It bakes you, an oppressor in the sky; your hand, fanning yourself gently as the other drops to lay the parchment aside. A sheepish smile as you watch your handmaids, eyes flickering about the letter with excitement - but you’re rather unwilling to give it further thought for the time being. 

A delicate hand against the rays of the sun, pressing to your brow; a short sigh that escapes when you shift in your dress. The heat has begun to draw sweat upon the soft of your thighs, collecting at the base of your neck - dripping in a lick down gentle ridges of spine; though you are never one to resist such fresh air.  

Tea is poured for you. 

And though you know you will not so much as touch the cup of steaming liquid, a gentle thanks from you to the girl before you. The tree line shimmers in the distance, green points with spinning tops that blow against the blue breeze of day. 

“Another one?” 

A voice, familiar and warm, startles you from your daydream.

Against the glare of the sun, you note your visitor - a grin that stretches over your flushed cheeks and sheened brow; It would be futile to attempt any concealment of your delight.

“My prince,” you rise to curtsy, but make it not even halfway before he’s regarding you with a rather amused glance - you bite back a roll of your own eyes, delivering him a severe look in return. 

 In the earlier days, when your father first joined the Queen’s council, you and Jacaerys adhered quite obediently to the formalities expected of young lords and ladies - but as turns of moon became turns of years, polite conversation became a tight friendship; and with it, you’ve both found much humor in addressing each other so formally. 

Jacaerys always claims you curtsy like a young mare, and in response, you tell him he bows stiff as a plank. 

A lifted brow in jest; regarding you with that warm disposition and crooked smile. 

“Jace,” You relinquish with a smile of your own, hoping your affection doesn’t completely drip through your polite welcome. “Come join me.” 

He does, and with a boyish eagerness that often endears him to you further; Sitting with knees spread and arms draped over the back of the chair rather un-Princely, Jacaerys looks wonderfully at home amidst the half-eaten cakes and teacups. A maid steps forward to pour him a fresh cup of tea, and he returns an effortlessly graceful smile of thanks. 

“This makes the fifth proposal this week.” A gesture downwards to the parchment, its waxy broken seal crumbling below it. 

You smile sheepishly, regretful to admit. “I’m afraid so.” A relief that such scrutiny from the prince is not upon your countenance, but rather focused downwards - subtly reading the gaudy words frilled upon the parchment. 

You tilt your head at his interest, “Though I don’t believe I have been keeping track.” 

He hums, either in response to your observation or perhaps unsatisfied with the pompous letter sent to you - and takes the moment to tilt his face up in relish of the same sun that seems to scorch you. 

His skin has always taken to that kissed-look, for as long as you’ve known him; rosy cheeks so becoming, a charming smatter of freckles, a flush over his cheeks that sprouts after an afternoon sparring - or perhaps riding - and blossoms even in the respite of shade afterwards. 

He’s always enjoyed bathing in the sun, and you’ve always quite enjoyed watching him. 

Though you flush in embarrassment when Jacaerys cracks an eye open, glancing sidelong to catch your stare, he mercifully has the grace to not mention it - and so you look down to your cup of tea, how tendrils of steam climb out and stagger into the molten afternoon air. 

A smattering of petals, torn from the shrub beside your restless hands; blowing in the warm breeze over the discarded parchment. “You're quite popular these days." He says after a moment, his long, dark lashes fluttering shut once more.

“These days?” you chirp, unworried of the playful lilt in your voice, "And here I thought people have always sought my company. What could have possibly changed?” 

A small laugh, though his eyes do not open- unstirred by your attempts to provoke him, shifting in the warmth like a cat in a corner of sun.

A low hum from pink lips, lazy as he grins; Eyelashes fluttering over cheeks. “I wonder if I’ve grown accustomed to being your favorite.” He decides lightly, “Or perhaps I simply enjoy watching you when you can see no one else.” 

A familiar flutter of excitement dances through you, a warmth blooming in your cheeks at such uncomplicated charm. 

And it is the truth - Jacaerys has long past commanded your attention, been the first you seek in any room, no matter how vast; Perhaps there truly is no competition anymore. A glance to the parchment before you - and the returned stare of the word betrothal inscribed in frilly handscript.

“Is that so?” Your voice, mercifully, does not betray your fluster, “Well, poor luck, I suppose. I’m afraid I seek the company of one who appreciates not my countenance, but my presence.” 

Some huff of amusement exhaled sharply from his nose, tilting his head further - a slope against the sun, the expanse of a throat; the bob of an apple. “Then you look in the wrong places, my lady.” He decides, nodding towards the discarded letter, “Tales of beauty are one thing, but I'm afraid mere letters can not do justice your presence.” 

An effortless compliment; one of many shared between your lips and his. He’s right, as he so infuriatingly often is - though it does nothing to quell your reluctance to select a husband. 

In fact, it simply stirs the warmth that lies within your chest; and he, with fluttered lashes, blissfully unaware of how his words stir your heart. You cast your gaze to the letter. 

“It's overwhelming.”

And concern leaking through the opening of an amber gaze as you continue, thumbing the napkin in your lap. 

“I don’t know these suitors. Most of their fathers write to me." You confess, knowing how improper it would be to complain under regular company; but this is Jace. 

He leans forward at this, ever eager to bestow upon you his undivided attention - yet he merely shrugs, as though remarking on the weather, “It is little wonder they should be so interested. It is you,” And his tone, as effortless as the breeze. A leap in your heart. “The true question,” he muses - a distant melody, “is whether any of that interest might be returned.”

You pray your countenance might be enough to save you from the embarrassment of candor; Yet of course he plays the aloof, tilting his head. His hair looks quite full today - swept away from his cheekbones, sharp as the slopes of the Eyrie.

Indeed, you have interest to return - but not for any of those lords, nor their land, nor their riches. 

It seems nearly impossible that Jacaerys might be in any semblance unaware of your affections for him; everyone else has surely taken note, and you’ve hardly gone to great lengths to conceal them - just as you’re certainly aware of his own.

It’s always been entertaining, this little dance of teasing words, of stolen glances, of flushed cheeks; Yet now, letters and suitors flood the Keep, eager for your hand - or your father’s army - and the game has turned rather yearning in taste. 

Some ancient, desperate ache within you - a wish that it were the boy beside you, not these distant lords, who vied for your hand.

“-If you’re asking if I have a particular suitor in mind, then…” Your heart skips a beat at the fleeting spark of interest within an amber stare. A heat, an affection you must not name, blossoms in your chest at his interest; though you lose your confidence just as you get it. “...No.” You say, picking at a loose thread on your fine gown, “None of them.” 

He makes a noncommittal noise, moving to take a bite out of one of the sagecakes, warmed by the sun. The Blackwater glistens in the distance; Jace strikes a relaxed conversation with the handmaids.

A HALF HOUR IS SWALLOWED IN THE SUNSHINE. 

Birds sing - a hummingbird zips by, coaxing a gasp from your lips when it dips into a thatch of flowers before darting away unseen - absently, you’ve busied your hands with a ribbon that refuses to tie properly upon your hair. 

It seems Jacaerys’s hunger has quelled, half the sandwiches and cakes replaced with staling crumbs. A brushing of his fingers, the shift of his chair in the shade. Eyes, warmed pools of honey that begin to drip with quiet amusement as you struggle to untangle the ribbon. 

"Would you care for some help?" His voice is full of quiet mirth, and you, embarrassed by the difficulty, nod with a sheepish glance - “Please.” You agree, shifting closer. 

“-It’s bothered me all day, I can never get it to sit right.” Your voice quiets as you turn slightly away; perhaps it would be more appropriate for one of your maidens to relieve its knot, but Jacaerys has leaned behind you already.

His touch is gentle, as it usually is - calloused fingertips from training in the yard, from riding Vermax - soft. He whispers, less than a breath. “Tell me if I hurt you, gevie.”

You feel the word, whispered under his breath like a secret - perhaps it is, because it is not ever spoken in your common tongue, but in his own ancestral one. 

Deft fingers, warm breath upon your neck; a bee buzzes lazily into the brief shade above you. A spare glance to your handmaids, who hover on the other side of the small canopy and whisper to each other with poorly concealed grins; you’re sure to deal with a barrage of giggles and inquisitive whispers once back within your chambers. The thought lights you with your own giddiness, feeling the brush of fingers against the damp skin of your neck. 

A taught, gentle pull of the ribbon; a small pinch of hair that makes you wince gently.

Jacaerys’ hands still against your head, cupping the base of skull gently - resting for a brief breath - and as the flush creeps across your cheeks, his palms then return to his lap. “There, that should hold.” He murmurs.

A warmth as you whisper in return. “Thank you, Jacaerys.”

His grin is almost shy as he shrugs, cheeks bright pink and eyes squinting lightly against the bright day as he looks off towards the bay; you, too, return your gaze to the wild of the sea, ignoring the crashing of your heart against your chest.

It is quiet for a few minutes save for the birds in the distance, the babbling of a stream round the bend - you’ve taken to examining the bump along the bridge of his nose when he exhales, eyes opening slowly to find yours once more. 

You force your eyes over the row of bumbling hedges, to the small insects that lumber around the prettiest of blooms. The burn of a gaze in your peripheral; slight breeze rustles the ribbon he’d just fastened. 

“You know, it’s quite the thing to be sought after by so many.” 

You truly wish he would let the subject go. 

The parchment on the table - forgotten by only one of you, it seems. A tremble in your cadence gives way your failed efforts to remain nonchalant; worry, that unwelcome friend at the feast within your heart. 

“Yes, but they don’t know me, Jace.” You sigh; what heart palpitations your lord father would find if he heard the tone you take with the Prince of Dragonstone. “They see only what my father can offer to their house.” 

Jacaerys nods, thoughtful as he prods a half-eaten cucumber cake - he too, is of age, more so than you; he surely knows just as well what marriage means. “Come now,” He says, voice kind, gentle, “There must be someone interested in the woman behind the name.” 

A short sigh escapes your pursed lips. “If there is, he must be hiding under some dock, or his raven lost in some storm,” You thumb the teaspoon upon your saucer, “Because I’ve not yet found him.” 

He knows you too well - a smirk growing at your indignant tone; and a crooked grin on your own lips as you shake your head, letting out a soft chuckle that he echoes. 

Heart fluttering, some burst of amusement coaxes you to continue, if just to hear his laugh through practiced diplomacy. 

“Unless there is somebody you have in mind for me, Jacaerys?” Your voice belies all effort to remain less than invested; a desperation that you do not dare admit any further. 

You truly should know better than to act so bold when there are servants and guests walking around the grounds; the walls have eyes in the Keep, but indeed do the garden’s leaves. 

Jacaerys ceases pushing the handle of his teacup round with his pointer finger. "Someone in mind?" He repeats it; tone light, almost teasing. 

The question awaits a response; Heartbeat, soft and insistent, in your ears. Say it, please, your eyes wish. But then his fingers resume to toy with the handle of his teacup, the movement casual, "It would be unseemly for me to play matchmaker, wouldn’t it, my lady?" There is an equally desperate twinge in his own tone, one masked rather gallantly by practiced etiquette. 

Your lip is warm between your teeth - the Prince’s gaze flicks with such movements, of only for a second. 

“You imply I should not trust your opinion, then, my Prince?” You counter with his own title, a jest; he shakes his head with a soft smile, rising to gather himself. Your gaze catches the fluttering wings of another hummingbird just before you, dipping in to collect nectar before you.

 Its feathers, a quick blur, eyes beady against a bright glare. Such a peculiar barrage of colors, flashing - red, some iridescent green…

“In these matters…” A hum as he rises behind you, grasping the letter you’d left before you; you are stuck watching the small creature flutter before you, unaware of his eyes roving with a heat over the words written before him. “-Perhaps not.” 

Though his words are distant as you stare at the little bird; peculiarly, it stares back, its head tilting when your own does.

Your hum is an echo of his own, earlier - noncommittal, far away. The hummingbird sips from bright blossoms of sweet honeysuckle, its tiny eyes flicking to you to perceive any threats. It finds none. 

A drop of the letter back beside you, a hand steady upon the back of your chaise, “-Conflict of interest, among other reasons.” 

His words in your ear, tapping your shoulder lightly; you snap away from your daze at the touch, blinking to see his hand outstretched to you. 

What had he said? Clearing your throat of the butterflies which threaten to escape, you grasp his hand in your own, regretful that you seemed to have missed the opportunity to address the words he’d uttered - afraid to do so, to unturn the raw earth beneath this game you and he play so well. You wonder absently where the hummingbird’s gone off to.  

A murmur of your name as his hands fall to your shoulders, steadying you to take in your flushed face. 

“You’ve caught sun,” He chides, clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth, brushing his finger over the apple of your cheek; A brief touch - and a good-natured roll of your eyes to hide the flutter in your chest.

“Let us get you into the shade, gevie.” He gestures the path upwards to the Keep. 

You knock shoulders into his own, an effort against the upslope - clinking behind you as your maidens begin to tidy your tea spot as you begin the short walk back towards the chalky stone halls. 

“HIDING, ARE WE?”

You hadn’t meant to startle the prince. 

Yet when he jolts slightly from where his head rests upon a sharp jawline, you have to conceal your giggle with a palm. 

A slow blink of sleep from his syrupy dark gaze as he remembers himself, stirring from such a hunched position. 

“Oh, you truly didn’t have to stay up for me, Jacaerys.” You tease, swiping a hand over his sturdy shoulder as you slide onto the bench aside him. 

The library is a wonderfully cool refuge this time of day, and after the heatwave that has welcomed so many lords and ladies to the castle, you are appreciative of such solitude. 

He has the grace to laugh, still blinking sleep from his eyes. “Well, I suppose I tired of waiting to see if you’d show.” A smile so striking upon his lips you have to look away. 

“I am sorry I’ve come late.” you apologize earnestly, taking the leather of the book he’d taken for a pillow, opening it up. 

He hums, watching with his head propped similar to how you’d discovered him moments ago - though now, his eyes burn alight with amusement.  Jacaerys decides to begin your lesson promptly; perhaps making up for lost time. 

“Skoriot istan ao?” His voice, that smooth caramel; you ignore the heat that licks at such a tone - you’re here to learn, you remind yourself. 

You pause, trying your hardest to comprehend the sentence; What…what time is it? With a blink, you lean forwards, squinting in an attempt to gauge the position of the sun through the window’s mottled colors. 

There is indeed no part of you unaware that such a gesture leaves the line of your chest direct with his gaze; nor are you unaware of the eyes that trail down the slope of you; though his eyes are schooled to your visage once more when you return to your sat position, his cheeks pink. 

You return a smile, sweet as can be; hoping he will have mercy upon you today, as you have less than a clue of what he’s asked. 

“M…” You’re unsure, and it shows. He holds back a grin, but you choose to ignore him once more. “Mōris hen tubis?” Your accent is rough, poor; as is your translation. 

You think it is nearing the end of the day - but you also are not sure if that truly is what he asked you at all. The page below you is not helpful; ‘Word Cells in High Valyrian,’ -  written in High Valyrian. 

He shakes his head - that stern, scholared look, the one you’ve grown to cherish. You smile at him, unknowing, hopeful that he’ll take pity on you. 

“No, gevie.” He chides, an amused smile, “Skoriot istan - Where were you?” 

Oh. You bite away your sheepish grin, stretching your arms in a rather unladylike way; Jace watches you with that kind, patient look all the same. 

“Nyke…” You pause, cringing at the pronunciation - a glance shows that Jacaerys does not bat an eye. “...rȳbagon vala ȳdragon…naejot nyke… lēda ñuha muña.” It is a crude sentence, a crude translation - but you believe you’ve done well enough. 

Jace spends a moment deciphering your butchered phrase of his ancient ancestral language - in stride, thankfully - and then frowns. “You were… listening to a man speak?” 

You flush, “I do not know the word for courting, I’m afraid.” 

A minuscule reaction - likely more involuntary - the tighten of a jaw, and a spine growing rigid. 

A moment before he mutters. “Rudhy.”

His words are through clenched teeth; his eyes, alight with something unspoken, some faint irritation or envy. 

You clear your throat, holding his steady gaze; you repeat the word again, though it lacks the melodic quality with which he speaks. “Rudhy.” 

For a moment, he simply holds your gaze; until, as though jolted from a trance, he nods, letting out a soft breath. “Good,” he murmurs, barely audible.

A heat you dare not name, and the clearing of your own throat. “Well, if you must know, it was no one of consequence,” you reply with a sigh, skimming the page before you. 

Your gaze flickers over words: gaomilaksir and rigle - you pay them little mind at the moment. “He was rather brilliant at making grand gestures, but sadly, that is not what I truly desire.” Your words are light, but as clear as you can put it; Though some armor or defense between you both as the crooked grins and wry grins come back. 

Sparse noise - the ruffle of parchment rows away, where a worker returns scrolls. The distant clink of a blacksmith in the distance.  

“Is that not what you want?” Jacaerys quips, a playfulness in his voice; you’ve always so loved when he finds that light, when he forgets about those princely duties, about the crown he will one day wear - when he lets himself laugh and tease and smirk and enjoy his time with you as he pleases. 

His head tilts in that way you adore, “-Am I not making grand enough gestures?” 

A moment in the silence of the library where you grin - you and Jace, and that odd line you so love, straddling truth and tease. And he, cheeks pink; certainly, it was not his intention to come off so coy - but you don’t mind, no, in fact you flourish under his attention. 

You let out a small laugh, eager to soothe his apparent fluster. “You? Oh, you’re quite grand, but not in the way you might think.”

He clutches his heart; he knows how you laugh whenever he does so - always one for the dramatics, he groans in false pain. “You wound me.” 

And he watches for your reaction; your giggle comes muffled by your palm. 

A brief moment where a cloud passes the sun behind your backs, light blotted and red with the stain of glass. Your soft laughs die down together, you and Jace’s breaths drawn together, threaded from the same ancient string. 

His back is straight - a princely figure as his shoulders brush your own. You hide the wash of shivers down your spine at the faint scent of him.

 “Well, do tell, what kind of grand gestures would meet your exacting standards?” He murmurs with a grin. “I should take notes to distribute to all the men lining our Keep, waiting for a lone moment with you.” 

Our Keep. You don’t let yourself think too much on the phrasing, covering your flush by a finger to your lips, pretending to consider his words. 

As if the gesture of teaching you a language you wished to know did not set the very standards he also exceeds every moment you spend in his presence. 

As if the small gifts - a flower plucked from those hidden bushels in the garden, books slipped from the rows and slid under mattresses until the Maester is gone, sips from his own cup of wine when your father deems you’ve had plenty - isn’t enough. 

As if simply spending time with him isn’t enough; As if you would not deny every single gesture in the seven kingdoms, no matter how grand, if he were to simply offer his own hand to you. 

But you wouldn’t dare admit such things, not when his grin is so wide, when his eyes are alight with that joy of jest. 

“Well, it might start with being genuinely interested in who I am, rather than what I might bring to the table.” You mutter, opting for a less revealing honest answer. 

A lithe finger toys with the bands around his others; he pretends to consider such a thought. “Quite a tall order.” He mocks, “I worry if I can do that, gevie.” 

His voice betrays the lie as he says it, and then, as an afterthought: “Besides, you didn’t bring anything to the table today.” He adds, lifting a brow. You roll your eyes; Jacaerys and his ravenous, insatiable appetite. 

“Septa Jaenna took my by ear to kneel before the Seven when she caught me bringing you sagecakes last.” You defend, shaking your head, “I would do many things for you, Jace, but enduring her spittling rants is no longer upon that list, I’m afraid.” 

He shakes his head in mock disappointment, taking it upon himself to flip to the correct page of the book you share between you; his palm, calloused as it brushes your own, though if he notices, he does not mention it, still caught on your words. 

“You, enduring a lesson from Septa Jaenna…” He hums, eyes searching over the Valyrian upon the book, “A gesture too grand for the likes of me. I understand.” He jests, a small smirk growing on his face. “I hope your future husband does not succumb to the same ill fate.” 

His ribbing tease settles something less than pleasant within your stomach though, a cold wash off reality hitting you in the chest. Swallowing, you fight for a weak smile, knocking your shoulder into his. 

The motion, gentle as it was, sets his cloak askew upon the brooch which holds it to his shoulder - it slips off, but he smiles all the same. 

You do your diligence in haste - fingers fastening it properly for him once more, hiding your soft smile and shaking fingers. 

You pretend not to feel his attentive gaze upon you as you do so. 

FOOTSTEPS ECHO IN CORRIDORS; A RHYTHMIC TAP OF BOOTS BESIDE YOU. 

Another blistering day - sweat gathering upon the peak of your hairline, sliding down the skin that welcomes beams of sunlight - a shiftier gown, light and breezy upon your frame. The young lord at your side is amiable enough; his voice smooth, words flowing of his family’s lands, ancient tales of the Riverlands. You, with suppressions of yawns, humming along as you look out to the gardens, a spot you’d much rather be. 

His stories fluctuate - yet your thoughts, leaves caught in a breeze; pulled inexorably towards a head of dark curls, of crooked smiles, of metal rings stamped with signet of dragon and seahorse. 

Your father’s voice echoes in your mind - consider the advantages of such a match - and a well-practiced young maiden you can play, as you smile and nod in all the right places. 

Your heart may not be in it - but your head is, and as you turn a corner, your gaze is drawn from the fluttering of hummingbird wings upon honeysuckle bushes in the near distance. 

A pair, boisterously striding down the corridor opposite you; The Royal Princes. 

Some quiet excitement, a lurch in your heart at the sight of him: Jacaerys, with such proud shoulders - dark hair tousled, cheeks beet and freckled with exertion. 

Beside him, Lucerys - an image of Jacaerys years past - hands, animatedly recounting some tale with a boyish enthusiasm. A flicker of relief at the sight of such familiar frames; you nearly forget yourself in an urge to abandon your unvaried duty and join their sides, to hear the tale from Luke’s lips, to fall into worn chaises in their drawing quarters; to laze with them on fruits and cakes, hiding in the shade before the duties of the afternoon call. 

But Jace’s eyes, sharp as a hawk when your presence is noted - and within a moment, they become rather fixed upon the man beside you.

A drop in your stomach of surprise rather than any kind of true consternation, unused to such blatant show of opposition from him. 

In that impressive way he can, Jace’s visage is quickly schooled into indifference; but you know Jacaerys, you know the tightness in his jaw, recognize the cool in his gaze. A heavy silence falls as you come upon the princes; some levity within your stomach at his gaze, stuck upon your arm in another’s. I do not want this, you hope he hears; I solely want you. 

“My lady,” Luke’s smile is mercifully amiable. “It is good to see you.”

You incline your head in return, your heart pounding beneath your ribs. “And you, Prince Lucerys,” you reply with a practiced smile; memories of youthful jaunts in the outcroppings of court - a boy prone to mischief, whose company you’ve always enjoyed.  

Jacaerys offers no such courtesy; with shock, you regard Jace’s icy gaze, a disposition well prepared to freeze over the Narrow Sea.

A moment before Jace parts his lips - “I don’t believe we’ve met,” he says, his voice low, clipped - any semblance of amiability you’ve grown accustomed to has all but dissipated.  

Lucerys’s eyes meet your own in a quick glance; exasperation must hang upon the downturn of your lips, for he glances sidelong to his elder brother. 

Your suitor, rather taken aback by the chill in Jace’s tone, quickly introduces himself; the prince merely nods, offering no more than that - your jaw clicks shut in disapproval, any amusement you’d drawn at the taste of his envy dissolved with an overhanging dread, some sad misery. 

Ask for my hand, Jacaerys - you bite your lip to quell your foolish mind. Ask for my hand, and I will be yours. 

In some half-decent attempt to bridge the gap of tension that burgeons, you weakly mutter, “Were you sparring in such heat?” 

Jacaerys meets your gaze briefly; seeking something he is too proud to ask for, before a flush of some shame flickers over his countenance. 

“Yes,” he replies curtly, eyes falling to look away, seemingly finding the wall behind your head infinitely more interesting.

A breath, in which the breeze through the windows plaster a new sheen of sweat upon your spine. It’s almost as if some green-eyed beast has taken your friend; no flicker within his eyes, only a sullen gaze leveled down the slope of a regal nose. 

Lucerys seems to take the reins, in a step forward and bright, princely smile. “Jace bested me, as always,” and if you knew him any less, you’d think his laugh was simple, of amiability; though a lilt at the end, some strain to ease the tension of his elder brother’s rather serrating gaze upon the man beside you.

“Perhaps you might join us next time, my lady? I imagine it would be a welcome change from the dullness of court.” His voice, joking; you send him a wry grin imagining yourself attempting to wield a sword - though it falters with unspoken words - the man beside you, stiffer than a board beneath your hand. 

“I would like that,” you reply, though your eyes stray to Jace - he, not daring to spare you a mere glance. Silence, stretching between the four of you tighter than frayed string; And then Jace’s voice, quieter now, almost reluctant.

“Well. I’m sure you have more important matters to attend to,” he decides dismissively; it stings you, brows furrowing. 

Your suitor is rather unaware of the undercurrents - thankfully, he merely delivered an awkward chuckle, suggesting that you continue your walk. It is with force that you nod, following though each step is excruciating. 

You pass Jace with a brief moment of brushing shoulders - a scent of steel, of salt, of citrus; and an immaculate success of personal discipline as you continue forward, head not daring to look back. 

The gaze of Lucerys in the corner of your eye, some small comfort of sympathy and confusion in his stare; your suitor has begun to prattle on inconsequentially once more. 

You wonder if your father would have you hanged, were you to deny the betrothal right there. 

PERHAPS IT SHOULD HAVE BEEN OBVIOUS.

Maybe, it was obvious - it is indeed hard not to notice when eyes pierce you all night. 

A feast, you’re at; a wonderful one, with many lords and ladies and music and laughter. You’ve danced yourself to the edge of the room, yet you can still feel those eyes upon your frame as you converse lightly with a woman you vaguely recognize. 

You’ve quite enjoyed the feast, though you’re afraid Jacaerys has not. 

He’s been stuck to you; eyes, unrelenting, yet neither body nor mouth approaching. You nearly asked him to dance several times, but each attempt to cross the massive room to him resulted in you becoming whisked away for another dance. 

The cups of wine come quite easily; you’ve never been one to shy away from a feast, and the spirits are quite high. A man before you, speaking at you; you don’t find yourself too bothered, enjoying the fuzziness awarded to you by the contents of your cup. The wine on your lips is light, and you give minimal effort to focusing on the man’s words. 

“-Should I be worried?” 

You blink, frowning at the man in front of you - several years your senior, his brow furrows as he glances just over your shoulder, gesturing with a cup of wine. The son of Lord Royce; intelligent, handsome… not any interest of you, however. 

Frowning, you turn slightly; following his gaze. Your stomach flips. Jacaerys, across the way, watches you as a hawk does a mouse; intense, open - sharp. Though at the turn of your head, he has the audacity to look away - pushing the food around in front of him half-heartedly upon the plate. 

He is sat next to his mother at the large table before the entire procession; barely a moment before his gaze befalls you and your company once more. You lift an inquisitive brow - if you won’t provide me company, your look says, I’ll find it elsewhere. 

He simply looks away.

You shake your head, turning back and suppressing the flutter in your heart. “He’s just protective,” You reason, hoping you sound casual. 

The son of the lord lifts a brow. “Protective? The Crown Prince looks ready to challenge me to a duel.”  

But eventually, the son of the lord is replaced with a new one; You enjoy another dance with the young man, who turns red as Highgarden Beets when you accidentally spill a drop of wine upon your chest. 

It is not until you find yourself reposed at a banquet table with his younger brother does Jacaerys finally find his way to you. 

“-and then his foot caught on his cloak and he tossed over,” Lucerys recalls, grin wide. You smirk, amused by his story, sipping on water. “He tried to play it off but, Gods, he looked so pompous-” 

You let out a short laugh, “At least he had a sense of humor about it.” You defend - but Luke’s eyes have fallen behind you, where a shadow appears. 

“Jace!” Luke greets the figure behind you with a friendly grin, his eyes lighting up. Your stomach warms, turning with a lifted brow behind you. Jacaerys’ eyes are already on yours when you turn, and you’re struck by his proximity. 

“Luke,” Jacaerys greets smoothly, nodding to you with a small smile, “My lady.”

You return his smile, feeling a pleasant flutter at his attention. Your mouth opens to greet him - perhaps sneak a comment on his lingering attention this evening, but Luke speaks first. “We were just recalling that boy who made such a spectacle of himself asking for her hand before the festivities,” Lucerys continues, his laughter light.

 He takes your hand in his, playfully mimicking the young lord’s desperate plea as he falls to one knee before you; you laugh in surprise, Luke’s voice high as he mimics, “Please, my Lady, I’d even take your house name—”

You laugh, swatting Luke’s shoulder with a gentle nudge. “Hush!” you say with poorly concealed amusement. “He could be near, Luke.” 

A hand comes to the back of your chair; as you lean back, fingers trail slowly through the strands of your hair, grazing the nape of your neck. A warmth stirs as Jace leans around you, fixing his brother with a look. “Yes, well, Luke.” His voice is rather tight; you can hear the hint of tension. “I think it’s time you bother someone else.”

Alarmed, you send Jacaerys a rather bewildered look - an irritable sentence, never one to be so forward. Lucerys similarly seems to pick up on his brother’s mood, shifting uncomfortably.

 “Oh, come now, Jace,” he says lightly, hoping to ease the tension. It is rare that Jacaerys displays such an attitude towards his brother in your company, nor at all,  “We were just having a bit of fun.” He defends. 

Jacaerys gives a tight nod, his hand unmoving from the back of your chair. “I’m sure you were.”

Luke’s eyes flicker between you and Jace, reading whatever either of you refuse to say. A small understanding that lurks within his mirthful gaze, eyeing his older brother, “Oh, I see.” 

Jacaerys simply tilts his head with a withering look, one that prompts you to hold back a laugh of amusement. 

“Well,” Luke says, standing up with a nod. “I think…” He squints, humming, “Oh, yes- mother’s beckoning me, I see her just- well, I’ll leave you two to it.” He turns to you, bowing with a grin poorly concealed. “My lady.” 

After you’ve bowed back, you resist a sigh - Jacaerys watches Lucerys go, his hand still resting rather possessively on the back of your chair. Half exasperated and half amused, you murmur Jace’s name; his head swivels to you, the scowl melting from his face. “Sit,” You gesture. 

He takes the seat beside you, the bitterness seemingly having worn off, steadfastly avoiding your eyes. “You need not be so discontented, Jacaerys,” you say, leaning in slightly to meet his gaze. “It’s just Luke. He was only providing me company.”

Jacaerys raises an eyebrow, his eyes dark though he tries to conceal it. "Of which you've had no shortage all night," he retorts, his voice low.

You sigh, shaking your head. Jacaerys, by nature, is a friend of great kindness and patience; Yet, of late, he has grown increasingly impatient and possessive, having apparently decided he must vie for your attention with greater urgency than usual. 

It would be both a lie and a sin to deny that you relish such devoted attention from a man like him.

Perhaps this is his way of grappling with the unspoken affection that binds you both—a matter you have both struggled to address openly, and of which you have taken in better stride than he as of late. 

His attentiveness is flattering, though the extent of his possessiveness comes as a surprise; your cheeks grow hot at the look in his eyes.

There is a piece of lint upon the top plane of his shoulder, just near the junction of his neck; you pinch it, ridding him of the slight imperfection with a sigh. Your Jacaerys; so handsome, so chivalrous, so bold - so unwilling to cross certain lines, yet so ready to dive headfirst over others. 

He relaxes under your touch, and you cannot help but speak the truth.

“You look quite handsome this evening,” you murmur softly, observing the blush that creeps up his neck. 

“Thank you,” he accepts, his voice carrying that slight hint of shyness you so adore. Jacaerys is not blind, nor is he a fool; he certainly knows of his looks, though despite this, he so often grows bashful at each compliment you deliver. 

A group of children rush past your table; you watch fondly as the two kids at the front avoid running into the dancing couples. A small laugh from you as the child in the back trips over a gown train.  

“You look quite beautiful, as always.” Jacaerys says; you snap back to him with a small smile. He, too, is no stranger to showering you with praise nor flattering remarks; and you, just as well, always find yourself exceedingly pleased. 

You both sit in a comfortable silence for a moment before he clears his throat. “Would you care to dance?”

A thrill of delight courses through you, though you mask it with a serene smile as you take his offered hand. “And here I thought you quite content to brood in the corner,” you tease gently. 

“I was not brooding,” he retorts, guiding you towards the dance floor with soft hands. “I was merely allowing you to enjoy the company of others.” 

You find his protests endearing, though you say nothing as you follow him gracefully. “You know I prefer your company,” you reply sincerely; he takes your hand and places it on his shoulder - you let your thumb soothe over the muscle, feeling the tension slide away. 

His pleased smile is tilted down at you, and you provide a half shrug as you begin a gentle dance, murmuring, “Besides, you’ve done a splendid job of deterring any potential suitors away from me.”

A hint of satisfaction crosses his face briefly, though he tries valiantly to hide it; a subtle smirk tugging at his lips before he schools his expression. “Have I?” he asks - eyes light with that underlying warmth. You roll your eyes good-naturedly. 

“You have, my prince,” you affirm, leaning in closer as you guide his hands to your waist. Your voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper. “If you continue in this manner, you may well spoil my chances of finding a decent husband of the lot.”

Jacaerys’s smile broadens, and his gaze softens. “I would not dream of it,” he replies with a playful grin, leading you in a gentle dance. You roll your eyes, unable to resist his charm this evening.

“Of course not,” you say with a smile, enjoying the moment.

You find it rather soothing to dance with him; you always have. The lights are dim - music smoother, laughter soft and smiles gentle when he steps on your dress skirt - or you on his toes occasionally. 

Swaying rather gently, you enjoy each other’s company - discussing his training, your academic endeavors, how Vermax is faring after having not flown in a few days. 

Perhaps the wine has helped; the room is amiable, dark - cinnamon, cloves, amber. Jacaerys is warm against you, his own cheeks reddened with the wine coursing through his veins. A giddiness slips into your veins, content with his company. 

And then Jacaerys whispers quietly to you, a teasing joke about the inebriated couple to your left; a laugh that flies out of your lips before you can remember your courtly manners - stark and unladylike, it turns the heads of several couples around you.

In sharp reaction to your disturbance, he tugs you to him tenderly, shushing you only slightly - his own laughter stifled in your hair to save face, concealing both of your giggles in a short embrace.

Laughter from you, trying your hardest to resist - another glance to the man beside you, drunkenly letting the woman dip him low, fumbling with his weight - your hands find their place upon Jace’s neck, fingers grazing the soft fabric of his red cloak as he laughs again, ducking his face into the gentle curve of your shoulder. 

Your gaze lifts at the tailend of your ungraceful bout of amusement with a mindless wander, enjoying the pressing warmth of Jace in your arms - the rest of the evening second to him. 

Your eyes trail up to the dais: catching a penetrating stare that washes you cold. 

In the midst of the entire court, you catch the eyes of his mother, the Queen.

Mid-laugh, your stomach flips as a chill runs through you. The warmth of Jace’s breath does little to nothing for the sudden cold creeping over your face - he, oblivious to his mother’s gaze, pulls you even closer, his laughter a warm breath against the nape of your neck. 

And for a moment, you hold her regal gaze; any urge to step back and maintain a more appropriate distance with her son is suddenly discarded when you find the warmth in the Queen's eyes, the hint of a smile growing upon her expression. 

And then a slight nod from her, crown glinting in torchlight - some acknowledgement, some permission; with a mixture of nervousness and respect, you return the gesture, your heart pounding as Jacaerys pulls away, resuming a dance with you. Blissfully unaware. 

THE NIGHT STRETCHES LANGUIDLY.

Burnt torches are replaced with fresh flames; you lean into Jacaerys's embrace, lulled into a tranquil haze by the heartbeat beneath your palm, by the melody played in the corner.

“I believe we’ve heard this tune already,” you muse softly, breaking the spell once your heart has calmed from its earlier flutter.

Jacaerys glances toward the quartet in the corner, their music weaving through the evening air. “I had not noticed,” he replies, his gaze lingering on you with a hint of surprise.

A smile dances on your lips with ease — hours have passed since the festivities commenced, yet this is the first time you have seen Jacaerys take to the dance floor. Though princely duties might have called him elsewhere, you are warmed by the knowledge that tonight he chose only to dance with you.

“You know,” you tease, lifting your eyes to his, “if you had asked any lady here to dance, she would surely stumble over her skirts to accept.”

He raises a brow at this; regarding you down the bridge of his nose as his hands squeeze your hips in a slight tease. “You’ve seemed perfectly fine on your two feet, gevie.” 

You shake your head, laughing gently - You have no clue, you fool, your mind sings to him.  “Only because I’ve danced with you countless times before, ñuha darilaros.” You reason. My prince. 

The High Valyrian term rolls off your tongue, and though you stumble over the pronunciation, you catch the glint of satisfaction in his eyes - anything to see that fleck in his eyes, that flash of pride that you so crave. 

“Dārilaros,” he corrects with a lift of his brow, making your heart flutter despite your best efforts to remain composed.

Biting back a grin of your own at his correction, you send him a disappointed look. Always so dutiful - you purse your lips, “Jace, you mustn’t be so harsh on me.” You jest, fingers flexing over the fine material of his doublet. “It’s a feast. Have mercy.” 

He gives you a look, “Is that a pout I see?” He muses, eyes flicking to your lips and back to your gaze, your hands warm as he guides you in a small pattern dance. You simply tilt your head - he shakes his head shortly, though you see the pink upon his cheeks. “If you’re trying to sway me with such a look, you might try a bit harder,” He lifts a brow, “I’ve seen you use such charm on far less deserving targets.”

You bite your lip, a flash of memory at his icy stare, you arm-in-arm with some far-off Riverlord’s son. The dragonclaw clasping his doublet is crooked; you righten it with your thumb and forefinger gently before returning your hand to his shoulder. 

A flash of desire, wishing to provoke him - you crane your neck, pretending to search the crowd.  “Perhaps I should seek out one of these less deserving targets to practice my charms on, then?” You hum, “They’d surely appreciate them more than you do.”

His grip on your waist tightens, and abruptly, he halts in his steps, ceasing your dance. The music continues, yet you stand still amidst the swirling crowd, eyes locked on his in surprise. 

“I would sooner meet the Stranger than let that happen.”  His words are dead-honest. 

 Your heart leaps, mouth drying as you try to find some joke in your mind about his dramatics. 

You open your mouth, but in that peculiar way in which he always seems to read your mind, he insists. “I do not jest.” He adds, shaking his head. 

Your eyes take in his own; warm pools of honey. Some familiar urge - that yearning to pull him down to your height, to kiss him soundly - you toss the thought away, instead licking your bottom lip, heart thundering. 

“Nor do I,” You whisper, searching his eyes, feeling a pull towards him that you cannot resist; anticipation drips from your body as you drift closer, feeling his warmth. 

A shaky sigh from his lips, eyes searching your own. “Then I beg, do not feign ignorance,” he murmurs, his voice low and edged - the music is less than background noise. You are lost in him, just for a moment.

“It drives me mad to see you surrounded by suitors. Truly. I could not say I find pleasure in watching others vie for your attention.” 

You look up at him, the heat in your cheeks likely quite evident despite your effort to remain nonchalant. You intend to keep the conversation light - though you know such a task would be impossible with how you stand motionless, holding each other in a crowd of swirling bodies. 

Yet before you can respond, an elbow jabs into your back; you gasp and stumble, but Jace’s hands wrap around you, pulling you to him as he avoids the flick of a woman’s hair — his body shielding you from the encroaching crowd of dancing lords and ladies. 

Without another thought, you and Jacaerys resume your dance, slowly swaying, his hands flexing against the fabric at your waist as you bask in the heavy air of his words, your eyes tracing over the gold laced in his doublet.

There are those within earshot; Lucerys and Rhaena dance just aside you now, and you press slightly closer to him, looking up into the freckle that lies just within the ring of his left iris. 

“Jacaerys,” You start, a brief whisper; still warm from his possessive words, “How should I interpret your words?” You ask, breathless, hoping. “You say you do not enjoy seeing others bid for my hand - though you’ve seemed quite absorbed in their efforts as of late.”

He delivers you an incredibly knowing look, one that douses you in warmth.

A long knowledge between you and him - between every being that takes a breath within the walls of the Red Keep.

He lets out a short breath, tugging you into his - as if unable to look you in the eyes as he speaks, your face nestles into the crook of his neck. “Believe me, it is certainly not your allure I dispute. Rather,” He wets his lower lip, “I detest the notion that another dare try to know it as intimately as I. To know you as intimately as I.” He breathes lowly. 

Heat spreads through you at such words; a flattery, yes, but a confession that is much too genuine to be of the aloof coy nature you and Jacaerys often share together. 

Despite the shock of his confession after such a long yearning, you smile against him; a giddiness in you when your warm breath raises goosepimples upon the skin of his throat. 

Gently, you press a light kiss to the space below his ear, feeling his spine shiver under your touch. 

As you pull back, your lips still close to his ear, you whisper softly, “You can become so wonderfully jealous, Jacaerys.”

One hand slides from the nape of his neck to cradle his sharp jaw in palm, watching his face contort in mild irritation at your tease.

Your brows lift at his sheepish blush, tilting your head in amusement. “Did you truly believe you were being subtle?” You question, hiding your laugh for the sake of his pride. 

The apple of his cheeks darken, his jaw tight as he presses his lips together, but you soothe his expression with a murmur, “I suppose if you find it so troubling,” your finger soothes over the muscles of his shoulder, swaying along with the dance though the external world is long dissolved, “perhaps you should focus less on guarding me from others and more on ensuring I remain by your side.”

A flicker of hunger; inhaling deeply through his nose, his eyes pin you before him, hands impossibly tight against your dress. You brush against a back in the crowd as Jace spins you slightly - pools of honey do not leave your gaze. 

“I would gladly take every opportunity to ensure such a thing,” he says quietly, his breath mingling with yours as the music begins to change - no longer slow, but a jaunt. He tilts his head down in that way you so love, “Yet to act upon my desires here would be…” He swallows thickly, his throat moving visibly, “...less than appropriate.”

Heat licks through you at the admission, at the candor in his tone. Your voice, no more than a murmur. “I can be a patient woman when I must be.”

His nod; flushed cheeks, darkened eyes - the ghost of a smirk. “Good.” 

You do not trust yourself to speak; a hunger that devours you - so you lean into the music, allowing yourself to enjoy the moment.

Jacaerys, his hands firm upon you, thumb tracing over the fabric of your gown with a heat you’re unable to ignore. 

IT IS NOT SO SOON AFTER THAT YOU TIRE OF WAITING. 

Patience; you must have lied to him, when you’d promised such a thing. His hands, so warm through your dress - his eyes, so affectionate - the gaze of his mother across the hall, returning to you and him every few minutes with a ghost of a smile. 

Your hands have begun to sweat. 

You pull back slightly, meeting his gaze as you sluggishly follow his lead. “Have you tired of dancing?” You wonder, searching his face for any lack of enthusiasm. 

Jacaerys, his eyes filled with adoration, simply brushes a stray flyaway from your cheek. The gentle shake of his head that gifts you the soft smell of amber and soap upon his skin. “Only if you have.” 

Feather-light, a thumb gently caresses your jaw — faint before fleeing, knowing better than to display such actions in the eye of public. 

A warm smile spreads across your face, touched by his consideration, and you bite your lip. “Perhaps a breath of fresh air,” you whisper, your voice soft.

He catches on, as he always does with your veiled words - a slow smile spreading across his face, he nods just as gently. “Lead the way, gevie.” he says; Despite what would be otherwise considered unbefitting of people unwed as yourselves, you take his fingers intertwined with yours, guiding him away from the crowd. 

THE AIR IS COOL AT THIS HOUR. 

The birds have gone to rest; in the twilight of evening, the moon leaks silver onto the balcony, Jacaerys’ palm warm in your own. Your gown, ruffled sleeves from a small breeze - you sigh, reposing against the stone, looking off towards the gardens. 

His own gaze is directed towards the training yard, upon the other side of view, as if imagining himself below, sword in hand. It is calm, in the silence; a sweet respite, a stark contrast to the intensity of the four walls inside the hall. 

You’ve been out here, on this particular balcony, before - you quite often find yourself leaving the duties of court with Jacaerys, finding forgotten corridors or courtyards to hide in, to study, to enjoy each other’s company. Quiet jokes in the heat of the afternoon, a breath of fresh air when a roll of storm clouds loom in the distance. 

“I realize I have perhaps been a bit overbearing,” his gaze is on the yard below, sighing as if letting you in on a secret. You fight the look of impression upon your face. 

“I regret that I have made things difficult for you.”

You shake your head with a smile; always so polite, even when seeing green - and you, pushing buttons just to shy away from the reaction. 

“Well, I’m relieved you no longer look as though you’re ready to kill any man who looks my way,” You sigh coyly - the dock upon the Blackwater in the distance sways; Jacaerys’ profile illuminates in the silver of the moon. “Though I admit I do not mind your passion.” 

A brief flash of flattery and some mild embarrassment in his expression; his eyes, darting from yours to the stone ramparts that give way to the winding streets below. 

In the distance, the royal fleet rocks gently, flying the flags of his house’s sigil. You watch them with a trancelike interest as you wait patiently, heart in your throat. You know Jacaerys enough to know when he is gathering his thoughts.  

“A few nights ago, after…seeing you,” He hesitates for a moment; his voice wavering, warm. “I…spoke with my mother. About us.” This, near a whisper swallowed in the temperate breeze.

Oh.  

Red blossoms from his ears, cheeks, neck; a sheepish expression that he schools - and your smile, growing in flattery, touched that he would think so much as to confide in his mother, the Queen, about you. 

He clears his throat. “It seems she has…already been in discussions with your father about a potential betrothal.” A smile, shy - almost sheepish - but your own is warm, elated. You’d wondered if such plans were being discussed. He clears his throat, “It indeed did not take much convincing at all.” 

Your heart warms at the revelation, your cheeks flushing anew. “Oh?” you murmur, unable to keep the bashful relief off your face.

Jacaerys nods, tinged in that regal glow; the same one he shares with his mother, brothers. He nods. “I hope you’re not too upset that we were kept out of the initial discussions.” He looks down to where your hands rest against the stone balcony; he lays his hand upon yours, and a jolt of affection rolls over you. “And…I would not impose upon you an unwanted proposition. If you wish to consider other suitors, you have the freedom to do so.” 

You hold back any playful remark about his valiant effort - casting daggers with his eyes at anyone who dared approach you too closely - but indeed, it matters not to you. As if there was ever any doubt that you would choose Jacaerys over any other.

You opt to brush the hair that blows over his temple in the cool breeze, soothing the tresses until you cup his jaw gently. Jacaerys's breath catches in his throat; a flutter of dark lashes over cheekbones as he swallows. When he opens them again, you whisper. “Jace. There is nothing to fret over.” Your hand slides to smooth over the contours of his cheek, “I hope you know just as everyone else does that I have been yours since the moment I first laid eyes on you.”  

He indeed beams at this - a wide and flattered smile, dimple carved by a kiss from the Maiden. He tilts his head. Hands find your hips again, pulling towards himself as though he cannot help it. “As I have been yours.” He murmurs, pressing a fleeting kiss upon your hairline, letting his forehead meet your own. 

His breathing, soft as yours, though your heart pounds hard in anticipation. 

The faint music from the hall, your breaths. 

The distant crash of waves, your breaths. 

Your heart beating in your chest. His breath, with yours. 

Jace’s voice comes no louder than a whisper, then, “I want…” he seems to retract his thought - you, hopeful, keen into him, “What do you want?” 

He looks at you, and it strikes somewhere deeper than your heart; He shakes his head. “I want to kiss you.” He admits. 

A dip in your stomach at the thought of doing so. 

His lips, trailing ever so closer to your own as he looks down at you, eyes nearly pleading. The line of his jaw is warm under the gentle trace of your fingers; your stomach, fluttering. “You need not ever ask,” you whisper back, your voice tender and reassuring. 

A lift of a brow, his head tilting to you; yours, craning up, his lids low as he considers your words - never one to throw out your thoughts, no matter how inconsequential. 

Fingers, curling around your hips rather possessively, tugging you into the cradle of his embrace. “Not ever?” He muses, and you, intoxicated by the proximity as he leans further, your lips nearly touching. 

His eyes, dark pools against the kiss of night; you whisper, “Never.” 

He seems to enjoy the flush upon your skin, the rapid beating of your heart - as if he himself is not a flustered mess. “Not even in the midst of a feast?” He wonders, eyes amused, “With everyone watching?” 

A flutter as you shake your head gently, words lodged in your throat as your heart pounds. 

The corner of his lips, twitching, torturous - you have half a mind to jump up, press your lips against his; but patience is indeed quite a virtue.  

A mumble from his chest, nose brushing your own, lips faint as he murmurs, “Daor isse Valyrio Eglie?” He wonders; your breath catches. Not in High Valyrian? 

You are much too wound up to consider his tease, nor to worry if you’ve translated his words correctly; with a shaky huff, you murmur, “No…Lo ziry…raqagon ao, ñuha Dārilaros.” You take the time to ensure your pronunciation mimics his own, rolling and smooth: He seems very gratified with your response - unless it… pleases you, my Prince.  

A slight, almost desperate noise from the back of his throat - his hands, around your waist as he pushes you back against the bannister, stone cool through the fabric of your dress, murmuring, “I am going to kiss you.” 

And his cheeks, growing a shade red as he sends you a boyish grin; a reminder of the Jacaerys you know, you’ve known, you will always know. Giddy, you grin back at him, voice coy as you tease him. “Are you? It seems you’d rather talk about it than actually do it-” 

 A flutter of pleasure and relief one and the same — and he silences you with his own lips. 

Messy, he presses into you eagerly; your nose upon his own, lips sliding together. Warmth. His hand sliding up your spine, tugging you in a motion against his own chest, a kiss rushed and filled with shy fervor. 

You, tugging at him by the lapels, as if he’d dare step away from you; He tastes of mulled wine, spices, sweet like sagecakes -  the feeling of a smile, shy and still proud, as you lean under him. 

A sudden rush of need overtakes you both. Jacaerys’s lips capture yours in a fervent kiss, one that sends your heart racing, heat tickling your heart. The music drones in the distance; a whisper in your mind - indecency - but who is to care? Jacaerys is to be your husband, after all. 

You gasp as his grasp threads through your hair with a desperate urgency; fingers, tangling in the ribbon of your hair. 

He groans dramatically against your lips, “Gods-” tugging your hair between his fingers, he mumbles against, “damn this ribbon.” 

And without another thought he tugs it free, the sudden release of your hair sending a shiver down your spine; what if someone were to find you and Jace, now? A lick of possession as you see him pocket the strip of ribbon, his hands rising to cup your cheeks as your hair falls more free around you.  

A heat in your stomach as you press up into him again, chasing the dizzying feeling of his sigh against you. “Beautiful,” He all but groans into your mouth, tongue running along the seam of your lips, “You’re so beautiful.” 

Footsteps in the hall just inside the balcony; You snap back to reality, the public setting crashing into your consciousness. 

A flush of embarrassment colors your cheeks, and you pull back slightly, your heart pounding wildly.

Jacaerys's eyes flutter open, his breath ragged and uneven as a freshborn doe. A moment suspended in the air as voices and footfalls rush past; you and your Jacaerys, staring wide-eyed, hungry, your cheeks warm against the fine fabric of his ceremonial doublet. 

And then his voice, rough and low with desire as he mumbles, eyes flickering just inside the hall, “M-my chambers are just up the stairs in the royal apartments-”

It is nearly embarrassing how quick you keen, murmuring eagerly, rushed lips brushing against his chest, “Yes.”

Even in the widening of his eyes, his lips quirk in a grin - his hand, trembling as he grasps your own, guiding you with poorly concealed urgency towards the staircase. 

Soft chuckles when you duck away from sparse guests that linger outside the hall, hand in hand, cheeks flushed. His hand, pressed over your lips as he peers around a corner, waiting for the guards to cross the corridor of his chambers - and you concealing a giggle, pressing your lips gently to his palm as he does so. 

His hand on the small of your back, ushering you into his chambers with a molten gaze. 

The swallow of a groan as you finally press him back against the wood of his door inside, warm with his touch, murmuring husband into the shell of his ear. 

He, as your lips press into the warm skin of his neck, whispering wife in return.

translations - gaomilaksir; duty. rigle; honor. gevie; beautiful.

feedback is appreciated.

tagging my list & loves: @bitchydragonparadisee @lukehughes43 @rhea-ripley @jottositto @chloe-petrichors @elaena-aerrin @smurfelle @greenvita @alyssa-dayne @uhnanix @princessvelaryon @softspiderling @xxselenite @benjinotes @princessbellecerise @bryscorner @v3lary0ns @vee-mage @hxtd @earth4angels @dipperscavern @swordgrace @useralba @mckennah123 @astrxq

This can't be right. I got him home. He's safe.

Panic and confusion clings to my bones. My gaze is hazy yet strangley clear as I look down at Jace in my arms. We're up in the air, just like before, when we were going home. When I was trying my hardest to save him.

"It's not your fault," He whispers, trailing cold fingers across my cheek. They catch a stray tear—when did I start crying? His touch feels muted. Muffled and far away, as my stomach churns.

I brush a trembling thumb across his cheekbone.

He's too cold.

Too cold.

Too cold.

"You're okay." My tongue feels heavy. I can see his breathing stutter in his chest. "You're going to be okay. I'm here. I'm here."

He smiles. Barely there. Barely visible. His fingers slowly slide off my cheek, and my eyes widen as bile rises in my throat.

"No. No, no, no, no." I mumble frantically. "No. No! Jace, look at me! Stay with me."

I shake his shoulders, but it does no good. For a second, I think he's staring at me, but no. He's staring past me, farther than I can see.

His brown eyes glaze over.

"Fuck! No, Jace!" I push back his curls as I cradle his face in my hands, rubbing my thumbs across his skin as if I could coax him from a slumber.

"You're okay, Jace. Come back to me. Look at me." My voice cracks. My stomach feels heavy as I shake my head over and over. My jaw trembles.

It's silent for a few agonizing seconds. Then the disgusting reality finally sinks in.

"Fuck. Fuck."

I swallow harshly. Nausea grips my stomach like a vise as I look anywhere but at his vacant gaze. The gaze that used to look at me with warmth is now lifeless and cold.

I was too slow.

The sobs that tear out of my chest are ugly and rough. I gag on the air that I try to breathe in. I squeeze my eyes shut, refusing to look at him. I raise my face as high toward the sky as I can, as if I can out run this.

I'm such a coward—

I feel like my soul has been ripped out of me, leaving me hollow and thin.

"You were supposed to come back with me!" I wail into his wet curls, hugging him tightly to my chest.

No one deserves to have their soulmate die in their arms.

I hum a pathetic, weak lullaby from when we were children, blindly—naively—hoping it will wake him. Like he just fell asleep. Just asleep. I sob the words out as I rock him from side to side, rubbing a hand down his back as if it will comfort him.

This isn't fair. It's not fucking fair.

He was supposed to be alive.

I got him home. I got him home—

I flinch awake.

I exhale sharply through my nose as my heavy gaze darts frantically around the room before landing on Jace. I try to swallow past the lump in my throat as I sit up in the soft bed. The red blanket pools around my legs as my body trembles. I frown and wipe at the tears that have crusted on my cheeks.

The room is too dark. I can barely make out the outline of his body.

Panic creep into my chest, squeezing tightly. I reach out with a trembling hand, fumbling around until I find him. I grasp the soft skin of his arm before sliding my hand to his chest.

I feel his chest rise and fall steadily beneath my palm, I let out a shaky breath. I squeeze my eyes shut, pressing a hand over my mouth. Sobs threaten to spill past my lips, but I swallow them down, careful not to wake him.

Or the castle, I suppose.

He's okay. It was just a dream. Just a dream.

"You're safe," I whisper, almost to myself. "You're safe now."

I attempt to calm my racing heart as I sit on the edge of the bed. My body spasms violently as I force myself to breathe more slowly. Fear sits heavy in my gut like a stone, sinking. I fear I will drown in the ocean of horror and grief for something I could have lost.

I almost did. If I had been even a second too late, I would be holding his corpse. Cold. Lifeless. I was almost too slow—

I shake my head, as if it will rid me of those horrible thoughts.

I stand on shaking legs as I curl my fingers into fists, my fingernails leaving tiny crescent-shaped marks in my skin. I focus on the pressure and the sting. I feel disgusting. I feel his blood on my skin. Crimson and sticky, and I need to wash it off.

Get it off.

I scrub my arms harshly with a cloth. The water in the tub has long since gone cold. Not even the warmth of the water earlier felt like his skin. I can still feel his blood caked beneath my nails.

Just keep breathing.

The ache between my ribs is unbearable. I feel like there are dents and cracks in my skin. As if, I make one wrong move or turn, I will shatter like stars that burst and crash into the ocean. Despair pours from the invisible wounds that mark my skin.

But I dont speak aloud about what happened. Or what could have happened. Because if I do, I know I'll break. And I won't be able to pick up the pieces without them piercing me, my blood leaking onto the floor.

I stare at the cold ceiling for what feels like hours. My eyes are dry, vacant, as I force myself to rise from the tub.

I sink back into the soft bed in clean clothes. My nerves are still jittery as I rest my head against his chest. I close my eyes and focus on his gentle breathing. He hums softly in his sleep and curls an arm around my waist.

The soft sunlight filters through the glass window, warming the room as I slowly shift awake. It's warm. So impossibly warm. As sink into it, I let it fend off the chill lingering in my bones. I let it wrap around my skin and settle in my stomach. I feel a gentle caress brush reverently across my cheek, back and forth. I chase the soothing touch as I hear a soft laugh.

I open my eyes to find brown ones watching me. His gaze drifts around my face, unhurried. Soft.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" I mumble, my voice raspy as I look back at him with tired but loving eyes.

He smiles. It's so incredibly bright that it makes my heart ache. He presses a kiss to my forehead, then my temple.

"I can't look at my betrothed?" He whispers, his nose nudging mine, making me crack a smile.

"She's too pretty to not admire, hm?"

Warmth skitters beneath my skin and down my spine, the sensation prickly but undeniably pleasant as I brush a stray curl from his forehead. I say nothing as I look past him, to find a tray laden with sweet cakes and different kinds of fruit.

Sweet cakes that I denied last night.

When he was almost dead—

I shake my head, as if that alone could banish the thought.

"What's this?" I ask instead.

He grins. He attempts to sit up in bed, his face pinched with pain and effort as I immediately adjust his pillows and help shift him into a more comfortable position.

He thanks me by pressing his lips to my cheek.

"Breakfast. I thought we could share a morning meal together, if you would like that?"

He doesn't command me to eat with him. He doesn't order me about. He asks. The miniscule gesture makes my throat tighten as I nod slightly.

"Yes, I would like that. Very much." I barely speak above a whisper. "Thank you."

"You changed your clothes."

I chew slowly, avoiding his gaze until I swallow.

"I took a bath last night," I say quietly, shrugging slightly.

He frowns, clenching his jaw.

"What was wrong? You could've woken me—"

"Nothing was wrong. And you were sleeping peacefully. I did not want to wake you."

We eat in silence. I force myself to eat a few bites of fruit as I watch Jace carefully. Solemnly.

I watch his throat move when he swallows, his fingers when he picks up a grape, his hair falling into his eyes. I watch his chest rise and fall with every breath.

He's breathing.

His skin isn't ash.

He's fine.

Everything that proves he's alive. Alive and breathing.

I dont fully realize I'm analyzing him until he asks:

"Now you're staring." He's amused. His smile is almost teasing.

I shift in the bed, wary that I was caught doing something I hadn't even realized I was doing. I don't answer, and he notices.

He holds his arms out, a silent invitation.

I almost immediately sink into his arms.

I shift in his hold, scooting impossibly closer. He lets out a grunt of pain—barely audible—when my head presses against his injured shoulder.

My whole body immediately locks up, tensing. A sick feeling sinks into my gut as I begin to pull away.

His brows immediately pinch together, his expression softening into something close to sadness. He shakes his head, catching my arm before I can stray too far.

I avoid his gaze.

Guilt gnaws at my chest, shredding through my skin until I'm bare and vulnerable. How could I forget he is injured? How sick am I?

Stay away from him before I hurt him further—

"Dont do that."

I blink. I stare at the dark red blanket, as if I might find answers within the silk fabric.

Could it have been his blood that stained it?

No. That couldn't be. I need to stop.

Just stop.

"You're doing it again."

His tone isn't accusing. Nor is it cruel.

It's gentle.

And I relish in all that is him, even when I feel like I don't deserve it. I force my gaze to meet his. His warm brown eyes are watching me carefully.

His beauty makes my heart ache every time I see him. He has ruined everything beautiful in this world because nothing can compare to him. He puts the moon and stars to shame. Flowers seem duller. Sunsets and sunrises don't hold a candle to him.

His smile is sunlight itself.

And even if the realm froze over, he would be the one thing that could keep me warm for eternity.

"Doing what?" I murmur.

He gives me a knowing look, I swallow harshly as I look out of the window to avoid his piercing eyes.

I watch the clouds drift by. Occasionally a dragon's wing comes into view before quickly disappearing.

"Disappearing. Getting lost in your mind." He murmurs back. His thumb brushes across my skin, his hand warm around my arm as he gently tugs me closer.

"Come here, my love."

It's silent for a few moments.

But I don't let myself give in.

Instead, I get off the bed and stand abruptly. I dont want to look at the pity in his stare as I move to open the curtains a little wider, letting more light into the room.

"How are you feeling? Are you still in pain? I could fetch the maester—"

He whispers my name. Just once.

My chest wants to cave in. I want to bury myself in his arms and sob into his hair.

But I don't.

"Are you still hungry? I could bring some more food, unless you are feeling ill."

I bring the water basin from the small wooden table near his bed. I pour him a glass and set it beside him.

He says nothing. Nothing at all.

I fear I must have upset him.

But that fear fades away as quickly as it came when his hand finds mine. His slightly rough fingertips brush over my knuckles before he presses his lips against the back of my hand.

My body almost instantly relaxes as I exhale quietly.

He looks up at me through his lashes. He smiles against my skin.

"You're hair is glowing in the light," He says softly, as if speaking any louder it would break this fragile moment.

My lips twitch slightly. Barely a smile. But still there.

He notices. Because, of course, he does.

He smiles back. Gods, he's pretty.

I let the warmth of his hand in mine settle into my skin. The crease between my brows softens as he tugs me closer.

I shake my head, still resisting.

He makes a soft sound, coaxing me closer as his hand slides up my forearm.

"Jace."

He ignores my protests.

My eyes travel across his sharp features, my demeanor slowly eases. He says my name in an equally stern tone, though it carries a hint of playfulness.

"I want to hold you, Nuhys qēlos."

The statement catches me off guard.

I swallow harshly, my nerves burning and left on edge.

"I don't want to hurt you," I finally whisper after what feels like ages. He frowns.

I don't meet his gaze as I force myself to breathe so I dont fucking break.

"You won't."

"You dont know that," I finally grit out, my tone harsher than I anticipated.

It's silent for a few agonizing moments.

"Fuck, I just hurt you moments ago!"

"You didn't mean to," He says calmly. Too calmly.

Something about his even tone makes me clench my jaw, as though he wasn't on fucking death's door yesterday.

I'm... angry. And I'm not sure at whom. The men who shot at him? This war? The gods?

I'd burn everything to the ground if I could.

Traitorous tears sting my eyes as I rub my hands harshly down my face.

The sounds of guards and maids walking past and working outside fill the tense, silent air.

"Just... just stop."

My voice is wobbly. My heart constricts harshly.

"I don't want to fight. I-I can't. Fuck, Jace, I can't—"

My words are begging. I curse myself for sounding so weak.

Get a grip. You're fine. He's fine.

He shakes his head repeatedly, his eyes wide as he reaches for me.

"Hey, hey. We're not fighting," He says quietly.

So quietly that I can barely hear him through the waves of noise crashing in my head.

My mouth feels dry, and I feel like I'm back in the Gullet.

I can feel the wind rushing in my ears.

I can feel his heartbeat fading in my arms.

I don't want to go back.

I don't understand why I can't make leave my head. He says my name gently through the fog in my mind.

No. No, no, no. I'm going to cry.

I don't want to cry, because if I do, I might never stop. I swallow harshly. I breathe in sharply through my nose, choking back everything that threatens to spill from my lips.

"Jace..." I whimper. I'm so unfathomably infuriated and I just want him to hold me.

To whisper sweet nothings to me. To keep me from darkness and pain. I dont want to see the heartbreak on his face. I don't want to feel the grief coiling around my ribs.

I don't want to feel so fucking scared all the time, waiting for him to disappear around every corner.

I let out a pathetic sound when he grabs my forearm and pulls me against his chest.

This feels all too familiar. Him comforting me when it's supposed to be the other way around.

I hold back my sobs as he holds me tightly. So tightly I fear for his wounds, but he doesn't move an inch.

I wrap my arms around his neck, burying face into the crook of his good shoulder. My body trembles as he holds me impossibly close.

He doesn't say anything for the longest time. He only trails a gentle hand down my back.

"You don't understand what it was like holding you all the way back to Dragonstone."

My voice is high. I choke on my breath as my chest heaves.

How can I say that? That's so selfish—

"I thought you would die in my arms. Fuck, seeing those arrows pierce you—"

I cut off my own sentence when a sob breaks past my lips. He keeps his lips pressed against my head, his eyes filled with tears.

"And I've had nightmares, and they feel so real, and I feel like if I look away for one moment—"

He shushes me gently. I shake my head vigorously.

Gods, I can feel my body collapsing.

I feel as if my heart has been ripped from my chest, stabbed repeatedly, and shoved back in. Like I'm supposed to fucking risk loving again, knowing that he could be taken from me for good.

He whispers my name, mumbling sweet words in High Valyrian near my ear. His soft tone breaks through the terror tearing at my skin.

My fingers are clenched into fists against his neck. I sniffle harshly as he runs a soothing hand down my head.

"I don't want to lose you, but my mind is acting as if I already did." My words are barely above a whisper.

His hand freezes against my lower back before he resumes his soothing caresses.

"I'm alive," he says quietly.

His thumb brushes gentle circles against my skin. I focus on his breathing. His hair tickling my forehead. His warm breath across my cheek.

"The gods would have to drag me from your arms before I would leave willingly."

My breathing calms slightly. I hiccup as tears continue to stream down my cheeks, making my skin and Jace's neck sticky.

"Nuhys qēlos," he says lovingly, yet so quietly.

My fingers brush over his shoulder blades. His skin is cold. The pit in my stomach churns as I let out a quiet sob. I rub his back gently, moving up to the back of his neck, hoping to bring some warmth back to him.

He's cold, like death.

I need to warm him.

"Oh, love," He whispers, holding me tighter. He buries his face into my neck.

"I won't leave you. Not by the Greens, not by war. Not even by the gods."

Slowly, bit by bit, I begin to calm.

My breathing is still uneven, still sharp, but I let Jace hold me together. I let him soothe me. I let him press gentle kisses across my skin.

I pull away from the safety of his neck and press a kiss—as an apology? I'm not sure—against his cheek before settling back against his chest.

My legs tangle with his. He cradles me against him. It's silent for a few moments. Almost achingly so.

"When you were holding me, I thought you were a goddess." His words are slow and murmured against my forehead, almost as though he's speaking to himself. "You could've rivaled the stars. You do."

He tilts my chin up with gentle fingers. His thumb brushes across my skin as he cradles my face in his hands, like I'm fragile.

His brown eyes meet mine.

and I just... calm.

"And I would kneel before you, and worship you until my hands and knees bled. And I would've died at peace, knowing that you were holding me in my death."

I don't stop the tears this time. I let them trail down my cheeks.

He presses his cheek against mine, holding us there, as he wipes away the silent tears while my chest burns.

Burns with pain. With love.

I weep into his chest. And he lets me.

I would give him my air, my heartbeat, just so he could have peace. The love I have for him is crushing.

Loving him is warm and safe. Like him.

"Breathe," He says in a hushed tone, but it echos in my chest. "Breathe, Nuhys qēlos."

He kisses the side of my head again and again.

I exhale quietly, leaning into him. My breathing slowly falls into rhythm with his.

Because if he died, I would weep.

I would weep, and my tears would fill thousands upon thousands of oceans.

And my tears would never dry. Sorrow would cover me like a cloak and cling to my bones. I would know no peace. My heart would ache for a heart that no longer beats.

So I Iet myself love him.

I let myself hold him and kiss him. I soak in his warmth and light, and I let him do the same.

"I could be killed by blade or dragonfire, but losing you would be worse than death," I say quietly, as I take his face in my hands.

His pretty eyes are tired.

"Avy jorrāelan," He says simply, but it means so much more.

Tears prick my eyes again. He turns his head to the side and presses a kiss to the palm of my hand, making the corners of my lips lift.

"Avy jorrāelan, my love," I say softly.

His hand slides up my waist, pulling me closer. My nose bumps against his, making us laugh quietly.

"May I kiss my betrothed?" His voice low, almost teasing, but so tender and soft that I just want him to hold me until the realm turns to ash.

"You may," I murmur. Warmth skitters beneath my skin.

He doesn't waste a second, he presses his lips against mine.

The kiss isn't rough or full of lust. It's gentle, as though if he pressed too hard, I might shatter.

His lips are slightly chapped but oh so warm as his hands travel down my neck. He tastes of honey and sugar from the cakes we shared earlier.

I savor everything that is him.

When we pull away, he tucks me into his chest once more. I close my eyes as I squish my cheek against his bare skin. His fingertips brush my temple.

"I will prove worthy of your love. Every dawn and dusk, from the tide and to the moon. I will love you until the moon fades and the sun fizzles to dust."

I open my eyes as I raise my head. My eyes meet his as a lump forms in my throat.

"Stay?" I whisper. My voice is small.

He's quiet for a moment, his thumb brushing beneath my eye. His eyes meet mine. Our faces are close, so close as he brushes his fingers across my cheekbone.

I'll stay."

Throughout the day, we remain in bed. We hold each other close. We soothe one another. I hold his hand tightly when the maester comes to check his wounds and when his mother visits.

When the sun begins to set, I push back his curls repeatedly. Lovingly. His eyes are watching me as I raise a brow.

"Hm?"

"I love you." He whisper the words.

"I love you too."

I rest my head in the crook of his neck, I kiss his jaw, my lips barely brushing his skin. I close my eyes, shifting closer.

"vēzos ñuho," I hum against his skin.

"Nuhys qēlos," He says back softly.

He begins to hum quietly. A soft tune.

It takes me a moment to recognize it. When I do, I close my eyes, letting our old lullaby lull me to sleep. He rocks me gently, side to side. He joins me soon after, his humming growing slower until stopping fully.

I might have nightmares forever. I might convince myself day by day he's dead.

But I know he'll be there to wake me and hold me. He'll be there to remind me that he's here. Alive. That he won't ever leave me.

And that's enough to comfort me.

He barely lifted his head when he heard you gasp, the lens of his mask focusing on your figure standing there with wide eyes, wearing only an oversized shirt.

“Wrong window,” he choked, then tried to hold himself up but immediately collapsed again. “Dammit,” he cursed, waiting for you to freak out any second now. 

You could have, but instead you rushed to him and knelt beside him.

“Oh my god, are you okay?” Your hands hovered helplessly over his body, trying to see how bad the damage was in the dark. “You need a hospital–”

“No!” He snapped, trying to turn away but failing miserably. “I’ll be fine, I heal quickly.”

“You still need to stop the bleeding,” you countered, folding your knees under your body so you could rest on your calves. “Listen, I can help you. I took some medical courses last year and I have a kit somewhere.”

You looked at him with pleading eyes. He’d saved the city so many times, the fucking world, it was the least you could do to give something back. 

He considered his options for a second, and to be honest he didn’t have many. His body was betraying him, and he couldn’t even get up to fix it himself like usual. 

The blood loss made him nod, and you wasted no time in getting up and finding said kit. The blood loss also made him drift in and out of consciousness as you tended to the wounds on his ribs as much as you could. 

It did not make him less cautious of you though. When you noticed the rip on his mask over a nasty gash on his neck and reached for it, his hand closed around your wrist and even half conscious, his grip was strong. 

“Please,” he whispered. Pleaded. “Keep it on.” 

The fear in his voice made you promise you would. Even if you couldn’t get to that gash properly. Even when he fell asleep on your floor and didn’t wake up for six whole hours. 

The next morning, he opened his eyes and found you sitting on your bed, still staring at him. 

His hands patted his chest, and confirmed his arachnid powers had done its job and healed him mostly. But most importantly, his mask was still in place. With no warning from E.V of it being removed. He learned that you’d spent the night making sure he was still breathing without seeing his face. 

That had been one year ago. 

After thanking you profoundly for helping him, he’d repaired your window, apologized several times, and disappeared into the apartment next door. He then considered moving into another building, but the thought was brushed away very quickly when he remembered the balance in his bank account. 

So he acted more careful instead. For a while, he only turned back home when your curtains were already closed, or he only left the apartment when you had already left for your job (because yes, he absolutely researched the hell out of you after that night.)

Then he moved to the attic of the building. Bigger space, no neighbors, no risks. No you. Or at least he thought. 

Because some nights…some delirious nights he still found your window a few stories down, and the accidental visits became less accidental. When he was too badly injured to care for himself, he came to you, even after you confessed your degree had nothing to do with medicine. 

When he noticed you understood about his equipment malfunctioning, he’d bring it for you to inspect. When he became too reckless with himself you talked his ear off about how being difficult to kill did not make him immortal.

Somewhere along the way, you became spiderman’s friend. 

Spiderman was safer. With you, spiderman was the only part of him he could let you see. Because that was the thing, you only knew the masked superhero. 

He’d spent so much time blocking away his identity, making peace with the fact that there was no longer anyone in the world who would call him Peter and know exactly who that person was. That name only belonged to the people that once knew him, and no longer existed, so he never gave it to you.

Never showed you more than a sliver of skin when his mask rode up or glimpses of his abdomen when you tended to his wounds. He always kept that barrier and you respected it, even on those nights he was too weak to stop you. Even if sometimes not knowing the color of his eyes kept you up at night. 

A promise was a promise. 

Maybe that’s why he kept coming. Why he trusted you with a certainty he couldn’t understand. Why he eventually showed you his new living quarters in the attic and let you spend time with him. Why half a year ago, he added another chair next to his desk so you could work together, or help him when he was out patrolling and needed an extra set of eyes.

“I’m officially the girl in the chair, spidey,” you joked that time as you sat next to him, spinning around in your chair.

He’d gone quiet immediately, his body tensing up enough to make you frown, but then managed a small smile and said you were. You pretended you didn’t notice him being too quiet as he worked on his inhibitor after that. 

He was wearing a hoodie, sweatpants and the mask. Always the mask that didn’t quite let you see through him. After a moment of quiet, you rolled your chair closer to his and nudged his arm playfully. 

“You know I can’t keep calling you spidey forever, right?” 

He snapped out of his trance, and the chuckle that came from under the fabric was unmistakable. 

“Why not?” He nudged your arm back, but still focused on the device he was hunched over. “I like spidey.”

You put your elbow on the desk, resting your cheek on your hand so you could lean a little closer. 

“I like it too, but it feels ridiculous after having my hands all over your body almost every night.” 

The moment the words left your lips, you realized how bad that sounded. He straightened up, turning toward you.

“Wow.” Even if you couldn’t see the smile on his face, the lenses of his mask were quite expressive sometimes. He was amused. 

“That came out very wrong,” you said immediately, before he bursted into laughter. He had been laughing more since you entered his life. “You know what I meant,” you whined, laughing too with heat flooding your cheeks. 

“I think I know,” he chuckled, making you roll your eyes. 

“I’m being serious though,” you added, a little more quietly. “You don’t have to say your real name. Just give me something.”

“Mmm…” he acted like has considering it, going back to tinkering with the piece of metal between his fingers, but then his eyes drifted to the flowers he’d bought that morning, and the name came out of his lips before he could think twice about it. “You can call me Maynard.” 

“Maynard?” You repeated, suppressing a chuckle. “You don’t sound like a Maynard. That’s like an 80 year old man’s name.”

“That’s all I can give you,” he shrugged playfully. 

You had a feeling it went deeper than that, but you’d also learned not to push it with him. 

“Alright. Maynard,” you nodded, “but don’t expect me to use that name unless you’re dying. Guess I’ll stick to spidey for now,” you chuckled, going back to your own work as he hummed in agreement. 

The conversation ended there. With him trying not to think about your hands all over his body in…different conditions. 

Peter didn’t know exactly when his gratitude became longing. He could not identify the moment the friendship, the closeness, or just your smile, shifted into something he craved everyday. 

Despite the mask and the fake name, he knew that after years of being no one to everyone, he had become someone to you. And you had become everything to him. Even if it was behind walls he’d built, you were the person who knew him better than anyone alive.

Which is why, the night he lost control of himself after an unknown dust was thrown at him in a fight, he chose not to crash land into your room. 

Peter hit the floor of the dark attic with a loud thud, as his senses went overboard. His suit was sticking to his body uncomfortably due to the sweat coating his feverish skin. The fabric was intact, with no visible wounds in his body, just that burning sensation of something running through his veins. 

And that dark part of him he’d managed to lock down with the inhibitor, trying to claw its way out. 

“What the…what the fuck is going on,” he cursed, clutching his heaving chest as he panted against the worn wood floors. “I can’t–I can’t breathe…” 

The computer’s monotone voice broke through the silence. 

“You have arrived injured. I’m letting her know–”

“NO!” He cut the AI off, “EV, don’t tell her–”

“Message already sent.”  

He glanced up at the digital clock on his desk. 2:18 am. 

He groaned, grabbing his head when a wave of migraine hit him. He knew what came after that. The black eyes. The desire to break. To take. But this time something felt different. It was like a pull, looking for something or someone…for…for you? 

Oh fuck. 

You were going to come in and you were going to see him like this. No, no–

“Spidey?” You asked from behind the door, knocking exactly twice before opening it anyways.

The air changed the exact moment you walked in, and that something inside him shifted too. It became aware that the only thing it craved to survive was in the room now. 

He needed to get to you. He needed to pin you down and– 

“Don’t!” He managed to scream, holding his hand up weakly when you scrambled toward him. 

You stopped right in your tracks, eyes wide and running all over him, searching for torn fabric, blood, or anything that would explain why he looked like every breath was painful. 

“What happened?” You frowned, when you couldn’t find any source. “Did you get hurt?” 

You instinctively stepped forward, but he waved his hand in front of him again. 

“Stop, stop, stop,” he said quickly, “don’t come any closer.” 

The harshness in his voice caught you off guard, but what sealed the deal was him dragging himself further away from you. It was barely more than a clumsy, desperate crawl, but he managed to put a decent distance between you before collapsing against the side of his thrifted couch. 

He avoided looking at you. The oversized shirt covering your body, the comfy shorts you were probably wearing, the way your hair looked messy from rolling out of bed as soon as you got EV’s warning even if you had work the next morning.

You stayed right where you were, watching him. His suit had always fit him like it was painted on his skin, but every pant made his chest rise and fall beneath the fabric so violently that you wouldn’t be surprised if it ripped at the seams. 

This reminded you too much of the changes that happened in him months ago. 

It started with a sharpened temper, then the heightened sensitivity to everything, the black covering his eyes, and moments during patrol when his reactions became simply frightening for someone who had as much strength as he did. But you were supposed to have stopped it. 

“Is it the inhibitor?” You asked, crossing your arms over your chest, “is it failing?” 

“I–I don’t know…I was hit with some dust out there,” he breathed. “I think it’s tampering with it…my head is killing me. Everything is too much.”

You nodded, turning toward the workstation. 

“I will check the programming. Just hold on.” Not your best attempt at reassuring him, but he groaned in acknowledgment. 

“EV?” 

The computer woke when you touched the keyboard, illuminating the dark attic in a wash of blue light. 

“Online.”

“Please run a diagnostic on the inhibitor and any possible interference.” 

“Beginning diagnostic.” 

You waited impatiently for the results, tapping your fingers on the desk while you watched him from the corner of your eye. 

Over there, he…he was doing his best trying to breathe. 

This obviously wasn't his first time having sensory overload. When the animal tried to take over the human part of him, everything in the city became impossible to escape. Not a single movement, or sound, or simple existence within miles was unnoticed by him. 

But this time? The rest of the city had disappeared. There were no sirens in the distance, or voices coming through the walls, or every heartbeat in the building pounding in his head. 

There was only you. 

Your rapid heartbeat echoing inside him. He felt every tap of your fingers against the wood, every slight catch in your breathing each time he made another involuntary and pathetic sound from his spot on the floor. 

Your scent…God, your scent filled the entire apartment. 

The scent he found himself coming back to so often that it scared him. He didn’t want the attachment. The possibility of having someone again only to risk losing them again. 

That same scent was making every muscle in his body react in a way he didn’t understand. It made him, and the other him, wanna do things to you he had only dreamed of in his wildest fantasies. Things he wasn’t proud of, things he wouldn’t dare to say out loud, even if he looked at you through the lenses of his mask and you couldn’t see the black in his eyes. 

He pressed the back of his head against the couch harshly. 

This was wrong. So wrong. 

His senses were supposed to consume everything when the change came. Instead, they had fixed themselves entirely on you.

He could feel the heat of your body from across the room as though you were still in front of him. Could remember with sickening detail how soft your hands looked when they reached for him. Could almost feel the burn of the touch that had never landed because he stopped you. 

What if he’d let you? What if he’d felt the way your hands ran all over his body? What if you’d moved them lower, and lower, as your mouth–

“Diagnostic complete.” 

Your heads snapped toward the screen. 

“There’s no external damage affecting the integrity of the device. I detected a foreign biotoxin in the bloodstream that may be bypassing the inhibitor, activating the suppressed arachnid hormones.” 

“What biotoxin?” You frowned. 

“Unknown. No matches found in available databases.” 

Great. He thought. He had no time to take a bath with Yelena Belova to find out what the stupid dust was. 

The screen changed, displaying a model of his nervous system. There were yellow bright lines pulsing quickly, running all the way from the base of his brain down the length of his spine. Something unknown was moving through his blood, altering the part of him he had spent months forcing into submission.

He sucked in a breath as he watched you read the screen. Your eyes were focused, and a bead of sweat made its way down the side of your forehead. 

He suddenly felt the need to lick it off. 

Wanted to run his tongue from the base of your neck to the back of your ear. Wanted to fist your hair and make your heart beat out of your chest from how good he knew he could make you feel–

“The effects remain within his enhanced tolerance. However, prolonged exposure to certain hormones can cause extreme distress without relief.” 

“What hormones?” Your voice, worried and unknowing of his thoughts only made him feel guiltier. 

It took him a second to realize what you asked, but EV threw him under the bus before he could say anything. 

“There’s a significant rise in reproductive hormones. The unknown toxin is inducing a strong mating response in him.”

Mating response. He stopped breathing. 

Your eyes slowly moved from the monitor to him, and he saw the moment your attention dropped lower to the tent of his pants. 

That suit concealed nothing on a good day. On one like this? Fuck. Fuck. Fuck–

He shifted almost immediately, but the movement only worsened the pressure, pulling a helpless groan from his throat that made your pulse jump. You looked away at once, turning back to the computer. 

“Is there a way we can…umm…stop it?” You asked hesitantly. 

“The subject is experiencing severe sexual arousal with a fixation on a nearby individual,” she explained, because fuck him if he wasn’t the unluckiest individual on earth. “Acting upon it can be a positive option to relieve sexual tension.”

He wished the floor would open beneath him, swallow him, and never ever EVER spit him back out again.  

Your pulse was absolutely hammering after that. He caught the sudden change in your scent. There was a sharp spark of surprise, nervousness, and something else beneath it that his altered senses fed on immediately.

You kept your eyes fixed on the monitor, although the data had stopped meaning anything the moment you heard fixation on a nearby individual. 

“Is that what you really feel?” You asked softly after a moment. 

His head fell forward, catching it between his gloved hands. He didn’t know how to answer without making everything worse.

Although, after what EV said, could it really be worse? 

“…Yes.” The word came out rougher than he expected. Yet still not enough for what was happening inside him. “It’s like…I can only feel you. All of you.”

Heat rose to your face once again. 

“What does that mean?” 

Don’t say anything, don’t–

“I can smell you.” Great start, idiot. He cleared his dry throat before continuing. “I can smell your shampoo…the lotion you use…the ink on your hands from your favorite pen.” 

He chose not to mention he could also smell the adrenaline on you. The heat gathering slowly beneath your skin. 

Your eyes dropped to your hands, and under the dim light of the computer, you caught the ink stains in them from your journaling session before bed. 

“I can hear your heartbeat changing every time I speak,” he added. Okay, that one slipped out.  

You swallowed. And god, he felt that in his own throat. 

The suit was suffocating him at this point. He wanted to rip it off as much as he wanted to rip off the fabric covering the goosebumps on your skin. 

“Is it only because I’m nearby?” You asked, gathering the courage to turn your chair to him.

White lenses met you across the room. He dragged in another shaky breath of oxygen made of you as he thought about his next words. He could’ve lied. He should’ve lied. But instead, chemically overwhelmed and stripped of every defense he possessed, he gave you the truth. 

“No.”

His voice was firmer this time. No hesitation in it despite the thousand red alarms pounding in his head telling him to shut up. 

“It picked you–no, I picked you for a reason,” he added. “And it’s not just me. The other…the other me wants you too.” 

His voice went lower on the last part, that told you how much it cost him to admit that. 

The silence following his confession was heavy. For a moment he wished he could read your mind. For all he could feel of you, your thoughts were unreachable. 

His own mind was a mess. The impulses didn’t feel like thoughts anymore, just his body feeding him instructions. 

Get up. Cross the room. Touch her. Breathe her in.

His palms shook with the urge to close around you. His teeth ached with the need to graze your skin. His eyes burned with the desire to see beyond fabric. 

Every part of him seemed convinced that the small distance between you was a mistake he needed to correct. That he needed to breathe you in until his lungs burned. Drag his mouth along the inside of your wrist and taste the pulse there.

He hated it.

He hated that something inside him could look at the person he cared for the most and reduce her to an answer for his pain. 

“EV, how long is this state going to last?” He asked the computer, followed by a weak cough as he clutched his side. 

“Your enhanced physiology is struggling to break down the toxin’s structure. I estimate a time between ten to twelve hours before it’s metabolized. However, neurological collapse is expected before that timeframe.”

“What?” You looked at him. “There’s no way we’re letting that happen. Maybe I can–”

“Don’t even start,” he cut you off, shaking his head profusely. 

“So what? I’m supposed to sit here betting on whether your body collapses on hour three or hour six?” 

“I’ll just pass out, big deal. I’m not putting you in danger because of this. I can handle it.”

“You’re barely handling it now. There’s no danger in trying–”

“You don’t understand what’s happening inside me right now,” he argued, raising his voice. “This other thing, the one the inhibitor controls it’s…awake. That part of me doesn’t think like I do. It doesn’t care if you're scared, or hurting–”

“You wouldn’t hurt me–”

“You don’t know that!” He snapped, his fist struck the floor next to him, hard enough to make the worn wood crack beneath his knuckles. 

The sudden noise made you flinch. He smelled the flash of fear moving through your body for only a second. 

One second enough. 

“Fuck–that is what I mean,” he cursed, covering his lenses with his hands. “I don’t…I don’t know if I’d be gentle. I can’t risk this, I can't…shit, I can’t risk you.”

The words, said with so much pain, and honesty, seemed to settle somewhere deep in your chest. 

“Okay,” you nodded, settling deeper in your chair. “But I’m not leaving you like this. I can’t risk you either.”

He shuddered a painful exhale. His head dropped to the couch again, shutting his eyes in preparation of what the next hours of torture would be. 

Except…he didn’t even last ten minutes. 

The suit was killing him, so he decided he’d be better without it. He reached desperately behind his back, clumsily undoing the zippers that tied the suit together.

He could feel your wide eyes on him as he tugged the fabric off his shoulders, peeling it off his sweaty arms. He groaned when he lifted his hips and the suit grazed his swollen crotch. In a matter of seconds that felt like eternity he managed to break free from the spandex, and threw it away somewhere in the room. He’d undressed down to his dark boxers, mask still in place, revealing the marble sculpture of his body.

You let out a shaky breath from your spot, eyes raking over a body you’d only seen partially. He was covered in wounds most of the time, but this time, he only had faint bruises from the night before decorating his chiseled abs. 

His tight muscles flexed with every rise of his chest, his bulge straining harder the more you devoured him, pressing against his pants, making him curse quietly. 

You noticed, and returned your eyes to the screen to track his vitals. 

He felt grateful that you’d given him that grace, but just you being in that room made it very hard for him to think of anything other than your existence. 

Too hard. 

Before he knew his hand drifted down the growing ache in his crotch, trying to feel some relief, but every rub he made over the fabric of his boxers sent a jolt of pain through his body instead of pleasure. 

It only made it worse when he realized you were tense at the desk, trying very hard to keep your focus on the screen and not on the whines he was letting out. 

“…I’m sorry,” he apologized instantly, breathlessly, moving his hand away. “I didn’t–”

“Don’t apologize,” you shook your head quickly, eyes still on the screen. “You…you can do whatever you need.” 

He didn’t say anything, just whined in pain again, so you took it as a chance to say it before you regretted it. 

“But my offer still stands, spidey.” 

What a polite way of saying ‘I’d let you fuck me into next week so you can control your horny arachnid hormones, spidey.’

Fucking hell. 

“I’m okay I just–God I didn’t–I didn’t think it would feel this way…” He laughed humorlessly, staring at the ceiling. “But I–I got this. Yes.”

You kept quiet, hearing him mumble to himself about a hundred times about how he had this.

“I’m okay…I’m good…it’s fine…” 

He wasn’t. 

“Fuck I don’t…I’m going to die…”

For God’s sake. 

“I think I can help.”

By the time he registered the words and looked back at you, you had already moved from your chair and shortened the distance between you, kneeling in front of him. 

His senses went from one thousand to one million. He forced his hands behind his back, trying to keep the animal from grabbing you and getting it over with. 

“What–what are you doing?” He stammered nervously, the lenses of his mask going wide. 

“Maynard,” you said quietly, ignoring the way his body tensed up at that name. “Would it make you feel better if I put my hand here?” 

You placed your hand right in the center of his chest, and your cold palm met his overheated skin. He gasped, feeling every individual fingerprint on his skin. He wanted them marked on him. Tattooed. 

His back arched from the couch, with a strangled gasp breaking from beneath the mask. The relief hit him all at once, through a simple contact that felt like salvation. 

Your hand steadied him for only a glorious second, but now that you had touched him, his body knew precisely what it had been denied.

It wanted more.

His own hand closed around yours so suddenly that you almost pulled back, but he loosened his grip the instant he realized how tightly he was holding you. 

“Sorry–”

“Don’t apologize.” You pressed harder. 

He was burning.

The heat beneath your palm scared you, but what scared you more was the violent pounding of his heart beating against your hand so so quickly. 

“Better?” You asked quietly, trying not to bite your bottom lip at the image of him crumbling under your palm. 

“So fucking better,” he said breathlessly, pressing your hand tighter against his chest. “I…dammit–”

“Breathe,” you reminded.

His head fell back against the couch. Chest rising up and down, up and down, up and down. 

Just take her, man, she’s right there–

Your free hand accidentally brushed his neck, right where the border of the mask started, snapping him right back. He grabbed your hand, not harshly, but firm enough to make your breath hitch. 

“Please.” Was all he said. 

Leave it on. 

It brought you back to that first night he’d crashed into your life. 

“I wasn’t planning on removing it,” you whispered, leaning closer. “You can keep it on. But let me help you…I really want to.”

See? She wants it. She needs it so bad. 

He hated that the other guy was right. He knew you meant what you said because he could smell the proof pooling between your thighs.

Fuck it.

In a sudden movement he reached for your waist, dragging you forward so you were straddling his lap. The bulge you landed on made you gasp, hands instinctively grabbing onto his sweaty biceps for balance when he let out a broken groan that vibrated against your core. 

His hand cupped your jaw, bringing it closer to his face, and your dilated pupils reflected on the white of his lenses. 

“I can feel that you want this,” he mumbled, tilting his head to the side. “Please, say it again…”

You shifted your hips, barely, so minimal yet he felt it travel through his whole body. He hissed, tightening the grip on your jaw. 

“I want this,” you repeated firmly, moving your head closer to his ear. “You can take whatever you need…”

You moved your hips again, more deliberate this time, pulling a broken whine from him. The toxin made every contact feel like electricity racing down his spine, straight to the heavy, aching weight of his cock under you. 

“Yes…yeah just like that…” he panted. “Just let me…”

His hands landed on your waist, moving you back and forth at a quicker pace over his bulge. You gasped at the friction, fingers digging into his shoulders, while he let out a collection of muffled words you could barely understand. 

“...M–more…” he whined, throwing his head back against the couch. “I can’t–I need…”

“What do you need? More what?” 

“More contact.”

His hands left your waist to grab the hem of your shirt. 

“Can I?” He whispered.

You nodded eagerly, gasping when his hands shifted to the collar of your shirt instead, ripping it off your body with a sharp pull. 

“Oh fuck,” he cursed when he realized there was nothing under that shirt, and saw your nipples hardening instantly under the cold air. 

He resisted the urge to bite them through the mask. 

His hands, however, wasted no time to cup your breasts with a broken whine. His thumbs played with your nipples, tugging at them as hard as he could allow himself to without hurting you. 

“Fuck you’re perfect…you’re so perfect…” he whispered, more to himself than you, pulling some soft whimpers out of you when he tugged a little harder. His hands drifted to your lower half, to the hem of the last piece keeping your body from his greedy eyes. “These too,” he said, “please, can I? I want to feel you.”

“Yes,” you nodded, already out of air. 

You didn’t even know why you tried to get off his lap to take the shorts off properly, when he just did the same as the shirt: ripped it in half where it rested on your hips, yanked it off from your body and threw the ruined pieces far away. 

You weren’t wearing anything underneath. 

“I can smell you. God, I can smell you. You’re so–oh God…”

Now he could feel your wetness drenching his boxers, dripping onto the fabric. He could almost taste it in his mouth. He wanted nothing more than to drown in it for hours. 

“Can–can I–?”

You didn’t even let him finish, you grabbed his hand and placed it right between your legs. 

Water. He found water in the middle of the dessert. 

His hand moved carefully through your wet folds once, twice, delighting in your warmth, the way you felt, the way you let out the prettiest sound he had ever heard in his miserable life. 

“Fuck…” you cursed softly, moving your hips eagerly when he kept stroking slow. Too slow. “Touch me, please.”

He obliged, fingers finding your clit in movements that had you gripping his shoulders tighter, eyes fluttering shut so beautifully he had to bite his lip to not let out a pathetic sound. 

“Been wanting this,” he mumbled. “Longer than today. Longer than tonight.”

His finger slid inside of you, making you moan when he curled it just right. 

“There were…there were nights I thought about you riding my hand,” he kept going, voice cracking as he added a second finger, stretching you more. “I’ve wanted you for so long–not just because of this shit in my blood. Because it’s you.”

Every word made you clench around his fingers. Every admission pulled another shaky moan out of your throat. You were a mess already, breathless, hips rolling down to meet the thrust of his fingers. 

“Oh my God–don’t stop, please don’t stop–”

“Not stopping, baby.” 

He kept working you open, the white lenses of the mask never leaving your face. His free hand slid up your chest, settling between your breasts. 

“I’m–I’m close,” you managed. “I’m so close–”

“Come on…you’re perfect. You’re so fucking perfect like this.”

The heel of his palm lifted to press against your clit. You were right there, right on the edge, about to come on his hand and drip down his boxers–

“Please,” he begged, unable to keep it in. “Let me fuck you after this…please. I need to be inside you. I’ve needed it for so long–just let me, after you come, please, please–”

The plea undid you.

You came with a broken cry, stopping your movements as your walls pulsed around him. The sound you made against his shoulder nearly finished him right there. 

It took you a second to just breathe again, your chest synching up with his in the search of oxygen. He kept rocking his hand slowly, not just to work you through the aftershocks, but because the friction of your pussy in his hand brought the tiniest relief to him. 

You just stayed there as the last soft waves rolled through you. 

Once you were able to see clearly again, you let out a breathless chuckle and straightened back up. 

He needed you. He needed you so badly you really thought he was going to die if you didn’t help him. 

You placed one hand on his chest as the other reached under you, slipping inside the fabric of his boxers without breaking eye contact. 

The second your bare fingers brushed him, his hips jerked hard under you. 

“You said please,” you whispered breathlessly. 

You wrapped your fingers around him and pulled him free.

His cock sprang out, heavy and flushed between your bodies, so thick and hard and painful. The head was red and shiny, with precum dripping down the vein that ran along his length. The tip brushed the skin of your stomach, leaving a warm, wet patch that made the hair on your arms go up. He could smell the small flicker of intimidation sparking inside you, but the want that followed was stronger. 

You stroked him a few times, slowly just as he’d touched you at first. 

“Oh my God, your hand–your hand–”

Another thick bead of precum welled up and spilled over your fingers. Whether it was the toxin or just his enhanced physiology, he was dripping for you.  

Flustered wasn’t enough of a word when you had his leaking cock in your hand. 

His hands slid down to your hips, gripping tighter, guiding you up as if he was about to lift you then pulling you back down immediately. 

Fuck her. Fuck her right now. 

“Please, I need–I need to feel you…” he cried out. “Let me…let me…”

You nodded just as desperately, lifting yourself up as he helped, steadying you with shaking hands until the thick head of his cock nudged against your entrance. You both exhaled hard at the same time when you started to sink down, taking him inch by inch.

He was big. Almost too much. The burn of it made your breath hitch, but the way he cursed under his breath multiple times, completely at your mercy, made you keep going until he was buried balls deep.

You sat there for a moment, breathing heavily, and so full of him. 

When the initial sting faded away, you started moving. He let you set the pace as you adjusted, holding back his need of thrusting up. His fingers dug on your skin, not lifting just holding you, but the more that you moved, the more that control started to waver. 

He could feel it coming. The change. 

You kept moaning, bouncing on top of him, completely unaware of his self restraint crumbling away. 

His grip slowly tightened when his eyes began turning completely black under his mask. That careful, pathetic boy who’d been begging disappeared beneath something more…primal. 

Fuck. Whatever had been holding him back finally snapped.

The next thing he knew, his hands slid under your thighs with sudden strength. He lifted you up in one motion until only the thick head of him remained inside you, held you there for a second as the last part of him tried to remember how to be gentle–then snapped his hips up hard.

That first thrust pulled a sharp moan out of you, but there was no chance to adjust this time. He set a relentless pace almost immediately, using pure strength to bounce you on his cock while he drove up to meet every drop of your body, buried so deep it stole your breath every time he bottomed out. 

“Oh my–May…Maynard–” the name you barely used on him slipped out in the middle of the frenzy, but his hand reached behind your head to pull your hair back slightly as he kept thrusting up. 

“Don’t call me that,” he snapped, his voice so different from just minutes earlier. “It’s Peter. Call me Peter when I’m inside you.” 

He didn’t even give you time to process, still lifting and dropping you onto his cock at the exact hard rhythm he wanted. The only one that satisfied the need inside of him. Your hands instinctively reached for the edge of the arm of the couch he was leaning against, fingers digging into the worn fabric as he hit that spot inside you over and over again. 

“Of fuck…Peter–fuck…yes…”

“That’s better,” he approved. “I was right, you’re so so perfect…taking every inch like you need it as bad as I do…”

A desperate sound slipped out of you at the praise, he could feel your walls clenching tight around him as your body went for that second orgasm, your eyes were fluttering shut, almost there–

“Nuh–uh,” he denied immediately, stopping mid thrust, holding you pressed against him as you gasped, surprised and confused. 

“What–what happened? I was about to–”

“I want you to hold it for me. I know you can.”

That twisted part of him enjoyed the slow realization on your face. 

Even if you couldn’t see his eyes, you knew the same spiderman he’d been without the inhibitor, was the one with your body at his mercy now. 

Good. 

He stayed buried to the hilt for a moment, breathing hard behind the mask. When your breathing finally slowed down and accepted that the high never came, he stood up. Still inside you, he walked you to the bed in the corner of the room. 

His bed.

He pulled out with a wet sound that made both of you groan, then laid you down roughly near the edge of the mattress. He kneeled down, strong hands hooking behind your knees and dragging your legs over his shoulders, folding you open for him completely.

“Look at the ceiling,” he ordered. “Don’t look at me.”

You obeyed, staring up at the wood beams high above you while he tugged the bottom of the mask just high enough to free his mouth. 

Peter leaned down and pressed a few soft kisses to your swollen folds. He wasn’t necessarily eating you out, just giving a few loud smooches that felt good enough to make you grip the sheets. 

“M’sorry, you were so perfect there…” he mumbled condescendingly against your most sensitive spots. “But I need you to hold on a little longer. Can you do that for me, sweetheart?” 

You nodded, eyes still fixed on the ceiling. Maybe too eager. Maybe too pathetic. Just like he’d been. Had he pumped that toxin into you? 

Either way, you didn’t care. You’d be lying if you said you didn’t like this version of him. 

He laughed right over your clit when you moaned loudly, after he moved his tongue in a slow, torturous swipe over it. 

“Was back there too much?” He cooed. “Maybe I just need to stretch you more...”

Two fingers slid inside you, so easily, but the sudden stretch still dragged a whine out of your throat. He curled them immediately, finding the spot that made your hips jerk. 

“Peter…” 

“Huh?” He acted coy, pumping his fingers with a rhythm that kept you right on the edge without letting you tip over. He added a third finger, making your back arch from the mattress. “Keep holding it in.”

Every shake of your body fed the stupid toxin inside him. Having you like this…really trying to keep your body from coming apart because he said so. 

God. He was never going back. 

“You just took my cock. I think you can take three fingers with no problem.” 

He kept the same relentless pace, chuckling when your body started twitching again. 

“Shhh, you’re perfect, absolutely perfect…”

“Peter…” you called out again, hand dropping the sheet to find his shoulder instead. “I need…need…”

“Need what?”

“Need you inside me…please I won’t–I won’t hold for much longer just–fuck me.”

He stopped altogether, a smirk you couldn’t see stretching the corner of his mouth. He pulled his fingers out with a wet pop, licking them clean before tugging his mask back in place and standing up. 

“Yeah?” 

Your legs dangled off the edge of the bed for a moment before his hands gripped your hips and turned you over. He moved you higher up the bed, grabbing one of the pillows, and shoving it under your hips, tilting your lower body up for him. 

He then climbed onto the bed behind you and knelt between your spread thighs, the mattress dipping under his weight as one hand stroked down the length of your spine. 

But something made him stop. 

“This fucking mask–” he cursed under his breath. “It’s suffocating me.”

The sweat on his forehead had pooled under the mask, making it so sticky over his eyebrows that it was affecting the lenses he was trying to see you through. 

“I need you to be a good girl for me,” he added breathlessly, yet still commanding enough. “Keep your head on the mattress. Ass up. Don’t turn around.”

You nodded. Too eagerly again. Couldn’t care any less again. 

He didn’t think twice, just yanked the mask off and tossed it aside. It landed near you, making you bury half your face on the sheets as if staring at the mask alone would be disobeying his commands. 

The sound he made when the cool air hit his face was pure relief. He swiped the sweat off with his forearm, finally seeing you clearly. Face down. Eyes squeezed shut. Already clutching the sheets. 

“You look so pretty like this,” he mumbled. “All spread out for me…waiting.”

“Peter…” you whined, lifting your ass slightly from the pillow. 

“I know, I know. You’re okay.” He couldn’t keep the smirk away when he added, “you said please.”

He reached between you, guiding the thick head of his cock between your thighs until it nudged against your entrance. You were still soft and ready and perfect. 

Peter pushed in slowly, letting you feel every inch as he sank deep and deep and deeper. 

He braced one hand beside your head and kept the other on your hip, pushing you into the mattress as his thighs hit the back of yours. Slap. Slap. Slap. The position left almost no space between your bodies, with Peter pressing his chest against your back. 

“Fuck…you feel so good like this…so pretty taking me.”

He kept going, making the mattress creak and the base of the bed hit the brick wall repeatedly. Your desperate moans ran through his body like electricity, making something inside him crack open again. 

What? What is–

The moment his rhythm stuttered, he shook his head, trying to clear it. Beads of sweat flew from his hair to your back. 

“God–you…you’re making me–” The roughness of his thrusts slowed down immediately, inhaling a sharp intake of air as he felt the change again. “I can’t, I can’t…”

He lifted his gaze to the window behind the bed and noticed his eyes had turned back to its original color. 

“Oh my god,” he gasped, stopping altogether. He straightened up, still kneeling and inside you, but panicking. “I’m…I’m so sorry. I don’t know what happened I–“

“Peter!” You cut him off, pushing yourself back, closer to him, without turning around. “Shut up and fuck me.”

The order left your mouth breathless, pushing back against him even more to make the point clear. His hands twitched when they gripped your hips again. 

“Okay, okay…” he panted, groaning when you dropped back on the bed and his cock almost left the warmth of your pussy. “I’m sorry–if I was too rough, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to…”

He picked up the pace again, but the words tumbling out of him now were pure pleading Peter again. 

“Don’t turn around–don’t turn around–fuck, fuck…” slap, slap, slap. “You can come now. Please. Please, I want to feel it–you’d come apart so pretty on me, I know you would…pleasepleaseplease–”

His final permission and the desperate way he said it made you crash harder than the first time, crying out into the mattress. The second he felt you coming around him, he knew he couldn’t last much longer either.

“Can I–inside…please, can I??…let me fill you up–”

“Yes–inside, Peter, do it inside me…” 

He buried himself to the hilt with a strained groan and finally came. The orgasm tearing out of him was harder and longer than anything he’d ever felt, holding you there, filling you up. 

You gasped against the sheets, breathless, as the waves of cum seemed to go on forever, flooding you with warm and thick ropes in every spurt as he emptied himself inside you. 

“Thank you…thank you…” His forehead dropped between your shoulder blades, sending broken gasps against your skin as he kept coming. “You are so perfect–fuck…so perfect…thank you…”

The pollen wrung him dry until he could barely breathe, and even then he kept rolling his hips weakly, chasing the last of it while he slowly softened inside you. 

When it finally eased, the pain, the need, the hunger…he pulled out slowly with a whine, and half collapsed over you. His arms held most of his weight as he planked above you, but you could feel every ridge of his muscles brushing your sweaty skin. 

Peter’s eyes fluttered shut, feeling exhausted and aching in the best way, almost lulled by the sounds of your agitated breaths. 

You both felt the warm trail of liquid leaking out between your bodies and neither of you moved or said anything for a while. He could’ve stayed like that forever, really. With your naked body under him, no masks, no barriers, just your swollen pussy leaking out his seed–

“Successful ejaculation brought down the arachnid hormone levels immediately. Inhibitor working within regular parameters now. Congratulations, Peter.” 

EV’s monotone voice cut through the silence. 

It took two seconds of shock before you both broke into breathless laughter. His teeth grazed your back as your bodies vibrated in sync from the amusement and overall flustering after everything that happened. 

“Thank you, EV,” Peter muttered. 

“You’re welcome. I gathered data and the released semen volume exceeds standard parameters by two hundred and twenty six percent due to the high hormonal concentration. Hydration, clean up and rest are advised.”

“For fucks sake…” Peter cursed under his breath. 

“Oh god…” you mumbled against the sheets. 

That was your call back to reality. 

Peter felt you move under him, reaching blindly to the side until your hand found the mask. You lifted it over your shoulder, offering it to him without looking. 

“I don’t want to,” he said, too quickly, then cleared his throat. “I…I don’t want to put it back on.” 

“Then I’ll close my eyes,” you offered instead. 

“No–I mean…you don’t have to. I don’t want to wear it around you anymore. Not after…all of this,” he admitted sheepishly. 

“But you told me to not turn around,” you reminded him, dropping the mask on the mattress again. “And that was you, not the darker you.”

He chuckled, nodding even if you couldn’t see him yet. 

“Yeah, because if I saw your face while I was balls deep inside you I would’ve busted before you came.”

There it was. He said it. No turning back now. 

At least it got a chuckle from you too. 

“Listen I…I meant everything I said. Everything. The wanting, the nights I thought about you,” he confessed. “I don’t want you to feel like I just used you when…when there was always a reason why I needed you like oxygen tonight.”

Your breath hitched, and his hand found your waist, pulling you closer to him, and when you didn’t push away…he exhaled in relief behind you. 

“So maybe…you can turn around now. If–if you want to. Know the real me.”

“I would really like that,” you whispered without hesitation. 

You tried lifting yourself up to turn around, but he did most of the job, moving away the pillow he had placed under you and helping you roll onto your back. You closed your eyes, at least until you were facing him completely, and took a deep breath. Holding onto his biceps for moral support, you finally opened them again. 

Seeing his face for the first time felt so intimate, even after everything you just did. 

There he was. The same guy who just fucked you into next week, looking more shy and boyish than you could’ve ever imagined. 

Brown eyes. Dark, curly hair sticking to his forehead. A nervous smile tugging at the corner of his gorgeous mouth. 

So young. So earnest. So yours. 

Not spidey anymore. Just Peter. 

Your Peter. 

Thank you so much for reading 🤍 I used to write Peter so much back in the day (shoutout to my starktonyx era) and I’ve missed him dearly.

Feedback is always appreciated 🕷️

Divider by @andromeda-graphics

Gojo’s breath caught in his throat, the bouncing of leg slowing as he tried to process what you just said. 

“From what?” He asks quietly, even though he knows the answer. 

"From this, Satoru. From-" You gesture between you both, hands shaking, trying your best to keep your voice from cracking. "We can keep working on the project but no more experimenting on each other. Public meet ups only like normal people, and once a week. No more of whatever this is."

"Whatever this is." He repeats, his face twisting like he was tasting something bitter.

"You know what I mean." You roll your eyes, trying to keep your composure even though your fingers nervously played with the ends of his shirt that swallowed you.

He stood up. He was so tall, six-three and all long limbs and broad shoulders, and he usually used that height to loom over you playfully, to trap you against walls and annoy you. Now he just looked like a man who was doing a shitty job at holding himself together.

“Please.. Don’t do this.” And he doesn’t stop his tears from falling this time because if you’re going to break his fucking heart over a few pictures then he might as well let you know it. 

“Satoru..” You frown, shifting your weight from one leg to the other and avoiding eye contact. 

“Stop hiding from me!” His patience snaps and he walks around the coffee table to stand in front of you, his face hot with frustration and impatience. Both of his hands come up and hold onto your face with force, not aggressive, but enough to tilt your head up and make you look in his eyes. 

He can barely breathe with the way you’re looking at him, eyes glossy as you chewed on your bottom lip and frowned at him. How pathetic was he, that he felt a glimmer of hope just because you weren’t glaring at him like you usually did. 

“I’m not hiding.” You whisper, bottom lip shaking. 

“Tch, you’ve been hiding since the day I met you. You hide behind hating frats, behind calling me a nepo baby and this whole enemies with benefits bullshit because you’re too afraid to admit that you might like me too.” He looks at your lips before meeting your eyes again. “You’re a coward.” 

He watches the way your eyes darken, notices your hands move just from the slightest shift in your posture and he just knows you’re digging your nails in your palms right now, because of fucking course he notices everything about you. 

“Don’t call me that.”

“Then stop acting like one.” 

You look at him for a moment, eyes boring into his and just when he thinks that he might have broken through to you, when he starts to lean down so he could kiss you and end this petty game of pretending, you yank your body away from him and stomp past him to his room. 

He follows you, heart cracking with each step. You were grabbing your dress off the floor, yanking his shirt over your head and quickly sliding your own clothes back over your body. Gojo kept calling your name, begging you to stop but you ignored him as you slipped your panties back on. All he could do was watch as you moved around his room and gathered your things. 

Hopeless. Defeated.

“I’ll text you about the project, okay?” 

“Right.. The project.” His voice was flat, hollowed out in a way that made him sound far from the cocky, arrogant jokester he usually was. 

He didn't move from where he stood, but you felt the weight of him behind you as you walked past him and slipped on your shoes, the silence worse than shouting. 

You wanted to turn around. Wanted to see if his eyes were still on you or if he'd finally looked away but you didn't. You couldn't. 

If you turned around, you would stay, and if you stayed, you would have to admit that the ache in your chest wasn't anger at all, that it was something far more dangerous, a feeling you weren’t ready to admit to yet.

You heard him call your name one last time as you opened his front door, a sound so small and defeated it made your eyes burn, hands coming up to rub at them.

Then you walked to the nearest bus stop, feet burning from your heels, and you broke.

The apartment was silent, Gojo too lost in his own thoughts, his mind playing the moment you walked out the door on repeat. He should have stopped you, should have done more to get you to stay but he didn’t. Instead he stood there and watched you leave, too angry at you and himself to actually do anything. 

He shouldn’t have gotten that fucking camera, shouldn’t have listened to Suguru. It seemed like every past decision was coming back to bite him in the ass. Join a frat? Turns out the girl he’d end up falling for rightfully hates them and anyone involved in them. Buy a camera to capture precious moments? Guess what? She hates that too! 

He couldn’t fucking win. 

Gojo was persistent, he loved a good competition, but right now he was at a loss at what to do, staring at the Theta Phi hoodie hanging by his bedroom door with pure disgust. 

Everything wrong with his life had started because of the fraternity he had been forced into. The life he never wanted for himself but had been too much of a push over to actually fight against.

He could remember your words from that day in the library, when you asked him why he didn't just say no to joining the frat. He had told you his father's ultimatum and while that wasn't a lie, the truth was that Gojo was the true coward, not you.

You risked losing a relationship with your only surviving parent to follow your dreams, while Gojo knew good and well that as an only child, his father would never truly disown him.

He had just been used to pleasing his parents, keeping up family legacy and making them proud.

Only it made him miserable in the end and sacrificing his happiness for the sake of others, had only led to the only girl that made him want to be better, walking out on him.

Gojo knew he had a choice to make. Leave the frat, tell his father to kiss his fucking ass or lose any chance he has with you.

He knew exactly which one to make.

You were sitting on your bed, knees pulled to your chest and replaying every word Gojo had said to you. You're a coward. You like me too. What the fuck did he know?

Gojo didn't know you, couldn't possibly understand what you were feeling. That's what you told yourself to block out his voice that kept echoing in your head. You wanted to be angry at him, but that anger kept turning into something softer and more terrifying, as you pressed your forehead against your knees and tried to breathe.

You hated frat boys. They were incompetent, plagues to society and Gojo Satoru was a fucking frat president so what did that say about him? There was no way someone like you could ever fall for someone like him.

It was mathematically impossible.

Sure, the sex was amazing and sure you believed he was one of the most beautiful creatures alive, and sure he made you laugh in a way you hadn't since your father died, but that didn't mean anything.

You had learned from your mother and her failed relationships long ago that men were often disappointing and decided freshmen year that you simply only needed them for sex. To satiate your high libido and leave it at that.

Gojo wouldn't be the exception. He couldn't be.

You needed to get your shit together, push your cravings to the side and remember who you were and that was far from the girl who overthought about a man, especially one like Gojo.

Someone who could find you in a crowd of thousands, someone who left goosebumps on your arms whenever he touched you, someone who took pictures of you that showed you in the most positive light even though you had been nothing but nasty to him. Some who-

Your head snaps up when the door opens and Shoko walks in, her backpack half off one shoulder and her face set in an expression that said she was pissed, brown hair falling in her eyes.

"Sho-"

"We need to talk." She cuts you off and you swallow, hands starting to shake again. You squeezed them to hide your distraught state, though you were sure she'd be able to read your face like she was always able to.

"I really don't have the patience for this right now." And it wasn't a lie. You were hanging on by a very loose thread and couldn't handle anyone else's baggage right now.

"Too bad." Shoko dropped her bag on her bed and turned to you, hands on her hips and her face set in a scowl. "I saw you at the club last night with Gojo. Care to explain?"

You felt your body go rigid. You were so consumed by your own jealousy last night that you hadn't thought that someone might see you, that your friends might see you.

Fuck.

"Shoko- I don't-" You stutter, tongue growing heavy.

"How long? How long have you been hiding this from me?"

This couldn't happen at a worse time. "It's not what you think-"

"Don't shut me out again!" Shoko's voice was sharp but her eyes were hurt and it made you sink, curling into yourself. "Is he the one you hid in the closet that one time? Or the one you've been basically living with since god knows you haven't been here."

You said nothing, throat closing up. The words wouldn't come, and the ones that might have were trapped beneath the pressure building in your chest.

"Is he the guy who's been making you happy?" Shoko asked, her voice softer this time, hands falling from her hips. "Because I've noticed, you know? I've noticed you coming back to the room at weird hours with that look on your face. I've noticed you smiling at your phone. I'm not stupid (name)."

The tears came before you could stop them, hot and spilling down your cheeks as you pressed your face into your knees and your shoulders shook violently. You hated that you were crying in front of someone, hated that you couldn't hold it together, hated that Gojo had embedded himself so deep that you couldn't claw him out.

Hated that you somewhere along the way, you had stopped truly hating him and it morphed into something else.

The mattress dips beside you and Shoko's pulling you into her arms, holding your head to her chest and rubbing your arms.

"Hey." She says quietly. "I'm not judging you. I promise I'm not. If he makes you happy then that's all that matters, not what anyone else thinks. He's more than a frat boy, and you know it, or you wouldn't be crying like this."

You cry harder, angry at her for being right, angry at yourself for not being able to admit it. This was supposed to be simple, an agreement between two horny college students to satisfy each others needs and leave it at that.

Catching feelings had never been apart of the plan.

Shoko didn't say anything else, just let you cry until you eventually fell asleep and she left to confront a certain white haired frat president.

When you woke, it was the next morning and your head was pounding, cheeks stained with dry tears. Your chest still ached from last night and your eyes were heavy from oversleeping.

You sigh, rubbing your hands down your face and rolling over to check your phone. 9:30 am, fuck. You had a morning shift today and if you didn't get up now you were going to be late, but still, you couldn't move your legs.

Especially when you saw you had a few texts and three missed calls from your mom.

mom: hi honey! i'm in town and want to see you. let me know when you're free

mom: we should talk, it's been a while

The last text made you roll your eyes. It's been a while because she couldn't get over the fact that you had chosen a different path in life then she had wanted for you.

Nevertheless, you couldn't deal with her right now. So you kept scrolling through your messages, a few from your friends checking in on you and then his name popped up and your breath caught.

gojo (dni): you okay?

Just two words but it made your heart rate spike.

You should respond, probably let him know you made it home safe but you couldn't. Guilt and annoyance latched to you, because even after breaking him he's still checking on you.

You knew you had been unfair, never really gave him a chance to prove that he was more than what his fraternity represented.

Sure his personality could be insufferable at times and he usually made you want to pull your hair out, but there had been another side to him you discovered in the weeks you spent together.

Gojo could be a gentleman when he wanted. Opening doors for you, bringing you coffee during your library study sessions, getting flowers and your favorites food delivered when you weren't even speaking.

Remembering your favorite things in the first place. When was the last time anyone ever paid that much attention to you and it wasn't sexual?

God, you were so fucked.

You send your mom a quick text agreeing to meet after your tomorrow and only responded i'm fine to Gojo before quickly showering and washing your traitor thoughts away.

❤︎

Three days later, you were baking the last of the cupcakes for tomorrow, humming to yourself as you delicately applied the icing and did your best to ignore the intruding memories from that day.

Soft jazz music played in the background as the last of the customers began to leave. The bakery was always slow at closing time, one or two regulars lingering until they were told it was time to go.

You were wiping down the front counter when the bell above the door chimed. Your mother walked in like she owned the place, which was typical of her. Long fur coat, perfect posture, the same disapproving tilt to her mouth that she’d worn since the day your father was buried.

You stand taller, setting the rag on the table. "Mom." The word came out strangled, nerves getting the best of you.

She hadn't shown when you gave her the address to your job and you thought maybe she decided it was best to leave you alone and yet here she was, standing in the middle of the small bakery as if she hadn't stood you up mere days ago.

“You look well.” Your mother surveyed the bakery with mild interest. “Can we sit? I’d like to talk.”

You nod and straighten to your full height, nodding to a booth and sliding in across from her, wiping the sweat from your hands on your apron.

She looked good, better than when you left for college two years ago. Happy despite the permanent scowl on her face. Her eyes were still sunken but not as dark as they used to be, hair actually styled and she had makeup on for the first time since you were a pre-teen.

You sat across from each other like diplomats from countries at war, her hands folding in front of her and revealing her freshly polished nails. The huge ring on her finger nearly blinding you.

Oh.

She clears her throat and forces a smile, covering the ring with her other hand. "I'm getting married." She says, no preamble. “Next month. Small ceremony on the beachfront. I’d like you to be there.”

Another man you were supposed to welcome into the rotation of strangers your mother had always chosen over stability. Over you.

After your father died, your mother was a wreck and basically shut you and your sister out. While she always provided financially, she was hardly an emotionally supportive mother. She forced you into gymnastics to get you out of her hair and demanded perfection from you.

Then came the men. Your mother never settled, claiming she had been given the world from your dad and knew her worth. Most of her relationships never made it past a few months, and she was the main reason for your stance on men now.

You had to bite your tongue, stopping yourself from asking her how long this one would last.

"Congratulations." You managed to spit out.

"HIs name is Masamichi. We both work in the same school and just clicked.” Your mother smoothed a nonexistent wrinkle from her sleeve. "Going on almost a year now."

"I'm happy for you mom. I'll try my best to make it."

Your mom bites the inside of her cheek, clearly annoyed you weren't jumping for joy and planning dress shopping dates and bachelorette's. What did she expect after icing you out for making your own decisions?

“Is there anyone special in your life?” Your mother asked, awkwardly shifting topics since she hadn't gotten the reaction she wanted. “A boyfriend? Someone serious?”

Gojo's face invaded your sight, blue eyes filled to the brim with tears and white hair tousled. The way he’d looked on the couch, shattered and stripped bare, heart bleeding for the same girl who'd wounded him.

You resented him and the way your mind found him first no matter how hard you tried to push him away. Gojo wasn't your man and he never would be. you two just weren't compatible and that was the end of it.

"No." You shift uncomfortably, tucking a loose piece of hair behind your ear. "I'm focused on school."

Your mother nods and you can't tell if she's satisfied or just done with the topic. The conversation wound down after that, pleasantries and promises to send the wedding details. You thought that maybe there was a chance you could move on from the hiccup of her not accepting your choice, that you could have a normal mother daughter relationship.

Until she opened her mouth.

“I still don’t understand why you gave up gymnastics. You had real talent.”

You take in a deep breath before responding, the smile completely wiped from your face. "It isn't what I wanted. Not much to it."

“What you wanted.” Your mother’s laugh was thin and humorless and pissed you the fuck off. “You were a dumb teenager. What did you know about what you wanted? Do you know how much money I wasted getting you to that level?”

Fuck her! How many times did you have to explain the same thing? You should have know better than to believe your mother would accept things not going the way she planned. That she would accept you for who you were and just be fucking happy for you.

"I didn't ask you to!"

“No, you just woke up one day and decided all those years meant nothing.” Your mother’s voice tightened, the polished veneer cracking just enough to show the old resentment underneath. “You were going to regionals. You had scouts watching you and you walked away like it was nothing.”

“It was never my dream. It was yours.” You gripped your apron to stop yourself from shaking. “You never once asked me if I was happy.”

“Happy.” She fumes, saying the word like it was something you hadn't been deserving of, something you hadn't earned since your dad died. “What does happiness have to do with talent? With opportunity? You don’t get to waste something like that and pretend it was some principled choice.”

You didn’t answer. Just stared at her dumbstruck, not being able to process that she was doing this right now. That she still wasn't over this.

Your pulse was hammering, head pounding as Gojo's laugh echoed through your skull. You felt sick.

You stood abruptly, the booth’s vinyl squeaking beneath you. “You know what? Go fuck yourself. Seriously. Go marry guy number thirty and play happy family. Just leave me out of it.”

You don't give her the chance to see the tear falling down your face, stomping toward the back and ignoring your coworkers worried face, sinking at the sound of your mother calling you a coward.

It was another two days before you seen Gojo again.

You were in the middle of your psychology lecture when he waked in late, slithering into a seat next to you, his cologne hitting you like a truck.

You kept your eyes forward, but your hands were shaking underneath your sleeves and your stomach was flipping viciously. He wasn't making an effort to talk to you, just pulled out his laptop and started typing in whatever the professor was saying as if you weren't sitting right there.

You noticed he didn't sit next to Suguru, who had opted to sit a few rows in front of you and even though you shouldn't care about anything involving Gojo outside of your project, you still wondered why he chose to sit next to you instead.

"Psychology says that we like people that are kind, respectful, perhaps even funny." Your professor paces the podium, hands on her hips as she looks to the crowd. "But research shows that it's actually more than that. Proximity plays a huge factor in how close we become with someone, which makes sense because the more you're exposed to something, the more you like it."

"Of course." Gojo speaks up next to you, his deep voice vibrating down to your fucking soul and you didn't realize how much you missed it until now. "The mirror exposure effect."

Your professor nods and smiles at him and you can't control the rush of jealously that hits you. Why did you care? It was just a smile, and Gojo was not your man to get jealous and possessive over.

"Correct. Simply seeing something makes it likable, perhaps because it becomes comfortable and safe."

You want to die when you think about sleeping in Gojo's bed, warm and secure with his arms wrapped tight around you despite your no cuddling rule. Bodies tired and sweaty after going six rounds. His warm lips pressed so softly to yours, even though you swore kissing was off limits but kissed back every fucking time.

"Now by a show of hands, how many of you have a best friend in this very college?"

More than half the room raises their hands, including you and Gojo.

"Okay." She nods her head and continues. "Now how many in a different college?"

Three or four hands go up.

"Now statically and psychologically speaking, if you were going to marry someone from this class, it's the person you're sitting next to."

Your heart almost jumps out your chest, heat flooding your face and Gojo sucking in a sharp breath next to you, halting his typing while the class laughs.

Marriage.

Your professor was an idiot if she thought you'd ever marry Satoru fucking Gojo. What did she know? You weren't a statistic and Gojo was not your type in a boyfriend, let alone a husband.

Still, your brain, traitorous thing it was, pictured Gojo a little older and standing at the end of an aisle, wearing a black tux suit and a ring on his finger as he smiled at you.

His bride, his wife. His last name becoming yours.

You almost choked on your spit, fingers gripping the desk so hard you thought it might split.

This was exactly why you'd ended things.

Because somewhere between the arguments, the sarcastic remarks, and the stolen afternoons tangled up in his sheets, your feelings had warped from hatred to indifference to something else you refused to believe was even possible.

You'd caught yourself wondering what he was doing when he didn't text. Smiling whenever his name lit up your phone. Looking for him during games before you even realized what you were doing.

Then you found the pictures. They weren't bad, you knew that, but it would still hurt less if you found a hundred of you naked because that was physical and those pictures were far too intimate.

You made the right choice, right? You needed space, needed time to remember that Gojo was the same frat boy you hated for two years and that a few good moments didn't change anything.

So why was that becoming harder to believe with every passing day?

Especially when you finally turn your head to look at him and he's already looking at you, wearing those stupid glasses with his stupid white hair falling into his eyes, annoyingly hypnotic blue eyes locked on yours.

His cheeks were flushed pink, and he looked like he wanted to say something to you, but opted for smiling instead.

"Hi." He whispers and you just about pass out, an ache growing between your legs.

This wasn't you. You weren't weak, didn't fawn over men like Gojo and you were a known bitch, you could still be one. And yet, you simply said: "Hi." all breathy like a love sick puppy and you wanted to throw up.

You blamed it on the fact that you hadn't gotten fucked in days and the lack of sexual gratification was suffocating your brain, blocking out your common sense.

He clears his throat, shifting in his seat and leaning slightly closer to you. It gave you the opportunity to notice the small freckle on the side of his jaw and the tiny crease between his eyebrows which always meant he was thinking of what to say next.

Since when did you start noticing these things? You used to pride yourself on how easy he was to ignore and now you couldn't stop noticing him. It made you sick, fingers curling around the sleeves of your sweater as you waited for him to speak first, tongue glued to the roof of your mouth.

"I just-" He clears his throat. "If you're free today, I was wondering if you wanted to meet at the library? To study of course."

He quickly adds the last part and you have to bite back a smile. His nervousness was cute. Good, you liked your men a little scared of you.

You nod and fidget with your fingers to stop yourself from biting your nails, a nasty habit you had picked up again after meeting with your mom.

"Yes." You squeak and cringe at the sound of your too high pitched voice, ignoring the way he smirks at you. "I mean yeah, sounds great. 4pm good for you?"

You nor Gojo notice your professor smiling at you both.

Later that day you stared at the vibrator in your hand with red hot anger, the little purple piece of shit that had been your only lifeline for the past four days.

You clicked the button again. Nothing. You clicked it two more times, rapid, angry, embarrassingly desperate.

"Are you kidding me." You mutter, falling back on your pillow with a loud groan.

Shoko was gone, Thursday lab sessions that kept her out most of the day. Which meant you had exactly two hours of privacy before your study session, a dead vibrator, and a problem that was starting to make you genuinely lose your mind.

Four days. It's been four days since you told Gojo your deal was off and you were to be nothing but project partners. Your assignment was due in a few more weeks and you had started to slack on it the more time you spent around him. You couldn't think straight when he was around. Couldn't think straight when he was inside you either, which was the whole issue.

You squeeze your legs together, the cotton of your shorts pressing against your wet cunt.

It wasn't like you missed him. You did not miss him. Gojo Satoru was a frat boy with an ego the size of a delivery truck and a smirk that made you want to slap it off his face almost as much as you wanted to sit on it.

You didn't miss him, you missed the sex. There was a difference. There was definitely a difference, and you were going to keep telling yourself that until you were blue in the face.

Your skin felt too tight, body going through withdrawal after being able to have Gojo inside of you whenever you want. Him taking you against every surface of his apartment, in library study rooms and even in his car where anyone could have seen.

You lift your hips and pull down your shorts and panties, kicking them off the bed.

This was fine. You didn't need a shitty vibrator anyways, you'd been getting yourself off before you had it and you could do it again. Your hands slipped between your legs, your pussy already wet, had been wet since Gojo sat next to you and looked at you like he wanted to eat you.

Your fingers slid through your slick warmth easily and you closed your eyes, sighing as your walls stretched around you.

You imagined they were Gojo's, long and thick, hitting parts of you that your fingers just couldn't reach. He knew exactly where to put them. He knew exactly how much pressure you needed, and he always gave you just slightly less than that until you dug your nails into his arm and made him.

Your thumb slowly circled your clit and you bit your lip.

You thought about the last time he fucked you, four days ago before you called everything off. He had you on your back and was pushing his cock so deep that you almost felt him in your chest. His eyes were locked on yours, telling you "that's it, take what you need." and you came so hard your vision blurred.

You thought about how deep he came inside of you, forging the condom and shooting ropes of hot cum into your heat.

Your hips lifted off the bed, chasing your hand as you curled your fingers and fucked yourself like Gojo would.

You thought about him going down on you, tongue pressed flat against you before he focused right where you needed him, his lips sealing around your clit while his fingers worked inside you.

"Ngghh, fuck." You cried into the empty room, wet sloshing sounds filling the space as you pushed yourself toward the brink.

You were close. You could feel it building, that tight coil low in your stomach, and you pushed another finger inside and used your other hand on your clit while you thought about Gojo's voice. The low rasp it got when he was turned on, the way he cried your name as you bounced on his cock.

Your phone buzzed on the nightstand but you ignored it, crying out as your orgasm pulsed through your body, pussy clenching around your fingers, and you imaged it was Gojo's cock. That he was telling you how you were such a good girl, his pretty princess.

Across campus, Gojo leaned his forehead against the cool tile of the shower and let the water fall against his shoulders. Football practice had ended forty minutes ago and everyone else had cleared out, leaving him alone with the ache that had been gnawing at him for four days straight.

It was pathetic. He knew it was pathetic.

He was Satoru Gojo, and he could have any girl (with the sole exception of you) that he wanted, and here he was, jerking off in the showers like a freshman who'd just discovered his dick, because some junior with a sharp tongue and a hatred of frat boys had decided to call off your mutually beneficial agreement.

His hand moved slow at first, palm slick with remnants of soap, stroking himself from the base and squeezing the tip. He let his mind wander to where it was did.

To you.

To the way you looked up at him when he was inside you, that glare you wore even when you were gasping, even when your nails were digging into his shoulders and your legs were wrapped around his waist.

You never surrendered and that's what he loved most about you. You took what you wanted from him and made him work for the rest, and it drove him absolutely insane with lust and admiration.

He tightened his grip, a low groan escaping his throat.

Fuck. He should hate you with the way you treat him, yet he needed you like he needed air and he was sick that you couldn't see how desperate you made him. Didn't understand why you were punishing both him and you just because you were scared of your own feelings.

His strokes grew faster and he thought about your mouth. The way you bit your lip when you were close, the way your mouth felt around his cock when you sucked him dry in the club like a common whore.

Gojo never found you hotter than that night. All horny and jealous like you didn't already know that every part of him belonged to you.

"Hmmph, fuck," he muttered, voice wrecked and low, "bet you're touching yourself right now too, aren't you, princess? Bet you can't- haaah, s-shit, can't get me out of your head either."

The pressure was building at the base of his spine, his breath coming in harsh pants against the tile, and he didn't even try to hold back. There was no one here to hear him. No one to see the great Satoru Gojo coming apart in the showers because some girl had gotten under his skin and refused to leave.

He came with a guttural sound, his release spilling over his fist hot and heavy and onto the shower floor, his body tensing and shuddering through it, water washing it away. His cock pulsed aggressively as he whispered your name like a prayer, stroking himself a few more times before collapsing against the wall.

Gojo got to the library before you, texting to let you know that he found a spot on the second floor and he got you a "treat." It set your nerves on fire, not knowing what to expect after telling him you were strictly project partners.

When you spotted him, your body betrayed you, the hair on your arms standing at the sight of him already typing with a book open next to him. He was dressed in a grey sweatsuit, his glasses slightly slipping down his nose and his hair still a little damp.

Next to him was a coffee up and a takeout bag from your favorite shop and you wanted to scream at him. To stop being so nice after you broke him, to stop messing with your fucking emotions because two months ago you would have gagged at the idea of him sitting in your vicinity and now he was remembering your favorite treats and treating you like you were more than forced acquittances.

Clawing himself deeper and deeper into your essences.

You shrug it off, quietly sitting in front of him and avoiding meeting his eyes. You could feel him staring at you but you had to be strong, to remember your own morals that he had effortlessly chipped away at every time he fucked you.

Remember the promise you made to your sister about frat boys and staying far away from them.

"Hi." He whispers but you simply grunt and pull out your laptop, hating the way your cheeks were burning and your spine was tingling from his smothering presence.

"Let's start where we last left off and then we can move onto drafting our conclusions, yeah?" You look up for a spit second and he's tilting his head at you, biting back a smile.

"What?" You scowl even though your pulse skyrockets.

He doesn't say anything, just hands you the bag and pushes the coffee toward you, which you gladly accept and mumble a thanks.

You stay like that for a bit, sipping your coffee and going through your notes from your last study session, pretending like you didn't have to squeeze your thighs whenever you'd occasionally look at Gojo. Grateful your laptop was blocking your shaking fingers, just like he was grateful you couldn't see his raging boner that wouldn't go down despite his repeat attempts of smoothing it over.

"Alright." You speak after twenty minutes, looking at the man in front of you again. "We still need another theory to support our conclusion."

Gojo nodded, crossing his arms and sitting back in his chair, his knees hitting yours. You pull back and bite your tongue, which only makes him smile.

"What about cognitive dissonance?"

You roll your eyes. It was obvious where he was going with this but you listen anyways.

"Explain."

"It's when someone's beliefs don't line up with their behavior." His voice is too smug for your liking and you squeeze your hand under the table. "The psychological discomfort makes them either change their actions or convince themselves their actions mean something else."

You nod in agreement, typing a few notes into your document. "That could work."

"Especially in relationships."

Your fingers hesitated above the keyboard but you don't look up, eyes burning from the blue light.

"How so?"

"Someone says one thing but they keep doing the opposite." His voice grates on your nerves and makes your pussy clench around nothing at the same time. "So if someone says they don't like a person but keeps sleeping with them.." 

You glare, crossing your own arms and finally looking at him. "You don't have to personalize every theory. Do you have an academic point to make or are you just trying to annoy me?"

Gojo's jaw tightens and he glares right back at you, clearly still pissed off that you ended things despite giving him days to get over it. He always knew this was a means to an end and now he was trying to you the bad guy. Tuh!

"I'm talking about the theory."

"Funny. It doesn't sound like it." You spit back, your own anger taking over. How could you finish this stupid project if you couldn't be around each other without fighting?

"Maybe because you're the one making it personal."

A bitter laugh escaped you. "I'm making it personal?"

"Admit it (name). You ended things with me because you can't fucking accept that you might like the very thing you claim to hate. That's cognitive dissonance."

"You don't know what I feel at all." You seethe, lowering your voice when a guy a few tables down looks between you both. "Stop acting like you know me just because we fucked."

"Then tell me." He sits forward, folding his hands in front of him on the table and god, he's too close now. You can't fucking breathe.

"No."

"Why?"

"Because I don't owe you anything."

He doesn't respond at first, holding your gaze until you almost feel like cowering but not a fucking chance! You weren't backing down to him of all people.

"No." He sighs, pushing his glasses up his nose. "But stop acting like i'm crazy for noticing that your words don't align with your actions."

You stared at him, heat rushing up your neck and to your ears. "You're unbelievable. Typical frat boy thinks the world revolves around him."

His expression cracks and he looks so offended that you could laugh. He hardly showed shame over his fraternity before but now he was getting shy?

"Don't call me that."

"Why?"

Your laptop goes dark from inactivity but you don't bother to fix it, too caught up in Gojo's blues, losing yourself. This was the problem. You couldn't even look at him with the same disgust you used to hold. You were falling for him. A cheerleader falling for a frat boy. It was so cliché it made you want to scream.

"Because I left that hell hole the same day you left me."

Your stomach dropped. "What?"

He just shrugs, flipping the next page of his book as if he hadn't just dropped a bomb on you. The library seemed to disappear around you as you focused solely on him, trying to process what he said.

"Had my foot half way out the door anyways, figured I'd take a page from your book and live my life for myself."

You nod, dumbfounded. You weren't sure how to feel, since for two years you only ever saw Gojo as an egotistic, big headed frat president. You remember that one time after he fucked you in his car and begged you to go on a date, implying he'd leave the frat if you gave him a chance.

"Ok."

You're mostly silent again, occasionally stealing glances when you had a new discovery to share but Gojo remained on his best behavior and you tried to not take every psychological theory too personal.

Everything was so confusing, you felt like you couldn't even trust your own brain, which is why thirty minutes later you were opening your mouth and telling your own truth before you could stop yourself.

"I cut my mom off."

You hadn't even told Shoko but it felt.. right, telling Gojo. Especially after he opened up about leaving the frat. It would still take time to see him as someone else but you could pretend for now.

"Yeah?" He whispers, looking at you over his laptop and you want to die because never in your life did you think you'd be in this moment, telling Gojo over all people your family drama.

"Yeah. She couldn't accept me for who I am and I guess I just didn't care to hold onto her anymore."

Which was true. After your mother embarrassed you in front of your coworker, you blocked her on everything, going as far as to block her email. You even texted your sister and told her you had no interest in hearing about your mom anymore.

He nods. "Look at us, breaking generational trauma for our future kids"

Your eyes widen, cheeks burning brighter than the fucking sun and Gojo has the nerve to just smile and hum, looking back at his laptop like you weren't imagining your future offspring with suspiciously familiar white hair and stupidly gorgeous blue eyes.

The day Gojo broke came a week later.

He had been good, giving you the space you so desperately needed to try to forget all the moments you shared. He stopped bringing up what happened between you two during your study sessions even if he always left painfully hard.

He was trying to show you that he could be more than the image he had built for himself. He wasn't going to give up when he had gotten this far. You were stubborn but so was he.

Which is why he agreed to go to Utahime's sorority party with Suguru. He quit his fraternity, passing the torch to Sukuna but that didn't mean his life had stopped.

So he said yes and while he needed to destress after a shit week, he mostly agreed with the hope of seeing you. He didn't know how much longer he could take of this petty game between you two but he was willing to wait.

You were worth it and Gojo was anything but a quitter.

He leaned against the kitchen counter and let his gaze drift. Utahime had gone all out for this one. The decorations were excessive in his opinion. String lights crisscrossed the ceiling, there were pink and white balloons bouncing through the crowd, and a banner hung that read "Fuck Midterms" in pretty pink letters.

It was hardly anything like a frat party, way more organized and less crowded.

"I'm going to find a real drink," Suguru announced, craning his neck to yell over the music. "You want something?"

"I'm good." Gojo kept his eyes on the crowd, looking for the one person he couldn't stop thinking about.

It didn't take long for him to find you, a talent he developed after two years of fixating on you.

You were standing near the far wall with Shoko and Yuki, a drink in one hand and the other gesturing something that made Shoko laugh. His breath caught, eyes burning because he refused to blink.

Your outfit was innocent enough, cute as fuck if anything and that was a problem. You were dressed like a sweetheart, wearing a checkered brown skirt with tights, a brown shirt that fell half off your shoulders and white socks paired with your favorite Mary Janes shoes. Bow in your hair.

Dressed as if you weren't a massive bitch that made his dick hard every time you were mean to him. Gojo hadn't even known he was a masochist until he met you.

His chest did something stupid when you tossed your head forward and laughed, hair that he desperately missed pulling, falling into your face.

Fuck, he was miserable.

You were, objectively and infuriatingly, the most beautiful woman in the room. On the campus. In the entire country. Had Gojo met every woman in Japan to know that? No and he didn't need to. It was an undeniable fact that no one could touch you in the beauty department.

He took another sip of his terrible beer, noticing that some guy across the room was looking at you too. Gojo's hand tightened around his cup hard enough to make the pink plastic crack.

You weren't his. He knew that, you made it very fucking clear. But knowing it and accepting it were two different things, and right now the gap between you felt like the Grand Canyon.

And then he saw Suguru.

His so called friend was moving through the crowd and heading straight toward your group. Gojo frowned, stomach dropping when he remembered their conversation at the bar.

"How about a little friendly competition, huh Satoru?"

Suguru clearly hadn't forgotten it and if looks could kill, Gojo would be in handcuffs right now.

When his best friend reached your group, he watched him say hello to your friends before he leans in to whisper something to you. Gojo felt his adrenaline spike, a dangerous type of jealousy making his stomach twist.

You turned toward Suguru, and Gojo watched your face shift into something polite but guarded. He almost laughed until you smiled at whatever his friend had said to you.

It wasn't the same smile you gave him in the privacy of his apartment but it was a smile Suguru didn't deserve. What the fuck did he know about effort? About humiliating himself over and over just for a second of your time?

When you said something back and Suguru laughed, he decided he was done standing around and letting his friend attempt to sweep you off your feet.

So he drained his cup, crushed it and left it on the nearest surface before he started walking toward you.

You felt his presence before you saw him, just as you did the same night you met him. That was the thing about Gojo, when he decided to move, the air seemed to rearrange itself around him, like even the molecules knew to get out of his way.

"—and that's when I told him, 'Bro, you cannot microwave aluminum foil,'" Suguru was saying, and you laughed because it was genuinely funny, even if the person delivering it was operating under a misconception about your interest level.

You weren't stupid. You remembered what Gojo told you, how his friend had entered some petty competetion over you, one you wanted nothing to do with.

He was nice, cute even, you sometimes enjoyed his company when your friends occasionally invited him to your hang outs. But that was the extent of it, there was nothing else there for you.

He wasn't Gojo.

So when he started hitting on you, complementing your hair and twirling it in his fingers, you immediately thought of Gojo and how he did the same thing at his frat party two years ago.

You kindly pull your head away, annoyed because Shoko and Yuki seemed to have disappeared and now you'd have to let down someone you thought was your friend.

"Look." You hear your throat. "I don't know what you're doing but I'm not into frat boys so let's just end this here alright? You’re nice and-"

"What if I told you I was different from the others?" Suguru leaned his shoulder against the wall, hands tucked in his pocket.

You raised an eyebrow. "I'd say you sound exactly like the others."

"Ouch."

You almost felt bad, but the fact was that your brain kept comparing him to someone else and that comparison wasn't in his favor. Better to let him down now.

You opened your mouth to tell him that you were flattered but not looking for anything right now, some line you had to use against every other guy that tried to hit on you since Gojo stopped leaving territorial marks on your neck.

Then the air shifted and suddenly there was a very tall, very white-haired interruption standing directly in front of you both.

You knew he was pissed because he wasn't looking at you but at his friend who only smirked back at him. Perfect, fucking splendid.

How did you end up in this mess? Stuck between two idiots and ditched by your own friends. This was not how the night was supposed to go.

"Satoru." You look up at him, straightening your posture, hearts bouncing in your eyes because he looked hot as fuck. "I didn't know you were coming."

"I didn't either." He kept his eyes on Suguru and just as you were about to walk away, he gently grabbed your arm, keeping you in place. You glared up at him but he didn't break, just kept you right by his side.

"Don't leave now, princess. I just wanted to know what was so funny, care to repeat Geto?"

Suguru's expression flickered just for a second, a flash of amusement before he settled back into his easy charm and shrugged.

You snatch away from Gojo. His jealously was hot but annoying as fuck, since you already told the idiot that you had no interest in his friend but clearly he didn't believe you.

You hated repeating yourself.

"I was actually just about to-" You started.

"Actually," Gojo cut in, stepping closer to you, and you could see the way his jaw tightened. "I need to talk to you about the project. The psychology project. The one we're partners on. Remember? Huge chunk of our grade?"

You stared at him with a look that said you would strangle him if he didn't fuck off. "It's eleven o'clock at night."

"Academic emergencies don't have business hours."

"We have a meeting on Tuesday."

"This can't wait until Tuesday."

You wanted to laugh because he was clearly lying, but fine, you'd humor him. It was easier to let Gojo down then Suguru and you were going to light his fucking ass up for embarrassing you.

So you let him grab your hand and pull you through the crowd, ignoring the hole Suguru was burning into your back. Ignoring the looks people gave you as Gojo pulled you into the nearest room and closed the door, locking it behind him.

You didn't waste time, skin hot and tight with anger. You pushed him back against the door, pointing your finger at his chest.

"Where do you get off acting like your own me? How fucking dare you humiliate me like that?"

Gojo eyes look like a kicked puppy but the rest of his face was pissed off, jaw tight, nose flared and cheeks tinted pink.

"He was manipulating you and you were letting him."

You laugh and throw your hands up. "I can handle myself! And news flash, I'm not your fucking girlfriend, I can do and talk to whoever I want.

"What?" He pushes himself off the door, moving closer to you and forcing you to move back. "You think Suguru can handle you? Can fuck you better than I can? Deal with your bratty attitude like I do?" Gojo was fuming, growing hotter by the second as he watched your chest heave and was overcome with the desire to rip your shirt off.

Fuck you and that stupid outfit.

You stare dumbfounded for a second before something else takes over and you smile, crossing your arms and taking another step back. Fine, you could play this game too. If he wanted to embarrass you then you would demean him.

"You want me so bad? Get on your knees and beg."

You think he'll laugh at you, tell you to cut your bullshit and say something about how he's Satoru Gojo and tell you to go to hell. So imagine your surprise when he steps closer before slowly lowering himself to floor, his hands coming to hold your hips as he titled his head back to keep his eyes on yours.

They were stripped of every trace of their usual arrogance. There wasn't a hint of the cocky frat president who flirted his way through life. Just a man who looked exhausted.

Your mouth slightly opens, heart hammering in your chest because what the fuck? You're caught off guard but do your best to keep your face twisted, not wanting him to notice your surprise.

You were still pissed off but smirk. "Good boy."

Gojo lets out a breathy laugh, placing his head on your lower belly and laughing before pulling back again.

"I'm begging you." His thumbs rub smooth against your sides and your body jolts in response. If he notices, he doesn't acknowledge it, just keeps looking at you with desperate and pleading eyes.

"I just need one date, one chance. I promise I won't let you down."

You consider it, life as his girlfriend. Pros? Limitless sex, obviously. Then there was the fact that no one had made you truly laugh like he did, not since you lost your dad. He listened to you even when you raged at him, saw right through your mean girl shield, even was brave enough to call you out on it. He left an entire fraternity, that's how well he listened.

Cons? Your pride. The whispers that would inevitably spread around campus the second people found out the ex frat president was dating the girl who'd spent two years publicly despising him.

The biggest one though? You had to admit you were wrong. That you deprived yourself of genuine love because you were scared that this was all an act, because you let your mother's own dating record warp your perception of men and relationships.

You still hated frats, that would never change but Gojo was more than a frat boy, he left it just to prove to you that he was different. That couldn't be faked, right?

You sigh, reaching a hand down to push his hair from his eyes and swallow the rising bile. "Ok, Satoru."

Gojo leans back and blinks, adams apple bobbing when he swallows, knees shifting. "Yeah?"

"Don't make me regret it," you muttered.

The corners of his mouth twitched upward, hope flickering across his face so quickly it hurt to look at. It made your stomach flutter.

"Just to be clear," you said before he could get carried away, pointing a finger at his chest. "We're not dating. This is a chance for you to prove yourself."

He nods all too fast, quickly standing and before you can even blink, pressing his lips against yours. Your eyes widened before you sink into it, letting his tongue slip into your mouth and his hands pull you close.

Gojo spent the next week damn near glued to your hip, taking you on dates that ended with steamy make out sessions and him eating your pussy because you wouldn’t let him fuck you just yet.

He did everything that would make anyone swoon: every day flowers, romantic displays of affection, paying for literally anything you needed or didn’t need, constantly telling you just how beautiful you were and how lucky he was.

Only it meant something more coming from Gojo.

Your first date was at some fancy restaurant and while you appreciated it, the best by far was going to the movies to the newest Spiderman film. Gojo sat by your side, his hand reaching to hold yours. You settled into it, letting yourself relax into his touch despite the still lingering unsureness. He just smiled at you, lifting your hand to kiss it six times.

“Favorite number is six, remember?”

You used your vibrator until it died, that night.

Now here you were, sitting across from him on his bed with your legs crossed as you played 21 questions, opting for staying in since it hadn't stopped raining. It felt weird being back at his place since the last time you were here was the day you ended things.

"Ok, your turn." You smile and pulled down your rising shirt, boobs spilling from the tank top you had left at his pace.

It disturbed you when realized just how much of your shit was at his place. You even had a toothbrush there, and it was so domestic it made you sick.

"Hmm, what's your biggest fear and why?"

You take a second to think, finding it harder each passing day to think when he stared at you like that, like you were the only person in the world. Gojo was good at holding eye contact and you usually were too, until it came to him.

"Umm, probably being haunted by a spirit."

Gojo laughs hard enough that you notice the very small dimples on his face, unnoticeable to anyone not paying attention.

Your neck burns as you reach forward to smack his chest, his body falling back on the bed. You don't think, because you're terrible at that around him, and climb over his body. Your hair crowns around your face, hands placed by the side of his head to keep yourself up, and you glare down at him even though there's no bite to it.

"What's funny?"

Gojo's laugh eases into a smile, his hands coming up to hold your hips, eyes softening.

'Spirits aren't real, sweetheart. You have nothing to be afraid of."

You pout, pretty glossed lips sending blood rushing straight to his cock. Gojo has to actively restrain himself from flipping you over and taking you right there.

He couldn't rush this, had to keep patient until you made the first move.

"Fine, but what if it's different? Like some kind of monster, like.. a curse?"

Gojo fits a brow. "A curse?"

You groan and lower your head to his chest, flustered and embarrassed because you had no idea what you were talking about. "Whatever." you mumbled, voice muffled by his body.

Gojo wraps his arms around you and reaches down to kiss the top of your head, pulling you tight.

"Then I'd exorcise it."

It's your turn to laugh, looking up at him while he tucks your hair behind your ear. "I don't think you can beat a curse. You’d lose."

He just shrugs, thumb rubbing at your bottom lip.

"Nah I'd win."

"Uh huh, sure." You sit back up and don't miss the way Gojo's smile drops by an inch, sitting back and crossing your legs again.

Your belly Is doing all kind of flips when he sits up, his shirt rising just enough to show off his sleeper build and the print of his hard cock pressing against his sweats.

"My turn. What's your biggest regret in life?"

He takes a moment before speaking, looking down at his lap before locking eyes with you. "Not making you mine sooner."

You swallow hard, the sound of your blood rushing in your ears while you covered up your rattled state with an eye roll and a push of his shoulder, which he just lazily smirks at.

"Ha ha ha, very funny. Next question."

"Question twenty-one. Can i kiss you?"

And your body moves before your brain does, nodding your head and gasping when he pulls you closer, helping you climb on his lap, your knees settling on either side of his hips. You look down at him, forehead pressed to his as you breathed each other in, Gojo smiling and playing with your hair.

"Missed you." He huffed, his eyes locked on your lips. You closed yours, his attention too overwhelming and it made your head spin.

"I know."

"You're driving me insane," he breathed against your mouth,, lips grazing yours and making you shiver.

"Good," You whispered. "You deserve it."

And when his lips finally pressed against yours, you swear your soul left your body. That’s the only way to explain what you were feeling, the entire world forgotten as he held your face and kissed you like it had been years instead of weeks.

You poured the same passion back, relieved because you were finally letting yourself feel. To lose yourself in his touch without guilt eating at you. Gojo wasn't a frat boy anymore, he had showed you just as much. You hadn't broken any promise to yourself, you were allowed to be happy if only for a night.

The fight had finally, catastrophically failed. Your mouth was hot and demanding, and when he gripped your waist, you pressed closer, rolling your hips forward and making his breath hitch.

You pulled away first, huffing into each others space as you caught your breath. You smiled, he smiled and everything felt so right, like this is where you finally decided to stop depriving yourself of full breaths and you could finally breathe properly.

"You miss me that much?" You roll your hips again, taking pride in the way he gasps and his cock twitches against your shorts.

He laughs, and the vibration of it makes you shiver. "You're so evil.. my mean princess."

And then you were kissing again, deeper, messier, all tongue and teeth and the wet, desperate sounds of two people who had spent too long forbidden of consuming each other.

His hands slid up your shirt, toying with the straps of your bra and making your nipples harden. You arched into him as he unsnapped it and pulled it off, fingernails scraping against his scalp and he swallowed the sound you made.

"Off." You said, tugging at his shirt. "Take this off."

He pulled it over his head in one motion and tossed it somewhere. you stopped to look at him, eyes tracing the lines of his shoulders, the definition of his chest and then you leaned forward and pressed your lips to his collarbone, and Gojo thought he might actually lose his mind.

"Damn I missed this, missed you so much baby." he said, voice rough.

"Yeah?" You lick a long stripe up his neck and pull back to look at him, eyes cloudy with lust. "Show me."

Gojo flipped you and before you could blink, you were on your back and he was between your legs, sitting back on his knees as he pulled your shirt off.

It was his time to admire you, eyeing your tits like they were candy and Gojo swears he almost drooled. You were somehow more beautiful then the last time he saw you like this, if that were at all even possible.

You were going to be the death of him, he was sure of it.

"Fuck, you're unbelievable." And he was leaning down, pressing his face to one of your boobs and inhaling deeply before taking the nipple in his mouth.

You head tossed back, a loud moan spilling from your lips because it had been entirely too long since he was on you. You wanted to skip the foreplay, needed him inside you so bad that you might pass out from excitement but you were patient, knowing he needed this just as much as you needed him.

Then he kissed his way down your body, slow and deliberate, pausing at the ridge of your ribs, the soft skin just below your navel. Your breath was coming faster now, your fingers tangled in the sheets.

"Satoru." The way you said his name, half plea, was the most beautiful sound he'd ever heard.

"Tell me to stop and I stop."

"Don't stop."

He pulled your shorts and panties down, slowly, pressing kisses to your hips as he went. You trembled something desperate and he looked up at you, blue eyes shining with pride and your expression was so raw and vulnerable that something in his chest cracked wide open.

You never let him see you like this, your eyes glossy with tears.

"You're beautiful," he said, staring directly at your leaking cunt plastered in his face.

"Shut up," You whispered but your voice broke on the words and Gojo took that as his sign to put his mouth on you.

The first lick had you moaning like he was already fucking you and Gojo swears up and down that your juices had some kind of addictive in it, making his tongue tingle and his throat burn for more.

Then he was gripping your hips to pull you closer, too deranged to hear your gasp, and pressing his face against your pussy, sucking your clit into his mouth.

He would remember the sound you made for the rest of his life, a sharp gasp that turned into a broken moan. Your hand flew to his hair, gripping tight, and bucking your hips against him. Gojo took his time, learning you with his tongue, reading every shiver and sigh like it was a secret language only he would ever understand.

No other man would ever be able to read you like he could, make you feel as euphoric as he knew how to.

You were his and fuck, Gojo was going to show you better than he could tell you.

So he ate your pussy like a starved man (he was starving for you, to be clear), your cries and moans only spurring him on. You were falling apart under his mouth and the way you grinded against him for more had him dizzy, totally drunk on your sweetness.

"Hnnnghhh, please S-satoru, oh god I can't take it!" You cried when he lightly bit your clit and immediately licked at your hole, pushing his tongue in.

He didn't stop. He held your hips steady and worked you through it, feeling your thighs shake against his hand and moving his tongue in circles, using a hand to rub at your clit.

He was crazed, blue eyes brighter than ever as he watched you while he sent you to nirvana. You cried, tears falling from the corner of your eyes as you looked down at him, mouth dropped open and eyebrows furrowed.

You knew you were a sex addict, that much was obvious but you didn't realize just how much you needed this. You lied, convincing yourself that your fingers and vibrator could make you cum just as well Gojo.

A fat fucking lie.

Nothing, absolutely nothing could compare to the way he was fucking you with his tongue right now. You were on the brink, your stomach twisting more and more the closer you got.

You tightened your grip on his hair, back arching off the bed and legs wrapping around his neck. Gojo was trapped but he was exactly where he wanted to be and he'd have to be pried off you cold and dead before he made you squirt in his mouth.

Fuck, he needed it so bad, so he applied more pressure to your swollen clit, used his tongue to fuck your gummy walls faster.

A wave was building deep in your core and when you broke, it was with a cry that pulled from somewhere far inside of you. Your spine arched impossibly further, his name desperately spilling from your lips and he had to use his free hand to keep your hips down.

He didn't pull back when you squirted, lapping up what he could and letting the rest splash his face. He wanted it all, not letting up until your body collapsed against the bed and you were pushing him away.

He wiped his face and stood to take off his pants and boxers, his nine inches rock hard and leaking at the red, mushroom tip.

The bed dipped from his weight as he kissed his way back up your body. You were breathing hard, eyes half-closed, cheeks flushed. The most beautiful girl, truly.

When he reached your face and kissed the side of your mouth, you looked at him like he grew an extra head, an amused laugh leaving your lips.

"Where the hell did you learn that?"

He smirks, all cocky and insufferable like the Gojo you knew and your heart skips a beat. "Natural talent, princess."

"I hate you."

He smiles even wider, leaning down to nuzzle his nose against yours. "No you don't."

You don't confirm or deny it and that's more than enough for Gojo. Baby steps were still steps, right?

When he kissed you again, you could taste yourself on his tongue, and it sent you reeling, your need for him spiking to dangerous levels.

"Inside me," You whispered against his lips. "Now. Please."

And who was Gojo to deny you? What his princess wants, she gets. So he didn't waste a second, rubbing his cock between your slick for lube before lining himself up with your entrance.

He pressed into you slowly, agonizingly slow. You were warm and slick and tight, and every inch felt like a revelation, like your pussy held the secrets to the universe and Gojo was desperate for answers.

You were squeezing him so fucking tight he couldn't breathe and neither could you, gasping and clawing red marks down his back the further he pushed in.

"Satoru, haah, you're so big." You cried, a tear sliding down your chin that he gladly licked at.

"I know, baby. You're doing s-so good, shit, just lay there and let me worship you."

You wrapped your legs around him, heels pressing into the small of his back, and he bottomed out and you both went still, foreheads pressed together, breathing the same air.

Each slow thrust was deliberate, the veins of his cock dragging against your walls and as much as you wanted to close your eyes, you kept them open and held his gaze.

The rhythm built between you was organic as you met him movement for movement, your hips rising to meet his, your hands mapping the landscape of his back like you were committing it to memory.

This wasn't like before. Before had been fast and rough and performative, two people using each other to scratch an itch, always one foot out the door. This was different.

"Missed you too, Toru." You force the words from your throat. You weren't strong enough to return his love yet, but you hoped that he understood what you were saying. What you couldn't say.

"I know, baby."

And he pushed in further, hitting all of your deepest spots, cock pressing at the wall of your cervix and rubbing against your g spot. The rhythm hardly shifted but it was more desperate now.

You were so soft, Gojo could feel you soaking his pubes and the heaven sent sloshing sounds every time he slammed back into you did nothing to stop the tightening of his balls.

You were gripping around him, your breath coming in short, sharp bursts, and he could feel his own edge approaching, a white-hot coil low in his stomach.

Gojo had never come this fast before, but he was helpless to stop it. It was as if your pussy got tighter, wetter because you were finally opening up to him.

"Stay with me, yeah?" He grips one of your legs and lifts it, pressing it to your chest and smacking into you so hard that the headboard hits against the wall. Fucking you absolutely stupid.

"Yes! God, yes Satoru. I'm, I-m"

He doesn't stop, refused to stop even though he can barely breathe and when you squeeze him in heartbeats, head thrown back in a silent cry with drool sliding down your chin, he knows.

So he goes harder, faster, going insane as you come undone on his cock, your nails burning into his back and he's coming so hard that his eyes roll back and his vision goes white for a second.

He's pushing as deep as he can, load after load of warm cum stuffing you full and dripping down your ass, onto the sheets. Gojo's thighs tense, fucking you into mattress as his hips twitch sloppily and he feeds your pussy all of his thick white seed.

He could feel you still pulsing around him, feel the way your body pulled him deeper, and for a long, suspended moment, there was nothing else. No past hatred, no outside forces trying to steal you from him.

Just this. You underneath him panting and rubbing at the marks you left on his back. Him above you, kissing at every inch of your face and holding you close like you might disappear.

Neither of you say anything, you don't really need to. Enough had been said and done that you both know what the other is thinking at this point.

The only problem? Gojo's dick was still hard as fuck and you were still clenching around him.

So he didn't say anything, just held your waist tight and flipped your bodies until he was lying on his back and you were seated atop his, biting your lip and failing to hide your smile.

You placed your hands on his red chest and moved your hips forward, sighing at the pure bliss his cock gave and sinking all the way down, so full you could feel him in your stomach. Gojo licks his lips and rubs at your sides, encouraging you to move without speaking.

You listen, slowly sliding up before slamming down, his cum dripping out your pussy and down his length. The sight made Gojo territorial. If that didn't scream that you were his, he didn't know what would.

"Look at you.. so full of me."

You don't answer him, rocking your hips back and forth, up and down, picking up your pace because you just couldn't get enough of him. You had went far too long without his cock and you felt like an addict experiencing relapse.

You were on a different planet. One that consisted of only you, Gojo and his massive cock hitting your deepest parts. Your body rose until only the tip was in before slamming back down.

His hands guided your hips, setting a pace that had both you heated and desperate, and made Gojo's toes curl. The room filled with the sound of skin on skin, wet and obscene, and your breath came in short bursts.

Your pussy was sore, having been stretched out by Gojo for the first time in over two weeks but you couldn't stop, too drunk on dick. He just felt so so good that you thought you'd die if you did.

"You feel-" He started and you clenched around him deliberately. "Nghhh, god you feel incredible."

"Stop talking."

"I can't, fuck, you're- I lov-"

You leaned down and kissed him, swallowing whatever he was about to say, and he bit your lower lip, tugging it, one hand sliding down to grip your ass, pulling you harder onto him.

The angle shifted, and suddenly he was placing his feet on the mattress and fucking up into you, dragging your pussy down as he went to work.

"There!" You gasped, breaking the kiss and crying against his lips. "Right there Satoru!"

He grunts, fucking you harder, deeper. Every nerve in his body tuned to the same frequency and the pressure in your belly was spreading outward.

"Satoru-"

"I know." He kisses you. "I can feel you."

The edge was right there, and you were teetering, thighs burning, nails digging into his shoulders. He slid one hand between your bodies, thumb finding your overstimulated clit, and he pressed. Firm, circular, relentless.

It hit you like a dam breaking, every muscle seizing, back arching, a sound ripping from your throat that was straight up pornographic. You clenched around him so hard that he groaned, and you felt him twitch inside you, felt the warmth of him spilling into you as his own orgasm followed yours by mere seconds.

"Fuck, fuck, oh wow- gaaaah, holy shit princess."

You collapsed against his chest and Gojo let his body relax against the bed, cock still seated inside of you, hands rubbing at your back, shoulders burning from the crescent moons you dug into his skin.

"That was," he said.

"Yeah."

"Are we still pretending this doesn't mean anything?"

You pulled back enough to look at him. His hair was a mess, sticking to his sweaty forehead. His eyes were soft and he looked like unbelievably weak, like he had given you everything he had and was waiting to see if you'd throw it in his face.

You didn't, too tired to pretend anymore. You had caught feelings for Gojo long before he left the frat and you couldn't control that no matter how hard you tried to.

"It means something," You admitted.

Gojo released a deep breath, eyes fluttering shut as he whispered a silent prayer before looking back at you, eyes watering. You lean down and kiss them, licking the salty water from your lips.

His smile was so wide it cracked your heart open a little. "Was that so scary?"

You smile back, pushing hair from his forehead. "Oh, the scariest. The horror!"

He laughed, and you felt it vibrate through both of you where you were still connected. You climbed off him reluctantly, collapsing onto the bed beside him, and he pulled you to his chest, dragging a blanket over your naked bodies.

You weren't done with him but you'd let him rest for now.

Gojo caught your hand, pulling it to his mouth and kissing your knuckles. You blushed, groaning and digging your face into his chest. You lay there for a bit, basking in the post sex afterglow, his cum still leaking down your thighs and his lips still pressed against your hand.

"We should start writing," You fall to your back, gasping for air after the fifth round, truly fucked out.

"In a minute." Gojo says, following you to the mattress and embedding himself between your legs.

"Satoru."

"Five more minutes, and didn’t I tell you my favorite number is six?." He whispers against your neck, lifting your legs and pushing his cock as deep as it could go.

You rolled your eyes, both in pleasure and defeat. You couldn't resist him even if you wanted to and with the way your pussy was jumping, you clearly didn't want to.

"Fine. Five minutes and you're writing that conclusion wether you want to or not."

He laughs, pulling out before slamming back into you and pushing leftover cum out, your body moving up the bed and the most delicious moan coming from your lips. "This is the conclusion, sweetheart. Research complete, you're mine."

And you realized, with a mix of irritation and happiness, that Gojo was still insufferable and that some things never changed.

"Ms. (last name), can I speak with you for a moment?" Your psychology professor calls as you and Gojo walk toward the door hand in hand.

He leans down to kiss your lips, then your forehead, telling you: "Be right outside the door."

You smile, biting your lip and watching him leave before reluctantly turning to the woman standing a few feet away.

"It seems you and Mr. Gojo have found common ground." Something about her smile made your brows scrunch up, suspicion settling as you moved closer.

"Yeah, guess he's not as bad as I thought." You shrug, kind of annoyed because none of your friends brought up your relationship so why was she?

She nods and hums, looking around before continuing, her smile only growing and you were starting to get irritated. "Is something wrong?" You ask, pushing your bag up your shoulder impatiently. You wanted to get back to Satoru.

"Everything is perfect, actually. You see, I might have been doing a little experiment of my own."

"Oh?" You raise a brow and look around as if telling her to get on with it.

"I paired up those most unlikely to not get along to see how well Newcomb's theory worked in a college setting. Seems he stands correct and you both passed. Congratulations."

𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓮𝓷𝓭

❦ lisa's note: aaand that's a wrap on my fratjo mini series! thanks for reading, I hope you guys enjoyed it 🫶 tons more gojo and jjk men coming soon so stick around for that, love you all!

explore the library

© art creds: gojouify

You didn't know what you had expected when you walked into his mess of an apartment. More so than usual, enough for you to sense the abnormality of webs upon webs coating his furniture. Stepping into what seems to be a genuine crime scene, it's as if the culprit was one massive spider that decided to make its hive in Ned's apartment.

"Ned?" You call out, worry raised in your tone as you look around—catching no sight of him through the thick layers of webbing. His large monitor screens are all left online, files left unclosed on the window tab, with no sign of their user.

You're one step away from the monitor, tempted to call the cops when you catch sight of crumpled papers upon papers scattered on the wooden floors beneath the desk. Brows furrowed, you crouch down, brushing away the loosened cobwebs coating the papers. They are— letters.

Your first instinct as your fingers trace over his handwriting, paper crumpled at the edges, is to leave it alone as it's most definitely personal—before your eyes catch sight of your name. No—you weren't imagining it. The letters were most definitely, addressed to you.

Hey! It’s Peter, your Peter.

Earlier was bad. Like, really bad. I can't believe I said 'Oh no!' to your face, like what kind of idiot does that as their first impression? Well, technically that wouldn't be our first meeting, though I doubt you'll remember me. I was anything but smooth on all the other occurences either.

Just talking with you in the hallway and carrying your boxes—I nearly forgot myself. I still can't decide if it's a curse or some cruel joke of a blessing that you moved into my apartment complex of all places. It's like the world's trying to tell me to just say the truth.

I should be going out there and telling you this instead of writing this stupid note or letter, but a letter should come in one of those fancy envelopes, so I guess I should call this a note? Anyways, I'm getting off track.

I miss being with you, and I’m so scared I’m starting to forget how it iswas between us, and talking to you again like everything was normal just—I had the urge to sit down and write to you, before I did anything stupid. So I could talk to you, in some way, without hiding behind 'Ned'. How stupid can I be, using Ned's name, like was that seriously all I could think of? I don’t know if this note will be worth anything by the end, but I think it’ll hurt worse if I just let what happened simmer in my brain.

I miss you so, so much. It feels like it's killing me sometimes, and I don't know what to do with myself now that you're here, so close to me, for what could be a really long time. I don't know what hurts worse, being apart from you or this, and I don't know what I'm going to do. You'd know what to say, and I wish you could tell me. I miss you ordering me around. I just miss you.

Love, Your Peter.

Your heart thumps painfully against your ribcage, fingers tightening over the crinkled edges, digging deeper into the forming lines. What kind of sick joke was this? Had he known you for longer—since before you moved into this apartment?

His strange reaction when he had bumped into you in the hallway for the first time reformed in your memory, the intensity of a stranger that came off as more than usual awkwardness.

"Sorry for bumping into you—" You huff, a cramped smile peeking through the many boxes you're carrying. "Not my best line of sight right now."

Past the boxes, is possibly the cutest potential neighbour you've ever seen. With wettened curls drooping over his forehead, a towel draped around his neck, in his grey sweats and baggy hoodie—this stranger looks like a dream. Or maybe you're just in desperate help to ease the load on your arms that carries your entire future life in this new apartment complex.

"What are you doing here?"

You blink, stunned by his sudden interrogation. That was—not what you expected. You run faces through your mind, anyone you may have accidentally pissed off in the last four years of your university life, but his doesn't come to mind at all. You would remember that face.

Especially if he's staring at you like the existence of you in this cramped hallway was a signal that the world was collapsing on him and his perfect curls.

"Uhm, I live here?" You answer, shuffling the boxes awkwardly between your two palms. "Well, starting today—I do."

Your words register slowly for him, and you feel it in the strain of your arms under the boxes, as the fact that you're his actual neighbour slowly kicks in to his senses.

"Oh." His lips part in genuine anguish. "Oh no."

"Yikes." You wince. "That's a warm welcome."

He's panicking. The cute stranger looks like he's one miscalculated breath away from passing out in the hallway, and you're in no position to assist him when you're clearly winded yourself.

"No—I didn't mean—" His voice stutters, catching at the tail-ends and running out of breath. "Oh, this is not how it's supposed to go."

"No, I don't think I've ever caused genuine pain to a neighbour just from my mere existence." You snort, offering a lighter tone. "Though Margeret may disagree."

His lips quirk up slightly, involuntary even if he has no idea who Margeret—your old neighbour, is supposed to be. "No, I'm sorry. That was rude of me." He tries again, voice sincerely apologetic. "Can I please help you with the boxes to make up for it?"

You open your mouth to brush off his request, but the boxes tilt right as you make another forward step. "Fine." You oblige. "Just don't start spreading rumours about me taking advantage of your kindness. I really need a new start here."

"Had personal experience with that?" He raises a brow, almost teasing—softer than he had been earlier in his initial shock. His hands come up under your boxes, brushing over your fingers almost tentatively.

The warmth of his touch lingers for a second longer than it should, but you're too focused on the relief of the heavy weight being lifted off your palms as he carries it into his own arms, clearly handling the boxes with more ease than you had.

"Ask Margeret." You shrug, rolling your shoulders to ease the cramping. "Thanks..."

His lips part and close, realising he's supposed to introduce himself. It takes him awhile to gather the syllables of his name, before he offers it. "..Ned."

"Thanks, Ned." Your smile deepens, and he stares at you long enough, gaze tracing over the curve of your lips for it to teeter towards awkward.

He keeps doing that, registering your presence as something otherworldly, as if it was the last thing he expected in his path. Maybe the complex has few new tenants to explain his abnormal reaction.

"Oh, my door's 13B."

"What—oh, right!" He blinks, still looking stunned and turning with such an abrupt motion towards the direction of your new studio—and somehow, you're fond of it immediately.

Fond of Ned, even if your arrival seems to have jumbled his senses into a frenzy, and you have only known him for approximately four minutes.

Hey, it's Peter again!

It's two in the morning, my ribs are aching from Scorpion, and talking with you in the laundry room was easily the best ten minutes of my life since everything changed. My smile refuses to be wiped and it's been nearly an hour, and I can't sleep cause I'm thinking about you. You genuinely work better than painkillers, and I love you. I love you so much that I have never wished so desperately...

I wish I wasn't Peter Parker. That I wasn't the person who took your love for granted, who reassured you that I'd always make it back to you and that I'd help you remember. I can't even protect the people I love, not without ruining their lives just by letting them in. Being able to keep you safe from me, is the only reason that's enough to keep me from barging in and fulfilling my promise. From reminding you of what I used to mean to you, and what we used to be. I am a coward, but I can only hope that I won't be a selfish one. I've created enough reasons for why I can't stand being me, but I refuse to list another which involves hurting you.

That's enough for tonight. I just wish that if the universe ever gives me the chance to make things right, without making everything else much much worse, I just want you to know that I would never take anything for granted ever again. Over anything. Over pineapple on pizza, or the supremacy of rock bands, or the Lego pieces I stuffed under my bed, or me being Spiderman. I miss you so much, and I hope you're having a better night that I am.

Love, Your Peter.

“Ned, are you okay?” You ask, watching as he limped forward towards the washing machine, one hand gripped right at his ribcage.

Your own batch is tumbling along, and you're seated cross-legged across your machine as he slumps forward to sit right next to you, hand going towards the cover of the conjoined machine beside yours.

“Peachy.” The crinkles of his eyes deepen, tossing you a wayward smile with a barely concealed wince. “Tripped and slammed into the washing machine yesterday.”

“That’s like the third time this month.” You raise a brow, expression contorting in concern.

“Is it?” He chuckles self-deprecatingly. “Must be really off my game.”

“Of making amends with the washing machine?” You tease.

“Yeah, I suppose.” His smile softens, gazing up at you.

He does that a lot, go soft at the edges, as if he’s peeling back something fuzzy over his expression—and revealing something honest.

"My advice is to make an offer." You whisper conspiratorially. "Throw in your most favourite shirt or something, and the laundry gods will be kinder on you."

He snorts, and it feels strangely familiar to talk to him this way, under the dim lighting of the flickering lamp, surrounded by the scent of detergent. You barely get to see Ned as is, not like you're expecting a practical stranger to make up much of your socialising hours, aside from the quick friendly nods and occasional 'how's your day's' when brushing past each other in the hallway.

He's a busy guy, and the laundry mat has become a sacred space where the two of you existed in each other's worlds for just a few minutes, till the timer runs out.

"I don't really have anything of mine that'll please the gods." He whispers back.

"I could give you something." You shrug non-comittally.

His gaze widens, staring at you as you dig around in your inner pocket, before tugging something out. One of your favourite scrunchies in hand, you offer it to him.

"Here." You gesture. "Just toss it in with the pile, I guarantee you that the gods will leave you alone."

His gaze flickers between the scrunchie in your hand to you. He's about to say something, brows furrowing together in brief conflict, but chooses not to divulge as his hand reaches for the scrunchie. You note the bruises forming along his knuckles as his fingers loop around the silk, and your lips press together further in concern.

By the time your gaze meets his, he's already turned his head and placed the scrunchie gently on top of his pile of clothes. When he sets the settings and presses the button, the machine runs smoothly, beeping along with yours as his clothes begin to turn and tumble without fault.

"Wow, you really do make everything better." He mutters to himself.

Your smile softens. "It's just a scrunchie."

He shakes his head loosely, his curls falling to his forehead before he turns back to face you. His gaze pours over your features, the crinkles in the corner of his hazel eyes so soft in the dimmed lighting. "No, I think it’s you."

Peter here!

I just wanted to say happy birthday to the smartest, beautiful, kindest, most awesome human to ever exist! I ran out of other big words, but you make up the whole dictionary of synonyms for amazing in every language possible. I’m really sorry I couldn’t be there, you have no idea how sorry. I have many other things to be sorry for, but this week, that’s definitely going top of the list. I should really stop with these letters, but I really wanted to give you a proper wish just this once.

It kills me that I can’t celebrate with you, and I know you’d end me yourself if you remembered my promise with the camera. You always did like the grain. You still look absolutely beautiful even without it. I’m so proud of you—for being you, and existing, and just killing it out there in the world. I did something a little sad, and not even close to what you deserve, but I bought a cupcake from Delmar's earlier, and I even have the candle right in front of me.

I wish for you to live the most happiest, fulfilling life, and that danger will never come close to you. I wish that you will achieve everything you've ever dreamed of, and that you'll have people who will look after you and love you just as much as I do. I wish—that you'll live a life worth remembering.

I love you, and I think this will be my last letter. I think it'll be nearly impossible for me to let you go, but I think it's time I accepted that for you to live the life I wished for, I have to try.

I love you, Your Peter.

P.S. Sorry, just had to add this in one last time. You're always beautiful, and I'm not saying this because I only get to see you from a distance, but because I don't think I ever got to tell you that enough.

"Ned?" Your voice croaked out. "Is that you?"

You hear shuffling, before his left shoulder peeks out from the doorframe, slowly entering into view as he takes the lower step into the laundry room. He's staring down at you as if you've handed him an atomic bomb, and you're a sure mess, nose stuffy and eyebags swollen from crying.

"Hey." His soft call is close to making you lose it. "I didn't know if you wanted me intruding on your—"

"Date with the washing machine?" You huff, amusement dry as you turn back to look at your tumbling laundry. "By all means, join in. This current option isn't really doing it for me."

You spot the turn of his lips into a smile in your peripheral vision, before he eventually drops his weight beside you. His knee brushes against yours, and that contact registers like lightning to your senses, before he pulls back to that appropriate distance he always sets between the two of you.

You have no idea why it frustrates you so, even if you have nothing you should expect from him. Your gaze drops to his hand resting over his knee, bouncing slightly with a restless energy—and you spot your scrunchie over his wrist.

Your breath shortens, pulling your attention to his face only to find him already looking at you with unbridled concern.

"You okay?" He asks gently.

Your lip trembles, and you steady yourself as much as you are able. "Fine, just a real shit week."

"I'm so sorry to hear that." He's honest, you can hear it even without really looking him in the eye. "If you want, you can rant to me. I'm a real good listening ear. No mouthing off, just a still statue for your needs."

Your lips quirk up slightly at his attempt at minimising his presence, without even knowing how much it mattered to you that he came in here—or that he stood by the door for a solid ten minutes before you called him out. That he didn't leave, even if any normal stranger would.

"It's my birthday." You shrug, wiping at the tearstain at your cheeks. "And I just lost my job."

His lips part, brows pulling together—but he doesn't interrupt you.

"I was supposed to have a party today, and my college friends cancelled last minute." You mutter weakly. "Not that we were super close, but close enough that it mattered, y'know? I wasn't their first pick, or anyone's for the matter, so it really shouldn't have come as a surprise."

"No, you're—" His voice raises almost in frustration, and you meet his gaze. His Adam's apple bobs up and down, and his tone softens into an admission. "You're definitely my first pick."

Your laugh bubbles out of you, finding his statement absurd. "For what? You barely know me."

"I know you're extremely kind." He starts. "That you'd offer your favourite scrunchie to a stranger just to please the laundry gods. That you're funny, and beautiful—and my first pick for who I'd always want to run into."

You stare at him, unable to suppress your shock. He just called you kind, and funny, and beautiful—things people who've known you for longer hasn't thought to mention in years.

"That's—the nicest thing anyone's ever said to me in awhile." You confess, licking at your lips. "Thank you, Ned."

"It's only the truth." He presses. "I shouldn't be the only person to see that, and I know I'm not the only one who does."

"I don't know." You shrug uselessly. "My birthday hasn't even ended, and I feel completely unseen in my own life. I know it's a stupid thing, but I wish I had someone to take my picture, at least to comemorate that I've completed another spin around the Earth or something."

"You could use my camera." He offers almost instinctively.

"You have a camera?" You blink, before a slow smile spreads across your lips. "Of course you do. Do I need to be a tech-savvy to use those too, secret hacker?"

You're no stranger to the many monitors that crowd his apartment, courtesy to the many curious glances past the few times he's left his door ajar, into the premises of his own studio of what looked to be a completely different realm.

His smile deepens. "No, you just need to press two buttons. I could teach you how to work it out."

"You're into photography?" You ask.

His expression stiffens, thoughts trailing off. "Yeah, something like that. My aunt used to love taking physical photos, and I sorta inherited that trait. There was someone—who used to love using my film camera too. So, yeah—I guess I have some experience."

"You could teach me photography." You offer, almost tentatively. "Not just for the sad, lone birthday picture, I mean."

"Oh." He stares at you, and you see it then. Conflict—a pure, unmasked internal battle. "I—I don't know if I'm the right person."

You shrink slightly, less confident than you had been a few seconds ago. This really wasn't your day. "Right, sorry. I know you're a really busy person."

"No, I—" He winces, jaw clenching tight. "I would really love to. It's just that I'm—"

He pauses, staring at you with a nearly broken expression. Your brows furrow together, waiting for his answer—heart thumping in what could only be anticipation. Rejection is close at hand, and you hate that you find yourself waiting still, for something different. For him to fulfill something even you couldn't quite understand.

"Busy." He eventually settles on, voice trailing off in defeat.

You can't take it to heart. You don't allow yourself to, because disappointment is the last thing you wanted a taste of on a day like this. Ned was still nice enough to sit down here with you while you moped, and you shouldn't expect anything more. Even if you liked him, and the crinkles in the corners of his warm, brown eyes, and the sweet sound of his voice—more than you'd ever admit to yourself.

"That's not very creative." You mumble, presenting him with a weakened attempt of a smile. "I gave you that excuse, thief."

His own softened smile rises to meet yours, equally shattered. "I'm sorry. I promise I'll make it up to you."

You know he means it, you just don't know why your heart churns so painfully when you hear those words coming out of his mouth. You don't know if you have faith in promises lately. You haven't believed in those for a really long time.

You don't know how many letters you've gone through, flipping through confessions scribbled in secrecy, of mind-spells, and magic, and vigilantes—a life you don't even remember to be a fraction of your world.

A loud crash resounds behind you and you instinctively rise, tripping over your feet—almost frightened, lashes wet at the corner of your eyes when you turn and see Ned. No, Peter—dressed in a black tank-top much too short for his defined torso and… Juicy Couture pants?

He’s clearly disoriented, and you’re not sure if it’s the chronic migraines he usually gets—or something heavier he keeps hidden past the pile of letters that’s just spilled everything. You can barely look at him without feeling like you’re going to burst at the seams, and he hasn’t even noticed your presence in his apartment.

“What is this?” Your voice eventually breaks through.

His head snaps up, expression scrunched in tension—and he freezes. That same tentative smile he always tossed to you, always sweet and somehow all-too-knowing, locks in place as his lips part—assuming you’re talking about his outfit. Or the state of his apartment, there’s just too much about him that you could never quite put a finger on.

“Wrong laundry basket.” He huffs, churning out an attempt of a laugh to play it off. “Fell asleep in the laundry room, and I didn't even think to take a look at what's inside. I promise I'm not a thief.”

“Stop.” Your stern expression is caught by him immediately, and his attempt of a smile falters. Slowly, your hand raises the letters to his line of vision. "Peter."

His gaze snaps to the letters creased between your shaking fingers. You can't remember what breathing looks like, especially not when his own chest stutters visibly beneath the tank top, as if all the oxygen's been sucked out of him.

He knows, that you know.

"Oh—no." He whispers weakly, because that is the only appropriate thing to say. You’re struck with déjà vu, back to the first time you ever crossed paths with him in the hallway, when he had looked you with so much pain—one you couldn’t decipher.

He takes a step forward towards you, both hands raised with his lips parting to come up with an explanation. You instinctively take a step back, not on purpose, but the distance you've created lands all the same.

He flinches as if you've struck him, his expression shattered to pieces of that raw agony you've felt slip up from him once or twice. That same gaping sadness beneath his gaze, that he always covered up with a bandaged smile meant more for show.

"I'm sorry." His voice breaks weakly, hands clenching into a fist before dragging back down to his sides. "I didn't mean to scare you. Oh god, this was not how this was supposed to go."

"How was this supposed to go?" You echo back to him. "From your letters, it didn't seem like you were ever going to tell me."

It didn't mean to sound accusatory, but you're high on the precipice of a reality broken to pieces, and you're unsure if you're left alone in apartment with an actual lunatic, or with a truth you weren't suppose to discover.

"No, I—" He sucks in a breath, desperation seeping into his tone. "I swear I was going to, but then I found you and you looked so—"

His hands that have begun to brush through his curls fall flatly to the sides, defeated. "So peaceful—and safe. I felt so selfish to take that away from you. To drag you back into my world, knowing that all you'd face was danger or worse."

"And the truth is that hurt the people I love." He admits, his eyes squinting together as something wet flickers over his lashes, and you can tell he believes it. This so-called truth he tells himself. "Nothing good comes out of being close to me, and I couldn't lose you."

"I had to be okay with it." His gaze meets yours, broken. "Not being in your life will always be better than a world without you in it. I had to protect you, somehow—even if it meant leaving you alone."

"It was easier before you came." He huffs out, pained. "To keep a distance before I saw you everyday, just out of reach. I can't count the amount of times I nearly told you. I was just afraid, that if you didn't remember me, I don't think I can—live with hearing it. I'm a coward, and I took the only path I knew, which was to pretend. Like everything was fine, and that seeing you from a distance was enough."

You see it, the way his brain registers his actions as protection, but you don't feel protected. You feel isolated, locked out of your own memories and faced with a man you're supposed to know, someone your body is pleading for you to recognise past the fog in your brain.

“Listen—whatever worked worked, and I can’t remember.” You breathe out, exhale shaky from your lips. “I can’t remember what we had, but I know myself. I don't let people make promises to me, not unless I trust them so much that I—If you promised you’d find me, that you’d help me remember.” Your fist clenches tighter around the letters. "You should've known that I'd never be okay with leaving you alone to deal with this—"

"How could you know that?" He snaps.

You blink, stunned.

"I mean—you never had a normal life from the moment you met me." He goes on. "You never experienced a life without hoping I'd make it back home safe, without looking over your shoulder when I became the world's public enemy, or having to deal with stitches and blood and worrying about survival—instead of school!"

"You don't see the difference but I do." He confesses. "You're living a good life now, and I already screwed it up by entering it again."

"Peter." You cut him off, nearly pleading. "Stop it."

His jaw locks, lips clamping shut before he lets out a huff, one closer to a panic attack than frustration. "I'm sorry." He mutters, clenching his jaw. Something wet pries behind his lashes, and he runs his palms over them, covering his face. "I don't want to fight."

Your heart cracks a little, because there's something so heartbreakingly earnest in the way he says it, as if he's beating himself up over a million thoughts you can't uncover. Your steps inch closer, almost instinctively your body knowing the rhythm at the sight of a distraught Peter before you even have the chance to piece together the 'why'.

"We're not fighting, Peter." You reassure him, your hands tentatively lifting to rest atop his palm.

He freezes, unable to comprehend your touch. You peer through the gaps of his fingers, and find his gaze staring back at you, fractured and pained.

"I knew something wasn't right." You sigh. "I felt it this whole time. Like there was an absence of something—someone important. It gnawed at me, that emptiness, and it nearly drives me insane some nights."

He recognises the feeling, you know he does with the way his expression draws tighter—in understanding, in regret.

"I wish you came to me." You whisper. "I wish you told me, so you wouldn't have to go through this alone."

His lip trembles, as if he never expected you to hear the truth and stay. As if you'd pick the exit over him, when he clearly needs you now.

"If I had promised I'd be there for you, you should've let me keep that promise." You scold gently. "Even if it meant starting over. You’re not meant to deal with life alone, much less one as heavy as yours.”

His gaze is shaken, staring at you with his pupils blown wide. Waiting for reality to hit, or for you to take back your words—but you remain. You stand there, close enough for him to feel you. You don't falter.

Something in Peter gives—shatters completely, and it’s a mere blink before his arms are completely wrapped around you, squashing you into his chest. His fingers are shaking, trembling—a relieved exhale pressed against your shoulder blade before he buries himself deep into the crook above your collarbone.

“I missed you.” Wet tears pool at your skin. “So, so much. It felt like I was dying a little inside every single day, knowing I wasn't keeping your promise. I couldn't—I really tried letting go and it didn't work, not when you mean everything to me."

"I know you don't remember me or what happened between us but—" His voice shakes, muffled from his tight hold. "I love you and I’m sorry—I’m so sorry for everything.”

You can't answer him, not with the words he wants or deserves to hear with full honesty backing it, not without the memories you used to share. Yet, the hold of him is familiar, the way you run your fingers through his curls like memory work. His entire body caves in deeper to your touch, as if he’d been waiting this whole time since your arrival to let himself fall into you.

"From the first day I saw you." You admit. "I felt like I was meant to know you, Peter. I wouldn't have given you my scrunchie if it didn't mean something, if I didn't want to tie myself to you in some way."

Pulling back slightly so he meets your gaze, you find yourself mesmerised by the familiarity of him, the way his gaze pours over you automatically as if memorising you is all he wishes to do.

"I want to get to know you, Peter." You confess. "And I want to do it without you pushing me away, pretending like my life is happier without you when laundry nights are what I look forward to the most, because of you."

His breath halts, short-circuiting with your words. Something bright and warm bleeds into his face, and you recognise it to be happiness. Genuine, unconditional relief—before his forehead presses against yours, his lashes fluttering to a close as he embraces you.

"I can do that." He mutters softly. "I'll do anything you ask me to."

It's nice, to be held so tightly and finally feel whole. To have that gap in your chest you've never truly stitched up fade into something mind-numbingly warm and fuzzy, in the arms of the one person your body still commits to memory, past even some stupid mind spell.

“Also.." You murmur, still wrapped in his embrace. "Seriously, what is this outfit?"

A surprised chuckle escapes his lips, a little wet-sounding as he clears his throat. "I wasn't lying about the laundry mishap. I swear I don't dress like this normally."

You hum. "I don't know, I kind of like it."

The silence stretches for a brief second. "I'll buy more if you want me to."

You tilted your head slightly as he stopped talking. You didn’t think Peter would still be stunned seeing you after he just spent the evening fucking you into a different reality. Well that’s how you felt anyway.

He cleared his throat when he saw that you caught him staring.

“You were saying?” You stated with an amused smile.

“I…” He blinked once before dragging his attention back to the machine. “You distracted me.”

The tips of his ears turned pink before he busied himself in finishing the inhibitor.

“Uh huh” You rolled your eyes lightly when he moved around you, turning you by your hips.

You stopped him before he sat down, reaching up giving him a quick peck on his cheek.

He turned his head and caught your kiss as you immediately kissed back. His hands that were on your hips pulled you against him.

His hand slid around and rested at the small of your back, holding you. The sudden intensity of it had you leaning further back and his arm curled around your waist, supporting you.

You tilted your head back letting out a breathless laugh. His lips dropped to your throat and you felt his grin against your skin.

Your fingers slid into his curls, tugging lightly so he looked back up at you.

"You were saying?" You teased playfully.

"Huh?"

"Oh-" His eyes widened slightly and his face flushed.

“Uh, And if this works…” he continued, smoothly slipping back into the previous conversation “…I should be able to suppress that side of me.”

He gave you a quick kiss on the cheek before letting go of you. He sat down in front of the monitors as you hovered over him.

Your brows furrowed slightly at his words, “What, the Spider side? The thing that quite literally makes you Spider-man?”

You stood behind him, watching him analyze something in the screens. On one monitor it showed an X-ray of him and his health levels. Including his arachnid DNA that were currently level but had been spiking lately.

“No-No” He shook his head. “The part that just keep changing.”

He nodded towards one of the monitors and you draped your arms over his broad shoulders, your chin on top of his head of dark curls.

A full scan of his body rotated slowly across the screen. Sections of his body glowed amber alongside lines of data you couldn’t even begin to understand.

“I don’t want to wake up one day and have turned into an actual spider.” He attempted a laugh as he squeezed your hand that rested on his chest.

“It just keeps the other side balanced, like it was before.”

You remembered when he first told you he woke up in a cocoon of webs, hanging off the side of his building, naked.

You found humor in it at first until just a few nights later your bedroom turned into the same thing. You were still finding webs. It almost looked like it had marked every corner of the house like its territory.

Your eyes remained fixed on the screens.

He wasn’t treating a symptom. He was rewriting himself. His DNA. Which even for our standard was insane.

Peter called for E.V., asking it to run another test.

The AI responded but you barely heard it. Your mind started going through different dilemmas on this. On one hand, you understood why he was doing this. But on the other, this wasn’t natural.

Even for someone as smart as Peter, this wasn’t still dangerous and could have long term consequences.

He gave your hand a pat before he stood up, brushing past you to retrieve the finished inhibitor.

“Wait-“ You looked between him and the machine.“…Do you really think this is a good idea?”

His brow furrowed,“What do you mean?”

“I mean…”

You gestured helplessly towards the screens.

“You’re changing yourself.”

“I’m stopping something dangerous.” He stated like it was obvious.

“You’re suppressing a part of yourself that’s natural.” You said softer, trying to reason with him.

He laughed but it held no emotion, “Natural?”

“Because of me an officer almost died. A person.”

Your chest tightened,“I know.”

“And-and, you know what the worst part was?”

He didn’t wait for an answer.

“I knew it was happening.”

His eyes fixed on the screen,“I could feel it.”

“My heart started racing, everything got louder…” He swallowed. “I-I could hear everything. The moment their heart beat shifted and they were afraid of me.”

You didn’t say anything for a moment as you felt the heavy weight of his words.

“You weren’t yourself.” You tried to assure him but you knew this was just another guilt he’d carry.

“No.” He turned back to look at you.

“So let’s- let's figure out why, we can do that-”

His hands moved erratically, “I already know why” He tried to convince you.

You stayed silent, biting back what you had already tried to assure him of over and over again.

“So tell me, how is that natural?” He said to you again.

“I couldn’t control it.” He stated again, trying to get it through to you.

“You can learn.” You said with reassurance to him.

He scoffed, starting to get irritated by your stubbornness, “I don’t want to learn.”

“Peter, you’ve spent your entire life learning how to live with your powers.”

“These aren’t the same.” He shook his head.

“They’re still yours.”

Peter looked away.

“Then if it’s mine, I can choose if I want it or not.”

You sighed at his words. You didn’t want to bring up this next thing. Well you did, but not right now. But you’ve realised there’s no ‘good’ time for it, and he just has to hear it.

“Maybe it’s not just about the mutation…”

He folded his arms and his brows furrowed, “What do you mean?”

“When’s the last time you slept, Peter?”

The look on his face faltered as he didn’t expect that question.

“And I mean properly, not with me there.”

The stoic look settled back onto his face, “I’ve been fine.”

“Stop that.” You shook your head, “You are anything but fine.”

“When’s the last time you let yourself live? Let Peter Parker live?”

His jaw ticked, “I don’t have that luxury.”

“No, you choose not to.” You said back to him.

“Right-“ He spoke with bitter tone.

“You don’t think all of this-” You motioned towards the apartment.

“The sleepless nights. The stress. The lack of a social life - just everything you’ve been carrying…might be affecting what’s happening?”

“No.” He said flat out.

The frustration in you flickered, “Oh Peter, c’mon-“

“I think I know myself enough to know that it isn’t.”

“Do you?”

The question lingered.

You watched his shoulders tense and his gaze turns to the monitors, not being able to look at you.

“I’ve still got a city to protect.” He said quieter.

“And Peter Parker?”

“What about him?”

He was tired. That was evident enough.

But even the way he spoke about himself, like he wasn’t Peter Parker anymore.

You spoke up again, lowering your tone to his, “When’s the last time you let him exist?”

His brows furrowed and he shook his head, “He doesn’t really get much demand these days.”

His words hung between them but you don't argue back.

Instead, you reached out to him carefully.

Your hands on his forearms that were still tense, “You don’t have to do this alone.”

He looked away from you as soon as you touched him and you brought up your other hand, turning his face back to you.

You searched his dark brown gaze trying to find an answer. They were darker than usual. The light had dimmed in them. And it makes you think could you have fixed this sooner?

His eyes held yours and they only softened the slightest.

“I am alone.”

“No-“ Your voice cracked when you unfolded his arms, “No, You don’t have to carry this by yourself. You don’t have to do this alone. I can help you.”

“You don’t understand.” He sighed quiet, trying not to let you uncover the feelings that he buried.

“Then help me to understand.” You practically pleaded with him.

"Just let me in. You know what I can do so why won't you let me."

He held your gaze and his voice remained calm.

“I can’t.”

"Why?" You retorted back.

"Because I don't want you burdened with whatever is going on up here. And I don't... want you seeing it."

He didn't want you to see all the ugly, dark feelings and emotions he had. For the past four years, and even before that. He spent day and night on patrol. Sometimes just to feel something he let himself be hit. He trained harder. He pushed himself. Just so that he could feel something other than loneliness and grief.

You had taken a peak once accidentally. When he was asleep. He had felt it. The way your face broke and his pain overwhelmed you so much that you felt it all. It stayed with you for weeks.

He asked you to never do it again. And you didn't.

He was angry, not with you but with himself for even letting it happen. For still staying close to you. For letting you in. For letting you love each other.

He already knows what goes on in your mind and heart, and he never wanted to be the reason you felt pain. Even if it wasn't directly from him, it was his pain.

He'd listen to you. Your ramblings. Your singing. Your laughs. The way you'd ask him random things like he was the human wikipedia. If he didn't know it, he'd search it up and pretend he did. He told you the plot of movies and you'd complain when he gave you spoilers, even though you asked for it.

He'd have his head in your lap as you read out loud. One hand in his curls and the other holding your book.

He would be there for you. He'd let you love him. Cry to him. Shout at him.

So you didn't understand, why he wouldn't let you be his person. Just as he was yours.

Even with the faint workings of the machine and the flicker of hum from his monitors, the silence was thick between you two.

You watched him turn the inhibitor between his fingers like he was contemplating.

“This isn’t just for me.”

Your eyes flicker back up to him where he’s already looking at you.

“If it works on me then… I could be able to use it on her too.”

Your expression changed completely, “Who, the girl?”

The one who had been a pain in Spider-man’s ass. Jumping into different bodies, wreaking havoc across the city just for something called V-max. But she was also just a young girl. Granted she wasn’t doing good with her powers but this didn’t feel right.

“It could stop her from hurting someone else.” He said more determined as he placed the inhibitor to the side.

Your hands dropped from him and you took a step back.

You looked at him in disbelief. So many different emotions were running through you that you didn’t even know what to say to him.

“So that’s what we’re doing now?”

Peter frowned, “What?”

“Putting collars on people like us?”

“It isn’t a collar.” His answer came quickly, almost instinctively. His brows pinched together in disbelief that you could even compare it to that.

You scoffed, gesturing towards the inhibitor still in his hand, “What else do you call forcing someone to suppress who they are?”

“Peter, organisations have spent years trying to build things exactly like this. Weapons. Contingency plans.” You shook your head. “What happens when somebody decides this is easier?”

Anyone they decide is a threat, the could go around tagging people with the inhibitor. Forcefully stopping their abilities, stopping who they are. It can be of good if a catastrophic event happens but people abuse their power and if they see something like this, they won’t hesitate to try and control us.

This is what you thought and maybe Peter understood or maybe he was just thinking about now and his mission to just get that telepath of the streets.

Before you gave him the chance to respond, anger bubbled inside you, “What happens if someone gets a hold of this-?”

“They won’t.”

“You don’t know that!” Your voice rose, fear bleeding into every word.

He closed the distance between you two in an instant. You barely had the time to register it as his hands wrapped around your upper arm, firm but gentle.

Your first instinct was to move back since you were still mid-argument.

“Hey…”

His voice had lost all of its sharpness.

“That’s not going to happen.” He tried to reassure you.

“If… I use it on her, it’s only temporary. And no-one else will get their hands on it. I’ll destroy it before that even happens.”

You stared at him, searching his gaze for honesty. The thing about Peter was he never lied to you. Even when he attempted his little white-lies you could tell, and you knew he had good intentions, always. This is why this is so difficult.

Your skin grew warm and your hands shook slightly from the adrenaline of this argument. Neither of you liked arguing. It ended with one leaving snd not seeing each other for a few days until the other one stopped being stubborn.

He didn’t like your silence, “Trust me.” His voice dropped to a desperate whisper.

You wanted to.

God, you wanted to so badly on this.

Your lips parted to speak until something caught your attention.

A mug floated slowly past Peter’s shoulder.

You frowned in confusion and your eyes flickered past him.

Everything that wasn’t bolted down in his apartment was currently a few feet of the ground.

The room trembled around you, every object suspended by your emotions alone.

The desk chair had lifted a few inches from the floor, gently rocking from side to side. The monitors trembled on their stands as screws, pens and loose tools floated weightlessly around them.

Even the bed had begun to rise, its frame groaning quietly beneath the strain.

Outside, windows rattled throughout the building. Dogs barking and horns blaring.

Your breathing was heavier and his hands left your arms and came up to your face in a cradling manner. His touch was cool against your warm skin.

His hands held you so gently like you were the most fragile thing here.

He called out your name and you drew in a shaky inhale.

The room shuddered.

The floating objects began to lower, some settling softly back into place while others crashed down harder than intended.

The refrigerator landed with a heavy thud and the metal tools clattered across the workbench.

Somewhere outside the apartment, a series of loud crashes echoed through the building, followed by blaring car alarms.

You winced at the sound of it. The anger and fear faded and shame crept in hot.

Peter lowered his gaze to your eye-line, “Say something.” He murmured, searching your gaze in desperation.

You sighed again heavier, “I don’t know what to say, Pete.”

“We keep finding ourselves here. And it’s not healthy, not for either of us.” You spoke quieter, accepting on the situation.

"You won't let me help you. Not really. And It hurts me to see you like this."

“Like what?” The defensiveness flared up again. His hands left your face and he took a step back.

He pinched the bridge of his nose in tiredness and frustration from this. You heard quiet beep of the monitor and looked over to see his hormone levels increasing.

"Pete-"You bit the inside of you cheek before looking up at him, “There just… there has to be more to your life than being Spider-Man.”

You kept your tone steady and calm for him. You stepped forward to him and then he placed his hand out to stop you.

“Oh like what-" He spoke through gritted teeth, "Like you?”

You paused when he said that. For a second, every emotion in conjured together and your mind went blank.

The words landed harder than if he’d shouted them.

Peter dropped his head, groaning when he felt that familiar painful headache. His eyes tightened shut and his fingers rubbed at his temple to ease it.

Your fingers twitched to reach out to him again but your mind said otherwise.

He rested one hand on the edge of the desk and the other dragged down his face. He exhaled through his nose and turned to look at you.

“You tell me to find Peter Parker again…”

He swallowed.

“…but maybe you don’t know what to do with him either.”

Your eyes burned and you slowly shook your head, “Peter-”

“Maybe this isn’t about me.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, the tension in his face told you the headache still lingered.

“Maybe it’s easier believing I’m something you can fix.”

“…Maybe then your conscience becomes quieter..”

Tears welled before you could stop them.

“That’s not true.” You said quiet, letting a tear fall.

He didn't look at you. He couldn't.

He wanted nothing more than to say he’ll fix it all. But he also knew he wouldn't. And he needed you to understand that being Spider-Man was the only thing keeping him going.

That aching feeling in his chest that was pressuring him to just be honest. He ignored that too.

That you were his person.

It was easier to not admit it. To rely on himself. Even when he did keep coming back to you.

He looked down at the inhibitor.

“I’m not going to be the reason someone loses their life…”

His voice was steady.

“I’m sorry but I have to do this.”

You didn’t answer. There wasn’t anything left to say.

Peter finally looked at you when you had averted your gaze to the wall ahead.

Neither of you moved as the tension weighed on you both.

Eventually, he grabbed the inhibitor and turned back towards the desk.

The machine hummed patiently as he down onto the chair. His movement were stiff and quick.

A few more tears fell from your eyes and you felt something scratch at your throat that you forcefully pushed back down.

Slowly, with a flick of your wrist, the oversized Spider-Man shirt shimmered away, replaced by the clothes you’d arrived in before.

When you both were building legos and brought him something home-cooked. When he showed you his real webs that came out of his wrist. He made a disgusted look at the fluid coming out of his veins whilst you look fascinated.

He had playfully tackled you back on the bed when you kept bringing up that in fact you were the one who saved both his and Frank’s life on Staten Island. Which turned into something else. Which then turned into a few hours of his head buried between your thighs, his lips over your skin, your fingers tugging at his dark curls until he would kiss back up and give you what you both desperately needed.

But now all that seemed a long time ago.

He stared at the screen waiting for the system to begin.

He used the back of his hand to quickly wipe the tears that fell before they could stain.

SLAM.

The apartment door echoed through the room.

Peter didn’t move. His tongue poked into his cheek as he forced down the emotions that were threatening to spill.

Silence.

You pulled the pen from between your lips and when you looked up again, there he was.

Spider-Man stood awkwardly in your window, still dressed head to toe in the familiar red-and-blue spandex. Lately, it felt like that was all he’d ever worn.

One hand rested against the frame while the other was propped in his hip.

He was forcing himself to act casual like he hadn’t just been outside your window for five minutes. Like he hadn’t been admiring you trying to focus on whatever you were reading. Your hair over your shoulders, the pen between your lips that you kept biting down on and apart of him wished it was him-

“I was gonna knock,” he blurted, louder than intended.

“But you didn’t.”

“You… didn’t exactly give me the chance.”

“At my window?”, Your tone was dry but held teasing.

He had never been more grateful to be wearing the mask. He was certain his face was as pink as the night-gown you were wearing.

“…It was open?” He looked back at the window and back to you.

A smile tugged at your lips.

“Hey, last time I tried your front door,” he continued, pointing an accusing finger, “that cat declared war on me.”

“He’s harmless.”

“‘Harmless’-“ He used his fingers to make quotation marks “-doesn’t usually involve attempted murder.”

“You showed up dressed as Spider-Man.” Because it’s not like the cat knew who he was.

“I was working.”

“You scared him.”

He scoffed in disbelief “He scared me.”

“He-“ You emphasized, “-doesn’t like spiders.”

He paused to say something but then muttered under his breath. “Well I don’t like cats but you don’t see me biting him.”

A giggle escaped you. He was ridiculously easy to wind him up.

Peter let out a defeated groan before stepping inside, carefully closing the window so that it wouldn’t slam in the breeze. He wandered over with the sort of tired shuffle that suggested he’d been on his feet for far too long before letting himself drop onto the rug opposite you, crossing his legs to mirror your own.

His mask tilted towards the candles.

“…Are we summoning something?”

You blinked.

“What?”

He gestured vaguely around the room.

“The candles… the circle of books…” He looked between you and your notebook. “I’m just saying, if a ghost appears, I’m leaving. I can’t deal with that today.”

You snorted with a laughter knowing he was half-serious.

“No, you idiot.” With a lift of your finger, the study books closed showing him the front covers. “I’m studying.”

“Oh.”

“You know… like normal people our age.”

He looked down at himself.

“I am currently sitting on your bedroom floor as Spider-Man.”

Touché.

“And you’ve got…” He motioned around the room again.

Then looked back up at you in your frilly gown, one sleeve hanging off your shoulder.

You raised your brow slightly with smile of amusement.

“I’ve got…?”

“…Super cool witchy powers?” He tilted his head which made you believe he was hiding that cheesy grin under there.

You shook your head with a small smile, “By New York’s standards, I’d say we’re probably the normal ones.”

Spider-man considered it for a second before sighing,“…That’s actually a little concerning.”

“It really is.”

He noticed you smiled a lot more with him. Maybe because you were laughing at him but he liked to think he was just hilarious. The way your eyes would twinkle or the way you’d laugh suddenly and place your hand over your mouth to downplay it. It warmed his heart every-time. Every-time he’d decide to keep a distance with you. He didn’t know whether it was a coincidence or a test for him.

You reached over, stacking a few textbooks together.

He picked one up.

“‘Introduction to Quantum Mechanics?’”

“Mhm.”

He opened it, pretending to read.

“I know… some of this.”

“Do you?”

“No.”

“I was gonna say.”

“I recognized ‘quantum’ and ‘mechanics’.”

“Well done, you’ve learnt it all now.” Your words dripped in sarcasm.

He half shrugged, “Well I understand you and that’s a reward in itself.”

You smiled, watching him carefully place the book back where he’d picked it up from.

“Besides, what do you need these for?” He asked, turning his attention back to you.

“Trying to learn abit about myself and what I can actually do or try to do.”

“That’s good. For you.”

He nodded slightly and managed to get his fingers on the hem of your dress. He took the lace frill between his gloved fingers and started playing with it like a child.

You looked at him with amusement.

“Speaking off, I had lunch with Kamala yesterday.” You suddenly remembered.

“Oh?” He said, now not really listening.

“At Dal’s.”

“…Delmar’s.” Or maybe he was.

You frowned, “I knew that.”

“You absolutely didn’t.” His tone was flat.

“I was close.”

“You were alphabetically close.”

You gave him a puzzled look.

“How did you even know that?”

He shrugged, “It’s on my patrol route.” Now tugging at the lace.

“So you’ve just happened to see me there?”

“…Maybe.”

You gave him a look,“Peter.”

He snapped his head up, “What?” His voice went high again.

He cleared his throat,“I’ve… happened to see you there a couple of times.” He said casually.

“A couple?” You questioned, believing it to be more than that.

“…Three.”

“You counted?”

“I didn’t count.”

“Right, you just remembered.” You lightly mocked him.

“I did!”

A smile tugged at your lips,“That’s oddly sweet.”

“Really?” He asked, almost hopeful.

Then you shrug, “Or a little creepy.”

He slouched down,“I was hoping that wouldn’t be it.”

You smiled playfully and nudged his knee with yours.

“Kamala’s been asking about you.”

“Oh no.”

“‘Oh no?’” You brows furrowed and you whacked his hand away.

“Ow-“ He pulled his hand to his chest.

You gasped, “You don’t like her?”

“No-no, I do-I do.”

“That doesn’t sound convincing.”

“It’s not that.” A quiet laugh escaped him. “Last time we talked she asked me, like… seventeen questions.”

“Seventeen?”

“I counted those.”

“Why do you keep counting everything?”

He ignored you, “And in the space of like 5 minutes.”

You extended your legs beside him, “What about?”

“‘Why are there so many rules in time-travel?’ ‘Do the Avengers know fanfiction about them exists?’ ‘And why am I not in the New Avengers?’ ‘Why didn’t Thanos just double the resources in the universe?’” He threw his hands up exasperated.

You grinned.

“Well?”

“I don’t know!” He threw his hands up animatedly.

“You were there.” You pointed

“So were you!” He nudged your finger and pointed back.

You drop the pen and cracked your knuckles, “Yeah I was a little busy trying not to y’know, die.”

“But I’ll tell her you’ll swing by if I see her.”

His hands lifted immediately, “Woah, don’t promise anything.”

“I didn’t.” You already did.

“You implied.”

“I suggested.”

He let out a dramatic sigh and propped his chin on fist.

You smiled fondly, watching him. You always did around him. A part of you wanted to peel the mask off him. But you knew this was ‘Spider-Man’. And technically on duty. Which means he was here for something.

“So,” you said, “you’re either avoiding patrol…”

“I’m not.”

“…or you need something.”

He let out a feigned insulted gasp, “I don’t always need something.”

“You climbed through my bedroom window.”

“I was in the neighborhood.”

“You live twenty blocks away.”

“Can I not just say hello?”

His voice turned smug and his fingers found your ankles, almost caressing it, “You know they do call me the friendly-“

You pulled your ankle back, “Don’t. Finish that.” You shook your head.

He sighed like a child who was just told no, “…Okay.”

“I need your help.” He piped up again.

I knew it.

Your gaze softened, “You know you can just ask.”

“I know.”

He rubbed the back of his neck again.

“I just… don’t want to drag you into things.” His tone shifted heavier and you could tell he was avoiding your gaze.

You extended your hand and placed it on his knee in assurance, “You’re not ‘dragging’ me to anything. It’s my choice.”

He then looked at you and down at your hand. For a moment, he just let himself embrace it.

He tilted his head up, “Have you ever heard of something called V-Max?”

Your eyebrows pinched together.

“Drugs?” You suggested.

“Not drugs.”

He leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees, “I keep hearing the name.”

“From who?”

“Different people.”

“Different how?”

“You know the attacks that have been happening recently?” He asked.

You nodded, “The thing jumping into different bodies?”

“Exactly that. Whoever is behind all this is looking for V-max”

You straightened up, “But nobody actually knows what it is?”

“Nope.” He shook his head.

“So you’ve looked into it?”

“I’ve looked everywhere.”

“Police records?” You questioned.

“Nothing.”

“Online?”

“Nothing.” He shook his head again.

A quiet huff escaped beneath his mask.

“But I did speak to Bill Metzger.”

You quickly recalled where you remembered that name, “The head of Damage Control?”

“Yep.”

“What’d he say?”

“That he’d never heard of it.” He said back almost immediately.

You frowned, picking up on the doubt in his tone,“You don’t believe him.”

Peter was quiet for a beat.

“…I don’t know.”

“I asked Yelena. She didn’t know either.”

“You asked Yelena before me?” You tilted your head slightly.

He paused and you’re certain his white lens widened.

“…No?”

“That’s not the point-“ he waved his hand, “I don’t have any proof.”

“So why ask me?”

“Because…” He shrugged. “I don’t know what I’m chasing.”

You thought about his words momentarily.

“You think Damage Control knows more than they’re saying.”

“I think…” He paused. “I think Metzger knows… something.” The frustration evident in his tone.

“But?”

“But the last thing I need is to start accusing the people who are supposed to be helping this city.”

You nodded slowly, “I get it.”

He let out a quiet breath, “I just… I can’t shake the feeling.”

“And if maybe that thing is a telepath then you could possible track it down - better than anyone else here?” He said quieter, like he didn’t really want to ask.

“You got a face or name?” You ask but you already knew what the answer would be.

“Not yet.”

You clasp your hands together, “If I start trying to go through the minds of everyone in New York, it’ll give me an aneurism.” You said straight and honest.

“I-I know, and I’m not asking that. I’ve seen what can happen when you do that. I just- If I find anything, could you possibly maybe try - when I narrow it down?”

You looked at him for a few moments and for a second you weren’t looking at the mask, you were looking at the eyes behind the lens.

“Yes, I’ll try.” You agreed on a softer tone.

Your hand leaves him and you pick up the pen again, tapping against your notebook.

“Well, I haven’t heard anything about V-Max.”

Spider-man sighed, knowing he wasn’t getting anywhere with this.

“But…”

His head lifted.

“I have heard some things. Not anything specific.”

“But?” He gestured to go on, more intrigued.

Anything would be better than nothing right now.

“I don’t know…” You frowned. “Call it a gut feeling.”

“Telepathy?”

“Gut feeling.”

“The powers?”

“Peter” You said flat.

“Sorry-sorry. It’s just-they’ve done a lot of good, y’know. They clean up after attacks and they keep dangerous tech out of the wrong hands.”

You understand where he’s coming from. Spider-man was working alongside the city right now and he’s already had the world turn against him before.

“I’m not saying they’re the bad guys but you have to remember the way the people believe , the others don’t always.” You advised him.

You gestured between the two of you, “They trust heroes until heroes start asking questions and I mean we’ve seen that first-hand.”

Peter didn’t interrupt.

“Sometimes I feel their fear and doubt.” You paused looking down at your hands.

“That doesn’t stop just because they’ve decided to work with us. Not for us, for themselves.”

Spider-man was quiet but he didn’t look away from you. He knew you had your own fears, mostly about yourself. About not knowing. And he was going through the same thing, not that he’d share it.

“If I were you,” you said quietly, “I’d keep looking into V-Max.”

You looked back up at him and he nodded once.

“But I’d keep an eye on Damage Control too.”

“You really think so?”

You gave a small shrug, “I just think it’s better to be safe than sorry. Hope can turn into fear very quickly, Pete.”

He let out a low exhale and was about to speak up.

Peter suddenly winced, groaning. His hand flew up to the side of his head.

You practically lunged over to him, “Peter?”

“I’m fine.” He said through gritted teeth.

“You’re not fine.” You said concerned, your hands holding him by his shoulders.

“I thought you weren’t getting them anymore.” You said quieter, examining him as he avoided looking at you.

“They’re… mostly gone.”

“Mostly?” You lowered your head.

He looked away.

“Once or twice.”

“They’re manageable.”

You knew that tone. And you knew it meant it definitely was not manageable.

You used one hand to turn his chin so he’d look at you, “Let me help.”

“It’s okay.” He raised his hands to stop you.

“It’ll take a minute.” You pushed, trying to get him to let you help.

“I-I’m fine, really-.”

You reached for the edge of his mask but stopped before you could lift it.

He paused when he felt you about to unravel him. He stiffened up, like he was bracing himself.

You felt his eyes on you but he didn’t stop you.

You peel the mask back enough to rest on the tip of his nose.

His lips pressed into a thin line like he was trying to hide any emotion. To protect you and himself.

Like he hadn’t used these very lips to kiss you some nights. To make you feel at peace when the world was too loud.

His jaw was clenched and tight, and for a second you both held your breath.

You lifted your hand, your fingers grazing his jaw.

You applied a light amount of pressure and the tension beneath your touch eased almost instantly.

He let out a sigh of relief and his mind and senses suddenly became clearer.

His shoulders relaxed.

He looked peaceful. Which for Peter Parker was a rare sight. Something you only ever saw when he’d rarely let his guard down and let you help him. You didn’t understand, you could ease his mind. Help him so much more. But he never wanted that to be your burden.

His head lulled forward and he placed his hand over yours, holding you against him. He laid his other hand on your thigh, feeling your skin through the thin fabric.

You let your eyes close.

His forehead rested against you and then the hand over yours slid down to wrap around your wrist. You turned slightly, nose bumping into his as you let him lean on you.

His fingers tightened around your wrist, and you continued to relieve his mind and body at peace.

You didn’t look into his mind, you never did.

Not unless someone gave permission but even then, a part of you dreaded it. Because whatever emotions they’d felt, it stayed within you. You knew you’d do it for him. But ever since four years ago, this was the closest he would let you come.

BEEP. BEEP..

“Armed robbery in progress. Helll’s Kitchen. Officers requesting immediate assistance.”

The police scanner built into his suit crackled to life.

Peter opened his eyes.

“Close your eyes.” You gently commanded.

“The city’s got great timing.” He forced a light tone and the corner of his lips lifted as an attempted smile.

He wished he could stay. He so desperately wished he would.

Your eyes open and you looked at him in longing and something else… not disappointment, just wistful.

He turned his head, his lips press against your inner palm, lingering for a few moments before he pulled the mask back down.

Your gaze softened and your hand catches his wrist.

“Peter-“

“I have to.” He doesn’t let you finish. Because he knows it’s easier this way. He doesn’t let you ask because when you do it makes him want to just be Peter Parker. But that’s not him anymore.

You let out a heavy sigh and you know what the inevitable is between you two but every night you hope for a different outcome.

“I know.”

He climbed to his feet and crossed towards the window.

You followed behind.

He rested a hand against the frame and turned to you.

“Swing by later?” You offered.

“You’ll still take me in?” His voice was softer and tired.

“Kept you so far, haven’t I?” You attempted to ease the tension.

You felt the more genuine smile on his face this time.

“I’ll hold you to that.” He opened the window again, wide. He climbed over the ledge, one leg still dangling in.

“Be careful,” you murmured.

His head dipped in a small nod.

“Always.”

Then he was gone.

You stood there for another moment before looking down. You used your other hand to trace your fingers over your palm. Where his kiss lingered.

You heard a jingle and snapped your head up to see the familiar black cat perched on your window.

Apparently so because when the words, “Does it come out anywhere else?” slipped from your lips, Peter looked at you like he just watched his puppy get run over.

There was confusion, worry, and maybe a little bit of awkward ‘humor’ in his face. But even as he told you no, he didn’t look sure of himself anymore.

“Should we test that?” you asked, your voice low and sultry, trying to get the mood back. It worked, because you felt Peter’s still-hard cock twitch against your leg. “Yeah?”

He nodded, waiting for you to make a move.

If he was being honest, he didn’t know what you meant when you said to test it. He just knew that his very sexy girlfriend was talking about making him cum, so he agreed without thinking.

Watching as your hand snaked between your bodies, Peter’s heart was racing with anticipation. He wasn’t sure it would be safe for a normal person’s heart to be beating that fast.

Luckily, he wasn’t a normal person.

And he found that opened a lot of opportunities in the bedroom.

“You can go twice right? I still want you inside me after...” your voice was laced with need, almost pushing Peter over the edge right then and there. He nodded frantically, his hips twitching, pushing his aching cock against your palm.

“I can. I promise. Please just—” he cut himself off with a moan as your hand pumped and curled around his tip. “Fuck.”

Failing to hold in a giggle, a smile spread on your face that made Peter feel like he just fell in love with you all over again. Weird.

Your hand wrapped around him, giving him a few teasingly slow strokes before you scooted backwards enough to wrap your mouth around his sensitive pink tip. You started to up your pace while your mouth sank further down, taking more of him in.

Bringing him closer and closer to the edge, he felt the same internal panic he did when the webs came out of his wrists for the first time. But you didn’t stop. No. You only went harder.

Peter barely pulled you off at the last second, watching as webs came out of his cock and splattered on the ceiling.

It was probably the best orgasm he’d ever had.

The relief when it was over, the pleasure he felt during it. All of it. His curls were sticking to the sweat on his forehead, and when he looked over you were staring at him with wide eyes.

Wide, excited, horny eyes. (He could tell).

“That was so hot, oh my god,” you squealed, wiping off the last string of web from his extremely sensitive cock. A strangled noise came from his throat, overwhelmed by the strong feeling.

“Oh jesus,” he whispered, trying to catch his breath. “I think I need just a minute. It’s really, really sensitive.”

You nodded, running your hands over his curls. He smiled, his head subconsciously leaning into your hand. Before you knew it, Peter was pulling you down to kiss him again, all wet and open-mouthed. His hands were roaming your body, reclosing the gap.

One of your legs swung over him, straddling his abdomin that was glistening with a sheer layer of sweat. You were careful not to go too far back until Peter was ready, but that didn’t mean you wouldn’t rock yourself against him.

The hard ridges of his ab muscles were perfect for grinding your clit against, and not to mention Peter loved it. He didn’t realize how much he liked the praise until he met you.

“That’s it. Uh-huh,” he mumbled as he helped you guide yourself against him. Sweet noises were falling from your open mouth as you ran your slick pussy over his stomach.

One of his hands ran up, kneading your tits while the other stayed and grabbed at your ass—helping spread you open to get a better feel of him. You could feel your second orgasm of the night quickly approaching, but you wanted to save it.

Halting your hips was hard, you really didn’t want to stop, but you knew you’d be happier if you came with Peter inside you.

“Are you ready?” your voice was breathless and whiney, your eyes hooded and glazed over with need. He flipped you onto your back, pulling a cute squeak from your throat.

“Uh-huh.” Leaving open kisses down your neck, he asked, “But are you ready?” against your sticky skin.

You felt yourself squeeze around nothing. “Yeah.”

He pressed one last kiss to your neck before you felt his long cock stretch you out. You could feel every ridge, every vein, as he slid into you so far you felt like it would come out your mouth.

Your mouth was stuck open, tears from the pleasure welling up in your eyes. Peter felt your nails dig into his back as he started at a slow pace. It wasn’t gentle, but it was just enough to refamiliarize yourself with him.

As the seconds passed, you needed more and more. Trying to grind your hips up and meet him halfway for more pressure, more speed, wasn’t cutting it. You needed his all.

“Peter. Oh my, fuck. Peter, please. I need more. I can handle it,” you moaned as he thrusted, your eyes meeting his so he could see the truthfulness in your eyes. That you would really be okay if he went harder.

He was always scared of hurting you, so he needed that confirmation every time.

His pace sped up along with his thrusts’ power. After only a few seconds, he was fucking you into the mattress. Moans and heavy breaths were spilling out of your mouth, along with Peter’s grunts and moans himself.

The bed was squeaking, a dull thud against the wooden wall for every thrust he gave you. “Shit,” Peter grumbled, looking at something behind your head for only a second.

You could feel your second orgasm coming back, along with Peter’s antsy hands. They were moving from beside your head, to your waist, to your legs—pushing your legs further apart and hitting an even deeper angle.

Your moaning only spurred him on, his hand coming to rub circles to your clit. He felt you squeeze and flutter around him, your eyes and face scrunched up.

He felt his own orgasm coming up, but he was determined to focus on you. Your shaky legs and light knuckles from gripping the sheets too hard. Your short breaths and teary eyes.

“C’mon. Come for me,” he whispered as you felt yourself go over the edge. Your hips twitched and your pussy squeezed him unbearably tight, followed by his warm liquid leaking inside you.

The thought of his web-sperm mix you saw earlier being inside you made you flutter around him again.

He had the same sensitivity as before, hissing through his teeth as he dropped his head to your neck. He relaxed his body on top of you, too sensitive to move or pull out yet.

His weight and heat on top of you was a common feeling, but it was one of your favorites.

You loved having him lay on top of you, especially right after sex. “Thank you,” you mumbled against his hair, your fingers gently rubbing up and down his rigid back muscles. You could feel him twitching and softening inside you, an almost ticklish feeling.

Peter hummed before laughing and whispering, “Also, uh, we might need a new bed, by the way.”

masterlist

"I do not know why you drag me here. I have no interest in watching our brother spar with Cole, sister," Aegon sighs as he leans against the pillar next to you, a goblet of wine dangling between his fingers. "I would literally rather be anywhere else."

He raises his eyebrows at you when you do not respond, and you loll your head back against his shoulder to give him a teasing smile.

You drawl, "Perhaps I hope you might learn something." Aegon snorts beside you, taking a long sip of his wine before letting out a heavy breath, head tipping back against the stone. You add, "Perhaps one day I shall have the pleasure of watching you spar with Aemond."

"Hah!" Aegon laughs, the arm draped around your chest flexing slightly as he lowers his face to your ear. "If you are so eager to see me sweating and out of breath, sweet sister, you only need ask. There are far easier ways to arrange it than putting a sword in my hand."

You wrinkle your nose, though you cannot quite suppress your smile. "You are disgusting."

"So you tell me," he says. His lips brush the shell of your ear as he speaks, his voice dropping low enough that it's nearly lost beneath the clashing of sword and morning star. "And yet, you never seem to complain when I am in your bed, do you?"

You drive your elbow into his ribs hard, and he grunts, nearly spilling his wine.

"Careful," he complains.

"Then behave."

"You would know very well if I stopped behaving, sweet sister," Aegon murmurs, and you can feel his lips curved up into a sharp smile as he ghosts a chaste kiss below your ear when no one is looking. "I could be doing far worse right now."

You roll your eyes and turn your attention back to the yard. Aemond has managed to drive Cole halfway across it now, the two of them circling each other beneath the afternoon sun. Even from here, you can see the determination carved into your brother's face, the set of his jaw each time Cole manages to turn aside one of his blows.

"How much longer do you think mother will allow you to get away with postponing your wedding?" Aegon questions, rolling his head back against the pillar. The apparent mockery in his voice is betrayed by the way his thumb stills from where it had been tracing absently at your shoulder. "Not too much longer, surely."

You hum, considering the question. "I imagine for as long as I continue asking her."

Aegon lets out an incredulous laugh. "Mother spoils you far too much. Do you know what she did when I asked her to postpone my wedding, sister?" You raise your eyebrows, not really listening. "She slapped me, and then had me dragged to the sept."

"Well, it is not my fault mother loves me best," you say, taking a sip of your own wine and ignoring how Aegon rolls his eyes at you. "What? Do not be cross—you know you would take advantage of it too, sweet brother."

It has been this way for as long as you can remember.

When you were sick as a child, it was your mother who dismissed lessons for the day and stayed beside your bed until you slept. When you cried over a scraped knee, she had carried you herself despite your protests that you were far too old. When you want jewels from Yi Ti or silk from Naath, it is your mother who makes the necessary arrangements for trade during the next Small Council meeting.

Your mother loves all her children, of course—you have never doubted that—but loving them have never come as easily to her as loving you.

Aegon had frustrated her from the moment he was old enough to defy her, and Aemond had been easier in some ways, dutiful and serious, but difficult in intensity. And Helaena—your mother loves her dearly, you know that she does, but she has never understood her. She never knows what to do when Helaena begins speaking of things no one else understands, or how to respond when she recoils from a comforting touch.

With you, everything had been simple.

You were close enough to your mother to allow yourself to be loved, unlike Helaena, who seemed forever just beyond reach, but you had never clung to her with the same desperation Aemond sometimes did. You were not openly defiant like Aegon, forever testing the limits of her patience and forcing her to choose between anger and forgiveness, but neither were you so desperate for her approval that you shaped yourself entirely around pleasing her.

Loving you required no effort at all—and your mother was ever-stressed by the men of the Small Council and your rotting father, so it was you she came to when she needed to be with someone who would not bring her more problems.

Of course, that would bring its own issues for you, because your mother has much higher expectations of you than your elder siblings, but you can relish in the boons and deal with the banes as they come, as you always have.

"If she loves you so much," Aegon drawls, "then why does she force you to marry him at all, hm? Surely, she sees how much you loathe him?"

"I do not loathe our brother, Aegon," you say immediately. "He did me a favor by winning the tourney five years ago, you know that." Aegon's gaze averts to the side at that. "He is just dull. Boring. I loathe the idea of wedding him, not him himself. He does not wish to marry me either. I rather like him, actually—he brings me pretty jewels."

Aegon raises his eyebrows at you and then gives you a mocking smile. "The question remains, I fear."

You exhale through your nose and look back out to the yard, watching as Aemond narrowly avoids a swing of Cole's morning star.

Because she does not want to send you away. If you wed some lord, you would be expected to leave King's Landing and go wherever his miserable castle happens to be. Casterly Rock, perhaps, or Highgarden, only the gods may know where you might be cast out to. After what happened at the tourney for your hand five years ago—that marcher lord that nearly won and thought to take his prize early—she has been ever paranoid about your father wedding you off. It spooked her how close you were to being sent away, and she thought, since Aemond won the tourney following the incident, that at least if you marry him, the threat of distance and mistreatment disappears, because Aemond is a prince of the blood, and his place is in King's Landing.

"You know why," you finally say, tiring of this conversation as you settle against him. "Have our half-sister and her plain-featured sons arrived yet? I'm quite eager to see them. It has been years."

Your eyes drift searching around the training yard, giddy at the prospect of your nephews arriving in King's Landing for Vaemond Velaryon's petition. You have missed Jacaerys—you always found yourself seeking him out before your half-sister dragged him away to that dreary stone across the Blackwater. He was fun to toy with—sweeter than your brothers, and always eager to please.

"She should have just wed us," Aegon says at last, ignoring our question. When you start to roll your eyes, his arm tightens around you, head dropping slightly so that he can look at you. "Think of it, sweet sister. Mother gets to keep you here, you get a husband who is not painfully dull, and I might have actually enjoyed my marriage. Everyone wins."

"Except Helaena," you say dryly.

"Helaena most of all, I should think," Aegon counters. "She could have married Aemond. They could sit together in silence for hours, or she could speak of her insects, and he could brood ominously beside her. A perfect match."

You snort despite yourself. "You are horrible."

"Perhaps," he agrees, mouth curving as he drops his chin on your shoulder. "You and I would have had fun together."

"We have fun as we are," you say simply. "You would have hated being married to me."

Aegon laughs at that, though there is a distinct lack of humor behind it. "Would I?"

"Oh, yes," you say simply, gaze drifting along the outskirts of the crowd to all of the knights and squires pretending to focus on the spar taking place, and not the two of you. "Within a moon."

"A fortnight, perhaps."

"A week," you counter

"Three days, most like," Aegon says with a sharp grin. Then he looks down at you, a bit more serious. "But I would have had you."

Aegon inhales, eyes drifting over your face, something unreadable crossing through his eyes before his attention returns to the yard again.

"I am not some horse to be had," you finally say, rolling your eyes.

"No." Aegon takes another long drink of his wine. "I would be considerably less vexed if our brother were marrying my horse."

You do not know how to respond to that, so you turn your attention back to the training yard, gaze idly wandering the crowd gathered around the sparring ring. You think you should return back to your chambers and change into a new dress—your mother had new silks imported from Lys that you've been meaning to wear, and you mislike being around sweaty men, you just found yourself bored with tea and cake.

Then, you see them.

You tilt your head curiously when your eyes land on the newcomers. At the opposite edge of the circle stand two boys you do not recognize at first, dressed finely enough in black and red that they could only be royal, though neither has the pale silver hair that marks the majority of your family. The younger one is watching the spar with wide eyes, but the elder is the one who catches your attention.

You straighten against Aegon, absently fixing your hair.

Surely not.

"Are those our nephews?"

Aegon follows your stare.

Jacaerys Velaryon is no longer the little boy you remember teasing until his eyes welled up with tears, ever-following Aegon around everywhere through the halls of the Red Keep. He has grown taller in the years since you last saw him, the childish softness gone entirely from his face. His dark curls fall loosely around features that have sharpened considerably with age, and when he turns his head to say something to Lucerys beside him, you find yourself staring.

He has grown handsome.

Very handsome, actually.

"Oh," you murmur.

Aegon's head turns sharply toward you, but you barely notice. Jacaerys laughs at something his brother says, and your eyebrows lift with sudden interest.

"They look rather comfortable," you say absently. "Shall I, ah, draw some attention them?"

"Hm?"

You are distracted as you pass your goblet of wine to Aegon. "Hold this."

"What?" Aegon demands, fumbling with your cup, but you're already walking away, crossing right through the sparring ring.

Cole's eyes widen as he sees you step directly into the sparring ring, and whatever blow he had been preparing to deliver dies instantly. The head of his morning star crashes harmlessly into the dirt instead, kicking up a spray of dust a few feet from your skirts.

"Princess," he murmurs, inclining his head

Aemond lowers his sword with an irritated huff, following Cole's stare until his gaze lands on you.

"Must you interrupt everything?"

"Hm?" Your eyes skim over him without lingering, already searching beyond his shoulder. "Oh. Yes. Apologies. Do continue."

His brows furrow, following your gaze.

You step past him, hands locked behind your back, ignoring all of the eyes suddenly pinned on you, dress swishing at your feet as you approach the two boys at the edge of the crowd.

"Nephews," you call brightly, watching as their heads lift from where they are bowed together, both startled at being addressed. "It's been so long."

Lucerys looks rather like a deer caught before a hunter, eyes widening as you approach, and you have to bite the inside of your cheek to keep from mocking.

Jacaerys, however, merely straightens, surprise flashing across his face before his gaze settles properly upon you. You watch the recognition dawn slowly in his dark eyes, followed by something else entirely as they slide over you—the loose fall of your hair, down to the cut of your gown, lingering for half a heartbeat before returning to your face, flustered, as though catching himself doing something he ought not.

You smile.

It would seem, you think with a thrill of satisfaction, that you are not the only one pleasantly surprised by what the years have done.

It is rather inconvenient, you think mildly as you finish making your way across the yard. You have always been drawn to your nephews, but it was easy to ignore when you spent years hearing your mother speak poorly of them. Rhaenyra's plain-featured boys with their dirt-brown hair and equally brown eyes—all unmistakable evidence of their bastardy written on their faces. They were cute enough as children, but as cute as you imagine any stablemaster's son would look, not how a prince should look. You had expected them to remain unfortunate-looking things, if you are being entirely truthful—common beside the silver-haired beauty of true Targaryens.

Yet there is nothing unfortunate about either of them now.

Lucerys still has the softness of youth about him, rounder in the face than his elder brother, with wide brown eyes that make him appear younger than he likely wishes. He is sweet-looking, you decide, though the thought does little to hold your attention when Jacaerys stands beside him.

Jacaerys is something else entirely

Perhaps it is because he looks so unlike the men you have grown accustomed to that you are so… compelled. There is no silver in his hair, no violet in his eyes, none of the Valyrian beauty you have been taught since childhood to admire above all else. He is dark where Aegon is pale, warm where Aemond is sharp, and somehow the very features that ought to make him look painfully ordinary have arranged themselves into something you find inexplicably captivating.

"Aunt," Jacaerys murmurs, voice smooth in a way you do not expect. He adds politely, "It is good to see you again." Though you do not think he means it from the way the corners of his lips tighten.

Your lips curve into a faint smile. "And you."

You extend both hands toward them, palms turned down expectantly.

Lucerys looks briefly startled by the gesture, but recovers quickly enough. He takes one of your hands politely, bowing his head to brush his lips against your knuckles.

Jacaerys takes the other hand in his, and you cannot help but notice the difference. His hands have outgrown the boy you remember, fingers long and lithe, callused across the palm and pads from years spent with sword and reins alike. They are warm around yours, and his grip is gentle.

He bends dutifully to kiss your knuckles, dark curls slipping forward over his bow.

You watch him for a heartbeat, admiring him openly. Then, before his lips can leave your hand, you turn your wrist within his grasp. His brows knit in confusion as your fingers slide beneath his chin.

Jacaerys stills as you tilt his face upward, brown eyes meeting yours from beneath the fall of his curls, surprise plain in his expression, and you take shameless advantage of his momentary confusion to study him more closely.

Yes, you think. Definitely handsome.

"My," you murmur, tilting his chin slightly to one side, examining him with such open interest that the tips of his ears begin turning red. He tenses, and you wonder if he expects the familiar barb—a cutting remark about his brown eyes, his brown hair, or the father everyone whispers he bears no resemblance to. Instead, you smile, thumb brushing lightly along the line of his jaw. "You have grown to be quite handsome, haven't you, Jacaerys?"

Jacaerys's lips part slightly, and it is an effort for you not to slide your thumb up to rest against the fullness of his lower lip.

"Have I?" he manages, his cheeks flushed a light pink, confusion shifting into suspicion. His gaze flickers across your face, as though searching for mockery, but when he finds none, he looks even more flustered.

"Very."

For a long moment, Jacaerys only stares at you, still half bent over your hand, chin still resting between your fingers.

You can almost see the confusion turning over in his mind—you know your half-sister and her brood have returned to King's Landing for the Driftmark petition that you and Aegon have been laughing endlessly about. He must have braced himself for ridicule, and you suppose you cannot blame him, you had planned for ridicule until you saw just how handsome he had become over the years.

Unfortunately, your biggest weakness has always been a pretty face—it is why Aegon has charmed his way into your bed so many times over, despite his despicable personality—and it seems your nephew appears to have grown into one pretty enough to make you forget entirely that you are meant to dislike him.

"You are kind," he finally says.

"Observant, perhaps," you murmur, fingers finally slipping from beneath his chin, though you linger just long enough to smooth an errant curl away from his forehead before letting your hand fall to your side again.

Lucerys watches the exchange, bewildered, gaze darting from your face to his brother's and back again.

"… Jace?" he ventures.

Jacaerys seems to remember himself all at once, clearing his throat and taking a step backward, though the color stubbornly remains high in his cheeks

"It has been many years, aunt," he properly greets at last. "You have—"

He falters, and you raise your eyebrows expectantly. You prod, "I have what?"

Jacaerys's throat bobs.

"You have changed as well," he finishes diplomatically.

You stare at him, displeased. "Changed?" you echo scornfully. "That is all you have to say?"

"I—"

"You disappear to Dragonstone for eight years and return to find your beloved aunt transformed into a great beauty, and all you have to say is that I have changed? I believe I was far more generous to you."

"You were," Jacaerys concedes, lips curved up into a small smile.

"Then?"

His gaze returns to you. This time, when his eyes move over your face, there is nothing accidental or subtle about it. They linger upon you with a newfound boldness that sends a pleasant little thrill through, and you wonder whether he has decided that if you are permitted to admire him so openly, he ought to be afforded the same privilege.

Ah, you think, thoroughly intrigued. You had always liked playing with Jacaerys when the two of you were young—you think you are ready for some new games with your nephew.

"You have grown very beautiful, aunt," he finally murmurs, gaze lingering on your lips for just long enough that you notice before it lifts back to your eyes. "I hardly recognized you."

"Much better," you say, before your gaze drifts over to Lucerys.

He gives you a tentative smile. "It is good to see you again, aunt."

Your lips curve up into a smile, lips parting to reply, but before you can, an agitating, grating voice comes from behind you.

"You seem very comfortable," Aemond's cool voice observes.

Your eyes roll up in irritation as you toss your hair over your shoulder to look at Aemond from the corner of your eye.

He stands several paces away, sword still held loosely in one hand, silver hair disheveled from exertion, and face decidedly unimpressed. His gaze moves from you to Jacaerys, lingering upon the latter for a long, unpleasant moment. Both of the boys stiffen at the arrival of your brother.

"Quite, until you arrived," you drawl, huffing a breath through your nose. "Your talent in souring a perfectly pleasant moment remains unmatched, brother."

Aemond's jaw tightens. Jacaerys glances between the two of you, clearly uncertain whether he ought to speak up, while Lucerys's eyes slide shut as though he would prefer to be anywhere else.

"I had not realized you were so eager to welcome our nephews home," Aemond notes disdainfully.

"Neither had I." You glance back at Jacaerys, gaze traveling over him once before meeting his eyes. "But I find myself suddenly quite eager to become reacquainted."

Jace's cheeks flush instantly, lips parting in confusion as he looks at you, and Aemond notices, mouth pressing into a thin line. You can practically feel whatever unpleasant remark is forming on his tongue before the sudden sound of the doors to the yard opening draws the attention of you all.

Your gaze lifts as a small party of Velaryon men passes beneath the archway, dressed in sea-green and silver, the sigil of House Velaryon flying above them. At their head walks Vaemond Velaryon himself, a scornful expression crossing his face when his gaze lands on Jacaerys and Lucerys.

All of the warmth disappears from Jacaerys's face.

Ah, you think woefully, you almost forgot

You glance at Lucerys. Whatever tentative ease had begun to settle over him has vanished entirely, jaw set and anxiety plain in his eyes when Vaemond's lip curls up in disdain as he passes by.

"Well," Aegon says from behind you, shattering the silence. "How delightfully ominous."

You turn as he approaches, still carrying both goblets. He hands yours back so that he can drape his newly freed arm across your shoulders and draw you into his side, grinning wildly.

"I believe we have endured enough familial affection for one afternoon," he declares. "Come, sweet sister. Let's go find more wine."

You hum, glancing down at your goblet, frowning when you see there's significantly less than there had been when you had passed it off to your brother. He gives you a boyish grin and a wink, and you roll your eyes.

"Yes, let us," you agree with a sigh. "It appears my cup has garnered a hole in it since I passed it to you, Aegon." Your gaze flicks over to Aemond. "Come with us. You have sparred enough today."

Aegon rolls his eyes, barely withholding a groan, and Aemond looks at you, frowning, because it is not often you invite him anywhere with you, much less with him and Aegon. Truthfully, you are just hoping to avoid a scene between him and your nephews, lest he ruin any game you might choose to play before its even begun. He blinks once before he nods.

Pleased, you turn your back to leave, but then Aemond speaks again.

"I suppose we shall all discover soon enough whether Ser Vaemond's journey was worthwhile, nephews."

Your eyes slide shut. You look at Aegon from the corner of your eye, and he immediately forces the amusement off his face, clearly recognizing the warning in your expression.

"Though I confess," Aemond continues. "I find it curious that a matter of succession should require such extensive debate. One would think blood would make the rightful heir obvious."

It is a familiar jab. One you have heard countless times over the last decade. On any other day, you might have smirked, offered some clever remark of your own, delighted in watching your half-sister's sons squirm. Today, you feel no such compulsion—not now, Aemond, you think bitterly

Instead, your gaze drifts to Jacaerys, how he shields his younger brother by shifting to angle himself partly in front of him.

"It does," he says, voice clipped

Aemond's mouth curves. He asks softly, "Does it?"

Aegon lets out an overly dramatic sigh as he reaches for Aemond, grabbing the taller prince's doublet and yanking him hard so that he comes stumbling along with the two of you.

"Come, come," Aegon says, ignoring the flinty look Aemond shoots him to drop his arm back around your shoulders, steering you toward the castle. "Before our dear brother remembers another insult he has been rehearsing for the past eight years. We have more pressing concerns."

Aemond scoffs, irritated both by the insult and how Aegon had handled him. "Such as?"

"My empty cup," Aegon says with a sharp grin.

"And mine," you sing, lifting to dangle it in front of his face. Before you can stop yourself, you look back over your shoulder at Jacaerys. He is already looking at you. You call, "Do try not to become any less handsome before I next see you, nephew."

His mouth twitches. "I'll endeavor not to disappoint you, aunt."

This will be fun, you think. Let the games begin.

—————————

Jace hated you when you were both young.

Hates you.

Hated you?

He isn't sure.

His relationship with all of his mother's half-siblings was—well, complicated. He's not sure he really cared for any of you, in truth, but some of you were decidedly easier to tolerate than others.

Aegon had probably been his favorite of the four of you back then—five of you, he supposes, because that other brother of yours is back in Oldtown, but he hardly counts. Aegon had seemed endlessly exciting to Jace, who was five years younger and endlessly bored, wanting friends in a court that seemed to dislike him before he was even old enough to speak.

Jace had followed him around for years, and Aegon had been irritated by it for perhaps three days before he realized how easily his younger nephew could be led into trouble. He had never been malicious enough to place Jace in genuine danger, but he had found his fun in convincing him to sneak into the Dragonpit, prank Aemond, and hide from maesters until half the Keep was searching for him. Every time they were caught, Aegon somehow escaped the blame, and Jace never did.

His relationship with Aemond was the simplest—he did not like him. Even before Vhagar and the lost eye, there had always been a severity to the older prince that made Jace uneasy. He disliked losing, disliked foolishness, disliked noise, and, Jace had eventually concluded, disliked him, so Jace disliked Aemond in turn.

You and Helaena were different—because you were girls, maybe, and harder for him to connect with when he was just a boy. But also because he never quite knew what to make of either of you.

Helaena, at least, was easy enough to categorize. She was simply… strange. Sweet, certainly, and far more gentle than the rest of you, but she spoke in riddles that frightened him when he was younger, and he'd never enjoyed being near the insects she kept around her. He tended to give her a wide berth when he could, though looking back on it, Jace supposes she was really the only good one of the four of you.

You, on the other hand, defied categorization altogether. He has never quite met someone as unpredictable as you are, and it has infuriated him his entire life.

You were the crown jewel of King's Landing when you were all young, even now, he supposes—beautiful and charming, the perfect princess, the court would sing, eyes following you as you laugh brightly at whatever poor joke a suitor made in hopes of wooing you. Everyone adored you, and Jace did too, to an extent. He has never felt so high as he did when your full attention was on him, his little heart fluttering in his chest whenever you were near.

But what the court did not know was that you were vicious and cruel as soon as the attention drifted from you.

Jace cannot count the number of times you had pranced around him with veiled insults toward his parentage. Mocking him with Aegon, or Aemond, or even just by yourself. You would go on and on until Jace's face burned hot with humiliation and his hand twitched at his side, fisted and trembling with restraint.

It was an ugly, violent feeling, one that only you seemed capable of drawing from him, and by the time you inevitably grew bored of him and skipped off to find one of your brothers, all that remained was shame. His mother had taught him that a prince did not raise his hand against a woman, no matter how furious she made him, yet there were moments when he wanted nothing more than to make you regret provoking him.

Those days, he hated you so terribly that it made him sick. Made him want to cry. Made him want to make you sorry. He would grind his teeth as the ladies of the court tittered at your stupid jokes, roll his eyes when men twice your age would bring you gifts to curry favor—if they knew how terrible you were, he would think, they would not like you at all.

Except maybe they would, because Jace knew just how cruel you really were when the mask dropped, and yet every time your attention turned toward him pleasantly, he would forget it in hopes of things being different this time.

You would appear beside him in the library after spending a day tormenting him, ask what he was reading, and spend hours listening with such genuine interest that he would forget entirely what you had done hours before. You asked thoughtful questions. You remembered the names of the heroes he liked best and recommended him books that included them. When he mentioned starting a new story, you would read it too, and you would argue with him over endings as though his opinions genuinely mattered to you.

Eventually, of course, you would flash him that infuriating grin and remark that perhaps brown-haired almost-princes were not entirely hopeless after all. The jest itself was harmless—tame compared to what you usually say—but it always landed harder than the crueler remarks, because by then, he had already begun to convince himself that you genuinely liked him, saw him beyond the hair and whispers.

You had an uncanny talent for making him lower his guard before reminding him exactly who you were. The only consistent thing about you was that you somehow managed to make him feel foolish every time you crossed paths.

That, at least, has not changed in the years of separation, even if everything else has.

His jaw tightens as he makes his way up the final flight of stairs to the top of the eastern tower. His skin still burns at his jaw where your fingers had held him still, tilting his face toward the light as though you had every right to touch him—perhaps you thought you did.

The idea of it infuriates him, vexes him like none other, because you have always believed the world belonged to you—the perfect princess, he thinks again scornfully, beautiful and charming, ladies flocked around you for your favor, men fought for your hand before you were even of age. He loathes the idea that, for one bewildering moment, he had acted as though he belonged to you, too.

He should have stepped away or laughed in your face. He should have reminded you that he is no longer the gullible little boy who fell for your pretty smiles and soft words when he knew all you wanted was the satisfaction of knowing how easily you could ensnare him.

Instead, he had stood there while you turned his face this way and that, studying him with shameless curiosity, and when you called him handsome, all he had managed to do was stare at you like a fool.

He had even blushed.

He grimaces at the memory as he reaches the top of the stairs.

It should not have affected him so much, truly.

You had called him handsome, that was all. Baela has called him handsome in passing. A servant girl whispered it while he was passing through the halls at Dragonstone when she thought he wasn't listening. His mother tells him all the time. Jace knows he is handsome—it is hardly a declaration of love, nor even an especially intimate compliment. He is not sure why, when the words left your lips, he felt so thrown off-kilter.

Perhaps it was because the way you said it made it seem more intimate, he thinks, mind drawing back to that moment for the hundredth time just in the last hour—your voice was soft and your gaze drifted over him with an intimacy that left him feeling strangely exposed, as though if given the chance and privacy, you would unlace his clothes to assess him properly, fingers running along his skin like they belonged there.

Or perhaps it was because it almost sounded sincere. Mockery from you, he understands—you have mocked him since the two of you were children, and he had learned long ago to expect it from you. Sincerity is something he's not sure what to do with, floundering just at the prospect of it. Because what does that mean?

Even now, hours later, he cannot decide which possibility he dislikes more—that you had been toying with him all along, or that you had actually meant it.

He despises the idea of the former, because then you have once again succeeded in making him dance to whatever tune amused you most, and somehow, after eight years apart, you still know exactly how to make him feel like the most gullible little boy in the Red Keep.

Yet, for some reason, it is the latter that makes his stomach twist.

There is a lump in his throat and heat runs through him as he pushes open the door to the small room at the top of the tower, intent on taking in the old, familiar view of the city since sleep continues to evade him.

Because if you had meant it—

"Jacaerys, isn't it past your bedtime?"

Jace stills instantly, breath hitching and gaze lifting from the floor to where your mocking voice had come from.

You are sitting on the narrow windowsill, one leg hanging over empty air, head lolled back against cool stone. Moonlight spills through the narrow opening behind you, turning the dark green silk of your gown almost black wherever the light does not touch. Your eyes settle on him beneath half-lowered lashes, drifting over him carefully before returning to his face—not hurried enough to be mistaken for surprise, nor bold enough to be entirely indecent like earlier today.

His throat bobs as he stares at you, and your gaze sharpens, eyes tracking the movement the way a cat watches the flutter of a bird's wings.

The corner of your mouth curves.

Jace feels distinctly like prey.

He should turn back.

"Were you looking for me?" you ask with a teasing smile, head tilting slightly to the side. There is a brightness to your eyes and a sweetness to your smile that makes you unbearably pretty, and Jace suddenly cannot breathe under the weight of your full attention. "Hm?"

"No."

The word comes out too harsh and too fast, but you do not look bothered by it, humming lightly as your gaze slips over him again.

You say simply, "Pity."

Then you look away as though he isn't even there, and Jace can breathe again, inhaling deeply through his nose to fill his burning lungs.

What the hell was that? How had you managed to steal the breath from him with just a look?

You rest your head against the stone and peer out over the darkened city below. King's Landing stretches in every direction, Blackwater Bay shimmering beyond the walls.

For several long moments, you say nothing at all, and Jace frowns, shifting uncomfortably on his feet, waiting for you to turn your attention back to him, but you do not. He expects another teasing remark or a question that would make him want to bite his own tongue off, or even for you to start mocking him as you used to, but instead, you seem entirely absorbed by the horizon.

Irritation blooms in his chest. He hates that he can never anticipate you. Hates that he is always rendered dazed and confused every time you cross paths. How has he let you have so much power over him? Even now, after all this time?

"What are you looking at?" he asks at last, hating how obvious it is that he's seeking your attention, and pressing his lips together when you neither turn your head to look at him nor immediately speak.

He hates you, he thinks so viciously that he's almost embarrassed by the violence that thrums in his chest. He hates even more that the longer you do not respond, the more antsy he is for you to address him again, mortified as his lips part to ask you again.

"Māzigon kesīr, mandianna," you finally murmur.

Come here, nephew.

The breath leaves his lungs again.

Jace has heard High Valyrian his entire life. He has spent the better part of eight years studying it until it rolled easily off his own tongue, until he could read ancient histories and speak to his mother without ever slipping into the Common Tongue, and yet, somehow, he has never heard it sound quite like this. His mouth is dry as he stares at you for a moment—mandianna, mandianna, mandianna—the pretty, syrupy word ringing through his head on repeat.

By the time he realizes he has moved, he has already crossed the room.

You glance at him from the corner of your eye, satisfaction flickering across your face, gone almost as quickly as it appears. His jaw tightens because, of course, he obeys without putting up a fight, just like he did earlier, just like he's done his entire life, only for you to laugh in his face without fail every time.

Jace swallows again, frustrated now, but falters when you track the movement once more. This time, your gaze does not immediately flit away, fixated upon his throat as though you have forgotten yourself.

It almost appears to be an effort for you to lift your gaze back to his face.

Oh?

A thrill runs hot in his chest. What does that mean? Were you being genuine earlier when you called him handsome? Could you actually be att—

"Closer," you tell him quietly.

Jace frowns, then takes another tentative step toward the narrow window you're seated on, close enough that the tops of his thighs brush the fabric of your dress.

"Closer."

He looks at you, bewildered, before he finally understands what you mean—you are seated, and he is standing, even this close, he stands over you. He presses his lips together, bracing himself, before bending at the waist until his head is level with yours. His lashes flutter when he takes a breath, the faint scent of rose oil clinging to your hair, dizzying.

He is close enough that were he to turn his head, his lips would brush your temple. That he can feel the warmth of your body against his, can see the tip of your tongue dart out to wet your lower lip. His gaze drops lower, to the slope of your neck—lower still, and Jace suddenly feels flushed, gaze snapping back up to your face.

You are already looking at him, lips curved up, eyes glittering.

Jace has to stop himself from shutting his eyes in mortification, certain his face must be beet-red.

You lift your hand to his chin, and his breath hitches when he feels your fingers trace along the front of his throat, right over where you'd watched it bob as he swallowed, until your middle and ring fingers settle beneath his chin, tilting his face up just enough so that his gaze is forced to the sky.

You turn your face toward his, lips brushing his ear, breath hot and pleasant against his skin as you murmur, "Watch."

Jace does not know what he's looking at. His skin is on fire, tingling beneath your touch, breath unsteady, the longer your lips remain at the lobe of his ear. He cannot think, he cannot even breathe straight with you so close, so warm, so—

A trill rings through the air, drawing his gaze upwards, and Jace's lips part as a black blur sweeps through the sky above before swooping down low, circling around the tower the two of you are in, coming so close that the rush of air messes his hair.

"That is—"

"Starchaser," you say with a fond smile, face no longer tilted toward him as you look out at your dragon. Jace glances at you, momentarily struck by the adoration plain on your face—it makes you look softer, younger. He has only ever seen mockery and scrutiny; this is… "She enjoys taking night flights. I come up here to watch her. Sometimes she drags Sunfyre along with her, but—"

You falter when another, sharper trill cuts through the air, brows furrowing slightly, leaning forward to try to figure out which dragon had joined yours for a flight, and Jace suddenly cannot breathe again because Jace would recognize that noise from anywhere. His chest is tight, lips parted; that is—

That is Vermax.

His lips part as he watches Vermax swoop down after Starchaser, playful and impossibly swift.

Starchaser lets out another happy trill before veering sharply away, silver-edged wings catching the moonlight as she twists through the air. Vermax follows without hesitation.

They sweep over the rooftops of King's Landing in great looping arcs, one forever just out of the other's reach. Starchaser dives. Vermax dives after her. She climbs, rolling gracefully onto one wing, and he answers by matching her ascent, their paths weaving together so closely Jace is certain they'll collide, but they never do. Instead, they separate at the last instant, only to circle back toward one another again.

Beside him, you have fallen silent.

He risks a glance.

Your lips are parted slightly, eyes wide and openly wondrous as you watch the two dragons chase one another through the night sky.

You are beautiful.

The thought comes so suddenly that it catches him off guard, heart in his throat. He knows you are beautiful—all of King's Landing, Westeros, even, knows you are beautiful. Bards have sung of your beauty, and poets lyric tales of it; as much as he has loathed you for your cruelty, he has never been able to deny your beauty without feeling foolish.

But this is… different.

This is not the knife-like smiles he is used to—it is not the poisonous words or the careful calculation, it is not even the facade you put up before the court, the pretty flutter of your lashes to whoever you deign to give your attention and the honeyed compliments that he knows damn well are fake. You look—you look unguarded, as though, for a few precious moments, you have forgotten there is anyone beside you to perform for.

He wonders, distantly, whether this is the truest version of you he has ever seen.

Then, if anyone else has ever seen it.

"I have never seen her fly like this," you finally admit, voice soft. He cannot tell if you're talking to him or not, and he almost doesn't want to risk ruining the moment. Luckily, you do that yourself, because you seem to catch yourself, tone sharpening into something ar more familiar: "And to think it is with your dragon of all of them, how quaint."

Jace's gaze cuts to the side, jaw tightening. "And what does that mean, exactly?" he asks, voice low.

The wonder has disappeared from your face, replaced with a calculating look in your eyes and a curve of your lips that sets him on edge.

"Oh, nothing," you say easily. "I just thought Starchaser would have developed more, ah, discerning taste."

Jace's heart sinks, even though he knows he should have expected this. He lets out a low scoff and steps away from the window, away from you, trying to mask the wounded expression that he knows crosses his face before you can see it. He does not know how he always lets you get away with this—does not know how he always manages to fall for the honeyed words and syrupy smiles he mocks others for being fooled by when he knows better than anyone that you only plan to lure him in to twist the dagger.

"Of course," he says bitterly, shaking his head. He hates that despite everything, he had thought of your words earlier in the day and wondered maybe if things might be different now that you were both older, that maybe you weren't playing another game with him, that maybe you might want him, the same way he has always—he does not dare finish the thought. "I do not know what I expected. I should return to my chambers. Have a good night, aunt."

His voice is strained to hide the hurt and rage that threaten to creep into it in kind—he is not sure if he is angrier at you or himself. He has always been prone to being hard on himself, eager to blame himself before anyone around him, but you have always been the one person who could successfully get under his skin enough for him to want to direct that anger at you. He hears you shift on the windowsill, feet dropping lightly on the stone floor.

"I upset you," you note.

Jace's eye twitches—is it not enough to get the dig in? You must bring attention to the fact that he's wounded by it, too? You have always been cruel, he has known better than most, but still…

"Of course, you upset me," he hisses before he can think. "I thought—"

He thought what? He thought that you meant it when you called him handsome? That the way your fingers lingered beneath his chin had been something more than another elaborate jest? That the softness in your voice, the look in your eyes, had been meant, at least partially, for him? That this was more than just another twisted way for you to lure him in to sink the knife in his back as soon as he allows himself to hope?

Gods. He had actually believed you might like him—again. Heat floods his face, equal parts humiliation and anger. He has not felt so spectacularly foolish in almost a decade.

He should not be surprised, he thinks, not for the first time this night. You have always been fond of toying with him in these ways. Perhaps Aegon is somewhere nearby even now, slumped against a doorway with a wineskin in hand, waiting for Jace to leave so the two of you could laugh at the gullible nephew who had mistaken your amusement for affection. It would hardly be the first time the pair of you had made sport of him.

He lets out a humorless laugh.

"I ought to know better," he mutters, more to himself than to you. "You always do this." His eyes lift to yours. "I am only disappointed I let myself believe, for even a moment, that you might have grown tired of it."

You tilt your head to the side, eyes glittering with amusement in a way that makes his fist curl at his side, shaking, like it did when he was young, and you would push and push and push until everything threatened to break.

"You misunderstand. I only mean to say, nephew, that it should not be so surprising," you say, hands locked behind your back as you approach him with a teasing smile and an unreadable look in your eyes. Jace thinks he should step back, but cannot bring himself to do so. He hates that you are as beautiful as everyone praises, and he hates that he cannot drag his eyes away. "Dragons do tend to take after their riders, after all."

All of the air whooshes from Jace's lungs as he stares at you, words registering much too slowly.

His mouth opens, then closes again. He stares at you dumbly, tongue-tied for the second, third, fourth time—he doesn't even know anymore. He hates the effect you have on him, and he hates that even now his chest blooms traitorously with the hope you'd just crushed moments before.

You lean in so close that your lips ghost his ear, and his nearly brushes along your jaw. He does not dare to breathe in fear that you'll hear how unsteady it is.

"She has clearly inherited my taste," you murmur. "I should think that if our dragons are inclined to pursue one another all evening, it would be rather rude for their riders not to become better acquainted, don't you?"

What?

"I do not understand you," he says through his teeth, breath ragged as he inhales, tongue darting out to wet his dry lips. He feels your hand ghost along his torso, as though testing to see if he'll withdraw from your touch. "You are so—"

"Cruel?" you offer, though you sound distracted.

When he does not pull away, your hand settles atop him, fingers pressing lightly into his body. He is grateful that your face is tilted up toward his so that you cannot see how tight his pants are.

"Impossible," he corrects, though cruel fits too, his voice strained and body wound tight. "I do not—"

Jace falters, lips parting when he feels you brush your mouth against his jaw, and every single coherent thought leaves his head. He forgets where he is, what he's doing, skin prickling, hot and burning where your mouth had just touched.

His gaze cuts to the side, and instead of the smug expression he's used to, he sees a tentative one, gaze sharp still as you search his face, but uncertain in a way he isn't sure he's ever seen you before. It vanishes so quickly that he almost convinces himself he imagined it.

"Ah," you murmur, recovering your usual composure with infuriating ease, smile teasing again. "You make this entirely too easy."

Jace's jaw tightens. "Do not."

"Do not what?"

"If this is a game, then find someone else to play it with. I will not let you make a fool of me again."

You study him for a long moment before the familiar smile returns.

“How disappointing,” you sigh. “And here I had thought you were finally beginning to let loose.” You incline your head, all false courtesy. “Forgive me, then, Lord Strong. I will leave you be”

The words strike like a slap. He inhales so sharply, drawing back, that he does not notice the wince that crosses your face as soon as the words leave your mouth. He lets out a bitter laugh, shaking his head as he turns away from you, planting both hands on the cold stone ledge of the window.

"I do not know why I keep expecting you to stop reaching for the cruelest thing you can say."

He stares out across King's Landing, refusing to look back, refusing to let you see the way his chest aches at how effortlessly you can dismantle him. His cheeks burn with humiliation at the number of times you have managed to make a fool of him in the span of a single evening.

Worse still, he has no one to blame but himself. He had seen the softness in your smile, the wonder on your face as you watched the dragons, the uncertainty after your lips had brushed his jaw, and, like the hopeless fool he has always been where you are concerned, he had mistaken each of them for sincerity. He is furious with you for wielding his hope against him—and even more furious with himself for handing it to you so willingly.

He hears you move in his direction—soft footsteps cross the stone floor, each one quieter than the last, until he feels your presence at his back.

He closes his eyes, jaw clenching. "Have you not had enough?"

The only answer is a soft hum. Jace's breath catches when he feels your arms snake around his waist from behind. Your palm flattens against his abdomen, and your lips press to his ear.

"Jacaerys," you say softly, and Jace shivers at the sound of his name rolling off your tongue so naturally—he is sure you can feel it. "Forgive me. I'm sorry. I cannot help myself, it seems."

His throat spasms, lashes fluttering as your hand creeps down his abdomen, lower, lower, until the tips of your fingers dip beneath the waist of his pants. You hold them there steady, ghosting your lips to the shell of his ear before you kiss beneath it once.

Did you just—did you apologize? You're touching him—your arms are around his waist, fingers dipping beneath the waistband of his pants, your lips are pressed to his ear, and Jace cannot think, his heart is beating frantically in his chest and his ears are rinning. He blinks wildly, lips parting, what is happening? Why—

"I should not have said that," you continue quietly, and you kiss him again, lower on his neck, lingering. Jace is hardly breathing, dizzy from your mouth, your breath, your fingers pressing lightly into his pelvis. Fuck, he thinks, breathless. "It was unkind."

"Everything you do is unkind," he forces himself to reply, voice far raspier than he would have liked. "You make me feel like a fool."

"I know," you agree, and you sound regretful—but is this a trick too? Another performance to get him to lower his guard? Jace doesn't know; he can't fucking think straight when you're touching him like this. He thinks it must be intentional. "It is easier for me to be cruel than to be honest. I do not like being hurt."

Honest? he thinks distracted by your hand on his body and your lips at his neck. He should press—honest about what? What are you worried will hurt you?

Instead, he breathes helplessly:

"I have never wanted to hurt you. Never—" The admission is mortifying to speak out loud, but the words spill out before he can think better of it. "—and yet, you have always—I have only ever wanted—"

You.

He has only ever wanted you; defying all sense and logic, everything that screams at him to keep away from you or make you sorry for being cruel. It all boils down to the frustrating reminder that no matter how much time passes, he will always be the stupid little boy who wants your attention. Years can pass of him convincing himself that he hated you, hates you, but a single moment in your presence will remind him that it was never hate at all—only the bitterness of wanting someone who never seemed to want him back. Hatred would have been easier—safer—because hatred would not unravel the moment you brushed your fingers against him.

"Oh, mandianna, iksā tolmiot tolī dōna," you breathe, and Jace's pulse jumps when your fingers work at the laces of his pants, breath hitching when you mouth gently at his pulse. "Skorkydoso kessa nyke mirre jiōragon ao naejot shijetra nyke?"

Oh, nephew, you are too sweet. How will I ever convince you to forgive me?

Jace's eyes slide shut, lips parting over a silent moan when your free hand drops to his waist, gently turning him around so that his back is to the narrow window you'd been sitting on and the two of you are face to face. Your hand slides up his chest as you look up at him through your lashes, and Jace can hardly breathe when his gaze meets yours—the soft smile on your lips, how your pupils are blown wide, you can't be faking that, can you? This must be real, but—

—but what does that mean? What does this mean?

"You've always been my favorite, you know?" you tell him, leaning so that your lips ghost his teasingly.

Jace almost finds himself chasing when you pull back before your mouth touches his, the near-taste of you drawing him in like a moth to flame—he smells the sweet arbor red you've been sipping at, and his mouth waters at the thought of tasting it off your tongue.

Desperately, he tries to regain some control over himself before he makes a bigger fool of himself than he already has.

His heart pounds as he leans in before he can think better of it, nose bumping yours lightly, close enough that he can feel your breath on his lips.His mouth curls up into a smile he hopes is mocking as he breathes, "And you've always been a pretty liar, aunt."

A thrill runs through his chest when you lean in to close the distance, lips not quite touching because Jace pulls back to deny you. You're thrown off by the sudden distance, blinking once, then twice, before you look up at him with a bemused expression. He wonders if this is the first time anyone has denied you anything—wonders how many other men you've lured in with those pretty words and prettier smiles.

The thought settles poorly in his stomach for some reason.

You compose yourself quickly, tilting your head to the side carefully as you look over him. He barely catches his breath from hitching when he realizes that you've finished unlacing his trousers, one hand lingering at his pelvis as you lean in to ghost your lips against his jaw, trailing your mouth up the sharp line to his ear.

"It's the truth," you insist, free hand slipping beneath his tunic so that you can slide your hand up his slim torso. "You don't believe me?

No, he wants to say, but his lips part over a silent moan, abdomen tightening when he feels your nails scratching lightly against his skin, palm warm and electrifying as you map out his body with your fingers, tracing each and every line with reverence. His lashes flutter when you rest your forehead at his temple, and he can feel how unsteady your breath is against his jaw.

"Do you know why I was always so cruel to you?" you ask him softly.

He lets out a short laugh, fingers tight around the edge of the windowsill as he stops himself from reaching for you. It is a terrible enough effort to focus when he can feel your chest flush to his, one hand exploring his body while the other settles far, far too close to his aching cock—he does not need to deal with his own wandering touch on top of it.

This is a mess, he thinks, but does not push you away. He came here to be alone, to think on what had happened today, to get his mind on straight before the petition tomorrow, and now you have reduced every coherent thought of his to the dizzying warmth of your hands and breath—is that why you are here? To distract him?

No, you had already been here when he arrived. You couldn't have sought him out.

Fuck, Jace can't even think straight anymore.

His voice is hoarse as he forces out, "I imagine you're about to tell me."

Your fingers trace lazily over the lines of his abdomen. You tilt your face up slightly so that your lips are almost pressed to his jaw again, nose bumping his cheek. You say simply, "I liked looking at you."

He stills, words drawing him from his haze. "We both know that's not true," he scoffs. "You were the biggest offender when it came to insulting my—"

His jaw tightens, nostrils flaring as he takes a breath to calm himself.

"It is," you say simply. "I needed a reason that wouldn't draw suspicion from my mother or brothers, so I made certain everyone believed I couldn't stand the sight of you. It was easier to mock you than explain why I kept watching you."

You're lying. You must be.

Jace's breath is unsteady as your words register, mind racing, hardly able to keep up. You have him distracted with every sweep of your fingers against his tense muscles, every time your lips press lightly to his skin as you speak—he can hardly focus on what you're actually saying, but he knows that is a lie.

"And then I realized, I liked looking at you more when I could finally make you forget yourself. When you were angry." Your thumb brushes against his ribs. Jace's heart hammers. "When you tried so desperately not to cry." Your lips curve faintly. He can feel the smile against his jaw. He hates that it makes him shiver. "Especially when you failed."

What?

"Your cheeks would flush. Your eyes would shine. You would bite the inside of your cheek because you were too proud to let anyone see. You were the prettiest boy I had ever seen," you breathe out, pulling back just enough to look at him. Your fingertips ghost over his chest before your palm settles there firmly. Jace wonders if you can feel how hard his heart is pounding in his chest. "I wonder, you've grown to be so handsome. If you cried for me now, would I still think you were the prettiest thing I'd ever seen?"

The words should strike him like a slap—just like Lord Strong did not too long ago. It sounds less like a confession than a warning, as though you are placing every card on the table before inviting him to lose anyway. It should be enough to wrench him free of you, to remind him that this—whatever this is—began with an admission that you had delighted in making him miserable. That perhaps you still would. He should hear the trap snapping shut around him. He should step back while he still can.

Instead, he finds himself searching your face for the answer to a question he has no business asking.

Would you?

It is humiliating, he thinks. He sees the snare, understands exactly how it is baited, and still cannot bring himself to turn away.

"So that's what this is?" he asks after a moment, voice low. "Another way to make me weep? What insult should I expect that you haven't already spoken a dozen times before?"

"We are older now, nephew," you say with an easy smile. "There are more pleasant ways of making you cry than cruelty."

Your hand slips out from beneath his tunic, both sliding up his body until you're holding the back of his hair, fingers threading through the dark curls at his nape as you lean in so close that your nose bumps his gently. Jace cannot bring himself to move away this time, gaze dropping down to your lips just as your tongue darts out to wet them. His breath is unsteady, and his heart is pounding so hard that he can hardly hear himself breathing over the sound of it.

"Any more clever retorts?" you breathe, and Jace relishes in the fact that you sound just as wrecked as he does just from touching him.

"You've made them all quite difficult to remember," he replies, voice wrecked.

"Good."

In truth, Jace does not know what he is doing.

He is not inexperienced by any means. He has courted women, kissed them, lain with them, but the moment your lips are on his, Jace's brain shuts off. His hands fly to your waist on instinct, head tilting to the side and lips parting before he can remember every sensible reason he ought to stop.

Your lips are soft and sweet, and just as he thought he would, he can taste the remnants of your wine on your tongue as it curls against his—it is intoxicating, you are intoxicating. He is like a fly that has dared too close to the spider's web, a moth drawn too close to flame. This is not something he will be able to stop, will want to stop, now that it has begun.

One hand stays at your hip to pull your body close to his, breath hitching when your thigh presses into aching cock, while the other slides up your body. He savors in the way you arch into his touch, in the soft moan that spills into his mouth, and how, for a moment, you forget you're kissing him entirely—lips parting, lashes fluttering as his hand palms over your breast, lingering for a moment longer there than he should, thumb rolling over your nipple through the fabric of your dress before he continues upward, until his fingers can entwine with your hair, holding the back of your head and your hip to pull you close and kiss you deeper.

It is mad, he thinks, drowning in the sounds of your shared, ragged breath and the wetness of your lips sliding against one another. If someone had told him that his first night back in King's Landing would be spent in the tallest tower of Maegor's Holdfast with you, of all people, he would have laughed in their face.

And yet, here he is—years of mockery and cruelty slipping through his fingers as his grip tightens on your hip and hair.

You pull back enough to catch your breath, forehead pressed to his, eyes sliding shut as you share the same sliver of air. His own breath is shuddering, head a bit light as he tries to get some air into his burning lungs, but he still slides his hand from where it's resting at the back of your head to cradle your face, fingers slipping beneath your chin, thumb resting over your bottom lip as he tilts your face up just enough to force you to look at him.

Your pupils are blown wide, lips slick and swollen from his—he is sure he likely looks no less disheveled, but cannot help the satisfaction that curls low in his gut, because there is no hiding the faint bits of astonishment in your eyes, much as you seem to be trying to mask it away.

"Where…" you start to breathe, blinking once, then a second time as you desperately try to compose yourself, sucking in a quick breath.

Jace's lips curl up into a mocking smile as he leans down so that his nose bumps yours again, tilting the lower half of his face close enough so that he can brush his lips briefly against yours before he murmurs, "You did not think you were the only one who has noticed I've grown handsome over the years, did you?"

Something hot flashes across your face, eyes sharpening and lips pressing together, but it is gone before he can place exactly what it is—jealousy? Possessiveness? The mere prospect makes his pulse jump.

"Careful, nephew," you whisper, lips curving. "For someone so pleased with himself, you are making it rather obvious that you are not as composed as you'd like me to believe."

Jace's eyes slide shut, head hanging forward slightly, lips parting in a silent moan as you put more pressure on his cock with your thigh. His abdomen tenses as he clings to a sliver of dignity in his attempts not to spill his seed in his trousers just from that bit of friction, breath ragged.

You huff out what sounds like a laugh as you brush your lips against his again.

"If you ask me nicely, Jacaerys, I'll help you with it," you purr into his mouth, kissing him again, deeper this time. Jace moans into your mouth as you grind your thigh against his cock, tongue dragging along the roof of his mouth.

You are going to be the death of him.

"Please," he breathes, eyes barely half-lidded as he looks down at you through his lashes, not able to stop himself from chasing your lips this time when you pull just out of reach. "Haven't I already made fool enough of myself? Have some mercy on your favorite nephew, aunt."

You hum into his mouth, considering, and Jace shivers. Your lips finally leave his, trailing open-mouthed kisses along his jaw, starting down his neck. Jace expects your hand to slip into his pants, expects to feel the warmth of your fingers around his cock, the softness of your palm as it glides over the length of him. He tilts his head back slightly as your lips trail down his throat, lashes lowered and breath hitching when your teeth graze over the apple of his throat, and then—

—then your lips disappear, and he hears a rustle of fabric.

His gaze cuts down, bemused, and then his whole chest seizes when he sees you on your knees in front of him, green dress pooled on the floor around you as you busy yourself with finishing unlacing his pants.

Oh, he thinks dumbly, lips parted as he stares down at you. His cock twitches, dizzy just from the sight of you—you—on your knees before him like this.

He has fantasized about this, he recalls absently, shamefully, one hand reaching out to caress the side of your face before he can stop himself, the backs of his fingers running along your cheek, over your lips.

Many times over the last few years, when word reached Dragonstone about whatever feast or tourney was hosted in your honor, and he would be tortured by the endless chorus of praise bestowed upon a woman he knew intimately to be merciless beneath the pretty smile, he would find himself in a restless obsession over you for days at a time. His family learned to keep a respectful distance, mistaking his foul temper for stress or exhaustion; they did not know every passing mention of your name set flames beneath his skin that threatened to consume him whole.

He would replay every slight you had ever dealt him on repeat in his head; in his mind, he won arguments that had long since ended. He thought of clever retorts he should have made, humiliations he wished he had returned in equal measure; he imagined finally leaving you speechless instead of standing there dumbly, red-faced and teary-eyed, wounded as you've left him countless times before.

And some nights, when Dragonstone had long fallen silent and sleep would not come, his thoughts would take an even more mortifying turn. His head would fall back against the frame of his bed, eyes sliding shut, and he would wonder—would you run your mouth so much when he had you beneath him? Would you be so quick to insult when it was his hand that would decide whether or not you would find pleasure that night? Would you still find it in you to get a taunt in while you were stretched open, or would you look up at him with those pretty eyes of yours, wide and teary, not a single thought running through that cruel little brain of yours while he had you at his mercy?

It was shameful—he was always filled with a certain type of guilt in the aftermath, jaw tight as he cleaned himself. He did not enjoy thinking of any woman in such a degrading way, even one as vicious as you, but you have always managed to bring out the very worst of him.

Heart racing and barely able to stop his fingers from trembling, he grabs your hand to stop you before you can slide his trousers down his thighs. You look up questioningly, and Jace swallows thickly, taking a moment to steady his breath and voice.

His lips dart out to wet his dry lips. "Are—are you certain?"

You give him a droll look that makes him feel stupid. "I would not be on my knees if I were not, Lord Strong."

Jace's nostrils flare, grip tightening on your wrist slightly as you look up at him with eager, glittering eyes—are you trying to make him lose his temper? Are you—

I liked looking at you more when I could make you forget yourself.

Gods, you are insufferable.

Jace hates that some shameful part of him enjoys it. It is odd, he should think, that he craves someone so determined to draw the worst from him.

Anyone else would be appalled by the viciousness of his tongue and the flashes of resentment he spends every waking hour concealing so that he may be the perfect prince for a court that has already decided it will not accept. He has spent his life learning restraint—swallowing his temper, smiling when slighted, bowing his head when insulted—but you pluck at his temper as though it were the strings of that harp you so enjoy playing, smiling brightest only once he's finally abandoned every pretense of civility.

You make him sharper, crueler, quicker to anger. You draw retorts from him so petty they would embarrass him if they came from anyone else's mouth, and you reduce years of discipline to ash with a single taunting smile. And yet, there is something liberating about it, he thinks, that there is someone who does not flinch when he gives into the uglier sides of himself.

Or, perhaps, he is just trying to justify the way his cock is weeping as you finally slide his trousers down over his thighs, the way his lashes flutter when you press your lips to his hipbone.

"My, you have grown pretty everywhere, haven't you, nephew?" you murmur, both hands coming to rest on his thighs as you lean in, gaze sharp and appreciative as you study the length of him.

Jace notes, absently, that you do not seem discomforted, or even surprised, by the sight of him so near to your face, which leads Jace to the unfortunate conclusion that this is probably not the first time you've been so close to a man's cock, and that only serves to aggravate him for reasons beyond his understanding.

You are betrothed to Aemond, are you not? Have you lain with him already? Aegon? Both?

His fingers slide from where they're resting atop your cheek to beneath your chin, lifting your face just a smidge so that your gaze shifts up to meet his. He nearly loses his train of thought when he sees how your attention lingers on his cock, pupils blown wide when you finally look up at him.

"You are bold, aunt," he notes, still stuck on the fact that you had the nerve to call him Lord Strong again when you are on your knees before him. Your audacity truly knows no bounds. "To insult me, considering the position you are about to be in. Do you not fear being at my mercy?"

Your lips curl up into a pretty, pretty smile that knocks the breath from his lungs. You breathe out, "I long for the day you finally give me a reason to, nephew."

You do not give Jace a chance to make a retort this time, leaning in to press your lips against him. He inhales sharply through his teeth, eyes sliding shut as you press open-mouthed kisses along the length of his cock, tongue teasing at the vein that runs on the underside.

His hand instinctively slides from your chin to the back of your head, while his other tightens around the edge of the windowsill he's leaning on. Desperately, he tries to use the cool night air to ground him, but it proves futile when you reach his tip, tongue flicking along his slit as you lap up the seed already leaking from it.

Breath ragged, he dares to spare a glance down at you, teeth nearly sinking through his bottom lip when he sees how you've devoted your whole attention to his cock, nails stinging at his hip and thigh as you hold him for leverage as you take him fully down your throat.

You have done this before, the thought hits him more severely, fingers tightening in your hair as the warmth of your throat fully envelops him, as his abdomen spasms, thighs tensing beneath your touch. The idea of it—of you on your knees for anyone else, of you allowing one of your cunt brothers to sink his cock into your mouth the way he is now—infuriates him more than he can articulate.

He hisses when he feels you moan around him as soon as he inadvertently tugs at your hair, heat spreading fast and all-consuming through him, cock twitching in your mouth, hips jerking slightly as he forces himself further down your throat. Your throat spasms around him, choking, fingers digging so deep into his skin that he thinks you draw blood, and instantly, his grip loosens on your hair, an apology on his lips.

"Sorry," he gasps, chest heaving, a bit dizzy as he forces himself away from the peak he nearly found himself on. Thighs still trembling as he tries to regain some control of himself. "I did not mean—"

He feels you pat his leg, and his eyes slide back open, focusing on you again. He almost cannot keep his gaze on you, because the sight of you on your knees, lips stretched around his cock, eyes stinging with tears, nearly undoes him entirely. He sucks in another sharp breath, jaw tightening as he wills away the tightness in his stomach, but it proves impossible. His breath hitches over something closer to a whine than anything else, because he does not want to finish, not yet, but—

You pull off his cock before he can make a fool of himself, and somehow that's even worse, because he can hear the way you laugh when you see how he hisses at the loss of your warmth around him, knees nearly buckling.

"Lose your restraint," you tell him. "I can handle it."

Lose his—

For a moment, he isn't sure what you're implying, blinking down dumbly at you, still reeling from how close he'd been to finishing and how easily you'd denied him. When your words finally begin to process, his face flushes a deep red, throat bobbing.

Are you telling him what he thinks you're telling him?

"Come, tell me you haven't imagined it, nephew," you murmur, voice hoarse from having his cock in your throat, but you are still unbearably smug—more than you ought to be, he thinks spitefully. You kiss his hip, his thigh, and then the tip of his cock, flicking your tongue against it lightly, savoring in the way it twitches beneath your lips. "Prove to me that there's some bite to your bark, Lord Strong."

He knows you are trying to provoke a reaction from him.

He knows it.

His jaw clenches, his fingers tighten in your hair, and he knows he is giving you what he wants because your lips part in anticipation, eyes half-lidded and waiting as you look at him through your lashes. And he doesn't want to give you what he wants, he doesn't. He loves the idea of denying you when he knows no one has ever denied you before, wants to see your lip pushed out in a pretty pout, wants to see the confused expression on your face as you tilt your head and look at him, but—

—but his hand slides behind your head again anyway, easing you forward until your lips brush his tip again.

"You will tap twice if you need me to stop," he tells you, waiting for you to acknowledge his words. He sees the thrill that runs through you when you realize he is actually going to go through with it, and he feels it himself, low in his stomach, hot and tight and so, so dizzying. "Hm?"

"Yes, yes," you agree absently, and he is not sure if you are listening to him at all, and he can hardly focus with the way your warm breath is fanning over his aching cock. "Not that you will be able to make me, my lord Strong."

Jace presses his tongue to the back of his teeth, rage and desire flooding him in earnest as his grip tightens just enough on your hair to coax another soft, breathy moan from you. Your gaze flicks up to his, somehow still mocking, somehow still behaving as though you are the one in control, and Jace does not hesitate this time as he guides your mouth to his cock, down his length until your lips are flush to his pelvis and your eyes are watering with tears.

Instinctively, you try to pull back, but his hand is firm at the back of your head, holding you in place. He tilts his head to the side, lips curled up into a lazy smile that he hopes belies the way his entire body feels as though it's on fire at the feeling of your throat wrapped tight around his cock.

"Already, aunt?" he mocks, relishing in the irritation that crosses your eyes. "I would think—hah—"

Jace stumbles over his words, choking on a breathy moan when he feels you purposely work your throat around his cock. His eyes fly open, lips parting—your throat tightens around him, and Jace cannot think, all coherent thought slips from his mind, reduced to the warmth of you, the tightness, you, you, you.

This is you on your knees for him. Your lips stretched around his cock, your nails in his thighs, your eyes tearing up at him. You, you, you. The girl who has always held herself above him, mocked him, teased him, tormented him until he was angry to the point of violence and hurt to tears. Every fantasy of petty revenge slips away because this—this—is all he ever needs, is all he's ever wanted.

He rolls his hips slowly against your face once he regains some slivers of control, watching as your lashes flutter, a soft moan spilling from his lips when he hits the back of your throat and feels your tongue drag along the underside of his cock.

Jace is not one for violence or pain—where other men chased screams and took their pleasure roughly, he has always preferred sighs and caresses—even you, with your insufferable taunts, he's careful not to rock his hips too hard as he begins to set a steady pace, because he has no desire to hurt you.

His hand slides from the back of your head to your neck, cradling your throat in his palm, fingers stroking along your skin as he feels the small bulge when your nose presses to his abdomen again.

Fuck, he thinks, breath hitching as he feels himself moving inside you. He lets out a long, shaky breath as his abdomen tightens, cock twitching so hard in your throat that it makes you choke again.

His lashes flutter shut, head tipping back out the window behind him; the cool night breeze does nothing to quell the heat rushing through him as your nails dig deeper into his thighs as you brace yourself for leverage to retake control, lips sliding up and down the length of his cock in earnest now, each time his tip hits the back of your throat drawing another pitched gasp from him.

His eyes half-roll back when you press your tongue flat against his slit, a louder moan spilling from his lips. His vision is blurred and lidded as he tries to focus on the sky above, the stars, your dragon and his still dancing around each other, but every small thing he tries to grasp onto so that he doesn't spill his seed down your throat slips between his fingers.

"Hah, I—" he stumbles over his words, another groan that pitches into a whine when you swirl your tongue around him. "I'm close, fuck, I—"

He thinks you will pull off him as most have done in the past, but your grip tightens on him, and you take him into your mouth in full one last time, holding yourself there as he lets out a string of incoherent babbles—your name, aunt, please, fuck—each one caught between a breathier moan than the last, hips grinding against your face as though he can press himself impossibly deeper inside you before his vision knocks white and the coil inside him finally snaps.

He chokes on a moan, eyes rolling to the back of his head as he spills his seed down your throat, entire body trembling as you keep him in your mouth, lips sliding up and down his length as you ease him through his high.

He does not know how long he stays there, panting, head tipped back out of the window as he desperately tries to regain some control, but it is only when you finally pull off him that he dares to roll his head to the side to look back at you.

You are sitting back on your heels now, your own breath ragged, lips swollen and wet. You lean forward to rest your head against his hip, breath hot and unsteady against his thigh as you try to catch your breath.

Jace's eyes slide shut again, an indescribable feeling settling over him—regret? shame? or, perhaps, shame but only because he does not regret this at all when he knows he should. His fingers absently card through your hair, trying to catch his own breath, thighs still trembling in the aftermath of his high.

At last, you shift as though to move, pressing your lips to his thigh, his hip, his sternum, his pulse, jaw, and then you ghost your lips against his face, tongue darting out to lap at the tear he hadn't even noticed had slipped from his eye.

"I was right," you breathe, brushing your lips against his. "You are still the prettiest thing I've ever seen."

Shit, Jace thinks, chest heaving as he stares down at you, heart pounding. What did he just let happen?

————————

"So, what's he like? What are they both like?" Your co-worker Mila has been hounding you all night with questions about your patient in 301.

"Mila," you hiss as a group of doctors and interns pass by the nurses' station.

"What?" she whines out, still draped over the counter as she watches you log some medical information into the computer. "Do you think you'll have to sign an NDA? I mean, if it's really him?"

"Him, who?" you distractedly ask as you finally meet her inquisitive gaze.

She heaves a sigh before looking around, making sure there are no prying ears. She leans in closer to you and whispers, "Spider-Man."

You try not to roll your eyes. "You're still on about that? It's been about a week."

"Oh, please. Stop acting like it's no big deal," she counters.

"It's not-"

"Lies. C'mon, when's the last time we had anything exciting happen around here?"

You shrug. "I mean, we're the night shift. We see a lot of weird stuff."

She dismisses your words with a wave of her hand. "Psh. Rashes and removing inanimate objects from noses and butts is a typical slow night for us."

"Great, you've jinxed us," you joke as you stand to stretch your legs. As you do so, you can't help but look down the hall on the left towards room 301.

You still can't believe it's been almost a week since Spider-Man's unexpected arrival. Since then, the hospital has been in an uproar. The floor he's on has been pretty much on lockdown. Surprisingly, there are no cops camped outside Spider-Man's door, but you're pretty sure it's because of the Punisher himself, who's become a permanent fixture inside the hospital room. Along with the silent vigil of Spider-Man fans and reporters outside the hospital.

Just you, Dr. Weaver, who's been assigned to Spider-Man's room, and the day nurse have clearance. You're not even sure if it's official clearance or Frank Castle's. So far, no New Avengers have been in the hospital to check in on Spider-Man.

"Is the Punisher actually scary looking up close?" Mila muses as she stares at the same room you've been thinking about all night.

This time you do roll your eyes. "Mila, you've seen Frank Castle on the news. It's not like he hides his face."

"Yeah, but he's always glaring or covered in blood and yelling."

Mila's not wrong there. The first time you interacted with Frank Castle, he almost gave you a heart attack. It was the second night, 2:15 a.m., and you were doing your rounds. You saved Spider-Man's room for last. All you had to do was check his vitals and see if he'd woken up.

When you first walked in, the room was empty, except for the unconscious superhero. If you weren't at Dr. Weaver's side that first night, you wouldn't have believed it was Spider-Man himself.

As you move closer, you can see the faint rise and fall of his chest and the steady beeping coming from the heart monitor. You give a sigh of relief. Honestly, the first night was touch-and-go with him. He had lost a lot of blood, and Dr. Weaver wasn't sure what other injuries Spider-Man had sustained. Frank mentioned something about the Hulk and Spider-Man going at it at the DODC building that same day.

You can't help but wonder how he's still alive. Maybe it's the spider DNA running through his body or his suit? You move next to the bed, reaching out to grab the empty IV bag and replace it, when a gravely low voice directly behind you causes you to jump and almost drop the new bag.

"What are you doing?"

Spinning around, you see Frank Castle at the foot of the bed. Even in civilian clothing, he's intimidating. Eyes intense, locked on your figure and face, void of any emotion. You do notice, due to your staring at him, that his eyes briefly move towards the bed and then back to you in a flash.

"I-I-uh," you stumble over your words, completely caught off guard. It was well past visiting hours, and you didn't expect Frank to still be there. Instead, you raise the IV bag so he can see you mean no harm to his friend.

His eyes furrow as he takes in your face, and then his gaze drops to your nurse's badge pinned to your front pocket.

"You're not the nurse from earlier." He moves a little closer to you, and you can't help but tense.

"Uh... yeah, I'm the night nurse. Ian will be back at 8," you say, finally finding your voice, and you point to the badge even though he's already seen it.

His gaze slightly softens, and his shoulders drop as he gives a slight nod and then moves to the chair that's on the other side of the bed. The next words out of his mouth surprise you.

"Sorry... didn't mean to startle you or anythin'. I'm just..." he trails off as if he's not sure what to say or he can't find the right words in that moment.

"I get it," you quickly say as you change out the IV bags. "You're just worried about your friend." Turning back, you see that Frank is carefully watching Peter's unconscious form. It's quiet for a moment, just the sound of the heart monitor beeping as you check the rest of Peter's vitals before jotting them down on his chart.

You're about to head out when Frank's voice stops you.

"He'll be okay." His voice is lower than before, and you're not sure if it's a question for you or if he's talking to himself.

Reassuring himself.

Again, you're not sure what to say. The next second, Frank looks up at you with a raised brow.

You muster a small smile. "Of course. His vitals are good," you reassure.

He doesn't say anything else, just nods as he settles back in his chair, crossing his arms. It looks like he's staying the night.

The sound of the call button brings you back to the present.

"Oh my god, it's his room," Mila excitedly breathes as she checks to see which room you're being called to.

"Mila," you lightly chastise as you push her back. "He's still a patient. Also, don't you need to do your rounds?"

She makes a face as she watches you head towards Peter's room. "You're no fun," she calls after you.

---

As you draw nearer to Peter's room, you hear some familiar voices floating down the hall. You met Ned and MJ the other night. Again, aside from the Spider-Man suit poking out of the patient bag and Frank's constant presence, it seems like a typical patient's room.

You pause in the doorway. Ned is by Peter's bed, showing him something on his phone. MJ and Frank are out of view, but you can hear them talking near the windowsill. You give a slight knock, alerting them to your presence.

"Hey," Peter says, immediately sitting up, hand going to his slight bed head.

"Hi," you reply, slightly uncertain as your eyes scan over him. MJ and Frank's conversation dies off as they spot you entering the room. "Visiting hours end soon," you gently remind Ned and MJ. You know Frank isn't leaving.

"Oh! Yeah, cool, no problem. We're heading out," Ned says, gesturing to MJ.

"Yeah, we'll be back tomorrow," MJ adds as she grabs her coat. She gives you a small smile as she passes you and heads out the door. Ned says something to Peter before grabbing his things and hurrying after MJ.

"Bye, Frank!" Ned says to the man who's currently staring out the window. "Bye, y/n," he adds as he passes you, and there's a teasing grin on his face as he says your name.

"Bye?" you barely get out, slightly confused and taken aback by that grin. You focus your attention back on Peter, who's messing with something in his hands. "So, what can I do for you?" you ask as you check his IV bag.

"Huh?" Peter replies, confused as he blinks up at you.

You can't help but smile. "You hit the call button."

"I did? Oh! Sorry, I uh didn't mean to. I guess I sat on the remote," Peter slightly rambles.

"Yeah, again." You hear Frank mutter from the window.

"Don't worry about it," you reply as you move closer to the bed and reach out, gently adjusting his pillows. Something you do out of habit with all your patients. "Happens all the time." Your arm brushes his shoulder, and there's a slight spike on the monitor.

You put on some gloves to check his bruised ribs. As your hands gently roam over his side, the monitor increases, and that alarms you.

You quickly pull back, scanning his body and face. "Are you still in pain?" you ask as you look at the monitor, still beeping away.

"Wh-what?" Peter slightly chokes out, trying to calm his heart.

"Didn't that happen last time you checked in on him?" Frank adds, and Peter shoots him a glare.

"Did it?" you muse, frowning slightly as you check his chart and the previous records of his monitor. Frank's right. Everything was fine during Ian's morning shift. But you do note his slightly elevated heart rate from last night during your rounds.

"It's nothing," Peter quickly reassures, reaching out to briefly touch your arm to get your attention away from his chart.

You look up, and Peter notices the worry and concern written across your face. "Maybe I should get Dr. Wea-"

"No! No, really, I'm fine," Peter cuts in, voice slightly raised.

You eye him and then reach out and touch his forehead with the back of your hand. Just by touch, he feels warm, but you're not sure if that's his natural body temperature or if he has an infection. You listen to Peter's persistent reassurance that he doesn't need Dr. Weaver as you continue to check his vitals. The constant semi-frantic beeping of the monitor still worries you.

"Peter," you gently cut in, your hand resting on his shoulder, and his rambling about how his body runs hot and there's no need to worry dies away at your touch. "I know your body heals faster, but still, maybe Dr. Weaver should-"

"No, no, really, I'm good. I can prove it to you." Peter is pushing back the blankets, and you quickly realize he's trying to get out of bed.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," you exclaim, pushing him back. "Stop moving so fast. You were literally knocking on death's doorstep a few days ago."

"That's a bit dramatic," he teases, still trying to get out of bed.

"It's on me if you collapse on the floor," you counter.

"Eh, she's got a point," Frank says, watching you two. "That Grey girl was basically keeping you alive the whole time you were unconscious."

"Frank, seriously. Like I keep saying, I'm fine. Go home-"

"The only way I'm leaving is if you force me out-"

"Don't think I can't. Just because you shot me-"

"Seriously? You're gonna hold that over my head? I was literally aiming for the girl, and you decided to pull some hero bullshit-"

"I'm not holding it over your head, Frank! I'm just saying-"

"Yeah? Let me tell you something, kid-"

"Guys!" you interject while simultaneously trying to push a standing Peter back on his bed. Their whole partnership... friendship? Was giving you a headache. A moment they're having a heart-to-heart, and next they're at each other's throats.

Peter's heartbeat slowly dies down as the monitor does. "Sorry," Peter sheepishly says, sitting down.

"You guys can go back to arguing, or whatever it is you two do once you're out of the hospital." You point a finger at Peter, who just stares up at you.

Frank mutters something under his breath and goes back to staring out the window. The rest of Peter's checkup goes smoothly.

"So, same time tomorrow night?" Peter jokes.

You grin. "It's a date."

The sound of the heart monitor picks up, and you eye it before looking back to Peter.

"Don't think I won't mention your heart rate to Dr. Weaver."

"Oh, come on-"

"Nope," you firmly say as you head out of the room.

"Maybe it's the machine," Peter calls after you.

Frank snorts. "Right, the machine. So, what's the reason for the red face every time she comes in?"

"Shut up."

You set your mug down before yanking your jumper tighter around your shoulders, and head into the corridor. The hallway smells of damp carpet. You step up to 4B, fold your knuckles, and rap four beats against the door.

A violent rustle erupts inside.

Someone scrambles blindly over a piece of furniture, trips, curses under their breath, and finally unlatches the deadbolt. The door opens a paltry three inches, held fast by the brass security chain.

Peter Parker peers out through the vertical gap. His curls are plastered to his forehead with sweat, a fresh purple streak blooming right along his jawline. He looks as though he had just finished wrestling.

“Hey,” he rasps, voice sounding like he swallowed a handful of gravel. He pulls a faint, utterly hopeless squint, resting his forehead lightly against the edge of the door. “Is... is everything alright out there?”

“I was going to ask you the same thing,” you say, leaning your side against the doorframe. “Considering you sound like you’re tossing all sorts of things around your flat.”

Peter winces, his hand tightening on the edge of the timber. “Right. Sorry. I just... lost my balance.” he nods, more to himself than to you. “My shoelaces were untied.”

“Your shoelaces.”

“Yeah. Double knot failed me.”

“Right. And the shoelaces hit you in the face?”

Silence fills the corridor. Peter blinks, his brain clearly grinding its gears to manufacture a backup lie, but the bone deep exhaustion in his eyes catches up to him. He lets out a defeated breath that rustles his messy fringe. “It was a very aggressive knot.”

“You are a dreadful liar.” Your eyes drop to his knuckle where he grips the door. “Is everything okay? You look like you’ve been through it.”

“Appreciate the honesty.”

“I’m serious. You look about one breath away from collapsing onto the floor.” You turn on your heel without waiting for his rebuttal. “Don’t lock the door.”

You disappear into your kitchen, grabbing a make shift ice pack that is frozen peas wrapped in a towel out of the freezer compartment. When you return, Peter hasn’t moved an inch, though his eyelids are half closed, his weight propped against the doorframe just to stay upright.

You shove the wrapped pack through the narrow gap, causing him to jolt back to life. He fumbles it, his rough fingers scraping against yours as he secures a grip.

“Hold it against your face.” you order, stepping back. “And if you’re going to keep dragging yourself home in pieces at midnight, at least learn how to fall properly.”

A crooked smirk cuts through his exhaustion, tugging at the corner of his split lip. “I’ll uh add soft landings to my list.”

“Do that.” You tap the wood of his door with a knuckle.

“Night,” he calls out, his tone dropping into something surprisingly quiet as you turn away.

You don’t linger to watch him shut the door, but the click of the lock follows you back to your flat, accompanied by the muffled sound of him finally sliding down against the wall to rest.

Three nights later, the knock comes on your door.

It's a tentative, almost apologetic tap—two soft thuds against the timber at a quarter past one in the morning.

You pull your headphones down around your neck, shoving your laptop aside on the sofa before padding over. When you swing the door open, Peter is standing in the dim light of the corridor, looking remarkably clean compared to his last appearance. His curls are damp from the rain outside, and the purple bruise along his jawline from earlier in the week has already faded to a dull yellow.

A ridiculously fast recovery that you brush off.

In his hands, folded into a neat, lopsided square, is your towel.

“I washed it,” he explains immediately. “And I bought my own ice pack. A proper gel one this time. So your frozen peas are safe.”

You take the laundered cloth with a slow tilt of your head. “You know it’s past one, right? Normal people exchange laundry during daylight hours.”

“Yeah, well, my schedule isn’t exactly normal,” he admits, shifting his weight between his feet. He rubs the back of his neck, his fingers tangling briefly in his messy hair. “Plus, I saw the light under your door. Figured you were still awake.”

“I work better when everything else has settled,” you shrug. “What’s your excuse?”

Peter offers a small, self deprecating grin, though his eyes wander past you into the warm glow of your flat. “Odd jobs. Whatever pays cash under the table. Late night shifts keep me out of people’s way.”

He shifts again, and as he does, a sharp wince catches in his throat. His left shoulder hitches up unnaturally high, his right hand instantly snapping up to brace his elbow.

You don’t miss the subtle flinch. “What did you do now?”

“Nothing,” he says a fraction too fast, eyes locking back onto yours. “Just pulled something. Lifting heavy boxes.”

“Heavy boxes.” You raise a brow and take a step back into your entryway, leaving the door wide open. “Come in.”

Peter hesitates on the threshold, his eyes widening slightly. “Oh, no, I really don’t want to bother you–”

“You’re already bothering me by standing there,” you cut in, heading straight for the kitchen counter. “In. Before the cold freezes the whole flat.”

With a quiet exhale, he steps across the entryway. Having him inside your tiny space immediately alters the air. He’s broader than his oversized clothes let on, his presence instantly filling the narrow entry. He stands awkwardly by the coat rack, his lips forming into a thin line as he watches you retrieve a tub of muscle rub from a cabinet.

“Shirt stays on, don’t worry,“ you break the silence, turning back to face him with the jar in hand. “Just turn around and sit on the edge of the sofa.”

Peter blinks, a charming flush creeping up from the collar of his jumper, tinting his face a faint pink. “You really don’t have to do this–”

“I know I don’t,” you answer, gesturing toward the cushions. “Sit.”

Peter sinks onto the cushion, perching on the absolute edge. You sit down beside him on the sofa, unscrewing the small jar in your hands. The crisp scent of eucalyptus instantly fills the space between you.

“Lean forward,” you instruct, rubbing a dollop of the cool cream across your palms. “And try to actually relax for five seconds.”

Peter ducks his head without argument, resting his elbows on his knees. His messy curls drop over his forehead, exposing the skin at the nape of his neck. When you press your hands against the base of his neck, working your thumbs into his left shoulder through the wool of his jumper, he stiffens instantly. A ragged breath hitches in his chest, his whole frame going solid beneath your touch. It’s like pressing your hands into solid granite. Beneath the knitwear, there is no give—just dense hard muscle wrapped tight with strain.

“Breathe, Peter,” you murmur, digging your thumbs in harder to work around a stubborn knot near his shoulder blade. “I’m not gonna break you.”

“Right. Yeah,” he rasps, though his knuckles turn white where his hands grip his knees. He swallows hard, his shoulders slowly dropping under your steady pressure. “Sorry. Just... not really used to it.”

“Not used to what? Basic self care?”

“People…” He hesitates, the word hanging heavy in the room before he quickly catches himself. “People touching my shoulders, I guess. Usually it’s just someone shoving past me on the subway.”

The answer is delivered with a light chuckle and yet it hits with an unexpected sting. At that, you slow the rhythm of your hands, smoothing the warmth of the cream deeper into the stiff muscle.

“Well, you have dreadful posture anyway,” you joke softly, “so you’re going to have to suffer through it.”

Peter lets out a genuine laugh that vibrates right through his back and into your fingertips. His head dips lower, his breath hitching once more, not from pain this time, but from something far quieter, his eyes fluttering shut as he finally lets his full weight sink back against the cushions.

For a few minutes, neither of you speaks. The only sound in the flat is the rhythmic hum of your fridge and the pattern of Peter’s breathing as your thumbs work out the tension in his upper back. The heat radiating through his clothes is almost absurd. Beneath your palms, the stiff line of his spine finally relaxes.

“Better?” you ask quietly, lifting your hands.

Peter turns his head slowly, looking back over his shoulder. Up close, without the shadows of the draughty corridor hiding him, his brown eyes are calm and unguarded. Near his collarbone, a faint, restless pulse flutters, beating far too fast for someone sitting completely still.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, voice dropping an octave. “Yeah, actually. A lot better.” He nods.

You wipe the excess cream off your palms onto a tissue, maintaining a steady posture despite the sudden spike in atmospheric pressure. “Good. Because I’m not making a habit of running a wellness centre out of my living room.”

A smile tugs at his lip. He shifts his frame on the cushion, angling his knees toward yours in the narrow space between you. He looks down at his scraped knuckles for a brief second before his gaze travels back up to your face, tracing the line of your jaw before settling firmly on your eyes.

“I could pay you,” he offers, his tone light, though the way he is watching you is anything but casual. “I mean... not in money. But I could do your heavy lifting. Or fix your radiator. It rattles at three in the morning, by the way.”

“You’re listening to my radiator at three in the morning?”

Peter goes dead still, his mouth parting as if to instantly retract the statement. A deep, telltale flush surges right up to the tips of his ears. “I–well, paper thin walls. I just hear things. I’m not... I promise I’m not lingering outside your wall like a creep.”

“I know, Peter.” a quiet laugh bubbles in your throat as you tilt your head. “Relax.”

He exhales a breath that seems half relieved and half flustered, running a hand through his hair. Then, as if suddenly remembering himself, he pushes off the sofa with fluid grace that seems too fast for a guy who claims to be clumsy.

“I should um... probably get out of your hair,” he stammers, taking two quick steps back toward the entryway. “It’s late. Or early. Whatever it is.”

You follow him at a more leisurely pace, resting against the archway as he unlatches the front door.

“Try not to fall on your journey back to 4B,“ you call out.

Peter pauses and looks over his shoulder. “No guarantees,” he chuckles, his gaze lingering on your face for one beat, two beats, before he finally steps out into the corridor. “Night.”

“Night, Peter.”

The following evening, you’re standing in the overcrowded aisle of the corner shop down the block, debating between two identical jars of pasta sauce, when a shadow falls over you.

“The basil one,” a voice says from right behind your shoulder. “The garlic one tastes like cardboard.”

You turn around to find Peter precariously balancing three trays of meat, a carton of milk, and a loaf of bread in his arms.

“No basket?” you breath a laugh, putting the garlic sauce back and taking his recommendation.

“I wasn’t planning on buying much,” he awkwardly clarifies, “I came in for milk. The rest were an impulsive buy.”

Another soft laugh escapes your lips before you reach over to pluck the meat trays out of his arms and drop them into your own basket. “Here. Give me the rest.”

Both his brows raise in surprise. “Thanks.” he falls into step beside you as you head toward the till. “I actually… I owe you one anyway. For the shoulder thing.”

“You don’t owe me anything.”

“I could carry your groceries,” he insists, tapping the side of your plastic basket. “If–if you want.”

True to his word, he waits for you by your checkout counter immediately after paying for his own groceries, taking your brown paper bag the second the cashier finishes packing it up. The sun warms your skin as you walk side by side back to your building.

When you reach the fourth floor, he hands the bag back, his fingers brushing against yours for a second longer than necessary.

“See?” Peter says smoothly, leaning his back against his front door with a proud smirk. “Not one bruise. Flawless execution.”

“Impressive,” you tease as you tilt your head, unlocking the door to your flat. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

“Too late,” he chuckles lightly, eyes staying on you until you step inside. “I’ll um see you around.”

Three nights pass without a squeak from him.

Outside, a relentless deluge lashes against the glass, drumming a chaotic rhythm across the roof. It is nearly three in the morning when the sound hits. A heavy impact that rattles the picture frames on your partition wall.

You drop your phone onto the desk, sprinting across the cold floorboards to the front door. When you yank it open, Peter is on his knees in the dark corridor.

He is completely drenched, water pooling around his worn trainers. His chest heaves in wheezing gasps, one arm pinned tightly against his ribs while his forehead rests against your doorframe. Worse still, the grey hoodie he is wearing is torn open down the left side, heavily saturated in a dark, terrifying crimson.

“Peter,” you breathe, dropping to your knees beside him without a second thought.

“Hey,” he manages, though his voice is barely a thread of sound. He tries to force a reassuring smile, but his face is ghostly pale, his skin shivering violently from shock and cold rain. “Sorry... didn’t mean to... hit the door so hard...”

“I don’t give a shit about the door,” your brows furrow in disbelief as you take his uninjured arm, looping it over your shoulders, and hauling him up with every bit of strength you possess. “Get inside. C’mon.”

He weighs far more than anything you’ve ever carried— dense muscle unanchored by energy—but somehow, you manoeuvre him across the threshold, kicking the door shut behind you. You guide him toward the sofa, letting him slide down onto the cushions.

“I need to see where it’s coming from,” you warn, grabbing a clean towel, a pair of scissors, and a first aid kit from your drawer. Your heart is hammering rapidly against your ribs, pure adrenaline wiping out any lingering fatigue.

“It’s just a scratch. Looks... worse than it is,” he slurs, his hand rising weakly to intercept yours as you reach for the hem of his ruined jumper. “Seriously. I... I heal ridiculously fast–”

“You are bleeding all over my house, Peter, so stop arguing!”

You cut cleanly through the soaked cotton of his jumper, peeling the wet fabric back to assess the tear. But as the dark material parts, your fingers go still.

Beneath the ruined clothes, there is no bare skin or cotton undershirt. Wrapped tightly over his chest and shoulders is a sleek, textured fabric of vibrant red and deep blue—badly torn at the waist, where a shallow, nasty laceration is weeping blood down his side.

Silence drops over the kitchen like blunt weight.

Slowly, your eyes travel up from his torn suit, past his bruised collarbone, to meet his eyes.

Peter’s breath hitches in his chest. His eyes are blown wide with raw, terrifying panic as he looks down at the exposed suit, then back up at your face. He looks braced, desperately searching your expression as if waiting for you to do something crazy.

“Wait–I–” he struggles, his voice cracking with frantic concern. “it’s not–I can explain, please don’t–”

But you simply stare at the web pattern for a long moment, taking slow breaths to steady the overwhelming thumps of your heart.

“Right.” you pick up the antiseptic. “A really aggressive shoelace knot, was it?”

He lets out a breathless laugh, though it quickly falters. “... Wait, you’re not–you’re not freaked out?”

“Of course I’m shocked, Peter.” You unscrew the cap of the bottle. “But you’re currently losing blood, so maybe right now isn’t really the time for questions.”

A gasp escapes him, a mixture of laughter and a sob of sheer relief. The crushing tension in his posture snaps, his head thumping back against the sofa cushions. “You have no idea how hard it was coming up with those lies.”

“I do, actually. They were terrible.”

You work carefully, dousing a pad of gauze in warm water and antiseptic. Peter winces as you clean the edge of the wound, but he stays completely still for you. Once the side cut is cleaned and neatly bandaged, you shift up to sit beside him, bringing a damp cloth to his face.

“Hold still,” you mumble softly.

Peter doesn’t move a muscle. His eyes trace your face with focus as you gently wipe a streak of grime from his temple, moving down the sharp line of his jaw. Right at the corner of his lower lip, there is a tiny, fresh split. You dab delicately at the split on his lip with the corner of the warm cloth. Peter’s breath hitches, his lower lip trembling ever so slightly under the subtle touch of your thumb.

He looks undone. Unmasked, battered, and stripped of every defense he usually hides behind, sitting in half of a spider man suit in your living room while the rain lashes against the glass outside.

“Does it hurt?”

“No,” Peter whispers. He exhales a long breath, leaning his head back with a weary chuckle. “Pretty sure I can’t even move right now.”

You look up for a second, catching the intensity in his gaze. His eyes are no longer on yours, but staring straight at your lips.

A sharp flutter hits your chest, catching the breath in your throat as the air between you turns thick. Your own gaze helplessly drifts downward, tracing the curve of his lips, the faint tremble of it, and the tiny cut you were just tending to.

His hand reaches up, fingers sliding around the back of your neck, his thumb resting against your pulse point. He pulls you forward with patience, closing the narrow gap between your faces until your breath fans warm over his skin.

The second his lips meet yours, everything fades into the background. The kiss is unhurried and soft at first—careful of the split on his lip—that is before his grip in your hair tightens just so to pull you flush against him. A shuddering sigh escapes him against your mouth.

When he finally parts from your lips, staying close enough that your noses brush, a tinge of crimson colours both your faces.

You take a steadying breath, a teasing smile curving your lips. “I thought you couldn’t move?”

“For this?” His thumb gently strokes your jawline. “I can manage.”

“You’re unbelievable.” a smile grows across your face as you reach over the armrest to grab the soft fleece blanket from the back of the sofa.

You drape it over his broad shoulders, tucking the edge around him to keep the draft off his skin. Peter fully settles into the cushion, the exhaustion finally catching up to him. He doesn’t move away, instead letting his weight shift until his head comes down to rest comfortably against your shoulder.

“You’re staying here tonight.” you guide your fingers through his damp curls. “No arguments.”

“No arguments,” he repeats against the fabric of your clothes, his eyelids fluttering shut as his breathing slows into a steady pattern.

Peter’s entire body locked. A low, guttural sound tore out of him that didn’t sound entirely human. His muscles flexed hard under your hands, denser and tighter than usual, like every fiber had suddenly drawn taut with unnatural strength.

His eyes flooded pure black from edge to edge, reflective and hungry, pupils vanishing completely. Fangs pressed faintly against the inside of his lip. The new spider mutation—stronger, more instinct-driven—took complete control without changing his shape.

He didn’t pull out.

Instead he slammed forward to the hilt and stayed buried deep, grinding hard as he came with a harsh, animal growl. Thick pulses of heat flooded you, over and over, no hesitation at all.

“Peter—!” you gasped, eyes wide. “Wait, you’re still—oh my godd”

One hand shot up, not rough but firm, cradling your jaw and gently parting your lips with his thumb. He leaned in and spit a slow, warm strand of saliva straight onto your tongue, watching it land with those pitch black eyes.

Then he kissed you messily—open-mouthed, wet, tasting you and himself, tongue sweeping deep while his hips kept twitching through the last of his orgasm. The kiss was frantic and claiming for several long seconds, then softened into something almost sweet, like the human part of him was still trying to be gentle even while the mutation ruled.

You made a small, startled sound against his mouth, hands flying up to grip his wrists. “Peter… Peter, what’s happening? Your eyes—”

The mutation receded as suddenly as it had come.

The extra tension drained from his limbs. His eyes cleared back to that familiar dark brown, blinking rapidly. Peter froze, still buried inside you, still kissing you.

He pulled back just enough to look at your face, pupils blown wide with pure confusion. Then his gaze dropped between your bodies.

He stayed buried for a second longer, watching with dazed intensity as he finally eased back the slightest bit. A thick, pearly strand of his cum immediately welled up around his cock and began to drip out of you in a slow, heavy trail, sliding down to the sheets. Another pulse followed, warmer and messier, coating him as he stared. His breath hitched hard.

“Oh my god…” he whispered, voice cracking. He didn’t yank away; he stayed carefully still, eyes locked on the steady drip of white leaking from you around him. “I—fuck, look at that… it’s everywhere. I came so deep and it’s just… pouring out.”

His cheeks flushed dark with a mix of horror and residual heat. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t— I was gonna pull out, I swear I was. Something just… took over. It—fuck, I’m so sorry. Are you okay? Did I hurt you? Please tell me you’re okay.”

You stared up at him, still catching your breath, heart racing from both the intensity and the sudden shift. Your voice came out soft but steady. “Hey… hey, look at me. I’m okay. You didn’t hurt me.”

“…But I came inside,” he whispered with a small pout coating his face, panic rising as another slow drip slid free and he tracked it with his eyes. “I just— I couldn’t stop. And the spit, the kissing like that— fuck, what the hell was that? There’s so much of it… it’s still coming out of you.”

He swallowed hard, gaze still fixed on the mess between you for a long moment. A new, flustered expression crossed his face. “And the worst part is… part of me liked it. Like, really liked seeing it. Filling you up. I think—god, this is so messed up—watching it drip out of you is doing something to my brain and I feel terrible about it.”

You reached up, cupping his face with both hands so he had to meet your eyes. “Baby. Breathe. I’m right here. It felt… intense. But I’m not scared of you. And hey… finding something out about yourself doesn’t make you a bad person.””

His lower lip trembled. “I love you. I’m so, so sorry. I’ll do whatever you need—morning-after stuff, anything. Just please don’t be mad.”

You brushed your thumbs over his cheekbones, voice gentle. “I’m not mad. Surprised? Yeah… but if anything that was really hot”

Peter let out a shaky breath and carefully lowered his forehead to yours again, still half-buried like he was afraid moving would make the mess worse. His eyes flicked down one more time, watching another thick trail of his release slip free. “I hate that it happened like that. I never want to take choices away from you.”

You slid one hand down to rest over his racing heart. “I know. And I trust you. We’ll figure the rest out together, okay? Just… stay close for a minute. Don’t pull away yet.”

He nodded against you, pressing a soft, apologetic kiss to the corner of your mouth, then another to your cheek. “Okay. I’m here. I’m so sorry… and thank you for not freaking out on me.”

You gave a tiny, breathless laugh, fingers carding through his damp hair. “We’ll talk about the mutation later. Right now just hold me. You’re still my Peter.”

He wrapped his arms around you carefully, burying his face in your neck with a quiet, relieved sound. “Always. I love you so much.”

“I love you too,” you whispered back, stroking the nape of his neck. “Even when your DNA decides to get dramatic mid-orgasm.”

That pulled a small, watery chuckle out of him, and he held you tighter—still apologetic, still a little shaken, but softening into the comfort of knowing you weren’t going anywhere.

dividers — @/pixopix

an — just saw the movie today and im going crazy just mmm i need him

—

Winter 

The front door shakily swung open with a loud creek that made your head ache impossibly worse.

You tossed your keys and shed off your large jacket that was speckled in raindrops. You slipped out of your work shoes into your slippers and made your way through the shared apartment to your room.

There it was, hung over the back of your desk chair.

You pulled the hoodie over your head and let it cover your body. 

The hoodie was an odd source of comfort after a long day of work, or when it was far too cold outside. But the strangest part was that you had no clue where it had come from.

It wasn’t even pretty, nor was it that functional. Broken zipper, scuffed sleeves, and small cigarette burns across the navy fabric.

Alas, you crawled into your bed, subconsciously chewing on the ends of the strings.

In a matter of time, you’d drifted asleep.

—

Spring

Peter was trying so hard to forget you.

Since the spell to wipe the memory of Peter Parker and he didn’t have the heart to tell you, he tried his best to keep away and keep you safe.

But, as if it were a subconscious action, he always managed to find you.

His legs would go on autopilot and walk him to your favorite cafe, where you’d be tucked away in the same corner reading a new book. Peter always made a mental note to read whatever book it was.

He’d go into the same little convenience store (which was 4 blocks from his apartment), just to have a slight chance of seeing you. Peters would always sweat as the bell chimed, signaling your entrance.

Often, he’d just catch a glimpse of you across the street and his heart would cry out for you.

But today was different. 

Peter was seated outside of a small restaurant for lunch, his eyes wandering up and down the street as they often did.

A flash of navy caught his attention, especially the person wearing it.

You wandered across the street towards him, and Peter could have sworn his breathing had stopped completely.

His hoodie. You were still wearing his hoodie.

Peter watched you pass him, his eyes still wide and his heart pounding.

You turned the corner and the man buried his eyes into his palms.

The new found information was certainly not helping his plans.

—

Summer

Despite the warm New York weather, you still always carried the hoodie in your bag.

One day MJ asked you about it.

“Uh…I dunno. I guess it’s comforting.” You shrugged, twisting the draw strings between your fingers.

She nodded understandingly and returned to her sketch of a couple arguing. However, Ned wasn’t satisfied at that.

“Where’s it even from? I mean, it’s clearly a large hoodie.”

Your brows furrowed at his words, and you murmured another statement of uncertainty.

As you all walked back from the park to your apartment, Ned’s question continuously buzzed around in your brain.

Did someone lend it to you and you forgot to give it back?

Did you buy the hoodie? What for?

Was it yours fr-

A sudden collision of shoulders snapped you out of your thoughts. Some lady scowled at you, grumbling about the youth always being on their phones.

Your bag had fallen from your hands, its contents spilled over the sidewalk. With a groan, you made the awkward scrambled to get your things.

“Here.”

A soft voice got you from your thoughts again.

There was a young man, probably your age, holding out the hoodie to you.

He smiled a bit hesitantly, as if he hadn’t done it properly in a while.

“Thank you.” You replied, matching his smile as you both straightened up. Gently, you took the hoodie from his hands, not missing his slight flinch as you did.

“Most people would trample it. Or rob me. But nobody wants this old thing, huh?” You joked with a small laugh, hoping to ease the man.

He chuckled, shoving his hands into his pockets. “It ain’t too bad…Is it special to you?”

“Yeah, it is. I’m uh, not too sure why though.” You nodded slowly, carefully folding the hoodie and slipping it into your bag. 

The man nodded understandingly. “I get that.” He slowly extended a hand to you.

“I’m Peter.”

You shook and introduced yourself.

“I see you at uh…the cafe on the corner of 58th and 6th.”

Your smile grew to crease your eyes at his words. “Really? I love that place!”

Peter returned your wide smile. “Me too.”

Your smile suddenly faded as you realized how far ahead MJ and Ned had gotten. “Shoot! I gotta run, but if you see me at the cafe, don’t be shy, okay?”

“Sure thing,” Peter nodded with a small wave.

As you rushed off, you couldn’t help but turn back for one last glance at the boy.

Your eyes met again and you waved.

Something about him was so familiar.

—

Autumn

Almost everyday, Peter would look through the cafe window in hopes of seeing you. Even when he was chasing a criminal, he couldn’t help but look for you.

Most days he was unlucky, busy, or too scared. But finally, today he was psyched up and had an aura of confidence around him.

You weren’t in your usual spot. You had a copy of ‘The Picture Of Dorian Gray’ balanced in your lap as you sipped at your drink.

Your coat was draped over the back of your chair, and you were wearing the hoodie.

Peter thought back to the day he’d given it to you.

After a double of chemistry in the freezing lab rooms, he’d grown sick (and worried) about your shivering and pulled the infamous hoodie off of himself.

“Here.”

“Huh?” Your brows raised as he passed it over to you.

“Wear it. You’re shivering like a leaf.”

You reassured him with chattering teeth. “I’m fine!” 

Peter huffed at you, suddenly grabbing your shoulders and forcing the hoodie over your head. You yelped and squirmed for a moment, before admitting to defeat and sighing into the new warmth.

“Better?”

You nodded with a fond smile playing on your lips. “Thanks Pete, real thoughtful as always.”

Peter grinned back at you, cocking a brow. “Mocking me?”

You giggled, tugging the hood over your head.

A few minutes later, you’d murmured something that’d made his heart race.

“Smells like you. Which is a good thing. It’s nice.”

Peters cheeks had shone pink for the rest of the class.

You didn’t even know his name now, let alone his scent. But he never did change his cologne or shampoo after that day, feeling quite proud that you liked how he smelt. Maybe something in him hoped you’d connect the dots.

Peter finally cleared his throat. “Hi.”