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luveline · 6 months ago

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𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐨𝐫 𝐬𝐞𝐞𝐧

Things between you and Peter change with the seasons. [17k]

c: friends-to-lovers, hurt/comfort, loneliness, peter parker isn’t good at hiding his alter ego, fluff, first kisses, mutual pining, loved-up epilogue, mention of self-harm with no graphic imagery

｡𖦹°‧⭑.ᐟ

Fall

Peter Parker is a resting place for overworked eyes, like warm topaz nestled against a blue-cold city. He waits on you with his eyes to the screen of his phone, clicking the power button repetitively. A nervous tic.

You close the heavy door of your apartment building. His head stays still, yet he’s heard the sound of it settling, evidence in his calmed hand.

“Good morning!” You pull your coat on quickly. “Sorry.”

“Good morning,” he says, offering a sleep-logged smile. “Should we go?”

You follow Peter out of the cul-de-sac and into the street as he drops his phone into a deep pocket. To his credit, he doesn’t check it while you walk, and only glances at it when you’re taking your coat off in the heat of your favourite cafe: The Moroccan Mode glows around you, fog kissing the windows, condensation running down the inner lengths of it in beads. You murmur something to do with the odd fog and Peter tells you about water vapour. When it rains tonight, he says it’ll be warm water that falls.

He spreads his textbook, notebook, and rinky-dink laptop out across the table while you order drinks. Peter has the same thing every visit, a decaf americano, in a wide brim mug with the pink-petal saucer. You put it down on his textbook only because that’s where he would put it himself, and you both get to work.

As Peter helps you study, you note the simplicity of another normal day, and can’t help wondering what it is that’s missing. Something is, something Peter won’t tell you, the absence of a truth hanging over your heads. You ask him if he wants to get dinner and he says no, he’s busy. You ask him to see a movie on Friday night and he wishes he could.

Peter misses you. When he tells you, you believe him. “I wish I had more time,” he says.

“It’s fine,” you say, “you can’t help it.”

“We’ll do something next weekend,” he says. The lie slips out easily.

To Peter it isn’t a lie. In his head, he’ll find the time for you again, and you’ll be friends like you used to be.

You press the end of your pencil into your cheek, the dark roast, white paper and condensation like grey noise. This time last year, the air had been thick for days with fog you could cut. He took you on a trip to Manhattan, less than an hour from your red-brick neighbourhood, and you spent the day in a hotel pool throwing great cupfuls of water at each other. The fog was gone just fifteen miles away from home but the warm air stayed. When it rained it was sudden, strange, spit-warm splashes of it hammering the tops of your heads, your cheeks as you tipped your faces back to spy the dark clouds.

Peter had swam the short distance to you and held your shoulders. You remember feeling like your whole life was there, somewhere you’d never been before, the sharp edges of cracked pool tile just under your feet.

You peek over the top of your laptop screen and wonder if Peter ever thinks of that trip.

He feels you watching and meets your eyes. “I have to tell you something,” he says, smiling shyly.

“Sure.”

“I signed us up for that club.”

“Epigenetics?”

“Molecular medicine,” he says.

The nice thing about fog is that it gives a feeling of lateness. It’s still morning, barely ten, but it feels like the early evening. It’s gentle on the eyes, colouring the whole room with a sconced shine. You reach for Peter’s bag and sort through his jumble of possessions —stick deodorant, loose-leaf paper, a bodega’s worth of protein bars— and grab his camera.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m cataloguing the moment you ruined our lives,” you say, aiming the camera at his chin, squinting through the viewfinder.

“Technically, I signed us up a few days ago,” he says.

You snap his photo as his mouth closes around ‘ago’, keeping his half-laugh stuck on his lips. “Semantics,” you murmur. “And molecular medicine club, this has nothing to do with the estranged Gwen Stacy?”

“It has nothing to do with her. And you like molecular medicine.”

“I like oncology,” you correct, which is a sub-genre at best, “and I have enough work without joining another club. Go by yourself.”

“I can’t go without you,” he says. Simple as that.

He knew you’d say yes when he signed you up. It’s why he didn’t ask. You’re already forgiven him for the slight of assumption.

“When is it?” you ask, smiling.

—

Molecular medicine club is fun. You and a handful of ESU nerds gather around a big table in a private study room for a few hours and read about the newer discoveries and top research, like regenerative science and now taboo Oscorp research. It’s boring, sometimes, but then Peter will lean into your side and make a joke to keep you going.

He looks at Gwen Stacy a lot. Slender, pale and freckled, with blonde hair framing a sweet face. Only when he thinks you’re not looking. Only when she isn’t either.

—

“Good morning,” you say.

Peter holds an umbrella over his head that he’s quick to share with you, and together you walk with heads craned down, the umbrella angled forward to fight the wind. Your outermost shoulder is wet when you reach the café, your other warm from being pressed against him. You shake the umbrella off outside the door and step onto a cushy, amber doormat to dry your sneakers. Peter stalks ahead and order the drinks, eager to get warm, so you look for a table. Your usual is full of businessmen drinking flat whites with briefcases at their legs. They laugh. You try to picture Peter in a suit: you’re still laughing when he finds you in the booth at the back.

“Tell the joke,” he says, slamming his coffee down. He’s careful with yours. He’s given you the pink petal saucer from the side next to the straws and wooden stirrers.

“I was thinking about you as a businessman.”

“And that’s funny?”

“When was the last time you wore a suit?”

Peter shakes his head. Claims he doesn’t know. Later, you’ll remember his Uncle Ben’s funeral and feel queasy with guilt, but you don’t remember yet. “When was the last time you wore one?” he asks. “I don’t laugh at you.”

“You’re always laughing at me, Parker.”

The cafe isn’t as warm today. It’s wet, grimy water footsteps tracking across the terracotta tile, streaks of grey water especially heavy near the counter, around it to the bathroom. There’s no fog but a sad rattle of rain, not enough to make noise against the windows, but enough to watch as it falls in lazy rivulets down the lengths of them.

Your face is chapped with the cold, cheeks quickly come to heat as your fingers curl around your mug. They tingle with newfound warmth. When you raise your mug to your lips, your hand hardly shakes.

“You okay?” Peter asks.

“Fine. Are you gonna help me with the math today?”

“Don’t think so. Did you ask nicely?”

“I did.” You’d called him last night. You would’ve just as happily submitted your homework poorly solved with the grade to prove it —you don’t want Peter’s help, you just wanted to see him.

Looking at him now, you remember why his distance had felt a little easier. The rain tangles in his hair, damp strands curling across his forehead, his eyes dark and outfitted by darker eyelashes. Peter has the looks of someone you’ve seen before, a classical set to his nose and eyes reminiscent of that fallen angel weeping behind his arm, his russet hair in fiery disarray. There was an anger to Peter after Ben died that you didn’t recognise, until it was Peter, changed forever and for the worse and it didn’t matter —he was grieving, he was terrified, who were you to tell him to be nice again— until it started to get better. You see less of your fallen, angry angel, no harsh brush strokes, no tears.

His eyes are still dark. Bruised often underneath, like he’s up late. If he is, it isn’t to talk to you.

You spend an afternoon working through your equations, pretending to understand until Peter explains them to death. His earphones fall out of his pocket and he says, “Here, I’ll show you a song.”

He walks you home. The song is dreary and sad. The man who sings is good. Lover, You Should’ve Come Over. It feels like Peter’s trying to tell you something —he isn’t, but it feels like wishing he would.

“You okay?” you ask before you can get to your street. A minute away, less.

“I’m fine, why?”

You let the uncomfortable shape of his earbud fall out of your ear, the climax of the song a rattle on his chest. “You look tired, that’s all. Are you sleeping?”

“I have too much to do.”

You just don’t get it. “Make sure you’re eating properly. Okay?”

His smile squeezes your heart. Soft, the closest you’ll ever get. “You know May,” he says, wrapping his arm around your shoulders to give you a short hug, “she wouldn’t let me go hungry. Don’t worry about me.”

—

The dip into depression you take is predictable. You can’t help it. Peter being gone makes it worse.

You listen to love songs and take long walks through the city, even when it’s dark and you know it’s a bad idea. If anything bad happens Spider-Man could probably save me, you think. New York’s not-so-new vigilante keeps a close eye on things, especially the women. You can’t count how many times you’ve heard the same story. A man followed me home, saw me across the street, tried to get into my apartment, but Spider-Man saved me.

You’re not naive, you realise the danger of walking around without protection assuming some stranger in a mask will save you, but you need to get out of the house. It goes on for weeks.

You walk under streetlights and past stores with CCTV, but honestly you don’t really care. You’re not thinking. You feel sick and heavy and it’s fine, really, it’s okay, everything works out eventually. It’s not like it’s all because you miss Peter, it’s just a feeling. It’ll go away.

“You’re in deep thought,” a voice says, garnering a huge flinch from the depths of your stomach.

You turn around, turn back, and flinch again at the sight of a man a few paces ahead. Red shoulders and legs, black shining in a webbed lattice across his chest. “Oh,” you say, your heartbeat an uncomfortable plodding under your hand, “sorry.”

“Why are you sorry? I scared you.”

“I didn’t realise you were there.”

Spider-Man doesn’t come any closer. You take a few steps in his direction. You’ve never met before but you’d like to see him up close, and you aren’t scared. Not beyond the shock of his arrival.

“Can I walk you to where you’re going?” Spider-Man asks you. He’s humming energy, fidgeting and shifting from foot to foot.

“How do I know you’re the real Spider-Man?”

After all, there are high definition videos of his suit on the news sometimes. You wouldn’t want to find out someone was capable of making a replica in the worst way possible.

You can’t be sure, but you think he might be smiling behind the mask, his arms moving back as though impressed at your questioning. “What do you need me to do to prove it?” he asks.

He speaks hushed. Rough and deep. “I don’t know. What’s Spider-Man exclusive?”

“I can show you the webs?”

You pull your handbag further up your arm. “Okay, sure. Shoot something.”

Spider-Man aims his hand at the streetlight across the way and shoots it. He makes a severing motion with his wrist to stop from getting pulled along by it, letting the web fall like an alien tendril from the bulb. The light it produces dims slightly. A chill rides your spine.

“Can I walk you now?” he asks.

“You don’t have more important things to do?” If the bitterness you’re feeling creeps into your tone unbidden, he doesn’t react.

“Nothing more important than you.”

You laugh despite yourself. “I’m going to Trader Joe’s.”

“Yellowstone Boulevard?”

“That’s the one…”

You fall into step beside him, and, awkwardly, begin to walk again. It’s a short walk. Trader Joe’s will still be open for hours despite the dark sky, and you’re in no hurry. “My friend, he likes the rolled tortilla chips they do, the chilli ones.”

“And you’re going just for him?” Spider-Man asks.

“Not really. I mean, yeah, but I was already going on a walk.”

“Do you always walk around by yourself? It’s late. It’s dangerous, you know, a beautiful girl like you,” he says, descending into an odd mixture of seriousness and teasing. His voice jumps and swoons to match.

“I like walking,” you say.

Spider-Man walking is a weird thing to see. On the news, he’s running, swinging, or flying through the air untethered. You’re having trouble acquainting the media image of him with the quiet man you’re walking beside now.

”Is everything okay?” he asks. “You seem sad.”

“Do I?”

“Yeah, you do.”

“Maybe I am sad,” you confess, looking forward, the bright sign of Trader Joe’s already in view. It really is a short walk. “Do you ever–” You swallow against a surprising tightness in your throat and try again, “Do you ever feel like you’re alone?”

“I’m not alone,” he says carefully.

“Me neither, but sometimes I feel like I am.”

He laughs quietly. You bristle thinking you’re being made fun of, but the laugh tapers into a sad one. “Sometimes I feel like I’m the only person in the world,” he says. “Even here. I forget that it’s not something I invented.”

“Well, I guess being a hero would feel really lonely. Who else do we have like you?” You smile sympathetically. “It must be hard.”

“Yeah.” His head tips to the side, and a crash of glass rings in the distance, crunching, and then there’s a squeal. It sounds like a car accident. Spider-Man goes tense. “I’ll come back,” he says.

“That’s okay, Spider-Man, I can get home by myself. Thank you for the protection detail.”

He sprints away. In half a second he’s up onto a short roof, then between buildings. It looks natural. It takes your breath away.

You buy Peter’s chips at Trader Joe’s and wait for a few minutes at the door, but Spider-Man doesn’t come back.

—

I don’t want to study today, Peter’s text says the next day. Come over and watch movies?

The last handholds of your fugue are washed away in the shower. You dab moisturiser onto your face and neck and stand by the open window to help it dry faster, taking in the light drizzle of rain, the smell of it filling your room and your lungs in cold gales. You dress in sweatpants and a hoodie, throw on your coat, and stuff the rolled tortilla chips into a backpack to ferry across the neighbourhood.

Peter still lives at home with his Aunt May. You’d been in awe of it when you were younger, Peter and his Aunt and Uncle, their home-cooked family dinners, nights spent on the roof trying to find constellations through light pollution, stretched out together while it was warm enough to soak in your small rebellion. Ben would call you both down eventually. When you’re older! he’d always promise.

Peter’s waiting in the open door for you. He ushers you inside excitedly, stripping you out of your coat and forgetting your wet shoes as he drags you to the kitchen. “Look what I got,” he says.

The Parker kitchen is a big, bright space with a chopping block island. The counters are crowded by pots, pans, spices, jams, coffee grounds, the impossible drying rack. There’s a cross-stitch about the home on the microwave Ben did to prove to May he could still see the holes in the aida.

You follow Peter to the stove where he points at a ceramic Dutch oven you’ve eaten from a hundred times. “There,” he says.

“Did you cook?” you ask.

“Of course I didn’t cook, even if the way you said that is offensive. I could cook. I’m an excellent chef.”

“The only thing May’s ever taught you is spaghetti and meatballs.”

“Hope you like marinara,” he says, nudging you toward the stove.

You take the lid off of the Dutch oven to unveil a huge cake. Dripping with frosting, only slightly squashed by the lid, obviously homemade. He’s dotted the top with swirls of frosting and deep red strawberries.

“It’s for you,” he says casually.

“It’s not my birthday.”

“I know. You like cake though, don’t you?”

You’d tell Peter you liked chunks of glass if that was what he unveiled. “Why’d you make me a cake?”

“I felt like you deserved a cake. You don’t want it?”

“No, I want it! I want the cake, let’s have cake, we can go to 91st and get some ice cream, it’ll be amazing.” You don’t bother trying to hide your beaming smile now, twisting on the spot to see him properly, your hands falling behind your back. “Thank you, Peter. It’s awesome. I had no idea you could even– that you’d even–” You press forward, smushing your face against his chest. “Wow.”

“Wow,” he says, wrapping his arms around you. He angles his head to nose at your temple. “You’re welcome. I would’ve made you a cake years ago if I knew it was gonna make you this happy.”

“It must’ve taken hours.”

“May helped.”

“That makes much more sense.”

“Don’t be insolent.” Peter squeezes you tightly. He doesn’t let go for a really long time.

He extracts the cake from the depths of the Dutch oven and cuts you both a slice. He already has ice cream, a Neapolitan box that he cuts into with a serrated knife so you can each have a slice of all three flavours. It’s good ice cream, fresh for what it is and melting in big drops of cream as he gets the couch ready.

“Sit down,” he says, shoving the plates with his strangely great balance onto the coffee table. “Remote’s by you. I’m gonna get drinks.”

You take your plate, carving into the cake with the end of a warped spoon, its handle stamped PETE and burnished in your grasp. The crumb is soft but dense in the best way. The ganache between layers is loose, cake wet with it, and the frosting is perfect, just messy. You take another satisfied bite. You’re halfway through your slice before Peter makes it back.

“I brought you something too, but it’s garbage compared to this,” you say through a mouthful, hand barely covering your mouth.

Peter laughs at you. “Yeah, well, say it, don’t spray it.”

“I guess I’ll keep it.”

“Keep it, bub, I don’t need anything from you.”

He doesn’t say it the way you’re expecting. “No,” you say, pleased when he sits knee to knee, “you can have it. S’just a bag of chips from Trader–”

“The rolled tortilla chips?” he asks. You nod, and his eyes light up. “You really are the best friend ever.”

“Better than Harry?”

“Harry’s rich,” Peter says, “so no. I’m kidding! Joking, come here, let me try some of that.”

“Eat your own.”

Peter plays a great host, letting you choose the movies, making lunch, ordering takeout in the evening and refusing to let you pay for it. This isn’t that out of character for Peter, but what shocks you is his complete unfiltered attention. He doesn’t check his phone, the tension you couldn’t name from these last few weeks nowhere to be felt. You’re flummoxed by the sudden change, but you missed him. You won’t look a gift horse in the mouth; you won’t question what it is that had Peter keeping you at arm’s length now it’s gone.

To your annoyance, you can’t stop thinking about Spider-Man. You keep opening your mouth to tell Peter you talked to him but biting your tongue. Why am I keeping it a secret? you wonder.

“Have something to tell you.”

“You do?” you ask, reluctant to sit properly, your feet tucked under his thigh and your body completely lax with the weight of the Parker throw.

“Is that surprising?”

“Is that a trick question?”

“No. Just. I’ve been not telling you something.”

“Okay, so tell me.”

Peter goes pink, and stiff, a fake smile plastered over his lips. “Me and Gwen, we’re really done.”

“I know, Pete. She broke up with you for reasons nobody felt I should be enlightened right after graduation.” Your stomach pangs painfully. “Unless you…”

“She’s going to England.”

“She is?”

“Oxford.”

You struggle to sit up. “That sucks, Peter. I’m sorry.”

“But?”

You find your words carefully. “You and Gwen really liked each other, but I think that–” You grow in confidence, meeting his eyes firmly. “That there’s always been some part of you that couldn’t actually commit to her. So. I don’t know, maybe some distance will give you clarity. And maybe it’ll break your heart, but at least then you’ll know how you really feel, and you can move forward.” You avoid telling him to move on.

“It wasn’t Gwen,” he says, which has a completely different meaning to the both of you.

“Obviously, she’s the smartest girl I’ve ever met. She’s beautiful. Of course it’s not her fault,” you say, teasing.

“Really, that you ever met?” Peter asks.

“She’s the best girl you were ever gonna land.“

He rolls his eyes. “Yeah, I guess so.” After a few more minutes of quiet, he says, “I think we were done before. I just hadn’t figured it out yet. Something wasn’t right.”

“You were so back and forth. You’re not mean, there must’ve been something stopping you from going steady,” you agree. “You were breaking up every other week.”

“I know,” he whispers, tipping his head against the back couch.

“Which, it’s fine, you don’t–” You grimace. “I can’t talk today. Sorry. I just mean that it’s alright that you never made it work.” You worry that sounds plainly obvious and amend, “Doesn’t make you a bad person. You’re never a bad person, Peter.”

“I know. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. You don’t need me to tell you.”

“It’s nice, though. I like when you tell me stuff. I want all of your secrets.”

You should say Good, because I have something unbelievable to tell you, and I should’ve said it the moment I got home.

Good, because last night I met the bravest man in New York City, and he walked me to the store for your chips.

Good, because I have so much I’m keeping to myself.

You ruffle his hair. Spider-Man goes unmentioned.

—

He visits with a whoop. You don’t flinch when he lands —you’d heard the strange whip and splat of his webs landing nearby.

“Spider-Man,” you say.

“What’s that about?”

“What?”

“The way you said that. You laughed.” Spider-Man stands in spandexed glory before you, mask in place. He’s got a brown stain up the side of his thigh that looks more like mud than blood, but it’s not as though each of his fights are bloodless. They’re infamously gory on occasion.

“Did you get hurt?” you ask. You’re worried. You could help him, if he needs it.

“Aw, this? That’s a scratch. That’s nothing, don’t worry about it. I’ve had worse from that stray cat living outside of 91st.”

You look at him sharply. 91st is shorthand for 91st Bodega, and it’s not like you and Peter made it up, but suddenly, the man in front of you is Peter. The way he says it, that unique rhythm.

Peter’s not so rough-voiced, you argue with yourself. Your Peter speaks in a higher register, dulcet often, only occasionally sarcastic. Spider-Man is rough, and cawing, and loud. Spider-Man acts as though the ground is a suggestion. Peter can’t jump off the second diving board at the pool. Spider-Man rolls his shoulders back in front of you with a confidence Peter rarely has.

“What?” he asks.

“Sorry. You just reminded me of someone.”

His voice falls deeper still. “Someone handsome, I hope.”

You take a small step around him, hoping it invites him to walk along while communicating how sorely you want to leave the subject behind. When he doesn’t follow, you add, “Yes, he’s handsome.”

“I knew it.”

“What do you look like under the mask?”

Spider-Man laughs boisterously. “I can’t just tell you that.”

“No? Do I have to earn it?”

“It’s not like that. I just don’t tell anyone, ever.”

“Nobody in the whole world?” you ask.

The rain is spitting. New York lately is cold cold cold, little in the way of sunshine and no end in sight. Perhaps that’s all November’s are destined to be. You and Spider-Man stick to the inside of the sidewalk. Occasionally, a passerby stares at him, or calls out in Hello, and Spider-Man waves but doesn’t part from you.

“Tell me something about you and I’ll tell you something about me,” Spider-Man says. “I’ll tell you who knows my identity.”

“What do you want to know about me?” you ask, surprised.

“A secret. That’s fair.”

“Hold on, how’s that fair?” You tighten your scarf against a bitter breeze. “What use do I have for the people who know who you are? That doesn’t bring me any closer to the truth.”

“It’s not about who knows, it’s about why I told them.” Spider-Man slips around you, forcing you to walk on the inside of the sidewalk as a car pulls past you all too quickly and sends a sheet of dirty rainwater up Spider-Man’s side. He shakes himself off. “Jerk!” he shouts after the car.

“My secrets aren’t worth anything.”

“I doubt that, but if that’s true, that makes it a fair trade, doesn’t it?”

He sounds peppy considering the pool of runoff collecting at his feet. You pick up your pace again and say, “Alright, useless secret for a useless secret.”

You think about all your secrets. Some are odd, some gross. Some might make the people around you think less of you, while others would surely paint you in a nice light. A topaz sort of technicolor. But they aren’t useless, then, so you move on.

“Oh, I know. I hate my major.” You grin at Spider-Man. “That’s a good one, right? No one else knows about that.”

“You do?” Spider-Man asks. His voice is familiar, then, for its sympathy.

“I like science, I just hate math. It’s harder than I thought it would be, and I need so much help it makes me hate the whole thing.”

Spider-Man doesn’t drag the knife. “Okay. Only three people know who I am under the mask. It was four, briefly.” He clears his throat. “I told one person because I was being selfish and the others out of necessity. I’m trying really hard not to tell anybody else.”

“How come?”

“It just hurts people.”

You linger in a gap of silence, not sure what to say. A handful of cars pass you on the road.

“Tell me another one,” he says.

“What for?”

“I don’t know, just tell me one.”

“How do I know you aren’t extorting me for something?” You grin as you say it, a hint of flirtation. “You’ll know my face and my secrets and even if you tell me a really gory juicy one, I have no one to tell and no name to pair it with.”

“I’m not showing you anything,” he warns, teasing, sounding so awfully like Peter that your heart trips again, an uneven capering that has you faltering in the street.

Peter’s shorter, you decide, sizing him up. His voice sounds similar and familiar but Peter doesn’t ask for secrets. He doesn’t have to. (Or, he didn’t have to, once upon a time.)

“Where are you going?” Spider-Man asks.

“Oh, nowhere.”

“Seriously, you’re out here walking again for no reason?”

“I like to walk. It’s not like it’s dark out yet.” You’re not far at all from Queensboro Hill here. Walking in any direction would lead you to a garden —Flushing Meadows, Kew Gardens, Kissena Park. “Walk me to Kissena?” you ask.

“Sure, for that secret.”

You laugh as Spider-Man takes the lead, keeping time with him, a natural match of pace. It’s exciting that Spider-Man of all people wants to know one of your useless secrets enough to ask you twice. The attention of it makes searching for one a matter of how fast you can find one rather than a question of why you’d want to. It slips out before you can think better of it.

“I burned my wrist a few days ago on a frying pan,” you confess, the phantom pain of the injury an itch. “It blistered and I cried when I did it, but I haven’t told anyone about it.”

“Why not?” he asks.

He shouldn’t use that tone with you, like he’s so so sorry. It makes you want to really tell him everything. How insecure you feel, how telling things feels like asking for someone to care, and half the time they don’t, and half the time you’re embarrassed.

You walk past the bakery that demarcates the beginning of Kissena Park grounds across the way. “I didn’t think about it at first. I’m used to keeping things to myself. And then I didn’t tell anyone for so long that mentioning it now wouldn’t make sense. Like, bringing it up when it’s a scar won’t do much.” It’s a weak lie. It comes out like a spigot to a drying up tree. Glugs, fat beads of sound and the pull to find another thing to say.

“It was only a few days ago, right? It must still hurt. People want to know that stuff.”

“Maybe I’ll tell someone tomorrow,” you say, though you won’t.

“Thanks for telling me.”

The humour in spilling a secret like that to a superhero stops you from feeling sorry for yourself. You hide your cold fingers in your coat, rubbing the stiff skin of your knuckles into the lining for friction-heat. The rain has let up, wind whipping empty but brisk against your cheeks. Your lips will be chapped when you get home, whenever that turns out to be.

“This is pretty far from Trader Joe’s,” he comments, like he’s read your mind.

“Just an hour.”

“Are you kidding? It’s an hour for me.”

“That’s not true, Spider-Man, I’ve seen those webs in action. I still remember watching you on the News that night, the cranes. I remember,” —you try to meet his eyes despite the mask— “my heart in my throat. Weren’t you scared?”

“Is that the secret you want?” he asks.

“I get to choose?”

Spider-Man throws his gaze around, his hand behind his head like he might play with his hair. You come to a natural stop across the street from Kissena Park’s playground. Teenagers crowd the soft-landing floor, smaller children playing on the wet rungs of the climbing frame.

“If you want to,” he says.

“Then yeah, I want to know if you were scared.”

“I didn’t haveI time to be scared. Connors was already there, you know?” He shifts from one foot to the other. “I don’t think I’ve ever thought about it before. I wasn’t scared of the height, if that’s what you mean. I already had practice by then, and I knew I had to do it. Like, I didn’t have a choice, so I just did it. I had to save the day, so I did.”

“When they lined up the cranes–”

“It felt like flying,” Spider-Man interrupts.

“Like flying.”

You picture the weightlessness, the adrenaline, the catch of your weight so high up and the pressure of being flung between the next point. The idea that you have to just do something, so you do.

“That’s a good secret.” You offer a grateful smile. “It doesn’t feel equal. I burned myself and you saved the city.”

“So tell me another one,” he says.

—

Maybe you started to fall for Peter after his Uncle Ben passed away. Not the days where you’d text him and he’d ignore you, or the days spent camping outside of his house waiting for him to get home. It wasn’t that you couldn’t like him, angry as he was; there’s always been something about his eyes when he’s upset that sticks around. You loathe to see him sad but he really is pretty, and when his eyelashes are wet and his mouth is turned down, formidable, it’s an ache. A Cabanel painting, dramatic and dark and other.

It was after. When he started sending Gwen weird smiles and showing up to the movies exhilarated, out of breath, unwilling to tell you where he’d been. Skating, he’d always say. Most of the time he didn’t have his skateboard.

You’d only seen them kiss once, his hand on her shoulder curling her in, a pang of heat. You were curdled by jealousy but it was more than that. Peter was tipping her head back, was kissing her soundly, a fierceness from him that made you sick to think about. You spent weeks afterwards up at night, tossing, turning, wishing he’d kiss you like that, just once, so you could feel how it felt to be completely wrapped up in another person.

You’d always held out for Peter, in a way. It was more important to you that he be your friend. You were young, and love had been a far off thing, and then one day you suddenly wanted it. You learned just how aching an unrequited love could be, like a bruise, where every time you saw Peter —whether it be alone or with Gwen, with anyone— it was like he knew exactly where to poke the bruise. Press the heel of his hand and push. The worst is when he found himself affectionate with you, a quick clasp of your cheek in his palm as he said goodbye. Nights spent in his twin bed, of course you’ll fit, of course you couldn’t go home, not this late, May won’t care if we keep the door open —the suggestion that the door being closed might’ve meant something. His sleeping arm furled around you.

Now you’re nearing the end of your second semester at ESU, Gwen is going to England at the end of the year, and Peter hasn’t tried to stop her, but he’s still busy.

“Whatever,“ you say, taking a deep breath. You’re not mad at Peter, you just miss him. Thinking about him all the time won’t change a thing. “It’s fine.”

“I’d hope so.”

You swing around. “Don’t do that!”

Spider-Man looks vaguely chastened, taking a step back. “I called out.”

“You did?”

“I did. Hey, miss, over there! The one who doesn’t know how to get a goddamn taxi!”

“I like to walk,” you say.

“Yeah, so you’ve said. Have you considered that all this walking is bad for you? It’s freezing out, Miss Bennett!”

“It’s not that bad.” You have your coat, a scarf, your thermal leggings underneath your jeans. “I’m fine.”

“What’s wrong with staying at home?”

“That’s not good for you. And you’re one to talk, Spider-Man, aren’t you out on the streets every night? You should take a day off.”

“I don’t do this every night.”

“Don’t you get tired?”

Spider-Man’s eyelets seem to squint, his mock-anger effusive as he crosses his arms across his chest. “No, of course not. Do I look like I get tired?”

“I don’t know. You’re in a full suit, I can’t tell. I guess you don’t… seem tired. You know, with all the backflips.”

“Want me to do one?”

“On command?” You laugh. “No, that’s okay. Save your strength, Spider-Man.”

“So where are you heading today?” he asks.

There’s a slip of skin peeking out against his neck. You’re surprised he can’t feel the cold there, stepping toward him to point. “I can see your stubble.”

He yanks his mask down. “Hasty getaway.”

“A getaway, undressed? Spider-Man, that’s not very gentlemanly.”

You start to walk toward the Cinemart. Spider-Man, to your strange pleasure, follows. He walks with considerable casualness down the sidewalk by your left, occasionally letting his head turn to chase a distant sound where it echoes from between high-rises and along the busy street. It’s cold and dark, but New York is hectic no matter what, even the residential areas. (Is there such a thing? The neighbourhoods burst with small businesses and backstreet sales, no matter the time.)

“Luckily for you, crime is slow tonight,” he says.

“Lucky me?” You wonder if your acquainted vigilante flirts with every girl he stalks. “You realise I’ve managed to get everywhere I’m going for the last two decades without help?”

“I assume there was more than a little help during that first decade.”

“That’s what you think. I was a super independent toddler.”

Spider-Man tips his head back and laughs, but that laugh is quickly squashed with a cough. “Sure you were.”

“Is there a reason you’re escorting me, Spider-Man?” you ask.

“No. I– I recognised you, I thought I’d say hi.”

“Hi, Spider-Man.”

“Hi.”

“Can I ask you something? Do you work?”

Spider-Man stammers again, “I– yeah. I work. Freelance, mostly.”

“I was wondering how you fit all the crime fighting into your life, is all. University is tough enough.” You let the wind bat your scarf off of your shoulder. “I couldn’t do what you do.”

“Yeah, you could.”

He sounds sure.

“How would you know?” you ask. “Maybe I’m awful when you’re not walking me around. I hate New York. I hate people.”

“No, you don’t. You’re not awful. Don’t ask me how I know, ‘cos I just know.”

You try not to look at him. If you look at him, you’re gonna smile at him like he hung the moon. “Well, tonight I’m going to be dreadfully selfish. My friend said he’d buy my movie ticket and take me out for dinner, a real dinner, the mac and cheese with imitation lobster at Benny’s. Have you tried that?”

Spider-Man takes a big step. “Tonight?” he asks.

“Yep, tonight. That’s where I’m going, the Cinemart.” You frown at his hand pressing into his stomach. “Are you okay? You look like you’re gonna throw up.”

“I can hear– something. Someone’s crying. I gotta go, okay? Have fun at the movies, okay?” He throws his arm up, a silken web shooting from his wrist to the third floor of an apartment complex. “Bye!” he shouts, taking a running jump to the apartment, using his web as an anchor. He flings himself over the roof.

Woah, you think, warmth filling your cold cheeks, the tip of your nose. He’s lithe.

Peter arrives ten minutes late for the movie, which is half an hour later than you’d agreed to meet.

“Sorry!” he shouts, breathless as he grabs your hands. “God, I’m sorry! I’m so sorry. You should beat me up. I’m sorry.”

“What the fuck happened?” you ask, not particularly angry, only relieved to see him with enough time to still catch the movie. “You’re sweating like crazy, your hair’s wet.”

“I ran all the way here, Jesus, do I smell bad? Don’t answer that. Fuck, do we have time?”

You usher Peter inside. He pays for the tickets with hands shaking and you attempt to wipe the sweat from his forehead with your sleeve. “You could’ve called me,” you say, content to let him grab you by the arm and race you to the screen doors, “we could’ve caught the next one. Why were you so late, anyways? Did you forget?”

“Forget about my favourite girl? How could I?” He elbows open the doors to let you enter first. “Now shh,” he whispers, “find the seats, don’t miss the trailers. You love them.”

“You love them–”

“I’ll get popcorn,” he promises, letting the door close between you.

You’re tempted to follow, fingers an inch from the handle.

You turn away and rush to find your seats. Hopefully, the popcorn line is ten blocks long, and he spends the night punished for his wrongdoing. My favourite girl. You laugh nervously into your hand.

—

Winter

Spider-Man finds you at least once a week for the next few weeks. He even brings you an umbrella one time, stars on the handle, asking you rather politely to go home. He offers to buy you a hot dog as you’re walking past the stand, takes you on a shortcut to the convenience store, and helps you get a piece of gum off of your shoe with a leaf and a scared scream. He’s friendly, and you’re getting used to his company.

One night, you’re almost home from Trader Joe’s, racing in the pouring rain when a familiar voice calls out, “Hey! Running girl! Wait a second!”

Him, you think, as ridiculous as it sounds. You don’t know his name, but Spider-Man’s a sunny surprise in a shitty, wet winter, and you turn to the sound with a grin.

He jogs toward you.

You feel the world pause, right in the centre of your throat. All the air gets sucked out of you.

“Hey, what are you doing out here? Did you get my texts?”

You blink as fat rain lands on your face.

“You okay?” Peter asks, Peter, in a navy hoodie turning black in the rain and a brown corduroy jacket. It’s sodden, hanging heavily around his shoulders. “Come on, let’s go,” —he takes your hand and pulls until you begin to speed walk beside him— “it’s freezing!”

“Peter–”

“Jesus Christ!”

“Peter, what are you doing here?” you ask, your voice an echo as he drags you into the foyer of your apartment building.

Rain hammers the door as he closes it, the windows, the foyer too dark to see properly.

“I wanted to see you. Is that allowed?”

“No.”

Peter takes your hand. You look down at it, and he looks down in tandem, and it is decidedly a non-platonic move. “No?” he asks, a hair’s width from murmuring.

“Shit, my groceries are soaked.”

“It’s all snacks, it’s fine,” he says, pulling you to the stairs.

You rush up the steps together to your floor. Peter takes your key when you offer it, your own fingers too stiff to manage it by yourself, and he holds the door open for you again to let you in.

Your apartment is a ragtag assortment to match the one next door, old wooden furniture wheeled from the street corners they were left on, thrifted homeward and heavy blankets everywhere you look. You almost slip getting out of your shoes. Peter steadies you with a firm hand. He shrugs out of his coat and hangs it on the hook, prying the damp hoodie over his head and exposing a solid length of back that trips your heart as you do the same.

“Sorry I didn’t ask,” Peter says.

“What, to come over? It’s fine. I like you being here, you know that.”

All your favourite days were spent here or at Peter’s house, in beds, on sofas, his hair tickling your neck as credits run down the TV and his breath evens to a light snore. You try to settle down with him, changing into dry clothes, his spare stuff left at the bottom of your wardrobe for his next inevitable impromptu visit. You turn on the TV, letting him gather you into his side with more familiarity than ever. Rain lays its fingertips on your window and draws lazy lines behind half-turned blinds. You rest on the arm and watch Peter watch the movie, answering his occasional, “You okay?” with a meagre nod.

“What’s wrong?” he asks eventually. “You’re so quiet.”

Your hand over your mouth, you part your marriage and pinky finger, marriage at the corner, pinky pressed to your bottom lip, the flesh chapped by a season of frigid winds and long walks. “‘M thinking,” you say.

“About?”

About the first night in your new apartment. You got the apartment a couple of weeks before the start of ESU. Not particularly close to the university but close to Peter, your best, nicest friend. You met in your second year of High School, before Peter got contacts, ‘cos he was good at taking photographs and you were in charge of the school newspapers media sourcing. You used to wait for Peter to show up ten minutes late like clockwork, every week. And every week he’d barge into the club room and say, “Fuck, I’m sorry, my last class is on the other side of the building,” until it turned into its own joke.

Three years later, you got your apartment, and Peter insisted you throw a housewarming party even if he was the only person invited.

“Fuck,” he’d said, ten minutes late, a cake in one hand and a whicker basket the other, “sorry. My last class is on–”

But he didn’t finish. You’d laughed so hard with relief at the reference that he never got the chance. Peter remembered your very first inside joke, because Peter wasn’t about to go off to ESU and meet new friends and forget you.

But Peter’s been distant for a while now, because Peter’s Spider-Man.

“Do you remember,” you say, not willing to share the whole truth, “when you joined the school newspaper to be the official photographer, and you taught me the rule of thirds?”

“So you didn’t need me,” he says.

“I was just thinking about it. We ran that newspaper like the Navy.”

Peter holds your gaze. “Is that really what you were thinking about?”

“Just funny,” you murmur, dropping your hand in your lap and breaking his stare. “So much has changed.”

“Not that much.”

“Not for me, no.”

Peter gets a look in his eyes you know well. He’s found a crack in you and he’s gonna smooth it over until you feel better. You’re expecting his soft tone, his loving smile, but you’re not expecting the way he pulls you in —you’d slipped away from him as the evening went on, but Peter erases every millimetre of space as he slides his arm under your lower back and ushers you into his side. You hold your breath as he hugs you, as he looks down at you. It’s really like he loves you, the line between platonic and romantic a blur. He’s never looked at you like this before.

“I don’t want you to change,” he whispers.

“I want to catch up with you,” you whisper back.

“Catch up with me? We’re in the exact same place, aren’t we?”

“I don’t know, are we?”

Peter hugs you closer, squishing your head down against his jaw as he rubs your shoulder. “Of course we are.”

Peter… What is he doing?

You let yourself relax against him.

“You do change,” he whispers, an utterance of sound to calm that awful bruise he gave you all those months ago, “you change every day, but you don’t need to try.”

“I just… feel like everyone around me is…” You shake your head. “Everyone’s so smart, and they know what they’re doing, or they’re– they’re special. I don’t know anything. So I guess lately I’ve been thinking about that, and then you–”

“What?”

You can say it out loud. You could.

“Peter, you’re…”

“I’m what?” he asks.

His fingers glide down the length of your arm and up again.

If you're wrong, he’ll laugh. And if you’re right, he might– might stop touching you. Your head feels so heavy, and his touch feels like it’s gonna put you to sleep.

He’s Spider-Man.

It makes sense. Who else could have a good enough heart to do that? Of course it’s Peter. It explains so much about him, about Peter and Spider-Man both. Why Peter is suddenly firmer, lighter on his feet, why he can help you move a wardrobe up two flights of stairs without complaint; why Spider-Man is so kind to you, why he knows where to find you, why he rolls his words around just like Pete.

Spider-Man said there are reasons he wears his mask. And Peter doesn’t tell you much, but you trust him.

You won’t make him say anything, you decide. Not now.

You curl your arm over his stomach hesitantly, smiling into his shirt as he hugs you tighter.

“I was thinking about you,” he says.

“Yeah?”

“You’re quieter lately. I know you’re having a hard time right now, okay? You don’t have to tell me. I’m here for you whenever you need me.”

“Yeah?” you ask.

“You used to sit on my porch when you knew May wouldn’t be home to make sure I wasn’t alone.” Peter’s breath is warm on your forehead. “I don’t know what you’re worried about being, but I’m with you,” he says, “‘n nothing is gonna change that.”

Peter isn’t as far away as you thought.

“Thank you,” you say.

He kisses your forehead softly. Your whole world goes amber. He brings his hand to your cheek, the thought of him tipping your head back sudden and heart-racing, but Peter only holds you. You lose count of how many minutes you spend cupped in his hand.

“Can I stay over tonight?” he utters, barely audible under the sound of the battering rain.

“Yeah, please.”

His thumb strokes your cheek.

—

Two switches flip at once, that night. Peter is suddenly as tactile as you’ve craved, and Spider-Man disappears.

He’s alive and well, as evidenced by Peter’s continued survival and presence in your life, but Spider-Man doesn’t drop in on your nightly walks.

You take less of them lately, feeling better in yourself. Your spirits are certainly lifted by Peter’s increasing affection, but now that you know he’s Spider-Man you were waiting to see him in spandex to mess with his head. Nothing mean, but you would’ve liked to pick at his secret identity, toy with him like you know he’d do to you. After all, he’s been trailing you for weeks and getting to know you. Peter already knows you. Plus, you told Spider-Man secrets not meant for Peter Parker’s ears.

You find it hard to be angry with him. A thread of it remains whenever you remember his deception, but mostly you worry about him. Peter’s out every night until who knows what hour fighting crime. There are guns. He could get shot, and he doesn’t seem scared. You end up watching videos on the internet of the night he ran to Oscorp, when he fought Connors’ and got that huge gash in his leg. His leg is soiled deep red with blood but banded in white webbing. He limps as he races across a rooftop, the recording shaky yet high definition.

It’s not nice to see Peter in pain. You cling to what he’d said, how he wasn’t scared, but not being scared doesn’t mean he wasn’t hurting.

You chew the tip of a finger and click on a different video. Your computer monitor bears heat, the tower whirring by your thigh. Your eyes burn, another hour sitting in the same seat, sick with worry. You don’t mind when Peter doesn’t answer your texts anymore. You didn’t mind so much before, just terrified of becoming an irrelevance in his life and lonely, too, maybe a little hurt, but never worried for his safety. Now when Peter doesn’t text you back you convince yourself that he’s been hurt, or that he’s swinging across New York City about to risk his life.

It’s not a good way to live. You can’t stop giving into it, is all.

In the next video, Spider-Man sits on a billboard with a can of coke in hand. He doesn’t lift his mask, seemingly aware of his watcher. You laugh as he angles his head down, suspicion in his tight shoulders. He relaxes when he sees whoever it is recording.

“Hey,” he says, “you all right?”

“Should you be up there?” the person recording shouts.

“I’m fine up here!”

“Are you really Spider-Man?”

“Sure am.”

“Are you single?”

Peter laughs like crazy. How you didn’t know it was him before is a mystery —it couldn’t sound more like him. “I’ve got my eye on someone!” he says, sounding younger for it, the character voice he enacts when he’s Spider-Man lost to a good mood.

Your phone rings in the back pocket of your jeans. You wriggle it out, nonplussed to find Peter himself on your screen. You click the green answer button.

“Hello?” Peter asks.

You bring the phone snug to your ear. “Hey, Peter.”

“Hi, are you busy?”

“Not really.”

“Do you wanna come over? I know it’s late. Come stay the night and tomorrow we’ll go out for breakfast.”

“Is Aunt May okay with that?”

“She’s staring at me right now shaking her head, but I’m in trouble for something. May, can she come over, is that allowed?”

“She’s always allowed as long as you keep the door open.”

You laugh under your breath at May’s begrudging answer. “Are you sure she’s alright with it?” you ask softly. “I don’t want to be a burden.”

“You never, ever could be. I’m coming to your place and we’ll walk over together. Did you eat dinner?”

“Not yet, but–”

“Okay, I’ll make you something when you get here. I’ll meet you at the door. Twenty minutes?”

“I have to shower first.”

“Twenty five?”

You choke on a laugh, a weird bubbly thing you’re not used to. Peter laughs on the other side of the phone. “How about I’ll see you at seven?”

“It’s a date,” he says.

“Mm, put it in your calendar, Parker.”

—

Peter waits for you at the door like he promised. He frowns at your still-wet face as he slips your backpack from your shoulder, throwing it over his own. “You’re gonna get sick.”

“I‘ll dry fast,” you say. “I took too long finding my pyjamas.”

“I have stuff you can wear. Probably have your sweatpants somewhere, the grey ones.” Peter pulls you forward and wipes your tacky face. “I would’ve waited,” he says.

“It’s fine.“

“It’s not fine. Are you cold?”

“Pete, it’s fine.”

“You always remind me of my Uncle Ben when you call me Pete,” he laughs, “super stern.”

“I’m not stern. Look, take me home, please, I’m cold.”

“You said it wasn’t cold!”

“It’s not, I’m just damp–” Peter cuts you off as he grabs you, sudden and tight, arms around you and rubbing the lengths of your back through your coat. “Handsy!”

“You like it,” he jokes back, his playful warming turning into a hug. You smile, hiding your face in his neck for a few moments.

“I don’t like it,” you lie.

“Okay, you don’t like it, and I’m sorry.” Peter gives you a last hug and pulls away. “Now let’s go. I gotta feed you before midnight.”

“That’s not funny.”

“Apparently, nothing is.”

Peter links your arms together. By the time you get to his house, you’ve fallen away from each other naturally. May is in the hallway when you climb through the door, an empty laundry basket in her hands.

“I see Peter hasn’t won this argument yet,” you say in way of greeting. Peter’s desperate to do his own laundry now he’s getting older. May won’t let him.

“No, he hasn’t.” She looks you up and down. “It’s nice to see you, honey. And in one piece! Peter tells me you’ve been walking a lot, and I mean, in this city? Can’t you buy a treadmill?” she asks.

“May!” Peter says, startled.

“I like walking, I like the air,” you say.

“Can’t exactly call it fresh,” May says.

“No, but it’s alright. It helps me think.”

“Is everything okay?” May asks, putting her hand on her hip.

“Of course.” You smile at her genuinely. “I think starting college was too much for me? It was hard. But things are settling now, I don’t know what Peter told you, but I’m not walking a lot anymore. You know, not more than necessary.”

She softens her disapproving. “Good, honey. That’s good. Peter’s gonna make you some dinner now, right?”

“Yeah, Aunt May, I’m gonna make dinner,” Peter sighs, pulling a leg up to take off his shoes.

Peter shouldn’t really know that you’ve been walking. He might see you coming back from Trader Joe’s or the bodega on his way to your apartment, but you haven’t mentioned any of your longer excursions, and everybody in Queens has to walk. That’s information he wouldn’t know without Spider-Man.

He seems to be hoping you won’t realise, changing the subject to the frankly killer grilled cheese and tomato soup that he’s about to make you, and pushing you into a chair at the table. “Warm up,” he says near the back of your head, forcing a wave of shivers down your arms.

He makes soup in one pan, grilled cheese in the other, two for him and two for you. Peter’s a good eater, and he encourages the same from you, setting a big bowl of tomato soup (from the can, splash of fresh cream) down in front of you with the grilled cheese on a plate between you. You eat it in too-hot bites and try not to get caught looking at him. He does the same, but when he catches you, or when you catch him, he holds your eye and smiles.

“I can do the dishes,” you say. You might need a breather.

“Are you kidding? I’m gonna rinse them, put them in the dishwasher.” Peter stands and feels your forehead with his hand. “Warmer. Good job.”

You shrug away from his hand. “Loser.”

“Concerned friend.”

“Handsy loser.”

”Shut up,” he mumbles.

As flustered as you’ve ever seen, Peter takes your empty dishes to the kitchen. When he’s done rinsing them off you follow him upstairs to his bedroom and tuck your backpack under his bed.

You look down at your socks. Peter’s room is on the smaller side, but it’s never been as startlingly small as it is when Peter’s socked feet align with yours, toe to toe. Quick recovery time, this boy.

“There’s chips and stuff on my desk. Or I could run to 91st for some ice cream sandwiches if you want something sweet,” he says.

You lift your eyes, tilt your head up just a touch, not wanting him to think you’re in his space no matter how strange that might be, considering he chose to stand there. “I’m all right. Did you want ice cream? We can go if you want to, but if you want to go ’cos you think I do then I’m fine.”

“That’s such a long answer,” he says, draping an arm over your shoulder. “You don’t have to say all of that, just tell me no.”

“I don’t want ice cream.”

“Wasn’t that easy?” he asks.

“Well, no, it wasn’t. Saying no to you is like saying no to a puppy.”

“Because I’m adorable?”

“Persistent.”

“Yeah, I guess I am.” He drapes the other arm over you. The soap he used at the kitchen sink lingers on his hands.

“Peter…?” you murmur.

“What?” he murmurs back.

You touch a knuckle to his chest. “This– You…” Every quelled thought rushes to the surface at once —Peter doesn’t like you as you desire, how could he, you aren’t beautiful like he is, aren’t smart, aren’t brave, no exceptional kindness or goodness to mark you enough for him. It’s why his being with Gwen didn’t hurt; she made sense. And for months now you’ve wondered what it is that made him struggle to be with her. And sometimes, foolishly, you wondered if it was you. But it’s not you, it’s never you, and whatever Peter’s trying to do now–

“Hey, you okay?” he asks, taking your face into his hand.

“What are you doing?”

“What?” He pushes his hand back to hold your nape, thumb under your ear. “I can’t hear you.”

You raise your voice. “Why did you invite me over tonight?”

“‘Cos I missed you?”

“I used to think you didn’t miss me at all.”

Peter winces, hurt. “How could you think that? Of course I miss you. What you said to May, about college being hard? It’s like that for me too, okay? I miss you all the time.”

You bite the inside of your bottom lip. “…College isn’t hard for you.”

“It’s not easy.” He frowns, the fallen angel, his lips an unsure brushstroke. “What’s wrong? Did I say the wrong thing?”

You’re being wretched, you know, saying it isn’t hard for him. “You didn’t. Really, you didn’t.”

“But why are you upset?” he implores, dark eyes darker as his eyebrows tug together.

“I’m not–”

“You are. It’s okay, you can be upset. I just want you to feel better, you know that?” He settles his hands at the tops of your arms. Less intimate, but something warm remains. “Even if it takes a long time.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine.”

“How would you know?” you finally ask.

Peter stares at you.

“I know you,” he says carefully, “and I know you aren’t struggling like you were, but that doesn’t mean it didn’t happen or that you have to be a hundred percent better now.”

“I didn’t realise that I was,” you say, licking your lips, “‘til now. I didn’t get that it was on the surface.”

Peter pulls you in for a gentle hug. “I’m here for you forever, and I’ll make it up to you for not noticing sooner,” he says, scrunching your shirt in his hand.

After the hug, he tells you to change and make yourself comfortable while he showers. So you put on your pyjamas and climb into Peter’s bed, head pounding as though all your energy was stolen in a fell swoop. You press your nose to his pillow and arm wrapped around his comforter, gathering it into a Peter sized lump. The shower pump whines against the shared wall.

Things aren’t meant to be like this. You thought Peter touching you —holding you— was the deepest of your desires, but you feel now exactly as you had before he started blurring the line, needing Peter to kiss you so badly it becomes its own kind of nausea. Why are you still acting like it’s an impossibility?

When he comes back, you’ll apologise. He hasn’t done anything wrong. He does keep a secret, but don’t you keep one too? He’s Spider-Man. You’ve had deep, complicated feelings for him for months. They are secrets of equal magnitude, and are, more apparently, badly kept.

You wish you could fall asleep. Your heart ticks in agitation.

Peter returns as perturbed as earlier.

“Are you sure there’s nothing wrong?” he asks, raking a hand through his hair. A towel hangs around his neck.

“I’m sorry for being weird.”

“You’re not weird,” Peter says, bringing the towel to his hair to scrub ruthlessly.

“It’s just ‘cos things have been different between us.” And, you try to say, that scares me no matter how bad I wanted it. because you’re not just Peter anymore, you’re Spider-Man. I’m only me, and I can’t do anything to protect you.

Peter gives his hair a long scrub before draping the towel on his desk chair. He rakes it messily into place and sits himself at the end of the bed. You sit up.

“Yeah, they have been. Good different?” he asks hesitantly.

“I think so,” you say, quiet again.

“That’s what I thought.”

“I don’t want you to feel like I don’t want to be here. I just worry about you.”

Peter uses his hands to get higher up the bed. “Don’t worry about me,” he says, “Jesus, please don’t. That’s the last thing I want from you, I hate when people worry about me.”

You curl into the lump of comforter you’d made. Peter lets himself rest beside you, his back to the bedroom wall, tens of Polaroids above him shining with the light of the hallway and his orange-bulbed lamp. His skin is glowing like it’s golden hour, dashes of topaz in his eyes, his Cupid’s bow deep. How would it feel to lean forward and kiss him? To catch his Cupid's bow under your lips?

You brush a damp curl tangled in another onto his forehead.

You lay there for a little while without talking, listening to the sound of the washing machine as it cycles downstairs.

“Am I going too fast?” Peter murmurs.

You press your lips together, shaking your head minutely.

“Is it something else?”

You don’t move.

“Do you want me to stop?” he asks.

“No.”

Peter rewards you with a smile, his hand on your arm. “Alright. Let me get this blanket on you the right way. You’re still cold.”

You resent the loss of a shape to hold when Peter slips down beside you and wrangles the comforter flat again, spreading it out over you both, his hand under the blankets. His knuckles brush your thigh.

He takes a deep breath before turning and wrapping his arm over your stomach, asking softly, “Is this alright?”

“Yeah.”

He gives you a look and then lifts his head to slot his nose against your temple. “Please don’t take this in a way that I don’t mean it, but sometimes you think about things so much I worry you’re gonna get stuck in your head forever.”

“I like thinking.”

“I hate it,” he says quickly, a fervent, flirting cadence to his otherwise dulcet tone, “we should never do it ever again.”

“I’ll try not to.”

“Would you? For me?”

You laugh into his shirt, feeling the warmth of your breath on your own nose. “I’ll do my best.”

“Good. I’d miss you too much if you got lost in that nice head of yours.”

You relax under his arm. You aren’t sure what all the fuss was about now that he's hugging you. “I’d miss you too.”

May comes up the stairs about an hour later. To her credit, she doesn’t flinch when she finds you and Peter smushed together watching a DVD on his old TV. He’s holding your arm, and you’re snoozing on his shoulder, half-aware of the world, fully aware of his nice smells and the shapes of his arms.

“Door open,” she says.

“Not that either of us want it closed, May, but we’re adults.”

“Not while I’m still washing your clothes, you’re not.”

He snorts. “Goodnight, Aunt May. The door isn’t gonna close, I promise.”

“I know that,” she says, scornful in her pride. “You’re a good boy.” She lightens. “Things are going okay?”

Peter covers your ear. “Goodnight, Aunt May.”

”I have half a mind to never listen to you again. You talk my ear off and I can’t ask a simple question?”

“I love you,” Peter sing-songs.

“I love you, Peter,” she says. “Don’t smother the girl.”

“I won’t smother her. It’s in my best interest that she survives the night. She’s buying my breakfast tomorrow.”

“Peter Parker.”

“I’m kidding,” he whispers, petting your cheek absentmindedly. “Just messing with you, May.”

You smile and curl further into his arms. His voice is like the sun, even when he whispers.

—

To your surprise, Spider-Man comes to find you after class one evening. A guest lecturer had talked to your oncology class about click chemistry and other molecular therapies against cancer, and the zine book she’d given you is burning a hole in your pocket. Peter is going to love it.

You pull it out and pause beside a bench and a silver trash can, the day grey but thankfully without rain. The pages of your little book whip forcefully in the wind. It’s chemistry, sure, but it’s biology too, wrapping your and Peter’s interests up neatly. If it weren’t for Peter you doubt you’d love science as much as you do. He’s always been good at it, but since you started college he's been a genius. Watching him grow has encouraged you to work harder, and understanding the material is satisfying, if draining. You take a photo of the middle most pages and tuck the book away, writing a quick text to Peter to send with it.

Look! it says, LEGO cancer treatment!!

The moment you press send a beep chimes from somewhere close behind you, all too familiar. You turn to the source but find nobody you know waiting. Coincidence, you think, shaking yourself and beginning the trek to the subway.

But then you hear the tell tale splat and thwick of Spider-Man’s webbing.

You wait until you’re at the alleyway between Porto’s Bakery and the key cutting shop and turn down to stop by one of the dumpsters.

“Spider-Man?” you ask, shoulders tensed in case it’s not who you think.

“What are you doing?” he asks.

You gasp as he hops down in front of you, his suit shiny with its dark web-pattern caught by the grey sunshine passing through the clouds overhead. “Shit, don’t break your ankles.”

“My ankles?” He laughs. He sounds so much like Peter that you can only laugh with him. What an idiot he is for thinking you don’t know; what a fool you’d been for falling for his put upon tenor. “They’re fine. What would be wrong with my ankles?”

“You just dropped down twenty feet!”

“It’s more like thirty, and I’m fine. You understand the super part of superhero, don’t you?”

“Who said you’re a superhero?”

“Nice. What are you doing down here?”

“I was testing my theory. You’re following me.”

“No, I’m visiting you, it’s very different,” he says confidently.

“You haven’t come to see me for weeks.”

“Yes, well, I–” Spider-Peter crosses his arms across his chest. “Hey, you’re the one who told me to take a day off.”

“I did tell you to take a day off. It’s not nice thinking about you trying to save the world every single night. That’s a lot of responsibility for one person to have.”

“But it’s my responsibility,” he says easily. “No point in a beautiful girl like you wasting her time worrying about it. I have to do it, and I don’t mind it.”

“Do you flirt with every girl you meet out here in the city?” you ask, cheeks hot.

“No,” he says, fondness evident even through the mask, “just you.”

“Do you wanna walk me home? I was gonna take the subway, but it’s not that far.”

Spider-Man nods. “Yeah, I’ll walk you back.”

He doesn’t hide that he knows the way very well. He takes preemptive turns, crosses roads without you telling him to go forward. You can’t believe him. Smartest guy at Midtown High and he can’t pretend to save his life.

“Are you having a good semester?” he asks.

“It’s getting better. I’m glad I stuck with it. I love biology, it’s so fucking hard. I used to think that was a bad thing, but it makes it cooler now. Like, it’s not something everyone understands.” You give him a look, and you give into temptation. “My best friend got me into all this stuff. I used to think math was hopeless and science was for dorks.”

“It’s definitely for dorks.”

“Right, but I love being one.” You offer a useless secret. “I like to think that it’s why we’re such great friends.”

“Me and you?” Spider-Man asks hoarsely.

“Me and Peter.” You elbow him without force. “Why, do you like science?”

“I love it…”

“You know, I really like you, Spider-Man. I feel like we’ve been friends for a long time.” You’re teasing poor Peter.

He doesn’t speak for a while. He stops walking, but you take a few steps without him. When you realise he’s stopped, you turn back to see him.

Peter’s gone so tense you could strike him with a flint and catch a spark. It’s the same way Peter looked at you when he told you about his Uncle, a truth he didn’t want to be true. Seeing it throws a spanner in the works of all your teasing: you’d meant to wind him up, not make him panic.

“What’s wrong?” you ask. “Can you hear something?”

“No, it’s not that…” He’s masked, but you know him well enough to understand why he’s stopped.

“It’s okay,” you say.

“It’s not, actually.”

“Spider-Man.” You take a step toward him. “It’s fine.”

He presses his hands to his stomach. The sun is setting early, and in an hour, the dark will eat up New York and leave it in a blistering cold. “Do you remember when we first met, the second time, we swapped secrets?”

“Yeah, I remember. Useless secret for another. I told you I hated my major. It’s not true anymore, obviously. I was having a bad time.”

“I know you were,” he says, emphasis on know, like it’s a different word entirely.

“But meeting you really helped. If it weren’t for you, for Peter,” —you give him a searching look— “I wouldn’t feel better at all.”

“It wasn’t his fault?” he asks. “He was your friend, and you were lonely.”

“No–”

“He didn’t know what was going on with you, he didn’t have a clue. You hurt yourself and you felt like you couldn’t tell anybody, and I know it wasn’t an accident, so what was his excuse?” His voice burns with anger. “It’s his fault.”

“Of course it wasn’t your fault. Is that what you think?” You shake your head, panicked by the bone-deep self loathing in his voice, his shameful dropped head. “Yes, I was lonely, I am lonely, I don’t know many people and I– I– I hurt myself, and it wasn’t as accidental as I thought it was, but why would that be your fault?”

“Peter’s fault,” he says, though his head is lifted now, and he doesn’t bother enthusing it with much gusto.

“Peter, none of it was your fault.” You cringe in your embarrassment, thinking Fuck, don’t let me ruin this. “I was in a weird way, and yes, I was lonely, and I really liked you more than I should have. You didn't want me and that wasn’t your fault, that’s just how it was, I tried not to let it get to me, just there were a lot of things weighing on me at once, but it really wasn’t as bad as you think it was and it wasn’t your fault.”

“I wasn’t there for you,” he says. “And I’ve been lying to you for a long time.”

“You couldn’t tell me, right? Spider-Man is your secret for a reason.”

“…I didn’t even know you were lonely until you told him. He was a stranger.”

You hold your hands behind your back. “Well, he was a familiar one.”

Peter reaches out as though wanting to touch you, but your arms aren’t in his reach. “It’s not because I didn’t want you.”

“Peter,” you say, squirming.

He steps back.

“I have to go,” he says.

“What?”

“I have to– I don’t want to go,” he says earnestly, “sweetheart, I can hear someone calling out, I have to go. But I’ll come back, I’ll– I’ll come back,” he promises.

And with a sudden lift of his arm, Peter pulls himself up the side of a building and disappears, leaving you whiplashed on the sidewalk, the sun setting just out of view.

—

You fall asleep that night waiting for Peter. When you wake up, 5AM, eyes aching, he isn’t there. You check your phone but he hasn’t texted. You check the Bugle and Spider-Man hasn’t been seen.

You aren’t sure what to think. He sounded sincere to the fullest extent when he said he’d come back, but he didn’t, not ten minutes later, not twenty. You made excuses and you went home before it got too dark to see the street, sat on the couch rehearsing what you’d say. How could Peter think your unhappiness was his fault? Why does he always put the entire world on his shoulders?

Selfishly, you worried what it all meant for his lazy touches. Would he want to curl up into bed with you again now he knows what it means to you? It’s different for him. It isn’t like he’s in love with you… you’d just thought maybe he could be. That this was falling in love, real love, not the unrequited ache you’d suffered before.

But maybe you got everything wrong. All of it. It wouldn't be the first time.

—

You and Peter found The Moroccan Mode in your senior year at Midtown. The school library was small and you were sick of being underfoot at home. When you started at ESU, you explored the on campus coffeehouse, the Coffee Bean, but it was crowded, and you’d found yourself attached to the Mode’s beautiful tiling, blues and topaz and platinum golds, its heavy, oiled wooden furniture, stained glass lampshades and the case full of lemony treats. The coffee here is better than anywhere else, but the best part out of everything is that it’s your secret. Barely anybody comes to the Mode on purpose.

You hide in a far corner with a book and an empty cup of decaf coffee, a slice of meskouta on the table untouched. Decaf because caffeine felt a terrible idea, meskouta untouched because you can’t stomach the smell. You push it to the opposite end of the table, considering another cup of coffee instead. It’s served slightly too hot, and will still be warm when it gets to your chest.

The sunshine is creeping in slowly. It feels like the first time you’ve seen it in months, warming rays kissing your fingers and lining the walls. You turn a page, turn your wrist, let the sun warm the scar you gave yourself those few months ago, when everything felt too big for you.

Looking back, it was too big. Maybe soon you’ll be ready to talk about it.

The author in your book is talking about bees. They can fly up to 15 miles per hour. They make short, fast motions from front to back, a rocking motion. Asian giant hornets can go even faster despite their increased mass. They consider humans running provocation. If you see a giant hornet, you’re supposed to lay down to avoid being stung.

You put your face in your hand. Next year, you’ll avoid the insect-based electives.

Across the cafe, the bell at the top of the door rings. Laughter falls through it, a couple passing by. The register clashes open. A minute later it closes.

You don’t raise your head when footsteps draw near. A plate is placed on the table, pushed across to you, stopping just shy of your coffee.

“Did you eat breakfast?” Peter asks quietly.

His voice is gentle, but hoarse.

You tense.

“Are you okay?” he asks, not waiting for your answer to either question. “You don’t look like yourself. Your eyes are red.”

You lift your head. Wet with the beginnings of tears, you see Peter through an astigmatic blur.

“What are you reading?” He frowns at you. “Please don’t cry.”

You shake your head. Your smile is all odd, nothing like his, no inherent warmth despite your best effort. “I’m okay.”

He nudges you across the booth seat and sits beside you. His arm settles behind your shoulders. He smells like smoke and soap, an acrid scent barely hidden. “Can you tell me you didn’t wait long for me?”

“Ten minutes,” you lie.

“Okay. I’m sorry. There was a fire.” He rubs your arm where he’s holding you. “I’m sorry.”

“Will you go half?” you ask, nodding to the sandwich he’s brought you. It’s tough sourdough bread, brown with white flour on the crusts and leafy greens poking between the slices. You and Peter complain about the price. You’ve never had one. He passes you the bigger half, holding the other in his hand without eating.

“I know you’re hungry,” you say, tapping his elbow, “just eat.”

You eat your sandwiches. Now that Peter’s here, you don’t feel so sick —he’s not upset with you. The dull pang of an empty stomach won’t be ignored.

Peter puts his sandwich down, which is crazy, and wipes his fingers on the plates napkin. You’ve never seen him stop before he’s done.

“It was in the apartments on Vernon. I– I think I almost died, the smoke was everywhere.”

You choke around a crust, thrusting the rest of your half onto the plate. “Are you hurt?” you ask, coughing.

He moves his head from side to side, not a shake, but a slow no. “How long have you known it was me?” he asks, curling his hand behind your back again, fingers spread over your shoulder blade, a fingertip on your neck.

You savour his touch, but you give in to your apprehension and stare at his chest. “The night you caught me outside in the rain in November. You called me ‘running girl’. The way you said it, you sounded exactly like him. I turned around expecting,” —you whisper, weary of the quiet cafe— “Spider-Man, and I realised it’s him that sounds like you. That he is you.”

“Was that disappointing?”

“Peter, you’re, like, my favourite person in the world,” you whisper fervently, your smile making it light. You laugh. “Why would that be disappointing?”

“I thought maybe you think he’s cooler than me.”

“He is cooler than you, Peter.” You laugh again, pleased when he scoffs and draws you nearer. “I guess you’re the same person, right? So he’s just as cool as you are. But why would being cool matter to me? You know I like you.”

“You flirted pretty heavily with Spider-Man.”

“Well, he flirted with me first.”

You chance a look at his face. From that moment you can’t look away, not from Peter. You like when he wears that darkness in his eyes, the hint of his rarer side so uncommonly seen, but you love this most of all, Peter like your best memory, the way he’s looking at you now a picture perfect copy of that moment in a swimming pool in Manhattan with cracked tile under your feet. His arms heavy on your shoulders. You didn’t get it then, but you’re starting to understand now.

“I’ve made a mess of everything,” he says softly, the trail his hand makes to the small of your back leaving a wake of goosebumps. “I haven’t been honest with you.”

“I haven’t, either.”

“I want to ask you for something,” Peter says, a fingertip trailing back up. He smiles when you shiver, not teasing, just loving. “You can say no.”

“You’re hard to say no to.”

“I need you to talk to me more,” —and here he goes, Peter Parker, flirting and sweet-talking like his life depends on it, his face inching down into your space— “not just because I love your voice, or because you think so much I’m scared you’ll get lost, but I need you to talk to me. We need to talk about real things.”

We do, you think morosely.

“It’s not your fault,” he adds, the hand that isn’t holding your back coming up to cup your cheek, “it’s mine. I was scared of telling you for stupid reasons, but I shouldn’t have let it be a secret for so long.”

“No, I doubt they’re stupid,” you murmur, following his hand as he attempts to move it to your ear. “It’s not easy to tell someone you’re a hero.”

His palm smells like smoke.

“That’s not the secret I meant,” he says.

You take his hand from your face. Peter looks down and begins pressing his fingers between yours, squeezing them together as his thumb runs over the back of your hand.

“So tell me.”

The sunshine bleeds onto his cheek. Dappled orange light turning slowly white as time stretches and the sun moves up through a murky sky. “You want to trade secrets again?” he asks.

“Please.”

“Okay. Okay, but I don’t have as many as you do,” he warns.

“I find that hard to believe.”

“I don’t. It’s not a real secret, is it? I’ve been trying to show you for weeks, we…”

He tilts his head invitingly.

All those hand-holds and nights curled up in bed together. Am I going too fast? You know exactly what he means; it really isn’t a secret.

“I’ll go first,” he says, lowering his face to yours. You try not to close your eyes. “I’ve wanted to kiss you for weeks.” He closes his eyes so you follow, your breath not your own suddenly. You hold it. Let it go hastily. “What’s your secret?”

“Sometime I want you to kiss me so badly I can’t sleep. It makes me feel sick–”

“Sick?” he asks worriedly.

You touch the tip of your nose to his. “It’s like– like jealousy, but…”

“You have no one to be jealous of,” he says surely. He cups your cheek, and he asks, “Please, can I kiss you?”

You say, “Yes,” very, very quietly, but he hears it, and his smile couldn’t be more obvious as he closes the last of the distance between you to kiss you.

It isn’t the sort of kiss that kept you up at night. Peter doesn’t hook you in or tip your head back, he kisses gently, his hand coming to live on your cheek, where it cradles. It’s so warm you don’t know what to make of him beyond kissing him back —kissing his smile, though it’s catching. Kissing the line of his Cupid’s bow as he leans down.

“I’m sorry about everything,” he mumbles, nose flattened against yours.

You feel sunlight on your cheek. Squinting, you turn into his hand to peer outside at the sudden abundance of it. It’s still cold outside, but the Mode is warm, Peter’s hand warmer, and the sunshine is a welcome guest.

Peter drops his hand. “Oh, wow. December sun. Good thing it didn’t snow, we’d be blind.”

“I can’t be cold much longer,” you confess. “I’m sick of the shitty weather.”

“I can keep you warm.”

He smiles at you. His eyelashes tangle in the corners of his eyes, long and brown.

“Did you want my meskouta?” you ask.

Peter plants a fat kiss against your brow.

You let the sunshine warm your face. Two unfinished sandwich halves, a mouthful of coffee, and a round slice of meskouta, its flaky crumb and lemon drizzle shining on the table. You would ask Peter for his camera if you’d thought he brought it with him, to take a picture of your breakfast and the carved table underneath. You could turn it on Peter, say something cheesy. This is the moment you ruined our lives, you’d tease.

“You never told me you met Spider-Man, you know.”

You watch Peter lick the tip of his finger without shame. “They could make a novella of things I haven’t told you about,” you murmur wryly.

Peter takes a bite of meskouta, reaching for your knee under the table. He shakes your leg a little, as if to say, Well, we’ll work on that.

—

Spring

“Sorry!”

“No, it’s–”

“Sorry, sorry, I’m– shit!”

“–okay! All legs inside the ride?”

“I couldn’t find my purse–”

“You don’t need it!” Peter leans over the console to kiss your cheek. “You don’t have to rush.”

“Are you sure you can drive this thing?”

“Harry doesn’t mind.”

“I don’t mean the car, I mean, are you sure you can drive?”

“That’s not funny.”

You grin and dart across to kiss his cheek, too. “Nothing ever is with us.”

Peter grabs you behind the neck —which might sound rough, if he were capable of such a thing— and pulls you forward for a kiss you don’t have time for. “If we don’t check in,” —you begin, swiftly smothered by another press of his lips, his tongue a heat flirting with the seam of your lips— “by three, they said they won’t keep the room–” He clasps the back of your neck and smiles when your breath stutters. You squeeze your eyes closed, kiss him fiercely, and pull away, hand on his chest to restrain him. “And then we’ll have to drive home like losers.”

Peter sits back in the driver's seat unbothered. He fixes his hair, and he wipes his bottom lip with his knuckle. You’re rolling your eyes when he finally returns your gaze. “Sorry, am I the one who lost her purse?”

“Peter!”

“I can’t make us un-late,” he says, turning the key slowly, hands on the wheel but his eyes still flitting between your eyes and your lips.

“Alright,” you warn.

He reaches for your knee. “It’s a forty minute drive. You’re panicking over nothing.”

“It’s an hour.”

Your drive from Queens to Manhattan is entirely uneventful. You keep Peter’s hand hostage on your knee, your palm atop it, the other hand wrapped around his wrist, your conversation a juxtaposition, almost lackadaisical. Peter doesn’t question your clinging nor your lazy murmurings, rubbing a circle into your knee with his thumb from Forest Hill to Lenox Hill. There’s so much to do around Manhattan; you could visit MoMA, Central Park, The Empire State Building or Times Square, but you and Peter give it all a miss for the little known Manhattan Super 8.

It’s been a long time since you and Peter first visited. You took the bus out to Lenox Hill for a med-student tour neither of you particularly enjoyed, feeling out future careers. It’s not that Lenox Hill isn’t one of the most impressive medical facilities in New York (if not the northeastern USA), it’s that all the blood made him queasy, and you were panicking too much about the future to think it through. He got over his aversion to blood but chose the less hands-on science in the end, and you worked things through. You’re a little less scared of the future everyday.

You and Peter were supposed to get the bus straight back home for a sleepover, but one got cancelled, another delayed, and night closed in like two hands on your neck. Peter sensed your fear and emptied his wallet for a night in the Super 8.

The next morning it was beautifully sunny. The first day of summer that year, warm and golden. The pool wasn’t anything special but it was invitingly cool, blue and white tiles patterned like fish below; you clambered into the water in shorts and a tank top and Peter his boxers before a worker could see and stop you.

It was one of the best days of your life. When you told Peter about it last week, he’d looked at you peculiarly, said, Bub, you’re cute, and let you waste the afternoon recounting one of your more embarrassing pangs of longing. A few days later he told you to clear your calendar for the weekend, only spilling the beans on what he’d done when you’d curled over his lap, a hand threaded into the hair at the nape of his neck, murmuring, Tell me, tell me, tell me.

He’d hung his head over you and scrunched up his eyes. Cheater.

The best thing about having a boyfriend is that he always wants to listen to you. Peter was a good listener as a best friend, but now he has his act together and the secrets between you are never anything more than eating the last of the milk duds or not wanting to pee in front of him, he’s a treasure. There’s no feeling like having Peter pull you into his lap so he can ask about your day with his face buried in your neck, sniffing. Sometimes, when you text one another to meet up the next day, you’ll accidentally will the hours away babbling about school and life and things without reason. Peter has a list on his phone of your silliest tangents; blood oranges to the super moon, fries dipped in ice cream to the world record for kick flips done in five minutes. It’s like when you talk to one another, you can’t stop.

There are quiet moments. You wake up some mornings to find him awake already, an arm behind you, rubbing at your soft upper arm, fingertip displacing the fine hairs there and trailing circles as he reads. He bends the pages back and holds whatever novel he’s reading at the bottom of his stomach, as though making sure you can see the words clearly, even when you’re sleeping.

There are hectic, aching moments —vigilante boyfriends become blasé with their lives and precious faces. You’ve teetered on the edge of anxiety attacks trying to pick glass from his cheek with a tweezers, lamented over bruises that heal the next day. It’s easier when Peter’s careful, but Spider-Man isn’t careful. You ask him to take care of himself and he’s gentle with himself for a few days, but then someone needs saving from an armed burglar or a car swerves dangerously onto the sidewalk and he forgets.

He hadn’t patrolled last night in preparation for today.

“Did you know,” he says, pulling Harry’s borrowed car into a parking spot just in front of the Super 8 reception, “that today’s the last day of spring?”

“Already?”

“Tonight’s the June equinox.”

“Who told you that?”

“Aunt May. She said it’s time to get a summer job.”

You laugh loudly. “Our federal loans won’t last forever.”

“Harry’s gonna get me something, I think. Do you want to work with me? It could be fun.”

You nod emphatically. It’s barely a thought. “Obviously I want to. Does Oscorp pay well, do you think?”

Peter lets the engine go. The car turns off, engine ticking its last breath in the dash. “Better than the Bugle.”

You get your key from the reception and find your room upstairs, second floor. It’s not dirty nor exceptionally clean, no mould or damp but a strange smell in the bathroom. There’s a microwave with two mugs and a few sachets of instant coffee. Peter deems it the nicest motel he’s ever stayed in, laughing, crossing the room to its only window and pulling aside the curtain.

“There it is, sweetheart,” he says, wrapping his arm around you as you join him, “that’s what dreams are made of.”

The blue and white tiled pool. It hasn’t changed.

It’s about as hot as it’s going to get in June today, and, not knowing if it’ll rain tomorrow, you and Peter change into your swim suits and gather your towels. You wear flip flops and tangle your fingers, clanking and thumping down the rickety metal stairs to the pool. There’s nobody there, no lifeguard, no quests, and the pool is clean and cold when you dip your toes.

Peter eases in first. Towels in a heap at the end of a sun lounger, his shirt tumbling to the floor, Peter splashes in frontward and turns to face you as the water laps his ribs. “It’s cold,” he says, wading for your legs, which he hugs.

“I can feel it,” you say, the cool waters to your calves where you sit on the edge.

“You won’t come in and warm me up?” he asks.

You stroke a tendril of hair from his eyes. He attempts to kiss your fingers.

“I’m trying to prepare myself.”

“Mm, you have to get used to it.” He puts wet hands on your thighs, looking up imploringly until you lean down for a kiss. The fact that he’d want one still makes you dizzy. “Thank you,” he says.

“You’ll have to move.”

Peter steps back, a ripple of water ringing behind him, his hands raised. He slips them with ease under your arms and helps you down into the water, laughing at your shocked giggling —he’s so strong, the water so cold.

Peter doesn’t often show his strength. Never to intimidate, he prefers startling you helpfully. He’ll lift you when you want to reach something too tall, or raise the bed when you’re on his side to force you sideways.

“Oh, this is the perfect place to try the lift!” he says.

“How will I run?” you ask, letting your knees buckle, water rushing up to your neck.

Peter pulls you up. He touches you easily, and yet you get the sense that he’s precious with you, too. There’s devotion to be found in his hands and the specific way they cradle your back, drawing your chest to his. “I don’t need you to do a running start, sweetheart,” he says, tilting his head to the side, “I’ll just lift you.”

“Last time I laughed so much you dropped me.”

“Exactly, you laughed, and this is serious.”

The world isn’t mild here. Car horns beep and tyres crunch asphalt. You can hear children, and singing, and a walkie talkie somewhere in the Super 8’s parking lot. The pool pumps gargle and Peter’s breath is half laughter as he pulls you further from the sidelines, ceramic tiles slippery under your feet. In the distance, you swear you can hear one of those songs he likes from that poor singer who died in the Wolf River.

He’s a beholden thing in the sun; you can’t not look at him, all of him, his sculpted chest wet and glinting in the sun, his eyes like browning honey, his smile curling up, and up.

“You’re beautiful,” he says.

You rest an arm behind his head. “The rash guard is a good look?”

“Sweetheart, you couldn’t look cuter,” he says, hands on your waist, pinky on your hip. “I wish you’d mentioned these shorts a few days ago. I would’ve prepared to be a more decent man.”

“You’re decent enough, Parker.”

“Maybe now.”

“Well, if things get too hot, you can always take a quick dip,” you say.

You’re teasing, but Peter’s eyes light up with mischief as he calls, “Oh, great idea!” and lets himself drop backwards into the water. You pull your arm back rather than go with him. You can’t avoid the great burst of water as he surges to the surface.

He shakes himself off like a dog.

“Pete!” you cry through laughs, wiping the water from your face before the chlorine gets in your eyes.

“It just didn’t help,” he says, pulling you back into his arms, “you know, the water is cold, but you’re so hot, and I actually got a pretty good look at them when I was under, and you’re just as pretty as I remembered you being ten seconds ago–”

“Peter,” you say, tempted to roll your eyes.

Water runs down his face in great rivers, but with the dopey smile he’s sporting, they look like anything but tears. “Tell me a secret?” he asks, dripping in sunshine, an endless summer at his back.

A soft smile takes your lips. “No,” you say, tipping up your chin, “you tell me one first.”

“What kind of secret?”

“A real one,” you insist.

“Oh…” He leans away from you, though his arms stay crossed behind you. “Okay, I have one. Ask me again.”

You raise a single brow. “Tell me a secret, Peter.”

He pulls your face in for a kiss. His hand is wet on your cheek, but no less welcome. “I love you,” he says, kissing the skin just shy of your nose.

You’re lucky he’s already holding you. “I love you too,” you say, gathering him to you for a hug, digging your nose into the slope of his neck as his admission blows your mind. “I love you.”

Peter wraps his arms around your shoulders, closing his eyes against the side of your head. You can’t know what he’s thinking, but you can feel it. His hands can’t seem to stay still on your skin.

The sun warms your back for a time.

Peter lets out a deep breath of relief. You lean away to look at him, your hand slipping down into the water, where he finds it, his fingers circling your wrist.

“That’s another one to let go of,” he suggests.

He peppers a row of gentle kisses along your lips and the soft skin below your eye.

You and Peter swim until your fingers are pruned and the sun has been blanketed by clouds. You let him wrap you in a towel, and kiss your wet ears, and take you back to the room, where he holds your face.

“I’ll start the shower for you,” he says, rubbing your cheeks with his thumbs, each stroke of them encouraging your face from one side to the other, just a touch, ever so slightly moved in the palms of his hands.

“Don’t fall asleep standing up,” he murmurs.

Your eyes close unbidden to you both. “I won’t.”

He holds you still, leaning in slowly to kiss you with the barest of pressure. Every thought in your head fades, leaving only you and Peter, and the dizziness of his touch as he lays you down at the end of the bed.

｡𖦹°‧⭑.ᐟ

please like, comment or reblog if you enjoyed, i love comments and seeing what anyone reading liked about the fic is a treat —thank you for reading❤︎

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rafeandonlyrafe · 7 months ago

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gold ring

words: 1.3k

warnings: brief suspicion of cheating, established relationship, soft!rafe, proposal, fluffy

“rafe!” you groan out, tired of hearing his phone constantly dinging for the past ten minutes.

when rafe doesn't answer, you slap your laptop closed, frown on your face as you head up the stairs, muttering to yourself about him interrupting your work that he KNOWS is important.

“rafe!” you shout, entering his bedroom. you can finally hear the spray of the shower, explaining why he was letting his phone go off.

you grab it from his bedside table, yanking the charger free as you go to silence it, but upon trying to stop the dinging, you skim over the notifications.

you don't believe it at first. it must be some kind of mistake, you're sure.

you click on the name of rafes ex girlfriend, opening up the text message thread.

rafe: when can we meet?

ex: whenever works for you 🥺

ex: i miss you a lot btw

ex: this friday at 6pm? we can meet at the country club like we always used to. maybe get dinner? can't wait to see you xxx

you frown at the messages, quickly locking the phone and setting it down when you hear the shower turn off.

rafe steps out with just a towel wrapped around his waist.

“hey princess.” he smiles. “how's the essay going?”

“fine.” your tone is cold, surprising rafe. “your phone was ringing so i silenced it.”

you walk out of the room without another word, needing to return to your homework, but when you sit back down at what has become your desk, you can't concentrate on the words on the screen, your anger bubbling over.

you want to confront rafe, but you need time to breathe otherwise the entire conversation will be unintelligible as you simply sob.

you head upstairs, grabbing your backpack and slinging it over your shoulder as rafe emerges from the closet, fully dressed.

“where you going babe? got study group?” he questions, glancing at the clock on the wall, realizing there's no way study group would be meeting this late.

“going home.” you mumble, making sure everything you usually leave at rafes is stuffed in your bag.

“you are home?” rafe questions, his expression turning sad when he sees you're not joking.

“no, im not rafe.” you sigh. “i want to sleep in my own bed tonight.”

truth is, you've practically moved into tanneyhill since you started dating rafe, but technically you still live at your parents house, only a few doors down from rafes.

“is everything alright?” rafe asks, trying to reach out for you. “what did i do wrong?”

you can't help it anymore, his obvious disrespect for your relationship, something you put years of work into only for him to go back to his ex girlfriend.

“how about you ask your ex?” you question, tears streaming down your cheeks.

“my ex? what are you talking about?” rafe asks, again trying to hold you by your shoulders, but you take a step back before his palms can land on you.

rafe: ive asked you a million times to give that ring back. you never should have taken it in the first place. it was my grandmother's and now it belongs to y/n, not you.

“i saw your texts, rafe. when can we meet? are you fucking kidding me!?” you shout the last sentence.

“baby, wait.” he says softly, grabbing his phone. he opens up the messages, scrolling up so you can see the full context.

ex: i don't know where it is

rafe: bullshit. give it back or ill call the cops

ex: fine.

rafe: when can we meet?

“see, baby?” rafe places a soft hand on your shoulder. “i was just trying to get my shit back. i have no interest in my ex at all. i love you.”

“oh, rafe!” you coo out, throwing your arms around his shoulders. “im so sorry i doubted you.”

“it's okay, id also be pissed if you were texting your ex. i didn't tell you just because i wanted to keep it a surprise.”

“keep what a surprise?” you furrow your brows together.

“what do you?- ohhh.” rafe finally catches on, letting out a chuckle. “i see what you're doing.”

you giggle, rising to your tiptoes to press a kiss to rafes soft lips.

“now let's get back to work on that essay, yeah?” rafe says. “i can help you.”

“and what do you know about microbiology that could possibly help me?” you snicker.

rafe rolls his eyes dramatically. “fine, but i can at least be there for moral support.”

you've been expecting it for months now, wondering when rafe will pop the question. you know he got the ring back, and while he's taken you on romantic dates and moonlit walks on the beach, you're not sure when he will actually drop to one knee.

“what are you thinking for your nails this week?” your girlfriend asks.

originally, you were doing all white and plain, but recently for summer you've been branching out to bright colors again.

“why, is there a certain color i should get?” you raise your eyebrow at her.

“well i was gonna get a sparkly white, maybe we could match.” she shrugs. it's no discredit to your friend, but her acting isn't good enough to fool you, and you're sure that rafe asked her to make sure you get something appropriate and properly bridal.

you of course get simple nails that you hope will compliment a silver ring on your finger.

you look at the calendar hanging on the wall, reading through your events for the upcoming week, trying to figure out when rafe may ask the question.

you ultimately give up on trying to figure it out as you head further into the house, calling out for rafe.

“baby? where are you?” you shout, surprised when you don't get a response. you head up to your bedroom, figuring he must be in the shower, but the bathroom door is wide open when you enter.

you almost miss it, so set on finding rafe, but the dress laying on the edge of the bed ends up catching your attention.

put this on and meet me outside.

you recognize rafes handwriting instantly. you set the paper to the side and look at the dress. its a soft light pink material, nearly white.

you are quick to undress and put on the flowy dress, admiring yourself in the mirror before touching up your hair and makeup next. rafe knows how you like to prepare for big events in your life.

your steps are slow, or at least you attempt to keep them slow, as you want to cherish this moment. your eyes light up with the glow of the backyard, string lights hanging from every tree, and on the edge of the sand, is rafe.

“oh.” you cover your mouth, feeling tears well up in your eyes. this has to be the moment. you run to him, arms wrapping around his shoulders as he spins you.

“baby, i haven’t even asked yet.” rafe chuckles, setting you down.

“and i’m already saying yes.” you giggle, although it’s no secret to rafe what your answer would be.

“still-” rafe places his hands on your hips, stilling you before he drops down onto one knee, pulling a box out of his pocket. he flips open the lid to reveal the most stunning ring you’ve ever seen, it’s exactly what you envisioned and somehow so much more.

“you’ve made me happier than i ever thought possible. you fixed all my broken pieces and made me whole again. there’s no one else i’d rather spend forever with.”

rafe looks up at you, tears brimming in his eyes, overwhelmed with the emotion of the moment. “will you marry me?”

“yes!” you squeal, falling to your knees alongside rafe and pressing your lips against his. “yes, yes. a million times yes.”

sfw tags: @winterrrnight @cameronswiftie @ladyinbl00d @ethanthequeefqueen @drewsephrry @wearemadeofstardust0

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omgeto · 2 years ago

Text

☆ WHEN YOU HAVE SEX WITH YOUR PROFESSOR — NANAMI, TOJI, GETO, GOJO.

summary: you have sex with your professor. for many different reasons.

wc: 4.2k (each of these were meant to be 500 words long so idk what happened)

cw: smutty smut afab!reader who's in university, mutual masturbation, spanking, semi public sex, toji is not a professor but a gym coach who rails you in a supply closet, but theres a lot of sex on a lot of desks so mdni.

an: theres actually a smidge of plot in this just a tiny bit if you do a deep squint, but the smut id personally say is my best yet. so give it a chance people, but come for the smut stay for the dialogue. hope you enjoy! not proofread ignore mistakes pls

☆ NANAMI

nanami kento, was the strictest teacher you have ever had. you couldn’t get away with your usual tricks that you did with some of your other professors — strutting past their office during office hours in your skimpiest clothes to get a better grade. it was as if nanami was immune to all your devices.

but with a big exam coming up, you knew you had to make something happen since studying was not your forte. so you were prepared to do anything to get that A.

“come in," his deep voice calls from inside.

as you enter his office, you are met with the sight of your professor, his glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, reviewing a stack of papers. he glances up at you briefly before returning his attention to his work.

"what can I help you with?" he ask, his tone professional.

“i wanted to see if we could talk about the exam you set for us tomorrow,” you start to say, his eyes still focused on his papers, not sparing you a glance. “i was thinking we could figure out a way for me to get extra credit… sir.”

you had his attention now. technically you’ve always had his attention — yes nanami was different to all the other professors you’ve ever had but that doesn’t mean he wasn’t a man at the end of the day.

he always noticed the way you’d sit in his classroom, your pouty mouth always gnawing at your pencil as you never had a clue what was going on. nanami always had to hide his dick feeling tight in his trousers whenever you walk into his classroom. little did you know that you actually would’ve failed his class a long time ago, but because he just couldn’t let go of the sight of how your pretty tits bounce everytime you raise your hand, he always made you pass.

“well what are you willing to do for that extra credit?” he says, his tone slightly amused.

“whatever you want” you respond a bit too eagerly, you were coming onto him hard. but it was working, you could already see the crack in his usual stoic facade. “c’mon professor nanami, i need to pass this class,” you practically beg.

“oh yeah, you definitely need to pass this exam, you’re one more failed exam to flunking my whole class,” he affirms — lying through his teeth. “so i think you should come sit up here, and show me what you’re willing to do huh.”

suddenly, you start to feel nervous. usually you’d have control of the situation, you’d flaunt your ass, fuck your teacher and get an A, easily. but this time, you could see in nanami’s eyes that from when you entered his office — that he was running the show.

you saunter over his desk, and he pushes his seat back allowing you to have room to perch on his desk in front of him. “take off your shirt,” he commands, and you’re quick to fling off your top — that was barely covering anything anyways, “wow no bra, why am i not surprised.” he stares at your hardened nipples smirking as he continues to say, “you know i see your nipples peeking at me through your shit all the time in class.”

“really?” you question coyly.

“you don’t think i see how you practically fuck yourself in your seat when i’m doing a reading,” he continues, his arms folding as if he was telling you off, “a bit disrespectful, right?”

“no i-it’s just i really like the sound of your voice,” you stammer, embarrassed at him calling you out. you couldn’t deny that your professor was hot, everybody thought so and you hated school the only thing that got you through your classes was your day dreams of him fucking you.

“oh really, well i wanna see you get off to it for real this time.”

“wha—”

“touch yourself,” he demands with a grin, “fuck yourself on your fingers, put on a show for me,” he loosens his tie, and unbuttons his cuffs, ready to watch you perform for him, “and if you do well, then we could talk about your extra credit.”

you take off your pants, your hands moving directly to your throbbing pussy — since of course you had no panties on. you press your thumb down on your clit as your fingers work their way into your cunt. you were already soaked, just from hearing your professor speak to you, so it was easy to slide your digits in and out of you.

nanami’s grin grows wider, loving the way your work your pussy, “you not gonna play with your tits?” and you take his hint, your other hand sliding up to cup one of your boobs, your fingers pinching and pulling at your nipples. “good girl,” he praises.

you add another finger inside of you, writhing down hard on his desk against your digits. you quicken your pace, rubbing your thumb vigorously against your clit. his gaze on you served as an encouragement, your ultimate goal was shifted, at this point you didn’t care whether he passed or failed you — you just wanted to put on a good show for him.

“you gonna cum for me?” he taunts, the sound of your pussy squelching around your fingers as you drive them in is like music to his ears. you barely even noticed him fisting his dick, stroking it hard — matching the pace of your fingers hammers your cunt. “you gonna make a big mess for me all over my desk?”

“professor i-” you whine, wanting more than just your own fingers inside of you, “please i need—”

“professor? what was it that you called me earlier?” he teases, “remind me of that and then maybe i’ll give you what you’re begging for.”

“s-sir please,” you sputter, barely being able to string a sentence together. you could feel you were about to cum hard. your fingers were still drilling into your pussy, and your hands were still suctioned on your tit and nanami's dick was taunting you. “i need you.”

“you need me hmm?” he mocks, his eyebrow tilting as he stares at your fucked out face.

“yeah p-please i need your dick,” you beg, your pussy was gushing all over your fingers, as your strokes got sloppier, “i need you i-in me.”

“oh really?” he asks with a smirk, a slight chuckle as you nod eagerly, “well too bad.”

“wha—”

“you really thought i’d put my dick in a slutty student that’s not even smart enough to even pass my class?” he lectures, he tuts his teeth, shaking his head, “now finish off for me and leave office hours end in a few minutes.”

“f-fuck,” you moan out, you could barely even process his words, too busy focused on cumming all over your fingers to think about how he just denied you of what you really wanted, your hand falls off your tit, your head jerking back as your release over his desk. he’s quick to cum too, biting down on his fist to surpress the loud moan threatening to come out

“you really made a mess for me huh,” he observes, swiping his fingers across the pool of cum you left on his desk and bringing it into his mouth, “sweet.” you were at a loss for words, you were just coached through one of the best orgasms you ever had from your professor — and he didn’t even touch you — yet you still don’t know whether he’s gonna pass you or not.

“so about that exam…?” you voice trails, as you put back on your shirt, hopping of his desk.

“i’ll think about it, sit the exam first and i’ll see what i can do,” his voice turns serious, and he nods his head in the direction for you to leave indicating for you to get up out of his office. but just before you're about to leave the room he calls out to you, “oi.”

“thanks for the live show.”

☆ TOJI

“why do we always have to fuck in such awkward spaces,” you complain nearly tripping on a basketball as toji holds you upright.

“you know you love it baby,” he smirks, pressing a kiss to your cheek, thrusting up into you further.

you were in the gym supply closet, having your weekly sex with your university's gym teacher. you don’t even know how your little routine came about but once he started to hammer into you every friday after basketball practice, you’ve never missed a meet up.

“don’t call me that,” you groan out at the use of his pet name.

“why not?” he grumbles, cupping your tits with his hands as he stands behind you, “aren’t you students s’pposed to listen to your teachers and all that.”

you take a sharp inhale as his large hands smother your boobs, his thick things toy with your nipples, “but y-you aren’t a real teacher, in case you forgot.”

“am too,” he mutters like a child.

“a-are not,” you spit back just as childishly.

“am, too,” he persists, thrusting into you hard. pushing you down by your nape, forcing your hands to grip onto some random gym apparatus. he uses his foot to spread your legs apart wider so he can fit right behind you. fucking into you with something to prove.

“you teach gym to a bunch of brain dead j-jocks, wouldn’t say that classifies as being an actual professor toji.” you continue riling him up, biting your lip as his hammers into you harder. “you’re more like a glorified personal trainer than a teacher.”

he drives into you deeper, “oh and your just an uppity bitch, who still ended up fucking this ‘personal teacher,’ in a gym closet,” his mouth moves close to your ear, as he whispers, “so what does that say about you baby?” he presses a kiss underneath your ear lobe, before lightly sucking on it.

his words go straight to your core, him calling you an ‘uppity bitch’ had the exact effect he intended them to have — you throwing your ass on his dick, fucking him back as hard as he was fucking you.

he sends a smack to your ass, biting his lip as it ripples at the contact of his palm. his slaps were merciless, having you scream out every time he hits your cheek. “how’s this for a glorified personal trainer huh?” he coos in your ear, feeling dignified as you rut against him more feigning for more of his dick in your throbbing pussy.

“ah you f-fill me up s-so so good,” you mewl out, as his dick pumps in and out of you stuffing you with every thrust. his mouth latches onto the nape of your neck, sucking on it as he ploughs into you deeper, hitting your spot with pinpoint accuracy.

“i know i do baby, i always stuff you good don’t i?” he groans out, your pussy was a vice grip on his dick, had him suppressing his moans whenever you clenched around him, “don’t know why you fuck around with these lame ass boys in your classes, they can’t fuck you like i do. do they?”

“well…” you voice trails in a teasing tone.

“dont f-fucking play with me,” he sputters, feeling himself about to bust all inside of you, “i’m the only one you fucking right,” when he doesn’t hear an immediate answer, he shoves himself into you his hips pushing right against your ass, “right?”

“y-yes fuck, right,” you sigh rolling your eyes at his act of possessiveness — ignoring how you pussy got even wetter at his words. “you’re the b-best i ever had, toji.”

“you’re damn right i am,” he scoffs out giving your ass one final slap as he says, “you going finish all over my dick, c’mon baby coat my dick with your sweet sweet,” and you do just that. you cum with a cry, releasing all over toji, as he shoots into you a loud groan leaving his mouth.

“aww i forgot how loud you get for me,” you tease him as he pulls out of you, turning to look at him with a grin, which he huffs out, “anyways what did i tell you about cumming in me, i'm not one of those cheerleaders you run around with,” you fuss swatting at his chest.

“yeah you aren’t one of the cheerleaders i run around with,” he repeats, “hence why i can cum in you, you know you’re my favourite fuck out of all my students”

“ugh you’re so gross.”

“you say that with my cum running down your legs,” he says, giving you a pointed look, his eyes staring down at your thighs, “i do have another hour till my next class i gotta teach, so i could clean it up for you?” he offers, already going down to his knees, knowing that was a suggestion you would not deny.

“if you insist.”

he starts to suck against your thighs as you lean against the wall, sandwiched between a goal post and a hockey stick, but just before his lips latch onto your pussy, he looks up to you with a pout, “do you really think gym coaches aren’t teachers?”

“oh shut up toji,” you mutter, pushing his head to your cunt.

☆ GETO

you storm into your professors office, pissed off. professor geto was the worst teacher you’ve ever had. he was cocky, arrogant and most of the time he didn’t have a clue what he was teaching.

“ah miss know it all,” he muses, his personal nickname he created for you during his first semester of being your professor, “to what do i owe the pleasure this time.” you were no stranger to geto’s office, you were practically the only student that actually used his office hours. geto didn’t mind it though. the unplanned visits, your impoliteness — he was amused by it.

“could you explain why you gave me a B, on my last paper?” you interrogate, waving said essay in his face furiously, “when we both know that this is easily worth an A.”

“i just think you could do better,” he shrugs nonchalantly, “i just think you haven’t harnessed your true potential, that’s all.” geto knew you were smart, the smartest person he’s ever taught. he just needed to get you in his office. and he knew a below average grade on an essay, that didn’t even matter, was the way to do that.

“and what do you know about potential?” you mutter, more to yourself than anything, “i don’t even know how you managed to get this job.”

he rolls his eyes at your comments, “do you really want this A?”

"of course i want the stupid A," you reply, your tone determined. "i've put in the effort, and i've met all the requirements for this paper. there's no reason for you to give me a B except for your own personal bias against me."

“personal bias? some may argue that you’re actually my favourite?” geto leans back in his chair, a sly grin on his face. "but alright, then. here's the deal," he says, folding his arms. "if you can convince me right now, in this very moment, that you deserve an A for this paper, i'll change your grade. but you'll have to persuade me.”

“persuade you?” you retort, “what you want me to do a powerpoint presentation or something…?”

he chuckles, shaking his head at your naivety, for someone so smart you somehow lack social awareness, “no i wanna see if you taste as good as you look.”

“you mean…” your voice trails, finally catching on to what he was getting at.

“come lay down on my desk,” he says casually as if this was a usual ordeal between the two of you. he could see you hesitating, “you do want that A right?”

your feet were stuck in the ground, you never wanted to be one of those girls — ones that had to fuck a teacher just to get through university. but, regardless of your below A grade, you were more curious about what it would actually be like. especially with a professor that looked like geto.

you lay down on his desk, nervous, you could feel his breath on your stomach as he slides down your jeans. he was kneeling down, his face at the same level as your pussy. he toys with your underwear, pulling at it and snapping it against your skin, giving you a smile of approval in your choice of panties. but just before he pulls them off you he asks, “you sure you want to do it smarty? you can run back to your dorm if you want?”

“anything to get the A,” you grit out, basically lying, since getting your grade improved was the last thing on your mind as he pulls off your underwear.

he takes his hair — that was usually tied up in bun — down, releasing his long hair, “just in case you need something to pull on,” he smirks.

his fingers slide across your wet slit, spreading your lips. he presses a kiss on your clit, slightly nibbling on it before working his mouth down to your pussy. you gasp at the contact as he latches his mouth on you, his tongue darting into your cunt at a quick pace.

geto hums in satisfaction as you hands immediately go to grab his hair, pulling at it as his tongue gives you long strokes, lapping up all the juices already spilling out of you. “i didn’t think my star student would be this needy, if only the class could see you now.” he taunts lifting his head up, “i guess they wouldn’t be surprised though, your as hungry for my tongue as you are to answer questions in class,” he finishes with a chuckle pressing a kiss to your thigh.

but you’re quick to silence him, clenching your thighs against his head, “s-shut up,” you whine, thrusting your hips up in his face to meet his tongue. your head was swirling, you could barely remember how you ended up on your professors desk in the first place. but all you were focused on was clawing your fingers through his scalp as he slurps and sucks on your pussy.

“oh m-my god,” you murmur, soaking his face. he could tell by the way you pushing his face deeper into your cunt, his nose forced into your arousal that you were close.

“ready to let me taste you” he asks, his voice sending vibrations over your pussy, “wanna taste you so fucking bad.”

“fuck d-didn’t think it’ll be this g-good,” you whine out. he brings his thumb to you clit rubbing it as fast as he could taking you over the edge. you moan out, practically squealing, as you squirt all over his face. he smirks, trying to get as much as it as he can.

“i didn’t know my star student could squirt,” he teases, his mouth glistening with evidence of you, “or should i call you my star squirter.”

“haha, very funny…” you deadpan, becoming slightly shy at seeing him lick his lips wiping the last remains of you off of him.

“i guess my theory was right,” he concludes.

“what theory?” you ask, puzzled, forgetting the whole reason you let him eat you out in the first place.

“you do taste as good as you look,” he comments with a pleased grin, already reminiscing about you squirting all over his face.

“so about my A?” you ask pulling up your jeans, and collecting your things.

“yeah i’ll expect your rewrite on my desk by friday,” he shrugs, going back to his nonchalant persona.

“rewrite? did you not promise me an A if i can ‘persuade you,’ at how badly i want it?” you question, going back to your original state of being pissed off, “did i not persuade you mr ‘you do taste as good as you look.’ this is so unfair”

“ask me if i care about fairness?” he smirks, a laugh leaving his lips as he watches you storm out of his office, “hey! you left your underwear,” he calls out behind you, his laugh growing as you say nothing, putting up your middle finger at him and slamming his door shut.

☆ GOJO

“do you want to lose your job?” you chastise, “shut the fuck up.”

“but i can’t help it,” he purrs, nuzzling into your neck to suppress his non stop moans and whines that he was doing as he pushed his dick in you, “your pussy’s just too good.”

you were leaning against the desk of your professor gojo’s lecture hall, your legs wrapped around his bag as he hoisted you up, grinding his body against yours as his dick drives in your pussy.

it was after hours, and gojo forgot to lock his classroom doors. as soon as your peers left the room he was quick to put his lips on yours, throwing all the stationary on his desk on the floor in the most dramatic fashion ever.

you don’t know how you got entangled in a relationship with your teacher. since you didn’t actually benefit from it, and he was needier and clingier than an actual student your age. but the mind blowing orgasms he gave you every now and again made you forget all of his ‘bad qualities.’

“c’mon don’t tell me it’s not making you feel wetter,” he murmurs in between kisses, “the idea of someone walking in on me fucking your pretty little pussy.” you ignore him, your arms tightening around his neck as you bounce on his dick. “tell me that doesn’t make you hot,” he eases his dick out of you slightly, drawing both of your attention to his member already covered in your juices. his eyebrows raise when you look back at him as if he’s just proved his point.

“whatever, i guess the idea of us getting caught isn’t that bad,” you lie, knowing it was causing you to get better, “but if we do get caught then it's your ass gojo.”

“aww you’re so thoughtful,” he coos, “you really care about me and my job, will you miss me if i get fired?”

“well i’ll miss my on campus dick,” you mutter, scratching at his back, as he thrusts into you deeper, “but i’ll be able to replace you quickly i guess.”

“oh how you wound me,” he mocks, pulling you into a deep kiss, desperate to taste you. that was gojo’s favourite thing to do to you, of course your pussy was great, but your lips were his favourite thing. sometimes he’d even drag you out of the hallway into his office —not a care in the world if anyone was around— and pull you into his lap just shove his tongue into your mouth and fondle your tits.

for a lousy professor, gojo sure knew your body well. he knew every spot to hit, every place to kiss, every stroke to make and you loved it. the scratches you were giving him on his back, encouraging him to go deeper, stuffing you to the brim. “f-fuckk you take me so so well,” he moans in your ear, whining and grunting as you tighten your hold around him.

“i’m close,” he mutters, his pace slowing. he lowers you down so your back is laying on the desk and he swoops his mouth down to your tits. enveloping your left breast with his mouth, greedily suckling at it.

“wow already?” you taunt, “you’ve really lost your touch professor, when i was an undergrad we could go at it for days.” his mouth pauses, as he looks up at you with a pointed look that reads as ‘girl really? as if you aren’t close.’ he wasn’t wrong, from his deep long strokes in your pussy, and his tongue twisting on your nipples, you were ready to cum all over him.

“gojo shit,” you curse, your hand coming down to your clit, flicking at it fast to speed up your orgasm. but gojo slaps your hand away, almost offended that you would try to cum off of something other than his hands and mouth. he bites down on your nipple, punishingly and that sends you overboard. you let out a shriek as you cum all over his dick, your hand quickly coming over your mouth to suppress your whines.

“what happened to being quiet huh?” he mocks your warning from earlier, “don’t want to get caught, do we now?” but he’s quick to let out a deep moan, as he releases into you, spraying your walls with all your cum. he slumps over you, exhausted, and wanting to just feel you — gojo was always needy after sex.

after you both come down from your highs and clean up — thankful that nobody stumbled across you. gojo pulls you into his lap, dabbing kisses all over your neck, “so when you gonna let me take you out, outside the classroom?”

“y’know that’s not allowed right?” you remind him, looking at your professor as if he’s lost his mind, “what we’re doing now isn’t allowed, but out in public is a no go, gojo.”

“not allowed?” he retorts, as if it’s news to him, “i thought it was just heavily frowned upon?!”

an: sooo what did you think? which one was your favourite. me personal lame gym coach toji really did it for me. tagging my girl @jabamin mainly just for nanami. but yes ALSO IDK WHY I MADE THE READER DUMB IN THE NANAMI FIC, but I juxtaposed it by making you super smart in the geto fic so it balances it out. anyways lmk what you thought, thanks for reading!! DONT USE MY DIVIDERS

#stampedwithanE★#jjk x reader #jjk smut #jujutsu kaisen smut #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujustsu kaisen x reader #toji x reader #toji smut #nanami x reader #nanami smut #gojo x reader #geto x reader #geto smut #gojo smut #gojo satoru x reader #toji fushiguro x reader #jjk fic #geto suguru x reader #nanami kento x reader

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artficlly · 16 days ago

Text

read between the lines [one-shot]

college marvel au frat!jock!bucky x cheerleader!reader tutoring bucky barnes was already distracting enough, but leaving your diary in his room? that is a whole new problem.

Warnings: fluff, so much fluff, tutoring, first kiss, college au, vague panic from reader, idk it's just kinda fun and cute :), no use of y/n, lmk if i've missed anything

Word Count: 2.5k

A/N: hi this was for a request! so so cute, i wrote this so fast i didn't even think i would have it ready to post so quickly. idk anything about cheerleading or how college works in america, so forgive me. inspired by that willow song! sorry for any typos - not proof read.

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I’ve been tutoring Bucky.

Well, James, technically. But he goes by Bucky. Says it’s a childhood nickname and it just stuck, and honestly? That’s kind of adorable. Like, who clings to a nickname that hard? Even the professors call him that, which should be cringe, but somehow it’s not? It just suits him. I literally don’t think I could call him James even if I tried. ‘Bucky’ feels right. It sounds warm. Familiar. Stupidly charming.

Ugh. Anyway.

He’s in one of those frats I usually stay far away from. The kind that smells like cheap beer and Axe body spray. Always yelling, always playing music way too loud, always shirtless for no reason. I swore I’d never waste my time on a guy like that. I really thought he was gonna be a cocky, arrogant douche when I first got assigned to tutor him.

But he’s not. Like… at all?

He’s actually really nice. Like, unfairly nice. That casual kind of nice that makes you forget you’re supposed to be annoyed. He remembers stuff I say. Not the big stuff, the tiny stuff. Like how I chew my pen when I’m stressed, or how I like lemon Gatorade for cheerleading practice. And yesterday he brought me those sour gummy worms I mentioned ONE time. Just handed them over all casual like, ‘Thought you might want a little sugar after practice.’ Who does that?? Like… stop. That’s not fair.

But of course, he’s like that with everyone. That’s the worst part. He’s charming in this totally effortless way. Looks at you like you’re the most interesting person alive and then turns around and does the exact same thing to someone else. How am I supposed to know what’s real?

And GOD. He’s hot. Like, it’s actually rude. He laughs and it does something to me. Like full-on makes my brain stop working. And his ARMS?? Every time he pushes his sleeves up to his elbows I lose one year off my life. For real. It’s like he’s doing it on purpose. (I mean, he’s not, but like… what if he is???) Sometimes I forget what I’m even explaining because he’s just sitting there smiling at me with those eyes and that stupid little smirk and suddenly I’m thinking about kissing him instead of confidence intervals. It’s not okay.

He’s on the football team. Scholarship guy. Big deal. Girls are obsessed with him. I’ve literally heard people talk about him in the locker room like he’s a celebrity. And me? I’m just… I don’t know. I’m me. I cheer and I study and I try not to let my GPA fall apart and I pretend I’m not crushing on someone completely out of my league.

So no. I’m not gonna say anything.

Because maybe I did catch him looking at me the other day when I tied my hair up. Maybe he does stay a little longer when we’re done. Maybe he leans in a little closer than necessary. But maybe I’m imagining it. Maybe I want it too bad and I’m just reading into everything. I don’t want to be that girl. I don’t want to get hurt.

So I’m gonna do what I’m supposed to do. Help him pass stats. Smile when he brings me candy. Laugh at his dumb jokes. Pretend like my heart doesn’t skip a beat every time he says my name.

I’m just going to help him pass stats. That’s all this is. Right? God, I’m so dumb.

—

You were fucked. Well and truly screwed.

You couldn’t even focus during practice. Missed counts, off-beat claps, a completely botched dismount that nearly took you and the poor girl spotting you both out in one go. Natasha pulled you aside with that look—the one that said she was two seconds away from losing it—and muttered something about getting your shit together because the big game was in a week and this wasn’t the time to be spacing out.

But how were you supposed to focus? Your diary was missing.

Your actual, physical, spiral-bound diary filled with every unfiltered thought you’d been too scared to say out loud. The same one where you’d spent the last four pages gushing about Bucky freaking Barnes like some sad, delusional teenage cliché. You didn’t even want to think about what you wrote last night, something about his arms and the way he smiles and how you swore he looked at you differently when you tied your hair up. It was humiliating.

You never should’ve taken it out of your room. You knew it was a bad idea. But Yelena had been on one of her ‘I’m bored and nosy’ benders, and the last time you left anything out, she’d read your old poetry journal and quoted it back to you at breakfast. You weren’t about to risk that again. So, like a total idiot, you shoved your diary in your bag before heading to class, thinking you’d keep it safe with you.

The entire day had been chaos. You barely managed to scarf down lunch between lectures, and by the time your 3 p.m. class let out, you were already sprinting across campus to make it to Bucky’s place for tutoring. Not that you actually got much tutoring done. You never did, not when he looked at you with that stupid, easy grin, or leaned back in his chair like he owned the air around him. One second you were going over statistical formulas, and the next you were talking about childhood pets and favourite movies, laughing like you hadn’t just been drowning in assignments ten minutes earlier. Time always slipped away around him. You ended up bolting to cheer practice.

It wasn’t until hours later, back in your dorm with your bag dumped upside down on the floor, that you realised your diary was missing. Your diary.

You’d spent a solid hour panicking, then a full thirty minutes rummaging through the lost and found at the campus security office, practically elbow-deep in a box of mismatched gloves and cracked phone cases. The guy behind the desk eventually looked up from his screen, where he was rather obviously playing solitaire, and told you with the energy of someone who very much did not care that maybe it hadn’t been handed in.

You wanted to scream.

Now your most personal, most mortifying thoughts were just out there. Floating around. God only knew where or with who. And sure, maybe whoever found it wouldn’t read it. Maybe they’d be a decent human being and just turn it in without flipping through. But let’s be honest, if you found a diary with someone’s deepest secrets in it, you’d probably peek too.

You were going to be sick. Actually sick. And not because Natasha had you running suicides again like she was training you for the NFL, but because your life might genuinely be over. Because if he found it? What if you left it in his room? What if Bucky read even one word of what you wrote?

You didn’t even want to finish that thought.

No, you literally couldn’t even finish that thought because, as Natasha finally called for the end of the session and the team began their warm-down stretches, swapping tired smiles and gulping down water, you saw him.

Bucky.

Standing at the edge of the field in that stupid grey hoodie, sleeves pushed up, all smug and handsome like he hadn’t just shown up to ruin your entire existence. He had that lazy, charming smile on his face, the one that made people trust him too fast, the one that made you trust him too fast, and in his hand?

Glittery blue cover. Spiral binding. Your diary.

You were going to throw up. No, genuinely, you could feel your stomach lurch. This was it. This was how you died. Not in a blaze of glory or during a botched basket toss, but here, sweaty, humiliated, and on the verge of a nervous breakdown in the middle of the goddamn football field.

You didn’t even think. You just stormed over before anyone else could notice, grabbing his arm and dragging him behind the bleachers like it was a crime scene. Which it kind of was. A crime against your dignity.

Bucky didn’t protest. He followed easily, letting you pull him along like it was some sort of game. Of course he did. And of course, he was smiling the whole time, like you hadn’t just gone into cardiac arrest ten feet away.

Your heart was pounding so hard you could barely speak. It rattled in your chest like a warning, like it knew this moment was about to go down in your personal hall of shame.

“Where…how…why do you have that?” you hissed, snatching at the diary, but he held it just out of reach, still annoyingly calm.

He raised a brow, like you’d just asked him what two plus two was. “You left it at my place. After tutoring. You were in a rush, remember?”

No. No, no, no, no, no. Of course, it had been his place. Of course.

“I—I didn’t mean to, I wasn’t thinking, I just—” You were spiralling, words tumbling out too fast, too breathless, and your fingers were twitching like you might just snatch the book and sprint across campus. “Did you…Did you read it?”

A beat. He didn’t answer right away. Just looked at you.

And then, God, he smiled. Not the cocky one, not the football-star grin. This one was softer. Slower. Dangerous.

Your stomach dropped.

“I read enough,” he said.

You froze.

Your ears rang. Your mouth went dry. Your body just stopped.

“Enough?” you echoed, voice cracking halfway through. “Enough of what? Enough to—oh my God.”

You turned away instinctively, hand over your mouth like that could somehow keep your soul from escaping your body. Because what did that mean? What was ‘enough?’ Enough to ruin your life? Enough to laugh about it with his frat brothers? Enough to tell every girl on campus that the cheerleader who couldn’t even stick a full-out had a crush on him?

You didn’t even realise you were pacing until Bucky gently caught your wrist.

“Hey. Relax,” he said, and his voice was way too steady for someone holding the social equivalent of a loaded weapon.

You yanked your arm back like his touch burned. “Relax? Bucky, that was private. It’s literally a diary! It’s not for reading, it's for… spiralling in silence!”

He tilted his head a little, watching you carefully, and if he was offended by your panic, he didn’t show it. “You left it on my bed. Open.”

You groaned and covered your face with both hands. “Please. Just kill me. Right here. Hide the body under the bleachers. I’m serious.”

Bucky chuckled—chuckled, like this was some kind of joke—and stepped closer. You could feel his presence even before you lowered your hands again.

“Why didn’t you just say something?” he asked, quiet now. “If you felt that way.”

Your eyes snapped to his. “Because I didn’t know if it meant anything! You’re nice to everyone. You flirt like it’s a reflex. You remember everyone’s drink orders, compliment their outfits, hold doors and say all the right things. I thought I was just another person you were… nice to.”

He didn’t answer your panicked rambling right away. Just looked at you for a long moment.

“Yeah, I’m nice to people. Doesn’t mean I feel the same way I feel about you.”

Your heart dropped straight into your stomach.

“What?” you whispered, hating how small your voice sounded.

He held your gaze, completely serious now.

“Like I wanna kiss you every time you chew that damn pen cap. Like, I think about you even when I’m supposed to be studying. Like I can’t focus when you’re talking ‘cause all I do is stare at your damn lips.” He paused, and something almost like a laugh broke out of him, soft and self-conscious. “Like I’ve been trying to find a not-creepy way to tell you I like you since the second tutoring started, but you were always so focused and cool and out of my league.”

That last part made your head spin.

“Out of your league?” you repeated, eyes wide.

He smirked, stepping just a bit closer, lowering his voice. “Have you seen yourself? You’re smart, you’re so pretty it’s ridiculous, and you’ve got this whole thing where you act like you don’t know you’re the coolest girl on campus. Of course, I was nervous.”

You blinked at him. “Bucky… are you flirting with me behind the bleachers while holding my diary hostage?”

He grinned. “Maybe. Depends. Is it working?”

You tried to snatch the diary out of his hand, but he was faster, effortlessly holding it just out of reach like it weighed nothing.

“God, I hate you,” you muttered through gritted teeth, bouncing up on your toes in a desperate attempt to grab it. All it earned you was the embarrassing realisation that you were now fully pressed against his chest, warm, broad, and stupidly solid.

“You really don’t, at least not according to this—” he said, low and smug.

“Bucky!” you warned, trying to reach again, but he shifted it higher.

“Give. It. Back,” you hissed, practically climbing him at this point.

“I will,” he said, eyes flicking down to your mouth in a way that made your stomach twist and your breath catch. “But only if you let me kiss you first.”

Your brain short-circuited. Completely and entirely. The words took a second to process. His voice had dropped, softer now, more serious, like he wasn’t just messing with you anymore.

You looked up at him, heart thudding so loudly against your ribs you swore he could hear it. His eyes searched yours, and for once, he didn’t look like the effortlessly confident guy everyone knew. He looked… nervous like he was the one waiting to be rejected.

“…Fine,” you whispered, the word barely making it past your lips, but your smile gave you away. It was impossible to hide, giddy and crooked and ridiculous.

And then he kissed you.

He bent his head and closed the gap like he’d been waiting weeks for it—maybe he had. His mouth was warm and sure against yours, one arm still holding the diary hostage, the other dropping to your waist, pulling you in like he couldn’t help himself. You kissed him back without thinking, without doubting, like maybe this was the answer you’d been afraid to ask for all along.

When you finally broke apart, breathless and blinking at each other like idiots, he handed over the diary with a grin.

“Okay,” you whispered, still a little breathless. “That was… good.”

“Just good?” He smirked.

You rolled your eyes, cheeks burning. “Don’t push it.”

He laughed softly, thumb still brushing your cheek. “So… does this mean I get to keep seeing you after stats is over? Or do I have to fail on purpose to keep you around?”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“You’re right. You’d probably kill me.”

“More like definitely.”

There was a beat of silence, the kind that didn’t feel awkward. He looked at you like he already knew what you were thinking. And for once, you didn’t feel like running from it.

You were so, so screwed.

But maybe… in the best way possible.

#bucky x reader #bucky x y/n #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky fluff #bucky barnes fluff #bucky fanfic #bucky barnes fanfiction #james buchanan barnes #james bucky barnes #winter soldier #marvel fic #marvel au #marvel

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blossomarlia · 5 months ago

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hi, could you write a drabble with reader x remus where she rlly struggles with getting involved or going to hang out with people without explicitly being invited (just feeling really worried about being rejected) and he kind of reassures her and looks after her?

hi, thanks for this request! hope you enjoy, i generally don't write school-aged drabbles but thought this fit the best.

summary: your fear of being rejected stops you from joining your friends, but remus reassures you

remus x fem! reader (implied early stages romance)

Sitting by one of the fireplaces in the Gryffindor common room, you’re wondering how many of the people around you have exchanged glances over the top of your head. You can almost feel judgement thickening the air, raised eyebrows and confused smiles that ask why is she even here? To be honest, the only reason that you haven’t moved away is that you were technically sitting here first, and the rest of them milled in and took their spots nearby- then again, was it purposeful, your taking a place on one of the sofas they often use? In hindsight it’s just embarrassing. They must be assuming that you sat down just so they’d have no choice but to talk to you.

You know you’re expecting the worst of this group, none of whom particularly deserve it. The flock of seventh-years surrounding you are generally a good bunch; Lily, Sirius, Marlene, Mary, Peter, James, Remus, and Dorcas,. You want to be one of them more than you want most other things, which is somewhat pathetic and completely obvious in the way you’re always hanging around. They may all be lovely, and your friends (to some extent), but you know how irritating it can be if there’s always someone not quite in the group hanging around.

You should leave. Get up and make some comment about homework, or whatever, and wait for absolutely nobody to stop you. It’s kinder to everybody. Isn’t it?

Lost in your thoughts, you miss what Lily says next, and then they’re all getting to their feet. You give what you hope is a casual smile, simultaneously relieved of your spiralling and disappointed that they’re fulfilling your expectations.

There’s a tap on your shoulder- Remus, your favourite, whose hair has grown out over Christmas and now curls over his ears. He seems to get taller and lovelier with every passing moment. It’s difficult to make eye contact.

“We’re heading to the greenhouses, did you hear?” He says quietly, hand stilling instead of pulling away. You press your lips together and nod, carefully hiding any sort of misplaced hurt. It’s not as if you’re entitled to an invitation.

“Alright, I’ll see you later!” Too enthusiastic.

His brows pinch together. “You’re not coming?”

You look up at the others, who are collecting scarves and bags on their way to the portrait-hole. How can you admit to Remus that you don’t think they want you along? How can you tell him, anyone, that you’re far too afraid of being made fun of, or becoming a joke within their tight-knit group, to risk it?

“Oh, I don’t know. I have heaps of homework.”

“You do?” He raises his eyebrows. You feel caught, despite not having been accused of any sort of lie. “I thought you finished it all yesterday.”

You’d been studying when he and Lily joined you, and all day you’ve been wondering why they chose to. You probably put a but too much value on people choosing to sit next to you in class or during study; it’s unlikely that it was more than an absence of other free tables.

“...Some, yeah. And I wouldn’t want to- you know, I wouldn’t…” You trail off and give an awkward laugh. Remus’ gentle expression is making the inside of your mouth hurt.

“What?” You’re not used to your excuses mattering so much. Mostly, you mutter something and disappear to your dorm in time to avoid any drama. Is he feeling guilty, awkward about having made plans as a group in front of someone else? You cringe at the notion of Remus realising how friendless you probably are, of his pity.

You know it’s your own fault for being like this. You’ve had friends in the past- cool, funny, popular, attractive- who frequently left you out on purpose. A drunken conversation in fifth year revealed that you were tolerable at best, a joke at worst. Always pushing in and so desperate for invitations that to extend them could only be ironic.

You think about that more often than you should. You’re constantly hyperaware of how tolerable you are, sure that you’ll say or do something which will make everyone else realise exactly why you’re not in any particular group. You can’t let that happen yet with all these people, so full of love for one another that even proximity to them feels like the experience of it. Still, they’re teenagers. Judgement is an automatic response, and Remus is clever in the way he jokes. He’ll retell this conversation to roaring laughter if you reveal too much- not that he’s ever unkind, but you sort of invite a bad impression, you think.

“It’s really fine,” You assure him. “I’m tired. It’s cold, too.”

“Right,” He nods, glancing downwards. You think you’ve won (as much as you can win, here) until he turns to James and Peter and says, “I think we’re going to stay here. Bit chilly.”

What?

James frowns, making a sound of protest. “Moony!” His eyes fall to you next, and you look away, guilty and embarrassed. You’d never even considered that pity would drive Remus to actually stay here, and now they’ll all hate you. Nice job, very well handled.

Marlene is next. “‘Cas has just finished growing the Alihotsy plant, though. We’re all going.”

“It’s been weeks since we all had the evening off- or at least, since Potter and Black didn’t have a detention each,” Lily reasons more kindly. She receives twin protests from the boys on either side of her, but remains unbothered, adding, “It’d be nice to spend a bit more time as a group.”

You’re awfully close to tears. All you’d wanted was to relieve them of yourself, to retreat to your room and wait until somebody explicitly invited you somewhere (if ever), and now you’ve gone and ruined everybody’s evening. You turn to Remus, more urgent than is likely normal. “Please just go with them,” You say softly, aware that your voice is all wobbly. “I’m just going to go to bed, I don’t want to interrupt all of you catching up. Please, it’s really okay.”

There’s a brief silence that spans the entire crowd. They’ve all heard, are all likely attempting not to laugh. Remus is giving you an awful look.

“...Are you okay, lovely?” Mary asks. You can’t look at her, can’t look at any of them, but you’ve always been alright at masking emotion in your voice when you really try. You force something like a smile.

“Yes! Yes, completely fine, I’m only tired. Post-holiday blues, maybe.” You laugh and it sounds terrible. “I’ve really only got to go to bed. You all have fun!” Silence again.

“We might join you all in a bit,” Remus says firmly. There are a few worried noises of assent, and they all head off. Now, you do see them looking at one another, frowning and looking upset. Poor Remus, you imagine them saying on their way to the greenhouses, stuck looking after her while we all escape.

Remus asks you to sit down again three times before you agree, still rather set on going to bed so you won’t cry in front of the entire common-room.

“What’s making you so upset?” He asks softly, once he’s finally detained you. You blink quickly and cast a glance around at the other students in the common-room, afraid to embarrass yourself more than you already have, but he’s quick to assuage the fear. “I cast a muffliato when James began talking about the Alihotsy prank- ages ago. Nobody’s heard anything, I promise.”

You swallow harshly. “Oh. Thanks. I’m sorry I’m being so- so-”

“If I could,” Remus says, firm but kind, “This will be a lot easier if we can get to the problem, here, rather than whatever you think you’ve done wrong.”

“I- right. Okay. Um,” You stammer. “They’re not really mutually exclusive.” “Why don’t you want to come? Did somebody say something hurtful?” You look at him, slightly startled. “What? It’s not that I don’t want to.”

Remus seems perplexed, looking the way he does when he’s working out a particularly difficult exam question. “No?”

“No.” You twist your fingers together so tightly that they hurt. “No, it sounds fun, it just… it’s not as if I’m going to demand to be brought along, am I?” The joke falls flat. You think you already knew it would, but it’s still a bit embarrassing to laugh and be met with a concerned frown.

You take a few longer breaths. You can fix this. You have to fix this.

“Look, it’s kind of you to stay here, but like Lily said- you all have the night off. It’s really not so bad not to spend it as a group. I want you to go, really.” The next smile is easier. You’ve done this before, convinced people not to feel bad for you.

“Why would you need to demand to be brought along?” Remus asks. “We made the plans while you were right here.”

“You all made plans together,” You explain slowly. “You know, having an evening to yourselves and that sort of thing. There’s no need for- you know, I’m honestly just tired. That’s probably why I’ve reacted so oddly, it’s my own fault.”

Remus looks at you for a long while, so intent that your skin gets prickly and uncomfortable. Eventually, he speaks, quiet and considered. “...You haven’t acted oddly if that’s how you’ve been feeling.”

“Tired?”

“No, excluded.” He says gently. “You really didn’t know you were invited?” You don’t answer with more than silence, and he sighs.

“You were. You’re always invited, dove, of course you are.”

Trying not to get to hung up on impossibilities, you shake your head quickly. “It’d be a bit rude to assume that.”

“It wouldn’t.” Remus replies immediately. Then, “Dove, what are we going to do with you?” Entirely too much to comprehend. You’re glad he goes on. “Would you look at me for a moment, please?”

You want to ask him why, or refuse, or run up to your dormitory, but you do as he says. You wonder if he knows that he could ask you to do almost anything and you’d say yes, if he’ll only keep looking at you with his coffee-coloured eyes.

“All of us- we want you to come along, wherever we are. You’re important to lots of people. Do you understand that?” “I- I just don’t want to push myself in.” You say, mortified.

“You aren’t. You’re being pulled, if anything, yeah?” His lips quirk. “When Lily said those things about spending time as a group, she meant you, too. If somebody said something that made you think otherwise, I’ll-”

“Nobody said anything,” You tell him feebly. This is all rather a lot to take in. “I think… maybe it’s more that nobody’s said I am invited, or a part of- I don’t know, it’s all sort of stupid.”

“No it’s not,” Remus disagrees. He pinches your chin quickly between thumb and forefinger, frowning again. Mary once commented that Remus would look sixty by the time you all left school, with all his worrying wrinkles. “Not stupid, but it’s not very kind to yourself, either. Why shouldn’t we want you around?”

You open your mouth and close it at his raised eyebrow. “Rhetorical question?”

“Rhetorical question.” He confirms amusedly. “There’s no point arguing, because we do. I do. I wish you wouldn’t think otherwise.”

“I’ve only been friends with all of you for a little while, though. You’ve all been mates since first-year.” At that, Remus outright scoffs. “Have we, now?”

You shrug.

“James and Lily always liked each other, then? Dorcas didn’t only just start hanging around us as well?” You look down, and he sighs. “However long everybody’s known one another, the most important bit is that we all like each other, yeah? It wouldn’t matter whether we became mates at eleven or two days ago- we’re friends. Or- you know.”

You definitely don’t know, but you’re going red anyway. He was definitely talking about Lily and James- that’s all he meant by ‘you know’. Isn’t it?

Remus scratches the back of his head, quiet for another second. Then, “...Why don’t we go down to the greenhouses? We’ll stick together the whole time, you’ll not be sat by yourself again.”

“I don’t want to make you babysit.”

Remus tsks, expression becoming sterner for a moment. “Don’t think that way about yourself. I’m asking because I want you to come- it’s not worth going if you aren’t there.”

The long moment it takes for you to decipher whether he’s only being nice or if that’s the truth is enough for Remus to decide that you don’t really have a choice in the matter. Tugging you to your feet, and seeming taller than ever with your proximity, he winds his own scarf around your neck and pushes some hair behind your hear. You let him, mostly because you’re too surprised to do anything about it.

“Let’s go, before they all decide to try some of the Alihotsy themselves. Gloves?”

You manage a nervous giggle, putting your mittens on when he hands them to you. “Thanks.”

“That’s alright. Come on,” He gives you a crooked sort of smile. It’s sometimes difficult to tell if Remus is aware how good-looking he is.

The entire group are far too enthusiastic at yours and Remus’ arrival fifteen minutes later, given the fact that it’s hardly been half an hour since they left. Either way, you’re quickly pulled into a squabble between Lily and James about- as Remus predicted- the logic of trying some Alihotsy for themselves.

“Thank Merlin you came, you’re the only one who won’t be completely daft about this!” Lily says, linking her arm in yours. You smile before catching Remus’ eye and looking down, feeling yourself flush. Smug bastard, you think fondly.

It’s an entire two hours before everyone heads back up to the castle, having thoroughly violated curfew but without (to James and Sirius’ chagrin) having tested any of the plant which would induce hysterical laughter. You find yourself walking beside the tallest of the group in comfortable silence, a few steps behind the rest.

“Thanks for making me come with you,” You say, perhaps a little more earnestly than you ought. “It was really nice.”

“‘Course, dove.” You look up at Remus to find he’s already looking at you. He clears his throat, glancing over at Sirius and Marlene where they’re pretending to push each other into the snow. It’s likely to end in one of them following through and the other swearing eternal hatred. “We’re all glad you came along. Could even make a habit of it.”

You exhale a laugh. “Maybe.”

He gives you a sideways look. “Oh, ‘maybe’, is it?” “...Conceivably?” You grin, darting away when he grabs at you and sort of wishing you’d stayed still just to see what he’d do. Remus fixes you with a teasing glare.

“Watch it, sweetheart.”

You blink, choking on words for a minute. Sweetheart? Sweetheart!? Sweetheart, sweetheart, sweetheartsweetheartsweetheartsweetheart-

“You alright?”

“Yeah!” You say, too quickly. Remus misreads your flusteredness as something else and softens, taking hold of your sleeve and tugging you towards him. You go easily.

“If it’ll help,” He says thoughtfully, “You can ask me if you’re invited to things. Or I’ll just tell you. Then you won’t have to go to the trouble of assuming either way.”

You like him so, so much. “That’s really nice of you, Remus.”

“Eh,” He shrugs. “You know me.”

Now, it’s harder not to smile than anything else. “I don’t want you to go to any trouble. It’s really my problem, I shouldn’t-”

“Enough,” He interrupts gently. “Just say yes, dove, if it’ll help. I won’t be unhappy either way.”There are several places within you, the more unkind parts, that say accepting his offer would be like accepting pity. But there are also places that are warmed at the thought, that remember how people reacted when you arrived in the greenhouse, that can start imagining a reality wherein nobody hated your presence by the sofas tonight, and those bits win the argument for the first time in a very long time. You look up at Remus, his soft eyes and fluffy hair dusted with snow, and nod.

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wendichester · 2 months ago

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.ೃ࿔*:･ safety distance,

summary. sammy's left for stanford and dean loves to play to overprotective older brother role

pairing. s1!stanford!dean winchester x reader

wordcount. 795

Dean’s been in Palo Alto for three days. Three days of lurking, watching, making sure Sammy’s okay.

He’s not proud of it. Feels a little like a creep, if he’s being honest. But someone’s gotta keep an eye on the kid, and it sure as hell ain’t gonna be Dad.

So Dean lingers in the background—just close enough to see, never close enough to be seen. Sam’s got a routine: early morning runs, way too much time in the library, cheap coffee from that one corner café he seems to like. No signs of danger. No signs of Dad’s kind of trouble.

But today, something—or rather, someone—catches Dean’s attention.

You.

He first notices you when Sam steps out of a lecture hall, and there you are, falling into step beside him like it’s second nature. You nudge Sam’s arm, say something that makes him laugh—really laugh, the way he used to when life was simple.

Dean watches, curious. You’re cute. Real cute.

And more than that—you’re comfortable with Sam, and he’s comfortable with you. There’s no stiffness, no hesitation. Just easy, effortless familiarity.

Huh.

Dean leans against his Impala from a distance, arms crossed, watching as you and Sam split off—him heading toward the library, you strolling across campus, earbuds in, lost in thought.

And that’s when Dean makes a decision.

It’s not technically interfering. Not really. Just… a little friendly investigation.

Besides, what’s the harm in saying hello?

You don’t hear him at first—not until he’s right beside you, hands tucked in his jacket pockets, voice smooth as honey.

"Hey there, sweetheart. You always this deep in thought, or am I just that distracting?"

You blink, startled, and turn your head.

Oh.

Tall. Green-eyed. Smirking like he’s got the whole world figured out.

"Uh," you say, raising an eyebrow. "Do I know you?"

Dean grins. "Not yet. But I’m an optimist."

You let out a short laugh, shaking your head. "Wow. You just ooze confidence, don’t you?"

"Yeah, I get that a lot."

"I bet you do."

Dean watches, amused, as you sip your coffee, clearly debating whether or not to engage. He tilts his head, studying you.

"So, what’s got you so lost in thought? Deep philosophical questions? Existential crisis? Wondering if you should get bangs?"

You snort. "More like trying to figure out how I’m gonna survive my midterms."

"Ah." He nods sagely. "Yeah, college kids take that stuff real serious."

"You say that like you’re not one of them."

Dean smirks. "Do I look like a college boy to you?"

You glance him up and down. The leather jacket, the scruffy stubble, the way he carries himself like he’s seen some shit.

"No," you admit, "you don’t."

Dean grins, clearly pleased. "That a good thing or a bad thing?"

You roll your eyes, but there’s a hint of a smile there. "Jury’s still out."

Dean chuckles. "Fair enough. So what’s your deal? You from around here, or did you get suckered into Stanford like the rest of ’em?"

"Wow," you say, pretending to be offended. "I like Stanford, thank you very much."

"Yeah? And what’s so great about it?"

You shrug. "I dunno. Good academics, pretty campus, nice people."

Dean hums, tilting his head. "Yeah, I can see that last one."

You blink. "Huh?"

He smirks. "Well, you’re here, aren’t you?"

For a second, you just stare at him—then, despite yourself, you burst out laughing. "Oh my God. That was awful."

Dean grins. "Yeah, but it worked, didn’t it?"

You shake your head, amused. "You’re ridiculous."

"I prefer charming, but I’ll take it."

You roll your eyes, sipping your coffee. "You do this a lot? Randomly approach strangers and hit them with the worst pickup lines known to man?"

"Only when I see someone worth approaching."

It’s bold—so bold that you actually feel your face heat up a little. But you don’t give him the satisfaction of seeing you flustered.

Instead, you narrow your eyes playfully. "You got a name, or am I supposed to just call you ‘cocky leather jacket guy’?"

Dean chuckles. "It’s Dean."

"Dean," you repeat, testing it out. "Just Dean?"

"For now."

You hum, pretending to consider. "Suspicious."

He smirks. "You’re cute when you’re skeptical."

You snort, shaking your head. "Wow. Do these lines ever work for you?"

Dean shrugs. "You’re still talking to me, aren’t you?"

You purse your lips, trying really hard not to smile. "Unfortunately."

"Hey, I’ll take it."

You sigh, finally giving in and grinning. "You’re so annoying."

"And yet, here we are."

You groan dramatically, tossing your head back. "Oh my God, go away."

Dean laughs, hands still stuffed in his pockets. "Nah. I think I’ll stick around a little longer."

And the worst part? You want him to so damn bad.

ꔛ. navigation 𓂃˖ ࣪ all drabbles ; compatibility readings ; support my work .ᐟ

want be part of the taglist.ᐣ ⋆.˚ ★— @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing ⋆ @deans-daydream ⋆ @taurus0queenie33 ⋆ @ambiguous-avery ⋆ @krabog ⋆ @itsdearapril ⋆ @nymphet-quenn ⋆ @bluemerakis ⋆ @titsout4jackles ⋆ @lyarr24 ⋆ @hauntedrose555 ⋆ @chevroletdean ⋆ @dulcescorderitas ⋆ @blackmarketfruitrollups ⋆ @impala67rollingthroughtown ⋆ @rulesareshadesofgrey ⋆ @nervoussystems ⋆ @daryls-luvrr ⋆ @sunnyteume ⋆ @drakelover78 ⋆ @angelblqde ⋆ @mostlymarvelgirl ⋆ @whisperingdaze ⋆ @funkenniffler ⋆ @bossyblondie ⋆ @lieutenantchaos ⋆ @iluvnewtie ⋆ @dyhsversion ⋆ @lovewolfspirit ⋆ @kayleighwinchester ⋆ @s0urw00lf ⋆ @cursednevermore ⋆ @onelonelybitch ⋆ @americanvenom13 ⋆ @iluvdeanwinchester ⋆ @idk6505 ⋆ @devilslittlehelper ⋆ @cloverleaf20 ⋆ @giggles1026 ⋆ @idontwannabehere7 ⋆ @beakaleak32 ⋆ @ocelotlist51 ⋆ @lelapine ⋆ @pwin098 ⋆ @lacysretribution ⋆ @globetrotter28 ⋆ @i-love-gvf ⋆ @lemonswinchester ⋆ @4k1vrr ⋆ @bejeweledinterludes ( continues in the comments )

#dean winchester #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester x you #dean winchester fluff #dean winchester fic #supernatural #.docx

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always-just-red · 9 months ago

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hihihi! sylus girlie here. as a college student i often never take breaks whenever im working and often stay up late finishing up assignments. then i stress out but never tell anyone and suffer in silence:’) i was wondering if you could do something similar with sylus x mc where mc often forgets to take breaks at the hunters association and is always the first the volunteer for missions so she could improve.

but then it’s starting to take a toll on her and is so so stressed, but feels bad about venting to someone or saying no to new missions.

maybe one day she’s doing a simple task like cooking herself dinner (or something) but accidentally burns herself and she just ends up breaking down and decides to call sylus and he immediately goes to her. :’)

feel free to decline or change anything! i just like the thought of someone comforting u when ur overworked and stressed bc i wish someone would do that to me lol.

Fast-tracked this one for you, anon! I'm really sorry you're having a tough time right now, and I hope this brings you a bit of comfort- remember, Sylus would want you to take care of yourself! Good luck with all your studies, and feel free to send in another request if ever you need it! 🥰

Technical Difficulties

Sylus x Reader 🩸

Summary: You're not very good at asking for help when you're struggling. Thankfully? You don't always need to.

Genre: fluff + comfort ft. a very domestic Sylus!

Warnings/Additional tags: stressed reader (has a lil bit of a breakdown!), some swearing, uses of 'kitten' and 'sweetie', Sylus is so soft here he should come with a health warning tbh

| Word count: 2.4k | Masterlist | Opt-in to my taglist here!

Disclaimer: Characters belong to Love and Deepspace. All work is my own, so please don't repost or plagiarise!

In the event of a wanderer incursion where evacuation of citizens is obstructed or otherwise not viable, association protocol 32.3-A dictates that you should first… That you should first… What?

Your pen is poised above the blank space where your answer should be. 32.3-A is a general procedure: something to do moving people to the nearest shelter. Or, wait— are you supposed to try to contact support, first?

You drop your pen with a huff and flop face-down onto the mock exam. It’s too much. Too much information, too much responsibility. Open textbooks are spread over your desk and around your head like an unholy halo— stacks of them, filled with codes and procedures. They’re supposed to be helpful, but they’re not; they’re drowning you.

Your phone pings and you glance up. Text from Tara:

Hi! Hate to be a bother, but did you finish glancing over that practice question for me? xx

Shit. You’d completely forgotten. You straighten, reaching for your laptop so you can load up your latest emails. You’ve got time to look over it; the exam isn’t for another two days. Breathe, okay? You have time.

Seven unread emails. What? You scan over them frantically. Two from the Captain: accepting additional mission requests you’d applied for. Were those both this week? One from Nero: you hadn’t sent in that finished report. Three from your colleagues, all scrambling for help with the exam. One from Tara:

Thanks for saying you’d look over this for me! You’re the best at this stuff!

Okay, so: Tara’s practice question. Nero’s report. Your own practice questions. Then… dinner? Maybe that should come first. You’d skipped lunch— had one slice of toast for breakfast. But you don’t wanna cook; cooking takes time, and you’ve got none. None.

Your phone is ringing, snapping you back to reality, and you peek over at it. Sylus?

“Hi,” you greet as you put him on speaker. On your laptop, you’re opening up Tara’s attachment.

“Are you free tomorrow?”

Always straight to the point. “Uh… yeah?” you frown as you read through your friend’s work. “Why? What d’you need?”

Sylus sighs through the phone. “That was a test, sweetie. You failed.”

“Yeah, well…” you murmur, highlighting a sentence with your cursor. “Add it to the list.”

The man doesn’t find that funny. The phone is quiet— too quiet. “Are you alright?” he asks, just as your gaze wanders to check if the call has disconnected.

“Mmhmm.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, Sylus.”

You stare down at your phone. He’s waiting for more, but you won’t give it to him. You’re one word away from slipping, and you can’t let the dam crumble, especially in front of him. He’s smiling from the phone call background: a photo he insisted would ‘ruin’ his image when you took it last week.

“I need to go, okay?” Your eyes are shining.

“Okay,” he says softly.

There’s a bleep as the call cuts out, and the photo is gone. Waiting beneath it is another text from Tara, and one from Xavier: Nero told me to txt U bout a report??

You swallow the ache in your throat and slump down on your desk again.

…

You wake up with a start, your head ringing. The tangerine sky outside your window’s turned dark— your laptop, too— and light spills from your desk lamp, yellow on white pages. There’s more, and you turn, tracing it back to where it leaks through the crack of your almost closed bedroom door.

You hadn’t left any lights on in your flat. You hadn’t switched on your lamp, either.

Tiredness is dulling your thoughts and your senses, but you know you feel uneasy. There’s something in the air: smoky, but not unpleasant. You can hear something as well. No— two things. A faint, almost imperceptible hiss, and a more obvious humming.

Hunter instincts kick in. You roll open a drawer of your desk, snatching up one of your standard-issue pistols and removing its safety with a click. You stalk up to the door, your trained footsteps near silent. You take a deep breath, clearing your head. One. Two.

Three! You shoulder the door open, leaping through with your gun trained forwards.

At the other end of your sights, Sylus turns, an eyebrow raised. Your kitchen stove seethes behind him, and he gives you a once over as he sluggishly raises both hands. “You flatter me, kitten,” he smirks in surrender, looking between your weapon and his: a spatula.

You lower your gun, your heart still racing. “I could have killed you, Sylus!”

“That’s the spirit.” His hands drop, too.

“How did you even get in here?”

He’s turned back to the stove, and he’s using the spatula to push something around a frying pan. “Hmm…” he muses, then blink— he’s gone. He’s at your fridge a second later, materialising from thin air. “I wonder,” he finishes as he reaches around for something.

Show off. “You know how I feel about you telepor…” No. “Phas…” No. “Magic…king…?” By now he’s watching you over his shoulder. “You know— that thing you do.” You’re twinkling your fingers. “What do you even call that?”

“Magicking, yeah.”

You huff in response and he laughs, walking back over to where he’s cooking two steaks and preparing a salad. You’re still coming to terms with the fact he’s even here, looking... quite frankly ridiculous, because he’s wearing your apron. It’s too small for him. Baby pink. Frilly, too.

“You know how I feel about you magicking into my home,” you mutter distractedly, because actually? He’s kinda pulling it off. His sleeves are rolled up past his elbows, tight on his arms. “Use the door like a regular person, you psychopath.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” He sounds smug. Ugh, he must feel your eyes on him; he must know. You think he’s toying with the idea of calling you out, but he doesn’t, and when he does speak, the smugness is gone. “Mephisto saw you were sleeping. I didn’t wish to disturb you. You sounded… tired. On the phone.”

Guilt twinges in your chest as you draw up beside him. “Is that why you’re here? Playing housewife?” You pick at a frill on the apron.

“Poke fun all you want,” he sneers. “This shirt costs more than your entire wardrobe.”

“Snob.”

“Ha.” You have to retract your hand as he threatens it with the spatula. “Watch yourself, sweetie. I’ll remember that the next time you ask to ‘borrow’ my card.”

You laugh gently. Now that’s a threat. You’re about to tell him so when you hear a ping from the other room, and your heart sinks. Just a single sound, and you’re back to where you were an hour ago, at your desk with the weight of the world on your shoulders.

Sylus hums in acknowledgment as you excuse yourself and hurry back to your workspace, snatching up your phone. You missed three calls while you sleeping: all from Xavier. He’s been texting you, too.

Nero’s yelling at me

Wants to talk to U

Can U pick up? Pls?

It’s one report, for gods’ sake. You feel your chest tightening again. You just needed to proofread it, but it’s probably fine, right? You wake your laptop out of standby; you’ll just send it as it is. “I’ll just be a minute, Sy,” you call out. “Need to finish one thing.”

He mumbles something in response, and you imagine it’s for the best you can’t hear it. Your keyboard clacks as you tap out a quick email to Nero, then you surf your files for the report he so desperately wanted. It should be… here. You attach it. Hit send.

Nothing happens.

Huh. You hit send again. Then again— still nothing. You groan, trying to back out of the email. None of your keys are working. Your cursor is stuck. “Oh, come on,” you release on an impatient breath. Switch it off, switch it on again? You hit the off button. The screen goes black.

With a sigh of relief, you wait a moment before switching it on again. The screen stays black.

“No, no, no, no,” you plead quietly, but it doesn’t cooperate. Your phone rings and you snap, hitting more buttons: Answer. Speaker. “What?” you hiss.

“Whoa. Hi…?” Xavier’s voice is cautious. “I don’t know if you saw my texts, but Nero—”

“The report, Xavier! I know! I know!” You try holding down your laptop’s power button. “I’m trying to send it, but my shitty computer won’t—”

“No way!” Tara’s voice comes in on the other line; did they both get the night shift? “Hey you! Did you get a chance to—”

“No, okay?!” you practically cry out. “No! Can you two just back off? Please!”

“Oh, sorry, I…” Tara sounds upset, then distracted. “Wait, Xavier wants to speak to you.”

“Are you okay?” he asks after a second.

Okay? You just want everything to stop. “I’m fine. Shit, tell Tara I’m sorry. I am sorry, Xavier, I just… I just need my laptop to…”

Work. Work! Nothing’s working. Half of your files are on there. How much of it is backed-up? Panic is setting in, gripping your body like ice. Your throat hurts and your mouth is dry, the dam is breaking and you can’t stop it. Tears prick at your eyes as you blink at the blank, hopeless screen. Your reflection stares back at you.

You let out a sob, expelling days of frustration and exhaustion. Everywhere you look there’s something you need to do, something you need to learn, something you need to finish. You can’t. You clasp a hand over your mouth, muffling your own cries.

Xavier is speaking— saying something over the phone— but you can’t hear him.

The light changes, and there’s a figure above you, lifting the phone from the desk. “They’ll call you back,” the shadow says. Sylus.

“Wait, who is this?” Xavier.

“That’s Skye!” Tara.

Your friends’ distant voices cut out as Sylus ends the call. He sets the phone down again, nudging your laptop out of view, then lowers himself until all you can see is him: his red eyes, softer than you’ve ever seen them. “Come on, sweetie,” he coaxes, guiding your hands over his shoulders.

You understand what he’s asking of you. His arms wrap around you and you hold him tighter, letting him lift you out of your chair. He feels warm, his skin ever so slightly flushed from where he’s been standing over the stove, and he pulls your legs around his waist, letting him carry you with ease.

With your face buried in his shoulder, you can’t tell where he’s taking you, and you don’t care. His shirt is going damp against your cheeks. You want to stop crying, but you can’t with the taste of your tears on your lips. You feel weak. You feel pathetic.

Something solid is behind you, and Sylus is setting you slowly down on the kitchen counter. He’s away from you for a moment— moving the frying pan off of the heat and turning a dial on the stove— but then he’s back, standing between your legs, standing close. You’re looking down until his hand is under your chin, lifting it with the delicate touch one employs when inspecting a flower that might break.

He shushes you without a hint of impatience. “Look at me,” he directs quietly, and when you do, he unrolls his shirtsleeves— drawing the cuffs over his hands so he can use them to wipe your eyes. “Now tell me what’s wrong.”

You do— you tell him everything. The hunter’s exam. The textbooks. The extra patrols you’ve been signing up for. The work you’ve been doing for your friends. The stupid report. The even more stupid computer.

Sylus listens collectedly, nodding his head and issuing the odd hum of understanding. He listens to all of it, and when you’re done, he pushes your hair back from your face with a sympathetic sigh. “Oh, sweetie.” A tendril is tucked behind your ear. “You should have said something.”

“I know.” Your gaze is still shy of his. “But how can I? I need to do this— be this— for everyone.”

His hands are on your cheeks again, drawing back your focus. “You’re just one person,” he says. “You— just you— and that’s all you need to be. You’re stubborn, and strong, but you’re not invincible. Even Linkon’s shiniest hunter is allowed to have limits. Everyone does.”

“Even you?” you snivel, setting him up for a quip.

Nothing. He smiles. Shrugs. “Even me.”

It’s hard to believe when he’s staring back at you, oh so solid, oh so perfect. Always a picture of strength: of fiery determination or calculated coolness. Everything in extremes; nothing by halves. Except… his hair is slightly dishevelled from where he’s been working away in the heat. There’s a damp patch on his shirt. He’s wearing your pink apron, and there’s mascara on his sleeves.

Then there’s the way he’s looking at you.

It shifts when you finally look back. He drops his hands from your face and pulls back a little. “You do a lot for your friends,” he continues with confidence, but he’s rubbing his neck, “and they care about you. You should afford them the chance to return the favour. It’s only fair.”

“You’re right.”

“…Good.”

Perhaps it’s the fact you’ve vaguely composed yourself— or the way you’re watching him like you’re seeing something new— but he straightens self-consciously, rolling his shirtsleeves back up as his eyes go sharp: assuming their usual severity.

“You’re too soft, kitten,” he scolds, reaching out to tousle your hair until you’re glaring daggers from behind a curtain of it. “How many times do I have to tell you? You put yourself first. Always. No-one else matters.”

There’s quiet for all of a second. He can’t help correcting: “Well, except me, of course.” The apron’s crooked, and he flattens it with a brush of his hands. “Any time spent with me qualifies as self-care. You really should know that by now, sweetie.”

Your mouth curls, but you haven’t quite got it in you to laugh— not yet. Stretching his neck with two sideways tips of his head, Sylus returns to his post at the oven, where the meal he’s cooking has almost certainly gone cold. You watch as the stove flickers back to life. The man is humming again, and though the food might yet be salvaged, whatever melody he’s attempting is long-past recognition, let alone saving.

You chuckle to yourself.

And you can’t see it, but Sylus is smiling, too.

#🖋rach is actually writing #sylus x reader #sylus #love and deepspace #lads sylus #lnds sylus #l&ds sylus #qin che #sylus x mc #sylus x you #lads x reader #lads #lnds #l&ds

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unconventional-lawnchair · 9 months ago

Text

" But daddy, I love him "

Mattheo Riddle x Fem!Potter!Reader

Masterlist

Part 2

Summary: Harry finds out his sister is dating Mattheo Riddle Ft. James, Lily, Remus, Sirius - No war au }

Wc- 5178

Cw: Use of {Y/N}, a lot of people saying a lot of mean things, sexual themes cussing}

A/n: Possible part 2 later

Mattheo Riddle had a reputation for himself. Everyone knew him bloodied before they'd seen him presentable. A Hotwire, fizzling and popping, just waiting for the next person to cross him in a way he deemed punishable, ‘the muggle way.’

He never truly had a distaste for muggles or muggleborns, but they stayed clear of him regardless. Voldemort's son was like a cautionary tale told through the halls, of just how ruthless and unhinged death eaters could be. His mother, Beatrix Lestrange, in Azkaban for life for such cruelties, his father had a name no one dared to say. That left very little to the imagination, or maybe just too much?

Another thing about Mattheo Riddle, he never said what he was thinking, he only acted. So no one knew the true boy outside of his blinding rage, insatiable flirting and the horrid legacy his parents so carefully wove for him. No one, aside from you.

It wasn't supposed to be this way, truly, it was just an assignment.

“I have a student, he is failing in my class, but I know he has so much potential to do better.” McGonagall began. “If you tutor him, I will give you credits towards one of your less favorable classes.”

Was it bribery? Yes, was it technically against school policy? Most definitely. Were you going to say no to free credits for the history of magic? Absolutely not.

You should have been clued in, when she didn't tell you who you were tutoring, but like your father and brother, your eye was on the prize. Instead of a snitch, however, yours were the new napping opportunities in your least favorite subject.

You were told by the professor that the study sessions would take place during dinner, and you were allowed to request food from the house elves before or after the meetings. You had to wonder; why was this student getting all these special treatments? And what did you have to do with it? Imagine your surprise when you walked into the library when dinner was taking place, only for your eyes to land on the candle lit silhouette of Mattheo Riddle himself.

You knew him, of course you did, his father had tried to kill your entire family, while you didn't endure the worst of it, Merlin, you were still in your mothers stomach at the time, your fathers horror stories of the DeathEaters and the recounting of the night was so etched into your brain you could likely recall it as if you stood in that room. The day your father saved the wizarding world, by simply, picking up his wand from the couch when he opened the door.

Despite it all, you tried not to judge him by the actions of his father, so that the only thing you had left were the numerous bloodied fights he'd been a part of since he walked through the doors of Hogwarts. Not to mention the amount of broken hearted witches that clung to his heels.

Though, now, as you stared at him across the empty Library, he seemed so… peaceful. Calm and reserved, maybe it was the yellow light, or maybe it was the way he seemed to be genuinely enraptured by whatever he was reading. Sitting patiently, just waiting. Waiting for you. You quickly snapped out of your daze, walking forward to stand in front of him.

Mattheo lazily glanced up before his eyes widened slightly and his mouth opened a bit in slack shock. “Potter.”

“Riddle.” You acknowledged him. He didn't seem offended or bothered by your presence, more, confused. There was an easy silence between you two before you gestured to the seat beside him. “May I?”

“... be my guest.”

That's where it all started. Mattheo was nothing like who you thought he'd be. He was respectful, kind, studious and incredibly clever. You had to admit, Minerva was right, he had incredible potential beyond what he seemed to think of himself. He just needed time to sit down and work, instead of his usual activities, and whatever impression he was trying to make for himself.

Your meetings were frequent, and his grades started to improve. As you got closer, the change in his behavior in class was the first thing you noticed. He began to actually work in potions, probably the only class you shared being a year younger and a Griffondor. You heard from Harry that he had actually scored higher than most of their shared class in Transfiguration. Though, it was a comment out of malice, you couldn't deny how it made you preen with pride.

In the halls you were strangers, but in your personal nook of the library, you were a deadly dynamic. He was a flirt, you knew that before, but he never said the raunchy things he'd say to the girls in the halls he'd flirt with, to you. The occasional comment on your eyes or your calligraphy, maybe some that toed the line of platonic study buddies. You figured that was how he showed affection, but you had no real reference point for it.

If it was another thing that you knew about Mattheo that not many others knew, it was that he adored praise. All forms of it. He would get bashful and try to hide away from it, but you would see how much harder he tried to impress you everytime. You found it amusing, you would hear the teachers praise him and he'd simply shrug it off, trying to play it cool. But in those private moments between.. friends, when you were revising his essay, with mutters of, “That's a spectacular way to look at it, Riddle.”

And

“That's brilliant. You're brilliant.”

He would turn as red as a tomato. It made you smile. This was the version of him no one else could or ever would have. It made you cocky, it made you want more of the secret Mattheo, the one he only showed to the closest people.

You had gotten so used to Mattheo’s presence. He had stayed out of trouble, been doing wonderfully in his classes, and he still insisted on your study dates. Said they were the only thing keeping him interested in the classes he took. Ever the flirt.

You guessed being used to Mattheo Riddle of all people was the first part to an awful downward spiral. You had fallen for him. Hard.

You first noticed when he had to cancel one of your meetings. He was passing you in the hall, two Prefects had him by his forearms, and Snape was rattling on about a proper punishment for him. He had a cut lip and a gnarly battered nose. You were on your way to the library to meet, but when you made eye contact with him you visibly deflated. He had that stupid cocky look on his face, teeth stained red as he winked at a few girls he passed, focusing on anything but Snape’s words.

When his eyes met yours, however, his lips twitched and his eyes lost their twinkle. Like a puppy being told no. Or properly, a boy ashamed. And he should feel ashamed.

You had forgotten who he was when you weren't buried in your books. So for the first time in weeks, you were at the Gryffindor dining table, across from Ginny and Seamus, poking at your food in disinterest. Surrounded by friends and family, and yet so incredibly lonely. Ginny eventually caved to your moping, looking over with a loud click of her tongue.

“{Y/N}?” She called over and your eyes flicked up and an easy smile took over your face. “Ginny?”

“It's good to see you, you've been avoiding the dining hall for a while now.” She teased and leaned her legs forward to lock her ankles around one of yours to keep you in place. You couldn't help but give a cheeky grin at this.

“Well, I would argue anything is better than being forced to watch you make heart eyes at my brother.” You shot back and Harry looked up from his plate curious, met with the view of you being smacked in the face with a bun.

“Hey!” You challenged and grabbed your own bun before you heard your head of house clear her throat behind you. Slowly, you set down the bread and looked back at her as she gave you a quizzing look. Clearly confused by you being there, asking with her eyes. Not even having noticed the gluten assault.

“Rain check.” You remarked and shrugged before she let out a simple ‘ah’ and walked off. This just set off Ginny’s and now Harry’s curiosity.

“What was all that? Thought you were meeting a boy, if I'm honest, now I'm not sure.” Ron mumbled and Harry tilted his head at you.

“Ew, don't say that, that's my baby sister.” Harry huffed and looked over at you. His expression said it all. “What have you been getting up to?”

You stared at him before slowly smirking, leaning your chin on your palm. “Huh, well, me and Ginny are the same age-”

Then, another bun, to your face, courtesy of your brother. “That's enough out of you.” He huffed.

That's how you got here. Sitting in the forbidden woods, trying to demonstrate to Mattheo how to use a patronus, something your parents showed you when you were younger. Your study rendezvous has long since become time to study more than just your core classes. No one else was around, just you two, while everyone else was hidden away in the grand hall eating.

“So, firstly, this is a spell that most wizards and witches cannot use. So don't be afraid if you never come to pass.” You explained and he rolled his eyes playfully.

“Right, if I'm not past the level you were at as a toddler, end my misery early.” He teased and you gave a playful scoff and crossed your arms. “Not a toddler, just 12.”

He rolled his eyes with his own smirk playing on his lips. You found yourself staring at the peak of his teeth, threw his lips, you felt your entire body respond in kind. “To be fair, you don't need to feel self conscious, I mean, I am leagues above you, even now.”

He gave an offended gasp and put his hand on his chest. His smirk turned wolfish as he walked up to your side. “Is that a challenge, Potter?”

“Define a challenge, I usually just call it confidence.” You quipped and he gave you a once over, you rolled your eyes fondly.

“Okay, minx, I get three tries. If I summon my patronus, you have to go to Hogsmeade with me this Sunday.” He mused and leaned into your space. You smirked and stood taller, wetting your lips before you glanced from his eyes to his lips then back. “Let's hope you prove me wrong then, Riddle.”

He did not. Prove you wrong, that is.

Once you told Riddle about the happy memory clause, he seemed less confident. He wasn't even able to produce sparks, and got increasingly agitated with each failure. Usually, he would pull out a smoke and take a break, and you were curious as to why he didn't.

Every other day before you grew close, you would spy him smoking with his friends in the courtyard, but when you mentioned you hated the smell in the library, he started to hold off until after to smoke.

At least, that's what he told you. He would not tell you the truth, that the moment you told him you hated the smell he chucked the last box he had into the black lake.

Mattheo went through his life without any real care. He only ever experienced fear, anger, and disappointment directed at him. He had his friends, Draco, Theodore, Pansy, even Blaise but none of them were particularly affectionate. Past his playful flirting with Pansy, that he now used as a reference for your friendship, he didn't truly have positive influences on his emotions.

Usually, that would result in him using a poor girl or two to get over whatever he was hung up on. Then, he met you.

Out of everyone, he figured you had reason to hate him most. His father tried to kill your family, his mother killed your parents' friends, his current friends bullied your brother, and he was assumed a death eater before proven one. But that night, he was proven wrong for the first time, when you sat down next to him and smiled. He had never seen something so breathtaking, something that was meant for him.

He had felt for women before, physical and emotional, but never had he experienced you. In all honesty, he never truly looked at you before. You were Harry Potter’s sister, that was enough reason to stay away. Merlin, did he fuck up.

Being friends with you was hardly acceptable, but falling for you? It made him feel all the more pathetic. Knowing he was falling for someone who would never think of dating him. Here he was, making the worst mistakes of his life over and over again.

“Don't get in your head about it.” Your voice called him from his thoughts. He snapped out of it and looked at you. You tilted your head and smiled, hands on your hips in determination. You had taken off your robe, as if to say you meant business. Sleeves rolled up to your elbows and wand brandished. “Just think about something that makes you happy. Happy enough to smile at nothing.”

“Smile at nothing?” He muttered in an amused tone. Breathing you in like fresh air.

“At. Nothing.” You insisted and waved your wand. “My memory is when my dad took me to visit my grandparents' graves.” You hummed and he gave a startled laugh.

“Morbid, darling.”

“Oh, not like that.” You laughed. “I listened to my dad talk about them, like, all the time. Mum too.”

You gestured to the pond and his eyes followed yours. “My dad made it easy, it felt like I was really meeting them, ya know? He talked about me and Harry like we were the most important things in his life. I think I felt his love for them in me too, but towards him. I just felt so lucky.”

Mattheo stared at your awe filled eyes and he gave a small sigh through his nose. It was out of fondness, of course, but he couldn't deny the bit of jealousy that perked up in his chest when she said that. “Yeah.. lucky.” He mumbled.

You looked back at him and your face fell a bit. You had just spent the last two minutes rubbing your fathers love in his face- Merlin. You slowly gave a cautious smile, considering he was still staring at you like you hung the stars. It maked your ears grow hot and your nerves light up.

You reached over to graze his hand, and he seemed to snap out of his trance, slowly, he wrapped his hand around yours, his calloused fingers covering your hand fully. You guys sat like that for a moment, before you raised your wand higher and stepped closer. Leaning your head against his chest and waving it.

Your patronus whipped out of your wand, the fox wiggling its nose in greeting before she ran around you two in circles. You began to laugh at her enthusiasm, and Mattheo even gave a chuckle. Your eyes on your patronus, his eyes on you. How was he going to win anyway? He was making his happiest memories now.

“I think I can try again.” He whispered and you looked up at him, your patronus vanishing behind you as you lost your focus. He was giving you a look you had never seen before, it was almost dangerous, how easy it was for him to make a mess of you.

“You think?” You couldn’t bring yourself to say anything above a whisper. He pulled you flush against him, taking the dazed look you were giving him as confirmation. You wanted him too. He could have fainted.

“Want to help me?”

“How?”

You got your answer, in the form of his lips pressing so gently against yours. It was electric, your entire face grew hot and you forgot how to breathe for a moment. His hands found a firmer grip on your waist and you slowly wrapped your arms around his neck. You lost yourself in the kiss, letting him lead as he clearly had more experience.

Mattheo couldn't help it, maybe this wouldn't be a mistake. Maybe it was only fair. Being with you made him feel human, like just another boy falling for just another girl. He wanted to feel like this forever. Normal, with you.

He did not try again that night, far too distracted.

You met him like that several more times, dinner study bled into evenings, innocent touches became intimate, and bold teases became hushed whispers in his dorm room. The very dorm room you were coming back from now. Walking back just after curfew.

When you made it back to the common room the first thing you noticed was your own reflection, your hair was frazzled and your uniform was creased. You found yourself wondering how all of that could happen from just a kiss. Followed by a few more. And then some more,, you could completely understand how it happened, actually. You’ll remember it forever.

Once you fixed your appearance, the second thing you noticed was Harry sitting on the couch with a parchment on his lap, next to him was a nervous Ron and a shockingly ridgid Hermione. Harry’s eyes were on you, Ron’s was on his hands, and Hermione was faking reading a book. You pause before you made it to the stairs, slowly walking over to the three. “Hey you guys! What are we up to?”

“Nothing, just been waiting a few hours.” Harry snarked and you narrowed your eyes in confusion. Suddenly you remembered, you had agreed to meet the trio out for Quidditch practice, they had managed to just get enough people for two full teams, guilt filled your chest.

“Shoot, Harry I am so-” Before you could even start to grovel he stood up and Hermione sighed, Ron quickly speaking up.

“Where were you?” Harry demanded.

“Come on, Harry.” Ron tried to interrupt. “At least not in the common room.”

“What?” You whispered and Harry shoved the parchment in your hands. It wasn't just any piece of paper, it was the map. Your fathers map.

Your jaw went slack and you looked up at Harry, Your guilt was quickly overturned by anger. “Were you stalking me!?” You exclaimed and thanked Merlin the common room was empty this late.

“I thought something had happened! Don't deflect! Where were you?!”

“None of your business you slime!”

“You come out of the Slytherin dorms with Voldemort’s son and it's none of my business?” He whisper hissed, You scoffed.

“Yes, none of your business!” You snapped back and threw the map on the ground. “I don't have to answer to you! And his name is Mattheo!” You hissed back and stepped on the charmed paper, dragging it under your heel. “You’d do best to remember that. I'm not a bloody kid, Harry!”

“You're my sister!” He challenged and you scoffed.

“He's a monster! A Slytherin, his parents are horrid, and our-”

“Do not say another word, Harry.” You threatened as you began to stomp off to your dorm and he huffed. Kneeling down to pick up the parchment and dust it off.

“I’ll make it easy for you.” He called over and you turned to face him with a glare. “You break up with him, or I’ll tell father over the summer.”

Your face fell and your heart stopped. Harry had this look about him, like he didn't want to be doing this, but yet, he was.

“You wouldn’t-” You spoke slowly and Harry sighed.

“Two days.”

Those two days were blissful hell. You weren't going to break up with Mattheo, there was no way in muggle hell you were going to willingly give him up.

You did try to talk to him about it, however, several times. At least to warn him why he may have a war hero Auror setting a bounty on his head soon. Your father was protective, far more than you thought was necessary, but he treated everyone as black or white. Usually, everyone was allowed his love and care, that being said, Voldemort was a sore subject.

You would say you were trying your best, but Mattheo was so… Mattheo. He was hard to talk to. A very… physical person? He would complain about how you would be leaving the school in mere days for summer, followed by you being drowned in kisses and wandering hands.

Merlin two days was not enough. Next thing you knew, you were home, in your room, counting the minutes until your mother called you down for dinner.

You began to bite your nails, scrunching up your face when you bit down too far. You sighed as you heard Lily call you and Harry down.

You walked into the hall to see Harry waiting at the top of the staircase for you. He looked regretful, but stern. “Harry-”

“I’ll give you the chance. To tell them yourself.” He mumbled before he walked down the stairs. You mentally prepared yourself and walked as slow as you could down the stairs. Not noticing as Harry glanced at your neck.

When you walked into the dinning room, your heart dropped. Your mother, father, Uncle Moony, and Uncle Padfoot were all at the table. You cursed and clenched your jaw, Harry stared down at his plate and you sat beside him by Remus. You gave your mom a small thank you as she served you. Sirius and your father were making jokes about their Quidditch days after Harry bragged about their most recent win. You relished in the moment, before all hell broke loose.

You asked your father a question about the story, just trying to seem engaged. He lit up at your interest, turning to face you fully. “Well! When you're a beater, there is this unspoken rule that everyone follows and.. what the bloody hell is that?”

You narrowed your eyes at his sudden tone change. “What?” You whispered as you looked around the table, all eyes were on you. You took a shaken breath and bit your cheek. “I-”

“That's a hickey, dad.” Harry muttered and took a bite of his food. Your face fell and all the blood left it.

“A what!?” He exclaimed and fixed his glasses on his face, you quickly covered your collarbone. Sirius gripped his silverware, hard, taking a steady breath. “How old are ya, hun?” He asked and you snapped your attention to him. Stuttering and stammering for a moment.

“I think the better question is, who did that? It's bloody horrific.” Remus muttered and you stared up at him with wide, horrified eyes. “U-uncle Moony!”

“Boys, calm down. She's 16, and James, we talked about this. Our kids will be dating soon, I mean, Harry has that Ginny girl and you never fuss at him.” Lily tried to defend and James scoffed.

“This is hardly the same! I raised him! I don't know a thing about this boy!”

“Or girl.” Remus smirked and James felt his face fall in shock and you groaned, slowly covering your face.

“Remus.” Lily hissed out. “James.” She warned before Sirius spoke up.

“Fine, fine, it's all fine. I mean, what harm could he do? We've taught her everything she needs to know about the world. Probably some Hufflepuff boy.” He tried to dismiss, and Remus, ever the instigator tonight, spoke up again.

“I'd be shocked if a Hufflepuff did that to my nieces neck.” He mumbled and James began to breathe quicker and heavier.

“Right, right, fine. You're being safe, right?” He asked bluntly and you groaned, melting into your seat. “Please, anything but this conversation right now.”

Lily gave a small fond smile and tutted at the boys. “Well honey, you should invite him over this summer break. I'd love to meet him.” She offered and then Harry gave a laugh. You shot him a look. “Don't you dare.”

“Dare. Very much dare, Harry.” Sirius quipped and Harry looked at you with a pursed lip before he sighed and spoke up. “Don't think you'd want him here is all.”

“Harry.” You warned, Lily sighing. “Harry, you stop that right now.”

“What? I'm just being honest, dad and padfoot hate Slytherins.” He mused plainly, and James dropped his silverware.

Sirius gave a laugh, throwing his head back before it slowly died out as he saw your red face. “No-”

“Why does his house matter?” You scoffed. “Not all Slytherins are the same.”

“Yeah, just so happens that he's just the type dad hates.” Harry muttered before he took a sip of water. “Happens to be one he particularly-”

“Harry James Potter!” Lily shouted at him and he had enough sense to seem guilty. He looked down as you tried to sink deeper into your seat.

“I had a feeling.” Remus spoke up and you looked at him in shock. He gave you a side eyed glance. “You had a quidditch jersey in your bag. You don't play and certainly not for Slytherin.”

You looked down at your hands on your lap as your father shouted. “Why didn't you tell us, Remus!”

“This,” He gestured with his fork towards his husband and best friend. “You're terrifying the poor girl. I saw the name, I have to agree with Harry, you'd lose it.”

“What?” James snapped and Lily slammed her hands on the table. “Will you cut it out? All three of you! Do you want her to hide things from us forever? She'll tell us in her own time.”

Sirius groaned and began to pick at his food. “Whatever. As long as it isn't Malfoy.” He huffed and you shyly shook your head. Sirius gave an exaggerated groan of relief. “Thank Merlin.”

“Who did that, sweetheart?” James prodded with a warning glare from Lily. “James.” She whispered and they locked eyes. They held that look before he clicked his tongue.

“I asked you a question, niffler.” James prodded, and Lily slowly closed her eyes, covering her face.

“Dad, I really think-”

“Your dad asked you something.” Remus suddenly spoke up and you looked over at him to meet his eyes. Then it hit you. What he had said moments ago. He knew.

“I-”

“Y/N.” Sirius prodded and Lily gave you a sympathetic look. She could command your father on a lot of things. But never about you and Harry.

“Mattheo. Mattheo Riddle.” Harry suddenly spoke up, and your blood ran cold. You sunk as deep as you could into your seat and Lily gave a squeak of surprise, before covering her mouth. Remus thinned his lips and clenched his jaw.

“No you aren't.” James said simply and you covered your face.

“{Y/N}. No you aren't.”

“Dad, please.” You sniffed, overwhelmed. You sat up and straightened yourself. “He isn't some, bad guy-”

Remus scoffed and Sirius slammed his fist on the table. “His father-!”

“He isn't his father!” You challenged, shooting up from your seat and glaring at your uncle. “You of all people should understand that!”

“Watch your mouth.” James hissed and stood up as well. You scoffed and threw your hands up. “I don't understand! He's done nothing wrong! Nothing to any of us! I get that he's not this image you had in your head of what you wanted for me-”

“Dorcas.. Marlene.” Your mother whispered and your body stiffened. You looked over at your mother and your heart broke at her distress. You reached out and she sniffled, dismissing herself. Your shoulders fell and you looked back to your father.

He was staring at you with a look you've never seen.

“Dad-”

“Your room. Now.”

“Dad! That's not fair in the slightest I-”

“Room!” He boomed and you sniffled before running off. Slamming the dining room door behind you as you walked upstairs.

It would be a long summer.

~~~

Mattheo was missing you. He had been missing you for days now. You said you would write to him, but he didn't get a single letter. He figured it was likely you were busy, you did have a family to distract you after all.

So, he wrote you a letter instead. He didn't want to think about how desperate it sounded, how desperate he was for you. He didn't look over it more than once before he sent it.

Little did he know, the second James heard an owl outside, he shot to his feet and hurried to intercept it. You were ever oblivious, in your parents room as you and Lily shared one of many heartfelt conversations over the brief summer. Your mother was doing her best to understand, but it was trouble, trying to believe he wasn't doing this for some master plan down the line. You both went quiet when you heard your father call you both.

When you walked into the parlor room, you sat down on the couch, You looked at the table in front of you and grimaced, You'd know that parchment anywhere.

There was a long pause, before James spoke up. “The last time I saw this parchment, it was a letter Beatrix Lestrange sent us in our third safe house. Telling us she knew where we were, and that she was coming. Coming to kill your family, {Y/N}.” He leaned forward and picked up the letter and you refused to look him in the eyes.

“It’s nostalgic, really. But these words? ‘I yearn for you. I look at my textbooks from over the years and I wonder what it would be like to have you read them to me’.” He declared. “ ‘You made even the most complex of spells doable. You made things doable’.”

Your mother couldnt help but smile a bit at his words. You grimaced.

“Charming, isnt it? If only the rest of the letter wasnt riddled with innuendo of what this fuck wants to do to my daughter.”

You winced and sighed, the grimace not leaving your face. Mattheo that.. Idiot.

Then,, your mother began to laugh, and James looked at her from the corner of his eyes. “What? Is this funny?”

“Quite.” She smirked. “Sounds like the letters you would send me in school. I used to burn them.”

He scoffed and leaned back in his seat. “That makes me feel fantastic. He’s a bastard like I was in school.”

“Well.” Lily spoke slowly. “Look at us now.”

Lily looked over at you just in time for you to glance up and meet her eyes. She smiled sweetly before she continued. “I think its sweet.”

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