— #Synopsis :: You hate manon, she stays toxic. But your favourite candy is toxic waste. | Masterlist

— #Paring :: g!p manon x fem reader

— #Warning :: heavy smut, creampie, manon with a breeding kink, reader secretly loves it, deadbeat/jerk manon! 😛

— #A/n :: Okay i tried my best yall — from this request

The chipped marble floors of Blackwood Manor echoed with the hollow click-clack of Manon Bannerman’s bootheels.

Rain lashed against the tall, grimy windows of the grand foyer, the storm mirroring the tempest that always seemed to swirl around her.

She shrugged off a leather duster slick with rain, tossing it carelessly onto a Louis XIV chair that had seen far better centuries. Her silver-white hair, plastered to her sharp cheekbones by the downpour, gleamed like tarnished moonlight.

Those unnerving pale eyes, cold as glacier melt, scanned the shadowed hall and landed on you like a predator sighting prey.

You were dusting the already pristine banister – busywork, really. Just an excuse to be near the door when she inevitably blew back in.

Your heart hammered against your ribs like a trapped bird.

Three weeks.

Three weeks of silence after she’d pinned you against the wine cellar door, hiked up your skirt, and fucked you raw before vanishing again, leaving you sore, sticky with her spend, and aching with a shameful emptiness.

“Still playing housemaid in this mausoleum?” Manon’s voice was a low drawl, honey poured over shattered glass.

She stalked closer, the scent of rain, expensive leather, and her unique, dangerous musk – ozone and bourbon – filling the space between you.

Her gaze raked over your simple dress, lingering with open disdain before dropping lower, fixing on the pronounced bulge straining against the fly of her skin-tight black jeans. It was impossible to ignore, a heavy weight outlined obscenely in the dim light. “Shouldn’t you be off knitting booties for orphans or some shit?”

You flinched, gripping the dust rag like a lifeline. “Just… keeping things tidy, Miss Bannerman.” The formality felt absurd, given what she’d done to you in every room of this decaying palace.

She barked a sharp, humorless laugh. “Miss Bannerman? Fuck’s sake. We both know you think of me as ‘that bitch who ruins me and leaves.’” She closed the distance in two strides. Before you could react, her calloused hand was under your chin, tilting your face up with bruising force. Her thumb scraped over your bottom lip.

“And we both know you love it.” Her other hand dropped, palming herself through the denim, making the thick outline even more defined.

You couldn’t help the gasp, the treacherous heat flooding your core. “Love this monster. Love takin’ it rough. Love the idea of me breedin’ you like a prize mare, even though you know damn well I’d forget your name the second I walked out that door.”

Her words were whips, flaying your pride. Yet, they found their mark deep in that secret, twisted part of you that craved her neglect as much as her possession.

The part that throbbed at the thought of her seed taking root, of your body irrevocably marked by her toxin.

With no warning, Manon spun you around and slammed your front into the cold marble of a massive console table. Ancient porcelain figurines rattled.

The breath whooshed out of you. Her body pressed flush against your back, hard muscle and that insistent ridge digging into your ass. One hand tangled viciously in your hair, yanking your head back. The other shoved your skirt up around your waist. Cool air hit your bare thighs – you hadn't bothered with stockings.

A low growl vibrated against your ear. “No panties? Hopeful little slut.” Her fingers slid down, finding you already slick and swollen.

She pushed two thick fingers inside without preamble, crooking them brutally. “Soakin’ wet for your deadbeat bitch. Christ, you’re pathetic.”

She withdrew her fingers, slick with your arousal, and you heard the rasp of her zipper.

Then came the thick, wet sound of her spitting into her palm. The broad, hot head of her cock nudged against your drenched entrance. “Gonna fill this greedy cunt,” she hissed. “Gonna pump you so full my seed’s drippin’ out for days.”

No tenderness.

No preparation beyond her spit and your slickness.

She slammed home.

You cried out, the sound muffled against the cold marble. The stretch was immense, breathtaking, a searing fullness that stole your breath before melting into a deep, aching pressure as she buried herself to the root in one vicious thrust.

She didn’t pause.

Her hips snapped back and then drove forward again, setting a punishing rhythm that rocked your whole body against the unyielding table.

Each deep plunge forced choked sobs from your throat, each withdrawal dragged agonizingly against your inner walls before she speared you again.

Her hand fisted tighter in your hair, holding you pinned. Her other arm banded across your waist like iron, keeping you arched and impaled.

“Feel it?” she grunted, her breath hot and ragged on your neck.

She pistoned into you, the slap of skin on skin echoing off the high ceilings like a perverse applause.

“Feel how deep I own you?” She shifted her angle slightly, grinding her pelvis hard against your ass on every downstroke, ensuring the thick base of her cock ground against your clit with bruising pressure.

“Gonna make sure it catches this time. Gonna see this flat belly swell with my brat.” The degrading promise, the sheer animalistic claim in her words, coiled the tension inside you impossibly tight.

Your vision blurred at the edges.

You felt every inch of her – the pulsing heat, the prominent veins, the brutal stretch as she fucked you with ruthless efficiency.

The scent of rain, old dust, expensive perfume gone slightly rancid on her skin, and the heady musk of sex filled your senses.

Your climax built like a wildfire, fanned by her dominance and your own shameful craving.

It detonated when she snarled “Come on it, take my seed!” and hammered into that deep, vulnerable spot with relentless force.

You shattered with a scream torn from deep inside, your cunt clamping down in fierce, rippling spasms around her invading thickness.

Feeling your desperate convulsions milk her, Manon roared – a guttural sound of pure feral triumph.

Her rhythm broke into frantic, shallow jerks as she buried herself impossibly deep and held there, grinding. You felt the hot, thick pulse deep inside you as she came – not a gentle release, but a violent eruption.

Jet after jet of her potent seed flooded your core, scalding hot and impossibly deep. She groaned, long and low, grinding her hips in tight circles to ensure every drop was deposited against your womb.

“There,” she rasped, her voice thick with satisfaction. “Take it all. Let it root deep.”

As the last tremors subsided, she pulled out abruptly with a slick, obscene sound. A gush of warm wetness followed immediately, trickling down your inner thighs onto the marble floor.

She didn’t offer support.

Didn’t speak.

You heard the rustle of denim as she zipped herself back up. You slumped forward over the table, trembling violently, tears streaming silently down your face now that she couldn't see them.

Manon stepped back, adjusting her clothes with infuriating casualness. She pulled a sleek wallet from her back pocket and extracted a thick wad of cash.

Without looking at you, she tossed it onto the table beside your head. It landed with a soft thud next to a displaced porcelain shepherdess.

“Get that mess cleaned up,” she said flatly, gesturing vaguely at the floor beneath you where her spend was already pooling.

“And order some more of that awful bourbon I hate.” She strode towards the sweeping staircase, boots ringing on the marble again. Only at the foot.

[ Tangled Webs & Netballs — Megan Skiendiel ]

chapter one || Masterlist || chapter two

— #Synopsis :: She carries your netball bag like it weighs nothing. You notice how tall she’s gotten. A peek into her double life — shy nerd by day, masked hero by night. You bring Megan to your netball scrimmage.

She’s sitting courtside, trying not to stare too long when you tie your hair. Megan’s out patrolling rooftops, whispering your name into the night sky, wondering if she’ll ever have the courage to tell you the truth.

— #Paring :: G!P Megan Skiendiel x Fem!Reader

— #warning :: Jealousy, light angst, emotional vulnerability.

— #A/N :: First chap, how do y’all think this is going?? ( leave ur comment down below~ 😛😶 )

Work count :: 6.4K.

—#Taglist :: @riris-heart @wtfisthisnoclueman @urm0onagedaydream @bookkeepersnook @levilash @dreamingst99 @sofaiscomfy @ironpenguinwombat @love-manon @sp1derbutch

The whistle blows across the court, sharp and echoing against the metal rafters of the gym. Sweat slides down your temples, and your sneakers squeak as you skid to a stop, chest heaving from the final play. The coach claps, calling out scores and praise, but your focus drifts toward the edge of the bleachers where she always waits.

Megan Skiendiel — your best friend since before either of you could tie your shoelaces — is leaning against the wall, bag slung lazily over one shoulder, glasses slipping down her nose. Her hoodie’s too big, sleeves swallowing her hands, and her hair’s a wild golden-brown mess like she just rolled out of bed. She’s smiling, of course. She always smiles when she sees you, that easy grin that never quite reaches her eyes until you wave.

“Hey, superstar,” she calls out, voice carrying through the half-empty court. “Still undefeated, huh?”

You roll your eyes, snatching your water bottle and tossing her a grin. “You make it sound like I’m on a world tour, not a high school netball team.”

“Same thing,” she shoots back. “Crowds, sweat, people screaming your name. Only difference is you don’t get paid for it.”

Her teasing’s effortless, but there’s something in her tone that softens when you step close. She shifts, adjusting her glasses, and you catch how her gaze lingers a second too long on the curve of your smile before she looks away. It’s subtle — the kind of thing you’ve learned to ignore, chalked up to your imagination or Megan just being her usual awkward self.

You toss your bag at her feet. “Here, strongwoman. Carry that for me?”

She groans dramatically but lifts it anyway like it’s made of feathers. Her forearms flex under her hoodie, and for some reason, that small detail makes your throat tighten. You blink it away. Megan’s been helping you since forever — walking you home, carrying your stuff, defending you from the occasional jerk. That’s what friends do. Right?

“See? I knew you were built for servitude,” you tease.

“Or maybe you’re just spoiled,” she retorts, nudging your shoulder as you leave the gym. “You’ve got everyone wrapped around your finger.”

“Everyone but you.”

She snorts. “Yeah, right.”

But her voice dips, quiet, like it means more than she wants to admit.

The late afternoon air smells like cut grass and asphalt. You walk side by side, sneakers scuffing the pavement in sync. The sun sits low, painting the street gold. You pass familiar corners — the convenience store you used to raid for snacks, the cracked sidewalk where she fell off her skateboard in Year Seven. She still has the faint scar on her chin, though you’re the only one who ever notices it.

“You spaced out again,” Megan murmurs.

You blink. “Did not.”

She laughs softly, shaking her head. “You always do that when you’re thinking too hard.”

You narrow your eyes. “You watching me that closely?”

“Maybe,” she says, and for once, she doesn’t try to make it a joke.

Her honesty throws you off balance. You look away, focusing on the rhythm of your steps, on the hum of the city around you — cars in the distance, wind in the trees. She always walks a little slower than you, matching your pace, as if making sure you never have to catch up. It’s something she’s done since childhood — unnoticed, but constant.

You reach a crossing light, waiting for the signal. A group of classmates passes by, giggling. You catch snippets of their whispers:

“Are they dating?”

“They’re always together.”

“Honestly, they look good.”

You roll your eyes and whisper to Megan, “We’re not beating the allegations.”

Megan nearly chokes on air. “A–allegations?”

You grin, watching her cheeks turn red. “Of us being together.”

Her mouth opens, then closes again. “Let them think what they want.”

“Oh?” you tease, leaning in. “Not denying it this time?”

She looks at you — really looks. The fading sunlight catches her eyes, turning them molten honey behind her glasses. “Maybe I’m tired of pretending I’d mind.”

You freeze, heartbeat stumbling. She laughs it off before you can reply, brushing hair from her face. “Kidding, kidding. You know me — professional comedian.”

You exhale slowly. “You’re terrible at it.”

“Yeah,” she says softly. “I know.”

By the time you reach the park near your neighborhood, the air’s cooling down. You stop at the swings out of habit — it’s where you’ve always paused, ever since you were kids. Megan sits on the one beside you, bag still slung on her lap. The chains creak as you both sway gently back and forth.

You glance over. She’s staring at the sunset, but her fingers are fidgeting with the hem of her sleeve. You’ve seen her do that before big tests, before she lied to her parents about bruises that looked a little too suspicious for someone as gentle as her. You’ve never asked. You figured if it mattered, she’d tell you.

“You okay?” you ask quietly.

She nods. “Yeah. Just tired.”

“You’ve been tired a lot lately.”

“Guess I’m not built for socializing,” she jokes.

“You literally only hang out with me.”

“Exactly.”

The words hang between you. You let them, too aware of the warmth spreading across your chest.

Then, without thinking, you reach over to flick a leaf from her hair. She flinches slightly — not from fear, but surprise — and your fingers graze her temple. It’s such a small touch, but it feels like an electrical spark. Her breath catches. Your eyes meet.

Her pupils dilate.

Neither of you speaks.

She’s the one who breaks it. “You’ve got… really small hands,” she murmurs, instantly regretting it as your eyebrows shoot up.

“Wow. Smooth recovery.”

“I was trying to say delicate! But that sounded worse.”

You laugh, bright and uncontrollable, and she hides her face in her hoodie, groaning. “I swear, I’m better with words when you’re not around.”

“That’s not saying much.”

She chuckles, her shoulders relaxing. The awkwardness fades into something softer — something like safety. This is what it’s always been like: teasing that never hurts, silences that never feel empty.

As you stand to leave, Megan automatically takes your bag again. You don’t even ask this time.

“You don’t have to carry it,” you say.

“I know,” she answers simply, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

And you realize — for her, it is.

The walk home grows quieter as the sky deepens into twilight. Streetlights hum to life. You talk about your next match, about how Daniela missed half her shots, about how your sneakers need replacing. Megan listens, nodding, offering her occasional “mhms” and soft laughs. She doesn’t fill silence for the sake of it — she never has — but when she speaks, it’s always to make you smile.

When you reach your house, she stops at the gate, handing back your bag. Her fingers brush yours again. This time, you both notice.

You think she’s about to say something — her mouth opens, her chest rising like she’s catching courage. But then she spots your mom’s silhouette at the window and takes a half-step back.

“See you tomorrow?” she says instead.

You nod, forcing a smile. “Yeah. Same walk home.”

“Same walk home,” she repeats, softer this time, almost like a promise.

She lingers a second too long before turning away. You watch her go — tall, slouched, hoodie pulled up. From the back, she looks every bit the harmless nerd people think she is. But something about her stride tonight feels different — heavier, maybe, like she’s carrying more than just your netball bag.

Inside, you drop your gear and collapse onto your bed. You should be thinking about training drills or your upcoming match, but your mind keeps circling back to her — to her laugh, to the look she gave you at the swing, to that stupid line about your hands.

You cover your face with a pillow and groan.

Why did it feel like more?

You and Megan have always been close. Too close, according to others. You’ve brushed off every rumor, every raised eyebrow, but now… you’re not sure why your pulse had jumped when she said she didn’t mind the dating rumors.

And you don’t want to admit how right that might feel.

Across the street, Megan sits in her room, hoodie still damp with your perfume. She stares at the window facing yours, watching your shadow move. Her chest tightens.

She shouldn’t want this. She shouldn’t think about you like that. You’re her best friend — the one constant in a life full of secrets, bruises, and rooftop chases. She’s supposed to protect you, not crave the way your hand felt against her skin.

She sighs, lifting her glasses to rub her eyes. A faint red mark sits on her wrist — a burn from earlier, hidden beneath her sleeve. The memory flashes: the crack of impact, the sting of web fluid still drying as she swung across town after a last-minute rescue.

No one can know. Especially you.

If you ever found out she was Spider-Man… she doesn’t know if you’d still look at her the same.

The next morning, she’s at your door before sunrise, same hoodie, same nervous grin. You blink at her from behind the half-open door, still in your pajamas.

“Megan… it’s 6:30.”

“Yeah, but I brought breakfast.” She holds up two paper bags like an offering. “Bribery for forgiveness?”

You sigh but smile anyway. “You’re insane.”

“Correct. But a thoughtful kind of insane.”

You pull her inside. The smell of fresh croissants fills the air. You sit cross-legged on the floor, sharing bites, laughing over crumbs. Her glasses fog slightly from the heat of your tea. She looks… happy. Genuinely.

You realize she doesn’t look tired this morning — not the way she usually does. Maybe she actually slept. Or maybe, you think, she’s just good at pretending.

After breakfast, you walk to school together again. The streets are still quiet, sunlight soft on the pavement. When you reach the crosswalk, she glances down at you. You look up at the same time, eyes locking — both of you caught mid-smile.

The moment lingers.

You should say something — a joke, anything — but words feel too fragile.

Megan clears her throat. “You, uh, have jam on your lip.”

You roll your eyes, wiping it off, but she stops you with a thumb across your lower lip, gentle and quick. Your heart trips.

She pulls back instantly, stammering, “Sorry—just—reflex.”

You blink, feeling your face flush. “You’re weird.”

“Yeah,” she says quietly. “Only around you.”

That night, lying in bed, you replay it all. Her voice, her grin, that fleeting touch.

Outside your window, the city hums. Somewhere out there, a web cuts through the night sky, swinging between rooftops — unseen, untouchable, familiar.

And you have no idea that the same girl you just can’t stop thinking about is the one saving strangers in the dark, heart pounding not from danger, but from how close she came to confessing today.

The next day, you’ll walk home together again. Same steps, same laughs. Same warmth she’ll never quite be able to hide.

And for now — neither of you says a word.

Because this is how it’s always been.

Because neither of you wants to risk changing it.

Not yet.

The city never really sleeps. It just hums—soft and electric—under the weight of everything unspoken.

Megan Skiendiel sits cross-legged on her floor, half-dismantled gadgets scattered around her like metallic confetti. The single desk lamp paints the room in gold and shadow, glinting off the cracked lenses of her spare glasses. Outside, the streetlights blink against the fog. Inside, the only sounds are the quiet whirr of a soldering pen and the low rhythm of her own breathing.

To anyone else, her room is just the lair of a socially awkward genius: physics posters, a broken gaming console, a pile of comic books, and the unmistakable scent of solder and coffee. But beneath the clutter hides something extraordinary.

A pair of web-shooters rests open on the floor—silver, elegant, patched with wiring she scavenged from an old drone. Beside them sits her mask: red fabric, lenses smudged from too many late nights.

Megan adjusts a tiny valve, wipes the sweat from her brow, and mutters, “Please don’t explode again.”

The valve hisses, catches, and stabilizes with a soft click.

“Thank you,” she whispers, as if the device itself deserves gratitude.

She used to count them like trophies. Now they just feel like reminders.

She leans back against the wall and exhales. Her hoodie rides up slightly, revealing faint bruises that paint her ribs in shades of blue and violet. Each one tells a story: a rescue gone wrong, a missed web, a night where she wasn’t fast enough.

Her phone buzzes.

Megan smiles before she can stop herself. Her fingers hover over the keyboard, then type back,

Another message pops up almost instantly.

Her heart squeezes. You always text like this—sharp, funny, effortless. She saves every message without meaning to.

She stares at the screen until it goes dark, your name reflected faintly in her glasses. “Great,” she murmurs. “Now I’m smiling at pixels. Totally normal.”

She puts the phone down and pulls the mask onto her lap. It’s lighter than it looks. Sometimes she wishes it were heavier—something solid enough to ground her, to keep her from drifting into feelings she’s not supposed to have.

Because being Spider-Man is dangerous enough.

But loving you? That’s the real risk.

She thinks about your hand brushing hers after practice, the way you said her name like it meant something. Megan’s fought thieves, stopped car crashes, survived skyscraper falls—but nothing makes her chest ache like remembering that moment.

She laughs softly to herself, then stands. The city’s waiting.

By the time she reaches the rooftop, the world below is a mosaic of headlights and noise. Wind whips through her hair as she pulls the mask over her face and breathes in the familiar scent of sweat and latex.

The transformation is instant.

The nervous, mumbling Megan disappears.

Spider-Man takes her place.

She tests the web-shooters, flicking her wrist. The web fluid arcs across the rooftop with a satisfying thwip, catching a billboard support. She tugs; it holds. Perfect.

Then she leaps.

For a heartbeat she’s weightless—nothing but motion and sky. The city opens beneath her, glittering like a sea of stars. Every swing cuts through the wind, slicing silence into ribbons.

It’s freedom. The only place she can exist without stuttering, without worrying if she said too much or looked too long.

Down below, she spots a blur of motion: a mugger, a terrified pedestrian, a spilled purse scattering across the pavement. She dives, web shooting out with precision. The mugger’s legs snap together mid-stride, and he hits the ground with a startled yell.

“Friendly neighborhood loser,” she quips as she lands, voice distorted through the mask. “Try harder next time.”

The rescued woman stares in awe. “T-thank you! Who are you?”

“Just a fan of justice and cheap hoodies,” she replies before swinging away.

She doesn’t stay for thanks. She never does. Heroism feels hollow when her mind keeps drifting back to you, wondering if you’re already asleep, if you’re dreaming, if your pillow still smells faintly like that peach shampoo you use.

It’s past midnight when she finally returns home. Her muscles ache, and her palms are raw from friction burns. She lands silently on her balcony and slips through the window, pulling the mask off as the world shrinks back down to four cramped walls.

Her reflection in the mirror is a contradiction: tangled hair, tired eyes, and a faint smile she can’t explain. She looks like two people trying to exist in the same body.

She peels off the suit, tosses it in a laundry basket already overflowing with secrets, and stares at herself. The bruises, the scratches, the faint red line along her jaw—all reminders that the city needs Spider-Man.

But she’s starting to realize she needs someone too.

She picks up a photo from her desk—an old one from when you were both ten. You’re wearing a netball bib that’s way too big for you; she’s in a hoodie two sizes too small, pretending to look serious. You’re laughing so hard your eyes are half-closed. She can still hear that sound, bright and unfiltered, echoing in her head every time she’s close to giving up.

“You’d kill me if you knew,” she whispers to the photo. “And I’d still tell you everything just to see you smile.”

Morning arrives like it always does—too soon, too bright.

Megan wakes to her alarm vibrating under a pillow. Her arms feel heavy, but she forces herself up. Glasses on. Hoodie over. Spider-Man to student in under ten seconds.

She checks her phone. There’s a text from you:

Her breath catches. Three words, harmless to anyone else, but to her they mean everything.

They mean safety.

Routine.

A reason to get through the day.

She types back, always. Then deletes it. Too much. Too honest.

She tries again.

When she steps outside, the morning light hits her face, and for a second she lets herself imagine what it would be like to walk beside you without secrets. To reach out, take your hand, and not flinch at the thought of what you’d say if you knew the truth.

But that’s not her world. Her world is split between rooftops and classrooms, between courage and fear.

As she starts her walk to school, she hums under her breath—something to fill the silence, something that sounds like your laugh when you say her name.

The court smells like resin, sweat, and echoing noise. Sneakers scrape against polished wood, whistles shriek, and someone calls your name just as the ball arcs through the air. You jump—muscles taut, hands closing around it with practiced ease. The familiar rhythm of netball pulses through you, grounding you in the moment. Pass, pivot, shoot. It’s all instinct now.

You hear the satisfying swish of the goal, the burst of applause from your teammates—and then your eyes find her.

Megan Skiendiel, sitting awkwardly courtside, hoodie hood half-up, glasses slipping down her nose, pretending to scroll through her phone while clearly watching you.

She doesn’t belong in this noisy, bright space. Not because she couldn’t—she’s built like someone who could dominate any sport she wanted—but because she’s so quiet about it, so understated, that she just fades into the edges. Yet you spot her instantly every time.

You call for a time-out and jog to the sidelines, panting. “You’re supposed to be cheering, loser.”

She looks up, startled, caught in the act of staring. “I—I was! Quietly. Internal cheering.”

You smirk, wiping sweat from your forehead. “Yeah? That why your mouth’s been hanging open for the last five minutes?”

Her face explodes into color. “I—it’s concentration! I was watching your form.”

“Mmhmm,” you hum, grabbing your water bottle. “Proud dad energy. You’ve got it bad.”

Megan chokes on air. “What—no! Don’t say that—wait, what does that even mean?!”

You shrug, grinning as you take a sip. “You just… look at me like you built me in a lab or something.”

She rubs the back of her neck, mumbling, “Yeah, well. Guess I’m just proud of my—uh—best friend.”

You roll your eyes. “Right. That’s all.”

But the teasing loses some of its edge when you catch how she’s still looking at you—fond, slightly dazed, like she’s memorizing every move.

When practice resumes, you steal glances at her between plays. She’s sitting cross-legged now, elbows on her knees, watching the ball fly across the court. Every time you score, she smiles—not big, not showy, just a small upturn that feels private. You’d almost miss it if you didn’t already know her so well.

Your teammate Lara elbows you during a break. “Your little fan’s still staring.”

“She’s not—” you start, but Lara’s smirk is impossible to fight.

“Sure. And I’m the Queen of England.”

You snort, shaking your head, but there’s a warmth crawling up your neck you can’t quite control.

When the final whistle blows, the scrimmage dissolves into laughter, stretching, and the shuffling of shoes. Megan stands awkwardly near the exit, as if unsure if she’s supposed to approach. You wave her over.

“Come on, mascot. You survived two hours of boredom, you deserve a medal.”

She walks up, grinning. “You think this is boring? Watching you annihilate a bunch of people? Please. That’s entertainment.”

You arch a brow. “You were watching.”

“Of course I was.” She hesitates, then adds, “You’re… good.”

You catch her tone—low, sincere, almost reverent. It knocks something loose inside your chest. You clear your throat, shoving her shoulder lightly. “Stop being weird.”

“Not weird! Just factual!”

“Sure.”

But when you look up at her, her grin softens, like she knows exactly what she’s doing to you.

By the time you’ve showered and packed up, the sky outside has turned a moody grey. Clouds gather thickly over the school gates, the scent of rain sharp in the air. You and Megan walk side by side under the flickering streetlights, your bag slung over her shoulder as always.

“Hey,” you say, glancing up. “You didn’t have to carry that.”

“I know,” she replies. “I wanted to.”

“Still gonna call you my pack mule.”

“Better than being called a proud dad.”

You grin. “That one fits though.”

She groans. “You’re never letting that go, are you?”

“Not a chance.”

Thunder grumbles in the distance, a low vibration in the air. You both pause at the crossing, staring up at the clouds like they might change their minds.

Megan glances at you. “You didn’t bring an umbrella, did you?”

You blink. “Did you?”

She sighs, rummaging through her bag. “…No.”

The first drops fall—gentle at first, then harder, heavier, until the street’s shimmering under silver rain. You both squeal and sprint toward the nearest awning, laughing breathlessly. Water splashes against your legs, dampens your hair. Megan’s hoodie darkens instantly, plastering against her arms.

You duck under the small shelter of a bus stop, clutching your sides from laughing. “Oh my god, we’re idiots.”

“Correction: you’re the idiot. I’m just the unfortunate bystander.”

You nudge her with your shoulder. “You mean the heroic carrier of bags?”

She grins. “That too.”

You stand there, dripping, shivering slightly, and she doesn’t hesitate before tugging her hoodie over your head too, pulling you close under its canopy.

It’s warm. The air between you hums—quiet, charged, soft.

You can hear her breathing. Slow, steady, like she’s afraid to move. Her arm’s around you now, tentative at first, then firmer when you don’t pull away. Your head rests against her shoulder, and for a moment, neither of you are sure what to do with how right it feels.

The city fades out around you—the sound of rain muffled, the world distant. Just the warmth of her body, the faint scent of soap and fabric softener, the quiet rhythm of her pulse where your cheek touches her.

You tilt your head slightly, catching her profile. Her jaw’s tight, her eyes forward, like she’s trying to act normal.

“You okay?” you whisper.

She nods, voice low. “Yeah. Just—trying not to move too fast.”

You laugh softly. “Why?”

“Because then you’ll realize how close we are and shove me into traffic.”

You smile, your voice teasing but faintly breathless. “I wouldn’t shove you.”

“Oh yeah?”

You look up at her, eyes catching hers under the hoodie’s shadow. “Nah. You’d just deserve it.”

Her lips twitch. “Fair.”

But she doesn’t move away. And you don’t either.

The rain eventually slows, the clouds thinning to mist. You’re still standing there, pressed together beneath the oversized hoodie, your bag at her feet, your fingers brushing her sleeve.

When the silence stretches too long, she clears her throat. “You know, if anyone saw us right now—”

“They’d think we were dating?” you finish for her.

She swallows hard. “Yeah.”

You smirk. “We’re really not beating the allegations.”

Her laugh’s quiet, nervous, but genuine. “Guess not.”

You meet her eyes again, and for a second—just one heartbeat—you think she might lean closer. But then a bus splashes past, spraying both of you with cold water. You squeal, she curses, and just like that, the spell breaks. You shove her lightly, and she laughs so hard it makes you laugh too.

“Come on,” she says, still grinning. “I’ll walk you the rest of the way.”

“Still gonna share the hoodie?” you tease.

“Only if you promise not to call me your dad again.”

You roll your eyes but tuck yourself back under her arm anyway.

The two of you walk home like that, warm against the cold, laughing through the rain—two silhouettes that look far too much like a couple for either of you to deny it anymore.

Megan keeps her head turned slightly away, hoping you don’t see the flush creeping up her neck, the small, private smile she can’t hold back.

And for the first time, you don’t pretend not to notice.

By the time you both reach your street, the rain’s more drizzle than storm. Your hair’s damp, your shoes squelch faintly with every step, and Megan’s hoodie—still slung over both your heads—smells like her. Soap, paper, faint metal—something oddly electric that clings to her skin after late nights working on “projects” she never talks about.

She keeps your bag hoisted over one shoulder, your arm looped under hers like it’s second nature. You can tell she’s fighting not to make it weird.

You, meanwhile, are fighting not to think about how warm she feels.

“You could’ve just waited for the bus,” she says, tone too casual.

You shrug. “And let my chauffeur walk home alone? Please.”

“I’m not your chauffeur.”

“You literally are. You carry my stuff, walk me home, buy me snacks, and now you’re my rain shelter. Megan, that’s a full job description.”

She exhales, half a laugh, half a sigh. “Yeah, well, guess I’m just—”

She cuts herself off, words sticking in her throat. You don’t push. You just nudge her side lightly.

“Guess you’re just what?”

Her eyes flick toward you, searching, unsure. “Just… used to it.”

There’s a softness in her tone that makes your chest tighten. You look away first, pretending to focus on the puddles catching the streetlight. “Used to taking care of me?”

“Used to being with you,” she murmurs, so quietly it’s almost lost to the rain.

You pretend you didn’t hear. But your pulse betrays you.

When you reach your house, the lights are off—your parents are away for the weekend, which means the house is empty. You don’t realize until you’re standing on the porch that Megan hasn’t left your side once.

She hesitates, glancing at the windows. “You, uh… alone tonight?”

“Yeah,” you say, unlocking the door. “Why?”

“No reason. Just—making sure you’re not gonna get murdered by a lightning bolt or something.”

You grin. “You offering to protect me?”

She raises a brow. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

You squint at her, playful. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

She freezes, realizing what she’s said, then backtracks instantly. “Nothing! I mean—metaphorically! Like, you know—blocking you from a flying netball or something.”

“Uh huh.”

You toss her a towel once you’re inside. She stands awkwardly by the door, dripping onto the mat, her hoodie clinging to her frame. The fabric outlines her shoulders, her arms, the kind of definition that’s easy to miss when she’s in loose clothes. For a supposed nerd, she’s built.

You try not to stare.

“Sit,” you say, grabbing two mugs. “I’m making tea.”

She obeys, perching at the edge of your couch like it’s a crime scene. You chuckle, shaking your head. “You look terrified.”

“I’m not terrified,” she insists, pushing her glasses up. “Just… cautious.”

You hand her a mug. “Cautious of what?”

“You.”

You blink. “Me?”

“Yeah.” Her mouth curves, a small smile. “You’re dangerous.”

You laugh, setting your cup down. “You’re so dramatic.”

“Tell that to everyone who thinks we’re dating.”

You roll your eyes but hide your smile behind your mug. “We’re really not beating the allegations tonight.”

“Nope,” she says softly, voice warm with something unspoken.

Hours later, the rain starts again—harder this time. Thunder rolls over the rooftops, and the living room fills with the faint flicker of lightning. You’re both sitting on the couch now, shoulders brushing, a blanket tossed carelessly over your laps.

You’ve been watching old highlight reels of your games on your phone. Megan’s half-asleep beside you, head tilted toward the back of the couch. When the next thunderclap rattles the windows, she startles—and you end up laughing.

“Wow,” you tease. “Spider-sense not working?”

Her eyes flick toward you—fast, almost sharp—and for half a second, she freezes.

You laugh again, oblivious. “I mean, your sixth sense, Miss Overthinker.”

She relaxes instantly, chuckling weakly. “Right. My sixth sense.”

If only you knew how close you were.

You lean into her side a little more, scrolling absently. “You really don’t have to stay, you know. I can handle a storm.”

She shakes her head. “Nah. I’ll crash on the couch. Just in case.”

“In case what?”

“In case you get scared.”

You snort. “You’d like that, huh? Me clinging to you for dear life?”

Her grin fades, replaced by something softer. “Yeah,” she says quietly. “I think I would.”

Your breath catches, the air thickening between you. You open your mouth to joke it away—but the words die on your tongue.

It’s past midnight when the movie you weren’t really watching ends. The room glows faintly from the TV’s screensaver, blue light painting soft shadows across Megan’s face. Her glasses are off now, her hair messy from where she’s run her hands through it too many times. Without the glasses, her eyes are clearer—sharper, greener than you remember.

She glances at you. “You tired?”

You shrug, curling deeper into the blanket. “A little.”

“Go to bed,” she murmurs. “I’ll clean up.”

You hesitate. “You’ll actually stay?”

“Yeah.”

You smile, small but real. “Okay.”

But you don’t move. You just sit there, both of you silent for a long moment. The only sound is the rain tapping against the windows and your heart hammering in your ears.

You whisper, “You ever think about it?”

“About what?”

“How weird it’d be if people were right. About us.”

Megan’s head tilts slightly. “You mean… dating?”

You nod.

She studies you for a long, long second. Her throat bobs as she swallows. “Yeah,” she says finally, voice barely a whisper. “I think about it a lot.”

The words hang in the air like static. You look at her, trying to read her face—but she’s already turning away, pretending to stretch, changing the subject.

“Go get some sleep,” she says. “You’ve got practice tomorrow.”

You want to say something—ask her what she meant—but your courage dissolves when you see the flicker of panic in her eyes. So you just nod and stand up, your chest tight, your mind spinning.

“Night, Meg.”

“Night,” she says softly.

And as you walk upstairs, she sits there alone, staring at the empty mug in her hands—heart pounding, secrets locked behind her steady breathing.

You wake up once in the middle of the night to the sound of thunder and footsteps. The clock reads 2:47 a.m.

Downstairs, you glimpse a shadow through the half-open door—Megan, standing near the window, her phone in hand, the light from it casting strange reflections over her face. She’s muttering something under her breath, low and urgent.

Before you can speak, you see it: a faint shimmer near her wrist, a flick of silver web-thread disappearing into her palm.

Your breath hitches.

She freezes, as if she felt your eyes on her, but doesn’t turn around. Then she steps out into the rain, hoodie pulled up, vanishing into the dark street like a phantom.

You stand there, staring at the door she just slipped through, your heart pounding with confusion and adrenaline.

When she returns an hour later, soaked to the bone, she finds you asleep on the couch where she left you—blanket pulled around your shoulders, the faintest crease between your brows.

She kneels beside you, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face. Her hand trembles. Her whisper is barely audible under the fading storm.

“You can’t ever find out,” she murmurs. “Not yet.”

But you already have.

And neither of you will ever be the same after tonight.

The court smells like sunscreen and summer again. Practice runs late, the sky a hazy watercolor of gold and violet as the sun dips behind the gym roof. You’re leaning against the fence, gulping from your water bottle when Daniela strolls up, twirling the ball in one hand.

“So,” she starts casually, “you and Megan — when’s the wedding?”

You snort. “Shut up.”

“I’m serious.” Daniela smirks, squinting into the fading light. “She carries your bag, brings you snacks, waits after every practice, walks you home. That’s girlfriend behavior.”

You roll your eyes. “She’s just being nice.”

“Uh-huh. And I just show up for cardio voluntarily.”

You toss the towel at her. “You’re delusional.”

She catches it, laughing. “You’re the one in denial, babe. Half the school thinks you two are together. Might as well make it official before someone else claims her.”

You freeze, heartbeat stuttering just a little. Daniela’s joking, you know that, but the idea — Megan with someone else — hits sharper than you expect.

You force a smirk. “She’s a big girl. She can date whoever she wants.”

“Sure,” Daniela says, grinning. “But you’d hate it.”

You don’t answer. You just turn toward the sky, letting the wind cool the heat rising in your cheeks.

That night, sleep finds you slow. You toss, turn, think of everything and nothing — the laughter at practice, Megan’s hoodie still hanging over your chair from the rainstorm, the way she smiled when she said goodnight last time.

When you finally drift off, it’s not peaceful. It’s vivid.

You dream of her — standing behind you, her hand settling at your waist, the touch light but deliberate. You can feel the warmth of her palm, the way her breath grazes your neck.

Her voice — soft, lower than usual — whispers your name like it’s something fragile. You turn, and she’s looking at you like you hung the moon. No glasses, no shy smile — just that quiet intensity that makes your chest hurt.

“Megan,” you murmur in the dream. “You’re not supposed to look at me like that.”

She smiles faintly. “Then stop being so easy to look at.”

The dream fades before she kisses you, leaving you awake, staring at the ceiling, heart hammering like you’d just run sprints. The air feels heavy, charged, almost electric.

You tell yourself it’s just the weather.

But deep down, you know it’s not.

Across town, Megan perches on the edge of a rooftop, knees drawn up, hood flapping in the wind. The city hums beneath her — sirens, laughter, the occasional hiss of rain on hot concrete.

Her web-shooters glint faintly under the moonlight as she stares out over the skyline. Patrol’s quiet tonight. It should be calming. It isn’t.

She keeps thinking about the way you laughed at practice, the way your ponytail brushed your neck, the way your eyes crinkled when Daniela made that joke.

“Basically your boyfriend.”

The words loop in her head until she almost laughs — except it’s not funny.

She whispers your name into the wind, like saying it out loud might steady her heartbeat. “You have no idea,” she says softly, almost to herself.

Then, movement catches her eye — a mugging in progress two blocks over. She shoots a line of web and launches into the air, heart pounding. Fighting is easier than feeling.

The next day, something shifts.

A boy from class — Thomas — keeps showing up at your locker, making small talk, offering to carry your books. He’s got easy charm, neat hair, and the kind of grin that probably works on other girls.

But you just smile politely, answering his questions without giving much back. You can feel Megan’s gaze from down the hall every time.

After practice, Thomas appears again, holding out your water bottle you left behind. “You forgot this,” he says, grinning.

You blink. “Oh — thanks.”

He hesitates, scratching the back of his neck. “You, uh, want to grab a smoothie or something? After next practice?”

Before you can reply, Megan’s voice cuts in, casual but cool. “She’s already got plans.”

Thomas turns, startled. Megan stands there in her usual hoodie, hands in pockets, expression unreadable. You swear the temperature drops a degree.

You give her a look — Seriously? — but she just shrugs.

Thomas blinks. “Oh. Uh, right. Maybe another time.”

He walks off, clearly confused, and you cross your arms. “Megan.”

“What?”

“You didn’t have to do that.”

“Do what?”

“Scare him off.”

She meets your eyes, pretending nonchalance, but there’s tension in her jaw. “Didn’t realize you liked him.”

“I don’t.”

“Good.”

You stare at her. “You’re impossible.”

“Probably,” she says, brushing past you. “But I’m still walking you home.”

The sun dips below the rooftops as you walk side by side. The air smells of wet asphalt, the faint sweetness of the bakery two streets over.

Neither of you speak for a while. Then, quietly, you say, “You don’t have to be jealous, you know.”

Her head snaps toward you. “Jealous?”

“Yeah.” You glance up at her, smirking faintly. “You practically growled at him.”

She exhales a shaky laugh. “I didn’t— I don’t—”

“Relax,” you interrupt softly. “He’s not my type anyway.”

She looks at you, and something fragile flickers in her expression. “No?”

“No,” you whisper. “He’s too… ordinary.”

The words hang between you like smoke. You don’t explain what you mean — that the only person who makes your chest ache, who fills your dreams, who makes you feel seen, is standing right next to you.

You reach her street corner. She stops, looking like she wants to say something but can’t.

“See you tomorrow?” you ask.

She nods, then hesitates. “Yeah. Night.”

You smile, stepping backward. “Night, loser.”

Megan watches you go until you disappear around the bend. Then she exhales, hands trembling slightly as she lifts her mask from her pocket.

There’s something in the air tonight — electric, aching, inevitable.

And when she leaps into the night sky, she swears she can still feel the ghost of your voice saying her name in her dream.