed to know.

You mistake his silent freakout for nonchalance, and you clear your throat as you jump back onto solid ground.

“Well, I’ve spilled my soul to you,” you say wryly, crossing your arms. “Anything a superhero can spill in return?”

Peter thinks for a good, long second. His hands itch to take off his mask, to do what he’s wanted to do since he got bitten by that stupid spider and show you who he really is.

How many times has he been a total asshole, canceling plans on you because he had to go stop some supervillain from wreaking havoc in Times Square? How many times has he been late to something important to you because he was caught up stopping dime a dozen muggings? He still remembers the look on your face when he showed up just in time to miss the entirety of Les Mis’s opening night with your first lead role.

You were a better best friend to Peter than he was to you because of this stupid mask. If he took it off, it wouldn’t make every mistake fade away, but it would sure help explain some of it.

But Peter has been doing this since high school, and he has seen far too many times what happens to the loved ones of heroes. They’re used as leverage, used for ransom, sometimes just straight up killed.

You’ve been friends with Peter since you and your sister moved into the apartment next to May’s thirteen years ago. It doesn’t matter if you never share Peter’s feelings. You’re one of the only constants in his life, and he’s not going to lose you because he’s too selfish to keep a secret.

Losing you would be the last straw. He couldn’t take it.

So Peter pushes all thoughts of secret identities revealed out of his mind and tries to chuckle convincingly.

“I’m allergic to peppermint, believe it or not.”

You stare at him, deadpan. “That’s nowhere close to all the shit I just gave you.”

“It’s true!” he exclaims, holding up his hands. “Happened after I got bit by the spider. They’re repelled by peppermint oil, and I guess I am too.”

You shake your head in disbelief. “I can’t believe Spider-man is a coward.”

“A superhero’s gotta have some secrets,” he says, and he taps the side of his head. “Otherwise this thing doesn’t do much good.”

“Yeah, yeah,” you say. “Whatever.”

A chill suddenly goes up Peter’s spine and he whips around—he can hear a distant scream followed by a distant gunshot, and he mentally curses.

“Duty calls?” you ask, drawing his attention back to you.

“Yeah,” he says. “I’m sorry—”

“Don’t be.” You smile, and it’s genuine. A nice change from the state Ethan effortlessly puts you in. “You went out of your way to cheer me up. Pretty super of you.”

“I hope it makes up for the eavesdropping,” he says.

“More than,” you nod. “Now get out of here. Your city needs you.”

Peter nods too, and he backflips onto his original spot. “Have a good night. You’re real special to somebody.”

He’s gone before you can say anything else, already zipping across the rooftops to get to the scene of the crime. Peter can only think of your face as he swings through the air—all the things he’s too scared to say to you.

The crime, which turns out to be yet another petty theft, is resolved easily enough with some punches, kicks, and a snappy one-liner. Once he’s retrieved the woman’s purse and alerted the police, he’s back in the sky.

Peter only stops once he’s swung a couple miles away, perching on the edge of some rooftop for some actual peace and quiet. He checks around once or twice to make sure he’s not somehow back at your place, and when he’s sure it’s all clear, he pulls his phone out. He swipes past all the notifications he’s racked up until he finds the one he’s looking for: the texts from you.

hey pete, I know you’re prob asleep rn but you were right. I really need to study for that test lol

wanna meet me at the library tomorrow after QM? I’ll buy the coffee this time i promise <3

as long as you use your roomie’s dining dollars to get me a croissant lol

Peter can’t help but smile, larger than anything tonight. This is why he’s okay with being nothing but your friend for the rest of his life.

Deal. Anything to get you an A

lol

asshole

Never

Try to get some sleep. No good studying on a tired brain

Three dots appear for a good long second, enough to constitute a decent paragraph—then they disappear. In its place:

I’ll try just for you

night boy genius

(How could he not love you?)

Night, girl wonder

#peter parker x reader #tasm!peter x reader #tasm!peter parker x reader #spiderman x reader #spider-man x reader #spider man x reader #peter parker x you #peter parker fanfiction #tasm x reader

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gloomskulls · 7 months ago

Text

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚LIMERENCE [tasm!peter parker]

pairings: tasm!peter parker x reader

part 2

⇢ ˗ˏˋ SUMMARY ୨୧ For Peter Parker, the deepest secret is not being Spider-Man. It's that he likes you, no he loves you, wants you in any imaginable way possible. After years of quietly admiring you from a distance, everything changes after a biology project that partners you two together. Peter sees a glimpse of chance to get nearer to you, but the line of affection and obsession begins to blur

⇢ ˗ˏˋ WARNING ୨୧ obessive peter, creep peter, stalking, masturbation, panty sniffing, dirty thoughts, breaking in, just peter being hopelessly in love. If any of this finds you uncomfortable, please click out do yourself (and me also) a favor. lemme know if I missed any! MINORS DO NOT READ

If you don't want to see my dark stories in the future please block the tag #madi: dark content

A/n: my first ever fic posted on Tumblr, yippee! This is also my first ever smut so it probs be equivalent to horse poo but anyways, this also takes place in tasm 2. don't steal any of the shit I've written or else i'm gonna turn you into Vicky from Terrifier/srs

Peter didn't understand what was so special about you, you were just a crush. Or that's what he convinced himself. Every single place you were in, Peter would carefully trail behind you, like there was a magnet strapped onto you, and Peter was the metal, he would always find himself drawing next to you. Peter Parker was no stranger to keeping secrets. It was, after all, the epitome of his double life. A mask, a costume, a name that wasn't his at all. There was one secret, however, that even the Spider-Man's mask couldn't cover—his growing infatuation towards you.

It started out really simple. You decided to give back the nerdy boy's pencil in sophomore year and defended him from Flash Thompson in his junior year, it was all simple really, something a person with decency and was taught with proper manners would do. But Peter took it as more than that.

Candid photos here and there, purposefully falling of his skateboard so you would help him, cryptic notes in your locker, sometimes a random flower if Peter was lucky to find any.

Limerence, as some might say

The first people who would ever notice Peter's strange behavior where the people who raised him. Uncle Ben would notice this girl in the screen of his nephew's computer, so did Aunt May when she saw many polaroid photos of the same face underneath Peter's bed. Peter shrugged it off, saying the same exact words to the both of them.

'she's just a crush'

Peter Parker was very good at being hidden in the open. Sure, he didn't want to be invisible, but it is what it is. One of the self-working "losers" with horrible punchlines and pretty much the face screaming "nerd". Well, it didn't bother Peter much. He had many other more important things to think about. You

It's been years now. It was already the last year of senior year, graduation was already nearing, still, he hasn't mustered up the courage to do speak to you, afraid that you won't reciprocate the same feelings he has. His been watching you from a distance, stealing glances in class and making mental notes on all the little things you did, like doodling on the corners of your notebooks or, how you tucked your hair behind your ear when you were concentrating. He knew that it was weird, creepy even, but Peter couldn't stop himself.

So, when Mr. Warren announced a paired project for biology, Peter's internal monologue kicked into overdrive.

"Pair work begins today," Mr. Warren said, his smile a gruff overture that still Peter thought unnecessary. "Choose your partners wisely, just choose somebody you will along with. You can really screw up over this project if you don't!"

The room broke out into a low buzz as students shuffled their chairs and moved toward their friends. Peter didn't move. He never did. Choosing a partner was like finding a needle in a haystack type of task for him

Alright, Pete, it is not such a big deal. You are not going to end up with her or anything. Just relax, find someone cool, and—

"Peter!"

Your voice broke through his thoughts, and he looked up to see you in front of his desk, clutching a notebook to your chest

"By any chance do you have a partner? My friends kind of made their own pairs" you asked, your lips curving into an easy smile.

Peter blinked. His brain short-circuited.

"N-nope. I'm totally solo. Flying solo. A lone wolf. A…"

"Awesome! Then let's team up."

Peter turned to you, his mind racing, he blinked, trying to absorb this. You were choosing him? He nodded frantically; his heart was hammering at a top speed that he was convinced you could hear it

You smiled at him, you fucking smiled at him

For the rest of the class Mr. Warren instructed everyone to plan for the project for the rest of the class. You kept bouncing ideas back and forth, and Peter felt a strange, thrilling sensation of in his heart. You were funny, clever, and surprisingly very easy to communicate with. Every time you laughed at one of his jokes, he felt like he was soaring.

When the bell rang, you packed your things and turned to him. "We should work on this at my place. Tomorrow after school?"

Peter nearly dropped his notebook. "Uh, yeah. Totally. I mean, yes. That works. Perfect. So super normal."

You laughed again. "Cool. Here's my address."

And with that, you scribbled it on a scrap of paper and handed it to him before walking away, leaving Peter frozen in his seat.

That night, Peter was sitting in his room staring at the address. To most people, that was just a little detail, probably not even worth a second thought. But to Peter, it was an invitation, or perhaps a key, even just for a second to get into your life. To know every little thing about you

Unfortunately, though, that's not enough.

He felt his hands shaking as he opened the drawer in his desk to reveal a small trove of hidden treasures; poorly taken pictures of you from a distance, bits of paper that you had thrown away during math class, and a small stash of hair strands that he meticulously collected from your hair comb when you weren't looking

This was love, wasn't it? The desperate consuming desire to be around her, to know everything about you.

And tomorrow, he shall get his chance.

You invited him, but Peter just knew it was really more than what you would ever willingly give.

His love was a web, and you were stepping into it, one delicate thread at a time.

Peter stood outside your house with a crumpled piece of paper clutched in his rather sweaty hand. The address on it was correct, but doubt clouded him. What if she had forgotten about this meeting? What if this was simply a joke? No, she would never do that, he tried to convince himself

Peter Parker was standing at your porch. Each thump of his heart sounded like one of the drums in the music club. He raised his hand to knock, hesitating for a moment. Maybe it was a terrible idea to come here after all; he could fake being sick, sending her an apology while rescheduling. Just then, the door swung open before he even had the chance to run.

"Hey, you found my house, I actually thought you would get lost cause I wrote the wrong color of the rooftop on the note" you said while stepping aside to let him enter.

"I was actually hesitant to knock, because it didn't look like the description" He quietly said. You actually got everything right, I was just being a huge pussy so I didn't come immediately, he thought to himself.

"Come in. I have started working on the diagram."

Peter plasted a grin and forced his legs down inside. "Well, look at you. Overachieving already. I guess I'll just sit back and let you do all the hard work."

You rolled your eyes and laughed, your voice making him feel that the world wasn't so bad after all. "Nice try, Parker. Grab a marker. You're on label duty."

"Come on, we can work in the dining area," you said, leading him across the house.

The dining table was already loaded with supplies, with textbooks scattered everywhere, colored pencils, sheets of poster paper, you name it. You positioned herself and gestured to him to join you.

You fell into a rhythm, your hand sketching the parts of the circulatory system while Peter scrawled out the labels in his neatest handwriting. He cracked jokes every few minutes, drawing out your laughter like a lifeline. It would be so easy to lose himself in the moment, pretend that you both were just two friends hanging out and not a guy hopelessly infatuated with someone who didn't even know half the truth about him.

Both of you had a relatively smooth first hour of working, few questions were asked here and there on the project. Peter kept his answers short, being extra cautious with what to share, but it seemed you did not mind. You sketched diagrams, jotting down notes with an ease that made Peter's hands tremble every time he made an attempt to help.

"So Peter," you suddenly announced after the silence, "why is it that you don't talk very much? At school I mean"

The question staggered him, rendering him blank while the colored pencil just hovered above the page.

Peter jerked up his head and looked surprised. "What do you mean? Talking is what I do. I mean, there's even people begging me to stop."

You smirked but didn't let it down. "I mean really, you're funny but I know nothing about you. What's your thing, Peter Parker?"

He didn't answer immediately but fiddled with the marker. "I'm just… some guy. Pretty boring, honestly. Not much to tell."

Your expression softened, "I don't buy that. You're not boring".

Your words made Peter's chest tighter. He wanted to believe you, yet the voice at the back of his mind reminded how wrong youwere. If you only knew the real him, the guy who had spent countless nights staring at your window, memorizing your every move, you wouldn't be smiling and sitting here before him.

"Hey, don't overthink it. You're cool. Let's just finish this masterpiece, okay?" you said, flicking his arm before he could answer.

Peter smiled forcedly

And when they finished the day's work, you walk him to the door once more, your smile as warm as ever.

"Thanks for coming over," you said. "You're actually a pretty decent partner, Parker."

"Decent?!" Peter gasped, clutching his chest in mock offense. "Wow. Don't hold back; tell me how you really feel."

And you laughed, shaking your head. "I'll see you tomorrow."

Peter waved. You waved back at him, as he strolled down the street, but he did not go very far. Instead, he found himself across the street in the same place, hidden under the shadow of the oak tree.

you were in your living room again, curled around a blanket and a pillow as you watched whatever was on your screen, your face glowing softly from the light of the television. Peter leaned against the tree with both hands shoved in his jacket pockets and simply watched.

How long he'd been there, he couldn't tell, but he didn't want to leave. This was the closest he ever felt with you, even if you didn't know he was here.

He knew this was crossing the line, but he couldn't help himself. He found himself sneaking into your house. Now he really felt like a robber trying to intrude a home, expect he wasn't really going to steal anything, or so he thought.

It was late at night, you and your family were already asleep at this point

Peter knew that the right thing to do was to head home. He knew for sure that this crossed a line even he wasn't sure he could come back from. But before he could stop himself, he was moving, slipping across the street and into the shadows of your yard.

His palms were slick with sweat as he scanned the side of the house. The metal trellis leading up to your window wasn't very solid, but it would hold him if he was careful.

He carefully climbed the trellis, not putting too much weight on it. And his heart was pounding as he got to your window, his fingers brushing against the cool glass.

It wasn't locked.

At that moment, his body froze. The rational part of him screamed to stop, to climb back down and pretend this never happened. But then his hand was on the window. And that soft sound of it sliding open seemed to be deafeningly loud in the stillness of the night.

He slipped into his feet and landed silently on the carpeted floor. Your room smelled of lavender and something warm and sweet like vanilla. A little bit of moonlight filtered through the curtains and brightened the room in pale silver.

There she was

You laid curled up in your bed, the blankets pulled up to your shoulders, your face peaceful in sleep. Peter’s breath caught in his throat. You looked so serene, so utterly perfect, that it made his chest ache.

He stood there for what felt like an eternity, just watching you. He wasn’t sure what he was expecting to feel—satisfaction, maybe, or relief. But all he felt was a strange mix of awe and guilt.

This was wrong.

He knew it.

But he couldn’t bring himself to leave.

He looked around your room, it was full of polaroids of either you or your friends.

He started walking around your room quietly, careful to not wake you up in your slumber, because God knows what will happen if you saw him in your room with all its glory, he couldn't even imagine the disgust on your face.

But one thing caught his eye

Your bathroom was open, and in your bathroom was a basket with what he assumed inside were dirty laundry.

He knew it was disgusting, heck, over the top creep award would probably go to him, but he found himself walking towards the bathroom. It was wrong, but he still did it, he needs to get help, he thought to himself.

One second ago he was walking towards your bathroom, next thing you knew he was rummaging through your dirty laundry, occasionally smelling some of your shirts. He cherished the way your scent overwhelmed his nose, he was in Cloud 9.

While he was rummaging, a little piece of clothing caught his eye. With shaky hands he picked up the piece of clothing, it was your pink underwear with little cherries scattered everywhere as design.

He brought it near to his nose. He suddenly sat down in the neat cold tiles of the bathroom floor, he smelt it as if it was his oxygen.

He let out a small moan. He didn't know if it was an invisible force making him do such things, but he found his hands unbuttoning his pants

Peter Parker sat in the rest room; hand clasped tight around the lacy edge of the pink panty. He took out his hardened length of his boxers. The scent of dirty panties wafted his nose.

He imagined you wrapped around his throbbing cock, he thought of the feeling of your tight little pussy riding his cock, he wanted the sweet nectar from your lips, while having a feast on your quivering hole. His cock throbbed in his palms, his hands were much faster now, stroking his hardened cock. He had to bite his tongue to keep himself from moaning

Why was he doing this? You were literally there, outside the bathroom, sleeping. And Peter was here, out in the open, jerking off to the smell of your used panties

He was drenched in sweat as his hairs stuck to his wet forehead. He fantasized about your perky tits; perfect little nipples erect in anticipation. Pumping the shaft rapidly, imagining you on all fours begging for more, the bounce of your tits while riding him moaning his name like a mantra, Peter, fuck Peter, Peter, oh my God!

Peter was breathing heavily, his release was near, he profusely pumped his manhood, his hands and cock covered in his sticky pre-cum.

He wanted to feel you inside him, want you to quiver in pleasure as he fucks you over and over again.

He felt a sudden wave of pleasure hitting him, before he knew it, he released a flooded torrent of jizz into sticky cum as it scattered all over the floor. He slumped against the wall, heaving as he tried to steady his racing heart. He looked outside the door, finding you in the same spot as you were. You were sleeping oh so peacefully

He gazed at you, his heart full of unfulfilled yearning. He desperately wanted to be part of your world, to be someone you chose to let in. Yet no matter how many jokes he made or how close you seemed; he knew deep in his heart that he was not enough.

A soft sound broke the silence.

Peter's eyes snap to the bed, and his stomach lurch at the realization that you were stirring. Your brows knitted, your breathing started shifting, just as if you were going to wake up.

He immediately threw your panties back into the basket as he stood up and fixed his underwear and pants

He felt panic surging him, he immediately sprinted near the window. It made a loud a thud, now he was fucked

He moved quickly and quietly without thinking as he quietly ran towards the window. Just as you were about to opene your eyes, he slipped stealthily past the fluttering of curtains.

He tried scrambling down the trellis and found the ground, shivering and shaking as he did so.

He was hidden in a shadow corner, looking up towards your window. You were sitting up now, rubbing your eyes and looking around your room with a sleepy confusion.

Peter's chest tightened.

What's the matter with him?

He hurried as he turned away, his footsteps quiet against the pavement

The cool night air wrapped around Peter Parker like a cold, suffocating blanket as he walked back toward his house. Each step seemed to slant further and further as if his sneakers were scuffing wet against the cracked pavement in a slow and deliberate rhythm.

It was as if the world had gone still—entirely quiet. No cars were heard, no distant chatter, no hum of the city. Just Peter, the quiet whistle of wind through leaves, and the pounding thuds of his thoughts.

With that, he shoved his hands deep into his jacket pockets, his fingers curling into tight fists. Replaying the scene, he heard the soft sound of your breathing, the warmth of your room, and the way you stirred in your bed as if you had felt him there.

What the heck are you doing, Parker? He hadn't intended to climb into your room. He hadn't intended for it to get this far. Watching from the shadows was one thing, but tonight… tonight he had crossed a line.

He stopped moving and leaned against the lamppost, his breath escaping him in short, sharp gasps. Above him, the light flickered, shining unevenly across his shadow on the ground.

"This isn't me," he whispered to himself, the voice trembling.

But wasn't it?

Hadn't he been staring at you for years, taking notes while you weren't looking, memorizing all of your movements, laughter, and smiles? He had told himself that it was just harmless admiration from a distance, but now it was clear.

What would you think if you knew?

He sighed, Peter threw back his head and gazed up at the sky. Above him the stars, though cold and distant, seemed on to him— judging him in silence.

With the words of Uncle Ben echoing in his mind, With great power comes great responsibility, Peter winced.

Peter's jaw clamped down. Not great power; not yet. But wasn't all this part of it? Taking responsibility for his actions, owning up to his mistakes before they spiraled uncontrollably out of hand?

It hit him like a gut punch.

He wouldn't ever be able to take it back. Nor would he ever be able to wipe away the fact that he'd violated your space, your privacy, in a way you might never forgive. But he could stop it from going any further. He could ensure that you never found out.

@gloomskulls 2024. DON'T COPY, TRANSLATE OR USE ANY OF MY WORKS HERE OR ANY OTHER WEBSITES. Photos don't belong to me

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