#sorry peter old habits die hard

[the-acid-pear]

You know thinking of Dave (because I'm chopping onions and as a sigma I can't be seen crying for emotional reasons) and I did realize Jack really never calls him out of Henry does he? Like the one time he does is bc it was about Dee (in the first area) and in pure evil, both in 2 and 3, Jack won't tell him all Henry did to him and his family.

I need to keep chopping vegetables but don't y'all find it curious? Like I'd seen someone mention how there's no way to bring up the tapes when talking to either Dave or DTrap which admittedly I ruled off as DD just not wanting to bother writing more for an already long game but with all these other things in mind it's just strange.

[webslingingslasher]

Wait a minute, who are you?

Pairing: Peter Parker (mcu) x Reader

Genre: fluff,angst

Word Count: 6.5K

Summary: Peter's been hiding something...

Warnings: mentions of sex, small talk of an old creepy man being an old creepy man

(Part 2 of CRUSH but can be read alone.)

-----------------------------------

Why was Peter Parker refusing you?

Scratch that, why is your boyfriend rejecting you?

He surely had no issue letting you crawl into his lap after placing the computer in his lap to the left side of his bed, and he definitely didn’t have an issue when his raised eyebrows in question were silenced when you pulled him in for a bruising kiss by the collar of his muted flannel.

But funny enough when you started to trail your hands down to meet the skin beneath the thick cotton, just aching to slide your hands under his shirt and over his toned muscle, and rest your cool palms on his hot, beating chest, his hands caught yours in one.

You almost froze into the kiss, he’s never denied you like this.

You steadied your movements and when he noticed your lack of exploration he loosened the hold on your wrists, your hands this time traveling back up, taking a moment to ease him into your next move. You pulled back for a quick breath and resumed, this time you brought your hands down to the buttons of his flannel, you were barely able to pop one on his chest before he held each hand in his.

Peter pulled away from you, his one word was a whisper.

“No.”

Your turn to be confused, because, what?

“No?”

“No.” He shook his head lightly.

“Can I ask why?” He’s never stopped you before, but maybe he’s just not in the mood.

“I just don’t want to tonight.” Peter shrugged his shoulders casually.

But Peter does want to, it’s just that he has a black and purple bruise on quite literally the entire right side of his body. There was no avoiding the questioning, he’s gotten pretty lucky so far, nothing too concerning on his face or body that he couldn’t just play off. But this time he couldn’t think of a story that could justify that, and sometimes when he’s battered he’s had to wait until it was dark in his room, the only light is the moon peaking in the blinds. Or he would have to switch positions for the night, just to get you to keep from looking his way.

And Peter knows it wrong, and one day he’s gonna get caught in something that makes him confess before he’s ready and it will be a bigger issue than it should, but part of him likes that he’s just Peter with you and even though he knows he’s making the wrong decision he doesn’t want to tell you anything until you ask.

You tilt your head at him and purse your lips, trying to see if he was playing at something.

He looked genuine.

“Okay. Do you want to keep making out or do something else? I saw Battleship in your cupboard the other day, I’m sure I could kick your ass.” You grinned at him and played with the lapels of his collar while you waited for a response.

“Hmm, makeout please. Then kick my ass.”

He pulled you in for a kiss, and you tried to be respectful of his no. But old habits die hard and when lost in a daze of Peter’s tongue grazing your own you ground your hips into his. In an act of apology you placed your hand on his waist and squeezed lightly, you pulled from him slightly to mutter an apology.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean-”

Peter’s face scrunched up, almost like you hurt him.

You glanced at the hand on his waist and grabbed again, he grunted this time. You directed your gaze at him.

“What’s wrong?”

“Hm? Nothing, you’re good. C’mere.”

You pulled your head back.

“No. What’s wrong?”

“Nothings wrong, I don’t know what you mean.”

You narrowed your eyes and squeezed. Peter did his best attempt at a poker face but you did it tightly this time, and even you saw the wobble of his lip in betrayal.

“That doesn’t hurt?”

“No.”

“Bullshit.”

“I’m fine, baby.” He leaned in for a kiss, if you didn’t know better you would think it’s a distraction.

You squeezed again and this time he removed your hand from him and placed it on his thigh.

“Then let me see.” You tried to move the shirt up but his hand laid on top of yours.

“See what? Nothing is there.”

“Then let me see.”

“No.”

“Peter!” You whined his name, why was he acting like this?

“Y/N.” He kept his tone neutral, not a good sign. He was getting annoyed.

You wanted to see how far you could push him.

“Are you sore?”

He sighed, he knew in his heart he should’ve just taken up the offer for Battleship.

“No, I’m fine. I promise.”

“Are you hurt?”

“I just said I was fine, baby.”

You pouted at his claim, it was a bold face lie and you both knew it. In a quick moment you raced to throw his shirt up but he locked his hands around your wrists quicker than you could finish the plan.

“Stop.” He was serious this time, no more playing.

You knew he was over the interrogation by his grip, it didn’t hurt but it was tight. He was subtly hinting he would throw you off him if you didn’t stop.

Peter knows you’re confused and probably a little hurt because you knew he was lying and worse, hiding something he didn’t want you to see. He wonders what you’re thinking, if he’s sore from a new workout, or if he has hickeys all over he doesn’t want you to see, or maybe you were really just thinking why he didn’t trust you.

You held your hands up in surrender, this wasn’t fun anymore.

“Okay, I’m sorry. I won’t ask again, maybe it’s sepsis and you’re dying. It’s fine, no big deal.” You lightly teased him, trying to show you weren’t trying to corner him. You just cared.

Peter rolled his eyes, “It’s not sepsis.”

“Oh, so you admit it?”

“Admit what?”

“It’s something.”

Peter just looked in your eyes with pursed lips, both of you refused to break eye contact. The room was silent and unmoving for a solid minute.

“I think it’s time for battleship.”

Peter tapped your thighs to get you to get off him so he could stand up and set up the game, you crossed your arms over your chest and challenged him for a moment, calling his bluff. Was he really about to ignore the whole situation?

The answer was yes, he was just blinking back at you and looked confused as to why you weren’t moving off him. He was prepared to let you win, he was just gonna say you were hitting ships even when you weren’t, just to make you feel like you won something against him.

You huffed and pushed off of him.

“Fine. But don’t let me win, I’m going to kick your ass just because I can.”

And even though you kept putting the largest ship in the same place, Peter let you win.

—--------------------------------------------

“Ouch, what’s that from?”

You frowned at the small graze across Peter’s face, a superficial cut that ran over his right cheek. You placed a light kiss to the mark as if you could heal it instantly.

“I was walking down 5th and May called and I dropped my phone. When I picked it up I stood back up into a bush, got me a good one.”

“It looks like you got hit with something.” (He did.)

You ran your thumb over the injury.

“Yeah, Mother Nature.”

“That’s not a fight I think you can win, dear. But, now my boyfriend looks like a tough guy.”

Peter can get behind that idea, some big strong man you hide behind who doesn’t take shit from anyone.

“Ah, does that do something for you? I can start picking fights if that’s what you want.”

You scrunch your nose at his teasing, “Nah. I love my soft, mushy boyfriend. He’s so nice and kind, he could never hurt anyone.” (He could.)

And those are the kind of comments that make him feel bad, because how was he supposed to tell you he actually is picking fights and isn’t so nice and kind sometimes.

Too bad your hug is crushing him and all he can feel is what he thinks is the right decision.

—-------------------------------------------------------------

“Ah! Fuck, what the fuck!”

Your heart raced and you held a hand over your chest to try and regulate the pulses. Your senses bounced off the brick around you, in an effort to catch your breath from the fright you breathed heavily for a second.

“You scared the fuck out of me.”

“Sorry! I thought you heard me!”

The red and blue hero dropped behind you and didn’t say a word until you felt someone watching you and turned ready to scream out ‘Fire!’ and had the daylights scared out of you.

“It’s fine, just got my blood racing a little.”

“What’s up? Long time no see.”

It’s true. You hadn’t seen the masked vigilante for a moment, he was never around or at least wasn’t around when you were.

“Nothing much. My birthday is about to come up, Peter and I are coming up on six months. But, we're also in a rough patch right now, so yeah. That’s fun.”

Rough patch?

You were in a rough patch?

“Rough patch?”

“Yeah. It’s whatever, I’m sure it’s fine.” You shrugged but if you were being honest you were actually kind of losing sleep over it.

“What do you mean?”

Yeah, what do you mean?

“Uh, he’s hiding something from me. And I can’t tell if it’s something big or not, and I’ve really been trying to be cool but if I’m being honest it’s really starting to fuck with my head.” You gave a small laugh at the end but even he could tell it was forced.

Was him not being honest ruining the relationship?

“When did that start?”

Did he start to let his guard drop?

“I don’t know. I think he’s always been kind of, I don’t know. He’s not like, secretive but he’s kind of private, but not really? I mean I can ask him anything but sometimes I can tell he’s just talking around the topic, you know?”

“And recently it’s been getting worse. Like, sometimes he won’t let me touch him. And I don’t think it's me, it’s just because he doesn’t want to be touched. It’s almost like I’m hurting him, and now I can’t help but think maybe he has trauma or something but that’s not a thing you ask outright. I can’t help but think we’re both waiting for the other to bring it up first.”

Ouch.

He’s made his girlfriend feel like shit.

That’s not being the best boyfriend he promised he would be.

Ouch.

“I think you’re right. It not being a you thing, I mean. Maybe he has something he’s not ready to share yet.”

You let out a heavy sigh.

“I know. And I know this sounds shitty, because I want him to work this out on his own and come to me when he’s ready. But, I also want to know I’m not crazy and that there is something he’s hiding. And I can’t just ask if he’s hiding something out of the blue because then he’s going to lie and I really, really hate that he’s been lying. And we both fucking know it, I mean he just looks at me and we both know what he said was a lie but neither of us comment on it.”

Yeah, he feels like shit.

“I just…” You trail off, and for the first time in the past two weeks spiral you cry. And you cry hard, your breaths tremble and you squat with your head between your knees to collapse the spinning thoughts around you.

Peter doesn’t know what the fuck to do.

Because he wants to wrap himself around you and tell you it’s okay.

But he doesn’t think Spider-Man would do that.

So he doesn’t.

“Hey, it’s okay. You’re okay, just breathe okay?”

You sniffle and rub your eyes.

“I just really, really love him. Why doesn’t he trust me?” Your voice broke and Peter had to look directly into your teary eyes through his mask and tell you he doesn’t know.

—---------------------------------

It was another Saturday night where Peter was rejecting your advances.

It has been happening more frequently, not super often but enough to make you question something. Peter has just been more on edge, and now that he knows you’re looking for something he doesn’t want to risk it.

You pulled from him and sighed.

“What’s the no for this time?”

He feels like he should be honest.

So he is.

“I have a bad bruise and it hurts, I scraped up my side and it’s ugly.”

“Can I see it?”

“I don’t really want you to.”

At least he was being honest, and that is something you’ll take.

“Okay. Thanks for telling me.” You grinned at him, and pressed a chaste kiss to his mouth.

“Can I ask what happened?”

“I rubbed it against a building, no biggie.” (He was swinging quite fast and was too busy looking at a pigeon trying to fly off with a whole sandwich.)

“Ouch.” You frowned and looked down at his torso.

“Where is it?”

Peter ran a hand over his left rib area and you ducked your head down to place feather light kisses over his shirt.

He sighed and rubbed at the back of your head.

“Feels better already.”

—-----------------------------------------------------------

“Let me kiss it better.”

Peter pulled his hand away from you and hid it, he didn’t want you to kiss it better. You had just walked in two seconds after he dropped the suit from his body, his cheeks glew at the wolf whistle you gave his mostly naked body.

You clocked in on his scraped knuckles, you weren’t sure how it happened but you’ve learned Peter is pretty clumsy. He was usually scraped, cut or bruised somewhere but never so much it drew out real questions you wouldn’t let him escape from.

Peter on the other hand tried to play it off, but in reality he hasn’t washed the blood from his hand yet and he’s not sure whose it is. Was it his or was it from the teeth scraping across as he punched some guy in the jaw a few dozen times?

He didn’t want you to kiss a stranger's blood, even if you took it as rejection he wouldn’t give in and let you win.

“It’s okay, baby. Doesn’t hurt.” (It actually didn’t this time.)

“But it’s my job to kiss your boo-boos.”

“Not tonight, I’d rather kiss you.”

He’s gotten better at redirecting your thoughts.

“I’m okay with that, but don’t put on pants. Just a waste of time.”

You winked at his boxers and nibbled on your bottom lip.

Tonight he didn’t object.

-------------------———————————-

Everything Peter was scared of happening was happening right now.

He doesn’t know how you got here, and he doesn’t know how he stumbled upon you but he is so glad he did. You were currently soaking wet and shivering while heaving breaths, your face was red and wet, he wasn’t sure if it was the rain or tears.

What you were doing in the pouring rain almost two hours into the Bronx is beyond him, he just wanted you home, dry and safe.

“What’s going on?” His panicked questioning made you cry harder.

“I’m not, I don’t, please help me. Please.”

“Okay, okay. Tell me what’s going on so I can help you. Can you do that for me?”

Peter watched as you calmed your breath, shoulders shaking from the cold rain on bare skin. Your breaths came in stutters as you tried to speak.

“My phone is dead and I don’t know where I am. I fell asleep on the train and I had to get off and I tried staying in the station but this old fucking creep was following me around,”

Peter’s heart sank.

You were terrified, lost and cold.

“So I came out here and I forgot my jacket at Peter’s and, and, and. I really need him, can you call him please?”

Peter froze.

He can’t call Peter, he is Peter.

“I don’t have his number, I can help you, it's okay.”

Spider-Man tried to reach for your arm but you recoiled and broke into a sob.

“No. Please call Peter, please. I know his number, I would call him on the payphone, I tried but that guy came up right behind me and was pressing into me.”

He felt worse by the second.

You just really, really needed him.

“I’m sorry, I can’t.”

“It’s your job! You’re supposed to help. Please call my boyfriend.” You became bitter but it was just nerves.

“I can’t. I can’t give out my number like that, you have to understand. I can get you back home safely, that’s the best I can offer.”

“I don’t want to go alone, he can come. He will come, just call him. He won’t leave me here, I know he won't.”

He knows he wouldn’t either.

But he’s not Peter right now, and he can’t be no matter how much you need him.

“I’ll ride with you. Just so you’re not alone, would that be okay?” He was almost pleading with you, out of every other time he wants this one to be the time where you just shut up and listen.

“I just really don’t want you right now, I’m sorry.” You sniffled and shuffled away from him, blinking away the rain droplets on your eyelashes.

Peter doesn’t know what to say.

You won’t listen to Spider-Man, it’s not who you want.

“Would you come with me to call him? I understand you can’t call him but just so I don’t have to go back down there alone, please?”

Now he has to watch you get ignored 3 times because he can’t answer, he’s right next to you. And he’s staring down the old guy four benches down looking you up and down from the side. After the third call with no answer you slammed the phone down on the hook.

“I don’t know why he didn’t answer. The one time I really, really needed him to answer he didn’t.”

Peter really wishes he could tell you he’s right there, just one arm length away.

“Let me take you home, he probably just has unknown callers silenced. No need to panic, okay?” Peter cautioned the words scared for a blow up on your end but it was worse, it was defeat.

It was disappointment.

It was hurt.

Peter had let you down.

And he watched himself do it.

“What if he calls back?”

“He can’t. You can’t call payphones back.”

Peter isn’t sure if that’s true, but he does know that the phone will never ring.

“Okay. You can take me home.”

Three stops before yours you told Spider-Man he could leave. You promised you would be okay and that you really appreciated him taking the hours out of his evening to get you home even after you freaked out on him.

As soon as the doors opened you were met with the worried eyes of your boyfriend, a smile broke over his face as you stepped through. You were confused but more than anything, you were safe, comforted, and warm. He was so, so warm. And he had a jacket for you.

“How did you know I was here?” Your cold nose was buried in his shoulder.

“Private caller. They left me a message and said you were here and waiting for me, heard you got a little lost.”

“I was so so sacred. Spider-Man found me, and I was begging him to call you. I wonder if he did, I called you three times.”

“On the payphone? I have unknown callers silenced, from now on I’ll keep them on okay? I’m sorry you were scared, it’s a good thing Spidey was there huh?”

You shook your head and pressed into him for a hug.

“There isn’t anyone or anything that makes me feel safer than being right here.”

Peter decided then he has to tell you.

—------------------------------------------

It’s fair you’re pissed at Peter.

He knows it’s fair, he just hopes you’ll still date him after this.

And of course he was right, you found out before he was ready to tell you and he knows it’s gone on too long, and there wasn’t going to be an easy way to break the news but you finding out on your own made you spiral into a frenzy and now you refused to speak to him.

He had just washed his suit, and with the technology he couldn’t dry it so on wash days he kept it hung in his closet to air dry until he would use it that night.

Then you came over and rolled around in his bed, then begged him to make you a grilled cheese, then begged to watch the new season of reality TV on Netflix, which he hates but knows you love the drama. He also feels a little good because the whole time you cling to his arm and watch the guys berate their new fiancès and tell Peter you’re so glad he doesn’t act like that.

It was totally normal until the evening.

You had asked to take a shower before dinner, and sat on his bed with your wet hair dripping down your pajama shirt, and his fan iced the droplets and it sent chills up your back. You were planning on spending the night and so in your shivers you dug yourself under his blankets but the cold had already settled into your bones and you were contemplating getting a hoodie of Peter’s out of his closet.

“Hey.”

You were almost at his closet doors when he interfered.

“I’m cold.”

“C’mere.” He opened his arms for a hug but his warmth wasn’t settling the chill in your body.

“Want to do chinese? If not, we can do that pasta thing again.”

“Hmm, I’m not sure yet. I’m too cold to decide, I’m gonna grab a hoodie.”

You broke from the hug and Peter stepped to the side in front of you again.

“I can grab it.”

You rolled your eyes with a grin, you’re not sure if Peter’s love language was more acts of service or physical touch.

“It’s okay, I can manage.”

You tried to step to the side once more but he followed you.

“No really, I insist.”

Even with a smile on his face you saw the slight panic, he didn’t want you in his closet.

“What? Are you hiding your other girlfriend in there or something?”

He was hiding something in there for sure. Just not another girl.

“Oh yeah, there’s another one under the bed too. I’m surprised you didn’t see the third one hiding in the shower.”

A shudder ran down your spine and you were able to place a hand on the closet handle before Peter leaned against the doors so they wouldn’t open.

“I got it.”

You furrowed your brow at him, why was he acting like this?

“Yeah, I can too.”

“No really, let me.”

You don’t know why but suddenly you were warm with slight rage, why was he being so fascitous? There was no reason for him to be trying so hard to keep you from opening the doors but there was.

And you didn’t know why.

“No. Let me.”

You pulled at the handle but it didn’t budge under Peter resting against it.

“Peter, move.”

He thinks this is the moment. You’re about to find out and he’s terrified.

“Baby I don’t mind, let me take care of you.” This was his last plea, hiding behind wanting to take care of you and not because he was trying to hide his suit. Not at all.

“What are you hiding?” You jiggled the handle again.

“What? Nothing.”

“No, it’s something.” You weren’t even cold anymore, this was about standing your ground.

“I don’t-“

You cut him off, you were done with the lies.

“Then move.”

Peter stayed silent this time.

He was about to let you in.

He was about to watch the other shoe drop.

You pushed his shoulder to move him off the door and he stumbled away while holding his breath. He wasn’t even as half as nervous when May found out.

You opened the door and let out a breath.

“See? Did it just fine on my own.”

Your hand ran across the right rack looking through the hooded collection searching for your favorite. You didn’t get why he was so adamant on you not doing this yourself, there was absolutely no issue.

You slipped the thick blue fleece off the hanger and turned sideways to close the door, and when the door was almost shut your breath hitched, did you just see what you thought?

Peter stayed still, he knows you saw.

You slowly cracked the door back open and looked at the left rack. And it was there, hung up. Just spandex and so innocent looking, you almost told yourself it was just an authentic replica. A costume.

But you knew better.

And by his reaction, or lack of, was answer enough.

You dropped the sweatshirt to the ground and ran a thumb over the shoulder of the suit, the same texture that was on your cheek when you asked him to not beat up Peter.

Peter was Spider-Man.

Your boyfriend was Spider-Man.

You confided in him several times, about him.

You felt so dirty, and played, and dumb, and belittled. Each time you talked with him replayed in your mind, every conversation and accusation.

It was so unfair.

Peter always had the upper hand, and you weren’t even aware he did.

Peter just watched your reaction, your thumb didn’t move. You didn’t move, just stayed still until your hand dropped and when you turned to look at him he stayed silent waiting for you to break the ice.

He was going to wait until you asked him a question or all of them, but you didn’t. You just shook your head at him and shoulder checked him as you walked out his room and headed to grab your bag by the front door to leave.

“Hey, hey, hey. Stop, let’s talk.”

“You don’t want me to talk to you right now.” You sounded so bitter, so hurt, so angry.

“Yes I do, let me hear it.”

“No. I literally don’t even want to see you right now.”

Peter moved to stand in front of the door and true to your word you had your head turned to the wall in effort not to look at him. Even seeing him, watching him try to handle this with ease unsettled you. He didn’t realize how uncomfortable you felt right now.

“Baby, let’s talk, okay? I’ll answer any questions.”

You laughed bitterly at his words, funny now he was the king of honesty.

“You know maybe you can send Spider-Man out to collect all the intel on Peter and I’s issues.”

“Hey, that’s not what I meant to happen.”

“Fuck off, Peter. I really, really don’t want to be around you. But, you know, I’m sure Spidey will track me down and ask me about an issue he somehow knows I’m having.”

He shook his head and tried to defend himself, “That’s not-“

“That’s not how it happened, I get it. The first time was a fluke, I’ll give you that. But every other time you knew who I was, and what I wanted. You played into it, you should’ve ignored me. You shouldn’t have kept tracking me down or talking to me, you had an unfair advantage the entire time.”

“You should’ve never talked to me as him after I told him I liked you. That is dirty behavior and now I really don’t trust you, I mean what else are you hiding?”

Peter knows in his heart this was deserved, he knows what you mean, and you’re not wrong. He knows in his heart that he only cared and was checking up on you but to you it felt like he was playing you.

“I know, I know. I wanted to tell you, I really did, I swear. I just really liked that you didn’t know, and it wasn’t even sadistic, I just liked being just me around you. I didn’t want to explain every detail of what I do, or what I did that night, you know?”

“No, Peter. I really don’t know, I didn’t talk to you like a third party person and pretend like I didn’t actually know you. I was only honest with you, and you weren’t. I genuinely don’t know what is real or a lie anymore.”

You were hurt and confused and honestly it was fucking hard with your head, did he act or say certain things because you told Spider-Man what you wanted?

Was he ever going to actually tell you?

“I love you. And I know I messed up, but I promise nothing was a lie. Everything I told you about Peter as Spider-Man was true.”

And Peter was being honest, he didn’t mean to mess it up this hard. He knew you wouldn’t be happy but he didn’t expect you to question the entire relationship.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, I know I should’ve but I didn’t want this to happen.”

He pointed between you two and your face hardened, he didn’t understand your point.

“This isn’t happening because you didn’t tell me you were Spider-Man, I get why you didn’t tell me. This is happening because you kept using it to your advantage, and you knew what you were doing. You should have left me alone. That’s why this is happening.”

Peter wasn’t sure how to navigate this anymore, everything he said was the wrong thing. Maybe you were right, he should’ve let you leave, you weren’t ready to talk about this right now.

He let out a sigh and rubbed at his forehead, he understood that you needed space and talking it out was making it worse.

“Okay, okay. I know you’re mad, and hurt and upset with me right now. And I don’t want to fix that, I just want you to work through this with me, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Do you want to leave? If you need time away from me it’s okay.”

“Yeah.”

You threw your backpack over a shoulder and passed by him towards the door before he grabbed your wrist.

“I’m sorry, and I love you.”

“I know you are.”

Peter frowned at the response.

“You’ll call me if you need something right? We’re okay for now?”

You nodded at him and pulled your wrist from his grasp.

“We’re okay. I love you. I’ll call you later.”

At least you said you loved him back, but he couldn’t help but feel off after watching you leave without a glance back.

Peter feels like he’s really, really messed up.

————————————-

“Hi.”

Peter whipped his head down at you, he wasn’t expecting you to approach him in the suit, especially after yesterday. You hadn’t talked to him for a whole twenty four hours and he actually felt like he was going crazy. And he didn’t realize how often he texts or snapchats you or sends links until he decided to leave the contact up to you.

He wasn’t upset at you, you were upset at him so he thinks it’s fair that you come to him first. But he really wasn’t expecting that it would be a day later, maybe a few days at least if he was basing it off of how upset you were yesterday.

“Hi.”

“I missed you.” You sniffled.

“I missed you, too.”

Peter watched you slowly trying to gauge your reaction, he genuinely couldn’t tell what you were thinking and he wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or not.

“Wanna talk?”

You nodded your head slowly, and looked around the space you were in wondering if it was a quiet enough spot. Off the busy street you tucked away into the corner of the alleyway, your eye catching the webbed bag up the wall.

He jumped off the roof and followed you and waited for you to talk, he watched as you soaked him in for a second. You’ve seen Spider-Man before but now knowing he was Peter you looked at him differently, you were drawing over his curves and dips with your eyes and you reached out to run a hand down his front.

“Can I… Can you take off your mask?”

In an instant he pulled it off and you watched as his hair fell down in a fluff, you reached a hand out to smooth over the curls, trying your best to place it the way he normally has it despite knowing it was about to get ruined.

“Feels weird seeing you in the suit, it’s like you’re cosplaying.”

“How do you put it on?” You traced over his chest and then turned him around as you searched for a zipper.

“The spider.” He lightly ran his glove over the emblem and without understanding the concept you pressed the spider confused with the steps.

“Oop!” Your arms flailed as you were unsure what to do, in one motion the suit expanded and quite literally fell off his body. Even hiding in the corner you tried to shield him from any outside views.

Peter giggled as you fumbled around, he drew the suit back up and grabbed your hand to press the spider as it conformed back into his shape.

“Sorry, I didn’t know it would do that.”

“It’s okay.” He smiled warmly and you were desperate to kiss him so you did.

“What’s up?”

You bit the inside of your cheek and pondered on what to say, or more what to ask. More than anything knowing that your boyfriend was now an open book and was willing to answer any questions you had.

“Can you see out of that?”

You pointed at the mask in his hand.

“Mhm.” He nodded.

You couldn’t picture how, it looked like mesh. In fact when you ran your thumb over it, it felt like mesh.

“How?”

“Well my senses make it hard to-“

“No, how did it happen? How are you him?”

“A spider bite. Radioactive spider, I didn’t realize until the next morning that something was up. I woke up and felt like my head was splitting open cause I could hear the entire city in my head.”

“When?”

“When I was 15.”

“Who else knows?”

“May, MJ and Ned.”

You nodded slowly, everyone knew.

And you didn’t.

“If it makes you feel better it’s not just you I never told, everyone just found out on their own.”

You hummed and nodded your head.

“So everytime you said no to sex you were hiding a Spidey ingury?”

“Correct.”

You didn’t know how to move forward, what happened next? Do you forget what happened?

You do understand why he didn’t say anything, but he also should’ve never interfered after the first time. You can’t help but feel a little violated, and it’s not like you cared Peter knew what you said, it’s how he was hearing that bothered you.

“I’m still upset at you.”

You sniffled again and rolled a pebble under your foot, you watched Peter frown before looking behind you and pulling you into him and behind the dumpster.

You pulled a face of confusion until you heard chattering voices and group laughs walking by the clearance. His strong hearing impressed you, it was new seeing him react to his senses in front of you.

“I know, baby. And I understand, I know what I did was wrong. And I don’t want to try and justify it but, in my mind I was just caring for you. I didn’t even think of it like that, and I don’t know why I didn’t. Cause I’d be peeved if the situation was swapped.”

Peter was honest, he knew after sulking all night he was wrong. He did exploit his position but he just loved you and cared for you and just wanted you to feel safe and heard, but you wanted to do all of that with Peter, not Spider-Man.

“You know what hurts me the most?”

Peter doesn’t want to hear it.

“No, what?”

“When you didn’t tell me that day when I got lost. I was fucking petrified and I needed you, you saw how much I needed you and you just went along with the story. Looking back on that now I just feel so hurt.”

Peter felt his heart drop.

He let you down.

He knows he did that day.

It just really hurt having you confirm his fears.

“It really, really hurt me not to tell you. And that doesn’t compare to how you felt, I just want you to know that even though I caused this, I didn’t feel good doing it.”

Peter wasn’t evil, he was a sweet boy. Just a little unaware.

And that’s what you loved most about him.

“That's it, right? No more secrets?”

Peter laughed and nodded his head.

“That’s it. I promise.”

“Total transparency?”

You raised your hand to shake his and spread your fingers over his gloved hand, warmth seeking into your palms.

“Total transparency.”

You bit your lip and over exaggerated your hand shake.

“Good. Cause I have some questions.”

“I’ll answer all of them.”

“Okay! Did you get all your powers at once or was it one at a time? How fast can you swing? How slow can you swing? Have you ever hit a bird? When do you eat? Wait, how do you pee? How do your webs work? Please don’t say they come out of you.”

You paused for a gulp of air and watched Peter’s eyes go wide.

“Are all your senses effected? Can you super smell now? And how do your senses work? Could I wear the mask? Or does it only work for your head? Wait, do you know Tony Stark? Could I meet Tony Stark? Do you have a room at the Avengers tower? Is Tony Stark cool? Can you-“

“Baby breathe.”

Peter watched your face grow in color while you continued to ask away, and if he was honest he needed you to stop for a minute.

“Sorry! I’m just curious.”

You watched Peter try and mentally checklist the questions so he could respond and you bit your cheek while he counted the questions. Your mind started to wander off.

“So if you were swinging through-“

Peter now thinks this is the worst case scenario of you finding out about his alter ego.

[softshuji]

Sometimes Tokyo is a suffocating place. 

Rindou loves it, don’t get him wrong. The various districts, various people, all milling about, some on phones talking fast, pushing through crowds that part unwillingly as they plough through, mothers and babies in prams and it’s loud, so loud, the tinny buzz of voices on top of each other and his head aches with the need for some silence. 

He walks into the library on a whim, his headphones blinking red and drained of battery and the cool quiet interior is a welcome respite from the noise, the collar of his shirt clinging to his neck under his hoodie, the occasional wisp of blond blue hair curling around his ears as the air con blows a blast of cold air.

Once he had hidden here with Ran, between the aisles as a police car rushed past, the two of them hunched over and catching their breath, a long stare that petered off into giggles and laughs, the two of them young and still new to it all. It’s a bit different now, a bit harder to get Ran’s attention since his Wife and child came along. He doesn’t resent it, he’s happy for him. Ran has been the source of his safety for years, it would be selfish to keep him like that- to rob him of what he knows Ran deserves. Peace, something to lean on when he is too stubborn to lean on him. 

Old habits do tend to die hard.

But he can’t lie and say it isn’t lonely sometimes. The days when he picks up the phone, types out a text to his Brother- the only person who was only ever a call away, a message away, a shout across the house- and imagines him juggling the throes of newfound parenthood, something he loves and enjoys, and having his little Brother clinging onto him still, this far into adulthood when Rindou thinks he should be able to stand on his own two feet and wishes it was easier to do so.

There is only so much music he can listen to, only so much he can drink alone, only so many clubs he can waste his time at before it bothers him- the strobe lighting, the flirtations of girls who’ll forget his name when the next hotshot with a wad of cash comes along, and maybe he flirts back for a time, just to throw out the napkin with their numbers on later because it ultimately means nothing to him when there’s so little substance and he hates the idea of meeting someone like that- playing pretend because there’s so little else to do.

He’s angry that it seems so hard for him and he wishes he were a little less….him at times. A little more like Ran, a little easier, a little less rough around the edges, the jagged and sharp points of him that are stubborn and unwilling to be smoothed down by time. If it were a year ago, he’d call his Brother now and they’d drive at night and he’d feel a little less like he’s wading out to shore, a little more seen, a little less like he’s squashed between here and there and scrambling for something to understand. 

Maybe he kicks at the ground then, and maybe he loses his footing and stumbles into you reaching up to get something from the shelf, you knocked sideways and him barrelling into you, one hand braced on the wall to stabilise himself, the other reaching for you to pull you to him instinctually. 

‘Shit, fuck, I’m sorry,’ he says, headphones clattering to the floor, the wires corded around his hoodie, an avid crimson spillingacross his skin. ‘You okay?’

‘Yeah, yeah, no I’m fine, don't worry.’ And you look up from where you’d bent to brush the dust from your legs with the beginnings of a smile. And maybe the light hits you at just the right angle, the sunlight dancing through the window, dust mites flickering in the golden glow- or maybe he’d touched your hand for a fraction of a second and it had been warm and soft or maybe he’s rationalising and something cold in him cracks a little but he smiles back and lifts a hand to rub at his neck with a trepidation that he curses himself for. 

You laugh, awkwardly, a brightness around the edge of you that feels warm, that feels foreign and weird and genuine and he watches the reflection of himself in your eyes, bewilderment and confusion and an attempt at a lopsided smile when you retrieve his headphones from the floor, the two sides now coming apart in your hands.

‘Oh,’ you say, a worried bite on your lip, the two sides of his now broken pair in your two hands. ‘God I’m so sorry, I can pay you for these-’

‘No need, it was my fault, I’m the one who hit you.’

‘No, no, I was in the way-’

‘You weren’t, I was just not watching where I was going. You don’t have to pay for anything, they weren’t that good anyway.’

He neglects to mention that they were his favourite pair, a set he bought a year back to kick off the DJ thing that never really went anywhere, because it was only ever just him and the kit, him and the music and maybe it was a lonely experience to not have anyone to share that with, long nights where the tinny sound of the music is somehow an ache in the otherwise silent house.

‘You sure?’ You cock your head to the side, lifting the two halves. ‘They seem really good quality. I can’t pay for it all now but maybe-’

‘Don’t worry, seriously. I got a tonne more at home.’

You blink and he curses himself again inwardly, avoiding and resisting a sidestep on his feet in nervous apprehension. He sees then, your books scattered on the floor at your feet, and bends to pick them, resting them under his arm as he leans down before handing them to you gently, his fingers brushing yours on the underside and it makes his chest lurch when you murmur a quiet ‘thank you’ that he’s glad isn’t lost on the reverberating drone and shuffle of feet in the next aisles over. 

‘Okay, I can get you a coffee? It doesn’t quite make up but I’d feel bad for not doing anything at all.’ You turn to pack the books into your bag and he watches you, the ease with which you hand the two sides back to him and wait expectantly for his reply, the loud and disastrous crash of his heart that he’s convinced you can hear, the long and ample silence that has his tongue clinging to the roof of his mouth. 

‘You don’t have to say yes by the way- I’m not trying to- you know, I just feel bad for breaking one of your things-’

His lips part. ‘Yes, yes, I’ll….’ he chews on his lip, hands helplessly holding the broken headphones, the swirl of something that feels like desperation clouding the flecked hue of his eyes. ‘Yeah, I think that’ll be okay.’

And it feels strange and different and new and terrifying when you grin brightly and pat his arm  and the hollow of his throat beats with nerves, pink flashing across his cheeks and ears in a way that feels so utterly like a betrayal.

You hum, hoist a stack under your arm and the sun is out, streaming through the windows as you lift your bag over your shoulder. ‘Okay nice, I’m going to go check these out but I'll meet you outside in ten?’

‘S-sure….’ he says, a whisper caught on his lips with a starved and suffocating breath, the dizzying euphoria, nerves and anxiety all rolling along his chest when he watches you leave with a short wav, the bag you’re carrying falling over your shoulder.

And maybe the pain is good this time, the sense of vertigo that has him bracing a hand on the shelf, a hand to his chest to rub at, slow and deliberate breaths to calm his racing heart.

Maybe this time, he feels a little less angry, a little less sad, a little more like something that feels scarily akin to happiness. 

Reblogs appreciated!

[passionateseadruid]

I’m going to hell for this

St Peter: I’m sorry Charlie! I should have supported the hotel. I should have stuck up for you.

Charlie: It’s okay St Peter-

Alastor: Yes I guess old Habits really do die hard.

St Peter:

Charlie:

[fernandezology]

gavi fluff watching a horror movie <333333

late night confessions - pablo gavi

pairing: pablo gavi x reader

author’s note: sorry this took awhile,but thank you for request! got a little carried away with this one and gave it a little twist. the end is purposefully like that to indicate she fell asleep. i hope you will like it<3

word count: 1,7 k

some people love to consume fear.

it was no secret you were one of them ever since… well ever since you can remember. you would hide in closets to scare your family,and when you would play hide and seek with your friends- it was a real nightmare to find you. nobody really had a clue from where did this love for fear came from.

you craved all kinds of frightening experiences. at the same time, fear is not exactly a positive emotion. trembling while darkness pushes in around us- this is not a feeling we would describe as pleasant. then,what is it about fear that you are so drawn to? most of people go to great lengths to avoid it. what better time to get scared than in the spookiest time of the year?

all of this began on halloween of 2014. haunted theme park opened near your city and, of course, you begged your parents to let you go. they let you go since they thought some of your older friends will be there too. all of you loved to watch american horror story,but to be fair the majority of them watched it because of evan peters. who could blame them? it’s hard to resist a man who looks like he didn’t sleep in thousand years.

looking back on this, some of your friends were confused when you showed them picture of pablo since he doesn’t have any dark circles. other than watching american horror story,you also loved to read stephen king. you upgraded on him after you read everything that r.l. stine published.

horror is designed to make one afraid because it is advantageous to our survival. the main reason all of you wanted to visit this theme park it is because one of scary houses was based from murder house in american horror story. who could resist experiencing that fear first hand? certainly not you. if you only knew how real horrifying that night is gonna get,you would never go anywhere near that cursed place.

one of your friends was nowhere to be seen. none of you wanted to admit it, but you started to panic. luckily, your instincts were telling you something went terribly wrong here because she wasn’t really type to scare anyone. you were looking everywhere and asking people did they see her.

and then it happened.

someone was walking towards her near exit and grabbed her hand. no running,no drama.

and then she tapped you on shoulder. turns out she was waiting on her revenge to scare you. it was a relief she was safe, but you couldn’t see horrors the way you used to before. you stopped watching them completely and for some reason you couldn’t go to sleep without checking is everything locked multiple times.

old habits die hard and to this day you still did this every night,without exception. pablo didn’t see it as anything unusual because he had no clue about the backstory. one night two of you decided to watch something on netflix. both of you are always so indecisive when it comes to choosing a movie,so you decided to use “suprise me” feature. it was safe to say that this wasn’t maybe the best idea. watching the shining on stormy night? not really what you had in mind,but you didn’t wanna say anything because there was certain advantages. shamelessly snuggling to him? perfect. pretending you fell asleep so he can carry you to bed? sounds like you have a plan b.

you couldn’t help but smile when you saw him frowning while he pressed play. he always asked so many questions while watching and it was very annoying to everyone around him,but you didn’t mind it.

“why would they agree to be in the middle of nowhere? someone will kill them,this is so predictable. is that what happens at the end?”

“just watch and you will understand.”

“can i ask you in case i don’t understand?”

“of course. you would ask anyway”,you said jokingly hoping he keeps asking to keep you distracted from the fact you are watching a horror after so many years.

to your suprise,he didn’t ask that many questions as he usually does. is this really that one time he decides to be quiet,you thought to yourself.

luckily for you,his silence didn’t last long.

“what does REDRUM means?”

“it’s murder backwards.”

“wait,from where did that bruise came from? did his dad really hit him? why are we watching this again?”

“it wasn’t his dad his time,but he did break his arm while trying to discipline him. if you are scared we can just turn it off and go to bed.”

“no,i’m not scared but i think you are and this is how you are trying to lure me in.”

you had no intention of turning to plan b,but maybe it was time. even though he said this jokingly,this was your chance to escape.

“i think i’m going to bed,but you are free to continue watching this- i’m not luring you.”

“wait are you angry at me or something? what’s wrong?”

you continued to walk to your room,pretending you didn’t hear him. it felt so wrong because after all,he never ignored you. and who likes to be ignored? you were hoping he is not gonna think too much of it and assume you just didn’t hear him.

you should’ve known him better by now because is so attentive about you. of course he is gonna come to you. that is pablo you fell in love with.

“what’s wrong,did i say something?”

“no,you didn’t- i just wanted to go to sleep.”

“you can’t fool me. i know that look and obviously something happened,but for the life of me i can’t figure out what is it.”

“i promise you,it’s nothing. could you come here and play with my hair?”

“anything for you princesa.”

part of you wanted to finally tell him this and the other part of you didn’t want to disturb this peaceful silence while he was pushing your hair behind ear. you closed your eyes,hoping this is how you are gonna fall asleep.

“aha! i think i know what it is. it’s because you were annoyed with how much i’m talking during the movie. i’m so sorry-“

“you are annoying,but i love every second of it.”

“so it’s not that? then i really don’t know what it is,can you please tell me? you already know i will annoy you until you give up and tell me.”

“in that case,i have to accept defeat. i don’t wanna tell you because it’s a bit embarrassing and honestly,i don’t think i’ve told this to anyone.”

“i won’t pressure if you don’t want to say it but whenever you are ready,i’m here to listen. trust has to be earned and i don’t expect you to tell me everything,but i hope you know you and your secrets are safe with me.”

“of course i trust you,please don’t even think it’s about that at all. you already did more than enough to earn my trust and love. it’s just hard to talk about this,even though it’s always in the back of my mind,somehow i don’t think about it that often as i used to.”

despite popular belief,he can be calm,composed and a good listener. he was all ears and nodded,encouraging you to continue. there is no easy way to say this,other than to rip off the band-aid.

“you were right- i was luring you to go to bed. it’s because i didn’t want to watch horror,since i didn’t watch any horror in years.”

“that’s nothing to be embarrassed about. why didn’t you just say you don’t want to watch it?”

“to be fair,you did a decent job of distracting me with questions. i thought i’m over it,but it turns out i’m not really. these movies just remind me of that period when someone almost kidnapped one of my friends.”

“oh… i didn’t expect that. how did that even happen?”

“it happened on halloween when we went to a theme park. mainly because of a haunted house that was like one from american horror story. all of a sudden she was nowhere to be seen and we thought she isn’t type to scare anyone- that was more my style. then i saw someone identical to her near the exit. someone grabbed her hand and walked out with her and grabbed her hand. it looked completely normal. no running,no drama. turns out that wasn’t her,she was just waiting on her turn to scare me.

“i can’t even imagine how scary that must’ve been. luckily it wasn’t her and all of you are okay.”

“yeah,but it made me think how many people get kidnapped and no one suspects a thing. you never know what’s happening around you for sure. and it didn’t help that at that time i was reading and watching horrors.”

“i would never connect you to horrors honestly,it could be because you are a complete opposite- a dream.”

“cliché. but i love it.”

“and i love you.”

“i love you too. now if you wanna play fair,you have to tell me one secret.”

“okay,but you have to promise you won’t laugh.”

“i will try.”

“i used to be terrified of the gremlins and i thought they will come to my room after midnight.”

“that’s reasonable,even i hated them. “

“no way,you are fearless. you are just saying it so we can be afraid together.”

“no,i’m serious! and besides,there is no such thing as being afraid when i’m with you.”

“so you won’t check are doors locked million times anymore?”

“i will try not to,but you know how they say: old habits die hard.”

“now it makes sense why you do that,i didn’t come off as unusual because i didn’t know the backstory.”

“now you know.”

“and now you know there is nothing you should be embarrassed or afraid to tell me. even if you want me to check are there any gremlins under bed. “

“deal.”

“i love when we have these late night talks,but i can see you are on the verge of falling asleep. buenas noches,te amo princesa. “

[tulipsinkships]

closure, tasm!peter parker

He’s standing at your door. After a year of only seeing clips of him on the news, cheesy t-shirts that said “I visited New York and didn’t get saved by Spiderman!” and cute memorabilia. Even after seeing him plastered over every newspaper, you missed seeing the boy under the mask, like sand that was determined to remain in the crevices of you, even though the last time you went to the beach was 5 months ago, you never can seem to remove him from your life.

Instead of the regular blue and red get up, he was back in his hoodie, an outfit you rarely saw and missed so, standing in front of you again with his feet turned in, hands shoved into his pockets. The sounds and voices from the movie you were watching muttered softly in the background and you knew you were gonna have to rewind it all the way back.

You don’t really know what to do. You don’t want to see him because you’ve already jumped through hoops and tripped over a couple hurdles to avoid that, you don’t want him standing in your doorway and you most definitely don’t want him in your apartment.

But he does that stupid cheeky smile and you’re letting him through the door.

The both of you know why he’s here, despite the distance and time put between the two of you, you still knew him like the back of your hand. You know what he wants, and you’re gonna make damn sure he doesn’t get it. Recreating the distance that he decided to make a year ago between the two of you, you move towards the kitchen.

“How about some tea?” You break the piercing silence, pointing to the tea you knew he liked. Even when you try, old habits die hard. He nods and smiles, but in the Peter way where you can tell he’s holding back a bigger grin, glad that you’re not being hostile. There’ll be time for that later.

You start making the tea, getting the kettle boiling and finding the mug he used to use, accidentally falling back into a rhythm you tried so hard to lose. But before you could catch yourself, you’re already pouring the hot water into his cup and yours. And that makes him break his hold on his grin, just a little.

“What are you smiling at,” your eyes flickered over. You force your eyes back onto the mug, not willing to show an ounce of emotion.

“You remember.” He says, taking a seat in one of your chairs. You couldn’t help the frown that formed. You wanted him out of your home not lounging at your kitchen table.

Choosing to ignore his comment and bring him the tea, you take a seat opposite him. Tentatively taking a sip, the two of you remain sitting in your uncomfortable silence. You weren’t going to be the one giving in, he came to you for god’s sake.

Until he says your name. And it feels like hearing god say it for the first time. Bringing your eyes to meet his, you feel a hundred needles poking at your throat and Eros’s grip tightening your chest.

“Hi Pete.” You give in, you could at least give him a smile. And his eyes light up, like it did when he brought you to the top of the Empire State Building and had your first kiss. And he smiles too. He leans in and rests his hands on his palms, absorbing your every feature, for it may very well be the last time he’ll get to see you this close, and he knows it.

But he crosses the border of the man made ocean he built between the two of you, and the alarm bells sound. It’s not safe if he gets this close to your shore, one you’d so carefully built to protect you. You pull back into your chair, gripping the mug between your hands, like your own shield to guard you from him.

“Why are you here Peter.” You finally bite and his face falls, knowing this moment of ceasefire was over. You want to hold him, and cradle his face, so full of regret and disappointment. Despite the resentment you thought you held against him, your heart pawed at you.

“I.. I don’t know, I guess I missed you.” His head dips, apologies he knew he owed you hanging heavy from around his neck. “And I wanted to say that I was sorry, for how I treated you.”

The quiet of your apartment drones on and the voices in the movie pick up, they’ve started yelling at each other. You pick at the hem of your shirt, letting his words lul over you.

“You definitely should be” a strained laugh rushes out. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

“Anything. Please. You can shout at me, scream at me,” His voice waver and crumbles, “Anything would be better than what we have now.” You can see it in his eyes, his hopefulness when he says that. And for a moment you really almost give in, you want so badly to soak the sadness out of him. Instead you move away from him, reinforcing what space he forced between you and him.

“Oh come on Pete, we can’t go over this again,” you run your fingers through your hair like it would somehow diffuse your frustrations.

“Go over what?”

“This!” You scoff out. You can’t believe he would seriously feign ignorance and pretend like he doesn’t remember the countless times you’ve had this same argument.

“It was so overwhelming being with you. I-… I never knew whether you’d be home safe, or whether you’ll be okay. I know! I know how hard you work protecting an entire fucking city, but sometimes I just wanted you by my side.” Once you got the ball rolling it moved like a freight train that’s been emptied of its brake fluid. “Not all the time but sometimes. Fuck is it so selfish of me to want you to be there for me?.”

He followed you out into your living room, the cups of tea abandoned. You can see his hands are itching to hold you, to comfort you, to be what you needed.

“I just needed you Pete. I needed you to be with me and you were never there.” You cried, words running out so quickly they were trampling over one another. “It felt like I was Spiderman's girlfriend more than I was Peter Parker’s. You think I don’t miss you? I felt like I was in purgatory for half of last year! I miss you too much for this to be healthy and I can’t start all over again.” He moves over to you, and you finally give in. He’s holding you like you were the last thing on this precious earth, holding you like you were grains of salt that would slip out of his hands if he moved too much.

“I’m sorry, I'm so so sorry.” You don’t even know what you’re apologizing for but you do and you sob, letting the tide wash over your shore. He’s cradling your body into his, nuzzling his face into your hair, becoming a cave for your solitudes. But his sniffling is bitter to your ears, a bee sting each time you hear it. He’s crying? He’s the one that brought this onto himself. God he shouldn’t even be here, you feel your anger rising back up to your ears and boiling off. If this were a cartoon, steam would be visibly pouring out your ears.

You untangle yourself from him and stand back up. “You’ve said your sorries, what else do you want,” you almost shout, exasperated.

And his face, oh his face. It was an exact replica of what you imagined a dog looked like if it was just kicked out of its home. You want to go back into his comfort but you don’t. You can’t.

“I- Please…” You know what he’s on his knees for, but he can’t even verbalize it. You’re shaking your head and headed towards the door, silently pleading for him to make this easier. But he’s grabbed your hand.

“I can’t let you go. I’ve tried so many times but I think about you all the time, who you’re with, whether you’re okay. I’ve even altered my routes so I swing by your apartment just to know you’re around me. I just can’t let you go, please don’t make me.” His hands clasped yours, holding onto you like a prayer.

And you had to give in, just one last time.

[aslvt4ag]

Title: Healing Light

Parings Andrew Garfield Peter Parker x y/n fem reader

Wordcont 530

Warnings contains themes of grief, loss, and addiction (smoking). Reader discretion is advised.

Summary: Peter Parker, still grieving Gwen's death, encountering y/n in a dimly lit alley. Initially defensive, Peter is surprised by y/n's genuine concern and innocence. Despite her refusal to smoke, y/n offers her support to Peter, reminding him of Gwen's purity and light.

An ( I just wanted to do a little reader and Peter series )

Peter Parker scowled at his reflection in the mirror, his hand running through his unkempt hair. Gwen's death still weighed heavily on his mind, a constant ache that he couldn't escape. He had become bitter, resentful, and his once cheerful demeanor had been replaced by a cold, callous attitude.

Walking through the crowded streets of New York City, Peter barely registered the people around him. He was lost in his own thoughts, consumed by grief and anger. But then, amidst the chaos, he saw her – y/n. She was different, a ray of light in his dark world.

Despite his better judgment, Peter found himself drawn to her. But his natural instinct to push people away kicked in, and he treated her with his usual disdain. Yet, y/n was undeterred, her kindness and warmth breaking through his walls bit by bit.

As days turned into weeks, Peter found himself opening up to y/n in ways he never thought possible. She became his confidante, his anchor in the storm of his emotions. And in her presence, he started to feel something he hadn't felt in a long time – hope.

But old habits die hard, and Peter's asshole tendencies still surfaced from time to time. Yet, y/n saw through his facade, understanding the pain that lingered beneath the surface. And slowly but surely, she helped him heal, showing him that even in the darkest of times, there was still light to be found.

Peter Parker leaned against the brick wall of a dimly lit alley, a cigarette dangling between his fingers. He took a drag, the smoke swirling around him like a shroud of darkness. He didn't care about the health risks; at that moment, all he wanted was to drown out the pain.

As he exhaled a cloud of smoke, he noticed y/n standing a few feet away, her eyes fixed on him with a mixture of curiosity and concern. She seemed out of place amidst the gritty backdrop of the alley, her demeanor far too innocent for the seedy environment.

"What are you looking at?" Peter snapped, his tone laced with irritation.

Y/n flinched slightly at his harsh words but didn't back down. "Sorry, I just... I saw you standing here alone and thought you might need someone to talk to."

Peter scoffed, taking another drag of his cigarette. "I don't need your pity," he muttered, his walls already starting to go up.

Y/n hesitated for a moment before taking a step closer. "I'm not here to pity you. I just... I know what it's like to feel lost and alone. And sometimes, talking to someone can help."

For a brief moment, Peter considered brushing her off. But there was something in y/n's eyes – a glimmer of understanding that he couldn't ignore. Despite her innocence, she seemed to carry a weight of empathy that reminded him of Gwen.

"Fine," he finally relented. "You got a smoke?"

Y/n shook her head, a small smile playing on her lips. "No, I don't smoke. But I'm here if you need someone to talk to."

As they stood in the alley, the contrast between them couldn't have been starker – Peter, with his rough exterior and world-weary gaze, and y/n, with her gentle demeanor and unwavering compassion. And in that moment, Peter couldn't help but be reminded of Gwen – pure, untainted, and full of light.

[signalwatch]

Christmas Watch: Elf (2003) Watched:  12/14/2023 Format:  Hulu Viewing:  Unknown Director:  John Favreau Not too long ago on the nu-social medias (BluSky, maybe?) I opined that Elf (2003) is the last generally agreed upon holiday "classic".   While there's plenty of good Christmas movies that have arrived in the past two decades, it's hard to find one this many people have seen - which maybe isn't the best endorsement, but it is a fact.  Elf was the last holiday movie to land in regular rotation on basic cable (as in "24 hours of Elf!"), and it's hard to imagine that in our splintered way of viewing media and smaller and smaller shares of audiences that a movie will be able to get much traction as part of folks' holiday habits.  And, even now, the classics of a decade or so ago have been pushed aside for 1980's Gen-X nostalgia and the endless Die Hard debates by people young enough to have their own movies. It's not hard to see why Elf has earned it's place, though, and why it's imitated with movies like Noelle.  It's a great concept to imagine a North Pole elf loosed in the big city, trying to connect to the rest of us and missing.  There's an innocence and joie de vivre ascribed to children that it's fun to see a 6'3" guy embracing. The "elf culture" gags are fantastic, and - while I know Will Ferrell's energy isn't for everyone - but it seems to be coming from a place in this one.  And, really, the whole cast in this thing is great.  Casting James Caan as Buddy's father was absolutely inspired.  Zooey Deschanel, Mary Steenburgen, Bob Newhart, Ed Asner, Michael Lerner, Amy Sedaris, Andy Richter and Kyle Gass, and, of course, Peter Dinklage.   It fits neatly into a space where we've already seen innumerable movies about how Santa is de-powered because there's not enough Christmas spirit... like, that's a major plot point and they never really get into it.  We just look around and say "yeah, fair enough, I guess".  And it knows we've all seen the stop-motion Rankin-Bass specials enough, it just overlays that world over the North Pole.   Anyway, you've seen Elf.  I don't need to belabor the point.  The only real thing that sticks out in 2023 is - why on earth does Zooey Deschanel's character fall for Buddy?  Inquiring minds want to know.  He's a grown man who acts like a hyper 7 year old, has no job, and is insane/ obsessed with Christmas.  Which is going to feel weird in July. I mean, yes, he helped encourage her to sing, but.  Look, people encourage me to do stuff all the time, but I am sorry - I do not start making googly eyes at you as a result.  Googly eyes are reserved for Jamie. https://ift.tt/AnEPvH8 via The Signal Watch https://ift.tt/VDexjWJ December 17, 2023 at 09:33PM

[cassidyconner]

Not That Old

Spoilers for No Way Home

Summary: After the battle on the New Statue of Liberty, MJ’s older sister is being comforted by Peter-2. Implied tobey!peter Parker x black!reader.

She doesn’t think she can get that menacing look out of her head. The goblin’s hands tight around her neck, threatening to break it at any moment. The dizzy and nauseating sensation of being held up so high from the ground. She hated heights.

“Can you save your loved ones or will they continue to die, Spider-Man?”

The goblin let’s her fall.

Only this time she doesn’t black out.

No catches her in time.

She’s falling.

Falling…

Falling…

-

The first thing she notices is that someone is calling her name from the darkness. She opens her eyes to see his bright yet worn blue ones. However, the rest of her body was still in the stages of REM sleep.

“Are you okay?” He waves his hands in front of her face but it dawns on him quickly. “Oh you’re having sleep paralysis.”

She haven’t had sleep paralysis since maybe 9th grade. Well not as much as in 9th grade but still it was a very rare occurrence, only when she was stressed and well, the past 12 hours was pretty fucking stressful.

“Okay, try not to fight it or it’ll last longer.” Peter-2 tells her, he takes her hand and gently squeezes it. “Just breath in and out.”

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

In.

Her body does a sudden strange jerking upwards movement which caught Peter-2 off guard. She lets out a strangled gasp as she finally takes control of her body again.

“Sorry.” She says, looking at the wall. “It’s a habit to fight when I have sleep paralysis it’s a-“

“Like someone is smothering you.”

“Exactly.” She looks at his hands. “I guess I was screaming in my sleep like a maniac, huh?”

Peter-2 shakes his head. “No, I kind of sensed that you were in distressed.”

She glances at the ceiling. “Oh like the spider-sense thingy? Is that how it works as well?”

“Kind of. I wish I can explain it better.” Peter-2 admits. “Am I making you uncomfortable?”

She looks from the wall to his direction for a moment before focusing pass his shoulders. “No why?”

“You don’t really give direct eye contact.”

She blushes. “No. No. No it’s not you it’s just I have a hard time making eye contact with people.” She explains, hoping she doesn’t sound too abnormal to him. “It’s something I always do, unintentionally.”

“I see.”

She quickly turns her attention back to the wall.

“I’m sorry.”

She turns her attention towards his face. “Why? I said you’re not making me uncomfortable.”

“I mean I’m sorry you had to encounter the Goblin.” This tone shifted from soft to hard. “I was so scared that I didn’t get to you in time. That you were-“

Peter-2 let’s out a shaky breath. The stress of being up so high caused her heart to stop so when the Green Goblin let her go, she basically went into cardiac arrest and blackout. When she woke up mere moments later, it was Peter-2 who held her tightly against his body. She saw panic in his eyes when she came to.

“But I didn’t die thanks to you.” She assured him. “And MJ didn’t die because of the other version of you as well. Physically we’re fine. Well you got stabbed but it’s all good. I think.”

Peter-2 let’s out a small chuckle but then gasps, placing his hand on the side where he was stabbed by the Green Goblin.

She moves closer to check in on him. “Shouldn’t we get you to a hospital or doctor?”

Peter-2 shrugs it off. “I got stabbed before. I’ll heal up.”

She scoffs. “That sounds reckless. Aren’t you supposed to be the old and wiser Peter Parker?”

“How old you think I am?”

“45?”

His eyes widen. “You think I’m that old?”

“Forty-five isn’t that old. It’s like that new thirty.”

That made him laugh. “Okay 1.) I’m 37 and 2.) how old are you?”

“28.”

“I would’ve said 22.”

It made her smile. “I still got it.” She looks up at him and sees that he’s staring at her. In responses, she blushes hard.

“I’m not blushing if that’s what you’re thinking.” She blurts out.

Peter-2 raises an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“I mean…could you not stare at me?”

It was his turn to look away. “Right. Sorry.”

They sat there in awkward silence for what seem to feel like a lifetime.

“I should let you go back to sleep.” He gets up to leave but she grabs his hand.

“No wait please stay.” She pleads. “I don’t want to sleep alone. I don’t want to dream about…”

“Okay.” He says, sitting back down. “I’ll stay here. But you need sleep.”

“Fine you win.” She settles into the bed. “But tell me about you. And it don’t have to be the spider man stuff.”

He stayed and they talked until she fell back to sleep.

Peter-2 couldn’t leave, the irrational part of him worried the Goblin was waiting for him to let his guard so he could take her again. It was stupid to think that but still…

He couldn’t explain it but he wanted to protect her. So he stay in the room until he fell asleep as well.

[pagesfromthevoid]

Leave Through the Lobby | p.p. | 2

Mild No Way Home Spoilers!

Andrew!Peter Parker x fem!reader

Word Count: 4.2k

Warnings: Blood, stab wounds, language, and inappropriate insinuations

Author’s Note: This is part two of a random thing I did. You can read the first one but I don’t think it’s necessary. Honestly, it just. It got away from me. I just really love Andrew’s Peter, okay? Okay.

Series Masterlist | Request Here

Returning to his universe was much harder than Peter anticipated it being. He thought, after saving Y/N in her universe, he’d feel less guilty. He’d be able to just…move on. Start his life back up and live like his older counterpart had advised him to do. He thought he would be able to just approach her and ask her to hang out.

But old habits die hard, and Peter did not move on as he wanted to. Actually, he did the literal opposite. The same day he returned, he had to deal with a whole number of issues that arose while he was gone. Several bank robberies, some guy who called himself Scorpion, and J. Jonah Jameson accusing Spider-Man of no longer caring about New York —and Peter Parker of not caring about his photographer position at the Bugle.

He dove right back into work and didn’t think anything of it.

That’s not true, he thought about it every night he returned to his apartment from patrol.

Scolded himself as he’d stitch his wounds up, and cleaned up the blood from the fights. Frantically thought about how he needed to make time for himself, to go visit Gwen’s grave. Go see May and actually spend time with her, not rush around to get out of anything that made him think too hard.

The only thing he did slightly different was he left through the lobby of his apartment more. Usually running, or at least jogging, but he tried. It was a little change, and it kind of effected how crime was being dealt with but nothing was terribly impacted. And the only reason for this change was…well, her. Y/N.

He thought of her frequently, both his version and the alternate version. And he knew that if he came in and out through the shitty little lobby of their apartment building, there was a chance he would see her. And he could talk to her. Or, at the very least, say hello. And that’s what he did.

For months after his return from multidimensional travel, he always came in and out of the lobby, just for a chance to see her. For any chance to say hello. For a chance to man up and start a conversation with her about literally anything. But he never got pass ‘hey’ before he chickened out or actually had to go.

But it was a step in the right direction.

*****

“Fuck,” he cursed one night as he pulled off his mask in the dark alley beside his apartment.

His latest run in with the newest bad guy —Scorpion, aptly named for his scale-like armor and a stinger that packed way more than a punch —left Peter with a wicked stab wound in his side as well as several lacerations across his cheeks. While he knew he’d heal sooner rather than later, he also knew he needed to get upstairs and deal with it. But he couldn’t break his little routine; not even for possibly fatal stab wounds.

He wiped as much of the blood off his face as he could and slid his civilian clothes over his suit. He stuffed his mask into the front pocket of his hoodie, shook out his hair, and made his way into the lobby of his apartment building. It was mostly empty; the doorman who handled their mail gave him a weird look, eying him up and down. Peter just nodded awkwardly and made his way to the elevator.

Pushing the button, he leaned against the wall to ease any pressure being put on his wounds. The doors dinged and he was walking in before anyone could get off. Basic elevator etiquette be damned as he ran straight into whoever was exiting and he cussed out loud again, wincing as he held his side.

“Oh god! I’m sorry!”

His eyes shot up, widening as he looked at Y/N, standing there with her hands hovering over his arms.

“O-oh, no, Y/N. It’s my fault. Seriously,” he stammered out, ducking his head down to avoid letting her see his face. Usually he wasn’t so battered when he came home. And he didn’t usually get this close to her.

“Are you still getting your ass kicked every day by Flash or are you part of some weird fight club?” She asked, letting the elevator doors shut them both inside as she examined his face. There was clear worry in her eyes.

“You were leaving —“

“What floor do you live on?” She interrupted, and he held up a five with his fingers. She pressed the button quickly, then waved her hand absently. “I always see you come home with bruises but this looks so much worse. I can’t, in good conscience, leave you like this.”

This was the Y/N he remembered. They weren’t friends by any means in school. She was a theatre kid, always hiding in the black box of school auditorium. And if she wasn’t on the stage, she was in the theatre classroom running lines. Her and Peter just never crossed paths often. But when they did —she was always so nice. Always helping someone if they needed it. Helping him.

“It’s like high school all over again,” he managed to joke, smiling at her sheepishly.

She stopped looking over the cuts on his face, now stepping back some to really look at him. “Ah yes. The one time I yelled at Flash for literally trying to curb stomp you. That was the first and last time I think we had a full conversation.” The guilt twisted in Peter’s stomach but she was smiling, and clearly wasn’t mad about it. “If I recall, you had called him Eugene and I had to forcibly drag you to the clinic with Gwen.”

Hearing Gwen’s name dropped so easily hit him like a train. And the silence that the two of them were now trapped in could cut like a knife. It was obvious that Y/N had struck a nerve, and she looked down and stepped back into the wall of the elevator.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to —“

Peter shook his head, running a hand through his hair. His fingers got caught, dried blood making it stick in places. “No, no. It’s okay. I just…I haven’t heard anyone say her name in a long time.”

She nodded some, looking down for a moment. “You never, uh, answered my question.”

“What?”

“Are you in some kind of fight club or do you just get attacked every day?”

Peter couldn’t help but laugh a little, shaking his head some. “Uh, no. I just have shitty luck. I fall a lot.” He had moved his arms to rest behind his head, trying to act as casual as possible.

But she wasn’t looking at his face anymore. She locked her gaze on his side, which was bleeding through his hoodie. When Peter realized what was going on, he panicked and wrapped his arms around his middle.

“Peter Parker, you’re bleeding!” She yelled at him as the elevator dinged and opened to his floor.

“I’m fine —“

“Are you out of your damn mind?” She demanded, moving now to yank his sleeve. “Give me your keys. What apartment is it?”

“Oh, uh, 514B but I leave it unlocked —“

She made a sound of absolute disapproval, shaking her head as she pulled him down the hall. Peter protested the entire time, panicking now as she approached his apartment. He couldn’t remember the last time he properly cleaned it, and he couldn’t remember if he put the extra web slingers away when he left. He knew there was laundry all over the floor and definitely dishes in the sink and this just…this wasn’t how he wanted her to see him. This wasn’t how he wanted her to know him.

Just before she stopped his door, he slid in front of her and blocked her path. Y/N looked up at him in confusion, frowning deeply.

“You can go do whatever you were doing, Y/N. For real, I don’t want to ruin your night.” He insisted, putting his arms up to block the doorway even more.

But she shook her head. “I was literally going to get a bottle of cheap wine and some candy. I think that can wait.”

Without warning, his door opened without anyone touching it and she was ducking under his arm to enter his apartment. The panic was rising but now his senses were blowing up at him. She had opened the door. She had powers. Just like in the alternative universe.

“How did you do that?” He asked, spinning on his heel to hurry inside and slamming the door behind him.

“Do what?”

“Open the door!”

“With my hand?”

He watched as she turned away from and started going through his kitchen cabinets, looking for what he could assume was the first aid kit.

“What —no you didn’t —“

“You need to take off your shirt,” she ordered as she pulled out the first aid kit from a very empty cup and plate cabinet. It didn’t seem to phase her that all his dishes were in the sink —not dirty, per se since he rinsed them but still.

“I-I…don’t change the subject!” He exclaimed, looking between her and the bathroom. He couldn’t take his shirt off, obviously, as his suit was still on under his clothes.

“Peter, you’re bleeding very seriously through your shirt —“

“We haven’t spoken in like ten years, I-I can’t just take my shirt off.” He lied, making a face as he did it. It came off as embarrassment but it was mostly from how stupid of a lie that was.

She watched him for a moment then nodded some. “Just…go to the bedroom then, and put on a clean shirt so I can determine if we need to go to the ER. I’ll wait in the bathroom.”

He hesitated for a moment as she walked into the bathroom with the kit. When the door clicked, he made a mad dash for his bedroom, throwing his bloody clothing in the very full hamper and started prying off his suit. Bloody spandex didn’t come off with ease, of course, so he fumbled several times before finally getting it off. He shoved it into the back of his closet, and pulled an undershirt and pair of joggers on quickly.

Again, not exactly how he wanted his first hang out with Y/N to go. But he supposed he’d take what he could get. He shook out his hair one more time, taking a breath, before he opened the door to the bathroom.

She had pulled her hair up and out of her face, and discarded the heavy jacket she had put on to go out. It was then that he realized she was wearing just leggings and a raggedy high school show t-shirt —clearly not meaning to be caught by anyone she knew while going out either. The panic was relieved some, knowing that she also wasn’t ready for this.

“Sit,” she ordered, pointing at the seat down toilet.

He didn’t argue this time, taking a breath as he sat down. It was definitely healing, the wound in his side, but it was still a slow process. And goddamn did it hurt to sit. Y/N got down on her knees in front of him, leaning in close to pull his shirt up over the wound. It was sticking, and he let out a soft whine at the sensation.

Peter looked down at her, and the thoughts that came to mind immediately made him look away. There was no way she was having the same thought; that her position was wildly questionable. That if he stood up, she would be at the perfect level to —

Nope. What the hell, Parker? He scolded himself, looking away and closing his eyes. Which didn’t help drive away the thought of her. So he opened his eyes again and focused on getting her the supplies from the kit, something to distract himself.

“You opened the door without touching it,” he suddenly remembered, looking back at her again.

“No, I didn’t. I opened it by turning the knob when you were all panicky about me coming in.” She argued, tearing open an alcohol pad. “This is going to hurt probably worse than getting stitches.”

“Do you know how to stitch a person up? That would be super convenient.”

She laughed, shaking her head. “Can’t be much different from stitching up a dog, right?”

“Is that what you do? Are you a vet?”

“Vet tech, so I sort of was but not really,” she explained, wiping at the stab wound in his side gently. He hissed in response, tensing up as she did so. But her hand on his knee distracted him suddenly, especially as she squeezed it gently. “I’m almost done.”

“Was? What happened?”

She shrugged, taking the roll of paper towels she’d snagged from the kitchen. She pulled a handful off and wet them. “Put this against your side for a second while I set up the rest.” He did as he was told, waiting for further explanation. She kept her eyes on the supplies, setting them out carefully so she was prepared for each step. “I quit a couple years back. It wasn’t what I thought it was, and I just…didn’t feel like I was helping. Which sucks because I definitely wasted two years of college getting a degree I don’t use. Though I just got my A.S. Degree in that.”

“What do you do now, then?”

She laughed some, looking down for a moment. “I, uh, went back to school. Luckily two years was what I needed for being a tech, so I had most of my general classes down from that.” She explained, motioning his hand away to now dry off his wound. It had stopped bleeding, and she seemed confident enough in what she was doing. “I went and became the theatre teacher at Midtown. Right around the time I graduated, Ms. Clovefield retired.”

He could feel her embarrassment, as if being a teacher wasn’t an accomplishment. “Hey, that’s awesome.” He reassured her. She smiled some, shrugging sheepishly. “I couldn’t do it, honestly. Teaching seems terrifying.”

“Kids are absolutely insane but I love them.” She looked around for a moment, determining what to do next. “I need you to sit up straight, or lean back so you’re flat. Can we use your bed?”

“What?” He stared at her for a moment, unsure what she meant briefly. She pointed at his stomach, and he let out a breath. “Oh, right. Yeah. I…I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“I do,” she teased as she stood up, grin on her face.

Gathering the supplies, she walked into his room and set them back up. Peter made his way in, making a face at how gross his bedroom was. She didn’t seem to care, though. He didn’t hesitate this time and slipped off his shirt, giving her the space to work as he laid down on the bed.

When she finally looked at him, he caught her staring at him. He felt his face flush, and he brought his hands up to cover his face some. He could do this himself, he didn’t need her to do this. And with the inappropriate jokes and thoughts, Peter felt like he was going to do something stupid. But there she was, clearly staring at him. Looking him over, with surprise on her face.

“I’m going to be honest and say I don’t know what I was expecting but it definitely wasn’t you having a six pack,” she admitted, sitting on her knees next to his bed.

Peter glanced over at her through an opening in his fingers, and couldn’t help but grin some. “I’m sorry, I guess?”

“What, no. Don’t apologize. Unexpected isn’t bad.” She corrected quickly, and he noticed the blush creeping up her cheeks. “Okay, uh, let me clean this one more time then I’ll stitch it up.”

In what felt like no time at all, Y/N had stitched Peter up, and wrapped his wound with gauze and bandages. He was used to this part, changing it and cleaning it. Besides, it would be gone in a few days anyway. When she had announced her completion, Peter sat up and admired her handiwork, praising her for both her help and quick hands. While he didn’t need her help, it was nice that he had it.

“Let’s clean up your face and I think you’ll be fine,” she offered, moving to sit on the bed beside him now.

Peter looked down at her, feeling the warmth that was radiating from her body against his bare skin. It was a very distracting feeling, and he couldn’t help but lean into it more.

“You never told me what happened,” she said as she started wiping the first cut on his cheek.

“You didn’t tell me how you opened my door,” he countered, wincing as she cleaned the dirt and blood away and replaced it with a bandaid.

Y/N rolled her eyes. “You’re going crazy, Parker. The pain and blood loss are going to your head.”

She moved to reach the next cut, pressing closer than before in order to get it sorted out. But Peter caught her hand gently. “If you have powers, like I don’t know…telekinesis, I’m not going to freak out.” He promised.

She looked at his hand on hers then up at him. Then she pulled her hand away. “I don’t have telekinesis, Peter.” She said firmly, returning to her work and placing another bandaid over his nose. “Me having powers would be like you being Spider-Man. Impossible, and ridiculous.”

He took her hands again, holding them in his gently. “Is it really impossible?”

The two stared each other down for a long while. Her brows furrowed as she contemplated what he was saying; what he was implying. He could see it in her eyes as she pieced everything together slowly.

“Are you…are you Spider-Man, Peter?”

“Do you have superpowers, Y/N?”

They stared at one another again, waiting for the other to give their final confirmation. But the silence said it all. The silence was louder than any words could be.

That silence was broken very quickly, however.

“I fucking knew it!” She yelled out suddenly, eyes going wide.

As she shot off the bed, Peter practically fell off in surprise at her exclamation. “What do you mean, ‘you knew it’?” He demanded, standing up now too.

“I mean, I didn’t actually know. But we always speculated at school that it had to be you!”

His brow furrowed as he looked around the room, confused. “What the hell are you talking about? Who did you ‘speculate’ with?”

“The entire theatre department!“

Peter sat back down, and covered his mouth with his hand. This wasn’t exactly how he planned to tell her (he didn’t exactly plan to tell her at all, honestly). But at her confession, he wondered how many others were thinking the same as her. No one ever asked him outright, not even when he thought he was acting completely different.

“How did you guess? What…what tipped you off?” He asked, looking up at her now as she paced his room.

“You came to school late every time Spider-Man was in action,” she pointed out, crossing her arms over her chest. “And every time Spider-Man got punched in the face? You had a black eye in the same place. Always covered in bruises. And then you started to hold your own against Flash…God, what’s it like? Being Spider-Man?”

They were all valid reasons to assume he was Spider-Man. And they were all the same reasons Gwen had used to confirm it, all those years ago. “Uh, well I guess you kinda saw tonight. Lots of bruises and cuts,” he explained sheepishly, looking himself over. “But I have to help, you know? It’s just…it’s what I do.” But there was a grin on his face as he looked back at her once more. “You know, I didn’t realize you paid that close attention to me,” he admitted, eyes on her still.

Y/N stopped pacing, looking at him with an embarrassed grin. “I…may have had a crush on you senior year.” She admitted. Peter looked down for a second as she sat beside him once more. “But you were with Gwen and I couldn’t compete with her. Didn’t want to try, honestly; you two were so happy.”

Silence filled the air once more as Gwen’s name took over his thoughts. He was happy with Gwen. Planned to spend his whole life with her. But plans changed; completely and devastatingly changed and Peter couldn’t bring himself to be happy with anyone else. He didn’t think he deserved to be happy with someone else —how could he risk another lover’s life just to be selfish? He couldn’t.

But he thought back to what the other Peter had said; how he couldn’t avoid his problems by wearing the mask all the time. And thought back to the alternate version of her, who had sparked the change in routine that had lead to this very moment. One night in a new world was all it took to change his mind a little; and as small as the change was…Well, here you were. Sitting on his bed, tending his wounds and learning the truth.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. But Peter didn’t know if it mattered anymore.

“Since you know my secret, I think it’s only fair I know yours,” he teased some, leaning closer to her to whisper. “Telekinetic abilities, huh?”

She pushed him lightly, jokingly, and rolled her eyes. “I…yeah. I’ve had them since I was six but I don’t know. Never needed to use them for anything more than an extra set of hands.”

Peter nodded, adjusting his position before he laid back in his bed. She hesitated but joined him, both sets of legs dangling off the side of the bed as they stared up at the ceiling.

“How’d you get them?”

“Question of the century. One day I was normal, next day I wasn’t. My mom worked for Oscorp and the doctors think she may have brought something home without realizing it.”

Peter looked at her now, hands resting on his chest as he took in the moment. She was still staring at ceiling, clearly stuck in her own thoughts. Without thinking, he took her hand and followed her gaze to the ceiling. From the corner of his eye, he saw her tense up in surprise but relax when she realized what he was doing. Peter smiled some.

For the next half hour or so, the two simply laid on his bed, holding hands. They didn’t speak; the only sounds came from their breathing and whatever noises the apartment made. Didn’t even look at each other; there was no need. Laying there, together, was something he needed —she did too. They needed whatever was happening in this moment, if anything to stay grounded.

If he could have lived in this moment forever, he probably would have. But that’s the thing about moments; they don’t last forever. She had pulled away, taking the moment with her, as she sat up. Peter kept his eyes on the ceiling, debating if he needed to get up too.

“I need to go home, Peter,” she said softly, looking down at him. There were no signs of uncomfortableness on her face as he finally sat up and looked at her. “It’s after two in the morning; I have work in a couple hours.”

Peter nodded, running his hand through his hair —still matted in some spots from the blood. He’d all but forgotten about his fight. She looked him over, making sure he was still cleaned up from her care, and stood. Peter quickly followed suit, standing over her as he grabbed his shirt from the floor.

“Let me take you out,” he offered before really realizing what he was saying.

She looked up at him, a small smile on her face as she nodded. “I’d like that. We can grab dinner Wednesday, at the diner down the street? 5?”

He nodded as he followed her to the door, opening it for her. Peter didn’t want her to go, but he understood that she needed to. She had an actual job with actual contract hours, and he’d kept her up all night with bloody wounds and confessions.

But she wanted to see him again. And that was the next big step.

“It’s a date,” he said with a grin as he stepped aside for her to leave. He looked around the hallway, resisting the urge to ask her to stay.

“It’s a date,” she repeated with a tired, but content smile.

Peter watched as she walked herself to the elevator and disappeared into it. And when he shut the door, he stood there for a long time, considering what had just happened.

He had a date.

———

Series Masterlist | Requests are OPEN

———

Tags: @lizzieann143

[dauntless-gothamite]

Prove Them Wrong [9/?]

Fandom: Divergent Pairing: Eric Coulter x Fem! Reader Summary: Y/N is a Dauntless transfer from Erudite, and she has a drive, an ambition that sets her apart--it always has, even back in Erudite. She brings her perseverance (and need to prove others wrong) to Dauntless when she transfers, and she uses her mind to make her way through the initiation process. Along the way, she makes friends and enemies, and she finds herself comfortable around the man most people in Dauntless avoid at all costs: Eric Coulter. A/N: wow, it has been a while! I'm sorry it has been so long; I am pretty busy with school at the moment. But I wanted to let you all know that I see your kind asks/messages, and if I haven't answered you yet, I will soon; I appreciate each and every one of them! This chapter has the fear sim and reader accidentally skips lunch, so trigger warning for fear of not being good enough/failure, and Peter being a creep (nothing happens though). Idk how I feel about this chapter, but please let me know what you think! <3

Metal on metal woke you up, and you sat up with a start at the unpleasant sound. After scanning the room, you saw that it was just Four with his trash can lid and ladle waking everyone up, as per usual. “Alright, today is the first day of stage two, and after last night we let everyone sleep for an extra hour. So, get your asses out of bed, get dressed, and eat breakfast before reporting to the training room, and we’ll walk from there to the simulation rooms together. In one hour, we are going to start the simulations, so don’t be late!” Four announced before walking out of the room. As soon as he was out of sight, several initiates groaned in frustration.

“I am so fucking tired,” Christina said.

“Tell me about it,” you replied, lifting up your shirt to reveal the bruises on your side from your fight with Peter. Christina’s eyebrows rose in surprise.

“Holy shit! I can’t believe that was yesterday! Do you need pain meds or anything along with breakfast?” she asked, her eyes softening in concern.

“I’ll be fine,” you smiled, getting dressed as you spoke. “I just want something to eat.”

“You can say that again,” Will said as he and Tris joined you and Christina, making a small circle.

“Alright, let me get my shoes on,” you said, pulling on your already worn-in combat boots and lacing them up before the four of you left the dorm.

--

The four of you walked into the dining hall, heading straight for an empty table. As Will started filling his plate with scrambled eggs, you scanned the room, feeling someone’s eyes on you. All the other initiates were too preoccupied with making themselves eat despite how appealing the idea of taking a nap right at the table seemed. Eventually, your gaze made its way to the leader’s table, where you locked eyes with Eric, who raised an eyebrow at you as if in some kind of challenge. You held his gaze momentarily, only looking away when Tris tapped your shoulder. You looked at her questioningly, and as she passed you the serving spoon for the eggs, you realized everyone else had begun eating except for Tris, who always waited until everyone was served to eat. Old habits die hard, you supposed.

As if rudely parodying your thoughts, Peter stepped up to the table you and your friends were sitting at and said “The Stiff still doesn’t understand that here, she actually needs to eat if she wants to survive.”

“Fuck off, Peter,” Christina said, rolling her eyes.

Stepping away, Peter raised his hands in mock surrender. “I’m going, don’t worry. I just wanted to make sure you all knew that there’s no way you’ll pass the fear sims,” he smirked, turning on his heel and leaving everyone at your table annoyed and a little scared, the reminder about the fear sims bringing your anxieties about them to the forefront of your mind. And it seemed like you weren’t the only one.

“What an ass,” Will said, trying to focus on his food rather than the churning nerves in his stomach.

“You’re telling me,” Tris mumbled, and you grinned a little bit at this snarky side of her.

Just as you turned back to your food, you heard combat boots hitting the concrete behind you, and without turning around, you said “I thought we told you to fuck off, Peter.” The table had gone quiet, and you saw everyone staring at you. Dread settled over you. “It’s not Peter is it,” you asked with a wince.

“No, initiate, it’s not Peter,” Eric’s unmistakable voice chuckled from behind you. You sat up straight, turning to face the leader, who stood with his arms crossed and a smirk on his face, amused at your embarrassment.

“Sorry,” you laughed. “Obviously, I was expecting someone else.” Eric raised a brow at that but otherwise his face reimagined stoic.

“Clearly,” he replied. “I came to ask you two,” he looked between you and Will before continuing, “what you know about the latest serum developed for fear sims.”

Will shook his head, eyes wide. “Nothing, sir,” he said. With a nod, Eric turned his attention to you.

“Only that it’s more powerful, obviously, otherwise they wouldn’t need to update it in the first place, but--” you cut yourself off, suspicion that had been creeping in since Eric asked the question finally taking over.

“Anything else?” he asked knowingly.

“No, sir,” you shook your head.

“Alright,” he said unconvinced before walking away without another word.

“What was that about?” Will asked, leaning across the table towards you.

“I don’t know, I just gave the basics about why any serum would be modified, and I had this feeling… I don’t know, it just seemed suspicious that Leadership would ask us rather than Jeanine. Maybe it was a test?”

“Something like that,” Will said, trying to convince himself.

Tris, who had gone silent, stood up abruptly, tapping you on the shoulder. “I’m going to use the restroom before heading over to the training room. See you there,” she excused herself, nodding at you subtly. A few moments later, you excused yourself from the table and made your way to the nearest bathroom, where Tris stood waiting.

“Hey,” you whispered. “What’s up?”

Without wasting any time, she said “We have to tell Four what you just told Eric.” You hesitated for a minute before nodding. Something was strange about what had happened earlier, and if Tris was willing to put her trust in Four, you would too.

“You tell him,” you said after pacing the bathroom for a moment. “He knows you better anyway,” you added.

“Okay,” Tris agreed. “I’ll tell him later today if I can.”

“Good. Now, let’s get to the training room,” you said, already heading for the door.

--

“Ladies,” Peter leered as you and Tris walked into the training room and walked over to where Will and Christina were standing. As other Dauntless initiates filed into the room, Four and Eric stood at the front of the room, surveying the crowd.

“Okay,” Eric said, stepping forward to address the nervous crowd. “Everyone follow Four and me, we are taking you to a holding room where you will wait to be called for your first fear simulation. Let’s go,” he barked out the order after explaining, and he and Four started walking through the hallways, stopping once they reached a stark, white room with benches lining two of the walls.

“Take a seat, give us a minute to set up, and then we’ll start calling you into those rooms,” Four said, pointing to the two doors on the back wall.” Then, he and Eric disappeared, each through one of the doors, and the room went silent as initiates fidgeted in their seats. After about a minute, Four and Eric popped their heads out of the doors, calling names, and the fear sims had begun. The initiate in Four’s testing room walked out thirteen minutes later on wobbly legs, pale and sweaty. Thirty seconds later, the initiate in Eric’s room walked out in tears. All the initiates in the waiting room looked around, the reality of the situation settling over them, becoming real in a way that it hadn't been before. As the next pair of names was called, the two people who had been selected stood up much more hesitantly than the first pair of initiates had, and Eric glared at one of them, who you recognized as Selene. You watched as the other woman steeled herself and walked faster, more confidently, towards Eric’s room, the door slamming shut behind her.

--

Minutes seemed to stretch on forever, and each initiate walked out looking worse than the last. You’d fallen into a kind of stupor, choosing to focus on what you know, facts that could keep you grounded. Fact number one: it was a simulation. Fact number two: even if the sim caused a real-time trauma response in the body, which it seemed like it did, no one had ever died from a panic attack--at worst, you pass out and your body “resets” in a way. Fact number three: neither instructor would let something truly terrible happen. Four wasn’t malicious, and Eric had mentioned your potential; he wasn’t going to let someone who could help the faction in the future die. A part of you hoped he cared about you as an acquaintance after the limited time you two had spent together. It wasn’t enough to be a friendship, but it was more than anyone else had with the ruthless leader. As your mind wandered to thoughts of your time with Eric, you reminded yourself to stick to facts only; those were certain, they were grounding. Before you could continue talking yourself out of thinking about feelings rather than facts--fear is technically a feeling, something deep inside the crevices of your mind echoed, as if tying tall of he thoughts you’d been having for the past hour or so up in a pretty knot, Eric opened the door to his testing room and made eye contact with you. “You’re up, initiate,” he said. You rose to your feet, and walked forward. It was time to face your fears.

--

You stood in the middle of a crowd, arms and legs tied together, mouth gagged. Your muscles ached; you’d been fighting for hours, and your mind was sluggish after so much exertion. Looking at the faces around you, you saw the faces of various people who had appeared in your life, ranging from your friends and family to a Factionless man you’d seen on the street a year ago. “It’s okay,” they said, speaking in one echoing voice. “We know you did your best.” You looked down at yourself and saw blood and grime, and your cheek stung as a salty tear rolled down your face. Inside your mind, you knew that there was a second part to that statement, something the voices had left to say. You stared into the eyes of your father as he said in a foreign chorus of voices “your best just wasn’t enough.” Suddenly, you knew this fear; you’d been here before, maybe in your nightmares once. If the simulator plays off the subconscious, you thought, then it can only use things I already have the capacity to imagine. So how would I get out of this? You considered. You saw a knife strapped to the ankle of one of the strange bodies surrounding you, and despite your hands being bound, you made a grab for it. As you reached for the knife, the ground opened up beneath you, transforming the space around you into a cell. There was blood on your hands, and Dauntless leadership stood outside the cell beside your parents.

“You did what you had to do,” your mother reassured you. “You’ll get out of there soon.”

“I-I didn’t do anything wrong,” you defended, despite being unsure of what had happened. Max stepped forward.

“No, you did what you had to do. That child was a threat to us all.” And, much like the last scene, you realized what the fear was in one horrific moment. You had killed someone, someone young. It was self defense, you’re sure of it, but that didn’t change the guilt that you felt. What if, even though you could perform your Dauntless duties you couldn’t handle the emotional aftermath? Before you had the chance to spiral, you caught a glimpse of Eric’s tall figure walking around beyond the cells. If he can live with himself, balancing the good with the bad, you thought, remembering all the times he had yelled at initiates as well as the time he let you sleep in his apartment, then so can I. Survival first, there will be time for guilt later. And then the scene changed again.

You were in the fighting ring, and Peter stood over you. “Someday, I will beat you,” he whispered threateningly. “And when I do, I will show you which one of us really holds the power.” An adrenaline rush unlike any other came over you as Peter’s words sank it, and without a second thought, you headbutted him, standing up.

“You are a coward!” You yelled. “Threatening me with something like your pathetic manhood just to feel more in control? It’s because you can’t beat me unless I’m scared, and you think you can scare me.”

“It worked, didn’t it?” Peter smirked. You rushed at him, and as your fist collided with his face, you woke up.

“Well, that was fast,” Eric drawled from beside you. You were startled, having forgotten he was there, but you managed not to flinch. You looked up at Eric and locked eyes with him.

“Did I do well?” you asked, only shaking slightly as you came down from the adrenaline high.

“Yes,” Eric nodded. “Now, get out of here. I have more initiates to test.” With a deep breath, you rose from the chair, stumbling slightly, and Eric steadied you. “Careful, I’d hate for one of our top initiates to accidentally fall into the chasm just because they aren’t used to the feeling of the serum wearing off and coming down from the adrenaline spike.”

“Thanks,” you said with a tight smile as you slid out of his grasp and walked out of the room, carefully avoiding your fellow initiates’ stares.

--

After wandering the halls for a while, taking care to avoid the chasm, you grabbed your bag from the dorm room and searched for a quiet spot to read, settling on an empty training room that was a little smaller than the one you and the other initiates had trained in. After settling down on a surprisingly clean sparring mat, you reached into your bag for the book your father had given you on visiting day. You were almost done with Eric’s book, and you knew if you read it now you’d finish it, but your mind wanted to get lost in another world, which was why the book your father had given you, titled Mythos Priories: Origin Stories and Mythologies From Around the World, was the perfect book to read right now. You took a moment to admire the beautiful quetzal that graced the front cover of the book, vibrant scales and feathers lined with gold amazing you every time you looked at them. You opened the book and began reading, content to get lost in the legends of long ago for the time being.

--

Some time later, about fifty pages into the book, someone stopped in the doorway, cleared their throat, and said “Well, this is unexpected.” You turned to see Eric, trying to keep your annoyance at being interrupted under control. “You know this is a private training room, right?” he questioned.

“No, I did not,” you replied with a frown as Eric walked over to you. “The door was open,” you shrugged.

With a short laugh, Eric said “Just because a door is open, doesn’t mean you should enter,” and you studied his face, unsure if he was being serious or messing with you. His possibly serious demeanor changed in an instant though, as he looked down at your book and plucked it with your hands, grinning. “Origin stories and Mythologies, how interesting,” he said, looking at the cover of the book before opening it back up to where you had stopped reading. “Japanese mythology?” he asked, skimming the page.

“Yeah,” you nodded enthusiastically. “It’s so interesting and overlooked, as are most Eastern mythologies, in academia in favor of Western mythologies. I mean, everyone knows the Greek and Roman myths, but this stuff is much less common,” you said, excited, and Eric smiled a bit at your enthusiasm.

“I thought you were done with Erudite?” he teased.

“I am!” you defended yourself. “I just like reading…”

Eric nodded before saying “I would keep that a secret if I were you,” he advised. “Wouldn’t want anyone doubting your loyalties before you’re even a fully-fledged member of Dauntless.” You searched his eyes for a threat in the statement, but there was none that you could see, and you nodded, taking the book back. “Are you done with my book?” Eric said, breaking the semi-awkward silence that had fallen between you two.

“I’m almost done with it,” you said. “I just wanted something a little more fantastical, after, you know…” you trailed off. Eric nodded in understanding.

“You did well. It gets easier, you know.” It came out stiffly, but you knew that was his way of offering comfort, and you smiled in thanks. “Now, if you don’t mind, I was going to train in here, so either get ready or get out,” Eric said, crossing his arms. You sat there for a moment, shocked, before making a split-second decision to join him in training.

With a nod, you stood and gathered your things, put them on a bench near the wall, and jogged back to the mat.

--

You groaned as Eric kicked your leg out from under you, sending you harshly to the mat once again. “Damn it,” you forced out, propping yourself up on your elbows. Eric only grinned at you smugly. “I am still an initiate, no need to be so smug about beating me,” you muttered as you stood up, feeling new bruises develop on your already tender skin. You expected the leader to scowl; your exhaustion had lowered your sense of self-control, and this wasn’t the first snarky remark you’d made to him. Instead, he raised an eyebrow and smirked.

“Well, well, it appears someone gets hangry,” he said, checking the clock. You followed his gaze and saw that it was already dinner time--how had you missed lunch? Usually you didn’t let time get away from you like that, but after the fear landscape, you’d delved into reading and training, and the hours had flown by faster than you’d realized.

“Sorry,” you said sheepishly. “I guess I read through lunch,” you explained.

Eric’s demeanor changed in an instant. “You didn’t eat lunch? And still trained with me? What the hell is wrong with you?” You winced a little, feeling like an idiot. He wasn’t yelling at you, but you could feel the disappointment radiating off of him.

“It was an accident; I guess I just read through it, I--” you started to explain, and you were glad your face was flushed from training because it hid the embarrassing pink flush across your cheeks.

“It’s fine… this time,” Eric said, a little calmer than before. “Just… you know you could pass out if you do something like that again.”

“I know. I didn’t mean to, I promise.”

Eric nodded and gathered his things, and you did the same. “Let’s go; it’s dinner time and I am walking you to the dining hall to make sure you don’t pass out on the way there. Make sure to eat something.”

“I will! I-” you said, a little defensively, before cutting yourself off. You were about to say “I promise”, but that felt too intimate, too personal. Was it weird to make promises, especially ones like that, to your leader? You supposed it was already weird to train in a private room with your leader, so after a moment of consideration, you finished the sentiment, locking eyes with Eric as you said “I promise.” He nodded curtly, and the two of you walked out of the training room together, bags in hand, and made your way to the dining hall.

Tag List: @shykoolaid, @taina-eny, @parabatai-winchester, @marvel-ousnesss, @kid-from-new-zealand, @polychr0matic, @maan24, @abysshaven, @darkenwolfie, @adaydreamaway08, @ssa--holmes, @poisonmenegan, @hannibalsslut, @louiselikeswriting, @haroldpatterson, @urgrlfnm

[bi-bard]

You're Better Off on Your Own - Kara Danvers Imagine (Supergirl)

Title: You're Better Off on Your Own

Pairing: Kara Danvers X Reader

Based On: called you again

Word Count: 548 words

Warning(s): mentions of shitty friends, cussing, toxic reader

Summary: In the end, it was (Y/n)'s fault. But some old habits die hard.

Author's Note: It's kind of short, but I wanted to mess around with a new style on this one. I hope you like it. Also, the reader is the villain here. Deal with it.

Lizzy McAlpine - “five seconds flat” Writing Challenge Masterlist

-----------------------------------

Voicemail from 4/2/2022; 8:06 p.m.

Kara.

We need to talk about this.

I don't want to watch our friendship fall over one tiny incident. Come on. We're grown-ups now. We can talk through this. Hear me out. Please.

Voicemail from 4/3/2022; 7:15 a.m.

I was hoping to find some kind of message from you, Kara.

We've been friends for years. I need to know that we're alright. I don't see how we could just decide that none of that matters in a period of days.

Please. We're going to be just fine. We just need to talk this through.

Voicemail from 4/4/2022; 10:34 p.m.

Please pick up the phone, Kara.

I doubt Supergirl is this busy all the time.

Please.

I can't do this without you. Please.

I... I need to know that we're okay.

P-Please... just... please.

Voicemail from 4/5/2022; 1:46 a.m.

I... I'm sorry.

I miss you.

You're the only friend I've got left, Kara. Please.

Voicemail from 4/5/2022; 11:55 p.m.

Kara.

Pick up the damn phone!

This is getting so fucking childish!

Come on. Let's meet up and talk about this properly. Then, we can decide if we're gonna be friends or not. I won't just be silently ignored. Come on.

Talk to me!

Voicemail from 4/10/2022; 7:07 p.m.

Hi Kara.

I wanted to try to give you space.

But... I can't do this.

I need answers, Kara. Please. I think after this long, I deserve that. Please. I'll do anything just to know what happened. Please.

I-I need to know what happened. Please.

Call me back.

Voicemail from 4/25/2022; 3:27 a.m.

Hi.

I... I didn't think I was ever going to call this number again.

I wanted to apologize.

I know you probably don't need that. It just... it felt wrong to not say it.

I treated you like shit.

And I don't mean with just those last... however many, voicemails. I wasn't a good friend to you. I know that now. I can't go back and change what I did, but I am so sorry that it ever happened.

I'm... I'm not expecting forgiveness. Hell, I'm not even expecting you to respond.

I'm sorry.

I'm so sorry, Kara.

I hope you find the best people to be around you. It's all that you deserve. I think you deserve the world. Good luck, Kara. I love you, no matter what happened between us. I love you and I hope you find happiness.

Good- Goodbye.

Kara grinned softly as she listened to the last voicemail. There were tears in her eyes as she looked at the contact name again. She never had it in her to block the number. Too many memories to pass up.

She had deleted all of the other voicemails. But she held onto the last one.

(Y/n) was right.

Kara never needed the closure. Never needed the apology.

She would never end up calling (Y/n) back.

But both of them were okay with that. Because moving forward wasn't about finding reasons and getting closure. Moving forward was being able to find the future without needing any of that. It was the ability to take care of yourself without needing every question answered.

Moving forward meant finding what was best for you, even if it meant letting go of someone you loved.

-----------------------------------

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[bluejayblueskies]

can i be gentle?

Words: 7.1k

Relationships: Jon & Tim, Tim & Martin

Tags: Canon Divergence, Tim Lives, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Whump, Post-Unknowing, Injury Recovery

Warnings: suicidal thoughts/ideations, blood, injury, hospitals and hospitalization, survivor's guilt, body horror, minor gore, gun and knife violence, mentions of death, mentions of canon-typical worms, implied child abuse, meat, alcohol, swearing, crying, smoking

Ao3 link in source

.

Tim aches. It’s full-body, radiating through his arms and back and legs, and he wishes more than anything that he could go to sleep, to chase away the pain for at least a little while. It feels like he’s been hit by a bus.

 Or been on the receiving end of several kilos of C4 igniting all at once. But that metaphor’s a bit too on-the-nose, in his opinion.

 He should be dead. He should be dead. 

 (Does he wish he were dead? He hadn’t cared, in those few moments of clarity before he pushed the button on the detonator and the colors solidified into black nothingness, whether or not he would wake up when the smoke cleared. It’s hard to tell. He’d attached so much of himself to revenge, before, when it was easier than feeling everything else bubbling up underneath, and now that it’s been ripped away from him, he doesn’t know what emotion should be filling the gap. Probably relief.

 He doesn’t feel relieved.)

 The nurse is speaking to him. Her lips are moving, but he can’t hear her. His ears ring and ring and ring, and it sounds like spirling, mocking laughter.

 They do some tests. Blast-induced hearing loss, the pamphlet they give him proclaims. Prognosis is good. Most patients recover in 6 weeks. Hearing aids can help with high frequencies.

 His ears ring and ring and ring, and he’s alive.

 He’s alive.

 Jon is not.

 .

.

.

 “It’s because of him, you know.”

 Martin startles badly at Tim’s voice. Tim wonders if it had been too loud; the ringing in his ears is incessant, and every word spoken sounds as if it’s coming from a very, very far distance. He moves a bit further into the room that they’ve placed Jon in, his hands shaking where they grip the wheels of the wheelchair they’d given him. Hard to walk when your leg is shattered. And some ribs as well. 

 Martin says something, Tim thinks, as he’s turning. His eyes are wide and rimmed with red, and he’s looking at Tim expectantly. Tim sighs, then winces as the motion sends tendrils of pain through his ribcage. “I can’t hear you, Martin. Either speak up—way, way up—or just… move your lips more or something. I don’t care.”

 “What?” Martin enunciates, and it’s so ridiculous, Tim wants to cry.

 He answers anyway.

 “Me. Being here. I’m alive because… because of him.”

 It was stupid, thinking he could protect Tim from an entire building collapsing on top of them. But his hand had gripped Tim’s wrist and he’d pulled him to the floor and he’d covered Tim’s body with his own, so when the shock wave had hit, Jon had gotten the worst of it.

 Tim refuses to feel guilty about it. He does anyway. Because they’d argued, and Jon had stalked him, and Tim had cultivated his anger and fear into a simmering ember deep in his chest, but at the end of the day, Tim wasn’t supposed to survive.

 Jon was.

 Tim swallows, hating the bitter taste in his mouth, and says, “Do you… do you think he’s going to wake up?”

 Martin says something, too softly for Tim to hear. His mouth twists into something small and pained, and he looks at the floor.

 It’s answer enough.

 Tim doesn’t ask again. 

 .

.

.

 They arrest Elias a few hours later, after Martin’s collected himself enough to bring his plan to completion. Tim’s only regret is that he isn’t able to see the look on Elias’s face as he’s dragged away.

 Knowing Tim’s luck, he’d probably have just looked smug.

 The name Peter Lukas crosses Martin’s lips, spelled out in exaggerated motions when he visits Tim again. Tim thinks, absurdly, of the hydra. Cut off one head, two grow back.

 Lukas probably won’t be better. Knowing their luck, he’ll be much worse. But Tim thinks of the way Melanie had shaken after she’d come out of Elias’s office, of the haunted look in Martin’s eyes when Tim had asked how his plan went, and can’t find it within himself to care.

 .

.

.

 They release him from the hospital with a hefty prescription of pain meds, small plastic hearing aids tucked in each ear, and a thick folder of discharge papers. Martin’s there when they do; the bags under his eyes are dark and smudged, and he nods mechanically as the nurses talk to him, outlining Tim’s care regime for the next few weeks. His eyes keep flicking to the side, to the corridor that leads to the long-term care section of the hospital. Wordlessly, Tim reaches over and takes Martin’s hand in his, giving it a single squeeze before holding it tightly.

 Martin lets out a breath through his nose and squeezes back.

 “Do you want me to, er. To take you back to yours?” Martin asks once they’re out, his voice on the softer side of muffled and overlaid with that constant ringing but audible enough now that he doesn’t have to shout. 

 Tim feels something almost like embarrassment curling in his stomach. “I, uh. I don’t have a place anymore.” Tim drums his fingers on his thighs, looks at the ground, and says, “I canceled my lease. About a week before we left for Great Yarmouth.”

 There’s silence between them—or at least, as close to silence as Tim can get right now. Tim thinks Martin says something, a word or two brushing up against the edges of what the hearing aids allow him to hear, but he can’t grasp any of it. So, Tim looks up at Martin, at the pinched, pained expression on his face, and says, “Don’t pretend like you didn’t know.”

 “Know what?” Martin says bitterly. “That you never expected to come back? Yeah, I got that part. I even got why, you know? Doesn’t make it better, though. I didn’t want to lose you, Tim.” Martin pauses, then says, so quietly Tim can barely hear it, “I didn’t want to lose anybody.”

 “Yeah,” Tim says. But that’s not how this works. We were never going to all survive. Everything is fucked, and it still is, and it always will be.

 “I’m sorry,” he says and finds he means it. Then, to clarify: “For hurting you. And… and for Jon.” He doesn’t elaborate on that point. He doesn’t know what he would say even if he tried. “But I’m not sorry for going, and I’m not sorry for pressing that button. If I would have died, I wouldn’t have been sorry for that either.”

 “Right,” Martin says slowly. “But you didn’t. And the Circus is gone now, so do you…?”

 “Do I still want to kill myself?”

 Martin winces.

 “Hey, your question, not mine,” Tim says, holding his hands up in a defensive gesture. After a moment, his hands drop back to his lap, and he gives a small shrug. “Don’t know. I knew I would do what I needed to in order to destroy the Circus, and I did. Thought I would die in the process, but I didn’t. I’m still trapped in the world’s shittiest job, and I don’t really…”

 Tim shrugs again. “I don’t know,” he repeats. Then, because it feels true: “It was never… it was never the dying bit I was chasing, you know. I didn’t do this because I thought it would be a good way to get killed. I did it for Danny, and that’s it. Plain and simple. So if you’re asking if I want to die, the answer is no. But I can’t guarantee that I won’t make the same decision again if I have to.”

 Martin’s quiet for a long moment. Then, calmer than Tim expects, he says, “Okay.”

 “Okay,” Tim echoes. Then, with a levity that only feels slightly forced: “I suppose it’s back to your place, then. Just be sure to buy me dinner first.”

 Martin doesn’t smile at that like he used to, but his face does soften a bit. His voice is lighter when he says, “Oh, I will. Within your dietary restrictions, that is. Which means no alcohol.”

 Tim groans. “You’re no fun.”

 “Uh huh.”

 They begin the commute back to Martin’s flat, and the atmosphere between them grows more lighthearted than it’s been in months. Tim feels something warm and familiar curl in his chest, and he realizes just how much he’s missed this. It’s not quite easy conversation, not like it used to be, but it’s nice all the same.

 Tim’s ears ring, and his entire body aches, and he still feels a numbness in his core in the shape of suspicious glances and calliope music and a face he can’t remember, but for the first time in a long, long time, he allows himself to smile.

 .

.

.

 Tim doesn’t visit Jon often. At first, it’s the guilt, acute and cloying and weighing him down. Then, it’s old hurt and stale anger, resurfacing and driving away any passing thought of Jon that isn’t tinged with bad memories and broken trust. After that, it’s just habit.

 It also hurts, if he lets himself admit it. To see Jon lying there, motionless and clad entirely in white, the heart monitor attached to him reading out a constant horizontal line even as his eyes move in small, jerky motions behind his eyelids. 

 See? a part of him whispers. He’s not human. Maybe he never was. Maybe he was always a monster, and you just never noticed. It wouldn’t be the first time.

 A newer part of him, one that gets more prominent by the day, recognizes that even if Jon isn’t human anymore, he never would have chosen this. This stasis, this half-death. Not what came before, either. That part of him remembers the way Jon’s hand had gripped his tightly as they’d opened that trapdoor, and how it had continued to do so even as the worms had begun to bite into their skin. He’d tried to protect Tim then, too, putting himself between Tim and Jane Prentiss. For all the good it did, when the worms began to come from all directions. But Tim remembers the way the terror and pain in Jon’s eyes had been tinged with sadness, with a silent apology as he gripped Tim’s hand hard enough to bruise and they both accepted that this was it.

 It hadn’t been, in the end. And now it is, with Jon all-but-dead and Tim still here, wheeling his way into Jon’s hospital room for the first time in weeks. 

 He’s halfway in before he realizes he’s not alone.

 “Oh,” he says. “I… I didn’t know you’d be here.”

 Martin lets out a sharp, jagged laugh. “Where else would I be?” he says, and it’s tinged with something bitter and broken that takes Tim a bit off-guard. It’s become almost routine now, for Martin to visit Jon, and usually, he comes back looking drained but otherwise fine. Sometimes, when Tim asks him for status updates on our resident medical mystery, Martin even manages a small smile and responds, still dreaming.

 Martin scrubs a hand across his face, and Tim realizes belatedly that he’s crying.

 “Martin?” Tim says carefully, moving a bit closer to where Martin’s sitting. “Are you… did something happen?”

 “No,” Martin says, his voice catching in a way that indicates that something very much did happen. “It’s fine.”

 “Is it…?” Tim pauses, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth. “Is it about Jon?”

 Martin’s laugh this time is more like a whimper. “Nope, he’s- he’s the same as always. Still asleep.”

 Tim moves closer but doesn’t say anything. The clock ticks rhythmically in the background, and he waits. Patience has never been his strong suit, but it’s been something that’s been required of him as of late, and he’s getting better at it.

 He likes to think he’s getting better at a lot of things.

 Martin doesn’t speak again for a few minutes. He stares at his hands where they rest just shy of one of Jon’s, his fingers restless against the sheets, coming up occasionally to fiddle with the thin black ring that rests on the middle finger of his right hand. Then, so quiet Tim almost can’t hear it, he says, “My mother died today.”

 Oh.

 “I’m sorry,” Tim says. They’re empty words, but they’re better than the good riddance and about time and you’re better off without her sitting on the back of his tongue, begging to be released. He doesn’t think they would be appreciated right now, no matter how true they might be.

 “Yeah,” Martin says. He’s still staring at his hands. “They called me a few hours ago. She… she passed away in her sleep. Natural causes. From- from her illness.” He falls silent for a few moments, his fingers twisting in the sheets. Then: “I… I think I should be sad?”

 Tim studies Martin’s face—the tear tracks down his cheeks, the unhappy set to his mouth, the way he’s shaking ever so slightly where he sits. His face is one of grief, but Tim doesn’t ask. He waits for Martin to continue, and after a moment, Martin says, “She was the only family I had left. She- she was my mother. I took care of her, I- I did my best to be a- a good son.” He takes in a shaky breath, curls his hands into fists, and says, “I haven’t seen her in months, you know. I- I visited at first, but she… she never wanted to see me. So I just stopped going. I’d call, every Saturday, but it was the same every time. She’s resting. She doesn’t feel up to talking right now. Call later, and we’ll see what we can do.” 

 Finally, Martin looks at Tim, and the guilt in his eyes is so acute Tim can feel it cut through him to his core. “I should be sad that she’s dead, but… but all I can feel is relief. And that hurts. I- I don’t know… why am I relieved? God, she was right, I- I’m horrible, no wonder she- she never wanted to see me, I- why can’t I- I can’t—”

 Martin cuts off with a wet sob, and all at once, Tim understands.

 “It’s okay,” he says, and he collects Martin’s hands from the sheets, holds them tightly in his own. “You can feel however you like, it’s- it’s okay.”

 He squeezes Martin’s hands, just once, and repeats, “It’s okay.”

 He knows Martin won’t believe him. But still, he sits, and Martin cries, and he says, It’s okay.

 It’s okay.

 .

.

.

 The hearing aids are a permanent fixture in his ears now, as most people have full hearing restoration after six weeks apparently doesn’t include him. The tinnitus is still particularly bad some days, but they help with everything else. It’s not perfect, but it’s a small price to pay for living, he supposes.

 He’s not sure when, exactly, he decides that he’s glad he’s alive. But he does. 

 He wishes he hadn’t been able to hear at all, when the Flesh attacks. He wishes he hadn’t been able to hear the wet, sticky sounds of things that shouldn’t be able to move without bones slipping through the vents, shattering the relative peace they’d begun to cultivate. He wishes he hadn’t been able to hear the pops of Basira’s gun, bullets burying themselves in things that barely flinched at the contact. He wishes he hadn’t been able to hear Melanie’s screams of anger, the responding screams of pain from things with too many eyes and teeth and limbs as her knife carved a violent path through them.

 There are yellow doors and hands slick with blood and a sudden quiet as the last of the twisted, mangled creatures falls, sliced neatly in two in a way that’s just a bit too clean. 

 Melanie is breathing heavily, but her hands are steady and her eyes are hard with something raging and violent. When Basira reaches tentatively for her knife, saying, “It’s over now, Melanie. We’re- we’re safe,” Melanie stiffens but doesn’t resist.

 “This isn’t right,” Tim says after Melanie comes back to herself in bits and pieces, enough to shudder at the blood coating her arms up to the elbows and mutter something he can’t quite catch before disappearing into the toilet. “None of this is. God, can we ever catch a fucking break?”

 “We can deal with it later,” Basira says. She’s calm, but she can’t quite hide the tremor in her voice. Her Al-Amira is splattered with viscera. “Right now, we need to make a call. Get this cleaned up.”

 “What,” Tim says bitterly, “so we can continue hiding away in the Archives? You’re the one who said we should start sleeping here. Should have known it wouldn’t be safe. It’s not like it was before.” 

 He rubs at one of the small circular scars on the back of his left hand, his skin crawling with a phantom itch that makes him vaguely nauseous. 

 “We stay here,” Basira says, leaving no room for debate. “We make the call, and we stay here.”

 Tim makes a low, frustrated noise, and bites out, “Fine. Because Basira always knows best. Whatever.” He unlocks his wheelchair and says shortly, “I’m going outside for some fresh air. The smell of rotting meat is making me sick.”

 Basira doesn’t follow him.

 Martin does.

 They situate themselves just outside the glass doors, and they don’t say anything for a long time. Martin still looks vaguely ill. His face is pale, and his hands are fidgeting at his sides. His fingers are resting on his ring, twisting it back and forth, agitated. His shoes are stained a glistening red.

 Finally, Martin tilts his head back so it hits the wall behind him and says to the air above him, “Is it horrible that I wish Jon were here?”

 Tim snorts, anger still bubbling under the surface of his skin. “Because we’d have done so much better with our own flavor of spooky bullshit?” He bites out a bitter laugh. “Maybe he could have compelled them to explain exactly why every single monster out there has a personal vendetta against us. Working for an eldritch horror of voyeurism doesn’t give you much in terms of an offense.”

 “Stop,” Martin says sharply. “You know what I mean.”

 Tim does. He’s just not particularly inclined to wax nostalgic about the power of friendship and comradery when he’s got bits of meat stuck in his hair. 

 Still, he finds that he means it when he says, “I wish he was too. For what it’s worth. Which isn’t a fucking lot, but it’s what we’ve got.”

 “Yeah,” Martin says. His hand brushes against Tim’s, and they fall back into silence.

 The police arrive, followed closely by the ECDC. It’s a messy affair, even messier than the last time Tim had been in this situation, and Tim wants nothing more than to get away. Forever.

 He doesn’t make any jokes this time. He just nods in the right places, and when they’re finally released and he and Martin return to a flat they haven’t seen in weeks, he can feel weariness cutting through him to the bone.

 When he wakes the next day, Martin’s gone. His note, stuck to the door of the fridge, says, At the hospital. Be back around noon.

 It’s ten in the morning, and the sunlight is bright as it streams in through the kitchen window.

 Tim digs out the bottle of rum that Martin keeps tucked in the back of his cabinet and pours himself a drink.

 .

.

.

 “Peter Lukas wants me to be his assistant.”

 Tim looks up from what’s turning out to be quite an impressive doodle of the little figurine of a frog in a top hat he’d purchased back in research from a charity shop and says, “Absolutely not.”

 Martin sucks his bottom lip between his teeth, holds it there for a moment, and then says, “I don’t know if I have a choice in the matter, really. It’s… it’s not safe here anymore.” Quieter: “He said he can help. Off- offer protection.”

 Tim audibly scoffs at that. He sets down his pencil and notepad and crosses his arms across his chest. He can already feel a headache coming on. (More than the usual, that is. He’s almost able to tune out the constant ringing in his ears now.

 Almost.)

 “What’s he going to do, isolate them to death? It’s not like the Lonely’s any better of an offensive force than the Eye. We’re doing just fine without involving him.”

 “Are we?” Martin’s voice is hard and a bit choked when he continues, “We’re living down here because it’s not safe to stay outside for too long. We’re still finding bits of- of flesh in- eugh.” Martin shudders and folds inward on himself. Quieter, enough so that Tim has to watch the motion of his lips to make out the words, he says, “Jon’s not waking up.”

 Tim feels something inside of him twist. “We don’t know that. We don’t know what’s happening with him.” A touch bitterly—old habits die hard, he supposes—he says, “Maybe he’s just not done going through his monster metamorphosis yet.”

 “Tim.”

 Tim sighs. It’s a profoundly weary sound. “Yeah, yeah. I… I miss him too, you know.”

 He’s surprised to find that it’s not a lie.

 “Right.” A small, shaky smile crosses Martin’s face, and he says, “I- I suppose they’re right, then. Distance does make the heart grow fonder.”

 “Somehow,” Tim says, “I don’t think whoever coined that phrase had this situation in mind.”

 Martin’s smile fades as quickly as it had come, and Tim feels a pang of guilt. “Sorry,” he says, pushing away from the desk and wheeling across the room to where Martin sits. He hesitates, just a moment, before placing his hand on Martin’s where it rests on his knee. “I… I suppose I’ve forgotten how to be lighthearted about all of this.”

 Martin nods. It’s a small motion. He’s silent for a long moment; Tim squeezes his hand and says nothing. Finally, Martin looks down at his hands and says, “It’s been four months, Tim. Nothing’s changed.” He pauses again, his mouth pinching around the edges. “I… I visited him today. I begged him to wake up, to- to do anything to indicate that he’s even still there. I don’t know why I expected him to answer. It’s not like anything’s different now. He- he’s never going to wake up, Tim.”

 Martin’s voice cracks, and he repeats, wetly, “He’s never going to wake up.”

 Then, Martin’s crying, heaving sobs that overtake him completely and have him hunched over, dripping salty tears onto the back of Tim’s hand. “Hey, hey, hey,” Tim says, leaning forward as far as he’s comfortably able to and wrapping Martin in as hard of a hug as he can manage. He rubs his hands in circles across Martin’s shoulderblades, feeling Martin’s shaky breaths against the side of his neck, and says, “It’s okay. It’s okay.”

 He repeats it, again and again, as Martin cries into his shoulder and says, over and over, words thick with grief, “He’s dead, Tim. He’s dead.”

 “It’s okay,” Tim says. Maybe if he says it enough times, he’ll start to believe it.

 Eventually, Martin’s body stops shaking and he pulls back, the tear tracks on his cheeks already beginning to dry. His eyes are red-rimmed and glistening, and he looks tired, grief apparent in every line of him.

 “I said I’d think about it,” Martin says, in a voice rubbed raw and hoarse. “When Peter called me. I- I said I’d think about it. I- I don’t know why…” He cuts off, makes a small, distressed noise, and says, “What do I even have left? If- if this can help, what- what do I have to lose?”

 Tim feels a pang of hurt flash through him, but he suppresses it. He squeezes Martin’s hands, gives him as wide a smile as he can without breaking, and says, “You have me. And I’m not leaving—you’re stuck with me. So don’t think for a second that if you take Peter’s deal, I won’t be there still. I’m like a bad penny, or, I don’t know, a- a fungus or whatever. The point is, you’re not going to get rid of me. Whether or not you decide to work for Lukas—which you shouldn’t, by the way, in case I haven’t made that abundantly clear—you’re not going to be lonely, okay? Not on my watch. I can be very persistent when I put my mind to it.”

 Martin looks at Tim, eyes wide, and another small, hiccuping sob escapes him. “You really mean that?”

 “Yes, Martin,” Tim says, exasperation and fondness filling him in equal measure. “Christ, just because things got… rough for a bit, it doesn’t mean I stopped caring about you. Honestly, don’t know if I could. You’re a very lovable person, you know. It’s not like being your friend is a hardship.”

 Martin laughs a little at that, his voice still thick with tears. “Well, when you put it like that…”

 Tim gives him another smile, and this one feels easier. Like it would be harder not to smile. Still, he’s careful with his words when he says, “So, then. What are you going to do? I’ve made my opinion more than known, but…” Tim swallows around the lump in his throat and continues, “It’s your decision.”

 “Yeah,” Martin says, barely more than a whisper. “Yeah.”

 Peter calls again. And when Martin hesitates for a long moment before giving a quiet yet firm no, the relief that sweeps over Tim is enough to make him feel weightless.

 .

.

.

 Two months later, as a man who smells of death shuts the door behind him, Jon takes a rattling breath and finally opens his eyes.

 .

.

.

 “Tim?”

 Tim raises the hand that’s not holding a rather large bouquet of white daisies and baby’s breath in a half-wave. “Hi, boss. Been a while.”

 The look Jon gives him is half-shocked, half-nervous. “I… I suppose it has. Six months, apparently.”

 Tim makes a sound of affirmation before wheeling himself fully into Jon’s hospital room and letting the door swing shut behind him. “You know,” he says, allowing a blanket of levity to fall over him, “when we said you should get more sleep, this isn’t exactly what we meant.”

 Jon just stares at him for a moment, face blank and eyes wide. Then, a laugh escapes him, a small hiccup of amusement. “Yes, well. I can’t say that I feel particularly well-rested.”

 Tim imagines what it must have been like, to be locked in a dreamscape stasis for six months. He can’t say that the idea sounds particularly relaxing. “Yep, sounds about right. Guess we can cross ‘spooky coma’ off our list of possible cures for sleep deprivation.”

 Jon folds inward on himself a bit, hugging one arm to his chest and gripping the other tightly. “Right,” he says, his voice small. He looks away from Tim, focusing on the small window in the corner of the room, and says, “I… I’m sorry, Tim.”

 Right. Jon still thinks Tim hates him.

 Tim lets out a long, weary sigh and makes his way to Jon’s bed. He practically shoves the flowers into Jon’s hands; Jon takes them, more out of surprise than anything, white petals tickling the bottom of his chin. “It’s been six months, Jon. You’ve been… honestly, a bit dead? No offense. And I’ve been alive. And we both know it was meant to be the other way around.”

 Jon opens his mouth, and Tim holds up a hand. “Don’t. I know. I already hear enough about it from my therapist, I don’t need to hear about it from you too. The point is that I’ve… I’ve had time to think. And some of the things you did, I can’t forgive you for. But some of it…”

 Tim shrugs. “Martin would always go on about how it wasn’t your fault. About how you were suffering just as much as us. And maybe I didn’t believe it because I was already angry, or maybe I didn’t believe it because all I could think about was finally getting a chance at the revenge I’d chased after for years. But then you were gone, and the Circus was gone, and I just… didn’t have anything left for the anger to hold on to.”

 Jon clutches the flowers tightly in his hands, looks down at the petals. “But you were right,” he says quietly. “A- about me.”

 Tim casts himself back six months and sifts through a metric ton of bitter remarks and angry assumptions. “You’re going to have to be more specific.”

 Jon lets out a slow, shaky breath. “About me not being human.”

 Oh.

 “Jon—”

 “Do you know what I was dreaming about?” Jon cuts in before Tim can say anything else. “I- I don’t remember, not really, but… but I can guess. I… I Know, somehow, that- that they were the same dreams, over and over and over again.” Jon takes one of the flower petals between his fingers and rubs it back and forth, a nervous gesture. “I started having them soon after I took this job, you know. Naomi Herne was the first one, and I- I didn’t understand why. Every night, she was trapped in the fog, forced into her own grave, and I would try to move, because it- it felt like I should have been able to, but it- it never worked. So I… I stopped trying after a while. I would stand and watch as she relived one of the worst experiences of her life, every night, and I- I couldn’t do anything to stop it.”

 Jon crushes the petal between his fingers. “She was the first one, but- but there are so many more now. Lionel Elliott and Jordan Kennedy and- and, Christ, Georgie—”

 Jon makes a small, unhappy noise. “I don’t know when I realized that they could see me in their dreams too. That in trying to help, I- I’d just made myself another source of terror.”

 Jon falls silent for a few moments; the quiet is filled by the familiar tick tick tick of the clock in the corner. Then, so quietly Tim has to focus on his lips to catch the words, he says, “I… I think I made a choice. Before I woke up. I don’t… I don’t know what it means for me, not really, but I know it means that I’m worse than I was before.” He lets out a bitter laugh, devoid of any humor. “So, you were right. I’m just- just even less human now.”

 Jon falls silent again, and for a few moments, there’s just tick, tick, tick. Tim rolls the words over in his mind, looks at Jon’s pinched, unhappy expression, and says, “Okay.”

 Jon looks at him then, his brow furrowed in confusion. “Okay?”

 Tim shrugs and repeats, “Okay. You’re not human. I’m not going to pretend like that thrills me or whatever, but it’s… honestly, it’s a lot less of an issue for me now than it was back then.”

 “I- I don’t…” Jon trails off with a frustrated noise. “What?”

 Tim sighs. “A lot’s changed, Jon. Things have… well, things have kind of gone to hell. Honestly, we could use a few monsters who are on our side for a change.”

 Jon blinks at him in stunned silence for a few moments more before saying, bewildered, “... Right. Uh, I- I suppose I shouldn’t ask how you’ve been, then.”

 A wry smile cracks across Tim’s face. “I’ve been just peachy, thanks for asking. Blow up one Circus and suddenly every spooky monster out there wants to kill you. It’s been one big, long, horrible sleepover in the Archives. But hey, at least Elias isn’t there! Now we’ve just got Lukas, and if one or two staff members disappear every once and a while, well—that’s just how it is at the Magnus Institute. Nothing to be concerned about. Sometimes, we still go out for drinks.”

 “Tim,” Jon says flatly. The exasperated expression on his face is so familiar—so Jon—that Tim feels a tension he hadn’t known he’d been holding slip away. 

 “Yeah, yeah,” Tim says, waving a hand absently in Jon’s direction. “Point is, I’m not disappointed or angry or whatever that you’re back in the land of the living.” He pauses, and then, more sincerely: “Martin’s not the only one who’s missed you, okay?”

 Jon’s lips part into an O. Then, his mouth twitches up into a smirk, and he says, “Mm, you’re right. Basira did stop by earlier, and then of course Georgie, and I bet even Melanie—”

 “Unbelievable. And here I was nice enough to come all the way over here, to bring you flowers.”

 “Mm, they are very nice flowers.”

 “Damn right they are.”

 Jon smiles then, a fragile thing, and says, “Thank you, Tim. I… I’ve missed you too.”

 Tim could point out that Jon had been asleep for the majority of the time in question. But he knows that’s not what Jon means. So instead, he offers Jon a smile in return and says, “Be honest: more or less than the Admiral?”

 Jon shoots Tim a flat, unimpressed look. “Tim, don’t be ridiculous. Of course less than the Admiral.”

 .

.

.

 Tim’s been out of the wheelchair for a week when he finally manages to make his way to the roof of the Institute, still learning how to maneuver the crutches he’s moved on to. He swears he can feel every motion of the pins and the rods in his leg—skin covered with even more scars for the collection—as he finally heaves himself through the door and into the cool night air. 

 The view is just as good as he remembers.

 There’s the faint smell of cigarette smoke hanging in the air, and Tim’s entirely unsurprised to see Jon silhouetted against the glow of London, leaning against the wall that rings the roof with his back facing Tim. The cigarette glows a dull red as he raises it to his lips and breathes in.

 Jon doesn’t say anything, even as Tim painstakingly makes his way over to where he’s stood. Tim props his crutches against the wall before leaning his weight heavily against it, arms crossed atop the wall in a mirror image of Jon as they both look out onto the city below, humming with life and light.

 Finally, after a particularly long drag of his cigarette, Jon says, “I’m going to get Daisy.”

 There’s no room for argument in his voice. But that’s never stopped Tim from trying anyways. 

 “I thought you were done doing stupid shit that’ll get you killed,” Tim says, turning his head to look at Jon. Jon’s staring forward, but Tim gets the distinct impression that Jon isn’t looking out at the city at all.

 “It won’t kill me,” Jon says quietly. He moves his hands as he talks, surprisingly competent sign language that he’s begun using tentatively in his conversations with Tim. When Tim had asked him where he’d learned it, Jon had been quiet for a long moment before telling him that he hadn’t.

 Well. At least the Eye was being useful for once.

 “Yeah, whatever,” Tim says. “Dead or not, you’ll still be gone. You know people who crawl into that coffin don’t come back.”

 “I don’t—” Jon cuts off with a frustrated noise. After a moment, he continues, “I have a plan. I- I read a statement, and it said that I would need an anchor. A- a piece of myself to keep here. I can find it when I’m down there, and- and use it to guide me back.”

 “Right,” Tim says dryly. “Because our plans have always gone so well.”

 “What would you have me do, Tim? I- I can’t just do nothing.”

 “Why not?”

 Jon affixes him with an expression that’s half-affronted, half-stunned. “Tim.”

 “What? Jon, we barely know Daisy. She tried to kill you. No, don’t give me that look.” Tim jabs a finger in Jon’s direction. “You know I’m right.”

 “I…” Jon trails off. After a moment, he hugs his arms to himself, his snubbed-out cigarette still smoldering slightly on top of the wall. “I know. But I… I still have to go. I… I’m still going to go.”

 Tim exhales slowly and says, “Right. Suppose I should have expected that.”

 There’s silence between them for a moment. Then, Jon removes his hands from his arms and signs as he says, quietly, “Why don’t you hate me?”

 Tim stares at Jon for a long moment before saying, “What?”

 Jon sighs and repeats, the motions of his hands larger and more emphatic, “Why don’t you hate me? Basira and Melanie, they- they keep looking at me like I’m some… thing, and- and maybe I am. No, not… not maybe. I’m not… I’m not human anymore, and I- I know what you said, but what happens when I—?”

 Jon cuts off with a small, choked noise, like the air’s been sucked out of him all at once. Weakly, he signs, “I’m so hungry, all the time. What happens when I… when I can’t take it anymore? When I- I become dangerous, a- a monster, will you—?”

 Jon’s fingers curl into fists, and he drops his hands to his sides, angling himself away from Tim and staring at an arbitrary point in the distance. “It’s better this way,” he says, loudly enough that Tim can make out the words above the hum of London at night and the ever-present ringing in his ears. “I… I don’t want to go. I don’t want to lose this, to- to lose you and- and Martin. But maybe it’s better than becoming something that will hurt you.”

 Jon won’t meet Tim’s eyes. Carefully, Tim reaches across the space between them and takes Jon’s hand in his, uncurling Jon’s fingers gently in an attempt to release some of the tension. Slowly, he says, “You know, I… I shouldn’t be alive right now. Back after the Unknowing, when I woke up in the hospital, I… I didn’t want to be. It was supposed to be whatever it takes, and to me, that was always going to mean my death. Revenge and poetic justice and all of that. I should have died, but I didn’t. And… and you did. And it’s not something I feel guilty about, because we both made the same choice in the end, but that… that doesn’t stop me from feeling, sometimes, like it was my fault somehow.” He lets out a sharp laugh and says, “Well, I was the one to actually blow the place up in the end, but, you know.”

 Tim holds Jon’s hand carefully in his like it might break otherwise, the mottled texture of the scar tissue firm against his fingertips. His eyes find the thin white line slashed across Jon’s throat, the stark white bandage poking out from the collar of Jon’s shirt where it covers a fresh scalpel wound in his shoulder, the pale pink spots that pepper Jon’s skin in a mirror image of his own. He can’t see the splash of jagged scars across Jon’s back, a memory of shrapnel and white-hot explosions, but he knows they’re there. “You asked why I don’t hate you?”

 When Jon nods mutely, Tim says, “I just… ran out of reasons why I should. I still wanted to, but…” He shrugs and gives Jon a wry, humorless smile. “We’re all just stuck in the same shitty situation. And I guess at some point, I just decided that you hadn’t chosen to be here any more than I did.”

 “Oh,” Jon says, barely audible. 

 Tim takes Jon’s other hand in his, squeezes them firmly, and says, “And I’m sorry. Not for- for how we used to be, because I think the blame for that falls pretty evenly onto both of our shoulders, but… but for everything else. For what’s happened to you. Figured I’ve spent enough time feeling sorry for myself, I might as well extend you the same courtesy.”

 Jon’s fingers tighten around Tim’s, and he mumbles something Tim can’t quite catch. Then, he extracts his hands from Tim’s and signs, shakily, “I’m sorry too. For everything. But for what it’s worth, I… I’m glad you’re here. That you’re not dead. I- I know it’s been bad and- and I wish I could fix that, but I… I don’t know if I can.” Jon’s eyes when they meet Tim’s are sad but determined. “But I can fix this. I- I can get Daisy back. I can find my way out.”

 Tim looks at the firm set to Jon’s mouth, the furrow of his brow, and says, “Okay. But I’m going to hold you to that. Otherwise, I might have to go in after you.”

 Jon looks horrified. “Tim.”

 Tim holds his hands up in a placating gesture. “Hey, come back in one piece and we won’t have to worry about it.”

 Jon opens his mouth, then closes it again. There’s a long pause before he finally says, decidedly, “I will. I- I promise.”

 Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Tim wants to say. Instead, he shuffles closer to Jon and leans against the wall again, crossing his arms on top of it and looking out over the city. “Good,” he says softly. 

 After a moment, Jon shifts to face the city as well. His arm brushes against Tim’s, and Tim lets that point of contact ground him as he looks up and up and up at the stars above, pinpricks of light on a satin black sky. 

 “Thank you,” Jon says, just loud enough for Tim to hear. 

 Tim moves his hand to cover Jon’s where it sits on the wall and squeezes once. “Yeah.”

 They stand there until sunlight begins to tickle the edges of the horizon. And when Jon gives Tim’s hand one last squeeze, the other holding the lid of the coffin open, and says, “Be back soon,” Tim believes him.

 .

.

.

 Three days later, Jon climbs out of the coffin with dirt caked underneath his fingernails and a thin, sharp hand clutched in his. “Tim,” he says, and Tim ignores the pain in his leg as he lets his crutches drop to the floor and hugs Jon tightly.

 “Looks like I’m staying above ground after all,” Tim jokes, his voice light even as his words come out wet and choked.

 Jon’s laugh vibrates against Tim’s chest. “Yeah,” he says, burying his face in the fabric of Tim’s shoulder to hide his smile. “Yeah.”

[tomhiddelstonandzaynmalik]

Love at first sight?

Chapter 7

prologue chapter 1 chapter 2 chapter 3 chapter 4 chapter 5 Chapter 6

Warren Worthington III x reader

Word count: 1259 words.

Warnings: language

"Once upon a time, there was a lonely creature

Mind always shrouded in darkness

Hopeless was he, without a prayer for salvation

Dwelling forever in the abyss [...]".

-The Demon Loved an Angel by Xan Abyss

"fuck,fuck,fuck,fuck,fuck!". "Had I been too forward?". "What if she thought I was a perv?". "You twat, you can't do anything right, can you?".

Warren's inner voice was screaming at him. The tender kiss and quick wink had seemed appropriate at the time for some unknown reason. You see, it wasn't Warren's style to show his affection to others, even more so with people he knew recently.

"Darling, how many times must I tell you: One shall never do any public display of affection, for it must be reserved only for those you are close to in the confinements of one's home." Warren's mom said, kneeling in front of him after his seven-year-old son had rushed to squeeze in a hug a kind waiter who'd managed to sneak one of the leftover chocolate treats before the little kid left the exclusive Gala he'd attended to with his parents. "Even when they give me chocolate truffles?" The little boy said. "Even when they give you chocolate truffles. It is not proper etiquette, Warren". The kid couldn't help the weepy look on his face. He was still too young to understand it. Why couldn't he show his love for the people he liked? Nor the silver lining from his mother's words. "People like us cannot mix with people like them". After all, the Worthingtons were one of the wealthiest families in Europe. They belonged to the elite. For them interacting with the working class was a capital sin.

Even when Warren had left his former life behind years ago, old habits die hard. Like it or not, his family's beliefs had been engraved into his mind, resulting in Warren rejecting any affection altogether that turned him into the most touch-starved man on earth. Whereas it was coming from an older man like Hank, caressing his shoulder in a comforting manner after one of his usual nightmares. Or from his only friend patting his back after he splurged out the sassiest come-back ever. Even when the physical contact had come from an almost stranger like Peter, they were quite an emotional shock, making Warren's mind rewind those interactions on an endless loop.

"[...] But then one glorious afternoon

An angel's light broke through the gloom

They were both far from home

In a land they didn't know

She held out her hand

And asked him to follow [...]".

Perhaps it was the fact you forgave him without a second thought for having almost killed you. It could have also been how you never seemed to disapprove of anything he let out about his past. Maybe it was how your beautiful Y/E/C eyes would sparkle slightly whenever your gazes crossed paths. Another possibility was how talking with you was comfortable it was light and free of judgement, allowing him to open up unconsciously. Or the way you would tilt your head to the side in curiosity when he told you about a particularly delicate subject.

"... And that's how I got stuck with this fucking monstruosities". "What the hell? They're fucking awesome, Angel!". You said, taken aback. "Well, if you say I'm an angel now, you would've lost your shit if you had seen me with my former ones". Yes, his Horseman wings were sleek and imposing but, they were nowhere near that majestic white-feathery pair of wings he used to have. "Angels were supposed to be God's soldiers, you know? I don't know about you, Angel, but these beauties do fit with the description!".

And for the first time, Warren hated them a little less. After all, you had seen beauty into the grimmest-looking part in his body.

Or most definitely, it was all of the above which had made Warren's instinct act on its own, allowing them to come out for you to see them.

"HURRY UP, YOUNG MAN!". Just like before, a shrilling sound followed by Charles's voice inside Warren's head made him twist in pain. He got so lost in himself he couldn't notice he'd been standing in the foyer all along.

It was 11:25 when he entered the professor's office, it hadn't been so late, but for someone like Charles, even 5 minutes past the agreed time was an atrocity. "Don't worry sitting down since you're this late, we only have five minutes before my next appointment". Charles wasn't pleased with Warren's tardiness but tried to remain with the same calmness so distinctive of him. "I'm sorry, I got-". "I know, I know, you got entertained with our new arrival". Charles had cut him off mid-sentence, and after mentioning you, he couldn't help the knowing smile to come up, causing Warren to feel embarrassed.

"I'll go straight to the point. Do you have any plans for yourself, warren?". the question had surprised him. Living on the streets makes you focus your energy on making it through the day. there is no time to think about the future when you don't even know if you'll make it to next week. "Not really". Warren let out. "What would you say about staying here?". "I would say, I was never a fan of homework".

The concept of living at Xavier's was weird. Wasn't it a school? The last time he set foot in a classroom, Warren had been 14. Yes, by then, he was fluent in 7 languages, played multiple instruments to perfection and could recite Shakespeare by memory. But that had been eight years ago. Who knows just how far behind the rest he would be if he started school again. "Don't worry about that, Warren. You do not necessarily need to be a student to live here. There are plenty of other options". He clarified after reading the young man's mind. "Oh yeah? like what?". He asked with an untrusting look. "You can teach music or any of the many languages you know, or train the older students... or perhaps you would like to join our "little club" ". The man was talking about the X-MEN which caused Warren's demons to show up once more. "You are not a hero you dumb bitch! You never were and you will never be".

Charles took notice of Warren's overwhelmed face and said something before it was too late. "Those were only the first things that came up to me. What I'm trying to say is, you have to start to think ahead. You survived the crash for a reason, Warren. Maybe this is life's way of telling you what happened in the past is now gone, that you need to start moving on. We all want you to stay, Warren. Not just to be a passer-by." The Professor was wheeling towards the door where Warren stood doubtful. "Just think about what I said, please." "Now, if you will excuse me. I'm about to ask a young lady the very same thing". With that, The Professor wheeled out headed to the infirmary room.

"That cleaver old man". Warren mutter to himself, amazed by Charles' intellect. He knew if he pulled the right strings, like implying the possibility of you staying at Xavier's, Charles would honestly make him consider the idea of settling down here too.

"[...] They knew they had to return home

But he could not say goodbye

The thought of losing her forever

Ripped through him inside[...]".

And maybe, he wasn't so wrong after all.

[wdwmarveldisney]

okay i don’t know if you still write for ouat but i’d die for you to write a henry mills fanfic when he’s a teen and he’s in a relationship with a girl of the same age and her parents are villains(but dead now) so regina, emma and the rest of the gang don’t like her and they try to keep henry away from her but he gets upset at them or something because of it.

there are little to none henry mills fanfics out there and it makes me annoyed since i’ve recently refallen down a rabbit hole of wanting to read love stories about him

Don’t

Henry Mills x Fem!reader

Requested

Summary: Reader is the daughter of two recent villains but is nothing like them. When her and Henry start dating, the family don’t take it so well. They begin to try and separate you two out of the belief it was best for him. Having enough of it, Henry snaps at them.

Masterlist

A/N: I agree with there not being enough Henry fics. Also this isn’t set in a certain season. Mentions briefly death, kidnapping and verbal abuse but not in any detail.

(GIF isn’t mine)

Living in Storybrooke was dull when you weren't one of the heroes or villains and especially when your parents were villains leading to no one trusting you. Your parents had recently tried to kill a bunch of people for some ritual. To everyone else, they claimed it was for you but you knew better. They were greedy and self-centred and blinded by it. Everything they did was for personal gain including marrying each other and having you. As much as you didn't want to believe it, it was a story your mum had told you many a times. How they had to pass on their evil legacy to someone and that they had to have a little villain just like them. And so they raised you by neglecting you and verbally abusing you and making you feel like you weren't worth it.

But you didn't believe it. You couldn't. There was so many heroes in the world and you had the opportunity to help. Through tricking your parents into little unnoticeable things. So when they had started to execute their plan, you had headed straight over to the only person you deemed worthy of your trust for the time being. Henry agreed to not tell the heroes that you helped as long as you did. If something went wrong and you had done it purposely, he had swore that he was going to eat you out, no matter the amount of promises you made.

You gave him valuable information of the next person to be kidnapped and when and he relayed the information. And you were parents were caught. You weren't surprised when Henry told you they had chosen to drink an incurable poison to escape doing time for their crimes. It just further proved the theory that they didn't give a damn about you. Apparently they had asked for their maid on their deathbed instead of their daughter and you didn't plan on visiting them. You were free. No more pretending to be evil because no matter what they did, you had told yourself you'd be nothing like them. They were villains, all that was wrong in the world and all you wanted to be was a beacon of light.

After you not visiting your parents, Henry started asking questions. Questions you didn't want to answer. So he connected things and he had got the idea, confirmed by a small nod of your head. Henry understood you weren't your parents and that you wanted to be different so he stuck by you. His family started noticing and whenever passing them in the street, you'd get hesitant or suspicious looks but Henry assured you it was nothing. And then you started dating. Boy, that did not help matters at all.

It was good at first, amazing. You went on so many dates, spent so much time together and knew each other better than anybody could believe. But his family began worrying more, scared you were using him or corrupting him. You couldn't blame them. You're parents were villains and you had asked Henry if he was ok with keeping what your parents were like a secret because you hated the idea of it defining you. He had agreed saying that it was only fair since it was your life and you should be the one to decide who knows. So his family strongly disliked you and you hated it.

One thing you admired about Henry was his love for his family. They were everything to him and so they were important to you. Them hating you tore you apart because it upset Henry. You tried everything to try to prove yourself to them but the recent kidnappings and murders your parents did were fresh in their mind. You explained that to Henry, every time he began to apologise. They had reason and logic on their side and they had every right to dislike you.

Even with the dislike, they never really did anything to get in between you and Henry until recently. Every time there was a date, something magically happened that Henry couldn't get out of. Decorating rooms instead of the arcade dates, clearing out garages instead of the picnics, running the shop instead of lunches at Granny's, helping Hook with his boat instead of movie nights. You could see what they were doing and, though it hurt, you accepted their side of the story. Henry, however, hadn't noticed what they were doing. He had complained about not being able to spend enough time with you and you didn't want to be the one to tell him what was happening.

He had worked it out soon enough and had ranted about it in his cute little way you loved. The over exaggerated retellings, the massive hand gesture that had made him accidentally hit you at times, the cute little pout. After spending the time with you on your 'secret date', he seemed to have planned something. You were complaining about the old lady in the next room at the inn who couldn't seem to keep her nose out of your business when his eyes had lit up and his grip tightened ever so slightly on your hand. "You ok there?"

"Come on," Henry practically dragged out of the diner, giving just enough time to leave way too much money on the table. He had dragged you straight to the loft, where everyone was and pulled you over to the sofa. He began to put in a movie whilst you had an internal breakdown. You always did movie nights at your room to avoid his family and any possible outcomes it may have. The start to Peter Pan began to play and a smile made its way onto your face, your hand having to cover your lips when you remembered Hook was right behind you. Henry gave you a grin and a shrug before sitting next to you and pulling you into his side despite your attempts to avoid it.

It was silent apart from the TV and you could feel the eyes on the back of your head glaring at you. Taking a deep breath, you moved closer to Henry and grabbed his hand in order to play with his fingers, a habit you had began to do when stressed. His focus went from the movie to you as all your focus was on his fingers. He had this small grin on his face as he watched you interlaced your fingers with his and turn back to the movie. He soared a glance over his shoulder to see his family still watching with hesitant looks. He sighed, grabbing the remote and pausing the movie, standing up in the process. You had ended up almost laying on the sofa from his sudden disappearance and sighed when you saw the look on his face. He was going to have a go at them. You'd convinced him not to but he was going to anyway. You stood up too, in front of him, hands on his chest as you two made eye contact. "Don't,"

"I have to," his voice was strong but soft and you sighed, resting your forehead against his shoulder, praying to every god above this went well. "I know you guys have been trying to keep her away from me because of who her parents are but she's not like that. She's the complete opposite!" He looked to you for permission, understanding that it was probably best to tell them. You nodded, not facing the adults in order to ignore the reactions, "Her parents were horrible. They neglected her and verbally abused her and tried to force her to become this mirror image of them but she's good. She's the kindest, sweetest and cutest person I know. She's spent money she doesn't have on me because I've forgotten to eat or I can't pay for something. She drops everything if I need her and she listens to everything I say. I," he paused, sending you a quick smile, "We hate that you don't like her. She's been trying so hard to prove to you guys she's good and you're just ignoring it!"

"Kid-"

"No mum. You can't justify that. And I've wanted to talk to you about it for a while now but Y/N has constantly stood up for you and stopped me." You finally looked at the adults' expression, the shock and surprise and a hint of guilt possibly. You were never really good at reading expressions. "I love her," that got your attention. You quickly stepped in front of him, eyebrows raised and eyes wide. "Say what now?" He laughed, glancing down to where you had subconsciously grabbed his hand and began to play with his fingers. "I love you,"

"I love you too," his grin widen at your dopey smile and giddy expression. You lifted your hand and shoved his shoulder lightly making him laugh and reach to hold that hand as well. "We're sorry," With what was happening, the fact there were adults in the room had completely slipped from your mind. Facing them, you saw them glancing between you two and let a confused look take over your features. "Why?"

"We shouldn’t have done what we did. We should’ve given you a chance,” Snow was the one to speak but from their similar expressions, you guessed they all felt the same. Even with the apology you were confused. “But you had every right too. You were trying to protect Henry and I’m the daughter of two evil monsters. I don’t blame you,” they all smiled, Regina clapping her hands together before speaking, “Well, how about we watch the movie?” As the adults worked on popcorn and blankets and Hook not so secretly changing the movie, you and Henry sat on the sofa. He wrapped his arm around you, pulling you closer, the two of you smiling like maniacs. You had both wanted this since the beginning and now all you felt was relief and love.

You finally felt like you had a family.

[whatifyoulivelikethat]

slow blink | myg

pairing(s): yoongi x reader

summary: He asked for the ring back and left you there. Had a wedding and invited all your friends, but not you, because you were his ex-fiancé. The only person who didn’t attend was Min Yoongi. Years passed. Time kept going, but you and Yoongi were stuck in time.

warnings: angst; language; non-idol!AU

–

"I hate this.”

You pushed the small carved wooden turtle across the coffee table with tiny jerks of your index finger, sighing.

"I hate that I keep thinking about him."

You placed your fingertip on the turtle's shell.

"I hate that it's been years and I'm still sitting here thinking about how he sat me down at that restaurant and told me to give back the engagement ring because he had met someone else."

You flipped the turtle over unceremoniously. Unlike a real turtle, this one did not complain.

You closed your eyes.

"I can still see him smiling at me."

"Breakups happen every day."

You didn't open your eyes. The voice was speaking to you, but your mind was imagining a different time, a different place, when life was different, but now the man you once loved was probably celebrating holidays with his wife and kids, holding her hand, not yours, not yours, but at one time he did.

He did.

Did.

"Did you come over to sulk?"

"I fixed your sink."

"Thanks."

You opened your eyes to see Min Yoongi sitting on his sofa, wearing a blue and white button-up shirt and white t-shirt under it. Blue jeans with paint stains and rips, probably not all done by a factory. You reached over and re-flipped the turtle so it was on its legs again.

"Where'd you get the turtle?"

Yoongi shrugged, black hair sliding over his brown, cat-like eyes. "Friend brought back a souvenir when he went somewhere. I don't really remember where." He had a calm, unassuming voice.

You exhaled and stood up from his coffee table. "Alright, I'll begone now."

You began to turn, but Yoongi spoke again.

"You know, he was my friend too," Yoongi said, almost dismissively. "I thought it was so stupid, the way he did it. He should have known it would scar you like this."

You didn't move, frozen in time. It was part of the reason you were still friends with Yoongi. Everyone said they wouldn't choose sides, but, ultimately, they did, attending his wedding that you weren't invited to, every one of them but Yoongi. Everyone had worn pretty dresses and nice suits, everyone but Yoongi, saying he needed to finish a production and couldn't make it. The deadline was too important for his career.

"I'm not scarred."

"You started harassing my wooden turtle after fixing my fucking sink. That's not normal behavior."

You wanted a drink. Wanted to drown everything out once more, but you told yourself no more, no more drunken nights alone crying over nothing, because it was nothing, it really was, it was just some guy who didn't deserve you because he thought you were expendable and nobody wants that, right?

Crying on the phone, calling up Yoongi at two in the morning, asking what was wrong with you, asking why you couldn't get better, asking why you couldn't let it go.

"There's nothing wrong with you," he had said calmly, clicking away at his computer as he spoke. "It's how life is. You think it should be easy, but that's not how human brains work."

"I want it to be over," you had mumbled. "Want myself to be over."

The clicking at his computer stopped. Silence.

"My sink is broken. Can you come over this weekend and fix it?"

"... Y-Yeah."

No matter how many times you told yourself no more, old habits die hard.

You weren't even a plumber. Yoongi just didn't want to fix his own sink. He kept thinking he could shove random things in his garbage disposal to make them disappear from existence. 

"Yoongi."

"Hm?" he replied, standing up.

You turned to look at him. "Why was your disposal stuffed with lemons?"

Yoongi shrugged. "I thought it would smell better."

His sink wasn't even broken. If he had pressed the button longer, he would have ground them, even if they were whole lemons. You had automatically unscrewed the garbage disposal because that was usually his problem. He usually made a face, disgusted. What a damn prince. You kept scolding him that he should watch you carefully and learn to fix it himself.

You looked into his eyes. He shoved his hands in his pockets, looking back at you. Blinking slowly, covering his dark brown eyes for almost a full second, his lashes brushing his cheeks, framed by dark brows and dark circles from long nights, working on music, so many long nights of him listening to your drunken rambles, and sometimes you would be so drunk that you wouldn't remember, but you would see your phone history and the two-hour long call to Min Yoongi.

"I'm sorry."

He raised his brows and tilted his head. "Hm?"

"I won't call you late and drunk anymore."

He shrugged his shoulders. "It's fine. I'm usually awake anyway."

You laughed and nothing was funny. "I mean I won't bother you anymore. Your future girlfriend probably wouldn't like me calling all the time."

Yoongi didn't say anything for five seconds. A long pause.

"Have I had a girlfriend the entire time you've known me?" Yoongi asked plainly.

You blinked, slow, looking into those cat-like eyes once more. An almost blank face. No. Yoongi had never had a girlfriend the entire time you had known him. Working on music. Always shrugging when asked what his type was. Doesn't really matter, does it? If I find someone I click with, that's enough for me. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet, opening it and turning it to you.

A picture where the ID card should be.

A picture you knew.

You, with your hands on your smiling lips, almost crying, staring down at what you knew was a ring and a man on one knee, sparkling eyes full of joy. It was cropped so it was only your face and your shoulders, the top of the white dress visible, a peter-pan collar with puff sleeves. You remembered that dress. You remembered thinking you would keep that dress forever.

You remembered donating it after he asked you to give the ring back.

Yoongi snapped his wallet closed.

"I'm not going to have a girlfriend until you no longer want to know me."

He placed his wallet back in his pocket.

"That... that photo is terrible." You were surprised to find your words small, weak.

Yoongi shrugged. "It was the happiest moment in your life, right? I like it."

You shifted your eyes, not quite looking at him. "I have tons of photos on social media of me smiling."

Out of your peripheral vison, Yoongi nodded, tucking his tongue in his cheek. "Mhm, tons of posed pictures of fake smiles and pretending you've moved on."

He wasn't wrong. You took a deep breath.

"What... What am I supposed to do?" you said quietly, voice nearly breaking.

"Stop thinking that you have to get over it."

Your eyes went up, up, to his. Slow blink, impassioned expression.

"Everyone thinks pain goes away," Yoongi muttered. "It doesn't. You just get used to it."

You tore yourself up with the what-ifs, the how-comes, the does--he-regret-anythings, thinking it would help to map out all the possibilities, thinking it would help if you pretended it didn't exist, thinking it would help if you wallowed in it, thinking it would help, and cursing it all, digging up your old wounds and cutting them deeper, instead of leaving it there and accepting that they existed and that they would be there forever, forever and ever, because he was your first love, the first one who smiled at you and made you smile hopelessly back, the first one that made you want to hold hands and do cheesy shit, and you kept thinking you wanted that back, instead of understanding that everything after would be different, would be something else.

Something like...

Dumping five shredded lemons into Min Yoongi's trash can and shaking your head at his foolishness.

And he had your picture in his wallet and said nothing until now, said nothing at all until you said you wanted yourself to be over and then he asked you to fix his sink and shoved it full of lemons and showed you your picture in his wallet, not saying anything else, not trying to change your mind, only telling you that he was waiting.

Waiting all this time.

Yoongi's hands were still in his pockets, his face expressionless, but he was watching you carefully, blinking slowly, not saying anything more.

Just waiting.

Waiting for you to say something.

You stepped up to him, closing the distance. Looking up at him, tilting your head, leaning in.

He placed his fingertips on your lips.

"Life isn't like the movies," Yoongi said quietly.

You backed up, but his fingers stayed on your lips. Cat-like eyes no longer expressionless, but sad.

Because he knew.

"In life, there is no happy ending."

Just because you knew about your picture in his wallet didn’t mean that you were suddenly cured. It didn’t mean that you were over your first love, it didn’t mean you were ready, and it did mean that if you kissed him right here, right now, you would hurt him. Hurt him because all your brain could think about was a memory from long ago when time was different and you were stuck in that time, trapped, rewinding from the moment that you sat down at that restaurant and handed over your previous engagement ring.

And you could have said so many things, but nothing was right. Nothing.

You pressed your lips to his fingertips, vision blurring.

Saying nothing, but a slow blink.

Yoongi slow-blinked back at you.

-

"You're in love with her because it's easier than falling in love with someone who will actually love you back."

Min Yoongi didn't say anything. 

"This way you can have an excuse to feel like you're in love without the actual effort. Tell me I'm wrong."

Yoongi didn't say anything. 

He just stood up and left.

-

"You're in love with the idea of him. The way he was then. The memory, not him now."

You didn't say anything. 

"That's why you keep yourself from accepting anyone else. You've made a grandiose fantasy in your head. No one can measure up. Not even if he came back to you and proposed again. You're stuck in that time."

You couldn't say anything. 

You just stood up and left. 

-

“What would you like, miss?”

This was it. This was the exact table. The moment your life stopped. You looked up, but not at the waitress. You looked up at the seat that he occupied, the memory of a man who sat there long ago and asked you to give the engagement ring back because he was in love with someone else.

“Is it… Is it alright if I order a slice of your famous chocolate cake?”

“Just that?” The waitress sounded surprised.

You turned to face her. She wasn’t the waitress who served you that day. Of course, she wasn’t. The uniforms had changed too, black and white now instead of navy and white. You smiled at her, but you didn’t feel the smile in your soul. She blinked at you rapidly with her pen poised over her notepad.

“And a glass of champagne, please.”

She smiled back. “Oh? Celebrating something?”

You looked away, at the empty space in front of you. She looked too, as if there was someone there.

“Are you waiting for someone?”

“… No. It’s just me. I just wanted some champagne to go with my cake, if that’s possible.”

“Yes, of course.”

Soon enough the slice of cake was placed in front of you with the flute of bubbly champagne. There was a truffle on top of the cake with gold flakes. Even now, you remembered the taste of this cake. It had been delicious on that day. Maybe the best chocolate cake you had ever tasted, just the right balance of sweet and bitter.

It was during dessert when he told you.

How cruel it was, after an entire meal. Even though he clearly must have not been in love with you during that whole meal, you still thought he was. In fact, you still believed that he was. In your eyes, all the way until that point, you were the only one.

You lifted the dessert fork. Cut into the cake, a small bite.

You remembered that you had been so shocked that you didn’t even cry. You had gone numb, handing over the ring, not understanding, but your mouth was saying that you did. Watched him stand up and leave, telling you he would pay the bill and you could finish your cake. Leaving you there, alone.

You lifted the fork. Placed it in your mouth. The flavor, sweet and bitter.

It tasted more bitter than you remembered.

You had never come back to this restaurant all this time. It was like you were in the memory once more. Listening to him say I’m sorry and not comprehending what was happening. You didn’t even ask what you did wrong. Handing over the ring, and you didn’t even remember what the ring looked like anymore, not really, some shiny gem on some glided band. You stared at the empty space in front of you.

Your face felt warm. Your vision blurred. You blinked, slowly. You looked down and you saw round drops of condensation all over the chocolate truffle and cake slice, dotting the plate. No. Not condensation.

You touched your face.

The space in front of you, empty.

Pulled your hand back. Fingers smeared with streams of glistening droplets.

And then suddenly the sound of the resultant rushed back, previously muted by your reminiscing, and now it came crashing down and you could finally hear your own hiccupping and sniffling, shivers shaking your whole body, crowded by glasses clinking, plates shuffling, loud conversation, and jovial laughing.

You closed your eyes and buried your face in your hands.

And cried.

Finally cried for that girl all those years ago, sitting in this seat, frozen after his declaration, at some point getting up and wandering outside, not realizing that just like that meant you were alone now. Now you could go anywhere, anywhere but home, because home stood up and walked away from you, taking the ring and the symbol of your happily ever after.

There was so much noise that it drowned out your sobbing, hidden behind your hoodie sleeves. You didn’t know how long you cried, but it was a long time, so long that when you finally looked up, still hiccupping and shivering, your champagne wasn’t bubbling anymore. Your eyes and cheeks burned from the tears.

There was a small stack of napkins by your plate. That wasn’t there before.

You reached out and took one, wiping your face. It took maybe three napkins for you to fully blow out your nose and, even then, your head felt stuffy and clogged. You picked up your fork. Ate slowly, in small bites, sniffing the entire time. Took small sips of champagne in between. The space in front of you, empty.

You tilted your head.

You used to imagine him so clearly, sitting there. You used to remember exactly wheat he’d worn, but… what had he worn? You couldn’t remember. What had you worn? You used to know that too.

You speared the gold-flecked truffle with your fork.

Stared at the gold glimmering in the dim mood lighting of the restaurant. It was a yellow gold, shiny and luxe. Your chest felt tight. You turned it slowly on the fork. The gold glimmered, looking bright yellow in some parts. A little shredded because of the nature of edible gold leaf.

Reminding you of lemons for some reason.

In life, there is no happy ending.

You looked up, seeing that blank space.

-

“Why are you banging at my door at two in the morning holding a paper bag full of lemons?”

Your whole body felt hot from running. You stared at Min Yoongi, slowly blinking. He was still wearing jeans and a black sweatshirt, so he hadn’t been sleeping. Working on music? His voice was calm and unassuming, even if his actual words had some bite to them.

“Yoongi.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Hm?”

“You said in life there’s no happy ending.”

Those cat-like eyes watching you carefully.

“My happy ending stood up and walked away from me,” you said, chest constricting. “And I don’t think I’m ever going to get it back or if I even want it back, because I don’t know if it’s even real.”

Yoongi lowered his gaze. He took a deep breath. You lifted the paper bag of lemons. Held it out to him. They jostled, rustling the brown paper loudly. Yoongi jerked back a little, eyes widening.

“Take them. Because last time they got mangled by your disposal.”

Those dark brown orbs looked almost scared.

“Because they fell in there, right?”

His lips parted. You noticed they were over-bitten, dry and with small flecks of blood.

“Falling in there would take some effort, wouldn’t it?” Yoongi whispered, looking at you guiltily.

You moved your hand and suddenly the bag split, the bottom flopping open, dropping the bushel of lemons to create a plummeting waterfall of yellow fruit, hitting the floor of Yoongi’s apartment and the porch, rolling in every direction. It was almost comical, but neither of you seemed to notice or care about the lemons.

Because it was never about the lemons.

“I… am really bad at putting effort in anything that isn’t music,” Yoongi said softly.

“I… have a really good memory,” you said softly. “Too good, I think.”

One of the lemons rolled by your feet. A small bump.

You swallowed. You dropped the paper bag onto the ground.

Lifted your hand. Placed your fingertips on his lips. Those dark brown eyes had watched you all these years. Seen your frozen state occupying space, autopiloting through life. You closed your eyes. Digging for the memory of the happiest moment of your life. Once, it was a park, a man on one knee, and a ring glimmering before you.

But now, there was only aching blackness.

You opened your eyes.

Yoongi smiled behind your fingertips, small and sad. You couldn’t see the smile because it was hidden behind your hand, but you could feel it. He pressed his lips against the pads of your fingers.

He didn’t say anything.

Only gave you a slow blink.

--

masterpost

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inspired by right where you left me by taylor swift the slow-blink is how cats communicate affection/love yes, the lemon scene at the end is inspired by RM’s bag of lemons splitting and falling anywhere in that one commercial, lmao